Slow Bullets

by Alastair Reynolds

  One by one, the lines of text were vanishing from the slate’s screen. The images of my parents lingered for a few moments, then grew cloudy and drained of colour, as if seen through a window that needed cleaning. Then they disappeared completely.

  “The process is irrevocable,” Prad told our audience. “I am deleting this knowledge at a very deep level, beyond any chance of recovery. And when the deletion is complete, I will overwrite the empty memory sectors with vital data from the ship. Scur will carry a little part of our knowledge within herself, safeguarding it against the failure of the main memory. Scur has already made her choice of what that knowledge will be. Will you tell them?”

  “The war poet Giresun,” I said. “Her works, all those that have survived until now.”

  “Giresun was born on one of our worlds, not yours,” Spry said.

  “I know.”

  “And yet you choose to conserve her works, over those of one of your own war poets?”

  “Someone has to do it.”

  Spry nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Scur. That you should choose to do this . . .”

  “She doesn’t want it to stop with her,” Yesli said. “Do you, Scur?”

  “No, I don’t.” And I turned to Prad. “This man was right. Those of us with slow bullets, we have the chance to make a difference. But we have to give up what we are. We have to sever ourselves from the past. From everything that mattered to us once, everything that made us what we are. We have to let that go.”

  “The bad among us will get to start afresh,” Spry said. “All sins forgotten.”

  “Whatever each of us is, whatever each of us was, we’ll still carry that personal knowledge,” I said. “That goes for all of us: the good as well as the bad, and all the shades in between.”

  “You won’t erase the memory of a war that easily,” Sacer said.

  “I know. But the bullets are a link to what we were. If we cut that link, then at least we’ve made a start.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Yesli said.

  “Do you imagine what I just did was easy?”

  But Prad held up his hand again. “What I have done for Scur, I can do for any one of us. It’s simple and quick.” And he brandished the slate like a trophy, holding it high above his head. “Scur has chosen to take Giresun’s words into herself. She has become Giresun’s custodian! Each and every one of us can make a similar sacrifice and a similar choice.”

  “It needn’t just be the soldiers,” I said. “There are more slow bullets on the ship—they just need to be extracted from the dead sleepers. But we can do that. The bullets can find new homes—new custodians. Each of us can carry a piece of the past into the future. It just won’t be our pasts.”

  “The scribing will continue,” Prad said. “That doesn’t stop. It can’t stop. But the bullets buy us a little more time, and the chance to save a little more information. Better than that, it becomes personal. We’ll each carry something unique.”

  I took a deep breath. I still felt the same. The bullet was still inside me, and I had no objective sense that anything had changed. But my past was falling away from me by the second. I was free of it, for better or for worse.

  It was a terrifying, wonderful feeling. Like falling and soaring at the same time.

  “If each of us values the total sum of our knowledge,” I said, “then each of us will have no choice but to work together to safeguard the entire population of the ship. We have to help each other to live. We haven’t time for anything else. We haven’t time for hate or bitterness or recrimination or vengeance. All our old lives ended when the skip went wrong. All our new lives began with the wakening.” I allowed a silence, surveying the faces before me, trying to judge whether I had made my point or succeeded only in aggravating matters further.

  I had to know.

  But there was only one way to be sure.

  “Who’s next?”

  “I’ll do it,” Spry said, touching a fist to his chest. “I’ll be the second.”

  “Are you sure of this?” Prad asked.

  “Do it now,” Spry affirmed. “Clean my bullet. Before I change my mind.”

  ______________

  There is a lot more that I would like to say about those times. But lately I have been finding the cutting harder than before. I make errors, which require hours of correction. The letters squirm and dance before my eyes. And there is a pain that never quite leaves me.

  They say brevity is a virtue, anyway.

  ______________

  The temptation is to say that my gesture had an immediate and calming effect, bringing order where there had been chaos; instilling good sense and generosity where there had been spite and recklessness. That, within an hour of my statement, the citizens were lining up to have their bullets cleaned.

  But that is not how it happened. It took three days for something approaching stability to return to the ship, and even then there were continuing outbreaks of violence. After the violence, we were left with a slow simmering tension that would be with us for years. We called it the “new peace” but it was a peace in only the most fragile of senses. When the worst of the trouble was behind us, we had six dead bodies and many injured.

  Eleven of the wounded required the attention of the auto-surgeon. Fortunately it worked better than it had with Crowl, although I was very glad not to be among the first to test it.

  They came forward in ones and twos to begin with, to give up the contents of their bullets. Then threes and fours, and then Prad was faced with so many that it was more than he could cope with alone, and so the work had to be delegated, which took even more time.

  Some went along with it because they understood my gesture and realised that by surrendering our private pasts, we were contributing to the greater good of the many. I was with Prad during many of the sessions and saw a different species of sorrow on each face. Giving up the past was a kind of grief, and for some it was almost more than they could stand.

  Others were a little too eager. We did not review the contents of their bullets before they were cleaned, but I wondered what it was that they were so keen to see deleted.

