The Well-Mannered War Part 5

'A missile strike?' Dolne's brain refused to accept it. He upbraided himself for being more put out by the threat to his day than by the deaths of three of his men. 'Is the man certain?'

'As certain as a civilian can be, sir. I told him what he heard was the fall of the rocks but he wouldn't listen to me. He says he saw pieces of the missile's housing among the wreckage of the camp.'

Dolne pondered. It was rare that his job put him in a position where his decisions carried serious weight. 'You did a sat sweep, I a.s.sume?'

'Yes, sir. But there was such severe distortion that I couldn't make much out.'

'Distortion from what?'

'I don't know, sir,' said Viddeas weakly. 'The east sat has been playing up of late, if you recall.'

'You haven't told anyone about this daft missile story, have you?' asked Dolne. 'We don't want a scene.'

'Of course not, sir. Only myself and a couple of the Strat Team are aware of it at all. I considered it the wisest course to take, particularly during Mr Rabley's visit.'

Dolne's eyebrows shot up. 'Good G.o.d, I'd forgotten about him! Where is he? Nowhere near 63, I hope?'

'Of course not, sir. Mr Rabley is with division D in the foothills at 31, having returned from a social with the enemy.'

'And no doubt,' said Dolne, 'has his auto-camera with him.' He nodded approvingly. 'You've done very well, Viddeas. There can't be any hint of scandal while Rabley's still here. We'll wait until he's gone and hold an inquiry then.' He looked down at his s.h.i.+ning black boots sadly. 'Poor Kelton.

He was a good sort.'

Viddeas nodded. 'And the enemy, sir? I wondered if we should inform them.'

'Absolutely not. I don't see any reason to. It'll only cause an incident, which is the last thing we need in the present political climate.' He clapped Viddeas across the shoulder. 'I'll have a word with the artist later.' He moved off.

'Where are you going, sir?' asked Viddeas.

'To my room, Captain.' He turned and stared at his junior with all the superiority he could muster. 'You have a criticism?'

Viddeas couldn't hold his stare. 'No, sir.' He saluted and strode away.

'Of course, we could be misjudging the entire situation,' the Doctor said breezily, his loping walk keeping him still very much at the head of his three-being expedition.

'We could?' asked Romana, navigating a tricky path around some large boulders.

'Yes. What if those pod things were unmanned?'

She stopped to think. 'Sport? A firing range?'

The Doctor stopped too. 'It accounts for whoever fired the missiles being such a rotten shot. And those pods, clay pigeons.' He registered her expression. 'Well, it's a theory at -'

K9 broke in. 'Master, Mistress.'

The Doctor sighed. 'Am I ever going to finish a sentence today? What is it?'

'Someone is approaching,' said K9.

The Doctor's shoulders slumped. 'Not again. You've been nothing but trouble today, do you know that?'

K9 burbled indignantly. 'Charge refuted. The advice provided by this unit saved your life earlier, Master.'

'That's beside the point. I wish you'd -'

Romana caught his arm and pointed ahead. 'Doctor, he's right. Over there.'

There was a strange whirring noise, not entirely unlike that of K9's motor. It got louder, its accompaniment a shuffling, deliberate tread through the heaped sands. Between the large rocks ahead of them, swathed in the mists that hung eerily over the emptiness, a figure began to take shape.

Chapter Two - The Femdroids.

The Femdroids The study nestled halfway up the north side of the Dome, and its large, three-sided bay window afforded a staggering view of Metron, the sprawling capital city of Metralubit. If he chose, Premier Harmock could sit well back and observe the ma.s.ses over which he presided, dressed simply in the transparent plastic tabards that had been the fas.h.i.+on for many years, going about their diverse businesses amid the gigantic curved white towers, the generously proportioned and levelly raked patches of garden s.p.a.ce, and the clear gla.s.s tubeways that made up this glorious architectural achievement. He might have stopped to marvel at the utilitarian efficiency that manifested itself in the dazzling cleanliness of the pavements, the battery-powered skimcars that moved in ordered ranks along the monotram network, and the mobile fusion inlets through which any person could access the powernet. And if his soul had been in especial need of uplift he could have done no worse than to look up at the gorgeous, cloudless green sky that acted as a showcase to the pinnacle of his civilization, the ultimate product of centuries of struggle.

As it was, he sat facing away from the window, engulfed in his chair, his attention engrossed by a spectacle to him far more invigorating. He was watching himself on MNN, a mid-morning replay of the previous week's debate in the parliamentary chamber, and congratulating himself for putting up such a splendid performance. He watched as Rabley stumbled to the end of a long, disjointed speech on public-health provision. 'And is it not the case,' he said, his eyes flicking between the dispatch pad and the notescreen in his hand, 'that in the fourteen years since the Premier came to power, there has been a shortfall of more than twenty per cent in real terms in budget provision, ah, and will he not agree that it is the stifling bureaucracy imposed by his own administration that has led to the curtailment of the health advisory programmes I, er, referred to earlier?'

