Barnes laughed, a long nasty madhouse cachinnation. “Xxxx. Not sacrificing her for the greater good? Not even thinking about it? Not even a second? Where’s the drama in that? That’s the whole point of a countdown. I thought you’d be less of a xxxxing xxxxx. OK. Fine. Trooper, stand down.”
With some reluctance, the mechanised soldier did as he was ordered, and the terrible flame that had been ignited to systematically sear my tender flesh was diminished to but a single glowing pilot light.
I felt, to my lingering shame, the very most profound relief at having escaped such a dreadful fate, yet even in that moment of deliverance, I was aware of the terrible price with which my life had been bought. Stewart’s love for me and his desire to preserve me from suffering arose from his sense of honour and duty; like all the workings of bitter hubris, it was his very strength that became his weakness.
“So,” Barnes continued, the look of proud triumph shining darkly from him, “Open it. Turn it on. Show us what the xxxxing thing does. Any tricks, and we’re back to the part where she dies. Trooper, stay at the ready.”
Stewart gave a defeated nod of acknowledgement, then looked at me with an expression intended to convey a deep sorrow, shame, and regret. I use those precise words for a reason, for knowing him as deeply as I do, I could see that he intended to appear as he did, and that there was, as I had observed before, another sentiment underneath his expression that he was working to constrain and obscure. Stew is a remarkable mind, an honourable man, and my love for him exceeds my regard for his gifts; he is not, not to me at least, the most skilled practitioner of emotional subterfuge.
He spoke, and his tone was peculiar. “I am so very sorry, my flower. I am compelled, as Epeius of old, to do as they command me. Please do forgive me, Becky.”
“My flower?” That was hardly a term that ever passed his lips. “Becky?” Never once in all of the years I had known Stew had he ever referred to me thusly, not even on those few recollected occasions that we met in childhood. Something was afoot. And…Epeius? The name was a hint as to his intentions, a key that he was offering that might enlighten my soul as to whatever his hidden purpose truly might be.
Yet though I do not doubt, dear reader, that you immediately recall the role of that doughty pugilist in the writings of Virgil, as I did afterwards, in that fraught moment I simply could not call it to mind. I shall confess that recent trauma and the lingering ill effects of my sedation left me grasping at straws for the meaning of that name; my mind fumbled about in a miasma, and as Stew turned and walked towards the monolithic elegance of the sepulchre, I found myself unable to make the connection he intended.
My despair, even so, was now leavened with a faint but unquestionable hope; all might not be lost.
Stewart approached the glowing seal of the sepulchre, and extending one long slender arm, he placed his hand against the surface of the seal. There was, after a moment, a single great basso chime, the sound of which emanated from the full surface of the object as the tolling of a vast iron bell. From the light of the seal dimmed, and without a sound there was extruded from the dark metal what appeared to be a small keyboard.
Barnes stepped forward hungrily. “That’s access. Done! Guards! Remove him. Our cryptologists can…”
Stewart turned, a look of defiant warning upon his face. “Can what? The activation code for this device must be entered correctly on the first effort. Any error or deviance from the proper sequence detonates the device, with an explosion measured in megatonnage. You must let me finish, and let me concentrate. The sequence is complex and multiphasic, and if I err but once, we all die. Your impatience could ruin us all, and to no end. Be patient, and I shall give you precisely what you have demanded: the very heart of our power.”
Barnes considered for a moment, then acquiesced. “Go ahead. Do it.”
Stewart’s hand then veritably flew across the keyboard, triggering the opening of three other input systems, each of which demanded a different type of engagement: a complex array of interlocking dials, a flat touchpad that required a specific pattern to be traced across its surface, and a three dimensional space between two antennae that appeared to operate as a cryptographic aetherphone. Each of these he engaged in proper sequence, and each, once the necessary twists and swipings and gestures had been completed, withdrew back into the surface of the sepulchre. It was a process that required not simply information, but a calligrapher’s grace and a violist’s precision; all of which Stewart, thankfully, possessed.
With great concentration and considerable manual dexterity, he then entered a final sequence into the keyboard, and it, too, withdrew back from whence it had come. He stepped back. There was a pause.
Then came another deep tone, and another, and then a third.
Upon the third tone, a great golden seam opened upon the face of the sepulchre, one that neatly rent it top to bottom. It was beginning to open, and as the two halves separated, all within that great hangar, captor and captive alike, watched with the same rapt fascination, the room filling with a different light, one not bright and cold, but rich and golden and vivid.
I forced myself to my unsteady feet, as did Suzanna, gazing in rising awe at what stood before us. This was the fruit of Royal Society labours that Stewart could not, as a matter of the greatest significance to the Crown, confide in me; and I shall confess that in that moment I felt filled with a pride so profound in his efforts that I do not doubt it verged upon the sinful.
From within the Sepulchre there came a great stirring movement, a soft rustling interplay of alloy and ceramic and the most elegant of fabrics, and as one, Stewart, Suzanna, and myself averted our awed gazes downward to the steel of the floor; despite our physical discomfiture and disarray we presented our most formal bows and practised curtseys, as honour and right obeisance demanded.
Barnes took a half step back, seemingly speechless, as did almost all of the Caddiganites. Behind us, Diego’s voice, slurred from the swelling that ruined his face, rose incredulous from where he lay.
“What the xxxx…”
For it was at that moment that Her Majesty Queen Victoria Elizabeth XXVII, Immortal Monarch of the New Commonwealth, Undying Defender of the Faith and Unfailing Heart of the Peerage, stepped from Her construction Sepulchre, Her perfectly wrought form towering resplendent over all of those gathered, gracing loyal servants and mortal foes alike with the blessing of Her Royal Presence.
Chapter Thirty Seven: Her Majesty's Displeasure
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