‘And the usual persuasion, I imagine — a few unfortunate trips down the stairs. So they’ve no additional leads on Thorn?’
‘They’re no closer to catching him than you are to catching the Triumvir. Sorry. You know what I mean, ma’am.’
‘Yes…’ She prolonged the word tortuously.
‘Will that be all, ma’am?’
‘For now.’
The door creaked shut.
The woman whose official title was Inquisitor Vuilleumier returned her attention to the city. Delta Pavonis was low in the sky, beginning to shade the sides of the buildings in various faint permutations of rust and orange. She looked at the view until dusk fell, comparing it in her mind’s eye with her memories of Chasm City and, before that, Sky’s Edge. It was always at dusk that she decided whether she liked a place or not. She remembered once, not long after her arrival in Chasm City, asking a man named Mirabel whether there had ever come a point when he had decided he liked the city. Mirabel had, like her, been a native of Sky’s Edge. He had told her that he had found ways of getting used to it. She had doubted him, but in the end he had been proven right. But it was only when she was wrenched away from Chasm City that she had begun to look back on it with anything resembling fondness.
She had never reached that state on Resurgam.
The lights of government-issue electric cars stirred silver rivers between the buildings. She turned from the window and walked across the room to her private chamber. She closed the door behind her.
Security considerations dictated that the chamber was windowless. She eased herself into a padded seat behind a vast horseshoe-shaped desk. It was an old escritoire whose dead cybernetic innards had been reamed out and replaced by much cruder systems. A pot of stale, tepid coffee sat on a heated coil at one end of the desk. A buzzing electric fan gave off the tang of ozone.
Three walls, including most of the wall she had stepped through, were lined with shelves containing bound reports detailing fifteen years’ worth of effort. It would have been an absurdity for an entire department of government to be dedicated to the capture of a single individual: a woman who could not with certainty be said to be still alive, much less on Resurgam. Therefore the remit of the Inquisitor’s office extended to the gathering of intelligence on a range of external threats to the colony. But it was a fact that the Triumvir had become the most celebrated of the still-open cases, in the same way that the apprehension of Thorn, and the dismantling of the movement he fronted, dominated the work of the neighbouring department, Internal Threats. Though it was more than sixty years since she committed her crimes, high-ranking officials continued to bray for the Triumvir’s arrest and trial, using her as a focus for public sentiments that might otherwise have been directed at the government. It was one of the oldest tricks of mob-management: give them a hate figure. The Inquisitor had a great many other things she would rather be doing than pursuing the war criminal. But if her department failed to show the necessary enthusiasm for the task, another would surely take its place, and that could not be tolerated. There was the faintest of possibilities that a new department might succeed.
So the Inquisitor maintained the pretence. The Triumvir case remained legitimately open because the Triumvir was an Ultra, and could therefore be assumed to be still alive despite the time that had passed since her criminal activities. On her case alone there were lists of tens of thousands of potential suspects, transcriptions of thousands of interviews. There were hundreds of biographies and case summaries. Some individuals, around a dozen, each merited a good portion of a shelf. And this was just a fraction of the office’s archive; just the paperwork that had to be immediately on hand. Down in the basement, and at other sites around the city, were many more miles of documentation. A marvellous and largely secret network of pneumatic tubes enabled files to be whisked from office to office in seconds.
On her desk were a few opened files. Various names had been ringed, underscored or connected by spidery lines. Photographs were stapled to summary cards, blurry long-lens acquisitions of faces moving through crowds. She leafed through them, aware that she had to give a convincing impression of actually following up these apparent leads. She had to listen to her field agents and digest the snippets of information passed on by informers. She had to give every indication that she was actually interested in finding the Triumvir.
Something caught her eye. Something on the fourth wall.
