Aurora Rising

by Alastair Reynolds

  Some flicker of that unease must have showed on his face.

  “I still frighten you,” she said, very quietly. “But you came unarmed, with not even a knife for protection.”

  “I’ve still got my acid wit.”

  “Now tell me exactly what it is I have to fear. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something very, very bad.”

  “It’s begun,” Dreyfus said. “Aurora’s takeover. We’ve lost control of four habitats. Attempts to land ships on them have been met by hostile action.”

  “I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

  “When Sparver and I found you, she must have realised Panoply were closing in fast. She decided to go with just the four habitats that were already compromised rather than wait for the upgrade software to be installed across the entire ten thousand.”

  Clepsydra looked puzzled. “What good will that do her? Even if you have lost control of those habitats now, you still have access to the resources of the rest of the Glitter Band, not to mention Panoply’s own capabilities. Aurora will not be able to hold out indefinitely.”

  “I’m guessing she assumes she can.”

  “All the times I sensed Aurora’s mind, I detected an intense strategic cunning; a constantly probing machinelike evaluation of shifting probabilities. This is not a mind capable of pointless gestures, or elementary lapses of judgement.” Clepsydra paused. “Have you had any formal contact with her?”

  “Not a squeak. Other than our theory about the Nerval-Lermontovs, we still don’t really know who she is.”

  “You believe she was one of the Eighty?”

  Dreyfus nodded. “But everything we know says that all of the Eighty failed. Aurora was one of the most famous cases. How can we have been wrong about that?”

  “What if there was something different about her simulation? Some essential detail that varied from the others? I told you that we were aware of Calvin Sylveste’s procedures. We know that he fine-tuned some of the neural-mapping and simulation parameters from one volunteer to the next. Superficially, it appeared to make no difference to the outcome. But what if it did?”

  “I don’t follow. She either died or she didn’t.”

  “Consider this, Prefect. After her Transmigration, Aurora was truly conscious in her alpha-level embodiment. She was aware of the other seventy-nine volunteers, in close contact with many of them. They’d hoped to form a community of minds, an immortal elite above the rest of corporeal humanity. But then Aurora saw the others failing: their simulations stalling, or locking into endless recursive loops. And she began to fear for herself, even as she suspected that she might be different, immune to whatever deficiency was stalking her comrades. But she was truly fearful for another reason.”

  “Which was?” Dreyfus asked.

  “By the time the last of the Eighty was scanned, the true nature of what Calvin was attempting had begun to percolate through to the mass consciousness. What he had in mind was not simply a new form of immortality, to improve upon what was already available via drugs and surgery and medichines. Calvin sought the creation of an entirely new and superior stratum of existence. The Eighty wouldn’t just be invulnerable and ageless. They’d be faster, cleverer, almost limitless in their potentiality. They would make the Conjoiners seem almost Neanderthal. Can you guess what happened next, Prefect?”

  “A backlash, perhaps?”

  “Groups began to emerge, petitioning for tighter controls over the Eighty. They wanted Calvin’s subjects to be confined to firewall-shielded computational architectures—minds in cages, if you will. More hardline elements wanted the Eighty to be frozen, so that the implications of what they were could be studied exhaustively before they were allowed to resume simulated consciousness. Even more extreme factions wanted the Eighty to be deleted, as if their very patterns were a threat to civilised society.”

  “But they didn’t get their way.”

  “No, but the tide was growing. Had the Eighty not begun to fail of their own accord, there’s no telling how strong the anti-Transmigration movement might have become. Those of the Eighty who were still functioning must have seen the walls closing in.”

  “Aurora amongst them.”

  “It’s just a theory. But if she suspected that her kind were going to be hounded and persecuted, that her own existence was in danger even if she didn’t succumb to stasis or recursion, might she not have devised a scheme to ensure her own survival?”

  “Fake her own stasis, in other words. Leave a data corpse. But in the meantime the real Aurora was somewhere else. She must have escaped into the wider architecture of the entire Glitter Band, like a rat under the floorboards.”

  “I think there is a very real possibility that this is what happened.”

  “Were there other survivors?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly. But the only mind I ever sensed clearly was Aurora’s. Even if there are more, I think she is the strongest of them. The figurehead. The one with the dreams and plans.”

  “So here comes the big question,” Dreyfus said. “If Aurora’s really behind the loss of those four habitats—and it’s starting to look as if she is—what does she want?”

  “The only thing that has ever mattered to her: her own long-term survival.” Clepsydra smiled gravely. “Where you figure in that is another matter entirely.”

  “Me personally?”

  “I mean baseline humanity, Prefect.”

  After a moment Dreyfus asked, “Would the Conjoiners help us if we were in trouble?”

  “As you helped us on Mars two hundred and twenty years ago?”

  “I thought we were over all that.”

  “Some of us have long memories. Perhaps we would help you, as you might help an animal caught in a trap. Lately, though, we have our own concerns.”

  “Even after everything Aurora did to you?”

