So Vile a Sin (27 page)

‘Not just to protect it,’ said Simon. ‘Things are going to be different.’

Port Elizabeth, Skag, 8 July

Vincenzi opened his eyes. The alarm would go off in four minutes.

He was remembering when the world had been much smaller, a single corridor, on Level 113 of Sir Guilliam Habibi’s stack, Spaceport Six Overcity.

Presumably there had been a time when his entire world had consisted of his family’s apt, but his earliest memories were of the corridor, particularly standing on the stoop while his mother gossiped with Mr Bobindinga from across the way.

He remembered the smell of long-chain polymers as their cleaning bot described a precise rectangular pattern on ‘their’

section of the floor. He loved to get up early on a Saturday morning and watch the cleaning robots come out of the apts, each one scrubbing the corridor in front of its owner’s door. The cleaning bots were all different, different makes, ages and customized, optimized and painted in bright colours. Some families went as far as to get sophisticated software plug-ins to make their bots move just that little more smoothly and stylishly than their neighbours’.

In his first memories Vincenzi didn’t know what the bots were, just that they were bright and attractive and moved in an interesting manner. He wished the bots would come up out and dance every morning. When he asked his mother why they didn’t, she shrugged and said that everyone had always cleaned the corridor on Saturday morning.

202

‘What everyone?’ he asked.

‘Everyone round here,’ said his mother.

As he got older, he began to realize that the dance of robots was more than just a community ritual – it was a contest. An unspoken competition between the families on the corridor to see whose cleaning bot was the best and who kept their patch of floor the smartest. And although it was hard to see how the final result was arrived at, everybody seemed to know the final score.

It was from this that Vincenzi learnt that some of the most important things in life are never spoken of.

Three minutes.

He was older by then, and his life had expanded beyond the corridor, to encompass other corridors and the Janinski Galleria and the place called Halfapark because it was obvious when you looked at the plans that it was supposed to be twice as big but had been chopped in half by a design error.

His school, LocEd 113HBSP6, was just off the park. That was where he learnt vital things, like it was better to get smacked twice on the hand by a human teacher than to get one static shock from a profbot, and the words to all six verses of ‘Let the Goddess Watch Over the Empress’. He learnt to salute the flag and swear his fealty to his liege lord. As he was to remark on his second tour of duty on Orestes, ‘There was an education in there somewhere, but I’m buggered if I know what it was.’

He said this to a Skag maiden, who looked at him with pretty, uncomprehending eyes, and persuaded him to buy another bottle of overpriced, watery brandy.

He grew older. Bhubba, the senior of his two fathers, updated the holographic image of the family that adorned their doorway.

Then he took Vincenzi aside and, opening a bottle of ersatz Chianti, gave him the standard warnings against sex, drugs and loud music. And like the warning given by the first upright primate to its child, it was about a year too late.

For there was already loud music, and drugs of a kind, and even sex, albeit still only at the level of theory. Vincenzi’s adolescent world was the whole North-West quadrant of Level 113, and sometimes up to 114, because there was a way past the ID checks if you were fast and clever, and Vincenzi was both.

203

But 114 was overrated, he thought, much the same as 113 only different and down on his own level there were plenty of things to do and, most of all, friends to do it with.

Two minutes.

He could remember that world, but it was no longer part of him. It was as though he’d been cut in half, like the park, his life sliced down the middle the moment he’d pulled that trigger and sent the lieutenant’s head flying.

The Vincenzi before that moment still couldn’t quite believe that space wasn’t spacious, that with the whole galaxy to roam in he spent all his time wedged into tin cans or foxholes. Or in crummy barracks, like this one.

Stuck in those foxholes, he’d swapped jokes about the Skag home world, how it had to be like one giant brothel. Stupid kid.

Here, the Skags didn’t shag you. They ordered you the hell out of your nice warm bunk and drilled you until your ears rang.

He was pulling on his uniform when the alarm went off. Ten seconds later the Skag
jaresht
was in there, a tall fix-fingered woman in a livid red uniform, throwing sluggish soldiers out of bed and shouting, ‘Battle drill for the grunts, tactical drill for the officers, but first, a delicious breakfast and an ice-cold shower to wake you up! Come along,
chumanene
!’

