Dreams of the Chosen

by Cawell, Brian

  There are six of them: hard men, vicious in their fanaticism, unthinking in their obedience to a code that was imposed on them as children, before they had the will or the wit to think for themselves.

  He stopped hating them long ago. What was the point?

  Do you hate the dagger that tears your flesh – or do you hate the mind that wields it?

  Hate them?

  Pity them?

  Fear them, maybe. You fear the dagger, or you feel its bite. But hatred is a useless emotion. It stops you thinking, makes you impulsive. It makes you weaker. And anything that makes you weak strengthens your enemy. That much, he learnt from his mother. Hatred had made her speak out, and speaking out had revealed her. She hated them. She let it rule her thoughts. And she died hating them, throwing herself onto their swords, despite the pain in her shattered leg. Screaming her hatred with her last dying breath.

  And so he had lost her. To a pointless, avoidable death – and that only made it sadder.

  No, he doesn’t hate these men. Like him and his mother, they are victims. They had no more choice in the way their lives turned out than he had in being Esper. His destiny lay in his genes; theirs in the misfortune of being born into families who Served. And what was the Guard but the ultimate form of Service?

  Once you are chosen, there is no way out. Failure and disobedience are punished by death.

  Desertion is punished by death and family dishonour.

  He cannot hate them for being what they have become.

  But with all his soul, he loathes what they have become.

  Coldly, completely, dispassionately.

  Melting into the scrub, he monitors their thoughts, drifting past their position like a ghost. Marking it on the map he carries in his mind.

  The morning promises rain. He pulls his cloak around him and begins to look for shelter.

  33

  A Leaf in the Forest

  Black Guard Caravan

  Northern Corridor

  Twelve Days’ Journey North of the Fortress

  January 17, 3384ad

  MYKAL

  Eliita’s pain is gradually easing. The blue-black swelling around her ankle has faded to a dirty yellow and though she cannot yet put any real weight on it, the constant throbbing of the past days has diminished to a dull ache and her skin has regained some of its colour.

  – Do you think he’ll find them? She sits up against the bars of the cage, wiping the hair from her face and biting her lip. Because, if they get caught too—

  – I think he will. Jordan sends out a subtle field of reassurance that Mykal is not sure he really believes. There’s something pretty special about him, El. To have survived so long in such a hostile environment. And at his age. But if anyone can do it, he will.

  If anyone can do it.

  If.

  Mykal focuses on the rider closest to them.

  Trent. He rides hunched over in his saddle, fighting the pain in his festering hand.

  – He’s not going to make it. Jordan’s thought cuts in. We’re barely halfway there and he’s almost delirious now. You can feel it, despite the band. I don’t know how he’s staying on his horse.

  – He’s tied his other hand to the saddle. He’d stay up there, even if he died. Which is a good thing – ’cause if he did fall off, I doubt Dey would even stop to pick him up. A Guard who’s careless enough to get wounded deserves what comes. What time is it?

  Jordan checks the position of the sun.

  – Eleven, maybe. If we’re running to form, there’ll be a staging post coming up in an hour or so.

  Since leaving the Bourne Region, the trip has fallen into a monotonous pattern.

  Start at dawn, camp at nightfall and a break during the hottest hours from midday to two. One or two changes of horses a day, at the small staging posts spread out along the route and they can keep up a steady pace. Jordan estimates that they must be travelling 35 clicks a day now.

  No more slow progress. Dey has decided that a rescue is unlikely after this length of time. Let the others lie in ambush. His prisoners are serving no particular purpose as bait. Now all he wants to do is get to the Citadel and deliver his prize.

  On the day they were discovered, almost two weeks earlier, the semaphores had sent word of his success north. Now, he is impatient for the accolades that are coming his way.

  The staging post, when they arrive at it, is different from the others. Rather than a three- or four-building outpost, it is a thriving village. The inhabitants come out of their huts to watch the procession of horses and cart, but no one makes a move to approach them. Not even the children, who stand, staring in awe at the black-cloaked men on their gleaming black horses.

  Again, Mykal is struck by the theatre of it all. The Guard sit up straight in their saddles, looking ahead, aloof, unapproachable. And the people stare. Even Trent struggles to remain upright. No Guard ever shows weakness in front of civilians. It is not part of the show.

  JORDAN’S STORY

  A couple of hours rest in the shade of some trees and we were on our way again.

  Dey had allowed the villagers to bring us some soup and a basket of fruit. The soup we had eaten hungrily, but the fruit we saved, wrapping it in a blanket to protect it from the worst of the sun.

  The girl who had brought the basket looked around her nervously, then smiled sadly.

  – God protect you, she sent, and for a moment I couldn’t reply. This was the last place on Earth that I would have expected an Esper to be living.

  – You can mind-speak, I sent at last, stating the obvious. Are there any others here?

  – No. Just me. No one knows my background. My father brought me here when I was just a baby. He died last year.

  – But here of all places. How often do the Guard pass through?

