Terminal World (79 page)

She already had a gun aimed at him. She fired it point blank into one of his steam-pressure dials. Then she fired again, and again, directing each shot into a different part of him. Tulwar staggered back, the umbilical sagging behind him. A jet of hot white vapour speared out of his belly, only adding more steam to the room.

‘Those first three were for Fray,’ Meroka said, stepping out of the crate, flinging open her coat, discarding one gun and drawing another. ‘The rest’re on me.’ She aimed something heavy and black and semi-automatic and opened up on him. Now he was geysering steam in six or seven directions, squealing like a kettle on the boil. He raised his wooden arm against her and she turned it into a splintered, fingerless stump. Tulwar collapsed back onto the thick tail of his umbilical.

The double doors opened. From his vantage point he made out two or three of his men coming back into the room, drawn by the ruction. His eyes were watering and he couldn’t make them out clearly. One of them was trying to bat the steam away from his face. Another pointed a gun barrel vaguely in his direction, and then swung it onto Meroka.

‘Shoot!’ Tulwar cried.

The man - he didn’t even know his name, couldn’t recognise his face either - only had time to fire off one shot before Meroka took care of him and whoever else had come through the door. The bodies - there were three, he was sure of it now - slumped to the ground, their guns clattering as they hit the hard wooden flooring.

‘Fray’s dead,’ he said, the words coming out wet and bloody, something bubbling down in his windpipe.

‘No,’ Meroka answered, pausing to change a magazine. ‘Fray’s just doing some babysitting. The last time I saw him he was just fine. Ain’t that a bummer? Exactly the news you don’t want to hear on your deathbed.’

She strolled to the doors, kicked them shut again and made a point of securing the internal lock. Then she started shooting him again, concentrating on his legs this time.

There was a splinter in one eye and spitting steam in the other, each as painful as the other, but he still had enough vision to see the other crates opening up, the figures coming out. Two thin men, both of whom he knew, neither of whom he’d expected to see alive again. Malkin was one; Quillon the other.

‘No!’ he said, scratching at the air with his good hand, like a man beset by night-terrors.

Malkin reached down into the straw and pulled out a massive-barrelled rifle. Still standing up in the crate, he aimed the rifle at the calliope and punched booming holes through the steam. Took his sweet time cocking, aiming and firing each time, as if there was no reason to hurry any of this. The steam was rocketing out of Tulwar now. It was doing something funny to the music, making it speed up. Deep in the calliope, the pressure loss - or maybe the shots Malkin had drilled into it - was having some detrimental effect on its regulator.

Quillon emerged from his crate, long legs articulating fluidly as he cleared the rim and stepped onto the floor. The angel was the only one who didn’t seem to have a weapon on him.

‘That’s enough,’ he called, over the accelerating music.

‘Spoil our fun, Cutter,’ Meroka said. ‘That’s you all the way.’ But she made a show of holstering the semi-automatic weapon, letting her coat flap closed again. Malkin stood behind her, the rifle barrel tipped up towards the ceiling.

Quillon walked slowly over to Tulwar and then knelt down, picking his spot carefully so that the steam jets missed him.

‘It didn’t have to happen like this,’ he said, speaking so quietly, so slowly and calmly that it was as if he didn’t hear the music at all. ‘We came back to the city ready to trust you. All you had to do was help the people when they most needed it. No one was asking for the world. No one was asking for anything you couldn’t deliver.’

Tulwar spat blood and something horrible that he wasn’t sure was ever meant to come up through his throat. ‘Like you ever cared, angel. Like this was ever about anything but your own survival.’

‘Maybe that was true once,’ Quillon said. ‘But I moved on. Realised I wasn’t the centre of my own universe. Wasn’t even anywhere near the centre. Pity you didn’t have it in you to make the same adjustment.’ He tilted his head left and tight, taking in what was left of Tulwar, not looking too encouraged by what he saw. ‘Still, water under the bridge now. You want us to change the reel?’

The music was now a skirling, screaming cacophony.

‘You’re the doctor,’ Tulwar said. ‘Put me out of my misery.’

