Grail - Elizabeth Bear [68]
Tristen cleared his throat. “Is it safe to have your helm open? You might contract the agent of death. You might transport it outside this sealed environment.”
“Can’t kiss a corpse with sealed lips,” Mallory said. “Nova says it was a poisoned program, wiped along with the presence that spawned it. We’re as safe here as we are anywhere.”
Assuming the Angel’s not being fooled by the enemy’s camouflage again. Tristen bit his lip. “It seems like there are a lot of familiar modi operandi at work here. And all of the individuals those tactics suggest are supposed to be dead.”
“Well, death,” Mallory said. “I wouldn’t use that to rule out suspects. Death is my specialty, and you have my professional assurances that it’s not in any way permanent. I’ve got a head so full of dead people I suspect whoever I started off as should probably be counted as one of them.
“Transformation, on the other hand, now, that’s the one you have to watch out for. How much of you has to die before you stop being you and become somebody else?”
Tristen thought of Cynric, of Gavin, of Nova and Rien. He thought of Sparrow and Dorcas, and himself and a dark hole full of wings and insects and the heat of decomposition. He came a step closer, itching to reach out to Mallory, forcing himself to observe. But he did not open his helm.
The necromancer framed the dead woman’s eyes with soft fingertips, and leaned so close that Tristen felt as if he had interrupted a seduction.
As he watched, the kiss was completed. Mallory pressed pink lips over the dead woman’s mouth, and Tristen could see the worming motions of the necromancer’s tongue working between the corpse’s teeth. Mallory’s eyes closed, fingers fanning through brown hair to hold the head steady.
There was not much rigor yet, or it was passing. By the lack of cadaverine and sulfur compounds in the air, Tristen presumed the former—but with luck (and skill) Mallory would have a better answer momentarily. When the necromancer straightened, dark eyes thoughtful, Tristen knew some ghost of an answer at least had been retrieved.
“The brain is dead but fresh,” Mallory said. “A virus is interfering with the symbionts, preventing regeneration; Nova and Jordan will likely be able to remove the inhibition and at least get the bodies back. And perhaps learn more about how Nova was kept out of this anchore—”
“And kept from being aware that she was being kept out of this anchore,” Nova added dryly.
Mallory snorted. “Any program—be it based in wetware or hardware—can be hacked.”
“And did you hack her memories?” Tristen asked, stroking the dead woman’s hair back with his armored hand.
“The machine memories were wiped,” Mallory said. “I think these people were used as a stalking horse by a greater enemy. I think that enemy was thorough in covering his or her tracks.”
The smile that curved lovely lips was smug enough to make Tristen shiver with memory. This is hardly the time.
But what were a few dozen more dead in his lifetime?
“I notice,” Tristen said—aware that, in terms of cool professionalism, he was overcompensating, “that you specifically mention the machine memories.”
“The meat is empty,” Mallory said. “No electrical impulses left at all. She’s dead.” The necromancer’s palms rasped softly, nervously, against one another. “The local monitoring records have been purged, but there are still neurochemical traces.”
Tristen felt his eyebrows rise.
“Oxytocin, serotonin. Whoever killed her was someone she trusted to do her no harm.”
“A friend?”
“A friend.”
* * *
By the time they’d returned to Rule, Tristen had made his decision. He left Mallory to report to Perceval—the broad details had been handled through Nova and the com, but the Captain would have questions, and both Mallory and Tristen had thought it best