  “Aurora poses no threat to the greater community of the Conjoined. You might as well take revenge on the sea for drowning someone.”

  “Then you’ll do nothing.”

  He thought that was the end of it, but after a long silence she said, “I admit I would find… consolation in seeing her hurt.”

  Dreyfus nodded approvingly. “Then you do feel something. You’ve notched down those old baseline human emotions, but you haven’t expunged them completely. She did something horrific to you and your crew, and part of you needs to hit back.”

  “Except there is nothing to hit.”

  “But if we could identify her vulnerabilities, find a way to make life difficult for her… would you help us?”

  “I wouldn’t hinder you.”

  “I know you looked deep into our data architecture before I brought you into this room. You told me you’d seen nothing of interest. But now that the damage is done, I want you to sift through that information again. It’s all in your head. Look at it from different angles. If you can find something, anything, no matter how apparently inconsequential, that sheds any light on Aurora’s location or nature, or how we might strike back, I need to know about it.”

  “There may be nothing.”

  “But there’s no harm in looking.”

  A tightness appeared in her face. “It will take a while. Do not expect me to give you an answer immediately.”

  “That’s all right,” Dreyfus said. “I’ve got another witness I need to speak to.”

  Just when he thought they were done, that she had said everything she wanted to say to him, Clepsydra spoke again.

  “Dreyfus.”

  “Yes?”

  “I do not forgive your kind for what they did to us on Mars, or for the years of persecution that followed. It would be a betrayal of Galiana’s memory were I to do that.” Then she looked him in the eyes, daring him not to reciprocate. “But you are not like those men. You have been kind to me.”

  Dreyfus called by the Turbine hall and sought out Trajanova, the woman he’d spoken to after the earlier accident. He was gladdened to see that two of the four mach
ines were now spinning again, even if they were obviously not operating at normal capacity. The machine nearest the destroyed unit was still stationary, with at least a dozen technicians visible inside the transparent casing. As for the destroyed machine itself, there was now little evidence that it had ever existed. The remains of the casing had been removed, leaving circular apertures in the floor and ceiling. Technicians crowded around both sites, directing heavy servitors to assist them in the slow process of installing a new unit.

  “You’ve obviously been busy,” Dreyfus told Trajanova.

  “Field prefects aren’t the only ones who work hard in this organisation.”

  “I know. And my remark wasn’t intended as a slight. We’ve all been under pressure and I appreciate the work that’s gone on down here. I’ll make sure the supreme prefect hears about it.”

  “And which supreme prefect would that be?”

  “Jane Aumonier, of course. No disrespect to Lillian Baudry, but Jane’s the only one who matters in the long run.”

  Trajanova looked sideways, not quite able to meet Dreyfus’s eyes. “For what it’s worth… I don’t agree with what happened. Down here we have a lot of respect for Jane.”

  “She’s earned it from all of us.”

  There was an awkward silence. Across the room someone hammered at something.

  “What will happen now?” Trajanova asked at length.

  “We work for Lillian, just as we worked for Jane. I don’t know what else you’ve heard, but we have a new crisis on our hands.” Dreyfus chose to volunteer information, hoping it might calm some of the troubled water between them. “I need to resume interviews with my beta-level subjects: I’m hoping that they can shed some light on what’s going on and how we can stop it.”

  Trajanova looked at the two spinning Search Turbines. “Those units are running at half-capacity. I can’t risk spinning them any faster. But I could prioritise your search queries, if that would help. You wouldn’t notice much difference.”

  “I can still run my recoverables?”

  “Yes, there’s more than enough capacity for that.”

  “Good work, Trajanova.” After a moment, he said, “I know things didn’t work out between us when you were my deputy, but I’ve never had the slightest doubt concerning your professional competence down here.”

  She considered his remark before answering. “Prefect…” she began.

  “What is it?”

  “What you said before—the last time we spoke. About how you’d had the feeling your own query had triggered the accident?”

  Dreyfus waved a dismissive hand. “It was foolish of me. These things happen.”

  “Not down here they don’t. I checked the search log and you were right. Of all the queries handled by the Turbines in the final second before the accident, yours was the last one to come in. You searched for priors on the Nerval-Lermontov family, correct?”

  “Yes,” Dreyfus said cautiously.

  “Just after your query was shuffled into the process stack, the Turbine began to exceed its own maximum authorised spin rate. It spun itself apart in less than one quarter of a second.”

  “It must still have been a coincidence.”

  “Prefect, now I’m the one trying to convince you. Something went wrong, but I don’t believe it was coincidence. The operating logic of one of these things is complex, and much of the instruction core was lost when the Turbine failed. But if I could ever piece it back together, I think I know what I’d find. Your search query was a trigger. Someone had implanted a trap in the operating logic, waiting to be primed by your question.”

  Dreyfus mulled over her hypothesis. It dovetailed with his suspicions, but it was another thing entirely to hear it from Trajanova’s lips.

  “You honestly think someone could have done that?”

