Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  Then they were inside the steamy, perfumed haven of the bathhouse. He had found it oppressive before, but now he welcomed anything that might dispel the city’s rank odours. There were fewer lights on inside than he remembered, but the bathhouse was clearly still functioning, and it still had clientele. Kargas led them to Madame Bistoury’s office, at the end of the long corridor that also led to the cellar door. One of the waxlike girls came out of the office as they approached, ignoring them - because they were here on business, not pleasure - with expert insouciance. Madame Bistoury looked up from her double-entry accounting as they entered the office. ‘Good of you to return to us, Doctor,’ she said, masking any surprise she might have felt, as if Quillon had merely stepped out for a short stroll. She had recognised him instantly. ‘And you too, Meroka ... how unexpected.’

  ‘We liked it so much, we came back,’ Meroka said.

  ‘Quite,’ Madame Bistoury said delicately. ‘As you can see, the bathhouse abides. We’ve endured more changes than almost any other institution in Spearpoint, and I don’t doubt that we’ll endure many more. Not to downplay the recent unpleasantness, you understand - this has certainly been one of the more troubling episodes in the bathhouse’s history. But we’ve come through it, and thanks to your arrival there is a measure of hope for all of us.’

  ‘What would you have done if we hadn’t made it?’ Quillon asked.

  She gave a bored shrug, before making some tiny correction to her accounts. ‘What we always do. Adapt.’

  ‘We may have lost some of the medicines when the ship caught fire. And we still don’t know how many of the other ships will get past the Skullboys.’

  If Madame Bistoury had not already been informed of the fire, the news appeared to hold no great interest for her. She dipped her pen back into the inkstand. ‘You’ll be here to see Mister Tulwar, of course. That’s to be expected. He’s been very useful to us, there’s no point in denying it.’

  ‘Someone has to stoke the boiler,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Not in that sense. Mister Tulwar’s business connections ...’ She glanced at Kargas, perhaps thinking of the most politic way of phrasing her thoughts. ‘Let’s just say they’ve proven advantageous, in terms of guaranteeing the bathhouse’s security during a ... challenging period. I always knew he was an influential man. I never quite grasped the extent of that influence. Perhaps he was a flower that needed darkness to bloom.’

  ‘I take it he’s still where I met him last time?’

  ‘No. Mister Tulwar has gone up in the world, as befits his rising influence. Kargas will show you the way. And you mustn’t be alarmed by what has happened to him.’

  ‘We already know what happened to him,’ Meroka said.

  ‘I mean since. There’ve been changes. Some of us find them ... disquieting.’ Again she glanced at Kargas. ‘But Mister Tulwar doesn’t like it when people stare or comment. And it’s better for him now, not being confined to the boiler room.’

  ‘I assure you that there is nothing in this world now capable of shocking me,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Something in your face tells me you aren’t exaggerating. It was hard out there, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Challenging.’

  Madame Bistoury withdrew her pen from the inkstand and looked at Kalis and then Nimcha, appearing to notice them for the first time. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  ‘Kalis and her daughter Nimcha are friends of ours,’ Quillon said.

  ‘From beyond Spearpoint?’

  He nodded, certain there was nothing to be gained from lying. ‘We travelled together, and then found ourselves guests of Swarm. We’ve all been well looked after.’

  ‘Your first visit to Spearpoint?’ Madame Bistoury asked, directing her question not to Kalis but to Nimcha.

  ‘Yes,’ the girl answered.

  ‘You must find it very strange.’

  Nimcha seemed to give the question due consideration before answering. ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ve never seen anything like this, have you?’

  ‘In my dreams,’ the girl said. ‘But in my dreams it was better. In my dreams it worked.’

  ‘The city still works, after a fashion.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It’s broken. It’s been broken for ever and ever. But now it wants to make itself better.’

  ‘These recent days must seem like for ever to a child,’ Madame Bistoury observed, with an uncertain smile.

  ‘I mean thousands of years,’ Nimcha said.

