Galactic North

by Alastair Reynolds

  Still the creature won’t talk, beyond issuing simple pleas for more food or warmer water. Grafenwalder feels his patience stretching. The keepers tell him that the Denizen is getting stronger, more difficult to subdue. Angrily, he accompanies them on their next trip into the tank. There are four men, all wearing power-assisted pressure armour, and now it takes three of them to pin the Denizen against one wall of the glass. When it breaks free momentarily, it gouges deep tooth marks in the flexible hide of Grafenwalder’s glove. Back outside the tank, he inspects the damage and wonders what those teeth would have done to naked flesh.

  It’s fierce, he’ll give it that. It may not be unique; it may not be particularly intelligent; but he still doesn’t feel that all the money he gave Rifugio was wasted. Whatever the Denizen might be, it’s worthy of a place in the bestiary. And it’s his, not someone else’s.

  He puts out the word that there is something new in his collection. Following Ursula Goodglass’s example, he tells the visitors to drop by whenever they like. There must be no suspicion that the Denizen is a stage-managed exhibit, something that can only perform to schedule.

  It’s three days before anyone takes him up on his offer. Lysander Carroway and her husband are the first to arrive. Even then, Grafenwalder has the sense that the visit is regarded as a tiresome social duty. All that changes when they see the Denizen. He’s taken pains to stoke it up, denying it food and comfort for long hours. By the time he throws on the lights, the creature has become a focus of pure, mindless fury. It strives to kill the things on the other side of the glass, scratching claws and teeth against that impervious shield, to the point where it starts bleeding. His guests recoil, suitably impressed. After the study in motionless that was Dr. Trintignant, they are woefully unprepared for the murderous speed of the Europan organism.

  “Yes, it is a Denizen,” he tells them, while his keepers tend to the creature’s injuries. “The last of its kind, I have it on good authority.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  He parrots the lie Rifugio has already told him. “You know what Ultras are like, with their pets. I don’t think they realised quite what they’d been tormenting all those years.”

  “Can it speak to us? I heard that they could talk.”

  “Not this one. The idea that most of them could talk is a fallacy, I’m afraid: they simply weren’t required to. As for the ones that did have language, they must have died over a hundred years ago.”

  “Perhaps the ones that were clever enough to talk were also clever enough to stay away from Ultras,” muses Carroway. “After all, if you can talk, you can negotiate, make bargains. Especially if you know things that can hurt people. ”

  “What would a Denizen know that could hurt anyone?” Grafenwalder asks scornfully.

  “Who made it,” Carroway says. “That would be worth something to someone, wouldn’t it? In these times, more than ever.”

  Grafenwalder shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Even the ones with language weren’t that clever. They were built to take orders and use tools. They weren’t capable of the kind of complex abstract thought necessary to plot and scheme.”

  “How would you know?” Carroway asks. “It’s not as if you’ve ever met one.”

  There’s no malice in her question, but by the time the Carroways depart he’s in a foul mood, barely masked by the niceties of Circle politesse. Why can’t they just accept that the Denizen is enough of a prize in its own right, without dwelling on what it can’t do? Isn’t a ravenous man-fish chimera enough of a draw for them now?

  But the Carroways must have been sufficiently impressed to speak of his new addition, because the guests come thick and fast over the next week. By then they’ve heard that he has a Denizen, but most of them don’t quite believe it. Time and again he goes through the ritual of having them scared by the captive creature, only this time with a few additional flourishes. The glass is as secure as ever, but he’s had the tank lined with a false interior that cracks more easily. He’s also implanted a throat microphone under the skin of the Denizen, to better capture its blood-curdling vocalisations. Since the creature needed to be sedated for that, he also took the liberty of dropping an electrode into what his keepers think is the best guess for the creature’s pain centre. It’s a direct steal from what Goodglass did to Dr. Trintignant, but no one has to know that, and with the electrode he can stir the Denizen up to its full killing fury even if it’s just been fed.

  It’s still too soon to call, but his monitoring of Circle gossip begins to suggest that interest in Trintignant is declining. He’s still jealous of Goodglass for that particular coup, but at last he feels that he has the upper hand again. The memory of Rifugio’s lies has all but faded. The story Grafenwalder tells, about how the Denizen came to him via the Ultras, is repeated so often that he almost begins to believe it himself. The act of telling one lie over and over again, until it concretises into something barely distinguishable from the truth, feels peculiarly familiar to him. When his keepers come to him again and report that a more detailed analysis of the Denizen DNA has thrown up statistical matches with the genome of a typical hyperpig, he blanks the information.

  What they’re telling him is that the Denizen isn’t real; that it’s some form of genetic fake cooked up using a hyperpig in place of a human, with Denizen-like characteristics spliced in at the foetal stage. But he doesn’t want to hear that; not now that he’s back on top.

  The last of the guests to visit are Ursula Goodglass and her husband. They’ve waited a lengthy, although not impolite, interval before favouring him with their presence. Once their shuttle has docked, Goodglass sweeps ahead of her husband’s palanquin, trying to put a brave face on the proceedings.

