by Alan Fenton
Mordred and George Bedivere were waiting for him on the airstrip. As Arthur descended the Scuttle’s stairs Mordred rushed forward and threw his arms round him. ‘Thank God you’re back, father’ he said, kissing him on both cheeks, something he had never done before. ‘You can’t imagine how much we have all have missed you.’
Arthur murmured his thanks.
Then came a no nonsense shake of the hand from George, and a brisk, ‘Welcome home.’ Displays of emotion were not his thing. ‘These are yours,’ he said, greatly relieved to be handing over the two mini-computers containing the access codes. And then, in a low voice: ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Gawain.’
Arthur did not react. ‘I have summoned the Round Table,’ he said. ‘We meet in two hours time.’
Gawain’s body was unloaded to be taken to the morgue. ‘I leave you to make the necessary arrangements, George,’ said
Arthur. ‘Tomorrow we bury him with full military honours.’ ‘Yes, sir.’
The hovercart moved off with Mordred at the wheel. ‘Drop me at the prison,’ said Arthur. ‘I want to talk to Galahad.’
‘Let me come with you,’ said Mordred. ‘I’ll see him alone.’
‘If that’s what you want.’ For some reason Mordred seemed ill-at-ease.
‘It is.’
Face drawn, eyes ringed with blue, Galahad sat disconsolately on the bed of his cell. Arthur’s heart went out to him.
‘Do you want to talk?’ ‘What is there to say?’
‘I am here to listen,’ said Arthur, ‘not to accuse, not to blame.’ ‘I am guilty,’ said Galahad.
‘Of what?’
‘Of whatever it is they accuse me of.’ ‘Mordred says you tried to destroy Excalibur.’ Galahad stared at the stone wall.
‘I need to hear it from you, Galahad. Is it true?’
No answer. There was about him an obstinately perverse look that Arthur found hard to interpret. Was it the look of a guilty man ashamed to admit his guilt? Or the look of an innocent man too proud to defend himself?
‘Well?’
Galahad muttered sullenly, ‘I don’t remember.’
Deciding that nothing would be gained by prolonging this tense exchange, Arthur left Galahad in his cell to reflect on whatever it was he had done or not done.
On the way to the observatory he stopped off at Command Control and took the escalator all the way down. In the dim light of Excalibur Control he stared at the familiar image confirming that all was well with Excalibur: blue sky, reeds growing in a lake, and now and then a breeze ruffling the lake, stirring the reeds; a calm scene, oddly out of sorts with these troubled times.
He checked the main terminal’s computer, then both mini- computers, fed in the first four digits of the doomsday code and immediately cancelled them. Everything was functioning normally. Finally, he checked the main computer again, rechecked a second and third time, took the escalator to ground level and walked across to NIWIS.
‘I need your help, Tich.’
He grinned. ‘There’s nothing I would rather give you, sir.’
Arthur checked his wristcom. ‘You have just one hour before the Round Table meets.’
‘To do what?’
‘First, I want you to check that all portables are in the armoury and accounted for.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Tich. ‘The code is clear. Ports are only handed out for a military operation.’
Yes, the code was clear. At a time like this, though, the code counted for little. Tensions at the meeting would be high. If tempers frayed, and violence erupted, wounds inflicted by guns and knives could be treated. Elimat was forever.
‘Do as I ask, Tich. Check.’ ‘I will, sir.’
‘One more thing,’ said Arthur. ‘Here is a list of twenty names
– the names of those members of the Round Table I would trust with my life.’
Tich spoke forcefully. ‘You can trust every man and woman on the island with your life.’
‘No doubt,’ said Arthur. ‘And Tich . . . these twenty men and women are to bring fully-loaded automatic weapons into the Great Hall.’
As he shook his head, Tich’s double chins swayed in disapproving unison. ‘Now that is strictly against the code.’
‘There comes a time, Tich,’ said Arthur, ‘when rules have to be broken. This is one of them, take my word for it. Make sure the weapons are well concealed. Oh, and Tich, no one else is to know about this. Hopefully, no one ever will.’ For a few moments he was preoccupied, considering possible scenarios, however unlikely they might seem. ‘One final thing. No other commands but mine are to be obeyed. Is that clear?’
