Hela Orbit, 2727
THE ADVENTIST DELEGATES had arrived at the Nostalgia for Infinity. There were twenty of them, all seemingly stamped from the same production mould. They came aboard with apparent trepidation, their politeness exaggerated to the point of insolence. They wore hard-shelled scarlet vacuum suits marked with the cruciform spacesuit insignia of their church, and they all carried their pink-plumed helmets tucked under the same arm.
Scorpio studied their leader through the window in the inner airlock door. He was a small man with a cruel, petulant slot of a mouth seemingly cut into his face as an afterthought.
“I’m Brother Seyfarth,” the man announced.
“Glad to have you aboard, Brother,” Scorpio said, “but before we let you into the rest of the ship, we’re going to have to run some decontamination checks.”
The man’s voice rattled through the speaker grille. “Still concerned about plague traces? I thought we all had other things to worry about these days.”
“Can’t be too careful,” Scorpio said. “It’s nothing personal, of course.”
“I wouldn’t dream of complaining,” Brother Seyfarth replied.
In truth, they had been scanned from the moment they entered the Infinity’s airlock. Scorpio had to know whether there was anything hidden under that armour, and if there was, he had to know what it was.
He had studied the Nostalgia for Infinity’s history. Once, when the ship had been under the command of its old triumvirate, they had made the mistake of allowing someone aboard with a tiny anti-matter device implanted in the mechanism of their artificial eyes. That pin-sized weapon had enabled the entire ship to be hijacked. Scorpio didn’t blame Volyova and the others for having made that mistake: such devices were both rare and exquisitely difficult to manufacture, and you didn’t encounter them very often. But it was not the kind of mistake he was. going to allow on his watch, if there was anything he could do to stop it.
Elsewhere in the ship, Security Arm officers examined the spectral images of the scanned delegates, peering through smoky grey-green layers of armour to the flesh, blood and bone beneath. There were no obvious concealed weapons: no guns or knives. But that didn’t surprise Scorpio. Even if the delegates had ill intentions, they’d have known that even a cursory scan would pick up normal weapons. If they had anything, it was going to be a lot less obvious.
But perhaps they had nothing at all. Perhaps they were what they said they were, and nothing more. Perhaps he was only objecting to the delegates because he had not been consulted before they were allowed aboard.
But there was something about Brother Seyfarth that he didn’t like, something in the cruel set of his mouth that made him think of other violent men he had known. Something in the way he kept clenching and unclenching the metal fists of his gloves as he waited to be processed through the airlock.
Scorpio touched his earpiece. “Clear on concealed weapons,” he heard. “Clear on chemical traces for explosives, toxins or nerve agents. Clear on standard nanotech filters. Nothing pre-plague here, and no plague traces either.”
“Look for implants,” he said, “any mechanisms under those suits that don’t serve an obvious function. And check the ones that do, as well. I don’t want hot dust within a light-year of this ship.”
He was asking a lot of them, he knew. They couldn’t risk annoying the delegates by subjecting them to an obvious invasive examination. But—again—this was his watch. He had a reputation to live up to. It hadn’t been him who had invited the fuckers aboard.
“Clear on implants,” he heard. “Nothing large enough to contain a standard pinhead device.”
“Meaning that none of the delegates have implants of any kind?”
“Like I said, sir, nothing large enough…”
“Tell me about all the implants. We can’t assume anything.”
“One of them has something in his eye. Another has a prosthetic hand. A total of half a dozen very small neural implants spread throughout the whole delegation.”
“I don’t like the sound of any of that.”
“The implants aren’t anything we wouldn’t expect to see in a random sample of Hela refugees, sir. Most of them look inactive, anyway.”
“The one with the eye, the one with the hand—I want to know for sure that there isn’t any nasty stuff inside those things.”
