Seeds of Earth

by Michael Cobley

  found an empty barrel-table and some stools, and

  moments later Theo was slaking his thirst with a hefty

  swallow of Golden Lever ale.

  As it went down he sighed.

  'I swear it's never tasted that good before.'

  Aye, Major, right enough.' Rory had already downed

  half his pint. 'Reckon we deserve this, and more.'

  Nikolai nodded vigorously then lit up a pipe, grin-

  ning hugely around the stem as he reminded them how

  Maclean had his lunch eaten by a forest baro then later

  lost his cap to an inquisitive ginibo monkey. Theo

  laughed along, feeling that mixture of camaraderie and

  pride reserved for officers who shared a deep level of

  trust with those under their command. Yet the Diehards

  were not a formal military unit, which made their

  trust - and therefore his responsibility - far more

  daunting.

  Ja, we've done well today, he thought. We managed

  to move all the weapon caches again and stow them in

  some very out-of-the-way places, just like Sundstron

  wanted. But what happens now that the Brolturan

  troops have left? - will we have Earthsphere marines

  patrolling the streets with the DVC?

  He had heard news coverage and comment on the

  radio while travelling around all morning and most of the

  afternoon. The consensus of opinion among both the

  studio quackers and the public phoning in seemed to be

  optimistic, yet he thought he detected a fearful edge to it,

  even a reluctance to contemplate any kind of worst-case

  scenario. Then again, the radio studios could well have

  been screening out any phone-ins that voiced such opin-

  ions.

  Well, whatever the outcome, at least this moment

  was a restful one spent in the company of good friends.

  The rest of the Diehards were returning borrowed

  trucks and vans or heading back to homes and families

  in Port Gagarin or High Lochiel or easterly towns like

  Laika and Rannoch. And as he gazed around the pub, a

  grey-whiskered man in a ragged-brimmed hat seated at

  the counter caught his eye and they exchanged a friendly

  nod. Poacher Zargov, that was, a reprobate scoundrel

  who was just one among several other old-time drinking

  buddies that Theo recognised. Nick the Spring, a sly

  and patient trapper who once drank Viktor Ingram

  under the table; Swedish Harry, a tracker from Trond;

  Stamper Nadine with her bandolier of fine metalwork-

  ing tools; and here, heading towards their table with a

  balding Earther in tow, was Father Josef Terekhov, a

  respected trawler captain.

  'Theo, gospodin,' Terekhov said, his glare enhanced

  by a magnificently bushy beard and moustache.

  'Josef,' he said. 'You're looking well. Would you care

  to join us?'

  'A kind offer, my friend, but I am just here to give this

  fellow into your custody, and so prevent him from

  annoying the other patrons with questions about you!'

  Terekhov's glare softened and a slight change in his

  beard indicated that he might be smiling beneath it.

  'My thanks, Josef,' said Theo. 'Spaseeba balsboye! I

  shall take charge of our guest and deal with his ques-

  tions.'

  Terekhov nodded, raised a hand and went back to his

  table. Theo turned to the newcomer, a young man with

  receding hair and a nervous manner.

  'Pull up a seat and join us, Mr . . .'

  'Oh, ah . . . Macrae, Barney Macrae.'

  As Theo made brief introductions round the table,

  along with handshakes, Rory frowned at the off-

  worlder.

  'Macrae's a good Scots surname, but ye speak like

  a ... whit are they, again? . .. American, that's it.'

  Macrae nodded. 'Yes, sir, that is correct. One of my

  distant ancestors emigrated from Scotland, back in the

  1800s, I believe. My own branch of the family is from

  Boston in the ESA

  Rory was about to come back with another question

  but Theo cut in.

  'So, Barney, Father Terekhov said you were asking

  after me, so what can I do for you?'

  'Okay, first you should know that I'm a freelance

  reporter working under a Starstream licence. . .'

  Rory snorted. 'That lot.'

  Macrae shrugged. 'I know what you're thinking, but

  a Starstream licence was the only way to clinch an

  assignment I was offered by a prestigious edumedia net-

  corp . . .'

  'Barney,' said Theo. 'May I ask if you have an AI

  implant?'

  Macrae gave a wary smile. 'No, Mr Karlsson - I do

  have a gofer-AI back in Boston but his codecore was

  done up by a local indie . . .' Meeting blank stares, he

  went on. 'Anyways, the answer is definitely no - my

  thoughts are my own.'

  'Well, then, Barney, what's your point?'

  Macrae paused, chewed his bottom lip then leaned

  forward and murmured, 'I've got a recording of the

  Brolturan ambassador's assassination.'

  There was a stunned silence around the table while

  the normal hubbub of the Bell and Cat went on about

  them.

  'Do you have it with you?' Theo said, suddenly tense.

  Macrae nodded, patting the chest of his jacket.

  'And how did you acquire it?'

  'I had got to know one of the soldiers guarding the

  Hegemony envoy - before her unit was assigned to him,

  I should say - and persuaded her to carry an eyebead on

  her uniform.'