The picture switched to show the other side of the pad. Harmock watched himself swagger to his feet. It was startling. n.o.body would ever have guessed, from his look of mild, almost baffled indignation, that he had no idea what his opponent had been talking about, and cared even less. 'No, no, no,' he saw himself say as he clutched the sides of the dispatch pad.

'No, no. I think the gentleman should allow me to correct him.' Fire back, thought Harmock. Take the smug tone, get Rabley riled, give his own notescreen time to dredge up some statistics with which to fire back.

'Arbiter, I have listened to what the gentleman has said with considerable interest, and not a little surprise.' (I was thinking about something else entirely and I'm waiting for my notescreen to give me an answer to whatever it was.) 'For surely it is the party opposite, yes, the party of which the gentleman is leader, that has the true antipathy to health provision.'

(Waffle, waffle, refute with a vague accusation.) 'They are the ones who have, historically, neglected the funding of this key area and allowed provision to fall behind, and it is we who have increased it in real terms.'

(Spin things out, not long now, circle the subject without actually saying anything.) 'Ah yes, look here.' (The screen is flas.h.i.+ng at me. Thank G.o.d for auto-research.) 'In its last two years in office, the party opposite - yes, the party opposite - cut spending on health programmes by eleven per cent.'

(And diverted that money into localized schemes, but he wasn't about to mention that.) 'Money which, as soon as we were able, we reallocated.'

(Cutting the local programmes on the quiet along the way, but he wasn't about to mention that either.) He sat.

His opponent took the pad once more. 'Arbiter, this is a blatant attempt to confuse the current issue.' (I wasn't aware of those statistics, and I'm going to ignore them.) 'Is it not the case that what we are seeing now are the death throes of a government, clinging desperately to power, and trying to patch up the holes in the economy before the imminent election?' (Well, yes, but that's hardly the point.) 'How much longer -' indignant wave of notescreen '- how much longer must the planet wait to express its will to be rid of this incompetent government?'

'As long as I can possibly get away with,' said Harmock, snapping off the screen and feeling a contented glow spreading throughout his body.

Lagging twenty per cent in the polls, his personal popularity the lowest of any leader since records began, his reputation in tatters after fourteen years of bungles, scandals and economic mishaps - it was enough to make a lesser man weep.

He pressed himself back into his chair and stretched.

The chair was a relic, some said from the days of the colony founders, a carved wooden affair with a hard back and strong armrests. A person with a less fat bottom than Harmock (and that, he thought ruefully, was most people) would have found it unbearably uncomfortable. His natural padding made it pillow-soft. He basked in it, thinking on the great triumph to come, savouring in advance the look on Rabley's face when he unveiled his great secret. To wipe away that inane grin would be positive bliss. And as ever when his thoughts turned to political pleasures he felt a corresponding urge somewhere deep within that longed for sticky toffee pudding, or mallow pie, or fried dough-sticks with caramel topping... His curse, and the one thing - so Galatea told him - that might still bring him down. The electorate, d.a.m.n them, disapproved of his rotundity, believing it to be a sign of weakness and lack of willpower. The sanctimonious idiots.

The study door slid open with a swish of air and Galatea entered. It was as if just thinking about her could bring her into being. She carried a tray on which was his breakfast snack. Harmock's eyes swept approvingly over her figure, encased in her one-piece s.h.i.+ning silver covering, a succulent slenderness that was the ultimate tease. For that slim-hipped frame and moulded bust contained nothing more than servo-mechanisms, electronic circuitry and processor links. 'Ah, Galatea,' he said. 'You look good enough to eat.'

She angled her head slightly, with the precision of movement that was the only hint, aside from her great beauty, of a Femdroid's true nature. It galled Harmock to think that his father, also a great parliamentarian, had once sat as part of cabinet session in this very room, and Galatea would have looked and behaved exactly the same as she did today. Her 135-year-old lips twitched into a smile, her unbelievable blue eyes sparkled, and she said in a voice that combined the sweetness of honey and the texture of a well-matured rum, 'I have news that may lessen your appet.i.te.' Her vocabulary, in fact her whole manner, retained the formality of the age in which she had been constructed.

Harmock's bushy brows twitched. 'I don't care for news. What sort is it?'

'Good, and bad.' Galatea put down the tray and poured coffee from the percolator into his waiting mug. On the plate next to it were three slimo-wafers, the prospect of which Harmock, no matter how hungry, could not relish.

'Good first, please,' he asked, cracking a wafer cautiously.

