A Sky full of Stars
By Martyn K Jones
	Part One

13th May 2075

“Ready?”  Breath smoked in the damp, unheated air.
“All set.”
“Let’s do it.”
Two well-groomed athletic men looked across the blank walled side passage at each other, hard eyes intent with common purpose.  
Without another word, the first, an elegant, heavy boned dark skinned man wearing a classic heavy woollen charcoal pinstripe suit with Guards regiment tie, led the way out onto careworn red carpeted corridors which deadened their footsteps.  His equally soberly dressed companion, a slightly shorter white man with flinty blue eyes, fell into step behind and to one side of him.  
Twenty metres down the long corridor, past scruffily repainted walls bearing discoloured patches where great works of art had once hung, a middle aged man in his late fifties wearing the brisk uniform and haughty sang-froid of a professional Butler, turned out of an open doorway carrying a linen covered silver tray.  He walked unchallenged past two heavily armed EuroPol guards wearing slab sided body armour and two side arms apiece. 
As the two younger men approached, the heavily armoured EuroPol’s shifted on their feet slightly, carefully observing the visitors for any sign of hostility, alert cyber augmented gazes unflickering behind half silvered anti-laser visors, hands instinctively towards Shockstick holsters.  They had already been briefed on the forthcoming news and were alert for the first hint of any trouble.
“Bonjour.”  The taller of the two men said in an unsuccessful attempt at cordiality and handed over his pale gold ID card to the first EuroPol, who inserted it into a hand held reader.  “Charles Fortnum-Obeki.  Legal aide to Michael Windsor.”  He said in precisely modulated Oxbridge tones.  The guard grunted grudging approval as a green light flickered on his display.
Charles’ companion handed over his ID card to the second impassive EuroPol guard.  “Terence Hornchurch, security consultant to Michael Windsor.”  He announced in a voice with overtones of an advanced northern English education.  No one smiled, although they went through this procedure many times a day, often with the same guards.  The two men were waved through in a perfunctory, almost dismissive manner.  Forbidden to insult the defeated enemy, all they were allowed was mute contempt.
As they walked, Charles glanced at Hampton Court’s central courtyard to their right, its huge circular fountain visible through the large but unwashed windows.  The empty but carefully tended green space speckled white with the first snows of September.  Today, he thought, the cold weather brings its own advantages.  The guards would all be indoors.  
Entering a threadbare second floor apartment overlooking Hampton Courts once magnificent privy gardens, Charles and Terence halted, then bowed slightly to a slender middle-aged man wearing a tailored dark blue business suit, his full head of light brown hair peppered with premature grey.  Behind them, the Butler closed the heavy double wood panelled doors with a barely audible thump.
“Gentlemen?”  Crown Prince Michael addressed them formally in neutral tones.
“I’m sorry your highness, the news isn’t good.”  Charles said.
“I see.”  Michael examined the two men critically.  “Then this is a matter for the whole family.”  He turned to gaze down at the tired looking once-formal gardens of Hampton Court Palace and the thousand metres of the Long Water pointing away from the building.    “I take it matters are in hand to assure my children will not suffer?”
“Terence and myself will pay particular attention to that detail sir.”  They caught Michael’s flickered glance at the main internal security camera, left obvious almost in defiance rather than in deference to his family’s presence.  “Excellent.”  Michael said without enthusiasm and stayed with his back turned to the room.   He liked to do this so that neither they nor the many cameras in the once Royal Apartments could see the strain in his expression.  The condemned cell was just that, no matter how carefully the bars were padded with velvet.  “My love.”  He turned at the sound of footsteps.  An elegantly groomed brunette woman in her mid thirties stepped through the doorway, her hands folded, an apprehensive expression on her slender heart shaped face.  Michael nodded to her unspoken question.  “Bring the children, they should hear.  These new developments affect us all.”  Michael gave his wife a tight little smile.  “Katherine.  If you would be so kind.”  He said.  She nodded and left. Michael turned back to face the garden view. “Balmoral or Windsor?”  He asked flatly.
