Core didn’t rule badly.
They took what they wanted, what they needed, but on planets like our own lovely little Hutchinson’s World, Core was spread so thin as not to matter. Economy, law, society, it all lurched on in an ordinary way for ordinary people. I had a job, one that I mostly liked, that kept me out of trouble. So far, Core hadn’t done so badly by the human race, driving us to 378 colony worlds the last time I saw a number.
Core believed in nothing if not survival. I wondered how someone had managed to drop a palace and half a mountain on the Governor-General without his noticing the plot in progress.
* * * *
“You still finding those protein traces in the deep samples?” Mox asked. He was back to biology, using one of our assay stations, distracting himself from disaster with local genetics. My instrument package on the number one probe was down in the Big Ice around the four-hundred-meter layer, digesting its way through Hutchinson’s specialized climatological history.
I didn’t need to look at the readouts. “Yup.” It was slightly distressing. There shouldn’t be genetic material hanging around in detectable quantities that far below the surface. The cold-foxes and white-bugs and everything else that lived on the Big Ice lived on the Big Ice.
It was also distressing not knowing what was happening back in Hainan Landing—but not as much to me as it obviously was to Mox. He kept glancing at the comm station, his features tense. Mox and I lived and worked in a shack high up on Mount Spivey, almost two thousand meters above the Big Ice’s cloud tops.
Far enough away from politics, I had thought.
He gave me a long stare. “Anything else I need to know?”
I looked away. “Nope.”
The Big Ice was a bowl, a remnant impact crater from a planetoid strike so vast that it was difficult to understand how Hutchinson’s crust had held together under the collision. Which arguably it hadn’t—the Crazydance Range, more or less antipodal to the Big Ice, was one of the most chaotic crustal formations on any human-habitable world, with peaks over twenty thousand meters above the datum plane.
The bowl of the Big Ice was over a thousand kilometers across, thousands of meters deep, and filled with ice—by some estimates over 10 million cubic kilometers. A significant percentage of the planet’s freshwater supply was locked up here. The Big Ice had its own weather, a perpetual rotating blizzard driven by warm air flowing over the southern arc of the encircling range that rose to form the ragged rim of the bowl. The storm rarely managed to spill back out, capping an ecosystem sufficiently extreme by the standards of the rest of the planet to keep a bevy of theorists busy trying to figure out who or what had ridden in on top of the original strike to seed the variant life-forms.
From our vantage point, it was like looking down on the frozen eye of a god.
Our instruments were in a cluster of military-grade shacks just above the high point of the ice-tides, deep inside that storm. We made the trip down there as rarely as possible, of course, though making that trip is something every adventure junkie ought to do once in their life. That long, cold, frightening journey into the depths was the main reason why we were on the Ice instead of lurking in some remote telemetry lab back in Hainan Landing. Every now and then, someone had to climb down and kick the equipment.
And deep beneath the surface of the Big Ice, below that cap of raging storm, was genetic material that had no business being there.
* * * *
I started awake to find my sometime-lover staring at me. “Planck on a half shell, Mox! You scared the shit out of me.” I stifled a yawn, my mouth still filled with sleep.
His expression was the attempt at unreadable I had begun to fear. “Field Control called back in.”
“Looking for us, or just delivering another bulletin?”
“Us. Asked for someone named Alicia Hokusai McMurty Vega, cadet of the House of Powys. Took me a minute to figure they meant you.”
I gazed at him a moment, rubbing my short-cropped hair and trying to wake up the rest of the way. Had I just been dreaming that he’d figured out who I was?
It didn’t matter now. My cover was shot, no matter who had dredged up my full name. “What did they want?”
“Seems your presence is desired in Hainan Landing.” He leaned forward. “Are you going to tell me who you are, Vega?”
I wasn’t sure if I could. The identity he wanted from me now was one I had rejected long ago.
Maybe I could save this friendship. “When did we first meet?”
“Over six years ago,” Mox replied promptly. He’d been thinking about it.
My gut turned over with something that felt like regret. “And we’ve been out here more than five months alone, right? I’m still Vega Hokusai, just like I’ve been all these years. Still a planetologist.”
He locked his hands behind his back—I had the impression that he was making an effort not to touch me. Which had its own novelty; our relationship had never been characterized by impulsive, passionate embraces.
“And a cadet of the House of Powys,” he pressed out.
I should have known I couldn’t escape it. “We all come from somewhere. It’s not who I am now.”
“It’s who they’re asking for, back in the capital.”
“Screw them.” I was surprised to find I meant it.
And screw my brother, too. This would be his doing.
* * * *
A cadet of Powys House. To graduate, to leave House training, someone had to die. A real death, irrevocable, not the strange half-life they could and did place us in for decades on end. One cadet had to kill another. Secretly. Plots shifted and revolved for years.
