Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1

by Malcolm J Wardlaw

  “Too clearly,” Donald said.

  *

  The floodlights of the Grande Enceinte shone like a cluster of stars two hundred miles behind them. Above, beyond the cones of the propeller hubs, the Milky Way glowed like spilt phosphorus. The moon hung so clear that you could sense it was a sphere. Below and to port, the night was scattered with bright specks in a thin haze of orange. The bright specks were manors of sovereign lands, lit by electric light, whilst the smudges were countless native hamlets, lit by lamps, if lit at all. To the starboard side spread an expanse of absolute black—the North Sea—bounded by a shoal of glimmering lights that appeared closer than the wing tips. That was the coast of Europe sixty miles away.

  Nightminster shook the electric umbilical of his suit and gestured. Donald gave the thumbs up. The heated suit was like a warm bath, except that his ears and fingers stung with cold. Ice crystals grew across the panels of the windscreen. Dregs of coffee froze into brown coins. The temperature gauge showed fifty-two degrees of Celsius below zero—and they were still climbing. From time to time Nightminster switched control to an astonishing little sheet metal box he had made himself, which flew the aircraft while he was busy or taking a nap. It added to the assurance in Donald’s mind he was in the company of brilliance. He reflected on his own prescribed ascent to the pinnacle of respectability. Had he done anything more than pass a series of tests? Nightminster had drawn visions with his mind’s eye and wrenched them into life by sheer intellectual vigour. That was the greater achievement, as poetry is a greater feat than chanting a catechism.

  Such a night flight as this required a rare gall. Probably they were alone above the North Sea. Any ships down on that void would be shut down for the night, adrift and blacked out, on guard for pirates. Even the Neptune stopped at dusk for blackout in coastal waters and resumed only at dawn. Nightminster tapped the altimeter with his index finger. They had reached 36,000 feet—higher than Mount Everest. They might be the highest human beings in the whole world. They shared grins—only the creasing around their eyes showing over the oxygen masks—and Donald flipped a double thumbs-up. He was enjoying this. It beat the pompous deference of court hands-down.

  Donald must have dozed off as a woke from a dig in the ribs. They were flying at 38,000 feet, so high that in the frozen-clear air they could see across Yorkshire to the Atlantic Coast 120 miles away, a straggle of faint blotches. Those were the ports of Morecambe and Heysham. Further to port spread a more extensive nebula with a knot of stars at its centre. That was Liverpool and its modest central enclave.

  Donald twitched, blinking. He thought he saw flashes below and to port. He saw them again—white flashes. They seemed closer. Nightminster rapped the conversation pad between them, lit by a tiny red bulb, on which he had just scribbled one word: “Naclaski!”

  *

  Nightminster pushed the four throttle levers all the way forward. The drone of propellers hardened, the airframe shivered. Held in a shallow dive, the machine’s speed built up to 240 knots. Nightminster kept a dead straight course, inciting in Donald an outrage that they were asking to be hit. After the flight, Nightminster explained in his languid way that weaving about increased risk by slowing them down. The risk of being hit was random, since the batteries were firing on the rough guidance of listening horns. Therefore, the essential variable was time of exposure. It could be proved mathematically, if he wished.

  But Donald only learned that afterwards.

  To begin with the white sparks were far below them, reassuring Donald that Nightminster’s confidence in this beautiful flying boat was justified. It even became fun, trying to guess where the next cluster of sparks would flash. It all happened in a kind of silent racket, as the propellers and engines drowned all further sound.

