by Alan Fenton
Suddenly there was a text message on his headset: Bad Boy and Dr. Giraud static half a kilometre due west your position.
Leaving the six surviving actives in the camp to guard prisoners, Ian rushed into the forest heading west, moving as fast as he could through the huge trees and dense undergrowth, all the time following mother robot’s directions. A warning message flashed on his headset, but before he could stop himself he was in a clearing. On the far side of it was Bad Boy, and Dr. Giraud standing close to him. From his expression it was obvious that he thought his last hour had come. Near Ian was mother robot, and at her feet, barely visible, the six baby robots.
Bad Boy was in high spirits. ‘That was quite a show you boys put on just now. Pity it was all wasted effort.’
Ian’s attention was caught by the pouched belt round Dr. Giraud’s waist. ‘That’s right,’ said Bad Boy, ‘a very special belt.’ He patted the pocket of his camouflage jacket. ‘And here is the detonator. Not too much explosive. Just enough to blow our friend the doctor to pieces, not enough to harm me. Or you, for that matter, as long as you keep your distance.’
As Ian’s fingers inched towards the trigger of his automatic weapon, Bad Boy’s hand moved to his jacket pocket again. ‘Want to see which of us is the fastest draw, Mr. Duncan?’ Ian let his hand fall to his side. ‘No? Very sensible. Drop your weapon, please. Now!’
Ian’s rifle fell to the ground and Bad Boy picked it up. Amid the debris of branches and leaves that covered the clearing he could see the tiny robot babies inching forward, presumably trying to get close enough to fire their “artful dodger” mini- missiles at Bad Boy. Who had given them the order? If he saw them, they were done for. Ian could only pray he wouldn’t.
But he did. His face contorted with rage, Bad Boy opened fire with Ian’s automatic rifle and kept on firing. When he stopped, the charred remains of six tiny robots were strewn across the clearing. The eyes of mother robot flashed, and from the gap in her head that mimicked a mouth came a dry, rasping sound, the only warning of the mini-missile that drilled a neat hole in the centre of Bad Boy’s forehead.
Ian stared in astonishment, first at the lifeless figure of Bad Boy, then at mother robot standing silent and motionless at the clearing’s edge. He checked his headset; there was no record of any order given or received, no record of any transmission from his robo-computer. It confirmed what he already knew; that he had not given mother robot the order to fire at Bad Boy. Since there was no guarantee that she would kill him with her first shot, he would have judged the risk to Dr. Giraud far too great. But if he had not given the order, then who had? Incredible as it seemed, there was no one else who could have done. He tried to push away the insistent thought nagging at his brain; the thought that, defying all logic, what he had just witnessed had all the appearance of a mother’s revenge for the killing of her babies. Inconceivable, of course. Ordering mother robot to follow him, he received the correct acknowledgment and breathed a half-sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought the unthinkable, when obviously the truth was that a robot malfunction had been rewarded with a most fortunate outcome. What tricks imagination played in the heat of battle!
Trailed at a distance by mother robot, Ian supported the weakened Dr. Giraud back to the rebel camp. Yet even in his hour of triumph, Ian was sad – sad for the actives and hostages who had died in the battle, sad for those hostages brutally executed, sad for the mini-robots whose existence had been so cruelly terminated, and sad for the mother who had lost her babies. Like all actives who had trained with robots, Ian had developed an enormous respect for them, being constantly impressed by their skills, and not least by their humanity, or rather by the illusion of humanity. For illusion was all it possibly could be.
With Lancelot at the controls, Eclipse was on its way back, its ETA five hours from now. Dr. Giraud was carefully relieved of his explosive belt, and he and the surviving members of his team given food and water. The Scuttle robo-pilot was alerted, and directed to land in the rebel camp.
Ian, his task complete, wandered round the camp, relaxed, and in the mood for talking, whilst the surviving doctors and nurses of the Planet One team did what they could for the wounded rebels. As a nurse bandaged his head, one of them pulled a knife from his loose robes and cut her throat. Ian hurled himself at the rebel, the knife flashed and he staggered back. A furious active whirled round and killed the man with a shot to the head. Slowly Ian sank to his knees and rolled over on his back. The doctors rushed over and knelt by him, one taking his pulse, the other examining the terrible knife wound that sliced him open from chest to stomach.
