It knew, for instance, that planets—or rather the abstract objects in its model that corresponded to planets—were definitely not supposed to do that. The error was completely inexplicable as an outside-world event. Something must have gone badly wrong at the data-capture stage.
It pondered this a little more. Even allowing for that conclusion, the anomaly was still difficult to explain. It was so peculiarly selective, affecting only the planet itself. Nothing else, not even the planet’s moons, had done anything in the least bit odd.
The subpersona changed its mind: the anomaly had to be external, in which case the subpersona’s model of the real world was shockingly flawed. It didn’t like that conclusion either. It was a long time since it had been forced to update its model so drastically, and it viewed the prospect with a stinging sense of affront.
Worse, the observation might mean that the Gnostic Ascension itself was… well, not exactly in immediate ganger—the planet in question was still dozens of light-hours away—but conceivably headed for something that might, at some point in the future, pose a non-negligible risk to the ship.
That was it, then. The subpersona made its decision: it had no choice but to alert the crew on this one.
That meant only one thing: a priority interrupt to Queen Jasmina.
The subpersona established that the queen was currently accessing status summaries through her preferred visual read-out medium. As it was authorised to do, it seized control of the data channel and cleared both screens of the device ready for an emergency bulletin.
It prepared a simple text message: SENSOR ANOMALY: REQUEST ADVICE.
For an instant—significantly less than the half-second that the original event had consumed—the message hovered on the queen’s read-out, inviting her attention.
Then the subpersona had a hasty change of heart.
Perhaps it was making a mistake. The anomaly, bizarre as it had been, had cleared itself. No further reports of strangeness had emanated from any of the underlying layers. The planet was behaving in the way the subpersona had always assumed planets were supposed to.
With the benefit of a little more time, the layer decided, the event could surely be explained as a perceptual malfunction. It was just a question of going over things again, looking at all the components from the right perspective, thinking outside the box. As a subpersona, that was exactly what it was meant to do. If all it ever did was blindly forward every anomaly that it couldn’t immediately explain, then the crew might as well replace it with another dumb layer. Or, worse, upgrade it to something cleverer.
It cleared the text message from the queen’s device and immediately replaced it with the data she had been viewing just before.
It continued to gnaw away at the problem until, a minute or so later, another anomaly bumped into its in-box. This time it was a thrust imbalance, a niggling one-per-cent jitter in the starboard Conjoiner drive. Faced with a bright new urgency, it chose to put the matter of the planet on the back-burner. Even by the slow standards of shipboard communications, a minute was a long time. With every further minute that passed without the planet misbehaving, the whole vexing event would inevitably drop to a diminished level of priority.
The subpersona would not forget about it—it was incapable of forgetting about anything—but within an hour it would have a great many other things to deal with instead.
Good. It was decided, then. The way to handle it was to pretend it had never happened in the first place.
Thus it was that Queen Jasmina was informed of the sensor event anomaly for only a fraction of a second. And thus it was that no human members of the crew of the Gnostic Ascension —not Jasmina, not Grelier, not Quaiche, nor any of the other Ultras—were ever aware that, for more than half a second, the largest gas giant in the system they were approaching, the system unimaginatively called 107 Piscium, had simply ceased to exist.
Queen Jasmina heard the surgeon-general’s footsteps echoing towards her, approaching along the metal-lined companionway that connected her command chamber to the rest of the ship. As always, Grelier managed not to sound in any particular hurry. Had she tested his loyalty by fawning over Quaiche? she wondered. Perhaps. In which case it was probably time to make Grelier feel valued again.
A flicker on the read-out screens of the skull caught her attention. For a moment a line of text replaced the summaries she was paging through—something about a sensor anomaly.
Queen Jasmina shook the skull. She had always been convinced that the horrid thing was possessed, but increasingly it appeared to be going senile, too. Had she been less superstitious, she would have thrown it away, but dreadful things were rumoured to have happened to those who ignored the skull’s counsel.
A polite knock sounded at the door.
“Enter, Grelier.”
The armoured door eased itself open. Grelier emerged into the chamber, his eyes wide and showing a lot of white as they adjusted to the chamber’s gloom. Grelier was a slim, neatly dressed little man with a flat-topped shock of brilliant white hair. He had the flattened, minimalist features of a boxer. He wore a clean white medical smock and apron; his hands were always gloved. His expression never failed to amuse Jasmina: it always appeared that he was on the point of breaking into tears or laughter. It was an illusion: the surgeon-general had little familiarity with either emotional extreme.
“Busy in the body factory, Grelier?”
“A wee bit, ma’am.”
“I’m anticipating a period of high demand ahead. Production mustn’t slacken.”
“Little danger of that, ma’am.”
