The Line of Polity

10

With methodical determination and without much resort to the use of knives and forks, the boy munched his way through his dinner. Sitting at the table beside him the woman sipped distractedly at a cup of coffee and studied the open book propped on her knee.

"And thus it was," she said, "that Brother Serendipity was sent out to find his fortune amongst the compounds, but by the evil of the morlocks was driven out into the wilderness." The woman snorted and muttered, "Morlocks, my arse." Then continued with, "Upon the first day of those three numbered by his oxygen supply, he came upon the young heroyne starving in the flute grass."

The woman glanced across and saw that her audience was more intent on trying to spear a broiled shellfish than on the story. She continued anyway, " 'Please feed me for I have been abandoned and I am hungry, the creature begged. 'Why should I feed you when, with strength, you could eat me? asked Brother Serendipity. 'I give my word' the heroyne replied. 'Swear your word in the name of God and in the name of his prophet Zelda Smythe, the Brother demanded. So the heroyne swore and Brother Serendipity gave it one third of the meat cake the old woman by the…" The woman stopped and closed the book to check the front cover. It still read Mortal Tales and still bore a picture of a gabbleduck eating a priest, just like her son was tucking into his bread soldiers.

She shrugged and went on: "Thus it was that the heroyne followed him into the night and no other creature attacked him. The Brother's piety and goodness of heart had saved him."

The woman made a gagging sound and scrolled the text down further.

The Reverend Epthirieth Loman Dorth stood in the viewing room of his tower, gazing out upon the canted ceiling of the Up Mirror of Faith, and thought that this must be how God felt. Stepping closer to the bulging windows of Polity chainglass, he stared down into the vast well of the Faith cylinder world into which the Up Mirror reflected sunlight, and observed the swirls of cloud over the wondrous buildings and vast gardens contained therein, which blurred and faded down to the bright eye of the Down Mirror at the far end of the world. With a light touch through his aug — his Gift — he received the impression of thousands of communications being conducted against the strong background swell of prayer throughout the upper channels from the Friars of the Septarchies: this being the way they had found, at last, to prevent the mind of Behemoth from invading their own. When the creature had first come with the gift of its augs, it had seemed an envoy of God, but they had soon seen the ambivalence of its generosity. The biotech devices gave them great power to communicate, to control, to understand, but enabled the creature itself to slowly assert its will over them through the upper channels. Now the Friars prayed, day and night in shifts, thousands of them, to keep the mind of Behemoth at bay.

When he heard the door hissing open behind him and the stamp of feet as the soldiers halted and came to attention, he did not turn. A brief probe told him who was there, and why they were there.

"Is he ready?" he asked, seeking verbal confirmation as, even with the protection of prayer, the Gift was not to be trusted.

"He is, Hierarch," said one of the men.

Loman turned, relishing that title, but also wondering if Major Claus was seeking advancement. The man stood with two subordinates, all three of them well armed and armoured. Claus was immaculate but for blood spattered up one leg; however, the others wore filthy and torn uniforms. All three of the men looked bone weary, but at least they could still stand upright, and in that had the advantage over many of their fellows. It had been a long hard struggle, but well worth the prize.

"Claus, do not call me Hierarch until after my investiture. It would be best to let the Council continue with the illusion that they have retained some power. Now, let's go and see to Amoloran's… disinvestiture."

The three fell in behind him as he exited the tower room. Loman glanced sideways and noted how Claus had moved in close to his left — the position of an advisor and one who shared in the ultimate position. He considered sending the man a pace or two back, then rejected the idea. The reality of the power game was that you needed the army on your side and, thus far, Claus had served a purpose, though he would be removed when the time was right.

"Reverend, I should also let you know that your brother has returned from Cheyne III with bad news: Brom has been killed and his organization is broken," said Claus.

Loman hesitated at the head of the spiral staircase which wound down beside one glass wall of the tower, as he checked this news through his aug. "No matter, there will always be others to fight the Polity on our behalf and they will never have sufficient reason to come here once Ragnorak has done its work." Glancing at the Major, Loman saw that the man looked dubious and wanted to make some comment on that. Loman went on, "It is all planned for. We are the Chosen, and we will not fail."

"As you will, Reverend," said Claus, which was not entirely the wholehearted response Loman would have liked, but that was probably due to the Major's weariness.

Feeling generous Loman went on, "After Ragnorak, I feel that you will have much work to do on the surface, Commander Claus."

