Felka was quiet for several long moments, the silence interrupted only by the rasp of her file against wood. ‘I could answer some of your questions here and now, Clavain. You know that. You also know that I won’t ever reveal what I learned in the Closed Council, just as you wouldn’t if you were in my position.’
He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’
‘But even if I wanted to tell you, I don’t think I know everything. Not any more. There are layers within layers. I was never privy to Inner Sanctum secrets, and I haven’t been allowed near Closed Council data for years.’ Felka tapped the file against her temple. ‘Some of the Closed Council members even want me to have my memories permanently scrubbed, so that I’ll forget what I learned during my active Council years. The only thing that’s stopping them is my odd brain anatomy. They can’t swear they wouldn’t scrub the wrong memories.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
She nodded. ‘But there is a solution, Clavain. A pretty simple one, when you think about it.’
‘Which is?’
‘You could always join the Closed Council.’
Clavain sighed, grasping for an objection and knowing that even if he found one it would be unlikely to satisfy Felka. ‘I’ll have some more of that tea, if you don’t mind.’
Skade strode through the curving grey corridors of the Mother Nest, her crest flaming with the scarlet of intense concentration and anger. She was on her way to the privy chamber, where she had arranged to meet Remontoire and a quorum of corporeal Closed Council members.
Her mind was running near its maximum processing rate. She was contemplating how she would handle what was sure to be a delicate meeting, perhaps the most crucial in her campaign to recruit Clavain to her side. Most of the Closed Council were putty in her hands, but there were a few that worried her, a few that would need more than the usual amount of convincing.
Skade was also reviewing the digested final performance data from the secret systems inside Nightshade, which were feeding into her skull via the compad now resting across her abdomen like a piece of armour. The numbers were encouraging; there was nothing, other than the problem of keeping the breakthrough secret, to prevent a more extensive test of the machinery. She had already informed the Master of Works of the good news, so that the final technical refinements could be incorporated into the exodus fleet.
Although she had assigned a large fraction of herself to these issues, Skade was also replaying and processing a recording, a transmission that had recently arrived from the Ferrisville Convention.
It was not good.
The spokesperson hovered ahead of Skade, his back to the direction of her travel, his feet sliding ineffectually above the flooring. Skade was replaying the transmission at ten times normal speed, lending the man’s gestures a manic quality.
‘This is a formal request to any representative of the Conjoined faction,’ said the Convention spokesman. ‘It is known to the Ferrisville Convention that a Conjoiner vessel was involved in the interception and boarding of a Demarchist ship in the neighbourhood of the Contested Volume around gas-giant…’
Skade fast-forwarded. She had already played the message eighteen times, searching for nuance or deception. She knew that what followed was a supremely tedious list of legal strictures and Convention statutes, all of which she had checked and found to be watertight.
‘… Unknown to the Conjoined faction, Maruska Chung, the shipmaster of the Demarchist vessel, had already made formal contact with officers of the Ferrisville Convention regarding the transfer into our custody of a prisoner. The prisoner in question had been detained aboard the Demarchist vessel after his arrest on a military asteroid under Demarchist jurisdiction, in accordance with…’
More boiler-plate. Fast-forward again.
‘… prisoner in question, a hyperpig known to the Ferrisville Convention as “Scorpio”, is already sought for the following crimes in contravention of emergency powers general statute number…‘
She allowed the message to cycle over again, but detected nothing that had not already been clear. The bureaucratic gnome of the Convention seemed too obsessed with the minutiae of treaties and sub-clauses to be capable of real deception. He was almost certainly telling the truth about the pig.
Scorpio was a criminal known to the authorities, a vicious murderer with a predilection for killing humans. Chung had told the Convention that she was bringing him back into their care, presumably tight-beaming ahead before Nightshade had been close enough to snoop on her transmissions.
And Clavain, damn him again, had not done what he should have done, which was wipe the Demarchists out of existence the first chance he got. The Convention would have grumbled at that, but he would have been entirely within his rights. He could not have been expected to know about the shipmaster’s prisoner of war, and he was not obliged to ask questions before opening fire. Instead, he had rescued the pig.
‘… request the immediate return of the prisoner into our custody, unharmed and uncontaminated by Conjoiner neural-infiltration systems, within twenty-six standard days. Failure to comply with this request…’ The Convention spokesman paused, wringing his hands in miserly anticipation. ‘… Failure to comply would be greatly to the detriment of relations between the Conjoined faction and the Convention, as I need hardly stress.’
Skade understood perfectly. It was not that the prisoner was of any tangible value to the Convention. But as a coup — as a trophy — the prisoner’s value was incalculable. Law and order were already in a state of extreme collapse in Convention airspace, and the pigs were a powerful, and not always lawful, group in their own right. It had been bad enough when Skade had gone to Chasm City herself on covert Council business and had almost ended up dead. Matters had certainly not improved since. The pig’s recapture and execution would send a powerful signal to other miscreants, especially the more criminally inclined pig factions. Had Skade been in the spokesman’s position, she would have made much the same demand.
