Dark Foundations (11 page)

“Yes . . . I suppose . . . ,” Merral said as he wrestled with the idea. “The occupier finds that everyone is a potential enemy. But it doesn't sound very, well,
fair
.”

Vero laughed. “Oh, Merral, war isn't a Team-Ball tournament. The point is that if they attack civilians, then the civilians have a right to attack back.”

“I suppose so—on those terms. But these irregulars—where will we have them?”

“Everywhere. Every settlement across the planet.” Vero seemed enthusiastic. “We just supply them with secret bases, weapons, training, and communications.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Ah. Well, the irregulars are already being set up. And we'd like your approval.” He shrugged. “But if you really don't like them . . . well, we can always restrict them.”

Merral considered the matter in silence as the traffic grew heavier and the first orchards of Isterrane came into sight.

“I think I approve,” he said finally. “I need to think about it though. But who would head it up?”

“Ultimately, you, of course. The regulars and the irregulars have to work together. But the irregulars will have a separate chain of command and a heavy involvement from Intelligence.”

“In other words,
you
.”

Vero looked uneasy. “Well, yes. It's a natural extension of what I have been doing.”

“And you've started working on them?”

“Yes. We couldn't wait. We are funneling anybody we don't take for the regulars into the irregs. There were fifty groups planned as of last night.”

“I'll give you my answer soon. But I can't foresee disagreeing with you.”

They were silent until they reached the edge of the city. Then Vero began to speak in a hesitant way, betraying his unease. “My friend . . . I am aware this is personal, but can I ask what exactly is going on between you and Isabella and Anya? I know a bit and can guess a bit more, but I think I ought to know more.” He paused. “I mean in one sense, it's none of my business, but in another, it is. We have enough problems to face without difficulties between you and Anya. We need to work together.”

Merral stared at Vero.
He's embarrassed.
“Yes, Vero, you are right. And anyway maybe you can help me. You remember that my parents—and Isabella's—were reluctant to allow us to proceed to commitment?”

“Yes, you told me about it soon after we met. It seems like years ago. You were going to wait—keep the relationship as something open and nonexclusive.”

“Yes. Well, that's what I thought. But just before we walked north looking for the intruders, Isabella persuaded me to agree to something. I wasn't paying attention, so I agreed. But ever since, she has said—or implied—that we agreed to be committed to each other.”

“Without parental consent?” Vero frowned.

“Yes.”

“So—let's get this right—
she
sees you as committed to her and therefore on the way to engagement and marriage. But
you
don't.”

“Exactly.”

“And so you got involved with someone else—”

“No! Put like that, you make me sound utterly immoral!”

Vero winced. “S-sorry. Look, you tell it your way.”

“Oh, the apology is mine. I didn't mean to snap. To be honest, I feel terrible about the whole business. But it's weird. I was happy with Isabella. I really didn't mind the idea of commitment and marriage to her. Yet I started having these feelings for Anya.”

“Ah. But why didn't you just tell Anya that you were already, well . . .” Vero paused. “At least, in some sense, committed?”

“There's the heart of the matter.” Merral turned back to the passing landscape, seeing the bladelike structure of the Planetary Administration building rising above the Isterrane skyline.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “I felt that it wasn't a real commitment. And it all happened so suddenly. It's no excuse, I know.”

“So, what do you propose to do?”

“Well, I have to see Isabella and call it all off. After all, not even engagements are unbreakable.”

“True. But it's rare and by mutual consent. Or at least I should say, hitherto it has been rare. But everything is changing.” Vero shook his head mournfully. “Everything.” A moment later he spoke again. “Incidentally, you may not be surprised to know that you're not alone. Other similar problems have been reported. Clemant, that careful observer of social detail, is most concerned. Delastro made a big thing of it in his speech the other night.”

“Delastro?”

“Of course, you have been out of it. Balthazar Delastro has been designated prebendant by the Farholme congregations three . . . no . . . four days ago.”

“What's a prebendant?”

