Far away, in the weightless heart of Panoply, the Search Turbines threshed their way through unthinkable quantities of archived knowledge. It was illusory, but Gaffney swore he could feel the subterranean rumble of those questing machines; could almost feel the fire-hose pressure of the data rocketing through them.
He slowed the flow as he neared the focus of his search.
‘Warning,’ the system advised him. ‘You are entering a high-security data trove. Pangolin clearance is now mandatory. If you do not have Pangolin clearance, desist from further queries.’
Gaffney pressed on. He not only had Pangolin clearance, he got to decide who else had it.
‘Category: weapon systems, archival, interdicted,’ said the system.
Gaffney refined his query parameters one final time.
‘Specific retrieval item,’ the system said. ‘War robot. Weevil class.’
‘Show me,’ Gaffney breathed as his hands echoed the verbal command.
Line diagrams and cutaway illustrations crammed the display panes. Gaffney narrowed his eyes and peered closer. In some of the views, the weevils were accompanied by human figures to lend scale. The robots were smaller than he’d been expecting, until he remembered that one of their prime uses had been infiltration. By all accounts they were fast, with a high degree of tactical autonomy.
Not that anyone alive had clear memories of weevils. The date-stamps on the annotations were all at least a century old.
Gaffney’s hands moved again. Now the panes filled with scrolling lines of text and symbols in MAL, the human-readable Manufactory Assembler Language. The instructions became a whizzing blur. The blur began to dance and squirm in subtle rhythms, betraying large-scale structure in the sequencing code. Here were the commands that, if fed into a sufficiently equipped manufactory, would result in the production of a fully operational weevil.
Or more than one.
Having verified that the MAL script was complete and error-free, Gaffney encysted the code in a private partition of his own security management area. In the unlikely event of anyone stumbling on it, all they would see would be routine entry/exit schedules for pressure-tight passwalls inside Panoply.
He backed-up the top level of the query stack. His hands dithered over the keys. He switched to voice-only.
‘Retrieve priors on search-term Firebrand.’
‘Repeat search term, please.’
‘Firebrand,’ Gaffney said, with exaggerated slowness.
He’d been expecting some hits, but nothing like the multitude of priors that filled the panes. He applied filters and whittled down the stack. Yet when he was finished it was still hopelessly large, and he wasn’t seeing anything remotely connected with Panoply, or the thing that so interested Aurora.
Firebrand.
What the hell did it mean? Anthony Theobald had given him the word, and he’d allowed himself to believe it was something useful, enough to stop trawling the man before he became an unwilling recruit for the Persistent Vegetative State. But now that he had let the man go, now that he was alone with the Search Turbines, Gaffney wondered whether he should not have gone deeper.
‘You sold me a dud, Tony,’ Gaffney said aloud. ‘You naughty, naughty boy.’
But even as he spoke, he remembered something else Anthony Theobald had told him. The men who’d let slip that codeword had once told him that their operations were superblack. Untraceable, unaccountable and officially deniable at all levels of Panoply command and control, right up to the Queen of the Scarab herself.
In other words, it was hardly surprising that he hadn’t found anything significant in a two-minute search. Firebrand might still mean something. But it was going to take more than sitting at a console to get any closer to the truth.
Gaffney spent the next five minutes covering his tracks, erasing any trace of his rummaging from the query logs of the Search Turbines. Then another five minutes covering traces of that. By the time he was done, Gaffney was confident that even he wouldn’t have been able to follow his own trail.
He stood from the console and conjured it back into the room, together with the seat he had been using. Then he wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his brow, ran fingers through his wiry red hair and headed for the passwall.
He knew that what he had just done was ‘wrong’, just as it had been ‘wrong’ to intercept, trawl and discard the hapless Anthony Theobald. But everything, as Aurora liked to remind him, depended on viewpoint. There was nothing wrong with protecting the citizenry, even if what they most needed protection from was their own worst natures.
And Aurora was always right.
