‘Surgeon-General, might I help you?’
Grelier tracked the voice to its source: someone was looking down at him from one of the catwalks above. The man wore the grey overalls of Motive Power, and was gripping the handrail with oversized gloves. His bullet-shaped scalp was blue with stubble, a filthy neckerchief around his collar. Grelier recognised the man as Glaur, one of the shift bosses.
‘Perhaps you could come down here for a moment,’ Grelier said.
Glaur complied immediately, traversing the catwalk and vanishing back into the machinery. Grelier tapped his cane idly against the cleated metal floor, waiting for the man to make his way down.
‘Something up, Surgeon-General?’ Glaur asked when he arrived.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Grelier told him. No need to say why. ‘He won’t belong down here, Glaur. Have you seen anyone unexpected? ’
‘Like who?’
‘The choirmaster. I’m sure you know the fellow. Pudgy hands.’
Glaur looked back up to the slowly threshing coupling rods. They moved like the oars of some biblical galleon, manned by hundreds of slaves. Grelier imagined that Glaur would much rather be up there working with the predictable hazards of moving metal than down here navigating the shifting treacheries of cathedral politics.
‘There was someone,’ Glaur offered. ‘I saw a man move through the hall a few minutes ago.’
‘Seem in a bit of a rush, did he?’
‘I assumed he was on Clocktower business.’
‘He wasn’t. Any idea where I might find him now?’
Glaur glanced around. ‘He might have taken one of the staircases back up to the main levels.’
‘Not likely. He’ll still be down here, I think. In which direction was he moving when you saw him?’
A moment of hesitation, which Grelier duty noted. ‘Towards the reactor,’ Glaur said.
‘Thank you.’ Grelier tapped his cane smartly and left the shift boss standing there, his momentary usefulness over.
He followed his quarry’s path towards the reactor. He resisted the temptation to pick up his pace, maintaining his stroll, tapping the cane against the floor or any suitably resonant thing he happened to pass. Now and then he stepped over a glassed, grilled window in the floor, and paused awhile to watch the faintly lit ground crawl beneath him, twenty metres below. The cathedral’s motion was rock steady, the jerky walking motion of the twenty buttressed treads smoothed out by the skill of engineers like Glaur.
The reactor loomed ahead. The green dome was surrounded by its own rings of catwalks, rising to the apex. Heavily riveted viewing windows were set with thick dark glass.
He caught sight of a sleeve vanishing around the curve of the second catwalk from the ground.
‘Hello,’ Grelier called. ‘Are you there, Vaustad? I’d like a wee word.’
No reply. Grelier circled the reactor, taking his time. From above, its originator always out of sight, came a metallic scamper. He smiled, dismayed at Vaustad’s stupidity. There were a hundred places to hide in the traction hall. Simian instinct, however, had driven the choirmaster to head for higher ground, even if that meant being cornered.
Grelier reached the gated access point to the ladder. He stepped through it and locked the gate behind him. He could not climb and carry the medical kit and the cane, so he left the medical kit on the ground. He tucked the cane into the crook of his arm and made his way upwards, one rung at a time, until he reached the first catwalk.
He walked around it once, just to unnerve Vaustad further. Humming quietly to himself, he looked over the edge and took in the scenery. Occasionally he rapped the cane against the curving metal sides of the reactor, or the black glass of one of the inspection portholes. The glass reminded him of the tarlike chips in the cathedral’s front-facing stained-glass window, and he wondered for a moment if it was the same material.
Well, on to business.
He reached the ladder again and ascended to the next level. He could still hear that pathetic lab-rat scampering.
‘Vaustad? Be a good fellow and come here, will you? It’ll all be over in a jiffy.’
The scampering continued. He could feel the man’s footfalls through the metal, transmitted right around the reactor.
‘I’ll just have to come over to you myself, then, won’t I?’