Tich’s big face crumpled with concern. ‘May I know what this is all about?’
‘Best not,’ said Arthur.
Back in his observatory, he settled into his favourite armchair for a few minutes relaxation and meditation before the Round Table convened. For years, the observatory had been his own personal brain centre, his private Command Control where he drew up plans for military operations and made decisions affecting the future of Camelot and the world. It had also been a retreat, where even in the darkest hours he had preserved his mental equilibrium by studying the stars in their courses and observing the universe in action. Here he had wandered in the quiet places of his mind and found sanctuary from turmoil, death and destruction. No longer. There was no quiet place to hide any more, no sanctuary from what was about to happen. Chaos threatened.
Seventy Two
As the doors closed, and the echoes of their closing reverberated in the Great Hall, members took their seats.
The Round Table was in session.
Looking about him, Arthur was surprised at the number of empty chairs. Lancelot had fled, the four Lotte brothers, Gawain, Agravaine, Gaheris and Gareth, were dead, as were thirty-three other members killed in military operations over the years. In his head he made a quick calculation, and concluded that more members were absent than he could account for. Of the hundred and fifty seats at the Round Table, approximately seventy were unoccupied, meaning that about thirty members were missing, amongst them his brother, Keir. Where were they? Addressing the meeting, he came directly to the point. ‘We are assembled here today to decide whether or not Galahad should be sent to the High Council for trial.’
Galahad, escorted from his cell by a robot guard, stared unseeing at the bible on the table in front of him.
‘Who wishes to speak first?’ said Arthur.
Mordred and George Bedivere exchanged glances. George nodded, and Mordred raised his hand. ‘I cannot tell you how distressing it is for me,’ he said, ‘to be compelled to speak out against a beloved colleague and friend. Sadly, I have no choice. My loyalty to the Round Table – and to you, sir . . .’ – Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgment – ‘is paramount.’ Mordred paused, ordering his thoughts. ‘Whether Galahad understood what he was doing or not, I do not know. What I do know is that he acted like a traitor.’ He sighed. ‘Those are the facts. I only wish they were not.’
‘I hope you understand, Galahad,’ said Arthur, ‘that this is an inquiry, not a trial. We are here to get at the truth. To do that, we need your co-operation.’
Galahad continued to stare at his bible.
Next, Leo Grant put a question to Galahad. ‘Am I right in thinking that you are in principle opposed to violence?’
Galahad muttered an inaudible response. ‘Answer the question,’ said Arthur.
‘I am opposed to violence,’ confirmed Galahad, his voice expressionless, his manner as detached as if he inhabited another planet.
‘Then I find it difficult to understand,’ said Leo, ‘why you would want to do what you are accused of doing. Destroying not only Excalibur but also the island of Camelot is the most violent act you could possibly imagine. It might well have resulted in significant loss of life, and it would certainly have ended our dream of making the world a better place.’
Galahad stirred himself, lifted his eyes
from his bible, and opened his mouth as though to speak. But then he folded his lips, and remained obstinately silent.
‘Please explain yourself,’ said Arthur.
Opening his bible, Galahad leafed through the pages, seeing and saying nothing.
‘The truth is,’ interjected Mordred, ‘there is nothing to explain. It grieves me to say so, but Galahad is . . . ’ how to put it? – he is not fully in control of his mental faculties. How else can you interpret his actions?’ – A furtive glance in Arthur’s direction – ‘I am sorry to have to say this, but . . . ’ He stopped, looking embarrassed.
‘Go on,’ said Arthur.
Mordred addressed his next words to the ceiling. ‘Was it prudent to entrust such a man with the access codes?’
The Round Table stirred. It seemed not only Galahad was under investigation.
Leo tried once again to coax him into some kind of explanation for his conduct. ‘Many of us have our doubts about this allegation,’ he said. ‘We believe there may have been a misunderstanding. We are here to help you. But we cannot help a man who will not help himself. My question is, did you really intend to destroy Excalibur?’
