The Revelation Space Collection (421 page)

There was still time to act. He was becoming blind to himself, but his own body formed only the tiny, glittering kernel of his sphere of consciousness. Even as he rested in the cradle of the holdfast, he was still in receipt of data from the drones he had already released around Hela. He apprehended everything that was happening on the planet, his view synthesised and enhanced from the patchwork impressionism of the cameras.

And in his belly, yet to be reached by the Cathedral Guard, he still had the three hypometric weapons. They were excruciatingly delicate things: it had been difficult enough using them under normal conditions of thrust, let alone when he was lying on his side. It was anyone’s guess as to how the threshing machinery would react if he started it now; how long it would function before ripping itself and everything around it to shreds.

But he thought it likely they would work at least once. All he needed was a target, some means of making a difference.

His view of Hela changed emphasis. With an effort of will he focused on the streams of data that included imagery of the cathedral, shot from a variety of angles and elevations. For a moment, the effort of assembling these faint, fuzzy, multispectral moving views into a single three-dimensional picture was sufficiently taxing that he forgot all about the Cathedral Guards and what they were doing to him. Then, in his mind’s eye, with the unnatural clarity of a vision, he saw the Lady Morwenna. He felt his ever-shifting spatial relationship to the cathedral, as if a taut iron chain bound them together. He knew how far away it was. He knew in which direction it lay.

High on the flat surface of one tower, tiny figures moved like clockwork marionettes.

They had reached the Lady Morwenna’s landing stage. Two spacecraft waited there: the vehicle that the Ultras had arrived in, and the red cockleshell that Rashmika recognised as belonging to the surgeon-general. Both ships were peppered with the scorched holes of impact points where they had been shot at close range. Given time, Rashmika thought, the ships might have been able to repair themselves enough to leave the cathedral. But the one thing they didn’t have now was time.

Grelier had the syringe pressed hard against the outer integument of her suit. She didn’t know if the needle would be able to penetrate that layer and reach through to her skin, but she was certain that she did not want to take the chance. She had heard of DEUS-X; she knew what it could do. There might be a cure, and maybe the virus’s effects would even begin to fade after a while as her body developed its own immune response. But the one thing everyone agreed on where indoctrinal viruses were concerned was that once you’d had one in your blood, you were never quite the same again.

‘Look,’ Grelier said, with the cheerfulness of someone pointing out beautiful scenery, ‘you can still see the exhaust beams.’ He directed Rashmika’s attention to the double-edged sliver of light, like a highway in the sky. ‘Say what you like about our dean, but once he makes a plan, he sticks to it. It’s just such a shame he couldn’t bear to tell me about it first.’

‘I’d worry about that ship if I were you,’ Rashmika said. ‘It’s close enough to make trouble, even now. Are you sure you feel safe, Surgeon-General?’

‘They won’t try anything,’ Quaiche said. ‘Too much risk of hurting you. That’s why we’ve got you with us.’

Unlike Grelier and Rashmika, the dean was not wearing any kind of vacuum suit. He still travelled in his mobility couch, but now a transparent blister had been fitted into place around the couch’s upper surface, providing the necessary amenities of life-support. They heard his voice through their helmet speakers: it sounded just as thin and papery as usual.

‘We can’t all fit in my ship,’ Grelier said. ‘And I’m certainly not taking the risk of getting into their shuttle. We don’t know what booby traps might be aboard it.’

‘That’s all right,’ Quaiche said. ‘I’ve thought of that.’

Light hit their faces. Despite Grelier’s hold on her, Rashmika looked around. A third ship - one she had not seen before - was holding station on the side of the ramp. It was long and thin, like an arrow. It held itself upright, balancing on a single spike of thrust. Where had it come from? Rashmika was quite certain she would have noticed if another ship had approached the cathedral from any direction.

‘It was here all along,’ Quaiche said, as if reading her mind, ‘built into the architecture below us. I always knew I’d need it one day.’ She noticed now that he had something in his lap: a portable control deck of some kind. The bony tips of his fingers were skating over it, like a spiritualist’s over a Ouija board.

‘Your ship?’ Rashmika asked.

‘It’s the
Dominatrix
,’ Grelier interjected, as if this was supposed to mean something to her. ‘The ship that brought him to Hela in the first place. The one that rescued him when he got into trouble poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him.’

‘So it has history,’ Quaiche said. ‘All right, let’s get aboard. We haven’t got time to stand around admiring things. I told Haken we’d be at the holdfast within half an hour. I want to be there when the Guards declare her secured.’

‘You’ll never take the
Infinity
,’ Rashmika said.

A door opened in the side of Quaiche’s ship, exactly aligned with the side of the ramp. Quaiche steered his couch towards it, obviously intent on being the first aboard his private craft. Rashmika felt a tingle of apprehension: was he going to leave without them? She supposed anything was possible now: all the talk of safeguards, of having her along for the ride, might have been lies. As he had said in the garret, one era was ending and another beginning. Old loyalties - and possibly even rationality itself - could not be counted upon.

‘Wait for us,’ Grelier said.

‘Of course I’ll wait for you! Who else is going to keep me alive?’

The ship yawed away from the landing pad, leaving a metre-wide gap. Rashmika saw Quaiche’s fingers skate with panicked speed over the control board. The stabilising jets from the waiting ship stammered out in different directions: rapiers of purple-edged fire lasting a fraction of a second.

