Mammoth Books presents Merlin's Gun

Mammoth Books presents

by Alastair Reynolds

With an introduction by Mike Ashley

 

 

 

Constable & Robinson Ltd

55–56 Russell Square

London WC1B 4HP

www.constablerobinson.com

Originally published in
Asimov's Science Fiction
(May 2000), reprinted in
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Science Fiction
by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2010.

Copyright © Alastair Reynolds, 2012

The right of Mike Ashley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN: 9781472103468

 

Though Welsh born, and having spent his developing years in Cornwall and Scotland,
Alastair Reynolds
(b. 1966) moved to the Netherlands in 1991 where he spent the next twelve years working for the European Space Agency until taking the plunge to become a full-time writer in 2004. He is best known for his Revelation Space sequence of novels that begun with
Revelation Space
in 2000. This series is full of innovation in both its projection of future technology and its realization of alien and evolving human biology and cultures. He writes as if that technology already exists. You get that same feeling of immediacy and understanding in this following novella, which takes to the ultimate one of those wonderful space opera clichés of the weapon that can destroy the universe.

Mike Ashley

Though Welsh born, and having spent his developing years in Cornwall and Scotland, Alastair Reynolds (b. 1966) moved to the Netherlands in 1991 where he spent the next twelve years working for the European Space Agency until taking the plunge to become a full-time writer in 2004. He is best known for his Revelation Space sequence of novels that began with
Revelation Space
in 2000. This series is full of innovation in both its projection of future technology and its realization of alien and evolving human biology and cultures. He writes as if that technology already exists. You get that same feeling of immediacy and understanding in this following novella, which takes to the ultimate one of those wonderful space opera clichés of the weapon that can destroy the universe.

P
unishment saved Sora.

If her marksmanship had not been the worst in her class, she would never have been assigned the task of overseeing proctors down in ship's docks. She would not have had to stand for hours, alone except for her familiar, running a laser-stylus across the ore samples the proctors brought back to the swallowship, dreaming of finishing shift and meeting Verdin. It was boring; menial work. But because the docks were open to vacuum it was work that required a pressure suit.

“Got to be a drill,” she said, when the attack began.

“No,” her familiar said. “It really does seem as if they've caught up with us.”

Sora's calm evaporated.

“How many?”

“Four elements of the swarm; standard attack pattern; coherent-matter weapons at maximum range . . . novamine counter-measures deployed but seemingly ineffective . . . initial damage reports severe and likely underestimates . . .”

The floor pitched under her feet. The knee-high, androform proctors looked to each other nervously. The machines had no more experience of battle than Sora, and unlike her they had never experienced the simulations of warcreche.

Sora dropped the clipboard.

“What do I do?”

“My advice,” her familiar said, “is that you engage that old mammalian flight response and run like hell.”

She obeyed; stooping down low-ceilinged corridors festooned with pipes, snaking around hand-painted murals that showed decisive battles from the Cohort's history; squadrons of ships exchanging fire; worlds wreathed in flame. The endgame was much swifter than those languid paintings suggested. The swarm had been chasing
Snipe
for nine years of shiptime, during which time Sora had passed through warcreche to adulthood. Yet beyond the ship's relativistic frame of reference, nearly sixty years had passed. Captain Tchagra had done all that she could to lose the swarm. Her last gamble had been the most desperate of all; using the vicious gravity of a neutron star to slingshot the swallowship on another course, one that the chasing ships ought not have been able to follow, unless they skimmed the neutron star even more suicidally. But they had, forcing
Snipe
to slow from relativistic flight and nurse its wounds in a fallow system. It was there that the swarm attacked.

Near the end, the floor drifted away from her feet as ship's gravity faltered, and she had to progress hand over hand.

“This is wrong,” Sora said, arriving in the pod bay. “This part should be pressurized. And where is everyone?”

“Attack must be a lot worse than those initial reports suggested. I advise you get into a pod as quickly as you can.”

“I can't go, not without Verdin.”

“Let me worry about him.”

Knowing better than to argue, Sora climbed into the nearest of the cylindrical pods, mounted on a railed pallet ready for injection into the tunnel. The lid clammed shut, air rushing in.

“What about Verdin?”

“Safe. The attack was bad, but I'm hearing reports that the aft sections made it.”

“Get me out of here, then.”

“With all pleasure.”

Acceleration came suddenly, numbness gloving her spine.

“I've got worse news,” her familiar said. The voice was an echo of Sora's own, but an octave lower and calmer; like a slightly older and more sensible sister. “I'm sorry, but I had to lie to you. My highest duty is your preservation. I knew that if I didn't lie, you wouldn't save yourself.”