“Just as long as you’re aware of it.” She sighed. “Well, niceties over with. To business.”
Grelier nodded. “I see you’ve already made a start.”
While awaiting his arrival, she had strapped her body into the throne, leather cuffs around her ankles and thighs, a thick band around her belly, her right arm fixed to the chair rest, with only her left arm free to move. She held the skull in her left hand, its face turned towards her so that she could view the read-out screens bulging from its eye sockets. Prior to picking up the skull she had inserted her right arm into a skeletal machine bracketed to the side of the chair. The machine—the alleviator—was a cage of rough black ironwork equipped with screw-driven pressure pads. They were already pressing uncomfortably against her skin.
“Hurt me,” Queen Jasmina said.
Grelier’s expression veered momentarily towards a smile. He approached the throne and examined the arrangement of the alleviator. Then he commenced tightening the screws on the device, adjusting each in sequence by a precise quarter turn at a time. The pressure pads bore down on the skin of the queen’s forearm, which was supported in turn by an underlying arrangement of fixed pads. The care with which Grelier turned the screws made the queen think of someone tuning some ghastly stringed instrument.
It wasn’t pleasant. That was the point.
After a minute or so, Grelier stopped and moved behind the throne. She watched him tug a spool of tubing from the little medical kit he always kept there. He plugged one end of the tubing into an oversized bottle full of something straw-yellow and connected the other to a hypodermic. He hummed and whistled as he worked. He lifted up the bottle and attached it to a rig on the back of the throne, then pushed the hypodermic line into the queen’s upper right arm, fiddling around a little until he found the vein. Then she watched him return to the front of the throne, back into view of the body.
It was a female one this time, but there was no reason that it had to be. Although all the bodies were cultured from Jasmina’s own genetic material, Grelier was able to intervene at an early stage of development and force the body down various sexual pathways. Usually it was boys and girls. Now and then, for a treat, he made weird neuters and intersex variants. They were all sterile, but that was only because it would have been a waste of time to equip them with functioning reproductive systems. It was enough bother installing the neural cou
pling implants so that she could drive the bodies in the first place.
Suddenly she felt the agony lose its focus. “I don’t want anaesthetic, Grelier.”
“Pain without intermittent relief is like music without silence,” he said. “You must trust my judgement in this matter, as you have always done in the past.”
“I do trust you, Grelier,” she said, grudgingly.
“Sincerely, ma’am?”
“Yes. Sincerely. You’ve always been my favourite. You do appreciate that, don’t you?”
“I have a job to do, ma’am. I simply do it to the limit of my abilities.”
The queen put the skull down in her lap. With her free hand she ruffled the white brush of his hair.
“I’d be lost without you, you know. Especially now.”
“Nonsense, ma’am. Your expertise threatens any day to eclipse my own.”
It was more than automatic flattery: though Grelier had made the study of pain his life’s work, Jasmina was catching up quickly. She knew volumes about the physiology of pain. She knew about nociception; she knew the difference between epi-critic and protopathic pain; she knew about presynaptic blocking and the neospinal pathway. She knew her prostaglandin promoters from her GABA agonists.
But the queen also knew pain from an angle Grelier never would. His tastes lay entirely in its infliction. He did not know it from the inside, from the privileged point of view of the recipient. No matter how acute his theoretical understanding of the subject, she would always have that edge over him.
Like most people of his era, Grelier could only imagine agony, extrapolating it a thousandfold from the minor discomfort of a torn hangnail.
He had no idea.
“I may have learned a great deal,” she said, “but you will always be a master of the clonal arts. I was serious about what I said before, Grelier: I anticipate increased demand on the factory. Can you satisfy me?”
“You said production mustn’t slacken. That isn’t quite the same thing.”
“But surely you aren’t working at full capacity at this moment.”
Grelier adjusted the screws. “I’ll be frank with you: we’re not far off it. At the moment I’m prepared to discard units that don’t meet our usual exacting standards. But if the factory is expected to increase production, the standards will have to be relaxed.”
“You discarded one today, didn’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“I suspected you’d make a point of your commitment to excellence.” She raised a finger. “And that’s all right. It’s why you work for me. I’m disappointed, of course—I know exactly which body you terminated—but standards are standards.”
“That’s always been my watchword.”
“It’s a pity that can’t be said for everyone on this ship.”
He hummed and whistled to himself for a little while, then asked, with studied casualness, “I always got the impression that you have a superlative crew, ma’am.”
“My regular crew is not the problem.”
“Ah. Then you would be referring to one of the irregulars? Not myself, I trust?”
“You are well aware of whom I speak, so don’t pretend otherwise.”
“Quaiche? Surely not.”