They descended the stairs to the large chamber Loman had chosen for his own investiture later, and as they did so, he could not help but speculate on how much this tower of Amoloran's had cost in precious resources. Every step was a grav-plate, every one of the tower's fifty floors was tiled with them, and the security system — as he well knew — was particularly advanced. Of course that system had not proved sufficient when the power lines leading from solar panels mounted below the Up Mirror had been severed. It had been remiss of Amoloran to rely too heavily on the Gift — the men he, Loman, had sent to cut the power had been recruited from the surface, so were without augs to be detected; and, with a sufficient promise of future influence, the Septarchy Friars had clogged other channels that might have given things away.

Only half of the Council were present: those others who had supported the previous hierarch either taking their own lives maybe at that very moment, or, if they had the wealth to possess such, fleeing in their own crafts. The four hundred soldiers Claus had led in here were currently arrayed around the walls, or scattered through the crowd that was now, very quickly, growing silent. Loman moved out into the open space rapidly cleared at the foot of the stairs and gazed around. Many private channels were open, but he did not feel inclined to force his way in to them, as he knew what most of these people would be thinking. In the end it did not matter what they thought or discussed, just so long as they obeyed.

Set up at the back of the room was the pillar and the frame and he noticed how many Council members of questionable loyalty were glancing at this device nervously. After a moment, one member of the crowd broke away and approached to drop on one knee and take up Loman's hand. The Reverend Loman gazed down into the expressionless face of his brother.

"You return at an opportune time," said Loman.

"I would have come sooner, Reverend, but Brom was cowardly and was hesitating to send his people against the Cereb runcible. And he hesitated too long," Aberil replied.

Loman beckoned him to rise to his feet and opened a private link with him. "You were sent on a fool's errand anyway. Supplying Separatists gives the Polity an opening through which they can reach us. We must not overextend ourselves and we must be patient."

Aberil replied, "Amoloran was without focus or sufficient faith, and he would have destroyed us with his foolishness. You have done the right thing, brother."

"I have done what is required of me by God."

"As do we all."

Loman waved Aberil behind him, to his right side — a position Aberil took with some alacrity. Now Loman turned to Claus. "Let it be done," he said.

Claus gave the signal to his men at the back of the chamber, and the crowd parted as Amoloran was marched out, guards supporting him on either side as his legs kept giving way. The old man looked bewildered and terrified — as was only right. Loman noted with some distaste the bright yellow urine stains down the front of the disposable coverall he had earlier been dressed in. The guards dragged him to the frame and began tearing away his coverall as Loman advanced to stand before him. Amoloran resisted them, but to no avail, and soon he was naked and fighting only the obdurate metal that held him cruciform before the crowd.

Tilting his head towards Claus, Loman asked, "Did he have a way out?"

Claus held out his hand, in the palm of which rested three small translucent capsules. "Implanted under his fingernails. He also had a nerve jammer concealed in his neck jewel — and this." Claus held out a beautiful tool of old stainless steel — a spoon with its edges honed sharp.

"You think he would kill himself with a sculping tool?" asked Loman. "I think that gouging out his own eyes would not have been the way he would like to go."

Claus shook his head and pointed at the tool. "Neurotoxin in the handle, to be pumped through micropores in the edges, your reverence. Primarily used to cause pain, but there's the option to pump out the full amount, so one cut would cause instant death."

As he hung the tool on one of his own belt hooks, Loman nodded to himself: this was always how it happened — those of high rank always had a way to kill themselves should the situation require it, and always realized too late when that situation occurred. Himself, he had similar nerve-poison capsules implanted under his fingernails, and he would use them before it ever came to this for him.

"You left him his Gift, I see," he said.

Claus looked momentarily worried. "I thought it best to leave that decision to you."

"Remove it now."

Claus fisted his own chest then strode over to the old man in the frame.

"No… no, you can't," Amoloran gasped as Claus closed his fingers around the scaled aug behind the old man's ear. Amoloran screeched when Claus tore it off and cast it on the floor. There came an ominous muttering from the crowd, quickly stilled as Loman glanced around at them.

To all, through his aug, he broadcast, "He loved the Gift more than God. Will anyone here listen to his spoken confession?"

No one stepped forward.

"Have you chosen the program?" Aberil asked.

Loman glanced at him. "No, brother. Do you have any suggestions?"

"I have, and with a healthy individual it can last for eight hours." Aberil stared at the aged Hierarch, his expression now containing more animation than was customary. "Let me."

