Knaves Over Queens

by George R. R. Martin

  ‘They did their duty,’ the Lion said.

  ‘They fished out the ones that ejected. Some didn’t. I saw a few of them go in, and no chute. Pilot and all.’

  ‘And you find it bothers you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rory said. ‘It does. I killed those men. Of course it bothers me. I used my powers to kill people.’

  ‘And it should,’ Major Singh said. ‘It will always bother you. Killing isn’t a natural act. We do it because we must, not because we like it.’

  Rory’s gaze flickered to the kirpan on the Lion’s belt. He knew that the weapon wasn’t merely ceremonial, that Major Singh kept it honed to a shaving-sharp edge, and suddenly he found himself pitying the Argentine defenders who had stood between Singh and Goose Green. ‘You’ve been to war before,’ Rory said. ‘You’re used to it.’

  ‘You never get used to it.’ Major Singh stretched his legs with a sigh and took another sip of his own coffee. ‘I was in 1 Para ten years ago,’ the Lion continued. ‘I was just twenty years old. It was during the Troubles, right after Bloody Sunday.’

  A shiver ran down Rory’s spine. Northern Ireland was still dangerous ground for British soldiers. Ten years ago it had been a free-fire war zone, car bombs and snipers and night-time assassinations.

  ‘I went out on patrol with a few lads in a Land Rover, and we got lost in a very bad neighbourhood. Ended up in the middle of a crowd. They turned the car over and set it on fire. That’s when my card turned. I don’t remember how I got out of the upturned car. I don’t remember pulling everyone else out of the burning car. I don’t remember how long it took me to fight my way through the crowd, or how long it took for reinforcements to find us. But I do remember the faces on the bodies of those I killed that day to save my comrades. All nine of them. I pity them, and the families that must have mourned for them. But I do not regret it.’

  Major Singh turned his cup in his hands and held Rory’s gaze with tired-looking but unwavering dark eyes. ‘The men in those planes were brave beyond measure, and they meant to kill you. You and the people you were charged to protect. You did what you had to do. That’s why you wanted to join the Silver Helix. To protect. To defend. And sometimes that means having to kill. That is something you must accept.’

  The Lion got up and walked over to the counter to refill his cup. The top of his turban brushed the ceiling of the kitchen in the old farmhouse. ‘Most people hear “Silver Helix”, and they think of the flashy business they see on the telly. Aces flying or lifting girders off people. But most of what we do isn’t flashy. It’s going to ground with the lads and helping the cause. Think of all the men on those ships who didn’t die because you were there. I know the thought doesn’t help much right now, but it will. Later, after all of this is over. When you’ve had time to remember.’

  He walked back to his chair and patted Rory on the shoulder on the way past. ‘It’s a good thing that you’re bothered. I wouldn’t like it much if you weren’t. It tells me that you are right for the Silver Helix. When we get back to England, I’ll tell Sir Kenneth that I endorse the removal of your probationary status.’

  The news of his impending full acceptance into the Order, the professional validation he had sought ever since his card turned, would have made Rory feel proud and grateful at any other time than now, and anywhere else but this godforsaken, wind-beaten little patch of rocky ground in the North Atlantic. But after this week, his ability to feel anything but bone-deep tiredness seemed to have gone on extended leave.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said to Major Singh. ‘I will not disappoint you or the Order.’

  Major Singh sat down again and nodded. ‘You’re welcome. You’ve earned it. But make sure that this sort of thing is what you want to do with the rest of your life. Because what you have seen here is not the worst you’ll ever see. Not even close.’

  Outside, the newly hoisted Union Jack on the flagpole in front of the town hall whipped fiercely in the wind. In the brief time Rory had spent in the farmhouse kitchen with the Lion, the number of Royal Marines and paratroopers in the town seemed to have tripled. Overhead, Navy Harriers roared past towards the hills in the east, where the Argentinians were still holding on to Port Stanley, even though Rory knew their chances of winning this war had gone in the sea with all the planes he had splashed.

