Expatria: The Box Set (38 page)

CHAPTER 14

Kasimir Sukui was in his element. He had obtained notepaper, his pencil filled the gap between forefinger and thumb as if it had never been absent. He sat, he listened, he studied the faces of those around him.

The over-sized projection of Maxwell Riesling had been impressive in scale.
RoCora calls it the 'avatar'
, he wrote.
They appear almost to worship the image
.

He made brief notes of the content of the avatar's speech but that was not what interested him. It was the show that mattered, the style as much as the substance. He had spent enough time in political circles to understand this much. The image was over twice the height of a normal person, its coloration had been manipulated to give emphasis to the perfect symmetry, the flawless synthesis of muscle gliding over muscle.

They have come to disseminate their religion
, he wrote.
They claim rights over Expatria
. But they were in no real position of power, they could not make good their claims. Even if they all landed, it was likely that they would be greatly outnumbered by the indigenous population. They could attempt to use force, but that was clearly not their favoured tactic; no one would gain by its use. The idea of a corporate empire spanning the stars was too ludicrous to consider: they had come to Expatria and now their futures were tied exclusively to this planet.

Sukui was accustomed to the rhetoric of power-play; he sat, he listened, he studied the faces.

The initial meeting lasted for no more than twelve minutes, give or take a minute. At the close, the avatar vanished in a flash of light and Prime Edward stood, signalling the meeting's end. Maye Cyclades and Sala Pedralis stayed close to the Prime, as if frightened they would miss something. Although she carried herself with discipline, the Matre's every move betrayed her tension. She was playing everything as it came, she lived only in the present.

The Convent had retreated in the face of uncertainty. They had chosen to pressurise Prime Edward rather than take their coup to its logical conclusion and overthrow him. It had been the rational decision. Their hold was strong only in the Primal Manse. They would almost certainly have been toppled in a matter of days if they had not, at least partially, backed down.

Now they had retained control of the Manse. Prime Edward was in charge again but he had only the Conventist Guard for protection. The Convent was his partner in power. He had little choice.

The evangelicals were spreading themselves amongst the unwilling Conventists, handing out their
Third Testaments
, trying to communicate. They wore masks over their noses and mouths but their clothing was far more basic than the protective skin-suits of the four actives. Most wore sober leggings and cloaks, although a small proportion wore brighter colours, alternative styles.

The concept of hierarchy seemed important to GenGen, the divisions were apparent even to the uninitiated. Sukui noted his observations down and then stood.

The trifax of Director Roux was alone on its autonome. Sukui wondered if his body was genuinely that diminished: no legs, arms reduced to three fingers at each shoulder, enough to manipulate the autonome's little control grip. Even that seemed superfluous, judging by the quantity of wires and tubes that burrowed directly into the trifax body. It was as if the director was metamorphosing, like a moth. Sukui corrected himself with a wry smile: it was a reverse metamorphosis, Director Roux was returning from moth to caterpillar, he was returning himself to the uterine security of the Machine. Sukui had observed similar psychological traits before—the desire to return to the uterus—this pathological fixation on some early stage of development. Six years ago he had attempted to write a treatise on the subject but he had lost his thread part of the way through. The pattern was there, he could see it in the people around him, but somehow he could not quite find the key to unlock his mind; he could not find the appropriate words to frame his analysis.

He approached the director and stood before him. He bowed his head, held his hands in a steeple in front of his chest, and said, 'Welcome to Expatria. My name is Kasimir Sukui. I am principal scientific adviser to my lord, Salvo Andric, Prime of Alabama City. I give you his greetings. I hope you will be able to arrange to visit my home city—my Prime would be a gracious host indeed.'

The trifax looked up at Sukui as if studying him intently. Sukui surveyed the autonome, hoping to find the eye of its camera so that he could address himself directly to Roux.

The trifax glanced away, and nodded to the approaching figure of Prime Edward. 'We would like to arrange for some accommodation here in the city,' said the director. 'It would be a welcome assistance.'

At that moment, Sukui glanced up and saw Mathias framed in one of the archways that led out onto a wide balcony. Mathias had been openly angered by the avatar's speech, his old impetuosity had resurfaced as Sukui had always expected that it would.

