Five to Twelve (16 page)

Lessons in love began in the bedroom, involving the common languages of touch and smell and taste. But eventually the syntax of emotion became too big for the bedroom, too complex to be expressed in erectile tissue. The teacher began to learn and the learner began to teach. And it was as if some joker had thrown a switch, reversing the stream of history until it ran back to the first man and the first woman.

Day merged into day. Nights were sometimes bright with
ecstasy and frequently fogged with exhaustion. The October weather declared three weeks of Indian Summer, during which even Sylphide realized she was pregnant and even Dion realized that he had truly lived.

It was, Dion knew, all too good to last longer than a very brief lifetime. So he was not entirely surprised when, late in an afternoon of sunlit stillness, something that gave a grotesquely poor imitation of a raven in the dying light, came from the south, circled the valley once and deposited its burden of bad news on the doorstep at Wits’ End.

Leander cut the jets and stepped out of his sky suit with a radiant smile and a laser pistol in his hand. Dion noticed the laser pistol and restrained his compulsively vacillatory impulse to destroy that which was clearly destined to destroy.

“What? No carillons of joy?” enquired Leander mildly. “Dear, rustic youth, it has been a long time since we elevated each other with wild aspirations to heroic manhood.”

“Not long enough by a century, toad. How did you find me?”

“Surely you have not forgotten your telltale heart?”

“So all you had to do was lock on the beam. What kept you?”

“A small problem—the heel of Achilles. It was, of course, necessary to establish its location beyond a peradventure.”

“And have you?”

Sylphide came out to join them. Leander smiled at her, almost absently swinging the laser pistol to point briefly at her stomach. “I think so, dear lad. I truly think so… I have been something of a voyeur in the past few months—purely in the interests of the Lost Legion, you understand… But the heel definitely exists, and therefore we are both in a position to negotiate.”

“There is nothing to negotiate.”

“You disappoint me.”

“A riverderci.”

“A pity. I knew, of course, that you personally had expressed some slight disinterest in continued respiration, but,” again he glanced at Sylphide, “it did occur to me that your disinterest might not extend—as it is so succinctly put in some book or other—unto the third and fourth generation.”

Dion sighed. “Negotiate is a word that has two sides to it, bastard. What—first of all—are you offering?”

“Complete and absolute freedom. A full and honourable discharge from the Lost Legion.”

“Dion, who is he?” asked Sylphide nervously. “What does he want?”

“What do you want?” said Dion.

“One small service to be performed on November the twelfth.”

“Namely?”

“On November the twelfth,” went on Leander, “Queen Victoria the Second, bless her time shots, is scheduled to open the new session of Parliament. As an Englishman, one’s heart warms to the thought of traditional pageantry. But, at times it can be rather dull. The Lost Legion has decided to introduce a more meaningful touch.”

“How?”

“By translating it into a state funeral,” said Leander. “A British sovereign has not, I believe, died by assassination in recent times. I am sure Victoria would be inordinately flattered to know that she had been selected to rectify the omission.”

“You’re stark and ultra staring.”

“Certainly. But not uniquely so… Think of it, Dion.
It’s dramatic, it’s bold, it’s terrible and quite deliciously shocking. It’s the kind of thing that will make half the doms of England blow their amplifier circuits.”

“It’s the kind of thing that will collect a sufficiency of grade ones to tranquillize the Lost Legion in its entirety.”

“There are hazards, indeed,” admitted Leander.

Dion gave him a wintry smile. “Let me guess who is supposed to chiefly enjoy them.”

“It will be your last act,” said Leander. “After this you may retire with honour.”

“And a plateful of porridge where my brain used to be. No thank you. Let someone else gain glory—preferably yourself.”

“What is this,” asked Sylphide in helpless bewilderment, “some kind of funny exercise?”

“Yes, love, it’s hilarious,” explained Dion. “The gent here wants me to chop Victoria in exchange for nothing.”

“In exchange for doing nothing,” corrected Leander looking significantly at Sylphide. “And also in exchange for guaranteeing a peaceful fecundity in your time.”

“Normally,” explained Dion, “he lives under a wet stone but the run of dry weather has unsettled him.”

