‘Then we’d better proceed, Corcorigan. If you don’t mind.’

  Holos shifted above the conference table. A translucent vertical cylinder represented a shaft leading from a Collegium Inner Court all the way up to the surface. One by one, tiny figures of arachnargoi took up their positions, tendrils fastened to the sheer walls, poised for their race upwards, to freedom.

  ‘What are the cargos?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Manipulators, in the main. Spinpoint field manipulators.’ Trevalkin spoke with authority, though it was doubtful whether he had known anything of spinfields until recently. ‘Along with key research staff.’

  Tom looked at Strostiv. ‘Who chose them?’

  ‘I did, along with the other surviving Altus Magisters.’

  ‘If the Anomaly guesses what we’re doing,’ said Trevalkin, ‘its forces will close in immediately. Our defences can’t hold back a concerted assault.’

  ‘So why is the Enemy holding back?’ Tom thought he knew the answer, but wanted Trevalkin’s opinion. ‘Why not move in now?’

  ‘Because they don’t want a repetition of their experience invading the first Collegium. If our researchers were to set off a series of self-destruct explosions, the Anomaly would lose whatever resources it finds of interest. But...’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, that its interest is only marginal. What can humankind really offer the Anomaly, beyond extra components to add to itself?’ Trevalkin stared into the display. ‘If it knew our best researchers and equipment were in the arachnargoi, it wouldn’t hesitate to destroy them.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time,’ said Tom, ‘that we got out of here.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Trevalkin shut down the display. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I was hoping to meet someone else.’

  ‘Now who could that be?’

  ‘Trevalkin...’

  ‘Relax. Your friend is here, and I hope he can pull off another amazing trick. I really hope so.’ Trevalkin clapped his hands, and at the rear of the chamber, a door-membrane liquefied. ‘Here he is.’

  ‘Tom! I mean ... Warlord.’

  ‘Avernon.’

  They clasped forearms.

  ‘Did Trevalkin tell you I’ve got it?’ Avernon’s eyes were lit with the joy of logosophical discovery. ‘We’re on the right track. With a few more tests, and brainstorming sessions ... Anyway, I’m glad you decided to come.’

  Trevalkin smiled to himself. Tom wondered whether Avernon had any idea what he and Ankestion’s clone-warriors had been through to get here, but all he said was, ‘So you’ve a working shield?’

  ‘It was your suggestion, and I think,’ said Avernon, ‘we’re proceeding on the right lines. It ought to work.’

  ‘Can’t you be more certain?’

  Avernon gestured towards Trevalkin. ‘He won’t let me test the technique.’

  ‘What? Why not?’

  Trevalkin looked at Avernon. ‘Tell the Warlord how you propose to field-test this stuff.’

  ‘Simple.’ Avernon’s natural enthusiasm bubbled up as he reopened the display, causing a schematic to shine. ‘See, we send some of our soldiers into Enemy territory as a decoy…’

  Tom glanced at Trevalkin, who said nothing.

  And who were you going to get to do that?

  ‘... and when the Absorbed manifest themselves, our fellows get close to one of them and set off the device. See? There’s a range of phenomena that might result, but the most obvious would be—’

  ‘How big a device? And what would it do, precisely?’

  ‘About the size of your hand, Tom. It will collapse space around the Absorbed individual. Surrounding him in all ten spatial dimensions.’

  ‘How will you know that? How will you know it’s worked?’

  ‘Mostly, there’ll be a blaze of light, while it pinches off the seven hyper-dimensions. It’ll disconnect the Enemy soldier’s mind from the Anomaly.’

  And what are the other Enemy soldiers doing while all this is happening?

  Tom said, ‘Will the individual revert back to normal?’

  ‘The energy released,’ said Avernon, ‘would be fatal at close range. I can’t help that.’

  ‘I’d rather be dead than Absorbed.’ Trevalkin stood up. ‘We’ve used simulations, or rather, Strostiv’s researchers have used them, to test Lord Avernon’s methods. They appear OK.’

  ‘Simulations,’ said Tom.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sweet bleeding Fate.’

  ‘You have the common touch, Warlord.’ Trevalkin’s smile was unreadable. ‘That’s a compliment, of course.’

  ‘Right.’ Tom nodded as if he believed that. ‘Then it’s time to begin the evacuation.’

  But evacuation was too generous a term for the operation. Tom stood with Ankestion Raglok on a dusty platform, staring up at the nine big arachnargoi - some blue-green, others brown-black - perched ready to ascend the vertical shaft.

  Five small black arachnabugs hung higher up on the shaft wall, grasers powered up, tendrils poised to fling the one-occupant vehicles towards the top. Their job was to blast away the protective membrane at ground level, clearing the way to the surface.

  ‘You’ve got Strostiv aboard?’

  ‘Aye, Warlord, though he wanted to remain behind. He said his place was here, with the other senior Magisters. I had to insist.’

  ‘OK, we’re about ready to—’

  Tom shivered.

