Great North Road (137 page)

“So what do you want? Why have you killed so many of us?”

“Because you have destroyed so much of me. This avatar’s human nature bestowed me with hatred. I have not hated for a billion years.”

“We did it to ourselves,” Angela said. “Just like we always screw up. But you’ve got the chance to make it right, Antrinell. This is why God gave us the greatest gift of all: free will. This is why He brought us to this point, so that you would have to make the decision. We can ally ourselves with St. Libra, with life. Without that we will face the Zanth alone and afraid.”

“You can manipulate stars,” Antrinell said. “You can replicate humans. God alone knows what other abilities you have. And God knows you’ve shown you have no compunction about slaughtering us. How do we know you won’t side with the Zanth?”

“Only a human would ask that question,” the Barclay-avatar said.

“Yes, and I’m asking it.”

“We have to show trust to receive trust,” Angela said.

“Then show me some,” Antrinell said.

“I’m supposed to be a bridge,” the Barclay-avatar said. “You tell me why I should be. You who destroy anything you don’t comprehend, anything that gets in your way. You who abused this world for your own species and its profit, who replicate that crime across so many worlds. That is why I have no compunction, no remorse. So far all I have seen is vermin, breeding and breeding and desecrating the world, my world, with their own excrement. Yet I have stayed my hand for twenty years trying to reach out to you. I still do. That is my human side, and it grows weary of my failure.”

Angela flinched. She knew damn well that kind of argument wouldn’t work on anyone as stubborn as Antrinell. So she played dirty, played to win, just like Angela DeVoyal would do. Her e-i sent Elston’s visual log into the ringlink, the one where he lay dying, when he looked up at Angela and said: “You have to see the end of this. I trust you, Angela. The Lord has shown me your true self. You are worthy of His love. Finish this properly. For me.”

“He gave me his command codes,” she told them all. “Antrinell cannot launch the missiles without them. I cannot deactivate the warheads without Antrinell’s corresponding codes. Vance Elston made that first step, a man who believes as you do, Antrinell, who worshipped with you. A man who revered the sanctity of human life so much he sacrificed himself so I would live. Please, Antrinell, don’t betray that sacrament.”

There was a long pause before Antrinell asked: “What would happen if we destroy the warheads?”

“The arrangement I have with Constantine is that I will provide you with information to help deflect Zanthswarms from the star systems you inhabit,” the Barclay-avatar said. “In return he will assist with the human evacuation of St. Libra.”

“Evacuation?” Antrinell said. “There are millions of people here, most of them political refugees. They won’t want to go back. Not even the Norths will be able to make them.”

“If Sirius remains as it is, how many will live? You are running out of food. You can grow no more in this climate. And it will remain like this until I wish it otherwise.”

“Even if we destroy the weapon we’ve got here, the HDA will send more of it through the gateway as soon as they find out what you are,” Antrinell said.

“Constantine will close the gateway,” the Barclay-avatar said. “Any threat will end with that.”

“This is the first step,” Angela said. “We both know that the metavirus is ineffective in this climate anyway. You’re giving up so little, Antrinell. Doing this is a symbol only, such a small thing, but it will allow a friendship to begin that will endure for eons. All of us are on the cusp of something extraordinary. Antrinell, you are not betraying yourself or the HDA. You are being true to your real belief, the heart of your religion. All life is sacred. You know this.” She drew a breath, and found herself praying.

The decontam air lock hissed open.

“Thank you,” Angela said. Her legs were so shaky she thought she might fall. Paresh’s arm came around her, holding her tight. She glanced up at his tired, worried face with its frost-blackened skin and dirty stubble, and managed a small grateful grin for him. He winked back.

The Barclay-avatar walked across the cabin. Just before it reached the air lock it stopped and turned to face Angela. There were human eyes looking out at her from the deep recesses of the stony countenance. “Did I—did
he
ever mean anything to you?” it asked.

“I saw him as means to an end,” she said. It was difficult now even recalling the time she and Barclay had spent together. Before the expedition, she hadn’t thought about Barclay for two decades, which in itself was a telling answer. “At first. But back then I was desperate; I would and did sacrifice anything in order to do what I had to. When you were him, you were not quite the same as your clone brothers. Under different circumstances, in different times, I genuinely don’t know what would have happened between us.”

