Chasm City Page 14

  The two Ultras were a man and a women. They were both very thin, their near-skeletal frames encased in looms of exo-support machinery and prosthetics. They were both pale and high-cheekboned, with black lips and eyes that appeared to be outlined in kohl, lending them a doll-like, cadaverous look. Both had elaborate dark hair worked in a viper's nest of stiff locks. The man's arms were smoked glass, inlaid with glowing machines and luminous pulsing feed-lines, while the woman had an oblong hole right through her abdomen.

  "Don't let them freak you out," Cahuella whispered. "Freaking people out is part of their armoury of business techniques. You can bet the Captain sent down the two weirdest specimens he had, just to put us ill at ease."

  "He did a good job, in that case."

  "Trust me; I've dealt with Ultras. They're pussies, really."

  We ambled up the ramp. The woman, the one leaning against the doorframe, pulled herself upright and studied us with impassively pursed lips. "You're Cahuella?" she said.

  "Yeah, and this is Tanner. Tanner goes with me. That's not open to negotiation."

  She looked me over. "You're armed."

  "Yes," I said, only slightly unnerved that she had seen the gun through my clothes. "You're telling me you're not?"

  "We have our means. Step aboard, please."

  "The gun isn't a problem?"

  The woman's smirk was the first emotional response she had shown. "I don't seriously think so, no."

  Once we were aboard they retracted the ramp and closed the door. The ship had a cool medical ambience, all pale pastels and glassy machines. Two other Ultras waited aboard it, reclined in a pair of enormous command couches, nearly buried under readouts and delicate control stalks. The pilot and co-pilot were both naked, purple-skinned beings with impossibly dexterous fingers. They had the same stiff dreadlocks as the other two, but rather more per head.

  The woman with a hole in her gut said, "Take us up nice and easy, Pellegrino. We don't want our guests blacking out on us."

  I mouthed in Cahuella's direction, "We're going up?"

  He nodded back.

  "Enjoy it, Tanner. I'm going to. Word is I won't be able to leave the surface before too long-even the Ultras won't want to touch me."

  We were shown to a pair of vacant couches. Almost as soon as we were buckled in, the ship pulled itself aloft. Through transparent patches arranged around the walls I saw the jungle clearing dropping below until it looked like a single footprint, bathed in a smudge of light. There, far off towards one horizon, was a single spot of light which had to be the Reptile House. The rest of the jungle was ocean-black.

  "Why did you pick that clearing for our meeting?" asked the Ultra woman.

  "You'd have looked pretty stupid parking on top of a tree."

  "That's not what I mean. We could have provided our own landing space with minimal effort. But that clearing was significant, wasn't it?" The woman sounded as if the resolution to this line of enquiry could be of only passing interest to her. "We scanned it on our approach. There was something buried beneath it; a regularly-sided hollow space. Some kind of chamber, filled with machines."

  "We all have our little secrets," Cahuella said.

  The woman looked at him carefully, then flicked her wrist, dismissing the matter.

  Then the ship surged higher, the gee-force crushing me into my seat. I made a stoic effort not to show any kind of discomfort, but there was nothing pleasant about it. The Ultras all looked cool as ice, softly mouthing technical jargon at each other; airspeed and ascent vectors. The two who had met us had plugged themselves into their seats with thick silver umbilicals which presumably assisted their breathing and circulation during the ascent phase. We shrugged off the planet's atmosphere and kept climbing. By then we were over dayside. Sky's Edge looked blue-green and fragile; deceptively serene, just as it must have looked the day the Santiago first made orbit. From here there was no sign of war at all, until I saw the featherlike black trails of burning oilfields near the horizon.

  It was the first time I had ever seen such a view. I'd never been in space before now.

  "On finals for the Orvieto ," reported the pilot called Pellegrino.

  Their main ship came up fast. It was as dark and massive as a sleeping volcano; a chiselled cone four kilometres long. A lighthugger; that was what Ultras called their ships-sleek engines of night, capable of slicing through the void at only the tiniest of fractions below the speed of light. It was hard not to be impressed. The mechanisms which made that ship fly were more advanced than almost anything I would ever have experienced on Sky's Edge; more advanced than almost anything I could imagine.

