The Revelation Space Collection (471 page)

He entered the final tunnel, not far from the waterlock that was his destination. At the tunnel’s far end a technician sat on a crate, listening with a stethoscope to something going on behind an access panel. For a moment Vargovic considered passing the man, hoping he was engrossed in his work. He began to approach him, padding on bare webbed feet, which made less noise than the shoes he had just removed. Then the man nodded to himself, uncoupled from the listening post and slammed the hatch. Grabbing his crate, he stood and made eye contact with Vargovic.

‘You’re not meant to be here,’ he said. Then offered, almost plaintively, ‘Can I help you? You’ve just had surgery, haven’t you? I always recognise new ones like you: always a little red around the gills.’

Vargovic drew his collar higher, then relented because that made it harder to breathe. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Put down the crate and freeze.’

‘Christ, that advisory - it was you, wasn’t it?’ the man said.

Vargovic raised the laser. Blinded, the man blundered into the wall, dropping the crate. He made a pitiful moan. Vargovic crept closer, the man stumbling into the scalpel. Not the cleanest of killings, but that hardly mattered.

Vargovic was sure the Demarchy would shortly seal off access to the ocean - especially when his latest murder came to light. For now, however, the locks were accessible. He moved into the air-filled chamber, his lungs now aflame for water. High-pressure jets filled the room, and he quickly transitioned to water-breathing, feeling his thoughts clarify. The secondary door clammed open, revealing ocean. He was kilometres below the ice, and the water here was both chillingly cold and under crushing pressure - but it felt normal; pressure and cold registered only as abstract qualities of the environment. His blood was inoculated with glycoproteins now, molecules which would lower its freezing point below that of water.

The late Cholok had done well.

Vargovic was about to leave the city when a second gill-worker appeared in the doorway, returning to the city after completing a shift. He killed her efficiently, and she bequeathed him a thermally inwoven wetsuit, for working in the coldest parts of the ocean. The wetsuit had octopus ancestry, and when it slithered onto him it left apertures for his gill-openings. She had been wearing goggles that had infrared and sonar capability, and carried a hand-held tug. The thing resembled the still-beating heart of a vivisected animal, its translucent components nobbed with dark veins and ganglia. But it was easy to use: Vargovic set its pump to maximum thrust and powered away from the lower levels of C-A. Even in the relatively uncontaminated water of the Europan ocean, visibility was low; he would not have been able to see anything were the city not abundantly illuminated on all its levels. Even so, he could see no more than half a kilometre upwards; the higher parts of C-A were lost in golden haze and then deepening darkness. Although its symmetry was upset by protrusions and accretions, the city’s basic conic form was still evident, tapering at the narrowest point to an inlet mouth which ingested ocean. The cone was surrounded by a haze of flotation bubbles, black as caviar. He remembered the chips of hyperdiamond in his hands. If Cholok was right, Vargovic’s people might find a way to make it water-permeable; opening the fullerene weave sufficiently so that the spheres’ buoyant properties would be destroyed. The necessary agent could be introduced into the ocean by ice-penetrating missiles. Some time later - Vargovic was uninterested in the details - the Demarchy cities would begin to groan under their own weight. If the weapon worked sufficiently quickly, there might not even be time to act against it. The cities would fall from the ice, sinking down through the black kilometres of ocean below them.

He swam on.

Near C-A, the rocky interior of Europa climbed upwards to meet him. He had travelled three or four kilometres north, and was comparing the visible topography - lit by service lights installed by Demarchy gill-workers - with his own mental maps of the area. Eventually he found an outcropping of silicate rock. Beneath the overhang was a narrow ledge on which a dozen or so small boulders had fallen. One was redder than the others. Vargovic anchored himself to the ledge and hefted the red rock, the warmth of his fingertips activating its latent biocircuitry. A screen appeared in the rock, filling with Mishenka’s face.

‘I’m on time,’ Vargovic said, his own voice sounding even less recognisable through the distorting medium of the water. ‘I presume you’re ready?’