“I thank you for that answer. I have thought about it more than I should for twenty years. That is perhaps why I remain conflicted. There are so many conflicts within a human mind. It is difficult for me to fully comprehend the universe through your eyes.”

Angela glanced at Rebka. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

T
HURSDAY,
M
AY 9, 2143

The new uniform was stiff; its collar scratched Sid’s neck. The cuffs did the same to his wrists. And the trousers weren’t cut quite right—

“Stop adjusting yourself,” Jacinta snapped. “The meshes will pick it up.”

Sid removed his hand from his crotch. At the other end of the big limousine’s passenger compartment Chloe Healy was diplomatically looking elsewhere. She’d been the one who delivered the uniform to the house that morning, along with the chauffeured limousine, all courtesy of NorthernMetroServices. He hadn’t wanted a new uniform, as there was nothing wrong with the old one. Except when the two of them were hung up side by side, even he had to admit his old one was shabby and worn. The fabric of the one Chloe had brought was a deep black with a luster that only money could produce in cloth. And actually, when you added all his service ribbons in a discreet band on the breast, it looked very smart indeed. The kind of uniform a competent, dynamic, trustworthy leader would wear.

At least the white shirt was his own.

The limousine crawled along Collingwood Street with its tall gray-brown stone buildings on either side. The stores and businesses all had a picture of Ian in their ground-floor windows, wreathed in black ribbons.

“Did you organize this?” he asked Chloe. It was as if a Catholic saint had died.

“No. It’s actually real.”

The second half of Collingwood Street, before the junction with Cathedral Square, had crowd barriers along the edge of the pavement. A lot of people were pressed up behind the waist-high metal meshes, waiting for the hearse.

“My God,” Jacinta muttered.

“He did save the city from a D-bomb,” Chloe said.

Sid and Jacinta looked at each other, then looked away. Their limousine turned right into St. Nicholas Street and pulled up outside the cathedral. The majestic old building was isolated by more crowd barriers; uniformed agency constables were lined up along them. Sid couldn’t even work out how many people had turned up to pay their respects to the hero who’d sacrificed himself to save the city—but it was certainly in the thousands.

“Now remember, no more than thirty seconds with the mayor,” Chloe warned as the doors unlocked.

“Aye,” Sid said, with
tone
.

The limousine in front had brought the mayor to the cathedral. Chloe had negotiated that with the mayor’s office, giving the politician arrival preference, but in return he wasn’t to monopolize Sid on the way into the cathedral. And they weren’t going to be sitting together during Ian’s memorial service, either; that would make it look too much like Sid was part of the mayor’s ticket. That hadn’t been agreed yet.

Sid stepped out onto the pavement. The sun was high in a cloudless azure sky, and the warm air was gusting down Newcastle’s ancient streets, carrying with it the smell of the city. Leaves on the oak trees along the north side of the cathedral still retained their spring vivacity, producing a bright emerald stipple haze as they were struck by sunlight. It was a lot of rich sensation after the sterility of the limousine, and hundreds of people were staring at him.

The applause began. It took Sid a moment to realize it was directed at him. He managed a discreet smile direct to the crowd, and nodded his appreciation. Faces blurred as he walked past. He was dreading catching sight of one of Ian’s girls.

“Detective Hurst.” The mayor was upon him, hand extended. The large cluster of licensed reporters on either side of the cathedral doors paid very close attention to the greeting.

Sid shook the proffered hand. “Mayor. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s the least I could do. The city owes Detective Lanagin so much. He truly demonstrated why we are right to place so much value on our police force.”

Sid could just picture the mocking grin Ian would have on his face if he could see this, the gesture he’d be making at Sid behind the politician’s back. Then he’d be off eyeing the crowd for decent-looking girls to score.

Jacinta smoothly eased forward and offered her hand to the mayor, who shook it gracefully. “We should go in,” she said.

“Of course,” the mayor said, still the epitome of dignity.

