Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Wouldn’t night give them a practical advantage?’ Quillon asked.

  ‘In some respects,’ Agraffe said, ‘but not in others. You’ve seen how much trouble we had hitting those ground targets even when the sun was up. At night, it’ll be harder still. The Skullboys won’t be able to go ballooning so easily, but they’ll still have their artillery positions and rockets. And as the ground cools, we’ll lose even more lift. There’s only so much ballast you can throw out. Anyway, it’s not as if Ricasso’s going to bring all the ships in anyway, not while there’s a dead zone around Spearpoint. That would be the end of Swarm, and I don’t think even he’s prepared to go that far.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time for Swarm and Spearpoint to reunite.’

  ‘Reunion doesn’t have to involve throwing away perfectly good ships, Doctor.’

  ‘Perhaps it won’t come to that. If Nimcha can put the zones back the way they were ...’ Quillon trailed off, weariness washing over him. He clapped his hands and made an effort to sound energised. ‘Now: to more immediate matters. I’d like to look at your dressings, if you’ll let me. Afterwards I’ll do what I can for the other men. And then, I think, I shall take Tulwar up on his invitation to be fed. You could probably use something to eat yourself, Agraffe. My recollection is that you were on duty for just as long as Curtana, and I didn’t see you taking any rest either.’

  Agraffe held up the useless white mittens of his bandaged hands. ‘Eating’s going to pose some difficulties, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not while you’re amongst friends,’ Quillon said.

  It was close to midnight when Quillon decided that he had done all he could for the injured airmen; that while the survival of some might still be in jeopardy, nothing he could do now would make any tangible difference to the outcome. He packed his tools and medicines back into his bag, hands numb from overwork, eyes blurring with tiredness, and - although he lacked any great appetite - forced himself to join Meroka, Kalis, Agraffe and the others in the room that had been set aside for dining. It must have been over Tulwar’s quarters, for repetitious, steam-driven music could occasionally be heard rising through the floor. The candlelit meal was a banquet compared to anything he had lately experienced aboard Painted Lady, the food - despite the prevailing hardships - prepared to a surprisingly high standard. It was perhaps best that the diners did not enquire too deeply into the nature and origin of the various heavily salted meats, or quiz the bathhouse cooks on how long those meats had been left to cure. The main thing was it all tasted good. Quillon nibbled for appearance’s sake, washing down what little he consumed with pungent, purple-tinged wine. Nimcha, he learned, was already asleep, doubtless dreaming of things no one around the table could easily imagine. Meroka had washed, but he could still make out the dark margin around her eyes where she had been wearing goggles in the gun turret. Kalis was helping Agraffe with his food, cutting it for him and lifting it to his lips with a pearl-handled fork. The other airmen - there were no militia or civilians present - were caught between the euphoria of having made it to Spearpoint, and doleful reflection on the terrible price that had been paid by so many of their comrades. Everyone around the table knew they were fortunate to have made it this far; that, irrespective of whatever happened now, they had done something good and lasting for the city. Nothing could take that deed from them. But they were also fully aware that the main bulk of Swarm had yet to complete the crossing, and that there would be a similarly heavy toll on them.

  At last the tired comrades began making excuses and left for the rooms that had been allocated to them. Meroka said she was going to check on Curtana before retiring. Quillon remained seated, until he was alone with Kalis.

  ‘You wonder what I really think about my daughter,’ she said, as Quillon sipped at the acrid remnants of the purple wine. ‘Whether I can really love her, when I know what must be done.’

  He shifted in his seat, finding a more comfortable position now that he did not need to worry about people seeing the bulges of his wing-buds.

  ‘I’ve never doubted your love for her. Not once. Not for a moment.’

  ‘I do not know what will happen to her.’

  ‘No, but you’ve always known what would happen if she wasn’t allowed to come here. Those bad dreams and convulsions wouldn’t have gone away with time. They’d have become worse and worse, and eventually my medicines wouldn’t have been able to stop them. She’d have died, Kalis - but not before enduring a great deal of suffering. You’ve done the only possible thing a mother can, which is to care for your daughter. Bringing her to Spearpoint was the only choice open to you. And now you have no choice but to finish the journey, come what may.’