The beta-level regarded Dreyfus with cold indifference. Dreyfus stared at him obligingly, as if waiting for the punch line to a joke. It was an old interview technique that usually obtained a result.
The imaged figure was male, taller than Dreyfus, thin of face, his body hidden under the voluminous folds of a purple robe or gown. His right shoulder and arm were clothed in quilted black leather, his visible hand gloved and ringed. His cropped greying hair, the aquiline curve of his nose, the solemnity of his expression, his general stance, brought to mind a statue of a powerful Roman senator. Only a slight translucence made the figure appear less than totally solid.
After the silence had stretched almost to snapping point, Anthony Theobald said, ‘If you didn’t want to ask me questions, perhaps you shouldn’t have brought me back to life, Prefect.’
‘I’ve got a lot of questions,’ Dreyfus said easily. ‘I just wanted to give you the chance to have your say first.’
‘I suppose you’d be the man your colleague mentioned during my last invocation.’
Thalia had already activated the beta-level to test its readiness for interviewing. Of the twelve beta-levels saved from Ruskin-Sartorious, only three had been deemed sufficiently functional to offer useful testimony, despite the best efforts of Thalia and Sparver to mend the remaining nine.
‘I’m Dreyfus,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Welcome to Panoply, Citizen.’
‘Perhaps it’s me, but “welcome” doesn’t have quite the necessary degree of solemnity.’
‘I was just being polite,’ Dreyfus replied. ‘My personal belief is that beta-levels have no claim on consciousness. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just an item of forensic evidence. The fact that I can talk to you - the fact that you might claim to feel alive - is entirely irrelevant.’
‘How reassuring to meet someone with such an enlightened viewpoint. What’s your opinion on women? Do you consider them capable of full sentience, or do you have lingering reservations about them as well?’
‘I don’t have a problem with women. I do have a problem with software entities that pretend to be alive and then expect to be accorded the rights and privileges of the living.’
‘If I’m not alive, how can I “expect” anything?’
‘I’m not saying you can’t be persuasive. But the instant I sense evasion or concealment I’ll send you back to the deepfreeze. Once you’re there, I can’t vouch for your safety. Things go astray. Files get deleted by mistake.’
‘A policeman of the old school,’ Anthony Theobald said, nodding approvingly. ‘Skip the appetiser and straight on to the main course of threats and bullying. Actually, I welcome it. It’s a refreshingly direct approach.’
‘Just so we understand each other.’
‘Now are you ready to tell me what happened?’
Dreyfus scratched at the bulge of neck fat lapping against the back of his collar. ‘My background files say that you were the head of the family in the Bubble. According to the last census, you were lording it over more than nine hundred subjects.’
‘Free family members and citizens. Again: what happened?’
‘How much did my deputy tell you?’
‘Nothing useful.’
‘Good for her. I’ll begin by telling you that Ruskin-Sartorious no longer exists. Your habitat was gutted by the drive exhaust from a lighthugger space vehicl
e, the Accompaniment of Shadows. It appears to have been a deliberate act. Do you remember this event?’
Anthony Theobald lost some of his composure, the set of his jaw slackening. ‘I have no recollection of it.’
‘What’s the last thing you do remember? Does the name of the ship ring any bells?’
‘It rings more than bells, Prefect. We were in negotiations with the Accompaniment of Shadows. The ship was parked near Ruskin-Sartorious. ’
‘Why wasn’t she using the Swarm, like all the other ships?’
‘I gather there was a problem with their long-distance shuttle. It was simpler to move the entire ship and rely on one of our own short-range shuttles. We had the facilities to cope, and Dravidian’s crew seemed happy enough to be entertained at our expense.’
It was the first mention of the captain’s name.
‘Trade talks?’
Anthony Theobald looked at Dreyfus as if the question was absurd. ‘What other reason is there to deal with Ultras?’
‘Just asking. How were the talks running?’
‘Agreeably, at first.’