Even as Eclipse, with Scuttle in its belly, sped back to Camelot, the Cambodian government was being given the co-ordinates of the rebel camp so that they could pick up the wounded and track down those rebels who had fled into the forest. The world waited anxiously for news of Dr. Giraud. For twenty-four hours nothing was heard, and then, wandering under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, looking bewildered, (he remembered nothing of his rescue) but in good health, was Dr. Giraud. It was an enthralling mystery. Who, the media asked, was responsible for rescuing him? The French? The Chinese? The Russians? The Americans? The British?
The mystery was soon solved. For when the sun rose the next morning, a light blazed in the sky, a light as powerful as a hundred lightning flashes, first above France, and then – as the planet revolved and dawn broke around the globe – in every country in the world. The higher the sun climbed, the brighter the sword shone. In the afternoon its light began to dim, and at the day’s end, with the setting of the sun, it glowed blood red, fading from view with the dying light.
Thirty Nine
The day after the mysterious reappearance of Dr. Giraud in Paris, Cambodia submitted to the United Nations a formal protest against what it described as “foreign mercenaries” waging war on Cambodia’s sovereign territory. But foreign mercenaries or not, the Cambodian government, without lifting a finger, had been handed victory over the rebels, and the world presented with a cure for the most virulent disease known to mankind.
Although Operation Bad Boy had been a notable victory, acknowledged as a triumph by nations across the globe, the mood in Camelot was far from triumphal. Whilst the rescue mission had been successful, the human cost had been considerable. Five actives had been killed, and two seriously wounded, and the commander of the operation, Ian Duncan, lay in Intensive Care in a deep coma. In a desperate effort to save his life, doctors were growing a replacement heart and lungs from his own stem cells banked for such an emergency, a procedure that would take time, something Ian did not have. Meanwhile at the Round Table, questions were being asked, questions embarrassing for Lancelot, and for Arthur too. ‘Why was an inexperienced officer asked to lead such a dangerous operation?’
‘Was the Chief of Staff not aware that there were a number of other officers better qualified for the job?’
‘Whose decision was this? Was it the Chief of Staff’s? Or was Arthur consulted?’
No one was more critical of Lancelot than he himself, though he tried to take comfort from the fact that he had given Ian the opportunity to pull out, and that Ian had been happy to lead the mission. But however he twisted and turned and doubled in his tracks, he always arrived back at the same place; as supreme commander he, and he alone, was responsible. Had he, he asked himself, appointed the man best qualified to lead Operation Bad Boy? Or had he tried to silence his best friend? It was several days before he was able to meet Guinevere in his apartment; there were too many prying eyes to allow them to take the slightest risk. For a full minute the two lovers held each other, their troubles momentarily forgotten.
‘How is Ian?’ She lit a cigarette. He had never known her smoke before.
‘Not good.’ She was mortified when he added, ‘If he dies, it will be God’s punishment.’
Hurt and angry, Guinevere lashed out with words calculated to provoke. ‘I would interpret Ian’s death as a sign of God’s favour, not as a punishm
ent.’
Lancelot was dismayed. ‘I know you too well to believe you mean that.’
‘Then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do,’ she said, her eyes cold.
‘Ian is my best friend.’
‘Your best friend would destroy us if we gave him half a chance.’
‘Perhaps, but to wish him dead . . . ’
They stood there, confronting each other, the anger surging, and then as quickly draining away. ‘Don’t you know,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes, ‘that our love is the only thing that matters to me. I would do anything to protect it. Anything.’ Fiercely possessive, she clung to him. ‘I would die for you.’
‘And I for you.’
Guinevere apart, there was no one Lancelot could turn to. His closest friend and confidant was in a coma, Gawain was avoiding him, Agravaine and Gaheris were not interested in his problems, Lanky, who until now, had been his only female friend, had, by her reproachful looks, made it clear that she held him responsible for what had happened to Ian. Who else could he confide in? No one. No one but Arthur. If only he could be honest with him.
