Harry Cavendish (8 page)

Then the next night we’ll be halfway up. ‘Tis only on the third night we’ll make the summit. Conserve your energy. It will be a tough march.’

They chugged on when they had filled their canteens, along the path that began to wind upwards now.

The vegetation gave way a little and soon they were amongst scrub and gorse. There were grazing animals that looked like sheep or goats, but with long curled horns, pulling at the moss with broken yellow teeth.

They stopped for lunch at noon, under Proton’s instruction, and had quite a picnic of bread and cheese and chocolate, propped on a succession of terraced bands, evidence that the land had once been farmed.

The tropical fug of Bartislard had dissolved into a temperate balm, and it felt summery and fresh. The cow was able to turn herself to one side inside the straps and whisper to Cormack that she wanted grass.

He pulled a handful from the side of the path, and fed her some, putting the rest in his backpack. Soon enough they were off again at Proton’s command.

It was tougher going now. The path was rising more steeply, but the Guards and the Boschs, even with the cow as a burden, made a good pace and Cormack struggled to keep up.

They were closing on the mountain inexorably. They could see how the path bent around the rocky outcroppings of solidified lava, and how it would lead them west and through a small gorge, and then to the volcano’s base. And they could see the threaded way that was scored back and forth along the southern flank, and wound up it like a piece of looped cotton, and how it would take them to the summit.

It looked impossibly steep.

‘Aye, it’s a tough march. Not many attempt it this time of year. You see the snowcap?’ Now they were closer, Cormack could see the white frosting that from afar had been lost against the sky. ‘It can be a dangerous place up there.’

They stopped at six as the sun was setting and made camp with the tents there in the bracken.

Mrs. Bellingham broke it down for them.

‘You can still continue. The Pastry Chef does not know his wife is dead. How can he? He will still cooperate. We will send him the balm from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree.’

‘How?’

‘I will deliver it.’

‘You will deliver it, Pamela?’

They were in yet another meeting of the Resistance Committee in her dining room. She wondered why they couldn’t acquire another venue, now that she was no longer Chairwoman.

‘I will deliver it. The tree is native to Crampton. It is not much known throughout the Empire. I suppose that’s why the Pastry Chef wants it. There would be little chance of his getting caught. The sap is highly poisonous when it’s distilled and incendiary if it’s oxidized. It requires careful handling. Really, I am the expert. It should be me that goes. I will carry him news of his son and perhaps of his wife. It will sound better coming from me.’

‘You can’t just go to Zargon 8, Pamela. It will be highly suspicious. You will be watched.’

‘But I have been invited.’

‘Invited?’

‘Yes, Douglas. By the Emperor himself.’

‘Really?’

‘He’s having a tournament. A polo tournament. He has invited a team from Crampton to compete.’

‘Well, what luck!’

But Mrs. Bellingham didn’t feel luck had much to do with it.

She had told Traction to wait outside and that he was no longer to attend to them during committee. He had shuffled anxiously and almost spluttered an objection before thinking better of it. Then he had nervously slunk to the kitchen, and she had caught him in the back larder, amongst the Double Gloucesters, with a glass to the wall.

But she would go anyway. She had had enough. Enough of being alone in that huge, draughty house, just her and the dogs and Traction; enough of Douglas, and his fumbled solicitations; enough of that peculiar new man, who sat at the head of her dining room table as though he were in a restaurant and about to order trout; enough of Crampton; enough of everything.

She would feed the dogs, and there were the horses to attend to, and then she would cut the grass on the farthest remote with the Bratton Davis. Stripe the bailey.

Time enough for the composting tomorrow.

The night passed with little incident. They were up early and, after a breakfast of beans and bread, ready for the off again.

They walked for close on two hours, across scrubby grassland that led to the base of the volcano, and then they came upon a small bridge that crossed a clear stream. They traversed it with care, Proton leading the way, delicate as a ballerina. They could feel the boards move beneath their feet but it held fast, and when they were across, they were right beneath the mountain itself. Then the path began to rise, switching back and forth across the south face.