Loman waved him to go ahead and Aberil quickly went over to a console at the side of the pillar and started tapping away with relish. The frame began to rise, and all around it the knives and bone saws, electric probes and injectors began to sprout and revolve. Amoloran let out a yell, then bowed his head and began the prayer of the Fifth Satagent — the choice of many who faced this fate.

Loman gazed around at the crowd again. They were all watching with avid and in some cases slightly sick expressions — but they were all watching. Aberil's torture programs were legendary, so perhaps many of them hoped to learn something here.

"See the betrayer of God's word," said Loman out loud, holding up one admonitory finger. "He would have had us attack each other while our enemy encroached upon our world. He would allow Behemoth back amongst us. And in the end he would have had us sacrifice love of God for love of technology." Amoloran was now babbling quickly through the last verses of his prayer, which was somewhat distracting. Loman raised his voice. "See, this is what will happen to any who would undermine our destiny. Ragnorak comes now to lance the infection on the planet below us, and as it heals we can turn outward to face our enemy. We are—"

The low thud perfectly punctuated the last verse of Amoloran's prayer. Loman glared upwards and gobbets of flesh spattered his face, just as they did with many of those who stood about him. He pulled something lumpy from his forehead and stared with disgust at the piece of bone and brain he held between his forefinger and thumb. Amoloran hung quivering in the frame. He retained his jaw, but the rest of his head had disappeared. Loman turned and marched angrily away — Claus, then Aberil, hurrying to catch up with him.

"I'm sorry," said Claus. "I'll punish that idiot on the scanner."

"Interesting one," admitted Loman. "Explosive grafts in the bone of his skull. Detonated, apparently, by a recitation of the Fifth Satagent."

Upon reaching the stairs, he turned once again to face the vast room. Studying face after face in turn, he detected only blank or sympathetic expressions — no one in sight dared show any amusement at his embarrassment. Glancing at Aberil he sent, "I think you know."

Aberil's knife was out and slicing across Claus's throat before the man had a chance to realize he was in danger, then Aberil tripped him and sent him flying face-down to the floor, to prevent him spraying too much blood over Loman.

Wiping a few spatters from his robe, Loman said, "It's good to have family with one in such situations. Welcome home, First Commander Aberil."

Scar was behaving quite strangely, but then perhaps that was understandable considering he was now inside the twin of the vast entity that might have been described as his mother. The dracoman, rather than holding himself to his customary stillness, had released himself from his seat and was pushing his way round the craft in agitation. Cormac was also agitated — they had survived, but it seemed debatable how much longer they might do so. The clonks and slitherings had centred on the airlock and now he could hear a low ratcheting sound.

"Dragon, what are you doing?" he asked, his finger pressed down on the com button.

"I am coming in," Dragon replied, which was not exactly a comfort.

Cormac noticed the Outlinker's head come up at this, and how the boy reached his hand up to the hood of his exoskeleton.

Noticing Cormac's attention, Apis said, "Both airlocks can be opened from outside."

Of course — this was a fact of which Apis was well aware.

"I wouldn't bother with your hood or mask," said Cormac. "If Dragon wants to kill us now, there's not a lot we can do about it." He glanced towards Gant, noticing that, even though the Golem cradled an APW as he undid his seat straps, his expression was resigned.

"It seems to me that Dragon must have some purpose for us," opined Mika, her attention focused on Scar. She still looked ill, but the inhaler she had just used seemed to be having some effect; at least she hadn't yet required another sick-bag.

"But what purpose?" asked Cormac. "We know it's pissed off at the Masadans and intends some damage there, but in my experience when Dragon intends to do some damage it usually involves large smoking craters. I can't see why it wants us at all, unless it intends to throw this landing craft at one of the Theocracy cylinder worlds."

Now there came sounds from the inner door of the lock, and as a group they pushed themselves up from their seats and moved over to the opposite side of the craft. As the wheel of the lock spun, Cormac sensed something of what the previous occupants of this craft must have felt when Apis had opened it to vacuum. The door cracked open, and all down its edge fleshy fingers intruded, dark red and covered with scales. Slowly, working on its hydraulics, the door continued to open, and in this Cormac felt some comfort. Knowing Dragon's capabilities he felt it a good sign that the door was being allowed to open at its own rate and had not been already ripped off its hinges. This meant it likely Dragon wanted to keep this landing craft in a usable condition. He just hoped it wanted the same for its occupants.

