‘Here’s the deal,’ I said. ‘Take me to Gideon. Or take me to Gideon weeping in agony. How does that sound?’
He pushed and tugged at another set of controls, causing the chair to unplug itself from its steam feedlines. I suppose there could have been weapons set into the chair, but I didn’t think they would be fast enough to do him much good.
‘This way,’ Ferris said, after another, briefer period of clattering.
He took us along more tunnels, spiralling downwards again. The chair propelled itself along with a series of rapid puffs, Ferris steering it expertly through narrow chicanes of rock. I wondered about him. Quirrenbach - and perhaps Zebra - appeared to accept that he was delusional. But then if he wasn’t who he claimed, who was he?
‘Tell me how you got here,’ I said. ‘And tell me what it has to do with Gideon.’
More clattering. ‘That’s a long story. Luckily it’s one I’ve often been asked to recount. That’s why I have this pre-programmed statement ready.’
The chair clattered some more and then the voice recommenced: ‘I was born on Yellowstone, created in a steel womb and raised by robots. That was before we could transport living people from star to star. You had to be grown from a frozen egg cell; coaxed to life by robots that had already arrived.’ Ferris had been one of the Amerikanos; that much I knew already. That period was such a long time ago - before even Sky Haussmann’s time - that, in my mind at least, it had begun to blend into a general historical background of sailing ships, conquistadors, concentration camps and black plagues.
‘We found the chasm,’ Ferris told me. ‘That was the odd thing. No one had seen it from Earth’s system, even with the best instruments. It was too small a feature. But as soon as we started exploring our world, there it was. A deep hole in the planet’s crust, belching heat and a mixture of gases we could begin to process for air.
‘It made very little sense, geologically. Oh, I’ve seen the theories - how Yellowstone must have been tidally stressed by an encounter with the gas giant in the distant past, and how all that heat energy in her core has to percolate to the surface, escaping through vents like the chasm. And perhaps there’s some truth in that, though it can’t be the whole story. It doesn’t explain the strangeness of the chasm; why the gases are so different to the rest of the atmosphere: warmer, wetter, several degrees less toxic. It was almost like a calling card. That, in fact, is exactly what it was. I should know. I went down into it to see what was at the bottom.’
He had gone in with one of the atmospheric explorers, spiralling deeper and deeper into the chasm until he was well below the mist layer. Radar kept him from smashing into the sides, but it was still hazardous, and at some point his single-seat craft had suffered a power lapse, causing it to sink even deeper. Eventually he had bottomed out, thirty kilometres beneath the surface. His ship had landed on a layer of lightly packed rubble which filled the entire floor of the chasm. Automated repair processes had kicked in, but it would take tens of hours before the ship could carry him back up to the surface.
With nothing better to do, Ferris had donned one of the atmosphere suits - designed to cope with extremes of pressure, temperature and chemistry - and had begun exploring the layer of rubble. He called it the scree. The warm, wet, oxygen-rich air was steaming up through the gaps in the rocks.
Ferris scrambled down, finding a route through the rubble. It was perilously hot, and he could have fallen to his death many times, but he managed to keep his footing and negotiate a route which took him down hundreds of metres. The rubble pressed down on the layers below, but there were always gaps he could squeeze through; places where he could anchor pitons and lines. The thought of dying was with him always, but it was only ever an abstract thing. None of the first-born Amerikanos had ever had to understand death; they’d never had to watch people grow older than themselves and die. It was something that they did not grasp on a visceral level.
Which was good. Because if Ferris had understood the risks a little better, and understood exactly what death entailed, he probably would not have gone as deeply into the scree as he had.
And he would never have found Gideon.
They must have expanded through space until they met another species, Sky thought - some kind of robot or cyborg intelligence.
Gradually, tediously, he got something resembling a coherent story out of Travelling Fearlessly. The grubs had been a peaceable, innocent starfaring culture for many millions of years until they had run into the machines. The grubs had expanded into space for arcane reasons of their own which Travelling Fearlessly was not able to explain, except to convey that they had little to do with curiosity or a need for resources. It seemed to be simply what grubs did; an imperative which had been hardwired into them in evolutionary antiquity. They had no overwhelming interest in technology or science for their own sakes, seeming to get by on techniques they had acquired so long ago in racial memory terms that the underlying principles had been forgotten.
