Deceit

by Peter Darvill-Evans

  Defries hoped the Director could see her smile. ‘No problem, boss. A whole troopship. Hand-picked by yours truly and ready to warp tomorrow morning. They’re Auxiliaries, kicking their heels. Dalek hunters.’

  ‘Well done, Belle. I knew you could do it. And the weapon?’

  ‘Already on board, and sound asleep.’

  ‘Excellent. Now listen.’ The shape of the Director’s body shifted. His windswept voice was louder and more urgent. ‘I’ve had three Ministers on to me today, advising me to refrain from taking an interest in Spinward’s affairs. An hour ago I received a Presidential order to omit Arcadia from our security operations. The Spinward Corporation has influence here. We knew that. I’ve junked all records relating to your mission. You’re on leave, as of three weeks ago. You have no authority and no power.’

  ‘Except for a ship full of Auxies.’

  ‘Exactly. Good luck, Belle. When the data transmission ceases, this fastline will go down. And the scrambler will take down every other fastline in your sector. You’re on your own. Find Dixon and his team. Take Arcadia apart if you have to. And if there’s an innocent explanation, we can both look forward to a lifetime posting to a plague planet. So be clever.’

  The indistinct hologram faded. The screen was blank.

  From a horizontal position, Commander Celescu stared at his terminal. It was bad enough to be woken up to receive a top priority fastline call from Fleet, but he’d barely kicked his brain into consciousness when the fastline had abruptly failed.

  ‘Replay,’ he growled. ‘On screen. Complete.’ He struggled from beneath the bedcover and padded naked to the terminal to watch the recorded data appear.

  ‘Fastlines!’ he muttered, as if expelling something unpleasant from his mouth. ‘Why can’t they wait until they get it right? Why do they issue this garbage if it doesn’t work yet? At least X-ships are reliable. Mostly.’ He watched the wording of the Fleet datanet protocol stream across the screen. The only important words would be in the last line: a warrant for the immediate arrest and imprisonment of...

  He had been sure, while listening to the message as it infiltrated his sleep, that he had heard arrest and imprisonment of Agent Defries just before the communication ended with a squawk of ruptured programming. But the name had not been recorded. According to the screen – and therefore according to the station’s log – the message had ended before the name of the party to be arrested had been relayed.

  Celescu smiled. He went back to bed.

  The Halls of Crystal were deserted. Francis zigzagged through an ambulatory, between scintillating pillars as wide as houses, following one of the twisting paths of jewelled emblems set into the onyx floor. The trail of ruby coronets led him into the main chamber of the Octagonal Court, and as always he paused to stare upwards at the coloured glass of the dome, set so high above the tiers of galleries that it looked like the patterned disc at the end of a kaleidoscope. The Humble Counsellor, less impressed by grandiose architecture, stepped on the heel of Francis’s shoe.

  Francis muttered an apology and hurried on, wondering not for the first time why a Counsellor’s footsteps sounded like the scurrying of mice. On the far side of the Octagonal Court, within sight now but still further than Francis could throw a stone, the Throne Room doors were slightly ajar, and unattended. Francis slowed the pace of his progress across the vast, bejewelled floor and began to glance from side to side. Ushers and men-at-arms had a habit of disappearing just when they were required. A thousand mirrors multiplied and remultiplied images of the Appren¬tice Scribe and the Humble Counsellor, but otherwise the hall was empty.

  In theory the Prince’s audience was open to any visitor. Francis knew that in practice His Highness was only too pleased to end an audience early if business was light; he also knew, from embarrassing experience, that it was unwise to bring a visitor unannounced into the Prince’s presence. Therefore Francis stopped in front of the Throne Room door; plucked up the courage to ask the Counsellor to wait for a few moments; and turned to find that the black-robed figure was already scuttling to sit on one of the velvet-covered Supplicants’ Benches that occupied the wide niches between the silver statues lining the fascia of the Throne Room.

  Francis studied his reflection in the nearest mirror, adjusting stray curls of his black hair and straightening the lapels of his robe. He practised his expression – the respectful yet friendly smile with a hint of debonair sophistication – and pushed the door a little further open.

