Conquest

  The Galatean moved on. Behind it came a series of hovering platforms of the kind used by the Illyri to transport heavy items. Beside them walked several Agrons, the slave race that performed the Illyri’s dirtiest jobs. The Agrons were no more than five feet tall, but their upper bodies were overdeveloped, and they were enormously strong. Their pink heads were hairless, their faces wrinkled like those of Shar-Pei dogs. They monitored the progress of the platforms, making sure that they did not bang against the walls. Each platform bore an irregularly shaped burden, covered by a layer of canvas. Steven and Paul had watched four of the platforms pass by when the fifth, and last, appeared. It seemed to be giving the Agrons some problems, its progress less smooth than the others. Halfway across the junction, sparks shot from its control panel, and the platform lurched sideways before dropping to the ground. The two Agrons beside it stepped quickly aside to avoid being crushed. One of the bindings holding the canvas in place shot loose, and the material fell away on the right-hand side, revealing what lay beneath.

  Steven felt his big brother flinch next to him. He bit his own lips closed to suppress an inadvertent yelp, and hold back a surge of vomit.

  Five bodies were piled on the metal surface: three men, one woman, and a boy who looked only a little younger than Steven. All were naked, their skin bearing the marks of discoloration and decay, for in addition to requiring cremation of the dead within twenty-four hours, the Illyri had also banned the use of preservatives on bodies on environmental grounds. If nothing else, it encouraged the relatives of the deceased to deal with the matter of their disposal as quickly as possible.

  Under the instructions of the Toads, the Agrons unloaded the corpses from the malfunctioning platform and distributed them as best they could among the others, shifting bodies roughly to make room for more.

  And then, to the boys’ horror, one of the bodies moved. It was the woman. Her head turned, and she gave a little moan. She had dark hair that hung over her face, obscuring most of it, but Paul could see one blue eye open in panic. She seemed to be staring straight at him. She started to scream, over and over, the sound of it echoing in the tunnel until one of the Galateans stepped in front of her, blocking the boys’ view. He drew a pulse weapon, charged it, and fired.

  The screaming stopped.

  The little procession continued on its way, heading not toward the crematorium but away from it, in the direction of the shuttle base beneath Arthur’s Seat.

  Once all was quiet again, Paul released his hold on Steven, and allowed his brother to puke.

  “You okay?” he asked, once Steven’s retching stopped.

  Steven nodded, standing up shamefaced, wiping strings of vomit from his lips.

  “She was alive. That lady was still alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then they killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they doing with those bodies, with those people?”

  “I don’t know. They weren’t burning them, that’s for sure. Let’s get out of here. We have to report what we’ve seen, and I need fresh air.”

  The two young men climbed back into the pipe, and headed for safety.

  •••

  Knutter wrinkled his nose as they reentered his shop.

  “You weren’t in there for long,” he said, “but you still stink. You got my gun?”

  Paul returned the weapon; Knutter tucked it back into his belt.

  “You find out what they’re doing?”

  Steven didn’t say anything. He was learning to keep his mouth shut when anyone asked a question, leaving Paul to come up with answers. Now he was watching his brother carefully, waiting to hear what he might say.

  “Not exactly,” said Paul.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Knutter. “I took a big risk bringing you down here, and making that hole in the wall. You’re not going to get another opportunity like that, you know, not unless someone plants another bomb on the Royal Mile. What did you see?” He made a motion toward Paul, his hands raised. “Tell me, you cocky little—”

  Paul moved fast. One moment he was using some newspaper to wipe filth from his boots; the next he was right next to Knutter, and his knife was pressed hard against the other man’s neck.

  “You should mind your manners,” said Paul. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, and nothing more. That’s how we all stay alive. You understand?”

  Knutter tried to swallow, but his Adam’s apple caught on the edge of the knife.

  “Yes,” he croaked.

  “We’ll be on our way, then,” said Paul.

  He lowered the blade, and Knutter rubbed his throat unhappily.

  “I was only asking,” he said.

  “I know,” said Paul.

  He was already regretting pulling the knife on Knutter. He had to learn to control his temper; it wouldn’t be wise to leave the man angry. Angry people did stupid things.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “You know, any time spent down there is too much time.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Knutter. “You shouldn’t ought to be pulling knives on friends. Caught me by surprise, you did.”

  “I’ll tell the people who need to know that you did well today,” said Paul. “You helped us a lot.”

  Knutter led them to the door. When he was certain that all was clear, he let them out, and Paul and Steven began making their way home.

  “You should have kept his gun until you were sure about him,” said Steven.

  “Knutter’s all right,” said Paul. “He just forgets the rules sometimes.”

  Steven nodded. They walked on for a time.

  “Can I have a gun?” Steven asked.

  Paul felt a great sadness wash over him as they crossed to Princes Street. It was only a short step from carrying a gun to using it, and an even shorter step after that to being killed by one. He knew that he couldn’t keep Steven safe forever, but he still wanted to protect him for just a little while longer.

  “Maybe someday,” he said. “Maybe.”