'Hey!' Mathias suddenly called out. He raised an arm, began to run.

Sukui turned, saw the Prime's expression falter, his body tense. There was a man eight metres from Sukui, squatting in the shadows of one of August Hall's great pillars. A small door was open behind him, a Conventist Guard slumped across the opening.

The man had a gun. A rifle with a single barrel. He positioned it carefully against his shoulder as if time was an irrelevance.

Sukui watched as the man settled, lined his open eye along the axis of the gun-barrel.

The man tensed.

It seemed to take such a long time, but Sukui knew that in reality it was the merest fraction of a second.

Sukui straightened, took a step forward and then threw himself at Prime Edward. Sukui had always been a man who knew his place. The life of a Prime came far ahead of his own in the scale of importance.

Bodies collided, tangled, collapsed to the floor. The Prime gasped, called out.

An explosion burst across Sukui's hearing, his vision momentarily blacking with the intensity of the sound and his impact with the floor.

The Prime struggled beneath him but did not have the strength to move. Sukui looked carefully around and saw that the man had fled, out past the flailing Mathias, heading for the balcony. From there his escape would be easy, a drop of a few metres the only obstacle between August Hall and the relative anonymity of the crowds in the Playa Cruzo.

Sukui moved aside, and let Prime Edward struggle into a sitting position. 'I apologise unreservedly, my lord,' said Sukui, bowing his head. 'I hope you are not unduly discomfited.'

Edward looked at him with a strange expression on his face. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Your apology is unnecessary.'

They looked around from their island of calmness on the floor. Director Roux's trifacsimile had vanished and his autonome was circling aimlessly, its circuitry destroyed by the gunshot. The assassin was no longer escaping: he had been stopped by the active who called herself RoKatya.

'Come on,' said Mathias, squatting by Sukui. 'We'd better get out of here.' He nodded into the main part of the hall where the Terrans had clustered together, weapons drawn and levelled at the onlooking Conventist Guards.

Sukui stood and edged away into the security of the pillars, Edward and Mathias at either side. They came to the narrow doorway, where a guard lay with a length of wire constricted around his neck.

Mathias stepped over the body and beckoned for them to follow, but Edward shook his head. 'How can we leave?' he said, and Sukui dipped his head in agreement.

The moment was lost as RoKatya came to stand by them. A thin black rod poked out from the socket in her left wrist, parallel to the line of her forearm. She pointed it at them as if it was a gun and Sukui decided that that was, indeed, its most probable function.

'To shoot would serve no purpose,' said Sukui softly. He bowed his head, kept his eyes fixed on RoKatya's blank mask.

'Apart from to kill us,' muttered Mathias.

Edward stepped forward. 'Please, accept my complete apologies,' he said. 'We must work together in order to determine what has happened.' Suddenly he was Prime again, he had put on his cloak of authority, he had stepped back into his role.

Edward strode across to the body of the assassin and crouched by its side. RoKatya looked from him to RoPetra as Sukui and Mathias followed the Prime.

The assassin had rows of ritual scars running across his scalp and down his neck, he had the vees of the ordained carved across the bridge of his nose. Edward pulled at the man's cloak and a small black bible fell out, stopping at the full extension of its chain.

The assassin was a Black-Hander. The earliest settlers in the valleys of Glendower had found soils that were poor and darkened by the volcanic dust that had formed them. They had worked relentlessly to cultivate those black soils, fed by a deeply ingrained faith. Now they chained themselves to their bibles in order to symbolise the way their ancestors had been chained to the land.

Edward tore the bible from the body and skidded it across the floor to the feet of Maye Cyclades.

Sukui studied the Matre closely. Her face was set, her eyes were fixed unerringly on the body of the assassin. She glanced at the bible by her feet and then spat at it.

She was furious.

The Convent had formed an understanding with the Black-Handers: the sisters had taken the Manse and the Black-Handers had taken the initiative on the streets. Lucilla had learnt some of that from Decker, and Sukui had been able to infer the rest with a high degree of confidence.

