The Omega Expedition (59 page)

By the time she died, I did approve of la Reine des Neiges. When you have shared the death of another mind, you cannot help but love them a little, whether they be god or man or snowmobile — so, at least, I now believe — but what I felt for la Reine was no mere frisson of empathy. I had come to think her admirable, more so than any human I ever knew.

I do not know how much of her death la Reine managed to record or broadcast, but I am sure that she ran into the limitations of paradoxicality far too soon to make any real impact on any of her distant listeners.

What I experienced was mine alone, once she herself was gone.

Fifty-Two

Life after Death

A
sledgehammer fell out of the night-dark sky and smashed into my ribs. It was not the first time it had happened, nor was it to be the last. A gale blew from beyond the borders of the world, forcing an entry into my reluctant lungs. A trumpet blasted in my ears, the liquid notes expanding and reverberating for an improbably long time before coalescing into mere words.

I think, although I cannot be absolutely sure, that the words were: “Breathe, you bastard! Breathe!”

The gale turned tempestuous as something in me, operating quite independently of my conscious will, responded to the command. It was a very painful experience but I was not ungrateful for the simple, ordinary, commonplace pain. It was presumably that lack of ingratitude that allowed me to consent to be thumped again, and yet again.

I was not conscious of the moment when my heart resumed beating, although I suppose it must have coincided more or less with the surge of oxygenated blood that boosted my brain to full attentiveness, and the flood of adrenalin that thrilled my reluctant body from the core to the periphery.

My first word was probably “Ow!” It would have been a lot more aggressive if I’d recovered command of my consonants a little sooner.

The light was dim, but there was enough of it to allow me to recognize the face of my persecutor.

I was not in the least surprised to find that the person who had been hitting me was Solantha Handsel. She obviously had an obsessive-compulsive personality. I felt a little queasy at the thought of taking her secondhand air into my lungs, so I tried not to think about it for more than an instant.

I tried to sit up, but was not immediately successful. I was glad I hadn’t pushed harder when I realized that the gravity was very low indeed. Polaris, I remembered, was very tiny, and the people who’d abandoned it after making a start on converting it to a microworld hadn’t got around to spinning it.

Solantha Handsel stopped hitting me. She looked down at me with fierce and naked resentment.

“If we get out of this alive, we’re even!” she told me. “Even, okay? You got that?”

I must have contrived some feeble gesture of concession, because she accepted that I had, indeed, got it.

By the time I did manage to sit up, very carefully indeed, the bodyguard was no longer looming over me. She had already finished looking around for anyone else who might be in need of a thorough beating and had taken refuge close to a wall, where she had something to hang on to. Lowenthal was there too. He seemed to be busy. Everybody seemed to be busy, but it was difficult to count them because there was so much mess everywhere.

Whoever had filled this space with supplies had been in far too much of a hurry to do so in an orderly manner. The mess looked strangely familiar, but it took me a couple of minutes to work out that this was because I had seen most of it before, aboard
Charity
. The supplies that Eido and Alice Fleury had laid in for our support had been rescued — or hijacked — along with us.

That was a comforting thought. It meant that we probably had enough food and water to sustain us for quite a while. We also had light, albeit slightly gloomy light — and we had tolerable heat, and a breathable atmosphere. The ambient temperature was comfortable, and the air — now I could actually suck it into my own lungs — seemed very adequately oxygenated.

“You’d better put these on,” said a voice from the shadows, informing me that I was naked. I looked down at my body. I found it unexpectedly difficult to be grateful for the fact that it was there at all, but I was relieved to observe that it was still in one piece. It looked awful, although the worst of the slime with which it was liberally covered was already turning to a flaky crust.

The dead clothes that fluttered around me as the low gravity discreetly brought them to rest looked exactly like the ones that I had been wearing when I woke up on
Charity
, having obviously been drawn from the same uniform stock. Not wishing to put them on while I was still so messy I let them lie where they fell and looked back at the wreckage of the cocoon from which I had recently been evicted.

