Conquest

  Meia could not contact Peris. He was maintaining radio silence for fear of any communications being intercepted by the Securitats. Her best hope was to get to Syl and Ani before either Sedulus or Peris, and move them out of Scotland. As for Gradus, well, she would happily leave him to the Resistance, but it might make more sense to extract him too. Who knew what vengeance Syrene and the Diplomats might wreak if some harm befell him?

  Her shuttle display told her that she was well past the remains of Hadrian’s Wall.

  Before her, the Highlands loomed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  W

  hen Syl regained consciousness, she was seated upright supported by a backpack, and someone was gently offering her water. She was struggling against nausea, and every muscle in her body burned, as though she had been stretched on a rack. The first thing she saw was Paul.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Groggy. What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  “No, I mean what happened to the men who tried to attack me?”

  Another voice spoke. “That’s just the question I wanted to ask you.”

  Just Joe appeared over Paul’s shoulder. He was looking at Syl in a new way; there was respect there that she had not seen before, but doubt too. Syl gathered her thoughts: she saw a man impaled on his own rifle, and the life from another bleeding into a rushing stream. And she was responsible; she had taken care of one with a rock, but the other . . .

  She wondered what story Steven had concocted to explain what had happened. Whatever he had said, she had to be sure that their descriptions of the incident matched. She had to protect herself. What she had done was terrible. She had killed; worse, she had made a man kill himself by the sheer force of her will, by the depth of her rage.

  Already, as her head began to clear, she was making connections, identifying small moments in her past that suggested the power she had tapped into had always been present. She had never previously recognized it—or been willing to recognize it—because its use had been subtler, and had not been fueled by anger. Her father always remarked upon how easily she could bend others to her will and escape the consequences of breaches of discipline: homework left undone and classes missed; illicit trips beyond the castle walls that were smiled upon indulgently by guards who should by rights have reported her to their superiors or to her father. Once Althea had found a hand-rolled cigarette sprinkled with cannabis, given to Syl by a boy in a coffee shop, its presence in a drawer forgotten after only a couple of puffs made her violently ill. Althea had been furious. Cigarettes were considered bad enough, but illegal drugs of any kind were forbidden in the castle. It was a matter for parental intervention, Althea had told Syl; she had no choice but to report it to Lord Andrus. But in a matter of minutes, Syl had persuaded her that no such report was necessary, and by the end of their conversation it was as if the joint had never existed.

  Now these seemingly unconnected incidents began to form a pattern, and Syl thought again of her father’s fond tale of her conception—the one she’d always squirmed away from in disgust: of how she and Ani were formed as their parents’ ship passed through clouds of illumination like nothing the Illyri had ever glimpsed before in their travels through the universe, rippling phantasms in which the spectrum of visible light was twisted and re-created in new forms, the glow bathing the fleet and causing those on board to feel light-headed to the point of giddiness, even though the ship’s instruments could detect nothing in the void. The display and its effects had lasted for a day and a night, and no more, but it was during this unsettling time that the travelers had reached for their beloveds, seeking comfort and solace amid the strange new rays, and Syl and Ani had been conceived as the light from without bathed their makers’ skin and danced in their eyes.

  Just Joe’s voice brought her back.

  “Did you hear me?” he said. “I want to know what happened back at the stream.”

  Syl bit down on her own lips, swallowing. The water she had taken in was trying to come back up, along with whatever was in her stomach. She was determined to keep it all down.

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “I can recall swinging a rock at one of those men. After that, it’s all a blank.”

  Just Joe didn’t appear to believe her, but he had little choice for now.

  “Are they dead?” asked Syl.

  “One is,” said Just Joe, “and another soon will be. His skull is smashed in, and he was near drowned when we pulled him from the stream. He might have survived the blow given proper treatment, but the water did him in. He won’t last out the hour.”

  “And the others?”

  Syl tried to keep the fear from her voice. What had they told Just Joe? She wasn’t sure what she’d done to them. She had simply visualized herself freed from their grip, and it had happened.

  “They have massive bruising to their chests, like they’ve been punched by a pair of big fists, and there’s damage to their throats too. They can barely croak, never mind speak. You sure you remember nothing?”

  “It’s as I said: all blank.”

  Just Joe regarded her thoughtfully, but said nothing more before he walked away. Paul continued to hold Syl’s head as he poured a little more water into her mouth. She liked the feel of his hand against her cheek, and his arm around her shoulders. She wanted to stay that way. She—

  She pushed the water bottle from her lips, turned to her right, and vomited on the grass. There wasn’t much in her stomach, but it all came out anyway, until she was just dry-heaving, her body spasming and her throat aching. Paul held her hair back from her face so that it would not be soiled.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

  She began to cry, ashamed and embarrassed that he had seen her like this, but Paul simply pulled a T-shirt from a backpack, soaked it with water, then handed it to her so she could clean her face.

  “Hush, now,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Is Steven okay?”

