between the rescue of Jane Aumonier and the destruction of SIAM. There was no timelag, just as there was no inexplicable connection with the mothballed spacecraft Atalanta, moved from its prior orbit to a position very near SIAM at exactly the time of the crisis.
There were no mysteries. Everything was accounted for.
“I still don’t understand why the man killed himself,” Delphine said. Dreyfus shrugged.
“He couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done.”
“Even though it was absolutely the only right thing to do?”
“Even though.” Delphine appeared to reflect on his words before speaking again.
“Was there a beta-level copy of your wife?”
“No,” Dreyfus said.
“Why not?”
“Valery didn’t believe in them. She refused to accept that a beta-level simulation could be anything other than a walking, talking shell. It might look and sound like her, it might mimic her responses to a high degree of accuracy, but it wouldn’t be her on the inside. It wouldn’t have an interior life.”
“And you believe the same thing, because it’s what your wife believed.”
Dreyfus offered his palms in surrender.
“I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is.”
“Did your wife ever consider alpha-level simulation?”
“She’d have had no philosophical objection to it. But my wife and I grew up in the shadow of the Eighty. I know the methods have improved since then, but there are still risks and uncertainties.”
“I understand now why you have a problem with the likes of me.” Delphine blunted the harshness of the remark with a sympathetic smile.
“And I’m not angry. You lost someone dear to you. To admit that I have some claim on consciousness would be to repudiate Valery’s beliefs.”
Dreyfus made a self-deprecatory gesture.
“Trust me, I’m not that complicated.”
“But you’re human. It’s not a crime, Prefect. I’m sorry I prejudged you.”
“You weren’t to know.”
Delphine took a deep breath, as if she was preparing to submerge herself underwater.
“I made a promise. You’ve told me something personal, and now you want to know about my reasons for working on the Lascaille series. I’ll do my best to explain, but I think you’re going to be disappointed. There was no blinding flash when I woke up one day and realised I had to devote myself to his story.”
“But something happened.”
“I just felt this thing building up inside me, like a kind of pressure trying to force its way out. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch, until I’d told Philip’s side of events.”
“How familiar were you with the story?”
Delphine looked equivocal, as if this was a question she’d never really asked herself.
“As familiar as anyone, I suppose. I’d heard of him, I knew something of what had happened—”
“But was there a defining moment when you realised you had to tackle him? Did you see a reference to him, hear something about the Sylveste family or the Shrouds?”
“No, nothing like that.” She paused and something flashed in her eyes.
“But there was that day. I was working in the habitat, cutting rock in my vacuum atelier. I was suited, of course—the heat from the plasma torches would have killed me even if there’d been air to breathe. I was directing the cutting servitors, working on a completely unrelated composition. Imagine a conductor standing before an orchestra. Then think of the musicians shaping solid rock with plasma-fire and atomic-scale cutting tools instead of making music with traditional instruments. That was what it felt like: I only had to imagine a shape or texture and my implants would steer the machines to do my bidding. It became a near unconscious process, dreaming rock into art.”
“And then?”
“I pulled back from the piece I was working on and realised that I’d been taking it in a direction I hadn’t intended. The face wasn’t supposed to be anyone in particular, but now it reminded me of someone. Once I’d made that connection, I knew my subconscious was pushing me towards Philip Lascaille as subject matter.”
“Beyond that, though, you can’t explain why you focused on him?”
Delphine looked apologetic.
“I wish I could rationalise it. But as I’m sure your wife would have agreed, art doesn’t work that way. Some days we just tap into something inexplicable.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“Does this invalidate your theory that someone took offence at my art?”
“Not necessarily. You might have provoked something without meaning to. But I admit it’s difficult to see how merely referencing Philip Lascaille would have been enough to push someone to mass murder.” Dreyfus straightened—he’d been getting stiff in the back.
“All the same, the crime happened. I think I have enough to be going on with for now, Delphine. Thank you for your time.”
“What’s your next move?”
“One of my deputies—you met her—is working on backtracking the incoming call to your habitat. When I have a result from her, I’ll see where it leads.”
“I’m curious to know the outcome.”
“I’ll make sure you hear about it.”
“Prefect, before you turn me off again—would you reconsider my earlier request? I’d like to be able to talk to Vernon.”
“I can’t risk cross-contamination.”
“Neither of us has anything to hide from you. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t take the risk.”
“Prefect, there’s something you need to understand about us. When you turn me off, I don’t have any existence.”
“That’s because your simulation undergoes no state changes between episodes of invocation.”
“I know—when you switch me back on again, I remember nothing except our last meeting. But I can tell you this: I still feel as if I’ve been somewhere else.” She looked him hard in the eyes, daring him to look away.
“And wherever it is, it’s a cold and lonely place.” A message from Thalia awaited him when he turned his bracelet on again. He called her back.
“I see you’re en route. How are things going?” Her response returned with no detectable timelag.
“Well enough, sir. I’ve finished the first installation.”
“All went smoothly?”
“Couple of hiccups, but they’re up and running now.”
“In other words, one hole closed, three to go. You’re ahead of schedule, I see.”
“In all honesty, sir, I don’t expect any of these upgrades to need all the time I allocated. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.”
“Very wise of you.”
After a pause, Thalia said, “I guess you’re wondering about the network analysis, sir?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve made any progress?” he asked, his tone hopeful.
“The snapshots you sent through were all I needed. I might even have a lead for you. Assuming that the stated time for the incoming transmission to the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble was correct to within twenty minutes, I see only one likely candidate for the network router that would have handled that data traffic.”
“Which would be?”
“It’s nowhere you’re likely to have heard of, sir. Just a free-floating network router named Vanguard Six. Basically it’s nothing more than a boulder floating in the Glitter Band, with an automated signal-forwarding station built into it.” He made a mental note of the name.
“And you think this router will have kept a record of traffic it handled?”
“Enough to tell you where the message originated, sir. Even if that point of origin turns out to be another
