"Minus six people.".

"Citizens panic when they lose abstraction. That isn't our problem.". Dreyfus tried to read Aumonier's expression, wondering what he was missing. It wasn't like her to need to ask him how many people had died during an operation: normally she'd have committed the figures to memory before he was back inside Panoply. But Aumonier's emotionless mask was as impossible to read as ever. He could remember how she looked when she smiled, or laughed, or showed anger, how she'd been before her brush with the Clockmaker, but it took an increasing effort of will.

"Pardon me," he said, "but if this isn't a reprimand … what exactly do you want me for?".

"The conversation? The banter? The warmth of human companionship?".

"I don't think so.".

"Something's come up. The news broke while you were outside. It's as delicate as the Perigal affair, if not more so. Urgent, too. We need immediate action.". Dreyfus had not heard of anything brewing.

"Another lockdown?".

"No. There wouldn't be much point, unfortunately.".

"I'm sorry?". Aumonier extended a hand to the wall, enlarging one of the display facets. It filled with an image of a spherical habitat, a grey ball blurred with microscopic detail, banded by tropical sun-panels, with an array of vast mirrors stationed at the poles and around the equator. The scale was difficult to judge, though Dreyfus doubted that the habitat was less than a kilometre wide.

"You won't recognise it. This is a recent image of the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble, a fifth-magnitude shell habitat in the high outer orbits. It's never fallen under Panoply scrutiny before.".

"What have they done wrong now?"

"Here's a more recent image, taken three hours ago.". The Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble had been cut open, sliced along its mid-section like an eyeball gouged by a razor. The cut had almost split the habitat into two hemispheres. On either side of the cut, the habitat's fabric had been scorched to a crisp midnight black. Structures inside were still glowing cherry-red.