Reynolds, Alastair: Redemption Ark

“How so?” the voice of the Wolf purred amusedly.

“I could kill you here and now. After all, the warning has already been delivered.”

Had Galiana been able to move, or even just blink, she would have signalled an emphatic “yes.” She did want to die. What else had she to live for, now? Clavain was gone. Felka was gone. She was sure of that, as sure as she was that no amount of Conjoiner ingenuity would ever free her of the thing inside her head.

Skade was right. She had served her purpose, performed her final duty to the Mother Nest. It knew that the wolves were out there, were, in all likelihood, creeping closer, scenting human blood.

There was no reason to keep her alive a moment longer. The Wolf would always be looking for a chance to escape her head, no matter how vigilant Skade was. The Mother Nest might learn something from it, some marginal hint of a motive or a weakness, but against that had to be set the awful consequences of its escape.

Galiana knew. Just as the Wolf had access to her memories, so, by some faint and perhaps deliberate process of back-contamination, she sensed some of its own history. There was nothing concrete; almost nothing that she could actually put into words. But what she sensed was an aeons-old litany of surgical xenocide; of a dreadful process of cleansing waged upon emergent sentient species. The memories had been preserved with grim bureaucratic exactitude across hundreds of millions of years of Galactic time, each new extinction merely an entry in the ledger. She sensed the occasional frenzied cleansing—a cull that had been initiated later than was desirable. She even sensed the rare instance of brutal intercession where an earlier cull had not been performed satisfactorily.

But what she did not sense, ever, was ultimate failure.

Suddenly, shockingly, the Wolf eased aside. It was letting her speak.

“Skade,” Galiana said.

“What is it?”

“Kill me, please. Kill me now.”

ONE

Antoinette Bax watched the police proxy unfold itself from the airlock. The machine was all planar black armour and sharp articulated limbs, like a sculpture made from many pairs of scissors. It was deathly cold, for it had been clamped to the outside of one of the three police cutters which now pinned her ship. A rime of urine-coloured propellant frost boiled off it in pretty little whorls and helices.

“Please stand back,” the proxy said. “Physical contact is not advised.”

The propellant cloud smelt toxic. She slammed down her visor as the proxy scuttled by.

“I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,” she said, following at a discreet distance.

“I won’t know until I find it,” the proxy said. It had already identified the frequency for her suit radio.

“Hey, look. I’m not into smuggling. I like not being dead too much.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Why would anyone smuggle something to Hospice Idlewild? They’re a bunch of ascetic religious nuts, not contraband fiends.”

“Know a thing or two about contraband, do you?”

“I never said . . .”

“Never mind. The point is, Miss Bax, this is war. I’d say nothing’s ruled out.”

The proxy halted and flexed, large flakes of yellow ice cracking away from its articulation points. The machine’s body was a flanged black egg from which sprouted numerous limbs, manipulators and weapons. There was no room for the pilot in there, just enough space for the machinery needed to keep the proxy in contact with the pilot. The pilot was still inside one of the three cutters, stripped of nonessential organs and jammed into a life-support canister.

“You can check with the Hospice, if you like,” she said.

“I’ve already queried the Hospice. But in matters such as this, one likes to be absolutely certain that things are above board—wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll agree to anything you like if it gets you off my ship.”

“Mm. And why would you be in such a hurry?”

“Because I’ve got a slush . . . sorry, a cryogenic passenger. One I don’t want thawing on me.”

“I’d like to see this passenger very much. Is that possible?”

“I’m hardly likely to refuse, am I?” She had expected as much, and had already donned her vacuum suit while waiting for the proxy to arrive.

“Good. It won’t take a minute, and then you can be on your way.” The machine paused a moment before adding, “Provided, of course, that there aren’t any irregularities.”

“It’s this way.”

Antoinette thumbed back a panel next to her, exposing a crawlway that led back to Storm Bird ’s main freight bay. She let the proxy take the lead, determined to say little and volunteer even less. Her attitude might have struck some as obstinate, but she would have engendered far more suspicion had she started to be helpful. The Ferrisville Convention’s militia were not well liked, a fact which they had long since factored into their dealings with civilians.

“This is quite a ship you have, Antoinette.”

“That’s Miss Bax to you. I don’t remember us being on first-name terms.”

“Miss Bax, then. But my point stands: your ship is outwardly unremarkable, but betrays all the signs of being mechanically sound and spaceworthy. A ship with such a capacity could run at a profit on any number of perfectly legal trade routes, even in these benighted times.”

“Then I’d have no incentive to take up smuggling, would I?”

“No, but it makes me wonder why you’d waste such an opportunity by running a peculiar errand for the Hospice. They have influence, but not, so far as we can gather, very much in the way of actual wealth.” The machine halted again. “You have to admit, it’s a bit of a puzzler. The usual route is for the frozen to come down from the Hospice, not go up to it. And even moving a frozen body around is unusual—most are thawed before they ever leave Idlewild.”

“It’s not my job to ask questions.”

“Well, it does rather happen to be mine. Are we nearly there yet?”

The freight bay was not currently pressurised, so they had to cycle through an internal airlock to reach it. Antoinette turned the lights on. The enormous space was empty of cargo but filled with a storage lattice, a three-dimensional framework into which cargo pallets and pods were normally latched. They began to clamber their way through it, the proxy picking its way with the fastidious care of a tarantula.

“It’s true, then. You are flying with an empty hold. There’s not a single container in here.”

“It’s not a crime.”

“I never said it was. It is, however, exceedingly odd. The Mendicants must be paying you extremely good money if you can justify a trip like this.”

“They set the terms, not me.”

“Curioser and curioser.”

The proxy was right, of course. Everyone knew that the Hospice cared for the frozen who had just been off-loaded from recently arrived starships: the poor, the injured, the terminally amnesiac. They would be thawed, revived and rehabilitated in the Hospice’s surroundings, tended by the Mendicants until they were well enough to leave, or at least able to complete a minimum set of basic human functions. Some, never regaining their memories, decided to stay on in the Hospice, training to become Mendicants themselves. But the one thing the Hospice did not routinely do was take in frozen who had not arrived on an interstellar ship.

“All right,” she said. “What they told me was this: there was a mistake. The man’s documentation was mixed up during the off-loading process. He was confused with another puppy who was only meant to be checked over by the Hospice, not actually revived. The other man was supposed to be kept cold until he was in Chasm City, then warmed up.”