She wasn’t sure whether she was manipulating him or not. When she saw his face soften, even more vulnerable when unguarded, she wondered if she should feel guilty.
*
‘Look at that bedamned fancyman,’ Rollo crowed. Everyone except Kittering and Barney was up in the control compartment, watching their approach to Huei-Cavor’s orbitals. It was a long time since they’d been to any world with so much traffic. Its equator was ringed with a jewelled necklace of stations, shipyards, elevator hubs and the skeletal frames of superdocks for big freight vessels. Past that, they could see the blue-yellow swell of the planet itself. It was azure-white at its visible pole, showing copper-saturated ice deposits wisped with sulphur-tinged clouds. Despite the aggressive chemistry, a lot of people lived on Huei-Cavor’s surface. Pills or body-mods enabled people to metabolize whatever the planet threw at them. Once they’d adjusted to local conditions, the regime was as good for health and longevity as a mineral spa. A number of well-heeled oldsters had set up down there over the years, funding much of the planet’s burgeoning infrastructure.
And now all that wealth was being ceremonially handed over to alien overlords. Why, if the Architects were gone? Solace wondered. Maybe it was because Huei had an older population that remembered the war. Their childhoods had been characterized by the terror that, any day, something could just appear over the planet and obliterate it. They wanted the Essiel’s much-vaunted protection.
Rollo’s ‘fancyman’ was the Hegemonic ambassador’s enormous barge. Looking down on it, as it descended for landing, was like looking into the half-folded petals of a rose made from coral. The barge had no visible windows, engines, weapons, or any recognizable components at all. It fell towards the planet like a slow motion asteroid.
It would have a similar impact upon the planet’s political sphere, given a sizeable slice of Huei-Cavor’s population wasn’t happy about the change in management. The newscasts were showing riots, bombings and thousands-strong protests. There would be bloodshed, now and for years to come. Perhaps not the best time to visit, Solace thought.
Now the newstypes were interviewing that bald white-bearded man who seemed so popular locally. He was wearing a remarkably elaborate robe, red with eye-catching geometric gold embroidery. Its remarkably high curved collar fanned out behind him, visible over the top of his head. He was standing with a few others in lesser finery, all looking serenely pleased with themselves. This was the Hegemonic cult, Solace understood: the human faction that had been pushing for the planet to leave Hugh for years. Baldy-beardy called himself Sathiel, because high-ranking cultists tended to adopt names that made them sound religious. Sathiel was apparently a big man from the Hegemony, here to assist in a smooth handover. The Essiel liked peaceful, well-run planets. The view changed to show the enormous crowd that had gathered at the landing site. This was mostly excited neo-cultists, keen for a glimpse of their new rulers.
‘Response from Lung-Crow Orbital,’ Olli reported. She was reclining in the six-legged frame she used to get about the ship, after Idris had persuaded her to take a break from her control pod. She’d been trying to get hold of their contracting party aboard the nearby station. Unfortunately their new employer was the local administration, who had their plates full right now.
‘Let’s hear it.’ Rollo pulled comms over to his station. ‘This is Vulture God, reporting for duty. Do we have Lung-Crow Admin? Word is there’s deep void work going begging.’
On his screen, the Lung-Crow hung over the planet like a huge spindle. Within its windowed upper facets, people lived, worked and did business. From the slot-riddled lower half, ships passed in and out like bees from a hive. Then its image was shunted out of the way to reveal a lean woman, her eyes obscured by a battery of lenses.
‘Factor Kittering?’ she said doubtfully to Rollo.
The Hannilambra sent her a feed from his own console, appearing as an inset on the main screen. His mouthparts fiddled some sort of introduction.
‘Ah, Captain Rostand, then. Admirably prompt.’
‘And looking to be just as prompt out the door,’ Rollo told her easily. ‘I get the impression you have plenty of bigger holes to patch than ours. You are . . .’ A brief glance sideways. ‘Factor Luciel Leng, is it?’
‘Your own factor there assures me you have a deep void-capable ship and navigator. I’ve seen your certification, but I want assurances that you’re not puffing your profile. Because that’s what I’m paying for.’