Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  “Ideally, you would die, but alas, as I have explained, at this present moment you are too useful,” he looked The Pan up and down, “if I were your masters, I would not have left you so unprepared. Perhaps it is time for you to discover who your father really was.” The Pan said nothing and listened. “You have encountered the Resistance?”

  “Yeh, we’ve met,” said The Pan, “as you seem to know.”

  “The Resistance view their conflict with my government as a clash of worthy adversaries; titans of the battlefield, who, though forced to differ, respect one another. And of course, they give the people hope—hope that somewhere, others are rebelling, thus allowing the average, apathetic K’Barthan to believe that until the situation reaches a tipping point, he or she, need not. Naturally, the Resistance are under my control, so I can offset every victory they achieve with enough set-backs to ensure our apathetic K’Barthan’s idea of the tipping point is never reached.” Interesting, thought The Pan, and not surprising, either. “So as you may appreciate, they pose no threat to me. Indeed, they perform a useful function, in that, if I arrange to have them informed correctly, they can be manipulated to intervene where the state cannot.”

  The Pan couldn’t imagine a situation where the state Lord Vernon ran couldn’t intervene. And surely the average K’Barthan was better than that.

  “What if we K’Barthans aren’t as apathetic as you think?” he said.

  “What if we K’Barthans aren’t as apathetic as you think?” said Lord Vernon, in mocking imitation. “What if you are?” Touché. Lord Vernon paused to let this sink home, “Perhaps you are partially correct, there is another group of K’Barthans, although I flatter myself there aren’t many left, whose ways are more secretive. Their subtlety makes them difficult to trace and yet when captured, they often have insurances that make them harder, even for us, to convict. They are the Underground.”

  The Pan remembered that Gladys and Ada had talked about subtle resistance. Oh Arnold, was that what they had meant? And the ‘we’ the old man kept referring to? He could feel himself going pale.

  “I see you are beginning to appreciate the gravity of my words,” said Lord Vernon. “Your father brought you up a Nimmist, I assume.”

  “It was banned—” The Pan began.

  “Nevertheless, your parents brought you up as a Nimmist.”

  There was no point arguing and since his family were dead anyway, it wasn’t as if it could do any harm to answer the question.

  “I suppose they did.”

  “So.” A long pause after the so. “You will know what the Looking is.”

  “Am I meant to?”

  “Your mere existence is treason, surely you appreciate that anything you do is illegal,” Lord Vernon raised his eyebrows, “on this rare occasion, you can be honest with me without fear—it will bring you no further trouble.” Obviously, because, as The Pan knew, he was in about as much trouble as it was possible to be in. Lord Vernon continued, “The Looking is a treasonable offence, which in this case was organised and conducted by the Underground. They set up the Council of the Choosing which was led by two of their most respected leaders: your father ...”

  Arnold. The Pan could feel the colour draining from his face.

  “... and an old man.”

  The old man! Of course, that was why he looked familiar. The startling resemblance he bore to Trev was a red herring and it had thrown The Pan, but the old boy’s face should have been etched on his memory for all time. That morning on the main street in Hamgee, an old man had run past, surprisingly quickly, followed by Lord Vernon, while he was still a sergeant, with whom The Pan had his sidestepping incident.

  “The old man you were chasing.”

  “Yes,” said Lord Vernon. “The old man who escaped and evaded me until his death.”

  His death? The Pan tried not to look surprised. Arnold! It hadn’t worked. Not if the way Lord Vernon guffawed was anything to go by.

  Could this interview get any worse The Pan wondered? How could he be such an idiot? He’d blown the old boy’s cover and now the Grongles would come looking for him again, worse, there’d be no-one to warn him. He had to do something.

  “Excellent,” Lord Vernon rubbed his suede-clad hands together, “I suspected he was still alive. And since you have confirmed this for me, now you will tell me where to find him.”

  “How can I? I haven’t seen him in years.”

  A fine effort but even to his own ears, unconvincing.

  “But I disagree, you have not inherited your father’s emotional control. Such an expressive face, so eloquent of your surprise and now, of your fear for those you might betray. Oh, how I am going to enjoy this. All that is necessary is that I ask you the right questions; you will give me your friends without uttering a word.”

