The Revelation Space Collection (556 page)

‘We were only ever doing our best,’ Baudry said sadly.

‘It wasn’t good enough. Now we have to up our game. The real crisis starts here.’

‘I’m frightened, Tom. They took out a fully armed deep-system cruiser.
That isn’t supposed to happen.’

‘
I’m frightened, too,’ Dreyfus said, ‘but we’re not finished yet. Find Clepsydra. And make sure you go back to the polls. You can lay it on the line this time. We need those guns. And right now I don’t care who gets upset about it.’

Gaffney stared at the surreal spectacle with what he trusted was the appropriate combination of shock and disgust. He stood with his booted feet slightly apart, his back straight, his hands behind his back. His own reaction might be synthetic, but there was no doubting the authenticity of the expressions on the faces of the other internal prefects assembled in Dreyfus’s private quarters. Nor was there any doubt concerning the feelings of Senior Prefect Lillian Baudry.

‘This can’t be right,’ she said, shaking her head as if that might clear her vision and reveal the scene to be a psychological mirage. ‘I know Dreyfus. We’ve crossed swords in the past, but he would never have done this. Not to one of his own witnesses.’

‘There’s never any telling what people will do when they go off the rails,’ Gaffney said, with a kind of lofty regret, as if this was a truth he had privately acknowledged many years ago. ‘Dreyfus always appeared stable to me as well. But recent events have obviously conspired to push him over the edge.’

‘But killing her . . . Sandra Voi. It makes no sense, Sheridan.’

‘Perhaps the witness knew more than she was letting on,’ Gaffney mused. ‘None of us really knows exactly what went on inside that rock. It could be that she knew things that would be damaging to Dreyfus’s reputation.’

‘Why in Voi’s name did he bring her back, in that case?’

‘Formality, I assume. Perhaps Sparver’s presence made it difficult for him not to?’

‘And all the while he planned to kill her?’

‘Look at the evidence,’ Gaffney said, with a humble shrug. ‘Speaks for itself, doesn’t it?’

Clepsydra had died by a shot to the head. That much at least was obvious to any observer, as was the probable point of entry of the ballistic device that had ended her life.

‘Some kind of slug-gun, not a beam weapon,’ Gaffney said. ‘There’s no scorching or cauterisation around the entry wound.’

‘Where do you think she was killed?’

Gaffney looked equivocal. ‘If he shot her in here, the quickmatter architecture will more than likely have soaked up and processed any traces of blood or larger remains splattered on the walls. There’ll be nothing left of it now. If she died a few hours ago, the pieces of her that the room has already absorbed will also have been broken down into their component elements and recycled throughout Panoply by now.’ He touched a finger to his lips. ‘Have you eaten lately?’

‘No,’ Baudry said, with a puzzled expression. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘You might want to avoid the dispensers for a little while. If the idea of eating recycled Conjoiner upsets you, that is. If it doesn’t, tuck right in.’

Baudry paled. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘That’s the way the recycling system works. It’s not programmed to distinguish between human residue and normal domestic waste. There aren’t supposed to be murders
inside
Panoply.’

Baudry glanced down at what was left of the body. ‘Why wasn’t she absorbed completely?’

‘Indigestion, I suppose. Quickmatter has a throughput capacity; it can’t absorb too much in one go without blocking up.’ He forced a pained expression. ‘This definitely counts as too much.’

Clepsydra’s dead body had been half-absorbed into the floor before the quickmatter had choked and curtailed its efforts to process her. The effect was of a sculpture abandoned: a woman’s body half-embedded in smooth black marble. Her crested head and upper torso, her shoulders and upper arms were exposed. Her lower arms, belly and hips gave the impression of being submerged beneath the floorline. The four fingers of her right hand pushed up through the surface like stone sentinels, stiff in death. Her left leg emerged from the floor, rose to the arch of her knee, then plunged back into the absorbing surface.

‘Is this . . . all that’s left?’ Baudry asked.

‘I’m afraid so. Your mind insists that there must be an intact body under the floor, like a corpse smothered in quicksand. But really there’s nothing there. The protruding parts are disconnected. ’ Gaffney pushed the toe of his boot against the arch formed by Clepsydra’s visible leg, toppling it over. Baudry glanced sharply away, then allowed her gaze to return to the spectacle. Where the leg had been in contact with the floor, it had left two circular depressions. Stringy fibres of partially processed organic matter trailed from the leg to the floor.

‘She deserved better than this,’ Baudry said. ‘There’ll be hell to pay when the other Conjoiners find out that she died in custody.’

‘We didn’t kill her,’ Gaffney said gently. ‘This is on Dreyfus’s shoulders, not ours.’

‘I still don’t see why he would have done this, let alone how. To get a body from one part of the station to another, without any of us seeing a thing - how did Dreyfus manage that?’

‘It isn’t any old body, Lillian. It’s the body of Dreyfus’s prisoner, held in Dreyfus’s room. He’s the last person known to have seen her alive. That’s reason enough to close the vice, in my view.’

‘And what kind of vice would that be?’

Gaffney fingered the black shaft of his whiphound, still clipped to his belt. ‘We need answers, and we need them fast. Dreyfus may not be inclined to give much away without a little encouragement.’

‘I’ll talk to him, see what he has to say.’

‘No disrespect, but Dreyfus isn’t going to just roll over and confess, even if you present him with a body. You saw how eager he was to implicate me.’

Baudry looked down at the atrocity on the floor. ‘I still can’t see Dreyfus having any part in this. Everything I know about him says he isn’t a murderer, or a traitor.’

‘It’s always the quiet ones.’ Gaffney sensed some agonised decision-making churning behind the smooth surface of her brow.

‘I don’t like the way this is going. But this
is
a state of emergency. I’ll consider issuing a trawl order, if you think it necessary. A minimally invasive scan only. I don’t want him hurt or distressed in any way.’

