by Paul McAuley
He walked forward and touched with a forefinger the little speck on which the blue and red threads converged. It inflated into a large, banded globe as big as his head, circled by a ring system many times its diameter; he spun it with the offhand ease of a juggler in the Permanent Floating Market.
‘The Quick discovered all manner of strange quantum effects in the core of Cthuga. Some of our philosophers believe that they might yield weapons that can win the war. Others believe that they are manifestations of some form of computational system. A Mind. Some say that this Mind was created when the Quick dropped their seedship into the heart of the planet. Some believe it may be a truly alien mind. The Ghosts believe that it has not yet been created, and is reaching back into the past to make sure that it is born at the proper time. That they can use it to reach into their own past, and fulfil the ancient prophesies of their founder . . .’ He looked at me and said, ‘Have we talked about this before?’
‘About the Mind in Cthuga? A little, Majister.’
‘I talk too much, to too many people, but it’s the only way now that I can influence the world of things. And you are too polite to complain, Isak. You indulge me.’
‘I always learn something new, Majister.’
‘There’s little new here, I’m afraid. The Ghosts advance on Cthuga, and its orbit carries it towards their territory, and away from ours. They are already probing its defences. It will not be long before they mount a full-scale attack. We do not know if they can do what they want to do, but we must do our best to stop them.’
‘That we can talk about this, Majister, suggests that they will not be successful. We would not be here if they had changed the past to suit themselves.’
‘In this particular universe, at this particular point in space-time, it may be true. But philosophers claim that there are many other universes entangled with this one, and if those universes in which the Ghosts are successful outnumber those in which they are not, then ours will become a remote and isolated island with no influence on the main currents of the future. That is what we are fighting for. To preserve the past, which we Trues hold so dear in any case, so that we will be free to determine our own future.’
Majister Svern spun the globe again. Underlit by Cthuga’s sere light, his face seemed more like a mask than usual, animated by something other than mere human intelligence. ‘When you first came in, I noticed that you flinched from the image of Fomalhaut. Do all bright lights affect you in the same way?’
‘Everything that reminds me of my disgrace affects me, Majister.’
‘Do you feel it with you still? As if something is following you, or watching you?’
He had asked this question before. I gave him the same answer now as then.
‘I have dreams about it,’ I said.
‘One of our philosophers claims that the Mind in Cthuga has been growing more active. That it has been contacting various Quick workers. I find it interesting that haunts and demons in the Library have also been growing more active. It may be a coincidence. Or it may be that the Mind is reaching out to the Ghosts, and the increased activity of demons and haunts is part of the Ghosts’ plans for the final stages of the war. Perhaps you are a casualty of war, rather than the victim of an unfortunate accident.’
‘Arden and Van were victims,’ I said. ‘As were their kholops. And they died because I was derelict in my duty. Because I ran away.’
The confession was still painful. Like a rough-edged stone stuck in my throat.
The Redactor Svern didn’t seem to hear me. He spun the ringed globe once again, then shrank it down and set it back in place.
‘The elder clans despise our clan because they believe that we are too close to the Quick, and have contaminated ourselves with their decadent philosophies,’ he said. ‘They say that our best hope of winning the war is to keep ourselves pure. Purity is strength. That is how we gained ascendancy over the Quick. That is how, according to them, we will defeat the Ghosts and destroy every trace of them in the Fomalhaut system. And after that, well, perhaps we will find a way of crossing the great gulf between Fomalhaut and beta Hydri, and we will destroy the Ghosts in their home system, too. It’s a pretty fantasy, founded on ideology rather than fact. As for its usefulness, well, I have shown you how badly the war is going. Anyone who discovers a weakness in the enemy that can be exploited, or a weapon that can be used against them, will be feted as a true hero.’
He fell silent. When it seemed that he would not speak again, I said, ‘Does this scion think that the Library contains something that can stop the Ghosts reaching Cthuga?’