‘And then?’
‘Less agreeably. We weren’t experienced in dealings with Ultras. I’d hoped matters wouldn’t come to such a sorry pass, frankly. We had some financial difficulties and I’d been hoping that the affair between Vernon and Delphine would ease matters somewhat . . . but that wasn’t to be. In the end we had no choice but to deal with Ultras.’
‘What were you hoping to sell?’
‘Delphine’s works, of course.’
Dreyfus nodded as if nothing more needed to be said, but filed the information away for future reference. Thalia had already informed him that the other two stable witnesses were Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious and her lover, Vernon Tregent. ‘And when the crew visited you - who were you dealing with, primarily?’
‘Dravidian, in the main.’
‘How’d you take to him?’
‘I found him straightforward enough for a cyborg, or chimeric, or however they wish to be called. He appeared interested in some samples of Delphine’s work. He felt he could get a good price for them around one of the other worlds.’
‘Where was his next port of call?’
‘I confess I don’t recall. Fand, Sky’s Edge, the First System, some other godforsaken place. What did it matter to me, once the works were sold?’
‘Maybe it mattered to Delphine.’
‘Then you can take it up with her. My sole concern was the economic benefit to Ruskin-Sartorious.’
‘And you got the impression Dravidian was offering a fair price?’
‘I’d have preferred more, naturally, but the offer appeared reasonable enough. Judging by the state of his ship and crew, Dravidian had his own financial difficulties.’
‘So you were happy with the deal. You sold the goods to the Ultras. Dravidian said goodbye and took his ship away. What happened next?’
‘That isn’t how things played out. Negotiations were winding to a close when Delphine received an anonymous message. She brought it to my immediate attention. It suggested that Dravidian was not to be trusted: that the price he was offering us was far below a realistic market value, and that we would be much better off dealing with other Ultras.’
‘But you had no access to anyone else.’
‘Until then. But the message hinted that there might in fact be interested parties.’
‘How’d you react?’
‘We consulted. I was suspicious, urging that we should conclude our business with Dravidian. We had a deal. But Delphine demurred. She used executive privilege to block the transaction. Vernon supported her, of course. I was furious, but not half as furious as Dravidian. He said the honour of his ship and crew had been impugned. He issued threats, saying that what we’d done would cost Ruskin-Sartorious gravely.’
‘And then what?’
‘His crew returned to their ship. Our shuttle came back. We saw the Accompaniment of Shadows move away.’ Anthony Theobald spread his hands. ‘And that is all I remember. As you have been so thoughtful as to remind me, I am a beta-level simulation: reliant for my perceptions on the distributed surveillance systems of the habitat. Those perceptions would have been processed and consolidated in the core, but it would not have been an instantaneous process. There would not have been enough time to incorporate those final observations into my personality model before Ruskin-Sartorious was destroyed.’
‘At least you remember something.’
‘You’ll hear the same story from the others.’ Anthony Theobald peered intently at Dreyfus. ‘There are others, aren’t there?’
‘I can’t say. I haven’t completed my interviews.’
‘Do you intend to question Dravidian?’
‘I’ll question anyone I think might have an angle on the attack.’
‘You can’t let this atrocity go unpunished, Prefect. Something unspeakable happened to Ruskin-Sartorious. Someone must pay for that.’
‘I’m pretty sure someone will,’ Dreyfus said.
When he had returned the simulation to storage - very much against its wishes - Dreyfus took a minute to note his own thoughts into his compad. Perhaps his clarifying statement concerning his views on beta-levels hadn’t helped matters, but he’d sensed an undeniable hostility from the Ruskin-Sartorious patriarch. It would be a mistake to read too much into that, though. No one liked Panoply very much, and the resurrected dead were no exception.
He invoked the second valid recoverable, opting to take a slightly less harsh tack.
