‘Thank you.’ She turned and headed towards the door.
‘One other thing, Yishna,’ said Gneiss, and she paused and turned enquiringly. ‘It seems likely that the Consul Assessor is not dead, after all.’
‘What?’
‘Though Fleet are now blocking all communication, analysis of some pictures earlier transmitted from our geosurvey satellite clearly shows him on the planet’s surface, accompanied by some Brumallians, a short time after his escape-pod sank.’
Yishna felt at first glad, then bitter. What difference did it make to her, to any of them, with what seemed now almost inevitable?
‘That’s good news, I guess,’ she said.
Gneiss waved a dismissive hand.
Harald
Harald sat back, headset placed to one side, smiling gently as he watched the feed arriving direct from Parliament to a screen here in the Haven, then frowning when the image hazed momentarily.
‘What’s causing that?’ asked Franorl, sprawled in a comfortable chair.
‘Overspill from the EM chaff, presently blocking com to and from Brumal,’ Harald replied.
‘Can you do anything about it?’
‘Not without ordering the com-block raised.’
They returned their attention to the screen.
Already four delegates had been expelled for unruliness, but none of them represented either Fleet or Combine. Clearly the delegates on both opposing sides knew that the issues being discussed and soon to be put to vote were vitally important, and expulsion meant a loss of voting prerogative for this day’s session.
‘Whose idea was it for them all to wear their uniforms?’ Harald asked.
‘Julian felt that, despite the low opinion of Fleet in some quarters at present, the nostalgic attachment to what our uniform once meant would be helpful,’ replied Franorl.
‘It could backfire on him – many might look upon it as a threat.’
‘True, but should we let that worry us?’
Harald glanced at him. ‘If Parliament does order Combine to hand the defence platforms over to us, that will ensure obedience amidst our own ranks to the orders I give, once Combine refuses to comply.’
‘You still feel your position insecure?’
Harald relaxed his jaw muscles, since it now felt as if a steel ball had been inserted into each, then smiled and nodded. ‘Let’s say I am not going to make too many rash assumptions. Ah, here’s Julian now . . .’
They sat back and watched while Lieutenant Julian, like so many delegates before him, stood to deliver a speech that began by decrying the cowardly Brumallian attack on the Fleet ship carrying the Consul Assessor. He then moved on with: ‘In the interests of Sudoria we have had to take a hard line with the Brumallians, and punished them for their—’
A Combine delegate interrupted, ‘Yeah, frying a Brumallian city is always the best option when—’
Fleet: ‘Under our restored prerogatives, the retaliatory strike—’
Combine: ‘Convenient that any evidence of Combine complicity got—’
Uproar ensued, and Harald directed his attention towards Chairman Duras, who was sitting with his chin in his hand, his other hand resting on the head of his cane. Finally the Chairman said, ‘I will have silence now or there will be further ejections.’ Though he spoke quietly, Combine and Fleet representatives quickly resumed their seats. He then pointed his cane at Julian. ‘Fleet claims Orbital Combine is complicit with the Brumallians in their attack upon the Consul Assessor’s ship, this being an attempt to blacken Fleet and reduce its power. In support it presents evidence implicating Combine in the assassination of Admiral Carnasus, in the alleged attempt to sabotage Desert Wind and in the destruction of Blatant, and now demands that Combine hand over control of all its defence platforms. However, all of this evidence has been gathered and presented by Fleet itself. Orbital Combine claims these events have all been instigated by Fleet, and the evidence implicating Combine has been falsified, because Fleet is jealous of the growing power of Orbital Combine. Let us return to the point: we have no independent evidence of either of these claims.’ He lowered his cane and sat back and, almost as if being given permission, the delegates began shouting at each other again.
‘He is still highly respected,’ said Franorl.
‘He would not have been appointed Chairman otherwise,’ said Harald.
‘We have already voted upon and agreed what seems to be the best course of action following recent events,’ said Duras, and quiet fell again. ‘A Fleet intersystem transport, crewed by Fleet but commanded by GDS wardens, will be sent first to the hilldigger Desert Wind, then on to Brumal. Whatever investigations might be required will be conducted by a team provided by GDS. There will also be Orbital Combine observers aboard.’
Franorl glanced at Harald. ‘Well, we knew that would be the one they’d go for,’ he whispered.
Duras finished, ‘Of course the question remains: what must be done in the meantime?’
Julian stood up abruptly. ‘Combine cannot be allowed to retain control of their defence platforms,’ he insisted. ‘Though you may doubt the evidence, we in Fleet are absolutely certain of their complicity with the Brumallians.’
‘Do you suppose Combine might use those platforms to fire on Sudoria?’ asked Duras.
‘That is not out of the question,’ Julian replied.
‘Why would they attack our home planet if their aim is to displace Fleet?’
‘That is the assumption we make, but it may not be correct. It is our primary duty, has always been our duty and one we have fulfilled well, to protect Sudoria. We cannot allow such an obvious threat to this planet’s citizens to go unchallenged.’
Duras nodded slowly. ‘Then this issue must now, without further debate, be put to the vote.’
Harald abruptly leant forward, something tightening in his stomach. ‘He knows something,’ he hissed.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Franorl.
