by J. J. Green
“I’m on it, Mr Jonte.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Absent-mindedly juggling, Lorcan paced up and down his suite aboard the Bres. Coordinating the Project single-handed took considerable concentration, and his hobby helped him to think. It always took him a few minutes of deep thought to bring all the many important details to mind and mentally slot each part into place in the massive scheme.
But just as he achieved the required depth of focus, his door chimed. The carefully held pieces of the gigantic puzzle of the Project slipped from his hands and scattered into the ether.
Dammit.
“Open,” he said through clenched teeth.
Kekoa was the person who had the misfortune to interrupt him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she blurted as soon as she saw him.
“There’s a reason my comm is turned off. I said no interruptions!”
“We’re aware of that, but—” She gave a soft whimper as the ball Lorcan threw at her hit the middle of her forehead. “We’ve received a message we thought you would want to hear immediately.”
He guessed the others had coerced her into the role of disturbing him since she was already in his bad books.
“And?”
“Um...” Kekoa swallowed.
“What is it?!”
“It’s from Dwyr Orr, sir. She’s requesting to meet with you urgently. In person.”
“Is that all? In that case, show her in.”
“She-she isn’t here, sir. She wants you to see her at her residence.”
“In BI? But I’ve only just got back from...Hell, all right. You’ve told me. Now go before I dock your wages again.”
Kekoa retreated.
Damn the Dwyr. His trip to the Barracuda Mine had taken days of precious time. Yet could he refuse the request? The campaign against the Britannic Alliance was going well, but they needed to discuss their next move. Also, previously, she’d come to see him on the Bres, so it only seemed fair that for their next meeting he should be the one making the journey.
The thought of entering the EAC’s regressive, barbarous realm made his stomach churn, but he set off for the shuttle launch bay.
BY THE TIME HIS PILOT set the shuttle down outside a castle within the middle lands of BI, he was feeling no better about the visit. If anything, his distaste for the EAC’s mode of living had grown.
He stepped down from the shuttle hatch onto a landing pad made from stone. He rolled his eyes. Stone flags were clearly preferable to plain concrete, according to EAC mentality.
Lorcan looked around. The pad had been constructed in the grounds of an ancient castle, set on the high ground in the surrounding landscape. A fresh breeze was blowing in from the ocean, and the midday sun stood overhead. A road passed near the edge of the grounds in the distance, but, as to be expected, it was empty of traffic. He knew that, if he inspected it more closely, he would find potholes and cracks filled with grass and weeds.
Such were the ways of the EAC.
In certain parts of the Dwyr’s realm were the usual manufacturing plants and offices. While she waged her wars, they were unavoidable, but all knew these were stopgap measures until she achieved her aims.
He would be glad to leave Earth to the cult. He would certainly not want to live in the world it was intent on creating.
“Ua Talman,” said a man as he appeared at the castle gate, “welcome. If you would come with me, I will take you to the Dwyr.”
Wordlessly, Lorcan followed him. The man looked and behaved like a servant.
I think of the EAC as a group of individuals, but really, it is one person, Dwyr Kala Orr. She is the driving force. She would never accept the title, but she’s actually a Queen.
He was led through the gate and into the open, arched castle doorway. They climbed stone stairs, each tread worn at the center edge by the passage of feet over thousands of years.
Tapestries hung on every wall of the large chamber they entered, and Kala Orr sat in the middle on a seat of carved wood, dark with age. The floor was wooden also and heavily varnished and polished. Furniture made hundreds of years ago lined the edges of the room: sofas padded with hand-embroidered upholstery, cabinets, display cases holding hideous, moth-eaten stuffed animals and ancient books. Even the smell of the place was old. It smelled musty and dank, as if the castle hadn’t encountered sunlight or fresh air in centuries.
Lorcan felt like he was inside a history docuvid.
