Chasm City

by Alastair Reynolds

  "Really, sir?"

  "Not literally, you damn fool! What would a man weigh, one ten millionth of the mass of one our ships? What kind of bloody edge would that have been?"

  "Not much of one, sir."

  "I don't damn well think so, no. The trouble with you, Titus, is you take everything I say too damn literally . . . like a bloody amanuensis hanging off my every word, quill poised above parchment . . ."

  "I'm not Titus, sir. Titus was my father."

  "What?" For a moment Balcazar glared at him, his eyes yellow with suspicion. "Oh, never mind, damn you!"

  But this was actually one of Balcazar's better days. There had been no outright lapses into surrealism. He could be very much worse: as poetically oblique as any sphinx, when the mood seized him. Perhaps there had once been a context in which even his maddest statement might have meant something, but to Sky they sounded only like premature deathbed ramblings. That was no problem of his. Balcazar seldom invited any kind of riposte when he was in soliloquy mode. If Sky had really back-answered him-or even dared to question some minute, trifling detail in Balcazar's stream-of-consciousness-the shock of it would probably have given him multiple organ failure, even with the relaxant Rengo had administered.

  How utterly convenient that would have been, Sky thought.

  After a few minutes, he said, "I suppose you can tell me what this is all about now, sir."

  "Of course, Titus. Of course."

  And as placidly as if they were two old friends catching up on lost times over a couple of pisco sours, the Captain told him that they were heading to a conclave of senior Flotilla crew. It was to be the first in many years, precipitated by the unexpected arrival of another update from Sol system. A message from home, in other words, containing elaborate technical blueprints. It was the kind of exterior event which was still sufficient to push the Flotilla towards some kind of unity, even in the midst of the cold war. It was the same kind of gift which might have annihilated the Islamabad , when Sky was very young. Even now, no one was entirely sure whether Khan had chosen to sip from that poisoned chalice, or whether the accident had just happened then out of a sense of malign cosmic caprice. Now there was a promise of another squeeze in engine efficiency, if only they would make certain trifling changes to the magnetic confinement topology; all very safe, the message said-tested endlessly back home, with mockups of the Flotilla's engines; the potential for error was really negligible provided certain basic precautions were taken . . .

  But at the same time, another message had arrived.

  Don't do it, said the other message. They're trying to trick you .

  It hardly mattered that the other message offered no plausible reason why such trickery might be attempted. The doubt that it brought was enough to lend this conclave an entirely new frisson of tension.

  Eventually they were within visual range of the Palestine , where the conclave would be held. A whole swarm of shuttle taxis was converging on her from the other three ships, carrying senior ships' officers. The choice of the meeting place had been arrived at in haste, but that did not mean the process had been devoid of difficulty. Yet the Palestine was the obvious choice. In any war, Sky thought, cold or otherwise, it was always to the mutual benefit of all participants to agree on a neutral ground, whether it be for negotiation, exchange of spies or-if all else failed-early demonstration of new weapons-and the Palestine was the ship that had assumed that role.

  "Do you think this is really a trick, sir?" Sky asked, when Balcazar had finished one of his coughing sessions. "I mean, why would they do that?"

  "Why would they bloody do what?"

  "Try and kill us, sir, by transmitting erroneous technical data? There'd be no gain for them back home. It's a wonder they even bother sending us anything."

  "Precisely." Balcazar spat the word, as if its obviousness was beneath contempt. "There'd be no gain in sending us something useful, either-and it would be a lot more work than sending us something dangerous. Can't you see that, you little fool? God help all of us if one of your generation ever assumes command . . ." He trailed off.

  Sky waited for him to finish coughing, then wheezing. "But there must still be a motivation . . ."

  "Pure malice."

  He was treading very thin ice now, but he soldiered on. "The malice could just as easily lie in the message warning us not to implement the change."

  "Oh, and you're willing to risk four thousand lives to put that little bit of schoolboy speculation to the test, are you?"

  "It's not my job to take such a decision, sir. I'm just saying I don't envy you the responsibility."

  "And what would you know about responsibility anyway, you insolent little prick?"

  Little now, Sky thought. But one day . . . perhaps one day not too far from this one, all that might change. Thinking it best not to reply, he flew the taxi on in silence, broken only by the old man's cardiovascular labours.

  But he thought deeply. It was something that Balcazar had said; that remark about it being better to bury the dead in space, rather than carry them to the destination world. It made a kind of sense, when he thought about it.

  Every kilogramme that the ship carried was another kilogramme that had to be decelerated down from interstellar cruise speed. The ships massed close on a million tonnes-ten million times the mass of a man, as Balcazar had said. The simple laws of Newtonian physics told Sky that decreasing the mass of a ship by that amount would bring a proportional increase in the rate at which the ship could decelerate, assuming the same engine efficiency.

  An improvement of one part in ten million was hardly spectacular . . . but who said you had to make do with the mass of just one man?

