by Chris Walley
“Of course.”
“I gather there are offices already being made ready for Merral and the FDF. But I need some space. Preferably private. . . . Yes, hidden. Somewhere in the city. Any ideas?”
“What’s wrong with the Walderand water project site you used before?”
“It’s too far and it’s an obvious target.”
“How many people are you thinking of?”
“Maybe a hundred.”
“Talk to the city engineers.” Perena gestured toward the buildings that were the heart of Isterrane. “This is the first city. Do you understand what that means?”
“Only that it was here that the first settlement on the planet was founded. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Oh, Earther—” he heard amusement in her voice—“you people don’t understand the Made Worlds, do you?”
“Explain.”
“When Farholme was settled, oh, around three thousand years ago, it was so inhospitable that, as with all Made Worlds, the first city was built underground. And then, as the stabilization of Farholme progressed, a new city was built on top of the first one.”
“You mean there is an old city beneath this one?” It sounds too good to be true.
“Well, maybe a lot of old tunnels and chambers. That’s all I know. Every few years there are trips down to the foundations for the curious. I’ve never been.”
“Right. I’ll get a guided tour. Thanks for the information.”
As they walked slowly on to the vehicle Vero said, “Talking of defense, I worry about Merral.”
“He seems able to take care of himself. But why?”
“It seems he only went on that ship because the envoy told him to. But it was very dangerous. And the point is he has become a hero. He was a hero to his soldiers the day before yesterday. They’re already talking as if he single-handedly destroyed the ship. And after Corradon’s speech, he is now a hero to the whole planet.”
“Yes, that’s true. A world that needs a hero has found one in Merral.”
“In the last war, the Assembly forces had Lucas Ringell. We have Merral D’Avanos.”
“That puts him under awful pressure. We must pray for him,” Perena said with a shake of the head that conveyed both concern and unease. “Incidentally, I think we ought to try and see if we can sort out whatever happened with Anya. It’s a complication we can do without. They need to be able to work together. I’ll talk to her; you talk to him.”
“I will. But look, to get back to his safety, the fact is that we can’t afford to lose him. He is absolutely invaluable as a leader. And, also, we need to protect him from the crowds of people who are now going to want to see him.”
There were at the vehicle now, but Perena showed no signs of wanting to open the door. “Why do I feel that this is the preamble to one of Verofaza Enand’s cunning schemes?”
“Well, someone has to come up with the ideas.”
Perena looked doubtful, but said nothing.
“Anyway, to take the pressure off him and to reduce the risk, I’m thinking that he needs a bodyguard.”
“A what?”
“It doesn’t really have an equivalent in Communal. It would be, well, someone who would be with him to protect him. Watch over him.”
“Merral won’t like it.”
“I think you’re right. I’ll have to disguise it as something else.”
Perena leaned against the side of the vehicle, sighing. “Oh, Vero, I don’t like our world now. I don’t like the way all our best desires are frustrated. And I don’t like that it’s produced a climate in which all the worst things in us thrive. We now scheme against our friends.”
“It’s not scheming. It’s in his best interest.”
“Of course.” There was the faintest hint of irony.
“But I agree. It’s unfortunate we were born for such a troubled time and place.”
Perena smiled ruefully. “Do you know, when I first started pilot training, I once wished that I had been alive at the time of the Rebellion and flown for the Assembly?” She drummed her fingers on the roof. “I thought it was heroic, epic.” Her eyes brightened but her smile was tinged with a deep melancholy. “And now my wishes have been granted. We again live in such days. And we must serve our Lord in ways that we thought were long gone.”
“Truly said.”
She opened the doors. “Come on, Vero. Let’s leave this sunlit park and go our ways. Let me take you to see Corradon so you can raise your army. And I must go to the simulators and revive maneuvers we long felt were ancient history.”
She sounds determined. “I suppose so.”
“Rejoice, Vero. It’s not just Merral. We’re going to be heroes too.”
“But P., I don’t want to be a hero.”
“That’s what makes one.”
4
Sitting on his bed in the spotless, white-walled room of the disease isolation unit, Merral D’Avanos looked up at the wall clock. It was five to nine. The morning’s sun streamed in past the trees. The only noise he could hear was that of sparrows squabbling on the balcony.
In five minutes, Vero will be here. And now, a week after the battle at Fallambet, my new life as Commander of the Farholme Defense Force will begin.
Merral sighed with an intensity that made him aware of his still-healing ribs. Although he had protested when the doctors ordered him into quarantine, his time in the unit had been a blessing. His injuries had had the chance to heal and he had been isolated from the furor that erupted in the wake of Corradon’s announcement of the intruders and the battle.
In the seclusion of the unit, Merral had written a full report on the battle from his own point of view, penned personal letters to the next of kin of the casualties, and a formal letter of resignation from his Forestry post at the Planning Institute. He had answered a selected number of messages from Corradon asking for his opinion. But above all, he had thought and prayed through what he had to do.
His few possessions were packed, but there was one more matter remaining. From a small dark wood box on the dressing table he carefully drew out an identity disk. The scratched titanium caught the morning sunlight.
