‘What age?’ asked Grim.

  ‘Post-informational,’ the discoursemonger repeated. ‘But this is a greatly simplified account. It didn’t all happen overnight. And of course, the leading role was played by the religion of Manitou, which was brought to people by Antichrist. A religion that combined the ancient insights of mankind with the latest discoveries of science. A snuff is first and foremost a religious mystery. And it’s the reason why our religion is sometimes called movism.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Chloe. ‘And whose side did the Orks fight on in that big war?’

  ‘Orks were invented afterwards.’

  ‘Don’t tell lies,’ Chloe said with a frown. ‘How can you invent an entire nation? A most ancient nation?’

  ‘They didn’t invent your bodies,’ the discoursemonger replied, ‘but your culture and history. Including your idea about being a most ancient nation.’

  ‘But why—’ Grim started saying, and then stopped. ‘Aha … I think I understand. They needed a permanent enemy for the snuffs, right?’

  ‘Not a genuine enemy, actually. More like an opponent who was repugnant and odious in all his manifestations. But not especially strong. So that he never caused any serious problems.’

  Grim moved closer to Chloe, just to be on the safe side. But she seemed to have forgotten her club. Just as the discoursemonger had forgotten the need for caution.

  ‘Do you know why you don’t like yourselves?’ he said. ‘You were invented so that you could be hated with a clear conscience.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Grim whispered.

  ‘You’re a victim, sacrificed for the preservation of civilisation. A valve through which all the bad feelings of mankind are released …’

  ‘There are thirty million of you left up there,’ said Grim. ‘But there are ten times as many of us in Urkaine. Why is it that mankind is you, and not us?’

  ‘Because there’s very little that’s human in you,’ the discoursemonger responded.

  ‘And in you, there’s a lot?’ asked Grim.

  The discoursemonger didn’t answer.

  Chloe tugged on Grim’s sleeve.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she said, ‘before I’ve finished him off. I’ll wash my face at least. I’m sick and tired of going around in mourning for a dream.’

  CHAPTER 11

  When you receive instructions and clarifications from the House of Manitou, you have to do it in person – the religious high command doesn’t like to consort on the manitou. Pilots hate such a summons. Every time you have to wash, and shave, and do something about the pimples on your face. But you can’t go against the rules – I had to travel to all meetings of this kind on the tube.

  Kaya didn’t like being left alone either, but not because she couldn’t bear the separation. On days like this I put her on pause so that she wouldn’t withdraw into nirvana while no one was watching her. When I did it, it felt like I was stealing up on a poor little girl from behind and hitting her over the head with a club wrapped in cotton wool. But then, I did the same thing when she started steamrolling me with her hypertrophied intellect – and I even took a spiteful delight in it. Every time her simulation of annoyance was extremely convincing – I almost believed that she was offended to the depths of her soul.

  And so, having put Kaya on pause, I set out for the briefing.

  Waiting for me in her ritual office was Alena-Libertina Thodolbrigitte Bardo in person, the House of Manitou’s co-ordinator for CINEWS Inc. The old witch had apparently summoned me because she had no one to act out her melodramas in front of. No wonder – the Orkish sluts in the Yellow Zone aren’t the only ones who hide from her; even her own cat does.

  When I walked into her office – and it’s a genuinely big office, even without any 3D-backlighting – she was standing under the air extraction hood at the wall altar, wearing a black cloak and pretending to be divining with the entrails of an Orkish infant.

  How frightening.

  Everybody knows that the infant has been kept in normal saline in her cupboard for five years now, and it’s simply a medical teaching specimen from a stillborn microcephalus. But the stupid old fool carries on running through the same performance over and over again. Apparently she really doesn’t understand that even if she did disembowel Orkish infants on the altar every day, it still wouldn’t arouse any interest in her. Not even if the age of consent was raised by another twenty years. Towards which, by the way, she and the other feminists are tirelessly pushing society.

  ‘Sit down, Damilola,’ she sang out, ‘I’ll be finished in just a moment. Would you like some tea? Or something else?’

  I was going to ask for a glass of blood, but then I decided not to be boorish – after all, a lot depended on the dear old woman.

  ‘I’d be delighted, madam.’

  For about another three minutes she carried on pouring out some kind of emotional gabble, as if she was conferring with the spirits assisting her in the divination. Eventually she got fed up with acting the buffoon. She closed the door of the altar (in the closed position her altar looked like a kitchen cupboard), took off her rubber gloves, threw them into the rubbish bin and came over to the table where I was sitting.

  ‘Damilola,’ she said, putting on a serious face, ‘what happened to the damsel we were showing in the news before the last war? I haven’t seen her since then.’

  ‘You should ask Bernard-Henri about that, madam,’ I replied. ‘I assume that he’s dealing with her at the present moment. I had business at the front.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she deigned to smile. ‘The emblem of the war this year is simply excellent, well done.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  She gave me a slightly alarmed look – as if she wasn’t sure that my fragile reason would survive what she was about to tell me.

