Khouri did not need to be told that Hades was a neutron star, any more than she needed to be told that there was no such thing as a safe close encounter with one. You either kept well away or you died; those were the rules, and there was no force in the universe capable of negating them. Gravity ruled, and gravity did not take into account circumstances, or the unfairness of things, or listen to eleventh-hour petitions before reluctantly repealing its laws. Gravity crushed, and near the surface of a neutron star gravity crushed absolutely, until diamond flowed like water; until a mountain collapsed into a millionth of its height. It was not even necessary to get close to suffer those crushing forces.
A few hundred thousand kilometres would be more than sufficient.
‘Yes,’ Khouri said. ‘I think you’re right. And that’s not good.’
‘No,’ Pascale said. ‘I rather imagined it wasn’t.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sylveste thought of it as the chamber of miracles.
It seemed appropriate: he had been here less than an hour (he assumed, though he had long since ceased paying much attention to time) and in that period he had seen nothing that was less than miraculous, and much for which the term itself seemed mildly insufficient. Somehow he knew that a lifetime would not be sufficient to encompass a fraction of what this place contained; what it was. He had felt like this before, on glimpsing some vista of tremendous potential knowledge not yet learnt, not yet codified and shaped into theory. But he knew that those previous occasions had been pale foreshadowings of what he felt now.
He had no more than hours here, before any chance of return was dashed. What could he do in a matter of hours? Very little, rationally, but he did have the recording systems of the suit, and his eyes, and he knew he had to try. History would not forgive him if he did anything less. More importantly, he would never forgive himself.
He jetted his suit towards the centre of the chamber, towards the two objects which snared his attention; the gash of transcendent light and the jewel-like thing which rotated around it. As he approached, the walls of the chamber began to move, as if he were being sucked into the rotational frame of the objects; as if space itself were being drawn into an eddy; as if the nature of space were in flux. His suit told him as much, chirruping with detailed analyses of the way the substrate was altering; quantum indices ticking towards unexplored new realms. He remembered something similar on the way in to Lascaille’s Shroud. As then, he felt normal enough, as if his whole being were in the process of being transcribed, transliterated, the closer he came to the jewel and its radiant partner.
It took hours to reach it, and he began to doubt that his initial estimate of the diameter of the chamber had been accurate. But, inexorably, the apparent rate of revolution of the jewel dropped to zero, until the chamber walls were spinning dizzily. He knew then that he had to be close, although the jewel did not seem very much larger than when he had first glimpsed it. Still it was in constant motion, reminding him of a child’s kaleidoscope, the ever-shifting symmetric patterns revealed by coloured glints of light, but extended to three (and possibly more) dimensions. Occasionally the thing threw out spires or spikes which reached threateningly towards him, causing him to flinch, but he held his ground and even allowed himself to drift closer in the moments when it seemed to shift into a phase of relatively low-level transformation. He sensed that his survival did not depend on closely watching the readouts of his suit. He was beyond such simplicities.
‘What do you think it is?’ Calvin asked, his voice so low that it almost merged with Sylveste’s own thoughts, almost was one of Sylveste’s own thoughts.
‘I was hoping you’d have some suggestions.’
‘Sorry; all out of shattering insights. Too many for one lifetime.’
Volyova drifted in space.
She had not died when the Melancholia went up, though she had not managed to make it to the spider-room in time. What she had done was don her helmet just before the hull whispered away, like a moth’s wing against a candle. Falling away from the wreckage, she had not been targeted by the lighthugger. It had ignored her; just as it ignored the spider-room.
She could not simply die. That was emphatically not her style. And though she knew that her chances of survival were statistically negligible, and that what she was doing was entirely bereft of logic, she had to prolong the hours she had left. She scanned her air and power reserves and saw that they were not good; not good at all. She had taken the suit hastily, thinking that the only use she would have for it was to reach the shuttle across the hangar. She had not even had the presence of mind to hook it up to one of the recharging modules aboard the shuttle during their flight. That at least would have bought her a few days, rather than the fraction of a day she now faced. Yet, perversely, she did not simply arrange to end things immediately. She knew she could make the reserves last longer if she slept when consciousness was not required (assuming, of course, that she ever had any further use for it).
So she programmed the suit to drift, telling it to alert her only if something interesting — or, more probably, threatening — happened. And now, because she had woken, something evidently had.
She asked the suit what it was.
The suit told her.
‘Shit,’ Ilia Volyova said.
The Infinity’s radar had just swept across her; the same radar which it had used against the shuttle, just before deploying its gamma-ray weapon. And it had done so with an intensity which suggested that the ship was in her immediate neighbourhood; no more than a few tens of thousands of kilometres away; not even spitting distance when it came to picking off a target as large, defenceless, static and conspicuous as she now was.
She hoped the ship would have the good grace to finish her off with something swift. After all, there was a very high likelihood that whatever it chose to use against her would be a system she had designed herself.
Not for the first time, she cursed her ingenuity.
Volyova enabled the suit’s binocular overlay and began sweeping the starfield from which the targeting radar had projected. At first she saw only blackness and stars — and then the ship, tiny as a chip of coal, but edging closer with every second.
‘It’s not Amarantin, is it? We agree on that.’
‘The jewel, you mean?’
‘Whatever it is. And I don’t think they were responsible for the light, whatever that is.’
‘No. That’s not their handiwork either.’ Sylveste realised now that he was deeply grateful for Calvin’s presence, no matter how illusory it was; no matter how much it was a deception. ‘Whatever these things are — whatever their relationship to each other — the Amarantin just found them.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Maybe they didn’t even understand what they had found — not properly, anyway. But for one reason or another they had to enclose it; had to hide it from the rest of the universe.’
‘Jealousy?’
‘Perhaps. But that wouldn’t explain the warnings we got coming here. Perhaps they enclosed them as a favour to the rest of Creation, because they couldn’t destroy them, or move them elsewhere.’
Sylveste thought. ‘Whoever put them here originally — around a neutron star — must have meant for them to attract someone’s attention. Don’t you think?’