The explosion was close enough to crack the high windows and loosen some plaster, which fell gracefully down through the triangular wedges of sunlight and pattered delicately on the stairs.
'Cullis!' He grabbed the other man's collar again and leapt backwards down the stairs. 'Cullis!' he yelled, skidding round the landing, almost falling. 'Cullis, you dozy old prick! Wake up!'
Another falling howl split the air; the whole palace shuddered to the detonation and a window blew in overhead; plaster and glass showered down the stairwell. Half crouched and still pulling Cullis, he staggered and cursed down another flight of stairs. 'CULLIS!' he roared, tearing past empty alcoves and exquisitely rendered murals in the pastoral style. 'Fuck your geriatric ass, Cullis; WAKE UP!'
He skidded round another landing, the remaining bottles clanking furiously and the big gun knocking chunks out of decorative panels. The deepening whistle again; he dived as the stairs leapt up at him and glass burst overhead; everything was white as the dust whirled. He staggered to his feet and saw Cullis sitting upright, scattering plaster shards from his chest and rubbing his good eye. Another explosion, rumbling further away.
Cullis looked miserable. He waved one hand through the dust. 'This isn't fog and that wasn't thunder, right?'
'Right,' he shouted, already leaping downstairs.
Cullis coughed and staggered after him.
More shells were arriving as he reached the courtyard. One burst to his left as he emerged from the palace; he jumped into the half-track and tried to start it. The shell blew the roof off the royal apartments. Showers of slates and tiles hammered into the courtyard, turning into little dusty clouds in their own tributary explosions. He put one hand over his head and rummaged in the passenger's footspace for a helmet. A large chunk of masonry bounced off the engine cover of the open vehicle, leaving a sizeable dent and a cloud of dust. 'Oh... shiiiiit,' he said, finally finding a helmet and jamming it onto his head.
'Filthy Ba...!' yelled Cullis, tripping over just before he reached the half-track and tumbling into the dust. He swore, then dragged himself into the machine. Another shell and another ploughed into the apartments to their left.
The clouds of dust kicked up by the bombardment were drifting across the faces of the buildings; sunlight sheared a gigantic wedge through the chaos of the courtyard, edging shadow with light.
'I honestly thought they'd go for the parliament buildings,' Cullis said mildly, gazing at the burning wreck of a truck on the far side of the courtyard.
'Well, they didn't!' He punched the starter again, shouting at it.
'You were right,' Cullis sighed and looked puzzled. 'What was the bet we had again?'
'Who cares?' he roared, kicking somewhere beneath the dashboard. The half-track's motor stumbled into life.
Cullis shook flaked tile from his hair while his comrade strapped on his own helmet and handed a second one to him. Cullis accepted it with relief and began to fan his face with it, patting the area of his chest over his heart as if in encouragement.
Then he drew his hand away, staring in disbelief at the warm red liquid on it.
The engine died. Cullis heard the other man bellow abuse and slam the starter again; the engine coughed and spluttered, to the accompaniment of whistling shells.
Cullis looked down to the seat beneath him as more explosions thundered, far away in the dust. The half-track shuddered.
The seat below Cullis was covered in red.
'Medic!' he yelled.
'What?'
'Medic!' Cullis screamed over another explosion, holding his red-stained hand out. 'Zakalwe! I'm hit!' His good eye was wide with shock. His hand trembled.
The young man looked exasperated and slapped Cullis' hand away. 'That's wine, you cretin!' He lunged forward, hauled a bottle out of the older man's tunic and dropped it in his lap.
Cullis looked down, surprised. 'Oh,' he said. 'Good.' He peered inside his jacket and carefully extracted a few pieces of broken glass. 'Wondered why it was fitting so well,' he mumbled.
The engine caught suddenly, roaring like something made furious by the shaking ground and the swirling dust. Explosions in the gardens sent brown sprays of earth and pieces of shattered statuary over the courtyard wall, landing spattering and chunking all around them.