Predictably, they had not fared well when their outlying colonies had encountered the grub-eating machines. The grub-eaters began to make slow incursions into grub space, pressuring the aliens to modify behaviour patterns that had been locked rigid for tens of millions of years. To survive, the grubs first had to grasp that they were being persecuted.
Even that took a million years to sink in.
Then, with glacial slowness, they began, if not to fight back, then at the very least to develop survival strategies. They abandoned their surface colonies and evacuated themselves entirely into interstellar space, the better to hide from the grub-eaters. They constructed void warrens as large as small planets. By and by they encountered the harried remnants of other species who were also being persecuted by the eaters, though they had a different name for them. The grubs appropriated technologies as it suited their needs, usually without bothering to understand them. Control of gravity and inertia had come from a symbiotic race called the Nestbuilders. A form of instantaneous communication had been bequeathed by a culture who called themselves the Jumper Clowns. The grubs had been sternly admonished when they had asked if the same principles might be extended to instantaneous travel. To the Jumper Clowns there was a fine, blasphemous line between faster-than-light signalling and travel. The one was acceptable within tightly specified parameters of usage. The other was an unspeakable perversion; a concept so distasteful that it caused refined Jumper Clowns to shrivel up and die in revulsion.
Only the most uncouth of young species failed to grasp this.
But for all the technologies that the grubs and their loose allies held, it was never enough to beat the machines. They were always swifter; always stronger. Now and then there were organic victories, but the general drift of things was always such that the grub-eaters would win.
Sky was thinking about that when Gomez called him again. The urgency in his voice was obvious despite the weakness of the signal.
‘Sky. Bad news. The two shuttles have launched a pair of drones. They might just be cameras, but my guess is they’ll have anti-collision warheads on them. They’re on high-gee trajectories and they’ll reach us in about fifteen minutes.’
‘They wouldn’t do it,’ Norquinco said. ‘They wouldn’t attack us without first finding out what’s going on here. They’d run the risk of destroying a whole Flotilla ship which has, um, survivors and supplies on it, just like we thought it would have.’
‘No,’ Sky said. ‘They’d do it - if only to stop us getting hold of whatever they think’s on her.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Why not? It’s exactly what I’d do.’
He told Gomez to sit tight and killed the link. The fraction of a day he had imagined they would have to themselves had now compressed down to less than a quarter of an hour. It was probably not enough time to make it back to the shuttle and get away, even if there had been no obstructions to cut through. But there was still time to do something. Time, in fact, to hear the rest of what Trav
elling Fearlessly had to say. It might make all the difference. Trying not to think of the minutes ticking away, and the missiles haring closer, he told the grub to continue his story.
The grub was happy to oblige.
‘Gideon,’ the man in the chair said, after he had curtailed the telling of his story with an abrupt sequence of commands.
We had arrived in a natural cavern, high up on one side of a concave rock face. There was a ledge here, large enough to accommodate the wheelchair. I thought of pushing Ferris over the edge, but there was a sturdy-looking safety rail, uninterrupted except for a point where it allowed entrance to a caged spiral staircase that led all the way down to the chamber’s floor.
‘Fuck,’ Quirrenbach said, looking over the edge.
‘You’re getting the hang of it,’ I said.
I would have been as shocked as Quirrenbach, I suppose - except that I’d been forewarned by what Sky had found inside the Caleuche. There was another maggot down there - bigger even than the one Sky had seen, I thought - but it was alone; there were no helper grubs with it.
‘This wasn’t quite what I was expecting,’ Zebra said.
‘It’s not what anyone’s ever expecting,’ the man in the chair said.
‘Someone please tell me what the fuck that thing is,’ Quirrenbach said, like someone hanging very grimly onto the last tattered shred of sanity.
