“No, that’s a fabricated excuse—and a clever one because it’s based on a genuine disagreement. The reason we have to have a war, even one like today’s with no action for a decade, is to generate paranoia. How else could our monstrous National Security laws be passed without causing an uprising? They need war, or the threat of war, or the memory of war, in order to consolidate their position. Think about that, when you get a dull moment.”
He moved to his desk in a window alcove. “Let me write. We’ll talk soon.”
Linnet called to him from the doorway. “Before you do that, you might like to see some contact prints—the whole gathering.”
Dick looked up. “Lemuel said, but he didn’t say how.”
“A touch of his sorcery. And he has a great deal more.” At the kitchen door, she paused and turned. “You might also consider a shower while I cook.”
“A shower?” Dick wrinkled his nose. “You may have a point. If anyone is interested, Sy’s final is scheduled for noon.”
Showered and shaved, Dick seemed to have shrugged off the discomfort of the previous three days. He said little about the experience except that it wasn’t dreadful.
Linnet served a spicy goat stew, which Dick declared to be his favorite dish in the world. He had a single glass of wine with it. The glass remained half-full when he had eaten.
Watching Sy’s race was a disappointment. She won by twenty yards, according to the commentary. But for all we saw on the screen, we might as well have been watching the snowstorm outside. The time? We waited. When it came through, all we got was the commentator’s “Can you believe those figures?” Another record? I’d know soon enough.
Dick put his drink on his desk in an alcove of the living room and set about his work, scribbling, deleting, swearing.
Linnet and I sat by the fire. Linnet’s face, drawn and weary, revealed her suffering more than she had allowed it to do before. She stared into the flames. Even Dick’s safe return had done little to comfort her. “We have him home, but we can no longer deny how easily it could all be taken from us.”
I offered to get her some wine.
She shook her head. “At lunchtime, Lemuel? In this mood, it might be dangerous, but help yourself.” She sighed. “Are we beaten? Do we dare go on? What else was Dick’s arrest but a warning to us all? I wonder some days what hope we have.” Her despair would pass, but the doubt would linger. She snuggled against the back of the chair. “Lemuel, I’ve slept little for three days. Please wake me before you leave.”
“Where am I going?”
Linnet opened an eye. “Didn’t I tell you? Sy phoned. She couldn’t wait for the team transport. She docks at two in the morning.”
With a long night looming, I tried with more success than I expected to sleep in the chair. Dick’s hand woke me, a gentle shake of my shoulder. “You might want to watch this. And we leave in fifteen minutes, if you want to scrub up.”
The television labored on. On screen, not crystal clear but visible, Sy’s long legs powered along the homestretch, free of the field. The next picture showed the times. Four fifty-eight point seven—three-tenths of a second inside the record created in the heats.
I didn’t know the man who presented the medals. Sy did, as her close-up shot showed. She trembled as his hands placed the ribbon behind her neck.
“See her joy,” the commentator said. “A pleasure to behold.”
Dick offered me the car keys, but he was sober enough. I’d mastered the mechanics of driving during a few lessons, but it was much more difficult than navigating a space cruiser.
Fresh snow covered the quayside. More fell as we stepped from the car.
The night ferry had arrived ahead of schedule. A scattering of passengers made their way along its gangplank, Sy’s sprightly step discernible at the fore. She waved.
Beside her, in an ear-muffling long coat, Emily held Sy’s other hand.
I embraced Sy, then turned to Emily.
She held out a hand.
I shook it. “Good to see you again, Emily. Didn’t Sy do well?”
She grinned and shivered.
In the back seat of Dick’s car, I squeezed between Sy and Emily. I gripped a hand of each. “Well, are you going to tell us about your race?”
Punctuated by her laughter and sometimes mine, Sy recounted her hopes and pains around each of the four laps, all the way to 18 Thundersley Avenue.
Linnet had hot food waiting and hot water for Sy and Emily to shower.
When Emily was finished, Sy and I took her to bed.
I knelt and held out my arms.