  Shuttles screaming towards the ground. Kraiv bares his teeth in a warrior’s grin.

  ‘They’re here!’ Tom wrenched himself back from Seeing the shuttles. ‘Get aboard.’

  Two narrow tendrils snaked down from the nearest arachnargos. One encircled Ankestion’s waist and drew him upwards. The other tendril reached for Tom, but he backed off. Something was moving in the shadowed tunnel beyond the platform.

  But it was Trevalkin who stepped into the light.

  ‘Jumpy, Warlord?’

  ‘Yes, for Fate’s sake. Have you reconsidered? This is your last chance.’

  A thin-lipped smile. ‘Every defence force needs a leader.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom hesitated, raised his arm, and the tendril fastened around him. ‘They do.’

  ‘Go in freedom, Warlord.’

  ‘Fate favour you, Trevalkin.’

  The platform fell away beneath Tom as the tendril hauled him up. Trevalkin delivered an ironic bow, and turned away. Then Tom was inside the arachnargos cabin, and the floor was sealing up.

  May Fate favour us all.

  The arachnargos swung into motion.

  Ten minutes later the arachnargoi were racing up the shaft. At the apex, only a few tattered remnants of the protective membrane remained: the arachnabugs had done their job. The arachnargoi sped through, and then they were in the open, in the pale apricot light of dusk.

  Two big shuttles were roaring downwards from the sky, their lower hatches open.

  ‘Enemy fighters sighted.’ Likardion was at the arachnargos controls. ‘Closing fast.’

  Black dots above the horizon were growing larger by the second.

  ‘Fate. Are they orbit-capable?’

  ‘Negative on that, Warlord.’

  ‘Then let’s—’

  Tom’s breath was knocked out of him as the cabin tipped back and the arachnargos leaped upwards, into a hovering shuttle’s cargo hold. Tendrils whipped out to steady it. Three other arachnargoi leaped inside; the other five would be aiming for the second shuttle.

  ‘We’re in,’ said Ankestion.

  The big hold’s hatch puckered shut. Inside the arachnargos, Tom grabbed hold of his seat’s armrest.

  Then there was nothing for Tom to see as everything lurched and the shuttle flung itself into full acceleration, arcing upwards, screaming away from the planet’s surface faster than the Enemy fighters, heading to a place where they could not follow: beyond the atmosphere and into orbit.

  In seconds, they had left the besieged Collegium far behind and below: left them to fight as best they could against overwhelming forces that even now were moving in to crush them.

  Give them Chaos, Trevalkin,

  ~ * ~

  54

  TERRA AD 2166 - 2301

  <>

  [16]

  Further highlights from the life and times of Kian McNamara:

  Kian worked hard at his ordinary career - inasmuch as any Pilot could be called ordinary - as well as setting policy, and negotiating with UNSA on his people’s behalf. Senior management recognized the position he held among the natural-born Pilots (and many of the older ones) without ever giving him an official title.

  No-one in the halls of power used the word Admiral. Not where they could be overheard.

  Kian’s ship was a near-twin - ha! - to the one Dirk had stolen. Polished bronze and banded with lustrous purple (not blue-green), it looked magnificent, and when Kian flew it he felt a deep singing joy he could never express to anyone.

  No matter how political his career became, he would always find time to fly missions for his UNSA bosses. Kian never arrived late; his cargo was never damaged in transit; his passengers awoke with clear heads, not splitting migraines, at their destinations.

  And if his disfigurement caused him to hate normal human beings, nothing in his actions ever indicated that.

  Once, over supper in a restaurant overlooking Puget Sound, Paula - having polished off her third beer - remarked to Kian that he was the new Mahatma Gandhi ... at least as far as his two thousand-plus protégés were concerned. Deirdre shook her head and put down her fork, waiting for Kian’s reply.

  ‘Gandhi was a great human being,’ said Kian, ‘but he could be a sarcastic bastard. How does the old story go? A reporter asked him what he thought of western civilization; Gandhi considered a moment, then said: “That sounds like a good idea.”’

  Deirdre smiled, but Paula was not to be put off.

  ‘But you are a pacifist,’ she said. ‘Just like him. And leader of your people.’

  ‘Some people say I am.’

  ‘Y’know’ - Deirdre poked at her food: some kind of spinach-and-cheese pasta thing - ‘forget Gandhi. You sound more like the Dalai fuckin’ Lama every day.’

  ‘Why, does he think Gandhi was a sarcastic bastard?’

  Paula threw her head back and laughed hard enough to fart, which escalated the hilarity, while the other diners pretended not to pay attention. (It was a very high-priced restaurant.) But their waiter remained pleasant throughout, without a hint of snootiness; the tip they left him was probably the largest he received that year.

  And they tumbled, still laughing, back to Paula’s and Deirdre’s house in Queen Anne Gate, where they talked until the early hours of the morning. Then Kian went into the guest room while Paula and Deirdre went to theirs, and all three of them were asleep within minutes, paying no attention to the surveillance drones which hovered above the building, keeping an eye on UNSA’s single most precious asset while he moved among the ordinary folk.

