Emprise

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  Aikens ranted on, livid. “Blackguard! Spawn of a chippy! If I didn’t know his parents, I’d think he was French.”

  Anofi looked away to hide her amusement.

  “Come now, Marc.” Schmidt reproached him. “Are you really so surprised? Is it that easy for you to pretend that it’s still 1985 and nothing has changed?”

  “He didn’t even hear us out,” Aikens said gruffly.

  “Doubtless one of the deans told him enough to satisfy his limited curiosity.” Aikens frowned, then nodded reluctant agreement. “It’s London for us, then.”

  “We can expect more of the same there.”

  “We must try,” Anofi insisted, her normal ebullience returning. “We’ve missed today’s train, but that will give us time to make appointments—if the lines to London are working.”

  “I doubt we’ll be able to get any appointments,” Aikens said soberly.

  “That’s fine,” she said, clapping her hands once. “Then we’ll crash offices. There’s nothing I like better than a good reason to be rude.”

  The group left Cambridge the next morning on a crowded, noisy, superannuated British Rail electric. Eddington was with them—though Schmidt had tried to dissuade her, Anofi had coaxed Eddington back into the fold.

  En route, they planned their campaign as best they could. But the message they carried did not fit comfortably into the purview of any government office they could name, and they found that they knew embarrassingly little about the bureaucracy itself and still less about the people who made it up.

  Anofi’s joking suggestion that the Foreign Office would be most interested put an end to the effort, and they followed Schmidt’s example by sight-seeing the rest of the way. They peered through grime-streaked windows as Essex and Hertfordshire flashed by, the dry stone walls, the endless towns and villages of an island thoroughly tamed by its human inhabitants.

  When they disembarked at the Broad Street Station, it was an hour after the start of the business day, and so the underground and buses were idle, not to move again until the evening exodus. They set off on foot to Westminster, nearly five kilometres distant, in a cold swirling mist. South on Bishopsgate past Lloyds and the tower of the Stock Exchange, and across the new London Bridge they went. The Thames was dotted with barges; the Tower Bridge was a ghost downstream.

  They hastened west through Bankside, past the sprawling hulk of Waterloo Station and the stark face of the South Bank cultural complex. When they reached the Westminster Bridge at last, their goal was in sight: the Houses of Parliament, rising above the walled west bank of the river.

  As they crossed the long span, Eddington seemed transfixed by the intricate beauty of the Parliament structures. “Mourning the death of peerage and privilege?” asked Schmidt, walking beside him.

  “Perhaps a little,” Eddington admitted. It was true that in earlier times, better times, the House of Lords would have been a club for the Eddingtons and their ilk. Now, with the Lords abolished in the Reformation, he was merely one of many whose name had once meant ruling class.

  The peer representing Cambridgeshire refused to see them. They had to be satisfied with a junior staff member, who advised them that no support for basic research was politically or fiscally possible, whatever the topic of research.

  That proved to be one of the more positive moments of the next three hours. More than once, they were turned away as soon as they gave their names. Where they were not, the mention of the reason for their visit brought a swift, curt dismissal—and occasionally a withering rebuke.

  Aikens quickly learned to state their credentials in terms of college and degree rather than specialty, and to couch their purpose in ominous but ambiguous terms. Even so, they could not penetrate the bureaucratic shield that surrounded the Lord Privy Seal, the Home Secretary, and the like.

  At one point they stood in a huddle of Whitehall, a few paces from Downing Street. “It’s almost as if we were expected,” Anofi said gloomily.

  “How could that be?” asked Aikens. Anofi had no answer, and they continued on.

  Ironically enough, it was at the Foreign Office that they at last received some encouragement. Aikens introduced them as ministers-without-portfolio for a sovereign nation seeking recognition, and were they interested in setting up a dialogue?

