The Shadow and Night (117 page)

He was interrupted twice. The first interruption came from Vero when he described the shattered statue and its inscription.

“ ‘Zhalatoc, Great Prince of Lord-Emperor Nezhuala's Dominion,' ” Vero repeated, taking down the spelling and entering it in his diary. He stared at the screen, a range of emotions crossing his face; then he looked up. “As I suspected: two proper names that we have no records of in Assembly history. And you don't need me to tell you that to use the language of ‘Great Prince,' ‘Lord-Emperor,' and ‘Dominion' for anyone other than the Most High is alien to everything the Assembly stands for. But written in our script . . .” His face expressed a deep and worried perplexity. “Who are they? What do they want?”

“And why was the statue defaced?” asked Corradon, anxiety visibly eroding away his look of confidence.

The questions were unanswered, and Merral continued with his account of what had happened in the chamber. He hesitated when he came to what the steersman had seemed to say to him as he had stood before the column.
After all,
he told himself,
it was a voice in my mind.
Yet the words had been so significant and ominous that Merral felt he had no option but to share them. As he described what had been said to him, he was aware that uneasy looks were shared between his visitors.

“Stop!” said Corradon suddenly, and Merral felt that his composure had now all but vanished. “Let me get this right. He said—or you felt he said—‘Your isolation is over; the breach in the barrier remains. There will be others who will come in vast ships of unimaginable power.' ”

“Yes. ‘And we will come with them.' ”

“This is—” Corradon's face paled. “No,” he said slowly, as if reasserting control over his emotions. “Later. Continue.”

Merral ended his account with his wild ride on the leg of the intruder craft. “So I just jumped and hit the water and saw the explosion. And I don't know how long after that I was picked up by the rescue craft.”

There was a moment's silence before Corradon spoke. “An extraordinary account,” he said, and Merral heard fear in his slow words. “Quite remarkable and, in part, terrifying. There is much more I would like to ask you, but I'm grateful for what I have heard. I have . . .” He shook his head and turned to Vero. “Did you have any questions?”

Vero, who apart from his one interruption had listened in total silence, put his long fingers up around his cheeks. “Dozens. Most can wait. But I do have one or two that I need to ask. Merral, you said the ship was dirty and smelly. Did you see any signs of damage?”

“Other than the statue? Yes, there was one place. Just before I met the thinking machine.”

“Go on.”

“There was a large hole, oh, the size of that door, now mended, and there looked to have been a fire. Or an explosion. At a temperature high enough to melt metal.” Merral paused, remembering the spherical silver globules that he had picked up. “And thinking about it, I'm sure the blast occurred in zero gravity. The melted metal had formed spherical droplets.”

A subliminal gesture of acknowledgement seemed to pass between his visitors.

“Why do you ask?” Merral said. “I didn't make anything of it. Not compared to everything else.”

Vero answered him. “It's just that the
Emilia Kay
's cameras got some good images as they hovered over, and there were marks on the hull. Blast marks, someone thinks.”

“I see.”

“A second question: You said both notices, this odd title and the ‘Steersman Chamber' warning, were in Communal?”

“Yes.”

“And an early style.”

“I'd say so.”

“Hmm. How
very
suggestive.” Vero's voice was almost inaudible, and Merral saw his expression twisting this way and that in thought.

Corradon looked at Vero as if expecting an explanation. Then he glanced at his watch. “Really, I must go. But briefly, Vero, what do you think?”

Vero nodded, as if agreeing with some unspoken deduction of his own. “Yes . . . sir, it is now absolutely plain that the tale we have of the ending of the Rebellion is inadequate. I was very taken with one incidental detail of Merral's account: the way the robot identified him as
Captain
Lucas Ringell.”

“Sorry, Vero, I fail to see the significance of the rank. Other than the fact that it knew of him.”

“Sir, as you know, Lucas Ringell is always known to history as
General
Ringell, the final rank he reached. He was promoted on his return to Earth,
after
the ending of the Rebellion.” A pensive look came over his face. “Or, what we have always called the ending.”

