Expatria: The Box Set (4 page)
Read Expatria: The Box Set Online
Authors: Keith Brooke
Mathias did not like the news. Sala deserting him—going with the flow, as she liked to say—Edward's rapid rise and, worst of all, Greta's doubts and the fact that she chose to comfort
Lucilla
and not him. 'Just believe in me. Even if only a little. When I'm out of this mess everything else will fall into place. Remember our plans: I will be free again.'
'There have been other changes, too, Matti.' Something in Greta's face made Mathias feel terribly small and vulnerable. 'When father pledged my troth in your name, he did so to bind our two families more closely together. You were going to be Prime one day. He has told me of his own doubts and fears and now he has changed his pledge.
'Matti, I'm so sorry.' She buried her face in her hands as if she wanted to stop the words coming out. 'He has pledged me in the name of Edward Olfarssen-Hanrahan. He signed settlement with Edward's mother this morning. Matti, I'm sorry.'
Mathias was not as surprised as he should have been. In his gut he had known something like this must happen, compounding his loss. He knelt before Greta and took her hand, releasing it in response to their chaperone's soft cough. 'Greta,' he said. 'If I could leave, would you join me?'
'Matti, don't,' she snapped. Then, more softly, she continued, 'My father... he has so much to lose. Matti, you are talking ahead of yourself. You must face the Court: innocence wins through. And guilt...'
She didn't need to finish. Finally Mathias saw that he had lost everything. He should have seen it sooner and saved Greta from having to go through such an ordeal. He rocked back on his heels, then stood. He walked to the window and watched another gull sliding through the darkening sky.
Behind him, he heard Greta rising to her feet, stepping away from the bed. 'Matti,' she said. 'You're very sweet.' He wanted to jump from the window, but it was locked and he doubted he had the strength left in him to break it. 'Matti, I have to go now. I told Edward to meet me at sunset, we have details to discuss. Matti,'—he turned to face her—'goodbye.'
~
Edward. Smiling, laughing, pawing at Greta's breasts. Pulling heavy-duty cables tight around her delicate neck. Pulling them tighter, making her face turn blue and her eyes bug out but she was enjoying it, Mathias knew she was enjoying it and that this was what she had wanted all along. He wanted to get to them, to pull them apart, to carry Greta away from his half-brother, convince her that she wanted only
him
. He struggled to move, but hands gripped his arms, pulled at him, shook him as he watched his love slipping away, strangled by those ancient black leads. Still the hands gripped him, shook him and a voice came across the grey wastes: 'Mathias.
Please
. We have little time.'
He woke and rolled on to his back. He opened his eyes and there was a faint light in the room and the face of Sala Pedralis floating close to his own. 'Sala. What is it?'
He shrugged off the last vestiges of sleep and realised that he had suddenly left everything behind. His grief, his anger, it was all gone. From now onwards he had to look out for himself.
'Come on, Mathias. We have little time.'
He remembered Greta's summary of events beyond the guest-room walls and said, 'So it's
your
turn to question me now, is it? I have no more to tell.'
Sala looked hurt and he added, 'I was told you had changed your allegiance. I was told you were helping Edward secure his throne.'
'I am securing
Newest Delhi
, not Olfarssen. Violent currents have been flowing since the loss of the Prime. Sects and clans fight openly in the streets. If they are not controlled then everything will be chaos. I can only do what I
can
. But that does not mean I like it. Come on. I have transport arranged.' She opened the door. 'Or will you stay here and let Olfarssen take it all?'
Mathias followed her out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Two guards stood in the corridor, both staring studiously at the wall. Their gazes barely flickered as Mathias passed by.
As they walked quickly through the corridors and across the Manse gardens, Mathias kept expecting to hear voices raised in pursuit, but the night remained still. The guards at the main gate stared right through Mathias, choosing not to see him, and then he was out in the Playa Cruzo, believing at last in what was happening.
'Come on,' said Sala. 'You're not clear yet.'
The streets they followed were empty and it was not long before Mathias realised they were heading for the docks. It made sense: a boat would not have to pass through the unsettled back country where the clans would be at their strongest and Mathias might be recognised by citizens mourning the loss of their Prime.
