Empire of Light Page 8

  Corso let out a sigh and stood, before walking around under the simulation and peering up. ‘All right,’ he said, reaching up with both hands and wiping them across his face as if he could scrub the fatigue away. ‘What do we have that’s ready to travel to Whitecloud’s coordinates and see what’s actually there?’

  ‘There are five Magi starships here in Ocean’s Deep, but the only currently available navigators were all supplied by the Legislate. That means I can’t guarantee any of them aren’t supplying information back to the Legislate security services.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Corso snapped, sounding scandalized. ‘What the hell about our own people?’

  ‘They’re all either out on relief missions or they’ve been hit by neural burnout. The way things are going, we’re going to need more of our own ships to be equipped with superluminal drives than we thought. But in terms of our present situation . . .’ Lamoureaux hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Even if a Magi ship was available, it’s going to have to tow a ship with enough room for an expeditionary crew. There aren’t any big enough, apart from the Mjollnir, and she already has her own superluminal drive. But, as you know, she’s being prepped for a relief expedition to Ascension.’

  ‘Really?’ Corso thought hard for a moment. ‘Put her up there, Ted.’

  Lamoureaux complied, the galaxy fading to be replaced by an image of the Mjollnir, a colony-class frigate belonging to the Freehold. She was similar in appearance and construction to her sister-ships Agartha and Hyperion, both long since destroyed within the Nova Arctis system. She was also one of the few vessels in existence with the capacity to carry a significant proportion of Ascension’s trapped population to safety, a task for which she was currently being readied at Ocean’s Deep. Her maiden faster-than-light voyage had brought her here from Redstone to be refitted just for that purpose.

  ‘The Mjollnir could do it, then?’ said Corso, staring up at the floating image. ‘How long before she’s ready?’

  ‘She’s ready now,’ Lamoureaux replied. ‘Senator . . . at the very least, you’d need to get the authority of the Consortium’s Central Trade Council as well as the Freehold Senate. And the fact is, they’re not going to give it to us. If you think things are looking shaky for us now, I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen if we commandeered the Mjollnir.’

  ‘Screw the CTC,’ Corso replied. ‘And the Senate. I don’t need to ask anyone’s permission to commandeer her.’

  Lamoureaux looked doubtful. ‘How does that come about?’

  ‘There are specific clauses relating to overriding emergencies. Just look them up. I think that beating Dakota’s swarm to the Mos Hadroch, assuming that’s really where it’s headed, fits anyone’s definition of an emergency.’

  ‘It’s going to break the Fleet Authority’s back, if you do this,’ Lamoureaux warned.

  ‘Let me worry about that. How soon could we reach those coordinates with the Mjollnir?

  Lamoureaux made a resigned sound. ‘Two weeks there, more or less. And the same again to get back home.’

  Corso stared back at him, thunderstruck. ‘That fast? It’s taken Dakota, what, two years to get seventeen thousand light-years?’

  Lamoureaux shrugged. ‘She didn’t go in a straight line, Senator, because she had to hunt far and wide to find the Maker’s trail. We’ve been sourcing data from the Magi ships that’s helped us greatly increase the efficiency and reach of the drives coming out of the Tierra cache.’

  ‘Then there’s no other recourse. Who’s in charge of the Mjollnir?’

  ‘Eduard Martinez.’

  Corso nodded, recognizing the name. ‘I’ve met him,’ he replied. ‘Good, that might make things easier.’ Martinez was very much a progressive in Freehold politics, which meant Corso might not have to replace him in command.

  ‘But the Ascension relief operation?’ Lamoureaux reminded him. ‘The Mjollnir ’s scheduled to be going there in the next couple of days. How are you going to square that with the Legislate?’

  ‘It’s a short-term loss for a long-term gain,’ Corso replied.

