The Revelation Space Collection (234 page)

[Help me into it, please. The servitor can do it, but it always seems to take an eternity to do it properly.]

Help you into it?
Remontoire queried.

[Grasp the support pillar immediately beneath my neck.]

Remontoire placed both hands around the silver pedestal and pulled. There was a soft click and the upper part, along with the head, came loose in his hands. He elevated it, finding it much heavier than he had imagined it would be. Hanging beneath the place where the pedestal had separated was a knot of slimy wriggling cables. They thrashed and groped like a fistful of eels.

[Now carry me - gently - to the servitor.]

Remontoire did as she asked. Perhaps the possibility of dropping the head flickered through his mind once or twice, though rationally he doubted that the fall would do Skade very much harm: the floor would most likely soften to absorb the impact. But he fought to keep such thoughts as well censored as he could.

[Now pop me down into the body of the servitor. The connections will establish themselves. Gently now ... gently does it.]

He slid the silver core into the machine until he encountered resistance.
Is that it?

[Yes.] Skade’s eyes widened perceptibly, and her skin took on a blush it had lacked before. [Yes. Connection established. Now, let’s see ... motor control ...]

The servitor’s forearm jerked violently forwards, the fist clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Skade pulled it back and held the outspread hand before her eyes, studying the mechanical anatomy of gloss-black and chrome with rapt fascination. The servitor was of a quaint design that resembled medieval armour; it was both beautiful and brutal.

You seem to have the hang of it.

The servitor took a shuffling step forwards, both arms held slightly in front of it. [Yes ... This is my quickest adjustment yet. It almost makes me think I should instruct Delmar not to bother.]

‘Not to bother doing what?’ asked Felka.

[Healing my old body. I think I prefer this one. That’s a joke, incidentally.]

‘Of course,’ Felka said uneasily.

[But you should be grateful that this has happened to me. It makes me more likely to try to bring Clavain back into our possession alive.]

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I would very much like him to see what he has done to me.’ Skade turned around with a creak of metal. ‘Now, there is something else you wanted to see, I think. Shall we continue?’

The suit of armour led them out of the room.

FIFTEEN

A word pressed itself into Volyova’s skull, as hard and searing as a cattle brand.

[Ilia.]

She could not speak, could only shape her own thoughts in response.
Yes. How do you know my name?

[I’ve come to know you. You’ve shown such interest in me - in us - that it was difficult not to know you in return.]

Again she moved to hammer on the door that had sealed her inside the cache weapon, but when she tried to lift her arm nothing happened. She was paralysed, though still able to breathe. The presence, whatever it was, continued to feel as if it was directly behind her, looking over her shoulder.

Who ...
She sensed a terrible mocking delight in her own ignorance.

[The controlling subpersona of this weapon, of course. You can call me Seventeen. Who else did you think I was?]

You speak Russish.

[I know your preferred natural language filters. Russish is easy enough. An old language. It hasn’t changed much since the time we were made.]

Why ... now?

[You have never reached this deeply into one of us before, Ilia.]

I ... have. Nearly.

[Perhaps. But never under quite these circumstances. Never with so much fear before you even began. You are quite desperate to use us, aren’t you? More than you’ve ever been before.]

She felt, despite still being paralysed, a tiny easing of her terror. So the presence was a computer program, no more than that. She had simply triggered a layer of the weapon’s control mechanism that she had never knowingly invoked before. The presence felt almost preternaturally evil, but that - and the paralysis - was obviously just a refinement of the usual fear-generation mechanism.

Volyova wondered how the weapon was talking to her. She had no implants, and yet the weapon’s voice was definitely speaking directly into her skull. It could only be that the chamber she was in was functioning as a kind of high-powered inverse trawl, stimulating brain function by the application of intense magnetic fields. If it could make her feel terror, Volyova supposed, and with such finesse, it would not have been a great deal more difficult for it to generate ghost signals along her auditory nerve or, more probably, in the hearing centre itself, and to pick up the anticipatory neural firing patterns that accompanied the intention to speak.

These are desperate times ...

[So it would seem.]

Who made you?

There was no immediate answer from Seventeen. For a moment the fear was gone, the neural thrall interrupted by a blank instant of calm, like the drawing of breath between agonised screams.

[We don’t know.]

No?

[No. They didn’t want us to know.]

Volyova marshalled her thoughts with the care of someone placing heavy ornaments on a rickety shelf.
I think the Conjoiners made you. That’s my working hypothesis, and nothing you’ve told me has led me to think it might need reconsidering.

[It doesn’t matter who made us, does it? Not now.]

Probably not. I’d like to know for curiosity’s sake, but the most important thing is that you’re still capable of serving me.

The weapon tickled the part of her mind that registered amusement. [Serving you, Ilia? Whatever gave you that impression?]

You did what I asked of you, in the past. Not you specifically, Seventeen - I never asked anything of you - but whenever I asked anything of the other weapons, they always obeyed me.

[We didn’t
obey
you, Ilia.]

No?

[No. We humoured you. It amused us to do what you asked of us. Often that was indistinguishable from following your commands - but only from your point of view.]

You’re just saying that.

