Troheim turned to face him. She blinked her black, scintillating lashes. ‘Our records indicate that our Arcadia base has no fastline facility, Commander Celescu. I’m so sorry.’
‘Our records indicate otherwise.’
Troheim ignored him. ‘Of course, we despatched an X-ship from Belmos base as soon as we received your earlier communication but, as you know, Arcadia is three weeks from Belmos, so we can’t expect any news for at least a month.’
‘You don’t have a fastline on your X-ship?’
‘It’s an old model, Commander. That’s all we have at Belmos.’ She ducked her head and smiled up at him. ‘We fully support Earth Central’s directive that the military should have priority in communications technology.’
‘So you’ve got no idea what’s happening on Arcadia?’
‘I don’t think anything untoward is happening, Commander.’
Celescu’s finger, the quivering focal point of his suppressed rage, hovered over the cancel button. ‘Then where in the galaxy are Agent Dixon and his team?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Commander, but when the X-ship —’
Celescu’s finger jabbed the button. Wynette Troheim’s image dissolved into splinters of fading, coloured light. Celescu swivelled his chair to face the black-suited woman sitting on the other side of his desk. She lifted her shoulders and the corners of her pale lips.
Celescu glared at her. Enforcement Agents were, in his experience, only slightly less duplicitous than the executives of the Spinward Corporation. ‘They’re lying!’ he said, bringing his fist down on the marble desk-top.
‘We know they’re lying, Commander,’ Agent Defries replied. ‘But we don’t know what they’re hiding. And that’s what I have to find out.’
Without thinking, he glanced at the three-dimensional resources display that was scrolling on stand-by across the rimward curve of his office wall. He cursed inwardly as he realized that Defries would not have missed the significance of the gesture. ‘I suppose you’ll need back-up,’ he growled.
Defries raised the squat glass from the arm of her chair, and took a sip of the amber contents. ‘Whiskey,’ she said, after an appreciative pause. ‘From Earth?’
‘The best. Scotch. From South America.’
‘My parental community had a distillery. On Thrapos 3. We didn’t make anything like this, though.’ She put down the glass and leaned forward. Her eyes were pale blue, canning his face. ‘Can you spare a troopship and a full complement of troopers?’
Celescu took a deep breath. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. He’d been expecting her to ask for a flash-fry squad and a couple of X-ships at most. ‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Not really. You could kick it back to the Centre and ask Vice-Admiral Pirrado. He’d tell you to let me have the troopship.’
I’m slowing down, Celescu thought. Missing the obvious. ‘So you don’t actually have a warrant to requisition a troopship, Agent?’
Direct hit. Defries’s eyes shifted momentarily, before her face set in an expressionless mask. ‘I have the authority to request whatever support I deem necessary, Commander.’ For an instant she looked tired, hunted, bitter. ‘I need that ship. I need those troopers.’
He noticed that Defries had unconsciously allowed her fingers to stray to the holster at her belt. ‘You must be expecting trouble on Arcadia,’ he said mildly. He was suddenly intrigued.
‘We don’t know what to expect, Commander. We’ve had Agents in just about all of Spinward Corp’s other settlements, and they look legal.’
‘Legal?’
‘More so than most. And yet Spinward have been conspicuously successful – they beat the rush back into the equities market when the war ended, for instance, and their colonies suffered less than others from the plagues. But it could be a run of luck. There’s no Arcadia connection that we can detect.’
‘So why do you need a troopship to go visiting?’
‘You know why, Commander. It’s the Spinward planet we know least about. It’s the only Spinward planet where we lost an Enforcement team. I’m going to find out what’s going on there, even if no-one else gives a damn.’
So that’s it. She’s had obstruction at Central. Spinward influence. Political machinations. Celescu had had his share of that kind of problem, too.
‘I suppose,’ she was saying, ‘that you haven’t taken the trouble to find out what the Fleet datanet has?’
