Another Vance-inspired romp. I remember dreaming up a whole world to go with this, with maps and everything; but, so far, there’s only this one story.

The March of the Black Queen

You've never seen nothing like it

No never in your life

Like going up to heaven and then coming back alive

Let me tell you all about it —

And the world will so allow it.

—from "The March of the Black Queen", written by Freddie Mercury.

There came another boom, the loudest yet, and —taking the sounding as a signal for a moment's rest— I stopped work to lean on my scuffle-iron and look about.

I had reached the field's centre, and all around me the blubberbloats swayed gently in the warm, late afternoon breeze, their shoulder-high pastel blooms choking the air with musty odours. Northwards sprawled the rest of my father's land, until it met the distant white walls of our farm complex backed by common land and Saint Flaxen's Hills — field upon rectangular field of tubers, orchards, and vines. Similar field-strips spread into the east and west, but these belonged to neighbouring farmers and were differentiated from my father's by white marker-posts and access roads.

Thick grey clouds were gathering over Saint Flaxen's, but the booming was not their thunder — it had emanated from the south, and was the noise of a battleground.

In that direction lay the Cappeloche Rise, dense evergreen woodland that climbed for some fifteen kilometres before it was abruptly terminated by the half-kilometre drop of the Cappeloche Landfall — at whose foot, on the edge of the Fundamental Plains, our Black Queen's forces defended the Ascended Land from King Difant's.

The war between our two countries had been raging for months (the inevitable culmination of a cold war that raged for decades), but it did not rage in our favour. It was five weeks ago when we first learned our army was retreating before Difant's Fundamentals, for the southern sky began to murmur and was nightly illuminated by the soft blue and white flashes of energy weapons —tell-tales that quickly increased in volume and regularity as the days progressed and the conflict drew closer. Indeed, this very morning I was jolted awake by such a deafening peal that I yelled in fright, and decided, like so many others had already (neighbouring farmers and my father's labourers amongst them), that it was high-time to depart for the city. I told my father what I thought, hoping that the stubborn pride and patriotism he exhibited over the battle —he came from a long line of soldiers that only a severe injury involving faulty farm machinery had prevented him from lengthening— would give way before pressing reality. They didn't, and I wonder now that I ever thought they would.

"Depart? Never, boy. I have complete faith in our army."

"Father, I also believed they could not be bettered, but facts are facts and now I accept I was wrong, and so must you. We are losing! And the war is so close now. If we don't leave soon, when the Fundamentals gain Cappeloche we will not have time to flee — we will be doomed. Surely wiser to take advantage of the citadel's defences?"

"What is this ‘when?’ It is not even an if! And I accept nothing! Those base plainsmen will never gain Cappeloche. They will be repulsed, never doubt it."

"But what of our army's retreat?"

"The retreat is tactical, of course. You are a fifteen year-old boy, boy. You do not know what you talk about. Now, into the fields with you. If those blubberbloats don't have their pods sliced today they will swell and pop, ruining them and me. Be about it!"

Explosions of smoke, veined through with glowing streaks of red, appeared silently in the air beyond the Cappeloche Rise, to be followed, seconds later, by a trembling in the earth as yet more deafening blasts tore at the firmament.

Anger, and not a little fear, filled me. My father was a blind fool. We'd be overrun within the week! I decided to speak with him again, at once, and damn the blubberbloats. And, if he still ignored reason when faced with the now black southern sky, I myself would take my mother and sister to the city and leave him to his mad faith.

I began to make my way to the access road and my tractor, but stopped in wonder as something eclipsed the sun and ran a wide delta shadow over the blubberbloats. I looked up. Banking and yawing crazily around the field in utter silence and a mere ten meters above my head, was an Ascended scout-boat, white smoke billowing from a ragged hole in its drive cowlings, its fore and aft cannon-emplacements empty, its armour-plates stripped. Standing at its stubby nose, his right hand moving feverishly over the control panel, his left pressed to his side, was a young man dressed in the dull red and midnight blue of the Black Queen's messenger corps. He was staring down at me.

"Boy!" he shouted, and, wincing with the word, involuntarily clamped his right hand over his left. The scout-boat, now directionless, dropped from the air with a heavy double-thud twenty meters away, spraying blubberbloat resin in all directions. Electrical arcs began to crackle and leap about the drive cowlings and the white smoke turned black. Still carrying my scuffle-iron, I ran over to the grounded craft.

The messenger was lying slumped against the control panel, his eyes closed, both of his hands

—blooded to the wrists— uselessly covering an obviously fatal wound below his right armpit. At the vibration of my leaping into the boat and the clatter of my scuffle-iron as I dropped it, he spoke, panting with pain. "Boy... The cut-off... Hit the cut-off. The coils are over... overloading."

I looked at the panel, a maze of undecipherable readouts and switches. "Which...?"

"Right grid... Centre key." I depressed the key. The electrical activity about the cowlings ceased, the smoke gradually dispersed. I knelt at the messenger's side, where blood was beginning to pool. Knowing it for a futile act, I removed my shirt and, after quickly folding it into a wide bandage, made to tie it about him. At the disturbance he grabbed my hand, slippery with hot blood, and opened his eyes.

Though he was physically little older than myself, the messenger's gaze exhibited a psyche generations beyond mine — a psyche that had gained more levels of insight and terrible understanding in a few months of battle than any philosopher could hope for in a lifetime of peaceful learning. Those eyes burnt with the raw truths of human nature they had witnessed, participated in, and become victims of.

"No time for that, boy... No use anyway, rot it." A thin trickle of blood began to flow from the corner of his mouth. "Listen... Do you love your queen...? Country?"

"Of course, but —"

"Quiet, damn you! As you love them, then —Gods' blood— listen to me! You... You must deliver my message to the queen... You must take it to her, boy."