Galatea nodded primly. She touched the circular amulet on the chain around her neck, and the printed micro-circuitry embossed there glowed and sparkled momentarily as she linked to the dome's central computer.

'Production quotas in the east sector have led to a half-per-cent increase in the region's employment level.'

'Is that it?'

'That is the good news, sir, yes. The increase can be portrayed as a triumph for the policy of wage restraint in manufacturing industries.'

'Jolly good,' said Harmock without enthusiasm. 'That'll make all the difference, won't it? Let's have the bad news then.'

She stood back from the desk and put her hands on her hips. 'I fear I will shock you. The development I now report will lead to complications with the election.'

'I'm prepared,' said Harmock, anything but. Galatea was rarely rattled. This must be something big. Another harvest surplus in the outlands? Rioting in the Bensonian village settlements? A leak to the Opposition?

She said, with an air of resignation, 'The com-link with Borea came on-line this morning. The Phibbs Report is now ready for publication.'

Harmock reeled, although he was sitting down. He could have spent hours trying to think what the bad news might be and never have got it right. 'The Phibbs Report,' he spluttered.

'Yes, Premier.'

His fingers were losing their grip on the wafer so he put it down. 'But...' He struggled to find the right words. 'But they've been sitting on their a.r.s.es down in Borea for over a hundred years. Why now? With no warning?'

'One hundred and twenty-nine years and eight months, sir,' said Galatea dutifully. 'And I should point out that the Committee did advise us of their near-readiness recently.'

'They've been nearly ready since my grandfather was a boy,' said Harmock. 'Has this been done to embarra.s.s me?'

'The Committee has been totally isolated on the island of Borea for the length of its deliberation,' said Galatea. 'We must view their timing as an unfortunate coincidence.' She crossed to the window and looked out over the city. A skytrain hovered past, the tourists inside craning their necks for a view of the Dome's interior. 'And our first thought must be to maintain electoral advantage.'

Harmock slumped back in his suddenly uncomfortable chair. 'I'd never have thought it,' he breathed. He felt as if he'd been punched. 'It's all we need, isn't it? Barclow being shunted centre stage. This blows it all wide open.'

His eyes turned to the fabric mural fixed to the opposite wall. It showed Metralubit's military colours emblazoned boldly across a rough representation of Barclow. For 125 years the war had rested while the Committee wrangled over it, isolated on the distant island of Borea, each generation pa.s.sing the task down to the next. He hadn't expected them to reach a conclusion in his lifetime.

'What does the report say, exactly?'

'It is half a million words in length, approximately,' said Galatea. 'My underlings are busy trying to interpret it. There are also six appendices, increasing the length by a further quarter of a million words.'

'But the general gist?'

'Unclear, sir.'

'Unclear?' Harmock thumped his fist down on the desktop. 'Are we advised to start shooting or aren't we?'

'The Committee makes three hundred and twelve recommendations on the resumption of hostilities,' Galatea said. 'Many of them contradictory. Their conclusion is not certain.'

Harmock grunted. 'Whatever else it means, we'll have to bring the election forward. I had hoped for a couple more months.'

Galatea pointed a purple-painted fingernail at the com-screen. It flickered on to show a computer diagram, three blocks of colour measured against a notched axis of voters. Rabley, in green, was well over the halfway mark.

Harmock, the orange block, was positively stunted by comparison, and the minor parties had dwindled almost to a nil rating. 'This is the current position. If present voter trends continue, and allowing for a three per cent margin of error, Rabley will win the election with a nineteen per cent greater share of the vote.'

'Ah,' said Harmock. 'You forget. My diet.'

'I was coming to that,' said Galatea. Her tone was without reproach; it was a simple statement of fact. She moved her finger slightly and the blocks of colour s.h.i.+fted. Harmock's orange shot up and swallowed Rabley's lead - just. 'A two per cent greater share is predicted,' said Galatea. She shot him a sideways glance.

'Increasing to four per cent if your body weight reaches target.'

'Excellent,' said Harmock. 'Two - I mean four - per cent. All we need.'

Galatea moved her finger a third time. On this occasion Harmock's block plummeted. 'What the h.e.l.l happened there?'

'The prediction is based on an estimation of voter response to the Phibbs Report,' she replied. 'So far as we understand it at present.'

'If it's inconclusive why the drop?'

'The electorate will, we predict, feel disposed to aggression. The complexion we put on the report will not matter. Patriotism is rife in times of economic shortfall, such as that we have engineered.'

Harmock made a frantic shus.h.i.+ng gesture.

'n.o.body can hear us.' Galatea, unruffled, went on, 'The electorate will see any delay to engage with the enemy as weakness and transfer their allegiance to the Opposition.'