Garlin leaned as far back as his seat permitted. He swallowed. “This is an outrage.”
“No, this is off the record. You’re still below my threshold of interest, but you should be aware that you’re buzzing around dangerously close to it. Consider your moves very wisely, Mister Garlin—you’d hate to make an enemy of me.” Aumonier rose from the chair and dismissed it back into the floor with a flick of her wrist. “That’s all I wanted to say. Enjoy your trip back.”
Cassandra Leng had her favoured haunts in Necropolis, away from the gathering places of the other Wildfire cases. Dreyfus had learned where best to look for her, preferring to seek her out rather than invoke her presence, even if it cost him a few minutes of wandering.
He watched her now from a distance, studying her seated form. She was on one of the benches near the lakeside, hands settled in her lap, her posture one of contemplative repose. She wore a dark red outfit today, with a long skirt, full-length sleeves and a stiffened collar that flared up into a sort of bonnet. What he could see of her face was in profile, like a cameo. She was looking out across the greying waters, her expression cryptic. He found himself wondering what was going on inside her head in these intervals when she was not required to engage in conversation. Then he chided himself, because even to think of her having selfhood, let alone an interior existence, was a fallacy he had sworn he would never allow himself to fall into again. He had known a beta-level once, witness to an apalling crime, and despite the opinions of the theorists she had come close to convincing him that she had a private consciousness, a true inner life. He had believed it, too, for a time—the force of her personality dismantling his convictions. Later, for the sake of his own professional detachment, he had tried to go back to his old way of thinking, treating the betas as merely elaborate, filigreed shadows of a life once lived. It was easier that way—simpler to go about his business.
He told himself that he had put the doubts to rest. But as he approached Cassandra Leng he still felt as if he were intruding on some private reverie, trespassing on the thoughts and feelings of another human being.
“Prefect,” she said, roused from her stillness, turning to look at him as he neared. “Come to grill me again, is it? Aren’t some of the others starting to get a little jealous of the attention?”
“They’ll cope.”
“Goodness, practically an admission.” A teasing half-smile appeared on her face. “You don’t deny it then. You have been singling me out.”
“Hard not to, Cassandra. You’ll always be the first. You’ve also been one of the more cooperative witnesses.”
She touched her throat and the bonnet collapsed down into the collar, tidying itself away with a snap of air.
“It’s easy when you’ve nothing to hide.”
Dreyfus sat next to her on the bench. He said nothing for a few moments, reflecting on her words and the unarguable proposition that he had been drawn to her beyond the other cases. It was true, and if part of it was indeed for the reasons he had stated—her primacy, her willingness to speak bluntly about her former life—then there was also the part that he was less comfortable with: the similarity to Valery he saw in her. That openness, that unflinching lack of sentiment. But more than that. The down-curve of her lips, when she was thoughtful. The set of her jaw, the green of her eyes, made more obvious by the dark red fabric of her outfit.
He wanted to stop himself, to treat her with the same ruthless indifference he reserved for the others, but whenever he came close to acting on that intention he would only end up sitting or walking with her again, deepening the groove of their relationship, making things worse.
He said: “Did you hear much about Devon Garlin, before you died?”
“That man? Yes, he was hard to miss.” She looked at him sharply. “Why. What has he done now?”
Dreyfus sniffed, smiling at his own foolishness. “It’s more about what I’ve done, Cassandra.”
The sharpness turned to a frown, then an amused puzzlement that had some trace of concern in it.
“And you feel that I’m the one to talk to?”
“You’re as good an audience as any. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a neutral pair of ears in Panoply. People are either for me or against me, but there’s very little middle ground.”
“You must have some friends.”
“They’re busy, and much too willing to see my side of things.”
“Family, then. I once asked you about that. You said you had a wife, and that was the end of the discussion. I didn’t press.”
“I do have a wife,” Dreyfus said, looking down at his shoes, the gravel of the path, the shape and texture of each piece of stone, the astonishing verisimilitude of it all. “As it happens I went to visit her recently.”
“You’re estranged?”
“No … not exactly. But my wife isn’t well. Years ago she was involved in something that left her very damaged. There are some people looking after her, seeing if they can help her to become a little better … they’re very kind, and I believe them when they say they see signs of progress. But I don’t know if I really believe there’s any difference.”
“I’m … sorry, Dreyfus.”
“There are worse things, Cassandra. I still love her, and I think she recognises me enough to have reciprocal feelings. But it’s a hard road. One day, they say, she may get back the power of language. Until that happens, though …” He paused, collecting himself. “It’s not my wife I mean to talk about. But when I was visiting her, I ran into Devon Garlin.”
“This place … did he have any business there?”
“None that I can see. It was an odd coincidence, if that’s what it was. I preferred to see it as a goad.”
Her eyes narrowed with interest. “Did he know about your wife?”
“I don’t see how he could have. But he was there. I either accept that it was an unlikely coincidence, or that the encounter was somehow engineered. Given that Garlin and I had already had one run-in, you can guess which view I’m inclined to take. What matters, though …” He paused, nodding slowly to himself. “I lost it, Cassandra. Allowed my personal feelings to cloud my professional judgement.”
