“When the machines break through, they’ll kill us all.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I reckon you’re right. But we’re doing everything we can to buy enough time until rescue arrives.”
“I don’t think we can count on Panoply to help us,” Thalia said hesitantly. “I’ve been putting a brave face on it, but ever since Crissel failed to show… I don’t know what’s going on, Cyrus. Crissel said we weren’t the only habitat to go silent. But even so, I can’t see why it should have taken Panoply so long to reinstate control. I think we have to assume we’re on our own in here.”
“Then it’s up to us to find a way to survive. I agree, girl. But short of holding out up here, I don’t really see what our options are.”
“We have to find a way out,” she said.
“There isn’t one. Even if there was another way out of the stalk, do you think any of us would last long out there, with all those machines crawling around? That whiphound of yours might have one more fight in it, if we’re lucky. It’ll take more than that to get us to the endcap, even if there’s a ship to take us away when we get there.”
“But we have to do something. I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly want to die in here.”
He looked at her sadly. “Wish I could wave a magic wand and get us all somewhere safe. But all we’ve got is that barricade, and we’re running out of stuff to reinforce it.”
Thalia looked across the floor, to the place where the plinth had been. The architectural model rested to one side of it, minus the sphere that had broken off the top of the stalk. Unaccountably, she flashed back to the way it had rolled across the floor when they’d dropped the model. She had paid it no heed at the time, intent only on exposing the granite plinth so that she could hack it into pieces.
“Cyrus,” she said, “if there was a way to get us out of here, even if it was dangerous, even if it was borderline suicidal, would you risk it, if the only alternative was waiting for those machines to get us?”
“Is that a hypothetical question, girl?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “It depends. But answer my question first.”
“I’d risk it. Wouldn’t you?”
“In a flash,” Thalia said.
Dreyfus looked up as Senior Prefect Gaffney stepped through the passwall. He sat upright on the bed, unable to judge how much time had passed since his last visitor. Through a fog of tiredness and apprehension, a sour taste in his mouth, he nonetheless produced a laconic smile. “Nice of you to drop by. I was wondering when you’d favour me with a visit.”
Behind Gaffney the passwall sealed itself into impermeability.
“You’re very talkative all of a sudden. Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”
Dreyfus rubbed a finger along the furred line of his unbrushed teeth. “I guess the cat’s come to torment the mouse while everyone else is looking the other way?”
“On the contrary. I’ve come to interview you, with full Panoply sanction. Baudry gave me her personal blessing.”
Dreyfus looked down to see if Gaffney was carrying anything. “No field trawl,” he observed. “What’s wrong: worried that it might reveal some truths you’d rather remained hidden?”
“On the contrary. Worried that it wouldn’t give us the hard data we need fast enough. There’s a crisis going on out there, Dreyfus. The question is: are you a part of whatever’s happening, or did you just kill the prisoner because she looked at you the wrong way?”
“I hear we lost the Universal Suffrage.”
“Too bad. There were some good rookies on that ship.”
“Not to mention Senior Prefect Crissel.”
“Worse ways to go than fighting for a cause.”
“This is all about a cause, isn’t it? For you, anyway. I’ve followed your career, Sheridan. I know what makes you tick. You’re the most selflessly driven prefect I’ve ever known. You eat, sleep and breathe security. Nothing matters more to you than guaranteeing the safety of the Glitter Band.”
Gaffney appeared surprised by this outburst of praise. “If the cap fits.”
“Oh, it does. It fits too well. You’re a machine, Sheridan. You’re like a wind-up toy, an automaton consumed by a single idea. You’ve let that cause swallow you whole. It’s all you know, all you’re capable of thinking about.”
“You think security doesn’t matter?”
“Oh, it matters all right. The problem is, in your personal universe it trumps all other concerns. You’ll consider any action, contemplate crossing any line, if you feel your precious security is in danger of being compromised. Let’s tick the boxes, shall we? Murder of a witness. Betrayal of fellow Panoply operatives. You’re about to add torture to the list. And you haven’t even really got going yet. What’s next on the menu, Sheridan: full-scale genocide?”
“What I do—what we all do—is about the preservation of life, not the destruction of it.”
“That may be the way it looks in your warped worldview.”
“There’s nothing warped about it, Tom.” Gaffney tapped a finger against the side of his head. “I’m sorry—are we on first-name terms now? It’s just that you took offence the last time I used yours. ‘Sonofabitch’ was the phrase, I think.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Sheridan.”
“You’ve got me all wrong. You’re the loose cannon in this organisation, Tom. I didn’t bring the Spider bitch inside Panoply and let her riffle through our operational secrets. I didn’t kill her when I realised my mistake.”
“They’ll find out I didn’t kill her.”
“There’s half a body in your quarters, Tom. It didn’t teleport there.”
“Maybe she walked there, with you telling her everything was going to be fine.”
“No, she didn’t walk. Forensics found tissue traces in the bubble. That’s where she was shot. Whoever killed her didn’t hang around to clean up too well. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
“How would I have got her from the interrogation bubble to my room without you knowing about it?”
“That’s a damned good question. One I’m hoping you can answer.”
