Expatria: The Box Set (31 page)
Read Expatria: The Box Set Online
Authors: Keith Brooke
'Bear witness,' he said, sending a hallucinatory wink to Katya. The team followed the plastic bulk of Roux's floater along the tunnel for a distance of twelve metres and then they were out in the open, inside Station Yellow, surrounded by members of the orbital colonies. Ferns and horsetails grew around the mouth of the tunnel, like some kind of palaeolithic fantasy. The plants on the surface made Katya think of this as the floor, the ground; she was a planetary person, she had to construct her own orientation, she never had been able to take zero-gee as experienced.
Above her—in front of her, as she turned to face it—was the welcoming party, a group of four people with wasted limbs, like directors stripped of their floaters. Beyond them were more people and beyond them was the Station's interior.
Without the restraint of gravity, the people of Station Yellow had built into their biosphere; the exterior conglomeration of modules and pipes and other assorted living units was mirrored by this growth into inner space. Buildings were anchored by plastic mesh, residential blocks built from wood and living plants, strung precariously together by living bonds of ivy and honeysuckle, twisting around strands of plastic and lightweight cable. Within a hundred metres, Station Yellow had closed in upon itself, the rest of its interior obscured by the mess of its internal growth.
It made Katya feel vulnerable. There were so many nooks and crannies, so many overgrown corners and tunnels. It would be easy to lose yourself in Station Yellow. It would be easy to be ambushed. A crusty tangle of lichen drifted near to the team, a camera hidden in its mass. Other cameras glinted from Katya's 'ground', reminding her that the orbitals were keeping their caution, studying every move that GenGen made.
Katya drifted away from the entrance tunnel, following Director Roux, making room for the stream of bible-carrying evangelicals that followed. They approached the party of orbitals, meeting them halfway across the gulf.
Katya looked at them. One was bulky, at least seventy or eighty Terran years old, if his appearance could be relied upon; he had the look of someone born to gravity, his legs looked like they had once known the push of land on the soles of their feet. His grey-skinned face, with its floating puffiness, flashed across her mind:
Antebo Cobal, a supposed companion of the semi-mythical folk hero, Ha'an. She guessed he had fled Newest Delhi with Ha'an, by the look of his physique.
Hanging back from Cobal was a stick of a woman, her eyes darting from member to member of the GenGen team. Her hair was sparse and her neck was swollen with a growth, the skin taut with internal pressure. Anatek Cobal, Antebo's wife, probably twenty years his junior.
To the other side was a face Katya instantly knew. He had a wide, infectious grin, but his flickering gaze betrayed his nerves; thick black hair, a body showing the true atrophy of a lifetime without gravity. His name was Decker. The MetaPlex had picked him out in the data it had fed her, highlighted him. She would watch this Decker closely.
The fourth member of the orbital reception party was someone Katya did not know—she only had a limited stock of information, after all. This one hung back further than any of the others, looking calmer. She had round, dark features, pear-drop eyes, her body was wrapped loosely in a huge shawl that flowed with her movements.
Katya studied each of them again in ultraviolet, found none of the scarring that might have resulted from implant surgery.
'We, the Holy Corporation of GenGen, come in peace and good will,' said Director Roux, his trif-projection mouthing the words as they came from a speaker on his autonome.
'Well, hi,' said Antebo Cobal. 'I guess we're already here in all those things.' His speech was soft and staccato, vaguely musical, but the words could, with effort, be distinguished. 'We gonna drift about here all day, or shall we go someplace else for us to talk and like?'
Katya was studying the slowly approaching crowds of onlookers. No weaponry was apparent, caution was the only emotion they showed. But they were closing in: it could mean something was about to happen.
She let her hand hang close to her snipe but nobody did anything, there were no blood-curdling yells, no signs of hostility.
She slowed her heart, deciding that the moment of danger had passed by for now. As she joined the director and the rest of the team, she heard a quartet of Philemonics cranking up on the company hymn, looked back to see Roman and the less solemn Ephesian evangelicals spreading out in twos and threes, passing around copies of
The Third Testament
amongst the people of Station Yellow. She wondered how the seeds of Corporate Universalism would take hold in such an environment, then she focused herself on vigilance as the buildings closed in on all sides and the dangers increased.
~
They were gathered at the broad end of a cone-shaped hall, listening to Decker and Antebo and the other orbitals who were present either in person or in trifacsimile. 'You may well have rights of congress over what the consortium sent out here over three Terran centuries ago,' said Antebo. 'But in real terms that's only the shells of the old arks—we've built the rest ourselves, we've found the materials ourselves from the old mine-workings on Dum. Sure: we're happy for you to talk to us and, as you say, try to show us new perspectives and all, but I'm trying to tell you as I don't really know what it is you're trying to
tell
us, Mister Roux.' Antebo was struggling to keep up with the discussion, he was getting flustered, confused by the director's rhetoric; his place on the reception party was almost entirely down to his past association with Ha'an. Katya had dismissed him early on.
