The Revelation Space Collection (480 page)

‘It is human. Or at least that’s how it started out, before the machines were allowed to infest and reorganise its deep structure.’ Weather tapped a finger against the side of her own scalp. ‘All the machines in my head only amount to two hundred grams of artificial matter, and even so I still need this crest to handle my thermal loading. There are nearly a thousand grams of machinery in that brain. The brain needs to be cooled like a turbopump. That’s why it’s been opened up, so that the heat can dissipate more easily.’

‘It’s a monstrosity.’

‘Not to us,’ she said sharply. ‘We see a thing of wonder and beauty.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Let’s be clear about this. What you’re showing me here is a human brain, a living mind, turned into some kind of slave.’

‘No slavery is involved,’ Weather said. ‘The mind chose this vocation willingly.’

‘It chose this?’

‘It’s considered a great honour. Even in Conjoiner society, even given all that we have learned about the maximisation of our mental resources, only a few are ever born who have the skills necessary to tame and manage the reactions in the heart of a C-drive. No machine can ever perform that task as well as a conscious mind. We could build a conscious machine, of course, a true mechanical slave, but that would contravene one of our deepest strictures. No machine may think, unless it does so voluntarily. So we are left with volunteer organic minds, even if those selfsame minds need the help of a thousand grams of non-sentient processing machinery. As to why only a few of us have the talent . . . that is one of our greatest mysteries. Galiana thought that, in achieving a pathway to augmented human intelligence, she would render the brain utterly knowable. It was one of her few mistakes. Just as there are savants amongst the retarded, so we have our Conjoined equivalents. We are all tested for such gifts when we are young. Very few of us show even the slightest aptitude. Of those that do, even fewer ever develop the maturity and stability that would make them suitable candidates for enshrinement in an engine.’ Weather faced me with a confiding look. ‘They are valued very highly indeed, to the point where they are envied by some of us who lack what they were born with.’

‘But even if they were gifted enough that it was possible . . . no one would willingly choose this.’

‘You don’t understand us, Inigo. We are creatures of the mind. This brain doesn’t consider itself to have been imprisoned here. It considers itself to have been placed in a magnificent and fitting setting, like a precious jewel.’

‘Easy for you to say, since it isn’t you.’

‘But it very nearly could have been. I came close, Inigo. I passed all the early tests. I was considered exceptional, by the standards of my cohort group. I knew what it was like to feel special, even amongst geniuses. But it turned out that I wasn’t quite special enough, so I was selected out of the programme.’

I looked at the swollen, fissured mind. The hard blue glow made me think of Cherenkov radiation, boiling out of some cracked fission core.

‘And do you regret it now?’

‘I’m older now,’ Weather said. ‘I realise now that being unique . . . being adored . . . is not the greatest thing in the world. Part of me still admires this mind; part of me still appreciates its rare and delicate beauty. Another part of me . . . doesn’t feel like that.’

‘You’ve been amongst people too long, Weather. You know what it’s like to walk and breathe.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, doubtfully.

‘This mind—’

‘It’s male,’ Weather said. ‘I can’t tell you his name, any more than I could tell you mine. But I can read his public memories well enough. He was fifteen when his enshrinement began. Barely a man at all. He’s been inside this engine for twenty-two years of shiptime; nearly sixty-eight years of worldtime.’

‘And this is how he’ll spend the rest of his life?’

‘Until he wearies of it, or some accident befalls this ship. Periodically, as now, Conjoiners may make contact with the enshrined mind. If they determine that the mind wishes to retire, they may effect a replacement, or decommission the entire engine.’

‘And then what?’

‘His choice. He could return to full embodiment, but that would mean losing hundreds of grams of neural support machinery. Some are prepared to make that adjustment; not all are willing. His other option would be to return to one of our nests and remain in essentially this form, but without the necessity of running a drive. He would not be alone in doing so.’