  The Pan was angry and scared, a horrible combination. He couldn’t control his fear but he had to control his anger. He must keep a clear head if he stood any chance of surviving this interview, and now he had betrayed the old man, he had to. It wasn’t only the old man, it was Ada and Gladys and Their Trev. He was as determined as ever that his unofficial family should avoid the fate of his real one.

  “That’s a very interesting story but you still haven’t told me why I’m here,” he said through gritted teeth, or was that chattering teeth, “or why you might let me go.”

  “On the contrary, as I have stated, you are here to give me information, and whether or not I free you afterwards depends how much information you are able to give.”

  “Well then, you can see I don’t have the nerve to talk in circles with you,” doubtless, the exact reason why he was drawing it out, “so shall we cut to the chase and get on with it?”

  Honesty. Probably not the best move.

  “Habitually, I reward levels of impertinence greatly inferior to yours with torture and death. However, since I am feeling magnanimous today, I shall indulge you.” Magnanimous? Never! This was confirmation that Lord Vernon needed him. The Pan stayed silent while his nemesis kept talking. “As we have already agreed, your father was embroiled in an outlawed organisation and in the conduct of a treasonable activity, the Looking. I believe you knew this before I told you.”

  The Pan took a breath, to speak.

  “I would advise you to think before you repudiate my claim,” Lord Vernon cut in, “you were of the age to be questioned, presumably by your father, himself.” The Pan shrugged. Now he thought about it – and Arnold knew he’d done a lot of thinking about it since his first conversation with the old man – he was certain that was true, especially coupled with what he had just heard. His father had questioned him, subtly, over a number of days. He couldn’t vouch that he was given the standard one-hour interview, but he had definitely been interviewed. It was just that, for some reason, his father had wanted to make sure he had never known. Why? No time to think about that now.

  “At that time I did not enjoy the same influence as I do today,” said Lord Vernon, “and the legal system still afforded me certain constraints. So, though numerous witnesses were ready to denounce the activities of your father and his colleagues, I required evidence to make my case. When I found it, your father aided and abetted their escape. Every single one slipped through my fingers,” he held out his hand and slowly clenched his fist while he spoke, “I had one chance of capturing their leader, and you got in my way. An uncanny coincidence, is it not?”

  “Uncanny, yes, but a coincidence is all it is,” said The Pan as evenly as he could.

  “Really? Then how is it, that when I seek to capture the Mervinettes, you are the reason that they evade me?”

  “I’m the getaway man, it’s my job to escape.”

  “Exactly, you are their driver and you kept them from justice.”

  “That’s not—” began The Pan, but Lord Vernon cut him off.

  “I seek an artefact used in the Looking, and when it finally comes to light, who is at the centre of the gang stealing it?”

  �
�Steady on! I don’t rob, I drive. And believe me, my colleagues view me as scum.”

  “Yet you stole it for the old man.”

  Once again, The Pan felt his face giving him away.

  The corners of Lord Vernon’s mouth curled upwards in a sinister smile.

  “I see you did!” His tone changed, reverting abruptly to menacing, “I know you have been in contact with him recently. Do you understand what this means?”

  Obviously nothing good. The Pan shook his head.

  “You are the one consistent link in the activities of these dissidents over the last five years.”

  “Oh no, I—”

  “Do not deny it. Do not take me for a fool.”

  Arnold’s Y-fronts! This was going very badly.

  “OK, so yes, I am linked with them, but socially, that’s all. I’m not like my father. I don’t do rebellion—not intentionally. I’m a coward. All I want is a quiet life!” He thought of the girl in the thimble and her parallel world, “I could—I would disappear, if you’d let me.”

  “As I may have previously stated, and you have now proved—twice—the typical K’Barthan is at best apathetic and at worst ...” Lord Vernon looked The Pan up and down.

  “I thought I wasn’t typical,” said The Pan, “I thought that was your point.”