  ‘What an uncommon little girl.’ She looked to Quillon for confirmation. ‘She has a peculiar intensity about her, Doctor. She seems to look through me as if I’m made of smoke. I’ve never felt so utterly tenuous in all my life.’

  ‘She’s been through a lot,’ Quillon said. ‘It does that to you.’

  ‘You’ve been through a lot as well. You look much thinner. More drawn and pale than I recall. Almost like a ghost of yourself.’

  ‘There are sick and injured men in our care. I was told they’d be looked after here,’ Quillon said.

  ‘Naturally. Anything for our noble benefactors. I’ll have the girls clear one of the floors; we can spare it presently. Do they have any particular medical needs?’

  ‘I’ll check on them later, but they should be well enough for now. Those that are able to sit up would undoubtedly appreciate food and drink, and perhaps some soap and water.’

  ‘I’ll see that it’s arranged. In the meantime, you’ll doubtless be wanting to speak to Tulwar?’

  ‘Will you let us?’ Quillon asked.

  Madame Bistoury looked momentarily abashed. ‘You don’t need my permission, not if Mister Kargas is with you.’

  ‘I’ll show them through,’ Kargas said. ‘My men will bring the medicines and the injured airmen upstairs.’

  ‘Very good.’ Madame Bistoury leaned across the table to take Quillon’s hand. ‘I’m glad you returned to us, Doctor. Surprised, but glad. I knew you wouldn’t forsake the city. We’re all equally its children, aren’t we? No matter where we come from.’

  ‘No matter where,’ Quillon said, waiting until she had released her grip on his hand.

  ‘The mother and child may remain with me, if they have no business with Mister Tulwar.’

  ‘We have business,’ Kalis said resolutely.

  They were led to another part of the bathhouse, on the same floor as Madame Bistoury’s office but several twisting, windowless corridors away. The wood-panelled walls all looked alike to Quillon, and by the time they had arrived at the end of one of the corridors, facing a large pair of heavily framed double doors, he had lost all sense of direction. Music came from behind the doors, the repetitive notes of a simple tune played on brassy, piping instrumentation. Kargas knocked on one of the doors and a moment later it was opened slightly. Kargas spoke to the man on the other side, the music becoming louder through the gap between the doors. Steam was hardly in short supply in the bathhouse, but Quillon was still surprised by the quantity that came curling between the doors.

  ‘He’ll see us now,’ Kargas said.

  The doors were pulled wide. The room beyond must have been one of the largest in the bathhouse, even though its true dimensions were obscured by billowing steam, reaching all the way to the vague limit of the ceiling. Not just steam, Quillon corrected himself, for there was also the unmistakable smell of woodsmoke, even though the air had been heavily perfumed to disguise it.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice boomed over the music. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  They stepped inside. Tulwar was waiting for them, standing like a fogenshrouded statue somewhere near the middle of the room. Quillon wiped sweat from his brow with the end of his coat sleeve. From what he could make out, Tulwar hadn’t changed in any obvious way. He was still a steam-driven cyborg, bulky around the lower body where his life-support system enclosed much of his torso, like a man wearing a kettle. His right eye was still missing, covered by a patch of iron, leather and wood. There were still plates in his skull. H
is left arm was still mechanical, and there was still a segmented cable trailing behind him. Quillon had the impression that he was standing more upright, with more strength in him, but that was the only outward change he was sure of.

  ‘Doctor Quillon. I can’t say you were the first person I was expecting to walk through that door. Or that Meroka would be the second. Ah, the endless capacity life has to surprise us.’

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Quillon said.

  ‘You’re lying, of course,’ Tulwar answered, raising his voice over the music. ‘No one ever thinks it’s good to see me. What you mean is that it’s useful and expedient that I survived; even more so that I appear to have retained some lingering influence in this godforsaken ruin of a city, because it will make the distribution of our medicines all the easier.’