Glaur reached the repair shop. It was a lavish grotto of possible escape tools, all sparklingly clean and neatly racked. He could cut his way out of anything, given the equipment at hand. His only problem would be manhandling whatever he chose all the way back up the spiral staircase to the locked gate. And he would need space to use it safely, without injuring himself: not so simple given the tight spiral of the stairs. He appraised the tools: even given that constraint, there were still adequate possibilities. It would just take a little time, that was all. His gloved hands dithered over one tool, then another. Make the right choice: the one thing he didn’t want to have to do was come back down the stairs again, especially not while wearing the suit.

He looked back across the floor of Motive Power. Now that the idea of cutting his way out had occurred to him, he realised that he had no need to ascend the stairs at all. His only objective was to leave the Lady Morwenna by the quickest possible means: he had no possessions worth saving, no loved ones he needed to find and rescue, and there was - now that he thought about it properly - very little chance of finding a vehicle on the garage deck.

He could cut his way out right here, right now.

Glaur gathered the tools of his choice and walked across the floor to one of the transparent panels set into it. The ground was still oozing below: almost a twenty-metre drop, but that was a lot more palatable than going all the way back up to the next level and finding his way out by other means. He could cut through the glass and its associated grillework easily: all he needed was a means to lower himself to the ground.

He went back to the repair shop and found a spool of wire cabling. There was probably some rope somewhere, but he didn’t have time to hunt for it. The wire would have to do. He wouldn’t be asking very much of it, not in Hela’s gravity.

Back at the window in the floor, Glaur looked around for the nearest solid piece of machinery. There: the support stanchion for one of the catwalks, bolted solidly to the floor. There was more than enough cable to reach it.

He looped the line around the stanchion, then walked back to the glass panel. One end of the cable formed a convenient loop: he undid his suit utility belt and passed the loop through from one end, then refastened the belt securely.

He judged that the line would drop him to within three or four metres of the surface. The crudity of the arrangement offended Glaur’s engineering sensibilities, but he did not want to spend one minute longer than was absolutely necessary aboard the doomed cathedral.

He closed his helmet faceplate and made sure that the air was chugging in correctly. Then he sat on the floor, the glass panel between his legs, and turned on the cutter. Glaur plunged the blinding stiletto of the beam into the glass, and almost immediately saw the cold jet of escaping gas on the other side of the panel. Very shortly it would be a gale as all the air in the hall was sucked away. Emergency shutters would seal off the rest of the cathedral, but anyone still up there was probably on borrowed time already. It was possible, Glaur reflected, that he was the last man aboard the Lady Morwenna. The thought thrilled him: he had never expected fate to lay that kind of significance upon his life.

He carried on cutting, thinking of the stories he would tell.

FORTY-NINE

The Cathedral Guard had finished securing an entire district of the
Nostalgia for Infinity
. The bodies of dead Ultras lay all around them, smoking from weapons hits. There were one or two Cathedral Guard, but they were far outnumbered by the victims from the crew.

The Guards picked their way through the dead, poking them with the cherry-red muzzles of slug-guns and boser rifles. Lights burned from sconces in the corridor walls, casting a solemn ochre sheen on the fallen. On balance, the victims did not look very much like the usual image of Ultras. The majority were unaugmented: autopsies might reveal buried implants, but there was little sign of the flamboyant display of mechanical parts usually associated with Ultra crews. Most of these people, in fact, appeared to be baseline humans, just like the Cathedral Guard themselves. The only difference was that there were, amongst the dead, an unusual number of pigs. The Guards poked and prodded the pigs with particular interest: they did not see very many of them on Hela. What had they been doing, fighting alongside these humans, often in the same uniform? It was yet another mystery to add to the pile. Yet another problem for someone else to worry about.

‘Perhaps we’ll find Scorpio,’ one of the officers said to a colleague.

‘Scorpio?’

‘The pig that was running things when Seyfarth’s unit came aboard. They say there’s a special reward for the one who brings his body out of the ship. It’ll be difficult to miss: Seyfarth impaled him, here and here.’ He gestured to his collar bones.

The other officer kicked one of the pigs over, grateful for the helmet that meant he did not have to smell the carnage. ‘Let’s keep an eye out, then.’

The lights in the wall faded. The Cathedral Guard stepped through the bodies, only their helmet markers penetrating the darkness. Another part of the ship must have died; it was a wonder, really, that the lights had kept burning as long as they had.

But then they flickered back on again, as if to mock that assumption.

Something was wrong.

‘The ship’s losing control,’ Quaiche said. ‘This shouldn’t be happening. ’

His private vessel nudged closer to the pad. The gap was only a few centimetres.

‘No,’ Grelier said, with sudden insistence. ‘Don’t risk it. There’s obviously something wrong ...’

But Quaiche had seen his moment. He sped his couch towards the waiting airlock, pushing its speed to the maximum. For a long, lingering moment the spacecraft held perfect station. It looked as if he might make it, even if he had to cross a hand’s width of empty space. But then the
Dominatrix
lurched back again, its control jets firing chaotically. The gap enlarged: not centimetres now, but a good fraction of a metre. Quaiche began to slow down, realising his mistake. His hands worked like demons. But the gap was widening, and his couch was not going to stop in time.

The
Dominatrix
was now five or six metres from the landing stage, still desperately trying to orientate itself. It began to rotate, turning the open aperture of the airlock away from view.