Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  Ricasso looked at his paperweight. ‘Tulwar doesn’t know exactly where the limit is; his information wasn’t that detailed. We might hit it in an hour, maybe two. The lead ships will need to climb, since they’re going to lose dynamic lift as soon as the engines conk out. The wind will carry them on, but the ships will be sinking all the while. Apart from venting gas and dropping ballast - neither of which they can carry on doing for ever - they’ll have no control over that descent rate, so they’ll have to make sure they’re high enough at the start not to miss Spearpoint completely.’

  ‘I’m liking this more and more,’ Curtana said. But in her face Quillon could already see a hardening resolve; calculations of static and dynamic lift whirring behind her eyes, sums she had been doing all her adult life, as effortlessly as breathing.

  ‘And then?’ Quillon asked. ‘How long will it take the ships to pass through?’

  ‘Again, I can’t say with any certainty. The total passage shouldn’t last longer than two hours. Why?’

  ‘There’s not enough time for antizonals. It’s hard enough calculating the right dosage when you don’t know the conditions in advance. But even if I got the dosage right, the drugs would still be in our systems when we come out on the other side.’

  ‘There are corrective drugs,’ Ricasso said.

  ‘Only suitable for a small adjustment, to refine a dosage or to negate the residual effects of an earlier treatment. It’d be madness to use them at the necessary concentrations. And Serum-15 won’t be any more use to us right now.’

  ‘So this thing that’s already going to be incredibly difficult,’ Curtana said, ‘we’ll be doing while under the effects of zone sickness?’

  ‘I can order the dispensing of a low-strength, broad-spectrum antizonal as soon as we hit the boundary,’ Quillon said. ‘It won’t offset all the effects, and the benefits will begin to fade within about half an hour, but it’ll still be better than nothing.’

  ‘It’ll have to do,’ Ricasso said. ‘The transition shouldn’t be too severe, anyway. We’re only talking about a small change, aren’t we?’

  ‘We’ll know when we hit it,’ Quillon said.

  After a mildly combative three-way argument between himself, Curtana and Agraffe, Ricasso reluctantly agreed to return by boat to Purple Emperor. It was safer there - marginally, at least - and there was much for him to do in connection with the unprocessed Serum-15 reserves that the larger ship still carried, those that had been salvaged from Spatha’s sabotage.

  Swarm’s assault on Spearpoint would be led by Painted Lady, Cinnabar and Iron Prominent, while the other ships held back on the safe side of the zone boundary. But as the lead ships climbed into the cold air of the low stratosphere, edging perilously close to their operational ceiling, all of Swarm followed their ascent. Painted Lady and some of the other escort ships were used to climbing to these altitudes, but for many of the larger ships it was the first time in years that anything like this had been asked of them. It was as much of a challenge for the crews and citizens as it was for the labouring engines. Few of the gondolas were pressurised, so it was necessary to break out oxygen bottles and masks to alleviate the effects of the thinning air. Children, the elderly and the sick were permitted to breathe continuously, but the adults had to ration their intake, using the masks just enough to stave off hypoxia. Anything else would have been entirely impractical in any case. Orders still needed to be shouted; intense conversations still needed to take place. More so than at any other time, in fact, for the higher Swarm went the more there was to go wrong; the more that needed immediate repair. The thinning air began to affect engine power, requiring the manual adjustment of fuel-to-air mixtures. Airmen had to climb out onto icebound engine struts, working gloved and goggled to alter carburettor settings. Fuel lines and seals turned brittle, requiring immediate repair. One man was lost overboard as he slipped on ice; another suffered severe burns to his hand when he removed his glove and touched freezing metal. Other men came back inside hypothermic or frostbitten, and yet there were always volunteers ready to go back outside and continue the work. Most of the ships had some power in reserve, so they could keep climbing even when an engine or two was lost to the cold, but this was not always the case. With painful inevitability, elements of Swarm began to drop back, unable to maintain the climb. They would have to look after themselves from now on; the other ships had enough worries of their own.

