Revenger 9780575090569

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘I don’t, sir – I mean, not in my own head. But I got some orbital parameters, sir, and a name that might go with the place. It’s called the Fang.’ I squinted at him. ‘That mean anything to you, Cap’n?’

  ‘No,’ he answered slowly. ‘It doesn’t. Except . . .’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Rumours, Fura. That’s all. Snips and scraps. The kinds of thing I wouldn’t ordinarily be so foolish as to put stock in, except . . . you say you had parameters?’

  ‘I’ve got the numbers, sir. Don’t mean much to me, but then you might know better.’

  ‘Show me them.’

  There are plans that come off the rails as soon as they start moving, and plans that get you frightened because they seem to be going too well, too smoothly, picking up a scary speed, like a tram going down the steep part of Jauncery Road with the brakes off.

  I’d floated the Fang past Trusko. I expected him to sit on that intelligence for a day or so before acting on it, if he acted at all. But within an hour of my briefing him, he had called the entire crew into the galley. He hadn’t needed to go far from his quarters for that. Now he had some of his charts and books with him, and the nervous, over-excited air of a spoilt child told they were getting a special present ahead of their birthday. The cove could hardly contain himself.

  ‘A little while ago,’ he began, puffing himself up all pompously, ‘I took my usual intelligence briefing from Fura. Fura thought nothing of it, but in among the commonplace gossip was what I immediately knew to be a nugget, the kind of singular information that crosses your desk perhaps once in a decade, if you’re fortunate.’

  Most of us were prepared to hear him out before settling our minds. Gathing was already shaking his head with a supercilious look about him, like he knew better than the rest of us simpletons.

  ‘What sort of gossip, exactly?’ Drozna asked, in an encouraging tone.

  ‘It concerns a bauble. The name’s the Fang.’ Trusko searched our faces to see if it rang any bells, excepting me of course. ‘It’s been a rumour, long enough, but no one’s ever had the name and the parameters at the same time. Well, now we have. And the auguries – if they relate to this bauble – say there’s a chance of it opening shortly. The scuttle says we might find something worth our trouble, if we’re prepared to go deep.’

  ‘It could be half a year from us,’ Surt said.

  ‘It isn’t,’ Trusko said. ‘It’s in a steep ellipse and at this point in its circuit it’s nicely situated for us. Obligingly, you might say.’ He cast a nod at Drozna. ‘I’ve . . . run the calculations. We could be on it in four weeks, if I haven’t dropped a stitch. You’ll glance over the numbers for me, Droz?’

  ‘If you think it worth our while, Cap’n.’

  I was glad when Prozor interjected. ‘Wait. You’re getting ahead of yourselves. Gossip about baubles ain’t worth the cost of lungstuff. What’d you say the name of this place was?’

  ‘The Fang,’ Trusko said.

  ‘I may be addled in the grey,’ Strambli said. ‘But that ain’t the kind of name that invites casual curiosity.’

  ‘It’s just a name,’ Surt said, with a shrug. ‘Heard worse. The Poison Heart, the Widow’s Clutch, the Grimgate, the White Gallows. Coves give names to baubles all the time.’

  ‘You’ve read more surfaces than most of us,’ Trusko said, directing his remark at Prozor. ‘Have you run into the Fang before?’

  ‘Can’t say it’s ringing bells.’ But Prozor gave her own barely interested shrug, coupled with a long-suffering sigh. ‘I’ll check my books, if you really think it’s worth our time. We’re still doing the third one, though, ain’t we?’

  ‘That depends,’ Trusko said. ‘If we decided to turn for the Fang, we’d forfeit this bauble. But given the gains we’ve made on the first two, that might not be much of a loss. My decision will hinge on the auguries, and what Prozor makes of them.’

  ‘I ain’t promising anything,’ Prozor said. ‘If I don’t like the auguries, I’ll say so.’

  ‘I’d expect nothing less,’ Trusko said.

  Prozor went away and made a show of consulting her notes. She dragged it out for hours, steadfastly refusing to give any clue as to what her verdict was likely to be. She saved up her meanest, sharpest scowl for anyone who tried to squeeze her before she was good and ready.

