Aurora Rising

by Alastair Reynolds

  “They’re carrying stuff,” Caillebot reported. “Look at the hopper on the back of that one.”

  Thalia struggled to make out detail. She remembered her glasses and slipped them on, keying in both magnification and intensity-amplification. The view wobbled, then stabilised. She tracked along the procession until she identified the machine Caillebot had indicated. It was a huge wheeled servitor, thirty or forty metres long, with scoops at either end feeding the trapezium-shaped hopper it carried on its back. The hopper was piled high with debris: rubble, dirt, torn sheets of composite mesh, chunks of machined metal of unfathomable origin. Thalia moved her viewpoint along the procession and saw that there was at least one other servitor hauling a similar load.

  “You say those machines were working at the marina?”

  “I think so.”

  “If they’re being tasked to work elsewhere, why would they be carrying all that junk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither. Maybe it’s just debris left over from the work on the marina, and they just haven’t been sent a specific command to unload it before moving elsewhere.”

  “Possible,” said Caillebot doubtfully, “but the marina wasn’t built on the remains of an older community. They’d have needed to landscape soil, but I can’t imagine there’d have been much in the way of actual debris to clear.”

  Thalia snapped her focus to the head of the column. “The procession’s stopping,” she said. The machines had reached the base of one of the stalks that formed the ring surrounding the Museum of Cybernetics, close to the point where Thalia’s party had emerged from the underground train station. “I don’t like this, Citizen Caillebot,” she said, temporarily forgetting her promise to Cyrus Parnasse that she would look and act at all times as if she was confident both in her abilities and of shepherding the citizens to safety.

  She’d lied when she said an escape plan was being hatched. In truth, they had progressed no further than working out their options for barricading the machines. Parnasse had tried to put an optimistic face on it, but they both knew those barricades wouldn’t hold for ever against determined brute force.

  “I don’t like it either,” the landscape gardener said.

  The procession broke up, with various machines moving slowly into position around the base of the stalk. Thalia had the eerie impression that she was watching some kind of abstract ballet. It all happened silently, for the windows of the polling sphere were both airtight and thoroughly soundproofed. The debris-carriers were standing back from the stalk, while what were clearly specialised demolition and earthmoving servitors brought their brutal-looking tools into play. The machines commenced their labours almost immediately. Shovels and claws began to dig into the flared base of the stalk, chipping away boulder-sized scabs of pale cladding. At the same time, a little further around the curve of the stalk, Thalia saw the sun-bright strobe of a high-energy cutting tool.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said, as much for her own benefit as Caillebot’s. “They’re attacking the wrong stalk. They know we’re not at the top of that one.”

  “Maybe attacking it isn’t the idea.”

  She nodded. Caillebot had been on her case after the upgrade had failed, but now his tone of voice and body language suggested he was prepared to bury the hatchet, at least for now. “I think you’re right,” she said. Then she tracked her glasses onto one of the other processions, at least a kilometre away, tilted gently towards her on the footslopes of the habitat’s curving wall. “Those machines are dismantling something as well. Can’t tell what it is.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Caillebot asked.

  She passed him the glasses. He pressed them cautiously to his eyes. Prefects weren’t meant to share equipment like that, but she supposed if there was ever a time when the rules were meant to be bent, this was it.

  “That’s the open-air amphitheatre at Praxis Junction,” the gardener said. “They’re tearing into that as well.”

  “Then it isn’t just us. Something’s going on here, Citizen Caillebot.”

  He returned her glasses. “You notice anything about those lines of machines?”

  “Like what?”

  “They’re all moving in more or less the same direction. Maybe they didn’t come from the marina after all, but they’ve still come from the direction of the docking endcap, where you came in. It looks to me as if they’ve been working their way along the habitat, stopping to demolish anything that takes their fancy.”

  “How would machines cross the window panels?”

  “There’re roads and bridges for that kind of thing. Even if there weren’t, the glass could easily take the weight of one of those machines, even fully loaded. The panels wouldn’t have been an obstacle to them.”

  “Okay, then. If they’re headed away from the docking endcap, where are they likely to end up?”

  “After they’ve swept through the whole habitat? Only one place to go—the trailing endcap. No major docking facilities there, so it’s a dead end.”

  “But they can’t be carrying all that stuff for nothing. They must be gathering it for a reason.”

  “Well, there’s the manufactory complex, of course,” he said offhandedly. “But that doesn’t make any sense either.”

  Thalia experienced a premonitory chill. “Tell me about the manufactory complex, Citizen Caillebot.”

  “It’s practically dead, like I already told you. Hasn’t run at normal capacity for years. Decades. Longer than I can remember.”

  Thalia nodded patiently. “But it’s still there. It hasn’t been removed, gutted, replaced or whatever?”

  “You think they’re going to crank it up again. Start making stuff on a big scale, feeding it with the junk the machines are collecting.”

  “It’s just an idea, Citizen Caillebot.”

  “Ships?” he asked.

  “Not necessarily. If you can make single-molecule hulls, there’s nothing you can’t make.” As an afterthought, she added: “Provided you have the construction blueprint, of course. The manufactory won’t be able to make anything unless it’s given the right instructions.”

