She forced herself back into cover. ‘Couldn’t even spell the word, sir. Just trying out ideas.’

  ‘Never a bad thing. But – look, I want you to open your mind. Come along. Today’s the day you are privileged to witness more marvels of our technologies.’

  Now the party walked out onto the sprawling floor of the hull, the slave deck itself. A slave’s-eye view of the sleek, tall, opaque walls that contained it; the ugly central mass of the life-support complex, with its extension beneath the deck. The shack-like buildings. The brothel. In Ulla’s sightline were women, men, some children, some elderly. And many clearly mutilated by the regime that controlled them. People who lay on heaps of blankets, dirty clothing. But some huddled, evidently protected by others. She even saw one broken woman being fed by a girl, perhaps a teenager. The woman’s head scanned from side to side, like a broken radar dish.

  Finally Pulet halted, lingering beside a heap of people, silent, in rags. All looked half-starved to Ulla.

  Pulet murmured, ‘You know that my title – one of them – is that of protector. Would that I could save these broken ones!’

  That pushed Ulla too far. ‘Then why don’t you? Protector. Why not stop the pointless abuse, to help the hopelessly afflicted?’

  Pulet sighed. ‘If only I could. But, you see, that would destabilise the process, the – the society that is developing down here. For that’s what it is. Not a prison. A process, and a productive one. The strong and clever are useful to us, yes – you know that even the children are essential to the maintenance of our life-support systems – but they in turn must be supported by a milling mass of the weak. Paying their taxes in terms of stolen food, and fleshy pleasure … Yes, think of it as a compact economical machine, if you like. A machine which has worked for centuries on our worlds, in our ships. And, similarly, I believe, those who die are glad to contribute to a project of such ambition, of which they could never have dreamed …’

  That remark flatly astonished Ulla.

  ‘Think of it,’ Pulet said. ‘With this system as a bedrock support, this mixture of technology and flexible humanity, we, my ancestors, have colonised the outer reaches of Hearthspace. We routinely travel twenty, thirty times further than the separations of the petty Earths and Marses on which you scrape a living. There are said to be a million potentially habitable worlds in our territory. My own estimate is that about one-tenth of those might actually be liveable for humans, with minimal life support. Ten thousand Earths, if you like!

  ‘And, too, in our domain orbit hundreds of thousands of giant worlds – huge planets of ice and rock and gases, many with flocks of moons of their own. And some of those, the ones bearing frozen-over oceans for example, may harbour life – or perhaps may even have initiated life of their own … Even if not, consider what lodes of resource they represent!

  ‘Ah. It is all wonderful. Hearthspace as a cradle of life of unbounded dimensions, of richly fulfilled life, even far from your cosy, Earthlike worlds. And you’ll see it. If you behave, if we let you live. If you let yourself see. You will see it.’

  Ulla said calmly, ‘And yet.’

  Nusma rested his hand on hers.

  ‘And yet,’ she said, too softly for any but the immediate group to hear, ‘and yet you run your society on slavery.’

  Pulet glared back at her. ‘But – can you not see – this is my point – this is not slavery! Oh, it’s born of slavery, driven by slavery, but this is a system, a civilisation, nascent! Look beyond our hull and you will see worlds being born, self-organising into cradles of life – and then organising on a higher level as the seeds of life wash on the dark-matter winds to colonise new worlds. Eventually, as such transfers continue, there will be a vast web of inter-related life, spreading out from this place, all around Hearthspace – and we humans, cultivators, will facilitate this. Think of that. And as for the here and now—’

  He waved a hand at the slaves. ‘These people will help enable this grand transformation, while being transformed themselves. Can you not see it – you of all people? Just as the forces of nature take the raw material of the worlds – volatiles, rocks, dust – and assemble, all without conscious direction, fecund worlds – so we, the Hierarchy, take these people, these particles of humanity, all but unconscious, these grains, and allow them to self-assemble into something greater than themselves.

  ‘Can you not see it? The grandeur? The, the – generosity! Our generosity!’ He waved a hand. ‘These are not slaves. They are the privileged! They are part of something greater than themselves!’

