Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  They were led forward, squeezing past the elderly, the sick, and the mothers with children. Crehual assigned them bunks and then left.

  As Merral slipped into the narrow bunk, Vero whispered to him, “Well done, my friend. You should take up acting.”

  Merral decided that the only redeeming features of the next few hours were that everything stayed in color, there were no manifestations, and it was only a few hours. He lay there on the bunk praying, trying not to feel claustrophobic, fighting the sensation that his insides were being grasped at by invisible forces, and struggling to ignore the cries and moans. Eventually, though, they were through the Gate and decelerating toward the Gate Station at Kirbal 3.

  An hour later, an envelope was abruptly thrust into his hand. He looked up to see the shipmaster’s intense eyes. “Sorted things out for you. New names. There is no direct flight from here to Earth before tomorrow, but I’ve arranged that you can go to Nevant 4 and get a direct flight to Sol Gate 4. But be warned: timings are all crazy at the moment. Crazy.”

  He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. “If you are asked, the watchword for the next two days is refining fire.”

  Then he was gone.

  In fact, it was barely twenty hours later that, seated in the darkened and half-empty Artist Class Gate ship Clemtra Singh, Merral peered ahead through the porthole to see a blue and green half disk with a silver moon behind it.

  How strange. I have known this image since my childhood. It was all Merral could do not to weep.

  A few minutes later, Vero came over and sat down in the vacant seat between Merral and Lloyd. In the row ahead of them, Anya and Jorgio seemed to be sleeping, the old man snoring gently.

  “Just been sorting things out. Looks like we’ll land at the North Sahara landing zone just after dawn. There’s a two-hour flight east to ’Salem. We ought to be there midafternoon local time.” He glanced around, but everyone else nearby seemed to be asleep. “Anyway, the communication links are okay. I also contacted an old fellow student, Adeeb. He’ll meet us off the flier. He was surprised to hear from me.”

  “You didn’t tell him anything?”

  “Oh, please. I didn’t even need to give him my name. He knows what we need.”

  “Can you be sure that he isn’t a member of the . . . Guards?”

  Vero’s face twitched into a flicker of amusement. “It’s as safe an assumption as we can make. He was almost as rebellious as I was. I do not think that our cleric’s sermons have much of an appeal for him.”

  Merral gestured at the port. “You’ve seen the view?”

  “Yes.” A look of passion crossed his friend’s face. “Part of me says, ‘Home at last.’ I can see my family, and my father, if . . .”

  If he is still alive.

  Vero rubbed his nose. “But another part of me says we have a mission to complete.” He turned to Merral. “We aren’t safely home yet.” He nodded at the looming planet. “It may be good to remember that Earth may be as dangerous as anywhere we have been.”

  Merral saw Lloyd nod agreement.

  At the knock on the door of her office, Gerry Habbentz looked up from a screenful of figures. She turned to see the door open and the bony and robed figure of Prebendant Delastro enter.

  “Lord-Prebendant,” she said, rising and bowing slightly. What is he doing here?

  Delastro raised his hands in a gesture that suggested bowing was rather unnecessary.

  “I was passing by,” he said, closing the door carefully behind him. His eyes, green and intense, seemed to smile at her. “I thought I would just encourage you. On your presentation tomorrow.”

  “That’s kind. It’s ready. It’s been ready for days.” She tugged a wayward scrap of hair away from her face. It needs cutting; I’ve let myself go.

  Delastro nodded. “I’m sure. I just wanted to say that your presentation is so central. Advisor Clemant will speak. I may be allowed to add a brief comment. But, Doctor, we are not scientists. You are.”

  How smooth and soothing his voice was.

  “They will listen to you,” Delastro went on. “Tell them what this can do and why we need it.”

  She saw Delastro glance around the barely furnished room and saw his strange eyes fasten on the picture of Amin.

  “Your fiancé?” Delastro gave a sad shake of his head. “Aah, tragic, utterly tragic. I feel for you, my child. The enemy has done this—scarred and blighted your life.” He paused and looked at her with a gaze that seemed to heal.