“If I wanted to move a body, if I wanted to tamper with access records to hide my own entry into the bubble, being head of Internal Security would certainly make life easier. But even then, I’m not sure how you did it.”
“Why would I have killed a key witness?”
“Because she knew you were working for Aurora. Because there was a chance she could have discovered Aurora’s vulnerabilities, given us a clue as to how to take her down.”
Gaffney pointed his finger at Dreyfus. “Right. That name again.”
“What’s she got on you, Sheridan?”
Gaffney looked bored. “I think we’ve pretty much covered the preliminaries.”
“And now you’re going to kill me,” Dreyfus surmised.
“I’m going to use intelligence-extraction methods on you, Tom, that’s all. Nothing you won’t get over given time and rest.”
“You know that there isn’t a truth to extract. I’m not going to start confessing to crimes I never committed.”
“We’ll just have to see what pops out, shan’t we?”
“I understand now,” Dreyfus said. “This is the only way out for you, isn’t it? I must die under interrogation. You’ll have some explaining to do, but I’m sure you’ve thought that through already. How’s it going to happen? Whiphound malfunction? I hear there’ve been some quality-assurance issues with those Model Cs.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gaffney said as he unclipped his whiphound and thumbed it on. “I’ve come to interview you, not kill you. How would that go down? I’m not a butcher.”
He ran out the filament and allowed it to find traction against the floor, then relinquished his hold on the handle. For an instant the whiphound stayed where it was, just turning its shaft to shine the red laser of its eye on Dreyfus’s face. Then it began to advance, its filament mak
ing a slow hissing sound as it scraped its coils against the floor. The handle was tipped down slightly, like the head of a cobra.
Dreyfus knew that there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. But he could not help shrinking back against the wall, dragging his legs up onto the bunk as if the corner might provide some sanctuary from the questing machine.
Gaffney stood back, his arms folded across his chest. “Guess you know the drill, Tom. No point pretending this is going to be pleasant. But tell me what I need to know and it’ll all be over with very quickly. Why did you kill Clepsydra, and how did you get the body to your room?”
“You killed her, not me. She was still alive when I left her.”
The whiphound slinked onto the bunk, the elevation of its handle never altering. The red glare of its laser made Dreyfus squint and hold a hand up to his face. It came nearer, until he could hear a shrill electronic buzzing. He edged deeper into the corner, drawing his knees high against his chest. The whiphound continued its advance, bringing the blunt end of the handle to within a hand’s-width of Dreyfus’s face. The brightness of the laser and the electronic humming combined with hypnotic effect. Around the trembling shield of his hand he saw the filament’s tip rise up and quest the air. It began to curl, ready to wrap itself around Dreyfus. Part of him wanted to reach out and grab it, to try to stop it finding a way behind his back. A more sensible part of him knew how futile that would be, and what the attempt would do to his fingers.
“They’ll find out what you did,” he said. “They’re better than you, Gaffney. You won’t be able to hide from Panoply for ever.”
Then he felt the filament whip around him. It wrapped itself around him twice, constricting him with its blunt edge. His arms were pinned to his sides, his knees jammed hard against his ribcage. The handle remained pointed at his face, its laser eye washing the world into scarlet.
“The whiphound’s going to insert the tip of its tail into your mouth,” Gaffney said, “but we can go with any orifice you like. Your call, Tom.”
Dreyfus closed his mouth, biting down so hard that he tasted salty wetness gush from his tongue. The filament tapped against the portcullis of his teeth, as if asking permission to enter. Dreyfus produced a senseless groan of defiance. The whiphound tapped again. He felt the filament tighten its coils.
“Open wide,” Gaffney said, cheerily encouraging. “Easy does it.”
The whiphound tapped twice more against his teeth, then withdrew the tip of the filament. Dreyfus wondered if it was going to try to force its way in through a different orifice now that he had barred it from slithering in through his mouth.
He felt the coils loosen. Breathing was no longer difficult. The handle held its gaze on him for a second, and then rotated slowly around until it was directing the horizontal glare of its scanning laser eye onto Gaffney’s face rather than Dreyfus’s. The coil released Dreyfus completely. He took a grateful breath and slumped against the wall, feeling a stripe of cold sweat ooze down the valley of his spine. The whiphound moved stealthily off the bunk, never releasing its visual lock on Gaffney.
“Stand down,” Gaffney said, keeping the panic from his voice for the moment. “Stand down. Revert to defence posture one.”
The whiphound showed no sign of having heard or recognised his order and kept on slithering. The filament pushed the handle higher, so that it was level with the standing man’s face. Gaffney took a hesitant step backwards, then another, until his back bumped into the wall.
“Stand down,” he repeated, louder this time. “This is Senior Prefect Gaffney ordering you to stand down and switch to standby mode. You have developed a fault. Repeat, you have developed a fault.”
“It doesn’t appear to be listening,” Dreyfus said.
Gaffney raised a shaky hand. “Stand down!”
“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you. It’ll have your fingers off.”
The whiphound pressed Gaffney hard against the wall, the filament spooled out to its maximum extension. The handle made an emphatic nodding motion.
“I think it wants you to kneel,” Dreyfus said.
