~ David ~

The western slope of the valley was treacherous. Here, the terrain was steep, banks of sharply-inclined dirt that fell away beneath firm feet. Out of the dirt grew a motley of trees, with narrow trunks of white bark or with wider trunks of redwood. They made tempting handholds. The soldiers learned quite quickly not to rely on them. The white trees were brittle, prone to snapping with the weight of a grown man. One coccyx had already been broken when its owner went tumbling down the bank.

The red trees held firm, but they were often infested by little insects with aquamarine thoraces and painful bites. David had half a dozen itchy spots on his hands—and he’d been careful to avoid the bugs.

The order to go on surveyance had come as a surprise, David couldn’t lie about that. He’d questioned General Bradshaw loudly. “I’m a captain,” he said, “not a footsoldier.” He was one of three Captains, as it went, and in charge of a full third of the armed forces. Hard work wasn’t what he’d signed up for. The bloke who’d accepted his registration had assured him that his family name and the case of cash he’d donated were enough to mean he could earn his retirement by following Chris around and sitting behind a desk. It seemed to him that General Bradshaw had taken some perverse pleasure in reminding him that he had to follow his superiors’ orders.

In the end, the joke was on Bradshaw. Lieutenant Jackson’s team were a laugh. Jackson himself had been raised in a town a dozen miles or so from Borrowood. His grandfather’s grandfather had once worked for David’s grandfather’s grandfather. This was all the ammunition Jackson’s softly spoken Sergeant Tunnock had needed to crack an hour’s worth of jokes about Lieutenant Jackson eventually clambering above David in the hierarchy.

Arrogance wasn’t appreciated. It would have made him very happy to point out that, as a close personal friend of the Governor, he was basically guaranteed to stay above Jackson no matter what. But that would have made him seem conceited. Captain Hollis of the Carax division was the classic case study here. He’d been famously pompous—and rightfully so, given his noble birth and lofty accomplishments. All that pomp had lost its effect when one of his soldiers got fed up one night and strung him up from the tallest tower.

He did get a knot named after him, so there were upsides, but the knot was really the work of the man who killed him.

Jackson had a casual attitude to uniform. His hair was slicked back, and his sleeves rolled up to expose muscular arms. Most of the other soldiers followed his lead, taking various liberties with their uniforms. David could have chastised the lot of them. Instead, he copied them. It was a hot day, and traipsing about in full serge could get awfully sweaty.

The squad rested a while once they got to the top of the slope. It was David’s suggestion. There was a muscle in his left leg that seemed to be struggling, and the ideal case was to avoid hurting it. Jackson had been happy to oblige. There were plenty of big thick trees here, making a canopy so dense in places that the sky wasn’t visible. Birds sang, and small animals pitter-pattered underfoot.

Sergeant Tunnock took out a pad of vellum paper from his pack, and perched himself on a mossy rock. “Let me know if you get eyes on one of these critters,” he said, to anybody who fancied listening.

One of the others, red-nosed Jim Kilbirnie, snickered. “You gonna draw a pretty picture, Ade? Think the animals here are posers?”

“You’re the poser,” said Tunnock. The retort fell flat.

The trees here were home to a colony of marsupials, tiny wee furry things that squeaked and scampered about, carrying nuts and berries and little pebbles in between their tiny hands. They were all over the valley as well, though there they seemed to prefer to emerge at night when the construction had stopped. On the first night here, on an evening walk with Lord Constable Mannam and Colonel Gamball, David had lost his supper. It was a treat of nuts and cinnamon, spun in sugared honey and toasted until it was rock solid. Metties, they were called. They were a favourite of his. But this particular one had caught the eye of one these marsupials, who had swooped down unseen and grabbed it out of his hand as he was about to take a bite.

Suffice to say, he’d been the butt of the jokes for the rest of the night.

David had taken to calling them mettysnatchers, these furry bastards; he had a ruder name for them too, which he thought best not to say out loud. Judging by the amount of them here, he’d just followed Lieutenant Jackson to the Mettysnatcher Homeworld.

“What’s that one holding?” One of the soldiers, a rangy man with a scraggly beard, was pointing at a mettysnatcher scampering across the mossy branches of a gnarled tree. It definitely wasn’t a nut.