‘No doubt you are wondering what this has to do with you. Why I brought you back, after . . . all this time.’
‘The Redactor Miriam told me that a trueborn scion needs our help. No more than that.’
‘I suppose that she also told you that you’d be a fool to volunteer, because you’ll almost certainly fail.’
‘I hope I will not.’
‘And that if you succeed, you will have no reward.’
‘I deserve none.’
‘And then she asked you to refuse the obligation I’m about to put to you.’
‘She asked me to quit the Library at once and join the army, so that I would not have to meet you in the first place.’
‘Yet here you are.’
‘Yes, Majister.’
‘The scion’s name is Lathi Singleton. She is one of the last of an old family in the oldest of all our clans. Although her position in it is greatly diminished, she is still powerful and dangerous. She contacted me directly, and by custom I cannot refuse her request.
‘I didn’t choose you because I pity you or feel that you have been treated unfairly, Isak. And I’m not using you to score petty political points against the Redactor Miriam. I am beyond all that. I chose you because of all of us you are best fitted to succeed. And if you succeed, I promise you that your punishment and exile will be ended. Not because it is in my gift, but because it will change everything. Let me explain what Lathi Singleton wants of us, and you’ll understand.’
As I quit the Library through the Alexandrian Gate, I sent a message to the Horse, telling him to find me at once, and wandered off towards the Permanent Floating Market, thinking about the strange meeting with the Redactor Svern and feeling a bitter-sweet nostalgia for the carefree times of lost innocence when I had once sported in the teeming aisles with fellow novices.
When I’d descended the sweeping span of the bridge that crossed the Library’s moat, the outer tip of the plate had been touched by a last gleam of light, but down in the market it was, as always, midnight. The overlapping leaves of the iron sky pressed overhead; the stalls, geos and tented arenas glowed in a thousand different pastel hues, like so many sea anemones at the bottom of a deep pool. As I stood at one of the stalls, eating noodles, the faces of the people passing its shell of soft pink light seemed to open like flowers. The strange beautiful faces of Quicks. The faces of Trues, hard and closed as fists. And there was the Horse, smiling his crooked smile, his hair a disordered flame, sauntering up to the stall and leaning next to me, his head scarcely higher than my shoulder, his upper lip wrinkling back as he watched me spoon more hot sauce on my noodles.
‘It’s hard to tell if you’re celebrating or trying to kill yourself,’ he said.
‘It’s the only way to give this stuff any kind of taste. Where have you been?’
‘Here and there. Round and about.’ The Horse ordered a bowl of tea from the young Quick behind the counter, a pale yellow fragrant infusion that made the stuff I’d been served seem like unrecycled drain water. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Am I still working for you, or is this a fond farewell before you take up arms against the enemy?’
Many of you – even in these enlightened times – will be shocked by his easy familiarity. But we had trained together, he’d stood by me after the desperate incident that had killed two other navigators and their kholops and left me disgraced and demoted, and we’d surv
ived many scrapes and adventures since. Although we could never be friends, after my disgrace he was the nearest thing to a friend that I possessed. His given name, the name allocated by a bureaucratic subroutine of the tank farm where he’d been quickened and brought to term and decanted, derived from the genetic templates which had been crossed to create him, was Faia op (8,9 cis 15) Laepe-Nulit; the Horse was the name he’d chosen for himself after he’d been bought by the Library, the name that other Quicks knew him by, the name I had begun to use after my disgrace. An ancient beast of burden that had possessed, according to him, many noble virtues. He’d been raised and trained to be a navigator’s assistant, had taught me as much about the craft and traditions of my profession as any of my tutors, and possessed the unassailable belief that one day he would make his mark and win his freedom. He liked to tell me stories about Quicks who’d done just that. He liked to tell me all kinds of stories. There was nothing he liked better, it seemed to me, than to talk, to spin fanciful dreams out of thin air. Whenever I called him on his endless chatter, he’d smile and shrug and say that his sharp wit and quick tongue were all the advantage he had, so it was necessary to exercise them as much as possible. He used that same wit to flatter me, of course; because he was good at his work and because of his undimmed faith in me, I put up with his teasing banter and his endless prattling about his futile ambitions, his fantasy that we were true friends. Blood brothers.
