The Night's Dawn Trilogy (231 page)

Quinn smiled at the prospect. His robe and hood shrank to more manageable proportions, and he pushed off from the decking.
He’d needed the interlude to regain his own equilibrium after the disaster in Earth orbit, the humiliation of retreat. Gurtan
Mauer provided him with a valid focus for his anger. He could hardly use the starship’s crew; there were only fifteen of them
left now, and few were inessential.

“Where are we going, Quinn?” Lawrence asked as the two of them drifted through the companionway to the bridge.

“I’m not sure. I’ll bet most of the Confederation knows about possession now, it’ll make life fucking difficult.” He wriggled
through the hatch to the bridge, and checked around to see what was being done.

“We’re almost finished, Quinn,” Dwyer said. “There wasn’t too much damage, and this is a warship, so most critical systems
have backups. We’re flight-ready again. But people are going to know we’ve been in some sort of scrap. No way could we go
outside to repair the hull. Spacesuits won’t work on us.”

“Sure, Dwyer. You’ve done good.”

Dwyer’s grin was avaricious.

They were all waiting for Quinn to tell them where he wanted to go next. And the truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure he knew.
Earth was his goal, but perhaps he’d been too ambitious trying for it first. It was the old problem: to charge in with an
army of disciples, or to stealthily rot the structure from within. After the dreariness of Norfolk, the prospect of action
had excited him. It still did, but he obviously didn’t have enough forces to break through Earth’s defences. Not even the
Royal Kulu Navy could do that.

He needed to get there on a different ship, one which wouldn’t cause such a heated response. After he’d docked at the orbital
tower station he could get down to the planet. He knew that.

But where to get another ship from? He knew so little about the Confederation worlds. Only once during his twenty years on
Earth had he met anyone from offworld.

“Ah.” He grinned at Lawrence. “Of course, Banneth’s colleague.”

“What?”

“I’ve decided where we’re going.” He checked the bridge displays; their cryogenic fuel reserves could fly them another four
hundred light years. More than enough. “Nyvan,” he announced. “We’re going to Nyvan. Dwyer, start working out a vector.”

“What’s Nyvan?” Lawrence asked.

“The second planet anyone ever found which was good enough to live on. Everyone used to flock there from the arcologies. They
don’t now.”

•  •  •

Nova Kong has always boasted that it is the most beautiful city to be found within the Confederation. Wisely, few challenged
the claim.

No other Adamist society had the kind of money which had been lavished on the city ever since the day Richard Saldana first
stepped down out of his spaceplane and (according to legend) said: “This footstep will not depart in the sands of time.”

If he did say it, he was certainly right. The capital city of the Kulu Kingdom was a memorial which no one who saw it would
ever be likely to forget. Right from the start, aesthetics was a paramount factor in planning, and pretty grandiose aesthetics
at that. It had no streets, only flamboyant boulevards, greenway avenues, and rivers (half of them artificial); all powered
ground traffic used the labyrinth of underground motorways. Commemorative monuments and statues dominated the junctions; the
Kingdom’s heroic history was celebrated in hundreds of artistic styles from megalithic to contemporary.

Although it had a population of nineteen million, the building density regulations meant it was spread out over five hundred
square kilometres, with Touchdown plaza at its centre. Every conceivable architectural era was to be found among the public,
private, and commercial buildings so carefully sprinkled across the ground, with the exception of prefab concrete, programmable
silicon, and composite ezystak panels (anything built in Nova Kong was built to last). Seventeen cathedrals strove for attention
against neo-Roman government offices. Gloss-black pyramid condominiums were as popular as Napoleonic apartment blocks with
conservatory roofs arching over their central wells. Sir Christopher Wren proved a heavy influence on the long curving terraces
of snow-white stone town houses, while Oriental and Eastern designs appeared to be favoured among the smaller individual residences.

Chilly autumn air was gusting along the boulevards when Ralph Hiltch flew in over the clean spires and ornate belfries. His
vantage point was a privilege not awarded to many people. Commercial overflights were strictly forbidden; only emergency craft,
police, senior government officials, and the Saldanas were ever permitted this view.

