Creation Machine (21 page)

She woke, pain-free but limp with exhaustion, as they were boarded by two unsmiling officials of the Tail End Port Authority who welcomed them to the Tail End, asked to see their proof of ownership of the Ground Engine and, when they could offer none, politely arrested them for theft and vagrancy.

She drifted off again, to the sound of Jez shouting at the officials.

Yeveg Island, Taussich

IT LOOKED LIKE
an ancient natural harbour. A blue sea lapped against the wide mortared stone crescent of the harbour wall, rocking the oiled bark hulls of a row of fishing boats. Above the wall, terraces climbed up and back towards the frond-wood-covered heights behind. The evening air smelled of salt and cooking fires and seared meats.

In fact it was nothing of the sort. Taussich had very little free surface water and none of it was allowed to collect into anything as wasteful as a sea, certainly not by accident. This was an artificial island in an artificial body of water. The harbour was real, in a way; it had been a major heritage site on one of the first planets the Fortunate had conquered, and the Patriarch’s predecessor had ordered it to be removed, stone by stone, and re-erected complete with the original boats. The operation had displaced the original inhabitants, of course, but there were only a few thousand of them, so that was practically a bargain.

Garamende’s estate occupied the highest terrace. Alameche had been there before, but not for several years. It had been extended since he last saw it. Considerably. He pointed at the fish ponds, which were many tens of metres above natural sea level. ‘How often do you have to restock these?’

‘It depends.’ Garamende squinted at the water. ‘Some of the big eels will outlive all of us. Fifty, a hundred years. That one, there – I think she’s almost a hundred and fifty. Others, like – wait a moment. Ah, yes. Those!’ He pointed. ‘The little blue spidery things. See?’

Alameche nodded.

‘Well,
those
are prey for the green ones with lots of claws. And
they
are prey for those long thin fish with extra fins. And
those
are what the eels eat, mostly.’

‘I see.’ Alameche looked at the ponds, and then at the flight of wooden stairs that led up to them. He couldn’t see any other way of getting there. ‘So every day you have to bring how much up here?’

Garamende scratched his head. ‘Well, in terms of biomass, maybe fifty kilos. But with the added water, about five tonnes, I suppose. Keeps the staff fit.’

‘I expect so.’ Alameche looked along the row of ponds. ‘Are they all the same?’

The big man nodded. ‘All except the last one.’ He pointed towards the end of the terrace. ‘I’ll show you that one later, if you like. Care for a drink?’

The terrace was decked with dark, slightly rough timber. Halfway along, a slim walkway extended outwards at right angles. There were no guard rails, and Alameche walked carefully, his eyes straight ahead. After fifty paces over nothing it broadened into a round platform just big enough for a couple of couches and a low table.

Garamende dropped on to one of the couches, and gestured at the other. ‘Have a seat, old friend.’ He studied Alameche’s face. ‘You look terrified.’

Alameche smiled. In the back of his mind was the thought that he didn’t need to play this game. He could probably have Garamende executed within twenty-four hours on any one of a thousand pretexts. The man was wealthy and socially influential but he was not part of the Cabinet circle, and he made enemies as readily as friends.

Probably
wasn’t good enough. He sat down. There were drinks on the table, but he ignored them. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he said. He paused, and added, ‘Old friend?’

The big man grinned, picked up a goblet, and drained it. ‘Rumours,’ he said. ‘Before I go on, let me assure you that as far as I am aware we are alone. Can you give me the same assurance?’

Alameche shrugged. ‘As far as I am aware, yes,’ he said. ‘Does it matter? Were you planning to say anything compromising?’

Garamende laughed softly. ‘Every time I open my mouth, you know that.’ He put down the empty goblet. ‘But even so, I have to ask. You see,’ and he leaned forward, ‘one of the rumours is that you might have a little pet.’

‘Really? What sort?’ Alameche kept his voice level.

‘The sort that floats around listening to people.’ Garamende was watching him steadily.

Alameche shook his head. ‘I have no pets,’ he said truthfully. ‘Why don’t you tell me about some more rumours?’

‘Very well.’ Garamende refilled his goblet from a tall jug. He waggled the jug at Alameche, who shook his head. ‘As you please. Yes. Rumours. Tell me again what you think about our Leader’s speech the other night?’

