The Revelation Space Collection (revelation space)

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Close the outer door,’ Dreyfus said.

  The lock finished pressurising. Dreyfus’s suit tasted the air and reported that it was cold but breathable, should the need arise.

  He hoped it wouldn’t.

  ‘Stay sharp,’ he told Sparver. ‘We’re going deeper.’

  Dreyfus waited for the inner door to seal itself before moving off. Common lock protocol dictated both inner and outer doors be closed against vacuum unless someone was transitioning through.

  ‘I can’t see a damn thing,’ he said, knowing that Sparver’s vision was at least as poor as his own. ‘I’m switching on my helmet lamp. We’ll see if that’s a good idea in about two seconds.’

  ‘I’m holding my breath.’

  The helmet revealed that they had arrived in a storage area, a repository for tools and replacement machine parts. Dreyfus made out tunnelling gear, some spare airlock components, a couple of racked spacesuits of PreCalvinist design.

  ‘Want to take a guess at how long this junk’s been here?’ Sparver said, activating his own lamp.

  ‘Could be ten years, could be two hundred,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Hard to call.’

  ‘You don’t pressurise a place if you’re planning to mothball it. Waste of air and power.’

  ‘I agree. See anything here that looks like a transmitter, or that might send a signal?’

  ‘No joy.’ Sparver nodded his helmet lamp towards the far wall. ‘But if I’m not mistaken, that’s a doorway. Think we should take a look-see?’

  ‘We’re not exactly overwhelmed with choices, are we?’

  Dreyfus kicked off from the wall and aimed himself at the far doorway, Sparver following just behind. Doubtless the rock’s gravity would eventually have tugged him there, but Dreyfus didn’t have time to wait for that. He reached the doorway and sailed on through into a narrow shaft furnished only with rails and flexible hand-grabs. When the air began to impede his forward drift, he grabbed the nearest handhold and started yanking himself forward. The shaft stretched on far ahead of him, pushing deeper into the heart of the rock. Maybe the shaft had been there for ever, he thought: sunk deep into the rock by prospecting Skyjacks, and someone had just come along and used it serendipitously. But the tunnelling equipment he’d already seen didn’t have the ramshackle, improvised look of Skyjack tools.

  He was just pondering that when he caught sight of the end of the shaft.

  ‘I’m slowing down. Watch out behind me.’

  Dreyfus reached the bottom and spun through one hundred and eighty degrees to bring his soles into contact with the surface at the base of the shaft. Up and down still had little meaning in the rock’s minimal gravity, but his instincts forced him to orient himself as if his feet were being tugged toward the middle.

  He assessed his surroundings as Sparver arrived next to him. They’d come to an intersection with a second shaft that appeared to run horizontally in either direction, curving gently away until it was hidden beyond the limit of the illumination provided by their helmet lamps. The rust-brown tunnel wall was clad with segmented panels, thick braids of pipework and plumbing stapled to the sides. Every now and then the cladding was interrupted by a piece of machinery as rust-brown and ancient-looking as the rest of the tunnel.

  ‘We didn’t see deep enough to map this,’ Dreyfus said. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Not much, to be frank.’

  ‘Judging by the curvature, we could be looking at a ring that goes right around the middle of the rock. We need to find out why it’s here.’

  ‘And if we get lost?’

  Dreyfus used his suit to daub a luminous cross onto the wall next to their exit point. ‘We won’t. If the shaft’s circular, we’ll know when we come back to this point, even if something messes around with our inertial compasses.’

  ‘That’s me fully reassured, then.’

  ‘Good. Keep an eye out for anything we can use to squeeze a signal back to Panoply.’

  Dreyfus started moving, the brown walls of the shaft drifting past him. His own shadow stalked courageously ahead of him, projected by the light from Sparver’s lamp. He glanced down at the suit’s inertial map, displayed just below his main facepatch overlay.

  ‘So do you have a theory as to what the Nerval-Lermontov family needs with this place?’ Sparver asked. ‘Because this is beginning to look like a lot more than a simple case of inter-habitat rivalry, at least from where I’m standing.’

