‘Blake’s friends don’t seem very friendly,’ she said.
Avon turned to Cally with a half-smile. ‘This one is only a friend of a friend.’
Finally, it seemed that someone apart from the guards had noticed them. The door was opened and Avon and Cally were ushered away from the other monitors.
‘Our Acting First Minister Mr Shevard will see you now.’
As they stepped over the threshold into a large, wood-panelled office, Cally was somewhat surprised to find a small, balding man, dressed in a rather drab, grey two-piece outfit, standing on his desk to reach a picture on the wall behind his chair. It was a portrait of Supreme Commander Servalan of the Terran Federation.
‘Close the door, please. For one thing, there are draughts.’ Edu Shevard lifted the heavy portrait from its hook and lowered it gently to the ground. He stepped down from the desk, smiling a thin smile of satisfaction. ‘You recognise the picture, I’m sure?’
‘For an organisation that likes to pretend that it is a conglomeration of well-meaning individuals, free of unnecessary symbols of power,’ Avon said, ‘Servalan is the closest thing the Federation has to an icon.’
Noting the frisson that went through Shevard as he heard this, Cally felt certain that Avon’s choice of the word ‘icon’ had been deliberate, although she wasn’t sure why it should have this effect.
‘An icon? You’re quite right,’ Shevard said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘That’s what Servalan is. To many I knew, perhaps even to me, once, very long ago, Servalan was everything.’
‘But no longer,’ Avon said. He was watching Shevard closely.
‘Which is precisely why the separation from the indignities of the past must involve, above all, a cathartic act.’
‘Catharsis is important,’ Avon agreed, smiling. Cally knew that smile well enough to know it wasn’t to be trusted. Avon wasn’t entirely convinced by Shevard.
‘Exactly. We will burn this painting in a public ceremony tomorrow morning, destroy Servalan’s image as the icon of all that we have despised for the past fifty-two years.’ He smiled. ‘We will replace her with one that is even older.’ Shevard opened his desk drawer, inside which lay a small painting, very dark, framed in elaborately carved, gold-embossed wood. It had the appearance of something quite ancient. To Cally’s astonishment, he raised it to his lips, kissed the image once, moved his fingers rapidly across his face and chest and then kissed his own fingers.
He glanced up at them. ‘Another woman,’ he said quietly, but with pride, ‘from another time. Infinitely more deserving of our contemplation.’
Cally stared at the painting: a woman carrying a young child. It had to be some kind of religious symbol.
‘May I take this opportunity to thank you for agreeing to monitor the proceedings, dear, trusted colleagues of Roj Blake? There can be few people whose anti-Federation credentials are more worthy than yours.’
Under his breath, Cally heard Avon mutter, ‘Blake will be thrilled.’
‘Sincerely, I am most grateful. It’s been a dream of ours, for years, to be free of the Federation.’
‘You are to be congratulated,’ Cally said. ‘Not many worlds achieve what yours has – a peaceful transition.’
Shevard gave a modest shrug. ‘We’re not there yet. If the Federation decide that this election is anything but honest, they’ll refuse to allow the secession. We’ll be a subject world again. So you see, dear friends, we rely on your support.’
With these words, the private audience with Shevard was over. Cally and Avon moved on to the lobby of the Parliament, which was hosting a grand reception for the newly assembled monitors. Shevard’s people seemed determined not to let any of them out of their sight.
Cally observed that the dress code of the ‘secret’ police was absurdly obvious: long leather greatcoats turned up at the collar, one hand permanently hovering by the pocket that housed the gun holster. She wondered whether she should mention it to Avon, but reflected that she was more bemused than anxious. It seemed plausible, in a newly emerged democracy, to ape the outward gestures of the exiting rulers.