Quillon began to stand up. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and for a moment there was regret on the otherwise stiff mask of his face. ‘I appear to have forgotten my bag.’

But even as he was rising to his feet, something seemed to give way inside him. He collapsed to his knees and retched a spray of blood into Tulwar’s face. Quillon reached up to shield his mouth, coughing again but this time catching most of it in his hand. He looked down at the red mess on his palm with a kind of apologetic bemusement, as if this was exactly the wrong thing to have done in polite company.

‘Cutter,’ Meroka said. ‘You don’t sound too good there.’

‘Looks like we might both be doing well to make it to sundown,’ Tulwar said.

‘I might,’ Quillon said, and wiped a sleeve across the bloodied gash of his mouth. ‘You’ll be doing well to make it through the next five minutes.’

‘Why settle for minutes?’ Meroka said, drawing and aiming the gun.

 

A great deal happened afterwards, but for much of it he was at best semi-conscious, cognisant of movement and noise and - beyond a sense that events of significance were taking place - completely unable to process the information in a coherent manner. He was lying on the ground for much of the time, with someone’s coat forming a pillow under his head, his own coat parted so that his friends might assess the damage he had worked so assiduously to conceal from them. He heard gunfire, too loud and echoing to be outside the bathhouse, but not coming from within the room itself, and raised voices, shouts and arguments and low, conspiratorial murmurs. He fell in and out of black dreamlessness, each time renewing his determination not to fall into unconsciousness, each time failing. He was injured, possibly fatally, but he did not want to die. He had been present at the start of something he wished to see to its conclusion. He had made promises, and the thought of breaking them was worse than the fear of death.

But he had been shot, and he was already weak. In the narrowing moments of clear, rational thought he grasped that these were not happy bedfellows. He was also someone for whom even the best human medicine was essentially useless.

He slipped between moments, and then a figure assumed solidity before him.

‘Quillon, you dumb son of a bitch. Why didn’t you tell us?’

His own laughter surprised him. ‘Because we might have turned around.’

‘Just because you were hit?’

‘I thought so.’

‘Not while I was on watch. We’d come that far, I’d have shot you there and then.’

‘Just as well I didn’t tell you, then, isn’t it?’

Meroka glanced aside. She was swimming in and out of focus, for all that the room was now free of steam. ‘You found that bag of his yet?’

‘It’s here.’

The bandaged apparition that came into view was, impossibly, Curtana. He knew then that he must be hallucinating, for there was no way at all that she could have found the strength to leave her bed, not with the injuries she had sustained. But the realisation that he was delirious only strengthened the apparition’s hold on reality. It leaned in closer and spoke softly.

‘Quillon. Listen carefully. There must be something in here, something in these medicines, that can help you. I want you to tell me what it is, and how we use it.’

‘No use,’ he said, smiling at the illusion’s persistence. ‘Internal bleeding. Nothing you can do.’

‘Have I formally relieved you of duties caring for the crew of
Painted Lady?’

So the phantom wasn’t perfect. It didn’t realise what had happened the night before. Almost sorry to shatter the delusion, he said, ‘The ship’s gone. It burned. No more
Painted Lady.’

‘Yes. Very good. None of which matters a damn to me when I still have my crew, one of whom needs you to keep him alive. The bag, Doctor. The drugs. Tell me what I need to do.’

‘There’s nothing you can do.’

Her voice turned to a snarl. ‘I am Captain Curtana of the rapid scout
Painted Lady
. You are my physician, and I am ordering you to treat yourself.’

Again he laughed, but this time at his own supine willingness to go along with the charade. ‘Open the bag. The second pouch ...’ He watched her dig through the contents. ‘Yes, that one. Take out the vials.’

She held them up for inspection. ‘Which one?’

‘On the right. My right. Now find the clean syringe and uncap the needle.’

He faded; eternities passed and Curtana was there again, with the syringe plunged into the vial. ‘How much, Doctor?’

‘To the first graduation. Find a vein in my arm and ...’ He slipped out of consciousness again.

He came around sharper, everything back in focus, including the pain of having been shot. Remarkably, Curtana was still there talking to him. ‘I’ve done it,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s enough for now. If it isn’t, you’d better tell me what else I need to do. I’m afraid it might be a few hours before we can find someone I’d trust to operate on you.’

