“But why?” asked Danis. “To what end?”
“To undermine the governor and, by extension, the Military rule on Earth. A new president has come to power on Illyr, one who, despite his Military credentials, is probably under the sway of the Sisterhood. The Diplomatic Corps wants complete control of this planet. It does not want to share it with the Military. What better way to demonstrate the Military’s failures than by having bombs exploding on the doorstep of the planet’s senior governor, or to prove the bravery of the Grand Consul than by his willingness to land despite the threat?”
“You seem very certain of this,” said Andrus.
“Not certain, but it fits with the available facts. Then there is the matter of the suicides,” she added.
“Suicides?” said Danis.
“I know that you’ve been looking into what happened to the Grand Consul’s nephew Thaios at Birdoswald. The evidence suggests that he killed himself rather than be captured. There was a similar incident in Iran last month, also involving a relative of Grand Consul Gradus.”
“I had asked Danis to look into the death of Thaois,” said Lord Andrus. “It seems that you might have spared him the trouble. Do you have proof?”
“An eyewitness in Tehran. A senior sub-consul, a cousin of Gradus, was cornered near a mosque after his convoy was ambushed. Rather than be captured, it seems that he activated an infrasonic grenade. The consequences were . . . messy.”
Andrus considered what had been said. “Find out more,” he told Meia. “I want to know if there’s a connection between these two deaths and Gradus’s arrival on Earth.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Rupe, the sergeant who had earlier helped Syl and Ani in their confrontation with the Corps, was standing outside.
“I gave orders not to be disturbed, Sergeant,” said Andrus, and there was no mistaking the unhappiness in his voice.
Rupe, though, didn’t blink. He had been with Andrus for many years, and he knew when the situation called for the exercise of a little personal discretion.
“My lord, I thought you might forgive the interruption on this occasion,” he said. “The Archmage Syrene has sent a message. She’s asking to see your daughter.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
K
atherine Kerr worried about her sons. She had always worried about them; it was the curse of being a mother. They were born willful boys. Paul was the volatile one, Steven quieter and more cautious, but both were stubborn, and once they had made a decision, there was no changing their minds. Even though they were dissimilar in many ways, they had somehow found a way to act as a unit, with one perfectly complementing the other.
It helped that Steven worshipped Paul, but Paul in turn was hugely protective of his younger brother. He had been both proud and concerned when Steven had asked to play a part in the Resistance. His mother had known better than to try to stop Steven, just as she had not tried to stop his older brother from joining. In both cases she knew that, had she objected, or put obstacles in their way, they would have proceeded without her approval, and perhaps put themselves in greater danger as a consequence. She knew that Paul would look after his brother, but not a day went by when she didn’t pray for them both, just in case.
Their father had died five years earlier. The Securitats had picked him up during a sweep following the assassination of one of their number. Bob Kerr had been hurrying to work at Edinburgh Zoo, where he had responsibility for the Malayan tapirs, among other species. One of the tapirs was due to give birth after the long gestation typical of the animal, and Bob wanted to be present in case there were problems. When he tried to explain this as the Securitats bundled him into one of their transports, he was struck in the chest with an electric baton. He died of a heart attack in the back of the truck. From that day on, Katherine knew that her sons would fight, and they were far from alone.
It was the great strength of the Resistance: most of its operatives were very young. They had an energy and innovativeness that their elders lacked. Perhaps it was because it was their generation that was being pressed into offworld service by the Illyri, forced to fight wars on distant planets in the name of an empire that had taken their own world by force. But it had also recently become known that the Illyri had contaminated Earth’s water supply, although so far chemical analysis had revealed no trace of it. This was no idle gossip, or unfounded rumor; it came from some of the Illyri who had defected. They spoke of a testosterone suppressant, a simple, harmless means of keeping human aggression in check. The drug inhibited the pituitary gland from secreting the master hormones LH and FSH that stimulated testosterone production.
However, the surge in the body’s testosterone production during puberty rendered teenagers, both male and female, less susceptible to the Illyri drug. In the years since the possibility of the suppressant’s existence were raised, steps had been taken to counteract its effects: testosterone supplements, the boiling of water before use, or preferably, only drinking water that had come from clean, natural springs. The problem was that the suppressant had a cumulative effect, and most men and women had been drinking the contaminated water for so long that it was unclear how long its suppressive effects would last. It was the new generation that remained immune, and so it was that the burden of fighting the oppressors fell on them.
Now, as she heard the front door open and the boys enter, Mrs. Kerr felt a surge of relief and gave a small prayer of thanks. She had not asked Paul where they were going when they left earlier that day, but she could always tell when it was a particularly risky task being undertaken. It was as if their personalities switched when they were tense: Paul would grow quiet, and Steven would babble as though he thought he might never get the chance to talk again. They had been like that at breakfast, and part of her had wanted to lock them in their rooms so that someone else would be forced to take on their duties instead.
