‘I’m sorry, I thought—’ Volyova trailed off. ‘Your people don’t use simulations for this kind of work?’
‘We used to,’ Vavilov said, with a long-suffering sigh. ‘But the trouble with simulations is that they put up with far too much shit.’
From the carousel’s hub Volyova and Hegazi rode a house-sized elevator down one of the wheel’s four radial spokes, their weight mounting until they reached the circumference. Gravity there was Yellowstone normal, not perceptibly different to the standard Earth gravity adopted by Ultras.
Carousel New Brazilia orbited Yellowstone every four hours, in an orbit which meandered to avoid the ‘Rust Belt’ — the debris rings which had come into existence since the plague. It had a wheel configuration: one of the commonest carousel designs. This one was ten kilometres in diameter and eleven hundred metres wide, all human activity wound on the thirty-kilometre strip around the wheel. It was sufficient size for a scattering of towns, small hamlets and bonsai landscape features, even a few carefully horticultured forests, with azure snowcapped mountains carved into the rising valley sides of the strip to give the illusion of distance. The curved roof around the concave part of the wheel was transparent, rising half a kilometre above the strip. Metal rails were fretted across its surface, from which hung billowing artificial clouds, choreographed by computer. Apart from simulating planetary weather, the clouds served to break up the upsetting perspectives of the curved world. Volyova supposed they were realistic, but having never seen real clouds with her own eyes, at least not from below, she could not be wholly sure.
They had emerged from the elevator onto a terrace above the carousel’s main community, a collision of buildings piled between stepped valley sides. Rimtown, they called it. It was an eyesore of architectural styles reflecting the succession of different tenants which the carousel had enjoyed throughout its history. A line of rickshaws waited at ground level, the driver of the closest quenching his thirst from a can of banana juice which sat in a holder rigged to the taxi’s handlebars. Hegazi passed the driver a piece of paper marked with their destination. The driver held it closely to his black, close-set eyes, then grunted acknowledgement. Soon they were trundling through the traffic, electric and pedal vehicles barging recklessly around each other, pedestrians diving bravely between openings in the seemingly random flow. At least half the people Volyova saw were Ultranauts, evidenced by their tendency towards paleness, spindly build, flaunted body augmentations, swathes of black leather and acres of glinting jewellery, tattoos and trade-trophies. None of the Ultras she saw were extreme chimerics, with the possible exception of Hegazi, who probably qualified as one of the half-dozen most augmented people in the carousel. But the majority wore their hair in the customary Ultra manner, fashioned in thick braids to indicate the number of reefersleep stretches they had done, and many of them had their clothes slashed to expose their prosthetic parts. Looking at these specimens, Volyova had to remind herself that she was part of the same culture.
Ultras, of course, were not the only spacegoing faction spawned by humanity. Skyjacks — at least here — made up a significant portion of the others she saw. They were spacedwellers to be sure, but they did not crew interstellar ships and so their outlook was very different to the wraithlike Ultras, with their dreadlocks and old-fashioned expressions. There were others still. Icecombers were a Skyjack offshoot; psychomodified for the extreme solitude which came from working the Kuiper belt zones, and they kept themselves to themselves with ferocious dedication. Gillies were aquatically modified humans who breathed liquid air; capable of crewing short-range, high-gee ships: they constituted a sizeable fraction of the system’s police force. Some gillies were so incapable of normal respiration and locomotion that they had to move around in huge robotic fishtanks when not on duty.
And then there were Conjoiners: descendants of an experimental clique on Mars who had systematically upgraded their minds, swapping cells for machines, until something sudden and drastic had happened. In one moment, they had escalated to a new mode of consciousness — what they called the Transenlightenment — precipitating a brief but nasty war in the process. Conjoiners were easy to pick out in crowds: recently they had bio-engineered huge and beautiful cranial crests for themselves, veined to dissipate the excess heat produced by the furious machines in their heads. There were fewer of them these days, so they tended to draw attention. Other human factions — like the Demarchists, who had long allied themselves with the Conjoiners — were acutely aware that only Conjoiners knew how to build the engines which powered lighthuggers.
‘Stop here,’ Hegazi said. The rickshaw darted to the streetside, where wizened old men sat at folding tables playing card games and mah-jong. Hegazi slapped payment into the driver’s fleshy palm and then followed Volyova onto the streetside. They had arrived at a bar.
‘The Juggler and the Shrouder,’ Volyova said, reading the holographic sign above the door. It showed a naked man emerging from the sea, backdropped by strange, phantasmagoric shapes among the surf. Above him, a black sphere hung in the sky. ‘This doesn’t look right.’
‘It’s where all the Ultras hang out. You’d better get used to it.’
‘All right, point made. I suppose I wouldn’t feel at home in any Ultra bar, come to think of it.’
‘You wouldn’t feel at home in anything that didn’t have a navigational system and a lot of nasty firepower, Ilia.’
‘Sounds like a reasonable definition of common sense to me.’
Youths barged out into the street, plastered in sweat and what Volyova hoped was spilt beer. They had been arm wrestling: one of their number was nursing a prosthetic which had ripped off at the shoulder, another was riffling a wad of notes he must have won inside. They had the regulation sleep-stretch locks and the standard-issue star-effect tattoos, making Volyova feel simultaneously ancient and envious. She doubted that their anxieties extended much beyond the troubling question of where their next drink or bed was coming from. Hegazi gave them a look — he must have seemed intimidating to them, even given their chimeric aspirations, since it was difficult to tell which parts of Hegazi were not mechanical.
‘Come on,’ he said, pushing through the disturbance. ‘Grin and bear it, Ilia.’
It was dark and smoky inside, and with the combined synergistic effects of the noise from the music — pulsing Burundi rhythms overlaid with something that might have been human singing — and the perfumed, mild hallucinogens in the smoke, it took Volyova a few moments to get her bearings. Then Hegazi pointed to a miraculously spare table in the corner and she followed him to it with the minimum of enthusiasm.
‘You’re going to sit down, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t suppose I have much choice. We have to look as if we at least tolerate each other’s company or people will get suspicious.’
Hegazi shook his head, grinning. ‘I must like something about you, Ilia, otherwise I’d have killed you ages ago.’
She sat down.
‘Don’t let Sajaki hear you talking like that. He doesn’t take kindly to threats being made against Triumvir members.’
‘I’m not the one who has a problem with Sajaki, in case you forgot. Now, what are you drinking?’