The Prefect rs-5

by Alastair Reynolds

  But when he reached the passwall into the now empty interrogation bubble, his way was blocked by a couple of Gaffney’s goons. Sparver tried to reason with them, without effect. He was certain that the Internal Security operatives were acting sincerely, in the genuine belief that Gaffney was to be trusted, but that did not make them any easier to persuade. He was still trying when Gaffney himself showed up.

  “I thought we came to an agreement, Prefect Bancal. You keep your snout out of my business, I’ll keep my nose out of yours, and we’ll get along famously.”

  “When your business becomes mine, I stick my snout wherever I like. It’s a nice snout, too, don’t you think?”

  Gaffney lowered his voice to a dangerous purr.

  “Don’t push your luck, Bancal. You’re only here on sufferance. Dreyfus may like to keep a pet pig around for show, but Dreyfus isn’t going to be part of this organisation for much longer. If you want to find a role for yourself, I’d start making new friends.”

  “Friends like you, you mean?”

  “Just saying, times are changing. We’ve all got to adapt. Even those of us not exactly equipped for mental agility. How’s that frontal cortex working out for you, anyway?”

  “Dreyfus didn’t have anything to do with Clepsydra disappearing,” Sparver said levelly.

  “Either you made her disappear, or she’s hiding because she knows you’d rather she was dead.”

  “Beginning to flail around a bit there, son. Are you accusing me of something or not?”

  “If you did something to her, you’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m looking for her. Do you think I’d go to all this trouble if I had anything to hide? Come on. It’s not that much of a conundrum, even for the likes of you.”

  “We’re not done, Gaffney, you and me. Not by a long stretch.”

  “Go and count your fingers,” Gaffney said.

  “Call me when you reach double figures.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Michael Crissel scrutinised himself in the mirrored surface of the cubicle, anxious that no trace of his true state of mind should be apparent when he emerged. His skin was as pale as a reptile’s belly, his bloodshot eyes verging on the albinotic. He told himself that his pallor was just as likely to be a function of the cruiser’s dehumidified atmospheric mix as his bout of retching, but that was scant consolation. The sickness had come on him hard and fast, with barely enough warning to let him scuttle to the cubicle.

  “Get a grip,” he told himself.

  He exited the cubicle and moved up through the ship, past the weapons bays and crew quarters, into the main assembly area where the other prefects were waiting, suited and armoured, buckled into deceleration webbing, jammed together like gloss-black toy soldiers, weapons secured between their knees. Not just whiphounds, but the big guns that, technically speaking, the democratic vote had forbidden them. When all this was over, when the people had full access to the information, they’d see that Panoply had done the right thing in disregarding that vote. They’d even applaud when they knew what was really at stake.

  The fields watched him as he propelled himself along the gangway, hand over hand in the weightless fall of the Universal Suffrage’s cruise phase. None of them had yet snapped down their visors. He could see their faces, feel their eyes tracking him as he passed. He didn’t recognise any of them. Even their names, stencilled onto the inert-matter armour of their suits, triggered only glimmers of recognition.

  The pressure of their attention demanded a response from him, some rousing, rallying speech. His mouth was raw, filled with the aftertaste of his retching session. Dreyfus would surely have said something, Crissel thought. It didn’t need to be much. Just a word or two of encouragement. He brought himself to a halt and turned around slowly, nodding at the young men and women filling those black lobster-like suits.

  “None of us are under the illusion that this is going to be easy,” Crissel said, instantly dismayed at how quavery and ineffectual his own voice sounded.

  “They’ll have the hub airlocks well guarded and we’ll more than likely be meeting opposition as soon as we reach the interior. It’s quite probable that we’ll be outnumbered. But we do have the advantage of training and equipment. Remember, you are Panoply operatives. You have right on your side.”

  The reaction was not what he had been expecting, or hoping for. The prefects just looked bewildered and fearful, as if his words had robbed them of the exact measure of morale he had hoped to bolster.

