“Then what?”
“They don’t want to stay here,” Furay said. “They just want to find a ship which will take them to Tranquillity.”
“You heard traffic control,” Layia said. “All civil flights have ended. The only reason our Defence Command didn’t swarm all over us is because we still have a Confederation Navy flight authorization.”
“There might not be any flights to Tranquillity from Mars, but if anyone in this system is going there, it’ll be from Earth. Getting them to the O’Neill Halo shouldn’t be too difficult, there are still plenty of inter-orbit flights, and Louise has enough money. She was talking about chartering the entire ship, remember?”
“That could work,” Layia said. “And if we can acquire some passports for them first, then nobody in the Halo will ask how they got to Mars. From that distance, everything at this end will appear perfectly legitimate.”
“I might know someone who can fix passports for them,” Tilia volunteered.
Layia snorted. “Who doesn’t?”
“He’s not cheap.”
“Not our problem. All right, we’ll try it. Endron, tell them the way it is. And make certain they cooperate.”
* * *
The Far Realm settled lightly on a docking cradle. Umbilical hoses snaked up to jack into the lower hull. Genevieve watched the operation on the lounge’s holoscreen, fascinated by all the automated machinery.
“We’d best not tell Daddy we came here, had we?” she said without looking up.
“Why not?” Louise asked. She was surprised; it was the first time Gen had mentioned either of their parents since they’d left Cricklade. But then, neither have I.
“Mars has a Communist government. The computer said so. Daddy hates them.”
“I think you’ll find the Martians are a bit different from the people Daddy’s always moaning about. In any case, he’ll be glad we came here.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll be glad we got away. The route we travel isn’t really important, just that we get safely to our destination.”
“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” Her face became solemn for a moment. “What do you think he’s doing right now? Will that nasty knight man be making him do things he doesn’t want to?”
“Daddy isn’t doing anything for anyone. He’s just stuck inside his own head, that’s all. It’s the same as being in prison. He’ll be thinking a lot, he’s perfectly free to do that.”
“Really?” Genevieve looked at Fletcher for confirmation.
“Indeed, little one.”
“I suppose that’s not so bad then.”
“I know Daddy,” Louise said. “He’ll be spending the whole time worrying about us. I wish there were some way we could tell him we’re all right.”
“We can when it’s all over. And Mummy, too. It is going to be all over, isn’t it, Louise?”
“Yes. It’s going to end; someday, somehow. And when we get to Tranquillity, we can stop running and do whatever we can to help.”
“Good.” She smiled primly at Fletcher. “I don’t want you to go, though.”
“Thank you, little one.” He sounded ill at ease.
Endron came gliding through the ceiling hatch, head first. He twisted neatly around the ladder and touched his feet to a stikpad beside the holoscreen.
Fletcher kept very still. Now that she knew what to look for, Louise could see how hard he was concentrating. It had taken several days of intense practice for him to learn how to minimise the disruption his energistic effect exerted on nearby electronics. In the end it had paid off; it had been fifty hours since the last time any of the Far Realm’s crew had come flashing through the life-support capsule searching for an elusive glitch in the starship’s systems.
“We made it home,” Endron started off blithely. “But there is a small problem with your legal status. Mainly the fact you don’t have a passport between you.”
Louise deliberately avoided glancing at Fletcher. “Is there a Norfolk Embassy here? They may be able to issue us with some documentation.”
“There will be a legal office to handle Norfolk’s diplomatic affairs, but no actual embassy.”
“I see.”
“But you have a solution,” Fletcher said. “That is why you are here, is it not?”
“We have a proposal,” Endron said edgily. “There is an unorthodox method of acquiring a passport for the three of you; it’s expensive but has the advantage of not involving the authorities.”
“Is it illegal?” Louise asked.
“What we have here is this: Myself and the rest of the crew have rather a lot of Norfolk Tears on board which we can sell to our friends, so we really don’t want to draw too much official attention to ourselves right now.”
“Your government wouldn’t send us back, would they?” Genevieve asked in alarm.
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just that this way would be easier all around.”
“We’ll get our passports the way you suggested,” Louise said hurriedly. She felt like hugging the genial payload officer; it was exactly what she had been nerving herself up to ask him.
* * *
Moyo didn’t exactly sleep, there were too many pressures being applied against his mind for that, but he did rest for several hours each night. Eben Pavitt’s body wasn’t in the best condition, nor was he in the first flush of youth. Of course, Moyo could use his energistic power to enhance any physical attribute such as strength or agility, but as he stopped concentrating he could feel the enervation biting into his stolen organs. Tiredness became an all-over ache.
After a couple of days he had learned the limits pretty well, and took care to respect them. He was lucky to have obtained this body; it would be the direst of follies to lose it by negligence. Another might not be so easy to come by. The Confederation was larger now than when he had been alive, but the number of souls back in the beyond was also prodigious. There would never be enough bodies to go around.
