The crowd around the boy boiled now, some seeming to try to protect him, others to attack him.

  It almost dissolved into a mob before the guards weighed in at last, shoving the hysterical slaves out of the way – and more than shoving: Ulla saw sharp electric prods were being wielded, and the bright red of blood was added to the screams of the assaulted.

  All of it centred on Farre.

  Ulla approached the protector, as near and as fast as she dared. ‘Sir. Save him! Farre – he’s a child, a sick child, he doesn’t deserve this. I – please—’

  The protector glanced down at her coldly, eyes narrowed. But he turned away. He seemed to be taking a close interest in the gruesome little incident.

  At last he turned and gave clear hand signals to his guards that the boy was to be brought out. ‘Safely!’ he yelled. And he backed off, moving away from the violence himself.

  Once the guards had reached the boy, wielding fists and batons, the small mob around him broke up, as the slaves tried to get away, the innermost pushing at those outside.

  Soon the mob had scattered, leaving the guards holding the boy.

  And the guards brought him over to the protector.

  Farre was evidently exhausted, limp, his damaged eye socket still leaking blood and clear fluid. He seemed to be weeping, softly, steadily.

  Pulet inspected the boy, though refraining from touching him. He pointed to rips in the boy’s clothing, and scratches on his arms, his face. ‘They didn’t want to let him go, did they?’

  The lead guard chuckled. ‘Well, you heard them, sir. Heard him. Claims he sees the Companion.’

  Pulet grunted. ‘Nonsense, of course, but you do wonder where he got the name from. Or, indeed, where the slaves got it from.’

  Ulla dared to speak. ‘The Companion? Whatever he, she, it is, it’s not come from the 45 crew, sir. If it’s a myth, not one I have heard of. And probably not from the Venus where you picked the boy up.’

  Pulet shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t have heard of it. He’ll have got it from the guards – ultimately. There is an origin myth, in our part of the Hearthspace, about the Companion, the faithful guardian of the mother of the human race, in the early days and years here, in Hearthspace. Said to stand over her tomb even now.’

  Ulla didn’t have to feign interest. ‘We don’t have such myths.’

  ‘Then you are shallow people,’ Pulet said. ‘Or, I suppose, further removed from the true origin of mankind in this cloud than you might believe.’ He sniffed. ‘Perhaps a cultural quarantine would be advisable, to keep such mythologies … pure. And so not weaponisable. Or,’ he mused, ‘maybe there’s a paper in there. On the Transference of Mythological Elements Between Isolated Human Subcultures.’ He glared down at the weeping child. ‘Oh, dispose of this – thing. We don’t want a wounded messiah in our midst, do we? It no longer amuses me.’

  The nearest guard hesitated. ‘Do you want it killed, sir?’

  A hesitation to the guard’s eternal credit, Ulla thought. At least he had raised the possibility of life for the boy in the protector’s mind. Just because he could.

  And the protector actually thought it over, stroking his chin. Playing with ideas, Ulla saw. Life or death, a game.

  Just because he could.

  At length he waved a hand. ‘Oh, let him live. He might actually keep the rest more malleable if they believe a god is guiding them. And he can be disposed of easily enough if we feel we need to in the future. Clean him up a bit, though. He’s put on quite a spectacle, hasn’t he?’

  The guard shrugged, squeezed the boy’s shoulder hard enough to hurt, and then shoved him to the ground. ‘Nothing wrong with getting the slaves stirred up, sir, so long as they’re contained. Distracts them. Flushes out the troublemakers and the rebels.’

  ‘I suppose it would. Quite so. Escort me back to the elevators, if you would.’

  ‘Sir.’

  And, before he left, the protector turned to Ulla. ‘And you – stay with him. The boy. Try to scry his visions, interpret them. You never know. At least we might uncover some of the darker corners of slave psychology on this ship. As for me – back to the observation lounge, to rise above all this blood-stained madness, to a celestial perspective. You may join me when you’ve done with the boy.’

  Ulla felt like nothing less. But she knew her duty, as it had evolved. If she had to calm this brilliant, mercurial, vicious old man, if she had to put up with his shallow philosophising, all to gather what data she could to benefit her people, maybe even deflect this decision-maker at whose whims they all lived – she could do it.