"What message? What is it?"

The flow of blood from his mouth increased, his skin was completely white. "Not verbal... Implanted in unconscious. You know... Know method?"

I had heard of it. The Black Queen's messenger corps were trained in all aspects of information delivery and how best to keep that information from enemy hands. Only a minor or deliberately false dispatch was entrusted to word of mouth or normal media recordings, whilst the most important relied upon heavily coded telemetry, or upon hypnotic implantation in a bearer's unconscious where only a certain word, phrase, or action from the correct person could ever free it. "But how are you going to pass the message to me? I don't know the key to it."

He actually grinned with sour amusement. "Queen's geneticists provided for such... Contingencies. Brain cells capable... surviving a day after death before irreparable... Take head to queen for revitalisation... Can then divulge message to her... Forget body... Not given same properties and would... incon... inconvenience you... Trust none but Black Queen herself. Must ensure message goes directly to her... Only she able to free it."

"But I can't cut —"

"You can... Must! But please, boy," he gave another ghastly smile, "Wait until I'm dead... Before decapitation."

-oOo-

The tractor's motors, designed for slow, steady pulling power rather than mad dashes through the countryside, whined in protest at the speed I demanded of them. The dampers too, squeaked complaints at the furrows the wheels bounced over as, leaving a trail of ruined produce (which would cost my father dearly if the respective farmers ever came looking for a reckoning), I sliced through field-strips. I was heading northwest to Flaxen's Hills and the citadel.

Beneath me, under the seat alongside my scuffle-iron and wrapped in an old seed-sack, was the messenger's head.

Separating it from the body had, predictably, not been easy. I had taken the sack from the tractor and then stood astride of the corpse for some time, lightly resting the infinitely fine wire of my scuffle-iron across its throat. Telling myself that what I was about to do was for the good of the Ascended Land, and also the messenger's last wish, had not been enough — I was still about to butcher a human. Only by closing my eyes and imagining myself simply slicing blubberbloat pods was I able to apply any pressure. It didn't take long, the flesh offering almost no resistance and a regular sawing motion making swift work of the vertebrae. When I opened my eyes the head had rolled back, allowing the stump to glisten in the sunlight - as if it were proud of its new freedom. There was little blood, most of that having already seeped from the messenger's wound. I had vomited then, copiously, and continued to retch dryly as I forced myself to lift the head by its thankfully long hair and deposit it in the sack. It was much heavier than I expected.

By now my parents would be wondering why I had not returned to the complex for the evening meal. Thinking perhaps the tractor had broken down, my father would set out to pick me up, and discover, in place of tractor and son, a wrecked scout-boat and a beheaded corpse. And from this grisly evidence he would have to draw his own conclusions, for I had had neither time nor materials to leave an explanation. He might well think me dead, but I had no help for that. I was on a mission for queen and country (two things extremely close to his heart), and, when he eventually learned this, I knew he would be very proud of me — no matter the worry the situation had subjected him and the rest of my family to.

The citadel was before me now — clearly discernible in the light of the setting sun. In less than half an hour I would be at its gates. It was a huge structure, with walls over fifty meters high and fifteen thick, dotted at all levels with energy cannons and projectile launchers. Within the walls, commonly rooted around the edge of the unseen keep, rose a dozen lofty black towers, each sporting more weapon emplacements and huge domes — observatories from which —so I had heard— King Difant could be seen at bowls upon his castle greens deep in the Fundamental Plains. Inwardly radiating from each of the towers' upper levels —and at this distance and hour visible as little more than clumps of dark green— were the wide bridges of the Black Queen's nocturnal gardens, each consisting of various tree-, bush-, and flower-hybrids which displayed their splendour and released their perfumes exclusively at night. And, suspended at the bridges' focal point, sharply tapering top and bottom, was the ellipsoidal Hub — the edifice that housed the Black Queens personal rooms, halls, courts, and other chambers. Behind the citadel entire, nestled out of sight amongst the hills, was its ward, Parasemal, capitol city of the Ascended Land. A tightly compacted conglomerate of houses, schools, factories, mansions, and temples, that was crowded and chaotic during the most favourable times, but would now, with its recent influx from the countryside, be doubly so.

Ten minutes passed. It grew darker as the sun slowly set and I drove beneath the rain-clouds I had earlier noted. With a final, almost grateful squeak from the tractor's dampers, I came up the high embankment of the east-west Parasemal causeway and turned to follow it. I was forced to slow considerably to avoid other vehicles (from whose drivers I received quite a few startled stares and angry shouts as they in turn compensated for my sudden appearance), most of which were heavily loaded with bulging cases, blankets, furniture, and other household paraphernalia. Another kilometre ahead the road forked, one prong heading north to Parasemal, the other continuing west for a further six kilometres to the citadel.

My mind raced. The head had to be transported directly into the queen's consideration, but how? As soon as I arrived at the barbican the guards would simply take it and dismiss me, and it would then be passed from echelon to echelon, vulnerable to whatever knavery its departed consciousness had feared. What could I, a mere farmer's son, do to prevent this?

More minutes went by, and stratagems, each wilder and less feasible than the last, ran through my mind. Steal into the citadel? Past a fifty meter-high wall protected by countless detection devices and guards? Impossible. Disguise myself as some foreign dignitary? From where? What would my name be? Where was my retinue and rich clothing? And since when have dignitaries travelled about in tractors? What then? What?!

I gained the fork and sped along the almost empty approach to the citadel's huge barbican. There, under the watchful gaze of two guards, I de-energised the tractor, took the sack from beneath the seat, and, feeling somehow comforted by its presence, also grabbed my scuffle-iron. The sun had set. I took a deep breath and climbed from the cab. I had been totally unable to concoct a plan.

