Redemption Ark

H showed him to an elevator. The car was a skeletal affair fashioned from iron spirals and filigrees. The floor was a cold iron grillework with many gaps in it. H slid shut a creaking door formed from scissoring iron chevrons, latching it just as the elevator began its descent. At first the progress was ponderous, Clavain guessing that it would take the better part of an hour to reach the building’s lower levels. But the elevator, in its creaking fashion, accelerated faster and faster, until a substantial wind was ramming through the perforated flooring.

‘Skade’s mission was deemed a failure,’ Clavain said over the rumble and screech of the elevator’s descent.

‘Yes, but not necessarily from the Mademoiselle’s point of view. Consider: she had extended her web of influence into every facet of Chasm City life. Within limits, she could make anything happen that she wished. Her reach included the Rust Belt, all the major foci of Demarchist power. She even had, I think, some hold over the Ultras, or at least the means to make them work for her. But she had nothing on the Conjoiners.’

‘And Skade may have been her point of entry?’

I think it must be considered likely, Mr Clavain. It may not be accidental that Skade was allowed to survive when the rest of her team were killed.‘

‘But Skade is one of us,’ Clavain said feebly. ‘She would never betray the Mother Nest.‘

‘What happened to Skade afterwards, Mr Clavain? Did she by any chance widen her influence within the Conjoined?’

Clavain recalled that Skade had joined the Closed Council in the aftermath of the mission. ‘To some extent.’

‘Then I think the case is closed. That would always have been the Mademoiselle’s strategy, you see. Infiltrate and orchestrate. Skade might not even think she is betraying your people; the Mademoiselle was always clever enough to play on loyalty. And although Skade’s mission was judged a failure, she did recover some of the items of interest, did she not? Enough to benefit the Mother Nest?’

‘I’ve already told you that I don’t know about any secret project concerning the quantum vacuum.’

‘Mm. And I didn’t find your denial wholly convincing the first time, either.’

Clock, the one with the bald egg-shaped skull, told Xavier to call Antoinette.

‘I’ll call her,’ Xavier said. ‘But I can’t make her come here, even if Mr Pink starts damaging the ship.’

‘Find a way,’ Clock said, stroking the waxy olive leaf of one of the repair shop’s potted plants. ‘Tell her you found something you can’t fix, something that needs her expertise. I’m sure you can improvise, Mr Liu.’

‘We’ll be listening in,’ Mr Pink added. To Xavier’s relief, the pig had returned from inside Storm Bird without inflicting any obvious damage to the ship, although he had the impression that Mr Pink had merely been scoping out possibilities for inflicting harm later on.

He called Antoinette. She was halfway around Carousel New Copenhagen, engaged in a frantic round of business meetings. Ever since Clavain had left things had gone from bad to worse.

‘Just get here as quickly as you can,’ Xavier told her, one eye on his two visitors.

‘Why the big rush, Xave?’

‘You know how much it’s costing us to keep Storm Bird parked here, Antoinette. Every hour makes a difference. Just this phone call is killing us.’

‘Holy shit, Xave. Cheer me up, why don’t you?’

‘Just get here.’ He hung up on her. ‘Thanks for making me do that, you bastards.’

Clock said, ‘Your understanding is appreciated, Mr Liu. I assure you no harm will come to either of you, most especially not to Antoinette.’

‘You’d better not hurt her.’ He looked at both of them, unsure which one he trusted the least. ‘All right. She’ll be here in about twenty minutes. You can speak to her here, and then she can be on her way.’

‘We’ll talk to her in the ship, Mr Liu. That way there’s no chance of either of you running away, is there?’

‘Whatever,’ Xavier said, shrugging. ‘Just give me a minute to sort out the monkeys.’

The elevator slowed and came to a halt, shaking and creaking even though it was stationary. Far above Clavain, metallic echoes chased each other up and down the lift-shaft like hysterical laughter.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘The deep basement of the building. We’re well below the old Mulch now, Mr Clavain, into Yellowstone bedrock.’ H ushered Clavain onwards. ‘This is where it happened, you see.’

‘Where what happened?’

‘The disturbing event.’

H led him along corridors — tunnels, more accurately — that had been bored through solid rock and then only lightly faced. Blue lanterns threw the ridges and bulges of the underlying geology into deep relief. The air was damp and cold, the hard stone floor uncomfortable beneath Clavain’s feet. They passed a room containing many upright silver canisters arrayed across the floor like milk churns, and then descended via a ramp that took them even deeper.