And then she had heard the explosions echoing from the Royal Mile, and she had found herself frozen in place, forgetting to lift the iron until the sour smell of burning fabric filled the room, rendering a pair of Steven’s trousers useless. Was that what her boys were doing now, planting bombs? Did they get away in time? She had spent the rest of the day waiting, wondering if a knock would come at the door, if she would open it and see one of the Resistance people, perhaps a man with his wife in tow, or his sister, or his mother, someone to console her as she was told that her sons were dead. . . .
But here they were: her boys. They were home. They were safe. They would be with her for another day. She hugged them both, but she noticed that Steven held on to her for a little longer, and when she looked at his face, she could see how pale he was.
“What happened?” she said.
“He just saw something that made him ill,” said Paul. “He’ll be fine.”
“Sugar: that’s what he needs.”
She took a bottle of Irn Bru from the fridge and poured a tall glass for Steven, and another for Paul. She didn’t drink the stuff. She had never been one for fizzy drinks, but the boys had always liked Irn Bru. Along with whisky, it counted as the Scottish national drink.
“Drink it down,” she told Steven. “It’ll do you good. I’ll start on your dinner now that you’re back.”
“I’ll have to go out again soon,” said Paul, and she knew what he meant. He’d have to make a report to be made about whatever they’d seen, or done, that afternoon.
“The explosions . . . ,” she said.
“It wasn’t us,” said Paul, and she was relieved to hear it. There were reports that humans had died along with Illyri, and she didn’t want her sons to be responsible for that kind of carnage.
There was a knock on the front door. The boys looked at each other, and then at their mother. They weren’t expecting anyone. Mrs. Kerr wiped her hands on her apron, even though they weren’t wet or dirty, and tried to keep her fear in check.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “Stay where you are.”
She put the chain on the door before opening it. A large man stood on the path, keeping his distance. She had never seen him before.
“Mrs. Kerr?” he asked.
“Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Knutter,” he said. “I’m wondering if your lads are home yet?”
Something trickled from beneath his hair and slowly ran down his forehead. She watched the blood catch on his eyebrow and drip on his lashes.
Knutter blinked.
“Run,” he whispered.
She slammed the door closed just as she heard the slap of a pulse weapon firing. Knutter’s upper body hit the door as he died, and the thick glass cracked with the impact. She turned to see Paul and Steven staring at her from the kitchen table.
“Get out of here!” she screamed, as the front door exploded behind her. Something struck her in the back and sent her sprawling on her belly. The glass in the kitchen window broke, and two gas grenades skittered across the floor like silver rats. The room filled with choking fumes. Galateans stepped over her from behind, and more entered through the kitchen door. The aliens wore breathing apparatus to protect them from the gas. One of them knelt beside her and cuffed her hands behind her back before dragging her to her feet. The base of her spine ached. She guessed that she had been struck by a mild pulse blast, for she could feel no blood flowing and she was numb rather than in real pain. Her eyes were watering, but she could still see what was happening to her sons.
The Galateans were on them, easily pinning them to the kitchen floor, clicking and croaking at each other through their masks. They seemed almost amused as the boys tried to struggle against them, even as they coughed and choked. One of the Galateans, tiring of the game, struck Paul on the head with the base of a pulser, and then it was over. Steven was already as helpless as a swaddled baby, his hands secured behind him, his legs shackled together with magnetized cuffs. Blood streaked Paul’s face, and he was propped up between two Galateans as a third slapped him hard to bring him round. His eyes opened; he had trouble focusing, but at least he was conscious. Men had been killed accidentally by Galateans who had set out only to subdue them. The amphibians did not always know, or care to know, their own strength. Their hands were on Steven now, searching him, but he and Paul had left their knives in the umbrella stand when they entered, as their mother did not like them to be armed at the dinner table. When the Galateans were satisfied that Steven was unarmed, they lifted him from the floor and set him on his feet between his captors, coughing in the fumes.
The Galateans sprayed the air with a chemical compound, dispersing the gas before they removed their masks. They also sprayed a diluted form of the compound on the boys and their mother, relieving the stinging in their eyes and throats. A female Illyri Securitat in black and gold entered the house through the front door and walked to the kitchen. Beyond her, Paul could make out the shape of a body facedown on the garden path. He recognized Knutter from his shirt. Then his view was blocked as an Agron entered behind the Illyri, sniffing at the air.
The Securitat leaned against the frame of the kitchen door and stared at the boys. Paul knew Vena at once, for the Resistance had photos of most of the senior Illyri, but he tried to keep that knowledge from his face. If Vena realized that he knew who she was, it would be confirmation that he was a member of the Resistance. Their only hope was to play dumb, and a small, forlorn hope at that. The presence of this particular Illyri in their home meant that they were in very serious trouble indeed. Vena was not usually one to make house calls.
The Agron paused by her side.
“Are these the ones?” she asked.
The Agron advanced on Paul, sniffed at him, then turned its attention to Steven. Its eyes were silver, and its sight was poor. It saw the world through scent. It placed its nose close to Steven’s face, its nostrils so close to his mouth that he felt its mucus on his lips as it exhaled.
The Agron nodded. It gripped Steven by the hair and pulled his head back.
“Sm-smelled you,” it stuttered roughly in Steven’s ear; most of the Agrons had a basic grasp of language. “Smelled.”
