Redemption Ark
( Revelation Space - 3 )
Alastiar Reynolds
Now, this is what I call space opera: huge ships exchanging any number of ravening beams of destruction, implacable alien menaces, doomsday weapons, plucky heroines and heroes fighting desperate odds.
Oh, yeah, this is the big time!
All of the familiar elements of Reynolds’ fiction are here, from the miraculous but corrupted and decaying technology to the once-glittering but now rather rusty civilizations and the damaged individuals hoping for some sort of redemption. Not to mention the various clades of humanity still managing to survive, despite themselves.
Redemption Ark is set in the same universe as Revelation Space and Chasm City but roughly half a century after. Thanks to reefersleep, time dilation and nanotechnology, many of the characters from these two books are still alive and well. Certainly the Inhibitors — lupine machine intelligences that seem to have patrolled our galaxy since it was young — are very much ‘alive’ and well. So well, in fact, that they’re beginning to turn their glacial attention upon the human race with a view to wiping us out, as they’ve wiped out all other intelligent life for millions of years.
The Conjoiners, arguably the best (and certainly the most technologically advanced) aspect of humanity, are now split over what to do about the Inhibitor menace. Having secured their own existence by easily defeating the other main human faction in a pointless war, they’re now making contingency plans to secure an even longer term future. But the old warrior Clavain (whom some may remember from an earlier Reynolds story, ‘Great Wall of Mars’, in Spectrum SF 1) is suspicious of the motives of Skade, the head of this project. Why is there so much secrecy smothering the new Conjoiner technological initiatives? Why, after a century’s moratorium, has star-drive manufacture now been restarted? And what is the Conjoiner Closed Council so terrified of? (I’m not giving too much away when I say that it might be the Inhibitors).
Meanwhile, on the planet Resurgam — Reynolds books always have more than one seemingly-distinct thread in them — where conclusive proof of the existence of the Inhibitors was first discovered (in Revelation Space), Ilia Volyova and Ana Khouri, late of the lighthugger ‘Nostalgia for Infinity’, have forced to change their own plans by the arrival of the first wave of Inhibitors in the system. Fortunately, the Inhibitors seem to be ignoring the regressive human colony — or are they just thinking bigger…?
Redemption Ark is a great work of sf. We know Reynolds can write intelligent stories and build depressingly believable future societies, but now he seems to be getting the hang of writing realistic characters too. Clavain, in particular, is a likeable, intelligent and complex figure, but his opponent, Skade, is not simply a two-dimensional foil either. Both of them are striving towards the same long-term goal — it is mainly their methods that differ. Skade’s drive towards her goals, semi-exposed later in the book, eventually reveal her to be as much a victim as anyone.
Similarly, the reasoning behind the Inhibitor mission — rather oddly, given that every character who encounters them speaks of their Lovecraftian evil — is shown to be morally rather more complex than, say, E.E. ‘Doc’ Smith would have allowed with his fearsome villains.
As with all of Reynolds’ books, this is a long one. However, it doesn’t ever drag or feel padded out; rather it is exactly the right length. The ending leaves you sated but ready for the next installment. The end of Redemption Ark is only the end of the first skirmish in the war against the Inhibitors. I have the feeling that the best is very much yet to come…
Alastair Reynolds
REDEMPTION ARK
PROLOGUE
The dead ship was a thing of obscene beauty.
Skade looped around it in a helical pseudo-orbit, her corvette’s thrusters drumming a rapid tattoo of corrective bursts. The starscape wheeled behind the ship, the system’s sun eclipsed and revealed with each loop of the helix. Skade’s attention had lingered on the sun for a moment too long. She felt an ominous tightening in her throat, the onset of motion sickness.
It was not what she needed.