  ‘What if the city does something to her?’

  He reached across the table to lay his hand on hers. ‘It already has. But I meant what I said to Tulwar. The city needs her badly, which is why it’s been calling her closer. But for that very same reason, the last thing it’s going to do is hurt her now that she’s arrived.’

  ‘You want to make me feel better, but at the same time you do not wish to lie. Yet the truth is you have no idea what will happen.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Quillon said, sighing. ‘But I can always hope for the best. I think that’s all any of us can do.’

  ‘You will come with us, if we leave tomorrow?’

  ‘As far as I’m able. Until the city won’t let me go any further. You have my word.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She raised her head to look hard into his eyes. ‘You are a good man, Doctor. You must never forget this.’

  ‘Other men would have done just as much as me.’

  ‘But there were no other men. There was only you, and your bag of medicines. You saved us, when you could have walked on. Then you made Swarm save this city.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he cautioned. ‘There’s still work to be done. No matter what happens tomorrow.’

  ‘But the work has begun,’ Kalis said. ‘That is all that matters now.’

  Quillon rose at dawn, feeling better for having slept, but still with a burden of tiredness that the rest had not alleviated. His wing-buds itched, as if there was some vigorous new phase of growth going on inside them. When he had washed and dressed he went out onto one of the bathhouse’s balconies and stood with his hands resting on the flaking paint of the wooden railing. He had scrounged a cigarette from one of Tulwar’s men and now smoked it gratefully.

  At some point overnight it had rained, washing away the worst of the city smells that had dogged the district the night before. The air was cool and invigorating on his skin, perfumed with the faintest hint of woodsmoke. It was a bright, clear day, ideal for ballooning. The balcony faced outwards from Spearpoint, and by some stroke of fortune it also afforded him a view of the fleet. Swarm lay massing on the horizon. Even with the improved acuity of his eyes he could not identify the individual ships, or tell if their engines were still running. The best he could do was make out a dense knot of craft that he felt sure contained Purple Emperor somewhere near its heart. He thought of Ricasso somewhere in that congregation of airships and wished him luck. They would all need it.

  ‘You frosty, Cutter?’ Meroka asked, by way of greeting.

  ‘Frosty as in ... ?’

  ‘Alert. Awake. Ready and able to deal with whatever shit the day’s got in store in for us.’

  ‘In that case, I’m frosty.’

  ‘Too bad about Iron Prominent.’

  ‘I didn’t hear.’

  ‘You will. Came in bad. Spilled her guts. Now it’s an unholy free-for-all to see what they can save, before the Skulls get their shit-stinking hands on the meds.’

  The news hit him like a punch to the abdomen.

  ‘We need every drop.’

  ‘Ain’t nobody’d argue with you on that one, Cutter, least of all me. Matter of fact, I’m wondering whether I wouldn’t be better off going down and seeing what I can do to help. But then another part of me says, fuck it, go with Cutter.’

  ‘I
suppose I ought to be flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. I just don’t want to see you screw this one up. Not with Nimcha and Kalis depending on you.’

  ‘Then let’s see what our host’s managed to arrange for us.’

  They re-entered the bathhouse and followed the throb of organ music until it brought them to Tulwar. He was standing - leaning - over a broken crate, his life-support umbilical straining behind him as he assumed an unnatural angle, sifting through straw and glassware, picking out the occasional broken flask and discarding it in an empty crate next to the straw-filled one.

  ‘When all this is over,’ Quillon said, ‘I promise that I’ll do what I can for you. There has to be a better way than this. Even if the best I can do is turn off the music.’

  Tulwar dug an intact flask from the straw and held it up for inspection, entranced by the clear, valueless-looking fluid within it. ‘Turn off the music and you’d start undermining my reputation.’

  ‘No one would have to know.’

