Independence Day

by P. Darvill-Evans

  Curiouser and curiouser, she thought.

  Madok felt the cold sweat drying on his body. He relaxed at last into the contoured embrace of the padded seat. All around him banks of lights and dials flickered and hummed.

  Outside the craft the landing stage was filling with air. He kept his eyes on the tiny red bulb that would glow green when it was safe for him to disembark.

  He had become almost confident about landing the ship on the planet. It wasn’t so very different from piloting an aircraft.

  The controls worked by electricity, it seemed, rather than simple hydraulics, and he would have preferred to be able to feel the resistance of air against the rudder through a stick which he could wrestle with. But he could manage the lifeless, sliding control bars.

  Landing in the space station was a different matter. He felt utterly helpless, surrounded by dials and switches whose functions he could only guess at. The ship didn’t need him to pilot it, of course. Once he was beyond the planet’s atmosphere he pressed the button marked automatic and the ship took itself to the station, and manoeuvred itself into one of the landing stages with a graceful competence that put to shame Madok’s clumsy landings on the planet.

  The light was green. With a hiss the doors slid open, and Madok unbuckled his seat belt and rose on shaking legs.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Horval said as Madok entered the control room that overlooked the landing stage. ‘Everything go okay?’

  Horval was at the side of the room, next to the levers that operated the doors of the landing stage. It never failed to disconcert Madok that the only way that the doors could be opened and closed was by means of a panel labelled EMERGENCY - MANUAL OVERRIDE. The space station had layers of secrets that Kedin and his technicians had failed to penetrate.

  ‘Yes,’ Madok said. He combed his fingers through his damp hair, and lifted into sight the saddlebags he was carrying in his other hand. ‘The promissory notes from Vethran’s exchequer, correct down to the last mark. Blood money. And another batch of hell-brew from the King’s chemical works.’

  He was surprised at the vehemence of his own words. It didn’t matter here: at last he was able to express his true feelings.

  Horval shook his head slowly. ‘It must be tough for you,’ he said. ‘Going back down there again and again. Dealing with those people. And you did a stint as a pilot during the invasion, too.’

  Madok managed to smile. ‘I’ll survive,’ he said. ‘And at least we have justice on our side. Mainly.’ He cast a significant glance at the saddlebags.

  ‘The bad news,’ Horval said, ‘is that you’ll have to go back again. That batch of SS10 will hardly be enough for the consignment we’re holding. And Vethran wants another five thousand on top of that. We’re using all the pods and transports. They’re coming in as fast we can process them.’

  Madok couldn’t bear to think about it. ‘Great heavens, Horval, they’re people,’ he yelled, clutching his head in his hands. ‘Don’t talk about them as if they’re luggage.’

  Horval blinked in surprise. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ he muttered. ‘Kedin’s got the chemists working all hours on the formula. You know that.’

  Madok held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Horval. It’s not your fault. The last few days have been rather trying. Where is Kedin, anyway? I ought to report in.’

  Horval took Madok’s hand and shook it. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’re all tense and tired and frustrated. Even Kedin Ashar’s feeling it. He’s gone for a walk. By himself.’

  ‘What?’ Kedin could protect himself better than most, and the corridors were usually safe. All the same, it was an unnecessary risk.

  ‘He insisted, apparently,’ Horval said. ‘That’s what I heard.’

  Madok sighed and cursed. ‘I’d better go and find him. We need him. There are decisions that must be taken. Open up.’

  The inner door slid open. Madok hefted the saddlebags on to his shoulder and set off into the space station.

  * * *

  ‘The hills are alive,’ Ace sang, and stopped abruptly as she heard her voice echoing along the deserted corridors. She had crossed a couple of junctions with corridors as featureless as the one she was in. She had tried to open a few doors: those that she succeeded in opening led only into empty rooms.

  It’s quiet, she said to herself. Too quiet.

  The sounds, when they came, were sudden, loud and nearby. Voices raised in anger; running footsteps; a crash; a shout.