“Neither sir.  EuroPol HQ have specified Sandringham.”  Charles said, almost apologetically.  “Transfer tomorrow if our latest appeal fails.”
“Nice and out of the way for a clean disposal, eh?”
“Yes sir.”  Charles said stiffly, hating himself.
“How soon?”
“Forty eight hours.”  Charles said.  
Michael gave a long shuddering sigh and was silent for a while.  “Charles.  Monarchy has had its day, but I would rather not suffer the fate of so many of them with my head on a spike.  God knows we only ever tried to work for the good of the country.  I can’t understand these people.”  He said, obliquely referring to the new code of laws that had condemned his whole family to death, even though such a sentence was supposedly illegal under old EU human rights legislation.
“Sir.”  Was all Charles could say.
“We’ve been prisoners all our lives.”  Sighed Michael fatalistically. ”First those bloody neo Nazis; then the Civil War, now these hideous theocrats.  I just wish they would spare the children.  It’s not as though we’re the bloody Romanov’s for God’s sake.”  For a moment Michael seemed to deflate.  He placed a steadying hand on one of the tall stone mullions of the window frame.  “In a way it comes as something of a relief.”  He straightened and glanced sideways at Charles’ impassive Anglo-Nigerian features.  No reaction.  Good.
“Sir.”
“Charles?”  Michael said after another pause.
“Yes sir?”
“I’d like Terence and yourself to take care of our final disposition.  At least you two wouldn’t botch the job.”  Michael said, then gave a slightly acid laugh.  His two most trusted men remained impassive.  Good, he could always count on that.  In such an uncertain world, that was a little comfort.
“Sir.”  Terence spoke, his voice tight.  
“Terence?”
“I’d like to say it’s been a privilege sir.”
“Your loyalty has always been privilege enough for me.  Ah.”  Michael heard the soft patter of his three children’s feet on the carpet as they entered the large room with Cobham the Butler in close attendance.  Michael turned and smiled warmly, trying not to think forty-eight hours ahead.  Katherine had already guessed the worst, pale blue eyes brimming with tears.  She nodded softly, closed her eyes briefly and sniffed.  They had to at least look brave now, if only for themselves.  “Richard, Victoria, Elizabeth.”  Michael called out softly.  Victoria nine, and Elizabeth, the youngest at seven years old, affectionately called Tiggy by her older brother and sister, ran to their father and hugged his legs.  Blonde haired Richard, his heart shaped thirteen-year-old face solemn, waited his turn, but stood back.  “I think we should go for a walk in the garden sir.”  Charles suggested carefully.  “EuroPol HQ are sending their usual team of Lawyers later on today to explain the situation.  They might listen to a last minute clemency plea.  We could discuss strategy as we walk.”
“To justify the impending murder of my family?”  Michael could not help but sneer.  Katherine bit her lip and turned away.  Cobham, patiently waiting just inside the side door, caught his employer’s nod and left through a concealed side door, noiseless as a domestic ghost.  There was a long tense silence. 
After a few minutes Cobham re-entered the room, several heavy dark navy blue overcoats hung over his arm.  He was stiff with anger, although his facial expression said nothing.  His employer, master, and above all, his friend, was going to be killed and there was nothing he could do about it.  Frustration almost visibly streamed from his eyes.
“Thank you Cobham, at least we won’t freeze as we try to avoid our impending slaughter.”  Michael said as he took his coat.  Cobham’s professionally neutral expression did not flicker.
“Michael!”  Katherine protested.
“I know my love.  We should not say such things in front of the children, but political expediency is something they cannot hope to understand.  Not that I’m very happy about it myself.”  Michael said dryly, cocking his head slightly on one side.  He gave an ironic snort.  Cobham briefly turned away so they could not see their Butler’s overt disgust.  Some things were not done in front of your employer.
“Our own lawyers are still fighting sir.”  Charles spoke, but there was something stilted and formulaic about the way he spoke.
