Absolution Gap

by Alastair Reynolds

  “Orders, Quaiche?”

  “Just give me a moment,” he said. He appraised the critical systems first, checking that there was nothing wrong that the subpersona might have missed. They had eaten slightly further into the fuel budget than Quaiche would ordinarily have expected at this point in a mission, but given the additional mass of the scrimshaw suit it was only to be expected. There was enough in reserve for it not to worry him. Other than that all was well: the slowdown had happened without incident; all ship functions were nominal, from sensors and life support to the health of the tiny excursion craft that sat in the Dominatrix’s belly like an embryonic dolphin, anxious to be born.

  “Ship, were there any special requirements for this survey?”

  “None that were revealed to me.”

  “Well, that’s splendidly reassuring. And the status of the mother ship?”

  “I am receiving continuous telemetry from Gnostic Ascension. You will be expected to rendezvous after the usual six- to seven-week survey period. Fuel reserves are sufficient for the catch-up manoeuvre.”

  “Affirmative.” It would never have made much sense for Jasmina to have stranded him without enough fuel, but it was gratifying to know, on this occasion at least, that she had acted sensibly.

  “Horris?” said Morwenna. “Talk to me, please. Where are you?”

  “I’m up front,” he said, “checking things out. Everything looks more or less OK at this point, but I want to make Certain.”

  “Do you know where we are yet?”

  “I’m about to find out.” He touched one of the control fields, enabling voice control of major ship systems. “Rotate plus one-eighty, thirty-second slew,” he said.

  The console display indicated compliance. Through the oval view port, a sprinkling of faintly visible stars began to ooze from one edge to the other.

  “Talk to me,” Morwenna said again.

  “I’m slewing us around. We were pointed tailfirst after slowdown. Should be getting a look at the system any moment now.”

  “Did Jasmina say anything about it?”

  “Not that I remember. What about you?”

  “Nothing,” she said. For the first time since waking she sounded almost like her old self. He imagined it was a coping mechanism. If she acted normally, she would keep panic at bay. Panicking was the last thing she needed in the scrimshaw suit. Morwenna continued, “Just that it was another system that didn’t look particularly noteworthy. A star and some planets. No record of human presence. Dullsville, really.”

  “Well, no record doesn’t mean that someone hasn’t passed through here at some point, just like we’re doing. And they may have left something behind.”

  “Better bloody hope they did,” Morwenna remarked caustically.

  “I’m trying to look on the optimistic side.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you mean well, but let’s not expect the impossible, shall we?”

  “We may have to,” he said under his breath, hoping that the ship would not pick it up and relay it to Morwenna.

  By then the ship had just about completed its rotation, flipping nose-to-tail. A prominent star slid into view and centred itself in the oval. At this distance it was really more a sun than a star: without the command deck’s selective glare shields it would have been uncomfortably bright to look at.

  “I’ve got something,” Quaiche said. His fingers skated across the console. “Let’s see. Spectral type’s a cool G. Main sequence, about three-fifths solar luminosity. A few spots, but no worrying coronal activity. About twenty AU out.”

  “Still pretty far away,” Morwenna said.

  “Not if you want to be certain of including all the major planets in the same volume.”

  “What about theworlds?”

  “Just a sec.” His nimble fingers worked the console again and the forward view changed, coloured lines of orbits springing on to the read-out, squashed into ellipses, each flattened hoop tagged by a box of numbers showing the major characteristics of the world belonging to that orbit. Quaiche studied the parameters: mass, orbital period, day length, inclination, diameter, surface gravity, mean density, magnetospheric strength, the presence of moons or ring systems. From the confidence limits assigned to the numbers he deduced that they had been calculated by the Dominatrix, using its own sensors and interpretation algorithms. If they had been dredged out of some pre-existing database of system parameters they would have been significantly more precise.

  The numbers would improve as the Dominatrix got closer to the system, but until then it was worth keeping in mind that this region of space was essentially unexplored. Someone else might have passed through, but they had probably not stayed long enough to file an official report. That meant that the system stood a chance of containing something that someone, somewhere, might possibly regard as valuable, if only on novelty grounds.

  “In your own time,” the ship said, anxious to begin its work.

  “All right, all right,” Quaiche said. “In the absence of any anomalous data, we’ll work our way towards the sun one world at a time, and then we’ll take those on the far side as we head back into interstellar space. Given those constraints, find the five most fuel-efficient search patterns and present them to me. If there’s a significantly more efficient strategy that requires skipping a world and returning to it later, I’d like to know about it as well.“

  “Just a moment, Quaiche.” The pause was barely enough time for him to pick his nose. “Here we are. Given your specified parameters, there is no strongly favoured solution, nor is there a significantly more favourable pattern with an out-of-order search.”

  “Good. Now display the five options in descending order of the time I’d need to spend in slowdown.”