“You didn’t go looking for a fight.”
“No, I didn’t. But I should have just logged his presence, left him with a few words to remember me, and allowed him to get on with his rabble-rousing.”
“And instead?”
“I used force to bring him in. I was within my technical rights, but it was poor decision-making and it put the Supreme Prefect in the embarrassing position of having to de-arrest Garlin, then send him back home on our ticket. All of which plays very neatly into his hands.”
Cassandra Leng’s answer was delivered after a solemn interval of judicial consideration. “No way to sugar this one, Dreyfus: you screwed up.”
He smiled at her candour.
“That was my assessment as well.”
“But you’re also only human. I don’t believe in coincidences like that either. Garlin obviously wanted you seeing red.”
“That doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“No, but I’m not going to blame you for it. I didn’t like that man when I was alive and I’m not minded to change my view of him now. The first time I saw him, it was hate at first sight. That look of his, those pale blue eyes, those golden curls, that calculated boyish twinkle … can’t they see it’s an act?”
“It works for some.”
“Not me. I’d have wiped that smirk off him, given half a chance. He makes my blood run cold now, just thinking of him. Well. Were there repercussions for you?”
“The Supreme Prefect was very forgiving.”
“She ought to be, the time you spend on your work. Some advice from a dead woman, Dreyfus. If it comes to the point where you depend on me for absolution, you’re in trouble.”
“It wasn’t absolution I was after. Just … a second opinion.”
“Well, you got one. And I think I
like you a little better, knowing you have your limits. Was that really all you came to talk to me about, Dreyfus? I’m almost flattered. It makes me feel useful.”
“You are. You will be,” he said.
“You’re not a bad man, Prefect. A little driven, a little morose … but you can be forgiven for that. You’re a policeman of sorts, after all. Now that we’ve been honest with each other, though … you’d tell me if anything was happening, wouldn’t you?”
Dreyfus thought back to the white candelabra. “There’s something I’d be interested in showing you, but I have to tread carefully. It might relate to the Wildfire deaths, or it might be a random connection that has no bearing on the larger investigation.” He refrained from mentioning the patterning he had noticed on her earlier clothing, but he was certain there was more to it than coincidence. “We’ll know soon enough, but in the meantime …”
“There you are, back to business.”
It was not Cassandra Leng who had spoken. The words had come from the person next to him on the bench, but it was not the same woman he had been addressing only a moment earlier.
Now his companion was a child-woman, a girl of teenage looks wearing a green brocade gown, gold-trimmed, over a dress of gold and fire-red. Her hair was auburn, parted centrally, framing a face that evoked both commanding serenity and a certain lofty disregard.
Blue eyes regarded him: a very particular deep blue, warmer and deeper than the eyes of Devon Garlin, and nothing at all like the green of Cassandra Leng.
Dreyfus fought hard to keep his composure.
“Aurora.”
“You shouldn’t be startled. It’s only been two years.” She cocked her head to one side, studying him with increased intensity. “My, you really are taken aback, aren’t you? And here was I, thinking this would be the ideal place to meet.”
“Who was I just talking to?”
“Oh, that was her, the poor soul. I’m not so unthinking as to spoil such an intimate exchange.”
“Then what are you doing now?”
“You’d said your piece, and I was bored with her.” She patted his knee. “She’s all right, Dreyfus—relax. I’ve just relocated her beta-level to somewhere else in this environment, with a local memory reset so she doesn’t sense any oddness in the transition. Can’t have her listening in on us now, can we?”
“How the hell are you here?”
“I haunt the living worlds; why shouldn’t I extend the same courtesy to the dead?” She gave a little pout of displeasure. “I thought we had a higher regard for each other’s capabilities by now.”
“Your capabilities included attempted genocide.”
“Let’s not dwell on ancient grievances. I thought we’d put all that unpleasantness behind us—moved on. Haven’t we?”
“There’ll never be any moving on. If I could catch you now I would.”
“No,” she said sternly. “You wouldn’t—not if you’ve an ounce of sense left in that meat-stuffed head of yours. You couldn’t defeat the monster you imagined me to be, so you let loose another monster to divert my energies. Or had you forgotten about that?”
“What’s your point?”
“That I mean to put your mind at ease. The Clockmaker and I remain … engaged.” She gave him a strained, lopsided smile. “Worthy adversaries. Of course we despise each other. But we must also acknowledge what we have in common. Two compromised experiments in the extension or prolongation of human intelligence—two victims to hubris and over-reaching ambition.”
“Two psychotic ghosts, locked in endless stalemate.”
“Don’t be so complacent, Prefect Dreyfus. One of us will win eventually, and you’d better hope it’s me. At least we have some common values. At least I retain some lingering regard for the value of human lives. That’s more than I can say for that mad machine you turned against me. If the Clockmaker wins there won’t be enough meat-hooks to go around.”
“I’m surprised you can spare the energy for this conversation, in that case.”
