Kiera allowed herself a muted scream of fury when the doors closed. “That fucking Dariat! I knew it! I fucking knew he was
a disaster waiting to happen.”
“We’re still in charge of the hellhawks,” Hudson Proctor said. “That gives us a big chunk of Capone’s action; and the Organization
is in charge of a couple of star systems, with more on the way. It’s not such a loss. If we’d been inside the habitat it would
be one hell of a lot worse.”
“If I’d been inside, it would never have happened,” she snapped back. Her hair was abruptly dry, and her robe blurred, running
like hot wax until it became a sharp mauve business suit. “Control,” she murmured almost to herself. “That’s the key here.”
Hudson Proctor could sense her focusing on him, both her eyes and her mind.
“Are you with me?” she asked. “Or are you going to ask good old Al if you can sign on as one of his lieutenants?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if I can’t keep control of the hellhawks, I’m nothing to the Organization.” She smiled thinly. “You and I would have
to start right back at the beginning again. With the hellhawks obeying us, we’ll still be players.”
He glanced out of the big window, searching space for a sight of the bitek starships. “We’ve got no hold on them any more,”
he said dejectedly. “Without the affinity-capable bodies stored in Valisk, there’s no way they’ll do as they’re ordered. And
there aren’t any more of Rubra’s family left for us to replace them with. We’ve lost.”
Kiera shook her head impatiently. Considering she’d coopted the ex-general to her council for his ability to think tactically,
he was doing a remarkably poor job of it. But then, maybe a politician’s instinct was naturally quicker at finding an opponent’s
weakness. “There’s one thing left which they can’t do for themselves.”
“And that is?”
“Eat. The only sources of their nutrient fluid which they’ll be able to use are on Organization-held asteroids. Without food,
even bitek organisms will wither and die. And we know our energistic power can’t magic up genuine food.”
“Then Capone will control them.”
“No.” Kiera could sense his anxiety at the prospect of losing his status, and knew she could rely on him. She closed her eyes,
focusing on assignments for the small number of her people she’d brought with her to Monterey. “Which is the most reliable
hellhawk we’ve got on planetary defence?”
“Reliable?”
“Loyal, idiot. To me.”
“That’ll probably be Etchells in the
Stryla
. He’s a regular little Nazi, always complaining hellhawks never see enough battle action. Doesn’t get on too well with the
others, either.”
“Perfect. Call him back to Monterey’s docking ledges and go on board. I want you to visit every Organization asteroid in this
system with a nutrient fluid production system. And blow it to shit.”
Hudson gave her an astounded look, trepidation replacing the earlier anxiety. “The asteroids?”
“No, shithead! Just the production systems. You don’t even have to dock, just use an X-ray laser. That’ll leave Monterey as
their only supply point.” She smiled happily. “The Organization has enough to do right now without the burden of maintaining
all that complicated machinery. I think I’ll go down there right now with our experts, and relieve them.”
______
It wasn’t dawn which arose over the wolds, inasmuch as there was no sun to slide above the horizon any more, but none the
less the darkened sky grew radiant in homage to Norfolk’s lost diurnal rhythm. Luca Comar felt it developing because he was
a part of making it happen. By coming to this place he had freed himself from the clamour of the souls lost within the beyond,
their tormented screams and angry pleas. In exchange he had gained an awareness of community.
Born at the tail end of the Twenty-first Century he’d grown up in the Amsterdam arcology. It was a time when people still
clung to the hope that the planet could be healed, their superb technology employed to turn the clock back to the nevertime
of halcyon pastoral days. In his youth, Luca dreamed of the land returned to immense parkland vistas with proud white and
gold cities straddling the horizon. A child brought up by some of the last hippies on Earth, his formative years were spent
loving the knowledge that togetherness was all. Then he turned eighteen, and for the first time in his existence reality had
bitten, and bitten hard; he had to get a job, and an apartment, and pay taxes. Not nice. He resented it until the day his
body died.
