‘I will.’
‘You should think about conserving air,’ Sparver said, in a gently reminding tone. ‘These m-suits don’t recirculate, Boss. You’re only good for twenty-six hours.’
‘That’s about twenty-four hours longer than I expect to be here.’
‘Just saying we need to allow for all eventualities. I can make it back to the corvette; you may not be able to.’
‘Point taken,’ Dreyfus said.
The suit was indeed still assuring him that the air surrounding him was breathable. He clearly had little to lose by trusting it. He reached up and unlatched the helmet; the suit had been conjured in one piece, but it obliged by splitting into familiar components.
He sucked in his first lungful of cold, new air. After the initial shock of it hitting his system, he judged that it was tolerable, with little of the mustiness he’d been anticipating.
‘I’m breathing ambient air, Sparv. No ill effects so far.’
‘Good. All I’ve got to do now is kid this system that I’m a valid user, and then we should get ourselves a hotline to Panoply. I’ll be out of touch when I’m calling home — I’ll have to reassign the suit-to-suit channel to make this work.’
‘Whatever you have to do.’
Dreyfus pressed the helmet against his belt until it formed a cusp-like bond. He’d made perhaps another hundred metres of progress when he encountered a junction in the shaft. The main tunnel, the one he’d been following, continued unobstructed ahead, but now it was joined by another route, set at right angles and leading towards the centre of the rock.
‘Sparver,’ he said, ‘slight change of plan. While I’m not using suit air, I’m going to explore a sub-shaft I’ve just run into. It appears to head deeper. My guess is it leads to whatever this place is concealing.’
‘You be careful.’
‘As ever.’
The new shaft turned out to be much shorter than the one they’d descended from the surface, and within thirty metres he detected a widening at the far end. Dreyfus continued his approach, caution vying with curiosity, and emerged into a hemispherical chamber set with heavy glass facets. His helmet lamp played across the bolted and welded partitions between the window elements. Beyond the glass loomed a profound darkness, more absolute than space itself, as if the very heart of the rock had been cored out.
‘It’s hollow, an empty shell,’ he said to himself, as much in wonder as perplexity.
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.’