Merral began to understand. “You mean the last the ship, or the robot, knew of him was when he was a captain?”

“Exactly.”

Corradon stared at him. “Extraordinary.”

Vero nodded. “I am now confident that something—man, computer, or whatever—survived the cleansing of the Centauri base and fled beyond Assembly space.”

“And has come back.”

“Or its descendants have.” Vero's unhappiness showed in his expression. “But in whatever way the forces of the Rebellion survived, the trends that Jannafy encouraged have plainly been continued. There appears to have been no respect of any of the Technology Protocols. There has been a pursuit of all things banned: human genetic modification, machines with a humanoid intelligence, undoubted explorations of Below-Space. And somehow, an alliance with deep evil has been made.”

Corradon shook his head as if trying to ignore what he had heard. “These are matters to be pursued at length later. I will mention little of them today. It is already hard enough to say what I have to. But after Merral's account, I am now reassured that this costly battle was worthwhile. And that what I will propose is necessary.”

As Merral wondered what he meant, he saw Corradon and Vero look at each other.

“Shall I ask?” the representative muttered, but Vero shook his head.

“Very well.” Corradon rose stiffly to his feet. “I must go and prepare for my speech. Anyway, I wish you a speedy recovery, Merral. There is more for us to discuss.” He patted Vero on the back and walked toward the door.

“Sir—” Merral raised a hand—“before you go, I have a request. Another one.” There was something that had to be said, and now was as good a time as any to say it.

“Which is?”

Merral took a deep and painful breath. “Sir, I wish to resign my commission. I want to return to forestry. To go back to Ynysmant.” His voice sounded brittle.

Corradon took a pace back toward the bed, his face full of incredulity. “But why?”

For a moment Merral could not speak, and then the words flowed out in an unstoppable rush. “Because I made errors of judgment. Because there are men dead. Because we failed to secure the ship. Because I'm not good at it. And, above all, because I hate it. Utterly.”

Corradon pursed his lips and stared at him before answering. “You hate it? I'd hope so.” He shook his head slowly. “Not good at it? I'd hate to meet anyone who was better than you. And the ship was, at least, utterly destroyed. The dead are . . .” He hesitated and then exhaled heavily. “The dead are a grievous and lamentable loss, but they are hardly your fault. As for your claimed errors of judgment, well, I think they are far outweighed by your wise decisions, your courage, and your skill. But there will be a full inquiry on the battle over the next month. There has to be for the records. And for lessons for the future.”

He turned, as if to leave, and then paused, staring at something on the bedside table. He bent over, and for the first time Merral saw the dull silvery disc and chain and realized that the identity tag was gone from round his neck.

“May I?” Corradon asked, and without waiting for an answer, he reverently picked it up and stared intently at it, mouthing the ancient words engraved on it. “ ‘Lucas Hannun Ringell, Space Frigate
Clearstar,
Assembly Assault Fleet.' How very strange. How very strange indeed.”

His blue eyes glanced at Merral. “Well, anyway, if heaven allows any knowledge of these worlds' tribulations, neither Brenito nor General Lucas Ringell will have been displeased with yesterday's events.”

“Unfortunately, sir,” interjected Merral, trying not to sound rude, “my conduct is judged by a higher authority than either. And there, I feel, I have blame, not just praise.”

Corradon nodded, lowering the tag reverently down to the tabletop. “It is perhaps as well, lest this victory breed an overconfidence. But apportion blame fairly, Merral.”

“I will, sir. But my resignation?”

“I don't accept it. Sorry.” Corradon shrugged.

“Respectfully, sir, I believe that you have to accept it. It's over. The task I was asked to do is done.”

“Really?” Corradon exhaled loudly. “Merral, Lucian and I have agreed that the FDU is to be closed down. In fact, I will be announcing that during my speech.”

“Good.”

