The Revelation Space Collection

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Forget it,’ Khouri said. ‘I’m sure I’d feel the same.’

  The corridor widened out now, into what seemed to be a well-appointed scientific study, from any time in the last five or six centuries. The room’s predominant colour was brown, the brown of age: on the wooden shelves which ran along its walls, on the browning spines of the ancient paper books arrayed along those shelves, the lustrous brown of the mahogany desk, and the golden-brown metal of the antique scientific tools placed around the desk’s periphery for effect. Wooden cabinets buttressed the walls which did not carry shelves, and in them hung yellowing bones; alien bones which at first glance might be mistaken for the fossils of dinosaurs or large, extinct flightless birds, provided one did not pay undue attention to the capaciousness of the alien skull, the roominess of the mind it had surely once entrapped.

  There were examples of modern apparatus too: scanning devices, advanced cutting instruments, racks of eidetics and holographic storage wafers. A servitor of intermediate modernity waited inertly in one corner, head slightly bowed, like a trusty retainer taking a well-earned snooze while still on his feet.

  In one wall, slatted windows overlooked an arid, windswept terrain of mesas and precarious rock formations, bathed in the reddish light of a setting sun, already disappearing behind the chaotic horizon.

  And at the desk - rising from it as they entered the room, as if disturbed from concentration - was Sylveste.

  She looked into his eyes - human eyes - for the first time, in what passed for the flesh.

  For a moment he looked annoyed by their intrusion, but his expression softened until half a smile played across his features. ‘I’m glad you took the time to visit us,’ he said. ‘And I hope Pascale has explained all that you asked of her.’

  ‘Most of it,’ Khouri said, stepping further into the study, marvelling at the fastidiousness of its recreation. It was as good as any simulation she had ever experienced. Yet - and the thought was as impressive as it was frightening - every single object in this room was moulded from nuclear matter, at densities so large that, ordinarily, the smallest paperweight on his desk would have exerted a fatal gravitational pull, even from halfway across the room. ‘But not all of it. How did you get here?’

  ‘Pascale probably mentioned that there was another way into the matrix.’ He offered her the palms of his hands. ‘I found it, that’s all. Passed through it.’

  ‘And what happened to your . . .’

  ‘My real self?’ The smile had a quality of self-amusement now, as if he were enjoying some private joke too subtle to share. ‘I doubt that he survived. And frankly, it doesn’t really concern me. I’m the real me now. I’m all that I ever was.’

  ‘What happened in Cerberus?’

  ‘That’s a very long story, Khouri.’

  But he told her anyway. How he had travelled into the world; how Sajaki’s suit had turned out to be an empty shell; how that realisation had done nothing but strengthen his resolve to push on further, and what, finally, he had found, in the final chamber. How he had passed into the matrix - at which point, his memories diverged from his other self. But when he told her he was sure that his other self was dead, he did so with such conviction that Khouri wondered if there was not another way of knowing; if some other, less tangible bond had linked them, right until the end.

  There were things even Sylveste did not really understand; that much she sensed. He had not achieved godhead - or at least, not for more than an instant, when he bathed in the portal. Had that been a choice he had made subsequently? she wondered. If the matrix was simulating him; and if the matrix was essentially infinite in its computational capacity . . . what limits had been imposed on him, other than those he had consciously selected?

  What she learnt was this: Carine Lefevre had been kept alive by part of the Shroud, but there had been nothing accidental about it.

  ‘It’s as if there were two factions,’ Sylveste said, toying with one of the brass microscopes on his desk, angling its little mirror this way and that, as if trying to catch the last rays of the setting sun. ‘One that wanted to use me to find out if the Inhibitors were still around, still capable of posing a threat to the Shrouders. And the other faction, which I don’t think cared for humanity any more than the first. But they were more cautious. They thought there had to be a better way, other than goading the Inhibitor device to see if it still generated a response.’

  ‘But what happens to us now? Who actually won? Was it Sun Stealer or the Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Neither,’ Sylveste said, placing the microscope back down again, its velvet base softly bumping against the desk. ‘At least, that’s my instinctual feeling. I think we - I - came close to triggering the device, close to giving it the stimulus it needed to alert the remaining devices and begin the war against humanity.’ He laughed. ‘Calling it a war implied it might have been a two-sided thing. But I don’t think it would have been like that at all.’

  ‘But you don’t think it got that far?’

  ‘I hope and I pray, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. I used to say I was never wrong about anything, but that’s one lesson I have learnt.’

  ‘And what about the Amarantin, the Shrouders?’

  ‘Only time will tell.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘I don’t have all the answers, Khouri.’ He looked around the room, as if appraising the volumes on the shelves, reassuring himself that they were still present. ‘Not even here.’

