as though the whole summit were nothing but a waste of her time. “We know nothing of the rest of the world. For all we know, Britain alone still harbours life. If this is true … it would mean the majority of the known surviving human race stands against us!”
“Yes, it would,” Alexander said, his eyes glittering jewels.
The exasperated smile on Thompson’s face wilted.
The room erupted into a rumbling hubbub, and it was some time before the council even tried to restore order.
After looking out across the bobbing heads a long while, Norman became aware of Allison’s hand clutched in his own, cold and clammy.
“Nothing like an old-school lecture to hammer home the facts of life, shit and all,” Richard said bitterly. Suddenly, he didn’t sound half as enthused.
*
A thud sent dozens jumping in their seats. Agatha’s hand had slammed down on the bench, her misty gaze suddenly sharp, yet confused and angry. “Malverston can’t ge’ away wi’this. We have to move against him, now! For the sake of the mission!” She blinked and her face softened, looking around at her fellow councillors. “Oh, my … you’re all so old,” she muttered. She sounded hurt and afraid.
Alexander rested a hand over hers and leaned in close. They whispered in collusion a while, and her shoulders relaxed some.
“Who’s Malverston?” Allie said.
Norman shrugged as Alexander returned his gaze to the crowd.
Agatha looked lost and sad, like a child lost in a vast bustling crowd. But soon that milky stare had returned, and she was gone again.
The room shifted, everyone uncomfortable in their own skins.
Thompson called them to silence. “What else do we know about them?”
Alexander gestured to DeGray.
John looked startled, cleared his throat and flipped a page or two in his chart. “Well,” he said finally, “not a whole lot.”
“What about weathering the siege?”
“Communications will be our greatest problem. We may stand a chance of relying on our reserves for weeks, if not months, but our respective homes … they will have to take it upon themselves to organise a defence.”
Norman felt a twinge of unease as he thought of New Canterbury. All they had was Robert and Sarah. How would they cope with being charged with the fates of eight hundred? Worse, eight hundred accustomed to being led by the great Alexander Cain.
Robert was a silent type, a protector, not a politician.
A scowl emanated from Richard’s direction.
“Looks like DeGray’s lecture is getting cut short,” Allie said.
Marek was on his feet again. “All this talk of cowering in the dirt is giving me a gut ache,” he snarled. Beside DeGray’s soft flabby form, Marek looked stark and primal. “Grow some balls, the lot of you. We need to talk offence.”
Richard tutted as forlorn cries of “well said” and “hear, hear!” rose from the crowd. An obsequious grimace crossed his face, as though feeling his master’s embarrassment for himself.
He really thinks all this is just academic, Norman thought. As if the two of them can ride it out on the sidelines like Old World reporters. This war’s going to steamroll him flat.
“The council does not recognise unelected speakers,” Evelyn hissed.
“Enough with all this posturing, you crooked old fools!” Marek bellowed. “We’ve got our backs to the wall, our friends are being burned alive, and you’re playing dress-up with your noses in the air. Get your heads out of your arses, and let’s talk brass tacks!”
The room was struck rigid, the low murmur frozen out of the air.
A muscle jumped in Alexander’s jaw.
Norman winced despite himself. For any emotion to show on Alexander’s face at all meant below roiled a great ocean of fury.
All we have left are appearances. This veil of normalcy, of officialdom. And Marek just shot it to hell.
The silence stretched on a beat too long, as stark reality rained down upon them. Norman saw something else entirely before him now: a bunch of scared idiots pretending to be something they would never be: a nation, kindred—
Then, a throaty roar akin to a lion’s rose from the rear of the room. “Brass tacks it is, then!”
The heavy doors had been thrust ajar, and a small group of men stood in the doorway, framing a skeletal, ancient man with a goatee that came down to his chest, and the beaten barrel of an old hunting rifle slung over his back. He looked too fragile to bear its weight, but his back was unbowed, and his eyes twinkled with the fire of a much younger man.