She looked at Sy.
Sy smiled and nodded. “Remember what I told you. Lemuel is one of the good men.”
Once again, Emily stretched out a hand.
I took it in mine. “We’ll do it your way. Pleased to see you again, Emily Heyho. It’s great to have you in our family.”
Sy tucked her in and kissed her on the forehead.
We sat around their kitchen table while Sy ate.
Dick flicked through the contact prints.
Had Sy heard about Dick’s arrest? She would find out in time. A bobbing of her shoulders told me she was reliving the race. The rhythm increased.
I smiled. “You’ve just entered the homestretch.”
She laughed. “Well, the final two twenty. Am I that transparent?”
She chomped on chicken and grilled seasonals. The muscles of her jaw flexed. Her lips pulled in each mouthful. She pushed her plate away.
I took her hand. “Sy, before we leave Barford, I’d like you to write a deed of transfer, making my Wellar Land interest over to Dick and your sister.”
Dick choked on his whiskey. He put the glass down and stared at me. “Why?”
I forgot he’d been out of touch for three days. “Dick, there is no future for me in Eden. I have to go to Madagascar soon, and there are others who may be interested in going. You and Linnet would be extremely welcome. Think of it as a holiday, if you like—a time to write your novel or do what you will. This money will go a long way toward buying a boat big enough for horses, goats, a hundred people, whatever.”
Dick reached for his glass. “I seem to have missed a few developments.”
Chapter 21
When I woke in Sy’s cabin, ready for my first day back at work after the New Year festivities, Sy had already begun her stretches. She had coffee for me, poured and cooling.
I hurried to dress. “A gentle run today?”
Sy laughed. “Nothing you can’t manage. Three figure-of-eights through the town, six miles in total.”
The door to Sy’s berth creaked open. Emily poked her head out, her hair unbraided and unruly. “Are you leaving me alone?”
Sy crouched down beside her. “Should we not? Are you afraid?”
Emily’s face screwed up into a tight-mouthed frown. “’Course I’m not scared. What’s to be scared of?”
I sat back on the bench. “Emily, we’re not leaving you alone. I’ll walk with you to Mabel’s and catch Sy for the second lap. OK? Wrap up warm.”
Through near-freezing temperatures, dressed in shorts and a short top, I walked with Emily through Godbest Park to Bluefinch Avenue.
Mabel opened the door as I closed her gate. She looked at her watch with a mock frown that made Emily laugh. Then she looked at me and shook her head. “You’ll freeze. Go run.”
I set off at a steady pace amid light snowfall. At seven in the morning, the square was deserted apart from a pair of street cleaners with handcarts and brushes. I jogged and walked around the square to keep warm. A truck door opened, and someone tossed bales of news toward a newsstand. Next time around, I sidestepped the pile of papers.
My first view of the planet Respite had been an unmistakable case of something wrong. By the time I reached the newsstand again, I knew I was dead.
A young man, unwashed and underfed, prepared the papers into piles. I grabbed a Wider View. The vendor knew me well enough to expect paym
ent later. I hope he took the disappointment well.
On the front page, the leaders of Eden and Elysium smiled at each other. Little showed of the background, but it had been taken by my combi, and it wouldn’t take Bandstorm long to work that out. I could feel his fingers on my skull.
A few words by Ginda Joyle gave me no comfort.
A sign of things to come? This picture, sent anonymously to our reporter G. D. Joyle, clearly shows President Gregor Mountjoy of Elysium embracing our beloved Premier Ralph Everest. With such evidence of friendship, can peace be far away? The picture can be dated as within the past two weeks by the lack of presidential moustache, and an Elysium postmark suggests Mr. Everest gave up his holiday in the pursuit of peace. First with the news, as always.
I joined Sy as she crossed the square. I handed her the paper. “Sy, I have to leave Eden at once.”
“For this? But who can say when or where it was taken?”
“Bandstorm will know. He’ll know the combi was involved, and you can’t imagine how furious he’ll be when he figures out its significance. You and Emily may be in danger. You could be hurt to help find me, or even to punish me.”