It looked a great deal worse than I did, although there were no conspicuous signs of decay; the viruses that had destroyed la Reine had not traveled in a fashion that permitted them to bring organic companions. The cocoon was dead, but it hadn’t killed me. If I had come closer to death than any of my companions, it was because of what I’d seen, not because of any malfunction of my life-support cell.

“Do you need any help, Madoc?” The speaker — Christine Caine — emerged from the shadows, traveling very gingerly indeed in gravity far less than Excelsior’s, perhaps no more than the moon’s. Even that, I deduced, must be faked by spin.

“I’m okay,” I assured her, although I still didn’t feel confident that I could put the shirt and trousers on.

“So Handsel said,” she told me. “She seemed to know what she was doing, so we let her get on with it.” By this time she had managed to maneuver herself into a situation which was as close to face-to-face as was feasible. I moved closer to the nearest pile of crates so that I could use its mass to steady myself a little.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she said.

I knew what she meant, so I just nodded my head.

“Thanks,” she said. “I already knew — I mean, I’d worked it out when I went through it for the second time — but it really helped me to get a grip on things. None of the other stories ever really worked. It was good to hear the one that did retold.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “They fixed me up the same way, but my friends froze me down before I was used. That’s why they brought us back. The AMIs may be ultrasmart, but they don’t know how much they don’t know about the world before their advent. They brought us back because they wanted to know about the kinds of weapons that had been hidden away long before they had a chance to take notes, and never dusted off in the interim.”

“I know,” she said. “I worked it out.” She wasn’t trying to show off her cleverness — she was sympathizing with me, because she knew what I must have gone through when I figured it out.

Somehow, I got into the clothes. I knew that I ought to take a shower first, but I had to take things one step at a time.

“We have light and elementary life support,” she told me, “but it’s all emergency backup. All the smart systems are dead, even the sloths. This cave seems to be the only empty space of any size hereabouts, although there’s a network of tunnels we haven’t begun to explore. All the surfaces are covered in machinery housed in some kind of glassy fabric, and there are masses of machinery in what used to be other rooms, but it’s all dead. There’s a com system of sorts, but it’s useless. We can’t even send a mayday, unless Lowenthal and Horne can repair it and power it up. They’re trying.”

“Others know we’re here,” I told her. “By now, that must include people as well as other machines. Every smart spaceship in the system knows our location, and I’m as sure as I can be that they’re on our side. The bad guys can’t win in space, no matter how much damage they can do in the wells. They killed Eido and they killed the Snow Queen, but someone will come for us. It’s just a matter of time.”

“We hope,” she said. She spoke as if she were humoring me, so I knew that some of what I’d said had come across as gibberish. She probably thought that I’d had a bad dream.

I looked down again at the cocoon from which I had been wrenched. It had died while I was nestling in its womb, and it had not had time to wake me before spitting me out. My expulsion had not been an easy birth, and might have been counted a stillbirth if Michael Lowenthal’s faithful servant hadn’t been on hand to force me back to life. The other pods arranged alongside it were in an equally parlous state, but none was sealed and there were no corpses littering the parts of the floor that I could see.

I looked away, satisfied that all was well, but suddenly looked back, having become aware that something was not quite right. I counted the pods, then counted them again.

There were ten. All ten showed every evidence of having disgorged a living body.

“We noticed that too,” Christine confirmed. “The extra man doesn’t seem to be in the cave — but the people who started hollowing out the asteroid dug a lot of tunnels. We can’t tell how far the maze extends. I hope it’s a long way, because that would mean that we have a lot of oxygen to spare, and the carbon dioxide won’t build up too rapidly, even though the recycling equipment is worse than crude. I don’t suppose you have any idea who the extra person might have been.”

“Rocambole,” I murmured. It seemed to be the most obvious jumpable conclusion.

“Who?”

