‘I wish to find a similar source, a similar platform for antimatter manufacture. Specifically, I intend to set up a breeder facility. With the Hummingbird’s remaining store as initial feedstock, and feedback loops to maintain the processes, there is no reason why a very large lode of antimatter could not be manufactured – indeed, more easily than in the solar system: no super-Jupiters there.’

  ‘Super-Jupiters? The bigger the better for making antimatter, I guess?’

  ‘Exactly. One system I have observed, with a very large Jupiter-like primary, and a moon very like Io, that Jovian moon, in a close-in orbit being pounded by energy: gravitational, electromagnetic, heat—’

  ‘I don’t care. Get to the point.’

  ‘Very well. With such an antimatter generator, we will be able to explore this realm of huge worlds with relative ease. And then—’

  ‘Then,’ Ixchel said, ‘we could send probes back to the solar system. Or even denizens of this place, generations hence. Send them back home. That was part of the mission objectives. All right. That’s a plan.’ She tried to sit up.

  The Companion drifted forward. ‘You must take care. You are not yet recovered—’

  ‘But I’m also feeling fine, and enough of a doctor myself to know that more bed-rest is not what I need just now. Leave me alone. How many times have I said that to you in my long life? …’ She murmured commands; the bed folded, lifting up her torso into a sitting position, legs in front of her.

  The Companion watched closely, did not withdraw.

  ‘I’m feeling fine,’ she said more firmly. ‘Only a little giddiness. Fifteen hundred light years and I get dizzy because of the last metre or so … Listen. I will need your advice, I think. About our young – migrants. The first-generation settlers are all about the same age, right? You developed all our Earth-born embryos together? Or are some younger? And – any of the next generation yet?’

  ‘A handful.’

  ‘OK. But the first generation have grown up without elders. You don’t count, with respect, Companion. I imagine they’re technically competent, but without social structures except such as they have devised for themselves. Controlled by the strong, you would think. The psychologically strong – or rather the physically strong at this early stage, given their youth.’

  ‘That is not entirely incorrect. They have devised their own language, to some extent – the seed of it coming from me – but there are conversations, topics, I cannot discuss. Or rather, they will not listen to me.’

  ‘Topics such as?’

  ‘Love. Hate. Loyalty. Disloyalty. They are not monsters. Just – uneducated. Even lacking vocabulary, and thus lacking concepts such as conciliation. Patience. I think they may be more violent than is natural, simply because they have not the words, the concepts, the social techniques to mollify situations.’

  Ixchel thought that over. On impulse she said, ‘Show me a few of them. Just still images. Random selection.’

  On screens around her she saw faces. Biologically male, female, others not obviously either, and presumably a range of gender orientations. Nobody to impose restrictions on them.

  The individuals were all very different in detail; the gene bank was the result of a sampling of a widely diverse population.

  None of them stood out particularly to Ixchel – save for a few with markings on their faces, the forehead, the cheeks. Dark lines following the contours of the face, the neck. Tattoos? And bits of adornment in the eyebrows, ears …

  ‘Hmm. So we have a culture growing out there. No – maturing. In its own way. The face markings. Created with medical equipment?’

  ‘Some of it. The rest, improvised. Cuts, wounds, into which material is rubbed. Some of it from the planet’s own ground.’

  ‘Tattoos. And are the face markings – umm – labels of some kind? Identity markers?’

  ‘If you are asking if they have formed cadres, groups, gangs—’

  ‘Do they cooperate? These gangs?’

  ‘When they must.’

  ‘Do they fight?’

  ‘When they can. There is a rough hierarchy.’

  ‘Have there been deaths yet? Because of this cultural drift?’

  ‘No. Injuries, however. I have tried to inform them of the waste and danger of this form of social fragmentation. Accidental deaths – two so far. Yes, they know of death; I have tried to teach them to mourn.’

  Ixchel felt like snapping at that. But who else was there to teach them of such matters?

  Oddly, the Companion sounded sincere, even humble. She guessed its guidance was better than nothing.

