The Night's Dawn Trilogy (223 page)

•  •  •

Kingsley Pryor didn’t even know why he was crying like a baby. Because he was free? Because he’d been possessed? Because death
wasn’t final?

Whatever the reason, the emotional fallout was running through him like an electrical discharge. Control was impossible. However,
he was fairly sure he was crying. Lying on cool silk sheets, a billowingly soft mattress below his spine. Knees hooked up
under his chin with arms wrapped around his shins. And in darkness. Not the sensory deprivation of the mental imprisonment,
but a wonderful genuine dusk, where a mosaic of grey on grey shadows delineated shapes. It was enough for a start. Had he
been plunged directly into countryside on a sunny day he would probably have fried from sensory overload.

A swishing sound made him tighten his grip on himself. Currents of air stirred across his face as someone sat on the bed beside
him.

“It’s all right,” a girl’s melodic voice whispered. “The worst part’s over now.”

Fingers stroked the nape of his neck. “You’re back. You’re alive again.”

“Did… Did we win?” he croaked.

“No. I’m afraid not, Kingsley. In fact, the real battle hasn’t even begun yet.”

He shivered uncontrollably. Too much. Everything was too much for him right now. He wanted, not to die (Gods no!) but just
to be away. Alone.

“That’s why Al let you out again. You have a part to play in the battle, you see. A very important part.”

How could a voice so mellifluous carry such an intimation of catastrophe? He used his neural nanonics to retrieve a strong
tranquillizer program and shunt it into primary mode. Sensations and palpitating emotions damped down. Something was not quite
right about the neural nanonics function, but he couldn’t be bothered to run a diagnostic.

“Who are you?” he asked.

A head was laid down on his shoulder, arms embracing him. For a moment he was reminded of Clarissa, the softness, the warmth,
the female scent.

“A friend. I didn’t want you to wake up with them taunting you. That would have been too horrible. You need my touch, my sympathy.
I understand people like no other. I can prepare you for what is to come: the offer you can’t refuse.”

He slowly straightened himself and turned to look at her. The sweetest girl he’d ever seen, her age lost between fifteen and
twenty-five, fair hair curling buoyantly around her face as she looked down at him in concern.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her.

“They’ve captured Clarissa,” she said. “And dear little Webster, too. I’m sorry. We know how much you love them. Demaris Coligan
told us.”

“Captured?”

“But safe. Secure. Non-possessed. A child and a woman, they could not be hurt, not here. Al welcomes the non-possessed to
his Organization. They’ll have an honoured place, Kingsley. You can earn that for them.”

He struggled to resolve the image which the name Al stirred in his mind. The fleshy-faced young man in a strange grey hat.
“Earn it?”

“Yes. They can be safe forever, they need never die, never age, never endure pain. You can bring them that gift.”

“I want to see them.”

“You could.” She kissed his brow, a tiny dry lick with her lips. “One day. If you do what we ask, you will be able to return
to them. I promise that. Not as your friend. Not as your enemy. Just one human to another.”

“When? When can I see them?”

“Hush, Kingsley. You’re too tired now. Sleep. Sleep away all your anguish. And when you wake, you will learn of the fabulous
destiny which is yours to fulfill.”

•  •  •

Moyo watched Ralph Hiltch walk down the road out of Exnall, the girl lying in his arms. Together they made a classical image,
the hero rescuing his damsel.

The other armour-suited troops closed around their leader, and together they slipped off the road, back into the cover of
the trees. Not that the snarled-up trunks of the old forest could hide them; Ralph’s fury acted like a magnesium flare to
the strange senses which Moyo was only just accustoming himself to.

The ESA agent’s anger was of a genus which perturbed Moyo deeply. The resolution behind it was awesome. After two centuries
incarcerated in the beyond, Moyo had assumed he would be immune to any kind of threat ever again. That was why he had cooperated
with Annette Ekelund’s scheme, no matter how callous it was by the standards of the living. Possession, a return to the universe
he had thought himself banished from, brought a different, darker slant on those things he had cherished and respected before—morality,
honour, integrity. With such an outlook contaminating his thinking, he had considered himself invulnerable to fear, even aloof
from it. Hiltch made him doubt the arrogance of his newfound convictions. He might have been granted an escape from the beyond,
but remaining free was by no means guaranteed.

