Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Still doesn’t answer my question about tectomancers,’ Meroka said.

  ‘Whether the girl is a tectomancer or not,’ Spatha said, ‘she cannot remain in Swarm. She’ll be a destabilising element.’

  ‘I thought I was the destabilising element,’ Quillon said. ‘Or are you planning to throw all three of us overboard now?’

  ‘Tell them, Cutter.’ Meroka said. ‘Tell them she’s harmless, that they don’t have anything to fear.’

  ‘It’s not about whether she’s harmless or not,’ Spatha said.

  Quillon glanced at Ricasso, his mind spinning as he tried to correlate everything he had learned about the man so far. Fragments of conversations, impressions of the personality beneath the bluster and political effrontery, swirled in and out of focus. Ricasso was worried about Nimcha’s effects on Swarm, but he was also a man driven by curiosity, a man who would not easily let a puzzle slip through his fingers. Quillon hoped so, anyway. He was putting more than just his own fate in Ricasso’s hands.

  ‘She’s not harmless,’ he said. ‘She’s anything but.’

  ‘Cutter,’ Meroka hissed. ‘Think very carefully about where you’re going with this.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth. I’m sorry, Meroka, but there’s no other way. They have to know what they’re dealing with here. They have to know that she’s an instrument of change. That doesn’t mean she’s evil, or even a force for destruction. But she isn’t the girl she looks like. She’s something bigger than any of us, bigger than Swarm or Spearpoint. I don’t think there’s anything more important in the world right now than Nimcha. And they have to know that now.’

  Ricasso took a deep breath. ‘For once, Doctor, I don’t think you’re holding anything back.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘The question is, why didn’t you tell us all this when you came aboard?’

  Quillon looked around at his other hosts. Curtana was studying him with something between loathing and fascinated admiration. Agraffe appeared to be finding the whole thing slightly comical; he looked like a man trying hard not to laugh. Spatha was stony-faced and implacable. Meroka was still turning the full bore of her hate onto him. If they had been alone in the room, he suspected she would have made a concerted effort to rip his windpipe out.

  ‘The best thing would have been if you never discovered Nimcha’s nature. That’s how I was hoping it was going to work out. Kalis, Meroka and I did our best to make sure you didn’t find out, but it was a losing battle. Kalis’s courage ... we couldn’t betray that. Not unless there was no possible alternative. Unfortunately, I think we’ve just reached that stage. If I let you believe she’s just a girl with an interesting birthmark, someone who looks like a tectomancer but isn’t, you’ll have every reason to get rid of her.’

  ‘There’s no reason she couldn’t have remained aboard,’ Curtana said. ‘No one outside this room knows about her now. They wouldn’t have to know in the future.’

  ‘But it’s like me,’ Quillon said. ‘I know my own nature isn’t the best-kept secret in Swarm. Despite your best efforts, the scuttlebutt was all over Painted Lady when we docked. Now there must be thousands who know something of what I am. If you can’t keep me secret, what hope is there for Nimcha?’

  Curtana shook her head. ‘We’d have found a way. Besides, aren’t you still trying to argue us into holding her inside Swarm?’

  ‘Under different terms. As a protected asset, not a prisoner. Prisoners you can always throw to the wolves when the rations run dry, or offer to the lynch mobs for appeasement.’

  ‘That’s not exactly how we operate,’ Curtana sneered.

  ‘Everyone has their limits. But if I can convince you that Nimcha is worth more than that, maybe there’s a chance of protecting her.’ Quillon looked at Ricasso, still uncertain that his judgement had been correct. ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘You’ve intrigued me, Doctor, I’ll give you that. But we’re still missing one tiny detail.’

  ‘Which is?’ Quillon asked.

  ‘Objective evidence. Some hint that that thing on her head really isn’t just a birthmark. Show me that the girl can move zones, and I might begin to take an interest in her.’ He gave a shrug of enormous world-weariness, as if potential tectomancers were a phenomenon he encountered at least half a dozen times in a year. ‘Until then, I’m afraid she’s just another passenger - no matter what you, personally, happen to think.’

