Elysium Fire

by Alastair Reynolds

  Thalia dried her palms, walked into the pre-boarding area and reported to the dock attendant, a man named Thyssen.

  “Field Prefect Ng,” she said crisply, without a smile. “Requisitioning Medium Enforcement Vehicle Seventeen for immediate deployment. I take it my ship’s fuelled and armed?”

  “Gone up in the world, I see,” Thyssen said, his world-weary features conveying neither surprise nor interest in her recent promotion. “Your proficiency level just about clears you for the MEV. Don’t mistake that for an expert rating.”

  “I wasn’t about to.”

  “Your ride is ready for departure, Ng. See if you can bring it back without a dent.”

  “Deputy Field Prefect Bancal should be here shortly,” she said. “Send him aboard when he arrives.”

  “No need, Ng. Bancal’s already aboard.”

  Thalia maintained her composure as she made her way along the pressurised docking tube into the waiting ship and forward to the flight deck. Sparver, as she had been forewarned, was already seated in the right-hand pilot’s position, an arc of controls sweeping before him, displays and inputs already active.

  She regarded him for a few moments, hoping not to sour their new working relationship before it had started.

  “You’re keen,” she said neutrally.

  “I felt I could use some familiarisation time. I’m rated for MEVs, but it’s at least a year since I’ve been in one.”

  “I also have the necessary rating.”

  Sparver twisted around to meet her eyes. “Yes, and who’s your deputy now?”

  “You are,” she answered, with the nagging sense that she was being led into a verbal trap.

  “That’s correct. And when Dreyfus had his hands on one of these, who did he generally ask to do the actual flying?”

  “His deputy.”

  “Which tended to be me. I assumed you’d accept the same arrangement, Thal. Operating one of these is mostly automatic, but you do have to keep an eye on things.”

  “And I couldn’t?” She was trying not to be baited, certain Sparver meant no ill by it, that he had genuinely been thinking of the arrangement that made the best use of her talents. But she had to draw a line now or accept a slow, benign erosion of her status. “I’m flying, Sparver.”

  Sparver gave a very humanlike shrug. “Of course. Absolutely not an issue. I just thought—”

  “We’d do things Dreyfus’s way, yes. And that’s fine, most of the time.” She eased into the left-hand pilot’s position, reaching out to assign the controls to her side, watching as some of the tactile interfaces reshaped themselves from hyperpig to human configuration. “But at the moment, until I say otherwise, we’re doing things the Ng way.”

  “That’s good,” Sparver said. “I like the Ng way.”

  Vanessa Laur looked up from her work as Dreyfus approached.

  “If you’ve come to complain,” she said, barely bothering to meet his eyes, “your words will fall on exactly the same deaf ears as last time. And the time before. We operate these Search Turbines for the greater benefit of Panoply, not for your personal convenience. Your queries are scheduled into the task queue just like everyone else’s …”

  “I haven’t come to complain, Vanessa.”

  Dreyfus eased into the vacant chair next to Laur. She sat at a hooded console, next to a slanted floor-to-ceiling window looking out over the Turbine Hall where the towering data-retrieval machines spun in their glass tubes. A handful of technicians were down in the hall, carrying compads and moving between the tree-sized tubes with expressions of almost monkish servitude. It was as if the tending of the fearsome Turbines was the last and most sacred calling of their lives.

  “That’s a development. Are you feeling well, Dreyfus?” She reached out and placed a hand on his brow. “Not feverish, not been working too hard lately?”

  He pushed her hand away gently. Internal Prefect Laur had assumed her position as head of Archives shortly after the death of her predecessor, Nestor Trajanova. As far as Dreyfus was aware Laur had never had any contact with Trajanova prior to this assignment, since she had been working in an entirely different section of Panoply, under a separate chain of command. But by some curious osmosis Laur appeared to have gained all of Trajanova’s working habits, including a general disdain for anyone who demanded her services without ample justification, and a personal animus reserved specifically for Dreyfus himself, perhaps because he was often in the habit of making vague or poorly constrained information retrieval requests. Dreyfus was forced to tolerate these quirks because Laur had also inherited Trajanova’s supreme attention to detail, as well as a deep understanding of the Search Turbine architecture.

