So when the call finally came, she was waiting in the office of Director Jowett’s secretary half an hour early, trying not to notice the other woman’s half-fearful glances as Berylin accepted tea and biscuits. The ritual completed, she was shown in.
She’d only ever met the head of the Kingdom’s Department for Counter-Subornation a handful of times: once upon earning her warrant card, and twice more after having rescued important individuals from some nasty Events – those occasions having been attended by a certain amount of pomp and ceremony, in which she felt awkward and uncouth, and so it was even more of a relief to find that behind his doors he was thoroughly plain, modern, and down-to-earth. Timothy Jowett eschewed a politician’s traditionally impressive moustache and ostentatious display of wealth in favour of a cleanly-trimmed goatee, conservative suit, and an office furnished along Modernist lines – all geometric patterns and plain, well-crafted furniture.
‘Ms Hooper, isn’t it? He rose and shook her hand as she took a seat.
‘Yes, sir. And thank you.’
‘For?’
‘Not calling me Miss.’
He smiled. ‘Quite. You are recovering from the Event at Willoughby Terrace, I trust?’
‘“Recovering” may be a little optimistic, sir, but I am – reconciled. Satisfied that the job was the best I could do.’
‘An impressive one at that,’ he replied, leafing through some papers on his desk which, she assumed, contained her report and those of the other emergency services which had attended the scene. It was a thick folder. ‘This looks to have been a fairly straightforward case.’
‘As far as such things go, yes, sir.’ Straightforward. The man had no idea.
‘Quite. I have only a few questions, and then I’m happy to sign it off.’
‘What would you like to know, sir?’
‘In your report you say that Sergeant Runceforth’s first reaction was to tezlar Mrs Drabble, who had been suborned as a manifestation of…’ he flicked through the papers, briefly at a loss.
‘Lilivet, sir. A cannibalistic demon-goddess from Suva-Naheli, who dispenses wisdom but also kills indiscriminately. Children, usually.’ She saw again the patient screaming Angels in my brain! They’re putting angels in my brain!
‘Charming. Sounds like she’d get along famously with my Aunt Phyllis. My question is, how did you know that this Lilivet was not the dreamer? Plainly it was the agent controlling the subornation – or at least Runceforth believed so.’
‘Sir, Runce is the most experienced assistant I have ever…’
‘Oh do calm down, Hooper. This is not about him. Though your loyalty is commendable.’
She relaxed somewhat. ‘It was the hospital scenario, sir. I’ve never yet come across one where there wasn’t some kind of torture or persecution involved. In such cases the phantasm is as much a victim of their own dream as the innocent bystanders who get caught up in it.’
‘If I didn’t know better, Hooper, I’d say that you were in danger of feeling some sympathy for them.’
‘Not at all, sir. It was simply an observation. The balance of probability lay with the phantasm being the figure of the patient.’
‘Balance of probability be damned,’ he snorted, though not unkindly. ‘It was a snap decision, a matter of instinct. You followed your gut reaction, and your gut was right.’
She fidgeted. ‘Forgive me sir, but I don’t see where this is leading.’
He fixed her with a regard which was uncompromising in its frank appraisal. ‘You have a feeling for this sort of thing. One might almost say an affinity. That makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?’
‘Honestly, sir? Yes. It does.’
‘Good. Victims of their own dreams or not, these things are abominations. For some reason you seem uniquely equipped to sniff them out, which is why I’m so annoyed about this.’ He opened a drawer and took out a thick file, which he tossed in front of her. ‘A few days ago the External Bureau was approached by an ambassador from the Amity – you are aware of where that is?’
‘An alliance of island states in the Tourmaline Archipelago, I believe. There was some talk of war with Elbaite a year or so ago, but nothing came of it. Why are they interested in me?’
‘Quite. Nothing came of it because something occurred in the middle of the ocean between Elbaite and the principal Amity island-state of Drava which rendered navigation impossible, and hence invasion, and so the Amity have been very happy to let things stay that way for the time being, thank you very much.’
‘Are you talking about a subornation, sir?’
Jowett nodded grimly.
‘But that’s impossible. They must be mistaken. The longest Event ever recorded lasted only for a matter of hours. You’re talking as if…’ she trailed off, horrified at the implications.
‘Months,’ he confirmed. ‘Possibly years. The details are sketchy.’
‘Why in Reason’s name didn’t they do something about it?’
‘In part because they lacked the technical expertise, but mostly because until now it has been politically expedient of them not to do so.’
‘But if a ship should stray into it…’
‘Well that’s precisely it, isn’t it? That’s been the deterrent stopping Elbaite from launching its armada up to now.’
‘Even so, sir, with the ocean being so large, it should be a simple matter to navigate around it.’
‘Hooper, we’re dealing with something a bit larger than an apartment, or even a city block. This Event is huge. It is miles across, and it is moving. It drifts across the ocean with the prevailing winds and tides, making predictions of its position all but impossible. Not only that, but it is also growing.’
‘Growing?’
‘It is starting to affect the Amity’s own territorial waters, damaging their trade and their fishing, which is why after all this time they have come to us for help, and why your name is currently being spoken of in very high circles as the woman for the job.’
