Elysium Fire

by Alastair Reynolds

Dreyfus left the ship. He pulled himself through the docking connector using the built-in rungs. Two Mendicants, a young man and an older woman, were waiting for him. Both wore the long-hemmed black vestments of their order, with wimples over their heads and metal snowflakes chained around their necks. The young man had an earnest, eager look. Dreyfus had never seen him before, but he nodded his recognition at the woman.

  “Sister Catherine—it’s good to see you. I’m sorry it’s been a little while since my last visit, but these last three months …”

  Catherine had a long, grave face and a down-curved mouth which did not lend itself to jocularity. “More like nine months, Tom—unless my recollection is flawed.”

  “It can’t be that long,” he said, before trailing off, certain as he could be that Sister Catherine had no reason to exaggerate.

  “You’ve been busy. These are difficult times.” If there was forgiveness in that answer, it was sparing of warmth. “You won’t have met Brother Sebastien—he only joined us half a year ago. And the Mendicant you spoke to from your ship was also unacquainted with you.” Sister Catherine beckoned him forward. “Come. We’ll say no more of it. I know these visits weigh heavily on you.”

  The Mendicants led him along a series of laddered shafts, gradually moving further away from the habitat’s central axis. Eventually there was enough gravity to make walking practical. Sister Catherine threw open a door and daylight blasted through. They stepped into the green-carpeted core of the world, a line of artificial sunlight spearing it from end to end. Paths ambled away in various directions, some of them sloping quite steeply. “Watch your footing,” Sister Catherine warned. “There was a mud washout here a few weeks ago and we still haven’t shored up all the paths. The stones tend to end up further down the valley, and it’s back-breaking work bringing them up again.”

  “There are never enough of you,” Dreyfus said.

  “We’re always open to volunteers,” Sister Catherine said. She had a walking stick, jabbing it into the descending ground as if impaling a snake.

  “One line of work’s enough for me, Sister.”

  “We’re busier than usual,” Brother Sebastien said, speaking for the first time. “A ship came in—a high number of sleepers needing our care. They’d had some sort of problem with their shields. We’ll help those we’re able to, of course. Many will be able to go on to a normal life in the Glitter Band. But not all who remain with us in Hospice Idlewild are able to offer much practical support for the community.”

  “Valery has always been a blessing to us,” Sister Catherine said, as if Brother Sebastien’s words might have been misconstrued. “She tends the flowers with great care and affection.”

  “It takes more than flowerbeds to keep a world running,” Dreyfus said.

  “We know, Tom,” Sister Catherine said. “But we do what we can.”

  There were no trams or monorails in Hospice Idlewild, merely the paths, few of which were large enough to qualify as roads. They spidered off in all directions, up and over the ceiling of the world, meandering through swathes of forest, linking the clearings where the Mendicants had established white-walled hamlets, clinics, convalescent lodges and schools for those in their care. Occasionally here were rockfaces and waterfalls, some of them upside down, but none so large or impressive enough to stir any sense of the sublime. The overall effect was more one of a world-enclosing miniature garden, with every aspect selected for the maximum impression of harmony and tranquillity.

  Nothing about the habitat had any sort of soothing influence on Dreyfus. The personal ties were too raw for that.

  The path levelled out and they walked past an open-air clinic where black-clad Mendicants were working with a dozen or so white-gowned patients, helping them with walking exercises and simple games to improve hand-to-eye coordination.

  “The recent arrivals?” Dreyfus asked.

  “No, far too soon for them,” Brother Sebastien said, lowering his voice as they moved into earshot. “These came into our care just before I joined. Mild to severe revival amnesia, with some locomotor deficits. But they are responding well to the therapies, and I expect most will leave us within the month.”

  “Incomers, or economic frozen?”

  “Another ship,” Sister Catherine said. “In from Fand. Nothing wrong with it, this time—just the usual statistical sample of bad-luck cases. Put twenty thousand sleepers on a starship, and a few dozen will come out of the holds with their memories gone, or worse.”

