Pirate Sun (22 page)

Or at least, that was the way it should have been. But, in a turn of events as unlikely as Slipstream’s, Virga had lately become a key player in a power play of almost unimaginable proportions.

Vega was an infant star, its planetary system unfinished. Its inner circles were full of whirling Earth- and Mars-sized bodies. They collided regularly in cataclysmic explosions that would have destroyed any life within a million miles; none of these nascent planets was old enough to have a stable crust and many glowed as intensely as young stars. They swept vast trains of matter in their wakes, the shifting rings of dust and smoke filtering Vega’s light like a kaleidoscope.

Chaison had always known abstractly that water could only be formed by burning hydrogen and oxygen. He had never followed that thought to its conclusion: that an ocean of water could only be made in a world-sized fire. In the bright violent depths of the Vega system, such fires were common.

Or at least, they had been, before the colonization.

The human settlers who took Vega for their home were unconcerned by matters of mere scale. To them, a cloud of gas and dust seventeen Jupiters in mass was just an unusually big pile of building material. They sent trillions of self-reproducing assemblers into every corner of the system, and for a millennium now these had been exponentially breeding, eating fire and light and dust and birthing civilizations.

For all the variety around Vega, its cultures and sovereign individuals shared a common trait: they all operated at the
technological maximum.
This state was achieved whenever a system developed Edisonian AIs capable of evolving any conceivable device or object in their internal simulations. Natural selection had always been the secret engine behind human creativity; it was simply more efficient at generating novel solutions than algorithmic processes. In the pressure cooker of competition that was modern Vega, any intelligence—artificial or natural—knew it had to harness that power. The all-powerful AIs who served Vega’s human population cheerfully abandoned consciousness as the inefficient tool it was, replacing their minds with virtual evolutionary environments.

The proliferation of post-human species, artificial intelligences, and collective minds had meanwhile resulted in a Tower of Babel crisis: common communications were proving more and more difficult among millions of rapidly evolving species. Translation systems emerged to fill the breach, but in order to function they had to go beyond interpreting languages, and learn to interpret needs and motives. The intermediaries that survived and proliferated were the ones that would work for anybody.

It wasn’t about what could think anymore. It was all about what could
want.
Anything that could desire could harness unimaginable power to its agenda, even if it had no mind to know that it wanted. So, after centuries of human domination, new powers emerged around Vega: polities whose citizens were insects, or trees, or even translators and Edisonian AIs. The new powers contended and fought, and competed and cooperated in a vast spasm of creative world-building no more conscious of a goal than the organisms that had dominated Earth’s oceans and lands for billions of years. It was a new nature—artificial nature.

“But what…” Chaison’s own voice came to him distantly. “What does any of that have to do with us?”

Telen Argyre’s face was inches from his own. This woman-shaped thing was an Edisonian AI, he realized. It wasn’t conscious at all; rather it explored branching trees of probability, running thousands of parallel simulations of its surroundings and letting only the fittest turn into plans, actions, or words.

Its eyes were fixed on his. “Vega’s powers can no longer speak directly,” that process said now. “They are too alien to one another. Whatever grows, whatever can want, that thing now has the power of a god.

“Still, some sort of accommodation has to be reached. So we have evolved a place where our forces can contend in safety. A microcosm, an arena if you will, on the very edge of the Vega system. There, we may push and pull, and talk if talk is possible, and gradually…come to coordinate our efforts.”

He shook his head. “But what does that…Are you talking about Virga?”

She cocked her head. “Not Virga. I refer to that vastly larger arena
that Virga is a part of.
”

“I don’t…” But he did understand, a little—or at least he had flashes of memory that seemed to make sense. These weren’t his memories, surely, these impressions of vast curving black outlines obliterating the stars, dozens of them trailing away into unimaginable distance. Or the sensation of coursing like a fish in a vast school through channels of energy between bush-like constructions that glittered like midnight cities, but seemed grown more than built. Chaison remembered—or Telen remembered—complex games unfolding in the darkness as the many species living around Vega learned to cooperate. Out here on the safely distant edge of the star system, they probed one another’s weakness, learned each other’s desires and goals, and gradually, achieved some detente or pact or standoff that allowed the whole system to move forward. To a human, the place Argyre had called the
arena
looked liked a vast construction project—and one of its central features was Virga.