“Of course,” said Leander gently, raising the laser pistol, “if you are not interested in the welfare of the third and fourth generations—or even the second—we can settle the matter after a fashion here and now.”

“Not so fast, scorpion. How do I know that this will be the last gambit?”

Leander sighed. “Is there no trust between us?”

“No.”

“You sadden me. I have here a confession signed by myself that I personally am responsible for the dyeing of Parliament and the anticipated death of the queen. It is your
certificate of freedom… In the event of a slight misunderstanding, you or your good infra would—I presume—know what to do with it.”

Dion gazed at the darkening sky and shivered. “It’s colder than you think. Come inside and we’ll discuss your little essay in treason over a glass or two of pain killer.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Leander tucked his laser pistol away. “Incidentally, if I do not return to London by midday tomorrow, you will be embarrassingly dead and therefore quite unable to contemplate the interesting future of any offspring, potential or actual. That would be sad, would it not?”

“Perhaps,” conceded Dion. “Nevertheless, the sentiment has been registered.”

Sylphide began to cry. “It’s a nightmare,” she sobbed. “It can’t be like this. All we wanted to do was live and love and be alone. Why should anybody want to take it away?”

Dion kissed her gently. “That’s the sixty-four milliard lion question, love.” He glanced at Leander. “And the answer is quite simple. Because some bastard joker made it easier for a rich dom to pass through the eye of a camel than for a poor sport to needle his way into the kingdom of heaven.”

I
T
was a fine, still morning with a slight bouquet of frost in the wine-sharp air. Dion, in an iridescent sky suit and with a racing jet pack strapped to his back, lay flat on his face, the snout of his scoped laser rifle poking discreetly between the thick pillars of the low balustrade. The balustrade had been added to the flattened top of the Cenotaph in Whitehall during the early twenties, when vid was still more or less earth-bound and state occasions had to be shot from solid coigns of vantage.

But now that ground controlled hover-cameras were used, Dion had the top of the Cenotaph all to himself—which was just as well, because even the sensation-hungry doms of Centrovid might have stopped short at aiding and abetting regicide.

He had been lying there since before daylight, and he was stiff with fear and stillness, having hardly moved during the last four hours. Despite the chameleon-like qualities of his sky suit, even the slightest movement might have been picked up by a drifting hover-camera or a patrolling Peace Officer; and then his Id digits would have been up. Even frustrated regicide would merit a grade one.

As he lay there, waiting for Leander’s radio bleep from Admiralty Arch to signal that the procession was four minutes away, Dion had time to think about all the things he did not want to think about. Like how the next half hour would probably see him permanently dead, anyway. If he
chopped Victoria, a lot of people would be justifiably annoyed; and if he did not chop her there were those who would also be somewhat annoyed. Thus it was merely a case of the devil or the deep blue yonder.

Leander’s instructions had been explicit and nothing if not unequivocal. “Permanent not temporary death is required, dearest boy,” he had said. “If Victoria survives, she’ll be a lousy heroine. So you either burn her head off or cut her in two. Monarchy, in this lovely dom’s world, has to be seen to be a hazardous occupation.”

The escape plan was simple enough to succeed—if it could be got off the ground. As soon as Leander had given his signal from Admiralty Arch, he would jet to the roof of the New Peace House, parallel to the Cenotaph, and wait for Dion to start burning. Then, as Dion lifted from the Cenotaph with his racing jets at full scream, Leander would create a small diversion and try to cut down any pursuing Peace Officers. Finally, the two of them would rendezvous at ten thousand feet—hopefully two thousand feet more than Peace Officers would dare to rise—and jet north together. Over Cambridgeshire, assuming they had thrown off all pursuit, they would separate. They would touch down at a deserted barn, where Leander had already stashed conventional rented sky gear, dump their rifles and racing kit, and say a briefly moving farewell to each other for ever. Then Dion would lift north to Wits’ End and Leander would lift south to London—two innocent squires going about their lawful occasions.

It was a reasonable plan—but one which Dion already knew was not going to work. It was not going to work because to make something like that work you had to want it to work. And, as always, he did not quite know what he wanted.