Fully open, the door revealed fleshy chaos: a pit of ophidian pseudopods terminating in flat cobra heads, each containing a single pupilless blue eye where a mouth should have been; tangles of thinner red tentacles; fleshy webs as of those between the toes of an aquatic reptile binding much of this mass together; and visual flashes of cavernous life beyond. The craft filled with the smell of cloves, of burnt meat, and of a terrarium. The mass oozed its way in, pseudopods hooking up into the air with their blue eyes darting in every direction; then a new addition forced its way through, and rose above them. This had a ribbed snakelike body, pterosaur head and sapphire eyes. Cormac experienced definite deja vu and wondered what opaque conversation would now ensue.

"I am dying, Ian Cormac," said the pterosaur head.

Cormac pushed himself away from the wall towards the centre of the craft, hooking the toe of his boot on the seat back and folding his arms across his chest. "I've heard that one before."

The head turned so that its eyes focused on Scar. "But I will live," it added.

This was more like the Dragon of old: conversations that were like a sorting of wheat from chaff and discovering potatoes.

"What do you mean?"

The head swung back towards Cormac, spraying milky saliva across the rows of seats below him. Not for the first time Cormac wondered how many heads like this each Dragon sphere possessed, or if they could manufacture them at will — as they did dracomen.

"I will destroy the laser arrays," it said.

"Well, that's… helpful."

"They have five ships equivalent to Polity mu-class battleships."

"Of the type you've already encountered?" suggested Cormac.

"That one did not survive the encounter."

Cormac noticed Apis flinch.

"You didn't exactly get off lightly," Cormac said.

"I will not get off at all this time."

Now, despite not intending to be dragged into one of those circular and somewhat pointless conversations Dragon seemed to specialize in, Cormac could not help but yield to his own confusion. "So why the hell are you going there?"

"To live again."

It figured.

"What do you want with us?" Cormac asked.

"As I destroy their laser arrays and satellites, your descent will be unhindered. Rebellion will then come to the Theocracy, and my legions will arise."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Did that mu-class battleship fry part of your brain?"

The head swung once more towards Scar.

"I name thee Cadmus," it said, and withdrew as it had come, the lock closing behind it.

"What was that all about?" asked Mika, and all that had just occurred had sufficiently bemused Cormac so that it took him a moment to realize that she had actually asked a question.

He turned to her. "Shame you chose that question for your initiation into the world of normal conversation. I haven't a clue."

"Seems things are going our way… sort of," said Gant, easing his grip on his APW when he found that he had crushed the stock.

"Yeah, and that worries me," Cormac replied, then turned to Scar. "What was that Cadmus stuff about?"

Staring fixedly at the airlock, Scar replied, "I do not know."

"I know who Cadmus was," Apis suddenly said, and they all turned to gaze at him. He went on, "He is a man from Greek myth — on Earth. We were learning about Greek myths in our history lessons, as Farins, our teacher, says that a general knowledge of humanity is necessary even if your intended career is only in metallurgy." Apis paused and took a breath, and Cormac wondered if this same Farins had been on the destroyed Masadan ship. Apis continued, "Cadmus was a man who killed a dragon then pulled out its teeth and sowed them in the ground. From the teeth grew men who were going to kill him, until he threw a precious stone amongst them. They started killing each other as they sought to possess this stone. Those that remained alive joined him, and helped him build something… a city I think…" Apis ran out of words.

"I remember now," said Mika. "There's something else: a Cadmean victory is a victory purchased at great loss."

This was a discussion Cormac no longer wanted to pursue. "Let's get those cold-coffins ready," he said.

Soil had often become displaced by slippery stone and spills of scree descending from above, and now there were very few lizard tails — those they did see appearing stunted — and no sign of any flute grass. The molluscs she had earlier seen lower down were here flatter to the rock, duller in colour, and more chaotic in their patterning. Coming to a steep rocky cliff face, Fethan led the way to the right, cutting across the slope.

"How much further?" Eldene gasped, stopping to remove her oxygen pack and change to her last air bottle.

Fethan stopped to observe her. "We'll need to find some shelter for the night, and with luck we'll be there sometime tomorrow. You've got more than enough to suffice, girl."

