Lords of Misrule
(US title: Against the Rules)

pilot: Deus ex Machina

VHS recording (paused)

Act 2

Black fades to establishing shot of the Helium space station, now with the Argai Defender in close orbit, Mars in the background.

Cross to an interior shot of the space station, focusing on the control tower.

Cut to…

Interior: control gallery of the Helium station.

Trapezoidal windows, large at the top narrow at the base, look out into the interior space of the station, and the upper surface of the Venture starship. Gantries, cranes, pipes and tubes link the station to the ship…

The control space itself is small, crowded with two banks of desks and a supervisor position sitting over them. These are currently empty, apart from one man in uniform, white, blonde, mid-twenties, sat in the central chair, and two guards at the door. The lights are low, indicating this is an off-watch hour.

Another man enters, older, black, with a prominent moustache on his upper lip. He is adjusting his uniform collar like he has recently and quickly dressed.

["Ah, now, these two guest characters introduced here," hissed Monkfish, at the same time depressing the button to pause the screening, "are commonly called Colonel Bren and Lieutenant Stevens, because those are the actors' names, though they are unnamed on screen and only credited as Colonel and Lieutenant. And this is the international version, so both the actors' lines are dubbed, and "lieutenant" is pronounced in the American way. And in spite of all this, they are firm fan favourites. They have their own fanzine, the most extraordinary catalogue of "fan fic" all based around them.

"'fan fic'? 'fanzine'? " I protested, " Mr Monkfish, you're just making words up now. Whatever are you talking about?"

"Ah, dearest. A fanzine from 'fan' and 'magazine' is a gazette made by – and for – the fans, the fanatics, the most committed of the audience. It's a little homemade wicker basket of amateur and unauthorised stories, articles, and analyses. I'm joshing, it's a newsletter. Most oft produced by self-publishing pamphleteers. The particular one I am thinking of was… oh what was it called… Sole, you must remember? With the history of these two…"

"Nuh-nuh Knights of the Sus-Spire, Messer Monkfish," Sole supplied.

"That was it. Thank you, good Sole. The Knights of the Spire!

The story of Colonel Bren

"Colonel Bren, this is the story that was made up for him, you understand, is from an old military family. Ethiopian heritage. His father and grandfather before him serving in the Pan-African Army during the last national wars, years before the Protectorate. Bren though hasn't fought in anything more than a few police actions – the Janjaweed Rebellion, the Djibouti Riots, the Siege of Mogadishu. He's a world-weary old warrior, grown cynical from seeing hope crushed by Order, over and over…"

Bren stood on the palisade observing the behemoths. They were only recently reintroduced. Part of the rewilding programme. Huge, shaggy, hairy beasts, larger even than the elephants of his native lands.

But Yunnan was a long way from Africa.

Addis Abdi Bren was a scion of one of the new royal houses, if distantly.

With nearly two percent of the Sahara covered with sun farms, the Sahel now had a vast cash crop of energy to sell via the immense interconnectors under the Mediterranean or the HT cables of the equatorial transmission grid. It used to be said – usually by condescending whites – that Africa had too many people and too little power. Well, that was reversed now. The continent was booming.

Bren had cousins who were princes. But his father and his grandfather had been soldiers, and he was a soldier after them. There was still a need for soldiers. There always was.

Bren watched the behemoths as the matriarch nosed one of the calves back in line, while the more assertive members of the troupe pushed over another tree to make them better access to the forested foothills. Homo erectus may have hunted their ancestors to extinction, but that was being put right now.

"Sir, Major Bren, sir! There is… that is… the august presence requires you attend. Immediately."

With a last glance at the mammoths, Bren stepped smartly down and followed the corporal through the stockade and out the main gate.

The small scientific outpost was high up in the valley. To the north the white-capped Tibetan mountains gleamed in the early summer sun. Lesser mountain ridges framed the steep sides of the vale, where off run from the Himalaya had carved deep parallel lines into the plateau on their way down to the South China Sea, carrying strange minerals from the ancient lands.

But up here the little tributary was narrow enough. Four, five metres across, and playing fast and fresh and clear. Uncultivated grassy meadows filled the space between the banks and the edge of the upland forest. Children from the scientific community would play there.

Today, a Trinoman was waiting.

