Alistair Reynolds: Redemption Ark

“Unusual,” the proxy said.

“Seems the guy didn’t like space travel. Well, there was a fuck-up. By the time the error was discovered, the wrong frozen body was halfway to CC. A serious screw-up and one that the Hospice wanted to get sorted out before the mess got worse. So they called me in. I picked up the body in the Rust Belt and now I’m rushing it back to Idlewild.”

“But why the hurry? If the body’s frozen, surely . . .”

“The casket’s a museum piece, and it’s received a lot of rough handling in the last few days. Plus, there are two sets of families starting to ask awkward questions. The sooner the pups are switched back, the better.”

“I appreciate that the Mendicants would wish to keep the matter discreet. The Hospice’s reputation for excellence would be tarnished if this got out.”

“Yeah.” She allowed herself to feel the tiniest hint of relief, and for a dangerous instant was tempted to throttle back on the studied obstinacy. Instead she said, “So now that you can see the whole picture, how about letting me get on my way? You wouldn’t want to piss off the Hospice, would you?”

“Most certainly not. But having come this far, it would be a shame not to check out the passenger, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she intoned. “A real shame.”

They reached the casket. It was an unremarkable-looking reefersleep unit, tucked near the back of the freight bay. It was matte-silver, with a smoked-glass rectangular viewing window set into the top surface. Beneath that, covered by its own smoked-glass shield, was a recessed panel containing controls and status displays. Indistinct coloured traces flickered and moved beneath the glass.

“Strange place to put it, this far back,” said the proxy.

“Not from my point of view. It’s close to my belly door—it was quick to load and it’ll be even quicker to off-load.”

“Fair enough. You don’t mind if I take a closer look, do you?”

“Be my guest.”

The proxy scuttled to within a metre of the casket, extending sensor-tipped limbs but not actually touching any part of it. It was being ultra-cautious, unwilling to run the risk of damaging Hospice property or doing anything that might endanger the casket’s occupant.

“You said this man came in to Idlewild recently?”

“I only know what the Hospice told me.”

The proxy tapped a limb against its own body, thoughtfully. “It’s odd, because there haven’t been any big ships coming in lately. Now that knowledge of the war’s had time to reach the furthest systems, Yellowstone isn’t quite the popular destination it used to be.”

She shrugged. “Have a word with the Hospice then, if it bothers you. All I know is I’ve got a puppy and they want it back.”

The proxy extended what she took to be a camera, probing close to the viewing window set into the casket’s upper surface.

“Well, it’s definitely a man,” it said, as if this would be news to her. “Deep in reefersleep, too. Mind if I pop back that status window and take a look at the read-outs, while I’m here? If there’s a problem, I can probably arrange an escort to get you to the Hospice in double-quick time . . .”

Before she could answer or frame a plausible objection, the proxy had flipped back the smoked-glass panel covering the matrix of controls and status displays. The proxy leant closer, steadying itself against the spars of the storage lattice, and swept the scanning eye back and forth across the display, dithering here and there.

Antoinette looked on, sweating. The displays appeared convincing enough, but anyone who knew their way around a reefersleep casket would have been instantly suspicious. They were not quite as they should have been had the occupant been in a state of normal cryogenic hibernation. Once that suspicion had been aroused, all it would take would be a few more enquiries, a little burrowing into some of the hidden display modes, and the truth would be laid bare.

The proxy scrutinised the read-outs and then pulled back, apparently satisfied. Antoinette closed her eyes for an instant, and then regretted it. The proxy approached the display again, extending a fine manipulator.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were . . .”

The proxy tapped commands into the read-out panel. Different traces appeared—squirming electric-blue waveforms and trembling histograms.

“This doesn’t look right,” the proxy said.

“What?”

“It’s almost as if the occupant’s already dea—”

A new voice boomed out. “Begging your pardon, Little Miss . . .”

Under her breath she swore. She had told Beast to shut up while she was dealing with the proxy. But perhaps she should be relieved that Beast had decided to ignore that particular order.

“What is it, Beast?”

“An incoming transmission, Little Miss—beamed directly at us. Point of origin: Hospice Idlewild.”

The proxy jerked back. “What’s that voice? I thought you said you were alone.”

“I am,” she replied. “That’s just Beast, my ship’s subpersona.”

“Well, tell it to shut up. And the transmission from the Hospice isn’t intended for you. It’s a reply to a query I transmitted earlier . . .”

The ship’s disembodied voice boomed, “The transmission, Little Miss . . . ?”

She smiled. “Play the damned thing.”

The proxy’s attention jerked away from the casket. Beast was relaying the transmission on to her helmet faceplate, making it seem as if the Mendicant was standing in the middle of the freight bay. She assumed the pilot was accessing its own telemetry feed from the one of the cutters.

The Mendicant was a woman, one of the New Elderly. As always, Antoinette found it slightly shocking to see a genuinely old person. She wore the starched wimple and vestment of her order, emblazoned with the Hospice’s snowflake motif, and her marvellously veined and aged hands were linked beneath her chest.

“My apologies for the delay in responding,” she said. “Problems with our network routing again, wouldn’t you know. Well, formalities. My name is Sister Amelia, and I wish to confirm that the body . . . the frozen individual . . . in the care of Miss Bax is the temporary and beloved property of Hospice Idlewild and the Holy Order of Ice Mendicants, and that Miss Bax is kindly expediting its immediate return . . .”

“But the body’s dead,” the proxy said.

The Mendicant continued, “. . . and as such, we would be grateful for the absolute minimum of interference from the authorities. We have employed Miss Bax’s services on several previous occasions and we have experienced nothing less than total satisfaction with her handling of our affairs.” The Mendicant smiled. “I’m sure the Ferrisville Convention appreciates the need for discretion in such a matter . . . after all, we do have something of a reputation to uphold.”

The message ended; the Mendicant blinked out of reality.

Antoinette shrugged. “See—I was telling the truth all along.”

The proxy eyed her with one of its cowled sensors. “There’s something going on here. The body inside that casket is medically dead.”

“Look, I told you the casket was an old one. The read-out’s faulty, that’s all. It’d be pretty stupid to carry a dead body around in a reefersleep casket, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not done with you.”

“Maybe not, but you’re done with me now, aren’t you? You heard what the nice Mendicant lady said. Expediting its immediate return, I think that was the phrase she used. Sounds pretty official and important, doesn’t it?” She reached across and flipped the cover back over the status panel.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” the proxy told her, “but rest assured, I’ll get to the bottom of it.”