“Going to be tricky, sir. They might not like it if we start bombarding them with protons. If there is anti-matter in those things, there’ll be local cell damage from the spallation products…”
“If there is anti-matter in those things, they’re going to have a lot more than cancer to worry about,” Scorpio said.
Trouble was, so would he.
He waited as the man sent a mantislike servitor into the airlock, a bright-red stick-limbed contraption equipped with a proton beam generator. Scorpio told the delegates it was just a more refined form of the plague scanners they had already used, designed to sniff out some of the less common strains. They probably knew this was a lie, but agreed to go along with it for the sake of avoiding a scene. Was that a good sign? he wondered.
The proton beam drilled through flesh and bone, too narrow to hurt major bodily structures. At worst, it would inflict some local tissue damage. But if it touched anti-matter, even a microgram nugget of anti-matter suspended in vacuum in an electromagnetic cradle, it would induce a burst of proton-antiproton reactions.
The servitor listened for the back-scatter of gamma rays, the incriminating sizzle of annihilation.
It heard nothing: not from the hand, not from the eye.
“They’re clean, sir,” the SA operative announced into Scorpio’s earpiece.
No, he thought, they weren’t. At least, he couldn’t be sure of it. He’d ruled out the obvious, done what he could. But the proton beam might have missed the cradles: there hadn’t been time to make an exhaustive sweep of either the hand or the eye. Or the cradles themselves might have been surrounded with deflection or absorption barriers: he’d heard of such things. Or the nuggets could be in the neural implants, hidden behind too many centimetres of bone and tissue for non-surgical scanning.
“Sir? Permission to let them through?”
Scorpio knew that there was nothing else he could do except keep a close watch on them.
“Open the door,” he said.
Brother Seyfarth stepped through the aperture and stood eye to eye with Scorpio. “Don’t trust us, sir?”
“Got a job to do,” Scorpio said. “That’s all.”
The leader nodded gravely. “Don’t we all? Well, no hard feelings. I take it you didn’t find anything suspicious?”
“I didn’t find anything, no.”
The man winked at him, as if the two of them were sharing a joke. The other nineteen delegates bustled through, Scorpio’s distorted reflection gleaming back at him in the buffed and polished plates of their armour. He looked worried.
Now that they were aboard he had to keep them where he wanted them. They didn’t need to see the whole of the ship, just the parts that related to their specific areas of interest. No tour of the cache weapon chambers, no tour of the hypometric weapon shafts or any of the other modifications installed after their departure from Ararat. He’d be careful to keep the delegates away from the weirder manifestations of the Captain’s transforming illness, too, although some of the changes were always going to be apparent. They bobbed along behind him like twenty ducklings, showing emphatic interest in everything he stopped to point out.
“Interesting interior design you have here,” the leader said, fingering—with vague distaste—a riblike extrusion sticking out from a wall. “We always knew that your ship looked a little odd from the outside, but we never imagined you’d have extended the theme all the way through.”
“It grows on you,” Scorpio said.
“I don’t suppose it makes very much difference, from our point of view. As long as the ship does what you’ve claimed it can, who are we to ca
re about the decor?”
“What you really care about is our hull defences and long-range sensors, I imagine,” Scorpio said.
“Your technical specifications were very impressive,” Brother Seyfarth said. “Naturally, we’ll have to double check. The security of Hela depends on our knowing that you can deliver the protection you promised.”
“I don’t think you need lose any sleep over that,” Scorpio said.
“You’re not offended, I hope?”
The pig turned back to him. “Do I look like someone easily offended?”
“Not at all,” Seyfarth said, his fists clenching.
They were uneasy around him, Scorpio realised. He doubted that they saw many pigs on Hela. “We’re not great travellers,” he elaborated. “We tend to die on the way.”
“Sir?” asked one of the other delegates. “Sir, if it isn’t too much bother, we’d really like to see the engines.”