They walked away from him. The coffin bearers were waiting just inside the big double door: Eva, Lorelle, Ari, and Royce O’Rouke, who was once again able to show off his old uniform to the transnet news crews. Sid smiled tightly at them, and felt Jacinta’s grip squeeze harder. He needed that. It was tougher than he could believe possible simply to walk down the aisle, acknowledging people as he went. That was his job now, being seen and making connections. Ralph Stevens and Sarah Linsell were there, right at the back, as unobtrusive as good spooks should be. Jenson San, the little shit. Hayfa Fullerton, Reannha Hall, Tilly Lewis heading the pew of Market Street personnel. Milligan and his people in the pew behind, making sure they were included. Even Vice Commissioner Passam was there, being ignored by everyone.

So many people he didn’t know. Who never knew Ian. Important people to be seen offering their thanks, showing support for the city’s finest in these troubled times.

Tallulah was there, several rows from the front. Head down as she sobbed quietly, trying not to make a scene. Grandees on either side, whose polite stiff faces were doing their best to ignore her. Even in distress with tears smearing her makeup she was breathtaking.

Sid stopped and held out his hand to her. “Come with me,” he said kindly.

So there was a bit of a commotion as she wormed past people and joined him in the aisle. Sid led her to the front row where Ian’s distraught parents were sitting.

“No,” Tallulah began feebly.

“You knew him. You cared about him,” Sid said quietly. “There’s not many of us. We have to stick together.”

She smiled with pathetic gratitude and sat beside him. He shook hands with the parents, whom he’d met for the first time last night. An awful ninety minutes in their hotel room telling them about all the good parts of their son’s life he’d shared.

Jacinta patted his leg. “That’s the man I married,” she whispered.

Sid drew a breath. His e-i told him the coffin had arrived outside. The bearers were gathering to lift it from the hearse.

In front of him, the choir rose. It was the cue for the congregation to stand. Sid slowly got to his feet, the hymnbook drooping from his hand. The vast organ began playing the funeral march.

Jacinta’s fingers twined through his. “Forty minutes,” she said. “And it’ll all be over. I’ll share it with you.”

“Really? You want all this?”

“For better or worse. I did promise.”

And with that Sid’s life was bearable again.

The limousine dropped them off outside their Jesmond house at one o’clock. It had proved impossible to get away earlier. Sid couldn’t avoid the official reception at Newcastle’s Civic Center. He didn’t want to be there, not with all the dignitaries and business leaders and the bishop of Newcastle. Market Street personnel were having their own wake in a pub down on Quayside beside the Millennium Bridge. There would be genuine laughter, maudlin reminiscences, loud music, too much beer and some tox. Hopefully it would end in a fight, and a whole load of them would wind up being thrown in the cooler cells for the rest of the night. That would be true to Ian. A proper send-off to one of their own.

Instead he dutifully mingled with the living dead, where it was all small talk, must-be-made introductions by Chloe, and warm white wine served by bored contract waitresses. A midnight shift riding a car around the GSWs would be better than that. Hell, his office on the sixth floor was preferable.

“Cup of tea, pet?” Jacinta asked.

“Yeah, thanks.” Once the front door was closed Sid took the hated uniform jacket off. He rubbed his neck. “I think I’ve got an allergy.”

“I’ll find you some cream.”

“It’s not that bad.”

She rolled her eyes. “Aye, men! Medicine isn’t a weakness, you know.”

“I know.” He sat at the breakfast counter on one of the new stools. Jacinta poured boiling water into a china pot—a moving-in present from her parents. “You know, we haven’t had a housewarming party yet.”

“Because we need to decorate everything before I’ll let anyone inside,” she replied. “And once we do that, I’m not having your police friends in here trashing the place. Honestly, pet, they behave worse than a bunch of fresher students once the beer’s opened.”

“A fair point, well made.”

She sat down opposite him. “Do you want to go down to Quayside?”

“Nah, I’d cramp their style. I’m sixth floor now.”

“You knew him better than all of them.”

“I took him there, into Last Mile. I was the one that wouldn’t let the case go.”

“Don’t do this to yourself, pet. This case was one big weird disaster right from the start.”