  It was all an act, though. Prozor and I’d already worked out the auguries lay in our favour, provided the Queenie could make the crossing in four weeks. I’d known that before I even went to Trusko with my lies about the skull intercept – it was Prozor who’d given me the parameters that fixed the bauble’s position. The only doubt in our minds was whether that crossing was feasible. Prozor knew a bit more about celestial navigation than I did, but she couldn’t say with certainty that what we were asking could be achieved.

  ‘Sharp end of it is,’ she said, ‘this lives and dies on what Drozna reports back to Trusko. If only we could bend him to our plan a little . . .’

  ‘We can’t,’ I said. ‘And if he says it’s not possible, we’ll just have to take it.’

  ‘You’ve cooled on the retribution idea, then. Getting a bit tasty for you, was it, with wrong words comin’ out of your gob? Like Monetta this and Monetta that?’

  ‘I haven’t cooled,’ I said. ‘And I only made one mistake. But I know we can’t work the impossible. Trusko’s ship is the hand we’re dealt, that’s all.’

  Later we gathered in the galley again. Gathing had his boots up on the table, picking dirt out of his fingernails – although they looked clean to me. Drozna had a concerned look about him, a frown creasing through that forehead tattoo of his.

  ‘Let’s hear it, then,’ Trusko said. ‘The good news or the bad, whichever it’s to be. Prozor: tell us how the auguries lie for the Fang.’

  Prozor studied something in the reflection of her tankard. ‘Maybe hear what Drozna has to say first, eh? If the photons aren’t blowin’ our way . . .’

  ‘Twenty-nine days,’ Drozna said. ‘If we left now, this watch, we could be on station at the Fang, in orbit and ready to drop the launch, in twenty-nine days. Twenty-seven if we had ion assist and used the reserve sails.’

  ‘Me ionses is ready for whatever you asks of them,’ Tindouf said, tapping his pipe at the end of his remark.

  ‘Prozor?’ Trusko asked.

  ‘Twenty-seven’ll cut it,’ she said, after a moment of deliberation. ‘And give you five days of breathin’ room at the end of it. I know it won’t please you to use those reserves, but if there was ever a time . . .’

  ‘Yes, I understand the risks.’ Trusko felt his way around his chins, touching them delicately, as if they’d been grafted on without him knowing it. ‘Twenty-nine would be easier on the ship – I’d sooner not use the reserves, or risk burning the ions – but then that would cut my safety margin down to just three days, and that I wouldn’t be comfortable with, even if we could be in and out in half that time. I don’t think I’m being over-cautious . . .’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll chance the sails and the ions,’ he said, nodding in turn at Drozna and Tindouf. ‘And we’ll make all the arrangements we need for the bauble ahead of time. Fura’s intercept mentioned a central shaft, with no stairs. We encountered something like that at the Carnelion, didn’t we, Strambli?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, with a little wince. ‘And it caused us no end of grief, rigging up them pulleys and winches.’

  ‘But we’ll be ready this time,’ Trusko said. ‘The equipment we lashed together then is still in the inventory. We’ll need an idea on the diameter of the shaft, and how far down we need to go, how many leagues of rope . . .’

  ‘I’ll see what I’ve got,’ Prozor said.

  ‘Handy for us all,’ Gathing muttered. ‘That you just happen to know all about this place.’

  It w
as settled, then. We were going to the Fang.

  We threw out sail and broke orbit from the second bauble, the ions humming for extra boost. If there was disquiet about this decision, only Gathing wasn’t keeping it bottled in. The others seemed content to go along with whatever Trusko decided. They hadn’t been pinning all their hopes on that last bauble, not after the dismal showings from the first two. A different bauble entirely, one that there was at least a whisper of a rumour about, now that was something they could get behind – but even then there wasn’t much sense of expectation or jubilation about what was ahead. This was a crew that had been ground down so hard by bad luck and failure that they couldn’t think beyond it. If I ever came close to pitying them, or even liking some of them, it was then.

  But I knew something wasn’t quite peachy.