  To the Ultras our planet must have seemed like some kind of experiment in social engineering: a time-capsule imperfectly preserving technologies and ideologies which were three or four centuries out of date. That was not all our own fault, of course. When the Flotilla had left Mercury at the end of the twenty-first century, the technologies on board had been cutting-edge. But the ships took a century and a half to crawl across space to Swan's system-during which time technology stampeded back around Sol, but remained locked in stasis aboard the Flotilla.

  By the time we landed, other worlds had developed near-light space travel, making our entire journey look like some pathetic, puritanical gesture of self-inflicted punishment.

  Eventually the fast ships arrived at Sky's Edge, their data caches pregnant with the technological templates that could have leap-frogged us into the present, had we wished.

  But by then we were at war.

  We knew what could be achieved, but we lacked the time or resources to duplicate what had been achieved elsewhere, or the planetary finances to buy off-the-shelf miracles from passing traders. The only occasions when we bought any new technologies was when they had some direct military application, and even then it almost bankrupted us. Instead, we fought centuries-long wars with infantry, tanks, jet fighters, chemical bombs and crude nuclear devices; only very rarely graduating to such giddy heights as particle-weapons or nano-tech-inspired gadgetry.

  No wonder the Ultras had treated us with such ill-concealed contempt. We were savages compared to them, and the hardest thing of all was the fact that we knew it to be true.

  We docked inside the Orvieto .

  Inside, it was like a much larger version of the shuttle, all twisting pastel passages reeking of antiseptic purity. The Ultras had arranged gravity by spinning parts of their ship within the outer hull; it was slightly heavier than on Sky's Edge, but the effort was no worse than walking around with a heavy backpack. The lighthugger was also a ramliner: a passenger-carrying vessel outfitted with thousands of reefersleep berths in her belly. Some people were already being brought aboard; wide-awake aristocrats complaining loudly about the way they were being treated. The Ultras seemed not to care. The aristocrats must have paid well for the privilege of riding the Orvieto to wherever its next destination was, but to the Ultras they were still savages-just marginally cleaner and richer ones.

  We were shown to the Captain.

  He sat on an enormous powered throne, suspended on an articulated boom so that he could move throughout the bridge's vast three-dimensional space. Other senior crew were riding similar seats, but they carefully steered away from us when we entered, moving towards displays set into the walls which showed intricate schematics. Cahuella and I stood on a low-railed extensible catwalk which jutted halfway into the bridge.

  "Mister . . . Cahuella," said the man in the throne, by way of greeting. "Welcome aboard my vessel. I am Captain Orcagna."

  Captain Orcagna was only slightly less impressive than his ship. He was dressed from neck to foot in glossy black leather, his feet in knee-length black boots with pointed toes. His hands, which he steepled beneath his chin, were gloved in black. His head was perched above the high collar of his black tunic like an egg. Unlike his crew he was completely bald, utterly hairless. His unlined, characterless face could almost have belonged to a child-or a corpse. His voice was
high, almost feminine.

  "And you are?" he said, nodding in my direction.

  "Tanner Mirabel," Cahuella said, before I had a chance to speak. "My personal security specialist. Where I go, Tanner goes. That's not . . ."

  ". . . open to negotiation. Yes, I gathered." Absently, Orcagna glanced at something in mid-air, which only he could see. "Tanner Mirabel . . . yes. A soldier once, I see-until you moved into Cahuella's employment. Confide in me: are you a man entirely without ethics, Mirabel, or are you only gravely ignorant of the kind of man you work for?"

  Again, Cahuella answered. "It's not his job to lose sleep, Orcagna."

  "But would he anyway, if he knew?" Orcagna looked at me again, but there was nothing much to be read into his expression. We might even have been talking to a puppet driven by a disembodied intelligence running on the ship's computer net. "Tell me, Mirabel . . . are you aware that the man you work for is regarded as a war criminal in some quarters?"