For some time, he stared at the ancient circle of metal. Do I wear it—Lucas Ringell’s identity tag, a testimony now to wars both ancient and modern? He gazed at himself in the mirror, seeing new lines on his face and feeling that he had aged. If I put this on, I take on the role of defender of the Assembly. A range of emotions—inadequacy, guilt, fear, and more—passed through his mind. He bowed his head and prayed, and as he did he realized that he had no choice.
“I will not take it off until the war is over,” he said softly as he placed the chain around his neck and tucked it beneath his shirt. “So help me God.”
Vero was waiting for him outside the isolation unit next to a small, blue two-seater transport with the letters FDF freshly painted on the sides.
Merral was surprised to see that his friend wore very dark glasses. Also his clothes hung loosely on him. It is as if events are melting him away.
They embraced and exchanged concerned inquiries about each other’s health.
“Are your eyes all right?” Merral asked, as he took his seat. “It’s still early morning.”
“Fine. I just prefer wearing these glasses.”
“Is it an Ancient Earth thing? It’s rare to wear them so dark here, even when it’s bright. They conceal the eyes.”
“Just so,” Vero replied. He slid the glasses down his nose, revealing his brown eyes, and smiled before sliding them back up and starting the engine. “I was told you wanted to go to the airport.”
“Yes. I have things to sort out at Ynysmant. I need to see my parents . . . and Isabella.”
“Of course.”
“There are . . . things to sort out. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Good.”
“And I need to talk to Jorgio.”
“I have had a thought there,” Vero
said as they pulled away. “I’ve moved into Brenito’s place, but I haven’t had a chance to do anything with the garden. It’s starting to look a mess. So I was wondering if you could persuade Jorgio to come and live with me and help out.”
“I can ask. I know he doesn’t like traveling though. I presume you’re not just concerned about getting a gardener.”
“No. I’d like him near us in case he has any more of his insights. And he’s easier to protect here than in Ynysmant.”
“A good idea. I’ll ask him to come.”
Vero turned the vehicle onto the road leading to Isterrane. “My friend, we have a lot to talk about. But where to begin? Well, for a start there’s a new diary for you in the back.”
As he turned to look at Merral, the vehicle swung from side to side. “Sorry . . . It has a new encrypted mode on it that’s supposed to be impossible to break. Maria Dalphey came up with it. I assumed she was staying on as a communications officer. Your friends and family will have a direct link to you; everyone else goes through the Farholme Defense Force office. You’ve had about a thousand calls so far. Okay?”
An inevitable innovation. Merral nodded.
As they overtook a crowded bus, Merral noted eyes turning toward them.
“The FDF is the focus of attention,” Vero commented. “I was thinking of getting tinted glass fitted on these vehicles.”
“But I like looking out.”
“That’s not the point. It stops people looking in.” As Vero turned to Merral again, the car wandered nervously before the steering correction circuit adjusted it.
“Why not put it on autosteer?”
“Good idea.” Vero pressed a switch, then took off his dark glasses and tucked them in his shirt pocket. Turning back to Merral, he said, “But you do know you’re now a major figure? a celebrity?”
“Oh dear. I wish Corradon had kept my name secret.”
“He had his reasons. But I thought I’d warn you. Anyway, we’ve had to make a lot of decisions in your absence. Some you’ve been informed of; others have been made for you. We could’ve talked them through with you, but we felt it best that you be given quiet to recover. Anyway Zak Larraine’s been acting commander. He’s taken to it like a fish to water. We have started to recruit three regiments. Each—”
“Regiments?” Merral interrupted, sensing another long-buried military word being revived from the history files.
“A decent-sized army unit—about a thousand soldiers each. Men and women this time. And another thousand for reserves. We’ve started work on weapons and gear for them all. It’s just as well the planet has spare manufacturing capacity. There’s a folder in the back for you on this and other matters.”
Merral stared out of the window at the woodland they were passing. The trees—dwarf oaks and a fine clump of Neyther’s pines—seemed to clamor for his attention. He pushed them out of his mind. Three thousand soldiers? On the one hand, an army; on the other, an utterly inadequate force. He turned back to face his friend. “Vero, I hate all this.”
“I know you do. But it has to be done. Now, on weapons, your account of your traverse of the ship has thrown a spanner into the works.”
“A spanner? But—”
“Remember how your cutter gun went dead? And your diary?”
“Yes.”
“And both returned when the steersman was slain. And we had a diary blockage on Carson’s Sill when we first hunted the intruders. So we must assume they have some sort of ability to suppress electronics, perhaps by these steersmen. You see the military significance?”
“Ah. I can guess.”
“We can’t rely on weapons using electronics. That’s why we’ve started looking at other weapons—rifles that fire rockets or bullets. Weapons that can’t be jammed. Older weapons. And they are lighter, so they can be carried by women.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, it makes sense.”
There are too many unknowns . . . unknown enemies in unknown numbers with unknown powers.
There was a long silence.
