You manipulated them with finesse, my Lord.

  Flurella could ruin everything.

  There was a long delay while the commanders and aides continued cheering, but Tom was sure that his schemes were in ashes. Then Lady Flurella gave a cold, slow smile.

  Don’t worry. As Ygran says: it proves you’re the right person for this job.

  She did not mean it as a compliment.

  No matter. So long as we bring down the Anomaly.

  Tom wondered how many other autocrats had thought the same thing as they took control for selfless reasons.

  ‘What kind of actions,’ said General Ygran as the approving sounds died down, ‘do you propose, my Lord?’

  ‘Here.’ Tom pointed into the holo. ‘And here. There are large armies already encamped, not allied to us, but fighting against Anomalous forces.’ He looked around the chamber, at the enraptured gazes. ‘We strike around the Enemy’s flanks, extract as many free forces as we can.’

  General Ygran nodded. There had to be more, but he understood that this was too large a forum for Tom to share detailed battle plans.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing right now,’ said Tom. ‘This is going to be a war not only of courage, but of intellect.’

  ‘And the legendary Lord One-Arm’ - General Ygran smiled - ‘known also as The Oracle Killer, is exactly the right person to lead us.’

  Tom took a deep breath.

  The kaon-koan. A shield around the world.

  In the end, that was his only strategy.

  There was a final rousing speech Tom had planned to make, but before he could step back to his earmarked position on the floor - Lady Flurella, seeing his intention, gave a sardonic smile - General Ygran pushed his way to the front of the gathered audience.

  Ygran. You can take the power.

  General Ygran turned to face the commanders.

  They will follow you.

  ‘You know who I am. Perhaps you don’t know’ - and here he moved to the area of the floor from which Tom had made his few jokes - ‘that old soldiers like me are mostly history buffs, who’d rather be at home wearing slippers immersed in old crystal tales’ - there were chuckles; then Ygran shifted, echoing Tom’s most commanding posture: he possessed skills of neurolinguistic rhetoric in his own right - ‘and I tell you now, this world has never been in such danger since the Founding Wars. Perhaps not even then.’

  The smiles faded.

  ‘Accordingly,’ General Ygran continued, ‘I propose that we reinstitute a precept from the Codex Belligerens.’

  He gestured a holo into being.

  In the time of greatest danger, appoint a single leader over all.

  That person’s decision shall be the final word in every dispute.

  Their orders will be obeyed unquestioned, without delay.

  Tom shook his head.

  This was not my plan.

  In the chamber the air was still, as though the whole of Axolon Array had inhaled a communal breath and held it.

  ‘I propose,’ said General Ygran, ‘that Lord Corcorigan should not be nominated as Commander-in-Chief of the freedom forces. Instead we must—’

  Blood-rush washed in Tom’s ears. He was about to stagger.

  Control.

  Breathe, that was it.

  Steady.

  General Ygran had the floor. For now, the audience was his.

  ‘—appoint him Warlord Primus, supreme military commander, and more: ruler of Nulapeiron.’

  Stunned silence expanded in the chamber.

  No...

  Then Volksurd, the carls’ chieftain, sprang to his feet, fists high in the air.

  ‘We offer the Enemy ... Blood and Death!’

  Kraiv leaped up beside him. ‘Hail to the Warlord Primus!’

  You can’t do this.

  They were all standing now, raising their fists and joining in one tumultuous roar:

  ‘Warlord Primus!’

  Then Tom bowed—

  ‘Warlord Primus! WARLORD PRIMUS!’

  —accepting the title they bestowed—

  I will do it.

  —and in that moment, became the acknowledged ruler of the world in which he lived.

  WARLORD PRIMUS!’

  I vow to save you all.

  Adrenaline still charged the atmosphere as the officers and nobles and tacticians left the chamber in twos and threes, chattering excitedly as they went down the spiral stairs to the terraformer’s core levels, pulsating with the sure knowledge that they had a chance for victory.

  If I don’t let you down.

  Soon there were only a few left: General Lord Ygran, sitting with his hands on his knees nodding to himself at a job well done; Elva and the two carls, Kraiv and Volksurd; several others chatting in small groups.

  On a lev-tray which had not moved during the whole meeting, but now lifted a few centimetres from the shelf on which she had parked herself, floated the bloodied, striated head of Eemur, wearing her black moirée cap.

  Warlord Primus, no less.

  Tom could only nod. No-one else in the chamber had the ability to hear her silent words, much less the ironic tones that embellished them.