  And at least the wretched Farre was safe for now, with her.

  31

  The final month of the three-year-long journey of the slaver ship came at last.

  A journey from the Earth-centred worlds of the domain of the Alliance of Earths, to the sprawling cluster of giant worlds, the ‘Outer Worlds’, the ‘proud domains’ of the Hierarchy, as Pulet phrased it.

  Pulet eagerly showed Ulla and Mott maps and animated displays of swarming giant planets and their moons. Powerful and rich worlds of their kind, Ulla saw, if not as hospitable to humans as were the Earth and Mars clones of other, easier realms.

  And this culture really was supremely powerful and rich, Ulla realised – if she hadn’t grasped it before – if it truly had mastered such huge territories, such gigantic worlds rich in mass and resources and energy. Individual worlds so huge that the familiar Earth and Mars copies of Alliance-space might have been lost in the swarm of massive moons each giant seemed to have gathered.

  But those giants themselves were still all but invisible to the naked eye, given the dimness of the light offered by the core of the Hearth at this distance. Somehow that simple fact brought home to her the sheer scale of this extraordinary journey more than other perception. A journey of more than a hundred and fifty thousand astronomical units – at least five times as far from the central Hearth itself as the Earth on which Ulla had been born.

  And after three years you still couldn’t see the destination.

  Before the crew – before the slaves – she tried to keep her composure in the face of these monstrous facts and observations. But she felt free to talk about this, in private, to Commodore Mott, her one surviving superior officer.

  Unlike Ulla, Mott was now essentially confined to quarters. ‘Which is what I’d do with me,’ she said, ‘if the positions were reversed – me in place of Captain Erbas, or more to the point Protector Pulet, who is the true ringmaster of this circus. Odd situation, in our terms, isn’t it? Pulet is essentially – what, a religious figure? A priest, a bishop? And yet he commands a warship, if not operationally. Maybe you have to be a priest to find a way to justify, morally, being such a figure, a scientist, and a keeper of slaves.’ She eyed Ulla. ‘You’ve handled him well by the way,’ she observed. ‘The protector, I mean. From the beginning, and through all of his moods and ideas. Got a lot of information out of him.’

  ‘Sometimes I think Captain Erbas is – jealous of me.’ Ulla stifled a laugh. ‘Does that make sense?’

  ‘It makes perfect sense. This is a culture of personal patronage. It all comes from that foundation of slavery, I think. Not that I ever studied such cultures before the Hierarchy ship showed up in our space.

  ‘If I am the captain, I hold the power of life and death over you, as a slave. But the protector holds sway over me, in turn. I depend entirely on his patronage. He could cast me down, and there’s a whole hierarchy of thrusting young officers below me, each of whom would, no doubt, love to see me toppled, if it means everybody else moves up a rung. You see? A chain of command going down from the protector to the lowliest slave; everybody clings to whatever little bit of power they have personally. I suppose it’s a way of weeding out the weak. But also a good way to cultivate tyranny,’

  Ulla nodded. ‘The lowliest slave – yes. You’re right about that. I’ve seen it on the deck. Some slaves are lower than others, or higher. There are mob leaders, gang bosses. Conversely people who will protect you, or others who will take your stuff, your food.’

  ‘Not surprising. Slaves are human, and just as diverse in personality and capability as the free. And what do the ship guards down there make of all that?’

  ‘Intervene if they feel like it, is my observation, unless specifically ordered. As long as it’s all contained. They do protect victims if they have some skill that’s useful to the mission of the ship itself. Especially the life-support suite, where a lot of the children work.’

  Mott nodded. ‘That’s logical enough, I’m afraid.’ Distracted, she glanced around at the walls of the officer cabin she’d been allotted. Like Ulla’s own cabin, this was nothing like as sumptuous as the cabins of the captain and protector, as Ulla knew having seen them, but it was comfortable enough. ‘I do feel … guilty,’ Mott said. ‘To be housed in such a cabin as this, while my crewmates are cast down in such a pit of slaves. Always have felt guilty.’ She looked closely at Ulla. ‘And you feel the same, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ She didn’t have to exaggerate.