  "Only by hypocrites happy to buy weapons from him, as long as he doesn't sell to anyone else."

  "A level killing field is so much better than the alternative," Cahuella said. It was one of his favourite sayings.

  "But you don't just sell weapons," Orcagna said. Once again he seemed to be viewing something hidden from us. "You steal and kill for them. Documentary evidence implicates you in at least thirty murders on Sky's Edge, all connected with the arms black market. On three occasions you were responsible for the redistribution of weapons which had been decommissioned under peace agreements. Indirectly, you can be shown to have prolonged-even reignited-four or five local territorial disputes which had been close to negotiated settlement. Tens of thousands of lives have been lost through your actions." Cahuella started to protest at that point, but Orcagna was having none of it. "You are a man driven utterly by profit; completely devoid of morals or any fundamental sense of right and wrong. You are a man enthralled by the reptilian . . . perhaps because in reptiles you see your own reflected self, and at heart you are infinitely vain." Orcagna stroked his chin, and then allowed a faint smile. "In short, therefore, you are a man much like myself . . . someone with whom I believe I can do business." His gaze snapped to me again. "But tell me, Mirabel-why do you work for him? I've seen nothing in your history to suggest that you have much in common with your employer."

  "He pays me."

  "That's all?"

  "He's never asked me to do anything I wouldn't do. I'm his security specialist. I protect him and those around him. I've taken bullets for him. Laser impacts. Sometimes I set up deals and meet potential new suppliers. That's dangerous work, too. But what happens to the guns after they've changed hands is no concern of mine."

  "Mm." He touched his little finger to the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps it should be."

  I turned to Cahuella. "Is there a point to this meeting?"

  "Yes, as always," Orcagna snapped. "Trade, of course, you tiresome man. Why else do you think I would risk contaminating my ship with planetary dirt?"

  So it was a business meeting after all.

  "What are you selling?" I asked.

  "Oh, the usual-weaponry. That's all your master ever wants from us. It's the usual local attitude. Time and again, my trading associates have offered your planet access to the longevity techniques commonplace on other worlds, but on each occasion the offer has been declined in favour of sordid military goods . . ."

  "That's because what you ask for the longevity tech would bankrupt half the Peninsula," Cahuella said. "It'd put quite a dent in my assets, too."

  "Not as big a dent as death," Orcagna mused. "Still; it's your funeral. Something I have to say, though: whatever we give you, look after it, will you? It would be quite unfortunate if it were to fall into the wrong hands again."

  Cahuella sighed. "It's not my fault if terrorists rob my clients."

  The incident he was talking about had happened a month earlier. Amongst those who knew something about the transactional web of black market commerce on Sky's Edge, it was something of a talking point even now. I had set up the deal with a legitimate, treaty-abiding military faction. The exchange had been conducted through an elaborate series of fronts, with the ultimate source of the arms-Cahuella-discreetly concealed. I had handled the swap, too, conducted in a clearing similar to the one where the Ultras had met us-and that was where my involvement ended. But someone had tipped off one of the less-legitimate factions about the arms transfer, and they had ambushed the first faction on their way home from the deal.

  Cahuella called the new faction terrorists, but that was to place too great a distinction between them and their legitimate victims. In a war in which the rules of engagement and the definitions of criminality changed by the week, what distinguished a legitimate faction from a less-legitimate one was often only the quality of the former's legal advice. Alliances were always shifting, past actions constantly being rewritten to cast a revisionist light on the participants. It was true that Cahuella was regarded as a war criminal now by many observers. In a century, they might be fêting him as a hero . . . me his trusty man-at-arms.

  Stranger things had happened.

  But it would be very hard to see the outcome of that terrorist ambush in anything but a negative light. Within a week of the ambush, they had used the same stolen weapons to murder most of an aristocratic family in Nueva Santiago.

  "I don't remember the family's name."