  “When I say it won’t be easy,” he continued, “I don’t mean we won’t succeed. Of course not. I just mean—”. A girl with almond-coloured eyes and a heart-shaped face asked, “How will we distinguish hostiles from locals, sir?”

  He tapped the crown of his own helmet.

  “Tactical drop-down will overlay all citizens known to the

  polling apparatus. Anyone you see who isn’t recognised by the overlay must be assumed a non-indigent hostile.” He flashed her an overconfident smile.

  “Naturally, you have authorisation to euthanise.”

  “Pardon me, sir,” said a young man with a day’s growth of chin stubble, “but we were informed that we’d probably be operating in an environment without local abstraction.”

  “That’s correct,” Crissel said, nodding. If Aubusson had dropped off the external abstraction, there was every reason to believe its internal systems had gone into blackout as well.

  “Then how will the tactical overlays know who is who?” the girl asked, with the tone of someone who genuinely expected a reasonable answer.

  Crissel opened his mouth to respond, then felt ominous mental trap doors opening. He’d made a mistake. There could be no guarantee that the overlays would work at all.

  “The hostiles will be the ones… being hostile,” he said.

  The prefects just stared at him. If they’d mocked him, or even fired back another question, it would have been preferable to that dumb, expectant staring, as if what he had told them made perfect operational sense.

  Something stirred in the dry embers of his gut again.

  “Excuse me,” he said, preparing to turn and make his way back to the cubicle. But just as he spoke, the pilot emerged from the flight deck into the assembly area, holding headphones against his skull.

  “Visual on Aubusson, sir. Thought you’d like to see it.”

  “Thank you,” Crissel said.

  He entered the cruiser’s spacious flight deck with a shaming sense of relief. House Aubusson looked frighteningly close on the allocated display panes, but that was deceptive; they were still thousands of kilometres away, and the habitat’s anti-collision systems would not yet have picked out the approaching cruiser from the confusion of general Glitter Band traffic moving on similar vectors.

  “Looks normal enough,” Crissel commented as the end-on view zoomed to reveal the small-scale details of the docking hub, where a handful of spacecraft were still attached.

  “I take it there hasn’t been any significant change since we left Panoply?”

  “Nothing that will affect our approach,” the pilot said.

  “But there’s something you should know about.” He opened windows over the main view, illustrating side-on views of the habitat captured by some other distant vehicle or camera platform.

  “Visible light,” he said.

  “Six hours apart. The view on the right is the most recent.”

  “They look the same.”

  The pilot nodded, confirming Crissel’s judgement.

  “Now look at the same snapshots in infrared. Anything jump out at you?”

  One end of the habitat was a smear of thermal emissions, where it had been cool before. The overlay shaded structures in a gradation of colours, ranging from brick red to fiery orange.

  “Judging by those cooling foils, she’s putting out a lot of heat all of a sudden.”

  The pilot made an affirmative noise.

  “Started up in the last four hours, as far as we
can tell.”

  Crissel risked a silly question.

  “Which end is that?”

  “Not the one we’re intending to dock at. The docking hub’s still as cool as it ever was, apart from some small hotspots around the weapons, dumping the waste heat after they fired.”

  Weapons, Crissel thought. How easy it was to switch from thinking of the anti-collision systems as instruments for the preservation of life to machines designed to terminate it.

  “So what’s happening? Why is she getting hotter at that end?”

  “Guesswork so far, but one explanation could be that the manufactories have started up.”

  “I didn’t know Aubusson had manufacturing capability.”

  “Years back she was a bigger player, apparently,” the pilot said, tapping a finger against a text summary on his fold-up armrest pane.

  “Never as large as any of the heavy manufactories, but still putting out a few hundred thousand tonnes a year. High-value, low-bulk products. Construction servitors, mainly, for use in setting up the new industrial centres on the Eye. Good business for a while, but once the lunar manufacturies were up to speed, places like Aubusson lost their business.”

  Old history, Crissel thought. Marco’s Eye had been the main industrial supplier in the system for more than a century.

  “So what happened to the manufactory?”

