The “eagle,” it turned out, was merely another, larger frightcopter—a troop transport—with a very ill, grinning Dr. Bajwa piloting it. The good GP had come to rescue them from the square. He sat working the holo-controls with an expert’s ease and comfort, and a weekend pilot’s lavish joy.
In the cargo area of the frightcopter, the three unhelmeted, regular Red Watchmen who had lifted Astrid, Mason, and Suleiman into the copter were trying to help them into their seats.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” said Mason, drawing his neuralzinger from under his blazer, and rolling himself in front of Astrid and Suleiman like a giant, awkward jelly roll. He waved his pistol at the Watchmen, holding his arm out stiffly, but he was still lying prone.
“Hey, jeez, jeez, jeez,” one of the Watchman said. “Keep your hair on, mate. We’re awright.”
“It’s OK,” Bajwa assured everyone. “People, sit down. You are safe. Inspector, the Crown has . . . for now . . . seen the error of its ways. These gents—Jake, Nigel, and Lawson—they’re on our side. The Watch is fighting the cultists.”
“You can count on old ’Arry,” said the one named Nigel. “’E’ll get these suiciders. I hear that ’e’s even brung ?thelstan’s Bliss out for this do, yeah? That’s the noisy sort of mortar what toys with time? With those pink arms?”
“I’ve heard the . . . tales,” said Mason, slowly holstering his sidearm. “I thought you might be more of . . . those people.”
“The cultists?” asked the doctor. “It’s unprecedented. They’ve finally gone too far. Even the English republicans—and the Earl of Worcester!—have allied themselves, for now, with King Henry.”
“I can’t believe it,” Astrid said to the doctor. “But the Neuters want to destroy us all. It’s the animals they want most.”
“Erm, yes,” Dr. Bajwa said vaguely, as if not quite grasping what she meant but wanting to show politeness.
“The suicide cult,” said Mason. “They’re not human.”
“What?”
“He’s right,” said Suleiman. “I saw them. They all look exactly alike.”
The most senior-looking of the Watchmen, Lawson, abruptly turned to Astrid and said, in a stone-mouthed, sea-blasted West Country accent: “I’ve just had a new freq, miss. Incredible.” He blinked his eyes a few times, clearly reading his corneas carefully. “His Majesty ’Arry9, I’ve been asked to relate, says he’s sorry for any misunderstandings, m’om. And you needn’t warry about any re-class-ifi-cation. And we’re getting hope for yar mum with her Bruta7, ar-right? You’ll not need to warry about the P-Levs, either. Right? Oh, and EquiPoise ’as been told their off yar case. And, erm . . .” He paused for a moment, glancing above himself, and tapped his eyebrows a few times. He was reading off his corneas. He scratched his chin. “I think that’s it. M’om.”
“Well,” said Astrid. “Thank bloody God.” Out the window, she could see the great white quarkbeam sizzling across the sky. Despite the light pollution, the comet Urga-Rampos wasn’t actually any harder to see. Indeed, it was now luridly luminous, as if it had lowered itself toward Earth.
“Thank His Highness,” said Nigel, who sounded more local—perhaps from south London.
“Whatever,” said Mason.
“We need to hurry,” said Astrid. “The longer the beam runs, the more species we lose—forever. To the zoo!”
“I’m one step ahead of you,” said the doctor. “Just two minutes, and we’ll be above the lions.”
“But the beam, it’s a kind of energy weapon,” said the local Watchman. “What do you mean, ‘species’?”
“Animals,” said Astrid.
At this, Dr. Bajwa turned around from his holo-controls and looked at Astrid quizzically.
“I don’t understand,” said the doctor. “You’re sounding, Inspector, like—my patient. Cuthbert.”
“St. Cuthbert.”
Dr. Bajwa peered closely at Astrid’s face. He asked, “Did you do whatever it was you needed to do . . . to humor . . . to help, you know, our friend, Cuthbert?”
“I didn’t need to humor him. Something happened to me, something that made me understand Cuthbert better, but it’s something I may never understand myself. I was ‘the Christ of Otters,’ as Cuthbert might say. And I can hear animals speak now.”
Dr. Bajwa felt so startled, his manipulation of the holo-controls slipped, and the frightcopter dipped down hard.
“Oh no,” he said. “Cuthbert’s delusional. It’s got to be Flōt withdrawal. This is classic Flōt. You’re in second withdrawal?”
She said. “Yes. It may be the Flōt, but others saw it, too.”
“Others saw it?”
“We saw it, too,” said Mason. “The inspector—she turned into . . . some . . . being. And, I think—I think—it was almost like I heard the gorilla. Speaking.”
“Huh,” said Suleiman, his lips trembling. “I saw the woman, too. She was like a kind of forest, come to life. She held the sokwe in her arms as he died, and he looked into her face as if looking at his own mama-sokwe. But I did not hear him.”