  ‘No, you have a point there. They wouldn’t.’ He fell silent for a moment, sagging forwards on his feet as if his steam pressure had fallen catastrophically. Then he straightened and said, ‘Guess Meroka filled you in on the bad news?’

  ‘About Iron Prominent?’

  ‘Not exactly what you’d call a textbook landing, that’s for sure. Broke her back, ripped her gondola in half and dropped her cargo onto the roof of a building on the ledge below.’ He shook his head, as if vivid images were still playing behind his eyes. ‘Skullboy rocket strike. She lost a lot of hands. When it was obvious that she was going down they managed to get the spotter balloon launched with some medicines aboard, but it’s come down a few blocks up from here and my men haven’t managed to get to it yet. Other than that ...’

  Quillon was willing to grieve for the crew, but only when he knew what had happened to her cargo of Serum-15.

  ‘Aside from whatever’s in the balloon, how much have we saved?’

  ‘You’re looking at the first crate out of there,’ Tulwar said. ‘Been a mad scramble to reach them before the Skullboys do. Fortunately they didn’t have anyone on the roof of that building, or we’d have lost everything—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We managed to lower men down on lines to secure the roof. Lost good men in the process, too: the Skulls don’t give up without a fight. Judging by this crate, I’m afraid at least a third of the flasks didn’t make it. You’ll excuse me for taking a personal interest, but if these drugs have been contaminated, or sabotaged by the Skulls, I don’t want them leaving this room.’

  Quillon’s mood see-sawed between crushing disappointment and blessed relief that they had been able to save anything. After the loss of Cinnabar, the drugs had become even more precious.

  ‘Does Agraffe know what happened to his old ship?’

  ‘I’ve informed him. Word is Curtana’s a little more responsive this morning. I understand she took it stoically.’

  ‘She always knew there’d be losses. She nearly didn’t make it herself.’ Tulwar replaced the lid on the broken crate as best as he could. ‘I suppose we should celebrate our successes rather than dwell on failure. The medicines you brought are already doing good, you’ll be pleased to hear. They’re in short supply, of course, but I’ve made sure they reached the men who needed them most.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to offer such help as I can when I return,’ Quillon said.

  ‘It will be received gratefully. And I have good news, I think. My men have secured the entrance to the tunnel complex at the Pink Peacock.’

  ‘Is Malkin still running the joint?’ Meroka asked.

  ‘Not much of a “joint” to run, I’m afraid. There’s no power, no running water, no clients. Kind of takes the edge off the happy-go-lucky party atmosphere. You knew Malkin well?’

  She caught the past tense. ‘He’s dead as well?’

  ‘He made it out, got all the way down to Second District before he was caught up in a food riot, or instigated it, for all I know. He’d been trampled to death. It wasn’t pretty, the first few days - just dealing with the bodies was a major headache. We couldn’t leave them lying around, and throwing them over the ledge was just passing the problem down to someone else. They take a lot longer to burn than you’d imagine.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I can imagine,’ Meroka said.

  ‘I’m sorry about Malkin. I didn’t know him that well - that was Fray’s turf, not mine - but by all accounts he had his uses. Still ... let’s not dwell on what can’t be put right. The important thing is that we have access to the Pink Peacock.’ He corrected himself with a grimace. ‘Or at least we do right now. The angels are responding with a renewed push of their own, so it’s not clear how long we’ll be able to hold that area, or provide a safe path through Neon Heights. If you want access to the tunnels, I’d say don’t delay.’

  ‘There’s no reason why we should,’ Quillon said. ‘We don’t need anything, except your help in getting to the entrance.’

  ‘You sure about the launderette not being accessible?’ Meroka asked. ‘It’s just that it’ll make things a fuck of a lot easier for us once we’re inside.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid that area’s quite unreachable now.’

  ‘Then we’ll take what we’re given,’ Meroka said.

  At least Tulwar sounded pleased. ‘That much I can arrange. After all you’ve done for us, it’s the least I can offer in return. Do you really think this is going to work, Doctor Quillon? Do you really think she’s going to make things better?’