  The options reshuffled themselves. Quaiche stroked his chin, trying to decide between them. He could ask the ship to make the final decision itself, applying some arcane selection criteria of its own, but he always preferred to make this final selection himself. It wasn’t simply a question of picking one at random, for there was always a solution that for one reason or another just happened to look more right than the others. Quaiche was perfectly willing to admit that this amounted to decision by hunch, rather than any conscious process of elimination. But he did not think it was any less valid for that. The whole point of having Quaiche conduct these in-system surveys was precisely to use those slippery skills that could not be easily cajoled into the kind of algorithmic instruction sets that machines ran. Intervening to select the pattern that best pleased him was just what he was along to do.

  This time it was far from obvious. None of the solutions were elegant, but he was used to that: the arrangement of the planets at a given epoch could not be helped. Sometimes he got lucky and arrived when three or four interesting worlds were lined up in their orbits, permitting a very efficient straight-line mapping path. Here, they were all strung out at various angles from each other. There was no search pattern that did not look like a drunkard’s walk.

  There were consolations. If he had change direction regularly, then it would not cost him much more fuel to slow down completely and make close-up inspections of whichever worlds caught his eye. Rather than just dropping instrument packages as he made high-speed flybys, he could take the Scavenger’s Daughter out and have a really good look.

  For a moment, as the thought of flying the Daughter took hold, he forgot about Morwenna. But it was only for an instant. Then he realised that if he were to leave the Dominatrix, he would be leaving her as well.

  He wondered how she would take that.

  “Have you made a decision, Quaiche?” the ship asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “We’ll take search pattern two, I think.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “Let’s see: minimal time in slowdown; one week for most of the larger planets, two for that gas-giant system with a lot of moons… a few days for the tiddlers… and we should still have fuel to spare in case we find anything seriousl
y heavy.”

  “I concur.”

  “And you’ll tell me if you notice anything unusual, won’t you, ship? I mean, you haven’t been given any special instructions in that area, have you?”

  “None whatsoever, Quaiche.”

  “Good.” He wondered if the ship detected his note of distrust. “Well, tell me if anything crops up. I want to be informed.”

  “Count on me, Quaiche.”

  “I’ll have to, won’t I?”

  “Horris?” It was Morwenna now. “What’s happening?”

  The ship must have locked her out of the audio channel while they discussed the search pattern.

  “Just weighing the options. I’ve picked us a sampling strategy. We’ll be able to take a close look-see at anything we like down there.”

  “Is there anything of interest?”

  “Nothing startling,” he said. “It’s just the usual single star and a family of worlds. I’m not seeing any obvious signs of a surface biosphere, or any indications that anyone’s been here before us. But if there are small artefacts dotted around the place, we’d probably miss them at this range unless they were making an active effort to be seen, which, clearly, they aren’t. But I’m not despondent yet. We’ll go in closer and take a very good look around.”

  “We’d better be careful, Horris. There could be any number of unmapped hazards.”

  “There could,” he said, “but at the moment I’m inclined to consider them the least of our worries, aren’t you?”

  “Quaiche?” the ship asked before Morwenna had a chance to answer. “Are you ready to initiate the search?”

  “Do I have time to get to the slowdown tank?”

  “Initial acceleration will be one gee only, until I have completed a thorough propulsion diagnostic. When you are safely in slowdown, acceleration will increase to the safe limit of the slowdown tank.”

  “What about Morwenna?”

  “No special instructions were received.”

  “Did we make the deceleration burn at the usual five gees, or were you told to keep it slower?”

  “Acceleration was held within the usual specified limits.”

  Good. Morwenna had endured that, so there was every indication that whatever modifications Grelier had made to the scrimshaw suit offered at least the same protection as the slow-down tank. “Ship,” he said, “will you handle Morwenna’s transitions to slowdown buffering?”

  “The transitions will be managed automatically.”

  “Excellent. Morwenna—did you hear that?”

  “I heard it,” she said. “Maybe you can ask another question, too. If it can put me to sleep when it needs to, can it put me under for the whole journey?”

  “You heard what she asked, ship. Can you do it?”

  “If required, it can be arranged.”

  Stupidly, it had never occurred to Quaiche to ask the same question. He felt ashamed not to have thought of it first. He had, he realised, still not adequately grasped what it must be like for her in that thing.

  “Well, Mor, do you want it now? I can have you put asleep immediately. When you wake up we’ll be back aboard the Ascension?

  “And if you fail? Do you think I’ll ever be allowed to wake up?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I did. But I’m not planning to fail.”

  “You always sound so sure of yourself,” she said. “You always sound as if everything’s about to go right.”

  “Sometimes I even believe it as well.”

  “And now?”

  “I told Jasmina that I thought I could feel my luck changing. I wasn’t lying.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  “So are you going to sleep?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll stay awake with you. When you sleep, I’ll sleep. For now. I don’t rule out changing my mind.”

  “I understand.”

  “Find something out there, Horris. Please. For both of us.”

  “I will,” he said. And in his gut he felt something like certainty. It made no sense, but there it was: hard and sharp as a gallstone.

  “Ship,” he said, “take us in.”