The barbican was a small castle in itself — a black cuboid structure higher than the citadel's walls and bracketed by circular watchtowers each sporting a pair of cannon. The massive portcullis was up, revealing the long, shadowy, entrance tunnel, far end closed by the inner portal. Just within the tunnel, on either side of its wide roadway, stood the guards. Their panoply was starkly contrasted to that of less uncertain times (such as years ago when my father had brought my sister and I here to witness the Black Queen's birthday parades) — brass ceremonial body armour was replaced by matt-black alloy, jauntily plumed helmets by visored basinets, and gisarmes by stubby carbines slung across the shoulders.

"And what can we do for you, farmboy?" said the guard on the left.

What else had I but the truth? "I have a... Something for the queen. It has to go directly—"

"What's in the sack, farmboy? Brought some taters for our queen? No time for gifts, farmboy. Be on your way."

"It's not a gift. It's an important package. I must—"

The guard on the right walked towards me, his carbine clinking softly against his hip. "Illumination, watchman!" he yelled, causing me to jump slightly, "Illumination on the approach!"

A hard blue-white glare from lamps on the battlements eliminated the twilight, forcing me to squint. The nearing guard lifted his visor but the shadow it cast prevented me form seeing his face properly — only a meticulously shaven chin was visible. He stopped half a meter before me. "What have you got, farmboy? What's in the sack?"

"A head."

"Of what, farmboy? A head of what?"

"Of... Of a man."

The muzzle of the guard's carbine rose slightly. "You've got a man's head in that sack, eh farmboy? And why would you want to give a man's head to our queen?"

"It belongs... Belonged to one of her messengers. He said I must get it to—"

"Ah. A messenger's head. An important head," he paused for a moment, then, "Well, you've been a good and loyal subject, farmboy. You've done the correct thing. Give me the sack."

Exactly what I didn't want to do. "I can't. He said—"

"Who said, farmboy?"

"The messenger. He said I had to ensure the Black Queen received it directly."

The guard paused again, regarding me. "Don't trust me, farmboy?" The sardonic tone had gone, now his voice was low, threatening. "Want me to take it from you?" The carbine's muzzle rose again, pointing at my stomach.

Earlier thoughts of queen and country, my father's pride, and my desire to honour the messenger's final wish, began to dissipate. "No, it's only that he—"

"Don't concern yourself, farmboy," the guard interrupted, his voice —now he sensed my lack of resolve— as before, "In my hands the head is in safe hands. Now, farmboy — pass me the sack."

"What occurs here, Isol?"

The voice came from the now invisible entrance tunnel, and on hearing it both guards immediately snapped to attention, the one closest to me breathing a muffled curse. Footsteps approached, and a woman, armoured similarly to the guards but with her basinet tied at her hip alongside a holstered pistol and her spaudlers printed with captain's insignia, entered the light and walked towards us. Her hair was jet black and cut jaw length, her skin was pale, her lips of no great fullness, and her eyes a dark brown almost black beneath the shadow of her brow. She couldn't be anything over twenty eight and was really quite beautiful. For a few seconds she considered me with a slight smile, and I found myself thinking how foolish, even comical, I must seem to her in my farmer's galligaskins and shirt, scuffle-iron in one hand and sack in the other. Then her lips straightened and she turned to the guard. "Well, Isol? Report, if you would be so kind."

Still standing stiffly to attention, Isol said, "Ma'am, this individual has informed me that he carries the head of one of Her Majesty's messengers, but is somewhat unwilling to give it over."

She turned to me. "And why is this, boy?"

How I hated to be called "boy" by her! "Eh... He, the messenger, said I must be certain the queen received it. He said to trust none but the queen herself."

"I attempted to persuade him of the needlessness of this, Ma'am," said Isol, "But—"

"Yes, Isol. I witnessed your methods of persuasion. Tell me, Isol, what would you have done, had I not happened here, once you had terrified our friend into giving the head to you?"

"I would have informed you of the incident, Ma'am, of course."

"Really, Isol? This is me, Captain Lyndar. You're not confusing me with one of Councillor Jatrel's underlings, are you?"

The guard gave a start. "Ma'am?"

"Forget it, Isol," she looked at me once more, "Open the sack, boy, let me see inside." Leaning my scuffle-iron against my shoulder, I did as she asked. She looked without so much as a grimace, met my eyes for a moment, and then addressed Isol. "I think we will alleviate this boy's worries. His loyalty demands it. Does it not warm your heart to see such devotion to our queen, Isol? I myself will accompany him directly to her court."

"As you wish, Ma'am."

"Yes, Isol. As I wish. Come, boy, follow me." For the first time, as she turned back towards the entrance tunnel and into the light, I saw her eyes completely free of their concealing shadow. They were those of the messenger, filled with the same horrible experience and knowledge.

I walked behind her into the tunnel, blind after the glare of the approach. I knew nothing except the sound of our footfalls until, preceded by a soft click, a dim rectangle of light appeared

— a wicket. "Carefully, boy. Don't trip over the step."

With another click, the captain closed the wicket behind me, and I found myself in the citadel's wide bailey. A hundred meters in front the massive cube of the keep and the twelve towers it supported glittered with coloured lights beneath what had, unnoticed by me, become the night sky. Under the citadel's northern wall were long, shed-like barracks from which came shouts, laughter, and occasional singing. Spread to the south, positioned in neat rows and lit by surrounding floodlights, were war machines: air-boats of all sizes from a pair of cruisers capable of housing eighty men, to dozens of scouts in the same class of that in which the messenger had crash-landed; four huge land leviathans brandishing projectile launchers and energy weapons; scores of stocky antipersonnel automata; and hundreds of cavalry battle-suits (almost automata in themselves). Small groups of technicians moved amongst the machines, probing, testing, calibrating.

