Evening's Empires (Quiet War 3)

by Paul McAuley

  ‘Let me try,’ Hari said. ‘They’ll talk to me.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Rember Wole and Worden Hanburanaman are dead,’ the eidolon said.

  Hari felt a freezing plunge of shock, asked the usual stupid questions about when and where and how. The eidolon told him that the two men had disappeared on the day that Pabuji’s Gift had been hijacked, and their bodies had been found three days later.

  ‘The murderer or murderers have not been identified,’ it said. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I know who killed them. Or at least, I know why they were killed. It is connected to the hijack of my family’s ship,’ Hari said.

  But the eidolon refused to allow him to talk to Tannhauser Gate’s police, and vanished when he demanded to be allowed to speak to someone with real authority. It wouldn’t talk about the murders the next time it appeared outside the window of the cell, began to ask random questions about Hari’s story as if nothing had changed.

  But everything had changed. Hari had been given a mission. Reach Tannhauser Gate; find Rember Wole and Worden Hanburanaman. Rember will help you get in contact with the hijackers and negotiate the return of the ship. Worden will help you understand Dr Gagarian’s work, and how to carry it forward. He still had to contact the hijackers, still had to negotiate with them, but there was no longer anyone to help him. He was on his own, pursued by a powerful, highly organised enemy.

  He told himself that despair and self-pity were selfish and pointless indulgences. He told himself that he still had what his enemies wanted. He still had leverage. He was in prison, but that was part of his plan. Eventually the Free People would realise who he was, and release him. Perhaps they would even help him.

  He tried to empty his mind with mediation. He sat cross-legged and chanted a mantra he had found in Kinson Ib Kana’s book. All things shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. He exercised, strengthening the muscles in his legs and arms and back. The gravity well of Fei Shen’s small rock had been deepened, like Vesta’s. Hari needed to build up his strength. He did sit-ups and press-ups. He did squat thrusts. He did pull-ups, when he was strong enough. Wedging his fingers against the top of the frame of the cell’s window, lifting and lowering himself until the muscles in his arms and shoulders liquified. And he slept, sank away into hours of blissful oblivion. He exercised and he meditated, but most of the time he slept.

  One day, he was woken by a ragged percussion that immediately reminded him of the ape-men on Vesta. It was the other prisoners, drumming on the walls of their cells as two commissars walked down the long white tube. The commissars halted outside Hari’s cell, and before he could frame a question the base dilated and he dropped straight down and landed in a breathless sprawl at their feet.

  Hari and the commissars rode an elevator up a transparent shaft to the so-called new section of the city, walked through a sunlit forest of screw pines and birches and tree ferns. Aakash had taught Hari the basics of architectural geomancy, using his viron as an exemplar. Showing him how a rich patchwork of spaces could be created by clever landscaping, subtle transitions, and the choices provided by networks of intersecting paths. How framing vistas and blending the borders of the viron into its backdrop made its small footprint seem much larger than it really was, how shade and the white noise of falling water encouraged restful contemplation, how open sky and contoured paths that restricted sightlines and revealed views from different angles encouraged exploration, and so on and so forth. Hari knew that the forest biome, the perspectives of its green aisles, ladders of sunlight leaning between trees, was meticulously constructed to induce a sense of oceanic peace, and he could appreciate the intimidating beauty of the glade where one of the Free People’s matriarchs, Ma Sakitei, was waiting for him. A flawless carpet of scarlet and maroon turf spread within a circle of trees and flowering rhododendrons, copper and gold butterflies tumbling through subaqueous light, a small brown bird perched on a low branch, trilling a lovely, liquid song. The product of centuries of patient, masterful skill. A statement of strength and will no less powerful than an iron throne flanked by ranks of shuttered myrmidons.

  Ma Sakitei sat zazen-style on a handwoven mat in the centre of the glade. An old woman less than half Hari’s height, white hair as tightly curled as airsheep wool, dressed in a plain tunic cinched at the waist by a broad belt hung with pouches and tools. Butterflies circled her, landed on her hands, clung to her cheek or to the corners of her eyes. Tiny sparks of information that pinged Hari’s bios but were, to him, unreadable. Green thoughts in a green shade.

