by Jaine Fenn
He opened the shutters and was relieved to find space looking the same as it always did: remote, beautiful and too big to comprehend. Nav systems were still offline, so he couldn’t get a star-fix. He sent a text-only reply to traffic control, stating that they’d had a bad transit but were in no immediate danger. He said he’d be in touch again once he’d checked his ship over.
The remaining systems were coming back up by themselves, so he went to find Nual and Taro. He left the bridge, clinging shakily to the ladder as he descended.
He didn’t spot them at first. Then he heard a small sound from behind him, and turned round. They were sitting, or rather huddled, against the drive-column, arms wrapped around each other. They were both conscious but dazed. Their faces were grey-white, save for a thin trickle of red under Nual’s nose. They didn’t notice him until he spoke.
‘Are you two all right?’ he asked. He was already recovering from the worst ravages of the transit and his body was demanding caf. It looked like they’d had a far worse time of it.
‘We . . . will be,’ said Nual in a small, drained voice.
Jarek ducked under the ladder and helped them stand. They were trembling, the kind of constant unconscious shuddering that comes after great exertion. ‘I think we should get you both to the med-bay. Nual, you’ve got blood on your face.’
She raised a hand to wipe her lip, then looked at the red smear with a mixture of confusion and irritation. ‘I’m fine,’ she murmured. ‘Just need a drink. Please.’
‘I could certainly use one myself,’ Jarek agreed.
The three of them staggered over to the table and Jarek started making a pot of caf while the other two collapsed onto seats. He nodded to indicate the drive-column. ‘How come you ended up sitting down there?’
He saw the look that passed between them - no doubt more than a look - then Nual said, ‘Needed . . . to get close.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Her eyes were still unfocused and despite her claim that she wasn’t hurt, he wondered if she’d injured herself. Perhaps she’d fallen when the ship was in the shift, maybe banged her head. ‘Close to the . . . shift-mind,’ she said.
Jarek put the pot down and turned to face her. ‘I’d have thought that was the last thing you’d want to do.’
Nual started to shake her head, then winced, ‘Not like that . . . any more.’
For the first time, Taro spoke; though he looked even more exhausted than Nual, his voice was stronger than hers. ‘Where are we?’
‘Interesting question. Apparently we’re at Xantier.’ Jarek let his continuing disbelief colour his voice.
‘That’s . . . where Bez, the hacker, is. Where you wanted to go, yes?’ Taro glanced between Jarek and Nual as he spoke.
‘Yes,’ said Jarek, ‘but that’s not how transits work. You have to follow the paths—’
‘I don’t,’ whispered Nual.
‘What?’ The question came out more harshly than he intended, but it had been a hell of a day and he’d just about reached the end of his endurance.
Nual’s voice was stronger now. ‘Xantier. That’s where you wanted to go. So that’s where I took us.’
‘Holy fucking Christos!’ Jarek’s cry echoed through the ship.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Jarek would never get used to hollow-earth worlds. It came of being a planet-dweller for his first two decades; he’d managed to adjust to ships and stations where the horizon was cut off, but having the horizon wrapped around your head was just plain wrong. The residential and commercial areas of Xantier’s ‘ground’ were edged by parkland, a green strip running around the wall at the level where the choice of views - up across the crop fields and into the ‘sky’ of blue-painted rock, or down onto civilisation - made for interesting conversation but uncomfortable living-space.
Most of the benches faced the habbed area, overlooking the pattern of apartments, manufactories and offices sweeping up the curve of the world below. Jarek found a seat that faced sideways, looking along a strip of green that receded into the mist obscuring the distant end-wall of the great cylindrical habitat. It wasn’t a view he particularly relished, but he didn’t want to appear to be paying too much attention to his immediate surroundings. He didn’t want, for instance, to look like he was waiting for someone. As far as anyone watching was concerned - assuming anyone was, and he hoped they weren’t - he’d just wandered out to the park for a bit of breathing space. Which was almost true: Nual and Taro were happily amusing themselves in their room, but he was glad to escape the less-than-luxurious hotel where they were staying while the repairs on the Heart of Glass were completed.
Thanks to the damaged grav-drive, it’d taken them three days to limp in from Xantier’s beacon. Nual had spent a full day asleep and Taro hadn’t been much better. They were both fine now, though Nual remained subdued. The med-bay said there was no lasting damage from their brush with raw shiftspace.
