Great North Road (130 page)

Of course there was precious little light during the day, red or otherwise, to generate any electricity. He walked over to the sliding door, feeling the cold radiating from the glass. The occasional pastel shimmer through the driving snow told him the aurora borealis must still be active above the dense blanket of dark cloud.

“It won’t last much longer,” Emily said.

Saul turned to see her standing in the doorway. “No,” he said. “There can’t be much snow left, for one thing.” He was convinced they were getting the worst of it, living next to the sea.

“I’ll put the kettle on. We’ll have some porridge for breakfast. That’ll help.”

“Sure.” He glanced at the stove, seeing the new logs starting to catch with plenty of hissing. Sparpine wasn’t the best wood to burn, not that they had any choice.

“How much wood have we got left?” Emily asked.

“Mind reader,” he accused. “Another week’s worth, at least. I filled the spare bedroom. The blizzard will definitely be over by then.”

“Then we’ll have to go scavenging again. There’s not much food left in the village.”

“I know.”

“I wish Brinkelle would start producing this clone meat she’s supposed to be brewing.”

Saul winced. That rumor was now set in stone among the residents of Camilo Village.

Emily started pouring water into the kettle. Saul sat on the settee, watching the snow flash past outside. He felt useless. Unable to do anything. Waiting passively. Terrified he was going to let his wife and children down, and unable to show his fear. Just like the previous time his life had fallen into crisis, twenty years ago.

That had been the last time he’d spoken to Angela, too, the last time he’d ever looked into her eyes. Even then he didn’t recognize the gorgeous, beloved girl he’d married just three years previously.

The last time … until she’d frightened the crap out of him by turning up back at the start of February. But even then she’d been a stranger; twenty years on and she was the same person who’d replaced his wife during the New Florida Zanthswarm. The one who had dispatched him to St. Libra to help with her crazy plan. The one he’d said yes to, because he had nothing else to offer his tiny tragic Rebka—

Saul sat in a corner seat of Maslen’s café that morning, as he did every morning at the same time since he received the message, while wretchedly chirpy old-fashioned music played through the speakers. The seat gave him a position close to the emergency fire door, and provided him a view of the front door so he could watch who came in. Angela insisted on things like that; craft, she called it—straight out of a cheap zone spy drama. What she expected him to do if Bartram’s security troops ever came crashing in had never been clarified.

But he did it anyway, because that was all he had left, the hated plan that she’d come up with. His whole life had become something he was watching from a safe dark corner inside his own head, looking out at the world through the big windows that were his eyes, making his body act out the part he’d been assigned, speaking the lines from the script she’d given him.

It was midmorning, and Maslen himself was still bringing trays out from the kitchen at the back of the café. The most delicious pastries and cakes were arranged artistically on the shelves in the glass counter, each one an individual mini masterpiece. Saul stared at them, wanting to go and buy some more of the glazed fruit tarts. One more wouldn’t hurt him. He’d put on a lot of weight since he’d moved to Abellia. He did nothing but his work at Abellia TeleNet during the day, accepting overtime in the unsocial hours that no one else wanted. There was nothing else for him to do; certainly he never felt like exercising. The doleful part of his mind that seemed to be guiding him these days couldn’t see the point. Every time he went back to his tiny flat in the converted harbor warehouse he’d sit and access some book; biographies of historical figures were a favorite, or at least mildly interesting. He was working his way through American presidents and Russian rulers.

He was stirring his espresso, debating whether to get another tart, when they came in. Angela looking wonderful in a short emerald-green summer dress, thick blond hair barely contained in a long braid with leather straps. She still looked like a teenager, exactly the same as she had that day he’d first seen her in the Massachusetts Agrimech offices. If anything she appeared even younger now. It wasn’t achieved solely by her one-in-ten genetics; she possessed an uninhibited enthusiasm, her mouth curved permanently in a wondrous smile at the freshness of the universe she beheld. It wasn’t fair that she could appear so vibrantly youthful when the best he could muster these days was sullen morbidity.

