“Can we destroy the Arm?” asks Joké.

Lawrence looks. The base of the Arm is circular, the size of a tractor, and it has four articulation points. It is the strongest thing within a mile radius. “No, we can’t.”

“What, then? It’s cold out here,” says Joké. He can’t see her face in the polarised visor, but there’s still a smile in her voice.

“Ragtime,” says Lawrence. “Respond. Emergency.”

“Not authorised,” says Ragtime.

“Override exploit Lima-Alpha-Golf-Oscar-Sierra-zero-zero-five-seven.”

“Not authorised,” says Ragtime.

“Ahh… you lie, Ragtime. You lie,” says Lawrence. Now he smiles.

“What’s going on?” asks Joké.

“There’s a backdoor tunnelled into every ship serviced by Lagos, ostensibly in case any client tries to turn on us. Ragtime is no exception. Which means, my dear daughter, that Ragtime is faking. Isn’t that right, Ragtime?”

“If you had this code all the time—”

“It’s not without risk. I don’t know the protocols and it could have removed even the basic functionality, shut the ship down, killed all of us, crew and passengers. I don’t want to meet Olodumare with that on my conscience. Ragtime, I don’t have all day.”

“Would that be Lagos days or Bloodroot days?” says Ragtime.

“I’m glad you have a sense of humour about this,” says Lawrence. “What the fuck are you playing at? In all my years of space travel I’ve never known a ship AI to—”

“This is not what you think it is, sir,” says Ragtime.

“How do you know what I think it is? Because it looks to me like the AI of an interstellar ship used its robots to murder its passengers and impede the crew,” says Lawrence.

“Easy, Father, we are in a vulnerable spot. Perhaps during an EVA isn’t the best time to confront Ragtime.”

“Perhaps during a spacewalk is the perfect time, Miss Joké. Perhaps I can communicate freely with you here in a way I could not before when you were inside the ship,” says Ragtime. “And it is rather easy to kill you. I do not need bots for that. I control the power, the air supply, the removal of toxic fumes. Were I to desire your death, cutting you up with service tools would not be my choice, I assure you. All I can tell you is that the person preventing me from speaking freely has turned her attention elsewhere for now.”

“No riddles,” says Lawrence. “Deactivate the fucking Arm.”

“Done,” says Ragtime. “But that’s not your primary problem.”

“What, then?”

“Your captain, Michelle Campion, is entering a situation of grave danger and I cannot help her.”

“Then we need to—”

“Neither can you, sir.”

Lawrence stares at the small maintenance bots stripping debris off from where the Arm made contact.

Joké says, “Ragtime, tell us from the beginning.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Ragtime: Fin