  – Twice, maybe three times a week. But there’s no real danger. As long as I behave normally, I’m safe. Probably safer here than anywhere else. You know the old saying: the best place to hide a leaf is in the forest. She smiled again. The oppressor always looks outward, never inward. My father taught me that.

  – What’s your name? I said.

  – Kyra, she said, turning aside under the alert gaze of Lessandro Dey.

  As we rolled away from the village, I watched the knot of buildings disappearing slowly behind us. She stood, watching us go, and I knew the sense of emptiness she must be feeling.

  We weren’t the only ones in a cage.

  Garatta Woodlands

  Northern Corridor

  Nine Days’ Journey North of the Woods

  January 17, 3384ad

  ERIN’S STORY

  Finally, it dawned on us. We were never going to catch them. They had too much of a start and even pushing hard, without horses we could manage only about 25 or 30 kilometres a night.

  So we started extending our travel time, setting off an hour earlier, just before dusk, and walking until the sun had risen clear of the horizon and people were beginning to stir. We were taking a risk, but there was really no option. We knew we weren’t making up any ground, though.

  We had left Old Bourne far behind and our main cover was the long grass and brush that grew along the main road. Where the grass gave way to sections of bushland and trees, we moved more quickly, but we were constantly on the lookout for spying eyes. Once or twice, we were seen, but a quick reading of the stranger’s mind revealed nothing more than a mild curiosity. Still, we tried to avoid it.

  Of course, on a journey that long and arduous, it’s easy to lose your edge. About ten days out from the Village, we were passing through a tract of woodland. The night was ugly – rain pouring, thunder rolling and the leaves dripping on us, as we struggled forward.

  Perhaps the storm had distracted us. Perhaps we were just exhausted. Whatever the reason, we were stumbling
blindly into a trap, until –

  – Stop! Right now! Don’t take another step! The thought-tone was so urgent that it halted us in our tracks.

  – Who—

  – No time for introductions. Just retrace your steps. Quietly. Go back a hundred metres and wait for me. Go now, before someone hears you.

  We did as we were told, sneaking back into the cover of the trees and sitting down to wait. A few minutes later, a figure appeared, moving smoothly and silently from tree to tree. I waited until he was close, then I stood up. It was a boy of about twelve. Totally unselfconscious, he stared straight at me.

  – Hello, Erin. Jordan sends his regards. He held out his hand. I’m Armin, but my friends call me Min.

  I was speechless. How did he know? What did he –?

  – He was right, he went on. You are hot, for an older woman. Then, with barely a pause, The Guard have a trap set just over the hill there. If you’d gone any further, you’d’ve sprung it. Then you’d be joining your friends in the Citadel.

  – Who are you? Bran stood between the boy and me, eying him suspiciously.

  – What are you, slow? He assumed the tone of a primary school teacher. My name is Min. This is Erin. That’s Leana and Sharonne and Alek and Reggie. Am I going too fast for you? Jordan said you might need help, but he didn’t mention you were retarded.

  Before Bran could react, he smiled disarmingly.

  – Only joking, B. Besides, I just saved your hide, so you can’t get too mad with me.

  Now in case Bran could – get mad, I mean – I cut in. You met Jordan?

  – We weren’t formally introduced, but yeah. We met.

  – And Mykal? Leana spoke up. I could detect the fear in her tone.

  – He’s fine. And so is Eliita – apart from a painful ankle. They said you might need my help.

  – Your help? Bran sounded sceptical – naturally. The kid didn’t look old enough to grow hair.

  – My help. Can any of you read a Guard’s mind? No. I didn’t think so. Well I can. From almost a click away. Might come in handy, if you want to get to the Citadel in one piece. Now, are we going to waste the night measuring dicks, or shall we get going? We’ll need to go west into the wood for a few hundred metres, then we can circle around the Guard’s camp. They won’t even know we were here. Without waiting for a discussion, he headed off. Are you coming?

  After a few seconds’ hesitation, we followed.

  From that moment, the journey became a little easier. The walking was just as tiring, but with Armin sweeping for traps and dangers, we could move more freely and extend our travelling hours somewhat.

  He enjoyed communicating – as if he spent too much time alone and he was primed to make the most of any human contact he could find. For the first day or so, his abrupt manner would set one or other of us on edge, but there was no malice in him – just a survivor’s hard shell that protected the lonely child who hid within.

  He was confident in his abilities, but under the mask of bravado it wasn’t hard to read the emanations of a shy and insecure kid.

  And he was a prodigy. His abilities – to See right through a Shield, or the interference from a Guard’s band; his incredible range both for sending and receiving; even his ability to connect with animals – were like nothing I had ever seen, even in the Academy. And the Academy only accepted the best of the best, from all of Deucalion. But it was his network of contacts that was truly inspiring. It stretched from ‘Rowan, two days south of where he had met us, up as far as W’dunga, three days further north, from the towns and villages three or four days to the east, out to at least as far west. It was an amazing range for a boy so young, but as Armin pointed out in one of our long one-sided conversations, he wasn’t someone who liked to be stuck in one place for too long.

  When we left W’dunga, heading northeast, with more than half our journey done, a change came over him. We were leaving his familiar terrain, heading into the unknown, but he wasn’t scared, not at all. The impression was rather of a wary excitement.