  Quillon turned in his seat to face Meroka. ‘You were there. You know what happened.’

  She stared at him biliously. He could feel the lacerating force of her fury. Not necessarily because of what he had done, he believed, but because of what he stood for.

  ‘Quillon’s right,’ she said slowly and quietly, but with an underlying venom. ‘The girl’s got something.’

  ‘They were accomplices when we found them,’ Spatha said. ‘The fact that she agrees with him now proves nothing.’

  ‘I’ll get you your proof,’ Quillon told Ricasso. ‘Let me speak to Kalis and Nimcha. I don’t know if she has the strength or control to initiate a full change, but if Nimcha can perturb the zones like she did when we were about to be killed by the vorgs, you’ll feel it. We’ll all feel it.’

  Ricasso turned back to the window. Already the fog was beginning to enshroud the outermost elements of Swarm, paling the ships into diffuse grey smudges that would soon be indistinguishable both from the sky and each other.

  ‘Might be an idea to hold fire on that,’ he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Quillon’s liberty, such as it was, had not been rescinded. He was surprised by that; grateful and suspicious in equal measure. Spatha seemed to have something to do with his not being returned to confinement and he found that difficult to fathom. He was still allowed access to a limited number of rooms aboard Purple Emperor, he was still allowed to assist Gambeson in his surgical work, and he was still permitted to see and speak to Kalis and Nimcha. They knew something of what had happened, of course. Gambeson had examined Nimcha and he had not concealed his surprise at the discovery of the birthmark. Kalis had given away as little as she could, but in her heart she had known that her silence would count for nothing now. Quillon did his best to reassure her that neither she nor Nimcha was in danger, but even as he spoke he could taste the callow, ringing hollowness of his own promises. He really didn’t know how safe they were, or how wise it had been for him to confess the truth to Ricasso.

  ‘You did what you thought was right,’ Kalis said, trying to console him even as he tried to do the same for her, which only made his guilt more intense. ‘You must not blame yourself. They would have learned the truth sooner or later. They always do. It is why we have always kept moving.’

  ‘You expected better of me.’

  Kalis took his hand, somehow thinner and more feminine than her own. He felt as if she could crush his bones just by twitching. ‘The blame is not with you.’

  ‘We have a friend in Ricasso, I think. And Curtana, Agraffe and Gambeson too, although they don’t have Ricasso’s influence.’

  ‘I have not met Ricasso.’

  ‘You will, I’m sure of it. He’s curious about the way things work, and I’m hoping that will count in our favour. He’s already interested in Nimcha. I just have to tip the balance a little further, by convincing him that she really is what we say. Then, I think, he’ll protect her from anything and everyone.’

  ‘You trust this man?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough. But I already know there’s a man I absolutely don’t trust, and it’s not Ricasso. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. I think he means well, and that he won’t hurt Nimcha.’ Quillon realised that Nimcha was staring at him, expectant and fearful at the same time, as if he were a parcel that might contain a present or a bomb. ‘He knows what I am, and he hasn’t hurt me. That’s not much to stake our future on, but it’s all I have.’

  ‘And this other one, the man you do not trust?’

 
‘I don’t know about him either. If I can keep him interested in me, rather than you, I’ll consider that a success. But he wants something, and I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Be careful, Quillon,’ Kalis said.

  He was leaving the room when Meroka appeared at the end of the narrow, wood-panelled corridor leading to it. Both halted in their tracks. Quillon raised his hands defensively.

  ‘I was just seeing how they are.’

  ‘Don’t have to explain yourself to me, Cutter.’ She wore one of the heavy coats the airmen used for outside work, slung over both shoulders like a cape.

  He closed the door behind him. ‘You don’t approve of what I said in the stateroom.’

  ‘What makes you think you can read my mind?’

  ‘You gave every impression of wanting to get your hands around my throat. I don’t much blame you; it must have come as quite a shock to hear me speak so openly to Ricasso. But I had no choice. I just hope you can see that.’