  Who would have thought it?

  He remembered sitting in an alcove near a small, poor marketplace in Salis Core, writing poetry on an old infotablet. From there to here was such a journey that the fourteen-year-old Tom Corcorigan scarcely seemed the same person.

  Ruler of all Nulapeiron.

  Of a world, Tom reminded himself, where the greater part was under the control of a massive powerful entity that did not belong here.

  Kraiv said something to Elva, who nodded.

  I’m going to do my best.

  It was all that Tom could do.

  But you know they’ll turn against you—

  Tom snapped his head round to stare at Eemur.

  —when they see you’re not human any more.

  For a moment Tom felt paralysed. Then he answered her aloud:

  ‘Maybe. But by then it will no longer matter.’

  Elva’s eyes widened as Tom’s words revealed the depth of the link between himself and Eemur’s Head, a Seer beheaded centuries ago but living still. Tom felt the innocent days of his childhood ebb further and further into a peaceful past which could never be reached again.

  Tom’s one hand tingled.

  Then sapphire flames glowed, licked across his fingertips, and were gone before anyone besides himself and Elva noticed.

  ~ * ~

  40

  TERRA AD 2166

  <>

  [11]

  If it were not for Solly, and the way he had stopped outside the twins’ bedroom broadcasting his fear through the closed door - warning of sabotage or attack or something which threatened Dirk’s and Kian’s lives - this would have been a day of triumph. Instead, the twins sat with Deirdre in a chill air-conditioned lounge while their nerves twitched and jangled.

  Deirdre used her infostrand to set up a random integer generator. An odd number meant Kian; even meant Dirk. ‘Guys, this is the simplest function I’ve set up since I was five.’

  When the call came through from Human Engineering, they recognized the voice of Paula, the crop-haired young woman who had smiled at Deirdre.

  ‘We‘re ready for you now, Dirk or Kian. Take the down-slide to bay seventeen, where a TDV is waiting.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Got that.’

  Still sitting, they turned to look at Deirdre, who tapped the strand wrapped around her wrist. A number glowed in front of her.

  ‘Seventeen,’ she said. ‘I guess that means you, Kian, good buddy.’

  ‘Always the lucky one.’ Kian looked at Dirk.

  ‘Right.’ Blood faded from Dirk’s face. ‘You’re always lucky, bro.’

  The lounge door opened, and an automatic holosign pointed the way to the waiting ground vehicle. Kian stood.

  After Kian left, Dirk turned to Deirdre.

  ‘I want to watch from outside.’

  ‘But we’re both supposed to go to the control—’

  ‘I know.’

  Deirdre blinked.

  ‘Right. I’ll... I’ll tell Paula you’re in the John. Bad case of the squits, as my sainted mother used to say. It happens when you’re nervous.’

  ‘Didn’t Kian say your mother lives in Portland?’

  ‘Does that mean she can’t be a saint?’

  ‘Ha.’ Dirk leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  But Deirdre’s eyes were damp as she left, as though she, too, sensed the threat.

  Come on. Dirk’s heart beat faster. The danger must be outside.

  The ship’s control cabin smelled new, a mixed scent of organics and metal. The seat, adjusting itself to Kian’s form, felt both solid and oily as it morphed.

  I’m not scared.

  Status displays billowed: phase spaces and graphs, number-grids and vector-arrows enumerating a myriad subsystem values. And that was merely the top-level overview of an immensely complicated craft.

  I’m bloody terrified.

  Diagnostics scrolled through a dozen holos. Kian shut his eyes.

  What does my blood pressure look like now?

  If he asked the question aloud, someone in the control tower would answer him. They could probably say how likely he was to piss himself before take-off.

  ‘How long is this going to take?’

  The answer came back straight away: ‘Not long now, Pilot Candidate McNamara. Hold on to your horses.’

  ‘Yee-ha, roger that.’

  And I hope to Christ Dirk works out what’s happening.

  The scent of Kian’s sweat strengthened in the cabin.

  In a ground-level bay, heavy outer doors were sliding shut.

  ‘Hey! You can’t—’

  Golden sparks glimmered in Dirk’s eyes.

  The doors screeched, halted, leaving a narrow gap.

  ‘What the goddamn hell?’

  He squeezed through.

  The hot air was hammering down. The great ship was gleaming.

  Dirk ran towards the runway.