  "Reivich, or something," Cahuella said. "But listen. Those terrorists were animals, agreed. If I could, I'd skin them for wallpaper and make furniture out their bones. But that doesn't mean I'm overflowing with sympathy for Reivich's clan. They were rich enough to get off-world. The whole planet's a shithole. They want somewhere safe to live, there's a whole galaxy out there."

  "We have some intelligence that might interest you," said Orcagna. "The youngest surviving son-Argent Reivich-has sworn vengeance against you."

  "Sworn vengeance. What is this, a morality play?" Cahuella held out a hand in front of him. "Hey, look. I'm trembling."

  "It doesn't mean anything," I said. "If I had thought it was worth bothering you about, you'd already have known. That's another thing you pay me for: so you don't have to worry about every crank with a grudge against us."

  "But we don't think the fellow is, as you say, a crank." Orcagna examined his black-gloved fingers, pulling each sequentially until there was a tiny pop. "Our intelligence suggests that the gentleman has recovered weapons from the same militia which murdered his family. Heavy-particle armaments-suitable for a full-scale assault against a fortified stronghold. We've detected signatures from these devices, indicating that they are still operational." The Ultra paused, then added, almost casually, "It may amuse you to know that the signatures are moving south, down the Peninsula, towards the Reptile House."

  "Give the positions to me," I said. "I'll meet the kid and find out what he wants. It's possible he just wants to negotiate more arms-he may not have fingered you as the supplier."

  "Yeah," Cahuella said. "And I deal in fine wines. Forget it, Tanner. You think I need someone like you to handle a louse like Reivich? You don't send a pro against an amateur." To Orcagna, he said, "He's up country, you say? How far, what kind of territory?"

  "That information can, of course, be provided."

  "Fucking bloodsucker." For a moment his face was blank, then he smiled and pointed at the Ultra. "I like you, I really like you. You're a fucking leech. Name your price, then. I don't need to know exactly where he is. Give me a positional fix accurate to-oh-a few kilometres. Otherwise it just wouldn't be fun, would it?"

  "What the hell are you thinking of?" The words had jumped out of my mouth before I had time to censor them. "Reivich may be inexperienced, but that doesn't mean he isn't dangerous-especially if he has the kind of weapons the militia used against his family."

  "So it'll be sporting, then. A real safari. Maybe we'll catch us a hamadryad while we're at it."

  "You like sport," Orcagna said, kn
owingly.

  I understood it, then. If Cahuella had not had this audience, he would never have acted like this. If we'd been back in the Reptile House, alone, he would have done the logical thing: ordered me or one of the men under me to take Reivich out with no more ceremony than flushing a toilet. It would have been beneath him to waste his time with someone like Reivich. But in front of the Ultras he could not be seen to show any weakness. He had to play the hunter.

  When all was over; when our ambush against Reivich had failed, and when Gitta had been murdered, Cahuella with her, and Dieterling and myself injured, one thing became clearer than anything I had ever known in my life.

  It was my fault.

  I had allowed Gitta to die through my ineptitude. I had allowed Cahuella to die at the same time. The two deaths were horribly wedded. And Reivich, his hands bloodied with the wife of the man he had really sworn vengeance against, had walked away unharmed, valiant. He must have thought Cahuella would survive, too-his wounds couldn't have seemed as life-threatening as mine. Had Cahuella survived, Reivich would have inflicted maximum pain on him over the maximum span of time; a victory far less trivial than simply killing the man. In Reivich's plan, Cahuella would have had the rest of his life to miss Gitta. The pain of that loss would have been beyond words. I think she was the only living creature in the universe he was capable of loving.

  But Reivich had taken her from me instead.

  I thought of the way Cahuella had laughed at Reivich swearing vengeance. There had always been a fine line between the absurd and the chivalric. But that was exactly what I did: swearing that I would dedicate the rest of my life to killing Reivich; avenging Gitta. If someone had told me then that I would have to die before bringing death to Reivich, I think I would have quietly accepted that as part of the bargain.

  In Nueva Valparaiso he had slipped through my fingers. At that point I'd been forced to take the gravest of decisions-whether to abandon Reivich or continue chasing him beyond the system entirely.