‘That telephone must always be watched,’ he said, ‘always, twenty-four hours a day, never left unattended, and if it rings the call must be taken. Nothing is more important than this. The caller will not ask for me, he will ask for the Singer. Check this. Be precise. If the caller does not ask for the Singer, say nothing and hang up immediately. But if he does ask for the Singer, you must ask him what the arrangements are and note everything he says, everything, note every detail precisely. And I must be told immediately, wherever I am, without delay.’
Every day Rizhin watched that telephone and every day it did not ring. Nevertheless, the top of the raion hill was cleared. All the buildings surrounding the Ship Bastion were razed to the ground. The cobbled square was dug up and replaced with a new concrete foundation, a wide straight way was driven up to the peak and three huge guns were hauled up and set in place there: three two-hundred-pounders from the battleship Admiral Irtysh which was currently blockaded in the naval yard. The long muzzles of grey steel pointed silently out across the city. Rizhin had the Ship Bastion scattered with rubble, the guns covered with grey camouflage netting and a circle of anti-aircraft guns emplaced in bunkers to surround and protect them.
The enemy drew its noose tighter round the city as winter closed in. Two weeks passed. The guns on the Ship Bastion did not fire.
One morning when Rizhin was in his office alone the long-silent telephone rang.
‘Yes?’ said Rizhin.
My name is Shulmin. Is this the Singer please? Are you the Singer? Get him for me please. I must speak to him, only to him.
‘I am the Singer. Do you have what I need?’
Yes, but there is a problem. The voice on the end of the line sounded exhausted. Frightened and full of stress.
‘Problem?’ said Rizhin.
The city is surrounded by the enemy. There is no way through.
‘Of course. Where are you now? Where is the consignment? Is it with you?’
It is with me. It is safe. I’m at a railhead on the north shore of Lake Dorogha but the train can go no further, they’re talking of turning back, the enemy is close. We can hear shooting.
‘Do not turn back,’ said Rizhin. ‘Do not allow that. Shoot the driver if necessary.’
I don’t have a gun.
‘Improvise. The train must not turn back.’
There was a long silence on the end of the line.
What should I do? said Shulmin at last.
‘Do nothing,’ said Rizhin. ‘Wait. Wait there. Someone will come.’
The enemy was taken by surprise by the sudden breakout through the siege lines to the north of Mirgorod, a concerted night attack against a weak point in the salient. In the confusion of battle there were reports that three heavy trucks had raced through at speed and disappeared into the darkness. Some said battle-tanks had cleared the way and gone ahead, but this was dismissed as fancifuclass="underline" the Vlast had no battle-tanks in Mirgorod. Some said a giant man of red stone had come out of the night and wrought appalling damage. They said the giant knew where the snipers were and pulled down the buildings they were in, stove in their chests and crushed their skulls. Whatever the truth of what happened, it came quickly and it was over before anyone in the enemy command was sure exactly what had occurred. After the first flurry of discussion the Archipelago officers paid the event little attention: it was a small breakout and of no consequence.
Three days later it happened again but in reverse: another sudden, confusing and ferocious night attack on a different part of the line. And this time the muddled reports spoke of trucks racing into the city.
The following morning Rizhin gathered his commanders and the city administrators around him on the Ship Bastion. Shulmin was there to oversee the firing. It was ten in the morning, Mirgorod time.
‘One shot will be enough,’ said Shulmin. ‘One will send the message. They will see.’
‘Ten,’ said Rizhin. ‘Send them ten.’
The two hundred pound guns of the Admiral Irtysh spoke and spoke again. One by one, ten seeds of blinding light were sown along the horizon to the south of Mirgorod, illuminating the underbelly of low grey cloud. A flicker of distant summer warmth on the air. A grove of mushroom clouds cracked and burst and reformed on the skyline and dry thunder rolled back across the city, re-echoing the dying roar of the guns behind them.
‘Send a runner to Carnelian,’ said Rizhin. ‘I will accept her unconditional surrender this evening at six.’
He turned to the dumbfounded watchers at the parapet blinking away their retinal burn. Their faces were reddened and sullen with shock.
‘And so I give you back your city, my friends.’ he said, ‘the first prize of many yet to come. Stay with me now and watch me clear the mess away and set the Vlast in order. We will build a New Vlast, stronger than before. We have a long way to go. Further than you imagine.’
All the rest of that day Rizhin listened out for the voice of Archangel thundering in his head but it did not come. For more than two weeks now it had not come. I am free of it then, he said to himself. Free of it and alone. I am the voice of history. I am the mile high man.
By Peter Higgins
Wolfhound Century
Truth and Fear
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Peter Higgins
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover copyright © 2014 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First eBook edition: March 2014
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Gollancz, an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group
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