Chapter 11

 

Whatever he might have hoped, Dion knew that it had been too good to have lasted: notwithstanding the bland, friendly, three-dimensional exterior of the Gloriana (as he was now stuck with thinking of it), it had all proven the most appalling cheat. Assuming, that is, that the narrower, yet no less eye-wateringly improbable corridors they had been traversing of late were, indeed, inside the disc, for which he only had the lieutenant’s word. Their mode of entry, such as it had been, was no proof at all: following Dorus’s instructions, he had laid his hands and fixed his eyes upon the panel, concentrated on precisely that image of himself, and then imagined it situated within the disc. When he had looked up, all he had seen was a faintly luminous blank wall, which was not particularly conclusive. When they had stepped out of the room, however, he had to concede that either the tunnel had – insofar as his poor failing sense of space could interpret  – shrunk considerably, or that they were in a different tunnel. To his present state of mind, either seemed as likely.

        In spite of Dion’s feelings, the lieutenant seemed rather sanguine, confidently undertaking to lead them through the obscene tangle of corridors for rather longer than Dion felt the size of the outer disc could be said to justify. At length, after careful searches and references to one of Gloriana’s maps, a door and a chamber were discovered. The latter was of a great extent, roughly dome-shaped, taking into account the odd convolution and irregularity, and the occasional flash of conviction that it was actually cone-shaped or pyramid-shaped. At any rate, in the centre there was another article of slab-like furniture, in the shape of a large, solid ring, with narrow gaps at four equidistant points. They approached this at a slow pace, reflecting Dorus’s sense of reverence and Dion’s sense of distrust, until they stood within the ring.

        After a brief struggle between the excitement of the discoverer and the caution of the career soldier, Dorus laid a hand upon the smooth surface and closed his eyes. Immediately, Dion saw him tense up, his breath quickening, his frame shivering, and beads of sweat forming on his forehead. After several seconds, he withdrew, as if forcing himself away, although his fatigued voice expressed more awe than fear at the experience:

        “Trooper… I’m not a… not what you might call a religious man… I suspect, though, that I just found out what it feels like to be God… It carries your mind… anywhere. I could take us anywhere. Just thinking about it. They knew their stuff. The builders, I mean. Wish you could see them. So beautiful. Try it, Dion.”

        With undisguised reluctance, in the vague and unfulfilled hope of a reprieve, Dion laid his hand upon the slab. Had he enjoyed the benefit of Gloriana’s notes and diagrams on the subject, which Dorus had been poring over for the hour or thereabouts since they had entered the disc, he might have been readily able to summon the extensive navigational files and operations, and to have shared the lieutenant’s moment of omnipresence. As it was, his subconscious request to the archive was extremely vague, dwelling upon such elements as builders, beautiful ones, and not least the miasmic phantom from the tunnel, which, unlike the lieutenant, he had been quite unable to banish to the back of his mind.

        The feedback he received was, at least, appropriate. He saw a city in desolation, upon a barren plain of creeping shadows. Upon occasion, the shadows would creep with intent, massing around the scattering forms of the last few survivors: among them were many ordinary folk, but also daemons, and a few other beings of staggering perfection, with the beauty of finely-worked golden statues and the grace of spirits. Until, that is, they got caught up in the dark, vaporous tendrils, whereupon they were invariably twisted, broken, and thrown away to lie in gathering pools of shining, amber-coloured blood. The other people fared no better, and the scene became ever more grisly and destitute of hope, prompting Dion to think rather harder in the hope of expelling it.

        He concentrated on the image of the disc, which coalesced with the scene before him. The date was somewhat earlier: pure intuition was enough to tell him this, although he noted that the towering, shining, reality-offending structures of the city were in a state of completion, as opposed to the ruin he had witnessed before. The plain, however, was still a barren, blighted affair, and in considerable turmoil. The ordinary people he had seen were here in their thousands: slave builders, as he was now certain, who – as the recording seemed at some pains to convince him – were taken in all benevolence by the beautiful ones from a condition of brutish survival. They were at first grateful enough for security and stability, but since gratitude had quickly given way to base envy, idleness, and greed, benevolence would have to be tempered with an iron rod. A whole flotilla of discs approached from over the city skyline, swooping low over the would-be besiegers, trailing in their wake a fine red vapour. The blanket of mist descended upon the crowds, then the screaming began. It would not have continued for very long – given the obvious efficiency of the corrosive fog – but Dion was not about to wait. A few seconds were enough to convince him that he was not going to see anything that he actually wanted to carry with him for the rest of his days.

