‘I’m still a member of security, you supercilious little worm. How does that put me outside the loop?’
Sky glanced at the others, willing them to let him do the talking. ‘I’ll be blunt, then. It’s a matter that exceeds even the usual security channels. I can’t be specific, but the nature of this mission is both delicate and diplomatic.’
‘Then why isn’t Ramirez with you?’
‘It’s a high-risk mission; a possible trap. If I’m caught, Ramirez loses his second-in-command, but the routine functioning of the Santiago won’t be greatly affected. And if it is a genuine attempt to improve relations, the other ship can’t complain that we aren’t sending a senior officer.’
‘Captain Ramirez would still know about this, though?’
‘I should imagine so. He authorised it.’
‘We’ll just check then, shall we?’ She elevated her cuff, ready to speak to the Captain.
Sky allowed himself an instant of indecision before acting, weighing the outcome of two equally hazardous strategies. Ramirez did genuinely think there was a diplomatic operation in progress; an excuse that would enable Sky to leave the Santiago for a couple of days without too many questions being asked. It had taken years to lay the groundwork for that deception, faking messages from the Palestine, doctoring the real messages as they came in. But Ramirez was a clever man, and his suspicions might be raised if Constanza started showing too much interest in the validity of the mission.
So he rushed her, knocking her to the hard, polished floor of the bay. Her head whacked against the ground and she went deathly still.
‘Have you killed her?’ Norquinco said.
‘I don’t know,’ Sky said, kneeling down.
Constanza was still alive.
They dragged her unconscious body across the cargo bay and arranged it artfully next to a pile of smashed freight pallets. It looked as if she had been exploring the bay on her own and had been knocked out when a tower of pallets had toppled over, catching her on the head.
‘She won’t remember the encounter,’ Sky said. ‘And if she doesn’t come round of her own accord before we’re back, I’ll find her myself.’
‘She’ll still have her suspicions,’ Gomez said.
‘That won’t be a problem. I’ve set up evidence trails which’ll make it look like Ramirez and Constanza were complicit in authorising - ordering - this expedition.’ He looked at Norquinco, who had actually done much of the work of which he spoke, but the other man’s expression was impassive.
They left before there was any chance of Constanza coming round. Normally Sky would have fired up the shuttle’s engines as soon as he was free of the docking bay, but that would have made their leaving all the more obvious. Instead, he gave the shuttle a small kick of thrust while it was hidden behind the Santiago - just enough to push it up to one hundred metres per second relative to the Flotilla - and then turned the engines off. With the cabin lights dimmed and maintaining strict comms silence, they fell backwards away from the mother ship.
Sky watched the hull slide by like a grey cliff. He had taken measures to conceal his own absence from the Santiago - and in the current atmosphere of paranoia very few people would ask awkward questions anyway - but there was no way that the departure of a small ship could ever be completely concealed from the other vessels. But Sky knew from experience that their radar scans were focused on detecting missiles moving between ships, rather than something falling slowly behind. In fact, now that the race was on to strip mass from all the ships, it was common for surplus equipment to be discarded. Junk was usually sent drifting forward, so that the Flotilla would never run into it while decelerating, but that was a minor detail.
‘We’ll drift for twenty-four hours,’ Sky said. ‘That’ll put us nine thousand kilometres behind the last ship in the Flotilla. Then we can turn on engines and radar and make a dash to the Caleuche. Even if they notice our thrust flame, we’ll still get there ahead of any other shuttle they send after us.’
‘What if they do send something?’ Gomez said. ‘We might still only have a few hours of grace. Maybe a day at best.’
‘Then we’d better use our time wisely. A few hours will be enough to get aboard and establish what happened to her. A few hours more will give us the time we need to find any intact supplies she’s carrying - medical equipment, sleeper berth parts, you name it. We can fit enough aboard the shuttle to make a difference. If we find too much to bring back, we’ll hold her until the Santiago can dispatch a larger fleet of shuttles.’
‘You’re talking as if we’d go to war over her.’
Sky Haussmann answered, ‘Maybe she’d be worth it, Gomez.’
‘Or maybe she was cleaned out years ago by one of the other ships. Considered that, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. And I’d regard that as reasonable grounds for war as well.’
Norquinco, who had barely spoken since the departure, was examining a bewilderingly complex general schematic of one of the Flotilla ships. It was the kind of thing he could get lost in for hours, his eyes glazed, ignoring sleep and food until he had solved some problem to his satisfaction. Sky envied him that single-minded devotion to one task, while flinching from the idea of ever allowing himself to become that obsessive. Norquinco’s value to him was highly specific: a tool that could be applied to certain well-defined problems with predictable results. Give Norquinco something complicated and arcane and he was in his element. Coming up with a plausible model for what the Caleuche’s internal data networks might be like was exactly that kind of problem. It could never be more than an educated guess, but there was no one Sky would rather have had doing the guessing.
He replayed what little they knew about the ghost ship. What was clear enough was that the Caleuche must once have been an acknowledged part of the Flotilla, built and launched with the other ships from Mercury orbit. Her construction and launch could never have been kept secret, even if she must have once had some more prosaic name than that of the mythical ghost ship. She would have accelerated up to cruising speed with the other five ships, and for a time - many years, perhaps - she would have travelled with them.