The wall displayed a Mercator projection of Resurgam. The map had kept up with the terraforming program, showing small blotches of blue or green in addition to the unrelenting shades of grey, tan and white that would have been the case a century earlier. Cuvier was still the largest settlement, but there were now a dozen or so outposts that were large enough to be considered small cities in their own right. Slev lines connected most of them; others were linked by canals, roads or freight pipelines. There were a handful of landing strips, but there were not enough aircraft to permit routine journeys for anyone other than key government officials. Smaller settlements — weather stations and the few remaining archaeological digs — could be reached by airship or all-terrain crawler, but not usually in less than weeks of travel time.
Now a red light was winking up in the northeastern corner of the map, hundreds of kilometres away from anywhere most people had heard of. A field agent was calling in. Operatives were identified by their code numbers, winking next to the spot of light that denoted their position.
Operative Four.
The Inquisitor felt the short dark hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It had been a long, long time since she had heard from Operative Four.
She tapped a query into the desk, hunting and pecking for the stiff black keys. She asked the desk to verify that Operative Four was currently reachable. The desk’s readout confirmed that the red light had only come on in the last two hours. The operative was still on the air, awaiting the Inquisitor’s response.
The Inquisitor picked up the telephone handset from her desk, squeezing its sluglike black bulk against the side of her head.
‘Communications,’ she said.
‘Comms.’
‘Put me through to Field Operative Four. Repeat, Field Operative Four. Audio only. Protocol three.’
‘Hold the line, please. Establishing. Connected.’
‘Go secure.’
She heard the pitch of the line modulate slightly as the comms officer dropped out of the loop. She listened, hearing nothing but hiss.
‘Four… ?’ she breathed.
There was an agonising delay before the reply came back. ‘Speaking. ’ The voice was faint, skirling in and out of static.
‘It’s been a long time, Four.’
‘I know.’ It was a woman’s voice, one the Inquisitor knew very well. ‘How are you keeping, Inquisitor Vuilleumier?’
‘Work has its ups and downs.’
‘I know the feeling. We need to meet, urgently and in person. Does your Office still have its little privileges?’
‘Within limits.’
‘Then I suggest you abuse them to the fullest extent. You know my current location. There is a small settlement seventy-five klicks to the southwest of me by the name of Solnhofen. I can be there within one day, at the following…’ and then she gave the Inquisitor the details of a hostelry that she had already located.
The Inquisitor did her usual mental arithmetic. Via slev and road it would take in the region of two to three days to reach Solnhofen. Slev and airship would be quicker but more conspicuous: Solnhofen was not on any of the normal dirigible routes. An aircraft would be faster, of course, easily capable of reaching the meeting point within a day and a half, even if she had to take the long way around to avoid weather fronts. Normally, given an urgent request from a field agent, she would not have hesitated to fly. But this was Operative Four. She could not afford to draw undue attention to the meeting. But, she reflected, not flying would do precisely that.
It was not easy.
> ‘Is it really so urgent?’ the Inquisitor asked, knowing what the answer would be.
‘Of course.’ The woman made an odd henlike clucking sound. ‘I wouldn’t have called otherwise, would I?’
‘And it concerns her… the Triumvir?’ Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she could hear a smile in the field agent’s reply.
‘Who else?’
FIVE
The comet had no name. It might once have been classified and catalogued, but not in living memory, and certainly no information relating to it was to be found in any public database. No transponder had ever been anchored to its surface; no Skyjacks had ever grappled themselves in and extracted a core sample. To all intents and purposes it was completely unremarkable, simply one member of a much larger swarm of cold drifters. There were billions of them, each following a slow and stately orbit around Epsilon Eridani. For the most part they had been undisturbed since the system’s formation. Very occasionally, a resonant perturbation of the system’s larger worlds might unshackle a few members of the swarm and send them falling in on sun-grazing orbits, but for the vast majority of comets the future would consist only of more orbits around Eridani, until the sun itself swelled up. Until then they would remain dormant, insufferably cold and still.
