“What are you doing?” asked Andrea McCrea impatiently. “Have you given up, is that it? The alternator’s too difficult, you're getting bored with all the different variations and you've gone back to messing about with...”
She strode across the laboratory towards him, past guards that glanced at each other in amusement. I leave for five minutes, she thought, and he does this! From now on, we either go to eat together or we have the food brought to us!
“I haven't given up!” said Shanks, looking annoyed but not taking his eyes from what he was doing. He was working by the light of an electric candle that hung by its cord from the ceiling. It cast a puddle of light about him in the dark room. “I had an idea, that's all. I think I might know what we've been doing wrong.”
Andrea reached his side by the little table and took a closer look at what be was doing. In amongst a clutter of tools, ceramic spacers and little off cuts of wire, her assistant was cutting the rubber and cloth coating from a length of wire to expose the bare copper, which he then twisted around the contacts of a capacitor. Her eyes scanned rapidly across the other contents of the table, and her brow furrowed in confusion. “You're just connecting a capacitor to an inductor!” she said staring into his face. “Why? This better not be one of your little side projects! You do know we're supposed to be...”
“It's a sort of...” Interrupted Shanks, but then he paused uncertainty. “Well, I'm not quite sure what you'd call it. It is for the alternator, though. If we wire it into the primary circuit, I think it'll resonate, force the current to alternate. I think that's what's been missing, an outside stimulus to force the current to flip at regular intervals.”
Andrea closed her eyes, tried to picture in her head what would happen if they did what he suggested. The capacitor would charge and discharge at regular intervals, she decided. How long an interval would depend on how much charge they wanted it to hold, and the inductor would... She opened her eyes again, stared at Shanks in astonishment. “You're tuning the primary circuit!” she said. “That's what you're making, a sort of tuning circuit! Those Above, that’s brilliant!” Behind her, the prisoner chained to the wall perked up and stared across at them, suddenly interested. His guard watched him warily, while making sure to keep out of touching distance. The man was an adoptee, the leader of the Carrow cell of spies and assassins one of whose members had tried to kill the scientists a few days before. His covering of skin powder hard been removed, and his skin glowed with a greenish light bright enough to cast shadows in the dimly lit room. He'd been placed there the day before, at the scientists’ request, when his interrogators had gotten everything they thought they could get out of him. The two scientists had been fascinated by him when he’d first arrived, but he'd said nothing in reply to their questions and now they just ignored him.
“Well, we'll see if it’s brilliant when we wire it into the apparatus,” said Shanks, looking across at the large tower of coils, batteries and cooling pipes standing on the main table amongst the clutter of wires and components they'd tried adding to it and discarded in frustration. “An extra capacitor might make it overheat, catch fire. We might need to increase the flow of water, and space the components further apart, allow the air to circulate between them. Perhaps add a fan. I was just trying to think of something we hadn’t tried yet...”
“And this just came to you?”
“Well, yes.” Shanks rubbed at the bandages covering his hand, which was bothering him despite the poppy oil the doctors were giving him for the pain. The full dose had left him feeling a little light headed, so he'd let it wear off and was now taking it at half the previous dose. It had cleared his head, but it meant that the pain of the knife wound had begun to return. Still, pain is a good thing, he told himself. It tells you you're alive. He was also lucky that none of the tendons had been severed, he knew. The injury could easily have left him permanently crippled! As it was, his hand pained him when he bent his fingers, but not so badly that he couldn't use them.
“Actually, I think Sophie mentioned something once, in one of her letters,” he added. “Something Maxine Hester was thinking of trying. I was trying to think of a reason why the apparatus refused to settle down and it sort of just came to me.”
Andrea watched enthusiastically as he continued to work, wiring the two components together while, behind them, the prisoner also watched avidly. He glanced across at the guard to make sure his attention wasn’t on him, then reached down to the chain attached to his ankle. He gave it another tug, and watched where the other end of the chain was attached to the wall, where the new cement holding it in place was still not quite dry...
☆☆☆
Princess Ardria could sense the amusement of the maid sent to see to her needs, and it infuriated her, but her distress at the stubble that had appeared on her face overnight was far greater. I'm turning into a man! she thought as she scraped the blade across her jawline, wiping away the shaving cream she'd lathered there. All this travelling across the world, facing down soldiers, fighting Radiants... The adrenalin is turning me into a soldier! It would sort itself out, she knew. As soon as the war was over (assuming they won) and she could settle down to the business of being a Princess again, her femininity would return, but in the meantime she had to scrape her face with a knife like a common sweaty labourer! There was a reason that almost all the world's leaders were men, of course. The stress and strain of ruling a kingdom took its toll, forced one to be strong and resolute. Sometimes, even in a country as civilised as Helberion, it required a leader to intimidate people, to gain their respect with a show of strength, and that naturally caused the body to become more masculine. Maybe I should just accept the inevitable and become a man, she thought. I'll still be able to play music and dance, men do those things too. But, dammit, she liked being a woman! She applied the razor with a new determination, and winced as she cut herself again under the chin.