  Chapter Five

  Ararat, 2675

  CLAVAIN AND SCORPIO had nearly reached the tent when Vasko appeared, moving around from the back until he stood at the entrance. A sudden gust of wind rattled the tent’s stays, lashing them against the green-stained fabric. The wind sounded impatient, chivvying them on. The young man waited nervously, unsure what to do with his hands.

  Clavain eyed him warily. “I assumed that you’d come alone,” he said quietly.

  “You needn’t worry about him,” Scorpio replied. “He was a bit surprised to find out where you’d been all this time, but I think he’s over that now.”

  “He’d better be.”

  “Nevil, go easy on him, will you? There’ll be plenty of time to play the tyrannical ogre later.”

  When the young man was in earshot Clavain raised his voice and cried hoarsely, “Who are you, son?”

  “Vasko, sir,” he said. “Vasko Malinin.”

  ‘That’s a Resurgam name, isn’t it? Is that where you’re from?“

  “I was born here, sir. My parents were from Resurgam. They lived in Cuvier before the evacuation.”

  “You don’t look old enough.”

  “I’m twenty, sir.”

  “He was born a year or two after the colony was established,” Scorpio said in something close to a whisper. “That makes him one of the oldest people born on Ararat. But he’s not alone. We’ve had second-generation natives born while you were away, children whose parents don’t remember Resurgam, or even the trip here.”

  Clavain shivered, as if the thought of this was easily the most frightful thing he had ever imagined. “We weren’t supposed to put down roots, Scorpio. Ararat was intended to be a temporary stopover. Even the name is a bad joke. You don’t settle a planet with a bad joke for a name.”

  Scorpio decided that now was not the ideal time to remind him that it had always been the plan to leave some people behind on Ararat, even if the majority of them departed.

  “You’re dealing with humans,” he said. “And pigs. Trying to stop us breeding is like trying to herd cats.”

  “Clavain turned his attention back to Vasko. ”And what do you do?“

  “I work in the food factory, sir, in the sedimentation beds mostly, cleaning sludge out of the scrapers or changing the blades on the surface skimmers.”

  “It sounds like very interesting work.”

  “In all honesty, sir, if it were interesting work, I wouldn’t be here today.”

  “Vasko also serves in the local league of the Security Arm,” Scorpio said. “He’s had the usual training: firearms, urban pacification, and so on. Most of the time, of course, he’s putting out fires or helping with the distribution of rations or medical supplies from Central Amenities.”

  “Essential work,” Clavain said.

  “No one, least of all Vasko, would argue with that,” Scorpio said. “But all the same, he put the word around that he was interested in something a little more adventurous. He’s been pestering Arm administration for promotion to a full-time position. His scores are very good and he fancies trying his hand at something a tiny bit more challenging than shovelling shit.”

  Clavain regarded the young man with narrowed eyes. “What exactly has Scorp told you about the capsule?”

  Vasko looked at the pig, then back to Clavain. “Nothing, sir.”

  “I told him what he needed to know, which wasn’t much.”

  “I think you’d better tell him the rest,” Clavain said.

  Scorpio repeated the story he had already told to Clavain. He watched, fascinated, as the impact of the news became apparent in Vasko’s expression.

  He didn’t blame him for that: for twenty years the absolute isolation of Ararat must have been as deeply woven into the fabric of his life as the endless roar of the sea and the constant w
arm stench of ozone and rotting vegetation. It was so absolute, so ever-present, that it vanished beneath conscious notice. But now something had punctured that isolation: a reminder that this ocean world had only ever been a fragile and temporary place of sanctuary amid an arena of wider conflict.

  “As you can see,” Scorpio said, “it isn’t something we want everyone to find out about before we know exactly what’s going on, and who’s in the thing.”

  “I’m assuming you have your suspicions,” Clavain said.

  Scorpio nodded. “It could be Remontoire. We were always expecting the Zodiacal Light to show up one of these days. Sooner than this, admittedly, but there’s no telling what happened to them after we left, or how long it took the ship to repair itself. Maybe when we crack open the capsule we’ll find my second-favourite Conjoiner sitting inside it.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Explain this to me, Clavain,” Scorpio said. “If it’s Remontoire and the rest, why the secrecy? Why don’t they just move into orbit and announce they’ve arrived? At the very least they could have dropped the capsule a bit closer to land, so that it wouldn’t have cost us so much time recovering it.”

  “So consider the alternative,” Clavain said. “It might be your least favourite Conjoiner instead.”

  “I’ve considered that, of course. If Skade had arrived in our system, I’d expect her to maintain a maximum-stealth profile the whole way in. But we should still have seen something. By the same token, I don’t think she’d be very likely to start her invasion with a single capsule—unless there’s something extremely nasty in it.”

  “Skade can be nasty enough on her own,” Clavain said. “But I agree: I don’t think it’s her. Landing on her own would be a suicidal and pointless gesture; not her style at all.”

  They had arrived at the tent. Clavain opened the door and led the way in. He paused at the threshold and examined the interior with a vague sense of recrimination, as if someone else entirely lived there.

  “I’ve become very used to this place,” he said, almost apologetically.