In the event, it was not a decision he had to make. Arthur sent for him. ‘Thought you might need someone to talk to,’ he said, in his direct fashion.
Those understanding words coming from a man who had every reason to hate him were almost more than Lancelot could endure. The volcanic emotion he had been suppressing for days erupted, and tears streamed down his face. He and Arthur embraced, separating swiftly in embarrassment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection.
‘You have nothing to blame yourself for, Lance.’ ‘If Ian should die . . . ’
‘If he dies,’ said Arthur, ‘he will have died in a great cause.’ Arthur surely did not know about Ginny and him. If he did,
how could he talk to him like this, like a son, a well-loved son? No one could be that forgiving. And yet . . . what was it George had said? Don’t kid yourself, Lance, there’s nothing in Camelot that Arthur doesn’t know about.
Another week went by, and Ian still lay in a coma. The doctors were losing hope. Unable to sleep, Lancelot dressed and made his way to the hospital. Lanky was sitting by Ian’s bed holding his hand. When she saw Lancelot, she left without a word or a glance in his direction.
It was three-thirty in the morning, the night nurse dozed at her desk, the beeping of the heart monitor the only sound in the Intensive Care ward. Lancelot pulled up a chair and sat by Ian’s bed. Resting his chin on clasped hands, he closed his eyes and prayed. We must pray for a miracle was what the neurosurgeon had said when Daniel Shalott was lying in a coma all those years ago. And God had granted it. He believed then, and still wanted to believe, that God had chosen him as His instrument.
‘Give me a sign, Lord. Give me a sign that you forgive me. Save Ian’s life as you saved Daniel Shalott’s.’ The heart monitor beeped, and Ian, the friend he had so cruelly betrayed, slept on in the shadows. ‘Do what you want with me, Lord,’ whispered Lancelot. ‘Only save his life, I beg you.’
Back in his apartment he collapsed on his bed, and in seconds was in a deep sleep. An hour later he opened his eyes. The phone was beeping. It was the sister on duty. ‘I’m so sorry, sir . . . ’
He was devastated by Ian’s death, even more by Guinevere’s reaction to it. Instead of consoling him for the loss of his friend, she scolded him.
‘What’s happened to you? You used to be your own man.
Not any more. You’ve sold out.’ ‘Who have I sold out to?’
A disdainful look. ‘To God! You asked God for a present, a neat little gift-wrapped miracle. And God said no, you’ve had one present already, I’m not giving you any more. That’s it, isn’t it? All that praying wasn’t for Ian, was it? It was for you. You wanted God to confirm your miracle ranking, that’s all. And you’re miffed because he didn’t.’
‘God has punished me,’ said Lancelot. ‘I shall have to live with my conscience until the day I die.’
The colour rose in Guinevere’s cheeks. ‘Damn you, Lance! Damn you and damn your arrogance! If there really is a God, I’d say he had more important things to worry about than your bloody conscience.’
Expecting him to fight back, she was surprised when all he said was, ‘You are right. Why should God bother about me? I am nothing.’
As swiftly as it flared, her anger died. Impulsively she seized his hand and kissed it. As they held each other she tried to take comfort from his repeated assurances. ‘I love you, I’ll always love you. What happened to Ian hasn’t changed anything.’
But it had. In her despair she convinced herself that Lancelot had abandoned her, not for a woman but for God. God has punished me. How self-centred was that! Instead of trying to make her happy, he was worrying about his relationship with the Deity. Helena, she could handle, Galahad, even. But God – now that was something else.
Forty
To retain his sanity, he needed somehow to relieve himself of the burden of guilt – if not for the death of his friend, then for the affair he was having with Arthur’s wife. He desperately needed forgiveness, and only one man could give him that.
The door panel buzzed, the speaker crackled.
Name?
‘Lancelot.’
In a nano-second the computer had matched voice and iris with its records.
Enter Lancelot.
