Alastair Reynolds
THE REVELATION SPACE COLLECTION
REVELATION SPACE
ONE
There was a razorstorm coming in.
Sylveste stood on the edge of the excavation and wondered if any of his labours would survive the night. The archaeological dig was an array of deep square shafts separated by baulks of sheer-sided soil: the classical Wheeler box-grid. The shafts went down tens of metres, walled by transparent cofferdams spun from hyperdiamond. A million years of stratified geological history pressed against the sheets. But it would take only one good dustfall — one good razorstorm — to fill the shafts almost to the surface.
‘Confirmation, sir,’ said one of his team, emerging from the crouched form of the first crawler. The man’s voice was muffled behind his breather mask. ‘Cuvier’s just issued a severe weather advisory for the whole North Nekhebet landmass. They’re advising all surface teams to return to the nearest base.’
‘You’re saying we should pack up and drive back to Mantell?’
‘It’s going to be a hard one, sir.’ The man fidgeted, drawing the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck. ‘Shall I issue the general evacuation order?’
Sylveste looked down at the excavation grid, the sides of each shaft brightly lit by the banks of floodlights arrayed around the area. Pavonis never got high enough at these latitudes to provide much useful illumination; now, sinking towards the horizon and clotted by great cauls of dust, it was little more than a rusty-red smear, hard for his eyes to focus on. Soon dust devils would come, scurrying across the Ptero Steppes like so many overwound toy gyroscopes. Then the main thrust of the storm, rising like a black anvil.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for us to leave. We’re well sheltered here — there’s hardly any erosion pattering on those boulders, in case you hadn’t noticed. If the storm becomes too harsh, we’ll shelter in the crawlers.’
The man looked at the rocks, shaking his head as if doubting the evidence of his ears. ‘Sir, Cuvier only issue an advisory of this severity once every year or two — it’s an order of magnitude above anything we’ve experienced before.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Sylveste said, noticing the way the man’s gaze snapped involuntarily to his eyes and then off again, embarrassed. ‘Listen to me. We cannot afford to abandon this dig. Do you understand?’
The man looked back at the grid. ‘We can protect what we’ve uncovered with sheeting, sir. Then bury transponders. Even if the dust covers every shaft, we’ll be able to find the site again and get back to where we are now.’ Behind his dust goggles, the man’s eyes were wild, beseeching. ‘When we return, we can put a dome over the whole grid. Wouldn’t that be the best, sir, rather than risk people and equipment out here?’
Sylveste took a step closer to the man, forcing him to step back towards the grid’s closest shaft. ‘You’re to do the following. Inform all dig teams that they carry on working until I say otherwise, and that there is to be no talk of retreating to Mantell. Meanwhile, I want only the most sensitive instruments taken aboard the crawlers. Is that understood?’
‘But what about people, sir?’
‘People are to do what they came out here to do. Dig.’
Sylveste stared reproachfully at the man, almost inviting him to question the order, but after a long moment of hesitation the man turned on his heels and scurried across the grid, navigating the tops of the baulks with practised ease. Spaced around the grid like down-pointed cannon, the delicate imaging gravitometers swayed slightly as the wind began to increase.
Sylveste waited, then followed a similar path, deviating when he was a few boxes into the grid. Near the centre of the excavation, four boxes had been enlarged into one single slab-sided pit, thirty metres from side to side and nearly as deep. Sylveste stepped onto the ladder which led into the pit and moved quickly down the side. He had made the journey up and down this ladder so many times in the last few weeks that the lack of vertigo was almost more disturbing than the thing itself. Moving down the cofferdam’s side, he descended through layers of geological time. Nine hundred thousand years had passed since the Event. Most of that stratification was permafrost — typical in Resurgam’s subpolar latitudes; permanent frost-soil which never thawed. Deeper down — close to the Event itself — was a layer of regolith laid down in the impacts which had followed. The Event itself was a single, hair-fine black demarcation — the ash of burning forests.
The floor of the pit was not level, but followed narrowing steps down to a final depth of forty metres below the surface. Extra floods had been brought down to shine light into the gloom. The cramped area was a fantastical hive of activity, and within the shelter of the pit there was no trace of the wind. The dig team was working in near- silence, kneeling on the ground on mats, working away at something with tools so precise they might have served for surgery in another era. Three were young students from Cuvier — born on Resurgam. A servitor skulked beside them awaiting orders. Though machines had their uses during a dig’s early phases, the final work could never be entirely trusted to them. Next to the party a woman sat with a compad balanced on her lap, displaying a cladistic map of Amarantin skulls. She saw Sylveste for the first time — he had climbed quietly — and stood up with a start, snapping shut the compad. She wore a greatcoat, her black hair cut in a geometric fringe across her brow.
‘Well, you were right,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is, it’s big. And it looks amazingly well-preserved, too.’
‘Any theories, Pascale?’
‘That’s where you come in, isn’t it? I’m just here to offer commentary.’ Pascale Dubois was a young journalist from Cuvier. She had been covering the dig since its inception, often dirtying her fingers with the real archaeologists, learning their cant. ‘The bodies are gruesome, though, aren’t they? Even though they’re alien, it’s almost as if you can feel their pain.’
To one side of the pit, just before the floor stepped down, they had unearthed two stone-lined burial chambers. Despite being buried for nine hundred thousand years — at the very least — the chambers were almost intact, with the bones inside still assuming a rough anatomical relationship to one another. They were typical Amarantin skeletons. At first glance — to anyone who happened not to be a trained anthropologist — they could have passed as human remains, for the creatures had been four-limbed bipeds of roughly human size, with a superficially similar bone-structure. Skull volume was comparable, and the organs of sense, breathing and communication were situated in analogous positions. But the skulls of both Amarantin were elongated and birdlike, with a prominent cranial ridge which extended forwards between the voluminous eye-sockets, down to the tip of the beaklike upper jaw. The bones were covered here and there by a skein of tanned, desiccated tissue which had served to contort the bodies, drawing them — or so it seemed — into agonised postures. They were not fossils in the usual sense: no mineralisation had taken place, and the burial chambers had remained empty except for the bones and the handful of technomic artefacts with which they had been buried.
‘Perhaps,’ Sylveste said, reaching down and touching one of the skulls, ‘we were meant to think that.’
‘No,’ Pascale said. ‘As the tissue dried, it distorted them.’
‘Unless they were buried like this.’
Feeling the skull through his gloves — they transmitted tactile data to his fingertips — he was reminded of a yellow room high in Chasm City, with aquatints of methane icescapes on the walls. There had been liveried servitors