  Dreyfus watched a female Mendicant offer some spoken encouragement to a young woman with a heart-shaped face and dark eyes. They were tossing a black ball to and fro. The young woman smiled something back, perhaps no more than a single word of acknowledgement, but enough to put a twist in his guts.

  “It’s kind of you to do what you can for them.”

  “They would find a similar quality of care elsewhere in the system,” Sister Catherine said. “Perhaps a little better than what we can offer. But what we do, we do without expectation of payment. No one is in debt to us, or indentured into our service. That is not always the case beyond the Hospice.”

  “I don’t doubt you.”

  “Besides, there is a sort of insurance in what we do. Our methods may be simple, but they are robust. If some terrible thing were to happen to the rest of the Glitter Band, the ships would not stop coming. That would take decades.” Sister Catherine paused to open a small white picket gate that led from one part of the clinic to another. “Who would care for the sick and needy then?”

  “Do you think terrible times are coming?” Dreyfus asked.

  She stepped through the gate and jabbed down her walking stick. “I think it is best to be prepared, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Beyond the picket fence was a short path bordered by stunted trees, and beyond that was a U-shaped enclosure of low, white buildings with thick walls and rough-edged windows and doors. The buildings were arranged around a patch of dry, sun-dappled ground set with chairs and tables. A number of Mendicants were sitting at these tables, working with gowned patients. Sister Catherine turned back to Dreyfus, nodding once. He knew then that Valery had to be among these patients.

  “Over there, Tom—at the table in the corner.” Sister Catherine moved her stick from one hand to the other and settled a forgiving touch onto Dreyfus’s shoulder. “I have some work to attend to. Sebastien will take you to your wife.”

  Slowly Thalia’s eyes had adjusted to the ambient light, picking out the sheer face of the wall as it loomed over them. The cliff-sized bulkhead was semicircular: flat across the base, and rounded at the top where it met the inner ceiling of the wheel. There were iris-like pressure doors in the wall at various heights, but Brig had informed them that there was a service lock at floor level, giving access to the next chamber via a short tunnel.

  “You’ll see what you’re looking for easily enough. I’ll be just fine waiting here.”

  “Are those robots likely to cause us any trouble?” Thalia asked.

  “They can trip you up if they don’t get out of the way fast enough, but beyond that … you really don’t like robots, do you?”

  “She’s got her reasons,” Sparver said.

  It had been a while since they had last seen one of the spindly robots, so perhaps they would be alone for now, their presence registered and noted but otherwise of no further concern.

  “I’ll level with you, Brig,” Thalia said. “We’re involved in a larger investigation, and Friller’s death seems to be a part of it. Knowing that, is there anything else you can share with us about what went on in this place?”

  “Everything I know is second-hand,” Brig said. “What I’ve picked up since we started clearing it out.”

  “Still useful to me.”

  “This whole wheel was just a shell. They rented it out, one partition at a time. There were buildings in each partition, sometimes dozens, and they were owned by different people, and run like independent kingdoms—little habitats in th
eir own right. Most of the time what went on inside was kept secret, unless you were a client—and to be a client you needed money.”

  “And from what you say, Friller may have been rich enough,” Sparver said.

  “Just my guess.”

  “Tell us what you know of the individual services provided by the buildings,” Thalia said.

  “You name it, from what I gathered. Each of those buildings specialised in something different. Dangerous games, dangerous experiments—any sort of surgery or modification you wanted. Quick and dirty procedures for people in a rush, and not too many questions asked.”

  “And the white building,” Thalia asked, with a shiver of insight. “Did they go in for neural modifications there?”

  “Why neural?” Brig asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t—” Thalia started.

  “I have a question,” Sparver said, cutting across her answer. “Should those reeds be moving?”

  He was pointing across the mudflat at a nearby clump of vacuum-frozen reeds.

