"The Naked God - Faith" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F.)

Chapter 07

Quinn used simple timing rather than risk sending his orders out through London’s communication net. No matter how innocuous the message, there was always a chance the supercops would pick up the chain. Even though they thought they’d eliminated him in the Parsonage Heights strike, they would be watching for signs of other possessed in the arcology. Standard procedure. Quinn would have done the same in their place. However, their paranoia had been quenched amid the flames and death engulfing the tower’s penthouse. With that came a slight relaxation of effort, falling back to established routine rather than determined proactive searches. It gave him the interlude he desired.

By necessity, London was now destined to be the capital of His empire on Earth. Such honour would be visited upon the ancient city and its outlying domes only by using possessed as disciples to deliver His doctrine. But there were inherent problems recruiting them. Even they were reluctant to follow the gospel of God’s Brother to its exacting, painful letter. As he’d learned on Jesup, violent coercion was often required to obtain the wholehearted cooperation of non-sect members. Even Quinn was limited in the number of people he could intimidate at once. And without that strict adherence to His cause, the possessed would do what they always did and snatch this world from the universe. Quinn couldn’t allow that, so he’d adopted a more tactical strategy, borrowing heavily from Capone’s example, exploiting the hostility and avarice most possessed exhibited on their return to the universe.

The possessed from the Lancini had been carefully and stealthily scattered throughout the arcology and provided with very detailed instructions. Speed was the key. Come the appointed hour, each one would enter a preselected building and open the night staff to possession. When the day workers arrived, they would be possessed one by one, jumping the numbers up considerably but stopping short of exponential expansion. Quinn wanted about 15,000 by ten o’clock in the morning.

After that had been achieved, they would surge out of their buildings and physically disperse across the arcology. By then, there would be little the authorities could do. It took an average of five to ten well-armed police officers to eliminate one possessed. Even if they could track them via electronic glitches, they simply didn’t have the manpower available to deal with them. Quinn was gambling that Govcentral wouldn’t use 15,000 SD strikes against London. The rest of the population would be his hostages.

While that was going on, Quinn himself would be establishing a core of loyalists who would venture forth to exert a little discipline: again, a hierarchy based on the Organization. The newly emerged possessed would be taught that they had to maintain the status quo, and encouraged to target the police and local government personnel—anyone who could organize resistance. A second stage would see them shutting down the transport routes, then going on to seize power, water, and food production centres. A hundred new fiefdoms would emerge, whose only obligation was obedience and tribute to the new Messiah.

With his empire founded, Quinn intended to put the non-possessed technicians to work on secure methods of transport that would enable him to carry the crusade of God’s Brother to fresh arcologies. Eventually, they would gain access to the O’Neill Halo. From there, it was only a matter of time until His Night fell across this whole section of the galaxy.

The night after the Parsonage Heights incident, patrol constables Appleton and Moyles were cruising their usual route in central Westminster. It was quiet at two o’clock in the morning when their car passed the old Houses of Parliament and turned down Victoria Street. There were few pedestrians to be seen walking along outside the blank glass facades of the government agency office buildings which transformed the start of the street into a deep canyon. The constables were used to that; this was a bureaucrat district after all, with few residents or nightlife to attract anyone after the shops and offices closed.

A body fell silently out of the black sky above the lighting arches to smash into the road thirty metres ahead of Appleton and Moyles. The patrol car’s controlling processor automatically reversed power to the wheel hub motors, and turned the vehicle sharply to the right. They braked to a halt almost directly beside the battered body. Blood was flowing out of the jump-suit’s sleeves and trouser legs to spread in big puddles across the carbon-concrete surface.

Appleton datavised a priority alert to his precinct station, requesting back-up; while Moyles ordered Victoria Street’s route and flow processors to divert all traffic away from them. They emerged from the patrol car with their static-bullet carbines held ready, holding position behind the armoured doors. Retinal implants scanned round in all spectrums, motion detector programs in primary mode. There was nobody on the pavements within a hundred metres. No immediate ambush potential.

Cautiously, they started scanning the sheer cliffs of glass and concrete on either side, hunting for the open window from which the body had come. There wasn’t one.

“The roof?” Appleton asked nervously. His carbine was swinging about in a wide arc as he tried to cover half the arcology.

The precinct station duty officers were already accessing the Westminster Dome’s sensor grid, looking down from the geodesic structure to see the two officers crouched down beside their car. Nobody was on the roofs of the buildings flanking the road.

“Is he dead?” Moyles yelled.

Appleton licked his lips as he weighed up the risks of leaving the cover of the door to dash over to the body. “I think so.” Assessing severely battered and bloody flesh it was an old bloke, really old. There was no movement, no breathing. His enhanced senses couldn’t detect a heartbeat, either. Then he saw the deep scorch marks branding the corpse’s chest. “Oh bloody hell!”

The civil engineering crew had repaired the hole in the Westminster Dome with commendable speed. A small fleet of crawler pods had traversed the vast crystal edifice, winching a replacement segment along with them. Removing the old hexagon and sealing the new segment into place had taken twelve hours. Molecular bonding generator tests were initiated, making sure it was now firmly integrated with the rest of the dome’s powered weather defences.

Checking the superstrength carbon lattice girders and beefing up suspect strands of the geodesic structure was still going on as darkness fell; work continued under the pods’ floodlights.

Far below them, the clearing up of Parsonage Heights tower was an altogether messier affair. Fire service mechanoids had extinguished the flames in the shattered stub of the octagonal tower. Paramedic crews hauled the injured out of the remaining seven towers of the development project that had been bombarded with a blizzard of shattered glass and lethal debris. Smaller fires had broken out on the two skyscrapers next to the one hit by the SD strike. Council surveyors had spent most of the day examining the damaged buildings to see if they could be salvaged.

There was no doubt that the remnants of the tower struck by the X-ray laser would have to be demolished. The remaining eight floors were dangerously weak; metal reinforcement rods had melted to run out of the carbon-concrete slabs like jam from a doughnut. It was the local coroner’s staff who went in there after the fire mechanoids were pulled back and the walls had cooled down. The bodies they recovered were completely baked by the X-ray blast.

It was London’s biggest spectator event, drawing huge crowds which spilled over into the open market and surrounding streets. Civilians mingled with rover reporters, gawping at the destruction and the knot of activity on the dome high above. It was the crawler pods which proved that some kind of SD weapon had been used, despite the original denials of the local police chief. By early morning a grudging admission had come from the mayor’s office that the police had suspected a possessed to be holed up in the Parsonage Heights tower. When pressed how a possessed had infiltrated London, the aide pointed out that a sect chapel was established in the warehouse below the tower. The acolytes, she assured reporters, were now all under arrest. Those that had survived.

Londoners grew jittery as more facts were prised out of various Govcentral offices over the long morning and afternoon, a lot of the information contradictory. Several lawyers acting for relatives of the tower’s vaporized residents lodged writs against the police for the use of extremely excessive force and accused the Police Commissioner of negligence in not attempting an evacuation first. Absenteeism all over the arcology grew steadily worse during the day. Productivity and retail sales hit an all-time low, with the exception of food stores. Managers reported people were stocking up on sachets and frozen meat bricks.

All the while, images of the broken tower with its blackened, distended, mildly radioactive fangs of carbon-concrete were pushed out by the news companies. Bodybags being carried over the rubble remained the grim background for everybody’s day, talked over by new anchors and their specialist comment guests.

A police forensic team was sent in with the coroner’s staff. Their orders weren’t terribly precise, just to search for anomalies. They were backed up by three experts from the local GISD office, who managed to remain anonymous amid everyone else poking round the restricted area.

The crowd went home before nightfall, leaving just a simple police cordon, patrolled by officers who fervently wished they’d drawn a different duty that evening.

A preliminary forensic report was compiled before midnight by the GISD experts, who had been following their police colleagues’ tests and analyses. It contained nothing of the remotest relevance to Banneth or Quinn Dexter.

“One was just going through the motions anyway,” Western Europe told Halo and North America after he’d accessed the report. “Although I’d dearly like to know how Dexter pulled that invisibility stunt.”

“I think we should just count ourselves fortunate that none of the other possessed seem capable of it,” Halo said.

“That SD strike has caused quite a stir,” North America said. “The honourable senators are demanding to know who gave SD command the authority to fire on Earth. Trouble is, this time the President’s office is screaming for the same answer. They may try to launch a commission of inquiry. If the executive and the representatives both want it, we might have trouble blocking them.”

“Then don’t,” Western Europe said. “I’m sure we can appoint someone appropriate to chair it. Come on, I shouldn’t have to explain basic cover-your-arses procedure. That strike request is logged from the Mayor’s civil defence bureau to SD command. It was a legitimate request. Senior Govcentral officers have the right to call for back up from Earth’s military forces in emergency. It’s in the constitution.”

“SD Command should have requested fire authority from the President,” Halo said bluntly. “The fact they can actually fire on Earth without the appropriate political authorization has raised a few eyebrows.”

“South Pacific isn’t stirring this, is she?” Western Europe asked sharply.

“No. Frankly, she has as much to lose as the rest of us. The current Presidential defence advisor is hers; he’s doing a good job in damage limitation.”

“Let’s hope it’s sufficient. I’d hate to pull the plug on the President right now. People are looking for leadership stability to get them through this.”

“We’ll ensure the news agencies will mute the story however loud the senators shout,” Halo said. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Jolly good,” Western Europe said. “That just leaves us with the problem of the ordinary possessed.”

“New York’s a mess,” North America admitted glumly. “The remaining non-possessed citizens are defending themselves, but I expect they’ll lose eventually.”