  Ulla knew she was losing it.

  She stepped forward. Nusma tried to pull her back, but she shook him off, and faced the protector.

  ‘No. No. This is no gift, no benevolence, no wisdom. You have a huge interplanetary spacecraft. And you fill it with slaves, with damaged humans. Because you have no choice.’

  The protector’s fists were clenched. She didn’t care.

  Again Nusma tried to deflect her, but she shoved him aside.

  Ulla couldn’t stop. ‘You use people to run your systems because you don’t have a sufficiently advanced technological solution. And because they are cheap! Human life is cheap for you! Because you can do no better—’

  In the end he moved remarkably quickly, for such a big man.

  One step.

  Then his bare fist slammed into the side of her head.

  She fell, hard, and hit the other side of her head on the floor.

  She tried to lift her head; pain exploded. But she could see the swing of his boot, coming for her head again, the guards and Nusma trying to hold him back.

  And she saw nothing more.

  It took her a day to recover.

  Five days before she went back to work.

  Five more days after that before Pulet would see her again.

  But after that it was as if her – indiscretion – had never happened.

  24

  It was some eighteen months after the departure of the Hierarchy slave-ship from Alliance space – that the incident of Farre and Trena, as Ulla would always think of it, blew up.

  It began when Mott advised her to get down to the slave deck, that the protector was down there and was asking for her by name – go right away. Something about the Venusians …

  She was brought down in the elevator by a guard.

  The elevator descent seemed a long one, and Ulla grew more nervous as it continued. Whatever the details, she was inevitably walking into a complex situation, and a potentially lethal one. It was always this way.

  Finally, Ulla and her sullen escort walked out from the elevator and across the slave deck.

  She quickly surveyed the scene. The protector was standing some way away with another guard.

  And Ulla, led by her own guard, made for the shabby metal-sheet shack shared by Farre and Trena. Child and adult, Venusians both.

  By the time they had reached the shack there was a further circle of watchers. None of them stared directly at Ulla, or her guard, though. Ulla recognised that tic. If you weren’t seeing the guard, maybe they weren’t seeing you. A prisoner’s reflex, Pulet had told her once, as if telling a joke.

  The guard poked his head inside the hut, barked a command. After a few heartbeats, Trena and Farre emerged. Hand in hand.

  Farre was essentially an orphan, Ulla realised, given that his parents were back on a Venus tens of thousands of astronomical units from this place – if they had survived the Hierarchy’s intervention on that world at all. Now he stared at the visitors, and it was all Ulla could do not to stare back at the ugly cavern that was his right eye.

  But Ulla forced a smile, as wide as she could. Even if this deck wasn’t a place for smiling. ‘It’s good to see you, Farre.’

  He looked mildly confused, but said, ‘Thank – thank you.’ His hands fluttered as he spoke, a touch of fingertips to his chin, an open palm gesture.

  Trena made the same gesture. Pupil and teacher. Ulla remembered Trena’s resolution to teach the boy sign, to distract him from everything else. Trena must have been warned about this visit, but still she looked alarmed at the huge presence of the armoured guard that had come along with Ulla. Farre, too, was shrinking back now, an obvious reflex.

  Still, Trena held her ground. She said, indistinctly, ‘Welcome. Thank you for this, Ulla. For coming to speak to us. I know such things are risky for you …’

  And as she spoke she gestured, her hands fluttered as Farre’s had, opened, swept across her torso …

  Farre smiled at Ulla.

  Trena confirmed, ‘I’m still teaching him sign – Venusian sign. Why not? He’s little else to stimulate him in this place …’

  Ulla leaned down, facing Farre, trying to be less threatening. ‘Farre. See? I remember your name. Do you remember mine?’

  After hesitating, he made a gesture. Finger and thumb close together, swipe across, and then open the hand. He did it again, and this time said the name aloud too: swipe / ooh, open / la-a. ‘Oo-lah.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a sign name. I get it.’ She glanced up at Trena. ‘Good stuff. Do you have, uh, sign names for yourselves?’

