The guards seemed undecided. A couple of other soldiers were now waiting behind Ace, shuffling impatiently as they too waited to be admitted.

'You,' Ace pointed to one of the soldiers, 'tell these goons who I am.'

'Er, well I ' he seemed unsure.

'I don't believe this,' Ace fumed. 'I shall report you all to the Manact when I see him.' She pushed her way past the guard and went into the room, listening for the shout from behind, waiting for the sound of a disruptor pulse ripping through the air towards her. When the noise came she almost threw herself to the floor. But she realized in time that it was just the door sliding closed behind her.

The war room walls were lined with charts. Where there were gaps between the marked*up star maps it was to allow s.p.a.ce for a terminal screen which showed similar charts and schematics, but animated to show the movement of troop positions and ships. The room was full of people, but they were dwarfed by the information around them.

Even the centre of the room was dominated by a huge simularity which presented a three*dimensional image of an engagement. The ships of the opposing sides were represented by their transponder codes as they moved ponderously across the scene. The scale had to be huge to keep the relative speeds of the attack*ships so slow. Ace wondered if she was looking at a real*time image of what was actually happening somewhere, a computer prediction of a battle yet to be fought, or an a.n.a.lysis of one long since lost or won.

At the far side of the room was another door. From the shape of the walls projecting into the room in that corner, the main room had been allocated to an office. Ace made her way across the room to the door.

A couple of Heletians were standing just outside, discussing a series of figures and co*ordinates being relayed to a screen not far from the office door. One of them turned his watery grey eyes to watch Ace as she pa.s.sed. She glared back at him and he looked away hurriedly. Ace knocked quietly on the door, hoping that there would be no answer. After a moment, she tapped the opening control. The door hissed open.

'Ah Manact. I have the report you wanted,' said Ace loudly enough for the men outside to hear. And she closed the door behind her.

'What's wrong with you?' snapped Marlock. The guards on the war room door had come to attention just too quickly, had put just too much enthusiasm into it for his liking.

'Nothing, Manact.'

Marlock considered for a while. 'Nothing will come of nothing,' he said quietly. 'Perhaps you would like to revise your opinion?'

The guards exchanged glances, and the second guard gulped. 'I must apologize, Manact. I fear we I may have offended.'

'Really?' This was getting more curious by the moment. 'And what pray have you done to give offence?'

The guard looked even more uncomfortable now, and Marlock could imagine the two bodyguards behind him suppressing their amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Your special emissary, Sir.'

'My what?' His eyes flared.

'We delayed her sir an error.'

Marlock rubbed a hand across his scarred cheek, 'My special emissary was here?' The guards nodded. 'And you delayed her?' They nodded again. 'How did you delay her exactly?'

'We asked to see her ident, Sir we didn't realize she was on an errand for you.'

'Let me see if I understand this,' Marlock's eyes narrowed and his voice became quieter, almost reasonable. 'You made my special emissary show you her identification, yes?'

'Well '

'Well, yes or no?' shouted Marlock. 'Did you see her ident?'

'No, sir.'

Madock's voice was quiet again. 'No. No you did not see her ident. Where did she go?'

'Inside, Manact. She is still there.'

'Good.' Madock smiled. He turned to one of his bodyguards. 'Have these idiots removed. I'll decide how to deal with them when I see how much damage has been done.'

It had been relatively simple to hack into the terminal in Madock's office and bypa.s.s the security measures which purported to protect his private data. Now Ace was reading through another of the reports locked within. Each seemed more horrendous than the last.

She had read of the planning and construction of the death camps; had examined the initial specifications for the genetic experiments; had almost cried in anger and frustration at the statistical a.n.a.lyses of the throughputs of the incinerators and rad*chambers on a dozen worlds. Now she was reading a report about the camps on Temenos. Although she considered herself to be a hardened soldier, although she had seen more death than she cared to remember, although she had watched countless numbers of her friends killed in action, Ace was close to tears.

'So, you are my special emissary?' Ace had not noticed Madock enter the office. 'I see you have been doing some research have you found anything interesting, I wonder?'

