But, she thought, seeking composure before she turned around, the citizens in her care must not see how frightened she was. She had come into their world bearing the authority of Panoply and that was the role she was obliged to continue playing. She had failed them once; twice if she included the mistake with the polling core that had created this mess in the first place. She could not let them down again.
“So what’s the next step in your plan?” Caillebot asked, with a sarcastic lilt that Thalia couldn’t help but detect.
“The next step is we stay put,” she said.
“Up here?”
“We’re safe here,” she said, mentally deleting the ’for now’ that she had been about to add.
“This is as good a place to wait as anywhere we could have picked in the habitat.”
“Wait for what, exactly?” Caillebot asked.
She’d been expecting the gardener to start needling her as soon as they were inside the core.
“For Panoply, Citizen. They’re on their way. There’ll be a deep-system cruiser docked with us before you can blink.”
“It’ll take more than a few prefects to deal with those machines.”
Thalia touched the buzzing remains of her whiphound. It was uncomfortably hot against her thigh, like a metal bar cooling down from a furnace.
“They’ll have the tools for the job, don’t you worry about that. All we have to do is hold out until they get here. That’s our part of the equation.”
“‘Hold out’,” repeated Paula Thory mockingly. The plump woman was sitting on one of the inert-matter benches encircling the pearl-grey pillar of the polling core.
“You make it sound so easy, like waiting for a train.”
Thalia walked over to the woman and knelt down to bring them face to face.
“I’m not asking you to run a mile. We’re perfectly safe up here.”
“Those barricades won’t hold for ever.”
“They don’t have to.”
“Well, isn’t that reassuring.”
Thalia fought to keep herself from snapping at the woman, or worse. Paula Thory had only joined the chain gang grudgingly, when she realised that she would be the only one refusing to assist in the work effort. It had been difficult and exhausting, but between them they must have shoved at least three tonnes of junk down the elevator shaft, and at least as much again down the winding spiral of the staircase. They’d created a barricade out of ancient dead servitors and decrepit computers and interface devices, many of which must have come to the Yellowstone system from Earth and were probably several hundred years old at the very least. There’d even been something huge and metal, a kind of open iron
chassis crammed with cogs and ratchets. It had made a most impressive racket as it tumbled down the stairs.
Thalia had called for a rest period, but three citizens—Parnasse, Redon and Cuthbertson—were still shovelling junk down the lift shaft and stairs. Every now and then Thalia would hear a muffled crump as the material hit the bottom of the shaft, or a more drawn-out avalanche of sound as something tumbled down the stairs.
“It doesn’t have to hold for ever because we’re not staying up here for ever,” she said.
“Help will arrive before the machines get through the barricades. And even if it doesn’t, we’re working on a contingency plan.”
Thory looked falsely interested.
“Which would be?”
“You’ll hear about it when all the pieces are in place. Until then all you have to do is sit tight and help with the barricades when you feel willing and able.”
If Paula Thory took that as a barb, she showed no evidence of it.
“I think you’re keeping something from us, Prefect—the fact that you haven’t got a clue how we’re going to get out of this mess.”
“You’re perfectly welcome to leave, in that case,” Thalia said, with exaggerated niceness.
“Look!” Jules Caillebot called suddenly from his vantage point by the window.
Thalia stood up, grateful for any excuse not to have to deal with Thory.
“What is it, Citizen?” she said as she strolled over.
“Big machines are moving in.”
Thalia looked out over the darkening panorama. Though it was becoming increasingly difficult to make out distinct objects anywhere in the habitat—nightfall had come with dismaying speed—the machines Caillebot spoke of were at least partially illuminated. As large as houses, they were moving in several slow processions through the civic grounds around the Museum of Cybernetics. They advanced on crawler tracks and huge lumbering wheels, crushing their way across walkways and through tree lines.
“What are they?” Thalia asked.
“Heavy construction servitors, I think,” Caillebot said.
“There’s been a lot of building work going on lately, especially around the new marina at Radiant Point.”
Thalia wondered what kind of damage those machines could do to the stalk supporting the polling core. Although she had not voiced her thoughts to the others, she had convinced herself that the machines would not do anything that might damage the core itself. Abstraction might be down for the citizens, but as far as she could tell, the machines were still being coordinated via low-level data transmissions that were dependent on the core. But that was just her theory, not something she was in any mood to see put to the test.
“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.