So now he had stolen a new body, and with the strange powers that theft had bestowed, he’d joined with the others of this
planet to create their own Gaia. Unity of life was a pervasive, shroud-like presence wrapping itself around the planet, replacing
the regimented order of the universe as their provider. Because the new inhabitants of Norfolk wished there to be a dawn,
there was one. And as they equally desired night, so the light was banished. He contributed a little of himself to this Gaia,
some of his wishes, some of his strength, a constant avowal of thanks to this new phase of his existence.
Luca sat on the edge of the huge bed in the master bedroom to watch the light strengthen outside Cricklade; a silver warmth
shining down from the sky, its uniformity leaving few shadows. With it came the sense of anticipation, a new day to be treasured
because of the opportunity it might bring.
A dull dawn, bland and boring, just as the days have become. We used to have two suns, and revelled in the contrast of colours
they brought, the battle of shadows. They had energy and majesty, they inspired. But this, this…
The woman on the bed beside Luca stretched and rolled over, resting her chin in her hand and smiling up at him. “Morning,”
she purred.
He grinned back. Lucy was good company, sharing a lot of his enthusiasms, as well as a wicked sense of humour. A tall woman,
great figure, thick chestnut hair worn long, barely into her mid-twenties. He never asked how much of her appearance was hers,
and how much belonged to her host. The age of your host had swiftly become taboo. He liked to think himself modern enough
so that bedding a ninety-year-old wouldn’t bother him, age and looks being different concepts here. He still didn’t ask, though.
The solid image was good enough.
An image so close to Marjorie it verges on the idolatrous. Did this Lucy see that in my heart?
Luca yawned widely. “I’d better get going. We have to inspect the mill this morning, and I need to know how much seed corn
we’ve actually got left in the silos over in the estate’s western farms. I don’t believe what the residents are telling me.
It doesn’t correspond with what Grant knows.”
Lucy pulled a dour face. “One week in heaven, and the four horsemen are already giving us the eye.” “Alas, this is not heaven,
I’m afraid.”
“And don’t I know it. Fancy having to work for a living when you’re dead. God, the indignity.”
“The wages of sin, lady. We did have one hell of a party to start with, after all.”
She flopped back down on the bed, tongue poised tautly on her upper lip. “Sure did. You know I was quite repressed back when
I was alive first time around. Sexually, that is.”
“Hallelujah, it’s a miracle cure.”
She gave a husky chuckle, then sobered. “I’m supposed to be helping out in the kitchen today. Cooking the workers lunch, then
taking it out to the fields for them. Bugger, it’s like some kind of Amish festival. And how come we’re reverting to gender
stereotypes?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s us girls that are doing all the cooking.”
“Not all of you.”
“The majority. You should work out a better rota for us.”
“Why me?”
“You seem to be taking charge around here. Quite the little baron.”
“Okay, I designate you to draw up a proper equitable rota.” He stuck his tongue out at her. “You should be good at secretarial
work.”
The pillow hit him on the side of his head, nearly knocking him off the bed. He caught the next one, and put it out of her
reach. “I didn’t do it deliberately,” he said seriously. “People tell me what they can do, and I shove them at the first matching
job. We need to get a list of occupations and skills sorted out.”
She moaned. “Bureaucracy in heaven, that’s worse than sexism.”
“Just think yourself lucky we haven’t got round to introducing taxes yet.” He started searching round for his trousers. Luckily,
the Manor had entire wardrobes of Grant Kavanagh’s high-quality clothes. They weren’t quite Luca’s style, but at least they
fitted perfectly. And the outdoor gear was hard-wearing, too. It saved him from having to dream up new stuff. That was harder
here, in this realm. Imagined items took a long time to form, but when they did, they had more substance, and persevered longer.
Concentrate hard enough and long enough on changing something, and the change would become permanent, requiring no more attention.
But that was inert objects: clothes, stone, wood, even chunks of machinery (not electronics), they could all be fashioned
by the mind. Which was fortunate; Norfolk’s low-technology infrastructure could be repaired with relative ease. Physical appearance,
too, could be governed by a wish, flesh gradually morphing into a new form—inevitably firmer and younger. The majority of
possessed were intent on reverting to their original features. As seen through a rose-tinted mirror, Luca suspected. Having
quite so many beautiful people emerge in one place together was statistically implausible.
