The Prefect

CHAPTER 24

It was the first time Dreyfus had returned to his quarters since his release from detention. He knew that the forensics team had worked the place over with their customary thoroughness, removing every atom of Clepsydra that had not already been digested by the quickmatter. And yet he could not shake the sense that this temporarily allocated space—it was now functioning as his living room—remained unclean, materially despoiled by the act of her murder. Death had visited in his absence, stroked his furniture, made himself at home and left a sour mortuary smell that mostly lingered just below conscious detection. Dreyfus conjured thick, hot coffee and enveloped himself in a cloud of bitter aroma. He sat back in his usual chair and brought the compad to life. He had not looked at the names until this moment since Jane had dictated them to him, and even now he angled the compad steeply to his chest, as if someone might be looking over his shoulder. It was a pointless gesture—it made no more sense than the smell—but he was equally incapable of suppressing it. Even though he was engaged on Panoply business, even though the names had been divulged by the supreme prefect herself, he felt a furtive sense of wrongness. He sipped the coffee. It rushed down his throat, acrid and black, and for a moment he forgot Clepsydra. There were eight names. He had no doubt that these were the eight original members of Firebrand, assuming that Aumonier herself was not to be counted amongst them. He recognised all of the names, too, and could even put faces to some of them. Panoply’s compartmentalised structure, with each field prefect being assigned a tightly knit team of deputies, ensured that there was only limited communication between field units. Units with very different field assignments might go years before their members met. And yet he knew these eight names and could put faces—blurred, admittedly—to five of them. He read them again, just to make sure he wasn’t missing something obvious: Lansing Chen (FPIII) Xavier Valloton (DFPIII) Eloise Dassault (DFPIII) Riyoko Chadwick (FPI) Murray Vos (FPII) Simon Veitch (FPII) Paula Saavedra (FPIII) Gilbert Knerr (DFPII) But there’d been no mistake, and the more he thought about the names the more he convinced himself he could put at least sketchy faces to all of them, not just the five he’d thought of first. Veitch in particular—that name loomed larger in his memory than the others for some reason. But he couldn’t think of a case or training exercise where he’d worked with any of them. The faces, such as they were, hung in contextless limbo, like portraits where the background had only been roughed-in. What now? he wondered. Save the flicker of recognition he’d felt upon seeing Veitch’s name, there was no single prefect who jumped out at him as an obvious starting point. But it would definitely help his cause if at least some of them were actually inside Panoply at the moment.

Using Pangolin clearance, Dreyfus pinged the locations of all eight names. Bracelets tracked prefects inside Panoply, and duty schedules and flight plans dictated what they were up to when they were outside. It wasn’t foolproof—Gaffney had proved that—but it was the only tool available, and Dreyfus had to trust that Gaffney’s replacement was working for the organisation, not against it.

The pings came back almost instantly, together with recent images and bio snapshots.

Six of the eight, including Veitch, were indeed outside Panoply, on what appeared to be plausible errands. Nothing too fishy about that: they were field prefects, after all. The other two—Lansing Chen and Paula Saavedra—were supposedly somewhere inside the rock, on normal downtime between duties. Dreyfus used additional Pangolin clearance to dig through Chen and Saavedra’s duty schedules for the last few days. No surprises there: like most prefects who weren’t already tied to high-priority assignments, they’d been outside fighting fires between the Glitter Band and the Parking Swarm. Pulling triple shifts, too. Dreyfus couldn’t speak for these two in particular, but most of the prefects who’d returned to Panoply were in need of that downtime.

Pangolin clearance gave him sleep schedules. Chen and Saavedra were both meant to be awake by now. Again using Pangolin, but this time running an appreciably greater risk of detection, Dreyfus had the system locate the two prefects. He’d been hoping to catch them alone, but that wasn’t to be. The two were apparently sitting together in the main refectory. It was as good a place to start as any.

Dreyfus finished his coffee and slugged the cup back into the floor.

