The Baba Yaga (6 page)

T
HE SKY WAS
blue and the water on the lagoon calm and green. The dark shapes of strange fish could be seen below the surface, shadowy and mysterious, darting about on weird purposes impenetrable to the human mind. At Andrei’s bidding, Walker stopped the engine on the little boat, and then watched patiently as he arranged himself for an afternoon’s quiet fishing. He unpacked his kit, assembled his rod and wire, unfolded a rickety canvas deckchair, and settled down comfortably. With a flick of his wrist, the music stored on the main datacore in the cabin was activated, and Andrei selected some Mozart, which floated out across the water. The fish disappeared.

“Well,” Andrei said. “This is pleasant.”

Walker poured them both cold drinks and took her seat next to him in the other deckchair, looking out across the water. They were about half a mile out from Andrei’s private island, where he was apparently enjoying his retirement immensely or, at least, putting on a good show. She herself would have found the quiet unbearable: the absence of city noises, even muted behind sound-proofed windows, the sense of being cut off from everything that had ever mattered to them. Their current position gave them a striking view back to downtown Venta. Gleaming white towers dominated the skyline. The tiny black shapes of flyers could be seen swarming between them, like insects. High above even the towers glided a handful of government flyers, moving at a statelier pace. Walker could not hear the city, but she could feel its low steady
thrum
, like blood in the veins, or a quiet heartbeat, or the soft plashing of a fish.

Andrei gestured with his fishing rod. “The most stirring sight in the Expansion,” Andrei said. “Or so the tour guides would tell you. Are you stirred, Delia?”

Walker contemplated the city whose schemes and concerns had consumed her entire adult life. There had indeed been a time when the view made her catch her breath, but looking at it now, she realised that she felt little of the old awe, the excitement rising from the knowledge that she was at the heart of the greatest civilisation humanity had ever built, and she was one of the people shaping it. What she chiefly felt now was vague regret, at the time and energy spent on it. Somewhere along the line, it seemed, she had started a process of detachment, of separation. She was slipping off the hook.

“I, at least, must confess to an unaccustomed tremor of emotion,” said Andrei. He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the white sun off the water. “This was not where I thought we would be, only a few days ago. Indeed, it’s hard to think how events might have turned out better for our colleagues.” He made a low hum at the back of his throat. Walker looked at him in interest. That was the sound of Andrei thinking, and one was wise to pay attention.

“Something on your mind?” she said.

Andrei remained absent for a while, his clever brain plainly ticking over, and then he turned his brilliant smile on her. “Only you, dear lady. One thing for an old man like me to find himself in early retirement. Something else for someone like you. What do you intend to do now?”

Now Walker herself became absent, as she considered whether or not to tell him her plans. Would it be better for him to know, or should she let it go? He should be untroubled now, surely, left in peace after a lifetime’s struggles, as calm as the waters supporting this little ship... “I’m going to Satan’s Reach,” she said.

She rarely got the opportunity to surprise Andrei, so it was always enjoyable when it happened. His bright blue eyes widened. “Well,” he said. “That was not the answer I was expecting.”

“No?” She smiled. “I thought you knew me.”

“You’ve surprised me in many ways in recent days, Delia.”

Walker stretched back in the clumsy little chair, letting the sun warm her arms and legs. “Your first lesson. We don’t serve the institution. We serve the principles that the institution embodies. The corollary of that being that if the institution no longer embodies those principles—”

“One must continue to serve them from the outside.”

She smiled at him. “You had it easy, you know, your generation. Superiors who shared your values—”

“Ah, yes, very easy. Merely the outbreak of war with the Vetch to contend with.”

“A war with a clearly defined enemy and a clearly defined goal. But now...” She gazed into the water, trying to catch a glimpse of a fish. “Is it inevitable, do you think, that without an enemy to unite us we must fight each other?”

“You don’t consider the Weird an enemy? There are many who would disagree with you. I’m not sure that
I
agree with you.”

“The point is that I don’t know! We don’t know enough about them! We don’t yet comprehend them, in any way. Yes, they consume; yes, there has been terrible devastation...” The thought of Braun’s World made her stomach churn, but she steadied herself. “But what do we know about the Weird, really?”