The call was taken up by a man with a dozen hairs on his head and half as many teeth in his mouth, and the accent of a scrumpy-drinking farmer. “It looks like a little man.”

“It’s just a piece of wood,” said Sergeant Tunnock, shaking his head.

“My arse it is,” Scrumpy replied. “Look, you can see the face.”

“You’re seeing things,” laughed one of his mates.

David reached for the ground. His hands closed around a loose pebble, which he prised free of the dirt and lobbed at the mettysnatcher. His aim was terrible, and the stone hit the branch the creature was on, taking out some of the bark. In any case, the mettysnatcher—evidently startled by the sudden appearance of a projectile—dropped whatever it was carrying in its mouth and disappeared into the undergrowth.

“Nice throw,” said Tunnock.

The maguffin had fallen off the tree when the mettysnatcher dropped it, and with the impact had somehow managed to get hidden beneath an old leaf. David walked slowly over to it, and, after rummaging for a few seconds, picked it up. It was about the size of a man’s hand, and in its brief time on the ground had picked up a few insect passengers. Their bites were like fire on David’s hand.

“What is it?” called one of the soldiers. David didn’t reply.

But Scrumpy was right, in a way. So was Sergeant Tunnock. It was a piece of wood, whittled and hewn into the shape of a man, naked apart from a tangle of cloth around his loins. David had seen similar figurines in the past, in museums, relics of the savages who had been the first civilised humans. It had no business being here. Nobody had ever set foot on this world before, Governor Ballard had specifically said as much.

He dropped it into his pocket, quickly so none of them would notice. “Sergeant Tunnock was right. It’s just a piece of wood.”

The woods became known to Jackson’s team as the Mettywood, on account of the little creatures that roamed there. A scratch of the pencil and that name was etched into their sketched maps. By the time David got back to his chambers, the day having passed into the evening, the Mettywood was an official name. He hoped the name ‘mettysnatcher’ stuck, because otherwise the people of the future would have a whale of a time trying to work out how a magical woodland and an overly-sweet treat were in any way connected.

He didn’t stay long in his quarters, just long enough to take the figurine from his pocket and give it a look over. It had a certain rough quality to it, as if carved by a child. The grooves scratched into the wood for a face were uneven. The wood itself was chipped in places, and scored like the blade had run off course. This was no master craftsman’s work. It was the work of an apprentice at best—and a pretty poor one.

But whoever had made it, they did not belong on Essegena. They should not exist. And yet clearly they had, clearly they’d wandered this selfsame valley, and they’d left this hideous carved man as proof.

Chris would want to know.

But not now. Chris had plenty on his plate at the moment, in charge of a colony that had it all to do if it was to become some sort of functional society. It wouldn’t be fair of David to burden him at this moment. Later, when things were settled, and everyone had found their role in the routine, he could share this with the Governor. For now, it was better he kept it to himself.

Of course, that would mean he couldn’t talk about it, not with anyone, and there had to be somebody he could share it with. He’d be positively mad otherwise.

And so it was that David found himself walking from his chambers with the idol stuffed in the pocket of his coat, wrapped loosely in two layers of fabric wrap. The Lord Constable was a man he was very loosely acquainted with, but their commands had briefly overlapped some years back, and they’d spent more than a few nights at cards together, on the way to Essegena. He seemed like a rational man. More to the point, he seemed not to be in the payroll of General Bradshaw.

Everybody had their loyalty. David had learned that when he was far lower down the ranks. Sure, they might argue that they stood for peace, or integrity, or whatever admirable quality they wanted to project, but at the end of the day there was a leader behind every officer. On Essegena, those leaders were General Bradshaw and Governor Ballard. Anybody who David told about the figurine would probably relay that information to whichever leader they stood for. Chris would learn in time, and he’d not be angry if he found out before David was ready to tell. Bradshaw would be angry. He’d also use the information against Chris.

That was not an option.

So with Angie Munro’s loyalties clearly tied to the man she rode, the only Captain David could trust was Captain Mannam.

