The Promise of the Child (35 page)

He led the water team west to where they'd spotted the curve of a great, glittering river on their journey through the clouds, organising tanks equipped with snowplough noses to push through the dense flowers, their cargo of water barrels dragging behind. As they drove, his helmet buzzed and crackled—teams reporting in. The air was dense, perfumed, the light strange after so much time spent breathing recirculated gases in almost total darkness, and he saw no birds or wildlife of any kind, assuming they inhabited the woodlands that stuck out of the red like green oases.

Maril had lied to his crew, as he often did. Normally he told small lies, fibs that helped them believe in the job at hand, but this had been big by anyone's standards. It was Jospor's fault really; he'd assumed Maril had been to Steerilden's Land before, even though the captain had said no such thing to any of them. In truth, Maril had never been to the Fourth Solar Satrapy before. Everything he knew about Port Elsbet and its four planets he had gleaned from notes in the
Sun Compendium
, a series of fat volumes on his bookshelf given to him as a boy and now mostly outdated.

His helmet began to crackle again, high-pitched Vulgar whispers chattering to each other, then whined like a burst of tinnitus. He scowled and threw open the faceplate, pulling his helmet off a second later to inspect the earpieces inside. The radio operator sitting behind did the same, yammering into a microphone. Abruptly the earpiece in Maril's helmet awoke, his scouts gabbling, their voices repeated in the channels of the four senior officers sitting atop the tank.

“What was that?” he barked, looking around at the others.

“Presence in the forest, three miles west,” the radio operator said, listening again. “Enemy. Voidship sighted homing in on the
Wilemo
's position.”

Maril ordered the tank convoy to stop, their turrets swinging up and out with hydraulic groans, searching the deep blue sky. He climbed down from the vehicle, tapping his helmet, and stared across the poppies to the forest.

Plumes of smoke, the sound of the explosions just reaching the convoy, were puffing above the topmost trees and drifting with the warm breeze. He crouched, his officers piling out and doing the same, unhitching his lumen rifle. He couldn't see the privateer, there were too many of the damned chin-high flowers in the way. He tried to call his ship, pressing a gloved hand to his ear to drown out the questions from the other men, but nobody was responding. He knew it—they'd defied his orders and gone out with the last hunting party, unwilling to stay cooped up in the smelly hulk for another month without air.

Maril waved to the soldiers sitting uncertainly on the other two tanks, calling them over, and headed back through the smoothed trench of bent flowers they'd made on their journey. Something screamed through the air above them, barely registering before the sonic boom that followed it. Maril dropped, crawling just out of the trench of poppies and squatting with his rifle poised, sighting on the glinting shape as it raced towards the forest but not firing. He had to get to the privateer. His tanks opened fire as he ran, crouched, half a dozen troops following him through the meadow while the rest manned the anti-air turrets on the vehicles' sides.

His multicoloured ship came into view. Snow white, fully vacuum-suited warriors were engaging what was left of his third hunting party around the edge of the burned clearing the rockets had made.
Lacaille.
He almost laughed. At least it was Lacaille. They could even talk to each other in the same language while they fought if they wanted to. He opened his comms as he aimed, listening in. Some of them were doing so already, swearing at each other. Good for them.

Maril blew a hole in the closest trooper, alerting its squatting comrades and drawing their fire. He rolled and ran for the closest of the ship's ladders, ducking in the fizzing rain of Sparkers and claw bolts as he heard the screaming coming through the poppies. A company of his men staggered into the burned clearing through the wall of flowers, some dropping under concentrated fire from the Lacaille. Something large and red lolloped after them, springing and grabbing the closest Vulgar in its jaws. It shook the soldier and bellowed into the group of stunned little people, lowering its tufted ears and charging straight for the white Lacaille.

Maril stared at the bear-creature, feeling the sudden urge to laugh again. He shouldered his rifle and climbed the rungs of the ladder into the ship, leaning out once more to make sure some of his officers were following. When a few of them were inside, he made his way to the nose-turret, sweeping aside the festering blanket and flipping switches at the gear controls. His master-at-arms must have reached the cockpit because the clearing was filling with smoke, pumped from the still-recuperating engines. Gradually the fighting troops lost sight of each other, the beast still loping among them, its roars inaudible through the reinforced vacuum plastic of the nose-gun. Maril fired at random into the crowd of staggering, ghostly white shapes, deliberately avoiding the creature, and climbed back down into the cockpit, slamming himself into one of the seats.

