Alastair Reynolds - Absolution Gap

“Good. Now tell me how far away it is.”

“Four hundred and forty metres,” she said, after a moment. “That’s an average. The green stuff is changing in thickness all the while.”

“All right. Keep an eye on that figure.”

“It’s increasing,” the pilot said.

Vasko felt hot breath on his neck. He turned around to see the pig looking over his shoulder.

“Vasko’s on to something,” Antoinette said. “Distance to the spire is now… four hundred and fifty metres.”

“You’re drifting,” Scorpio said.

“No, we’re not.” She sounded the tiniest bit affronted. “We’re rock steady, at least within the errors of measurement. Vasko’s right, Scorp—the ship’s moving. They’re dragging it out to sea.”

“How fast is it moving?” Scorpio asked.

“Too soon to say with any certainty. A metre, maybe two, per second.” Antoinette checked her own communicator bracelet. “The neutrino levels are still going up. I’m not sure exactly how long we have left, but I don’t think we’re looking at more than a few hours.”

“In which the case the ship isn’t going to be more than a few kilometres further away when it launches,” Scorpio said.

“That’s better than nothing,” Antoinette said. “If they can at least get it beyond the curve of the bay, so that we have some shelter from the tidal waves… that’s got to be better than nothing, surely?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the pig replied.

Vasko felt a thrilling sense of affirmation. “Aura was right. They don’t want to hurt us. They only want to save us, by getting the ship away from the bay. They’re on our side.“

“Nice theory,” Scorpio said, “but how did they know we were in this mess in the first place? It’s not as if anyone went down into the sea and explained it to them. Someone would have had to swim for that.”

“Maybe someone did,” Vasko said. “Does it matter now? The ship’s moving. That’s all that counts.”

“Yeah,” Scorpio said. “Let’s just hope it isn’t too late to make a difference.”

Antoinette turned to the pilot. “Think you can get us close to that thing? The green stuff doesn’t seem too thick near the top. It might still be possible to get into the usual landing bay.”

“You’re joking,” the pilot said, incredulously.

Antoinette shook her head. She was already assigning full control back to the regular pilot. ‘“Fraid not, fella. If we want John to hold his horses until the ship’s clear of the bay, someone’s going to have go down and talk to him. And guess who just drew that straw?”

“I think she’s serious,” Vasko said.

“Do it,” Scorpio said.

The caravan threaded cautiously through tunnels and inched along ridiculously narrow ledges. It twisted and turned, at points doubling back on itself so that the rear parts advanced while the lead machines retreated. Once, navigating a rising hairpin, engines and traction limbs labouring, part of the caravan passed over itself, letting Rashmika look down on the racked Observers.

All the while the bridge grew larger. When she had first seen it, the bridge had the appearance of something lacy and low-relief, painted on a flat black backdrop in glittering iridescent inks. Now, slowly, it was taking on a faintly threatening three-dimensional solidity. This was not some mirage, some peculiar trick of lighting and atmospherics, but a real object, and the caravan was really going to cross it.

The three-dimensionality both alarmed and comforted Rashmika. The bridge now appeared to be more than just an assemblage of infinitely thin lines, and although many of its structural parts were still very fine in cross section, now that she was seeing them at an oblique angle the structural components didn’t look quite so delicate. If the bridge could support itself, surely it could support the caravan. She hoped.

“Miss Els?”

She looked around. This time it really was Quaestor Jones. “Yes,” she said, unhappy at his attention.

“We’ll be over it before very long. I promised you that the experience would be spectacular, didn’t I?”

“You did,” she said, “but what you didn’t explain, Quaestor, was why everyone doesn’t take this short cut, if it’s as useful as you claim.”

“Superstition,” he said, “coupled with excessive caution.”

“Excessive caution sounds entirely appropriate to me where this bridge is involved.”

“Are you frightened, Miss Els? You shouldn’t be. This caravan weighs barely fifty thousand tonnes, all told. And by its very nature, the weight is distributed along a great length. It isn’t as if we’re taking a cathedral across the bridge. Now that would be folly.”

“No one would do that.”

“No one sane. And especially not after they saw what happened last time, But that needn’t concern us in the slightest. The bridge will hold the caravan. It has done so in the past. I would have no particular qualms about taking us across it during every expedition away from the Way, but the simple truth is that most of the time it wouldn’t help us. You’ve seen how laborious the approach is. More often than not, using the bridge would cost us more time than it would save. It was only a particular constellation of circumstances that made it otherwise on this occasion.” The quaestor clasped his hands decisively. “Now, to business. I believe I have secured you a position in a clearance gang attached to an Adventist cathedral.”

“The Lady Morwenna?”

“No. A somewhat smaller cathedral, the Catherine of Iron. Everyone has to start somewhere. And why are you in such a hurry to reach the Lady Morwenna? Dean Quaiche has his foibles. The Catherine’s dean is a good man. His safety record is very good, and those who serve under him are well looked after.”

“Thank you, Quaestor,” she said, hoping her disappointment was not too obvious. She had still been hoping he might be able to find her a solid clerical job, something well away from clearance work. “You’re right. Something is better than nothing.”

“The Catherine is amongst the main group of cathedrals, moving towards the Rift from the western side. We will join them when we have completed our crossing of the bridge, shortly before they begin their descent of the Devil’s Staircase. You are privileged, Miss Els: very few people get the chance to cross Absolution Gap twice in one year, let alone within a matter of days.”

“I’ll count myself lucky.”

“Nonetheless, I will repeat what I said before: the work is difficult, dangerous and poorly rewarded.”

“I’ll take what’s available.”

“In which case you will be transferred to the relevant gang as soon as we reach the Way. Keep your nose clean, and I am sure you will do very well.”

“I will certainly bear that in mind.”

He touched a finger to his lips and made to turn away, as if remembering some other errand, then halted. The eyes of his green pet—it had been on his shoulder the whole time-remained locked on to her, blank as gun barrels.

“One other matter, Miss Els,” the quaestor said, looking back at her over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“The gentleman you were speaking to earlier?” His eyes narrowed as he studied her expression. “Well, I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“You wouldn’t what?”

“Have anything to do with his sort.” The quaestor stared vaguely into the distance. “As a rule, it’s never wise to circu-late amongst Observers, or any other pilgrims of a similarly committed strain of faith. But in my general experience it is especially unwise to associate with those who are vacillating between faith and denial.”