He began to circumnavigate the reactor. He was on a level with the coupling rods now. There were none close to him, but - seen in foreshortened perspective - the moving spars of metal threshed like scissor blades. He saw some of Glaur’s technicians moving amongst that whisking machinery, oiling and checking. They appeared imprisoned in it, yet magically uninjured.
The hem of a trouser leg vanished around the curve. The scampering increased in pace. Grelier smiled and halted, leaning over the edge. He was close now. He took the top end of his cane and twisted the head one quarter turn.
‘Up or down?’ he whispered to himself. ‘Up or down?’
It was up. He could hear the clattering rising above him, to the next level of the catwalk. Grelier didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. Down, and the hunt would be over. The man would find his escape blocked, and Grelier would have had no difficulty pacifying him with the cane. With the man docile, it would only take a minute or two to inject him with the top-up dose. Efficient, but where was the fun in that?
At least now he was getting a run for his money. The end result would still be the same: the man cornered, no way out. Touch him with the cane and he’d be putty in Grelier’s hands. There would be the problem of getting him down the ladder, of course, but one of Glaur’s people could help with that.
Grelier climbed to the next level. This catwalk was smaller in diameter than the two below, set back towards the apex of the reactor dome. There was only one more level, at the apex itself, accessed by a gently sloping ramp. Vaustad was moving up the ramp as Grelier watched.
‘There’s nothing for you up there,’ the surgeon-general said. ‘Turn around now and we’ll forget all about this.’
Would he hell. But Vaustad was beyond reason in any case. He had arrived at the apex and was taking a moment to look back at his pursuer. Pudgy hands, mooncalf face. Grelier had his man all right, not that there had ever been much doubt.
‘Leave me alone,’ Vaustad shouted. ‘Leave me alone, you bloody ghoul!’
‘Sticks and stones,’ Grelier said with a patient smile. He tapped his cane against the railing and began to ascend the ramp.
‘You won’t get me,’ Vaustad said. ‘I’ve had enough. Too many bad dreams.’
‘Oh, come now. A little prick and it’ll all be over.’
Vaustad grabbed hold of one of the silver steam pipes erupting from the top of the reactor dome, wrapping himself around it. He began to scramble up it, using the pipe’s metal ribs for grip. There was nothing graceful or speedy about his progress, but it was steady and methodical. Had he planned this? Grelier wondered. It had been a mistake to forget about the steam pipes.
But where would he go, ultimately? The pipes would only take him back along the hall towards the turbines and the traction motors. It might prolong the chase, but it was still futile in the long run.
Grelier reached the reactor’s apex. Vaustad was a metre or so above his head. He held up the cane, trying to tap Vaustad’s heels. No good; he had made too much height. Grelier turned the head of the cane another quarter turn, increasing the stun setting, and touched it against the pipework. Vaustad yelped, but kept moving. Another quarter turn of the cane: maximum-discharge setting, lethal at close quarters. He kissed the end of the cane against the metal and watched Vaustad hug the pipe convulsively. The man clenched his teeth, moaned, but still managed to hold on to the pipe.
Grelier dropped the cane, the charge exhausted. Suddenly this wasn’t proceeding quite the way he had planned it.
‘Where are you going?’ Grelier asked, playfully. ‘Come down now, before you hurt yourself.’
Vaustad said no
thing, just kept crawling.
‘You’ll do yourself an injury,’ Grelier said.
Vaustad had reached the point where his pipe curved over to the horizontal, taking it across the hall towards the turbine complex. Grelier expected him to stop at the right-angled turn, having made his point. But instead Vaustad wriggled around the bend until he was lying on the upper surface of the pipe with his arms and legs wrapped around it. He was now thirty metres from the ground.
The scene was drawing a small audience. About a dozen of Glaur’s men were standing in the hall below, looking up at the spectacle. Others had paused in their work amongst the coupling rods.
‘Clocktower business,’ Grelier said warningly. ‘Go back to your jobs.’
