“Certainly not,” the Duke said with a modest smile as he sat between the two of them.
An arbitrator, or a buffer? Ralph mused. He sat in the remaining leather chair, mildly relieved that he wasn’t having to look
up at the two men anymore. Both of them were half a head taller than he (another Saldana trait). “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“Good man. So what hot little mess is dear Kirsten dropping in my lap this time?”
Ralph upped the strength of his tranquillizer program and started to explain.
When he finished, the King rose silently and dropped a couple of logs on the fire. Flames cast a shivering amber light across
his face. At seventy-two he had acquired a dignity that went far beyond the superficial physical countenance provided by his
genes; experience had visibly enriched his personality. The King, Ralph decided, had become what kings were supposed to be,
someone you could trust. All of which made his troubled expression more worrying than it would be on any normal politician.
“Opinion?” Alastair asked the Duke, still gazing at the fire.
“It would appear to be an evenhanded dilemma, sir. Mr Hiltch’s proposal is tenable, certainly. Reports we have received show
the Edenists are more than holding their own against the possessed; only a handful of habitats have been penetrated, and I
believe all the insurgents were rounded up effectively. And using bitek constructs as front line troops would reduce our losses
to a minimum if you commit an army to liberating Mortonridge. Politically, though, Princess Kirsten is quite right; such a
course of action will mean a complete reversal of a foreign policy which has stood for over four hundred years, and was actually
instigated by Richard Saldana himself.”
“For good reasons at the time,” the King ruminated. “Those damn atheists with their Helium3 monopoly have so much power over
us Adamists. Richard knew being free of their helping hand was the only road to true independence. It might have been ruinously
expensive to build our own cloud-scoops in those days, but by God look at what we’ve achieved with that freedom. And now Mr
Hiltch here is asking me to become dependent on those same Edenists.”
“I’m suggesting an alliance, Your Majesty,” Ralph said. “Nothing more. A mutually advantageous military alliance in time of
war. And they will benefit from the liberation of Mortonridge just as much as we will.”
“Really?” the King asked; he sounded sceptical.
“Yes, Your Majesty. It has to be done. We have to prove to ourselves, and every other planet in the Confederation, that the
possessed can be driven back into the beyond. I expect such a war might well take decades; and who would ever agree to start
it if they didn’t know victory was possible? Whatever the outcome, we have to try.”
“There has to be another solution,” said the King, almost inaudibly. “Something easier, a more final way of ridding ourselves
of this threat. Our navy scientists are working on it, of course. One can only pray for progress, though so far it has been
depressingly elusive.” He sighed loudly. “But one cannot act on wishes. At least not in my position. I have to respond to
facts. And the fact is that two million of my subjects have been possessed. Subjects I am sworn before God to defend. So something
must be done, and you, Mr Hiltch, have offered me the only valid proposal to date. Even if it is only related to the physical.”
“Your Majesty?”
“One isn’t criticising. But I have to consider what the Ekelund woman said to you. Even if we win and banish them all from
living bodies, we are still going to wind up joining them eventually. Any thoughts on how to solve that little conundrum,
Mr Hiltch?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“No. Of course not. Forgive me, I’m being dreadfully unfair. But never fear; you’re not alone on that one, I’m sure. We can
dump it off on the bishop for the moment, though ultimately it will have to be addressed. And addressed thoroughly. The prospect
of spending eternity in purgatory is not one I naturally welcome. Yet at the moment it seems one to which we are all destined.”
The King smiled wanly, glancing out of the French windows at his grandchildren. “I can only hope Our Lord will eventually
show us some of His mercy. But for now, the problem at hand: liberating Mortonridge, and the political fallout from asking
the Edenists to help. Simon?”
The Duke deliberated on his answer. “As you say, sir, the situation today is hardly the same as when Richard Saldana founded
Kulu. However, four centuries of discord has entrenched attitudes, particularly that of the average middle-Kulu citizen. The
Edenists aren’t seen as demons, but neither are they regarded with any geniality. Of course, as Mr Hiltch has said, in times
of war allies are to be found in the most unusual places. I don’t believe an alliance in these circumstances would damage
the monarchy. Certainly a successful conclusion to a liberation campaign would prove your decision to be justified. That is
assuming the Edenists will agree to come to our aid.”
“They’ll help, Simon. We might snub them for the benefit of the public, but they are not stupid. Nor are they dishonourable.
Once they see I am making a genuine appeal they will respond.”