‘Well, I’m flattered, of course, but there must be better qualified and experienced agents that you can send. Why, I’ve never been abroad, not even for a holiday. I can’t believe that I’d be much use as a foreign consultant, or whatever the proposed role is. Surely one of the Collegium’s researchers…’
Jowett looked disappointed. ‘Please, Hooper, spare me the fake humility. This isn’t a Ladies’ Brigade meeting; nobody’s going to turn their nose up at you for admitting what we both know: that you’re damn good. I was asked to recommend a name. I recommended yours. Are you telling me I was mistaken to do so?’
‘No sir.’
‘Well then, let’s have less of the mimsying around, if you please.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You’ll note that this is not being put to you in the form of a request. The External Minister and the Amity ambassador went to Charford together, and we all know how the old school tie network operates.’ He made a face as if tasting something disagreeable. ‘But I wanted to do you the courtesy of letting you know exactly how the wind blows, so to speak. The Amity have no desire to see this monstrous subornation abated – after all, it has kept a powerful adversary at bay for some time. What you are being tasked to do is investigate its expansion and find some way of halting it so that it does no further damage to their own interests.’
‘You mean I’m…’ she struggled to articulate the idea. It was so aberrant, so wilfully and appallingly wrong that her voice almost refused it expression. ‘I’m to find a way of preserving it?’
Jowett nodded grim agreement. ‘You will be given every possible assistance in this matter – equipment, personnel – simply list your requirements.’
‘But sir!’
‘And before you attempt to harangue me like my wife,’ he overrode her, ‘be assured that there is no way this Department will allow such a state
of affairs to exist. Not while I sit in this chair, at least.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Between these four walls, Hooper. Between these walls, understand? The Kingdom of Oraille will not sit idly by and allow a third-world nation state of fishermen, pirates and ex-slaves to militarise the subornation of reality, no matter how peaceful and defensive their intentions, nor how many times the External Minister let himself be buggered in the dorms by one of them. You will smile politely, complete your investigation with all possible diligence and thoroughness, but be compelled in the end to inform them sadly that there is nothing you can do, and, with great reluctance, you will destroy the abomination and allow war to take its natural course.’
‘When you put it like that, sir, how can I refuse?’
‘Hmm. Indeed. You may see Miss Fortescue outside for all the necessary files and requisition forms.’
‘Very good, sir.’ She stood to leave as he returned to his paperwork.
‘Oh, and Hooper?’ he added, without looking up.
‘Yes sir?’
‘That smirk on your face.’
‘Smirk, sir?’
‘Yes, the one that appeared during my rant about the buggering of senior court officials.’
‘What of it, sir?’
‘It was most unladylike.’
‘Yes, sir, I daresay it was, sir.’
‘That will be all, Hooper.’ It was hard to tell, but he might have been smiling as she left his office.
3
On a blustery May morning in the twenty-seventh year of the reign of King Alexander VII, the tramp steamer Spinner set off from Jubilee Wharf in Tinmouth for a twelve-week scientific survey of the Tourmaline Archipelago. According to Berylin’s paperwork, the Spinner was an unexceptional vessel: a converted fishing trawler of a type built by the thousands in the Coronsay shipyards, and to be seen in every port, large and small, from one coast of Oraille to the other. Almost the whole front half of her deck was wide and open with large hatches to the holds below for landing catches, while a wheelhouse stood amidships. From that, the superstructure and cabin housing extended back towards the stern, where a small wooden dinghy stood ready to transport her crew to and from shore. Just behind the wheelhouse rose a tall smokestack; the Spinner was powered by a seventy-nautical-horsepower, three-cylinder engine and boiler capable of getting her speed up to a respectable twelve knots in good weather. She’d seen some service during the Jassit Peninsula War, primarily as a support craft for hauling away the wreckage of destroyed cruisers, but with a short and exciting career as a minesweeper, and the military conversions which had been completed to her twin trawler booms made her perfect for Berylin’s needs.
Officially she was being chartered by the Collegium for the purposes of collecting volcanic ore samples from many of the outlying islands in the archipelago, with a view towards identifying fuel reserves or deposits of precious metals for the hungry wheels of industry, and so the loading of many crates labelled simply ‘scientific equipment’ didn’t raise any eyebrows. And if the behaviour of her crew did… well, that was scientists for you. The sound of hammering from belowdecks was so commonplace on a shipyard as to be completely unnoticed, and even the strange purple light glowing from the portholes was easily attributable to specialist welding gear. Space was even made for Buster, who accepted his promotion to the position of ship’s mascot with sober diligence, sniffing every inch of the ship from bow to stern before pronouncing it seaworthy.
