One minute per minute, one day at a time.
TWENTY-ONE
VACHSS STATION, VIJAYA ORBIT, 2604 AD
Labyrinth was the link, Roger realised, as he and his wonderful ship burst into realspace in the vicinity of his destination, Vachss Station. He had time to spare before contacting the orbital became mandatory. At this distance, it would not challenge him for ten minutes: that was protocol, though one in need of revision, given the existence and unknown intentions of Schenck and his renegade Pilot fleet.
Roger allowed himself to drift in a disjunctive trance, having released conjunction with his beloved ship, needing to think by himself.
It has to be Labyrinth.
The city world itself, when he had been granted a day’s leave from Tangleknot, had prompted him to visit the Logos Library, where Ro McNamara had granted him insight into past events unknown to all but the most dedicated history scholars. And his beautiful ship was grown parthenogenetically with Labyrinth’s connivance, heir to his father’s ship but not identical to it, with latent memories only just becoming accessible to Roger now that he-and-ship were far from home, on their first operational mission.
He had access to knowledge that no one would expect him to have, giving him a different perspective on the events he was caught up in – a perspective predisposing him to take action, he assumed, in ways that Labyrinth itself would approve of.
Perhaps it was the clearly benign nature of the city-world that made questioning its purpose seem pointless; or perhaps even Pilotkind possessed mental blindspots.
Whether this trip had hidden objectives or was simply the jaunt it appeared to be – Jed was clearly not guilty of the original charges, and the Vachss Station authorities just needed to complete the formalities and release him into another Pilot’s temporary, nominal care – he would try to work out later. For now, it was the newly uncovered secret memories that occupied his attention.
The first sequence of Dad’s memory had come to Roger shortly after leaving Labyrinth, as he-and-ship entered the violet-edged vastness that was Spiderblood Drift.
sequence [[[
Fear and hysteria, laughing and crying as he drifts in blazing space amid a billion suns, a thin quickglass suit protecting him from vacuum, while he is overwhelmed by the beauty of the galactic core.
Oh, my love. I’ve missed you.
She is coming, he knows.
My name is Carl Blackstone, and I’m alive!
It is the desperate presumption of a mote, the ego struggling to maintain existence within transcendent immensity, as he revolves and the thousand-lightyear needle comes into view, the jet spurting from the galaxy’s heart, the first time any Pilot or human has seen the thing with a chance of reporting back on its existence.
Everyone else witnessing the jet has been suborned by the darkness.
Or they have died.
]]]
It had been a disconcerting memory-flash, a prelude to a detailed remembrance of events happening to his father ten subjective days before he was set adrift to die.
sequence [[[
Fairwell Rotunda, one of the lobbies within the thirteen-deck structure: that is the rendezvous point. Carl Blackstone watches several tourists admire the deep-orange quickglass opulence, but by the standards of Pneumos City this is something of a dive: the visitors just aren’t used to Molsin’s superior standards.
He likes this world.
Churchgoers are celebrating a quiet ceremony – most likely praying for a safe voyage – in a small group in the corner. Their foreheads are tattooed with three glistening dots that form an equilateral triangle enclosing a golden symboclass="underline" γ. This is the five hundred and seventh anniversary, according to his tu-ring, of the mythical event that eventually produced the Church of Equilateral Redemption, a cult so small that Carl is surprised to find the knowledge-base entry.
A woman walks over, presumably Xala, his contact. Her head is shaven, sporting motile tattoos.
‘Devlin Cantrelle?’ she asks.
‘That’s, er, me.’ Carl allows nerves to surface in his voice. ‘Looking to buy—’
‘Passage to Nerokal Tertius.’ Smart-ink unicorns slide across her scalp. ‘The xeno ruins. And you’re a teacher with Gregor TechNet.’
‘How—? Yes.’
Xala’s smartlenses grow opaque, then clear.
‘Orbital ascent in fifty minutes.’
‘You’re travelling too?’ asks Carl.
The others are a family with defeated-looking eyes, a group of dark-suited, hard-faced men playing virtual cards around a table, and a seventh man, scar-heavy, with callused knuckles.
‘Along with them.’ She gestures towards the hard men. ‘The priests.’
‘Priests,’ says Carl.
‘We don’t pry into reasons. Not even yours, Mr Cantrelle.’
‘Um, right. Yes.’
He has already paid for the trip by clandestine transfer. There was always a chance she would simply not turn up; but it looks as though the offer might be real, at least up to a point.
The Admiralty Council has, for good security reasons, placed a strict embargo on Nerokal Tertius. So a black-market outfit offering trips to that location implies one of several possibilities, none of which can be legitimate.
Hence his presence here.
The people in the lobby stir as a presence enters, and the shock makes Carl want to throw up, because she can not be here: it is not possible. Not her.
Lianna Kaufmann was the person he loved, or possibly just worshipped when he was a neophyte, a Pilot Candidate who ostensibly became one of the Shipless during Graduation, while secretly gaining a red-trimmed black vessel with more power and manoeuvrability than he had thought possible. He had been recruited by Max Gould himself while still at the Academy, well in advance of that shaming public ceremony when Lianna saw Carl Blackstone apparently failing to gain any ship at all.
She is wearing a black, gold-edged cape with her black jump-suit. Old school and formal. But there is no time to wonder what she is doing here, because if she sees him the operation is blown. He gestures to the quickglass with the gotta-pee sign (as it’s usually known), and as the chamber opens, he tumbles inside. It seals up fast.
Before she glimpsed him, he thinks.
His tu-ring hides him from internal surveillance – unless Li-anna’s tu-ring has similar capabilities, he is now hidden from her. It also renders a section of the wall transparent, one-way, so he can see what Lianna does next.
Which is to point at a nervous-looking man and say: ‘That’s the one,’ as proctors enter the room, raising weaponised gauntlets. The man tumbles to the floor unconscious. Lianna crouches down, running her hand along the suspect’s clothing. ‘There. And there, woven into the material.’
A smuggler.
When the proctors have bound him with glistening membrane, they place the prisoner on a frictionless slide-sheet and drag him away with ease, while their officer ceremonially thanks Lianna, who says: ‘My pleasure, and I was happy to illustrate the point. So if we can return to the talks?’
‘This way, Pilot.’
There is much conversation when they have left – not many people get to see a real Pilot, never mind like this – while blood begins to return to certain faces, including Xala’s.
Lianna. Oh, Lianna.
Their friend Soo Lin used to say that strength means swallowing bitterness.
Concentrate.
‘Five minutes to detachment, everyone,’ announces Xala.
The fake priest with the scarred features and hardened knuckles approaches the small family group. ‘Hey, kids. You looking forward to this?’ And, as they shrink back: ‘What are you looking at? Are you trying to insult me?’
It is a good time to slip out of a hiding-place, while no one is looking this way. Carl does so, then walks openly towards the man – mental label Scarface; unkind but that is not the point – to get his attention.