[No. You see, Ilia, whoever made us gave us a degree of free will. There must have been a reason for that. Perhaps we were expected to act autonomously, or to piece together a course of action from incomplete or corrupted orders. We must have been created to be doomsday weapons, you see, weapons of final resort. Instruments of End Times.]

You still are
.

[And are these End Times, Ilia?]

I don’t know. I think they might be.

[You were frightened before you came here, I can tell. We all can. What exactly is it that you want of us, Ilia?]

There’s a problem you might have to attend to.

[A local problem?]

In this system, yes. I’d need you to deploy beyond the ship ... beyond this chamber ... and help me.

[But what if we decide not to help you?]

You will. I’ve looked after you for so long, taking care of you, keeping you safe from harm. I know you’ll help me.

The weapon held her suspended, stroking her mind playfully. Now she knew what a mouse felt like after the cat had caught it. She felt that she was only an instant away from having her spine broken in two.

But as abruptly as it had come, the paralysis eased. The weapon still imprisoned her, but she was regaining some voluntary muscle control.

[Perhaps, Ilia. But let’s not pretend that there aren’t complicating factors.]

Nothing we can’t work around ...

[It will be very difficult for us to do anything without the co-operation of the other one, Ilia. Even if we wanted to.]

The other one?

[The other ... entity ... that continues to exert a degree of control over us.]

Her mind dwelled on the possibilities before she realised what the weapon had to be talking about.
You mean the Captain.

[Our autonomy is not so great that we can act without the other entity’s permission, Ilia. No matter how cleverly you attempt to persuade us.]

The Captain just needs persuading, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll come around, in the end.

[You have always been an optimist, haven’t you, Ilia?]

No ... not at all. But I have faith in the Captain.

[Then we hope your powers of persuasion are up to the task, Ilia.]

I do too.

She gasped suddenly, as if she had been stomach-punched. Her head was empty again and the horrid sense of something sitting immediately behind her had gone, as abruptly as a slamming door. There was not even a hint of the presence in her peripheral vision. She was floating alone, and although she was still imprisoned in the weapon, the feeling that it was haunted had vanished.

Volyova gathered her breath and her composure, marvelling at what had just happened. In all the years she had worked with the weapons she had never once suspected that any of them harboured a guardian subpersona, much less a machine intelligence of at least high gamma-level status - even possibly low-to-medium beta-level.

The weapon had scared the living daylights out of her. Which, she supposed, had undoubtedly been the intended affect.

There was a bustle of motion around her. The access panel - in a totally different part of the wall than she remembered - budged open an inch. Harsh blue light rammed through the gap. Through it, squinting, Volyova could just make out another spacesuited figure. ‘Khouri?’

‘Thank God. You’re still alive. What happened?’

‘Let’s just say my efforts to reprogram the weapon were not an unqualified success, shall we, and leave it at that?’ She hated discussing failure almost as much as she hated the thing itself.

‘What, you gave it the wrong command or something?’

‘No, I gave it the right command but for a different interpreter shell than I was actually accessing.’

‘But that would still make it the wrong command, wouldn’t it?’

Volyova turned herself around until her helmet was aligned with the slit of light. ‘It’s more technical than that. How did you get the panel open?’

‘Good old brute force. Or is that not technical enough?’

Khouri had wedged a crowbar from her suit utility kit into what must have been a hair-fine joint in the weapon’s skin, and then levered back on that until the panel slid open.

‘And how long did you take to do that?’

‘I’ve been trying to get it open since you went inside, but it only just gave way, right this minute.’

Volyova nodded, fairly certain that absolutely nothing would have happened until the weapon decided it was time to let her go. ‘Very good work, Khouri. And how long do you think it will take to get it open all the way?’

Khouri adjusted her position, re-attaching herself to the weapon so that she could apply more leverage to the bar. ‘I’ll have you out of there in a jiffy. But while I’ve got you there, so to speak, can we come to some agreement on the Thorn issue?’

‘Listen to me, Khouri. He only barely trusts us now. Show him this ship, give him even a hint of a reason to begin to guess who I am, and you won’t see him for daylight. We’ll have lost him, and with him the only possible means of evacuating that planet in anything resembling a humane manner.’

‘But he’s even less likely to trust us if we keep finding excuses for why he can’t come aboard ...’

‘He’ll just have to deal with them.’

Volyova waited for a response, and waited, and then noticed that there no longer appeared to be anyone on the other side of the gap. The hard blue light that had been coming from Khouri’s suit was gone, and no hand was on the tool.

‘Khouri ... ?’ she said, beginning to lose her calm again.

‘Ilia . . .’ Khouri’s voice came through weakly, as if she were fighting for breath. ‘I think I have a slight problem.’

‘Shit.’ Volyova reached for the end of the crowbar and tugged it through to her side of the hatch. She braced herself and then worked the gap wider, until it was just wide enough for her to push her helmet through. In intermittent flashes she saw Khouri falling into the darkness, her suit harness tumbling away from her. Crouched on the side of the weapon she also saw the belligerent lines of a heavy-construction servitor. The mantislike machine must have been under the Captain’s direct control.

‘You vicious bastard! It was me who broke into the weapon, not her ...’

Khouri was very distant now, perhaps halfway to the far wall. How fast was she moving? Three or four metres per second, perhaps. It was not fast, but her suit’s armour was not designed to protect her against impacts. If she hit badly ...