The Revelation Space Collection

by Alastair Reynolds

  Like Childe, I now boasted one steel gauntlet instead of a hand. I flexed it, hearing the tiny, shrill whine of actuators. When I touched something I felt prickles of sensation; the hand was capable of registering subtle gradations of warmth or coldness. Celestine’s replacement was very similar, although sleeker and somehow more feminine. At least our injuries had demanded as much, I thought; unlike Childe, who had lost only his fingers, but who had appeared to welcome more of the Doctor’s gleaming handiwork than was strictly necessary.

  ‘It’ll do,’ I said, remembering how much Forqueray had irritated the Doctor with the same remark.

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ Hirz said. ‘If Trintignant had his way, you’d be like him by now. Christ only knows where he’ll stop.’

  Trintignant shrugged. ‘I merely repair what the Spire damages.’

  ‘Yeah. The two of you make a great team, Doc.’ She looked at him with an expression of pure loathing. ‘Well, sorry, but you’re not getting your hands on me.’

  Trintignant appraised her. ‘No great loss, when there is so little raw material with which to work.’

  ‘Screw you, creep.’

  Hirz left the room.

  ‘Looks like she means it when she says she’s quitting,’ I said, breaking the silence that ensued.

  Celestine nodded. ‘I can’t say I entirely blame her, either.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Childe asked.

  ‘No. She’s right. This whole thing is in serious danger of turning into some kind of sick exercise in self-mutilation.’ Celestine looked at her own steel hand, not quite masking her own revulsion. ‘What will it take, Childe? What will we turn into by the time we beat this thing?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing that can’t be reversed.’

  ‘But maybe by then we won’t want it reversed, will we?’

  ‘Listen, Celestine.’ Childe propped himself against a bulkhead. ‘What we’re doing here is trying to beat an elemental thing. Reach its summit, if you will. In that respect Blood Spire isn’t very different from a mountain. It punishes us when we make mistakes, but then so do mountains. Occasionally, it kills. More often than not it leaves us only with a reminder of what it can do. Blood Spire snips off a finger or two. A mountain achieves the same effect with frostbite. Where’s the difference?’

  ‘A mountain doesn’t enjoy doing it, for a start. But the Spire does. It’s alive, Childe, living and breathing.’

  ‘It’s a machine, that’s all.’

  ‘But maybe a cleverer one than anything we’ve ever known before. A machine with a taste for blood, too. That’s not a great combination, Childe.’

  He sighed. ‘Then you’re giving up as well?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He stepped through the door which Hirz had just used.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I said.

  ‘To try and talk some sense into her, that’s all.’

  SEVEN

  Ten hours later - buzzing with unnatural alertness; the need for sleep a distant, fading memory - we returned to Blood Spire.

  ‘What did he say to make you come back?’ I said to Hirz, between one of the challenges.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Just a wild stab in the dark, but did he by any chance up your cut?’

  ‘Let’s just say the terms were renegotiated. Call it a performance-related bonus.’

  I smiled. ‘Then calling you a mercenary wasn’t so far off the mark, was it?’

  ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones . . . sorry. Given the circumstances, that’s not in the best possible good taste, is it?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  We were struggling out of our suits now. Several rooms earlier we had reached a point where it was impossible to squeeze through the door without first disconnecting our airlines and removing our backpacks. We could have done without the packs, of course, but none of us wanted to breathe Spire air until it was absolutely necessary. And we would still need the packs to make our retreat, back through the unpressurised rooms. So we kept hold of them as we wriggled between rooms, fearful of letting go. We had seen the way the Spire harvested first Forqueray’s drone and then Trintignant’s leg, and it was likely it would do the same with our equipment if we left it unattended.

  ‘Why are you doing it, then?’ asked Hirz.

  ‘It certainly isn’t the money,’ I said.

  ‘No. I figured that part out. What, then?’