“We know they kill in great numbers, and in ways horrible to contemplate. We know that they enslave and can control minds—infect minds, so that people are no longer able to make their own decisions but must act according to the will of the Weird.”

“Yes, they kill in great numbers—but so do we. So do the Vetch. You talk about controlling minds—so do we, with our relentless propaganda, our mind-numbing culture, our news blackouts. Every single person in that city”—she pointed towards Venta—“has their freedoms curtailed in some way. They cannot send their flyers above a certain height. They cannot leave this world without passing through all the hoops we can throw at them. They can choose between one indistinguishable council-member or another—”

“The Weird are in a different category, Delia.”

“And yet most of the people on Braun’s World didn’t die at the hands of Sleer, did they? They died when Fleet bombarded their cities.”

“You’ve seen the footage, just as I have,” Andrei said softly. “Would you have wanted to live that way? Mind-numbed by drugs, surrendering oneself to be consumed by a monstrous creature? Some people on Braun’s World might consider it a mercy that they have not had to live that way.”

“Even so,” she said, “just because the Weird that we have encountered kill does not mean that all our encounters with the Weird must end in devastation. If I only ever see white swans, it doesn’t disprove the existence of black swans.”

Andrei laughed then. “The Weird are rather less lovely than swans!”

“You get my point.” Softly, urgently, she said, “I believe this colony exists, Andrei. That there is a place where humans are able to live harmoniously with the Weird—not enslaved, not farmed, but in genuine cooperation. It wasn’t something I simply made up to see off Grant and her cronies. Somewhere out in the Reach, they exist. I’m going to find them.”

“Indeed,” he said dryly, “you have a moral imperative.”

“Well, yes,” she said, and laughed. “That always helps.”

He pondered the absent fish for a while. “You may find that people will try to stop you in your quest.”

“I’m not beholden to anyone now.”

He looked at her sharply, but with compassion. “No, Delia?”

That caught her unawares. “I’m beholden to the future. I always was. More so than ever. And that’s why I want peace. Not news blackouts and compulsory scans, and bigger, faster, wilder superweapons. Something else.”

“You may be asking a great deal of Satan’s Reach,” Andrei said. “I can’t stop you. I can only give you my blessing—and warn you again. There are people who are going to try to stop you. Play your cards carefully. Keep your own counsel.” He smiled at her. “Like I taught you.”

She smiled back. He turned back to his fish and they sat together in companionable silence. Tentatively, uncertain about the gesture and what it might mean, she laid her hand softly upon her stomach.
Little minnow,
she thought.
I hadn’t forgotten you.

A
TRIP TO
Satan’s Reach meant a ship, and someone to fly the ship—and that meant funds. Cold, hard cash; or, at least, cold, hard credit in the bank.

Her apartment was her main asset, and very desirable: on one of the most secluded inner islands, with a handful of pleasant, discreet neighbours, excellent facilities, and fantastic views over the waterway. Walker made a few enquiries, and by mid-morning had a great deal of interest from agents and private buyers alike. She set a bidding war going, and turned her attention to trying to charter a ship. Something at the back of her mind said:
What will you do without this place when you come home? Where will you live?
Another, harder part of her mind replied:
If you go to Satan’s Reach, you’re not coming back.

By mid-morning, she was not sure the journey was ever going to happen. If you offered enough money, someone would be willing to take you almost anywhere, but whatever enquiries Walker made ended in refusal. They would sound interested, take a few details, and then, if they did get back to her, it was to make an apology and say that the ship she was interested in had already been chartered, or there must have been a mistake, or there were no pilots available at such short notice, or the risks were too great, or the insurance too expensive... She tried a few of her old assets, but none of them returned her calls. No doubt word had got loose that she was burned. They wouldn’t dare speak to her for fear of reprisals.

She slipped into her flyer and went for lunch at a nearby café. Her appetite was off, she noticed, with cool, almost scientific, detachment, so she pushed food around for a while, and then sat sipping water and watching the foot traffic. After a while, a familiar figure emerged from the crush. Kinsella.

“What exactly are you playing at?” he said, sitting down opposite her.

Walker felt the anger that had been simmering within her all morning start to flare. “Hi, Mark,” she said. “How are you? I’m okay. No sickness, thank goodness. Some fatigue.”