“We’ll have to call another full B7 meeting,” Western Europe concluded without enthusiasm. “Decide what we’re going to do in that eventuality. I for one have no intention of being carried off to this realm where the other planets have vanished to.”

“I’m not sure we’ll get a full turnout,” Halo said. “South Pacific and her allies are pretty pissed with you.”

“They’ll come round,” Western Europe said confidently.

He never did get a chance to find out if he was right. London’s deputy Police Commissioner datavised him at quarter past two with the news of the body in Victoria Street.

“There’s was no identification on the old boy,” the deputy commissioner reported. “So the constables took a DNA sample. According to our files, it’s Paul Jerrold.”

“I know the name,” Western Europe said. “He was quite wealthy. You’re sure the burn marks were caused by white fire?”

“They match the configuration. We’ll know for sure when the forensic team gets there.”

“Okay, thank you for informing me.”

“There’s something else. Paul Jerrold was a zero-tau refugee. He transferred his holdings to a long-term trust and went into stasis last week.”

“Shit.” Western Europe sent a fast inquiry into his AI, which ran an immediate search. Paul Jerrold had entrusted himself to Perpetuity Inc., one of many recently formed companies specialising in providing zero-tau for the elderly wealthy. The AI’s review of the company’s memory core established Jerrold had been sent to an old department store called Lancini which Perpetuity Inc. was renting until more suitable premises could be built.

Under Western Europe’s direction, the AI shifted its attention to the department store, reactivating ancient security sensors on every floor. Hall after hall filled with bulky zero-tau pods jumped into blue-haze focus. The AI switched to the only scene of activity. Perpetuity Inc. had set up a monitor centre in the manager’s old office; a couple of night-shift technicians were sitting by their desks, drinking tea and keeping an eye on an AV projector squirting out a news show.

“Datavise them,” Western Europe ordered the deputy commissioner. “Tell them to switch off Paul Jerrold’s pod and see who’s in there.”

It took a short argument before the technicians agreed to do as they were asked. Western Europe waited impatiently as the ancient cage lift creaked it way up to the fourth floor and they walked over to the Horticulture section. One of them switched the pod off. There was no one inside.

Thoroughly unnerved, they now did exactly as they were told, and went along the row of zero-tau pods switching them off. All of them were empty.

“Clever,” Western Europe acknowledged bitterly. “Who’s going to notice they were missing?”

“What do you want to do?” the deputy commissioner asked.

“We have to assume the zero-tau refugees have been possessed. There are four hundred pods in the Lancini; so get some of your officers in there immediately, find out exactly how many people have been taken. Next, seal off London’s domes and shut down all the internal transport systems. I’ll have the Mayor’s office declare an official civil curfew has been enacted. We might have got lucky; it’s two-thirty, ninety-five per cent of the population will be at home, especially after today’s frights. If we can keep them there, then we can prevent the possessed from spreading.”

“Patrol cars are on their way.”

“I also want every duty forensic team in the arcology shifted over there now. You’ve got thirty minutes to get them inside. Have them examine every room which looks like someone’s been inside recently. Staff rooms, store rooms, the kind of locations where there aren’t any security sensors. They’re to search for human traces. Every piece they find is to be DNA tested.”

There were other orders. Tactical preparation. All police and security personnel were woken and called in, ready to be deployed against the possessed. Hospitals were put on amber status three, preparing for heavy casualties. The arcology’s utility stations were put under guard, their technicians billeted in nearby police stations. GISD members were put on standby.

As soon as the administration was underway, orchestrated by the mayor’s civil defence bureau but actually run by B7’s AI, Western Europe called his colleagues. They appeared slowly and grudgingly in the sensenviron conference room. North and South Pacific were the last to show.

“Trouble,” Western Europe told them. “It looks like Dexter managed to take over nearly four hundred people while he was here.”

“Without you knowing?” an incredulous Central America asked. “What about the AI search programs?”

“He snatched them from zero-tau pods,” Western Europe said. “You should check the companies offering people stasis in your own arcologies. It was a blind spot.”

“Obvious with hindsight,” North America said.

“Trust Dexter to find it,” Asian Pacific said. “He does seem to have an unnervingly direct talent to find our weaknesses.”

“Not any more,” Halo said.

“I really hope so,” Western Europe said. It was the first sign of hesitancy he’d ever shown. The others were actually shocked into silence.

“You hit him with a Strategic Defence X-ray laser!” Eastern Europe said. “He couldn’t survive that.”

“I’m hoping the forensic tests at the Lancini will confirm that. In the meantime, we’ve reactivated his psychological profile simulation to determine what he was hoping to achieve with these new possessed. The fact that they’ve been dispersed, indicates some kind of attempted coup. Letting the possessed run wild doesn’t help him. Remember, Dexter wants to conquer humanity on behalf of his Light Bringer. It’s likely he wanted control over a functioning arcology, which he could then use as a base to further his ambitions.”

“Question,” Southern Africa said. “You said Paul Jerrold was a victim of white fire. That indicates he wasn’t a possessed.”

“This is where it gets interesting,” Western Europe said. “Assume Jerrold was possessed, and Dexter sent him out with all the others from the Lancini. They spread out over London, and start possessing new recruits for the cause. One of those new arrivals is our ally from Edmonton, the friend of Carter McBride.”

“Shit, you think so?”

“Absolutely. He overpowers Paul Jerrold’s possessor, and gives us a warning impossible to ignore. Apparently those two constables nearly had a heart attack when the corpse landed in front of their patrol car. Do you see? He’s telling us that the possessed are active, and letting us know where they came from. Dexter’s entire operation was exposed by that single act.”

“Can you stop them?”

“I think so. We were given enough advance notice. If we can prevent the arcology’s population from congregating, then the possessed will have to move themselves. Movement exposes them, makes them vulnerable.”

“I don’t know,” East Asia said. “Put one possessed into a residential block, and they don’t have to move about much to possess everybody in there with them.”

“We’ll see it happening,” Western Europe said. “If they bunch together in that kind of density they won’t be able to disguise their glitch-effect from the AI.”

“So you see it happening,” South Pacific said. “So what? No police team will be able to pacify a block filled with two or three thousand possessed. And it won’t be just one block, you said there were hundreds of people missing from the Lancini. If you have a hundred residential blocks taken over, you will not be able to contain them. B7 certainly cannot independently order a hundred SD strikes, not after Parsonage Heights.”

“We’re right back to our original problem,” Southern America said. “Do we exterminate an entire arcology to prevent the Earth being stolen from us?”

“No,” Western Europe said. “We do not. That’s not what we exist for. We are a police and security force, not megalomaniacs. If it looks like there is a runaway possession effect in one of the arcologies, then we have lost. We accept that loss with as much grace as we can muster and retreat from this world. I will not be a party to genocidal slaughter. I thought you all realized that by now.”

“Dexter beat you,” Southern Pacific said. “And the prize was our planet.”

“I can contain four hundred possessed in London,” Western Europe said. “I can contain four thousand. I might even manage fifteen thousand, though it will be bloody. Without Dexter they are just a rabble. If he’s still alive, he will assume control, and Earth will not be lost. He will not permit that to happen. It’s not London we have to worry about.”

“You don’t know anything,” South Pacific said. “You can’t do anything. All any of us can do now is watch. And pray that the Confederation Navy anti-memory can be made to work. That’s what you’ve reduced us to. You think I’m stubborn and cold blooded. Well, I choose that over your monstrous arrogance every time.” Her image vanished.

The other supervisors followed her until only North America and Halo were left.

“The bitch has a point,” North America said. “There’s not an awful lot left for us to do here. Even if you’re successful with London, it’ll be Paris, New York, and the others which drag us down. They’re a lot further along the road to total possession. God damn, I’m going to hate leaving.”

“I didn’t tell our fraternal colleagues everything,” Western Europe said calmly. “Thirty-eight of the people missing from the Lancini only arrived there yesterday, after the Parsonage Heights strike. In other words, the plot to snatch and possess them was still operating up until about nine hours ago. And we know it’s Dexter’s operation; the friend of Carter McBride made that quite clear when he delivered Jarrold.”

“Holy shit; he’s still alive,” Halo exclaimed. “Good God, you hit him with an SD weapon, absolute ground zero. And he survived. What the hell is he?”

“Smart and tough.”

“Now what do we do?” Northern America asked.

“I play my ace,” Western Europe said.

“You have one?”

“I always have one.”

The terrible, tragic cries were still faint. Quinn pushed himself deeper into the ghost realm than he had ever done before, so much so he had reduced himself to little more than the existence-impoverished ghosts themselves. He flung his mind open, listening to the ephemeral wailing that came from somewhere still further away from the real universe. The first ones he’d sensed were human, but now he was closer he thought there were others. A kind he didn’t recognize.

These were nothing like the woeful pleas that issued forth from the beyond. These were different. A torment more refined, so much graver.

Strange to think that somewhere could be worse than the beyond. But then the beyond was only purgatory. God’s Brother lived in an altogether darker place. Quinn’s heart lifted to think he might be hearing the first stirrings of the true Lord as He rose to lead His army of the damned against the bright angels. A thousand times that long night, Quinn called out in welcome to the entities whose cries he experienced, flinging all his power behind the silent voice. Yearning for an answer.

None was granted.

It didn’t matter. He had been shown what was. Dreams laid siege to the furthest limits of his mind while he floated within the ghost realm. Darkling shapes locked together in anguish, a war which had lasted since the time of creation. He couldn’t see what they were, like all dreams they danced away from memory’s focus. Not human. He was sure of that now.

Warriors of the Night. Demons.

Elusive. For this moment.

