Galactic North (21 page)

Van Ness still wasn’t convinced of the wisdom of bringing her aboard, but even his dislike of Conjoiners didn’t extend to the notion of throwing her back into space. All the same, he insisted that she be bound to the bunk by heavy restraints, in an armoured room under the guard of a servitor, at least until we had some idea of who she was and how she had ended up aboard the pirate ship. He didn’t want heavily augmented crew anywhere near her, either: not when (as he evidently believed) she had the means to control any machine in her vicinity, and might therefore overpower or even commandeer any crewperson who had a skull full of implants. It wasn’t like that, I tried to tell him: Conjoiners could talk to machines, yes, but not all machines, and the idea that they could work witchcraft on anything with a circuit inside it was just so much irrational fearmongering.

Van Ness heard my reasoned objections, and then ignored them. I’m glad that he did, though. Had he listened to me, he might have put some other member of the crew in charge of questioning her, and then I wouldn’t have got to know her as well as I did. Because I only had the metal hand, the rest of me still flesh and blood, he deemed me safe from her influence.

I was with her when she woke.

I placed my left on her shoulder as she squirmed under the restraints, suddenly aware of her predicament. “It’s all right,” I said softly. “You’re safe now. Captain made us put these on you for the time being, but we’ll get them off you as soon as we can. That’s a promise. I’m Inigo, by the way, shipmaster. We met before, but I’m not sure how much of that you remember.”

“Every detail,” she said. Her voice was low, dark-tinged, untrusting.

“Maybe you don’t know where you are. You’re aboard the
Petronel.
The
Cockatrice
is gone, along with everyone aboard her. Whatever they did to you, whatever happened to you aboard that ship, it’s over now.”

“You didn’t listen to me.”

“If we’d listened to you,” I said patiently, “you’d be dead by now.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

I’d been ready to give her the benefit of the doubt, but my reservoir of sympathy was beginning to dry up. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to show a little gratitude. We put ourselves at considerable risk to get you to safety. We’d taken everything we needed from the pirates. We only went back in to help you.”

“I didn’t need you to help me. I could have survived.”

“Not unless you think you could have held that spar on by sheer force of will.”

She hissed back her reply. “I’m a Conjoiner. That means the rules were different. I could have changed things. I could have kept the ship in one piece.”

“To make a point?”

“No,” she said, with acid slowness, as if that was the only speed I was capable of following. “Not to make a point. We don’t
make
points.”

“The ship’s gone,” I said. “It’s over, so you may as well deal with it. You’re with us now. And no, you’re not our prisoner. We’ll do everything I said we would: take care of you, get you to safety, back to your people.”

“You really think it’s that simple?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is I can’t ever go back. Is that simple enough for you?”

“Why?” I asked. “Were you exiled from the Conjoiners, or something like that?”

She shook her elaborately crested head, as if my question was the most naive thing she had ever heard. “No one gets exiled.”

“Then tell me what the hell happened!”

Anger burst to the surface. “I was taken, all right? I was stolen, snatched away from my people. Captain Voulage took me prisoner around Yellowstone, when the
Cockatrice
was docked near one of our ships. I was part of a small diplomatic party visiting Carousel New Venice. Voulage’s men ambushed us, split us up, then took me so far from the other Conjoiners that I dropped out of neural range. Have you any idea what that means to one of us?”

I shook my head, not because I didn’t understand what she meant, but because I knew I could have no proper grasp of the emotional pain that severance must have caused. I doubted that pain was a strong enough word for the psychic shock associated with being ripped away from her fellows. Nothing in ordinary human experience could approximate the trauma of that separation, any more than a frog could grasp the loss of a loved one. Conjoiners spent their whole lives in a state of gestalt consciousness, sharing thoughts and experiences via a web of implant-mediated neural connections. They had individual personalities, but those personalities were more like the blurred identities of atoms in a metallic solid. Beyond the level of individual self was the state of higher mental union that they called Transenlightenment, analogous to the fizzing sea of dissociated electrons in that same metallic lattice. And the girl had been ripped away from that, forced to come to terms with existence as a solitary mind, an island once more.

