Alastair Reynolds: An exclusive short story for New Scientist

It was a foggy December, colder than traditional.

An outdated lady waded by the shallows of a concrete-bound river. She wore overalls and a breather masks, a meshwork hopper slung over her again. She leaned onerous on two sticks, one with a grabber on the top, the opposite a internet. At intervals, she scooped some gray, slimy clump from the river and deposited it within the hopper.

Nightfall was falling as the lady paused for breath. She rested on the sticks and took off her masks. She gazed on the fog-shrouded stratoscrapers rising both aspect of the river, looking out their…