The comet was large, as swarm members went, but not unusually so: there were at least a million that were larger. From edge to edge it was a twenty-kilometre frozen mudball of nearly black ice; a lightly compacted meringue of methane, carbon monoxide, nitrogen and oxygen, laced with silicates, sooty hydrocarbons and a few glistening veins of purple or emerald organic macromolecules. They had crystallised into beautiful refractive crystal seams several billion years earlier, when the galaxy was a younger and quieter place. Mostly, though, it was pitifully dark. Epsilon Eridani was merely a hard glint of light at this distance, thirteen light-hours away. It looked scarcely less remote than the brighter stars.
But humans had come, once.
They had arrived in a squadron of dark spacecraft, their holds bursting with transforming machines. They had covered the comet in a caul of transparent plastic, enveloping it like a froth of digestive spit. The plastic had given the comet structural rigidity it would otherwise have lacked, but from a distance it was all but undetectable. The backscatter from radar or spectroscopic scans was only slightly compromised, and remained well within the anticipated error of Demarchist measurements.
With the comet held stiff by its plastic shell, the humans had set about sapping its spin. Ion rockets, emplaced cunningly across its face, slowly bled it of angular momentum. Only when there was a small residual spin, enough to ward off suspicion, were the ion rockets quietened and the installations removed from the surface.
But by then the humans had already been busy inside. They had cored out the comet, tamping eighty per cent of its interior volume into a thin, hard shell that was used to line the outer shell. The resultant chamber was fifteen kilometres wide and perfectly spherical. Concealed shafts permitted entry into the chamber from outside space, wide enough to accept a moderately large spacecraft provided the ship moved nimbly. Berthing and repair yards festered across the inner surface of the chamber like the dense grid of a cityscape, interrupted here and there by the cryo-arithmetic engines, squat black domes which studded the grid like volcanic cinder plugs. The huge engines were quantum refrigerators, sucking heat out of the local universe by computational cooling.
Clavain had made the entrance transition enough times not to be alarmed by the sudden whiplash course adjustments necessary to avoid collisions with the comet’s rotating husk. At least, that was what he told himself. But the truth was he never drew breath until he was safely inside or out. It was too much like diving through the narrowing gap in a lowering portcullis. And with a ship as large as Nightshade, the adjustments were even more brutal.
He entrusted the operation to Nightshade’s computers. They knew exactly what needed to be done, and the insertion was precisely the kind of well-specified problem that computers handled better than people, even Conjoined people.
Then it was over, and he was in. Not for the first time, Clavain felt a dizzying sense of vertigo as the comet’s interior space came into view. The husk had not stayed hollow for long. Its cored-out volume was filled with moving machinery: a great nested clockwork of rushing circles, resembling nothing so much as a fantastically complex armillary sphere.
He was looking at the military stronghold of his people: the Mother Nest.
There were five layers to the Mother Nest. The outer four were all engineered to simulate gravity, in half-gee increments. Each layer consisted of three rings of nearly equal diameter, the plane of each ring tilted by sixty degrees from its neighbour. There were two nodes where the three rings passed close to each other, and at each of these nodes the rings vanished into a hexagonal structure. The nodal structures functioned both as an interchange between rings and a means of guiding them. Each ring slid through sleeves in the nodal structures, constrained by frictionless magnetic fields. The rings themselves were dark bands studded with myriad tiny windows and the occasional larger illuminated space.
The outermost triplet of rings was ten kilometres across and simulated gravity at two gees. One kilometre of empty space inwards, a smaller triplet of rings spun within the outermost shell, simulating gravity at one and a half gees. One kilometre in from that was the one-gee ring triplet, consisting of by far the thickest and most densely populated set of rings, where the majority of the Conjoiners spent the bulk of their time. Nestling within that was the half-gee triplet, which in turn encased a transparent central sphere that did not rotate. That was the null-gee core, a pressurised bubble three kilometres wide stuffed with greenery, sunlamps and various microhabitat niches. It was where children played and elderly Conjoiners came to die. It was also where Felka spent most of her time.