Michael Gabrial Hu. One of the twelve. He appeared to be an elderly Chinese man in a patterned crimson robe that would occasionally billow in a wind that was not there. His long silver hair and beard were almost caricature. He held up a hand, the tissue paper skin yellowing with age and almost transparent enough to see the bones, yet still elegant, with long, lacquered fingernails.

Bren, obedient, halted.

Below them in the meadow, a little girl was playing, unconcerned. The old man was watching her, but she had not noticed. She laughed gaily as she ran. There was a blink, and she was on the other side of the river. Still running. Still laughing.

"Did you see it?" Hu asked.

"Great lord," Bren bowed from the waist. "I saw… something…?"

"The spatial discontinuity," Hu seemed more to be talking to himself. "I think. I wonder. Is it a D-gate?"

"How could that be possible, great lord?"

"I think she may be creating it. Fascinating. Fascinating."

This was all beyond Bren's comprehension. The D-gates were celestial bodies, mysterious holes in the sky, as eternal as the sun and the stars themselves. Hu might as well have said the girl was creating a new planet.

"Major, I will ask that you do not report this matter to the Order."

"Of course, great lord, if that is your command."

"Oh, call it my wish. The whim of an old man. Perhaps a dying one."

"May I ask… may I ask why?"

Hu turned, then, and smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile.

"They said you were a bold one."

"If I have overstepped…"

"Please. Do not ask forgiveness for questions. And it is a good question. You see, I have come to believe in redemption."

Bren did not understand the answer.

"Have you heard the case of the O'Keilan boy?"

"Lord, who has not? So many dead. It has been the world news for weeks."

"Of course. Forgive me. I think on it often."

"And do you believe this… young man… can be redeemed, great lord?"

"Ah, you misunderstand me. It is we who are in need of redemption."

Not knowing what to say, Bren said nothing. Hu smiled again, sadly this time, and turned back to watching the running girl.

"The child's mother is Chen Chenguang, who works in the geophysical laboratory. You will find her there at this hour.

"Major, I think that I must ask you to take watch over the girl."

"I will see she is returned safely."

"Ah, I ask for longer than that."

"Of course, my lord. For how long, though?"

"Prophesy is not my gift, regrettably."

"Whatever you say, of course, but I have responsibilities—"

"I am aware of your other duties. I regret this must be an additional burden; you must continue to be exactly what you seem to be."

"I am here as a soldier, great lord. There may be dangers, even here."

"Hmm? The nearest rebel settlement is thirty-three old miles distant. And that is merely a hermitage, not a military encampment. You will be safe enough."

"And when I am assigned elsewhere?"

"You must not be. Leader Stone looks on you with moderate favour. Make yourself invaluable to him. See that you are assigned to the scientific elite. That will keep you near at hand, yes."

"I will… try, great one."

"Try, hmm, try."

Hu walked down into the meadow, and stepped into the girl's path, going down on one knee to face her at her own height.

She blinked again and was on the other side of the river once more.

Hu vanished. He appeared again on the other side, and the girl ran into him. He caught her up in his arms. Delighted, she laughed.

Hu walked back, carrying her, crossing the river, casually and carelessly walking on water. He set the girl down in front of Bren.

"Major Bren, this is Chen Ying," Hu introduced the little girl solemnly. "Would you please be good enough to look after her."

"Miss Chen." Bren gave her a formal quarter bow. She looked up at him with wide eyes, no doubt wondering what to make of this strange, black-skinned, uniformed stranger.

"Major Bren works for the Protectorate, little one," Hu explained kindly. "For the Order. He is here to keep you safe. Now, what is it you have there, eh?"

The girl was holding something. Shyly she offered it up to Hu in the palms of her cupped hands. It was a carved stone, a striking red gemstone, shaped like a bird or a snake or, maybe, a loong, a Chinese dragon.

"This is very pretty," said Hu, without touching. "Major, what do you think this is?"

"Is it a garnet, great lord? Or even a ruby?"

"I think this is rarer than silicate or corundum. Where did you get this, little one?"

"It's mine," she said. "I found it."

"Of course, yes, yes. But where did you find it, eh?"

"Up in the rocky place."

"Rocky place?" Hu cast a questioning glance at Bren.

"There are ruins further up the valley, great lord. Perhaps a monastery."

"Is that where you found this, then? In the ruins?"