For the first time Galahad responded. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said. A sigh of disappointment from Leo.
‘But . . . but . . . ’ stammered Galahad. ‘But what?’
A long hesitation. ‘I changed my mind.’
Leo’s pulse quickened. ‘When did you do that?’
‘I don’t remember.’ said Galahad, his eyes wandering in Mordred’s direction.
‘I think you do,’ said Leo quietly. ‘Let me ask you again.
When did you change your mind?’
His relentless but sympathetic interrogation was beginning to produce results. Though Galahad was still nervous, he seemed more inclined to co-operate. ‘In Excalibur Control,’ he said. ‘I was holding the mini-computer . . . and then . . . Mordred attacked me.’
‘What else was I supposed to do?’ cried Mordred, appealing to the Round Table. ‘He was feeding in the doomsday code.’
‘Were you?’ asked Leo.
Galahad laid his hands on his bible as if to draw strength from it. ‘I told Mordred I could not do what he had asked me to do.’
Leo’s voice was low and hypnotic, his eyes never leaving Galahad’s. ‘And what was that?’
‘Must we listen to any more of this rubbish?’ cried Mordred, his arms thrown wide in appeal. ‘The man is clearly deranged.’ ‘He asked me to destroy Excalibur,’ said Galahad, ignoring him.
‘Lies!’ protested Mordred, waving an accusing finger at Galahad. ‘I took you for an honourable man, a man of principle.
How wrong I was.’ He continued muttering angrily to himself as Leo renewed his questioning.
‘And you agreed to do it?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Mordred said it was the only way to stop Arthur launching a second Operation Mainline.’
‘Isn’t it always the way,’ protested Mordred. ‘You try to be nice to people, and what do you get? Lies. You have let me down, Galahad. You have let us all down. You claim to be a man of principle, and then you perjure yourself like this.’
As if he had not spoken, Leo put his next question. ‘Did you really believe Arthur would do that?’
Unable to meet his interrogator’s eyes, Galahad mumbled, ‘At the time I did – to my shame.’
‘In the name of God, Leo,’ said Mordred, ‘can’t you see what he’s up to? He’s trying to shift the blame onto me because I stopped him blowing us all to kingdom come. I warn you, if you let him go, he’ll try again. And next time I might not be around to stop him.’
‘I am giving a suspect the chance to defend himself,’ said Leo, unimpressed by Mordred’s dire warning.
‘Fine. But he’s lying. Ask George. He saw what happened.’ ‘Tell us what you saw, George,’ said Leo.
‘I saw Mordred and Galahad struggling on the floor.’ ‘Anything else?’
‘Mordred grabbed the mini-computer from Galahad and held it up.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all,’ said George.
‘So you did not actually see Galahad feed in the doomsday code,’ said Leo.
‘No.’
From the back of Mordred’s throat came a harsh sound that was part protest, part cry of anguish. ‘Why are you doing this to me, George? You saw him! You know you did!’
George’s eyes were expressionless, his face wooden. ‘I did not see him feed in the doomsday code,’ he said.
It took no more than a few seconds for the Round Table to draw the obvious conclusion: it was now Mordred’s word against Galahad’s.
Mordred turned to Arthur. ‘I ask you, sir,’ he said, ‘who are you going to believe? Your own son who loves you, and serves you loyally and devotedly? Or a deluded religious fanatic who believes he’s God’s personal representative on earth?’
First taking time to consider, Arthur addressed Galahad. ‘Having heard Mordred,’ he said, ‘is there anything in your story you would like to change?’
‘Nothing,’ said Galahad.
‘And you, Mord,’ said Arthur, ‘is there anything in your version of events you would like to alter?’
‘With respect, sir,’ said Mordred, ‘it is not my version of events – it is the truth.’
‘You still maintain you saw Galahad dialling in the doomsday code?’
