The Soterion Mission (7 page)

A few devices in the
Catalogue
were said to operate on “solar power”. Yonne scholars had worked out that this meant the power of the sun. Roxanne thought back to the huge mirror-like object they had noticed when they first looked down on the settlement. Could that be a way of capturing the power of the sun and turning it into electricity? If so, it would explain the “Polish the Panel” chant – probably half-remembered instructions given by the Long Dead.

Although she was able to figure out a plausible explanation for the technology of the place, Roxanne found it much harder to understand its behaviour. What was all this “Gova” business? And why “holy” and “heresy”? The latter two words she understood from the Third Book of Yonne. They were associated with religion, a subject that had divided the settlement’s best minds for generations. The concept was not in the
Catalogue
or in
Peter Pan
, but it cropped up a lot in the Third Book. The best Roxanne could make of it was that it was the Long Dead’s way of explaining what was beyond reason.

She turned the idea over in her mind for a few moments. Then, grabbing hold of Cyrus’ arm, she exclaimed, “That’s it, Cy!”

Cyrus had never seen her so animated. “That’s what, Roxy?”

She lowered her voice. “I think I get what’s going on here.”

“Go on, then, enlighten us with your great wisdom,” teased Cyrus, cheered by her sudden enthusiasm. “And let’s hope it helps us get out of here. Soon.”

“It might.” Roxanne looked around cautiously. “It also might make our position even more difficult. I don’t reckon truth is something these people are too keen on.”

“So? What is it?”

“As I said, Cy, it’s pretty complicated and will take a lot of explaining. I’ll leave it until we’re all together, without any twitching ears listening in.”

“That dubious, is it?”

“Dubious, yes. But it’s also what our charming host would call ‘heresy’.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’d probably give him an excuse to lock us up or even have us done away with.”

By now, they had arrived at the heart of the village. Here, to their further annoyance, the men and women were taken to separate quarters. Escorts led Cyrus and Navid to a small hut to the left of the main hall where they were given water for washing and fed vegetables, fruit and nuts. As animals did not get past the fence, no Child of Gova had ever tasted meat. After they had eaten, the two Tallins were asked to step outside for a talk with one of the twelve men dressed in yellow who had stood next to Ozlam at the gate. He explained that toga-wearers, like himself, were “Magi”, the self-appointed high officials of the Children of Gova. It was a pleasure, he continued, to welcome new members into a community whose numbers had been falling recently. Cyrus considered asking why he was so sure he and his friends would stay, but decided against it. It wouldn’t get them anywhere. For the time being, Ozlam and his oddly-dressed cronies very much held the whip hand.

In a hut on the other side of the hall, Roxanne and Taja were treated in a similar manner except that, when it came to the talk, three Magi separated them and escorted Roxanne alone into the hall itself. On the way in, seeing a faded enamel notice on the wall, she stopped to read it. The move was noticed at once.

“What are you doing, Roxanne?” rolled a familiar voice from the far end of the room. Roxanne looked up. There, bolt upright in a large chair, sat Ozlam, High Father of the Children of Gova. Roxanne walked towards him, saying nothing.

“Tell me, child, what it was you were doing?”

“I was looking at the pictures, Ozlam,” Roxanne replied carefully. “The wonderful pictures.”

The interior of the hall was certainly a blaze of colour. Every surface except the floor was decorated with images of the sun. Whether these pictures were wonderful or not was a matter of taste. Scratched, splashed and scribbled, she thought most looked like the sort of work young children did back in Yonne.

Ozlam was not convinced by Roxanne’s calm response. “You were not looking at the thing on the wall, near the door?”

“No. What is it?”

“It is a relic of the Prophets. It is known as writing. Those marks are words and people who can read understand what they mean.” Ozlam leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at Roxanne. “Are you sure you cannot read, Roxanne?”

“No, I cannot read.” Roxanne’s face might have remained calm, but inside she was churning. Lies did not come easily to her. Worse, she did not like this man one bit and, as he was making clear, he obviously felt the same about her.

“You are lying to me, child. It is not wise to tell lies to the High Father. I was observing you when you first entered our community.” Ozlam’s slow, chanting tone suddenly quickened and grew louder. ”You knew what the others did not. You knew about Gova! How? Tell me, child! How?”

“In Yonne, where I come from, I once heard a woman – one of those able to read – talk about something she called electricity – ”

The word seemed to strike Ozlam like a physical blow. Leaping to his feet, he screamed, “Heresy! We have a heretic in our midst.” The Magi who had been standing by the walls watching the interview, sprang forward and seized Roxanne by the arms. She did not resist.