  Perhaps I was misjudging them. Perhaps they were just genuinely grateful to be able to make a valuable sacrifice. I tried to clean my own memory of these faces. I did not want to remember who had been too willing, too anxious to be absolved of the past.

  I had been careful in my choice of the war poet Giresun. I knew she was prized by the enemy, and that my adoption of her work would be a powerful conciliatory gesture. In that sense, the decision was as ruthless as it was pragmatic. Many of the volunteers had their own ideas about their choice of custodianship. For the most part, there was no need to quibble with these selections. If the bullet allowed it, the data would be recorded. Others had no strong notion of what would be written into their bullets. The Trinity’s committees were always able to help at that point.

  I do not remember when the first skin markings began to appear, but it must have been within the first few months of the new peace. The idea was simple. Whatever knowledge the bullet contained, this would be reflected on the outside, in the living skin of the custodian. It made a perfect symmetrical sense. We would end up inscribing every available surface of the ship, so why not extend that thoroughness to our own bodies as well? I had lines of Giresun cut into my arms, my shoulders, across my back. We had no ink, but we did have the auto-surgeon. Its surgical lasers could be tuned to brand tissue as finely as any tattoo. It was painful, even after the anaesthetic wore off. But we wore the pain with pride, for it meant that we had also surrendered our bullets and given something of ourselves to the ship.

  After that, there is not much to add.

  You may ask of Murash, but there is no need. Her story is elsewhere, in her own hand. I suggest that you read it, if you have not already done so. She was always apart from the rest of us, simply because she had come from somewhere else. But Murash chose to remain with us, and by immersion in our shipboard
society she gained a great faculty with our language—this “ancient tongue” that she had learned as a scholar, on her dying world. Murash demanded a bullet of her own, and wore her brands like the rest of us. She told us much of her world, much of the history that we had skipped over—but even then, I do not think she told us everything. That would have taken more than a human lifetime.

  It would be remiss of me not to mention Orvin, and my part in his ultimate fate.

  Yesli had forewarned me about the Trinity’s decision. There was a sort of trial, and a sort of sentencing process, but the outcome had never been in serious doubt. There was no possibility of a man such as Orvin being rehabilitated back into the crew, not after the business with Crowl. Equally, there was no appetite for prolonged incarceration.

  Yes, I understood the logic of it perfectly. Orvin had forfeited the right to life on Caprice. But his execution could not be framed as revenge for his crimes. Deterrence, yes—but most emphatically not retribution. We were better than that.

  Some of us.

  When it came to execution, there were many options open to the Trinity. Eventually, after discussion with Prad and the rest of the technicians, they agreed to use one of the vacant hibo capsules. Orvin would be put to sleep painlessly, just as if his body was being put into hibo. When he was unconscious, life support would be removed. After death, his slow bullet would be extracted and his body disposed of.

  The Trinity knew that I did not approve of this course of action. But they were adamant that his execution would be managed humanely. It was a mark of the better society we hoped to become.

  I understood all that. But I could not let it stand.

  Near the time of Orvin’s execution, I contrived to find myself alone with Prad.

  “There is something very important I want you to do for me.”

  There was still an awkwardness between us, for all that Prad had mediated in the cleaning of my slow bullet. I had hoped that he had forgiven me for my outburst, while at the same time knowing that it had put something between us that could never be entirely removed.

  But I still needed his help.

  “It is good to be of use, Scur.”

  “You deserved better from me, I know. If I could take those words back . . .” I shook my head. “I can’t, I know. They’ll be there, remembered, long after we’ve forgotten half the things we want to hold in our memories. But I must still ask something of you. It’s about Orvin.”

  “I am astonished.”

  “You know what’s going to happen to him.”

  Prad nodded once. “Of course.”

  “Do you approve?”

  “It seems a relatively civilised mode of execution. We’ve all experienced the transition to unconsciousness in hibo. You could almost say it was pleasant. A sort of irresistible warm drowsiness, closing over you. I suppose you don’t think that’s quite fitting, given his crimes?”

  “You can make doors open and close anywhere on this ship.”

  “Within reason.”

  “I want access to his cell. And a slow bullet, and a slow bullet injector. I know you can get me those things.”

  “You are quite insane, Scur. This is our justice. It is all we have. If we fight it now, what chance will we have when things become really difficult?”

  “I want access to his cell,” I repeated. “And the bullet, and the injector. That’s all.”

  “They’ll kill you.” He thought for a second. “They’ll kill me.”

  “They won’t,” I said, although Prad must have heard the lack of conviction in my voice. “Some sort of punishment, yes. That’s very likely—for me, anyway. We can make it seem as if I coerced you. You’ll be off the hook.”

  “With Orvin’s blood on my conscience?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that. And there won’t be as much blood as you think.”

  “You’ve been thinking this through.”

  “For a while.”

  “Is this worth it, Scur? After all you have been through? To throw everything away now, just for vengeance?”

  “If I wanted vengeance, I’d have it. Just get me the things I need, and get me into that room.”