  ‘Because it’s there. Because Childe and I go back a long way, and I can’t stand to give up on a challenge once I’ve accepted it.’

  ‘Old-fashioned bullheadedness, in other words,’ Celestine said.

  Hirz was putting on a helmet and backpack assembly for the first time. She had just been forced to get out of her original suit and put on one of the skintights; even her small frame was now too large to pass through the constricted doors. Childe had attached some additional armour to her skintight - scablike patches of flexible woven diamond - but she must have felt more vulnerable.

  I answered Celestine. ‘What about you, if it isn’t the same thing that keeps me coming back?’

  ‘I want to solve the problems, that’s all. For you they’re just a means to an end, but for me they’re the only thing of interest.’

  I felt slighted, but she was right. The nature of the challenges was less important to me than discovering what was at the summit; the secret the Spire so jealously guarded.

  ‘And you’re hoping that through the problems they set us you’ll eventually understand the Spire’s makers?’

  ‘Not just that. I mean, that’s a significant part of it, but I also want to know what my own limitations are.’

  ‘You mean you want to explore the gift that the Jugglers have given you?’ Before she had time to answer I continued, ‘I understand. And it’s never been possible before, has it? You’ve only ever been able to test yourself against problems set by other humans. You could never map the limits of your ability; any more than a lion could test its strength against paper.’

  She looked around her. ‘But now I’ve met something that tests me.’

  ‘And?’

  Celestine smiled thinly. ‘I’m not sure I like it.’

  We did not speak again until we had traversed half a dozen new rooms, and then rested while the shunts mopped up the excess of tiredness which came after such efforts.

  The mathematical problems had now grown so arcane that I could barely describe them, let alone grope my way towards a solution. Celestine had to do most of the thinking, therefore, but the emotional strain which we all felt was just as wearying. For an hour during the rest period I teetered on the edge of sleep, but then alertness returned like a pale, cold dawn. There was something harsh and clinical about that state of mind - it did not feel completely normal - but it enabled us to get the job done, and that was all that mattered.

  We continued, passing the seventieth room - fifteen further than we had reached before. We were now at least sixty metres higher than when we had entered, and for a while it looked like we had found a tempo that suited us. It was a long time since Celestine had shown any hesitation in her answers, even if it took a couple of hours for her to reach the solution. It was as if she had found the right way of thinking, and now none of the challenges felt truly alien to her. For a while, as we passed room after room, a dangerous optimism began to creep over us.

  It was a mistake.

  In the seventy-first room, the Spire began to enforce a new rule. Celestine, as usual, spent at least twenty minutes studying the problem, skating her fingers over the shallowly etched markings on the frame, her lips moving silently as she mouthed possibilities.

  Childe studied her with a peculiar watchfulness I had not observed before.

  ‘Any ideas?’ he said, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t crowd me, Childe. I’m thinking.’

  ‘I know, I know. Just try and do it a little faster, that’s all.’

  Ce
lestine turned away from the frame. ‘Why? Are we on a schedule suddenly?’

  ‘I’m just a little concerned about the amount of time it’s taking us, that’s all.’ He stroked the bulge on his forearm. ‘These shunts aren’t perfect, and—’

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just concentrate on the problem.’

  But this time the punishment began before we had begun our solution.

  It was lenient, I suppose, compared to the savage dismembering that had concluded our last attempt to reach the summit. It was more of a stern admonishment to make our selection; the crack of a whip rather than the swish of a guillotine.

  Something popped out of the wall and dropped to the floor.

  It looked like a metal ball, about the size of a marble. For several seconds it did nothing at all. We all stared at it, knowing that something unpleasant was going to happen, but unsure what.

  Then the ball trembled, and - without deforming in any way - bounced itself off the ground to knee-height.

  It hit the ground and bounced again; a little higher this time. ‘Celestine,’ Childe said, ‘I strongly suggest that you come to a decision—’

  Horrified, Celestine forced her attention back to the puzzle marked on the frame. The ball continued bouncing; reaching higher each time.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Hirz said.

