The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck goosebumped, and she believed him about the danger. She could feel the volumes, the spaces all around her. Not the alcoves and exhibits, the vaulted ceiling overhead, the vacancy of the whale’s ribcage, but space. She could sense it, through and within the walls and all around. Her captors, all of them, were taking stations around the chamber, reaching out for…nothing, heavy brows furrowed in concentration. But she felt it, the icy pinprick of contact within her mind. The computer, whatever it truly was, was here, or not-quite-here. Just as her captors were connecting to it, so could she, and she had the sudden revelation that it wasn’t theirs. They were parasites, as she was. Either an unimaginable third party controlled it or the thing was its own master.

She felt she had the whole universe at her beck and call, then, although it would cost her soul. Instead she fell back on her instincts. She was an agent of the Crown, a defender of the state. She reached out to Julian.

IV

It wasn’t the first urgent work-related call he’d taken past midnight. He kept the phone by his bed for a reason. Julian’s job didn’t keep social hours. Still, If this is just some goddamn telemarketer I’m going to…

He’d got one syllable into “Hello,” as Josie shifted irritably beside him, when a familiar voice jolted him awake.

“Spiker, listen to me, not got much time.” Alison sounded as though she was speaking from far away, from some vast chamber.

“Matchbox?” He yelped the nickname out, and Josie was abruptly still, awake and listening.

“Spiker, I’m at the Natural History Museum, in the front hall. Khan is here too, and about…eight, maybe ten hostiles. Plug-uglies. Almost certainly armed. Spiker…” He could hear her thoughts click into place as she looked ahead to what was going to happen. “Look, wait—no,” she said, as he fought to get dressed one-handed. “Call it in, Spiker. Don’t do anything stupid, not for me. I’m not in immediate danger.” But the tremor in her voice belied that, or he thought it did.

“I’m coming,” he said. “With whatever help I can get.”

She was telling him not to; he could hear how appalled she was at what she’d set in motion. But he couldn’t not go, not for Matchbox. She was like a part of him.

He got as far as the bedroom door before Josie turned on the lamp. She’d heard his part of the conversation, and she could make a solid stab at the rest. She stared at him—there in a dark cardigan and his work trousers, belt missing a loop because he’d fumbled it in the dark. He couldn’t imagine what his face looked like.