“To be replaced by a larger and better-equipped Farholme Defense Force with a range out to the system's edge. With real weapons. And—I was not going to mention this now but I will—I'd like you to head it up. As Commander.”

“I don't understand,” Merral said, staring at him and Vero, struck by the solemnity on both their faces.

“I will be stating—” the representative seemed to weigh his words—“that we will be enlarging our defense capability. As much as our world's limited manufacturing and technical base can take. It would be an enormous help if you would lead the new force. Indeed, I think it would help stabilize shaken nerves across the planet if I could announce your appointment during my speech.” He looked out beyond the curtained window with a burdened gaze. “It is my job to tell the whole of Farholme that not only are we isolated from the Assembly, but we have enemies. That is a heavy task. I would like, in the same breath, to give them the slight comfort of saying their defense is in trustworthy hands.”

“No!” Merral snapped. “I see no reason for it. I want to be an
ex
-captain and an
ex
-soldier.”

Corradon gave him a wry, sad, and sympathetic smile. “I'm afraid, Merral, you face the same dilemma I have faced. This world is in crisis and it looks for leaders. You and I must do our bit to provide them with what they need.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, I must go.”

He gestured to Vero. “I give you leave, Sentinel, to tell him what I told you.”

Then he walked to the door and opened it. He turned to Merral. “Captain D'Avanos, it would be a great help to me—and to Farholme—if I could have your agreement by noon.”

Then with a salute, he left.

Merral turned to Vero and was about to speak to him when the door slid open and an energetic female figure with a shock of tied-back red hair entered.

“Anya!” cried Merral.

Vero, beaming at her, got to his feet. “I'm off for a bit; I need some breakfast. Or lunch. Whatever is appropriate for now. We will continue our conversation, Merral.” Then he slipped out of the room.

Anya bent over and kissed Merral lightly on the forehead, pulled up a chair, and sat next to him. She was wearing a rumpled navy waistcoat and unfussy, plain blue trousers, and he felt his resolve weakening.

“So, Tree Man, you survived,” she teased him, laughing brightly. “I gather that you float. Hardly surprising.” The joking tone did not conceal a deep relief. She took his hand and squeezed it hard.

“Yes,” Merral answered slowly, “I survived. But I'm not unscathed.” He tried to prepare the words that he had to say, but faced with her in person, he found the idea difficult. He played for time. “So did you catch any creatures?”

“No. Not alive.” She wrinkled her face in expressive disgust. “They were all dead. Some of the men say that the few that were left alive committed suicide once the ship took off. But there are about a dozen dead specimens in all. Although being clones, I think we'll only need to look at one of each. And none of this very worrying new type. The predators.”

“They aren't creatures. They are machines of some sort.”

“Machines? That explain—”

“Anya,” interrupted Merral, feeling that he had to speak now or her presence would persuade him to forget what he knew he had to say, “I have an apology and an admission to make.”

She looked at him carefully, as if wondering whether it was a joke or not. “Which is what?”

“That, the other night, I wasn't entirely . . .” He could hardly bring himself to speak the word, it was so appalling.
“Honest.”

“About what?” she said, letting his hand drop.

“About Isabella.”

Her face darkened. “But you said . . . you
denied
that there was anything.”

Merral felt that this was a new agony. “Yes, Anya, I know. I'm truly sorry.”

“You mean that . . . there
is
something?”

“Well, yes. It was, well, something that . . .” He paused. “Something that I slipped into hurriedly, without thinking. An
understanding.
Without parental consent. So, well, I thought it wasn't really valid. And I have regretted it since. But—”

Anya had gotten to her feet now. “But
what?
”

“But, that I—we—never ended . . . Not
mutually.
” Merral felt his face burn with shame.

“So you are
not
free.” Her words were biting.

He tried to smile. “But I would like to be. Very much.”

“It was a
lie.
”

The word cut and stung like a lash of hail in the face, and the thought came to Merral that in the last twenty minutes he had been praised by the highest in the land and was now being utterly humiliated.