7
I pulled out the earphones and sat there, head buzzing, my mouth dry and my stomach ice-cold. I sat quite still and waited. Waited to hear what Bane said. Waited in terror and utter confusion. What if he asked? What if he expected me to offer?
After a moment he frowned. “Margo? You okay?”
Had Reginald Hill been there, when they took his eyes? The way he’d presided over my own interrogation? “Not sure. I feel sick.”
“Oh.” His brow creased slightly. Still he said nothing.
“Bane?” My voice sounded strangled.
“Yes?”
“What are you…going to do?”
He found my hand, took the audioPlayer from it. Placed it on the floor and with the aid of his fingers, positioned his heel with great precision, then stamped down hard. “That.”
Relief washed over me and guilt too, that I’d thought he might consider… I wrapped my arms around him, shaking. “Bane, Bane, you’re so wonderful.”
He laughed bleakly, so bleakly, but at least he hugged me in return. “I’m not wonderful, Margo,” he whispered back. “I’ve been sitting here, thinking about it, have I just. But I know if I betray the very thing I gave my eyes for just to get them back, life won’t be worth living at all. Even though it’s barely worth living now.”
A choking cold ball of fear blocked my throat, hearing him talk like that. I hugged him tighter as he went on, “And with you silenced, we lose the vote, which means in a couple of months I’d die anyway. But not only me. You. Jon. Everyone in the state.”
I swallowed. A thought I’d been trying very hard to put out of my mind for months escaped my mouth at last. “Are we sure we can’t…try to get them back?” This message…it made it very likely indeed they did still have them. It’d always been most likely.
Bane said nothing for a long time, his eyelids scrunched tightly shut. Like one wrestling with temptation. “D’you know how many times I’ve thought of getting the old team together and asking them—begging them!—to give it a go?”
“If it’s as often as I’ve considered it, quite often.”
“Yeah. So why haven’t you?”
“You know why. Someone could die. Probably would.” I couldn’t help thinking of Father Mark, the only person killed during the Liberations.
From Bane’s expression, he was thinking about Father Mark too. “Yeah. Then I’d spend the rest of my life knowing I’d valued my sight more than someone else’s life. Don’t fancy that vision of the future any more than the current one.”
“Twenty-third of June,” I muttered, more to myself. “No use.”
“They’re not idiots.”
“No.” With the vote on the first of July, faking compliance—or rather, complying just until Bane had his eyes back—was definitely out. Especially since I’d have to miss the Monaco visit.
“It’s no good, Margo,” said Bane. His voice sounded so…empty. No hope in it. “Well, we’d better go and see Eduardo.”
Eduardo swept the fragments of audioPlayer into a small zip-lock bag, then pushed a nonLee pistol across his desk towards me. “I’m posting an additional guard on the roof—opposite side of the courtyard, so there’s a clear view of all the windows on your side—and I’m issuing that to you, Margaret.”
“A nonLee?” I said, more for Bane’s benefit. “I don’t have to…carry it around with me, do I?” A nonLethal was much better than a Lethal pistol, but still…
Eduardo appeared to give this idea serious consideration, but finally shook his head. “At the moment I’d like you to simply have it in the apartment with you, just in case. And perhaps you should redo the Personal Protection course.”
“I only did the original course two months ago!” I pointed out. Eduardo had given the course to me, along with a handful of other high-risk residents. All about finding escape routes, using what your environment provided and operating various types of weapons, with a bit of target practice thrown in.
“Well, we’ll see. A refresher never goes amiss. I at least want to see you down at the firing range now and then, keeping your hand in. We can see how much they want you silenced,” he gestured to the plastic bag. “This was clearly an inside job. We’ve had some indication over the past month that a EuroGov agent—or agents—have infiltrated the State. This confirms it. When they realize it hasn’t worked, they may resort to…less subtle…means. So keep that handy, especially when opening the door. Even if you think you know who it is. Just in case they’ve got a gun pointed at their head.”
