Journey - Book II of the Five Worlds Trilogy (12 page)

Pel Front, too, took his leave, after at least giving salutation.

“We’ll meet again—soon, I hope.”

“Yes,” Kay Free said. “Soon, I hope.”

Kay Free was alone.

But now, drifting on the very edge of what was allowed as her existence, in a place that shame and lack of understanding had driven her to, with her back to all she had been commanded to abide, she felt a new sense of possibility fill her.

She turned, briefly, to face Sol once more.

Chapter 13

A
s had despots since time immemorial caught in a growing spiral of anarchy, Prime Minister Acron responded with the one thing he knew and understood: terror.

His was not a novel brand of terror—only the weaponry had been updated, and even that was new merely to Earth. After months of begging, Acron had finally convinced the High Leader that the only way to stop the growing revolt on Earth was to crush it with the same brutal finality that the High Leader had used himself when consolidating power on Mars.

“You mean you would use it on your own people?” the High Leader said, with what Acron took to be incredulity.

“Didn’t you, High Leader?”

“Yes, of course. But I’m … me.”

Acron had no idea if he was being made fun of by the insect creature on the Screen; he was ready to debase himself if that was what was needed to get the weaponry he craved.

The High Leader said lightly, “I see you have set up a little map room—having fun with toy soldiers and such?”

Acron turned, distracted, to see what the High Leader was referring to: the room was, indeed, set out as a war room, with numerous maps pinned to tables, showing government advances and defeats.

The High Leader said, “There seem to be an awful lot of black markers on your maps—I hope that’s a good color for you?”

“Rebel forces,” Acron said, turning back to the Screen. Willing his voice to hide impatience, he added, “Please, High Leader. Give me the plasma soldiers I request!”

“Out of the question. Once in your hands, you could do with them whatever you wanted. And you would have the technology to duplicate them—do you think me a fool, Acron?”

Even with all the distance between them, the prime minister still felt a tinge of fear in the pit of his stomach when facing the mechanical man. And while his anger at not being addressed properly was in proportion to this fear, the fear, as always when dealing with Cornelian, had great weight.

Prime Minister Acron said, “A concussion strike, then. From the air. By your people.”

Seeming to ignore the prime minister’s request, the High Leader said, “I’ve been mulling over our cotton agreement, Acron. I think there’s room for improvement.”

Instantly forgetting all pretense to diplomacy or patience, Acron said, “Anything you wish, High Leader. And about that concussion strike?”

The High Leader’s metal countenance was unreadable, but after a moment he said, “That is a possibility.”

“When—”

“I will think on it, Acron. I’ll be in touch. Go back to your strategies, or whatever. Work on getting those little black markers off your maps.”

With that, the Screen went blank, leaving the prime minister with the same mixture of rage and hope he had had before the conversation.

Only now he was able to show the rage, and turned roaring like a bull to smash his fist onto the nearest map table, sending markers of all colors, mostly black, flying, and a hole in the table and map where his fist struck.

S
eated at a bench, in a camp tent, on a strip of land on the northern border of what had once, in the ancient days, been called Gabon, but which for the last two hundred years had been simply classified as part of the Lost Lands, Erik Peese had much to celebrate. By all accounts, his war with the usurper’s government was going very well. Government forces had been defecting to his cause in growing numbers; and those that refused to cross lines were falling back on nearly every front. Many of the same local officials who had backed the plot to remove Dalin Shar from power had now reversed course; though Erik knew them to be nothing but cowards, sunshine patriots, he had long sought their political help as a tactical move. Now he had it, and more. The counterrevolution was like a stain spreading inward from the outer territories toward the centers of power, and it was only a matter of time now before so-called Prime Minister Acron and his traitorous cohorts were hoisted on a gallows rope. Acron himself had unwittingly aided Peese in his quest by murdering Besh; in one bloodthirsty knife thrust he had made himself known for what he was, a street brawler with no conscience and no plan other than to hold power. That Acron’s power had almost immediately begun to erode had come as a surprise only to himself: his ministers, fearing their own futures, had immediately sought intermediaries between themselves and Peese’s people, seeking to extend their own existences through further treachery. And once Acron’s boat began to spring leaks, as it had, it was only a matter of time before it would sink under the weight of the fetid water it took in.