  Thalia stared at them, wondering what the fuss was about. The reeds were as still and stiff as they had always been.

  Until they twitched, buckling back and forth as if being stroked by invisible fingers.

  “They shouldn’t be doing that,” Brig said.

  “Someone obviously hasn’t told them,” Sparver answered slowly.

  “Air could make them move,” Thalia said. “But there isn’t any air in here. You told us there was no air, Brig.”

  Brig said quietly: “There shouldn’t be.”

  The reeds were still, then moving, then still again—but the intervals of stillness were growing shorter, the movement more emphatic. The three of them had stopped, bewitched by the moving forms.

  Nothing could have felt more out of place than those brittle, twitching reeds. It was as if one element in an otherwise static picture had come to life—a horrible intrusion of animation, where none belonged.

  “It was a hard vacuum when we came in,” Sparver said. “I know—I checked as a matter of routine. Now my suit’s picking up a small partial pressure, and it’s rising.”

  “Mine too,” Thalia said, lowering her gaze to the visor display, and cursing herself for not picking up on it sooner. “Could some air have come with us in the elevator?”

  “Not enough for this,” Brig answered. “It must be leaking back into this chamber from number eight.”

  “Is that meant to happen?” Thalia asked.

  “Shit like this used to happen all the time. Lately though …”

  “Whatever the explanation,” Sparver said, “it’s getting stronger.”

  Something buzzed across the suit-to-suit channel they were using. The buzz became a voice, halfway through a sentence. “… out of there now, Brig. Bulkhead one is opening. Repeat, bulkhead one is opening.”

  “Slater,” Brig said. “We copy. We can see the air flow. One of the irises must have opened. Can you override and shut it from the hub?”

  Brig sounded concerned, but not unduly alarmed. The reclamation crews must have become used to things like this going wrong as the ancient and baroque environmental control systems flickered in and out of life.

  An annoyance, and bad timing, but not an immediate cause for panic.

  But Slater Virac said: “This isn’t the usual screw-up, Brig. The equalisation doors are opening in sequence, top to bottom. We saw red lights on the status monitors a couple of minutes ago, but none of the usual tricks are working this time.”

  “Shit, Virac. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m not, and I strongly suggest you get out of chamber one.”

  “We’re nearly at two. We can be through the connecting tunnel in a few minutes.”

  “Too risky—if the overspill floods the tunnel, you’ll be in even bigger trouble. Can you get back to the spoke?”

  The reeds were buckling over now, snapping one after the other like glass whiskers. Loose debris was starting to tumble across the mudflat—small clumps to begin with, but gaining in size as the force of the draught increased.

  Thalia could feel it for herself, a soft pressure against one side of her suit. And through the suit’s audio amplification, a faint but rising scream of in-rushing air.

  “No chance, Virac—it’s going to hit hurricane force long before we’d get back to the spoke.”

  “Then find shelter. High ground if possible.”

  Larger, heavier pieces of debris were being picked up by the air now; not just frozen foliage, but shards of rubble and building material left over from the clearance process. Thalia pointed to a junction in the raised walkway, one of its forks leading to the shell of a building rising from a nearby island. “That should do, shouldn’t it? Those walls look pretty strong.”

  They quickened their pace, Thalia and Sparver breaking into a jog, but Brig’s suit was heavier and clumsier and it soon became clear she would struggle to match their speed.

  “Go ahead,” she urged, waving them onward. “I’m slower, but I’m also tougher. I’ll see you at those walls.”

  “No,” Thalia said. “We don’t leave you. I demanded your presence; that makes you my responsibility.”

  “Best not argue,” Sparver said.

  They walked as quickly as Brig was able, the force of the wind gathering all the while. They were having to stoop, relying more and more on their suits’ locomotive assist just to maintain their footing. Debris shot by on both sides, larger and larger items now being uprooted and carried away by the rising gale. Door-sized flakes of building material tumbled overhead, borne on the thickening air. Something donged against Thalia’s helmet, nearly knocking her over.