As they climbed the steps inside West Wall, Mathias thought of his grandfather. He had never heard much of the story, except that the disgraced Prime had fled Newest Delhi under cover of the night, much as Mathias was doing now. There had been some sort of scandal and his grandfather had fled in an old shuttle, restored in secret in case it should ever be needed. But the scandal had been so great, or the escape so hasty, that the shuttle had been struck down from the skies, ending, finally, the influence of the old ways. Tonight Mathias was fleeing, but there the resemblance ended; he did not expect to be struck down in the sea, he just wanted to be free from all that had happened. March had done well to retain control under the circumstances of his father's demise; he had managed to keep tight rein on the excesses of the transition. Any excesses March had inherited from his father had long been suppressed. As Mathias's feet crunched along the upper reaches of the beach, he felt a sudden affinity with the grandfather he had never met.
Sala stopped ahead of him on the jetty, the dark shape of a barge just visible over her shoulder. She stepped towards Mathias and embraced him. 'I'll pray for you,' she said. 'Maybe someone will hear.'
'Edward will pay for this,' said Mathias. It was a wish more than a threat.
'Edward? You think he killed the Prime? Maybe, but I don't think he would have it in him, he's just capitalising on it. My guess is that one of the clans is responsible. They will make their move on Newest Delhi soon enough and then we will know.'
She released him and nodded at the barge. 'Idi Mondata arranged the boat through his Krishna friends. It will take you to Orlyons, out of Edward's reach. Mathias, you are like a son to me, or a brother...
I
don't know. I'll clear your name, somehow. I'll find out who killed your father and then you will be free to do what you wish. Mathias, look after yourself. Don't be bitter.'
Mathias turned away, confused again. Things should not be like this. A hand reached out to help him on to the boat but he shrugged it off and stepped aboard, clambering over a pile of rope and feeling in his bones the rhythmic beat of the vessel's meth manoeuvring engines. He turned to wave but Sala had vanished. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
As the engines quickened Mathias settled down in the aft cargo hold and tried to get comfortable. He released a long-held breath and slowly the barge edged away from the dock, away from Newest Delhi and into the darkness of night.
PART TWO
MidNight
Chapter 5
Kasimir Sukui was not fond of the sea. It was untamed. It followed no internal framework of logic. It aroused feelings he preferred not to acknowledge: fear, anger, awe. Fear was perhaps to be expected—drowning was not something to anticipate in any other way—but why be angered or awed by slabs of water, stirred by gravity and by the wind? Kasimir Sukui disliked such impulses. He was a rational man.
Facing his fears boldly, he stood at the prow of the barge and watched the waves. The largest—barely three metres from trough to tip—were capped with foam that was green with algae. He tried counting the waves in an attempt to find some sort of ruling pattern but there was none and soon he tired of the activity.
He walked back to the aft hold and sat in his mahogany chair, under the shelter of a canvas awning. After rummaging in a bag he withdrew a book, opened it on his lap and wrote down the results of his counting. He would probably never read this page of his diary again but he knew that method was the key to the universe; everything must be recorded, the failed experiments as well as the successes. This was science, it had to be carried out in an orderly manner.
Kasimir Sukui came from the southern fortress city of Alabama, capital of the lands that were ruled by the Andricci clan. He was descended from Expatria's first chief archivist and he had been reared in a lean-to that was crammed with books and diaries, handwritten histories of the first days of the colony and even histories from the Ark voyage that had brought the original colonists from Earth.
Although Sukui did not believe in family precedents—each person must realise their own potential—he recognised that he did not deviate far from what such a tradition might have expected of him. The books had been a formative influence. He had read of inventions and of science and soon, using a borrowed pencil, he had learnt to copy the letters and then whole words.
He had entered the Primal household as a servant but had risen rapidly through the ranks. He had studied the people around him. He had worked out what it was that made people succeed and what it was that made them stay at the same level for a lifetime. Putting his observations to work, he had associated with the right people, he had given his superiors bright ideas and then praised their originality, he had even slept with an ungainly senior vetting officer in order to convince her of his suitability for higher things.
Now, as Prime Salvo Andric's principal adviser, his hard work was finally being rewarded. At last there was a Prime who was open to new ideas. Sukui had bided his time as adviser to three earlier Primes, all of whom had been hostile to innovation, but Salvo Andric professed a vigorous enthusiasm for his people; he often told Sukui that the citizens must benefit first from any advances made under his Primacy. Initially Sukui had been tentative about introducing the technologies about which he had read so much but Salvo had welcomed his innovations and then demanded more. After seven years Salvo Andric was the most popular Prime in Sukui's memory, and the adviser took great pride in his own small part in the triumph of rationality over the earlier ignorance of his nation's leaders.
