‘If the world was very different,’ Quillon said, ‘there wouldn’t necessarily be room in it for Swarm.’
‘Something that you no doubt think must have escaped my attention.
Well, it hasn’t. Truth to tell, Doctor, there’s actually a purpose to my scholarship. I have a duty to evaluate any threat, any change in circumstances, that might affect Swarm and its citizenry. Call it strategic thinking, if you must. It seems to me axiomatic that you can’t predict the future state of our world, much less plan how you’re going to adapt to it, unless you understand how the world became the way it is.’
‘And the fact that you enjoy nosing through dusty old maps and legends is entirely coincidental,’ Curtana said, with the long-suffering air of someone who had been through similar discussions more times than she cared to remember.
‘A happy marriage of desire and necessity, that’s all,’ Ricasso said. He looked at Quillon sadly. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. My hopes were raised. It’s not your fault, of course.’
‘About what?’
‘I hoped you might prove a suitable foil, a sympathetic ear for my more outlandish ideas. You’re set in your ways, though, and I can hardly fault you for that. Medicine is a fixed discipline; it requires diligence, not imagination.’
Quillon did not allow the barb to rankle him. ‘Doctor Gambeson told me you enjoy your conversations with him.’
‘Gambeson’s the exception to the rule. Besides, as often as not he’s away from Swarm. I used to enjoy discussions with Curtana’s father, but now that he’s no longer with us—’
‘I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I’m completely closed to new ideas,’ Quillon said.
‘Of course not,’ Ricasso said, reassuringly. ‘I’m sure, in your own way—’
‘It would still be good to talk privately.’
Ricasso leaned over and patted Quillon on the knee, the way an uncle might reassure a small boy. ‘I insist on it, dear fellow. I’m sure we’ll find a lot of common ground.’
The pilot lowered a grilled hatch to speak to her passengers. ‘Coming up on Purple Emperor, sir. I’ll bring us into the main docking port, unless you’ve any objections.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ Ricasso answered. ‘Take a good look, Doctor. Not many people get this close to her. Quite something, isn’t she? Even for a Spearpointer?’
‘She’s enormous.’
‘There’s no larger machine on the planet. Nearly two hundred and fifty years old, as well. That’s almost prehistoric where airships are concerned.’
They had punched through to Swarm’s secret core. Purple Emperor nestled there like a jewel, ornamented with the lesser finery of smaller ships maintaining close, swaddling formation. She was, by any measure, a truly preposterous machine: vast and dark as a thundercloud, threatening in her very size, but at the same time conveying a sense of ludicrous ponderousness and vulnerability. Her envelope must have been more than half a league from end to end, twice the size of any ship Quillon had glimpsed so far. The main gondola, running nearly the whole length of the envelope, was a dozen decks tall, lit up with chains of golden windows, festooned with balconies and promenades. There were a dozen smaller gondolas linked to the main one by covered walkways. She had numerous outriggers, mounted in triple and quadruple layers, each supporting a dozen or more engines, the airscrews ranging in size from mere propellers, no larger than those on Painted Lady, to slowly gyring blades as long again as a single airship. Ships at least as large as Painted Lady were docked at various stations, and they resembled nothing more than opportunist parasites nibbling the crusted underbelly of some tremendous, oblivious sea monster.
‘I’ve never seen anything quite like her,’ Quillon said.
‘They should have cut her up years ago,’ Curtana said. ‘She’s too big, too old. Slows down the entire formation, and keeps our best ships tied up feeding and protecting her, like a big fat mewling baby.’
‘Never one for sentiment, our Curtana,’ Ricasso reflected.
‘If Swarm didn’t have to spend half its resources protecting worn-out, bloated relics like Purple Emperor, we could really do something. Take on the Skullboys at their own game for once, instead of skulking around them. Become more mobile, more assertive.’
‘More like the Skullboys, in other words,’ Ricasso said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘One thing I’m still not entirely clear about,’ Quillon said. ‘What is it that Swarm does, exactly?’