  In the distance, Rory heard the distinctive whop-whop-whop rotor noise from Chinook transport helicopters, and the sound made Major Singh smile.

  ‘It seems we will not have to walk all the way across this blasted island after all,’ he said to Rory. ‘Those are the transports from Atlantic Conveyor.’

  A Royal Marines lieutenant came trotting up to them, one hand on his green beret to keep it from flying away in the wind.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sirs, General Moore is asking for you. Looks as if we’re accelerating the schedule and going for Port Stanley early now that the choppers are off the boat safely.’

  ‘We’ll be right in,’ Major Singh told the lieutenant, who nodded and trotted off without a salute. They were in the field, Rory reminded himself, in a shooting war. You don’t salute on the battlefield because you don’t want to tell the enemy marksmen who’s important.

  ‘Well then,’ Major Singh said. ‘Let’s get this unpleasant business over with. I’m ready to go home. Until the next war.’

  They walked up the muddy path to the town hall, the Union Jack on its pole flapping an urgent beat, like a tied-up animal frantically trying to shake itself free.

  Until the next war, Rory thought. Hope that one breaks out long after I’m retired.

  Twisted Logic

  by Peter Newman

  Part 1

  London, 1984

  Roger gave his tea a final stir as he waited for the Prime Minister’s speech to begin. There were five minutes to go, which meant it would be the perfect temperature for sipping when he sat down to listen.

  Though he wasn’t the only one to have contributed to the speech, and though Mrs Thatcher was known to take what was written and make it her own, he felt proud. This was important work he was doing. He, Roger Barnes, was important. True, he hadn’t been invited to watch the speech in person, but they were his words just the same. Words that would reach the ears of millions.

  As a special treat he had bought himself a PYE Tube Cube so that he could watch the speech live in his office. The LED clock on the front displayed the time in glowing red. He frowned. It was fast. He checked his watch and wall clock to confirm.

  Yes, nearly three minutes fast! Roger shook his head, disgusted. It was brand new and he’d only picked it up this morning. He’d never trusted digital. Despite the hype there was something cheap about it. Springs and cogs and craftsmanship would always be superior to plastic fads.

  Still, the fact that it was wrong bothered him. He liked everything to be in its right place, performing perfectly. How else was one supposed to face the chaos of politics without a firm, ordered bedrock to stand on? He considered changing the clock but that would mean going back to his car to find the instructions and there wasn’t time, and he wasn’t the type to fiddle with the buttons and hope for the best. That was how accidents happened.

  He glared at the clock and felt a twinge in his chest, sharp enough to make him gasp. It escalated quickly but faded equally swiftly, leaving him shocked and sweaty, but otherwise normal.

  Two minutes before the speech was due to begin he turned on the television and adjusted the aerial until the lines were suitably crisp and the crackle had faded to an acceptable whisper.

  Satisfied, he sat down, arranged his chair, and took a sip of his tea as Mrs Thatcher’s face appeared on the screen. Even in black and white, and shrunk to fit a nine-inch square, she was impressive. There was an innate authority about her that was admirable, the sense that she knew exactly what she was doing.

  ‘This year,’ she began, ‘as before in our history, we have seen men and women with brave hearts defying violence, scorning intimidation, and defending
their rights to uphold our laws.’

  The opening was met with applause and Roger smiled. He was pleased she’d kept the connection to history; suggesting the actions of the police and those who’d returned to work were not just right but inherently British, and that by extension, all right-thinking people would support them.

  Given things had started so well, it was a surprise to Roger when the second wave of pain came. He clamped off a cry before it became a scream and gripped the table so hard the tea jumped in the cup, sloshing over the edge to fill the saucer.

  ‘By their action, we have seen a new birth of leadership in Britain. And that is the most important thing, the most enduring thing, that is going to that come out of this coal strike.’

