The Revelation Space Collection

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘I’ll keep my distance,’ I called.

  The hamadryad’s head had vanished into the other side of the forest, leaving an arc of body spanning the road with the elegant bowstring curve of a bridge. The sound, now that I came closer, was immense. I could hear branches snapping along the snake’s length, and a relentless susurration of dry skin against bark.

  And another noise - identical in timbre, but coming from another direction completely. For a moment my brain sluggishly refused to reach the obvious conclusion, trying to work out how the acoustic properties of the jungle could echo the hamadryad’s progress so effectively. I was still wondering about it when the second snake burst through the treeline to my right. It moved as slowly as the first, but it was very much closer, which made the thing’s half-metre per second progress seem a lot swifter. It was smaller than the first one we had seen, but still monstrous by any standards. And I remembered an uncomfortable fact about hamadryad biology. The smaller they were, the faster they were capable of moving . . .

  But the snake brought its hooded, deltoid head to a stop, metres from me and metres above my own. Eyeless, it seemed to float against the sky like a malign, thick-tailed kite.

  In all my years of soldiering, I had never been paralysed by fear. I knew that it happened to some people, but I wondered how it was possible and what kind of people they had really been. Now, belatedly, I was coming to an intimate understanding of just how it could happen. The flight reflex was not completely decoupled from volition: part of me knew that to run could be just as hazardous as to remain fixed to the spot, motionless. Snakes were blind until they located a target, but their infra-red and olfactory sensitivity was acute. There was no doubt that it knew I was standing beneath it, or else it would not have stopped.

  I had no idea what to do.

  Shoot it, I thought . . . but the laser-rifle was, in hindsight, not the best weapon I could have selected. A few pencil-thin holes right through its body were not going to massively impede this creature. No point aiming for specific areas of brain function, either: it hardly had a brain to begin with, even before giving birth to the young that would eat that tiny knot of neurones. The laser was a pulse-weapon, the beam too transient to be used as a blade. I would have been better off with the scythe I had used against the imposter . . .

  ‘Tanner. Stay still. It has a lock on you.’

  Out of the corner of my eye - I didn’t dare move my head - I saw Cahuella, approaching in a near-crouch. He had the crossbow against his shoulder, squinting along the weapon’s long haft.

  ‘That won’t do much more than piss it off,’ I said, in not much more than a hiss.

  Cahuella answered in a stage whisper, ‘Yeah. Big time. The dose was for the first one. This one’s no more than fifteen metres . . . that’s twelve per cent of the body volume, which means the dose’ll be eight times too strong . . .’ He paused and halted. ‘Or thereabouts.’

  He was within range now.

  Above me, the head swayed from side to side, tasting the wind. Perhaps, following the other, larger, adult, it was impatient to be moving on. But it could not let this possibility of prey pass without investigation. Perhaps it had not eaten in months. Dieterling had said that they always had one last meal before fusion. Maybe this one was too small to be ready to bind with a tree, but there was no reason to assume it was not hungry.

  Moving my hands as slowly and smoothly as I dared, I slipped off the rifle’s safety-catch, feeling the subliminal shiver as the discharge cells powered up, accompanied by a faint rising whine.

  The head bowed toward me, drawn by the rifle.

  ‘This weapon is now ready for use,’ the rifle said brightly.

  The snake lunged, its wide mouth opening, the two attack-phase eyes gleaming at me from the mouth’s red roof, triangulating.

  I fired, straight into the mouth.

  The head smashed into the dirt next to me, its lunge confused by the laser pulses. Angered, the snake reared up, its mouth wide, emitting a terrible roar and a smell like a field of butchered corpses. I had squeezed off ten rapid pulses, a stroboscopic volley which had punched ten black craters into the roof of the mouth. I could see the exit wounds peppering the back of the head, each finger-wide. I’d blinded it.

  But it had enough memory to remember roughly where I was. I stumbled back as the head daggered down again - and then there was a glint of bright metal cleaving the air, and the thunk of Cahuella’s crossbow.