But, though Erik Peese had much to celebrate—especially in light of the fact that only a year ago, with the plodding Besh cementing his own hold on power through more traditionally brainy means; by, for instance, providing the commoners with bread and circuses, followed by more bread—he was not in a celebratory mood. For he knew that everything he had worked for these past five years, everything he had hoped to accomplish, had sworn to accomplish, could come to nothing if the butcher Acron was successful in obtaining his fellow butcher Prime Comelian’s terror weapons. Erik feared even the threat of those weapons—they had all seen the Screen views of the concussion bomb effects on the Martian city of Shiklovskii and of Earth’s two former Moon colonies; all three, after their respective attacks, looked as though they had been swept from existence. And Erik knew that his own fighters, dedicated and fierce as they were, would be no match for plasma soldiers.

Every province governor and local elected official they had made recent agreements with knew that, too—which only pointed to the fragility of those agreements.

So it was important that they regain power before Acron was able to convince the High Leader to employ his terror weapons on Earth—and it was just as important to return King Shar to Earth as soon as possible, especially now, according to reliable reports, that the king had effected his escape from exile on Pluto.

So much to think about.

For a moment, Erik let his mind relax and thought back on that night three years before, when he had helped spirit Dalin Shar from his palace where death had awaited him—and how His Majesty had looked
dressed in women’s clothing….

Erik laughed—and looked up from his bench to see his old friend Porto standing before him, regarding him with amusement.

“There! I knew it! There were wagers that you no longer know how to laugh, and I bet on you! And I won!” Porto said.

“You have news?” Erik said, letting his laughter relax into a smile.

Porto, ever the actor, struck a theatrical pose. “There is a possibility of a truce—with Acron!”

“What?”

“It’s true! The vicious old windbag says he will meet with a representative of our ‘government,’ to discuss terms! He’s packing it in!”

“Don’t be too sure, Porto.”

“What else could he want? He’ll ask for safe passage off world, no doubt. He’ll hide his miserable fat carcass on Titan and spend what money he’s able to stuff into his tunic on information about assassination attempts. He’s made enough enemies, that’s for sure.”

“True. And he’s not the tactician we feared he was. But he’ll be dangerous when cornered, Porto.”

“Bah! He’s ready to run, I tell you!”

“Then I’ll speak with him.”

Porto laughed. “You? That would be treasonous on your part! If something happens to you, everything we’ve worked for will fall down like a house of cards!”

“I’m just a man. We do what we do for the king.”

“Of course! But where will he be when he returns if his new Faulkner is not here to greet him!”

“You honor me with Prime Minister Faulkner’s memory, Porto.”

“A great man! And so are you!”

“I’ll go, nevertheless.”

“Hogwash! You’ll send me, and be done with it!”

Erik laughed.
“You?
What will you do—charm Acron with your tricks?”

Porto, to make his friend laugh, threw himself suddenly forward and boosted himself into the air, standing on his hands. He smiled at Peese upside down. “I’ll juggle for him! Sing! Perhaps act out Macbeth—although he knows that one by heart, I’m afraid.”

Erik could not stop laughing, as his friend pushed himself off of his hands and stood on his feet again, arms held out for applause, which Erik gave him by clapping his hands lightly together.

His face suddenly serious, Porto said, “I really think it should be I who goes, Erik.”

Growing sober himself, Peese said, “It will be very dangerous.”

“I’ll laugh my way through it!”

“Reluctantly, I agree with you. I’m more valuable here. The Ethiopian governor is due in, along with secret representatives from five other provinces. With the speed with which things are going, perhaps we should send no one, merely ignore Acron.”

Porto said, “If we can end this one hour sooner, it could save another of our fighters’ lives. And that would be worthwhile.”

Erik sighed. “All right, Porto, you can go.”

“I’ve already arranged passage!”

“I should have known.” Erik stood and took his friend in a firm handshake.

