Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
GREAT WALL OF MARS
GLACIAL
A SPY IN EUROPA
WEATHER
DILATION SLEEP
GRAFENWALDER’S BESTIARY
NIGHTINGALE
GALACTIC NORTH
AFTERWORD
GALACTIC NORTH
"Reveals [Reynolds’s] essential approach to the whole notion of future history.” —Locus
"A grandiose, gothic flavor . . . Reynolds is clearly a lover of puzzles . . . Many of the stories collected [here] have a trick at their heart, a revelation that reshapes what has gone before.” —Strange Horizons
“[Galactic North] will provide fans with food for thought.”
—Edge
“While the settings are classic sci-fi, the stories are character driven and interesting. There is a bit of mystery, the macabre, and the fantastic in each . . . will take you back to the days when Pohl, Clarke, and Niven were new to your eyes.” —Fresh Fiction
“For the reader unfamiliar with Reynolds’s novels, these stories are a good place to start . . . Those who do know the novels will find even greater enjoyment as they revisit familiar places and meet old friends.” —SF Crowsnest.com
“A long-overdue collection . . . written with real energy. This is gothic SF with gore aplenty as Reynolds ensures his taut narratives grip from the first sentence. In his afterword, Reynolds recalls reading Larry Niven’s Known Space stories, marveling at how they built into a detailed future history ‘mosaic.’ With this collection, the same might be said of Reynolds’s work.” —Titan Books
“A must for anyone who has [read] the novels . . . epic vistas of the Revelation Space universe.” —Best SF
“A very worthwhile collection.” —Durrants
“Reynolds is the best writer so far discovered in the twenty-first century.” —Concatenation
PUSHING ICE
“Welding hard SF scenarios to deft characterization to create a wholly convincing vision . . . Arthur C. Clarke in his prime couldn’t have done a better job.” —SFX
CENTURY RAIN
“Reynolds possesses the true and awesome wide-screen SF imagination . . . an exciting, thought-provoking novel.”
—Locus
ABSOLUTION GAP
One of the Best SF Novels of the Year, Locus
One of the Top Ten Science Fiction Novels of the Year, SF Site
“Cinematic imagery and strong characters ably carry this juggernaut of a story . . . a landmark in hard SF space opera.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
REDEMPTION ARK
Best Science Fiction Novel of the Year, Chronicle
One of the Best SF Novels of the Year, Locus
“The best of the new breed of space opera. Wild action on a grand scale spans well-imagined and developed worlds.”
—The Denver Post
CHASM CITY
Winner of the British Science Fiction Association’s Best Novel Award One of the Best SF Novels of the Year, Locus and Chronicle
“A tightly written story that spirals inevitably inward toward its powerful conclusion.” —Locus
REVELATION SPACE
One of the Best First Novels of the Year, Locus
“A very fine novel, well worth reading.”
—The New York Review of Science Fiction
Ace Books by Alastair Reynolds
REVELATION SPACE
CHASM CITY
REDEMPTION ARK
ABSOLUTION GAP
DIAMOND DOGS, TURQUOISE DAYS
CENTURY RAIN
PUSHING ICE
GALACTIC NORTH
THE PREFECT
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GALACTIC NORTH
Originally published by Orion Publishing Group.
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Copyright © 2006 by Alastair Reynolds.
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For David Pringle
GREAT WALL OF MARS
“You realise you might die down there,” said Warren.
Nevil Clavain looked into his brother’s one good eye; the one the Conjoiners had left him with after the Battle of Tharsis Bulge. “Yes, I know,” he said. “But if there’s another war, we might all die. I’d rather take that risk, if there’s a chance for peace.”
Warren shook his head, slowly and patiently. “No matter how many times we’ve been over this, you just don’t seem to get it, do you? There can’t ever be any kind of peace while they’re still down there. That’s what you don’t understand, Nevil. The only long-term solution here is . . .” He trailed off.
“Go on,” Clavain goaded. “Say it. Genocide.”
Warren might have been about to answer when there was a bustle of activity along the docking tube, at the far end from the waiting spacecraft. Through the door Clavain saw a throng of media people, then someone gliding through them, fielding questions with only the curtest of answers. That was Sandra Voi, the Demarchist woman who would be accompanying him to Mars.
“It’s not genocide when they’re just a faction, not an ethnically distinct race,” Warren said, before Voi was within earshot.
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know. Prudence?”
Voi approached. She carried herself stiffly, her face a mask of quiet resignation. H
er ship had only just docked from Circum-Jove after a three-week transit at maximum burn. During that time the prospects for a peaceful resolution of the current crisis had steadily deteriorated.
“Welcome to Deimos,” Warren said.
“Marshals,” she said, addressing them both. “I wish the circumstances were better. Let’s get straight to business. Warren—how long do you think we have to find a solution?”
