Elysium Fire

by Alastair Reynolds

  “You gave in too easily. I know you better than that. What do you know?”

  Caleb was silent for a few seconds. He studied Julius, some private calculation whirring behind his eyes. Then he allowed himself a smile. “She thinks she’s pretty smart, our mother. Maybe she is, by the usual standards. Smarter than Father, in some ways. She got us both with that blockade. But she doesn’t know our heads half as well as we do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Julius asked, with a dark suspicion that he already knew.

  “I found a workaround,” Caleb said breezily. “A way to make her think the blockade’s still in place, even when it isn’t. I did it, just standing in that room. It was that easy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Caleb shrugged. “But you’ll believe this, won’t you?” He held up the malleable staff, making it transform back into the crossbow, just as elegantly conceived as it had ever been. “I shouldn’t have been able to do it, not that quickly, and not that easily. And do you know what I’m going to do next?” He didn’t wait for Julius to answer. “I’m going to unblock you as well. No fun in being the only one, is there?”

  Julius did not have time to react. He felt Caleb push a shaping signal into his head, jabbing in as cold and precise as an ice-pick. It unlocked something that he did not even know had been locked. Experimentally, Julius formed a conjuring command and applied it to the staff. It shifted into his desired form: a model of a spacecraft, one he had been practising in quiet moments.

  “It won’t make any difference,” Julius said. “She’s limited our powers for a reason. If you go around showing them off, she’ll realise you’ve broken the blockade.”

  “Oh, I know,” Caleb said, as if the point were trivial. “And she’d find out eventually whatever happened, I’m sure. This workaround isn’t watertight, either. If she took sufficient trouble over it, I’m worried she could lock us out for ever.” He smiled, all reasonableness. “We can’t let her do that, can we?”

  Skin hairs prickled on the back of Julius’s neck. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s may be time to make sure she never gets the chance to stop us.”

  “No. You won’t hurt her.”

  Caleb’s smile turned to a smirk. “Would you stop me if I tried? Do you really think you’ve got it in you?” Then he shook his head, reaching out to place a hand on Julius. “It’s all right, brother. I wouldn’t dream of hurting her.”

  Jane Aumonier had long ago learned to recognise and trust that first tingling intimation of disquiet. It was a faculty that had served her well over the years, although there had never once been a time when she welcomed its calling.

  It only ever meant bad news.

  “There’s an error,” she said, as if voicing that assertion might somehow bend reality to better suit her wishes. “There must be. There’s no other explanation. Either she wasn’t in the Faraday cage or the cage hasn’t worked properly.”

  She had taken the fact of the first new Wildfire case with regret and anger but also a certain bruised equanimity, knowing it had always been a question of where and when, rather than if. There was nothing she could do about that now, other than honour the death of that hapless individual by making sure that not a breath was spared saving those still alive.

  But now this. A second Wildfire case, within thirty minutes of the first. Statistically improbable, even given the steepening curve. And all but impossible, given the fact that the citizen in question had already been secured and protected.

  Let this be an outlier, she told herself.

  “Ma’am,” said an analyst holding a compad, barely raising her voice above a timid whisper. “We’ve got …”

  “An explanation, already?” Aumonier snapped, before the woman had a chance to finish her sentence.

  “No, ma’am.” The analyst had to swallow before continuing. “It’s Prefect Dreyfus. He’s asking to be put through to you. Under the emergency footing we’re filtering direct communications through to tactical.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Still in Chasm City, ma’am, but back in contact. He says it’s urgent.”

  “So urgent it couldn’t wait until this exact moment?” Aumonier asked, not in any expectation of an answer.

  The analyst made a valiant show of pretending not to hear this unwarranted and uncharacteristic outburst. “Ma’am?”

  “Put him on.”

  Aumonier took the call via earpiece, preferring not to disturb the discussions playing out around her. She waited a second for the connection to finalise, and for his voice to buzz through.

  “Jane?”