  “I could have done it, if I’d had the mind to. For anyone else, it would have been a lot more difficult. Frankly, I don’t see how they could have done it without triggering high-level security flags. But somehow they managed.”

  “Thank you,” Dreyfus said softly. “I appreciate your candour. Given what’s happened, are you satisfied that I won’t cause any more damage just by querying the system?”

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ve installed manual overspeed limits on both operating Turbs. No matter what traps may still be lurking in the logic, I don’t think the Turbs will be able to self-destruct. Go ahead and ask whatever you need to ask.”

  “I will,” Dreyfus said. “But I’ll tread ever so softly.”

  Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious appraised him with her sea-green eyes, cool as ice. “You look very tired. More so than last time, and you already looked tired back then. Is something the matter?”

  Dreyfus pressed a fat finger against the side of his brow, where a vein was throbbing. “Things have been busy.”

  “Have you made progress on the case?”

  “Sort of. I’ve an idea who may have been behind the murders but I’m still not seeing a motive. I was hoping you’d be able to join a few dots for me.”

  Delphine pushed strands of dirty black hair under the cloth scarf she wore as a hairband. “You’ll have to join some for me first. Who is this suspect you’re thinking of?”

  Dreyfus sipped from the bulb of coffee he’d conjured just before stepping into the room. “My deputy and I followed an evidence chain, trying to find out who called your habitat to put you off making the deal with Dravidian. The lead we followed brought us to the name of another family in the Glitter Band.”

  Delphine’s eyes narrowed.

  Genuine interest, Dreyfus thought.

  “Who?” she asked.

  Feeling as if he was treading across a minefield, he said, “The Nerval-Lermontovs. Do you know of them?”

  Beneath the workstained white smock, her slight shoulders moved in an easy shrug. “I know of them. Who doesn’t? They were one of the big families, fifty or sixty years ago.”

  “What about a specific connection with your family?”

  “If there is one, I can’t think of it. We didn’t move in the same social orbits.”

  “Then there’s no specific reason you can think of why the Nerval-Lermontovs would want to hurt your family?”

  “None whatsoever. If you have a theory, I’d love to hear it.”

  “I don’t,” Dreyfus said. “But I was hoping you might.”

  “It can’t be the answer,” she said. “The trail you followed must have led you up a blind alley. The Nerval-Lermontovs would never have done something to my family. They’ve had their share of tragedy, but that doesn’t make them murderers.”

  “You mean Aurora?”

  “She was just a girl when it happened to her, Prefect. Calvin Sylveste’s machines ate her mind and spat out a clockwork zombie.”

  “So I heard.”

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “Suppose a member of the Nerval-Lermontov family was planning something.”

  “Such as?”

  “Like, say, a forced takeover of part of the Glitter Band.”

  She nodded shrewdly. “Hypothetically, of course. If something like that was actually happening, you’d have told me, wouldn’t you?”

  Dreyfus smiled tightly. “If it was, can you think of a reason why your family might have posed an obstacle to those plans?”

  “What kind of obstacle?”

  “All the evidence at my disposal says that someone connected with the Nerval-Lermontov family arranged for the torching of your habitat. Dravidian had nothing to do with it: he was set up, his ship and crew infiltrated by people who knew how to trigger a Conjoiner drive.”

  “Why?”

  “Wish I knew, Delphine. But here’s a guess: someone or something connected with the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble was considered a threat to those plans.”

  “I can’t imagine who or what,” she said defiantly. “We were just minding our own business. Anthony Theobald was trying to marry me into a rich industr
ial combine. He had his friends, people who came to visit him, but they weren’t acquaintances of mine. Vernon just wanted to be with me, even if that meant being spurned by his family. I had my art…”

  The second time he had invoked her, she had mentioned visitors to Anthony Theobald. When he’d pressed her for more information, she’d become reticent. A family secret, something she’d sworn not to talk about? Perhaps. He’d gone easy on her since then, earning her trust, but he knew that the matter could not be put off indefinitely.

  He would have to come at it sideways.

  “Let’s talk about the art. Maybe there’s a clue there that we’re missing.”

  “But we’ve already been over that: the art was just a pretext, an excuse to disguise the true reason we were murdered.”

  “I wish I could convince myself of that, but there’s a connection that won’t stop surfacing. The family that did this to you had close ties with House Sylveste because of what happened to their daughter. And your breakthrough art—the pieces that started getting you attention—were inspired by Philip Lascaille’s journey into the Shroud. Lascaille was a ‘guest’ of House Sylveste when he drowned in that fish pond.”

  “Is there an aspect of life in this system that those bloody people haven’t dug their claws into?”

  “Maybe not. But I’m still convinced there’s a link.”

  She took so long to answer that for a while he thought she was ignoring the question, treating it with contempt. As if a policeman could have the slightest insight into the artistic process…

  “I told you how it happened. How one day I stepped back from a work in progress and felt that something had been guiding my hand, shaping the face to look like Lascaille.”