The captain spoke. "What you see here, boy, is the last of our Black Queen's army. All the rest fight, and die, at the Cappeloche Landfall."

"Why doesn't the queen send them out as re-enforcements?"

"Who then will defend Parasemal if they are without effect and the Fundamentals’ gain Cappeloche? They would be better employed here. Wait a moment."

She unlaced her basinet from her hip and donned it. I heard her murmur, pause, and murmur again before removing the helm and re-attaching it to her hip. "Your message's arrival will be announced at court. Come." We began to walk at a brisk pace along the road connecting the barbican and the keep's portal. Striding slightly behind the captain, I stole glances at her. Could I rely on this beautiful warrior? I felt I could; she had not tried to secure the head, and she was accompanying me directly to the queen's court, yet... The messenger had said to trust none save the Black Queen herself. But the whole army could not plot against her!

"Was that Isol a spy?" I asked.

She laughed, once. "Observant, aren't you, my farmboy? Isol, a spy? Gods no, he hasn't acumen enough for that — but for certain he is no patriot. The taverns he frequents are somewhat... unsavoury, attracting unsavoury customers who offer payment for unsavoury deeds. And accidentally mislaying your head within reach of certain hands or —just as accidentally— commenting over-loud upon it within range of certain ears, could gain our Isol considerable profit. And you can safely wager, boy, that these ‘unsavouries’ by now know both of the message's arrival and whose custody it's in."

"But then he's a traitor!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, boy, that he is. But there are degrees even amongst traitors. Isol is the lowest of the breed — his only concern is money, and he asks no questions. But what of those who pay him...?"

I recalled what she had said to Isol at the approach, "Councillor Jatrel and his underlings drink at the same taverns?"

She laughed again. "His underlings perhaps, never the councillor himself. But both are the real traitors, boy — plotting the Black Queen's downfall and the rout of the Ascended Land; and their employer is none less than Difant himself. The messenger was right to tell you to depend on no-one, especially if the data is as important as this command and its transport-mode suggests. Jatrel will realize its significance and, though unaware of its content, would much rather it did not reach the queen purely out of principle."

"Do you mean we could be waylaid?" I was shocked.

A slight smile. "Unlikely now, my farmboy, it would set too many ripples in motion for Jatrel and his henchmen's comfort. You see the one to whom I have just spoken ranks with the councillor and would demand investigation if something untoward occurred — a risk Jatrel cannot take. Jatrel is forced to allow the queen to hear the message this time."

I was only slightly reassured. "Shouldn't these people be arrested or something? Doesn't the queen know about them?"

"They should be tortured to death, boy. But the queen, at least where Jatrel is concerned, would accuse us of slander were we to tell her our thoughts. Councillor Jatrel, boy, is one of her highest ranking officials — and we have only suspicions and beliefs to hold against him. Nothing of substance. Nothing that proves. Still, we watch and we wait."

"And you don't take Isol because he may help provide the necessary ‘substance?’"

She raised an eyebrow and smiled her slight smile, "Your intelligence is wasted in agriculture, boy."

I decided to trust her. What choice had I? Without her I would never have passed the citadel's walls, and would never get within the keep whose steps we now climbed.

At the basalt door —eight meters square— the captain stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "Stand still, boy, while we are scanned." Moments went by before, quite silently, the door rolled upwards and we entered the keep. I had expected to discover a resplendent foyer or corridor; instead I was standing in an almost featureless cubicle eight meters to each side. The door fell slowly behind us, accompanied, in perfect synchronization, with another rising from the cubicle's floor. Small luminares in the ceiling flickered alight. A timbre-less, source-less voice asked for name, rank, business, and destination; the captain replied, "Lyndar; Captain; urgent information for her majesty; Tower Prime, tier twenty-seven, via intersections Talus, Krixa, and Est."

"Restricted destination. Code?"

She spoke a few nonsense syllables, and with a soft lurch and sudden sensation of pressure deep in my stomach, we were in soundless motion! My wonder at this did not go unnoticed. "A conceit of the ancients, boy. I don’t think they liked to walk. Should we so wish, we could travel to Parasemal in this cube, and farther… But we best not go into that. Now, my farmboy, tell me how you came to be at the gates of our Black Queen's citadel carrying a disembodied head in a sack?"

I told her of the afternoon's events, pleased to have the opportunity to prove I was no stereotype peasant with concerns only for the blight on my cabbages and the carbuncles on my floxworts. As I spoke our cubicle variously slowed, speeded, ascended, or coasted horizontally, each direction-change tugging my bowels. I realised the keep must largely consist of a honeycomb of passages through which cubicles —for sure there were others— sped. When I had finished, she said, "Quite an experience for a farmboy, eh? Something to talk of whilst treading grapes for years to come, I should think... Oh, cease your indignation, boy, I tease. You conducted yourself admirably, and I shall be sure to mention as much to the queen."

"Why are you helping me?" I asked, "Why didn't you simply take the head at the barbican and send me on my way as the guards would have done?"

"Oh come, my farmboy, how can you ask such a thing? If I did that then you, being such a loyal subject, would have been plagued with doubts until your final days, wondering whether the queen received her important message. I have a demanding conscience. Besides," and here she smiled more fully than ever, "I have a penchant for farmboys, and would stay in their good graces."

I flushed and turned away, not knowing what to say. Luckily, the cubicle at that moment reached its destination and halted. The inner door and a much narrower outer one slid into their recesses and we stepped out.

