Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Nothing,’ Curtana replied vehemently. ‘They’ve still got to answer for what they did to us. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t human beings, in need of help. Even the angels, if it comes to that. I’m not proposing that we do this out of the goodness of our hearts, all right? But we’re Swarm. We’re better than Spearpoint, and this is our chance to prove it, instead of just basking in a warm glow of self-satisfaction.’

  ‘What she said,’ Agraffe said, grinning fiercely, as if he couldn’t wait to go and start his engines.

  ‘So we just ... return to Spearpoint?’ Ricasso asked, as if there was something fundamental that he simply wasn’t getting. ‘Just cruise back, as if nothing’s happened? Hello, it’s Swarm? Remember us? We’ve brought the medicines you asked for?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes,’ Curtana said.

  ‘You’re the one always telling us that we have to adapt to changing times,’ Gambeson said. ‘Now’s our chance to actually do it. We don’t have stop being Swarm, or repudiate our history. We just do something different, because we can. Take a leap into the unknown, and see what happens.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Curtana said. ‘Even if no one else does. As soon as Painted Lady’s patched together, I’ll take those fifty flasks of concentrated Serum- 15 all the way myself. They can dilute it when we arrive.’

  Ricasso looked pop-eyed. ‘Without a mandate from Swarm?’

  ‘If it comes to it. Did my father always act on a mandate, Ricasso? For that matter, have you?’ The question was evidently rhetorical, for she did not give him a chance to respond. ‘No, thought not. But of course that was your generation, when things were different.’

  ‘If one ship goes, we all go,’ Agraffe said, clenching his fist. ‘It’ll really put the shit up them when they see Swarm arriving en masse. I’d almost want to be a Spearpointer, just to know it feels!’

  ‘In your heart, Ricasso, you know we must act,’ Gambeson said forcefully. ‘And soon, too, if it’s going to make a shred of difference. They’re running out of Morphax supplies already. If we sit here and dither and argue for a month or three, we may as well not bother at all. There’ll be hardly anyone left alive when we get there.’

  ‘Look,’ Ricasso said, ‘even if I accept that this is something we should be doing, I still need a show-of-flags.’

  Curtana looked distinctly unimpressed with this line of argument. ‘Have you asked the other captains?’

  ‘Of course not. It wasn’t even a remote possibility until about five minutes ago. And what about the dissenters? How will they take it? They like Spearpoint even less than the rest of us, and that’s saying something.’

  ‘Never mind them,’ Curtana said. ‘It’s the moderates you need to bring onto your side, and this is exactly the kind of thing that could galvanise them. For too long they’ve had to make excuses for you, how you’ve shirked your responsibilities to Swarm, how you spend more time with your vorgs than you do in the tactical room. I don’t agree with any of that stuff, but that’s only because I know you. See it from outside this stateroom and things don’t look so clear-cut. It’s no wonder some of the captains have started listening to Spatha and those idiots. At least the dissenters are proposing Swarm do something, instead of skulking around on the margins avoiding a fight.’

  ‘Curtana’s right,’ Gambeson said. ‘No one could accuse you of lacking vision if you put this to the captains.’

  Ricasso looked stricken. ‘They might accuse me of lacking sanity.’

  ‘Not if we have a plan,’ said Curtana, ‘and a number of high-influence captains ready to back you. You’ve got two already, and I can think of at least twenty more who’ll join Agraffe and me.’

  ‘Don’t put it to the flags just yet,’ Agraffe said, smiling as he caught himself on the edge of insubordination. ‘What I mean is, Curtana and I can put the word out to the other captains, those we think we can trust with a secret. We’ll convene here and put together the basics of a plan, something watertight. Then you can put it to the flags. If you ... um ... want my recommendation, that is.’

  ‘Noted,’ Ricasso said tartly.

