The Prefect rs-5

by Alastair Reynolds

“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.”

  “Is there any word from Dreyfus?”

  “Nothing. But given the anticipated timing, we can assume he’s making his way by foot from the drop-off point.” Demikhov returned the mirror to his aide.

  “That’s not why I had you brought to consciousness, though. As you can see, the process of reuniting your head and body is only partially complete, but we were making good progress. Once you’ve dealt with the matter at hand, I have every confidence of being able to reinstate full control.”

  “The matter at hand, Doctor?”

  “Perhaps it would be better if Acting Supreme Prefect Clearmountain explained.” Demikhov gestured at the wall, turning part of it into a display pane. From her inclined position, Aumonier could see it without difficulty. Clearmountain was looking at her from the tactical room, the edge of the Solid Orrery peeping into view behind him.

  “Can I talk to her?” he asked.

  “She’s perfectly lucid,” Demikhov replied.

  “Supreme Prefect Aumonier,” Clearmountain said, trepidation in his voice, “I am sorry that this was necessary. I assured them that you had delegated authority to me, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Who wouldn’t listen?” Aumonier asked.

  “They’re still waiting to talk to you. They won’t take orders from anyone else.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “I can put them through, if you wish.”

  “If this is why you woke me up, that would be a very good idea.” Clearmountain vanished. He was replaced by the visage of a monst
er, a man who had once been human but who now faced the world through a mask of leathery, radiation-hardened skin and articulated metal plating embossed with florid bronze patterning. His eyes were two telescopic cameras, emerging from skull sockets like a pair of cannon. Glue-stiffened dreadlocks spiked back from his scalp.

  “This is Captain Tengiz, of the lighthugger Wrath Ascending. We stand ready to assist you.”

  “Thank you,” Aumonier said.

  The image switched. Now she was looking at the vastly magnified head of a praying mantis, or something very like one, emerging from the ring-shaped neck of an ancient spacesuit. The mantis’ mouthparts opened, revealing teeth and tongue of human semblance.

  “This is Captain Rethimnon, of the lighthugger Frost Wind. We stand ready to assist you.”

  “Thank you.” The image changed again. Another face, more recognisably human this time, despite the absence of a nose.

  “This is Captain Grong, of the lighthugger Stasis in Darkness. We stand ready to assist you.” She started to answer, but the image had already changed.

  “This is Captain Katsuura of the lighthugger Pharaoh’s Daughter. We stand ready to assist you.”

  “This is Captain Nkhata, of the lighthugger Black Narcissus. We stand ready to assist you.”

  “This is Captain Vanderlin, of the lighthugger Dawnrazor. We stand ready to assist you.”

  “This is Captain Teague…”.

  “Captain Voightlander…”. The roll-call continued; a dozen ships, then a dozen more, until she had lost count.

  “Thank you, Captains,” she said, when the last Ultra had spoken.

  “I am grateful that you have responded to my request for help. You can, I think, provide a decisive contribution. I must warn you—though I am sure you already appreciate as much—that you will be placing your ships and crew in grave danger.” The face of Tengiz, the first Ultra to speak, reappeared on the pane.

  “I have been tasked to speak for the other ships, Supreme Prefect Aumonier. Rest assured that we are fully aware of the risks. It is still our intention to help.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “Tell us what you want us to do.”

  “You can be of benefit to me in two ways,” Aumonier said.

  “Your ships have a capacity exceeding anything in the Glitter Band, even the largest in-system liners. If you can start taking aboard evacuees, that will be incalculably helpful to us.”

  “We will do what we can. How else may we help?”

  “Doubtless you’ve witnessed our efforts to contain Aurora’s expansion by destroying those habitats contaminated by her war machines. Unfortunately, we’re running out of nuclear weapons. If there was any other way—”

  “You wish us to intervene.”

  “Yes.”

  “In a military sense.”

  “I don’t doubt that you have the means, Captain. At the risk of opening an old wound, we all saw what Captain Dravidian’s ship was capable of doing. And his vessel wasn’t even armed.”

  “Tell us where and when,” Tengiz said.

  “I’d dearly like to. Unfortunately—as you’re probably aware—I’m somewhat indisposed right now and need further surgery. I appreciate your insistence on speaking only to me, but it would simplify matters enormously if you would allow me to designate Prefect Clearmountain to speak for me.”

  Tengiz looked at her with his blank telescopic eyes. She couldn’t read a single human emotion in the mongrel collision of machine and flesh that was his face.

  “Do you have confidence in Clearmountain?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Absolute confidence. You have my word, Captain. Allow Clearmountain to speak for me.”

  Tengiz paused, then nodded.

  “So be it.”

  “I’m going to sleep again now, if that’s all right with you. Good luck, Captain. To you and all the others.”

  “We’ll do what we can. As for you…” Tengiz halted. For the first time she sensed indecision.

  “We have long been aware of your predicament, Supreme Prefect Aumonier.”

  “I never imagined I was of the slightest interest to Ultras.”

  “You were wrong. We knew of you. We knew of you and… you’ve long had our respect. You would have made an excellent captain.”