‘I most certainly do,’ said Mordred, adding artfully, ‘why else would I try and stop him? You know me, father. Am I the sort of man who goes around attacking people for no good reason?’
Arthur produced a mini-computer from the top pocket of his uniform and held it up. ‘This is one of the mini-computers containing the Excalibur access codes.’
All eyes were focused somewhat apprehensively on the tiny computer.
‘Access codes consist of combinations of digits, different combinations being used, for example, to regulate Excalibur’s energy levels. We do that on a daily basis.’
The Round Table was alert, listening intently to Arthur’s every word.
‘As each number is dialled on this mini-computer, it is stored in the main computer’s memory bank, together with the date and time it was fed in; a routine that enables technicians to carry out checks, and also as a matter of basic security. The same would apply . . . ’ – Arthur chose his words carefully – ‘if someone were to feed in the doomsday code, or any part of it. Every number they dialled would be recorded in the main computer’s memory bank.’
Excitement radiated through the Great Hall like a charge of electricity.
‘When I returned to Camelot,’ continued Arthur, ‘I checked the main computer. And I found . . . ’ – looking directly at Mordred – ‘I found that there were no doomsday access code numbers in the computer’s memory bank, neither for the date in question, nor for any other date.’
Mordred was dismissive. ‘Computers malfunction.’
‘The data on the main computer is backed up several times,’ said Arthur. ‘There was no malfunction. Galahad is telling the truth. He never tried to access the doomsday code.’
‘Now really, father,’ said Mordred indignantly, ‘how can you say that? Would I lie to you? . . . I love you . . . I love Galahad
. . . I love him like a brother . . . everyone knows that . . . ’ Blustering for a few seconds, he fell silent.
Arthur’s eyes were unforgiving. ‘You love no one, Mordred,’ he said, ‘no one but yourself. From the day you came to Camelot you plotted to overthrow me and take my place. You are a liar and a hypocrite. I should have seen it long ago. I was a fool ever to trust you.’
‘Now, now, father,’ said Mordred soothingly, ‘you are upset – and God knows, you have good reason to be. But this – this is paranoia. You are blaming me for your own – shall we call them, misfortunes? Is that the right word?’
‘Explain yourself,’ said Arthur.
This might well be his last opportunity to do just that, Mordred w
as thinking. He could not afford to waste it. Rising slowly to his feet, he addressed the Round Table.
‘My father has had his successes, his glory days,’ he conceded. ‘But they were in the past. We are dealing with the present. My mistake has been to be loyal to him – too loyal – and too generous with my support. The time has come to correct that. From now on, I promise you, I shall be guided not by my heart, but by my head.’ A melancholy shake of that head and an audible sigh was designed to impress on everyone in the Great Hall that standing before them was a man of integrity, compelled by circumstances to reveal the painful truth about his own flesh and blood.
‘In recent times,’ he continued, his voice sharper, edged now with bitterness, ‘Camelot has been made to look foolish, worse than foolish, brutal. In Operation Mainline we slaughtered thousands of innocents. Mission Grail – the brainchild of Galahad and my father – was a disaster that made us the laughing stock of the world.’
There were loud protests from the Round Table. Waiting for the hubbub to die down, Mordred continued as if nothing had happened. ‘This man,’ he said, waving a contemptuous hand in Arthur’s direction, ‘this man who accuses me of hypocrisy – this is the same man who condoned his wife’s adultery for years.’
A shocked intake of breath greeted this accusation. ‘And what was the result of turning the other cheek?’ asked Mordred. ‘Let me remind you. Murder! Brutal, cold-blooded murder. Lancelot, the adulterer, murdered my darling brothers, Agravaine, Gaheris and Gareth. And now, we are told, he has . . . ’ – Mordred’s voice broke – ‘he has murdered Gawain too.’ For a time he seemed unable to speak, and then, his voice hoarse with emotion, he continued. ‘And what has our great leader done about it? . . . ’ He looked about him, as if inviting an answer to his rhetorical question. ‘I’ll tell you what he has done. He has allowed Lancelot, a psychopathic serial killer, to escape.’