“What have I done wrong, Ozlam?” she cried. “Tell me!”

The High Father came down from the platform on which his chair stood like a throne and placed himself directly in front of her. “Heretic!” he spat. “You dared to say that word!”

How could Roxanne have known what had taken place twenty-eight years earlier? The settlement had given shelter to two literate Constants fleeing from the Zeds. Once inside the gates and realising what was going on, the new arrivals had begun openly mocking the whole Gova idea, telling the crowd that their real guardian was electricity. The men were swiftly incarcerated and buried alive – the Children of Gova’s supposedly non-violent method of execution. Nevertheless, the very foundations of the community had been shaken. Two generations passed before the heresy was stamped out and, ever since that time, no one except the High Fathers and the Gova’s Magi had even whispered the word “electricity”.

If Roxanne was in serious trouble for her words, what happened next sealed her fate. Struggling against the men who held her and begging Ozlam to listen, she shook aside the lock of hair that hid her scarred forehead.

The High Father stared in disbelief. “Great Gova defend us!” he cried. “Not only a heretic – but a Zed! A damned, cursed Zed in our midst! Bury her! Bury her at dawn. As Gova rises, so shall she go down!”

Still begging for a fair hearing, the weeping Roxanne was dragged from the room. Shortly afterwards, Cyrus, Navid and Taja were seized and tied up. They were under arrest, the guards said, for secretly introducing a heretic Zed into the community.

That same evening, things were getting equally tense on the banks of the No-Man. On this stage, however, there were only two characters. Unable to see the bridge they had been told to destroy, Jumshid and Sheza stared up and down the river wondering what had happened.

“Bridge gone,” repeated Jumshid several times. “Bridge gone.”

It was Sheza, benefiting from the tuition he had received from Constant prisoners, who finally worked out what had gone wrong.

“No, Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb!” he cried. “The bridge is not gone. We are on the riverbank, but in the wrong place.”

Jumshid frowned. What did that irritating cub mean? “Wrong place?” he grumbled. “What you meaning ‘wrong place’, Sheza?”

“I mean, Dumb-Dumb,” sneered Timur’s appointed heir, delighting in the rhyme he had just invented, “I mean the bridge is where it was. We – Sheza and Jumshid – we are in the wrong place. Not the right part of the river.” Jabbing a filthy finger at his temple, he added, “Got it, Dumb-Dumb?”

Jumshid bit his bottom lip. He was getting annoyed. Of course he had got it. The bridge was further upstream from where they were now. “Yeah, cub,” he said, grinding his few remaining teeth. “Bridge along there.” The captain raised his right arm and pointed firmly upstream.

Sheza thought for a few moments. He fixed his gaze on Jumshid’s arm, then at the green, slow-flowing river. Eventually, he raised his left arm, pointed downstream and declared, “Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb wrong. Again. The bridge is that way.”

For a long time the two men stood in silence, pointing in opposite directions like strangely carved signposts. Sheza cracked first.

“You are wrong, Jumshid!” he shouted, slapping his left hand back against his side.

The older man remained unmoved. “How many winters Sheza see?” he asked. “Young cub not know. Jumshid knows. Been here before, so he is right.”

“I will prove it! Come with me, this way,” screamed Sheza. “I order you!” He set off at a brisk walk along the bank, following the current downstream.

Jumshid did not move. After about a hundred paces, Sheza stopped and listened. Nothing, no footsteps following him. Very slowly, fury rising within him, he turned. There was the captain, his outstretched arm still pointing obstinately upstream, in exactly the same position as he had left him.

“Traitor! Why don’t you follow me?”

“’Cos you is wrong and Jumshid is right. Simple.”

“I am not wrong, Dumb-Dumb!”

“Yes, you is. Baby Lamb!”

“What did you say?”

“Jumshid say Sheza is Baby Lamb. He never be Malik of Grozny like Timur! Baby Lamb! Baa-baa! Baa-baa!”

The taunting was too much for the spoilt, hot-headed Sheza. Screaming like a stuck pig, he charged along the bank and hurled himself into the captain’s midriff. With a revolting hiss, the polluted contents of the man’s lungs were forced into the atmosphere, and for a few moments the winded captain stood with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

Sheza began to giggle. “Poor Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb too old to figh –”

The sentence was never finished. Rising with the speed of a striking snake, Jumshid cracked both his fists into his opponent’s face, breaking his nose and sending him reeling backwards into a patch of scrub.

