Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  In his mind’s eye he kept seeing a child’s body tumbling though leagues of air, falling like a rag doll.

  One less piece of ballast.

  When at last he gave up on sleep he went to the holding cell’s narrow slit of a window and watched the sky lighten to orange. From his present vantage point he could not see Spearpoint, so he had no idea how far they had come or in which direction they were now moving. Beneath Painted Lady the unlit landscape offered no clues. Fires burned here and there, semaphore towers stood motionless, but for all the sense these portents made to him they could have been constellations in an alien sky.

  Once, when the sky had nearly brightened to dawn, he fancied he saw another ship shadowing them at a distance. He had begun to dismiss it as a phantom when, a little later, Painted Lady changed course and the other ship came nearer. Manoeuvres ensued, the engine drone rising and falling, and for one instant he heard a short, sharp discharge, a guttural rip of sound that could have been some ship-borne gun-battery being deployed. Afterwards the airship resumed steady flight, and when he swept the sky he saw nothing but wisps and quills of morning cloud.

  Gambeson came to see him again shortly after sunrise. He was given another examination, more thorough than the last. Gambeson was cordial, but rebuffed almost all of Quillon’s questions. In daylight Quillon was struck by how much older the man looked compared to the night before. His beard seemed whiter, his eyes more wrinkled, his face more lined and drawn. Quillon wondered if he had slept at all since their conversation.

  ‘My offer still stands,’ Quillon said, when Gambeson was packing his instruments away.

  ‘It could never be that easy, Doctor. That you are a Spearpointer would be reason enough for most of our crew to distrust you. But an angel trying to pass himself off as human?’ Gambeson shook his head in mock exasperation.

  ‘You seem the exception to this rule, Doctor.’

  Afterwards, he was taken not back to the others but to another room in the airship. It had small, shuttered windows, the shutters hinged open to admit stripes of wintry daylight. It must have been somewhere near the front, since the walls tapered slightly along their length. The room contained a large table, the kind that could be spread with charts, and the concave walls were lined with books and map rolls, secured in place with leather clasps. The cumulative weight of the books and maps must have been considerable. Quillon could only conclude that each and every one had been deemed essential to the airship’s operation. Once or twice, strangely, he heard birdsong coming from somewhere nearby, as if a small aviary was located next door.

  There were three other people in the room, Gambeson amongst them. Seated next to the surgeon behind the chart table was Captain Curtana. She also had the look of someone who had not seen much sleep lately. Her hair had been tied back, but a few lank strands hung down against her cheek. Her skin, which had appeared nearly black at night, was merely a rich brown, shading to yellow under her eyes, where she looked puffy and exhausted. Once again Quillon was struck by the elegant structure of her face, the birdlike delicacy of her features. She wore the same kind of side-buttoned tunic as the other airmen, although hers had been tailored for a woman. The tunic was unbuttoned to the breast, revealing a white shirt underneath, stained around the collar. Quillon couldn’t tell if she was still wearing her service revolver, but nothing about her mood - impatient, ready to dispense summary justice and move on to the next item of business - seemed in any way intended to put him at ease.

  ‘Remove your shirt and vest,’ Gambeson said, before Quillon had been shown where to sit. ‘Show us what you are.’

  Quillon did as he was told. He turned around slowly, bringing his wing-buds into view. He could feel his audience staring, horrified and fascinated at the same time.

  ‘He says they’ll keep growing if he doesn’t cut them back,’ Gambeson said. ‘Eventually, if he’s to be believed, he’ll have a full set of wings, and the nervous system and musculoskeletal structure to use them. He could fly away from us without any great difficulty.’

  ‘We could catch him, though?’ Curtana asked, as if his escape were not merely possible, but a distinct and looming probability. ‘He couldn’t actually outfly us?’

  ‘He’d have the edge in agility,’ Gambeson said. ‘Just like Skullboy raiders. But that wouldn’t keep him out of our gun sights for ever, and even with thermals and gliding I doubt he’d have a range of much more than fifty leagues.’

  ‘I was just thinking - we could always use some target practice,’ Curtana said.