  “You are, unusual, Hamgeean, but you display the same racial deficiencies as your peers. A man, or a Hamgeean—even one as lacking in fibre as you—will be who they must be. ‘Quiet’ is not your destiny, my friend, and you can thank your father for that,” he added.

  He gestured to the guards and put on his sunglasses again. His tone changed – brusque, businesslike, “And now, I am going to ask you some more questions.” A nod from their master and one guard strode over to The Pan, wrenched his arms behind his back and held him still. The other guard, who had brought over a tray containing a syringe of mauve liquid, walked over to Lord Vernon and stood at his side.

  “Unfortunately for you, no matter how genuine your desire to cooperate, I must ensure beyond doubt that your answers are factual,” Lord Vernon took the syringe from the tray, held it up to the light and pressed the plunger so a small jet of the contents squirted out of the end. “You have heard about the Truth Serum, I assume?”

  The Truth Serum. A rumour, a figment of the imagination, like monsters under the bed, a story about a nightmare that didn’t exist. That was what The Pan had heard.

  “Perhaps you did not believe,” Lord Vernon said, apparently reading his prisoner’s mind, “and yet, every legend holds a grain of truth.”

  Holy Book of Arnold 5, chapter 53, not sure which verse. Lord Vernon was quoting The Prophet, a part of The Pan’s mind realised, with strange detachment, while the rest of it was busy panicking.

  Chapter 62

  Again The Pan’s fear gripped him: he couldn’t tell the truth, he had already betrayed the old man and now he would grass up Big Merv. Worse, Gladys, Ada and Their Trev were surely as deeply involved in the Underground as the old man. They were all in danger and somebody had to warn them, and who else was there? The Pan knew that if he told the truth, he would betray everyone and everything he cared for. Even worse, there would be no more reason for Lord Vernon to keep him alive.

  His only chance of survival was to keep schtum. His only way of saving the others was to keep schtum and the only chance of actually keeping schtum was not to be around to do any talking. He must escape. Now. He struggled half-heartedly, enough to confirm he could not wriggle free of the guard’s grip. OK, let’s call that plan A. Time to think of a plan B.

  “Hold him still,” said Lord Vernon as he approached. “The serum may be injected into any part of the victim’s body, but I find it concentrates the minds of my interviewees so much more closely when it is delivered just—below—the—eye.” He spoke these last words slowly, giving The Pan plenty of time to appreciate what was about to happen. Lord Vernon put his hand over The Pan’s face, pushing his head back so he couldn’t move it. “I would not like you to miss this,” he said, and as The Pan’s eye instinctively tried to close, he used his thumb and first finger to force it open, forcing him to watch as the needle approached. He was shaking, he couldn’t help it; he knew his teeth were chattering, too.

  “You are frightened?”

  “Well, duh,” said The Pan. He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his tone. For someone devious, smart, evil and out-and-out vicious enough to beat all other Grongolian comers to the position of Lord Protector of K’Barth, Lord Vernon was being remarkably thick.

  “You’re about to stick a needle in my eye! Of course I’m scared.” But the thing that was frightening him most was not the needle, it was that he was about to tell the truth.

  “Just below your eye; like this,” said Lord Vernon as he injected half a syringe full of Truth Serum into The Pan’s face. Arnold in the skies that smarted! He screamed in a manner that Big Merv would undoubtedly have termed ‘girlie’, but at least, on the up side, it stopped him from crying.

  The pain passed, though, and was quickly replaced by numbness. It spread across his face, round the back of his neck, up over his head and down his back. His chest felt numb, as if his heart had stopped. Pins and needles pulsed down his arms and legs to his feet and hands and then back to his body on an endless cycle, like breathing. Lord Vernon was waving in and out of focus. He tried to concentrate.

  Where was he? What was he doing? Not talking, that’s right, he mustn’t talk. What was he doing again, he’d forgotten? Oh yes. He had to stay silent but he knew he couldn’t. Maybe he could sing. Yes, that was it! Get something lodged in his head, a repetitive, annoying song which would drive out everything else. Something to block the honesty, an irritating song. By The Prophet’s eyeballs! Why couldn’t he think of an irritating song when he needed one?

