“None of whom would have had any pressing reason to see you dead?”
“Speaking for myself, no.”
“And Anthony Theobald—what were his guests like?” He caught it then: the tiniest flicker of hesitation in her answer.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, Prefect.” Dreyfus nodded, allowing her to think he was content to let the matter stand. He knew he’d touched on something, however peripheral it might prove, but his years of experience had taught him that it would be counterproductive to dig away at it now. Delphine would be conflicted between her blood loyalty to Anthony Theobald and her desire to see justice served, and too much probing from him now might cause her to clam up irrevocably.
He would have to earn her trust.
“The point is,” she went on, “I really wasn’t interested in family or Glitter Band politics. I had—have—my art. That was all that interested me.”
“Let’s talk about your art, then. Could someone have been jealous of your success?” She looked stunned.
“Enough to kill nine hundred and sixty people?”
“Crimes aren’t always proportionate to motive.”
“I can’t think of anyone. If I’d been the talk of Stoner society, we wouldn’t have been dealing with a second-rate trader like Dravidian.”
Dreyfus bit his tongue, keeping his policeman’s poker face fixed firmly in place.
“All the same, someone wanted you all dead, and I’ll sleep easier when I know the reason.”
“I wish I could help.”
“You still can. I want you to tell me when that call came through.”
“While Dravidian was visiting us.”
“If you could narrow it down, that would help.”
The beta-level closed her eyes momentarily.
“The call came in at fourteen hours, twenty-three minutes, fifty-one seconds, Yellowstone Standard Time.”
“Thank you,” Dreyfus said.
“Freeze—” he began.
“Are we done?” Delphine asked, cutting him off before he had finished issuing the command.
“For now. If there’s anything else I need from you, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
“And now you’re going to put me back in the box?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about art.”
“We did.”
“No, we discussed the possibility of my art being a motivating factor in the crime. We didn’t discuss the art itself.” Dreyfus shrugged easily.
“We can, if you think it’s relevant.”
“You don’t?”
“The art appears to be a peripheral detail, unless you think otherwise. You yourself expressed doubt that jealousy could have been a motivating factor.” Dreyfus paused and reconsidered.
“That said, your reputation was building, wasn’t it?” Delphine looked at him sourly.
“You make it sound as if my life story’s already written, down to the last footnote.”
“From where I’m standing…” But then Dreyfus remembered what Vernon had told him concerning Delphine’s belief in the validity of beta-level simulation.
“What?” Delphine said.
“Things will be different. Won’t they?”
“Different. Not necessarily worse. You still don’t believe in me, do you?”
“I’m trying my best,” Dreyfus replied.
“The last time we spoke, I asked you a question.”
“Did you?”
“I asked you if you’d ever lost a loved one.”
“I answered you.”
“Evasively.” She fixed him with a long, searching stare.
“You have lost someone, haven’t you? Not just a colleague or friend. Someone closer than that.”
“We’ve all lost people.”
“Who was it, Prefect Dreyfus? Who did you lose?”
“Tell me why you chose to work on the Lascaille series. Why did you care about what happened to a man you never knew?”
“Those are personal questions for an artist.”
“I’m wondering if you made any enemies when you picked that theme.”
“And I’m wondering why you find it so difficult to acknowledge my conscious existence. This person who died—did something happen that made you turn against beta-levels?” Her eyes flashed an insistent sea-green, daring him to look away.
“Who was it, Prefect? Quid pro quo. Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”
“I’ve got a job to do, Delphine. Empathising with software isn’t part of it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“No,” Dreyfus said, something inside him snapping, “you aren’t ’sorry’. ’Sorry’ would imply the presence of a thinking mind, a sentient will capable of experiencing the emotion called ’regret’. You’re saying that you are sorry because that’s what the living Delphine would have said under similar circumstances. But it doesn’t mean you feel it.”
“You really don’t think I’m alive, in any sense of the word?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Delphine nodded coolly.
“In which case: why are you arguing with me?”
Dreyfus reached for an automatic answer, but nothing came. The moment dragged, Delphine regarding him with something between amusement and pity. He froze the invocation and stood staring at the empty space where she had been standing. Not a she, he told himself. An it.
“Hello?” Thalia called into an echoing, dank darkness.
“This is Deputy Field Prefect Ng. Is anyone there?”
There was no answer. Thalia stopped and put down the heavy cylinder she’d been carrying in her left hand. She touched her right hand to the haft of her whiphound, and then chided herself for her unease. Letting go of the weapon, she extracted her glasses, slipped them on and keyed image-amplification. The darkness of the chamber abated, revealing a doorway in one wall. Thalia touched the glasses again, but the entoptic overlay changed nothing. If a habitat citizen had been standing in Thalia’s place with a skullful of sense-modifying implants, they’d still have seen only the same drab walls.
“Moving deeper into the hab,” Thalia said, reporting back to her cutter.
“So far I’m not exactly overwhelmed by the welcoming committee.”
She picked up the equipment cylinder in her left hand. Caution prevailed, and this time she chose to release the whiphound.
“Proceed ahead of me at defence posture one,” she instructed, before letting go. Red eye bright, the whiphound nodded its haft once to indicate that it had understood her order and was now in compliance. Then it turned the haft away from her and slunk forward, gliding across the ground on the coiled tip of its filament, like a sketch of a cobra.
The doorway led to a damp tunnel with cracked flooring. Ahead, the tunnel began to curve around. The whiphound slinked forward, the red light of its scanning eye reflecting back from moist surfaces. Thalia followed it into the tunnel, around a gentle curve, until the tunnel widened out into a gloomily lit plaza. The curvature of the habitat was evident in the continuous gentle upsweep of the floor, rising ahead of her until it was hidden by the similarly curving ceiling. The only illumination came from sunlight creeping through immense slatted windows on either side, their glass panes tinting the light sepia-brown through a thick caking of dust and mould. Rising high above Thalia, interrupted only by the windows, were multi-levelled tiers of what had once been shops, boutiques and restaurants. Bridges and ramps spanned the space between the two walls, some of them sagging or broken. Glass frontages lay shattered, or were covered with various forms of mould or foliage-like infestation. In some of the shops there was even evidence of unsold merchandise, cobwebbed into obscurity.
Thalia didn’t like the place at all. She was glad when she found another tunnel leading out of the plaza. The whiphound slinked ahead of her, its coil making a rhythmic hissing sound against the flooring.
Without warning, it vanished.
An instant later Thalia heard a sound like two pieces of scrap metal being smashed against each other. Cautiously she rounded the curve and saw the whiphound wrapped around the immobilised form of a robot, which had toppled over onto its side, its rubber-tyred wheels spinning uselessly. Thalia stepped closer, putting down the cylinder. She appraised the fallen machine for weapons, but there was no sign that it was anything other than a general-purpose servitor of antique design.