by Chris Walley
“Ah. Yes, well . . . a soft target . . .” Vero seemed to stare at the desk as if an answer was inscribed on it. “Well, it is . . . what shall we say? An objective . . . an opponent perhaps, that is, well, unarmored.”
“Who.”
“Who?”
“You used the word opponent. An opponent is not an it, it is a who. Opponents are personal.”
“Ah yes,” Vero replied, intertwining his fingers nervously, “we mustn’t lose our grammar.”
“The grammar is not the point. As well you know.” Vero stared at his interlocked hands in embarrassment, and Merral thought that he was blushing.
“Vero,” Merral said, almost horrified at the sharpness of his own voice, “let me suggest that a soft target is unprotected organic tissue. Right?”
“Er, right.”
“Do you see what worries me?”
“Yes . . . I’m sorry.”
“Vero, that charming woman, Salla, who is, for all I know, a wife and a mother beyond reproach, and the men with her, were happily talking about maximizing the potential for efficiently burning holes in the flesh of living, intelligent creatures. Is this what we have come to?”
Vero rose to his feet and paced the room before stopping, turning, and answering.
“I suppose so,” he said, clearly discomfited. “It’s just that we have been in a hurry; we’ve only been going perhaps four weeks here. We have been just too busy to consider some of the issues. Like ethics. And, I suppose, you have to distance yourself. Really.”
“But I would prefer not to.”
Vero stared at the table, a range of expressions flitting across his face. Then he looked up, his brown eyes wide. “Look, Merral, let me turn it round. You believe that what we face is evil?”
“Yes.”
“You believe we are right to be prepared to fight?”
“Yes, I suppose. If negotiation fails.”
“Then tell me,” Vero said, his voice suddenly hardening, “would you have us use our bare hands or stones?”
Suddenly, Merral was aware that his position was hopelessly undermined. He stood, as much to cover his awkwardness as for any other reason, and faced Vero across the room. As they looked at each other, there was a tense silence.
Unable to avoid the inevitable, Merral blurted out, “I apologize—”
“I apologize too—”
Their words came so close together that they found themselves smiling.
Vero made an apologetic gesture. “You are right; I have been blinded. I should have known better. It was in all the old literature that there was a danger of this.”
“Yes,” Merral added slowly, “but I see that there is a fault in my thinking too. I have been too idealistic. I accept the idea of fighting, but not the reality of it.” He sighed. “Oh, what a horrid, horrid business this is.”
“It is so dirty that we must, to some extent, get our own hands dirty,” said Vero sadly.
“I suppose so.”
Abruptly, Vero sat down.
It’s no good. I must now pursue Vero’s plan. “So then, the thing I saw is your main weapon?”
“Yes. I’m pleased with what Salla’s team has done with the XM2s. . . .”
Merral sensed reservations. “But?”
“I am worried that they are only short-range weapons.”
“So you have nothing for a distance?”
“We toyed with projectile weapons. Guns that fire explosive charges, bullets, that sort of thing. But we have nothing to adapt for that. We’d have to start from scratch to make them. It would take months.”
“Yes. But doesn’t that leave everybody vulnerable?”
“To some extent. We are putting together jackets that may give some sort of protection, a dense, impact-resistant synthetic with a broad spectrum reflective layer under the surface coating, but it is hard to give more than token protection.”
“So you will have to get in fast to the target.”
“Yes.” Vero frowned. “I’d like your thinking on that. Here now . . . pass me those images and I’ll show you what I am thinking of.”
“Please,” Merral said, sliding them over, “if I am to seriously consider leading this party, I have to have all the information I need.”
“Yes.” Vero flexed his fingers. “I—we—have been envisaging a three-way approach, and your news has helped me clarify that. My working proposal is as follows: We send the diplomatic party up from the south. Up here.” On the map, Vero’s finger moved along a river toward the lake. “When they come to the lake, I would want them to come up it in the middle, in full view of the ship. They will be using a hoverer and will be fairly slow. It’s noisy and I don’t think it can be mistaken for anything warlike. We will have the banners on it. But before they move out we will have brought up two assault parties with the sleds. They are silent, so I think that they ought to be undetected until they can be seen. Now with a location to work from, I suggest that we have one that comes from the north.” He gestured to the map again. “The other from the west, as close as we can get.” He tapped a finger on a stream on the western side of the lake. “Hmm, possibly approach down in this valley here, where they will be out of sight.”
Vero measured across the lake with his fingers and checked the scale. “Say two kilometers. So, if the negotiation fails, then both assault parties attack at once. You see the strategy?”
Merral hesitated. “Vero, this is a new area for me and a very unwelcome one. Yes, I think so. Their attention is attracted to the south with the diplomatic party. Then the attack—sudden and unannounced—comes from two other points of the compass. I suppose you might get close enough without being seen. Thirty people in each?”
“Yes. All men, by the way. That’s because, as Salla implied just now, the weapons are so heavy. If we had time we could make them lighter.”
“But sixty men—is that going to be enough?”
“Probably not. But as soon as the attack starts we bring in reinforcements. A ship flies in and lands an extra sixty or so troops.”
