Yes, Sylveste thought — and who could honestly blame her? It had been hard enough for him when Volyova had dropped Sun Stealer’s name into the conversation, like a depth charge. Of course, Volyova had not known how significant that name was — and for a moment Sylveste had hoped that his wife would not remember where she had heard it, or even that she had ever heard it before. But Pascale was too clever for that; it was half the reason he loved her. ‘It doesn’t mean they managed, Cal.’
‘I’m glad you’re so sure.’
‘She wouldn’t try and stop me.’
That rather depends,’ Calvin said. ‘You see, if she imagines that you’re putting yourself in harm’s way — and if she loves you as much I think she does — then stopping you is going to be something she does as much out of love as logic. Maybe more so. It doesn’t mean she’s suddenly decided to hate you, or that she even gets pleasure out of denying you this ambition. Quite the opposite, in fact. I rather imagine it’s hurting her.’
Sylveste looked at the display again; at the conic, sculpted mass of Volyova’s bridgehead.
‘What I think,’ Calvin said, eventually, ‘is that there maybe rather more to any of this than meets your eye. And that we should proceed with caution.’
‘I’m hardly being incautious.’
‘I know, and I sympathise. The mere fact that there could be danger in this is fascinating in itself; almost an incentive to push further. That’s how you feel, isn’t it? Every argument they could use against you would only strengthen your resolve. Because knowledge makes you hungry, and it’s a hunger you can’t resist, even if you know that what you’re feasting on could kill you.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Sylveste said, and wondered, but only for an instant. Then he turned to Sajaki and spoke aloud. ‘Where the hell is that damned woman? Doesn’t she realise we have work to do?’
‘I’m here,’ Volyova said, stepping into the bridge, followed by Pascale. Wordlessly, she summoned a pair of seats, and the two women rose into the central volume of the room, positioning themselves near the others, where the spectacle playing on the display could best be appreciated.
‘Then let battle commence,’ Sajaki said.
Volyova addressed the cache; the first time she had accessed any of these horrors since the incident with the rogue weapon.
In the back of her mind was the thought that at any time one of these weapons could act in the same way; violently ousting her from the control loop and taking charge of its own actions. She could not rule that out, but it was a risk she was prepared to take. And if what Khouri had said was true, then the Mademoiselle — who had been controlling the rogue cache-weapon — was now dead, ruthlessly absorbed by Sun Stealer, then at the very least it would not be she who tried to turn the weapons renegade.
Volyova selected a handful of cache-weapons, those at (she assumed and hoped) the lower end of the destructive scale available, where their destructive potential overlapped with the ship’s native armaments. Six weapons came to life and communicated their readiness via her bracelet, morbid skull-icons pulsing. The devices moved via the network of tracks, slowly threading their way out of the cache chamber into the smaller transfer chamber, and then deploying themselves beyond the hull, becoming, in effect, hugely overcannoned robotic spacecraft. None of the six devices resembled any of the others, except in the underlying signature of common design which was shared by all the hell-class weapons. Two were relativistic projectile launchers, and so bore a certain similarity, but no more than as if they were competing prototypes constructed by different design teams to satisfy a general brief. They looked like ancient howitzers; all elongated barrel, festooned with tubular complications and cancerous ancillary systems. The other four weapons, in no particular order of pleasantness, consisted of a gamma-ray laser (bigger by an order of magnitude than the ship’s own units), a supersymmetry beam, an ack-am projector and a quark deconfinement device. There was nothing to compare with the planet-demolishing capability of the rogue weapon, but then again, nothing which one would wish to have pointed at oneself — or indeed, the planet one happened to be standing on. And, Volyova reminded herself, the plan was not to inflict arbitrary damage on Cerberus; not to destroy it — but merely to crack it open, and for that a certain amount of finesse was in order.
Oh, yes… this was finesse.