The Spinner made good time east along the coast, past toy-sized seaside towns and villages, weaving between the ketches and tugs which plied their busy trade back and forth across the Gulf of Kurra, between Oraille and Jassit – because people’s memories for past grievances grew shorter as the chance for profit grew bigger, it seemed – and then out and north-east across the Dawn Sea towards Carax, with its granite headlands rising like the foreheads of giants. She took on coal and water at Vairstock, in the shadow of a steeply cloven fjord whose cliffs had been carved by ancient hands, so that when the frozen southern gales blew across it, they boomed and hooted like a mountain-sized pipe-organ made of stone. Further stops at Mardis, Rosburg, Dauncette, and Zana of the Seven Arches saw her journey ever northwards into increasingly balmy and humid weather, and she began to be escorted by families of Nederi: large intelligent fish who would leap out of the Spinner’s bow-wave and glide for yards on vast fin-wings while calling to each other and those on deck in wordless song. They appeared to enjoy teasing Buster especially, who barked at them until he was sent to his kennel in disgrace. Some of the crewmen who were more adventurous – or superstitious, depending on your perspective – jumped in and swam with them, later claiming that they had been told their fortunes. Runce grumbled that the only prediction which a petitioner might believe of such ‘oracles’ was that he would die in a stupidly inevitable drowning accident, a point for which he was not thanked.
Crossing the equator into the northern hemisphere was marked by a celebration of bacchanalian drinking, cross-dressing and general lewdness which was in no way restrained by the presence of a woman on board, but nobody really felt that they were in the wider ocean until they passed the Babel Reefs.
These were a maze of beautiful but navigationally perilous coral reefs which rose into thousands of shimmering pillars, as if the microscopic creatures which built the coral had one day simply decided to build up towards heaven rather than along towards their fellows. All were busy with wheeling, screaming sea-birds, and the same adventurous crew who had swum with the Nederi braved the gulls’ sharp beaks to climb up and plunder their nests for eggs, which made a welcome change from the powdered variety. In this more rational age, the Babels were taken as a sign of how much higher the sea level had been aeons ago – some scientists even theorising that once upon a time the entire world had been underwater. Whatever the explanation, it was agreed that they were still growing. Some had tumbled and looked like the broken pillars of a long-dead civilisation. Others were carved by wind and weather into fantastical shapes: spindles, honeycombs, twisted and ribboned columns, or balanced gnarled globes on thread-thin necks. Ancient sailors, believing them to be set as a boundary to the curiosity of mankind, would sail no further for fear of inviting divine punishment.
Captain Mair guided his vessel with expert hands through the treacherous channels and out again into the open vastness of the Antaean Ocean. Nothing now lay between them and the Tourmaline Archipelago but another week of wide, empty horizons.
Chapter 13
Field Tests
1
Runce found Berylin on the Spinner’s high foredeck, gazing out at the approaching immensity of the Antaean. For a long while they simply stood together, feeling the thrum of engines through the steel and the spray of the bow-wave blowing back in their faces.
‘You’ve been quiet the last few days,’ he observed.
‘Thinking.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Thinking. Bad business, that. Best avoid it if I were you.’
‘An easy thing for you to say, military man.’
He scratched his nose.
‘Tell me, Runce, when you were in the army, where was the furthest you were ever stationed?’
‘Pirogue, ma’am. Three months. Bloody horrible place. Everything made of bamboo, and the food went straight through you.’
‘Thank you for that intimate portrait. Your wife must be a very remarkable woman, seeing you sent off into danger in all manner of places like that.’
‘Mrs Runce is an army wife, ma’am,’ he replied, elaborating no further, having obviously explained all that needed saying.
‘Well, nevertheless, I wish I had taken the time to thank her before we left.’
‘You’d only have embarrassed her.’
They stood awhile longer. Presently Netto, the ship’s cook, appeared from the galley amidships and began
tossing scraps of leftovers up into the air for the gulls that wheeled and dived overhead. Buster eyed them disdainfully from the shade of his kennel, having learned the wet and cold way that there was no catching them.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘this is the furthest I’ve ever been from home.’
Runce frowned, and replied: ‘I had a Sarnt Major who used to say “the further you are from home, lads, the less there is to see looking back”.’
‘Wise words.’
‘Possibly. He was a complete bastard the rest of the time.’
She laughed. The continents of his craggy face drifted into an expression of mild surprise, as ever when he’d said something unintentionally funny – and it was always unintentional. Runce could no more crack a joke than a gun could play reveille. That was part of his charm: that he could always somehow manage to cheer her up without meaning to, and usually by being a humourless sod.
‘I really only came to tell you that Harcourt says he thinks he’s got the device finished.’ Runce’s disdain for the young Collegium engineer was evident.
‘Excellent. Let’s see what our pet boffin has created for us, shall we?’
2
A vessel like the Spinner normally slept sixteen crew: Skipper, mate, bosun, chief engineer, second engineer, two firemen, half-a-dozen deckhands, apprentice, clatter operator and cook. With so many people on board, secrecy was an impossibility, and so Berylin had left none of them in any doubt as to the expedition’s true purpose – though maybe not the politics behind it. Not, she suspected, that Captain Mair would have cared a hoot either way. While she’d been happy enough for him to choose his own crew, she had engaged the additional services of a young engineering savant named Denton Harcourt who was attached to the DCS’ technical support division. This had ruffled a few privileged feathers amongst those in the External Bureau who had their own nepotistic preferences for the position, but since Harcourt already knew the technology, he was probably one of the few engineers in the Kingdom she trusted not to blow them all to smithereens with some ambitious and cock-eyed contrivance.
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