Scorpio checked the time. They were on schedule. In fewer than six hours he would be able to launch the two instrument packages into Haldora. They were simply modified automated drones, hardened slightly to tolerate passage into-the atmos-phere of a gas giant. No one was exactly certain what they would encounter when they hit the visible surface of Haldora, but it seemed prudent to take every precaution, even if the planet popped like a soap bubble.
“You want to see the engines?” he said. “No problem. No problem at all.”
THE LIGHT FROM Hela’s sun was low on the horizon, casting the cathedral’s great gothic shadow far ahead of it. It was more than two days since Vasko and Khouri had first visited Quaiche, and in the intervening time the Lady Morwenna had nearly reached the western edge of the rift. The bridge lay before it: a sparkling, dreamlike confection of sugar-ice and gossamer. Now that they were so close to it, the cathedral looked heavier, the bridge less substantial, the very idea of taking one across the other even more absurd.
A thought occurred to Vasko: what if the bridge didn’t exist any more? It was a foolhardy thing to take the Lady Morwenna across such a fragile structure, but in Quaiche’s mind there must have been at least a glimmer of hope that he might succeed. But if the bridge was destroyed, surely he wouldn’t take the cathedral over the edge, to certain destruction?
“How far?” Khouri asked.
“Twelve, thirteen kilometres,” Vasko said. “She travels about a kilometre per hour, which gives us around half a day before it really wouldn’t be a good idea to be aboard any more.”
“That doesn’t give us much time.”
“We don’t need much time,” he said. “Twelve hours should be more than enough time to get in and out. All we have to do is find Aura, and whatever we need from Quaiche. How difficult can it be?”
“Scorpio needs time to drop those instrument packages into Haldora,” she said. “If we break our side of the agreement before he’s done, there’s no telling how much trouble we’ll be in. Things could start getting messy. That’s exactly what we spent nine years trying to avoid.”
“It’ll be all right,” Vasko said. “Trust me on this, it’ll be all right.”
“Scorp didn’t like the idea of those delegates,” she said.
“They’re church dignitaries,” Vasko said. “How much of a problem can they be?”
“In these matters,” Khouri said, “I’m inclined to trust Scorpio’s judgement. Sorry, but he’s got a bit more mileage on him than you have.”
“I’m getting there,” Vasko said.
Their shuttle picked its way down to the cathedral. It grew from something small and delicate, like an ornate architectural model, to something huge and threatening. Something more than a building, Vasko thought: more like a pinnacled chunk of the landscape that had decided to make a slow circumnavigation of its world.
They landed. Suited Adventist officials were there to usher them deep into the iron heart of the Lady Morwenna.
Chapter Forty-One
Hela, 2727
AT LONG LAST, Quaiche could see the bridge for himself. The spectacle sent a shiver of excitement through him. There was less ground to cover to reach it now than the span of the bridge itself. Everything he had planned, everything he had schemed into existence, was now tantalisingly close to fruition.
“Look at it, Rashmika,” he said, inviting the girl to stand by the garret window and admire the view for herself. “So ancient, yet so sparklingly ageless. From the moment I announced that we were to cross the rift, I’ve been counting every second. We’re not there yet, but at least now I can see it.”
“Are you really going to do it?” she asked.
“You think I’ve come all this way just to back down now? Not likely. The prestige of the church is at stake, Rashmika. Nothing matters more to me than that.”
“I wish I could read your face,” she said. “I wish I could see your eyes and I wish Grelier hadn’t deadened all your nerve endings. Then I’d know if you were telling the truth.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she said.
“I’m not asking you to believe anything,” he said, turning his couch around so that all the mirrors had to adjust their angles. “I’ve never asked you to submit to faith, Rashmika. All I’ve ever asked of you is honest judgement. What troubles you, all of a sudden?”
“I need to know the truth,” she said. “Before you take this thing over the bridge, I want some answers.”
His eyes quivered in their sockets. “I’ve always been open with you.”
“Then what about the vanishing that never happened? Was that you, Dean? Did you make that happen?”
