Alastair Reynolds - Revelation Space

“You’re saying Resurgam is somehow less claustrophobic?”

“Well, obviously not—but at least we have the benefit of distance, both in time and space.” Girardieau was a squat, muscular man with a shock of red hair. “Admit it, Dan—when you think back to your life on Yellowstone, doesn’t it sometimes seem like it all happened to someone else, in a century very remote from our own?”

Sylveste was about to laugh dismissively, except that—for once—he found himself in complete agreement with Girardieau. It was an unsettling moment, as if a basic rule of the universe had been violated.

“I still don’t see why you’d want to encourage this,” Sylveste said, nodding towards the guard who was presiding over the conversation. “Or are you hoping you can somehow profit from it?”

Girardieau had nodded. “That’s part of it—maybe most of it, if you want the truth. It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that you’re still a figure of fascination to the populace.”

“Even if most of them would be fascinated to see me hung.”

“You’ve a point, but they’d probably insist on shaking your hand first—before helping you to the gibbet.”

“And you think you can milk this appetite?”

Girardieau had shrugged. “Obviously, the new regime determines who gains access to you—and we also own all your records and archival material. That gives us a headstart already. We have access to documents from the Yellowstone years which no one beyond your immediate family even knows exist. We’d exercise a certain discretion in using them, of course—but we’d be fools to ignore them.”

“I understand,” Sylveste said, because suddenly it was all very clear to him. “You’re actually going to use this to discredit me, aren’t you.”

“If the facts discredit you…” Girardieau left the remark hanging in the air.

“When you deposed me… wasn’t that good enough for you?”

“That was nine years ago.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning long enough for people to forget. Now they need a gentle reminder.”

“Especially as there’s a new air of discontent abroad.”

Girardieau winced, as if the remark was in spectacularly poor taste. “You can forget about True Path—especially if you think they might turn out to be your salvation. They wouldn’t have stopped at imprisoning you.”

“All right,” Sylveste said, boring rapidly. “What’s in it for me?”

“You assume there has to be something?”

“Generally, yes. Otherwise, why bother telling me about it?”

“Your co-operation might be in your best interest. Obviously, we could work from the material we’ve seized—but your insights would be valuable. Especially in the more speculative episodes.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to authorise a hatchet job? And not just give it my blessing but actually help you assassinate my character?”

“I could make it worth your while.” Girardieau nodded around the confines of the room in which Sylveste was held. “Look at the freedom I’ve given Janequin, to continue his peacock hobby. I could be just as flexible in your case, Dan. Access to recent material on the Amarantin; the ability to communicate with your colleagues; share your opinions—perhaps even the occasional excursion beyond the building.”

“Field work?”

“I’d have to consider it. Something of that magnitude…” Sylveste was suddenly, acutely aware that Girardieau was acting. “A period of grace might be advisable. The biography’s in development now, but it’ll be several months before we need your input. Maybe half a year. What I propose is that we wait until you’ve begun to give us what we need. You’ll be working with the biography’s author, of course, and if that relationship is successful—if she considers it successful—then perhaps we’ll be ready to enter into discussions about limited field work. Discussions, mind—no promises.”

“I’ll try and contain my enthusiasm.”

“Well, you’ll be hearing from me again. Is there anything you need to know before I leave?”

“One thing. You mentioned that the biographer would be a woman. Might I ask who it’ll be?”

“Someone with illusions waiting to be shattered, I suspect.”

Volyova was working near the cache one day, thinking of weapons, when a janitor-rat dropped gently onto her shoulder and spoke into her ear.

“Company,” said the rat.

The rats were a peculiar quirk of the Nostalgia for Infinity ; quite possibly unique aboard any lighthugger. They were only fractionally more intelligent than their feral ancestors, but what made them useful—what turned them from pest into utility—was that they were biochemically linked into the ship’s command matrix. Every rat had specialised pheromonal receptors and transmitters which allowed it to receive commands and transmit information back to the ship, encoded into complex secreted molecules. They foraged for waste, eating virtually anything organic which was not nailed down or still breathing. Then they ran some rudimentary preprocessing in their guts before going elsewhere in the ship, excreting pellets into larger recycler systems. Some of them had even been equipped with voiceboxes and a small hardwired lexicon of useful phrases, triggered into vocalisation when external stimuli satisfied biochemically programmed conditions.

In Volyova’s case, she had programmed the rats to alert her as soon as they began to process human detritus—dead skin cells, and the like—which had not come from her. She would know when the other crew members were awake, even if she was in a completely different district of the ship.

“Company,” the rat squeaked again.

“Yes, I heard first time.” She lowered the little rodent to the deck, and then swore in all the languages at her disposal.

The defensive wasp which had accompanied Pascale buzzed a little nearer to Sylveste as it picked up the stress overtones in his voice. “You want to know about the Eighty? I’ll tell you. I don’t feel the slightest hint of remorse for any of them. They all knew the risks. And there were seventy-nine volunteers, not eighty. People conveniently forget that the eightieth was my father.”

“You can hardly blame them.”

“Assuming stupidity is an inherited trait, then no, I can’t.” Sylveste tried to relax himself. It was difficult. At some point in the conversation, the militia had begun to dust the domed-in air outside with fear gas. It was staining the reddened daylight to something nearer black. “Look,” Sylveste said evenly. “The government appropriated Calvin when I was arrested. He’s quite capable of defending his own actions.”

“It isn’t his actions I want to ask you about.”

Pascale made an annotation in her compad. “It’s what became of him—his alpha-level simulation—afterwards. Now, each of the alphas comprised in the region of ten to the power eighteen bytes—of information,” she said, circling something. “The records from Yellowstone are patchy, but I was able to learn a little. I found that sixty-six of the alphas resided in orbital data reservoirs around Yellowstone; carousels, chandelier cities and various Skyjack and Ultra havens. Most had crashed, of course, but no one was going to erase them. Another ten I traced to corrupted surface archives, which leaves four missing. Three of those four are members of the seventy-nine; affiliated to either very poor or very extinct family lines. The other is the alpha recording of Calvin.”

“Is there a point to this?” he asked, trying not to sound as if the issue particularly concerned him.

“I just can’t accept that Calvin was lost in the, same way as the others. It doesn’t add up. The Sylveste Institute didn’t need creditors or trustees to safeguard their heirlooms. It was one of the wealthiest organisations on the planet right up until the plague hit. So what became of Calvin?”