  ‘It’s time to go,’ Pascale said, suddenly. She had appeared at her husband’s side with a glass of something clear; vodka, maybe. She placed it on the desk, next to a polished skull the colour of parchment.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back into space, Khouri. Isn’t that what you want? You surely don’t want to spend the rest of eternity here.’

  ‘There’s nowhere to go,’ Khouri said. ‘You should know that, Pascale. The ship was against us; the spider-room destroyed; Ilia killed—’

  ‘She made it, Khouri. She wasn’t killed when the shuttle was destroyed.’

  So she had managed to get into a suit - but what good did that do her? Khouri was about to question Pascale further, when she realised that whatever the woman told her was very likely to be true, no matter how unbelievable it seemed - and no matter how useless the truth, no matter how little difference it could possibly make.

  ‘What are you two going to do?’

  Sylveste reached for the vodka glass and took a discreet sip. ‘Haven’t you guessed yet? This room isn’t just for your benefit. We inhabit it as well, except that we inhabit a simulated version in the matrix. And not just this room, but the rest of the base; just as it always was - except now we have it all to ourselves.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No . . . not quite.’

  And then Pascale moved to his side and he put an arm around her waist and the two of them turned towards the slatted window; towards the red-drenched alien sunset, the arid landscape of Resurgam stretching away, lifeless.

  And then it changed.

  It began at the horizon; a sweeping wave of transformation which raced towards them with the speed of an oncoming day. Clouds burst into the sky, vast as empires; now the sky was bluer, even though the sun was still sinking towards dusk. And the landscape was no longer arid, but erupting into tumultuous greenery, a verdant tidal wave. She could see lakes, and trees, alien trees, and now roads, winding between egglike houses, clustered into hamlets and, on the horizon, a larger community, rising towards a single slender spire. She stared into the distance, and stared, struck dumb by the immensity of what she was seeing, which was an entire world returned to life, and - perhaps it was a trick of the eye; she would never know - she thought she saw them moving between the houses, moving with the speed of birds, but never leaving the ground; never reaching the air.

  ‘Everything that they ever were,’ Pascale said, ‘or most of it, at any rate, is stored in the matrix. This is
n’t some archaeological reconstruction, Khouri. This is Resurgam, as they inhabit it now. Brought into being by sheer force of will, by those who survived. It’s a whole world, down to the smallest detail.’

  Khouri looked around the room, and now she understood. ‘And you’re going to study it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not just study it,’ Sylveste said, draining a little more of his vodka. ‘But live in it. Until it bores us, which - I suspect - won’t be any time now.’

  And then she left them, in their study, to resume whatever deep and meaningful conversation they had put in abeyance while they entertained her.

  She finished climbing the stairwell, stepping once more onto the surface of Hades. The crust was still aglow with red fire, still alive with computation. Now that she had been here for long enough to attune her senses, she realised that, all along, the crust had been drumming beneath her feet, as if a titanic engine were roaring in a basement. That, she supposed, was not far from the truth. It was an engine of simulation.

  She thought of Sylveste and Pascale, commencing another day’s exploration of their fabulous new world. In the time since she had left them, years might have passed for them. That seemed to matter very little. She had the suspicion that they would only choose death when all else had ceased to hold their fascination. Which, as Sylveste had said, was not going to happen any time soon.

  She turned on the suit communicator.

  ‘Ilia . . . can you hear me? Shit; this is stupid, but they said you might still be alive.’

  There was nothing but static. Hopes crushed, she looked around at the searing plain and wondered what she was meant to do next.

  Then: ‘Khouri, is that you? What business have you got still being alive?’

  There was something very odd about her voice. It kept speeding up and slowing down, like she was drunk, but too ominously regular for that.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing. Last thing I remember is the shuttle going belly-up. You telling me you’re still out there, drifting?’

  ‘Better than that,’ Volyova said, voice whooshing up and down the spectrum. ‘I’m aboard a shuttle; do you hear that? I’m aboard a shuttle.’

  ‘How the—’

  ‘The ship sent it. The Infinity.’ For once, Volyova sounded breathless with excitement; as if this was something she had been desperately anxious to tell someone. ‘I thought it was going to kill me. That’s all I was waiting for; that final attack. But it didn’t come. Instead, the ship sent out a shuttle for me.’

  ‘This doesn’t make any sense. Sun Stealer should still be running it; should still be trying to finish us off . . .’

  ‘No,’ Volyova said, still with the same tone of childish delight, ‘no; it makes perfect sense - provided what I did worked, which I think it must have—’

  ‘What did you do, Ilia?’

  ‘I - um - let the Captain warm.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Yes; it was rather a terminal approach to the problem. But I thought if one parasite was trying to gain control of the ship, the surest way to fight it was by unleashing an even more potent one.’ Volyova paused, as if awaiting Khouri’s confirmation that this had indeed been a sensible thing to do. When none came, she continued, ‘This was barely a day ago - do you know what that means? The plague must have transformed a substantial mass of the ship in only a few hours! The speed of the transformation must have been incredible; centimetres a second!’