  He understands me. He gives life meaning.

  She said nothing but felt strangely tearful. She gave her right eye a precautionary dab.

  Delastro was speaking again, his voice soft, reassuring, and right. “You feel as I do, that justice must be done. The Lord himself has passed sentence on this foulness; it falls to us to enact that judgment. For you, for all those who died at Farholme, for the fallen at Bannermene . . . those who have suffered in any way by this evil.”

  My life was turned to ruins by Amin’s appalling death; this man has allowed me to begin rebuilding it.

  The lord-prebendant gently waved a finger. “I am reminded that this is no ordinary conflict with ordinary rules. This is a holy war. Our race has never fought such a pure battle. We wage war against unutterable wickedness. On such a war—on such issues—there can be no prevarication, no holding back.”

  She felt his voice soothed as well as nerved her for action.

  “Nothing—and no one—can stand in our way.” He looked at her. “Tomorrow, Dr. Habbentz, you must give everything you can to support this action. Your blessed weapon has come to us providentially at this time so that we might use it. Use it wisely for the preservation of all that is good and for the imparting of judgment. We must destroy the enemy. Only your weapon can enable us to do this. And cursed is he who stands in the way of our mission!”

  She nodded and then spoke. “Lord-Prebendant, a question, if I may. If the vote goes against the use of the weapon, what will happen?”

  “I have faith that our leaders will see sense. But—” he paused, and a stern, warning tone came into his voice—“if they do reject what is so clearly the Lord’s work, then there may be pressure to have them removed.” He gave her a lean smile. “However, that is not your concern. You do your part, and such an action may not be necessary.”

  The prebendant raised his hand over her. “God bless you, my child.”

  Then he was gone, and the door closed behind him.

  In a time where everything is falling to pieces, there is something extraordinarily comforting about that man with his certainties, his authority, and his clarity.

  She gazed again at the image of Amin. “My dear, I’ll get revenge for you.”

  Near midnight of that same day, Ethan Malunal stood in the center of the Chamber of the Great King. As he gazed around, he was struck by the darkness.

  The great structure, now well over eleven millennia old, had been designed to be filled with light, a vision that had been preserved by those who had maintained and refurbished it over the long years. During the day, the pale limestone interior was lit by sunlight flooding in through the astonishing stained glass in the six high and recessed windows that bore witness to the martyrs of the faith. At night, a subtle and discreet lighting made the stone glow.

  But not tonight.

  “Why is it so dark?” he asked his aide.

  “Sir,” Hanif answered, “as you are aware, blast shielding has been placed inside and outside the windows.” He gestured to the window recesses, and Ethan recognized in the gloom the buttressed sheeting. “That obscured some of the main lighting units. The chamber managers could have brought new ones in, but they felt the darkness was symbolic.”

  “Indeed it is. Anyway, if you would wait here I’d be obliged.” I don’t want you eavesdropping on my conversation. For the ten-thousandth time Ethan asked himself why he hadn’t got rid of the man the moment he had declared himself a follower of the prebendant. Was it b
ecause it would have alerted Delastro that I want to fight him? Or was it simply because I didn’t want a confrontation?

  Ethan walked forward across the stone floor, hearing his footsteps softly echo, and stopped just before the great sculpture that dominated the front of the hall. He gazed at the massive chair and the ornate silver scepter and the simple golden crown. As he did, Eliza’s words came to him again: “You need to meditate on that empty throne, Ethan.”

  I have, Eliza; I have. That’s why I am here.

  He stared again at the throne and the two objects on it. We have no temple, no sacrifice—we need none. But we do have history. This hall is built on the site that, in the former covenant, was the holiest place on Earth. The bloodshed and destruction here in the years before the Great Intervention of the Spirit only added to that significance. We have a cathedral barely a kilometer away, but this is the nearest thing to a sacred space we have on this, the most ancient of all the worlds.