  Perhaps because of the instability in a dozen African and Central American countries, that got them admitted to an inner office, where each was given several forms to complete. When they turned them in, they were sent to an office in the west end of the labyrinthine building. Unescorted and despite the helpful directions of three different clerks, it took them nearly forty minutes to find it. There a junior minister received them and ushered them quickly into his office. In hushed tones, he asked, “You’re actually from Cambridge, aren’t you?”

  The trio exchanged glances. “Yes,” said Aikens.

  “And this sovereign nation—it’s not on this planet, correct? We’ve gotten some unconfirmed reports about astronomers having made contact—”

  “It is, and we are the astronomers.”

  “Well, I’m certainly glad you came to us. This is an important matter, and it needs proper attention.”

  Aikens sighed, relieved. “I can’t tell you what it means to find a sympathetic ear. We’ve been turned out of a score of offices—”

  “Acting on our instructions. We had to see that it was played down—we wouldn’t want newsboys shouting this on the streets, now, would we?” Promising to have an audience arranged with the appropriate officials, the minister dispatched them to a photographer located on a subterranean level.

  Though the minister’s directions seemed explicit enough, again they got lost. The photographer fiddled and fussed and talked to himself, oblivious to his subjects’ impatience.

  At long last, they returned to the junior minister’s office, and he escorted them to a conference room nearby. A dozen men and women were arrayed around a large table, and they grew silent and solemn when the scientists appeared.

  They listened intently as Aikens introduced the others and then told of the receipt of the signal and the decoding of the message. He passed copies of its text around the table, and as he watched them read, he felt it was going well. There had only been one interruption—a messenger with a large envelope for the junior minister. And although a few mouth corners were turned up in tolerant smiles, Aikens felt the rest of his audience was at least open-minded and possibly with them.

  That is, until the questions began.

  “Graham Blackett, maintenance engineer. Ah, what sort of sex life do these critters have? I mean, will the embassy staff there be able to enjoy themselves on a Saturday night?”

  The question and Blackett’s leering wink prompted laughter and more questions, hurled one after another at the scientists like spoiled fruit from a rowdy dance-hall crowd.

  “Michael Smythe, Far East clerk. D’ you think they’d be willin’ to donate a few young’uns for a display at the London Zoo?”

  “Donna Laytham, food service. Where do you get your rocket ship overhauled between flights?”

  “Vernon MacPherson, commerce. Tell us, how much human blood will their confectioners be looking to import? And will they be hirin’ an agent to handle this end for ’em?”

  Aikens was stunned into silence, and the others were little better off: Anofi red-faced, Eddington sputtering monosyllables. In the midst of the tumult, as the questioners began to call out sarcastic answers to their own questions, the junior minister opened the envelope and came to the head of the table. There he presented each of the visitors with a photo ID badge identifying them as Ambassadors from Pluto. There was a greenish cast to their faces, and their heads had sprouted silver antennae.

  “All in fun, sport,” said the minister, patting Aikens on the shoulder and laughing so hard he was near tears. “Sir Winston told us to watch for you and we couldn’t resist.” Gesturing to the others to follow, he left the room, chortling.

  Bu
t one middle-aged man, balding and paunchy, was slow to leave, and stopped at the door when the others were gone.

  “Look—I understand,” he whispered conspiratorially, glancing over his shoulder into the corridor to see if he was being watched. “Not that I can talk to anyone here about it. But I used to read Aldiss and Clarke—saw all nine Star Wars flicks, you understand?”

  His voice dropped to the barest rustle. “It’s a good go, and a bonnie tale. But you watered it down too much with that corny English-language bit, like a flick where the Japanese all speak Hyde Street English. First contact’ll be made in the language of scien—of nature. The decay of neutrons, the spectra of stars—you know. You’ve got to jazz it up a bit, get more mystical, a little more sweep. Knock them back a little. And good luck to you. Somebody’s got to do something. My favorite books are all falling apart.”

  They sat together in a Victoria Street pub afterward, too deflated to even consume the drinks placed before them. “There’s not a confessed scientist in the whole British government, and damned few closet ones,” Aikens said bitterly.