  Quillon spent the climb making sure all the other ships were informed of his orders regarding the antizonals, regardless of whether they would be making the crossing now or later. His instructions were simple enough - the dosage per person was small, and could easily be met with the normal supplies carried aboard each ship - but as the orders were relayed from ship to ship, there was still surprising scope for confusion. Queries were flashed back, doubting that the original order had been received correctly. Even after Quillon had reissued his instructions, he still had a handful of outstanding requests for confirmation to deal with. It was only when he had dealt with these that it occurred to him he still had to dole out the drugs for the crew of Painted Lady. All the while he was engaged in examining his own faculties for evidence of sudden-onset zone sickness.

  Curtana found him in the chart room. She had been breathing oxygen and a black mark encircled her mouth where the mask had dented her skin.

  ‘Thought I’d let you know that we’ve levelled off. We’re at four leagues now. This is as high as we go without popping rivets.’

  ‘How many ships made it up this far?’

  ‘Sixty-five, last count. A few stragglers may still catch up, but I’m not counting on it. It’s still going to be hard. I’ve got men outside nursing every engine. We’ve been firing the guns just to keep the barrels from icing up.’

  ‘They won’t be much use to us once we cross over, will they?’

  ‘Nothing will happen instantly. It’s all going to come down to percentages and training.’

  ‘The zebra finches seem to have gone very quiet.’

  ‘They’re dead,’ she said bluntly. ‘Or unconscious, anyway. It’s probably the altitude rather than zone sickness. Trouble is, our instruments are freezing up just as quickly as everything else. We’re not going to have much advance warning.’

  ‘We’ll just have to do our best.’

  Curtana noticed the wooden box set on the chart table before Quillon, with his mask and oxygen bottle still inside it. ‘If you’re trying to prove something, it isn’t necessary. We need you to be sharper than any of us.’

  ‘I’m not trying to prove anything.’ Quillon smiled awkwardly, aware that they were having a conversation that would have been impossible only a few weeks earlier. ‘I just don’t feel the altitude or cold the same way you do. And no, I’m not deceiving myself. I’ve been scrupulous in testing myself for zone sickness, so I know I’m not missing anything. My faculties are undiminished.’

  ‘It must feel like coming home.’

  ‘I don’t think it could ever feel like that.’ He paused and touched the unopened box. ‘If I sense I need it, I promise I’ll take the oxygen.’

  ‘Won’t be long now. Soon after we hit the boundary we’ll start to sink back down into thicker air.’

  He passed her a glass vial. ‘Here are the pills, enough for the entire crew, including Meroka. Make sure no one takes anything until I give the order, and make doubly sure no one takes more than one pill. Can I entrust you with that?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve already stationed Meroka in the underbelly turret, but I’ll make sure she gets her dosage. And Nimcha and Kalis?’

  ‘I’ll attend to them myself. They have somewhat different requirements.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘This isn’t going to be easy, is it? Even with the three best ships in Swarm, and the best crews in the world running them, there’s no guarantee that we’ll get through.’

  ‘We have to try.’

  ‘How would you rate our odds?’

  ‘Of all three ships still
being intact by midnight? About the same as your chances of growing a full set of wings by teatime.’

  ‘Give me time, and I might surprise you.’

  Curtana reached out and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’d best be getting back to the bridge. When we hit the boundary, it’s going to get interesting. Think I’ll feel happier with my hands on the controls.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Then she was gone, leaving Quillon to gather his things and walk to Kalis’s quarters. On his way he listened to the engines’ ululating drone, alert to the slightest shift in tone, anything that would herald the transition to the low-state zone. He heard nothing untoward, but the certainty that it was going to happen sooner or later kept him on edge. He would probably sense the transition before it affected any of Painted Lady’s mechanical systems, but where zones were concerned nothing could be guaranteed.

  ‘It’s going to happen soon,’ he told Kalis. ‘You’ll feel it, even if it doesn’t affect you as much as it will the rest of the crew. Hopefully it won’t last too long, and then we’ll be down on Spearpoint, safe and sound.’

