Revelation Space (72 page)

Pascale said, “She could be right.”

Sylveste contemplated the gun.

“You shouldn’t patronise yourself into imagining there’s any possibility I haven’t already considered,” he said, scarcely caring whether it was Khouri or his wife who thought they were being addressed.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Khouri said.

 

 

Ninety minutes after the first spy had unwound its cable and dropped from the opening into the sub-crustal chamber, Sylveste had his first view of what awaited him. At first, he had no idea what it was he was seeing. The giant snakelike forms—damaged and, for all he knew, dead—towered over the drones like the limbs of fallen gods, tangled and haphazard. There was no guessing at the multitude of functions which these vast machines served, although the welfare of the overlying crust seemed likely to be paramount, and it was probably within them that the molecular weapons were first stirred to activity, before being released to attack newcomers. The crust itself was a machine of sorts, of course, but it was a machine constrained by the limitation of resembling a planet. The snakes had no such constraints.

It was less dark than he had been expecting, even though no light was straying through the wound now, which was plugged tight by the intruding weapon. Instead, the snakes themselves seemed to radiate a silvery glow, like the entrails of some phosphorescent deep-sea creature, radiant with bioluminous bacteria. It was impossible to guess at the function of this light; if there even was one. Perhaps it was an unavoidable byproduct of Amarantin nanotechnics. One could see for tens of kilometres, in any case—to the point where the ceiling of the overlying crust curved down to meet the horizon of the floor on which the snakes were coiled. Things with the gnarled, rooty shape of tree-trunks supported the roof at irregular intervals. It was like gazing into the moonlit depths of an arboreal forest; unable to glimpse the sky and barely able to glimpse the ground, so thick was the undergrowth. The roots of the trunks tangled and retangled with each other, until they formed a matrix of interlocked roots; graphite-coloured. That was the floor.

“I wonder what we’ll find below,” Sylveste said.

 

 

Volyova considered infanticide. There was no escaping it: by denying the bridgehead the information it needed to keep evolving counteragents to the machinery being deployed by Cerberus, she was consigning it to a slow death. Without the necessary updates from the ship, the molecular weapon templates in the bridgehead’s core could not be revised. They would remain frozen; capable only of generating spore which were more than two centuries out of date, incapable of parrying the relentless moronic march of progress exhibited by the alien defences. Her wonderful and brutal creation would be digested down to its last usable atom; spread thinly throughout the crustal matrix, where its remains would serve another function entirely, for uncountable millions of years.

Yet it had to be done.

Khouri was right: sabotaging the bridgehead was the only line of influence now remaining. They could not even destroy the weapon, since the cache was under Sun Stealer’s jurisdiction. He would prevent any attempt at that. So what remained was to kill the weapon by slow starvation of knowledge.

Crueller by far.

Although none of the others could see it, her bracelet display was pulsing with the bridgehead’s repeated requests for additional data. The weapon had noticed the omission an hour ago, when the scheduled update hadn’t arrived. The first query had been merely technical; a check to see that the communication beam was still online. Later, the weapon had become more urgent; adopting tones of polite insistence. Now it was getting far less diplomatic, throwing the machine equivalent of a tantrum.

It was not yet harmed, since the Cerberus systems had not exceeded its own retaliatory capabilities, but it was getting very agitated, even informing her of how many minutes it had left based on current escalation rates. There were not many. In rather less than two hours Cerberus would match it, and thereafter its fate would simply be a question of the sizes of the opposed forces. Cerberus would win, with absolute mathematical certainty.

Die quickly, Volyova thought.

But even as the plea ran through her mind, something impossible happened.

 

 

What little composure Volyova possessed dropped suddenly from her face.

“What’s wrong?” said Khouri. “You look like you’ve seen—”

“I have,” she said. “A ghost, I mean. He’s called Sun Stealer.”

“What’s happened?” Sylveste asked.