"In the rocky place," she insisted. "Where the man showed me."

"The man?"

"He was a wizard."

"Ah, he would be."

"Can I keep it?"

"Do you want to?"

"It lets me—" she said a word that could have been jump or could have been journey "—jaunt."

"I think, little one, that you have a talent that is all your own. Never forget that. But yes, this helps."

"Is it safe, great lord?" Bren interjected. "If I am to… care for the girl?"

"Safe, hmm? It is one of the hyper-elements, extrinsic to this World. But in the sense you mean, it is neither poisonous nor radioactive. It has no sharp edges. It will do her no harm. Not physically."

"I can keep it then?" the little girl beamed again.

"Yes, you may. Keep it. Use it. Perhaps one day discover how it works. Now, I think playtime is over. Will you let the Major take you back to your mother?"

"OK," she said, and shyly put out a hand. Bren, stooping slightly to do so, took her hand in his own.

Hu's gaze moved to the river, and then the horizon.

"Redemption," he seemed to muse. "Yes. And a Red Wizard, no doubt."

And without a further word, the Trinoman faded away.

The behemoths had vanished into the forest. Major Bren led the little girl home.

The story of Lieutenant Stevens

"Young Stevens grew up on the Europa colony: anglophone survivalists, White Supremacists, who'd retreated to their final bunker, their own private Ultima Thule, in the oceans below the frozen surface of Jupiter's second moon. The day that Juno came and told them their independence was at an end – the day she cut open the survival chambers with her shining sword – was the day Stevens signed up for the Protectorate. After a life confined to a frozen tin can just because your ancestors were bigots – who wouldn't be the zealous convert when the goddess turns up in person to release you."

Every day was the same. Reveille, drill, check the seals, and then work in the soy pods.

Somewhere, deep below, liquid ammonia was drawn in from the ocean and fed to the catalytic chambers where oxidising bacteria would crack it into nitrite, the mysterious liquid gold that was the basis for all their fertilisers and curing agents, as well as, of course, their explosives.

The alchemists in the industrial layer would do their magic, and the resulting slop would go up the pipes to the soy farms, where the drones worked in the sticky warmth and the red half-light, the smell of human sweat merging with the sharp overtones of the nitrite. The drones had the job of keeping the levels balanced. And of mopping up the mess that frequently bubbled over.

Yum yum, protein for everyone, as the motivational legends read.

After four hours, regulation break, regulation rations, regulation prayers.

After another four hours, regulation break, regulation lecture from subsection leader.

After a further four hours, quartermaster's moral inspection, punishment beatings, evening mess hall, and "personal time" – mostly to be spent handwashing today's stained uniform in tepid, ammonia-scented water. Screens were to be used for watching the News. The News was always bad. Readings from the One True Book. Check the seals. Quarters. Prayers. Sleep.

Excitement for the drones might come every fifteen weeks with the marriage lottery. Or more rarely, the promotions and demotions board.

It was their job to be ready.

Kendrick Stephanus was a drone. He worked the soy pods. He mopped and he sweated and he took his beatings when it was his turn. He prayed. He attended carefully the lectures of his subsection leader. He liked and subscribed to all the correct news views. He reposted all the correct condemnations. He read the One True Book. He ate. He slept.

And he waited. Waited for the day that the humble council would tell them it was time, time to rise up and join the counter-revolution, when the Great Conspiracy would be overthrown and the Homeworld would be returned to its proper inheritors.

He had been waiting for a long time. He, his parents, his grandparents for all he knew, had all been waiting. The time would come. They all knew. The humble councillors told them. And it was in the One True Book.

There was a soft knocking sound.

Culver Crassus, who worked pod six, was rapping his stir-pole on the rim of the tank.

Stephanus didn't pause in his mopping, but looked over.

Crassus was dumpy and pasty, and the stains on his grey uniform were more than a day old marking him as slovenly also. He took more than his share of beatings, of course. That was only natural.

Crassus saw Stephanus was looking, and beat again with the stir-stick.

It was the secret language of the drones. Talking on session was forbidden, of course, an immediate punishment rap. So the knocking codes had evolved.

"There's news," beat out Crassus.

Stephanus pretended to ignore him.

"There's news," Crassus beat again. "It's big."

Stephanus scowled. He thumped his mop on the deck in a brief rhythm, "shut up!"

