‘Filthy Ba…!’ yelled Cullis, tripping over just before he reached the half-track and tumbling into the dust. He swore, then dragged himself into the machine. Another shell and another ploughed into the apartments to their left.
The clouds of dust kicked up by the bombardment were drifting across the faces of the buildings; sunlight sheared a gigantic wedge through the chaos of the courtyard, edging shadow with light.
‘I honestly thought they’d go for the parliament buildings,’ Cullis said mildly, gazing at the burning wreck of a truck on the far side of the courtyard.
‘Well, they didn’t!’ He punched the starter again, shouting at it.
‘You were right,’ Cullis sighed and looked puzzled. ‘What was the bet we had again?’
‘Who cares?’ he roared, kicking somewhere beneath the dashboard. The half-track’s motor stumbled into life.
Cullis shook flaked tile from his hair while his comrade strapped on his own helmet and handed a second one to him. Cullis accepted it with relief and began to fan his face with it, patting the area of his chest over his heart as if in encouragement.
Then he drew his hand away, staring in disbelief at the warm red liquid on it.
The engine died. Cullis heard the other man bellow abuse and slam the starter again; the engine coughed and spluttered, to the accompaniment of whistling shells.
Cullis looked down to the seat beneath him as more explosions thundered, far away in the dust. The half-track shuddered.
The seat below Cullis was covered in red.
‘Medic!’ he yelled.
‘What?’
‘Medic!’ Cullis screamed over another explosion, holding his red-stained hand out. ‘Zakalwe! I’m hit!’ His good eye was wide with shock. His hand trembled.
The young man looked exasperated and slapped Cullis’ hand away. ‘That’s wine, you cretin!’ He lunged forward, hauled a bottle out of the older man’s tunic and dropped it in his lap.
Cullis looked down, surprised. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Good.’ He peered inside his jacket and carefully extracted a few pieces of broken glass. ‘Wondered why it was fitting so well,’ he mumbled.
The engine caught suddenly, roaring like something made furious by the shaking ground and the swirling dust. Explosions in the gardens sent brown sprays of earth and pieces of shattered statuary over the courtyard wall, landing spattering and chunking all around them.
He wrestled with the gear-lever until the drive engaged and nearly threw him and Cullis out of the half-track as it leapt forward, out of the courtyard and into the dusty road beyond. Seconds later the major part of the great hall collapsed under the combined zeroed-in weight of a dozen or so heavy artillery pieces, and smashed down into the courtyard, filling it and the surrounding area with splintered wood and masonry and yet more tumbling clouds of dust.
Cullis scratched his head and muttered into the helmet he had just been sick into.
‘The bastards,’ he said.
‘That’s right, Cullis.’
‘The filthy bastards.’
‘Yes, Cullis.’
The half-track turned a corner and roared away, towards the desert.
* * *
1: The Good Soldier
* * *
One
She made her way through the turbine hall, surrounded by an ever-changing ring of friends, admirers and animals – nebula to her attractive focus – talking to her guests, giving instructions to her staff, making suggestions and offering compliments to the many and various entertainers. Music filled the echoing space above the ancient, gleaming machines, sitting silently amongst the chattering throng of gaily dressed party-goers. She bowed graciously and smiled to a passing Admiral and twirled a delicate black flower in her hand, putting the bloom to her nose to draw in its heady fragrance.
Two of the hralzs at her feet leapt up, yelping, fore-paws attempting to find purchase on the smooth lap of her formal gown, their glistening snouts raised to the flower. She bent, tapping both animals gently on the nose with the bloom, making them bounce down to the floor again, sneezing and shaking their heads. The people around her laughed. Stooping, gown belling, she rubbed her hands through the pelt of one of the animals, shaking its big ears, then raised her head to the major-domo as he approached, deferentially threading his way through the crowd around her.
‘Yes, Maikril?’ she said.
‘The System Times photographer,’ the major-domo said quietly. He straightened as she rose, until he was looking up at her, his chin level with her bare shoulders.
‘Admitting defeat?’ She grinned.
‘I believe so, ma’am. Requesting an audience.’
She laughed. ‘So well put. How many did we get this time?’