'Antebo,' said Director Roux. 'Please do not concern yourself with the technical formalities. We have only recently arrived, we do not wish to interpose. Our main interest lies on the planet itself. Your talk of conflict is relevant.' The director would never admit to being worried; his trif projection paused, indicating that it was thinking, a superficiality put on for his audience—a director did not need to pause for thought. 'I have decided that we must land on Expatria, we must cast our influence at the earliest opportunity. We can negotiate both here and on Expatria simultaneously. Yes, that is what we must do. Our first shuttle will land in fifteen hours, that will give us daylight in the inhabited sector.'
It wasn't a decision Director Roux would have taken on his own, he had consulted the MetaPlex and they had wanted him to move quickly, to bring the corporate influence to bear. The statement sent a buzz around the hall, trifs flickering on and off in agitation.
Katya's attention was snagged by a signal in her templars from her director. She had been chosen for the landing party—inside a day she would be standing on the surface of an alien planet!
'Director Roux?' It was Decker, a far more influential figure than Antebo Cobal. Katya dragged her attention back to the meeting. 'I'd like to suggest a landing site, if I could.' Katya studied his face, wondered if he should be trusted.
Director Roux dipped his floater and waited for Decker to continue.
'There's a cemetery called the Deadacre, eight kays out from Newest Delhi in the lower Sylesian Hills. The Hanrahan Prime, my cousin, is camped out there after his wife's funeral. It's quite a gathering. If you're going to land then that'd be as good a place as anywhere. At least you'll know you have friends there—they'll be waiting for you. I guess you'd get quite a reception.'
CHAPTER 7
Seven hours.
There were six more hours until day-break. Sukui decided that it was probable that GenGen were timing their landing to make the most efficient use of the following day's seven and a half hours of light.
Seven hours. And then the world would change.
Kasimir Sukui stopped before the third of the six tents and nodded to each of the four members of the Primal Guard on duty outside. 'This is a friend, Captain Hill,' he whispered, in response to an inquisitive look at Lucilla Ngota. She had covered her head with the hood of her pageanteer's robe so that no one would recognise her. 'We have business with the Prime.'
'Now?'
'Now.'
Captain Hill rose from his squatting position and moved over to the tent's entrance. Clearing his throat, he raised the flap and went inside. On the interior surface of the tent-flap, the words
Drink to the Holy Gospel
had been scrawled. This was one of the tents that had belonged to the Pageant of the Holy Charities. Sukui had watched Chet Alpha write those very words, one evening on their journey northwards from Alabama City. Somewhere else would be the words
Drink to the Holie Go
. Alpha had felt inspired that evening.
Hill emerged from the tent, followed by Edward Olfarssen-Hanrahan. 'Kasimir,' said the Prime, stretching and squinting up at the mist-veiled half-discs of Dum and Dee. 'If this is about...
Lucilla
.' All traces of sleep deserted him as Lucilla Ngota pulled the hood away from her face.
'OK,' he said, gathering himself quickly and turning back towards the tent. 'Right. Come in here, both of you. Brief me. Natalia? Are you awake? Elleman, Monica, go and find Mathias and Captain Anderson and Sala Pedralis, go on.
'OK.' He sat down, cross-legged, and Sukui and Lucilla followed suit. 'Lucilla, tell me why you're here.'
'I was in Glendower when my orbital told me of the uprising. I came back immediately. I travelled with a carnival of Death Krishnas for some of the way, but I left them behind so I could move quicker. I was going to go into Newest Delhi for support, but it's complete chaos in there.' Prime Edward glanced at Sukui, and Lucilla continued: 'Decker told me the Terrans had matched orbits and were planning to land, so I came right here. Sukui-san always stresses the importance of preparation: if we are ready and the Conventists are not, that might be a crucial difference.'
'When? Where?' Sukui noted Edward's directness, a marked change from earlier.
'An hour after sun-up. Decker persuaded them to land near to Newest Delhi. I don't have a precise location, but he's told them we're here. I asked him how many of them would be coming and he just laughed like he does. He said, "Data's a marketable commodity," as if he was quoting direct.'
'How did you get in?' said Natalia. 'Maybe some of us can get out the same way. It might strengthen our position before the vessel lands.'
'They weren't ready for a break-in,' said Lucilla. 'I spent some time up in the hills yesterday, weighing up what was happening. I knew I wouldn't be able to get out again, but I guessed that they wouldn't spot one new face amongst two hundred.'
Sukui had reached the same conclusion; she could always be hidden in one of the sarcophagal vaults if the risk appeared too great. 'Your trifacsimile unit?' he asked, suddenly realising that she must have abandoned it somewhere.
