The elevator arrived at its destination. The door opened and the last dregs of fluid spilled out. She tapped her shoes dry, feeling the unpleasant wetness of her trouser hems against the skin of her calves. She was really not dressed for a meeting with the Captain. What would he think?
She looked out and had to suppress an involuntary gasp of surprise and delight. For all that she knew every moment was precious, it was impossible not to be moved by the view she was seeing. Deep in the ship as she was, she had been expecting another typically gloomy, damp enclosure. She had been assuming that the Captain would manifest via the manipulation of local junk or one of the distorting wall surfaces. Or something else, but qualitatively similar.
But the Captain had brought her somewhere else entirely. It was a huge chamber, a place that at first glance appeared not to have any limits at all. There was an endless sky above her, shaded a rich, heraldic blue. In all directions she saw only stepped tiers of trees reaching away into blue-green infinity. There was a lovely fragrant breeze and a cackle of animal life from the high branches of the nearest trees. Below her, accessed by a meandering rustic wooden staircase, was a marvellous little glade. There was a pool off to one side being fed by a hissing waterfall. The water in the pool, except where it was stirred into creamy whiteness under the waterfall, was the exquisite black of space. Rather than suggesting taintedness, the blackness of the water made it look wonderfully cool and inviting. A little way in from the water’s edge, resting on the perfectly tended lawn, was a wooden table. On either side of the table, forming benches, were long logs.
She had taken an involuntary step from the elevator. Behind her, the door closed. Antoinette saw no alternative but to make her way down the ambling stairs to the floor of the glade, where the grass shimmered with all the shades of green and yellow she had ever imagined.
She had heard about this place. Clavain had spoken about it once, she recalled. A glade within the Nostalgia for Infinity. Once, its location had been well mapped, but after the great ship had been emptied in the days following its landing on Ararat, no one had ever been able to find the glade again. Parties had scoured the areas of the ship where it was supposed to be, but they had found nothing.
The glade was enormous. It was astonishing that you could lose a place this large, but the Nostalgia for Infinity was vast. And if the ship itself didn’t want something to be found… well, the Captain certainly had the means to hide whatever he wanted. Access corridors and elevator lines could be rerouted. The entire place—the entire chamber, glade and all—could even have been moved around in the ship, the way one heard about old bullets“ making slow, meandering journeys through people, years after they had been shot.
Antoinette didn’t think she would ever find out exactly where this was. The Captain had brought her here on his own strict terms, and maybe she would never be allowed to see it again.
“Antoinette.” The voice was a hiss, a modulation of the waterfall’s sibilance.
“Yes?”
“You’ve forgotten something again, haven’t you?”
Did he mean the torch? No, of course not. She smiled. Despite herself, she hadn’t been quite as forgetful as she had feared.
She slipped on the goggles. Through them she saw the same glade. The colours, if anything, were even brighter. Birds were in the air, moving daubs of red and yellow against the blue backdrop of the sky. Birds! It was great to see birds again, even if she knew they were being manufactured by the goggles.
Antoinette looked around and realised with a jolt that she had company. There were people sitting at the table, on the logs placed either side of it.
Strange people. Really strange people.
“Come on over,” one of them said, inviting her to take the one vacant place. The man beckoning her was John Brannigan; she was certain of that immediately. But yet again he was manifesting in a slightly different form.
She thought back to the first two apparitions. Both had evoked Mars, she thought. In the first, he had been wearing a spacesuit so elderly that she had half-expected it to have an opening where you fed in coal. The second time the suit had been slightly more up to date: not modern, by any stretch of the imagination, but at least a generation beyond the first. John Brannigan had looked older then as well—by a good decade or two, she had judged. And now she was looking at an even older counterpart of him, wearing a suit that again skipped fashions forwards another half-century or so.
It was barely a suit at all, really, more a kind of cocoon of something resembling silver-grey insect spit that had been neatly lathered around him. Through the transparent material of the suit she glimpsed a vague tightly packed complexity of organic-looking mechanisms: kidney-shaped bulges and purple lunglike masses; things that pulsed and throbbed. She saw lurid-green fluids scurrying through miles of zigzagging intestinal piping. Beneath all this the Captain was naked, the vile mechanics of catheters and waste-management systems laid out for her inspection. The Captain appeared oblivious. She was looking at a man from a very remote century; one that—on balance—seemed more distant and strange than the earlier periods she had glimpsed in the first two apparitions.
The suit left his head uncovered. He looked older now. His skin appeared to have been sucked on to his skull by some vacuum-forming process, so that it hugged every crevice. She could map the veins beneath his skin with surgical precision. He looked delicate, like something she could crush in her hands.