  Then a twinge of concern crept in. He realised there were a lot of sparks. It was easy to miss just how many. Two clusters burst ahead, to port and starboard, exactly on their level. A couple of seconds later a smell like sparking flint seeped into the cockpit. That was when it sank in—this was a casino of death. Two seconds. He heard a sharp rattling, as if they had flown through a shower of pebbles. Nightminster wrote on the conversation pad: “Shrapnel”. The worst of it was, Donald could do nothing but sit and think about the dice rattling across the table over and over again, thirty or forty times every minute. He was fixated on the memory of the shrapnel fragment that had gashed the top of his thigh—six inches back and it would have de-manned him. In an agony of suspense he groaned in his seat, waiting for the searing agony as a red streak castrated him. Let it happen to Nightminster! It was all his idea…

  The white flashes were getting harder to spot. This scared him, provoking much craning behind lest the flashes were closing in from astern. He scanned all around. Far below, the moonlight shone on a plate of cloud extending ahead into eternity. Nightminster tapped his shoulder and wrote: “They have given up. Ammo is gold!” Donald sagged with relief. They exchanged the smiles of comrades and shook hands. The thought occurred to Donald that he had lost one brother and gained another.

  The conversation pad got busy. Donald asked whether it was the first time Nightminster had taunted Naclaski: “Fuck no! I love it. My machine is the champion! I am notorious!”

  Time sped by in this intimacy. Out over the sea again, Nightminster glided the machine down to only two thousand feet of altitude and eased back the speed to 120 knots to reduce fuel consumption and let their bodies warm up. After this, he kept his mind to the flying and Donald merely watched the crosses of their fixes pace up the chart. Nightminster also leaned to one side every few minutes to press his face to a shrouded viewer of some sort. It was yet another one of his magic gadgets. He explained it was a radar system he had built using archives from the Second World War. A sweeping display showed any coastlines around them out to a distance of about ten miles. This greatly assisted the navigation. What especially pleased him was that its radiations drove the Naclaski scanners crazy. There was nothing they could do about it provided he kept more than five miles off-shore, which rendered any shooting pretty harmless. Donald had very little idea what his host was talking about. All he could do was once again recognise brilliance when he met it.

  He snoozed for a while. When he woke up, he learned they were off the coast of Argyll, Scotland. It was half past six in the morning. They had been in the air ten hours. Nightminster explained they would have to loiter offshore for another hour until dawn, when they could fly up the Firth of Lorne and land in the Sound of Kerrera outside Oban Bay.

  *

  “What are those?”

  They were taxiing across Oban Bay. Donald nodded towards some sailing barges moored across the bay from the town of Oban. The barges were large enough that one would call them small ships. What caught his eye, apart from their isolation, was that they were armed. Each sported a four-barrelled brass-muncher in a turret near the stern. The boom of the main sail was shortened to make room for it.

  “They are patrol barges, General Wardian uses them to prevent surplus at sea before it can reach the shore and cause infestation.”

  “Surplus from where?”

  The remoteness of the town was typified in the heavy stone architecture, dark slate roofs and the raw landscape, so thinly layered with soil that rock blistered out everywhere.

  “It flows across England and Wales, crosses to Ireland, then rises up to the north coast, whence it launches itself in blind hope across the Irish Sea.”

  Donald burst out laughing at this preposterous behaviour.

  “What on earth for?”

  “You have to understand the mentality of the surplus. Far away in deepest Europe lurks a fantasy of the north as an empty paradise, a place of endless forests, limpid lakes, seas rich with herring, cod, mackerel, shark and seal. Surplus born into the dust and plagues of the south carry this dream across years of travel.”

  As the flying boat approached the town’s jetty, a pilot cutter skimmed out, oar
s pulling cleanly together, a harbour official standing in the bow with a severe expression. Nightminster slid back his window and stopped the engines. He offered his passport with an envelope folded inside. The passport was not one that Donald recognised. It was a smart booklet, bound in black leather, with creamy pages watermarked in purple thread. Combined with the contents of the envelope, it entirely satisfied the harbour official.

  “Welcome to Krossington at Oban Castle, sir. We will tow you into the harbour.”

  Twenty minutes later, Donald stood on solid stone harbour mole looking down at the flying boat nestled with the fishing fleet.

  “OK,” Nightminster said. “First stop will be Rackland.”