Vincenzi hadn’t quite puzzled out what rank a
jaresht
was equivalent to. He had a suspicion it meant ‘shouter’. He’d never heard one of them speak below a hearty roar.

He was lacing his boots when the
jaresht
boomed, ‘Vinsensee!’

She was standing right in front of him. He hopped to his feet and said, ‘I hear you!’

‘I’ve got something for you,
chumanet
,’ said the Skagette.

‘Come along, come along.’

Vincenzi followed the
jaresht
out of the barracks. The training grounds were a wide, barren area between two rocky hills. For the first week, Vincenzi had thought the whole Skag moon was like that, before their first really long run had taken them into the valley next door. Evidently this area had been overfarmed so badly it was useless. The valleys all around were full of fat, healthy alien plants.

204

Vincenzi wondered whether the
jaresht
had been a farmer before the Empire had gobbled up her world, or whether she’d always shouted for a living.

She led him to the mess hall. A new shipment of recruits had arrived during the night; he’d been woken briefly by the sound of their retros. He wasn’t surprised to find them jammed into the mess hall, looking jet-lagged and nervous.

‘Mooooooller!’ called the
jaresht
. ‘Come along!’

A short, bulky woman detached herself from the other recruits and hurried to the Skagette’s side. ‘I hear you!’ she said.

Learning the ropes already, good.

‘Vinsensee,’ announced the
jaresht
. ‘Mooooooller is going to be your sergeant. Once the training is complete, it’ll be time to start putting the units together. I want her briefed by this afternoon.’

‘The COs are arriving today?’ said Vincenzi. ‘Today?’

‘Running ahead of schedule,
chumanet
,’ said the
jaresht
. ‘Get talking, have breakfast.’

Vincenzi shook Muller’s hand. ‘Welcome aboard. How’d they get you?’

‘Volunteered, sir,’ she said. ‘I was thrown out of the navy induction program for insubordination.’

Vincenzi blinked at her.

‘I thought I’d better tell you straight way, sir,’ she said. ‘How about you, sir?’

‘Ah,’ said Vincenzi. ‘Insubordination too, I guess.’

Muller nodded. ‘How’s the training been going, sir? Do you think we really have a chance to change things?’

‘Change things?’ said Vincenzi. ‘I think we have a chance at winning this war. But change things… Maybe things will be different afterwards.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

205

3

Kibero

Kibero Patera, Io, 16 July 2982

Chris had been walking for three hours. He took out the map he’d been given, tracing a finger along his route… Grief, he’d covered only a fraction of the distance.

He was parched and his legs were starting to protest. He stuffed the map back in the pocket of his board shorts. There was only one thing for it.

There was a café just up ahead on the right. Chris stumbled inside and sat down at a table, one of a dozen, round dark circles hovering on miniature nullgrav generators. The table bobbed slightly when he leant on it, before firming up, positioning itself at a comfortable height.

It was the sixth café he’d passed on his trek around the Forrester house. ‘Café’ probably wasn’t the right term. ‘Dining area,’ maybe. He’d seen employees and family members eating as he’d passed by.

He was determined to walk the whole of the outer hallway, a thirty-kilometre stretch of carpet and windows circling the building at its base. He’d started from the transport access tunnel, a long metallic tube stretching away across Io’s barren surface, puncturing the crater rim.

206

They called this part of the structure the Needle, and the palace proper was threaded through it, descending into the rock, shooting up into the sky, four hundred storeys in all.

And Roz grew up here. Somewhere, he bet, there was a nursery big enough to play football in.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Chris looked up. He’d been expecting a robot, but it was a waiter, a skinny middle-aged man in one of the house’s uniforms.

Not a waiter. A servant. ‘Um,’ he said nervously. ‘Can I get something to eat? I mean, a menu.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ The servant tapped the table top on the button marked MENU, previously hidden behind Chris’s elbow. ‘Shall I leave you for a moment to consider?’