  She shifted a bundle of books from one arm to the other. They were brightly coloured, like the picture books Quillon had already leafed through.

  ‘You took one hell of a fucking gamble in there.’

  ‘I had to give Ricasso a reason to protect Nimcha. He’s about the only thing standing between her and mob justice. You saw how Spatha was acting. Would you rather I let him decide her fate?’

  ‘It was still a gamble.’

  ‘I’d have been more than willing to discuss it with you beforehand.’ He flashed a quick sarcastic smile. ‘Still, at least we’re talking now. That has to be an improvement, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Never going to be the same between you and me. Just in case you had other ideas.’

  She approached until they were close enough to touch. Quillon stood his ground. ‘It must cost a lot of energy to keep hating my guts. Wouldn’t it be more productively channelled into some other activity?’

  ‘Works for me.’

  ‘It would make sense if 1 hated you in return, Meroka, but I don’t. I’m still grateful for what you did to help me escape. Doesn’t that make our relationship somewhat lopsided?’

  ‘I hate lots of things. Don’t much care if they hate me back or not.’ She moved to push past him. The bundle of books slid apart, some of them hitting the floor. ‘Shit, Cutter!’ she said.

  He knelt down to pick up the books. Some had fallen shut, others had landed splayed open. They were similar to the ones he had already examined. Colourful, airship-fixated pictures and little rectangles of simple text. Stories for children, about adventure and magic in kingdoms of the air.

  ‘What are you doing with these?’

  Meroka snatched the books back off him and returned them to the pile she had been carrying.

  ‘Taking them to the mother and girl.’

  ‘There’s no point. Kalis is probably illiterate and Nimcha can’t read yet. It’s not even their mother tongue.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Because someone has to, Cutter. And I don’t see you doing it.’

  She pushed past, opening and closing the door, vanishing into the room and leaving him alone.

  The fog had closed in completely overnight, and now it surrounded Swarm like a packing of soft white cotton. The wind had died down, which made station-holding fractionally easier, but the risk in every action was now compounded by the possibility of collision, either between ships or between ships and the refuelling towers. Already there had been one small fire, caused by a friction spark as an outrigger glanced against one of the towers’ support struts. The fire had been doused quickly enough, but it had done nothing to alleviate the tension among the captains and officers, all of whom were beginning to show strain. Anxious to protect its secret cache, and not be caught in a vulnerable condition by any enemy raiders that chanced by, Swarm wanted to finish the refuelling as quickly as possible. The only saving grace, so far as Quillon could ascertain, was that the fuel tanks were both largely uncontaminated and still yet to be tapped out.

  Protector ships were on constant vigil. It was harder for them now, not being able to rely on long-range visual contacts. They were flying almost blind, dependent on gyroscopes and fleeting ground sightings to establish position and airspeed. Once or twice, coming from far off in the fog, Quillon heard the booming discharges of artillery. He couldn’t tell if they were being fired in exercise, or levelled against barely glimpsed enemies. Once, victim of some unspecified error in navigation, Cinnabar came racing out of the whiteness into the heart of Swarm, her engines all at cruise power. It was only by dint of some seriously rapid course adjustment and thrust-reversal that she avoided ramming two waiting tankers. The resulting conflagration, he imagined, would have taken out several dozen ships in the vicinity, including Purple Emperor. After that, the mood only turned frostier. He wondered if there would be disciplinary inquiries, courts martial, floggings, plank-walking or some entirely more arcane and ingenious forms of execution involving, perhaps, propellers, grapples or control linkages.

  He was on the balcony, enjoying - or at least consuming - a cigarette (it was Swarm-made and tasted oily, but had the same soothing effect on his lungs as its Spearpoint equivalents), when he became aware of Spatha’s presence beside him.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day for staring into fog, Doctor. Or do you have something else on your mind?’

  Quillon pinched the butt between his fingers to extinguish it and pocketed the remains. God alone knew how much damage a stray spark would do in these conditions. ‘I wondered when you’d show up, Spatha. I suppose you’ve come to take me back into confinement?’

