Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘We brought you a present,’ Cultel said. ‘Be nice.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Ups and downs, Quillon, ups and downs. But while there’s a city and corpses, I guess you and I don’t have to worry about gainful employment.’

  Quillon had always been thin, always been gaunt, but now he looked as if he’d just opened his eyes and climbed off one of the dissection tables. A white surgical coat draped off his thin-ridged shoulders as if it was still on the hanger and a white cap covered his hairless skull. He wore glasses, tinted slightly even though the lights in the morgue were hardly on the bright side. Green surgical gloves that still made his fingers look too long and skeletal for comfort. There were deep shadows under his cheekbones and his skin looked colourless and waxy and not quite alive.

  No getting away from it, Cultel thought. The guy had picked the ideal place of employment.

  ‘So what have you got for me?’

  ‘Got you an angel, my friend. Came down on the ledge.’

  Quillon’s reaction was hard to judge behind the glasses. The rest of his face didn’t move much, even when he spoke. ‘All the way down from the Celestial Levels?’

  ‘What we figured. Funny thing is, though, there’s not much sign that this one was going fast when it hit.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Quillon said this in the uninflected tones of someone who’d be hard pushed to think of anything less interesting. But Cultel wasn’t sure.

  ‘Had some gadgetry on it, we removed all that. What you’ve got is essentially just a naked corpse with wings.’

  ‘That’s what we deal with.’

  ‘You ... um ... cut many of these things open, Quillon?’ Gerber asked.

  ‘The odd one or two. Can’t say they drop in with great regularity. Have we met?’

  ‘I don’t think so. What is it about them you like so much?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “like” comes into it. It’s just a speciality, that’s all. We’re set up for it here. Got the positive-pressure room, in case anything toxic boils out of them. Got the blast-proof doors. And once you’ve done one, the paperwork’s fairly routine.’

  ‘Takes the pressure off the other morgues,’ Cultel said.

  Quillon flexed his scrawny neck in a nod. ‘Everyone’s a winner.’

  There was an awkward moment. The two of them by the trolley, Quillon still standing there with his green-gloved hands at his sides.

  ‘Well, I guess we’re done here,’ Cultel said. ‘Docket tells you everything you need to know. Usual deal: when you’re through with the bag, send it back to Hygiene and Works. Preferably hosed down.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Well, until next time,’ Cultel said, backing into the still-open freight elevator.

  ‘Until next time,’ Quillon said, raising a forearm by way of farewell.

  ‘It’s been great meeting you,’ Gerber said.

  Cultel closed the elevator doors. The elevator descended, the motor whining at the head of the shaft.

  Quillon stood still at the end of the corridor until the panel over the door told him that the elevator had reached the ground floor. Then he walked slowly up to the stretcher, examined the docket and placed one gloved hand on the black zip-up bag containing the angel.

  Then he wheeled it into the examination room, donned a surgical mask, transferred the bag onto the dissection plinth and carefully removed the angel from the bag.

  It seemed to Quillon to be beautiful even in death. He had placed the angel on its back, its eyes closed, the ruined wings hanging down on either side so that their tips brushed the tiled floor, the floor’s sloping runnels designed to channel away bodily fluids. Under the hard lights of the dissection plinth, it was as ghost-pale, naked and hairless as a rat foetus.

  Not expecting to be disturbed, he took off his glasses.

  He pushed a squeaking-wheeled trolley next to the table, pulling aside the green sheet to expose an assortment of medical tools. There were scalpels, forceps, bone-cutting devices, gleaming sterile scoops and spatulas, and an array of glass and stainless-steel receptacles to receive the dissected tissue samples. These tools had once struck him as laughably crude, but now they fell to hand with an easy, reassuring familiarity. A microphone dangled from the ceiling; Quillon tugged it closer to his face and threw a heavy rocker switch in its side. Somewhere beyond the room, tape reels started whirring through recording heads. He cleared his throat and enunciated clearly, to make himself heard through the distorting mask.

  ‘Doctor Quillon speaking. Continuation of previous record.’ He glanced up at the row of clocks on the far wall. ‘Time is now ... six-fifteen p.m. Beginning autopsy of a corpse, docket number five-eight-three-three-four, recently delivered to the Third District Morgue by the Department of Hygiene and Public Works.’ He paused and cast his eyes over the corpse, the appropriate observations springing to mind with a minimum of conscious effort. ‘Initial indications are that the corpse is an angel, probably an adult male. Angel appears uninjured, save for impact damage to the wings. There are some longitudinal bruises and scars on the limbs, together with marked subepidermal swelling - recent enough to suggest they might be contributory factors in the angel’s death - but the limbs appear otherwise uninjured, with no sign of major breaks or dislocations. Indications are that the angel’s descent was controlled until the last moment, at which point it fell with enough force to damage the wings but not to inflict any other visible injuries. Reason for the descent is unknown, but the likely cause of death would appear to be massive maladaptive trauma due to sudden exposure to our zone, rather than impact onto the ledge.’ He paused again, letting the tape continue recording while he reached for a syringe. He punched the needle into a small rubber-capped bottle - one of the last dozen such bottles in the morgue’s inventory - and loaded the tube, taking care not to draw more than was strictly necessary.

