Outside, it was almost dawn.
The two bodies had been discovered by the president’s own security team when her comm bracelet — taken off, lying by the bedside — had finally registered that the local sets of vital signs had altered anomalously. Both women had been beyond saving for many minutes before they were discovered, the fast-acting targeted synthetic neuro-toxins still multiplying within what was left of their brains and nervous systems, even as they gradually dissolved. A medical team of the best people and most exclusive machines had been working all night, trying to work out what had happened.
“But, the thing, this… how would it know to, when to… to activate?” Banstegeyn asked, aiming to sound bewildered without seeming too naively stupid.
“It would be monitoring everything it came into contact with,” Locuil said wearily. “As soon as it sensed any genetic material belonging to the target — the president — it’d arm, check that there was an actual bit of body there to accept the micro-barb, then spring out, deliver. In a way it’s quite old tech, Septame.”
“But it would have to have a sample of… of the…”
“It would need a sample, or rather the
“Everyone she’s ever met throughout her life would be a first-order suspect,” Chekwri told Banstegeyn crisply. She turned to Locuil. “I assume you’re already cooperating with the cops?”
Locuil nodded. “Second call her security people made.”
“Truth is, though,” Chekwri said, “this looks like one of ours.”
“You mean the device that was used?” Banstegeyn said.
Chekwri nodded. “We had stuff like this. Once, long ago.” She flexed her eyebrows. “Back in what you might call the interesting old days. It was all supposed to have been got rid of, but… maybe some of it wasn’t. Maybe somebody kept some of it somewhere. Or kept the knowledge and the means to make it.”
Banstegeyn looked steadily into Chekwri’s eyes as she said this, and the marshal returned his gaze just as levelly.
“Or somebody invented a brand new one,” Locuil said. “The fact remains the president is dead. Not to mention her AdC. Not to mention in… delicate circumstances. But what really matters is, the president is dead. What’s to be done about it?”
“The protocols are clear,” Banstegeyn said. He was aware that he looked dreadful; tired, unkempt. That was good. His voice was hollow, flat. He was keeping it that way. “The longest-serving trime becomes acting president, the longest serving-septame becomes an acting trime—”
“Prophet’s spit,” Chekwri said, almost spluttering. “Int’yom as president, even for six days?” She shook her head.
“Yes,” Banstegeyn said, as though not noticing. “And so on down the levels, while a clone of Sefoy Geljemyn is grown, and elections for a new president are set in train.”
“That might look a little pointless with the Subliming so close,” Chekwri said.
“A vote of the whole parliament would be required to alter the protocols,” Banstegeyn said dully, letting the tiredness into his voice. “Eighty per cent approval required for any changes. We’d struggle even to form a quorum with the people we could call back from out-system in time.” He shook his head, wiped his eyes. “I think we have to stick to the rules, act as though there will be an election within forty days, even though there won’t be one.”
“Or in case there is,” Locuil said. The septame and the marshal both looked at him. He shrugged. “In case this whole situation — the attack on the Fourteenth, the president being assassinated — leads enough people to want to postpone the Subliming.” The other two people in the room continued to stare at him. “Well, it’s plausible,” he said.
“That would be a catastrophe,” Banstegeyn said.
“Would it?” Locuil looked unsure. “Just a postponement. Not a cancellation.”
“The septame is concerned that one might turn into the other,” Chekwri said.
“Everything has been put in place, everything planned, everything set up and aimed, focused on the one single day of Instigation,” Banstegeyn said. “We can’t go back.” He shook his head. “We go or we don’t, but a… a postponement? I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’re going to have a lot people wondering who did these things,” the physician general said. “The attack on Eshri, the president’s assassination. These are big loose ends. People will feel… I don’t know; dissatisfied, heading off into the Sublime not knowing who had it in for us.” He looked from Banstegeyn to Chekwri. “Don’t you think?”
“Perhaps Subliming will look like a blessed relief from such worries,” the septame suggested. Neither the marshal nor the physician general looked like they were buying this.
“Well,” Locuil said, rolling up his screen and putting it back into his jacket pocket, “the first leak was over an hour ago. The news channels are spasming, or frothing, or whatever it is they do. I have a press conference to attend.” He stood. “Septame? I’m assuming you’ll want to be there too.”
Banstegeyn nodded. “Of course, Locuil. Can you give us five minutes? There are developments regarding Eshri and our Scavenger friends that the marshal and I have to discuss. Briefly, though; literally five minutes.” The septame glanced at his time-to. “Any longer and feel free to knock on the door. Do you mind?”
“Yes, all right. Five minutes, Banstegeyn,” the physician general said, frowning. He left the room; a babble of noise from the various staff members in the ante-room swelled, then subsided.
The septame looked at the marshal for a few moments. She gazed back, then slowly raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Septame, were you expecting me to say something just there?”
Banstegeyn smiled thinly. “No. Good. Right.” He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “The physician general is right, though.”
“I should hope so, on medical matters at least.”
“Come on, Chekwri; you know what I mean. On people needing answers. We need to give them answers.”
“Do we? What answers?”
“What happened at Eshri, what has just happened here. He’s right; people — some people, at least — won’t want to go, won’t want to Sublime with all this going on, unsolved.”
“So we give them a solution?”
“We do.” He nodded his head to one side.
They walked across the study, to the short corridor that led to the bathroom and a small private sitting room. Banstegeyn closed the door behind them, shutting them in the two-metre-long corridor, lit by a single light.
“It’s very simple,” Banstegeyn said. “The Ronte are our fall guys.”
Chekwri looked sceptical. “For the prez, too?”
“We say she had found out how they had been threatening us; that Eshri was their first shot, an example of how they would deal with us if we didn’t let them have their way. Geljemyn was about to remove preferred Scavenger status from them by presidential decree, so they killed her. We tell them to get out of our space, sling as many as we can find of them here into prison or just ship them out too, and all our problems are solved.”
The marshal looked distinctly unconvinced. “They’re still a little… underdeveloped for convincing bad guys, Septame. In terms of ships they’re barely out of rockets and you think you’re going to convince people they could do this sort of stuff to us? That’s almost as bad as not knowing at all. At least so long as we’re in the dark we can pretend it’s somebody bigger and badder than us. This… just suggests we’re weak.”
“Blame it on all the ships that have already Sublimed, and hint that the Ronte must have had some higher- tech help.”
“Like the Culture?” The marshal’s expression was something close to contempt.
“They have helped the Ronte, haven’t they?”
“They’ve given a handful or two of their ships a tiny boost. One ship and an act of charity. Patronising, almost. Hardly a mutual aid pact.”
“So, no, we don’t try to implicate them. Certainly not directly. Just hint. People will come to their own conclusions. That’s all we need. And besides, the Ronte and the Liseiden have backers, mentors; them, perhaps. They might be blamed. You can do this, can’t you?”