Fortunately, the weather had been consistently balmy since the Eia arrived. Even at this late hour, as the sun made its descent, it was usually still warm. Routines had emerged. The Lord Constable could almost always be found on the grass next to the Clearwater river, getting handily drunk. Close to the Eia, the river was usually crowded—but just a short walk northward, people became sparser. Mannam’s drinking spot of choice was a short walk from the valley’s only permanent drinking establishment, the Tavern in the plaza. Doubtless the spot had been chosen so that empty glasses need not be empty for long.

There was a strip of grassland sunken from the ground level of the plaza. All manner of trees and flowers grew here, and had for some time. A couple of long-since-fallen logs made natural benches. Captain Mannam was stood next to one of these, drinking with a pair of uniformed officers. It was impossible not to recognise him; he had tightly curled hair atop a craggy, square face. He also had a tendency to wear his parade-wear dolman when he wasn’t on parade—or indeed on duty. Next to him, David recognised old Colonel Tastock, the top button of his tunic undone and his kepi in his hand.

Tastock obviously recognised David too. He nudged Mannam as David approached, and whispered something. Mannam smirked.

“If it isn’t Captain Clifford,” said Mannam. “Don’t worry, there’s none of those creatures here. Your metties are safe.”

“With you around? I’m not so sure.”

“I never had a sweet tooth,” Mannam slapped Tastock on the back. “As for Gordon here—now there’s a man could eat anything so long as it was over-sugared.”

“The doctor says I shouldn’t,” said Colonel Tastock.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” David only knew Colonel Tastock very vaguely. He wasn’t sure if the old soldier could be trusted.

But Mannam shook his head. “Just swapping old stories. We used to serve together, Gordon and I—twenty years in the same unit, wasn’t it?”

“Twenty-two,” Tastock said.

“The point is, we’ve known each other for a long time.” Mannam lifted his glass to his lips and drained it of its remaining froth. “You can never replace an old friend, not truly.”

The other officer was a younger man, a waxed moustache on an angular face. He held out a hand for David to shake. “The name’s Bathart,” he said. Then, hastily: “Captain.”

“Young Lieutenant Bathart’s looking to move up in the world,” said Mannam, with a grin, “and he’s got loose purse-strings. There’s a man you want as a drinking buddy.”

David nodded along. “Do you mind if we have a quick word, Captain? I’ve something I’d like to show you.”

“Not at all,” said Mannam. He turned to his companions. “Same time tomorrow, fellas? I’ll have to speak with Áine and get a standing order going.”

They followed the shoreline upstream. About two dozen metres along, the wild growth became too thick for them to keep going, so they cut inside a bit.

“I thought you had something to show me,” said Mannam. “Are you planning on following the river to its source?”

“It’s not something I want just anyone seeing. Not much further, I promise.”

“You should come here more often,” said Mannam. “There’s always room for one more where drinking’s concerned.”

“Maybe another time,” said David.

“I will get a drink down you one of these days.”

David laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

“I’m not used to being refused,” said Mannam, “but there’s no shame in saying no to a drink. Now what was it you wanted to show me?”

“Let me find a surface.”

Here and there, the flat grass was broken by small outcrops of limestone, most barely wide enough to accommodate a single person sat on top of them. David led Mannam over to a nearby shelf of rock. This one was flatter than most, and obscured from the valley by a dirt bank and a line of cowed trees. Perfectly private.

He looked surreptitiously to left and right, just in case someone over by the water was watching. Mannam’s companions seemed to have no interest in anything other than the bottoms of their glasses. None were paying David any mind. Then he reached into his pocket, withdrew the bandaged figurine, laid it out on the nearby rock. He peeled back the gauze. In the light of the setting sun, the figure beneath looked strangely sinister. A good job it was carved from wood, and not a living thing. “What do you make of this?”

Mannam reached out to touch the figure. He ran a finger along the carved face, tracing the etched mouth, then fumbled for his glasses and put them back on. “It’s a carving,” he said. “A man, I should think.”

David nodded. “It looks old to me,” he said.

“Quite,” agreed Mannam. “I didn’t realise you were so into your antiques, Captain Clifford. It’s a marvellous piece, I think, but I hardly see how it counts as business. We’re here to look to the future, after all, not the past.”

“I found it in the woods here, on the valley’s perimeter. However old it is, it was made here.”

Mannam found the idea laughable, judging from the way he burst into barely-stifled laughter. “That isn’t possible, Captain Clifford—up until a month ago not a soul had set foot here.”