  ‘In accordance with protocol,’ he continued, ‘I am now administering a lethal dose of Morphax-55, to ensure final morbidity.’ He tapped the glass until there were no more bubbles, then leaned over to push the needle into the bare skin of the angel’s chest.

  In the six years that he had been working as a pathologist, Quillon had cut open many hundreds of human bodies - victims of accident, homicide, medical negligence - but only eleven angels. That was still more than most pathologists saw in their careers.

  He pressed the tip of the syringe against skin.

  ‘Commencing injection of—’ he started.

  The angel’s left arm whipped over to seize his hand.

  ‘Stop,’ it said.

  Quillon halted, but it was more out of reflex than a considered response to the angel’s actions. He was so startled that he almost dropped the syringe.

  ‘The angel is still alive,’ he said into the microphone. ‘It has exhibited comprehension, visual awareness and fine motor control. I will now attempt to alleviate the subject’s suffering by ...’ He hesitated and looked into the dying creature’s eyes, which were now fully alert, fully and terrifyingly focused on his own. The angel still had his hand on Quillon’s wrist, the syringe hovering dagger-like above the angel’s sternum.

  ‘Let me do this,’ he said. ‘It’ll take away the pain.’

  ‘You mean kill me,’ the angel said, speaking slowly and with effort, as if barely enough air remained in his lungs to make the sounds. His eyes were large and blue, characteristically lacking visible structures. His head rolled slightly on the dissection table, as the angel took in his surroundings.

  ‘You’re going to die anyway,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Break it to me nicely, why don’t you.’

  ‘There’s nothing nice to break. You’ve fallen out of the Celestial Levels into Neon Heights. You don’t belong down here and your cells can’t take it. Even if we could get you back home, too much damage has already been done.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ The angel’s piping, childlike voice was just deep enough to confirm
him as male. ‘I’m fully aware of what’s going to happen. But I don’t want your medicine. Not just yet.’ The angel let go of his hand, allowing Quillon to place the syringe back on the trolley. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The angel was looking at him, the blue eyes windows into an alien soul. His head was only a little smaller than an adult human’s, but almost entirely hairless, beautiful and unworldly, as if it were made of porcelain and stained glass rather than living matter and machines. ‘You must answer me truthfully.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Are you Quillon?’

  He was silent for a few seconds. He had often wondered how it would happen, when his pursuers finally caught up with him. Strangely, he had never envisaged the encounter taking place in the morgue. He had always assumed that the time would come in some dark alley, a packed commuter train, or even his own apartment as he clicked on the light after returning home. A shadow moving into view, a glint of metal. There would be no reason to ask his adopted name. If they had managed to track him down that efficiently, his real identity would have been beyond question.

  The only reason for asking, in other words, would be to taunt him with the sure and certain knowledge that he had failed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, with as much dignity and calm as he could muster.

  ‘That’s good. They said I’d be brought to you.’

  The unease had begun deep in his belly and was now climbing slowly up his spine.

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘The people who sent me here, of course. You don’t think any of this happened by accident, do you?’

  Quillon thought about killing the angel there and then. He still had the Morphax-55 to hand, ready to inject. But the angel knew he was capable of doing that and was still talking. His mind raced. Perhaps trying to kill the angel would be the very trigger that caused him to kill Quillon.

  He kept his composure. ‘Then why did you fall?’

  ‘Because I chose to. This was the quickest - if not the least risky - way.’ The angel swallowed hard, his whole body flexing from the table. ‘I was under no illusions. I knew this was a suicide mission; that I would not be returning to the Celestial Levels. But still I did it. I fell, and stayed alive long enough to be brought to you. They said when an angel falls into Neon Heights, it almost always gets taken to Quillon to be cut open. Is that true?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘I can see why that would work for you.’

  The tape reels were still running, recording every detail of the conversation. Quillon reached up and clicked off the microphone, for all the good that would do.

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘You were once one of us. Then something happened and ... now you live here, down amongst the prehumans, with their stinking factories, buzzing cars and dull electric lights.’

  ‘Do I look like an angel?’

  ‘I know what happened to you. You were remade to look prehuman, your wings removed, your body reshaped, your blood cleansed of machines. You were sent to live among the prehumans, to learn their ways, to prove that it could be done. There were others.’ The angel drew an exhausted, rasping breath. ‘Then something went wrong and now there’s just you, and you can’t ever go back. You work here because you need to be on guard, in case the Celestial Levels send agents down to find you. Ordinary angels can’t reach you, so you know that whatever they send will have to be unusual, or prepared to die very soon after finding you.’

  ‘There’s just you and me in this room,’ Quillon said slowly. ‘Why haven’t you killed me yet?’

  ‘Because that’s not what I was sent to do.’ The angel inhaled again, the breath ragged and wet-sounding. ‘I came to warn you. Things are moving in the Levels. You’re back on the agenda.’

  ‘What do you mean, things are moving?’

