6

The sound of a roaring waterfall drowned out Joe Carter’s words. Gideon saw the display on the far wall as they entered the conapt, a hyperrealistic representation of a mountain river cascading down sheer cliffs.

"Don’t you have anything a little quieter?" he shouted. Joe took a handset from his pocket.

"Sure. How about Desert Oasis?"

"Anything, as long as it’s quiet. I have a pounding headache."

The roaring vanished. The waterfall shimmered and became a landscape of golden sand and leaning palm trees. A camel grazed in the distance. "Curve drive disagrees with you? I’ll get you something for the pain."

Gideon thought Carter meant a tablet. He returned with a bottle of whisky and two shot glasses. Gideon examined the label after Carter had poured two measures. The whisky was over two hundred years old.

"To Anskar?" Carter suggested, raising the glass.

"To CASPAR," Gideon countered, a little stuffily, raising his glass and stiffening in an old officers’ mess salute. The glasses clinked, a little too forcibly.

"I wish you hadn’t jumped ship," Carter said, settling into a low couch near the panoramic window. The fires of the night’s trouble twinkled over the city. "I had hoped for a smoother handover to you. I’d hate to leave Anskar in a mess." He grinned and drained the whisky.

Gideon felt his hand tightening on the whisky glass. He had arrived here in the middle of a civil war, unbriefed, unprepared, and all this stupid old man could do was grin at him as if nothing was wrong and make weak excuses as to why he hadn’t informed CASPAR of the problems this planet was facing. Already Gideon was formulating in his mind the report he would send back to CASPAR. If Carter thought he was heading for a peaceful retirement somewhere quiet, he was wrong.

"I’m not happy about this situation, Joe. I want a full briefing from all your - my - departmental heads as soon as possible. You must appreciate the situation I’m in. I was assured this was a safe planet. I’m bringing my family here in a few weeks. To a planet riven with strife and alien unrest."

"Well, it is Saturday night," said Carter, smiling. "What do you expect?"

A lifter thundered by, close to the pyramid wall, so close that Gideon could see the CASPAR sigil on the fuselage. It peeled away, searchlights strobing the streets below, and headed to the west over the bay.

"I don’t expect this is the first colony world you’ve visited," Carter said. "You know how things work this far out on the Rim. We like to look after our own affairs. We don’t want squadrons of death troopers descending on us every time we have a little, how shall I put it, local trouble?"

"So a new colony commander has to come in cold?" Gideon retorted. "To save you some paperwork and a little embarrassment?"

"To save a planet!" Carter thundered, his face suddenly betraying his anger. He white-knuckled the glass in his hand. "I know you’re their golden boy. I know you’re a member of the Clan. But I know that you’re also a good man. You can’t be in league with what they’re up to, Gideon. Cracking down hard on every little sign of democracy. Marking everyone like cattle. No one is exempt. See this?" He rolled up his sleeve. There was a pale patch on the inside of his right forearm, where a coded implant had been inserted a few days before by a CASPAR medical team. "Did you think it was just for the little people? They don’t trust any of us."

"It’s nothing sinister," Gideon said. "It’s an administrative move. It’s a big galaxy, Joe. How can you expect them to keep track of everyone?"

"Why should they?"

Gideon shook his head. "Your attitude is treasonous, Joe. I’ve never heard anyone in your position talk like this."

Carter snorted. "Then you’ve not spent enough time out on the Rim. There’s discontent brewing, Gideon. With or without Omar Tannenbaum, things are going to explode. What side will you be on when the dust clears?"

"I know exactly where my loyalties lie. Do you?"

Carter shook his head. "Don’t excuse me of treason, Gideon. You don’t even know me. I’m as loyal a CASPAR officer as you’ll find outside Terra, not that they’d ever have me in your precious Clan. And don’t think I’ve been harbouring any sympathies for Tannenbaum either. He may be voicing the same opinion as me, but he’s a terrorist, plain and simple. I’d kill the bastard myself if I could find him."

Carter took a deep breath. "I’ve been colony commander since Citadel was just a collection of plastic shelters, I guess that’s why I feel so protective towards it."

Gideon could see that in Carter’s eyes. He had spent half his life in the service of this planet. It was, in retrospect, understandable that he didn’t want heavy-handed interference every time he made a potentially alarming report to Terra. Gideon could appreciate that. He shook his head. The whisky had exacerbated the headache, not cleared it. He would still have to make some kind of report back to Terra. But maybe it would not be quite as damning as he first planned. He would wait until after he had met his departmental heads, and gauge the extent of the problems for himself.

"You’re concerned about the Felinians too."

"Hmm. Not as serious a problem, I don’t think, but a problem all the same. You’ll have to consult with your Provost on that one, but I suggest you read Straker’s book - Kane will have, I assure you - and absorb as much information as you can. The loss of their king and queen will have created a power vacuum. The crown princess Lilianthi is an unknown quantity. The nomadic tribes may take the chance to escalate their border wars. The worker caste might seize the opportunity to rebel. Maybe they’ll all want to come and live in Citadel and wear leather jackets and listen to Elvis. I don’t know. All I know is, whenever the Felinians have trouble, it spills over on to our streets. " He crossed the room and took a large bound book from a row of several on a shelf. He handed it to Gideon. "Straker’s book. Look after it, it’s one of the original editions."

Gideon examined the heavy book in his hands. Red imitation leather binding, gold embossed title - ANSKAR - A STUDY OF THE PLANET, INDIGENOUS LIFE AND INHABITANTS BY DR JONATHON STRAKER, PROFESSOR OF XENOBIOLOGY, UNIVERSITY OF CASPAR, TERRA.

"A book? Don’t you have it in a database form?"

Carter laughed. "What’s the matter, Gideon, never read a book before? Try it, you might like it. But in case you have difficulty, there’s an omnibook reader in the inside back cover. Fully searchable."

Gideon flicked to the back cover. A slim screen and keypad was tucked inside a plastic wallet.