"There's news," Crassus beat for yet another time. "The biggest."

"What's he saying?" a staccato hammering came from Stephanus right where Honoria Grillo worked pod eight with a wrench on the steam valve.

"Shut up," Stephanus drummed his mop. "Shut up both of you."

Subsection leader Spes was approaching.

"The Goddess!" drummed Crassus.

Of course the subsection leaders all knew about the knocking codes, knew their own codes, of course they did. But the knocking codes were like languages with dialects, varying from farm to farm, even from deck to deck. And the promotions and demotions board preferred to move people around.

"None of that now," Spes growled – actual speech. "Crassus, Stephanus, on report."

Stephanus looked daggers at Crassus. On report meant an extra beating, obviously.

Then, there was… a vibration. The deck shook. Spes staggered slightly. Everyone stopped working. Even Lucy Lucillius who hadn't spoken a word in all the years Stephanus had been on this shift.

It was like… it was like…

None of them had any idea what it was like. They had no words for the notion of an armoured female figure striking the frozen surface of the ocean with enough force to send tremors through the city anchored to the undersurface.

"The Goddess!" said Crassus aloud.

Everyone stared.

Spes punched Crassus hard, and the young man fell, dropping into the mulch of the soy pod. Spes grabbed him by the front of his uniform tunic and pulled him out, leaving him dry-retching on the deck.

"You," the subsection leader pointed at Stephanus, "bring him."

Stephanus stooped to lever up Crassus, hoping but failing to completely hide his expression of "why me?!"

He picked up his rifle. A long bore musket. They all bore arms. It was in the One True Book. And to go on deck without it would have seen him on report for a month.

He grabbed Crassus rifle too, and forced it into his hands. And half-supporting half-dragging him, he followed Spes.

"The rest of you," Spes barked, "You're all on report. Get back to work."

Behind him, Stephanus heard Honoria, her wrench chiming out a short "bastard!" The same knocks echoed from others. He kept his face down to hide his own grim agreement.

The deck hatch opened onto a spindle corridor which led to a circular gantry and the paternoster elevators.

"In," ordered Spes.

Stephanus levered himself and Crassus onto the next platform as it arrived on its endless circuit.

Thirteen stories up was the punishment dome. Stephanus pushed Crassus out. Crassus, recovering now, struggled for a moment, perhaps trying to get back abord the lift, but Stephanus held him. A moment later, Spes arrived on the next platform. He barely grunted at them, leading them off towards the glass-fronted cubicles.

At this hour, mid-shift, the dome would be empty, usually. But today it was busy with people. Section leaders, supervisors, an alchemist or a thaumaturge. They almost ran into humble councillor Dexter Julius, with three attendant confessors, bustling through the crowd. Spes stumbled to a halt, losing his composure. Stephanus could hardly blame him, as he too was going weak at the knees. And not just from still half-carrying Crassus.

"You, boy," Dexter flicked his fingers at Spes. "What are you doing here?"

"Punishment detail, your honour," Spes stammered.

"Humph." Dexter looked non-plussed. "Come with us."

"What about these two, sir?"

"Bring them. They're not the best, but I want bodies, not brains."

Spes gave Stephanus and Crassus a half-despairing glower and grunted, "come on then, the pair of you."

Dexter swept off, his unofficial honour guard in train, uncertain as to whether they were still in trouble.

"What's happening?" Crassus demanded. "Is it her?"

One of the priests turned and, without slowing, unshouldered his rifle and rapped Spes around the head it.

"Keep your drone quiet, boy," he hissed and then turned his back as if nothing had happened.

Spes slapped Crassus, who stumbled, and Stephanus had to drag him back to his feet again.

"Shut up!" ordered Spes, and Stephanus tried to will Crassus to obey this time.

The dome was the cap of farm block Beta Three West. From there they crossed the bridge-tube to the Com-core Tower.

Here the crowd was even more of a press, and it became clear what humble councillor Dexter wanted bodies for: to push other bodies out of his way. They saw at least a couple of humble councillors, less foresighted than Dexter, struggling in the mass.

Spes, Stephanus and even feebly Crassus, forced passage, heaving bodies aside, while Dexter's priests hammered their rifle butts on the floor. It wasn't a knocking code, but the meaning was clear enough.