Celescu didn’t voice-switch the monitor. He didn’t need to. His Tech Officer had already come close to mutiny because of Celescu’s demands for information – any information at all. ‘Nothing. Colony founded three hundred years ago, give or take. One of the first Spinward settlements. No immigration records. No emigration records. No trade records, except the usual goods and equipment. No Fleet survey, of course. All data courtesy of the Spinward Corporation.’
‘We have about the same.’ Defries waited, twisting the glass on the leather upholstery. The silence lengthened.
‘You can have a troopship,’ Celescu said at last. ‘The Admiral Raistrick has just been through re-fit. Captain Toko and his crew are on stand-by. But the nearest trooprs are on Hurgal, two weeks away.’
‘I need to move quickly, Commander. You have troopers in the Hai Dow system.’
‘They’re on a pirate hunt, Agent!’ Celescu knew he had to sound reasonable. ‘We are close to the culmination of a year’s work. I can’t pull them out now. If speed is essential –’ His mind raced, caught an idea, rejected it immediately, returned to it, worried it. ‘We have an entire division of troops here, on stand-by. But they’re Irregular Auxiliaries.’
‘Why didn’t you say so, Commander? I thought you were disbanding the Irregulars as fast as you could. But they’ll do. I think I can just about stand to be cooped up with a shipload of Auxies. It’s only five weeks to Arcadia from here.’
‘What about your secret weapon?’
‘I’ll keep him in cryo till we reach the system. Better to have Auxies around when he thaws out. They are reputed to be the most dangerous arm of the military.’
Celescu scowled. ‘Often more dangerous to us than to the enemy. They’d rather fight their own officers than anyone else – except Daleks, of course.’
‘Then I’ll tell them there are Daleks on Arcadia.’
‘They won’t appreciate being duped.’
‘If I know Spinward Corp, they’ll have enough weapons on Arcadia to equip a SYSDIDS. When the spikes and clusters start shooting up towards us out of the force-shells, those Auxies’ll have to fight – or die. I’ll promise the survivors that they’ll get Daleks to kill next time.’
Celescu surprised himself: he was beginning to like Agent Defries. ‘I’ll let you have the best of the bunch,’ he said. ‘We can’t find enough Dalek nests to keep them happy these days. The mopping-up’s about done. They’ll be ready to go at ten hundred tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Commander. You’ve been very helpful.’ Defries stood, saluted, and turned to go.
Celescu grunted. ‘Well. Good luck, Agent. I don’t envy you the drop with the Auxies. And Arcadia sounds like it’ll be hell with a warp drive.’
The afternoon sunshine gave a golden glow to the white limestone walls. Atop the burnished towers of Castle Beaufort, pennants hung limply above conical roofs and crenellated battlements. Below the keep, the greensward of the outer bailey was deserted but for two tired donkeys. Two curtain walls arced from the castle like a pair of arms, embracing the red-roofed town that jumbled down the hill from the gatehouse to the river.
The town was as sleepy as the castle. Smoke curled skyward from a few fires: the second batch of loaves was baking, the potter had given his day’s work to the kiln, the smith’s brazier was hot, but his anvil was silent. Barges were moored at the wharf, but none disturbed the still, metallic sheen of the river. No carts rumbled across the bridge, but here and there along the parapets a stationary angler could be discerned, a slumbering shadow at the base of a curving r
od.
The fields, full of ripening crops, made a ragged chessboard with copses of dark trees. Forested hilltops ringed the horizon, except to the north, where a herd of wild ponies flicked their tails in the inadequate shade of thorny shrubs.
The turquoise sky was cloudless, but smudged with bands of darker colour, like distant smoke. The bands were too regular to be natural. The sky was not like Earth’s. The moon was already up: a brilliant, jagged rock, like a tiny, rough-edged coin in the firmament. The moon was not like Earth’s.
Shafts of sunlight lanced through the tall windows of the castle library. Alone, surrounded by towers of books on shelves, a robed scribe sat writing. He had started to transcribe the words from a book lying open on his desk, but having written only three sentences he had succumbed to the heat and was merely doodling in the margin of his copy. In any case, the book secreted in his lap was more interesting than the one he was supposed to copy from. He read furtively, his right hand inscribing repetitive, curving shapes.
