Beyond the Aquila Rift: The Best of Alastair Reynolds Read online

  I left the Blue Goose, walking in the opposite direction to Suzy. Overhead, the bulk carriers slid in one after the other. You heard them long before you saw them. Mournful, cetacean moans cut down through the piss-yellow clouds over the port. When they emerged, you saw dark hulls scabbed and scarred by the blocky extrusions of syntax patterning, jibs and q-planes retracted for landing and undercarriages clutching down like talons. The carriers stopped over their allocated wells and lowered down on a scream of thrust. Docking gantries closed around them like grasping skeletal fingers. Cargo-handling ’saurs plodded out of their holding pens, some of them autonomous, some of them still being ridden by trainers. There was a shocking silence as the engines cut, until the next carrier began to approach through the clouds.

  I always like watching ships coming and going, even when they’re holding my own ship on the ground. I couldn’t read the syntax, but I knew these ships had come in all the way from the Rift. The Aquila Rift is about as far out as anyone ever goes. At median tunnel speeds, it’s a year from the centre of the Local Bubble.

  I’ve been out that way once in my life. I’ve seen the view from the near side of the Rift, like a good tourist. It was far enough for me.

  When there was a lull in the landing pattern, I ducked into a bar and found an Aperture Authority booth that took Ashanti credit. I sat in the seat and recorded a thirty-second message to Katerina. I told her I was on my way back, but that we were stuck on Arkangel for another few hours. I warned her that the delay might cascade through to our tunnel routing, depending on how busy things were at the Authority’s end. Based on past experience, an eight-hour ground hold might become a two-day hold at the surge point. I told her I’d be back, but she shouldn’t worry if I was a few days late.

  Outside a diplodocus slouched by with a freight container strapped between its legs.

  I told Katerina I loved her and couldn’t wait to get back home.

  While I walked back to the Blue Goose, I thought of the message racing ahead of me. Transmitted at light-speed up-system, then copied into the memory buffer of the next outgoing ship. Chances were, that particular ship wasn’t headed to Barranquilla or anywhere near it. The Aperture Authority would have to relay the message from ship to ship until it reached its destination. I might even reach Barranquilla ahead of it, but in all my years of delays that had only happened once. The system worked all right.

  Overhead, a white passenger liner had been slotted in between the bulk carriers. I lifted up my mask to get a better look at it. I got a hit of ozone, fuel and dinosaur dung. That was Arkangel all right. You couldn’t mistake it for any other place in the Bubble. There were four hundred worlds out there, up to a dozen surface ports on every planet, and none of them smelled bad in quite the same way.

  “Thom?”

  I followed the voice. It was Ray, standing by the dock.

  “You finished checking those planes?” I asked.

  Ray shook his head. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. They were a little off-alignment, so—seeing as we’re going to be sitting here for eight hours—I decided to run a full recalibration.”

  I nodded. “That was the idea. So what’s the prob?”

  “The prob is a slot just opened up. Tower says we can lift in thirty minutes.”

  I shrugged. “Then we’ll lift.”

  “I haven’t finished the recal. As it is, things are worse than before I started. Lifting now would not be a good idea.”

  “You know how the tower works,” I said. “Miss two offered slots, you could be on the ground for days.”

  “No one wants to get back home sooner than I do,” Ray said.

  “So cheer up.”

  “She’ll be rough in the tunnel. It won’t be a smooth ride home.”

  I shrugged. “Do we care? We’ll be asleep.”

  “Well, it’s academic. We can’t leave without Suzy.”

  I heard boot heels clicking toward us. Suzy came out of the fog, tugging her own mask aside.

  “No joy with the rune monkeys,” she said. “Nothing they were selling I hadn’t seen a million times before. Fucking cowboys.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re leaving anyway.”

  Ray swore. I pretended I hadn’t heard him.

  I WAS ALWAYS the last one into a surge tank. I never went under until I was sure we were about to get the green light. It gave me a chance to check things over. Things can always go wrong, no matter how good the crew.