  ‘Doesn’t that amount to the same thing?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Tulwar conceded. ‘And I shouldn’t give the impression that I’m ungrateful for what you’ve done. None of us ever expected it of Swarm, let alone that you’d be involved. We’ll talk about that later; I’m sure you’ve much to tell us. For now, let’s say you must have exerted considerable persuasion.’

  ‘They would have come to Spearpoint’s assistance sooner or later,’ Quillon said. ‘They’re not bad people, any more than we are. They just needed to let go of the past.’

  ‘You speak of Swarm as if no one from it was present.’

  ‘No one is, properly speaking.’ Quillon indicated his companions. ‘You know Meroka. Kalis and Nimcha became guests of Swarm, as did I. We’ve been treated well - practically given the rights of citizenship. But like me they were born outside it.’

  ‘And they have something to do with the distribution of the medicine?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Quillon said. ‘But we’ll get to them in a moment.’ He peered beyond Tulwar, in the direction from which the music was coming. There was a bulky shape there, intermittently hidden and revealed by the steam. He kept having to wipe condensation from his goggles. ‘I see you’ve made some alterations to your medical arrangements.’

  ‘You noticed.’

  ‘Hard not to,’ Meroka said.

  Tulwar took a difficult step towards them, the umbilical line stiffening behind him. With a creak of heavy iron wheels the calliope inched forwards.

  ‘The old boiler developed a fault not long after the storm and I had to be unplugged at short notice. Rather than wait for it to be repaired - a procedure that, frankly, I wouldn’t have survived - I had that infernal steam organ brought around to the back of the bathhouse. Negotiations of a somewhat one-sided nature ensued with the owner. I was plumbed in, thereby acquiring my own mobile steam supply. It’s a far superior state of affairs in that I’m no longer confined to the basement. On the negative side of the ledger, there wasn’t time to disconnect the music-making apparatus. I’m assured that it can be made silent at some later stage, but - to my considerable chagrin - that hasn’t yet proven possible. The calliope must be kept stoked, and while there is steam pressure the music must of necessity play. Fortunately the repertoire may be varied now and then, meaning that I can listen to as many as twelve different tunes during the course of a day. One must be grateful for such mercies. I just wish that the gentleman who punched those twelve tracks into the cards had thought to make one of them cause the machine to play silently.’

  ‘But in time, something can be done?’ Quillon asked.

  ‘Doubtless, provided I am willing to let someone tamper with the innards of the very mechanism keeping me alive. Which, presently, I am not. Nor am I willing to chance disconnection and re-attachment to the old boiler while they tinker around with this thing. I almost didn’t survive it the first time, nearly died the second and don’t rate my chances very highly for a third. For now I tolerate the calliope. Truth to tell, I do more than tolerate it. My enemies know about it now. It’s begun to gain a certain notoriety. I’m told that grown men have been reduced to sobbing wrecks because they’ve heard music from the room next door, and think they’re going to be sent to see me.’

  ‘Take more than a rumour to do that,’ Meroka said.

  ‘I’ve had to exercise a firmness of hand, I won’t deny it. The city was going to the dogs. If the angels didn’t take us, the Skullboys would have. Someone had to step into that void and provide structure. I never expected that someone would be me. I would have been happy just to lie low and wait for someone else to save the day. But when no one stepped up, I realised I had a moral obligation to play my part. Cometh the hour, as they say.’

  ‘What happened to Fray?’ Meroka asked.

  ‘Fray’s dead. I’m sorry to break it to you like this, but you’d have found out sooner or later. He didn’t make it through the first day of the storm. It was bad up there, all right? You know what kind of condition he was in before it happened. Not exactly built for endurance.’

  Meroka sounded surprisingly matter of fact. ‘How’d it happen?’

  ‘He just died. It was very sudden, by all accounts. MMT. Ask the doctor - he’ll tell you how it plays out.’

  ‘Massive maladaptive trauma,’ Quillon said. ‘It makes sense, Meroka. His nervous system was in a bad way before any of this. In a sense, it would have been a blessing. Better than dying slowly of starvation, or because you’ve drunk infected water.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, MMT isn’t exactly a nice, painless way to go.’