  •••

  Like the rest of its kind, the Agron that returned to repair and retrieve the disabled platform had poor eyesight, and was not perceived to be very intelligent. But it was gifted with a keen sense of smell, and even amid the various odors in the tunnel it detected the sour-sweet stink of human vomit. It sniffed its way into the darkness of the tunnel until it found the source, still fresh.

  Within seconds, it had raised the alarm.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  B

  y avoiding the main hallways, and taking the little-used connectors between the old Scottish National War Memorial and the Royal Palace, listening at corners to ensure that the way was clear before proceeding, Syl and Ani managed to make it to the room adjoining the Great Hall without attracting notice.

  “Before I bailed class to find you, Deren asked Toris about the Civil War,” whispered Ani, as she helped Syl move the huge armoire that hid the entrance to the spyhole. Syl had discovered the catch that allowed the wooden armoire to slide across the floor, leaving a space just large enough to slip through. Without the catch, the armoire was so heavy that it would take many men to move it.

  “Really?” said Syl. “I bet Toris didn’t care much for that.”

  Deren enjoyed taunting Toris almost as much as Ani did. Poor Deren fancied Ani something rotten, thought Syl, and always followed her lead, but Ani seemed to have no interest in him, while Deren would happily have cut off one of his hands if Ani told him to.

  “Not much at all.”

  The old tutor always tried to put the best angle on the conflict, arguing that Illyri society was the better for it, but the truth was that the wounds it had caused were still visible to this day. The animosity between the Diplomats and the Military was proof of that.

  The Civil War was one of t
he darkest periods in Illyri history, a century-long conflict of succession that followed the death of Meus, the Unifier of Worlds, who had laid the foundations of what was known as the First Illyri Empire. The Civil War split Illyri society, even severing individual families. On one side was an elite class of the wealthy and the privileged—among them the Diplomats—who believed that they were best equipped to rule, and that democracy was a failed experiment. A handful of Military leaders sided with them, along with militias from the First Colonies, pressed into service by the Diplomats, who had grown increasingly powerful and ambitious on their offworld bases. Ranged against them were most of the ordinary civilians, the elected politicians, and the majority of senior Military leaders, among them Syl’s great-grandfather. Sometimes the war took the form of outright battle on one world or another, but mostly it was a series of truces and agreements, broken by either side, constantly underpinned by low-level guerrilla warfare.

  Finally, a lasting agreement was reached to stop the Illyri race from tearing itself apart entirely. A Council of Government was created, to be elected by the people every five sessions, with equal representation by the Military, the civil authorities, and the Diplomats, who emerged from the bloody conflict with even more power than they had enjoyed at the beginning, a testament to their cleverness and, indeed, their ruthlessness. A president, elected for twenty sessions of the Council, was given the casting vote in the event of disagreements. The office of president alternated between the three main groups, and the arrangement had functioned well until the Second Empire began its recent expansion into other systems, and the Diplomatic Corps grew in influence, backed by the Sisterhood. Now the Diplomats dominated the Council, and only the current presidency of Grand Commander Rydus, the most decorated Military leader of his day, kept them from total supremacy.

  “So,” said Syl. “What did Deren want to know this time?”

  “He asked Toris if it could happen again.”

  Another civil war? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  “And what did Toris say?” asked Syl.

  “Toris said that he believed all sides had learned from the last conflict, which wasn’t a real answer.”

  “Toris is just sorry that we’re not all ruled by bald Diplomats,” said Syl. “He thinks that the treaty was a mistake, and the Diplomats and their allies were on the verge of winning when the truce was agreed.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “My father likes to educate me over dinner.”

  “But if Toris is such a friend of the Corps, why does your father allow him to educate us?”

  “Because he says that Toris knows a lot, and his flaws in one area don’t necessarily make him unsuited to all,” said Syl. She grinned slyly. “My father also says that you should know your enemy.”

  “I don’t think Toris feels the same way. When Deren tried to pursue the subject, Toris got angry and told him to keep quiet and study his history more closely.” Ani seemed to reconsider what she had just said. “No, not just angry. I think he was frightened. Do you believe that there’s a chance of another civil war, Syl?”

  Syl pushed Ani into the spyhole and pulled the armoire across behind her, so the gap was closed. There was utter darkness for a moment until she exposed a series of narrow slits, allowing light from the Great Hall to penetrate their hiding place. The Hall was empty for now, but it wouldn’t be for long.

  “My father says that Grand Commander Rydus is skilled at balancing the demands of the Military and the Diplomats,” she replied, “and no Illyri wants a return to civil conflict. Yes, the Diplomats desire more power, but not at the cost of war with the Military. As long as Rydus is president, and the Military remains united, the Diplomats will be kept in check.”

  She realized that she was using almost the exact words that she had heard her father speak during the last meeting of his advisers in the Great Hall. He had been talking to his own officers, his loyal cadre, without any fear of being overheard by Diplomat spies. But then again, Syl had been listening in, and if she could eavesdrop on meetings in the Hall, could not others do so as well? She knew that the Hall was regularly swept for listening devices, and that her father was careful about how he spoke in unsecured environments, but still . . .