  The audience was over. From within the Throne Room, Francis could hear shouting, laughter, high-pitched giggles and someone playing a harpsichord badly. He tapped on one of the doors.

  ‘Who the blazes is that?’ It was the Prince’s voice. The other noises in the room continued unabated. ‘Go away, whoever you are. Audience is over. Come back tomorrow, eh?’

  Francis felt sick with apprehension. If he was unlucky, he was about to disturb the Prince and some of the courtiers in the middle of a game of forfeits. He stepped through the doorway.

  Yes, he was unlucky. The throne, set on its stepped pyramid of black marble at the centre of the semicircular apse at the far end of the room, was empty except for the Prince’s crown and staff. The Prince had descended to lounge on a brocade-covered couch in one of the side-aisles; he was holding a goblet in one hand and Lady Christina in the other, and was guffawing at the antics of the courtiers.

  As Francis shuffled across the turquoise carpets, he became more and more convinced that he would prefer to be anywhere else. Master Henry the Goldsmith, one of the Prince’s closest companions, was embracing one of the stone columns for which he had himself designed the gilt decoration, and reciting an epic poem. Mistress Mary, the Prince’s favourite clothier, was seated at the harpsichord, and was playing badly because she was blindfolded. Lady Fiona was standing on a small table, holding a rose between her clenched teeth, and attempting to make lascivious dance movements to the harpsichord’s halting rhythms. Half a dozen other courtiers, some of them not entirely clothed, were surrounding the performers and making loud comments that the whole company found hugely amusing.

  Lady Christina was the first to see Francis approaching. He stopped and gestured frantically towards the door, trying to indicate that he had brought a visitor for the Prince. Lady Christina smiled, nodded, and inclined her head toward the royal ear beside her.

  Francis expelled a sigh of relief and began to retrace his steps.

  ‘Francis the Scribe!’ It was the Prince’s voice.

  Francis arranged his features into the rehearsed smile and turned again. ‘Your Highness?’

  ‘Come here, Francis. That’s right, closer. Don’t be bashful, young fellow. Christina tells me you’re not usually bashful. Not usually bashful, are you, eh? Like a game of forfeits, so I’m told, eh?’

  Francis had reached what he considered to be a respectful distance from the Prince’s couch. He bowed. ‘Under certain circumstances, your Highness.’ He hoped Christina had not had time to tell the Prince about all the games that she and Francis had played. ‘But perhaps not when there’s a Humble Counsellor waiting outside on a Supplicants’ Bench.’

  ‘What! A Counsellor? Here? Waiting to see me? Why didn’t you say so earlier? Send him in, send him in!’

  The courtiers melted away silently. Francis started on the long walk back to the Supplicants’ Door.

  ‘Not yet, Francis, not yet. Let me get back to the throne. You were a promising young chap once, Francis. But you’re neglecting your proper duties these days, aren’t you, eh? Never mind, never mind. Show the Counsellor in. And don’t forget to close the door!’

  Isabelle Defries rested her head in her hands. She rubbed her eyes with the balls of her thumbs. She needed hard information, not a history lesson. ‘More,’ she said, and then, after taking one look at the antique handwriting that appeared on the screen, ‘Digest.’

  Spinward Corporation, founding of. Merger 2107 of two trading organizations, both rated as sma
ll for period.

  Eurogen Company: genetics; research and development of improved crop and livestock strains. Expansion due to requirements of planetary colonists.

  Butler Institute: artificial intelligence; modelling and forecasting. Weather systems expertise employed in Earth meteorological control; decline thereafter in Institute’s fortunes reversed by need for similar analysis on colony worlds.

  Merged companies formed EB Corporation. First warpship commissioned 2112.

  Defries shook her head. It was late, and she had to go into warpspace tomorrow. Correction: later today. In a few hours. She took another sip of the fruit-flavoured stimulant she’d started drinking when the coffee had stopped keeping her awake. If she could just keep sipping the stuff for a few more hours, she could take something to put her to sleep in warp. ‘More,’ she said.

  Transcript of advertising broadcast follows.

