She set off down the raked sand path towards a lake two hundred metres away, with only the slightest hint of a limp in her
walk. Flamingos were wading through the shallows between the thick clusters of white and blue lilies. Scarlet avian lizards
floated among them; the xenoc creatures were smaller than the terrestrial birds, with brilliant turquoise eyes, holding themselves
very still before suddenly diving below the glass-smooth surface. Both species began to move towards the shore as she walked
past. Alkad reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out some stale biscuits, throwing the crumbs. The birds and lizard-things
(she never had bothered to learn their name) gobbled them up hungrily. They were old friends, she had fed them every morning
for the last twenty-six years.
Alkad found Tranquillity’s interior tremendously relaxing, its sheer size went a long way to suggesting invulnerability. She
wished she could find an apartment which was above the surface. Naked space outside the starscraper apartment window still
made her shiver even after all this time. But repeated requests to be re-allocated inside were always politely refused by
the habitat personality who said there were none. So she made do with the first-floor apartment which was close to the security
of the shell, and spent long hours hiking or horse riding through the parkland during her spare time. Partly for her own frame
of mind, and partly because it made life very difficult for the Intelligence agency watchers.
A couple of metres from the path a gardener servitor was ambling round an old tree stump which was now hidden beneath the
shaggy coat of a stephanotis creeper. It was a heavily geneered tortoise, with a shell diameter of a metre. As well as enlarging
the body, geneticists had added a secondary digestive system that turned dead vegetation into small pellets of nitrogen-rich
compost which it excreted. It had also been given a pair of stumpy scaled arms which emerged from holes on either side of
its neck, ending in pincerlike claws. As she watched it started to clip off the shrivelled tubular flowers and put them into
its mouth.
“Happy eating,” she told it as she walked on.
Her destination was Glover’s, a restaurant right on the edge of the lake. It was built out of bare wood, and the architect
had given it a distinct Caribbean ancestry. The roof was a steep thatch, and there was a veranda on stilts actually over the
water, wide enough for ten tables. Inside it had the same raw-cut appearance, with thirty tables, and a long counter running
along the back where the chefs prepared the food over glowstone grills. During the evening it took three chefs to keep up
with the orders; Glover’s was popular with tourists and middle-management corporate executives.
When Alkad Mzu walked in there were ten people sitting eating. The usual breakfast crowd, bachelor types who couldn’t be bothered
to cook for themselves. An AV projection pillar stood on the counter between the tea urn and the coffee percolator, throwing
off a weak moire glow. Vincent raised a hand in acknowledgement from behind the counter where he was whisking some eggs. He
had been the morning cook for the last fifteen years. Alkad waved back, nodded to a regular couple she knew, then pointedly
ignored the Edenist Intelligence operative, a ninety-seven-year-old called Samuel, who in turn pretended she didn’t exist.
Her table was in the corner, giving her a prime view out over the lake. It was set for one.
Sharleene, the waitress, came over with her iced orange juice and a bowl of bran. “Eggs or pancakes today?”
Alkad poured some milk onto the bran. “Pancakes, thanks.”
“New face this morning,” Sharleene said in a quiet voice. “Right nob-case.” She gave Alkad a secret little smile and went
back to the bar.
Alkad ate a few spoonfuls of the bran, then sipped her orange, which gave her a chance to look round.
Lady Tessa Moncrieff was sitting by herself at a table near the bar where the smell of frying bacon and bubbling coffee was
strongest. She was forty-six, a major in the Kulu ESA, and head of station in Tranquillity. She had a thin, tired face, and
fading blonde hair cut into a not very stylish bob; her white blouse and grey skirt gave the impression of an office worker
stuck in the promotion groove. Which was almost true. The Tranquillity assignment was one she had accepted with relish two
years ago when she’d been briefed on the nature of the observation duty and the underlying reason. It was a hellish responsibility,
which meant she’d finally been accepted in her rank. Reverse snobbery was a fact of life in all branches of the Kulu services,
and anyone with a hereditary title had to work twice as hard as normal to prove themselves.
