"We won't," Dreyfus said.
"That's about all I have to say. You can get off the ledge easily enough: there's a dried-up river bed that climbs up onto the plateau. Keep low once you're up there, and exploit whatever natural features you can find for cover. You've got a good shot at getting to Ops Nine by sundown. I suggest you aim to achieve that objective."
"If we don't?" Sparver asked.
"It cools down pretty fast here. In infrared, those suits of yours are going to light up the landscape like a pair of beacons."
"Then we should move out right now," Dreyfus said, readying his suit for exposure to Yellowstone's atmosphere. He picked up the heavy bulk of the Breitenbach rifle and slung it over his shoulder. "Thank you for the ride, Captain. I appreciate the risk you took in bringing us this close."
"I'm not the one taking the risk here." Pell touched a control on this console then studied a read-out for a moment. "We're stable. You're free to cycle through."
Dreyfus nodded at Sparver and the two of them moved towards the cutter's suitwall.
"One thing I forgot to mention," Pell said. "When you were suiting up, word came through from Panoply."
"They weren't supposed to contact us."
"They didn't, not specifically. It was a general broadcast, to all assets. It sounded like a code. It meant nothing to me, but I thought you might know better."
"Tell me," Dreyfus said, swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat.
"The message was, 'Zulu has occurred. Repeat, Zulu has occurred'." Pell shrugged. "That was all."
Dreyfus moved to snap down his faceplate. "You're right. It does mean something."
"Good or bad?"
"Too soon to tell," he answered.
* * *
CHAPTER 30
* * *
Gaffney held the stiffened filament of the whiphound against Mercier's throat in much the same way that Dreyfus had held the whiphound against his own. They were standing outside the operating theatre where the Zulu team were still at work.
"I can't let you in there, Sheridan."
Gaffney let the sharp edge of the filament draw a dab of blood. "It's not a question of 'can't', I'm afraid. You're going to do it, or they're going to have another head to re-attach when they're done with Jane."
"I can't allow you to hurt the Supreme Prefect."
Gaffney's thumb caressed the handle of the whiphound. "Open the door. I won't ask again."
Mercier palmed the door, ignoring the signs warning him against entry. The door slid open, revealing the gowned backs of Demikhov's crash team standing at their pedestals with the medical servitors beyond them. For a moment all was deceptively normal. Mercier heard the urgent but calm voices of the surgeons discussing the progress so far; he saw gloved fingers reach out towards data panes, switching between display options. Then one of the gowned figures became aware that the door had opened. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening as she took in the spectacle of Gaffney holding Mercier hostage.
"Is there a problem?" Demikhov asked.
"What does it look like, shit-for-brains?"
"We're in the middle of a delicate procedure here," Demikhov said, still keeping admirably cool. "If you've got a problem, if there's something you want, I suggest you take it up with Senior Prefect Clearmountain."
"Tell your staff to suspend the machines and step away from their pedestals."
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
"I'll kill Mercier if you don't."
"We're trying to save the life of the supreme prefect. In case you haven't been informed, her head and body were separated when we removed the scarab."
"I don't like repeating myself. Tell your staff to do what I just said."
"Whatever you want, whatever demands you might have, we can't give it to you."
"I'll be the judge of that." Gaffney let the whiphound bite deeper, until blood began to trickle down Mercier's throat in a continuous flow. "I won't ask again. Do what I say and I promise that neither Mercier nor the supreme prefect will come to harm. Fuck with me and you're going to be mopping up into the middle of next week."
"Please," Mercier said.
Demikhov breathed in deeply and nodded to his staff. Gloved fingers touched panes. The surgical robots halted.
"Now step away from the pedestals," Gaffney said. "As far as you can go."