  “But it’s nothing new,” Schmidt observed dispassionately. “There have always been people suspicious of science—those who never understood it and resented feeling the fool, those who got lost in the details and never saw its vision, those who were bored or belittled or made to feel left out. They’re having their day now. And you know, there were always more of them than there were of us.”

  “Damn you and your philosophy,” said Aikens. “And damn Terence Winston, too. I never dreamed he could be this petty—sabotaging us because he couldn’t accept the facts. A bloody meddler, that’s what he is.”

  “You have that flaw of thinking well of people,” Schmidt agreed. “We’ll have to get to someone he can’t get to,” said Anofi gloomily.

  “The table is open for suggestions,” Eddington said.

  “This isn’t the only country, you know.”

  “Dream on,” said Eddington.

  “Perhaps we need to aim higher,” Aikens said thoughtfully. “At people who can act without getting approval from the next three levels above them. And perhaps we’ll have to go through the back door.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “How about the Prime Minister himself?”

  “And how will we manage that, if we can’t even manage a chat with our peer?” asked Eddington. “By being more forceful,” said Anofi. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, do whatever it takes.”

  “He’s the wrong man, anyway,” Schmidt reminded them.

  “He’s ignorant and proud of it.”

  “We could always go to Hyde Park and harangue the passersby,” Eddington said cynically. “Or write a scathing letter to the Times.”

  “No,” Anofi said quietly. “I know who we should target.”

  “Who?”

  “The King.”

  The others stared at her. “William?” asked Schmidt, incredulous. “Why riot? He had a liberal education, including the sciences—trained as a pilot and all that.”

  “Good Lord, yes!” gushed Aikens. “She’s bloody well right. We’ll go after the King.”

  Anofi struck the table with a fist for emphasis. “But no halfway measures. Whatever it takes. He’s the one we’ve got to get to. Then they’ll have to listen.”

  In their celebratory mood, no one noticed the young man rise from the table beside them and leave the pub. But there was no missing the grim-faced constables who returned with him a few minutes later to take the four of them away.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Audience

  The metallic clank as the cell door unlocked startled Marc Aikens from his far from peaceful sleep. “Time to go, cant-spinner. It’s court day for you,” boomed the grinning guard who stood in the doorway.

  “Court day? That can’t be. I haven’t even talked with a barrister yet,” Aikens protested, sitting up and squinting at the corridor lights.

  “You’re the prisoner Marc Dan-i-el Aikens, and the daybook says it’s court for you. You don’t need a barrister because it’s a King’s Witness who’ll testify, and they’re sworn to honesty. Now let’s be going.”

  “But look at me, man—I haven’t even washed up yet. Am I to appear in court like this?”

  “And I suppose you want Dame Justice to wait while you primp. Ha to that! Now, give us your hands behind your back, there’s a good fellow.”

  With a sigh, Aikens gave up his wrists to the handcuffs. Then, hair unkempt and wearing the wrinkled clothes he had slept in, Aikens found himself escorted down the corridors to the prison’s loading area. A transfer van was waiting, and it roared off once Aikens was inside and the doors were slammed shut.

  The ride was a short one, and Aikens caught but glimpses of the city through the small slitted windows at the rear of the van. But he did not need to see the streets of London to know that they were taking him to Old Bailey—the Central Criminal Court.

  He was unloaded in the privacy of a sealed garage, with no one but a guard and a nattily dressed detective sergeant there to see him. He was led by the sergeant down brightly lit but deserted hallways to an unmarked doorway. When the door was opened in response to the sergeant’s knock, Aikens caught a quick glimpse of polished wood and the figures of several people.

  As he had expected, it was a courtroom. As he had hoped but dared not expect, standing in the dock already were Anofi, Eddington, and Schmidt.

  “Oh, hell, the gang’s all here,” Anofi said with faint humor as Aikens joined them.