  “I hear you have a Denizen, Carl. If so, you have my heartfelt congratulations. Nothing like that has been seen for a very long time.” She looks at him coquettishly. “It is a Denizen, isn’t it? We didn’t want to pay too much attention to the rumours, but when everyone started saying the same thing—”

  “It is a Denizen,” he confirms gravely, as if the news is a terminal diagnosis. Which, in terms of Goodglass’s current standing in the Circle, it might as well be. “Would you like to see it?”

  “Of course we’d like to see it!” her husband declares, his voice piping from the palanquin.

  He takes them to the holding tank, darkened now, and issues assassin’s goggles to Ursula, assuming that her husband ’s palanquin has its own infrared system. Allowing the guests to see the floating form, albeit indistinctly, is all part of the theatre.

  “It looks smaller than I was expecting,” Ursula Goodglass observes.

  “They were small,” Grafenwalder says. “Designed to operate in cramped conditions. But don’t let that deceive you. It’s as strong as three men in amp-suits.”

  “And you’re absolutely sure of its authenticity? You’ve run a full battery of tests?”

  “There’s no doubt.” Rashly, he adds, “You can see the results, if you like.”

  “There’s no need. I’m prepared to take your word for it. I know you wouldn’t take anything for granted, given how long you’ve been after one of these.”

  Grafenwalder allows himself a microscopic frown. “I didn’t know you were aware of my interest in acquiring a Denizen.”

  “It would be difficult not to know, Carl. You’ve put out feelers in all directions imaginable. Of course, you’ve been discreet about it—or as discreet as circumstances allow.” She smiles unconvincingly. “I’m glad for you, Carl. It must feel like the end of a great quest, to have this in your possession. ”

  “Yes,” he said. “It does.”

  The palanquin speaks. “What exactly was it about the Denizen that you found so captivating, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Grafenwalder shrugs, expecting the answer to roll glibly off his tongue. Instead, he has to force it out by an effort of will, as if there is a blockage in his thought processes. “Its uniqueness, I suppose, Edri
c.”

  “But there are many unique things,” the palanquin says, its piping tone conveying mild puzzlement. “Why did you have to go to the extremes of locating a Denizen, a creature not even known ever to have existed? A creature whose authenticity cannot ever be confirmed with certainty?”

  “Perhaps because it was so difficult. I like a challenge. Does it have to be any more complicated than that?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” the palanquin answers. “I merely wondered if there might not have been a deeper motive, something less transparent.”

  “I’m really not the man to ask. Why do any of us collect things?”

  “Carl’s right, dear,” Ursula says, smiling tightly at the palanquin’s dark window. “One mustn’t enquire too deeply about these things. It isn’t seemly.”

  “I demur,” her husband says, and reverses slightly back from the heavy glass wall before them.

  Grafenwalder judges that the moment is right to bring up the lights and enrage the Denizen. He squeezes the actuator tucked into his pocket, dripping current into the creature’s brain. The lights pierce the tank, snaring the floating form. The Denizen snorts and powers itself towards the wall, its eyes wide with hatred despite the glare. It slams into the weakened inner layer and shatters the glass, making it seem as if the entire tank is about to lose integrity.

  “We’re quite safe,” he says, anticipating that Goodglass will have flinched from the impact. But she hasn’t. She’s standing her ground, her expression serenely unmoved by the entire spectacle.

  “You’re right,” she comments. “It’s quite a catch. But I wonder if it’s really as vicious as it appears.”

  “Take my word. It’s much, much worse. It nearly bit through my glove when I was inside that tank, wearing full armour.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t like being kept here. It didn’t seem very happy when you turned the lights on.”

  “It’s an exhibit, Ursula. It doesn’t have to like being here. It should be grateful just to be alive.”

  She looks at him with sudden interest, as if he has said something profound. “Do you really think so, Carl?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Absolutely.”

  She returns her attention to the tank wall. The Denizen is still hovering there, anchored in place by the tips of its fingers and the fluke of its tail. The cracks in the shattered glass radiate away in all directions, making the Denizen look as if it is caught in a frozen star, or pinned to a snowflake.

  Goodglass removes her glove and touches a hand to the smooth and unbroken glass on the outer surface of the tank, exactly where the Denizen has its own webbed hand. That’s when Grafenwalder notices the pale webs of skin between Ursula Goodglass’s fingers, visible now that she has taken off the glove. Their milky translucence is exactly the same as the webs between the Denizen’s. She presses her hand harder, squeezing until her palm is flat against the glass, and the Denizen echoes the movement.

  The air feels as if it has frozen. The moment of contact seems to last minutes, hours, eternities. Grafenwalder stares in numb incomprehension, unable to process what he is seeing. When she moves her hand, skating it across the glass, the Denizen follows her like an expert mime.

  She takes another step closer, bringing her face against the glass, laying her cheek flat against the cold surface. The Denizen presses itself against the shattered inner layer and mirrors her posture, bringing its own head against hers. The flesh of their faces appears to merge.

  Goodglass pulls her face back from the glass, then smiles at the Denizen. It tries to emulate her expression, forcing its mouth wide. It’s not much of a smile—it’s more horrific than reassuring—but the deliberateness of the gesture is beyond doubt.