The ship hadn’t fared so well. Jarek was putting himself deeper into debt than ever to get the Heart of Glass properly spaceworthy again. It was something of a cosmic joke to find his livelihood under threat and his business near bankruptcy at the same time as his view of the universe had been blown wide open.
He was used to thinking of space as a web of settled systems, the paths between them fixed. But that was only for humans, who used technology to travel through shiftspace. Sidhe weren’t subject to the same restrictions. Nual reckoned she could transit his ship straight to any realspace point that the transit-kernel had experienced. Most of the time they’d stick to the normal method of transiting; quite aside from the considerable stress it caused Nual and Taro, bypassing beacons would attract attention from traffic control, and run the risk, however remote, of coming out of the shift too close to another ship.
But now he had a way back to Serenein.
‘Mind if I sit here?’
He looked up and, though he knew the voice, for a moment he didn’t recognise Bez. She’d changed her hairstyle and darkened her skin.
‘Sure,’ said Jarek casually.
As she sat Bez put the reader she’d been carrying down on the seat. Beneath the book Jarek glimpsed a second, smaller, box containing several dataspikes. Jarek looked over at her and said casually, ‘Nice evening.’
Bez made a noncommittal noise, then said, ‘Don’t worry, we aren’t being closely monitored, though we should still act as though this is just a random meeting between strangers.’
‘Uh, right. So that’s the data then?’ He patted the bench, while staring out at the view.
‘It is,’ she sounded as excited as he’d ever heard her.
‘Is it . . . good data?’
‘It’s better than good! It’s fantastic.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Look, the memory-core itself is in storage; you can pick it up when you leave, but it will never be readable on a normal comp. I’ve sorted and indexed everything for you, because otherwise you’d be lost. There’s so much there! You’ve got three dataspikes of general info, two with details of corporations the Sidhe have got their claws into, and one ’spike of miscellaneous contacts with other groups: governments, underground Ascensionist sects, freetraders—’
‘Freetraders?’
‘Nothing to panic over. They just have a few people in the Alliance, which allows them to operate under freetrader cover, like the Setting Sun did. When you scan the files you’ll find that most of those working for the Sidhe don’t even realise it; they’re being bullied, or blackmailed, or simply misled, and they only ever have contact with third parties. Those who do know who they’re working for are either in thrall to them, or have a good reason not to want things to change.’
Jarek thought of the head of Ruanuku-ngai back on Kama Nui. An ally of the Sidhe, yet she’d helped him - well, sort of.
Bez continued, ‘The data on contacts and operating methodologies are comprehensive - everything I could have wished for - but there is information missing.’
; ‘Such as?’
‘In order to co-ordinate as well as they do there must be a central control, rulers who stay aloof and keep an eye on the big picture. But all I found in the data was passing references to something called the Court. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Ah, no, I’ve not come across it.’ He was reasonably sure she wouldn’t call him on his lie. He’d prefer not to withhold information from Bez, but if he admitted knowing about the Court she’d want to know how he’d found out.
‘Fair enough. It’s something to look out for. The other information I would’ve expected to find is some sort of location where the Sidhe can come together and plan. Not necessarily a planet, but perhaps a hidden station, with a beacon that’s not on the charts.’
Or a mothership or six, which don’t use beacons at all. ‘That sounds plausible,’ he said evenly.
‘Well, I didn’t see anything like that in the files. The info’s focused towards interaction with humans, not Sidhe internal politics. But then, that’s what we need to bring them down.’
‘So, what are you planning to do with your copy?’ asked Jarek.
‘Initially, more research. I need to follow up the links, plot the patterns onto real-world situations.’ She paused. ‘This is big: it’ll take more than the two of us. We’ll have to bring in others, possibly begin to co-ordinate some sort of formal resistance.’
Jarek saw an opening. ‘Yes, we’ll need help. Which reminds me: I need you to sort some new IDs please.’
‘You’ve changed your mind then? I thought you had to keep your current ID for your business.’
‘I do, though a secondary one wouldn’t go amiss. No, these are for the allies I mentioned before.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bez nod. ‘Of course. I’ll need hair samples, holo-pix and full biometrics. Use the third local data-drop on the list I sent you. If you can get the necessary to me before midnight I’ll get the IDs to you late tomorrow.’
‘Great.’ He was still uneasy at giving Bez a bio sample from a Sidhe, but Nual already had two IDs that claimed she was human, and Bez had no reason to suspect otherwise. ‘Um, I can’t actually pay you just now.’