  During the couple’s first year in Seattle, Paula worked what she called ‘joe jobs’: stocking shelves and working an espresso machine and selling goods with a smile - things that an untrained ordinary joe could do.

  There was an obvious pun there, but every time Paula mentioned joe jobs in Kian’s presence he just smiled, not taking the bait. He did the same on one occasion, when they were sleepy and drunk after a Thanksgiving curry, and Paula said: ‘So what do you do for sex?’ (Deirdre made her suffer for that, practically until Christmas.)

  In their third year together, Paula opened a tourist-trap boutique, selling goods from across the world. Although she was officially ‘persona non bloody grata’ as Zoë said, being a former UN Intelligence worker gave Paula interesting contacts (some with an eye to their own retirement plans) in two dozen countries.

  Deirdre’s research interests shifted away from the popular focus of her contemporaries. She did a small amount of teaching at Washington State, earning enough money to finance the occasional exotic vacation for the two of them, while Paula’s income paid the mortgage.

  Once, they made it to Scotland, and spent an idyllic week in a stone cottage near the shore of Loch Lomond. Then they strolled through Glasgow - Paula had never even heard of Rennie Mackintosh, but she loved the architecture on first sight - and took a skimmer to Edinburgh. She made contacts in two tartan-ware shops interested in increasing their exports.

  At night they climbed the cobbled slope to Edinburgh Castle, which was as forbidding as it ought to be with its black wrought-iron portcullises and ancient stones. Later, in a party of twelve, they toured the haunted tunnels and cellars below the streets. Something cold and insubstantial drifted through the group and Paula shrieked while Deirdre laughed, determined not to play the gullible tourist.

  But their guide, when they climbed from the cellar, looked ashen-faced.

  Then they made the trip north to Aberdeen and met up with Orla, niece of Dr Claude Chalou who had been a tutor at Oxford when Dirk was there, and had disappeared around the same time.

  An old grey-flecked retriever called Sam bumped his way over to them, tail wagging as soon as they entered the sitting-room. They sat around drinking tea for the whole afternoon, comparing notes, picking over painful memories. Deirdre could see an odd, discomfiting jealousy rise in Orla’s eyes when they talked about Kian, the brother who still lived, whom Orla had never met.

  On the journey home, Deirdre and Paula decided not to mention this part of their holiday to Kian.

  They brought him back a set of self-playing bagpipes - one would have to look very closely to see that the ‘player’ was not doing it for real - and he would use it, grinning broadly, on every New Year’s Eve for decades to play ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

  During the first five years of Kian’s admiralship, thirty-eight new Pilots made the grade. They took their shining ships into mu-space, plied the trade routes which UNSA devised, and produced great profits despite the cost of commissioning their vessels.

  During that period, five other fledgling Pilots each managed to fly a ship into mu-space once, but refused to try a second time. Mu-space called to them - sang in their veins so much they could not withdraw sufficiently to concentrate on their vessels’ systems.

  Twelve others washed out in the early stages of training, because they were unsuited to long solitary voyages or simply had other overwhelming interests, despite all their background and opportunities.

  An hmail joke that pervaded UNSA ran like this:

  Q: When is a Pilot not a Pilot?

  A: When they’re scared shipless.

  Kian found it amusing. (There was a weaker joke, about mu-space being the speed a cow walked at, that never quite caught on.) Still, he could see that the question of vocation was long-term and difficult. In the meantime, UNSA was happy to subsidize a dozen young Pilots in other careers: for those of scientific bent, the agency’s labs made research posts available. Ilse Schwenger created a renewed funding programme for the Pilots’ schools: the last decisive act in her long career.

  Everyone, save the occasional anti-xeno agitator in the outside world, was happy.

  Kian was careful not to abuse his privileges. When McGill University organized an academic conference entitled ‘Cultural Emergenics and Xenological Zen’ to take place over Labor Day weekend, he used his position to ensure membership, but travelled by public suborbital. Though he did not ask for bodyguards, two fit-looking men were seated behind him all the way.

  In Montreal Shuttleport the Arrivals concourse was crowded. Kian looked around for his baggage drone, ducked into the crowd, and for half a second he was out of his bodyguards’ sight. That was when a narrow glass blade came arcing towards his neck from behind.

  ‘No.’ Kian twisted at the last moment, faced his attacker. ‘There is no anger.’

  A lean-faced, unshaven man stopped, confused, his knife half-raised, blade pointing down. Then he twitched forward.

  And a square fist looped out of the crowd and dropped the attacker. His blade clattered on the tiles.

  ‘Bastard.’ The big woman who had thrown the punch stood ready for more.

  Then the two bodyguards leaped onto the prone man and wrenched his arms back.

  ‘We’ve got him, thank you, ma’am.’