The Night's Dawn Trilogy (452 page)

Banneth took another sip of the Crown, enjoying the all-too-rare sensation of alcohol seeping through her synapses.

No mention of London, then.

None at all,
Western Europe confirmed.
I’m not even suppressing any. He’s being remarkably restrained.

If he’s here.

He is.

You shut down the vac-trains awful quick.

I didn’t.

Really?
Banneth perked up at that. Any information she could gather on B7 always fascinated her. In all the years she’d been working
for them, she’d learned so little about how they operated.
Who did?

A flash of pique escaped along the affinity link.
An idiotic colleague panicked. Sadly, not all of us are completely focused on the problem.

How many are there?

No. Old habits die hard, and the habit of secrecy is very old indeed in my case. You should appreciate that, with your obsession
in behavioural psychology.

Come on. You can indulge me. I can’t even fart without your consent. And I am about to be vaporized.

A pat on the head for a faithful old servant?

Whatever you want to call it.

Very well, I suppose I do have some small obligation. You have behaved yourself admirably. I will reveal one aspect of myself,
on the condition that you don’t pester me any further.

Done deal.

The habit. It has formed over six hundred years.

Shit! You’re six hundred years old?

Six hundred and fifty-two, actually.

What the fuck are you?

Done deal, remember.

Xenoc, is that it?

The affinity link carried a mental chuckle.
I’m fully human, thank you. Now stop asking questions.

“Six hundred years old,” Banneth muttered in awe. It was an astonishing disclosure. If it was true. But the supervisor had
no reason to lie.
You keep going into zero-tau; stay in for fifty years, come out for a couple every century. I’ve heard of people doing that.

Dear me, I’m disappointed. It must be all that whisky you’re guzzling down, it’s fogging your brain. I don’t consider myself
to be that mundane. Zero-tau indeed.

What then?

Work it out. You should be grateful. I’ve given you something to keep your mind active in your last days. You were becoming
morbid and withdrawn. Now your files are all edited and catalogued, you need a fresh mental challenge.

What’s going to happen to my files? You will publish them, won’t you?

Ah, sweet vanity. It’s been the downfall of egomaniacs greater than you.

Won’t you?
she repeated, annoyed.

It will make an excellent archive resource for my people.

Your people? What do they want with…
The holoscreen image wobbled; a story from Edmonton, a reporter touring round a sabotaged power plant, detailing the repairs.

Did you see that?

The AI is picking up microfluctuations in the penthouse’s electrical circuits. He’s there.
Western Europe’s excitement was crackling down the affinity link like a static slap to the brain.

“Shit!” Banneth downed the whisky in one swift gulp. Nothing I can do. The phrase was locked in her mind, repeating and repeating.
Now the moment was swooping down on her, bitter resentment surged up. She struggled to her feet. Quinn was never going to
see her slumped in defeat. He was also damn well going to know she was the principal factor in outsmarting him.

She datavised the lights up to full strength, and turned a circle, scanning the penthouse. Moisture was smearing her vision.
The holoscreen wobbled again, its sound jolting.

Slowly, and with a taunting smile on her face, she said: “Where are you, Quinn?”

It was like a poorly focused AV projection coming to life. A dark shadow wavering in front of the door to the bedroom, blocking
out the motion of the oblivious acolytes. It was translucent at first, but thickened quickly. The overhead lights flickered
and the holoscreen image imploded into a soiled rainbow. Banneth’s neural nanonics crashed.

Quinn Dexter stood on the marble tiles, clad in his ebony robe, looking right at her. Fully materialized.

Gotcha, you bastard!

The supervisor’s victorious cry rang out in Banneth’s skull. For a whole second she stared at her beautiful creation, every
gorgeous feature; remembering the angry power locked up beneath the smooth pale skin. He stared right back. Rather, his eyes
were unmoving. Wrong. Wrong! WRONG.
Wait, it’s not—

The SD X-ray laser fired. Kilometres above Banneth, the beam penetrated the arcology’s crystal dome. It struck the top of
the Parsonage Heights tower, transmuting the carbon-concrete structure and dubious decor into a blast of ions. A twister of
near-solid blue light flared up towards the dome from the skyscraper’s ruined crown.

