Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Iron Prominent,’ Curtana said, nodding at the flayed-open ship. She was still standing at the control pedestal, having guided Painted Lady all the way in.

  ‘You can tell all of these ships apart?’ Quillon asked.

  ‘I can tell that one.’ She was smiling for once; he could only assume that for one reason or another it pleased her to see the other ship. ‘Are you all right? You seem to be trembling.’

  He decided not to speak of the business with Spatha for now, having yet to work out where Curtana’s sympathies lay. ‘I missed my footing outside, almost slipped between the rails.’

  ‘Happens to us all sooner or later.’ She paused to make some inscrutable adjustment to one of the brass-handled controls. ‘I flashed Ricasso about our arrival. He’s aware that we’re carrying new arrivals.’

  ‘How much did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him he’d find one of them very interesting indeed and left it at that. Frankly, he’ll be at least as interested in his new toy.’

  ‘Can I trust him?’

  ‘If you can trust me, you can trust Ricasso. He’ll know all about you as soon as I hand in my journal, anyway. What happened to your hat?’

  ‘The wind took it.’

  ‘Take one of the airmen’s caps from stores. You’re starting to look like something sent to scare children.’

  ‘Thank you. What will happen to the others?’

  ‘Meroka will be transferred to the hospital aboard Purple Emperor, until she’s well enough to be assessed. Kalis and Nimcha will remain in quarantine, also in Purple Emperor. We’re fairly well acquainted with the diseases in Spearpoint, but dirt-rats are a different story.’

  ‘I examined them both myself. I didn’t find anything.’

  ‘On the other hand, you probably weren’t looking for anything specific. It’s just a precaution, that’s all.’

  ‘Who will be the examining surgeon?’

  She gave him an odd glance. ‘I don’t know; it’ll depend on too many factors. Why are you interested?’

  ‘Natural curiosity. I also thought it might be less traumatic for the mother and child if they dealt with someone they already knew.’

  ‘Such as you?’

  ‘If it came to that. I’ve proven my adaptability, I hope.’

  ‘I still haven’t forgotten our little conversation last night, Doctor. I meant every word.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’

  After a moment, she said, ‘Did you find time to visit Meroka and return the item I gave you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And how did she take it?’

  ‘We still have some fences to mend.’

  Once the process of securing Painted Lady was complete, then began the business of unloading her. A rickety metal platform, a kind of aerial quay, was now in position along one side of the gondola. It was already beginning to fill up with boxes, crates and canisters, as airmen and stevedores worked in chains to liberate whatever hard-won cargo Curtana had brought back. The sick were unloaded on stretchers; engines were already being fussed over by armies of oil-stained technicians, clambering around the struts and wires with wild, death-defying abandon, as if the embattled ship was a prize for the looting. Meanwhile, the small airships - the ferries and taxis Quillon had noticed before - were jostling for parking slots on the other side of the quay, their envelopes bulging against each like overripe fruit. Some of them, he now realised, served as ambulances, the sick being stretchered aboard with particular urgency. Curtana, who was standing next to Quillon, watched all this activity with visible apprehension, breaking her silence to scold some hapless worker for being too careless with a spanner, or stepping where he was not meant to.

  ‘How long will it be before you go out again?’ he asked, keeping a firm hold on the rail as the quay swayed worryingly under his feet, the metal plates parting to reveal the crater floor, half a league below.

  ‘A week,’ she said. ‘Maybe two. Depends on how long they take to patch up all that damage.’

  ‘I imagine you can’t wait. This must be claustrophobic, after being away so long.’

  ‘Shore time has its advantages as well. But if I didn’t like having a lot of sky to myself, I wouldn’t be captain of a long-range scout.’ She cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed, ‘Be careful with that! Ricasso’ll have your hide if there’s a scratch on his pet!’

  The stevedores were using a crane to winch something out of Painted Lady’s gondola. It was a nailed-up wooden crate, as big as the cage he had rescued Kalis and Nimcha from. The quay tilted alarmingly as the weight was transferred to it, buckling like a rope bridge on the point of snapping. No one around him seemed in the least bothered.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s ever going to tell me what Ricasso wants with the vorg,’ Quillon said, reaching up to secure his airman’s cap, which did not quite fit him.

