“You can provide your own sustenance?”
“I’ll manage,” he said, then thought. “You do have water?”
“We do.”
“Then I’ll survive.”
“You will come aboard, please.”
The twinned bubble bumped against the parapet. Uagen stooped, picked up his bags and looked at 46 Zhun. “Well, goodbye. Thank you for your help. Wish Yoleus all the best.”
“The Yoleus wishes me to wish you a safe journey and a subsequent life which is pleasing to you.”
Uagen smiled. “Tell it thank you, from me. I hope to see it again.”
“This will be done.”
Some Ways of Dying
The ship lift sat underneath the falls; when it was needed, its counter-weighted cradle swung slowly up and out from the swirling pool at the foot of the torrent, trailing veils and mists of its own. Behind the plunging curtain of water, the giant counter-weight moved slowly down through its subterranean pool, balancing the dock-sized cradle as it rose until it slotted into a wide groove carved into the lip of the falls. Once home, its gates gradually forced themselves open against the current, so that the cradle presented a sort of balcony of water jutting out beyond the river’s kilometre-wide drop-off point.
Two bullet-shaped vessels powered upstream from either side like giant fish; they trailed long booms which stretched out to form a wide V that funnelled the oncoming barge towards the cradle. Once the gates had closed again and the barge was safely enclosed, the booms retracted, the cradle opened its side caissons to the onrushing force of the water and the extra weight slowly overcame the balancing mass of the counter-weight, now deep under the pool beneath.
Cradle and barge tipped slowly outwards and down, descending amongst the thunder and mist towards the turmoil of waters below.
Ziller, dressed in a waistcoat and leggings that were thoroughly saturated, stood with the Hub avatar on a forward-facing promenade deck just below the bridge of the barge
He leant over to the avatar and pointed up through the churning clouds of vapour towards the falls’ lip, two hundred metres above. “What would happen if the barge missed the cradle up there?” he yelled over the sound of the waterfall.
The avatar, looking drenched but uncaring in a thin dark suit which clung to its silvery frame, shrugged. “Then,” it said loudly, “there would be a disaster.”
“And if the downstream gates opened while the cradle was still at the top of the falls?”
The creature nodded. “Again, disaster.”
“And if the cradle’s supporting arms gave way?”
“Disaster.”
“Or if the cradle started to descend too soon?”
“Ditto.”
“Or either set of gates gave way before the cradle reached the pool?”
“Guess what.”
“So this thing does have an anti-gravity keel or something, doesn’t it?” Ziller shouted. “As back-up, redundancy? Yes?”
The avatar shook its head. “No.” Droplets fell from its nose and ears.
Ziller sighed and shook his head, too. “No, I didn’t really think so.”
The avatar smiled and leant towards him. “I take it as an encouraging sign that you’re beginning to ask that sort of question after the experience concerned is past the dangerous stage.”
“So I’m becoming as thoughtlessly blase about risk and death as your inhabitants.”
The avatar nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Encouraging, isn’t it?”
“No. Depressing.”
The avatar laughed. It looked up at the sides of the gorge as the river funnelled its way onwards to join Masaq’ Great River via Ossuliera City. “We’d better get back,” the silver-skinned creature said. “Ilom Dolince will be dying soon, and Nisil Tchasole coming back.”
“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want to miss either of your grotesque little ceremonies, would we?”
They turned and walked round the corner of the deck. The barge powered its way through the chaos of waves, its bows smacking into surging piles of white and green water and throwing great curtains of spray into the air to land like torrential squalls of rain across the decks. The buffeted vessel tipped and heaved. Behind it, the cradle was slowly and steadily submerging itself again in the raging currents.
A lump of water crashed onto the deck behind them, turning the promenade into a surging river half a metre deep. Ziller had to drop to all threes and use one hand on the deck rail to steady himself as they made their way through the torrent to the nearest doors. The avatar walked sloshing through the stream surging round its knees as though indifferent. It held the doors open and helped Ziller through.
In the foyer, Ziller shook himself again, spattering the gleaming wooden walls and embroidered hangings. The avatar just stood and the water fell off it, leaving its silvery skin and its matte clothes completely dry while the water drained away from its feet across the decking.
Ziller dragged a hand through his face fur and patted his ears. He looked at the immaculate figure standing smiling opposite him while he dripped. He wrung some water out of his waistcoat as he inspected the avatar’s skin and clothing for any remaining sign of moisture. It appeared to be perfectly dry. That is a very annoying trait,” he told it.
“I did offer earlier to shelter both of us from the spray,” the avatar reminded him. The Chelgrian pulled one of his waistcoat pockets inside out and watched the resulting stream of water hit the deck. “But you said you wanted fully to appreciate the experience with all your senses including that of touch,” the avatar continued. “Which I have to say I did think was a little casual at the time.”
Ziller looked ruefully at his sodden pipe and then at the silver-skinned creature. “And that,” he said, “is another one.”
A small drone carrying a very large, neatly folded white towel of extreme fluffiness banked round a corner and sped along the passage towards them, coming to a sudden stop at their side. The avatar took the towel and nodded to the other machine, which dipped and raced away again.
“Here,” the avatar said, handing the Chelgrian the towel.
“Thank you.”
They turned to walk down the passageway, passing saloons where small groups of people were watching the tumbling waters and roiling mists of spray outside.
“Where’s our Major Quilan today?” Ziller asked, rubbing his face in the towel.
“Visiting Neremety, with Kabe, to see some sworl islands. It’s the first day of the local school’s Tempt Season.”
Ziller had seen this spectacle himself on another Plate six or seven years earlier. Tempt Season was when the adult islands released the algal blooms they’d been storing to paint fabulous swirling patterns across the craterine bays of their shallow sea. Allegedly the display persuaded the sea-floor-dwelling calves of the year before to surface and blossom into new versions of themselves.
“Neremety?” he asked. “Where’s that?”
“Half a million klicks away if it’s a stride. You’re safe for now.”
“How very reassuring. Aren’t you running out of places to distract our little message-boy with? Last I heard you were showing him round a factory.” Ziller pronounced the last word through a snorting laugh.
The avatar looked hurt. “A starship factory, if you please,” it said, “but yes, a factory nevertheless. Only