  ‘Where all our troubles end,’ Kalis said. She and her daughter were both wrapped in layers of clothing, with fur-lined hoods drawn over their heads. They had been breathing oxygen, but placed the masks aside when he arrived.

  ‘One step at a time,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘At least we have allies in Spearpoint who want to make sure we’ll be all right.’

  ‘Is it us they care about, or what we carry?’

  ‘Both, in all likelihood. It doesn’t make them monsters. They’ve suffered a lot and they want the drugs very badly. We can’t blame them for that.’

  ‘They don’t know about me,’ Nimcha said. ‘Do they?’

  ‘It’s best that they don’t. That doesn’t mean you’re in any more danger than any other little girl in Swarm.’ It was a lie, and he knew she could hear it in his voice even as he spoke. If she was a normal little girl, she would be with all the other families, in the safe belly of Purple Emperor or one of the other capital ships.

  ‘I can feel it,’ Nimcha said quietly.

  ‘Spearpoint?’

  ‘The Mire,’ she corrected darkly, as if it was a mistake no sane adult should ever have made. ‘The Eye of God. Stronger than before.’

  ‘It’s calling to her,’ Kalis said. ‘Urging her on. Reaching out to her, as she reaches out to it. It knows that she is near now. It will not let her go.’

  ‘It’s what she was born to do,’ Quillon said soothingly. ‘We shouldn’t fight it. It’s stronger than any of us, and above all else it doesn’t mean her any harm. Far from it: she’s the one thing in this world it wants to protect above all else.’

  ‘It sings to me at night,’ Nimcha said. ‘It used to whisper. Now it sings. I can’t really hear the songs properly, it’s like they’re too far away. But I know what it’s trying to tell me. It’s broken, too broken to make itself better. It’s tried, and it’s not as broken as it used to be, but it still needs me to help it mend itself completely.’

  ‘That’s what you can do, that none of the rest of us can. One day people will see that that mark on your head is the most beautiful thing in the world.’

  Nimcha took a gulp from her oxygen mask. ‘I’m still scared.’

  ‘It would be strange if you weren’t.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘None of us does.’ He looked at Kalis, wishing he could find a way to reassure both mother and daughter that all was going to work out for the best. But he would have to reassure himself first, and he wasn’t sure that was possible. He swallowed to wet his mouth. ‘Things can’t get much worse, that’s all I know. If Ricasso’s right, then everything we’ve endured for five thousand years has come to pass because there’s something wrong with the Eye of God. This isn’t the way the world is meant to be, not the way it was before. Now, I’m not saying you can put all of that right. But if the Eye has started trying to make itself better, and if you can lend a helping hand - which seems to be what it wants of you - then perhaps things can be improved even by a tiny amount. A little would make a lot of difference right now. None of those people down in Spearpoint are waiting on a miracle. They just want their existence to be a little easier than it is now. They’ll take what they can get, Nimcha. Even if all you can do is move the zones around so that not so many people are going to die, that’ll still be something to be thankful for.’

  ‘But what if everything changes?’ she asked. ‘What if I change the world, and they don’t like it?’

  ‘You’re brave and strong and wise beyond your years. The Eye wants you for a reason. It needs the wisdom you have that it lacks. I think it can repair itself now, but it’s worried that it’ll do more harm than good when it does. That’s why you have to guide it. It wants you to help make the world better, not worse.’

  ‘You believe this,’ Kalis said.

  ‘I’m trying to,’ Quillon answered.

  ‘You have been kind to us. You have made my daughter well. But she is not yours to give away.’

  ‘I never imagined she was.’

  ‘When the moment comes, it will always be her decision. And mine.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘If she turns from the Eye, if she does not have the will to enter it, you must respect her choice.’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘Because for all the kind things you have done, for all that I know you to be a good man, I will still kill you if you make my daughter act against her wishes.’

  ‘I’d expect nothing less,’ Quillon said. But the truth of her words had cut him to the marrow. She meant everything - about his kindness, and most especially about killing him.

