But here he was hoping—in spite of plenty of evidence to the contrary—that the ship was going to stay on Ararat. Something had to be wrong for him to start thinking that way. Something had to be playing on his mind. He didn’t have far to look for it, either.
Only a few hours earlier he had broken twenty-three years of self-imposed discipline. In Clavain’s presence, he had made every effort to live up to die old man’s standards. For years he had hated baseline humans for what they had done to him during his years of indentured slave service. And if that was not enough to spur his animosity, he only had to think of the thing that he was: this swaying, comedic mongrel of human and pig, this compromise that had all the flaws of both and none of the advantages of either. He knew the litany of his disadvantages. He couldn’t walk as well as a human. He couldn’t hold things the way they could. He couldn’t see or hear as well as they did. There were colours he would never know. He couldn’t think as fluidly as they did and he lacked a well-developed capacity for abstract visualisation. When he listened to music all he heard was complex sequential sounds, lacking any emotional component. His predicted lifespan, optimistically, was about two-thirds that of a human who had received no longevity therapy or germline modifications. And—so some humans said, when they didn’t think they were in earshot of pigs—his kind didn’t even taste the way nature intended.
That hurt. That really fucking hurt.
But he had dared to think that he had put all that resentment behind him. Or if not behind him, then at least in a small, sealed mental compartment which he only ever opened in times of crisis.
And even then he kept the resentment under control, used it to give him strength and resolve. The positive side was that it had forced him to try to be better than they expected. It had made him delve inside himself for qualities of leadership and compassion he had never suspected he possessed. He would show them what a pig was capable of. He would show them that a pig could be as statesmanlike as Clavain; as forward-thinking and judicial; as cruel and as kind as circumstances merited.
And for twenty-three years it had worked, too. The resentment had made him better. But in all that time, he now realised, he had still been in Clavain’s shadow. Even when Clavain had gone to his island, the man had not really abdicated power.
Except that now Clavain was gone, and only a few dozen hours into this new regime, only a few dozen hours after stum-bling into the hard scrutiny of real leadership, Scorpio had failed. He had lashed out against Hallatt, against a man who in that instant of rage had personified the entire corpus of baseline humanity. He knew it was Blood who had thrown the knife, but his own hand had been on it just as surely. Blood had merely been an extension of Scorpio’s intent.
He knew he had never really liked Hallatt. Nothing about that had changed. The man was compromised by his involvement in the totalitarian government on Resurgam. Nothing could be proved, but it was more than likely that Hallatt had at least been aware of the beatings and interrogation sessions, the state-sanctioned executions. And yet the evacuees from Resurgam had to be represented in some form. Hallatt had also done a lot of good during the final days of the exodus. People that Scorpio judged to be reasonable and trustworthy had been prepared to testify on his behalf. He was tainted, but he wasn’t incriminated. And—when one looked at the data closely—there was something unfortunate in the personal history of just about everyone who had come from Resurgam. Where did one draw the line? One hundred and sixty thousand evacuees had come to Ararat from the old world, and very few of them had lacked some association with the government. In a state like that, the machinery of government touched more lives than it left alone. You couldn’t eat, sleep or breathe without being in some small way complicit in the functioning of the machine.
So he didn’t like Hallatt. But Hallatt wasn’t a monster or a fugitive. And because of that—in that instant of incandescent rage—he had struck out against a fundamentally decent man that he just happened not to like. Hallatt had pushed him to the edge with his understandable scepticism about the matter of Aura, and Scorpio had allowed that provocation to touch him where it hurt. He had struck at Hallatt, but it could have been anyone. Even, had the provocation been severe enough, someone that he actually liked, like Antoinette, Xavier Liu or one of the other human seniors.
What almost made it worse was the way the rest of the party had reacted. When the rage had died, when the enormity of what he had done had begun to sink in, he had expected mutiny. He had at least expected some open questioning of his fitness for leadership.
But there had been nothing. It was almost as if they had all just turned a blind eye, regretting what he had done but accepting that this flash of madness was part of the package. He was a pig, and with pigs you had to tolerate that kind of thing.
He was sure that was what they were all thinking. Even, perhaps, Blood.
Hallatt had survived. The knife had touched no major organs. Scorpio didn’t know whether to put this down to spectacular accuracy on Blood’s behalf, or spectacular inaccuracy instead.
He didn’t want to know.
As it turned out, no one else really liked Hallatt either. The man’s days as a colony senior were over, his avowed distrust of Khouri not helping his case. But since the Resurgam representatives were cycled around anyway, Hallatt’s enforced standing-down was not the dramatic thing it might have been. The circumstances of his resignation would be kept secret, but something would inevitably filter out. There would be rumours of violence, and Scorpio’s name would surely feature somewhere in the telling.
Let it happen. He could live with that easily enough. There had been violent episodes in the past, and the rumours of those had become suitably exaggerated as they did the rounds. They had done him no real harm in the long run.
But those violent episodes had been justified. There had been no hatred behind them, no attempt to redress the sins visited upon Scorpio and his kind by their human elders. They had been necessary gestures. But what he had done to Hallatt had been personal, nothing whatsoever to do with the security of the planet.
He had failed himself, and in that sense he had also failed Ararat.
“Scorp? Are you all right?”
It was Khouri, sitting in the darkened portion of the shuttle. Valensin’s servitors were still monitoring Aura’s incubator, but Khouri was keeping her own vigil. Once or twice he had heard her talking softly to the child, even singing to her. It seemed odd to him, given that they were already bonded on a neural level.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You look preoccupied. Is it what happened in the iceberg?”
Her remark surprised him. Most of the time, his expressions were completely opaque to outsiders. “Well, there’s the small business of the war we’re caught up in, and the fact that I’m not sure any of us are going to make it into next week, but other than that…”
“We’re all bothered by the war,” she said, “but with you there’s something else. I didn’t see it before we went to find Aura”
He had the shuttle form a chair for him, something at pig-height, and sat down next to her. He noticed that Valensin was snoozing, his head bobbing up at periodic intervals as he tried to stay awake. They were all exhausted, all functioning at the limits of endurance.