Absolution Gap rs-4

by Alastair Reynolds

  “What she means is,” Vasko said, “try to see it from our side. If you’d lived through all the years of waiting, you’d see things differently.” He leant back in his seat and shrugged. “Anyway, what’s done is done. I told Quaiche that we’d have to discuss the issue of the delegates, but other than that, all we’re waiting for is the agreement to come through from his side. Then we can go on in.”

  “Wait,” Scorpio said, raising his hand. “Did you say delegates? What delegates?”

  “Quaiche insists on it,” Vasko said. “Says he’ll need to station a small party of Adventists on the ship.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “It’s all right,” Urton said. “The arrangement is reciprocal. The church sends up a party, we send one down to the cathedral. It’s all above board.”

  Scorpio sighed. What point was there in arguing? He was already tired, and all he had done was sit in on this discussion. This discussion in which everything was already agreed, and he was—to all intents and purposes—relegated to the role of passive observer. He could object all he wanted, but for all the difference he made he might as well have stayed in the reefer-sleep casket.

  “You’re making a serious mistake,” he said. “Trust me on this.”

  Hela Surface, 2727

  Captain Seyfarth was a slight, unsmiling man with a small thin-lipped mouth ideally evolved for the registering of con-tempt. In fact, beyond his neutral calm, Quaiche had never known the captain of the Cathedral Guard to show any other emotion. Even Seyfarth’s contempt was deployed sparingly, like a very expensive, difficult to procure item of military ordnance. It was usually in connection with his opinion of someone else’s security arrangements. He was a man who liked his work very much, and little else. He was, in Quaiche’s opinion, the perfect man for the job.

  Standing in the garret, he wore the highly polished armour of the Guard, with his pink-plumed ceremonial vacuum helmet tucked under arm. The ostentatiously flanged and recurved armour was the deep maroon of arterial blood. Many medals and ribbons had been painted on the chest-plate, commemorating the actions Seyfarth had led in defence of the Lady Morwenna’s interests. Officially, they had all been aboveboard and within the generally accepted rules of Way behaviour. He had fought off raiding parties of disgruntled villagers; he had repelled hostile actions by rogue trading elements, including small parties of Ultras. But there had been covert operations as well, matters too delicate to commemorate: pre-emptive sabotage of both the Permanent Way and other cathedrals; the discreet removal from the church hierarchy of progressive elements hostile to Quaiche. Assassination was too strong a word, but that, too, was within Seyfarth’s repertoire of possible effects. He had the kind of past best left unmentioned. It included wars and war crimes.

  But he remained fiercely loyal to Quaiche. In thirty-five years of service, there had been enough opportunities for Seyfarth to betray his master in return for personal advancement. It had never happened; all he cared about was the excellence with which he discharged his duty as Quaiche’s protector.

  It had still been a risk, all the same, for Quaiche to let him know of his plans in advance. Everyone else involved—even the master of holdfast construction—needed to know only certain details. Grelier knew nothing at all. But Seyfarth required an overview of the entire scheme. He was the one, after all, who was going to have to take the ship.

  “It’s going to happen, then,” Seyfarth said. “I wouldn’t have been called here otherwise.”

  “I’ve found a willing candidate,” Quaiche said. “More importantly, one that also suits my needs.” He passed Seyfarth a picture of the starship, captured by spy remotes. “What do you think? Can you do the business?”

  Seyfarth took his time studying the picture. “I don’t like the look of it,” he said. “All that gothic ornamentation… it looks like a chunk of the Lady Morwenna; flying through space.”

  “All the more appropriate, then.”

  “My objection stands.”

  “You’ll have to live with it. No two Ultra ships look alike, and we’ve seen stranger. Anyway, the holdfast can accommodate any hull profile, within reason. This won’t pose any problems. And it’s what’s inside that really matters.”

  “You’ve managed to put a spy aboard?”

  “No,” Quaiche said. “Too little time. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve more or less agreed to accept a small party of Adven-tist observers. That’s all we need.”

