Omega

Owain’s uncle was perched on a collapsible stool next to one of the truss arches, talking to Henry Knowlton, who was wearing his old air marshal’s uniform. Stradling, Giselle and Rhys surrounded him, all with drinks in their hands. Rhys looked especially animated as he conducted a one-way conversation with Giselle.

“It would appear,” Legister said beside me, “that we’ve been invited to the première.”

FORTY-SEVEN

Above the door to the flight deck were mounted three screens, showing similar scenes to those we had seen earlier. No one was paying them particular attention. One of Sir Gruffydd’s guards detached Owain from Legister and Marisa and ushered us through the crowd. I glanced back, certain that Owain would have no further opportunity to speak to Marisa. Another of the guards was speaking to her. She looked frightened.

“Owain!” my uncle said heartily on our approach, rising from his stool. He reached out to grasp Owain’s epaulette and draw him properly into his circle.

“All clear, is it now, my boy?”

This last was spoken in Welsh. Had he anticipated what Legister was going to say? Had he been eavesdropping?

I let Owain nod and said, “The fog has lifte.”

Doubtless he’d guessed the likely outcome of putting Legister into the same room but hadn’t bothered to listen in. Too busy with more important matters. Didn’t view it as troublesome now that Owain was restored to his senses.

“Have to face up to the grim realities,” Sir Gruffydd said, this time in English. “Only way for it, eh? No matter how painful.”

So he had known. Had perhaps deliberately arranged it. As another test of Owain’s mettle.

Owain stifled an urge to salute. “Sir.”

“Here,” Sir Gruffydd said, lifting a wineglass from the tray of a passing waitress and thrusting it at us. “Take a drink. And for God’s sake don’t tell me you’ve sworn off alcohol again. Down your gullet. You’ve earned it.”

It was the same stewardess who’d come to the cabin earlier. She barely paused in her stride. Knowlton stared after her approvingly.

“The gang’s all here!” Rhys said with a brittle schoolboy enthusiasm. He raised his glass. “Happy centenary, uncle!”

“You cheeky devil!” the field marshal replied jovially, giving him a pantomime swipe that he easily dodged.

Rhys didn’t know the true story about their father’s death. Or he had been told and didn’t care. Everyone else was grinning, though Giselle had turned a shoulder away.

“The real balloon’11 be going up soon enough,” the field marshal said, subsiding back on to his stool. “Fortunate to have everyone on hand.”

He plainly meant his family. The three of us. Possibly Giselle as well, even though she was no blood relation.

It occurred to Owain that they might prove to be the last of his line. Rhys was only ever likely to become a father by making a donation to a Future Youth clinic, while Owain saw no prospect of having a family life again. His uncle might have his victory, but his bloodline would become extinct.

Across the room Legister and Marisa had been seated against the corridor wall near the door, still under discreet guard. No one was speaking to them, though the minister must have known most people in the room. Legister still looked quite contained, almost serene, given that his own hopes had also been thwarted: but he never showed great emotion. Marisa’s face was hidden behind the crooked arm of a rear-admiral, one of the navy representatives on the JGC. Other Council members would doubtless be aboard different aircraft to spread the risk, more or less immune to retaliatory missile attacks. And elsewhere across the skies of Europe, perhaps scores of aircraft would be keeping continental leaders aloft.

What would happen, I began to wonder, if the Americans had a miracle weapon ir own? A giant laser or ray that could make all the craft drop from the sky under the rapid sweep of its beam? Sending the entire upper echelon of the Alliance command crashing to earth? What then? It was a measure of the surreal atmosphere that I was able to contemplate such abstractions without finding them in any way fanciful.

I became aware that the conversations in the cabin had grown gradually more muted. There was a tinkling sound of metal on glass.

It was Sir Gruffydd, who had risen again and was tapping a teaspoon against an empty champagne flute.

“Officers and gentlemen and those of uncertain pedigree,” he began, pausing when the predictable spate of laughter ensued. “We are gathered here today to witness—no, damn it, I’m reading from the wrong script again.”

He tossed an imaginary sheet of paper aside to more laughter. It came easily enough, like a collective release of tension, and subsided just as swiftly.

The field marshal now studiously composed himself, his face taking on a solemn air.