biodesign principles. But what had happened on Infinity was different. The plague had inhabited the Captain for long years before reshaping him. Was it possible that some symbiosis had been achieved, and that when the plague finally went wild, consuming and altering the ship, the transformations were in some sense expressions of the Captain’s subconscious? She suspected so, and at the same time hoped not. For no matter which way one looked at it, the ship had become something monstrous. When Khouri had come up from Resurgam, Volyova had done her best to be blase about the transformations, but that act had been as much for her benefit as Khouri’s. The ship unnerved her on many levels. Shortly before she had allowed him to warm, she had come to an understanding of the Captain’s crimes, gaining a fleeting glimpse into the cloister of guilt and hate that was his mind. Now it was as if that mind had been vastly expanded, to the point where she could walk around inside it. The Captain had become the ship. The ship had inherited his crimes and become a monument to its own villainy. She studied the contours that marked where the casket had been. During the latter stages of the Captain’s illness, the reefersleep unit, pressed up against one wall, had begun to extend silvery fronds in all directions. They could be traced back through the casket’s fractured casing into the Captain himself, fused deeply with his central nervous system. Now those sensory feelers encompassed the entire ship, worming, bifurcating and reconnecting like immense squid axons. There were several dozen locations where the silver feelers converged into what Volyova had come to think of as major ganglial processing centres, fantastically intricate tangles. There was no physical trace of the Captain’s old body now, but his intelligence, distended, confused, spectral, undoubtedly still inhabited the ship. Volyova had not decided whether those nodes were distributed brains or simply small components of a much larger shipwide intellect. All that she was sure of was that John Brannigan was still present. Once, when she had been shipwrecked around Hades and had assumed Khouri to be dead, she had been waiting for Infinity to execute her. She was expecting it. She had warmed the Captain by then, told him of the crimes she had uncovered, given him every reason to punish her. But he had spared her and then rescued her. He had allowed her back aboard the ship, which was still in the process of being consumed and transformed. He had ignored all her attempts at communication, but had made it possible for her to survive. There had been pockets where his transformations were less severe, and she had found that she could live in them. She had discovered that they even moved around, if she decided to inhabit a different portion of the ship. So Brannigan, or whatever was running the ship, knew she was aboard, and knew what she needed to stay alive. Later, when she had found Khouri, the ship had allowed her to come aboard as well. It had been like inhabiting a haunted house occupied by a lonely but protective spirit. Whatever they needed, within reason, the ship provided. But it would not relinquish absolute control. It would not move, except to make short in-system flights. It would not give them access to any of its weapons, let alone the cache. Volyova had continued her attempts at communication, but they had all been fruitless. When she spoke to the ship, nothing happened. When she scrawled visual messages, there was no response. And yet she remained convinced that the ship was paying attention. It had become catatonic, withdrawn into its own private abyss of remorse and recrimination. The ship despised itself. But then Khouri had left, returning to Resurgam to infiltrate Inquisition House and lead the whole damned planet on a wild goose chase, just so she and Volyova could get into any place they needed without question. Those first few months of solitude had been trying, even for Ilia Volyova. They had forced her to the conclusion that she quite liked human companionship after all. Having nothing for company except a sullen, silent, hateful mind had almost pushed her to the edge. But then the ship, in its own small way, had begun to talk back. At first, she had almost not noticed its efforts. There had been a hundred things that needed doing each day, and no time to stop and be quiet and wait for the ship to make its fumbling gestures of conciliation. Rat infestations… bilge pump failures… the continual process of redirecting the plague away from critical areas, fighting it with nano-agents, fire, refrigerants and chemical sprays. Then one day the servitors had started behaving oddly. Like the rats that had turned rogue, they had once been part of the ship’s repair and redesign infrastructure. The smartest of them had been consumed by the plague, but the oldest, stupidest machines had endured. They continued to toil away at their allotted tasks, only dimly aware that the ship had changed around them. For the most part they neither helped nor hindered Volyova, so she had let them be. Very occasionally they were useful, but it was such a rare occurrence that she had long since stopped counting on it. But then the servitors began to help her. It started with a routine bilge pump failure. She had detected the pump breakdown and travelled downship to inspect the problem. When she arrived, to her astonishment she had found a servitor waiting there, carrying more or less exactly the right tools she needed to fix the unit. Her first priority had been to get the pump chugging again. When the local flood had subsided she had sat down and taken stock. The ship still looked the way it had when she had woken up. The corridors still stretched away like mucus-coated windpipes. Vile substances continued to ooze and drip from every orifice in the ship’s fabric. The air remained cloying, and at the back of every thought was the constant Gregorian chant of the other bilge pumps. But something had definitely changed. She had put the tools back on the rack that the servitor carried. When she was done the machine had whipped smartly around on its tracks and whirred off into the distance, vanishing around the ribbed curve of the corridor. ‘You can hear me, I think,’ she had said aloud. ‘Hear me and see me. You also know that I’m not here to hurt you. You could have killed me already, John, especially if you control the servitors — and you do, don’t you?’ She had not been the least bit surprised when no answer was forthcoming. But she had persisted. ‘You remember who I am, of course. I’m the one who warmed you. The one who guessed what you’d done. Perhaps you think I was punishing you for your actions. You’d be wrong. It’s not my style; sadism bores me. If I wanted to punish you, I’d have killed you — and there were a thousand ways I could have done it. But it wasn’t what I had in mind. I just want you to know that my personal opinion on the matter is that you’ve suffered enough. You have suffered, haven’t you?’ She had paused, listening to the musical tone of the pump, satisfying herself that it was not going to immediately fail again. ‘Well, you deserved it,’ she said. ‘You deserved to spend time in hell for what you did. Perhaps you have. Only you will ever know what it was like to live like that, for so long. Only you will ever know if the state you’re in now is any kind of improvement.’ There had been a distant tremor at that point; she had felt it through the flooring. She wondered if it was just a scheduled pumping operation going on somewhere else in the ship or whether the Captain had been commenting on her remark. ‘It’s better now, isn’t it? It has to be better. You’ve escaped now, and become the spirit of the ship you once commanded. What more could any Captain desire?’ There had been no answer. She had waited several minutes, hoping for another seismic rumble or some equally cryptic signal. Nothing had come. ‘About the servitor,’ she had said. ‘I’m grateful, thank you. It was a help.’ But the ship had said nothing. What she found from then on, however, was that the servitors were always there to help her when they could. If her intentions could be guessed, the machines would race ahead to bring the tools or equipment she needed. If it was a long job, a servitor would even bring her