"Straker came here with the first colonists over twenty five years ago. He was a professor of zoology back on Terra. Well, he kind of became redundant once most of the wildlife died out. Specialist in African big cats, I believe. So he took off for the Rim in search of what he had lost back home. I guess he was in second heaven when the reports came back from here. CASPAR, as it was at the time, gave him special dispensation to ‘go native’ and the Felinians accepted him amongst them for over ten years. He came back to Citadel to write this book, and died soon after. The Felinians came and took back his body, gave it a traditional funeral that no human was allowed to witness. That’s how much they thought of him."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Just the once, a few days before he died."

Gideon studied the cover of the book, ran his thumb over the deep gold embossing.

"We’ve got off the wrong foot," said Carter, refilling both their glasses. "Let’s start again. I’m here for another two days, Gideon, before I ship out. I have an itinerary planned for you, you can check it out on your personal terminal here and let me know if it suits you. There’s a farewell ball and public vision broadcast tomorrow night that I would appreciate if you would attend. You’ll get to meet the Skuza ambassador and a number of influential local citizens, and your departmental heads as well. Could be a good idea to meet them socially before you do so professionally."

"I prefer to do things the other way around," Gideon said dryly.

"Well, you don’t have much choice. After tonight’s trouble I’ll have great difficulty in getting them all together before tomorrow night. Then we’ll get on with the business of familiarising you with what you’ve inherited."

Gideon nodded. "Where are you heading, Joe? Back to Terra?"

"No. Anskar’s gravity is a little lower than Terra’s as you’ve probably noticed, puts a real spring in your step. I’ve lived in low gravity for over twenty five years. I’d need a heart pump and bone and muscle implants if I wanted to go home. Besides, I don’t remember it being a very nice place. Must have been some reason why I left in the first place! No, Terra’s not for me. My son Hiro is a CASPAR liaison officer on Tellulah Prime. It’s a sub-tropical world and the gravity’s a shade less than Anskar’s. Just the place for an old man to see out his days with his grandchildren."

"What about your wife, Joe?"

"Kiko? Well, she’s got to stay here. She died two years back, retrovirus brought in from deep space. I’ll show you her grave before I leave. I had considered exhuming her but she loved it here, I don’t think she wants to be disturbed. I’d appreciate it if you would see her grave is tended, in my absence."

"Of course." Gideon felt suddenly cheapened at his attitude to this old man. He thought about his own family, back on Terra, packing up their home and preparing to come and be with him.

The terminal in the room buzzed for attention. Carter waved his hand at it and a text message scrolled across the screen, hidden from Gideon’s view. Carter’s eyes grew wide as he read.

"Good grief."

"What is it?"

"We’ve had an invite to the funeral of the Felinian king and queen. In their forest city. Tomorrow, at sunset. An Igri messenger delivered the invite to a border patrol. This is completely unprecedented."

"Will we go?"

Carter raised an eyebrow. "I guess that’s up to you, although I’m still officially in charge until tomorrow evening. We have no Provosts to consult. Kane won’t be in Citadel until tomorrow midnight at the earliest, by the time the Outrider had docked and unloaded. The call is yours, Gideon."

"Your recommendation?"

"I’ve never set foot in the lion’s lair. I’d jump at the chance. And it can’t do human-Felinian relations any harm." He grinned widely, then frowned. "Shit. The farewell ball. Well, I suppose we can make an entrance, a little late."

"Then a funeral it is then. I’d better get some sleep."

Carter left Gideon alone in the conapt. Gideon dimmed the lights and accessed the terminal in the room, reading the full message text of the Felinians’ invite to the royal funeral. A shiver of anticipation ran through him as he undressed and lay on the wide bunk in the room. Fatigued by the effects of the Curve drive, he tried to sleep, but his mind was filled with preoccupying visions of planets at war and feline alien princesses. He picked up Straker’s book, and read until sleep claimed him.

7

excerpt from the introduction - ANSKAR - A STUDY OF THE PLANET, INDIGENOUS LIFE AND INHABITANTS by Jonathon Straker.

The chief of the Plains Impahl was called Toraj and had agreed to be the first to meet with Lilianthi, new queen of the Felinian nation to which he nominally belonged. The Impahl were the renegade tribes, blamed by the Simba for everything from war to disease to Kara’s death to bafalla rustling, although by all accounts they were guilty of the latter, sending their nomad hunters illegally into the carefully managed herds on the Veldt of Shame, injuring or even killing Igri herders and bringing the tribes into a state of near warfare. Toraj was long and lithe and speckled, and when he rose on to his hindlegs, as he was in the habit of doing when reinforcing a point of argument, he towered over Lilianthi and Goran and their Igri outrider bodyguards by at least a metre. His war council, a line of sullen individuals arranged behind their chief at the rear of the huge patchwork bafalla skin dome tent, were equally as daunting in size, although they remained lounging or at stiff attention while their leader raged and gesticulated. As he did so, the plethora of tiny mammal skulls and metal objects clinked and chinked on the hide vest he was wearing. Impahl were notorious hoarders of junk or shiny objects. Many of the bits and pieces on Toraj’s spotted breast Lilianthi recognised as belonging to humankind - CASPAR uniform badges, little electronic devices, clothing buckles.

A line had been scratched with a claw in the dirt floor of the Impahl tent. Each delegation was seated evenly to either side. Nothing could cross the line except negotiation or insults. Should a member of either delegation or a weapon or a projectile cross the line, the meeting would explode in a fury of blood and fur. Lilianthi’s Igri bodyguards were tense, noses rankling at the strong smell inside the Impahl tent, the hide of the bafalla still stained with its own blood, or maybe it belonged to other enemies slain inside here. But no, this was a freshly made tent, the bright stitching along the seams betraying nylon cord ransacked from a humankind settlement or an unfortunate patrol.