Cally moved between the other election monitors, a cocktail in one hand, exchanging pleasantries as best she could. Blake hadn’t explained this part of the job to her. Avon seemed perfectly at ease as he enjoyed the company of willowy, elegant women in high heels, but Cally felt distinctly uncomfortable, as well as under-dressed. To a large extent she was still taking her cues for Terran behaviour from her crewmates. Now, it appeared, she was meant to flirt. She ran her eyes across the room, waiting for someone’s to meet hers. After a few seconds, she stopped, suddenly aware that one of the guards was staring at her.
He was a young man of no more than twenty, good-looking with high cheekbones and smooth skin, his fair hair slicked back underneath his bottle-green uniform cap. When Cally began to return his gaze, he approached with a full glass of sparkling wine in each hand, no hint of embarrassment.
‘Hello,’ she said to him with a smile, ‘Are you here to see that we don’t get out of control, with all this generous hospitality?’
If the guard understood her joke, he didn’t react. Instead, he handed Cally some wine and took her empty cocktail glass. He leaned forward, confidentially. ‘It is Zviad Khurdia who presents the gravest danger. His people will stop at nothing – they have killed thousands outside the cities. One isn’t safe on half of the planet.’
‘Who is Zviad Khurdia?’
‘A warlord. Before Mr Shevard returned to Kartvel, our world had fallen into chaos. The Federation were no longer in control. The rule of law was in collapse. The warlords took advantage. Khurdia was the most powerful of them. He still is.’
Cally tried sending a telepathic message to Avon, to bring him over. What the guard had said was news to her. Avon should definitely hear this. But it seemed that being flirted with by not one but two tall, bleached-blonde women was preventing him from responding to her call.
‘Where is Khurdia now?’
‘Who knows? He went into hiding.’
‘Why?’
The handsome young guard shrugged, as though it must be obvious. ‘You can’t stand for election if you’re in custody.’
‘There’s a warlord standing in this election?’ Cally asked uneasily. Blake hadn’t mentioned it. ‘Is he likely to win?’
‘No-one wants to deal with a world headed by a convicted criminal.’
‘True,’ Avon said. He’d appeared at Cally’s side just in time to hear this last quip. ‘But even so, it often happens.’
With a mere glance at Avon, the young guard placed a hand lightly on Cally’s arm. ‘My name is Koba, Miss Cally. I’m at your service. Don’t worry about Khurdia. We guarantee that no harm will come to you.’ There was a hint of a military salute before he turned away.
Avon watched him leave. He turned his eyes on Cally. ‘An admirer?’
She sipped her drink. ‘Would it matter?’
The directness of her question seemed to take him by surprise.
‘It might.’ Avon’s answer seemed cautious.
‘Why?’
‘Well now, let’s see… He’s a member of Shevard’s security.’
‘And what else? He’s younger than you?’
‘He’s younger than you.’
Musing, she replied, ‘I know.’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘A man called Khurdia. The boy called him a warlord. Avon… He knew who I was. He knew my name. I don’t think he was flirting. I think he was trying to warn me that there’s a chance Khurdia might try to steal the election.’
FOUR
Avon and Cally moved into the gathering. They began to ask discreet questions. It seemed that Khurdia and his followers had something of a terrifying reputation. Khurdia himself was an old enemy of Shevard’s. He too had been trained by the Federation. Lacking the smooth, diplomatic eloquence of his former colleague, Khurdia had not thought to negotiate for the colony to
secede. Instead he’d spoken openly against the Federation, encouraged civil disobedience. When the collapse happened, he had accumulated a considerable degree of personal power.
‘The Kartveli always had a predilection for the “strong man”,’ Avon was informed by one of the women who’d been regaling him all evening, a blue-eyed lady of aristocratic bearing who said she was from Lindor. ‘In many respects, Zviad Khurdia was cast from that mould.’
Khurdia had acquired immense folk popularity – and a Federation death warrant. Now he co-ordinated, from his hideaway in the mountains, a relentless and vicious battle of terror against the supporters of Shevard. Almost exclusively recruited from the former elite who’d served under the Federation, they had the most to lose from genuine regime change. Khurdia’s support, however, came entirely from an ‘honest impulse of the people’. It was suspected that Khurdia sought power at any cost, that he would rule the planet as he ruled the towns and villages into which none of the pro-democracy forces would dare to tread.