The boy whom Moyo held in front of him began to squirm again, crying out in anguish as Ralph Hiltch vanished from sight. His
last hope dashed. He was about ten or eleven. The misery and terror whirling inside his head was so strong it was almost contagious.

His resolution fractured by Hiltch, Moyo began to feel shame at what he was doing. The craving which the lost souls in the
beyond set up at the back of his mind was worse than any cold turkey, and it was relentless. They wanted what he had, the
light and sound and sensation which dwelt so richly in the universe. They promised him fealty forever if he granted it to
them. They cajoled. They insisted. They threatened. It would never end. A hundred billion imps of obligation and conscience
whispering together were a voice more powerful than his.

He had no choice. While the living remained unpossessed, they would fight to fling him back into the beyond. While souls dwelt
in the beyond they would plague him to be given bodies. The equation was so horrifically simple, the two forces cancelling
each other out. Providing he obeyed.

His rebirth was only a few hours old, and already independent destiny was denied him.

“Do you see what we can do?” Annette Ekelund shouted at the ranks of her followers. “The
Saldanas
reduced to bargaining with us, accepting our terms. That’s the power we have now. And the first thing we must do is consolidate
it. Everyone who was assigned to a vehicle, I want you ready to leave as soon as the marines withdraw; that should be in a
quarter of an hour at the most, so be ready. If we even appear to lack the courage to go through with this, they’ll unleash
the SD platforms on us. You felt Hiltch’s thoughts, you know it’s true. Those of you holding a hostage, get them possessed
right now. We need all the numbers we can muster. This isn’t going to be easy, but we can capture this whole peninsula within
a couple of days. After that we’ll have the power to close the sky for good.”

Moyo couldn’t help but glance up. Dawn was strengthening above the barbed tree line, thankfully eradicating the stars and
their hideous reminder of infinity. But even with daylight colours fermenting across the blackness the vista remained so empty,
a void every bit as barren as the beyond. Moyo wanted nothing more than to seal it shut, to prevent the emptiness from draining
his spirit once again.

Every mind around him had the same yearning.

Moans and shouting broke his introspection. The hostages were being dragged back inside the buildings. Nothing had been said
about that, there was no prior arrangement. It was as though the possessed shared a communal unease at inflicting the necessary
suffering in full view of each other and the low-orbit sensor satellites. Breaking a person’s spirit was as private as sex.

“Come on,” Moyo said. He picked the boy up effortlessly and went back into the wooden frame bungalow.

“Mummy!” the boy yelled. “Mummy help.” He started weeping.

“Hey now, don’t panic,” Moyo said. “I’m not going to hurt you.” It didn’t make any difference. Moyo went straight through
into the living room, and opened the big patio doors. There was a lawn at the rear, extending back almost to the harandrid
trees which encircled the town. Two horticultural mechanoids roamed anarchically over the trim grass, their mowing blades
digging into the loamy soil as if they’d been programmed to plough deep furrows.

Moyo let go of the boy. “Go on,” he said. “Run. Scoot.”

Limpid eyes stared up at him, not understanding at all. “But my mummy… ”

“She’s not here anymore. She’s not even her anymore. Now go on. The Royal Marines are out there in the forest. If you’re quick,
you’ll find them before they leave. They’ll look after you. Now
run
.” He made it fiercer than he had to. The boy snatched a quick glance into the living room, then turned and shot off over
the lawn.

Moyo waited to make sure he got through the hedge without any trouble, then went back inside. If it had been an adult he held
hostage, there would have been no compunction, but a child… He hadn’t abandoned all of his humanity.

Through the living-room window he could see vehicles rumbling down the road. It was a strange convoy which Annette Ekelund
had mustered; there were modern cars, old models ranging across planets and centuries, mobile museums of military vehicles.
Someone had even dreamed up a steam-powered traction engine which slowly clanked and snorted its way along, dripping water
from leaky couplings. If he focused his thoughts, he could make out the profile of the actual cars and farm vehicles underneath
the fanciful solid mirages.

