some of us have hit the limitations of the basic human bodyplan. The implants in our heads enable us to think ten or fifteen times faster than normal, all the time, but at the cost of increased thermal dissipation requirements. My blood is pumped through my crest, and then into the network of rills, where it throws off heat. The rills are optimised for maximum surface area, and they ripple to circulate air currents. The effect is visually pleasing, I’m told, but that’s entirely accidental. We learned the trick from the dinosaurs, actually. They weren’t as stupid as you’d think.‘ Skade stroked her crest again. ’It shouldn’t alarm you, Galiana. Not everything has changed.‘ ‘We heard there’d been a war,’ Galiana said. ‘We were fifteen light-years out when we picked up the reports. First there was the plague, of course… and then the war. The reports didn’t make any sense. They said we were going to war against the Demarchists, our old allies.’ ‘The reports were true,’ Skade said, with a trace of regret. ‘In God’s name, why?’ ‘It was the plague. It demolished Demarchist society, throwing open a massive power vacuum around Yellowstone. At their request, we moved in to establish an interim government, running Chasm City and its satellite communities. Better us than another faction, was the reasoning. Can you imagine the mess that the Ultras or the Skyjacks would have made? Well, it worked for a few years, but then the Demarchists started regaining some of their old power. They didn’t like the way we’d usurped control of the system, and they weren’t prepared to negotiate a peaceful return to Demarchist control. So we went to war. They started it; everyone agrees about that.’ Galiana felt some of her elation slipping away. She had hoped that the rumours would turn out to be exaggerations. ‘But we won, evidently,’ she said. ‘… No. Not as such. The war’s still happening, you see.’ ‘But it’s been…’ ‘Fifty-four years.’ Skade nodded. ‘Yes. I know. Of course, there’ve been lapses and lulls, ceasefires and brief interludes of detente. But they haven’t lasted. The old ideological schisms have opened up again, like raw wounds. At heart they’ve never trusted us, and we’ve always regarded them as reactionary Luddites, unwilling to face the next phase of human transcendence.’ Galiana felt, for the first time since waking, an odd migrainous pressure somewhere behind her eyes. With the pressure came a squall of primal emotions, howling up from the oldest part of her mammalian brain. It was the awful fear of being pursued, of sensing a host of dark predators coming closer. Machines , said a memory. Machines like wolves, which came out of interstellar space and locked on to your exhaust flame. You called them wolves, Galiana. Them. Us. The odd moment abated. ‘But we worked together so well, for so long,’ Galiana said. ‘Surely we can find common ground again. There are more things to worry about than some petty power struggle over who gets to run a single system.’ Skade shook her head. ‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. There have been too many deaths, too many broken promises, too many atrocities. The conflict has spread to other systems, wherever there are Conjoiners and Demarchists.’ She smiled, though the smile looked forced, as if her face would instantly spring back to its neutral state the moment she relaxed her muscles. ‘Things aren’t quite as desperate as you’d imagine. The war is turning in our favour, slowly but surely. Clavain returned twenty-two years ago, and immediately began to make a difference. Until his return we had been on the defensive, falling into the trap of acting like a true hive mind. That made our movements very easy for the enemy to predict. Clavain snapped us out of that prison.’ Galiana tried to force the memory of the wolves from her mind, thinking back to the time she had first met Clavain. It had been on Mars, when he had been fighting against her, a soldier in the Coalition for Neural Purity. The Coalition opposed her mind-augmenting experiments and saw the utter annihilation of the Conjoiners as the only tolerable outcome. But Clavain had seen the larger picture. First, as her prisoner, he had made her realise how terrifying her experiments had seemed to the rest of the system. She had never really grasped that until Clavain patiently explained it to her, over many months of incarceration. Later, when he had been freed and terms of cease-fire were being negotiated, it was Clavain who had brought in the Demarchists to act as a neutral third party. The Demarchists had drawn up the cease-fire document and Clavain had pushed Galiana until she signed it. It had been a masterstroke, cementing an alliance between the Demarchists and the Conjoiners that would endure for centuries, until the Coalition for Neural Purity barely merited a footnote in history. Conjoiners continued with their neurological experiments, which were tolerated and even encouraged provided they made no attempts to absorb other cultures. Demarchists made use of their technologies, brokering them to other human factions. Everyone was happy. But at heart, Skade was right: the union had always been an uneasy one. A war, at some point, was almost inevitable — especially when something like the Melding Plague came along. But fifty-four damned years? Clavain would never have tolerated that, she thought. He would have seen the terrible waste in human effort that such a war entailed. He would either have found a way to end it decisively, or he would have sought a permanent cease-fire. The migrainelike pressure was still with her, now a little more intense than before. Galiana had the disturbing sense that something was peering through her eyes from inside her skull, as if she was not its only tenant. We narrowed the distance to your two ships, with the unhurried lope of ancient killers who had no racial memory of failure. You sensed our minds: bleak intellects poised on the dangerous verge of intelligence, as old and cold as the dust between the stars. You sensed our hunger. ‘But Clavain…’ she said. ‘What about Clavain?’ ‘He would have found a way to end this, Skade, one way or another. Why hasn’t he?’ Skade looked away for an instant, so that her crest was a narrow ridge turned edge-on. When she turned back she was attempting to shape a very odd expression on to her face. You saw us take your first ship, smothering it in a caulk of inquisitive black machines. The machines gnawed the ship apart. You saw it detonate: the explosion etched a pink swan-shape on to your retina, and you felt a net of minds being ripped away, like the loss of a thousand children. You tried to get further away, but by then it was too late. When we reached your ship we were more careful. This isn’t easy, Galiana.‘ ‘What isn’t?’ ‘It’s about Clavain.’