He wrestled with the gear-lever until the drive engaged and nearly threw him and Cullis out of the half-track as it leapt forward, out of the courtyard and into the dusty road beyond. Seconds later the major part of the great hall collapsed under the combined zeroed-in weight of a dozen or so heavy artillery pieces, and smashed down into the courtyard, filling it and the surrounding area with splintered wood and masonry and yet more tumbling clouds of dust.
Cullis scratched his head and muttered into the helmet he had just been sick into.
'The bastards,' he said.
'That's right, Cullis.'
'The filthy bastards.'
'Yes, Cullis.'
The half-track turned a corner and roared away, towards the desert.
1: The Good Soldier
One
She made her way through the turbine hall, surrounded by an ever-changing ring of friends, admirers and animals - nebula to her attractive focus - talking to her guests, giving instructions to her staff, making suggestions and offering compliments to the many and various entertainers. Music filled the echoing space above the ancient, gleaming machines, sitting silently amongst the chattering throng of gaily dressed party-goers. She bowed graciously and smiled to a passing Admiral and twirled a delicate black flower in her hand, putting the bloom to her nose to draw in its heady fragrance.
Two of the hralzs at her feet leapt up, yelping, fore-paws attempting to find purchase on the smooth lap of her formal gown, their glistening snouts raised to the flower. She bent, tapping both animals gently on the nose with the bloom, making them bounce down to the floor again, sneezing and shaking their heads. The people around her laughed. Stooping, gown belling, she rubbed her hands through the pelt of one of the animals, shaking its big ears, then raised her head to the major-domo as he approached, deferentially threading his way through the crowd around her.
'Yes, Maikril?' she said.
'The System Times photographer,' the major-domo said quietly. He straightened as she rose, until he was looking up at her, his chin level with her bare shoulders.
'Admitting defeat?' She grinned.
'I believe so, ma'am. Requesting an audience.'
She laughed. 'So well put. How many did we get this time?'
The major-domo sidled a little closer, looking nervously at one of the hralzs when it snarled at him. 'Thirty-two moving-picture cameras ma'am; over a hundred still.'
She brought her mouth conspiratorially close to the major-domo's ear and said, 'Not counting the ones we found on our guests.'
'Quite, Ma'am.'
'I'll see... him? Her?'
'Him, Ma'am.'
'Him, later. Tell him ten minutes; remind me in twenty. West atrium.' She glanced at the single platinum bracelet she wore. Recognising her retinae, a tiny projector disguised as an emerald briefly displayed a holo plan of the old power station in twin cones of light aimed straight at her eyes.
'Certainly, Ma'am,' Maikril said.
She touched his arm and whispered, 'We're heading over to the aboretum, all right?'
The major-domo's head barely moved to indicate he had heard. She turned regretfully to the people around her, her hands clasped as though in pleading. 'I'm sorry. Will you all excuse me, just a moment?' She put her head to one side, smiling.
'Hi. Hello. Hi there. How are you.' They walked quickly through the party, past the grey rainbows of drugstreams and the plashing pools of the wine fountains. She led, skirts rustling, while the major-domo struggled to keep up with her long-legged gait. She waved to those who greeted her; government ministers and their shadows, foreign dignitaries and attaches, media stars of all persuasions, revolutionaries and Navy brass, the captains of industry
and commerce and their more extravagantly wealthy shareholders. The hralzs snapped perfunctorily at the heels of the major-domo, their claws skittering on the polished mica floor, all ungainly, then bounding forward when they encountered one of the many priceless rugs scattered throughout the turbine hall.
At the steps to the aboretum, hidden from the main hall by the easternmost dynamo housing, she paused, thanked the major-domo, shooed the hralzs away, patted her perfect hair, smoothed her already immaculately smooth gown and checked that the single white stone on the black choker was centered, which it was. She started down the steps towards the tall doors of the arboretum.
One of the hralzs whined from the top of the steps, bouncing up and down on its forelegs, eyes watering.
She looked back, annoyed. 'Quiet, Bouncer! Away!'
The animal lowered its head and snuffled off.
She closed the double doors quietly behind her, taking in the quiet extent of luxuriant foliage the arboretum presented.
Outside the high crystal curve of the partial dome, the night was black. Small sharp lights burned on tall masts inside the arboretum, casting deep jagged shadows amongs the crowded plants. The air was warm and smelled of earth and sap. She breathed deeply and walked towards the far side of the enclosure.
