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  A clanging chime was heard throughout the stone hall. With varying degrees of grogginess, the G’grk registered that their party was being interrupted and peered around for the source of the noise.

  Two drones, bearing the blue standard of the Grand Marshal, strode through the double doors at the other end of the hall. Behind them came a Drone Major in gleaming armour. The assembled Kkh-St’grrss players and their assorted friends and supporters struggled unsteadily to their feet and saluted.

  - The Grand Marshal commands the presence of the Rrth warrior! barked the Drone Major.

  - That’s me, boys, said Colonel Hardison in heavily accented but grammatically perfect G’grk. He rose from his seat, grunting as he felt that day’s fresh bruises blooming, and marched stiffly out of the hall, behind the Drone Major and flanked by the two standard bearers.

  As he went, he heard one of his erstwhile drinking companions call out, - Ymn! Ymn! Careful you don’t leave bootprints on your own back! followed by hisses of raucous laughter.

  Colonel Hardison walked on. He was learning the G’grk language and mastering G’grk sports. G’grk humour, he suspected, would always be a mystery.

  2.18

  Grand Marshal Zst’kh felt his blue blood pumping. At last. At last, something to do.

  From birth, he’d been trained by his grandfather, the wise and mighty K’zsht, in the arts of leadership, of strategy, of battle. Preparing him for the day he would grasp the sacred lance of office and take his grandfather’s place.

  There had always been a tension between ambition and loyalty within G’grk culture, between the ruthlessness necessary to achieve victory, and the fealty necessary to maintain order. But not for Zst’kh, not as far as his grandfather was concerned. His devotion to the old warrior had been absolute.

  When Zst’kh had learned that his father, the Grand Marshal’s eldest son, had grown impatient waiting for his own turn as leader, and had been plotting against K’zsht, he’d had no hesitation in exposing the subterfuge. And when sentence had been passed, Zst’kh had volunteered to carry it out himself.

  He remembered that cold morning, on the plains outside T’krr – his father’s pleading voice, the weight of the ks’trg in his hand, the dawning sun glinting off the blade, the hissing cheer of the assembled Drone Lords as the blade fell . . . He had never lost a moment’s sleep over it. His father had been weak, devious, duplicitous. An unworthy successor to the Grand Marshal. He would be better.

  Zst’kh had been in Dskt that morning, establishing his prefecture over the city of Bssq-Fmm, when the order had arrived to withdraw back to the Central Plains. His grandfather’s order. He had been confused, surprised, he might even have experienced a moment’s doubt, but he had not hesitated. He marshalled his drones and the retreat began. Doubtless he would hear his grandfather’s explanation in due course.

  The explanation had not pleased him.

  The war had been neither won nor lost, but abandoned. His grandfather had ordered the withdrawal and then, also, announced his intention to retire. Alive.

  He’d even decreed clemency for his deputy, Sk’shk, even though he’d tried to kill the Grand Marshal with his own sacred lance. G’grk justice demanded Sk’shk’s head, but this was not to be. Another punishment would have to be found for him. Meanwhile, the lance itself, the eras-old emblem of office, broken. Unthinkable.

  Zst’kh was inaugurated Grand Marshal in a subdued ceremony in the First Temple of the Occluded Ones in T’krr. He had been the first Grand Marshal NOT to be handed the sacred lance at the end of the ceremony. Once broken, its symbolic power was destroyed for ever, and to forge a replacement would have been a pointless sham. Even now, Zst’kh would sometimes catch himself flexing the fingers of his right hand; it felt curiously empty, sorely lacking a thing it had never held. It was not how he’d anticipated coming to power, nor, he now pondered, was this the sort of power he’d hoped to come to.

  That’s not to say that he wasn’t in a position of considerable authority. In many respects, as commander-in-chief of extra-planetary defences for the whole planet Fnrr (as per the terms of the peace treaty) he found himself with a more onerous responsibility than any previous Grand Marshal. But it wasn’t the same – he’d been trained to lead armies, command divisions, draw up invasion strategies, not read reports of diplomatic conferences or peruse star-charts. It did not get his blue blood pumping.

