‘Antoinette?’
‘I know.’
‘You know what?’
‘About the Mandelstam Ruling. About Lyle Merrick. About Storm Bird. About Beast. About you.’
Xavier slid around on the bunk, his feet touching the floor. He pushed a few fingers through the black mop of his hair, bashfully.
‘About what?’
‘Don’t lie to me, you fuck!’
Then she was on him in a blind, pummelling rage. There was no real violence behind her punches; under any other circumstances they would have been playful. But Xavier hid his face, absorbing her anger against his forearms. He was trying to say something to her. She was blanking him out in her fury, refusing to listen to his snivelling little justifications.
Finally the rage turned to tears. Xavier stopped her from hitting him, taking her wrists gently.
‘Antoinette,’ he said.
She hit him one last time, then started weeping in earnest. She hated him and loved him at the same time.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Xavier said. ‘I swear it’s not my fault.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
He looked at her, she returning his gaze through the blur of her tears. ‘Why didn’t I tell you?’
‘That’s what I asked.’
‘Because your father made me promise not to.’
When Antoinette had calmed down, when she was ready to listen, Xavier told her something of what had happened.
Jim Bax had been a friend of Lyle Merrick’s for many years. The two of them had been freighter pilots, both working within and around the Rust Belt. Normally two pilots operating in the same trading sphere would have found it difficult to sustain a genuine friendship through the ups and downs of a systemwide economy; there would have been too many occasions where their interests overlapped. But because Jim and Lyle operated in radically different niches with very different client lists, rivalry had never threatened their relationship. Jim Bax hauled heavy loads on rapid high-burn trajectories, usually at short notice and usually, though not always, more or less within the bounds of legality. Certainly Jim did not court criminal clients, although it was not exactly true to say that he turned them away, either. Lyle, by contrast, worked almost exclusively with criminals. They recognised that his slow, frail, unreliable chemical-drive scow was about the least likely ship to attract the attention of the Convention’s customs and excise cutters. Lyle could not guarantee that his loads would arrive at their destinations quickly, or sometimes at all, but he could almost always guarantee that they would arrive uninspected, and that there would be no inconvenient lines of questioning extending back to his clients. So, in a more than modest fashion, Lyle Merrick prospered. He went to a great deal of trouble to hide his earnings from the authorities, maintaining a fastidious illusion of being constantly on the edge of insolvency. But behind the scenes, and by the standards of the day, he was a moderately wealthy man, far wealthier, in fact, than Jim Bax would ever be. Wealthy enough, indeed, to afford to have himself backed-up once a year at one of the alpha-level scanning facilities in Chasm City’s high canopy.
And for many years his act worked. Until the day a bored police cutter decided to pick on Lyle for no other reason than that he had never troubled them before, and so therefore had to be up to something. The cutter had no difficulty matching trajectories with Lyle’s scow. It requested that he initiate main-engine cut-off and prepare for boarding. But Lyle knew he could not possibly comply with the enforced main-engine cutoff. His entire reputation hinged on the fact that his hauls were never inspected. Had he allowed the proxy aboard, he would have been signing his own bankruptcy notice.
He had no choice but to run.
Fortunately — or not, as the case proved — he was already on final approach for Carousel New Copenhagen. He knew that there was a repair well on the rim just large enough to hold his ship. It would be tight, but if he could get inside the bay, he would at least be able to destroy the cargo before the proxies forced their way aboard. He would still be in a lot of trouble, but at least he would not have broken client confidentiality, and that, for Lyle, mattered a lot more than his own wellbeing.
Lyle, of course, never made it. He screwed up his last approach burn, harried by the cutters — there were now four of them swooping in to escort him, and they had already fired retarder grapples on to his hull — and collided with the outer face of the rim itself. Surprisingly, and no one was more surprised than Lyle, he survived the impact. The blunt life-support and habitat module of his freighter had pushed itself through the skin of the carousel like a baby bird’s beak ripping through eggshell. His velocity at impact had only been a few tens of metres per second, and although he had been bruised and battered, he suffered no serious injuries. His luck continued even when the main propulsion section — the swollen lungs of the chemical fuel tanks — went up. The blast rammed the nose module further into the carousel, but again Lyle survived.
But even as he realised his good fortune, he knew that he was in grave trouble. The impact had not occurred in the most densely inhabited portion of the carousel’s ring, but there were still many casualties. A vault of the rim interior had decompressed as his ship plunged through the rim, the air gushing through the wound in the carousel’s fabric. The chamber had been a recreational zone, a miniature glade and forest lit by suspended lamps.
On any other night, there might have been no more than a few dozen people and animals enjoying the synthetic scenery by moonlight. But on the night Lyle crashed there had been a midnight recital of one of Quirrenbach’s more populist efforts, and several hundred people had been there. Thankfully most had survived, though many had been seriously injured. But there had still been fatalities: forty-three dead at the final count, excluding Lyle himself. It was certainly possible that more had been killed.