But that didn’t make the pig any less of a problem. On the face of it, knowing what Skade knew, there was no need to comply. It would not be long now before the Convention was of no consequence at all. The Master of Works had assured her that the exodus fleet would be ready in seventy days, and she had no reason to doubt the accuracy of the Master’s estimate.
Seventy days.
In eighty or ninety it would be done. In barely three months nothing else would matter. But there was the problem. The fleet’s existence, and the reason for its existence, had to remain a matter of total secrecy. The impression had to be given that the Conjoiners were pressing ahead towards the military victory that every neutral observer expected. Anything else would invite suspicion both from within and without the Mother Nest. And if the Demarchists discovered the truth, there was a chance — a slim one, but not something she could dismiss — that they might rally, using the information to gain allies that had previously remained neutral. Right now they were a spent force, but if they combined with the Ultras, they might present a real obstacle to Skade’s ultimate objective.
No. The charade of coming victory demanded a degree of obeisance to the Convention. Skade would have to find a way of returning the pig, and it would have to happen before suspicion was roused.
Her fury reached a crescendo. She made the spokesman freeze ahead of her. His body blackened to a silhouette. She strode through him, scattering him like a flock of startled ravens.
Chapter 6
THE INQUISITOR’S PRIVATE aircraft could have made extremely short shrift of the journey to Solnhofen, but she decided to make the final leg of the trip by surface transport, having the plane drop her off at the nearest reasonably sized community to her destination.
The place was called Audubon, a sprawl of depots, shacks and domes pierced by slev rails, cargo pipelines and highways. From the perimeter, the fine-filigreed fingers of dirigible docking masts poked into the slate-grey northern sky. But there we
re no airships moored today and no sign that any had come in lately.
The plane had dropped her off on a patch of concreted ground between two depots. The concrete was scabbed and rutted. She walked across it swiftly, her booted feet scuffing the bristlelike tufts of Resurgam-tolerant grass that ripped through the concrete here and there. With some trepidation she watched the plane arc back towards Cuvier, ready to serve some other government official until she requested that it take her back home.
‘Get in, get out fast,’ she muttered under her breath.
She had been observed by workers going about their business, but this far from Cuvier the activities of the Inquisition were not the subject of intense speculation. Most people would correctly assume she was from the government, even though she wore plain clothes, but they would not immediately guess that she was on the trail of a war criminal. She could equally well be a police officer, or she might be an inspector from one of the government’s many bureaucratic arms, come to check that funds were not being misappropriated. Had she arrived with armed assistance — a servitor or a squad of guards — her appearance would definitely have attracted more comment. As it was most people did their best not to meet her eye, and she was able to make her way to the roadhouse without incident.
She wore dark, unostentatious clothes covered by a long coat of the kind people used to wear when the razorstorms were more common, with a fold-down pouch beneath the chin for a breather mask. Black gloves completed the outfit, and she carried a few personal items in a small knapsack. Her hair was a glossy black bowl-cut which she occasionally had to flick out of her eyes. It effectively concealed a radio transmitter with throat-mike and earpiece, which she would only use to retrieve the aircraft. She carried a small Ultra-manufactured boser-pistol, aided by a targeting contact lens covering one eye. But the gun was there for her sanity only. She did not anticipate using it.
The roadhouse was a two-storey structure slung across the main route to Solnhofen. Big balloon-wheeled freight transports rumbled up and down the road at irregular intervals, with ribbed cargo containers tucked beneath their elevated spines like overripe fruit. The drivers sat inside pressurised pods mounted near the fronts of the machines, each pod articulated on a double-hinged arm so that it could be lowered to ground level or raised higher for boarding from one of the roadhouse’s overhead access gates. Typically, three or four transports trundled in robot-mode behind a crewed rig. No one trusted the machines to make the journey totally unsupervised.
The roadhouse’s faded decor had a permanent greasy ambience that made the Inquisitor anxious to keep her gloves on. She approached a huddle of drivers sitting around a table, bitching about their working conditions. Snacks and coffee lay on the table in various states of consumption. A poorly printed newspaper contained the latest artist’s impression of the terrorist Thorn, alongside a catalogue of his most recent crimes against the people. A ring-shaped coffee stain surrounded Thorn’s head, like a halo.
She stood by the drivers for what felt like several minutes until one of them deigned to look at her and nod.
‘My name is Vuilleumier,’ she said. I need a lift to Solnhofen.‘
‘Vuilleumier?’ said one of the drivers. ‘As in… ?’
‘Draw your own conclusions. It’s not that unusual a name on Resurgam.’
The driver coughed. ‘Solnhofen,’ he said dubiously, as if it was a place he had barely heard of.
‘Yes, Solnhofen. It’s a small settlement up that road. In fact it’s the first one you’re going to hit if you head in that direction for more than about five minutes. Who knows, you may even have passed through it once or twice.’
‘Solnhofen’s a bit off my route, love.’