With Andric's Primacy thoroughly established, Sukui's role had broadened. Now, as well as being Andric's principal adviser, he had sole responsibility for Alabama City's Science Project, directing research, advising the workers, scouting for new talent to revitalise the scheme. The Project was the reason for his current barge trip across Mirror Bay. The first colonies established on Expatria had all been situated either on the island of Clermont or to the north, in regions now governed by the Hanrahan clan. Consequently, the greatest hoards of artefacts were located in these regions and Sukui had to organise frequent trading trips, often going himself in order to ensure that prize items were not missed by his juniors.
The terrans had built their technologies to last; early records indicated that this was deliberate, so there would be ample time to set up industries and also, they said in parentheses, in case of tragedy, so that the survivors would not necessarily revert to savagery. Sukui could see that happening to the north, with the fundamentalist cults and their frequent tirades against knowledge; years earlier it had been happening in his own land but Prime Salvo had put a halt to that.
Sukui closed his diary. He had been writing at greater length than intended. He had meant only to record the chaotic motions of the waves, no more. Adjusting the clip of his diamond-shaped skullcap and then straightening the waistline of his grey robe—he had learnt early in his career the importance of appearance—he climbed the steps from the hold and joined the skipper at the helm of the barge.
Clermont was looming large now, far closer than the mainland. Sukui estimated, from experience, that they would be tying up at the docks within twenty-five minutes, give or take three.
The port of Orlyons was a cosmopolitan cluster of buildings, squeezed into a gorge between granitic outcrops. The place was unruly like the sea, but beneath the anarchic exuberance Sukui recognised a framework of order. Of all the places he had visited there was nowhere quite like Orlyons; he often felt that he was close to defining the town's wildness, categorising it, but somehow another quirk would arise and he would start all over again. His diaries were crammed with observations and interpretations of the rabble that was Orlyons.
A yell came from out to sea and Sukui turned to look. Fifty metres beyond the barge there was a tall-sailed catamaran skimming across the waves. The boat was an impressive design, its twin hulls polished and tapering to knife-edge prows. It was a vessel constructed expressly for speed. The boatbuilder was a skilled individual.
The barge's skipper and five crewmen were lining the seaward railing, along with Sukui's two juniors, viewing the spectacle. As the catamaran slipped away the skipper returned to the barge's untended helm. 'The twin-hull is an efficient design,' said Sukui. 'Tell me, who is its creator?'
'Ah, Sukui-san,' said the skipper. Sukui liked the
-san
to be appended to his name; it added an unthinking respect, a subliminal acknowledgement of his status. 'The cat is Matt Hanrahan's. That's his fun-boat, he says he wants to go faster than the cutter-birds one day. Ha! That one's the Matt III, the first two fell apart. Ha ha!' The skipper had been drinking, but Sukui knew from experience that he handled the boat better when in such a condition.
Sukui walked back to his sheltered seat. So this was Mathias Hanrahan. Sukui knew the stories: that Hanrahan had killed his father and then been driven from the throne or, as others said, that he had fled
from
his father's killer. That had happened more than three years earlier. Sukui had heard much of Hanrahan's achievements since he had fled to Orlyons; much of it was no more than rumour, but he had clearly made a success of his life in exile if he could wreck two catamarans and still afford a third.
Sukui made a note in his diary and then settled back to pass the fifteen minutes—give or take a minute—until they would tie up at the Orlyons docks.
~
The streets of Orlyons were narrow and dense with people and animals. Sukui edged through the crowds, walking in the gutter where the flow was less urgent. He had left the barge as soon as it had docked. His juniors were capable of supervising the disembarkation of the delegation's provisions and trading stock.
Orlyons was a good place to trade. The supply of artefacts was steady and varied and the vendors were unaffected by northern fundamentalism. On this trip, Sukui's delegation had brought the usual exotic foodstuffs from the cooler south and a plentiful supply of money, but this time they had brought weaponry, too. Sukui felt uneasy about trading in arms—they so easily gave power to extremists—but the Orlyons collective council were in favour of the trade and this was one area in which Sukui had no influence over his Prime. On several occasions Salvo Andric had even tried to persuade
Sukui
to carry a gun, but each time he had refused; he felt far safer unarmed.
The street opened out into a square and here Sukui had more room to move. The hotel was only minutes distant. His juniors would stay with the trading stock in a harbourside rooming house, but Sukui always stayed in comfort. It was a part of his role.
He booked in and placed his small bag on the bed. The room had a basin, so he stripped to the waist and sluiced himself with cold water from the faucet.
Outside, the sky was darkening. Soon it would be MidNight.
