Jo pulls out a notepad and a voice recorder, then her official warrant card. She holds it up and my eyes are drawn to it, with a swelling, stabbing sensation in my forehead as if a swarm of bees have taken up residence between my ears. "By the power vested in me in the name of the state, by the oath of service you have sworn under penalty of your mortal soul, I bind you to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

Not ask, or order, but bind. My tongue feels swollen, as if I'm having an allergic reaction. I manage to nod.

"State your name, rank, and date of birth."

I feel my lips move and hear a voice reciting. Iris is watching me closely, her expression hard to read. It's okay: I feel comfortably numb. I want to tell her, but my voice isn't having anything to do with my mind right now.

"Yesterday morning, June fourteenth, you met with Detached Special Secretary Angleton in his office. Describe the meeting."

It's funny, I didn't realize I could remember that much detail. But the geas drags it out of me over the course of an hour and a half, and by the end of it Jo is grimacing and wincing as her hand spiders back and forth across the pages of her report pad, filling it in verbatim—I'm not the only one whose muscles aren't under my own control while the report field is in force.

Finally she draws breath again. "Is there anything you'd like to add for the record?" she asks, turning over a new page.

My mouth opens again, almost without me willing it: "Yes. I'm very sorry." My jaw shuts with an audible click.

She nods sympathetically: "Yes, I suppose you would be." She closes the report pad with a twitch, says, "The report is now over," and switches off the voice recorder.

Iris sags. I follow suit a moment later, then Jo makes it a threesome. The wards on the cover of her R60 pad and voice recorder are glowing almost as brightly as the haunted instrument panel in Hangar Six. "Whwhat happens now?" I ask. My throat feels gravelly.

Jo glances at Iris, who raises that eyebrow again—the one that can shut down committees or terrify demons to order.

"I take this back to Oscar-Oscar, and have copies created under seal. One goes to Human Resources"—I try not to cringe—"one goes to the Auditors, and one goes to Internal Affairs. Everyone else involved in the incident gets the same treatment. IA put the collected transcripts—and the special coroner's report on the victim—in front of the Incident Committee, who investigate and determine the cause of the event."

I lick my lips. "And then?"