  Ace ran towards the noises. There was another junction ahead. At the corner she stopped. She pressed her back against the wall and twisted her head round the corner, then ducked back.

  There were people in the mouth of the adjoining corridor. It looked like a confrontation. No one had been looking in her direction. She took a step forward for a longer look.

  There were half a dozen of them: mainly men, some women.

  An unkempt bunch, dressed in ragged clothes. The men were unshaven. They looked mean and nasty. They were in a half-circle around a single opponent: a man, tall and slim, dressed like a Ruritanian nobleman in a fancy military uniform, all buttons and epaulettes. He was holding the crowd at bay with a curved sword.

  He didn’t seem flustered. ‘Look, I really don’t want to hurt you,’ Ace heard him say. ‘Just back away. I should make yourselves scarce if I were you. My men will be here at any moment. They’re right behind me.’

  There was agitated murmuring in the small crowd. Then one of the men shouted, ‘He’s bluffing. Let’s get him,’ and lunged for the soldier’s sword arm. The others gave an angry cry and all pressed forward at once.

  This is more like it, Ace thought. A bit of action. And six against one just isn’t fair.

  She leapt into the fray.

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t difficult to find Kedin Ashar. Madok had scoured only one sector, and was entering another when he heard the sounds of battle. As he ran towards the source of the noise he recognised Kedin’s voice.

  He drew his sword as he approached the junction. He advanced more cautiously, keeping close to the side of the passageway. He wanted to find out what was happening before he became involved, and he knew better than to draw attention to himself. Information and surprise were often more important than strength of numbers.

  The escapers from hold twelve had cornered Kedin. They looked desperate and half-starved, Madok thought, but there were enough of them to take Kedin down if they attacked together. Kedin was holding them off with his sword-point and a lecture on the futility of violence.

  At Kedin’s side, Madok noted, lashing out at the escapers with booted feet and a smooth wooden staff, was a young man dressed in black. Madok had never seen him before.

  Not a young man. A young woman. Madok stared. She was giving a good account of herself, parrying and thrusting and kicking without much finesse, in Madok’s opinion, but effectively and with enthusiasm. It was clear that together Kedin and his unknown ally hardly needed any assistance.

  Madok shouted to Kedin; Kedin replied. With his sword raised before him Madok advanced towards the skirmish. The escapers fell back.

  The young woman was grinning at the retreating attackers.

  She planted the tip of her staff on the floor and rested her fists on the end of the handle. She looked every inch a fighter.

  Madok realised he was staring at her, and looked away. A woman fighter, he thought; that’s a rare sight these days.

  And she’d been trained in martial disciplines that were unknown to him. Where could she be from? One of the barely civilized manors in the icy south, perhaps. And what was she doing here, on the space station? She was an enigma. Madok determined to find out everything he could about her.

  The escapers were fleeing now. As Madok stepped up to greet Kedin both men sheathed their swords.

  Madok saluted. ‘Well, my lord. I’ve been to the planet, I’ve endured the hospitality of our enemy, and I’ve returned safely with the cargo. You, on
the other hand, can’t go for a short stroll in your own space station without getting into a fight.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing, Madok. A misunderstanding. I’m sure I would have been able to make them see sense.’ As usual Kedin’s tone was languid. Madok noticed that there was not one bead of perspiration, not even a hint of a flush of excitement, on Kedin’s face.

  ‘You had help, Kedin,’ Madok said, turning towards the young woman. She was looking at them with keen, intelligent eyes. She didn’t seem a bit daunted by the presence of two military officers, one of them the foremost of the nobility.

  Damn it, she was a handsome young thing, too. Heavens, but she was immodestly dressed: trousers, and tightly fitting, too.

  Her black jacket had the quality of reflecting shimmering light; it was embroidered with badges, sigils and meaningless groups of words.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Kedin drawled. ‘Madok, you haven’t met my rescuer, have you? Well, neither have I.’ He turned to the young woman. Madok saw her look up at him. Their eyes met. He saw her lips part and her pupils enlarge. Kedin never failed to have that effect on women. How did he do it?