“I could help you with that, Your Highness,” said the maid, taking a step closer. She held out a hand as if to take the blade.
“No thank you,” replied Ardria, not taking her eyes from her reflection in the mirror.
“If I wanted to do you harm, Highness, I would not need a blade in my hand.”
“If you did me harm, your King would feed you to his dogs, one piece at a time.”
“I will prepare your bath then, Highness. Which perfume would you like? We have summer lotus, honeysuckle dreams...” She watched as the Princess flicked shaving cream from her blade and applied it to her face again. “Eau de horsesweat...”
The Princess stiffened but refused to rise to the bait. The maid was playing a game with her, she knew. Trying to make her react. She would win by refusing to react. “Whatever you think best,” she said, therefore, and the maid scowled as she rang the bell for some hot water.
Would the maid insist on helping her bathe? Wondered Ardria. The water would wash the powder from her arms, leave them glowing, the giveaway sign that she'd been adopted by the Radiants and partially raised. The giveaway sign that she was a traitor to her own species. She wouldn’t see it that way, of course. In her mind, she was doing something heroic. Risking death in the name of her true masters in order to bring the human race under control, a control that would see them far better off than they were when left to their own affairs. In the maid’s mind, it was probably the Princess who was the traitor, trying to derail the benevolent designs of the Radiants In order to keep mankind in chaos and suffering. Freedom was the key, though, she thought. Mankind must be free! Yes there is suffering and injustice, but we'll solve those problems ourselves, our way, while keeping our Freedom.
Her first night as a prisoner of King Nilon had been a fraught one for her. The knowledge that she was surrounded by people who would kill her in a moment if ordered to do so, or curse her back to her animal form, that there was no-one she could call on to defend her, ate at her and kept her awake until the small hours of the morning. Only exhaustion had caused her to finally fall asleep, but even though she could only have gotten a couple of hours she had awoken with new energy and the strength to meet whatever challenges lay ahead. And stubble on her face! The shock of it had caused her to cry out in shock, and the maid had come running in to see what was wrong. The look of amusement that had appeared on her face when she’s seen what had happened still enraged the Princess. The lack of respect, the reminder of her new status.
All a waste! she thought bitterly. Travelling across half the world, risking death with every mile, the deaths of the good, loyal men who'd come with her to defend her... Teena! Her sweet, loyal handmaid! If Ardria had stayed at home, Teena would still be alive! She had died, they had all died, just so that she could hand herself over to their enemy as a hostage! The sudden guilt swept over her like an avalanche, nearly making her cry out in anguish. Only the presence of this awful maid prevented her. She could not show weakness in front of the enemy! She finished her shave, therefore, and cleaned the blade in the water with a hand that was only slightly shaking.
A short while later, the door opened and two guards came in carrying buckets of steaming hot water. Normally, maids would have done this, but Ardria supposed that, even here, there were only so many adoptees, and only they could be trusted to be in the presence of the Princess and hear what she might say to them. That gave the Princess an idea. Maybe there was still some good she could do here, some way to give meaning to all the people who'd given their lives for her.
The maid directed them towards the bath, into which they poured the water and then left, closing the door behind them. The maid then poured some oil into the bath from a delicately carved crystal bottle and stirred it with her hand until bubbles started to rise. The room began to fill with a warm vapour and the scent of flowers. The Princess undressed, telling herself that it made her no more helpless than she was already, and stepped in. The water felt good against her bare skin, and she sat down in it, allowing herself to feel pleasure as the stress and tension in her body began to soak away. After all, she thought, when you're in the mouse trap, you might as well eat the cheese.
The maid stripped to the waist and used a flannel to scrub her back. Water ran down her arms, but it didn't wash away the powder that concealed her luminous skin. She must be using some kind of waterproof cream instead, though Ardria. It occurred to her that the eyes of an adoptee didn't shine, and neither did the insides of their mouths. If they had, of course, it would have made it much more difficult for them to move around among normal people. Some people wore masks to conceal facial deformities. People burned in house fires or whose faces had become aberrant while being raised to human. She supposed that the adoptees would have had to do something like that.
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“May I ask your name?” she asked. “I should have asked before, but the shock of finding that the King was one of you was too great.”
“My name is Leona, Your Highness,” the maid replied.
Ah, so I'm still a Highness! thought Ardria hopefully. That was interesting. “That's a pretty name, I don’t think I've ever heard it before. Is it a common name where you come from?”
“Not a common name,” replied the maid, still scrubbing her back. “But there are others with the same name. I come from Jaccquil, in the north.”