But something had happened during those early decades of the crossing to Swan. As political and social upheavals racked the home system, the Flotilla had become steadily more isolated. The home system had become months and then years of light-travel time away, until true communication became difficult. Technical updates had continued to arrive from home, and the Flotilla had continued to send reports back, but the intervals between these transmissions had become longer and longer, the messages increasingly desultory. Even when messages from home did arrive, they were often accompanied by contradictory ones; evidence of squabbling factions with different agendas, not all of which involved the Flotilla arriving safely at Journey’s End. Now and then a general news report was picked up, and the ships of the Flotilla even learned the unsettling truth that there were factions back home who were denying that they had ever existed. By and large these attempts to rewrite history were not taken seriously, but it was disconcerting to hear that they had gained even a toehold.
Too much time and distance, Sky thought, the words playing in his head like a mantra. So much boiled down to that, in the end.
And what it also meant was that the ships of the Flotilla became less and less accountable to any other parties save themselves; that it became easier to collectively suppress the truth of whatever had happened to the Caleuche.
Sky’s grandfather - or rather, Titus Haussmann’s father - must have known exactly what had happened. He had probably imparted some of that truth to Titus, but perhaps not all of it. It might also have been the case that by the time Titus’s father had died even he had not been entirely sure what had happened. Sky could only guess at the depth of Old Man Balcazar’s knowledge, as well. The Captain had evidently believed that the sixth ship existed, but he had seemed unwilling or unable to speculate as to its origin. There were, in Sky’s opinion, two l
ikely scenarios. In the first, there had been some dispute between the ships which had culminated in an attack on the Caleuche. It could even have extended to the use of the harbourmakers; the landscaping nuclear weapons. Balcazar had revealed little other than that the ship was dark. Very probably the radar echo matched the profile of a Flotilla vessel, but there could still have been crippling damage. Afterwards, the other ships might have been so shamed by their actions that they had chosen to blank them from the historical record. One generation would have to live with the shame, but not the one that followed.
The other idea, and the one Sky favoured, was less dramatic but perhaps even more shaming. What if something had gone terribly wrong with the Caleuche - a plague aboard her, say - and the other ships had chosen to offer no assistance? Worse things had happened in history, and who could blame the others for fearing contamination themselves?
Shameful, perhaps. But also perfectly understandable.
What it also meant was that they would have to be very careful. He would assume nothing except that every situation was potentially lethal. Equally, he would accept the risks involved because the prize was so great. He thought of the antimatter which she had to be carrying, still dormant in her penning reservoir, waiting for the day when it should have been used to slow her down. That day might still come, but not in the way her designers had ever anticipated.
Or, for that matter, any of the other ships.
Within a few hours they had escaped the main body of the Flotilla. Once a radar beam from the Brazilia lingered over them, like the fingers of a blind person probing an unfamiliar object. The moment was tense, and while they were being scrutinised Sky wondered if this had not, after all, been a fatal misjudgement. But the beam moved on and never returned. If the Brazilia had assumed anything it must have accepted that the radar echo signified only a chunk of receding debris; some useless, irrepairable machine jettisoned into the void.
After that they were alone.
It was tempting to fire up the thrusters, but Sky kept his nerve and maintained the drift for the twenty-four hours he had promised. No transmissions came from the Santiago, satisfying him that their absence had not yet become problematic. Had it not been for the company of Norquinco and Gomez, he would have been more alone now - further from human company - than at any point in his life. How terrifying this isolation would once have been to the small boy who had been so terrified of the dark when he had been trapped in the nursery. Almost unthinkable, to have willingly drifted this far from home.
Now, though, it was for a purpose.
He waited until the exact second, then turned on the engines again. The flame burned a deep lilac: clean and pure against the stars. He was careful to avoid shining the thrust beam directly back towards the Flotilla, but there was no way he could hide it completely. It hardly mattered; they had the edge now, and whatever the other ships chose to do, Sky would reach the Caleuche first. It would give him, he thought, a small foretaste of what the greater victory would be like, when he brought the Santiago to Journey’s End ahead of the others. It was as well to remember that everything he did now was only part of that larger plan.
But there was a difference, of course. Journey’s End was definitely out there; definitely a world which he knew to be real. He still had only Balcazar’s word that the Caleuche existed at all.
Sky turned on the long-range phased-array radar and - much like the Brazilia had done - extended a hand gropingly into the darkness.
If it was out there, he would find it.
‘Can’t you just leave him alone?’ Zebra said.
‘No. Even if I was ready to forgive him - which I’m not - I still have to know why he taunted me the way he did; what he was hoping to get out of it.’
We were in Zebra’s apartment. It was late morning; the cloud cover over the city was sparse, the sun was high and the place looked melancholy rather than Satanic; even the more warped buildings assumed a certain dignity, like patients who’d learned to live with gross deformity.