‘I know. We’ll worry about that later.’ Bez reached for her book, and made to stand. ‘Anything else?’
Typically direct. Jarek wondered if she’d ever made small-talk in her life. But it was better this way: if he wasn’t talking to her, he wasn’t telling her any lies. ‘That’s it for now.’
‘Then I’ll leave you. Goodbye.’
He gave a friendly wave - just a casual farewell after a brief conversation with a stranger - but she didn’t look back. He waited another minute or so, then scooped up the box of dataspikes and secreted them inside his jacket. He started back, choosing a different path from the one Bez had taken through the close-clipped grass and neat borders. The world’s sun, actually a fusion tube running along the ceiling, was beginning to dim. He’d hate to live here in this manmade box, never able to see the stars.
He still had some misgivings about what he was taking on. Quite aside from his justified terror of the Sidhe, this conflict had already taken him into morally grey areas. Marua was not evil, yet she colluded in something obscene . . . and if she didn’t, or if he stopped her, then humanity might lose its ability to travel the stars. It was complex, tricky, difficult - yes, all of that. But things had to change. Humanity must be free. He would do all he could to ensure that the reign of the Sidhe finally, truly, ended.
He realised he’d slipped his hand inside his jacket to touch the case containing the data from the Setting Sun. Finally he had a tangible weapon, a way to take the fight to his enemies. He felt a sudden elation. They might just win this war.
EPILOGUE:
A MIND OF TARNISHED GOLD
Dark now, and as silent as a shiftship ever gets.
Nual sits up against the bulkhead, Taro’s head in her lap. Soon she will lie down and rest too. For now, she needs some time alone, and these days she is only truly alone when Taro is asleep.
They’ll shift again tomorrow, on the latest leg of the three-week supply run that Jarek has taken on to meet the immediate demands from his debtors. He’s sanguine about their financial troubles; he’s been here before, and he has always managed to get through in the end. And he sees this job as a good chance for Taro to learn the ropes.
Nual glances down at her lover. Asleep, he looks so young, like the child that in many ways he still is. Yet now he is Jarek’s business partner, replacing the virtual partner the databreaker created to avoid Jarek’s name being associated with the new ship ID. It is a logical solution; the Sidhe know nothing of Taro.
Though it was founded in necessity, the change has delighted Taro, giving him a sense of purpose he has never had before. Nual finds she is glad for him; proud even. A strange feeling, to get pleasure from another’s joy. Very un-Sidhe. Almost as alien as regret - or guilt.
She tells herself there is nothing to be gained by admitting she was the catalyst that brought the invading entity into this reality. She cannot change what she did, and telling those she trusts - and who trust her - that she caused this curse, however inadvertently, would only make them doubt her.
She has tried to look within herself, to see if she can find any taint left by the invader. Lyrian saw nothing. But since Lyrian last probed her, Nual has been unconscious in its presence, not once but twice. Did it reach inside her? And if so, what did it leave?
It appears that although her powers of foresight are growing, she remains unable to sense any hidden truths about herself.
Taro senses the pain she hides; even Jarek has an inkling of it. They assume her unease is a result of turning against her own people, but that is a human judgement. She does not regret her choice to abandon her sisters - after all, they abandoned her. Yet she wishes with all her heart that she had not summoned what might yet turn out to be the agent of their destruction.
Jarek and Taro are assuming the contagion they encountered on Kama Nui’s moon was destroyed with the Sidhe ship. They are wrong.
She is certain they have not seen the last of this agent of entropy; it has plans for the Sidhe.
And for humanity.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to the Tripod crit group for keeping me on track and to Milford class of ’08 for feedback on how to start a third novel. Thanks also to my patient and thorough beta-readers, James Cooke, Emma O’Connell and Nick Moulton. Gratitude too to Dave Lermit for sexing up my brown dwarfs, to CB for the right book at the right time, to Nik Weston for detailed and invaluable advice on Islander culture and to the proper scientists who’ve let me pick their brains in my search for a good story, particularly Dr Dave Clements of Imperial College and Dr Mark Thompson of my old alma mater, the University of Hertford. A shout, of course, for Jo Fletcher, my editor at Gollancz, and for my agent, John Jarrold. The biggest thanks of all go, as ever, to Dave Weddell: avid reader, sensible advisor and long-suffering husband.
Jaine Fenn
December 2009