'I decided it was too risky to bring it in with me, so at dusk I climbed a big jelebab tree with a view over the whole graveyard. I strapped the pack up there. That way Decker can at least see what's happening, even if we can't talk to him.'
'Thank you, Lucilla. Your attachment to the Guard is always open for you to return.' Lucilla said nothing. 'We must inform Lars and Mathias and Sala and see what they think. But we have to restrict the spread of this knowledge—if the Convent find out then our advantage is nullified.' He looked around at Lucilla, Sukui, Natalia. 'Data is a marketable commodity,' he quoted. He smiled, pleased at his own acuity.
'Prime Edward, you are wrong.' Only his mother would have the courage to express her dissent so directly. Sukui looked at the Prime's face but found no trace of anger.
'If only a few of us are so prepared,' she continued, 'then the value of our knowledge is minimal. The greatest advantage would be obtained by common knowledge amongst the captives. We would have strength in unity, if that was the case.'
'I agree,' said Lucilla, always bold. 'I brought the information here with the intention of spreading it amongst our own people. We would gain nothing by keeping it to ourselves.' Democratic information spread was one of the founding blocks of the Pageant of the Holy Charities.
Edward looked from his mother to Lucilla. And then to Kasimir Sukui. 'Kasimir,' he said, adding weariness to the tone of his voice. 'Are you against me as well?'
'My lord,' said Sukui, wondering how he should phrase his response. 'Disagreement over tactics does not necessarily indicate opposition.'
'You are against me.'
'I question your judgement on this matter. The spread of this information increases the probability that it will be discovered, but its restriction would serve no purpose.' Sukui spread his hands. 'However, I am not against you.'
'Do you ever give straight answers?' asked the Prime.
'I give what information I can,' said Sukui, as he heard footsteps—a military stride that he guessed must be Captain Anderson, the measured pace of Sala Pedralis, the more casual lope of Mathias Hanrahan—approaching the tent. 'I am but a simple pedant.'
~
They spent over three hours moving amongst the clusters of captives, speaking with those who were awake, rousing the rest from their sleep. Many were scared: what had been little more than a startling piece of gossip was due to become reality in a matter of hours. Most responded well, however; there was a new comradeship immediately apparent. The information was something they had which their captors did not, it appeared to infuse strength into bodies and minds which had lain idle for four days and nights. By the time his task was complete Sukui was satisfied that the knowledge had already proven its value. With two hours until sunrise, Sukui made himself rest on a patch of rough ground between two leaning headstones. His reserves would need careful husbandry over the coming day.
He woke with Lucilla's stale odour in his nostrils. He breathed deeply, filled his lungs. 'Lucilla,' he said. 'I know I am being over-emotional, but I believe it to be a result of the pressures of confinement.'
'Yes?' she said, able to move as he lifted his head from her chest.
'Lucilla, I missed you.'
'Thank you, Kasimir.' She sat upright and pulled Sukui to his feet. 'Do you get any food around here? I haven't eaten in three days.'
The sky was fading up into a pastel blue, the sun almost clear of the horizon. The kookaburra was calling again, from one of the trees that overhung their resting place. The food wagon would not be due for a minimum of three hours.
Today, it might not arrive at all.
'Come on,' said Lucilla. She began to walk. 'We should mix. I don't want to test my luck.'
The unity Sukui had observed the previous night had fled with the darkness. People stood in their familiar little groupings, squinting up at the harsh white veil of the morning sky and then catching themselves and looking at each other with sheepish smiles.
By now, Sukui knew each of the captives' faces by sight. He hoped none of the Conventists had been as diligent in their study of the situation.
Sukui caught himself looking up at the sky and stopped. 'Good morning, Aluardo. Good morning Lettie, Vincente, Mitchell, Miz Pedralis.' He, nodded at the small group and they all smiled in return. As he continued on his way some responded with mumbled,
'Morns
and
Sukui-sans
and
Be with Jay-Buddhas
.
'I wish they'd stop looking at me,' said Lucilla, after almost fifteen minutes of this. 'If the Sisters weren't so hard praying they'd have spotted me by now, the way everyone is looking. I'm going to stop moving around. People might not look so hard if we're just in one place...' She stopped in the shade of a huge wooden lotus flower, sculpted onto a three metre crucifix.
Sukui stopped by her side and listened. He had not heard chanting like this before—the Convent had always been careful about the privacy of its members' worship. He let his head tip to one side and concentrated. The chant was quiet but it had the quality of many voices.
The Convent had erected its own cluster of tents by the Deadacre's ornamental gateway, about four hundred metres distant. There were many Conventists gathered just beyond these tents, but their backs were turned towards the captives and so Sukui could not see what they were doing.
The voices sounded more distant than that, though.
In Newest Delhi, Sukui had heard Conventists mumbling their benedictions and their incantations, but he had never heard their voices raised in such a unison as this.