Irritated, Skade visualised her own brain in glassy three-dimensional complexity. As if peeling a fruit, she stripped away layers of neocortex and cortex, flinging aside the parts of her own mind that did not immediately interest her. The silvery loom of her implant web, topologically identical with her native synaptic network, shimmered with neural traffic, packets of information racing from neuron to neuron at a kilometre per second, ten times faster than the crawl of biological nerve signals. She could not actually perceive those signals moving — that would have required an accelerated rate of consciousness, which would have required even faster neural traffic — but the abstraction nonetheless revealed which parts of her augmented brain were the most active.
Skade zoomed in on a specific locus of brain function called the Area Postrema, an ancient tangle of neural circuitry that handled conflicts between vision and balance. Her inner ear felt only the steady pressure of her shuttle’s acceleration, but her eyes saw a cyclically changing view as the background wheeled behind the ship. The ancient part of her brain could only reconcile that mismatch by assuming that Skade was hallucinating. It therefore sent a signal to another part of her brain that had evolved to protect the body from ingesting poisons.
Skade knew there was no point blaming her brain for making her feel nauseous. The hallucination/poison connection had worked very well for millions of years, allowing her ancestors to experiment with a wider diet than would otherwise have been possible. It just had no place here and now, on the chill, dangerous edge of another solar system. She supposed it would have made sense to erase such features by deftly rewiring the basic topology, but that was a lot easier said than done. The brain was holographic and messy, like a hopelessly overcomplicated computer program. Skade knew, therefore, that by ‘switching off the part of her brain that was making her feel nauseous, she was almost certainly affecting other areas of brain function that shared some of the same neural circuitry. But she could live with that; she had done something similar a thousand times before, and she had seldom experienced any cognitive side effects.
There. The culprit region pulsed pink and dropped off the network. The nausea vanished; she felt a great deal better.
What remained was anger at her own carelessness. When she had been a field operative, making frequent incursions into enemy territory, she would never have left it until now to make such a modest neural adjustment. She had become sloppy, and that was unforgivable. Especially now that the ship had returned: an event that might prove to be as significant to the Mother Nest as any of the war’s recent campaigns.
She felt sharper now. The old Skade was still there; she just needed to be dusted off and honed now and then.
[Skade, you will be careful, won’t you? It’s clear that something very peculiar has happened to this ship.]
The voice she heard was quiet, feminine and confined entirely to her own skull. She answered it subvocally.
I know.
[Have you identified it? Do you know which of the two it is, or was?]
It’s Galiana’s.
Now that she had swept around it, a three-dimensional image of the ship formed in her visual cortex, bracketed in a loom of shifting eidetic annotation as more information was teased out of the hulk.
[Galiana’s? The Galiana’s? You’re sure of that?]
Yes. There were some small design differences between the three that left together, and in as much as this matches either of the two that haven’t come back yet, it matches hers.
The presence took a moment to respond, as it sometimes did.
[That was our conclusion as well. But somethi
ng has clearly happened to this ship since it left the Mother Nest, wouldn’t you say?]
A lot of somethings, if you ask me.
[Let’s begin at the front and work backwards. There is evidence of damage — considerable damage: lacerations and gouges, whole portions of the hull that appear to have been removed and discarded, like diseased tissue. Plague, do you think?]
Skade shook her head, remembering her recent trip to Chasm City. I’ve seen the effects of the Melding Plague up close. This doesn’t look like quite the same thing.
[We agree. This is something different. Nonetheless, full plague quarantine precautions should be enforced; we might still be dealing with an infectious agent. Focus your attention towards the rear, will you?]
The voice, which was never quite like any of the other voices she heard from other Conjoiners, took on a needling, tutorial quality, as if it already knew the answers to the questions it posed. [What do you make of the regular structures embedded in the hull, Skade?]
Here and there, situated randomly, were clusters of black cubes of varying size and orientation. They appeared to have been pressed into the hull as if into wet clay, so that their faces were half-concealed by the hulk’s hull material. They radiated curving tails of smaller cubes, whipping out in elegant fractal arcs.