She sat down, taking the place she had been offered. The other people around the table were all wearing the same kind of suit, with only minor variations in detail. But they were not all alike. Some of them were missing whole chunks of themselves. They had cavities in their bodies which the suits had invaded, cramming them with the same intricacy of organic machinery and bright-green tubing that she could see inside the Captain’s suit. One woman was missing an arm. In its place, under the spit-layer of the suit, was a glass moulding of an arm filled with a tentative structure of bone and meat and nerve fibre. Another one, a man this time, had a glass face, living tissue pressed against its inner surface. Another looked more or less normal at first glance, except that the body had two heads: a woman’s emerging at more or less the right place and a second one—a young man’s—attached above her right shoulder.
“Don’t mind them,” the Captain said.
Antoinette realised she must have been staring. “I wasn’t…”
John Brannigan smiled. “They’re soldiers. Forward deployment elements in the Coalition for Neural Purity.”
If that had ever meant anything to Antoinette, it was history she had forgotten a long time ago. “And you?” she asked.
“I was one, for a while. While it suited my immediate needs. We were on Mars, fighting the Conjoiners, but I can’t say my heart was entirely in it.”
Antoinette leaned forwards. The table, at least, was completely real. “John, there’s something we really need to talk about.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. I’ve only just started shoot-ing the breeze with my soldier buddies.”
“All these people are dead, John. They died—oh, conservative estimate?—three or four hundred years ago. So snap out of the nostalgia trip, will you? You need to get a fucking good grip on the immediate here and now.”
He winked at her and bobbed his head towards one of the people along the table. “Do you see Kolenkow there? The one with two heads?”
“Difficult to miss,” Antoinette said, sighing.
“The one on her shoulder’s her brother. They signed up together. He took a hit, got zeroed by a spider mansweeper. Immediate decap. They’re brewing a new body for him back in Deimos. They can hook your head up to a machine in the meantime, but it’s always better if you’re plumbed into a proper body.”
“I’ll bet. Captain…”
“So Kolenkow’s carrying her brother’s head until the body’s ready. They might even go into battle like that. I’ve seen it happen. Isn’t much that scares the hell ou
t of spiders, but two-headed soldiers might do the trick, I reckon.”
“Captain. John. Listen to me. You need to focus on the present. We have a situation here on Ararat, all right? I know you know about it—we’ve talked about it already.”
“Oh, that stuff,” he said. He sounded like a child being reminded of homework on the first day of a holiday.
Antoinette thumped the table so hard that the wood bruised her fist. “I know you don’t want to deal with this, John, but we have to talk about it all the same. You cannot leave just when you feel like it. You may save a few thousand people, but many, many more are going to die in the process.”
The company changed. She was still sitting at a table surrounded by soldiers—she even recognised some of the faces—but now they all looked as if they had been through a few more years of war. Bad war, too. The Captain had a clunking prosthetic arm where there had been a good arm before. The suits were no longer made of insect spit, but were now sliding assemblages of lubricated plates. They were hyper-reflective, like scabs of frozen mercury.
“Fucking Demarchists,” the Captain said. “Let us keep all that fancy biotech shit until the moment we really needed it. We were really kicking the spiders. Then they pulled the licenses, said we were violating terms of fair use. All that neat squirmy stuff just fucking melted overnight. Bioweps, suits—gone. Now look what we’ve got to work with.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Antoinette said. “Captain, listen to me. The Pattern Jugglers are moving the ship to safety. You have to give them time.”
“They’ve had time,” he said. It was a heartening moment of lucidity, a connection to the present.
“Not enough,” she said.
The steel fist of his new arm clenched. “You don’t understand. We have to leave Ararat. There are windows opening above us.”
The back of her neck tingled. “Windows, John?”
“I sense them. I sense a lot of things. I’m a ship, for fuck’s sake.”
Suddenly they were all alone. It was just the Captain and Antoinette. In the bright lustre of his reflective armour she saw a bird traverse the sky.
“You’re a ship. Good. So stop whining and start acting like one, beginning with a sense of responsibility to your crew. That includes me. What are these windows?”
He waited a while before answering. Had she just got through to him, or sent him scurrying ever deeper into labyrinths of regression?
“Opportunities for escape,” he said eventually. “Clear channels. They keep opening, and then closing.”
“You could be mistaken. It would be really, really bad if you were mistaken.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“We’ve been waiting, hoping, for a sign,” Antoinette said. “Some message from Remontoire. But there hasn’t been one.”
“Maybe he can’t get a message through. Maybe he’s been trying, and this is the best you’re going to get.”
“Give us a few more hours,” she said. “That’s all we’re asking for. Just enough time to move the ship to a safe distance. Please, John.”
“Tell me about the girl. Tell me about Aura.”
Antoinette frowned. She remembered mentioning the girl, but she did not think she had ever told the Captain her name. “Aura’s fine,” she said, guardedly. “Why?”
“What does she have to say on the matter?”
“She thinks we should trust the Pattern Jugglers,” Antoinette said.
“And beyond that?”
“She keeps talking about a place—somewhere called Hela. Something to do with a man named Quaiche.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. It may not even mean anything. It’s not even Aura speaking to us directly—it’s all coming via her mother. I don’t think Scorpio takes it that seriously. Frankly, I’m not sure I do either. They really, really want to think that Aura is something valuable because of what she cost them. But what if she isn’t? What if she’s just a kid? What if she knows a little, but nowhere near as much as everyone wants her to?”