  It felt as if his muscles were trying to peel themselves from the bone, and his skin was burning, as if he’d spent too long in the sun. His eyes went from Mrs Thatcher, who continued to talk as if everything was fine, to a picture of his family on the beach that he kept on his desk. He’d looked at it many times but never with such intensity.

  Wendy’s smile was awkward, lips curling up but pressed together. His wife had always been embarrassed about her teeth, said they made her look like a donkey, though he’d always thought that harsh. A rabbit perhaps but not a donkey. His children’s smiles were much more genuine. Funny that he’d never appreciated that before, his attention normally taken by the ice-cream splodges on Roy and Christine’s shorts.

  It occurred to him that he might be about to die. Wendy had always said that if he didn’t relax he’d have a heart attack. Perhaps this was it. But even as he had the thought, he realized the pain was receding.

  There was a tap on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Alan’s head appeared. Like the rest of him it looked smart, conservative, and old before its time. ‘Everything all right in here?’

  ‘Oh, yes, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Sorry, thought I heard a noise.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Sorry. That was me. Having a little trouble with my television.’

  ‘Portables! I can never get the bloody things to stay in tune. Seems like all I have to do is fart and mine goes on the blink.’

  Roger gave a strained smile. He didn’t really approve of Alan’s constant toilet references. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You watching the speech? So are we. Want to come and see it with the rest of the exiles?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘We have beer.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  He breathed a sigh of relief as Alan went. The man meant well but seemed to have no idea that some people might actually enjoy their own company. At least he’d learned to knock before coming in. It had taken two years to teach him that trick. It had taken the dog two months.

  Berating himself for thinking about Alan while the Prime Minister was speaking, he turned back to the television.

  ‘… And the national interest demands, that violence does not pay and be seen not to pay. Let violence cease. Let the law be kept. That is the spoken and unspoken hope and wish of millions of our fellow citizens.’

  It sounded good, but he’d missed the middle section. Had she seeded the idea that what the miners had done was not picketing at all? It was one of the key points to victory, to change the perception of the picketers from victims defending their way of life, to thugs holding the nation to ransom. Damn Alan! He’d come at the worst time.

  The third wave of pain came so suddenly, so powerfully, that Roger didn’t even have time to brace himself. Several screams escaped him. The first from shock, the second from his head striking the desk, the third when he hit the floor. There may have been a fourth or even fifth, Roger wasn’t sure. He’d lost count at some point.

  Everything went white, then black, then white again, before fading. Was he dead? Was this the heart attack? Details began to return: an off-white ceiling in dire need of a repaint. A little patch of damp that he’d not noticed before but would now never unsee, and a small spider hurriedly trying to spin a new web before the cleaners came.

  He was on his back. There was no pain any more but he felt odd, light-headed, as if he hadn’t eaten enough. Someone was knocking repeatedly on his door. ‘Rog? Roger? You in there? It’s Alan. If you don’t answer I’m coming in.’

  ‘Give me a minute!’

  Was it his imagination or did his voice sound different somehow? Perhaps it was all the screaming. A wave of shame hit him. What was he going to say to Alan? With effort, he hauled himself upright, and then sat back on the chair. The family picture had fallen over and he set it upright, relieved to find no cracks in the glass.

  ‘Roger?’

  He didn’t bother turning to the door as it opened. ‘I’m fine, Alan. Honestly.’

  ‘It sounded like someone was torturing a pig in here.’

  ‘I had a chest pain. It’s passed now.’

  ‘You should see a doctor about that.’

  He sighed. ‘I’m sure Wendy would agree with you.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you slip out now, take the afternoon off?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘They’re all at the conference anyway. Nobody would know.’

  Roger spun round, appalled. ‘I would know.’

  Instead of replying, Alan took a step backwards in horror, one hand going to his mouth. ‘Christ!’