“The Edenists, yes. But the Lord of Ruin? I find it hard to believe the Princess suggested we ask her for the DNA sequence
of Tranquillity’s serjeants, no matter how good they would be as soldiers.”
The King gave a dry laugh. “Oh, come now, Simon, where’s your sense of charity? You of all people should know how accommodating
Ione is when it comes to the really important problems faced by the Confederation. She’s proved her worth in the political
arena with the Mzu woman; and she is family, after all. I’d say it was far less galling for me to request her help than it
is making any approach to the Edenists.”
“Yes, sir,” the Duke said heavily.
Alastair tutted in bogus dismay. “Never mind, Simon, it’s your job to be paranoid on my behalf.” He turned his gaze back to
Ralph Hiltch. “My decision, though. As always.”
Ralph tried to appear resolute. It was quite extraordinary to witness the use of power at such a level. The thoughts and words
formulated in this room would affect literally hundreds of worlds, maybe even a fate greater than that. He wanted to scream
at the King to say yes, that it was bloody obvious what he should decide. Yes. Yes. YES. Say it, damn you.
“I’ll give my authority to initiate the project,” Alastair said. “That’s all for now. We will ask the Edenists if they can
assist us. Lord Mountjoy can sound out their ambassador to the court, that’s what he’s good at. While you, Mr Hiltch, will
go directly to the Admiralty and begin a detailed tactical analysis of the Mortonridge Liberation. Find out if it really is
possible. Once I’ve seen how these two principal factors mature, the proposal will be brought before the Privy Council for
consideration.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“It’s what I’m here for, Ralph.” His stately smile became artful. “I think you can cancel your tranquillizer program now.”
• • •
“Oh, Lord, now what’s he up to?” Staff Nurse Jansen Kovak asked as soon as he accessed the ceiling sensors in Gerald Skibbow’s
room. All the medical facility’s inmates were reviewed on a regular basis; with troublesome ones like Skibbow a check was
scheduled every twenty minutes.
The room had modest furnishings. A single bed and a deep settee had puffed themselves up out of the floor, ready to retract
if an inmate tried to injure himself against them. All the services were voice-activated. There was nothing to grab hold of,
no loose items lying around which could weight a fist.
Gerald was kneeling beside the bed as if in prayer, his hands hidden from the ceiling sensors. Jansen Kovak switched cameras,
using one incorporated in the floor, giving him a mouse-eye view.
The image showed Gerald was holding a spoon with both hands. Slowly and relentlessly he was flexing it, bending the stem just
below the scoop. It was made of a strong composite, but Jansen Kovak could see the tiny white stress fractures crinkling the
surface. Another minute and the spoon would break, leaving Gerald with a long spike which although not exactly sharp could
certainly harm anyone caught on the end of a lunge.
“Dr Dobbs,” Jansen datavised. “I think we have a problem with Skibbow.”
“What now?” Dobbs asked. He had only just caught up on his appointments; yesterday’s episode with Skibbow in the lounge had
wrecked his schedule. Skibbow had been recovering well up until that point. Bad luck his daughter had turned up again—certainly
the timing, anyway. Although the fact she was still alive could eventually be worked into his therapy, give him a long-term
achievement goal.
“He’s smuggled a spoon out of the lounge. I think he’s going to use it as a weapon.”
“Oh, great, just what I need.” Riley Dobbs hurriedly finished with the patient he was counselling, and accessed the facility’s
AI. He retrieved the interpretation routine which could make sense of Skibbow’s unique thought patterns and opened a channel
to the debrief nanonics. This kind of grubby mental spying was totally unethical; but then he had discarded the constraints
of the General Medical Council all those years ago when he came to work for the Royal Navy. Besides, if he was to effect any
kind of cure on Skibbow, he needed to know exactly what kind of demons were driving the man. Resorting to a weapon, however
feeble, seemed extreme for Skibbow.
The images were slow to form in Dobbs’s mind. Gerald’s thoughts were in turmoil, fast-paced, flicking between present reality
and extrapolated fantasies.
Dobbs saw the pale blue wall of the bedroom, fringed with the redness which came from squinted eyes. Feeling the spoon in
his hands, the friction heat building up in its stem. Tired arm muscles as they pushed and pulled at the stubborn composite.
“And they’ll regret getting in my way. God will they ever.”
Image shift to—a corridor. Kovak screaming in pain as he sinks to his knees, the spoon handle jutting out of his white tunic.
