“I expect,” Volyova said, “that you’re one of those otherwise rational people who pride themselves on not believing in ghosts.”
Khouri looked at her, frowning slightly. Volyova had known from the outset that the woman was no fool, but it was still interesting to see how she reacted to the question.
“Ghosts, Triumvir? You can’t be serious.”
“One thing you’ll quickly learn about me,” Volyova said, “is that I’m very seldom anything other than completely serious.” And then she indicated the door at which they had arrived, set unobtrusively into one rusty-red interior wall of the ship. The door was of heavy construction, a stylised drawing of a spider discernible through layers of corrosion and staining. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
Khouri did as she was told without hesitation. Volyova was satisfied. In the three weeks since the woman had been snared—or recruited, if one wanted to be polite about it—Volyova had administered a complex regimen of loyalty-altering therapies. The treatment was almost complete, apart from the top-up doses which would continue indefinitely. Soon the woman’s loyalty would be so strongly instilled that it would transcend mere obedience and become an animating compulsion, a principle to which she could no more fail to adhere than a fish could choose to stop breathing water. Taken to an extreme which Volyova hoped would prove unnecessary, Khouri could be made not only to desire to do the crew’s will, but to love them for giving her the chance. But Volyova would relent before she programmed the woman that deeply. After her less than fruitful experiences with Nagorny, she was wary of creating another unquestioning guinea pig. It would not displease her if Khouri retained a trace of resentment.
Volyova did as she had promised, following Khouri into the door. The recruit had halted a few metres beyond the threshold, realising that there was no way to go further.
Volyova sealed the great iron iris of a door behind them.
“Where are we, Triumvir?”
“In a little private retreat of my own,” Volyova said. She spoke into her bracelet and made a light come on, but the interior remained shadowy. The room was shaped like a fat torpedo, twice as long as it was wide. The interior was sumptuously outfitted, with four scarlet-cushioned seats installed on the floor, next to each other, and space for another two behind, though nothing remained but their anchor-points. Where they were not upholstered in cushioned velvet, the room’s brass-ribbed walls were curved and glossily dark, as if made of obsidian or black marble. There was a console of black ebony, attached to the armrest of the front seat in which Volyova now sat. She folded down the console, familiarising herself with the inset dials and controls, all of which were tooled in brass or copper, with elaborately inscribed labels, offset by flowered curlicues of differently inlaid woods and ivories. Not that it took much familiarising, since she visited the spider-room with reasonable regularity, but she enjoyed the tactile pleasure of stroking her fingertips across the board.
“I suggest you sit down,” she said. “We’re about to move.”
Khouri obeyed, sitting next to Volyova, who threw a number of ivory-handled switches, watching some of the dials on the panel light up with roseate glows, their needles quivering as power entered the spider-room’s circuits. She extracted a certain sadistic pleasure in observing Khouri’s disorientation, for the woman clearly had no idea where she was in the ship, nor what was about to happen. There were clunking sounds, and a sudden shifting, as if the room were a lifeboat which had just come adrift from a mother vessel.
“We’re moving,” Khouri diagnosed. “What is this—some kind of luxury elevator for the Triumvirate?”
“Nothing so decadent. We’re in an old shaft which leads to the outer hull.”
“You need a room just to take you to the hull?” Some of Khouri’s scornful disregard for the niceties of Ultra life was coming to the fore again. Volyova liked that, perversely. It convinced her that the loyalty therapies had not destroyed the woman’s personality, only redirected it.
“We’re not just going to the hull,” Volyova said. “Otherwise we’d walk.”
The motion was smooth now, but there were still occasional clunks as airlocks and traction systems assisted their passage. The shaft walls remained utterly black, but—Volyova knew—all that was about to change. Meanwhile, she watched Khouri, trying to guess whether the woman was scared or merely curious. If she had sense she would have realised by now that Volyova had invested too much time in her simply to kill her—but on the other hand, the woman’s military training on Sky’s Edge must have taught her to take absolutely nothing for granted.
