The Revelation Space Collection (320 page)

‘When you’re out there,’ Morwenna said, ‘you promise me you’ll take care?’

‘Caution’s my middle name,’ Quaiche said.

The tiny ship fell away from the
Dominatrix
, orientating herself with a quick, excited shiver of thrust. To Quaiche it always felt as if the craft enjoyed her sudden liberation from the docking harness.

He lay with his arms stretched ahead of his face, each hand gripping an elaborate control handle bristling with buttons and levers. Between the control handles was a head-up display screen showing an overview of the
Scavenger’s Daughter’
s systems and a schematic of her position in relation to the nearest major celestial body. The diagrams had the sketchy, crosshatched look of early Renaissance astronomy or medical illustrations: quilled black ink against sepia parchment, annotated in crabby Latin script. His dim reflection hovered in the glass of the head-up display.

Through the translucent hull he watched the docking bay seal itself. The
Dominatrix
grew rapidly smaller, dwindling until it was only a dark, vaguely cruciform scratch against the face of Haldora. He thought of Morwenna, still inside the
Dominatrix
and encased within the scrimshaw suit, with a renewed sense of urgency. The bridge on Hela was without doubt the strangest thing he had seen in all his travels. If this was not precisely the kind of exotic item Jasmina was interested in, then he had no idea what was. All he had to do was sell it to her, and make her forgive him his earlier failures. If a huge alien artefact didn’t do the trick, what would?

When it became difficult to pick out the other ship without an overlay, Quaiche felt a palpable easing in his mood. Aboard the
Dominatrix
he never entirely lost the feeling that he was under the constant vigilance of Queen Jasmina. It was entirely possible that the queen’s agents had installed listening devices in addition to those he was
meant
to know about. Aboard the much smaller
Scavenger’s Daughter
, though, he seldom felt Jasmina’s eye on him. The little ship actually belonged to him: she answered only to Quaiche and was the single most valuable asset he had ever owned in his life. She had been a not-insignificant incentive when he had first offered his services to the queen.

The Ultras were undoubtedly clever, but he did not think they were quite clever enough to bypass the many systems the
Daughter
carried aboard her to prevent surveillance taps or other forms of unwarranted intrusion. It was not much of an empire, Quaiche supposed, but the little ship was his and that was all that mattered. In her he could revel in solitude, every sense splayed open to the absolute.

To feel oneself so tiny, so fragile, so inherently losable, was at first spiritually crushing. But, by the same token, this realisation was also strangely liberating: if an individual human existence meant so little, if one’s actions were so cosmically irrelevant, then the notion of some absolute moral framework made about as much sense as the universal ether. Measured against the infinite, therefore, people were no more capable of meaningful sin - or meaningful good - than ants, or dust.

Worlds barely registered sin. Suns hardly deigned to notice it. On the scale of solar systems and galaxies, it meant nothing at all. It was like some obscure subatomic force that simply petered out on those scales.

For a long time this realisation had formed an important element of Quaiche’s personal creed, and he supposed he had always lived by it, to one degree or another. But it had taken space travel - and the loneliness that his new profession brought - to give him some external validation of his philosophy.

But now there was something in his universe that really mattered to him, something that could be hurt by his own actions. How had it come to this? he wondered. How had he allowed himself to make such a fatal mistake as to fall in love? And especially with a creature as exotic and complicated as Morwenna?

Where had it all begun to go wrong?

Gloved within the
Daughter’
s hull, he barely felt the surge of acceleration as the ship powered up to her maximum sustainable thrust. The sliver of the
Dominatrix
was utterly lost now; it may as well not have existed.

Quaiche’s ship aimed for Hela, Haldora’s largest moon.

He opened a communications channel back to the
Gnostic Ascension
to record a message.

‘This is Quaiche. I trust all is well, ma’am. Thank you for the little incentive you saw fit to pop aboard. Very thoughtful of you. Or was that all Grelier’s work? A droll gesture, one that - I’m sure you can imagine - was also appreciated by Morwenna.’ He waited a moment. ‘Well, to business. You may be interested to hear that I have detected . . . something: a large horizontal structure on the moon that we’re calling Hela. It looks rather like a bridge. Beyond that, I can’t say for sure. The
Dominatrix
doesn’t have the sensor range, and I don’t want to risk taking it closer. But I think it is very likely to be an artificial structure. I am therefore investigating the object using the
Scavenger’s Daughter
- she’s faster, smarter and she has better armour. I do not expect my excursion to last more than twenty-six hours. I will of course keep you informed of any developments.’

Quaiche replayed the message and decided that it would be unwise to transmit it. Even if he did find something, even if that something turned out to be more valuable than anything he had turned up in the five previous systems, the queen would still accuse him of making it sound more promising than it actually was. She did not like to be disappointed. The way to play the queen, Quaiche now knew, was with studied understatement. Give her hints, not promises.

He wiped the message and started again.

‘Quaiche here. Have an anomaly that requires further investigation. Commencing EVA excursion in the
Daughter
. Estimate return to the
Dominatrix
within . . . one day.’

He listened to that and decided it was an improvement, but not quite there yet.

He scrubbed the buffer again and drew a deep breath.

‘Quaiche. Popping outside for a bit. May be some time. Call you back.’

There. That did it.

He transmitted the buffer, aiming the message laser in the computed direction of the
Gnostic Ascension
and applying the usual encryption filters and relativistic corrections. The queen would receive his announcement in seven hours. He hoped she would be suitably mystified, without in any way being able to claim that he was exaggerating the likely value of a find.