  After he had undressed in his cabin, after he had examined his wing-buds in the mirror above the basin, after he had studied his tapering, waiflike anatomy - the bones standing out like topographic features on a map with exaggerated contours - Quillon tried to sleep. It was not easy. Later that night word had arrived of a closer sighting of a Skullboy craft, dead-reckoning its way through the fog, quartering the terrain in a search pattern. While the refuelling continued, yet more ships were dispatched to intercept and harry however many of the enemy were out there. The probing forays had more in common with blind groping in a darkened room than anything the captains were normally used to. If close action ensued, they could expect losses, damaged ships and damaged crew. Quillon volunteered to assist in Purple Emperor’s hospital, but Gambeson told him to rest while he was able; if Swarm had need of him, it would not be slow to call on him.

  But he couldn’t sleep; not really. Although the station-keeping engines, and the engines of the circling escorts, served to drown out some of the noise, his ears had become keenly attuned to the monotonously shifting drone. He could begin to hear through it now, out into the quieter airspace beyond Swarm’s inner cordon. He could hear the noises of battle, sometimes distant as thunder on the horizon, sometimes louder than fireworks going off next door. The engagement lasted for hours. It sent hectoring reports deep into his brain, penetrating the shallow, free-associating state of mind that was as close to dreaming as he was going to get. He saw gondola-sized skulls pushing their eyeless visages through the fog, suspended under flaccid grey balloons, wrinkled and convoluted as human brains, armoured, skull-headed men hanging from the lolling, laughing jawbones, edged weapons glinting with steely promise in the grey half-light. He dreamed of a vorg, escaping from its cage, sliding and crawling, dragging its limbless hindquarters through the dark bowels of Purple Emperor, navigating corridors unseen, leaving a slimy trail of discarded internal organs as it went, yet still finding its way to his cabin, leaning over him, its snout-mechanisms whirring and rotating, gearing up like a demented clock about to strike the hour.

  Vorglwantlfeed. Give/brain/vorg. Vorg/make/good/drug.

  Later, Gambeson came for him. His manner was diffident, almost apologetic.

  ‘I could use some assistance, Doctor.’

  There was still blood on his wrists, where the gloves had not completely covered the skin.

  Quillon reached without hesitation for his medical bag, which remained with him in his quarters whenever he was there. But when he lifted it from the dresser he knew immediately that something was wrong. The bag felt too heavy. Frowning while Gambeson looked on, he opened the bag and saw the long blue spine of a leather-bound volume jammed into the bag’s middle compartment, between the pouches and pockets containing his equipment and potions.

  ‘Reference material?’ Gambeson asked.

  Quillon stared at the blue book, his mind spinning. For a moment, stupidly, he wondered if he had somehow stolen the book from Ricasso’s stateroom and then forgotten about it. But the dream logic collapsed. This couldn’t be the book Spatha wanted him to extract from the room. Even if Spatha had somehow managed to obtain the book himself, he would have no reason to hide it in Quillon’s bag. Unless the theft had been accomplished and he was expected to return it ...

  ‘Doctor?’ Gambeson asked.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Quillon said, flustered but praying it didn’t show. ‘I ... requested it from the main library, that’s all.’

  ‘You seem surprised to find it there.’

  ‘I forgot putting it in the bag. But I remember now.’ He drew the volume out slowly, almost as if it might be wired to a bomb. But in his hands it had the dull solidity that told him it was nothing more than a book.

  ‘Might I see it?’ Gambeson asked.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Nonetheless. Indulge my curiosity. I’m
wondering what you couldn’t find in my library, that you had to go to the main one.’ Without invitation, Gambeson took the book and opened it. It fell open at a random page.

  It was blank.

  The volume was a logbook. As Gambeson leafed through its pages it became apparent that not a single entry had been made anywhere in it.

  ‘I thought I might start a journal,’ Quillon explained, improvising desperately. ‘Of my time in Swarm. My experiences, and anything I felt I ought to commit to paper. To assist in my adaptation.’

  ‘I could have supplied you with any number of blank logbooks.’

  ‘I felt it best not to trouble you.’

  Gambeson closed the book, then slid it back along the dresser towards Quillon’s bag. ‘Something’s not right here, Doctor, but at the moment I don’t have time to worry about what it might be. Not while the butcher’s bill is waiting. Grab your bag and follow me. We’ve work to do.’

