“You informed me you were a scholar.”
“Correct.”
“So return to the badlands and continue your scholarship.” He made an effort to look and sound reasonable. “What better place to further your study of the scuttlers than at the very site where their relics are being unearthed?”
“It isn’t possible to study there,” she said. “No one cares what the relics signify as long as they’re able to get good money for them. No one’s interested in the bigger picture.”
“And you are, I take it?”
“I have theories concerning the scuttlers,” she said, fully aware of how precocious she sounded, “but to make further progress I need access to proper data, the kind in the possession of the church-sponsored archaeological groups.”
“Yes, we all know about those groups. But aren’t they in a position to form theories of their own? Begging your pardon, Miss Els, but why do you imagine that you—a seventeen-year-old—are likely to bring a fresh perspective to the matter?”
“Because I have no vested interest in maintaining the Quaicheist view,” Rashmika said.
“Which would be?”
“That the scuttlers are an incidental detail, unrelated to the deeper matter of the vanishings, or at best a reminder of what’s likely to happen to us if we don’t follow the Quaicheist route to salvation.”
“There’s no doubt that they were denied salvation,” the quaestor said, “but then so were eight or nine other alien cultures. I forget what the latest count is. There’s clearly no particular mystery here. Local details about this particular vanished species, their history and society and so on, still need to be researched, of course, but what happened to them in the end isn’t in doubt. We’ve all heard those pilgrims’ tales from the evacuated systems, Miss Els, the stories about machines emerging from the dark between the stars. Now, it seems, it’s our turn.”
“The supposition being that the scuttlers were wiped out by the Inhibitors?” she asked.
He popped a crumb into the intricate little mouth of his animal. “Draw your own conclusions.”
“That’s all I’ve ever done,” she said. “And my conclusion is that what happened here was different.”
“Something wiped them out,” the quaestor said. “Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I’m not sure it was the same thing that wiped out the Ama-rantin, or any of those other cultures. If the Inhibitors had been involved, do you think they’d have left this moon intact? They might have compunctions about destroying a world, a place with an established biosphere, but an airless moon like Hela? They’d have turned it into a ring system, or a cloud of radioactive steam. Yet whoever or whatever finished off the scuttlers wasn’t anywhere near that thorough.” She paused, fearful of revealing too much of her cherished thesis. “It was a rush job. They left behind too much. It’s almost as if they wanted to leave a message, maybe a warning.”
“You’re invoking an entirely new agency of cosmic extinction, is that it?”
Rashmika shrugged. “If the facts demand it.”
“You’re not greatly troubled by self-doubt, are you, Miss Els?”
“I know only that the vanishings and the scuttlers must be related. So does everyone else. They’re just too scared and intimidated to admit it.”
“And you’re not?”
“I was put on Hela for a reason,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as if spoken by someone else.
The quaestor looked at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “And this crusade,” he said, “this quest to uncover the truth no matter how many enemies it makes you—is that why you’re so intent on reaching the Permanent Way?”
“There’s another reason,” she said, quietly.
The quaestor appeared not to have heard her. “You have a particular interest in the First Adventists, don’t you? I noticed it when I mentioned my role as legate.”
“It’s the oldest of the churches,” Rashmika said. “And one of the largest, I’d imagine.”
“The largest. The First Adventist order runs three cathedrals, including the largest and heaviest on the Way.”
“I know they have an archaeological study group,” she said. “I’ve written to them. Surely there’d be some work for me there.”
“So you can advance your theory and rub everyone up the wrong way?”
She shook her head. “I’d work quietly, doing what was needed. It wouldn’t stop me examining material. I just need a job, so that I can send some money home and make some enquiries.”
He sighed, as if the world and all its troubles were now his responsibility. “What exactly do you know of the cathedrals, Miss Els? I mean in the physical sense.”
She sensed that the question, for once, was a sincere one. ‘They are moving structures,“ she said, ”much larger than this caravan, much slower…but machines, all the same. They travel around Hela on the equatorial road we call the Permanent Way, completing a revolution once every three hundred and twenty standard days.“
“And the point of this circumnavigation?”
“Is to ensure that Haldora is always in the sky, always at the zenith. The world moves beneath the cathedrals, but the cathedrals cancel out that motion.”
A smile ghosted the quaestor’s lips. “And what do you know about the motion of the cathedrals?”
“It’s slow,” she said. “On average, the cathedrals only have to move at a baby’s crawl to complete a circuit of Hela in three hundred and twenty days. A third of a metre a second is enough.”
“That doesn’t seem fast, does it?”
“Not really, no.”
“I assure you it does when you have a few hundred vertical metres of metal sliding towards you and you have a job to do that involves stepping out of the way at the last possible moment, before you fall under the traction plates.” Quaestor Rutland Jones leant forwards, compressing the bulk of his belly against the table and lacing his fingers before him. “The Permanent Way is a road of compacted ice. With one or two complications, it encircles the planet like a ribbon. It is never wider than two hundred metres, and is frequently much narrower than that. Yet even a small cathedral may be fifty metres across. The largest of them—the Lady Morwenna, for instance—are double that. And since the cathedrals all wish to situate themselves under the mathematically exact spot on the Way that corresponds to Haldora being precisely at the zenith, directly overhead, there is a certain degree of… ” His voice became mockingly playful. “… competition for the available space. Between rival churches, even those bound by the ecumenical protocols, it can be surprisingly fierce. Sabotage and trickery are not unheard of. Even amongst cathedrals belonging to one church, there is still a degree of playful jockeying.”
“I’m not sure I see your point, Quaestor.”
“I mean that damage to the Way—deliberately inflicted vandalism—is not unusual. Cathedrals may leave obstacles in their wake, or they may tamper with the integrity of the Way itself. And Hela itself does its share of harm. Rock blizzards… ice-flows… volcanic eruptions… all these can render the Way temporarily impassable. That is why cathedrals have Permanent Way gangs.” He looked at Rashmika sharply. “The gangs work ahead of the cathedrals. Not too far ahead, or they risk their good work being exploited by rivals, but just far enough to enable their tasks to be completed before their cathedrals arrive. I’ll make no bones about it: the work is difficult and dangerous. But it is work that requires some of the skills you have mentioned.” He tapped pudgy fingers against the table. “Working under vacuum, on ice. Using cutting and blasting tools. Programming servitors for the most hazardous tasks.”