I’d say those are what they were trying to cut out elsewhere. Obviously they weren’t fast enough to get them all.
[We concur. Whatever they are, they should certainly be treated with the utmost caution, although they may very well be inactive now. Perhaps Galiana was able to stop them spreading. Her ship was able to make it this far, even if it returned home on autopilot. You are sure that no one is alive aboard it, Skade?]
No, and I won’t be until we open her up. But it doesn’t look promising. No movement inside, no obvious hotspots. The hull’s too cold for any life-support processes to be operational unless they’re carrying a cryo-arithmetic engine.
Skade hesitated, running a few more simulations in her head as background processes.
[Skade…?]
There could be a small number of survivors, I admit — but the bulk of the crew can’t be anything other than frozen corpses. We might be able to trawl a few memories, but even that’s probably being optimistic.
[We’re really only interested in one corpse, Skade.]
I don’t even know if Galiana’s aboard it. And even if she is… even if we directed all our efforts into bringing her back to the living…we might not succeed.
[We understand. These are difficult times, after all. While it would be glorious to succeed, failure would be worse than never having attempted it. At least in the eyes of the Mother Nest.]
Is that the Night Council’s considered opinion?
[All our opinions are considered, Skade. Visible failure cannot be tolerated. But that doesn’t mean we won’t do our best. If Galiana is aboard, we will do what we can to bring her back to us. But it must be done in absolute secrecy.]
How absolute, precisely?
[Knowledge of the ship’s return will be impossible to conceal from the rest of the Mother Nest. But we can spare them the torment of hope, Skade. It will be reported that she is dead, beyond hope of revival. Let our compatriots’ grief be quick and bright, like a nova. It will only make their efforts against the enemy more strenuous. But in the meantime we will work on her with diligence and love. If we bring her back to the living, her return will be a miracle. We will be forgiven our bending of the truth here and now.]
Skade caught herself before she laughed aloud. Bending of the truth? It sounds like an outright lie to me. And how are you going to ensure that Clavain sticks to your story?
[Why do you imagine Clavain will be a problem, Skade?]
She answered the question with a question of her own. Don’t tell me you’re planning on not telling him either?
[This is war, Skade. There is an old aphorism concerning truth and casualty with which we will not presently detain you, but we’re certain you grasp the point. Clavain is a major asset in our tactical armoury. His thinking is unlike any other Conjoiner’s, and for that reason he gives us a constant edge against the enemy. He will grieve and grieve quickly, like the others, and it will be painful. But then he will be his old self again, just when we need him the most. Better that, don’t you think, than to inflict upon him some protracted period of hope and — likely — crushing disappointment?]
The voice shifted its tone, perhaps sensing that it still needed to make its point convincingly. [Clavain is an emotional man, Skade — more so than the rest of us. He was old when he came to us, older in neurological terms than any other recruit we have ever gained. His mind is still mired in old ways of thinking. We mustn’t ever forget that. He is fragile and needs our care, like a delicate hothouse flower.]
But lying to him about Galiana…
[It may never come to that. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. First we have to examine the ship — Galiana may not be aboard after all.]
Skade nodded. That would be the best thing, wouldn’t it? Then we’d know that she’s still out there, somewhere.
[Yes. But then we’d have to address the small matter of whatever happened to the third ship.]
In the ninety-five years since the onset of the Melding Plague, the Conjoiners had learned a great deal about contamination management. As one of the last human factions to retain an appreciable pre-plague technology, they took quarantine very seriously indeed. In peacetime the safest and easiest option would have been to examine the ship in situ, as it drifted through space on the system’s edge. But there was too much risk of the Demarchists noticing such activity, so the investigations had to be conducted under cover of camouflage. The Mother Nest was already equipped to take contaminated craft, so it was the perfect destination.