There had been a coupe Moyo had always wanted back on Kochi, a combat wasp on wheels, its top speed three times the legal
limit; but he never could quite manage to save enough for a deposit. Now though, it could be his for the price of a single
thought. The concept depressed him, half of the coupe’s attraction had been rooted in how unobtainable it was.

He spent a long time behind the window, wishing the procession of would-be conquerors well. He’d promised Annette Ekelund
he would help, indeed he’d opened five of Exnall’s residents for possession during the night. But now, contemplating the days
which lay ahead, repeating that barbarity ten times an hour, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. The boy had proved that
to him. He would be a liability to Ekelund and her blitzkrieg coup. Best to stay here and keep the home fires burning. After
the campaign, they would need a place to rest.

Breakfast was… interesting. The thermal induction panel in the kitchen went crazy as soon as he switched it on. So he stared
at it, remembering the old range cooker his grandmother had in her house, all brushed black steel and glowing burner grille.
When he was young she had produced the most magnificent meals on it, food with a tang and texture he’d never tasted since.
The induction panel darkened, its outline expanding; the yellow composite cupboard unit it sat on merged into it—and the stove
was there, radiant heat shining out of its grille as the charcoal blocks hissed unobtrusively. Moyo grinned at his achievement,
and put the copper kettle on the hot plate. While it started to boil he searched around the remaining cupboards for some food.
There were dozens of sachets, modern chemically nutritious food without any hint of originality. He tossed a couple into the
iron frying pan, compelling the foil to dissolve, revealing raw eggs and several slices of streaky bacon (with the rind left
on as he preferred). It began to sizzle beautifully just as the kettle started to whistle.

Chilled orange juice, light muesli flakes, bacon, eggs, sausages, kidneys, buttered wholemeal toast with thickly cut marmalade,
washed down with cups of English tea—it was almost worth waiting two centuries for.

After he was finished eating, he tailored Eben Pavitt’s sad casual clothes into the kind of expensive bright blue suit which
the richer final year students had worn when he was a university freshman. Satisfied, he opened the bungalow’s front door
and stepped out into the street.

There had never been a town like Exnall on Kochi. Moyo found it pleasantly surprising. From the media company shows he had
always imagined the Kulu Kingdom planets to have a society even more formal than his own Japanese-ethnic culture. Yet Exnall
lacked any sort of disciplined layout. He wandered along its broad streets, sheltered by the lofty harandrids, enjoying what
he found, the small shops, gleaming clean cafÉs, patisseries, and bars, the little parks, attractive houses, the snow-white
wooden church with its bright scarlet tile roof.

Moyo wasn’t alone exploring his new environment. Several hundred people had stayed behind after Annette Ekelund had left.
Most of them, like himself, were ambling around, not quite meeting the eye of their fellow citizens. Everyone was party to
the same guilty secret: what we did, what was done for us to return our souls into these bodies. The atmosphere was almost
one of mourning.

The strollers were dressed in the clothes of their era and culture, solid citizens all. Those who favoured grotesquerie and
mytho-beast appearances had departed with Ekelund.

He was delighted that several of the cafÉs were actually open, taken over by possessed proprietors who were industriously
imagineering away the modern interiors, replacing them with older, more traditional decors (or in two cases retro-futuristic).
Espresso machines gurgled and slurped enthusiastically, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted about. And then there was
the doughnut machine. Set up in the window of one cafÉ, a beautiful antique contraption of dull polished metal with an enamel
manufacturer’s badge on the front, it was a couple of metres long, with a huge funnel at one end, filled with white dough.
Raw doughnuts dropped out of a nozzle onto a metal grid conveyer belt which dunked them into a long vat of hot cooking oil
where they fizzled away, effervescing golden bubbles until they rose out of the other side a rich brown in colour. After that
they dropped off the end onto a tray of sugar. The smell they released into the crisp morning air was delectable. Moyo stood
with his nose to the glass for a full minute, entranced by the parade of doughnuts trundling past while electric motors hummed
and clicked, and the turquoise gas flames played underneath the oil. He had never guessed that anything so wondrously archaic
could be found within the Confederation, so simple and so elaborate. He pushed the door open and went in.