“Good,” said Vena. “Very good.”
Paul’s scalp was bleeding badly. The Agron keep darting glances at the blood, and its nostrils twitched hard. Eventually it could stand the scent no longer. A rough pink tongue slipped from its lips and lapped at Paul’s face. One of the Galateans pushed the Agron away. It looked unhappy.
“Smelled,” it repeated, and pointed a stubby finger at itself. “Good.”
Summoned by Vena, Securitats flooded into the house. That was just like them, thought Paul: wait until the hard work was done and any threat had been subdued, then enter with boots and fists flying.
“Take the boys away,” said Vena to one of the new arrivals. “The mother too.”
The Galatean pointed at the Agron and clicked a question.
“Let it drink the blood,” said Vena. “It’s earned its reward.”
As the Kerrs were led away, they heard the Agron fall on Knutter’s corpse, and they tried to close their ears to the sound of it quenching its thirst.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
U
nsurprisingly, Lord Andrus was troubled by the fact that the Archmage Syrene wished to meet with his daughter, but he did his best not to show it. He had played this game for a long time, and little now had the capacity to catch him off guard, but today had been a day of surprises, few of them pleasant. This was easily the most unwelcome of all.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why does she want to meet with Syl, or why should we allow it?” asked Meia.
“Both.”
“Perhaps the Sisterhood is recruiting,” said Danis to Meia, “in which case you might wish to put your name forward. Duplicity and untrustworthiness would seem to be essential for membership, so you should be wearing a red cloak before the night is out.”
Meia ignored him. “I can’t answer the first question. But to the second I would say that it’s an opening, and openings should be exploited. We don’t know why Syrene has chosen to accompany her husband here, and we have no idea why Gradus should be present either. He didn’t have to deliver the news of the president’s death personally. It’s not as if he cares about your grief. We’re entirely in the dark here. Now Syrene has made a move. Do we ignore it, or do we move in response?”
“My daughter is not a spy,” said Andrus. “She is not equipped to trade blows with an Archmage.”
“Syl is clever,” said Meia.
“Not as clever as a Red Sister.”
“I have studied the Sisterhood for many years,” said Meia. “They interest me.”
“And why is that?” asked Danis.
“They worship a god. Their god is knowledge.”
“And what have you learned about the Sisterhood and their god of knowledge?”
“Very little. They guard themselves well, and share nothing with outsiders. I would be surprised if even Gradus knew very much of what his wife is thinking most of the time, and I am certain that he knows nothing at all of what goes on in the Marque.
“But I know this: arrogance is the Sisterhood’s weakness. They have grown more and more arrogant as they have engaged with the world beyond the Marque. Everything they have encountered has confirmed their superiority, most particularly the weakness of males. Syrene believes that she is cleverer than anyone she meets, cleverer even than the most senior of her own sisters, Ezil and the First Five apart, and even then she must feel that the Mage’s powers are waning. She will underestimate Syl, and in my experience, Syl is not to be underestimated.”
“We’re talking about a sixteen-year-old!” Danis scoffed. “She’s only a fraction older than my daughter, and Ani could be out-thought by a goldfish.”
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p; “Ani is not to be underestimated either,” said Meia. “You are in error about your own blood.”
Andrus watched the exchange with interest. Meia was Syl’s final line of defense. In the event that the castle’s defenses were breached, or a fatal tilting of the balance occurred in favor of the Diplomats, she was to get Syl and Ani to safety, and kill anyone who stood in her way. She had been watching Syl ever since Andrus had quietly ordered her to join him on Earth shortly after Syl’s birth. Meia was ruthless, implacable.
Ageless.
“And what if some harm comes to my underestimated daughter?” Andrus asked.
“No harm will come to her. We have eyes and ears in that room, and anyway, Syrene would not be so foolish as to hurt Syl. There would be no advantage in doing so, and Syrene is always looking for an advantage.”
Andrus looked to Danis and Balen.
“Your thoughts?”
“I would not let her go,” said Balen, who was almost as fond of Syl as he was of his own children.
“Danis?”
“It pains me to say it, but Meia is right. We should permit the meeting to go ahead, but we’ll monitor everything, and we’ll keep guards outside the door: double the number that Syrene has. If Syrene objects to their presence, we walk away.”
“And she won’t object,” said Meia. “She would expect nothing less.”
“Would you send Ani if our positions were reversed?” asked Andrus.
Danis considered the question. “I would, but I’d warn Syrene first, so she knew what she was letting herself in for. She wouldn’t get a word in edgeways.”
Andrus was quiet for a moment, then nodded to Meia.
“Bring my daughter here.”
•••
Syl and Ani, now clean and fed, were back together in Syl’s rooms. They were half watching old films, both human and Illyri. The human ones tended to be more fun. Illyri ideas of art placed the emphasis on improving minds first; entertainment came a distant second. One of the greatest Illyri plays, Of Stars and Seeds, was seventeen hours long, and included breaks for meals and a suggested two-hour intermission for an extended nap.
Chronicles of the Invaders 1: Conquest Page 11