“Not long. If Galiana maintains the pattern she’s been following for the last six months, we’re due another escape attempt in . . .” Warren glanced at a read-out buried in his cuff. “About three days. If she does try to get another shuttle off Mars, we’ll really have no option but to escalate.”
They all knew what that would mean: a military strike against the Conjoiner nest.
“You’ve tolerated her attempts so far,” Voi said, “and each time you’ve successfully destroyed her ship with all the people in it. The net risk of a successful breakout hasn’t increased. So why retaliate now?”
“It’s very simple,” Warren said. “After each violation we issued Galiana a stronger warning than the one before. Our last was absolute and final.”
“You’ll be in violation of treaty if you attack.”
Warren’s smile was one of quiet triumph. “Not quite, Sandra. You may not be completely conversant with the treaty’s fine print, but we’ve discovered that it allows us to storm Galiana’s nest without breaking any terms. The technical phrase is a ‘police action,’ I believe.”
Clavain saw that Voi was momentarily lost for words. That was hardly surprising. The treaty between the Coalition and the Conjoiners—which Voi’s neutral Demarchists had helped draft—was the longest document in existence, apart from some obscure, computer-generated mathematical proofs. It was supposed to be watertight, though only machines had ever read it from beginning to end, and only machines had ever stood a chance of finding the kind of loophole Warren was now brandishing.
“No . . .” she said. “There’s some mistake.”
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Clavain said. “I’ve seen the natural-language summaries, and there’s no doubt about the legality of a police action. But it needn’t come to that. I’m sure I can persuade Galiana not to make another escape attempt.”
“But if we should fail?” Voi looked at Warren now. “Nevil and I could still be on Mars in three days.”
“Don’t be, is my advice.”
Disgusted, Voi turned and stepped into the green cool of the shuttle. Clavain was left alone with his brother for a moment. Warren fingered the leathery patch over his ruined eye with the chrome gauntlet of his prosthetic arm, as if to remind Clavain of what the war had cost him; how little love he had for the enemy, even now.
“We haven’t got a chance of succeeding, have we?” Clavain said. “We’re only going down there so you can say you explored all avenues of negotiation before sending in the troops. You actually want another damned war.”
“Don’t be so defeatist,” Warren said, shaking his head sadly, forever the older brother disappointed at his sibling’s failings. “It really doesn’t become you.”
“It’s not me who’s defeatist,” Clavain said.
“No, of course not. Just do your best, little brother.”
Warren extended his hand for his brother to shake. Hesitating, Clavain looked again into his brother’s good eye. What he saw there was an interrogator’s eye: as pale, colourless and cold as a midwinter sun. There was hatred in it. Warren despised Clavain’s pacifism; Clavain’s belief that any kind of peace, even a peace that consisted only of stumbling episodes of mistrust between crises, was always better than war. That schism had fractured any lingering fraternal feelings they might have retained. Now, when Warren reminded Clavain that they were brothers, he never entirely concealed the disgust in his voice.
“You misjudge me,” Clavain whispered, before quietly shaking Warren’s hand.
“No. I honestly don’t think I do.”
Clavain stepped through the airlock just before it sphinctered shut. Voi had already buckled herself in; she had a glazed look now, as if staring into infinity. Clavain guessed she was uploading a copy of the treaty through her implants, scrolling it across her visual field, trying to find the loophole; probably running a global search for any references to police actions.
The ship recognised Clavain, its interior shivering to his preferences. The green was closer to turquoise now, the read-outs and controls minimalist in layout, displaying only the most mission-critical systems. Though the shuttle was the tiniest peacetime vessel Clavain had been in, it was a cathedral compared to the dropships he had flown during the war; vessels so small that they were assembled around their occupants like medieval armour before a joust.
“Don’t worry about the treaty,” Clavain said. “I promise you Warren won’t get his chance to exploit that loophole.”
Voi snapped out of her trance irritatedly. “You’d better be right, Nevil. Is it me, or is your brother hoping we fail?” She was speaking Quebecois French now, Clavain shifting mental gears to follow her. “If my people discover there’s a hidden agenda here, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“The Conjoiners gave Warren plenty of reasons to hate them after the Battle of the Bulge,” Clavain said. “And he’s a tactician, not a field specialist. After the ceasefire, my knowledge of worms was even more valuable than before, so I had a role. But Warren’s skills were a lot less transferable. ”
“So that gives him a right to edge us closer to another war?” The way Voi spoke, it was as if her own side had not been neutral during the last exchange. But Clavain knew she was right. If hostilities between the Conjoiners and the Coalition re-ignited, the Demarchy would not be able to stand on the sidelines as they had fifteen years ago. And it was anyone’s guess how they would align themselves this time around.
“There won’t be war.”
“And if you can’t reason with Galiana? Or are you going to play on your personal connection?”
