Alastair Reynolds: Absolution Gap

Like most people of his era, Grelier could only imagine agony, extrapolating it a thousandfold from the minor discomfort of a torn hangnail.

He had no idea.

“I may have learned a great deal,” she said, “but you will always be a master of the clonal arts. I was serious about what I said before, Grelier: I anticipate increased demand on the factory. Can you satisfy me?”

“You said production mustn’t slacken. That isn’t quite the same thing.”

“But surely you aren’t working at full capacity at this moment.”

Grelier adjusted the screws. “I’ll be frank with you: we’re not far off it. At the moment I’m prepared to discard units that don’t meet our usual exacting standards. But if the factory is expected to increase production, the standards will have to be relaxed.”

“You discarded one today, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“I suspected you’d make a point of your commitment to excellence.” She raised a finger. “And that’s all right. It’s why you work for me. I’m disappointed, of course—I know exactly which body you terminated—but standards are standards.”

“That’s always been my watchword.”

“It’s a pity that can’t be said for everyone on this ship.”

He hummed and whistled to himself for a little while, then asked, with studied casualness, “I always got the impression that you have a superlative crew, ma’am.”

“My regular crew is not the problem.”

“Ah. Then you would be referring to one of the irregulars? Not myself, I trust?”

“You are well aware of whom I speak, so don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Quaiche? Surely not.”

“Oh, don’t play games, Grelier. I know exactly how you feel about your rival. Do you want to know the truly ironic thing? The two of you are more similar than you realise. Both baseline humans, both ostracised from your own cultures. I had great hopes for the two of you, but now I may have to let Quaiche go.”

“Surely you’d give him one last chance, ma’am. We are approaching a new system, after all.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see him fail one final time, just so that my punishment would be all the more severe?”

“I was thinking only of the welfare of the ship.”

“Of course you were, Grelier.” She smiled, amused by his lies. “Well, the fact of the matter is I haven’t made up my mind what to do with Quaiche. But I do think he and I need a little chat. Some interesting new information concerning him has fallen into my possession, courtesy of our trading partners.”

“Fancy that,” Grelier said.

“It seems he wasn’t completely honest about his prior experience when I hired him. It’s my fault: I should have checked his background more thoroughly. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that he exaggerated his earlier successes. I thought we were hiring an expert negotiator, as well as a man with an instinctive understanding of planetary environments. A man comfortable among both baseline humans and Ultras, someone‘ who could talk up a deal to our advantage and find treasure where we’d miss it completely.”

“That sounds like Quaiche.”

“No, Grelier, what it sounds like is the character Quaiche wished to present to us. The fiction he wove. In truth, his record is a lot less impressive. The occasional score here and there, but just as many failures. He’s a chancer: a braggart, an opportunist and a liar. And an infected one, as well.”

Grelier raised an eyebrow. “Infected?”

“He has an indoctrinal virus. We scanned for the usuals but missed this one because it wasn’t in our database. Fortunately, it isn’t strongly infectious—not that it would stand much of a chance infecting one of us in the first place.”

“What type of indoctrinal virus are we talking about here?”

“It’s a crude mishmash: a half-baked concoction of three thousand years’ worth of religious imagery jumbled together without any overarching theistic consistency. It doesn’t make him believe anything coherent; it just makes him feel religious. Obviously he can keep it under control for much of the time. But it worries me, Grelier. What if it gets worse? I don’t like a man whose impulses I can’t predict.”

“You’ll be letting him go, then.”

“Not just yet. Not until we’ve passed beyond 107 Piscium. Not until he’s had one last chance to redeem himself.”

“What makes you think he’ll find anything now?”

“I have no expectation that he will, but I do believe he’s more likely to find something if I provide him with the right incentive.”

“He might do a runner.”

“I’ve thought of that as well. In fact, I think I’ve got all bases covered where Quaiche is concerned. All I need now is the man himself, in some state of animation. Can you arrange that for me?”

“Now, ma’am?”

“Why not? Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.”

“The trouble is,” Grelier said, “he’s frozen. It’ll take six hours to wake him, assuming that we follow the recommended procedures.”

“And if we don’t?” She wondered how much mileage was left in her new body. “Realistically, how many hours could we shave off?”

“Two at the most, if you don’t want to run the risk of killing him. Even then it’ll be a wee bit unpleasant.”

Jasmina smiled at the surgeon-general. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. Oh, and Grelier? One other thing.”

“Ma’am?”

“Bring me the scrimshaw suit.”

His lover helped him out of the casket. Quaiche lay shivering on the revival couch, racked with nausea, while Morwenna attended to the many jacks and lines that plunged into his bruised baseline flesh.

“Lie still,” she said.

“I don’t feel very well.”

“Of course you don’t. What do you expect when the bastards thaw you so quickly?”

It was like being kicked in the groin, except that his groin encompassed his entire body. He wanted to curl up inside a space smaller than himself, to fold himself into a tiny knot like some bravura trick of origami. He considered throwing up, but the effort involved was much too daunting.

“They shouldn’t have taken the risk,” he said. “She knows I’m too valuable for that.” He retched: a horrible sound like a dog that had been barking too long.

“I think her patience might be a bit strained,” Morwenna said, as she dabbed at him with stinging medicinal salves.

“She knows she needs me.”

“She managed without you before. Maybe it’s dawning on her that she can manage without you again.”

Quaiche brightened. “Maybe there’s an emergency.”

“For you, perhaps.”

“Christ, that’s all I need—sympathy.” He winced as a bolt of pain hit his skull, something far more precise and targeted than the dull unpleasantness of the revival trauma.

“You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Morwenna said, her tone scolding. “You know it only hurts you.”

He looked into her face, forcing his eyes open against the cruel glare of the revival area. “Are you on my side or not?”

“I’m trying to help you. Hold still, I’ve nearly got the last of these lines out.” There was a final little stab of pain in his thigh as the shunt popped out, leaving a neat eyelike wound. “There, all done.”

“Until next time,” Quaiche said. “Assuming there is a next time.”

Morwenna fell still, as if something had struck her for the first time. “You’re really frightened, aren’t you?”

“In my shoes, wouldn’t you be?”