'You inhuman monster!' She launched herself across the desk at Marlock, her nails reaching for his good eye. He smiled and did not flinch. For a moment Ace though her anger and emotion would carry through her attack, but the moment before her fingers reached him a hand closed round her wrist and dragged it aside. She collapsed across the desk, and the bodyguard dragged her over it so she crashed to the floor, disks and papers scattering round her. Then she was yanked up again, her feet leaving the floor for an instant as the bodyguard pulled her to her feet in front of Madock.

Madock seemed amused by the whole thing, a thin smile creasing his distorted features. Then suddenly his lip curled at the end untouched by his scar and his hand lashed out. It caught Ace across the cheek.

The force of the blow knocked her from the bodyguard's grasp and sent her crashing into the wall. Her head was in a spin and she could taste salt. She slumped down the wall and lay in a crumpled heap. From far away she could hear Madock and wondered who he was talking to.

'The problem with performance is that it is all an act. In real life, of course, an act is a lie. And liars have to be accomplished The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers, if the accounts of the plot are to believed, will teach us that very clearly.'

The Manact's voice seemed to be receding, as if he were falling away from her. Ace tried to concentrate on his words, but they slipped away.

'Another problem we can easily solve, I think. Yes, even the Exec will approve of that. An execution, on stage immediately after the performance. A fitting way to round things off.'

The rest was silence.

Source Doc.u.ment 14 Extract from the examiner's comment on doctoral thesis by Fardal Konin (3931) Reproduced with the kind permission of Fardal Konin estate But despite these points, which taken alone would certainly merit a first*cla.s.s review, there is one major problem with the thesis as it stands.

You do not acknowledge your sources.

This is especially unfortunate, as your own ideas and theories are ably presented and supported by well chosen facts and statistics. But without the clear distinction between what you are arguing on your own account and what you are merely reiterating from previous research and theory, it is impossible to give proper credit to the original thinking that you have undoubtedly done.

The bibliography you have provided and the footnote acknowledgements which are included fall far short of the level of research that is expected for a thesis at this level. They are also obviously incomplete.

The result, I am afraid, is that while your argument concerning the development of forced perspective Pailadian scenery in the Zouxian Empire are undoubtedly worthy of merit, it is impossible to conclude that it is new work of your own rather than lifted piecemeal from an unacknowledged source. This is especially true since it follows directly from the section about the staging techniques of liturgical drama on Earth in the tenth century which is so obviously lifted directly from Wadan's interpretation of the Bishop of Winchester's Concordia Regularis Concordia Regularis.

Leontium Klasvik (Examiner)

Chapter 14.

Man of Destiny When looked at objectively, the whole notion of performance is, after all, absurd. The performer has very little to do with it. He interprets the words and actions written for him by the author Even when the author and performer are one and the same even in improvisation the actor is a slave to the part he must play. In a Stanislavskyan interpretation this is even more the case. The actor may feel he is in control, is bringing something of himself to the performance. But if this is so then the point is lost, for the actor should be striving not to involve himself but rather to exclude all of his own personality and character from the role.The role of any character within a performance work is dictated entirely by the author's words, by the character's words and actions within that text. The world of the performed character is a world of predestination. When Stoppard calls his play Rosencrantz and Guildensten as Dead Rosencrantz and Guildensten as Dead he is not merely quoting he is not merely quoting Hamlet Hamlet, he is predefining the end point of his play. Or rather he is making it even more apparent that Shakespeare had already done so. However an actor interprets either Rosencrantz or Guildenstern their final destiny is already written, defined three hundred years before the play was written, and reiterated in the t.i.tle.The characters in any play are men of destiny the ultimate existentialists.The Absurdity of Performance Wanlek Ackman, 2044 Wanlek Ackman, 2044 'Everything you say is certainly sustainable by the facts, Doctor,' Aronholt said. 'However, your interpretation of those facts is lacking in one important respect.'

'And what's that?'

Aronholt shook his head, smiling. 'Oh no, Doctor. I am the guardian of the plan as well as the creator of the machine, My very purpose here is to ensure that the machine's program runs its course.'

'But on Menaxus, surely.'

Aronholt went to the banqueting table. He stood for a while leaning forward on it, palms resting flat on the wooden surface, his back turned to the Doctor. 'No, Doctor, I am sorry.' He straightened up and turned to face the Doctor again. 'You must return now to your world. And let destiny run its course.' He pointed across the room to the door in the corner behind the Doctor the door he had abandoned in favour of the one opposite which had led to the void.