‘Now give me something a novice can use,’ Khouri said, dithering in front of the warchive’s dispensary. ‘I’m not talking about a toy, though — it’s got to have real stopping power.’
‘Beam or projectile, madame?’
‘Make it a low-yield beam. We don’t want Pascale putting holes in the hull.’
‘Oh, marvellous choice, madame. Would madame care to rest her feet while I search for something which matches madame’s discerning requirements?’
‘Madame will stand, if you don’t mind.’
She was being served by the dispensary’s gamma-level persona, which consisted of a rather glum and simpering holographic head projected at chest height above the slot-topped counter. At first she had restricted her choices to those arms which were arrayed along the walls, stowed behind glass with little illuminated plaques detailing their operation, era-of-origin and history of usage. That was fine, in principle, and she had soon selected lightweight weapons for herself and Volyova, choosing a pair of electromagnetic needle-guns which were similar in design to Shadowplay equipment.
Volyova had, rather ominously, mentioned heavier ordnance, and Khouri had taken care of that as well, but only partially from the displayed wares. There had been a nice rapid-cycle plasma rifle, manufactured three centuries ago, but by no means outdated, and its neural-feed aiming system would make it very useful in close combat. It was light, as well, and when she hefted it, she felt that she knew the weapon immediately. There was also something obscenely alluring about the weapon’s protective jacket of black leather: mottled and oiled to a high sheen, with patches cut away to expose controls, readouts and attachment points. It would suit her, but what could she bring back for Volyova? She perused the shelves for as long as she dared (which could not have been more than five minutes), and while there was no shortage of intriguing and even bewildering hardware, there was nothing which exactly matched what she had in mind.
Instead, she had turned to the warchive’s memory. There were, Khouri was reliably informed, exemplars of in excess of four million hand weapons, spanning twelve centuries of gunsmithery, from the simplest spark-ignited projectile blunderbusses to the most gruesomely compact concentrations of death-directed technology imaginable.
But even that vast assortment was small compared to the warchive’s total potential, because the warchive could also be creative. Given specifications, the warchive could sift its blueprints and merge the optimum characteristics of pre-existing weapons until it had forged something new and highly customised. Which, in minutes, it could synthesise.
When it was done — as it was with the little pistol Khouri had imagined for Pascale — the slot in the tabletop would whir open and the finished weapon would rise on a little felt-topped platter, gleaming with ultrasterility, still warm with the residual heat of its manufacture.
She lifted Pascale’s pistol, sighting along the barrel, feeling the balance, running through the beam-yield settings, accessed by a stud recessed into the grip.
‘Suits you, madame,’ said the dispensary.
‘It isn’t for me,’ Khouri said, hiding the gun in a pocket.
Volyova’s six cache-weapons powered up their thrusters and vectored rapidly away from the ship, following a complex course which would position them to strike against the impact point, albeit obliquely. And the bridgehead, meanwhile, continued to reduce the distance between itself and the surface, always slowing. She was certain that the world had already decided that it was being approached by an artificial object, and a big one at that. The world might even recognise that the thing approaching it had once been the Lorean. Doubtless, so
mewhere down in that machine-permeated crust, a kind of debate was going on. Some components would be arguing that it was best to attack now; best to strike against the nearing thing before it became a real problem. Other components would be urging caution, pointing out that the object was still a long way from Cerberus, and that any attack against it now would have to be very large to ensure the object was annihilated before it could retaliate, and that such an open display of strength might attract more attention from elsewhere. And furthermore, the pacifist systems might say, so far this object had done nothing unambiguously hostile. It might not even suspect the artificiality of Cerberus. It might only want to sniff the world and leave it alone.
Volyova did not want the pacifists to win. She wanted the advocates of a massive pre-emptive strike to win, and she wanted it to happen now, before another minute passed. She wanted to observe Cerberus lash out and remove the bridgehead from existence. That would end their problems, and — because something similar had already happened to Sylveste’s probes — they would not be any worse off than they were now. Perhaps the mere incitement of a counterstrike from Cerberus would not constitute the interference which the Mademoiselle had sought to prevent. After all, no one would have entered the place. And then they could admit defeat and go home.