“I can’t help that,” said David. “Fact is I found it.”

“Of course there is the possibility that it was simply misplaced,” said Mannam. “These rich buggers think of nothing but their family history. Perhaps one of them wanted to bring their family heirloom along, and it got snatched. Then whoever took it dumped it out of fear of being caught. Strange new world like this, no real idea of where anything is—the woods around the valley are an obvious place to dump something.”

“It’s possible,” David agreed. “But unlikely, I’d say.”

Mannam straightened his glasses. “Whatever it is, it’s certainly interesting. I’ve seen a great many old artefacts in my time. Nothing that looks quite like this. I’d like to hold onto it, if you don’t mind.”

David shrugged, unconcerned. The figurine was a curiosity, sure, but he wasn’t attached to it. Mannam, as Lord Constable and as something of a boffin of antiquities, would have far more success in identifying its provenance. “If you learn anything about it, I’d be interested to know,” he said, “but there’s no reason for me to keep it. What would I do? Put it on my mantel?”

Mannam wound the fabric wrapping around the figurine again. Not too far away, a spectacularly rotund soldier stood drinking alone. From his uniform, he was a Constabulary man. Mannam waved him over. The man scurried across, drops of spilt cider dribbling down his beard, the buttons of his uniform threatening to burst, and Mannam handed him the wrapped figure. “Run this into storage, Corporal,” he said. “Mark it as property of the Lord Constable—I don’t want anybody snooping where they shouldn’t be.”

“Sir.” The corporal took his leave.

As soon as he was gone, Mannam shook his head. “Why must I be tormented with useless soldiers? That’s one of my best officers, and he can’t even have a drink without making a mess.”

“You shouldn’t judge people on how they drink,” said David. “We all know you wouldn’t have a career if you’d been judged.”

Mannam let out a miserly laugh. “That’s true. I don’t like it, but I can’t deny it.”

David had planned on letting Mannam return to his reverie, but instead the two wandered in the opposite direction. The first hint of the night’s chill had begun to creep in, though it was still far from dusk. Perhaps he should have brought an overcoat.

At first Mannam talked shop. He was interested to know if David had had any luck finding the three missing soldiers, and through this interest David hazarded a guess that Mannam’s Constabulary hadn’t had any joy. It was silly that they weren’t working together. General Bradshaw had them at cross-purposes, covering the same ground rather than pooling their resources. Mannam had some choice words to describe Bradshaw.

“The real mystery of it all is the stranger who appeared in their place,” said David. Tragic as their loss was, there was an abundance of rational explanations for the soldiers’ disappearance. They could have got turned around, or been attacked by the local wildlife. Maybe they’d trodden on uneven ground and now their broken bodies were at the bottom of a crevasse. But a man appearing out of nowhere... well, that defied conventional explanation. “Maybe he knows something.”

“I went through the same thought process,” said Mannam.

“And?”

“And nothing. I’ve been to interview the man in the hospital. Three times, in fact,” said Mannam. “Fine use of my time that was,” he spat. “The man talks gibberish. Half of what he says isn’t in sentences, and the half that is doesn’t tally with reality. He talks of towns that don’t exist, people that aren’t in our records. He’s even made up words sometimes. It’s all in the file, but I don’t see that it’ll do us any good.”

“So why file it?”

“Call me a completionist,” said Mannam. “Funny thing: I never used to like keeping records. Goodman Tastock will tell you all about the time he spent busting my balls just to get me to fill in the logs. But I’ve been an officer of rank for these past ten years, and so I don’t have to do the writing. It’s someone else’s hand that’s getting the cramps. So I’ve started having everything written down.”

As they walked further up the river, the sound of laughter and the smell of smoke grew fainter. The grass began to give away, first to uneven bits of rocky ground and then to a forest of thin trees with sparse leaves. Beyond them, the sheer rock of the valley’s northern tip rose high, and above it a sliver of moon shone faintly. The beige always seemed to emerge before the still-hidden green.