  ‘And your crewmates are bound to be jealous. It’s somewhat different for me: I hope our people understand that as ranking officer I’m reckoned useful by the protector and captain as a kind of hostage, and possibly a go-between. Not that I’ll cooperate, or at least I’ll seek advantage. As I think our crew know.

  But you – you were just plucked out of the bridge crew when we were first boarded. And since then you’ve kept things calm, as best you can. I’ve seen that of you. You’ve been doing exactly what you have needed to do, in terms of helping our shipmates to keep alive. They will see that, eventually.

  ‘But things are going to change now, as we reach these slavers’ worlds. To be frank, I am going to be more valuable to whatever authorities we are about to encounter. Not only will I be seen as a valuable asset to be bargained for, I can be wrung dry of strategic aspects of our Earth Alliance and similar polities, I can be used as a kind of – ambassador, no, perhaps an envoy – when the government of this place looks beyond the immediate battles that are likely to come between this culture and ours.’ She eyed Ulla. ‘Your utility, though, has probably been maximal aboard this ship itself.’

  Ulla had thought this through herself to some extent – during sleepless nights, listening to strange noises on this ship of enemies. ‘Yes, because once we get to the Hierarchy worlds our crew will be surplus to requirements. Just more slaves, most with no particularly useful skills or knowledge. Whores, doctors and labourers. That’s all our people will be to them. Maybe a few specialists might be prized for their knowledge of the Hierarchy itself. Certainly they won’t particularly need middle-rankers like me …’

  ‘I’ll do anything I can to protect you,’ Mott said. ‘The protector has taken to you; he may, umm, keep you. And you have certainly accrued a considerable knowledge of our enemies, which would be very useful in the hands of our forces. But you must be prepared—’

  That was when a siren wailed.

  A growl, a distant engine noise, Ulla thought.

  And a heavy thrust growing, a smooth transition, that seemed to build up and up.

  The two of them, veterans of spaceflight, reacted quickly. Wordlessly, reflexively, as the apparent gravity intensified, they both grabbed the arms of their chairs, sat up straight, so that the thrust pushed up through their spines.

  The commodore seemed more shocked than Ulla felt herself. Mott tried to reach out to Ulla – but she would have had to lean far out of her seat.

  ‘Commander,’ Ulla said urgently. ‘Stay still. Sit back. You don’t want to fall. It’s acceleration. Or rather deceleration, given the way the thrust is pushing—’

  There had been no warning. Absently Ulla wondered what chaos this sudden jolt might have caused on the slave deck.

  Mott gasped, and visibly took deep breaths. ‘Yes, thank you, Commander, I’d figured that much.’

  ‘Sorry—’

  ‘This feels like two gravities, more, wouldn’t you think? And you wouldn’t think such a massive craft could deliver such a high acceleration, on the spot. Not with lightsails, anyhow.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Ulla thought back, trying to keep her mind from fogging, the shocks to her body from distracting her. The noise – now there was a kind of deep thrumming in the air. Perhaps aftershocks, waves of compression, coming from the sudden thrust of some mysterious new engine—

  ‘Antimatter,’ she blurted. ‘Like they used on Earth 4, as a weapon. Could that be used to drive a rocket pack? Maybe as an emergency contingency, say for close-in war-fighting when you need very high thrust on a short scale, a ship with a very agile architecture – no vast sails …’

  Mott’s face was knotted, her hands clasping the arms of her chair. She was visibly straining to stay upright, perhaps trying to keep thinking clearly. But she managed to answer. ‘Yes. Possibly. Good thinking. We’ll have think – to think about that. Where they get the stuff …’ Her head nodded alarmingly.

  That was when there was a rap on the cabin door.

  Without waiting for a reply, the door was thrust open by a stolid-looking guard. Standing with legs apart, braced against the two-gravities push, holding on to the door frame.

  After so long a cruise, Ulla felt she knew the guards’ individual characters almost intimately. There were worse ones.

