“What’s the precedent on a missing crime scene?”

“I have no idea. I have my law folks looking into it. It would seem obvious that the safety of the souls on board should be priority. We can arrest Campion when we find her.”

Malaika rubs his eyes. “I had a dream about this, you know. I dreamt I was ready to send the shuttles up, but I couldn’t find the Ragtime. It never arrived, and it was all my fault.”

Unwin scoffs. “Standard anxiety dream, old chap. Nothing precognitive about it.”

“I know. I’m just saying.” Malaika sighs. “I’m a little concerned.”

“There’s a missing spacecraft with thousands of people on board. Concern is natural. Besides, you’re always concerned. You are paid to be concerned.”

“I mean, I’m bothered about what our role will seem to have been if this is a disaster. We left people in space.”

“Quarantined. Not left.”

“We should have brought them home.”

“In hindsight. We use the information we have to make the decisions we can. Besides, we don’t know. This Peole fellow might be flaky,” says Unwin.

“Demetrius is flaky, but not in matters of space travel.”

“What do we do?”

“We search. We turn every telescope on Bloodroot to the sky. We commandeer every satellite and scan for anything.”

“And Lagos? What do we tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“Malaika.”

“My bailiwick, my responsibility. We tell them nothing until we have hard facts. A debris field, a broadcast, something.”

There are ten thousand registered objects orbiting the Earth and who knows how many unregistered. The space debris is a whole different matter, data about which Bloodroot doesn’t have. On establishing the colonies, it was important to avoid the crowded sky of the homeworld, so the space programme is very specific. Enough satellites to ensure reasonable contact with Lagos, some entertainment, and the arrival and departure of colony starships. There are perhaps twenty satellites in Bloodroot’s orbit. On Malaika’s order, they all begin to look for the starship Ragtime.

Three officers go to Rasheed Fin’s house, two of whom are Artificials.

They knock, IFCs spontaneously pinging, sending public data to any available open client. Nothing comes back. Nobody opens the door or answers.

“Isn’t the mother supposed to be in?” asks one of the team.

“Yes.”

“That meets the criteria for entering.”

“Breaching now.” The second officer remembers once this happened to him and an elderly person had died. He wonders if he will ever live it down. Did his hesitation kill her?

The door crashes inwards from the battering ram.

“Mrs Fin?”

The house is an exquisite mess. A stink hits the team first, but chocolate wrappers crinkle underfoot. Grime everywhere.

“This guy went into space?”

“We’re going to find a body, aren’t we?”

Dust on every surface. Dried food. Toilet unflushed.

“Rasheed, is that you?” says a voice from upstairs. “Don’t forget to eat, baby.”

“Mrs Fin?”