  His dart had buried itself in the neck of the snake, instantly discharging its payload of tranquilliser.

  ‘Tanner! Get the fuck away!’

  He reached into his bandolier and extracted another dart, then cranked back the bow and slipped the second dart into place. A moment later it joined the other in the snake’s neck. That was, if he had done his sums correctly, and the darts were both coded for large adults, something like sixteen times the dose necessary to put this specimen to sleep.

  I was out of harm’s way now, but I kept firing. And now I realised that we had another problem . . .

  ‘Cahuella . . .’ I said.

  He must have seen that I was looking beyond rather than at him, for he stopped and looked over his shoulder, frozen in the action of reaching for another dart.

  The other snake had curved round in a loop, and now its head was emerging from the left side of the trail, only twenty metres from Cahuella.

  ‘The distress call . . .’ he said.

  Until now we had not even known they had any calls. But he was right: my wounding the smaller snake had drawn the interest of the first, and now Cahuella was trapped between two hamadryads.

  But then the smaller snake began to die.

  There was nothing sudden about it. It was more like an airship going down, as the head sunk towards the ground, no longer capable of being carried by the neck, which was itself sagging inexorably lower.

  Something touched me on the shoulder.

  ‘Stand aside, bro,’ said Dieterling.

  It seemed like an age since I had left the car, but it could only have been half a minute. Dieterling could never have been far behind me, yet for most of that time Cahuella and I felt completely alone.

  I looked at what Dieterling was carrying, comparing it to the weapon I had imagined suitable for the task at hand.

  ‘Nice one,’ I said.

  ‘The right tools for the job, that’s all.’

  He brushed past me, shouldering the matte-black bazooka he had retrieved from the weapons rack. There was a bas-relief Scorpion down the side of it and a huge semi-circular magazine jutting asymmetrically from one side. A targeting screen whirred into place in front of his eyes, churning with scrolling data and bullseye overlays. Dieterling brushed it aside, glanced behind to make sure I was out of range of the recoil blast, and squeezed the trigger.

  The first thing he did was blow a hole through the first snake, like a tunnel. Through this he walked, his boots squelching through the unspeakable red carpet.

  Cahuella pumped the last dart into the larger snake, but by then he was limited to doses calibrated for much smaller animals. It appeared not to notice that it had even been shot. They had, I knew, few pain receptors anywhere along their bodies.

  Dieterling reached him, his boots red to the knee. The adult was coming closer, its head no more than ten metres from both of them.

  The two men shook hands and exchanged weapons.

  Dieterling turned his back on Cahuella and began to walk calmly back towards me. He carried the crossbow in the crook of his arm, for it was useless now.

  Cahuella hefted the bazooka and began to inflict grievous harm on the snake.

  It was not pretty. He had the bazooka set to rapid fire, mini-rockets streaking from its muzzle twice a second. What he did to the snake was more akin to pruning back a plant snip by snip. First he took the head off, so that the truncated neck hung in the air, red-rimmed. But the creature kept on moving. Losing its brain was obviously not really much of a handicap to
it. The slithering roar of its progress had not abated at all.

  So Cahuella kept shooting.

  He stood his ground, feet apart, squeezing rocket after rocket into the wound, blood and gore plastering the trees on either side of him. Still the snake kept coming, but now there was less and less of it to come, the body tapering towards the tail. When only ten metres were left, the body finally flopped to the ground, twitching. Cahuella put a last rocket in it for good measure and then turned round and walked back towards me with the same laconic stroll Dieterling had used.

  When he got close to me I saw that his shirt was filmed in red now, his face slick with a fine film of rouge. He handed me the bazooka. I safed it, but it was hardly necessary: the last shot he had fired, I saw, had been the last in the magazine.

  Back at the vehicle, I opened the case which held replacement magazines and slotted a fresh one onto the bazooka, then racked it with the other weapons. Cahuella was looking at me, as if expecting me to say something to him. But what could I say? I could hardly compliment him on his hunting expertise. Apart from the nerve it took, and the physical strength to hold the bazooka, a child could have killed the snake in exactly the same manner.

