‘It wasn’t difficult. We’ll lash together the rovers, make a travelling observation platform.’
‘And sleep? And blinking?’
‘You’re the physician,’ Quaiche had said. ‘You figure it out.’ And figure it out he had. Sleep could be banished with drugs and neurosurgery, coupled with a little dialysis to mop up fatigue poisons. He had taken care of the blinking as well.
‘Ironic, really,’ Grelier had observed to Quaiche. ‘This is what she threatened you with in the scrimshaw suit: no sleep and an unchanging view of reality. Yet now you welcome it.’
‘Things changed,’ Quaiche had said.
Now, standing in the garret, the years collapsed away. For Grelier, time had passed in a series of episodic snapshots, for he was only revived from reefersleep when Quaiche had some immediate need of him. He remembered that first slow circumnavigation, keeping pace with Haldora, the rovers lashed together like a raft. A year or two later another ship had arrived: more Ultras, drawn by the faint flash of energy from the dying Gnostic Ascension. They were curious, naturally cautious. They kept their ship at a safe distance and sent down emissaries in expendable vehicles. Quaiche traded with them for parts and services, offering scuttler relics in return.
A decade or two later, following trade exchanges with the first ship, another had arrived. They were just as wary, just as keen to trade. The scuttler relics were exactly what the market wanted. And this time the ship was willing to offer more than components: there were sleepers in its belly, disaffected émigrés from some colony neither Quaiche nor Grelier had ever heard of. The mystery of Hela — the rumours of miracle — had drawn them across the light-years.
Quaiche had his first disciples.
Thousands more had arrived. Tens of thousands, then hundreds. For the Ultras, Hela was now a lucrative stopover on the strung-out, fragile web of interstellar commerce. The core worlds, the old places of trade, were now out of bounds, touched by plague and war. Lately, perhaps, by something worse than either. It was difficult to telclass="underline" very few ships were making it out to Hela from those places now. When they did, they brought with them confused stories of things emerging from interstellar space, fiercely mechanical things, implacable and old, that ripped through worlds, engorging themselves on organic life, but which were themselves no more alive than clocks or orreries. Those who came to Hela now came not only to witness the miraculous vanishings, but because they believed that they lived near the end of time and that Hela was a point of culmination, a place of final pilgrimage.
The Ultras brought them as paid cargo in their ships and pretended to have no interest in the local situation beyond its immediate commercial value. For some, this was probably true, but Grelier knew Ultras better than most and he believed that lately he had seen something in their eyes — a fear that had nothing to do with the size of their profit margins and everything to do with their own survival. They had seen things as well, he presumed. Glimpses, perhaps: phantoms stalking the edge of human space. For years they must have dismissed these as travellers’ tales, but now, as news from the core colonies stopped arriving, they were beginning to wonder.
There were Ultras on Hela now. Under the terms of trade, their lighthugger starships were not permitted to come close to either Haldora or its inhabited moon. They congregated in a parking swarm on the edge of the system, dispatching smaller shuttles to Hela. Representatives of the churches inspected these shuttles, ensuring that they carried no recording or scanning equipment pointed at Haldora. It was a gesture more than anything, one that could have been easily circumvented, but the Ultras were surprisingly pliant. They wanted to play along, for they needed the business.
Quaiche was completing his dealings with an Ultra when Grelier arrived in the garret. ‘Thank you, Captain, for your time,’ he said, his ghost of a voice rising in grey spirals from the life-support couch.
‘I’m sorry we weren’t able to come to an agreement,’ the Ultra replied, ‘but you appreciate that the safety of my ship must be my first priority. We are all aware of what happened to the Gnostic Ascension.’
Quaiche spread his thin-boned fingers by way of sympathy. ‘Awful business. I was lucky to survive.’
‘So we gather.’
The couch angled towards Grelier. ‘Surgeon-General Grelier… might I introduce Captain Basquiat of the lighthugger Bride of the Wind?’
Grelier bowed his head politely at Quaiche’s new guest. The Ultra was not as extreme as some that Grelier had encountered, but still odd and unsettling by baseline standards. He was very thin and colourless, like some desiccated weather-bleached insect, but propped upright in a blood-red support skeleton ornamented with silver lilies. A very large moth accompanied the Ultra: it fluttered before his face, fanning it.
‘My pleasure,’ Grelier said, placing down the medical kit with its cargo of blood-filled syringes. ‘I hope you had a nice time on Hela.’
‘Our visit was fruitful, Surgeon-General. It wasn’t possible to accommodate the last of Dean Quaiche’s wishes, but otherwise, I believe both parties are satisfied with proceedings.’
‘And the other small matter we discussed?’ Quaiche asked.
‘The reefersleep fatalities? Yes, we have around two dozen brain-dead cases. In better times we might have been able to restore neural structure with the right sort of medichine intervention. Not now, however.’
‘We’d be happy to take them off your hands,’ Grelier said. ‘Free up the casket slots for the living.’
The Ultra flicked the moth away from his lips. ‘You have a particular use for these vegetables?’
‘The surgeon-general takes an interest in their cases,’ Quaiche said, interrupting before Grelier had a chance to say anything. ‘He likes to attempt experimental neural rescripting procedures, don’t you, Grelier?’ He looked away sharply, not waiting for an answer. ‘Now, Captain — do you need any special assistance in returning to your ship?’
‘None that I am aware of, thank you.’
Grelier looked out of the east-facing window of the garret. At the other end of the ridged roof of the main hall was a landing pad, on which a small shuttle was parked. It was the bright yellow-green of a stick insect.
‘Godspeed back to the parking swarm, Captain. We await transhipment of those unfortunate casket victims. And I look forward to doing business with you on another occasion.’
The captain turned to walk out, but paused before leaving. He had noticed the scrimshaw suit for the first time, Grelier thought. It was always there, standing in the corner of the room like a silent extra guest. The captain stared at it, his moth fluttering orbits around his head, then continued on his way. He could have no idea of the dreadful significance it represented to Quaiche: the final resting place of Morwenna and an ever-present reminder of what the first vanishing had cost him.
Grelier waited until he was certain the Ultra was not coming back. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked. ‘The extra stuff he “couldn’t accommodate”?’
‘The usual negotiations,’ Quaiche said, as if the matter was beneath him. ‘Count yourself lucky that you’ll get your vegetables. Now — Bloodwork, eh? How did it go?’
‘Wait a moment.’ Grelier moved to one wall and worked a brass-handled lever. The jalousies folded shut, admitting only narrow wedges of light. Then he bent down over Quaiche and removed the sunglasses. Quaiche normally kept them on during his negotiations: partly to protect his eyes against glare, but also because without them he was not a pretty sight. Of course, that was precisely the reason he sometimes chose not to wear them, as well.