<You come to me with grave news, Lilianthi.> Toraj intoned. <I had respect for your parents. They respected the Impahl. We had no reason to make war with them.>

<The Respected One is your queen!> Goran hissed, enraged at the slight. His fur rose, weapons were realigned in the gloom of the tent. <Do not dare address her in such a familiar manner.>

Toraj snorted. <Stay your claws, old Simba. Respect will be accorded when respect is due. Lilianthi is not the queen just yet. Not until she has given her proper farewells to her dead kin. Isn’t that right.... Respected One?>

Toraj’s sarcasm was cutting and enraging. Lilianthi fought the temptation to leap across the line and tear out his pale white throat. Toraj’s tiny pointed ears twitched. He was having fun, playing with them. They were deep inside territory he regarded as his own, the Forbidden Plain between the forest city and the domain of the Mountain Impahl. Lilianthi was here with an old grey-muzzled Simba legendteller and two nervous Igris, much against the wishes of her closest council. Outside, in the long grass and lounging on high kopjes in the midday sun, his spotted Plains Impahl waited, a hundred strong. A war with the Simba and the Igri they could not win. But they were expert guerrilla fighters and they had the leader of the rump Felinian nation in their custody, if they wished to keep her. Toraj considered his position.

<Listen to me, Chief Toraj,> Lilianthi said, giving Toraj the benefit of linguistic respect that he did not think she yet deserved. <The prophecies predict conflict on Anskar and destruction for the entire Felinian nation that only unification can avert. My parents knew this but chose to direct their attention elsewhere, to proceed with folly of rebuilding the ancient stone city, a folly which cost them their lives. We face the expansion of the humankind colony. They will try to edge us out. Only together can we prevent this. Already we face the backlash of your actions, our people who choose to live in the humankind city face danger because you have slaughtered patrols and settlements.>

Toraj’s grin was hideous and teeth-filled. His forepaw brushed a bronze CASPAR sigil on his vest, as if fond memories of glorious, bloody raids were rising in his mind. <Rumour and speculation, Lilianthi. We are tired of being accused of crimes we do not commit. Look to the Mountain Impahl should you wish to find butchers and murderers. But do not accuse us.> His eyes flared yellow in the darkness.

<Mountain Impahl are isolated and have little contact with humankind,> Goran retorted. <You are a liar, Toraj. You and your barbarians will be the downfall of all of us. Humankind will destroy us with fire if you continue to harry them.>

<Barbarians. Hmm. We’ve been called worse. This is our planet, Old Simba. We were here first. Perhaps we should unify ->

He paused theatrically. Lilianthi cocked an ear, hopeful.

< - to destroy them all! Steal their weapons! Turn them against them! Slay their pink hairless infants in their cosseted beds!>

Lilianthi shook her head sadly. <That is not the way, Chief Toraj. That is the way that saw us destroy our own world. Kara says - >

<Kara says nothing to the Impahl. Kara’s words are for Simba and Igri only. Kara’s words are not our way.>

It was a common argument among the Impahl that the martyr of the Felinian nation was a persecutor of their kind. The ways of the legendteller and the prophecies of the forest sentinels held no sway on the plains or in the skin tents of the Impahl. And especially not with a fiery war chief like Toraj.

Undaunted, Lilianthi continued. <Kara says that unification is the only way to avert destruction. I come here only to ask that you consider my offer. And that you send representatives, unarmed and in peace, to my parents funeral. So that you may offer them the respect you say they deserve.>

Toraj appeared surprised at the offer. Plains Impahl, in the forest city? In peace?

<I will come personally,> he said, <with twenty of my fastest and finest hunters. But we will be armed, Lilianthi. Impahl do not travel outside the Plain unarmed. This is not negotiable.>

Lilianthi inclined her head. <Very well. But in peace, Chief Toraj.>

Goran growled at Lilianthi’s decision. She cast him a withering look to control his anger.

<And this unified Felinian nation. Would Impahl of all breeds be accorded the same rights and respect as Simba and Igri, under the Respected One’s royal leadership?>

<Of course. Free to live as you wish. But under our banner you would fight if the nation, or any part of it, was threatened.>

Toraj reared up from his sitting position to his full height. <Then I must have time to consider. And I must consult with my brothers to the north. Or will you be approaching them in the same way? Or have you already?>

<There is no time before the funeral. Please invite a delegation of Mountain Impahl on my behalf. And pass on my terms for their welcoming back into the Felinian nation.>

Toraj grinned, teeth flashing, chest adornments jingling. <As you wish...... Respected One.>

Later, loping south at speed toward the forest city with the Igri outriders flanking them, Goran expressed his concern to his queen.

<I don’t trust Toraj. He speaks in doublespeak. How can you be sure that he will not turn the Mountain Impahl against us, form a pact with them that we will be troubled by? Impahl cannot control their baser instincts. They could never herd bafalla - they kill for pleasure, not just for food.>

<I don’t trust Toraj either, Goran. But neither does Bryte, the leader of the Mountain Impahl. She has an intense dislike of how the Plains Impahl have thrown off centuries of matriarchal rule and installed a male as their leader. She will come, and we will meet her. She will prove a better ally than Toraj, I think.>

<Hardly. She is still Impahl, after all. But maybe we should have met with her first?>

<Our scouts failed to make contact with the mountain tribe. It is their season for hunting far to the north. Perhaps Toraj will have better luck than us.>

Luck, thought Goran, as the dark smudge of their forest home coloured the horizon, and border patrols rustled through the grass to meet them, welcoming their queen home. Luck is what will need if our best hope lies in the hands of barbarian Impahl. Of whatever Kara-cursed breed.

8

The room was dark and lit only by the blue glow of the universal terminal. A lifter slid by, momentarily interrogating the conapt with its strobes. Gideon’s finger hovered over the send key for a long moment. Then he decided that he would just send the second message. He made his alteration and hit the key, saving the first one to file. He would give Joe Carter the benefit of the doubt, for now. But the message would remain there, waiting, to be fired off across the galaxy to end Carter’s idyllic plans, should Gideon wish. The thought gave him great satisfaction, and helped his Curve-lagged body to sleep, for a few hours at least.

9

Gideon breakfasted on the sunlit terrace of the conapt before arranging to meet Joe Carter at midday to prepare for the Felinian state funeral. Gideon had explained that he wanted a little time to explore Citadel Central and orientate himself with his surroundings unencumbered by officialdom. Carter agreed.

The bronze pyramid of Citadel Central was a honeycomb of inner layers and multiple levels of flooring. Gideon paused by a thinscreen map display on a wall and saw zones devoted to Administration, Security, Welfare and Medical, Education, Research, Agriculture, Communications and Protocol Services. He had noticed a large central training arena on the way in the previous night and had decided that this was as good a place to start as any. The morale of CASPAR’s Fifth Legion would be a good indication of the state of the colony as a whole.