  ARCADIA: THE PARADISE PLANET

  At last you can really get away from it all. Have you ever looked round at this small planet we inhabit? Have you ever wondered how it came to be so dirty, so crowded, so damaged and ravaged? Do you hate the bustle and rush, the noise and the machinery? Do you long for a simpler life, a life in tune with the rhythms of nature, the life our forefathers led before we lost our way?

  You can make a fresh start on Arcadia, the paradise planet. Arcadia offers you a new life, a new beginning, thanks to the pioneering labours of the EB Corporation. Leave your worries on Earth, and fly with EB to the new world of your dreams. Just sign your name – one stroke of the pen – to EB’s transfer of ownership document, and all those material possessions that tie you to this tired old planet will simply melt away. In return you will receive a berth on the luxury warpship Back To Nature, plus a landholding in the heart of Arcadia’s fertile and temperate countryside.

  No machines. No computers. No cities. No crowds. Nothing unnatural. Simply paradise. Arcadia.

  Defries read it twice. It made no more sense the second time. She knew, intellectually, that Earth had been through some unpleasant times. The Industrial Crisis and the Dalek Plague and Invasion were taught in schools that were hundreds of light years from Earth. But she also knew that Earth had always been the wealthiest and most exclusive of the planets: she’d never earn enough in her lifetime to buy even a timeshare in a hut in Siberia.

  The advertisement must have meant something to people on Earth back then, when the first warpships were leaving. It was supposed to have been a time of idealism and innovation: the breakout to the stars, primitive ships full of brave adventurers guided by pioneering astronauts. But nothing changes, Defries thought. It’s always the same motivations: fear and greed. Not brave adventurers, but desperate nobodies; not pioneering astronauts, but the faceless executives of the EB Corporation.

  And even if the sales pitch had been true; even if Arcadia had started as a bountiful wilderness: what’s it like now?

  If it’s anything like the other Spinward planets we’ve surveyed, it’s a one-product factory planet. The population live on tidy estates of pretty little corporation houses, they never think of going off-planet because it’s too expensive and anyway they get six weeks a year at the corporation’s luxury seaside resort. They read their news from the corporation datanet, they go shopping at the corporation store, and they think they’re doing well because they can buy a brand-new airspeeder every year.

  They don’t talk about politics, at least not in public, because if they do the corporation can always arrange to have them transferred to a less congenial posting. Arctic weather stations are always full of dissidents on Spinward planets. And Spinward’s a long way from being the worst.

  Defries smiled. ‘Well, well,’ she said to herself. ‘Still got a few of those high ideals, after all these years in External Ops.’

  And this particular planet? Arcadia, the one world above all others that Spinward don’t want outsiders to see? System Defence In Strength at the very least, Defries thought. If it comes to a fight, Captain Toko can probably get the Raistrick past the satellite defences. But we’ll find every Arcadian armed to the teeth. Just hope I’ve got myself enough firepower.

  Edward – Prince of Beaufort, Elector of Verdany, Warden of the Northern Marches and High Alderman – settled himself at the apex of the royal dais and straightened the crown on his head. He raised his sceptre.

  Francis was a hundred paces away, standing in the narrow gap between the two main doors. He was concentrating on remembering which of the narrow corridors he had seen the Lady Christina use to leave the Throne Room, and almost missed the Prince’s signal. He hurried to fetch the Counsellor.

  For a moment, Francis watched the black shape as it lurched and tottered towards the throne; then he dashed into a side aisle and through a small doorway.

  He was in the wrong corridor. The way was dark, musty, and contained no hint of the Lady Christina’s spicy cologne. Francis cursed silently. To return, and stumble into the Throne Room, would be ignominious. He would have to press on.

  There was just enough illumination to see the staircase, curving upwards beyond an archway in the right-hand wall of the passage. Francis climbed it, and emerged into a small, circular chamber with dust-filled sunbeams streaming through crevices in the domed ceiling.

  ‘Counsellor!’ The voice – the Prince’s voice – seemed to be coming from the floor. ‘This is most unexpected – I mean, a most unexpected pleasure.’