        He tore his hand from the panel and collapsed, hyperventilating and drenched in sweat, in spite of which he still found the resources to turn his face upon the lieutenant and briefly address him. He lacked, however, the resources to conceal the anger and disgust in his eyes and voice, but this was no problem, as he also lacked the inclination:

        “Those cylinders… this ship… what’re we doing?”

        “Patience, trooper, and all will become clear.” It was a tolerant enough response, as none of the troopers had up till now shown the presumption to expect a proper explanation of their orders, but Dion was in no mood to appreciate it.

        “To blazes… with that.”

        “I will overlook that, under the circumstances. Pull yourself together, Dion. We have a duty to perform.”

        “Yeah. I’ll bet. Who is it she wants killing, then?” Dorus paused before answering this, as the sarcasm level was reaching a dangerous pitch, and the lieutenant was not stupid enough to fight fire with meths. He picked his words carefully:

        “Dion: you suddenly seem to have quite a problem with killing. I mean, bearing in mind that we have had our share of it in getting this far, it seems rather a shame that it should all have been for nothing.”

        “Was that what it was for, then? We killed all them natives so there could be even more of it back home?”

        “There won’t be any! I mean...,” at which he decided to give up the taciturn angle: “We’re not going to kill anyone, Dion. Take my word for it.”

        “What’s in the cylinders, then? I saw what it did: their skin was burning off. I never seen anything like it before. I sure as hell ain’t doing anything like it, ever.”

        “I don’t know what you saw. I don’t want to know. That’s ancient history. It’s nothing to do with this mission. The cylinders aren’t going to kill anyone. I know that for a fact. Dion: have you seen the court? No. Of course you haven’t. But you remember the daemons? The ones we fought at the beach-head? That’s what it will do to the people of Lucinia. When we fly the ship there, that is. Which is precisely what we are going to do. I need your share of the cobalt, trooper. It can fuel this thing, supposedly, but it needs to be prepared.”

        “Make them like the daemons? Is that what they want?”

        “Well, why not? They’ll live longer, and they’ll be happier and docile. Or so I’m told. And our regent will be able to look after them. You trust the regent, don’t you?”

        “Never quite sure, sir. Thought she meant well, but I wouldn’t have sworn to it.”

        “She does mean well, Dion. She means to prevent a war. The Lucinians were the allies of our enemies; ergo, they are our enemies, and so we must either fight them or subdue them some other way. This way is the quickest, and the most compassionate.”

        “She told you that, right? And how the hell does she know? It ain’t like she’s queen of the Lucinians. She don’t know sod all about them, from what I gather. I heard tell how she’s just some bloody pirate–”

        “That is treasonous talk, trooper,” hissed Dorus, although unwilling to press the point, being all too keenly aware of his own feelings on the matter. The advantages of the plan were clear enough: Albinor could not possibly be threatened by the anarchic mess that it would inflict upon Lucinia, and any carnage that nation inadvertently suffered would probably only equal that which would have resulted from long, painful months of conventional warfare. As for Her Highness – Dorus was, frankly, neutral on that point. She was welcome to take charge of the chaos, although he (for one) was far less keen on the prospect of her retaining even the vaguest constitutional power over Albinor. He did not believe she deserved assassination – or at least, no more than most in her position – but thought himself unlikely to shed many tears over the event. He was, however, rather surprised to hear her so reviled from Dion’s mouth, as he had been under the impression – as Lord Corin was in the habit of putting it – that her vulgar antics held an ineffable appeal for the crude and the ignorant. Evidently, Dorus had badly misjudged somebody’s wit, and on the off-chance that it was his own, he decided that sticking with the plain facts was probably his best chance of salvaging the wretched situation:

        “Never mind the regent for the moment, Dion. But if you think there won’t be a war, then you’re a fool. Sooner or later, someone will find the reason to start it. It might be us, or it might be them, but it all comes to the same. On the other hand, if Lucinia falls apart now, then it may not happen for decades! Wouldn’t that be worth it? You’ll be safe. Your children will be safe. Their children will probably be safe.”