The slim blades of light which dawn drove through the loose bamboo blind were an unusually intense crimson. They shifted the bedroom from a familiar collection of grisaille outlines to a strong two-tone portrait of red and impenetrable black. Despite the macabre perspective, Moyo was imbued by a feeling of simple contentment.
Stephanie stirred on the mattress next to him, then sat up frowning. “Your thoughts look indecently happy to me all of a sudden. What is it?”
“I’m not sure.” He got up and padded over to the window. His fingers pressed the slim tubes of bamboo down. “Ah. Come and look.”
The sky above Exnall was clotting with wisps of cloud, slowly condensing into a broad disk. And they glowed a muted red. Dawn’s corona was rising up to blend with them. Only in the west was there a dark crescent of night, and that was slowly being squeezed to extinction.
“The stars will never rise here again,” Moyo said happily.
There was a power thrumming through the land now, one which he could feel himself responding to, contributing a little of himself towards maintaining the whole. A vast conjunction of will, something he suspected was akin to an Edenist Consensus. Annette Ekelund had won, converting the peninsula to a land where the dead walked free once more. Now two million of them were marrying their energistic power at a subconscious level, bringing about the overriding desire which also dwelt within the latent mind.
Several shadows flittered across the bottom of the garden where the overhanging boughs granted immunity against the spreading red light. The horticultural mechanoids had long since cranked to a halt, though not before wrecking most of the flower beds and small shrubs. When he opened his mind to the dark area he found several nervous bundles of thought. It was the kids left over from the possession again. He hadn’t been alone in letting one go. Unfortunately the Royal Marines had executed a fast, efficient retreat.
“Damn. They’re back for the food again.”
Stephanie sighed. “They’ve had all of the sachets in the kitchen. Wha
t else can we give them?”
“There are some chickens in one of the houses opposite; we could always cook them and leave the meat out.”
“Poor little mites. They must be frozen sleeping out there. Could you go and fetch some chickens, please? I’ll get the range cooker hot, we’ll cook them in the oven.”
“Why bother? We can just turn them straight into roasts.”
“I’m not convinced about that; and I don’t want them to catch anything from food that hasn’t been cooked properly.”
“If you just zap the chickens they’ll be cooked properly.”
“Don’t argue. Just go and get them.” She turned him around and gave him a push. “They’ll need plucking, as well.”
“All right, I’m going.” He laughed as his clothes formed around him. Argument would be pointless. It was one of the things he enjoyed about her. She didn’t have many opinions, but those she did have . . . “By the way, what are we going to do for food? There’s none left in the bungalow, and people have been helping themselves to the stocks in the stores on Maingreen.” After some experimenting he’d found his energistic power wasn’t quite as omnipotent as he’d first thought. He could cloak anything in an illusion, and if the wish was maintained for long enough the matter underneath would eventually flow into the shape and texture which he was visualizing. But the human body needed to ingest specific proteins and vitamins. A lump of wood that looked, tasted, and smelt like salmon was still just a lump of wood when it was in his stomach. Even with real food he had to be sensible. Once he’d actually thrown up after transforming sachets of bread into chocolate gateau—he hadn’t removed the foil wrapping first.
“That’s something we can start thinking about later,” she said. “If necessary we can move out of the town and set ourselves up in one of the farms.”
He didn’t like the idea—he’d lived all his life in cities—but didn’t say anything out loud.
Someone knocked on the front door before he got to it. Pat Staite, their neighbour, was standing outside dressed in elaborate blue and grey striped baseball gear.
“We’re looking for people to help make up the teams,” he said hopefully.
“It’s a little early in the day for me.”
“Absolutely. Terribly sorry. If you’re free this afternoon . . . ?”
“Then I’ll come along, certainly.”
Pat was one of Exnall’s growing band of sports enthusiasts who seemed intent on playing every ball game ever devised by the human race. They had already taken over two of the town’s parks.
“Thanks,” Staite said, not registering the irony in Moyo’s voice or thoughts. “There’s an ex-Brit living in the street now. He said he’d teach us how to play cricket.”
“Fabulous.”
“Is there anything you used to play?”
“Strip poker. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and catch some chickens for my breakfast.”
The chickens had broken out of their coop, but they were still pecking and scratching around the garden. They were a geneered variety, plump, with rusty yellow feathers. They were also remarkably quick.
Moyo’s first couple of attempts at catching one ended with him falling flat on his stomach. When he climbed to his feet the second time, the whole flock was squawking in alarm and vanishing fast into the shrubbery. He glared at them, banishing the mud caking his trousers and shirt, and pointed a finger. The tiny bolt of white fire caught the chicken at the base of its neck, sending out a cloud of singed feathers and quite a lot of blood. It must have looked ludicrous, he knew, using his power for this. But, if it got the job done . . .
When he’d finished blasting every chicken he could see, he walked over to the nearest corpse. And it started running away from him, head flopping down its chest on the end of a flaccid strip of skin. He stared at it disbelievingly; he’d always thought that was an urban myth. Then another of the corpses sprinted for freedom. Moyo pushed his sleeves up and summoned a larger bolt of white fire.