Was he just saying that to comfort her, perhaps hoping that her remaining oxygen might stretch to their destination? She gazed around her as she stood to hoist her pack back into place. Well, if she was to die, then this was a better place than keeling over in a sluice ditch down by the ponds. She resolved that on her last breath, when the breather's display tag on its oxygen tube clicked down to zero — as it had just then with the previous bottle — she would remove the mask and put the barrel of Volus's gun in her mouth.

Fethan led the way around the side of the mountain, onto a narrow path that — Eldene noted by the imprints — must have been made by some animal. A grazer of some kind? Or something more sinister? She was about to pose this question when they rounded a promontory on which something stood observing them.

The animal squatting on its hindquarters had the same double sets of forelimbs folded across its triple-keeled chest as a gabbleduck. Its head was not beaked though: below its tiara of green eyes, it had a pendulous snoutlike protrusion that must serve it as a mouth.

Fethan gestured at it dismissively. "Grazer. They suck a fungal slime from the underside of rocks. Completely harmless."

Hurrying to catch up with him, Eldene was not so sure — she did not like the way it was watching her as it contemplatively scratched its snout with one of the hooked foreclaws.

"And what eats them up here?" she asked.

"Hooders and siluroynes," Fethan stated briefly.

After the promontory, they came upon a vista of valley cutting through the mountains, and began to descend by natural stony steps. On the flat stone Eldene saw the rain-etched shapes of fossilized worms glinting with iron pyrites, and she suddenly felt the huge injustice of it all: she had been born on this planet, raised on it and now, as she entered womanhood, was the first time she had really seen or experienced it. For generations there had been surface dwellers who had lived and died without seeing a fraction of what she had seen over the last few days. Was this fair? Was this what any God would intend?

As they descended, Eldene heard the rumble of a river, and gazing down could see it glinting between stands of flute grass, but slowly this view was becoming obscured by waves of mist rolling down the valley. The path began to get slippery and she almost fell twice, so rapt was she in studying the odd, brightly coloured outgrowths on the rocky slopes to either side of her. These things were something like blister moss, but smoother and flatter, and grew in pure colours of blue, orange and red. Set in the ground between them ran strands like inlaid silver.

"That's what the grazers up here feed on," Fethan explained, noting the focus of her attention. "Watch your footing now: that's sporulated slime on the rocks, and it'll get worse."

It did get worse, and Eldene went down twice on her backside — the second time sliding down right behind Fethan. However, she did not manage to knock him over — colliding with him was like running into a deeprooted tree. He himself did not slip once on the way down.

Soon they were walking up again, through cold mist beside the river, mountain slopes on their left and long grass rustling on their right. Despite all the exertion, Eldene found herself getting colder and colder as now, closely following Calypse, the sun dropped from sight behind the mountains and afternoon slid into twilight. In this poor light Eldene could only just discern the squarish things that flapped overhead and honked mournfully.

"What are those?" she asked.

"Kite-bats — harmless again," Fethan replied.

As it got darker, the bats moved higher up and further away, their cries echoing in the mountains. When something emitted a gasping hiss in the flute grasses behind her, she jumped, then suddenly found herself shivering. For a time she kept silent, not wanting to keep asking about every strange sound, but when the same sound came again she could not stop herself.

"What was that?" she asked of Fethan, who had stopped and was peering back in the direction of the noise.

"I haven't a clue," he replied, then waved her on past him. "Just keep going."

She did that thing, feeling her flesh crawling as she remembered the old man's mention of 'siluroynes' and 'hooders'. She even considered drawing the gun, but her hands were shaking so badly now she'd probably shoot her own foot off.

"About another two hours and we cut back up the slope," Fethan told her. "There's a cave there where we can shelter for the night."

Great: a nice cold, damp cave — just what she needed.

As night descended the sound was heard again, as if whatever made it was keeping pace with them. Now they distinctly heard something pushing through the flute grass, its passage followed by a clicking sigh. Eldene wondered if she would feel so frightened if she knew what that sound issued from.

"Let's move back up the slope," Fethan suggested. "We're a bit too close to the grass here."

Eldene quickly obeyed him, with images of something like that gabbleduck or the heroyne lunging out at her, clamping down and dragging her screaming back into the flute grasses to be consumed. She laboured on up the slippery slope, spilling rocks and dislodging fungi, slipping and grazing her knees. That didn't matter — she just wanted to get higher. Glancing back she experienced a sudden terror — Fethan had vanished. She moved faster, fell hard, got up and kept going. The slope finally levelled and she found a flat stretch where she could pick up her pace. Down below, more movement, and she could just about discern something huge thrashing about in the grasses. Next thing, Fethan was running along beside her… She did a double take: it wasn't Fethan. It was a big heavy-boned man dressed in combat gear, breather mask and helmet. He caught her arm and dragged her off course.

