The Revelation Space Collection

by Alastair Reynolds

  The man looked helpless. ‘I don’t have a record of that.’

  ‘She has one of your ships,’ Dreyfus snapped. ‘I’d say it was your duty to keep adequate tabs on her, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Prefect.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ Dreyfus growled. ‘Just do your job.’ He grabbed a handhold and pulled himself towards the exit.

  ‘If you think you’re having a shitty day,’ Sparver told Thyssen, ‘you should try ours on for size.’

  The two prefects and their Conjoiner guest cleared the dock and transitioned through to one of the standard-gravity wheels. They detoured to the medical section and left Clepsydra in the care of one of the doctors, an impish man named Mercier whom Dreyfus trusted not to ask awkward questions. Mercier affected the appearance and manners of a bookish scholar of the natural sciences from some remote candlelit century. He dressed impeccably, with a white shirt and cravat, his eyes forever hidden behind green-tinted half-moon spectacles, and chose to surround himself with facsimiles of varnished wooden furniture, conjured museum-piece medical tools and gruesome illustrative devices. He had a perplexing attachment to paperwork, to the extent that he made many of his reports in inked handwriting, using a curious black stylus that he referred to as a ‘fountain pen’. Yet for all his eccentricities, he was no less competent than Dr Demikhov, his counterpart in the adjoining Sleep Lab.

  ‘This is my witness,’ Dreyfus explained. ‘She’s to be examined humanely, treated for malnutrition and dehydration and then left well alone. I’ll return in a few hours.’

  Clepsydra cocked her crested bald egg of a head and narrowed her eyes. ‘Am I now to consider myself a prisoner again?’

  ‘No. Just a guest, under my protection. When the crisis is over, I’ll do all in my power to get you back to your people.’

  ‘I could call my people myself if you give me access to a medium-strength transmitter.’

  ‘Part of me would like nothing better. But someone was prepared to kill to keep you a secret. They succeeded in killing your compatriots. That means they’ll be more than prepared to kill again if they know you’re here.’

  ‘Then I should leave. Immediately.’

  ‘You’ll be safe here.’

  ‘I think I can trust you,’ Clepsydra said, her attention on Dreyfus, as if no one else was in the room. ‘But understand one thing: it is a significant thing for a Conjoiner to trust a baseline human being. People like you did terrible things to people like me, once. Many of them would do the same things again if the chance arose. Please do not give me cause to regret this.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Dreyfus said.

  Dusk was falling in the long shaft of House Aubusson. The mirror-directed sunlight pouring through the window bands was being slowly dimmed as the bands lost their transparency. Soon the habitat would be dark even when its orbit brought it around to Yellowstone’s dayside.

  From the curved viewing gallery of the polling core, more than five hundred metres above the ground, Thalia watched the shadows encroach like an army of stalking cats. She could still make out the pale-grey trajectory of the pathway they had tried to follow out of the formal gardens, towards the objective of the endcap wall. But the grey was darkening, losing definition as darkness won. Soon even the concentric black hoops of the window bands would be indistinguishable from the surrounding terrain. She would be able to make out neither the path nor the endcap. The attempted crossing, which had seemed achievable only hours earlier, now struck her as hopelessly misguided. It would have been ill-conceived if all they had to contend with was enraged and panicked citizenry looking for someone to mob. But now Thalia knew that the darkening landscape was in all likelihood crawling with dangerous machines, serving an agenda that definitely did not involve the preservation of human life.

  But, she thought, seeking composure before she turned around, the citizens in her care must not see how frightened she was. She had come into their world bearing the authority of Panoply and that was the role she was obliged to continue playing. She had failed them once; twice if she included the mistake with the polling core that had created this mess in the first place. She could not let them down again.

  ‘So what’s the next step in your plan?’ Caillebot asked, with a sarcastic lilt that Thalia couldn’t help but detect.

  ‘The next step is we stay put,’ she said.

  ‘Up here?’

  ‘We’re safe here,’ she said, mentally deleting the ‘for now’ that she had been about to add. ‘This is as good a place to wait as anywhere we could have picked in the habitat.’

  ‘Wait for what, exactly?’ Caillebot asked.

  She’d been expecting the gardener to start needling her as soon as they were inside the core. ‘For Panoply, Citizen. They’re on their way. There’ll be a deep-system cruiser docked with us before you can blink.’

  ‘It’ll take more than a few prefects to deal with those machines.’

  Thalia touched the buzzing remains of her whiphound. It was uncomfortably hot against her thigh, like a metal bar cooling down from a furnace. ‘They’ll have the tools for the job, don’t you worry about that. All we have to do is hold out until they get here. That’s our part of the equation.’

  ‘“Hold out”,’ repeated Paula Thory mockingly. The plump woman was sitting on one of the inert-matter benches encircling the pearl-grey pillar of the polling core. ‘You make it sound so easy, like waiting for a train.’

  Thalia walked over to the woman and knelt down to bring them face to face. ‘I’m not asking you to run a mile. We’re perfectly safe up here.’

  ‘Those barricades won’t hold for ever.’

  ‘They don’t have to.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that reassuring.’

  Thalia fought to keep herself from snapping at the woman, or worse. Paula Thory had only joined the chain gang grudgingly, when she realised that she would be the only one refusing to assist in the work effort. It had been difficult and exhausting, but between them they must have shoved at least three tonnes of junk down the elevator shaft, and at least as much again down the winding spiral of the staircase. They’d created a barricade out of ancient dead servitors and decrepit computers and interface devices, many of which must have come to the Yellowstone system from Earth and were probably several hundred years old at the very least. There’d even been something huge and metal, a kind of open iron chassis crammed with cogs and ratchets. It had made a most impressive racket as it tumbled down the stairs.

  Thalia had called for a rest period, but three citizens - Parnasse, Redon and Cuthbertson - were still shovelling junk down the lift shaft and stairs. Every now and then Thalia would hear a muffled crump as the material hit the bottom of the shaft, or a more drawn-out avalanche of sound as something tumbled down the stairs.

  ‘It doesn’t have to hold for ever because we’re not staying up here for ever,’ she said. ‘Help will arrive before the machines get through the barricades. And even if it doesn’t, we’re working on a contingency plan.’

  Thory looked falsely interested. ‘Which would be?’

  ‘You’ll hear about it when all the pieces are in place. Until then all you have to do is sit tight and help with the barricades when you feel willing and able.’

  If Paula Thory took that as a barb, she showed no evidence of it. ‘I think you’re keeping something from us, Prefect - the fact that you haven’t got a clue how we’re going to get out of this mess.’

  ‘You’re perfectly welcome to leave, in that case,’ Thalia said, with exaggerated niceness.

  ‘Look!’ Jules Caillebot called suddenly from his vantage point by the window.

  Thalia stood up, grateful for any excuse not to have to deal with Thory.

  ‘What is it, Citizen?’ she said as she strolled over.

  ‘Big machines are moving in.’

  Thalia looked out over the darkening panorama. Though it was becoming increasingly difficult to make out distinct objects anywhere in the habitat - night
fall had come with dismaying speed - the machines Caillebot spoke of were at least partially illuminated. As large as houses, they were moving in several slow processions through the civic grounds around the Museum of Cybernetics. They advanced on crawler tracks and huge lumbering wheels, crushing their way across walkways and through tree lines.

  ‘What are they?’ Thalia asked.

  ‘Heavy construction servitors, I think,’ Caillebot said. ‘There’s been a lot of building work going on lately, especially around the new marina at Radiant Point.’