  ‘He likes tormenting them. You can’t really blame him for that.’

  ‘I’m not sure I entirely approve of tormenting.’

  ‘You can argue the point with Ricasso. That’s him arriving now.’

  One of the small airships was moving in to dock at the far end of the quay. It was markedly different from the others, its black sedan-sized gondola painted to a high gloss and ornamented with gold reliefwork. In contrast to all the other ships, whose envelopes showed evidence of make-and-do repair work, this one was a seamless crimson. It completed its docking efficiently, and a stair-equipped door folded down. Two airmen stepped out, both wearing ostentatiously impractical uniforms with white gloves and gold epaulettes, and assumed flanking positions either side of the door. A figure emerged: a huge, jocular-looking man with an enormous belly, a head of abundant white curls and a tiny white goatee beard. His uniform, such as it was, was somewhat less lavish than those of his guards. He wore black trousers and a black tunic, a red sash the only sartorial hint of his evident status. The quay shifted under his weight, despite already being burdened with several tons’ worth of crates and boxes and fuel cans. The work of unloading continued, but the airmen and stevedores were now all too conscious of Ricasso’s arrival. It was obvious to Quillon that their every move was being conducted under his exacting scrutiny.

  Ricasso said something, but with engines still droning all around them, it was impossible to pick up his words. One of the stevedores pointed to the large crate, and Ricasso - outpacing his guards, and with cavalier disregard for the swaying of the quay - strode eagerly over to inspect it. He called out something else, and one of the stevedores presented him with a crowbar. Ricasso levered off one of the planks from the side of the crate, wafted dust from his face and peered into the dark gap he had just created.

  ‘Very good, Curtana!’ he called, his voice audible for the first time. ‘You’ve made a fat old man very happy! It’s a fine specimen!’

  ‘We had to shoot it,’ Curtana said.

  ‘You did well to bring it to me alive at all.’ He handed the plank and the crowbar back to the worker, rubbed his palms on his knees and strode over to the part of the quay where Curtana and Quillon were standing, ducking nimbly as an entire engine, its propeller still attached, was craned through the air. ‘It’s good to have you back!’

  ‘Good to be back.’

  He embraced Curtana, all decorum cast aside. Up close, he was even larger than Quillon’s initial assessment. He tried to estimate the man’s age, but the clues were conflicting. His hands and wrists were age-spotted, but they were corded with muscle. His cheeks were plump and unlined, his hair thick but nearly white; deep wrinkles surrounded his eyes, but they were eyes that sparkled with effervescent enthusiasm. In his thirties, certainly - perhaps even his forties, but with the vigour of a man a third his age. ‘I feared we’d lost you, when you were so late flashing in,’ Ricasso said. His voice was deep, almost impossibly resonant: designed for oration.

  ‘You must have known the semaphore networks were down, that we wouldn’t be able to contact you until we were within heli
ograph range.’

  ‘That’s the thing: we knew almost nothing. Yes, that the storm had been worse than anything in living memory - that was obvious. Beyond that, it was all guesswork. We had no idea how extensive the loss of the semaphore networks was, whether it was a local collapse or a planetwide failure. All we knew was that, one by one, we were losing contact with our long-range scouts. We thought the worst, quite frankly. Then Iron Prominent flashed in, and late last night we heard from Cimabar. I hardly dared believe that Painted Lady might make it back as well, but here you are.’

  ‘Bearing gifts.’

  His tone turned gently reproving. ‘It wouldn’t make a jot of difference if you hadn’t brought me anything, Curtana. As you well know.’

  ‘Is Agraffe all right?’

  ‘He’s fine; don’t you worry. I’ve had him aboard Purple Emperor since he got back, debriefing Intelligence on the extent of the storm. What about your own crew?’

  ‘We’ve taken losses, but it could have been worse. You were flashed about our new guests, I take it?’

