Tack gazed down at the two corpses, and could not find it in himself to be so flippant. When they entered the house, they found more dead inside. First there was the Chinaman.
Tack stooped down by Cheng-yi, checked the pulse at his throat then attempted to remove the sword. The weapon was so deeply embedded in the composite floor, it would not have yielded without Tack’s augmentations. Tossing the weapon aside, he turned the body over and studied it, before switching his attention to Ygrol. No need to check the Neanderthal’s pulse — his thick skull was broken open and most of his brain mashed.
‘They shot Lostboy, too,’ said Polly.
Tack stood and walked over to stand beside her. Only half of Lostboy’s head remained, and on the floor nearby lay his cerebral augmentation. Polly picked it up and carefully placed it on a table. ‘Perhaps Aconite can save something,’ she said.
Tack looked at her askance.
She tapped a finger against the blood-smeared device. ‘They killed the animal part of him, but most of what was human is in here,’ she explained.
Then a sound spun them both round, and they saw Tacitus slumped against a wall in a pool of his own blood. Polly rushed over and pressed her finger against his throat.
‘He’s still alive, but we’ll have to get him into the surgery,’ she announced.
As Tack stepped over the dead umbrathant, he noted the wound in the man’s upper chest. So Tacitus had not gone down without taking one of them with him. Passing the carbine to Polly, he stooped to pick Tacitus up and turned towards Aconite’s surgery. Polly darted past him to inspect the fallen Wasp and the dead umbrathant beside it. Tack supposed the intruders had swaggered into this place as arrogantly as any of their kind, but encountered some nasty surprises.
‘I don’t feel safe about staying here,’ he said. ‘They must know we’re still about, and those outside might have sent off some sort of call.’
‘I’ll not abandon him,’ said Polly.
‘Then I’ll check things out,’ said Tack, laying Tacitus on the surgical table. ‘Do you know how to operate this stuff?’ He gestured to the surrounding equipment.
‘What I don’t know Nandru can tell me—he uploaded a lot from Wasp’s database.’
Taking the carbine, which Polly handed back to him, Tack watched for a moment while she cut open the Roman soldier’s clothing, and placed a monitoring device against his neck. Then acknowledging that she seemed to know what she was doing, Tack went off to search the house.
Polly assumed that Aconite herself had been dragged off to the citadel, but Tack was not so sure. It seemed to him that the Umbrathane intruders had come here simply to eliminate a potential threat. The house was a big place, so it was likely that he would find Aconite dead in one of its many rooms. With methodical caution he began at the top of the house in the attic, wondering at the precise purpose of the exposed vorpal substructure of the building visible there, with all those linked-up machines and heavy power cables. On the next floor down he found mostly sealed rooms, but one door was open and in it he thoughtfully eyed the racked carbines, catalysers, grenades and some other weapons he did not recognize. On the ground floor he checked all the living quarters, but ignored the many rooms that were sealed. The laboratories and research areas showed no sign of damage, so he did not spend long in them—just checking that no more bodies were visible. It was in the cellar he found the tors, and now understood why there had been so few lying on the seabed along with the arm bones. Here he felt the subversive control emanating from these parasitic devices and noted how many of them lay on the floor. He realized that they were regrowing their thorns, and that this process had forced some of them out of the racks. But Aconite, or her body, was not here either, so he closed the door and returned to Polly.
‘We must save her,’ Tacitus groaned, as Tack came back into the room.
Tack observed that plumbing and wiring now linked the Roman to several surrounding machines. He raised an eyebrow.
‘All I need is an affixed and internally linked carapace, then I’ll be able to move…’ the soldier croaked.
Tack turned to Polly, who shrugged, then reached out a finger to touch the device now attached to the Roman’s neck. With a sigh Tacitus closed his eyes and slumped unconscious.
‘What did he mean by “carapace”?’ Tack asked.
Polly pointed at his surgical boot. ‘It supports both internally and externally while accelerated repair takes place, but it can only be used for minor injuries. Tacitus could have one placed on his chest, but only if he was prepared to move around very slowly and I do not think that was his intention.’
‘So Cowl has Aconite,’ said Tack.
‘Yes.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We have to get her back. We need her.’
Tack absorbed the thought. They did not know how the mechanisms of the house operated and so could not survive here. But he did not think they stood much chance up against more Umbrathane and the last thing he wanted to do was face Cowl again.
‘We have to get her out of there,’ Polly affirmed, staring at him.
Tack swallowed dryly. ‘OK,’ he said.
The mantisal clipped wavetops, the vapour of its ablation giving it the appearance of hot glassware just cast out of the furnace. It rolled across the sea’s surface and broke apart, the three Heliothane ejecting as if thrown from a car wreck, but controlling their descent at the last and each entering the sea in a perfectly orchestrated flat dive. Pieces of the mantisal skittered across the water and settled, floating, on the surface, as the final glowing ember extinguished in them. One of the three Heliothane resurfaced, cast a package out before him and watched as it unfolded into an inflatable raft. By the time it was fully expanded, the other two had surfaced and all three scrambled aboard.
‘Nothing yet,’ said Meelan, collapsing on her back and spitting out sea water as she studied her detector.
Saphothere started up the small engine mounted inside the back of the inflatable and got them moving. Coptic folded up a scope on the hand-held missile launcher he clutched, and watched the skies.
As soon as the raft was moving, Saphothere asked, ‘Where are we?’
‘About ten kilometres from the citadel itself and about an hour from the Nodus,’ Meelan replied.
‘Look,’ said Saphothere, nodding ahead. The three of them gazed at the torbeast distortion wavering in the sky like a heat haze. Below it they could just about discern the spiky peaks of the citadel. Saphothere went on, ‘We probably won’t get any missiles heading this way. No doubt the attack on Sauros is in progress, and I’d guess Cowl won’t spare attention to such minor matters as a tor falling through his trap and going into the sea. Probably thinks another torbearer just drowned—if he noticed at all. Then, when we get closure at Sauros, Cowl will be in a world of shit—no short-jumping inside his citadel and no way to dodge the bullets.’
‘Shame we can’t send some missiles from here,’ opined Coptic.
‘They would be detected,’ Saphothere replied, ‘especially if they were likely to be in any way effective.’
‘Like atomics, you mean,’ said Meelan acidly.
‘Yeah, like atomics. Cowl probably detected those two I handed to Tack when he was within a kilometre of his destination—and no doubt had a double displacement fixed on them all the time.’
‘Poor idiot,’ said Meelan. ‘At least Tack would have died believing that his assassination attempt was to prevent Cowl destroying human history.’
‘In a roundabout way he was, actually,’ said Saphothere. ‘And, anyway, many Heliothane have died believing the same—so he was not unique.’
‘Umbrathane believe that’s Cowl’s intention, too, and they die just the same.’