“No,” said We Suffer. “I am showing you now.”
The guard flicked the switch. In response, the projector hummed to life and the white screen exploded into greys, but the image projected came into focus so slowly that it was barely a picture at all. It looked as though it was being painted on the screen row by row, from the top to the bottom, every row constantly redrafted with higher resolution and sharpness. Nona made out something lumpy on a darker background, but that was it.
“The limits of technology. Excuse it. We are using shortwave,” said We Suffer, with a touch of impatience. “I knew I should have loaded it before … I have been in cars all of last evening, all the night, all this morning. I will get a thrombosis. Let me give you a little preamble. You are about to see a stellar craft sighted”—We Suffer looked down at a folder in front of her—“six hours and twenty-five minutes ago. It is in orbit as we speak.”
The grey-on-grey blob resolved into a shuttle. Nona had seen shuttles planetside before the sky changed: big boxy cargo launchers with hooks on top so that they could attach to the space elevator and launch from the geostation. They looked like cake tins with company pictures etched on the sides. This looked sleeker and it wasn’t etched at all. There were bones inlaid in the sides like fossils in a dried-out riverbed: whole skeletons curled up as though they had fallen in the shuttle mould, beautifully and intricately set. And it had windows of dark glass. No cargo launcher had windows.
The moment the image came into view Camilla’s fingers had stilled on the pen. She clicked it so that the nib appeared, and then idly doodled on the paper, except that Camilla was never idle and was physically incapable of doing anything that sounded like doodle.
We Suffer said, “You understand that this image caused serious consternation.”
“Should’ve eased your minds,” said Pyrrha. “That’s not a reinforcement craft.”
“I agree. It is not a troop carrier. It is maybe ten metres across,” said We Suffer.
The bodyguard said hotly, “I can cram a battalion into ten metres. Give me time and I’ll cram two.” （ZZT TWO.）
We Suffer said, “Mmm. Perhaps stacking them lengthways?”
“The soldiers will do as I say,” said the bodyguard.
“Then how relaxing it is for the soldiers that we have removed you from active duty,” said We Suffer. “Crown? Let your people comment.”
Crown and Camilla exchanged a significant look. Camilla’s stilled fingers had returned to playing with the pen. Nona snuck a look at what she had been drawing; it looked like nothing more than three squiggles and a tiny heart.
“How long has the Second House installation been abandoned now? Station Red-as-Blood?” asked Cam.
We Suffer said, “Ah. I see where you are going with this, the line of questioning you are bringing. The answer is three months since the troops of the Empire abandoned it. I received word yesterday of an investigation last week. It was reported empty. You are wondering about point of origin?”
“Yes. That ship’s not big enough for a stele. Don’t know if it’s big enough for subluminary travel, even. How did it get here?”
Crown leant back in her chair, staring at the projector screen, head balanced in the crook of one golden arm. Nona noticed that her biceps showed even through her shirt, and that there were rubber bandages wrapped around one palm. She said, “Oh, that’s big enough for subluminary travel, Millie. See the double struts, and the massive exhaust? That’s a Ziz-class.”
It was hard for Camilla to hold anyone’s gaze behind the dark glasses, but she inclined her head a little way toward Pyrrha, who was staring at the picture. Pyrrha shrugged and said, “Crown’s the expert. This is all after my time.”
Crown continued, “The Ziz isn’t Cohort standard. And it’s not as big on the inside as you think. Look at the windows—see how there’re none on the back end? It’s mostly engine. Not plated either. It’ll get to sublume without many problems … but it definitely doesn’t have room for a stele. Camilla is right. It can’t travel by obelisk anchor.”
Camilla had started writing on her bit of paper before Crown finished talking, somehow managing to write and stare intently at the same time. The bodyguard did not even try to hide their interest in Cam’s paper, craning their head to stare in open suspicion, but did not seem to find anything to be hostile about.
We Suffer said, “Ah! Are you secretly an expert on the stellar craft of your people, Crown? That is a very useful piece to have in our box of tricks,” but Crown just laughed.