  “Who else? I see you’ve decided thirteen hours was more than enough time to be out of the kitchen.”

  His voice was scratchy, faint against a background of vehicle noise and rushing air. “I’m on my way back. Is there any more news on Thalia? I’ve been fearing the worst ever since we spoke.”

  Aumonier bit down on her irritation. She could not begrudge Dreyfus his concern for his immediate colleagues, but his priorities struck her as a little misplaced.

  “I told you she was in good hands, didn’t I?”

  “I thought …” She had the sense that he was censoring himself. “I believed it was serious.”

  “It is serious. I never pretended otherwise. But no one’s in better hands, and she seems to be out of the worst of it. She’s responsive, answering questions lucidly—a little foggy about what happened, but nothing that we wouldn’t expect. In fact Demikhov’s having a hard time keeping her in bed. She keeps trying to get back to her duties.”

  “That sounds like Thalia.”

  “You can take the blame—you instilled it in her.” She frowned, wondering what it was she had heard in his answer. “Are you all right, Tom? You sound … less relieved than I’d have expected.”

  “I am relieved,” he said. “Totally. I just wish she’d listen to Doctor Demikhov.”

  “I’ll pass on your instructions.”

  “And my best wishes, too. Tell her … well, tell her I’m very glad she’s all right, and this is no longer her fight.”

  “I will, and—” Aumonier broke off, because another analyst had just shoved a compad under her nose. It was scrolling with what she instantly knew to be confirmation of her worst fears. “Tom, I have to tell you that we’re in the middle of something very concerning—as if things weren’t already bad enough. How much did the analyst tell you?”

  “Nothing. I just asked to be put straight through.”

  “Then I’ll give you the bare facts for now. While you were out of contact we recovered the complete patient list for the clinic.”

  “That’s good.”

  “So we hoped. And we’ve been acting on it ever since, mobilising all available resources to gather up and safeguard the remaining citizens. Our plan was straightforward, if ambitious. Get those citizens into complete isolation, then schedule them for surgery. It’s not perfect—it’ll take time, and given the pattern of Wildfire deaths to date, some are bound to die before we get to them. But we’re now seeing the one thing I wasn’t counting on. We’ve had two confirmed instances of Wildfire after the citizens were already supposed to be safe … the second one just came in.”

  Dreyfus took a few seconds to answer. “Perhaps there’s a latency. The triggering signal arrives, but Wildfire doesn’t happen immediately. That might explain why they’re still dying, even after you get them into isolation.”

  She nodded, desperate to cling to such a hope, but knowing in her bones that it could not be the whole answer. “Yes, that’s feasible. But there’s something else, too. The curve is still steepening. We might have expected two, possibly three instances across the first twenty-six hours of our operation. But we lost one before anyone made contact, and two after they were already in our protection. Our supposed protection. That’s three deaths in barely an hour.”

  “Are you still holding Garlin?”

  “Yes … no reason to l
et him go. Even less now. But he’s under the same isolation as the citizens. Maybe you’re right about that latency idea …”

  “I’ll be back at Panoply in a few hours. I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Of course. We’ll keep working him. I’m moved to go to trawl sooner rather than later. Would you have any objections if I didn’t wait until you were back?”

  “Do what you think is right. I’ll back you all the way. Can you spare me an asset or two, though?”

  “Depends what sort you had in mind. We’re not exactly sitting on our hands here.”

  “Pull a corvette, or better still an HEV. Put a good squad on it, and give them a full armaments dispensation. There’s an object we need to look at.”

  “An object,” she repeated.

  “A lump of rock, in the Glitter Band. An abandoned former asset of the Voi family, called Lethe. I’ve checked. There’s no other asteroid or habitat with that name.”

  “And the significance of this place—the reason you want me to divert valuable resources away from a rescue operation that’s already straining at the seams?”

  “I can’t be sure. Not just yet. I just feel it would be useful to take a closer look at Lethe.”

  “Because of something you learned in the Shell House?”

