The Night's Dawn Trilogy (24 page)

“It can be ours, this sort of life. It's waiting up there at the end of the river. In ten years' time we'll be dancing round
a bonfire while the boats go by.”

“And the new colonists will look at us and dream!”

“We'll have our house built, like a palace made from wood. That's what you'll live in, Loren, a miniature palace that the
King of Kulu himself will envy. And you'll have a garden full of vegetables and flowers; and I'll be out in the grove, or
tending the herds. Paula and Marie will live nearby, and the grandchildren will run both of us off our feet.”

Loren hugged him tightly. He lifted his head and let out a bellow of joy. “God, how could we have wasted so many years on
Earth? This is where we all belong, all of us Loren. We should throw away our arcologies and our starships, and live like
the Lord intended. We really should.”

Ruth and Jay stood together beside the taffrail and watched the sun sink below the horizon, crowning the vast river with an
aura of purple-gold light for one sublime magical minute.

“Listen, Mummy, they're singing,” Jay said. Her face was a picture of serenity. The horrid corpse of yesterday was long forgotten;
she had found utter contentment with the big beige-coloured horse hitched up to the port railing. Those huge black eyes were
so soft and loving, and the feel of its wet nose on her palm when she fed it a sweet was ticklish and wonderful. She couldn't
believe something so huge was so gentle. Mr Manani had already said he would let her walk it round the deck each morning for
exercise and teach her how to groom it. The
Swithland
was paradise come early. “What are they singing?”

“It sounds like a hymn,” Ruth said. For the first time since they had landed she was beginning to feel as though she'd made
the right decision. The villages certainly looked attractive, and well organized. Knowing that it was possible to succeed
was half the battle. It would be tougher further from the capital, but not impossible. “I can't say I blame them.”

The wind had died down, sending flames from the bonfires shooting straight up into the starry night, but the aroma of cooking
food stole over the water to the
Swithland
and her two sister craft. The scent of freshly baked bread and thick spicy stews played hell with Quinn's stomach. The Ivets
had been given cold meat and a fruit that looked like an orange, except it had a purple-bluish coloured skin and tasted salty.
All the colonists had eaten a hot meal. Bastards. But the Ivets were starting to turn to him, that was something. He sat on
the deck at the front of the superstructure, looking out to the north, away from all those fucking medieval hovels the colonists
were wetting themselves over. The north was dark, he liked that. Darkness had many forms, physical and mental, and it conquered
all in the end. The sect had taught him that, darkness was strength, and those that embrace the dark will always triumph.

Quinn's lips moved soundlessly. “After darkness comes the Bringer of Light. And He shall reward those that followed His path
into the void of Night. For they are true unto themselves and the nature of man, which is beast. They shall sit upon His hand,
and cast down those who dress in the falsehood of Our Lord and His brother.”

A hand touched Quinn's shoulder, and the fat priest smiled down at him. “I'm holding a service on the aft deck in a few minutes.
We are going to bless our venture. You would be very welcome to attend.”

“No, thank you, Father,” Quinn said levelly.

Horst gave him a sad smile. “I understand. But the Lord's door is always open for you.” He walked on towards the aft deck.

“Your Lord,” Quinn whispered to his departing back. “Not mine.”

Jackson Gael saw the girl from Donovan's slouched against the port rail just aft of the paddle, head resting on her hands.
She was wearing a crumpled Oxford-blue shirt tucked into black rugby shorts, white pumps on her feet, no socks. At first he
thought she was gazing out over the river, then he caught sight of the personal MF block clipped to her belt, the silver lenses
in her eyes. Her foot was tapping out a rhythm on the decking.

He shrugged out of the top of his grey jump suit, tying the arms round his waist so she wouldn't see the damning scarlet letters.
There was no appreciable drop in temperature as the humid air flowed over his skin. Had there ever been a single molecule
of cool air on this planet?

He tapped her on the shoulder. “Hi.”

A spasm of annoyance crossed her face. Blind mirror irises turned in his direction as her hand fumbled with the little block's
controls. The silver vanished to show dark, expressive eyes. “Yeah?”

“Was that a local broadcast?”

“Here? You've got to be kidding. The reason we're on a boat is because this planet hasn't invented the wheel yet.”