Lyle made no attempt to escape. He knew that his fate was sealed. He would have been lucky to avoid the death penalty just for refusing to comply with the boarding order, but even if he had wriggled out of that — and there were ways and means — there was nothing that could be done for him now. Since the Melding Plague, when the once glorious Glitter Band had been reduced to the Rust Belt, acts of vandalism against habitats were considered the most heinous of crimes. The forty-three dead were almost a detail.
Lyle Merrick was arrested, tried and sentenced. He was found guilty on all counts relating to the collision. His sentence was irreversible neural death. Since he was known to have been scanned, the Mandelstam Ruling was to apply.
Designated Ferrisville officials, nicknamed eraserheads, were assigned to track down and nullify all extant alpha- or beta-level simulations of Lyle Merrick. The eraserheads had the full legal machinery of the Convention behind them, together with an arsenal of plague-tolerant hunter-seeker software tools. They could comb any known database or archive and ferret out the buried patterns of an illegal simulation. They could erase any public database even suspected of holding a forbidden copy. They were very good at their work.
But Jim Bax wasn’t going to let down his friend. Before the net closed, and with the help of Lyle’s other friends, some of who were extremely frightening individuals, the most recent alpha-level backup was spirited out of the hands of the law. Deft alteration of the records at the scanning clinic made it appear as if Lyle had missed his last appointment. The eraserheads lingered over the evidence, puzzling over the anomalies for many days. But in the end they decided that the missing alpha had never existed. They had done their work in any case, rounding up all other known simulations.
So, in a sense, Lyle Merrick escaped justice.
But there was a catch, and it was one that Jim Bax insisted upon. He would shelter Lyle’s alpha-level persona, he said, and he would shelter it in a place the authorities were very unlikely ever to think of looking. Lyle would replace the subpersona of his ship, the alpha-level scan of a real human mind supplanting the collection of algorithms and subroutines that was a gamma-level persona.
A real mind, albeit a simulation of the neural patterns of a real mind, would replace a purely fictitious persona.
A real ghost would haunt the machine.
‘Why?’ Antoinette asked. ‘Why did Dad want it to happen this way?’
‘Why do you think? Because he cared about his friend and his daughter. It was his way of protecting both of you.’
‘I don’t understand, Xave.’
‘Lyle Merrick was dead meat if he didn’t agree. Your father wasn’t going to risk his neck by sheltering the simulation any other way. At least this way Jim got something out of deal, other than the satisfaction of saving part of his friend.’
‘Which was?’
‘He got Lyle to promise to look after you when Jim wasn’t around.’
‘No,’ Antoinette said flatly.
‘You were going to be told. That was always the plan. But the years slipped by, and when Jim died…’ Xavier shook his head. ‘This isn’t easy for me, you know. How do you think I’ve felt, knowing this secret all these years? Sixteen Goddamned years, Antoinette. I was about as young and green as they come when your father first took me under his employment, helping him with Storm Bird. Of course I had to know about Lyle.’
‘I don’t follow. What do you mean, look after me?’
‘Jim knew he wasn’t going to be around for ever, and he loved you more than, well…’ Xavier trailed off.
‘I know he loved me,’ Antoinette said. ‘It’s not like we had one of those dysfunctional father-daughter relationships like they always have on the holo-shows, you know. All that “you never told me you loved me” crap. We actually got along pretty damned well.’
‘I know. That was the point. Jim cared about what’d happen to you afterwards, when he was gone. He knew you’d want to inherit the ship. Wasn’t anything he could do about that, or even wanted to do about it. Hell, he was proud. Really proud. He thought you’d make a better pilot than he ever did, and he was damned sure you had more business sense.’
Antoinette suppressed half a smile. She had heard that sort of thing from her father often enough, but it was still pleasing to hear it from someone else; evidence — if she needed it — that Jim Bax had really meant it.
‘And?’
Xavier shrugged. ‘Guy still wanted to look out for his daughter. Not such a crime, is it?’
‘I don’t know. What was the arrangement?’
‘Lyle got to inhabit Storm Bird. Jim told him he had to play along with being the old gamma-level; that you were never to suspect that you had a, well, guardian angel looking over you. Lyle was supposed to look after you, make sure you never got into too much trouble. It made sense, you know. Lyle had a strong instinct for self-preservation. ’
She remembered the times that Beast had tried to talk her out of doing something. There had been many, and she had always put them down to an over-protective quirk of the subpersona. Well, she had been right. Dead right. Just not in quite the way she had assumed.
‘And Lyle just went along with it?’ she asked.
Xavier nodded. ‘You’ve got to understand: Lyle was on a serious guilt and recrimination trip. He really felt bad for all the people he had killed. For a while he wouldn’t even run himself — kept going into hibernation, or trying to persuade his friends to destroy him. The guy wanted to die.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘Because Jim gave him a reason to live. A way to make a difference, looking after you.’
‘And all that “Little Miss” shit?’
‘Part of the act. Got to hand it to the dude, he kept it up pretty good, didn’t he? Until the shit came down. But then you can’t blame him for panicking.’
Antoinette stood up. ‘I suppose not.’