  “Why high ground? What did he mean by that?”

  “Just move,” Brig urged.

  They were at the junction in the path, a Y-shaped fork leading to two different islands. Debris was raining down almost continually now, hammering against the path, larger and smaller pieces hitting their suits. Instinct had Thalia wanting to reach for her whiphound clipped to the outside of the suit, but there was nothing it could do for her under these circumstances.

  “Something new happened,” Sparver said, slowing for a moment. “Can you feel it? The ground’s rumbling under us. It wasn’t rumbling a minute ago.”

  “Water,” Thalia guessed.

  “Nine hundred thousand cubic litres of water,” Brig answered, in a sort of daze. “Not far shy of a million tonnes. If the doors open in sequence, like Virac said, we’ll get the air first, then the water.”

  “All right,” Sparver said, with a sort of fatalistic calm. “There’s a lot of water on its way. That island’s still the only high ground anywhere near us.”

  “Here it comes,” Brig said, twisting around.

  It raced towards them across the mudflat, furred with a heavy coating of debris, a mindless stampede of water.

  7

  Dreyfus watched as Sister Catherine ambled away, then allowed the other Mendicant to lead him to his wife. Distracted, trying to think of anything but the reason for this meeting, he found his gaze drifting to the pattern of light on the sun-dappled ground, the restless play of the individual specks of brightness.

  “Brother Georgi,” Sebastien said in a low, respectful tone. “I’ve brought Mister Dreyfus to see Valery.”

  Georgi—the Mendicant sitting opposite Valery—had obviously been forewarned of this development. “Thank you, Sebastien. Tom, it is very good to see you again.”

  “It’s been too long,” Dreyfus said.

  Georgi waved aside this self-criticism. “Many would sooner forget that they had ever had friends or relatives in our care. In fact, they have been known to have their memories adjusted for precisely that reason.”

  Georgi was facing him, Valery still with her back to Dreyfus. They had been engaged in some childlike game, with symbolic cards spread across the table. A rooster. A house. A constellation of yellow stars, drawn five-pointed.

  Valery had lost langua
ge. She had lost not only the ability to read, but also the mechanisms of verbal expression and understanding. Speech to her was a meaningless, upsetting babble. For years the patient Mendicants of Hospice Idlewild had been trying to rebuild the neural pathways of linguistic function.

  For years they had been getting almost nowhere.

  But his voice must have drawn some glimmer of recognition in her, for she turned to meet him, her expression open and friendly but also seemingly focused on something beyond him.

  “It’s me,” he said, scuffing out a vacant chair and lowering himself into it. They were at the thickest point of the habitat and gravity was at its strongest, the chair’s wooden ligaments creaking under his frame. “You look well, my love.” He risked reaching out a hand, extending it slowly until he was able to touch the side of her face. He was cautious because she had flinched from that hand before, and on one occasion struck it forcefully out of her way, as if deflecting a blow.

  This time at least she permitted the contact, even if there was something uncomprehending in her eyes.

  “Has Sister Catherine told you very much about me, Georgi?” Dreyfus asked, slowly withdrawing his touch, but allowing his other hand to touch Valery’s fingers, where her hand lay amid the symbol cards.

  “Only that your wife suffered an accident, and that you visit her more often than many. I know of your profession, of course. But that is no business of mine.”

  Dreyfus was silent for a few moments, looking into his wife’s eyes and trying to find some recognition in them, some sense that she remembered what they had once been. “When Valery was first taken ill, I didn’t have the strength to deal with what had happened to her. In fact, I did exactly what you just mentioned. I had my memories adjusted.”

  “I understand that the circumstances were difficult.”

  Dreyfus smiled at the understatement buried in that remark, some tension inside him giving way. “I was responsible for her condition, you see. I took a course of action that brought Valery to this state.”

  “Did you intend to hurt your wife?” Georgi asked plainly.