  He had no doubt that she’d find a way, too.

  ‘It’s—’ he began, feeling a cold claw of subepidermal tension close around his brain.

  The captain’s voice came over the speaker. ‘Transition to boundary detected. Antizonal medicines to be ingested immediately.’ Her voice was shaky, as if she was trying to speak while someone dug a bullet out of her. ‘Battle condition now at indigo. All crew to failure-readiness stations. All long-range gun batteries to target Skullboy ground positions and balloon emplacements with HE shells, discretionary fire. Other gunners hold targeted fire until my order. Weapons will be cascaded in sequential order. Only senior officers may authorise the dropping of failed pieces.’

  The tension was still there, the icy fist caressing delicate limbic structures, but as the moments passed he knew he could still function. There was no crippling disorientation, no stomach-voiding nausea. Yet.

  ‘We’ve crossed the boundary,’ he said. ‘It was always going to be a fast transition at airspeed. Hopefully, we’ll be out of it just as quickly. How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Nimcha said.

  ‘We will manage without your medicine,’ Kalis added, as if there had been any doubt in his mind.

  ‘Don’t suffer unnecessarily - we’ll need both of you fit and well when we reach Spearpoint. If you need me I’ll be on the bridge.’

  ‘We will come with you now,’ Kalis said.

  ‘It’s probably safer here. It’s likely that we’ll encounter some resistance as we approach for landing.’

  ‘Safer, but still not safe,’ Kalis said. ‘Besides, she wants to see it.’

  He led them forward, reeling a little as he stood too quickly, the effects of the zone sickness hitting like a kind of mild intoxication. Under normal circumstances the effects would increase in severity over the ensuing hours, but he hoped that they would be out the other side before it had a chance to worsen dramatically.

  They made their way to the bridge, Quillon aware that the engines were still droning and the guns still being fired occasionally to keep them from icing over. He heard rather than felt the machine guns, but when the long-range cannon were fired, once every few minutes - they were using practice shells, rather than the normal high-explosive rounds - the w
hole ship lurched with recoil. Beyond the relative sanctuary of the gondola, goggled and masked crewmen still attended to the engines and aerodynamic machines of the ship. They hardly moved, the frost painting their stiff overcoats so that they looked like statues under a light dusting of snow. Behind, flying at nearly the same altitude, came Cinnabar and Iron Prominent, the two other escort ships that had fallen into formation with Painted Lady. Though they were there to provide mutual cover, to Quillon’s eyes they looked pitifully distant and frail, like hanging ornaments made out of wire and rice paper. A thought formed with unsparing clarity: if we count on them, we’re finished. If they count on us, they’re finished. The best any of them could do was fight like devil-dogs.

  He wondered if he was starting to think like Curtana.

  She was on the bridge, standing at the main control pedestal, an oxygen mask dangling from her neck, both hands on the wheel, but ready to adjust any of the brass-handled power and elevation control levers at a moment’s notice. Her feet were spaced wide apart and her back held ramrod straight. She looked as if she was about to face down a rampaging animal, with only her wit and will to save her.

  ‘Number one engine: holding,’ reported Agraffe, reading off a series of gauges. ‘Number two: holding. Number three: holding. Number four: holding. All engines at three thousand r.p.m. and operating within normal temperature and fuel-consumption ranges.’

  Targe, the heliograph operator, called out, ‘Incoming flashes from Cinnabar and Iron Prominent. Both ships report safe transition and continued functioning of all mechanical systems.’

  ‘We’re not going to be this lucky,’ Curtana said, dropping one hand to make a precise, expert adjustment to one of the levers. ‘That’s not the way it works. Down lookout: anything going on under us?’

  The periscope operator answered her without taking his eyes from his instrument. ‘Continued movement of Skullboy forces, but no offensive reaction to our presence so far. Balloons are still tethered, and I’ve yet to see any cannon fire.’

  ‘It won’t be long. Agraffe: keep those engine updates coming.’ As Agraffe spoke - and without glancing around - she added, ‘Doctor - good of you to join us.’