Terminal World

by Alastair Reynolds

  When the others had filtered indoors, Quillon remained outside to smoke a cigarette. Already there were signs of Swarm mobilising. The banners had been retracted and engines were being pushed harder, in readiness for the long flight to Spearpoint. Rather than leave behind a protecting force to guard what were fairly limited fuel stocks, and to prevent those stocks from falling into enemy hands, the depot was to be destroyed. Guns were being trained on the towers: it was useful target practice. Incendiary bombs were being dropped on the storage tanks. Swarm would not be passing this way again.

  A door opened behind him. He felt the warmth on the back of his neck and steeled in readiness for another meeting with Commander Spatha. Perhaps he had come to collect the blue book, expecting Quillon to have done his bidding by now. But when he glanced to his side it was Meroka who had joined him. She was wearing one of the Swarmers’ high-altitude coats, almost lost in it with only the top half of her head protruding above the fur-lined collar.

  ‘Heard we’re moving on, Cutter.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Also heard you had something to do with this.’

  He answered carefully. ‘I ... stated my position. I don’t doubt that they’d have come to the same conclusion sooner or later. Doctor Gambeson was already of the same mind as me, and I don’t think Curtana needed much persuading.’

  ‘And you know what’s waiting for you in Spearpoint?’

  ‘Nothing good.’

  ‘What I figured as well.’ She was silent for a while, her attention seemingly caught by one of the fires burning below. Towers of black smoke, folded into brainlike convolutions, rose from the flames. ‘I still have problems with what you are, Cutter,’ she added.

  ‘Entirely understandable.’

  ‘But I’ll say one thing. You pushing for this ... knowing what your fate is likely to be ... that takes some balls.’

  ‘Then I infer you approve of the decision?’

  ‘Whole-fucking-heartedly.’

  Quillon sniffed. ‘I’m glad. And I’m sure you’d have exerted just as much persuasion, if you’d been in my position. I just hope it’s worth it, that’s all. The medicine’s only a stopgap, really. Better than nothing, but it won’t solve the city’s problems for ever.’

  ‘That’s where you’re hoping Nimcha will come in.’

  ‘Hope’s probably too strong a word. But what else have we got, if she can’t put things right?’

  ‘How much do the others know?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, most of the fleet doesn’t even know she exists. Ricasso knows she’s a tectomancer, or at least looks like one - but you knew that already. I’ve said nothing about how she needs to return to Spearpoint, and I don’t plan on doing so.’

  ‘They’d doubt your motives.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You think you can keep this a secret indefinitely?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s interest in her from an undesirable direction. I’ve been put in something of a bind.’ He smiled quickly. ‘I’m more or less on top of things, though.’

  ‘You could tell me, Cutter.’

  ‘It’s my problem for now. I think it might be best to leave it like that for the time being.’

  She gave a noncommittal shrug that was only barely visible through the thick cladding of her coat. ‘Your call.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One other thing, Cutter. The Testament they took off me?’

  He looked at her with what he hoped was only mild interest. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Curtana tells me you were the one who talked her into giving it back.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Just wanted to tell you it was appreciated. That’s all. Doesn’t mean we’re square, exactly. I don’t know if we’ll ever be square, you lying to me and all, and the angels doing what they did. But ... it’s a step.’ She paused. ‘That book ... it means more to me than just a place to hide a knife, all right?’

  ‘I never imagined otherwise.’

  ‘You did good, Cutter. Pains me to say it, but that’s the way it is. Now excuse me while I go inside, before I freeze my tits off.’

  In the end there was no need to arrange a meeting with Commander Spatha. When Quillon woke the next day his medical bag appeared undisturbed, exactly as he had left it. But when he opened it the blue book was gone. In its place was another paper angel, this time with a head.

