Atman beckoned for her to join him for the routine briefing he had given the other band leaders. As Endymion, Bellona and Philyra shuffled despondently off stage, Miss Clymene could not help thinking that any sane person would have asked her instead to take her band away and not come back. She quickly collected the fallen sheets of manuscript left behind by her class and hesitantly made her way to where Atman was seated. The governor’s keen enthusiasm in the competition baffled her more than ever.
“Rosanna Clymene, is it?” asked Atman, consulting the slate upon his lap. “Bad luck the rest of your students being called away like that. I saw the young Indian girl at the spaceport yesterday. The one with the scar on her face?” he remarked, but Miss Clymene’s mind was elsewhere. “She looked terribly upset about something.”
“Ravana had a bad experience with a VR machine,” Miss Clymene told him. She had received no word from Quirinus nor Fenris since yesterday and the garbled communication Ostara sent her this morning, saying that herself, Ravana and Zotz were attending to urgent business, had not clarified things one iota. The news that Ravana had been seen at the spaceport did nothing to allay her fears and she made a mental note to check if the Platypus was still in Hemakuta. “We are confident that she and Zotz will rejoin us shortly.”
“I do hope so,” he said. “These are interesting times! The preliminary peace talks have gone well, though the rumours regarding the Maharaja’s son are causing concern. The debate closing the conference tomorrow will be the first time Governor Jaggarneth has shared a stage with the rebel leader Kartikeya since hostilities began.”
“We are honoured to be part of it,” said Miss Clymene. “I must however confess that my understanding of the conflict on Yuanshi is limited. Are things as bad as they say?”
“Too many good people have died,” Atman said solemnly. “All because each side claims Yuanshi as their own. Kartikeya and the supporters of the exiled royal family believe that as descendents of the original colonists they have a right to decide their own affairs. Yet the Que Qiao Corporation wants to protect its investment after spending countless billions on the terraforming project. Is this so unreasonable? The people of Yuanshi would still be living in domes under a medieval monarchy if it were not for Que Qiao.”
“People are strange,” agreed Miss Clymene.
“Indeed. I personally blame the curious cult of alien worship they have on Yuanshi,” he said. “Or rather, one particular preacher: a most forceful personality who has won many converts amongst the royalist rebels. I’m not saying that religion causes wars, but it can be a very powerful motivator. This priest Taranis is a dangerous man.”
“The Dhusarian Church,” mused Miss Clymene, thinking of Fenris. “Religion does tend to bring out both the best and the worst in people.”
*
Bellona shut her clarinet case and sighed. Endymion, Philyra and herself were alone backstage but the gap in the backdrop curtain revealed Maia, Xuthus and their friends from Bradbury Heights sitting not far away on the front row of the auditorium. Bellona just knew they were waiting to throw insults at them as they left.
“That was a bad rehearsal,” Philyra said gloomily.
“Truly terrible,” Endymion agreed. “The only way it could have been worse was if we’d had monkeys on bongos flinging turds at the audience.”
“Or dropped our trousers and waved our bottoms in the air,” suggested Philyra.
“Or taken a hammer to a cage full of budgies,” added Endymion, smiling wickedly at Philyra’s horrified expression. “Though your flute solo sounded much the same.”
“You’re sick,” Bellona told him, but he had made her smile.
Endymion lowered his trombone case into the cradle of the waiting autoporter trolley, then came to join his sister as she peered through the curtain.
“Xuthus and his cronies are still out there,” he murmured. “Having a laugh at our expense, no doubt. I vote we sneak out the back way.”
“Is there a back way?” asked Philyra, looking around the backstage area.
Endymion grinned. “Seek and you shall find.”
Bellona deposited her and Philyra’s instrument case next to Endymion’s trombone and sent the autoporter back to their room. The small hatch through which the robot departed was protected against human entry by a safety screen. A quick search of the backstage area revealed two alternative exits: the first being a door to a sparse dressing room, the second a concealed stairwell descending into a cavernous storage space beneath the stage itself. They tried the dressing room first, only to discover that the far-side exit was locked, so Endymion suggested they explore the room below the stage instead to see if it led anywhere useful.