Quinn gathered his thoughts and returned to the real world. Courtney yawned and blinked rapidly as Quinn’s toe nudged her awake. She smiled up at her dark master, uncurling off the cold flagstones.

“It’s time,” he said.

The possessed disciples he had chosen stood in a silent rank, waiting obediently for their instructions. All around them, the ghosts of this place howled their anger at Quinn’s desecration, bolder than any he had encountered before, but still helpless before his might.

Billy-Joe came ambling along the aisle, scratching himself with primate proficiency. “It’s fucking quiet outside, Quinn. Some kind of weird shit going down.”

“Let’s go and see, shall we?” Quinn went out into the hated dawn.

The curfew announcement was glowing on the desktop block’s screen when Louise and Genevieve woke. Louise read it twice, then datavised the room’s net processor for confirmation. A long file of restrictions was waiting for her, officially informing her that the mayor had temporarily suspended her rights of travel and free association.

Gen pressed into her side. “Are they here, Louise?” she asked mournfully.

“I don’t know.” She cuddled her little sister. “That Parsonage Heights explosion was very suspicious. I suppose the authorities are worried some of them escaped.”

“It’s not Dexter, is it?”

“No, of course not. The police got him in Edmonton.”

“You don’t know that!”

“No, not for certain. But I do think it’s very unlikely he’s here.”

Breakfast was one of the few things which the curfew didn’t prohibit. When they arrived at the restaurant, the hotel’s assistant manager greeted them in person at the door and apologised profusely for the reduction in service, but assured them that the remaining staff would do their utmost to carry on as normal. He also said that regretfully, the doors onto the street had been locked to comply with the curfew edict, and told them the police were being very strict with anyone they found outside.

Only a dozen tables were occupied. In fearful exaggeration of the curfew order, none of the residents were talking to each other. Louise and Genevieve ate their corn chips and scrambled eggs in a subdued silence, then went back upstairs. They put a news show on the holographic screen, listening to the anchor woman’s sombre comments as they looked out over Green Park. Flocks of brightly coloured birds were walking along the paths, pecking at the stone slabs as if in puzzlement as to where all the humans had gone. Every now and then, the girls saw a police car flash silently along Piccadilly and travel up the ramp onto the raised expressway circling the heart of the old city.

Genevieve got bored very quickly. Louise sat on the bed watching the news show. Rover reporters were stationed at various vantage-point windows across the arcology, relaying similar views of the deserted streets and squares. The Mayor’s office, ever mindful of its public relations dependency, had granted some reporters a licence to accompany constables in patrol cars. They faithfully delivered scenes of constables chasing groups of shifty youths off the streets where they were hanging in spirited defiance of authority. An unending number of senior Govcentral spokespersons offered themselves up for interview, reassuring the audience that the curfew was a precaution indicative of the mayor’s strong leadership and his determination London should not become another New York. So please, just cooperate and we’ll have this all sorted out by the end of the week.

Louise turned it off in disgust. There was still no message from Joshua.

Genevieve laced on her slipstream boots and went down to the lobby to practice her slalom techniques. Louise went with her, helping to set up a line of Coke cartons along the polished marble.

The little girl was half way down her run, and pumping her legs hard, when the main revolving door started moving, allowing Ivanov Robson into the lobby. She squeaked in surprise, losing all concentration. Her legs shot from under her, sending her on another painful tumble against the marble. Momentum kept skidding her right up to Robson’s shoes. She bumped up against him.

“Ouch.” She rubbed her knee and her shoulder.

“If you’re going to do that, you should at least wear the right protective sports kit,” Robson said. He put a big hand down and pulled her upright.

Genevieve’s feet began to slide apart; she hurriedly double clicked her right heel before she made another undignified tumble.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped.

He glanced at the receptionist. “I’ve been asked to collect the pair of you.”

Louise glanced through the glass panes of the revolving door. There was a police car parked outside, its windows opaqued. Private detectives couldn’t acquire official transport during a curfew, no matter how well placed the contacts they claimed to have. “By whom?” she enquired lightly.

“Someone in authority.”

She didn’t feel in the least bit perturbed by this development. Quite the contrary, this was probably the first time he was being completely honest with them. “Are we under arrest?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And if we refuse?”

“Please don’t.”

Louise put an arm round Gen. “All right. Where are we going exactly?”

Ivanov Robson grinned spryly. “I have absolutely no idea. I’m rather looking forward to finding out myself.” He accompanied them back up to their room, urging them to pack everything as quickly as possible. The doorman and a couple of night porters picked up all their bags and struggled downstairs with them.

Robson settled their account with the receptionist, brushing aside Louise’s half-hearted protests. Then they were out through the revolving door and into the back of the police car, their bags being placed in the boot.

“This is very comfy,” Louise said as Robson climbed in and took a seat opposite them. The interior was more like a luxury limousine, with thick leather seats, air conditioning, and one-way glass. She half-expected a cocktail bar.

“Not quite your standard arrest wagon, no,” he agreed.

They accelerated along Piccadilly and curved smoothly up onto the circular express route. Louise could see all the hologram adverts glimmering over the empty streets below, the only visible movement in the arcology.

The car shot along the web of elevated roads threaded round the skyscrapers, and she imagined millions of pairs of eyes behind the blank glass facades looking out to see them flash past. People would wonder what they were doing, if they were rushing to contain an outbreak of possession. There was no other reason for the police to be active. Not even the mayor himself was allowed out of 10 Downing Street, as his press office had been keen to point out a hundred times that morning.

Curiosity was becoming a very strong force in Louise’s head. She was keen to meet the person who had summoned them. There had obviously been so much going on around her of which she was totally ignorant. It would be nice to have an explanation. Even so, she couldn’t for the life of her work out why anyone so powerful would want to see her and Gen.

Her hope that all would be quickly revealed was doused as the police car took a ramp down to the base of the rim and drove straight into an eight-lane motorway tunnel. A huge set of doors rumbled shut behind the car, sealing them in. Then there was nothing but the carbon-concrete walls lit by glareless blue-white lights. More than the arcology, the broad deserted motorway gave her the greatest impression of the curfew and the sense of fear powering London’s residents into obedience.

Some unknown distance later, they turned off the motorway into a smaller tunnel road, leading down to the subterranean industrial precincts. The car delivered them to a huge underground garage with the style of arching roof more suited to a train station in the age of steam. Long rows of grubby heavy-duty surface vehicles stood unattended in their parking bays. The police car drove along until they came to the end bay, containing a Volkswagen Trooperbus. Two technicians and three mechanoids were fussing round the big vehicle, getting it ready for its trip.

The car door slid open, sending in a wave of hot humid air that reeked of fungal growth. Holding her nose in exaggerated disdain, Genevieve followed Robson and her sister out to look at the vehicle. The Trooperbus had six double wheels along each side, one and a half metres in diameter with tread cracks deep enough to hold Genevieve’s hand. A heavy retractable track bogie was folded up against its rear, capable of pushing it out of quagmires which came up over the wheel axles. Its dirty olive-green body resembled a flat-bottomed boat hull, with small oblong windows set along the side, and two large angled windscreens at the front. All the thick glass was tinted a deep purple. With its steel and titanium armour bodywork it weighed thirty-six tonnes, making it virtually impossible for an Armada Storm to flip it over. Just to make sure, there were six ground securement cannons, which could fire long tethered harpoons into the earth for added stability in case it was ever caught outside in rough weather.

Genevieve slowly looked along the length of the brutish mud-splattered machine. “We’re going outside?” she asked in surprise.

“Looks that way,” Robson replied cheerfully.

One of the mechanoids was directed to unload the sisters’ department-store bags, transferring them to a locker on the side of the Trooperbus. A technicians showed them the hatchway.

The main cabin of the Trooperbus was designed to hold forty passengers; this one was fitted with ten very comfortable leather upholstered swivel chairs. There was a toilet and small galley at the back, and a three-seat cab at the front. Their driver introduced himself as Yves Gaynes.

“No stewardess on this trip,” he said, “So just have a rummage round in the lockers if you need anything to eat or drink. We’re well stocked.”

“How long is this going to take?” Louise asked.

“Should be there for afternoon tea.”

“Where exactly?”

He winked. “Classified.”

“Can we watch out of the front?” Genevive asked. “I’d love to see what Earth’s really like.”

“Sure you can.” He gestured her forward, and she scrambled up into the cab.

Louise glanced at Robson. “Go ahead,” he told her. “I’ve been outside before.” She joined Gen in the spare seat.

Yves Gaynes sat in front of his own console and initiated the startup routine. The hatch closed, and the air filters cycled up. Louise let out a sigh as the air cooled, draining out the moisture and smell. The Trooperbus rolled forwards. At the far end of the garage, a slab of wall began to slide upwards, revealing a long carbon-concrete ramp saturated in sunlight bright enough to make Louise squint despite the heavily shielded glass.

London didn’t end along the perimeter of its nine outer domes. The arcology itself was principally devoted to residential and commercial zones; while the industries sited inside were focused chiefly towards software, design, and light manufacturing. Heavy industry was spread around outside the domes in underground shelters ten kilometres long, with their own foundries, chemical refineries, and recycling plants. Also infesting the dome walls like concrete molluscs were environmental stations, providing power, water, and cool filtered air to the inhabitants. But dominating the area directly outside were the food factories. Hundreds of square kilometres were given over to the synthesis machinery capable of producing proteins and carbohydrates and vitamins, blending them together in a million different textural combinations that somehow never quite managed to taste the same as natural crops. They supplied the food for the entire arcology, siphoning in the raw chemicals from the sea, and the sewage, and the air to manipulate and process into neat sachets and cartons. Rich people could afford imported delicacies, but even their staple diet was produced right alongside the burger paste and potato granules of the hoi polloi.