  Thalia wondered what kind of damage those machines could do to the stalk supporting the polling core. Although she had not voiced her thoughts to the others, she had convinced herself that the machines would not do anything that might damage the core itself. Abstraction might be down for the citizens, but as far as she could tell, the machines were still being coordinated via low-level data transmissions that were dependent on the core. But that was just her theory, not something she was in any mood to see put to the test.

  ‘They’re carrying stuff,’ Caillebot reported. ‘Look at the hopper on the back of that one.’

  Thalia struggled to make out detail. She remembered her glasses and slipped them on, keying in both magnification and intensity-amplification. The view wobbled, then stabilised. She tracked along the procession until she identified the machine Caillebot had indicated. It was a huge wheeled servitor, thirty or forty metres long, with scoops at either end feeding the trapezium-shaped hopper it carried on its back. The hopper was piled high with debris: rubble, dirt, torn sheets of composite mesh, chunks of machined metal of unfathomable origin. Thalia moved her viewpoint along the procession and saw that there was at least one other servitor hauling a similar load.

  ‘You say those machines were working at the marina?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘If they’re being tasked to work elsewhere, why would they be carrying all that junk?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Me neither. Maybe it’s just debris left over from the work on the marina, and they just haven’t been sent a specific command to unload it before moving elsewhere.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Caillebot doubtfully, ‘but the marina wasn’t built on the remains of an older community. They’d have needed to landscape soil, but I can’t imagine there’d have been much in the way of actual debris to clear.’

  Thalia snapped her focus to the head of the column. ‘The procession’s stopping,’ she said. The machines had reached the base of one of the stalks that formed the ring surrounding the Museum of Cybernetics, close to the point where Thalia’s party had emerged from the underground train station. ‘I don’t like this, Citizen Caillebot,’ she said, temporarily forgetting her promise to Cyrus Parnasse that she would look and act at all times as if she was confident both in her abilities and of shepherding the citizens to safety.

  She’d lied when she said an escape plan was being hatched. In truth, they had progressed no further than working out their options for barricading the machines. Parnasse had tried to put an optimistic face on it, but they both knew those barricades wouldn’t hold for ever against determined brute force.

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ the landscape gardener said.

  The procession broke up, with various machines moving slowly into position around the base of the stalk. Thalia had the eerie impression that she was watching some kind of abstract ballet. It all happened silently, for the windows of the polling sphere were both airtight and thoroughly soundproofed. The debris-carriers were standing back from the stalk, while what were clearly specialised demolition and earthmoving servitors brought their brutal-looking tools into play. The machines commenced their labours almost immediately. Shovels and claws began to dig into the flared base of the stalk, chipping away boulder-sized scabs of pale cladding. At the same time, a little further around the curve of the stalk, Thalia saw the sun-bright strobe of a high-energy cutting tool.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ she said, as much for her own benefit as Caillebot’s. ‘They’re attacking the wrong stalk. They know we’re not at the top of that one.’

  ‘Maybe attacking it isn’t the idea.’

  She nodded. Caillebot had been on her case after the upgrade had failed, but now his tone of voice and body language suggested he was prepared to bury the hatchet, at least for now. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. Then she tracked her glasses onto one of the other processions, at least a kilometre away, tilted gently towards her on the footslopes of the habitat’s curving wall. ‘Those machines are dismantling something as well. Can’t tell what it is.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’ Caillebot asked.

  She passed him the glasses. He pressed them cautiously to his eyes. Prefects weren’t meant to share equipment like that, but she supposed if there was ever a time when the rules were meant to be bent, this was it.

  ‘That’s the open-air amphitheatre at Praxis Junction,’ the gardener said. ‘They’re tearing into that as well.’

  ‘Then it isn’t just us. Something’s going on here, Citizen Caillebot.’

  He returned her glasses. ‘You notice anything about those lines of machines?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘They’re all moving in more or less the same direction. Maybe they didn’t come from the marina after all, but they’ve still come from the direction of the docking endcap, where you came in. It looks to me as if they’ve been working their way along the habitat, stopping to demolish anything that takes their fancy.’