He couldn’t have timed his arrival better, he thought. The trees which filled the parks, squares, and ornamental waterways
below were starting to turn in the morning frosts. Green leaves were fading to an infinite variety of yellows, golds, bronzes,
and reds, a trillion flecks of rusty colour glinting in the strong sunlight. Soggy auburn mantles were already expanding across
the damp grass, while thick dunes snuggled up in the sheltered lees of buildings. Nova Kong’s million strong army of utility
mechanoids were programmed to go easy on the invasive downfall, allowing the rustic image to prevail.

Today though, the refined perfection of the city was marred by twisters of smoke rising from several districts. As they passed
close to one, Ralph accessed the flyer’s sensor suite to obtain a better view of a Gothic castle made from blocks of amber
and magenta glass which seemed to be the source. The smoke was a dense billow pouring out from the stubby remains of a smashed
turret. Fires were still flickering inside the main hall. Over twenty police and Royal Marine flyers had landed on the parkland
outside; figures in active armour suits walked through the castle’s courtyards.

Ralph knew that depressing scene well enough. Although in his heart he’d never expected to see it here, not Nova Kong, the
very nucleus of the Kingdom. He’d been born on the Principality of Jerez, and this was his first visit to Kulu. One part of
his mind wryly acknowledged he would always retain a hint of the provincial attitude. Nova Kong was the capital, it ought
to remain impervious to anything, any form of attack, physical or subversive. That was the reason his job, his agency, existed:
the first line of defence.

“How many of these incursions have there been?” he asked the Royal Navy pilot.

“A couple of dozen in the last three days. Tough bastards to beat, I can tell you. The marines had to call down SD fire support
a couple of times. We haven’t seen any new ones for eleven hours now, thank Christ. That means we’ve probably got them all.
City’s under martial law, every transport route on the planet has shut down, and the AIs are sweeping the net for any sign
of activity. Nowhere the possessed can hide anymore, and they certainly can’t run.”

“Sounds like you people were on the ball. We did much the same thing on Ombey.”

“Yeah? You beat them there?”

“Almost.”

The ion field flyer lined up on Apollo Palace. Awe and nerves squeezed Ralph’s heart, quickening its pulse. Physically this
was the middle of the city, politically the hub of an interstellar empire, and home to the most notorious family in the Confederation.

Apollo Palace was a small town in its own right, albeit contained under a single roof. Every wing and hall interlocked, their
unions marked by rotundas and pagodas. Sumptuous stately homes, which in centuries past must have been independent houses
for senior courtiers, had been now incorporated in the overall structure, ensnared by the flourishing webbing of stone cloisters
which had gradually crept out from the centre. The family chapel was larger than most of the city’s cathedrals, and more graceful
than all.

A hundred quadrangles containing immaculate gardens flashed past underneath the flyer’s fuselage as it descended. Ralph shunted
a mild tranquillizer program into primary mode. Turning up electronically stoned before your sovereign probably went against
every written and unwritten court protocol in existence. But, damn it, he couldn’t afford a slip due to nerves now—the Kingdom
couldn’t afford it.

Eight armed Royal Marines were waiting at the foot of the airstairs when they landed in an outer quadrangle. Their captain
clicked his heels together and saluted Ralph.

“Sorry, sir, but I must ask you to stand still.”

Ralph eyed the chemical projectile guns trained on him. “Of course.” Cold air turned his breath to grey vapour.

The captain signalled one of the marines who came forward holding a small sensor pad. She touched it to Ralph’s forehead,
then went on to his hands.

“Clear, sir,” she barked.

“Very good. Mr Hiltch, would you please datavise your ESA identification code, and your martial law transport authority number.”
The captain held up a processor block.

Ralph obliged the request.

“Thank you, sir.”

The marines shouldered their weapons. Ralph whistled silent relief, happy at how seriously they were taking the threat of
possession, but at the same time wishing he wasn’t on the receiving end.

A tall, middle-aged man stepped out of a nearby doorway and walked over. “Mr Hiltch, welcome to Kulu.” He put his hand out.

That he was a Saldana was not in doubt; his size, poise, and that distinct nose made it obvious for anyone to see. Trouble
was, there were so many of them. Ralph ran an identity check through his neural nanonics, the file was in his classified section:
the Duke of Salion, chairman of the Privy Council’s security commission, and Alastair II’s first cousin. One of the most unobtrusive
and powerful men in the Kingdom.