  ‘Damilola,’ she said eventually, ‘how long have you known what Bernard-Henri does with these young girls?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know,’ I said. ‘I have some idea though.’

  ‘Then why don’t you say anything?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I could be mistaken. Don’t look – don’t see.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Alena-Libertina agreed. ‘But in this case the rule doesn’t apply. What Bernard-Henri is doing with the girl is sacrilege.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she has already been in the news and snuffs. Surely you understand that?’

  ‘Theology’s not my strong point,’ I said and immediately felt afraid that it might have sounded arrogant.

  Apparently it did – Alena-Libertina frowned.

  ‘It’s that kind of decline in faith,’ she told me, ‘that will be the death of Byzantion. It’s become fashionable nowadays to distance oneself from religion. We’re pragmatic young technocrats, they say, and we don’t give a damn for this brood of superstitious old women with their disgusting rituals … Do you think I don’t know what you talk about among yourselves?’

  ‘I believe that all the secrets that interest you are open to you, madam,’ I said as gallantly as I could.

  ‘By no means all of them, unfortunately,’ Alena-Libertina replied, looking at me suspiciously. ‘Otherwise I would serve society far more effectively. When did you yourself last see Bernard-Henri in person?’

  ‘In person.’ That apparently meant face to face.

  ‘Just before the sortie when we filmed the shots on the road.’

  ‘At the moment he ought to be overseeing informational support for the new Kagan. But he’s not in the Yellow Zone. Or in the Green Zone either. Where is he?’

  To lie to a direct question was not advisable.

  ‘He could be in Slava,’ I said. ‘He sometimes hides away there with his little Orkish girlfriends. Well, you understand …’

  Alena-Libertina nodded.

  ‘What do you think, is the damsel still alive?’

  I didn’t answer that.

  ‘We need to present her to the viewers,’ said Alena-Libertina. ‘It’s your responsibility too. Bernard-Henri has already saved, in front of your camera, three girls that no one has ever seen again.’

  ‘My job …’ I began.

  ‘Manitou knows best what your job is,’ she interrupted.

  The old woman seemed to believe in all seriousness that she and Manitou were one and the same. On the other hand, from the religious point of view that might be exactly the way things were. At least regarding the weight carried by the orders that she issued (officially they’re called recommendations, but it’s better to disobey an order from your direct boss than a recommendation like that).

  At this point her assistant came into the office and put two cups of tea on the desk. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and understood everything immediately.

  The assistant looked like Chloe – the same firm, well-padded curves. Only about twenty years older, with wrinkles already showing round her eyes. What can I say? Don’t look – don’t see. I tried not to keep my eyes on her, so that Alena-Libertina wouldn’t realise that I’d realised.

  I didn’t feel like drinking tea – the office still smelled of normal saline after her fake divination. So I simply touched my lips to the cup and said I would set out on the search immediately.

  ‘As soon as you find them, inform me in person,’ Alena-Libertina ordered me. ‘You’ll receive further instructions. Your bosses are in the loop.’

  I set off for home.

  While Hannelore was going through her pre-flight preparations, I managed to grab a bite to eat. Since the thunder of war, as they say, had already faded away, I decided to load the cannon with the stealth-kill ammunition that’s used in the shoots inside the Circus. It’s more expensive, but it has its pluses. When it came to the rockets, however, I installed the most powerful ones – it’s always best to have a big heavy rock within easy reach.

  Kaya looked simply magical on pause. She seemed like an ancient goddess pondering the destinies of the world flickering around her – and what’s more, it was clear from her sad face that there was nothing good in store for this world. I flew off on the mission without taking her off pause. It seemed tactless to disturb her unnecessarily.

  When I dived out of the clouds above Slava, Alena-Libertina got in touch herself.

  ‘They’ve found him,’ she said. ‘There he is.’

  Shots from a different camera appeared beside my firing sights. I saw a little street in a slum district of Slava. Then the camera zeroed in on an entirely unremarkable wooden house, surrounded by a fence and hemmed in by bushes. The hyperoptics were engaged, with zoom, and I saw the figure of Bernard-Henri, sitting in the basement. From the ideally reconstituted colours and half-tones it was clear that the shot had been taken by a Sky Pravda.

  I didn’t ask Alena-Libertina how they’d found him. I could only assume that she had other helpers. Bernard-Henri looked terrible – covered in contusions and bruises. He was either asleep or unconscious.

  ‘But where’s the girl?

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alena-Libertina.

  ‘Bernard-Henri – did she do that to him?’ I asked.

  Alena-Libertina just giggled.

  ‘Send a platform,’ I said, ‘I’ll provide cover if necessary.’

  ‘No,’ Alena-Libertina replied.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘Bernard-Henri is tired. We won’t disturb him.’

  This was very, very strange.

  As far as I could understand, Bernard-Henri wasn’t guilty of any serious offence, even on Alena-Libertina’s mystical scale. We could evacuate him in five minutes and turn into a hero who had escaped from Orkish captivity.

  But possibly there was something I just didn’t know about.

  I didn’t argue. After all, decisions like that are taken so high above my head that they’re like changes in the wind to me – the clouds are hardly going to ask me which way they should fly.