‘Too many unknowns here, Lillian. Trawling wouldn’t be the tool of choice in this instance.’

‘Then what do you recommend?’

‘There are other methods in our toolkit. Do you want me to be more specific?’

‘Please tell me you’re not talking about torture.’

Gaffney winced. ‘Old term, not really applicable in a modern context. Torture is needles under the fingernails, electrodes to the genitals. Messy and imprecise. The new intelligence-extraction methods are a lot more refined. Really, it’s like comparing trepanning to modern brain surgery. Of course, if you’d rather I went in with a deep-cortex trawl—’

Baudry turned away. ‘I don’t want to hear any of this.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Gaffney said, offering her a reassuring smile. ‘You can just sit back and wait for the results.’

‘He’s one of us,’ she said.

Gaffney tapped the whiphound. ‘And I’ll see that he’s treated with the appropriate respect.’

Though she had been scrupulous in concealing her suspicions from the others, Thalia had come to the private conclusion that there would be no rescue, at least not at the hands of Senior Prefect Crissel. Five hours had now passed since they had spoken, and there had been no sign of his promised boarding party. Crissel had warned her that it would take time to reach her, but she knew that she should have seen some evidence of his arrival by now. She had been looking through the windows of the polling core, down the darkened tube of House Aubusson towards the equally dark endcap where she had arrived a lifetime ago. She had detected no trace of human activity, not even the moving lights of the endcap elevators. Nor had there been any further communication from Crissel or any of his deputies. For a little while she had allowed herself to believe that they had met with unexpected resistance, and had pulled back to wait for reinforcements from Panoply. But over the course of those five hours her hopes had steadily eroded. She did not think it likely that Crissel or any of his prefects had survived long after their conversation. More than likely the rogue machines had taken them as soon as they entered Aubusson.

Throughout those five hours, she had watched the external activity continue apace, with no evidence that Crissel’s arrival had affected the schedule to any meaningful degree. Construction servitors had worked tirelessly, tearing down the buildings, roads and bridges that had once served the habitat’s human population. As Aubusson’s night began to give way to a cool, grey dawn, Thalia surveyed a landscape of utter desolation. The stalk of the polling core was the only large structure still standing for kilometres in any direction. The surrounding buildings had been reduced to powdered rubble, sifted of anything that might prove useful for the manufactories. Grey dust had settled on the grass and trees and water. It was difficult to reconcile the scoured, lifeless waste-land with her memories of Aubusson as it had appeared less than a day earlier. A landscape this desolate should only be the product of years of warfare, not hours of mechanised industry.

Crissel’s absence was not the only thing sharpening her anxieties. After she had finished cutting up the granite plinth to provide more barricade material, she had resumed her watch by the window. Not long after Crissel’s call, she had seen one of the construction servitors pass close to the base of the stalk. It had been one of the open-topped carriers, but instead of rubble it had been carrying a different, infinitely more disturbing cargo. The machine had been full to the brim with human bodies, piled ten or twenty deep. There must have been thousands of them in just that one load, tossed into the container like so much recovered scrap. And that was just what they were, Thalia realised. The machine carrying the bodies was heading in the same direction as all the others, carrying raw material to the manufactories. The dead people would be processed, stripped down, reutilised. Even if their meat bodies yielded nothing of value, there were useful metals, semiconductors, superconductors and organic compounds inside their skulls, courtesy of their Demarchist implants.

Until that moment she had believed that the machines were only imposing totalitarian rule. She had seen bodies being dumped into the ornamental fountain, but had convinced herself that these had been people who’d disobeyed in some fashion. Now she knew that the servitors were engaged in systematic mass murder. The people she had seen outside, being rounded up and lectured to, were not being herded together to make them easier to police, easier to subdue. They were being rounded up so that they could be euthanised and fed to the manufactories.

Thalia had no way of knowing how many of the eight hundred thousand citizens inside House Aubusson had met a similar fate. But she did not think it likely that there were many exceptions. The servitors had assumed control with startling speed, and the constables had unwittingly abetted them by advising the people to remain calm and follow the directives of Lucas Thesiger. But Thesiger could quite easily have been one of those carelessly stacked bodies.

Thalia knew then that she did not have much time left. The only reason the machines had not torn the stalk down already was that the servitors could not risk damaging the polling core. But they would find a way eventually. Whatever intelligence was guiding them, it was cleverer than any individual servitor. And that intelligence, Thalia was certain, knew all about her and her little party of survivors. Even now, it would be working out a way to kill them. If the machines didn’t get through the barricade (and she wasn’t optimistic about it keeping them out for much longer) then they would explore alternative approaches. Thalia had one deterrent, which was that she could destroy or at least incapacitate the core. But if she played that hand and the machines somehow kept coming, she had nothing else to offer.

‘They’re getting louder,’ Parnasse said quietly, joining her by the little round window.

‘What are, Cyrus?’

‘The machines on the other side of the barricade. They’re working their way through it piece by piece, getting closer and closer to the top. I doubt there’s more than ten or fifteen metres of obstruction between us and them. I’ve tried to play it down, but the others are starting to notice.’

Thalia was mindful to keep her expression fixed, betraying nothing that would upset the nervous disposition of the other citizens. ‘How long?’

‘It’s coming up close to dawn now. We’ve still got some junk we can throw down the stairs, but most of the heavy stuff’s already gone. The barricade may hold until noon, but I’d say we’ll be doing extraordinarily well if it’s still up by sundown.’

‘Cyrus, I need to tell you something. I’ve seen something very bad out there.’ When he said nothing, she continued softly, ‘I didn’t mention it earlier because you had enough to be thinking about. But now you need to know.’

‘The bodies? Being carried away?’