The woman herself completed the picture. Whereas aboard the Bres the Dwyr had appeared entirely out of place, here she was the perfect complement to the scene. Her deep blue, velvet gown hung to the floor, where embroidered cloth slippers peeked from beneath the hem. The sleeves also hung low, though the upper sections were cut to just below her wrists, revealing her small, pale hands. She wasn’t wearing her headdress, and her hair had been elaborately plaited and coiled, with jewel-tipped pins holding it in place.
He was pleased to see that this time she didn’t appear intent on revealing excessive flesh.
“Ua Talman, thank you for agreeing to my request.”
“It’s my pleasure, but call me Lorcan, if it isn’t too presumptuous of me to assume we remain on first-name terms?”
The Dwyr waved the servant away. When the man had left, she said, “Not presumptuous at all.”
Despite her words, Lorcan got the impression she thought she was allowing him a large, potentially unwarranted, concession. Dwyr Orr on her home turf was a different animal from the woman who had come to his colony ship to seek an alliance.
“Please be seated, Lorcan. Can I offer you some refreshment? Champagne, perhaps?”
Had he seen the shadow of a wink? He took the gilded stool that was the only other single seat in the room and moved it close to her before sitting down.
“Refreshment won’t be necessary, thank you. While it’s delightful to visit you at home, Kala, I’m afraid I can only stay a short time. I’m a very busy man. Starships to build and all that. Shall we get down to business?”
“We must decide our next maneuver regarding the BA, yes. The battle for the Caribbean Islands is going well. But I have another purpose in asking you here, which I would like to discuss first, before we move onto more important matters.”
“Hm. What is it? By all means, let’s get it out of the way.”
“Well, he should be along any minute.”
He?
Lorcan was not prepared to accept a third party into the AP/EAC pact, if that was her intention. And definitely not someone Kala had unilaterally enlisted. He was about to say so when the door handle squeaked as it turned and the door opened.
A boy aged around nine or ten walked in. He was dark haired and pale skinned, like his mother. His large, dark eyes were like pools of black water.
“Perran, come here. Come and meet Ua Talman.”
The boy ran to Kala’s side and rested a hand on the arm of her chair, regarding Lorcan shyly—or was it slyly?
“I would like to introduce my son.”
Though he was careful not to show it, Lorcan was speechless with outrage. What was the woman thinking? Why would she think he was remotely interested in her family? Did she believe he was paying a social call?
“Perran is fascinated by your project,” said Kala, then, turning to her boy, she added, “aren’t you? He’s been reading all about it.”
“Yes, but one thing I don’t understand,” piped Perran. “Could you tell me why it’s called the Antarctic Project, when it’s in space?”
“It’s, er...” Lorcan’s mind was working overtime. His rage at being subjected to this domestic nonsense was proving hard to overcome, yet he didn’t want to say anything that would jeopardize the delicate alliance between him and the Dwyr. He purposefully unclenched his jaw. “The company my wife and I set up had its beginnings in mines in Antarctica, thus our choice of name. The colonization project sprang from the company and I retained the name in memory of her.”
“Oh.
Is she dead?”
He glared at the boy. “Yes, she died.”
“Perran, don’t be insensitive. I apologize on behalf of my son. He’s too young to understand these things.”
Lorcan was not so sure. “This was your additional reason for inviting me to your castle? I am pleased to meet your boy, but now the introductions are over, perhaps we can move on to more urgent matters.”
“I wasn’t quite finished,” said Kala. “Perran would love to see the project at first hand, and it would be very educational for him. I was wondering if it might be possible for him to visit your ship, the Bres? He would be accompanied by a guardian, of course.”
“Out of the question!” blurted Lorcan. “I’m sorry,” he went on in a milder tone, “but my ship is neither a tourist attraction nor an educational facility. Many areas are unsafe, and I cannot spare any staff to give guided tours.”
Was the woman mad? She was regarding him calmly, as if she were making the most reasonable request in the world.
“He would be content with only visiting the finished parts, and he wouldn’t bother anyone. Simply to see the ship would be enough.”