Xavier looked at her expectantly. ‘Then… you’re OK about it?’
She turned around and looked him hard in the eyes. ‘No, Xave, I’m not OK about it. I understand it. I even understand why you lied to me all those years. But that doesn’t make it OK.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down into his lap. ‘But all I ever did was make a promise to your father, Antoinette.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said.
Later, they made love. It was as good as any time she could remember with him; all the more so, perhaps, given the emotional fireworks that were still going off in her belly. And it was true what she had said to Xavier. Now that she had heard his side of the story, she understood that he could never have told her the truth, or at least not until she had figured out most of it for herself. She did not even particularly blame her father for what he had done. He had always looked after his friends, and he had always thought the world of his daughter. Jim Bax had done nothing out of character.
But that did not make the truth of it any easier to take. When she thought of all the time she had spent alone on Storm Bird now knowing that Lyle Merrick had been there, haunting her — perhaps even watching her — she felt a wrenching sense of betrayal and stupidity.
She did not think it was something she was capable of getting over.
A day later, Antoinette walked out to visit her ship, thinking that by entering it again she might find some forgiveness for the lie that had been visited on her by the one person in the universe she had thought she could trust. It hardly mattered that the lie had been a kind one, intended to protect her.
But when she reached the base of the scaffolding that embraced Storm Bird, she could go no further. She gazed up at the vessel, but the ship looked threatening and unfamiliar. It no longer looked like her ship, or anything that she wanted to be part of.
Crying because something had been stolen from her that could never be returned, Antoinette turned around and walked away.
Things moved with startling swiftness once the decision had been made. Skade throttled her ship down to one gee and then had the techs make the bubble contract to sub-bacterial size, maintained by only a trickle of power. This allowed much of the machinery to be disconnected. Then she gave the command that would cause a drastic reshaping of the ship, in accordance with the information that she had gleaned from Exordium.
Buried in the rear of Nightshade were many plague-hardened nanomachine repositories, dark tubers crammed with clades of low-level replicators. Upon Skade’s command the machines were released, programmed to multiply and diversify until they had formed a scalding slime of microscopic matter-transforming engines. The slime swarmed and infiltrated every niche of the rear part of the ship, dissolving and regurgitating the very fabric of the lighthugger. Much of the machinery of the device succumbed to the same transforming blight. In their wake, the replicators left glistening obsidian structures, filamental arcs and helices threading back into space behind the ship like so many trailing tentacles and stingers. They were studded with the nodes of subsidiary devices, bulging like black suckers and venom sacs. In operation, the machinery would move with respect to itself, executing a hypnotic thresherlike motion, whisking and slicing the vacuum. In the midst of that scything motion, a quark-sized pocket of state-four quantum vacuum would be conjured into existence. It would be a pocket of vacuum in which inertial mass was, in the strict mathematical sense, imaginary.
The quark-sized bubble would quiver, fluctuate and then — in much less than an instant of Planck time — it would engulf the entire spacecraft, undergoing an inflationary type phase transition to macroscopic dimensions. The machinery that would continue to hold it in check was engineered to astonishingly fine tolerances, down to the very threshold of Heisenberg fuzziness. How much of this was necessary, no one could guess. Skade was not prepared to second-guess what the whispering voices of Exordium had told her. All she could do was hope that any deviations would not affect the functioning of the machine, or at least affect it so profoundly that it did not work at all. The thought of it working, but working wrongly, was entirely too terrifying to contemplate.
But nothing happened the first time. The machinery had powered up and the quantum-vacuum sensors had picked u
p strange, subtle fluctuations… but equally precise measurements established that Nightshade had not moved an ångström further than it would have under ordinary inertia-suppressing propulsion. Angry as much with herself as anyone else, Skade made her way through the interstices of the curved black machinery. Soon, she found the person she was looking for: Molenka, the Exordium systems technician. Molenka looked drained of blood.
What went wrong?
Molenka fumbled out an explanation, dumping reams of technical data into the public part of Skade’s mind. Skade absorbed the data critically, skimming it for the essentials. The configuration of the field-containment systems had not been perfect; the bubble of state-two vacuum had evaporated back into state zero before it could be pushed over the potential barrier into the magical tachyonic state four. Skade appraised the machinery. It appeared undamaged.
Then you’ve learned what went wrong, I take it? You can make the appropriate corrective changes and attempt the transition again?
[Skade…]
What?
[Something did happen. I can’t find Jastrusiak anywhere. He was much closer to the equipment than I was when we attempted the experiment. But he isn’t there now. I can’t find him anywhere, or even any evidence of him.]
Skade listened to this without registering any expression beyond tolerant interest. Only when the woman had finished speaking and there had been several seconds of silence did she reply. Jastrusiak?
[Yes… Jastrusiak.]
The woman seemed relieved. [My partner in this. The other Exordium expert.]
There was never anyone called Jastrusiak on this ship, Molenka.
Molenka turned — so it appeared to Skade — a shade paler. Her reply was little more than an exhalation. [No…]
The Revelation Space Collection (revelation space) Page 203
