He visited the technicians who were calibrating the weapon, taking in their nervous expressions and gestures. They were expecting a reprimand, at the very least.
“Looks like it was a bit larger than one metre,” he said.
“It was always going to be uncertain,” their leader flustered. “All we could do was take a lucky guess and hope—”
Scorpio cut her off. “I know. No one ever said this was going to be easy. But knowing what you know now, can you adjust the volume down to something more practical?”
The technician looked relieved and doubtful at the same time, as if she could not really believe that Scorpio had no intention of punishing her.
“I think so… given the effect we’ve just observed… of course, there’s still no guarantee…”
“I’m not expecting one. I’m just expecting the best you can do.”
She nodded quickly. “Of course. And the testing?”
“Keep it up. We’re still going to need that weapon, no matter how much of a bastard it is to use.”
THIRTY-FIVE
The dean had called Rashmika to his garret. When she arrived, she was relieved to find him alone in the room, with no sign of the surgeon-general. She had no great affection for the dean’s company, but even less for the skulking attentions of his personal physician. She imagined him lurking somewhere else in the Lady Morwenna, busy with his Bloodwork or one of the unspeakable practices he was rumoured to favour.
“Settling in nicely?” the dean asked her as she took her appointed seat in the middle of the forest of mirrors. “I do hope so. I’ve been very impressed with your acumen, Miss Els. It was an inspired suggestion of Grelier’s to have you brought here.”
“I’m glad to have been of service,” Rashmika said. She prepared herself a small measure of tea, her hands shaking as she held the china. She had no appetite—the mere thought of being in the same room as the iron suit was enough to unsettle her nerves—but it was necessary to maintain the illusion of calm.
“Yes, a bold stroke of luck,” Quaiche said. He was nearly immobile, only his lips moving. The air in the garret was colder than usual, and with each word she saw a jet of exhalation issue from his mouth. “Almost too lucky, one might say.”
“I beg your pardon, Dean?”
“Look at the table,” he said. “The malachite box next to the tea service.”
Rashmika had not noticed the box until men, but she was certain it had not been there during any of her earlier visits to the garret. It sat on little feet, like the paws of a dog. She picked it up, finding it lighter than she had expected, and fiddled with the gold-coloured metal clasps until the lid popped open. Inside was a great quantity of paper: sheets and envelopes of all colours and bonds, neatly gathered together with an elastic band.
“Open them,” the dean said. “Have a gander.”
She took out the bundle, slipped the elastic band free. The paperwork spilled on to the table. At random, she selected a sheet and unfolded it. The lilac paper was so thin, so translucent that only one side had been written on. The neatly inked letters, seen in reverse, were already familiar to her before she turned it over. The dark-scarlet script was hers: childish but immediately recognisable.
“This is my correspondence,” she said. “My letters to the church-sponsored archaeological study group.”
“Does it surprise you to see them gathered here?”
“It surprises me that they were collected and brought to your attention,” Rashmika said, “but I’m not surprised that it could have happened. They were addressed to a body within the ministry of the Adventist church, after all.”
“Are you angered?”
“That would depend.” She was, but it was only one emotion amongst several. “Were the letters ever seen by anyone in the study group?”
“The first few,” Quaiche replied, “but almost all the others were intercepted before they reached any of the researchers. Don’t take it personally: it’s just that they receive enough crank literature as it is; if they had to answer it all they’d never get anything else done.”
“I’m not a crank,” Rashmika said.
“No, but—judging by the content of these letters—you are coming from a slightly unorthodox position on the matter of the scuttlers, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If you consider the truth to be an unorthodox position,” Rashmika countered.
“You aren’t the only one. The study teams receive a lot of letters from well-meaning amateurs. The majority are really quite worthless. Everyone has their own cherished little theory on the scuttlers. Unfortunately, none of them has the slightest grasp of scientific method.”
“That’s more or less what I’d have said about the study teams,” Rashmika said.
He laughed at her temerity. “Not greatly troubled by self-doubt, are you, Miss Els?”
She gathered the papers into an untidy bundle, stuffed them back in the box. “I’ve broken no rules with this,” she said. “I didn’t tell you about my correspondence because I wasn’t asked to tell you about it.”
“I never said you had broken any rules. It just intrigued me, that’s all. I’ve read the letters, seen your arguments mature with time. Frankly, I think some of the points you raise are worthy of further consideration.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it,” Rashmika said.
“Don’t sound so snide. I’m sincere.”
“You don’t care, Dean. No one in the church cares. Why should they? The doctrine disallows any other explanation except the one we read about in the brochures.”
He asked, playfully, “Which is?”
“That the scuttlers are an incidental detail, their extinction unrelated to the vanishings. If they serve any theological function it’s only as a reminder against hubris, and to emphasise the urgent need for salvation.”
“An extinct alien culture isn’t much of a mystery these days, is it?”
“Something different happened here,” Rashmika said. “What happened to the scuttlers wasn’t what happened to the Amarantin or any of the other dead cultures.”
“That’s the gist of your objection, is it?”
“I think it might help if we knew what happened,” she said. She tapped her fingernails against the lid of the box. “They were wiped out, but it doesn’t bear the hallmarks of the Inhibitors. Whoever did this left too much behind.”
“Perhaps the Inhibitors were in a hurry. Perhaps it was enough that they’d wiped out the scuttlers, without worrying about their cultural artefacts.”
“That’s not how they work. I know what they did to the Amarantin. Nothing survived on Resurgam unless it was under metres of bedrock, deliberately entombed. I know what it was like, Dean: I was there.”
The light flared off his eye-opener as he turned towards her. “You were there?”
“I meant,” she said hastily, “that I’ve read so much about it, spent so much time thinking about it, it’s as if I was there.” She shivered: it was easy to gloss over the statement in retrospect, but when she had said it she had felt a burning conviction that it was completely true.
“The problem is,” Quaiche said, “that if you remove the Inhibitors as possible agents in the destruction of Hela, you have to invoke another agency. From a philosophical standpoint, that’s not the way we like to do things.”
“It may not be elegant,” she said, “but if the truth demands another agency—or indeed a third—we should have the courage to accept the evidence.”
“And you have some idea of what this other agency might have been, I take it?”