  ‘If she can’t, no one else can.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Meroka was on the truck before Quillon, working the mechanism of a rifle vigorously back and forth to free it up. She had one booted foot planted on a crate, the other on the bed of the truck, a hard, determined look on her face. Only a slight stiffness in her posture betrayed the fact that she had been recently wounded. Let’s get this done, her expression seemed to say. No matter what the day might bring.

  She used a free hand to help him up onto the back of the vehicle. His medical bag was slung over his shoulder: he had borrowed a belt from the Red Dragon Bathhouse and looped it through the bag’s handle, so that he could keep both hands free. Four militiamen were already aboard the truck, in addition to those stationed around the perimeter of the bathhouse. ‘Help yourself,’ Meroka said, indicating an assortment of gleaming, oiled weapons laid out on top of a crate. ‘They’re all loaded and good to go.’ Quillon picked up the smallest pistol he could see and dropped it into his coat pocket, trusting that with all the firepower around him, he would be very unlikely to have to make use of it. The morning air was cold, and black shadows lingered between the buildings. He still wore the goggles, trusting that if anyone wondered about them they would take them for an affectation, rather than a necessary element of disguise.

  ‘Fine day to save the city,’ Quillon said. ‘I just wish Fray was here to help us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Meroka said. ‘It’s a real pisser about Fray.’ Then she clicked the rifle’s mechanism again, grunted with something like satisfaction and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Here they come.’

  Kalis and Nimcha emerged, blinking in the half-light, led by two of Tulwar’s men. They both wore heavy coats and airmen’s hats. They were helped aboard without ceremony. Quillon wanted to say something reassuring to the mother and daughter, but when he searched for the right words all he could come up with was easy platitudes. None of them needed that now. They all knew what they were getting into, including Nimcha.

  Signals were given and the truck hissed into motion. It picked up speed quickly, the militia cordon letting it through into the streets beyond the bathhouse. They only passed one vehicle going the other way, and that was also one of Tulwar’s. The two crews slowed and exchanged brief words. Quillon saw two dented, battered crates on the rear platform, and guessed they’d been rescued from Iron Prominent’s spilled cargo.

  In dayligh
t, even the brittle daylight of early morning, the city was even more of a wreck than Quillon had realised the night before. Night had hidden many things, not all of them welcome. Only a few blocks from the bathhouse, they passed a long line of hanged bodies, strung from makeshift gibbets. A little further on, a head had been spiked onto the top of a railing. Kalis moved to shield her daughter, but Nimcha was much too quick. She stared at the scene, expressionless.

  ‘It’s worse than we thought,’ Quillon said.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Meroka said. ‘Is this fucked-up place really worth saving? But the answer’s yes. Always and always. Because where else are we going to go?’

  The truck bounced over cracks and bumps in the road. At one point the wheels rolled across a bulging tarpaulin, crunching whatever dead, decaying thing lay under it; at another intersection the truck had to ram its way past a steam-coach that had toppled over, forming what was either an innocent obstacle or an attempt at an ambush. The militiamen loosed a few shots into the shadowed doorways of buildings, but Quillon never saw anyone moving inside. In fact the only signs of life were the rats and cats scrabbling to escape the rolling wheels.

  A long, laboured climb lay ahead of the truck even after it had crossed the old boundary into Neon Heights. Now the hinterland was just a strip of unusually pronounced desolation between equally squalid margins. The truck navigated backstreets until it passed the railway station where Quillon and Meroka had been forced to flee by taxi. Now the station was a burned-out ruin, its roof supports open to the sky like ribs. The few slot-cabs still outside were either blackened wrecks or had been tipped over on their sides, or both. There was garbage everywhere. Quillon spotted a hunched, dark-hooded figure picking through the detritus, but there were no other indications of inhabitation. The advertising billboards around the frontage had been torn or defaced where they were within easy reach, but their colours and slogans were still vivid, promoting products and services of questionable relevance, such as an improved brand of shaving cream, shoe polish and slot-car insurance. But Meroka was right, Quillon thought. They didn’t have a choice about which city to save, so they might as well make the best of the one they had.