Polystom (Gollancz Sf S.)

by Adam Roberts

  ‘Join me, General,’ said Polystom, indicating a free seat at the table. The table had been laid for six, in the garden, in the rich autumnal afternoon light, although Polystom was actually lunching alone. ‘Some apple wine? It’s most refreshing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the General, seating himself. ‘No wine for me. I have to work, this afternoon, you know. Coffee.’ This last word, spoken more severely, was addressed to the hovering house servant.

  ‘I was meaning to ask you, General,’ said Polystom, emboldened by slight inebriation.

  ‘Ask away, my dear boy,’ said the General.

  ‘I was reading some of my uncle’s letters to the news-books. Their tone is quite anti-war, I’d say.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure in my own mind whether my uncle was pro-war or anti. At the funeral the orations all stressed his belief in the war.’

  ‘Oh, Cleonicles believed in the war. He thought our tactics were skewed, that’s all. He thought he had a better way of winning.’

  ‘Are your tactics skewed?’ Polystom asked, with a slightly louche forwardness. The General smiled at him, as if to say, I know you’re a little tipsy and we understand that you’ve been a little knocked off the rails by the shock of your uncle’s death. But he didn’t say anything.

  ‘General,’ said Polystom. ‘Have you caught the assassins yet?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the General. ‘The coffee. Not yet, I’m afraid. We suspect that they are being harboured somewhere on the moon.’

  ‘What a frightening thought,’ said Polystom, languidly.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said the General, lifting his glass of coffee to his lips. ‘One wants to trust one’s servants, but there are bad apples everywhere. Even on the best-run estates. Do you trust your servants, my dear boy?’

  ‘Let us say,’ said Polystom, feeling quite grown-up and sly, ‘I know which ones to trust. Who can say better?’

  The General only smiled.

  ‘I’m foolish, I know,’ Stom went on. ‘But I still can’t understand what anybody could hope to gain by murdering my uncle. I’ve been trying to think it through, and I can’t see how it benefits anybody.’

  ‘Terrorists,’ said the General. ‘Extremely dangerous, dedicated men.’

  ‘Is it true they came all the way from Mudworld?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘By hitching a ride on a skywhal?’

  ‘Stranger things,’ said the General, ‘have happened. My dear boy, we’re looking for certain papers of your uncle’s, a particular sheaf. They were stacked neatly in a green canvas box, with a C on the front. You wouldn’t happen to know where they might be?’

  ‘Sorry, General, I don’t recall ever having seen them.’

  The General’s face was as unreadable as ever.

  ‘Are they important?’ Polystom asked with faux-innocence.

  ‘If you do see them,’ said the General, getting to his feet. ‘Let one of my aides know. Good day to you, my dear boy.’

  ‘Good day.’

  Perhaps it was the presence of so many military people about the house. Or perhaps it was, as Polystom later told himself it was, a longer-standing yearning of his. The fact of the ongoing war on the Mudworld began to intrude itself into Polystom’s consciousness. He had always been aware of it, of course, but now it loomed large. Every time he saw one of the brightly uniformed staff officers coming or going about the house, or the estate, he thought to himself you’ve been to the Mudworld, you’ve seen things and done things about which I have only imagined. He realised, one morning, that he had never actually made up his mind about the war. He had never fashioned for himself strong feelings, pro or anti. The most he had done was soak up the prevailing atmosphere at whatever gathering he had been attending. Visiting his uncle, for example, he had assumed what he took to be his uncle’s position – which is to say, a generally conceived though nonetheless patriotic opposition to the campaign. Now he discovered that Cleonicles had been considered a hero of the war! That the old man had actually levied a platoon from amongst his own servants! And, in the bustling, elegantly purposeful atmosphere of the house as it now was, with each of the handsome officers strutting up the stairs or across the lawn, Polystom started, osmotically as it were, to soak up a different perspective on events. He fished out copies of Phanicles’ War Hymns and Oenophanes’ War’s Glory and read them. Life’s but a sword’s length, at best, said Phanicles. The great Phanicles, who had fought on Bohemia; wielded rifle and bayonet amongst the snow. A terrible thing, of course, but marvellous as well. He took both books out with him, and sat by the lake in the whisky light of a late autumn day. He read a sonnet by Oenophanes about men marching in step, their marching pounding the ground, their hearts marching in step as well, their rhythmic pulses connected, their sensations heightened by the presence of glory. They marched over a bridge and shattered it to timbers with the sheer force of their coordinated marching. A phenomenon, the author observed in a tiny-print footnote at the bottom of the page, which has often been observed by military leaders, and to prevent which men are trained to march out of step when crossing a bridge. Polystom wasn’t so sure about that one. All the men in that poem ended up in the water. What was so glorious about that? But, turning the page, he found something more stirring:

