“There’s only one thing that could have done that, isn’t there? And it isn’t even a weapon.”
“We see things similarly,” Aumonier said. The walls of the tactical room were finely grained teak, varnished to a forbidding gleam. There were no windows or pictures, no humanising touches. The heavy, dark furniture was all inert matter: grown, cut and constructed by nature and carpentry. The double doors were cased in hammered bronze, studded with huge brass bolts, each door inlaid with a stylised version of the raised gauntlet that was Panoply’s symbol. The gauntlet was supposed to signify protection, but it could just as easily be interpreted as a threatening fist, clenched to smash down on its enemies or those who failed it.
“Begin please, Ng,” said the man sitting opposite Thalia, Senior Prefect Michael Crissel. She placed the recovered diskettes on the table’s edge, almost dropping them in her nervousness.
“Thank you, Senior Prefect. These are the triplicate physical summary packages from the Perigal polling core.” She nodded at the clockwork-gear shape of the Perigal habitat, imaged as a tiny representation in the tactical room’s Solid Orrery, enlarged and elevated above its real orbital plane.
“The data has now been copied into our archives, all one thousand days’ worth of it. I’ve verified that the three triplicate summaries are consistent, with no indication of tampering.”
“And your findings?”
“I’ve only had a few hours to look into things, which really isn’t enough time to do more than skim—”. Senior Prefect Gaston Clearmountain growled his impatience.
“Cut the blather, Ng. Just tell us what you have.”
“Sir,” Thalia said, almost stammering.
“Preliminary analysis confirms everything in the lockdown report. House Perigal were indeed guilty of tampering with the democratic process. On at least eight occasions they were able to bias voting patterns in marginal polls, either to their advantage, or to the advantage of their allies. There may be more instances. We’ll have a clearer picture when we’ve run a full audit on the packages.”
“I was hoping for a clearer picture now,” Clearmountain said. Senior Prefect Sheridan Gaffney leaned forward in his huge black chair with a creak of leather.
“Easy on her, Gaston,” he growled.
“She’s been under a lot of pressure to pull this together at short notice.”
Gaffney had a reputation for having a short fuse and a marked intolerance for fools. But as head of both Internal Security and whiphound training, the gruff-voiced Gaffney had always treated Thalia with impeccable fairness, even encouragement. She now perceived him as her only unambiguous ally in the room. It would have been different if Dreyfus or Jane Aumonier had been present, but Dreyfus was absent (his Pangolin clearance would have allowed him to sit in on the meeting even though he wasn’t a senior) and the position where the supreme prefect normally manifested—beamed into the room as a projection—was conspicuously empty. On her way to the room, Thalia had picked up rumours that some other crisis was brewing, something unrelated to the lockdown they’d recently performed.
The other seniors were neither on her side nor against her. Michael Crissel was a gentle-looking man with scholarly features and a diffident manner. By all accounts he’d been an excellent field prefect once, but he’d spent most of the last twenty years inside Panoply, becoming detached from the hard reality of duty outside. Lillian Baudry’s field career had come to an end when she was blown apart by a malfunctioning whiphound. They’d put her back together again, but her nervous system had never been the same. She could have surrendered herself to the medical expertise available elsewhere in the Glitter Band, but the security implications of receiving outside treatment would have meant her leaving Panoply for good. So she’d chosen duty over well-being, even though that meant sitting in meetings like a stiffly posed china doll.
It was a measure of the importance attached to Thalia’s report that only four seniors were present. Normally at least six or seven of the ten permanent seniors would have been in attendance, but today there were more than the usual number of empty places around the table. Yes, they wanted this affair tied up as quickly as possible—but that didn’t mean they saw it as anything other than a blip in Panoply’s schedule of business.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Clearmountain said.
“We’ve got the packages. They confirm our existing suspicions, which is that Perigal had her hands in the pie. The lockdown can hold. Now all we need to do is seal the leak before someone else exploits it the same way.”
“I agree, sir,” Thalia said.
“Exactly how much damage did these polling violations cause?” asked Baudry.
“In the scheme of things, nothing major,” Thalia answered.
“They were all polls on relatively minor issues. Caitlin Perigal might have wanted to tip the balance in more significant polls, but discovery would have been even more likely if she’d tried. Frankly, with the amount of oversight and scrutiny we already have in place whenever something big comes up, I can’t imagine anyone managing to bias the votes to a statistically useful degree.”
“It’s your job to imagine it,” Michael Crissel said.
“She knows that,” Gaffney said in a whisper.
Thalia acknowledged Crissel.
“I’m sorry, sir. I just mean—given everything we know—it’s unlikely. The system can’t ever be proven to be inviolable; Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem—”
“I don’t need to be lectured on Godel, Ng,” Crissel said tersely.
“What I mean, sir, is that the system tests itself through being used. House Perigal has actually done us a favour. Now we’re aware of a logical flaw we hadn’t seen before: one that permits a tiny bias in the polls. We’ll fix that and move on. Somewhere down the line, someone else will get creative and find another loophole. We’ll fix that as well. That’s the process.”
“So you’re confident we can plug this hole?” Baudry asked.
“Absolutely, Senior. It’s trivial.”
“If it’s ’trivial’, how did we miss it until now?”
“Because we introduced it,” Thalia said, trying not to sound too full of herself.
“We plugged one hole—thinking we were being clever—and inadvertently opened another. The fault was deep in our error-handling routine. It was designed to stop valid votes being lost, but it accidentally allowed additional votes to be registered fraudulently.”
“Probably not the first time in history that’s happened,” Crissel said dryly.
Thalia laced her hands together on the table, trying to strike the right note between defensiveness and professional detachment.
“It was regrettable. But to date only a handful of habitats have exploited the loophole.”
“Regrettable?” Clearmountain said.
“I call it reprehensible.”
“Sir, the existing error-handling routine already ran to twenty-two million lines of code, including some subroutines written more than two hundred and twenty years ago, in the First System. Those programmers weren’t even speaking modern Canasian. Reading their documentation is like… well, deciphering Sanskrit or something.”
“Ng’s right,” Gaffney said.
“They did the best they could. And the secondary loophole was subtle enough that only five habitats in ten thousand ever attempted to exploit it. I think we can put this one down to experience and move on.”
“Provided, of course, we have a reliable fix,” Baudry said. She nodded stiffly at Thalia.
“You did say it would be a simple matter?”
“For once, yes. The correction isn’t anything like as complicated as the alteration that introduced the fault in the first place. Just a few thousand lines that need changing. Having said that, I’d still like to run the first few installations manually, just to iron out any unanticipated issues due to different core architectures. Once I’m satisfied, we can go live across the entire ten thousand.”