  He presumed that to mean he had done well. He also presumed it to mean that Spatha had not finished with him.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Swarm had been moving south for two days when Quillon was summoned urgently to the infirmary. The call had come from one of Gambeson’s assistants, rather than the physician himself. Quillon could only presume that the doctor needed his help with some operation or procedure in which he was already engaged. Yet when he arrived, he found that the patient he was required to attend was Gambeson himself. He had collapsed during his work, slumping over one of the wounded airmen as the strain of recent days and weeks finally caught up with him.

  ‘He hasn’t slept in over a day,’ Quillon was told, the assistant’s shifty, defensive manner suggesting that he imagined Quillon might hold him personally accountable for the doctor’s condition. ‘What with the injured, and the extra work he’s been doing for the fat man. We tried to talk him into getting some rest, but he wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Was Curtana aware of his condition?’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ came a low voice from behind him. ‘Perfectly aware. I also trusted that Gambeson was the man best suited to evaluating his own fitness for duty. He assured me he was strong enough to complete the mission, and - as we have seen - he was absolutely correct in that assessment. I took him at his word, Doctor.’

  ‘That appears to have been a mistake.’

  ‘I had no other option. I couldn’t very well afford to turn away the services of a man like Gambeson. Had I done so, we probably wouldn’t have been able to complete our mission after the storm and our casualty list would have been far worse.’

  ‘You could have asked for a second opinion.’

  ‘I could, and the outcome would have been that Gambeson remained here while we left Swarm on our scouting mission. But do you think for one second that he’d have worked any less diligently? He had medical responsibilities in Purple Emperor no less burdensome than his duties aboard my ship. He’d already made a point of helping Ricasso with his work on the vorg serum production.’

  Quillon had had enough insight into Gambeson’s working methods to know that Curtana was right. He nodded, softening his tone. ‘You’re correct, of course. Short of tying him down to a bed—’

  ‘How is he now?’ Curtana asked the assistant.

  ‘In and out of consciousness,’ the man said. ‘But he’s very frail and needs absolute rest.’

  ‘We won’t tax him,’ Quillon said.

  Gambeson had been placed in a bed of his own, in a screened-off corner of the infirmary. He was awake, but barely. He hardly had the energy to move his head as his visitors pushed through the screen. His lips moved and made a sound that was almost inaudible above the engine drone. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

  ‘Doctor Quillon. Curtana.’

  ‘We came as soon as we heard,’ Curtana said. She knelt and touched a hand to the form of his arm under the sheets. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. You gave everything to Swarm. I should have ordered you to take things more easily.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Gambeson said, each word taking an eternity. ‘I would have ... ignored you anyway.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘At least you’re in good hands now,’ Quillon said.

  ‘What have they got me on?’ Gambeson took a laboured breath, his eyelids closing momentarily. ‘They wouldn’t tell me, and I’m the God-damned physician around here.’

  Quillon had asked the same question of Gambeson’s assistant. ‘Agulax- 12 as a blood-thinning agent. Chronox-6 to normali
se your heart rhythm.’

  ‘Do you concur?’

  ‘It’s exactly what I’d have given you. With rest, there’s every chance you’ll make a good recovery.’

  ‘Good, but not complete. You choose your words carefully, Doctor.’

  ‘You’ll have to take things more easily from now on,’ Curtana said. ‘If that means a reduction in your duties ... even partial retirement ... then that’s something you’ll need to face.’

  ‘How is Merai doing?’ Something in him seemed to rally at the stirring of professional interest. ‘I want that stump dressing changed every three hours. No matter how much she complains.’

  ‘Merai’s doing fine,’ Quillon said. ‘But she isn’t your concern any more. Nor are any of the other patients, or the serum tests.’

  ‘The doctor’s right,’ Curtana said sternly. ‘Rest means rest. No checking on your assistants to make sure they’re doing the job you’ve already trained them for. If I can’t trust you to take your own rest seriously, I’ll move you to one of the sealed rooms.’

  ‘No need to do that, Curtana.’ He gave an exhausted smile. ‘I like the hustle and bustle. I promise I won’t interfere. I won’t need to, anyway. My staff are more than competent. And in matters of medical judgement ...’ he paused to gather his breath, ‘you can always turn to Quillon.’