“I understand how bad it must have been,” I said. “But now you can go back. Isn’t that something worth looking forward to?”

“You only
think
you understand. To a Conjoiner, what happened to me is the worst thing in the world. And now I can’t go back: not now, not ever. I’ve become damaged, broken, useless. My mind is permanently disfigured. It can’t be allowed to return to Transenlightenment.”

“Why ever not? Wouldn’t they be glad to get you back?”

She took a long time answering. In the quiet, I studied her face, watchful for anything that would betray the danger Van Ness clearly believed she posed. Now his fears seemed groundless. She looked smaller and more delicately boned than when we’d first glimpsed her on the
Cockatrice.
The strangeness of her, the odd shape of her hairless crested skull, should have been off-putting. In truth I found her fascinating. It was not her alienness that drew my furtive attention, but her very human face: her small and pointed chin, the pale freckles under her eyes, the way her mouth never quite closed, even when she was silent. The olive green of her eyes was a shade so dark that from certain angles it became a lustrous black, like the surface of coal.

“No,” she said, answering me finally. “It wouldn’t work. I’d upset the purity of the others, spoil the harmony of the neural connections, like a single out-of-tune instrument in an orchestra. I’d make everyone else start playing out of key.”

“I think you’re being too fatalistic. Shouldn’t we at least try to find some other Conjoiners and see what they say?”

“That isn’t how it works,” she said. “They’d have to take me back, yes, if I presented myself to them. They’d do it out of kindness and compassion. But I’d still end up harming them. It’s my duty not to allow that to happen.”

“Then you’re saying you have to spend the rest of your life away from other Conjoiners, wandering the universe like some miserable excommunicated pilgrim?”

“There are more of us than you realise.”

“You do a good job keeping out of the limelight. Most people only see Conjoiners in groups, all dressed in black like a flock of crows.”

“Maybe you aren’t looking in the right places.”

I sighed, aware that nothing I said was going to convince her that she would be better off returning to her people. “It’s your life, your destiny. At least you’re alive. Our word still holds: we’ll drop you at the nearest safe planet, when we next make orbitfall. If that isn’t satisfactory to you, you’d be welcome to remain aboard ship until we arrive somewhere else.”

“Your captain would allow that? I thought he was the one who wanted to leave the wreck before you’d found me.”

“I’ll square things with the captain. He isn’t the biggest fan of Conjoiners, but he’ll see sense when he realises you aren’t a monster.”

“Does he have a reason not to like me?”

“He’s an old man,” I said simply.

“Riven with prejudice, you mean?”

“In his way,” I said, shrugging. “But don’t blame him for that. He lived through the bad years, when your people were first coming into existence. I think he had some first-hand experience of the trouble that followed.”

“Then I envy him those first-hand memories. Not many of us are still alive from those times. To have lived through those years, to have breathed the same air as Remontoire and the others . . .” She looked away sadly. “Remontoire’s gone now. So are Galiana and Nevil. We don’t know what happened to any of them.”

I knew she must have been talking about pivotal figures from earlier Conjoiner history, but the people of whom she spoke meant nothing to me. To her, cast so far downstream from those early events on Mars, the names must have held something of the resonance of saints or apostles. I thought I knew something of Conjoiners, but they had a long and complicated internal history of which I was totally ignorant.

“I wish things hadn’t happened the way they did,” I said. “But that was then and this is now. We don’t hate or fear you. If we did, we wouldn’t have risked our necks getting you out of the
Cockatrice.
”

“No, you don’t hate or fear me,” she replied. “But you still think I might be useful to you, don’t you?”

“Only if you wish to help us.”

“Captain Voulage thought that I might have the expertise to improve the performance of his ship.”