        “Until all those new daemons finally get their act together and come at us in revenge, you mean? I’m not so sure that I like the thought of my grandchildren picking up the tab for my deeds, duty or no, begging your pardon, sir.”

        “Then we can make sure it never comes to that.”

        “Kill them all before they get organised, you mean?”

        “Not necessarily. The regent has great plans for them, and if she survives–”

        “She’s that popular, is she? Well, sir, that about settles it for me. I’ll find my way back, I daresay, with or without the map.”

        “And where, exactly, do you suppose you’re running to?”

        “I reckon out of these devil-haunted lands might be good for starters. After that, the Goddess alone knows,” at which the trooper set off for the doorway, with the occasional slight change of direction to compensate for his shaky perception of the damned thing’s location. Not that he got very far. Dorus levelled his carbine.

        “Dion,” the lieutenant called, softly. The trooper turned, and a flash of semi-suppressed nausea crossed his face. “Leave the cylinders. Leave the cobalt. Leave your weapon. Then go wherever the hell you please. Quickly, now. But carefully.” Dion briefly examined his principles, found out that they did not advocate pointless suicidal gestures, and divested himself of the items with even a slight feeling of liberation to add spice to his fear and distaste. The worst of it was after the lieutenant had taken and checked the items, when he curtly ordered Dion to turn back to the door, and walk from the chamber. Every step was a whole new circle in a personal hell, as he wondered exactly how it would feel when that little cloud of burning lead pellets, travelling at the speed of sound, buried itself in his back. When, against all expectation, this failed to happen, and he was through the doorway, round the corner, and out of shot, he was almost in the mood to have offered up tearful thanks and praises to the Goddess. Throughout the whole world, however, there was no true devotee of the Fata Morgana sanguine enough to believe that his or her effusions would make the slightest alteration in the grand design, or be received with anything approaching appreciation. So Dion settled for the tears alone, and continued on his way. His prospects, he could hardly escape from observing, seemed fairly hopeless, but he was beginning to see the attraction of a hermit’s existence, bearing in mind what society had ever done for him.

 

As Dion awkwardly but diligently retraced his steps through the innards of the Gloriana, Dorus gathered up the equipment and set to work. He could manage full well without that apathetic, soulless peasant to pass him the rocks, although it took him long enough to locate the appropriate receptacle in the seemingly blank surface of the slab, even with the aid of the regent’s rough diagrams. When it was found, the lumps of unrefined cobalt seemed to sink through the marbled, phosphorescent surface in flat defiance of friction and solidity, assuming that it possessed any. It certainly seemed to when Dorus ran his hand over it, or at least, it repelled his touch with feelings of prickly warmth and a vague repugnance, which might have indicated three-dimensional form or might have simply have indicated just how much his subconscious wanted him to leave well alone.

        The releasing mechanism for the cylinder-loading device was linked into the telepathic controls. Dorus had merely to picture the cylinders in his thoughts, recover his breath and marshal his remaining strength from the rigours of the system, and in due course realise that a shallow alcove had appeared in the smooth surface. Three glass cylinders, identical in shape to the phials they had been carrying, lay within this cavity, but the fluid that they contained was of a lambent deep red colour. He removed and stored them with great care, wrapping them in the paper from which he had removed Gloriana’s cylinders, and sealed them in the crate. He then placed the cylinders of distilled faery blood concentrate into the alcove, with almost equal deliberation. Frankly, he had no more desire to be breathing in their contents than those of the original payload, and handled them with vague reverence and considerable revulsion. When they were placed, he returned to the instruments, transmitted the loading command through his weary consciousness, spent several minutes recovering his over-stretched faculties, then gradually became aware that the dull luminescence of the smooth surfaces had given way to a dazzling brightness. Whether material, solid, or not so, this intense light spoke volumes of density. There had, as Gloriana had forseen, been enough energy stored in the disc to refine and prepare the cobalt, which was now a far more potent source of energy. This ship would sail again; always assuming the pilot was up to the task. Unfortunately, he could hardly share in its miraculous rejuvenation, although he took what refreshment he could on hard tack and stale water. It would have to suffice, he reflected, as I’ll be damned if I’ve come this far, and all for nothing.