  The Blue Goose had come to a stop near the AA beacon that marked the surge point. There were a few other ships ahead of us in the queue, plus the usual swarm of AA service craft. Through an observation blister I was able to watch the larger ships depart one by one. Accelerating at maximum power, they seemed to streak toward a completely featureless part of the sky. Their jibs were spread wide, and the smooth lines of their hulls were gnarled and disfigured with the cryptic alien runes of the routing syntax. At twenty gees it was as if a huge invisible hand snatched them away into the distance. Ninety seconds later, there’d be a pale green flash from a thousand kilometres away.

  I twisted around in the blister. There were the foreshortened symbols of our routing syntax. Each rune of the script was formed from a matrix of millions of hexagonal platelets. The platelets were on motors so they could be pushed in or out from the hull.

  Ask the Aperture Authority and they’ll tell you that the syntax is now fully understood. This is true, but only up to a point. After two centuries of study, human machines can now construct and interpret the syntax with an acceptably low failure rate. Given a desired destination, they can assemble a string of runes that will almost always be accepted by the aperture’s own machinery. Furthermore, they can almost always guarantee that the desired routing is the one that the aperture machinery will provide.

  In short, you usually get where you want to go.

  Take a simple point-to-point transfer, like the Hauraki run. In that case there is no real disadvantage in using automatic syntax generators. But for longer trajectories—those that may involve six or seven transits between aperture hubs—machines lose the edge. They find a solution, but usually it isn’t the optimum one. That’s where syntax runners come in. People like Suzy have an intuitive grasp of syntax solutions. They dream in runes. When they see a poorly constructed script, they feel it like toothache. It affronts them.

  A good syntax runner can shave days off a route. For a company like Ashanti Industrial, that can make a lot of difference.

  But I wasn’t a syntax runner. I could tell when something had gone wrong with the platelets, but I had to trust that Suzy had done her job. I had no other choice.

  But I knew Suzy wouldn’t screw things up.

  I twisted around and looked back the other way. Now that we were in space, the q-planes had deployed. They were swung out from the hull on triple hundred-metre-long jibs, like the arms of a grapple. I checked that they were locked in their fully extended positions and that the status lights were all in the green. The jibs were Ray’s area. He’d been checking the alignment of the ski-shaped q-planes when I ordered him to close up ship and prepare to lift. I couldn’t see any visible indication that they were out of alignment, but then again it wouldn’t take much to make our trip home bumpier than usual. But as I’d told Ray, who cared? The Blue Goose could take a little tunnel turbulence. It was built to.

  I checked the surge point again. Only three ships ahead of us.

  I went back to the surge tanks and checked that Suzy and Ray were all right. Ray’s tank had been customized at the same time that Suzy had had hers done. It was full of images of what Suzy called the BVM: the Blessed Virgin Mary. The BVM was always in a spacesuit, carrying a little spacesuited Jesus. Their helmets were airbrushed gold halos. The artwork had a cheap, hasty look to it. I assumed Ray hadn’t spent as much as Suzy.

  Quickly I stripped down to my underclothes. I plumbed into my own unpainted surge tank and closed the lid. The buffering gel sloshe
d in. Within about twenty seconds I was already feeling drowsy. By the time traffic control gave us the green light I’d be asleep.

  I’ve done it a thousand times. There was no fear, no apprehension. Just a tiny flicker of regret.

  I’ve never seen an aperture. Then again, very few people have.

  Witnesses report a doughnut-shaped lump of dark chondrite asteroid, about two kilometres across. The entire middle section has been cored out, with the inner part of the ring faced by the quixotic-matter machinery of the aperture itself. They say the q-matter machinery twinkles and moves all the while, like the ticking innards of a very complicated clock. But the monitoring systems of the Aperture Authority detect no movement at all.

  It’s alien technology. We have no idea how it works, or even who made it. Maybe, in hindsight, it’s better not to be able to see it.

