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Until that moment when the Ice Mendicant explained the situation to her, Khouri had never really given much thought to the slowness of light. There was nothing in the universe that moved faster . . . but, as she now saw, it was glacial compared to the speed that would be needed to keep their love alive. In one instant of cruel clarity, she understood that it was nothing less than the underlying structure of the universe, its physical laws, which had conspired to bring her to this moment of horror and loss.
It would have been so much easier, infinitely easier, if she had known he was dead. Instead, there was this terrible gulf of separation, as much in time as in space. Her anger had become something sharp inside her, something that needed release if it was not going to kill her from within.
Assassins, it turned out, had to be among the sanest, most analytic people on the planet. They had to know exactly when a kill would be legal—and
Evidently there was some hidden link between thought itself and the underlying processes of spacetime; the one influencing the other.
These days, he favoured pen and paper over modern recording devices where possible. Digital media were too susceptible to later manipulation by his enemies. At least if his notes were pulped they would be lost for ever, rather than returning to haunt him in a guise warped to suit somebody else’s ideology.
They’re moving faster than us, aren’t they? Much faster. Their voices sound slow because they are, literally. Clocks run slower on ships moving near the speed of light.”
This signal of human presence ought to have made the stars seem less remote and cold, but it managed to have exactly the opposite effect; just like the act of telling ghost stories around a campfire served to magnify the darkness beyond the flames. For a moment—one that she revelled in, no matter what Khouri made of it—it was possible to believe that the interstellar spaces beyond the glass were really haunted.
“Hell-class,” Volyova said. “That was what their builders called them. Of course, we’re going back a few centuries here.”
“Some of them are more than capable of taking planets apart. Others . . . I don’t even want to guess. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some of them did unpleasant things to stars. Exactly who’d want to use such weapons . . .”
“I don’t know whether to be horrified that such things exist . . . or relieved to know that at least it’s us who have our fingers on the triggers.” “Be relieved,” Volyova said. “It’s better that way.”
There were plenty of thinly populated systems, only loosely connected to the trade nets, where it would be entirely possible to exterminate an enemy without anyone ever finding out.
“You haven’t been the same, Yuuji-san. Not since . . .” “Not since what?” “Not since you and the Captain visited the Jugglers. What happened there, Yuuji? What did the aliens do to your head?”
Volyova felt as if her brain consisted of a room full of precocious schoolchildren: individually bright, and—if only they would pool themselves—capable of shattering insights. But some of those schoolchildren were not paying attention; they were staring dreamily out of the window, ignoring her protestations to focus on the present, because they found their own obsessions more intellectually attractive than the dull curriculum she was intent on dispensing.
The cards always look different when it’s your turn to play them; loaded with subtly different possibilities.
“A splendidly inept thing,” Sylveste said, nodding despite himself. “What?” “The human capacity for grief. It just isn’t capable of providing an adequate emotional response once the dead exceed a few dozen in number. And it doesn’t just level off—it just gives up, resets itself to zero. Admit it. None of us feel a damn about these people.”
“You look older, son.” “Yes, well, some of us have to get on with the business of being alive in the entropic universe.”
“Dan, just what is it these people want with you and your father?” “Ah, well, that’s another very long story, I’m afraid.” “You’ve got five hours—you just said so yourself. Assuming, of course, you two can bear to break off from your mutual admiration session.” Calvin raised one eyebrow. “Never heard it called that before. But maybe she’s got something, eh, son?” “Yes,” Sylveste said. “What she’s got is a severe misapprehension of the situation.”
“Very nice, but don’t get cocky about it. When I get annoyed with machines, even very sophisticated ones, I have a nasty habit of abusing them.”
“There’s been . . . trouble,” she said, as the Triumvir descended and made touch-down. “You don’t say,” he said, surveying the carnage: the wounded husk of a suit containing Volyova; the liberally strewn and now radioactive residual pieces of what had once been Sudjic, and—in the middle of it—unharmed by the blast, but seemingly too stunned to speak or try to evade capture, Sylveste and his wife.
like all the genuinely clever people Sylveste had met he knew better than to feign understanding where none existed.
“If I’d actually killed you,” Sylveste said, “this conversation would pose certain ontological problems. Besides, I always knew there was another copy of you.” “But you murdered one of me!” “Sorry, but that’s a category mistake if ever I heard one. You’re just software, Cal. Being copied and erased is your natural state of being.”
All I know is that I think, and therefore I’m exceedingly angry.”
“Excuse me,” Hegazi said, “but when negotiating from a position of weakness, you don’t ask for favours.” “Who said anything about weakness?” Sylveste smiled again, this time with unconcealed ferocity, and something which looked dangerously like joy.
It’s good to have you back, Ilia. We could use some sanity around here.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of morale-building?” Khouri had asked. “Heard of it,” Volyova said. “Don’t happen to agree with it. Would you rather be happy and dead, or scared and alive?” “But I keep dying anyway.
the walls were alive with interlocking wings, balefully regarding wings, waiting. For what was on the eve of beginning.
Khouri had never been to this sector of the ship, but she did not need to have it identified to her. She had been in plenty of armouries before and there was a smell to them. “This is some heavy shit we’re getting ourselves into,” she said. “Right?”
“You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” “Yes. And you know why? Suicidal or not, we’re finally doing something. It might get us killed—and it might not do any good—but at least we’ll go out with a fight, if it comes to that.”
The mere fact that there could be danger in this is fascinating in itself; almost an incentive to push further. That’s how you feel, isn’t it? Every argument they could use against you would only strengthen your resolve. Because knowledge makes you hungry, and it’s a hunger you can’t resist, even if you know that what you’re feasting on could kill you.”
Given specifications, the warchive could sift its blueprints and merge the optimum characteristics of pre-existing weapons until it had forged something new and highly customised. Which, in minutes, it could synthesise.
This is every MMO player’s dream, right here!
“You’re mad,” Volyova said. “Now you get your chance,” Sylveste said. “You get to see your planet-penetrator in action, while at the same time salving your conscience with this conveniently unsuccessful display of eleventh-hour caution.” He clapped his hands twice. “No; honestly—I’m genuinely impressed.” “You’ll be genuinely dead,” Volyova said.
It looked like a biology lesson for gods, or a snapshot of the kind of pornography which might be enjoyed by sentient planets.
“You prick,” Khouri said, spitting in the process. “You narrow-minded, egotistical prick.” “Congratulations,” Sylveste said. “Now you can progress to words with six syllables. But in the meantime would you mind pointing that unpleasant piece of hardware somewhere other than my face?” “With pleasure,” she said, not allowing the rifle to waver. “I’ve got just the anatomical region in mind.”
“So why are you doing this?” Hegazi asked, as the door hummed open and she poked him into the cramped, sullenly lit interior. “If you don’t think I was capable of doing it?” “It’s because I don’t like you,” she said, and closed the door on him.
“Pascale, something bad has happened here.” “I’ll . . . what is it I’m supposed to say at this point? Cover you?” Pascale had her low-yield beam gun out, without looking like she had much idea what to do with it. “Yes,” Khouri said. “You cover me. That’s a very good idea.”
“Believe me, when you’re dealing with infectious alien mind parasites, I always find primitive is best.” Then, calmly, almost as if it were a recognised form of verbal punctuation, she took aim with the needler and gutted a rat which had dared stray into the corridor.
Gravity ruled, and gravity did not take into account circumstances, or the unfairness of things, or listen to eleventh-hour petitions before reluctantly repealing its laws.
It was better to live; better to carry a memory of a memory, than suffer the vast burden of knowing.