“I very nearly can’t. You were shrewd, when you set us against each other—forcing us to become distributed across the networks. If I concentrate enough of my resources in one location, as I must do to speak to you now, in what you laughably call real-time, then I become vulnerable to the Clockmaker’s detection-attack algorithms. Already they are alert to this change in my posture. Sensing and probing my countermeasures. So we’ll keep this necessarily brief, shall we?”
“Suits me down to the ground.”
“You have a difficulty. I am aware of it. People are dying inexplicably and your projections point to a rising curve. Doubtless it’s crossed your mind that I might be the cause of it?”
“Not exactly your style, murdering people in their ones and twos—but then who knows?”
“Mm.” Her eyes glittered with a fierce and lively disdain. “It is not my doing. You can accept my word or not. But know this: I depend on the integrity of your networks, on the continued stability of the Glitter Band, for my very existence—and I am rather attached to that existence. Anything that threatens that integrity is of paramount concern to me. And I will not sit back while you bumble your way through this crisis.”
“Is that an offer to help?”
“I’d put it differently. An intervention to limit the damage to myself brought about by the limits of human competence. How does that sound?”
“As if you’re scared.”
“I am,” she said, nodding earnestly. “Scared of anything that does not fit into my understanding of things—and this most certainly does not. Someone or something is out there, Prefect Dreyfus—something neither you nor I have dealt with before.”
Dreyfus absorbed her words, thinking it wise not to doubt the essential truth of it. “It’s not the Clockmaker, playing some double bluff against you?”
“I don’t think so.” Her fingers tensed on the ends of the armrests as she leaned forward. “It tastes different to me, Prefect Dreyfus. There’s a mind behind it, a will—I might even say a human will, amplified though it is. But it’s not Our Mutual Friend.”
“You don’t know much more than me, in that case.”
“Oh, but I want to.” The blue in her eyes seemed to flash. “I’ve come this far—reached this deeply into your security layers. Now let me go further. Open the deep archives. Let me into the Search Turbines. I’ll do no harm, and I can tease out patterns and inferences a thousand times more efficiently than your stone-age algorithms.”
“You infiltrated our deep layers once before,” Dreyfus said. “You’ve got to be insane if you think I’d let you back in.”
She leaned back in the seat, a pitying look on her face. “Then you’ll just have to solve this emergency on your own, while the bodies pile up. It’s a pretty little pinch you find yourselves in, isn’t it?”
Dreyfus shrugged. “Is it?”
“From where I’m sitting. Show restraint, and you’ll be accused of betraying the public confidence in your promised security. Act forcefully, take the necessary measures to protect the civilian population—do the very job you were tasked with—and you’ll play into the hands of the secessionists. You’d better hope there’s a path somewhere between those two possibilities.”
“I’ll find one.”
Aurora nodded. “I have to disperse myself now, but we’ll speak again before long. And my offer stands. If you want assistance with this difficulty, you’ll have to consider the unthinkable. You can’t stomach the thought of it now, but it’s a wonder what a few more bodies will do. It’ll be a hundred soon, and a thousand before you can draw breath. How will that sit on your conscience, when you were offered help?” She smiled once. “Well, sleep on it. You know where to find me. Oh, and Prefect Dreyfus?”
“Yes?”
“I’d keep this conversation to yourself, if I were you.”
9
A day passed.
Jane Aumonier slept a little. Thalia Ng and Sparver Bancal agreed to remain on-
site at Carousel Addison-Lovelace, accompanied by two Heavy Technical Squads and a number of Pangolin-rated Field Prefects. They were beginning to investigate the white structure, moving into it with extreme caution and thoroughness. Meanwhile a corvette returned Terzet Friller’s body to Panoply, allowing Doctor Demikhov to confirm that the cause of death was indeed Wildfire. Antal Bronner had been the fifty-fourth direct victim of Wildfire; Friller could now be entered into the records as the fifty-fifth, and the forecasts adjusted accordingly. Elsewhere in the Glitter Band a probable fifty-sixth case came in, flagged at a high likelihood by Panoply’s event-detection triggers. As with Friller, there was no chance of recovering a head before the neural structures were hopelessly compromised. Nonetheless, prefects were dispatched to bring back the body for inspection.
Another day passed. A probable fifty-seventh case arrived barely twenty-eight hours after the first—an ominously short interval. This time a Field Prefect was near enough to attempt head capture, but the neural patterns were again too degraded to offer any significant leads.
The forecasts were re-computed. Depending on the statistical weighting applied to various factors, the fifty-seventh case appeared to hint at a marked steepening in the death curve. This left Aumonier disconsolate, but she refused to leap to premature conclusions. She would wait for the fifty-eighth, fifty-ninth and sixtieth cases, before revising her expectations. She hoped that, when those deaths arrived, they would drag the forecasts back to their earlier slopes—as if those were not already bad enough.
Internal Prefect Vanessa Laur, meanwhile, had executed a preliminary search on the white structure, finding only exceedingly sparse priors. The name of the structure was Elysium Heights; it was registered as a private medical facility, and behind it stood a murky chain of ownership. From a legal standpoint, everything that was obliged to be disclosed about the structure had been, but beyond those terse requirements there was not a single shred of reliable information.
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