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
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
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
