‘What do you mean, in space? None of us have suits! We don’t have a ship. We don’t even have an escape pod!’
‘We don’t need an escape pod,’ Thalia said carefully. ‘We’re in one.’
Dreyfus noticed that Aumonier was clenching and unclenching her hands, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths. ‘I thought you’d appreciate some company,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’
‘Thank you, Tom. And yes, you’re right. I do appreciate it.’ She paused. ‘I just issued that statement, by the way — including your remarks.’
‘They needed reassurance.’
‘They did. You were right.’
‘Have we gone dark yet?’
‘No — I’m holding off on removing network services until we’ve finished with the Spindle. I want the citizens to know that we’re dealing with something bad, but that we’re doing all in our power to keep as many of them safe as we can.’
‘Won’t seeing the Spindle nuked to kingdom come scare them half to death?’
‘More than likely. But if it means they start listening to local constabulary, it’s a price worth paying.’
Dreyfus looked at the largest screen. ‘How long now?’
‘Three minutes.’
Three minutes until the weevil flow hit the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle, he thought. Panoply ships had done what they could to thin or deflect the flow, but their efforts had proved almost entirely ineffectual. They were only holding station now in case there were survivors after the Democratic Circus had done her work.
The deep-system cruiser hovered aft of the Spindle, two missiles locked on target and armed, dialled to a yield high enough to take out the as-yet-dormant machinery of the habitat’s manufactory. Panoply had always had a contingency procedure in place for the act of destroying a habitat, and the crew would have run through such a scenario many times during training. The sequence, from the issuing of the command to the firing of the weapons, was supposedly immune to error. It required not just the authorisation of the supreme prefect, but also a majority of seniors. Mechanisms even existed to deal with the possibility of sudden changes in rank due to death or injury, so that the order could still be given even if there’d been a direct attack on Panoply.
And yet, Dreyfus thought, the crew wouldn’t have been human if they didn’t at least consider the possibility that the order was erroneous, or had originated through malicious action. They were being asked to do the one thing that cut against everything Panoply stood for. Like a surgeon putting out his hand to receive a scalpel, and being handed a gun instead.
But they’d do it, he thought. They’d allow themselves that one flicker of doubt, and then they’d get over it. The protocol was watertight. No mistake was possible: if the order had come in, then it was logically guaranteed that it had been issued by the supreme prefect herself, with the approval of her seniors.
The crew had no choice but to act upon it.
‘One minute thirty,’ Aumonier said. Then her tone shifted. ‘Tom: I’ve been meaning to ask you something.’
‘Go on.’
‘It may be a difficult question. You may be uncomfortable about answering it truthfully.’
‘Go on anyway.’
‘Is something happening? Something I don’t know about?’
‘What kind of something?’
‘I’ve been hearing sounds. I’ve been in this room for eleven years, Tom, so I’ve become quite astonishingly attuned to my surroundings. I’ve almost never heard any noises from elsewhere in Panoply, except for today.’
‘What kinds of noises?’
‘The kinds of noises people make when they’re trying very hard to do something without making any sound. Something that involves heavy machinery and tools.’ She faced him directly. ‘Is something going on?’
He’d never lied to her, in all the years they’d known each other. Never lied, or bent the truth, even when that would have been the kinder thing to do.
Today he chose to lie.
‘It’s the mouth bay,’ he said. ‘The launching rack was damaged when one of the cruisers came in too hard. They’ve been working around the clock to get it back into shape.’
‘The mouth bay is hundreds of metres away, Tom.’
‘They’re using heavy equipment.’
‘Look at me and say that.’
He met her gaze steadily. ‘It’s the bay. Why? What else do you think it might be?’
‘You know exactly what I think.’ She glanced away. He couldn’t tell whether he’d passed or failed the test of her scrutiny. ‘I’ve been trying to get Demikhov to talk to me. He’s using every excuse in the book not to return my calls.’
‘Demikhov’s been busy. That business with Gaffney—’
‘All right, so he’s been busy. But if you knew something was happening… if you knew they were planning something… you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ Dreyfus said.
Except now.
‘It’s time,’ she said, returning her attention to the display. ‘Weevil contact in three… two… one. Impact is confirmed. They’ve made groundfall.’ She raised her arm and spoke into her bracelet. ‘This is Aumonier. Detach the Bellatrix and instruct her to proceed at full-burn. Repeat, detach the Bellatrix.’
They still had cam feeds from the docking hub of the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle. Hundreds of people were still crammed into the boarding tubes, being ushered aboard the waiting liner. Dozens of constables, marked by their armbands, were assisting in the boarding process. Dreyfus already knew that many constables had elected to remain inside the Spindle rather than leave on earlier evacuation flights. A few hours earlier they’d just been ordinary citizens, going about their daily lives.
‘Bellatrix is secured for space,’ Aumonier said, reading a text summary on her bracelet. ‘She’s moving, Tom. She’s undocking.’
The feed had locked on to a single boarding corridor. The viewpoint was from inside a transparent-walled tube filled with civilians, constables and servitors, floating in an unruly multicoloured jumble. The vast, white, porthole-sprinkled side of the Bellatrix loomed beyond the glass, huge and steep as a cliff. And the cliff was starting to move: pushing away from the tube with a dreamlike slowness. At the far end of the tube, hundreds of metres from the cam, Dreyfus made out a sudden puff of silvery white vapour escaping to vacuum. He presumed that the airlock doors had closed, but a small amount of air had been sacrificed into space.
The Bellatrix kept receding. He focused on the golden glow of her airlock. Formless debris spilled out. Something was wrong there, he realised. The liner’s outer doors should have closed by now.
‘Jane…’ he began.
‘They can’t close the doors,’ she said numbly. ‘The locks on the Bellatrix are jammed. Too many people are trying to squeeze through.’
‘It’s not just the liner,’ Dreyfus said.
Air was still rocketing into space from the end of the docking tube. But now it was carrying people with it, sucked out by the force of decompression. It started at the far end and then raced up the tube, towards the cam. Dreyfus watched in horror as the people nearest the cam realised what was coming. He saw them scream and reach for something to hold on to. Then it hit them and they were just gone, as if they’d been rammed down a syringe by an invisible plunger.
He watched them spill into space by the hundreds: civilians, constables, machines, clothes, possessions and toys. He watched the people-shaped things thrash and die.