Except none of that was going to happen.
‘These cache-weapons,’ Sajaki said, nodding at the display. ‘Are you planning to arm and fire them from here, Ilia?’
‘There’s no reason not to.’
‘I would have expected Khouri to direct them from the gunnery. After all, that’s her role.’ He turned to Hegazi and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘I’m beginning to wonder why we recruited that one — or why I allowed Volyova to stop the trawling.’
‘I presume she has her uses,’ said the chimeric.
‘Khouri is in the gunnery,’ Volyova lied. ‘As a precaution, of course. But I won’t call on her unless absolutely necessary. That’s fair, isn’t it? These are my weapons as well — you can’t begrudge me the use of them when the situation is so controlled.’
The readouts on her bracelet — partially echoed on the display sphere in the middle of the bridge — informed her that in thirty minutes the cache-weapons would arrive at their designated firing positions nearly a quarter of a million kilometres away from the ship. At that point there would be no plausible reason not to fire them.
‘Good,’ Sajaki said. ‘For a moment I worried that we didn’t have your complete commitment to the cause. But that sounds suspiciously like a flash of the old Volyova.’
‘How very gratifying,’ Sylveste said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566
The black icons of the cache-weapons swarmed towards their firing points, their terrible potency waiting to be unleashed against Cerberus. In all that time there had been no response from the world; no hint that it was anything other than what it appeared to be. It just hung there, grey and sutured, like the cranium of a skull tipped in prayer.
When, finally, the moment came, there was only a soft chime from the projection sphere, and the numerals briefly cycled through zero, before commencing the long count upwards.
Sylveste was the first to speak. He turned to Volyova, who had made no visible movement in minutes. ‘Isn’t something supposed to have happened? Aren’t your damned weapons supposed to have gone off?’
Volyova looked up from the bracelet readout which was consuming her attention like someone snapping out of a trance.
‘I never gave the order,’ she said, so softly that it took conscious effort to hear her words. ‘I never told the weapons to fire.’
‘Pardon?’ Sajaki said.
‘You heard what I said,’ she answered, with mounting volume. ‘I didn’t do it.’
Once again Sajaki’s resolute calm managed to seem more threatening than any histrionics. ‘There are a number of minutes remaining in which the attack may yet be made,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you had best consider utilising them, before the situation becomes irretrievable.’
‘I think,’ Sylveste said, ‘that the situation did so some time ago.’
‘That’s a matter for the Triumvirate,’ Hegazi said, his steel-clad knuckles glinting on the edge of his seat rests. ‘Ilia, if you give the order now, maybe we can —’
‘I’m not about to,’ she said. ‘Call it mutiny if you wish, or treason; I don’t care. But my involvement in this madness ends here.’ She looked at Sylveste with unexpected bile. ‘You know my reasons, so don’t pretend otherwise.’
‘She’s right, Dan.’
Now it was Pascale who had joined the conversation, and for a moment she had all their attention.
‘You know what she’s been saying is true; how we just can’t take this risk, no matter how much you want it.’
‘You’ve been listening to Khouri as well,’ Sylveste said, although the news that his wife had gone over to Volyova’s side was hardly surprising, drawing less bitterness than he might have expected. Aware of the perversity of his feelings, he nonetheless rather admired her for doing it.
‘She knows things that we don’t,’ Pascale said.
‘What the hell does Khouri have to do with any of this?’ Hegazi asked, glancing peevishly towards Sajaki. ‘She’s just a grunt. Can we omit her from the discussion?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Volyova said. ‘Everything that you’ve heard is true. And carrying on with this really would be the worst mistake any of us have ever made.’
Sajaki veered his seat away from Hegazi, approaching Volyova.