  “And the condition of the engines?”

  “Nothing to cause alarm. We observed her approach: everything looked clean and stable.”

  Seyfarth was still studying the picture, his lips signalling the contempt Quaiche recognised so well. “Where had she come from?”

  “Could have been anywhere. We didn’t see her until she was very near. Why?”

  “There’s something about this ship that I don’t like.”

  “You’d say that no matter which one I offered you. You’re a bom pessimist, Seyfarth: that’s why you’re so good at your work. But the matter is closed. The ship’s already been selected.”

  “Ultras aren’t to be trusted,” he said. “Now more than ever. They’re as scared as everyone else.” He flicked the picture, making it crack. “What is it they want, Quaiche? Have you asked yourself that?”

  “What I’m giving them.”

  “Which is?”

  “Favoured trading incentives, first refusal on relics, that kind of thing. And…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  “And what?”

  “They’re mainly interested in Haldora,” Quaiche said. “They have some studies they’d like to make.”

  Seyfarth watched him inscrutably; Quaiche felt as if he was being peeled open like a fruit. “You’ve always denied anyone that kind of access in the past,” he said. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “Because,” Quaiche said, “it doesn’t really matter now. The vanishings are heading towards some sort of conclusion anyway. The word of God is about to be revealed whether we like it or not.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” Idly, Seyfarth ran one red gauntlet through the soft pink plume of his helmet. “You don’t care now, do you? Not now that your triumph is so close at hand.”

  “You’re wrong,” Quaiche said. “I do care, more than ever. But perhaps this is God’s way after all. The Ultras may even hasten the end of the vanishings by their interference.”

  “The word of God revealed, on the eve of your victory? Is that what you’re hoping for?”

  “If that’s the way it’s meant to happen,” Quaiche said, with a fatalistic sigh, “then who am I to stand in the way?”

  Seyfarth returned the picture to Quaiche. He walked around the garret, his form sliced and shuffled by the intervening mirrors. His armour creaked with every footstep, his gauntleted fists opening and closing in neurotic rhythm.

  ‘The advance party: how many delegates?“

  “They agreed to twenty. Seemed unwise to try to talk them up. You can make do with twenty, can’t you?”

  “Thirty would have been better.”

  “Thirty begins to look too much like an army. In any case, the twenty will only be there to make sure the ship’s really worth taking. Once they’ve started softening things up, you can send in as many Cathedral Guard as you can spare.”

  “I’ll need authorisation to use whatever weapons I see fit.”

  “I don’t want you murdering people, Captain,” Quaiche said, raising a forbidding finger. “Reasonable resistance may be dealt with, yes, but that doesn’t mean turning the ship into a bloodbath. Pacify the security elements, by all means, but emphasise that we only want the loan of the ship: we’re not stealing it. Once our work is done, they can have it back, with our gratitude. I need hardly add that you’d better make sure you deliver the ship to me in one piece.”

  “I only asked for permission to use weapons.”

  “Use whatever you see fit, Captain, provided you can smug-gle it
past the Ultras. They’ll be looking for the usual: bombs, knives and guns. Even if we had access to anti-matter, we’d have a hard time getting it past them.”

  “I’ve already made all the necessary arrangements,” Seyfarth said.

  “I’m sure you have. But—please—show a modicum of restraint, all right?”

  “And your magic advisor?” Seyfarth asked. “What did she have to say on the matter?”

  “She concluded there was nothing to worry about,” Quaiche said.

  Seyfarth turned around, latching his helmet into place. The pink plume fell across the black strip of his faceplate. He looked both comical and fearsome, which was exactly the intended effect.

  “I’ll get to work, then.”

  Nostalgia for Infinity, Parking Swarm, 107 Piscium, 2727

  An hour later there was an official transmission from the Clocktower of the Lady Morwenna. The arrangement had been accepted by the Adventist party. Subject to the installation of twenty clerical observers aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, the lighthugger was free to move into near-Hela space and commence the defence watch. Once the observers had come aboard and inspected the weapons setup, the crew would be permitted to make a limited physical study of the Haldora phenomenon.