'Hello there.'
The man turned quickly to find her standing behind him, leaning against a light-mast, her arms crossed, a small smile on her lips and in her eyes. Her hair was blue-black, like her eyes; her skin was fawn and she looked slimmer than she did on newscasts, when for all her height she could seem stocky. He was tall and very slim and unfashionably pale, and most people would have thought his eyes were too close together.
He looked at the delicately patterned leaf he still held in one fragile-looking hand, then let it go, smiling uncertainly, and stepped out of the extravagantly flowered bush he'd been investigating. He rubbed his hands, looked bashful. 'I'm sorry, I...' he gestured nervously.
'That's all right,' she said, reaching out. They clasped hands. 'You're Relstoch Sussepin, aren't you?'
'Umm..., yes,' he said, obviously surprised. He was still holding her hand. He realised this, and looked even more discomforted, quickly letting go.
'Diziet Sma.' She bowed her head a little, very slowly, letting her shoulder-length hair swing, keeping her eyes on him.
'Yes, I know, of course. Umm... pleased to meet you.'
'Good,' she nodded. 'And I you. I've heard your work.'
'Oh.' He looked boyishly pleased and clapped his hands in a gesture he didn't seem to notice himself making. 'Oh. That's very...'
'I didn't say that I liked it,' she said, the smile hovering only on one side of her mouth now.
'Ah.' Crestfallen.
So cruel. 'But I do like it, very much,' she said, and suddenly she was communicating amused - even conspiratorial - contrition through her expression.
He laughed and she felt something relax inside her. This was going to be all right.
'I did wonder why I'd been invited,' he confessed, the deep-set eyes somehow bright. 'Everybody here seems so...', he shrugged, '... important. That's why I...', he waved awkwardly behind him at the plant he'd been inspecting.
'You don't think composers should be regarded as important?' she asked, gently chiding.
'Well... compared to all these politicians and Admirals and business people... in terms of power, I mean... And I'm not even a very well-known musician. I'd have thought Savntreig, or Khu, or...'
'They've composed their careers very well, certainly,' she agreed.
He paused for a moment, then gave a small laugh and looked down. His hair was very fine, and glinted in the high mast light. It was her turn to fall in with his laugh. Maybe she ought to mention the commission now, rather than leaving it to their next meeting, when she would reduce the numbers - even if they were distant numbers, at the moment - to something a little more friendly... or even leaving it to a private rendezvous, later still, once she was sure he had been captivated.
How long should she spin this out? He was what she wanted, but it would mean so much more after a charged friendship; that long, exquisite exchange of gradually more intimate confidences, the slow accumulation of shared experiences, the languorous spiralling dance of attraction, coming and going and coming and going, winding closer and closer, until that laziness was sublimed in the engulfing heat of requital.
He looked her in the eyes, and said, 'You flatter me, Ms Sma.'
She returned his gaze, raising her chin a little, acutely aware of each nuance in her carefully translated body language. There was an expression on his face she did not think so childish, now. His eyes reminded her of the stone on her bracelet. She felt a little light-headed, and took a deep breath.
'Ahem.'
She froze.
The word had been pronounced from behind and to one side of her. She saw Sussepin's gaze falter and shift.
Sma kept her expression serene as she turned, then glared at the grey-white casing of the drone as though attempting to melt holes in it.
'What?' she said, in a voice that might have etched steel.
The drone was the size - and near enough the shape - of a small suitcase. It floated in towards her face.
'Trouble, toots,' it said, then moved briskly to one side, angling its body so that it appeared to be contemplating the inky heights of sky beyond the crystal semisphere.
Sma looked down at the brick floor of the arboretum, her lips pursed. She allowed herself the tiniest of shakes of the head.
'Mr Sussepin,' she smiled, and spread her hands. This pains me, but... will you...?'
'Of course.' He was already moving, and went quickly past, nodding once.
'Perhaps we can talk later,' she said.
He turned, still backing off. 'Yes; I'd... that would...' He seemed to lose inspiration, and nodded nervously again, walking quickly to the doors at the far end of the arboretum. He left without looking back.