Jackson laughed. “You're right there. So what were you 'vising?”

“
Life Kinetic
. That's Jezzibella's latest album.”

“Hey, I rate Jezzibella.”

Her sulk lifted for a moment. “Course you do. She turns males to jelly. Shows us fems what we can all do if we want. She makes
herself succeed.”

“I saw her live, once.”

“God. You did? When?”

“She played my arcology a year ago. Five nights in the stadium, sold out.”

“Any good?”

“Supreme.” He spread his arms exuberantly. “Nothing like an ordinary Mood Fantasy band, it's almost straight sex, but she
went on for hours. She just sets your whole body on fire, what she does with the dancers. They reckoned her AV broadcast pillars
were using illegal sense-activant codes. Who gives a shit? You would have loved it.”

Marie Skibbow's pout returned. “I'll never know now, will I? Not on this bloody retarded planet.”

“Didn't you want to come here?”

“No.”

The hot resentment in her voice surprised him. The colonists had seemed such a dopey bunch, every one of them wrapped up in
the prospect of all that rustic charm crap spread out along the riverbank. It hadn't occurred to him that they were anything
other than unified in their goal. Marie might be a valuable ally.

He saw the captain's son, Karl, making his way down the side of the superstructure. The boy was wearing a pair of white canvas
shorts, and rubber-soled plimsolls.
Swithland
was riding some choppy water, but Karl's balance was uncanny, he could anticipate the slightest degree of pitch.

“There you are,” he said to Marie. “I've been looking everywhere for you, I thought you'd be at the service the priest's giving.”

“I'm not helping to bless this trip,” she said smartly. Karl grinned broadly, his teeth showing a gleam in the deepening twilight.
He was a head shorter than Jackson, which put him a few centimetres below Marie's height, and his torso was muscled like a
medical text illustration. His family must have had plenty of geneering, he was too perfect. Jackson watched in growing bewilderment
as he held his hand out expectantly to the girl.

“Are you ready to go?” Karl asked. “My cabin's up forward, just below the bridge.”

Marie accepted the boy's hand. “Sure.”

Jackson was given a lurid wink from Karl as he led Marie down the deck. They disappeared into the superstructure, and Jackson
was sure he heard Marie giggle. He couldn't believe it. She preferred Karl? The boy was five years younger than him! His fists
clenched in anger. It was being an Ivet, he
knew
it was. The little bitch!

Karl's cabin was a compact compartment overlooking the prow, definitely a teenager's room. A couple of processor blocks lay
on the desk, along with some micro-tool units and a half-dismantled electronics stack from one of the bridge systems. There
were holograms on the wall showing starfields and planets; clothes, shoes, and towels were scattered about on the deck planks.
It had about ten times as much space as the cabin the Skibbows and Kavas were forced to share.

The door shut behind Marie, muting the sound of the congregation gathered on the aft deck. Karl immediately kicked off his
plimsolls, and unlatched a broad bunk which had been folded flat against the wall.

He's only fifteen years old, Marie thought, but he has got a tremendous body, and that smile… God, I shouldn't have allowed
him to smooth talk me in here, never mind be thinking of bedding him. Which only made her feel even randier.

The congregation started to sing a hymn, their voices bringing a rich enthusiasm to the slow melody. She thought of her father
out there, his eager-to-make-amends expression this morning, telling her how the river trip would show her the wholesome satisfaction
to be earned from the quieter side of life and honest labours. So please, darling, try to understand Lalonde is our future
now, and a fine future at that. Marie unbuttoned her shirt under Karl's triumphant gaze, then started on her shorts.

The settlements along the Juliffe changed subtly after the third day. The
Swithland
passed the end of the Hultain Marsh, and villages began to appear on the distant northern bank. They lacked the trimness
of the earlier buildings, there were fewer animals and cultivated fields; less jungle had been cleared, and the trees standing
so close to the cabins looked far more imposing.

The river branched, but the
Swithland
sailed on purposefully down the main channel. The water traffic began to fall off. These villages were still hard at work
to tame the land, they couldn't afford the time it took to make sailing boats. Big barges were chugging down the river, loaded
mainly with mayope timber cut by new settlements to sell to the shipyards in the city. But by the end of the first week even
the barges were left behind. It simply wasn't economical to carry timber to the capital over such a distance.

