things go wrong. This is in your hands now. Don’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t, sir.”
“Good. Then get out there and update those cores.”
CHAPTER 8
The gallery of clocks covered two long walls, with each timepiece resting in a glass-sealed alcove next to a small black plaque denoting the date and precise location of the object’s construction, together with any other salient observations. As usual, Dreyfus had no intention of stopping on his way to the inner sanctum of Dr Demikhov’s Sleep Lab. But something always caused him to halt, select one of the clocks and use his Pangolin privilege to open the alcove, remove the evil thing and hold it in his hands. This time he chose a clock he did not believe he had examined before, one that was dark and unornamented enough to have escaped his curiosity on previous occasions.
He could hear it ticking behind the glass. It would have been wound by one of Demikhov’s technicians.
He read the plaque:
Clock #115 Found: LCS, SIAM, 13:54, 17:03:15 YST. Finder: Valery Chapelon. Duration of construction: unknown. Primary base materials: common ferrous alloys. Origin of base materials: unknown. Movement: double- roller anchor escapement. Remarks: electron microscopy reveals atomic-scale fractal patterning in top-right spandrel. Nature of fractal patterning obscure, but may echo visible detail on pendulum hinge of clock #341. Status: functional. Known booby traps: none. Associated fatalities: none. Estimated hazard level: low.
Dreyfus opened the glass panel. The clock’s ticking became louder. He reached in and placed his hands on either side of the black metal case and lifted the clock from its base, holding it at eye level. Like all the clocks it was surprisingly heavy, dense with mechanisms, but in this case there was no delicate tracery of gold-leaf ornamentation or razor-sharp edges to watch for. The clock had a crudely fashioned look, at odds with the complexity and accuracy of the mechanism inside it. No glass protected the dial. The hands were withered wisps of beaten metal, the hour marks irregularly soldered stubs.
Dreyfus hated to hold any of the clocks. But whenever he made the pilgrimage to the Sleep Lab, he found himself unable to resist. The models of the scarab in Demikhov’s lab were accurate, but only Jane Aumonier could touch the scarab on her neck. The clocks—all four hundred and nineteen of them—were the only tangible link back to the entity itself.
Dreyfus had long wondered whether there was a message in the clocks. During the long period of its incarceration in SIAM, the clocks it made had grown in sophistication and ingenuity. It had been presumed by those studying it that the entity was learning with each clock, inventing and innovating as it progressed.
This view was now considered incorrect. Analysis of microscopic details engraved onto the main gear of clock thirty-five turned out to anticipate refinements—an elegant grasshopper escapement and gridiron pendulum— incorporated as far along the series as clock three hundred and eighty-eight. Since the entity had been denied access to its artefacts as soon as they were discovered, only one conclusion was possible: the Clockmaker had always known what it was doing.
Which meant that it could easily have been planning its killing spree while the researchers thought they were dealing with something as innocent and guileless as a child, which desired nothing more than to be allowed to make clocks.
Which meant in turn that, in any given clock, there might be a message that had yet to be deciphered: one that spoke of the Clockmaker’s intentions for the woman who had spent the most time with it, the one who thought she knew it best of all. Had it hated her more than any of the others?
Dreyfus didn’t know, but he hoped that one day a clock might reveal something to him.
Not today, though.
He replaced clock one hundred and fifteen carefully, then sealed the window. Around him the ticking of the other instruments grew more insistent, the ticks moving in and out of phase with subtle rhythms until the hectoring noise forced him further into the Sleep Lab.
For eleven years, Demikhov’s department had had no other business than the matter of removing the scarab. Every square centimetre of the Sleep Lab beyond the gallery of clocks (which itself offered an insight into the mentality of the Clockmaker) was testament to that effort: walls and partitions aglow with sectional schematics of both the scarab and its host, scribbled over with eleven years’ worth of handwritten notes and commentary. Jane Aumonier’s skull and neck had been imaged from every conceivable angle, using scanning devices powerful enough to function from more than seven metres away and yet still resolve nerve and circulatory structure. The metallic probes that the scarab had pushed into her spinal cord were visible in multiple cross sections, at different degrees of structural penetration. The scarab’s main body, clamped to her neck, had been subjected to the same variety of analysis modes. Interior details showed in ghostly pastel overlays.
Dreyfus touched certain panels, causing animations to spring into life. These were simulations of planned rescue attempts, all of which had been deemed unsatisfactory. Dreyfus had heard reliable estimates that the scarab’s mechanism would require just under six-tenths of a second to kill Aumonier, meaning that if they could get a machine in there and disarm the scarab in less than half a second they might have a hope of saving her. But he did not envy the person who would have to make the decision as to when to go in. It wouldn’t be Aumonier: that was one responsibility she had abdicated long ago.
Dreyfus paused by one of the benches and picked up a model of the scarab moulded in smoky translucent plastic. There were dozens like it, littering the benches in various dismantled states. They differed in their internal details, depending on the way the scans had been interpreted. Entire rescue strategies hinged on infinitely subtle nuances of analysis. At any one time, Demikhov’s squad consisted of several different teams pursuing radically opposed plans. More than once, they’d almost come to blows over the right course of action. Dreyfus thought of monks, arguing over different interpretations of scripture. Only Demikhov’s quiet presence kept the whole operation from collapsing into acrimony. He’d been doing that for eleven years, with no visible reward.
He was at work, leaning over a bench in low, whispered debate with three of his team members. Tools and scarab parts covered the work surface. An anatomical model of a skull—made up of detachable glass parts—sat with the structure of its neck and spine exposed. Luminous markers highlighted vulnerable areas.
Demikhov must have heard Dreyfus approaching. He pulled goggles from his eyes and used his fingers to comb lank strands of hair away from his brow. The subdued red lighting of the Sleep Lab did nothing to ameliorate Demikhov’s sagging lantern-jawed features. Dreyfus had seldom met anyone who looked quite as old.
“Tom,” he said, with a weary smile.
“Nice of you to drop by.”
Dreyfus smiled back.
“Anything new for me?”
“No new strategies, although we’ve shaved another two-hundredths of a second off Plan Tango.”
“Good work.”
“But not good enough for us to go in.”
“You’re getting closer.”
“Slowly. Ever so slowly.”
“Jane’s patient. She knows how much effort you put in down here.” Demikhov stared deep into Dreyfus’ eyes, as if looking for a clue.
“You’ve spoken to her recently. How is she? How’s she holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Did she…”.
“Yes,” Dreyfus said.
“She told me the news.” Demikhov picked up a scarab model and unclipped its waxy grey casing. The internal parts glowed blue and violet, highlighting control circuits, power lines and processors. He poked a white stylus into the innards, tapping it against a complicated nexus of violet lines.
“This changed. A week ago, there were only three lines running into this node. Now there are five.” He moved the stylus to the right.