The staff shuffled back until they had all taken at least ten paces. Gaffney pushed Mercier forward, keeping the whiphound in place. They walked between the pedestals, then eased past the poised medical servitors to stand by the patient. Since Mercier had last viewed the scene, the two tables had been brought closer so that the gap between head and neck was only ten centimetres. The complexity of the operation was even more humbling in close-up. Aumonier's head rested in a padded cradle, with constantly swivelling trawl probes arranged around her shaven scalp in a barbed halo. Oxygenation of the head was being maintained by a tangle of arterial shunts inserted into the skin of the neck or up through the stump itself. A handful of nerves had already been rejoined across the divide, using jumper cables to bridge the gap between the quickmatter cylinders that tipped the end of each nerve.
"You're a doctor," Gaffney told Mercier. "How long do you think she can last without those lines running into her head?"
"Without blood? Not very long."
"Put some numbers on that for me. How many minutes are we talking about? Three? Five? Six?"
"Four at the most. Why?"
"Four it is, then. Snap off your bracelet and hold it up to my mouth."
Mercier did as he was told, fumbling as he released his bracelet.
"Put me through to Clearmountain," Gaffney said.
The acting supreme prefect answered almost immediately. "This is Clearmountain. Is something the matter, Doctor — "
"This isn't Mercier. It's Gaffney."
Clearmountain comprehended the implications quickly enough. "This is unexpected, Sheridan."
"Don't worry, I'm not staying around."
"Where are you?"
"I'm down with Demikhov, in the theatre. I'm standing right next to Jane. Nice work he's done so far."
"Don't lay a finger on Aumonier," Clearmountain said.
"Jane's going to be just dandy. That is, provided you don't do anything to annoy me."
"I'm sure we can work something out."
"Actually, I'm sure we can't. I'm finished here. I've burnt my bridges. It might surprise you, but I'm a rational man. I did everything I did because I believed it was the right thing for the citizenry. I still believe that. I love this goddamn organisation, or at least what it used to stand for. But I know I have no future unless Aurora wins against Panoply."
"She's a machine, Sheridan. You've been working for an alpha-level intelligence, the ghost of a girl who should have died fifty-five years ago."
"Aurora's nature is irrelevant. It's her intentions that count."
"She's a mass murderer. We've received direct confirmation that all the citizens inside House Aubusson were murdered shortly after the takeover."
"Nice try," Gaffney said.
"It's the truth."
Mercier thought he caught a twitch of hesitation before Gaffney answered. "She wants to protect people. She'd hardly start murdering them if that was her objective."
"Listen to me, I'm begging you. Aurora is not what you think she is. Her only goal is her own survival."
"You know," Gaffney said, "I really think you could have tried a bit harder than that. I mean, honestly. Do you think I'm going to drop everything and roll over like a puppy just because you tell me some people have been murdered?"
"I'll show you," Clearmountain said. "I'll let you interview Prefect Ng as soon as she returns to Panoply."
"Sorry, but I'm not planning on staying that long." Without warning, he released his hold on Mercier, pushing him away with such force that the doctor tripped over his own feet and fell backwards against one of the servitors, toppling it
noisily. "Join the others," he said.
"Sheridan?" Clearmountain said.
"Still here." Gaffney had snatched Mercier's bracelet as he pushed him away. He snapped it around his own wrist and continued speaking. "I'm leaving, but not before you've done a couple of things for me. You can begin by telling me where Dreyfus is."
"I can't do that."
"I'm standing less than a metre from the supreme prefect, with a whiphound. Do you want to rethink your response?"
Clearmountain answered after a pause. "Dreyfus is somewhere else in the Glitter Band. I can give you the coordinates in a moment — "
Mercier pulled himself to his feet, bruised but otherwise unhurt. He touched a hand to the drying scab on his throat, judging that the wound was superficial.
"Oh, nice try," Gaffney said. "Let's have a little look here, shall we?" He reached down and tugged at one of the lines running into Aumonier's neck until it popped out. "I've just pulled something free. I don't know if it was important or not."