Sma whirled round to the drone, which was now humming innocently and apparently staring into the depths of a gaudily coloured flower, its stubby snout half buried in the bloom. It noticed her and looked up. She stood with legs apart, put one fist on her hip and said, ' "Toots"?'
The drone's aura field flashed on; the mixture of purple regret and gunmetal puzzlement looked distinctly unconvincing. 'I don't know, Sma... just slipped out. Alliteration.'
Sma kicked at a dead branch, fixed the drone with a glare and said, 'Well?'
'You're not going to like this,' the drone said quietly, retreating a little and going dark with sorrow.
Sma hesitated. She looked away for a moment, shoulders suddenly slumping. She sat down on one of the tree roots. The gown crumpled around her. 'It's Zakalwe, isn't it?'
The drone flashed rainbow in surprise; so quickly - she thought - it might even have been genuine. 'Good grief,' it said. 'How...?'
She waved the question away. 'I don't know. Tone of voice. Human intuition... Just that time again. Life was getting to be too much fun.' She closed her eyes and rested her head against the rough dark trunk of the tree. 'So?'
The drone Skaffen-Amtiskaw lowered itself to the same height as the woman's shoulder and floated near her. She looked at it.
'We need him back again,' it told her.
'I sort of thought so,' Sma sighed, flicking away an insect which had just landed on her shoulder.
'Well, yes. I'm afraid nothing else will work; it has to be him personally.'
'Yeah, but does it have to be me personally?'
'That's... the consensus.'
'Wonderful,' Sma said sourly.
'You want the rest?'
'Does it get any better?'
'Not really.'
'Hell,' Sma clapped her hands on her lap and rubbed them up and down. 'Might as well have it all at once.'
'You would have to leave tomorrow.'
'Aw drone, come on!' She buried her head in her hands. She looked up. The drone was fiddling with a tw
ig. 'You're kidding.'
''Fraid not.'
'What about all this?' She waved towards the turbine hall doors. 'What about the peace conference? What about all the froth out there with their greased-up palms and their beady eyes? What about three years work? What about an entire fucking planet...?'
'The conference will go ahead.'
'Oh sure, but what about this "pivotal role" I was supposed to be playing?'
'Ah,' said the drone, bringing the twig right up to the sensing band on the front of its casing, 'well...'
'Oh no.'
'Look, I know you don't like...'
'No, drone; it's not...' Sma got up suddenly and went to the edge of the crystal wall, looking out into the night.
'Dizzy...', the drone said, drifting closer.
'Don't you "Dizzy" me.'
'Sma... it isn't real. It's a stand-in; electronic, mechanical, electro-chemical, chemical; a machine; a Mind-controlled machine, not alive in itself. Not a clone or...'
'I know what it is, drone,' she said, clasping her hands behind her.
The drone floated closer to her, putting its fields to her shoulders, squeezing gently. She shook its grip off, looked down.
'We need your permission, Diziet.'
'Yeah, I know that, too.' She looked up for stars that were twice hidden, by cloud and by the lights of the arboretum.
'You can, of course, stay here if you want to.' The drone's voice was heavy, remorseful. 'The peace conference is certainly important; it needs... somebody to smooth things through. No doubt about that.'
'And what's so goddamn crucial I have to high-tail it tomorrow?'
'Remember Voerenhutz?'
'I remember Voerenhutz,' she said, voice flat.
'Well, the peace lasted forty years, but it's breaking down now. Zakalwe worked with a man called...'
'Maitchigh?' she frowned, half turning her head to the drone.
'Beychae. Tsoldrin Beychae. He became president of the cluster following our involvement. While he was in power he held the political system together, but he retired eight years ago, long before he had to, to pursue a life of study and contemplation.' The drone made a sighing noise. 'Things have slipped back since, and at the moment Beychae lives on a planet whose leaders are subtly hostile to the forces Zakalwe and Beychae represented and we backed, and who are taking a leading part in the factionalising of the group. There are several small conflicts under way and many more brewing; full-scale war involving the entire cluster is, as they say, imminent.'