  “I want you to run the query again,” he said patiently. “I could push it through myself, but we both know that you’re much better at formulating this sort of thing than I am.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice, with the demands you make on us.”

  “Each of us has our part to play, Vanessa,” he said soothingly. “You’re right that the Turbines need to be used fairly and efficiently. That’s why I’d rather not clog them up with poorly formed search parameters.”

  Something pinched in her face. “And in what way is running this query going to benefit any of us, when it’s come up blank on every previous occasion?”

  “There are more dead now. Somewhere in that mass of new information may be the common factor we missed before.”

  “There isn’t one. We’ve been over it.”

  “It’s not a cut-and-dried link I’m after, just a common predisposition. A propensity, you might call it.”

  “The one that Ng brought back—case fifty-four—he didn’t fit your theory very well, did he?”

  “There’ll always be outliers, or types of risk we don’t recognise at face value. That’s why I’d like you to expand the terms of reference this time. I know it’ll be costly in terms of search time, which is why I’m not asking lightly.”

  “Demanding lightly, you mean.”

  His smile grew strained. It was an old, slightly tedious game but they both understood the rules by now. “Go beyond the obvious this time, Vanessa. I’m interested in an addiction to risk in all its facets, from dangerous sports to serial infidelity to reckless speculation on the stock markets. Can you do that for me?”

  She sneered away his question. “Just for once you might bring me an actual challenge.”

  Dreyfus allowed himself a smile. “You know, there are days when I almost miss Nestor Trajanova. Almost. Do they put something in your coffee, down in Archives?”

  Laur grunted something in reply. Blanking him, she turned her full attention to the console. Her nails hammered on keys, shaping the symbolic chains that would direct the Turbines. Dreyfus turned his eyes to the hall, where the technicians still moved. Beneath his feet, the floor thrummed with the powerful threshing of machines.

  Aumonier was in the tactical room when the next death happened. It was mid-morning by Panoply time, and they were working through the normal caseload, things unconnected with Wildfire or Devon Garlin. Small-scale polling irregularities, scheduled core upgrades, lockdown reviews, matters of internal discipline and promotion, training and recruitment, material procurement. This was the common grind of Aumonier’s work, and she found none of it boring. Eleven years under the scarab had seen to that. She had crushed the very concept of boredom, eradicated it from the range of mental states she was capable of experiencing.

  It was the Clockmaker’s one gift to her.

  A young female analyst was just going over the numbers for new whiphound orders when a chime sounded from the table before her.

  “Incoming call request from Chasm City,” the analyst said. “It’s Hestia Del Mar, Supreme Prefect.”

  “I thought I told her to call back next week.”

  “You did, ma’am,” the analyst said, hesitating. “And it’s next week.”

  Aumonier sighed. “Put her on.”

  The analyst c
losed any tactically sensitive displays on the walls and table, while the Solid Orrery defaulted to its baseline configuration. Hestia Del Mar’s face appeared on the wall opposite Aumonier, requiring the prefects and analysts on the other side of the table to swivel around in their high-backed chairs.

  “Detective-Marshal Del Mar,” Aumonier said, politely enough but without much warmth. “How good of you to remember our arrangement.”

  “I’m just glad I caught you, Supreme Prefect. For some reason I’ve been unlucky in the past, always managing to call when you’re otherwise engaged.”

  Aumonier smiled with excessive sweetness. “Work presses on us both, I’m sure. How may I finally be of help?”

  “I thought the terms of my request were already clear, Supreme Prefect. I wish to discuss intelligence-sharing between our two agencies.”

  Hestia Del Mar was a curly-haired, broad-faced woman with a humourless demeanour and a severe attachment to her work. It had taken Aumonier a little while to pin down why she found her so intensely irritating.