"Sheridan — "
"I'll ask again. Where is Dreyfus? Don't lie to me, Clearmountain. I've spent my entire professional life spotting liars."
"A secure holding facility on Marco's Eye — "
"Oh, please. I wonder what this one does? A bit of blood squirting out there. Okay, you get one more try. I'd give this one a lot of thought, if I were you."
"He's gone to Yellowstone."
Gaffney cocked his head and nodded. "Like it so far, Prefect. Where on Yellowstone? Don't tell me they moved it to Chasm City?"
"It's in Ops Nine."
"Mm. Going to have to jog my memory on that one."
Clearmountain's voice was flat with defeat. "A disused Amerikano research station."
"Good, now we're getting somewhere. That sounds plausible. Do you think you can spare a ship, Gaston? I'm thinking something like a corvette, one with transat capability. I'll want a full fuel and weps load, and the coordinates of Ops Nine programmed into the autopilot."
"I can't give you that," Clearmountain said.
"Oh dear, there goes another tube. The liquid's kind of watery this time. What does cerebrospinal fluid look like, anyone?"
"We don't have a corvette on the rack. They're all out."
"I'll settle for a cutter, then, but I'm not budging on the fuel and weps. Throw in a surface suit while you're at it."
"I'll ... talk to Thyssen."
"Better make it quick. I'm on my way up to the cutter bay. And I'm bringing some insurance with me." Gaffney started tugging out the rest of the wires and nerve shunts. "I'd say you've got about four minutes."
He tugged Jane Aumonier's severed head free of its support cradle.
* * *
Dreyfus and Sparver walked across an undulating landscape of frozen methane-ammonia ice. Their shadows lengthened ahead of them as the orange smear of Epsilon Eridani lowered towards the horizon to their rear, burning through ochre-brown clouds that had been tugged into weird anatomical shapes by high-altitude winds. The sky ahead of them was an ominous purple, palpitating with distant electrical storms. Above, it was coloured and knotted like old wood, curdled like bad milk.
"Do you want to talk about what was in that document now?" Sparver asked.
"Not really."
Dreyfus altered his course to exploit the shadowing effect of a natural boulder formation. They had covered seven kilometres from the touchdown point; approximately the same distance remained to be traversed. With the power-assisted suits, the physical effort was minimal. But the continuous chore of choosing a safe route, one that would avoid unstable ground and keep them low enough to avoid being detected by Firebrand, was itself taxing.
"Boss, you've hardly said a word since we left Pell. Aren't you happy that Thalia got out okay?"
"Of course I'm happy. I'm just not really in the mood for banter. I didn't ask for company, remember."
"But now you've got it. Was that document something to do with the Clockmaker?"
"Have a guess."
"Okay, so what was so earth-shattering about it? What did you read that you find so personally difficult to deal with?"
"That's between me and the document."
"And I'm your deputy. We share things."
"Do you have Manticore clearance?"
"No. But I've never had Pangolin, either, and that hasn't stopped you from feeding me the occasional crumb of restricted information."
"This is different."
"Because it concerns the Clockmaker? Or because it concerns Tom Dreyfus?"
"We should talk less."
"They're not going to hear our conversation."
"I mean we should concentrate on walking. If you fall though ice, I'm not stopping to haul you out."
"Nice to know you care."
They trudged on, zigzagging around a labyrinth of crevasses and deadfalls. After at least a kilometre, Dreyfus said, "I found out something about myself I didn't know. I've always believed that I played no part in that day's events, but now I know I was there. I was in SIAM, directly involved in the unfolding of the Clockmaker crisis. I must have been nearby when it broke loose. I was probably visiting Valery, or on my way from visiting her."
"You don't remember?"
"I had the memories blocked. They're becoming clearer now that I've seen the document, but I still feel as if I'm looking at them through thick glass."
"Why would you have had the memories blocked? Was that a security thing?"
