Octov was the first person to set foot on this planet. Every child in the empire knows this. He crashed onto its surface in a tiny one-man plane named Polygon and lived in a cave while the seeds he planted turned to cities and trees and oxygen and rivers.
It was a bad seed that created the oil rain in the rift. And a good seed that grew Farlight, although a bad seed almost melted it before our glorious leader blew on the stone to make it cool again.
Everything exists because OctoV grew it.
As other planets were seeded so his garden grew. Until it spanned a quarter of the galaxy. But a snake-headed thief stole some of his stars. OctoV has been fighting since then to get them back.
This is the story I was told as a child.
Until I met Debro, I thought it true. When she realized how upset I was, she told me it wasn’t that it wasn’t true. It simply wasn’t true in the sense of happening. That’s Debro for you. It’s a creation myth. A post-singularity attempt to simplify something or other. I give up listening after the myth bit.
‘You’re not serious?’ Anton demands.
I nod. We need to get out of Farlight, but first we have to save the real Vijay. Saving a pretend one doesn’t count. I reckon Simone was right without knowing it – he’s on the south side of the river.
Anton is unhappy with my plan. Mind you, he’s unhappy with everything. He’s been sulking since Serafina walked away without looking back, and that makes me think of something else.
‘Why didn’t you say there were other Vijays?’
‘Thought they were all off-planet.’
Something feels wrong about that. Maybe Anton doesn’t want Vijay found, that’s what his behaviour says to me. But Aptitude dotes on General Jaxx’s son, and Debro seems to approve. So why would . . .?
‘We’re crossing that river.’
‘Sven . . .’
‘It’s not up for argument.’
Catching my scowl, Leona glances away. Anton trails after us in silence as we head for the stone steps down to the jetty. Sergeant Brandon’s loaded everything on my list into the largest of the boats.
Except a radio.
‘No radios, sir,’ he says. ‘Orders from above.’
‘What?’
‘No point anyway. System’s down.’
Taking a step back when I glare, he catches himself and adopts a combat stance instead. When I grin, the tension goes out of his eyes.
OK, no radio it is.
He has found us three standard-issue Kemzins, some ragged-looking flak jackets and a jumble of ready-loaded clips. We’ve even got a square of cheese, some dry tacos and a big bottle of beer.
‘Sir,’ he says, stepping closer. ‘You think it’s true, sir? About . . .’ He hesitates. I don’t blame him. My brain won’t process the idea either.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘General Jaxx is my general.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stepping back, he salutes. Then he unties our line and tosses it into the belly of our boat.
‘Take point . . .’
Leona does, a rifle ported across her chest. Anton sits in the middle, still sulking. And I take the small tiller. The boat’s lights are taped. Not sure if Sergeant Brandon did that or if it was done anyway.
We’re running the fusion unit from a truck, bolted crudely into place and too big for the cavity allowed. It’s a replacement for whatever was there before. A diesel motor from the look of the piping left over.
The river is sluggish around us and smells stale.
We have the whole stretch of dark water to ourselves. There are no other craft on its surface at all. Not even one of the police launches that usually plough the river at night.
‘Sir . . .’
Troop trucks are gathering at the northern end of one bridge. As we watch, a light tank rolls along the embankment behind us to join them.
Tracks clattering in the night.
Looks like an AX 31.
‘Fuck,’ says Leona. ‘That’s . . .’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’
Other trucks begin blocking off the northern end of the next bridge along. A rumble of tracks says other tanks are on the move. As we watch, a scout car flicks on its searchlight and a beam stabs the sky.
‘Sven,’ says Anton. ‘This is a shit idea.’
‘Got a better one?’
‘Almost anything is better than this one.’
‘Sir,’ Leona says. She’s pointing at the sky. Locked in the beam of the searchlight is a vast cigar-shape, blocking off a hundred stars. It’s black, slung with a cargo pod, and running without lights. Largest zep I’ve ever seen.
‘Oh shit,’ Leona says.
One side drops from the pod, and spins briefly, before crashing into a house on the side of the river we’re approaching. The figures who follow it spreadeagle to slow their fall.
They jump without parachutes, wings or power packs.
As a siren breaks the night and the bells of Farlight cathedral start ringing behind us, I expect the tanks to open fire, but they’re silent.
‘Sergeant,’ I say. ‘Concentrate on the South bank.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ Leona unports her rifle as the embankment approaches and I steer for a flight of steps. There’s too much noise for anyone to hear our engine, and far too much going on in the sky for anyone to bother with the river. Leaping ashore, Leona drags us in and ties our rope.
‘Take these,’ I tell her.
She catches an extra three clips, one after another. Ceramic hollow-point. The standard issue for militia everywhere. She thrusts them into her belt, then drops out her clip and checks it’s fully loaded.
Should have done that already.
Anton catches the weapon I toss him.
Jacketing up, Leona velcros the tags at the side and pulls down the ceramic skirt to protect her thighs. Anton joins her. There is no way I’m going to fit into the flak jacket that Sergeant Brandon found me, so I leave mine behind.
I’m glad the real Vijay Jaxx doesn’t plan to marry Sef. Apart from the fact she’s a brain-dead idiot, it would be a waste to rescue him, only to have to rip his heart out myself.
Anton’s staring at the zep again.
‘Silver Fist?’ he asks.
That was my first thought. But even assuming an elite force of the Enlightened are suicidal enough to attack OctoV in his capital, how could they get this far in-system, and why has no intelligence reached Farlight of their coming?