CHAPTER 21
The assembled seniors, internals and supernumerary analysts looked away from the Solid Orrery as the heavy doors of the tactical room swung open. For a second their expressions were as one, conveying a shared sense of indignation that their secret session had been interrupted, and without even the courtesy of a knock. Then they saw that the man stepping through the door was Senior Prefect Sheridan Gaffney and their collective mood changed from one of annoyance to mild puzzlement. Gaffney was perfectly entitled to enter the tactical room, his presence at least as welcome as that of anyone else there. But even Gaffney would normally have had the good manners to announce his arrival before barging in. The head of Internal Security was nothing if not a stickler for observation of the niceties.
“Is there a problem, Senior?” Baudry asked, speaking for the assembled party.
But it was not Gaffney who answered the query. Gaffney himself appeared strangely dumbstruck, incapable of formulating a response. Ten centimetres of black cylinder jutted from his mouth, as if he had been trying to swallow a thick candle. His eyes bulged as if he was seeking to squeeze all meaning through them.
The honour of replying fell instead to Dreyfus, who was following only a couple of paces behind the other man. There was an understandable measure of consternation at this development. Everyone in the room was aware that Dreyfus was under detention, unavoidably implicated in the murder of the Conjoiner woman. A smaller number of those present knew that Gaffney had been tasked to interview Dreyfus, and an even smaller number knew which methods that interview was likely to employ. The thought must have occurred to at least some of the party that Dreyfus had overpowered Gaffney and must now be holding him at knife-or gunpoint. Further inspection, however, revealed the presence of no recognisable weapon about the person of the field prefect. He was not even wearing shoes.
“Actually,” Dreyfus said, “there is a bit of a problem.”
“Why are you not in your cell?” Baudry asked, her attention flicking from Dreyfus to Gaffney and back again. “What’s happened? What’s wrong with Sheridan? What’s that thing in his mouth?”
Gaffney’s posture was almost rigidly upright, as if he was hanging from an invisible coat rack. When he had walked into the room, he had moved with tiny shuffling footsteps, like a man with his laces tied together. He kept his arms glued to his sides. The thing lodged in his mouth forced him to keep his head at an unusual angle—it was as if he had developed a crick in his neck while looking up at the ceiling. There was a bulge in the skin of his throat, distending the collar of his tunic, that was more than Adam’s apple. He appeared unwilling to make the slightest unnecessary bodily movement.
“The thing in his mouth is a whiphound,” Dreyfus said. “He came to interrogate me with a Model C. We were getting on famously when it just turned on him.”
“That’s not possible. A whiphound isn’t meant to do that.” Baudry looked at Dreyfus with an appalled expression. “You didn’t do this, did you, Tom? You didn’t push that thing into him?”
“If I’d have touched it, I wouldn’t have any fingers left. No, it did it all by itself. Actually, Gaffney helped a bit with the final insertion.”
“I don’t understand. Why on Earth would he help?”
“He didn’t have a lot of choice. It all happened very slowly, very precisely. Have you ever seen a snake swallowing an egg? It pushed the filament into his mouth, then reached down into his stomach. You know how the interrogation mode works on those things: it locates major organs then threatens to slice them in two from inside.”
“What do you mean: interrogation mode? There’s no such thing.”
“There is now. It’s one of the new features Gaffney had built into the Model Cs. Of course, it has some innocuous-sounding name: enhanced compliance facilitation, or something similar.”
“He could have called for help.”
> Dreyfus shook his head. “Not a hope. It would have sliced him into six or seven pieces before he could say his name into his bracelet.”
“But why did he help it finish what it was doing to him?”
“It was hurting him, letting him know that if he didn’t help by pushing the handle into his mouth, it was going to do something really unpleasant.”
Baudry stared at Gaffney with renewed comprehension. The handle of a model A or B whiphound would have been too thick to enter the human throat. But a Model C was thinner, sleeker, altogether nastier. A whiphound handle jammed partway down Gaffney’s gullet would certainly explain his stiff-necked posture, his unwillingness to compromise what must have already been a very congested windpipe.
“We have to get it out of him,” she said.
“I don’t think it wants you to do that,” Dreyfus said.
“It doesn’t want anything. It’s malfunctioning, obviously.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Dreyfus said, looking around the party, at the documents and compads on the table. “But perhaps Gaffney has an opinion on the matter. He can’t speak right now, obviously, but he can still use his hands. Can’t you?”
Gaffney shuffled around. His eyes were two bulging eggs, ready to pop out of their sockets. His cheeks were the colour of beetroot. He didn’t so much nod as make a microscopic twitching suggestion of one.
“I think he needs something to write with,” Dreyfus said. “Can anyone spare a compad and a stylus?”
“Take mine,” Baudry said, skidding the item across the table. One of the analysts took the compad, unclipped the stylus and passed them both to Gaffney. His arms unlocked from the sides of his body, articulating with painful slowness as if the bones themselves had fused. His hands were shaking. He took the compad in his left hand and fumbled for the stylus with his right. It fell to the floor. The analyst knelt down and gently placed it in his palm.
“I don’t see—” Baudry began.
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