The Night's Dawn Trilogy (42 page)

Quinn spread his hands, palms open. “Satisfied?” he demanded.

The chameleon suit lost its bark pattern, reverting to a dark grey.

Lawrence Dillon took a pace backwards in surprise. “Shit. I never saw him.”

Quinn only laughed.

The man was standing with his back pressed against a qualtook tree eight metres away. He pulled the hood back revealing a
round forty-year-old face with a steep chin and light grey eyes.

“Morning,” Quinn said in a jaunty tone. He had been expecting someone different, someone with Banneth’s brand of lashed-up
mania; this man seemed to have no presence at all. “You’ve taken my advice, then? Very wise.”

“Tell me why you should not be eliminated,” the man said.

Quinn thought his voice sounded as though it had been synthesized by a processor block, completely neutral. “Because you don’t
know who I’ve told, or what I’ve told them. That makes me safe. If you could go around snuffing out entire villages whenever
your security had been compromised, you wouldn’t be stashed away here. Now would you?”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I won’t know that until I see what you’ve got. For a start, who are you?”

“This body’s name is Clive Jenson.”

“What have you done to him, put in a persona sequestra-tor nanonic?”

“Not quite, but the situation is similar.”

“So, are you ready to talk now?”

“I will listen.” The man beckoned. “You will come with me, the others will remain here.”

“Hey, no way,” Jackson Gael said.

Quinn held his hands up. “It’s OK, it’s cool. Stay here for three hours, then go back to Aberdale whether I’m back or not.”
He checked the coordinate on the guido block, and started walking after the man in the chameleon suit whose name used to be
Clive Jenson.

After six weeks’ travelling and trading the
Coogan
was approaching the end of its voyage. Marie Skibbow knew they were within days of Durringham even though Len Buchan-nan
had said nothing. She recognized the lying villages again; the white-painted slat walls of the trim houses, neat gardens,
the pastoral fantasy. The Juliffe was coffee brown again, running eagerly towards the freedom of the ocean that couldn’t be
far away now. She could see the Hultain Marsh squatting on the north shore when the wavelets weren’t riding too high, a dismal
snarl of mouldy vegetation sending out eye-smarting streamers of brimstone gases. Big paddle-craft similar to the
Swithland
were churning their way up-river, leaving a foamy wake behind them. Fresh colonists gazed out at the shoreline with wonder
and desire animating their faces, and children raced round the decks laughing and giggling.

Fools. All of them, utter fools.

The
Coogan
was stopping at fewer and fewer jetties now. Their original stocks were almost depleted, the tramp trader riding half a metre
higher in the water. The balance in Len Buchannan’s Jovian Bank credit disk had grown in proportion. Now he was buying cured
meat to sell in the city.

“Stop loading,” Len shouted at her from the wheel-house. “We’re putting ashore here.”

The
Coogan
’s blunt prow turned a couple of degrees, aiming for a jetty below a row of large wooden warehouses. There were several cylindrical
grain silos to one side. Power bikes bumped along the dirt tracks winding round the houses. The village was a wealthy one.
The kind Marie thought Group Seven was heading for, the kind that had tricked her.

She abandoned the logs she was loading into the hopper, and straightened her back. Weeks spent cutting up timber with a fission
saw then feeding the hopper in all weathers had given her the kind of muscles she’d never got from the gym at the arcology’s
day centre. She had lost almost two centimetres from her waist, her old shorts didn’t cling anything like the way they used
to.

Thin smoke from the furnace’s leaky iron stack made her eyes water. She blinked furiously, staring at the village they were
approaching, then ahead to the west. She made up her mind, and walked forward.

Gail Buchannan was sitting at the side of the wheel-house, her scraggly hair tied back, coolie hat casting a shadow over her
knitting needles. She had knitted and sewed her way down the whole length of the river from Aberdale.

“Where do you think you’re going, lovie?” the huge woman asked.

“My cabin.”

“Well, you make sure you get back out here in time to help my Lennie with the mooring. I’m not having you slacking off while
he has work to do. I’ve never known anyone as lazy as you. My poor husband works like a mechanoid to keep us afloat.”