  Nightminster knew his way around. He led through the town centre, which was congested with man-hauled wagons bearing casks, blocks of pale stone and bellowing cattle. Working people in leather aprons and denims bustled around the docks. In a side street they approached an old stone building, the ground floor windows of which were blanked with iron plates. Above the porch was a coat of arms and in gold letters “Rackland & Company”. Nightminster leaped up the steps and rapped the door. It swung open upon an attractive teenaged girl with long dark hair, wearing a Harris tweed waistcoat and skirt. Donald noted sturdy legs in heavy black woollen stockings, which were no doubt a practical necessity in this chilly place. She beamed at them and spoke cheerily.

  “Good morning, I am Dorothea Rackland. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Prentice Nightminster. I would appreciate the audience of Gustavus Rackland. Please take him this introduction.”

  Nightminster passed across a beige envelope of heavy vellum. The young lady departed, leaving the door open, a display of trust that surprised Donald. He supposed everyone felt safe here on Krossington land, where strangers were few and by invitation only. She beamed again on her return.

  “My father will be pleased to offer his audience. Please follow me.”

  She led them initially through the business level of things, stores piled with tree trunks, slates, hides, boxes of 0.303 calibre ammunition, bottled meats, walls of sacked grain... After ascending a couple of floors, they reached managerial levels of carpeted corridors decorated with portraits of late worthies of the firm. She ushered them into a classic boss’s office, dominated by a large desk in the far corner. The boss sat in a typical pose, fingertips steepled. Rackland was about fifty, with wavy brown hair turning grey over the ears. He lived well. His paunch swelled out, lifting the front of the suit, a bob of flab drooped under his chin. Donald thought his eyes particularly dark and unfriendly.

  Nightminster marched forward across the office, his teeth bared in that carnivorous grin of his.

  “Good morning Mr Rackland, I am grateful you could receive us without an appointment.”

  Rackland slipped off the chair and heaved himself up. He was only about five foot seven inches tall. Nightminster shook hands so hard Rackland’s flabby chin wobbled.

  “Not every visitor is endorsed by His Decency Tom Krossington himself,” Rackland said. “Tell me what your interest is, Mr ah… Nightminster.”

  Nightminster evidently felt that standing like a schoolboy before Rackland’s desk did not suit the atmosphere he aimed to establish. He turned about, in no great hurry selected an armchair from a suite on the opposite side of the office and kicked it across the carpet to a new position under a window at one side of Rackland’s desk. Rackland following this with glaring, disbelieving eyes. Nightminster relaxed with one leg cocked up on the other knee, gazing down his nose. In the crystal tension, Donald eased himself out of the line of fire, retreating to a ladder-backed chair over near the door.

  Rackland swung his chair to face Nightminster. The bob of fat under his chin quivered. He clasped his hands on his lap. The show of arrogance, backed by the name of Tom Krossington and Nightminster’s physical size relative to his own, had clearly fazed him.

  “I am here concerning a matter of the most extreme political sensitivity.” Nightminster spoke in subdued tones. Donald could only hear by leaning forward and concentrating.

  “I understand,” Rackland said.

  “This matter is so delicate that TK himself cannot be associated with it. I am here as his intermediary. My business is far from Oban, so I have no competing interests.”

  “I understand.”

  “You will be familiar with the case of Lawrence Aldingford?”

  “Of course,” Rackland said. “It was the talk of the town. With his little piece, they were on the make on the most impudent scale.”

  “I’m told private gardens attract this kind of scheme,” Nightminster said. “Especially if they contain exotica.”

  “Yes, I have heard that too.”

  “It seems that Aldingford is well connected. His family is asking awkward questions. It’s only a matter of time before they send agents to poke about up here and stick their noses where they do not belong.”

  “They can poke all they like, there is nothing to find. Aldingford was guilty as Judas.”

  “The most awkward aspect is that Lawrence’s brother is TK’s land counsel—quite a star of the Land Court, I’m told. You can, I hope, perceive the delicate position this places TK in.”