A bell chimed. The scribe started and the book fell from his lap to the floor. He picked it up, thrust it under a pile of other volumes, and bent over his work. Another sentence was copied. The bell clanged again.
The scribe shook his head, put down his pen, and crossed his arms. He waited, and watched motes of dust dance in the sunbeams. The silence was broken by the bell: an insistent peal of chimes.
There was still no clatter of footsteps, no creaking of opening doors. The scribe stood and stretched. He was a tall young man with a face as sharp as a quill nib. He sauntered to the half-open doors of the chamber.
‘Hubert! Hubert, are you there?’ He directed his stage whisper down the spiral stairway. There was no answer. He raised his voice. ‘Hubert! There’s someone at the gate. Answer it, there’s a good chap.’ The only answer was another clamour of bells from the darkness below.
The scribe shook his head, gathered his robe in his hands, and started down the steps. The bell was tolling repeatedly now, and the scribe tried to match the rhythm with his footsteps and his speech.
‘Library’s on the third floor, other side from the town. Why? So we aren’t disturbed. Who comes to the West Gate? No-one comes to the West Gate. But if someone should happen to turn up, who’s supposed to answer the bell? Not me. But round and round and round I go, until I reach the bottom –’
As he jumped from the final step his foot caught in the hem of his robe and he fell with a loud and indelicate exclamation against the timbers of the West Gate. The ringing of the bell suddenly ceased.
The scribe pulled himself to his feet and, doubled over and gasping for breath, he fumbled at the heavy bolts. The gate swung inwards, and the young man straightened to find himself staring into the shadowy depths of a black cowl. Two eyes regarded him steadily from within the hood.
He refused to feel fear. ‘Greetings, Humble Counsellor,’ he said, standing aside. ‘Please enter. May I ask why we have the honour of your presence?’ In other words, who’s died? Let it not be someone – someone I know, he thought. Could it be true that Counsellors could read thoughts?
‘The honour is mine,’ the Humble Counsellor mumbled, sweeping past the Scribe. ‘I would beg an audience with his Highness.’
The scribe gave a sigh of relief. You’re a supercilious trickster, he thought, and his Highness daren’t refuse to see you. As he closed the gate, he hesitated, peering at the lawns beyond the courtyard. No hoofprints. How did the Counsellors travel from Landfall? He turned to find the cloaked figure standing in front of him, a thin form draped in black silk.
‘May I ask your name?’ the Humble Counsellor said, gargling the fateful question as if through a mouthful of mud.
Now the young man felt afraid. He tried to think of an answer; he couldn’t summon a plausible untruth. ‘Francis,’ he said.
‘And what is your occupation, Master Francis?’
Surely the ground was slipping away like a sand dune in a dust-storm? Surely the beams of the ceiling were collapsing into the room? No: the gatehouse anteroom was silent and still, the flagstones were firm beneath his feet. He found he could smile, and did so.
‘I am a Scribe, Humble Counsellor. And not a Master yet; a mere Apprentice.’
‘Ah. That explains it. I thought I had not seen you at Landfall. But surely you are advanced in years for Apprenticeship? Is it not time you became a Master?’
‘Thank you for your concern, Humble Counsellor.’ Why is he toying with me? Francis could have wept with anger and frustration. ‘I must admit that I have been remiss. I have lingered, I confess it. The journey to Landfall is said to be long and hard. It is well known that not all who attempt it survive.’
‘But Francis!’ The Counsellor inhaled noisily, as if about to spit. ‘Think of the rewards for those who return! Would you not exchange your Apprentice’s cell for the apartment of a Master Scribe? Do you not long for the perquisites of office? The fees, the rewards from grateful nobles?’
Leave me alone, Francis begged silently. I’m happy as I am.
‘You must come to Landfall. I will mention it to his Highness. Would you be so kind as to accompany me and present me at the audience chamber?’