  ‘I’m not exactly thrilled by it myself,’ Childe told her, watching as the ball hit the ceiling and slammed back to the floor, landing to one side of the place where it had begun its bouncing. This time its rebound was enough to make it hit the ceiling again, and on the recoil it streaked diagonally across the room, hitting one of the side walls before glancing off at a different angle. The ball slammed into Trintignant, ricocheting off his metal leg, and then connected with the walls twice - gaining speed with each collision - before hitting me in the chest. The force of it was like a hard punch, driving the air from my lungs.

  I fell to the ground, emitting a groan of discomfort.

  The little ball continued arcing around the room, its momentum not sapped in any appreciable way. It kept getting faster, in fact, so that its trajectory came to resemble a constantly shifting silver loom which occasionally intersected with one of us. I heard groans, and then felt a sudden pain in my leg, and the ball kept on getting faster. The sound it made was like a fusillade of gunshots, the space between each detonation growing smaller.

  Childe, who had been hit himself, shouted: ‘Celestine! Make your choice!’

  The ball chose that moment to slam into her, making her gasp in pain. She buckled down on one knee, but in the process reached out and palmed one of the markings on the right side of the frame.

  The gunshot sounds - the silver loom - even the ball itself - vanished.

  Nothing happened for several more seconds, and then the door ahead of us began to open.

  We inspected our injuries. There was nothing life-threatening, but we had all been bruised badly, and it was likely that a bone or two had been fractured. I was sure I had broken a rib, and Childe grimaced when he tried to put weight on his right ankle. My leg felt tender where the ball had struck me, but I could still walk, and after a few minutes the pain abated, soothed by a combination of my own medichines and the shunt’s analgesics.

  ‘Thank God we’d put the helmets back on,’ I said, fingering a deep bump in the crown. ‘We’d have been pulped otherwise.’

  ‘Would someone please tell me what just happened?’ Celestine asked, inspecting her own wounds.

  ‘I guess the Spire thought we were taking too long,’ Childe said. ‘It’s given us as long as we like to solve the problems until now, but from now on it looks like we’ll be up against the clock.’

  Hirz said: ‘And how long did we have?’

  ‘After the last door opened? Forty minutes or so.’

  ‘Forty-three, to be precise,’ Trintignant said.

  ‘I strongly suggest we start work on the next door,’ Childe said. ‘How long do you think we have, Doctor?’

  ‘As an upper limit? In the region of twenty-eight minutes.’

  ‘That’s nowhere near enough time,’ I said. ‘We’d better retreat and come back.’

  ‘No,’ Childe said. ‘Not until we’re injured.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ Celestine said.

  But Childe ignored her. He just stepped through the door, into the next room. Behind us the exit door slammed shut.

  ‘Not insane,’ he said, turning back to us. ‘Just very eager to continue.’

  It was never the same thing twice.

  Celestine made her selection as quickly as she could, every muscle tense with concentration, and that gave us - by Trintignant’s estimation - five or six clear minutes before the Spire would demand an answer.

  ‘We’ll wait it out,’ Childe said, eyeing us all to see if anyone disagreed. ‘Celestine can keep checking her results. There’s no sense in giving the fucking thing an answer before we have to; not when so much is at stake.’

  ‘I’m sure of the answer,’ Celestine said, pointing to the part of the frame she would eventually palm.

  ‘Then take five minutes to clear your head. Whatever. Just don’t make the choice until we’re forced into it.’

  ‘If we get through this room, Childe . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m going back. You can’t stop me.’

  ‘You won’t do it, Celestine, and you know it.’

  She glared at him, but said nothing. I think what followed was the longest five minutes in my life. None of us dared speak again, unwilling to begin anything - even a word - for fear that something like the ball would return. All I heard for five minutes was our own breathing; backgrounded by the awful slow thrumming of the Spire itself.