  Sky thought about all the dead passengers the Santiago was carrying: the sleepers who were medically beyond any kind of revival. Only human sentimentality would argue that they needed to be brought to Journey's End. And for that matter, the huge and heavy machinery that supported them could be ditched as well. He thought about it some more, and began to think that it would not be impossible to shave off tonnes from the ship's mass. Put like that, it almost sounded compelling. The improvement would still be much less than one part in a thousand. Still-who was say more sleepers would not be lost in the years to come? A thousand things could go wrong.

  It was a risky business, being frozen.

  "Maybe we should all just wait and see, Titus," the Captain said, jolting him from his thoughts. "That wouldn't be such a bad approach to take, would it?"

  "Wait and see, sir?"

  "Yes." There was a cold clarity to the Captain now, but Sky knew that it could go as easily as it came. "Wait and see what they do about it, I mean. They'll have received the message as well, you realise. They'll have debated what to do about it as well, of course-but they won't have been able to talk it over with any of us."

  The Captain sounded lucid enough, but Sky was having trouble following him. Doing his best to conceal the fact, he said, "It's a long time since you've mentioned them, isn't it?"

  "Of course. One doesn't go around blabbing, Titus-you of all people would know that. Loose lips sink ships, that sort of thing. Or get them discovered."

  "Discovered, sir?"

  "Well, we know damn well that our friends on the other three don't even seem to know about them. We've had spies penetrate right to the highest echelons on the other ships, and there's been no word about them at all."

  "Could we know for sure, though, sir?"

  "Oh, I think so, Titus."

  "You do, sir?"

  "Of course. You keep your ear to the ground on the Santiago , don't you? You know that the crew are at least familiar with the rumour of the sixth ship, even if most of them don't give it any credence."

  Sky masked his surprise as well as he was able. "The sixth ship's just a myth to most of them, sir."

  "And that's the way we'll keep it. We, on the other hand, know better."

  Sky thought to himself: so it's real. After all this time, the damned
thing really exists. At the very least in Balcazar's mind . But the Captain also seemed to be talking as if Titus had been in on the secret himself. Since the sixth ship constituted a possible security issue-no matter how little might have been known about that-it was entirely possible that he had been. And Titus had died before he could pass that particular item of knowledge to his successor.

  Sky thought of Norquinco, his friend from the time when he had ridden the trains. He remembered well how Norquinco had been utterly convinced of the reality of the sixth ship. Gomez, too, had needed little convincing. It had been a year or so since he had spoken to either, but Sky imagined the two of them here now, nodding silently, enjoying the way he was forced to calmly accept this truth; this thing that he had so vehemently argued against. He had hardly given the matter any thought since that conversation on the train, but now he racked his brains, trying to remember what Norquino had told them.

  "Most of the crew who buy into the rumour at all," he said, "assume that the sixth ship is dead; just drifting behind us."

  "Which only shows that there's a grain of truth underlying the rumour. She's dark, of course-no lights, no strong evidence of human presence at all-but all of that could be subterfuge. Her crew could still be alive, running her quietly. We can't guess their pyschology, of course, and we still don't know what really happened."

  "It would be good to know. Especially now." Sky paused and took what he knew to be a major risk. "Given the current gravity of the situation, with this technical message from back home, is there anything else I need to know about the sixth ship-anything which might help us make the right choice?"

  To his relief, the Captain shook his head without rancour.

  "You've seen all that I have, Titus. We really don't know anything more. I'm afraid those rumours encapsulate as much knowledge as we really have."

  "An expedition would settle the matter."

  "As you never tire of telling me. But consider the risks: yes, she's just within range of one our shuttles. About half a light-second behind us the last time we took an accurate radar fix, although she must have been a lot closer once. It would be simpler still if we could refuel when we got there. But what if they don't want visitors? They've maintained the illusion of non-existence for more than a generation. They might not be willing to give that up without a fight."

  "Unless they're dead. Some of the crew think we attacked them, and then erased them from the historical record."

  The Captain shrugged. "Perhaps that's what happened. If you could erase a crime like that, you would, wouldn't you? Some of them might have survived, though, and chosen to lie low, so they can spring a surprise on us later in the voyage."

  "You think this message from back home might be enough to make them break their cover?"

  "Perhaps. If it encourages them to fiddle with their antimatter engine, and the message really is a trap . . ."

  "They'll light up half the sky."

  The Captain chuckled, a wet cruel sound, and that seemed to be the cue for him to doze off properly. The rest of the journey passed without incident, but Sky's mind was racing anyway, trying to digest what he had learned. Every time he said the words they were like a casual slap against his cheek; punishment for his own presumption in doubting Norquinco and the other believers. The sixth ship existed. The sixth damned ship existed . . .

  And that, potentially, could change anything.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They took me down to the Mulch again. I woke up in the cable-car as it was descending through night, rain hammering against the craft's windows. For a moment I thought I was with Captain Balcazar, escorting him across space to the meeting aboard the other Flotilla ship. The dreams seemed to be getting more insistent, pushing me ever deeper into Sky's thoughts, so that they were harder to shake off when I came around. But it was just me and Waverly in the cable-car's compartment.

  I wasn't sure it was an improvement.

  "How does it feel? I did a good job, I think."