  ‘I think you’ll have a wait on your hands before those wings are flight-capable. Quite a specimen, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s one word for it, Doctor. Revolting’s another.’ Curtana snapped her fingers at Quillon. ‘Put your clothes on, before I lose my breakfast. And take a seat.’

  He was ushered, none too gently, into the waiting chair on the other side of the table.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do with me?’

  ‘There are a number of avenues open to us,’ Curtana said. ‘First, it might help if I explained that we’re at war. Actually, we’ve always been at war. War is sort of what we do, when we’re not grubbing around looking for the next firesap supply. The Skullboys don’t go away, and there’s only room for one dominant force in this airspace. Lately, though, things have been getting more intense. The storm’s given the Skulls a chance to recombine, to aggregate together in serious numbers. They’ve no real chance of taking down Swarm - we’re still too strong, too organised for that. But they can make life harder for us, interfering with our scouting and reconnaissance activities, forcing us to commit more ships to a given task than we’d ordinarily need, leaving Swarm less well defended. It’s not just our problem, either. Ground intelligence has it that they’re also planning a move against Spearpoint and the other surface cities, now that the storm’s made them so vulnerable.’ Quillon started to speak, but Curtana raised a silencing hand. ‘I merely state these things to clarify the difficulty of our position. Under other circumstances we might be inclined to extend the hand of trust and forgiveness. But these are not such circumstances. The possibility of a saboteur on one of our ships, or a destabilising element, cannot be tolerated.’

  ‘I’m neither of those things,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Doctor Gambeson: your findings?’ she asked.

  Gambeson coughed before speaking. ‘Nothing’s changed since my earlier report. He’s a human-angel hybrid. We’ve never seen anything like him before, and neither have the textbooks. His story is that he was surgically modified to look human, and that the concealment ... camouflage ... is beginning to wear off.’

  ‘Do you find this plausible?’

  ‘Confronted with a human-angel hybrid, a man with atrophied wings growing out of his back, I’d have to say that there are very few things I wouldn’t find plausible.’ Gambeson scratched at the corner of his eye, finding something small and gritty lodged there. ‘I have no particular reason to disbelieve him. Short of an autopsy, though, there’s really no way to verify his story. All we can do is keep him under observation and see how he changes. If his angel morphology becomes more dominant, that will bolster his story.’

  ‘Is that your recommendation?’ asked the other man present. ‘Just let him stay aboard, observing him like a laboratory specimen?’

  ‘I see no immediate harm in it.’

  ‘You have no idea of his capabilities.’

  Gambeson shrugged at the other man. ‘Nor do you, Commander Spatha. On the other hand, I’ve had the luxury of examining him. He’s actually quite frail; one of your men could easily overpower him and probably break his limbs without too much difficulty. He doesn’t weigh much more than a child. Angels need very delicate bone structure. They couldn’t fly otherwise.’

  ‘He could be dangerous in other ways,’ Commander Spatha said. Quillon thought he recognised him as the man who had been sent back to deal with the Skullboys who had taken the four of them pri
soner. He had a lean face with uncommonly pale, practically colourless eyes, his hair scrupulously parted and oiled. He was still wearing his tunic, but unlike Curtana he had it buttoned to the collar, and somehow managed to make it look as if the uniform was as stiff and fresh as the day it had been issued.

  ‘Yes, he might retain the ability to walk through walls, or exert a hypnotic influence over us, despite being held captive,’ Gambeson said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. ‘But that could just as well apply to our other clients.’

  ‘I haven’t eliminated them from suspicion either,’ Spatha said.

  ‘Commander Spatha has a point, though,’ Curtana said, with a hint of grudging concurrence in her voice. ‘Do we know that Quillon isn’t carrying something contagious?’

  ‘If he is, we’re already exposed. That’s a risk we entertain whenever we bring a prisoner ... client ... aboard. To settle your fears, I’ve seen nothing in his blood samples that indicates any kind of elevated immune response. Setting aside the residual effects of zone sickness, he appears quite well, considering what he is.’

  ‘If I knew I was infectious, I’d have told you,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Your companions don’t know what you are,’ Curtana answered. She had her hands clasped on the table. ‘Does that mean you lied to them?’