  Our Quest had a new and permanent member.

  34

  SCION

  The Hartman Inner Residence

  The Citadel

  January 18, 3384ad

  ADAM

  Bainbridge Hartman slams the report down on the table with a force that rattles the cups and plates.

  ‘That’s IT?’ he yells. ‘Three weeks of surveillance, raids on a dozen homes, and all you can manage to find is one printing press and an old man who dies before he gives us anything we can use?’

  Thaddeus Mink looks stoically at the floor. A career veteran, he is a hard and intelligent man, but he Serves. Though he is a Captain of the Guard, on first name terms with Hartman, though he has the run of the Citadel and the power of life and death over all but Family members, when the old man is in this mood, he is nothing. Less than nothing – for he is the one responsible for the debacle that has just unfolded.

  ‘They were forewarned, sir. Everything had been cleared out, except the press, which was too heavy to carry. The old man was unable to escape with the others, because his heart had failed. It was why we couldn’t torture him. He—’

  ‘But he died anyway.’

  Mink looks puzzled, unable to fathom where the interrogation is leading.

  ‘So, you may as well have tortured him, man.’ Hartman shakes his head in disgust. ‘You might have got something we could use, before his heart exploded!’

  An explanation is on the tip of Mink’s tongue. The old rebel must have known that there was no surviving his fate. It was why he had not tried to run. He would also have known there would be no time to check the truth of his answers. Even under torture, he could have lied with impunity, secure in the knowledge that by the time the lie was discovered there would be nothing they could possibly do to punish him.

  Thaddeus Mink knows all this, but he cannot say it. He has seen what happens to those who contradict. More often than not, it is he who turns the screw.

  ‘Get out of here, before I put you in the chair!’

  Without further comment, Thaddeus Mink bows and turns, summoning as much dignity as he can for the walk to the door of his master’s chamber.

  ‘It is hardly his fault, you know.’ The voice comes from behind one of the curtains that divide the enormous room. ‘They have inside help.’

  Bainbridge Hartman selects an apple from the table in front of him, and takes a loud bite, before acknowledging the owner of the voice.

  ‘Of course they have inside help,’ he says, ‘but that idiot hasn’t the imagination to root the traitor out.’

  A young man steps from behind the curtain, the light is at his back, his face is shadowed slightly, but his blue eyes burn through the shadows. ‘I told you before, Bainbridge, that is the one problem with the Training. Great for instilling obedience – no doubt he would die, if you demanded it. But ask him to put himself into the mind of a rebel? You might as well ask him to sprout wings and fly. You will never beat these people with brute force and ignorance.’

  ‘That’s why I have you, Adam,’ Hartman motions the young man over to the table and holds out a wine glass, which is accepted with a nod. ‘That’s why I have you.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ replies Adam de Vries, raising the glass in a salute. ‘To the end of rebellion!’

  ‘And the power of the Families.’ Bainbridge Hartman studies the son of his oldest friend. ‘Your father would be proud, if he knew. Don’t you think I should tell him?’

  ‘When the time is right, sir.’ Adam smiles and stares at the flames that leap in the fireplace. ‘When I feel ready, I shall do so myself.’

  Hartman takes another bite of the apple. ‘He was never an easy man to get close to.’

  A humourless smile.

  ‘Ask my sister.’ The expression on the young man’s face i
s unreadable.

  ‘No news?’ Hartman tosses a fruit across the table, and Adam catches it in his free hand, but he doesn’t take a bite.

  ‘Nor likely to be. My sister is dead. No matter where she might be.’ Adam places the glass down on the table. As usual, the wine is barely touched – a detail not lost upon the older man. The boy will never refuse a drink, but neither will he put himself in a position where he might lose control. It is what makes him so formidable. Of all the sons and daughters of the Families who have found refuge at the Citadel over the years, he is the brightest and the least predictable. That is what makes him so valuable.

  ‘I should be going.’ It is not a request; it is a statement of fact. Always respectful, he still manages to assert himself in a way that the other underlings can never quite raise the nerve to attempt.

  But then again, there are few from whom Hartman would accept such presumption. Few, if any, in whom he places such hope. And the boy is right, of course. If anyone can excise the cancer that is the Rebellion, he will not come from the ranks of the Guard. If anyone can out-think and out-manoeuvre them, it will be Adam de Vries. He watches the boy from the room, and wishes for the thousandth time that he had sired a son.

  35

  Trent

  Black Guard Caravan

  Northern Corridor

  Eighteen Days’ Journey North of the Fortress

  January 23, 3384ad

  MYKAL

  Trent is barely conscious, as he rides slumped in the saddle. In the past days, the pain in his infected hand has become his entire universe.

  Through the bars of the cage, Mykal watches him. Trent’s face is a bloodless white mask, the agony written into every line. Even through the artificial Shielding of the Band and the iron discipline of his Training, it is not difficult to read the fear and despair that lie just below the sweeping tide of his pain. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, as if the mere act of focusing can somehow bring this ordeal to an end.