  ‘You,’ the guard said to Ulla. ‘To the protector, his cabin. Now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Deaf or stupid? Now.’

  Ulla managed to stand, holding her feet steady, pushing up with her legs until she was precariously upright. It was as if she was lifting somebody her own weight, hanging on her back.

  And as she took tentative steps, it was like a continuing topple forward – it was a question of balance.

  The guard nodded. ‘Protector’s cabin. Then the slave deck.’

  ‘The slave deck? Why?’

  ‘Because the protector says so.’

  Holding the door frame for support, Ulla glanced back at the commodore.

  Mott could barely turn her head, but she seemed secure in her chair. She gestured at Ulla with one hand, not even lifting her arm. ‘Go. Go. It’s our people … In this cold realm, what else could cause ructions like this … ?’

  Then she seemed to slump forward, as if fainting.

  Despite the looming presence of the guard, despite the crushing acceleration, Ulla had to respond. She stumbled forward.

  The guard snapped, ‘Leave her!’

  ‘I will not …’

  She managed to catch the commodore’s upper body, got two hands under her armpits. The weight felt extraordinary, and Ulla knew she was risking injury herself. But still she set herself with her feet apart, straightened her back, thrust upwards, lifting with her legs, pushing at the deck. Then she pulled safety-harness belts out of the chair to wrap around the commodore’s torso.

  ‘Leave her, slave! Do as I say!’

  Ulla, ignoring her, fixing the belts, glancing down, saw the commodore reach into her open jacket with one hand, retrieving something. A glance upwards at Ulla’s face.

  ‘Leave her!’

  ‘I will not! …’

  And Mott, her own face showing extraordinary tension, hissed, ‘Go. Now, Commander Breen! Ulla!’

  Ulla was dimly aware that the commodore had never before used her given name. She looked into the commodore’s eyes.

  Mott pressed the object she’d retrieved into Ulla’s tunic, pressed so forcefully it pinched the flesh over her ribs.

  Mott hissed, ‘Take this, go to the slave deck with this fool, and – well, you’ll know what to do from there. Get it off the ship. It will tell the Alliance fleet about our situation here … Some other intelligence … Use the life-support trash chutes. Or – oh, improvise.’

  Bewildered, Ulla felt the object under her tunic – a squat cylinder – she could recognise it from its feel, the shape …

  A personal memory cache, senior officers for the use of.

  Of course. Wake up, brain. The Alliance is here. Hence the panic. And this is the commodore’s briefing for the forces …

  ‘I’ll come back—’

  ‘Go!’ And Mott sat back in her chair, carefully easing her head against an inadequate-looking rest. ‘Go!’ More feebly, ‘That’s an order, Commander.’

  The guard, herself struggling against the gravity, led the way out.

  32

  Under high and erratic acceleration, it was hell to get to the protector’s cabin – or rather, his suite of rooms. Even with Ulla leaning on the reluctant guard all the way.

  Once they got to the door, the guard had to be ordered by Pulet himself to let Ulla into the cabin. And then to wait, the protector said, until they could all be marching down to the slave deck where there was significant trouble. All that, but not before the protector was done with another bit of business …

  The guard, leaning now against the back of a chair, made the elementary mistake of arguing with the protector, Ulla thought.

  The guard said hesitantly, ‘Sir – it’s not an easy journey down there. We’re under emergency acceleration. The wall elevators might make it. But it’s not going to get any less hazardous as our lads get tired under this extra gravity, and the slaves—’

  ‘Thrust, guard. Sloppy language. The acceleration you experience is due to thrust, not gravity, though the equivalence of—’

  ‘Protector Pulet.’ Ulla didn’t know if she had ever interrupted the protector so bluntly herself. Surely not. Too smart for that brand of flirting with suicide. ‘The guard’s right. The additional thrust—’

  ‘Yes!’ he snapped. ‘I heard the first time, I know my duty, yes, yes, the slaves, the acceleration – but you will look at what I have to show you, Commander! As you are the least doltish person on this wretched vessel—’

  Ulla tried to keep calm. Standing, staggering, she tried to think.

  ‘Look at what, sir? What do you want—’