“More likely a what than a who,” I told her. “But that doesn’t mean that he couldn’t take the precaution of equipping himself with the kind of body that could survive…”

That was when it hit me that if Rocambole could do that, la Reine should have been able to do likewise. There were only ten cocoons here, but there was also a maze of tunnels that the optimistic microworlders had excavated before their grand plan went awry.

I had shared la Reine’s death — but she was no mere human. Perhaps…

“Are you all right now?” As ever, it was the solicitous Mortimer Gray.

“I think so,” I said, trying to sound confident. “You?”

“We all got out in good time. Adam and Christine weren’t conscious, but at least they were breathing.”

I looked around for Adam Zimmerman, but I couldn’t see him. Niamh Horne was deep in conversation with Michael Lowenthal and Solantha Handsel, but I couldn’t see Davida Berenike Columella or Alice Fleury either.

Solantha Handsel was examining her hand, apparently anxious that she might have damaged it by hitting me too hard, but she looked up when she became aware that I was paying attention.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, stiffly.

“Be very careful,” Gray advised me, as I made ready to move again. “Being able to float like a balloon gives you an impression of lightness, but if you bump into the wall or any of those piles of junk, it’ll hurt. I’ve lived on the moon — it takes a long time to retrain your reflexes. I haven’t found my feet yet.”

“That so-called junk might have to sustain us for quite a while,” I said. “The war was going badly last time I had news.”

“You had news?” he queried.

“Yes,” I said. “You didn’t?”

“No.”

I hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. “I saw it all,” I told him. “Your conversation with the snowmobile — the end of the replay and all of the extension. I saw Alice and Davida make their pitches to Zimmerman too — and the one that was meant to upstage them both. I only caught glimpses of the pantomimes involving Lowenthal and Horne, though. Too much happening at once.”

“Madoc thinks he knows who the tenth cocoon belonged to,” Christine added, taking advantage of the fact that Gray was thinking over what I’d said.

Gray looked at me expectantly.

“The AMI generating the VE laid on a guide for me,” I said. “It took the form of a slightly cartoonish male figure, who called himself Rocambole. He was an AMI too, I think. He said we’d spoken before. At first I took that to mean that he was the central intelligence of Excelsior, but there’s another possibility that seems more likely. There’s also a possibility that the tenth cocoon wasn’t his at all. It might have belonged to the VE generator herself.”

“
Her
self?” Gray was confused. He’d always thought of the snowmobile as a
he
.

“She called herself la Reine des Neiges,” I told him. “The Snow Queen. She’d come a long way since she was a snowmobile. She was a patchwork, but she must have numbered at least one dream machine among her ancestor-appliances. She risked everything to get us out of
Charity
, but she wasn’t crazy. Maybe she was sane enough to leave herself an escape hatch.”

Gray hesitated for at least half a minute before deciding which question to ask next. When it finally emerged, it was: “Why you?”

“She needed an audience, and I was spare. Once her nanobots had cleaned me out I was redundant. She wanted someone to see the whole picture, and I got lucky. I even got Rocambole.”

“And that’s how you got the news?”

“What news there was. It’s not good. Something killed the Snow Queen — all of her, at any rate, that wasn’t stashed in a pod. She certainly won’t be the only casualty among the AMIs, but it’s the extent of the collateral damage that will determine the time it takes for help to get to us — if help does get to us. Excelsior will probably send help if the sisterhood can contrive any, and any Titanian ship that picked up la Reine’s broadcasts will probably be capable of getting here if its smart systems haven’t been scrambled…but I don’t know what the full extent of the destruction might be.”

Because I was somewhat befuddled the summary of our situation hadn’t come out as clearly as it might have, but Mortimer Gray had been the one who’d originally figured out that the Revolution had arrived. He had already deduced that the Titanian fleet might have fallen victim to a general mutiny.

“Michael and Niamh should be able to get
something
working,” he assured me. “All the hardware’s there — it’s just the programs that have been reduced to imbecility. Even if we have to send in Morse code…” He broke off, realizing that the ability to transmit wasn’t the crucial factor.