‘Much what it looks like,’ I said. ‘A large alien creature. Intelligent, too, in its own special way. They call themselves the grubs.’
Quirrenbach spoke through clenched jaw, the words emerging one at a time. ‘How. Do. You. Know.’
‘Because I had the pleasure of meeting one before.’
‘When?’ Zebra asked.
‘A long, long time ago.’
Quirrenbach sounded like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown. ‘You’re losing me, Tanner.’
‘Believe me, I’m not quite sure I believe it all myself.’ I nodded at Ferris. ‘You and him - the maggot - you have quite a relationship going, don’t you?’
The chair clattered. ‘It’s really rather simple. Gideon gives us something we need. I keep Gideon alive. What could be fairer than that?’
‘You torture it.’
‘Sometimes he needs encouragement, that’s all.’
I looked down at the maggot again. It rested in a metal enclosure, a steep-sided bath that was knee-deep in brackish dark fluid, like squid ink. He was chained in place, and all around him loomed scaffolding and catwalks. Obscure, industrial-looking machines waited on gantries to be moved over the maggot. Electrical cables and fluid lines plunged into him at various points along his length.
‘Where did you find him?’ Zebra said.
‘Here, as it happens,’ Ferris told her. ‘He was inside the remains of a ship. It had crashed here, at the base of the chasm, maybe a million years ago. A million years. But that’s nothing to him. Though damaged and incapable of flight, the ship had kept him alive, in semi-hibernation, for all that time.’
‘It just crashed here?’ I said.
‘There was more to it than that. It was running away from something. What, I’ve never really found out.’
I interrupted the sequence of sounds emanating from the chair. ‘Let me guess. A race of sentient, killer machines. They’d been attacking his race - and others - for millions of years themselves; harrying them from star to star. Eventually the grubs were pushed back into interstellar space, cowering away from starlight. But something must have driven this one here - a spying mission or something.’
He punched a new statement into the chair, which piped, ‘How would you know all this?’
‘Like I just told Quirrenbach: me and the maggots go back a long, long way.’
I retrieved Sky’s memory of what his grub had told him. The fugitive species learned that to survive at all they had to hide, and hide expertly. There were pockets of space where intelligence had not arisen in recent times - sterilised by supernova explosions, or neutron star mergers - and these cleansed zones made the best hiding places. But there were dangers. Intelligence was always waiting to emerge; new cultures were always evolving and spilling into space. It was these outbreaks of life which drew the predatory machines. They placed automated watching devices and traps around promising solar systems, ready to be triggered as soon as new spacefaring cultures stumbled upon them. So the grubs and their allies - the few that remained - grew intensely paranoid and watchful for the signs of new life.
The grubs had never really paid much attention to Earth’s system. Curiosity was still something that required an effort of will for them, and it was not until the signs of intelligence around Earth became blatant that the grubs forced themselves to become interested. They watched and waited to see if the humans would make any forays into interstellar space, and for centuries, and then thousands of years, nothing happened.
But then something did happen, and it was not auspicious.
What Ferris had learned from Gideon dovetailed exactly with what Sky had learned aboard the Caleuche. Ferris’s grub had been chased for hundreds of light years - across centuries of time - by a single pursuing enemy. The enemy machine moved faster than the grub ship, able to make sharper turns and steeper decelerations. The enemy made the grubs’ mastery of momentum and inertia look hamfisted in the extreme. Yet, fast and strong as the killing machines were, they had limitations - it might have been more accurate to call them blindspots - which the grubs had carefully documented over the millennia. Their techniques of gravitational sensing were surprisingly crude for such otherwise efficient killers. Grub vessels had sometimes survived attacks by hiding themselves near - or within - larger camouflaging masses.
Finding the yellow world, with the killing machine closing on him fast, Gideon had seen his chance. He had located the deep geologic feature with an emotion as close to blessed joy as his neurophysiology allowed.