I added another spoonful of hot sauce to the last of my noodles. It was good stuff: I was sweating like a pacer at the finish line.
‘A scion of the Singleton clan has disappeared,’ I said. ‘His mother thinks I can help her find him.’
‘That’s different, at least. How will we do that?’
‘She wants us to harrow a hell that he uncovered before he disappeared,’ I said, and told the Horse what the Redactor Svern had told me.
Yakob Singleton was the only surviving child of Lathi Singleton. He had been something of a rebel in his youth, but had settled down and distinguished himself working for the Office of Public Safety. During one of his investigations, he had uncovered information about an active hell. He’d hired a data miner to help him explore it, and that was the last anyone knew of him.
‘His mother believes that he is still alive,’ I said. ‘She wants me to search the hell and find whatever it was that made him walk away from his work and his family. Also, find anything that points to where he has gone.’
‘Since he’s almost certainly dead, that won’t take long,’ the Horse said. ‘What about the data miner? Did he vanish too, or is he locked up somewhere?’
‘She killed herself.’
‘You mean, the demon that got inside her head made her kill herself. Probably after it did the same thing to her client. I can see why we have been given this job,’ the Horse said. ‘It’s dirty work, and it isn’t going to end happily. At least, not for Lathi Singleton.’
‘I’m not sure it will do me any good, either,’ I said. ‘The Redactor Miriam took the trouble to make it clear that nothing can absolve me.’
‘Do you want absolution?’
‘She told me I’d fail. I want to prove her wrong.’
A flower floated in the Horse’s bowl of tea. He plucked it out between finger and thumb and nibbled at it, saying, ‘Did it occur to you that she might have told you you’d fail to goad you into volunteering us for a task that would most likely lead to further disgrace?’
‘I lack your twisted logic.’
‘Also my common sense. If you fail, the Redactor Svern’s influence will be diminished, and you will still be damned. If you succeed, it will benefit the Library, and the Redactor Miriam will do everything she can to make sure that you are not rewarded. She believes that she will win however this plays out.’
‘The Redactor Svern thinks that Yakob Singleton found something important. Something that could change the course of the war. And win me absolution, too.’
The Horse smiled. There was a petal caught between his teeth. ‘But he would not or could not tell you what it is, or how he knows it is so important.’
‘He also thinks that there may be a link between the Mind in Cthuga and the demon that killed our friends and comrades. And he wonders if there’s a link between that demon and the hell that Yakob Singleton discovered.’
‘And that’s why he chose you. You’re caught between his obsession and the Redactor Miriam’s politicking.’
Anyone else would have beaten him for that. I gave him a hard look and said, ‘As far as we’re concerned, all that matters is the hell. After I’ve spoken to Yakob Singleton’s mother, we’ll crack it open, deal with whatever’s inside, and move on from there.’
‘I’d better unpack and test every one of our algorithms, then. It’s been a while since we’ve used the full array.’
‘I’ll take care of the gear. I want you to do what you do best – talk to your friends and acquaintances, and anyone who might know anything useful about Yakob Singleton.’
‘So you do have doubts about what your old master told you.’
‘No. I have doubts about what Yakob Singleton’s mother told him.’
6
They came for Ori two days after the quake. She was working with her crew out on the skin of the Whale, repairing damage to the marshalling yards, when the connection to her bot shut down and she found two Quick in the scarlet halters and black shorts of the public service crew standing either side of her immersion chair.
‘You’re wanted for interview,’ one said.
‘Upstairs,’ the other said. ‘Right now.’
