Seeds of Earth (40 page)

'Yes, Scholar Trem,' he said. 'Astonishing is the right word.'

'Thousands of years,' Trem said. 'Thousands of winters and summers and still it functions - if we'd brought more lamps you would see the
fenfinil
roots where the) come down through the ceiling then push through the cutting collars that feed the sap down to the spouts true, there is mould and moss everywhere, but never so much that they staunch the flow.'

'Well, Scholar Trem, if the roothouse is above us, then what is this place?'

Trem smiled and gave a little shake of the head. 'I can only make a tentative guess, Listener, that it may be some kind of master regulating system which we've stumbled upon by chance. But if the other Burrows also have something similar, we may have to think again on its purpose.'

If only I had known of this before leaving Hammergard,
Chel thought. But Weynl and the other Listeners had banned the use of radios to ensure that positions were not given away by signals easily detected by those in orbit above. Thus all communication was by courier, either on foot or by dirigible. Which was what Chel would have to do now, take Varstrand's zeplin back to Waonwir rather than continue on to the next Burrow. The other Listeners would have to be informed and then enough messengers would have to be dispatched to discover if there were similar galleries elsewhere.

He explained this to Trem, who nodded.

'A sensible approach, Listener,' he said. 'Would you like any or all of my assistants to return with you and give what help they can?'

'No, Scholar Trem - I need you all working hard here. If your Burrow turns out to be the only one with a gallery like this, we will need to know all there is to know as quickly as possible.'

'I shall get them back to work at once,' Trem said.

'Good. Now I shall return to my zeplin and be off back to Waonwir. We must use the Humans' flying craft for swift travel while we are still able to do so.'

'Are the Dreamless close to assuming control?' Trem said as he led the way back up to the roothouse.

'Not yet,' Chel said. 'An emissary from the Brolturans was assassinated soon after landing at Port Gagarin, which the Brolturans then used as an excuse to start sending troops down from their huge warship, supposedly as protection for the Hegemony envoy. Yet the Humans' president somehow persuaded them to withdraw while obtaining Human soldiers from the Earth ship.'

'This Human Sundstrom has great cunning,' Trem said, helping Chel up out of the floor opening. 'I have heard some Listeners speak highly of him.'

'Cunning may not be enough,' Chel said. 'I have been told that the Dreamless are as numerous amongst the Brolturans as they are across the Hegemony. I fear that it is only a matter of "when" not "if" they reach out to take what they want.'

'I fear you may be right,' Trem said. 'Ah, now we have made several sketches of the roothouse and the galleries since our arrival. Would you care to take them with you?'

'That would be most useful, Scholar, my thanks.' By now they had reached the narrow passage leading to the exit. 'Shall I send you more paper with the next courier?'

'That and more blankets,' Trem said, as they emerged blinking into the daylight. 'There are centuries of cold in those underground stones and it feels as if I am getting to know it all too well!'

41

THEO

Grimy, sweaty, streaked with dirt and grease, weary and aching, Theo, Rory and the Firmanov brothers staggered into the Bell and Cat, an old-fashioned dockside pub. Outside, sunlight gleamed on cobbles wetted by a brief shower; inside, it was as murky and smoky as it would be by the evening, though perhaps not quite as crowded. As Alexei Firmanov went to buy the first round, the others found an empty barrel-table and some stools, and moments later Theo was slaking his thirst with a hefty swallow of Golden Lever ale.

As it went down he sighed.

'I swear it's never tasted that good before.'

Aye, Major, right enough.' Rory had already downed half his pint. 'Reckon we deserve this, and more.'

Nikolai nodded vigorously then lit up a pipe, grinning hugely around the stem as he reminded them how Maclean had his lunch eaten by a forest
baro
then later lost his cap to an inquisitive
ginibo
monkey. Theo laughed along, feeling that mixture of camaraderie and pride reserved for officers who shared a deep level of trust with those under their command. Yet the Diehards were not a formal military unit, which made their trust - and therefore his responsibility - far more daunting.

Ja,
we've done well today, he thought. We managed to move all the weapon caches again and stow them in some very out-of-the-way places, just like Sundstron wanted. But what happens now that the Brolturan troops have left? - will we have Earthsphere marines patrolling the streets with the DVC?