“The civilizations and power blocs orbiting Vega form an ecosystem—but it is an
unfinished
ecosystem,” said Telen Argyre, “rife with infections and extinction. Progress in the experimental arena has come to a stop. One of the arena’s major powers, Candesce, stopped cooperating centuries ago. The whole project is now in jeopardy.

“I have shown you these things because I am not your enemy,” said Telen Argyre. “My faction intends no harm to you or your people. We merely wish to save our own, and Candesce stands in our way.

“I have shown you my secrets. It’s time for you to reciprocate.”

Chaison braced himself, preparing for some epic battle of minds with this obscene invader. All that happened was that, unbidden, he began remembering things: late-night conversations with Venera about the legend of Anetene and the keys to Candesce; planning the expedition; visiting the tourist center to find the map to Anetene’s hoard. They flitted through his mind quickly and effortlessly, images of Venera holding the key up to the light, of her leaving Chaison’s flagship for Candesce with Hayden Griffin and Aubri Mahallan.

He frantically cast about for something else—think of anything else—but it was impossible. All he could do was picture Venera holding the key.

“Ah,” said Argyre. “Thank you.

“That was all I needed to know.”

THEY WERE ALMOST
on top of her. Antaea had been ducking between pools of shadow in arched doorways and behind pillars, trying to shake the dogged pursuit of the pilot’s police. Crisscrossing streets from shadow to shadow, she entered an area of modest but prosperous shops, their swinging signs mostly unreadable in the dark canyon of buildings. A few upper-story lights were on but otherwise the city seemed weirdly empty. Nowhere under gravity was ever empty of people—weight was just too rare in this world. This silence was almost supernaturally strange.

She wasn’t completely sure of her destination, and hesitated for long moments under the swinging sign, peering up and down an avenue she had only ever seen crowded with people in daylight. Finally she cursed and yanked the bellpull next to the shuttered door. The tinkling noise seemed loud, and she imagined shopkeepers up and down the street starting awake in Pavlovian spasms. Her own skittishness made her smile for just a second. Then she hugged herself and waited.

Thumping footsteps, a growing light in the window—and a little talking-door in the center of the portal opened up. “Have you any idea what time it is?” The voice was male, thin, aged.

“I’m looking for Martin Shambles,” said Antaea.

The other laughed. “As if that were some sort of justification for waking me up! It’s not enough to be ‘looking’ for someone, and after curfew no less. What could possibly be in it for the one you’re looking for?”

“It’s me, Martin, Antaea Argyre.” He didn’t answer and she wondered if, somehow, he had forgotten her. “Of the home guard?”

The little hatch slammed shut, then the main door creaked halfway open. “I know who you are, girl. Don’t dawdle, there’ll be a patrol along any minute.”

Antaea sighed as the elderly man in the wine-colored dressing gown closed and locked the door. Seeing his white shock of hair and thick glasses took her back in time and for a moment, it was as though the past year hadn’t happened. Then he turned and she saw new lines of care on his face. She looked at the floor. “I wasn’t sure I had the right place,” she said.

“I’m still not sure you do,” said Shambles. He held up his candle, peering at her face. “Lords and ladies! What’s wrong?”

“It’s rather a long story.”

“Hmmph! They all are, these days. Well come on.” He led the way through the shop. The candlelight softened the angles of the hundreds of slide rules that hung from racks on the walls or stood on little stands in glass cases. There were rules for doing trigonometry, rules for calculating rocket trajectories, and others for gauging how much narrower a house’s upper floors should be than their foundation. The cheaper ones were made of wood, the finer of ivory or steel.

Shambles noticed her admiring the wares and snorted. “There’s been a run on gun sights lately,” he said. “Every one I’ve made in the past year is now aimed squarely at that little boat parked outside the admiralty. It’s a fine irony, really.”