  Lamoureaux gave him a strange look, and Corso realized just how cold-hearted he’d sounded. ‘If we save some people at Ascension instead of heading straight out to those coordinates, we might lose something that could save us all from the Emissaries,’ he explained. ‘If the Legislate doesn’t want to think ahead, then I’m going to have to do it for them. Get hold of Martinez for me, and set up a secure, one-on-one tach-net link to Akiyama at the Office of Representatives while you’re at it, and route it to my quarters. Flag it urgent and top-priority.’

  ‘Senator, with the very greatest of respect, do you really think we can pull this off?’

  Corso glanced back at Lamoureaux, as he headed for the door. ‘You’d better hope we can, Ted. Because if we can’t, we’re screwed.’

  Chapter Nine

  The sun was low on the horizon. Cool wind teased her dark hair, while saltwater foamed and splashed over her bare toes where she sat at the water’s edge, her baggy cotton trousers rolled up above her ankles. She knew, without looking, that further up the beach behind her stood a single-storey cabin on stilts, with tatami mats scattered welcomingly on its floor and a futon rolled up in one corner.

  None of it was real, of course, but she didn’t know who she was, so it hardly mattered. She knew something had been threatening her because, when she tried to remember where she’d been before the beach, all that came to her was a sense of unease and foreboding.

  In the meantime, she knew she could happily wait here on the beach for ever.

  Sometimes she glanced down at her arms and legs and didn’t recognize them. The knowledge that something was missing – that some essential part of her had been lost for ever – slowly formed in the back of her mind, but somehow she didn’t seem to feel anything about it: no anger, remorse or bitterness. Only the awareness that something that should have been there, now wasn’t.

  After a long while she remembered a star, angry and red, reaching out to swallow her. She remembered there had been machines like dark metal locusts filling the universe like a plague.

  A little while later, she remembered dying.

  What might have been hours or days or years later, her name came back to her: Dakota. She formed the sound with her lips, working her jaws around it in ways that felt unfamiliar, as if trying the vowels out for size.

  She turned, seeing that a bamboo table laden with fresh fruit stood near the cabin, and in that instant it was as if a switch was thrown inside her. Sudden hunger overwhelmed her, and she stood and walked over. Once she’d eaten her fill, she crawled inside the cabin, unrolled the futon and went to sleep.

  She dreamed she was a little girl again. The cabin’s open doorway and the strip of beach it framed became a tall window looking out on cobbled streets lined with buildings made of brick and steel. She lay with her head in her mother’s lap, listening to the gentle rhythms of her parent’s voice, while flakes of snow drifted down from out of a sky so pale it was almost white.

  The next time Dakota opened her eyes, she was somewhere else.

  She knelt naked on a rocky shore entirely unlike the one she had found herself on before. Faces and places that should have been familiar to her spun through her mind like pieces of a shredded book flung into the heart of a whirlwind. She was incomplete, an unfinished puzzle with missing pieces.

  The air had a strange, coppery taste to it, and when she turned to look behind her, instead of a beach hut and table she saw only forbidding-looking cliffs topped with tangled blue-green flora. The roofs of buildings like gold-plated tombstones rose above the jungle, while the distant peaks of mountains were visible further inland.

  She looked out to sea, and saw massive towers like minarets rising out of the ocean, several kilometres out from the shore. Something about them made her sure they were very, very old.

  A Magi ship rested on the shore, looking as if it had b
een beached there. It dwarfed the nearby cliffs and towered far above her, its bulbous body angled upwards as it rested on its drive spines. Waves lapped against the curve of its partially submerged hull.

  That was when Dakota realized the Magi ships were never going to let her die.

  She stood and stared up and down the beach, cold prickling her bare skin, and tried to remember what her mother’s face had looked like. Nothing came to her except the memory of gazing out on to a snow-laden street. It seemed much of her life on Bellhaven had been reduced to that one sliver of memory; the rest was gone for ever.

