Revelation Space

THIRTY-THREE

Volyova slipped out the needier, approaching the Captain.

She knew that she had to get to the hangar chamber as quickly as possible; that any delay might give Sun Stealer the time he needed to find a way to kill her. But there was something she had to do first. There was no logic to it, no rationality—but she knew she had to do it anyway. So she took the stairwells to the Captain’s level, into the deadening cold, her breath seeming to solidify in her throat. There were no rats down here: too cold. And servitors would not be able to reach him without running the risk of becoming part of him, subsumed by the plague.

“Can you hear me, you bastard?” She told her bracelet to warm him enough for conscious thought processes. “If so, pay attention. The ship’s been taken over.”

“Are we still around Bloater?”

“No… no, we’re not still around Bloater. That was some time ago.”

After a few moments the Captain said, “Taken over, did you say? Who by?”

“Something alien, with some unpleasant ambitions. Most of us are dead now—Sajaki, Hegazi; all the other crew you ever knew—and the few of us left are getting out while we can. I don’t expect to ever come back aboard, which is why what I’m about to do might strike you as slightly drastic.”

She aimed the needler now; directing it towards the cracked, misshaped husk of the reefer encasing the Captain.

“I’m going to let you warm, do you understand? For the last few decades it’s been all we can do to keep you as cool as possible—but it hasn’t worked, so maybe it was never the right approach. Maybe what we need to do now is let you take over the damned ship, in whatever way you see fit.”

“I don’t think—”

“I don’t care what you think, captain. I’m doing it anyway.”

Her finger grew tight against the needler’s trigger; already she was mentally calculating how his rate of spread would increase as he warmed, and the numbers she was coming up with were not quite believable… but then, they had never considered doing this before.

“Please, Ilia.”

“Listen, svinoi,” she said, finally. “Maybe it works; maybe it doesn’t. But if I’ve ever shown any loyalty to you—if you even remember me—all I’m asking is that you do what you can for us.”

She was about to fire; about to unload the needler into the reefer, but then something made her hesitate.

“There’s one other thing I have to say to you. Which is that I think I know who the hell you are, or rather who the hell you became.”

She was acutely conscious of the dryness of her mouth, and of the time she was wasting, but something made her continue.

“What do you have to say to me?”

“You travelled with Sajaki to the Pattern Jugglers, didn’t you? I know. The crew spoke of it often enough—even Sajaki himself. What no one discussed was what happened down there: what the Jugglers did to the two of you. Oh, I know there were rumours—but that’s all they were; engineered by Sajaki to throw me off the scent.”

“Nothing happened there.”

“No; what happened was this. You killed Sajaki, all those years ago.”

His answer came back, amused, as if he had misheard her. “I killed Sajaki?”

“You had the Jugglers do it; had them erase his neural patterns and overlay your own on his mind. You became him.”

Now she had to catch her breath, although she was almost done.

“One existence wasn’t enough for you—and maybe by then you’d sensed that this body wasn’t going to last too long; not with so many viruses flying around. So you colonised your adjutant, and the Jugglers did what you wished because they’re so alien they couldn’t even grasp the concept of murder. But that’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“No…”

“Shut up. That’s why Sajaki never wanted you healed—because by then he was you, and he didn’t need healing. And that’s why Sajaki was able to denature my treatment for the plague—because he had all your expertise. I should let you die for this, svinoi—except of course you already are, because what’s left of Sajaki is now redecorating the medical centre.”

“Sajaki—dead?” It was as if her news of the others’ deaths had not reached him at all.

“Is that justice for you? You’re alone now. All on your own. So the only thing you can do is protect your own existence against Sun Stealer by growing. By letting the plague have its way with you.”

“No… please.”

“Did you kill Sajaki, Captain?”

“It was… such a long time ago…” But there was something in his voice which was not quite denial. Volyova delivered the needler rounds into the reefer. Watched the few remaining indices on its shell flicker and die, and then felt the chill fading, by the second, ice on the shell already beginning to glisten with its own warming.

“I’m going now,” she said. “I just wanted to get to the truth. I suppose I should wish you good luck, Captain.”

And then she was running, afraid of what might be happening behind her.

Sajaki’s suit stayed tantalisingly ahead of Sylveste as they commenced the descent into the funnel of the bridgehead. The half-submerged, inverted cone of the device had seemed tiny only minutes ago, but now it was all he could see, its steep grey sides blocking the horizon in all directions. Occasionally the bridgehead shuddered, and Sylveste was reminded that it was fighting a constant battle with the crustal defences of Cerberus, and that he should not count blindly on its protection. If it failed, he knew, it would be consumed in hours; the wound in the crust would close, and with it his escape route.

“It is necessary to replenish reaction mass,” the suit said.

“What?”