  'Whit's that, then?' said Rory.

  'A tiny videocatcher, smaller than the head of a pin,'

  Macrae said. 'I had her put it on her jacket shoulder. But

  after the attack the Brolturans detained your soldiers

  for questioning and she was among the last to be

  released. I only got it back this morning, and when I saw

  what was on it I knew I couldn't just sit on it.' He began

  to reach into his jacket. 'I can play it for you if you

  like . . .'

  Theo shook his head and put a restraining hand on

  Macrae's elbow, then glanced at Nikolai.

  'Ask at the bar for a key for one of the pool rooms

  upstairs.'

  Five minutes later they were gathered round a pool

  table, watching Barney fiddling with a small, notebook-

  sized device in featureless beige plastic which was

  leaning against one of the cushions. Then the device's

  flat surface flickered suddenly into soundless video, a

  view of the back of a DVC soldier marching along a

  wide corridor adorned with glowing adverts, some-

  where in Port Gagarin, Theo guessed. The procession

  came to the lounge and as the Darien soldiers formed a

  rank behind the towering Hegemony Sendrukans, the

  viewpoint showed the Earthsphere ambassador and his

  assistants, the high walls and viewing gallery, and the

  glass-fronted stairwell from which travellers usually

  emerged. Then, as the picture swung back towards the

  High Monitor Kuros and his delegation, Macrae froze

  the recording with a black, penlike remote.

  'See here?' He pointed to a cluster of dark blue fig-<
br />
  ures, each standing with upper arms folded and lower

  arms hanging straight. 'Those are Kuros's personal

  bodyguards, four Ezgara commandos. That's what

  Lenya saw when she entered the lounge, four of them.'

  The recording resumed and events played out just

  as the news reports described. The Brolturans emerged

  from a pair of wide-open double doors that led out of

  the lounge. Two standard-bearers led the way, followed

  by four bodyguards and six officials, flanking

  Reskothyr himself, attired in a black knee-length coat

  of austere cut: his head was bare and shaven, his hands

  covered by gleaming black gauntlets. The procession

  came to a halt, except for the standard-bearers, who

  continued forward, one carrying his standard over to the

  Hegemony envoy, the other to the Earthsphere ambas-

  sador. Just as they bowed to the standards set before

  them, unseen attackers opened fire.

  A volley struck members of Reskothyr's retinue to the

  left. Cries went up and Reskothyr's own guards hustled

  him off to the right. The Earthsphere ambassador and his

  aide retreated towards the seats as the Ezgara and the

  DVC soldiers began firing back at a dark glass-fronted

  gallery overlooking the lounge. But one DVC soldier had

  broken from the rest and was heading round to the right,

  against the wall, aiming his weapon not at the gallery bit

  at Reskothyr. The assassin opened up, bursts of auto-

  matic fire cutting down Reskothyr and the Earthsphere

  ambassador's aide, as well as one of the standard-bear-

  ers, who charged with his banner pole held like a spear.

  He went down in a welter of blood, one hand blown off.

  Then the gunman shot dead a few others before dashing

  towards a door in the corner, but one of the Ezgara

  hurled a grenade after him. There was an explosion and

  the already jerky viewpoint swung wildly, showing

  glimpses of other DVC soldiers diving for cover. Then

  the picture spun back round in a blur, showing clouds of

  dust and smoke hanging over a scene of devastation, a

  wrecked wall, pieces of debris lying over a wide area, and

  the still bodies of casualties. Members of Reskothyr's

  retinue stumbled through a grey haze, some shouting

  into communicators, some weeping, all in silence. Then

  Macrae froze it again.

  'Okay, my friends - how many Ezgara commandos

  do you see?'

  The moment he asked the question, Theo under-

  stood. And sure enough, when the distinctive

  blue-armoured figures were counted there were five.

  'The fifth Ezgara didn't enter by the concourse

  doors,' Macrae said. 'There were no Ezgara in

  Reskothyr's entourage and that side door led into a

  storeroom with no other exit.'

  'You're saying that the assassin dived through that

  doorway, survived the grenade, then changed into an

  Ezgara uniform?' Theo said.

  'Sure, why not?' Macrae said. 'They could have

  rigged up a temporary blast shield for the shooter to

  get behind, along with one of those combat armour rigs

  that they wear. And yeah, I know they say that they

  recovered a DVC soldier's body from the wrecked

  room - so what? Kuros's people had effectively sealed

  off that lounge more than an hour before Reskothyr's

  shuttle touched down.'

  'But why?' said Nikolai. 'It makes not any sense to

  me. They pulled their troops out overnight so what was

  it all for?'

  Macrae gave a gleeful little laugh. 'The Hegemony is

  fond of big, simple dramas - they love to put on a show,

  and that's what this was. I think I heard that they're

  going to release their own recording of the attack, is

  that right?'

  'Seems so,' said Theo. 'The question is, why bring

  this to me?'

  'Because your president has to see it!' Macrae said. 'I

  watched that press conference last night and I could tell

  right away that he'd played Horst and Kuros perfectly.

