As Iona prepared to go on climbing, a citizen ascended the stairs past her with the blandly determined countenance of the reprogrammed. She tried to warn it of the danger ahead but it wasn’t listening because they had programmed it not to listen. Iona walked up behind it—if she couldn’t divert it from its path then she could at least use it as a shield. Which seemed brutal but there it was.

Just before the door to the twelfth floor, Iona and her shield encountered a row of citizens lined up on the same step, with another row behind them and more rows behind that, going back farther than Iona could see—the twist of the staircase took them out of view. The steps immediately below the citizens were littered with the bodies of more citizens, and those in the front rank kicked the bodies away down the stairs.

The citizen who was walking up ahead of Iona approached the massed ranks, and as per its programming, tried to engage the nearest one so it could reprogram it. The reaction to this was a flurry of wooden fists. The reprogrammed citizen managed to stand its ground for a moment but one of the citizens opposing it grabbed its shoulders, dashed its head against the wall, and let it fall back onto the steps.

Iona stepped aside and let it roll past. Then she looked up at the ranks of citizens. They looked back at her. They didn’t address her, they didn’t come to her, they just waited for her to approach.

“Could you let me through, please?” said Iona.

“No,” said the citizen who stood front and center.

“What’s happening here?”

“There’s a threat.”

“Well I’m not a threat.”

“She is,” said a new voice from somewhere in the midst of the crowd. The citizens stood at attention as a large ginger cat slalomed between their legs and came to sit at the front.

This, Iona realized, must be Clarence. Now that she saw him, he did look familiar: the ship’s pilot had owned a cat like this.

Another citizen made its way to the front of the crowd and stood behind Clarence. It held the severed forearm of a citizen with various robotic brain components plugged into it. Iona realized it would be wise not to let on that she knew what it was.

“She’s a criminal,” Clarence continued, addressing his loyal citizens. “She plotted against the king and she was involved in the fire—”

“I know what you are,” said Iona, knowing it might be dangerous to let him know this but she wanted to see his reaction. She added: “And I know what you’re trying to do here.”

“She is to be taken alive,” Clarence continued, ignoring her. “I have an appropriate sentence in mind for her and her associates.”

“What, burn us alive like you did Alyssa?”

“No, imprisonment. We’ll have to design and build a prison, of course . . . I’d offer you the job, but . . .”