  Until today.

  - Again, St’nn-brkh, and slower this time.

  Professor Steinberg did not attempt to correct Zst’kh’s pronunciation of his name. He’d got used to it, and besides, his own command of the G’grk tongue left a great deal to be desired.

  This command centre, the station from which the G’grk monitored extra-planetary activity, had been built under his direction and largely to his design (albeit with the inclusion of some exciting Fnrrn technology); it had almost begun to feel like home, but every now and again Professor Steinberg remembered just how far away from home he was. He took a deep breath, racked his brain for G’grk words and grammar, and spoke.

  - Is big maybe badness but is not tell now. Too long away. Not see goodness still.

  - The cube, St’nn-brkh, the cube! Or we’ll be here all cycle.

  Professor Steinberg muttered an apology, reached into his pocket and switched on the translation cube. Now was not the time to practise his G’grk.

  - It’s a possible threat, but it’s too far away to tell. It doesn’t respond to any signals, and it hardly even shows up on the long-range scans at all. But it’s—

  - Yes, yes, St’nn-brkh, but it is definitely . . . what is the word, inbound?

  Professor Steinberg nodded. - It’s on an inbound trajectory, yes. It will pass through Fnrr’s orbital path in just over three days – um, I mean rotations.

  Zst’kh smiled. A threat from space. Definitely his jurisdiction. And since all communication with the other nations of Fnrr was being blocked (apparently the work of that clownish amateur tyrant who had overthrown the weakling government of Mlml), his SOLE jurisdiction. Excellent.

  The door of the command centre opened and the Rrth warrior entered. He saluted the Grand Marshal in the Rrth manner, touching his fingers to his brow (a curious custom, thought Zst’kh) and went to speak with his fellow Ymn.

  ‘What do we have, Prof ?’

  ‘Man, am I glad to see you, James – look at this.’ Professor Steinberg touched a panel and a holographic star-chart appeared in front of him.

  ‘Here,’ said Professor Steinberg, pointing at what, to Colonel Hardison, seemed to be blank space.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Exactly. It hardly shows up on the scan at all. If it hadn’t created a gravity ripple as it passed through that asteroid field I probably wouldn’t have spotted it.’

  Colonel Hardison peered at the chart. ‘Comet?’ he asked. Professor Steinberg shook his head.

  ‘Would be much more visible. And if it’s an asteroid I haven’t seen anything like it. And there’s something else.’ Steinberg touched another couple of controls and a thin line appeared, tracing through the chart.

  ‘Look at this, James – it’s not drifting. It looks like it is, but it isn’t. This kind of course correction doesn’t come about just from moving between gravitational fields, it’s being steered towards us.’

  Colonel Hardison, brows knitted, stood deep in thought for a moment. ‘So what do we do?’

  Professor Steinberg shrugged. ‘Keep watching it. If it changed course once, it could do it again.’

  Hardison gave a sideways nod towards Zst’kh. ‘And what will HE do?’

  Steinberg gave a heavy sigh. ‘That, my friend, is a whole ’nother question. I yield to your superior experience of the workings of the military mind.’

  Hardison smiled grimly. ‘The HUMAN military mind,’ he said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t even begin to guess
what’s going on inside that big grey skull.’ He stretched, shook his head and flexed his limbs. Good thing he’d only had the one d’kff, he thought. ‘Looks like it’s gonna be a long night, anyway. I need to get cleaned up. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Professor Steinberg watched Hardison walk stiffly towards the door. ‘You’ve been playing that stupid game again, haven’t you?’ he said in an admonishing tone.

  Hardison turned and smiled. ‘Cultural immersion, Prof. It’s all part of the mission.’ He strode out.

  Professor Steinberg shook his head. Some guys, you could take them out of high school, but you could never quite take high school out of them . . .

