“It would be monitoring everything it came into contact with,” Locuil said wearily. “As soon as it sensed any genetic material belonging to the target – the president – it’d arm, check that there was an actual bit of body there to accept the micro-barb, then spring out, deliver. In a way it’s quite old tech, Septame.”

“But it would have to have a sample of … of the …”

“It would need a sample, or rather the results of a sample, of Sefoy’s genetic material. But you could get that almost anywhere, Septame: from a glass, from one of the president’s hairs, from any article of her clothing; you could get that from just having shaken her hand or having brushed her cheek with your own.”

“Everyone she’s ever met throughout her life would be a first-order suspect,” Chekwri told Banstegeyn crisply. She turned to Locuil. “I assume you’re already cooperating with the cops?”

Locuil nodded. “Second call her security people made.”

“Truth is, though,” Chekwri said, “this looks like one of ours.”

“You mean the device that was used?” Banstegeyn said.

Chekwri nodded. “We had stuff like this. Once, long ago.” She flexed her eyebrows. “Back in what you might call the interesting old days. It was all supposed to have been got rid of, but … maybe some of it wasn’t. Maybe somebody kept some of it somewhere. Or kept the knowledge and the means to make it.”

Banstegeyn looked steadily into Chekwri’s eyes as she said this, and the marshal returned his gaze just as levelly.

“Or somebody invented a brand new one,” Locuil said. “The fact remains the president is dead. Not to mention her AdC. Not to mention in … delicate circumstances. But what really matters is, the president is dead. What’s to be done about it?”

“The protocols are clear,” Banstegeyn said. He was aware that he looked dreadful; tired, unkempt. That was good. His voice was hollow, flat. He was keeping it that way. “The longest-serving trime becomes acting president, the longest serving-septame becomes an acting trime—”

“Prophet’s spit,” Chekwri said, almost spluttering. “Int’yom as president, even for six days?” She shook her head.

“Yes,” Banstegeyn said, as though not noticing. “And so on down the levels, while a clone of Sefoy Geljemyn is grown, and elections for a new president are set in train.”

“That might look a little pointless with the Subliming so close,” Chekwri said.

“A vote of the whole parliament would be required to alter the protocols,” Banstegeyn said dully, letting the tiredness into his voice. “Eighty per cent approval required for any changes. We’d struggle even to form a quorum with the people we could call back from out-system in time.” He shook his head, wiped his eyes. “I think we have to stick to the rules, act as though there will be an election within forty days, even though there won’t be one.”