"This way. He's leading it off."

She considered fighting him off, but was just too frightened. He certainly did not look like a proctor. So she ran with him, sometimes supported by him, sometimes supporting him when he stumbled. Gasping for breath, she was wondering how much further she could manage to run when he tugged her by the arm towards a tumble of massive boulders. Rounding the first boulder, two other people appeared and shoved her past them into a cave in which a fire was burning. Standing amid equipment stacked on the floor, she stared at the three now crouching at the cave mouth, heavy rifles clutched in readiness.

"What was it?" asked the only woman of the three: her hair and one side of her face concealed under a military-issue coms helmet.

"Didn't see it clearly," said the man she addressed. "I'd just eye-balled Fethan and this one heading our way when it started to come out of the valley after them. It was big."

The woman studied him for a moment then turned to Eldene. "Did you see it?"

Eldene shook her head in bewilderment.

"Whoa," said the woman, now speaking into her helmet mike. "That you, Fethan?" She listened for a moment then her expression paled. "Fuck," she said succinctly and stared out again into the night.

"What is it, Lellan?" the second man asked her.

"He's leading it away," she replied. "Says he'll be back with us by morning."

"Lellan…" the man said warningly.

"Seems we got ourselves a hooder out there."

Eldene studied the sick expressions worn by these three heavily armed individuals and wondered just how terrible a hooder could be.

"You're Lellan Stanton," she said at last.

"Yeah," replied the woman. "Welcome to the Underworld." Then she faced back out into the night.

As the ship drew away, Hierarch Loman gazed into the mouth of Faith and contemplated his work. It had been said that on Amoloran's ascension a red mist had swept through the cylinder world from the bodies of the thousands who had been tortured and killed. Not wishing to be outdone, Loman had ordered the Up Mirror to be painted with the blood of traitors, to cast a red light into the world, for a thousand days. His technical advisors had nervously informed him of the impracticality of doing this in vacuum, but then quickly told him how the reflective surfaces did allow for an amount of tunable refraction — usually to prevent too much ultraviolet being reflected in. So now the light of Faith was red, though only for a maximum of ten days — anything beyond that would start killing the plants in the gardens.

"A jewel in your crown," Aberil commented.

Loman turned to him and nodded, before scanning the rather cramped cabin in which he and his brother had been installed.

"Amoloran should not have sent the General Patten. What was he thinking?" he asked.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa as if distrustful of its comfort, Aberil replied, "He had the ridiculous idea that Outlinkers might serve as hostages should the Polity decide to come in; also the idea that in their gratitude at being rescued they might help upgrade the laser arrays and close some of the gaps in coverage. Had he spent a little less time killing off those technicians who disagreed with him, that would not have become necessary."

Loman winced and briefly wondered if he himself had been a bit hasty in having the chief mirror technician thrown out of the upper tower window into vacuum. Then he dismissed the idea: the man had been impertinent, and could have at least attempted the blood-painting idea.

"Reverend Hierarch, we are ready to U-jump upon your order," spoke a voice from a console set into one wall.

"Then do so," said Loman, waving his hand dismissively.

After a short delay, the viewing screen turned black and engines thrummed deep within the ship. Loman grimaced, well aware that Polity ships did not need to warm up like this before dropping into underspace, and that grav-plates were used throughout their ships, not just in one luxury suite like this. He looked around it contemptuously.

"Now all our plans mesh," he said. "You are sure that no possible connection can be made between the mycelium and us?"

Aberil shook his head. "Our agent entered the Polity at Cheyne III, and travelled via many worlds before finally coming to Miranda, and even he did not know what he was taking there. He thought he was taking a listening device to install on a communications array, and anyway the virus we also gave him before he set out killed him shortly after he delivered the mycelium. Our only problem will be Behemoth himself, should he inform the Polity he gave us the mycelium twenty years ago."

"Ah, but would the Polity believe him? I think not. They will assume he has done the same as his twin did on Samarkand, and so seek to destroy him. Behemoth will flee them," said Loman. "Soon we will be utterly free of this Tempter."

"God willing," added Aberil.