‘He’s been delaying that vote all morning, deliberately circumventing Julian every time he’s called for it.’ He glanced at Franorl. ‘We might lose this.’
‘But Duras himself served in Fleet.’
‘Yes, he did, but I suspect that subsequent contact with the Polity has changed many of his opinions.’ Harald sat back. He felt suddenly hot – a stickiness of sweat forming under his foamite uniform. In this one small thing it seemed he had miscalculated.
‘Those in favour of handing over the defence platforms to Fleet, vote now,’ instructed Duras.
Harald checked the figures at the bottom of the screen.
‘Those in favour of Orbital Combine retaining control of the defence platforms vote now.’
More figures.
‘That doesn’t add up,’ said Franorl.
‘Some of our own delegates voted against us,’ said Harald bitterly.
Duras stood up to close the debate. ‘Combine will retain control of their orbital defence platforms. But let me remind Parliament that Combine have requested teams of planetary wardens to board each platform. May I suggest that Fleet Security teams also be—’
Standing up, Julian interrupted, ‘Having earlier received instructions from Admiral Harald Strone, I now have something to say.’ He paused and gazed about the room.
Duras used the pause to interject, ‘Might that be something to do with the alarming news that the entire fleet is now on its way here from Carmel?’
Julian ignored him. ‘Under our restored wartime prerogatives, we cannot accept the result of this vote’ – other Fleet delegates were by now also standing – ‘and must now withdraw from Parliament.’
Chairman Duras abruptly sat down, suddenly looking very old and tired.
‘Franorl,’ said Harald, ‘it’s time you returned to your ship. As of now we are on full alert. I will broadcast the attack plan and general orders directly.’
Franorl grinned. Harald just stared impassively at the screen.
Orduval
This was the fourth delay on the maglev – it just settled down on its lift plates, with no explanation forthcoming from the tram service, but someone back at Central Control put up on the carriage screen the feed coming from one of the news services.
’ . . . refused access to wardens and threatened to open fire if they attempted to enter Fleet property. GDS forces consequently placed a cordon around the base. It has not yet been confirmed that the missile was fired from within that cordon.’
The image showed a badly wrecked street, with the remains of what looked like a landing craft strewn down it. As the camera focused in on the logo displayed on one piece of smoking cowling, Orduval felt a sudden tired disgust. The downed craft belonged to Orbital Combine. It had started.
As the news story continued he began to get the gist. After Fleet’s refusal to acknowledge the parliamentary vote, with the subsequent walk-out of its delegates, those members left behind decided action must be taken. There were many Fleet bases located on Sudoria and, it seeming likely that Fleet intended some kind of attack, GDS wardens had rapidly moved in to take control of whatever arms caches the Fleet bases still contained. Working in conjunction with the warden force, a Combine surveillance craft overflew the particular base this report was about, and was blown out of the sky. Now more disturbing images: rioting, gunfire, an overhead shot of the city showing a massive explosion and fires burning here and there. It seemed those factions supporting Fleet were already fighting those supporting Combine, while GDS wardens were trying to restore order.
Orduval sat back disgusted. This could all rapidly run out of control. Fleet sympathizers, though outnumbered on the surface, were usually of a military bent, therefore very well armed, trained and organized. Those opposed to Fleet tended to be less aggressive, yet there were lunatics amidst them – like the group causing the nuclear blast on Brumal that destroyed a base there. If they now began attacking Fleet ground bases, there would soon be many more deaths and much more damage, and quite probably the rioting would spread as other groups joined in, but ultimately everything would be decided beyond the confines of Sudoria.
The maglev tram continued on to the next station, where most of the passengers got out and moved across to the other platform – most of them obviously deciding that a trip into the city was not such a great idea today. Perhaps he should join them in that? He thought not. Most of GDS’s warden forces would have been deployed in the city, so that was the place he wanted to be.
To the rumble of a distant explosion the tram finally pulled into the city station, where Orduval was now the only one to disembark. While walking up to the exit barrier, he removed his control baton from his pocket, along with a bank disk Tigger had brought to him some years back. Pushing the small disk into the side slot of his baton, he finally connected a large bank account to his own identity. An irrevocable move. Standing before the barrier, he waited while the station computer logged his ID – which had also been logged when he stepped onto the tram. The price came up on a screen, with below it a small map indicating where he had boarded and his subsequent route. He confirmed this and pushed his baton into the slot – this was the first time he had used that particular bank account to pay for anything. The machine returned his baton and the barrier opened – no security alerts, no attempt to detain him. He supposed that apprehending him to ask some pointed questions about where he had obtained information about The Outstretched Hand was not high on the agenda of Groundside Defence and Security right at the moment. But his presence here would be logged, and sooner or later someone would come looking.
Outside the station a city bus lay sideways across the street, ablaze. Beyond it he could see rioters hurling rocks at two armoured cars advancing towards the bus, ahead of one of the modern floating fire tenders. Why the saucer-shaped vehicle remained at ground level he did not find out until later. The missile bringing down the Combine craft had not been fired from the nearest Fleet base, but from the city itself, and a second missile had also brought down a tender similar to this one. Orduval turned and started walking in the other direction.