The storeroom was far bigger than expected. The vast low-roofed chamber ran the full length of the hall above and was littered with broken stage equipment thick with dust. Overhead lights illuminated a dim path between two rows of square columns, leaving the far recesses in shadow. The walls were of rough brick and everywhere they looked they could see pipes and cables running in all directions.
“This place is filthy!” exclaimed Philyra, scowling. “I can feel cobwebs in my hair!”
Her protest became a screech of fright as a small brown shape ran across her foot and away into the murky shadows. Apprehensive yet stubborn, Endymion began to make his way across the dingy storeroom towards the far end of the vault. Not wanting to be left alone, Bellona and Philyra followed close behind, jumping at every shadow and creak of floorboards above as they scuttled through the gloom.
“Did you see that?” Bellona suddenly hissed. For the briefest of moments she thought she had seen two huge eyes staring at her from out of the shadows and the faint silhouette of something with far too many hairy legs.
“See what?” asked Endymion, not even bothering to look where she pointed.
“I thought I saw it too,” murmured Philyra, her voice wavering. “A huge spider. I mean massive,” she added. Endymion wore a dubious expression. “As big as you, anyway.”
“Spiders don’t grow that big!” he retorted, then looked thoughtful. “Although, on a low-gravity world with an oxygen-rich atmosphere like Daode…”
“Now you’re scaring me,” muttered Bellona.
“I’m scaring myself,” Endymion admitted. “Let’s get out of here.”
The door at the other end of the storeroom was a luminous shade of red and had the word ‘FIRE’ written on it in huge letters. Endymion hesitated when the door did not open automatically upon his approach. When he pushed it with his hand, it swung aside to reveal the bottom of a brightly-lit stairwell.
“A fire exit,” Endymion noted with relief. “And the only way is up.”
“That could describe our last performance,” mumbled Bellona.
Philyra pushed past Endymion and ran to the foot of the stairs. Eager to escape whatever it was lurking in the dark, Bellona followed. The stairwell was several storeys high, presumably ascending all the way to the top floor of the hotel.
“More stairs,” Philyra said glumly. “Why couldn’t you lead us to a lift?”
“Use the hoverchair,” retorted Endymion. A folding mobility chair hung from a frame on the wall, beneath a sign that read: ‘EMERGENCY USE ONLY’.
Philyra stuck her tongue out at him and stomped noisily up the stairs. On the next floor, the stairwell opened into a deserted corridor, at the end of which they found a small lobby with a window and an emergency exit leading outside. Endymion however ignored this and began to climb the next flight of steps, pointing to another door on the landing above that led back in the direction of the conference hall. When Bellona and Philyra finally caught up, Endymion had his face pressed against the small glass window in the door and was peering into the space beyond. When he tried to open the door he found it locked.
Bellona sighed. “What now?”
Without saying a word, Endymion withdrew a length of cable from his pocket, connected his wristpad to the control panel beside the door, the
n began to tap at the screen. Moments later, they heard a dull clunk as the lock released.
“Coming?” he asked, pushing open the door.
“Any spiders in there?” asked Philyra nervously.
“It’s quite safe,” Endymion reassured her. “Come and look.”
The lights came on automatically as they entered, revealing a deserted control room. The tiny chamber was dominated by a darkened window that took up the whole of one wall, in front of which stood a huge desk console and a couple of padded chairs. On the floor, next to a second door to the left, was a small packing crate with the lid removed. Scurrying over to the window, Philyra looked to see what was on the other side.
“It’s the conference hall!” she exclaimed. “You can see everything from here!”