  Up in the control tower, Deirdre stood next to Chief Controller Bratko. From here, through blue-tinted windows, the poised ship was deep-bronze banded with darkness: the green-blue ceramic appeared almost black.

  ‘—clearing you to go,’ said one of the controllers.

  At the ship’s rear, the engines increased power - pale flames expanding into nova-white brightness - while the vessel rocked on its undercarriage, straining against the brakes which kept it bound to Terra.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Deirdre. ‘Will you look at that.’

  ‘Makes my heart thud’ - Bratko touched his bulky chest - ‘every single time.’

  Then he was leaning forward as two of the controllers rose from their seats, pointing at the small figure streaking across the tarmac, running towards the ship.

  ‘Who the hell is—?’

  ‘Dirk.’ Deirdre’s voice was unnaturally calm. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  Bratko spun fast despite his heaviness.

  ‘Shut down. Immediate shut down.’

  There was a moment’s silence as fingers danced in control displays, voices muttered commands. Then a young-looking controller rotated her chair and looked at Bratko.

  ‘No response. Main thruster’s still burning.’

  ‘Shit.’

  At the control room’s rear, Solly was shaking, wiping large runnels of sweat from his forehead.

  Come on, Dirk.

  Deirdre’s attention was all on the running figure below.

  Come on.

  In the ship’s control couch, Kian closed his eyes.

  ‘Pulse engines are go.’

  The great roar, however muted by protective insulation, was deep and massive behind him. Status displays brightened as the ship gathered its power, strained against the leash.

  Then something shifted at the edge of Kian’s awareness, in the twilight between subconsciousness and thought.

  Dirk?

  It was a kind of distant movement that he could not see but felt.

  ‘Control? Come in, control.’

  No reply.

  ‘Onboard command: shutdown-shutdown-shutdown.’

  Nothing.

  Behind him the engines’ power continued to build.

  Dirk could sense it, where the starboard delta-wing met the fuselage: a tugging against the natural flux, a warp in the rising energies that overrode system commands while blazing starfire brightened at the vessel’s tail.

  Hang on, Kian.

  Running faster along the runway, getting closer.

  I can feel you now, you bastard.

  It was a definite presence inside the wing. Insulated in the Pilot’s cabin, Kian would be sitting above the huge energies growing in the vessel, shielded from the tiny malevolent presence that did not belong on a well-ordered ship.

  A bomb?

  Getting closer.

  I can see the access hatch.

  But the roar was palpable, shaking the air, and it was hard to breathe this close to the titanic engines.

  No.

  Percussive waves slapped Dirk to the ground.

  Damn it... No.

  On hands and knees, he hung his head, blood dripping to the tarmac. Then he looked up at the wing, where the device was hidden, and began to concentrate. Golden lights danced in the blackness of his eyes.

  Where are you?

  It was not enough to sense its presence: he must go inside, parse its internal complexity and hold the thing in place.

  There?

  Questing.

  Yes, there.

  Now Dirk’s eyes held a steady yellow glow like a wolf caught in headlights.

  Got you.

  The device had intelligence. Its counteroffensive modules activated, trying to regain control, but Dirk’s focused power beat them down.

  Got you, motherfucker.

  A hatch popped atop the vessel. Kian clambered half out, stopped with one leg dangling against the hull.

  Jesus, Dirk.

  Concentrating.

  I’m with you.

  But Kian was still interfaced with the ship. Even as he joined forces with Dirk in containing the device’s murderous system commands, he pulsed internal directives through the control cabin’s emergency processors, activating catastrophe-procedures in sequences that had never been envisaged by the engineers who built the vessel, executing protocols that should be impossible while engines were firing up.

  Underneath the wing, an access hatch snapped open.

  I’ve got it, Dirk.

  His grip tightened against metal as he sensed his brother move.

  An emergency TDV, orange lights flashing, came hurtling from a maintenance bay.

  Behind it, fire tenders and other stragglers followed.

  The wing was too high to jump at but Dirk could see the thing now, a white boxlike presence that did not belong, fastened by electromagnets to the main conduits; and that was no problem at all. A tug, a redirection of power, and the magnets became inert.

  The white box dropped.

  Got you.

  Dirk caught it - damn, it was heavy! - but he held on, not dropping it, sensing that there were internal pulse-explosives ready to blow: the saboteurs had not relied solely on the ship’s own engines blowing apart under misdirection.

  The TDV screeched to a halt beside him.

  The driver, a round-faced man stained with grease, poked his head out. ‘Hey pal, you OK?’