  A bell tolled twelve. Ethan turned and looked at the enormous shadowed hall. Apart from his aide and the four guards standing by the door at the rear, he was alone.

  Delastro will be perhaps a minute late . . . just to make a point.

  Ethan realized that he felt glad to be challenging the prebendant. How ironic it was that, in the three weeks since Eliza had died, he had found a new freedom and confidence. Perhaps that touch of death on a dear friend reminded me that this earthly life is so temporary that we must make it count.

  There was a sound; the small door that lay to the side of the great doorway opened, and three men entered. Two of the men remained by the far wall, while the third, dressed in a dark robe, moved rapidly with a strange, long-legged gait toward him. Hanif rose from his seat and bowed.

  “Prebendant,” Ethan said, but he extended no hand of welcome.

  “Chairman.” The voice was without warmth.

  “I wanted to meet you because of the meeting we have tomorrow.”

  Delastro gave a slight nod, but Ethan saw a wary look in the green eyes.

  “There will be two proposals: the constitutional change and Project Daybreak. Neither has my support, but I want to say that I will strongly oppose the idea that we appoint a chancellor to work with the chairman.”

  “Doctor Malunal, this is not my motion. I stand quite outside the system, although I follow the constitutional debates with interest.”

  But your hand is on every word of the motion. “But if the motion is carried, you would stand as chancellor.”

  There was a dismissive shrug. “I am willing to serve.”

  “We do not need a chancellor. The very term is vague: it is open to any meaning. We don’t need a leader, or even a coleader, with undefined—and potentially unlimited—powers.”

  “In the stress of these days you need help. A chancellor would help you.”

  “No.”

  “I had hoped you would not oppose the motion, Dr. Malunal.”

  “I will.”

  Delastro looked thoughtful. “I could offer . . . a concession. Perhaps no automatic renewal. Maybe . . . the post to be renewed every five years?”

  “No.”

  The prebendant bared his teeth. “It will not matter, you know. You will lose tomorrow.”

  “Probably.”

  “No, certainly.”

  “And if you become chancellor, what will you want?”

  “I want to tighten things up. For instance, I am considering a new ruling on the press: an information act, requiring all material to be submitted to a supervisory body before it is published. And I think we need to create a new crime of disloyalty to the Assembly.”

  Ethan raised a hand. “Enough! I know where you are going.”

  “It is war, Chairman.”

  An edgy silence between them was finally broken by Ethan. “Do you know why I’ve brought you here?”

  “Clearly not to make a deal.”

  “No. To remind you what this represents.” Ethan gestured to the throne.

  The green eyes skimmed over it. “I understand the symbolism.” There was scorn in the words.

  “Prebendant, in the Assembly, all power is deliberately limited. There is only one Lord of the Assembly. That is why we are termed stewards. That is why our highest officials are men and women who chair committees.” As he spoke, Ethan remembered that it had been Eliza who had emphasized this, and he wished she were on hand to help him.

  “That is why we face defeat. Events move on. The crisis forces change.”

  “No. Again.”

  “You are looking tired, Chairman. The hour is late. You ought to rest more. We have had enough of sudden death lately.” The tone was harsh and unsympathetic; the reference to Eliza, unmistakable.

  As he considered the words, Ethan realized that, for the first time, he now believed that the prebendant was evil. Not just a nuisance, not just a political threat, but evil.

  Another silence fell.

  “Till tomorrow,” the prebendant said, swung on his heel, and then strode away.

  Ethan walked away and found a chair. There he prayed. “Have your way tomorrow, Lord. Evil comes close to taking power. I will do what I can, but you must help.”

  30

  Early the following afternoon, Ethan, seated behind the chairman’s desk in the Chamber of the High Stewards sipped at a glass of water and tried to prepare himself for losing the first vote. He felt tense, his head ached, and he could feel a tightness in his chest that worried him. I ought to relax . . . but that’s wishful thinking.