That was how House cadets discussed things. One death at a time.
* * * *
When next Mox approached me with That Look, I was deep in protein analysis. Hutchinson’s native gene structure was pretty well understood, though we still couldn’t reverse-engineer an organism just by scanning like we could with terrestrial genes. Didn’t have centuries of experience and databases, for one. It was still a small miracle how stable the underlying gene model was across planetary ecosystems: kept the panspermists going.
Either way, I didn’t know what I had yet, but it was interesting—no matches in our planetary databases. Not even close.
“Vega?” His voice was low and tense.
“Uh-huh?”
“Can’t we talk about this House stuff?”
I flipped off the virteo-visualizer and turned to face him. “Not much to say.”
He looked up from the tranq gun he was polishing. Which didn’t need the maintenance. “What are you doing out here?”
I wanted to laugh. “Mox, it’s the Big Ice. I’m studying it, same as you. You think I’m out here plotting revolution? Against what? The cold-foxes?”
He shifted on his feet and stopped polishing the gun. “Got another call. I’m supposed to arrest you.”
Ah, Core asserting itself against whatever House effort my brother Henri was running in light of the G-G’s death. Or Henri calling me in through channels, over clear?
Either way, it didn’t look good for me.
I couldn’t take Mox’s hand now—he felt betrayed, and he would think it calculating. Which maybe it was.
I shook my head. “I may have been raised by wolves, but I really am a planetologist. Six years you’ve known me, you’ve seen enough damn papers and reports from me. Am I faking this?” I taped the virteo-visualizer.
“No… you’re good at archeogenetics, and you’ve got a decent handle on climate as well.”
“And anyway, when would I have had time to run a revolution? Against Core, for the love of Inertia.”
“I don’t know, Vega.”
He really was considering it. Perhaps our relationship had been more convenience than anything else, but still… this was Mox. I hadn’t killed anyone since I left House, but my training—my programming—wouldn’t allow me to let him do me in either.
I s
wallowed. “Mox, put down the gun.”
He set the tranq pistol on the workbench, and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.
I favored him with a smile accompanied by a high dose of pheromones. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have resorted to the manipulation, but autonomous survival routines were kicking in. “Thanks.”
There was no answering smile on his face. “Now tell me why they want you in Hainan Landing.”
“I truly don’t know. But I’m not going back if I have any say in the matter.” I’d made my peace with Core, thought I’d seen the last of my House progenitors. I wanted no more of Henri and Powys House, no more of Core and plots and power. The Big Ice and the mysteries of Hutchinson’s were my life now.
What if they threw a revolution and nobody came?
Mox glanced at the tranq pistol. “You’re House. Doesn’t that mean you’re like another version of Core?”
I shrugged. “We’re not immortal, if that’s what you mean. You’ve known me six years. Noticed the gray hairs?”
His gaze shifted from the pistol back to my eyes. “A superwoman.” It was almost a whisper.
Unfortunately, he was very nearly right, but I didn’t want to go there. “Seen me fly lately?” I asked dryly.
Then number one’s telemetry alarms started going off. We both spun to workstations, bringing up virteo-visualizers to an array of instrumentation.
Something was eating the number one probe. Four hundred meters below the Big Ice.
A text window popped up in my virt environment as I tried to make sense of the bizarre thermal imaging. So low-tech.
Coming for you. Be ready. Henri.
Situation alarms flared on the station monitor at the deep edge of the virteo.
* * * *
Core made enemies. They controlled all interstellar travel, most of the planetary economies, the heavy weapons, and they couldn’t be killed. Usually.
But for the revolutionary on a busy schedule, even cliffs can be defeated in time, by wind and rain, by frost, by tree roots, by high explosives.
The Houses were rain on the cliff face that was Core. Long-term projects established by very patient people, well hidden—some on the fringes of society, some within the busiest bourses in human space.
Certain Houses, Powys for one, raised their children in crèches as seeds to be planted, investments in the future. I was one seed, left to grow in comfort as a planetologist. My brother Henri was another, raised as a revolutionary, just to see what would happen to him.
Seeds are expendable. Houses are built to last.
* * * *
Whatever was savaging our number one Big Ice probe, all we could tell about it was that it wasn’t biological. Thinking about that gave me a bad case of the fantods.
Satellite warfare was going on overhead, judging from the dropouts in the comm grid and exoatmospheric energy pinging our detectors. Planetary Survey, ever thrifty, had put neutrino and boson arrays on top of our shack for correlative data collection in this conveniently remote location—and those arrays were shrieking bloody murder.
I figured I had an hour tops before Henri got here, with a couple House boys or girls in case I got fussy. Henri was a Political. I was… something else. Something Henri needed?