Dreyfus paused at the entrance to the refectory, casting his gaze over the assembled prefects gathered there to eat, drink, exchange professional gossip and simply pass the time of day between shifts. The tables, mostly unoccupied, bent upwards in long, low lines, following the gentle curvature of the floor. As was the case in the refectory during certain shift cycles, the lights had been dimmed to a drowsy, candlelit level of illumination. Prefects, all of whom were wearing their uniforms, were gathered in clots of blackness, most of them sitting in groups at the tables. Some were returning from the serving hatches with trays and cups. Others were standing in ones and twos at the display panes that smothered the refectory’s walls. At any other time they’d have been reading case summaries and ongoing investigation reports, getting a feel for the work their colleagues were engaged in, but now the panes had been given over to a running analysis of the Aurora crisis. They were filled with multiple images of the six habitats she had now taken, all external views since there were no longer any active internal feeds. Other panes showed images and diagrams of weevils, coupled with views of the spaceborne containment effort. Few of the prefects in this room knew more than the basic details of the crisis—Aurora’s identity was still a Pangolin-only operational secret—but all of them were aware of the severity of the situation.

Including Chen and Saavedra. He found them sitting together in the far corner of the room, at the very end of a row of tables, a long way from any other prefects. They were facing each other, leaning together in a worried, conspiratorial manner that left Dreyfus in no doubt that he was looking at two elements of Firebrand. The other prefects were concerned, no doubt about it, but they were also animated and enthused by the exigencies of the crisis. It was giving them a chance to prove themselves, to compete for promotional favours. But Chen and Saavedra just looked scared, like a pair of illicit lovers convinced they were about to be found out.

Dreyfus moved through the room to the nearest vacant serving slot. The aproned human orderly behind the slot was a deliberate touch. People came to the refectory because they had some profound psychological need not to eat alone or be served by a machine. The food might have been created using the same quickmatter processes utilised elsewhere, but at least it was handed over on a warm china

plate, by a living person.

But Dreyfus just asked for an apple and a glass of water. As he strolled away from the slot, he polished the apple against the fabric of his trousers. He ambled between the tables, acknowledging those prefects who looked up or spoke to him, but offering nothing more than a distracted nod in return.

Chen and Saavedra still hadn’t noticed his approach. What had looked like a lovers’ tiff from a distance revealed itself to be a full-blown, heated argument as he neared. They were conducting the argument in whispers, but their expressions and the tension in their gestures gave them away. At first he wondered why they’d chosen to meet in the refectory rather than in the seclusion of their rooms. But if they’d been called upon to explain their meeting, at least the refectory allowed the possibility of an accidental encounter.

He rounded the end of one of the tables. Now he was closer to the two than anyone else in the room. He raised his apple and took a crunching bite through the emerald-green skin of the perfectly spherical fruit. Chen looked up, registering less surprise than mild affront that Dreyfus should dare to invade their privacy. Lansing Chen was still a youthful man with a broad, high-cheekboned face and thick black hair that he wore carefully parted.

“Prefect,” he said, friendly enough, but not in such a way as to sound as if he was inviting Dreyfus to sit down with them.

“Lansing,” Dreyfus said, taking another bite from the apple.

“Mind if I join you?”

The woman, Paula Saavedra, flashed unmasked animosity in Dreyfus’ direction. She was thin and bony, like the articulated wooden dolls artists used instead of human models. Everything about her was pale, washed out, as if she’d spent too long under very bright lights. Even her eyes were colourless, as if the ink in them had faded from whatever colour it had once been.

“Actually, Prefect—” she began.

That was when Dreyfus heard footsteps behind him and felt a hand land on his shoulder.

“Tom,” he heard a voice say.

“I’m glad I found you. Had to invoke Pangolin. I almost didn’t believe it when it said you were in the refectory. This was about the last place I expected you to be.”

Dreyfus snapped around, prepared to be angered until he saw that the man who had spoken was the lantern-jawed Demikhov.

“Doctor,” he said quietly.

“Actually, would you mind… I’m in the middle of something right now.”

Demikhov nodded understandingly.

“So are we all, Tom. But you and I need to talk right now. Trust me on this, okay?”

Dreyfus studied the doctor’s fatigue-mapped face. He’d never once known Demikhov overstate the seriousness of an issue. Whatever the man wanted to discuss, it was clearly urgent.

“What’s it about?” Dreyfus asked, still keeping his voice low.

“Have a guess, Tom.”

“Jane?”