Sajaki spoke for the first time since they had left the ship. “We used a lot of mass getting here, Dan. We need to top up before we enter hostile territory.”

“Where from?”

“Look around you. There’s an awful lot of reaction mass waiting to be used.”

Of course; there was nothing to stop them drawing resources from the bridgehead itself. He agreed, doing nothing while Sajaki took control of his suit. One of the steep, incurving walls loomed nearer, dense with ornate extrusions and random clusters of machinery. The scale of the thing was overwhelming now; like a dam wall which curved round until its ends met. Somewhere in that wall, he thought, were the bodies of Alicia and her fellow mutineers…

There was enough sense of gravity to engender a strong sense of vertigo, not aided by the way the bridgehead narrowed below, which made it seem like an infinitely deep shaft. The best part of a kilometre away, the star-shaped speck of Sajaki’s suit had made contact with the precipitous wall on the far side. A few moments later Sylveste touched a narrow ledge, one that jutted no more than a metre beyond the wall. His feet made soft contact and suddenly he was poised there, ready to topple back into the nothingness behind him.

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing,” Sajaki said. “Your suit knows exactly what to do. I suggest you start trusting it: it’s all that’s keeping you alive.”

“Is that meant to reassure me?”

“Do you think reassurance would be especially appropriate at this point? You’re about to enter one of the most alien environments that any human has ever known. I think the last thing you need is reassurance.”

While Sylveste watched, a trunk extruded from the suit’s chest until it made contact with a section of the bridgehead’s wall material. A few seconds later it began to pulse, bulges squirming along its length, back into the suit.

“Vile,” Sylveste said.

“It’s digesting heavy elements from the bridgehead,” Sajaki said. “The bridgehead gives of itself freely, since it recognises the suit as being friendly.”

“What if we run out of power inside Cerberus?”

“You’ll be dead long before running out of power becomes a problem to your suit. But it needs to replenish reaction mass for its thrusters. It has all the energy it needs, but it still requires atoms to accelerate.”

“I’m not sure I like that last bit; about being dead.”

“It isn’t too late to return.”

Testing me, Sylveste thought. For a moment he considered it rationally, but only for a moment. He was scared, yes—more so than he could comfortably remember; even if he went back to Lascaille’s Shroud. But, as then, he knew that the only way to punch through his fear was to push on. To confront whatever it was that led to that fear. But, when the refuelling process was complete, it took all the nerve in the world to step off the ledge and continue the descent into the emptiness enclosed by the bridgehead.

They sank lower, dropping for long seconds before checking their fall with brief squirts of thrust. Sajaki was beginning to allow Sylveste some voluntary control of his suit now; slowly decreasing the suit’s autonomic dominance until Sylveste was controlling most of it himself; the transition was barely noticeable. They were descending now at a rate of thirty metres per second, but it seemed to quicken as the walls of the funnel came closer together. Now Sajaki was only a few hundred metres away, but the facelessness of his suit offered little sense of human presence, no sense of companionship. Sylveste still felt dreadfully alone. And with good reason, he thought—it was possible that no thinking creature had been this close to Cerberus since it was last visited by the Amarantin. What ghosts had festered here in the intervening thousand centuries?

“Approaching the final injection tube,” Sajaki said.

The conic walls constricted now to a diameter of only thirty metres, then plunged vertically into darkness, as far as the eye could see. His suit veered towards the midline of the approaching hole without his bidding; Sajaki’s suit lagged slightly behind.

“I wouldn’t deny you the honour of being first in,” said the Triumvir. “You’ve waited for it long enough, after all.”

They were in the shaft. Sensing their arrival, the walls lit up with recessed red lights. The impression of vertical speed was huge now, and more than a little sickening; too much like being injected down a syringe. Sylveste remembered the time when Calvin had shown him the passage of an endoscope through one of his patients; the ancient surgical tool with a camera eye at one end of its coiled length. He remembered the headlong rush along an artery. He remembered the night flight to Cuvier after he had been arrested at the obelisk excavation, streaking through canyons towards his political nemesis. He wondered if there had ever been a time in his life when he was certain of what lay at the end of those rushing walls.

Then the shaft vanished and they were dropping through emptiness.

Volyova reached the hangar chamber, pausing at one of the observation windows to check that the shuttles really were accounted for, and that the data she had seen on her bracelet had not been manipulated by Sun Stealer. The plasma-winged transatmospheric ships were still there, clamped in their holding pens like rows of arrowheads in a fletcher’s workshop. She could begin powering one of them now, via the bracelet, but that was too dangerous, too likely to draw Sun Stealer’s attention and alert him to what she was planning. At the moment she was safe enough, since she had not entered a part of the ship where Sun Stealer’s senses could penetrate. At least, she hoped not.