  ‘The survivors of the signalling station, yes, and the refugees.’ It was only then, it seemed to Quillon, that Ricasso became even peripherally aware of him. ‘This gentleman’s one of the latter, isn’t he?’

  ‘Doctor Quillon, from Spearpoint,’ Curtana said. ‘We picked him up along with three travelling companions.’

  ‘They fled Spearpoint after the storm hit?’ Ricasso asked, directing his query at Curtana.

  ‘No, they were already outside. In fact two of them aren’t even Spearpointers, so far as we can tell.’

  Quillon decided that if he didn’t say something, he might never be asked. ‘I’m grateful to Curtana for rescuing us. We were about to be killed by carnivorgs.’

  Ricasso’s gaze shifted onto him. ‘How did you come to be mixed up with vorgs?’

  ‘We had the great misfortune to run into Skullboys.’

  ‘Mm. It’s a dangerous world, beyond Spearpoint.’

  ‘I noticed. Might I enquire about your interest in vorgs?’

  ‘Is he normally this forward?’ Ricasso asked Curtana.

  ‘Actually, we were lucky to run into him. He’s a surgeon. Well, some kind of doctor, anyway. Gambeson was stretched thin - he could barely cope before we ran into the marauders on our way back.’

  ‘You volunteered your services, Doctor?’

  ‘It was the least I could do. I’m sorry that one of the men still died.’

  ‘Gambeson says there’d have been more deaths if it hadn’t been for Doctor Quillon,,’ Curtana said.

  ‘Trying to buy our confidence, Doctor?’

  ‘If I imagined it might be bought, I’d give you everything I have. I’ve nothing to offer but my skills.’

  ‘I normally like to see a man’s eyes when he’s talking to me.’

  Quillon reached up to touch the goggles. ‘It’s medical. My eyes have an unusually strong sensitivity to daylight. We can talk about it privately, if it interests you.’

  ‘It might,’ Ricasso said slowly.

  ‘This is the man I said you’d be keen to meet,’ Curtana said. ‘I thought we might continue this conversation aboard Purple Emperor.’

  ‘Discretion being the order of the day?’

  ‘Something like that. Meroka, the other Spearpointer, was injured, but Gambeson says she should make a full recovery. He has the other two under precautionary quarantine.’

  ‘You can’t take any chances with dirt-rats. But there’s no reason why they can’t all be moved to Emperor, is there?’

  ‘None that I’m aware of,’ Curtana said.

  ‘I want the vorg shipped there immediately. Tell them to put it with the others, but keep it in the cage for now.’ Ricasso turned to Quillon. ‘And you, Doctor, can come with me.’

  They were aloft, bobbing more than flying, the little gold-encrusted craft having more in common with a balloon than a dirigible. With three passengers inside there was only enough room for the pilot and one guard. The swaying motion, and the sumptuous plush seats, conspired to lull Quillon into a pleasant drowsiness. Curtana had already succumbed. She was asleep almost before they had undocked from the service airship, her forehead leaning against the window, snoring gently.

  ‘I’m not sure she’s slept since we were rescued,’ Quillon said.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s a rare mission when she doesn’t come back pushed to the brink of exhaustion. I feel a duty of protection, of course.’ Ricasso sat opposite Quillon with his legs spread wide, his belly sagging between like a partially deflated gasbag. ‘I knew her father very well; he was a superb man. Died defending us, of course. Skullboy incursion of 5273. In my darker moments I worry that she won’t feel she’s served Swarm unless she meets a similar end.’

  ‘She told me you’re her godfather.’ Quillon hesitated. ‘What should I call you, by the way?’

  ‘Ricasso, like everyone else. I’m not a great stickler for formality, as you’ll discover.’

  ‘Do you ... run Swarm?’

  ‘Technically speaking, yes.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘On a day-to-day level, not at all. I’ve delegated that kind of thing to my very capable administrative staff. Frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my time than govern. It’s all rather tiresome.’

  ‘I heard you’re interested in scholarship.’

  ‘Indeed. And yourself, Doctor?’ His face lit up with inquisitiveness. ‘Are you perchance a man of letters?’

