matters sufficiently to give him this edge. It was not much of an edge, but it was a lot better than being already dead, surfing his own expanding cloud of ionised debris. That at least was worth another rueful smile. They might yet kill him, but it would not be close to home.
He scratched his beard, muscles labouring against the continual pull of acceleration. The corvette’s motors were still firing at maximum sustainable thrust: three gees that felt as rock-solid and smooth as the pull of a star. Each second, the ship was annihilating a bacterium-sized speck of anti-matter, but the anti-matter and metallic- hydrogen reaction-mass cores had barely been scratched. The corvette would take him anywhere he wanted in the system, and it would get him there in only tens of days. He could even accelerate harder if he wished, though it would stress the engines.
Fact two was that he had a plan.
The corvette’s antimatter thrusters were advanced — far more so than anything in the enemy’s fleet — but they did not employ the same technology as the Conjoiner starship drive. They could not have pushed a million- tonne starship to within a whisker of light-speed, but they did have one significant tactical advantage: they were silent across the entire neutrino-emission spectrum. Since Clavain had disabled all the usual transponders, he could be tracked only by his emission flame: the torch of relativistic particles slamming from the corvette’s exhaust apertures. But the corvette’s exhaust was already as tightly collimated as a rapier blade. There was negligible scattering away from the axis of thrust, so effectively he could only be seen by anything or anyone sitting in a very narrow cone immediately to his rear. The cone widened as it reached further behind him, but it also became steadily attenuated, like a torch beam growing weaker with distance. Only an observer near its centre would detect sufficient numbers of photons to obtain an accurate fix on his position, and if Clavain allowed the cone’s angle to tilt by no more than a handful of degrees, the beam would become too dim to betray him.
But a change in beam vector implied a change in course. The Mother Nest would not expect him to do that, only for him to maintain a minimum-time trajectory towards Epsilon Eridani, and then to Yellowstone, which huddled in a tight, warm orbit around the same star. He would get there in twelve days. Where else could he go? The corvette could not reach another system — it barely had the range to reach the cometary halo — and almost any other world apart from Yellowstone was still in nominal Demarchist control. Their hold might be faltering, but in their present paranoid state they would still attack Clavain, even if he claimed to be defecting with tactically valuable secrets. But Clavain knew all that. Even before he plunged the piezo-knife into the membrane around Skade’s comet, he had formulated a plan — maybe not the most detailed or elegant of his career, and it was far from the most likely to succeed, but he had only had minutes to assemble it and he did not think he had done too badly. Even after reconsideration, nothing better had presented itself.
And all it needed was a little trust.
They looked at her, and then at each other. She could almost feel the intense buzz of their thoughts crackling through the air like the ionisation breakdown that presaged a thunderstorm.
The first of the surgeons projected calm and reassurance. [Skade…]
[You are alive. You were injured, but you survived. You are still in need of…] The surgeon’s gloss of calm faltered.
[You still need to be properly healed. But everything can be made good.]
For some reason she could not see into any of their heads. For most Conjoiners, waking to experience such isolation would have been a profoundly disturbing experience. But Skade was equipped for it. She endured it stoically, reminding herself that she had experienced degrees of isolation almost as extreme during her time in the Closed Council. Those had ended; this would end. It would only be a matter of time until…
[Nothing’s wrong with your implants.]
She knew that the surgeon was a man named Delmar.
But almost before she had phrased the question she knew what the answer would be. It was because they did not want her to be able to see what she looked like through their eyes. Because they did not want her to know the immediate truth of what had happened to her.
[Skade…]
[There is someone to see you.]
She could not move her head, only her eyes. Through the blur of peripheral vision she saw Remontoire approach the bed, or table, or couch, where they had woken her. He wore an electric-white medical tunic against a background of pure white. His head was an oddly disconnected sphere bobbing towards her. Swan-necked medical servitors moved out of his way. The surgeon folded his arms across his chest and looked on with an expression of stern disapproval. His colleagues had made a discreet exit, leaving only the three of them in the room.
Skade peered ‘down’ towards the foot of the bed but could see only an out-of-focus whiteness that might have been illusory. There was a quiet mechanical humming, but nothing that she would not have expected in a medical room.
Remontoire knelt down beside her. [How much do you remember?]
Remontoire glanced back at the surgeon. He allowed Skade to hear the thought he pushed into Delmar’s head. [I’m afraid you’ll have to leave us. Your machines as well, since I’m certain that they have recording devices.]
[We’ll leave you alone for exactly five minutes, Remontoire. Will that be sufficient?]
[It’ll have to do, won’t it?] Remontoire nodded and smiled as the man ushered his machines from the room, their swan-necks lowering elegantly to pass through the doorway. [Sorry…]
[Five minutes, Remontoire.]
Skade tried moving her head again, but still without success.
[Do you remember the comet? Clavain was with us. You were showing him the buried ships.]
[Clavain stole the corvette before you or I could get aboard. It was still tethered to the surface of the comet.]
She remembered taking Clavain to the comet but not the rest of it.
[Yes, but we’ll come to that. The problem is what happened during his escape. Clavain applied thrust until the tethers gave way under the strain. They whiplashed back towards the comet. I’m afraid one of them caught you.]
It was difficult to respond, though she had known from the moment of waking that something bad had happened to her.
[You were injured, Skade. Badly. If you hadn’t been Conjoiner, hadn’t had the machines in your head to help your body cope with the shock, you would very probably not have survived, even with the assistance that your suit was able to give you.]
[I would if there was a mirror in this room. But there isn’t, and I can’t bypass the neural blockades that Delmar has installed.]
[This isn’t why I came, Skade… Delmar will put you back into a recuperative coma very shortly, and when you next wake you’ll be healed again. I came to ask you about Clavain.]
For a moment she pushed aside her own morbid curiosity.
[Actually, they haven’t managed to stop him yet.]
As angry as she was, she had to admit that the matter of Clavain was at least as fascinating to her as her own predicament. And the two things were not unconnected, were they? She did not yet fully understand what had