  The matriarch dismissed the commissars and asked Hari to sit with her, asked him to tell his story. As if he hadn’t already told it a dozen times, and been questioned about every aspect of it. He spoke plainly and concisely, without any trace of anger or self-pity. Nabhomani had taught him that those with power over others were not moved by crude attempts to manipulate their emotions. It implied weakness, and powerful people despised weakness. It was always best to keep your story simple and straightforward, without qualifications or justifications or special pleading.

  There was a long pause after he finished. The bird sang on with inexhaustible invention, as if it was singing the world into being, moment to moment to moment. Bright packets of information fluttered by. Hari believed that most of Ma Sakitei’s attention was focused on these little messengers. As far as she was concerned, he was a trivial problem, a blip in the calm flow of the days and years of tending this forest biome and the wild forests and deserts of Vesta. Yet his life turned on the hinge-point of her decision.

  At last, she said, ‘Usually, we prosecute trespassers. Two of your fellow prisoners, for instance, are traders in biologics who attempted to plunder Vesta’s ecosystems.’

  ‘I had no choice. My ship was badly damaged.’

  ‘You could have allowed your pursuers to capture you.’

  ‘I have been given an important mission. I will not give it up so easily. I would like to thank you,’ Hari said, ‘for rescuing me.’

  ‘We did not rescue you,’ Ma Sakitei said. ‘We arrested you before you could harm the man-apes. They were created by Trues, who used to hunt them with spears and take their heads as trophies. We believe that it is our duty to care for them as best we can, to atone for all that has been done to them in the past. We do not allow anyone to interfere with them.’

  Hari apologised and said that he had meant the man-apes no harm, had only been trying to drive them off after they had attacked him.

  ‘They attacked you because you trespassed on their territory,’ Ma Sakitei said.

  Nabhomani had taught Hari that, even when negotiating from a position of strength, it was important to control your emotions. Pride gave you confidence and motivated you to maximise outcomes and build strong relationships, but you should never let it tip over into arrogance and conceit, or use it to humble or belittle other people. And sometimes, if you overreached yourself during negotiations, if the other side uncovered a transgression or exposed an attempt to deceive or trick them, it was necessary to swallow your pride, express guilt and contrition, and accept responsibility for your actions. It was necessary to expose your throat to the teeth of your opponents, and hope for mercy.

  Exposing his throat now, Hari said, ‘I realise that I have made some foolish mistakes. I hope I can learn from them.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ Ma Sakitei said. ‘Tell me about the head you were carrying. The head of the tick-tock philosopher, Dr Gagarian. Why do your pursuers think it so valuable?’

  ‘They didn’t tell me. I assume it has something to with his research into the Bright Moment.’

  ‘With the files locked inside his head.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you open them?’

  ‘No. That’s why I was heading towards Tannhauser Gate.’

  ‘Where your family’s broker lived.’

  ‘He and his partner were supposed to help me.’

  ‘And they were murdered.’
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  ‘That’s what your commissars told me.’

  ‘It seems that your pursuers have a long reach. That they are no ordinary dacoits.’

  ‘I’m not sure what they are,’ Hari said. ‘I do know that I would surrender the head at once, if I could be certain they would give me my family’s ship and any of my family who might still be alive.’

  ‘But they were all killed during the hijack. Only you are left alive.’

  ‘I think so.’

  Hari was amazed that he could speak so calmly about his dead.

  ‘Your pursuers tell a somewhat different story,’ Ma Sakitei said.

  ‘You have spoken to them? They’re here?’

  ‘They passed through cis-Vestan space and rendezvoused with your ship and continued onwards. But we have spoken to them. They claim to be specialists hired by your family. They say that you murdered Dr Gagarian and stole his head, then murdered two of their companions who gave chase. They say that they are attempting to bring you to justice.’

  ‘Did they also tell you that they hijacked my family’s ship? That they wiped my father’s viron, and murdered my brothers and the woman who raised me?’