I realised, belatedly, where all this was heading. ‘You say he’s under a heavy burden now.’

‘Yes. The degree of concentration is quite intense. He can barely spare any resources for what we might call normal thought. He’s in a state of permanent unconscious flow, like someone engaged in an enormously challenging game. But now the game has begun to get the better of him. It isn’t fun any more. And yet he knows the cost of failure.’

‘But you can help him.’

‘I won’t pretend that my abilities are more than a shadow of his. Still, I did make it part of the way. I can’t take all the strain off him, but I can give him free access to my mind. The additional processing resources - coupled with my own limited abilities - may make enough of a difference.’

‘For what?’

‘For you to get wherever it is you are going. I believe that with our minds meshed together, and dedicated to this one task, we may be able to return the engines to something like normal efficiency. I can’t make any promises, though. The proof of the pudding . . .’

I looked at the pudding-like mass of neural tissue and asked the question I was dreading. ‘What happens to you, while all this is happening? If he’s barely conscious—’

‘The same would apply, I’m afraid. As far as the external world is concerned, I’ll be in a state of coma. If I’m to make any difference, I’ll have to hand over all available neural resources.’

‘But you’ll be helpless. How long would you last, sitting in a coma?’

‘That isn’t an issue. I’ve already sent a command to this engine to form the necessary life-support machinery. It should be ready any moment now, as it happens.’ Weather glanced down at the floor between us. ‘I’d take a step back if I were you, Inigo.’

I did as she suggested. The flat red floor buckled upwards, shaping itself into the seamless form of a moulded couch. Without any ceremony, Weather climbed onto the couch and lay down as if for sleep.

‘There isn’t any point delaying things,’ she said. ‘My mind is made up, and the sooner we’re on our way, the better. We can’t be sure that there aren’t other brigands within attack range.’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘This is all happening too quickly. I thought we were coming down here to look at the situation, to talk about the possibilities.’

‘We’ve already talked about them, Inigo. They boil down to this: either I help the boy, or we drift hopelessly.’

‘But you can’t just . . . do this.’

Even as I spoke, the couch appeared to consolidate its hold on Weather. Red material flowed around her body, hardening over her into a semitranslucent shell. Only her face and lower arms remained visible, surrounded by a thick red collar that threatened to squeeze shut at any moment.

‘It won’t be so bad,’ she said. ‘As I said, I won’t have much room left for consciousness. I won’t be bored, that’s for sure. It’ll be more like one very long dream. Someone else’s dream, certainly, but I don’t doubt that there’ll be a certain rapturous quality to it. I remember how good it felt to find an elegant solution, when the parameters looked so unpromising. Like making the most beautiful music imaginable. I don’t think anyone can really know how that feels unless they’ve also held some of that fire in their minds. It’s ecstasy, Inigo, when it goes right.’

‘And when it goes wrong?’

‘When it goes wrong, you don’t get much time to explore how it feels.’ Weather shut her eyes again, like a person lapsing into microsleep. ‘I’m lowering blockades, allowing the boy to co-opt my own resources. He’s wary. Not because he doesn’t trust me, but because he can barely manage his own processing tasks, without adding the temporary complexity of farming some of them out to me. The transition will be difficult . . . ah, here it comes. He’s using me, Inigo. He’s accepting my help.’ Despite being almost totally enclosed in the shell of red matter, Weather’s whole body convulsed. Her voice, when she spoke again, sounded strained. ‘It’s difficult. So much more difficult than I thought it would be. This poor mind . . . he’s had so much to do on his own. A lesser spirit would already have buckled. He’s shown heroic dedication . . . I wish the nest could know how well he has done.’ She clamped her teeth together and convulsed again, harder this time. ‘He’s taking more of me. Eagerly now. Knows I’ve come to help. The sense of relief . . . the strain being lifted . . . I can’t comprehend how he lasted until now. I’m sorry, Inigo. Soon there isn’t going to be much of me left to talk to you.’

