‘I know you are unsure about the prisoner, Emissary,’ said the dragon.
The man paused, releasing the trigger of the cutter, head cocked. How does the dragon know these things? he wondered in amazement. He was awed by the depth of its empathy. It really seemed to be the only one who understood him these days. ‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose he just seems so. . .’ He trailed off, knowing the dragon understood.
‘I know,’ it said sagely. He could feel it breathing all around him, filling the cold, rocky womb-space with its warming life-essence. He longed to see it — touch it — marvel at its beauty in the flesh. He wondered, not for the first time, what it looked like. ‘He is something of an unlikeable character,’ confessed the dragon. ‘But he has his uses. He is required to work here while you fulfil other duties for me on the station. I could hardly have him do those other tasks, could I? It is you who are my emissary.’
The man felt his frozen face flush with pride. He involuntarily took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. ‘Well, I, I. . .’ he blustered, overcome by the flattery. The shadows loomed large around him, layers of living velvet that crowded round like eavesdroppers.
‘Do you trust me?’ asked the dragon, a sharp edge concealed within its voice.
It was testing him again — it tested him often, probing him for any doubts. But if it knew his mind so well, why was the testing necessary? The man’s brow furrowed in confusion. It may understand him, but he was starting to think he would never understand it.
‘Well, of course,’ said the man. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Good,’ said the dragon. ‘Because you know I want to help. My methods may seem strange at times, but you must retain your trust in me. You are my emissary, and you must believe that I have your best interests at heart, although some of your tasks may be difficult at times. The man, Carver, is a violent and savage oaf, but he has a purpose. His purpose is to dig. Your purpose is to oversee him, to be in charge of my — our — operations here. That means that when he has rested, he will dig again, and you will have another task.’
‘Task?’ asked the man, re-positioning the cutter against the rock-face. He flexed his fingers on the handle of the machine — they were beginning to seize up in the cold.
‘Yes,’ said the dragon. ‘There is something else that needs to be addressed back at the station. You must not be missed there yet. Not yet.’
‘Addressed,’ parroted the man. He felt strangely detached, fuzzy-headed, as happened when the dragon spoke to him. ‘Not be missed. . .’
‘That’s right,’ said the dragon encouragingly, as if to a child who had understood a tricky maths problem. ‘When he awakes, the prisoner will dig. And you will return to the station.’
‘Return to the station,’ repeated the man.
‘Where you will do something for me.’
‘Will this be another. . . difficult task?’
The dragon sighed sadly. The man felt the weight of its emotion, pushing down on him. He wished he could help it more, somehow. The dragon had a very great burden to shoulder. ‘I fear it may be,’ said the dragon. ‘I fear it may be.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lina woke up early, her internal clock scrambled by the unexpected change from late-shifts to no-shifts. Even on non-work days, such as this was, she usually stayed as close as possible to her work-day schedule. But she had crashed out on the night of Sal’s accident some three or four hours earlier than usual, and now she felt both tired and restless at the same time, completely unfulfilled by her sleep.
She tried to remain in bed, reading an ebook on one of her datasheets, but it was a particularly dreary tale about abused children in the slums of Old Earth, and it only served to depress her. She cast the datasheet aside around seven in the morning and got up, trying to make as little noise as possible.
She dressed, in a full set of clean, non-work clothes, and made a fair effort at dragging a brush through her hair. One minute she was looking at herself in the mirror, feeling dreamy with tiredness, disassociated from the reflection of her own face, and the next minute she found that she was standing in front of the window and staring instead into that.
Had she really seen a ship heading out into the belt last night? No, surely that was impossible. All the ships were grounded, right? And somebody must be keeping an eye on them, to make sure they stayed that way. Right?
She gazed out at the asteroid field: an ugly mass of matter; rocks that wore bright patches of ore like skin infections; trailing away, as always, to the very edge of sight. ‘Maybe,’ she said to herself in a whisper. ‘Maybe not.’ She thought of the shadow from her dream, chasing her implacably through the airless dark — a streamer of nightmarish, hungry intent. She thought of Sal, whose remains had had to be vacuumed up. She remembered the sound of Sal’s tooth ricocheting off the front of her Kay and she shivered, shaking her head to dispel the image, and turned the window off again.
By the time Marco woke up, Lina had washed herself, brushed her teeth, and begun to feel a bit more sprightly. The bad taste of the air was more pronounced than ever, though, and somehow the added flavour of the toothpaste made it even worse. She wondered when Marco would notice it. And when everybody else would notice it, for that matter.
She was re-organising her wardrobe when Marco appeared, blinking, at her door. His opening line was a casual, ‘What’s that smell?’
Lina looked up from the pile of clothes that surrounded her on the floor, feeling absurdly guilty, as if it was her fault. ‘Nasty, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Is it the air system?’ he asked bluntly, drawing his dressing gown tighter around himself.
‘I suppose so,’ she said quietly, half expecting this to have a terrifying effect on the boy. She felt her own pulse quicken, as if on his behalf.
‘Mmm,’ he grunted, the matter seemingly settled, then wandered off to the small bathroom.
Lina breathed a sigh of relief and began to replace items into the metal wardrobe in almost exactly the same order they had originally been in. She knew she was just finding herself a distraction, but she didn’t care — it seemed like what she needed. When she finished this task she went to find Marco in his room.
He was lying on his bed with earphones in and eyes shut. Lina didn’t know what he was listening to. Marco seemed to procure a surprisingly large volume of new music from his school friends. His tastes seemed to favour no particular genre, and Lina tried hard not to influence him, although some of the sub-scream and hexno artists from Platini were, honestly, terrible.
She tapped him on the knee and he looked up, removing one of the earphones. ‘Yeah?’ he asked.
‘I’m gonna go to the canteen and grab us some breakfast, okay?’
‘Yeah, cool,’ he said, replacing the earphone and shutting her out again.
It occurred to Lina how like a teenager he was already becoming, and a pang of nostalgia went through her as she gazed at his uncommunicative form. His amazement in the micro gravity of the station’s hub had made him briefly childlike again last night, but now the effect seemed to have worn off. The two of them had always been good friends, and she dreaded the possibility that he might become a surly teen in the near future. Who, she thought, will I have then? She wondered about Platini, and the life they might be able to make for themselves if they could ever get there. She let herself out, and headed to the canteen in a strange mood of contented sadness.