“I suppose it would be,” she said as he led her down a hallway behind the counter. “You being a member of the Aerie underground and all.”

“Is that what this little visit is all about?” he asked her. “I seem to remember that the guard doesn’t give a damn about local politics. And neither did you. Your concerns are more lofty and global, aren’t they?” He chuckled. “Something about reforming the guard itself, if I recall.”

“I’ve come to you because I can’t go to the guard,” she admitted. “Their local chapter may have been…corrupted.”

Shambles tripped over his robe. Recovering, he said, “Corrupted? Oh this doesn’t sound good. Come in and tell me all about it.”

They entered a little parlor that doubled as a workshop and storeroom: exactly half the floor was neat and tidy, the walls on that side of the room clear of clutter and displaying some framed photographs. The other half of the room was a dizzying maze of boxes and benches, with tools, packing material, and paper lying everywhere. The two leather armchairs on the clean side of the room were angled away from this mess.

Antaea had met Shambles through mutual acquaintances. They had similar professions, and used the same network of smugglers and informants, so it was probably inevitable that their paths should cross. Their first meeting was a bit strained, as they tried to stuff two groups of refugees into one set of barrels bound for the principalities. After they avoided bloodshed and worked out a compromise he had tried to recruit her for the Aerie underground, and she had promised him a place in the home guard.

On one occasion, they had stayed up very late together drinking port, and she had confessed her idealistic dream of turning the guard’s hoarded knowledge and science over to the people. Gonlin would have been livid had he known she’d revealed these schemes to an outsider—but Gonlin didn’t know about Shambles at all, which was why she felt safe in coming here.

Shambles put down the candle and plunked himself into one of the chairs. Antaea noticed for the first time that under his gown he was fully dressed, despite the lateness of the hour. She had no time to think about this as Shambles steepled his fingers and stretched his long legs into the middle of the carpet. “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me, having you show up,” he said. “Dire portents about the end of the world seem to be the order of the day. There’s two kinds of mob roaming the streets, you’re either a loyalist or an agitator and neither kind will let you know which they are before they demand to know where you stand. Give the wrong answer and
poof!
The damned police don’t care, they’ve got this theory that the two sides will cancel each other out somehow.” He shook his head bitterly. “Ever since Slipstream conquered Aerie my friends and I have dreamed about something like this happening. Now that it’s here all I can say is it’s making things worse for us.”

“Is it really all about the
Severance
refusing to stand down?” she asked. Antaea tried to order her own thoughts as she sat: what should she tell Shambles, and what was too wild or compromising to mention?

“It’s not about the
Severance
,” said Shambles. “It’s about the damned admiral. Fanning.”

Antaea couldn’t breathe. She fixed her eyes on the innocuous pictures on Shambles’s wall.

“Somebody’s fomenting unrest in his name,” continued Shambles. “And doing a damned professional job of it, too. At first I thought—we all assumed—it was the admiralty. But there’s some other force in play here.” He sat up and looked directly at her. “Is it the home guard?—No, tell me it’s not!”

“It’s not,” she said.

“Ha! That’s a relief.” He brooded for a moment. “Well, then. Why
are
you here?”

She discovered that she’d been wringing her hands. Carefully, Antaea placed them on the arms of the chair. “It
is
about Admiral Fanning,” she said.

His eyes widened. “Ha! You’re joking.” He squinted at her. “Not joking? Antaea, my dear, you’re not one of those who’s fallen under this man’s evangelical spell, are you?”

“I know where he is.”

Had Shambles been holding a drink he would have spilled it. As it was he sputtered for a moment, then said, “What?”

“I know where he is, he’s in trouble. He’s being tortured by—by some very bad people in the mines of Rush asteroid. We need to act right now if we’re to save his life.”

Shambles groaned and leaning forward, put his head in his hands. Antaea stared at this performance, uncomprehending, until she realized that bent over as he was, Martin was now eyeing her with a desperate expression, one finger jabbing toward the hall.
Get out!