 

The Lord-Delator of the Lucinian Union was a man who could, as a rule, command an audience with anyone of senatorial rank and below at a moment’s notice. There were exceptions, of course, and not least among them were the ambassadors of the Arriman Confederacy, who took a grim amusement in milking the impatience of their rivals, even during this grudging, if prolonged excuse for a ceasefire. Iit was all fairly standard in the annals of diplomacy, but Calderon was in no mood to humour tradition, and the sense of urgency that had carried him back along the mountain pass in less than one exhausting day, and to the consulate in Tardale at the dead of night, must have communicated itself to the nonentity of an attaché who was in attendance.

        At any rate, it had taken only five hours for the vice-consul to make his appearance, suggesting that, until the embassy knew better, the delator’s news was not to be considered as worth losing much sleep over, but was otherwise a high priority. As studied insults went, it seemed encouragingly half-hearted to Calderon, and when he was led into the office of Emir Ibn Al-Gheri at the break of dawn, and risked a flash of telepathy upon the decidedly aloof and immaculate figure of the young vice-consul, he received a startling yet welcome confirmation. There was keen eagerness and some undefined fear in the emir’s mind, though he kept them out of his speech with admirable restraint. Perhaps he had heard of the situation with the Albinor, and was not among those who welcomed its potential to throw centuries’ worth of delicate checks and balances into fresh turmoil, but Calderon was prepared to be patient in drawing out such matters. He doubted that much would be achieved by making an interrogation out of what would have to amount to a supplication, and bearing that in mind, he decided to forego any further use of his telepathy, lest it become noticeable. Lycon had been aware of it, and goodness knows how far the cancer of knowledge had spread.

        “I trust this is as important as you have convinced my secretary, My Lord,” said the vice-consul, with all-too pronounced scepticism. “I have a great many engagements, and I am not accustomed to giving audiences at a few hour’s notice. But I was given to understand that you wished to inform me of some imminent threat that endangers us all. I hope you intend to explain the nature of this ‘threat,’ as you will appreciate that the Confederacy will hardly declare a state of emergency on the basis of – if you will pardon the expression – mere rumour-mongering. Particularly from an official in the employ of a government with which, I think it is fair to say, we have scarcely enjoyed warm relations. However; considering the situation,” at which he inserted an enigmatic pause, or at least admirably contrived to make it appear as such. “Incidentally, Lord Robert: How goes the war?”

        “War, Emir? I’m not sure I have the pleasure of understanding you.”

        “Really? But one was given to understand that your alliance with Rowana was of a military nature. Are you not therefore at war by default, or has the matter of the Albinor occupation been resolved?”

        “There are… outstanding issues, but I am fairly certain that there is nothing to be gained by open war at this stage. The threat I spoke of is not of a military nature, Emir. At least, not in the accepted sense.”

        “The Albinor are not invading you, then? And you are content, I imagine, to write off Fort Rowan as expendable. Well, national honour aside, nobody could blame you for that. I would say that you’ve been remarkably fortunate, My Lord,” declared Al-Gheri, with a casual air that very nearly masked his relief.

        “In one sense, Emir, this is so. But there are some fanatical elements to contend with. The regent Gloriana, for example–”

        “I know of her: a common criminal from your own city, if I do not misunderstand. Can such a creature be worthy of the fears of statesmen, My Lord?”