There was another girl with her. Another of the
girlfriends
. Another whore. This one was probably twenty for real, had darker skin and thick hair, wearing a thin white cotton top and a matching skirt with a lot of midriff exposed between them.

They were laughing together, talking in excited whispers. Clearly the best of friends, and had been for years. Angela ordered a lemon tea, while the other asked Maslen for a smoothie. Then they teased each other about the pastries before sitting down together at a window.

Saul did his best not to stare. Not that it would make any difference. All of the male clientele in the café were snatching looks when they thought the girls couldn’t see. Nobody was going to notice one more sad loser dressed in a company overall, not in this universe.

After the laughter and happiness had tormented him for too long, the second girl got up and gave Angela a hug and a kiss. “See you back at the car in an hour,” she said, and went out with a swirl of her white skirt and gust of flowery perfume.

Angela sat for a couple of minutes more, finishing her tea. Then got up and left. Saul waited then followed her out.

The streets in the old town were narrow and short, with abrupt junctions and even smaller side alleys between big industrial buildings. He walked down the length of a disused warehouse with big boards announcing that a developer was going to transform it into loft-living apartments. Angela was waiting for him in the third loading bay, a dank cave of concrete and sagging composite panels where not even Sirius’s blue-white glare shone much light.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Saul saw that her youthful-vitality façade had already been abandoned, exposing the cold ruthless woman that the shell of deceiving flesh encased. She gave him a curious gaze. “How are you coping?” she asked. She even sounded concerned.

“I’m here. I got everything ready just like you said.”

Angela came over and put her arms around him, not showing any disappointment that he didn’t respond. “I never doubted that you’d manage what was necessary, but that’s not what I asked.”

“How the hell do you think I feel? You’re my wife, I love you, and you’re doing this.”

“This what?”

“Bartram. The
girlfriends
. Whatever you had to do back in London to convince them you were the right sort of girl.”

“Oh, Saul, darling, you’ve got to stop punishing yourself like this. It’s only sex.”

“Only sex,” he said, worried he was going to start crying in front of her, the way he did most nights when he was all alone in his pitiful flat. “Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

“I’m the one having to fuck a hundred-and-nine-year-old man, so yes, I think I understand how terrible this is for you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just … this is so hard for me.”

Her grip softened, and she studied his face intently. “I know. But think what we get out of it. Our daughter, alive and healthy. I would sacrifice anything for that. Anything. I didn’t know I could love, not like this, not until we made her. She’s us, Saul. She’s our baby. You gave that to me.”

He managed a lame smile, and nodded. “I can do this, too. For her.”

“You’re a good man, Saul Howard. I’m proud to be your wife.”

“My sister called. They’re on True Jerusalem. Rebka is in the best hospital on the planet. Everything is ready to go as soon as they get the money.”

“Good. I saw Barclay 2North in the mansion the other day. He noticed me. That part’s going to be easy.”

“Right,” he said with a dry throat.

“Did you find some cuff links?”

“Sure.” He took out the little box with the banana cuff links he’d bought at the Birk-Unwin store.

“Oh wow.” Angela puffed her cheeks out in dismay. “Yep, they’re gaudy enough. Exactly what a man would choose.”

“The sensors are loaded in and ready.”

“Okay. I’ll buy some legitimately, and we’ll work the swap at the café as arranged.”

“Why don’t you just take them now?”

“I can’t explain them away if Marc-Anthony finds them, and he’s a meddlesome little fucker. Let’s just stick to the plan, shall we. I might even take Olivia-Jay along when I buy them, give me some cover.”

“Sure. You know the mansion best.”

“I do. So … have you got the sac?”

“Angela, we’re exposed so much already. Weapons, too? Really? Think about it.”

“Weapons won’t make any difference if they catch me. But what I bought in Tokyo might just be all that stands between me getting caught and me making a getaway. So please—” She held a hand out, palm upward, giving him an expectant look that he couldn’t duck.

He handed over the sac of activants, and she bumped it against her neck. “There,” she said briskly. “All done.”

“Just, please be careful. Please, Angela.”