Tranquillity had turned out to be a quiet duty, which meant maintaining discipline was difficult. Dr Alkad Mzu was very much
a creature of habit, and very boring habit at that. If it hadn’t been for her frequent rambles over the parkland, which presented
a challenge to the observation team, morale might have gone to pot long ago.
In fact the biggest upset since Lady Moncrieff arrived hadn’t been Dr Mzu at all, but rather the sudden appearance of Ione
Saldana almost a year ago. Lady Moncrieff had to compile a huge flek report on the girl for Alastair II himself. Interesting
to think the royal family shared the same intense thirst for details as the general public.
Lady Moncrieff made sure she was munching her toast impassively as Dr Mzu’s glance took her in. This was only the third time
she had seen Mzu in the flesh. But this morning wasn’t something she could entrust to the team, she wanted to observe the
doctor’s reactions first hand. Today could well be the beginning of the end of the ESA’s twenty-three-year observation duty.
Alkad Mzu ran a visual identity search through her neural nanonics, but drew a blank. The woman could be a new operative,
or even a genuine customer. Somehow Alkad didn’t think it was the latter; Sharleene was right, there was a refined air about
her. She loaded the visual image in the already large neural nanonics file labelled
adversary
.
When she finished her bran and orange, Alkad sat back and looked straight at the AV pillar on the bar. It was relaying the
Collins morning news programme. A sparkle of monochrome green light shot down her optic nerve, and the news studio materialized
in front of her. Kelly Tirrel was introducing the items, dressed in a green suit and lace tie, hair fastened up in a tight
turban. Her rigidly professional appearance added ten years to her age.
She had done local items on finance and trade, a charity dinner Ione had attended the previous evening. Regional items followed,
the politics of nearby star systems. An update on Confederation Assembly debates. Military stories:
“This report comes from Omuta, filed nine days ago by Tim Beard.” The image changed from the studio to a terra-compatible
planet seen from space. “The Confederation imposed a thirty-year sanction against Omuta for its part in the Garissan holocaust
of 2581, prohibiting both trade and travel to the star system. Since then, the 7th Fleet has been responsible for enforcing
this sanction. Nine days ago, that duty officially ended.”
Alkad opened a channel into Tranquillity’s communication net, and accessed the Collins sensevise programme directly. She looked
out of Tim Beard’s eyes, listening through his ears. And finally her feet were pressed against the ground of Omuta as she
filled her lungs with the world’s mild pine-scented air.
What a wretched irony, she thought.
Tim Beard was standing on the concrete desert apron of some vast spaceport. Away to one side were the grey and blue walls
of composite hangars, faded with age, stained by streaks of rust from the panel pins. Five large swept-delta Sukhoi SuAS-686
spaceplanes were lined up ahead of him, pearl-grey fuselages gleaming in the warm mid-morning sunlight. A military band stood
to rigid attention just in front of their bullet-shaped noses. On one side a temporary seating stand had been erected, holding
a couple of hundred people. Omuta’s twenty-strong cabinet were standing on the red carpet at the front, fourteen men, six
women, dressed in smart formal grey-blue suits.
“You join me in the last minutes of Omuta’s isolation,” Tim Beard said. “We are now awaiting the arrival of Rear-Admiral Meredith
Saldana, who commands a squadron of the 7th Fleet on detachment here in the Omutan system.”
In the western sky a glowing golden speck appeared, expanding rapidly. Tim Beard’s retinal implant zoomed in to reveal a navy
ion-field flyer. It was a neutral-grey wedge-shape forty metres long, which hovered lightly over the concrete for a moment
while the landing struts deployed. The scintillating cloud of ionized air molecules popped like a soap bubble after it touched
down.
“This is actually the first ion-field flyer to be seen on Omuta,” Tim Beard said, filling in as the Foreign Minister greeted
the Rear-Admiral. Meredith Saldana was as tall and imposing as his royal cousins, with that same distinctive nose. “Although
the press cadre received special dispensation to come down last night, we had to use Omuta’s own spaceplanes, some of which
are now fifty years old with spare parts hard to come by. That’s an indication of just how hard the sanctions have hit this
world; it has fallen behind both industrially and economically. But most of all, it lacks investment. It’s a situation the
cabinet is keen to remedy; we’ve been briefed that establishing trade missions will be a priority.”