“Vero, I’m now a commander. I have an army and I’m a celebrity. I can’t get used to the way my life has changed.”
“I’m sorry. You will find that it’s all a very different kettle of fish now.”
“A what?”
Vero shrugged. “That’s what they said in the past. I’ve read it recently. I presume it was a cooking method.”
“In a kettle?”
“Hmm.” Vero frowned. “Maybe that’s how they caught them. Oh well. Anyway, it’s all changing.”
“How’s everyone else?”
“Under the circumstances, fine. Corradon is going round Farholme making speeches and boosting morale. Doctor Clemant sits in his office and keeps things going in his absence. Perena is busy on space defenses.”
“And Anya?”
“Ah, Anya,” There was a significant pause. Vero’s brown eyes tightened. “Anya’s fine, or as fine as anyone can be when they are dissecting the corpses of cockroach-beasts and ape-creatures we killed at Fallambet. We wish we had some of those Krallen. They’re the things that really worry us. We have read and reread that section of your report. You really think we will meet them again?”
“The envoy implied as much,” Merral said, “and on the assumption he is an angelic being, I trust him.” He stared out of the window, seeing the woodland pass into bleached stony scrub, and tried not to think of the cold malice of the Krallen pack he had encountered on the ship.
“There is one other thing,” Vero said, interrupting Merral’s troubled memories. “Well, one major thing. I decided we needed to create irregular units—a potential guerrilla force.”
Merral stared at him. “Two new words for me there: irregular and guerrilla. For the commander of the Farholme Defense Force, my education is rather inadequate.”
Vero grinned at him. “Inadequate is an overused word at the moment. Everything on every front is inadequate. Anyway the fact is that, despite Corradon’s words, any attackers will easily get into Farholme orbit. Perena alerted me to the problem and Gerry Habbentz has confirmed it. And if that happens, we have an issue with our three regiments.”
“Go on.”
“They are both too small and too visible to resist any occupation.”
“I can see that. So what’s the answer?”
“An irregular force. We train and arm ordinary people wherever they live. They have no uniforms, no barracks, no machines of war. They are just ordinary people in ordinary jobs. But when the enemy lands, they use surprise and their knowledge of the terrain to make sudden attacks. So for instance, imagine we are occupying forces. See that woman there?” He pointed to a woman sitting at a bus stop. “She just picks an explosive charge out of her bag and throws it at us, and then disappears into the crowds. Eventually, such attacks—guerrilla attacks—would wear down the much more powerful attacking power. Does that make sense?”
“Yes . . . I suppose . . . ,” Merral said as he wrestled with the idea. “The occupier finds that everyone is a potential enemy. But it doesn’t sound very, well, fair.”
Vero laughed. “Oh, Merral, war isn’t a Team-Ball tournament. The point is that if they attack civilians, then the civilians have a right to attack back.”
“I suppose so—on those terms. But these irregulars—where will we have them?”
“Everywhere. Every settlement across the planet.” Vero seemed enthusiastic. “We just supply them with secret bases, weapons, training, and communications.”
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“Ah. Well, the irregulars are already being set up. And we’d like your approval.” He shrugged. “But if you really don’t like them . . . well, we can always restrict them.”
Merral considered the matter in silence as the traffic grew heavier and the first orchards of Isterrane came into sight.
“I think I approve,” he said finally. “I need to think about it though. But who would head it up?”
> “Ultimately, you, of course. The regulars and the irregulars have to work together. But the irregulars will have a separate chain of command and a heavy involvement from Intelligence.”
“In other words, you.”
Vero looked uneasy. “Well, yes. It’s a natural extension of what I have been doing.”
“And you’ve started working on them?”
“Yes. We couldn’t wait. We are funneling anybody we don’t take for the regulars into the irregs. There were fifty groups planned as of last night.”
“I’ll give you my answer soon. But I can’t foresee disagreeing with you.”
They were silent until they reached the edge of the city. Then Vero began to speak in a hesitant way, betraying his unease. “My friend . . . I am aware this is personal, but can I ask what exactly is going on between you and Isabella and Anya? I know a bit and can guess a bit more, but I think I ought to know more.” He paused. “I mean in one sense, it’s none of my business, but in another, it is. We have enough problems to face without difficulties between you and Anya. We need to work together.”
Merral stared at Vero. He’s embarrassed. “Yes, Vero, you are right. And anyway maybe you can help me. You remember that my parents—and Isabella’s—were reluctant to allow us to proceed to commitment?”
“Yes, you told me about it soon after we met. It seems like years ago. You were going to wait—keep the relationship as something open and nonexclusive.”
“Yes. Well, that’s what I thought. But just before we walked north looking for the intruders, Isabella persuaded me to agree to something. I wasn’t paying attention, so I agreed. But ever since, she has said—or implied—that we agreed to be committed to each other.”
“Without parental consent?” Vero frowned.
“Yes.”
“So—let’s get this right—she sees you as committed to her and therefore on the way to engagement and marriage. But you don’t.”
“Exactly.”
“And so you got involved with someone else—”