Quinn floated down lightly through the heart of the explosion, intrigued by the level of violence storming through the physical
universe outside. He’d been wondering exactly what weapon they’d use once they found him. Only an SD platform could produce
such spectacular savagery.

He observed Banneth’s soul disconnect from the dispersing atoms of her body. She howled in rage as she became aware of him;
the real him. Jack McGovern’s desolated soul was already slithering into the beyond.

“Nice try,” Quinn mocked. “So what are you going to do for an encore?” He extended his perception as she dwindled away, savouring
her anguish and useless fury. And also… Out there, trembling weakly on the furthest edge of awareness, was a ragged chorus
of more tenuous cries. Resonant with misery and terrible pain. Far, far away.

That was interesting.

The uniform sheet of light which appeared above Norfolk to signify daytime wasn’t quite as glaring now. Although still several
weeks away, the onset of autumn was plain to see for those who knew their weather lore.

Luca Comar stood at his bedroom window, looking out over the wolds as he’d done every morning at daybreak since… Well, every
morning. There was a particularly thick mist covering the estate today. Beyond the lawns (unmown for weeks now, damn it),
all he could see were the old cedars, great grey shadows guarding Cricklade’s orchards and pastures. Gravely reassuring in
their size and familiarity.

It was completely still outside. A morning so insipid it couldn’t even coax native animals out of their burrows. Dewdrops
cloaked every leaf, their weight bending branches out of alignment, making it seem as though every bush and tree was sagging
from apathy.

“For heaven’s sake come back to bed,” Susannah grunted. “I’m cold.”

She was lying in the middle of their huge four poster bed, eyes closed, sleepily trawling the duvet back around her shoulders.
Her dark hair fanned out across the rumpled pillows like a broken bird’s nest. Not as long as it used to be, he thought wistfully.
The two of them getting together had been inevitable. Back together, in one respect. However you wanted to look at it, they
were suited for each other. And there had been one argument too many with Lucy.

Luca went back and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his love. Her hand crept out from under the duvet, feeling
round for him. He held it gently, and bent over to kiss her knuckles. A gesture that had carried over from their courting
days. She smiled lazily.

“That’s better,” she purred. “I hate it when you leap out of bed every bloody morning.”

“I have to. The estate doesn’t run itself. Especially not now. Honestly, some of the buggers are more idle and stupid now
than they were before.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does. We still have a crop to get in. Who knows how long this winter is going to last.”

She lifted her head and peered up at him in modest confusion. “It’ll last the same time as it always does. That’s what’s right
for this world, and that’s what we all feel. So that’s the way it will be. Stop worrying.”

“Yeah.” He looked back at the window again. Tempted.

She sat up and gave him a proper look. “What is it? I can sense how troubled you are. It’s not just the crops.”

“It is, partly. You and I both know that I have to be here to make sure it’s done right. Not just because they’re a bunch
of slackers. They need the kind of guidance Grant can give them. Which silos are used for what, how much drying the grain
should be given first.”

“Mr Butterworth can tell them that.”

“Johan, you mean.”

They managed to avoid each other’s eye. But the mild guilt was the same in both of them. Identity was a taboo topic on Norfolk
these days.

“He can tell them,” Luca said. “Whether they’ll listen and actually do the work is another matter. We’ve still got a way to
go before we’re one big harmonious family working for the common good.”

She grinned. “Arses need to be kicked.”

“Damn right!”

“So what’s with all the angst?”

“Days like this give me time to think. They’re so slow. There’s no urgent farmwork to do at the moment, only the pruning.
And Johan can supervise that okay.”

“Ah.” She drew her knees up under her chin, and hugged them. “The girls.”

“Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly. “The girls. I hate it, you know. It means I’m more of Grant than I am of me. That I’m losing
control. That can’t be right. I’m Luca; and they’re nothing to me, they’re nothing to do with me.”