A magnetic badge provided by Carter gave Gideon automatic access through numerous levels and doors without having to remove it from his lapel. Dressed in anonymous CASPAR greens, Gideon passed by busy administrative staff without raising their attention. Everyone would know that the arrival of their new commander was imminent, few would suspect that he was already here and walking amongst them, in and around their offices first thing in the morning. He took a pneumatic lift to the security level, three floors below.

The lift deposited him in the concourse of the large training arena. The arena was bounded by low padded walls and its worn floor was marked in white lines for the playing of various team sports. It was empty this morning except for three kendoka, kendo swordsmen, garbed in the traditional masks and armour. Two fighters paced the centre of the arena, the tips of their bamboo shinai touching while a third knelt to the side, surveying the combat. The arena was silent except for the occasional whipcrack of bamboo on armour or harsh cries from the combatants as they called out intended targets in guttural Japanese.

Gideon leant on the padded wall and watched the two swordsmen evade each other. Both appeared skilful and equally matched - a lunge from one would be met by a swift parry from the other, while the counterstrike would also be instantly neutralised. They moved like skilled dancers, pivoting on the balls of their bare feet, the actions appearing choreographed, as if the result was not a variable. As the swordsmen turned, Gideon noticed that one of them saw him and was momentarily distracted. The other seized the opportunity and lunged with a strike to the centre of his opponent’s mask. The shinai connected soundly and the attacking swordsman followed through with a shoulder barge that took his opponent cleanly to the floor. The kneeling spectator called out a grunt to end the bout.

Gideon clapped loudly in appreciation at the display of martial skill. The combatants stood and bowed stiffly to each other, then to their adjudicator, and finally in Gideon’s direction. The vanquished fighter began to walk toward him, fingers tearing at the ties of the restrictive helmet. Gideon was taken aback - the man seemed angry. He ripped off the helmet and tossed it to the far side of the arena.

"Thanks a bunch," he said, sweat dripping off his face. He was bald and ebony skinned, complexion liked polished mahogany. "You always did have a way of making an entrance. Do you realise that I was so close to beating a grand master until you showed up?"

Gideon grinned widely and vaulted the low wall, grabbing the man by the shoulders and pulling him to him.

"Philemon! Philemon Jones! What the hell are you doing here?"

Jones pushed Gideon away good-naturedly, a grin replacing his own scowl. He picked up a towel from the wall and wiped his face. "Now, is that any way for a colony commander to greet his Captain of the Fifth Legion?"

"You’re the Captain of the Fifth Legion? Last time I saw you, you were Sergeant-at-Arms on a Curve freighter’s marine detachment. I didn’t even know you’d been commissioned."

Jones shrugged out of the kendo armour. "Been a long time, Gideon. I’ve seen a lot of things, been a lot of places since then. Seems like they’re not only taking Octagon-favoured sons at the Academy these days."

Gideon raised his eyebrows. "Things must be desperate out on the Rim. Philemon Jones, the last Maasai warrior, a CASPAR officer. But it’s good to see you. Why wasn’t I informed you were here?"

"When I heard you were coming, I thought I’d leave it as a surprise. I’ve only been here six months myself. Seems a lot of people have met nasty accidents here recently. Lots of career opportunities."

"Philemon Jones." Gideon sat back against the padded wall, shaking his head in disbelief. Jones was the same age as him, an enlisted man trained alongside Gideon’s officer cadet, and they had fought together in the rebellions on Earth and during the initial independence rumblings at the galactic centre. They had not seen each other for five years. Suddenly, his tenure on Anskar looked a little brighter. He had a friend, and an old ally.

The other kendoka approached, their helmets tucked formally under their arms. Neither had broken a sweat. Both men were Oriental, one young and round-faced with jet black hair tied in a sleek ponytail, the older man sharp-featured and with a severe brush cut.

"Gideon - or should I say, Commander De Souza - this is Professor Timoto and his assistant Doctor Kunzru. They run the microtecture laboratories down in the lower levels of the pyramid. They’re teaching me kendo, I’m teaching them how to drink vast quantities of beer and still get up for work the next morning."

Gideon grimaced. "A Maasai warrior needs to learn more ways to kill a man?"

Jones laughed. "Gentlemen, our new colony commander, Gideon De Souza. Soldier, scholar, lover, but a stickler for the rule book. And an old friend of mine."

The men bowed. Professor Timoto of the brush cut extended his hand.

"My pleasure, Commander. I trust you will be visiting us very soon so we can introduce you to the important work we do here on Anskar."

"I will of course be making a tour of all CASPAR facilities," Gideon replied, " but thank you for the personal invite all the same. I find microtecture fascinating. What is your area of research?"

"A hangover cure," interrupted Doctor Kunzru, stepping forward and shaking Gideon’s hand. "As commissioned at great expense by Captain Jones."

Jones let out a bellowing laugh. "Gideon, I have to run. I’m inspecting your honour guard in thirty minutes, which gives me twenty five to take a shower and find a fresh uniform."

"Then I’ll catch up with you later," said Gideon, as the microtects made their excuses and left. "Joe Carter’s taking me to the Felinian city later today. Seems we’re guests of honour at a state funeral. Quite unprecedented, apparently."

Jones’ eyes flew wide. "Unprecedented? No shit. No one’s set foot in there since Straker died, far as I know. What I’d give to swap places with you."

"Never did get your lion’s head, did you, moran?"

"They were long gone before I first waved my assegai, friend. And I couldn’t kill anything that begged for it’s life, anyway. Not even if it is the king of the jungle. A Felinian funeral........ like I said, Gideon, you always did have a way of making an entrance."

10

Gideon had met Joe Carter in the vast vehicle park under Citadel Central that evening and both were surprised to find Philemon Jones waiting for them, grinning out from inside the helmet of a military walker, two more waiting with open harnesses in the yellow and black striped loading bay.

"Didn’t think I was going to miss out, did you?" Jones said.