“If all I’ve got from them is notice that I’ll be twenty five centimetres shorter in two days time, I can’t say I’m overly impressed.  I hope they haven’t been paid yet.”  Michael said acerbically, but there was an undercurrent here, something Katharine could not understand as she looked from her husband and then back to Charles.  Some deeper conversation which she was not privy to.
“I’m sorry sir.”
“So am I Charles, so am I.  Come on everybody.  You too Richard.  Wrap up warm, we’re going for a walk in the gardens.”  Cobham, face carefully blank lest he should do something terribly un-English like express emotion, nodded in response to Michael’s sidelong glance and stepped forward to help the children with their coats.
“Daddy!”  Protested Tiggy petulanty as only an eight year old can.  “It’s too cold!”
“Then we must wrap up warmly.”  Michael leaned down to his youngest child and softly patted her light brown hair framed cheek.  She sulkily disengaged from his leg.  Her older, strawberry blonde haired sister was already pulling on a heavy woollen coat proffered by the ever-attentive Cobham.  Michael nodded a slight apology to his Butler as he took a pair of kidskin gloves from his overcoat pockets.  “Richard.”  Michael said, with an upward warning inflection at his son’s reluctance.
“Yes Daddy.”  Richard responded, the corners of his mouth turned down sullenly.  He reluctantly took the proffered coat from Cobham and dutifully slid his arms into the sleeves.
“I shall inform the security detail sir.”  Cobham spoke.
“I’m sure they already know.”  Michael eyed one of the more obvious cameras in the room for emphasis.  “So long as we stay well away from the perimeter I’m sure all will be well.”  He smiled tightly.  “Nothing like a brisk September afternoon’s walk.”  He said cheerfully and swept out of the room down the slightly threadbare but still plush corridor, his family and retainers following him like a comets tail, Cobham at the rear, the children in the middle almost running to keep up with their Fathers athletic stride. 
Katherine caught a sly glance from Terence and abruptly decided not to make a fuss about the safety of the children.  It would be undignified, and she was not going to let her captors have that satisfaction, but she understood without being told that Charles and Terence had something up their sleeves.
 “Keep up everyone.”  Called Michael in a cheerful tone, mouth smiling but eyes tight as he energetically led the way.  The Cyber armoured EuroPol guards in this section of the palace stood aside to let them out, obviously briefed by the surveillance team.  Terence brought up the rear of the party just behind Cobham.  
Michael briskly led them down the stairs through to the lower hall, which brought his party out into the large privy garden.  Charles opened the weathered half oak door with the four cracked glass panes into the bright grey early afternoon chill.  Richard looked anxiously up at Charles’ face as he held the door for him; Charles gave him a broad wink as their little party almost trotted out through the big rear doors down the steps into the once palatial grounds.
Michael strode out down crumbling broad sandstone steps into the remains of the old privy garden.  “Keep up, keep up.”  He clapped gloved hands together loudly, energetic breath smoking in the cold September air as though nothing was wrong.  Urging his family on as they passed down the lightly snow crusted and overgrown Ornamental Avenue.  “This was a marvellous place in Great grandfather Charles’ day.  All the trees manicured, the lawns flat and well tended, not weed ridden and scruffy like nowadays.  Father used to love it.”  Michael enthused.  “It’s still one of the biggest non agricultural open spaces left in south east England.”  He waved his little party on.  “We used to have Koi Carp in the big fountain.  Open to the public, too.”  Michael said casually, noting the way Charles surreptitiously checked his old fashioned Rolex wristwatch.  “Gold coloured Fish long as your forearm.”  Michael tried to keep the tension out of his voice lest the remote voice stress analysers betray him.  His back to the Palaces surveillance cameras, Charles spread three fingers once as a signal and looked pointedly towards the fountain.  