  ‘Madok, introduce me.’

  Madok cleared his throat. Allow me to introduce Kedin Ashar, Lord of the Skies, First Lord of the Vanguard, Councillor-in-chief to his majestic highness King Vethran.’

  ‘Hello,’ the young woman said, I’m Ace.’ She held out her right hand towards Kedin.

  Madok was struck dumb. Was the girl deaf? Or stupid? The honorific name alone was enough to indicate Kedin’s rank.

  His titles demanded that she lower her head, at least. Most would consider it proper to kneel.

  Kedin, also, was speechless. Then Madok saw the corners of his lips twitch, and his face lit up in a smile that became a gale of helpless laughter. Madok hadn’t seen his lord as genuinely diverted as this for many months.

  The woman called Ace frowned. Evidently she didn’t like being laughed at. Her hand was still extended. ‘What’s so funny?’ she said belligerently.

  ‘Nothing whatsoever,’ Kedin assured her. To Madok’s amazement he took her hand and shook it, as if the two of them were equals. ‘I apologise for my appalling manners.

  Thank you for coming to my aid.’ He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. ‘You have a fearless heart, young lady. And it’s just “Ace”? You have no other names or titles?

  You make me feel very suddenly over-endowed.’

  Madok saw Ace’s eyebrows lift. She hadn’t missed the innuendo. There were times when Madok despaired of Kedin.

  To be flirting at a time like this.

  ‘Just Ace,’ she replied. ‘I like to travel light.’

  ‘And if you wouldn’t mind satisfying my curiosity,’ Kedin said, ‘where exactly have you travelled from?’

  Ace grinned, and Madok knew that Kedin wouldn’t get a straight answer. ‘Everyone asks me that,’ Ace said. ‘It sounds like a simple question, but you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to come up with a plausible answer. Ask me something else.’

  Kedin laughed. ‘Would you like to join me and my officers for a meal?’ he asked. ‘I warn you, I’ll spend the whole time interrogating you.’

  ‘OK,’ Ace said with a shrug. ‘I’m starved, as it happens. So lead me to the mess hall. Who’s your friend, by the way?’

  ‘How remiss of me,’ Kedin cried. ‘Ace, may I present Madok, my chief aide, my right hand, my stalwart companion-in-arms, my conscience and my friend.’

  Madok’s heart leapt in his chest as Ace’s dark brown eyes met his gaze. He felt his face starting to blush. ‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ he said, trying to invest the trite words with particular sincerity. Her hand was cool and strong when he held it.

  ‘Same here,’ she said.

  The touch of her fingers; the smile on her wide lips; the dark intensity of her look. All sweet; all fleeting. Once again she was attending to Kedin.

  ‘You must have a title,’ Kedin declared. He bent to inspect the smooth, tapering staff with which Ace had helped to defend him. ‘Ace of clubs, perhaps?’ His eyes were positively twinkling with mirth. He offered his elbow for Ace to rest her hand on. ‘Or Ace of hearts?’ he added, in a deeply significant tone that was immediately belied by the covert wink he directed to Madok.

  Madok smiled and shook his head. Kedin expected women to be drawn to him. He hardly knew how not to flirt. And the signal to Madok was intended as an indication that Kedin was going to use his wiles to extract information from this mysterious young lady.

  Nonetheless Madok’s spirits slumped as he fell in behind Kedin and Ace. He saw her hand resting on Kedin’s sleeve; he saw her face looking up at Kedin’s as they bantered.

  ‘It’s Ace of here, there and everywhere, actually,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know,’ she added, ‘you look just like somebody famous.’

  ‘Really?’ Kedin replied. ‘Even more famous than me?’

  ‘Loads more. Have you ever seen a movie called Withnail and I?’

  Kedin’s face was a masterpiece of conspiratorial intrigue.

  ‘Possibly,’ he murmured. ‘Tell me: what exactly is a movie?’

  Ace laughed. ‘Never mind.’