"The invitation was very specific, only two -" began Carter, but Gideon’s hand waved him to silence. He was used to Philemon’s nuances.

"Close protection," Gideon said, patting the walker’s carbon fibre flanks. "I’m sure the new queen will understand."

Gideon was familiar with the operation of the military walker exoskeleton from ground operations on rebel planets. There were a number of variants of the suit, some used for engineering or extreme hazardous work, others speed-optimised for reconnaissance, others armed to the teeth as mobile weapons platforms for fire support roles. They were particularly useful on high gravity planets where human effort could be pneumatically transformed into superhuman. The particular suits that Philemon Jones had drawn from the CASPAR pool were standard scout versions, lightly armed with fistguns and a needle laser.

The underground hangar had an exit ramp that led toward the south of the city, and it was using this route that the three walkers left Citadel Central as dusk fell, ostensibly to avoid stirring up too much interest. Breaking protocol rules was one thing, thought Gideon as they loped through gloomy deserted streets, heading south. Blatantly advertising their transgression was quite another.

On the outskirts of the city, where conurbation gave way to grassland, was a ring of sensor posts, remotely operated - no human guards. Here they waited, sharing one of Philemon Jones nontoxic cigarettes, until Igri sentinels growled from the depths of the chest-high grass of the veldtland. They approached the three exoskeletal humans, giving Gideon his first good look at them. A large striped specimen sniffed at Gideon’s armoured foot.

"Igri," said Carter over the walkers’ communication channel. "The worker breed. Very fast, very strong. Don’t try to outrun them, or you’ll burn out the walker engine. I’ve seen them outrun the maglev back from Citadel Field."

The Igri did not speak. Instead they turned, tails in the air like radio antennae over the high grass, and headed south-west. Carter moved after them, then Philemon Jones, then Gideon. He was awestruck by the power and majesty of these creatures. The walkers moved at good speed over the undulating terrain of the veldtland, but they seemed like awkward extinct beasts in comparison to the Igri’s fluid grace.

They came from all over the vast supercontinent of Tyria. The Mountain Impahl with their thick shaggy coats and baffalla skin jerkins, the Plains Impahl, lithe and jangly with shamanistic symbols and baubles, wary of their mountain kin. Random outcast groups of Igri from the eastern coastal plain and solitary nomads of all breeds, all crimes and banishments forgotten and annulled for the day, all come to the forest city to pay homage to a dead king and queen. All day they streamed into the forest, across the Veldt of Shame to the north and from the coast to the east, and even solitary hermit legendtellers from the sacred island of Nessus, far to the south. Igri sentries of the royal guard watched them enter the city, directing them toward the vast clearing at the centre of the forest, a natural vaulted arena that would hold many thousands on its mossy slopes. And at the centre of this arena, on a bed of aromatic plants and carefully cut switches from special trees, were Leonka and Shilka, king and queen of the Felinian nation, lying in state.

The human delegation were among the last to arrive. Ushered in to the heart of the dark forest city by the Igri outriders, they were forced to switch to the image intensifying night vision aids mounted in the walker helmets to avoid stumbling over huge roots or crushing the darting aliens under heavy metal boots. Gideon found it difficult to concentrate on the route ahead. All around him, at every step, were sights to amaze his eyes: a Simba female suckling young in a nest of forest deadfall, tree dwellings of incredible intricacy, carved with representations of Felinian forms, and alien cats of all breeds moving in a unstoppable furred river toward the funeral site.

At last they came upon the natural amphitheatre where the Felinian nation had gathered. The Igri gestured for the humans to stop on a small rise and leave their suits.

"We are blind without our walkers," Carter explained, speaking clearly and slowly to one of the Igri. "We must stay inside our suits for us to be able to see and hear. Do you understand?"

The Igri grunted, appearing to understand, and moved away, leaving the humans alone.

"Put your suit into sleep mode," Carter suggested to Gideon and Jones over the intercom. "We don’t want hydraulic noise disturbing the proceedings. But we do want to see what’s going on."

The Felinians paid scant attention to the hulking metal monsters in their midst. All attention was turned inward. Gideon watched through the stark bleached colours of the II sight, wishing he had the natural night vision of these creatures. The sight bloomed and flared with the fluctuations in light levels as the wind disturbed the canopy far above. It was far from ideal, but without it, the humans would not be able to see a thing.

Down in the amphitheatre lay Shilka and Leonka on their funeral beds of aromatic switches and deadfall. A tang of putrefaction stained the clean forest air. Gideon’s nose rankled at the smell. If he could detect it, what would it be like for the highly attuned noses of these animals?

"It looks like a pyre," whispered Jones. "Are they burnt? Is that the way they dispose of their dead?"

"I don’t think so," replied Carter. "Felinians are frightened of fire, they exhibit natural animal reactions to it. Gideon, what did Straker have to say on the subject?"

"I haven’t got that far yet. And no one saw fit to wonder what they did with him, either. Look, I think we’re about to find out either way."

A grizzled old Simba padded on all fours down the empty slopes of the lower bowl, and circled three times around the dead monarchs. The dun coloured beast then rose on to its hind legs and let out a bellowing roar that sent what appeared to be the entire Felinian nation in to the dirt, muzzles pressed to the ground, eyes upcast. The human delegation looked and felt totally adrift, but Gideon noticed that there were isolated pockets of resistance to the display of humility. Scattered individuals remained on their hind legs and even arched themselves higher, and there was a clutch of lithe, junked-up Impahl close by that also remained fiercely standing. The old Simba seemed to notice this. He began a low, rumbling oratory to the assembled mass. Gideon could not of course understand the guttural Felinian tongue but Goran’s sentiments somehow made themselves understood. Gideon heard pain, grief, sorrow and anger. The old Simba was obviously a leader, a wise man, an important Felinian. Gideon decided that they would meet again, with an interpreter, at some future time.

When Goran had finished his impassioned tirade, a single Felinian female, a Simba although unusually and beautifully mottled in the manner more common to the Impahl, strode forward and repeated Goran’s three circles around the dead king and queen. Goran dropped to all fours and retreated from the inner circle, his mane rippling and hind quarters higher than his head, in a gesture of utter deference. My queen, the stage is yours. Address your people. Your people.