The workers drifted away, but Grelier was aware that most of them were still keeping one eye on what was happening. Had the situation reached the point where he needed to call in additional assistance from Bloodwork? He hoped not; it was a matter of personal pride that he always took care of these house calls on his own. But the Vaustad call was turning messy.
The choirmaster had made about ten metres of horizontal distance, carrying him beyond the perimeter of the reactor. There was only floor below him now. Even in Hela’s reduced gravity, a fall from thirty metres on to a hard surface was probably not going to be survivable.
Grelier looked ahead. The pipe was supported from the ceiling at intervals, hanging by thin metal lines anchored to enlarged versions of the ribs. The nearest line was about five metres in front of Vaustad. There was no way he would be able to get around that.
‘All right,’ Grelier said, raising his voice above the din of the traction machinery. ‘You’ve made your point. We’ve all had a bit of a laugh. Now turn around and we’ll talk things over sensibly.’
But Vaustad was beyond reason now. He had reached the supporting stay and was trying to wriggle past it, shifting much of his weight to one side of the pipe. Grelier watched, knowing with numbing inevitability that Vaustad was not going to make it. It would have been a difficult exercise for an agile young man, and Vaustad was neither. He was curled around the obstacle now, one leg hanging uselessly over the side, the other trying to act as a balance, one hand on the metal stay and the other fumbling for the nearest rib on the other side. He stretched, straining to reach the rib. Then he slipped, both legs coming off the pipe. He hung there, one hand taking his weight while the other thrashed around in midair.
‘Stay still!’ Grelier called. ‘Stay still and you’ll be all right. You can hold yourself there until we get help if you stop moving!’
Again, a fit young man could have held himself up there until rescue arrived, even hanging from one hand. But Vaustad was a large, soft individual who had never had to use his muscles before.
Grelier watched as Vaustad’s remaining hand slipped from the metal stay. He watched Vaustad fall down to the floor of the traction hall, hitting it with a thump that was nearly muffled by the constant background noise. There had been no scream, no gasp of shock. Vaustad’s eyes were closed, but from the expression on his upturned face it was likely that the man had died instantly.
Grelier collected his cane, stuffed it into the crook of his arm and made his way back down the series of ramps and ladders. At the foot of the reactor he retrieved his medical kit and unlocked the access door. By the time he reached Vaustad, half a dozen of Glaur’s workers had gathered around the body. He considered shooing them away, then decided against it. Let them watch. Let them see what Bloodwork entailed.
He knelt down by Vaustad and opened the medical kit. It gasped cold. It was divided into two compartments. In the upper tray were the red-filled syringes of top-up doses, fresh from Bloodwork. They were labelled for serotype and viral strain. One of them had been intended for Vaustad and would now have to go to a new home.
He peeled back Vaustad’s sleeve. Was there still a faint pulse? That would make life easier. It was never a simple business, drawing blood from the dead. Even the recently deceased.
He reached into the second compartment, the one that held the empty syringes. He held one up to the light, symbolically.
‘The Lord giveth,’ Grelier said, slipping the syringe into one of Vaustad’s veins and starting to draw blood. ‘And sometimes, unfortunately, the Lord taketh away.’
He filled three syringes before he was done.
Grelier latched the gate to the spiral staircase behind him. It was good, on reflection, to escape the aggressive stillness of the traction hall. Sometimes it seemed to him that the place was a cathedral within a cathedral, with its own unwritten rules. He could control people, but down there - amid machines - he was out of his element. He had tried to make the most of the business with Vaustad, but everyone knew that he had not come to take blood, but to give it.
Before ascending further he stopped at one of the speaking points, calling a team down from Bloodwork to deal with the body. There would be questions to answer, later, but nothing that would cost him any sleep.
Grelier moved through the main hall, on his way to the Clocktower. He was taking the long way around, in no particular hurry to see Quaiche after the Vaustad debacle. Besides, it was his usual custom to make at least one circumnavigation of the hall before going up or down. It was the largest open space in the cathedral, and the only one - save for the traction hall - where he could free himself from the mild claustrophobia that he felt in every other part of the moving structure.