  Instead, I looked to the two brutally butchered animals which lay across our path, practically unrecognisable for what they had been.

  ‘I don’t think Vicuna could have helped us very much,’ I said.

  He looked at me, then shook his head, as much in disgust at my own mistake - that I had forced him to save my own life and lose his chance to capture his prey - as acknowledging the truth of what I said.

  ‘Just drive, Tanner,’ he said.

  That night we established the ambush camp.

  Orcagna’s trace showed that Reivich’s party was thirty kilometres north of our position and moving south at the same steady rate he had maintained for days. They did not appear to be resting overnight as we did, but as their average rate was somewhat slower than what we were managing, they were not covering much more ground in a day. Between us and them was a river that would need to be forded, but if Reivich made no serious mistakes - or decided against pattern to stop for the night - he would still be five kilometres up the road by dawn.

  We set up the bubbletents, this time shrouding each in an outer skin of chameleoflage fabric. We were deep in hamadryad country now, so I took care to sweep the area with deep-look thermal and acoustic sensors. They would pick up the crunching movement of any moderately large adults. Juveniles were another thing entirely, but at least juveniles would not crush our entire camp. Dieterling examined the trees in the area and confirmed that none of them had released juveniles any time recently.

  ‘So worry about the dozen other local predators,’ he said, meeting Cahuella and I outside one of the bubbletents.

  ‘Maybe it’s seasonal,’ Cahuella said. ‘The time when they give birth, I mean. That could influence our next hunting trip. We should plan it properly.’

  I looked at him with a jaundiced eye. ‘You still want to use Vicuna’s toys?’

  ‘It’d be a tribute to the good doctor, wouldn’t it? It’s what he would have wanted.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I thought back to the two snakes which had crossed our path. ‘I also know we almost got ourselves killed back there.’

  He shrugged. ‘The textbooks say they don’t travel in pairs.’

  ‘So you did your homework. It didn’t help, did it?’

  ‘We got out of it. No thanks to you, either, Tanner . . .’ He looked at me hard, then nodded at Dieterling. ‘At least he knew what kind of weapon was needed.’

  ‘A bazooka?’ I said. ‘Yes. It worked, didn’t it? But I don’t call that sport.’

  ‘It wasn’t sport by then,’ Cahuella said. His mood shifted capriciously and he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Still, you did your best with that laser. And we learned valuable lessons that will stand us in good stead when we come back next season.’

  He was deadly serious, I saw. He really wanted that near-adult. ‘Fine,’ I said, wriggling free of his hand. ‘But next time I’ll let Dieterling run the whole expedition. I’ll stay back at the Reptile House and do the job you pay me for.’

  ‘I’m paying you to be here,’ Cahuella said.

  ‘Yes. To take down Reivich. But hunting giant snakes doesn’t figure in my terms of employment, the last time I checked.’

  He sighed. ‘Reivich is still our priority, Tanner.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. Everything else is just . . . scenery.’ He nodded and vanished into his bubbletent.

  Dieterling opened his mouth. ‘Listen, bro . . .’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to apologise. You were right to pick the bazooka, and I made a mistake.’

  Dieterling nodded and then went to the weapons rack to select another rifle. He sighted along it and then slung it over his shoulder on its strap.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to check the area again.’

  I noticed that he was not carrying any image-amp goggles. ‘It’s getting dark now, Miguel . . .’ I nodded to my own pair, resting on a table next to the map which showed Reivich’s progress.

  But Miguel Dieterling just smiled and turned away.

  Later, much later, after I had set up about half the deadfalls and ambushes (I would rig the others at sunrise; if I did it now there would be too much of a danger of tripping them ourselves), Cahuella invited me into his tent.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, expecting another order.

  Cahuella indicated a chessboard, bathed in the insipid green light of the bubbletent’s glowlamps.

  ‘I need an opponent.’