"That is Lilianthi," said Carter. "The crown princess, the new queen. Isn’t she beautiful?"

Gideon gazed for the first time on the most exquisite creature he had ever seen in his entire life. The way she moved, her fluid grace, the subtle shift of muscle beneath groomed dappled fur, the implicit alienness of her pupilless eyes. The II sight flared and spoiled the moment and Gideon cursed. But he did not reply to Carter’s question. Of course she was beautiful. She was like an alien sunset.

A wind stirred the gathering, an old wind that tasted of dust and dead things, sweeping through the forest from the direction of the old city in the east, where the monarchs had died. The fur rose on Lilianthi’s back. It was as if the spirits of her parents were rising from their ruined bodies, borne aloft on the affections of their nation, heading away to the better places, back to the arms of Kara. Kara, keep them safe.

Lilianthi appeared about to start her own oratory to the nation, then faltered. Gideon cranked the scope on the II up to its max magnification and for a moment he swore that their eyes locked together. But his eyes were artificial, lenses of silicon and interfaces of electronics. Then she loped up the bowl toward them. A murmur ran through the massed ranks.

Lilianthi halted an arms length from the humans. She made a slight deferential movement with her head, a gesture that was impossible to reproduce inside the suit. By some quirk she had halted in front of Gideon rather than Carter, even though she had met the colony commander on several occasions before. She addressed herself to Gideon in perfect English, with a slight lisp and rolled ‘r’s, a vague and extremely engaging purr.

"I have made a terrible mistake asking you here," she said. Gideon was utterly entranced.

"You must leave now," she continued, " before you see too much. I am sorry. This is no place for humankind. I have been foolish in asking you here."

Gideon was dumbstruck. His mouth moved but nothing came out. Lilianthi stared at him as if she was unsure if he had understood her or not.

"We understand, Princess," Carter interjected on Gideon’s behalf. "I mean, your highness. We will leave you to your mourning."

"Felinians do not mourn," she half-snapped, but she continued to stare at Gideon. "Death is just the beginning." And she turned in a sudden, fluid movement, and returned to her people.

The walkers were noisy for a second as the hydraulics started up. Carter and Jones moved away until they became aware that Gideon had remained behind, his walker still dormant.

"Come on, Gideon," Carter remonstrated. "You heard her. We could be torn limb from limb if we stay here. Christ knows what it is they don't want us to see. Let’s go."

Dreamily, Gideon started up his walker and followed Carter and Jones out through the forest tracks, an Igri outrider leading them to the veldt.

"She’s beautiful," Gideon said, and realised his intercom was still on. He cursed and blushed fiercely. By now they were clear of the forest, out on the veldt and heading back to Citadel. It was completely dark and there was no sign of the Igri who had guided them this far. Carter halted and turned to Gideon, switching off his intercom channel and leaning his head forward so that their helmets touched, in order that Jones would not hear what he had to say.

"When I was a young man I was nearly captivated by them too. And it was almost my downfall. Yes, they’re beautiful. But they’re aliens, Gideon. Aliens. Believe me, it wouldn’t work. Emotionally or physically. Get your family here as fast as you can, that’s my advice. If you’re smart, you’ll follow it."

Gideon nodded, but he had not heard a single word that Carter had said. Numbly, he followed him back to Citadel. A party was awaiting its guests.

Once the humankind delegation had left the forest, a growl passed along the line of sentries and messengers - They are gone. Lilianthi took a deep breath a let out a mournful howl that resonated through the canals and passageways of the forest city that the Igri had built.

On the outskirts of Citadel, stripping of the walker harnesses and transferring to a fast and discreetly crewed lifter, Gideon heard a noise he had never experienced before, that sent a shiver down to his very soul.

As the echo of the sad, epic howl died, the Felinian nation moved as one, a vast tide of flesh and fur engulfing the bodies of their dead monarchs, ripping at the royal corpses, devouring body and soul. Lilianthi, although she should have been the first diner at this gory feast, could not bring herself to take part in the ritual. She slipped away, intending to pay her respects to her parents by visiting by moonlight the site of their deaths in the old city. Goran, his muzzle bloodied as he burrowed in the innards of the dead queen, lifted his head to watch her go, and noted this sadly.

11

CASPAR administration had emptied the Great Hall of the pyramid and refitted it with baroque chandeliers, an imitation but very convincing wooden dancefloor and stage, in honour of the outgoing and incoming colonial commanders, and with a small attempt to impress the impressively unimpressable Skuza ambassador, who was always up for a party and who invariably added a splash of colour and exotica to an evening with his imaginatively designed selections of protective wear. He was the centre of attention until Gideon De Souza and Joseph Carter entered, over two hours late, Gideon still trying to get a stiff top button on his immaculate dress uniform to close. Rather embarrassingly, the music from a part acoustic, part electronic orchestra stopped as the two commanders entered, and a polite ripple of applause ran through the assembled crowd. Glasses of wine were foisted into their hands, and the music and gossip resumed seamlessly. A talented local pianist performed unobtrusive solos, stood on a rostrum in the centre of an unusually designed circular piano.

"Going to leave you to it for a while," said Carter conspiratorially, leaning his forehead to Gideon’s. "I have a live farewell broadcast to make to the colony in about thirty minutes. Have fun, and try not to cause a diplomatic incident at your first ball."

Gideon raised an eyebrow: As if. He was a born diplomat.

The Skuza ambassador was first to descend, seizing the opportunity as Carter departed from Gideon’s side, leaving him momentarily alone. Gideon had met Skuza before, mainly recce ship masters and navigators on goodwill missions, and they always appeared intimidating to him. Flanked by two enormous bodyguards, the Skuza ambassador to Anskar was just as awesome as Gideon had expected.

"My name is BaraMundii," said the ambassador, the flat tones of the voicecoder taking all inflection from his greeting. Gideon extended a hand and a three-fingered glove came forward to hold it in a vice-like grip. Gideon peered into the curved, armoured glass carapace where thin green steam swirled, trying to get a glimpse of the alien’s eyes, mouth, any feature, but the sulphurous gunk these creatures breathed obscured any chance of face to face contact. They were normally over three metres tall - the bodyguards looked more like four, Gideon thought - reptilian in nature and visually repulsive, but had proved to be more human than the human race, a truly benevolent force in the universe. They had, after all, donated the Curve drive to CASPAR, several years earlier, allowing Terra to expand its colonies tenfold, something which the ecologically aware Skuza were beginning to regret.