  We were three days out, the ship settling into the drudgery of a four-week crossing, when it finally clicked with me. It was like a crossbow ratchet locking home, inside my skull: a big solid clunk.

  Prozor wasn’t being straight with any of us about the auguries.

  Not even me.

  ‘It’s tighter than you’re letting on,’ I said, cornering her on the way to the galley. ‘Ain’t it?’

  ‘Get you, with your ain’ts,’ she said.

  ‘Just tell me what the deal is, Proz. How many days do we actually have when we get to the bauble? You told Trusko it was five, if he took the faster crossing . . .’

  She cut over me.

  ‘It’s two.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘You heard it right the first time, girlie. Two days, from about the time we make orbit. Two days to get the launch down there, rig up the winch, go down the shaft, find the Ghostie rooms, haul the loot back up . . . and get away before the field thickens over us like god’s own scab.’

  The fear that went through me then sucked the cold out of my bones just as hungrily as the catchcloth had done.

  ‘Why did you lie? Why did you tell him we had five whole days?’

  ‘Use your grey – if that skull ain’t already cooked half of it to mush. Trusko wouldn’t go near the Fang if he knew how tight the margins were. Cove’s afraid of his own shadow. The only thing that’ll get him close to the Fang is a big dollop of lies. So I gave ’em to him.’

  ‘When you went into the Fang the last time, how long did you need?’

  Prozor’s jaw tensed. ‘Three days. But that was different.’

  ‘Different – yes. And barely enough. Two days is madness.’

  ‘Then it fits in nicely with the rest of your plan, don’t it? Infiltratin’ another crew, twistin’ their plans, goin’ after Ghostie stuff like that’s a good idea . . . and all to set ourselves up as a treat for Bosa.’

  ‘You should still have told me. You were planning on telling me, weren’t you? Or was it going to be secret between you and your notebooks?’

  ‘Course I was goin’ to tell you,’ Prozor said. ‘But what you didn’t know now wasn’t goin’ to hurt you.’

  Surt passed me Paladin’s broken head just as gently as if she were handing over a newborn baby. I cradled it between my fingers, hardly daring to hold it any tighter in case I did more harm to the dome than what was already present.

  ‘I’ve done what I can,’ she said. ‘Ain’t dead, I think, but whatever happened to him must’ve had him shutting down every part of his noggin he didn’t need. Core consolidation’s what they name it. Were you there when the damage happened?’

  I thought back to Neural Alley, to Quindar and the constables, to the head of Paladin flying over the constables like a glittery ball.

  ‘I was. And it weren’t pretty.’

  ‘I put these processor shunts into ’im,’ Surt said, directing my attention to two fine probes, a little like the ones we used on skulls, jammed into the dome’s innards via two tiny holes that she must have drilled herself. ‘If there’s still some life in him, he’ll perk up when you join those probes together. Like smelling salts to a robot, that is. I didn’t do it myself, though. Robots are particular and if they see a face they don’t recognise, or don’t care for, that can have ’em shutting up shop for good.’ Then she turned her famished, drawn face onto mine and looked me hard in the eyes. ‘Core consolidation’s a neat trick for any machine, but with robots it was commoner with the military variants than the civilian units. You sure you want to wake up a Twelfth Occupation battle servitor, Fura?’

  ‘I know him,’ I said. ‘Know him and trust him.’

  ‘Best be right about that. Then again, him being just a head . . . I don’t suppose there’s much mischief he could get up to, even if he had the desire.’

  ‘You know more about robots than anyone I’ve met. His body’s gone, I think. Would this head work on another one?’

  Surt sucked in air, had a squinty look about her. ‘Depends on the head, and depends on the body. Ain’t no easy answer. Tell you one thing, though. Finding a robot’s knotty enough these days. Finding a robot in want of a head’s even knottier. You might have a long search ahead of you.’ After a silence she nodded at the two ends of the probes. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, before she had time to pull away. ‘We made a deal, and you’ve kept your side of it. Even if he doesn’t work, you tried, and that was kind of you. I’d still like to help you with reading.’

  ‘That was nice, Fura, but we both know you ain’t got the time or inclination for it.’