“There’s been a development. Not a good one. We have to make a very difficult decision and I need your input. Immediately, Tom. Can you come down to the Sleep Lab?”

“It’s okay, Prefect,” Lansing Chen said, standing up from the table with a scrape of chair against floor.

“Paula and I were just leaving anyway.”

“I’d like to see you back here in an hour,” Dreyfus said, tapping his bracelet.

“Is something the matter, Field Prefect Dreyfus?” Chen asked innocently, but obviously reminding Dreyfus that they shared exactly the same rank.

“Yeah. Something’s the matter. And in sixty minutes we’re going to have a chat about it.” He turned his attention to the woman.

“You too, Field Prefect Saavedra.” He watched them flounce out of the refectory, leaving their trays and food on the table.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” Demikhov said, while Dreyfus swigged down the water and threw the remains of the apple onto Chen’s dinner tray.

“But please believe me—I wouldn’t have disturbed you were it not regarding an issue of the utmost concern.”

In the Sleep Lab Demikhov said, “How was Jane the last time you spoke to her?”

Dreyfus rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Compared to what?”

“The time before. Or how she was last week.”

“She wasn’t too happy. Understandably, since she’d been removed from power.” He raised a reassuring hand.

“Don’t worry, Doctor. I don’t hold you responsible for that. You were just doing your job, looking after Jane’s ultimate health. I can guess how manipulative Gaffney must have been.”

“It wasn’t just Gaffney. It was Crissel and Baudry, too.”

“Well, Crissel got to make amends. And while I might not approve of the decisions Baudry says we have to make, I can see that she’s just trying to discharge her obligations.”

“Back to Jane—did you notice anything else? Did she appear to be under a higher degree of stress than usual?”

“Well, let’s review the situation. We’ve now lost control of six habitats, four of which have weevil-manufacturing capacity. The agency that now has control of them is poised to grab another four habitats inside the next twenty-six hours, maybe sooner. We’ll soon be in double figures, and then it won’t be long before we hit triple figures. We’re running a mass-evacuation programme to clear a fire break around the infected habitats so that we can nuke the very structures we’re supposed to protect. There are probably still going to be people inside those structures when we push the button. Meanwhile, we’re losing agents and machines faster than we can think. So—all told—yeah, I’d say Jane’s under a bit more stress than usual.”

Demikhov batted aside Dreyfus’ sarcasm like a man shooing a fly.

“I think the time has come to intervene.”

“Not now. Not until we’re done with Aurora.”

“There’s been another change in the scarab. Did Jane tell you?”

“No,” Dreyfus said warily.

“It’s pushed one of its prongs deeper into her neck. It’s applying pressure to her spinal cord. She can feel it.”

Dreyfus thought back to his last conversation with Aumonier.

“She didn’t appear to be in pain.”

“Then she was doing a good job of hiding it from you. It’s not agony—yet. But the scarab’s been changing faster and faster lately. It’s sending us a warning, Tom. We don’t have much time.”

“But it’s only been a few days since the last time we talked. You didn’t have a strategy then; nothing that would get it off her in under four-tenths of a second. Are you telling me you’ve come up with something new since then?”

Demikhov could not quite meet his eyes.

“I’ve not been entirely truthful with you, Tom. There’s always been a strategy, one that we’re confident can remove the scarab before it has time to retaliate. It’s just that we wanted to make sure all other options were exhausted first.”

Dreyfus shook his head.

“Tango was your best option. Yet it still wasn’t down to four-tenths or less.”

“There’s always been something faster than Tango. We’ve held it in reserve, barely discussed it since the groundwork was put in place. We always hoped we’d come up with something better in the meantime. But we haven’t. And now there isn’t any more time. Which leaves us three choices, Tom.”

“Which are?”

“Option one is we do nothing and hope that the scarab never triggers. Option two is we go with Tango. All the sims—incorporating the work we’ve put in during the last week—say that Tango will achieve scarab extraction in point four nine six seconds. The sims also estimate that that isn’t quite enough time for the scarab to do anything.”

“But there’s not much of a margin of error.” They’d agreed long ago that no action would be taken until the extraction could be achieved in under point four seconds. Warily, Dreyfus asked, “What’s the third option?”