Blood spreading over his chest, drops splattering on the floor. Dr Dobbs was already sprawled facedown on the corridor floor,
his whole body soaked in glistening blood. “Which is less than he deserves.” Kovak emitted a last gurgle and died. Gerald
pulled the Weapon of Vengeance from his chest and carried on down the corridor. Sanatorium staff peered fearfully out of doors,
only to shrink back when they saw who was coming. As well they might; they knew who had Right and Justice on his side.
Shifting back—to the bedroom, where the damn spoon still hadn’t snapped. His breath was becoming ragged now. But still he
persevered. A soundless mutter of: “Come on. Please!”
Shifting—to the journey through Guyana, a confused blur of rock walls. Not actually knowing the geometry of the asteroid;
but he’d find a way. Asteroid spaceports were always attached up at the axis. There would be trains, lifts…
Back—when the spoon finally snaps, making his taut arms judder. “Now I can begin. I’m coming for you, darling. Daddy’s coming.”
To—fly through space. Stars streaking into blue-white lightning outside the ship’s hull as he rushes to the strange distant
habitat. And there’s Marie waiting for him at the end of the voyage, adrift in space, clad in those fragile white swirls of
gauze, luscious hair blown back by the breeze. Where she says to him: “They’ll tell you that you shouldn’t have come, Daddy.”
“Oh, but I should,” he replies. “You need me, darling. I know what you’re going through. I can drive the demon out. You’ll
feel nothing as I push you into zero-tau.” And so he lays her gently down into the plastic coffin and closes the lid. Blackness
eclipses her, then ends to show her face smiling up at him, twinkling tears of gratitude slipping from her eyes.
Which is why he’s standing up now, slipping the jagged spoon handle into his sleeve. Calm. Take deep calming breaths now.
There’s the door. Daddy’s coming to rescue you, baby. He is.
Riley Dobbs cancelled the interpretation routine. “Oh, bugger.” He ordered Gerald’s debrief nanonics to induce somnolence
within the fevered brain.
Nerves and courage fired up, Gerald was reaching for the bedroom door when a wave of tiredness slapped into him with an almost
physical force. He sagged, swaying on his feet as muscles became too exhausted to carry him. The bed loomed before him, and
he was toppling towards it as darkness and silence poured into the room.
“Jansen,” Riley Dobbs datavised. “Get in there and take the spoon away, and any other implements you can find. Then I want
him transferred to a condition three regime; twenty-four-hour observation, and a softcare environment. He’s going to be a
dangerous pain until we can wean him off this new obsession.”
• • •
Kiera Salter had dispatched fifteen hellhawks to the Oshanko sector of the Confederation to seed dissent into the communications
nets of the Imperium’s worlds and asteroid settlements. That was three days ago.
Now, Rubra observed eleven wormhole termini blink open to disgorge the survivors. Two bloated warplanes, and a sinister featureless
black aeromissile-shape kept a loose formation with eight Olympian-sized harpies who flapped their way back towards Valisk’s
docking ledges with lethargic, defeated wing strokes.
I see the Emperor’s navy has lived up to its top gun reputation,
Rubra remarked in a tone of high spirits.
Just how is troop morale coming along these days? That’s the eighth of Kiera’s little jaunts in which your hellhawks have
taken a beating from unfriendly natives. Any grumblings of rebellion at the new regime yet? A few discreet suggestions that
priorities ought to be altered?
Screw you,
Dariat retorted. He was sitting on a small riverbank of crumbling earth, dark water flowing swiftly below his dangling feet.
Occasionally he caught sight of a big garpike slithering past on the way to its spawning ground upriver. Five hundred metres
away in the other direction the water tipped over a shallow cliff to splatter down into the circumfluous saltwater reservoir
ringing the endcap. Out here among the habitat’s low rolling hills the eight separate xenoc grasses waged a continual war
for primacy. As they all came to seed at different times of the year none ever won an outright victory. Right now it was a
salmon-pink Tallok-aboriginal variety which was flourishing, its slender corkscrew blades tangling in a dense blanket of dry
candyfloss which matted the ground. Back along the cylindrical habitat, Dariat could see the broad rosy bracelet fading to
emerald around the midsection where the starscraper lobbies were; and in turn that rich terrestrial vegetation eventually
petered away into the ochre scrub desert which occupied the far end. The bands of colour were as striking as they were regular;
it was as if someone had sprayed them on while Valisk turned on a lathe.