Horst grinned. “Yes, I really did.”
Captain Gurtan Mauer was still dry retching as the lid of the zero-tau pod closed over him, blackness suspending him from time. The tortures and obscenities might have wrecked his dignity, the pitiful pleas and promises were proof of that, but he was still cold sober sane. Quinn was quite determined in that respect. Only sane, rational people were able to appreciate the nuances of their own suffering. So the pain and barbarism was always pitched a degree below the level which would tip the Tantu ’s ex-captain into the refuge of insanity. This way he could hold out for days, or even weeks. And zero-tau would hold him ready for when Quinn’s wrath rose again; for him there would be no periods of relief, just one long torment.
Quinn smiled at the prospect. His robe and hood shrank to more manageable proportions, and he pushed off from the decking. He’d needed the interlude to regain his own equilibrium after the disaster in Earth orbit, the humiliation of retreat. Gurtan Mauer provided him with a valid focus for his anger. He could hardly use the starship’s crew; there were only fifteen of them left now, and few were inessential.
“Where are we going, Quinn?” Lawrence asked as the two of them drifted through the companionway to the bridge.
“I’m not sure. I’ll bet most of the Confederation knows about possession now, it’ll make life fucking difficult.” He wriggled through the hatch to the bridge, and checked around to see what was being done.
“We’re almost finished, Quinn,” Dwyer said. “There wasn’t too much damage, and this is a warship, so most critical systems have backups. We’re flight-ready again. But people are going to know we’ve been in some sort of scrap. No way could we go outside to repair the hull. Spacesuits won’t work on us.”
“Sure, Dwyer. You’ve done good.”
Dwyer’s grin was avaricious.
They were all waiting for Quinn to tell them where he wanted to go next. And the truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure he knew. Earth was his goal, but perhaps he’d been too ambitious trying for it first. It was the old problem: to charge in with an army of disciples, or to stealthily rot the structure from within. After the dreariness of Norfolk, the prospect of action had excited him. It still did, but he obviously didn’t have enough forces to break through Earth’s defences. Not even the Royal Kulu Navy could do that.
He needed to get there on a different ship, one which wouldn’t cause such a heated response. After he’d docked at the orbital tower station he could get down to the planet. He knew that.
But where to get another ship from? He knew so little about the Confederation worlds. Only once during his twenty years on Earth had he met anyone from offworld.
“Ah.” He grinned at Lawrence. “Of course, Banneth’s colleague.”
“What?”
“I’ve decided where we’re going.” He checked the bridge displays; their cryogenic fuel reserves could fly them another four hundred light years. More than enough. “Nyvan,” he announced. “We’re going to Nyvan. Dwyer, start working out a vector.”
“What’s Nyvan?” Lawrence asked.
“The second planet anyone ever found which was good enough to live on. Everyone used to flock there from the arcologies. They don’t now.”
Nova Kong has always boasted that it is the most beautiful city to be found within the Confederation. Wisely, few challenged the claim.
No other Adamist society had the kind of money which had been lavished on the city ever since the day Richard Saldana first stepped down out of his spaceplane and (according to legend) said: “This footstep will not depart in the sands of time.”
If he did say it, he was certainly right. The capital city of the Kulu Kingdom was a memorial which no one who saw it would ever be likely to forget. Right from the start, aesthetics was a paramount factor in planning, and pretty grandiose aesthetics at that. It had no streets, only flamboyant boulevards, greenway avenues, and rivers (half of them artificial); all powered ground traffic used the labyrinth of underground motorways. Commemorative monuments and statues dominated the junctions; the Kingdom’s heroic history was celebrated in hundreds of artistic styles from megalithic to contemporary.
Although it had a population of nineteen million, the building density regulations meant it was spread out over five hundred square kilometres, with Touchdown plaza at its centre. Every conceivable architectural era was to be found among the public, private, and commercial buildings so carefully sprinkled across the ground, with the exception of prefab concrete, programmable silicon, and composite ezystak panels (anything built in Nova Kong was built to last). Seventeen cathedrals strove for attention against neo-Roman government offices. Gloss-black pyramid condominiums were as popular as Napoleonic apartment blocks with conservatory roofs arching over their central wells. Sir Christopher Wren proved a heavy influence on the long curving terraces of snow-white stone town houses, while Oriental and Eastern designs appeared to be favoured among the smaller individual residences.
Chilly autumn air was gusting along the boulevards when Ralph Hiltch flew in over the clean spires and ornate belfries. His vantage point was a privilege not awarded to many people. Commercial overflights were strictly forbidden; only emergency craft, police, senior government officials, and the Saldanas were ever permitted this view.
He couldn’t have timed his arrival better, he thought. The trees which filled the parks, squares, and ornamental waterways below were starting to turn in the morning frosts. Green leaves were fading to an infinite variety of yellows, golds, bronzes, and reds, a trillion flecks of rusty colour glinting in the strong sunlight. Soggy auburn mantles were already expanding across the damp grass, while thick dunes snuggled up in the sheltered lees of buildings. Nova Kong’s million strong army of utility mechanoids were programmed to go easy on the invasive downfall, allowing the rustic image to prevail.
Today though, the refined perfection of the city was marred by twisters of smoke rising from several districts. As they passed close to one, Ralph accessed the flyer’s sensor suite to obtain a better view of a Gothic castle made from blocks of amber and magenta glass which seemed to be the source. The smoke was a dense billow pouring out from the stubby remains of a smashed turret. Fires were still flickering inside the main hall. Over twenty police and Royal Marine flyers had landed on the parkland outside; figures in active armour suits walked through the castle’s courtyards.
Ralph knew that depressing scene well enough. Although in his heart he’d never expected to see it here, not Nova Kong, the very nucleus of the Kingdom. He’d been born on the Principality of Jerez, and this was his first visit to Kulu. One part of his mind wryly acknowledged he would always retain a hint of the provincial attitude. Nova Kong was the capital, it ought to remain impervious to anything, any form of attack, physical or subversive. That was the reason his job, his agency, existed: the first line of defence.
“How many of these incursions have there been?” he asked the Royal Navy pilot.
“A couple of dozen in the last three days. Tough bastards to beat, I can tell you. The marines had to call down SD fire support a couple of times. We haven’t seen any new ones for eleven hours now, thank Christ. That means we’ve probably got them all. City’s under martial law, every transport route on the planet has shut down, and the AIs are sweeping the net for any sign of activity. Nowhere the possessed can hide anymore, and they certainly can’t run.”