  Trena smiled, looking tired, and pointed at herself, then the boy. ‘Me. You. All we’ve needed so far. It’s just a game. Something I can teach him. I have nothing else to do, aside from chores. As for me, I can read lips pretty well, if you take it slow.’

  Ulla attempted a rueful grin. ‘I’ll try to remember …’

  A man, a slave, appeared from behind Ulla’s back, startling her. He carried a bag, held it up, grinned at Farre, and dropped it at the boy’s feet.

  Farre grinned back, made what seemed like a ‘thanks’ sign, pat chin, open hand.

  Then he grabbed the pack, and ran with it into the small hut. The man walked off.

  Ulla, puzzled, looked at Trena.

  And Trena made a sign: Stroke your chin like it had a beard, then thumb up …

  Ulla guessed the meaning. ‘Guy. Male, because he has a beard. And nice … Nice … guy? Oh, OK. And he gave you food?’

  ‘A little every day. What he can spare,’ Trena said.

  Ulla hesitated before asking, ‘And no strings attached? So not everybody is a savage down here yet, no matter what they do to us.’

  Trena spoke now, slowly and clearly. ‘People are complicated. Even the slavers … Since the guards reported us for our signing, Farre has had his food ration cut off. My fault. Not even allowed to go to work in the recycling plant either, so none of the privilege, you get food from there. But – well, you know, people help. So why do I get the feeling that I’ve done something wrong? In the eyes of the crew, the officers—’

  Ulla shook her head. ‘I don’t think slaves teaching slaves anything, aside for how to learn to obey direct orders, is generally part of the approved regime here. Too … rebellious, maybe. Also, secret languages? Be careful. But right now, I think Pulet will be curious about how a boy like this, without schooling, with partial senses, will make sense of the strange cosmos we live in … maybe he would even be curious about the signing. But—’

  Now the burly guard who had accompanied them came marching over. The guard was speaking into his wrist, where his comms equipment was strapped.

  A shiver of anxiety. A routine call-in? Why just now?

  Trena called for the boy. He came running out.

  He seemed to have picked up on their changed mood. He ran to catch up to Trena. Then, after briefly holding her hand, he pulled his hand free, poked its palm with his other thumb, and looked up quizzically.

  Ulla could guess the meaning of the sign. Problem?

  Trena smiled. Made the ‘nothing’ sign, finger to thumb.

  The boy seemed to calm. But Trena was lying in sign, Ulla realised.

  Still the guard glared at them. Trena was digging herself an ever-deeper hole.

  Now the guard set off across the deck, and beckoned Ulla, Trena and Farre to follow.

  And they were brought to the protector, sitting close to the wall, beside his sole, taciturn escort guard.

  25

  Pulet was ready. Hearing them arrive, without turning around, he absently waved them on with a one-hand gesture.

  Ulla led the boy forward, the two of them side by side.

  Farre was evidently scared, far from his self-appointed carer – his signing buddy. Now, the silent protector.

  The guard who had accompanied them bent to whisper into the protector’s ear. The protector seemed to relax a little more; when he turned again he had a smile on his face.

  The boy seemed more alarmed by this than by anything, and he cuddled closer into Ulla.

  Pulet saw this, and leaned over towards the boy.

  ‘Oh, I know I’m a scary old man, and this all must seem very strange for you, boy. But, you see, all our lives are brief—’

  Some lives briefer than others, Ulla thought.

  Farre, bewildered, scared, flinched back, evidently understanding nothing of this.

  ‘And we must all help each other when we can. And that means following the rules.’

  Ulla tried to focus. She had no idea whether Pulet thought he was getting through to the boy, or whether his words were meant for those around.

  ‘Now. You. Boy—’

  ‘He’s called Farre,’ Ulla said. ‘Far-ray.’

