Alastair Reynolds - Absolution Gap

“Again, we don’t know,” Remontoire admitted.

“Doesn’t that worry you? Doesn’t it concern you that maybe there’s some kind of long-term problem with this new technology that you don’t know about?”

Remontoire arched an eyebrow. “You, thinking ahead, Scorpio? Whatever next?”

“It’s a legitimate point.”

“Conceded. And yes, it does, amongst other things, give me pause for concern. But given the choice between extinction now and dealing with an unspecified problem at a later point… well, it’s not much of a contest, is it?” Remontoire peered through the amber belly of his tiny glass, one eye looming large in distortion. “Anyway, there’s another possibility. The wolves may not have this technology.”

Beyond the observation spider, framed by the brass-ringed eye of one of its portholes, Scorpio saw one of the cache weapons emerge. The weapon—it was all bronze :green lustre and art deco flanges, like an old radio or cinema—was encased in a cradle studded with steering jets. The cradle, in turn, was being grasped by four tugs of Conjoiner manufacture.

“Then where did this technology come from?”

“The dead. The collective memories of countless extinct cultures, gathered together in the neutron-crust matrix of the Hades computer. Clearly it wasn’t enough to make a difference to those extinct species; maybe none of the other techniques Aura has given us will make a difference to our eventual fu-ture. But perhaps they have served to slow things down. It might be that all we need is time. If there is something else out there—something more significant, something more potent than the wolves—then all we need is time to discover it.”

“You think it’s Hela, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t it intrigue you, Scorpio? Don’t you want to go there and see what you find?”

“We looked it up, Rem. Hela is an iceball, home to a bunch of religious lunatics tripping on the tainted blood of an indoc-trinal virus carrier.”

“Yet they speak of miracles.”

“A planet that disappears. Except no one you’d trust to fix a vac-suit seal has ever seen it happen.”

“Go there and find out. One-oh-seven Piscium is the system. The Inhibitors haven’t reached it yet, by all accounts.”

“Thanks for the information.”

“It will be your decision, Scorpio. You already know what Aura will recommend, but you don’t have to be swayed by that.”

“I won’t.”

“But keep this in mind: one-oh-seven Piscium is an outlying system. Reports of wolf incursions into human space are fragmentary at best, but you can be certain that when they move in, the core colonies—the worlds within a dozen or so light years of Earth—will be the first to fall. That’s how they work: identify the hub, attack and destroy it. Then they pick off the satellite colonies and anyone trying to flee deeper into the galaxy.”

Scorpio shrugged. “So nowhere’s safe.”

“No. But given your responsibilities—given the seventeen thousand individuals now in your care—it would be far safer to head outwards than to dive back towards those hub worlds. But I sense that you may feel otherwise.”

“I have unfinished business back home,” Scorpio replied.

“You don’t mean Ararat, do you?”

“I mean Yellowstone. I mean the Rust Belt. I mean Chasm City and the Mulch.”

Remontoire finished his tea, consuming the last drop with the fastidious neatness of a cat. “I understand that you still have emotional ties to that place, but don’t underestimate the danger of returning there. If the wolves have gathered any in-telligence on us, it won’t have taken them very long to identify Yellowstone as a critical hub. It will be high on their list of priorities. They may already be there, building a Singer, as they did around Delta Pavonis.”

“In which case there’ll be a lot of people needing to get out.”

“You can’t make enough of a difference to justify the risk,” Remontoire told him.

“I can try.” Scorpio gestured through the window of the inspection spider, towards the looming presence of the ship. “The Infinity brought one hundred and sixty thousand people from Resurgam. I may not be much of a mathematician, but with only seventeen thousand aboard her now, that means we have some spare capacity.”

“You will be risking all the lives we have already saved.”

“I know,” he replied.

“You will be squandering any advantage you gain in the next few days, as we draw the machines away from you.”

“I know,” he said again.

“You will also be risking your own life.”

“I know that as well, and it isn’t going to make one damned bit of difference, Rem. The more you try to talk me out of it, the more I know I’m going to do it.”

“If you have the backing of the seniors.”

“They either back me or sack me. It’s their choice.”

“You’ll also need the ship to agree to it.”

“I’ll ask nicely,” Scorpio said.

The tugs had dragged the cache weapon to a safe distance from the ship. He expected to see their main drives flick on, bright spears of scattered light from plasma exhausts, but the whole assembly just accelerated away, as if moved by an invisible hand.

“I don’t agree with your stance,” Remontoire said, “but I respect it. You remind me of Nevil, in some ways.”

Scorpio recalled the ludicrously brief episode of “grieving” Remontoire had undergone. “I thought you were over him now.”

“None of us are over him,” Remontoire said curtly. Then he gestured to the flask again and his mood lightened visibly. “More tea, Mr. Pink?”

Scorpio didn’t know what to say. He looked at the bland-faced man and shrugged. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Clock.”

The surgeon-general ushered Rashmika through the labyrinthine Lady Morwenna. It was clearly not a sightseeing trip. Though she dawdled when she was able—slowing down to look at the windows, or something of equal interest—Grelier always chivvied her on with polite insistence, tapping his cane against the walls and floor to emphasise the urgency of his mission. ‘Time is of the essence, Miss Els,“ he kept saying. That and, ”We’re in a wee bit of a hurry.“

“It would help if you told me what all this is about,” she said.

“No, it wouldn’t,” he replied. “Why would it help? You’re here and we’re on our way.”

He had a point, she supposed. She just didn’t like it very much.

“What happened with the Catherine of Iron?” she asked, determined not to give up too easily.

“Nothing that I’m aware of. There was a change of assignment. Nothing significant. You’re still being employed by the First Adventist Church, after all. We’ve just relocated you from one cathedral to another.” He tapped the side of his nose, as if sharing a grand confidence. “Frankly, you’ve done rather well out of it. You don’t know how difficult it is to get into the Lady Mor these days. Everyone wants to work in the Way’s most historic cathedral.”

“I was given to understand that its popularity had taken a bit of a knock lately,” she said.

Grelier looked back at her. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Els?”

“The dean is taking it over the bridge. At least, that’s what people are saying.”

“And if that were the case?”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised if people aren’t all that keen to stay aboard. How far from the crossing are we, Surgeon-General?”

“Navigation’s not really my thing.”

“You know exactly how far away we are,” she said.

He flashed a smile back at her. She decided that she did not like his smile at all. It looked altogether too feral. “You’re good, Miss Els. As good as I’d hoped.”