  The reply was sent back within thirty minutes. The terms were acceptable to the Nostalgia for Infinity, and the Adventist party would be welcomed aboard as the ship made its approach-spiral to Hela orbit. At the same time, an Ultra delegation would proceed by shuttle to the landing stage of the Lady Morwenna.

  Thirty minutes after that, with a flicker of main drive thrust, the Nostalgia for Infinity broke station from the parking swarm.

  FORTY

  Hela Surface, 2727

  The threshing machinery of Motive Power seemed to salute Captain Seyfarth as he strode through the chamber, his gloved hands tucked behind his back. As the leader of the Cathedral Guard, he never counted on a warm welcome from the mechanically minded denizens of the propulsion department. While they had no instinctive dislike for him, they did have long memories: it was always Seyfarth’s people who put down any rebellions within the Lady Morwenna’s technical workforce. There were surprisingly few workers in the chamber now, but in his mind’s eye Seyfarth sketched in the fallen bodies and injured victims of the last “arbitration action,” as the cathedral authorities had referred to the matter. Glaur, the shift boss he was looking for now, had never been directly linked to the rebellion, but it was clear from their infrequent dealings that Glaur had no love for either the Cathedral Guard or its chief.

  “Ah, Glaur,” he said, catching sight of the man next to an open access panel.

  “Captain. What a pleasure.”

  Seyfarth made his way to the panel. Wires and cables hung from its innards, like disembowelled vitals. Seyfarth pulled the access hatch down so that it hung half-opened over the dangling entrails. Glaur started to say something—some useless protestation—but Seyfarth silenced him by touching a finger to his own lips. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

  “You have no…”

  “Bit quiet in here, isn’t it?” Seyfarth said, looking around the chamber at the untended machines and empty catwalks. “Where is everyone?”

  “You know exactly where everyone is,” Glaur said. “They got themselves off the Lady Mor as soon as they could. By the end of it they were charging a year’s wages for a surface suit. I’m down to a skeleton crew now, just enough lads to keep the reactor sweet and the machines greased.”

  “Those who left,” Seyfarth mused. It was happening all over the cathedral: even the Guard was having trouble stopping the exodus. “They’d be in violation of contract, wouldn’t they?”

  Glaur looked at him incredulously. “You think they give a damn about that, Captain? All that they care about is getting off this thing before we reach the bridge.”

  Seyfarth could smell the man’s fear boiling off him like a heat haze. “You mean they don’t think we’ll make it?”

  “Do you?”

  “If the dean says we’ll make it, who are we to doubt him?”

  “I doubt him,” Glaur said, his voice a hiss. “I know what happened the last time, and we’re bigger and heavier. This cathedral isn’t going to cross that bridge, Captain, no matter how much blood the surgeon-general pumps into us.”

  “Fortunate, then, that I won’t be on the Lady Morwenna when it happens,” Seyfarth said.

  “You’re leaving?” Glaur asked, suddenly keen.

  Did he imagine, Seyfarth thought, that he was actually proposing rebellion? “Yes, but on church business. Something that’ll keep me away until the bridge is either crossed… or it isn’t. What about you?”

  Glaur shook his head, stroking the filthy handkerchief he kept knotted around his neck. “I’ll stay, Captain.”

  “Loyalty to the dean?”

  “Loyalty to my machines, more like.”

  Seyfarth touched him on the shoulder. “I’m impressed. You wouldn’t be tempted, not even once, to steer the cathedral from the Way, or to sabotage the motors?”

  Glaur’s teeth flashed. “I’m here to do a job.”

  “It’ll kill you.”

  “Then maybe I’ll leave at the last moment. But this cathedral’s staying on the Way.”

  “Good man. We’d better make sure of that, all the same.”

  Glaur looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Captain?”

  “Walk me to the lock-out controls, Glaur.”

