“What information?” Chintsion asked. The “clubs’ chief was proving the most voluble of the three Dwellers so far. His huge esuit sat cradled in a sling-seat poised over the shallow concavity of diamond film beneath, the planet’s bilious reflected light shining faintly up from underneath him. His esuit was grey, with garish pink chevrons.
“We are not at liberty to divulge that,” Luseferous told the Dweller.
“Why not?” asked the scholar, Feurish. His esuit was a kind of dirty white.
“I can’t tell you,” Luseferous said. He held up a gloved, ringed hand. “And please don’t ask why. Just accept this.”
The Dwellers were silent. They were probably signalling to each other. His tech people had warned him of this and had attempted to design the sling-seats so that the creatures couldn’t communicate like that. But as soon as the Dwellers had seen the seating arrangements they’d protested and fussed and started pulling and prodding and attempting to reconfigure their seats and even began rearranging them so that they were in positions relative to each other which they liked better. Luseferous had ground his diamond teeth, signalled to the tech people to help, and waited for the Dwellers to declare themselves happy.
Finally they were all sitting in a great circle, the Dwellers and the Hierchon and his handful of advisers forming most of one half of the circumference, the humans and others, including the Archimandrite, making up the other half.
“We don’t know where Seer Fassin Taak is,” Chintsion told Luseferous. “Last heard of, he was making for a city in the northern polar region called Eponia. Though that is just a rumour.”
“Eponia?” the third Dweller, Peripule, said. His esuit was deep, gleaming brown, frilled like seaweed. “I heard he was seen in Deilte.”
“Deilte?” Chintsion said scornfully. “At this time of year?”
“He is an alien,” Peripule said. “He knows nothing of fashion.”
“Well, first of all,” Chintsion began, “he has a minder, and—”
“Gentlemen,” Luseferous said. The three Dwellers all rocked back as though shocked.
“The Archimandrite Luseferous is a busy man,” the Hierchon Ormilla boomed. “Discussions regarding the seasonal fashion-ability of cities in Nasqueron might be best conducted between sessions, not during.”
“Little dweller,” Chintsion said to the Hierchon, “we are, as a favour to your latest batch of masters, and notwithstanding the likely and faintly hilarious brevity of their precedence, attempting to establish the whereabouts of this Taak fellow. The…”
Luseferous stopped listening. He turned to Tuhluer, who sat just behind and to the side of him. He looked the other man in the eye. Tuhluer held his gaze. Luseferous saw the other man swallow. Still his gaze was held. Tuhluer had never dared to do that before. Luseferous bent fractionally towards him and said quietly, “Desperate times require desperate solutions, Tuhluer.”
The other man looked down, then nodded and started finger-tapping signals into his glove. The Archimandrite turned to the front again.
A distant thud sounded, followed a second later by another, then another, like a great clock ticking.
Luseferous listened to the two Ulubine Peregals, old men called Tlipeyn and Emoerte, trying to wheedle the Dwellers into being more cooperative. The Dwellers gave every indication of being sincerely unable even to understand what the word meant.
Out of the corner of his eye, minutely silhouetted against the filthy yellow-brown clouds of the planet beneath them, the Archimandrite could see a line of tiny specks drifting off to one side, heading towards the passing cloud tops thousands of kilometres below.
“…Believe us when we say that we are serious,” Commander Binstey, his C-in-C of ground forces was saying to the three Dwellers.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Chintsion said airily. “That does not alter the fact that we may be entirely unable to help you.”
Commander Binstey started to speak again but then Luseferous interrupted him. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, and Binstey fell silent. “If I may direct your attention to the view over to one side there.” He waved one ringed hand over to the side where the stippled line of specks was moving slowly across the gasily distorted face of the planet.
Everybody looked. The Dwellers twisted slightly in their seats. Those present in the chamber with especially good eyesight were already reacting. He could hear mutters, gasps, all the usual expressions of shock.
“We are serious,” Luseferous told the Dwellers. He stood. “Do you hear that noise?” He turned his head, as though listening.
The dull ticking noise went on; steady, remorseless. “That is a drop-bomb chute, firing once a second. Only in this case it is firing people, not warheads. Unprotected human beings are being thrown into space towards your planet at a rate of over three thousand per hour. They are men, women and children, old and young adults, people from all walks of life, mostly captured from surrendered ships and damaged habitats. We have over twenty thousand of them aboard. They will continue to be fired at this rate until we make some sort of progress here.” He waited for some sort of reaction from the three Dwellers, but they just kept on looking at the view. “Now,” he continued, “do any of us here present think we might have just remembered anything useful?”
He watched the people and the aliens staring at the stippled line of black dots moving slowly away from the great ship. A few people turned to look at him, then looked away when he met their gaze, trying to hide hatred and fear and horror. Odd how people reacted so severely to something unpleasant happening right in front of them but were prepared to ignore much worse horrors taking place elsewhere.
He nodded to Tuhluer, and a great screen lit up across one side of the chamber, showing the process. People — humans of all sorts, as he’d said — were shown being loaded into a number of huge circular magazines. The humans were almost all struggling, but they were each constrained by a tight wrapping like an elastic sleeping bag which covered every bit of them except for their faces and prevented them from doing anything but squirm like maggots and spit at and try to bite the exoskel-wearing soldiers loading them into the launcher magazines. The floor of the vast hold was covered in wriggling, struggling bodies. The sound turned up, and those present in the conference chamber could hear the humans screaming and crying and shouting and begging.
“Archimandrite!” the Hierchon shouted. “I have to protest at this! I didn’t—”
“Shut up!” the Archimandrite bellowed at him. He looked round the others. “All of you! Not a fucking word!” For a while the only sound was the muffled thud, thud, thud of the launcher.
The scene switched to the muzzle of the launcher on the exterior of the ship, firing — very gently, for a gun — the people into space. Their wrapping came off as they were expelled, snapping back around their ankles so that they could writhe and jerk and spasm satisfactorily as they met the vacuum naked, and suffocated. Some tried to hold their breaths, and bulged fit to explode. Blood specked from ears and eyes and mouths and anuses. The cameras followed them. The people usually moved for about a couple of minutes before they stopped. Then they just assumed the one frozen pose — some curled foetal, some spreadeagled -and tumbled slowly, part of an invisible conveyor belt, towards the faraway cloud tops.
“Exactly why are you doing this?” the Dweller Feurish asked the Archimandrite. He sounded merely puzzled.
“To concentrate minds,” Luseferous said coldly. He could hear somebody being sick in the chamber. Not many people were meeting his gaze. The gantries above were thick with immobile guards, weapons already trained on the people below.