“I'm not sure. It's a role dug out for the crisis. But he has authority. Technically, the rather frail Octavio Jenat is still the president of the congregations. But Delastro is making the speeches.” Vero looked pensive. “You—
we—
may need to watch this man. So far the congregations have not been an issue. After all, when the loss of the Gate was presumed to be a technical failure, it wasn't their business. But now that they all know there are intruders and that evil is spreading, the crisis is very much their business. Anyway, there is a new factor: Prebendant Balthazar Delastro. But you were saying? About your . . . well . . . relational difficulties.”

“Yes. Well, I need to see Anya too . . . to apologize again and ask that our relationship go back to being just friends. So the aim with both is the same: to put the clock back. For the duration.”

“The duration?” Vero's expression seemed almost agonized. “I wonder what that means. Part of me wonders if it will be forever.” Vero gestured at the vehicle's rear mirror. “The past, the Assembly, all our old values: all seem to be like what I see here—an image rapidly receding. Some nights I wake up and wonder if it was all a dream.”

Merral turned away, embarrassed by the intensity of the sadness that had been revealed. “I can understand that,” he answered. “But, Vero, do you think I can do it—turn everything back?”

“Ah, my friend, I have read much more pre-Intervention literature than you. I now read almost nothing else. You'll find your situation described there. Look up
love triangle
in the Library. As for your chances . . . well, I wish I was more confident. But in his wisdom the Lord of All didn't make us like machines. It's not easy to turn things back—there are no cogs we can turn, no buttons to press to reset the mechanisms of the heart. But I wish you well, and I'll pray you can do it. I'll also do what I can do to explain things to Anya.”

“Thanks.”

Emboldened and feeling almost a sense of release, Merral said, “While we are on the topic can I ask about you and Perena?”

“You can ask, but there is nothing to say. That's all ‘on hold' as they say.” Vero shrugged. “I hope you notice the perverse symmetry to our lives, my friend. You have two relationships where you should have one. I have none where perhaps I should have one.” He sighed. “Welcome to the new world.”

Silence returned as they curved round the center of Isterrane on the airport road. Vero spoke at last. “Oh, one last thing, Merral. We decided that you needed some s-support. So I have taken the liberty to recruit Lloyd Enomoto as your aide.”

“Enomoto? Do I know him?”

“Maybe not. Lloyd used to be an agricultural student. He came late into the FDU reserves but he arrived at Fallambet in time to kill a cockroach-beast at the ship. Zak promoted him to sergeant in the FDF. He's a big guy, nearly too big to fit in a ship.”

“But an aide? How does that work?”

“He helps you, gets whatever you need.” Vero seemed cautious. “Carries your bags, goes places with you—that sort of thing. Anyway, I figured that Lloyd would go with you to Ynysmant.”

“Vero, I hardly think I need an aide in my hometown.”

“Well, Lloyd would manage communications too. So, if I need you, I'll call him.”

“Hmm. So Lloyd goes around with me? Everywhere?”

“Not
absolutely
everywhere, of course.”

“So, what about when I talk with Isabella?”

“He'd sit outside the door, out of earshot. We've discussed all this. And he's sworn to secrecy, of course.”

“Sworn?”

“I mean he'll be totally confidential.”

“I'm uneasy about it—very.”

“We think it's useful. We'd feel happier if he went with you.”

Merral wondered who “we” were, but didn't ask. “I'm not sure about this.”

“He's at the airport. We'll decide there.”

Vero switched off the autosteer circuit and drove the vehicle to the main terminal building, stopping in the parking area marked
Airport Staff Only, Please.

“But we aren't—,” Merral began.

Vero wagged a slender finger. “Three letters, my friend:
F-D-F
. We take priority.” He put his dark glasses on.

Merral was still pondering the issues that “priority” raised as they walked to the entrance. Suddenly, he looked up to see dozens of faces at the windows staring intently at him. He turned, expecting to see someone behind him. There was no one.

“Vero, why is everyone looking at us?”

Vero's mouth twitched as if he was trying to stifle his amusement. “Because, Commander, one of us is a very famous person. And it isn't me.”