  They were alike.

  “We have perfectly workable arrangements already in place, Detective-Marshal. The formal channels have served us well enough in the past, haven’t they?”

  “As I don’t need to remind you, Supreme Prefect, these are different times. Nervous times, I don’t mind saying.”

  “Oh dear. Is there trouble in Chasm City?”

  “There’s trouble everywhere, as I don’t doubt you’re aware. The breakaway movement. Citizen unrest. Heightened tension between the orbital communities and the Ultras. Doubts over the efficacy of Panoply’s security provision.”

  “Our worries, not yours, I’d say?”

  “Instability in the Glitter Band affects all of us, Supreme Prefect. Our trading arrangements go back a century and a half. Can you imagine how concerned we are, with the orbital community threatening to tear itself apart? Yellowstone’s economy may be robust, but we’re not immune to jitters.”

  “If it’s just jitters, I’d say we have nothing to fear.”

  “Perhaps not now, but who can say what lies ahead? The formal channels are too slow, Supreme Prefect. Our agencies must be able to share intelligence just as speedily as the physical movement of individuals—if not faster.”

  Aumonier’s face tightened. “If and when we have need of that sort of intelligence-sharing, Detective-Marshal, I’m sure our respective organisations will rise to the challenge. Unless there’s some particular difficulty that I can help you with immediately?”

  “I’d hate to put you to any trouble, Supreme Prefect, knowing how busy you are.”

  “No trouble at all, Detective-Marshal. How may I be of assistance? Is it about the tax irregularity business you wanted me to look into, the orbital holdings you were concerned about?”

  “No, I’ve given up on that. Perhaps in a year or five, when you aren’t so preoccupied, you might be able to spare someone to check on the status of those rocks. But that isn’t my highest priority right now.”

  Aumonier pushed aside the twinge of guilt that she was undoubtedly meant to feel.

  “So what would be, Detective-Marshal?”

  “We’ve lost track of three persons of interest. Three fugitives, connected to a known criminal syndicate. Insurance fraud, insider trading—that sort of thing. They may have used false identities to leave Chasm City.”

  Aumonier deployed a sympathetic look. “How unfortunate for you.”

  “It would be useful to us if we could pinpoint their movements and activities while they were off-world. It might give us a lead on their present whereabouts.”

  “I must remind you that we don’t retain exhaustive records of all citizen movements, Detective-Marshal,” Aumonier said regretfully. “Under the Common Articles, such information must be discarded after ten years, unless a citizen quorum deems it pertinent to an ongoing enquiry.”

  “You’re a police officer, Supreme Prefect. We might wear different uniforms and operate under different codes, but at heart we’re both upholders of the law.”

  “Your point being?”

  “You and I both know you wouldn’t discard that information without a fight. Panoply has its private archives, doesn’t it? Those Search Turbines of yours. Don’t tell me you don’t keep a backup record of citizen movements, just in case it relates to a breaking case.”

  “I am obligated to the Common Articles, Detective-Marshal. Please don’t suggest I’d take those obligations lightly. We are the servants of democracy, not its masters.”

  “Eloquent words, Supreme Prefect. But you can do me this one favour. See what you have on my fugitives. Any movements, any priors. Their names are as follows—”

  There was another chime from the table. The tone was distinctly different this time, though. Aumonier held her composure, even as the atmosphere in the room shifted. As Lillian Baudry looked down at the status update, her face clouded at the arrival of sudden and unwelcome news. Aumonier wondered if Hestia Del Mar noticed the change.

  “You must forgive me, Detective-Marshal. A matter of some urgency has just come up.”

  “I’ve waited a whole week, Supreme Prefect. Can you not spare me even a couple of minutes of your precious time?”

  “Not personally, Detective-Marshal. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps if you submitted your query through the usual channels?”

  “The usual channels have got me precisely nowhere, Supreme Prefect. My requests are very politely logged, and then very politely ignored. That’s why I’ve tried to go all the way to the top. For all the good it’s done me.”

