Bara smiled to herself as she made for the elevator. The Chief was a good man, she liked him a lot, but this new design was just too much for him. Maybe Wynn had been right when he’d asked her to take over. But she was no Chief. Her place was on a much smaller ship.
‘You look like you’ve undocked.’
Bara glanced up, and an involuntary grin broke on her face at the sight of Wynn walking towards her. She wanted to hold him, to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him, but he was dressed in his formal robes; a tight tunic buttoned to the high collar, the crest of Kenric on his shoulder. This was Prince Halstead, their leader. Bara’s grin became a polite smile. She nodded, aware of the eyes of the engine deck watching them both.
‘Relax, Bara, you don’t have to be so formal,’ Wynn said quietly.
‘It’s hard not to be when you’re dressed like that,’ Bara replied. As they walked together towards the elevators she sensed an odd tension between them. ‘Something wrong?’
Wynn shrugged. ‘I hate being like this, being the prince, people staring. I walk into a room and the conversations stop, people bow, they agree with whatever I say! I thought it might get easier over time, but it’s getting worse.’
‘You don’t help it,’ Bara replied quietly.
Wynn stopped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You could get a less . . . princely uniform. You could drop some of the formalities.’
‘It’s tradition. They expect it.’
‘You’re their prince now, you can make up your own traditions. You can break with the past, be the prince you want to be.’
Wynn sighed and began to walk again. ‘We’ve been over this.’
‘I know, a dozen times. But you don’t listen.’ She glanced at him, watching as he chewed on his lip. Then, without warning, she felt his hand in hers. She looked back at him and saw he was smiling. They walked together to the elevator doors then, when they found themselves alone inside, they kissed.
‘Can we stay in here forever?’ he asked.
‘I think it’d smell bad pretty quick.’ Bara laughed. ‘Anyway, where’re we going?’
The elevator slowed, and she pulled away, preparing for company.
‘What happened to being less formal?’ Wynn asked.
Bara didn’t reply, feeling self-conscious as the doors opened onto the docking ring. There was a throng of people waiting for them there. She saw the Lord Chamberlain Cam Tanis lingering behind a line of Readers and their Aspirants. At sight of them, Tanis pushed his way to the front.
‘Finally!’ he beamed. ‘How hard is it to convene a meeting around here?’
‘What’s this meeting about?’ Bara asked.
‘We have too many meetings,’ Wynn replied to Tanis. ‘We’ve become administrators.’
Tanis slapped him on the back. ‘You were not made for the life of a diplomat, I know.’
‘None of us were. We’ve been here too long.’
They set off along the vaulted walkway that led to the heart of Icarus.
‘Would one of you like to tell me what this is all about?’ Bara said, growing impatient.
Tanis glanced over his shoulder. ‘Where’s Gofal?’
‘Working on Lexica, why?’ Bara replied.
‘The Scribe requests our presence,’ Tanis explained.
‘All of us?’
‘By name,’ Wynn said.
‘Me?’ Bara checked, feeling uncertain.
‘Yes: you, me, Gofal, Tanis, Derward, all of us. And we’re late.’
SLEEP OR DEATH
Gofal sensed the ping of a com request. He responded as he completed his work on the coolant pump Bara had dismantled.
‘Yes, Lord Chamberlain,’ Gofal said.
Tanis’ voice cracked over the com speaker. ‘Gofal, the Scribe wants to see you.’
‘The Scribe?’
‘She’s asked us to meet her in the observation suite on level seven.’
Gofal tightened the last of the fastenings on the coolant pump hood and began to collect his tools. At the same time, he ran a system diagnostic on the repaired instrument. ‘Very well. When would she like to see me?’
‘Now, actually,’ Tanis laughed.
Gofal detected the nervous tension in the Lord Chamberlain’s voice. He had obviously forgotten to tell him about the meeting, but it would be of no benefit to embarrass him.
‘Very well,’ Gofal replied. ‘I will be there as soon as possible. Please convey my apologies to the Scribe for my late arrival.’