Her appearance had changed considerably since her recruitment, but little of that was due to the therapies. Her hair had always been short, but now it was absent entirely. Only up close was the peachy fuzz of regrowth visible. Her skull was quilted with fine, salmon-coloured scars. Those were the incision marks where Volyova had opened her head in order to emplace the implants which had formerly resided in Boris Nagorny.
There had been other surgical procedures, too. Khouri’s body was peppered with shrapnel from her soldiering days, in addition to the almost invisibly healed scars of beam-weapon or projectile impact points. Some of the shrapnel shards lay deep—too deep, it seemed, for the Sky’s Edge medics to retrieve. And for the most part they would have caused her no harm, for they were biologically-inert composites not situated close to any vital organs. But the medics had been sloppy, too. Near the surface, dotted under Khouri’s skin, Volyova found a few shards they really should have removed. She did it for them, examining each in turn before placing it in her lab. All but one of the shards would have caused no problems to her systems; non-metallic composites which could not interfere with the sensitive induction fields of the gunnery’s interface machinery. But she catalogued and stored them anyway. The metal shard she frowned at, cursing the medics’ procedures, and then laid it next to the rest.
That had been messy work, but not nearly as bad as the neural work. For centuries, the commonest forms of implant had either been grown in situ or were designed to self-insert painlessly via existing orifices, but such procedures could not be applied to the unique and delicate gunnery interface implants. The only way to get them in or out was with a bone-saw, scalpel and a lot of mopping up afterwards. It had been doubly awkward because of the routine implants already resting in Khouri’s skull, but after giving them a cursory examination Volyova had seen no reason to remove them. Had she done so, she would sooner or later have had to re-implant very similar devices just so Khouri could function normally beyond the gunnery. The implants had grafted well, and within a day—with Khouri unconscious—Volyova had placed her in the gunnery seat and verified that the ship was able to talk to her implants and vice versa. Further testing had to wait until the loyalty therapies were complete. That would mainly be done while the rest of the crew were asleep.
Caution: that was Volyova’s current watchword. It was incaution that had resulted in the whole unpleasantness with Nagorny.
She would not make that mistake again.
“Why do I get the idea this is some kind of test?” Khouri said.
“It isn’t. It’s just—” Volyova waved a hand dismissively. “Indulge me, will you? It’s not much to ask.”
“How do I oblige—by claiming to see ghosts?”
“Not by seeing them, Khouri, no. By hearing them.”
A light was visible now, beyond the black walls of the moving room. Of course, the walls were nothing but glass, and until that moment they had been surrounded only by the unlit metal of the shaft in which the room rested. But now illumination was shining from the shaft’s approaching end. The rest of the short journey took place in silence. The room pushed itself towards the light, until the chill blue luminance was flooding in from all angles. Then the room pushed itself beyond the hull.
Khouri upped from her seat and went to the glass, edging towards it with trepidation. The glass was, of course, hyperdiamond, and there was no danger that
it would shatter or that Khouri would stumble and plunge through it. But it looked ridiculously thin and brittle, and the human mind was able to take only so many things on trust. Looking laterally, she would have seen the articulated spider-legs, eight of them, anchoring the room to the exterior hull of the ship. She would have understood why Volyova called this place the spider-room.
“I don’t know who or what built it,” Volyova said. “My guess is that they installed it when the ship itself was constructed, or when it was due to change hands, assuming anyone could ever afford to buy it. I think this room was a very elaborate ploy for impressing potential clients—hence the general level of luxury.”
“Someone used it to make a sales pitch?”
“It makes a kind of sense—assuming one has any need in the first place to actually be outside a vessel like this. If the ship’s under thrust, then any observation pod sent outside also has to match that level of thrust, or else it gets left behind. No problem if that pod’s just a camera system, but as soon as you put people aboard it it gets a lot more complicated; someone actually has to fly the damned thing, or at the very least know how to program the autopilot to do what you want. The spider-room avoids that difficulty by physically attaching itself to the ship. It’s child’s play to operate; just like crawling around on all-eights.”