She looked up from the bracelet, jaw slack. “He’s just reinstated the transmissions to the bridgehead.” Her gaze snapped back to her bracelet, as if hoping that whatever she had just seen there had been a mirage. But it was obvious from her expression that whatever inauspicious portent she had read was still there to be divined.

“What was it that had to be reinstated in the first place?” Sylveste asked. “I’d rather you told me.”

Khouri tightened her grip on the warm leather-cladding of the plasma-rifle. She had been uncomfortable with the situation before, but now she was riding a knife-edge of constant terror.

“The weapon lacks the protocols for recognising its own obsolescence,” she said, and then seemed to shiver, as if shaking off possession. “No . . . what I mean is . . . there are things the weapon can’t be allowed to know, except when it needs to know them—” She paused, glancing anxiously around at her crewmates, unsure that she was making any sense. “It can’t be allowed to know how to evolve its own defences before the moment when that evolution has to be expedited; the timing of the upgrades is crucial—”

“You were trying to starve it,” Sylveste said. Hegazi, next to him, said nothing, but acknowledged his remark with a barely perceptible nod, like a despot casting judgement.

“No, I . . . ”

“Don’t apologise,” he said, with great insistence. “If I wanted what you want—to sabotage this whole operation—I’m sure I’d have done something similar. Your timing was impeccable, as well—you waited until you’d had the satisfaction of seeing it work; the satisfaction of knowing that your toy functioned.”

“You prick,” Khouri said, spitting in the process. “You narrow-minded, egotistical prick.”

“Congratulations,” Sylveste said. “Now you can progress to words with six syllables. But in the meantime would you mind pointing that unpleasant piece of hardware somewhere other than my face?”

“With pleasure,” she said, not allowing the rifle to waver. “I’ve got just the anatomical region in mind.”

Hegazi turned to the other member of the Triumvirate present. “Would you mind explaining what’s going on?”

“Sun Stealer must have control of the ship’s communications systems,” Volyova said. “That’s the only possibility; the only way my command to stop the transmissions could have been rescinded.”

But even as she was speaking she was shaking her head.

“Which isn’t possible. We know he’s confined to the gunnery, and there’s no physical link between the gunnery and comms.”

“There must be now,” Khouri said.

“But if there is . . . ” The whites of her eyes were showing now; bright crescents against the gloom of the bridge. “There are no logical barriers between comms and the rest of the ship. If Sun Stealer really has got that far, there isn’t anything he can’t touch.”

It was a long time before anyone spoke; as if everyone—even Sylveste—needed time to adjust to the gravity of the situation. Khouri tried to read him, but there was no way to tell how much of this he accepted, even now. She still suspected that he viewed everything as a paranoiac fantasy that she had woven from her own subconscious; one that had somehow infected both Volyova and, latterly, Pascale.

Perhaps a part of him was still refusing to believe, despite all the evidence.

What evidence, though? Apart from the reinstated signal—and all that it implied—there was nothing to suggest that Sun Stealer had reached beyond the gunnery. But if he had. . .

“You,” Volyova said, breaking the silence. She was pointing her gun at Hegazi. “You,
svinoi.
You had to have a part in this, didn’t you? Sajaki’s out of the frame, and Sylveste doesn’t have the expertise—so it had to be you.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Helping Sun Stealer. You did it, didn’t you?”

“Get a grip, Triumvir.”

Khouri wondered in which direction she should be pointing the plasma-rifle. Sylveste looked as shaken as Hegazi; as surprised at Volyova’s sudden line of enquiry.

“Listen,” Khouri said. “Just because he’s had his tongue up Sajaki’s arse ever since I came aboard, it doesn’t meant he’d do anything that stupid.”

“Thanks,” Hegazi said. “I think.”

“You’re not off the hook,” Volyova said. “Not by a long mark. Khouri’s right; doing what you did would have been an act of gross stupidity. But that hardly disqualifies you from having done it. You had enough expertise to do it. And you’re chimeric as well—maybe Sun Stealer’s in you too. In which case I’m afraid it’s just too dangerous to have you around.”

She nodded at Khouri. “Khouri; take him down to one of the airlocks.”