  Finally Grafenwalder manages to say something. His own voice sounds wrong, as if it’s coming from another room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m greeting it,” Ursula Goodglass says, snapping her attention away from the tank. “What on Earth did you think I was doing?”

  “It’s a Denizen. It doesn’t know you. You can’t know it.”

  “Oh, Carl,” she says, pityingly now. “Haven’t you got it yet? Really, I thought you’d have figured things out by now. Look at my hand again.”

  “I don’t need to. I saw it.”

  She pulls back her hand until she’s only touching the glass with a fingertip. “Then tell me what it reminds you of—or can’t you bring yourself to say it?”

  “I’ve had enough,” he says. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but it isn’t true to the spirit of the Circle. I insist that you leave immediately.”

  “But we’re not done yet,” Goodglass says.

  “Fine. If you won’t go easily, I’ll have you escorted to your shuttle.”

  “I’m afraid not, Carl. We’ve still business to attend to. You didn’t think it was going to be quite that easy, did you?”

  “Leave now.”

  “Or what? You’ll turn your household systems on us?” She looks apologetic. “They won’t work, I’m afraid. They’ve been disabled. From the moment our shuttle docked, it’s been working to introduce security countermeasures into your habitat.” Before he can get a word in, she says, “It was a mistake to invite us to view the adult-phase hamadryad. It gave us the perfect opportunity to snoop your arrangements, design a package of neutralising agents. Don’t go calling for your keepers, either. They’re all unconscious. The last time we visited, the palanquin deployed microscopic stun-capsules into every room it passed through. Upon our return, they were programmed to activate, releasing a fast-acting nerve toxin. Your keepers will be fine once they wake up, but that isn’t going to happen for a few hours yet.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to,” Goodglass says. “Call for help, see how far it gets you.”

  He lifts the cuff of his sleeve and talks into his bracelet. “This is Grafenwalder. Get down to the bestiary now—the Denizen tank.”

  But no one answers.

  “I’m sorry, but no one’s coming. You’re on your own now, Carl. It’s just you, the Denizen and the two of us.”

  After a minute goes by, he knows she isn’t bluffing. Goodglass has taken his habitat.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “It’s not so much a question of what I want from you, Carl, as what you want from me.”

  “You’re not making much sense.”

  “Ask yourself this: why did you want the Denizen so much? Was it because you just had to add another unique specimen to your collection? Or did the drive go deeper than that? Is it just possible that you created this entire bestiary as a decoy, to divert everyone—including yourself— from the true focus of your obsession?”

  “You tell me, Ursula. You seem to know a lot about the collecting game.”

  “I’m no collector,” she says curtly. “I detest you and your kind. That was just a cover, to get me close to you. I went to a lot of trouble, of course: the hamadryad, Trintignant . . . I know you had Shallice kill the hamadryad, by the way. That was what I expected you to do. Why else do you think I had Shallice mention my existence, if not to goad you? I needed you to take an interest in me, Carl. It worked spectacularly well.”

  “You never interested me, Ursula. You irritated me, like a tick.”

  “It had the same effect. It brought us together. It brought me here.”

  “And the Denizen?” he asks, half-fearing her answer.

  “The Denizen is a fake. I’m sure you’ve figured that out for yourself by now. A pretty good fake, I’ll admit—but it isn’t two hundred years old, and it’s never been anywhere near Europa.”

  “What about the samples Rifugio gave me? Where did they come from?”

  “From me,” Goodglass says.

  “You’re insane.”

  “No, Carl. Not insane. Just a Denizen.” And she shows him her webbed hand once more, extending it out towards him as if inviting him to kiss it. “I’m what you’ve
been searching for all these years, the end of your quest. But this isn’t quite the way you imagined things playing out, is it? That you’d have had me under your nose all this time, and not known how close you were?”

  “You can’t be a Denizen.”

  “There is such a thing as surgery,” she says witheringly. “I had to wait until after the plague before having myself changed, which meant subjecting myself to cruder procedures than I might have wished. Fortunately, I had the services of a very good surgeon. He rewired my cardiovascular system for air-breathing. He gave me legs and a human face, and a voice box that works out of water.”

  “And the hands?”

  “I kept the hands. You’ve got to hold on to part of the past, no matter how much you might wish to bury it. I needed to remember where I’d come from, what I still had to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “To find you, and then punish you. You were there, Carl, back when we were made in Europa. A high-influence Demarchist in the Special Projects section of Cadmus-Asterius, the hanging city where we were spliced together and given life.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve never been near Europa.”

  “You were born there,” she assures him, “not long after Sandra Voi founded the place. You’ve scrubbed those memories, though. They’re too dangerous now. The Demarchists don’t want anyone finding out about their history of past mistakes, not when they’re trying to show how fine and upstanding they are compared to the beastly Conjoiners. Almost everyone connected with those dark days in Europa has been hunted down and silenced by now. Not you, though. You were ahead of the curve, already running by the time the cities fell. You hopped a ramliner to Yellowstone and started reinventing your past. Eidetic overlays to give you a false history, one so convincing that you believed it yourself. Except at night, in your loneliest hours. Then part of you knew that they were still out there, still looking for you.”