We left by Revelation Road to the south, stopping in a shop doorway to make plans.
The risk to me was clear, but how far were my friends at risk?
Sy agreed to go to the boat, avoiding Bluefinch Avenue, and to wait for Emily and Mabel.
What could I do? Without my scarf, I had no hope of escape.
At a run, I hurried along the road parallel to Bluefinch Avenue. The roads were more than two hundred yards apart, but it was dark enough that I could count the Bluefinch streetlamps. Three houses after the third, I stepped over a fence into a front yard, then hurried to the back.
Time was my enemy. In running shorts and with the palest legs on the planet, I would shine like the moon at the first sign of dawn, though there had been no moon that night. I raced through gloom, scraped my leg on a wooden fence, disturbed Mabel’s chickens as I crashed through her garden, and tested her back door. I had never known her lock it.
It opened with barely a creak. There might already be visitors from National Security or whatever. I crept to the kitchen door, guided through the storeroom by a crack of light at its base. Not a sound. Where were Mabel and Emily? I reached for the handle.
The door flew open. I fell back, landing on my forearm. Mabel, skillet raised and glaring, filled the doorway. Behind her and to one side, Emily bore a carving knife and a look of fearful determination.
Mabel lowered the skillet. “What’s wrong with the front?” She closed the door once I was through. “I’ll get something for that graze.”
I collapsed into a chair. “Mabel, I’m in trouble.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s some stew I could heat.”
“I mean real trouble. Sy’s in danger. Emily too. Maybe you. Please help me.”
She had gotten a metal box from somewhere. It lay open on the table. She dabbed a cotton pad into a malodorous concoction. “This’ll sting.” She slapped it against the graze on my leg and pressed.
It stung. I covered it with my hand. “I need you to drive Emily to Sy’s houseboat as soon as possible. We’re leaving Eden. You should come too.”
Mabel stirred a saucepan. “Roads out of town are blocked. Heard it on the news. A killer on the loose, they say.”
A killer on the loose? That had to be me. So, Bandstorm had seen the picture already. The net must be closing.
I threw the medicated pad into the waste bin and stood. “I have to check something, Mabel. You’ll need your warm coat, and I hope you’ll join us. Take only what you must.”
“Not coming back? Emily, go let the chickens out. I’ll not have them starve.”
I ran up the stairs to my room, grabbed the scarf and made the connections. Newton’s face appeared.
I yanked open a drawer, found a tracksuit and sat on the bed. “Newton, how soon could you get to Sy’s boat?”
“You need to know, Lemuel, I have fuel for just one lift. Better if I come when you are all together.”
One lift? “You told me three.”
“The robotics didn’t get to Madagascar on their own. The fuel plant on the island is operational, but I’ll need half a day to get there and back.”
Damn. But what did it change? Could I stay hidden for half a day? A difficult decision. “Newton, stay where you are for now. And if I don’t make it—”
“I’ll do what I can for Ms. Heyho and Emily.”
I checked the backpack. The elm rod was still inside. I added my scarf and a silver-framed photograph, the only personal possession I had brought with me from Earth, and hurried downstairs.
Mabel and Emily stood in the hall, wrapped for winter.
I kissed Mabel on the cheek and shook Emily’s hand. “I’ll be as quick as I can. You’re safer without me.”
Mabel had left a bowl of warm stew on the table. I shoveled in a couple of mouthfuls and pushed the bowl away.
It seemed a simple plan: make my way to the boat avoiding roads, summon Newton, and skedaddle to Madagascar with my friends. What could possible go wrong? Many things could, but I dared not think of failure.
In a dark tracksuit with a hood that I pulled over my ears, and the boots I had worn when I first set foot on Respite, I lifted a key from a hook and stepped into the backyard. I locked the door behind me and pushed the key underneath it, just as a thunderous crash told me the front door had left its hinges. Boots thudded on the stairs.