  * * *

  Colonel Hardison’s quarters in the command centre barracks were a great deal more comfortable than when he’d moved in, and they were still pretty sparse and spartan.

  Thankfully he’d been tipped off as to the G’grk’s preference for sleeping on hard metal surfaces; the Bradbury girl had mentioned it when she recounted the story of how she’d discovered – and ultimately averted – the G’grk invasion of her homeland. Remarkable young lady, thought Colonel Hardison; he wondered how she was doing back on Earth. So he’d known to bring his own bedding from his previous lodgings on Mlml. (Although that hadn’t exactly been easy to come by in the first place, on an island where everyone slept in zero-gravity wells. He’d tried that just once. Never again.)

  Apart from that, he had few personal effects (years in the Air Force had taught him the art of travelling light); spare uniform, dress uniform (even the G’grk had to acknowledge that he looked pretty damn sharp in that), and a few photos of his parents, and of Sarah, probably the most patient and understanding fiancée in the ENTIRE galaxy.

  The one item of Earth gadgetry to be seen in his room was an old field radio, and even that had been augmented with Fnrrn technology. The young student whose name he really COULDN’T pronounce (Pgtf ? Pkkt?) had been a frequent visitor – a VERY frequent visitor – during his stay on Mlml, bombarding him with questions about his own career and the history of the Air Force, and Earth military history in general. He’d spotted the radio in Hardison’s quarters and been so fascinated by its simplicity and elegance that Hardison had offered to let him borrow it, saying that he should feel free to take it apart and have a good poke around inside. Hardison had figured that, if nothing else, this should keep the kid out of his hair for a while.

  After about two weeks (or phases, as the Fnrrns called them) the kid had returned the radio, announcing happily that he’d stripped it down, figured out the circuitry and built one of his own. He added that since he couldn’t help but notice that the radio’s battery had long since gone flat, and since alkaline nine-volts were in short supply on Fnrr, he’d taken the liberty of installing a mini-fusion cell, so that now the radio would work, well, for ever. Impressed, and charmed, Hardison had taken the kid’s bet, and left the radio permanently switched on.

  So far the fusion cell had lasted nearly two Earth years, and showed no signs of failing. Hardison noticed the radio’s little red light glowing away as he examined his new bruises in the mirror (another thing he’d had to import; the G’grk military regarded mirrors as effete and vain, which occasionally led to the bizarre – and, Hardison thought, oddly touching – sight of armoured G’grk warriors applying each other’s war paint).

  Hardison was just frowning at a livid purple blemish running the whole length of his upper arm, and reflecting that that was going to hurt in the morning, when he heard a sound he hadn’t ever expected to hear again. Not on this planet, anyway.

  A human voice. A female human voice.

  In the same moment he worked out where it was coming from, he also figured out where he’d heard it before.

  He picked up the radio, and the words came again.

  ‘Major Hardison? Are you there, Major Hardison?’

  He smiled and pressed the talk button.

  ‘It’s COLONEL Hardison now, and it’s good to hear from you again, Miss Bradbury.’

  * * *

  Terra had not been particularly surprised to discover that Pktk had built his own Rrth-style radio. He and Fthfth had, after all, managed to create a telepathic transmitter using an old interface, a signal booster and a gene-scanner; he’d tuned it in on Terra’s genetic profile using skin cells they’d found stuck to the end of Fthfth’s gshkth gfrg – Fthfth had been desperately sorry about accidentally thwacking Terra with it all those orbits ago, but now she was very glad she had, and even MORE glad that she’d insisted, over the protests of her companions, on bringing her gfrg with her into exile. (- They play gshkth in Dskt, she’d pointed out, and I might not have anything to do over there.)

  Pktk had brought the radio with him from Mlml when it became apparent that the Gfjk-Hhh was jamming all extra-planetary transmissions; he’d figured (correctly) that no one would think of blocking an old Rrth-type analogue radio signal.

  But for all the ingenuity that had made this conversation possible, the conversation itself was not going as Terra had hoped.

