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“I have a few questions for you that I'd like you to answer to the best of your ability,” Ida said.

“Are they about Ivan?” Constance asked with an expression that anticipated the answer.

“I'm afraid they are, mostly,” said Ida. Milla's presence had alerted Constance to that fact, of course, but the discomfort aroused by their argument far outweighed any good the surprise might have done in Ida's interrogation of Constance. “I know that you've gone over this before, but I do need to know when precisely you became aware of Ivan's criminal activities.”

“Six months ago,” said Constance. “The System contacted me shortly after we visited the moon.”

“That was you, Ivan, and Mattie, correct?” Ida asked.

Constance looked briefly uneasy. No doubt her discomfort was not from the fact that Ida knew that but from the casual way Ida referred to the two men. “Yes,” she said.

“And you immediately cut off contact with them both; am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“What would you have done if they had contacted you?”

“I would have turned them in,” Constance said immediately and absolutely, without hesitation or doubt. “They know I would have. So they didn't contact me.”

“And why—forgive me,” said Ida, “but why would you turn in your lover and your brother to the System, knowing they would go to prison for the rest of their lives?”

Constance's eyes were not, as Ida first had thought, brown; they were hazel, brown shot through with green and gray, and there was as much steel behind them as there was in all of the
Ananke
.

“I was an orphan girl from an outer planet,” Constance said. “The System saved me. The System helped me. The System made me what I am today. And so I am loyal to the System.”

“More loyal to the System than to your own family?”

“I have worked hard to achieve what I have.” Constance's chin lifted, proud, stubborn. “Though I love them more than…more than anyone, I will not let them ruin the plans I've made for my future by their own inability to just—obey.”

She was being honest, Ida judged. Constance Harper did not seem a talented liar. Perhaps Ivan liked her for her principles and her honesty.

“I'm sorry to tell you,” she said, “but both Ivan and Mattie have been connected to terrorist activity.”

“You have Mattie, too, then?” Constance sounded as though she had to force herself to ask.

Ida gave her the most gentle and sad expression she possessed. “Matthew Gale was killed in the process of fleeing custody.”

Ida had expected tears or anger. Constance only looked away and did not respond.

“But as I said,” Ida told her, “Mattie and Ivan were connected to terrorist activities.”

“Like what's happening on Titania?” Again Constance sounded as if she had to force herself to speak the question.

“Precisely,” Ida said. “And that's why it's so important that we find out what Ivan knows. To stop the violence before it can become any worse.”

Constance cast her an unexpectedly lambent glance. “That doesn't seem like them,” she said.

“Perhaps,” Ida said. “But you understand that because of this connection, the System has to inquire into the connections and activity of all people close to one or the other of them—including you, Miss Harper.”

Constance took a deep breath. “Are you accusing me?”

“It's only a formality.”

“I have no terrorist connections,” said Constance. “I have nothing to tell you.”

“Then you won't mind giving me an account of all your movements and communications lately,” said Ida.

It was a rather obvious way of driving Miss Harper into a corner, but Ida suspected that subtlety would be lost on her. “Of course I will,” Constance said.

“Before we do that, however,” Ida said, “I have some questions I would like to ask you about Abigail Hunter.”

For a breath, then two, Constance sat very stiff and very still, as if she were on the verge of rising. “What about her?”

The reaction was intriguing; Ida had not expected so violent a response.

“You seem upset,” Ida said. “I imagine you and Abigail have a tense relationship.”

“Something like that,” said Constance Harper.

“Why don't you tell me what you mean,” Ida suggested.

Constance opened her mouth, then closed it. She said, “I haven't spoken to Abigail in years, though I know Abby and Mattie have stayed in touch. I disagree with many of the decisions she has made.”

“That doesn't explain why you were so upset by her very name,” said Ida.

Constance took another deliberate breath. At the end of it she said swiftly and abruptly, “I always suspected Ivan was sleeping with her.” She broke Ida's gaze as quickly as possible.

Ida could not have hoped for a more perfect reaction. A jealous woman would say any number of things she would keep silent about usually.

“He has admitted as much to me,” she confided, feigning sympathy, just one woman speaking to another. “I hope it won't be too difficult for you if I ask you a few more questions about Abigail and Ivan.”

Constance raised her eyes and sat tall and proud.

“It won't be,” she said.

Milla's warning rang in Althea's head. It distracted her from what she ought to be doing until by the time Domitian showed up to send a quick report to the System about the circumstances of Constance Harper's arrival, Althea was almost ready to ask him about it.

But she couldn't find a way to phrase it. She wanted to ask if he cared about her computer, but that was a ridiculous question. Of course he did. Or he wouldn't understand what she meant.

She found herself watching the System broadcast again. The hosts had returned to the topic of Galatea.

At her prolonged stillness, Domitian looked over at her, then at the screen. The handsome man was saying, the words scrolling in white across the bottom of the screen, “A number of other riots have arisen on Galatea since this morning. The System has suppressed the riots and placed the remaining cities on the moon under martial law to maintain order while the perpetrators are identified.”

“What happened?” Domitian asked.

“Food riot on Galatea,” said Althea. “They killed their governor. The System shattered a section of the greenhouse.” The hosts were saying nothing about Titania. It was uncomfortable to realize that that must mean that the System had not yet managed to bring that moon under control.

She wondered if the System would even announce it if it had to break all the greenhouse enclosures on Titania, destroying the entire moon to subdue it.

Domitian nodded slightly, looking over at the screen, where the woman now was talking. “Good,” he said.

“It seems kind of…violent,” Althea said, hesitant to speak but unable not to express some of her horror.

Domitian gave her an amused little smile as if he thought she was naive and sweet.