‘Thank you. Tanis out.’
Gofal found it interesting that so many people couldn’t see beyond his metallic exterior. They saw a machine, a reliable automaton, nothing more. He was just a servant, a product of human ingenuity, not their equal. But Gofal knew that, in many measurable ways, he was superior to his creators. He was just the latest in a long line of a sub-class who were exploited by those in power. The only difference was that Gofal was designed for just that purpose, programmed to accept his place without question, without revolt. Even so, he found it . . . interesting.
There were exceptions, of course. Wynn and Bara seemed to treat him fairly. He had known the prince since he was a small child, having been assigned to the royal household as a companion and guard to the heir by his father, Prince Thyred. Often absent, Thyred was distant, disinterested in forming a connection to his growing son. In many ways Gofal had filled that void, an ever-present companion, teacher and protector to Wynn. Gofal had grown as well, learning more about humanity every day through his bond with the child. Gofal studied history, finding stories that would inspire the prince. Now, Wynn no longer needed him, not in the same way, especially since the destruction of the Obsidian. It had been Gofal’s idea to remove the prince’s memories in order to protect his identity. The plan had worked, but Gofal found himself on the periphery of the prince’s life now. Now, he had Derward and Tanis to advise him, he had Bara to support him. He wasn’t a child any more, he was a man, and all children must leave their parents behind eventually.
Yes, Gofal was just a bot, a machine designed to do the bidding of his human owners.
As he returned to the hatch, Gofal reviewed the music and art of the working classes, of slave cultures throughout the history of human evolution, and began to hum a workers’ song.
‘This air it burns within my lungs,
Lays waste with its harsh rasp.
The hammers sing the stone apart,
to bring home beer and bread.
I crawl where nothing lives no more,
and sing to wake the dead.’
He descended through Lexica’s silent decks, singing louder so that the resonant tune filled the air.
‘I’ve toiled and toiled in burning pits,
under skies of crimson flame.
Hewn poison earth for the Master’s purse,
but the land can n’er be tamed.
There’s death in every tunnel,
and our widows wail their love,
Walk sooten statues home by night,
having n’er seen sun above.’
Gofal walked down the ramp to the dockside and secured the ship before making for the docking ring, enjoying the quizzical stares from the workers he passed.
‘Those men go down the soil,
They work till their last breath.
And e’vry night those weary souls
Dream of sleep or death.’
THE HAMMER AND THE NEEDLE
Scribe Ermengarde Barrahaus III stared across the circular conference table at the assembled Librarians and high-ranking Readers, barely able to hide her displeasure.
‘I did not call this meeting of the Circle to have my interpretation of the plan brought into question, Librarian Horst,’ the Scribe said quietly. ‘We are here to discuss facts. The House of Draig has turned its back on the Church. We have tolerated this for too long – at your behest, Librarian Horst, I might add – but now Orcades Draig openly murders our Readers. Killed in cold blood.�
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She picked up the palm screen and tossed it towards the white-faced Librarian.
‘Read the report yourself!’ The Scribe’s voice grew louder. ‘It’s not pleasant. Reader Aronson killed by a sword to the chest, his body defiled, put on public display. Look at the pictures, Horst, then tell me you still advise restraint.’
The Scribe took a breath, knowing she had let emotion contaminate her voice. A foolish move. It showed weakness. But it was impossible not to be affected by the report. She’d known Aronson since she had been a small girl. A friend of her father’s, it was Aronson who had nominated her to the position of Scribe. He had been a mentor, a guiding hand during those difficult early years, and now he was dead.
‘I have read the report, in great detail, and I am familiar with the images. If you thought I was questioning your authority, Scribe Barrahaus, I apologize.’ Librarian Horst said, her face expressionless. ‘I meant no offence, I was merely articulating concern that any move to counter the House of Draig may place the trajectory of the plan in jeopardy.’
‘You think I am not aware of that?’ The Scribe tried to calm her thoughts. Logic, compassion, restraint, she reminded herself. That had been Aronson’s mantra to her over the years, and it had served her well. But she was finding it impossible to detach her own emotion from her judgment on this matter.