  “No.”

  Seyfarth seized him by the neckerchief, lifted him half his height from the ground. Glaur choked, flailing his fists uselessly against Seyfarth’s chest.

  “Walk me to the lock-out controls,” Seyfarth repeated, his voice still calm.

  The surgeon-general’s private shuttle made its own approach, squatting down on a stiletto of fusion thrust. The landing pad Grelier had selected was a small, derelict affair on the outskirts of the Vigrid settlement. His red cockleshell of a ship came to rest with a pronounced lean, the pad’s surface subsiding into the ground. The pad clearly saw very little traffic: it might easily have been decades since anything larger than a robot supply drone had landed on it.

  Grelier gathered his belongings and exited his ship. The pad was decrepit, but the walkway leading away from it was still more or less serviceable. Tapping his cane against the fractured craquelure of the concrete surface, he made his way to the nearest public entrance point. The airlock, when he tried it, refused to open. He resorted to the all-purpose Clocktower key—it was supposed to open just about any door on Hela—but that didn’t work either. Gloomily he concluded that the door was simply broken, its mechanism failed.

  He followed the trail for another ten minutes, casting around until he found a lock that actually worked. He was near the centre of the little buried hamlet now; the topside was a confusion of parked vehicles, abandoned equipment modules, scorched and broken-faceted solar collectors. This was all very well, but the closer he was to the heart of the settlement, the more likely he was to be discovered going about his business.

  No matter: it had to be done, and he had exhausted the alternatives. Still suited, he cycled through the airlock and then descended a vertical ladder. This brought him into a dimly lit tunnel network, with corridors radiating in five different directions. Fortunately, they were colour-coded, indicating the residential and industrial districts they led to. Except districts wasn’t really the right word, Grelier thought. This tiny community, though it might have enjoyed social ties with others in the badlands, was smaller in population than one floor of the Lady Morwenna.

  He hummed as he walked. As bothered as he was by recent events, he always enjoyed being on Clocktower business. Even if, as now, the business was verging on the personal, a mission the precise reason for which Grelier had not told the dean.

  Fair enough, he said to himself. If the dean kept secrets from him, then he would keep secrets from the dean.

  Quaiche was up to something. Grelier had suspect
ed as much for months, but the girl’s remarks about witnessing the construction fleet had clinched it. Although Grelier had done his best to dismiss her observation, it had continued to gnaw at him. It chimed with other odd things that he had noticed lately. The skimping on Way maintenance, for instance. They had got stuck behind the ice blockage precisely because Way maintenance lacked the usual resources to clear it. Quaiche had been forced to deploy nuclear demolition charges: God’s Fire.

  At the time, Grelier had put it down to nothing more than a happy coincidence. But the more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. Quaiche had wanted to make his announcement about taking the Lady Morwenna over the bridge with the maximum fanfare. What better way to underline his words than with a dose of God’s Fire shining through his newly installed stained-glass window?

  The use of God’s Fire had only been justified because Way maintenance was already stretched. But what if Way maintenance was stretched precisely because Quaiche had ordered the diversion of its equipment and manpower?

  Another thought occurred to Grelier: the blockage itself might even have been orchestrated. Quaiche had blamed it on sabotage by another church, but Quaiche could easily have arranged it himself. It would only have been a question of laying fuses and explosives the last time the Lady Mor went through.

  A year earlier.

  Did he honestly think Quaiche had been planning something all that time? Well, perhaps. People who built cathedrals tended to take the long view, after all.

  Grelier still couldn’t see where all this was heading. All he knew—with a growing conviction—was that Quaiche was keeping something from him.

  Something to do with the Ultras?

  Something to do with the bridge crossing?

  Events did after all seem to be rushing towards some grand culmination. And then there was the girl. Where did she fit into all this? Grelier could have sworn he had picked her, not the other way around. But now he was not so certain. She had made herself conspicuous to him, that much was true. It was like that trick they did with cards, suggesting the one you were meant to take from the spread.