The Revelation Space Collection by Alastair Reynolds

father’s alpha-level recording,’ Pascale said.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I’d like to know what really happened to it afterwards.’
     
    In the soft interior rain, the man with the trick gun directed Khouri to a waiting cable-car. It was as unmarked and inconspicuous as the palanquin he had abandoned in the Monument.
    ‘Get in.’
    ‘Just a moment—’ But as soon as Khouri opened her mouth, he pushed the end of the gun into the small of her back. Not painfully - it was done firmly, not to hurt - but to remind her that it was there. Something in that gentleness told her the man was a professional, and that he was far more likely to use the gun than someone who would have prodded her aggressively. ‘All right; I’m moving. Who is this Mademoiselle anyway? Someone behind a rival Shadowplay house?’
    ‘No; I’ve already told you; stop thinking so parochially.’
    He was not going to tell her anything useful; she could see that. Certain it would not get her far, she said: ‘Who are you, then?’
    ‘Carlos Manoukhian.’
    That worried her more than the way he handled the gun. He said it too truthfully. It was not a cover-name. And now that she knew it - and guessed that this man was at best some kind of criminal, laughable as that category seemed in Chasm City’s lawlessness - it meant he planned to kill her later.
    The cable-car’s door clammed shut. Manoukhian pressed a button on the console which purged the Chasm City air, blasting out in steam jets below the car as it lofted itself via a nearby cable.
    ‘Who are you, Manoukhian?’
    ‘I help the Mademoiselle.’ As if that was not blindingly obvious. ‘We have a special relationship. We go back a long way.’
    ‘And what does she want with me?’
    ‘I would have thought it was obvious by now,’ Manoukhian said. He was still keeping the gun on her, even as he kept one eye on the car’s navigation console. ‘There’s someone she wants you to assassinate.’
    ‘That’s what I do for a living.’
    ‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘Difference is, this guy hasn’t paid for it.’
     
    The biography, needless to say, had not been Sylveste’s idea. Instead, the initiative had come from the one man Sylveste would have least suspected. It had been six months earlier; during one of the very few occasions when he had spoken face to face with his captor. Nils Girardieau had brought up the subject almost casually, mentioning that he was surprised no one had taken on the task. After all, the fifty years on Resurgam virtually amounted to another life, and even though that life was now capped by an ignominious epilogue, it did at least put his earlier life into a perspective it had lacked during the Yellowstone years. ‘The problem was,’ Girardieau said, ‘your previous biographers were too close to the events - too much part of the societal milieu they were attempting to analyse. Everyone was in thrall to either Cal or yourself, and the colony was so claustrophobic there was no room to step back and see the wider perspective.’
    ‘You’re saying Resurgam is somehow less claustrophobic?’
    ‘Well, obviously not - but at least we have the benefit of distance, both in time and space.’ Girardieau was a squat, muscular man with a shock of red hair. ‘Admit it, Dan - when you think back to your life on Yellowstone, doesn’t it sometimes seem like it all happened to someone else, in a century very remote from our own?’
    Sylveste was about to laugh dismissively, except that - for once - he found himself in complete agreement with Girardieau. It was an unsettling moment, as if a basic rule of the universe had been violated.
    ‘I still don’t see why you’d want to encourage this,’ Sylveste said, nodding towards the guard who was presiding over the conversation. ‘Or are you hoping you can somehow profit from it?’
    Girardieau had nodded. ‘That’s part of it - maybe most of it, if you want the truth. It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that you’re still a