  ‘I’ve told them the truth, that I am Doctor Quillon, a pathologist from Neon Heights.’

  ‘That was your cover, according to Doctor Gambeson’s report,’ said Spatha.

  ‘It’s also what I’ve become. I’ve lived amongst humans for nine years, and I was sent down to them with an overlay of ghost memories to help me blend in more easily.’

  ‘Where did those memories come from?’ Curtana asked.

  ‘The terminally ill,’ Quillon replied. ‘When people are close to death, they sometimes travel to the Celestial Levels. Ascension Day, they call it. They’re scanned, their neural patterns recovered against the day when they can be put back into a living body. As a by-product, memories are also extracted and stored.’

  Curtana narrowed her already fatigue-slitted eyes. ‘Is it common knowledge that this goes on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Another untruth, then,’ Spatha said, making a note in whatever logbook or journal he had open on the table before him.

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘But you’ve disclosed none of this to your companions?’ asked Curtana.

  ‘While my identity could be concealed, it seemed prudent to do so. They have reason to dislike angels.’

  ‘Doctor Gambeson tells us you’ve volunteered your medical services,’ Curtana said.

  Quillon nodded. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘You’ve examined his belongings, Doctor Gambeson?’

  The surgeon produced Quillon’s medical bag and set it on the chart table. ‘I’ve tested his samples - those I can identify - and the quality is at least as good as anything we have in our normal arsenal.’

  ‘He could have stolen the bag,’ Spatha said.

  ‘I think he knows how to use them, Commander. Meroka - the city woman - had been given expert treatment for zone sickness. I’ve examined her. The residual effects were almost immeasurably small. The dosage must have been calculated with a degree of skill.’

  Curtana examined the bag as she spoke. ‘Can we be sure Quillon did it?’

  ‘No, but it would have to have been administered relatively recently. Who else could have done it?’

  ‘What do you mean by “normal arsenal”?’ Quillon asked. ‘What other kind is there?’

  Commander Spatha stood from the table. He sauntered around to the back of Quillon’s chair, polished boots creaking as he walked, and leaned down until Quillon could feel the cold rasp of his breath on the back of his neck.

  ‘Let me make my formal introduction,’ he said quietly, as if he were sharing a confidence with Quillon, an amusing bon mot or dry aside. ‘I am the security officer aboard this vessel. I have been tasked to safeguard Swarm from the activities of foreign elements. As such it is my duty to attend to matters of counter-espionage, including the detection and interrogation of spies.’ Without warning he grasped Quillon’s bare scalp and tugged down hard, snapping his head back so violently that Quillon almost fell out of the chair.

  ‘Whatever you think,’ he said, choking under the strain, ‘I am not a spy.’

  ‘Then you should be careful how you frame your questions.’

  ‘If I was a real spy, don’t you think I’d have been better prepared?’ Spatha yanked Quillon’s head back again and he felt something crick in his neck. He struggled for breath, feeling as if he was being strangled. He thought of Malkin, Fray’s barman, the scar around his throat. Was this how it had felt?

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ Curtana said warningly. ‘You’re not going to get much out of him dead. Besides, I’m sure Ricasso will find him fascinating.’

  When Quillon was able to speak he said, ‘Who’s Ricasso?’

  ‘Enough questions,’ Spatha said, emphasising his point with another vicious tug on Quillon’s scalp. ‘I say we dump him now,’ he told Curtana. ‘Throw him overboard, before he has a chance to sabotage anything.’

  ‘And the other three, while we’re at it?’ Curtana asked, with the mildest note of scepticism.

  ‘The woman and the child aren’t even from Spearpoint,’ Quillon said, speaking through clenched teeth as Spatha yanked his head back again. ‘You’ve no quarrel with them.’

  ‘And the other Spearpointer?’ Spatha asked.

  ‘Meroka’s nothing to do with me. We only met a few days ago. She was just my escort out of the city.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the diversion,’ Spatha said. ‘A decoy to keep us amused while one of the others does the real work.’