  Some guy, that Sundstrom.'

  Theo smiled. 'Indeed he is, Barney, but he's not the

  one who has to see this first.'

  'Then who . . . you can't mean . . .'

  'Yah, Horst! - get him on our side and we might

  stand a chance of seeing that big battleship of theirs

  sailing away.'

  'I don't know,' said Macrae. 'Horst . . . he's pretty

  staid, pro-Hegemony, pro-alliance to the core.'

  'That's why we have to tell him that we have copies

  of this in Sundstrom's hands and circulating round the

  colony' Theo grinned. 'So if he wants to avoid a public

  outcry and diplomatic scandal all rolled into one and

  then seized on by every reporter within reach, he'll have

  to get Kuros and his pet Brolturans to send their peace-

  boat home.'

  'Sounds like a flare,' Macrae said. 'But it might fly. So

  how do we get this to Horst as soon as possible?'

  'It so happens that I know exactly where he is, right

  now,' Theo said. 'At the Falls of Gangradur on the south-

  ern shore of Loch Morwen ... well, at the Mistwatcher

  Guesthouse that overlooks the Falls. I know that he's

  been touring a local fishery and the Veiled Caves and th? t

  he's to spend the night there, which presents our oppor-

  tunity. In my role as presidential adviser I can get in to see

  him and show him Barney's recording, safe in the knowl-

  edge that Kuros is twenty-odd miles away.'

  'How do we get there, chief?' said Rory. 'Take the

  coast road?'

  'We'll charter a zeplin,' Theo said. 'Fly straight across

  the loch and be there in an hour. What say you, Barney?'

  'It's a great story, Mr Karlsson,' Macrae said, slipping

  the display unit back inside his jacket. 'I'll follow it all

  the way'

  Theo looked at the others and they all nodded.

  'Just as long as my brother stops for a quick shower,'

  Alexei said, jabbing his thumb at Nikolai, who sniffed at

  him then wafted his hand before his face.

  'I'm not the only one . . .'

  'Depending on how long we have to wait when we get

  to Northeast Fields, we can clean up a bit,' Theo said.

  Everyone stood and drank a toast to luck and the

  hunt before leaving. It was a ten-minute walk to

  Northeast Fields, after which half an hour was spent

  looking over the available charters in the hires room.

  Given a bid marker by the hires allocator, they went

  looking for berth 18 and found a curious, block-shaped

  zeplin beneath which sat its captain, a stocky Dansk

  named Gunnar. Business was transacted and ten minutes

  later they were climbing into the sky over Hammergard,

  heading south. As the roofs and streets of the city dwin-

  dled and slid away, Theo suddenly remembered that he

  had meant to contact his sister and arrange to go round

  and see her. 'Damn ...' he muttered, resolving to call

  her when he got back, Greg too. It felt as if the whole

  crisis was cutting him off from his family, especially the

  ones he
really cared about. Yet he knew that part of

  him was enjoying it, or at least enjoying the intensity of

  tactical judgement, the threat and the risk.

  Just as long as it doesn't put the ones I love in danger,

  he thought. That's what matters.

  A little over an hour later, the zeplin was descending

  to a stubby mooring platform, engines running down as

  its fore and aft cables were hauled in by motorised

  winches. Theo paid Gunnar his fee and a retainer and

  they all disembarked, waving to the winchmen as they

  did so. The mooring platform was situated in a field

  bordered by bushes and a stand of whistler trees to the

  west, their odd-shaped leaves causing an eerie piping

  chorus in the faint breeze. These were the grounds of

  Mistwatcher, and as they followed a gravel path through

  the trees, the guesthouse came into view, a conglomera-

  tion of circular buildings raised stiltlike up on pillars.

  This area was about 50 feet above sea level and not far

  from the shore of Loch Morwen. But it was dwarfed by

  the gigantic spur of stone that jutted from a towering

  slope that led up to a high valley so immense it was

  almost a plateau set against the grey outlines of massive

  peaks. The spur tapered and sloped downward to a

  blunt prow from which water fell in a white column

  800 feet through clouds of mist to a boiling cauldron

  which spilled down a brief series of rapids to Loci:

  Morwen.

  The constant roar of Gangradur Falls grew louder as

  they approached the guesthouse. Mistwatcher's entrance

  and admin building was identical to the circular resi-

  dence modules, only larger and situated at ground level.

  At the front desk, Theo presented his government ID

  and asked for directions to Ambassador Horst's suite.

  When permission was granted, he took Barney and Rory

  with him, telling the Firmanovs to wait in the lobby. A

  spiral staircase took them up to a large, covered plat-

  form from which walkways radiated to the modules. A

  green-uniformed attendant seated in a booth pointed

  out which one led to Horst's residence and minutes later

  they were standing before its front doors. Theo pre-

  sented his ID to the visitor sensor and the doors slid

  apart to admit them to a small, tiled, oval hallway. A

  slender young man in a dark brown, high-necked suit