planetary environments. A man comfortable among both baseline humans and Ultras, someone who could talk up a deal to our advantage and find treasure where we’d miss it completely.’
‘That sounds like Quaiche.’
‘No, Grelier, what it sounds like is the character Quaiche wished to present to us. The fiction he wove. In truth, his record is a lot less impressive. The occasional score here and there, but just as many failures. He’s a chancer: a braggart, an opportunist and a liar. And an infected one, as well.’
Grelier raised an eyebrow. ‘Infected?’
‘He has an indoctrinal virus. We scanned for the usuals but missed this one because it wasn’t in our database. Fortunately, it isn’t strongly infectious — not that it would stand much of a chance infecting one of
‘What type of indoctrinal virus are we talking about here?’
‘It’s a crude mishmash: a half-baked concoction of three thousand years’ worth of religious imagery jumbled together without any overarching theistic consistency. It doesn’t make him believe anything coherent; it just makes him
‘You’ll be letting him go, then.’
‘Not just yet. Not until we’ve passed beyond 107 Piscium. Not until he’s had one last chance to redeem himself.’
‘What makes you think he’ll find anything now?’
‘I have no expectation that he will, but I do believe he’s more likely to find something if I provide him with the right incentive.’
‘He might do a runner.’
‘I’ve thought of that as well. In fact, I think I’ve got all bases covered where Quaiche is concerned. All I need now is the man himself, in some state of animation. Can you arrange that for me?’
‘Now, ma’am?’
‘Why not? Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.’
‘The trouble is,’ Grelier said, ‘he’s frozen. It’ll take six hours to wake him, assuming that we follow the recommended procedures.’
‘And if we don’t?’ She wondered how much mileage was left in her new body. ‘Realistically, how many hours could we shave off?’
‘Two at the most, if you don’t want to run the risk of killing him. Even then it’ll be a wee bit unpleasant.’
Jasmina smiled at the surgeon-general. ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it. Oh, and Grelier? One other thing.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Bring me the scrimshaw suit.’
THREE
His lover helped him out of the casket. Quaiche lay shivering on the revival couch, racked with nausea, while Morwenna attended to the many jacks and lines that plunged into his bruised baseline flesh.
‘Lie still,’ she said.
‘I don’t feel very well.’
‘Of course you don’t. What do you expect when the bastards thaw you so quickly?’
It was like being kicked in the groin, except that his groin encompassed his entire body. He wanted to curl up inside a space smaller than himself, to fold himself into a tiny knot like some bravura trick of origami. He considered throwing up, but the effort involved was much too daunting.
‘They shouldn’t have taken the risk,’ he said. ‘She knows I’m too valuable for that.’ He retched: a horrible sound like a dog that had been barking too long.
‘I think her patience might be a bit strained,’ Morwenna said, as she dabbed at him with stinging medicinal salves.
‘She knows she needs me.’
‘She managed without you before. Maybe it’s dawning on her that she can manage without you again.’
Quaiche brightened. ‘Maybe there’s an emergency.’
‘For you, perhaps.’
‘Christ, that’s all I need — sympathy.’ He winced as a bolt of pain hit his skull, something far more precise and targeted than the dull unpleasantness of the revival trauma.
‘You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,’ Morwenna said, her tone scolding. ‘You know it only hurts you.’
He looked into her face, forcing his eyes open against the cruel glare of the revival area. ‘Are you on my side or not?’
‘I’m trying to help you. Hold still, I’ve nearly got the last of these lines out.’ There was a final little stab of pain in his thigh as the shunt popped out, leaving a neat eyelike wound. ‘There, all done.’
‘Until next time,’ Quaiche said. ‘Assuming there
Morwenna fell still, as if something had struck her for the first time. ‘You’re really frightened, aren’t you?’
‘In my shoes, wouldn’t you be?’
‘The queen’s insane. Everyone knows that. But she’s also pragmatic enough to know a valuable resource when she sees one.’ Morwenna spoke openly because she knew that the queen had no working listening devices in the revival chamber. ‘Look at Grelier, for pity’s sake. Do you think she’d tolerate that freak for one minute if he wasn’t useful to her?’
‘That’s precisely my point,’ Quaiche said, sinking into an even deeper pit of dejection and hopelessness. ‘The moment either of us stops being useful…’ Had he felt like moving, he would have mimed drawing a knife across his throat. Instead he just made a choking sound.
‘You’ve an advantage over Grelier,’ Morwenna said. ‘You have me, an ally amongst the crew. Who does he have?’
‘You’re right,’ Quaiche said, ‘as ever.’ With a tremendous effort he reached out and closed one hand around Morwenna’s steel gauntlet.
He didn’t have the heart to remind her that she was very nearly as isolated aboard the ship as he was. The one thing guaranteed to get an Ultra ostracised was having any kind of interpersonal relationship with a baseline human. Morwenna put a brave face on it, but, Quaiche knew, if he had to rely on her for help when the queen and the rest of the crew turned against him, he was already crucified.
‘Can you sit up now?’ she asked.
‘I’ll try.’
The discomfort was abating slightly, as he had known it must do, and at last he was able to move major muscle groups without crying. He sat on the couch, his knees tucked against the hairless skin of his chest, while Morwenna gently removed the urinary catheter from his penis. He looked into her face while she worked, hearing only the whisk of metal sliding over metal. He remembered how fearful he had been when she first touched him there, her hands gleaming like shears. Making love to her was like making love to a threshing machine. Yet Morwenna had never hurt him, even when she inadvertently cut her own living parts.
‘All right?’ she asked.
‘I’ll make it. Takes more than a quick revival to put a dent in Horris Quaiche’s day.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she said, sounding less than fully convinced. She leant over and kissed him. She smelt of perfume and ozone.
‘I’m glad you’re around,’ Quaiche said.
‘Wait here. I’ll get you something to drink.’