Endymion and Bellona came to her side and gazed at the scene beyond the glass. The window gave a panoramic view of the whole auditorium, looking out above rows of empty seats towards the stage from a vantage point high in the rear wall of the hall. Directly below, they could see a holovid crew making preparations for the evening’s live broadcast, while far away on the front row were the bobbing heads of the Bradbury Heights band. Philyra seemed more interested in the Avalon news team and eagerly scanned the crew. She never watched current-affairs programmes; Bellona guessed one of the celebrity gossip shows had recently uncovered an embarrassingly-hilarious scandal involving a popular news presenter.
“I can see Maia,” she grumbled. “I’d recognise her fat head anywhere. She’s not sitting under a sprinkler by any chance?” she asked, giving her brother a sly look.
“I wouldn’t dare,” muttered Endymion, though Bellona saw he was tempted to see what the desk console could do in his mischievous hands. “This must be the control room for the stage lighting and sound system. I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to be here.”
Bellona watched as he moved towards the second door, paused by the packing crate and then knelt to look inside. Nestling within the shredded packing paper was a small metal box, which Bellona decided looked a bit like the device Endymion had shown her from the kidnappers’ tunnel on the Dandridge Cole. This one had a larger aerial, a slot for a data rod and a control panel that had not been smashed with a hammer.
“What is it?” asked Bellona, peering over his shoulder.
“A personnel scanner,” he told her. He had not been able to resist switching it on and was soon flicking through the control menu that had appeared upon the tiny screen. “Ravana said the kidnappers used the one I found in their hideout to trace the Raja through his implant. This one appears to be able to transmit as well as receive. I wonder…”
Bellona waited for her brother to continue. When he gave no sign of doing so she gave him a shove. Philyra came to join them, looking bored.
“Zotz and I hacked into a holovid call between Fenris and someone called Taranis,” said Endymion. “Ostara asked us to do it!” he added quickly, as Bellona gave him a shocked glare. “Anyway, we heard them say that a ship was bringing equipment to Hemakuta and it was all to do with the Raja’s appearance at the conference.”
“The Raja was kidnapped,” Philyra pointed out. “He’s not coming to the conference.”
“How do we know that? The kidnappers might be planning to bring him here against his will,” said Bellona. “Isn’t he from the royal family of Yuanshi?”
“A personnel scanner that can transmit data,” Endymion murmured thoughtfully, his hand resting idly upon the device. “This could tap into someone’s implant and put ideas into their head! Whoever commands the Raja could change the outcome of the civil war.”
“You mean that thing can brainwash people?” remarked Philyra.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Endymion admitted.
“Why is it lying around for anyone to find?” Bellona asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Endymion paused. On the face of it, her observation did seem to pour cold water on her brother’s conspiracy theory. Suddenly, his face became a picture of shocked realisation.
“Don’t you see?” he said urgently. “It means there must be people at the conference who are in on the plot themselves!”
“That’s crazy,” retorted Philyra, looking perturbed.
“We should tell Miss Clymene,” declared Bellona resolutely.
“What can she do?” exclaimed Endymion. “Who on this moon can we trust?”
*
Yuanshi took five Terran days to complete each orbit of Shennong, turning just once on its axis in that time. On the daylight side of the moon at Lanka, the storm clouds brought into being by the recent ice asteroid had hidden the tiny sun for what seemed like weeks.
The rain lashed down in torrents and splattered heavily against the windscreen of the Sun Wukong as it slew to a halt at the end of the muddy airstrip that was Lanka spaceport. To those aboard, the prospect of getting drenched was less of a concern than the hail of bullets erupting from the squat gunship high above, with the missiles exploding noisily above the city barely half a kilometre away coming a close third. Que Qiao militia were out in force and concentrating their fire on the Crystal Palace of Kubera. The daylight strike on Lanka had taken Hanuman, Ganesa and their new-found friends by surprise, not least because the latest message from Commander Kartikeya had reassured them he was not expecting anything to happen this close to the peace conference.
“There’s an aircar waiting but we need to make a run for it!” Hanuman yelled.
The whine of the engine compressors wound down as he rapidly ran his fingers over the console, shutting off the flight systems with well-practised ease. Behind him in the passenger compartment, Ganesa stood by the airlock door with her hand ready on the release control. Ostara, Zotz, Ravana and her cat sat rigid, shaken by their descent into a battle zone. The oft-mentioned civil war on Yuanshi was suddenly too close for comfort.