  ‘It’s bigger, definitely. And now I’m wondering if the Sylveste family might have a part in this after all.’

  ‘We could always pay them a visit when we’re done here.’

  ‘We wouldn’t get very far. The family’s being run by beta-level caretakers. Calvin Sylveste’s dead, and his son’s out of the system. The last I heard, he’s not due back for at least another ten or fifteen years.’

  ‘But you still think there’s a Sylveste angle.’

  ‘I’m all for coincidence, Sparv, and I agree that the family has a lot of tentacles. But as soon as the Eighty popped up in our investigation, I got the feeling there was more to it than chance.’

  After a pause, Sparver said, ‘Do you think the Nerval-Lermontovs are still around?’

  ‘Someone’s been here recently. A place feels different when it’s deserted, when no one’s visited it for a very long time. I’m not getting that feeling here.’

  ‘I was hoping it was just me,’ Sparver said.

  Dreyfus set his jaw determinedly. ‘All the more reason to investigate, then.’

  But in truth he felt no compulsion to continue further along the corridor. He also felt Sparver’s unease. There was nothing he would rather have done than return to the corvette and await back-up, however long it took to arrive.

  They hadn’t gone more than a couple of hundred metres along the gently curving shaft when Sparver brought them to a halt next to a piece of equipment jutting from the wall. To Dreyfus it looked almost indistinguishable from the countless rust-coloured items of machinery they had already passed, but Sparver was paying it particular attention.

  ‘Something we can use?’ Dreyfus asked.

  Sparver flipped aside a panel, revealing a matrix of tactile input controls and sockets. ‘It’s a tap-in point,’ he said. ‘No promises, but if this is hooked up to any kind of local network, I should be able to find my way to the transmitter and maybe open a two-way channel to Panoply.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  Sparver’s suit had been conjured with a standard toolkit. He dug into it and retrieved a strand of luminous cabling with a writhing, slug-shaped quickmatter universal adaptor at the end. ‘I should know within a few minutes,’ he said. ‘If it doesn’t work, we’ll move on.’

  ‘See what you can get out of it. I’ll be back here in five or ten minutes.’

  Sparver’s eyes were wide behind his facepatch. ‘We should stay together.’

  ‘I’m just taking a look a little further along this shaft. We’ll remain in contact the whole time.’

  Dreyfus left his deputy attending to the equipment, fiddling with adaptors and spools of differently coloured froptic and electrical cabling. He had no doubt that if there was a way to get a message to Panoply, Sparver would find it. But he could not afford to wait around for that to happen. Elsewhere in the rock, someone might be erasing evidence or preparing to make their escape via a hidden ship or lifepod.

  Eventually Dreyfus looked back and saw that Sparver had vanished around the curve of the shaft.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked via the suit-to-suit comms channel.

  ‘Making slow progress, but I think it’s doable. The protocols are pretty archaic, but nothing I haven’t seen before.’

  ‘Good. Keep in touch. I’m pressing on.’

  Dreyfus passed through a constriction in the cladding of the tunnel, tucking his elbows in to avoid banging them against the narrow flange where the walls pinched tighter. Looking back now, he could not even see the faint glow caused by th
e light spilling from Sparver’s helmet lamp. Psychologically, it felt as if they were kilometres apart rather than the hundreds of metres that was really the case.

  Suddenly there came a bell-like clang, hard and metallic. Dreyfus’s gut tightened. He knew exactly what had happened, even before his conscious mind had processed the information. Where the constriction had been was now a solid wall of metal. A bulkhead door — part of an interior airlock system — had just slammed down between him and Sparver.

  He returned to the door and checked the rim for manual controls, but found nothing. An automatic system had sealed the door, and the same automatic system would have to open it again.

  ‘Sparver?’

  His deputy’s voice came through chopped and metallic. ‘Still reading you, but faintly. What just happened?’

  ‘I tripped a door,’ Dreyfus said, feeling sheepish. ‘It doesn’t want to open again.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ll see if I can work it from my side.’