‘Everything that Spearpoint does, and more,’ Ricasso said grandly. ‘Which is to say, Swarm endures; it provides shelter and comfort for its citizens, it clothes, feeds and educates them and gives them work to do when they are old enough. If that was all, it would still be enough: nobody requires Spearpoint to be anything other than a city, do they? It is a thing unto itself, sufficient in that regard. So with Swarm. But we are much more than just a city in the air, and that is where we differ from the Godscraper. Spearpoint’s civilising influence, if you can call it that, extends no more than a handful of leagues from its base. We are not like that. Swarm’s influence covers the entire planet - there’s nowhere we can’t go, nowhere we can’t extend our reach. Our shadow has touched every square span of the Earth’s surface.’
‘Even the Bane?’ Quillon asked, recalling the blank spot on Meroka’s map.
‘No one goes there, no one even lives there, so it doesn’t count,’ Ricasso answered. ‘Elsewhere is what matters. Half the communities on this planet think Spearpoint’s a myth. But they’ve all heard of Swarm, and most of them know what we stand for.’
‘Which is?’
‘Self-preservation,’ Curtana answered, before Ricasso had a chance to speak. ‘That’s all. We grub around looking for the last drop of firesap, or bully some hapless dirt-rats into forging new engines or bullets for our ships. Funny how persuasive four hundred loaded spinguns aimed down at you from the sky can be.’
‘We stand for more than just staying alive,’ Ricasso said. ‘We’re the last beacon of enlightenment in a world where the lights are going out one by one.’
Curtana looked like she’d heard this one before. ‘Oh, please. We’re just another semi-organised rabble. The difference is we have ranks and airships and the delusion that we’re doing something noble and uplifting.’
‘If your father heard you speak—’
‘He’d agree with me. And so would the Ricasso he used to know. We had a purpose once, I’m not arguing with that.’
‘Before Spearpoint turned its back on us.’
‘I’m not talking about that. I mean afterwards, long afterwards. Until recently, in fact. We were trying to make something better of the world, acting as - yes, I’ll admit it - a civilising force, where none existed. Helping the surface communities to better themselves. Establishing lines of communication and commerce, offering guidance and support to towns and communities that dared stand up to the Skullboys. Proving that it didn’t have to be Spearpoint or nothing, that there was an alternative.’
Ricasso said, ‘We probably shouldn’t bicker in front of our guest.’
‘He’s got eyes and ears and a brain,’ Curtana replied. ‘He’ll have worked out most of it for himself. He did ask the question, didn’t he?’
Quillon smiled awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.’
‘You didn’t,’ Ricasso said, leaning forwards to pat Quillon on the knee reassuringly. ‘Curtana and I may have our differences, but fundamentally ... Look, you know what they say about your fiercest critics, how you should keep them close at hand? Well, there’s none fiercer than Curtana. Her only saving grace is that she thinks I’m still open to reasoned persuasion, rather than being jettisoned overboard.’
‘Yes,’ Curtana said. ‘I’m foolish enough to think he may not be a completely lost cause.’
‘And as foolish as it makes me, I’m proud to have her as my god-daughter,’ Ricasso answered.
They docked without ceremony, Quillon e
xperiencing a disorientating sense of landing on solid ground as the little craft engaged with the rock-steady fixture of Purple Emperor. The landing door was lowered again, and almost immediately a uniformed man leaned in through the open hatchway. He had a youthful, handsome face, pale and freckled, a light, downy growth of beard, flashing green eyes and a head of reddish hair, worn raffishly long. He nodded at Ricasso, but that was clearly just a formality for the benefit of the other observers. Curtana rose from her seat and embraced the man without speaking. They kissed and descended the steps, still holding each other. The guard motioned for Quillon to follow them down onto the platform. They’d berthed next to one of the smaller gondolas, on the starboard side of the ship. Immediately Quillon was struck by how very much more palatial the surroundings were, compared to the businesslike austerity of Painted Lady. Although there were other ships docked, there was none of the boisterous activity of the servicing facility. The deck was carpeted, and the attending airmen behaved more like hotel concierges, their uniforms as discreetly understated as their manner. Even the engine drone sounded muted and deferential.
