So Nagorny had snapped, escaping into the ship’s unmonitored warrens. The Captain’s recommendation — that she hunt down and kill the man — had tallied with her own instincts. But it had taken many days, Volyova deploying webs of sensor gear through as many corridors as she could manage, listening to her rats for any evidence of Nagorny’s whereabouts. It had begun to look hopeless. Nagorny would be still at large when the ship arrived in the Yellowstone system and the other crew were woken…
Then, however, Nagorny had made two mistakes: the final flourishes of his madness. The first mistake had been to break into her quarters and leave a message daubed in his own arterial blood on her wall. The message was very simple. She could have guessed in advance the two words Nagorny would choose to leave her.
SUN STEALER.
Afterwards, on the edge of rationality, he had stolen her space helmet, leaving the rest of her suit. The break-in had drawn Volyova to her cabin, and while she had taken precautions, Nagorny had still managed to ambush her. He had relieved her of the gun she was carrying, and then frogmarched her down a long curving corridor to the nearest elevator shaft. Volyova had tried resisting, but Nagorny’s strength was that of the psychotic and his hold on her might as well have been steel. Still, she assumed a chance for escape would present itself as Nagorny took her to wherever he had in mind, once the elevator arrived.
But Nagorny had no intention of waiting for the elevator. With her gun, he forced the door, revealing the echoing depths of the shaft. With nothing in the way of ceremony — not even a goodbye — Nagorny pushed Volyova into the hole.
It was a dreadful mistake.
The shaft threaded the ship from top to bottom; she had kilometres to fall before she hit the bottom. And for a few almost heart-stopping moments, she had assumed that was exactly what would happen. She would drop until she hit — and whether it took a few seconds or the better part of a minute was of no consequence at all. The walls of the shaft were sheer and frictionless; there was no way to gain a purchase or arrest her fall in any way whatsoever.
She was going to die.
Then — with a detachment which later shocked her — part of her mind had re-examined the problem. She had seen herself, not falling through the ship, but stationary: floating in absolute rest with respect to the stars. What moved, instead, was the ship: rushing upwards around her. She was not accelerating at all now — and the only thing that made the ship accelerate was its thrust.
Which she could control from her bracelet.
Volyova had not had time to ponder the details. An idea had formed — exploded — in her mind, and she knew that either she executed the idea almost immediately or accepted her fate. She could stop her fall — her apparent fall — by ramping the ship’s thrust into reverse for however long it took to achieve the desired effect. Nominal thrust was one gee, which was why Nagorny had found it so easy to mistake the ship for something like a very tall building. She had fallen for perhaps ten seconds while her mind processed things. What was it to be, then? Ten second of reverse thrust at one gee? No — too conservative. She might not have enough shaft to fall through. Better to ramp up to ten gees for a second — she knew the engines were capable of that. The manoeuvre would not harm the other crew, safely cocooned in reefersleep. It would not harm her, either — she would just see the rushing walls of the shaft slow down rather violently.
Nagorny, though, was not so well protected.
It had not been easy — the rush of air had almost drowned out her voice as she screamed the appropriate instructions into the bracelet. Agonising moments had followed before the ship seemed to take any notice of her.
Then — dutifully — it had moved to her whim.
Later, she had found Nagorny. The ten gees of thrust, sustained for a second, would not ordinarily have been fatal. Volyova had, however, not whittled her speed down to zero in one go. She had achieved that through trial and error, and with each impulse Nagorny had been flung between ceiling and floor.
She had been hurt herself; the impacts with the side of the shaft as she fell had broken one leg, but that was healed now and the pain no more than a foggy memory. She remembered using the laser-curette to remove Nagorny’s head, knowing that she would need to open it to get at the dedicated implants buried in his brain. They were delicate, those implants, and because they had come into being through laborious processes of mediated molecular growth, she would not be best pleased if they had to be duplicated.
Now it was time to remove them.
She took the head out of the helmet, immersing it in a bath of liquid nitrogen. Then she pushed her hands into two pairs of gauntlets suspended above the workbench within a scaffold of pistons. Tiny, glistening medical instruments whirred into life and descended on the skull, ready to slice it open in pieces which would later lock back together with fiendish precision. Before reassembling the head, Volyova would insert dummy implants so that — if the head were ever examined — it would not seem as if she had removed anything from it. It would have to be re-attached to the body, too — but there was no need to worry herself too much over that. By the time the others found out what had happened to Nagorny — what she was going to convince them had happened — they would not be in a hurry to examine him in any kind of detail. Sudjic might be a problem, of course — she and Nagorny had been lovers, until Nagorny went insane.
Like many others that remained before her, Ilia Volyova would cross that bridge when she came to it.
In the meantime, as she delved deep into Nagorny’s head for what was hers, she began to give the first thought to who was going to replace him.
Certainly no one now aboard the ship.
But perhaps around Yellowstone she would find a new recruit.
‘Case, are we getting warm?’
The voice came back, blurred and trembly through the mass of the building above her. ‘So warm we’re incandescent, dear girl. Just hold on and make sure you don’t waste those toxin darts.’
‘Yes, about those, Case, I—’
Khouri dived aside as three New Komuso trooped past, their heads enveloped in basketlike wicker helmets. Shakuhachi — bamboo flutes — cut the air ahead of them like majorettes’ staffs, dispersing a gang of capuchin monkeys into the shadows. ‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘what if we take out a collateral?’
‘It can’t happen,’ Ng said. ‘The toxin’s keyed directly to Taraschi’s biochemistry. Hit anyone else on the planet and what they’ll have to show for it is a nasty puncture wound.’
‘Even if I hit Taraschi’s clone?’
‘You think you might?’
‘Just a question.’ It struck her that Case was unusually jumpy.
‘Anyway, if Taraschi had a clone, and we killed him by mistake, that would be Taraschi’s problem, not ours. It’s all in the fine print. You should read it sometime.’
‘When I’m gripped by existential boredom,’ Khouri said, ‘I might try it.’