  “He’s shaken up, and they’re going to have to stitch his chest, but he’s alive, though I suspect he wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for you.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing, except that you fought those men and distracted them for long enough for him to turn the tables on Alex Ritchie.”

  “Who?”

  “The man who died on the bayonet. His name was Alex Ritchie. According to Steven, Ritchie stumbled as they fought, and he fell on his own blade.”

  It sounded unlikely, which was no doubt why Just Joe had been so anxious to hear her version of events. Then again, was it any less likely than the truth: that an alien girl had willed a man dead, and the man had obliged? Syl examined Paul’s face; it remained studiedly neutral. If he doubted his brother’s tale, he wasn’t prepared to let anyone know.

  “What does Just Joe think?”

  “He searched you for a weapon while you were unconscious. He was convinced that you’d concealed something, some kind of alien technology that allowed you to blast those two in the chest. Mind you, it still wouldn’t explain how Ritchie ended up impaled, but Steven’s story is the best that he has, for now.”

  He let the last two words hang. It was an implicit warning. Just Joe wasn’t going to let this lie. He would be back to question her again.

  “Can I see Steven?”

  “In a while, once they’ve finished working on him.” Paul winced. “We’re low on anesthetic, and Heather doesn’t want to give him anything too strong while we’re on the move. Steven’s had a dram to ease the pain, but it’s still going to hurt like hell. I suspect he’d prefer as few people as possible to see what happens, and that includes me. Once Heather has finished with him, I’ll make sure that you have a few minutes alone together. Until then, you can rest here, or you can come and hear what the priso
ners have to say.”

  “I thought Just Joe said they couldn’t speak,” said Syl.

  “Not those two,” said Paul. “The rest of them.”

  Syl remembered the sounds of gunfire and shouting just before she fainted.

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Nine,” said Paul. “It seems that they wanted Gradus, and they wanted you.”

  •••

  Five men sat on the damp grass, their hands fixed behind their backs with plastic cable. Some of them were bleeding from the beatings they’d received. They were surrounded by Just Joe’s group. Nearby, four bodies lay on the ground, a fine mist of rain falling on their faces and their sightless eyes. One of them was the drowned man; he had died while Joe was talking with Syl and Paul.

  “Two were killed in the attack,” whispered Paul as he and Syl drew nearer to the group. “Norris was also injured in the exchange of fire. They shot him in the shoulder, but he’ll be okay. Norris is hard to kill.”

  Ani, dismissed from Steven’s company while his wound was being tended to, came over to join them. The captives looked at Syl with hostile eyes and, in the case of the two men who had been injured at the stream, a degree of fear. That pleased Syl. They would have hurt her badly, she knew, and she shivered as she recalled the dark appetite in the youngest man’s leer and the way he had used the word pretty about her.

  Just Joe was standing before a big man with white hair and pale skin, his eyes tinged with the red of albinism.

  “This is a bad business, McKinnon,” he said.

  “That it is,” replied the pale man.

  “You’re lucky Norris and the boy are still alive, or I’d kill two more of you for each of them.”

  “We didn’t want to hurt anyone,” said McKinnon. “We just wanted your prisoners.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “They’d make good hostages. The Illyri have a dozen of ours. They’re to be sent to the Punishment Battalions. We want them back. We’re fighting the Illyri, just the same as you are.”

  Just Joe laughed.

  “You’re nothing like us,” he said. “You’re bandits. You’re thieves and rapists. You steal from your own people at gunpoint, but not one of you has used a weapon in the service of the Resistance. At the first sign of a fight you melt into the Highlands and leave others to die. I’m glad Ritchie ended up spiked, otherwise I’d have been forced to kill him myself, sooner or later.”

  Just Joe squatted so that he was on the same level as McKinnon. He took a knife from his belt and held it meaningfully in front of the pale man.

  “Well, I suppose with Ritchie dead, that leaves you in charge, doesn’t it?” he said. “And if you’re in charge, that makes you responsible for all this mess. It’s the price of leadership, McKinnon. What are we to do with you, eh?”

  McKinnon kept his eyes on the knife. With his strange, washed-out features, he already resembled a man who had been cut and drained of blood.

  “How did you track us?” said Just Joe.

  “You left a trail a blind man could follow,” said McKinnon.

  “Not true, not true,” said Just Joe. He used the tip of the knife to lift the end of McKinnon’s pants from his left leg, exposing his shin. The knife pricked the skin, and a bubble of blood appeared. “There isn’t one man among you who is capable of doing what the Illyri and their Agrons could not. You’re not trackers. You don’t even belong out here. You should be tucked up in bed at home, with your mother feeding you cocoa from a spoon.”

  Syl saw Paul tense. His hand dropped from her shoulder, where he had been supporting her in case she felt wobbly again. She turned to him, wondering if he was going to object to what Just Joe was doing, but Paul was not watching their leader. Instead, his gaze was fixed on Duncan, who slowly circled the group, closing in on where Just Joe squatted before McKinnon. Duncan’s hand slipped inside his coat, and as Syl watched, it emerged holding a pistol. He sidled closer to Just Joe, seemingly unnoticed by all except Syl, and Paul, who moved quickly yet silently to intercept him.