Loman walked away from the screen and dropped into the sofa beside his brother. "And once free of him, we can at last excise this cancer that grows at the heart of our civilization." He paused and reached up to touch his aug, discomfited by this much-needed Gift. "How long until Ragnorak is ready?" He picked up the inhaler provided to prevent U-space sickness — another aspect of space travel that Polity citizens supposedly did not have to suffer.

"Construction is completed. It will just take another month to move it into position. If Amoloran had started moving it after the construction of the initial framework, it would have been there by now. For some reason he wanted it ready before it was moved."

Loman thought that he understood Amoloran's motivations: having Ragnorak already working whilst it was towed past the cylinder worlds to its orbital position would certainly terrify any aspiring usurpers on Hope, Faith and Charity. He stared at the black screen for a long moment before taking a pull on his inhaler.

Aberil did the same before saying, "You called my mission to supply the Cheyne III Separatists a 'fool's errand'…"

"Amoloran was too unsubtle, and not sufficiently ruthless when the situation required it," Loman replied. "He would never have made so decisive a move as we in planting that mycelium. Yet he wanted us to risk supplying Separatist groups on the Line — an action that gains us very little. We must get our own house in order. It is the Polity way that they never take over a stable system, as that would seem unacceptably militaristic to many of its member worlds. We will rid ourselves of the Underworld, and thereafter give the Polity no reason to attempt to seize control of us." He paused as the whole cabin seemed to distort, and he experienced the sensation of weightlessness even though the grav-plates in the cabin held him firm. Feeling slightly nauseous despite the inhaler, he went on, "The Polity cannot continue to expand, and without the guiding morality of God it will eventually be torn apart by internecine conflict. We will assist it along that course, but subtly — keeping ourselves distant and safe."

"You believe this… Hierarch?" asked Aberil.

"How can I doubt? A civilization run by soulless machines cannot succeed. God will not allow it to succeed."

"Yes, that is true," said Aberil. "God would not allow it."

"You have to understand our destiny, Aberil. You have to see the larger picture. We are an outpost of the truth, and when the Polity falls, as it must, we will bring that truth back to its worlds."

"I try not to doubt, Reverend, but sometimes it is hard when one considers the Polity. It contains thousands of colonized worlds, between which its citizens can travel in an instant. It has hundreds of thousands of ships, many of them the size of Calypse's moons, and many of them capable of destroying planets…"

Loman snorted. "Have you been away so long that you have come to believe Polity propaganda?"

"No, Hierarch."

Loman stood and took yet another pull on his inhaler before marching up again to the black viewing screen. This was the sort of thing he should instantly quell: the inflation of rumour and myth about the omnipotent Polity. Now to hear such idiocy from the mouth of his own brother. He slapped his hand against the screen and turned.

"Perhaps I do not do you justice. The Polity does have wonderful technologies, but you must never forget that it does not have our heart. Remember that no matter how large or powerful it is, we have already manipulated it to our own ends. Behemoth has fled and, like our hunting dog unleashed, the Polity will hunt him down."

Aberil nodded, his face expressionless. "Yes, Hierarch."

As if to punctuate this conversation, the ship now dropped out of underspace and the atmosphere of the cabin returned to some form of normality. Loman pocketed his inhaler then turned and rested his hands against the bottom rim of the screen, which now showed only starlit space. After a moment, he reached out and adjusted the view on the screen to show a massive structure out in vacuum. For a long time he had been puzzled as to why the appearance of Ragnorak bothered him so. It was only after searching databanks that he discovered a similar shape in the image files used to teach ancient history. There he found what he had been reminded of: the lethal device they were constructing was the Eiffel Tower displaced into orbit above Calypse.

"I didn't understand what you said about Polity field technology," he said, turning back to observe his brother, completely unaware that what he was asking made his previous haughty pronouncements laughable.

Aberil picked up an incendiary bullet he had earlier been using as a model. He held it up before his face. "Each kinetic missile weighs one tonne. If we fired them at Masada, at the velocities Ragnorak is capable of generating, they would explode in upper atmosphere. What we're using is a Polity shimmer-shield over the nose cone of each. It reduces friction sufficiently for the missiles to reach the surface. During penetration they'll turn to plasma, which will burn downwards up to a kilometre. Each of their caves will be filled with this — it will be as if a fusion bomb had been detonated down there."

"Losses on the surface?" asked Loman.

"About thirty per cent," Aberil replied.

"A price we have to pay," Loman said, wondering how long, after these kinetic missile strikes, it would take before the trade in luxury proteins could recommence.