He had heard news coverage and comment on the radio while travelling around all morning and most of the afternoon. The consensus of opinion among both the studio quackers and the public phoning in seemed to be optimistic, yet he thought he detected a fearful edge to it, even a reluctance to contemplate any kind of worst-case scenario. Then again, the radio studios could well have been screening out any phone-ins that voiced such opinions.

Well, whatever the outcome, at least this moment was a restful one spent in the company of good friends. The rest of the Diehards were returning borrowed trucks and vans or heading back to homes and families in Port Gagarin or High Lochiel or easterly towns like Laika and Rannoch. And as he gazed around the pub, a grey-whiskered man in a ragged-brimmed hat seated at the counter caught his eye and they exchanged a friendly nod. Poacher Zargov, that was, a reprobate scoundrel who was just one among several other old-time drinking buddies that Theo recognised. Nick the Spring, a sly and patient trapper who once drank Viktor Ingram under the table; Swedish Harry, a tracker from Trond; Stamper Nadine with her bandolier of fine metalworking tools; and here, heading towards their table with a balding Earther in tow, was Father Josef Terekhov, a respected trawler captain.

'Theo,
gospodin,'
Terekhov said, his glare enhanced by a magnificently bushy beard and moustache.

'Josef,' he said. 'You're looking well. Would you care to join us?'

'A kind offer, my friend, but I am just here to give this fellow into your custody, and so prevent him from annoying the other patrons with questions about you!'

Terekhov's glare softened and a slight change in his beard indicated that he might be smiling beneath it.

'My thanks, Josef,' said Theo.
'Spaseeba balsboye!
I shall take charge of our guest and deal with his questions.'

Terekhov nodded, raised a hand and went back to his table. Theo turned to the newcomer, a young man with receding hair and a nervous manner.

'Pull up a seat and join us, Mr . . .'

'Oh, ah . . . Macrae, Barney Macrae.'

As Theo made brief introductions round the table, along with handshakes, Rory frowned at the offworlder.

'Macrae's a good Scots surname, but ye speak like a ... whit are they, again? . .. American, that's it.'

Macrae nodded. 'Yes, sir, that is correct. One of my distant ancestors emigrated from Scotland, back in the 1800s, I believe. My own branch of the family is from Boston in the ESA

Rory was about to come back with another question but Theo cut in.

'So, Barney, Father Terekhov said you were asking after me, so what can I do for you?'

'Okay, first you should know that I'm a freelance reporter working under a Starstream licence. . .' Rory snorted. 'That lot.'

Macrae shrugged. 'I know what you're thinking, but a Starstream licence was the only way to clinch an assignment I was offered by a prestigious edumedia netcorp . . .'

'Barney,' said Theo. 'May I ask if you have an AI implant?'

Macrae gave a wary smile. 'No, Mr Karlsson - I do have a gofer-AI back in Boston but his codecore was done up by a local indie . . .' Meeting blank stares, he went on. 'Anyways, the answer is definitely no - my thoughts are my own.'

'Well, then, Barney, what's your point?'

Macrae paused, chewed his bottom lip then leaned forward and murmured, 'I've got a recording of the Brolturan ambassador's assassination.'

There was a stunned silence around the table while the normal hubbub of the Bell and Cat went on about them.

'Do you have it with you?' Theo said, suddenly tense. Macrae nodded, patting the chest of his jacket. 'And how did you acquire it?'

'I had got to know one of the soldiers guarding the Hegemony envoy - before her unit was assigned to him, I should say - and persuaded her to carry an eyebead on her uniform.'

'Whit's that, then?' said Rory.

'A tiny videocatcher, smaller than the head of a pin,' Macrae said. 'I had her put it on her jacket shoulder. But after the attack the Brolturans detained your soldiers for questioning and she was among the last to be released. I only got it back this morning, and when I saw what was on it I knew I couldn't just sit on it.' He began to reach into his jacket. 'I can play it for you if you like . . .'

Theo shook his head and put a restraining hand on Macrae's elbow, then glanced at Nikolai.

'Ask at the bar for a key for one of the pool rooms upstairs.'