A small crowd had gathered at the treeline. A pit fire, gently smouldering, had been lit beside them. There were a dozen men and women, or thereabouts, all barefoot and sat in a rough circle. In their midst was a man with a neat, gold-brown beard. He wore around his neck a pendant—a golden wheel, from out of which twenty hooked tendrils grew. “They don’t want you to worship,” the man was saying. “They think if they keep us silent, we’ll forget about the Gods. But how can we forget about the Gods, when they’re still with us? This is a so-called new start. We’re supposed to be escaping the hegemony of a Unity that denies their own creators. Where is the Lightness? Where are the priests?”

David glanced at Mannam, who was watching with an expression of mild interest. “These damned preachers,” he said. “He should be shut up.”

“Let them speak,” said Mannam. “There’s no law against it.”

“He’s fomenting discontent.”

“These sorts always burn themselves out in the end. Once the anger dies, the audience goes, and then they’re preaching to the wind.” Mannam cocked his head. “Unless you’re scared that what he’s saying might be true?”

David laughed. “Spooky stories,” he scoffed. “The things primitive Man made up to help him understand this universe. We’re supposed to be beyond that now.”

“Supposed to be. Aye.” Mannam spat bitterly. “Since when has mankind ever paid attention to what it’s supposed to be? I still remember Tol Manase—and if a bit of faith keeps people from wholesale slaughter, I can support that.”

“It just seems unnecessary to me,” said David. “Surely they know it’s all a fiction?”

Mannam shrugged. “You’ve been up amongst the stars. The universe is cold, and empty, and it doesn’t give a rat’s arse about us. Maybe the fiction makes that all seem a bit less scary to people.”

The bearded man was still preaching to the ragged crowd, holding his pendant as he spoke. David bit his top lip. “As long as they stick to the fiction.”

General Bradshaw came to him the following day, while he was finishing his lunch. It was a generous meal, a larger portion than he’d normally allow himself. He’d brought a few tins of his favourite potted rabbit with him, for the journey. While he was preparing his dinner, he’d found that there was an uneven amount left. He could spread it out over two portions, but either both of them would be slightly thinner than usual or one of them one would be barely a sliver. Instead he chose to have it all in one. He’d been looking forward to it all morning. His mouth had started watering when he opened the last tin, and it was still watering when he set the plate down in front of him on his desk.

He held off on eating it for as long as he could. It was one of those weird things, where he didn’t want to finish it up. It would be so good, just like it always was, and he was getting hungrier and hungrier as the afternoon wore on, but when it was gone there was no more. In all he spent the better part of an hour looking at it before he caved.

The General’s arrival made it all taste sour. He had a full mouth when Bradshaw entered the room—without having knocked first—and swallowed it all so fast it made his diaphragm hurt.

“General Bradshaw.” David’s chair scraped on the steel floor as he stood up and bowed his head just slightly, the standard courtesy that was due a general. Bradshaw looked him up and down, and then his eyes roved around the room. It wasn’t a big office, but it had no need to be. He wasn’t a big man. He didn’t take up that much room. As long as he had his desk and a chair, he was satisfied.

Bradshaw’s eyes soon found their way back to David. “Dinner time,” he said, a grin curling onto his lips. “What are we having?”

“Potted rabbit, sir. It’s very nice.”

“Am I supposed to take your word for that, Captain?”

David shook his head. “I’ve none to offer you, I’m afraid, sir.”

To that, General Bradshaw reached a stubby pinky to David’s plate, where half of the rabbit was still piled. He scooped a lump of the meat up on the end of his finger, brought it slowly to his lips, then retched as he ate it. “A good job,” he said, between coughs. “That is disgusting stuff. Once upon a time, a certain sort of seedy businessman, the kind who likely wouldn’t know a scruple if he was bitten by one, made good money spooning piles of questionable slop into tin cans and writing ‘rations’ on the side. Even they’d not try to pass this crap off as food, and believe me they served many a crock.”

“What campaign was that in, sir?” He couldn’t resist asking the question. Mark Bradshaw had a lengthy career in the Unity military, several decades of climbing the ranks from an enlisted man to a general. He’d played the game well, cosied up to important people and avoided the catastrophic blunders that ended many an ambitious career. He was a man who deserved some respect for his achievements. But he’d never served in the field. It was his great shame. Detractors called him the Lickspittle General, many behind his back and a few to his face.