Stretching away from us in a band approximately a sixth as wide as my father's field-strip, fenced by gracefully wrought ironwork and hung between the tower we had just exited and the Hub's equator thirty-five meters away, was one of the Black Queen's lush nocturnal gardens — an eerie riot of bioluminescence since the sun had set. Slender trees standing singularly or forming small arbours, their foliage cropped into perfect spheres, emitted deep reds and blues from threads running around their trunks in fine lattices. Planted in raised or sunken beds of black soil, discharging almost every conceivable colour from the most electric blue to the palest yellow, were fantastic bushes, roses, and shrubs, that shone huge lantern-like blooms, blinked tiny pin-pricks, or nodded lambent stigmata in the breeze, dappling the neatly gravelled paths and each other with overlapping shadows. Darting about, or clambering over the glowing fauna, filling the air with the drone of wings and other —clearly chitinous— sounds, were thousands of insects — invisible except for the light-patterns they exhibited: green and orange arcs created by rapidly beating wings that bobbed and hovered amongst the trees; soft flutters of red that looked like embers blown from a fire; tubes of bright emerald and gold; marching clusters of saffron and maroon.

Walking through this fairy-land of light towards the Hub, breathing the plethora of aromas (some luscious, others cloying, many so supremely delicate as to be almost undetectable), we passed an elliptical pond ten meters across. Floating upon its glittering surface of reflected light were wide lily-pads crowned with white circular flowers shining like miniature starbursts, and within every bloom, each no more than fifteen centimetres long, were, surely... babies. I moved nearer to the pond's border. My impression was correct — tiny cherubs, pink and naked, were employing the water-lilies as cots. Their minute eyes were tightly shut, their diminutive mouths roundly open, so at first I thought they were asleep. But then I discerned high, sweet music, like birdsong yet infinitely more complex. They were singing.

"The Black Queen's water babies," said the captain, "Products of her vats. Don't get any closer or you'll—"

But it was too late. The babies, as one, suddenly opened their pure black eyes and stared at me, their song rising beyond hearing in a scream. The next moment they each scampered to the edge of their respective pads and dived beneath the water.

"—Frighten them," finished the captain. "Come, farmboy, before you terrify the lilies into closing."

As we proceeded through the garden, a question that I had wondered at since childhood came to me. "Is it true," I asked, "That the queen finds the daylight intolerable? That the touch of the sun actually causes her harm?"

"Is that the rumour out in the boondocks, boy? For certain she is no diurnal, but whether the reason is salubrity only she herself knows. However, if such is the fact of the matter, wouldn't a simple command to her geneticists be enough to free her of the malady?"

"Well... What is your opinion?"

"Some bruit about romantic tales of lost loves as explanation; others whisper of porphyria, but I have never noted any vampiric tendencies in her. For myself I think her nocturnal habits are little more than affected — a ploy to lend her mysterious airs in the imaginations of her subjects, and more especially in those of her enemies. It's effective, too. Did you know that every night, before sleep, the Fundamentals burn incense and arrange brass wards into certain configurations to prevent the spirit of our queen from invading their dreams? They believe that is how she spends her waking hours — launching her psyche into their barbaric heads to direct their nightmares. You didn't know this? Well, there's a mark for urbanity."

We reached this particular bridge's entrance to the Hub — an alloy slab lit above its shouldered arch by a rotund lamp. Standing to attention at each pier was a guard. They saluted as we approached.

"How goes the night, soldiers?" asked the captain.

"Quietly, Ma'am. Do you have the passwords?"

She spoke what was —to me— a string of gibberish. The guards again saluted. The left one called, "Friends at the Hub! Tower Prime!", and the slab slid aside.

We entered into a low room terminating in an iron-bound ebony door and illuminated by recessed up-lighting. Simply patterned tapestries adorned the walls. Hanging beside the door was a silk rope which the captain pulled, twice.

For over a minute nothing happened, and the captain was just about to tug the rope once more when, with a click, the door was pushed slightly outwards. A wizened head, almost bald and wearing thick spectacles, appeared at chest height in the gap. It looked at the captain's shoulders, checking her insignia. "The one with this oh-so-important message?" it asked in a voice timbred as if all the world's woes were piled on its owner's shoulders. "Foolish of me, I suppose, to expect you to arrive by the main portal like everybody else — where, incidentally, all my annunciators are positioned. Doubtless I should have guessed you'd choose a side ingress?"

"Forgive me, good Chamberlain. I thought it wise to avoid overmuch attention in the light of my companion's attire," she indicated my presence and the chamberlain took long, critical note of my shirt and breeches. He grunted. "Understandable. Must he accompany you?"

"Afraid so, good Chamberlain. In times of war, all must make sacrifices."

The little man grunted again, aware of the captain's sarcasm. "Follow then," he said, and opened the door fully so we could.

Pursuing the old man —who wore nothing but a black habit and leaned on a metal-shod walking stick that rapped loudly on the floor's paving— along a perfectly straight, dimly lit corridor filled with low, undecipherable murmurs, I considered it unlikely that the captain was truly worried about my clothing. Wasn't it more likely she chose to ignore the accepted route because she yet feared interference from Jatrel (regardless of her assurances in the bailey)? I recalled the complex and lengthy directions she had given to the cubicle. Another precaution? How safe, in truth, were we?

My worries were cut short as the murmurs suddenly clarified into a voice: "... sources inform us that our earlier fears regarding the Fundamentals' creation of weapons capable of breaching city/citadel force-fielding are baseless. There are absolutely no signs that such devices have been produced, are being produced, or are even planned. However, the report adds that Difant's engineers and scientists are working on targeting and power improvements on their Sabbor energy cannon, throughout the range."

Sources. I wondered how many traitors the enemy suffered from.

We stopped at a door. The chamberlain produced a key, used it, and then turned to me. "Boy. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not fart audibly or odorously, do not burp or cough. Try not to gawp. Now come," he looked at the captain, "As I am forced to announce you myself." He pulled the door open, stepped through, and was gone.

"Fear not, my country bumpkin," said the captain, "I will be with you."

