Redemption Ark

Clavain paused, taking a moment to review the disposition of his forces around the Triumvir’s ship. There had been two more deaths in the last minute, but the steady encroachment of his forces continued. Yes, we did make love, back in my first days amongst the Conjoined. But there came a time when it was no longer necessary, except as a nostalgic act. It felt like something that children do: not wrong, not primitive, not even dull, just no longer of any interest. It wasn’t that we had stopped loving each other, or had lost our thirst for sensory experience. It was simply that there were so many more rewarding ways of achieving that same kind of intimacy. Once you’ve touched someone else’s mind, walked through their dreams, seen the world through their eyes, felt the world through their skin… well… there never seemed to be any real need to go back to the old way. And I was never much one for nostalgia. It was as if we had stepped into a more adult world, crammed with its own pleasures and enticements. We had no reason to look back at what we were missing.

She did not respond immediately. The ship flew on. Clavain eyed the readouts and tactical summaries again. For a moment, a terrible, yawning moment, he felt that he had said far too much. But then she spoke, and he knew that she had understood everything.

[I think I need to tell you about the wolves.]

CHAPTER 37

When Volyova had made the decision, she felt a rush of strength, enabling her to rip the medical probes and shunts from her body, flinging them aside with wicked abandon. She retained only the goggles which substituted for her blinded eyes, while doing her best not to think of the vile machinery now floating in her skull. Other than that, she felt quite hale and hearty. She knew that it was an illusion, that she would pay for this burst of energy later, and that almost certainly she would pay for it with her life. But she felt no fear at the prospect, only a quiet satisfaction that she might at least do something with the time that remained to her. It was all very well lying here, directing distant affairs like some bed-ridden pontiff, but it was not the way she was meant to be. She was Triumvir Ilia Volyova, and she had certain standards to uphold.

‘Ilia…’ Khouri began, when she saw what was happening.

‘Khouri,’ she said, her voice still a croak, but finally imbued with something resembling the old fire. ‘Khouri… do this for me, and never once stop to question me or talk me out of it. Understood?’

‘Understood… I think.’

Volyova clicked her ringers at the nearest servitor. It scuttled towards her, dodging between the squawking medical monitors. ‘Captain… have the servitor assist me to the spacecraft bay, will you? I will expect a suit and a shuttle to be waiting for me.’

Khouri steadied her, holding her in a sitting position. ‘Ilia, what are you planning?’

‘I’m going outside. I need to have a word — a serious word — with weapon seventeen.’

‘You’re in no state…’

Volyova cut her off with a chop of one frail hand. ‘Khouri, I may have a weak and feeble body, but give me weightlessness, a suit and possibly a weapon or two and you’ll find I can still do some damage. Understood?’

‘You haven’t given up, have you?’

The servitor helped her to the floor. ‘Given up, Khouri? It’s not in my dictionary.’

Khouri helped her as well, taking the Triumvir’s other arm.