  ‘We were going to die,’ Quillon said insistently. ‘If I had serious intentions to infiltrate Swarm, do you think I’d have put myself in such a dangerous position that I had to be rescued from certain death?’

  ‘He has a point,’ Curtana said. ‘If we hadn’t intervened, Quillon and his friends would have been vorg meat within the hour.’

  ‘A ruse,’ Spatha said dismissively. ‘For all we know, they were in collusion with the Skullboys.’

  Curtana glanced at her surgeon, some unspoken communication passing between them, before continuing, ‘I think that will be all for now, Commander Spatha. Your concerns are noted.’

  Spatha released Quillon with a snap of his wrist, enough to draw a final grunt of pain from his captive.

  ‘Ballast,’ he said. ‘That’s all you are. Useful until we need lift. Then you become useful in an entirely different way.’

  ‘At least there’s that,’ Quillon replied.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They took him back to the others. He was only wearing the shirt and vest on his top half now, his coat still in the examination room. The door was opened and he was flung into the rear compartment, landing on his knees, his back to the ceiling. He could still feel Spatha’s fingernails digging into his scalp, clenching into him as if his skin were soft wet clay.

  ‘What the fuck happened to you?’ Meroka said, stirring from half-sleep, with the Testament still in her hands.

  He struggled awkwardly to his feet. Kalis and Nimcha were sitting where he had left them, partly wrapped in blankets. He wondered if they had slept any better than he had.

  ‘They questioned me,’ he said, placing one hand on the ceiling strut to steady himself. ‘Interrogated, more accurately. They’re worried that I’m a spy. I tried to convince them otherwise, but ... I don’t know.’ He wiped spittle from his chin. ‘I’m not sure they believe me.’

  ‘You don’t look good,’ Meroka said, wonderingly. ‘First time I’ve seen you properly in daylight, Cutter, without that hat and those glasses you always wear. You look like ... some baby bird, dropped out of its nest. Not the cute kind. The hairless, shrivelled-up, ugly-as-fuck kind.’ She kept staring at him, Quillon trying to avert his eyes without
making it obvious that that was what he was doing.

  ‘Has anything happened while I was away?’ he asked, hoping to strike the right note of easy-going nonchalance.

  ‘Something not right about you, Cutter. Something definitely not right.’

  ‘How is Nimcha?’

  Kalis stared at him with lingering disquiet before answering, ‘She did not sleep well. Her dreams were troubled.’

  ‘I’m sorry. They’ve taken my things. If I had them, I might be able to do something. Might I examine her, all the same?’

  ‘No,’ Nimcha said, recoiling into the blankets. ‘I don’t want him to touch me.’

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ Quillon said.

  ‘You look like a dead man. I’ve seen dead men.’

  He looked around to make sure the door was closed and that no one was listening at the grille.

  ‘I hoped to draw attention away from your daughter, Kalis. To some extent, I think I succeeded, but the distraction’s not going to keep working indefinitely. We have to think seriously about how we protect Nimcha’s secret.’

  ‘I did not think you believed,’ Kalis said.

  ‘I’m not sure I do.’ Quillon phrased his words with all the care he could muster. ‘I accept that Nimcha may have abilities that aren’t easily explained. I’ve told you I felt something, and I won’t deny that now. But what happened the night before last, the zone shift? That definitely wasn’t her doing.’

  ‘You know this?’ Kalis asked.

  He nodded, glad to be on firm ground again. ‘Yes. I do. No one could be sure when it was going to happen, and it’s either our good or bad luck that it happened when it did, but the storm’s been expected for a long time. Even before I left Spearpoint, the men and women who are paid to worry about that kind of thing were getting nervous. They were making more checks than usual, scurrying around trying to make sure the city was ready for the change when it hit. Their instruments were picking up the precursor signals, the indications that the zone instabilities were growing larger, in anticipation of a major readjustment.’ He sighed, not wanting to humiliate Kalis, but at the same time keen that she should understand that her daughter’s powers could not be as vast as she imagined. ‘This has been going on for a while,’ he added. ‘It’s only recently that the rest of us have realised the authorities were getting nervous.’