The major-domo sidled a little closer, looking nervously at one of the hralzs when it snarled at him. ‘Thirty-two moving-picture cameras ma’am; over a hundred still.’
She brought her mouth conspiratorially close to the major-domo’s ear and said, ‘Not counting the ones we found on our guests.’
‘Quite, Ma’am.’
‘I’ll see… him? Her?’
‘Him, Ma’am.’
‘Him, later. Tell him ten minutes; remind me in twenty. West atrium.’ She glanced at the single platinum bracelet she wore. Recognising her retinae, a tiny projector disguised as an emerald briefly displayed a holo plan of the old power station in twin cones of light aimed straight at her eyes.
‘Certainly, Ma’am,’ Maikril said.
She touched his arm and whispered, ‘We’re heading over to the aboretum, all right?’
The major-domo’s head barely moved to indicate he had heard. She turned regretfully to the people around her, her hands clasped as though in pleading. ‘I’m sorry. Will you all excuse me, just a moment?’ She put her head to one side, smiling.
‘Hi. Hello. Hi there. How are you.’ They walked quickly through the party, past the grey rainbows of drugstreams and the plashing pools of the wine fountains. She led, skirts rustling, while the major-domo struggled to keep up with her long-legged gait. She waved to those who greeted her; government ministers and their shadows, foreign dignitaries and attaches, media stars of all persuasions, revolutionaries and Navy brass, the captains of industry and commerce and their more extravagantly wealthy shareholders. The hralzs snapped perfunctorily at the heels of the major-domo, their claws skittering on the polished mica floor, all ungainly, then bounding forward when they encountered one of the many priceless rugs scattered throughout the turbine hall.
At the steps to the aboretum, hidden from the main hall by the easternmost dynamo housing, she paused, thanked the major-domo, shooed the hralzs away, patted her perfect hair, smoothed her already immaculately smooth gown and checked that the single white stone on the black choker was centered, which it was. She started down the steps towards the tall doors of the arboretum.
One of the hralzs whined from the top of the steps, bouncing up and down on its forelegs, eyes watering.
She looked back, annoyed. ‘Quiet, Bouncer! Away!’
The animal lowered its head and snuffled off.
She closed the double doors quietly behind her, taking in the quiet extent of luxuriant foliage the arboretum presented.
Outside the high crystal curve of the partial dome, the night was black. Small sharp lights burned on tall masts inside the arboretum, casting deep jagged shadows amongs the crowded plants. The air was warm and smelled of earth and sap. She breathed deeply and walked towards the far side of the enclosure.
‘Hello there.’
The man turned quickly to find her standing behind him, leaning against a light-mast, her arms crossed, a small smile on her lips and in her eyes. Her hair was blue-black, like her eyes; her skin was fawn and she looked slimmer than she did on newscasts, when for all her height she could seem stocky. He was tall and very slim and unfashionably pale, and most people would have thought his eyes were too close together.
He looked at the delicately patterned leaf he still held in one fragile-looking hand, then let it go, smiling uncertainly, and stepped out of the extravagantly flowered bush he’d been investigating. He rubbed his hands, looked bashful. ‘I’m sorry, I…’ he gestured nervously.
‘That’s all right,’ she said, reaching out. They clasped hands. ‘You’re Relstoch Sussepin, aren’t you?’
‘Umm…, yes,’ he said, obviously surprised. He was still holding her hand. He realised this, and looked even more discomforted, quickly letting go.
‘Diziet Sma.’ She bowed her head a little, very slowly, letting her shoulder-length hair swing, keeping her eyes on him.
‘Yes, I know, of course. Umm… pleased to meet you.’
‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘And I you. I’ve heard your work.’
‘Oh.’ He looked boyishly pleased and clapped his hands in a gesture he didn’t seem to notice himself making. ‘Oh. That’s very…’
‘I didn’t say that I liked it,’ she said, the smile hovering only on one side of her mouth now.
‘Ah.’ Crestfallen.
So cruel. ‘But I do like it, very much,’ she said, and suddenly she was communicating amused – even conspiratorial – contrition through her expression.
He laughed and she felt something relax inside her. This was going to be all right.