  It’s enough to dream, and then awake, and know that you’re somewhere else.

  TRY A DIFFERENT approach, Greta says. Tell her the truth this time. Maybe she’ll take it easier than you think.

  “There’s no way I can tell her the truth.”

  Greta leans one hip against the wall, one hand still in her pocket. “Then tell her something halfway truthful.”

  We un-plumb Suzy and haul her out of the surge tank.

  “Where are we?” she asks. Then to Greta: “Who are you?”

  I wonder if some of the last conversation did make it out of Suzy’s short-term memory after all.

  “Greta works here,” I say.

  “Where’s here?”

  I remember what Greta told me. “A station in Schedar sector.”

  “That’s not where we’re meant to be, Thom.”

  I nod. “I know. There was a mistake. A routing error.”

  Suzy’s already shaking her head. “There was nothing wrong—”

  “I know. It wasn’t your fault.” I help her into her ship clothes. She’s still shivering, her muscles reacting to movement after so much time in the tank. “The syntax was good.”

  “Then what?”

  “The system made a mistake, not you.”

  “Schedar sector…” Suzy says. “That would put us about ten days off our schedule, wouldn’t it?”

  I try and remember what Greta said to me the first time. I ought to know this stuff by heart, but Suzy’s the routing expert, not me. “That sounds about right,” I say.

  But Suzy shakes her head. “Then we’re not in Schedar sector.”

  I try to sound pleasantly surprised.

  “We’re not?”

  “I’ve been in that tank for a lot longer than a few days, Thom. I know. I can feel it in every fucking bone in my body. So where are we?”

  I turn to Greta. I can’t believe this is happening again.

  “End it,” I say.

  Greta steps toward Suzy.

  YOU KNOW THAT “as soon as I awoke I knew everything was wrong” cliché? You’ve probably heard it a thousand times, in a thousand bars across the Bubble, wherever ship crews swap tall tales over flat, company-subsidized beer. The trouble is that sometimes that’s exactly the way it happens. I never felt good after a period in the surge tank. But the only time I had ever come around feeling anywhere near this bad was after that trip I took to the edge of the Bubble.

  Mulling this, but knowing there was nothing I could do about it until I was out of the tank, it took me half an hour of painful work to free myself from the connections. Every muscle fibre in my body felt like it had been shredded. Unfortunately, the sense of wrongness didn’t end with the tank. The Blue Goose was much too quiet. We should have been heading away from the last exit aperture after our routing. But the distant, comforting rumble of the fusion engines wasn’t there at all. That meant we were in free-fall.

  Not good.

  I floated out of the tank, grabbed a handhold and levered myself around to view the other two tanks. Ray’s largest BVM stared back radiantly from the cowl of his tank. The bio indices were all in the green. Ray was still unconscious, but there was nothing wrong with him. Same story with Suzy. Some automated system had decided I was the only one who needed waking.

  A few minutes later I had made my way to the same observation blister I’d used to check the ship before the surge. I pushed my head into the scuffed glass half-dome and looked around.

  We’d arrived somewhere. The Blue Goose was sitting in a huge, zero-gravity parking bay. The chamber was an elongated cylinder, hexagonal in cross section. The walls were a smear of service machinery: squat modules, snaking umbilical lines, the retracted cradles of unused docking berths. Whichever way I looked I saw other ships locked onto cradles. Every make and class you could think of, every possible configuration of hull design compatible with aperture transitions. Service lights threw a warm golden glow on the scene. Now and then the whole chamber was bathed in the stuttering violet flicker of a cutting torch.

  It was a repair facility.

  I was just starting to mull on that when I saw something extend itself from the wall of the chamber. It was a telescopic docking tunnel, groping toward our ship. Through the windows in the side of the tunnel I saw figures floating, pulling themselves along hand over hand.

  I sighed and started making my way to the airlock.

  BY THE TIME I reached the lock they were already through the first stage of the cycle. Nothing wrong with that—there was no good reason to prevent foreign parties boarding a vessel—but it was just a tiny bit impolite. But perhaps they’d assumed we were all asleep.