  This is the eternal Might and Right

  By which all life is sifted, slain and shed!

  Lord make me hard like thee, that day and night

  I may approve thy ways however dread!

  A little stuffy, Oenophanes, but stirring stuff. Rather old-fashioned now, and nothing compared to the fragile beauties of Phanicles’ verse, but it made the pulse hurry a little. Life’s but a sword’s length, at best! That was true, surely. How could a man be a man unless he had tested himself in the crucible of battle?

  The following day, Polystom came across one of General Demus’ two aides. ‘Have you found the sheaf of papers you were looking for?’ he asked.

  A slightly suspicious flutter passed over the man’s face, but then he smiled again. ‘We’ve found a great deal that will be of use to the war effort, sir,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it would be convenient for you to lunch with the general today?’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ said Polystom.

  The two of them walked inside together. There was a chill in the air, more characteristically autumnal than the weather had been in the previous few weeks, and lunch was being taken indoors. As they walked together, Stom asked the aide, ‘Tell me, have you been in action yourself? On the Mudworld, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘It’s hard fighting down there, sir,’ said the aide, although his smile seemed to undermine his words rather. ‘Hard fighting.’

  ‘But – you know,’ said Stom. ‘Glorious?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The General was already at table, his other aide beside him. Polystom settled into a chair beside him, and filled his own glass with apple wine, whilst a servant portioned apple-and-salmon pate onto a plate.

  ‘My dear Polystom,’ said the General. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bearing up, General,’ said Polystom. ‘I have something to ask you. It’s more, I suppose, that I’m asking your advice. Or your blessing.’

  ‘And I have something to ask you. But you go first, dear boy.’

  Polystom, smiling, looked straight into the General’s eyes. His face was broad, friendly-looking, almost babyish, with ink-blue eyes and pale bristly hair. Well-formed, except for the wormy bruise-red ridge of an old scar, running down the right side of his face, wriggling like a live thing when the general smiled. ‘You told me about my uncle raising a platoon from his own estate.’

  ‘I did, my boy.’

  ‘I’d like to do the same. From my estate, on Enting. Would that be of use to the war?’

  ‘Indeed it would. What an excellent notion.’

  ‘My estate is rather larger than my uncle’s. I don’t see why I co
uldn’t manage say – fifty men.’

  ‘Tremendous.’

  ‘You’ll pardon my ignorance . . . I don’t know how these things work. These would be servants, of course. Officers would . . .?’

  ‘Would come from one of the academies on Kaspian or Berthing. I could introduce you to the lieutenants personally – over dinner. That might be pleasant.’

  ‘Let’s say,’ said Stom, feeling increasingly nervy and gauche, holding his wine glass by its stem like a flower and angling the cup to watch the light reflecting from its surface. ‘Let us say that I were interested in leading my own men. Would that be . . .?’ He fizzled out.

  ‘That would be an act,’ said the General, beaming at him, his scar curling, ‘of patriotism and bravery. Splendid! Splendid! I can see the same blood runs in your veins as ran in your uncle’s.’

  ‘Is that – a done thing?’

  ‘It is indeed. Some people prefer not to become personally involved. Your uncle, for instance, went so far as to insist upon anonymity. And there is, as you know, a degree of danger involved. But that’s the glory of it.’

  ‘How would it work? Practically, I mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said the General, raising his own glass. ‘First, a toast.’ The two glasses kissed, with an icy little tink, and Polystom took a long draught of wine. He felt more nervous now than he had done before. ‘Well,’ the General said again. ‘The practicalities are that it’s usually best to leave the nitty-gritty of command to your lieutenants. They’ll order the men directly, enforce discipline, that sort of thing. It’s better that way, my dear boy: they’re specifically trained for battlefield command.’