“We call it Zulu. It’s the last resort.”

“Which is?”

“Decapitation,” Demikhov said.

“You’re not serious.”

“It’s been analysed into the ground. We have a plan, and we think it will work.”

“You think?”

“Nothing’s guaranteed here, Tom. We’re talking about operating on a patient we haven’t been able to get within seven and half metres of for eleven years.”

Dreyfus realised that he was taking out his exasperation on the hapless Demikhov, a man who had selflessly dedicated the last eleven years of his life to finding a way to help Jane Aumonier.

“All right. Tell me what’s involved. How does cutting her head off score over just shooting the scarab right now? And how are you going to get a surgical team in there to decapitate her, anyway?”

Demikhov steered Dreyfus towards one of the partitions that divided the central area of the Sleep Lab, bright with diagrams and images of both the patient and the thing clamped to her neck.

“Let’s deal with one thing at a time. We’ve considered forced removal of the scarab—shooting it off, if you like—since day one. But we’ve always been concerned that there might be something in it that can still hurt Jane even

if it isn’t physically connected to her.”

They’d been over this before, but Dreyfus still needed his memory jogging.

“Like what?”

“An explosive device, for instance. We’re confident the Clockmaker couldn’t have got antimatter inside it, but there might be conventional explosives or spring-loaded cutting mechanisms concealed in the structures we haven’t been able to map.”

“Enough to hurt Jane?”

“Easily. You’ve seen what it managed to build into some of those clocks. If we can get the scarab on the other side of some kind of blast screen, no harm will befall the patient. That’s how we’ll kill two birds, Tom.”

“Two birds? I’m not sure what you mean.”

Demikhov tapped a finger against one of the diagrams. Dreyfus had the vague impression that he’d seen this picture a hundred times without ever paying it due attention. It was a cross section of the chamber in which Jane floated.

“You’ll have noted this ring-shaped duct running around the bubble,” Demikhov said.

“I assumed…” But Dreyfus trailed off. He hadn’t assumed anything, beyond the fact that the ring-shaped structure was nothing to do with the bubble itself.

“We installed that duct, Tom. We opened up that space because one day we feared we might need to proceed with Zulu.”

“What’s in it now?”

“Nothing: it’s just an empty ring encircling the bubble. But everything we need to install in it is stored elsewhere in Panoply, ready to go.”

“Show me.”

Demikhov tapped a finger and the diagram tilted around so that they were looking down on the bubble and the ring instead of seeing them in cross section. A series of modular structures were shown being inserted into the ring through a single opening, then pushed around until they joined up to form a kind of thick, barbed necklace.

“What is it?”

“A guillotine,” Demikhov said, matter-of-factly.

“When the structures are in place, they’ll project those bladed segments through the wall of the sphere. We’ve weakened the outer wall where they need to cut through, so there’s no need to do anything on the inside of the bubble. It’ll happen very quickly. The segments will close in and bisect the chamber in two-tenths of a second: well inside our margin of error.”

The diagram flipped back around to cross-sectional form. A figure appeared, floating in the middle of the chamber. A red line bisected the figure’s neck. The blades sprang through the wall, severing the figure’s head from its body. The head floated up into one half of the bisected space. The decapitated body floated down into the other half.

“We cut high enough to remove the scarab,” Demikhov said.

“We bisect between the submaxillary triangle and the hyoid bone. If we’re lucky, we get a clean separation of the third and fourth cervical

vertebra. The scarab goes into the lower half. Even if it blows up, the blades will have interlocked to form a blastproof shield.”

“What about Jane’s body?” Dreyfus said.

“We don’t care about the body. We’ll grow her a new one, or fix any damage the old one sustains. Then we re-attach the head. But the head’s the most important thing. Provided we get a clean decapitation, she’ll live.”

Dreyfus knew he was missing something.

“But you still need to get a surgical team in there somehow. She needs to be prepped for the procedure.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“I’m not following.”

“We don’t prep Jane, Tom, because we can’t. We can’t anaesthetize her because that’s exactly what the scarab’s waiting for. And if she knows what’s coming her stress levels are going to shoot through the roof. The only way this will work is if we go in fast, without warning.” Demikhov nodded at Dreyfus’ reaction.