  The door slid open.

  “You’re awake,” a man said. “Captain Thomas Gundlupet of the Blue Goose, isn’t it?”

  “Guess so,” I said.

  “Mind if we come in?”

  There were about half a dozen of them, and they were already coming in. They all wore slightly timeworn ochre overalls, flashed with too many company sigils. My hackles rose. I didn’t really like the way they were barging in.

  “What’s up?” I said. “Where are we?”

  “Where do you think?” the man said. He had a face full of stubble, with bad yellow teeth. I was impressed by that. Having bad teeth took a lot of work these days. It was years since I’d seen anyone who had the same dedication to the art.

  “I’m really hoping you’re not going to tell me we’re still stuck in Arkangel system,” I said.

  “No, you made it through the gate.”

  “And?”

  “There was a screw-up. Routing error. You didn’t pop out of the right aperture.”

  “Oh, Christ.” I took off my bib cap. “It never rains. Something went wrong with the insertion, right?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows how these things happen? All we know is you aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “Right. And where is ‘here’?”

  “Saumlaki Station. Schedar sector.”

  He said it as though he was already losing interest, as if this was a routine he went through several times a day.

  He might have been losing interest. I wasn’t.

  I’d never heard of Saumlaki Station, but I’d certainly heard of Schedar sector. Schedar was a K supergiant out toward the edge of the Local Bubble. It defined one of the seventy-odd navigational sectors across the whole Bubble.

  Did I mention the Bubble already?

  YOU KNOW HOW the Milky Way Galaxy looks; you’ve seen it a thousand times, in paintings and computer simulations. A bright central bulge at the galactic core, with lazily curved spiral arms flung out from that hub, each arm composed of hundreds of billions of stars, ranging from the dimmest, slow-burning dwarfs to the hottest supergiants teetering on the edge of supernova extinction.

  Now zoom in on one arm of the Milky Way. There’s the sun, orange-yellow, about two-thirds out from the centre of the galaxy. Lanes and folds of dust swaddle the sun out to distances of tens of thousands of light-years. Yet the sun itself is sitting right in the middle of a four-hundred-light-year-wide hole in the dust, a bubble in which the density is about
a twentieth of its average value.

  That’s the Local Bubble. It’s as if God blew a hole in the dust just for us.

  Except, of course, it wasn’t God. It was a supernova, about a million years ago.

  Look further out, and there are more bubbles, their walls intersecting and merging, forming a vast froth-like structure tens of thousands of light-years across. There are the structures of Loop I and Loop II and the Lindblad Ring. There are even superdense knots where the dust is almost too thick to be seen through at all. Black cauls like the Taurus or Rho-Ophiuchi dark clouds, or the Aquila Rift itself.

  Lying outside the Local Bubble, the Rift is the furthest point in the galaxy we’ve ever travelled to. It’s not a question of endurance or nerve. There simply isn’t a way to get beyond it, at least not within the faster-than-light network of the aperture links. The rabbit-warren of possible routes just doesn’t reach any further. Most destinations—including most of those on the Blue Goose’s itinerary—didn’t even get you beyond the Local Bubble.

  For us, it didn’t matter. There’s still a lot of commerce you can do within a hundred light-years of Earth. But Schedar was right on the periphery of the Bubble, where dust density began to ramp up to normal galactic levels, two hundred and twenty-eight light-years from Mother Earth.

  Again: not good.

  “I know this is a shock for you,” another voice said. “But it’s not as bad as you think it is.”

  I LOOKED AT the woman who had just spoken. Medium height, the kind of face they called ‘elfin’, with slanted, ash-gray eyes and a bob of shoulder-length, chrome-white hair.

  The face achingly familiar.

  “It isn’t?”

  “I wouldn’t say so, Thom.” She smiled. “After all, it’s given us the chance to catch up on old times, hasn’t it?”

  “Greta?” I asked, disbelievingly.