  Somehow, whatever essence – whatever fundamental core of self-identity – she had carried within her had been transported across the light-years and used to rebuild her. Her memories of a beach and a hut had been part of the process of integration, as they had started to put her fragmented memory back together. It shouldn’t have worked, of course: she should have become a stumbling Frankenstein mess, a lopsided thing only half-alive, and yet here she was.

  She heard whispering voices all around her, as if the beach or the waves or the sand itself had suddenly become conscious. It took her a moment to realize they were coming through her implants.

  We had to make do with what we found, they announced.

  The minds of the Magi ship, she realized. Not the same one that had carried her to the Maker; that was gone, turned to superheated dust and scattered across the cosmos, along with the original Dakota.

  ‘But you didn’t do it to help me,’ she moaned. ‘You brought me back because you wanted me to lead you to the Mos Hadroch.’

  It had to be done, they replied. We want to help you, Dakota. You don’t ever have to die if you don’t want to, not really. Not any more. We made you whole again – or as whole as we could make you.

  She wanted to wade out into the water, to let herself sink as soon as she could no longer feel anything solid beneath her feet, but soon realized she didn’t have the strength or the will to do it. And even if she could, she knew the ship would just resurrect her again.

  A bundle of what at first appeared to be rags lay close by but, when she stepped over, Dakota found they were clothes, identical to the ones she’d worn when she’d left Ocean’s Deep a few years before. She picked them up, thinking that at least she wouldn’t freeze to death if the nights here were as cold as the day was warm.

  As she dressed, she glanced up at the curved underbelly of the Magi ship, and imagined it giving birth to her here on the shore, spitting the clothes out after her and watching over her until she blinked her eyes open for the first time.

  She pulled the jacket around her shoulders. ‘Why am I here?’ she asked the air.

  There was a message, the voices whispered in reply. It used Shoal protocols, and was directed to Ocean’s Deep. Indecipherable to all but you.

  They fed the message to her: a stream of data encoded using encryption techniques developed jointly by the Shoal and Magi – before one had committed genocide against the other.

  The message was from Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals, and it concerned the Mos Hadroch. It detailed a rendezvous here on this world’s shore, where dull grey waters lapped against broken shale.

  What am I made of? Dakota wondered, panicked by the thought. She reached down and pinched the flesh of her forearm between thumb and forefinger. It felt like ordinary flesh and blood but, if she’d been remade, how could she be sure her knowledge of what flesh should feel like hadn’t also been changed? After all, she wasn’t even real, just a dead woman’s memories prodded into life and given the illusion of independence.

  Not true. You are alive, said the voices from within the starship.

  ‘Shut up!’ she yelled, her hands curling into fists by her sides. ‘I didn’t ask for this.’

  She stepped closer to the waves and bent down, scooping some of the water up in the palms of her hands. Feeling experimental, she called on her filmsuit, and to her amazement it coated her flesh at once.

  They had rebuilt more than just her body: she still had her filmsuit, even her implants.

  Your ship calculated the precise phase state and non-arbitrary superpositions for every particle within your body, as well as gathering together the remaining fragments of your mind that were distributed throughout its neural stacks, said the voices. That way when it transmitted—

  ‘I said shut up!’

  The voices fell silent.

  There was a disturbance in the ocean, and a moment later a submersible of some kind emerged, halting a few metres from the shore. Dakota saw its hull was covered with tiny waving strips like flagella, which presumably propelled it. A hatch opened on its upper surface.

  He’s waiting for you, Dakota heard the voices say.

  She stared up at the starship one last time, with a mixture of unease and disgust, then waded out to the submersible.

  The cilia began to thrash against the water as soon as she had climbed inside. She stared out through the submersible’s tinted, transparent walls as the hatch closed above her. The craft soon began to sink beneath the ocean’s surface.

  Something else had changed, she realized. For all that she could still hear the voices of the virtual entities that occupied the Magi ship, that deep, near-instinctive grasp, the near-total symbiosis she’d felt with them, had somehow faded away to nothing.