  The bill, when it was accounted, could have been steeper. The first ship had returned to the fold in the small hours of the morning. It had sustained engine and steering-system damage, but only light injuries. The second came in thirty minutes later, engines still operable, but with a ragged, door-sized hole punched through the gondola’s forequarters. Two officers and three airmen had been killed, and nine of the survivors had sustained serious but treatable injuries. Another two ships crawled back during the ensuing hours. They had both taken damage, but there had only been one death between them. Quillon and Gambeson worked hard, sometimes as a team, sometimes attending to different patients. All the while Quillon was aware of Gambeson’s silent scrutiny, whenever the other man didn’t have his hands deep inside the red mysteries of a wound. Quillon, for his part, tried to force the matter of the book from his mind, but even as he worked it kept bobbing to the surface of his thoughts. He now understood perfectly what was expected of him. The blank book was to be taken into the stateroom in his medical bag and substituted for the real one. The swap could be effected in seconds; Ricasso need never know, at least until he came to make an entry in the original log. And if Commander Spatha had his way, Ricasso might never get that chance.

  He returned to his cabin after the surgery, finding the book where Gambeson had left it. He picked it up, feeling an evil, belligerent potency between his fingers, as if the book itself had become a willing conspirator in his downfall. He would have thrown it out of the window were it not sealed. Not that the book was in any way incriminating. It was a blank series of log pages.

  Something fell out of it. He knelt down and retrieved it from the floor. It was a card figurine, flat enough to have been slipped between the pages. It was an angel, with the head snipped off. He did not think it could have been in the book when Gambeson had looked through it.

  He crushed the angel in his fist, crumpling it until it was an unrecognisable ball of mangled card. Then he slipped the book back into his medicine bag, where he had first found it.

  A little before noon he was called to Curtana’s quarters. He had lied to Doctor Gambeson out of simple reflex, because it cost him nothing and gained him a little more time to evaluate Spatha’s threat. But he could not keep lying indefinitely, and regarded it as entirely possible that Gambeson had already confided his suspicions to Curtana.

  But she did not seem interested in his secrets.

  ‘I allowed you to sleep in,’ she said, ‘because I know how hard you worked last night. I’ve thanked you once for your assistance on behalf of Painted Lady; now you have Swarm’s gratitude as well.’

  Her manner was brusque, as if all this was merely a preamble to some unspecified disciplinary action.

  ‘Have there been any developments?’

  ‘A number. Agraffe and I contacted those captains we felt could be entrusted with the outline of our intentions. They’ve been arriving aboard Purple Emperor as discreetly as possible, trying not to make it look as if anything’s afoot. Preliminary discussions are already taking place. As far as I know - I’ve left Agraffe to report back to me - there’s the beginning of a plan. We’ve got a possible route back to Spearpoint, avoiding Skullboys as much as possible, using prevailing wind patterns to conserve fuel. In the meantime, Gambeson’s running further tests on the Serum-15 to verify that we really do have as much of it as we think. He’s also looking at batches 14 and 13 as well, just in case they have some benefits Ricasso overlooked. I gather the testing’s quite involved.’

  ‘If Gambeson didn’t sleep, you shouldn’t have allowed me to either,’ Quillon said.

  ‘The difference is that Gambeson doesn’t look like a two-day-old corpse, Doctor. I’m sorry to have to spell it out to you.’ Curtana looked down at her fingers. ‘After everything you told me, I was surprised that you made such a persuasive case for returning. Isn’t Spearpoint the last place you’d want to be?’

  ‘Where I want to be and where I need to be aren’t necessarily the same things.’

  ‘Ever the doctor.’

  ‘You’re no different. You can dress it up however you like, make it look as if you only want to go back to Spearpoint to spite them, but I don’t believe that for a minute.’

  ‘I admit I don’t see things in quite the same simplistic terms as Agraffe.’ She allowed a fond smile to touch her lips. ‘Nor does Agraffe, actually, but he’s smart enough to know the best way to present this to the other captains. Not as us extending the hand of friendship, but showing Spearpoint that we’re better than it. And I don’t necessarily think that’s wrong. There would be something admirable about delivering the medicine without a word and turning our backs on them again. You know, as in, we’re so morally superior to you we don’t even need your gratitude.’