A dial on the radar units clicked and chirruped, indicating something large and metallic was heading their way, fast. Maril stared down at the traded bolts of light and colour in the smoke-filled clearing and sealed the flanged outer doors. He glanced at Jospor and ignited the engines, almost certainly roasting anyone close enough to the rear and deafening everyone else in the clearing.

The
Wilemo Maril
climbed and swung away from the black crater of smoke, veering out towards the line of tanks glinting in the red haze. Captain Maril leaned forward in his seat, squinting at the twin blocks of red and blue that made up the horizon for any sign of the enemy ship that had screamed overhead but seeing nothing. They rose higher, the tanks suddenly opening fire beneath them, clouds of chaff bursting in the sky nearby as something whipped below the privateer's cockpit, radar twittering madly to itself. He stood in his seat and pointed, the two pilots sat in front bringing the privateer around and accelerating hard after the Voidship. He saw it clearly at last.

“It's a Lacaille Nomad Class,” said Jospor, squinting through his antique telescope before handing it over.

Maril snorted a breath, taking in the sleek curves of the ship as they caught a flash of sun. It was fast, but not bristling with weapons. That was why it hadn't attacked as it made its pass over the tanks. The hardest part would be keeping up with it before it managed to broadcast their whereabouts.

The Nomad climbed, loosing distraction rounds. Maril held his fingers clear of the triggers, letting the shrapnel fall past them, and fired two or three narrow, well-aimed single shots into the fuselage of the long ship as it arced. A thin exhaust of smoke began to trail behind the Lacaille vessel as it flared its exhausts, bursting the sound barrier again and heading for the troposphere. It flung flying mines behind it, their stubby wings sending them in chaotic patterns across the sky, and the pilots of the
Wilemo Maril
went to work ducking and weaving through the falling machines. Maril sat down heavily, buckling himself into the seat. The privateer would never be able to catch up with a Nomad, merely try to shoot it down. He launched from the aft canisters most of their own supply of flapping torpedoes, hoping at least one would find their target before it pulled too far ahead, while at the same time trying his hand at some more carefully placed hull shots that might cause the enemy craft to disintegrate higher up in the clouds. A perfect end to the day would be a chance to get his hands on some of the engine components inside the Lacaille ship, but it looked like there was little possibility of shooting anything down from this height and finding it intact in the fields. The Nomad could probably make it out of the Firmament in less than two weeks, rather than the month it would take the
Wilemo Maril
. It was the sort of craft you gave up chasing even before it was out of range.

He fired a few more desultory shots wide of the dwindling ship and signalled his pilots to stand down. The flapping torpedoes were trails of white smoke disappearing in every direction, not even one straying close to their target.

Maril's ship swung back, sighting the battle in the distance and loosing three bombs into the forest as they passed over. The Lacaille troops in the scorched clearing fired up at the ship, but its three-foot-thick plating easily repelled everything they threw at it in a firework display of musical ricochets. Maril glanced down to the clearing, listening for any of his troops who might still be alive, but heard nothing. The privateer banked, dropping a salvo of bombs into the clearing, and headed back for the tanks, skimming past.

They circled once more, firing rockets along the trench of crushed flowers to ignite part of the meadow between them and the approaching soldiers before settling to collect the vehicles.

In other circumstances, Maril liked to think he would have stayed and fought, repelling what he could of the distant lines of Lacaille they'd spotted beyond the forest, but he had a reward—and a well-earned retirement—to claim. Half his men were scattered, lost, killed, but he had to leave.

The privateer rose and burned back up into the clouds, firing most of its largest munitions in the rough direction of the Lacaille legions chasing after it. Maril watched incendiary explosions blossom behind it in the poppy fields. The
Wilemo Maril
twisted, spinning, and charged straight up into the farthest reaches of the atmosphere. The plan had been to circle the globe and land somewhere near the pole for a half-day's supply grab. They wouldn't need anywhere near as much now, Maril reflected, as he paced the cockpit, listening to the reports of the handful of engineers as they called out distances and radar checks, searching for any sign they were being followed.