‘Hello, Vernon,’ Dreyfus said, addressing the younger-looking man who’d just appeared. He had a pleasant, trustworthy face and a headful of tight blond curls. ‘Welcome to Panoply. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but in case my colleague didn’t make it clear, your primary is dead.’
‘I gathered,’ Vernon Tregent said. ‘I still want to know about Delphine. Your colleague wouldn’t tell me anything. Did she make it out? Did you get anything from her beta?’
‘We’ll get to that. I just need to clarify something first. I don’t mean this to sound hurtful, but there are people who believe in the sanctity of beta-levels, and people who don’t, and I’m afraid I’m one of the latter.’
‘That’s fine,’ Vernon said, with an easy shrug. ‘I don’t believe in the sanctity of beta-levels either.’
Dreyfus blinked a double-take. ‘How can you not believe? You are one.’
‘But my responses are governed by Vernon’s beliefs, as demonstrated on countless occasions. Vernon didn’t think beta-levels were anything more than clever simulacra. He was very vocal in that opinion. Hence, I share that view.’
‘Good . . .’ Dreyfus said, less sure of himself. ‘That’ll make life a lot easier.’ Then some impulse caused him to volunteer more information than he’d normally have considered wise. ‘We’ve recovered Delphine. I still have to interview her, but my colleague thinks there’ll be enough there to serve as a useful witness.’
Vernon closed his eyes. He raised his chin, as if giving thanks to the blank white infinity that served as a ceiling. ‘I’m glad. If anyone deserved to get out, it was Delphine. Now tell me what happened.’
‘Does the name Dravidian mean anything to you?’
‘If you mean the Ultra captain . . . then yes, it means a lot. What happened?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking if I did.’
It was the same story as Anthony Theobald, Dreyfus thought. No memory of the final events because the recording systems hadn’t had time to update the beta-level models in the processor cores. ‘Your habitat was destroyed,’ he said. ‘The captain - we’ll assume Dravidian gave the order - appears to have decided to slash it open with his engine.’
‘Dravidian wouldn’t have . . .’ But Vernon trailed off, as if the very repugnance of the crime was only now hitting home. ‘I can’t believe he’d have done something so vicious, so out-of-proportion. There’s no doubt th
at this happened?’
‘I’ve crawled over the ruin myself. Forensic evidence is watertight. And one of my other witnesses says that Dravidian didn’t like it when the deal went sour.’
Vernon pushed his fingertips against his temples, screwing up his eyes. ‘I remember that we were close to settling things. Then the message came through . . . Delphine received it, I remember.’
‘Saying not to trust Dravidian?’
‘Saying we could get a better offer elsewhere. Anthony Theobald was angry, of course: he wanted those funds so badly he was prepared to sell Delphine’s art for its scrap value.’ Vernon clenched his fist in emphasis. ‘But it was her life’s work! She’d put her soul into it. I couldn’t stand by and see it sold off for less than a fair price.’
‘So you and Delphine decided to break off negotiations.’
‘We wished Dravidian no hard feelings.’
‘But he didn’t take it well.’
‘He seemed put out, exasperated, as if he genuinely thought he was offering an honest price for Delphine’s art. He said he’d have to think twice about ever doing business with us again. He said that to withdraw from negotiations so late in a discussion was most irregular.’ Vernon shook his head. ‘But to go from that to . . . destroying Delphine’s home . . . nothing he said indicated that he was that angry. I mean, there’s a difference between angry and murderous. Isn’t there?’
‘Less than you’d think.’
‘Do you think he did it, Prefect? Do you think Dravidian was capable of this?’
‘Let’s get back to Delphine. Was she an artist of some kind?’
‘Some of us thought so.’
‘What kind of work?’
‘Sculpture, mostly. Her work was brilliant. She was right to want the best price for it.’
Dreyfus thought back to the face he’d seen carved into the rock drifting through the ruins of Ruskin-Sartorious. He couldn’t deny the power of the piece, but there’d been nothing useful about it in the forensics summary.
The Revelation Space Collection Page 378