“Welcome to Lanka,” remarked Ganesa, giving the door a shove. Outside, a plasma cannon bolt from the gunship struck the edge of the runway, showering the Sun Wukong with clods of mud. “Thank you for choosing to fly with Hanuman airlines.”
“Very droll,” muttered Ostara, unbuckling her seatbelt.
A frantic dash across the runway took them to the waiting stubby-winged aircar and soon they were on their way. Ravana’s first sight of the city that had once been her home was one of a community ravaged by war, for the outskirts had long ago become a bleak wasteland of bomb craters and crumbling buildings, one of which she recognised as the shattered husk of the former Dhusarian Central Church. It was not until they crossed the old dome wall that the Lanka of her childhood abruptly came to life and she eagerly looked on as the aircar sped low over the bustling conurbation and on towards the circular park at the heart of the city. Ahead, the Crystal Palace was coming into view, its four glass towers managing to look both awe-inspiring and ostentatious as they glittered in the blaze of exploding missiles.
“What is that place?” murmured Zotz, staring spellbound at the palace.
“Kubera,” Ravana told him, equally mesmerised. “It was known as the Maharaja’s summer palace, though he and his family lived mainly in Ayodhya.”
“Now it’s Kartikeya’s headquarters,” said Hanuman. “He likes to command in style.”
Their pilot brought the aircar down into the inner courtyard and parked neatly next to another on the landing pad. With the noise of the aircar’s turbines still ringing in their ears, the travellers from the Sun Wukong scurried through the rain into the palace.
Hanuman led them to an ornate antechamber, where they were met by an elderly Indian woman who greeted them with a smile. Ganesa hurried forward and gave the woman a warm hug.
“Yaksha!” she cried. “Did you get my message?”
“I did,” the woman acknowledged. She gestured to where Ravana, Ostara and Zotz stood, dripping wet from the rain. “Kartikeya asked to speak with you before you do anything else. Are these the ones you told me of?”
Ganesa nodded and le
ft it to Hanuman to perform the introductions. Yaksha approached Ravana and like Ganesa before her, gently raised a hand to the scar upon the girl’s face. Ravana felt a pang of recognition upon seeing the old woman but could not place the memory. It did not help that her implant was generating all sorts of distracting images inside her head, for the palace network was a random mess of circuits where almost anything could be controlled by the flick of a mental switch. Her cat wriggled in her arms and meowed.
“So you are Ravana,” said Yaksha. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember. Your mother was a very dear friend of mine, such a long time ago.”
“You knew my mother?” Ravana exclaimed. She lowered her cat to the floor.
“More coincidences,” muttered Ostara. Ganesa smiled.
“Ravana’s family and my own have long been connected with Kubera,” Yaksha told Ostara. “It was her mother’s grandfather, one of the founding fathers of Lanka, who originally built the Crystal Palace back in the days of the first Maharaja. Kartikeya himself cares little for the past,” she added with a touch of bitterness. “He sees only his glorious future, leaving the rest of us to deal with the present.”
“Do you think Kartikeya can help me rescue my father?” asked Ravana.
“He should,” retorted Yaksha. “He is to blame as much as anyone.”
“Where is he?” asked Hanuman.
“In his operations room. The basement?” she suggested, when Hanuman looked puzzled. “I should warn you that Fenris is down there with him.”
“Fenris!” exclaimed Ostara.
Ravana frowned, equally dismayed. “Here?”
“He’s only just arrived,” Yaksha told them. “Fenris has been entrusted by Kartikeya to escort the Raja to the peace conference tomorrow. Were you not aware?”
“The Raja is here also?” asked Zotz.
“We knew that much,” Ostara pointed out. “I think.”
“I’ve lost track of who knows what,” sighed Hanuman. “Take us to your leader.”
Hollow Moon Page 25