“I will be. Don’t worry about me. I was thinking, when you’ve handed over the cuff links, your job is really over. No point in both of us being out on a limb here. Why don’t you go back to Earth and wait for me to finish? I’d like that, knowing you were safe.”

“If nothing’s going to go wrong, we’ll both be safe. And I’m not leaving here without you. I might detest this, but I’m not going to abandon you. It’s not me, Angela, that’s not what I am.”

She reached up and stroked his cheek. “After this is over, we’ll be together, you and I. A fresh start on a new world, and this time we’ll get it right.”

“This time,” he whispered.

Angela kissed him softly. Then she was walking back out of the loading bay, moving quickly. Not quick enough. For an instant he’d seen that same fear and uncertainty that had been there the morning he proposed. It meant the same to him now as it had then. Love is never something you decide for yourself.

“I’ll wait for you,” he promised the empty air.

T
UESDAY,
M
AY 7, 2143

When the convoy finally reached MTJ-1 on Monday afternoon, and Vance saw the “way down” Antrinell had used the shortwave radio to call in, he thought it was an evil joke. The canyon wall was lower thanks to a valley steeper than the one they’d just left behind. MTJ-1 was parked close to the edge where a much smaller waterfall had fallen for about seven hundred meters to the frozen Dolce River below.

To one side of the lumpy ice streamers threading down the vertical cliff was a long talus of boulders and rock splinters that was barely angled away from the rock face itself. Vance wasn’t alone in his opinion of the way down to the canyon floor. People came out of their vehicles to stare disbelievingly at the incline. Camm and Darwin were on their way back up, two small dark figures struggling through the treacherous loose snow.

But they had no choice; so a scheme was worked out using the winches that every vehicle was equipped with. The cable would be tethered to a large secure boulder at the top, allowing the vehicle to reverse slowly over the edge before letting the winch take the strain. The rest of Monday was spent assessing the route Camm and Darwin had negotiated down, testing boulders along the way for suitability as stable anchors.

Dawn on Tuesday morning saw them start in the pallid pink light and a tiny snowfall. Vance insisted a Tropic was first; they couldn’t afford to lose the last MTJ, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk the tanker or remaining truck.

Antrinell volunteered to drive the Tropic. He slowly reversed over the side of the canyon, tipping up until he was about seventy degrees and the only thing holding the Tropic was the winch cable; certainly the wheels were useless now, they provided stability, nothing more. Everyone watched from a safe distance, the memory of the truck tow cable prominent in their minds.

The winch unwound for fifty meters, which kept everything safely inside tolerance limits. Olrg and Darwin went down and anchored the Tropic to the nearby boulders, then the winch was reattached, and the Tropic descended another fifty meters.

It took more than two hours, but the Tropic reached the bottom of the precipitous slope without incident. A loud round of cheering broke out. Everyone knew that if they could get onto the river, they might just make it to Sarvar after all.

Tropic-2 was driven to the top of the talus, and its winch connected. Vance would only let the vehicles go down one at a time. The potential for disaster if there were several on the talus and one broke free was too much to contemplate.

It was late afternoon by the time every convoy vehicle was down on the wide ice flow of the canyon floor. Only then did Vance give the go-ahead to bring the sledges down. The snowfall had begun to grow heavier as the day moved on, and his worry as the clouds sank lower and the light faded was that they’d be separated from the sledges overnight. Winches were removed from their vehicles and used to form a relay down the slope. That made progress a lot quicker than it had been with the vehicles.

Vance was encouraged by the way things were going. Then Dr. Coniff called him to say Ravi Hendrik had recovered consciousness.

In biolab-2’s door compartment Vance shook off the glaze of snow adhering to his parka and waterproof trousers. Then the inner door opened and warm air hit him, instantly turning the remaining white ice particles damp and dark. Droplets began to run down, trickling over his boots.

Ravi Hendrik still looked awful, but he was awake and drinking broth from a big mug that Juanitar was holding for him.

Vance made himself smile as he pulled off his printed balaclava, sending more droplets scattering around. “You’re looking better,” he lied.