She flung the whiphound. It left her hand, following a smooth arc towards the still-approaching servitor. She had aimed it to land just ahead of the machine, directly in its path. Too close and the manipulators would have time to pick it up and fling it aside. Too early, and it wouldn’t do enough damage. She’d have liked the luxury of requesting maximum yield, but while that would have taken care of the advancing machine, it wouldn’t have done wonders for Thalia or her party.
One second.
‘Get down!’ she shouted, preparing to fling herself against the ground.
Two seconds.
Suddenly the servitor wasn’t moving. The smoke was billowing out in greater intensity. It was fatally damaged, Thalia thought. The whiphound had done its job, and now she was going to waste it by having it blow up unnecessarily, when the servitor was already immobilised.
Three seconds.
‘Rescind!’ Thalia shouted. ‘Rescind!’
Four seconds. Then five. The whiphound lay still on the ground. Six seconds oozed into seven. The grenade order had been cancelled, but she could still not shake the sense that she had created a bomb, one that was now compelled to detonate, much as a sword must draw blood before it could be returned to its scabbard.
She crept back towards the whiphound, knees wobbling underneath her. The damaged servitor was still twitching its manipulator tentacles, brushing the gravel only a few centimetres from where the handle had fallen. The citizens were looking back, no doubt wondering what she was doing. Thalia knelt and reached out, fingers advancing gingerly towards the damaged whiphound. The servitor’s tentacles stirred and made one last-ditch effort to trap her, but Thalia was faster. Her hand closed around the warm handle of the whiphound and snatched it back. She almost fell on her haunches, before pushing herself to her feet. She quickly turned the arming dials back to their neutral settings.
‘What now?’ Caillebot asked, his hands on his hips. The party had stopped; they were all looking at her, not so much expecting guidance as demanding it.
Thalia clipped the damaged handle to her belt. It continued to buzz and tremble. ‘We can’t go on. It’ll be too risky with the whiphound the way it is.’
‘I say we just surrender ourselves to Thesiger’s constables,’ Caillebot said. ‘What do we care if they’re machines or people? They’ll look after us.’
‘Tell them,’ Parnasse said, nodding in Thalia’s direction.
Her mouth was dry. She wanted to be anywhere other than here, in this situation, with nothing to protect her or her party but one damaged whiphound.
‘Tell us what?’ Meriel Redon asked, fear staining her voice.
Thalia wiped gravel dust from her hands onto the hem of her tunic. It left grey finger smears. ‘We’re in trouble,’ she said. ‘Worse trouble than I wanted you to know. But Citizen Parnasse is right - I can’t keep it from you any longer.’
‘Keep what?’ Redon asked.
‘I don’t think Thesiger is in control. I think that’s just a ruse to get the citizens to accept the machines. My guess is Thesiger is either dead, already rounded up or fighting for his life. I don’t think there are any human constables active inside Aubusson.’
‘Meaning what?’ the woman persisted.
‘The machines are running things now. The servitors are the new authority. And they’ve started killing.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘I can,’ Thalia said. She pushed sweat-damp hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ve seen where they bury the bodies. I saw a man . . . he was dead. He’d been killed by one of those things. Butchered by a machine. And he was being hidden somewhere we wouldn’t see him.’
Cuthbertson took a deep breath. ‘Then what we were doing . . . trying to get out of here . . . that was the right thing to try. Wasn’t it?
‘It was,’ Thalia said. ‘But now I see I was wrong. We’d never have made it with just one whiphound to protect us. It was a mistake. My mistake, and I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have left the stalk.’
They all looked back at the slender tower, with the windowed sphere of the polling core still gleaming against the blue-hazed pseudo-sky of the habitat’s opposite wall.
‘So what do we do now?’ Caillebot asked.
‘We get back up there,’ Thalia said, ‘as fast as we can, before more machines arrive. Then we secure it.’