  ‘No. He’s a slave. He’s not called anything, whatever his aboriginal label may be Farre, until an approved labour name is assigned to him. As you must know by now – or perhaps you don’t? At the age of eighteen. So much more convenient for cataloguing and control and the efficient use of resources … Now. Boy. Do you understand why you have been brought to me?’

  No reply. There could be no reply. All this was a farce, Ulla thought, staged for the benefit of the other slaves and guards nearby.

  Farre just stared back at him.

  Ulla felt obscurely proud. Tell him, kid!

  ‘Very well. I applaud your courage, actually. But there’s a problem with your guardian.’ He glared around. ‘The other Venusian—’

  ‘Trena,’ Ulla said. ‘She was a teacher on Venus 7 before – you came.’

  Pulet glared at her, and the boy. ‘So I read. What a pity …’

  Ulla thought she heard a distant cry. A woman. Trena?

  Farre looked that way, seeming even more scared.

  Pulet stood, snapped his fingers.

  ‘So we have a teacher – teaching. And there’s the issue. With this boy. This – pupil. Damn these slaves! Maybe we should just lobotomise them on arrival.’

  The guard grinned, spoke for the first time. ‘Would make things simpler, sir …’

  Ulla and Farre were still standing side by side.

  Pulet waved his hands. ‘Oh, get it over with. You know what needs to be done. And you – Ulla. Perhaps I’ve been too soft with you too. A failing of mine, I know. Go with the guard. See what’s done. What’s necessary. Logical. Well, let’s get on with it!’

  The guard laughed, walked over to Ulla and Farre, and shoved them both in the back, nearly sending them sprawling. ‘Move, you two.’

  Another shove. Ulla got her hand under Farre’s shoulder, kept him from falling. But a third shove from the guard again almost sent the two of them to the floor.

  Pulet followed, grandly.

  It was like that all the way back across the slave deck, towards the small, ramshackle hut the boy had been sharing with Trena. There was nothing Ulla could do about it.

  And there they found the hut smashed, all its contents already spilled and broken or slashed, and Trena herself sitting passively in the debris.

  Another guard stood over her.

  She had a wound across her scraped scalp. Her clothing was ripped, and soaked in blood from a number of blade wounds – cuts that were long but not deep, Ulla knew.

  By now, on this slaver ship, Ulla had seen enough of this kind of work to recognise the methodology. The wounds were shallow, meant to hurt Trena, not to kill, not even to disable.

  The guards were experts.

  With a weeping Farre at her side, Ulla looked back at the protector, now flanked by a couple of guards, who glared around at the few – very few – denizens of the slave deck who were close enough to see what was going on.

  Plucking up her own courage, Ulla asked, ‘Protector, why has this woman been mistreated so badly?’

  Pulet was stone-faced, as he turned to face her. ‘I would think you would understand by now – you of all people. The guards reported evidence of a significant crime. A rule-breach.’

  ‘What rule—’

  ‘These are slaves. They may be trained for tasks outside their previous experience – such as in the life-support systems. You have seen that yourself, presumably. But such education must be under the strict control of the guards, and the ship’s own hierarchy of command. Any such education. Culminating in permission from Captain Erbas – or myself, given the circumstances.’

  Ulla was baffled. With the few signs she had picked up, she tried to help translate for Trena. ‘Education? What “education”—’

  ‘It was my signing,’ Trena called, her voice weak. ‘There are other deafened here, remember? Deliberately mutilated. So I tried to help them, to teach them basic signs … I only wanted to communicate more effectively. I only wanted to help people—’

  ‘Education,’ said Protector Pulet. ‘On a ship like this, slaves do not educate slaves, under any circumstances – save perhaps for developing specific skills, such as the maintenance of the life-support installation – and even then sanctioned and overseen by appointed crew members—’

  Trena said, ‘I thought that the deaf or deafened workers could be made more efficient with a means of communication. After all, the life-support systems of this ship depend on slave labour—’

  ‘You will be quiet now.’

  Pulet glanced around, at guards, slaves, Farre.

  Then he looked directly at Ulla, as if expecting her at least to understand the crime and its severity and, she supposed, the appropriate nature of the punishment.