Peter Hamilton - The Evolutionary Void

They carried on down the valley, passing several dead fastfoxes and ge-wolves. Edeard tried not to grimace at the brutally torn flesh of the animals. Argian was sitting on a moss-covered boulder where the valley opened out, quietly munching on a red apple. Several squads of militia were milling around, also wanting in on the finale. Their corporals and sergeants were having a hard time keeping them in line. Everyone quieted down as Edeard appeared.

“Will he surrender?” Edeard asked.

Argian shrugged and bit down hard. “He has nothing to lose. Who knows what he’s thinking?”

“I see. Well, fortunately, we can wait. For as long as it takes.”

“Ah,” Marcol exclaimed. “They’re arguing.”

Argian gave the young constable a searching stare, then turned his attention to the outcrop. There was indeed an argument spilling out from the jagged rocks, a loud one, full of anger. Two men were confronting the Gilmorn, telling him they were walking out to surrender to the militia. Edeard’s farsight showed him the men turning away. The Gilmorn lifted his pistol and brought it up to point at the back of one man’s head. Edeard’s third hand slipped out and twisted the firing pin, bending it slightly out of alignment. The Gilmorn pulled the trigger. There was a metallic click. The bullet didn’t fire.

Marcol cleared his throat in a very pointed fashion.

Another argument broke out, even more heated than the first. Fists were swung. Third hands attempted to heartsqueeze. Men started wrestling.

Larose gave the order to combine shields and move in.

Two minutes later it was all over.

There were militiamen perched on top of the rocky pinnacles, cheering wildly and waving beer bottles above their heads. Whole regiments were spilling over the site of the last fight, singing and embracing their comrades. Edeard couldn’t help but smile as he walked among them, taking the occasional swig from a proffered bottle, shaking hands, hugging older friends exuberantly. They were glad to see the Waterwalker, who had led the campaign, but they were prouder that they’d won the final battle themselves.

Colonel Larose had established his camp on the far side of the fortress outcrop. Carts were drawn up in a large circle; long rows of tents were laid out, ready to be put up. A big open-sided canvas marquee had already been raised, with the cooks preparing a meal inside. Smoke from the cooking fires was starting to saturate the still air. At the center of the camp, the field headquarters tent was a drab khaki, guarded by alert senior troopers and a pack of ge-hounds. Orderlies and runners were skipping in and out. Eleven regimental flags fluttered weakly on top of their poles outside, representing the finest of city and country.

The guards saluted Edeard as he went inside. Larose was sitting behind the wooden trestle table that served as his desk while a flock of adjutants hovered around with requests and queries. His drab green field uniform jacket was open to the waist, revealing a stained gray shirt. Senior officers were clustered at a long bench with all the administrative paraphernalia necessary to move and orchestrate such a large body of men. Even though it had been only a couple of hours since victory, orders and reports had begun to pile up. Larose stood and embraced Edeard warmly.

“We did it,” Larose exclaimed. “By the Lady, we did it.”

The officers started to applaud. Edeard gave them a grateful nod.

“You should be very satisfied with your men,” Edeard told him, loud enough for the other commanders to hear, especially those of the country regiments. “They behaved impeccably.”

“That they did.” Larose grinned around generously. “All of them.”

“And you,” Edeard told the Colonel. “You should stand for election when we return. The residents of Lillylight would appreciate a man representing them who’s actually accomplished something outside the city.”

Larose gave a shrug that was close to bashful. “That would cause my family’s senior members some surprise and satisfaction, I imagine.”

Edeard gave him a warm smile. “You were never a black sheep.”

“No. Not like you, at any rate. But I like to think I had my moments.”

“Indeed you did. But I hope you’ll give the idea some thought.”

“It’s never as far away as we believe, is it, Makkathran?”

“No.” Edeard let out a sigh. “Is he behaving himself?”

“So far.” Larose gestured to a flap at the back of the tent, and they went through. An encircling wall of tents and fences had produced a small secure area at the rear. Right at the center, a tall narrow tent was standing all alone. Two guards stood at attention outside, older seasoned militiamen whom Larose trusted implicitly, their ge-wolves pulling on the leash. Both animals gave Edeard a suspicious sniff as he approached.

“You know something odd?” Larose said. “For years the bandits have terrorized communities with impunity. Every survivor told stories of fearsome weapons. Yet throughout this whole campaign, we haven’t found one of the bastards armed with anything other than a standard pistol.”

“That’s good,” Edeard said, staring straight ahead. “Would you want a new weapon to exist? One powerful enough to kill entire platoons in less than a minute?”

“No. No, I don’t suppose I would.”

“Me, neither.”

“I don’t suppose anybody could build anything like that, not really. Not even the Weapons Guild.”

“No,” Edeard agreed. “They can’t. Those weapons are just a fable that people used to tell each other about in times gone by.”

“Like the exiles. You know, nowadays I find it hard to picture what Owain looked like. He and his fellows must have traveled a long way from Makkathran. Nobody ever found them.”

“Losing an election can demoralize you like that. Nobody wants to dwell on what has been, not now that we all have a future.”

“We do?”

“It’s unknown, as always, but it’s there, all right.”

Colonel Larose pursed his lips and walked on.

The Gilmorn was standing in the middle of the tent with Dinlay and Marcol in attendance. Of all the aspects that resulted from Edeard’s ability to reset time, he always found this the strangest-seeing someone alive whom he’d previously watched die. And this Gilmorn was one he’d killed himself in a fashion that didn’t withstand too much sober examination.

Inevitably, the man was unchanged. Not that Edeard had ever seen him at his best before. Last time, his round face with the idiosyncratic nose had been suffused with pain and anguish as his legs were ruined by the boulder. Now he simply looked tired and sullenly resentful. Not defeated, though. There was still defiance burning behind his mental shield, mostly fueled by good old Grand Family arrogance, Edeard suspected.

The blacksmith was just leaving. He’d taken an hour to shackle the Gilmorn securely, with big iron rings around his wrists and ankles, linked together with tough chains. This way there were no fancy locks for his telekinesis to pick away at. The metal had to be broken apart by another blacksmith or simple brute strength; Edeard could do it, and probably Marcol, but few others on Querencia would be capable.

“Finitan’s pet,” the Gilmorn said contemptuously. “I might have guessed.”

“Sorry I missed our earlier appointment at the valley beyond Mount Alvice,” Edeard replied casually.

The Gilmorn gave him a startled glance.

“So who are you?” Edeard asked. “Not that it really matters, but you never did tell me your name back at Ashwell.”

“Got your forms to fill out, have you?”

“You do understand this is over now, don’t you? You are the last of them. Even if One Nation has any supporters left back in Makkathran, they’ll deny everything, especially you. The family Gilmorn has lost considerable status among the city’s Grand Families since Tannarl’s exile; they’re desperate to regain it. You won’t be accepted back, not by them. Of course you could try to throw in with Buate’s surviving lieutenants, the ones I banished. Though they, too, seem incapable of adapting; over a dozen have been sentenced to the Trampello mines in the last two years. At least they’ll have company; my old friend Arminel is still incarcerated there. Mayor Finitan changed the mine governor from Owain’s crony to someone who’s a little stricter.”