  Roger looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a rat or a spider, or worse, some terrible news story breaking on the television. But everything looked as it always did. ‘What is it?’

  Alan was standing in the corridor, a shaky finger pointing at Roger. ‘Your face … it’s … oh God …’ He looked as if he was about to be sick, and then swallowed hard, backed off until he hit the opposite wall, and ran.

  With a horrible sinking feeling, Roger tried to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the television screen. Something was definitely off, there were blotches, but it was hard to see details. He hurried to the toilets at the end of the corridor. There was a frantic conversation going on in one of the meeting rooms, but the occupants fell suddenly quiet as he went by.

  At the door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. Nobody was in sight but he could see little tufts of brown littering the carpet. He knelt down to peer at them only to discover they were clumps of hair. His hair. He reached a shaking hand up towards his scalp and a fuzzy cloud drifted down past his eyes, reminding him of dandelions shedding in a summer breeze.

  ‘Oh God,’ he whispered, and stumbled into the toilets.

  Bright lights and a mirror revealed the harsh truth. Most of his hair had gone, large patches of his skin as well, peeling off to reveal something else underneath.

  There was no pain. Roger told himself that had to be a good thing, though his mind was already turning over the idea of nerve damage. He leaned closer, brushing away the last flakes on his cheek. Where pasty white flesh had been, his face was rendered a rich brown, dark grained, solid. He pressed it with a finger.

  There was no give there at all, and though he felt the contact, it was distanced, muted. It was as if someone had carved his likeness out of mahogany but left out the hair because it was too difficult. He made a fist, and sure enough, wooden knuckles parted the dry skin, poking through.

  The next thing he knew, he was running, back down the corridor and into his office, slamming the door shut behind him. ‘I’m in shock,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ He went to his abandoned cup of tea and had a sip but immediately spat it out. It tasted disgusting! He put the cup down harder than intended and the handle snapped off in his hand.

  He stared at it for a few moments, and then began to cry.

  Wendy. He needed to call Wendy. She’d know what to do. He picked up the phone but there was no ring tone. That struck him as unusual. Perhaps he could use Alan’s phone.

  He was halfway to the door when it was opened by a man in a suit Roger had seen on the news many times before. He wa
s six foot six even without the turban that threatened to brush the ceiling, with the kind of physique normally found in American action film stars. A long dark beard covered the buttons of his shirt, and there was a kindness to his eyes. His name was Ranjit Singh but to most of the world he was known as the Lion, one of the aces who served the Silver Helix. Though it was hardly necessary, the Lion flashed a badge. Roger failed to take in the details as he was too busy trying to hide his face.

  ‘Don’t come in!’ said Roger.

  The Lion waited outside. ‘Mr Barnes?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please stay calm, I’m here to help you.’

  Roger lowered his hands a fraction. ‘Help me? Have you looked at me?’

  ‘Yes. We’re aware of your condition. You’re a victim of the Xenovirus Takis-A.’

  ‘The wild card virus?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barnes. You need to come with me.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I have to call my wife.’

  ‘You need to come with me, Mr Barnes.’

  Roger looked at the Lion, realizing for the first time that he hadn’t come alone. At least two other shadows fell across the back wall. ‘Of course, I’ll just pack my things.’

  ‘Mr Barnes, that will not be necessary.’

  The subtext was obvious: he wouldn’t be needing them where he was going.

  ‘Oh,’ said Roger as he allowed himself to be led away.

  A few days passed by in a blur of shock and tests, the bad news forming a list in his mind as bland facts, too big to process:

  He had turned into some kind of freak.

  He was not allowed to see Wendy.

  He was not allowed to see his children.

  He was not allowed to call anyone.

  He was not allowed to leave the room.

  His world had shrunk down to four walls and a bed, the kind of chamber given to a criminal or, judging from the padding on the walls, a psychotic. Doctors came and went at odd times, peppering him with questions about how he felt while prodding him, examining him, checking reflexes and vital signs.