  “They kept the infrastructure. Must have been betting against a time when they’d be able to compete against the Eye, for one reason or another. Judging by that thermal output, they’ve got the factory wheels spinning again.”

  “But they’ve only had control of Aubusson for half a day. They can’t have started up the manufactory so quickly. It isn’t humanly possible.”

  “Like I said,” the pilot said defensively, “just guesswork.”

  “This doesn’t affect our mission,” Crissel said shakily.

  “If anything it makes it more urgent that we get in there and secure the place for Panoply.”

  “Just thought you ought to know, sir.”

  “You were right to bring it to my attention.” After an uncomfortable pause, during which he was uncertain as to whether his presence on the flight deck was appropriate or not, Crissel said: “How soon now?”

  “We’ll be entering the habitat’s collision-avoidance volume in six minutes. The cargo drones were intercepted when they were two hundred kilometres into that volume, or about one hundred kilometres from the hub.” The pilot drew his attention to another read-out, crammed with tactical summary data.

  “But we’ll be ready to target the anti-collision weapons with our guns long before then. We already have positive firing solutions for half of them.”

  The back of Crissel’s neck bristled.

  “Then why don’t we fire? If it isn’t a stupid question.”

  “They’d see us then. We’re presenting a highly stealthed cross section now, but as soon as we launch missiles, the enemy aiming systems’ll be able to backtrack from our missiles’ exhaust vectors.”

  “We’re talking about anti-collision systems, Pilot, not military hardware. They’re programmed to recognise incoming foreign objects, not to extrapolate back from missile exhausts.”

  There was a reticence in the pilot’s voice.

  “Prefect Dreyfus said we have to assume they’ve been uploaded with new software.”

  Crissel coughed.

  “Rightly so, of course. Although the likelihood of that being the case… But are you sure we can’t just fire and take out all the weapons in one hit?”

  “Can’t guarantee it, sir. Best strategy is to hold fire until we have clear solutions on all the weapons, which’ll mean suspending our attack until just before we initiate the braking phase.”

  “Right. I just needed to be clear on that. And how far outside the avoidance volume will we be at that point?”

  “Thirty kilometres inside it,” the pilot said.

  Crissel nodded as if the matter were fully settled and need not be raised again.

  “Keep on this vector, Pilot. I’m going back to speak to the prefects.”

  “You’ll need to secure yourself in five minutes, sir. Things will get bumpy, especially if we have to dodge return fire.”

  Crissel clambered out of the cool, clinical sanctuary of the flight deck back into the assembly area. The majority of the prefects had now donned their helmets, and of that number more than half had lowered and sealed their visors.

  “Pilot informs me that we shall commence braking phase in just over five minutes,” Crissel said, holding himself in position by a padded handrail as he surveyed the massed black ranks.

  “Make no mistake, this isn’t just a lockdown or disciplinary action. There are more than eight hundred thousand people inside House Aubusson, and each and every one of them is counting on our help. There may be times when the agents of Panoply are feared and hated. There isn’t a field in the organisation who doesn’t know how that feels. I’ve been there, too. I know what it’s like to be despised. But today those people will be praying for the sight of someone in Panoply black. And they’ll be expecting us to get the job done. We can do it, too. In all likelihood, we’ll be encountering an armed and efficient takeover force. But remember this: no matter how numerous the enemy, no matter how agile or aggressive, we’ll have eight hundred thousand grateful citizens on our side. Panoply will prevail today. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.” He raised his fist, clenched in the manner of Panoply’s symbol, and drew a cautious roar of approval.

  Satisfied with their response, conscious that to push them further might be to risk chastening humiliation, Crissel returned to the flight deck.

  “Status, please, Pilot.”

  “Braking in four minutes, Prefect. One hundred and twenty-two kilometres to outer edge of avoidance volume. You’d better secure yourself.”

  “About those anti-collision systems—you have a clearer view of them now, I take it?”

  “Refining all the time.”

  “And there’s been no change in the tactical situation? We still can’t guarantee a clean take-out at this range?”

