The Revelation Space Collection (532 page)

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 hindsight 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.’

‘Tell me how you stay ahead of the curve,’ Thalia said.

‘With blood, sweat and toil. All of us take our issues seriously. That’s what citizenship in Aubusson entails. You don’t get to live here unless you can hold a weighted voting average above one point two five. That means we’re all required to think very seriously about the issues we vote on. Not just from a personal perspective, not just from the perspective of House Aubusson, but from the standpoint of the greater good of the entire Glitter Band. And it pays off for us, of course. It’s how we make our living - by trading on our prior shrewdness. Because our votes are disproportionately effective, we are
very
attractive to lobbyists from other communities. On marginal issues, they pay us to listen to what they have to say, knowing that a block vote from Aubusson may swing the result by a critical factor. That’s where the money comes from.’

‘Political bribes?’

‘Hardly. They buy our attention, our willingness to listen. That doesn’t guarantee that we will vote according to their wishes. If all we did was follow the money, our collective indices would ramp down to one before you could blink. Then we’d be no use to anyone.’

‘It’s a balancing act,’ put in Caillebot. ‘To remain useful to the lobbyists, we must maintain a degree of independence from them. This is the central paradox of our existence. But it is the paradox that allows me to spend my time designing gardens, and Paula to breed her butterflies.’

Thory leaned forward. ‘Since we’ve been on this train, I’ve already participated in two polling transactions. There’s a third coming up in two minutes. Minor issues, in the scheme of things - the kinds of things most citizens let their predictive routines take care of.’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘You wouldn’t have. Most of us are so used to the process now that it’s almost autonomic, like blinking. But we take each and every vote as seriously as the last.’ Thory must have seen something amiss in Thalia’s expression, for she leaned forward concernedly. ‘Everything I’ve just described is completely legal, Prefect. Panoply wouldn’t allow it to happen otherwise.’

‘I know it’s legal. I just didn’t think it had become systematized, made the basis for a whole community.’

‘Does that distress you?’

‘No,’ Thalia answered truthfully. ‘If the system allows it, it’s fine by me. But it just reminds me how many surprises the Glitter Band still has in store.’

‘This is the most complex, variegated society in human history,’ Thory said. ‘It’s a machine for surprising people.’

Dreyfus studied the spectacle of the ship floating before him, pinned in the vivid blue lights at the core of the Nerval-Lermontov rock. It was a midnight-black form in a pitch-black cavern. He did not so much see the ship as detect the subtle gradation in darkness between its hull and the background surface of the rock’s hollowed-out heart. It was like an exercise in optical trickery, a perceptual mirage that kept slipping out of his cognitive grasp.

But he knew exactly what he was looking at. Though it was smaller than most, the vehicle was clearly a starship. It had the sleek, tapering hull of a lighthugger, and the two swept-back spars that held the complicated nacelles of its twin drives. He remembered the burning wreck of the
Accompaniment of Shadows
, its own engines snipped off to become prizes for other Ultras. But as soon as its shape stabilised in his imagination, he knew that this was no Ultra starship.

Dreyfus smiled to himself. He’d felt the scope of the investigation widening the moment a connection to the Eighty entered the frame. But nothing had prepared him for this shift in perspective.

‘Keep talking to me, Boss. I’m still on the line.’

‘There’s a Conjoiner ship here. It’s just sitting in the middle of the rock.’

Sparver paused before answering. Dreyfus could imagine him working through the ramifications of the discovery.

‘Remind me: what have Conjoiners got to do with our case?’

‘That’s what I’m very eager to find out.’

‘How did the ship get where it is?’

‘No idea. Can’t see any sign of a door in the chamber, and there definitely wasn’t one on the outside. Almost looks as if it’s been walled-up in here, encased in rock.’

‘You think the Conjoiners hid it here for a reason?’

Dreyfus brushed his hand over the control panel again. ‘I don’t think so. Apart from the ship itself, nothing in the rock looks Conjoiner. It’s more as if the ship’s being held here by someone else.’

‘Someone managed to capture and contain a Conjoiner ship? That’s a pretty good trick in anyone’s book.’

‘I agree,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Next question: why would anyone do that? What would they hope to gain?’

Dreyfus looked at the one facet in the chamber that was burnished silver and realised that it was a sealed door rather than an opaque panel in the bank of windows. The chamber’s illumination traced the ribbed tube of a docking connector, stretching across space from the door panel to meet the light-sucking hull of the ship.

‘That’s what I’m going to have to go aboard to find out.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Boss.’

Dreyfus turned to the panel again. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to leave. But the policeman in him had to know what was inside that ship; what secret was worth murdering to protect.

His hand alighted on another toggle control, this one marked {X} - the universal symbol for an airlock actuator. The silver panel whisked aside silently and smoothly. Sensing his intentions, lights came on in sequence along the connector. The golden band arced down until it vanished into a docking port on the side of the lighthugger.

Nothing now prevented him from boarding.

‘I’m going inside. Call me back as soon as you get through to Panoply.’

While Thalia had been talking with her House Aubusson companions, they had crossed another window band spanning a brief ocean of space and stars (most of which were in fact other habitats), and now the train was slowing as it neared its destination. They crossed a series of manicured lawns, skimming high above them on a filigreed wisp of a bridge, then descended back down to ground level. On either side, Thalia saw the tapering stalks of the Museum of Cybernetics, each structure rising at least a hundred metres into the air, each surmounted by a smooth blue-grey sphere, each sphere marked with a symbol from the hallowed history of information processing. There was the ampersand, which had once symbolised a primitive form of abstraction. There was an ever-tumbling hourglass, still the universal symbol for an active computational process. There was the apple with a chunk missing, which (so Thalia had been led to believe) commemorated the suicidal poisoning of the info-theorist Turing himself.

The train plunged into a tunnel, then slowed to a smooth halt in a plaza under the central stalk of the polling core. People came and went from trains parked at adjoining platforms, but Thalia’s party had an entire section of the station to themselves, screened off by servitors and glass barriers. They rode escalators into hazy daylight, surrounded by the ornamental gardens and rock pools clustering around the base of the main stalk. Nearby, a bright blue servitor was diligently trimming a hedge into the shape of a peacock, its cutting arms moving with lightning speed as it executed the three-dimensional template in its memory.