"Not exactly. I wouldn't have been allowed to function as a field with the knowledge I gained that day, but that wouldn't have been an issue if they'd promoted me to senior, which is what they wanted to do. That's not why I had the memories blocked, though. I made a decision that day, Sparver. It fell to me. But I couldn't live with what I'd done afterwards."
"What kind of decision?"
"I worked out a way to save the people in SIAM, the ones that the Clockmaker hadn't got to already. That's why there was a delay. I've always wondered about the six hours between Jane's release and us going in with the nukes. Now I know what happened."
"Did you succeed?" Sparver asked.
Dreyfus walked on. After a dozen paces he turned and said, "Yes, I succeeded. I saved them all. Including Valery."
* * *
There was a coldness beyond cold, and then a light. Aumonier felt weightless and the thought formed itself in her mind that after everything they had failed, that she was back in the room with the scarab. For an instant the prospect was intolerable and she sought to crawl back into the unconsciousness from which she had just emerged. But then she became aware that she could no longer feel the scarab. Its absence was so profound that it almost felt like a negative image of the thing itself.
"Open your eyes," Doctor Demikhov said softly. "Everything's all right. You're going to be fine."
"I was sleeping, wasn't I?"
"Yes. You were asleep, after all these years. I'm sorry it was necessary to wake you."
Demikhov was leaning over her, green gown and mask against a tiled backdrop of sterile green walling. She tried speaking, but the words wouldn't form. Instead she heard a harsh-sounding imitation of her own voice, as if someone standing next to her had anticipated exactly what she wished to say. "Where am I?"
"In post-operative. Do you remember anything?"
"I remember calling you. I remember that we were discussing your plans for me."
"And afterwards?"
"Nothing. What's wrong with my voice?"
"We're reading your intentions with a trawl. Don't be alarmed; it's only a temporary measure."
By degrees, Aumonier became aware that she had scant sensation below the neck. She could move her eyes, but little else. Her head was fixed in place, unable to tilt from side to side.
"Show me what you've done, Doctor."
"I've done something quite drastic, but there's no cause for alarm. You're going to be up on your feet in no time at all."
"Show me," she said, the simulated
voice picking up her insistence.
Demikhov motioned to one side. A gloved hand passed him a mirror. He held it before Aumonier so that she could see her face, pinched tight in a padded restraint.
"I haven't seen my face in eleven years. No one could get a mirror close to me, but that wasn't the point. I didn't want to see the scarab, even accidentally. Now I look so old and thin."
"It's nothing time won't put right."
"Tilt the mirror."
Her neck came into view. It appeared to have been stapled to her body, the wound still raw. Cables and wires plunged into her skin, or into the gap between the two edges of skin.
"You understand what we had to do?" Demikhov said.
"How did you ... ?" she began.
"It took a lot of planning but the process itself was very quick. You had a few seconds of consciousness before the crash team reached you, but I doubt you remember much of that."
She realised, in an instant of comprehension, that it was very important to her that she not remember. But she did. She remembered bright lights and a concerned, lantern-jawed face looking at her with clinical intensity, and the face had belonged to Demikhov. She remembered a cold beyond cold, as if the interstellar vacuum itself was groping its way up her neck, reaching freezing fingers into the empty cavity of her skull.
Demikhov didn't need nightmares for the rest of his life.
"You're right," she said. "I don't."
"The damage to your body was severe but treatable. We neutralised the remains of the scarab and my intention was to keep you under until your head and body were fully reunited. There was a minor complication, however."
"With me?"
"Not exactly. I'll explain things later, but all you need to know right now is that Gaffney managed to escape from Panoply. He took a cutter and went after Dreyfus."
She had a thousand questions, but most of them would have to wait. "How did he know where to go? Surely nobody told him about Ops Nine."
"Gaffney was ... persuasive," Demikhov said. "Clearmountain had no option but to reveal the suspected location of the Clockmaker. In his shoes, I'd have done exactly the same thing."
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