Half a day later, its larders brimming with hare and fresh water, the
Wilemo Maril
departed the Fourth Solar Satrapy of Port Elsbet, curving away into the vacuum for another month's silent run through the dark, dangerous sea of the Firmament.

Meeting

“Who was the Amaranthine on the beach?” Lycaste asked the Glorious Bird after the funeral, looking away from the jiggling nests crowded with squabbling colour, the faces of Chaemerion's dead family fresh in his mind. The Utopia had endured a restless and seemingly never-ending wooing season since Lycaste's arrival, ancient lineages intermingling in a jealous heave of pigmentation and noise. The crowd had dispersed from the beach in a burst of conversation, rivalries and passion reigniting almost at once, but the Immortal had left the rutted strand of beach without Lycaste noticing, the glossy imprint from his buttocks and feet all that remained in the dropping-caked silt.

“He is the dead woman's brother,” said the bird, slicking back an electric feather beneath its wing. “Not from around here.”

“He was crying.”

“Yes.” The Glorious Bird caught sight of a dowdy grey sparrow in the sky. He tilted his head to follow her flight before looking back at Lycaste.

“I didn't think they knew how to cry. He's not from the Utopia?”

A lilting screech from the pink trees on the shore distracted them both. Another bird.

“Who do you suppose that is?” asked the bird, eyes brightly searching the trees. “He's doing very well this year, too well. Do you think I could say those were my trees? I could, couldn't I?”

Lycaste shrugged. “If you want a fight.”

“But I'm the
Most Glorious
. I should have all those trees over there.”

Lycaste was barely listening. “You've got a whole island.”

The Glorious Bird studied Lycaste, his pupils great black apertures. “I'm going to see who that is.
My
trees now.” A few birds in the nests whistled as he launched himself from the branch.

“So beautiful!” crooned a voice from a circular hole in one of the nests. A ruffled brown head poked out and regarded Lycaste. “I wish he'd ask me. But he never does.”

Lycaste watched him go for a while then trudged up the beach to the nest. “Did you see the Immortal?”

“Oh yes, he's very nice,” said the brown bird.

“You know him?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did he ever say where he's from?”

The little bird cocked her head. “He says a lot of things. You mustn't think too much about them.”

He looked at the bird cautiously, by now used to the eccentricities of the Utopia but never beyond frustration. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I mean, his stories couldn't possibly be true, so there's no point thinking too much about them.”

“Why couldn't they be true?”

“He's mad, my dear, like the rest of them.” It looked up at him. “Why else would he be here?”

The feast was held beneath the pink, sculpted trees of the Glorious Bird's newly won territory, having seen off his rival from across the water. Lycaste followed the burbling conversation into the circular clearing to find the strange Amaranthine from the beach sitting cross-legged among the celebrations. On each of his shoulders perched two adoring birds, upon his head a large black owl with sharply pointed ears. The owl swivelled its head to follow Lycaste as he made his way into the clearing, its eyes like amber paperweights.

The man nodded to Lycaste in apparent recognition, a minute dip of the head. Perhaps twenty of the Amaranthine sat or squatted at the far edge of the circle while the birds feasted on a heaped banquet at the centre, hopping and diving and squabbling. The same rivalries that existed between the birds appeared to prevail among the Immortals, their group divided between the followers of two alpha males. Typically of the Amaranthine, these rivalries were forgotten every day, rotating the honour of leader almost fairly among the men. Since, for some reason unknown to Lycaste, women were more common in the Utopia, there was always a nebulously sexual suggestion to the groupings as the man chose his harem. The remnant of desire clearly puzzled them, for neither the gentleman nor his small-breasted ladies had any idea what to do with themselves once they'd accumulated such social status, usually spending the last few hours of the day sleeping. The spectacular feast was of no interest to them, the urge to eat gone completely as far as Lycaste could tell. Gone, too, was any other major bodily process; defecation appeared to alarm and shock them, and Lycaste always tried to go out of sight.