BaraMundii inflated the inside of the suit that was designed for the protection of his human hosts as much as his own, and loudly rattled the array of rubbery cooling fins, decorative flags and paraphernalia suspended on or protruding from the outside, like a cuffed lizard’s mating dance display. Even by BaraMundii’s opulent standards, this costume was a show-stopper. His bodyguards, in black functional suits, looked dowdy by comparison.

"Welcome to Anskar," BaraMundii continued, pumping Gideon’s hand. "I trust that CASPAR’s new commander will continue to run operations here with as wise and true a hand as his predecessor. This is a model colony - I have learnt a great deal from my time here. Much will I take back when I finally depart."

Gideon considered airing his alternative views but decided that this was neither the time nor the place. He raised his glass to the ambassador.

"I hope we get the chance to talk further, Ambassador. Your time here is not about to end, surely?"

The Skuza made a throaty noise that may or may not have been a laugh.

"No, Commander. My tenure of office is three hundred of your standard years, fatal accidents notwithstanding. I shall, hopefully, see many colony commanders come and go. Such is the nature of our differing lifespans."

Gideon nodded. By any Terran terms, the Skuza were immortal. Advanced science replaced body parts that were tough as panzer spares to begin with, a society that had renounced internal conflict aeons ago made a safe environment to live in, and it had been a long time since the Skuza had gone to war with anyone. Maybe a few years of bloody dispute with the Vutomi would replace a lost sense of mortality to these scaly party animals! Immortality quite quickly led to arrogance. The Curve Drive notwithstanding, the Skuza had many technological marvels it had yet to share with CASPAR. Some senators grew impatient. Terran spies penetrated Skuza colonies - but so far, not the homeworlds - and brought back unfathomable samples of instantaneous transspace communicators, rudimentary but potentially society-changing matter transmitters, nanotechnologies down to particle level. CASPAR were convinced that the Skuza had a hidden agenda. Gideon had been thoroughly briefed about the wily, captivating and unusual individual known as BaraMundii. There was a train of thought that proposed that the Skuza thought of humanity as a lower form of life, and delighted in drip-feeding it advanced technology as some kind of vast social experiment.

"You must visit my embassy soon," said BaraMundii. "Your predecessor was a regular and most welcome visitor. We Skuza pride ourselves on the finest alcoholic brews in the known Universe, and perhaps we could engage in a game of Gint?"

Gideon smiled. A Gint session, a kind of multi-levelled cross between chess and fantasy role playing, could go on for years.

"I don’t think so, ambassador, to the Gint game anyway. The Skuza have so much more time for games than we fleeting humans. I will have a colony to run."

BaraMundii exploded with his spooky laugh, and the strong three fingered right hand gripped Gideon’s shoulder, dislodging his decorative epaulettes.

"Then visit soon! My embassy is a fine building - have you seen it?"

Gideon had noticed the minareted temple-like structure protected by a visible net of red lasers when Angel Smith had flown him in the previous night. Inside the embassy there would be a sealed environment where the Skuza ambassador and his staff could breath their own atmosphere unencumbered by protection.

"I will come soon, ambassador, and next time I will wear the suit."

BaraMundii roared with laughter again and moved away with his entourage, leaving Gideon with a bruised hand and shoulder. Not for the first time he thought that the human race were lucky that the Skuza were not a warlike people. If they were, their combination of physical strength and advanced technologies would rule the galaxy.

Gideon mingled as best he could through the crowds, sipping from the wine that a waiter in CASPAR greens had given him. Events like this made him uneasy. He was a military man and not unaccustomed to pomp and ceremony, but his mind was elsewhere, deep in the forest with the Felinian nation and their dead king and queen. But what had the princess (no, the Queen, he corrected himself, Queen Lilianthi) meant by her final words to him? Felinians do not mourn. They had then been expelled from the forest in no uncertain terms, leaving the funeral to reach its conclusion without their prying eyes. Gideon made a mental note to check out more of Straker’s book at his earliest opportunity. The Felinians were an enigma he wished to unravel. And their beautiful young queen, especially so.

"Penny for your thoughts, Commander?"

Gideon blinked and regarded the man in front of him. A big man in a nondescript civilian suit, a head taller than Gideon. Thickset, a once trim body turning to fat through age, a military bearing and a thick head of silver hair. He looked sixty, sixty five. Wide Slavic features, East European. Gideon made a quick appraisal and decided that he must have been a formidable man in his youth, maybe even still was. He took the man’s outstretched hand. Metal brushed against metal, and a glance down confirmed the presence of a Clan Octagon sigil ring.

"Anton Sherekov," the man said, inclining his head and making a small but noticeable heel-clicking gesture. "Welcome to our colony, Clan Brother."

"Thank you, Brother," Gideon replied, slightly taken aback. He had not been told that there were any other members of the Clan on Anskar. Yet another omission from his briefing, and a glaring one. A tenet of Clan Octagon law was that Clan Brothers worked together in all manner of business. For two to be on the same planet without each others knowledge was an unusual and potentially insulting occurrence.

"My apologies," said Gideon. "My briefings on Anskar have been extremely poor. I had no idea that a Brother was here. But then, I’m finding out lots of things about this planet that I was not aware of."

Sherekov smiled. "It is I who must apologise. I am not, how would you say, a mainstream member of the Clan. My activities and status do not sit well with some of the current Clan Council. They have not gone so far as to ostracise me, but I’m sure there are some who would very much like to. Some of my business activities are seen as un-Clan like. But I’m sure they would be of interest to you, as our new colony commander."

Gideon raised an eyebrow. "I’m interested in everything that affects Anskar. Mister Sherekov. And especially anything that involves a Clan Brother."

Sherekov inclined his head in acquiescence. "Then my office will be in touch with yours to arrange a mutually agreeable time and place. Now, if you will excuse me, Commander, I have some rather pressing business."