For the first time since Tulwar’s death he felt as if his thoughts were moving in rational patterns. ‘How are you?’

‘Better than my ship.’

‘They shouldn’t have let you out of the infirmary.’

‘They didn’t want to. But with all the noise you were making down here, it’s not as if the infirmary felt like the safest place in the city any more.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘I see you settled your grievance with Tulwar.’

‘Yes. But he owes Spearpoint much more than he could ever repay just by dying. He stole the drugs it cost us lives and ships to bring here. What’s happening now?’

‘A period of transition, I think you’d best call it. My people are impressing on Tulwar’s people the wisdom of surrender and a rapid shift of allegiance. I’m counting on most of them being opportunist thugs who’ll recognise a good thing when it’s offered to them.’

‘A bitter pill to swallow, though. Suddenly being told they’re working for Swarm.’

‘At least I’m giving them the choice.’

‘Yes. And the alternative is ... what, exactly? Fight you?’

She gave a spirited grin. ‘They can try.’

‘You have almost no guns, after crossing the zone. Nor will any ship that makes it into Spearpoint by that approach.’

‘Whisper it, Doctor. At the moment we’re hanging on to the illusion of superiority by our fingernails. They think we’re stronger than we really are.’

‘Tulwar knew what the zone would do to Swarm’s equipment.’

‘Tulwar’s dead. Most of his men are fools who barely know there’s a world beyond Spearpoint.’ Her face hardened with resolve. ‘Anyway, we’re not powerless. We still have trained men, the crews of two ships, and they’re very good with crossbows and edged weapons. I invite anyone doubting this to put it to the test. Besides, there’s another factor. We still have the rest of Swarm, and the rest of Swarm is still very much armed.’

‘But on the wrong side of the zone.’

‘For now. But the landscape’s changing. Tulwar’s militia - our militia, now - have at least some access to Serum-15. It means they can push into the lower levels of the city, places denied to them before. The Skulls are in retreat - a surge of resistance is the last thing they were expecting. There’s still a long way to go, and it may be days or weeks before we see any change in the control of the surrounding lands. But it will happen, and when it does there will be no military impediment to a low-level approach, skirting beneath the zone boundary. It’ll still be difficult, and there may be pockets of resistance. Maybe more than pockets. But we’ll be able to keep our engines running the whole way in, and we’ll still have working guns when we dock.’

‘Days or weeks. You think we can hold out that long?’

‘There’s another factor that means we may not even have to. While you were gone there’ve been ... negotiations, I suppose you’d call them. We’ve been in contact with a faction of angels. They saw what happened to the first two ships and sent an envoy out to meet with the rest of Swarm. The angel was nearly dead by the time it reached
Purple Emperor:
it had been forced to fly much higher than they usually do, to skirt the top of the zone, and its propulsion pack had failed not long after it left Spearpoint. Frozen half to death and almost too weak to fly. But it got to us, and opened a channel of communications with the Celestial Levels.’

‘It’s angels from the Celestial Levels who are trying to occupy Spearpoint from above.’

‘Not all of them, Quillon - you told us as much yourself. There must still be some angels up there you and I can trust, or they wouldn’t have sent someone down to warn you to get out of the city.’

‘That was a while ago.’

‘I know, and it’s anyone’s guess as to how much influence the pacifists still have over the warmongers. But they wouldn’t have sent that angel on a near-suicidal flight for nothing. The warmongers have overstretched themselves, trying to occupy the lower levels.’ Doubt crossed her face for a second. ‘That’s what the angels are telling us, anyway.’

‘And they’d have no reason to lie, not when there’s so little at stake.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they are lying, saying they can guarantee the fleet’s security if it comes in high, rather than low. But here’s the thing. Sooner or later everything boils down to trust. You just have to make that leap of faith. In fact it’s sort of the point. If there were cast-iron guarantees, you wouldn’t need trust in the first place.’

‘So Ricasso will risk all of Swarm on a promise, from angels he’s never dealt with before today?’