And Maroussia was not there at all.
The Pollandore folded in upon itself until it was nowhere, until it occupied no space and no time, until it was a concentrated singular point of unsustainable possibility balanced on the imperceptible edge between now and not.
And then it exploded, and the explosion passed through him like it was nothing at all.
The shockwave flashed outwards from the unsustainable zero point–not light, not heat, not sound, not energy of any kind, but a cataclysm-detonation of consequence and change–and nothing was like it had been before, and everything was the same, except that Lom was there, in the star-burned wastes of Novaya Zima at the foot of Uncle Vanya’s twisted gantry, a frozen cooling torsion-structure under the desultory falling-to-earth of radioactive rain, and Maroussia was not there at all.
Archangel screams again. He sees the implication of what has been done. This time his scream is not for joy.
Lom stood in the cooling ground zero of the exploded Pollandore and the future spread out round him, a carpet unrolled in all directions at the speed of light. Whether Maroussia had done it, or whether it had been done to Maroussia, for good or for ill, it was done, and what came afterwards would all be consequence of that.
‘I will come looking for you,’ he said aloud to the echoless aftermath world.
93
The world was changed, changed utterly, and the world still felt the same, because it was the same, except that time was all clockwork and inevitable now. History roared on like a building wave across the open ocean, like an express on a straight and single track roaring ahead into an obvious future. Like the train rolling at full speed from Novaya Zima towards Mirgorod, hauling its cargo of a hundred yellow 180mm calibre atomic artillery shells and Hektor Shulmin in the solitary passenger car.
There was a second telephone on the desk in Rizhin’s office in the Armoury. He’d had it installed the day he arrived, with instructions that it should be given a certain number, which he provided. The number was of the utmost importance. Nobody was to know that number and nobody was to call it, not ever: Rizhin was quite clear on that point. He left precise instructions with his staff on what to do if it rang when he was not there.
‘That telephone must always be watched,’ he said, ‘always, twenty-four hours a day, never left unattended, and if it rings the call must be taken. Nothing is more important than this. The caller will not ask for me, he will ask for the Singer. Check this. Be precise. If the caller does not ask for the Singer, say nothing and hang up immediately. But if he does ask for the Singer, you must ask him what the arrangements are and note everything he says, everything, note every detail precisely. And I must be told immediately, wherever I am, without delay.’
Every day Rizhin watched that telephone and every day it did not ring. Nevertheless, the top of the raion hill was cleared. All the buildings surrounding the Ship Bastion were razed to the ground. The cobbled square was dug up and replaced with a new concrete foundation, a wide straight way was driven up to the peak and three huge guns were hauled up and set in place there: three two-hundred-pounders from the battleship Admiral Irtysh which was currently blockaded in the naval yard. The long muzzles of grey steel pointed silently out across the city. Rizhin had the Ship Bastion scattered with rubble, the guns covered with grey camouflage netting and a circle of anti-aircraft guns emplaced in bunkers to surround and protect them.
The enemy drew its noose tighter round the city as winter closed in. Two weeks passed. The guns on the Ship Bastion did not fire.
One morning when Rizhin was in his office alone the long-silent telephone rang.
‘Yes?’ said Rizhin.
My name is Shulmin. Is this the Singer please? Are you the Singer? Get him for me please. I must speak to him, only to him.
‘I am the Singer. Do you have what I need?’
Yes, but there is a problem. The voice on the end of the line sounded exhausted. Frightened and full of stress.
‘Problem?’ said Rizhin.
The city is surrounded by the enemy. There is no way through.
‘Of course. Where are you now? Where is the consignment? Is it with you?’
It is with me. It is safe. I’m at a railhead on the north shore of Lake Dorogha but the train can go no further, they’re talking of turning back, the enemy is close. We can hear shooting.
‘Do not turn back,’ said Rizhin. ‘Do not allow that. Shoot the driver if necessary.’
I don’t have a gun.
‘Improvise. The train must not turn back.’
There was a long silence on the end of the line.
What should I do? said Shulmin at last.
‘Do nothing,’ said Rizhin. ‘Wait. Wait there. Someone will come.’
The enemy was taken by surprise by the sudden breakout through the siege lines to the north of Mirgorod, a concerted night attack against a weak point in the salient. In the confusion of battle there were reports that three heavy trucks had raced through at speed and disappeared into the darkness. Some said battle-tanks had cleared the way and gone ahead, but this was dismissed as fanciful: the Vlast had no battle-tanks in Mirgorod. Some said a giant man of red stone had come out of the night and wrought appalling damage. They said the giant knew where the snipers were and pulled down the buildings they were in, stove in their chests and crushed their skulls. Whatever the truth of what happened, it came quickly and it was over before anyone in the enemy command was sure exactly what had occurred. After the first flurry of discussion the Archipelago officers paid the event little attention: it was a small breakout and of no consequence.
Three days later it happened again but in reverse: another sudden, confusing and ferocious night attack on a different part of the line. And this time the muddled reports spoke of trucks racing into the city.
The following morning Rizhin gathered his commanders and the city administrators around him on the Ship Bastion. Shulmin was there to oversee the firing. It was ten in the morning, Mirgorod time.
‘One shot will be enough,’ said Shulmin. ‘One will send the message. They will see.’
‘Ten,’ said Rizhin. ‘Send them ten.’
The two hundred pound guns of the Admiral Irtysh spoke and spoke again. One by one, ten seeds of blinding light were sown along the horizon to the south of Mirgorod, illuminating the underbelly of low grey cloud. A flicker of distant summer warmth on the air. A grove of mushroom clouds cracked and burst and reformed on the skyline and dry thunder rolled back across the city, re-echoing the dying roar of the guns behind them.
‘Send a runner to Carnelian,’ said Rizhin. ‘I will accept her unconditional surrender this evening at six.’
He turned to the dumbfounded watchers at the parapet blinking away their retinal burn. Their faces were reddened and sullen with shock.
‘And so I give you back your city, my friends.’ he said, ‘the first prize of many yet to come. Stay with me now and watch me clear the mess away and set the Vlast in order. We will build a New Vlast, stronger than before. We have a long way to go. Further than you imagine.’
All the rest of that day Rizhin listened out for the voice of Archangel thundering in his head but it did not come. For more than two weeks now it had not come. I am free of it then, he said to himself. Free of it and alone. I am the voice of history. I am the mile high man.
By Peter Higgins
Wolfhound Century
Truth and Fear
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Epigraph
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
<
br /> Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Part Two Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
By Peter Higgins
Orbit Newsletter
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Peter Higgins
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover copyright © 2014 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: March 2014
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Gollancz, an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group
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ISBN 978-0-316-21973-0
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