Keep the bitch guessing.

Hela, 2727

What Culver had told Rashmika Els was not quite the truth. The icejammer
was
moving as quickly as it could in ambulatory mode, but once it cleared the slush and obstacles of the village and hit a well-maintained trail, it locked its two rear legs in a fixed configuration and began to move by itself, as if pushed along by an invisible hand. Rashmika had heard enough about icejammers to know that the trick was down to a layer of material on the soles of the skis that was programmed with a rapid microscopic ripple. It was the same way slugs moved, scaled up a few thousand times in both size and speed. The ride became smoother and quieter then; there was still the occasional lurch or veer, but for the most part it was tolerable.

‘That’s better,’ Rashmika said, now sitting up front with just Crozet and his wife Linxe. ‘I thought I was going to . . .’

‘Throw up, dear?’ Linxe asked. ‘There’s no shame in that. We’ve all thrown up around here.’

‘She can’t do this on anything other than smooth ground,’ Crozet said. ‘Trouble is, she doesn’t walk properly either. Servo’s fucked on one of the legs. That’s why it was so rough back there. It’s also the reason we’re making this trip. The caravans carry the kind of high-tech shit we can’t make or repair back in the badlands.’

‘Language,’ Linxe said, smacking her husband sharply on the wrist. ‘We’ve a young lady present, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ Rashmika said. She was beginning to relax: they were safely beyond the village now, and there was no sign that anyone had tried to stop or pursue them.

‘He’s not talking sense in any case,’ Linxe said. ‘The caravans might have the kinds of things we need, but they won’t be giving any of it away for free.’ She turned to Crozet. ‘Will they, love?’

Linxe was a well-fed woman with red hair that she wore swept across one side of her face, hiding a birthmark. She had known Rashmika since Rashmika was much smaller, when Linxe had helped out at the communal nursery in the next village along.

She had always been kind and attentive to Rashmika, but there had been some kind of minor scandal a few years later and Linxe had been dismissed from the nursery. She had married Crozet not long afterwards. The village gossips said it was just desserts, that the two deserved each other, but in Rashmika’s view Crozet was all right. A bit of an oddball, kept himself to himself, that was all. When Linxe had been ostracised he would have been one of the few villagers prepared to give her the time of day. Regardless, Rashmika still liked Linxe, and consequently found it difficult to hold any great animosity towards her husband.

Crozet steered the icejammer with two joysticks set one on either side of his seat. He had permanent blue stubble and oily black hair. Just looking at him always made Rashmika want to have a wash.

‘I’m not expecting sod all for free,’ Crozet said. ‘We may not make the same profit we did last year, but show me the bastard who will.’

‘Would you think about relocating closer to the Way?’ Rashmika asked.

Crozet wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I’d rather chew my own leg off.’

‘Crozet’s not exactly a church-going man,’ Linxe explained.

‘I’m not the most spiritual person in the badlands, either,’ Rashmika said, ‘but if it was a choice between that and starving, I’m not sure how long my convictions would last.’

‘How old are you again?’ Linxe asked.

‘Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.’

‘Got many friends in the village?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

‘Somehow I’m not surprised.’ Linxe patted Rashmika on the knee. ‘You’re like us. Don’t fit in, never have done and never will.’

‘I do try. But I can’t stand the idea of spending the rest of my life here.’

‘Plenty of your generation feel the same way,’ Linxe said. ‘They’re angry. That sabotage last week . . .’ She meant the store of demolition charges that had blown up. ‘Well, you can’t blame them for wanting to hit out at something, can you?’

‘They’re just talking about getting out of the badlands,’ Rashmika said. ‘They all think they can make it rich in the caravans, or even in the cathedrals. And maybe they’re right. There are good opportunities, if you know the right people. But that isn’t enough for me.’

‘You want off Hela,’ Crozet said.

Rashmika remembered the mental calculation she had made earlier and expanded on it. ‘I’m a fifth of the way into my life. Barring something unlikely happening, another sixty-odd years is about all I have left. I’d like to do something with it. I don’t want to die without having seen something more interesting than this place.’

Crozet flashed yellow teeth. ‘People come light-years to visit Hela, Rash.’

‘For the wrong reasons,’ she said. She paused, marshalling her thoughts carefully. She had very firmly held opinions and she had always believed in stating them, but at the same time she did not want to offend her hosts. ‘Look, I’m not saying those people are fools. But what matters here is the digs, not the cathedrals, not the Permanent Way, not the miracles.’

‘Right,’ Crozet agreed, ‘but no one gives a monkey’s about the digs.’

‘We care,’ Linxe said. ‘Anyone who makes a living in the badlands has to care.’

‘But the churches would rather we didn’t dig too deeply,’ Rashmika countered. ‘The digs are a distraction. They worry that sooner or later we’ll find something that will make the miracle look a lot less miraculous.’

‘You’re talking as if the churches speak with one voice,’ Linxe said.

‘I’m not saying they do,’ Rashmika replied, ‘but everyone knows that they have certain interests in common. And we happen not to be amongst those interests.’

‘The scuttler excavations play a vital role in Hela’s economy,’ Linxe said, as if reciting a line from one of the duller ecclesiastical brochures.

‘And I’m not saying they don’t,’ Crozet interjected. ‘But who already controls the sale of dig relics? The churches. They’re halfway to having a complete monopoly. From their point of view the next logical step would be complete control of the excavations as well. That way, the bastards can sit on anything awkward.’

‘You’re a cynical old fool,’ Linxe said.

‘That’s why you married me, dear.’