[They’ve always been out there, hiding in the darkness, watching and waiting. For four centuries we’ve been extremely lucky, stumbling through the night, making noise and light, broadcasting our presence into the galaxy. I think in some ways they must be blind, or that there are certain kinds of signals they filter from their perceptions. They never homed in on our radio or television transmissions, for instance, or else they would have scented us en masse centuries ago. That hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps they are designed only to respond to the unmistakable signs of a starfaring culture, rather than a merely technological one. Speculation, of course, but what else can we do but speculate?]
Clavain looked at the twelve brand-new starships. And now? Why start ship-building again?
[Because now we can. Nightshade was a prototype for these twelve much larger ships. They have quiet drives. With certain refinements in drive topology we were able to reduce the tau-neutrino flux by two orders of magnitude. Far from perfect, but it should allow us to resume intersellar travel without immediate fear of bringing down the wolves. The technology will, of course, have to remain strictly within Conjoiner control.]
Of course.
[I’m glad you see it that way.]
He looked at the ships again. The twelve black shapes were larger, fatter versions of Nightshade, their hulls swelling out to a width of perhaps two hundred and fifty metres at the widest point. They were as fat-bellied as the old ramliner colonisation ships, which had been designed to carry many tens of thousands of frozen sleepers.
But what about the rest of humanity? What about all the old ships that are still being used?
[We’ve done what we can. Closed Council agents have succeeded in regaining control of a number of outlaw vessels. These ships were destroyed, of course: we can’t use them either, and existing drives can’t be safely converted to the stealthed design.]
They can’t?
Into Clavain’s mind Skade tossed the image of a small planet, perhaps a moon, with a huge bowl-shaped chunk gouged out of one hemisphere, glowing cherry-red.
[No.]
And I don’t suppose that at any point you thought that it might help to disclose this information?
Behind the visor of her crested helmet she smiled tolerantly. [Clavain . . . Clavain. Always so willing to believe in the greater good of humanity. I find your attitude heartening, I really do. But what good would disclosure serve? This information is already too sensitive to share even with the majority of the Conjoined. I daren’t imagine what effect it would have on the rest of humanity.]
He wanted to argue but he knew she was correct. It was decades since any utterance from the Conjoiners had been taken at face value. Even a warning as bluntly urgent as that would be assumed to have duplicitous intent.
Even if his side capitulated, their surrender would be taken as a ruse.
Maybe you’re right. Maybe. But I still don’t understand why you’ve suddenly begun shipbuilding again.
[As a purely precautionary measure, should we need them.]
Clavain studied the ships again. Even if each ship only had the capacity to carry fifty or sixty thousand sleepers—and they looked capable of carrying far more than that—Skade’s fleet would have sufficed to carry nearly half the population of the Mother Nest.
Purely precautionary—that’s all?
[Well, there is the small matter of the hell-class weapons. Two of the ships plus the prototype will constitute a taskforce for the recovery operation. They will be armed with the most advanced weapons in our arsenal, and will contain recently developed technologies of a tactically advantageous nature.]
Like, I suppose, the systems you were testing?
[Certain further tests must still be performed, but yes . . . ]
Skade unhitched herself. “Master of Works—we’re done here for now. My guests have seen enough. What is your most recent estimate for when the ships will be flight ready?”
The servitor, which had folded and entwined its appendages into a tight bundle, swivelled its head to address her. “Sixty-one days, eight hours and thirteen minutes.”
“Thank you. Be sure to do all you can to accelerate that schedule. Clavain won’t want to be detained a moment, will you?”
Clavain said nothing.
“Please follow me,” said the Master of Works, flicking a limb towards the exit. It was anxious to lead them back to the surface.
Clavain made sure he was the first behind it.
Halfway along the throat, Clavain halted suddenly. Wait a moment.
[What’s wrong?]
I don’t know. My suit’s registering a small pressure leak in my glove. Something in the wall may have ripped the fabric.
[That’s not possible, Clavain. The wall is mildly compacted cometary ice. It would be like cutting yourself on smoke.]
Clavain nodded. Then I cut myself on smoke. Or perhaps there was a sharp chip embedded in the wall.
Clavain turned around and held his hand up for inspection. A target-shaped patch on the back of his left gauntlet was flashing pink, indicating the general region of a slow pressure loss.
[He’s right, Skade,] Remontoire said.
[It’s not serious. He can fix it when we’re back on the corvette.]
My hand feels cold. I’ve lost this hand once already, Skade. I don’t intend to lose it again.
He heard her hiss, an unfiltered sound of pure human impatience. [Then fix it.]
Clavain nodded and fumbled the spray from his utility belt. He dialled the nozzle to its narrowest setting and pressed the tip against his glove. The sealant emerged like a thin grey worm, instantly hardening and bonding to the fabric. He worked the nozzle sinuously up and down and from side to side, until he had doodled the worm across the gauntlet.
His hand was cold, but it also hurt because he had pushed the blade of the piezo-knife clean through the gauntlet. He had done it without removing the knife from the belt, in one fluid gesture as he moved one hand across the belt and angled the knife with the other. Given the difficulties, he had done well not to escape a more severe injury.
Clavain returned the spray to his belt. There was a regular warning tone in his helmet and his glove continued to pulse pink—he could see the pink glow around the edges of the sealant—but the sense of cold was diminishing. There was a small residual leak, but nothing that would cause him any difficulties.
[Well?]
I think that’s taken care of it. I’ll take a better look at it when we’re in the corvette.
To Clavain’s relief the incident appeared closed. The servitor bustled on and the three of them followed it. Eventually the tunnel breached the comet’s surface. Clavain had the usual expected moment of vertigo as he stood outside again, for the comet’s weak gravity was barely detectable and it was very easy via a simple flip of the perceptions to imagine himself glued by the soles of his feet to a coal-black ceiling, head down over infinite nothingness. But then the moment passed and he was confident again. The Master of Works packed itself back into the collar and then vanished down the tunnel.
They made quick progress to the waiting corvette, a wedge of pure black tethered against the starscape.
[Clavain . . . ?]
Yes, Skade?
[Do you mind if I ask you something? The Master of Works reported that you had doubts . . . was that an honest observation, or was the machine confused by the extreme antiquity of your memories?]
You tell me.