  ‘The young Grand Marshal isn’t going to start a war with Mlml, not after the promise he made to his grandpa,’ said Colonel Hardison. ‘The old guy made him swear not to pre-emptively attack any nation.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t be attacking Mlml, he’d be attacking the Gfjk!’ protested Terra.

  ‘Hey, I get the difference, Miss Bradbury, but it’s not a distinction the Grand Marshal is going to make. He’s not about to take it upon himself to invade Mlml just because it would make SOME of the population happy.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Terra said quietly. She was aware of all the expectant eyes upon her in the committee room. Pktk was fiddling with his radio to keep the signal strong, Fthfth was making herself useful (and keeping herself busy) handing out bowls of zff to Preceptor Shm and ArchRector Qss-Jff. But everyone was listening keenly.

  ‘Listen, Zst’kh isn’t particularly thrilled about the Gfjk – he’d prefer to have a happy democratic Mlml than a potential rival warlord rising just off the coast. And the whole reincarnation thing is making him kind of twitchy as well – his belief in the Occluded Ones is pretty strong. The idea that the Gfjk has come to power on the back of an ancient prophecy is basically blasphemous as far as he’s concerned . . .’

  - Nothing worse than having your own ancient prophecy upstaged by somebody else’s, muttered Pktk.

  ‘. . . but I’m afraid you won’t get Zst’kh to attack your Gfjk- . . . whatever he calls himself, unless the Gfjk attacks HIM,’ said Colonel Hardison, before asking, ‘Just how crazy is this guy?’

  Terra looked around the room. ‘Probably not crazy enough,’ she concluded.

  Billy, meanwhile, was quite glad to be listening to a conversation in English. He still had his doubts about the translation cube. Pondering how it did what it did made the inside of his skull itchy. The cube itself now sat on the long meeting table, next to the radio, translating Terra and Hardison’s words for the Fnrrn listeners.

  ‘Well, right now I’d have difficulty getting Zst’kh’s attention away from this rogue planet he’s spotted,’ mused Hardison. ‘I’ve never seen him so happy. Steinberg thinks it may be nothing, but Zst’kh’s convinced we’re under attack. He’s got his own war at last. I don’t think he’d be interested in yours.’

  - Rogue planet? asked Pktk, intrigued.

  ‘What rogue planet?’ asked Terra.

  ‘Steinberg spotted it a few hours ago. Big black thing, about the same size as Fnrr. Hardly shows up at all on the scans – it’s like a hole in space. And it’s headed this way.’

  There was a sharp, clattering sound. Terra and the others looked round to see what had happened.

  Preceptor Shm, his black oval eyes wide, had dropped his bowl of zff.

  - What . . . what did he say?

  * * *

  Colonel Hardison wasn
’t using a translation cube; he didn’t have to in order to speak to Terra and was quite enjoying having an old-style human non-psychic conversation.

  The cube that was sitting next to Pktk’s radio in Lsh-Lff had been translating Terra and Hardison’s conversation for the benefit of the Fnrrns listening in, but it couldn’t work the other way. When Shm spoke up, Hardison heard his words through the radio in the original Mlmln. The Colonel had only picked up a smattering of the clipped, clickety tongue during his stay in Hrrng, but out of respect for the old Preceptor, he decided to try to answer him in his language.

  - Black planet, said Hardison in faltering, basic Mlmln. Black planet coming.

  Preceptor Shm shuddered as if Hardison’s words had struck him in the chest. Terra gazed at him in confusion. She’d never seen such fear in the old Fnrrn’s eyes, not even during the invasion.

  - Preceptor? she asked.

  - Oh no, said Preceptor Shm, almost inaudibly. Oh no . . .

  PART THREE

  The Final Countdown

  The day had arrived, the day of joy, the day of bliss, the day of perfection.

  In the time that had elapsed between the philosopher-priests’ announcement and today, the day their plan would be enacted upon, the scientists of Perfection had laboured upon the instruments of deliverance.