On the approach, the enemy had engaged him with long-range weapons. But the grub had hidden his ship behind the planet’s moon, the salvo of antimatter slugs gouging a chain of craters across the moon’s surface. The grub had waited until the moon’s position allowed him to make a rapid, unseen descent into the atmosphere and then into the chasm, the potential hideaway he had already scouted from space. He had enlarged and deepened it with his own weapons, burrowing further and further into the world’s crust. Fortunately, the thick, poisonous atmosphere camouflaged most of his efforts. But on the way in he had made a terrible error, brushing the sheer walls with his projected skein of armouring force. A billion tonnes of rubble had come crashing down, entombing him when he had meant only to hide until the killing machine moved on to seek another target. He had expected to wait perhaps a thousand years, at the longest - an eyeblink in grub terms.
It had been considerably longer than that before anyone came.
‘He must have wanted you to find him,’ I said.
Ferris answered, ‘Yes. By then he figured the enemy must have moved on. He was using the ship to signal his presence, altering the ratios of gases in the chasm. Warming them, too. He was sending out other signals too - exotic radiation. But we didn’t even detect that.’
‘I don’t think the other grubs did either.’
‘For a long time, I think they kept in touch. I found something in his ship - something that didn’t seem to be part of it, intact where all else showed signs of great antiquity and loss of function. It was like a glittering dandelion ball about a metre wide, just floating in its own chamber, suspended in a cradle of force. Quite beautiful and mesmerising to look at.’
‘What was it?’ Zebra asked.
He had anticipated her question. ‘I tried to find out for myself, but the results I got - based on the extremely crude and limited tests I was capable of running - were contradictory; paradoxical. The thing seemed to be astonishingly dense; capable of stopping solar neutrinos dead in their tracks. The way it distorted light-rays around itself suggested the presence of an immense gravitation
al field - yet there was nothing. It simply floated there. You could almost reach out and touch it, except that there was a barrier all around it that made your fingers tingle.’ All the while that he had been speaking, Ferris had been entering another sequence of commands into his chair, his fingers moving with the effortless speed of an arpeggiating pianist. ‘I did eventually learn what it was, of course, but only by persuading the grub to tell me.’
‘Persuasion?’ I said.
‘He has what we may think of as pain receptors, and regions of his nervous system that produce emotional reactions analogous to fear and panic. It was only a matter of locating them.’
‘So what was it?’ Zebra asked.
‘A communicational device, but a very singular one.’
‘Faster than light?’
‘Not quite,’ he answered me, after the usual pause. ‘Certainly not in the sense that you’d recognise it. It doesn’t transmit or receive information at all. It - and its brethren aboard other grub vessels - don’t need to. They already contain all the information which ever would have been received.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said.
‘Then let me rephrase what I’ve just said,’ Ferris said, who must have had a reply already queued up. ‘Each and every one of their communicational devices already contains every message that would ever need to be communicated to the vessel in question. The messages are locked inside it, but are inaccessible until the scheduled moment of release. Somewhat in the manner of sealed orders on an old-time sailing ship.’
‘I still don’t follow,’ I said.
Zebra nodded. ‘Me neither.’
‘Listen.’ The man - with what must have been considerable expenditure of effort - leaned forward in his seat. ‘It’s really very simple. The grubs retain a record of every message they would have sent, across all their racial history. Then, deep in their future - deep in what is still our future - they merge the records into something. What, I’ve never really understood - just that it’s some kind of hidden machinery distributed throughout the galaxy. I confess the details have always eluded me. Only the name is clear, and even then the translation is probably no more than approximate. ’ He paused, eyeing us all with his peculiarly cold eyes. ‘Galactic Final Memory. It is - or will be - some kind of vast, living archive. It exists now, I think, only in partial form: a mere skeleton of what it will be, millions or billions of years from now. The point, nonetheless, is simple. The archive - whatever it is - transcends time. It keeps in touch with all the past and future versions of itself, down to the present epoch and deeper into our past. It’s constantly shuffling data up and down, running endless iterations. And the grubs’ communicational device is, as near as I understand it, a chip off the old block. A tiny fragment of the archive, carrying only time-tagged messages between the grubs and a handful of allied species.’
The Revelation Space Collection Page 131