“Me neither,” she said miserably. “But I think we’re fighting an instinct we can never beat. They’re the daughters of this
body, Luca. And the more I settle into this body, the more it belongs to me, then the more I have to accept what comes with
it. What Marjorie Kavanagh is. If I don’t, she’ll haunt me forever; and rightly so. This is supposed to be our haven. How
can it be if we reject them? We will never be given peace.”

“Grant hates me. If he could put a gun to my head right now, he’d do it. Sometimes, when I’m more him than me, I think I’m
going to do it. The only reason I’m still here is because he’s not ready to commit suicide yet. He desperately wants to know
what’s happened to Louise and Genevieve. He wants that so bad that I do too, now. That’s why today is so tempting. I could
take a horse and ride over to Knossington, there’s another aeroambulance stationed there. If it still works I could be in
Norwich by evening.”

“I doubt any kind of plane would work, not here.”

“I know. Getting to Norwich by boat is going to be a hell of a lot more difficult. And then winter will make it damn near
impossible. So I ought to start now.”

“But Cricklade won’t let you.”

“No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure anymore. He’s getting stronger, wearing me down.” He gave a short bitter laugh. “Taste
the irony in that. The person I possess, possessing me in return. No more than I deserve, I suppose. And you know what? I
do want to see that the girls are okay. Me, my own thoughts. I don’t know where that comes from. If it’s the guilt from what
I tried to do to Louise, or if it is him, his first victory. Carmitha says we’re reverting. I think she could be right.”

“No she’s not, we will always be ourselves.”

“Will we?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically.

“I wish I could believe that. So much of this place isn’t what we expected. All I ever truly wanted was to be free of the
beyond. Now I am, and I’m still being persecuted. Dear God, why can’t death be real? What kind of universe is this?”

“Luca, if you do go looking for the girls, I’m going with you.”

He kissed her, searching to immerse himself in normality. “Good.”

Her arms went round his neck. “Come here. Let’s celebrate being us. I know quite a few things Marjorie never did for Grant.”

______

Carmitha spent the morning working in the rose grove, one of a thirty-strong team gainfully employed to return Norfolk’s legendary
plants to order. Because of the delay, it was harder work than usual. The flower stems had toughened, and new late-summer
shoots had flourished, tangling their way through the neat wire trellises. It all had to be trimmed away, returning the plants
to their original broad fan-shape. She started by deadheading each plant, then used a stepladder to reach the topmost shoots,
snipping through them with a pair of heavy-duty secateurs. Long whip-like shoots fell from her snapping blades to form a considerable
criss-cross pile around the foot of the steps.

She also considered that the grass between the rows had been allowed to grow too long, but held her tongue. It was enough
that they were keeping the basics of her world ticking over. When the end came, and the Confederation descended out of the
strange blank sky to banish the possessing souls, enough would remain for the genuine inhabitants to carry on. Never
as before
, but there would be a degree of continuity. The next generation would be able to build their lives over the ruins of the
horror.

It was the thought she remained faithful to throughout every day. The prospect that this wouldn’t end was a weakness she could
not permit herself. Somewhere on the other side of this realm’s boundary, the Confederation was still intact; its leadership
pouring every ounce of effort into finding them, and with that an answer.

Her belief faltered at what that answer might be. Simply expelling the souls back into the dark emptiness of the hereafter
solved nothing. Some place devoid of suffering must be found for them. They, of course, thought they’d already found it by
coming here. Fools. Poor blighted, tragic fools.

Similarly, her imagination failed to embrace exactly what life on Norfolk, and the other possessed worlds, would be like afterwards.
She’d always respected the mild culture of spirituality in which she’d been raised, just as the house-dwellers worshiped their
Christian God. Neither gave the slightest clue how to live once you truly knew you had an immortal soul. How could anyone
take physical existence seriously now they knew that? Why do anything, why achieve anything when so much more awaited? She’d
always resented this world’s artificial restrictions, while admitting she could never have an alternative. “A butterfly without
wings,” her grandmother used to call her. Now the doorway into an awesome, infinite freedom had been flung wide open.