I frowned. A spy in the Vatican. Or spies. Something already unpleasant and emotionally excruciating was taking a very serious turn. “You really think they’ll…try for me?”
Eduardo tilted a hand from side to side. “Maybe, maybe not. They’ll be reluctant to face the bad press, but they might think shutting you up was worth it, all the same. So don’t get totally paranoid, but if in doubt, assume the most sinister interpretation until it’s proven otherwise.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Explain how to reconcile that with ‘don’t get totally paranoid’?”
“Fine, be totally paranoid; just don’t get assassinated. Please.”
“It’s not her job to make sure she’s not assassinated,” snapped Bane. “It’s yours!”
“I can assign a bodyguard to tag along after her…”
“Oh, come off it!” I said.
“…but I don’t think she’ll like the idea.”
“She doesn’t! Please, no bodyguard unless it’s really necessary.”
“There we go, then,” said Eduardo to Bane. “Now, off you two go, I’ve got some spy hunting to do. Talk about the worst possible time: the ambassadors from South America are due to arrive about the same time as you get back from Monaco, Margaret.” We turned to go. “Oh, and Bane?”
“Yes?”
“Next time you hear something land outside your window, pick up the phone and call security, please. Before opening the window and handling the object.”
Bane flushed crimson. “Okay,” he muttered. “Come on, Margo…”
After that little burst of energy, Bane sat on the sofa with his head in his hands and said almost nothing for the rest of the morning. I was still waiting for him to bring up Monaco, but since his outburst in front of Eduardo, he hadn’t said a word about it. He must realize that the EuroGov would take my visit to there as an absolute rejection of their offer. But he’d turned it down anyway, so it didn’t really make any difference, did it?
Jon came around, but it was me who explained what’d happened, and his attempts to interest Bane in a new audioTrack failed completely. He was still trying when I left to see Everington.
Quite nice to just sit quietly and read the Office to an apparently appreciative audience. Something about the way Everington relaxed when I opened the book, shifted, turned his head. Of course, no way to know if he was actually looking forward to it or if he just knew I was going to read it and he might as well make himself comfortable!
Physically speaking, he was making good progress. He’d even managed to shift his—admittedly, wheeled—furniture around so the bedside table—or rather, the precious plant pot—stood just so in front of the window, with the bed at an easy fuchsia-grabbing distance close beside.
“O Lord my God, I cry for help in the day-time,in the night my cry is before you…” I read. Uh-oh. Couldn’t we have had a cheerful one, Lord?
Everington listened attentively.
“For I am sated with sorrow, my life draws near to the grave…”
A bleak psalm, this one.
“In the deepest tomb you have put me, in shadows deep and dark…”
I’m really not in the mood for this one today, Lord. Bane hates this one.
I plowed on. “…You have put my friends far from me, you have made them shun me. Shut in, I cannot escape, my eyes are wasted with sorrow…”
A slight sound made me glance at Everington—a deep line of pain ran across his brow and tears trickled silently down his cheeks. He stared at me—or at the book—with miserable but expectant eyes, so after a shocked beat I managed to carry on.
“…Wretched and dying from my youth, I am numbed by the terrors I bear. The fires of your wrath have passed over me, your terrors destroy me, surging around me forever, hemming me in altogether. Those who love me you put far from me; the dark is my only friend.”
I stopped at the end; my companion’s anguish was all too clear. What chord had this psalm touched inside him?
He reached out a hand and pointed to the book, touched his chest. More sign language. At least he was trying to communicate, though his eyes were still on the book. He gestured to it again, brought his hand back to his chest once more—looked up at me, eyes pinched with pain. And said, “Me.”
Knowing he could talk and hearing him do it after near enough three weeks of absolute silence were two different things. I blinked. Act normal, remember? “The psalmist…the person speaking in the psalm…reminds you of yourself?”
He nodded. The tears were still running, unheeded, down his face. “Me,” he confirmed in an agonized whisper, tapping his chest yet again.
“A lot of people identify with this psalm when they’ve been through a really bad time. Or when they’re going through it. Bane…my husband…he can’t even listen to this one. He…lost his sight, y’know.” Still hard to say, even for me.
Everington made a slight sideways movement of his head, whether in sympathy for Bane or just as an outlet for his own pain was unclear. After a moment he reached out a hand and touched the book lightly. “I have?”
“He spoke to me,” I told Grass Snake, who was on guard again when I went out.
He looked startled. “I’m surprised you don’t sound more pleased. That’s a huge breakthrough.”
“I know, I am pleased.” I meant it, though it’d come out a bit unenthusiastically the first time.
“Where’s your nuevo Office book?”
“His nuevo Office book now,” I said glumly.
Oh well. I’d just have to collect some more tokens. It’d go quicker this time, without all the Offices missed when out on Liberations and then looking after Bane in the hospital.
When I’d held out the book to Everington he’d accepted it hesitantly, eyes wide with shock, as though unable to believe his wish had been granted. From the way he’d stroked the pages and run the bright ribbon bookmarks through his fingers, it looked like the book would have a careful owner, anyway. Would he be able to read it? Not the Latin, obviously. Though according to Eduardo—or rather, Everington’s ID database entry—he spoke fluent Italian and intermediate Spanish. Or had done.
“Try and spot if he reads it, why don’t you?”
Snakey snorted. “Fat chance of that. Any moment now he’s going to come creeping up to that window and inch the curtains across again. I’ve spotted him at it a few times now, he really is a sneaky blighter.”
“Doesn’t like living in a fish tank, is all. He could have his own room soon, couldn’t he? No reason for him to be cluttering up the hospital now he’s eating properly.”
“I suppose not. Perhaps with a security camera and a lock on the door, please Lord.” Snakey sounded fervent. “I think he’s harmless enough. I’ll suggest it to the boss.” He glanced at me, not failing to miss, VSS boffin that he was, that my chagrin wasn’t just over losing my new office book. “Well, congratulations on the progress,” he said sympathetically, “but it looks like you’re stuck with him now.”
Yes, among my genuine delight at the breakthrough was a very selfish streak of dismay. Because Snakey was right: no way would I be able to turn his care over to the experts now, would I?
When I got home I found Jon sitting there in a defeated silence and Bane still with his head in his hands. Would Bane bite my head off if I tried to tell them about Everington? In this mood, more likely he wouldn’t respond at all.
“I think he’s actually recovering,” I said, taking the armchair.
“Really?” said Jon.
“Showing signs.”
“What we are going to do with Major blinking Everington walking around in full mental health…”
“Quite some way to go before you need to worry about that. Anyway, they can just ship him off to Africa or something.”
“S’pose. Good riddance.”
“Forgiveness, Jon,” I chided, slightly amused. Perhaps it was easier when it was your own forehead that had been decorated with a primitive tattoo, rather than that of someone you cared about.
“I’m working on that one,” he said, rather grimly. “But it’s hard to even hear about him without remembering the Facility and everyone who died there, on his watch.”
He turned his head towards me as though trying to summon a little more interest. “What happened, anyway?”
“He cried, and then he spoke to me.”
“That’s good, I suppose,” said Jon.
“Er, yes, voluntary speech, very good.”
Jon tilted his head meaningfully at Bane. “We could use a bit more of it in here, come to that.”
I smothered a sigh. Could be a long day.
1 month, 28 days
Everyone is asking about Safia. Well, I passed your questions on to her and she says, “Actually, I don’t think of myself as handicapped at all. I think of my deafness as a gift. It allows me to focus so much on the visual and tactile elements. If I could hear, my work would lose so much power. In fact, if I was ‘perfect,’ I truly don’t think my pots would be anything special.”
Margaret V. & Safia K.—blog post, ‘The Impatient Gardener’
It was several long days. Bane’s withdrawal slid into a mood so black I longed for services, even for my daily visit to Everington, anything to get me out of the apartment for a spell. The only positive was that Everington spoke to me several more times. Apparently the breach in the barrier was permanent.
“Lucas,” I said one day, after I’d been telling him a little more about part of the Office, and he looked sufficiently engaged to maybe answer. “Could I ask what it was you wanted to know so badly?”
He stared at me for so long that if it was anyone else, I’d have assumed they weren’t going to reply. As it was, I just waited patiently.
At last he said, as though it should be obvious, “If you forgive me.”
I blinked. “If…I forgive you?”
He nodded.
“But…I told you so, right back…then.”
More silence. Finally, “You said it. Did you mean it?”
“Of course I meant it. D’you think I’d be here”—I waved around the room—“if I didn’t?”
He stared at me intently, head tilting slightly to one side. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t…” He touched a couple of bony fingertips to his heart. “Don’t believe it.”
I frowned, dismayed and rather lost for words. He didn’t feel like I really forgave him?
Instead of replying, he turned his eyes longingly to the Office book, which he’d handed to me when I came in. He looked exhausted—we had just had what was, for him, an extremely lengthy conversation. Time for a break, then. I opened the book and hunted out the right page—the six ribbons were always in different places.
“Oh, Lucas, before I forget,” I said after I finished. “I won’t be able to come and see you tomorrow, I’ll be away. Nothing to worry about, I’ll be back the day after.”
Lucas looked as though ‘won’t be able to come and see you’ and ‘nothing to worry about’ simply couldn’t fit in the same sentence. He grabbed the fuchsia with shaking hands and hugged it close.
Oh dear, it was only one day! “I know,” I suggested, “how about they bring a TV in here, so you can see me give my speech? Then I can still visit you…sort of.”
He greeted this with a dubious look, but his outright panic subsided.
“So how was he?” demanded Bane, in what, at the moment, actually counted as quite a mild voice. I was still waiting and waiting for him to say something about the Monacan trip, but he just got grimmer and grimmer the more often it was mentioned. Which meant he’d been pretty grim the last couple of days, what with all the preparations.
“Oh, he’s fine,” I said.
“What’s wrong, then?” He really was getting quite sensitive to my tone. “Second thoughts about tomorrow?”
Uh oh… “He thinks I don’t really forgive him,” I said quickly.
“I wonder why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means. You talk about him like he’s a lab animal. Something to look after and train but not become emotionally attached to.”
“I don’t treat him like a lab animal!”
“Whatever you say, Margo. Guess any warmth you feel towards him must be showing only on your face and not in your voice, ’cause I’m not hearing it.”
Warmth? “I’ll get you your coffee…” I said, changing the subject.
“I’m not a blasted invalid!” Bane’s snarl jerked me from my thoughts.
“Sorry… You just normally like one while I make lunch…”
“Well, perhaps I don’t want a coffee today!”
“Bane, calm down, please. I didn’t mean to—”
“I didn’t mean to be a flaming cripple for the rest of my life, but here I am!” He kicked out at the coffee table, sending it tumbling across the carpet.
I stood, gripped with an increasingly familiar feeling of helplessness bordering on panic. Once I’d have just gone and taken his arm, spoken to him, calmed him, but it didn’t work anymore. Coddling… “Bane,” I tried softly. I was leaving tomorrow, surely he wasn’t really going to—
“Was it worth it, Margo?” he snapped. “You and your blasted cause!”
It was your cause, too, whispered my aching heart. You said so.
“I’m going to make the lunch. Jon’ll be coming over soon with his Braille books.” Nothing to do but let him calm down. “I presume you don’t want a coffee. Let me know if you change your mind.”
A thud from behind me as he tried to kick the armchair after the table. I shut the kitchen door behind me and started chopping carrots and onions, stopping often to wipe my streaming eyes.
Bane refused to eat what I’d cooked, so I ate by myself, then stole away to the Sistine Chapel. I prayed for Bane and myself for a while, and for the success of the Monaco visit, then, since there was nothing I could do about Bane, I just sat there, chewing over the whole forgiveness of Mr. Everington question.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Jon came in and found a pew. Knelt with his head in his hands and let out a long, long sigh. No one else was there, so I asked softly, “Bane?”
“Bane. I don’t know how you stand it, Margo.” Jon moved to sit on the bench.
“He’s feeling bad today.”
“He’s feeling bad today ceases to be an excuse when today is every day. I don’t know whether to punch him or hug him. No way will he let me hug him, so while you’re away I’ll probably punch him.”
“Oh, don’t get in a fight with him, Jon. You’ll win, you know you will, and then he’ll feel even worse.”
Jon gave a rather irritable “huh,” then added, “I wouldn’t count on it, the mood he’s in.”
“Well, beating you to a pulp will also not make him feel better, not afterwards.”
“Probably would during. But I’m not offering. He never did pull his punches.” Jon sighed, staring towards the altar.
There was something I wanted to bring up with him, actually…and this was unusually private. “Jon?”
“Hmm?” He turned his face toward me.
“Well, I’ve been wanting to say… I am really sorry about everything that happened at the Facility. You know, all the…snuggling. It was horribly unfair of me. I feel like I…used you and that…you’re maybe still paying the price.” He’d been friendly enough to Calla—but it had reminded me of the way he was with all our eager dorm-mates in the Facility, cordial but no more.
Jon frowned slightly. “You said something like this already, remember? Right after we escaped?”
“Yes, I know, but I’ve…only gradually realized just how unfair it was and…how strong you were in resisting any temptation you…you know, felt.” And still feel?
Jon sighed again. “Margo, we got a bit close, and I came to care for you a bit more than I should have done, yes, but it’s okay now, all right? You and Bane are married, just as you should be, and everything is fine. And if we win the vote, who knows what the future might hold for me? Please stop beating yourself up about it—clearly you are!”
“I just feel bad—”
“Then stop! Anyway”—Jon changed the subject firmly—“Bane said the Major upset you?”
“What? Oh, not upset, exactly. I’m more bemused. He doesn’t think I really forgive him, would you believe? And Bane thinks the same!”
“Do you forgive him?”
“Oh, not you too!”
“Well, you’re very dutiful in doing what Doctor Frederick asks you to do, but there’s never…never any genuine feeling when you speak about him. Like you could come back and say he’d died in the night with about as much emotion as you report on any other development.”
“But…” I trailed off. How bothered would I be if the man died? Quite a lot? Only moderately?
“Anyway, I’ve got to go,” said Jon. “Washing-up duty calls. Your best beloved left me with a strong need for a moment or two’s quiet. Or at least a few minutes to vent. Bye.”
He tapped his way out of the chapel, leaving me to my uncomfortable thoughts.
Bane sat around like a gloomy cloud for the rest of the day, being very quiet and very polite, like he knew he’d upset me earlier, but unaffected by all my attempts to lift his spirits. I went to bed tired, but couldn’t stop my thoughts churning, round and round. Bane—Everington—Bane—Everington—Bane—Bane—Bane…
I thought he was asleep, but he heard me sniff and wrapped his arms around me, gathering me in. I held him tight. Why did we ever have to get out of bed? In the dark, tucked up together, he seemed to feel his blindness less keenly. Not that he was often in the mood for anything more than a good cuddle, these days…
But tonight, when I got the sniffle under control, he began to nose gently around the edge of my face, circling it with kisses. My hands slid inside his pajama top, tiredness forgotten.
“All clear?” he murmured.
I pictured my chart…technically my infertile time started tomorrow morning, but we were close enough, surely? I mean, I was off tomorrow and Bane was actually… “Just about.”
In other circumstances he’d have picked up on that, but as it was…his lips moved to mine and his hands to other places…
1 month, 27 days
“The notion of forgiveness needs to find its way into international discourse on conflict resolution, so as to transform the sterile language of mutual recrimination which leads nowhere.”
Pope Benedict XVI—quoted on ‘The Impatient Gardener’
My alarm went off at three in the morning. Bane woke with a jolt and thrashed around for a moment, swearing, before sitting up, shivering slightly.
“Sorry, love.” My apology was heartfelt. “You know I have to catch the boat.”
“Are you really going to do this?” he demanded, his voice tight.
“Of course I am,” I said, then added gently, “what happened to, ‘You gave a great speech, changed some minds and hearts’?”
“That doesn’t mean I think you should go off again! Especially not to there. So close to—”
“Eduardo’s been over all the security arrangements with the Monacan police, Bane. And I’ll have Unicorn and Snakey with me.”
“We both heard Eduardo say that it’s impossible to make an event like this totally safe. Did we not?”
“It’s worth the risk, Bane.”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t to me!”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. I slipped out of bed and began to get dressed.
Bane lay there for a while, clearly still shaken by his bad awakening and mired in terror for me. But finally he got up as well, pulled some clothes on and joined me by the door. “I’ll take that for you,” he said, when I let go of his arm and bent to pick up my bag.
“Thanks.” I yielded it to him and we set off for VSS HQ. For this trip, I had only the one small bag, containing my best skirt and blouse, which I’d wear for the speech. We were going to travel on a highPropulsion speedboat, like the ones we’d used for the Liberations, arriving in the early afternoon. I’d do my speech, answer some questions, then we’d slip onto a different speedboat—just in case anyone had recognized me when I arrived—and head home.
Bane didn’t speak again until we’d almost reached VSS HQ. “I really don’t like this, Margo.”
Lord help me, what could I say? “I know. And I’m really sorry we don’t agree about it.”
“You don’t care what I think.”
“Bane, I do care what you think. Very much. But I’ve got to go.”
“You haven’t got to go.” A thread of anger in his voice. “You’re just choosing to go.”
That was true as far as it went, I suppose. “For good reasons, Bane.”
“What will it do to your precious cause if you get yourself killed; have you thought about that? Since you clearly don’t care what it would do to me.”
“You had to do this now, didn’t you?” I snapped, in a whisper. “It’s too late to call it off! Why couldn’t you just hug me and say, ‘Good luck’!”
“Because it’s not too late!” he hissed.
I pushed open the door to HQ and went in, showing my pass to the alert night guard. I’d told Sister Krayj I could do my own disguise this time, but she was there waiting to help me. She tactfully ignored the distress I couldn’t entirely conceal, though when she’d finished she did say quietly, “Are you okay, Margo?”
“Fine,” I said. “Thank you for getting up.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Good luck with your speech,” she said.
Jon was there with Bane when I went back out with Eduardo, Grass Snake, and Unicorn. We’d told him not to bother getting up, either.
At least Bane was still there. Since he hadn’t followed me in, I’d been horribly afraid he might’ve stormed off. When we reached that old portrait, his hug was stiff, but there was a desperation in his kiss. “Come back, Margo,” he whispered.
“I will,” I whispered, as though saying it could provide some guarantee of it actually happening.
“Margo…” Snakey was shaking my shoulder. “We’re coming in sight of the coast. You’d better straighten your wig.”
I sat up on the speedboat’s padded bench. However had I fallen asleep? What with my emotional turmoil from that row with Bane and the violent smacking of the speedboat as it skimmed the waves, I’d have thought it impossible.
I took a small mirror from my bag and sorted out my disguise, swapping the fake glasses for sunglasses—the sun was blazing down—then stared at the approaching land. “Is that Monaco?”
“That’s the French Department,” said Raphael the boatman, who I knew from the Liberations.
I swallowed. “Oh.”
“We’re not making landfall there, Margo,” said Unicorn, reassuringly.
“It’s going to turn into Free State really soon,” added Grass Snake. “Look at all the boats…”
Wow…yes, there were literally hundreds of little boats, all streaming along the coast in the same direction as us. Fishing boats, speedboats, a few yachts, little sailing boats, and closer in, I even spotted rowing boats and inflatable dinghies. For the first time I understood why Eduardo was so confident we’d be able to slip in unobserved.
“I’m glad they’ve got robust crowd control plans in place,” said Unicorn dryly.
But…if this many people were heading in just from the sea… “Exactly how large is this main square?”
“Not large enough by half,” grinned Snakey. “Quite small, actually, as these things go. They’re setting up screens all over the State. People could just as well watch from the comfort of their own homes, of course, but they won’t feel like they were really there.”
“But they were really there,” said Unicorn, looking bemused by this.
“Sí, but they won’t have seen the speech in person.”
“Hardly anyone does, at a big event like this.”
“True.”
“Monaco,” grunted Raphael, pointing at the coast.
My heart leapt.
Acting just like everyone else, we joined the queue of vessels that was forming and waited to enter the main harbor. And waited. Raphael directed us to a large cooler that proved to contain a packed lunch for four. My stomach was beginning to flutter with nerves, but I tried to eat with carefree abandon—boats floated close on every side, now. I’d surely be glad of the meal later.
Snakey and Unicorn talked and laughed in Esperanto convincingly enough for all of us, calm as two ultra-competent cucumbers. Raphael leaned on the wheel, chewing on a licorice stick, unmoved as ever by all this cloak and dagger stuff.
“I heard they’re charging three times the usual visa fee,” said someone in a neighboring boat.
“That much?” said Snakey, in apparent dismay. “I really hope Margaret Verrall shows up!” He took his wallet out and began to count the money in it. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I’d have died of laughter. As it was, I only suffered a minor outbreak of choking.
Finally we reached the jetty. We didn’t need a mooring spot, since Raphael was taking our apparently tatty boat away again. Good thing: it looked as though there were hardly any berths left, for love or money.
“IDs,” said the bored border guard, as we reached one of the weaponScanner arches. He swiped our cards uneventfully, then unfolded the papers Unicorn handed to him—and started. Most people arriving weren’t presenting him with official Monacan Government carry permits for nonLethal weapons. He eyed me rather closely after that, but let us pass through the arch, silencing the buzzer quickly and being noticeably careful not to make a big thing of it when searching Unicorn and Snakey to ascertain that they were only carry the weapons covered by their paperwork.
And we were in.
The Place du Palais was teaming with people, though it really was quite a small square (though presumably the largest the tiny state had to offer). The space was impressively well-organized, with no fewer than five cordoned off access-ways of a good width: they clearly didn’t risk things like crowd stampedes here; bad for business, no doubt. Or more likely, the people here had—despite my efforts—paid for the pleasure (over and above the hiked up visa charge), and didn’t want to have to wait around to leave afterwards.
I’d left the wig and sunglasses with my bag in the room inside the Presidential Palace where I’d changed into my speaking outfit, and I was all unencumbered and ready to go. And already starting to sweat in the lightweight jacket. But without it my outfit looked too eveningish with the blouse tucked into the embroidered waistband of the skirt, and too everyday with it untucked. I was going on stage any moment, anyway, and the huge construction of metal girders and black plastiCloth had a roof to keep the sun off.
Even in my Sunday best I felt decidedly drab compared to the celebrities who’d wrangled private introductions to me while I was inside the Presidential Palace. But I wasn’t going to worry about that. I hadn’t been invited here to speak because I was glamorous or powerful, had I?
Almost time. I swallowed hard, trying not to destroy my notes by twisting them in my hands too much. It was easier having Pope Cornelius go first. He was usually the main event. Now I was. In fact, I was the only event, period.
Unicorn and Grass Snake paid no attention to my fidgeting. Their eyes were hyper-alert, ever moving, as they searched for danger. I eyed the stage again. It had been constructed up against the main gateway of the palace that dominated the square—or which had dominated the square. The stage looked like something that would be erected for a EuroGov Annual Summit, not one speech.
“I can’t see all these supposed plainclothes policemen,” Unicorn said to Snakey under his breath, eyes never leaving the square. “Hopefully that means they’re really good at their jobs, but you’d think they’d want more uniformed officers at an event like this.”
“The boss fixed it all up ever so carefully,” said Snakey.