‘And yet he is a candidate in the election?’ Cally asked, puzzled at how someone could apparently respect their democratic system enough to use it, only to want to dismantle it afterwards.
The aristocratic woman managed a condescending smile. ‘It happens. Regrettably, there’s such a thing as electing to be dominated.’
When it was time to leave the reception, a squat, stocky security guard escorted Avon and Cally to an armoured limousine. He waited for them to take seats in the rear of the car, then slid in next to Avon. His body was bulky and forced them to sit close together. The car began to fill with a mild scent of sweat masked with a woody cologne. A driver wearing the same uniform as the security guard drove them from the reception to their hotel.
They travelled in silence. In the streets, tanks were still crawling over the city. Some of the remaining Federation troops were still unaccounted for, apparently. Until they’d all been rounded up, the city was under semi-martial rule. In squares and plazas throughout the city, a pro-Federation faction seemed to be vying with supporters of the warlord for open spaces in which to demonstrate. Such expressions were permitted, the driver informed them, provided they were small. They saw three minor skirmishes. In each case, the pro-democracy police usually outnumbered the demonstrators.
The limousine stopped in a central plaza. Cally peered out of the narrow pane of glass that constituted the only window in the rear of the vehicle. Above them towered a huge monument of stone, lit up by huge, orange arc lamps in the square. It didn’t look like a hotel – too few windows. The door alone was at least six metres high.
She noticed Avon seemed quietly impressed. On the Liberator, he showed little interest in aesthetics, so his reaction was vaguely surprising.
‘This is a church,’ he announced. He glanced sharply at the driver, who had stepped out of the car. ‘What are we doing here?’
The driver gave them a curious smile. He looked to be about forty years old, with dark, angular good looks, and the ghost of a beard. ‘We pretended for years that it wasn’t important, but we never forgot. Maybe these doors were closed to us,’ he said, pointing at the statuesque portal. ‘But inside,’ he continued, tapping his own chest, ‘in here, it was always open, always warm.’
Avon had grown suddenly tense. With evident restraint, he repeated, ‘What are we doing here?’
‘You’re here to bear witness. Mr Shevard wishes you to understand the source of the change that is sweeping through the Kartveli people. The reason we must leave the Federation.’
Avon turned his gaze back on the church. ‘So much stone,’ he commented. ‘Such expense.’
Cally’s eyes followed the span of the great door. She saw seven figures carved into a wooden frieze – three child-sized, flanked by four adults. All wore crowns on their heads which were surrounded by circles as far down as their shoulders. In addition, the figures were united by the fact that they clutched in their hands a cross. A larger cross hung above all of their heads, suspended over the central figure, the young boy. All seven stared straight ahead, frozen in motionless serenity, accepting their fate, whatever it might be. She immediately sensed a tragic air about them, especially the young children.
As they went inside, they began to hear voices joined in music, hauntingly beautiful, solemn, evocative.
‘It is the liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom,’ explained the driver, in a hushed whisper. ‘Centuries old. They sang this very music in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre the night of the Second Schism.’ Seeing how little Avon and Cally understood, he added, ‘In the Holy Land on Earth, when the Orthodox Church split once again.’
Avon asked, ‘And this is your religion, is it? “Orthodox”?’
‘Sometimes I think that the Church is the only thing on which Khurdia and Shevard actually agree.’
‘They do agree, then?’ asked Cally, surprised.
‘They’d be fools not to. No-one on Kartvel will vote for a non-believer.’
Cally stared up at the vaulted ceiling, a vast arch lined with carved, gilded wood. There was so much about this society that she didn’t understand. What could she or Avon tell them about how to conduct an election?
As they left the church, she couldn’t help feeling that there was something different about the position of the limousine. She turned back to look for their driver, who’d tarried a while in some kind of kneeling ritual. Avon too, had tensed, glancing from the car to the open door of the church.