The hall had been remade and expanded many times, as the cathedral itself grew to its present size. Little of that history was evident to the casual eye now, but having lived through most of the changes, Grelier saw what others might have missed. He observed the faint scars where interior walls had been removed and relocated. He saw the tidemark where the original, much lower ceiling had been. Thirty or forty years had passed since the new one had been put in - it had been a mammoth exercise in the airless environment of Hela, especially since the old space had remained occupied throughout the whole process and the cathedral had, of course, kept moving the entire time. Yet the choir had not missed a note during the entire remodelling, and the number of deaths amongst the construction workers had remained tolerably low.
Grelier paused awhile at one of the stained-glass windows on the right-hand side of the cathedral. The coloured edifice towered dozens of metres above him. It was framed by a series of divided stone arches, with a rose window at the very top. The cathedral’s architectural skeleton, traction mechanisms and external cladding were necessarily composed largely of metal, but much of the interior was faced with a thin layer of cosmetic masonry. Some of it had been processed from indigenous Hela minerals, but the rest of it - the subtle biscuit-hued stones and the luscious white-and-rose marbles - had been imported by the Ultras. Some of the stones, it was said, had even come from cathedrals on Earth. Grelier took that with a large pinch of salt: more than likely they’d come from the nearest suitable asteroid. It was the same with the holy relics he encountered during his tour, tucked away in candlelit niches. It was anyone’s guess how old they really were, whether they’d been hand-crafted by medieval artisans or knocked together in manufactory nanoforges.
But regardless of the provenance of the stonework that framed it, the stained-glass window was a thing of beauty. When the light was right, it not only shone with a glory of its own but transmitted that glory to everything and everyone within the hall. The details of the window hardly mattered - it would still have been beautiful if the chips of coloured, vacuum-tight glass had been arranged in random kaleidoscopic patterns - but Grelier took particular note of the imagery. It changed from time to time, following dictates from Quaiche himself. When Grelier sometimes had difficulty reading the man directly (and that was increasingly the case) the windows offered a parallel insight into Quaiche’s state of mind.
Take now, for instance: when he had last paid attention to this window, it had focused on Haldora, showing a stylised view of the gas giant rendered in swirling chips of och
re and fawn. The planet had been set within a blue backdrop speckled with the yellow chips of surrounding stars. In the foreground there had been a rocky landscape evoked in contrasting shards of white and black, with the gold form of Quaiche’s crashed ship parked amid boulders. Quaiche himself was depicted outside the ship, robed and bearded, kneeling on the ground and raising an imploring hand to the heavens. Before that, Grelier recalled, the window had shown the cathedral itself, pictured descending the zigzagging ramp of the Devil’s Staircase, looking for all the world like a tiny storm-tossed sailing ship, all the other cathedrals lagging behind, and with a slightly smaller rendition of Haldora in the sky.
Before that, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might have been a more modest variation on the theme of the crashed ship.
The images that the window showed now were clear enough, but their significance to Quaiche was much more difficult to judge. At the top, worked into the rose window itself, was the familiar banded face of Haldora. Below that were a couple of metres of starlit sky, shaded from deep blue to gold by some artifice of glass tinting. Then, taking up most of the height of the window, was a toweringly impressive cathedral, a teetering assemblage of pennanted spires and buttresses, lines of converging perspective making it clear that the cathedral sat immediately below Haldora. So far so good: the whole point of a cathedral was for it to remain precisely below the gas giant, just as depicted. But the cathedral in the window was obviously larger than any to be found on the Permanent Way; it was practically a citadel in its own right. And - unless Grelier was mistaken - it was clearly portrayed as being an outgrowth of the rocky foreground landscape, as if it had foundations rather than traction mechanisms. There was no sign of the Permanent Way at all.
The Revelation Space Collection Page 252