The Black-Handers had not been interested in Newest Delhi. The Convent had probably bought them off with the promise of greater freedom to the valleys. Sukui saw it all slotting into place in his mind: GenGen threatened the arrangement and the Black-Handers had decided to initiate a new conflict. Any instability in Newest Delhi could only strengthen the positions of the valley families.

Edward stood. 'You choose your allies with ingenuity,' he said to Maye Cyclades. He turned to RoKatya, but she was backing away from him, heading for the cluster that had formed in the centre of August Hall, twenty-two evangelicals with their three—now, four—actives.

'Please,' said Edward. 'We should talk. At least let us explain what appears to have happened.'

There was no response. The evangelicals clustered uncertainly, some of them pointing small guns that they had withdrawn from concealment in their clothing, others clutching their copies of
The Third Testament
to their chests and mumbling what appeared to be religious sayings.

'Control of the body is control of the mind,' said Sukui softly, remembering the phrase RoKatya had used during the journey on that extraordinary transporter.

Mathias looked at him strangely but said nothing.

'The man—' Edward pointed at the body under the archway '—was a member of a clan that lives many kilometres from Newest Delhi. Chaos serves them well. It weakens the authority of the primacy over their lands. Such a breach of security must not be repeated. There will be an inquiry. I hope the damage to your vehicle is not great.'

'He didn't try to kill the
vehicle
,' said RoPetra. 'He thought it was the director.'

'But he killed no one,' said Mathias, stepping out of the shelter of the pillars. 'He was stopped, he's dead, we've learnt by our mistake. There's nothing we can do about it now.' He shrugged and waved his hands about. 'What more can we say?'

'We're not all trifacsimiles,' said RoPetra. She appeared to be their leader now. Taking over from the projected Director Roux.

'Shit, this is crazy,' said Kardinal Mondata, shaking his head and stepping forward from the far side of the hail. 'If the Prime wanted to kill you then he'd have done a better job of it than that. He wouldn't have been standing around while it happened, either, he's not so stupid. I'm going. OK? I have things to tell my people, things they might not like. Right, I'm going. No guns or anything. OK?' He held his hands above his head and retreated from the hall with a melodramatic flourish.

Sukui reached for his pencil and then paused. Perhaps now was not the appropriate time to record his thoughts.

'We don't want to fight with you,' said the Prime. Then he turned his gaze on Maye Cyclades. 'Instruct your guards to lay down their weapons and leave the hall. Do you understand?'

She nodded simply. The balance of power was shifting, relentlessly, against her. The Black-Hander had been one weight too many upon her shoulders. 'You heard!' she snapped, looking around the hall. 'Retreat.'

Slowly, the guards placed their guns and their bully-sticks down on the wide stone slabs of August Hall and then walked out.

'What more can we do?' said Edward.

Sukui noted a relaxation amongst the evangelicals, a response that was not reflected by their actives.

'We are on alien territory,' said RoPetra. 'We can take no chances. How can we ever trust you after what has happened?' She appeared to be thinking out loud, but Sukui knew by now that the actives had more control than that. Any .words were calculated; any accent, any expression, was carefully executed. They had perfect control, there was not an animal instinct amongst them.

'Who else can you trust?' said Sukui, dipping his head as everyone turned to look at him. 'The Kardinal was correct when he said that we would have been more professional in our hostilities. If hostility was, in fact, our goal. I, too, am a visitor to these lands. In the past there have been disputes between my Prime and Prime Edward, even localised warfare, but I have been treated with every courtesy during my stay.' His speech had been unplanned, but he knew he must continue. He had their attention, he could see interest in the eyes of the evangelicals and he hoped that this could be used as an indicator of interest on the part of the actives. 'The Holy Corporation of GenGen must have had faith that it would find some kind of welcome at the end of the voyage from Earth. You must have believed that we would not be hostile, or else why come?

'You are here on Expatria. Uncertainty is to be expected, regardless of your self-discipline. The people of Expatria must be uncertain, too. Many are simply scared of you and of what you may or may not represent. But as representatives of our people we place our trust in you as representatives of GenGen. We set the example. Please—I am not a hostile man; I do not like all this confrontation. I would like to rest a little ... have a drink of water...'