Years before, Sukui had discovered Orlyons's idiosyncratic view of the calendar. From his reading he had learnt that the human brain was adapted to a 24-hour cycle: awake for sixteen, asleep for the remaining eight. The histories said there had been trouble adapting to Expatria's 14-hour day: some of the first colonists had even tried to impose a 28-hour system, working through two days and a night and sleeping for the remaining night. But the pressures of light and dark had proven greater than the so-called internal clock and the norm of waking an hour before dawn and then retiring an hour or so after dusk had taken over. Orlyons, however, had kept to its own version of the 28-hour system. In Orlyons alternate nights were different:
Night
was for sleeping, usually dusk to dawn;
MidNight
was for partying. Most of the port's population followed this system and consequently the town contained a network of drinking dens, gambling parlours, discotheques and many more houses of high ill-repute.
Now Kasimir Sukui prided himself on being a man of rationality, a man of science. As such, he had to recognise that his intellect was carried in a vehicle that was entirely animal in origins. Seeing the logic of this observation, long ago he had accepted that, like all human beings, he had his vices. He had urges that, if unsatisfied, would impair his functioning. Being a rational man, he looked after himself, and there was no better place on all of Expatria to look after the occasional animal urge than the port of Orlyons. Glancing through his window at the darkening streets, he tried to decide where he would go first on this, his first MidNight for five months.
One of his vices was gambling—it was so easy for logic to triumph over the probabilities of most games of chance—but that could wait. He decided, first, to call on Mono. She was a hard worker, something Sukui respected in anyone, regardless of profession. Mono was perhaps his favourite of all Orlyons vices.
~
She was the first woman he had been with in near to three months.
Kasimir Sukui's breathing rapidly returned to normal; he always kept himself in good physical condition, it was the rational thing to do.
He had found her easily. The bartender at Salomo's, her usual rendezvous, had told him she was in her room in the Gentian Quarter. Sukui knew her room well. 'She is an acquaintance,' he had told the bartender. 'I will visit.'
She hadn't changed since his last stay in Orlyons. Her olive-brown complexion was pure as ever, her hair long and straight and a black that was blue when caught by the sun. Her face had lit up when she saw who was at her door. It had been a long time, but she had remembered how he liked her to treat him.
Sex was a bodily function just like any other. Sukui did not like women who lost control in their passion, the ones who moaned and begged and clawed at a man's back. Mono was always quiet and dignified, only occasionally did she lose her poise and cry out. This time she had cried out, towards the end; Sukui took it as a compliment.
Lying slightly apart from Mono's tiny form, he studied the contours of her face. She looked composed in her sleep, content with the ways of her world. It made him feel good to think that he could make another person look so at peace. It made him feel whole again.
He had often considered the option of taking a permanent companion back to Alabama City with him. Perhaps it was the greying and thinning of his hair that made him think in these terms now. He had never shared a bed for more than simple gratification before and the thought of a face as contented as Mono's now was, beside him each morning, was a source of great temptation.
Mono twitched, her whole body jerking in her sleep. It was an animal movement and it reminded Sukui of the impracticalities that had always deterred him. On at least one earlier occasion he had almost asked her to return with him, but he had stopped himself. It could never work: a constant companion for a man so accustomed to his solitude. It was fine on occasion, something he needed. But she would be a distraction, he would be thinking of her when he should be working, he would be constantly tired from her attentions. He had always concluded that he would be losing far more than he gained.
But, lying by her side, sensing her stir and stretch, everything seemed different. Maybe the time had arrived.
She put a hand on his chest and kissed his shoulder. 'Sukui-san,' she murmured. 'It's been a long time. You know how to direct a woman's passions.'
Sukui felt a surge of emotions that he would normally have rejected, but now he sorted them, tried to itemise exactly how he felt. Mono often made him feel this way, helpless and glad about it. 'Mono, you are very accomplished.' He took a calming breath. 'Mono, would you come—'
She sat and then climbed off the thin mattress that was her bed. She didn't appear to have heard him, she didn't appear to recognise the effort he was having to make to squeeze the words out and he stopped helplessly. She wrapped herself in a purple kimono and tied it at the waist with a cream obi. His passion spent, Sukui could assess her beauty more objectively now and still he was impressed. She moved quickly around her room and then, seeing Sukui still lying on her mattress, she threw one of his shoes at him.
Dressing, he realised that it could never work. He admired her looks, her grace, and also her discipline and dedication to her work, but underneath it all there was the raw edge of the streets. There was a wildness that Sukui associated with the most basic elements of nature. Like the sea, Mono controlled herself but she could never be tamed; a man could sail across the sea but always in the knowledge that he might easily be swallowed into its depths.