'Lucilla,' he said. 'I believe your assessment was premature. Listen to the "praying". Tell me what you think.'
As he spoke, the chant had grown louder, voices approaching the cemetery. Lucilla looked at him curiously, and then tipped her head in unconscious mimicry of Sukui's pose of concentration.
Nine days earlier, Sukui had heard a sound similar to this. He had been passing along the walkway that surmounted the battlements of South Wall, still trying to piece together the chaotic flow of life that formed the backbone of this alien city.
'Death Krishnas,' said Lucilla, slowly. 'About a kilometre distant. There are a lot of voices.'
From the top of South Wall, Sukui had looked down over a small square and there he had seen a group of twenty-eight young people, gathered around an older woman. Her robe had been a vivid shade of yellow, tied with a spirally striped cord. There had been marks across her face; eventually Sukui had seen that they were tattoos, but he had not been able to distinguish their content. The novices wore yellows and oranges and reds and their heads were yet to be shaven. They had been racing around and playing, whilst some of the younger ones had performed simple illusions—swallowing swords and placing burning wicks in their mouths. After five minutes the novices had simultaneously ceased their activities and gathered before the older woman, their Kardinal. And then they had begun to chant, mantras and
Hari-haris
and buskers' songs they must have heard on the streets of the city.
The chanting was growing louder, now, and the group of Conventists by the cemetery gates was becoming increasingly agitated.
'I believe we should find the Prime,' said Sukui. 'Events are about to become unpredictable.' In those few moments, Kasimir Sukui felt the tensions of his time in captivity slithering away into the long grass. 'That,' he said, 'is my last prediction.'
Edward Olfarssen-Hanrahan was standing on top of a tall tomb, accompanied by Mathias and Captain Anderson. He was craning to see beyond the cemetery gates.
'Sukui-san.' Mathias had spotted Sukui and Lucilla. 'Come on,' he said, crouching and reaching out for Sukui's hand.
Sukui braced himself. The tomb's roof stood higher than his shoulders but this was no time to be faint-hearted. He grasped Mathias's wrist, stepped into Lucilla's cupped hands and scrambled up to stand by the Prime of Newest Delhi. Lucilla dragged herself up with her own animal strength.
'Can you see them?' said Edward, glancing at Sukui. 'Look! Down the valley.'
From the tomb's elevation, the local geography was laid out before Sukui far more clearly than before. The trees and hills on three sides opened out on the boundary that held the cemetery's entrance. Here, the flat vale of the Deadacre spread itself outwards, the floodplain of some defunct river.
In the distance, a brightly coloured stain spread itself raggedly across the road, a seething mass of tint, an organism in its own right. Narrowing his eyes in the sunlight, Sukui could distinguish the individual forms of human beings. The colours were orange and yellow, the colours of the Death Krishnas.
'My lord,' said Sukui. 'I see them. Would it be impertinent to ask, my lord: whose side will they be on?'
~
The Conventists by the gate were moving. Guards hurried about, supervising the Daughters and Little Sisters as they moved provisions farther into the Deadacre. As the writhing mass of Death Krishnas approached, one Sister tried in vain to swing the cemetery's ornamental gates closed.
As she retreated, the gates creaked back open, under the pressure of the crowd.
'Move move
move!
' cried an officer in the Conventist Guard, urging the captives together, trying to force them back into their own corner of the cemetery. Slowly, the prisoners moved; more quickly as the Conventists resorted to bully sticks and canes. The Primal party climbed down from the top of the tomb.
'They are letting their anxiety show,' said Sukui, as another guard jabbed at an injured militia member with her bully stick. Over by the tents, Sala Pedralis and Captain Hill were arguing with one of the Matres, but they were making no impression. Conventist Guards started beating the wounded with sticks until Sala stepped in and urged her friends to stay calm and do what they were told.
Once they had decided to act, the sorority moved with remarkable speed. As Death Krishnas flowed in through the gates and over the walls on either side, a gulf almost the width of the cemetery opened up between them and the retreating Conventists.
Instead of making a direct assault, as Sukui had anticipated, the Death Krishnas began to spread around the walled circumference of the Deadacre—not part of some plan, he saw, but simply a response to the crush of their numbers from behind.
And then they all sat down in unison and began to chant a variety of mantras, all clashing chaotically, but adding to the overpowering, intimidating barrage of human voice.
Sukui's question had been an innocent response to his own scientific curiosity, but now he relaxed as he began to distinguish the pastel robes of the Pageant of the Holy Charities amongst the Krishnas. Even though he had forsaken the intellectual satisfaction of prediction, he began to feel more confident about the outcome of this situation. Amongst the mantras and the chants of 'Hari-hari, Hari-hari' he made out the Cry of the Hellbound—there were Jesus-Buddhists too, in that case.