In this way, they were able to enter the council chamber. Dexter was not so grand as to be able to force his way to the front and had to settle for a bench some two-thirds of the way up. He kept his little retinue with him – as had others around them – the better to deter anyone from trying to force him further up.

In the centre of the amphitheatre, illuminated by a burning cross, were four seated figures, hooded and robed, the personages of the highest authority: the Chief Justice, the Grand Wizard, the Mother Superior of the League of Decency, and the Presiding Officer.

Stood on a dais in front of them, apparently completely heedless of the fifty minutemen, with their fifty trembling rifles all pointed at her, was a woman in shining armour. Her uncovered head revealed long straight tresses of raven-dark hair, and her skin, a fair olive complexion that looked, to the pasty-pale indigenes of this lightless land, black.

She was speaking, a voice that could be heard with ringing clarity at every level of the chamber.

"I am Queen Juno, and by command of the Order your independence is at an end."

A gasp and silence went through the great hall.

The Chief Justice seemed to be clutching at his chest. The Grand Wizard croaked "no kings!" The Mother Superior tottered to her feet and pronounced "the evil one!" before throwing her arm in front of her eyes and toppling back into her chair. And the Presiding Officer drew a sabre and, pointing at Juno, said: "to the fire with her!"

Queen Juno… laughed.

In a flash she had drawn her own sword and spun a complete circle.

Around her, fifty rifles fell, barrels sliced from stocks in one clean movement. A couple of the minutemen were foolish enough to pull their triggers anyway, and went down in a flash as the remains of their weapon exploded in their hands.

"Down," she said. And the rest of the minutemen crashed to the floor.

Juno was left standing, her sword pointed at the Presiding Officer. His sabre trembled. And then melted. He screamed as the super-heated metal seared away his hand.

Around the chamber, priests and councillors were setting their own rifles, aiming down into the centre. Humble councillor Dexter was flapping his hands at his attendants, trying to indicate they should do no such thing.

"Your independence," Queen Juno repeated calmly, "is at an end. You will accept membership of the Protectorate, and suzerainty of the Argai dominion until such time as the Order grants full status to the Fallen. Your laws based on prejudice and discrimination are hereby abolished. You will accept the laws of the Order, and recognise that all persons are created equal, to be treated with justice, fairness and dignity, one people under the Order. You will unseal your locks and open your borders. Anyone who wishes to leave may do so; I will convey the first personally. Anyone who wishes to visit or migrate – gods know why they might do so – you will accept without let or hinderance. Is that understood?"

The Presiding Officer was continuing to whimper, knelt on the ground, clutching at his wrist. With a wave of her hand, Juno healed him, and also the injured among the minutemen. He stared up at her, baffled and amazed.

The Mother Superior surged to her feet again.

"Never!" she cried, scrabbling to pull a pistol from her habit. From around the chamber scores of shots rang out.

With a single swing Juno decapitated the Mother Superior. She surged into the air and flew, fast and furious, in a single great circle, around the levels, up and down, and everywhere she flew, bodies fell.

Stephanus found himself blinking at the corpses: Spes and two of the confessors, directly in front of him. And, most extraordinary, Crassus, poor weak Crassus, his rifle at his shoulder, his uniform more stained than it would ever recover from.

Dexter was on his knees praying.

On the dais, the remaining voices of authority were crying:

"Mercy, mercy, mercy!"

Juno placed her feet on the floor in front of them.

"Was I in any way unclear?" she asked. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

The entire council scrambled to make obeisance.

Stephanus – Stevens, now – was among the first to join the exodus. He was among those to experience the miracle of the Worldship as Juno conveyed the refugees of Europa back to Fallen.

It was only later that he heard what happened after. That the court of confessors had excommunicated him – along with every other refugee – that they resealed the locks and severed the anchors that chained their little city to the underside of the ice, that it sank into the stygian ocean depths…

"Is any of this relevant?" I asked, my patience quite reaching its end.

"Worldbuilding, I suppose," Monkfish replied ruefully. "It's all very clever, picking up references from other episodes and tying them together to weave another story. It all adds to the scope of depth and colour. I thought it was more interesting than some rather dull establishing scenes, anyway."

He pushed the button to resume playback.

"And these guards," he interjected immediately, "these non-speaking supporting artists, are in fact members of the production crew, which is rather naughty for the actors' guild."]