I had no doubt who the intruders were or why they had come.
Through early dawn, I rushed to the south, leaving footprints in the snow, knocking snow from tree and bush in my haste. I might as well have drawn an arrow on the ground.
I had barely begun to cross the next yard when another crash—Mabel’s back door—made me dive for cover. I rolled behind a row of leafless bushes as a blaze of light, from a flashlight more powerful than any I had seen on Respite, swept across the land. A flurry of snow raised by the falling woodwork might have helped obscure my trail.
A tall man in a dark uniform stood silhouetted in the doorway. He held his flashlight high and waved it around again.
What to do? I could outrun him, but I couldn’t outrun a bullet. Even if he weren’t armed, they would know where I was headed.
I lay scarcely hidden by currant bushes and pulled the hood tight around my face. Dark clothing gave as much cover as the bushes, but the monochrome of twilight had already passed. In full daylight, I’d stand out as a pile of wet rags—a pile about the size of the person they sought.
A chicken squawked. I lifted my head an inch or two for a better view. In the scattered snow around Mabel’s storeroom, dark heads bobbed; beaks and claws picked at the ground. The tall man turned his flashlight downward then swung a boot, catching one bird a glancing blow and sending the others scampering back into the cover of darkness. He turned to the storeroom. “I’ll catch us lunch.”
He waited. With tentative steps, a bird advanced once more into the light, habituated by Mabel’s frequent scattering of leftovers.
I lay back and looked around. I could make my way, inch by inch until I was beyond the flashlight’s range, but the slight risk that I might alert them with my sound made me cautious.
Soon, a triumphant cry told me lunch had been caught. A second man reached the doorway. For some time they waved the light around, then set off on a more earnest search. Boots stomped across Mabel’s yard with no concern for leek or parsnip. The flashlight swept around again, once hovering over the bed that concealed me.
Someone called from one of the houses, asking the men’s business. The two-word answer—“National Security”—confirmed my fears.
Light grew. I needed to move. My tracksuit had grown sodden from the ground, my leg ached, and one wrist had started to throb after my fall in the storeroom. I checked my watch. Quarter to nine. They had kept me pinned for almost two hours.
A voice
called. “Come on, we’re wasting time here.” Boots slushed across wet leaves.
I peered through my minimalistic cover. Mabel’s back door settled against its frame.
Not yet. Give them time.
A distant, solid car door clanged into place. It could have been a trap, but I was already trapped.
In the full light of dawn, I eased myself to my feet and scampered off to the south, soon flying through Godbest Park toward the Craggle. On Godbest Bridge, I paused for breath, turned downriver, and cursed. Mabel’s car stood on the canal path, but the boat had gone.
What to do? First, get off the bridge. I could hardly be more conspicuous.
I ran down the far side, moving to the car, using scattered woodland as cover, although I could see no one around.
From cover, I saw no note on the car, but what about the other side? Or inside? I had to risk it.
No, I had another way. In my haste I had to try several times, but eventually I connected my scarf. “Newton, Sy’s boat has gone.”
“It’s heading upstream, eight miles from our landing site.”
One mystery solved. “That’s where she’s going. Is anyone there? Quickly, Newton.” I had told her where I’d landed. She must have thought the craft was still there.
“I can’t tell from orbit, but there are no vehicles. Lemuel, one more thing. Hector Bandstorm—or to be precise, your combi, which is still picking up his voice—is at Cragglemouth Marina. I suggest you hurry.”
I stuffed the scarf into a pocket and set off at a run, under cover where I could, or along the canal path where that was the only option. My all-terrain boots weren’t designed for running, but they were what I had.
Canal path for speed, cover for safety. Whose safety? Mine. That’s the way it had to be. I would be no use to Sy if I were dead.
I ran until my legs screamed for mercy. And more. My throat burned. I had to rest.
Collapsing against a trunk, I had Newton’s face in front of me in a moment.
He faced me in simple outline and without histrionics. “You have four miles to go. Sy’s boat has two.”
A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