“What happens if…”
“It loses its grip? Well, it’s never happened—even if it did, the room has various magnetic and hull-piercing grapples it can deploy; and even if those failed—which they wouldn’t, I assure you—the room can propel itself independently; certainly for long enough to catch up with the ship. And even if that failed…” Volyova paused. “Well, if that failed, I’d consider having a word with my deity-of-choice.”
Although Volyova had never taken the room more than a few hundred metres from its exit point on the hull, it would have been possible to crawl all around the ship. Not necessarily wise, however, for at relativistic speed the ship pushed through a blizzard of radiation which was normally screened by the hull insulation. The spider-room’s thin walls only shielded a fraction of the flux, lending the whole exercise of being outside an odd and hazardous glamour.
The spider-room was her little secret; it was absent from the major blueprints, and to the best of her knowledge none of the others knew anything about it at all. In an ideal world, she would have kept it that way, but the problems with the gunnery had forced her into some necessary indiscretions. Even given the state of the ship’s decay, Sajaki’s network of surveillance devices was extensive, leaving the spider-room as one of the few places where Volyova could guarantee absolute privacy when she needed to discuss something sensitive with one of her recruits; something that she did not want the other Triumvirs to know about. She had been forced to reveal the spider-room to Nagorny so that she could talk with him frankly about the Sun Stealer problem, and for months—as his condition deteriorated—she had regretted that decision, always fearful that he would reveal the room’s existence to Sajaki. But she need not have worried. By the end, Nagorny had been far too occupied with his nightmares to indulge in any subtleties of shipboard politick. Now he had taken the secret to his grave and for the time being Volyova had been able to sleep easy, safe in the knowledge that her sanctuary was not about to be betrayed. Perhaps what she was doing now was an error she would later regret—she had certainly sworn to herself not to violate the room’s secrecy again—but as always, current circumstances had forced her to amend an earlier decision. There was something she needed to discuss with Khouri; the ghosts were merely a pretext so that Khouri would not become overly suspicious of Volyova’s deeper motives.
“I’m not seeing any ghosts yet,” the recruit said. “You’ll see, or rather hear them, shortly,” Volyova said.
The Triumvir was acting oddly, Khouri thought. More than once she had hinted that this room was her private retreat aboard the ship, and that the others—Sajaki, Hegazi, and the other two women—were not even aware that it existed. It seemed strange indeed that Volyova was prepared to reveal the room to Khouri so soon in their working relationship. Volyova was a solitary, obsessive figure, even aboard a ship crewed by militaristic chimerics—not someone with a natural instinct for trustfulness, Khouri would have thought. Volyova was going through the motions of friendliness towards her, but there was something artificial about all her efforts… they were too planned, too lacking in anything resembling spontaneity. When Volyova made some kind of friendly overture to Khouri—a piece of smalltalk, shipboard gossip or a joke—there was always the feeling that Volyova had spent hours rehearsing, hoping she would sound off-the-cuff. Khouri had known people like that in the military; they seemed genuine at first, but they were usually the ones who turned out to be foreign spies or intelligence-gathering stooges from high command. Volyova was doing her best to act casually about the whole spider-room business, but it was obvious to Khouri that the ghost thing was not all that it appeared. A number of disquieting thoughts struck Khouri, prime among them the idea that perhaps Volyova had brought her to this room with no intention of her ever leaving… alive, anyway.
But that turned out not to be the case.
“Oh, something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Volyova said, breezily. “Does the phrase Sun Stealer mean anything to you yet?”
“No,” Khouri said. “Should it?”
“Oh; there’s no reason it should—just a question, that’s all. Too tedious to explain why, of course—don’t worry about it, will you?”