  “Can’t promise it, sir.”

  But he picked up a nuance in the pilot’s voice.

  “But the odds have improved in our favour?”

  “Slightly, sir.”

  “Do you have firing solutions locked in already?”

  “Ready to go, sir, as soon as we hit thirty kilometres inside the volume. Which will be in three minutes, thirty-three seconds.”

  “I’m securing for braking phase. Do likewise, Pilot.” He turned to the rest of the flight-deck crew.

  “Listen, all of you. We’re moving the battle plan forward. I want to hit those weapons sooner, while we still have some distance to play with. You have my permission to commence missile strikes in sixty seconds.”

  The pilot opened his mouth, as if he was about to frame an objection.

  Crissel asked, pleasantly enough: “Is there a problem with that?”

  “It’s a change of plan, sir.”

  “Nothing’s set in stone. We’re simply adapting to improved intelligence.”

  “We may not take out all the weapons.”

  “And we may not take them all out even when we’re closer. This is war, Pilot. It involves an element of risk. Kindly execute my revised order at the appropriate time.”

  He caught a moment of hesitation as the flight crew glanced at each other. A moment that teetered on the edge of mutiny, before pulling itself back.

  “Solutions holding,” the pilot murmured.

  “Missiles away in thirty-five seconds.”

  Crissel returned to the assembly area and slotted himself into his allocated position. He locked his helmet into place at the last moment, feeling the pressure-tight latch engage at exactly the same moment as a series of sequenced thumps announced the cruiser’s missiles darting away from their rapid-deployment launching racks. Until that instant there wouldn’t have be
en a single external clue that the Universal Suffrage was about to show her claws.

  Crissel had already instructed his helmet to layer a representation of the external situation, compiled from the cruiser’s own cams, sensors and battle-management systems, over his normal view of the waiting prefects. He saw the intensely detailed grey disc of Aubusson, the end-on view of the cylinder. The missiles were invisible save for the blue-white hyphens of their fusion exhausts, turned at various angles as they followed different target selections. Green status boxes tracked each missile, filled with tumbling numbers that meant nothing to Crissel. Red crosses marked the intended impact points on the grey disc. Cross hairs, bull’s-eyes and vectors slid across the view in a dance of hypnotic complexity, accompanied by their own cryptic digits and symbols.

  “Status, please,” Crissel said.

  “Missiles are ten seconds from impact,” the pilot’s voice buzzed back.

  “Commencing braking phase.”

  Quickmatter cocoons expanded to wrap the prefects, including Crissel, and then the deceleration burn kicked in with savage force. Now that the Universal Suffrage had released its missiles and was directing its exhaust towards House Aubusson, it had become a conspicuous target. The tactical display showed return fire springing up from the anti-collision slug-launchers. The cruiser plotted the trajectories of the slugs, computing and executing high-burn evasive swerves that would allow the slugs to pass by harmlessly. Crissel found himself biting down hard as the gee-force intensified. The angle of his seat was constantly adjusting itself to optimise blood flow to his brain, but he still felt his mental processes growing choppy and interrupted. The hyphenated streaks of the missile exhausts had now diminished to tiny

  blue-white sparks, almost lost against the looming face of Aubusson. The ten seconds since the pilot had last spoken felt like unendurable hours.

  They began to hit home. Crissel didn’t need the tactical data to see that the missiles were reaching Aubusson. They damped their fusion fires at the last instant, so as not to trigger a thermonuclear explosion upon impact. Kinetic energy was still enough to do visible harm. Grey-white spheres of expanding debris swelled with dreamlike slowness, cored with hot orange fire. When the spheres had dissipated, each had left a perfect hemispherical crater, cutting tens of metres into Aubusson’s crust. They’d have felt that inside, Crissel thought. Not just the thunder of the impacts, loud as those would have been, but the earthquake-like concussion wave as the energy was dissipated along the sixty-kilometre length of the habitat. No matter what was going on inside Aubusson, the beleaguered citizens would know that someone was knocking on the door.