  ‘It’s quick,’ Quillon said. ‘Compared to the alternatives.’

  ‘Fray was the kind of man we needed most,’ Tulwar continued. ‘I won’t deny it. The best I can do is try to think the way he would have thought, do the things he would have done. I know I’m not doing anything like as good a job, but it’s still better than nothing.’

  ‘At least you’ve provided a framework for getting the drugs out to those who need them,’ Quillon said.

  ‘A framework, yes. And you’ve done your part by bringing the medicines here.’ Concern flashed over his face. ‘They’re safe, aren’t they?’

  ‘What we managed to get aboard Painted Lady and then unload before she caught fire. I don’t know about the other crates, or how the rest of Swarm’s doing,’ Quillon said.

  ‘In a seller’s market, anything is better than nothing. You’ve done very well. I’ll see that you’re rewarded for your efforts.’

  ‘Believe me, reward’s the last thing on my mind.’ Quillon paused. ‘Aren’t you curious about the fire?’

  ‘I was already informed. It’s an unfortunate business. But then, what isn’t?’ Tulwar flashed a lop-sided smile before continuing. ‘Now: your friends. You mentioned their names, but I confess they’ve slipped my mind.’

  ‘I am Kalis,’ the woman said. ‘Nimcha is my daughter.’

  ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were mute,’ Tulwar said. ‘Welcome, in any case. You’ll both be taken care of. I can’t promise you the luxuries that our city was once capable of furnishing, but you’ll be kept safe and warm and well fed.’

  ‘We do not seek your charity,’ Kalis answered. She stood behind Nimcha, with one hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  ‘They survived outside Spearpoint, under conditions at least as lawless as anything here,’ Quillon explained. ‘That’s not to say that I don’t want them properly cared for. But that isn’t why I’ve brought them to see you.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  Quillon glanced at Tulwar’s lieutenant. ‘There’s something delicate that we need to discuss.’

  ‘Mister Kargas, would you be so kind as to leave us momentarily?’

  Kargas was understandably indignant. ‘They haven’t been searched.’

  ‘I trust them, just as I trust the doctor and Meroka. Dismiss the organmaster as well. Pressure will hold for a few minutes.’

  ‘Very well,’ Kargas said, making no effort to hide his displeasure.

  When the doors had been closed and they were alone again - save for the still-piping calliope, churning through the same banal melody -
Tulwar nodded once. ‘Continue, Doctor. What is it that can only be entrusted to my ears alone?’

  ‘I came here to save your city,’ Nimcha said.

  Tulwar seemed at least as unsettled by her answer as he was amused by it. ‘Did you?’

  ‘She’s a tectomancer,’ Quillon said.

  Tulwar smiled again, but there was a quality of fading expectation in his smile, as if he had anticipated better of Quillon. ‘Some would say they don’t even exist.’

  ‘They exist,’ Quillon affirmed. ‘But tectomancers are ... not what we imagined. There’s much that we still don’t understand about them - much that we may never understand. But I know this: there’s something in her mother’s blood, some cluster of inheritance factors, that has expressed itself in Nimcha. She has the mark. Show him, Nimcha: he won’t harm you.’

  Nimcha’s hair had still not grown back where Spatha had cut it away. She presented her scalp to Tulwar. He took a step forwards, the calliope creaking behind him.

  ‘It’s just a red blemish on her skin,’ he said.

  Quillon nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s a perfectly formed blemish intended to mark her as one with a special, world-altering power. It’s a symbol, not a disfigurement.’

  ‘And this world-altering power is ... ?’

  ‘She can shift the zones. They bend to her will.’ Quillon hesitated, mindful that it would be unwise to mention Nimcha’s part in the storm that had brought Spearpoint to the edge of ruin. ‘I’ve seen her do it,’ he went on. ‘She doesn’t yet have full control of that power, but her ability’s growing by the day. This isn’t magic, Tulwar. It’s just a kind of technology we don’t understand any more.’