  ‘We are not your enemy,’ Ma Sakitei said. ‘We are merely trying to establish whether your story is true.’

  Hari apologised. He was ashamed of his loss of self-control, scared that he’d compromised any chance that the Free People would help him.

  A butterfly landed on Ma Sakitei’s hand, perching on the web between thumb and forefinger. She lifted it to the level of her eyes and studied it for a moment, and then it fluttered away.

  ‘Your pursuers asked us to render you up to them,’ she said. ‘You, and the head of the tick-tock philosopher. We refused. First, because they deployed a weapon inside the volume of space that we control. Second, because we are minded to grant you refugee status.’

  Hari began to thank her, fell silent when she held up a hand.

  ‘We cannot confirm many of the details of your story,’ she said, ‘but your DNA profile confirms that you are the son of Aakash Pilot, and the nephew of Tamonash Pilot. We were able to compare your profile with theirs because both have done business with us in the past. Both have been good friends to us.’

  ‘Tamonash Pilot?’

  ‘The free trader.’

  ‘He is my uncle?’

  ‘You do not know him?’

  ‘I have never met him,’ Hari said.

  No one in his family had ever mentioned that his father had a brother. That he had an uncle . . .

  Ma Sakitei threw a small file – the requirements and qualifications for refugee status – to Hari’s bios, and told him to study it.

  ‘We are an open city,’ she said. ‘We provide a peaceful, neutral environment where trade and business flourish. But when it comes to maintaining order we are vigilant, and swift to punish any who exploit or abuse our hospitality. And we do not takes sides in disputes and vendettas outwith our sphere of influence. While you remain here, you will make no attempt to contact your pursuers, or anyone able to negotiate with them on your behalf. If you seek justice or revenge you must look elsewhere.’

  ‘I will.’

  A butterfly landed on Ma Sakitei’s cheek. She closed her eyes and said, ‘Were you ever employed as a librarian or an archivist by your family?’

  ‘My father maintained our records.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps you worked as a courier.’

  ‘I have been trained in most aspects of running a ship. And I helped Dr Gagarian construct the machines he used in his experiments.’

  The butterfly flicked into the air. Ma Sakitei opened her eyes.

  ‘Everyone in Fei Shen must pay for their time,’ she said. ‘Even refugees. You will be able to obtain a little credit here. Enough to support you for a short time, not enough to buy passage elsewhere. You will need to find work, sooner or later. When you do, come and talk to me again.’

  ‘I will,’ Hari said again.

  But he’d already decided that he wanted to leave Fei Shen as soon as possible. He’d reach out to Dr Gagarian’s colleagues for help. He’d work his passage if he couldn’t buy it. He’d smuggle himself aboard a ship if he had no other choice . . .

  He said, ‘May I ask one more favour? You have taken custody of my pressure suit and Dr Gagarian’s head. Also a book that’s important to me. I would like them back.’

  ‘You may have the head and the book, but we cannot allow the pressure suit to enter the city. Its eidolon confessed to us that it is weaponised.’

  ‘It is naive, and often does not know what it is saying.’

  ‘Nevertheless, your suit will be stored at the docks until you leave the city. Fare well, Gajananvihari Pilot. When we meet again, we will discuss how you can repay our hospitality.’

  4

  Dressed in leggings and a plain jerkin issued by the commissars, the cryoflask that contained Dr Gagarian’s head slung over one shoulder, Kinson Ib Kana’s book in his pocket, Hari walked out into Fei Shen. It was as scary-strange as his first foray across the surface of Themba. His bios couldn’t handshake with the antique protocols of the city’s commons, so everything he encountered – the wide corridors (called avenues), the buildings, street furniture, bots, drones, avatars, people – was naked and unreadable. Alien and mysterious, thrilling and terrifying.

  Fei Shen, the flying mountain, sometimes called Wufen Shan, the Fifth Sacred Mountain, sometimes First New Shanghai, was an old city. Earth’s Pacific Community had built it inside an impact crater at the prow of a small, wedge-shaped asteroid some fifteen hundred years ago, in the early years of the Great Expansion. At the height of the True Empire, it had been shifted into orbit around Vesta to serve as a platform for crews tending the ongoing terraforming project, and as an interchange for highborn Trues on their way to Vesta’s hunting grounds. It had been largely untouched by the wars that had brought down the Trues; the Free People had demolished the palace inside the tent of the new section and replaced it with a gardened forest, but had changed little else.