But precautions still had to be taken, and that entailed a certain amount of work out in open space. First, servitors removed the engines, lasering through the spars that braced them on either side of the lighthugger’s tapering conic hull. An engine malfunction could have destroyed the Mother Nest, and while such a thing was nearly unthinkable, Skade was determined to take no chances while the nature of what had happened to the ship remained mysterious. While that was going on, she ordered tractor rockets to haul slugs of black unsublimated cometary ice out to the drifter, which servitors then slathered on to the hull in a metre-thick caulk. The servitors completed their work quickly, without ever coming into direct contact with the hull. The ship had been dark to begin with; now it became impossibly black.
Once that was done, Skade fired grapples into the ice, anchoring tractor rockets all around the hulk. Since the ice would be bearing all the structural stress of moving the ship, she had to attach a thousand tractors to avoid fracturing any one part of the caulk. It was exquisitely beautiful when they all ignited: a thousand pinpricks of cold blue flame stabbing out from the black spirelike core of the drifter. She kept the acceleration slow, and her calculations had been so accurate that she needed only one small corrective burst before the final approach to the Mother Nest. Such bursts were timed to coincide with blind spots in the Demarchist’s sensor coverage, blind spots which the Demarchists thought the Conjoiners knew nothing about.
Inside the Mother Nest, the hulk was hauled into a five-kilometre-wide ceramic-lined docking bay. The bay had been designed specifically for handling plague ships and was just large enough to accommodate a lighthugger with its engines removed. The ceramic walls were thirty metres thick and every item of machinery inside the bay was hardened against known plague strains. The chamber was sealed once the ship was inside it, along with Skade’s hand-picked examination team. Because the bay had only the most meagre data connections with the rest of the Mother Nest, the team had to be primed to deal with isolation from the million other Conjoiners in the Nest. That requirement made for operatives who were not always the most stable — but Skade could hardly complain. She was the rarest of all: a Conjoiner who could operate entirely alone,
deep in enemy territory.
Once the ship was secured, the chamber was pressurised with argon at two atmospheres. All but a fine layer of ice was removed from the ship by delicate ablation, with the final layer melted away over a period of six days. A flock of sensors hovered around the ship like gulls, sniffing the argon for any traces of foreign matter. But apart from chips of hull material nothing unusual was detected.
Skade bided her time, taking every possible precaution. She did not touch the ship until it was absolutely necessary. A hoop-shaped imaging gravitometer whirred along the ship, probing its internal structure, hinting at fuzzy interior details. Much of what Skade saw matched what she expected to see from the blueprints, but there were strange things that should not have been there: elongated black masses which corkscrewed and bifurcated through the ship’s interior. They reminded her of bullet trails in forensic images, or the patterns sub-atomic particles made when they passed through cloud chambers. Where the black masses reached the outer hull, Skade always found one of the half-buried cubic structures.
But there was still room in the ship for humans to have survived, even though all the indications were that none still lived. Neutrino radar and gamma-ray scans elucidated more of the structure, but still Skade could not see the crucial details. Reluctantly, she moved to the next phase of her investigation: physical contact. She attached dozens of mechanical jackhammers around the hull, along with hundreds of paste-on microphones. The hammers started up, thudding against the hull. She heard the din in her spacesuit, transmitted through the argon. It sounded like an army of metalsmiths working overtime in a distant foundry. The microphones listened for the metallic echoes as the acoustic waves propagated through the ship. One of Skade’s older neural routines unravelled the information buried in the arrival times of the echoes, assembling a tomographic density profile of the ship.
Skade saw it all in ghostly grey-greens. It did not contradict anything that she had already learned, and improved her knowledge in several areas. But she could glean nothing further without going inside, and that would not be easy. All the airlocks had been sealed from inside with plugs of molten metal. She cut through them, slowly and nervously, with lasers and hyperdiamond-tipped drills, feeling the crew’s fear and desperation. When she had the first lock open she sent in an exploratory detachment of hardened servitors, ceramic-shelled crabs equipped with just enough intelligence to get the job done. They fed images back into her skull.
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