  “Yes,” Dreyfus answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m returning with a material witness, too. And Detective-Marshal Del Mar will be accompanying me.”

  She steeled her jaw, thought of a hundred instantly regrettable things she might say, but with great force of will found the strength for a decorous reply.

  “Then … inform the Detective-Marshal that she will be made more than welcome in Panoply. You’ll come here directly?”

  “Yes. In the meantime, proceed with the trawl. But try and leave Garlin in a state where he can mumble a few answers. I’d still like a word or two.”

  “Don’t worry,” Aumonier said. “I’d never deprive you of that satisfaction.”

  Thalia knocked, waiting for someone to let her into the tactical room from within. After an interval Robert Tang opened the doors, staring at her wordlessly before swivelling on his neat polished heels to call out to the Supreme Prefect.

  “It’s Thalia Ng, ma’am. Should I let her in?”

  Aumonier was standing next to the Solid Orrery, her hand on her chin, debating something with Baudry and Clearmountain. “Is there any reason you wouldn’t, Robert?”

  “I wasn’t sure if she was still running Pangolin clearance, ma’am.”

  Aumonier turned around, giving Thalia a doubtful look. “Did Doctor Demikhov give you permission to leave the clinic, Ng?”

  “No, ma’am. I discharged myself.”

  Aumonier’s features sharpened. “Was that wise?”

  “Probably not, ma’am. My head’s still throbbing. But I couldn’t sit around being useless for any longer, especially after Prefect Bancal told me what he’s doing. I realise I’m in no fit state to resume field duties …”

  “No, the bandaged head doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

  “I thought I’d see if I could be of assistance. Either with Garlin or the Wildfire operation. My Pangolin boost still seems to be holding.”

  “Go,” Aumonier said.

  “Ma’am?”

  “To the refectory. Fetch us all a dozen strong cups of coffee, freshly brewed. I can’t abide the conjured stuff we get in here. When you’re back, you can help Lillian and Gaston revise the forward planning for the next thirteen hours. A fresh pair of eyes might be beneficial. We’re running into some … headwind.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Coffee, Ng.”

  She was back in ten minutes, but it might as well have been ten hours for the palpable shift in mood. If it had been tense before, now it was apocalyptic. All the prefects and analysts present were crowded around the Solid Orrery, the table abandoned, its updates scrolling past unnoticed. The voices from the assembled staff were hushed but urgent, exchanges being delivered in rapid, clipped abbreviation. Thalia felt as if she had stumbled into the middle of some desperate, difficult surgical procedure that was going increasingly wrong.

  “Re-evaluate, damn it,” Aumonier said.

  “No improvement. Still holding at thirty.”

  “What if we abandon—”

  “Tried it. Makes no improvement.”

  “Two new instances breaking. Revising to thirty-two as best-case.”

  Thalia set down the tray of coffees on the main table, hardly daring to breathe, let alone speak. She straightened her uniform, trying to look presentable and engaged despite the bandage and her lingering feelings of fogginess.

  Her throat felt tight.

  “Ma’am?”

  Aumonier carried on talking to her subordinates, trading one dire-sounding estimate after another. Thalia had enough of her wits to guess that the figures being bandied around were predictions for how many citizens would still succumb to Wildfire, even as the protection operation tried to get them into isolation. Clearly the figure had risen compared to the initial predictions. Which was bad, she thought—very bad. If they lost thirty or thirty-two, that was almost half as many people as had already died via Wildfire, but squeezed into a day or two rather than stretched out across four hundred days. Still, she told herself, trying to take the analytic view, they were trying to save more than one thousand seven hundred citizens, and even if they lost fifty that would still have to count as a triumph, not a failure …

  Then she caught someone say “per cent” and the shock of it was enough to have her reeling, steadying a hand on the edge of the table.

  “Ma’am,” she said again. “I brought the … did I understand it right, that we’re looking at thirty per cent losses?”