The door to the armoured limousine opened. Cally felt Avon’s hand grip her arm.
Something’s wrong, she telepathed.
A woman emerged from the front passenger seat of the car. She wore the greatcoat and cap of Shevard’s security forces, but Cally had never seen her before. She held a blaster. It was aimed at Avon’s chest.
‘In the car,’ she snapped. They could barely see her features, shadowed by the peak of the cap. She’d positioned the armour-plated door between her and them. Any kind of physical attack was likely to fail. Her demeanour suggested she was serious about using her weapon.
Avon muttered, ‘It’s a set-up.’ There was nothing they could do but comply.
The stocky security guard who had waited in the car was still on the back seat, slumped against the opposite door. The only clue to his condition was a tiny bruise to the skin above the carotid artery. Cally doubted whether she herself could have made a cleaner job of it. A quick touch on the pulse points, however, revealed the guard to be alive.
Inside the car, the woman told them to strap themselves in, and kept her blaster on them as they complied. Next to her, a man in the same uniform began to drive. Cally tried to catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror, but large sunglasses obscured his eyes.
The woman said, ‘We don’t wish to harm you. But if you resist, we will.’
Cally said, ‘If any election monitor comes to harm, the election is declared null and void.’
Avon glared at their kidnapper. Cally could sense the effort it took to conceal his disdain. ‘So, you are pro-Federation?’
‘You’re mistaken,’ was her uninterested reply.
‘Then what’s the meaning of this?’
‘Your impressions of this world are dangerously inaccurate,’ she said stiffly. ‘It is necessary to take measures to rectify this.’
‘So you’re kidnapping all the election monitors?’ asked Avon.
‘Kidnapping is a very harsh word for what’s happening here.’
‘I’d say it’s accurate.’
‘It’s impossible to conduct a private conversation in this city. And someone wishes to talk with you. Now be silent, please.’
The car lurched through several streets, then pulled a hard left onto a side street. The front door opened. The woman who held the gun slid closer to the driver. She was joined by another woman, this one wearing a shabby, mud-coloured overcoat. The second woman produced a gun, which she aimed at Cally.
Avon sat back and stared. ‘Evidently, you mean bus
iness,’ he said, with a hint of a sneer.
The driver left the city behind and took them through the valley until the road began to climb into the mountains. They rode in silence. Avon seemed distracted and Cally glanced at him a couple of times, trying to catch his eye, to detect the inkling of a plan. Tentatively, she tried telepathy.
If you want to try something, Avon, just give me a signal.
Avon ignored her, gazing directly into the blaster that stared back at them.
Once they had escaped the city limits, the car slowed as the driver opened the door and threw out the unconscious guard. The two women held guns on them the entire time. Their gazes were devoid of any feeling that Cally could read.
There could not have been more than one hour of light left and a bitter cold was beginning to envelop them. Cally reflected that she might have been wrong in her earlier judgement. The kidnappers didn’t seem all that merciful now.
FIVE
Four hours later, they arrived in a small hamlet, a cluster of barns and a guest house with three apartments under gambrel roofs. The upper slopes of the gambrels were piled half a metre high with snow. The car park and all paths had been swept, but every other surface was thick with snow that glowed a lambent pink in the neon of the three streetlamps. Avon and Cally were escorted to an apartment on the second floor. The accommodation was simple but surprisingly comfortable: rustic furnishings, wood-panelled floors and ceilings, a log fire in which wedges of wood crackled and smoked.
The woman who’d held them at gunpoint for hours stood by the entrance, but didn’t enter the apartment. She looked exhausted. Cally thought about attacking her. The four-hour drive back to Kartvel City was a strong deterrent, however; they’d certainly be followed, even assuming they could commandeer the car. Furthermore, she was intrigued. If they were to be harmed, it would probably have happened by now. Maybe it was better to wait and see what these people wanted.
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