  ‘Sooner or later Swarm and Spearpoint are going to have to deal with the fact that they share the same planet.’

  ‘But not necessarily in my lifetime. Let’s hand over the medicines and ... cross any other bridges at some later point, shall we?’

  ‘That has to be your decision, not mine.’

  Curtana tapped a nail onto her desk. ‘As for the girl, she’s not ceased to be a concern simply because of this other matter. You were right to bring her to Ricasso’s attention, but his powers of protection aren’t limitless. He’ll want proof sooner or later, or he’ll start convincing himself she isn’t real.’

  ‘He told me it wasn’t a good time.’

  ‘It wasn’t. And right now I can’t tell you when it might be. I’m just saying you might have to be flexible. The important thing is to keep Spatha away from her.’

  ‘I’m aware of the risks Spatha poses.’

  ‘Has he spoken to you privately?’

  ‘Enough to leave me in no doubt that he’s a dangerous man. You were right to warn me about him, back on Painted Liady. I won’t let my guard down.’

  ‘Don’t. He’s a snake. Prop-fodder, if I had my way.’ A shrewdness appeared in her face. ‘What has he said to you?’

  Quillon hesitated on the brink of two momentous alternatives, anxious to confide in Curtana but equally anxious to protect Nimcha from being exposed for what she was.

  ‘It’s been made clear that I’d be better off not speaking about it to anyone.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I think that would amount to speaking about it.’

  ‘Fear and panic, Doctor. If there’s one person in Swarm you can trust, it’s me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that.’

  ‘But you’re still concerned. All right, Ricasso, then. Will you speak to him?’ Seeing something in his face - she was better at reading him than most - she said, ‘Or is it about Ricasso?’

  ‘Is anything not about Ricasso?’

  ‘Fair point. But this does concern him, doesn’t it? Spatha’s asked you to do something? To kill him?’ She shook her head. ‘No, that wouldn’t make any sense. They’ve had ample chance to do that already. Make him ill, or issue some kind of statement regarding his ability to command? Can’t see what they’d gain by doing that, either.�
��

  Quillon knew then that he had run out of room to lie. ‘I’ll speak to Ricasso. Can we agree that I volunteered this information?’

  ‘With some arm-twisting. But if Spatha’s up to his usual tricks, I understand why you might have wanted to keep things to yourself.’ She regarded him levelly. ‘I have a lot to deal with that doesn’t involve politics. Is this something I need to know about right now?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Curtana appraised her expensive fleet-issue watches. ‘Speak to Ricasso. I promise he’ll protect you and your friends. That’s the one thing Spatha and his army of weasels can’t allow for - you placing your trust in another human being, and that trust not being violated. Spatha thinks the world revolves on fear and betrayal.’

  ‘He might be right.’

  ‘Not in my Swarm. If those dissenters want to do things differently, they’re welcome to break away and see how long they last. I’d give them about a year before the Skulls are picking through their bones. If it wasn’t for the ships, I’d be more than glad to see the back of them right now.’

  ‘Do you think Ricasso will get a majority vote for the medicine run?’

  ‘Probably, if only because it means doing something, and even his enemies will go along with it if they think there’s half a chance of him failing. Whatever happens, we won’t be staying here. It’s become much too dangerous.’

  She told him something of what had happened during the engagement.

  The Skullboys had been beaten back. It had been a small raiding party, five ships according to the best intelligence. Two had been destroyed by close-action spingun and cannon fire, shredded in the air. A third had been crippled, engines shot away leaving it at the mercy of the winds. Upon last sighting it had been drifting in the general direction of the zone boundary, eighty leagues to the north. Another ship had sidled away with light damage. The fifth had been taken by a party from the long-range scout White Admiral. None of the Skullboys had been captured alive - they preferred to don wings and jump overboard - but they had failed in their efforts to blow up the abandoned ship. White Admiral had fired grapples and dragged her home at half-speed. Tainted with the stench and blood of Skullboys, the ship was of no interest to Swarm. But she would be stripped of anything of material value, and her maps and logbooks subjected to the closest examination, before the hulk was set adrift for target practice.