It was slow, sweaty progress, especially for the Boschs lifting the cow. They marched upwards at a funereal pace like convicts on a chain gang.

When Proton called for lunch at noon, they stopped on the curve of a wide switchback and surveyed the view, magnificent now they were some five thousand feet up. Bartislard stood crouched in the valley below, slopped from the city walls and into the jungle, and they could see the Leech, a brown thread snaking through the green forest, and the sea beyond.

‘I said it was a beautiful planet,’ said Proton, trying not to mind his chicken which was clucking and fretting at him in the cage on his back.

‘It’s lovely from up here,’ said Cormack.

‘There be dangers up here too,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

The wind was picking up and there was an edge to it, so they didn’t stop long.

All that afternoon they made measured progress, moving carefully back and forth along the switchbacks, until Stanton Bosch recommended a ridge where they could stop to make camp for the night.

‘This be the place,’ he said to Proton.

Proton was not so sure. There would be little room for the tents and it was very exposed, windward to the gusts that were whipping ash and dust at them.

‘But this be the best place all the same,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Until we gets to the summit.’

They unpacked their tents and arranged them as best they could in a tight semi-circle, backed against the mountain. Then the Boschs set the fire going and started boiling water for their tea.

Proton set the chicken down in its steel basket next to his tent and went to talk to Stanton Bosch. They stood near the drop-off and pointed down the valley in an animated fashion, as though they were military strategists planning a raid.

Cormack was sat with the cow by the fire.

She appeared to have had a relapse and was loathed to talk – the stretcher borne at a tilt for most of the day had made her nauseated.

After supper round the fire and nervous talk of tomorrow’s exertions, they all, save a few Guards and a couple of Boschs who were into the whisky, repaired to their tents. It was very cold, and they would be up at dawn for an early start.

Cormack was exhausted, and crawled into his sleeping bag to try to get some sleep. Disconcerting images passed through his mind as he stared at the pin pricked canvas: Proton, armoured with his plastic codpiece, perched on a rock promontory like the Archangel Gabriel above Gomorrah; the gontail, tight around the cow, slicing her as though she were sausage; the face of Stanton Bosch, his liver spots linked and draining one into the other like a succession of oil strikes. Absurd, mad pictures, like frames from a cartoon. Foul Ball’s a dangerous planet, he kept thinking - Proton’s words from the Tropico, running around his head, over and over like a mantra, until he could stand it no more and fell asleep.

He awoke with a start minutes later.

There were sounds of a scuffle from behind his tent, and then a man screamed.

He heard tent flaps zipped open, and saw beams from flashlights on the walls of his tent. There was shouting and yet more screaming.

He lay quite still for a while, and when he could bear it no longer, he unzipped the flap and went out into the cold night air.

The screams were coming from the farthest side of the camp, where there was quite a scrum around one particular tent.

‘What on Earth is going on?’ he said as he pressed his way forward.

‘Can’t really tell,’ said a Guard who was watching outside. ‘Something in there attacked Lucus.’

There was a further commotion, and the tent shook violently. They heard the sound of a gun being fired and angry voices from within. After what appeared to be a short scuffle, the flap was ripped open.

Proton came out holding a dead chicken by its feet.

‘It’s fucking fried now,’ he said.

Stanton Bosch was beside him.

‘Aye, that’s a disappointment. Hilton will be upset.’

‘And that is contrary to the wishes of the soothsayer. It’s going to be hard going with the Sibyl.’

‘Carry it all the same.’

‘What the hell was Lucus thinking?’

‘I suppose he ain’t know its importance.’

‘He was as good as dead already.’

‘Aye, the chicken had him brutal.’

‘It escaped from the cage. It was an accident. There was no need to kill it.’

‘It was a lucky shot. A dying fall.’

‘Stupid bastard.’

Proton cradled the dead, blackened chicken in his arms delicately, as though it were his baby, and with tears in his eyes carried it to his tent, sheltering it from the wind and the curious eyes of the onlookers.

The other Guards were left to clear Lucus’ tent and dispose of his remains, splashed all about by Starburst in her frenzy.