  ‘How would machines cross the window panels?’

  ‘There’re roads and bridges for that kind of thing. Even if there weren’t, the glass could easily take the weight of one of those machines, even fully loaded. The panels wouldn’t have been an obstacle to them.’

  ‘Okay, then. If they’re headed away from the docking endcap, where are they likely to end up?’

  ‘After they’ve swept through the whole habitat? Only one place to go - the trailing endcap. No major docking facilities there, so it’s a dead end.’

  ‘But they can’t be carrying all that stuff for nothing. They must be gathering it for a reason.’

  ‘Well, there’s the manufactory complex, of course,’ he said offhandedly. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense either.’

  Thalia experienced a premonitory chill. ‘Tell me about the manufactory complex, Citizen Caillebot.’

  ‘It’s practically dead, like I already told you. Hasn’t run at normal capacity for years. Decades. Longer than I can remember.’

  Thalia nodded patiently. ‘But it’s still there. It hasn’t been removed, gutted, replaced or whatever?’

  ‘You think they’re going to crank it up again. Start making stuff on a big scale, feeding it with the junk the machines are collecting.’

  ‘It’s just an idea, Citizen Caillebot.’

  ‘Ships?’ he asked.

  ‘Not necessarily. If you can make single-molecule hulls, there’s nothing you can’t make.’ As an afterthought, she added: ‘Provided you have the construction blueprint, of course. The manufactory won’t be able to make anything unless it’s given the right instructions.’

  ‘You sound relieved.’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t be. It’s just that I was thinking of all the unpleasant things you could make with a manufactory if you had the right blueprints. But the point is the only blueprints in the public domain are for things you can’t hurt anyone with.’

  ‘You sound pretty sure of that.’

  ‘Try locating the construction blueprint for a space-to-space weapon, Citizen Caillebot, or an attack ship, or a military servitor. See how far you get before a prefect comes knocking.’

  ‘Panoply keeps tabs on that kind of thing?’

  ‘We don’t just keep tabs. We make sure that data isn’t out there. On the rare occasions when someone needs to make something nasty, they come to us for permission. We retrieve and unlock the files from our archives. We issue them and make damned s
ure they’re deleted afterwards.’

  ‘Then you’re certain nothing nasty can come out of that manufactory?’

  ‘Not without Panoply’s help,’ Thalia said bluntly.

  Caillebot responded with a knowing nod. ‘A day ago, Prefect, I’d have found that statement almost entirely reassuring.’

  Thalia turned back to the window, ruminating on what the gardener had just said. The machines were working with the manic industry of insects. They had chewed deep into the lowest part of the stalk, exposing the geodesic struts that formed the structure’s scaffolding. Judging by the rubble and remains being shovelled into a waiting hopper, the cutting tools were making short work of that as well.

  ‘It’s not going to last long,’ Thalia said. Then she turned around and looked at the polling core, hoping that she was right about the machines needing to keep it intact, and therefore being unable to launch an all-out attack on the stalk supporting the sphere in which they were sheltering.

  She’d been wrong about several things already today.

  She hoped this wasn’t another.

  Dreyfus knew something was amiss as soon as he approached the passwall into Jane Aumonier’s sphere and saw the two internal prefects waiting on either side of it, whiphounds drawn, tethered by quick-release lines that ran from their belts to eyelets in the doorframe. The passwall itself was set to obstruct.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Dreyfus asked mildly. He’d occasionally been barred from talking to Aumonier when she was engaged in some activity that exceeded his Pangolin clearance. But it had never required the presence of security guards, and Aumonier had generally given him fair warning.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the younger of the two guards, ‘but no one’s allowed to speak to Prefect Aumonier at the moment.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’

  ‘Not without authorisation from the supreme prefect, sir.’

  Dreyfus looked at the kid as if he was being asked to answer a deceptively simple riddle. ‘She is the supreme prefect.’