‘Forgive me, Scribe,’ Librarian Horst replied, her voice measured and in control. ‘It is difficult for me to see how we can act against the House of Draig without the Church becoming involved in combat.’
‘As usual, Librarian Horst, you suggest the hammer when the needle will suffice.’ It was Reader Mori who had spoken. In spite of his white hair he was still young and ambitious, his sights set on the office of Librarian one day soon. He was a moderate voice, often cautious, but the Scribe wondered if his motives were driven by personal ambition or for the good of the Church. ‘We face a threat to the authority of the Church,’ Mori continued. ‘Orcades Draig’s plans for expansion are of no real concern to us, unless they begin to adversely affect the plan, but his execution of our Readers is something we cannot let pass. He has banned our religion amongst his populace, he has closed our places of worship. Orcades has turned his back on us. It is the leader that has done this, not the entire House of Draig and its population. If we are to act – and I believe we should – then our target should be surgically precise: Orcades Draig himself.
‘You are suggesting assassination,’ the Scribe checked.
‘Better one man should die than many thousands in an unnecessary war that could destabilize the entire Cluster and delay the Reformation by a millennium.’
‘And leave a power vacuum?’ Librarian Horst asked, barely hiding her contempt for the idea. ‘Orcades Draig has no heir. Without clear succession you would plunge them into a civil war that could have dire consequences. Do you not think we have considered assassination? We have run the simulations and the outcomes are far too wild. There are too many unknowns.’
Reader Mori chuckled. ‘And yet you suggest a full-frontal attack instead?’
‘It was not my suggestion, Reader Mori. I believe it was the Scribe who first mentioned it. If you are unable to follow the discussion I suggest you step down.’
All eyes fell on Reader Mori, the tension in the room palpable.
‘Perhaps I did not make myself clear,’ Reader Mori said, his face fixed on the Librarian. ‘If the Church was seen to attack the House of Draig – no matter the provocation – we step over a line. We have been peacekeepers in the Cluster this last two hundred years. We are the sole reason that mankind survived the Fracture. We kept the flame of civilization burning when barbarity threatened to consume us all.’
‘We are all aware of the Church’s role, Reader. You are preaching to the converted.’
‘Perhaps we need to be reminded from time to time, Librarian Horst. How long is it since you last left Icarus? How long since you conducted a sermon? How long since you touched the unwashed believers?’
The Scribe slammed her fist onto the table. ‘Enough! I will not allow this meeting to descend into bickering. My Gods! You are Readers! You are Librarians! You serve the greater cause. Never forget that.’
Reader Mori bowed respectfully. ‘My apologies, Scribe.’
Librarian Horst hesitated, just long enough for it to be seen, then bowed.
‘The truth is you are both correct,’ the Scribe said in a weary voice. ‘We cannot kill Orcades without a clear plan of succession. That will take time, but we should begin work for that eventuality. And we cannot attack them directly, not without jeopardizing everything we have worked towards here. So, we come back to where we started: what can we do about Orcades Draig?’
The Scribe looked around the table at her assembled quorum but found only silence. The Circle was an ancient covenant, a Scribe’s most trusted allies from within the Church. Even though a Scribe had absolute power, the Circle was intended as a system of control, a way to keep the Church from descending into a dictatorship. For the most part it worked, but there had been times in their history where the Scribe had overstepped his or her authority and gone against the wishes of the Circle. The consequences were never good, especially for the Scribe. Her mind drifted as she glanced beyond the table at the figures half-hidden at the edge of the room; aides, a handful of junior Readers observing the inner workings of the Church, and Derward Tarkkail. His supportive smile comforted her, and she felt herself blush.
A small cough caught her attention, and she looked at the newly-elected Reader Tremblay. He had not spoken at the meeting so far, and the Scribe struggled to recall a single conversation with him before today.
‘Yes, Reader Tremblay.’ Seeing his nerves, the Scribe smiled her encouragement.