  “You sound relieved.”

  “I probably shouldn’t be. It’s just that I was thinking of all the unpleasant things you could make with a manufactory if you had the right blueprints. But the point is the only blueprints in the public domain are for things you can’t hurt anyone with.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  “Try locating the construction blueprint for a space-to-space weapon, Citizen Caillebot, or an attack ship, or a military servitor. See how far you get before a prefect comes knocking.”

  “Panoply keeps tabs on that kind of thing?”

  “We don’t just keep tabs. We make sure that data isn’t out there. On the rare occasions when someone needs to make something nasty, they come to us for permission. We retrieve and unlock the files from our archives. We issue them and make damned sure they’re deleted afterwards.”

  “Then you’re certain nothing nasty can come out of that manufactory?”

  “Not without Panoply’s help,” Thalia said bluntly.

  Caillebot responded with a knowing nod. “A day ago, Prefect, I’d have found that statement almost entirely reassuring.”

  Thalia turned back to the window, ruminating on what the gardener had just said. The machines were working with the manic industry of insects. They had chewed deep into the lowest part of the stalk, exposing the geodesic struts that formed the structure’s scaffolding. Judging by the rubble and remains being shovelled into a waiting hopper, the cutting tools were making short work of that as well.

  “It’s not going to last long,” Thalia said. Then she turned around and looked at the polling core, hoping that she was right about the machines needing to keep it intact, and therefore being unable to launch an all-out attack on the stalk supporting the sphere in which they were sheltering.

  She’d been wrong about several
things already today.

  She hoped this wasn’t another.

  Dreyfus knew something was amiss as soon as he approached the passwall into Jane Aumonier’s sphere and saw the two internal prefects waiting on either side of it, whiphounds drawn, tethered by quick-release lines that ran from their belts to eyelets in the doorframe. The passwall itself was set to obstruct.

  “Is there a problem?” Dreyfus asked mildly. He’d occasionally been barred from talking to Aumonier when she was engaged in some activity that exceeded his Pangolin clearance. But it had never required the presence of security guards, and Aumonier had generally given him fair warning.

  “Sorry, sir,” said the younger of the two guards, “but no one’s allowed to speak to Prefect Aumonier at the moment.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “Not without authorisation from the supreme prefect, sir.”

  Dreyfus looked at the kid as if he was being asked to answer a deceptively simple riddle. “She is the supreme prefect.”

  The young guard looked embarrassed. “Not presently, sir. Prefect Baudry is now acting supreme.”

  “On what grounds was Prefect Aumonier removed from her position?” Dreyfus asked disbelievingly.

  “I’m authorised to tell you that the decision was taken on the basis of medical fitness, sir. I thought you’d been informed, but—”

  “I hadn’t.” He was trying to keep his fury in check, not wanting to take out his anger on this kid the way he had abused Thyssen earlier. “But I still want to talk to Prefect Aumonier.”

  “Prefect Aumonier is in no fit state to talk to anyone,” said a gruff male voice behind Dreyfus. He pushed himself around to see Gaffney floating towards him along the same corridor he’d just traversed. “I’m sorry, Field, but that’s just the way it is.”

  “Let me talk to Jane.”

  Gaffney shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. “I hardly need impress on you how precarious her situation is. The last thing she needs right now is someone upsetting her unnecessarily.”

  “Jane isn’t going to be the one who’s upset if I don’t get to see her.”

  “Easy, Field. I know you’ve had a tough time today. But don’t use it as an excuse to lash out at your superiors.”

  “Did you have any part in removing Jane?”

  “She wasn’t ‘removed.’ She was relieved of the burden of command at a time when it would have been an intolerable imposition for her to have continued.”

  In his peripheral vision, Dreyfus saw that the two guards were looking straight ahead with resolutely neutral expressions, pretending that they were not party to this high-level scuffle. Neither man had summoned the senior prefect. Gaffney must have been lurking nearby, Dreyfus thought: waiting until he tried to visit Aumonier.

  “What’s your angle here?” Dreyfus asked. “Lillian Baudry’s a good prefect when it comes to the details, but she doesn’t have Jane’s grasp of the big picture. You’re counting on her making a mistake, aren’t you?”

  “Why on Earth would I want Lillian to fail?”

  “Because with Jane out of the picture, you’re one step closer to becoming supreme prefect.”

  “I think you’ve said more than enough. If you had the slightest idea how ludicrous you sound, you’d stop now.”

  “Where’s Baudry?”

  “In the tactical room, no doubt. In case it’s escaped your attention, a crisis has been brewing while you’ve been pursuing your own interests.”

  Dreyfus spoke into his bracelet. “Get me Baudry.”

  She answered immediately. “Prefect Dreyfus. I was hoping to hear from you before too long.”

  “Let me talk to Jane.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise. But would you mind coming up to tactical immediately? There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Gaffney looked on with a faint smile. “I was on my way there before I ran into you. Why don’t we go there together?”