  Dreyfus and Sparver surmounted the last rise and found themselves looking out across a shallow depression in the terrain, like an old crater that had been gradually eroded and filled in by slow and mindless processes of weather and geochemistry. Yet there was something out of place at the base of the depression, even though Dreyfus nearly missed it on his first glancing survey. It was a ramp, sloping down into the ground, its walls and sides fashioned from some kind of fused construction material with the ebony lustre of burnt sugar. It had cracked and distorted in places, evidence of shifts in the underlying landscape, but it was still remarkably intact for something that had been out there for more than two hundred years. The ramp angled down into the ground and vanished into a flat-roofed tunnel, the lip of which had formed a portcullis of dagger-like ammonia-ice stalactites or icicles. Dreyfus pointed to the middle part of the opening, where a number of the spikes had been broken off at head height.

  “Someone’s been here recently,” he said. But without knowing how long it had taken for the stalactites to form, he knew he could have been talking about a visitation that had happened days, years or even decades ago.

  “Let’s take a look-see inside,” Sparver said.

  “There’s nothing I like better than unwelcoming tunnels leading underground.”

  If a surveillance system had detected their arrival, there was no sign of it. They crunched across the last few metres of surface ice until they were standing at the top of the ramp, and then began a cautious descent towards the portcullis. The ground was slippery under their feet. Dreyfus stooped to avoid dislodging any more stalactites; Sparver only needed to nod his head slightly. Beyond the opening, the ramp continued to slope down into unseen depths. The suit’s acoustic pick-up conveyed the sounds of trickling, dripping liquids to Dreyfus’ ears. As the gloom deepened, he angled his helmet lamp down, mindful of treacherous cracks in the flooring. He supposed that this must once have been an entry point for vehicles, though it was clear that nothing large had come down here in a long time.

  After fifty or sixty metres, the ramp terminated in a black wall set with a single wide door. The door consisted of a set of hinged panels that would have rolled down from a mechanism in the ceiling. It had stopped half a metre short of the floor, above an airtight slot into which the lowest part of the door must have been intended to lock.

  “Someone was careless,” Sparver said.

  “Or in a hurry. You think we can squeeze under that?”

  Sparver was already on his knees. He undid some of his equipment and weaponry and slid it through ahead of him. Then he lowered onto all fours and scraped through the gap.

  “It’s clear,” he told Dreyfus, grunting as he stood up.

  “Send me though what you can.”

  Dreyfus unclipped the bulkier pieces of his kit and passed them to his deputy. Then he lowered himself to the cracked black floor and squeezed under the door, scraping his backpack in the process. Something jammed, and for a horrible instant he thought he was trapped, pinned in place with vicelike pressure. Then whatever it was worked loose and he was through, standing up next to Sparver. His suit reported no damage, but had the door been a couple more centimetres lower, he wouldn’t have been able to get through wearing it.

  Dreyfus re-attached his equipment and hoped silently that he wouldn’t be sliding under any more doors. They had arrived in what was clearly a cargo airlock, designed to allow vehicles and heavy equipment to pass between Ops Nine and the outside world. A similar door to the one they’d just crawled under faced them on the opposite wall, but this one was sealed down tight.

  “We can cut through,” Sparver said, tapping a glove against the torch on his belt
.

  “Or we can try opening it. Either way, if there’s a single soul alive in this place they’ll know about it. Your call, Boss.”

  “See if you can get it to open. I’ll try to close the other one. I’d rather not flood the place with Yellowstone air if we can avoid it.”

  “Because you’re feeling charitable towards Saavedra and her friends?” Sparver asked sceptically.

  “They committed crimes against Panoply. I’d like them alive to answer for that.”

  Dreyfus brushed icy yellow caulk off a raised panel next to the door they had just crawled under. The panel contained a simple arrangement of manual controls labelled with Amerikano script. He pushed the stud with a downward-pointing arrow and heard a laboured whine of buried machinery. The door began to inch its way towards the floor, spitting chunks of yellow ice out of its tracks as it descended.

  “Looks like someone’s been paying their power bills,” Sparver said.

  Dreyfus nodded. If he’d harboured lingering doubts that Ops Nine was truly where Firebrand had gone to ground, they had just been thoroughly dispelled. The facility was powered and functional, at least on a spartan basis. Amerikano technology was robust, but not robust enough to open doors after two hundred years.

  Dreyfus flinched as slats rattled open in the walls without warning. Red lights stammered on behind ceiling grilles and he heard the roar of powerful fans. The environment sensor on his suit began to record the change of gas mixture and pressure as the air in the room was swapped for breathable atmosphere. The process took less than three minutes. The fans died down and the slats clattered shut again.

  “I think I can open the door now,” Sparver said.

  Nothing would be gained by waiting, Dreyfus knew.

  “Do it,” he said, mentally preparing himself for whatever was on the other side. Sparver hit the control, then moved to stand next to Dreyfus, his Breitenbach rifle held doubled-handed. But as the door rose, it became clear that there was no one waiting for them on the other side. Dreyfus allowed the muzzle of his own weapon to dip slightly, but remained alert. The two prefects stepped over the threshold.

  A curving corridor, triangular in cross section, walled and floored with metallic grille, stretched away to either side. An illuminated red strip ran the length of the corridor at the apex of the two angled walls. Behind the grilles snaked corroded and mould-caked piping and machinery, much of it eaten away, probably by rats. Steam jetted from ruptured lines, hot enough to scald if they hadn’t been wearing suits. But Dreyfus noticed that some of the plumbing was shiny and new. Firebrand must have done just enough to make this facility habitable again. They hadn’t been intending to make it comfortable, or homely.