“You see it now, I think. You understand why this has only ever been an option of last resort.”

“This is a nightmare. This can’t be happening.”

“Listen to me,” Demikhov said urgently.

“Jane’s had eleven years of living hell inside that chamber. Nothing we can do to her to get rid of the scarab even begins to stack up against that. She’ll have no warning, and therefore she’ll have no time to get scared. When the blades close, the upper half of the chamber is ours. Then we send in a crash surgical team, ready to stabilise Jane and put her under.”

“How long?”

“Before the team goes in? Seconds. That’s all. We’ll just need confirmation that the hemisphere’s really clear, that the scarab hasn’t left any surprises, and in we go.”

“Jane will still be conscious at that point, won’t she?” The question troubled Demikhov visibly.

“There’s anecdotal evidence… but I really wouldn’t put too much store by it. The shock of blood loss is just as likely to plunge her into deep unconsciousness within five to seven seconds. Clinical death, if you like.”

“But you can’t guarantee that. You can’t promise me that she won’t have awareness after those blades have closed.”

“No,” Demikhov said.

“I can’t.”

“She has to be told, Doctor.”

“She’s always made it clear that we don’t need her consent to attempt an extraction.”

“But this isn’t the same as sending in a servitor to disarm the scarab,” Dreyfus protested.

“This is a completely different form of intervention, one that’ll probably involve pain and distress above and beyond anything Jane’s ever expected to endure.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. I also think that’s exactly why we can’t breathe a word of this to her.” Dreyfus looked at the diagram again. He recalled the red line cutting through Jane’s neck, just above the point where the scarab was attached.

“The position of those blades is fixed, right? You can’t steer them if she’s not floating at the right height?”

“That’s correct.”

“So how will you be able to cut in the right place?”

“We mount a laser on the door. It’s small enough that she won’t notice it. The laser draws a line across Jane, indicating where the blades will pass.”

“Cut. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

“Thank you, but I’m fully aware of what we’re contemplating here. I’m not taking any of this lightly.”

“And what happens if the line doesn’t hit her in the right spot?”

“We wait,” Demikhov said.

“She bobs up and down. Sometimes she does it herself, paddling the air.

Sometimes it’s just currents in the chamber, pushing her around. But sooner or later that line’s going to touch the right spot.” He looked hard at Dreyfus.

“My hand will be on a trigger. It’ll be my call as to when the blades go in, not some machine’s. I have to feel it’s the right moment.”

“What about the crash team?”

“I’ve arranged for three shifts. There’ll always be one team on stand-by.” Dreyfus felt numb. He could see the logic. He didn’t have to like it.

“Have you spoken to the other seniors?”

“They’ve been informed. I have their consent to proceed.”

“Then you don’t need mine.”

“I don’t need it, but I want it. You’re closer to Jane than anyone else in the organisation, Tom. Even me.

From the word go it’s always been clear to me that I’d need your permission before I go ahead with this. She trusts you like an only son. How many other field prefects have Pangolin?”

“To my knowledge, none,” Dreyfus said candidly.

“You’re the one she’d want to have the final say-so, Tom.” Demikhov shrugged resignedly, as if he’d done all he could.

“I’ve stated the medical case. If you give me the nod, we can install the blades in thirteen hours. She could be out of that room and stable in thirteen hours, ten minutes.”

“And if I say no?”

“We’ll run with Tango. I can’t risk doing nothing. That would be true negligence.”

“I need time to deal with this,” Dreyfus said.

“You should have told me about this years ago, so I’d have had time to think it over.”

“Do you think it would have helped? You’d have listened to me, agreed how unpleasant it was and then shoved the whole matter to the back of your mind because you didn’t need to deal with it there and then.” Dreyfus wanted to argue but he knew that Demikhov was right. There were some horrors it was pointless spying on the horizon. You had to deal with them at close range.

“I still need time. Give me an hour. Then you can start installing the equipment.”

“I lied to you,” Demikhov said softly.

“We’ve already started. But you still have your hour, Tom.” He turned away and picked up one of the dismantled plastic scarab models, distracted by some waxy grey internal component, a snail-shaped thing he’d apparently only just noticed.

“You know where to find me. I’ll be awake, just like Jane.”