He was led indoors, and then through a long connecting bridge that brought them to the central gondola. The interior of the gondola was galleried and surprisingly airy, for all that the vast envelope loomed over it. It hummed with civic purpose. Staff - civil servants of various kinds, he supposed - seemed to be rushing everywhere on errands, clutching satchels and papers, conducting urgent, hushed conversations with each other as they strode the long hallways. Quillon heard the chatter of typewriters through open doors. He heard the pneumatic whoosh of message tubes gliding along overhead service pipes. Aside from the absence of electricity, it was not so different from a busy administrative department in Neon Heights. It was just that he was up in the air, leagues above the ground ...
After descending to one of the gondola’s lower levels they came at last to a lavish stateroom, hemmed by many smaller offices and parlours. The stateroom was half lounge and half place of business, with a long table at one end and an arrangement of settees, armchairs, coffee tables and drinks cabinets at the other. Along one side was a ceiling-high sloping window, affording a spectacular view of the surrounding ships, with only shifting, furtive glimpses of sky and ground between them. The remaining walls were lined with bookcases and framed maps and charts, some of obvious antiquity. The engine drone was no more audible than the noise of city traffic in an air-conditioned office.
Ricasso fixed drinks for his guests, then dismissed the guard. He ushered the party to the lounge chairs and bade them sit down in front of a low table. Something like a game of chequers appeared to be in progress, judging by the gridded board spread out on the table, and the many black markers placed in various formations on the grid.
‘I won’t keep you long, Curtana,’ Ricasso said. ‘I know you and Agraffe have far more pressing matters to attend to now.’
The red-headed man blushed. ‘I think I’ve told you everything useful.’
‘You were out on a scouting mission?’ Quillon asked.
‘North of the Bane,’ Agraffe said, leaning against Curtana in one of the settees. ‘Trying to re-establish contact with an old fuel supply station we haven’t used for years.’ He paused and looked momentarily worried. ‘Um, this isn’t a state secret, is it?’
‘You can speak freely in front of Doctor Quillon,’ Ricasso said. ‘If he learns anything we’d rather he didn’t, we always have the option of throwing him overboard.’
‘Fuel’s a constant problem,’ Curtana said. ‘Firesap grows on trees, as the saying goes, but there aren’t as many trees as there used to be. You probably noticed this in Spearpoint. Great swathes of forest are dying back. It’s the climate change, we think. The world’s cooling. No one knows why.’
‘Our atmosphere isn’t stable,’ Ricasso said, sounding like a man about to veer off on one of his pet theories. ‘I’ve done the calculations. It’s like a bucket with a leak in it. Someone filled it to the brim a long time ago, and now it’s draining out. Earth’s gravity simply isn’t strong enough to retain a warm, breathable atmosphere over thousands of years. The atmosphere’s thinning, and as a consequence it can’t trap heat so efficiently.’
‘I don’t think anyone in Spearpoint believes that the cold spell is going to continue,’ Quillon said.
‘Even as their wood supply chains extend further and further from the city? Even as the lights go out? Yes, we have our intelligence, Doctor. We may not like Spearpoint, but we know what it’s up to.’
‘We rely on ground stations for our fuel,’ Agraffe said. ‘Not just the fuel, either. Also the sungas we use in our lifting cells, and the explosives we use in our weapons, and the food we eat. There’s a limit to what you can manufacture and recycle up in the air, so we’ve always had to maintain good relations with surface facilities.’
‘Dirt-rats,’ Quillon said.
‘Even dirt-rats have their uses,’ Curtana replied.
‘Things have been getting worse during the last few years,’ Agraffe went on. ‘Stations that we used to rely on aren’t there any more. Partly it’s due to the dying back of the forests, meaning that the raw materials just aren’t as easy to come by. But that’s not the only reason. The cold’s hitting the Skullboys as well, so they’ve been forced to become more aggressive. It used to be that we kept to our territories and they kept to theirs. But now we’re coming into conflict almost every time we send out a ship. A number of our old ground facilities have fallen under Skullboy control. They’ve started to take the fight to the air now. They don’t have our expertise, but what they do have is strength in numbers, and the willingness to die.’