  ‘I quite see that,’ said Stom. His heart was pumping. Was it too late to back out? Or would a change of mind at this stage effectively brand him a coward?

  ‘But your presence would be an enormous benefit. For one thing, your men know and love you. That makes for a very healthy command dynamic. The men can hate the lieutenants, for punishing them, for ordering them into lethal situations. But because they love you, they don’t hate command as such. It works very well. Respect for authority is the key to military success, you see.’

  ‘Would I have to be trained myself? Military training, I mean?’

  The General pursed his lips and shook his head genially. ‘If you like, dear boy, but it’s not essential. Not essential at all. You know how to fire a gun? Of course you do. There’s not much else to it. This is an excellent decision you’ve made.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Certainly it is.’

  Stom smiled, goofily. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased, General.’

  ‘I am. Fifty men, did you say? That’s a marvellous contribution to the war effort. It really is. And you’ll be getting in before it’s over,’ the General added with enormous gusto. ‘Think of the honour! Think how jealous other people will be when the war’s finished, when you have a distinguished record and they don’t!’

  This was an altogether more appealing perspective on things. Stom took another slug of wine. His belly was warming. ‘I’ll fly back tomorrow, and gather my men together.’

  ‘Good idea. My aide here will have you sign the commission papers before you go. He can also take you through the hoops, as it were, so you know what to do.’

  ‘Thank you, General.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, my dear boy. Thank you! Now, there was just one thing I wanted to ask you.’ He poked at his as yet uneaten lunch with the back of his fork. ‘Come to think of it, it may involve you staying on the moon, here, for a few days more.’

  ‘Ask away, General.’ There was a slightly manic elation inside Stom now. He had taken the step. He was, essentially, a soldier now. He was on a level, now, with his eminent lunch partner. A petty pride swelled in his breast. He would prove himself worthy! He would open himself to new experiences. He would gather glory to himself. The General was looking more serious now.

  ‘It’s to do,’ he said, ‘with your father’s assassins.’

  ‘My uncle’s,’ Stom corrected, automatically, but the mood had instantly shifted, chilled.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do beg your pardon. Your uncle’s assassins.’

  ‘Have you caught them?’

  The General’s smile had a slightly forced look about it, as if Stom had said something indelicate. ‘Not yet. We’ll find them, to be sure. They must be hiding with somebody, somewhere on the moon. We’ll deal with them soon, don’t worry. But it’s important for morale, for authority you know, that we make an exhibition. That justice is seen to be done, and quickly. You do understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Stom, not understanding at all.

  ‘I think it best in a case like this to use the skin-frame.’

  ‘The skin-frame,’ Stom repeated, the words cooling his heart.

  ‘A bit gruesome, I know, but it’s imperative we send out a signal that the whole System can hear. Now, we’ve – this is hush-hush, naturally – but we’ve pulled over a couple of prisoners from the Mudworld. Dangerous men, criminals of the worst sort. We’ve flown them over in secret, and now they’re in a cellar under the house.’

  ‘From the Mudworld?’

  ‘Yes. The general population of the moon, the servants you know, don’t know what the assassins actually looked like. Only that there were three of them.’

  ‘I’ve heard some servants say there were four of them.’

  ‘Two, three, four. If the stories continued circulating, dear boy, there would be a hundred of them by month’s end. We’ll say there were three. We’ll disseminate the news that we caught all three of them on the Speckled Mountains, hiding in a cave. Then we’ll say that one of them was shot resisting his arrest, and that the other two were captured. Then we’ll bring out our two Mudworlders, execute them by skin-frame . . . oh, shall we say, the day after tomorrow?’

  The aides, on either side, nodded.

  ‘Yes. That will give people time to assemble. Ideally, we want a very large crowd. And photographers, news-book-men, the whole caboodle. Now, the reason I mention this to you is that the best thing, clearly, would be for you to be there. As your uncle’s closest surviving relative, you know.’