‘If you aren’t going to give the attack order, at least surrender control of the cache to me.’ And he reached out his hand, beckoning her to unclasp the bracelet and pass it to him.
‘I think you should do what he says,’ Hegazi said. ‘It could be very unpleasant for you otherwise.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ Volyova said, and with one deft motion she snapped the bracelet from her hand. ‘It’s completely useless to you, Sajaki. The cache will only listen to me or Khouri.’
‘Give me the bracelet.’
‘You’ll regret it, I’m warning you.’
She passed it to him all the same. Sajaki grasped it as if it were a valuable gold amulet, toying with it briefly before locking it around his wrist. He watched as the little display reignited, filling with the same schematic data which had flashed from Volyova’s wrist a moment earlier.
‘This is Triumvir Sajaki,’ he said, licking his lips between each word, savouring the power. ‘I’m not sure of the precise protocol required at this point, so I ask for your co-operation. But I want the six deployed cache-weapons to commence —’
Sajaki stopped mid-sentence. He looked down at his wrist, at first in puzzlement, and then, moments later, in something much closer to fear.
‘You sly old dog,’ Hegazi said, wonderingly. ‘I imagined you might have a trick up your sleeve, but I never thought you’d have one literally.’
‘I’m a very literal-minded person,’ Volyova said.
Sajaki’s face was a rigid mask of pain now, and the constricting bracelet had visibly cut into his wrist. His hand was locked open, now as white and bloodless as wax. With his free hand he was making a valiant effort to claw the bracelet free, but it was futile; she had seen to that. The clasp would have sealed shut now, and what remained was only a painful and slow process of constrictive amputation, as the memory-plastic polymer chains in the bracelet slithered ever tighter. The bracelet had known from the instant he placed it around his wrist that his DNA was not correct; that it failed to match her own. But it had not begun to constrict until he had tried to issue an order, which, she supposed, was a kind of leniency on her behalf.
‘Make it stop,’ he managed to say. ‘Make it stop… you fucking bitch… please…’
Volyova estimated he had one to two minutes before the bracelet had his hand off; one to two minutes before the main sound in the room
would be the cracking of bone, assuming it was audible above Sajaki’s whimpers.
‘Your manners let you down,’ she said. ‘What kind of a way to ask is that? You’d think now would be the one time when you had some courtesy to spare.’
‘Stop it,’ Pascale said. ‘I’m begging you, please — whatever’s happened, it isn’t worth this…’ Volyova shrugged, and addressed herself to Hegazi. ‘You may as well remove it, Triumvir, before it gets too messy. I’m sure you have the means.’
Hegazi held one of his own steel hands up for inspection, as if having to reassure himself that they were no longer flesh.
‘Now!’ Sajaki shrieked. ‘Get it off me!’
Hegazi positioned his seat next to the other Triumvir and set to work. It was a process which seemed to cause Sajaki fractionally more pain than the constriction itself.
Sylveste said nothing.
Hegazi worked the bracelet free; his metal hands were lathered with human blood by the time he was done. What remained of the bracelet fell from his fingers, dropping to the floor twenty metres below.
Sajaki, who had not stopped moaning, looked with revulsion at the damage that had been wrought to his wrist. His hand was still attached, but the bones and tendons were hideously exposed, blood pulsing out in red gouts, cascading in a thin scarlet rope to the distant floor. Trying to stifle the loss, he pressed the agonised limb against his belly. Finally he ceased to make any sound, and after long moments, his blanched face turned to Volyova and spoke.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ he said. ‘I swear it.’
Which was when Khouri entered the bridge and began shooting.
Of course, she had always had a plan in mind, even if it was not a very detailed one. And when Khouri had taken her first step into the chamber, and seen the cataract of what was obviously blood, she had not taken the time to run her plan through a set of elaborate last-minute revisions. Instead, she had decided to start shooting the ceiling, until she had everyone’s attention.
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