Rainbow Bridge (3 page)

The event, barely a month after the ceasefire, was sanctioned. The Chinese had dealt harshly with the suppurating sore of delusion: they wanted to make the point that they had no quarrel with the English people. Or with England’s legendary Rock and Roll solution to the global crisis, apparently. They called the Ashdown Festival ‘an appropriate and healthy resumption of cultural life’. The Commanding General of the South East, Lü Xiaobao, had expressed concern for the well-being of the masses. He’d donated six truckloads of straw, to be collected from the 18
^th
October Line. They’re a predictable lot, our conquerors. They wanted to be liked.

But it might be a trap.

And yet here they were, like fish in a barrel—

A piercing, amplified voice invaded the engineers’ private world,
no camp fires and you cannot cut down any trees… May
not, muttered Caro, defender of the arcane beauties of Native English. A bearded hippy, a grizzling toddler in his arms, crossed and re-crossed the Bruegel foreground, getting the headshake from everyone he stopped: no, haven’t seen your loved ones. He was one of many, and not the only raver in proscribed Countercultural dress. Chinese had fucking better be in an understanding mood, when they look around here. A chunkily built black man in obsolete British Army uniform had collided with the despondent hippy. He recoiled and blundered on, groping his holstered pistol—

‘Fuck.’

Sage retreated behind the desks, making a feeble attempt to disguise his height by stooping down and hunching his shoulders. Fat chance. The wild-eyed soldier charged for the stage, those in his path swiftly getting out of the way. This was Richard Kent, the former British Army major who had created Ax’s barmy army: hero of the Islamic Campaign, commander of the Reich’s armed forces. He should not be at Ashdown. Chinese goodwill didn’t extend that far. He’d been warned (make that
begged
) to stay away. But of course he’d turned up, with his chiefs of staff. They were telling anyone who would listen that they were here to organise the resistance.

The roustabouts gave Colonel Kent a boost, they weren’t going to argue with an armed lunatic. He marched smartly to the trestles, where Sage was hiding behind his visionboard. Richard had lost weight, and there was a thick close growth of beard around his jaw. Deep-gouged lines of strain scarred his cheeks and brow, red rims to his hollow eyes, but he stood foursquare and belligerent.

‘I want to talk to you…
Sage
, look at me when I’m speaking!’

The engineer sighed and shoved back his hood, revealing gaunt angelic beauty, sketchy blond cane rows; a vivid pair of blue eyes.

‘It’s good to see you, too, Richard.’

‘What the fuck’s going on? Not a
word
from my leaders, all through the invasion, and we knew you were free. We were in contact with the Scots who sprung you out of jail. But not a word from you three,
nothing
… I suppose it was impossible. I held a meeting of the chiefs of staff, we decided that Ax meant the lads to lie low. We have to talk. I’ve been out of my mind. It was hellish, hellish, watching the regulars fall apart like wet toilet paper, and doing nothing—’

Abruptly, Richard lost conviction. ‘Are you
listening
? Are you on some other fucking plane? Are you playing dance tracks in that private little world of yours?’

‘I c’n hear you,’ said Sage. He tipped the soundbead from his ear anyway, and looked at the pistol butt. ‘Did the Rangers say you could carry a firearm?’

Richard made an impatient gesture, breathing hard.

Lowly electricians, who’d begun to cable-up the antique monsters, could be heard complaining. The patching of bizarre connections, the lack of gaffer tape—

‘I couldn’t find you! We arrived and no one would tell me where you two were, it was as if I
didn’t exist
. What the fuck was that about? All right, forget it, forget it. Listen, it’s not over. IT’S NOT OVER. Half the country is unoccupied, the Celtic nations are untouched. We have matériel, far more than they know. We have soldiers, few maybe, but harder, more experienced than they have any idea. We can have bases, here there and everywhere, we can
harry
them—’

‘Oh really? You’re gonna show the People’s Liberation Army how to do guerrilla warfare?’

‘I
know
it’s been hell, I
know
what happened to you. But you have to get on, back on your feet, we have to pull ourselves together, and
strike hard
—’

Shouldn’t say a word, except silence was going to make the man worse. ‘Nah, you see, tha’s where you’re wrong. We’re the pacifists—’

Richard’s eyes bulged dangerously, he exploded in fury.

‘So it’s
true
. I didn’t believe it! You’re bottling out. You were an outstanding officer once, Sage. I was proud to serve with you in Yorkshire. But for you that was several lifetimes ago, that’s the problem. Before your trip to see God, before the fashionplate years at the court of King Ax. Frankly, I liked you better when you were a loutish, sex-mad, drunken teen-idol in a ridiculous digital mask.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Put not your faith in rockstars, they reinvent themselves every season.’

‘Rich, I’m serious. This isn’t somethen’ we should fight, iffen we could. It’s our share of a mighty disturbance in the Force, bro. It’s neither good nor bad, an’ violence is not the way to meet it.’

The soldier curled his lip.

‘I’ll wait until I hear the dreamy mystic line from Ax, Aoxomoxoa.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Someone who had quietly come up behind Richard crossed into view, with a guitar he’d taken from a stagehand: tucked a bead in his ear and sat on a cable drum beside Sage, head bent, a wing of dark hair falling. He wore a ring with an incised, red bevel on his right hand, a band of red and white and yellow braided British gold on his left. He picked the strings, one welling phrase of single notes, and looked up, tossing back the hair to reveal a keel of Celtic knotwork around his left eye.

‘The Chinese invasion’s a mighty disturbance in the Force, Rich. It’s neither good nor bad. And violence is not the way to meet it.’

Like his Triumvirate partner, the President (technically still President of this vanquished nation) looked as if he’d been sleeping rough since his last known whereabouts. His brown jacket was stained and muddy, his sheeny hair unkempt.

‘I’m fucking glad you’re okay, but I wish you’d stayed away from Ashdown. If you have to be here I wish you’d turn in that gun, ditch the paramilitary look, and tell your cohorts the same. We’re holding this gathering on sufferance, you know. I can’t protect you guys, and I won’t try.’

Richard was distracted by the knotwork, dark blue against skin the colour of milky tea; which he had not seen before.

‘What’s that on your face? Did the Scots
mark you
like that?’

‘Yep,’ said Mr Preston, shortly. ‘They did. Price of our ticket out of jail.’

‘It doesn’t disguise you. But that doesn’t matter. The Chinese don’t know if you’re alive or dead. They have no idea where you are!’

Ax let that pass. ‘Yeah, well, maybe, but it doesn’t make me your secret weapon. I’m not going to join you this time, Rich. It’s not tenable.’

The leader of the resistance stood nonplussed, his face working. ‘All right. I’ve been shooting my mouth. We’ll discuss this further.’ He turned on his heel, ramrod straight: got a hand to the ground, and forged away into the mill of the lost. Ax looked at Sage. They went together to the front of the stage, Ax still with the guitar shipped, to watch the wild man’s progress until he vanished.

‘Where d’you think he’s going?’

Sage was overtaken by the need to fill his dirty rag again, sneezing out great gouts of bile-coloured phlegm. He was no longer togged into the engineers’ space, so it was only Ax who got the benefit. ‘Looking for Fee, of course. See if he can convince our little tearaway to pick up her AK and git some.’

They laughed: but it was painful. They could only tell themselves that if their friend was in his right mind the reality of the situation would be blindingly obvious.

‘That’s a problem,’ said Ax.

The people had spotted him: Ax Preston with guitar. They drifted uncertainly forward, dirty faces upturned, dark eyes, dark eyes, what a ragged, ramshackle bunch of orphans. Ax looked to the side, and sound-system ruler George Merrick nodded: go ahead, why not? What are we saving it for?

Gold and rose, the colour of the dream I had…
Not too long ago, yeah…

Fiorinda had been walking around all day being visible, between bursts of vital conferencing with the stewards. The mood was eerily cheerful, eerily familiar on the surface. Could have been any daft, outdoor winter fest of the old Reich. But the dead stood in the eyes of those who’d come from the Occupied Zones; the gut-shot misery of defeat was in them all, beyond reason. The fact that the Chinese had deposed and executed a junta of vicious monsters made no difference. Late in the afternoon she was in the backstage canteen, hiding from friends, lovers and the bleeding crowd alike; warming her hands on a mug of sweet, scalding black tea. Fragments of festinet chat scrolled across the tabletop. The lonely hearts photos, row on row, inescapable. Fuck, I can’t stand much more of this, why doesn’t the tech break down for a while? Has anyone seen…? Any information… Any information… Have you any news of…? Biff…? Are you here? Biff is nine years old, here’s his picture, we haven’t seen him since—

Poor Smelly Hugh Raven, baby Safire in his arms, was searching for Silver and Pearl, who had been missing since the Reading Massacre. The Few’s token addled hippy geezer, earnestly hopeful; in the dignity of his grief—

‘They’ll know to come here, won’t they, Fio? They’ll turn up, won’t they?’

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam?

Smelly’s old lady, Anne-Marie Wing, was definitely dead, as were his two little boys, and his oldest daughter. Dilip, confirmed dead too. No additions to that aching personal list yet, as far as they knew. Sage’s dad hadn’t even been arrested, despite his closeness to government circles. Ax’s family was okay too, hostages again but okay; if you could trust any information from the South West. Sage’s son had been with his mother, safe in deepest Wales, since before the invasion. But the Wing kids preyed on her. Prime girl-flesh, and worse: prime targets for interrogation. What is happening to those children now, have they died for me?

How many died for me?

Got to get Smelly out of those clothes.

She heard Mr Guitar striking up with some gentle Hendrix but stayed put, fighting her demons. Get a grip, live with it, nervous breakdowns not allowed. Chip Desmond and Kevin Verlaine peered into the tent and spotted her. Chip’s round black cherub face broke into a grin and they zipped straight over, unimpressed by
leave me alone
vibes. Verlaine, very pale, his brown cavalier curls scraped back, dragged up two more plastic chairs.

‘Any chance of us snagging a hit?’ wondered Chip, inhaling tea fumes.

‘The urn’s over there,’ said Fiorinda, jerking her chin in the direction of a press of bodies. ‘Try your luck. I think they’ve run out of sugar, though.’

They stared like puppydogs. ‘Oh, all right. Don’t bogart that caffeine,
mes amis
. I’m unspeakably glad you’re alive, but I have refugee needs too.’

‘We’re unspeakably glad you’re alive, too,’ said Chip. He sipped deep, sighed, and passed the mug to Verlaine. ‘Okay, behave naturally.’

‘Act as if we’re, say, squabbling over a set list—’

‘Bad-mouthing a stupidly successful boyband.’

‘Whatever rockstars normally do. We’ve forgotten.’

‘What the fuck are you on about, idiots?’

Her heart thumped. Someone else she knew must be dead or worse—

‘We have something to tell you,’ said Verlaine, handing back the tea, not badly depleted. ‘Don’t worry, it’s good news. Excellent black! Where do they get it?’

‘There’s a bloke called Dave, a poacher.
What
do you have to tell me?’

‘Dave Wright? He’s a legend, isn’t he. Did you know he does Stand-Up?’

‘Yeah, only unfortunately I can’t stand Stand-Up. If it’s good news, why couldn’t you tell me last night, when you all got here?’

‘It’s probably better if the folks don’t know.’

‘Maybe better if Ax and Sage don’t know, either,’ added Verlaine. ‘For now.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

While their leaders were quietly hiding in the Forest, the Few had been in the midst of the invasion. At the close of official hostilities they’d been holed up in the Tower, last stand of the Republic of Europe partisans; except for Dilip, who’d died in the firestorm at Buckingham Palace. The Chinese had taken out the partisans in a hand-to-hand fight (trying not to damage anything mediaeval), and the Few had been held by Hu Qinfu, until they’d been given special permission to join this festival. Only Roxane Smith, veteran music critic and the Reich’s post-gendered court philosopher, was unaccounted for; but s/he’d been seen on tv once, looking okay.

‘The debriefing last night was a pinprick,’ said Chip, sternly. ‘Layers upon
layers
of things happened to us, that we haven’t told you yet.’

‘This particular thing is about how the Republic of Europe desperantos had robbed the Jewel House—’

‘They did? I suppose that makes sense.’

‘It hasn’t been reported,’ explained Chip. ‘We reckon Hu cut a deal, let a few top partisans through the net, and has most of the loot squirrelled in his own kitbag.’

The characters of the Four Generals were established. Wang was articulate, smooth and ruthless. Sheng of the North East was an effective soldier, political lightweight. Lü, the ‘little brother’, Commanding General of the South East, seemed like a kindly old geezer (unlikely!). And Hu Qinfu was bent as a safety pin.

‘Anyway, it happened, and we knew there was a bag of loose stones hidden in a bedroll, in the room where we’d been assigned.’

‘All non-combatants had to sleep with the soldiers. They’d split the Few up, into different dorms, we didn’t know if the others were still alive—’