If luck had been against them in their attempt to leave the museum campus, it held until they were back inside the cool, shadowed silence of the stalk’s lobby. No machines had arrived to block their way, or shepherd them to be detained with the prisoners on the lawn. On one level, it felt as if many hours had passed since the loss of abstraction and the first hints that this was more than just a technical failure. But when Thalia checked the time she was dismayed to see that less than forty minutes had passed since she had completed her upgrade. As far as Panoply was concerned, she wouldn’t even be overdue yet, let alone a matter for concern. Help might arrive eventually, but for now - and quite possibly for hours to come - Thalia was on her own.
As if to emphasize how little time had passed, the elevator car was still waiting in the lobby. Thalia beckoned the others inside, the doors snicking closed behind them. Her voice sounded ragged, on the slurred edge of exhaustion and burn-out.
‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng. Recognise my voiceprint.’
After an agonising wait - which could only have been a fraction of a second - the door answered her.
‘Voiceprint recognised, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’
‘Take us up.’
Nothing happened. Thalia held her breath and waited for movement, that welcome surge as the floor pushed against her feet. Still nothing happened.
‘Is there a problem?’ Caillebot asked.
Thalia whirled on him with vicious speed, all her tiredness wiped away in an instant. ‘What does it look like? We’re not moving.’
‘Try again,’ Parnasse said calmly. ‘Could be it didn’t understand you the first time.’
‘This is Thalia Ng. Please ascend.’ But still the elevator refused to move. ‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng,’ she said again. ‘Recognise my voiceprint!’
This time the elevator stayed mute.
‘Something’s broken,’ Parnasse said, still keeping his voice low and disengaged, as if he was commenting on the action rather than participating in it. ‘I suggest we consider using the stairs instead.’
‘Good idea,’ Meriel Redon said. ‘I’m starting to feel locked in here—’
‘Try the doors,’ Parnasse said.
Thalia pressed her hand against the manual-control panel. Her palm was cut and bruised from her battle with the servitors, tiny chips of stone still embedded in her skin.
‘No dice. They aren’t opening.’
‘Try again.’
Thalia already had. ‘Nothing doing. I don’t suppose asking nicely’s going to help either.’
‘You could try.’
With a sense of futility, she said, ‘This is Thalia Ng. Open the doors.’ She hammered the panel again. ‘Open the doors. Open the fucking doors!’
‘Machines,’ Cuthbertson said.
They all followed his gaze, through the trelliswork doors, across the shadowed emptiness of the lobby to the daylight beyond, where a squad of servitors glinted and shone as they made a slow but deliberate approach towards the stalk. There were eight or nine of them, all of different designs, wheeling, perambulating or sliding, with manipulators and cutting tools raised high.
‘They’ve trapped us,’ Caillebot said, marvelling. ‘They let us get back here because they knew we’d take the elevator. That was another of your ideas, Prefect.’
‘Do you want to shut up now, or after I’ve rammed this down your throat?’ Thalia asked, unclipping the buzzing warm handle of her whiphound.
The leading machines had reached the shadow of the overhang sheltering the wide doorway leading into the lobby. Three marbled steps led up to the level of the main fl
oor, where the lift was situated. The walking machines began ascending the steps with slow but deliberate intent.
Thalia felt the whiphound tremble in her grip, as if its heart was racing.
‘You already said it was damaged,’ Caillebot said. ‘How much use is it going to be against all those if it could barely hold back two?’
Thalia thumbed the heavy control that invoked sword mode and hoped that there was still enough functionality left in the whiphound to spool out and stiffen its filament. The handle buzzed like a trapped wasp; nothing happened. She thumbed the control again, willing the whiphound to respond.
The filament inched out, the buzzing intensifying. Ten centimetres, then fifteen. Twenty before it reached its limit. But it appeared to be rigid and straight.
