“I cannot overwrite the contents of executable data segment alpha alpha five one six,” the core said. Thalia felt a tingle of sweat on her brow.
“Clarify.”
“The requested operation would introduce a tertiary-stage conflict in the virtual memory array addressing the executable image in segment kappa epsilon nine nine four.”
“A problem, Prefect?” Newkirk asked mildly. Thalia wiped her brow dry.
“Nothing we can’t work around. The architecture’s just a bit knottier than I expected. I might have to take abstraction down for slightly longer than a few milliseconds.”
“What counts as ’slightly longer’?”
“Maybe a tenth of a second.”
“That won’t go unnoticed.”
“You now have four hundred and eighty seconds of access, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.”
“Thank you,” she said, struggling not to sound flustered.
“Please evaluate the following. Suspend run-time execution of all images between segments alpha alpha to kappa epsilon inclusive, then perform the data segment overwrite I already requested. Confirm that this would not involve a suspension of abstraction access exceeding one hundred milliseconds—”
“The aforementioned tertiary-stage conflict would now be resolved, but a quaternary-stage conflict would then arise.”
Thalia swore under her breath. Why had she not probed the architecture before initiating the one-time access window? She could have learned everything she needed to without invoking Panoply privileges.
“Turn it around,” she said, suddenly seeing a way.
“Tell me what would be required to perform a clean installation of the new data segment.”
“The new data segment can be installed, but it will entail a complete rebuild of all run-time images in all segments between alpha alpha and kappa epsilon inclusive.”
“Status of abstraction during downtime?”
“Abstraction will be fully suspended during the rebuild.”
“Estimated build-time?” Thalia asked, her throat dry.
“Three hundred and forty seconds, plus or minus ten seconds, for a confidence interval of ninety-five per cent.”
“State remaining time on access window.”
“You now have four hundred and six seconds of access, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.” She looked at Newkirk, who was studying her with a distinctly unamused expression, in so far as his wax-like mask was capable of expression.
“You heard what the machine said,” Thalia told him.
“You’re going to lose abstraction for more than five minutes. I have to begin the build in the next minute to stand a chance of it finishing before my window closes.”
“If it doesn’t build in time?”
“The core will default to safe mode. It’ll need more than a six-hundred-second pad to unlock it then. You could be down for days, with the way Panoply’s tied up at the moment.”
“Losing abstraction for five minutes will cost us dearly.”
“I wish there was some other way. But I really need to start that build.”
“Then do whatever you must.”
“Do you wish to warn the citizens?” Thalia asked.
“It wouldn’t help them. Or me, for that matter.” His voice turned stern.
“Begin, Prefect. Get this over with.”
Thalia nodded and told the polling core to commence the build.
“Abstraction will be interrupted in ten seconds,” the pillar informed her.
“Predicted resumption in three hundred and forty seconds.”
“Time on window.”
“Access window will close in three hundred and forty-four seconds.”
“You like to cut it fine,” Newkirk said.
Thalia made to respond, but even as she was opening her mouth she saw that there would be no point. The man’s face had frozen into mask-like stiffness, his eyes no longer quivering in their sockets. He looked dead; or rather he had become the dead stone bust he had always resembled. They would all be like that, Thalia realised. All one million, two hundred and seventy four thousand, six hundred and eighteen people inside Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma would now be in a state of limbo, severed from the realm of abstract reality that for them was the entire meaningful world. Just from looking at Newkirk, she knew that there was no consciousness going on inside his skull. If his mind could be said to exist at all, it was somewhere else, locked out, knocking on a door that would remain resolutely shut for another five minutes. Thalia was utterly alone in a room containing more than a million other people.
“Give me an update,” she queried.
“Rebuild is proceeding on schedule. Estimated time to resumption of abstraction is now two hundred and ninety seconds.” Thalia clenched her fists. It was going to be the longest three minutes of her life.
“Sorry to bother you again,” Dreyfus said as the beta-level copy of Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious resumed existence in the interview suite, “but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind answering a few more questions.”
“I’m at your disposal, as you’ve already made abundantly clear.” Dreyfus smiled briefly.
“Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, Delphine. We may not agree on the sanctity of beta-level simulation, but we both agree a crime’s been committed. I need your help to get to the bottom of it.” She had her arms crossed before her, silver bracelets hanging from her wrists.
“Which will inevitably lead us back to the vexed question of my art, I suppose.”
“Something made someone angry enough to destroy your habitat,” Dreyfus went on.
“Your art may have been a factor in that.”
“We’re back to the jealousy thing.”
“I’m wondering if it was more than that. You may have strayed into a politically sensitive area when you picked Philip Lascaille as your subject matter.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I looked at your history as an artist and until recently you were keeping something of a low profile. Then suddenly—well, I won’t say you became an overnight celebrity, but all of a sudden your work was being talked about, and your pieces were starting to sell for more than just small change.”
“These things happen. It’s why we keep struggling.”
“All the same, it appears that your work started attracting attention from about the time you began work on the Lascaille series.” Delphine shrugged, giving nothing away.
“I’ve worked on many thematic sequences. This is just the most recent one.”
“But it’s the one that got people looking at your work, Delphine. For one reason or another, something happened. Why did you settle on Lascaille for your subject matter?”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Prefect. Lascaille and everything that happened to him is part of our shared history. There are already a million works of art inspired by his visit to the Shroud. Is it any great surprise that I have incorporated a tragic and familiar figurehead into my own?”
Dreyfus made an equivocal face.
“But it was a long time ago, Delphine. We’re going back to the time of the Eighty. Those wounds healed years ago.”
“Doesn’t mean there isn’t still resonance in the theme,” she countered.
“I don’t deny it. But has it occurred to you that you might have raked over some ground that was better left undisturbed?”
“With Lascaille?”
“Why not? The man came back a lunatic. He was barely capable of feeding himself. Word is he drowned himself in the Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies. That made some of the other organisations with an interest in the Shrouders very unhappy. They’d long wanted to get their own hands on Lascaille, so that they could look into his skull and see what the hell had happened to him. Then word got out that he’d drowned himself in an ornamental fish pond.”
“He was more than likely suicidal. You’re not suggesting someone murdered him?”
“Only that his dying didn’t look good for House Sylveste.”