  She peered through one of the slits. They gave a surprisingly good view of the chamber, and anything that was said carried clearly. They were also invisible from inside the Great Hall—she’d confirmed that by checking from the other side—for they had been carefully crafted to resemble natural flaws in the materials used to create the fireplace centuries before.

  A door opened at the far end of the Hall, and Governor Andrus entered, Balen at his heels. Behind them both came Peris, the captain of the castle guard. Her father spun to face him.

  “Why wasn’t I informed of their approach?” he said. He spoke quietly, but there was no concealing the fury in his voice.

  “We were given no warning,” said Peris. “The mothership had a cargo designation when it came through the wormhole. There was no indication that it was a Diplomat vessel, and we didn’t even know of a Diplomat presence until the shuttle was making its final approach to Edinburgh.”

  “Not just a Diplomat presence,” said Andrus, “but the Sisterhood!”

  Syl’s stomach tightened. No member of the Nairene Sisterhood had ever been seen on Earth, and she knew of them only from her father’s vocal distrust of the sisters and their ways.

  “I’m sorry, Governor,” said Peris. “We were deceived.”

  “But to what end?” said Andrus. “Why would Gradus and his witch arrive in such secrecy?” He turned to Balen. “Where are they now?”

  “I put them in the main guest suite,” he said. The guest suite was in what had once been a war museum. It was not far from the Governor’s House.

  “And we’re monitoring them?”

  Balen shifted awkwardly. This was clearly a question to which he would have preferred to be giving a different answer.

  “We were, both visually and aurally,” he said. “Unfortunately, both systems appear to have failed. They went down seconds after the Nairene entered the suite. All we’re getting is static and white noise. Oh, and some shouting from Grand Consul Gradus, who is demanding to be shown into your presence immediately, but we don’t need surveillance to hear him. He’s quite loud enough without it.”

  Something like a smile managed to find its way to Andrus’s lips.

  “Good. Let him steam for a while. Have we made contact with the mothership?”

  “Just the usual courtesies.”

  “Demand a crew and cargo manifest. Come up with some excuse; I don’t care what it is, but I want a list of everybody on that ship, and some hint as to where it might have come from. With luck, there’ll be someone on board who might be willing to tell us discreetly what all this is about. In the meantime—”

  But Andrus was destined to get no further with his instructions. They heard the sound of voices approaching, and the door to the Great Hall burst open to admit an extremely tall, wide-shouldered Illyri in shimmering golden robes, his head shaved and his fingers adorned with jewels—the sign of a senior Diplomat, for promotion through the ranks of the Corps was marked by the giving of rings. He was surrounded by his own private soldiers, recently arrived on a second shuttle, and members of the Securitat, Vena the Skunk among them. They in turn were being watched by five members of the castle guard, who had been forced through the doors by the sheer weight of opposing numbers. The guards looked helplessly at Peris, who could only simmer silently at the intrusion.

  “Grand Consul Gradus,” said Andrus, with strained politeness. “How good of you to join us. I was just about to send my aide to accompany you, but I see that you have discovered the way yourself.”

  Gradus gave a small bow, but there was no humility in it.

  “I was afraid that I might grow too used to the
luxury of my surroundings, and forget my purpose here,” he replied. As he spoke, he walked around the Great Hall, taking in its suits of armor and displays of weaponry: the swords, the pikes, the old trench mortars that stood like small cannons on the floor. He seemed to find the cavalry armor by the fireplace particularly interesting, and commented upon it.

  “What animal was it that the humans rode while wearing this?” he asked.

  “Horses,” said Andrus.

  “I should like to see one, or even ride one myself, if it can be arranged.”

  His voice was oddly high, but there was a discordancy underlying it, like a poorly tuned instrument playing a beautiful piece of music. From her vantage point, Syl thought him a detestable figure. There was something about him that made her profoundly uneasy: a softness, a decadence. His robes had been cut to make him appear even broader in the shoulder and slimmer in the waist, and he was wearing a strong scent that even from a distance caused her nose to itch. She saw that his rings—dozens of them—were so embedded in the flesh of his fingers that they would be impossible to remove, as if he’d been born into such finery and his fingers had been thus adorned from the cradle.

  “Perhaps if you had given us some notice of your arrival, we might have been better prepared to receive you,” said Andrus. “We could even have sent a horse. We were not expecting the head of the Diplomatic Corps to arrive unexpectedly in a cargo vessel, not unless he has fallen some distance in the eyes of worlds.”

  Balen permitted himself a smile, and Syl smiled to herself too, wishing she had her father’s way with words.

  Some of the castle guards continued to jostle with the soldiers and Securitats while Gradus stood in their midst, his face reddening as he quietly seethed. It was clearly unwise to let this situation continue, particularly with so many loaded weapons in the room. Andrus raised a hand, and ordered the guards to stand down. After a strained pause during which it appeared that Gradus might be unwilling to do the same, he too waved a long finger, and his protectors lowered their weapons.