‘Desperate times,’ Ricasso said. ‘And that was before the storm came to stir things around even more, as if we didn’t have enough to deal with. It’s all verging on the auspicious, wouldn’t you say?’
‘If I were superstitious,’ Curtana replied.
‘We’ve endured crises before,’ Agraffe said. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t get through this one.’
‘The boundless optimism of the young,’ Ricasso said, smiling fondly. ‘I envy you that, I really do. But this isn’t just some temporary bottleneck we’ll pass on through and emerge the other side leaner and stronger. The world is changing. It’s never done that before, at least not within Swarm’s history.’
‘What will you do?’ Quillon asked.
‘While the semaphore lines are down, we have to rely on scouts for long-range intelligence. There’s a resupply facility to the north of the Bane - that’s what Agraffe was verifying for us. It was mothballed, but according to Agraffe is still serviceable. More importantly, there’s a stockpile of useful fuel, so we can land and replenish very quickly. Two, three days, if the pumps work and the firesap’s still good. Equally importantly, the Skullboys don’t know about it.’
‘It’s not a long-term solution,’ Agraffe said, ‘but it should stave off our worries for another twelve months to a year, depending on the volume and quality of the fuel in the storage silos. We didn’t have time to do more than a few simple tests.’
‘We’re waiting for one more scout to come in,’ Ricasso said. ‘Brimstone is late, but we’ll give her one more day. Then we move, heading for Agraffe’s fuel concentration depot. We’ll take a different route so we don’t run into the same marauding parties that caused Agraffe so much difficulty on his return. If Brimstone is still operable, she’ll have to maintain independent action until the semaphore lines are working again. Then she can re-establish contact with the main fleet. We don’t do this lightly - Swarm never abandons one of its own unless there’s no alternative. In this case there is none. Our tanks are running perilously low. We must have that fuel.’
‘I don’t doubt the severity of the situation,’ Quillon said.
‘I suppose it will be a matter of concern to you, to be taken even further from Spearpoint?’ Ricasso asked.
‘My relationship with Spearpoint isn’t as straight
forward as you might think.’ Quillon reached up and touched the goggles, glancing at Curtana for confirmation. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘He’s going to find out sooner or later, no matter what you do.’
He removed the goggles, waited for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the stateroom, and looked at Ricasso and Agraffe in turn. ‘It’s quite a long story,’ he said. ‘And the eyes aren’t the end of it. I am ... anatomically distinct.’
‘Some kind of hybrid,’ Ricasso said, pausing only to refill his glass, as if he needed extra sustenance to deal with the apparition sitting before him.
‘Yes. But I’m slowly reverting to full angel physiology. Very soon these simple disguises won’t suffice. I already look ... odd. I’m only going to look odder.’
Agraffe said, ‘I can understand why you’d feel a little ambivalent about returning to Spearpoint.’
‘It’s my home. But they were also trying to kill me. You’ll appreciate me being slightly ... conflicted.’
‘People? Ordinary human beings?’ Ricasso asked.
‘Angels. Not that ordinary human beings wouldn’t have a go if they knew what I was.’
Curtana bristled. ‘Not all of us.’
‘No, you’ve been most hospitable, given the alternatives. I’m grateful.’
‘We managed to keep him a secret from most of the crew,’ Curtana told Ricasso. ‘They’re good airmen, for the most part - they wouldn’t be working under me if they weren’t - but that doesn’t mean they’d be ready to accept Quillon. They’re superstitious, and ... well.’ She looked into her lap. ‘No one much likes the angels.’
‘I can understand angels being disliked in Neon Heights, or anywhere in Spearpoint that isn’t part of the Celestial Levels,’ Quillon said. ‘But why should Swarm’s citizens care either way? Aren’t angels just another kind of Spearpointer?’
‘It goes deeper than that,’ Curtana said. ‘There’s bad blood between us and Spearpoint. But there’s extra-strong bad blood between us and the angels.’
Terminal World Page 27
