The Revelation Space Collection

calm. There was nothing that he could not examine; no sensory experience or memory that he could not unravel and open as if it were one of his own. But beneath that calm surface layer, glimpsed like something rushing behind smoked glass, there lay a howling storm of consciousness. It was frantic and ceaseless, like a machine always on the point of ripping itself apart, but one that would never find respite in its own destruction.

He pulled back, terrified that he might fall in. [You see what I mean?]

I always knew you lived with something like that. I just didn’t…

[It isn’t your fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault, not even Galiana’s. It’s just the way I am.]

He understood then, perhaps more thoroughly than at any point since he had known her, just what Felka’s craving was like. Games, complex games, sated that howling machine, gave it something to work on, slowed it to something less furious. When she had been a child, the Wall had been all that she needed, but the Wall had been taken from her. After that, nothing had ever been enough. Perhaps the machine would have evolved as Felka grew. Or perhaps the Wall would always have turned out to be inadequate. All that mattered now was that she find surrogates for it: games or puzzles, labyrinths or riddles, which the machine could process and thereby give her the tiniest degree of inner calm.

Now I understand why you think the Jugglers might be able to help.

[Even if they can’t change me — and I’m not even sure I want them to change me — they might at least give me something to think about, Clavain. So many alien minds have been imprinted in their seas, so many patterns stored. I might even be able to make sense of something that the other swimmers haven’t. I might even be valuable.]

I always said I’d do what I could. But it hasn’t got any easier. You understand that, don’t you?

[Of course.]

Felka…

She must have read enough of his mind to see what he was about to ask. [I lied, Clavain. I lied to save you, to get you to turn around.]

He already knew; Skade had told him. But until now he had never entirely dismissed the possibility that Skade herself might have been lying; that Felka was indeed his daughter. It would have been a white lie, in that case. I’ve been responsible for enough of those in my time.

[It was still a lie. But I didn’t want Skade to kill you. It seemed better not to tell the truth…]

You must have known that I’d always wondered…

[It was natural for you to wonder, Clavain. There was always a bond between us, after you saved my life. And you were Galiana’s prisoner before I was born. It would have been easy for her to harvest genetic material…] Her thoughts became hazy. [Clavain… do you mind if I ask you something?]

There aren’t any secrets between us, Felka.

[Did you make love with Galiana, when you were her prisoner?]

He answered with a calm clarity of mind that surprised even himself. I don’t know. I think so. I remember it. But then what do memories mean, after four hundred years? Maybe I’m just remembering a memory. I hope that isn’t the case. But afterwards… when I had become one of the Conjoined…

[Yes?]

We did make love. Early on, we made love often. The other Conjoiners didn’t like it, I think — they saw it as an animal act, a primitive throwback to baseline humanity. Galiana didn’t agree, of course. She was always the sensual one, the one who revelled in the realm of the senses. That was what her enemies never truly understood about her — that she honestly loved humanity more than they did. It was why she made the Conjoined. Not to be something better than humanity, but as a gift, a promise of what humanity could be if we only realised our potential. Instead, they painted her as some coldly reductionist monster. They were so terribly wrong. Galiana didn’t think of love as some ancient Darwinian trick of brain chemistry that had to be eradicated from the human mind. She saw it as something that had to be brought to its culmination, like a seed that needed to be nurtured as it grew. But they never understood that part. And the trouble was you had to be Conjoined before you appreciated what it was that she had achieved.

Clavain paused, taking a moment to review the disposition of his forces around the Triumvir’s ship. There had been two more deaths in the last minute, but the steady encroachment of his forces continued. Yes, we did make love, back in my first days amongst the Conjoined. But there came a time when it was no longer necessary, except as a nostalgic act. It felt like something that children do: not wrong, not primitive, not even dull, just no longer of any interest. It wasn’t that we had stopped loving each other, or had lost our thirst for sensory experience. It was simply that there were so many more rewarding ways of achieving that same kind of intimacy. Once you’ve touched someone else’s mind, walked through their dreams, seen the world through their eyes, felt the world through their skin… well… there never seemed to be any real need to go back to the old way. And I was never much one for nostalgia. It was as if we had stepped into a more adult world, crammed with its own pleasures and enticements. We had no reason to look back at what we were missing.

She did not respond immediately. The ship flew on. Clavain eyed the read-outs and tactical summaries again. For a moment, a terrible, yawning moment, he felt that he had said far too much. But then she spoke, and he knew that she had understood everything.

[I think I need to tell you about the wolves.]

THIRTY-SEVEN

When Volyova had made the decision, she felt a rush of strength, enabling her to rip the medical probes and shunts from her body, flinging them aside with wicked abandon. She retained only the goggles which substituted for her blinded eyes, while doing her best not to think of the vile machinery now floating in her skull. Other than that, she felt quite hale and hearty. She knew that it was an illusion, that she would pay for this burst of energy later, and that almost certainly she would pay for it with her life. But she felt no fear at the prospect, only a quiet satisfaction that she might at least do something with the time that remained to her. It was all very well lying here, directing distant affairs like some bed-ridden pontiff, but it was not the way she was meant to be. She was Triumvir Ilia Volyova, and she had certain standards to uphold.

‘Ilia…’ Khouri began, when she saw what was happening.

‘Khouri,’ she said, her voice still a croak, but finally imbued with something resembling the old fire. ‘Khouri… do this for me, and never once stop to question me or talk me out of it. Understood?’

‘Understood… I think.’

Volyova clicked her fingers at the nearest servitor. It scuttled towards her, dodging between the squawking medical monitors. ‘Captain… have the servitor assist me to the spacecraft bay, will you? I will expect a suit and a shuttle to be waiting for me.’

Khouri steadied her, holding her in a sitting position. ‘Ilia, what are you planning?’

‘I’m going outside. I need to have a word — a serious word — with weapon seventeen.’

‘You’re in no state…’

Volyova cut her off with a chop of one frail hand. ‘Khouri, I may have a weak and feeble body, but give me weightlessness, a suit and possibly a weapon or two and you’ll find I can still do some damage. Understood?’

‘You haven’t given up, have you?’

The servitor helped her to the floor. ‘Given up, Khouri? It’s not in my dictionary.’

Khouri helped her as well, taking the Triumvir’s other arm.

On the edge of the combat swarm, though still within range of potentially damaging weapons, Antoinette disengaged the evasive pattern she had been running and throttled Storm Bird down to one gee. Through Storm Bird’s windows she could see the elongated shape of the Triumvir’s lighthugger, visible at a distance of two thousand kilometres as a tiny scratch of light. Most of the time it was dark enough that she did not see the ship at all, but two or three times a minute a major explosion — some detonating mine, warhead, drive-unit or weapons-trigger — threw light against the hull, momentarily picking it out the way a lighthouse might glance against a jagged pinnacle rising from the depths of a storm-racked ocean. But