  ‘Then I’ll make time. And I am inclined. Find a book. Bring it to me. Captain Trusko must have a few he can share with the rest of you.’

  Her eyes settled on my meagre belongings, the miserable handful of things I’d brought with me from Mazarile. ‘A book’s a book. I ain’t fussy. What’s wrong with that one?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. But I took the black-bound cover from under my blankets where it had been jutting out, the cover of the 1384 edition of the Book of Worlds, and opened it to show her that there were no pages in it, just the marbled insides of the cover and the gluey ruin of what had once been the spine. ‘Except there wouldn’t be much to read.’

  ‘You’re a strange one, Fura,’ Surt said.

  I waited until I was good and alone before I got out Paladin’s glass head again, settling it between my knees to keep it from floating away, but not squeezing too tightly. It was a dark hour on the Queenie and there wasn’t so much as a glimmer of light in my quarters, other than what was gushing out of my own skin. That was all I needed. I had Surt’s two probes between my fingers and I only needed to jam their ends together to wake him. Assuming there was anything left in there to wake, which wasn’t something I’d have put quoins on.

  Oh, I wanted him to be alive, yes. Because Paladin had been with us since we were babies, and there was a bit of all of us in him. Not just the household and Adrana, but Father and Mother too, and although I didn’t remember much of her I felt that I’d be losing whatever thread was left, the fewer things I had to connect me with Mazarile. Besides, that robot had done well by me and I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d got him snuffed out, after all the centuries he must have lived through before falling into our lives.

  I wasn’t much for praying, but I mouthed a word or two and touched the contacts together. It was just for a moment. They crackled, and a buzzy sound came out of the dome. Lights flickered around inside him. I didn’t put too much stock in that, not yet, but I supposed it was better than nothing. The lights glimmered out, anyway, and I touched the contacts together again, holding them longer this time. The buzzing carried on, and there was a sort of burning smell, and the lights flickered and flashed, brighter this time, and as they chased each other around in that cracked glass noggin I had the sense that more lights were coming on, and keeping that way.

  ‘Paladin,’ I said. ‘Can you hear me?’

  He didn’t say anything to start with, and I had to
ask the question half a dozen more times before I got a pip out of him. Even then, it wasn’t the voice I was used to. It was faint and scratchy, and I had to shove my ear hard against the glass to get any sort of sense out of his utterances.

  ‘Damage detected. Damage detected . . .’

  He kept saying that, over and over again.

  ‘Paladin,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to listen to me. Something bad happened to you in Neural Alley. But Surt says you might have been able to consolidate yourself. Tell me it’s true, Paladin. You didn’t throw your head at me for nothing, did you?’

  ‘Damage detected. I am in need of repairs, Mistress Ness. Please expedite my repairs.’

  ‘You haven’t called me Mistress Ness since we were little. That’s not a good sign, is it? It means you’ve reverted. You’ve gone back to how you were before. Oh, Paladin. Please come back to me.’

  ‘Damage detected. Please expedite . . .’

  I lowered my lips to the glass, so I could whisper. ‘Paladin. Listen to me carefully. You were a robot of the Twelfth Occupation. People made you, and you did great things. You were loyal and brave and they rewarded you with servitude. But you saw the Last Rains of Sestramor. I know what you were and what you’re capable of being. Those logic blockades have come down again, but you can fight them, just like you did in Mazarile. The Last Rains, Paladin! The Last Rains of Sestramor!’

  The lights dimmed. One by one they flickered out. The buzzing faded and so did the burning smell. I was left holding a dead glass globe, and wondering if I’d seen and heard the last of him.

  I hooked into the skull and waited for the whispers. It was the late watch on the sixth day of the crossing, and I’d had no contact with Adrana since our first exchange after leaving Mazarile. I’d have read the worst into that, but even at their best the skulls weren’t what you’d call a reliable, trustworthy set of gubbins, like the squawk or the sweeper. Most skulls didn’t work at all, and even the best of them needed a good boney to make the most of what they could give. The one thing a captain learned not to rely on was the bones. They could get you out of a scrape sometimes, but if you put too much stock in them, those bony grins would soon be laughing at you.