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.
He did his best to keep his mind as blank and calm as possible, concentrating purely on the mechanics of the task in hand. The journey back towards the surface of the comet seemed to take much longer than the trip down had. The Master of Works bustled ahead of them, straddling the tunnel bore, picking its way along it with fastidious care. The servitor’s mood was impossible to read, but Clavain had the impression that it was very glad to be done with the three of them. It had been programmed to tend the operations here with zealous protectivity, and Clavain could not help but admire the grudging way it had entertained them. He had dealt with many robots and servitors in his lifetime, and they had been programmed with many superficially convincing personalities. But this was the first one that had seemed genuinely resentful of human company.
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.
[Do you appreciate the need to recover the weapons, now? I mean on a visceral level?]