“I was just her prisoner, that’s all.” Clavain took the controls—Voi said piloting was a bore—and unlatched the shuttle from Deimos. They dropped away at a tangent to the rotation of the equatorial ring that girdled the moon, instantly in free fall. Clavain sketched a porthole in the wall with his fingertip, outlining a rectangle that instantly became transparent.
For a moment he saw his reflection in the glass: older than he felt he had any right to look, the grey beard and hair making him appear ancient rather than patriarchal; a man deeply wearied by recent circumstance. With some relief he darkened the cabin so that he could see Deimos, dwindling at surprising speed. The higher of the two Martian moons was a dark, bristling lump infested with armaments, belted by the bright, window-studded band of the moving ring. For the last nine years, Deimos was all he had known, but now he could encompass it within the arc of his fist.
“Not just her prisoner,” Voi said. “No one else came back sane from the Conjoiners. She never even tried to infect you with her machines.”
“No, she didn’t, but only because the timing was on my side.” Clavain was reciting an old argument now, as much for his own benefit as Voi’s. “I was the only prisoner she had. She was losing the war by then; one more recruit to her side wouldn’t have made any real difference. The terms of ceasefire were being thrashed out and she knew she could buy herself favours by releasing me unharmed. There was something else, too: Conjoiners weren’t supposed to be capable of anything so primitive as mercy. They were Spiders, as far as we were concerned. Galiana’s act threw a wrench into our thinking. It divided alliances within high command. If she hadn’t released me, they might well have nuked her out of existence.”
“So there was absolutely nothing personal?”
"No,” Clavain said. “There was nothing personal about it at all. ”
Voi nodded, without in any way suggesting that she actually believed him. It was a skill some women had honed to perfection, Clavain reflected.
&
nbsp; Of course, he respected Voi completely. She had been one of the first human beings to enter Europa’s ocean, decades back. Now they were planning fabulous cities under the ice, efforts she had spearheaded. Demarchist society was supposedly flat in structure, non-hierarchical; but someone of Voi’s brilliance ascended through echelons of her own making. She had been instrumental in brokering the peace between the Conjoiners and Clavain’s own Coalition. That was why she was coming along now: Galiana had only agreed to Clavain’s mission provided he was accompanied by a neutral observer, and Voi had been the obvious choice. Respect was easy. Trust, however, was more difficult: it required that Clavain ignore the fact that, with her head dotted with implants, the Demarchist woman’s condition was not very far removed from that of the enemy.
The descent to Mars was hard and steep.
Once or twice they were queried by the automated tracking systems of the Satellite Interdiction Network. Dark weapons hovering in Mars-synchronous orbit above the nest locked on to the ship for a few instants, magnetic rail-guns powering up, before the shuttle’s diplomatic nature was established and it was allowed to proceed. The Interdiction was very efficient; as well it might be, given that Clavain had designed much of it himself. In fifteen years no ship had entered or left the Martian atmosphere, nor had any surface vehicle ever escaped from Galiana’s nest.
“There she is,” Clavain said, as the Great Wall rose over the horizon.
“Why do you call ‘it’ a ‘she’?” Voi asked. “I never felt the urge to personalise it, and I designed it. Besides . . . even if it was alive once, it’s dead now.”
She was right, but the Wall was still awesome to behold. Seen from orbit, it was a pale, circular ring on the surface of Mars, two thousand kilometres wide. Like a coral atoll, it entrapped its own weather system: a disc of bluer air flecked with creamy white clouds that stopped abruptly at the boundary.
Once, hundreds of communities had sheltered inside that cell of warm, thick, oxygen-rich atmosphere. The Wall was the most audacious and visible of Voi’s projects. The logic had been inescapable: a means to avoid the millennia-long timescales needed to terraform Mars via such conventional schemes as cometary bombardment or ice-cap thawing. Instead of modifying the whole atmosphere at once, the Wall allowed the initial effort to be concentrated in a relatively small region, at first only a thousand kilometres across. There were no craters deep enough, so the Wall had been completely artificial: a vast ring-shaped atmospheric dam designed to move slowly outward, encompassing ever more surface area at a rate of twenty kilometres per year. The Wall needed to be very tall because the low Martian gravity meant that the column of atmosphere was higher for a fixed surface pressure than on Earth. The ramparts were hundreds of metres thick, dark as glacial ice, sinking great taproots deep into the lithosphere to harvest the ores needed for the Wall’s continual growth. Yet two hundred kilometres higher, the wall was a diaphanously thin membrane only microns wide, completely invisible except when rare optical effects made it hang like a frozen aurora against the stars. Eco-engineers had seeded the live-able area circumscribed by the Wall with terran genestocks deftly altered in orbital labs. Flora and fauna had moved out in vivacious waves, lapping eagerly against the constraints of the Wall.