Sky thought to himself: so it’s real. After all this time, the damned thing really exists. At the very least in Balcazar’s mind. But the Captain also seemed to be talking as if Titus had been in on the secret himself. Since the sixth ship constituted a possible security issue — no matter how little might have been known about that — it was entirely possible that he had been. And Titus had died before he could pass that particular item of knowledge to his successor.
Sky thought of Norquinco, his friend from the time when he had ridden the trains. He remembered well how Norquinco had been utterly convinced of the reality of the sixth ship. Gomez, too, had needed little convincing. It had been a year or so since he had spoken to either, but Sky imagined the two of them here now, nodding silently, enjoying the way he was forced to calmly accept this truth; this thing that he had so vehemently argued against. He had hardly given the matter any thought since that conversation on the train, but now he racked his brains, trying to remember what Norquino had told them.
‘Most of the crew who buy into the rumour at all,’ he said, ‘assume that the sixth ship is dead; just drifting behind us.’
‘Which only shows that there’s a grain of truth underlying the rumour. She’s dark, of course — no lights, no strong evidence of human presence at all — but all of that could be subterfuge. Her crew could still be alive, running her quietly. We can’t guess their pyschology, of course, and we still don’t know what really happened. ’
‘It would be good to know. Especially now.’ Sky paused and took what he knew to be a major risk. ‘Given the current gravity of the situation, with this technical message from back home, is there anything else I need to know about the sixth ship — anything which might help us make the right choice?’
To his relief, the Captain shook his head without rancour.
‘You’ve seen all that I have, Titus. We really don’t know anything more. I’m afraid those rumours encapsulate as much knowledge as we really have.’
‘An expedition would settle the matter.’
‘As you never tire of telling me. But consider the risks: yes, she’s just within range of one our shuttles. About half a light-second behind us the last time we took an accurate radar fix, although she must have been a lot closer once. It would be simpler still if we could refuel when we got there. But what if they don’t want visitors? They’ve maintained the illusion of non-existence for more than a generation. They might not be willing to give that up without a fight.’
‘Unless they’re dead. Some of the crew think we attacked them, and then erased them from the historical record.’
The Captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps that’s what happened. If you could erase a crime like that, you would, wouldn’t you? Some of them might have survived, though, and chosen to lie low, so they can spring a surprise on us later in the voyage.’
‘You think this message from back home might be enough to make them break their cover?’
‘Perhaps. If it encourages them to fiddle with their antimatter engine, and the message really is a trap…’
‘They’ll light up half the sky.’
The Captain chuckled, a wet cruel sound, and that seemed to be the cue for him to doze off properly. The rest of the journey passed without incident, but Sky’s mind was racing anyway, trying to digest what he had learned. Every time he said the words they were like a casual slap against his cheek; punishment for his own presumption in doubting Norquinco and the other believers. The sixth ship existed. The sixth damned ship existed…
And that, potentially, could change anything.
EIGHTEEN
They took me down to the Mulch again. I woke up in the cable-car as it was descending through night, rain hammering against the craft’s windows. For a moment I thought I was with Captain Balcazar, escorting him across space to the meeting aboard the other Flotilla ship. The dreams seemed to be getting more insistent, pushing me ever deeper into Sky’s thoughts, so that they were harder to shake off when I came around. But it was just me and Waverly in the cable-car’s compartment.
I wasn’t sure it was an improvement.
‘How does it feel? I did a good job, I think.’
He was sitting opposite me with a gun. I remembered him pushing the probe against my head. I reached up to touch my scalp. Above my right ear was a shaven patch, still scabbed with blood, and the feeling of something hard encysted beneath the skin.
It hurt like hell.
‘I think you need some practice.’
‘Story of my life. You’re a strange one, though. What’s with all the blood coming out of your hand? Is that some medical condition I should know about?’
‘Why? Would it make any difference?’
He debated the point with himself for a few moments. ‘No, probably not. If you can run, you’re fit enough.’
‘Fit enough for what?’ I touched the scab again. ‘What have you put inside me?’
‘Well, let me explain.’
I hadn’t expected him to be so talkative, but I began to understand why it might make sense for me to know some of the facts. It must have stemmed less from any concern for my wellbeing than the need to have me primed in the right way. From previous games, it had become clear that the hunted made the whole affair more entertaining if they knew exactly what was at stake, and what their own chances were.
‘Basically,’ he said urbanely, ‘it’s a hunt. We call it the Game. It doesn’t exist, not officially; not even within the relatively lawless environs of Canopy. They know about it, and speak about it, but always with discretion.’
‘Who?’ I said, for the sake of saying something.
‘Postmortals, immortals, whatever you want to call them. They don’t all play it, or even want to play it, but they all know someone who has played it, or has connections with the network which makes the Game possible in the first place.’
‘This been going on long?’
‘Only in the last seven years. Perhaps one might think of it as a barbaric counterpoint to the gentility which pervaded Yellowstone before the fall.’
‘Barbaric?’
‘Oh, exquisitely so. That’s why we adore it. There’s nothing intricate or subtle about the Game, methodologically or psychologically. It needs to be capable of being organised at very short notice, anywhere in the city. There are rules, naturally, but you don’t need a trip to the Pattern Jugglers to understand them.’
‘Tell me about these rules, Waverly.’
‘Oh, they’re nothing that need concern you, Mirabel. All you need do is run.’
‘And then?’
‘Die. And die well.’ He spoke kindly, like an indulgent uncle. ‘That’s all we ask of you.’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘To take another’s life is a special kind of thrill, Mirabel. To do it while being immortal elevates the act to an entirely different level of sublimity.’ He paused, as if marshalling his thoughts. ‘We don’t really grasp the nature of death, even in these difficult times. But by taking a life — especially the life of someone who wasn’t immortal, and who therefore already had an acute awareness of death — we can obtain some vicarious sense of what it means.’
‘Then the people you hunt are never immortal?’
‘Not generally, no. We usually select from the Mulch, picking someone reasonably healthy. We want them to give us a good chase for our money, of course, so we’re not above feeding them first.’
He told me more; that the Game was financed by a clandestine network of subscribers. Mostly Canopy, their numbers were rumoured to be augmented by pleasure-seekers from some of the more libertarian carousels still