“What does Malinin think?”
This surprised her. “Why Malinin?”
“They talk about him. I hear them. I heard about Aura the same way. All those thousands of people inside me, all their whispers, all their secrets. They need a new leader. It could be Malinin; it could be Aura.”
“There hasn’t even been an official announcement about the existence of Aura,” Antoinette said.
“You seriously believe that makes any difference? They know, all of them. You can’t keep a secret like that, Antoinette.”
“They have a leader already,” she said.
“They want someone new and bright and a little frightening. Someone who hears voices, someone they’ll allow to lead them in a time of uncertainties. Scorpio isn’t that leader.” The Captain paused, caressed his false hand with the scarred fingers of the other. “The windows are still opening and closing. I sense a growing urgency. If Remontoire is behind this, he may not be able to offer us many more opportunities for escape. Soon, very soon, I shall have to make my move.”
She knew she had wasted her time. She had thought at first that in showing her this place he was inviting her to a new level of intimacy, but his position had not changed at all. She had stated her case, and all he had done was listen.
“I shouldn’t have bothered,” she said.
“Antoinette, listen to me now. I like you more than you realise. You have always treated me with kindness and compassion. Because of that I care for you, and I care for your survival.”
She looked into his eyes. “So what, John?”
“You can leave. There is still time. But not much.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But—if it’s all right with you—I think I’ll stay for the ride.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking around. “This is about the only decent ship in town.”
SCORPIO MOVED THROUGH the shuttle. He had turned almost all the fuselage surfaces transparent, save for a strip which marked the floor and a portion where Valensin waited with Khouri and her child. With all nonessential illumination turned down, he saw the outside world almost as if he were floating in the evening air.
With nightfall it had become obvious that the space battle was now very close to Ararat. The clouds had broken up, perhaps because of the excessive energies now being dumped into Ararat’s upper atmosphere. Reports of objects splashing down were coming in too rapidly to be processed. Gashes of fire streaked from horizon to horizon every few minutes as uniden-tified objects—spacecraft, missiles, or perhaps things for which the colonists had no name—knifed deep into Ararat’s airspace. Sometimes there were volleys of them; sometimes things moved in eerie lock-step formation. The trajectories were subject to violent, impossible-looking hairpins and reversals. It was clear that the major protagonists of the battle were deploying inertia-suppressing machinery with a recklessness that chilled Scorpio. Aura had already told them as much, through the mouthpiece of her mother. Clearly the appropriated alien technology was a little more controllable than it had been when Clavain and Skade had tested each other’s nerves with it on the long pursuit from Yellowstone to Resurgam space. But there were still people who told horror stories of the times when the technology had gone wrong. Pushed to its unstable limits, the inertia-suppressing machinery did vile things to both the flesh and the mind. If they were using it as a routine military tool—just another toy in the sandpit—then he dreaded to think what was now considered dangerous and cutting edge.
He thought about Antoinette for a moment, hoping that she was getting somewhere with the Captain. He was not greatly optimistic that she would succeed in changing the Captain’s mind once it was made up. But it still wasn’t absolutely clear whether or not he intended to take the ship up. Perhaps the revving-up of the Conjoiner drive engines was just his way of making sure they were in good working order, should they be needed at some point in the future. It
didn’t have to mean that the ship was going to leave in the next few hours.
That kind of desperate, yearning optimism was foreign to Scorpio even now, and would have been quite alien during his Chasm City years. He was a pessimist at heart. Perhaps that was why he had never been very good at forward planning, at thinking more than a few days ahead. If you tended to believe on an innate level that things were always going to go from bad to worse, what was the point of even trying to intervene? All that was left was to make the best of the immediate situation.
But here he was hoping—in spite of plenty of evidence to the contrary—that the ship was going to stay on Ararat. Something had to be wrong for him to start thinking that way. Something had to be playing on his mind. He didn’t have far to look for it, either.
Only a few hours earlier he had broken twenty-three years of self-imposed discipline. In Clavain’s presence, he had made every effort to live up to die old man’s standards. For years he had hated baseline humans for what they had done to him during his years of indentured slave service. And if that was not enough to spur his animosity, he only had to think of the thing that he was: this swaying, comedic mongrel of human and pig, this compromise that had all the flaws of both and none of the advantages of either. He knew the litany of his disadvantages. He couldn’t walk as well as a human. He couldn’t hold things the way they could. He couldn’t see or hear as well as they did. There were colours he would never know. He couldn’t think as fluidly as they did and he lacked a well-developed capacity for abstract visualisation. When he listened to music all he heard was complex sequential sounds, lacking any emotional component. His predicted lifespan, optimistically, was about two-thirds that of a human who had received no longevity therapy or germline modifications. And—so some humans said, when they didn’t think they were in earshot of pigs—his kind didn’t even taste the way nature intended.