  The Pacific Community had used Fei Shen as a centre for trade with the gardens and settlements of the Belt, and now it was a trade centre again, although much diminished. There was a bazaar that sold half-life carpets in every colour and pattern and texture, another that sold vacuum organisms, genetic templates, and facsimiles of animals and birds from the long ago, from legends and sagas, and from the single extrasolar world that possessed its own biosphere. One avenue was dedicated to the repair and refurbishment of gardens and other enclosed biomes. Two more were crowded with life-extension parlours and chop shops advertising every kind of tweak and augmentation, many related to exotic forms of sexual intercourse.

  Because he couldn’t call up a map or a helpful eidolon, Hari had to ask a passer-by to direct him to the city’s bourse. It was in the ground level of the big rotunda at the hub of the starburst of avenues, beneath the apex of the city’s dome. Inside, individuals and gossipy little groups of baseliners, avatars and eidolons studying empty air (no doubt packed with picts, sims and windows that Hari’s bios was unable to detect) were scattered across the bare, white, circular floor. As he looked around, a pale-skinned man drifted over and said, ‘I know you. The kid who crashed on Vesta, with dacoits in hot pursuit. More fun than I ever expect to see in my humble life. I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Daza. One of the proctors. I know, I look far too young to be a proctor. That’s because I am young. But I’m also a proctor. The son, grandson, and great-grandson of proctors. Whether you’re here to buy or sell, I can help.’

  ‘My ship has credit on deposit with the bourse at Tannhauser Gate,’ Hari said. ‘I need to access it.’

  Gabriel Daza studied him. His sharp, clever face was framed by the high collar of his white, silver-trimmed tunic. ‘You aren’t connected to the commons,’ he said.

  ‘I need to fix that. But first I need to be able to draw on my ship’s credit.’

  ‘You have a tag, an embedded licence, some othe
r form of a guarantee?’

  ‘A card,’ Hari said, and took it out.

  It was a small rectangle of plastic that displayed a pict of Pabuji’s Gift slowly rotating against the star smoke of the Milky Way.

  ‘Fabulously old-fashioned, but I can make it work,’ Gabriel Daza said. ‘You understand the terms?’

  ‘Perhaps you could explain them.’

  ‘Of course. You lack connectivity. You are purchasing a limited credit line, drawing on a reciprocal arrangement between Fei Shen and Tannhauser Gate. The fees for the arrangement and the exchange rate are fixed; so is the amount available. Penalties apply if your guarantee misrepresents the amount of credit deposited, if there is a legal challenge to the transaction by a third party, and so on and so forth. Do you want to hear the penalties? There are an awful lot of them.’

  ‘My ship’s credit is good.’

  ‘No one ever wants to read the fine print,’ Gabriel Daza said. ‘Let’s confirm your identity.’

  A drone dropped from the high ceiling and verified the card’s qubit watermark and confirmed that Hari’s DNA profile matched the profile embedded in its memory; Gabriel Daza opened a window so that Hari could check the credit available to him, and the services he could buy. It seemed to be a useful amount, but the young proctor explained that the city had suffered a recent bout of what he called stagflation. The credit line, with its alluring rows of zeroes, would purchase no more than two hundred hours’ residency.

  ‘That’s at ordinary rates, of course,’ the young proctor said. ‘You’re paying the refugee surcharge, so you have less than fifty hours. After that, unless you find a way of earning your keep, the city owns you.’

  Hari did his best to hide his dismay. ‘Does the surcharge apply to everything I buy?’

  ‘Only to consumables. Per diem quanta of air, power, water, use of the commons . . . Speaking of which, I recommend the Almond Pit, on the Avenue of the Elevation of the Mind. Tell Rong Che that Gabriel sent you. She’ll give you a good price for a trait that will let you access basic functions.’