He had prepared his speech and could hardly wait to unburden himself. As it happened, he was frustrated by Arthur who was in talkative mood. At first he spoke about the stars and the universe, though Lancelot paid little attention, his mind rehearsing his confession down to the last syllable. Then came a word that was out of place, a word that was neither about stars nor universe . . . obligations . . . Obligations? Where did that come from?
‘Obligations can be difficult things to deal with,’ Arthur was saying. ‘Because of obligations we find ourselves in places we don’t necessarily want to be. I understand that, I understand it very well. There’s no one I depend on more than you, no one I would rather have by my side in these difficult times. It’s not that I want you to go, Lance, you mustn’t think that.’
Go? What did he mean? Go where? ‘At least give it a try.’
Give what a try? What had he missed? ‘Sir,’ he began haltingly, ‘I have something to tell you. Something I . . . ’ It was no use. He couldn’t go on. He could barely remember what it was he had wanted to say. In the silence Arthur gestured at an armchair and Lancelot fell into it gratefully.
‘Let me tell you something, Lance,’ said Arthur, sitting opposite him. ‘You could be my son.’
Lancelot looked surprised. ‘What I mean is,’ explained Arthur, ‘I think of you as a son. You are the son I never had. There was a time,’ he said wistfully, his eyes focused on another time and place, ‘when I might have had a son. But that’s another story . . . ’ He raised his hands and let them fall despairingly on the arms of his chair ‘one I regret very much.’
What son might Arthur have had? And why was he telling him now? He was puzzled.
‘So Lance,’ said Arthur jovially, ‘since you are the son I never had, I feel I have the right to offer you some fatherly advice.’
‘Advice?’ Lancelot was more confused than ever.
‘You are unhappy, I can see that. If I read you correctly, your conscience is troubling you.’
So that was it. He knew.
‘But it’s my belief that if you had known Galahad was your son, you would have married Helena. Am I right?’
How was that relevant? ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Would you have married Helena if you had known Galahad was your son?’
‘I imagine so,’ said Lancelot cautiously.
Arthur nodded. ‘I am convinced you would.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘So my advice is this; leave Camelot, go back to England, and be a husband to Helena and a father to Galahad.’ Was Arthur banishing him from Camelot? Was that it?
What else? He wanted to s
ee the back of him. Why? Because he knew! Knew about him and Guinevere. All this nonsense about Helena was a smokescreen. For Arthur it would be a neat solution, one that would silence the gossips.
‘Stay there as long as you like. When you have sorted things out, come back to Camelot with Helena and Galahad. For good, Lance,’ said Arthur, ‘for good.’ Those dazzling blue eyes seemed to read Lancelot’s every thought. ‘For your good,’ he said, ‘for your wife’s good, for your son’s good, for Camelot’s good.’ As he got to his feet, signalling that the meeting was at an end, Arthur said softly, as if it were an afterthought, ‘For my good too,’ leaving Lancelot wondering what he meant by that. In a daze, he said goodbye and left. When he had gone, Arthur toyed with the keyboard of his computer, his thoughts closer to earth than heaven. If only he had had a son like Lancelot. If only Margot had not aborted their love child. Not that he could blame her. Without his support, what else could she have done? At the time she was married, he an eighteen year old student. It could so easily have been different, though. He could see it all as if it were happening now. Margot had left, and he was sitting at the table not knowing what to do . . . bustling waiters noisily clearing the tea-time debris . . . he jumping up and rushing out of the Café Royal into Regent Street, calling after her . . . she, nowhere to be seen, lost in the crowd. He had sat at the table a minute too long, had thought one thought too many, had left it too late. And that decision, or indecision, had haunted him all these years, and would haunt him for ever.
‘I’m still not certain if he knows or not,’ said Lancelot. ‘He knows,’ said Guinevere.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I know Arthur,’ said Guinevere. ‘He’s wise and he’s forgiving. But make no mistake, Lance, anything that threatens him, threatens Camelot too. And Camelot is more important to him than anything else. More important than you.’ A wistful look. ‘More important than me.’