  He was sitting opposite me with a gun. I remembered him pushing the probe against my head. I reached up to touch my scalp. Above my right ear was a shaven patch, still scabbed with blood, and the feeling of something hard encysted beneath the skin.

  It hurt like hell.

  "I think you need some practice."

  "Story of my life. You're a strange one, though. What's with all the blood coming out of your hand? Is that some medical condition I should know about?"

  "Why? Would it make any difference?"

  He debated the point with himself for a few moments. "No, probably not. If you can run, you're fit enough."

  "Fit enough for what?" I touched the scab again. "What have you put inside me?"

  "Well, let me explain."

  I hadn't expected him to be so talkative, but I began to understand why it might make sense for me to know some of the facts. It must have stemmed less from any concern for my wellbeing than the need to have me primed in the right way. From previous games, it had become clear that the hunted made the whole affair more entertaining if they knew exactly what was at stake, and what their own chances were.

  "Basically," he said urbanely, "it's a hunt. We call it the Game. It doesn't exist, not officially; not even within the relatively lawless environs of Canopy. They know about it, and speak about it, but always with discretion."

  "Who?" I said, for the sake of saying something.

  "Postmortals, immortals, whatever you want to call them. They don't all play it, or even want to play it, but they all know someone who has played it, or has connections with the network which makes the Game possible in the first place."

  "This been going on long?"

  "Only in the last seven years. Perhaps one might think of it as a barbaric counterpoint to the gentility which pervaded Yellowstone before the fall."

  "Barbaric?"

  "Oh, exquisitely so. That's why we adore it. There's nothing intricate or subtle about the Game, methodologically or psychologically. It needs to be capable of being organised at very short notice, anywhere in the city. There are rules, naturally, but you don't need a trip to the Pattern Jugglers to understand them."

  "Tell me about these rules, Waverly."

  "Oh, they're nothing that need concern you, Mirabel. All you need do is run."

  "And then?"

  "Die. And die well." He spoke kindly, like an indulgent uncle. "That's all we ask of you."

  "Why do you do it?"

  "To take another's life is a special kind of thrill, Mirabel. To do it while being immortal elevates the act to an entirely different level of sublimity." He paused, as if marshalling his thoughts. "We don't really grasp the nature of death, even in these difficult times. But by taking a life-especially the life of someone who wasn't immortal, and who therefore already had an acute awareness of death-we can obtain some vicarious sense of what it means."

  "Then the people you hunt are never immortal?"

  "Not generally, no. We usually select from the Mulch, picking someone reasonably healthy. We want them to give us a good chase for our money, of course, so we're not above feeding them first."

  He told me more; that the Game was financed by a clandestine network of subscribers. Mostly Canopy, their numbers were rumoured to be augmented by pleasure-seekers from some of the more libertarian carousels still inhabited in the Rust Belt, or some of the other settlements on Yellowstone, like Loreanville. Nobody in the network knew more than a handful of other subscribers, and their true identities were camouflaged by an elaborate system of deceits and masques, so that no one could be exposed in the open chambers of Canopy life, which still affected a kind of decadent civility. Hunts were organised at short notice, with small numbers of subscribers alerted at any one time, convening in disused parts of the Canopy. On the same night-or no more than a day before-a victim would be extracted from the Mulch and prepared.

  The implants were a recent refinement.

  They allowed the progress of the hunt to be shared amo
ngst a larger pool of subscribers, boosting the potential revenue enormously. Other subscribers would help with ground coverage, risking the Mulch to bring video images of the hunt back to the Canopy, with cachets to those who obtained the most spectacular footage. Simple rules of play-which were more strictly enforced than any actual laws which still prevailed in the city-determined the accepted parameters within which the hunt could take place, the permitted tracking devices and weapons, what constituted a fair kill.

  "There's just one problem," I said. "I'm not from the Mulch. I don't know my way around your city. I'm not sure you're going to get your money's worth."

  "Oh, we'll manage. You'll have an adequate headstart on the hunters. And to be frank, your not being local is actually something of an advantage to us. The locals know far too many shortcuts and hidey-holes."

  "Pretty unsporting of them. Waverly, there's something I want you to know."

  "Yes?"

  "I'm going to come back and kill you."

  He laughed. "Sorry, Mirabel, but I've heard it all before."

  The cable-car landed, the door opened and he invited me to step out.

  I started running as the cable-car damped its lights and climbed above me, heading back to the Canopy. Even as it ascended, a dark mote against the milky strands of aerial light, more cars were descending, like fireflies. They were not headed straight for me-that wouldn't have been sporting-but they were certainly headed for my general part of the Mulch.

  The Game had started.

  I kept running.

  If the area of the Mulch where the rickshaw kid had left me was a bad one, then this was something else: a territory so depopulated that it could not even be termed dangerous in the same sense-unless you happened to be the unwilling participant in a night's hunt. There were no fires burning in the lower levels, and the encrustations around the structures had a look of deserted neglect: half-collapsed and inaccessible. The surface roads were even more dilapidated than those I had travelled earlier, cracked and twisted like strips of toffee, apt to end abruptly in mid-span as they crossed a flooded abyss, or simply to plunge into the flood itself. It was dark, and I had to constantly watch my footing.