“Did you?” I asked innocently.

“By increments, yes. He showed me the engines and . . . encouraged me to make certain changes. You told me you are a shipmaster, so you doubtless have some familiarity with the principles involved.”

I thought back to the adjustments I had made to our own engines, when we still had ambitions of fleeing the pirates. The memory of my trembling hand on those three critical dials felt as if it had been dredged from deepest antiquity, rather than something that had happened only days earlier.

“When you say ‘encouraged’ . . .” I began.

“He found ways to coerce me. It is true that Conjoiners can control their perception of pain by applying neural blockades. But only to a degree, and then only when the pain has a real physical origin. If the pain is generated in the head, using a reverse-field trawl, our defences are useless. ” She looked at me with a sudden hard intensity, as if daring me to imagine one-tenth of what she had experienced. “It is like locking a door when the wolf is already in the house.”

“I’m sorry. You must have been through hell.”

“I only had the pain to endure,” she said. “I’m not the one anyone needs to feel sorry about.”

The remark puzzled me, but I let it lie. “I have to get back to our own engines now,” I said, “but I’ll come to see you later. In the meantime, I think you should rest.” I snapped a duplicate communications bracelet from my wrist and placed it near her hand, where she could reach it. “If you need me, you can call into this. It’ll take me a little while to get back here, but I’ll come as quickly as possible. ”

She lifted her forearm as far as it would go, until the restraints stiffened. “And these?”

“I’ll talk to Van Ness. Now that you’re lucid, now that you’re talking to us, I don’t see any further need for them.”

“Thank you,” she said again. “Inigo. Is that all there is to your name? It’s rather a short one, even by the standards of the retarded.”

“Inigo Standish, shipmaster. And you still haven’t told me your name.”

“I told you: it’s nothing you could understand. We have our own names now, terms of address that can only be communicated in the Transenlightenment. My name is a flow of experiential symbols, a string of interiorised qualia, an expression of a particular dynamic state that has only ever happened under a conjunction of rare physical conditions in the atmosphere of a particular kind of gas giant planet. I chose it myself. It’s considered very beautiful and a little melancholy, like a haiku in five dimensions.”

“Inside the atmosphere of a gas giant, right?”

She looked at me alertly. “Yes.”

“Fine, then. I’ll call you Weather. Unless you’d like to suggest something better.”

She never did suggest something better, even though I think she once came close to it. From that moment on, whether she liked it or not, she was always Weather. Soon, it was what the other crew were calling her, and the name that—grudgingly at first, then resignedly—she deigned to respond to.

I went to see Captain Van Ness and did my best to persuade him that Weather was not going to cause us any dif ficulties.

“What are you suggesting we should give her—a free pass to the rest of the ship?”

“Only that we could let her out of her prison cell.”

“She’s recuperating.”

“She’s restrained. And you’ve put an armed servitor on the door, in case she gets out of the restraints.”

“Pays to be prudent.”

“I think we can trust her now, Captain.” I hesitated, choosing my words with great care. “I know you have good reasons not to like her people, but she isn’t the same as the Conjoiners from those days.”

“That’s what she’d like us to think, certainly.”

“I’ve spoken to her, heard her story. She’s an outcast from her people, unable to return to them because of what’s happened to her.”

“Well, then,” Van Ness said, nodding as if he’d proved a point, “outcasts do funny things. You can’t ever be too careful with outcasts.”

“It’s not like that with Weather.”

“Weather,” he repeated, with a certain dry distaste. “So she’s got a name now, has she?”

“I felt it might help. The name was my suggestion, not hers.”

“Don’t start humanising them. That’s the mistake humans always make. Next thing you know, they’ve got their claws in your skull.”

I closed my eyes, forcing self-control as the conversation veered off course. I’d always had an excellent relationship with Van Ness, one that came very close to bordering on genuine friendship. But from the moment he heard about Weather, I knew she was going to come between us.