What was a good House soldier to do?
I turned to Mox. “I’m going down to the Big Ice and try to rescue our probe.”
He froze. “Four hundred meters deep? Planck’s ghost, Vega, you can’t get that far under the ice! Even if you did, you’d never make it back.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
We were only sometime-lovers, but still I could see the exact moment he realized. “You don’t intend to come back.”
I shook my head. “My cover’s blown. I may as well try to rescue the probe on my way out.”
Mox looked away, no longer willing to meet my eyes. “So what can I expect?”
“House for sure. Probably Core, too, following after.”
“Shit.”
“Play stupid. Don’t mention Powys House, don’t say anything about anything. Tell them I went down on a repair mission.”
“And if they come after you?”
The decision made, I was already up and pulling gear out of the locker. “The Big Ice is dangerous. They have to fly through that frozen hurricane, handle the surface conditions, and find my happy ass. Accidents happen.”
“Vega…”
I looked up. Mox had that intense look again, the one I had only seen in bed up till now, but he wiped it off his face before I could get up the courage to respond. House gave its seeds all kinds of powers, but bonus emotional strength wasn’t one of them.
“Yeah?” I finally choked out.
“Good luck.”
“You, too, Mox.”
“I hope you make it.”
“Thanks. So do I.”
Moments later, I was outside. Day’s last golden glare faded behind the western peaks. Colored lights glowed in the sky, orbital combat (coming for me?) mirrored by hundred-kilometer-wide spirals of lightning in the permanent storm of the Big Ice, glowering dark gray fifteen hundred meters below. I could smell ionization even up on Mount Spivey. Thirty-five hundred meters above the datum plane, the air gets thin, and the weather can be pretty shitty by any standards other than those of the Big Ice.
It was glorious.
Our base shack was on a wide ledge, maybe sixty meters deep and four hundred long. Nothing grew on the bare cliff except lichens and us. Power cells and some other low-access equipment had been sunk in holes driven into the rock, but otherwise the little camp spread across the ledge like an old junkyard, anchored against wind and weather. I glanced at the landing pad, but there was nothing I could do about anyone who might arrive and threaten Mox.
On the other side of the landing pad was the headworks of the tramway running down to our equipment shacks Ice-side. It was a skeletal cage on a series of cables, quite a ride on the descent. Unfortunately, the ascent required hours of painful winching, unless you wanted to climb the ladder that had been hacked and bolted into place by the original convict work crew.
I didn’t have time for the tram today. I snapped out the buckyfiber wings I’d brought with me months ago and stashed against a day such as this.
Big, black, far less delicate than they looked, they could have been taken from a bat the size of a horse. There were neurochannels in my scapulae that coupled to the control blocks in the wings, wired through diamond-reinforced bone sockets meant to accept the mounting pintles. Once I fitted them on, they would be part of my body.
My gear safely stowed in a harness across my chest and waist, I opened my fatigues to bare the skin of my back. The wings, tugging at the wind already, slid on like a pair of extra hands. The cold wind on my skin was a tonic, a welcome shock, electricity for batteries I’d long neglected.
I stared down into the vast hole that was the Big Ice, the crackling lightning of the storm beckoning me. I spread my wings and leapt from the icy ledge into the open spaces of the air.
* * * *
One theory about the Big Ice was that it was an artificial construct. The thermal characteristics required to drive such a vast and active sea of ice had proven extremely difficult to model. Planetary energy and thermal budgets are notoriously challenging to characterize accurately—one of the greatest problem sets in computational philosophy, but the Big Ice set new standards.
So fine, said the fringe. Maybe it was a directed impact all those megayears ago. Maybe something’s still down there, some giant thermal reactor from a Type II or Type III civilization come out of the galactic core on an errand that ended up badly here on Hutchinson’s World.
Yeah, and cold-foxes might pick up paintbrushes and render the Motta Lisa.
But there were those nagging questions… all a person really had to do was stand on the rim wall somewhere and look down. Then they would understand that the universe has impenetra
ble secrets.
* * * *
Flight is the ultimate high. The wind slid across my skin with lover’s hands, and the muscles in my chest stretched as my back pulled taut. I could see the crosscurrents, the play of gravity and lift and pressure combining in the endless sea of air to make the sky road. A hurricane bound solid and slow in crackling ice, but no less deadly, or frightening, than its cloud-borne cousins over the open sea.
Below me, the lidless, frosty eye of the world beckoned.
I spilled air, leaning into a broad, circling descent that gave me a good view of the blizzard’s topography. Even by the light of the early evening, the core of the storm was foggy, a cataract in the eye, but the winds there would be very low. The lightning on the spiraling arms of the storm bespoke the violence of the night.
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Fourth Annual Collection Page 42