So he lay there sweating, with the cold air bathing his face, listening to the muted murmur of traffic and the nearer sounds of the infras and sports already lining the route and who had been paid a lion or two to cheer the Queen’s progress.

To burn or not to burn, that was the question. Whether ‘twere nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous mediocrity, or to take arms against a sea of doms, and by opposing end them?

But, for Stopes sake! Would the frying of Victoria topple the entire monstrous regiment of women? It would not. It would merely stir the bitches up a bit. So why the ferkinell?

Answer: because D. Quern had entered upon a somewhat improbable pact with the devil’s disciple. Or because D. Quern had developed
joie de mourir.
Or because D. Quern was plain bored.

The radio bleep from Leander came through the micro-ceiver lodged in his ear, and D. Quern jumped like a startled rabbit. The movement would surely be noticed. But it wasn’t. He was rather disappointed.

“
Bon chance
, sport,” whispered Leander’s crackly voice. “The sausage is yours for the cooking. Give it Fahrenheit two thousand with love… See you on top of the clouds, wonder boy. Out.”

“Or in Hades,” growled Dion to himself, “making like a micro-miniaturized snowball.”

He raised himself cautiously up on one knee, his head still lower than the top of the balustrade, and peeped between the pillars. The carriage, preceded by half a squadron of Household Cavalry, their shaped metal breastplates bounding and glinting like a multiplicity of twin voracious eyes in the vague sunlight, turned into Whitehall.

Dion was trembling. The laser rifle felt simultaneously
like a white hot poker and a rod that weighed ten metric tons.

Sir Dion Quern, he thought; having recently received a knighthood, the royal bounty, and the intimate attention of the Queen’s own person, did thereafter brood upon these injuries and resolved to bring to a permanent death the body of his most gracious liege sovereign. Therefore let his name be expunged from the records for ever. And, despite the demise of Her Majesty, it shall be as if the sick-psych had never been misconceived.

He raised the laser rifle unsteadily and looked through the scope. Victoria, at two hundred metres and 10X, was smiling. Graciously. In the great tradition of British monarchs. They had smiled graciously for too many bleeding centuries. Now was the time to do some little something about it.

Dion notched back to maximum power, settled his cheek against the stock of the rifle and peered through the scope once more. The breast-eyes on the cuirasses of the Household Cavalry danced hypnotically. Goddammit, there were rainbows all over the place. Goddammit, it must be raining. Goddammit, it wasn’t raining. Goddammit, he was crying!

He tried to press the fire stud, but his finger was frozen like a petrified question mark.

One hundred and fifty yards. Victoria’s smile was the smile of the sphinx. Anyone not a certifiable idiot could see she was as bored as hell. It would be an act of mercy to relieve her boredom.

The paid sports and infras lining the route began to cheer themselves hoarse and stupid, secure in the comfortable prospect of an imminence of alcohol. A number of feeble-minded doms were tossing handfuls of plastic rose
petals. The vid cameras hovered like a swarm of giant flies.

He tried to press the fire stud again, and failed.

It was ridiculous.

It was ridiculous that a grown man could not execute a grown woman who was the symbol of feminine power in this dom-happy world into which he had been thrust.

One hundred yards. He brushed the tears away and tried hating her.

It didn’t work. With a tremendous mental effort, he superimposed Juno’s face on that of Victoria’s. That didn’t work either. His finger was frozen like a question mark that would never uncurl.

Then suddenly he thought of his mother, who had died of an embolism and seventeen pregnancies. Who had killed herself to buy him an education and a little time. And he was filled with a righteous anger.

Queen Victoria the Second of England was a symbol of the society that had made such a sacrifice necessary. It was time, therefore, for Victoria to collect on behalf of all the doms she represented, the interest on the seventeenth pan of afterbirth.

Dion Quern stood up on the top of the Cenotaph. The Cenotaph itself represented ten million dead men. They had not died for anything glorious, whatever the historians tried to invent. Nor did they die so that a debased breed of woman should inherit the earth.

Somehow, he sensed that they were with him. And there was a majority verdict.