  Baudry, Crissel and Clearmountain were in attendance when Dreyfus and Gaffney arrived in the tactical room. The seniors were peering at the Solid Orrery from different angles. Dreyfus noticed that four habitats had been pulled out of the swirl of the ten thousand and enlarged until their structures were visible.

  Crissel indicated a vacant position. “Take a seat, Field Prefect Dreyfus. We were hoping you could explain something to us.”

  Dreyfus remained standing. “I understand you were part of the lynch mob that removed Jane from power while I was outside.”

  “If you insist on characterising events in those terms, then yes, I was party to that decision. Do you have a problem with it?”

  “Have a guess.”

  Crissel stared at him equably, refusing to take the bait. “Perhaps you haven’t been paying attention, but there have been worrying changes in the state of the scarab, likely harbingers of something medically catastrophic.”

  “I’ve been paying plenty of attention.”

  “Then you’ll know that Demikhov is deeply concerned about Jane’s future prognosis. All that thing on her neck is waiting for is a trigger. When her stress hormones float above some arbitrary level, it’s going to snip her spine in two, or blow her to pieces.”

  “Right,” Dreyfus said, as if he was seeing something clearly for the first time. “And you think removing her from office is the key to lowering her stress levels?”

  “She’s in the safest therapeutic regime we can devise. And when this is over, when the crisis is averted, we’ll look into a strategy for returning Jane to at least some level of functional responsibility.”

  “Is that what you told her? Or did you lie and say she could have her old job back when things have blown over?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Gaffney purred, the first time he had spoken since their mutual arrival. He’d taken a seat next to Lillian Baudry. His hands rested on the table, the fingers of one caressing the clenched fist of the other. “Take a look at the Solid Orrery, Field.”

  “I’ve seen it, thanks. It’s very pretty.”

  “Take a better look. Those four habitats—ring any bells?”

  “I don’t know.” Dreyfus smiled sarcastically. “What about you, Senior Prefect Gaffney?”

  “Let me spell it out for you. You’re looking at New Seattle-Tacoma, Chevelure-Sambuke, Szlumper Oneill and House Aubusson. The four habitats Thalia Ng was scheduled to visit and upgrade.”

  Dreyfus felt some of his certainty evaporate. “Go on.”

  “As of just over six hours ago, all four habitats have been unreachable. They’ve dropped off abstraction.” Gaffney scrutinised Dreyfus’s reaction and nodded, as if to emphasize that matters were exactly as grave as they sounded. “All four habitats dropped off the net within sixty milliseconds of each other. That’s comfortably inside the light-crossing time for the Glitter Band, implying a pre-planned, coordinated event.”

  “You’ve always vouched for Thalia Ng,” Crissel said. “Her promotion to field was fast-tracked on your recommendation. Beginning to look like a mistake now, isn’t it?”

  “I still have total faith in her.”

  “Touching, undoubtedly, but the fact is she’s visited four habitats and now they’ve all fallen silent. All she had to do was make a series of minor polling core upgrades. At the very least, doesn’t that suggest procedural incompetence?”

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  “What, then?” Crissel asked, fascinated.

  “I think it’s possible…” But Dreyfus tailed off, feeling a sudden reluctance to state his theory openly. The seniors regarded him with stony-faced indifference. “The deep-system cruiser that rescued us—is it still flight-ready?” he asked.

  Baudry spoke now. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because the one way to settle this is to pay a visit to Aubusson. That’s where Thalia was due last. If one of my deputies is in trouble, I’d like to know about it.”

  “You’ve done enough gallivan
ting around for now,” Gaffney said. “We’re in a state of emergency, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Baudry coughed gently. “Let’s deal with the other matter, shall we? And please—sit down.”

  “What matter would that be?” asked Dreyfus with exaggerated civility. But he took his seat as Baudry had requested.

  “You brought a Conjoiner into Panoply, in express contravention of protocol.”

  Dreyfus shrugged. “Protocol can take a hike.”

  “She can read our goddamn machines, Tom.” Baudry looked to the others for support. “She’s a walking surveillance system. Every operational secret in our core is hers for the taking, and you let her stroll into Panoply without even putting a Faraday cage around her skull.”

  Dreyfus leaned closer. “Isn’t it written down somewhere that we look after victims and go after criminals?”

  Crissel looked exasperated. “We’re not the law-enforcement agency you seem to think we are, Tom. We’re here to ensure that the democratic apparatus functions smoothly. We’re here to punish fraudulent voting. That’s it.”

  “My personal remit extends further than that, but you’re welcome to yours.”

  “Let’s focus on the matter at hand—the Conjoiner woman,” Baudry said insistently. “She may already have done incalculable harm in the short time she’s been inside Panoply. That can’t be helped now. What we can do is make sure that she doesn’t do any more damage.”

  “Do you want me to throw her into space, or will you do it?”

  “Let’s be adult about this, shall we?” Crissel said. “If the Spi—if the Conjoiner woman is a witness, then naturally she must be protected. But not at the expense of our operational secrets. She must be moved to a maximum-security holding facility.”

  “You mean an interrogation bubble.”

  Crissel looked pained. “Call it what you like. She’ll be safer there. More importantly, so will we.”