The Prefect rs-5

by Alastair Reynolds

  “Let’s take a stroll to your office.” With Gaffney still pressing the stylus into his neck, Mercier shuffle-walked sideways, his heart hammering and his breathing beginning to rocket.

  “My arm,” Mercier protested.

  “Fuck your arm. Open the door.” Mercier admitted the two of them into his administrative annexe. He held out a forlorn hope that there’d be someone in there who could pacify Gaffney or raise the alarm. But with all the other medical staff either participating in Demikhov’s operation or up in the bay awaiting the arrival of the deep-system cruiser, the medical centre was deserted.

  “Don’t even think about calling out,” Gaffney warned.

  “Now move to your desk. Pull out the chair and sit down.” Mercier’s office was all inert matter. The furniture was studiedly old-fashioned, the way he liked it. But even if he’d had the means to conjure one, he wouldn’t have had the necessary control or presence of mind to fashion a weapon or restraining device.

  “What do you want with me?” he asked as he sat down in the chair, with Gaffney still jamming the stylus into his neck.

  “You’re going to dislocate my arm!”.

  “That’s what happens to arms. Now open the desk drawer on your right.”

  “My drawer?” Gaffney intensified the pressure on both the stylus and the arm.

  “I’m not really in the mood to say things twice, son.”

  With his left arm, Mercier opened the drawer.

  “There’s nothing in here except papers,” he said, tugging it open enough to demonstrate that this was the case.

  “You do like your paperwork,” Gaffney commented.

  “Now reach all the way to the back of the drawer.”

  “There’s nothing at the back.”

  “Do it.” Mercier started as his fingers brushed against something unfamiliar, lodged at the back of the drawer where it would not interfere with his beloved paperwork.

  “Pull it out,” Gaffney said.

  Mercier tugged and the item snapped loose. It felt heavy in his hand, like a bar of cold iron. Something about its shape was familiar, though he had never handled anything remotely like it.

  “This isn’t possible,”. he said.

  “There shouldn’t be—”

  “How many times have you had this office swept by Internal Security?” Gaffney asked.

  Mercier’s hand emerged from the drawer. He was clutching the black shaft of a whiphound.

  “How did—”

  “I put it there. I put them in a lot of places, wherever I felt I might need one. The possibility of my being exposed and arrested was not something I could ignore. Matter of fact, there’s one in that holding cell you were probably intending to take me to. Impossible, you say. Security would never have allowed it! Getting the picture now?” Gaffney croaked out a guttural laugh.

  “Put the whiphound down on the table.”

  Mercier dropped the whiphound. It clunked heavily on the table, denting the polished wood surface beneath his writing lamp. In a single fluid movement, Gaffney released Mercier’s arm, alleviated the pressure from the stylus and snatched up the whiphound.

  He spooled out the filament.

  “You know what one of these can do in the wrong hands,” he said.

  “So let’s not dick around, shall we?”

  Pell brought the cutter to a halt on a ledge just under the rim of the canyon they had been following for the last twenty kilometres. He powered down the in-atmosphere engines, allowing the weight of the vehicle to settle onto its tripedal landing gear.

  “This is as close as I can get you.”

  Dreyfus felt an unsettling crunching movement as the gear forced its way though the ice crusting the shelf.

  “Are you sure?”

  Pell flipped up his goggles and nodded.

  “I’d caution against flying any closer, unless you have a burning desire to find out what kind of perimeter defences Firebrand have managed to get their hands on.”

  “Fair enough.” Dreyfus knew better than to debate the point with Pell, who he knew would have done the best possible job.

  “How long a stroll are we looking at?”

  Pell indicated a contour map conjured onto his flight-deck console.

  “You’re here,” he said, stabbing his finger at the head of the canyon.

  “Ops Nine is here.” He moved his finger a few centimetres to the right.

  “Ten or eleven kilometres as the crow flies. Good news is that the terrain’s pretty level between here and there, with only one crevasse you’ll want to avoid, so your route should be less than fifteen kilometres. Those surface suits have amplification, don’t they? I hope so, given the size of those rifles. With power-assist, I’m guessing you can keep to three or four klicks per hour. Say, four or five hours to the nearest entry point.”

  “If that’s the good news,” Sparver said, “what’s the bad?”

  “You’ll have limited cover, which is the reason we can’t fly any closer. You’ll have to stay low and avoid

  exposed ground. If something paints you, hunker down and don’t move for at least thirty minutes. The perimeter system may just assume it picked up a scavenger drone, wandering the surface looking for Amerikano trinkets.”

  “What about our way in?” Dreyfus asked.

  “Imagery points to several possible entry points. I don’t recommend going in through the front door.” Pell moved his finger slightly.

  “If you approach the way I’m suggesting, you should hit some kind of secondary access ramp about here. It’s all locked into your suits, so don’t worry about that.”

  “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 g
oing 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 defe
at.

  “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.”