  “So,” Just Joe continued, “how did you manage to get so close to us without giving yourselves away?”

  Duncan was now behind Just Joe. He raised the pistol, but Syl could see that he was aiming right past Joe. It was McKinnon he wanted to kill.

  There was a loud click as Paul materialized at Duncan’s side, his gun pointing at the smaller man’s head.

  Just Joe didn’t even turn around.

  “Do you have him?” he asked.

  “I have him,” said Paul. “Not a muscle,” he warned Duncan. “Let it drop.”

  The gun fell from Duncan’s hand. Mike, who was standing closest to it, picked it up, checked the safety, and tucked it into his pocket. The crowd distanced itself from Paul and Duncan as Just Joe got to his feet and faced them both. He looked more sad than angry.

  “I thought it might be you,” he said to Duncan. “I was hoping it wasn’t, but every time you made an excuse to wander off, I wondered, and eventually my doubts became near certainties. I just couldn’t figure out who you were in league with: the Illyri? But no, you hate them almost as much as you hate yourself. So it had to be Ritchie and McKinnon, or someone like them.”

  Just Joe gave McKinnon a wink.

  “You should have picked a more trustworthy ally,” Just Joe said. “Duncan was going to put a bullet in you before you gave him away. We might just have saved your life.”

  McKinnon didn’t reply, but he regarded Duncan with a killer’s gaze.

  Logan appeared carrying Duncan’s pack. He emptied its contents on the ground. Among them was a small portable CW transceiver, with a lightweight wire antenna and a switch press for Morse code signals.

  “Let me guess,” said Just Joe. “One of this lot was following close to pick up the signals, while the rest kept their distance until the time was right.”

  Duncan’s face was a picture of barely contained fury.

  “McKinnon is right,” he said. “We have hostages, and important ones too. I’ve heard you talking to your pals. We have a governor’s daughter, and a Grand Consul! You didn’t share that with us, Joe. You kept it quiet. We could demand almost anything in return for their safety. We could demand that the Highlands be kept free, that the Illyri retreat below the wall, all for the promise of keeping these three alive. And what do we do instead? We guard them. We feed them. We keep them safe, even at the cost of the lives of our own.”

  Just Joe put a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “You don’t understand. This is about more than hostages. You should have trusted me. You should have kept faith.”

  Then his right fist slammed into Duncan’s gut, and Duncan dropped to his knees. Just Joe patted him on the shoulder again, and adjusted the collar of his coat, as though trying to make him look respectable for an important appointment. He turned to Aggie, Frank, and Howie.

  “Were you involved in this? Tell me true.”

  “No,” said Aggie. “We might have disagreed with you, but that doesn’t mean we’d betray you to the likes of these cutthroats.”

  Joe seemed to believe them, although Syl saw that Logan and Ryan had been lurking behind Aggie and the cousins just in case Joe had decided otherwise.

  “What are we going to do with him, and with the rest of them?” asked Paul.

  “Take away their weapons—and their food too—then let them go.”

  There were gasps from the group. Even McKinnon looked surprised, but Just Joe raised a hand, silencing any possible objections. Only Paul showed no emotion.

  “What would you have me do, kill them?” asked Joe. “I’ve told you before: we’re not murderers. We’re not like them, and we’re not going to do the Illyri’s work for them either. We’ll send them on their way, and godspeed to them.

  “They came across the loch,” he said, turning to Paul. ?
??Logan found their boat. Cut them loose, and send them back the way they came. Use my field glasses to watch them for as long as you can, then rejoin us.”

  “I will,” said Paul.

  “You did well,” said Just Joe.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” said Just Joe. “I still don’t entirely trust you.”

  He stared hard at Syl.

  “And her neither.”

  But before anything else could be said, Syl had her final shock of the day. An Illyri strode into the camp, and nobody batted an eyelid. Even Aggie barely glanced at him before returning her attention to her husband, who seemed about as troubled by his injury as he might have been by a midge bite. Syl thought she must surely be hallucinating, but the Illyri, tall even by the standards of their race, appeared to be real. She could even hear the sucking sound the mud made against his boots. His clothing was entirely terrestrial in origin: a long wax jacket over an old sweater, and waterproof trousers tucked into lightweight walking boots. His hair had been shaved to within a quarter of an inch of his skull, and he wore a small silver hoop in the lobe of one ear.

  “You took your time,” said Just Joe. “You missed all the excitement.”

  The Illyri took in the prisoners, and the wounded. His eyes lit on Duncan.

  “I never liked him,” he said.

  “I never liked him either,” said Just Joe.

  “No loss, then.”

  “None at all.”

  And Just Joe embraced the big Illyri, and the Illyri hugged him in return.

  “It’s good to see you,” said Joe.