Not that vanity was their real problem. The one intractable difficulty of this new life was food. Energistic power simply
could not conjure any into existence; no matter how creative or insistent you were. Oh, you could cover a plate with a mountain
of caviar; but cancel the illusion and the glistening black mass would relapse into a pile of leaves, or whatever raw material
you were trying to bend to your will.
Irony or mockery, Luca couldn’t quite decide what their deliverance had led them to. But whichever it was, eternity tilling
the fields was better than eternity in the beyond. He finished dressing, and gave Lucy an expectant, slightly chiding look.
“All right,” she grumbled. “I’m getting up. I’ll pull my communal weight.”
He kissed her. “Catch you later.”
Lucy waited until the door shut behind him, then pulled the sheets back over her head.
______
Most of the manor’s residents were already awake and bustling about. Luca said a dozen good-mornings as he made his way downstairs.
As he walked along the grand corridors, the state of the building gradually registered. Windows left ajar, allowing the nightly
sprinkling of rain to stain the carpets and furniture; open doors showed him glimpses of rooms with clothes strewn everywhere,
remnants of meals on plates, grey mould growing out of mugs, sheets unwashed since the start of Norfolk’s possession. It wasn’t
apathy, exactly, more like teenage carelessness—the belief that mum will always be around to clean up after you.
Bloody squalor junkies. Wouldn’t have happened in my day, by damn
.
There were over thirty people having their breakfast in Cricklade’s dining hall, which now served as the community’s canteen.
The big chamber was three stories high, with a wooden ceiling supported by skilfully carved rafters. Cascade chandeliers hung
on strong chains; their light globes were inoperative, but they bounced plenty of the sky’s ambient light around the hall,
illuminating the elaborate Earth-woodland frescos painted between every window. A thick blue and cream coloured Chinese carpet
silenced Luca’s boots as he walked over to the counter and helped himself to scrambled egg from an iron baking dish.
The plate he used was chipped, the silver cutlery was tarnished, and the polish on the huge central table was scuffed and
scratched. He nodded to his companions as he sat, holding back any criticism. Focus on priorities, he told himself. Things
were up and running at a basic level, that’s what counts. The food was plain but adequate; not rationed exactly, but carefully
controlled. They were all reverting to a more civilized state of behaviour.
For a while after Quinn left, Cricklade’s new residents had joyfully discarded the sect’s loathsome teachings which the monster
had imposed, and dived into a continual orgy of sex and overconsumption. It was a reaction to the beyond; deliberately immersing
themselves in complete sensory-glut. Nothing mattered except feeling, and taste, and smell. Luca had eaten and drunk his way
through the manor’s extensive cuisine supplies, shagged countless girls with supermodel looks, flung himself into ludicrously
dangerous games, persecuted and hounded the non-possessed. Then, with painful slowness, the morning after had finally dawned,
bringing the burden of responsibility and even a degree of decency.
It was the day when the bathroom shower nozzle squirted raw sewage over him that Luca started to gather up like-minded people
and set about restoring the estate to working order. Pure hedonistic anarchy, it turned out, was not a sustainable environment.
Luca saw Susannah emerge from the door leading to the kitchen. His every movement suddenly became very cautious. She was carrying
a fresh bowl of steaming tomatoes, which she plonked down on the self-service counter.
As he had applied himself to getting the farming side of the estate functional again, so she had taken on the manor itself.
She was making a good job of providing meals and keeping the place rolling along (even though it wasn’t maintained as it had
been in the old days). Appropriately enough, for Susannah was possessing Marjorie Kavanagh’s body. Naturally, there had been
little room for physical improvement; she’d discarded about a decade, and shortened her extravagant landowner hair considerably,
but the essential figure and features remained the same.
She picked up an empty bowl and walked back to the kitchen. Their eyes met, and she gave him a slightly confused smile before
she disappeared back through the door.
Luca swallowed the mush of egg in his mouth before he choked on it. There had been so much he wanted to cram into that moment.
So much to say. And their troubled thoughts had resonated together. She knew what he knew, and he knew…