  Then something slithered out of one wall.

  It hit the floor, writhing. It was an inch-thick, three-metre-long length of flexible metal.

  ‘Back off . . .’ Childe told us.

  Celestine looked over her shoulder. ‘You want me to press this, or not?’

  ‘On my word. Not a moment before.’

  The cable continued writhing: flexing, coiling and uncoiling like a demented eel. Childe stared at it, fascinated. The writhing grew in strength, accompanied by the slithering, hissing sounds of metal on metal.

  ‘Childe?’ Celestine asked.

  ‘I just want to see what this thing actually—’

  The cable flexed and writhed, and then propelled itself rapidly across the floor in Childe’s direction. He hopped nimbly out of the way, the cable passing under his feet. The writhing had become a continuous whipcracking now, and we all pressed ourselves against the walls. The cable - having missed Childe - retreated to the middle of the room and hissed furiously. It looked much longer and thinner than it had a moment ago, as if it had elongated itself.

  ‘Childe,’ Celestine said, ‘I’m making the choice in five seconds, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Wait, will you?’

  The cable moved with blinding speed now, rearing up so that its motion was no longer confined to a few inches above the floor. Its writhing was so fast that it took on a quasi-solidity: an irregularly shaped pillar of flickering, whistling metal. I looked at Celestine, willing her to palm the frame, no matter what Childe said. I appreciated his fascination - the thing was entrancing to look at - but I suspected he was pushing curiosity slightly too far.

  ‘Celestine . . .’ I started saying.

  But what happened next happened with lightning speed: a silver-grey tentacle of the blur - a thin loop of the cable - whipped out to form a double coil around Celestine’s arm. It was the one Trintignant had already worked on. She looked at it in horror; the cable tightened itself and snipped the arm off. Celestine slumped to the floor, screaming.

  The tentacle tugged her arm to the centre of the room, retreating into the hissing, flickering pillar of whirling metal.

  I dashed for the door, remembering th
e symbol she had pressed. The whirl reached a loop out to me, but I threw myself against the wall and the loop merely brushed the chest of my suit before flicking back into the mass. From the whirl, tiny pieces of flesh and bone dribbled to the ground. Then another loop flicked out and snared Hirz, wrapping around her midsection and pulling her towards the centre.

  She struggled - cartwheeling her arms, her feet skidding against the floor - but it was no good. She started shouting, and then screaming.

  I reached the door.

  My hand hesitated over the markings. Was I remembering accurately, or had Celestine intended to press a different solution? They all looked so similar now.

  Then Celestine, who was still clutching her ruined arm, nodded emphatically.

  I palmed the door.

  I stared at it, willing it to move. After all this, what if her choice had been wrong? The Spire seemed to draw out the moment sadistically while behind me I continued to hear the frantic hissing of the whirling cable. And something else, which I preferred not to think about.

  Suddenly the noise stopped.

  In my peripheral vision I saw the cable retreating into the wall, like a snake’s tongue laden with scent.

  Before me, the door began to open.

  Celestine’s choice had been correct. I examined my state of mind and decided that I ought to be feeling relief. And perhaps, distantly, I did. At least now we would have a clear route back out of the Spire. But we would not be going forward, and I knew not all of us would be leaving.

  I turned around, steeling myself against what I was about to see.

  Childe and Trintignant were undamaged.

  Celestine was already attending to her injury, fixing a tourniquet from her medical kit above the point where her arm ended. She had lost very little blood, and did not appear to be in very much discomfort.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘I’ll make it out, Richard.’ She grimaced, tugging the tourniquet tighter. ‘Which is more than can be said for Hirz.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘It got her.’

  With her good hand, Celestine pointed to the place where the whirl had been only moments before. On the floor - just below the volume of air where the cable had hovered and thrashed - lay a small, neat pile of flailed human tissue.