Alameche studied his hands for a moment. Then he smiled a little. ‘You asked me about it at the time. You’ll hear nothing different now. Why?’

‘Because everyone’s talking about it, although possibly not in your hearing. Want to know what they’re saying?’

‘If you want to tell me.’

‘Bollocks!’ Garamende slapped the goblet down, raising a shower of droplets. They smelled of tar. ‘Stop playing fucking games. Want doesn’t come into it. I’m going to tell you because I think you ought to know. And as a result I’m probably going to end the week wearing my own arsehole as a necklace.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Here we go. A few people think he must know something they don’t, whether it’s a new alliance or some sort of super-weapon. They also say that if he knows, you know. Most of ’em think you probably knew first, and that this pet you say you haven’t got has something to do with it.’

Alameche nodded. ‘Do you agree with them?’

The big man looked at him for a long time. ‘Not sure,’ he said eventually. ‘But whether I do or not, there’s the other opinion.’

‘And that is?’

There was another pause. Then Garamende spoke, slowly and quietly. ‘That he’s lost his marbles and has therefore become a problem.’

‘Ah. And which do you believe?’

‘Well, now, there’s the thing.’ Garamende picked up his goblet, inclined it slightly towards his nose and wobbled it so that the drink swirled. Then he put it down again, gently this time, and looked up at Alameche. ‘I’m not sure it’s a case of either or. What if your master is indeed a lunatic
and
he really is in charge of something powerful?’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody awkward for you.’

‘Why?’ In his own ears, Alameche’s voice sounded dead steady.

‘Get a grip, man. You’re his creature, and in some ways he’s yours. Push comes to shove, if he falls you fall with him. Of course,’ and he picked up his drink again, ‘that’s always assuming you wait until he falls. Cheers.’ He upended the goblet.

Alameche stared out over the bay. The two main suns were down now. Only the dusty little disc of the Joker still rode low in the sky. If he tried hard, he could convince himself that a smudge of light on the horizon, right at the edge of his vision, was the Citadel.

He turned back to Garamende. ‘Is there any danger of a fall, then?’

‘That depends.’ Garamende leaned back in his seat and stretched. ‘On various things. You, for a start, and whoever you’re talking to. Don’t bother denying it, man. I might not be a member of the Cabinet but I’m not blind. And, of course, on other people.’

‘You know these people, do you?’ Alameche realized he had snapped out the words. He breathed out carefully, and added in a softer voice, ‘Because if you do, you’re not far from having to pick sides. How far do you trust them?’

‘Trust? Ha!’ Garamende’s belly shook. ‘I’d sooner trust my dick to write letters.’ He stood up. ‘Come on. I never showed you that last fish pond.’

He turned and stamped along the narrow walkway back to the terrace. Alameche stood up to follow him and almost fell. He was swaying. For a moment he thought his legs were unsteady. Then he realized. It wasn’t him; the walkway was swinging a little under Garamende’s weight. He shook his head and followed.

The fish ponds were strung out in a line along the edge of the terrace. They were recessed into the stone so that their edges were flush, and each one was about ten paces square. As he passed each one, Garamende listed the species it contained, although to Alameche they all looked the same – eels, and smaller fish, and crawling, darting things that existed only to be eaten, that were replenished at the rate of tonnes per week by unshod slaves whose bare feet had stained the terrace with sweat and the occasional darker smear that Alameche assumed was blood. The surfaces of the ponds flashed green under the dim Jokerlight.

Except for the last one.

‘What’s this?’ Alameche knelt by the pond. The water was a slick-looking pinkish blue, dead smooth apart from the occasional patch of shifting foam. He reached out his hand.

‘No!’ Garamende’s voice was sharp.

Alameche sat back on his heels. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Don’t touch.’ Garamende knelt down next to him, but a little further from the water. Something about his posture made Alameche inch backwards. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘You’ll break the oil layer.’ The big man looked at him seriously. ‘The oil layer stops them smelling you. Break it and they’ll get your scent, and once they’ve done that they’ll have you.’ He stood up and felt in a pocket. ‘Look, I’ll show you. But for fuck’s sake stand back. And take this.’ It was a smooth pebble. ‘When I say, and not before, lob this into the middle of the pond.’