The fight was on.

6: Disaster

With their hands tied behind their backs and roped together like slaves, Cyrus, Taja and Navid were led into Gova Hall by a troupe of wispy-faced Magi. Here, where a short while previously Ozlam had sentenced Roxanne to death, they were made to sit on the concrete floor. The High Father was on his way to speak to them, they were told.

When Ozlam appeared, he did so slowly, slipping onto the platform at the far end of the hall and standing, hands raised, for some time without speaking. Every move he makes, thought Cyrus, every word he utters is carefully planned to give the impression of wisdom and maturity: his slow, sing-song speech, his flamboyant hand gestures, even his robe and full beard – they were all part of a grand charade. High Father or not, Ozlam was before everything else an actor.

“Visitors, guests, friends,” he began, lowering his arms and advancing with measured steps towards the three prisoners, “you have broken my heart!”

Cyrus resisted the temptation to say something rude. Beside him, though, he noticed that Navid was gazing at the speaker with a strange intensity. Taja, sitting on his other side, remained her usual inscrutable self.

“I repeat,” chanted Ozlam, walking right up to the trio until he hung over them like a malevolent tree, “you have broken my poor heart! It has been riven in two pieces, like a tree cloven by lightning, by the cruel deception of those whom we took in from the wilderness. We gave them food, we gave them shelter, we gave them kindness – and how did they respond? By bringing with them, like a clawed scorpion hidden beneath their clothing, a vile and most foul Zed!”

Cyrus could take no more. “That’s not true, Ozlam!” he shouted. “And you know it! Roxanne isn’t a Zed. Look at her scar! Does it look as if it’s been there since childhood? Anyway, where is she? What have you done with her?”

Ozlam’s eyes narrowed slightly. ”The heretic is with us, Cyrus. And I have, of course, observed her scar: the mark of the Zed is indeed a new one. But who put it there, Cyrus? Tell me that.”

“It was the work of Timur, Malik of the Grozny. She was his prisoner before she escaped and came to us.” Even as he was speaking, Cyrus was aware how unconvincing he sounded. The evidence he needed – the steady, honest gaze of Roxanne’s green eyes – was not to hand.

“I see,” responded Ozlam. “You were there, too, were you? You were also a prisoner of these Grozny and saw what actually happened?”

Cyrus shook his head. “Ah!” sighed Ozlam, clasping his hands together and smiling. “So this woman with a Zed tattoo came to you with a sad story – and you believed her? Well, why did you, Cyrus?”

“Because of her manner, because I just know she is honest,” said Cyrus desperately.

Ozlam shook his head and turned to Navid. “I hear your name is Navid?”

“Yes, er, High Father.”

Cyrus looked at him sharply. What was all this “High Father” business? Couldn’t Navid see the man was a poser and a bully?

“The name ‘Navid’ is pleasing,” chanted Ozlam with an empty smile. “So, friend Navid, you too believed Roxanne’s story?”

“Yeah. Well, yeah. Like Cyrus said, she seemed a good sort of person, someone we could trust, and he usually gets these things right, High Father.” Cyrus winced inwardly at the repetition of the title but said nothing.

“Seemed good…Mmm, yes. She does seem good, doesn’t she, Navid? Nevertheless, we Children of Gova prefer matters to be clearer. As clear as the might of the Great Gova himself.”

“Eh?” frowned Navid.

“Surely you remember our fence?”

“Of course. It’s amazing.”

“Amazing, certainly. A strong and visible sign of the mighty and mysterious strength of the Great Gova who keeps us safe day after day, moon after moon, winter after winter, generation after generation. And all we have to do is polish the mirror and give him thanks. Think about that, Navid. Think about that.”

Navid did not reply, but when Cyrus looked at him again, he saw the same far-away expression on his friend’s face, almost as if he were in a trance.

To Cyrus’ surprise and alarm, Taja was more outspoken. Yes, she told Ozlam, she had had doubts about Roxanne from the beginning. One always had to be careful of strangers in case they were spies or traitors.

“Be quiet, Taja!” Cyrus burst out. “Think of Roxanne!”

“That is precisely what she is doing,” cut in Ozlam. “It looks to me as if you have allowed this Z-marked woman to cast a spell on you.”