“Make that happen?” he echoed, as if her words made no sense at all.
“You had a lapse of faith, didn’t you? A crisis during which you began to think that there was a rational explanation for the vanishings after all. Maybe you’d developed immunity to whatever was the strongest indoctrinal virus Grelier could offer you that week.”
“Be very, very careful, Rashmika. You’re useful to me, but you’re far from indispensable.”
She gathered her composure. “What I mean is, did you decide to test your faith? Did you arrange for an instrument package to be dropped into the face of Haldora, at the moment of a vanishing?”
His eyes became quite still, regarding her intently. “What do you think?”
“I think you sent something into Haldora—a machine, a probe of some kind. Perhaps some Ultras sold it to you. You hoped to glimpse something in there. What, I don’t know. Maybe something you’d already glimpsed years earlier, but which you didn’t want to admit to yourself.”
“Ridiculous.”
“But you succeeded,” she said. “The probe did something: it caused the vanishing to be prolonged. You threw a spanner in, Dean, and you got a reaction. The probe encountered something when the planet vanished. It made contact with whatever the planet was meant to conceal. And whatever it was had precious little to do with miracles.” He started to say something, tried to cut her off, but she forced herself to continue, speaking over him. “I have no idea whether the probe came back or not, but I do know that you’re still in contact with something. You opened a window, didn’t you?” Rashmika pointed at the welded metal suit, the one that had disturbed her so much on her first visit to the garret. “They’re in there, trapped within it. You made a prison of the same suit in which Morwenna died.”
“Why would I do that?” Quaiche asked.
“Because,” she said, “you don’t know if they’re demons or angels.”
“And you do know, I take it?”
“I think they might be both,” she said.
Hela Orbit, 2727
SCORPIO WHISKED BACK a heavy metal shutter, revealing a tiny oval porthole. The scuffed and scratched glass was as thick and dark as burned sugar. He pushed himself away from the window.
“You’ll have to take turns,” he said.
They were in a zero-gravity section of the Infinity. It was the only
way to view the engines while the ship was in orbit, since the rotating sections of the ship that provided artificial gravity were set too deeply back into the hull to permit observation of the engines. Had the engines themselves been pushed up to their usual one-gee of thrust—providing the illusion of gravity by another means throughout the entire ship—the orbit around Hela could not have been sustained.
“We’d like to see them fire up, if that’s possible,” Brother Seyfarth said.
“Not exactly standard procedure while we’re holding orbit,” Scorpio said.
“Just for a moment,” Seyfarth said. “They don’t have to operate at full capacity.”
“I thought it was the defences you were interested in.”
‘Those as well.“
Scorpio spoke into his cuff. “Give me a burst of drive, counteracted by the steering jets. I don’t want to feel this ship move one inch”
The order was implemented almost instantly. Theoretically, one of his people had to send the command into the ship’s control system, whereupon Captain Brannigan might or might not choose to act upon it. But he suspected that the Captain had made the engines fire before the command had ever been entered.
The great ship groaned as the engines lit up. Through the dark glass of the porthole, the exhaust was a scratch of purple-white—visible only because the stealthing modifications to the drives had been switched off during the Nostalgia for Infinity’s, final approach to the system. At the other end of the hull, multiple batteries of conventional fusion rockets were balancing the thrust from the main drives. The ancient hull creaked and moaned like some vast living thing as it absorbed the compressive forces. The ship could take a lot more punishment than this, Scorpio knew, but he was still grateful when the drive flame flicked out. He felt a tiny lurch, evidence of the minutest lack of synchrony between the shutting down of the fusion rockets and the drives, but then all was motionless. The great, saurian protestations of stressed ship fabric died away like diminishing thunder.
“Good enough for you, Brother Seyfarth?”
“I think so,” the leader said. “They seem to be in excellent condition. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to find well-maintained Conjoiner drives now that their makers are no longer with us.”