We followed the chamberlain into another, much shorter, corridor, via which we at last entered the Black Queen's courtroom.

My first thought on stepping into the chamber was, "Chessboard!", for almost everything in that cavernous, wedge-shaped courtroom was black and/or white. It was floored with huge checked stone slabs; walled with shiny meter-square tiles of obsidian and porcelain positioned in vertical stripes; and lit, at regular intervals down the room's centre, by four meter high lamps fashioned to resemble fully laden pomegranate trees with trunks and limbs of black quartz and luminous fruits of clear crystal. The chamber's concave open end was dominated by the main portal —a split ebony door, ten meters tall and eight wide, studded in silver— and two huge, bracketing rose windows of heavily polarised glass (I was silently thankful to the captain that I hadn't had to negotiate such a forbidding entrance, no matter her real reasons for avoiding it). Looking up, I caught my breath in wonder. The ceiling seemed invisible beneath a monochrome fresco of such perfect perspective and realism it was difficult not to believe that the courtroom's walls ascended into pied infinity and gained ornate balconies, pillars, and hanging lanterns which seemed to actually shine; or that there was not layer upon layer of naked people looking down upon me, or cavorting together, or dining from jewelled bowls and goblets, or watching winged demons and angels battle through the air; or that at the fresco's false heights —cunningly painted to appear distance-blurred— there did not float the fabled and fantastic cloud-cities of the gods.

A sudden high chattering drew my startled attention back down to the chamber's occupants

— who, seated upon long, terraced couches built against the converging walls and clothed to compliment their surroundings, were the chessboard's pieces (having entered behind room's topmost, left-hand terrace, only those people opposite were in full view, but, from what was visible of those whom we stood behind, the two groups were virtually symmetrical). There were roughly a hundred of them, men and women ranging in years from nonagenarians down to teenagers. Some wore armour similar to the captain's (though preponderantly white), others were attired in richer, more formal, garments — ladies in paletots, crinolen, and peplos, lords in hose, surtouts, and togas. At the terraces' wide end were posted two groups of four guards, whilst a further four stood at the main portal. All were armed with carbines.

I heard the chattering again, clearly angry this time. It came from the chamber's focus where a wide, unlit dais rose into a shadow that defeated the shining pomegranates. Barely perceivable atop the dais were a dozen grey macaques squatting in an inward-facing semi-circle, their hands clasped together and raised in a parody of prayer. Even harder to discern was the object of the monkeys' attention — the unsettling and roughly cuboid distortion/reflection of the personal force-field of the Black Queen of the Ascended.

One of the macaques, seemingly bored with its position, at odd intervals launched playful punches at its neighbours, whom, though they attempted a dignified aloofness and kept their worshipful stance, were nevertheless unable to restrain themselves from voicing their irritation over the attacks. These were the source of the incongruous chattering.

There came a sudden sharp rapping from the chamberlain as he knocked his walking-stick against the floor and called, surprisingly loud, "Majesty my queen! The message has arrived."

At the sound of the chamberlain's voice the mischievous monkey gave up all appearance of piety, and, screaming in excitement, departed its companions. It scampered down the dais and along the aisle, whereupon I immediately observed its fur to be a soft powder-blue rather than grey — a startling streak of colour amongst the blacks and whites. The chamberlain rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if at the expected and necessarily tolerated misconduct of a friend. Heads turned to follow the macaque —some smiling slightly, others frowning— as it darted up the terrace to paw pleadingly at the chamberlain's habit. The chamberlain, still appearing to study the fresco, fed the monkey a caramel from his pocket, quieting the animal.

In a dehumanized voice that softly rose, fell, and echoed through the force-field, the Black Queen of the Ascended spoke.

"I fear you will rot my Hofo's fangs with your caramels, good Chamberlain," polite laughter from the terraces at this, then, "What is your message, Captain?"

The captain stood smartly to attention, and, looking straight ahead, said, "Majesty, I beg your indulgence, but the message is not mine. It was brought to the citadel by a good and loyal subject

— the boy here. It is housed within the decapitated head of a Royal Messenger, who suffered serious hardship and ultimately and obviously death to deliver it into your consideration. Majesty, if I may be so bold, I recommend you learn the message at your soonest convenience — its medium denotes its utmost importance."

From the front row of the opposite terrace, a tall, well-built man, attired in a black capote, stepped forwards. As he spoke, I saw the captain's mouth tighten, and guessed him to be Councillor Jatrel. "I heartily agree with the good captain, your Majesty — we should have a vat readied in the genlabs at once, and retire there on the instant the message is ready to be divul—"

Another man's voice interrupted, its owner out of sight amongst the front row of courtesans on our side of the chamber. "No, your Majesty. Have the vat prepared here."

"Why would you put my geneticists to such inconvenience, General?" asked the queen.

"For good reason, Majesty. You are aware that traitors skulk amongst us. You are no less aware that many messages from the front, spies, and sympathisers all, have reached us in altered form, or have simply never reached us. For these reasons I implore you not to allow the head out of your sight, where it may run foul of ‘accidents.’ Let it remain in Captain Lyndar's care while a vat is primed here — this is the only way to be certain."

For a moment, there was silence from the flickering cuboid, then, "General Agvidsin, you are not a trusting man, are you?"

"Majesty, I —"

"No matter. We are well matched — I cannot afford to be a trusting queen. My own subjects would have me bleed for a few material gains; would have the Fundamentals overrun our beautiful Ascended Land... It shall be as you suggest, General. High Geneticist Gobal, would you be so kind as —"

In a hesitant voice, the still unseen general interrupted. "Majesty, I..."

"Yes, General? What now?"

"I would prefer Under-Geneticist Trefoy to make the necessary preparations."