“Return safely to us, my friend.”

A smile split Porto’s face. “How could I not, and give up the opportunity to make you laugh? And now,” he said, slipping his hand from Erik and turning it into a bowing flourish, “I take my leave, and collect my winnings before striking the pavement with my humble feet.”

“Return soon, Porto.”

“Good-bye!”

At the tent’s opening, Erik stood watching his old friend saunter away; Porto was unable merely to walk, but felt compelled to stop anyone he passed, to show a trick with a coin or to tell a joke. He inevitably left anyone he met laughing; as he strolled on, his recent contact inevitably continued to laugh, a day brightened by a small attention.

Porto soon drifted into the crowd at the center of the camp; for a few moments Erik regarded the sea of makeshift structures, made of discarded metal, found wood, and whatever else was on hand: blankets, rags, sticks. Many of these fighters had started with him when they had nothing; over the years, they had continued to have little but their own courage and the conviction of their cause. What had begun as a small band had grown to an army; and Erik knew they would follow him into hell if he asked. Even here in the Lost Lands, where the sky was tinged with a sickly yellow and rainwater was often un-drinkable, laced as it was with acid; where game and crops were as hard to come by as breathable air—even here, they had followed him. If he told them they must drive even deeper into the Lost Lands, where mutant plant and animal life roamed unmolested, where the skies often darkened with tornado cones that ripped trenches through blasted soil—they would follow him there, too.

Off in the center of the milling camp, Erik heard a bleat of laughter and Porto’s answering howl. He thought of the possibility of continuing without his old friend and discovered that he was tired of this war and wanted only for it to end. Rather than see Porto continually making a camp of warriors laugh and sing, Erik wanted to see Porto where he had once been so at home, and where he belonged—on a stage. How long had it been since there had been theater in the world?

Too long.

Wearily, Erik Peese turned back to his bench and sat down.

At the edge of his hearing, he heard another howl of laughter, faraway in the camp, perhaps at the outer pickets that led away.

“Be careful, old friend,” he whispered.

Chapter 14

G
ilgesh Khan, ruler of no empire, was, nevertheless, descended from one. On the wall of his office on icy Europa, at the base of monstrous Canton Cliff, was hung a duly signed and witnessed document containing a sliver of Lexan enclosing a minute particle of genetic material attesting to such fact that Gilgesh, mild and small, weak and inoffensive manager of the “Greatest Attraction in the Solar System,” was, nevertheless, a direct descendant of the feared and hated Earth Khan known as Genghis. It was a matter of great pride to Gilgesh (it had cost enough), but it gave him no comfort on this day, when the ancestor himself might be needed.

“What in Rama’s name could Wrath-Pei want with
me?”
he sputtered nervously, fussing with the instruments on his desk, turning to tap the tilt out of the framed and sealed genetic testimonial.

To his right, the side wall of his office was nothing short of a full window, giving a view of the lower portion of the cliff. As Gilgesh turned nervously toward it, a customer fell into view from the sheer icy white heights above, flailing as they all did until the autochute opened, bringing the rider up short a few meters from the ground. The rider kicked happily and touched down, running a few strides before turning back to gaze wonderingly at the wall he had just descaled. The trip down had taken nearly twelve minutes—an “Eternity of Thrills,” as the advertisements spread over the Four Worlds so hyperbolically, and, nearly, accurately, claimed—and by the end the thrill seekers who took the plunge at the top were overwhelmed. It was a common reaction—and one Gilgesh had often wished he could charge extra for.

But such pecuniary thoughts were far from his mind today.

“Why me? Why now?” he whined, to no one in particular, being as the office was empty. On learning of the Titan tyrant’s imminent arrival, he had sent his crew of four scrambling home, and prepared to close the attraction for the day.

There came a knock at the outer air lock, and Gilgesh for a moment froze, thinking that Wrath-Pei had already arrived. But that was impossible—the madman’s ship had not yet been detected by Europa’s sensors, and Wrath-Pei himself had declared that he would be extending his stay on sulfurous Jo before traveling on to Gilgesh’s humble amusement ride.