“Splendid! Civilization at last,” Farkas smiled. “We’ll be in Euston depot within the hour.”
*
After Wightman shut the engine down, Donald remained in his seat, staring ahead across Euston depot. It was an immense concrete hall, formerly a great train station of the Public Era (Farkas informed him). Now it was full of smoke from diesel and steam trucks and resounded with the crash of marching troops.
“Home sweet home,” Farkas said. “Enjoy the trip?”
“Are all the public drains like that?”
“The ones around London are better than those further afield. Once you get west of Bristol, you really need a half-track.”
Donald shook his head.
“It’s shocking—frightening—I had no idea how bad things were. All my history books are coming back to me. Think of the Public Era airports lined up with those sleek, sheet-metal airliners. I remember my grandfather Sir Bartleigh telling me he used to drive from the south of England to a power station somewhere up near Scotland. It only took him about four hours. None of it meant anything to me as a small kid.”
“Perhaps it’s time you joined the National Party,” Farkas said, tapping a badge on his tunic lapel, one amongst a number. It was deep green with an orange circle in the middle. Donald had overheard some of his servants talking about the National Party, probably more so recently. Farkas looked at him. “How about it?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“It’s the future, and it’s coming fast,” Wightman said. “The good old days are numbered.”
“You should think it over,” Farkas said. “I can’t imagine someone with your progressive attitudes being sympathetic towards the arrogance of the sovereigns.”
Donald was only half listening. He gauged that Farkas was some kind of political agitator, which would explain why such a capable officer had remained a team lieutenant. By implication, Farkas would be no admirer of the ultramarines and their Night and Fog system. Donald normally had no social contact with glory troopers. It could be months or years before he got another chance like this.
“Tell me, how would I go about visiting someone who is serving time in the Night and Fog?” he asked.
The two of them expressed complete disbelief.
“You would not go about it,” Farkas said. “The Night and Fog is a closed world. Men vanish into it and come out the other end, just as a stream drops down a hole and bursts from a cliff ten miles away. There’s no way of finding out what happens until they come back—and some never come back.”
“Don’t the ultramarines have some kind of headquarters?”
“They occupy a fancy building about a mile south of here in Holborn district. It’s called the Ultramarine Guild. I’ve heard all manner of tales about the fantastical ornamentations of its interior.”
“And if one went there, could one not make enquiries?”
“Don’t do that, Donald,” Wightman said, shaking his head most emphatically. “I know people who’ve tried. Not that the ultras will be rude to you or anything, on the contrary, they’ll be all sweet and kind telling you they’ll make enquiries, only they have admin. overheads to pay like any business and so they’ll have to charge a commission. So you pay over fifty ounces or whatever they think your life savings are—they’ll ask you for a lot more obviously—then they’ll come back a month later saying it’s proving difficult to trace your loved one and they need another fifty ounces. And it will go on and on and you’ll never learn a thing, while those bastards are sniggering up their sleeves at you.”
“Exactly the way it is,” Farkas said. “They are utter cynics. Who is this person you wish to trace?”
Donald was wary of breaching his word to Haighman again.
“The information came to me in confidence, and I do have to say it was only a rumour.”
“Is it your brother, Lawrence?”
Donald tipped his head a little to indicate this could be so.
“You said he was a cost-centre lieutenant. That means the big-wigs are grooming him to command the garrison of a whole sovereign land. High-fliers like that are not normally sent to the Night and Fog. Are you sure the rumour is true?”
“No. But it came from a reliable source.”
“Where was he based?”
“That I can’t say.”
“Was it in the Lands of Krossington?”
“It may have been.”
Farkas frowned, thinking.
“Was he fogged for corruption?”
“If so, he was framed up.”
“Of course—innocent as charged. There are only two reasons why men get fogged, Donald. One is their sergeant doesn’t like their face. The other is they try to blow the whistle on corrupt officers and they get framed up by those very bastards they were trying to expose. I assume, from what you have said, that you aren’t in close contact with this brother.”
“Not close contact, no.”
“Try approaching General Wardian HQ on Northumberland Avenue—a gent like you must have security clearance for Westminster district.”
Donald tapped a forefinger on his top lip, uneasy at how private matters were getting drawn out to these strangers. General Wardian HQ would do nothing to help, because Lawrence had not listed any next of kin. Donald was already aware of this from recent efforts to contact Lawrence about their father.
“I’ll give that a try,” he said. He wondered if he might be able to bribe someone at General Wardian HQ.
“Let me give you one word of warning,” Farkas said. “If your brother was really sent to the Fog for crimes on Krossington lands, that could affect your standing with the clan.”
“If that was going to be a problem, I’d know by now—but thanks all the same.”
Before the conversation could go any further, he got down from the cabin, bade his escorts good-bye, and made for the civilian reception of the depot. He sent a messenger to his house to