‘Problem,’ Mishenka said. ‘Big fucking problem.’

‘What?’

‘Extraction site’s compromised.’ Mishenka - or rather the simulation of Mishenka that was running in the rock - anticipated Vargovic’s next question: ‘A few hours ago the Demarchy sent a surface team out onto the ice, ostensibly to repair a transponder. But the spot they’re covering is right where we planned to pull you out.’ He paused. ‘You did - uh - kill Cholok, didn’t you? I mean, you didn’t just grievously injure her?’

‘You’re talking to a professional.’

The rock did a creditable impression of Mishenka looking pained. ‘Then the Demarchy got to her.’

Vargovic waved his hand in front of the rock. ‘I got what I came for, didn’t I?’

‘You got something.’

‘If it isn’t what Cholok said it was, then she’s accomplished nothing except get herself dead.’

‘Even so . . .’ Mishenka appeared to entertain a thought briefly, before discarding it. ‘Listen, we always had a back-up extraction point, Vargovic. You’d better get your ass there.’ He grinned. ‘Hope you can swim faster than Maunciple.’

It was thirty kilometres south.

He passed a few gill-workers on the way, but they ignored him and once he was more than five kilometres from C-A there was increasingly less evidence of human presence. There was a head-up display in the goggles. Vargovic experimented with the read-out modes before calling up a map of the whole area. It showed his location, and also three dots following him from C-A.

He was being tailed by Demarchy security.

They were at least three kilometres behind him now, but they were perceptibly narrowing the distance. With a cold feeling gripping his gut, it occurred to Vargovic that there was no way he could make it to the extraction point before the Demarchy caught him.

Ahead, he noticed a thermal hot spot: heat bubbling up from the relatively shallow level of the rock floor. The security operatives were probably tracking him via the gill-worker’s appropriated equipment. But once he was near the vent he could ditch it: the water was warmer there; he wouldn’t need the suit, and the heat, light and associated turbulence would confuse any other tracking system. He could lie low behind a convenient rock, stalk them while they were preoccupied with the homing signal.

It struck Vargovic as a good plan. He covered the distance to the vent quickly, feeling the water grow warmer around him, noticing how the taste of it changed, turning brackish. The vent was a fiery red fountain surrounded by bacteria-crusted rocks and the colourless Europan equivalent of coral. Ventlings were everywhere, their pulpy bags shifting as the currents altered. The smallest were motile, ambling on their stilts like animated bagpipes, navigating around the triadic stumps of their dead relatives.

Vargovic ensconced himself in a cave, after placing the gill-worker’s equipment near another cave on the far side of the vent, hoping that the security operatives would look there first. While they did so, he would be able to kill at least one of them; maybe two. Once he had their weapons, taking care of the third would be a formality.

Something nudged him from behind.

What Vargovic saw when he turned around was something too repulsive even for a nightmare. It was so wrong that for a faltering moment he could not quite assimilate what he was looking at, as if the thing was a three-dimensional perception test; a shape that refused to stabilise in his head. The reason he could not hold it still was because part of him refused to believe that this thing had any connection with humanity. But the residual traces of human ancestry were too obvious to ignore.

Vargovic knew - beyond any reasonable doubt - that what he was seeing was a Denizen. Others loomed from the cave’s depths - five more of them, all roughly similar, all aglow with faint bioluminescence, all regarding him with darkly intelligent eyes. Vargovic had seen pictures of mermaids in books when he was a child; what he was looking at now were macabre corruptions of those innocent illustrations. These things were the same fusions of human and fish as in those pictures - but every detail had been twisted towards ugliness, and the true horror of it was that the fusion was total; it was not simply that a human torso had been grafted to a fish’s tail, but that the splice had been made - it was obvious - at the genetic level, so that in every aspect of the creature there was something simultaneously and grotesquely piscine. The faces were the worst, bisected by a lipless down-curved slit of a mouth, almost shark-like. There was no nose, not even a pair of nostrils; just an acreage of flat, sallow fish-flesh. The eyes were forward facing; all expression compacted into their dark depths.