Marie ignored the obloquy and brushed past her, ducking down into the cabin. She had turned a corner of the cargo hold into
a little nest of her own, sleeping on a length of shelving at nights after Len had finished with her. The wood was hard, and
she’d repeatedly knocked her head on the frame during the first week until she got used to the confined space; but there was
no way she was going to spend the night lying in his embrace.

She stripped off the colourless dungarees she used on deck, and pulled a clean bra and a T-shirt from her bag where they had
lain throughout the voyage. Feeling the smooth synthetic fabric snug against her skin brought back memories of Earth and the
arcology. Her world, where there was life and a future, where Govcentral gave away didactic courses, and people had proper
jobs, and went to clubs, and had a thousand sensevise entertainment channels to choose from, and the vac trains could take
you to the other side of the planet in six hours. Black tropical-weave jeans with a leathery look finished the change. It
was like wearing civilization. She picked up the shoulder-bag, and went forwards.

Gail Buchannan was hollering for her as she slid the bolt on the toilet door. The toilet itself was just a wooden box (built
from mayope so it could take Gail’s weight) with a hole in the top; there was a stack of big vine leaves to wipe with. Marie
knelt down and prised the bottom plank off the front of the box. The river gurgled by a metre below. Her two packets were
hanging below the decking, tied into place with silicon-fibre fishing-line. She cut the fibre with a pocket fission blade
and stuffed the two polythene-wrapped bundles into her shoulder-bag. They were mostly medical nanonic packages, the highest
value-for-weight-ratio items the
Coogan
carried; she’d also included some personal MF players, a couple of processor blocks, small power tools. A hoard that had
been steadily built up over the voyage. The shoulder-bag’s seal barely closed around them.

Gail’s voice was reaching hysteria pitch by the time Marie got back to the galley and gave a last look round the wooden cell
where she had spent an eternity cooking and cleaning. She took down the big brown clay pot of mixed herbs, and tugged out
a thick wad of Lalonde francs. It was only one of the various bundles Gail had secreted around the tramp trader. She stuffed
the crisp plastic notes into a rear pocket, then, on impulse, picked up a match before she went out on deck.

The
Coogan
had already pulled up next to the jetty and Len Buchannan was busy tying one of the cables to a bollard. Gail’s face had
turned a thunderous purple below her coolie hat.

She took in Marie’s appearance with one flabbergasted look. “What the hell do you think you’re doing dressed like that, you
little strumpet? You’ve got to give Lennie a hand loading the meat. My poor Lennie can’t shift all those heavy carcasses by
himself. And where the hell do you think you’re going with that bag? And what have you got in it?”

Marie smiled her lazy smile, the one her father always called intolerably indolent. She struck the match on the cabin wall.

Both of them watched the phosphorus tip splutter into life, the yellow flame biting into the splinter of wood, eating its
way along towards her fingers. Gail’s mouth dropped open as realization dawned.

“Goodbye,” she said brightly. “It’s been so nice knowing you.” She dropped the match into the sewing box at Gail’s feet.

Gail screeched in panic as the match disappeared under her scraps of cotton and lace. Bright orange flames licked upwards.

Marie marched off down the jetty. Len was standing by the bollard ahead of her, a length of silicon-fibre rope coiled in his
hands.

“You’re leaving,” he said.

Gail was shouting a tirade of obscenities and threats after her. There was a loud splash as the precious sewing box hit the
water.

Marie couldn’t manage the blasÉ expression she wanted. Not in front of him. There was a curious look of dismay on the skinny
old man’s face.

“Don’t go,” he said. It was a plea, she’d never heard his voice so whiny before.

“Why? Was there something you didn’t have? Something you forgot to try out?” Her voice came close to breaking.

“I’ll get rid of her,” he said desperately.

“For me?”

“You’re beautiful, Marie.”

“Is that it? All you’ve got to say to me?”

“Yes. I thought…I never hurt you. Never once.”

“And you want it to go on? Is that what you want, Len? The two of us sailing up and down the Juliffe for the rest of our days?”

“Please, Marie. I hate her. I want you, not her.”

She stood ten centimetres away from him, smelling the fruit he’d eaten that morning on his breath. “Is that so?”

“I have money. You would live like a princess, I promise.”