Lorcan ground his teeth. Tense moments passed, and then he leapt up, knocking over his stool. “Dwyr Orr, I am a man of great patience, but you have exhausted it. Your request is preposterous! It’s offensive and unconscionable. You seem to think I’m running some kind of tourist attraction or-or day care facility. No, your boy cannot visit my ship. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever! Now, we have urgent business to discuss. Are you willing to talk now, or are we to sever our partnership and go our separate ways? I can assure you, both options are equally attractive to me at the moment.”
Kala also rose to her feet, calmly and deliberately. She walked up to Lorcan, drawing so close he could see fine threads of red in the whites of her eyes. He thought she might try to strike him, but she only said, “Please calm down. It was only a question.”
“I am perfectly calm!” he yelled. “And if I’m not, whose fault is that? You drag me down here to your barbaric wilderness, populated by drooling fools, bewitched by cultish rituals and fantasies, and expect me to indulge your child’s whims and fancies. Who do you think you are? Who do you think I am?”
The Dwyr’s lips thinned and her eyes blazed. “Ua Talman, you are in my domain. Watch your speech. I do not take insults lightly.”
“What are you going to do? Throw me from the castle battlements? Chain me up in a dungeon? Send me to your chief torturer? Your culture is a blight on the planet, an anachronism, an affront to human civilization, and I shall be glad to leave you and your kind far behind.”
He was beyond caring about diplomacy with the deluded woman. She was a throwback to a brutal age, eschewing the very technology that lifted humanity from the swamps of its brutal, animal past.
He fully expected her to send for thugs to seize him. If she did, he would comm the leader of his military forces. His military would rescue him, and then retribution would rain down on the EAC.
But the Dwyr didn’t call for guards—she laughed. She chuckled, holding a delicate hand over her mouth. The boy, Perran, watched his mother, sharing in her amusement.
When she had her mirth under control, she said, “Is that really how you see us? I suppose it’s to be expected. At first glance, we must seem quite primitive. And I suppose our style echoes that of earlier ages. But how can you forget about our military aircraft, ships, and starships, our infantry? Do you think we could have helped to attack the Caribbean Islands with only swords and spears? Haven’t you watched the EAC’s progress across the globe?”
“No, but...but...” She had taken the wind from his sails. He felt outmaneuvered. “I assumed your forces were only a stopgap measure, a necessary evil, until—”
“Please sit, Ua Talman, and I will explain.”
He picked up the overturned stool and sat down.
“You are a man of science, am I correct?”
Before he could answer, she continued, “Why am I even asking? Of course you are. How else would you be able to travel to the stars? Scientific discoveries are what have made the Project possible. Science has brought you everything you desire. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say you worship it like a god.”
“Actually, that would be a great exaggeration,” said Lorcan tersely.
Ignoring him, the Dwyr went on, “What if I were to tell you there is another layer to the universe, and that science has not even brushed its surface? A dimension that lies beyond the parameters of everyday experience and rational thought.”
“What are you talking about? Multiple universes? Quantum mechanics?”
“Perhaps quantum mechanics is a part of the explanation for the phenomena I mean, yes. Perhaps the strange behavior of quantum particles has something to do with it. But the things I have observed and experienced are on a macro scale: Forces that don’t exist in any physics textbook, impossible connections, events that are beyond reason.
“The EAC is not moving backward, Lorcan, it is moving forward. What you see around you isn’t a rejection of technology, it is the acceptance of a new truth, a better way. For example, you look at my home and see a relic of the past, don’t you? But ideas of the past, the present, and the future are observational fallacies. Time is not a ribbon we travel along.
“If you were to read ancient history, you would see that, at one point, humans were moving toward this deeper understanding of the universe, but they chose science instead. Don’t mistake me, that discipline has its value, but it is far from everything. There is so much more to know, and the EAC is involved in the exploration of those unknown areas of our understanding. You may, one day, stand upon an alien planet, Ua Talman. But, you never know, I may already be there to greet you.”