The first creature had touched him with one of its arms, which terminated in an obscenely human hand. And then - to compound the horror - it spoke, its voice perfectly clear and calm despite the water.

‘We’ve been expecting you, Vargovic.’

The others behind murmured, echoing the sentiment.

‘What?’

‘So glad you were able to complete your mission.’

Vargovic began to get a grip, shakily. He reached up and dislodged the Denizen’s hand from his shoulder. ‘You aren’t why I’m here,’ he said, forcing authority into his voice, drawing on every last drop of Gilgamesh training to suppress his nerves. ‘I wanted to know about you . . . that was all—’

‘No,’ the lead Denizen said, opening its mouth to expose an alarming array of teeth. ‘You misunderstand. Coming here was always your mission. You have brought us something we want very much. That was always your purpose.’

‘Brought you something?’ His mind was reeling now.

‘Concealed within you.’ The Denizen nodded: a human gesture that only served to magnify the horror of what it was. ‘The means by which we will strike at the Demarchy; the means by which we will take the ocean.’

He thought of the chips in his hands. ‘I think I understand,’ he said slowly. ‘It was always intended for you, is that what you mean?’

‘Always.’

Then he’d been lied to by his superiors - or they had at least drastically simplified the matter. He filled in the gaps himself, making the necessary mental leaps: evidently Gilgamesh was already in contact with the Denizens - bizarre as it seemed - and the chips of hyperdiamond were meant for the Denizens, not his own people. Presumably - although he couldn’t begin to guess at how this might be possible - the Denizens had the means to examine the shards and fabricate the agent that would unravel the hyperdiamond weave. They’d be acting for Gilgamesh, saving it the bother of actually dirtying its hands in the attack. He could see why this might appeal to Control. But if that was the case . . . why had Gilgamesh ever faked ignorance about the Denizens? It made no sense. But on the other hand, he could not concoct a better theory to replace it.

‘I have what you want,’ he said, after due consideration. ‘Cholok said removing it would be simple.’

‘Cholok can always be relied upon,’ the Denizen said.

‘You knew - know - her, then?’

‘She made us what we are today.’

‘You hate her, then?’

‘No; we love her.’ The Denizen flashed its shark-like smile again, and it seemed to Vargovic that as its emotional state changed, so did the coloration of its bioluminescence. It was scarlet now, no longer the blue-green hue it had displayed upon its first appearance. ‘She took the abomination that we were and made us something better. We were in pain, once. Always in pain. But Cholok took it away, made us strong. For that they punished her, and then us.’

‘If you hate the Demarchy,’ Vargovic said, ‘why have you waited until now before attacking it?’

‘Because we can’t leave this place,’ one of the other Denizens said, the tone of its voice betraying femininity. ‘The Demarchy hated what Cholok had done to us. She brought our humanity to the fore, made it impossible for them to treat us as animals. We thought they would kill us, rather than risk our existence becoming known to the rest of Circum-Jove. Instead, they banished us here.’

‘They thought we might come in handy,’ said another of the lurking creatures.

Just then, another Denizen entered the cave, having swum in from the sea.

‘Demarchy agents have followed him,’ it said, its coloration blood red, tinged with orange, pulsing lividly. ‘They’ll be here in a minute.’

‘You’ll have to protect me,’ Vargovic said.

‘Of course,’ the lead Denizen said. ‘You’re our saviour.’

Vargovic nodded vigorously, no longer convinced that he could handle the three operatives on his own. Ever since he had arrived in the cave he had felt his energy dwindling, as if he was succumbing to slow poisoning. A thought tugged at the back of his mind, and for a moment he almost paid attention to it; almost considered seriously the possibility that he was being poisoned. But what was going on beyond the cave was too distracting. He watched the three Demarchy agents approach, pulled forward by the tugs they held in front of them. Each agent carried a slender harpoon gun, tipped with a vicious barb.