  ‘Signs and portents. Indications of unusual instability in the Mire. Or the Eye of God, if you’re religious. You’re not religious, are you, Quillon?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘If you were, you’d say God was getting restless again. You’ve probably noticed the pre-shocks down here. Boundary tremors, warnings of zone slippage. There’s something inside Spearpoint that no one really understands, not even the angels, and it’s got a lot of us rattled. The people who sent you down here, the ones you’re hiding from? They want you back.’

  ‘I’m useless to them now.’

  ‘Not what they believe, unfortunately. There’s information in your head that they’d very much like to suck out. And if they can’t, they’ll kill you anyway to make sure no one else gets their hands on it.’

  ‘Who else cares?’

  ‘The people who sent me. We want that information as well. Difference is we’d rather you stayed alive.’

  ‘Are the others here?’

  ‘Yes. They’re like you, to some extent: modified to work down here. But without the expertise you brought to the first infiltration programme, the modifications aren’t as effective. They can’t stay as long and they don’t blend in as well.’ The angel studied him. ‘Inasmuch as you blend in, Quillon.’

  ‘How near are they?’

  ‘Chances are they already have you under observation. They may already be covering likely exit points, in case you try to leave Neon Heights.’

  ‘Then I’ll hide.’

  ‘You’re already hiding and it hasn’t worked. They’ll have a chemical trace on you by now, sniffing you out by your forensic trail. Running’s your only option. Being here is already pushing them to the limit. They won’t be able to track you if you cross zones.’

  ‘Leave Neon Heights?’

  The angel licked his lips with a fine blue tongue. ‘Spearpoint. All the way down, all the way out. Into the great wide open.’

  The thought made Quillon shiver. ‘There’s nothing out there.’

  ‘There’s enough for survival. If you’ve adapted to life down here, you’ll cope. What matters above all else is that the information in your head never reaches your enemies.’

  ‘Why do they care now?’

  ‘The work you were involved with was only ever the tip of a project, a covert programme designed to create an occupying force. An army of angels with sufficient built-in tolerance to take over the rest of Spearpoint.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Without you, the work stalled. But now the prospect of a zone shift has heightened the urgency. They want that occupying force, which means they want your knowledge.’

  ‘And what do your people want?’

  ‘The same knowledge, but to use for different purposes. Not to take over the rest of Spearpoint, but to provide for emergency assistance if the worst does happen.’

  ‘Seems to me the safest thing would still be to have me killed.’

  ‘That was ... considered. I won’t lie to you.’ The angel gave him a weak, pitying smile. ‘But in the end it was agreed that you were too valuable for that. We can’t see your knowledge wasted.’

  ‘Then help me get back home.’

  ‘Not an option. Best we can do for you is warn you to get out. After that, you’re on your own.’ The blue eyes regarded him with deep, penetrating intelligence. ‘Can you leave Spearpoint without being followed, Quillon?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Because if you can’t be certain, there’s very little point in trying. There’s no one you can turn to?’

  After a moment Quillon said, ‘There is someone.’

  ‘A prehuman?’

  ‘A man who’s helped me from time to time.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘He knows what I am. He’s never betrayed me.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to assume otherwise.’

  ‘If this man can help you, then go to him. But only if your trust in him is absolute. If you’re not sure of that, you have to get out on your own.’

  ‘How long am I supposed to be away?’

&nbs
p; ‘You’ll know when it’s safe to return. Soon there’s going to be a change in the power balance in the Celestial Levels.’

  ‘I can’t just drop everything and leave. I’ve got a life down here.’

  ‘Our intelligence says you have no one, Quillon. No wife. No family. Hardly any friends. Just your work. You cut open corpses and lately you’re starting to look like one. If you want to call that a life, fine by me.’

  Quillon stared down at the angel. ‘Did you really sacrifice yourself for this?’

  ‘To reach you, Quillon? Yes. I did. Knowing that I would die, and that my death would not be an easy one. But I also knew that if I could reach you, and persuade you to take your own survival seriously, something good might come of it. Something that would make my own death seem a very small price to pay.’

  ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Do you remember yours?’

  ‘No. They scrubbed that from me when they layered in the new memories.’

  ‘Then we’ll part as strangers. It’s better that way.’

  ‘I understand,’ Quillon said softly.

  ‘I’ll take that injection now, if you have no objections.’

  Quillon’s hand closed around the syringe of Morphax-55. ‘If I could do more for you, I would.’

  ‘You don’t have to feel bad about this. It was my choice to come here, not yours. Just don’t waste this chance.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Quillon made sure the syringe was still free of air. He touched his other hand to the angel’s bare sternum, applying gentle pressure. ‘Hold still. This won’t hurt.’

  He pushed the syringe in and squeezed the plunger.

  The angel sighed. His breathing became slower and more relaxed.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Couple of minutes. Maybe less.’

  ‘Good. Because there’s something I forgot to tell you.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The whirr of gears, the clunk and chatter of an electromechanical telephone exchange, relays tapping in and out, the purr of a dialling tone, Fray picking up after ten or eleven rings.