“I know you’re okay. Do you think I’m not keeping track of you? Of course I know you’re okay.”

“I guess Kay must have told you. She told everyone else.”

“You put her in a very awkward position.”

“Poor Kay,” Walker deadpanned. “Things must be difficult for her right now.”

Kinsella flushed. “I’m not here to talk about Kay,” he said, in a softer voice. Walker was coming to hate this voice. People trying to speak calmly and reasonably to the mad woman whose hormones were turning her brain. Only Andrei had managed to be concerned without slipping into patronising.

“Not here to talk about Kay, not here to talk about me—I guess you must be here to talk about yourself.”

Kinsella sat back, looking genuinely hurt. “I don’t know what’s got into you,” he said. “You were never like this—”

“I’ve had a short fast course in who my friends are.”

“All right then, Delia, we’ll play it your way. But if you’ll listen to someone who once considered himself your friend—whatever you may think of him—then you’ll take the apartment off the market and abandon any plans you might have to leave.” He must have seen her swallow: he leaned in and spoke softly. “What did you think was going to happen? Did you think that Latimer would let you walk away?”

That would explain the difficulties she was having chartering a ship. “Are you here at Latimer’s bidding?”

“I’m here because I care about you.”

“So he did send you. You can go back to him this afternoon and tell him he can get lost. He didn’t exactly go out of his way to keep me.”

“You can’t just walk away, you know. You were on the inside—as deep as it’s possible to go.”

“And I’ve signed legally binding documents that prevent me from revealing any of it to anyone without serious repercussions.”

“Legally binding documents which are not enforceable in Satan’s Reach.”

So he knew that—or was making an educated guess. She composed herself and gave away nothing.

“Where are you heading?” he urged. “What’s the plan?”

She stood up. “Whatever my plan is, it’s my business. I’m a private citizen now—”

“You know as well as I do that you’re not. You can’t be. Never.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Besides,” he said. “The Reach? What about... What about the
child?
”

“The
child?
” She turned to him in anger. “How dare you, Mark? You have no
right!
”

“I know,” he said. “I know...”

They stood facing each other, not touching. His hands were pressed against his forehead; hers were balled into fists by her side.

“They won’t let you go, Delia,” he said, at last. “They can’t.”

A cold desperate feeling welled up within her. But she was damned if she would let him see that, and she went on her way. “We’ll see,” she called back over her shoulder.

But could well be right.

So what would she do next?

In the event, she didn’t need to come up with another plan. As she strode along the sidewalk back to where her flyer was parked, a slight figure, rushing up past her on the outside, slipped and fell against her, then dashed off. “Sorry!” they called back, over their shoulder—and then they were gone, before she gather much sense of what they looked like.

Walker could tell when a fall was deliberate. Instinctively she checked her wrist for her ID and datapin. All still safely there. Puzzled, she checked the pockets of her jacket.

Where she found a small piece of paper, covered in a familiar scrawl.

Andrei’s.

Heartbroken. But since I can’t stop you, I may as well help you.

She flipped over the piece of paper. More scrawl. Directions. Down to the docks. A name:
Yershov.
And something else, which she didn’t understand:
Baba Yaga.
She puzzled over that. Some kind of code? It would become clear, no doubt; Andrei did not waste your time. Walker smiled. Some friends you could always count on. And if Andrei, by helping her travel to the Reach, happened to put a spanner into the works of Commander Adelaide Grant—then all to the good.

T
HE WOMAN WAS
nondescript, nothing special. The only point of interest, as far as Yershov was concerned, was that was that she plainly had money. Not vast amounts, no; not one of the idle super-rich, who swanned around the core worlds and sometimes even ventured to the edge of the Reach. But her clothes were good, her teeth were white and even, and her manner suggested she could be a right royal pain in the bloody neck. Yershov didn’t like the rich—Yershov didn’t like anyone, really, including himself—but he did like money, and he hadn’t seen enough of it in recent years. Money didn’t, in general, come to this part of St Martin’s Docks, and when it did, it was usually keeping close company with trouble. Yershov chewed his bottom lip. He could do without trouble. But he was short of money.