Redemption Ark

110 Pages·2008·0.42 MB·English

by  Reynolds Alastair

[True, but even those ships have not been active. Routine interstellar traffic has
been greatly reduced. Travel between Con186
Alastair Reynolds
joiner settlements in other systems has been cut back to a minimum.]
Again, effects of a war—
[Had remarkably little to do with it, other than providing a convenient cover
story.]
Despite himself, Clavain almost laughed. Cover story?
[Had the real reason ever come out, there would have been widespread panic
across the whole of human-settled space. The socio-economic turmoil would
have been incomparably greater than anything caused by the present war.]
And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why?
[You were right, in a sense. It was to do with the wolves, Clavain.]
He shook his head. It can’t have been.
[Why not?]
Because we didn’t learn about the wolves until Galiana returned. And Galiana
didn’t encounter them until after we separated. There was no need to remind
Skade that both of these events had happened long after the edict to stop
shipbuilding.
Skade’s helmet nodded a fraction. [That’s true, in a sense.
Certainly, it wasn’t until Galiana’s return that the Mother Nest obtained any
detailed intelligence concerning the nature of the machines. But the fact that the
wolves existed—the fact that they were out there—that was already known,
many years before.]
It can’t have been. Galiana was the first to encounter them.
[No. She was merely the first to make it back alive—or at least the first to make
[No. She was merely the first to make it back alive—or at least the first to make
it back in any sense at all. Before that, there had only been distant reports,
mysterious instances of ships vanishing, the odd distress signal. Over the years
the Closed Council collated these reports and came to the conclusion that the
wolves, or something like the wolves, was stalking interstellar space. That was
bad enough, yet there was an even more disturbing conclusion, one that led to
the edict. The pattern of losses pointed to the fact that the machines, whatever
they were, homed in on a specific signature from our engines.
We concluded that the wolves were drawn to us by the tau-neutrino emissions
that are a characteristic of our drives.]
And Galiana?
[When she returned we knew we’d been right. And she gave REDEMPTION
ARK
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a name to our enemy, Clavain. We owe her that much, if nothing else.]
Then Skade reached into his head and planted an image.
What she showed him was pitiless blackness studded by a smattering of faint,
feeble stars. The stars did nothing to nullify the darkness, serving only to make it
more absolute and cold. This was how Skade now perceived the cosmos, as
ultimately inimical to life as an acid bath. But between the stars was something
other than emptiness. The machines lurked in those spaces, preferring the
darkness and the cold. Skade made him experience the cruel flavour of their
intelligence. It made the thought processes of the Master of Works seem
comforting and friendly.
There was something bestial in the way the machines thought, a furious
slavering hunger that would eclipse all other considerations.
A feral, ravenous bloodlust.
[They’ve always been out there, hiding in the darkness, watching and waiting.
For four centuries we’ve been extremely lucky, stumbling through the night,
making noise and light, broadcasting our presence into the galaxy. I think in
some ways they must be blind, or that there are certain kinds of signals they
filter from their perceptions. They never homed in on our radio or television
transmissions, for instance, or else they would have scented us en masse
centuries ago. That hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps they are designed only to
respond to the unmistakable signs of a starfaring culture, rather than a merely
technological one. Speculation, of course, but what else can we do but
speculate?]
Clavain looked at the twelve brand-new starships. And now?
Why start shipbuilding again?
[Because now we can. Nightshade was a prototype for these twelve much larger
ships. They have quiet drives. With certain refinements in drive topology we
were able to reduce the tau-neutrino flux by two orders of magnitude. Far from
perfect, but it should allow us to resume intersellar travel without immediate fear
of bringing down the wolves. The technology will, of course, have to remain
strictly within Conjoiner control.]
Of course.
[I’m glad you see it that way.]
He looked at the ships again. The twelve black shapes were 188
Alastair Reynolds
larger, fatter versions of Nightshade, their hulls swelling out to a width of
perhaps two hundred and fifty metres at the widest point. They were as fat-
bellied as the old ramliner colonisation ships, which had been designed to carry
many tens of thousands of frozen sleepers.
But what about the rest of humanity? What about all the old ships that are still
being used?
[We’ve done what we can. Closed Council agents have succeeded in regaining
control of a number of outlaw vessels.
These ships were destroyed, of course: we can’t use them either, and existing
drives can’t be safely converted to the stealthed design.]
They can’t?
Into Clavain’s mind Skade tossed the image of a small planet, perhaps a moon,
with a huge bowl-shaped chunk gouged out of one hemisphere, glowing cherry-
red.
[No.]
And I don’t suppose that at any point you thought that it might help to disclose
this information?
Behind the visor of her crested helmet she smiled tolerantly.
[Clavain . . . Clavain. Always so willing to believe in the greater good of
humanity. I find your attitude heartening, I really do.
But what good would disclosure serve? This information is already too sensitive
to share even with the majority of the Conjoined. I daren’t imagine what effect it
would have on the rest of humanity.]
He wanted to argue but he knew she was correct. It was decades since any
utterance from the Conjoiners had been taken at face value. Even a warning as
bluntly urgent as that would be assumed to have duplicitous intent.
Even if his side capitulated, their surrender would be taken as a ruse.
Maybe you’re right. Maybe. But I still don’t understand why you’ve suddenly
begun shipbuilding again.
[As a purely precautionary measure, should we need them.]
Clavain studied the ships again. Even if each ship only had the capacity to carry
fifty or sixty thousand sleepers—and they looked capable of carrying far more
than that—Skade’s fleet would have sufficed to carry nearly half the population
of the Mother Nest.
Purely precautionary—that’s all?