Thalia sliced into the black metal trelliswork of the elevator doors. She felt more resistance than when she had cut through the hedge, but that was only to be expected. Keeping her cool, knowing that nothing would be gained from panicking, she worked her way methodically across and then down. She directed the whiphound blade back up to the point where she had started, the last few cuts taking almost as long as the dozen or so that had preceded them. Then the rectangle of trelliswork clattered outwards onto the marble floor. The servitors had already reached the top of the stairs and were beginning to cross the expanse of the lobby. Two of the ambulatory machines were even assisting one of the wheeled variants over the obstacle of the steps.
‘The stairs,’ Thalia said. ‘Run like hell, and don’t stop running until you get to the top.’
Thalia moved with the party, but kept herself between them and the machines. She walked backwards, facing the servitors, holding the damaged whiphound in front of her. She had turned the arming dials into alignment again, ready to throw the broken weapon as a grenade. But as her heels touched the stairs, something made her change her mind. Nothing would be gained from attacking these machines now; more would always follow.
Thalia clipped the whiphound back onto her belt and started climbing the stairs behind the others.
CHAPTER 15
Gaffney experienced a moment’s hesitation as he clipped the safe-distance line to his belt. How easy it would be to fail to secure the latch, so that the line snapped off just when he reached its maximum extension. Then he would sail on through the boundary of the exclusion volume, into the sphere of space around Jane Aumonier into which the scarab forbade the intrusion of all but the smallest of objects. Aumonier would have a second or two to register both the failure of the line and the Euclidean inevitability of Gaffney’s onward progress. No force in the universe could stop him from colliding with her.
How fast would it be? he wondered. How clean, how merciful? He’d pondered the literature concerning sudden, non-medical decapitation. It was confusing and contradictory. Very few subjects had survived to testify to their experiences. There’d be blood, certainly. Litres of it, at arterial pressure.
Blood did interesting, artistic things in weightlessness.
‘Prefects,’ Aumonier said as she became aware of the delegation’s presence. ‘I wasn’t expecting a visit. Is something the matter?’
‘You know what this is about, Jane,’ Gaffney said, beginning his drift into the chamber. Next to him, Crissel and Baudry fastened their own safe-distance tethers and kicked off from the wall. ‘Please don’t make it any more difficult than it already is.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘We’ve come to announce our decision,’ Crissel said, in a regretful tone of voice. ‘You must stand down for the duration, Jane. Until the present crisis is averted, and the nature of the change in the scarab has become clear to us.’
‘I can still do my job.’
Baudry spoke next. ‘No one’s doubting that,’ she said. ‘Whatever else this is about, it has absolutely nothing to do with your professional competence, now or at any time in the past.’
‘Then what the hell is it about?’ Aumonier snapped back.
‘Your continued well-being,’ Gaffney said. ‘I’m sorry, Jane, but you’re simply too valuable an asset to risk in this way. That may sound mercenary, but that’s just the way it is. Panoply wants to have you around next week, not just today.’
‘I’m managing fine, aren’t I?’
‘Demikhov and the other specialists feel that the scarab’s recent state-changes may have been triggered by alterations in your body’s biochemical equilibrium,’ Crissel said. ‘You could cope when all we had to deal with was the occasional lockdown, but with the possibility of all-out war between the Ultras and the Glitter Band—’
‘I’m coping, damn you.’ She looked Crissel hard in the eyes, doubtless trying to connect with the sympathetic ally she had always been able to count on in the past. ‘Michael, listen to me. The crisis is past its point of maximum severity.’
‘You can’t know that for sure.’
Aumonier nodded firmly. ‘I can. Dreyfus has a firm lead. He’s zeroing in on whoever murdered Ruskin-Sartorious and I expect to hear a name from him any time now. Once we have hard evidence, we’ll broadcast a statement to the entire Band, ordering calm. The Ultras will be exonerated.’
‘If he gives you a name,’ Crissel said.
‘I think Tom can be relied upon, don’t you?’ Then a subtle shift in mood revealed itself on her face. ‘Wait a minute. The fact that Tom isn’t here - the fact that he’s outside on field duty - isn’t in any way accidental, is it? You’ve timed this exquisitely.’