The Rear-Admiral and his retinue were escorted over to the President of Omuta, a smiling, silver-haired man a hundred and
ten years old. The two shook hands.
“There’s some irony in this situation,” Tim Beard said. Alkad could feel his facial muscles shifting into a small smile. “The
last time a squadron commander of the Confederation Navy’s 7th Fleet met the Omutan planetary president was thirty years ago,
when the entire cabinet were executed for their part in the Garissan holocaust. Today things are a little different.” His
retinal implants provided a close-up of the Rear-Admiral handing a scroll to the President. “That is the official invitation
from the President of the Confederation Assembly for Omuta to take up its seat again. And now you can see the President handing
over the acceptance.”
Alkad Mzu cancelled the channel to Collins, and looked away from the counter. She poured some thick lemon syrup over her pancakes,
and used a fork to cut them up, chewing thoughtfully. The AV pillar next to the tea urn buzzed softly as Kelly Tirrel nattered
away.
The date was seared into Alkad’s brain, of course, she’d known it was coming. But even so her neural nanonics had to send
a deluge of overrides through her nervous system to prevent her tears from falling and her jaw from quaking.
Knowing and seeing were two very different things, she discovered painfully. And that ridiculous ceremony, almost designed
to reopen the wound in her soul. A handshake and an exchange of symbolic letters, and all was forgiven. Ninety-five million
people. Dear Mother Mary!
A single tear leaked out of her left eye despite the best efforts of her neural nanonics. She wiped it away with a paper tissue,
then paid for her breakfast leaving the usual tip. She walked slowly back to the StPelham foyer to catch a tube carriage to
work.
Lady Moncrieff and Samuel watched her go, her left leg trailing slightly on the gravel path. They exchanged a mildly embarrassed
glance.
The tableau hung in Ione’s mind as she stirred her morning tea.
That poor, poor woman.
I think her reaction was admirably restrained,
Tranquillity said.
Only on the outside,
Ione said glumly. She had a hangover from the charity dinner party of the previous night. It was a mistake to sit next to
Dominique Vasilkovsky all evening; Dominique was a good friend, and hadn’t exploited that friendship either, which was refreshing—but
heavens how the girl drank.
Ione watched as Lady Moncrieff paid her bill and left Glover’s.
I wish those agency operatives would leave Mzu alone, that kind of perpetual reminder can’t make her life any easier.
You can always expel them.
She sipped her tea, pondering the option as the house-chimp cleared away her breakfast dishes. Augustine was sitting on top
of the oranges in the silver fruit bowl, trying to pull a grape from the cluster. He didn’t have the strength.
Better the devil we know
, she said in resignation.
Sometimes I wish she’d never come here. Then again, I’d hate anyone else to have her expertise at their disposal.
I imagine there are several governments who feel the same with respect to you and me. Human nature.
Maybe, maybe not. None of them has volunteered for the job.
They are probably worried about instigating a conflict over possessing her. If one made an approach to you, they would all
have to. Such a wrangle would be impossible to keep under wraps. In that respect, the First Admiral is quite correct, the
fewer people who know about her the better. Public reaction to super-doomsday weapons would not be favourable.
Yes, I suppose so. That Rear-Admiral Meredith Sal-dana, I take it he’s a relative of mine?
Indeed. He is the son of the last Prince of Nesko, which makes him an earl in his own right. But he chose to become a Confederation
fleet career officer, which couldn’t be easy, with his name acting against him.
Did he turn his back on Kulu like my grandfather?
No, the fifth son of a principality ruler is not naturally destined for high office. Meredith Saldana decided to achieve what
he could on his own merit; had he remained on Nesko such an action could well have brought him into conflict with the new
prince. So he left to pursue an independent course; given his position, it was the act of a loyal subject. The family are
proud of his accomplishment.