 

 

“You’re going to kill me,” Hegazi said, as she prodded him along the flooded corridor with the barrel of the plasma-rifle, watching janitor-rats scatter ahead of them. “That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You’re going to space me.”

“She just wants you somewhere where you can’t do any harm,” Khouri said, not especially in the mood for a protracted conversation with her prisoner.

“Whatever it was she thinks, I didn’t do it. Sorry to admit it, but I haven’t got the expertise. Does that satisfy you?”

Now he was annoying her, but she sensed that he would only shut up if she talked back to him.

“I’m not sure you did do it,” she said. “After all, you’d have had to make the arrangements before you had any idea that Volyova was going to sabotage her weapon. You can’t have done it since; you’ve been on the bridge the whole time.”

They had reached the nearest airlock. It was a small unit, just large enough to take a suited human. Like virtually everything else in this part of the ship, the controls on the door were caked in grime and corrosion and odd fungal growth. Yet it still functioned, miraculously.

“So why are you doing this?” Hegazi asked, as the door hummed open and she poked him into the cramped, sullenly lit interior. “If you don’t think I was capable of doing it?”

“It’s because I don’t like you,” she said, and closed the door on him.

When they were at last alone in their quarters, Pascale said, “You can’t go through with this, Dan. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He was tired; they all were, but with his mind racing, the last thing he felt like now was sleep. Still, if the bridgehead survived long enough for his entry into Cerberus to proceed as planned, now might be the last opportunity he had for proper sleep for tens of hours; perhaps even days. He would need to be functioning as keenly as he ever had in his life when he descended beneath the alien world. Yet now, obviously, Pascale was going to do her best to talk him out of it.

“It’s far too late now,” he said, wearily. “We’ve already announced ourselves; done harm to Cerberus. The world knows of our presence; already knows something of our nature. My entering it won’t make much difference now, except that I’ll learn much more than Volyova’s clunking spy robots will ever tell me.”

“You can’t know what’s waiting for you down there, Dan.”

“Yes, I can. An answer to what happened to the Amarantin. Can’t you see that humanity needs to have that information?”

He could see that she did, if only on some theoretical level. But she said, “What if it was the same kind of curiosity you’re showing now that brought extinction upon them? You saw what happened to the Lorean.”

Once again he thought of Alicia, dying in that attack. What exactly was it that had made him so unwilling to spare the time that would have been needed to recover her body from the wreck? Even now, the way he had ordered that she go down with the bridgehead struck him as chillingly impersonal, as if—for a fleeting instant—it had not been him giving that order; not even Calvin, but something hiding behind both of them. The thought made him flinch, so he crushed it beneath conscious concern, the way one crushed an insect.

“Then we’ll know, won’t we?” he said. “Finally, we’ll know. And even if it kills us, someone else will know what happened—someone on Resurgam, or even in another system. You have to understand, Pascale, that I think it’s worth that kind of risk.”

“There’s more to it than just curiosity, isn’t there?” She looked at him, obviously expecting some kind of answer. He just looked back at her, knowing how intimidating the lack of focus of his gaze could be, until she continued speaking. “Khouri was put aboard to kill you. She even admitted as much. Volyova said she was sent here by someone who might have been Carine Lefevre.”

“That’s not only impossible, it’s insulting.”

“But it still might be the truth. And there might be more to it than just a personal vendetta, too. Maybe Lefevre did die, after all, but something assumed her shape, inherited her body, or whatever—something that knows the danger you’re playing with. Can’t you at least accept that as a remote possibility?”

“Nothing that happened around Lascaille’s Shroud can have any bearing on what happened to the Amarantin.”

“How can you be so damned sure?”

Angry now, he said, “Because I was there! Because I went where Lascaille went, into Revelation Space, and what they’d shown Lascaille, they showed to me.” He tried to calm his voice, taking both of Pascale’s hands in his own. “They were ancient; so alien they made me shiver. They touched my mind. I saw them . . . and they were nothing like the Amarantin.”