Which did nothing to make me feel any less disturbed; convinced more than ever that there was something fundamentally wrong with my memories. The Haussmann episodes hadn’t stopped, yet the bleeding from my hand had become much less severe than it had been at the start of the infection cycle. It was almost as if the indoctrinal virus had catalysed the unlocking of memories which were already present; memories at stark odds with the official version of events on the Santiago. The virus might have been close to burning itself out, but the other Haussmann memories were coming on more strongly than ever, my association with Sky becoming more complete. Originally it had been like watching a play; now it was like playing him; hearing his thoughts; feeling the acrid taste of his hatred.
But that wasn’t all of it. The dream I’d had the afternoon before, of looking down on the injured man in the white enclosure, had troubled me more than I could easily explain at the time, but now, having had time to think about it, I thought I knew why.
The injured man could only have been me.
And yet my viewpoint had been that of Cahuella, looking down into the hamadryad pit at the Reptile House. I could have put that down to tiredness, but it hadn’t been the only time I’d seen the world through his eyes. In the last few days there’d been odd snatches of memory and dream where I’d been more intimate with Gitta than I thought had ever been the case; instants when I felt I could bring to mind every hidden curve and pore of her body; instants when I imagined tracing my hand across the hollow of her back or the swell of her buttocks; instants when I thought I knew the taste of her. But there was something else about Gitta, too - something my thoughts couldn’t or wouldn’t home in on; something too painful.
All I knew was that it had something to do with the way she’d died.
‘Listen,’ Zebra said, refilling my coffee cup, ‘could it just be that Reivich has a death wish?’
I tried to focus on the here and now. ‘I could have satisfied that for him on Sky’s Edge.’
‘Well, a specific type of death wish, then. Something that has to be satisfied here.’
She looked lovely, her fading stripes permitting the natural geometry of her face to show more clearly, like a statue deprived of gaudy paint. But sitting face to face with each other over breakfast was as close as we had come since Pransky had brought us together. We hadn’t shared a bed, and it was not just because I’d been inhumanly tired. Zebra hadn’t invited it, and nothing in the way she behaved or dressed had suggested that our relationship had ever been anything other than coolly professional. It was as if in changing her exterior markings she had also shed an entire mode of behaviour. I felt no real loss, not just because I was still fatigued and incapable of focusing my thoughts on anything as simple and devoid of conspiracy as physical intimacy, but also because I sensed her earlier actions had somehow been part of an act.
I tried to feel betrayal, but nothing came. It wasn’t as if I’d been honest with Zebra myself, after all.
‘Actually,’ I said, looking at Zebra’s face again, and thinking how easily she’d changed herself, ‘there is another possibility.’
‘Which is?’
‘That the man I saw wasn’t Reivich at all.’ And then I put down the empty coffee cup and stood up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
We cabled to Escher Heights.
The car nudged down, its retractable legs kissing the rain-slick ground of the ledge. There was more traffic now than when I had last visited the place - it was daytime, after all - and the costumes and anatomies of the strollers were fractionally less ostentatious, as if I was seeing a different cross-section of Canopy society, the more reserved citizens who eschewed nights of delirious pleasure-fulfilment. But they were still extreme by any standards I had defined before arriving here, and while there was no one whose proportions deviated radically from the basic adult human norm, within that boundary every possible permutation was on display. Once you got beyond the
obvious cases of outlandish skin pigmentation and body hair, it was not always possible to tell what was hereditary and what was the work of Mixmasters or their shadier kin.
‘I hope there’s a point to this excursion,’ Zebra said as we disembarked. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, there are two people following you. You say they might be working for Reivich, but don’t forget Waverly had his friends as well.’
‘Would Waverly’s friends be arriving from offworld?’
‘Probably not. Unless they were just posing as offworlders, like Quirrenbach.’ She closed the door of the car behind her and the vehicle immediately took itself off on some other errand. ‘He might have come back with reinforcements. It would make sense for him to try and pick up the trail in Dominika’s, if that’s where you lost Quirrenbach in the first place. Wouldn’t it?’
‘It would make perfect sense,’ I said, hoping that I had kept the edge from my voice.
We walked to the rim of the landing ledge, to one of the pedestal-mounted telescopes. The railing which encircled the ledge was chest-high, but the telescopes all had little plinths at their bases, which meant that one was standing further from the ground, the drop all the more vertiginous. I cupped the end of the telescope to my eyes and panned around an arc of the city, struggling with the focus wheel until I realised that nothing would ever be in focus when there was so much murk in the air. Compressed by perspective, the tangle of the Canopy looked ever more complex and vegetative, like a cross-section through densely veined tissue. Reivich was out there, I knew, somewhere in that tangle; a single corpuscle caught in the pulmonary flow of the city.
‘See anything?’ Zebra asked.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘You sound tense, Tanner.’
‘Wouldn’t you be tense, in my position?’ I slammed the scope round on its pedestal. ‘I’ve been sent here to kill someone who probably doesn’t deserve it, and my only justification for it is some absurd adherence to a code of honour no one here understands or even respects. The man I’ve been sent to kill might be taunting me. Two other people might be trying to kill me. I’ve got one or two problems with my memories. And on top of that one of the people I thought I could trust has been lying to me all along.’
The Revelation Space Collection Page 121