It took the Trooperbus forty minutes to clear the last of the vast, half-buried carbon-concrete buildings full of organic synthesisers and meat clone vats. Strictly rectangular mounds, sprouting fat heat exchange towers, gave way to the natural rolling topology of the land. The sisters stared out eagerly at the emerald expanse unfurling around them. Louise was struck by growing disappointment, she’d expected something more dynamic. Even Norfolk had more impressive scenery. The only activity here came from the long streaks of bruised cloud fleeing across the brilliant cobalt sky. Occasional large raindrops detonated across the windscreen with a dull pap.

They drove along a road made from some kind of dark mesh which blades of grass had risen through to weave together. The same vivid-green plant covered every square inch of land.

“Aren’t there any trees?” Louise asked. It looked as though they were driving through a bright verdant desert. Even small irregular lumps she took to be boulders were covered by the plant.

“No, not any more,” Yves Gaynes said. “This is just about the only vegetation left on the planet, the old green grass of home. It’s tapegrass, kind of a cross between grass and moss, geneered with a root network that’s the toughest, thickest tangle of fronds you’ll ever see. I’ve broken a spade before now, trying to dig through the stuff. It goes down over sixty centimetres. But we’ve got to grow it. Nothing else can stop soil erosion on the same scale. You should see the floods we get after a storm, every crease in the ground turns into a stream. If they’d had this on Mortonridge it would have been a different story, I’ll tell you.”

“Can you eat it?” Genevieve asked.

“No. The people who sequenced it were in too big a rush to produce something that would just do the job to build in refinements like that. They just concentrated on making it incredibly tough, biologically speaking. It can withstand as much ultraviolet as the sun can throw at it, and there’s not a disease which can touch it. So now it’s too late to change. You can’t replace it with a new variety, because it’s everywhere. Half a centimetre of soil is enough to support it. Only rock cliffs defeat it, and we’ve got limpet fungi for them.”

Genevieve puckered her lips up and pressed herself up against the windscreen. “What about animals? Are there any left?”

“Nobody’s really sure. I’ve seen things moving round out there, but not close, so it could just be knots of dead tapegrass blowing about. There’s supposed to be families of rabbits living in big warrens along some of the flood-free valleys. Friends of mine say they’ve seen them, other drivers. I don’t know how, the ultraviolet ought to burn out their eyes out and give them cancer. Maybe there’s some species that developed resistance; they certainly breed fast enough for it to evolve, and they always were tough buggers. Then there’s people say pumas and foxes are still about, feeding on the rabbits. And I’ll bet rats survived outside the domes if anything has.”

“Why do you come out here at all?” Louise asked.

“Maintenance crews do plenty of work on the vac-train tubes. Then there’s the ecology teams, they come out to repair the worst aspects of erosion: replant tapegrass and restore river banks that get washed away, that kind of thing.”

“Why bother?”

“The arcologies are still expanding, even with all the emigration. There’s talk of building two more domes for London this century. And Birmingham and Glasgow are getting crowded again. We’ve got to look after our land, especially the soil; if we didn’t, it would just wash away into the sea and we’d be left with continents that were nothing more than plateaus of rock. This world’s suffered enough damage already, imagine what the oceans would be like if you allowed all that soil to pollute them. It’s only the oceans which keep us alive now. So I suppose it boils down to self-interest, really. At least that means we’ll never stop guarding the land. That’s got to be a good result.”

“You like it out here, don’t you?” Louise asked.

Yves Gaynes gave her a happy smile. “I love it.”

They drove on through the wrecked land, sealed under its precious, protective living cloak. Louise found it almost depressingly barren. The tapegrass, she imagined, was like a vast sheet of sterile packaging, preserving the pristine fields and spinnies which slept below. She longed for something to break its uniformity, some sign of the old foliage bursting out from hibernation and filling the land with colour and variety once more. What she wouldn’t give for the sight of a single cedar standing proud; one sign of resistance offered against this passive surrender to the unnatural elements. Earth with all its miracles and its wealth ought to be able to do better than this.

They drove steadily northwards, rising out of the Thames valley. Yves Gaynes pointed out old towns and villages, the walls of their buildings now nothing more than stiff lumps drowned under tapegrass, names decaying to waypoints loaded into the Trooperbus’s guidance block. The Trooperbus had left the simple mesh road behind a long time ago when Louise went back into the main cabin to heat some sachets for lunch. They were driving directly across the tapegrass now, big wheels crushing it to pulp, leaving two dark green tracks behind them. Outside, the land was becoming progressively more rugged, with deepening valleys, and hills sporting bare rock crowns clawed by talons of grey-green lichen and ochre fungus. Gullies carried silver streams of gently steaming water, while lakes rested in every depression.

“Here we are,” Yves Gaynes sang out, four hours after they left London.

Ivanov Robson squeezed his bulk into the cab behind the sisters, staring ahead with an eagerness to match theirs. A plain geodesic crystal dome rose out of the land, about five miles wide, Louise guessed; its rim contoured around the slopes and vales it straddled. The dome itself was grey, as if it was filled with thick fog.

“What’s it called?” Genevieve asked.

“Agronomy research facility seven,” Yves Gaynes replied, straightfaced.

Genevieve responded with a sharp look, but didn’t challenge him.

A door swung open at the base of the dome to admit the Trooperbus. Once the door closed, a red fungicide spray shot out from all sides to wash away mud and possible spores from the vehicle’s body and wheels. They rolled forward into a small garage, and the hatch popped open.

“Time to meet the boss,” Ivanov Robson said. He led the two girls out into the garage. The air was cooler than inside the Trooperbus and the Westminster Dome, Louise thought. She was wearing only a simple navy-blue dress with short sleeves. Not that it was cold, more like a fresh spring day.

Ivanov beckoned them forwards. Genevieve double clicked her heel, and glided along at his side. There was a small four-seater jeep waiting, with a red and white striped awning and a steering wheel. The first one Louise had seen on this planet. It made her feel more comfortable when Ivanov sat behind it. She and Gen took the rear seats, and they started off.

“I thought you didn’t know this place,” Louise said.

“I don’t. I’m being guided.”

Louise datavised a net processor access request, but got no response. Ivanov drove them into a curving concrete tunnel a couple of hundred yards long, then they were abruptly out in full sunlight. Gen gasped in delight. The agronomy research dome covered a patch of countryside which was the England they knew from history books: green meadows flecked with buttercups and daisies, rambling hawthorn hedges enclosing shaggy paddocks, small woods of ash, pine, and silver birch lying along gentle valleys, giant horse chestnuts and beeches dotted across acres of parkland. Horses were grazing contentedly in the paddocks, while ducks and pink flamingos amused themselves in a lake with a skirt of mauve and white water lilies. In the centre was a sprawling country house that made Cricklade seem gaudy and pretentious in comparison. Three-storey orange brick walls were held together by thick black oak beams in traditional Tudor diagonals, though they were hard to see under the mass of topaz and scarlet climbing roses. Windows of tiny leaded glass diamonds were thrown wide to let the lazy air circulate through the rooms. Stone paths wound through a trim lawn that was surrounded by boarders of neatly pruned shrubs. A line of ancient yews marked the end of the formal garden. There was a tennis court on the other side, with two people swatting a ball between them in an impressively long volley.

The jeep took them along a rough track over the meadows round to the front of the house. They turned in through some wrought iron gates and trundled along a cobbled, mossy drive. Swallows swooped mischievously low over the grass on either side, before arrowing back up to the eaves where their ochre mud nests were hidden. A wooden porch around the front door was completely smothered by honeysuckle; Louise could just see someone waiting amid the shadows underneath.

“We’ve come home,” Genevieve murmured in delight.

Ivanov stopped the jeep in front of the porch. “You’re on your own now,” he told them.

When Louise shot him a look, he was staring ahead, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel. She was just about to tap him on the shoulder, when the person waiting in the porch stepped forwards. He was a young man, about the same age as Joshua, she thought. But where Joshua’s face was lean and flat, his was round. Quite handsome though, with chestnut hair and wide green eyes. Lips that were curved somewhere between a smile and a sneer. He was wearing a white cricket jumper and tennis shorts; his bare feet shoved into shabby sneakers with a broken lace.

He put a hand out, smiling warmly. “Louise, Genevieve. We meet at last, to coin a cliché yet again. Welcome to my home.” A black Labrador padded out from the house and snuffled round his feet.

“Who are you?” Louise asked.

“Charles Montgomery David Filton-Asquith at your service. But I’d really prefer you to call me Charlie. Everybody here does. As in right, one expects.”

Louise frowned, still not shaking his hand, though he hardly seemed threatening. Exactly the kind of young landowner she’d grown up with, though with a good deal more panache admittedly. “But, who are you? I don’t understand. Are you the one that summoned us here?”

“ ’Fraid so. Hope you’ll forgive me, but I thought this would be an improvement on London for you. Not very jolly there right now.”

“But how? How did you get us out through the curfew? Are you a policeman?”

“Not exactly.” He pulled a remorseful face. “Actually, I suppose you could say I rule the world. Pity I’m not making a better job of it right now. Still, such is life.”

There was a swimming pool on the other side of the ancient house, a long teardrop shape with walls of tiny white and green marble tiles. It had a mosaic of the Mona Lisa on the floor of the deep end. Louise recognized that, though she couldn’t remember the woman flashing her left breast in the original painting. A group of young people were using the pool, splashing about enthusiastically as they played some private-rules version of water polo with a big pink beach ball.