Merral shook his head. “And you have the hundred-plus men? And this ship?”
“Actually, yes. A hundred and forty men are being trained. The old texts always said to have extra in reserve. And as for the ship, well, Perena has been given an old subspace freighter that has been unused for over a century: the Emilia Kay.”
“A freighter? Your ability astonishes me. But why not just come in with the ship?”
“We discussed this. It’s too obvious and too vulnerable. This way, the Emilia Kay will bring the sleds and the hoverer up to the crater margin the night before and wait there just over the horizon for whatever happens. If we do have to go for the assault option, then she flies over and lands. It would be easier if we had specialized landing ships: fast, armored machines. But we don’t. We can make guns, but not ships. We will have to manage with what we have.”
He fell silent as he stared at the images; then he looked at Merral. “So what do you think?”
Merral found himself reluctant to speak. “I have never assessed anything like it. No one living has. It all sounds risky. What if things go wrong?”
“It is risky,” Vero said gloomily. “The whole thing is risky.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Please do, but quickly. We do not have much time.”
Suddenly Merral realized that he could make no decision here. “Vero, I am going to go back home and think about all this. For no more than forty-eight hours. I want to stand back from all this. I have to be convinced that what I’m doing is absolutely the only possible way forward. To get a feel for whether the risks are needed.”
Vero looked disappointed. “Ah. Well, I can understand that. But be careful not to give anything away. This is not a sports match. If the intruders hear of our plans at all, then we are in trouble. Surprise is almost all we have. That’s another reason why I want to move soon. So far we have kept what is happening quiet, but we can’t disguise
it forever. There are too many people involved.”
“Yes, I understand.” Merral picked up his bag. “Let me leave you the images. I have copies.”
“Thank you; we will study them, I assure you.” He stared at the sheets. “I wish that we had better shots of the ship. So much is just guesswork.”
“So do I, Vero. Anyway, I want to get out of this underground world and see the sun.”
“Very well. But let me come with you to the entrance.”
On the way out of the cavern, Merral met Anya and Perena. While Vero went ahead to organize transport to the airport, Merral explained to the sisters what he planned to do. After expressions of sympathy and support from both of them and farewell hugs, he walked out to the tunnel’s entrance. There, he stepped out of the shadow of the cliff and stood in the afternoon sunshine, enjoying the air and trying to ignore the ceaseless activity all about him.
Vero soon returned. “There is a driver who will take you straight to the airport,” he announced.
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you for coming. But I do hope you agree to lead. We need you.”
“If I don’t, who does?”
Vero shrugged. “Someone like Zak, I guess. He seems to be doing well in training. But he is unproven.”
A young man hurried out of the hut and motioned Merral over to a vehicle.
“Have a safe journey, my friend,” said Vero, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Thank you. I will be in touch with you the day after tomorrow.”
The direct afternoon flights to Ynysmant were full, and Merral could only find a seat on a late and slow circuitous route that took him through Ranapert and Halmacent Cities. He stared out of the window as the purple dusk darkened into night, watching the pinpricks of light underneath him, recognizing towns, tracing roads, and locating vehicles. Each point of light, he reminded himself, represented a person or a family. And within a week, all of them could be affected by his actions or his decisions.
As he thought about it, he acknowledged that Vero’s plan seemed reasonable, logical, and necessary. Yet, it was perilous. If the intruders had the power to reach out and destroy a Gate high above them in space, what could they not do on the surface of the planet? Even hundreds of generations ago, mankind had had the power to destroy entire cities and even planets, and had—if the stories of pre-Intervention times were true—come close to destroying Ancient Earth on more than one occasion.
No, planning such an action so quickly, against an unknown enemy, was risky. It was not only an issue of whether he led the forces. Perhaps the operation itself should be stopped. He could probably demand the whole thing be cancelled, and they would probably listen to him; for some reason, people respected him and his views. After all, that was why they wanted him to lead the attack.
Merral stared hard out of the window, watching the lights of a big road vehicle far below, winding its way along a curving trail. He weighed his options. Perhaps he could go to Corradon and Clemant and say that it was too risky and try to persuade them of a less hazardous alternative.
They were starting to descend. Ahead, visible as fine and delicate points of silver in a sea of darkness, lay the lights of Ynysmant. So much seemed to revolve around him and his decisions, and in under forty-eight hours, he had to make his choice.
O Lord, he prayed intently as the pitch of the engines changed, I must decide. Show me plainly what I must do.
But there was no answer: no abrupt vision, no sudden certainty, no ringing affirmation. It was just a sort of spiritual silence.
Almost as if communications to high heaven had also been disrupted.
33
Less than an hour later, Merral reached his house. Only his father was in. His mother had, he was informed, gone to a women’s meeting of some sort. Merral helped himself to food and then went and joined his father, who was painstakingly completing a picture puzzle on the table. His father bent forward over the table, his thin elbows jutting down onto the puzzle, and stared with a pained gaze at the opposite wall.