“Ah. I was trying to place your accent. So, you're going to be a Radiant one day.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Do Radiants have names? Will you still be Leona when you're a Radiant?”
“No, Highness. They identify themselves telepathically. When one speaks to you, you just know which one it is by the feel of their thoughts, like recognising the voice of someone you know.”
“But we still use names, even though we can recognise each other’s voices. We use names for the benefit of those we've never met before, who don't know what our voices sound like. Suppose a Radiant you've never met before speaks to you, and you then have to tell another Radiant which one it was who spoke to you?”
“Telepathy can communicate the feel of someone's thoughts. It is not limited to words.”
“I see. There’s so much we don't know about them! They've always been there, floating around in the sky, but we know almost nothing about them! Their social structures, how they govern themselves. Do they even have a government? A ruling class?”
“All Radiants are equal, Highness. If a number of them have to work together, they may choose one among themselves to co-ordinate, to direct their operations, but it may not always be the same one. They choose the one among themselves that is most suited to direct that particular operation.”
“Your King thinks he'll still be a King when he's a Radiant. He thinks he'll still be able to order you around, that you'll still be his servants.”
There was a full length mirror on the wall in front of her. It was beginning to mist up, but she could still see an amused smile appear on the maid’s face. “The King's wrong?” she asked.
“The Radiants tell me that all are equal in their society, Highness. There is a Radiant speaking to me even now. He is confirming it.”
“If the Radiants speak to the King as well, then how did he come to this misapprehension?”
“I do not know, Highness.”
“Perhaps the Radiants lied to him. They needed him for their plan to work, so they told him what he wanted to hear.”
“Perhaps, Your Highness.”
“If they lied to him, perhaps they're lying to you as well. About this, about other things.”
The towel stopped moving against her back for a moment, then resumed, scrubbing harder than before. “It is not easy to lie with telepathy, Highness. When we talk to them, they can see our innermost thoughts. We can hide nothing from them.”
“But they're higher beings. Perhaps they can hide things from you. Perhaps they can hide what they're really thinking from you.”
“They said you would try to divide us, Highness.” The maid had her other hand, the one not holding the flannel, on her shoulder, and Ardria was suddenly intensely aware that, like all adoptees, she had wizard powers. She could throw her back to her animal form in almost an instant! The woman would have to parent bond her first, something a wizard could do in a single moment. Ardria would find herself suddenly loving the woman, be willing to do anything for her! She anxiously searched her feelings. If she felt herself suddenly feeling warm and tender towards the maid, would she be able to leap out of the bath, break the physical contact, before it was too late? What was there around her that she could use as a weapon? Sponges, towels... Her eyes fixed on the bottle of bath oil. It might make a pretty good club if she could grip the slippery crystal firmly enough...
The maid withdrew her hand and the Princess relaxed. “They did lie to the King,” she said. “The Radiant confirms it. They don't like lying, it required a special effort to withhold their true thoughts, but, as you said, they need him for their plan to work. They told us the truth, though, and I believe them. It also said that they told the King that it is we that they are lying to.” The Princess started to speak and the maid slipped a hand over her mouth to silence her. “I know what you are going to say,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “If they told us they are lying to him, and they told him that they are lying to us... I believe that they are telling the truth to us, though, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.”
“You're parent bonded,” pointed out the Princess. “You'll believe whatever they tell you.”
The maid stepped away and towelled her arms dry. Some of the cream wiped off and her luminous skin was revealed. “Finish your bath,” she said. “The King desires your company for breakfast.” She then opened the door and left the room, leaving the Princess to sigh with disappointment behind her.
☆☆☆
“Why was I not informed about the altered nature of your mission?” demanded Edward Blake angrily.
He, the Brigadier and Private Grey were standing in the club house of Rendell United, Charnox's best kickball team. Blake was the team's manager, a star player in the days of his youth and, unknown to the kickballers and their fans, he and his staff ran the Charnox branch of the Helberion intelligence service, with visitors explained as friends of the manager and avid fans of the team, invited to see what went on behind the scenes. The Brigadier had gotten in by uttering the code phrase “I thought I'd take him up on his invitation,” whereupon the cleaner who’d answered the door, a highly decorated former Helberion soldier, had ushered him through and then gone off to get his superior. That man was now glaring furiously at the a Brigadier, who met his gaze impassively. “There has been no change,” replied the Brigadier. “My orders are simply to meet up with the Princess and offer her whatever assistance she might require.”
“So what possessed you to bring the whole country to the brink of armed insurrection?”
“That was not my intention. I tried to move through the country incognito, but I was recognised on several occasions, and each time they assumed I was here to assist them in organising a revolution. I denied it, of course. I am as well aware as you of the dangers of mission creep.”
“The King has a plan for the salvation of Helberion, but it is dependent on there being a central authority in Carrow we can negotiate with. If this country devolves into anarchy, with dozens of local warlords vying for control, Helberion could be swamped by thousands of refugees fleeing the chaos!”