She sat on the Yorkstone slab patio with Charlie and Gen, relaxing at a long oak table which gave her an excellent view out over the pool and the lawns. A butler in a white coat had brought her a glass of Pimms in a tall tumbler, with plenty of ice and fruit bobbing round. Gen was given an extravagant chocolate milk shake clotted with strawberries and ice cream, while Charlie sipped at a gin and tonic. It was, she had to admit, all beautifully civilized.

“So you’re not the President, or anything,” she enquired. Charlie had been telling them about the GISD, and its bureau hierarchy.

“Nothing like. I simply supervise serious security matters across Western Europe, and liaise with my colleagues to combat global threats. Nobody elected us; we had the ability to dictate the structure and nature of the GISD back when continental governments and the UN were merging into Govcentral. So we incorporated ourselves into it.”

“That was a long time ago,” Louise said.

“Start of the Twenty-second Century. Interesting times to live through. We were a lot more active in those days.”

“You’re not that old, though.”

Charlie smiled, and pointed across at the rose garden. A neat, sunken square, divided up into segments, each one planted with different coloured rose bushes. Several tortoise-like creatures were moving slowly among the tough plants, their long prehensile necks standing proud, allowing them to munch the dead flowers, nibbling the stem right back to the woody branch. “That’s a bitek construct. I employ twelve separate species to take care of the estate’s horticulture for me. There’s a couple of thousand of them here altogether.”

“But Adamists have banned bitek from all their worlds,” Gen said. “And Earth was the first.”

“The public can’t use it,” Charlie said. “But I can. Bitek and affinity are very powerful technologies; they give B7 quite an advantage over would-be enemies of the republic. It’s a combination which also allows me to live for six hundred years in an unbroken lineage.” He waved a hand over himself in a proud gesture. “This is the thirty-first body I’ve lived in. They’re all clones, you see; parthenogenetic, so I retain the temperament for the job. I’m affinity capable, I had the ability long before Edenism began. I used neurone symbionts at first, then the affinity sequence was vectored into my DNA. In a way, the immortality method which B7 uses is a variant on Edenism’s end-of-life memory transfer. They use it to transfer themselves into their habitat neural strata. I, on the other hand, use it to transfer myself into a new, vigorous young body. The clone is grown in sensory isolation for eighteen years, preventing any thought patterns from developing. In effect, it’s an empty brain waiting to be filled. When the time comes, I simply edit the memories I wish to take with me, and move my personality over to the new body. The old one is immediately destroyed, giving the process a direct continuity. I even store the discarded memories in a bitek neural construct, so no aspect of my life is ever truly lost.”

“Thirty-one bodies is a lot for only six hundred years,” Louise said. “A Saldana lives for nearly two centuries these days. And even us Kavanaghs will last for about a hundred and twenty.”

“Yes,” Charlie said with an apologetic shrug. “But you spend the last third of that time suffering from the restrictions and indignity of age. An illness which only ever gets worse. Whereas as soon as I reach forty I immediately transfer myself again. Immortality and perpetual youth. Not a bad little arrangement.”

“Until now,” Louise took a drink of Pimms, “those previous bodies all had their own souls. That’s quite different from memories. I saw it on a news show. The Kiint said they’re separate.”

“Quite. Something B7 has collectively ignored. Hardly surprising, given our level of conservatism. I suppose our past bodies will have to be stored in zero-tau from now on; at least until we’ve solved the overall problem of the beyond.”

“So you were really alive in the Twenty-first Century?” Gen asked.

“Yes. That’s what I remember, anyway. As your sister says, the definitions of life have changed a lot recently. But I’ve always considered myself to be the one person for all those centuries. That’s not a conviction you can break in a couple of weeks.”

“How did you get to be so powerful in the first place?” Louise asked.

“The usual reason: wealth. All of us owned or ran vast corporate empires during the Twenty-first Century. We weren’t merely multinationals, we were the first interplanetaries; and we made profits that outgrossed national incomes. It was a time when new frontiers were opening again, which always generates vast new revenues. It was also a time of great civil unrest; what we’d called the Third World was industrialising rapidly thanks to fusion power, and the ecology was destabilising at equal speed. National and regional governments were committing vast resources into combating the biosphere breakdown. Social welfare, infrastructure administration, health care, and security—the fields government used to devote its efforts to—were all slowly being starved of tax money and sold off to private industry. It wasn’t much of a jump for us. Private security forces had guarded company property ever since the Twentieth Century; jails were being built and run by private firms; private police forces patrolled closed housing estates, paid for out of their taxes. In some countries you actually had to take out insurance in order to pay the state police to investigate a crime if you were a victim. So you see, evolving to an all-private police force was an intrinsic progression for an industrialized society. Between the sixteen of us, we controlled ninety per cent of the world’s security forces, so naturally we collaborated and cooperated on intelligence matters. We even began to invest in equipment and training at a level that would never bring us a fiscal return. It paid us, though; nobody else was going to protect our factories and institutions from crime lords and regional mafias. The crime rate actually started to fall for the first time in decades.

“After that, we made the decision to bring about Govcentral, along with its centralized tax laws, which were slanted in our favour. Our lawyers were parachuted into senior advisory positions to cabinet ministers and state executives, our lobbyists helped steer parliaments and congresses through controversial legislation. B7 was just the formalization and consolidation of our position.”

“That’s monstrous,” Louise said. “You’re dictators.”

“As is the landowner class on Norfolk,” Charlie replied. “Your family is the same as me, Louise, except you’re not quite so honest about it.”

“People came to Norfolk after the constitution was written, they didn’t have it imposed on them.”

“I might argue that with you, but I completely understand your sense of outrage, probably better than you do yourself. I’ve encountered it enough times down the centuries. All I can ask is that you judge the means by what it achieved. Earth has a stable, comfortably middle-class population free to live their lives more or less as they want. We survived the climate collapse, and we’ve spread out to colonize the stars. None of that would have been accomplished without a degree of strong leadership, the lack of which is the curse of modern media-accountable democracy. I’d say that was a pretty impressive achievement.”

“The Edenists are democratic, and they’ve prospered.”

“Ah yes, the Edenists. Our greatest accidental triumph.”

“What do you mean, accidental?” Louise couldn’t help her interest. For the first time she was getting to know the truth about the way the world was structured, and its history. The kind of real history that was never filed and indexed. Everything she was denied at home.

“Because we wanted to keep bitek for ourselves we attempted to have the entire technology prohibited,” Charlie said. “We knew we could never do it with a political declaration; our control over the legislative and legal establishment wasn’t total at that time. So we went with a religious condemnation, building up to it with a decade of negative publicity. We were almost there. Pope Eleanor was ready to declare affinity an unholy desecration, and the ayatollahs were falling into line. We only needed a few more years of pressure, and the independent companies would be forced to abandon further development. Bitek and affinity would have withered away, another dead-end technology. History is littered with them. Then Wing-Tsit Chong went and transferred his personality into Eden’s neural strata. Ironically, we hadn’t realized the potential of the habitats, even though we were experimenting along similar lines to achieve our own immortality. It forced the Pope’s hand; her declaration came just too early. There was still too much bitek and affinity in general use on Earth for her to be obeyed unquestioningly. Its supporters emigrated to Eden, which by then had seceded from our control. We had absolutely nothing to do with shaping their society; after all, it’s not one our operatives could infiltrate.”

“But you laid down the law for everyone else.”

“Absolutely. We control the principal policy aspects of Govcentral, our companies dominate Earth’s industry, and in turn Earth’s economic power dominates the Confederation. We’re the ones who make the majority investment in every new colony world development company, because we live long enough to reap the rewards which come from share dividends that take two centuries to mature. Between us, our financial institutions own a healthy percentage of the human race.”

“What for? Nobody can possibly want that much money.”

“You’d be amazed. Proper policing and defence consumes trillions of fuseodollars. The Govcentral navy is like a financial event horizon. We still fund our own security, just as we always have. And in doing so, we safeguard everyone else. I own up to being a dictator, but plead that I am as benign as its possible to be.”

Louise shook her head in sorrow. “And for all that power and strength, you still couldn’t stop Quinn Dexter.”

“No,” Charlie admitted. “He is our greatest failure. We may well lose this planet, and all of its forty billion souls with it. All because I wasn’t good enough to outsmart him. History will brand us as the ultimate sinners, after all. Rightly so.”

“He really has won?” Louise asked in dismay.

“We hit him with an SD weapon at Parsonage Heights. Somehow he eluded that. Now he’s free to do whatever he wants.”

“So he followed us to London.”

“Yes.”

“You manipulated me and Gen the whole time, didn’t you? Ivanov Robson is one of your agents.”

“Yes, I manipulated you. And I have no regrets or remorse about that. Given what was at stake, it was wholly justified.”

“I suppose so,” she said meekly. “I quite liked Robson, though he was always a little too good to be true. He never made a mistake. People aren’t like that in real life.”

“Don’t concern yourself about him. He’s not an agent; I’m afraid I commandeered him after his trial. Such people are always useful to me. But dear old Ivanov is not a nice man. Not as unpleasant as Banneth, I admit. She was just a human-sized virus, even managed to spook me with her deranged obsessions, and that’s not easy after all the atrocity I’ve witnessed in my life.”

“And Andy? What about him? Was he one of yours as well?”

Charlie brightened. “Oh yes, the romantic sellrat. No. He’s a real person. I never expected you to go and buy a set of neural nanonics, Louise. You are a constant surprise and delight to me.”

She scowled at him over the Pimms. “What now? Why did you bring us here? I don’t believe it was just so you could explain all this to us first hand. It’s not like you’re going to apologize, is it.”