“You'd amputate a limb to save the rest of the body, Althea,” he said gently, and a thrill of unease snaked through Althea's breast.

“Those people chose to betray the System,” Domitian said, returning his attention to the report he was writing. “The System did what it had to, Althea; that was never a question. This is how the System has always handled such things, and it has been successful for a very long time.”

Yet Titania was in rebellion and Galatea had tried to follow, and Althea did not know what else might be happening that the System was not reporting. For a moment Althea watched him type, even less sure about speaking than she had been before.

“Domitian,” she said at last, still uncertain of whether she should say anything at all, and stopped.

“Yes?” he prompted, fingers poised over the keys in midword.

Althea considered and reconsidered and discarded a dozen possible things to say.

Hopelessly, certain that it was not precisely what she wanted to ask, Althea said, as she had before, “Are you…are you worried about the computer, too?”

Domitian blinked.

“Yes,” he said, and he said it gently, but Althea was struck with the awful feeling that he did not know what she meant. “Of course I am. It will seriously impact our mission if the computer remains”—he paused—“in a state of disrepair.”

“But aren't you worried about the
computer
?” Althea asked.

He frowned. “What do you mean, Althea?”

Her courage failed her. A limb was amputated, Althea knew, to stop the poison in it from spreading. And the
Ananke
had been poisoned in a way by Matthew Gale. “Nothing,” she said.

A brief silence, then the tapping of keys as Domitian resumed typing his message. “Don't worry,” he said as he stood to go. “I have faith you'll get it working again,” which was not what Althea had wanted to hear at all.

The rest of Ida's interrogation of Constance had been mostly unproductive—Constance had very little to tell her indeed—but that trivial time was worth it for now, for this moment. Ida watched the tension grow in Constance Harper's frame as she led her down the hallway, each step drawing them closer to the white room.

Constance had figured it out, of course. Ida truly would have had no respect for her if she hadn't figured it out after the confrontation with Milla.

Doubtless Ivan had figured it out as well. Doubtless he was sitting there, pale, helpless, impotent, chained down, waiting for Ida to return and for her to bring Constance Harper in her wake. Surely now he would appreciate Ida's power over him. Surely now he would understand how easily she could destroy the people he loved.

Ida stopped in front of the door to the white room and held it open for Constance. Constance took a steadying breath, then walked in with her head held high. The sound of Ida's heels as she followed echoed with her presence.

Ivan said without turning around, “Is that you, Con?”

“It's me,” said Constance, and did not stop alongside Ivan as Milla had but went to the other side of the table, where Ida usually sat, and there she stood. For a long time the two simply looked at each other. A curious thing was happening to Ivan's expression; he was starting to appear the slightest bit afraid. But Constance only looked as if she would cry.

“Have you been well?” Ivan asked, as if it was not precisely what he'd wanted to say. “I haven't seen you in…it feels like forever.”

“I've been well,” Constance said. She glanced aside and visibly mastered her expression. Ivan's frightened attention never left her face.

“But I have been told,” Constance said, as solid and unrelenting as the beating of a war drum, “that you've been seeing
Abby
while you haven't been seeing me.”

Jealousy, Ida thought, was a beautiful thing.

“Nothing to say?” Constance asked when Ivan did not speak. “I'm certain that Abigail appreciates your loyalty.”

“Oh, good,” Ivan said, unexpectedly bitter. “As long as she
appreciates
it.”

Constance's lip curled as if she would start shouting at him, as a thousand other arguments between the two had begun, but she controlled herself. It could not have been because there were strangers watching—there were strangers watching her every moment of every day—so perhaps, Ida thought, it was because she knew that this was the end.

“You know,” said Ivan, with a change of subject and a change of affect, charming now, winsome, “you and I are still technically together, I guess. We never formally left each other.”

“I guess we haven't,” said Constance.

“Con,” said Ivan, serious again, “are you going to leave me?”

For a moment Constance pressed one hand over her mouth.

“I have to, Ivan,” she said.

That fear was back on Ivan's face, fear that he had never showed so clearly to Ida. Ida wondered what she would have to do to provoke that expression on his face in reaction to herself.

“Sometimes you think there are things you have to do,” he said to Constance. “But you know, you don't have to. You can change your mind. Even if you've already begun—” He stopped, looked down at the table, gathered himself. He said, “Even if you've already started to leave me, you don't have to finish it. It's not too late.” He almost smiled at her but could not. “You don't need to leave me just because you feel like you have to.”

“That's easy for you to say,” Constance said angrily with tears in her eyes. “You've never had a purpose before. Or responsibilities. You and Mattie—all you ever do is run.”

“Constance—”

“I have to leave, Ivan.”

“I love you.”

Ida knew it was manipulation but thought that perhaps he also might genuinely mean it.

Constance must have believed it to some extent, because she did start to cry.

“You should have stayed with me,” she said. “You and Mattie. You should have followed me. Not run off to steal things and get caught by the System. You should have stayed with me.”

“Connie,” said Ivan, so gently that to Ida it seemed he was briefly someone else, “I think I would have always ended up here one way or another.”

Constance closed her eyes.

“That may be true,” she said in a voice that was stronger, less choked with sorrow than before. “Good-bye, Ivan.”

“Con—” said Ivan, and stopped, as if he had nothing with which to follow the hopeless exclamation of her name. Constance closed her eyes again and shook her head. There was a great finality to it.

Without another word spoken and without a bow in the proud straightness of her spine, Constance Harper walked around the table, past Ivan, and straight for the door to the white room. “Well?” she said when she had reached it and Ida and Domitian had not followed. Ida took her time about it to remind Constance of her lack of power here. Ivan was staring at the table before him with peculiar inward attention, as if Constance already had left.