“I am well aware of the King's plan. It was I who helped him formulate it. I am as aware as you are of what a Carrow civil war would mean for Helberion. I repeat that I have had no part in organising a revolution.”
The Brigadier spoke in a steady, soft voice against which the spy chief's anger splashed like water against a rock. Blake stared at him, feeling his anger dying away without any answering anger from the Brigadier to fuel it, and he turned away to pace across the room. He stared at the trophy cabinet, as if the silver cups and moulded sporting figures it contained held the answers to all his problems. “So what do we bloody well do?” he asked. “I hope you know, because I bloody well don't.”
“I am not here to tell you your job. I am hoping you can help me do mine, though. I need to enter the palace and make contact with the Princess. To do that I will need the help of Wombat.”
Blake glanced across at Grey, his thoughts transparent to both the other men. This common soldier wasn't cleared for this kind of information! First the Brigadier brings him here, to a secret spy headquarters, then he reveals the code name of Helberion's most important asset in Carrow! “I trust Private Grey,” said the Brigadier. “You may speak freely in front of him.”
“I will decide who I can speak freely in front of!” replied Blake, his anger returning. “Wombat’s identity must be protected at all costs! The information he's provided over the years has been invaluable!”
“Has it indeed?” asked the Brigadier. “What has he told us recently?”
“He gave us advanced warning that Carrow was about to invade...”
“We received his warning after Marboll was attacked by the Radiants. His warning came too late to do us any good. Also, there are things we desperately need to know that an agent in the palace ought to have been able to tell us. There must be at least one adoptee in the palace. Who is It? Where does he have his private quarters? Have any high ranking members of the King's administration been adopted? Wombat should have been able to find out just by seeing who has powdered skin! Is the King a willing participant of the destruction of human civilisation, or is he an unwitting dupe? Was Wombat unable to listen in on any of his private meetings?”
“There are limits to the risks he can take. If he is discovered...”
“He'll be killed, yes, but what use is an agent in the palace if he's too fearful to gather intelligence? The time has come for him to do his job. I need a guide in the palace, someone who can tell me where the Princess is being kept, what guards are kept on her. If he can’t do this, then what use is he?”
“I haven't had an opportunity to speak with him since the Princess’ arrival. Our next scheduled contact is tomorrow evening, and I have to see him alone. If he sees anyone with me...”
“You must have a way to get a message to him quickly, in case of an emergency.”
“Yes, but it can only be used in the event of the direst emergency.”
“You don't think the capture of the crown Princess by the enemy counts as a dire emergency?”
“She wasn’t captured. She came voluntarily. She's where she wants to be.”
The Brigadier nodded reluctantly. It was an argument he might have made himself under other circumstances. “We have to know whether she still wants to be here,” he said. “We have no idea how her meeting with King Nilon went. She might now be a genuine captive, a genuine hostage. We need to contact her, under circumstances in which we know she’s not speaking under duress. We need Wombat.”
Blake paced back and forth across the room, shaking his head in frustration. “There are Carrowmen willing to give us information because they trust us to keep them safe, to protect their identities. If we get Wombat killed, no Carrowmen will ever work for us again! If we get him killed, the King will have me hanged in my own forecourt!”
“Have you forgotten that it is the King's own daughter in Greyspike Palace? I think he'd be more likely to have us all hanged if we don't take this risk!”
“I have to think about this...”
“No time for thinking! Decide, now! Either you give us Wombat or the two of us will try to break into the palace and find the Princess without him!”
“You can't take him to the palace!” said Blake in outrage, pointing at Private Grey. “He knows about this place now! If he's captured...”
“He won't be taken alive,” promised the Brigadier. “Neither of us will. I guarantee it.”
Grey stared at him, an alarmed look in his eyes, but then he nodded. “I also guarantee it,” he said. “I won’t risk telling them anything under torture. I'll open my own veins first. I swear it in the name of King Leothan.”
Blake stared at him, trying to read him, to see if he was sincere. Then he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Just sending the message runs the risk of exposing him, but you know that. I'll do it immediately. We should get a reply within the hour.” He then turned and went to leave the room without looking back, still shaking his head doubtfully.
“There's just a couple more things,” said the Brigadier, though, making him pause and look back. “First, can you please get in touch with our embassy in Farwell, ask them if there's been any word regarding my batman, Malone?”
“I'll pass on the request,” replied the spy master. “Don’t expect a reply any time soon, though. We rely on riders and pigeons. It might be a week before we hear anything. When you see Wombat, he might be able to use the palace's telegraph to get news from Marboll, if the city's still standing. What was the other thing?”
“I presume you have an armoury? There's something I'd like to take with me.”
“Come this way,” said Blake, and he led the way further into the building.