“You were my last throw of the dice, Louise. I had hoped Dexter might try and follow you here. I have one final weapon available which could work. It’s called anti-memory, and it destroys souls. The Confederation Navy developed it, although it’s only in the prototype stage. Which means it has to be used at very close range. If he’d come with you, we might have had a chance to deploy it against him. It would have been my last noble stand. I was quite prepared to face him.”

Louise looked round quickly, her eyes sweeping the garden for any sign of the devil whose face she could never forget. A foolish reaction. But the prospect of Quinn Dexter doggedly pursuing her across the desolated countryside was chilling. “But he didn’t follow us.”

“Not this time, no. So I’ll be happy to take the pair of you along with me when I leave. I’ll make sure you get a flight to Jupiter now.”

“You stopped all my messages to Joshua!”

“Yes.”

“I want to talk to him. Now.”

“That’s another piece of unfortunate news, I’m afraid. He’s no longer at Tranquillity. He left with a Confederation Navy squadron on some kind of strike against the possessed; even I wasn’t able to discover exactly what their mission was. You’re quite free to send a message to the Lord of Ruin for confirmation if you want.”

“I will,” Louise said crossly. She stood up, and put her hand out to Gen. “I want to go for a walk, unless that’s against your rules, too. I need to think about everything you’ve said.”

“Of course. You’re my guests. Go wherever you wish, there’s nothing that can harm you in the dome—oh, apart from some giant hogweed, there’s a clump growing by one of the streams. It stings rather badly.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“I hope you’ll join me for supper. We normally meet for drinks on the terrace beforehand, around half past seven.”

Louise didn’t trust herself to say anything. With Gen’s hand clasped tightly in her own, she walked off across the lawn, angling away from the swimming pool and its happy crowd.

“That was all ultra stupendously incredible,” Gen gushed.

“Yes. Unless, of course, he’s the biggest liar in the Confederation. I’ve been so stupid. I did everything he wanted me to, just like some dumb clockwork doll set in motion. How could I ever have thought you and I would be let off with a police caution for trying to smuggle a possessed down to Earth? They execute people for less than that.”

Gen’s expression was puppyishly mournful. “You didn’t know, Louise. We’re from Norfolk, we’re never told anything about how things are on other worlds. And we escaped from Dexter twice, by ourselves. That’s more than Charlie ever managed to do.”

“Yes.” The trouble with her anger was that all its considerable heat was focused inwards, against herself. The B7 people had done everything they should have to protect Earth. Charlie was right, she was completely expendable. She hadn’t understood how big a danger Dexter was to the universe. Even so, not to have realized anything untoward was happening, other than a vague disquiet about Robson . . . Stupid!

They walked across the lawn and through one of the magnolia hedges, finding themselves in an apple orchard. The short trees were showing their considerable age through twisted trunks and gnarled grey bark. Great clumps of mistletoe hung from their boughs, the parasite’s roots swelling the wood in lopsided bulges. Bitek constructs like miniature sheep with a golden-brown fur were grazing round the trunks, trimming the grass to a neat level.

Gen watched their placid movements for a while, fascinated by how cute they looked. Not exactly the devil’s spawn that Colsterworth’s vicar had condemned every Sunday from his pulpit. “Do you think he will take us to Tranquillity? I’d like to see it. And Joshua,” she added hurriedly.

“I expect so. He’s finished using us now.”

“But how are we going to get up to the Halo? The vac-trains and the towers are shut down, and people aren’t allowed to use spacecraft in Earth’s atmosphere any more.”

“Didn’t you listen to anything? Charlie is the government. He can do whatever he wants to.” She grinned and pulled Gen closer. “Knowing B7, this whole dome can probably blast off into orbit by itself.”

“Really?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

They slowly circled the house, comforted by the familiarity of it all. On the other side of the orchard they came across a large dilapidated timber-framed greenhouse, whose shelves were packed with clay pots of cacti and pelargonium cuttings. A servitor chimp shuffled along the aisle, dragging a hose pipe and sprinkling the pots of small green shoots.

“Looks like they have winter in this dome,” Louise said to Gen as they peered round the door.

There was an avenue of cherry trees after the greenhouse. A pair of big peacocks strutted around underneath them, their shrill cries ringing through the heavy air. The sisters stood to watch as one of them spread his green and gold tail wide, neck cranked back imperiously. The gaggle of diminutive peahens loose in the avenue continued to peck away at the wiry grass, ignoring the display.

When they crossed the driveway there was no sign of the four-seat jeep, nor Ivanov Robson. They emerged through a gap in a hedge of white fuchsia bushes to find themselves back at the swimming pool. Charlie had vanished from the patio.

One of the girls playing by the pool caught sight of them and waved, shouting as she jogged over. She was a couple of years older than Louise, wearing a purple string bikini.

Louise waited politely, a neutral expression masking a slight sense of discomfort. The bikini was very small. She tried to banish the thought that no Norfolk shop would ever stock it on grounds of decency. Gen seemed perfectly at ease.

“Hi!” the girl said brightly. “I’m Divinia, one of Charlie’s friends. He told us you were coming.” She pursed her lips at Genevieve. “Fancy a dip? You look hot and bored.”

Gen glanced longingly at the group of laughing young people sporting in the pool, some of them were close to her own age. “Can I?” she asked Louise.

“Well . . . we don’t have costumes.”

“No probs,” Divinia said. “There’s plenty spare in the changing room.”

“Go on then,” Louise smiled. Genevieve flashed a grin and bounded off towards the house.

“I don’t want to be rude,” Louise said. “But who are you?”

“I told you, darling, Charlie’s friend. A very good friend.” Divinia followed the line of Louise’s gaze, and chortled. She pushed her breasts out further. “When you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em, darling. They don’t last forever, not even with geneering and cosmetic packages. Gravity always beats us in the end. Honestly, it’s worse than taxes.”

Louise blushed so hard she had to combat it with a program from her neural nanonics.

“Sorry,” Divinia said, smilingly contrite. “Me and my big mouth. I’m not used to people with strong body taboos.”

“I don’t have taboos. I’m just getting used to things here, that’s all.”

“Pooie, you poor thing, this world must be dreadfully loud and brash for you. And I don’t exactly help make it quiet.” She took hold of Louise’s fingers, and tugged her towards the pool. “Come on, let’s introduce you to the gang. Don’t be shy. You’ll have fun, promise.”

After a second of resistance, Louise allowed herself to be pulled along. You couldn’t hold a grudge against someone with such a sunny nature.

“Do you know what Charlie does?” she inquired cautiously.

“Oh God, yes, darling. Lord of all he bloody surveys. That’s why I’m with him.”

“With . . . ?”

“We shag each other senseless. That kind of with. Mind you, I have to share him with half the girls here.”

“Oh.”

“I’m quite appalling, aren’t I. Dearie me. Not a lady at all.”

“Depends on whose terms,” Louise said pertly.

Divinia’s smile produced huge dimples among her mass of freckles. “Wowie, a genuine Norfolk rebel. Good for you. Give those macho medieval pillocks hell when you get back.”

Louise was introduced to everyone at the pool. There were over twenty of them, six children and the rest in their teens and twenties. Two thirds were girls. All of them quite gorgeous, she couldn’t help noticing. Afterwards, she wound up with her shoes off, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling her bare feet in the shallow end. Divinia sat down beside her, handing her another glass of Pimms.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Louise took a sip. “How did you meet him?”

“Charlie? Oh, Daddy’s done business with him for simply decades. We’re not as rich as him, of course. Who is? But I’ve got the right pedigree, darling. Not to mention the body.” She swizzled her stick round the glass, her smile taunting. Louise smiled right back.

“It’s a class thing,” Divinia went on. “You don’t qualify for entry in this particular magic circle without a bankload of money, and even that’s not enough by itself. Outlook counts almost as much. You need the arrogance and contempt for the ordinary so that the whole notion of B7 doesn’t shock you. I’ve got that in bucketfuls, too. I was brought up utterly spoiled, tons more money than brains. And I’ve got plenty of brains, too, the best neurones money can sequence. That’s what saved me from the vacuous life of a trust fund babe. I’m too smart for it.”

“So what do you do?”

“At the moment, nothing at all, darling; I’m just here because I’m good company for Charlie. It means I can have fun, and lots of it. Plenty of sex, party with Charlie and Co., have some more sex, access stims, sex again, hit the London clubs, sex, do mountains of gratuitous shopping, sex, see shows and gigs, sex, tour the Halo—freefall sex! That’s where I am in life right now, and I’m doing it to the max. Like I said, everything sags badly and sadly as you get older, so enjoy youth while you’ve got it. That’s the way I turned out, you see, I know myself very well indeed. I know there’s no point living life like this for a hundred years solid. It’s a waste, a total, pitiful waste. I’ve seen the idle rich at sixty, they make me sick. I’ve got money, and I’ve got brains, and I’ve got no scruples; that adds up to a hell of a lot of potential. So when I hit thirty-five or forty, I strike out for myself. I don’t know what I’ll do yet: fly a starship to the core of the galaxy, build a business empire that rivals the Kulu Corporation, start a culture more beautiful than Edenism. Who knows? But I’m going to do it superbly.”

“I always wanted to travel,” Louise said. “Right back as far as I can remember.”

“Excellent.” Divinia knocked her glass to Louise’s with a loud chink. “See, you did it. You’ve seen more of the galaxy than I have. Congratulations, you’re one of us.”

“I had to leave home, the possessed were after me.”

“They were after everybody. But you were the one who escaped. That takes balls, especially for someone with your background.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry.” She stroked Louise’s long hair, directing the waving flexitives to slide it back gently over her shoulders. “Somebody will find a solution. We’ll get Norfolk back for you, and blast Dexter’s mind into oblivion along with his soul.”