Douglas was there to see her off. She had the poison in a double-bulbed phial, hidden in the head of her polo mallet.

‘Good of you to come.’

‘Of course I had to, Pamela. See you off and everything.’

It was chilly on the landing strip and he was dressed for the cold, all wrapped in a fur-lined trench coat with the collar up so that he was bundled like an ancient aviator.

‘The team’s over there.’

‘Yes, I saw them when I came in. Recognised a few.’

‘Course we don’t stand a chance.’

‘You never know. Things might work out.’

‘Missing a centre forward. One that can shoot anyway.’

‘You’ll get through all the same.’

‘The dogs, Douglas. Make sure they’re fed.’

‘Of course. They’ll be fine.’

‘And the trout in the spinney. There’s a run-off from one of the levees. It will need to be seen to.’

‘I’ll deal with it.’

‘Keep your eye on Traction. Don’t let him near the drinks’ cabinet.’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’ve never been so frightened, Douglas.’

‘Everything will be fine. We’ll see you back in a week.’

He took her in her arms, gave her a cumbrous embrace and a tight peck on the cheek.

‘Chin up, old girl!’ he said. ‘Crampton forever and all that! Just try your best. Maybe you’ll get a result.’

‘He has Guards and policy advisers and every kind of protection. He’s not an idiot. I can’t get to him, Douglas. If the Pastry Chef is dead. It is ridiculous.’

‘They set you up.’

‘Of course, they set me up.’

‘But you wanted to go. You didn’t even fight it.’

‘Tired of it, Douglas… tired of being here. Tired of being me.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘But it’s true.’

They hugged again, one last time, and she went up the steps to the small space-carrier without looking back.

They buried Lucus there in the scree when the sun had risen. They dug the shallow grave with the tips of their rifles, scratching at the permafrost and making a close box of it. It would have been harder if it wasn’t spring, but the frost kept it firm, and when he was in and Proton had said his piece, four hard kicks covered him with ash.

Then they were off again, hoping for the summit before nightfall.

The march was brutal and they walked in silence.

Again they stopped at noon, but this time the Guards who had been accustomed to eating with Proton withdrew from him and formed a huddle a little way apart. When he saw what they had done, he tried to join them, but they got up all together and moved away to sit down again on the rocks further up.

‘Something going on,’ he said to Stanton Bosch. They were standing further up the path, looking down.

‘Aye, they’re upset. About Lucus I suppose.’

‘I should go and talk with them.’

‘No, leave it. Let them be. Let them talk it through. They ain’t got no options. But they need to work it out for themselves.’

‘It’s bloody Pranzi. Stirring them up.’

‘That’s why you should leave it.’

‘She was always against it, you know – bringing Cormack here. I kind of forced her into it. I was on a high. I had seen the light.’

‘Aye, the light.’

‘Well, if not the light, the communiqué from the Emperor explaining that Cormack was at the Intervention Event. You know I was on the original crew? That one that kidnapped him from Earth?’

‘No, I didn’t know that. Kidnapped, was he?’

‘Yeah, had me thinking then.’

‘Thinking?’

‘Yes, all the way back to Zargon 8. We had instructions not to talk to Cormack. But I really wanted to, you know.’

‘Did you now?’

‘Yes. I have questions. I wanted to ask him about God. You know, you reach a certain age in life and everything stops making sense. That happened to you yet?’

‘Not yet, no. Everything clear so far,’ said Stanton Bosch and he tapped his head.

‘You wonder what’s the point of it all,’ continued Proton. ‘All this sort of deranged shambolism you see everywhere. Why bother? Live, procreate, die. Dung and death. On and on and on. Depressing really…’

‘Aye, I imagine so.’

‘So when I had orders to take him from the Prison Whale, was engaged to meet him again, it was like an epiphany.’

‘An epiphany? Must have been.’

‘I went for it.’

‘Aye.’

‘So far not much response from Cormack…’

‘Aye. He’s a quiet one. Talks to the cow a lot though.’

‘Yes, quite a connection there. Probably just frightened of me. Need to win him over.’