She was about as convincing as a Mulch fortune-teller.
“No,” Khouri said. “I won’t worry, no…” And then added: “Why did you say ‘yet’?”
* * *
Volyova cursed inwardly: had she blown it? Perhaps not; she had delivered the question as blithely as she dared, and there was nothing in Khouri’s demeanour to suggest that she had taken it as anything other than a casual enquiry… and yet… now was emphatically not the time to start making errors.
“Did I say that?” she said, hoping to inject the right degree of surprise-mingled-with-indifference into her voice. “Slip of the tongue, that’s all.” Volyova groped for a change of subject, quickly. “See that star, the faint red one?”
Now that their eyes had adjusted to the ambient light-levels of interstellar space, with even the blue radiance of the engine exhausts no longer seeming to blot out everything, a few stars were visible.
“That’s Yellowstone’s sun?”
“Epsilon Eridani, yes. We’re three weeks beyond the system. Pretty soon you wouldn’t have such an easy time finding it. We’re not moving relativistically now—only a few per cent of light—but we’re accelerating all the time. Soon the visible stars will move, the constellations warping, until all the stars in the sky are bunched ahead and behind us. It’ll be as if we’re poised midway down a tunnel, with light streaming in from either end. The stars will change colour as well. It isn’t simple, since the final colour depends on the spectral type of each star; how much energy it emits in different energies, including the infrared and ultraviolet. But the tendency will be for those stars ahead of us to shift to the blue; those behind us to the red.”
“I’m sure it’ll be very pretty,” Khouri said, somewhat spoiling the moment. “But I’m not quite sure where the ghosts come into it.”
Volyova smiled. “I’d almost forgotten about them. That would have been a shame.”
And then she spoke into her bracelet, vocalising softly so that Khouri would not hear what it was she had to ask the ship.
Voices of the damned filled the chamber.
“Ghosts,” Volyova said.
Sylveste hovered in midair above the buried city, bodyless.
The encaging walls rose around him, densely engraved with the equivalent of ten thousand printed volumes of Amarantin writing. Although the graphicforms of the writing were mere millimetres high and he floated hundreds of metres from the wall, he only had to focus on any one part of it for the words t
o slam into clarity. As he did so, parallel translating algorithms processed the text into something approaching Canasian, while Sylveste’s own quick semi-intuitive thought processes did likewise. More often than not he came to broad agreement with the programs, but occasionally they missed what might have been a crucial, context-dependent subtlety.
Meanwhile in his quarters in Cuvier, he made rapid, cursive notes, filling page after page of writing pad. These days, he favoured pen and paper over modern recording devices where possible. Digital media were too susceptible to later manipulation by his enemies. At least if his notes were pulped they would be lost for ever, rather than returning to haunt him in a guise warped to suit somebody else’s ideology.
He finished translating a particular section, coming to one of the folded-wing glyphs which signified the end of a sequence. He pulled back from the dizzying textual precipice of the wall.
He slipped a blotter into the pad and closed it. By touch he slipped the pad back into a rack and removed the next pad along. He opened it at the page marked by its own blotter, then ran his fingers down the page until he felt the roughness of the ink vanish. Positioning the book exactly parallel with the desk, he stationed the pen at the start of the first new blank line.
“You’re working too hard,” Pascale said.
She had entered the room unheard; now he had to visualise her standing at his side—or sitting, whichever was the case.
“I think I’m getting somewhere,” Sylveste said.
“Still banging your head against those old inscriptions?”
“One of us is beginning to crack.” He turned his bodyless point of view away from the wall, towards the centre of the enclosed city. “Still, I didn’t think it would take this long.”
“Me neither.”
He knew what she meant. Eighteen months since Nils Girardieau had shown him the buried city; a year since their wedding had been mooted and then put on hold until he had made significant progress on the translating work. Now he was doing exactly that—and it scared him. No more excuses, and she knew it as well as he did.
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