“Nice,” Louise purred. Sunlight and Pimms were making her deliciously drowsy. She held up her glass for a refill.

Of all the strange days since she’d waved goodbye to her father, this one was undoubtedly the most mentally liberating. Conversing and mixing with Charlie’s friends and children left her faintly envious of them. They weren’t less moral than her, just different. Fewer cares and hangups for a start. She wondered if true aristocracy meant having the gene for guilt removed. A nice life.

When the appallingly energetic swimmers finally tired, and the sun was edging down the side of the dome, Divinia insisted on taking her for a massage, dismayed by the fact Louise had never had one before. A couple of the other girls joined them in one of the house’s original stable blocks which had been converted to a sauna and health spa.

Lying face down on a bench with just a towel over her rump, Louise experienced the painful glory of the masseur’s hands pummelling then kneading her muscles. Her shoulders became so loose she thought they’d fall off.

“Who are all the staff here?” she asked at one point. It was hard to believe that everyone in on the secret of B7 could be kept quiet.

“They’re sequestrated,” Divinia said. “Criminals that got caught by GISD.”

“Oh.” Louise twisted to look at the burly woman who was digging stiff fingers into her calf muscles. She seemed completely unperturbed by having her enslavement discussed openly. The idea bothered Louise, although it wasn’t that much different to turning them into Ivets. Either way saw them sentenced to work for others. This method was just more severe. But then she didn’t know how bad the original crime had been. Don’t think about it. It’s not as if I can change anything.

Divinia and the other girls gossiped their way through the massage, twittering and laughing over boys, parties, games. Though it began to take on the tone of a farewell reminiscence, places they’d never visit again, friends left out of reach. They talked as though Earth had already been lost.

Louise left the spa tingling everywhere, feeling thoroughly energized. Divinia walked with her back to the house to show her the guest room she’d been given. It was on the first floor, overlooking the orchard. The oak-beamed ceiling was low, barely a foot above Louise’s head, giving the room a snug atmosphere. A four-poster bed contributed generously to the theme, as did the rich gold and claret fabrics used for its canopies and the curtains.

All Louise’s bags and cases were stacked neatly on the pine blanket box at the foot of the bed. Divinia spied them greedily and started to go through the dresses. The long blue gown was taken out and admired, as were a number of others. None of them were quite right, Divinia declared, but she had something which might just suit the evening.

It turned out to be a quite disgraceful little black cocktail dress that Louise balked at on first sight. Divinia spent a full ten minutes coaxing her into it, outrageously flattering and encouraging. When it was on, Louise suffered a whole new plague of misgivings; you needed supreme confidence to wear anything like this in front of other people.

Genevieve came in just before they were due to go downstairs. “Blimey, Louise,” she said, wide-eyed at the dress.

“I’m treating myself,” Louise told her. “It’s just for tonight.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

The admiration she received from Charlie and his friends when she emerged out onto the terrace was reward enough. Charlie and the men wore dinner jackets, while the girls were all in cocktail dresses, some even more alluring than Louise’s borrowed number.

Outside the dome, the sun had finally reached the horizon. Light spilled out symmetrically from the brilliant orange disk to spread in waves along the crest of the verdant land. Charlie guided Louise over to the end of the terrace so they could watch it. He handed her a slim crystal flute.

“A champagne sunset shared with a beautiful girl. Not a bad last memory of the old planet, if somewhat laboured. How very considerate of the weather to stay clear for us. Its first favour in five centuries.”

Louise sipped her champagne as she admired the clean elegance of the shimmering orange star. She could remember the air as clear as this above Bytham, how it had been infiltrated by insidious wisps of red cloud. Her last memory of home.

“It’s lovely,” she told him.

She sat next to Charlie for dinner. Inevitably, it was a sumptuous affair; the food exquisite, the wine over a century old. She remembered being enthralled by the topics of conversation, and laughing at stories of mistakes and social catastrophes that could only ever happen to an elite such as this. Even though they knew they would have to abandon their world within days, they had an assurance like no other. After an age exposed to depression and anxiety it was a wonderful to experience such unabashed optimism.

Charlie, of course, made her laugh most of the time. She knew why, and no longer cared. Her clever, persistent seduction, and the effort he put into it, gave her a strong sense of belonging. It was classically played, and hauntingly refined. For a planetary oppressor, he was terribly charming.

He even helped Divinia guide her upstairs at the end of the evening. Not that she was drunk and needed help, she just didn’t want to spoil the mood by putting that nasty little detox program into primary mode. Their hands let go of her just outside her door, alowing her to lean against the frame, happy at the support it offered.

“My bedroom is just down there,” Charlie murmured. His lips kissed Louise gently on her brow. “If you want to.” He put his arm round Divinia, and they moved off down the landing.

Louise closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. She rolled against the wall to face her own bedroom door, and stumbled inside.

Her breathing still wasn’t under control, and her skin was flushed. She pushed the door shut firmly behind her. A white silk negligee had been laid out on the bed, it made the little black dress demure by comparison.

Oh sweet Jesus, now what the hell do I do?

She picked up the negligee.

It’s not as if anybody here will think less of me for having sex with them. The fact that it was even an option actually made her smile in amazement. There was no order in the universe any more, nothing familiar.

So do I, or don’t I? The only guilt I’ll carry is what I manufacture for myself. And that’s the product of heritage. So for all my bravado, just how independent from Norfolk have I become?

She stood in front of the mirror. Her hair was unbound, the flexitives inert, turning it back into a dark unruly cloak. The negligee clung to her body, showing it off provocatively. Just how aroused she’d become was blatantly obvious. A sultry grin was widening on her face as she acknowledged how sexually formidable she looked.

Joshua had always adored her naked body, almost delirious with praise as she gave herself up to him. Which was the answer, really.

Louise was woken by Genevieve bouncing onto her bed, and shaking her enthusiastically. Her head rose up, face curtained by wild hair. She had a headache and a revoltingly dry mouth.

For future reference, put the detox program into primary mode before you fall asleep. Please!

“What?” she croaked.

“Oh come on, Louise, I’ve been up simply hours.”

“Oh God.” Sluggish thoughts designated too-bright neuroiconic symbols, and her neural nanonics datavised a string of instructions to her medical package. It began to adjust her blood chemistry, filtering out the residue of toxicants. “I need the loo,” she mumbled.

“When did you get that nightie?” Gen shouted after her as she tottered towards the en suite bathroom. Fortunately there was a big towelling robe hanging up on the inside of the door. She was able to cover up the first-night-of-the-honeymoon garment before she went back to confront Gen. Her head was a lot clearer thanks to the package’s ministrations, though her body hadn’t caught up yet.

“Divinia loaned it to me,” she said quickly, forestalling any more questions.

Gen’s smile was wretchedly smug; she fell back on the bed, hands behind her head. “You’ve got a hangover, haven’t you?”

“Devil child.”

The breakfast room had a long table of big silver warmers containing a considerable variety of food. Louise went along lifting up each lid. She didn’t recognize half of the items. In the end she settled for her usual of corn chips followed by scrambled eggs. One of the maids fetched her a pot of fresh tea.

Divinia and Charlie arrived just after Louise started to eat. He gave Louise a modest little smile, conveying a tinge of regret. That was the only reference ever made to the invitation.

He ruffled Genevieve’s hair as he sat with them, earning himself a disapproving look.

“So when do we leave?” Louise asked.

“I’m not sure,” Charlie said. “I’m keeping an eye on developments. New York and London are the critical places to watch right now. It looks like New York is going to fall within a week. The inhabitants can only keep resisting the possessed for so long. And they’re losing ground.”

“What’ll happen if the possessed take over?”

“That’s when life becomes really unpleasant. I’m afraid our dear president has woken up to what that many possessed are capable of. He’s scared they’ll try to take the Earth out of this universe. That gives him two options. He can fire the SD electron beams in a circle around the arcology, and hope they’ll do a Ketton and just take themselves and a big chunk of landscape out of here. If not, it’s a very stark choice; we either go with them, or the SD weapons are focused on the arcology itself.”

“Kill them?” Gen asked in fright.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Will he really do that? A whole arcology.”

“I doubt he has the courage to make that kind of decision. He’ll consult the senate in an attempt to get them to take the blame, but they’ll just give him the authority and pass the buck right back at him without committing themselves. If he does give the order to hit the arcology, then obviously B7 will stop the SD network from actually firing. I’m of the opinion we should let the possessed remove Earth. It’s a cold equation, but that outcome causes the least harm in the long term. One day we’ll learn how to bring it back.”

“You really think that’s possible?” Louise asked.

“If a planet can be moved out of the universe, it can be returned. Don’t ask me for a timetable.”

“So what about London?”

“That’s more difficult. As I told my colleagues, if Dexter gains control of enough possessed he’ll be able to dictate his own agenda to everyone, possessed and non-possessed alike. If that becomes the case, we might have to use the SD weapons to kill the possessed he commands to take that power away from him.”

Louise lost all interest in her food. “How many people?”

“SD weapons have a large target footprint. There’s going to be a lot of innocent bystanders caught. An awful lot,” he said significantly. “There are thousands of possessed that have to be targeted.”

“You can’t. Charlie, you can’t.”

“I know. B7 is actually considering if we should actively help the New York possessed to take over that arcology. If they do so before Quinn expands his power base, then Earth will be taken out of this universe before he can menace it.”

“Oh sweet Jesus. That’s just as bad.”

“Yeah,” he said bitterly. “Who wants to rule the world when it means making those kind of choices. And they do have to be made, unfortunately; we can’t jump ship now.”

