askance, or had been snapped candidly. She had high cheekbones, a slight overbite and eyes of a startling bronze, flecked with chips of fiery gold. She had black hair that she usually wore in tight curls. She was smiling in many of the images, even the ones where she hadn’t been aware that she was being photographed. She’d smiled a lot.
Dreyfus stared at the pictures as if they were a puzzle he had to solve.
Something was missing. In his mind’s eye he could see the woman in the pictures turning to him with flowers in her hand, kneeling in newly tilled soil. The image was vivid, but when he tried to focus on any particular part of it the details squirmed from his attention. He knew that memory had to come from somewhere, but he couldn’t relate it to any of the images already on the wall.
He’d been trying to place it for nearly eleven years.
The tea was cool enough to drink at last. He sipped it slowly, concentrating on the mosaic of faces. Suddenly the composition struck him as jarringly unbalanced in the top-right corner, even though he’d been satisfied with it for many months. He raised a hand and adjusted the placement of the images, the wall obeying his gestures with flawless obedience. It looked better now, but he knew it would come to displease him in time. Until he found that missing piece, the mosaic would always be disharmonious.
He thought back to what had happened, flinching from the memory even as he embraced it.
Six missing hours.
“You were okay,” he told the woman on the wall.
“You were safe. It didn’t get to you before we did.”
He made himself believe it, as if nothing else in the universe mattered quite as much.
Dreyfus made the images disappear, leaving the rice-paper wall as blank as when he’d entered the room. He finished the tea in a gulp, barely tasting it as it sluiced down his throat. On the same portion of the wall he called up an operational summary of the day’s business, wondering if the forensics squad had managed to get anything on the sculpture Sparver and he had seen in Ruskin-Sartorious. But when the summary sprang onto the wall, neither the images nor the words were legible. He could make out shapes in the images, individual letters in the words, but somewhere between the wall and his brain there was a scrambling filter in place.
Belatedly, Dreyfus realised that he’d neglected to take his scheduled Pangolin shot. Security dyslexia was kicking in as his last clearance boost faded.
He stood from the table and moved to the part of the wall where the booster was dispensed. As he reached towards the pearly-grey surface, the booster appeared in an alcove. It was a pale-grey tube marked with the Panoply gauntlet and a security barcode matching the one on his uniform. Text on the side of the booster read: Pangolin clearance. To be self-administered by Field Prefect Tom Dreyfus only. Unauthorised use may result in permanent irreversible death.
Dreyfus rolled up his sleeve and pressed the tube against the skin of his forearm. He felt a cold tingle as the booster rammed its contents into his body, but there was no discomfort. He retired to his bedroom. He slept fitfully, but without dreams. When he woke three or four hours later, the summary on the wall was crystal clear. He studied it for a while, then decided he’d given the Ultras long enough.
CHAPTER 4
An alert chimed on the cutter’s console. Dreyfus pushed the coffee bulb back into the wall and studied the read-out. Something was approaching from the Parking Swarm, too small to be a lighthugger. Guardedly, he notched up the cutter’s defensive posture. Weapons unpacked and armed, but refrained from revealing themselves through the hull. Dreyfus concluded that the approaching object was moving too slowly to make an effective missile. A few moments later, the cutter’s cams locked on and resolved the foreshortened form of a small ship-to- ship shuttle. The vehicle had the shape of an eyeless equine skull. Black armour was offset with a scarlet dragonfly, traced in glowing filaments. He received an invitation to open audio-only communications.
“Welcome, Prefect,” said an accentless male voice in modern Russish.
“How may I be of assistance?” With some effort, Dreyfus changed verbal gears.
“You can be of assistance by staying right where you are. I haven’t entered the Swarm.”
“But you’re very close to the outer perimeter. That would suggest an intention to enter.”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“I might ask the same question, Prefect.”
“I have legal authority in this airspace. That’s all you need to know. I presume I’m dealing with an assigned representative of the Swarm?” After a pause—which had nothing to do with timelag—the voice replied: “You may call me Harbourmaster Seraphim. I speak for all ships gathered in the Swarm, or docked at the central servicing facility.”
“Would that make you an Ultra?”
“By your very narrow definition of the term, no. I do not owe my allegiance to any single ship or crew. But while they are here, all crews are answerable to me.” Dreyfus racked his memory, but he did not recall any prior dealings with anyone called Seraphim, Ultra or otherwise.
“That’ll make life a lot easier, then.”
“I’m sorry, Prefect?”
“It could be that I need access to one of your crews.”
“That would be somewhat irregular.”
“Not as irregular as turning a drive beam on a habitat containing nine hundred and sixty people,
Harbourmaster.”
Again, there was a lengthy pause. Dreyfus felt a prickle of sweat on the back of his hands. He had jumped the gun by mentioning Ruskin-Sartorious, which was in express contravention of Jane Aumonier’s instructions. But Aumonier had not counted on Dreyfus being approached by someone willing to speak for the entire Swarm.
“Why are your weapons in a state of readiness, Prefect? I can see them through your hull, despite your baffle-cladding. You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Just sensible. If I could see your weapons, I’d expect them to be in a state of readiness as well.”
“Touche,” Harbourmaster Seraphim said, with a chuckle.
“But I’m not nervous. I have a duty to protect my Swarm.”
“One of your ships could do a lot more damage than one of ours. I think that’s already been adequately demonstrated.”
“Yes, so you said. That’s a serious accusation.”
“I wouldn’t make it if I didn’t have solid proof.”
“Such as?”
“Shipping movements. Forensic samples from the habitat, consistent with torching from one of your drives. I can even give you the name of a ship, if you—”
“I think we need to speak in person,” Harbourmaster Seraphim said, with an urgency Dreyfus hadn’t been expecting.
“Stand your weapons down, please. I am about to approach and initiate hard docking with your ventral airlock.”
“I haven’t given you permission.”
“But you’re about to,” Harbourmaster Seraphim replied.
As the lock cycled—coping with the different pressure and atmospheric-mix protocols in force on both ships —Dreyfus emptied his mind of all preconceptions. It never paid to make assumptions about the physical manifestations of Ultras. They could look as fully human as any Panoply operative, and yet be crawling with furtive and dangerous machines.
Dreyfus had seen stranger than Harbourmaster Seraphim, though. His limbs and torso were encased in the bright green armour of a powered exoskeleton. His head had a shrunken look to it, his mouth and nose hidden behind a grilled silver breathing device that appeared to be grafted in place. There was a chrome-plated input socket set into the left side of his skull—Ultras favoured direct hook-up when they interfaced with their machines— but other than that there was no suggestion of extensive cyborgisation. He had long, black hair drawn back into a single braided tail. His delicate, pale hands reminded Dreyfus of the imprint of a bird’s wings in ancient rock.