Ori stood. There was no point asking why she was wanted. She knew. She’d been expecting it. All around in the dimly lit room her crewmates reclined in chairs, hands and feet cased in feedback mittens, luminescent strings and streamers flowing over their faces, their attention projected elsewhere. As she followed her escorts out of the room Ori glanced over at Inas, felt a cold needle of regret pierce her heart, looked away. No point asking if she could say goodbye, either.
They rode an express elevator a long way, two kilometres to the decks where Quick administrators and Trues lived. The two PSCs standing behind Ori, saying nothing. At the end of the ride, she was taken down a service corridor and left alone in a cold, brightly lit room. Standing because she had not been told that she could sit. Trying not to shiver. Trying not to think. Trying to ignore the faint but insistent pressure of the presence at the back of her head.
At last a Quick came in, a drab clerk not much older than Ori. She opened a window that displayed a montage of images and video clips culled from the viewpoints of Ori’s bot and the bots of her crew during the confusion and wreckage after the quake had struck, stopped the flow of the montage when the flatbed rail car and probe dropped away, with Ori’s bot riding it.
‘You have to explain everything that happened,’ she told Ori. ‘Starting with why you were on the flatbed rail car.’
‘I already filed a report.’
‘It isn’t my idea,’ the clerk said.
‘Right.’
The clerk listened to Ori’s story about the long fall, letting her tell it in her own words without comment or question, and closed the window.
‘What now?’ Ori said.
‘I hope it works out for you,’ the clerk said, without meeting Ori’s gaze, and left.
Ori waited even longer, this time. She was squatting with her back against one of the walls when a True came in. A man in army uniform, caged in an exoskeleton. A fat pistol holstered at his hip, a captain’s silver starburst on his left breast. He told Ori to stand in the centre of the room and circled around and around her, the little motors in his exoskeleton ticking and whining.
‘We think you may be a wrecker,’ he said at last. ‘We know you used the confusion of the accident to destroy that probe.’
‘No, sir.’
Ori’s head was pounding and adrenalin was pumping through her body.
‘“No, sir.” That’s
all you have to say?’
‘The probe this one and her crew were working on broke free, sir,’ Ori said. The True had stopped in front of her, but she didn’t dare look at him. ‘This one and her crewmates did everything they could to lock it down—’
‘Your crewmates did everything they could to lock it down. And when it broke free you just happened to be riding it. Why? For fun? Because you wanted a cheap thrill?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You had a reason. Tell me.’
Ori told the truth, feeling a cold flush of shame. ‘Just before the quake hit, this one climbed on to the flatbed rail car. It would have been better to fasten the bot to the platform, as the others did. But this one wanted to see what happened. Out of ego. Out of wrongfulness. The truck was struck by debris from a chain of freight cars higher up. It fell. This one fell with it.’
‘Why did you launch the probe?’
‘This one believed it might strike the cable and cause serious damage if its payload was breached.’
Ori spoke as humbly as she could. She knew that she had done the right thing, and also knew that she should not expect praise or reward. She had done it without first asking permission. She had acted on her own. She had behaved as if she was a True. She had been crazy.
‘You claim to have had some kind of close encounter.’
‘There was a sprite,’ Ori said reluctantly.
‘And you claim it did something to you.’
‘This one feels it left something of itself behind.’
The True studied her, then opened two windows. One showing the beginning of the montage of stills and clips that the clerk had played, the other a section through someone’s skull that exposed the lobes of the brain, with little puddles of green and yellow and blue caught in a web of red threads.
Ori felt the presence at the back of her head stir and move forward. The sprite, or a fragment of it. Her passenger. Inas still refused to believe that it was real. And for most of the time, as far as Ori was concerned, it was little more than an itch inside her skull, a hum like the faint but continuous mingled roar of the Whale, a word unuttered, a thought or memory she couldn’t quite grasp. But then it would come to stand behind her eyes, and she knew. She knew that it was real. That it really was inside her head, a bundle of unknown and unguessable thoughts and intentions, separate from her own thoughts, her own intentions.