“Sir. Thank you for meeting me.”

“Not at all.” He guided Ralph back through the door. “Princess Kirsten’s message made it clear she considers you important.
I have to say we’re all extremely relieved to hear Ombey has survived a not inconsiderable assault by the possessed. The Principality
does lack the resources available to the more developed worlds of the Kingdom.”

“I saw the smoke as I flew down. It seems nowhere is immune.”

A lift was waiting for them just inside the building. The Duke datavised an order into its processor. Ralph felt it start
off, moving downwards, then horizontally.

“Regrettably so,” the Duke admitted. “However, we believe we have them contained here. And preliminary indications from the
other Principalities are that they’ve also been halted. Thankfully, it looks like we’re over the worst.”

“If I might ask, what was the sensor that marine used on me?”

“You were being tested for static electricity. The Confederation Navy researchers have found the possessed carry a small but
permanent static charge. It’s very simple, but so far it’s proved infallible.”

“Some good news, that makes a change.”

“Quite.” The Duke gave him a sardonic smile.

The lift opened out into a long anteroom. Ralph found it hard not to gape; he’d thought Burley Palace was opulent. Here the
concept of ornamentation and embellishment had been taken to outrageous heights. Marble was drowning under arabesque patterns
of platinum leaf; the church-high ceiling was adorned with frescoes of unusual xenocs which were hard to see behind the glare
of galactic chandeliers. Arched alcoves were inset with circular windows of graduated glass, each fashioned after a different
flower. Trophy heads were mounted on the wall, jewelled armour helmet effigies of fantasy creatures; dragons wrought in curving
jade panes inlaid with rubies, unicorns in alabaster and emeralds, hobgoblins in onyx and diamonds, mermaids in aquamarine
and sapphires.

Courtiers and civil servants were walking about briskly, their footfalls completely silent on the Chinese carpet. The Duke
strode diagonally across the room, with everyone melting out of his way. Ralph hurried to keep up.

Double doors opened into a library of more manageable proportions. Then Ralph was through into a snug oak-panelled study with
a log fire burning eagerly in the grate and frost-rimed French windows presenting a view out into a quadrangle planted with
ancient chestnuts. Five young children were scampering about on the lawn, dressed against the cold in colourful coats, woollen
bobble hats, and leather gloves. They were flinging sticks and stones into the big old trees, trying to bring down the prickly
burrs.

King Alastair II stood before the fire, rubbing his hands together in front of the flames. A bulky camel’s hair coat was slung
over a high-backed leather chair. Damp footprints on the carpet indicated he’d just come in from the quadrangle.

“Good afternoon, Mr Hiltch.”

Ralph stood to attention. “Your Majesty.” Despite the fact he was in the presence of his King, Ralph could only stare at the
oil painting on the wall. It was the Mona Lisa. Which was impossible. The French state of Govcentral would never let
that
out of the Paris arcology. Yet would the King of Kulu really have a copy on his wall?

“I reviewed the report which came with you, Mr Hiltch,” the King said. “You’ve had a busy few weeks. I can see why my sister
valued your counsel so highly. One can only hope all my ESA officers are so efficient and resourceful. You are a credit to
your agency.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Duke shut the study door as the King used an iron poker to stir the fire.

“Do stand easy, Mr Hiltch,” Alastair said. He put the poker back in the rack and eased himself down in one of the leather
chairs which ringed the hearth rug. “Those are my grandchildren out there.” A finger flicked towards the quadrangle. “Got
them here at the palace while their father’s off with the Royal Navy. Safest place for them. Nice to have them, too. That
lad in the blue coat, being pushed around by his sister, that’s Edward; your future king, in fact. Although I doubt you’ll
be around when he ascends the throne. God willing, it won’t be for another century at least.”

“I hope so, Your Majesty.”

“Course you do. Sit down, Mr Hiltch. Thought we’d have an informal session to start with. Gather you’ve something controversial
to propose. This way if it is too controversial, well… it’ll simply never have happened. Can’t have the monarch exposed to
controversy, now can we?”