‘Is it working?’

‘Yes. I think so. Perhaps between the two of us—’ Her jaws cracked together, teeth cutting her tongue. ‘Not going to be easy, but . . . losing more of me now. Language going. Don’t need now.’

‘Weather, don’t go.’

‘Can’t stay. Got to go. Only way. Inigo, make promise. Make promise fast.’

‘Say it. Whatever it is.’

‘When we get . . . when we—’ Her face was contorted with the strain of trying to make herself understood.

‘When we arrive,’ I said.

She nodded so hard I thought her neck was going to break. ‘Yes. Arrive. You get help. Find others.’

‘Other Conjoiners?’

‘Yes. Bring them. Bring them in ship. Tell them. Tell them and make them help.’

‘I will. I swear on it.’

‘Going now. Inigo. One last thing.’

‘Yes. Whatever it is.’

‘Hold hand.’

I reached out and took her hand, in my good one.

‘No,’ Weather said. ‘Other.
Other hand.’

I let go, then took her hand in my metal one, closing my fingers as tightly as I dared without risking hers. Then I leaned down, bringing my face close to hers.

‘Weather, I think I love you. I’ll wait for you. I’ll find those Conjoiners. That’s a promise.’

‘Love a Spider?’ she asked.

‘Yes. If this is what it takes.’

‘Silly . . . human . . . boy.’

She pulled my hand, with more strength than I thought she had left in her. She tugged it down into the surface of the couch until it lapped around my wrist, warm as blood. I felt something happening to my hand, a crawling itch like pins and needles. I kissed Weather. Her lips were fever-warm. She nodded and then allowed me to withdraw my hand.

‘Go now,’ she said.

The red material of the couch flowed over Weather completely, covering her hands and face until all that remained was a vague, mummy-like form.

I knew then that I would not see her again for a very long time. For a moment I stood still, paralysed by what had happened. Even then I could feel my weight increasing. Whatever Weather and the boy were doing between them, it was having some effect on the engine output. My weight climbed smoothly, until I was certain we were exceeding half a gee and still accelerating.

Perhaps we were going to make it home after all.

Some of us.

I turned from Weather’s casket and looked for the way out. Held tight against my chest to stop it itching, my hand was lost under a glove of twinkling machinery. I wondered what gift I would find when the glove completed its work.

DILATION SLEEP

Spacers tell people that the worst aspect of starflight is revival. They speak the truth, I think. They give us dreams while the machines warm us up and map our bodies for cell damage. We feel no anxiety or fear, detached from our physical selves and adrift in generated fantasies.

In my dream I was joined by the cybernetic imago of Katia, my wife. We found ourselves within a computer-constructed sensorium. An insect, I felt my six thin legs propelling me into a wide and busy chamber. Four worker ants were there, crouched in stiff mechanical postures. With compound vision I studied these new companions, observing the nearest of them deposit a pearly egg from its abdomen. A novel visceral sense told me that I, too, contained a ready egg.

‘We’re gods amongst them,’ I told my wife’s imago.

‘We are
Myrmecia gulosa
,’ she whispered into my brain. ‘The bulldog ant. You see the queen, and her winged male?’

‘Yes.’

‘Those maggoty things in the corner of the cell are the queen’s larvae. Her worker is about to feed them.’

‘Feed them with what?’

‘His egg, my darling.’

I rotated my sleek, mandibled head. ‘And will I also?’

‘Naturally! A worker’s duty is always to serve his queen. Of course . . . you may exit this environ, if you choose. But you’ll have to remain in reefersleep for another three hours.’

‘Three hours . . . might as well be centuries,’ I said. ‘Then change it. Something a bit less alien.’

My imago dissolved the scenario, the universe. I floated in white limbo, awaiting fresh sensory stimulus. Soon I found myself brushing shimmering vermilion coral with eight suckered arms, an octopus.