Cyrus struggled in vain to loosen the rope that held his wrists. “Rubbish! It’s you who are casting a spell, Ozlam! You won’t accept what she says because of what she knows. She understands what we don’t.”

“She is a heretic!”

“What does that mean? She warned me not to touch the fence, remember? Yes, she knows something about it.” Then, struggling to figure out what Roxanne knew and infuriated by his interrogator’s stubbornness, Cyrus blurted out, “She’s cleverer than you! She can see through this Gova rubbish, and she can read – ”

“Ah!” interrupted Ozlam. “Thank you. Another lie! She told me she was not able to read.”

Cyrus lowered his head. Oh, no! What had he done? He had betrayed the one person…How could he have been so foolish? Oh, Roxy! I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.

“You won’t hurt her, will you?” Cyrus said quietly, deciding further argument was futile.

The irony of the remark was not lost on Ozlam and his mouth twisted into a half-smile. Although his prisoners knew Roxanne was being held, they did not know sentence had already been passed on her.

“You forget, Cyrus, the Children of Gova are a peaceful people,” he said calmly. “Just as we do not possess weapons, so we do no violence. No, your Roxanne will not be hurt.”

“Thank you. And she will be returned to us soon?”

The High Father made no direct reply. Saying only “All will be revealed”, he turned and walked from the hall.

The three prisoners said not a word as they were led away to a small hut on the edge of the village. Night was falling fast and from somewhere near the hall a single male voice started to chant. It was an eerie, moaning sound, not regular like the singing of the crowd on the way back from the gate, but rising and falling like the wind. On and on it went, till the last glow of daylight had drained from the sky and a sheen of cold moonlight lit the bleak concrete shapes of the settlement.

Within their place of detention, the captive Constants lay on their beds of dried grass and tried in vain to sleep. Above the locked door, the iron bars in the only window threw sinister silhouettes across the floor. Outside, the mournful chant continued without a break. Cyrus, who had been trying desperately to contain his frustration and annoyance, finally burst out, “Taja, why did you say that to Ozlam?”

“I wondered when you would ask, Cyrus. Isn’t it obvious?”

He sat up, casting a long dark shadow across the room. “No, it’s not! Here we are, locked up by these crazy Gova people who’ve taken Roxanne goodness knows where – and then you say she might be a Zed! We’ve been over all that, haven’t we? It was hardly the time to stick a knife in her back. Remember why we’re here, Taja: the whole mission’s pointless without her.”

“Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus!” purred Taja. “Relax! Do you think that shouting at Ozlam, like you did, was going to do any good? It only annoyed him.”

“I was telling the truth, Taja. And I was doing it for Roxanne.”

“And look what happened. By revealing that she was literate, you got her still deeper into trouble. Even Navid was more subtle than that.”

“Was I? I don’t remember. Like Cyrus, I just spoke up straight.”

“Oh, come on, Nav!” snapped Cyrus, feeling increasingly isolated and miserable. “You told Ozlam this place was amazing.”

“Well, the fence is amazing, Cy, isn’t it? Brilliant.” He paused for a moment, listening to the chant reverberating through the still night air. “You know, I actually could live here. Might actually get used to this funny singing they do. Quite relaxing.”

“Nav, don’t be so stupid!” Cyrus was genuinely worried. “Anyway, you couldn’t stay here because of Corby. No animals, remember?”

Navid yawned. “Oh, yeah! Well, what I mean is, I could live here if Corby wasn’t around. And Roxanne, of course.”

“Well, they are,” replied Cyrus. “So that’s it, OK?”

“I suppose so. ‘Night, Cy! ‘Night, Taja! Hope Roxanne’s alright.” With that, Navid turned on his side and was soon asleep.

A while later, when Taja moved over and laid a hand on Cyrus’ shoulder, he shrugged it off.

“Relax, Cyrus,” she said quietly. “It’s not that bad.”

Isn’t it? he thought. He lay back and gazed up at the moonlight flooding in through the window. It couldn’t be much worse. Far from home, held captive by lunatics, Zavar dead, Taja being impossible, Navid coming up with those ridiculous ideas about staying here – and, worst of all, Roxanne stolen from him. He had known her only a matter of days and yet he missed her badly.

“Please be alright, Roxy,” he mouthed silently to himself, “and come back safe. Please!” Although he knew nothing of the concept, it was almost as if he were praying.

On the banks of the slow-flowing River No-Man, Sheza was also in need of comfort. He was regretting having ever picked a fight with so tough an opponent as Captain Jumshid. He might have been lighter and quicker, but these qualities were more than matched by the older man’s strength and experience.