The Doctor walked in silence to the door. His hand rested on the handle for a second, then he pulled the door open. Through the red haze beyond it he could see the converted theatre box where the machine was installed, the stairs leading down from it directly in front of him. 'Thank you,' he said, turning back to Aronholt, 'for what help you have given me so far. But I'm afraid it's not enough.' He closed the door.

Aronholt spread his arms, palms outwards. 'I can do no more, Doctor. Everything to do with these worlds, everything involving the machine, is almost by definition an act. I do not exist have never existed. I too am a fiction, I can offer only the words and actions that have been devised and defined for me.'

'But your programming is somewhat more sophisticated than that of the other characters. You have powers of thought and reason.'.

Aronholt shook his head. 'No, not really. I can operate within the slightly broader parameters of a programmed existence, as you say. But I am still limited, can still only perform what has been scripted for me. Only my author can alter my lines or change my mind.'

The Doctor smiled widely. 'But that's the nature of a performance. As good old Wanlek used to say ' He stopped suddenly, his smile resolving into a more thoughtful expression.

'Doctor?'

The Doctor's face brightened again. 'Aronholt,' he said, marching across the room and slapping his friend on the back, 'I've got the most terrific idea.'

Bernice had managed to push her way almost to the front of the crowd when it started to disperse. Typical, she thought as the lines of people before her started to drift away.

Across the square Benny could see a line of soldiers. As she watched, the officer shouted an order that could have been in any language for all the guttural sense it seemed to make, and the troops wheeled round in unison. They shouldered their ceremonial disruptors and marched out of the square.

Above the departing soldiers, on a balcony jutting out from the tallest of the monstrous concrete buildings in the square, stood another group of people. This was a smaller group, mostly military but in the middle stood several civilians. There was something familiar about a couple of them. Bernice pushed closer through the few people who were still waiting around or dithering. She tried to get a better view up at the people on the balcony, but it was difficult as they were shielded by a transparent screen which caught the sun as she craned to see.

Bernice had just found the ideal place to stand so she could see in clearly when the group began to file off the balcony and back into the building. But she had seen enough she had recognized the old man as Klasvik.

Benny watched the last of the party disappear from sight, then she started to walk round the huge building If Klasvik was inside then it seemed a fair bet that the Doctor and Ace were not far away. At any rate, it was a good place to start looking.

Marlock had not been intending to bother with the inspection but he needed time to consider. His options were fast dwindling as the Rippeareans closed on their sector. If the final lines of defence looked threatened, he might have to consider leaving Heletia and establishing a base of operations elsewhere. But there was no immediate worry. The Rippeareans had to take the long way to Heletia they would never manage to negotiate the satellite mines in the Alterberg Gap.

As he left the balcony and made his way back to the green room, Marlock reflected that the inspection had not afforded him the thinking time he had hoped. He had been distracted by the Exec and Lannic. They had spent the whole time in hushed conversation. Klasvik shuffled uncomfortably nearby, loathed to miss anything but biting back his repugnance. The whole thing really was quite pathetic.

But it kept the Exec busy and occupied. He had not asked for more news about the progress of the war since meeting the woman and Marlock doubted if he had even read through the anodyne reports which were his daily source of information.

In the green room the Exec climbed the step onto his dais and sat behind his desk, surveying his subjects. The scene brought a smile to Marlock's twisted mouth.

'Continue, my dear.' The Exec's voice was husky as he beckoned Lannic up to the stage, waved for her to sit at his feet, pretended that he had not heard Klasvik's snort of revulsion as she did.

Lannic smiled and in a honeyed voice said, 'That was when I first realized that the statues were not stone at all.'

'Really?' The Exec was enraptured, immediately drawn back to the story. As Lannic went on, Marlock shook his head at the even more improbable direction Lannic's narrative was taking. In a way it was a shame she was soabsorbed with the Exec. She was sitting on the dais beside the Exec's chair, her legs pulled back and tucked under her body, her bare knees and a hint of thigh visible from under her dress. The dress itself was white belted at the waist and slit up the side. It opened in a wide Vat the neck and was pulled tight across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Marlock didn't know where she had got it, but he could see immediately why she had chosen it.