‘Oh, no, that’s OK, can I please get…’ The menu was all in

!Xhosa. There was a horrible moment as Chris realized he was going to have to ask for a translation. With a lurch of relief he realized that there was an icon for English at the bottom of the screen. He tapped it. ‘…a cheeseburger. With fries. And a chocolate milk shake, please.’

‘Your meal will be ready in three minutes, sir,’ said the servant. He gave Chris a tiny bow and retreated.

Oh, man. This was difficult to cope with. This was way too big.

Bigger than a majorly expensive hotel. Bigger than a factory.

Bigger than the overcity block he’d grown up in.

And this was Roz’s home. She could go anywhere here, except maybe the private apartments of one of the other Forresters.

And who the hell was he?

He thought he knew her, thought he
understood
that her family were rich, that they owned a
planet
for chrissakes. He’d watched
Lifestyles of the Obscenely Wealthy
– he knew what it was all about.

He’d really believed that it didn’t matter, that she’d left this all behind to be an Adjudicator. But you couldn’t leave something like this behind. It was too big.

Jesus, the time he’d kissed her. He was lucky she hadn’t laughed in his face. Maybe she had – he’d fainted afterwards.

207

The servant was back, bearing a tray. Chris wondered if he was supposed to leave a tip. ‘Thanks,’ he said, awkwardly. Another quick nod and the man was gone again.

On his walk he’d passed swimming pools and gymnasiums, cinemas and gardens, a zoo and an art gallery. He’d passed by areas of landscape meant to simulate half a dozen Earth environments and half a dozen more alien ones. Look to the right, and you saw sky, grass, birds; look to the left, and you saw rocks.

Deeper in the building there were laboratories, hydroponics plants, reprocessors, you name it. It was like an arcology. The map said the palace could survive for a year without any outside contact.

He finished his meal, wondered what to do with the tray, and ended up awkwardly leaving it on the table. He took the milk shake with him.

He walked for another hour. The palace was sparsely populated

– most of the people were servants, outnumbering the family members fifteen to one. He’d seen just one other person in the Needle, a woman jogging in the opposite direction. Family, probably, pureblood. She gave him a smile and a wave as she passed.

Every so often a transport would whoosh overhead. The ceiling was thirty feet up, curving over a shuttle tube suspended from a thick metal strut. No one seemed to walk, even the short distance between tube stops. After a while there was a certain sameness to it, he supposed.

The buzzing noise came from somewhere behind him, distant.

At first he thought it was another shuttle, but as the sound grew louder he realized it was something else. An engine noise, maybe? Robot cleaners? Go-karts?

It was hard to resist taking glances behind him as he walked.

The sound was taking for ever to catch up with him. Whatever it was, it was loud, audible from a long way away…

The buzzing became a roaring, somewhere close behind, just around the curve of the Needle’s eye. Chris was just starting to wonder if he was in trouble when they came into view.

A pair of tiny biplanes. Child sized. Corridor sized.

208

Chris stared as the miniature aircraft sped towards him. There were two kids in each – teenagers, he saw, as they got close enough for him to really get a handle on the size. Three teenagers, one little kid. All of them whooping and laughing as they roared towards him.

They shot past him on either side, a deafening, Dopplered wall of sound. He laughed out loud as they screamed down the corridor, leaving him behind. Now
that
was the way to travel!

The kids were waiting for him at the next tube station, their toy aeroplanes parked to one side, up against the window. They sat on the steps that led up to the transport, giggling.

The eldest looked around eighteen, willowy and pretty with a big smile. She stood up and waved at him with a white handkerchief as he jogged towards them. The others were a boy and girl in their mid-teens, and the little girl, who was maybe six or seven.

‘These are great!’ he said, coming to halt near the biplanes. ‘I would have given a limb to have one like this.’ He stroked the plane’s wing.

‘Watch it, mate,’ said the plane.

The children all giggled as he snatched his hand back. ‘I’m Chris,’ he said. ‘Chris Cwej.’

‘We know,’ said the middle girl. ‘You came here with Aunty Roz.’

Leabie’s kids. He should have guessed right away. Purebloods, with expensive corrected genotypes and bepples on top, he imagined. Healthy and strong and very beautiful.