  She shook her head. ‘Well, for sure, they won’t have seen anyone like me before. When I step out of my hospital bed, they really will freak out. Somebody old. I think I need some advice. You know them a little, at least; I know them not at all. I don’t intend you to lie to them. But how do you think I should present myself?’

  The Companion seemed to hesitate as if pondering.

  ‘I do not think you should lie to them, or conceal the truth.’

  ‘I’ve no intention—’

  ‘But you should try to impress them. They are still immature, and have no mature role models. You should tell them you were born on Earth. They know enough of their origins to understand the significance of that. You are a link to the home world. You saw it, as these never will.’

  ‘Hmm. But will they care? About me, about Earth, a planet, a culture they will likely never see? They will live in the moment – their moment, not mine.’

  ‘Tell them your name. Ixchel.’

  ‘Of course I will—’

  ‘Tell them its meaning. The name. You cannot be a mother to these young people. Perhaps not a commander. Tell them that your name means, in your native tongue: doctor. As was your own mother.’

  Ixchel thought that over. And smiled. ‘That’s almost wise.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Don’t push it. What’s next?’

  OUTER WORLDS

  34

  Before the ship had finished shuddering from the blow-out of that preliminary salvo, Ulla was summoned to the bridge.

  The summons was a crude one in the circumstances, just an officer yelling down from the bolt-head balcony to the slave-pit floor. When she turned up her face to see him, he waved a mailed fist at her, his message unmistakable. Get up here, now.

  Still – she hesitated.

  Just for an instant, undecided. When was the moment she should give up scuttling after the protector?

  Things weren’t settled yet – far from it. All around her was chaos, the slaves out of their huts, or two-gravity stumbling away from the posts where they were assigned for their daily chores. Slaves looking around, gathering in little, gossiping knots. Many sitting, clinging to each other, to help cope with the heavy, changeable thrust. Looking up at the guards’ balcony with uncertainty, confusion, some fear – but also with calculation, Ulla saw.

  Slaves engaged in muttered conversations. That was unusual, in the open air at least.

  Even the routine life-support maintenance work was being neglected. Now children, all but naked, their skin covered in green slime, wandered about, apparently bewildered, unsure what to do.

  Was a rebellion brewing, spontaneously, so quickly after the ship had evidently come under attack? Were long-discussed plans, carefully stored in the heads of the slaves, being actioned?

  Another yell from the balcony. ‘Commander Breen! Now!’

  Still Ulla hesitated. Was this the moment for her to openly defy Hierarchy orders?

  And now here came Holye Lawa, stumbling out of the brothel, led by the hand by Farre. A blinded former policeman being led by an orphaned boy, himself with one eye ruined. Farre looked around briskly, sharply – he saw Ulla, evidently – and spoke rapidly.

  Every time she saw the pair, these days, Ulla felt a little less cold inside. Both of them victims, both weakened. But they had found ways to help each other, to survive, to fight back against the rapists and food thieves, and plain thugs – and the attention of the guards.

  The slave pit was always going to be an ugly place. But many had survived. Partly through helping others. Survived as far as this unusual morning, at least. And now that everything was turning on its head, who knew what opportunities might present themselves … ?

  ‘Commander Breen! To the protector! Now!’

  She was hesitating, and that crewman on the balcony was waving a fist. Around the deck, more slaves were reacting, glancing at Ulla, stirring, looking around, some stepping back from their regular chores.

  Farre was leading Holye over to her. ‘Here she is—’

  ‘Ulla? Still here?’ Holye asked, with a blind smile. ‘That is a loud officer. What’s happening? Alliance forces presumably closing in on us? And presumably Hierarchy reinforcements coming up to meet them. And even now the protector is asking for you by name?’

  ‘Kind of. You know I have been a kind of – intermediary – for Pulet, intermediary between the Hierarchy people and – well, us. Pulet picked me out—’

  ‘I know the story. How you stood up for yourself on the bridge … Commodore Mott has nothing but praise for you.’ He lifted one hand, stretched it out towards her. Smoothly, carefully, Farre reached up and guided the hand to Ulla’s face. Just as gently the policeman stroked her cheek.