Francis pushed open the inner door and led the way across the cobbled courtyard.
‘Is your fastline secure, Commander?’
Defries leaned back in her chair and imagined Celescu’s features struggling to retain an expression of calm politeness. His voice, filtered through the station’s comms net, had a metallic edge.
‘We took delivery of this system only three days ago, Agent. You brought it with you, as I’m sure you remember. I don’t see how anyone could have interfered with–’
‘Patch me in,’ Defries said, and Celescu’s voice was cut off as the fastline overrode the station net. Defries sat watching the blank screen of her terminal. It remained blank for half a minute.
Fastline, she thought. About as fast as a decommissioned refuelling tub. She stood up and paced back and forth across the three-metre width of her cabin. She glanced at the screen. Still blank. She ordered a coffee from the dispenser, drumming her fingers on the plastic fascia as the brown liquid hissed into a cup. She took a sip, stopped herself from looking back at the terminal, took another sip. She lingered over the five steps it took to re-cross the room. Earth Central’s identifier code was flashing on the screen, along with a request for her password.
Settling back into her chair, she said her name and her identity code,.and then leaned forward for the retina scan. The screen stopped flashing. More seconds passed. At last, an image began to form in the air above the desk. The floating pixels coalesced into the barely identifiable face of No-Go Joe. Joe was the holographic face of the Director’s security software.
‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said, insincerely and indistinctly, ‘you have connected with an unauthorized party. Please disconnect immediately.’
‘Cut it out, Joe. This is Agent Defries. Get me the Director. And I don’t care what time of night it is wherever on Earth he is right now. This is clearance double zero.’
Joe’s face registered sardonic surprise before fading. Defries grinned; the guys in the programming department were getting good.
An even grainier image collected itself together: the round, pale-eyed face of the Director of External Operations. The face’s mouth opened and closed. A few seconds later, the Director’s voice arrived.
‘Agent Defries. Considerate of you to call between the hors d’oevres and the entrée. How’s it going, Belle?’
‘Your digestion is my prime concern as always, boss. Since when did you forget how to lip-sync?’
Another pause while the Director’s words caught up with his facial movements.
‘You look pretty stupid too, Belle. And I can see at least three of you.’
‘And this is supposed to be the pinnacle of human technological achievement?’
‘Even radio was rough when it was first invented, Belle. You’re six hundred light yea
rs away and we’re talking as if we’re in adjacent rooms – well, almost. They’ll fix the lip-sync.’
Repetition of a key word was the signal. Defries pressed the palm of her hand on the box she’d plugged into her terminal. The Director’s face froze while the system ran the handprint scan.
Almost as immobile as the Director’s face, Defries waited. The scrambler hook-up was old technology, but this one had modifications and it hadn’t been tested. If it were to malfunction...
The static hologram suddenly dissolved, and then reformed. The Director appeared to be sitting in a blizzard. His voice sounded as if he was whispering to her in a gale-force wind.
‘Belle? Can you hear me?’
‘Just about. This may not confuse the enemy, but it surely confuses me.’
‘Cures the lip-sync glitch, anyway. I can’t see your lips any more. Are you ready to receive the data?’
Defries checked the terminal’s subsidiary display. ‘Ready and waiting,’ she said.
‘OK. Downloading now. Don’t worry if it takes a while. Some of this stuff had to be digitized. It’s coming to you in good old binary.’
‘Digitized? You mean, it was only on paper?’
‘Microfiche, in fact. Don’t bother to ask. Same as paper, as far as we’re concerned. Spinward’s an old Corporation. One of the first to leave the home system. The name’s new – they changed it after the Cyber Wars – but the core company originated on Earth back in the 2100s. It’s all in the data. You’ll see. How are you getting on with Commander Celescu?’
‘He’ll survive. He’s the kind of soldier who doesn’t like obeying orders from Fleet, so he’s not exactly jumping to help us.’
‘But you got the back-up you need?’
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