There were voices drifting through the open kitchen door when he returned to the bungalow. He didn’t even have to use his perception to know who was in there with her.
Under Stephanie’s control the range cooker was radiating waves of heat. Several children were warming themselves around it, holding big mugs of tea. They all stopped talking as he walked in.
Stephanie’s bashful welcoming smile was transformed to an astonished blink as she saw the smoking remnants of chicken he was carrying. A couple of the children started giggling.
“Into the lounge everyone,” Stephanie ordered the kids. “Go on, I’ll see what I can salvage.”
Once they had left he asked: “What the hell are you doing?”
“Looking after them, of course. Shannon says she hasn’t had a meal ever since the possessed arrived.”
“But you can’t. Suppose—”
“Suppose what? The police come?”
He dropped the burnt carcasses onto the tile worktop next to the range cooker. “Sorry.”
“We’re responsible only to ourselves now. There are no laws, no courts, no rights and wrongs. Only what feels good. That’s what this new life is for, isn’t it? Indulgence.”
“I don’t know. It might be.”
She leaned against him, arms encircling his waist. “Look at it selfishly. What else have you got to do today?”
“And there I was thinking I was the one who’d adjusted best to this.”
“You did, at first. I just needed time to catch up.”
He peered through the door at the children. There were eight of them bouncing around on the lounge furniture, none over twelve or thirteen. “I’m not used to children.”
“Nor chickens by the look of things. But you managed to bring them back in the end, didn’t you?”
“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, how long do you want to look after them for? What’s going to happen when they grow up? Do they hit sixteen and get possessed? That’s an awful prospect.”
“That won’t happen. We’ll take this world out of the reach of the beyond. We’re the first and the last possessed. This kind of situation won’t arise again. And in any case, I wasn’t proposing to bring them up in Exnall.”
“Where then?”
“We’ll take them up to the end of Mortonridge and turn them over to their own kind.”
“You’re kidding me.” A pointless statement; he could sense the determination in her thoughts.
“Don’t tell me you want to stay in Exnall for all of eternity?”
“No. But the first few weeks would be fine.”
“To travel is to experience. I won’t force you, Moyo, if you want to stay here and learn how to play cricket, that’s okay by me.”
“I surrender.” He laughed, and kissed her firmly. “They won’t be able to walk, not all that way. We’ll need some sort of bus or truck. I’d better scout around and see what Ekelund left us.”
* * *
It was the eighth time Syrinx had walked to Wing-Tsit Chong’s odd house on the side of the lake. For some of these meetings it would be just the two of them sitting and talking, on other occasions they would be joined by therapists and Athene and Sinon and Ruben for what amounted to a joint session. But today it was only the pair of them.
As ever, Wing-Tsit Chong was waiting in his wheelchair on the veranda, a tartan rug tucked around his legs. Greetings, my dear Syrinx. How are you today?
She bowed slightly in the Oriental tradition, a mannerism she had taken up after the second session. They took the nanonic packages off my feet this morning. I could barely walk, the skin was so tender.
I hope you did not chastise the medical team for this minor discomfort.
No. She sighed. They have done wonders with me. I’m grateful. And the pain will soon be gone.
Wing-Tsit Chong smiled thinly. Exactly the answer you should give. If I were a suspicious old man . . .
Sorry. But I really have accepted the physical discomfort as
transitory.
How fortunate, the last chain unshackled.
Yes.
You will be free to roam the stars again. And if you were to fall into their clutches once more?
She shivered, giving him a censorious glance as she leaned on the veranda rail. I don’t think I’m cured enough to want to think about that.
Of course.
All right, if you really want to know. I doubt I’ll venture out of Oenone’s crew toroid quite so readily now. Certainly not while the possessed are still loose in the universe. Is that wrong for someone of my situation? Have I failed?
Answer yourself.
I still have some nightmares.
I know. Though not as many; which we all know is a good sign of progress. What other symptoms persist?
I want to fly again. But . . . it’s difficult to convince myself to do it. I suppose the uncertainty frightens me. I could meet them again.
The uncertainty or the unknown?
You’re so fond of splitting hairs.
Indulge an old man.
Definitely the uncertainty. The unknown used to fascinate me. I loved exploring new planets, seeing wonders.
Your pardon, Syrinx, but you have never done these things.
What? She turned from the railing to stare at him, finding only that annoying, passive expression. Oenone and I spent years doing exactly that.
You spent years playing tourist. You admired what others had discovered, what they had built, the way they lived. The actions of a tourist, Syrinx, not an explorer. Oenone has never flown to a star which has not been catalogued; your footprint has never been the first upon a planet. You have always played safe, Syrinx. And even that did not protect you.
Protect me from what?
Your fear of the unknown.
She sat on the wickerwork chair opposite him, deeply troubled. You believe that of me?
I do. I want you to feel no shame, Syrinx, all of us have weaknesses. Mine, I know, are more terrible than you would ever believe me capable of.
If you say so.
As always, you remain stubborn to the last. I have not yet decided if this is a weakness or a strength.
The Night's Dawn Trilogy Page 183