  Baudry grimaced, her eyes conveying various shades of bad news.

  “You have my apologies, Detective-Marshal. It’s just—”

  “I know, there’s always an ‘it’s just …’ with you people. One day the tables will turn, you realise, and you’ll be the one banging your head against bureaucratic walls.”

  Aumonier turned to the young female analyst. “Jirmal. I’m going to hand this call over to you now. Speak to Detective-Marshal Del Mar and make a note of her requests. Use your discretionary authority to assign resources as appropriate, with a note that you have my backing.” She returned her attention to her opposite number in Chasm City, offering a smile and hoping it might be reciprocated. “Jirmal will do all she can, within reason, Detective-Marshal. You can’t ask for more than that.”

  “I still have the feeling I’m being fobbed off, Supreme Prefect,” Hestia Del Mar said, resolutely maintaining her stony expression. “Still, it’s marginally better than the blank indifference I’ve received so far. I suppose I should count my blessings.”

  “We are all trying to do our best,” Aumonier said.

  “We are. It’s just that some of us are doing a better job of it than others.” The face on the wall vanished as Jirmal continued the conversation on her compad, using earphones to keep the conversation low. Glass privacy baffles rose out of the table, framing Jirmal from either side so there was no chance of the Detective-Marshal picking up any part of the ordinary discussion going on in the tactical room.

  After a moment Aumonier swivelled her seat, facing the Solid Orrery at the end of the room, and gave a nod to Lillian Baudry.

  “Let me guess.”

  “Threshold triggers picked up another Wildfire event,” Baudry said. “Picture’s still firming up, but it looks clear-cut to me.”

  The Solid Orrery returned to its prior condition, showing both the breakaway habitats and the fifty-four locations where the Wildfire had struck, the relevant habitats elevated above the Glitter Band on fine glowing threads.

  But now a fifty-fifth habitat was rising, oozing upwards, swelling from a pinprick as quickmatter organised itself into a physical representation of the structure. It was a wheel, a cog-shaped world with a hub, spokes and a torus of habitable space wrapped around its rim. Aumonier did not immediately recognise it. Her knowledge of the habitats was exemplary, but there were several hundred that fitted this basic config
uration, and dozens in approximately the right orbit.

  “What is that place?” she asked.

  “Carousel Addison-Lovelace,” said Baudry, heavy-lidded eyes scanning a readout. “Current status … unoccupied.”

  “Someone’s died there,” Aumonier said. “That doesn’t fit my definition of unoccupied.”

  “Just a moment.” Baudry was speed-reading. “Addison-Lovelace was mothballed twenty years ago, just after the recession of oh-nine. Seems an eco-collapse took hold and they didn’t have the capital reserves to fix the problems. The habitat was declared bankrupt, then sold off to asset-strippers. All citizens relocated—only a few thousand—and then the whole place depressurised and cleared for redevelopment.”

  “A few thousand isn’t many for a place that large,” Aumonier mused, feeling she must be missing something. “All right—what do we know about the death?”

  “It started about twenty-three minutes ago,” Baudry said. “Triggers flagged a spike in medical queries from the vicinity of Addison-Lovelace.”

  Aumonier frowned slightly. “The vicinity, not the place itself?”

  “Construction and reclamation workers, Jane—floating in free space near the wheel, or working on its outside. Something happening to one of the workers—some kind of fit or seizure.”

  “Why am I only hearing about it now?”

  “It was still ambiguous. It took the other workers some time to get their colleague back into a pressurised shack, which is when the character of the queries shifted and began to strongly correlate with a Wildfire event. Three minutes ago the triggers exceeded the detection threshold.” Baudry drew breath. “The deceased citizen appears to be one Terzet Friller, no known priors …”

  As the Senior Prefect spoke, a biographical snapshot began to assemble on the wall. A face, a name, the bare bones of a life. Just another citizen of the Glitter Band, one among a hundred million, some poor soul who until this moment had never been of the slightest interest to either Panoply or Jane Aumonier.