  “Is that all?”

  “There’s something else. It’ll be easy for you to arrange. But we can discuss that later.”

  If I had needed to use force on Prad, I think I might well have. Not because it would have pleased me, or because I disliked him. But I could not have allowed myself to fail.

  But Prad did as I asked. We met in semi-darkness, in one of the corridors that did not yet have full power.

  “Here are the things you wished for.” Prad pressed a dark bundle into my hand. I felt cloth, the rattle of hard metal things inside. “The bullet is clean and loaded into the injector. I presume that is to your satisfaction?”

  “Thank you.”

  “The external lock to his cell will open in three minutes. Orvin will still not to be able to work the door from inside. The lock will remain open for another five minutes, but you must not seal the door from within the cell. If you do you will find yourself trapped.” There was an uneasy silence. “Is five minutes sufficient for your purposes?”

  “I should think so. You’ve done well, Prad. I’m grateful.” I allowed a silence of my own. “You can go, if you wish.”

  “I think I would rather remain. If you can provide some evidence of coercion, I think that would be appreciated.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  I swung the bundle at him, judging the strength and direction of the swing such that it was likely to inflict a bruise, rather than a concussion. Since I could only see Prad indistinctly there was of necessity an element of guesswork involved. The bundle found the hard edge of a cheekbone or jaw. Prad grunted and slumped into the side of the wall.

  There was a silence.

  I feared for a moment that I had put too much enthusiasm into my swing.

  “Prad?”

  There was a groan. I sensed his form next to me, regaining his balance. I heard the scrape of hand against skin, tracing the extent of what would soon be a most impressive bruise.

  “Most commendable, Scur. You should consider a career involving violence. I believe you have an aptitude for it.”

  “I have a knife,” I said. “I’m going to keep it between us, just for show.”

  ______________

  We reached the cell. Since the automatic door was presumed to be infallible, there had been no need to station a guard outside. I had counted on this—I saw no reason for the Trinity to have taken unreasonable precautions—but it was gladdening not to be proved wrong.

  “You’ve come this far,” I whispered to Prad. “No one will disbelieve your story now, if you want to go. This is a very dangerous man.”

  “That is why I took the additional precaution of including an energy pistol in the bag. I thought one of us might appreciate it.”

  I shook the bundle open, as quietly as I could. The injector came with its own pressure line and pneumatic reservoir. I untangled the parts and satisfied myself that the injector was of the design I knew from my military career. It was all there—including the chambered bullet. I also inspected the little standard-issue shipboard energy pistol, recognising it from the time Prad and I had first met.

  “Take it,” I told Prad.

  He closed his hand around the contoured grip. “The yield is set to debilitate, rather than kill. I think you will find the injector in perfect order. You neglected to mention the need for an anaesthetic preparation, so I did not provide one.”

  “Very thoughtful of you.” Now that I had examined it, I slipped the injector back into the bundle, out of sight. “How much time do we have?”

  “About four minutes now.”

  “Let’s wake our baby.”

  But in fact Orvin was already awake when we opened the door to his cell. It slid aside, recessing into the wall. He must have heard our voices or our approach, for all that we had tried to be as silent as po
ssible.

  A nervous man, awaiting a visit from his executioners.

  Fully dressed, he moved to raise himself from his bunk. On his face was an almost amiable expression, as if I were an old friend paying him a surprise visit.

  “Well, Scur. Who did you bribe—or fuck—to make this happen? No, let’s stick with bribe. You’re not worth that much trouble to anyone.”

  “Shoot him.”

  Prad levelled the energy pistol, squeezed off a single discharge. Even though I was nowhere near the direction of his aim, I still felt a sort of shivery tingle run through my nervous system.

  Orvin collapsed back onto his bunk. His eyes were still following me, but the energy pulse had winded him. He moved his jaw, trying to make sounds come out.

  “It was a mistake,” I said.

  He croaked out: “What?”

  “Choosing me, back in the bunker. You should have found another victim. Or at least stayed to finish the job.”

  Some of the fight was coming back into him. I glanced at Prad, making sure he was ready with the pistol if it came to that. “I meant to ask,” Orvin said. “How did you get out of there?”

  “I cut the bullet out with your knife.”

  “Really?”

  “It didn’t want to be cut out. I had to go pretty deep.”

  “You were lucky to live.”

  “I must have bled out some. Also, it wasn’t what you’d call a sterile surgical environment. I’d have probably died in there, even with the bullet out of me, if the peacekeepers hadn’t swept through. I owe them everything.”

  “Even after they put you on a prison ship?”

  “We both know how that feels. Still. I’m alive, aren’t I? That has to count for something.”

  “This isn’t the happily ever after we were hoping for. We fought the war, Scur. Did our duties. We were due our reward.”

  “The reward is not being dead, Orvin. Or crippled, or in agony for the rest of your life. I’ll take being alive.”

  “Under these circumstances?”

  “We’ve got a ship, a purpose. We’ll try a skip soon, see what else is out there. We can live on this thing, until we think of something better.”