In the terraces opposite, a lean man of indeterminate age in a white smock launched himself erect, shouting, "Preposterous! Accusing me of betraying Queen and Country? Pure slander, sir! I —"

The queen interrupted, her voice emotionless. "Calm yourself, Gobal. No accusations have been made. However, we will comply with the General's wish. Geneticist Trefoy?" A young man, also in a white smock, diffidently arose beside Gobal and looked towards the flickering cuboid. "Please prepare the necessary equipment."

Trefoy bowed, looked once at the fuming Gobal, climbed the terrace, and departed the chamber via a door opposite that through which we had entered.

"Thank you, your Majesty," said the general.

"Stay your gratitude, General. In the atmosphere of distrust that creeps about my court, how can I blindly assume even your thanks' sincerity? Perhaps you plot my downfall, General?"

"My queen! Be assured that —"

"Quiet now, General. Annunciator, continue your report."

From the front row of the opposite terrace a boy, younger than myself and dressed in a black silk kirtle, strode to a dimple gouged into the floor's flagstones. In the voice I had heard from the corridor, he read from a tablet held in his hands.

"Your Majesty, in reply to your royal requests, your regal brothers of Kingdoms Breetchy, Nolt, Morgdoffin, and Affistelly, send these pertinently expurgated missives: King Doltarch XII, of Breetchy, ‘Glorious sister, my greetings. Breetchy grieves at the plight of its honoured neighbour, and nightly do I and my people set ourselves in prayer for its deliverance. Regrettably, however, more material assistance I cannot offer — the Valshakire troglodytes at this time of year are particularly boisterous, and demand my forces' devoted attention lest they overrun our outlying towns.’ King Varronious Luug, of Nolt, ‘Most revered sister, how the day? I will be candid: I cannot commit troops to your cause until you verify the militaristic assistance —at the very least— of Morgdoffin and Affistelly. Secure their aid, and the Teeth of Baychontz are yours to command.’ Ophelianuss Franjilt, Regent to Paul of the Infinite Line, of Morgdoffin, ‘Excellent queen, salutations! I regret —’"

The queen interrupted. "Herald, do the remaining missives, in essence, all deny my requests for assistance?"

"In essence, your Majesty, yes."

There was silence from the cuboid for a moment, then, "The fools. Annunciator, depart for the messenger corps' barracks and have these words sent with utmost celerity to each kingdom," the annunciator touched a button on his book-tablet, setting it to record, “‘Dearest blood, do you think Difant will halt at gaining the Ascended Land? Uncontested rule of the continent is his dream, and he will not rest until this is realized. Perhaps you think to negotiate with him, and thus ensure your realm's independence? Ponder then, on the unfortunate demise of Ultimate Ferdenchy of the Middlings — he negotiated and was granted such Fundamental independence. His reign continued a year before the infamous explosion that destroyed his thirty-tiered palace, killing him and all immediate relatives — thus allowing one of Difant's stooges to rule. And now, what map shows Ferdenchy as a land disparate from the Fundamental Plains, save by contour line? You must grant me your assistance! King Difant's thrust must be stopped!’ Mark it with my sign."

The annunciator switched off the tablet, bowed, and departed the chamber.

During his report and the queen's reply, geneticists had worked rapidly to prepare the vat that would allow the dead messenger to deliver his message. It was positioned at the foot of the queen's dais and seemed quite simple in construction — a meter-tall grey cylinder sat upon a symmetrical bed of transparent fist-sized spheres and ellipsoids. Set into the cylinder's side was a small screen, below which jutted sets of coloured keys. Its controlling equipment, however, was a rack of complex machinery, all filters, pumps, and tell-tales, which was wheeled alongside the vat, and attached to its base in an undecipherable tangle of cables and hoses. At a signal from Trefoy, the Under-Geneticist who had been directing the proceedings, levers were pulled and switches closed on the rack. Saffron and ochre fluids began to gurgle through the cylinder's base. The cylinder's lid was removed, and I watched as it slowly filled with the un-mixing liquids. Wearing a shoulder-length rubber glove, a geneticist reached into the mire and pulled from its depths a shallow cotyloid connected to a thick flexible conduit, which he hung over the cylinder's lip.

After a quick check of the rack's tell-tales, Trefoy said, "Captain Lyndar, the head, if you please."

The captain descended the terrace, and, to grimaces and muffled ejaculations from various courtesans, removed the head from its sack and passed it to Trefoy, who had donned his own rubber gloves. With a flourish, Trefoy clamped another, though knobbed, and slightly smaller, cotyloid to the head's stump, tested its security with a sharp tug, then proceeded to screw it into the first, using the head as leverage. Next, he slowly lowered the whole assemblage into the cylinder and replaced the lid. He doffed the gloves, passed them to an assistant, and approached the rack. He made adjustments. A low humming vibrated through the air, tiny nodules, scattered throughout the cylinder's base began to pulsate.

The annunciator had departed. Trefoy addressed the force-field. "My queen, the vat is ready."

"Very good, Geneticist Trefoy. Please stand back."

Like lava, the queen's force-field poured down the dais, scattering the macaques and diffracting the light of the pomegranates into dazzling iridescent lances. By some unknown selective process, it engulfed vat and rack both. There was the merest suggestion of movement from within —as if viewed through a crystal— as the Black Queen positioned herself before the vat.

There was silence in the chamber, broken only by the sound of rain beating against the huge rose windows. I recalled the clouds I had noticed during afternoon, above Saint Flaxens Hills, that had promised the precipitation. Days ago, seemingly — but in reality only a matter of hours.

I looked at the opposite terrace. All pairs of eyes were focussed intently upon the queen's force-field, save one — Captain Lyndar's. Her's were set upon Councillor Jatrel. Was his gaze especially rapt?

There came a hiss from within the force-field. Then further silence.