  After a few minutes, the pins and needles abated and he was able to focus. Not that he wanted to, since the only thing in his immediate field of vision was Lord Vernon. On the upside, he had finally remembered an annoying nursery rhyme and it was buzzing around his brain like a bluebottle in a jar. He took several deep breaths and waited for the questioning to begin.

  “Let us start with something simple,” said Lord Vernon. “What is your name?”

  “I’m The Pan of Hamgee,” said The Pan’s mouth before his brain could do anything to shut it up. Oh dear, this was going to be ugly. Concentrate on the rhyme, concentrate on the rhyme.

  “Occupation?”

  The Pan could feel his mouth forming the words but with an immense effort of self-control, he managed to say nothing. He felt wobbly, as if he was using somebody else’s legs or at the least, borrowed knees.

  “Resistance,” murmured Lord Vernon, “from you? I am surprised. Perhaps you are your father’s son after all.” He took the syringe, grabbed The Pan by the face and injected the rest of the liquid just below his other eye.

  “What did you do that for?” The Pan tried to say, but since his tongue felt like a large rubber brick, all that came out was incoherent mumbling.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that,” said Lord Vernon. He stood back to admire his handiwork and The Pan watched him muzzily. He was looking at his watch, presumably waiting for the effects of the second dose of Truth Serum to kick in. The Pan concentrated on the nursery rhyme. He could only remember the first line. Never mind, it was annoying enough and it was stuck in his head alright.

  After a suitable interval, Lord Vernon started his questioning again, but at the deep end this time.

  “You stole to order for an old man who is, undoubtedly, very much alive. You may, or may not, know his name, Robin Get, Sir Robin Get—although naturally, as a GBI, his title is revoked and illegal.”

  In spite of, or perhaps because of, the gallons of Truth Serum coursing through his veins, The Pan wanted to laugh. What a great name! It should have been Big Merv’s, since he was far more of a robbin’ get than the old man. With a monumental effort he managed not to smile. Ha, poker
face was in position! Or was it merely palsied by too much Truth Serum? Who cared? The issue, now, was to keep it there.

  “He shares your inability to conform.” This was not intended as a compliment, but The Pan was flattered. In his view people who refused to conform were the people with enough brains to think about what they were asked to do. “He comes from an old banking family but he rejected their morals and became a Nimmist priest, the High Priest, by the time we purged this nation of religion.”

  Interesting. It hadn’t occurred to The Pan that he would learn anything like this from Lord Vernon and he made a mental note to try and remember the old man’s name, at least. If he was really the High Priest, then perhaps The Pan should be a bit more deferential in future, too. If he had one, of course.

  “So,” Lord Vernon continued, “your landladies—oh yes, I know about them, too—introduced you to Sir Robin, and he hired the Mervinettes to conduct a robbery. You took a safety deposit box containing the one definitive tool used in the Looking from the world’s most impregnable bank, I must congratulate you on your achievement. What was in that box? What was it that you stole?”

  Once again The Pan’s mouth went straight into action. This wasn’t good. He was going to ruin everything. What was it Gladys and the old man had called it? ‘Civilisation as we know it’ – yeh, that was a goner. Then The Pan’s ears, which had been concentrating on other things, caught the tail end of what he’d been saying.

  “I asked you what you stole,” said Lord Vernon, his voice soft with evil intent. “I will not do so, politely, again.”

  “A box,” said The Pan’s brain, “I’m a little teapot!” said his mouth. It was working! Result! On the downside, he could see it was not the result Lord Vernon was looking for, and in that respect it might be, well ... if not dangerous, then uncomfortable.

  He watched as, slowly and deliberately, the Lord High Protector of K’Barth removed his sunglasses, folded them carefully and put them in a pouch on his belt. Then, in a blur of lightning-fast movement, he punched The Pan in the face, the force making his head snap sideways. More pain, more pins and needles, but very little time to acclimatise before an equally hard punch in the stomach. The guard must have let go of him, because he was on the floor now. He felt his body lift with the impact as Lord Vernon kicked him and he rolled himself into a ball, gasping and wheezing.