  As the sun descended the room gradually filled with yellow incandescence. The long dusk was beginning. Soon, Bep-Wor told himself, he would have to venture outside. He would have to scavenge for food.

  He watched bands of colour - orange, scarlet, ochre -

  stretch across the horizon. It was a spectacular sunset. He could see it clearly, as the back wall of the room had disappeared, had been smashed and scattered, and was now no more than a jagged hole and a pile of sand-coloured bricks.

  On the patio, just beyond the wreckage, Bep-Wor used to like to watch the sun go down. After working in the fields he’d sit there, with a tankard of beer in his hand, listening to the chirruping of the insects. Listening to the sounds coming from the house. The sounds from the kitchen. Pots and plates rattling. Sizzling oil. Her voice.

  Kia-Ga.

  He shook his head violently. Everything reminded him of her. He gasped a silent, bitter laugh. There was, after all, nothing left: everything was broken, shattered, turned to ash and rubble. The bed they had shared was now charcoal. Her paintings were slashed and trampled. The flower garden had been crushed. There was nothing left, but still he couldn’t forget. Even the beauty of the sunset reminded him of her.

  He blinked. He must not cry. There was no use in crying.

  He’d wept enough.

  But he would never forgive himself for being away from home when the invaders came. He tortured himself by imagining her suffering. She didn’t even know that he had survived. She would probably never know.

  It was no use. Bep-Wor howled silently, his face contorted.

  How could he still have tears left in him? He felt the hot drops roll down his cheeks. Salty on his lips. Why did he bother to live any longer?

  He heard a noise. Nothing natural. Like nothing he had heard before. A metallic groaning, the sound ebbing and flowing like waves on shingle. But getting louder. Getting closer.

  It could only be the invaders. One of their infernal machines. Bep-Wor’s hand closed around the handle of the pitchfork he carried with him when he went outside. It was useless against the machines and the weapons of the enemy, but it was all he had. He wiped his eyes and pulled himself from the floor. He picked his way silently across the fallen masonry.

  Having risen to crescendo, until it sounded like a storm at sea, the strange sound had ceased. Bep-Wor could hear nothing: no sounds of soldiers marching; no voices; no machines. Holding the pitchfork before him, he stepped through the ruined side of his house.

  Crouching, he scuttled to the low wall that surrounded his property. There were still no sounds. He lifted his head.

  He knew what he would see. But he could not get used to it. At this time of day the village square would have been crowded with people, promenading in front of the neat, wh
itewashed houses and taking glasses of sweet tea in the two cafes. His neighbours. His friends.

  All gone.

  Some of the houses were still standing, their doors and windows gaping; others were no more than heaps of brick and timber. The slanting, golden sunlight was all that seemed familiar.

  But this evening something had changed again. In the centre of the square, standing slightly askew on the rubble-strewn flagstones, there was a blue hut. At the apex of its sloping roof a lantern flashed. Its door stood open.

  Bep-Wor struggled to understand what the structure was, and how it could have been placed in the square without him hearing the sounds of its construction. It looked nothing like the flying machines of the invaders, but Bep-Wor could imagine only that it had dropped from the sky.

  He cursed. Soldiers from inside the hut must already be in the village, patrolling stealthily. Had he been seen when he last made a foray to find food? Had the blue hut been sent specifically to find him? He had to retreat into the house and lie low. He could go hungry for one more night.

  He was about to scramble back to the house when he saw the man.

  The stranger - not a soldier, Bep-Wor saw that at once -

  was sitting, motionless, in the long black shadow cast by the hut. He had his elbows resting on his knees, and his head cradled in his hands. He looked utterly miserable.

  Ace hadn’t expected to find the space station manned by sword-wielding chaps dressed like extras from The Charge of the Light Brigade, but she’d seen plenty of weird things in her time and she wasn’t going to let her surprise show.

  She was finding it more difficult to ignore the presence of Kedin Ashar: he was obviously the head honcho, what with his minions bowing and scraping all round him, and he was tall, skinny, resplendent in his uniform, very cool and very sexy. And he wouldn’t stop chatting her up.