They shook again, rings clashing. Sherekov disappeared into the crowd, with no discernible entourage accompanying him. Either his bodyguards were very discreet, Gideon thought, or Anton Sherekov was a very confident individual.

"He’s over a hundred and eighty years old, you know."

Gideon turned to the voice. Philemon Jones, resplendent in his dress uniform, the rank badges of the Captain of the Fifth Legion burnished and seemingly imbibed with an illumination all of their own. He was wineless - on duty, supervising security arrangements.

"That’s impossible. Unless he’s spent three quarters of his life in sleepchambers."

Jones shook his head. "Not as far as I know. Seems he pioneered some sort of anti-ageing treatment many years ago that either got banned or just wasn’t released for public consumption. Seems to work okay on old Anton, though. Anyway, it’s just a rumour, but he’s a shady character. Operates well outside CASPAR jurisdiction. An untouchable, I think best describes him. What did he want?"

The orchestra had vanished and a large thinscreen had rolled from the ceiling across the stage. The CASPAR sigil glowed brightly from it.

"Nothing. I think Joe’s Show is about to start."

Joe Carter strode from the wings and took his place at a narrow rostrum that had been placed for him at the front of the stage. His image appeared on the screen immediately behind him, writ large. He cleared his throat and brought up a whitepage of notes on the terminal sunk into the rostrum’s surface. What to say to a colony that he had governed for twenty five years, where he had raised his son and lost his wife?

Throughout Citadel, Joe Carter’s image appeared on the flanks of towers and the canted sides of pyramids, and multiplied on the screens of the watchposts arranged at junctions and in communal spaces in the city. It was a warm evening and the streets were crowded, many coming out especially to hear their commander’s farewell speech to them, wanting to watch him and hear it in the company of others, rather than in their own homes. There was a palpable sense that something, or rather someone, good was leaving them, someone who had protected them from the worst excesses of CASPAR policies. They didn’t think he was perfect - far from it, the popularity of Omar Tannenbaum’s rhetoric and the events of the previous night were evidence enough of that - but the general feeling was that he was a good man.

"Good evening to you, people of Anskar. I broadcast to you this evening with both sadness and joy in my heart, conflicting emotions which I hope I may be able to explain to you. Sadness that my time here is done and that I will be leaving in a few days time. Joy that I consider that I have done a good job here, with the help of many, many dear colleagues, both living and dead.

"I bequeath to Commander Gideon De Souza a colony that he may be proud to associated with, a decent place to live, among decent people. We have our problems - of course we do. But put your trust in Commander De Souza as you have done with me. Be patient with him - by CASPAR terms he is a young man and may need your help and guidance while he finds his feet. Listen to his words, not the words of a rogue and criminal who comes here to rabble-rouse and -"

Simultaneously every screen, including the vast one behind Carter’s rostrum, winked out. Even Carter’s public address failed. He tapped the rostrum and cast around for some technical support. Technicians in the wings looked at him and shrugged, red faced. Then the screens flickered and the lightning bolt flash of Omar Tannenbaum’s FreeSpace League morphed into view. A gasp rippled through the assemblage in the Great Hall. Carter could not help but turn and look into the screen, but before he did he located Philemon Jones’ face in the crowd and shot him a glance that said You promised me this would not happen again. Philemon arched his eyebrows in reply. The FreeSpace League logo was replaced, several seconds later, by the smiling visage of Omar Tannenbaum. Carter looked very small in front of it, like David before Goliath. It appeared as if Tannenbaum could lean forward out of the high-resolution screen and bite Carter’s head off, should he wish to do so.

"I couldn’t let this occasion go by without adding my own words of farewell," Tannenbaum said to Carter, and by default to the whole of Anskar. "I’ve seen worse colony commanders, Joe Carter, if that’s any consolation. At least you’ve not sold out wholesale the people you’re supposed to protect, like others have done. And like that bemedalled young dandy that has been sent to replace you will most likely do."

Gideon’s face flushed red. Heads turned to him. He struggled to retain his composure, wanted to draw his sidearm and put a blast through the damn screen. But that wouldn’t be a good idea, a show of temper for a colony commander was verboten and besides, Joe Carter was stood in front of it.

"I was contemplating a cessation of hostilities for one week while you settled in," Tannenbaum continued, switching the assault to Gideon. "I wanted to see if CASPAR were getting progressive in their old age and sending some youth and democracy to Anskar. But then I realised that we had met before. I was an inmate at Camp 781 on Watson’s Station in the Blufari System. Do you remember Watson’s Station, Gideon De Souza?"

Of course he remembered Watson’s Station. Instructions from CASPAR to torch a whole penitentiary complex with Scorched Earth biological weapons, to purge a virulent alien virus that had affected inmates. A virus that later turned out to have a lifespan of days and easily treated by available nanotech methods. A hideous mistake or CASPAR forces being lied to, used as political assassins? Gideon never knew. Never really cared. All those who died were FreeSpace activists, detained for attacks on CASPAR forces. The enemy. Who cared why they died? Omar Tannenbaum obviously did. He was one the survivors.

Gideon’s mouth worked to form a reply, but what was the use, what was the point, he would just make a fool of himself. Tannenbaum could not be combated at this level. He remained stonily silent as the slander continued.

"So there will be no cessation of military or media hostilities by the FreeSpace League on Anskar while a war criminal remains its colony commander. The FreeSpace League repeats its demands of an end to skintagging, the withdrawal of all military forces from Anskar, and a local citizen to be appointed colony commander after Gideon De Souza’s resignation. Otherwise hostilities will continue.

"Goodbye, Joseph Carter. You have been a worthy adversary and I am sorry to see you go. Welcome, Gideon De Souza. Have you the same appetite for a fight that you showed us on Watson’s Station? Will you do a proper job this time?"

The screens blanked. Silence descended on the city.

Gideon’s face flared despite his deep breathing and attempted control. He strode angrily from the Hall - the party was over, in more ways than one - pushing his way to the exit.

A proper job, Omar Tannenbaum? he thought as he returned to his quarters. I will personally finish you off this time.