Idris stopped listening because he was looking at the ruins – no, feeling the ruins. He could sense them in the same way that he could sense the Throughways and the nodes of unspace. Something was active there. It was a tugging at the edge of his mind, like someone plucking at his sleeve. There was a metaphysical weight to the whole area. It was baked in to the structure, the shape, the weird maze-like arrangements and the materials that nobody had ever been able to satisfactorily analyse or duplicate.
‘Has the site ever had an Intermediary here, working on the Originator ruins?’ he asked.
‘An Int? Don’t think so, mate. Not that I heard, anyway.’ Robellin spread his hands. ‘I mean, you fellers are pretty few and thin, right? Not as if there’s a bundle of you at the careers bureau, wondering what you can do with your time.’
Idris fell silent, wondering if he had a duty to tell someone about this – the Liaison Board, maybe. It would be a cushy job for some of their forced-conscript Ints to work in archaeology, rather than brave the trauma of unspace travel. But when the leashes were signed, even Originator archaeology lost out to interstellar trade, espionage and military transport. There was probably no point.
A handful of people were coming out from the tents to welcome the land car, and they eyed Solace warily. Probably no Nativist hostility out here, but you wouldn’t expect to find a battle-ready Partheni soldier on Jericho. Then the staff began unloading the car and hauling crates away – and Idris saw what must be Trine limping out to greet them.
The Trine of his memory had been shiny and new, instanced into a frame that was broadly humanoid, faceless and just about identical to their Hive-built siblings. Back in the war, this had been standard for Hivers who interacted with humans. Once they were free to quit Hugh and humanity, Hivers had started diversifying. This Trine’s frame had two legs, thin and jointed like a bird’s, and their torso was a barrel shape above a box pelvis, opening onto a whole cutlery drawer of folding limbs. Trine’s head was a silvery bowl containing a projected face. It was human, androgynous, middle-aged and cheery-looking, and a trick of the projection made it appear to be looking straight at you, no matter what angle you were at.
The other thing Idris noticed about Trine’s frame was how old and battered it was. Any polish was most definitely gone, and the metal body was covered in dents and spot repairs, off-colour panels cannibalized from other machinery. One leg was slightly shorter than the other. Only that array of arms had been kept polished and perfect.
‘Subtlety was never the Parthenon’s strong point.’ The precise, amused-sounding voice issued from somewhere within Trine’s torso. ‘Myrmidon Executor Solace, as I live and fail to breathe. No Partheni task force behind you, about to take possession of the Gold City dig site?’ Everyone could hear his comments, and Trine received a number of awkward looks from their colleagues.
‘This is purely for self-defence, Delegate.’ Solace also raised her voice, to confirm to the camp that she wasn’t a one-woman invasion. Mr Punch currently rested on one shoulder, muzzle only threatening the first faint stars. ‘And that seems a necessity on this planet of yours.’
‘Oh yes.’ Idris had never heard a Hiver snicker before, but Trine had apparently felt it necessary to install the facility. ‘Our neighbours.’
‘About our new friends,’ Yon Robellin broke in, coming back for another crate. ‘Your feller here, the skinny one, he’s a surprising fucker. Groppler wrangler. May just have opened up a whole bloody can of research on us. Tell y’about it when we’ve got stuff put away.’
The Hiver’s attention now focused on Idris. ‘Menheer Idris Telemmier . . .?’ The statement trailed off questioningly. They might not think like humans, but as a product of human technology, Hivers were good at putting on a nuanced show.
‘None other,’ Idris confirmed weakly, knowing that Trine would be performing a compare-and-contrast with the young Intermediary they’d known during the war, and finding far too few differences. ‘Long story.’
‘Evidently,’ Trine agreed. ‘But, now, let us step over here and speak of matters utterly innocent and unconnected with subterfuge.’ They took several canted steps towards the perimeter, beckoning with some of their arms.
‘You mentioned subtlety,’ Solace pointed out, when they’d put ten metres or so between them and the ground car.
‘Well you did rather push that ship out and burn it,’ Trine remarked tartly. ‘When is your ship due, may I ask?’