A half-hour passed. Another. Then, after another blur of movement within its protective energies, the force-field retreated up the dais to resume its former volume. The macaques —still lacking Hofo— again assembled themselves about it.

All waited expectantly for the queen to speak. When she finally did, her voice, for the first time, was not emotionless — it almost faltered with suppressed fury.

"We lose this war not through militaristic weakness, incompetence, or cowardice, but through betrayal. This is now proved. Difant knows everything — our campaign strategies (such as remain of them), our battle programmes down to the tiniest manoeuvre, our proposed technical upgrades... All. And so my soldiers are slaughtered and my realm will be raised. How is Difant so knowledgeable? His pet ranks amongst the highest of my advisors — and is therefore party to every nuance of information concerning the defence of the Ascended Land."

She paused, then, "But now the dog that licked my hand whilst it shat upon my feet is about to be whipped, as all curs must be. A brave, intelligent, loyal," she almost spat that word, "squadron commander, descrying the truth of things, launched an unplanned sortie into the heart of the enemy's encampment. He lost two cruisers and five scouts in the attack, nearly three-hundred troops. But their deaths were not wasted — information was gained. Now our field generals know the Fundamentals' manoeuverings for the next five months. But, more importantly, I now know the name of Difant's friend who would have me believe him mine. General Agvidsin, arrest —"

A high-pitched whine needled my brain, the pomegranates dimmed. From amongst the courtesans opposite, Councillor Jatrel suddenly dashed into the centre of the chamber and up towards the dais. In one hand he held a silver egg-shaped object, in the other a stiletto.

Captain Lyndar raised her pistol, aimed at Jatrel, fired. A small circle of the councillor’s capote smouldered slightly, but there was no other effect. Jatrel continued to run for the dais, his mouth wide in a manic grin. Guards raised their carbines, fired, but only succeeded in singeing more of his clothing. Someone at the base of my terrace lunged for him, but was sidestepped.

Jatrel gained the foot of the dais and sped up it, ploughing through the screaming macaques. With horror I saw that the queen's force-field was almost transparent— even in the dimmed light, I could easily discern the royal form.

Jatrel was at the top of the dais. Of its own volition, my right arm raised, drew back my scuffle-iron like a javelin, and let fly.

Gracefully the iron cut through the air, arching unnoticed above the shocked courtesans' heads before arrowing smoothly down into Jatrel's neck as he pushed through the force-field. His head, arcing blood, fell back. Jaw flapping comically, it bounced from the scuffle-iron's handle, somersaulted twice, and hit the dais with a wet crack!

His body stood a moment or two, as if in hesitation, then tottered sideways, relinquishing the implements it held. Immediately, the whine ceased, the pomegranates brightened, and the queen's force-field properly energised.

-oOo-

I stood in one of the citadel's tower cannon embrasures, the complex brass and copper mass of an energy-cannon looming above me and glinting in the golden light of sunrise.

The bailey was full of activity as half the citadel's defensive retinue prepared itself to reinforce those at Cappeloche. Automata, troops, and land leviathans tramped and rumbled aboard humming cruisers; cavalry clambered into battle-suits. And, hovering majestically above in tight formation, was what had persuaded the Black Queen to half her home-guard in do-or-die counter-attack — two fleets of maroon-and-verdant Nolt battle-boats. Her last message to King Luug, it seemed, had struck a node.

With a soft scuffle of booted feet, Captain Lyndar appeared beside me.

"Well, my little farmboy, how does it feel to have personally saved the life of your monarch?"

"Tiring."

I had not slept since the incidents in the audience chamber. Though given a suite of luxurious rooms usually reserved for dignitaries, and though I actually felt I could sleep endless weeks, I had been unable to rest. Too many images —wonderful, terrible, eerie— crowded my mind. I had spent the time stood upon this embrasure, witnessing the awesome arrival of the Nolt fleets and the subsequent preparations for battle, my thoughts a near-incomprehensible jumble.

The captain laughed. "I hope you are not too tired, boy — I have plans for you this morning. But first, here, direct from her majesty's pen."

She gave me a scroll of thick yellow parchment, tied with black silk. I unrolled it to read:—

"Farmboy, you have saved the life of your queen — therefore you may yet save the lives of thousands. That such unthinking loyalty as yours exists amongst my lesser subjects when it has proven lacking amongst my greater is cause both for joy and grief. Perhaps, in the future, my advisors and councillors should include a sprinkling of peasant-stock? Whatever the wisdom of this, know that you and yours, once certain pressing matters have been addressed, will be rewarded in suitably tangible manner. Until that juncture, accept my personal and heartfelt thanks.

Your queen."

Beneath this was the queen's seal — a black unicorn prancing upon the tips of up-raised spears.

"Well, my farmboy, what do you think of that?"

I didn't know what to think. The words seemed meaningless. Wouldn't anyone in my position that night have done the same?

"She doesn't dot her ‘I’s,’" I replied.

The captain stared at me. Slowly, her beautiful pale face broke into a grin, which quickly widened until she was laughing uproariously, then uncontrollably, supporting herself against the embrasure's wall, shoulders heaving.

After almost two minutes of this, while I looked on in amazement, she slowly quietened. We both stood watching the bailey's activity.

"Do you think we can repulse the Fundamentals?" I asked.

"We have a chance, boy. Now we have a chance. Of course, they'll be aware of our knowledge of their battle-plans, and will adjust accordingly. But such adjustments take time, and invariably breed confusion — facts that can only be to our advantage, especially with Luug's backing. If other kingdoms can be induced to join the cause then victory is almost guaranteed. But enough of this. I have three hours until my next duties," she laid a hand gently upon my shoulder, directing me away from the wall and into the suite. "Come, boy... Teach me of country matters."

Dedicated to Freddie Mercury, ultimate fairy dandy.

-oOo-

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