The man grunted, veins pulsing in his fat neck. “Give me a battle and I’ll fight it. I’ll not be mocked for being born in a time of peace.”

The fact of the matter was that Bradshaw had made friends in high places. True, warfare had been minimal for the last fifteen years, but more than half of the General’s career had come while the Unity were still fighting the last wars of subjugation against disaffected colonists. David knew for a fact that a thirty-year-old Lieutenant Mark Bradshaw had been transferred out of his hometown unit, where he’d spent his entire career thereto, just days before they were sent to the bloodbath on Tol Manase.

Now was not the time to push him, though. Better to let him feel his pride. “What brings you to me, sir?” It was habit for ranking officers to send a summons to those they wanted to talk to, who would make a point of going to see them as close to immediately as they could. There had been no summons, no indication that Bradshaw wanted anything.

“I’m not in the habit of having my actions questioned.” Which meant he didn’t want to tell David his reason. He’d been close enough to David’s office that it was worth his while to just pop in, and for a secret purpose. Angie Munro’s office was a little way down the hall. She’d been promoted to the rank of captain within a month of enlisting, with Bradshaw’s commendation. She’d been given one of the Essegena colony’s three captaincies at the expense of far better qualified candidates, again thanks to the word of Bradshaw. It was common gossip that she was his shag on the side. Possibly he’d been with her, though David wasn’t sure why that had to be a secret. Bradshaw’s wife had been dead for years; she surely wouldn’t object to his breaking their wedding vows now.

David took a spoonful of his potted rabbit into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue. “I won’t tell your daughters. Promise.”

Bradshaw’s face clouded. “Whatever game you’re playing, Clifford, I’ll have them left out of it.”

“I’m not playing a game, General.”

“Pah.” Bradshaw spat. Moist flakes of chewed-up duck sprayed all over the room. “I shall have to watch you closely, I see. For now, business. Three of my soldiers are unaccounted for.”

Of course David was familiar with the case. He’d be hard pushed not to be, even if he didn’t take pride in doing his job well. The missing soldiers’ unit commander, a Lieutenant Bennett, had taken to showing her face in his office once a day to make sure he was aware. One time, he’d tried hiding under his desk in the hope she might leave, but she saw him, and he had to feign interest in the Unity logo carved into the wooden underside.

“The last sight of them was on the day the Advanced Party landed,” Bradshaw continued, “which means they’ve now been absent for a month. Mannam had no good news. I trust you can make me a happier man.”

David nodded. “I’ve sent two patrols out every day. Groups of three, heading in different directions, with pathfinding spray and orders not to stray too far. I rotate the people, so it’s not always the same ones searching. There’s a team under one Sergeant Malleston based at the site of the first camp, in case the missing troops wander back.”

“And?”

“Other than their helmets, nothing—and the Advanced Party found them before we all arrived. Since then... not a trace. The odd report of plants trampled underfoot. One of Malleston’s men swears he heard screaming up in the high glades, two nights running—but no evidence of anything come the morning.”

Bradshaw chewed on David’s answer for a second. “Send word to this Sergeant Malleston that he should start work turning the camp into a fortification. If nothing else, we’ll have a foothold outside the valley.”

“Should I send some more men?”

“Not just yet. Weigh up your lieutenants. Somebody will have to take over from Malleston eventually, we can’t have a sergeant in charge of a fort. But until you hear otherwise from me, keep things as they are. As for the patrols, scale it back. One a day.”

“Just one?”

“Just one.” Bradshaw nodded curtly. “It’s been a month, Captain. Sad as it is I think they’re almost certainly dead. Their bodies will show up eventually. The dead don’t move around, after all. No need to throw so many men at the job. I want them where I can command them.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so,” said Bradshaw, turning.

General Bradshaw was one of those people who seemed to take forever to leave. Eventually, what felt like a good six hours after he started to make for the doorway, the General was gone. The door swung gently shut behind him, without enough force to close properly. It balanced against the frame. David had to walk all the way around his desk to the door and click it shut. That was the sort of thing Bradshaw liked to do, he knew. Just an unending stream of little annoyances. One angry overreaction and Bradshaw won.

So if he kept his cool, Bradshaw wouldn’t win. And after all, he got paid just the same whether he walked to shut the door properly or just stayed sat in his seat.