  Rackland settled back in his seat, staring through the window behind Nightminster while he absorbed this.

  “What you are saying, if I understand you, is this brother could have the force to persuade His Decency that Aldingford was innocent and it is actually others who were guilty.”

  “No. TK is committed to the status quo in the town. What concerns him is credibility. All parties must be consistent. The least contradiction will incite further enquiries. You know how opportunists love these situations—stirring confusion to grab what they can.”

  “I certainly appreciate that.”

  “TK requires you attend a conference this afternoon. Discretion is vital. Tell no one—not even your wife. He will interview various interested parties and there will then be a learning session, followed by dinner. You must be at Dunstaffnage Harbour at noon sharp to board a motor yacht called Lydia.”

  Rackland thought about this for a few moments.

  “This letter of introduction seems convincing.” He picked it up. The sky-blue ribbon dangled from the seal of Krossington. “Such a document could be forged.”

  “I completely understand your concerns. After we are gone, contact Oban Castle. You will receive in-person confirmation from the captain of the Krossington marines.”

  This completely satisfied Rackland. Nightminster finished the interview with courtesy, although he left Rackland the honour of returning the armchair to its accustomed place.

  Back out on the street, Donald restrained his curiosity. In the next hour, they visited two other merchants with the same story and the same result. Then Nightminster led at his whistling march up the promenade into a fine drizzle.

  “There is no greater satisfaction than wielding the sword of justice,” he said.

  “I’m cold and wet.”

  Nightminster laughed and glanced sideways. “Would you prefer to be twirling about in a frock and wig?”

  Donald just pulled a wan grin.

  “We all have to sing for our supper. I really work for my two daughters—without them I could walk away from my life and not look back. Do you have children?”

  A shutter closed over Nightminster’s face. “No. Children never happened for me.”

  Donald naturally thought of that picture of gorgeous Victorina Krossington with only hours left to live. Perhaps her ghost still walked with Nightminster in the form of Sarah-Kelly. It would be understandable.

  “I find you a hard man to pin down, Nightminster. Most people reveal their background in their accent, in which respect, you’re a closed door,” Donald said.

  “For your information, I attended public school in the Central Enclave—to which I won a scholarship from humble beginnings in Bermondsey asy
lum—and I further won an exhibition to study physics at Oxford University. In contrast, your accent is your history.”

  Donald smiled. “I didn’t win a scholarship to public school, I will admit—my father was a judge and didn’t need it. I did win an exhibition to Oxford, though.”

  “To study Law?”

  “Yes.”

  Nightminster uttered one of his snorts and shook his head, then he tipped back his head and laughed so lustily that people walking nearby turned to look.

  “You studied Law—in this world? Why not study ethics in hell?”

  Donald allowed him a weary smile.

  “Did you meet TK at Oxford?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m intrigued. How did you get from studying physics at Oxford to pig-farming—this Value System of yours?”

  Nightminster gave him a look of incredulity. His mouth twitched to start laughing again. This smarmy knowingness was beginning to get on Donald’s nerves. They were never going to be friends.

  “Here we are at our destination,” Nightminster said, still chuckling away to himself.

  It was a large sandstone house with bay windows staring out to sea. It extended back into its grounds a long way with ugly, black fire escapes—obviously of Public Era vintage—curling out both sides like ears.

  “That is the Oban HQ of General Wardian glory trust.”

  He marched straight up the path and in through the broad doorway. There were no sentries. They could walk into the reception area without challenge.

  “I can’t believe how lax security is,” Donald said.

  “Life is easy here. No slums, no gangsters, no National Party. The population is actually larger than it was in the Public Era.”

  He passed across another vellum envelope and told the desk sergeant he wished to see Account-Captain Turner. Within a couple of minutes, they were escorted up to the top floor. Turner’s office had French windows onto a rooftop terrace, on this dreary day covered in puddles.