  “No,” Aumonier said, finally noticing her return. “That was the good old days. Now we’re facing thirty-two as an absolute best-case option, and almost total certainty that the figure will rise sharply.”

  “It’s a response, then,” Thalia said. “Someone’s reacting to our rescue initiative, raising the stakes. But we’ve got Garlin in detention, haven’t we? He’s supposed to be isolated from the outside world—just like those citizens.”

  “He’s screened,” Baudry said. “Triple-layer Faraday isolation. Even if he has theoretical access to secret abstraction channels, they won’t get through to him. He shouldn’t be able to send or receive a single bit of information beyond those walls. He shouldn’t even know about this operation, much less be able to adapt to it.”

  “Dreyfus thinks there might be a latency,” Aumonier said. “A delay between Garlin initiating a Wildfire event, and the death itself. That would explain a long tail of deaths after both Garlin and the victim have been isolated. But unless Garlin had extraordinary foresight, it’s hard to see how he could have anticipated our plan. We should be witnessing a slowing fade-off, not a steepening pattern.”

  “Could there be any way he’s getting around that isolation?” Thalia asked. “Some special implant or something, that cuts through the screening?”

  She half expected to be mocked for the rank implausibility of this suggestion, but what was more disquieting was that Aumonier appeared to have already given it ample consideration.

  “Demikhov says his implants aren’t putting out any form of soft microwave radiation we wouldn’t expect. Beyond that, he’s taken the trouble to look for signals across the whole electromagnetic spectrum, as well as neutral particle emissions that might be slipping through our mesh. You can send and receive almost anything you want, if you have the right equipment and power supply. But there’s a limit to what you can squeeze into a set of ordinary-looking implants, inside a human skull.”

  “Then it isn’t Garlin,” Thalia said. “At least, he can’t be responsible for what’s happening right now, from hour to hour. There has to be an accomplice, doesn’t there?”

  “Constables have detained all known affiliates of his extended organisation,” Baudry commented, not dra
gging her eyes from the Solid Orrery. “Common thugs and bully-boys, for the most part. They’ve been processed and isolated along with the citizens. A few fish might have slipped through the net, but …”

  “Something’s not right,” Thalia said.

  “Thank you, Ng,” Aumonier replied. “None of the rest of us were capable of that dazzling leap of insight.”

  “I meant to say, ma’am …”

  “Did you fetch the coffee?”

  Thalia looked over her shoulder. “Yes, it’s on the table.”

  “Good. Bring it over. Then see if you can help Gaston and Lillian dig us a way out of this mess. If we must lose a third of the people we’re trying to save, I’ll accept that if there’s no other alternative. But my fear is it will only get much worse than this. And to top it all Dreyfus wants me to reallocate a whole corvette or cruiser …”

  Thalia brought over the coffees. “To do what, ma’am?”

  “Dreyfus likes looking under rocks, Ng. You’ll have learned that by now.” Aumonier took one of the coffees and drank it slowly, closing her eyes for a few seconds as if savouring the last rare pleasure of a lifetime. “He wants to investigate something in the Glitter Band, connected to the Voi estate. I just wish his timing were a little better.”

  Thalia looked to the Solid Orrery, scribbled over with orbits and trajectories.

  “Some more citizens will end up dying, won’t they, if you divert a ship?”

  “Dreyfus knows that, too,” Aumonier answered, with grave resignation. “I explained the situation to him, and he still made the request. And that was before things got really bad.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What else can I do, Ng? I’m giving him his damned ship.”

  Aumonier had not been lying when she told Garlin it had been impossible to assemble a citizen quorum made up of people who lacked implants. Under better circumstances, perhaps, it might have been possible to scour the Glitter Band for the necessary deputation, and bring them all to Panoply in time to witness Garlin’s soft interrogation. The emergency measures, her own concern for the citizens’ safety, and the high demand on prefects and their vehicles, made that quite impractical now. But she had still been determined to abide by the Common Articles to the limit of her capabilities, and that meant that a citizen quorum had indeed been convened.