‘Is it? That’s funny. I was under the impression that the route, as you put it, pretty much consisted of a straight line right through Solnhofen. Difficult to imagine how anything could be “off” it, unless we’ve abandoned the idea of being on a road at all.’ She fished out some money and was about to lay it on the food-strewn table when she thought better of it. Instead she just waved it in front of the drivers, the notes crisp in her leather-gloved hand. ‘Here’s the deal: half of this now to any driver who can promise me a trip to Solnhofen; a quarter more if we leave within the next thirty minutes; the remainder if we arrive in Solnhofen before sun-up.’
‘I could take you,’ one the drivers said. ‘But it’s difficult at this time of year. I think I’d…’
‘The offer’s non-negotiable.’ She had made a decision not to try to ingratiate herself with them. She had known before she took a step into the roadhouse that none of them would like her. They could smell government a mile off and none of them, financial incentives aside, really wanted to share a cabin with her all the way to Solnhofen. Frankly, she could not blame them for that. Government officials of any stripe made the average person’s skin crawl.
If she had not been the Inquisitor she would have been terrified of herself.
The money worked wonders, however, and within twenty minutes she was sitting in the elevated cab of a cargo hauler, watching the lights of Audubon fall back into the dusk. The rig was only carrying one container, and the combination of light lading and the cushioning effect of the house-sized road wheels leant the motion a soporific yawing. The cabin was well heated and silent, and the driver preferred to play music rather than engage her in pointless conversation. For the first few minutes she had watched as he drove, observing the way the rig needed only occasional human intervention to stay locked on the road. Doubtless it could have managed with none at all, were it not for local union laws. Very rarely another rig or string of rigs whipped past in the night, but for the most part the journey felt like a trek into endless uninhabited darkness.
On her lap was the newspaper containing the story about Thorn, and she read the article several times as she grew more fatigued, her eyes stumbling over the same leaden paragraphs. The article portrayed Thorn’s movement as a gang of violent terrorists obsessed with bringing down the government for no other reason than to plunge the colony into anarchy. It made only passing mention of the fact that Thorn’s avowed aim was to find a way to evacuate Resurgam, using the Triumvir’s ship. But the Inquisitor had read enough of Thorn’s statements to know his position on the matter. Ever since the days of Sylveste, successive governments had downplayed any suggestions that the colony might be unsafe, liable to suffer the same extinction event that had wiped out the Amarantin nearly a million years earlier. Over time, and especially in the dark, desperate years that had followed the collapse of the Girardieau regime, the idea of the colony being destroyed in some sudden cataclysmic episode had been quietly erased from public debate. Even mentioning the Amarantin, let alone what had happened to them, was the sort of thing that got one branded a troublemaker. Yet Thorn was right. The threat might not be imminent, but it had certainly not gone away.
It was true that he struck against government targets, but usually the strikes were surgical and considered, with the minimum of civilian casualties. Sometimes they were intended to publicise his movement, but more often than not their function was the theft of government property or funds. Bringing the administration down was a necessary part of Thorn’s plan, but not the primary goal.
Thorn believed that the Triumvir’s ship was still in the system; he also believed that the government knew where it was and how to reach it. His movement claimed that the government had two functioning shuttles with the capability to make repeated flights between Resurgam and Nostalgia for Infinity.
Thorn’s plan, therefore, was simple enough. He would first locate the shuttles, something he claimed he was close to doing. Then he would bring down the government, or at least enough of it to enable the shuttles to be seized. Then it would be up to the people to make their way to the agreed exodus point, where the shuttles would make round trips between surface and orbit. The last part would presumably involve the complete overthrow of the existing regime, but Thorn repeatedly stated that he w
ished his goal to be achieved as bloodlessly as possible.
Very little of that desire came through in the government-sanctioned article. Thorn’s goal was glossed over, the idea of a threat to Resurgam made to seem faintly ludicrous. Thorn was portrayed as deranged and egotistical, while the numbers of civilian deaths associated with his activities were greatly exaggerated.
The Inquisitor studied the portrait. She had never met Thorn, though she knew a great deal about him. The picture bore only a very vague likeness to the real man, but Internal Threats had accepted its plausibility all the same. She was pleased with that.
‘I wouldn’t waste your time with that rubbish,’ the driver said, when she had just nodded off properly. The sod’s dead.‘
She blinked awake. ‘What?’
‘Thorn.’ He poked a thick finger into the paper spread across her lap. ‘The one in the picture.’
She wondered if the driver had deliberately kept silent until she was asleep, whether this was a little game he played with his passengers to amuse himself through the journey. ‘I don’t know that Thorn’s dead,’ she answered. ‘I mean, I haven’t read anything in the papers or heard anything on the news that says so…’
‘The government shot him. He didn’t call himself Thorn for nothing, you know.’
‘How could they have shot him if they don’t even know where he is?’
‘They do, though. That’s the point. They just don’t want us to know that he’s dead yet.’
“They”?‘
The government, love. Keep up.‘
He was toying with her, she suspected. He might have guessed that she was from the government, but he might also have guessed that she had no time to report minor instances of wayward thought.
‘So if they’ve shot him,’ she said, ‘why don’t they announce the fact? Thousands of people think Thorn’s going to lead them into the Promised Land.’
‘Yes, but the only thing worse than a martyr is a dead martyr. There’d be a lot more trouble if word got around that he was really dead.’
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