  After two hours of discussion on the proposal for a chancellor, the high stewards had just voted, and Ethan could sense the tension in the low whispers and the uneasy looks. It would take time for the votes to be counted; the system—meant for untroubled times—was deliberately archaic. The outcome, though, was certain.

  He found himself looking across the hall to where the delegates sat in the tiered arcs of seats. As he did, he was aware that he had allowed himself to unfocus his vision so that the individuals blurred into anonymity. It is perhaps better this way: there is less danger that I will see them as personal enemies.

  Ethan had surmised what the outcome would be when he had seen how many of the high stewards bore the little silver lapel badges. Any lingering doubts had evaporated when those opposing the motion had spoken with lukewarm and leaden words, while those in favor had been determined and eloquent. Although Delastro was oddly absent—indeed, he had not been mentioned by name in the debate—Ethan had sensed the prebendant’s guiding hand in the regimented support for having a chancellor.

  Yet as he reviewed what had happened, Ethan found that he was not entirely disappointed. It had been a hard and bruising debate, but he had said what had to be said. I stood my ground. I fought for what is right; my conscience is clear.

  As he looked around, his gaze fell on the three figures on the long bench at his right reserved for observers or invited speakers. Andreas sat at the far end, wearing his clerical robes, stroking his beard and looking uneasy. In the middle sat K, whose flicking eyes seemed to constantly scan the high stewards. Every so often she would tilt her head as some message came into her earpiece and would nod or whisper in response. On Ethan’s side of her was Clemant, dressed in the trimmest of dark suits; he had his hands folded neatly in front of him and stared into space with a blank expression. During the debate, Ethan had tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact with both men. Andreas had seemed ashamed and often looked away, whereas Clemant’s gaze had never even seemed to focus on him.

  To Clemant’s left was a single empty seat, and as he looked at it, Ethan again felt a great sense of loss. Eliza should be sitting there. Her presence would have been invaluable. But she was dead, and internal divisions within the sentinels meant that no replacement had yet been appointed.

  Ethan had half expected that the prebendant would take her place. But for some reason, the man was missing. Perhaps he knows that his presence could be seen as unseemly, given that this whole d
ebate is about him.

  A few minutes later the results were declared: the proposal for a chancellor had been carried by just over the necessary majority. Ethan was unsurprised. But what did take him aback was the supplementary motion, proposed immediately afterward, that Prebendant Delastro be appointed to the post immediately. He tried to neutralize the motion by asking that it be looked at by constitutional experts, but after ten minutes of adjournment, one of them returned by the side door and handed his secretary a piece of paper—another archaism!—which stated that there were no constitutional objections. So this new motion was debated, and within half an hour of its being proposed and seconded, it had been voted through.

  Within a minute of its passage, the double doors at the end of the debating chamber swung open and the prebendant walked in, clad in black, bearing his staff.

  Ethan, struggling to avoid making a protest, rose to his feet. As he did, the cry of “Delastro! Delastro!” began and, amid clapping from some quarters, spread round the hall.

  Trying not to show any emotion, Ethan did the only thing he could do. He gestured for the prebendant to be seated to his right. A chair was brought and the prebendant bowed, sat down, and gave Ethan a cold, unyielding smile.

  Ethan spoke. “We will now take twenty minutes’ recess. On return we will discuss the motion before us on the authorization for the immediate use of the weapons system known as Project Daybreak.”

  By the time the flight with Merral and the others landed on the runway north of Jerusalem, it was midafternoon. In the terminal, a tall man with Asian features and keen eyes came over and embraced Vero. They exchanged whispers, and then they were led outside into the bright, cool sunshine before making introductions.

  Adeeb shook hands, made a poor attempt at concealing his puzzlement at the presence of Jorgio, then turned to Vero. “A real surprise to see you. Rumor was you were trapped on Farholme.”

  “I was. I’ll explain everything. But not here.”

  “No. Of course.” Adeeb led them to a large vehicle and drove them away.