She could not simply stroll aboard any of the shuttles. The usual access routes would take her through parts of the ship she did not dare enter; places where servitors had free range and janitor-rats were in direct biochemical consort with Sun Stealer. She had only one weapon now: the needler. She had left Khouri with the slug-gun, and while she did not doubt her proficiency, there were limits to what could be achieved by mere skill and determination. Especially as the ship would by now have had time to synthesise armed drones.

So now she found her way to an airlock chamber; not one which led to outside space, but one which accessed the depressurised vault of the hangar. The chamber was knee-deep in effluent, and all its lighting and heating systems had failed. Good. No chance then of Sun Stealer being able to watch her remotely, or even know she was there. She opened a locker and was relieved to find that the lightweight suit it was meant to contain was still present, and that it had not been visibly damaged by exposure to ship-slime. It was less bulky than the kind of suit Sylveste would have taken; less intelligent too, with no servosystems or integral propulsion. Before donning the suit she recited a series of words—well rehearsed—into her bracelet, and then arranged the bracelet to respond to vocal commands spoken into her communicator, rather than via its own acoustic sensors. Then she had to latch on a thruster backpack, taking a moment to stare intently at its controls, as if knowledge of how to use it would bubble up from her memory by sheer force of will. She decided that the basics would come back to her as soon as she required them, and carefully stowed the needler on the suit’s external equipment belt. She exited without fuss, jetting into the hangar, using a small constant thrust level to prevent herself drifting down the chamber. No part of the ship was in freefall, since the ship itself was not orbiting Cerberus, but holding itself artificially fixed in space, a tiny drain on the power of its engines.

She selected the shuttle she would use; the spherical Melancholia of Departure. Off to one side of the chamber, she watched a pair of bottle-green servitors detach from their mooring points and sidle towards her. They were free-fliers; spheres sprouting claws and cutting equipment for performing repair work on the shuttles. Evidently she had passed into Sun Stealer’s perceptual domain when she entered the hangar. Well, she couldn’t help that, and she had not brought the needler along to assist as an incentive in delicate negotiations with non-sentient machines. She shot them, each requiring more than one needle-strike before she interrupted a critical system.

Hit, both machines began to drift down the hangar, bleeding smoke.

She thumbed the backpack controls, imploring it to push her faster. The Melancholia loomed larger now; she could already see the tiny warning signs and technical phrases dotted around its fuselage, although most of them were in obsolete languages.

From around the curve of the shuttle hove another drone. This one was larger, its ochre body an ellipsoid studded with folded manipulators and sensors.

It was pointing something at her.

Everything turned a bright, hurting green which made her want to tear her eyeballs from their sockets. The thing was swiping a laser at her. She cursed—her suit had opaqued in time, but she was now effectively blind.

“Sun Stealer,” she said, presuming that he could hear her. “You are making a very grave mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re getting good now,” she said. “You were a little stiff when we spoke earlier. What’s happened? Did you access the natural language translators?”

“The more time I spend amongst you, the better I know you.”

The suit was de-opaquing as she spoke. “Better than you did with Nagorny, at least.”

“I did not intend to give him nightmares.” Sun Stealer’s voice was still the same absence as before; like a whisper heard against the white-noise of static.

“No, I doubt that you did.” She clucked. “You don’t want to kill me, do you? The others, perhaps—but not me; not just yet. Not while the bridgehead might still need my expertise.”

“That time has passed,” Sun Stealer said. “Sylveste has now entered Cerberus.”

Not good news; not good news at all—although, rationally, she had known for some hours that it was probably the case.

“Then there must be another reason,” she said. “Another reason why you need the bridgehead to stay open. It can’t be that you care about Sylveste making it back. But if the bridgehead fails, you wouldn’t necessarily know that he had progressed any deeper into the structure. You need to know, don’t you? You need to know how deeply he gets; whether he achieves whatever it is you have in mind for him.”

She took Sun Stealer’s lack of response as a tacit acknowledgement that she was not far from the truth. Perhaps the alien had not yet learnt all the ways of subterfuge, arts which might be uniquely human and therefore new to him.

“Let me take the shuttle,” she said.

“A vessel of this configuration is too large to enter Cerberus, even if you intend to reach Sylveste.”

Did it honestly imagine she had not thought of that herself? For a moment she felt pity that Sun Stealer was so singularly ill-equipped to grasp the way the human mind functioned. On one level he worked well enough; when he could lay lures of fear or reward; lures which depended on the emotions. It was not that his logic was faulty, either—more that he had an overestimation of how important it was in human affairs: as if pointing out to Volyova the essentially suicidal nature of her intended mission was going to suddenly deter her; turn her willingly to his side. Oh, you poor, pitiful monster, she thought.