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[Well, there is the small matter of the hell-class weapons.
Two of the ships plus the prototype will constitute a taskforce for the recovery
operation. They will be armed with the most advanced weapons in our arsenal,
and will contain recently developed technologies of a tactically advantageous
nature.]
Like, I suppose, the systems you were testing?
[Certain further tests must still be performed, but yes . . . ]
Skade unhitched herself. “Master of Works—we’re done here for now. My
guests have seen enough. What is your most recent estimate for when the ships
will be flight ready?”
The servitor, which had folded and entwined its appendages into a tight bundle,
swivelled its head to address her. “Sixty-one days, eight hours and thirteen
minutes.”
“Thank you. Be sure to do all you can to accelerate that schedule. Clavain won’t
want to be detained a moment, will you?”
Clavain said nothing.
“Please follow me,” said the Master of Works, flicking a limb towards the exit.
It was anxious to lead them back to the surface.
Clavain made sure he was the first behind it.
He did his best to keep his mind as blank and calm as possible, concentrating
purely on the mechanics of the task in hand. The journey back towards the
surface of the comet seemed to take much longer than the trip down had. The
Master of Works bustled ahead of them, straddling the tunnel bore, picking its
way along it with fastidious care. The servitor’s mood was impossible to read,
but Clavain had the impression that it was very glad to be done with the three of
them. It had been programmed to tend the operations here with zealous
protectivity, and Clavain could not help but admire the grudging way it had
entertained them. He had dealt with many robots and servitors in his lifetime,
entertained them. He had dealt with many robots and servitors in his lifetime,
and they had been programmed with many superficially convincing
personalities. But this was the first one that had seemed genuinely resentful of
human company.
Halfway along the throat, Clavain halted suddenly. Wait a moment.
[What’s wrong?]
I don’t know. My suit’s registering a small pressure leak in my glove. Something
in the wall may have ripped the fabric.