  ‘I’ll always be ready to provide any assistance I can,’ Quillon said.

  Curtana nodded. ‘Good. Not that I’m anticipating anything, of course.’ She paused and returned her attention to Gambeson. ‘I want you back on your feet, Doctor. But as my friend, not my physician. If you never hold another scalpel in your life, Swarm will still owe you a debt it can’t ever repay. But I’d miss our conversations even more than your skills.’

  Down in Ricasso’s laboratory, the vorgs stirred from whatever state of animation passed as rest for them. They had heard the door being unlocked, they had responded to the coming of light as Ricasso and Quillon entered the windowless vault. With what limbs remained to them they shifted their postures, their head-assemblies tracking the visitors, lenses clicking and whirring. They made metallic scraping sounds, as of junk shifting in a scrapyard pile. One of them said, ‘Vorg/need/brain. Give/vorg/brain. Make/vorg/happy. Happy/vorg/ make/good/drug.’

  ‘The first thing I always do is check the secretion lines are still embedded and delivering,’ Ricasso said. ‘But you need to be careful. Don’t get any closer to the cages than you have to, and hold this at all times.’ He had pulled a red-handled axe from a wall mounting. ‘You’ll always carry a revolver - I’ll have one signed out for you. And you’ll always have this in one hand. It’s in case one of them grabs you and tries to pull you into the cage.’

  Quillon looked doubtfully at the axe. ‘It’ll cut through vorg metal?’ ‘No, but it’ll cleave bone well enough. And don’t think they won’t try it. They’re always on the lookout for muscular tissue, internal organs, neural material. They’ll rip it away from you if they get half a chance, and they’re strong enough to drag you between those bars.’

  ‘The bars aren’t wide enough.’

  ‘You’d think that, until you’ve seen what a vorg can do, when it sets its mind on it. If one of those things does get hold of you, you’ll be better off losing a hand or an arm than your life.’ Ricasso said this with a kind of cheery fatalism, as if he had personal experience.

  ‘I’ll remember the revolver and the axe,’ Quillon replied. ‘What else?’

  ‘If you find anything amiss, don’t try to fix it yourself. Alert me, and I’ll come down and look at it. I’m serious about this, Doctor. I’ve had some experience handling these things, and they still manage to frighten the living excrement out of me about three times a month. Your job is not to put right anything that’s wrong. You’ll have enough work to do just analysing the serum samples.’

  The bench where Quillon would be doing the majority of his testing and preparation was safely distant from the vorgs. They’d still be in the same room, but he wouldn’t need to keep an eye on them all the time. They’d just be a brooding, watchful presence.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t just chop all their limbs off,’ he said.

  ‘I tried, but they don’t secrete as efficiently. Something to do with cumulative body mass. Or spite, if vorgs are capable of spite.’ Ricasso gave him a hearty pat. ‘But please don’t be unduly alarmed, Doctor. I merely emphasise these things so that there’s absolutely no doubt in your mind how dangerous they are. Provided you don’t linger near the cages, you’ll have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Aside from that, do I have free rein to test and refine the Serum-15 samples as I wish?’

  ‘Do what you must: I trust your expertise in this matter. You’ll find most of the reagents and preparations you’re already familiar with, albeit at different concentrations than you might expect. Some of the names may be different, but I’ve written down the common variations next to Gambeson’s notes. I hope that’ll be enough to get you started. Remember we almost certainly can’t synthesise more of the basic Serum-15 run, so preserve as much as you can for medical purposes.’

  ‘I will. Are you sure about me taking over Gambeson’s work down here?’

  ‘Gambeson’s in no fit state to carry on with it, and he only took it on when I was too busy to do it myself. That’s still the case, especially with the navigational uncertainties ahead of us.’ Ricasso paused at the side of a green upright cabinet with a series of dials in its upper face. He adjusted a lever and the apparatus responded with a soft click and whirr.

