“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