‘Dreyfus’s presence or absence is irrelevant,’ Gaffney said. ‘And so, it must be said, is your compliance. We have a majority vote, Jane. That means you must stand down, irrespective of your wishes. Must and will. You have no further say in the matter.’
‘Take a look around you,’ Jane Aumonier said. ‘A good, long look. This is my world. It’s all I’ve known for eleven years of uninterrupted consciousness. None of you can even begin to imagine what that means.’
‘It means you could use a good rest,’ Gaffney said. Then he raised his arm and spoke into his cuff. ‘Commence shutdown, please.’
One by one, habitat by habitat, the displays blanked out, leaving only the black interior surface of Aumonier’s office sphere. The blackness was soon absolute, with the entry door the only source of illumination in the space.
Jane Aumonier made a small clicking noise, as if she’d touched her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘This is an outrage,’ she said, her voice hardly raised above a whisper.
‘It’s necessary and you’ll thank us for it later,’ Gaffney replied. ‘As of now, your authority is suspended on medical grounds. As we’ve stressed, this action isn’t being taken on disciplinary grounds. You may not like us right now, but you still have our utmost respect and loyalty.’
‘Like hell I do.’
‘Get it out of your system now, Jane. We understand your rage. We’d be surprised if you weren’t angry with us.’
‘You didn’t have to take the habitats away from me.’ She was speaking slowly, with a kind of iron calm. ‘If you wanted to take me out of the command loop, all you had to do was remove my ability to give orders or offer guidance. You didn’t have to take the habitats away from me.’
‘But we did,’ Gaffney said. ‘You’re too much of a professional, Jane. Do you honestly think you’d stop worrying about the crisis just because we took away your authority? Do you honestly think you’d stop fretting, stop obsessing, every time a new piece of data comes in? Do you honestly think your stress levels wouldn’t actually get worse if we let you see but not act? I’m sorry, I know this is hard, but this is the way it has to be.’
‘We’ve discussed the matter with Demikhov,’ Baudry said. ‘He agrees that the present crisis poses an unacceptable risk to your mental well-being. He consented to this action.’
‘You’d have found a way to twist his advice to suit your purpose no matter what he said.’
‘That isn’t fair,’ Crissel said indignantly. ‘And we’re n
ot going to leave you in the dark, so to speak. We can assign other inputs to the sphere. Historical feeds. Fictions. Puzzles. Enough to keep you occupied.’
‘Don’t even think of lecturing me about keeping occupied,’ Aumonier said to him, with genuine menace.
‘We’re just trying to help,’ Baudry said. ‘That’s all we’ve ever wanted to do.’
‘I wish you’d acknowledge the reasonableness of our actions,’ Gaffney said, ‘but your refusal to do so in no way alters what must be done. We’ll leave you now. Your usual medical care regime will of course continue unaffected. You may request any data feed, within reason. Access to the usual habitat-monitoring channels will of course be embargoed . . . and for the time being, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be able to tap into any of the news networks. Contact with Panoply personnel will also have to restricted—’
‘When Tom gets back—’ she began.
‘He’ll bow to our authority,’ Gaffney said.
Dreyfus and the Conjoiner woman exited the sleeping chamber and made their way out of the sinuous labyrinth of her ship. Dreyfus kept looking over his shoulder, wary that some restless and vengeful spirit might be following them from that house of abominations.
‘My trust in you is provisional,’ Clepsydra said, before reminding him that she still had control over the musculature of his suit. ‘If you can help me reach other Conjoiners, and bring help to save the rest, you shall have my gratitude. If I suspect that you are like the other man, the one who wears the same kind of suit, you shall discover the consequences of betraying me.’
Dreyfus decided not to dwell on her threat. He was simply glad to be out of the butcher’s theatre of the dismembered dreamers. ‘Can I call my deputy?’
‘You may, but I am detecting no incoming carrier signal.’
Dreyfus tried. Clepsydra was right. ‘He must still be attempting to contact Panoply for help.’
The Revelation Space Collection Page 397