  Then Holye stepped back. ‘So go, do your job. Go baffle that bemused old fool once again. And before that yelling guard falls over the balcony.’

  Farre seemed to think about that. ‘Although that would be funny.’

  ‘I imagine it would,’ Holye said. ‘Go. Go!’

  So she went, walking briskly to the entry to the nearest elevator shaft, where a guard let her in.

  But she was aware of the gazes of the slaves, gazes that followed her all the way out.

  When she was finally led to the protector’s observation lounge, she wasn’t at all surprised to find Pulet staring out at yet another astronomical oddity.

  A strange, pale, tenuous planet, this one, it seemed, so thin at its limb she could see through the substance of this world, thanks to a deep apparent thickness of orange-brown clouds.

  Pulet was observing this even now, even as an interplanetary war was evidently brewing. Even as, perhaps, all around this ship, enemy vessels could already be gathering.

  Still he sat in silence. Rapt. Making notes. Occasionally murmuring to himself, tapping a screen.

  She had to remind herself again that this was a war zone. This ship had actually been fired on. For all she knew, more Hierarchy ships were rushing to the fight. She felt like running away to – where? To the commodore, to the slave pit and her former crewmates.

  Felt like running.

  And now she thought she heard a muffled bang. Another wave of shuddering, a physical echo of another strike.

  That was when Captain Erbas threw open the door of Pulet’s lounge.

  Erbas was a big man, and he all but filled the door frame.

  Beyond him, Ulla could see a light flickering. Thought she could smell smoke. Heard a high-pitched scream, quickly cut off.

  And a wider rumbling. More shouts? The slaves, rising up? Even Alliance troops?

  Erbas stamped into the little room, somehow taking up all the space. Ulla had to scramble to get out of his way.

  Pulet, still staring into his screen, reacted at last. ‘Captain,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Erbas said, leaning down to bring their faces together. ‘Yes, sir. I’m the captain. And we’re under fire. You must have felt the shots. Some kind of armoured shell. We got it wrong, they came in faster than expected in the final approach. The alliance ships. And we couldn’t see them, those damn small sails they have …’

  Not lightsails, Ulla knew. Dark-matter ramjets, evidently heavily developed from the experimental article Fels Sedhi had once piloted. Much more densely energetic, much smaller.

  ‘We nearly took two hits. So far. They detonated—’

  ‘In the proximity of the ship,’ Pulet said. ‘But they didn’t hit us. Either of them.’

  ‘Near misses. Just luck so far.’ And Erbas glared at Ulla, as if this was her fault.

  She kept calm, her face as blank as she could manage.

  Pulet snapped, ‘And have other ships been hit?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A good portion of our local fleet was still mobilising when the intruders got among them, started firing. We didn’t spot the intruders, didn’t see their sails, before the first shots landed – and we should have seen them. Their intelligence seems to be good.’

  And he glared at Ulla.

  ‘We only see them when they fire on us. And they have good counter-measures. Very effective anti-missile missiles. Sir, we can’t see their missiles coming – if they are missiles. We can’t see their ships either. Given their acceleration, their sails should be blocking out half our view of Hearthspace. But we can’t see them coming …’

  Ulla kept a straight face. Invisible warships.

  The Hierarchy’s strategists, looking for objects the size of lightsails, must be baffled.

  She wished Fels Sedhi could somehow be here, at this moment of – if not triumph, a hint of advantage, at last … and the commodore ought to be here, she realised. How to engineer that?

  And meanwhile the Hierarchy officers were turning on each other.

  Pulet said now, ‘You claim we are taking hits. By “we”, you mean the fleet. The fleet is taking the hits. The other vessels. Not us.’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet. Presumably because they know there are Alliance personnel aboard. Like Commander Breen here. But if this goes on, it’s only a matter of time—’

  Pulet actually laughed, surprising Ulla, if not the captain.