Nightshade decelerated and came to a stop relative to the outermost triplet. Already, servicing craft were emerging from the whirling rings. Clavain felt the jolts as the tugs latched on to Nightshade’s hull. When he had disembarked, his vessel would be hauled towards the shipyards quilting the chamber’s wall. There were many ships already berthed there: various elongated black shapes hooked into a labyrinth of support machines and repair systems. Most were smaller than Clavain’s ship, however, and there were no genuinely large vessels.
Clavain left the ship with his usual slight feeling of unease, of a job not properly finished. It had been many years before he realised quite what caused this: it was the way that his fellow Conjoiners said nothing to each other as they left the craft, despite the fact that they might have spent months together on a mission, and encountered many risks.
A robot tender collected him from one of the hull airlocks. The tender was an upright box with generous windows, squatting on a rectangular base studded with rockets and impeller fans. Clavain boarded it, watching a larger tender depart from the next airlock along. In the other tender he saw Remontoire with two other Conjoiners and the prisoner they had captured on the Demarchist ship. From a distance, the pig, slouched and docile, could easily have been mistaken for a human prisoner. For a moment Clavain thought that the pig was being pleasingly co-operative, until he recognised the glint of a pacification coronet wrapped around the prisoner’s scalp.
They had trawled the pig on the way back to the Mother Nest, but had learned nothing specific. The pig’s memories were highly blockaded; not in the Conjoiner fashion, but in the crude black-market style that was common amongst the Chasm City criminal underworld, and which was usually implemented to shield incriminating memories from the various branches of the Ferrisville constabulary: the sirens, scythes, skulltappers and eraserheads. With the kind of interrogation techniques that were possible in the Mother Nest, Clavain had no doubt that the blockades could be dismantled, but until then he could discover nothing other than that they had recovered a small-time pig criminal with violent tendencies, probably affiliated to one of the larger pig ga
ngs operating in and around Yellowstone and the Rust Belt. Clearly the pig had been up to no good when he was captured by the Demarchists, but that was hardly unusual for pigs.
Clavain neither liked nor disliked hyperpigs. He had met enough to know that they were as morally complex as the humans they had been engineered to serve, and that every pig should be judged on its own terms. A pig from the Ganesh industrial moon had saved his life three times during the Shiva-Parvati cordon crisis of 2358. Twenty years later, on Irravel’s Moon, orbiting Fand, a group of pig brigands had taken eight of Clavain’s soldiers hostage and had then begun to eat them alive when they refused to divulge Conjoiner secrets. Only one Conjoiner had escaped, and Clavain had taken his pain-saturated memories as his own. He carried them now, locked away in the most secure kind of mental partition, so that they could not be unlocked accidentally. But even this had not made him hate pigs as a species.
He was not sure whether the same could be said for Remontoire. Deep in Remontoire’s past lay an even more horrific and protracted episode, when he had been taken prisoner by the pig pirate Run Seven. Run Seven had been one of the earliest hyperpigs, and his mind had been riddled with the psychotic scars of flawed neuro-genetic augmentation. He had captured Remontoire and isolated him from the mental communion of other Conjoiners. That had been enough of a torture, but Run Seven had not stinted on the other, older kind. And he had been very good at it.
Remontoire had escaped, finally, and the pig had died. But Clavain knew that his friend still carried profound mental wounds that now and then broke through to the surface. Clavain had watched very carefully when Remontoire made the preliminary trawls of the pig, fully aware of how easily that procedure could become a kind of torture in its own right. And while nothing that Remontoire had done had been improper — indeed, he had been almost too reticent in his enquiries — Clavain admitted to feeling a sense of misgiving. If only it had not been a pig, he thought, and if only Remontoire had not had to be associated with the prisoner’s questioning…
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