  Francis looked down at his robe, decided that a little more dirt would make no difference now, and knelt on the floor. He found himself looking through a knot-hole in a wooden trapdoor. The trapdoor was immediately above the throne. Francis could see the Prince’s bald patch encircled by his crown. The Counsellor was at the foot of the marble steps, his limbs twitching under their covering of black silk.

  ‘It is an honour to attend on your Highness,’ the Counsellor said.

  ‘Has someone... ?’ The Prince’s hand gestured vaguely. ‘Has there been a bereavement of any, ah, particular note?’

  ‘By no means, Prince. I have come with an important message from the High Counsellor at Landfall. But first – that overgrown Apprentice Scribe who brought me to your presence...’

  ‘Apprentice? Francis?’ In the chamber above the Prince’s head, Francis’s stomach contracted with fear. ‘I suppose he is still an Apprentice,’ the Prince said. ‘What of him?’

  ‘The path of the Scribe is ordained,’ the Counsellor said, his robe shaking agitatedly. ‘It passes through Landfall. Few are blessed with a talent for letters. It must be nurtured in the correct manner.’

  ‘Yes. Francis is highly gifted, Counsellor.’

  ‘All the more reason.’

  ‘Master Percy relies on him, you know.’

  ‘Percy is a fool. Apologies, Highness. Allow me a moment’s thought.’

  Francis looked down at the black-robed shape. It remained motionless for several minutes. The Prince’s fingers began drumming on the velvet arm-rests of the throne.

  With a twitch of the limbs and a viscous clearing of the throat, the Counsellor spoke again. ‘Master Percy has allowed the apprentice Francis to assist him in Master’s tasks. Percy should not have permitted this. Francis can have no understanding of the rituals. It is imperative that he leaves for Landfall immediately.’

  What rituals? Francis could have wept with frustration. Don’t listen to him, your stupid Highness. He’s bamboozling you. There are no rituals. There are just books. Yes, I read some of the ones I’m not supposed to. But I’ve been doing that for years. I don’t want to end up like poor Percy. Don’t send me to Landfall!

  ‘I’ll send him to Landfall, of course,’ the Prince said. ‘I’ll give him the instruction myself. Now – didn’t you say you had an important message?’

  Francis rolled over and lay on his back, staring unseeingly at the punctured ceiling. There was no point in thinking any more, but he couldn’t stop. His books, his discoveries, his little herb garden, his carefully plann
ed flirtations, his comfortable, complicated life at court – it was all about to crumble.

  A few of the words from the Throne Room below penetrated his despair. A terrible crisis was threatening the whole world, according to the Humble Counsellor. Francis listened more closely. Every Prince was, at that moment, receiving a visit and an identical message from a Counsellor.

  The dull monotone emanating from the depths of the cowl could not disguise the drama of the news. There was rarely any information from off-world; most people gave other colonies not a thought. The Counsellor was talking of things that Francis had heard of only from the books he was not supposed to have read.

  Throughout the colonized galaxy, the Counsellor said humankind had been devastated. Men and Daleks had almost wiped each other out in a conflict of cataclysmic proportions, and the war was still raging. Only the policy of quarantine, as advised and maintained by the Counsellors, had prevented this world from being ravaged by one or other side. The same policy had protected the planet from contamination by the plagues that the Daleks had unleashed, and which had so affected the galaxy that all other colonies had been reduced to destitution.

  All this the Counsellors at Landfall had discovered through their occasional use of communications devices (like carrier pigeons, but much faster, crossing the void between the worlds, the Counsellor explained to the Prince).

  In the same way, they had found out about the impending danger: a starship, full of soldiers, on its way to the planet – and everyone on board infected with a Dalek plague.

  ‘And if it were to – to come here,’ the Prince said. ‘If it alights on our world?’

  ‘Perhaps it will be destroyed as it crosses the void before it reaches us,’ the Counsellor said. ‘Perhaps it will land badly, and be burnt. Perhaps those on board will have died by the time the vessel reaches us. But all of these things are unlikely.’

  ‘What, then? What are we to do?’

  ‘Arm your people. Train them in the arts of war. We will help you to do this. Then, when the starship arrives, make sure there are no survivors.’