  ‘What is required from me?’

  ‘Hover over the target,’ said Alena-Libertina. ‘Wait for the damsel to show up and inform me.’

  A minute later I was already on the spot.

  Chloe, disguised as a humble Orkish widow, appeared an hour later. Grim was plodding along beside her. They were walking from the direction of the market.

  I spotted immediately that the couple were being followed. I moved up a bit higher – and I didn’t like what I saw one little bit.

  The district had already been cordoned off by Ganjaberserks. Now they were gradually tightening the ring – and as soon as Grim and Chloe entered the house, they surrounded it. They hid in the concrete ruins round about, but the lights of their pipes were visible from altitude even without hyperoptics.

  I contacted Alena-Libertina and informed her of what I’d seen.

  ‘It’s Torn Trojan,’ she said. ‘He’s trying too hard to impress, I don’t trust him. Stay at the house and protect her.’

  ‘What if she starts beating Bernard-Henri?’ I asked.

  ‘We don’t interfere in other people’s personal lives,’ she chuckled. ‘You are to defend only the damsel. Don’t be distracted by anything else. Bernard-Henri has earned anything that might happen to him. Have I made myself quite clear?’

  She had made herself perfectly clear.

  Of course, it wasn’t a matter of the sacrilege that Alena-Libertina had mentioned. A discoursemonger of that standing doesn’t get his contract torn up over some trivial prank. There was something very, very serious here. For some reason that wasn’t clear to me it had been decided to flush Bernard-Henri down the tubes.

  But that wasn’t what I asked about.

  ‘If the Orks storm the place, do I fire?’

  ‘I authorise you to use all means … Help her get out of there. If it’s necessary, can you obliterate that house? So there won’t be any traces left at all?’

  ‘Easily,’ I said.

  ‘Good. I’ll be following what’s happening. We’ll decide everything as things develop.’

  She cut herself off.

  I put Hannelore on autopilot and switched the picture through to the external manitou, so that I could watch the action from the sofa. After that I decided, at last, to take Kaya off pause.

  The moment my honey-pie saw her Grim on the screen, she even forgot to put on her sourpuss face for me because I’d held her on pause so long.

  Hannelore’s hyperoptics showed the small figures in the basement blurrily and it wasn’t easy to tell Grim and Chloe apart. But the voices were clear, so I could easily identify them from what they said to each other. Chloe was holding the golf club that Bernard-Henri always carried around with him. I knew that that object played a rather lugubrious role in his love rituals – this vengeance really was deserved.

  To be honest, I didn’t think Bernard-Henri would survive the evening. But following a discussion of historical topics the Orkish couple left him in the basement and went upstairs. First they dined on the provisions that Bernard-Henri had laid in – they even had champagne, if the form of the bottle was anything to go by. Then they moved to a room with a large double bed in it.

  They could be made out a lot better now. Their figures were clearly delineated – but we could still see only the outlines, filled with the glimmering twinkles that hyperoptics produce. If I’d arrived on a Sky Pravda I’d have seen them almost as well as in real life. But this way it was even more amusing. No wonder interactive 2D-japorn has a special SM-subgenre, ‘through the sights’, which imitates the effects of military optics. It still hasn’t been banned – the court ruled that the law on underage pornography doesn’t apply to it, because the age of the glowing silhouettes can’t be determined even approximately.

  So watching it was fun. And there was plenty to watch.

  I mean, of course, for Kaya.

  She simulated interested observation of the Orks coupling (Urkaine’s belated reward to a hero returned from the war) all the way through until the morning. And during that time I observed her with great interest.

  Kaya was magnificent. She managed to blush all night long and kept pinching me painfully every time I shifted the shot to Bernard-Henri languishing in the basement.

  Then she decided to talk to me.

  ‘You’re going to save him,’ she said.

  ‘Bernard-Henri?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Don’t act the fool. You know I’m talking about Grim.’

  ‘Me? Save Grim? Now why would I do that?’

  ‘For my sake. For your own sake. For the sake of our love.’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to do it for my own sake. But for your sake, sweetie … For your sake, of course, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, but now you’re asking the impossible.’

  ‘You’re not going to let them have him.’

  ‘But then they’ll kill Bernard-Henri,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent. That old cretin called you a flying lard-arse. Do you remember?’

  I remembered that very well.

  ‘But what if,’ I said, simulating hesitation, ‘they find out at work that I betrayed a comrade-in-arms?’

  ‘No one’s going to find out anything,’ she whispered, looking at me imploringly. ‘I’ll do something that will make you happy, darling. I swear …’

  ‘But as a pilot I’m obliged,’ I muttered, acting as if all my senses were reeling.

  I think my simulation was just as good as hers. I was getting a real buzz out of what was happening, because my sweetheart couldn’t possibly know all the nuances of this story.

  ‘Please,’ she repeated, ‘please …’

  And she started crying.

  I’d never seen so many tears on her cheeks, it even set me wondering if I’d have to top up her water soon. Then she said: