'I am the President,' he cut in. 'For me, there is no such thing as unauthorised!'

Zendaak continued unabated. 'And who is this mysterious "Doctor" who accompanied you?'

President Vargeld met his scarlet stare unflinchingly. 'What's happened to the ships, Zendaak? The battleships you've sent down to Yquatine? How many was it six? That's a lot of Anthaurk lives.'

Zendaak's face fell, and he turned his head down to look at his claws clasped in his lap. His voice was sepulchral. 'We lost contact with them two hours ago. None have returned.'

That meant nothing. They could be down there, establishing a base, preparing defences, anything. 'That's what you say, Zendaak. To be honest, I don't know if I believe you.'

Senator Krukon's voice rumbled out over the a.s.sembled Senators. 'I say this is an Anthaurk ploy!' The Ogri beside him glowed belligerently.

'As do I!' yelled Fandel. 'Those ships are still down there.'

Senator Tibis roared.

They all started shouting again.

President Vargeld rubbed his itchy, tired eyes. 'And on it goes,' he mumbled to himself.

He only hoped the Doctor would come out of his coma soon. Maybe he had all the answers.

Chapter Twelve.

'We have reached a turning point in our great history'

A month before the fall of Yquatine, the Grand Gynarch was looking out over her still relatively new world. New Anthaur was a planet of hot sand and stone cities. A world of ochre and yellow and orange, of dust storms, of an intricate and efficient irrigation system, of towering gnarled totems to the six hundred Anthaurk deities. Home to two million Anthaurk, the descendants of the survivors of the Dalek attack on the Anthaur homeworld over a century ago, testament to a rigorous and intensive breeding programme.

The Grand Gynarch often feared the return of those screeching metal carapaces. Their harsh yells still haunted her dreams. She had been very young during the Dalek war, and though she hadn't seen any of the creatures at first hand she'd heard their voices, screaming in insane rage and frustration as her mother's craft made good its escape. It was the first thing in her life she could remember. Later, when she was older, she'd studied the images taken by a.s.sault craft, and found that the Daleks looked comical, hardly able to pose such a potent threat. She had been almost disappointed. But then she'd spoken to the survivors of the Dalek attack on Anthaur, heard their whispering voices, fragile with fear. That fear had found its way into her heart, too, and its voice was that of a screeching machine.

The Grand Gynarch shook her head, trying to rid herself of such thoughts. She stood, clutching her blackwood staff, on the tallest tower of the Imperial Citadel. The single sun she could never get used to that was low in the sky. It was soon time for the Inner Circle. It was important, this one. She was going to make a p.r.o.nouncement that would change history.

She gazed over at the pyramidal cities on the horizon. They matched almost perfectly the holograms she'd seen of Old Anthaur. Her people had striven for a century to make this world like their old one.

The Grand Gynarch, oldest of the Anthaurk and bearer of some three thousand children, had been a mere hatchling when she first came to this world. She had no memories of the brief but b.l.o.o.d.y war with the humans, of the signing of the Treaty of Yquatine. She knew only of the century of planning and construction. She had personally overseen the construction of the Imperial Citadel, laid the first and last stones herself. You would have thought such a leader would have abandoned thoughts of war, become reconciled to living in peace with the other species in the Minerva System.

But the Grand Gynarch possessed something other than memory. Something stronger, more permanent. She possessed the bloodline of the Gynarchs, which stretched back for millennia, back into the murky history of the Anthaurk homeworld. She possessed the beliefs and the att.i.tudes of thousands of Grand Gynarchs before her. Anthaurk supremacy, over all. Nontolerance of other races. Even the Daleks, the living embodiment of such a creed, hadn't weakened this resolve. On the contrary, the Anthaurk defeat had strengthened their determination to conquer all. For the Grand Gynarch, when she was young and learning about her race's history, had found out that the Daleks weren't mechanical creatures as she had first thought. There had been something organic inside those screeching carapaces. They had once been humans. Just like the settlers of Yquatine.

To her mind, that meant that the n.o.ble Anthaurk race had been beaten twice by different evolutionary stages of the same species.

Knowing this, she would never have signed any treaty with the humans. But she had been so young. Her mother, the previous Grand Gynarch, had signed the cursed Treaty of Yquatine, knowing full well that it was an act of betrayal, but having no choice in defeat. After the signing, her mother had ritually sacrificed herself to Hiss'aa, G.o.ddess of War and Venom. And thus the current Grand Gynarch, red eyes blinking, young scales shining in the hot sun, had been thrust into the limelight.

And then had begun the Century of Waiting.

Now it was almost at an end.

The sun sent a shaft of light through the jewel embedded in the end of her blackwood staff. The light diffused, spreading out around the Grand Gynarch like a robe of beaten gold.

It was time for the Inner Circle to convene.

The Inner Chamber was a crude bowl cut into the side of a mountain, open to the sky, rough seats carved into the crumbling sides. It was meant to represent the volcano from which the first of the Gynarchs had crawled, spitting and hissing, only to be half blinded by the twin suns of Old Anthaur. The recreation wasn't perfect: New Anthaur had only one sun, but there was little that could be done about that.

The Grand Gynarch stood, as custom dictated, right at the bottom of the bowl. This may seem demeaning, but the Inner Chamber was constructed to funnel sound down towards the bottom, so the Grand Gynarch could hear and see all.

She thumped her staff on the stone plinth on which she stood, and spoke, head raised, gazing at the three hundred members of the Inner Circle. 'We have reached a turning point in our great history,' she said. 'Certain events are coming to pa.s.s which will force us to act force us to imprint our will upon this System!'

Cries and hisses of a.s.sent.

She gestured to her right, where Zendaak sat. Young Zendaak, member of the Minerva Senate, her eyes and ears. He possessed almost as much zeal as she. 'Zendaak brings news of the latest heresy the Senate wish to force upon us.'

Zendaak stood up, his arms akimbo, his chest puffed out. 'People of New Anthaur! I have recently attended a Senate meeting during which the matter of overcrowding was discussed. Apparently, this System is such an attractive, desirable place that hundreds of beings of all species are descending upon it. During the last hundred years, we have seen the arrival of the Adamanteans, the Ixtricite and, most of all, more and more humans.'

Three hundred Anthaurk hissed in sibilant hatred. The Grand Gynarch bared her teeth. She'd taught them well.

Zendaak continued. 'The other races have bred and spread throughout the System, so that now there is little room for any more.'

'Tell them what the Senate propose, Zendaak!' cried the Grand Gynarch.

A silence descended on the Inner Chamber. Zendaak's voice was a tight, concentrated hiss of hatred. 'They propose that we give up our sacred lands for colonisation.' Silence. 'They say that we have s.p.a.ce enough for millions of others. This is directly against the treaty we signed a hundred years ago!'

The Grand Gynarch was pleased. Although hated, the Treaty of Yquatine had at last tripped up the humans. One of its clauses guaranteed autonomy for each planet in the System, and non-interference by the Senate. Except in an emergency. Well, to the Grand Gynarch, there were other ways of dealing with overpopulation. Ma.s.s exterminations, sterilisation, exile. Zendaak had proposed all these, but the faint-hearted Senate had voted unanimously against him.

The Inner Chamber erupted in calls for action. The Grand Gynarch let them have their shout. Then she thumped her staff three times, and silence descended. 'At last. we have a reason to commence hostilities.'

Zendaak raised his fists in the air. 'War!' he cried. The Inner Circle took up his cry.

The Grand Gynarch thumped her staff again. 'People! We must be cunning. We must be seen to be the injured party in this. We must use the treaty as a weapon against the Senate. We will start by attacking the trade routes, goading the Senate into action against us. And, when they do, we can attack in full. After decades of preparation, our battle fleet is ready.'

Three hundred pairs of red eyes stared down at her.

'We attack on Treaty Day.'

Thunderous applause.

As it tailed away, a lone voice spoke out. 'I do not think we should. We should try to live in peace.

The Grand Gynarch swung round, locating the speaker.

A female Anthaurk three rows back had stood.

'Who speaks?'

'My name is M'Pash, Grand Gynarch.'

The name was not familiar. The Grand Gynarch stepped down from her plinth, hobbled towards the dissenter, ignoring the knifing pain in her hips. 'You say we should live in peace?'

'This is heresy!' cried Zendaak.

The Grand Gynarch held up her hand for silence. 'Let M'Pash speak. I need to know how an Anthaurk of the Inner Circle could arrive at such a decision.'

If M'Pash felt intimidated, she didn't show it. 'It is for the best. A hundred years ago, we had no choice but to surrender to the humans. We were few, our ships in bad repair.'

'And now we are many, with the finest fleet in the System,' put in Zendaak.

'True,' said M'Pash, nodding. 'But consider: we would not only have to stand against the humans, but the Adamanteans, the Kukutsi, the Rorclaavix, the Eldrig the combined might of the Minerva s.p.a.ce Alliance. Need I go on?'

'We have developed weapons,' said the Grand Gynarch. 'Weapons of ma.s.s destruction.'

'And so have the others.'

'Ours are superior!' cried Zendaak, showing admirable faith in Anthaurk technology.

'Even if they are, we would still lose' A pleading tone had entered M'Pash's voice. 'Even if we strike first, and hard, on Yquatine, with our most terrible weapons weapons which rain instant death from the skies we will suffer terrible retribution.'

The Grand Gynarch had heard enough. This was dangerous talk. 'You misunderstand, M'Pash. It does not matter if we lose. We cannot continue with this compromised existence. War is a way of life for the Anthaurk, as you should well know.'

'Then it is the wrong way of life!'

The Grand Gynarch felt her bloodl.u.s.t stirring, heard the spirits of her ancestors hissing in her ears. This M'Pash must be silenced, lest she infect the Inner Circle with her heresy. 'Take her away!'

Guards broke formation at the arched entrance to the Inner Chamber and moved towards M'Pash. She just stood there, arms by her sides, staring at the Grand Gynarch. She allowed the guards to take her down the stone steps, out and away. The Grand Gynarch looked forward to blinding and torturing her later. But she would have to defer that pleasure. There was a war to plan.

M'Pash let herself be manhandled along the stone corridors of the Anthaurk citadel. There were no windows; flaming torches were driven into the sandstone walls at intervals, casting shadows like bats' wings. Presently they came to an archway which led on to a long, narrow walkway high above the ground. At the other end of this was an ugly grey tower, rearing up from the ground like an excrescence from deep within the planet.

The top of the walkway was covered in grit and dust, which M'Pash's booted feet ground and crunched, and a low parapet ran along each side. She couldn't take her eyes from the tower. She knew full well what it was, though even a visitor to New Anthaur (not that the Anthaurk ever allowed any) would be able to discern its purpose from its appearance. Its rough grey stone walls. slitlike windows like wounds, the smell of despair wafting across the walkway all told M'Pash that, once through inside that grey tower, she'd never be coming out again, not alive anyway.

She couldn't allow that.

So she spun round, hands outstretched. 'Stop.'

Such was the command in her voice that her escorts actually obeyed, their tall figures framed against the pale yellow sky.

Then they snarled and levelled their guns at her head.

M'Pash stepped back nimbly. 'I wouldn't be too hasty: the Grand Gynarch wants me alive for interrogation.' She looked over the edge of the walkway, the blocks and pyramids of Anthaurk citadel spread out like a map below. It was a very long way down. 'She won't be too pleased if one of you kills me.'

They weren't impressed by this tactic, judging by the angry impatience in their red eyes. 'Move, dissident!'

'Very well.' M'Pash started back towards the tower. They were almost halfway across the walkway by now. Her mind was furiously calculating distances and rates of acceleration, her body was tensing, knotting itself up in preparation.

The only sounds were the crunch, crunch, crunch of booted feet and the low moaning of the wind.

Then M'Pash made a decision, and relaxed.

Before her guards could react, she dashed to the side of the walkway and threw herself over the parapet.

Chapter Thirteen.

'This isn't the way I was made'

Fitz couldn't take his eyes away from Yquatine. It was beautiful, a bluegreen pearl laid on the black velvet of s.p.a.ce. That and a thousand other cliches crowded his mind, but none of them could do justice to the spectacle. He took a good long look. It was probably the last time he'd see it, before... before... He rubbed his eyes, and groaned. Fatigue had joined forces with his permanent sense of crushing guilt and he badly wanted to sleep. He hated himself for running away. Oh yes, cowardly, craven Fitz, doing what cowardly, craven Fitz is best at. He was safe, but Il-Eruk, Val, Zabulong, probably even the Doctor, were all doomed. And, beyond them, millions of others he had never met, never would meet. A planet full of teeming life. Gone. How could he cope with such foreknowledge?

Arielle came to stand by him. 'You're looking very nostalgic for a place you've only known for a week.'

Fitz could hardly bring himself to speak. 'Yeah, well. It's a nice place,' he sighed lamely.

She looked out of the viewport at the receding planet. 'I'm just glad to be away.'

She'd changed out of her red dress, and was now wearing a practical costume of dull green trousers with lots of pockets. boots, and a shapeless grey tunic. Even in that, she was still dropdead-andcome-backas-azombie gorgeous. She'd tied her hair so that it hung in a long ponytail down her back. Now she was away from Yquatine she seemed more relaxed, but there was a resolute set to her mouth, a worried frown around her eyes, and she kept glancing nervously around, as if she expected Presidential aides or even the President himself to appear.

Fitz's stomach rumbled. Food was probably a good idea. It might even make him feel better about himself. 'Let's get something to eat.'

Arielle nodded her consent and they made their way to the restaurant.

The St Julian St Julian reminded Fitz of an ocean liner: it had similar levels of comfort and decor, airy lounges with s.p.a.ce vistas, sumptuous rooms, bars, restaurants, swimming pools. Loafer's heaven. Arielle had no immediate plans other than escape from her former lover. The reminded Fitz of an ocean liner: it had similar levels of comfort and decor, airy lounges with s.p.a.ce vistas, sumptuous rooms, bars, restaurants, swimming pools. Loafer's heaven. Arielle had no immediate plans other than escape from her former lover. The St Julian St Julian was heading for Luvia, Zolion and Oomingmak, a tour of the pleasure spots of the System. Fitz had no immediate plans at all, but that was nothing new. He was just glad to be away, and with Arielle. was heading for Luvia, Zolion and Oomingmak, a tour of the pleasure spots of the System. Fitz had no immediate plans at all, but that was nothing new. He was just glad to be away, and with Arielle.

Things were a lot easier when you were in the company of a gobsmackingly beautiful woman. The crew treated Arielle with deference, even servility. Fitz couldn't help thinking that if he was on his own he wouldn't have been able to swing the luxury cabins they'd obtained. Right in the nose cone of the ship, as far forward as you could get.

The restaurant was all trellised archways, parasols, fountains, plants, soft music and android waiters in white tuxedos. Fitz couldn't work out if it was sincere or a pastiche. Some sort of surround 3 D effect turned the ceiling and walls into a summer sky, complete with little fluffy clouds. As Fitz sat opposite Arielle at one of the less conspicuous tables, he began to relax. And with food inside him, he began to feel a lot better.

He was just turning his mind to planning what to do next when Arielle said, 'Do you find me beautiful?'

She said it as though she was referring to something other than herself, such as a painting or a piece of music.

'Um,' said Fitz, trying to work out what she wanted him to say. He gave up on that and told her the truth. 'Yes. You are quite fantastically attractive.'

She rolled her eyes and sighed. 'Everybody does. Everybody human, anyway. That's the problem. It's not me.'

This sounded terribly precious to Fitz. With all the suffering in the universe, were her looks all she was worried about? 'We can't help the way we were made, baby.'

She gave him a direct, intense look. 'That's the point. This isn't the way I was made.'

Oh, G.o.d, did she use to be a man or worse? 'What do you mean?'