Marlock was just drifting into reverie when Klasvik's outburst echoed round the concrete room.

The old man had been fidgeting and getting more and more disgruntled since they had returned to the green room. Now it seemed he could contain himself no longer. 'S'blood!' he shouted.

The effect was startling. The Exec sat bolt upright, his indescreet examination of Lannic's cleavage forgotten. The Exec s guards were almost as fast as Marlock's own as they spun round, disruptors already aimed at the source of the noise. They could all blast a knife out of the air as it hurtled towards them without prior warning it was a test they had to pa.s.s every week in training, and effectively removed any whose reactions had become too slow.

Klasvik ignored the effect his exclamation had had. 'Exec sir. I cannot allow this to continue.' The Exec gaped, but made no sound of protest as Klasvik went on. 'I have listened to Lannic's account of our expedition in your service, and apart from the basic outline it bears no more than a pa.s.sing resemblance to the actual events. She has totally exaggerated her own part in the story, claimed to be responsible for every major discovery or theory.'

'You wish to make some point, Klasvik?' Marlock's voice was cold and hard.

But Klasvik ignored the warning. 'I do,' he continued, the adrenalin keeping hold. 'I have listened for long enough to this woman whose intentions here are as obvious as they are demeaning. I can tolerate just a common harlot trying desperately to ingratiate herself with her betters, but this a distinguished archaeologist taking credit where it is not due, failing to acknowledge the contributions of others, putting ego and reputation above tthe facts this is too much.'

He pointed at Lannic. She shrank away, her arm encircling the Exec's legs for protection and support.

'You go too far, Lannic,' Klasvik shouted at her.

'And so do you.' Marlock's words cut across the room like a disruptor.

There was sudden silence. Klasvik still stood, arm extended towards Lannic. Then he seemed to comprehend Marlock's words and his arm dropped lifeless to his side and the colour drained from his face. His shoulders slumped and he turned towards the Manact, his features sagging. For a while he had seemed dynamic, vivacious. But now he looked old and tired. Drained.

'You had your chance.' Marlock clicked his fingers and the two guards beside the door snapped to attention. 'Take him away.'

'Please,' Klasvik whimpered as the guards took his arms. 'Manact, I'm sorry. Forgive the outburst of an old man.' He strained to turn his head towards the dais as the guards led him out. 'Exec forgive me, I meant no harm.'

The Exec had not moved. But now he reached down and ran his hand through Lannic's hair, shaking his head. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly as his head moved, then suddenly he shouted, 'Take him away.' It was almost a squeal, high*pitched and emotional. The scream of a child.

Marlock nodded to the guards. 'No harm?' he spat in Klasvik's face as they dragged him past. 'You raise your voice in anger in this room; call into question the competence of our ruler to distinguish between truth and fiction and you insult the Exec s friend... And you have the gall to say you mean no harm?'

Klasvik sagged and the guards took his weight, dragging him from the room.

'My apologies, Exec, for this unfortunate incident, Marlock said quietly. 'And to you, madam. He bowed to both the Exec and Lannic, The Exec looked relieved. But Marlock was not sure quite how to read the emotion he saw deep within Lannic's eyes. 'You may rest a.s.sured that this geriatric fool will not bother you or anyone else again.

The small courtyard seemed to be a sort of dumping area for the rubbish and waste of the palace. The smell was enough to put Bernice off investigating further, but as she looked round and wrinkled her nose, a pair of double doors opened.

She ducked behind a stinking skip, slipping alarmingly on something she decided not to examine too closely. Two men struggled into the doorway, carrying a large and obviously heavy plastic box. A third man appeared in the doorway behind them supervising the operation. When she saw who it was Benny broke from her cover and went over to join him.

'Am I glad to find you,' she said standing clear of the doorway so the other two men could bring their load through.

'Professor Summerfield.' Fortalexa seemed neither surprised nor interested.

'So you made it back all right then,' she observed needlessly.

He ignored her, watching as the two men with him deposited the crate in a corner. One of the men dropped his end down too quickly and the top of the crate jumped up, landing at an angle. Some of the contents of the crate were also unsettled and stuck out of the gap at the top. The other man lowered his end of the crate more carefully, then pushed the contents back inside and resealed the lid.

'What are you doing? Dumping something?'