  ‘Leave it for now. We made a plan and we’ll stick to it, even if I have to stay here until help arrives. If necessary I should be able to cut through with my whiphound, provided the door doesn’t incorporate any active quickmatter. In the meantime I’ll try circumnavigating and see if I can meet you from the other side.’

  ‘Try not to trip any more doors on the way.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You should think about conserving air,’ Sparver said, in a gently reminding tone. ‘These m-suits don’t recirculate, Boss. You’re only good for twenty-six hours.’

  ‘That’s about twenty-four hours longer than I expect to be here.’

  ‘Just saying we need to allow for all eventualities. I can make it back to the corvette; you may not be able to.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Dreyfus said.

  The suit was indeed still assuring him that the air surrounding him was breathable. He clearly had little to lose by trusting it. He reached up and unlatched the helmet; the suit had been conjured in one piece, but it obliged by splitting into familiar components.

  He sucked in his first lungful of cold, new air. After the initial shock of it hitting his system, he judged that it was tolerable, with little of the mustiness he’d been anticipating.

  ‘I’m breathing ambient air, Sparv. No ill effects so far.’

  ‘Good. All I’ve got to do now is kid this system that I’m a valid user, and then we should get ourselves a hotline to Panoply. I’ll be out of touch when I’m calling home — I’ll have to reassign the suit-to-suit channel to make this work.’

  ‘Whatever you have to do.’

  Dreyfus pressed the helmet against his belt until it formed a cusp-like bond. He’d made perhaps another hundred metres of progress when he encountered a junction in the shaft. The main tunnel, the one he’d been following, continued unobstructed ahead, but now it was joined by another route, set at right angles and leading towards the centre of the rock.

  ‘Sparver,’ he said, ‘slight change of plan. While I’m not using suit air, I’m going to explore a sub-shaft I’ve just run into. It appears to head deeper. My guess is it leads to whatever this place is concealing.’

  ‘You be careful.’

  ‘As ever.’

  The new shaft turned out to be much shorter than the one they’d descended from the surface, and within thirty metres he detected a widening at the far end. Dreyfus continued his approach, caution vying with curiosity, and emerged into a hemispherical chamber set with heavy glass facets. His helmet lamp played across the bolted and welded partitions between the window elements. Beyond the glass loomed a profound darkness, more absolute than space itself, as if the very heart of the rock had been cored out.

  ‘It’s hollow, an empty shell,’ he said to himself, as much in wonder as perplexity.

  The hemispherical chamber was not just some kind of viewing gallery. One of the facets was covered with a sheet of burnished silver rather than glass, and next to that was a simple control panel set with tactile controls of old-fashioned design. Dreyfus propelled himself to the panel and appraised its contents. The chunky controls were designed to be used by someone wearing a spacesuit with thick gloves, and most of them were labelled in antiquated Canasian script. Most of the abbreviations meant nothing to Dreyfus, but he saw that one of the controls was marked with a stylised representation of a sunburst.

  His hand moved to the control. At first it was so stiff that he feared it had seized into place. Then it budged with a resounding clunk, and vast banks of lights began to blaze on beyond the armoured glass.

  He’d been wrong, he realised. The hollowed-out interior of the Nerval-Lermontov rock was not empty.

  It contained a ship.

  ‘I’ve found something interesting,’ he told Sparver.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Thalia said as the train whisked the entourage across the first window band of House Aubusson, ‘is how this place pays for itself. No offence, but I’ve spoken to most of you by now and I’m puzzled. I assume you’re a representative slice of the citizenry, or you wouldn’t have been selected for the welcoming party. Yet none of you seem to be doing any work that’s marketable outside Aubusson. One of you breeds butterflies. Another designs gardens. Another one of you makes mechanical animals, for fun.’

  ‘There’s no law against hobbies,’ said Paula Thory, the plump butterfly-keeper.

  ‘I totally agree. But hobbies won’t pay for the upkeep of a sixty-kilometre-long habitat.’