  “How have things been for you, Marc?” Schmidt asked.

  “Mo better than for any of you, I’m sure. Has anyone had any outside contact? A barrister, family, anything?” None had, and they were sobered by the discovery. “This has to be a preliminary hearing of some kind,”

  Eddington said with a confidence he did not feel.

  “I’m afraid we are here for our trial, Larry,” Aikens said, watching the clerks putting their papers in order and topping off the pitcher on the judges’ bench.

  “A trial in camera, I would guess,” said Schmidt, eyeing the empty benches in the public area.

  “They can’t do that,” Eddington protested.

  “Just watch them.”

  “Quiet in the dock!” cried the bailiff. “All rise!”

  Three bewigged jurists entered via a door to the right and moved to their seats. “Where are the barristers?” whispered Anofi. ‘This is a bench trial, like in my country,” Schmidt whispered. “The judges will question the witnesses.”

  “The King’s Plenipotentiary Court is now in session, the honorable Kelly Smythe-White, First Magistrate, presiding,” intoned a clerk.

  Smythe-White examined a sheet of paper, then looked up. “Who brings these charges against the accused?” he asked.

  “I do, First Magistrate.” The voice came from behind the dock, but none who stood in it needed to turn to know who spoke.

  “Winston, you bastard pup—” Eddington’s outburst was cut short by a sharp warning jab between the shoulder blades with a constable’s billy club. Eddington turned and glowered at the officer, who merely raised an eyebrow and tapped his billy in the palm of his hand.

  “State your complaint.”

  “Sir, I have personal knowledge that these prisoners have engaged in a seditious conspiracy to deceive and defraud this government through the practice of humanist arts,” Winston said smoothly, coming forward to the rail. “Out of duty to the Crown, I sought and obtained the signature of an officer of this court on my complaint. That is the document now before you.”

  “And did you make testimony regarding this complaint?”

  “I did, Your Honor, to Inspector Gruen of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Is this your testimony?” asked Smythe-White, holding up a stapled bundle of sheets. A clerk brought the sheaf to him, and he riffled through the pages quickly. “It is, Your Honor.”

  “
Thank you for your aid and alertness, Sir Winston. You may go.”

  Winston bowed his head in acknowledgement and contrived to pass close by the dock on his way out. “I warned you,” he said nastily.

  Aikens was attempting to be recognized by Smythe-White, but the handcuffs constrained him. “Your Honor, a question, if you will,” he called out finally. He winced as the constable delivered a jolting blow to his spine. “Your Honor, when will we hear Winston’s testimony against us?” He was struck again, harder, but went on. “We’ve heard charges but no evidence.”

  “You be quiet, now!” said the constable, grabbing him by the arm.

  Smythe-White narrowed his gaze to stare at Aikens. “I would caution the prisoners that further outbursts could result in a summary judgment against them,” he said, then looked away. “Inspector Gruen.”

  “Here, Your Honor.”

  “What action did you take on the charge by the complainant Winston?”

  “Your Honor, as is customary in such cases, I enlisted a King’s Witness to gather such evidence as would confirm or refute the charge.”

  “They paid a squeak to snoop on us,” Anofi whispered. “I couldn’t figure what had happened.”

  “Is the King’s Witness present?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. In our judgment, his findings justify prosecution under the Emergency Powers Act for Misappropriation of resources and the practice of proscribed humanist arts. The Metropolitan Police will also prosecute on its own account a charge of conspiracy to commit treason against the Crown. Should the court confirm these charges, we would recommend the penalty of death by hanging.”

  An involuntary cry of dismay escaped Anofi’s lips.

  “They can’t do that,” Eddington growled under his breath.

  “Quiet, both of you,” said Aikens. “We’ll have our turn.”

  With growing apprehension, the prisoners listened as the young man from the pub recounted the group’s conversation there. “It sounds so damning,” Eddington said in quiet despair. “But we didn’t mean it that way.”