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Alastair Reynolds
[That’s not possible, Clavain. The wall is mildly compacted cometary ice. It
would be like cutting yourself on smoke.]
Clavain nodded. Then I cut myself on smoke. Or perhaps there was a sharp chip
embedded in the wall.
Clavain turned around and held his hand up for inspection. A target-shaped
patch on the back of his left gauntlet was flashing pink, indicating the general
region of a slow pressure loss.
[He’s right, Skade,] Remontoire said.
[It’s not serious. He can fix it when we’re back on the corvette.]
My hand feels cold. I’ve lost this hand once already, Skade. I don’t intend to lose
it again.
He heard her hiss, an unfiltered sound of pure human impatience. [Then fix it.]
Clavain nodded and fumbled the spray from his utility belt.
He dialled the nozzle to its narrowest setting and pressed the tip against his
glove. The sealant emerged like a thin grey worm, instantly hardening and
bonding to the fabric. He worked the nozzle sinuously up and down and from
bonding to the fabric. He worked the nozzle sinuously up and down and from
side to side, until he had doodled the worm across the gauntlet.
His hand was cold, but it also hurt because he had pushed the blade of the
piezoknife clean through the gauntlet. He had done it without removing the knife
from the belt, in one fluid gesture as he moved one hand across the belt and
angled the knife with the other. Given the difficulties, he had done well not to
escape a more severe injury.
Clavain returned the spray to his belt. There was a regular warning tone in his
helmet and his glove continued to pulse pink—he could see the pink glow
around the edges of the sealant—but the sense of cold was diminishing. There
was a small residual leak, but nothing that would cause him any difficulties.
[Well?]
I think that’s taken care of it. I’ll take a better look at it when we’re in the
corvette.
To Clavain’s relief the incident appeared closed. The servitor bustled on and the
three of them followed it. Eventually the tunnel breached the comet’s surface.
Clavain had the usual expected moment of vertigo as he stood outside again, for
the comet’s weak gravity was barely detectable and it was very easy via a simple
flip of the perceptions to imagine himself REDEMPTION ARK
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glued by the soles of his feet to a coal-black ceiling, head down over infinite
nothingness. But then the moment passed and he was confident again. The
Master of Works packed itself back into the collar and then vanished down the
tunnel.
They made quick progress to the waiting corvette, a wedge of pure black
tethered against the starscape.
[Clavain . . . ?]
Yes, Skade?
[Do you mind if I ask you something? The Master of Works reported that you
had doubts . . . was that an honest observation, or was the machine confused by
the extreme antiquity of your memories?]
the extreme antiquity of your memories?]
You tell me.
[Do you appreciate the need to recover the weapons, now? I mean on a visceral
level?]
Nothing’s ever been clearer to me. I understand perfectly that we need those
weapons.
[I sense your honesty, Clavain. You do understand, don’t you?]
Yes, I think so. The things you showed me made it all a lot clearer.
He was ahead of Skade and Remontoire by ten or twelve metres, moving as
quickly as he dared. Suddenly—when he had reached the corvette’s nearest
grappling line—he stopped and spun around, grasping the line with one hand.
The gesture was enough to make Skade and Remontoire stop in their tracks.
[Clavain . . . ]
He ripped the piezoknife from his belt and plunged it into the plastic membrane
that wrapped the comet. He had the knife set to maximum sharpness and worked
it lengthways, gouging a gash in the membrane. Clavain edged along like a crab,
slicing first a metre then a two-metre rift, the knife whistling through the
membrane with the barest hint of resistance. He had to keep a firm hold of the
grapple, so he was only able to open up a four-metre-wide gash.
Until he had made the cut, he had no way of judging whether it would be
sufficiently long. But a sliding sensation in his gut told him that it was enough.
The entire patch of membrane under the corvette was being tugged back by the
elasticity of the rest of the fabric. The gash was ripping wider and longer without
his encouragement: four metres, then six, then ten . . . un192
Alastair Reynolds
zipping in either direction. Skade and Remontoire, caught on the far side, were
tugged away by the same elastic pull.
The whole thing had taken one or two seconds. That, however, was more than
enough time for Skade.
Almost as soon as he had plunged the knife in he had felt her claw at his mind,
understanding that he was attempting to escape. In that moment he sensed brutal
neural power that he had never suspected before. Skade was unleashing
everything that she had against him, damning caution and secrecy. He felt
search-and-destroy algorithms scuttle across the vacuum on radio waves,
burrowing into his skull, working their way through the layered strata of his
mind, questing and grasping for the basal routines that would allow her to
paralyse him, or throw him into unconsciousness, or simply kill him. Had he
been a normal Conjoiner she would have succeeded in microseconds, instructing
his neural implants to self-destruct in an incendiary orgy of heat and pressure,
and he would have been lost. Instead he felt a pain as if someone were driving an
iron piton into his skull, one cruel tap at a time.
He still slipped into unconsciousness. The moment could only have lasted two or
three seconds, but when he emerged he felt a yawing dislocation, unable to
remember where he was or what he was doing. All that remained was a searing
chemical imperative, written in the adrenaline that was still flooding his blood.
He didn’t quite know what had caused it, but the feeling was inescapable: an
ancient mammalian fear. He was running away from something and his life was
in great danger. He was suspended by one hand from a taut metal line. He
glanced along the line—up—and saw a ship, a corvette, hovering above him,
and knew, or hoped, that this was where he needed to be.
He started to tug himself up the line towards the waiting ship, half-remembering
something that he had initiated and that he needed to continue. Then the pain
notched itself higher and he fell back into unconsciousness.
Clavain came around as he drifted to a halt-“fell” was too strong a word for it—
against the plastic membrane. Again he felt a basic urgency and struggled to
make sense of the predicament he vaguely knew himself to be in. There above
him was the ship—he remembered it from last time. He had been inching up the
line, trying to reach it. Or had he been inching down it, trying to get away from
something aboard it?

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