“Oh dear,” said Pullman, his face ashen. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes,” MacDougal huffed emphatically. She lowered her gun. “You. There’s a monitor on this room, isn’t there? I’m taking the log. I want it forwarded to LJ control immediately under seal of evidence.” She glanced down at her gun’s muzzle recorder, breathing deeply. “Along with the take from this thing.”

“You killed her!” Minion Number One sat bolt upright, an expression of horror stealing over him. “She won’t be able to—” He stopped.

“Upload them all, the unborn god will know its own,” Rachel said grimly, pulling herself to her feet. “Did you ever hear her say that?”

“No—” Minion Number One was staring at Minion Number Two, who hadn’t moved since Gilda stood up. A fine thread of drool descended from the side of the man’s mouth. “What’s wrong? What have you done to Alex?”

“Aye, what’s going on?” Rosa demanded. “What is that thing?” She gestured at the neural spike, which had rolled half under the table. Rachel glanced at it, then looked at the inspector. The cop was putting a good face on things, but her hands were shaky and her posture tense.

“Some of the shit I work with followed me home.” She laced her fingers together and began dialing her rings hastily. She frowned at Rosa, then glanced around the other committee members. “We’re all in this together. Let’s just hope that she was an isolated case.”

“An isolated case of what?” asked MacDougal.

“You’ll want to check her genetic profile against a murder, Maureen Davis, diplomatic corps, about six months ago.” Rachel realized she was breathing heavily. “Also anyone who’s visited her house in the past year. Colleagues, friends, whoever. Her type uses proxies.”

“And what type would those be?” Rosa stared at her through narrowed eyes.

“ReMastered.” Rachel twisted her rings. “George? Okay, message.” She waited for the voice mail intro to finish. “I have a suspect in the murder of Maureen Davis, Muscovite embassy.” She paused. “They’re here. A cell. Infiltrating us.” A frown wrinkled her forehead. “Probably the rogue faction, but I’m not sure.” She glanced at MacDougal. “Can you find out if she ever attended a function with a woman name of Steffi Grace, aka Miranda Katachurian? In the past year or so?”

“You’re saying this is related to a murder case?” asked MacDougal, as the door opened for Building Security, and a buzzing swarm of concern erupted into the room.

“More than one,” Rachel said grimly. “And they’re still happening.” What’s going to become of us? she wondered dully and, just for a moment, longed for the clear-cut certainties of a madman with a home brew nuclear device. But something told her that this one wouldn’t go away at the sting of a police wasp: indeed, it was only just beginning.

And outside the office — still hundreds of light years away — the Iron Sunrise continued to expand in its silent and deadly splendor, bearing down upon an Earth shrouded in comforting darkness.