There were tributary forks every hour now. The Juliffe was narrower, down to a couple of kilometres, its fast waters almost
clear. Sometimes they would sail for five or six hours without seeing a village.

Horst felt the mood on board turning, and prayed that the despondency would end once they made landfall. The devil makes work
for idle hands, and it had never been truer than out here. Once they were busy building their village and preparing the land
Group Seven would have no time for brooding. But the second week seemed to last for ever, and the daily rains had returned
with a vengeance. People were muttering about why they had to travel quite this far from the city for their allocated land.

The jungle had become an oppressive presence on either side, hemming them in, trees and undergrowth packed so tightly that
the riverbanks created a solid barricade of leaves extending right down to the water. Foltwine, a tenacious freshwater aquatic
plant, was a progressive nuisance. Its long, brown ribbonlike fronds grew just below the surface right across the width of
the river. Rosemary avoided the larger clumps with ease, but strands would inevitably wrap themselves around the paddles.
The
Swithland
made frequent stops while Karl and his younger sister clambered over them, cutting the tough slippery fronds free with the
radiant yellow blades of fission knives.

Thirteen days after they departed from Durringham they had left the Juliffe itself behind and started to sail along the Quallheim
tributary. It was three hundred metres wide, fast flowing, with vine-swamped trees thirty metres high forming a stockade on
both banks. Away to the south, the colonists could just make out the purple and grey peaks of a distant mountain range. They
stared in wonder at the snow-caps shining brightly in the sun; ice seemed to belong to an alien planet, not native to Lalonde.

In the early morning of the fourteenth day after leaving Durringham, a village crept into view as they edged their way up
the river, the first they had seen for thirty-six hours. It was set in a semicircular clearing, a bite into the jungle nearly
a kilometre deep. Felled trees lay everywhere. Thin towers of smoke rose from a few fire pits. The shacks were crude parodies
of the cottages belonging to villages downriver; lashed-up frames with walls and roofs made from panels of woven palm fronds.
There was a single jetty that looked terribly unsafe, with three hollowed-out log canoes tied up to it. A small stream trickling
through the middle of the clearing into the river was an open sewer. Goats were tied to stakes, foraging in the short grass.
Emaciated chickens scratched around in the mud and sawdust. The inhabitants stood about listlessly and watched the
Swithland
go past with numb, hooded eyes. Most of them were wearing shorts and boots, their skin a deep brown, whether from the sun
or dirt it was hard to say. Even the apparently eternal chittering of the jungle creatures was hushed.

“Welcome to the town of Schuster,” Rosemary said with some irony. She was standing on the bridge, one eye permanently on the
forward-sweep mass-detector, watching out for foltwine and submerged snags.

Group Seven's council and Powel Manani were ranged around the bridge behind her, grateful to be in the shade.

“This is it?” Rai Molvi asked, aghast.

“The county capital, yeah,” Powel said. “They've been going for about a year now.”

“Don't worry,” Rosemary said. “The land you've been allocated is another twelve kilometres upriver. You won't have to have
much contact with them. No bad thing, too, if you ask me. I've seen communities like this before, they infect their neighbours.
Better you have a fresh start.”

Rai Molvi nodded briefly, not trusting himself to speak.

The three rivercraft sailed on slowly, leaving behind the shanty town and its torpid inhabitants. The colonists gathered on
Swithland
's aft deck watched them disappear as the boat rounded a bend in the river, silent and contemplative.

Horst made the sign of the cross, muttering an invocation. Perhaps a requiem would be more appropriate, he thought.

Jay Hilton turned to her mother. “Will we have to live like that, Mummy?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Never.”

Two hours later, with the river down to a hundred and fifty metre width, Rosemary watched the digits on the iner-tial-guidance
block flick round to match the coordinates the Land Allocation Office had given her. Karl stood on the prow as the
Swithland
crept along at a walking pace, his keen eyes searching the impenetrable green barrier of vegetation along the southern bank.
The jungle was steaming softly from the rain of an hour earlier, white tendrils wafting out of the treetops, then spiralling
away into the burning azure sky. Small, colourful birds darted about between the branches, shrieking brazenly.