  ‘I see,’ said Polystom. He had no desire to watch men executed by skin-frame; it was the most unappealing way to die he could imagine. But, he told himself, he was a soldier now. He had to harden his sensibilities. Perhaps, he said to himself, putting the wine-glass to his face and sucking down another mouthful of wine, perhaps he could use this as an opportunity to train himself into familiarity with blood. ‘Of course I’ll do it.’

  He sent a letter to Nestor, his butler, telling him that he’d be staying on the moon for another three days at least, but that he’d be home as soon as he could get away; and also instructing him to draw up a list of the fifty likeliest soldiers on the estate. I intend forming a platoon, for the war, with myself as captain, he wrote. I’ll leave you in charge of the estate in my absence, of course, but I need good men under me.

  The night before the execution he had trouble sleeping, and in the morning he lay in bed, trying to determine whether it was indeed a sort of squeamishness, a boyish cowardliness, that made him disinclined to watch men put to death. If so, then he needed to purge that weakness.

  The squeamishness, if that was what it was, hadn’t dented his appetite however; and he ate heartily at breakfast. Agor, attending him, talked about the crowd. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, sir. There must be thousands of people. Most of them slept on the hillsides west of the estate sir; but they’ve all come to see the assassins get their desserts.’

  ‘It’s an important thing,’ Stom said. ‘An important lesson to be taught. For the whole System.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  After breakfast, Polystom went with one of the general’s aides to the cellar to visit the condemned men. ‘Do they know they’re facing the skin-frame?’ Stom asked.

  ‘I’m sure it’s all they expect,’ replied the aide. ‘And if they don’t know, th
ey’ll know it sure enough when the executioner comes to prepare them.’

  ‘Prepare them?’ Stom asked, half wanting to hear the details, and yet with a fluttery heart.

  ‘They’ll be basted, as it’s called. A tannin cream rubbed into the skin, which toughens it a little. It’s no good if the skin rips or tears, you’ll understand. And they’ll have been starved, to loosen the subcutaneous fat a little. It’s an old procedure, sir. The executioner knows what he’s doing.’

  Stom said nothing. The cellar door was opened by a uniformed guard, and behind it was a small grey room, the stone floor and walls empty and clean except for its occupants. Two men, grimy and sullen, sat in the coign of wall and floor. Their arms were over their heads, chained to a hook halfway up the wall. There was a blank, animal ferocity in their eyes. Stom leaned forward a little, fascinated by what he saw. There were little cuts and marks over their bare legs, up their bare arms, over their faces. They were so dirty it was impossible to tell which blotches were bruises and which were grime. Their hair had been shaved, revealing half-a-dozen or more circular marks of red, like tiny fairy rings, over their stubbly crowns. One of them was opening and closing his mouth, like a man chewing air, and Stom could see that he had no teeth, and was mashing his gums together, although he couldn’t tell why.

  ‘These men,’ he said, in a hushed voice.

  ‘Sir?’ returned the aide.

  ‘How were they . . . I mean, what were they . . .’ But the question wouldn’t frame itself.

  ‘They’re bad men,’ said the aide. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. These are no ordinary prisoners of war. Those, naturally, we execute quickly and cleanly. These have done much worse than average.’

  Bad enough to merit the skin-frame? Stom wanted to ask. But he didn’t say anything. He drank in, again, the unthinking venomous hostility of their eyes, and then turned away.

  The skin-frame was an antique execution device, rarely used these days, or so Polystom had always thought. Perhaps it was still usual in military justice. A wooden frame, fifteen feet tall, with two hand-rails at the top, spaced so that a man could support himself by holding them. Two bars, like a piece of gymnastic equipment, but with the difference that three feet below these, fixed to the side, was a metal cradle. The condemned man was suspended in the middle of the frame, his hands tied to the bars and his arms bent a little at the elbows. The skin around his ankles was cut clear about and peeled a little way up his shins, this bloody end of flayed flesh being fixed with many little hooks via springs to the cradle. Then the condemned man was left to hang. As long as he could support himself on his bent arms, he could limit the area of his skin that was pulled from his flesh to two circlets of agony around his ankles. But as his grip weakened, and as he sank, his own bodyweight flayed him: the weight of his body pulling him down and peeling off his own skin as he went. It was an unusually horrible way to die.