“Oh, don’t play games, Grelier. I know exactly how you feel about your rival. Do you want to know the truly ironic thing? The two of you are more similar than you realise. Both baseline humans, both ostracised from your own cultures. I had great hopes for the two of you, but now I may have to let Quaiche go.”
“Surely you’d give him one last chance, ma’am. We are approaching a new system, after all.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see him fail one final time, just so that my punishment would be all the more severe?”
“I was thinking only of the welfare of the ship.”
“Of course you were, Grelier.” She smiled, amused by his lies. “Well, the fact of the matter is I haven’t made up my mind what to do with Quaiche. But I do think he and I need a little chat. Some interesting new information concerning him has fallen into my possession, courtesy of our trading partners.”
“Fancy that,” Grelier said.
“It seems he wasn’t completely honest about his prior experience when I hired him. It’s my fault: I should have checked his background more thoroughly. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that he exaggerated his earlier successes. I thought we were hiring an expert negotiator, as well as a man with an instinctive understanding of planetary environments. A man comfortable among both baseline humans and Ultras, someone‘ who could talk up a deal to our advantage and find treasure where we’d miss it completely.”
“That sounds like Quaiche.”
“No, Grelier, what it sounds like is the character Quaiche wished to present to us. The fiction he wove. In truth, his record is a lot less impressive. The occasional score here and there, but just as many failures. He’s a chancer: a braggart, an opportunist and a liar. And an infected one, as well.”
Grelier raised an eyebrow. “Infected?”
“He has an indoctrinal virus. We scanned for the usuals but missed this one because it wasn’t in our database. Fortunately, it isn’t strongly infectious—not that it would stand much of a chance infecting one of us in the first place.”
“What type of indoctrinal virus are we talking about here?”
“It’s a crude mishmash: a half-baked concoction of three thousand years’ worth of religious imagery jumbled together without any overarching theistic consistency. It doesn’t make him believe anything coherent; it just makes him feel religious. Obviously he can keep it under control for much of the time. But it worries me, Grelier. What if it gets worse? I don’t like a man whose impulses I can’t predict.”
“You’ll be letting him go, then.”
“Not just yet. Not until we’ve passed beyond 107 Piscium. Not until he’s had one last chance to redeem himself.”
“What makes you think he’ll find anything now?”
“I have no expectation that he will, but I do believe he’s more likely to find something if I provide him with the right incentive.”
“He might do a runner.”
“I’ve thought of that as well. In fact, I think I’ve got all bases covered where Quaiche is concerned. All I need now is the man himself, in some state of animation. Can you arrange that for me?”
“Now, ma’am?”
“Why not? Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.”
“The trouble is,” Grelier said, “he’s frozen. It’ll take six hours to wake him, assuming that we follow the recommended procedures.”
“And if we don’t?” She wondered how much mileage was left in her new body. “Realistically, how many hours could we shave off?”
“Two at the most, if you don’t want to run the risk of killing him. Even then it’ll be a wee bit unpleasant.”
Jasmina smiled at the surgeon-general. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. Oh, and Grelier? One other thing.”
“Ma’am?”
“Bring me the scrimshaw suit.”
THREE
Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615
His lover helped him out of the casket. Quaiche lay shivering on the revival couch, racked with nausea, while Morwenna attended to the many jacks and lines that plunged into his bruised baseline flesh.
“Lie still,” she said.
“I don’t feel very well.”
“Of course you don’t. What do you expect when the bastards thaw you so quickly?”
It was like being kicked in the groin, except that his groin encompassed his entire body. He wanted to curl up inside a space smaller than himself, to fold himself into a tiny knot like some bravura trick of origami. He considered throwing up, but the effort involved was much too daunting.
“They shouldn’t have taken the risk,” he said. “She knows I’m too valuable for that.” He retched: a horrible sound like a dog that had been b
arking too long.
“I think her patience might be a bit strained,” Morwenna said, as she dabbed at him with stinging medicinal salves.
“She knows she needs me.”
“She managed without you before. Maybe it’s dawning on her that she can manage without you again.”
Quaiche brightened. “Maybe there’s an emergency.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“Christ, that’s all I need—sympathy.” He winced as a bolt of pain hit his skull, something far more precise and targeted than the dull unpleasantness of the revival trauma.
“You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Morwenna said, her tone scolding. “You know it only hurts you.”
He looked into her face, forcing his eyes open against the cruel glare of the revival area. “Are you on my side or not?”
“I’m trying to help you. Hold still, I’ve nearly got the last of these lines out.” There was a final little stab of pain in his thigh as the shunt popped out, leaving a neat eyelike wound. “There, all done.”
“Until next time,” Quaiche said. “Assuming there is a next time.”
Morwenna fell still, as if something had struck her for the first time. “You’re really frightened, aren’t you?”
“In my shoes, wouldn’t you be?”
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