Gunfire sounded from along a sidestreet. In another street a group of youths was busy dragging sand scooters out of an emporium, over the wreckage of its doors. Everywhere lay a litter of rocks, broken glass and the empty shells of stink gourds. A balloon-wheeled ambulance – normally used only for desert work – sped past and then, as if in pursuit of it, came two people, one staggering while holding a cloth to his face, blood spattered down his front and on his shoes. Orduval stared at them, recognizing the tough canvas overalls they both wore, with tie-straps and sewn-in metal links, as institutional garb made for the easier handling of patients. But clothing like this was worn only by the more dangerous residents. Orduval just hoped these two were the only escapees, and that the asylum they fled remained locked down. During his own time in asylums he had encountered some seriously dangerous lunatics, and the prospect of the likes of them running free was not a pleasant one.
Every hostelry Orduval passed had its storm doors firmly closed. He even tried banging on some but received no response. Then finally he saw a teahouse still open, for there were people sitting drinking in the vine garden situated to one side. Glancing through its windows he recognized the uniforms of wardens inside, then returned his gaze to the steps leading up to the main doors, guarded by two heavies whose clothing seemed stuffed with rocks. He felt a sudden nervousness but, understanding this was mostly due to not having spoken to another human being in years, he forced himself to walk up to them.
‘Risky, staying open now?’ he suggested, his voice sounding rusty to his ears.
One of the men shrugged. ‘Everywhere else is closed. We haven’t had sales this good in two years.’
‘May I enter?’
The man looked him up and down for a moment. ‘Certainly, but any trouble and you leave head first.’
Orduval smiled to himself as he entered. Before his sojourn in the desert, no one would have bothered to give him such a warning, but now he had bulked out a little, and looked capable of more than merely standing up.
Strug and tobacco smoke fugged the air inside, and only a few tables were free. Conversation rose and fell in counterpoint to the news items continually displayed on a couple of screens. Two service counters were open, one automated and one staffed, while a robot – a simple cylinder with a carousel for glasses girding its exterior and a flat top to carry a tray – trundled between tables accepting empty glasses and tea flasks from the clientele or taking the occasional order. Orduval stood still, indecisive and tense at being surrounded by so many people, until he spotted yet another staff member opening the gates accessing a staircase leading to the upper floor. Relieved, he hurried over and began climbing, just ahead of some others heading upward.
The upper floor, as well as overlooking the inside of the teahouse, was glassed all around the outside so it also overlooked the vine garden and the street. He chose a table where he could view both and took a seat. Still feeling nervous he avoided heading over to the just-opened counter and waited until a robot trundled past nearby, then clapped his hands to bring it rolling over to him. Pressing his baton into the relevant aperture caused it to settle and revolve its upper section until a menu screen directly faced him. Orduval selected herb beer and a snack of roasted honey beetles with preserved sausage and chilled salad. After a moment the robot beeped and poked his baton back out. He retrieved it and the robot rolled away.
When the six wardens climbed the stairs, all that remained of his meal were discarded beetle-wing cases and the waxy ends of the preserved sausage. The wardens wore body armour, helmets and carried stun-bead shotguns. Three of them moved quickly out amidst the tables, one guarded access to the stair, while the two remaining stepped over to the counter to consult the woman tending it. She called up something on her console, then nodded in Orduval’s direction. His stomach clenched, but he tried to keep calm. Concentrating on keeping his hand from shaking, he picked up his drin
k and took a sip. The two officers headed over and, by the time they arrived at his table, a watchful quiet had descended on the room, and many were openly staring at him.
‘If I could see your ID,’ said the older of the two. He wore his grey hair plaited in a queue, and a nasty scar ran down his left cheek from beside the eye – both of which strongly suggested he was a Fleet veteran. Despite his own nervousness, Orduval immediately realized this man was very unsure of himself, from the way he kept glancing around at those occupying the other tables. His younger companion just stared silently at Orduval, clutching a shotgun to his chest as if for comfort. Orduval took out his baton and handed it across. While the older warden placed it in a reader, Orduval heard snatches of conversation from nearby tables.
‘. . . fraudulent . . .’
‘Probably thought he could get away with it while . . .’
‘. . . bit heavy-handed.’
‘Maybe others in here.’
The warden removed the baton from the reader and handed it back. ‘Where did you obtain the bank disk, Orduval Strone?’
‘From my bank – where else?’
‘So the account is yours?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘But we have evidence connecting this account to . . . another.’
‘My pseudonym.’
The younger warden seemed unable to contain himself upon hearing this. ‘Then you are . . . Uskaron?’
‘Shaddup, Trausheim,’ said the older one, but it was too late. The name was repeated at nearby tables and rippled out in excited whispers. People further away began to stand up. Suddenly Orduval understood: the wardens were here to control the city riots, and had suddenly been sent to a crowded bar to apprehend someone who had now become something of a legend.
‘Please stand up and come with us,’ said the older warden.
Orduval wasn’t so sure he could stand at that moment, his legs felt too shaky. ‘One moment.’ He drained his glass, then tried to force inner calm upon himself.