Sora thought about that, while she watched the ship die from the vantage point of her pod. The Husker weapons had hit its middle sphere, barely harming the parasol of the swallowscoop. Bodies fell into space, stiff and tiny as snowflakes. Light licked from the sphere.
Snipe
became a flower of hurting whiteness, darkening as it bloomed.

“What did you lie about?”

“About Verdin. I'm sorry. He didn't make it. None of them did.”

Sora waited for the impact of the words; aware that what she felt now was only a precursor to the shock, like the moment when she touched the hot barrel of a gun in warcreche, and her fingers registered the heat but the pain itself did not arrive instantly, giving her time to prepare for its sting. She waited, for what she knew – in all likelihood – would be the worst thing she had ever felt. And waited.

“What's wrong with me? Why don't I feel anything?”

“Because I'm not allowing it. Not just now. If you opt to grieve at some later point then I can restore the appropriate brain functions.”

Sora thought about that, too.

“You couldn't make it sound any more clinical, could you?”

“Don't imagine this is easy for me, Sora. I don't exactly have a great deal of experience in this matter.”

“Well, now you're getting it.”

She was alone; no arguing with that. None of the other crew had survived – and she had only made it because she was on punishment duty for her failings as a soldier. No use looking for help: the nearest Cohort motherbase was seventy light-years toward the Galactic Core. Even if there were swallowships within broadcast range it would take decades for the nearest to hear her; decades again for them to curve around and rescue her. No; she would not be rescued. She would drift here, circling a nameless sun, until her energy reserves could not even sustain frostwatch.

“What about the enemy?” Sora said, seized by an urge to gaze upon her nemesis. “Where are the bastards?”

A map of the system scrolled on the faceplate of her helmet, overlaid with the four Husker ships that had survived the slingshot around the neutron star. They were near the two Ways that punched through the system; marked on the map as fine straight flaws, surrounded by shaded hazard regions. Perhaps, like the Cohort, the Huskers were trying to find a way to enter the Waynet without being killed; trying to gain the final edge in a war that had lasted twenty-three thousand years. The Huskers had been at war with the Cohort ever since these ruthless alien cyborgs had emerged from ancient Dyson spheres near the Galactic Core.

“They're not interested in me,” Sora said. “They know that, even if anyone survived the attack, they won't survive much longer. That's right, isn't it?”

“They're nothing if not pragmatic.”

“I want to die. I want you to put me to sleep painlessly and then kill me. You can do that, can't you? I mean, if I order it?”

Sora did not complete her next thought. What happened, instead, was that her consciousness stalled, except for the awareness of the familiar, thoughts bleeding into her own. She had experienced something like this stalling aboard
Snipe,
when the crew went into frostwatch for the longest transits between engagements. But no frostwatch had ever felt this long. After an age, her thoughts oozed back to life. She groped for the mental routines that formed language.

“You lied again!”

“This time I plead innocence. I just put you in a position where you couldn't give me the order you were about to. Seemed the best thing under the circumstances.”

“I'll bet it did.” In that instant of stalled thought, the pod had turned opaque, concealing the starscape and the debris of the ship. “What else?”

The pod turned glassy across its upper surface, revealing a slowly wheeling starscape above filthy ice. The glass, once perfectly transparent, now had a smoky luster. “Once you were sleeping,” the familiar said, “I used the remaining fuel to guide the pod to a cometary shard. It seemed safer than drifting.”

“How long?” Sora was trying to guess from the state of the pod, but the interior looked as new as when she had ejected from
Snipe.
The sudden smokiness of the glass was alarming, however: Sora did not want to think how many years of cosmic ray abrasion would be required to scuff the material to that degree. “Are we talking years or decades, or more than that?”

“Shall I tell you why I woke you, first?”

“If it's going to make any difference . . .”

“I think it makes all the difference, quite frankly.” The familiar paused for effect. “Someone has decided to pay this system a visit.”

Sora saw it on the map now, revised to account for the new relative positions of the celestial bodies in this system. The new ship was denoted by a lilac arrow, moving slowly between Waynet transit nodes; the thickened points where the Way lines interecepted the ecliptic plane.

“It must have a functioning syrinx,” Sora said, marveling, and for the first time feeling as if death was not the immediately preferable option. “It must be able to use the Ways!”

“Worth waking you up for, I think.”

Sora had eight hours to signal the ship before it reached the other node of the Waynet. She left the pod – stiff, aching, and disorientated, but basically functional – and walked to the edge of a crater; one that the familiar had mapped some years earlier. Three thousand years earlier, to be precise, for that was how long it had taken to scratch the sheen from the glass. The news had been shocking, at first – until Sora realized that the span of time was not in itself important. All that she had ever known was the ship; now that it was gone, it hardly mattered how much time had passed.