  Quillon thought of all the work that had gone on down here, the long, unrewarded hours of patient experimentation. All the dulling setbacks and brief, heart-lifting promises of breakthrough - most of which must have turned out to be mirages. He could smell the toil in the air, ingrained in the furniture, the walls. If every citizen in Swarm could have been marched through this room, made to experience that same sense of disciplined, dutiful endeavour, there wouldn’t have been one of them who didn’t believe that Ricasso had Swarm’s best interests at heart.

  ‘It’s still a gesture of trust,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t take it lightly.’

  ‘We need that Serum-15, Doctor, and you’re the man for the job. Frankly I don’t have the luxury of not trusting you.’

  Quillon smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve been in that position a few times myself. It’s almost getting to be a habit.’

  ‘Then you know how it feels.’ Having inspected the cages, Ricasso sauntered back to the wall and hung up his axe. The green cabinet clicked and whirred again. ‘All right, I admit that I had my doubts about you. Lingering ones. You lied to us, and I wasn’t sure we’d stripped back all the layers. But when you came to me about Spatha’s threat, you silenced my qualms.’

  ‘Nothing’s come of that business with the book yet. It makes me wonder what Spatha’s really after.’

  ‘Biding his time, that’s all. The snake still has venom. We’d both of us best be on our guard, I think. The strike will come. It’s just a question of when and where.’ Ricasso clapped his hands. ‘But for now, we both have business to attend to. Can I leave you to get on with things? I’ll make sure you have a revolver next time, but there’s no need to check the secretion lines now that I’ve done it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Quillon said.

  But as the door locked behind Ricasso - he never left the room without securing it - Quillon felt the vorgs studying him, tracking his movements with the watchful patience of cats.

  Swarm travelled slowly, conserving fuel, edging cautiously along the western margin of the Bane. Skirting the uninhabitable zone offered the quickest path to Spearpoint, but there was no escaping the mood of nervous apprehension amongst the airmen. Though the boundary remained over the horizon, they dreaded it the way ancient mariners must have feared some ocean region fabled to host whirlpools, sirens and sea monsters. Instruments were checked with extra diligence, in case the margin of the Bane had shifted. Engines were att
ended to with loving care, for propulsion was the only thing holding Swarm against the whim of the winds, and the winds had no compunctions about blowing into the Bane.

  Quillon kept his head down. It was easy to stay busy the whole day, and had he not needed sleep, he could have occupied himself through the night watches as well. He helped out with the sick and injured aboard Purple Emperor, taking on more responsibility now that Gambeson was bedridden. He worked for hours at a stretch in Ricasso’s laboratory, as often as not alone, although Ricasso would drop by when he was able, scrutinising Quillon’s notes, double-checking the concentrations and reagents involved in the testing and refinement of the Serum-15. Quillon now had his own key, another token of Ricasso’s trust. It sat heavy in his bag and travelled with him at all times.

  When he wasn’t in the laboratory or the sickbay, he busied himself reading. He had spent a little time in Gambeson’s private library before, going in to retrieve some reference text or other, but now he felt justified in spending hours in there. The collection - much too bulky to be taken aboard Painted Lady - was a palace of leather-bound enchantments. Apart from containing the compendious shipboard notes of every surgeon who had ever served on Curtana’s vessel, it held numerous texts and treatises on illness, deformity and the healing arts. Many of these books and scrolls were not even written in an extant or translatable language, but their illustrations were still of lingering academic interest. One ancient volume, which almost fell apart upon examination, contained holographic plates of startling beauty. As Quillon gently touched the pages, a succession of neural slices flickered past, captioned with a slanting cursive text. The book was one of those rare and precious artefacts that appeared largely immune to zone changes, suggesting that its underlying technology was organic rather than mechanical. He felt the weight of centuries in its dust, and when he turned to the frontispiece the date printed there - in recognisable, though slightly odd, numerals - was a thousand years ahead of the present. The book had not fallen from the future, Quillon knew. It had survived from an era that used another calendar entirely, before the clock was reset to zero.