  The original navigators were born to their task, the starship’s voices told her. They were created, their genetics manipulated so they could fuse their minds with their ships almost from the moment they came into life. Other Magi ships remade the physical structure of your cortex, but it was only a temporary measure, a stopgap whose consequences could never be precisely modelled. We . . .

  Dakota ignored them, squeezing her eyes tight until the voices finally retreated once more.

  When she opened her eyes again, bright beams of pale yellow light had flickered into life, radiating out from a dozen points around the submersible’s hull and picking out ruins on the seabed.

  The submersible diverted around a vast, weed-strewn hulk that must have been kilometres long. At first she thought it was a collapsed tower, but as the lights picked out the dark shapes of nacelles and heat-dispersal fins, she realized it was a spacecraft that must have plummeted into the ocean long ago.

  The ocean floor gradually slipped out of sight, and the submersible began to thread its way between vast columns that Dakota guessed must be the towers she’d seen earlier from the shore. Eventually the submersible headed straight towards one, before passing through an oval opening in its side, which led into a shaft at least a hundred metres across. The submersible began to rise through that shaft, ascending before long into an air-filled cavity.

  The hatch opened with a hiss. Dakota pushed her head out and saw that the submersible was now floating in a wide moat between the tower’s outer wall and an enormous circular platform surrounding a column rising at the tower’s centre. Windows made from some crystalline material provided a view of the ocean waves from a few metres beneath the surface.

  The platform itself was quite wide enough to support a Shoal superluminal yacht, floating on a bed of shaped fields. Waiting next to it, as Dakota had known he would be, was Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals, safely contained within a field-suspended sphere of water.

  Dakota pulled herself out of the hatch and jumped down on to the platform, which looked and felt like black glass as she reached down to touch it. Trader drifted closer, and she watched how his manipulators clutched and wriggled beneath the wide curve of his body.

  When he spoke, the familiar tones of his synthesized voice seemed to fill that dank underwater space.

  ‘Once again, mellifluous greetings,’ he said. ‘Did you enjoy your trip to the Maker? And don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘F . . .’ She cleared her throat with some difficulty, and dug her fingernails into her palms, then tried again. ‘Fuck you, too, Trader,’ she finally managed to say, and touched her throat with nervous fingers.


  ‘I congratulate you on having survived your encounter, Dakota. Few ever do.’

  She stared back at the alien and felt a familiar seething anger well up inside her. It was easier to give in to the feelings of the old Dakota – the real Dakota, as some treacherous part of her mind insisted on thinking of her.

  ‘Yes, Trader. I survived, and I got your message. Now tell me how you know so much about what I found out there.’

  ‘The Consortium is an open book to those with the means to decrypt its most secure transmissions.’

  ‘Not good enough. I was only ever in contact with other machine-head navigators.’

  ‘The Shoal could not have brought about the deaths of the original Magi navigators without having the means to intercept their communications traffic, a skill that remains with us. You can be assured, however, that the coordinates you recovered from the Maker stay a secret with me. Even the Shoal Hegemony remains unaware of the expedition.’

  ‘What expedition?’

  ‘The expedition your friend Lucas Corso recently sent out towards the coordinates associated with the Mos Hadroch, of course, Dakota.’

  She nodded mutely, and realized she had no idea just how much time had passed since the red giant had turned nova. It might have been days, or weeks, or much more.

  ‘I don’t know what it is you want, Trader, but there are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t listen to anything you have to say.’

  ‘And yet here you are.’

  I didn’t ask to come here, damn you. ‘The last time I saw you was on Morgan’s World. You already knew about the Mos Hadroch, didn’t you?’

  ‘In this I must confess my guilt,’ Trader replied smoothly.

  ‘You could have just told me, and then I never would have needed to go out there.’

  ‘But I had little more than a name at that time, Dakota. You found out more than I ever did when I myself visited the swarm long ago. You even managed to find a possible location.’