  ‘I assumed you were glad to still have your liberty.’

  ‘I am. I’m also wondering what the catch is. I lied about Nimcha. I concealed something of vital strategic importance from Swarm. Shouldn’t that be grounds for locking me up again?’

  ‘You’ve argued your position quite eloquently. You had to protect the girl. In your shoes, I’d probably have done the same. When you saw that the position was untenable, you did the right thing in confessing.’

  ‘It wasn’t a confession.’

  ‘Semantics.’ Spatha took a bracing inhalation of cool air. ‘The thing is, you’re a sensible man, Doctor. I know you’ll do the right thing to protect the girl.’

  ‘She’s in Swarm’s hands now, not mine.’

  ‘Nearly.’ Spatha paused and looked at the pale outlines of the nearest ships, breaking through the fog like looming sea-cliffs before being swallowed up again. Even the engine drone was more muffled than usual, softer on Quillon’s ears. ‘Ricasso’s taken a shine to you, you know,’ Spatha added. ‘He finds you interesting, both as an acquaintance and a thing of curiosity in your own right. You’re the perfect dinner guest: a foil and a puzzle in the same package.’

  ‘I’m glad to be of use.’

  ‘He’s not a bad man. He’s served Swarm well in the past; there’s no denying that. But these are different times. He won’t take the fight to the Skullboys. Spends more time pottering down in his laboratory, trying to coax his precious serum out of his vorgs. That’s not what we need now, Doctor.’ The skin at the side of Spatha’s mouth creased, an improbable fissure forming in the otherwise waxily smooth countenance. ‘What we need is decisiveness. Listen to those ships, Doctor. Does that sound like unity to you?’

  ‘It sounds like ships.’

  ‘There are nearly two dozen captains standing ready to act in Swarm’s best interests. Revolution’s too strong a word. I wouldn’t even call it a coup or a mutiny. There’ll be no blood, no prop-fodder. More the natural transference of power, but sooner rather than later. The question is, which side of the fence will you end up on when that happens?’

  ‘If all you’ve got are twenty-odd captains, I think I’ve already decided.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much to start an avalanche, Doctor. Twenty dissenters, spearheaded by Ghost Moth? Not many, I’ll grant you. But there are many more captains out there wh
ose loyalty to Ricasso is largely a matter of nostalgic attachment to old times. They’ll shift their allegiance when they see which way the wind is blowing. More will follow. Then we’ll take it to the Skulls. Finally start settling some old scores, while we have the firesap and the ammunition.’

  ‘More killing, in other words. Whereas Ricasso at least wants to do something that might help people. I’m surprised you haven’t just killed him and be done with it.’ Quillon stopped talking and smiled as the realisation dawned. ‘Oh, wait. I see it now. You want me to do the killing, is that it?’

  ‘You misunderstand our methods, Doctor. Killing Ricasso would accomplish very little. He knows as much, which is why he’s so lax with his personal security. One, it would have to be engineered very carefully so as not to look like a deliberate assassination or attack. Two, we’d run the very real danger of engendering sympathy for him. Kill him, wound him, and we might end up worse off than we are now. So - no - we don’t want you to poison him.’ Spatha allowed that remark to stand before adding, ‘But there is something you can do for us.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll do anything to help you?’

  Spatha edged closer, like an old friend on the verge of sharing a confidence. ‘Let me be spectacularly blunt. I know about you, and I know about the girl. At the moment, very few of us do. That could all change. A word here, a word there, and the knowledge of what she is, what she represents, will be all over Swarm faster than you can heliograph it. You may not realise this - it’s not the first thing we want our guests to find out - but Swarm’s history hasn’t been all moonbeams and kittens. There have been convulsions. Coups. Bitter and bloody upheavals. About the only constancy is the ships. During times of crisis - which are more easily precipitated than you might imagine - mob rule can easily become the order of the day. You’ve seen how it is in your beloved Spearpoint. The thugs aren’t slow coming out of the woodwork.’