  ‘I’ve studied medicine.’

  ‘There’s a hint in the title. I mean more generally. Do you have an interest in history?’

  ‘No more or less than anyone else, I imagine.’

  ‘Well, I hope that isn’t the case, because most people - in my admittedly very limited experience - aren’t interested at all. And you can’t really blame them for that, I suppose.’

  ‘You feel differently.’

  ‘For my sins. Most would consider it no more than a harmless, slightly eccentric diversion, something to keep a bored old man out of mischief. I’m perfectly content for them to keep believing that, but I know they’re wrong.’

  ‘There’s a saying in Spearpoint - history is just the same card game, reshuffled. Nothing ever really changes; nothing ever happens that hasn’t happened already, probably a thousand times. So what’s the point in studying the past? All it will tell you is that the future’s going to be more of the same, like the weather.’

  ‘You use the same calendar as us, Doctor. I mentioned the Skullboy incursion of 5273 just now.’

  Quillon grasped his seat’s armrests as the little ferry performed a sharp swerve - far sharper than seemed possible for a dirigible - and plunged between two looming ships, skimming the envelope of one and just passing beneath the gondola of another.

  ‘I fail to see the relevance.’

  ‘If history’s always been the same, if nothing’s ever changed, why do we bother with a calendar in the first place? Granted, it makes the bookkeeping a little simpler. Gives dirt-rats something to scribe on their gravestones. But there’s got to be more to it than that, don’t you think? The mere existence of a dating system implies that something happened, something that was deemed sufficiently noteworthy to mark the commencement of things. Something suitably epochal.’

  Curtana, who had woken from her drowse, said, ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Humour an old fool, my dear.’

  They were in the thick of Swarm now, surrounded on all sides by airships and the ropes and bridges linking them. The sky and the ground were only intermittently visible. It was deceptively easy to imagine that these huge structures were fixed landmarks, like a city of toppled skyscrapers.

  ‘From what little I know of the matter,’ Quillon said, ‘our calendar derives from the Testament. It says that the Eye of God shone through the skin of the world, five thousand, two hundred and eighty-odd years ago. Before that there was just formless chaos, darkness without light.’

  ‘The
Eye of God being more or less synonymous with what, in more enlightened times, we would now refer to as the Mire, the chaotic origin point for the zones. Is that not correct?’

  ‘No one really takes that seriously,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Other than the many millions of people who still read the Testament, or one of the other major religious texts.’

  ‘Even the most ardent of them don’t take all of it literally,’ Quillon said. ‘They read it for moral guidance, comfort during hardship. Not as a veiled history lesson about the origin of the world.’

  ‘And if they did?’

  ‘They’d be deluding themselves.’

  ‘You sound rather sure of that, Doctor. Not even a glimmer of doubt? Come now - you can’t be that close-minded. Not after everything that’s happened recently.’

  ‘It’s just a bad storm, that’s all.’

  ‘And yet the Testament says - and I’m quoting from memory here, so forgive me if I don’t get it exactly right - “and in that time it is written that the powerful shall come, those who move the mountains and the skies, and the mark of the keepers of the gates of paradise shall be upon them, and they shall be feared”.’ He smiled, pleased with himself, for it was undoubtedly an accurate recollection. ‘The tectomancers, in other words.’

  ‘No one’s moved any mountains or skies that I’m aware of.’

  ‘We’ll allow a little latitude for poetic interpretation. Keep in mind that the Testament’s been passed down through more than three hundred generations. Is it any wonder certain concepts have been muddied?’

  ‘More than muddied, if you ask me.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in tectomancers, despite all the scholarship to the contrary?’

  Quillon answered as truthfully as he was able. ‘I believe some individuals have certain, very limited control over the zones. If that makes me close-minded, so be it.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to open your mind to all manner of nonsense, Doctor, merely to allow for the possibility of things you might previously have dismissed, or failed to give any consideration to whatsoever. Such as the fact that the world was not always this way, and by implication doesn’t have to be this way in the future.’