  Erbas all but snarled. ‘You think this is a joke, Protector? Our people are dying as we speak …’

  ‘All your bombast, Captain Erbas! I’m well aware of the contempt in which you hold me – the contempt of the military in general for the protectorate. And now, in the crunch, you fail us! You are the joke, sir …’

  Ulla had witnessed the consequences of this kind of friction before. Given the murderous looks a frustrated, angry, fearful Erbas was now giving the protector. If there had been room in this lounge, Ulla would have stepped further back from the two of them.

  But they were in the middle of a space battle. And she had companions to save.

  In what was probably one of the most stupid moves of her life to date, she thought a second later, Ulla, a slave-prisoner and junior at that, and in the middle of a battle, decided to intervene.

  ‘He does have a point, Captain.’

  Erbas turned on her. His face reddened. His eyes seemed to bulge.

  But before he could make any move, Pulet held up his hand. ‘Wait. And your conclusion, slave?’

  She had never heard so much threat in a few words.

  But she pressed on. ‘Our missiles are reaching your craft. But your missiles aren’t reaching our ships. Correct? We have counter-measures …’

  We, our: that seemed provocative now she’d said it, but it was too late to take it back.

  She looked at them, from one to the other. ‘Maybe it’s time to start negotiations.’

  Erbas and Pulet exchanged reluctant glances.

  Then Erbas went to the door, murmured an instruction to a guard waiting outside. ‘Commodore Mott. Bring her.’

  When Mott was brought to the observation lounge, both Pulet and Mott insisted Ulla stayed.

  Mott began briskly, Ulla thought. But grave.

  She nodded. ‘So here we are. Protector, if we’re going to seek peace between two branches of mankind we need flexible thinking. Somebody who will live in the new era – social, political, military – we need to forge. Who has bridged the gulf between those worlds. And Breen has done that as well as anybody could in these circumstances. Despite the cruel incompetence of your crew.’

  ‘Very well,’ the protector snapped. ‘Very well. For now, the three of us – and you must guide us when you feel you need to, Breen.’

  And Ulla nodded. She felt oddly … giddy. Here she was at this pivot, at the forging of a new relationship between two long-separated branches of mankind – or perhaps the beginning of the first Hearthspace war. What could she contribute … ?

  Well, they had to stop fighting first … That was much was obvious.

  Mott and Pulet were both staring at her.

  Mott said, not unkindly, ‘You do realise that you said that last bit aloud.’

  Ulla felt herself blush. ‘Sorry. It’s been a long day.’

  Mott smiled now. ‘Well, you do have a point. Let’s see what we can foresee, in the next few hours, days? No more active conflict, let’s assume. Both sides have tested the other, both are waiting for new strategies, new orders. Then what?’

  Ulla dared to speak again. ‘Then the two sides have to be brought together, I guess. To start to talk. To share.’

  And Mott and Pulet exchanged uneasy glances.

  Pulet said, ‘Share what? Your ships are far from home. If they’ll need provisioning—’

  Mott said, ‘Suppose you, Admiral Ulla Breen, wanted to bring your fleet into orbit around one of the Hierarchy’s capital planets. Yes, you need provisioning for a start. Assuming that in accordance with our principles you choose not to raid. But you need to be close by to build trust, surely. To negotiate without lightspeed delays. And suppose you, Protector, want to allow that to happen. What are the obstacles?’

  Pulet smiled. ‘Only that I would be letting a fleet of hostiles with unknown capabilities hover over my capital cities.’

  Ulla pressed. ‘What specifically would you be afraid of?’

  ‘We would need to understand – and ideally defend ourselves against – your “invisible” technology. As demonstrated in the recent engagement.’

  Ulla nodded. ‘But conversely you, Protector, to establish mutual trust, would have to disclose the nature of your antimatter source. Or sources. Your own secret weapon. Put that under an embargo, as a gesture of good faith …’