“You mean—”

“Welcome, Commander!” came a shout from a window. Merral looked up to see people waving at him.

“Vero,” Merral said, his voice bristling with agitation, “this is appalling!”

“Relax!” Vero hissed with a firm intensity. “It goes with the job.”

“But what do I do?”

“I suggest, Commander D'Avanos, that as ever, you play the part. Just raise your right hand as a relaxed and informal acknowledgment.”

Merral hesitated.

“Go on!”

Merral lifted his right hand rather stiffly.

“Not bad. . . . No, not too high. You don't want to encourage them. Now give them a little smile, please.”

“It's a farce,” Merral whispered between clenched teeth. “An utter farce. I'm encouraging the creation of some sort of celebrity culture. It's unethical.”

“Perhaps,” Vero murmured. “But remember, these are scared people. They need all the reassurance you can give them. And not to give it definitely would be unethical.”

Upon entering the building, Merral found himself nodding and giving more waves of acknowledgment.

As they passed the ticketing booth, Vero nodded toward it. “Remember too, that from now on, you have priority here as well. If you want a seat on a flight and it's full, you have the authority to throw someone off.”

“Throw them off?”

“Not, of course, literally. Uh, take their seat . . . have them take a later flight.”

“That doesn't sound very polite.”

Vero took off his glasses, folded them into his shirt pocket, and then glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot before giving Merral a severe look. “Commander,” he said in a low and impassioned voice, “I see our job as saving Farholme and, maybe, the Assembly. On that basis, courtesy and politeness are now, sadly, optional extras. So let's go and meet Sergeant Enomoto.”

They found Lloyd Enomoto sitting alone in a small room off the main lounge, reading something on his diary with a look of determined intensity. He was indeed a big man. Even wearing a casual, loose-fitting, gray suit, you could sense his muscles. In fact, Merral decided that Lloyd didn't so much sit on the chair, as sit
over
it. His face was tanned and rugged, his eyes small and blue, and his eyebrows and close-cropped hair were so blond as to be almost white.

Lloyd rose, gave them a warm lazy smile, and saluted.

Merral stared up him, realizing that his eyes only came to Lloyd's chin. He decided to ignore the salute and shook hands instead.

“Good to see you, sir,” Lloyd said in a leisurely voice that was almost a drawl, and Merral noted the twang of the southern islands. “Last time I saw you, you were hanging on to that undercarriage and heading off over the lake. I was really pleased to hear you made it. Glad you're well.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. Remind me where you are from? Bailor?”

“Not quite, sir, Tralescant—next island west.”

Merral noticed that Lloyd had two bags, a backpack with shoulder straps and a small brown bag with an odd, elongated shape.

“Preparing for a trip, eh?”

“Yup. My own stuff and . . .” Lloyd gestured to the brown bag. “Well, my . . . gear.” His voice had a note of awkwardness that caught Merral's attention.

“Gear? What sort of gear?”

A look passed between Vero and Lloyd.

“The usual stuff, sir,” Lloyd said, looking away.

“T-the Commander doesn't really want—,” Vero began.

“Oh, I do. I really do. What's in there?” Merral nodded to the brown bag.

Vero shrugged. “Better open it, Sergeant.”

As soon as Lloyd opened the bag, Merral peered in, seeing a diagnostic medical unit. He pushed the DMU aside and found a familiar object with a dull gray tube and a long grip.

“A cutter gun,” Merral said. He looked deeper. “And a bush knife. And some other things . . . explosives.” He paused. “Excuse me, Sergeant. Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir,” Lloyd said and left the room.

“Okay, Vero. Explain. An aide—with weaponry?”

Vero cast the unhappiest of expressions at the bag. “W-well, it's like this. I didn't want to alarm you. B-but we have no idea whether we killed all the inhabitants of that ship. We have no inventory, no passenger list to check them off. We don't know whether, somewhere out there, there are still cockroach-beasts, another Krallen pack, or another winged dragon thing.”