Alameche took the pebble. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Feed the buggers.’ Garamende reached into his other pocket and brought out a handful of something that struggled against his grip. He held it out towards Alameche, who could only see a mass of writhing fur. ‘Sand rats, see? Ideal snack. Ready? Now!’ He threw the little creatures up into the air above the pond. Alameche tossed the pebble into the centre. It plopped through the oily surface and sank.

The pond erupted. A forest of tiny, sleek, golden, dart-shaped bodies flashed up into the air, meeting the falling rats like missiles.

Right at the upper edge of hearing, there was a tiny, terrible, composite scream. Alameche covered his ears. Then the mass of bodies fell into the pond, the thick oil rippled and lapped back over the surface, and there was silence.

Alameche looked at Garamende. ‘What are they?’ he asked carefully.

For once Garamende didn’t grin. ‘On their home planet they’re just called the Nightmare,’ he said. ‘Half fish, half insect. They’ve got these hooked mouth parts. Once they’ve got them in you, they shoot stomach acid into the wound. Speeds up digestion, the scientists say.’ He looked at Alameche and shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me like that, man. I didn’t invent ’em, any more than you invented acid baths. But I can use ’em.’ He reached out and put a hand on Alameche’s shoulder. ‘That’s what I know about trust, you see? It needs backup.’

Alameche nodded. ‘I see,’ he said, eventually. ‘You confide in me, and I seem to have all my skin. This is trust?’

Now Garamende did grin. ‘Oh, I think you and I are above all that.’ The grin widened, so that his teeth glinted yellow in the Jokerlight. ‘Long may it last. Eh?’

Alameche opened his own mouth to reply, but he was cut off by loud shouts from further along the terrace. Garamende looked round. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The rest of the party. Come on.’ He paused, and looked worried. ‘I hope you like fish?’

Fish was one way of putting it.

‘Three . . . two . . . one . . .
now!
’

The partition between the two tanks slammed open.

Alameche felt an elbow dig into his ribs. He looked round, and saw Garamende leaning towards him. The big man put his mouth against Alameche’s ear and shouted over the noise of the crowd. ‘Word to the wise, man. Put your money on the green.’

‘Really?’ Alameche looked towards the tanks, where two bow-wave ripples were converging. ‘The black one is far bigger.’

‘Bigger? What the fuck does that have to do with it? Look; see?’

There was a moan from the crowd. The two huge eels clashed, wrapping around each other and spinning in a blurred knot of muscle and a fountain of water. Droplets splashed on to the table in front of Alameche, staining the white surface with pink spots. He frowned, looking close, then relaxed. The blood seemed to have missed his plate.

As fast as they had met, the two eels separated. They began circling warily. Red threads wisped away from the head of the black one and were mopped up by the little floating filter-globes that kept the water clear enough for the spectators to see.

Garamende nudged him again. ‘See? Green! That beast was old and wily in my father’s day. She had her first full circle a century ago! Get your bets in, man.’

Alameche nodded, and waved at one of the hovering accountants.

The Great Eel was a genuine native of Taussich as far as anyone could tell, which made it unusual enough to begin with. It was powerful, aggressive and very long-lived, but what made it truly unique was the fact that it grew one set of two hundred and thirteen teeth for life, and they were made of silicates. Very durable, and above all very sharp.

The outcome was inevitable. For thousands of years, Great Eels had been bred and selected for their fighting abilities. They used their armoured heads as clubs, their muscular, prehensile tails as whips and their whole bodies as constrictors, generally fighting to the death. It was a tradition that the teeth of the losing eel would be extracted and implanted in circles around the head or the tail of the winner.

A successful fighter might accumulate ten or twenty full circles of lethal teeth around each end of its sinuous body during a career which could easily last a century. The green eel had so many that Alameche couldn’t count them.

The accountant had made it through the crowd. He bowed slightly. Alameche gave his instructions and then, when the man raised his eyebrows, repeated them tersely. The man blanched and hurried away. Alameche saw him draw several similar-looking men into a huddle. It probably wouldn’t take long for them to sort it out. He waited.

Smoke was drifting over the ponds. Somewhere behind them, long fire pits had been lit. The losing eels would be eaten later. It would be an expensive meal, for someone: Alameche had heard that a good Great Eel could be worth the value of a country estate.