“Yes, he did…”
The Monacan organizer-fellow was beckoning me up the side stairs. Unicorn went ahead and Snakey followed behind.
Florestan the third, the Sovereign Prince of Monaco, had just finished giving me such an—apparently—heartfelt welcome that I couldn’t help suspecting that he was not quite so focused on the material advantages of my visit as his government. He clearly felt it politically imprudent to actually stay for my speech, though, since he shook hands with me, letting the cameras get some good shots, then excusing himself with—apparent—sincerity, disappeared down the stairs, and got into a limo.
Over to you, Margo.
I waited for the limo to make it out of the square along one of the fenced-off roadways, then I stepped up to the podium, arranged my notes and smiled at the crowd.
Lord, be on my lips.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming. Although I’m sure many of you are keen to hear about the events of the past year, right now I want to look to the future. I know that a lot of you have made a great effort to be here today, and I find that really, really, heartening. Because great effort is going to be necessary in the days ahead. Great effort and great resolve. Resolve to make a better world, through peaceful, democratic means. Whatever happens on the first of July, whether we win the vote or lose it, we must not allow ourselves to slip into mindless violence, through frustration or anger. We will need this resolve just as much if we win. We must be absolutely committed to putting the wrongs of the past behind us and moving forward. Forgiveness will heal our continent, not justice, and certainly not vengeance! Win or lose, forgiveness is the answer!
“We must all—” I lost my place, distracted, as Snakey suddenly moved closer to my shoulder, drawing his nonLee and staring at one corner of the square. A ripple in the crowd… Just carry on, Margo, they’ll tell you if you need to leave. “We must all consider—”
Screams suddenly broke the listening hush. I lost my place again as a camo-painted army truck swung into the square, tearing straight towards the stage. Shots rang out… I just glimpsed the Monacan police, firing at the truck, then Snakey rushed me full tilt towards the back of the stage—heading for the stairs? No, for the great gateway of the palace, where glass doors were set a meter back inside the arch, leaving a sort of pit between them and the stage. I concentrated on not tripping over my feet, my heart pounding in my chest.
We almost made it, but we couldn’t quite out-run the truck. The square just wasn’t that big. The stage shuddered under our feet as the truck plowed into it, I stumbled and almost fell…then I did fall as Snakey let out a yell and shoved me to the side.
I hit the ground hard as the floor seemed to rise up to meet me, and the world turned into a maelstrom of plummeting girders and plastiCloth. Something painfully solid surged up and over me, crushing me to the ground…people were screaming…I had no air left in me with which to scream…
Finally the clatters and thuds and cries died away. Slightly more distantly I could hear the sound of a very large number of people all trying to vacate an area at the same time, but it seemed like something happening in another world.
My world had shrunk to square wooden panels, heaped up in front…oh, it was dislodged stage flooring…and behind too, piled over my legs, pinning me down. I tried to sit up, gasping for breath, and the panels lying across my back shifted slightly. I’d been lucky. I was a bit stuck, but I hadn’t been crushed.
Lucky? No, not luck… Snakey?
I peeped over the wood.
Oh Lord, save us!
The impact of the truck had driven the stage flooring up against the palace to form a ridge-like heap, and the roof had collapsed completely. A tangle of roof girders lay atop the heap of splintered wooden squares—and the malevolently-steaming truck. My heart seemed to stop. Was U somewhere under all that?
And where was…?
There. Snakey was up against the other side of the palace gateway, a few meters away, legs pinned by the heap, but still on his feet… Oh no! He was only standing because one of the fallen roof girders was pinning him upright! One of the Monacan policemen was propped there beside him, ominously still. Snakey’s face was white, and blood was trickling from his lips. Perhaps he’d just hit his mouth. Please, Lord?
His dazed eyes fell on me, and a spark of alertness flared. “Run,” he whispered.
Run? Only then did I realize that a man was trying to kick open the buckled door of the truck. A man dressed in Resistance-style incogniCam and holding a gun.