“Money is nothing. I would have to be loved. I could give everything of myself to a man who loved me. Do you love me, Len?
Do you really love me?”

“I do, Marie. God, I do. Please. Come with me!”

She ran a finger along his chin. Tears were welling up in his eyes.

“Then kill yourself, Len,” she whispered thickly. “For she is all you have. She is all you’ll ever have. For the rest of your
life, Len, you’re going to live with the knowledge that I am always beyond you.”

She waited until his tragi-hopeful face crumpled in utter mortification, then laughed. It was so much more satisfactory than
kneeing him in the balls.

There was a wagon loaded with silage trundling along the main dirt track, heading west. A fourteen-year-old boy in dungarees
was driving it, giving occasional flicks on the big shire-horse’s reins. Marie stuck out her thumb, and he nodded eagerly,
overawed eyes goggling at her. She clambered aboard while it was still moving.

“How far to Durringham?” she asked.

“Fifty kilometres. But I’m not going that far, just to Mepal.”

“That’ll do for a start.” She sat back on the hard wooden plank seat, the jolting wheels rocking her gently from side to side.
The sun was boiling, the swaying was uncomfortable, the horse stank. She felt wonderful.

The gigantea was over seven thousand years old when Laton and his small band of followers arrived on Lalonde. It was set on
a small rise in the land, which pushed its three-hundred-metre-plus length even further above the surrounding jungle. Storms
had frayed and broken the tip, resulting in a bulbous knot of snarled twigs with tufts of leaves sticking out at odd angles.
Birds had turned this malformed pinnacle into a voluminous eyrie, pecking away at it over the centuries until it was riddled
with a warren of holes.

When it rained, water would clog in the gigantea’s thick fuzzy leaves, their weight pushing the downward-sloping boughs even
closer towards the fat bole. Then for hours afterwards droplets would sprinkle down, drying the gigantea out from the top,
the boughs slowly rising again. Standing on the ground below was like standing under a small, powerful waterfall. The last
traces of soil had been washed away from under the boughs several millennia ago. All that remained was a solid undulating
tangle of roots, extending outwards for a hundred metres, slimed like seaside rocks at low tide.

Laton’s blackhawk had brought him to Lalonde in 2575. At that time there were less than a hundred people on the planet, a
caretaker squad looking after the landing site camp. The ecological assessment team had completed their analysis and left;
the Confederation inspection team wasn’t due for another year. He had obtained a classified copy of the company report; the
planet was habitable, it would gain the Confederation’s certification. There would be colonists eventually; dirt poor, ignorant,
without any advanced technology. Given his own particular designs on the future, it would be a perfect culture to infiltrate.

They had landed in the mountains on Amarisk’s eastern side, twenty humans and seven landcruisers loaded with enough luxuries
to make exile bearable, along with more essential stocks: small cybernetic manufacturing systems, and his genetics equipment.
He also had the blackhawk’s nine eggs, removed from its ovaries and stored in zero-tau. The blackhawk was sent to oblivion
in the fierce blue-white star; and the little convoy started to batter its way through the jungle. It took them two days to
reach the tributary river which would one day be called the Quallheim. Three days’ sailing (the landcruisers had amphibious
fuselages) brought them to Schuster County, a territory where the soil was deep enough to support the giganteas. Jungle again,
and half a day later he found what must surely be the largest gigantea specimen on the continent.

“This will do,” he told his fellowship. “In fact, I think it is rather appropriate.”

The branches were still shedding their weight of water from the earlier rain when Clive Jenson led Quinn Dexter onto the slippery
coils of the gigantea’s roots. There was a perpetual twilight under the huge shaggy boughs. Water pattered down, forming runnels
that gurgled and sucked their way around the intestinal tangle below his feet.

Quinn resisted the impulse to hunch his shoulders against the big drops splashing on his head. Spores or sap—something organic—had
curdled with the water, making it tacky. It was cool in the shade, the coolest he’d ever been on Lalonde.

They neared the colossal bole. The roots began to curve up to the vertical, wooden waves crashing against a wooden cliff.
Between the thick cords were dark anfractuous clefts five times his height, tapering away to knife-thin fissures. Clive Jenson
stepped into one. Quinn watched him disappear round a curve, then shrugged and followed him in.