Having picked himself out of the thorny scrub into which the Captain’s first blow had deposited him, Sheza found that skipping round Jumshid and taunting him with “Jum-Jum Dumb-Dumb” was both exhausting and ineffective. At some point, he had to close with his enemy and inflict serious damage.

Jumshid was also aware that it was up to Sheza to make a move, and he decided it would be on his terms. Somewhere to their right, a bird cried. The Captain deliberately flicked his eyes in the direction of the noise. It was a simple yet effective trick. Seeing what he thought was an opening, Sheza darted forward and aimed a vicious kick at Jumshid’s groin.

The Captain was waiting. With surprising agility for a large man, he grabbed the young man’s ankle in both hands, and gave a sharp twist to the left. A tendon-snapping crack was followed by a screech of pain. With a desperate heave, Sheza snatched his leg away and stepped backwards. The damaged knee instantly collapsed and he rolled headlong into the scrub for a second time.

“Who dumb-dumb now, Baby Lamb?” panted the Captain. “Jumshid winner, eh?”

Sheza lay there, breathing heavily and wiping away the blood streaming from his crumpled nose. The pain in his leg was excruciating. There was no way he’d be able to defeat this man in a straight fight, especially now he had taken such a battering. Deceit was the answer. What was it Timur had once said to him? “Clever lies take the prize.” That was it. He could still win, but he had to do it by cunning.

“Yes, Captain Jumshid,” he said, rising painfully to his feet, “you win. I will go your way, up the river.”

The Captain eyed him suspiciously. He might not have had Sheza’s education sessions, but he had been appointed to command because he was capable of thinking for himself. More or less. And like all Zeds who survived into their nineteenth year, he had learned to trust no one and be ready for anything at any time of night or day.

Animal instinct told him that Sheza was bent on swift revenge for his humiliation. Staring hard into his young rival’s blood-spattered face, the Captain made a plan.

“Good,” he muttered. “Baby Lamb see sense, eh?” Sheza nodded sullenly. “I show the way,” Jumshid added. “You come following.”

Picking up his weapon, a huge club with an iron spike embedded in the end, the Captain lumbered off along the bank, going upstream. Sheza grabbed his bow and limped painfully off in pursuit.

Jumshid reckoned it would take Sheza about twenty paces to draw an arrow from the quiver on his back, fit it to his bow, pull back the string, steady himself, take careful aim and…

Pretending to trip on a root, the Captain flung himself to the ground. His timing was perfect. The arrow sped over where his body had been moments earlier and splashed harmlessly into the river behind.

The veteran warrior sprang to his feet and turned to confront his would-be assassin. Sheza, trembling violently, struggled to pull another arrow from his quiver. “Er, shooting bird – for food,” he stammered. The second arrow fell impotently to the ground from his shaking fingers.

“Food?” bellowed Jumshid, tearing down the bank like an angry bear. “You be the food, Baby Lamb! Food for crockendiles!”

Swiping away the knife that Sheza had drawn to protect himself, the Captain grasped his opponent round the waist and squeezed. Ribs cracked like dry chicken bones. When the breath had been almost entirely crushed from the body, Jumshid dropped it to the ground like a sack of logs and stood over it, grinning.

Sheza was now too weak, too broken, to resist. Ignoring his pitiful moans, the Captain stretched out huge fists, grasped his human trophy by the hair and belt, and raised it high above his head. He held the pose for a few triumphant seconds. Finally, with a roar of victory and a mighty heave, he tossed the body far into the grey-brown stream.

The end came very quickly. Sheza resurfaced and splashed feebly towards the shore for a few strokes before the fan of sinister ripples closed in on him. There followed a short scream, a moment of furious thrashing, then silence. The only sign that Sheza had ever been on this planet was a small red stain upon the tranquil waters. By the time Jumshid had picked up his club and resumed his journey, even that had disappeared.

Cyrus was woken by the sound of the bar on the other side of the door being drawn back. The chanting, he noticed, had stopped. The door opened and one of the Magi entered, his cloaked silhouette sharp against the orange-blue of the dawn.

“Tell me where she is,” he demanded briskly. “And the dog.”

It took a few seconds for the questions to register. Navid was first to react. “What do you mean, ‘dog’?” he muttered, sitting up and feeling in vain for the axe that he had always kept at his bedside.

“The heretic and the dog have disappeared.”