Five minutes later they were gathered round a pool table, watching Barney fiddling with a small, notebooksized device in featureless beige plastic which was leaning against one of the cushions. Then the device's flat surface flickered suddenly into soundless video, a view of the back of a DVC soldier marching along a wide corridor adorned with glowing adverts, somewhere in Port Gagarin, Theo guessed. The procession came to the lounge and as the Darien soldiers formed a rank behind the towering Hegemony Sendrukans, the viewpoint showed the Earthsphere ambassador and his assistants, the high walls and viewing gallery, and the glass-fronted stairwell from which travellers usually emerged. Then, as the picture swung back towards the High Monitor Kuros and his delegation, Macrae froze the recording with a black, penlike remote.

'See here?' He pointed to a cluster of dark blue figures, each standing with upper arms folded and lower arms hanging straight. 'Those are Kuros's personal bodyguards, four Ezgara commandos. That's what Lenya saw when she entered the lounge, four of them.'

The recording resumed and events played out just as the news reports described. The Brolturans emerged from a pair of wide-open double doors that led out of the lounge. Two standard-bearers led the way, followed by four bodyguards and six officials, flanking Reskothyr himself, attired in a black knee-length coat of austere cut: his head was bare and shaven, his hands covered by gleaming black gauntlets. The procession came to a halt, except for the standard-bearers, who continued forward, one carrying his standard over to the Hegemony envoy, the other to the Earthsphere ambassador. Just as they bowed to the standards set before them, unseen attackers opened fire.

A volley struck members of Reskothyr's retinue to the left. Cries went up and Reskothyr's own guards hustled him off to the right. The Earthsphere ambassador and his aide retreated towards the seats as the Ezgara and the DVC soldiers began firing back at a dark glass-fronted gallery overlooking the lounge. But one DVC soldier had broken from the rest and was heading round to the right, against the wall, aiming his weapon not at the gallery bit at Reskothyr. The assassin opened up, bursts of automatic fire cutting down Reskothyr and the Earthsphere ambassador's aide, as well as one of the standard-bearers, who charged with his banner pole held like a spear. He went down in a welter of blood, one hand blown off. Then the gunman shot dead a few others before dashing towards a door in the corner, but one of the Ezgara hurled a grenade after him. There was an explosion and the already jerky viewpoint swung wildly, showing glimpses of other DVC soldiers diving for cover. Then the picture spun back round in a blur, showing clouds of dust and smoke hanging over a scene of devastation, a wrecked wall, pieces of debris lying over a wide area, and the still bodies of casualties. Members of Reskothyr's retinue stumbled through a grey haze, some shouting into communicators, some weeping, all in silence. Then Macrae froze it again.

'Okay, my friends - how many Ezgara commandos do you see?'

The moment he asked the question, Theo understood. And sure enough, when the distinctive blue-armoured figures were counted there were five.

'The fifth Ezgara didn't enter by the concourse doors,' Macrae said. 'There were no Ezgara in Reskothyr's entourage and that side door led into a storeroom with no other exit.'

'You're saying that the assassin dived through that doorway, survived the grenade, then changed into an Ezgara uniform?' Theo said.

'Sure, why not?' Macrae said. 'They could have rigged up a temporary blast shield for the shooter to get behind, along with one of those combat armour rigs that they wear. And yeah, I know they say that they recovered a DVC soldier's body from the wrecked room - so what? Kuros's people had effectively sealed off that lounge more than an hour before Reskothyr's shuttle touched down.'

'But why?' said Nikolai. 'It makes not any sense to me. They pulled their troops out overnight so what was it all for?'

Macrae gave a gleeful little laugh. 'The Hegemony is fond of big, simple dramas - they love to put on a show, and that's what this was. I think I heard that they're going to release their own recording of the attack, is that right?'

'Seems so,' said Theo. 'The question is, why bring this to me?'

'Because your president has to see it!' Macrae said. 'I watched that press conference last night and I could tell right away that he'd played Horst and Kuros perfectly. Some guy, that Sundstrom.'

Theo smiled. 'Indeed he is, Barney, but he's not the one who has to see this first.'

'Then who . . . you can't mean . . .'

'Yah, Horst! - get him on our side and we might stand a chance of seeing that big battleship of theirs sailing away.'