“I’ve got one word for you,” she said, moving towards the airlock, daring the drone to intercept her. And then she said that word, having already recited the preliminary incantations which were required before the word itself could have any effect. It was a word she had not really expected that she would ever have to use in this context. But it had been enough of a surprise that she had been forced to use it once already; almost as surprising as the fact that she remembered it at all. Volyova had decided that the time to rely on expectation was long gone.

That word was Palsy.

It had an interesting effect on the servitor. The machine did not try and obstruct her as she reached the airlock and helped herself into the Melancholia. Instead, it hovered aimlessly for a few seconds and then darted towards one wall, suddenly out of contact with the ship and now relying on its limited reservoir of independent behaviour-modes. Nothing had happened to the servitor itself, since execution of the Palsy command only affected ship systems. But one of the first systems to crash would have been the radio/optical command net serving all the drones. Only the autonomous drones would continue functioning unaffected—and those machines had never come under Sun Stealer’s influence. Now the thousands of supervised drones all over the ship would be scurrying to access terminals where they could tap into the controlling system directly. Even the rats would feel confused, since the aerosols dispersing their biochemical instructions would be among the affected systems. Unshackled from relentless machine control, the rodents would begin to revert to an archetype more characteristic of their feral ancestors.

Volyova closed the airlock and was gratified to feel the shuttle warming to readiness as soon as it sensed her. She tugged herself along to the cabin, already aglow with navigation readouts, already reconfiguring itself to match the kind of interface she preferred: surfaces flowing liquidly towards a new ideal.

Now all she had to do was get out. “Did you just feel that?” Khouri asked from the metal and plush opulence of the spider-room. “The whole ship just shuddered, like an earth tremor.”

“You think it was Ilia?”

“She said we should cast loose when we got a signal. And she said it’d be obvious as hell. That was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?”

She knew if she waited any longer she would begin to doubt the evidence of her own senses; start wondering if there really had been a shudder, and then it would be too late, because if Volyova had been clear about anything it was that when the signal came, Khouri had to move quickly. There would not be very much time, she said.

So she cast off.

She twisted two of the matched brass controls to their extremities; not as she had seen Volyova do, but in the simple hope that something so drastic, random, and quite possibly stupid must surely result in something as normally undesirable as the spider-room losing its purchase on the hull, which was now all that she wanted.

The spider-room fell away from the hull.

“In the next few seconds,” Khouri said, stomach squirming in the sudden transition to freefall, “we either live or die. If that was the signal Ilia meant to give, it’s safe to leave the hull. But if it wasn’t, we’re going to be in range of the ship’s own weapons in a few seconds.”

Khouri watched the ship recede, slowly falling up and away, until she had to squint to avoid the glare of the Conjoiner engines; barely ticking over, yet still sun-bright. Somewhere in the spider-room there was a way to close the shutters on its windows, but that was one detail Khouri had not committed to memory.

“Why won’t it shoot us immediately?”

“Too much risk of damaging itself. Ilia said those limits were hardwired—nothing Sun Stealer can do about it except live with them. Guess we’re about coming up on the mark now.”

“What do you think it was, that signal?” It seemed that Pascale preferred to talk.

“A program,” Khouri said. “Buried deep in the ship, where Sun Stealer would never find it. Wired up to thousands of circuit breaks all around the ship. When she ran it—if she ran it—it would have killed thousands of systems simultaneously. One big crunch. That was the shudder, I think.”

“And it takes out the weapons?”

“No… not exactly. Not if I remember what she told me. Some of the sensors, and maybe some of the targeting systems, but the gunnery isn’t affected; I remember that much. But I think the rest of the ship is so screwed up it’ll take Sun Stealer a while to put himself back together again; awhile to coordinate himself and get his bearings. Then he can start shooting again.”

“But the weapons could be online any time soon?”

“That’s why we have to hurry.”

“We seem to be still having a conversation. Does that mean…?”

“I think so.” Khouri forced a manic grin. “I think I interpreted the signal right, and I think we’re safe—for the time being, at least.”

Pascale let out a loud sigh. “What now?”

“We have to find Ilia.”

“It shouldn’t be hard. She said there wasn’t anything we’d have to do; just wait for that signal. Then she’d be right…” Khouri trailed off. She was looking back at the lighthugger, hanging over them like a levitating cathedral spire. And something was wrong with it.

Something was disturbing its symmetry.

Something was breaking out of it.

It had begun with the smallest of excisions; as a chick might force the tip of its mandible through the shell of its egg. White light, and then a series of explosions. Shards of disrupted hull mushroomed away, quickly seized by the hand of gravity, so that the veil of destruction was whipped away to reveal the underlying damage. It was a tiny hole punched through the hull. Tiny, but because the ship was so large, the hole must really have been the best part of a hundred metres across.

And now Volyova’s shuttle burst through the aperture she had opened, loitering momentarily next to the great trunk of the ship before pirouetting and diving towards the spider-room.