“I really don’t know what things are coming to, Son,” he said in a troubled voice, his face somehow strangely aged and forlorn. “People just don’t seem as . . . well, nice as they used to be. Maybe it’s the long winter. Maybe it’s the Gate going; some people say that. Maybe I’m just getting older and less tolerant. Why, even your mother now . . . I don’t know.” He gave a burdened sigh. “It’s all ‘Move this, Stefan,’ ‘Tidy that up, Stefan,’ ‘Oh, comb your hair, Stefan,’ ‘Those fingernails need cutting.’ It just goes on. I don’t remember that she was always like this.”
He gave a pathetic little moan. “Son,” he said, suddenly turning a lined and worried face to Merral, “I’m getting old and I don’t like it.”
Merral, almost too overcome to say anything, just patted him on the shoulder.
“It’s not you, Father,” he said finally. “Nor Mother either. There is just something wrong. But we are working on it. We are doing our best.”
His eyes watering, his father nodded. “I hope so. Well, I’m tired. Have been for months. I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow.”
After breakfast, Merral walked over the causeway to the Institute with a heavy heart. There he sat down at his desk to try to plan what he wanted to do in the next day and a half. He decided he had to go to Herrandown. It was there that things had started, and Merral felt that what was happening there now might be some guide to how great the risk to Farholme was. He went to see Henri to ask him whether he could borrow a vehicle to visit Herrandown. Henri shook his head and smiled. “Ach, man, I can do better than that,” he offered. “There is a rotorcraft due to fly near there tomorrow. It’s been delayed by the dust, but the weather’s supposed to be clear tomorrow. I can arrange for you to be dropped off and picked up on the return leg. Is a couple of hours long enough?”
After talking briefly about other matters, Merral left Henri and returned to his office, where he called Isabella and arranged to meet her that evening. He felt he needed to see Jorgio and called his brother to find out where he was.
“That’s easy,” said Daoud Serter. “He’s over by you; probably at the stables.”
“So he’s not up at Wilamall’s Farm then?”
“Didn’t you know? Not now. But he’ll tell you.”
Merral walked out of the back of the Institute building, looking for Jorgio. He found the old stable hand stroking one of the horses in the stalls.
“Jorgio!” Merral called out.
“Mister Merral,” said the old man, turning awkwardly. They embraced. “Good to see you.”
“So you heard about Brenito?”
“I heard.” He shook his head slowly. “A nice man. He’ll be welcomed up there and missed down here.” He made a soft clucking noise. “I hope as I helped him. The Lord told me as we were talking that he had only a few more days. So I felt I’d better tell him.”
“I think it allowed him to sort things out.”
“See, that was the point. I think he was ready; but I’ve no doubt folks like him have plenty of things to sort out.”
“Indeed. But what are you doing here?”
Jorgio shook his head. “I’ve finished at the farm.”
“Finished?”
“Yes,” Jorgio said, and his distorted face bore a look of deep unhappiness. “Been a change of plan. It’s a matter of resources, they say. No Gate now, so new priorities. They don’t need people like me there; they need fewer, fitter people.”
“I’m shocked,” Merral said, genuinely astonished but remembering that Teracy had warned of changes. “I’m very surprised. I knew nothing of it. But then, I’m in the wrong part of forestry.”
“It’s a new decision,” Jorgio added. “So I’m back down in the town with my brother. I’ll move my things down soon enough.”
Merral felt annoyed with himself. Having promised Brenito he would keep a watch on Jorgio, he now found that the man had been uprooted and he hadn’t realized it.
“Of course,” Jorgio continued, “I’ve still my allowance, the same as you. I just don’t have anything to do. So I reckoned as I’d come here and see the horses.”
“Welcome. But I had no idea,” Merral said. It is worrying. If we are no longer concerned about our weak, then what has happened to us? Here was yet another small piece of evidence that Farholme was changing for the worse.
“It’s the way things is. There’s a shadow over us all now, Mister Merral. But what are you doing?”
“Me? I work here.”
“Tut. If you please, Mister Merral, I know better than that. You are struggling over something.”
Merral stared hard at Jorgio, wondering if his conflicts were that visible or whether there was some other gift at work. “Truly said, my old friend. I have a hard choice to make. I am hoping that before tomorrow evening I will see and hear enough to make my decision about what to do very plain.”
“You’re worried what to do about them, aren’t you? I don’t blame you. Fighting ’em can’t be much fun. Not from what I knows about them.”
Merral stared at the old man, wondering yet again how he knew so much. “No, it’s not fun, Jorgio,” he answered. “And do you have any advice?”
“Tut! You want me to make your decisions?” he said, raising a rough finger in warning, but there was both warmth and sympathy in his expression. “You must make them yourself.”
Then, to Merral’s surprise, the old man closed his eyes and fell silent, his big lips moving slightly. After a few moments, he suddenly opened his eyes.
“There. I’ve done what I can do. I ’ave just prayed as you’ll find out very clearly what you have to do.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, you may not thank me.” There was a curiously distorted smile, revealing his displaced teeth. “You may find out more about the evil than you want.”
Jorgio fell into a tight-lipped silence that seemed to discourage further questions.
“Thank you,” Merral answered eventually, both gratified and disturbed by the conversation.