‘Thank you, Scribe,’ Reader Tremblay began hesitantly, his eyes darting around the table, never fixing on any one person for too long. ‘I am new to these assemblies, so please forgive me if this has been discussed previously . . .’
‘We welcome your input.’
Reader Tremblay picked up his palm screen and began to scroll through a document. ‘I have been studying the work on the Kenric arkship, the Vengeance, and, well, I’m not sure if I understand the purpose of their sanctuary here.’
Librarian Horst cut in. ‘Is this relevant to our discussion on the Draig problem, Tremblay?’
‘Yes, I think it is. If I can explain my thinking . . . I wasn’t here when we gave sanctuary to the House of Kenric, so I am not fully conversant with the decisions and agreements made between Kenric and the Church . . .’ Reader Tremblay took a moment, scrolling through his document while he licked his lips nervously. ‘I’ve read the files in the official record, but they are limited. As far as I can tell, we gave them sanctuary so that they were not wiped out by the House of Draig.’
The Scribe nodded. ‘If we had not intervened the House of Kenric would have fallen. Not only would the House of Draig be even more powerful than it is today, we also identified that Prince Halstead Kenric’s survival was vital to the smooth flow of the plan.’
Beside her, Librarian Okuda sighed, making his displeasure noted.
‘Since our intervention, there has been some debate on that last point,’ the Scribe conceded, ‘but we saved a great many lives that day. And Draig’s ambition was slowed.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Tremblay replied. ‘We have sheltered the Kenric arkship Caerleon since that time, and allowed them access to our resources in order to construct a new arkship.’
‘The Vengeance, yes, to replace the Obsidian.’
‘Yes, but this new vessel is no mere arkship. It is designed purely for war. It’s armament, for an arkship of its size, is formidable.’
‘It is intended as a deterrent to slow the expansion plans of Draig. The Church has sanctioned those designs,’ the Scribe replied, feeling her patience thinning.
‘But the final specifications deviate considerably from the agreed plans,’ Reader Tremblay said, getting mor
e excited. ‘They have increased armament, maneuverability, every specification has been modified beyond the benchmarks.’
He passed his palm screen along the line of Readers and Librarians until it rested in the Scribe’s hand.
‘Reader Tremblay, this is worrying, and I thank you for bringing it to my attention, but I fail to see the connection to our discussion. In future you might consider tabling information like this in advance so that–’
‘The Kenric arkship might be the answer to our problem with the House of Draig,’ Tremblay said quickly. Realizing his mistake, he reddened. ‘Forgive my interruption, Scribe.’
Smiling, she waved her hand. ‘Please continue.’
‘There is much talk amongst other houses, about our support for the House of Kenric.’
Librarian Horst said, ‘We have never openly confirmed our support. Their arkships are hidden inside our docks.’
‘Yes, but rumors persist nonetheless. The other houses are aware.’
The Scribe put down the palm screen and leaned over the table. ‘Reader Tremblay, what is your proposal?’
‘That we ask the House of Kenric to leave. We deny them sanctuary.’
A ripple of conversation passed over the table.
‘To what end?’
‘Our personality profile of Prince Halstead suggests he will seek out Orcades Draig. He will attack his fleet and try to make him pay for the destruction of the Obsidian. If he is successful, he may solve our problem for us. And in doing so he will appear as a natural heir to the people of the House of Draig.’
Reader Mori shook his head. ‘You would risk the Prince? Reader Tremblay, you are new to this level of the Church. Your work is commendable, but you have not considered what this course of action would do to the plan.
‘Actually, I have,’ Reader Tremblay said, with a hint of satisfaction.
At the center of the table, was a holograph unit. Tremblay activated it and a three-dimensional representation of his calculations filled the air, the cool blue light illuminating their upturned faces. They were all familiar with this intricate connecting structure of numbers, text and equations. This was the plan, a highly-complex simulation of the future, a future that would eventually reverse the damage done to the sun and the planets during the Fracture. This was their divine mission.
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