  The chessboard was set up on a folding card table, with folding, canvas-backed seats stationed either side of it. I shrugged. I played chess, and even played it well, but the game held few enticements for me. I approached the game like any other duty, knowing I could not allow myself to win.

  Cahuella leaned over the chessboard. He wore fatigues crossed by webbing; various daggers and throwing implements were attached to his belt, with the dolphin pendant hanging under his neck. When his hands moved across the board, I thought of an oldtime general positioning little penanted tanks and infantry-men on a vast sand-table. All the while, his face remained placid and imperturbable, the green radiance of the glowlamps reflected oddly in his eyes, as if some part of that radiance came from within. And all the while Gitta sat next to us, occasionally pouring her husband another thimble of pisco; seldom speaking.

  I played a difficult game - difficult, because of the tactical contortions I forced myself through. I was a superior chess player to Cahuella, but he wasn’t very fond of losing. On the other hand, he was shrewd enough to guess if an opponent was not giving the game his all, so I had to satisfy his ego on both fronts. I played hard, forcing Cahuella into a corner, but incorporated a weakness into my position - something exceedingly subtle, but also potentially fatal. Then, just when it looked like I would put him in check, I arranged for my weakness to reveal itself, like the sudden opening of a hairline fracture. Sometimes, though, he failed to spot my weaknesses, and there was nothing to do but let him lose. The best I could do under those circumstances was contrive to make the margin of my own victory as narrow as possible.

  ‘You’ve beaten me again, Tanner . . .’

  ‘You played well, though. You have to allow me the occasional victory.’

  Gitta appeared at her husband’s side and poured another centimetre of pisco into his glass.

  ‘Tanner always plays well,’ she said, eyeing me. ‘That’s why he’s a worthy opponent for you.’

  I shrugged. ‘I do my best.’

  Cahuella brushed the pieces from the table, as if in a tantrum, but his voice remained placid. ‘Another game?’

  ‘Why not,’ I said, knowing with weary certainty that this time I had to fail.

  We finished the chess game. Cahuella and I finished a few drops of pisco, then reviewed our plan for the ambush, even
though we had already been through it dozens of times and there was nothing we had left uncovered. But it was the kind of ritual we had to endure. Afterwards, we made one final check on the weapons, and then Cahuella took his and spoke quietly in my ear.

  ‘I’m stepping outside for a moment, Tanner. I want some final practice. I’d rather not be disturbed until I’m done.’

  ‘Reivich might see the flashes.’

  ‘There’s bad weather coming in,’ Cahuella said. ‘He’ll just assume it’s lightning.’

  I nodded, insisted that I check the settings on the gun for him, then let him slip out into the night. Torchless, with the little miniature laser strapped diagonally across his back, he was quickly lost from sight. It was a dark night and I hoped he knew his way through the part of the jungle immediately surrounding the clearing. Like Dieterling, he was confident of his ability to see well enough in the dark.

  A few minutes passed before I heard the pulse of his weapon: regular discharges every few seconds, followed by longer pauses which suggested he was checking his fire pattern or selecting new targets. Each pulse strobed the tree-tops with a sharp flash of light, disturbing wildlife from the canopy; black shadows which cut across the stars. Then I saw that something else - equally black, but far vaster - was obstructing a whole swathe of stars towards the west. It was a storm, as Cahuella had predicted, creeping in from the ocean, ready to engulf the Peninsula in monsoon. As if acknowledging my diagnosis, the night’s previously calm and warm air began to stir, a breeze toying with the tops of the trees. I returned to the tent, found a torch and began to follow the path Cahuella had taken, guided by the intermittent pulses of his gun, like a lighthouse beacon. The undergrowth became treacherous and it took me several minutes to find my way to the patch of ground - a small clearing - where he stood shooting. I doused my torch across his body, announcing my arrival.

  Still squeezing off pulses, he said, ‘I told you not to disturb me, Tanner.’

  ‘I know, but there’s a storm coming in. I was worried you wouldn’t notice until it began to rain, and then you might have trouble finding your way back to the camp.’