“But...but...” He rubbed his forehead. The woman was clearly insane. He decided it would be better to humor, not antagonize, her. The EAC was useful to him, at least until the BA were finally defeated and he could take the remainder of the resources he needed.
Two long trips to Earth in succession had exhausted him, and he had plenty to do back on the Bres. He needed to cut to the chase, agree their next step, and return to his ship.
“Dwyr Orr, I’ll think on what you’ve told me. Now, how about this? Your boy can visit the Bres for a few days, providing he doesn’t get in anyone’s way.”
“Thank you. He won’t be any trouble, I assure you. Perran is very mature for his age.”
“Now that’s settled, can we please discuss our ongoing strategy?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Hans, so glad you could make it.”
I bet.
The former Deputy Prime Minister, who had stepped into his deceased superior’s shoes, stared coldly at Hans from the far side of the conference table. Bone-thin, sparse gray hair clinging to his scalp, and bespectacled though surgery to correct eye defects was cheap and common, the new PM was an Establishment archetype.
And he hated Hans.
The man was, naturally, careful to never express his opinion openly. Only in the late evenings, when the select few of the inner government circle would meet for nightcaps and cigars at an exclusive club, would Beaumont-Smith give vent to his true feelings about the head of SIS. Jumped-up immigrant and the kind of man who buys his own furniture were two phrases waiting staff had overheard and passed on to Hans’s contact.
No matter that it was Hans’s great-great-grandparents who were the immigrants. To someone like Beaumont-Smith, if you couldn’t trace your family back to one of William the Conqueror’s companions, you were scum.
The Cabinet ministers and military leaders sitting around the conference table had the decency to look embarrassed. Hans had a feeling most of them were unaware he hadn’t been informed about the emergency meeting. If he hadn’t shown up, Beaumont-Smith and his cronies would have insinuated he must have been too ill to attend, casting doubt on his fitness for his role, or even implied he must have forgotten or decided not to co
me.
“My pleasure, Prime Minister,” he replied. “And may I take the opportunity to congratulate you on your new position, despite the sad circumstances that led to your appointment.”
“Sad circumstances indeed,” said Beaumont-Smith. “I would that it had been any other way.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Hans, noticing no empty seats at the table.
One of the PM’s aides simultaneously realized the faux pas and leapt to her feet. “Please, take my seat, Mr Jonte.”
Mustering as much dignity as he could, he strode around the table to the woman’s chair, which sat next to the Prime Minister, while the aide left to find a replacement.
As he sat down, he tried to maintain a confident, capable facade. Lying in hospital, he’d felt reasonably healthy, but after leaving it he’d soon realized he was far from recovered. Withdrawing the treatment for his damaged lungs had made walking more than a few paces extremely fatiguing, as if he were climbing a mountain. As the men and women sitting around the table watched him, he also became painfully aware of his singed beard and hair, inflamed skin, cuts, and bruises.
He smiled easily and picked up the copy of the agenda that lay on the table. He couldn’t afford to appear weak.
The meeting had only just started, and the first point to be discussed was the one that interested him the most.
“I’m sure Mr Jonte requires no introduction to anyone present,” said Beaumont-Smith, “so we’ll proceed to item one without any further ado?”
The Chair nodded.
The PM cleared his throat. “As we all know, Her Majesty Queen Alice’s funeral will take place this coming Sunday. All arrangements are in place. The proposal we must discuss today is the date of His Majesty King Frederick’s coron—”
“Prime Minister,” interjected the Chief of Defense Staff, a man called Hennessy, “I’m sure I’m not speaking only for myself when I say that time is pressing. I should be working on military strategy, not stuck here discussing matters of pomp and ceremony. I’d like to propose we reorder the agenda so we can get to the important topics first, and I and my military colleagues can depart and leave you to decide what day Freddie gets his crown.”
