“The high times come from the dark times.”
Sir Bartleigh was actually referring to the rise of the sovereign caste after the worst calamity ever to befall humanity; the Glorious Resolution of 2038-40. For Donald, lying in a jail cell in the depths of his own ‘glorious resolution’, the words brought a surge of inspiration verging on euphoric optimism.
At least for a few moments.
Chapter 2
The day on which Donald fell out of the sky into captivity began normally. He stepped from his limousine just after ten o’clock and entered his chambers, climbing through the storeys to his office on the top floor. It was a corner office with a view down a ravine-like street to the River Thames. Like any barrister, his workload swung between idleness and panic-stations. Just at this time, he was enjoying a little idleness.
Ten minutes after settling into his office, the peace ended. A runner panted up the stairs bearing a message. Donald signed for it and waited until he was alone again, whereupon he ripped off the wax seal to extract a sheet of tracing paper smaller than a man’s palm. It had been tightly folded to fit inside the pouch of a carrier pigeon. He frowned. It was hand-written by Tom Krossington, ruler of the sovereign Lands of Krossington, the wealthiest on the Island of Britain. It read:
“Donald, please take the afternoon plane from Krossington Quay at 2 pm. I apologise for this abrupt summons and trust that other commitments do not preclude our meeting, [signed] TK.”
For at least a minute Donald remained frozen in his seat, aware of his heart pounding and sweat dripping from his armpits.
The message was a shock. There was nothing TK could tell him in the Lands of Krossington that could not be said here in London. If the hand of TK was reaching out to drag Donald into the shadows of sovereign privacy, then something was going to happen there that could not be done here in the Central Enclave of London. Something unpleasant. Something from which he might not return.
People did vanish. Within seconds, half a dozen names poured across his mind, the names of people no longer seen at his sports club, inn of court, or on the party round. A man in Donald’s club called Halthwaite had dropped from sight about three years ago (or was it four?). He was a hydraulic engineer by profession. Some said he had a stroke and was bed-ridden. Others that he was killed in an accident on a sovereign land. In truth, no one knew. There had been no funeral. Beyond that, nothing more could be said. It was the same with all the other names; there had been no funeral.
Every London professional sold their brains to a caste of sovereign clans who ruled their lands with absolute authority. That was what made them sovereign. There was no other market, so you put up with it.
Donald folded the tracing paper and put it back in the envelope, which he pushed deep inside his suit. His father Morton had studied at Oxford with Tom Krossington. His grandfather Sir Bartleigh had been a close friend of Wilson Krossington, the founder of the Krossington dynasty. Surely such long family connections must count for something?
“I have done nothing wrong,” Donald said out loud.
*
Krossington Quay was a basin of several acres’ extent connected to the River Thames by a short channel. That afternoon, Donald found the basin dominated by a biplane flying boat of substantial scale moored against a floating pier. Despite his grim mood, he could not help but be impressed by the expanse of the canvas-skinned wings, the towering struts supporting the upper plane and the complex triangular patterns formed by the bracing wires between the wings. Then there were the four mighty radial engines, each as big around as a cartwheel. The hull of the flying boat bore the Krossington coat of arms. The clan motto was “Aurum Vita Est” (Gold is Life). After his admiration of the big machine, he took a seat in the commoners’ saloon and waited.
2 pm came and went. Then 3 pm. This waiting goaded Donald. He wanted to face his fate quickly. About ten minutes later, a ruddy-faced man with white hair strode past the windows towards the flying boat yelling for the fucking pilot. Donald recognised this man as Cecil Tarran-Krossington, a minor noble of the clan.
“Where the buggery have you bloody been?” Cecil Tarran-Krossington was glaring at four young men in flight crew uniforms hurrying to join him on the floating pier. Donald followed them.
“I apologise for keeping you waiting, Your Decency,” said the leading young man, evidently the captain. He was about Donald’s own age, mid-thirties, with much the same height and build, around six feet tall with a lean and muscular frame. Donald sympathised with the man’s meekness; servants do not win against sovereign conceit.
A couple of young women wearing fur coats and not much else followed His Decency Cecil. As they ducked through the access door to board the flying boat, their skirts lifted to reveal that both went commando and did not wax. Donald failed to be discreet in his observations. Cecil Tarran-Krossington glared at him and snapped:
“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
“My name is Donald Bartleigh Aldingford, Your Decency.”
“A commoner?”
“Yes, Your Decency.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“His Decency Tom Krossington requires my presence, Your Decency.”
The mention of the head of clan had an obvious quieting effect on His Decency Cecil. In a more man-to-man tone, he said:
“Well keep your eyes to yourself, commoner.”
“Yes, Your Decency.” Donald kept his eyes down and shoulders a little rounded in submission during the exchange. His Decency Cecil turned to the pilot.
“Get moving, you. I’ve a dinner party in Haslemere.”
“Yes, Your Decency.”
Donald took a seat on the lower deck where servants and commoners travelled. The ceiling was so low that