  ‘Are you sure it was wise?’

  ‘Khouri, it’s probably the least wise thing I’ve ever done in my life. But it does seem to have worked. At the very least, we’ve swapped one megalomaniac for another - but this one doesn’t seem quite so dedicated to our destruction.’

  ‘I guess that’s a step in the right direction. Where are you now? Have you been back aboard yet?’

  ‘Hardly. No, I’ve spent the last few hours searching for you. Where the hell are you, Khouri? I can’t seem to get a meaningful fix on your location.’

  ‘You don’t really want to know.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. But I want you aboard this ship as soon as possible. I’m not going back into the lighthugger alone, in case you had any doubts. I don’t think it’s going to look quite the way we remembered it. You - uh - can reach me, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Khouri did what she had been told she should do, when she wanted to leave the surface of Hades. It made very little sense, but Pascale had been quite insistent - she had said it was a message that the matrix would understand; one that would cause it to project its bubble of low-field gravity into space; a bottle in which she could ride to safety.

  She spread arms wide, as if she had wings; as if she could fly.

  The red ground - fluctuating, shimmering as ever - dropped smoothly away.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Dear Newcomer,

  Welcome to the Epsilon Eridani system.

  Despite all that has happened, we hope your stay here will be a pleasant one. For your information we have compiled this document to explain some of the key events in our recent history. It is intended that this information will ease your transition into a culture which may be markedly different from the one you were expecting to find when you embarked at your point of origin. It is important that you realise that others have come before you. Their experiences have helped us shape this document in a manner designed to minimise the shock of cultural adjustment. We have found that attempts to gloss over or understate the truth of what happened - of what continues to happen - are ultimately harmful; that the best approach - based on a statistical study of cases such as yours - is to present the facts in as open and honest manner as possible.

  We are fully aware that your initial response is likely disbelief, quickly followed by anger and then a state of protracted denial.

  It is important to grasp that these are normal reactions.

  It is equally important to grasp - even at this early stage - that there will come a time when you will adjust to and accept the truth. It might be days from now; it might even be weeks or months, but in all but a minority of cases it will happen. You might even look back upon this time and wish that you could have willed yourself to make the transition to acceptance quicker than you did. You will know that it is only when that process is accomplished that anything resembling happiness becomes possible.

  Let us therefore begin the process of adjustment.

  Due to the fundamental lightspeed limit for communication within the sphere of colonised space, news from other solar systems is inevitably out of date; often by decades or more. Your perceptions of our system’s main world, Yellowstone, are almost certainly based on outdated information.

  It is certainly the case that for more than two centuries - until, in fact, the very recent past - Yellowstone was in thrall to what most con
temporary observers chose to term the Belle Epoque. It was an unprecedented social and technological golden age; our ideological template seen by all to be an almost perfect system of governance.

  Numerous successful ventures were launched from Yellowstone, including daughter colonies in other solar systems, as well as ambitious scientific expeditions to the edge of human space. Visionary social experiments were conducted within Yellowstone and its Glitter Band, including the controversial but pioneering work of Calvin Sylveste and his disciples. Great artists, philosophers and scientists flourished in Yellowstone’s atmosphere of hothouse innovation. Techniques of neural augmentation were pursued fearlessly. Other human cultures chose to treat the Conjoiners with suspicion, but we Demarchists - unafraid of the positive aspects of mind enhancement methods - established lines of rapport with the Conjoiners which enabled us to exploit their technologies to the full. Their starship drives allowed us to settle many more systems than cultures subscribing to inferior social models.

  In truth, it was a glorious time. It was also the likely state of affairs which you were expecting upon your arrival.

  This is unfortunately not the case.

  Seven years ago something happened to our system. The exact transmission vector remains unclear even now, but it is almost certain that the plague arrived aboard a ship, perhaps in dormant form and unknown to the crew who carried it. It might even have arrived years earlier. It seems unlikely now that the truth will ever be known; too much has been destroyed or forgotten. Vast swathes of our digitally stored planetary history were erased or corrupted by the plague. In many cases only human memory remains intact . . . and human memory is not without its fallibilities.

  The Melding Plague attacked our society at the core.

  It was not quite a biological virus, not quite a software virus, but a strange and shifting chimera of the two. No pure strain of the plague has ever been isolated, but in its pure form it must resemble a kind of nano-machinery, analogous to the molecular-scale assemblers of our own medichine technology. That it must be of alien origin seems beyond doubt. Equally clear is the fact that nothing we have thrown against the plague has done more than slow it. More often than not, our interventions have only made things worse. The plague adapts to our attacks; it perverts our weapons and turns them against us. Some kind of buried intelligence seems to guide it. We don’t know whether the plague was directed toward humanity - or whether we have just been terribly unlucky.