Anthony Ryan - The Empire of Ashes

I awoke from another dream of Corrick, as is my wont most mornings in these troubled times. If, as the infrequent responses to my many letters to the Maritime Protectorate insist, Lieutenant Corrick Hilemore is most likely dead as opposed to merely missing, he appears to have left behind a very busy ghost.

My humour is misplaced, I know. Cruel even. To myself if not the memory of the man I loved (still love, at least be honest with yourself, Lewella). But I find it preferable to the weeping and mewling expected of my sex.

The dream was different again. My erstwhile fiancs nightly visits are rich in variety if not clarity. I would dream of him before of course, especially during those long awful months of separation thanks to his slavish service to our corporate overlords. Even more so during the unjust Dalcian slaughter the Syndicate chooses to call an emergency.But those dreams were more like memories, my mind seeking his company in somnolence when it was denied me in the waking hours. Walks in the park, stolen hours of intimacy away from my parents ever-prying gaze, our many, many wonderful arguments. I used to cherish my dreams of him, but now I dread them, for I always find him in danger.

This time he was somewhere cold and very far away. The images are always vague but his face remains clear, and just lately it is the face of a man troubled by a terrible weight of guilt. Corrick is not a man given to excessive introspection but, despite his professional calling, he does have a greater capacity for feeling than many might imagine.

There I go again, the present tense. But, like my misplaced humour, I find I cant help it. In my soul, if not my mind, I know him to be alive... and somewhere very cold.

I endured another breakfast with Mother and Father, he hiding behind his copy of the Intelligencer, as per usual, whilst she filled the silence with inane gossip. Just lately, as the news from home and abroad grows ever worse, I have noticed a certain desperation in her chatter. Her myriad tales of petty scandal, announced engagements and barbed comments regarding my own singular lack of prospects in that regard are spoken with a somewhat shrill note and an over-bright cast to her eyes. At times I think she is trying to weave some form of magic spell, as if this verbal frippery will banish the encroaching threat through dint of sheer, mundane normalcy. But the threat is real and shows no sign of abating.

Feros Falls Silent proclaims the Intelligencer in characteristically bald terms. As yet, however, the reason for the citys silence remains unexplained, if much speculated upon. The interior pages relate more lurid details of the latest Corvantine Revolution, this one apparently successful. Entire Corvus Aristocracy Slaughtered in a Single Night, Mock Trials See Hundreds Hanged, Self-Proclaimed Ruling Council Led by Notorious Criminal Dictatress, and so on. Many of my Voterist friends insist these stories are lies concocted by the corporate-controlled press to stoke fear of just rebellion. Personally, Im not so certain all these horrors are in fact imaginary. The Corvantine people suffered centuries of cruel oppression at the hands of a hideous, blood-soaked Regnarchy. Is it so surprising they would act with a vengeful heart now?

Other stories speak of riots in many North Mandinorian towns, an increased desertion rate amongst Protectorate soldiery, and, perhaps most worrying of all, a collapse in the corporate bond and share markets. I noticed Fathers hands take on a small tremor as he turned the page to this particular report causing me to ponder just how much of the family wealth he has invested in market speculation over the years. But of course, any question I might raise in regard to financial matters would be met with either cold indifference or a suggestion that, if business interests me so much, I should give up my radical hobbies and find corporate employment. So I said nothing, washed my toast and boiled egg down with a gulp of tea, kissed Mother on the cheek and set off for the offices of the Voters Gazette.

As has become somewhat routine the morning editorial meeting soon degenerated into a political discussion and thence a full-blown shouting match. Mr. Mantleprop, the photostatist, nearly came to blows with Mr. Mityard, the foreign affairs correspondent, over the latters blatant bias in favour of vindictive beastliness in his reporting on the Corvantine Revolution. Lately, in my capacity as acting editor-in-chief, I have been sorely tempted to simply dismiss every correspondent on the staff. Given that I write at least two-thirds of the words in every issue whilst my supposed subordinates spend their hours in fruitless argument, it would hardly be a greater burden to run the paper as a solo enterprise. It would also make for a much more peaceful working environment. But, as this periodicalbeing the official organ of the Voters Rights Alliancewas constituted as a co-operative rather than a private entity, I lack the power to dismiss anyone without a majority vote of the editorial board.