        “Without her aid, the Albinor could not have taken Rowana at all. She designed their weapons, but that’s beside the point,” although it did excite a little nervous spasm in the emir’s otherwise stately countenance, which did not escape Calderon’s notice. “Her power does not lie in the Albinor. In fact, I expect her to be deposed, or at the very least to be forced to accept some humiliating compromises before very long, but that will do us no good. She has set plans in motion, Emir. By the by; what do you know of the daemons?”

        “Beyond my newly-acquired knowledge that your military alliance with them was not worth the paper and ink, very little indeed. Did your nation not once believe, or assert that they were a subhuman or a supernatural form of life? Back in the days when they still occupied valuable territory, that is, and it was expedient to think of them as not human?”

        “There were numerous scientific arguments, but this is rather straying from the issue. Never mind the daemons. I came to warn you of an imminent plague, Emir, which is to be spread by agents in the pay of Her Highness, Gloriana. My information is direct from her: these saboteurs may already be in a position to release the contamination in every one of our major cities. The effects may not be fatal in themselves – unpleasant and permanent, certainly – but it will spread like wildfire. A state of plague precaution in all the cities – selective quarantines, movement restrictions, shipping freezes, you know the drill... Well, that may not do our economies any favours. On the other hand, it might just save them from total collapse. It is very likely, however, to require the support of the military.”

        “I see. So you are suggesting that we withdraw our troops from the border. Is that it? I assume that you have some evidence to support this… fascinating claim.”

        “You could take a ride up to Fort Rowan, and ask her yourself, if you doubt my word. I don’t expect her to deny it.”

        “Considering her background, My Lord, not to mention – if you will pardon the inference – your surprisingly amicable relations with the Albinor, under the circumstances, I fail to see why I should give more credence to her word. Perhaps you could try naming some of these ‘agents,’ then we could work out a slightly less drastic plan of action, and one that I should not feel quite so foolish in proposing to the vizier.”

        “I regret that I could not. She was very communicative, but not as much as that.”

        “And yet, you must have more to go on than the vague boasts of some madwoman. We shall certainly need more to go on, if you are expecting any action on our part.”

        “Would a demonstration of good faith make any difference?” Calderon asked, with carefully judged impatience. “You may as well know this, Emir: whether or not you choose to take these warnings seriously will not affect the course of action that I must follow. I have seen quite enough at Fort Rowan to convince me that this ‘madwoman’ is morally and physically capable of committing this appalling sabotage, and my duty is quite clear. The Union army will have withdrawn to our cities within the week, for all the complaints and obstructions which I expect to face. Heaven alone knows whether it will be soon enough. You may or may not choose to invade us in the interim, and I may go down in history as the worst excuse for a Lord-Delator ever to lay his nation open to fire and the sword. But I sincerely recommend you at least to consult with our dear friend Gloriana on the matter, and judge whether or not your moment of victory would be worth the ravages that your citizens stand to suffer while their armies are busy hacking and burning abroad.”

        “Perhaps I shall, My Lord,” replied Al-Gheri, evidently surprised and also somewhat dispirited, if Calderon was any judge. “Incidentally, I do not believe you need fear an imminent invasion. At all events, I shall not be urging such a course when I make my report. If things are as you say, and the withdrawal of your forces takes place, indeed, it may also become necessary for us… But have you no more information? Anything that could assist us in preventing these saboteurs? Assuming their existence, for the present.”

        “I doubt that prevention was the regent’s motive, Emir, when she told me what I’ve passed on to you here. And I’m sorry to say that was all I’ve got to go on. We shall have to settle for the cure, or at least for the palliative.”

        “The palliative? Pardon me, My Lord, if I choose not to share your new-found defeatism for the present. I rather dread to think what this extraordinary woman has told you, but let us hope for all our sakes that she was exaggerating, lying, or as mad as I yet suspect. It would be a bitter irony indeed if having only just discovered that the will to peace is to be found in both our nations, that they should be cast into savage disorder before we have even enjoyed the opportunity to put it to the test.”

        During the following day, the various items of news that arrived from Fort Rowan delayed, and eventually led to the cancellation of all plans for an immediate demilitarisation of the Lucinian-Arriman border. Nevertheless, Calderon did not consider his time or his efforts to have been altogether wasted.