  ‘We have a full-scale manufactory complex in the trailing endcap,’ Caillebot said. ‘We used to make ships. Lovely things, too: single-molecule hulls in ruby and emerald. It hasn’t run at anything like full capacity for decades, but smaller habitats occasionally contract us to build components and machines. The big enterprises on Marco’s Eye will always out-compete us when it comes to efficiency and economies of scale, but we don’t have to lift anything out of a gravity well, or pay Glitter Band import duties. That takes care of some of our finances.’

  ‘Not all of it, though,’ Thalia said. ‘Right?’

  ‘We vote,’ Thory said.

  ‘So does everyone,’ Thalia replied. ‘Except for Panoply.’

  ‘Not everyone votes the way we do. That’s the big difference. There are eight hundred thousand people in this habitat, and each and every one of us takes our voting rights very seriously indeed.’

  ‘Still won’t put food on your plates.’

  ‘It will if you vote often enough, and intelligently enough.’ Thory was looking at Thalia quite intently now, as the train whisked through a campus of low-lying buildings, all of which had the softened outlines and pastel coloration of candied marsh-mallows. ‘You’re Panoply. I presume you’re adequately familiar with the concept of vote weighting?’

  ‘I recall that the mechanism allows it, under certain circumstances. ’

  Thory looked surprised. ‘You “recall”. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert here, Prefect?’

  ‘Ask me about security, or about polling core software, and I’ll keep you enthralled for hours. Vote processing is a different area. That’s not my remit.’ Thalia had her hands laced in her lap, with the cylinder between her knees. ‘So tell me how it works for Aubusson.’

  ‘It’s common knowledge that the apparatus logs every vote ever entered, across the entire Glitter Band,’ Thory said. ‘That’s at least a million transactions every second, going back two hundred years. What people don’t generally realise is that the system occasionally peers back into its own records and looks at voting patterns that shaped a particular outcome. Suppose, for instance, that a critical vote was put to the population of the entire Band, all hundred million of us. A hypothetical threat had been identified, one that could be met with a variety of responses ranging from a preemptive attack to the simple decision to do nothing at all. Suppose furthermore that the majority voted for one particular response out of the options available. Suppose also that action was taken based on that vote, and that with hindsi
ght that action turned out to have been the wrong thing to do. The apparatus is intelligent enough to recognise democratic mistakes like that. It’s also intelligent enough to look back into the records and see who voted otherwise. Who, in other words, could be said to have been right, while the majority were wrong.’

  Thalia nodded, recalling details she had once learned and then buried under more immediately relevant knowledge. ‘And then, having identified those voters as being of shrewd judgement, it attaches a weighting bias to any future votes they might cast.’

  ‘In essence, that’s how it works. In practice, it’s infinitely more subtle. The system keeps monitoring those individuals, constantly tuning the appropriate weighting factor. If they keep on voting shrewdly, then their weighting remains, or even increases. If they show a sustained streak of bad judgement, the system weights them back down to the default value.’

  ‘Why not just remove their voting rights entirely, if they’re that bad?’

  ‘Because then we wouldn’t be a democracy,’ Thory replied. ‘Everyone deserves a chance to mend their ways.’

  ‘And how does this work for Aubusson?’

  ‘It’s how we make our living. The citizenry here possesses a very high number of weighted votes, well above the Glitter Band mean. We’ve all worked hard for that, of course: it isn’t just a statistical fluctuation. I have a weighting index of one point nine, which means that every vote I cast has nearly double its normal efficacy. I’m almost equivalent to two people voting in lockstep on any issue. One point nine is high, but there are fifty-four people out there who have indices nudging three. These are people whom the system has identified as possessing an almost superhuman acumen. Most of us see the landscape of future events as a bewilderingly jumbled terrain, cloaked in a mist of ever-shifting possibilities. The Triples see a shining road, its junctions marked in blazing neon.’ Thory’s voice became reverential. ‘Somewhere out there, Prefect, is a being we call the Quadruple. We know he walks amongst us because the system says he is a citizen of House Aubusson. But the Quad has never revealed himself to any other citizen. Perhaps he fears a public stoning. His own wisdom must be a wonderful and terrifying gift, like the curse of Cassandra. Yet he still only carries four votes, in a population of a hundred million. Pebbles on an infinite beach.’