After the mild euphoria of yesterday, when they’d finally reached a genuine safe haven, however unorthodox, Charlie’s news left the sisters despondent again. They spent the morning in the drawing room, watching a big AV projection pillar to find out what was happening.

At first they switched between London’s news shows, then Louise found the house’s processors allowed her to access the security sensors studding the Westminster Dome’s geodesic framework. She was also able to superimpose the police tactical display grid over their peerless view of the streets and parks. They could follow events in real time, without the intrusive commentary and speculation from reporters. Not that there was much to see. An occasional running figure. Pulses of bright white light flaring behind closed windows. Police cars converging on a building, heavily armed officers moving inside. Sometimes they came out, hauling possessed off to zero-tau pods. Sometimes they didn’t, leaving a circle of empty cars blocking off the surrounding streets, their strobe lights flashing red and blue in futile distress. Local council offices and precinct stations would burst into flames without warning. No fire appliances came to their rescue. When the government facility concerned had been consumed, the flames mysteriously died away, leaving a blackened husk of crumbling masonry trapped between two unblemished buildings.

Reports from dwindling police patrols and the AI’s monitor programs indicated that small bands of the possessed were moving round by using the tube lines and utility service tunnels. As they infiltrated themselves across the arcology, electrical supplies failed in several districts. Then corresponding sections of the communication net went dead. More and more street-level cameras were targeted, showing a snatched glance of impacting white fire before dying. Rover reporters began to go off-air in mid-sensevise. Police datavises also fell, faster than possessed assaults against them could statistically account for. GISD estimated the desertion rate to be reaching forty per cent.

There was still a curfew operating across London, but Govcentral was no longer enforcing it.

Servitor chimps ambled into the drawing room around mid-morning and began packing away the ancient silverware and vases. Their preparations emphasised how desperate the situation was becoming, despite the physical distance between the house and London.

Louise caught sight of Charlie through one of the open patio doors; he was taking his two Labradors for a walk across the lawn. She and Gen hurried out after him.

He stopped at a gate in the row of yew trees, waiting for them to catch up. “I just wanted to give the dogs one last walk,” he said. “We’ll probably leave tomorrow morning. You’ll have to start packing again, I’m afraid.”

Gen knelt down and stroked the golden Labrador. “You’re not leaving them here, are you?”

“No. They’ll be put in zero-tau; I’m definitely taking them with me. And a great deal more, of course. I’ve spent centuries building up my little collection of knickknacks. One does become dreadfully sentimental about the stupidest things. I own four domes like this in various parts of the world, each with a different climate. There’s a lot of occupation invested in them. Still, look on the bright side, I can literally take the memories with me.”

“Where are you going to go?” Louise asked.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Charlie said. “I’ll need a developed world as a base if I want to retain control of my industrial assets. Kulu is hardly going to welcome me, the Saldanas are very territorial. New Washington, possibly, I have influence there. Or I might germinate an independent habitat somewhere.”

“But it’s only going to be temporary, isn’t it?” Louise urged. “Just until we find an answer to all this.”

“Yes. Assuming Dexter doesn’t come gunning for all of us. He’s quite a remarkable person in his own repellent way, at least as competent as Capone. I didn’t expect him to consolidate his hold over London quite so quickly. One more mistake added to a depressingly long list.”

“What will you do? The President isn’t going to order the SD strike, is he? The news said the senate has gone into closed session.”

“No, he won’t fire today. London’s safe from him, at least. Unless he sees red clouds hovering over the domes, he doesn’t consider the possessed capable of endangering the rest of the world.”

“That’s it then, we just leave?”

“I am doing my best, Louise. I’m still trying to locate Dexter’s actual position. There’s still a chance I can use the anti-memory against him. I’m convinced he’s somewhere in the centre of the old city, that’s where he’s concentrated his blackout procedures. If I can just get someone close enough to him, he can be eliminated. We’ve built a projector that uses bitek processors, it should work long enough even with the possessed ability to glitch electronics.”

“The possessed can sense the thoughts of anyone hostile to them. Nobody dangerous would get near to him.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But we do have one ally. Calls himself the friend of Carter McBride. A possessed who hates Dexter, and has the courage to oppose him. And I know he’s in London; he could probably get close enough. The problem is, he’s as elusive as Dexter.”

“Fletcher could have helped,” Gen said. “He really hated Dexter. And he wasn’t afraid of him, either.”

“I know,” Charlie said. “I’m considering if I should ask him.”

Louise gave him a blank look, sure she’d misheard. “You mean Fletcher is still here?”

“Well yes,” Charlie said, as if surprised at her surprise. “He’s been kept in GISD’s secure holding facility up in the Halo, helping our science team research the physics of possession. They haven’t made much progress, I’m afraid.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Louise asked weakly. It was the most wonderful news, even though it was accompanied by guilt for the man whose body Fletcher was possessing. There was also the knowledge she’d have to mourn all over again eventually. But . . . he was still with them. That made all the complications bearable.

“I thought it best not to. You’d both managed to put him behind you. I’m sorry.”

“Then why tell us now?” she asked, angry and suspicious.

“Desperate times,” Charlie replied levelly.

“Oh.” Louise slumped as understanding arrived. She began to wonder just how deep his manipulation went. “I’ll ask him for you.”

“Thank you, Louise.”

“On one condition. Genevieve is taken to Tranquillity. Today.”

“Louise!” Gen yelped.

“Not negotiable,” Louise said.

“Of course,” Charlie said. “It will be done.”

Gen put her hands on her hips. “I won’t go.”

“You have to, darling. You’ll be safe there. Really safe, not like this planet.”

“Good. Then you come, too.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” The little girl was fighting tears. “Fletcher wants you to be safe. You know he does.”

“I know. But I’m the guarantee that he’ll do as he’s asked.”

“Of course he’ll kill Dexter. He hates him, you know he does. How can you even think anything else. That’s awful of you, Louise.”

“I don’t think badly of Fletcher. But other people do.”

“Charlie doesn’t. Do you, Charlie?”

“I certainly don’t. But the other members of B7 will need assurances.”

“I hate you!” Gen screamed. “I hate all of you. And I won’t go to Tranquillity.” She ran off back over the lawns towards the house.

“Dear me,” Charlie said. “I do hope she’ll be all right.”

“Oh shut up,” Louise snapped. “At least have the courage to acknowledge what you are. Or is that something else you’ve lost along with the rest of your humanity?”

Just for an instant, she caught sight of his true self in a flickering expression of annoyance. A centuries-old consciousness regarding her dispassionately through its youthful doll. His body was an illusion more skilful than any reality dysfunction the possessed had achieved. Everything he did, every emotion shown, was simply a mental state he switched on when it became appropriate. Five hundred years of life had reduced him to a bundle of near-automatic responses to his environment. Very clever responses, but they weren’t rooted in anything she could recognize as human. Wisdom had evolved him far beyond his origin.

She hurried off after Gen.

The link to the Halo was organized to go through a big holoscreen in one of the house’s lounges. Louise sat on a sofa opposite, with Gen cuddled up at her side. The younger girl was all cried out, and the battle of wills had been won. After this, she’d be packed off to Tranquillity. That didn’t make Louise feel much better.

Blue lines rippled away from the front of the holoscreen, then a picture swivelled into focus. Fletcher was sitting at some metallic desk, dressed in his full English Navy uniform. He blinked, peering forwards, then smiled.

“My dear ladies. I cannot tell you how gladdened I am to see you safe.”

“Hello, Fletcher,” Louise said. “Are you all right?” Gen was all sunny smiled, waving furiously at his image.

“It would appear so, my Lady Louise. The scholars of this age have kept me busy indeed, testing and prodding my poor bones with their machines. Much good it has done them. They freely admit Our Lord guards the mysteries of his universe jealously.”

“I know,” Louise said. “Nobody down here has a clue what to do.”

“And you, Lady Louise. How are you and the little one faring?”

“I’m okay,” Genevieve blurted spryly. “We’ve met a policeman called Charlie, who’s a dictator. I don’t like him much, but he did get us out of London before things got too bad.”

Louise laid a hand on Gen’s arm, silencing her. “Fletcher, Quinn Dexter is down here. He’s running loose in London. I’m supposed to ask, will you help track him down?”

“My lady, that fiend has bested me before. We escaped by God’s grace and a fortuitous quantity of luck. I fear I would be of little use against him.”

“Charlie has a weapon that might work if we can get it close enough to him. It has to be a possessed carrying it, no one else stands a chance. Fletcher, it’s going to get really bad down here if he isn’t stopped. The only alternative the authorities have is to kill lots of people. Millions possibly.”

“Aye lady, I already hear the souls stirring in anticipation of what is to come. Many many bodies are being made available for their occupation, with promises of more. I fear the time of reckoning draws nigh. All men will soon have to choose where their hearts lie.”

“Will you come down, then?”

“Of course, my dear lady. How could I ever refuse your request?”

“I’ll meet you in London, then. Charlie has made all the arrangements. Genevieve won’t be there, she’s going to Tranquillity.”

“Ah. I believe I understand. Treachery lurks under every stone along the path we tread.”

“He’s doing what he thinks he has to.”

“The excuse of many a tyrant,” he said sadly. “Little one? I want you to promise me you will cause your sister no distress as you leave for this magical flying castle. She loves you dearly and wishes no harm to befall you.”

Genevieve clutched at Louise’s arm, trying hard not to blub. “I won’t. But I don’t want to leave either of you. I don’t want to be left alone.”

“I know, little one, but Our Lord tells us that only the virtuous can be brave. Show courage for me, be safe even if it means forgoing those who love you. We will be reunited after victory.”