Michael glanced at Katharine, who was more obviously upset.  He nodded over towards the end of the Long Water closest to the palace.  She caught his unspoken direction and steered the children past the oval pool with its algae choked fountain towards the long straight pond, which still ran out towards the perimeter for over a thousand metres, a double row of bedraggled and frost laden ornamental trees still bordering either side.  Lagging behind them, Terence knelt and appeared to fuss with old fashioned shoelaces, secretively slipping the neutral coloured disc of an electro magnetic pulse mine under the path’s loose gravel before standing and striding after the group.  He dropped another by the fountain and surreptitiously kicked another of the five centimetre diameter buff coloured discs out of sight.  Another when they reached the far side of the pool and with his back turned to the surveillance cameras flicked one more out into the frost-crusted bushes next to the path.  It wasn’t much to delay the guards, but it would have to do.
Michael stopped as soon as they had passed the fountain and turned to face Charles.  “There’s a dead spot in the surveillance here, and the fountain masks the rest of our voices, so tell me Charles, what is going to happen?”  Michael clapped his hands as though to keep them warm; his face turned away from the high definition cameras on top of the palace roof.  A move designed to frustrate the lip reading software that he knew monitored their every word.  
As he did so, he noticed a trim female figure wearing a long dark coat and headscarf walking hurriedly towards them from the palace steps.  “On second thoughts, don’t tell me.”  He said darkly.  “Ah, our lovely Helga.”  Michael observed loudly from their position on the other side of the fountain from the Palace.  “Kill her for me.”  He said sotto voce as he turned his back on her hurrying figure.  
“Of course sir.”  Charles replied smoothly, as if this would be the easiest thing in the world.
“Won’t be easy with all those bloody superhuman neural enhancements she has.  It’ll be like jumping barefoot into a tree shredder.”  Michael reminded him.  
Charles smiled thinly.  “Terence and I can deal with her sir.”  
Terence nodded carefully in agreement, flashing a slightly wolfish thin-lipped smile.
“It’ll take both of you.”  Michael said quietly, no little menace in his voice, before turning back and waving cheerfully to the woman hurrying out to meet them, her boots hurriedly crunching through the thin crust of frozen snow.  “Helga my dear!  How are you?”  He called out loudly.
“Mister Windsor, you should not be out.”  Helga approached at a fast walk, her English heavily accented, and her syntax stilted.
“What’s the fuss my dear?  Don’t want us to catch our death and cheat the executioners sword?”  Michael mocked her openly as she arrived at the edge of the oval pond.  Helga’s finely shaped lips clamped into a tight line as she joined them a few moments later.  It was quite obvious that she held her captive in singular contempt.  
“This is my chief aide, Charles, and his security adviser, Terence.”  Michael made brief introductions.  Charles and Terence nodded formally, while Helga responded tightly, “I know.”  No one offered to shake hands.
“Of course you do.”  Michael said with all the condescension he could muster.
“Your two ex special forces bulldogs.”  She remarked contemptuously.  
“Gentlemen, our chief inquisitor and host, Helga Sommer.”  Michael ignored her tetchiness, still treating her with overt mockery.
“Hardly that.”  She said archly.
“Helga as you know is the head of the security detail here at Hampton Court.  The Gaian Republic is finally disposing of all the inconvenient last vestiges of the old order.  Sadly this means my family and I.  She makes sure we inconvenient few do not stray and inflame the last remnants of monarchist sentiment in the glorious Gaian European Federal Republic.”  Michael mock bowed, as he did so catching the concealed two-finger signal from Charles.   Terence moved slightly to his left, glancing aside as if watching the children and Katherine who were currently playing a noisy game of tag around the trees and straggly bushes half way towards the edge of the long water.   Terence’s movement put him slightly over two metres directly behind Helga’s unprotected back.  Just close enough.  She was obviously so distracted by the soon-to-be-late Crown Prince of England’s mockery that she failed to notice Charles’s slight arched eyebrow signal to his partner.  He made a downward finger signal with his left hand.
Charles cursed inwardly as Helga’s hand suddenly went up to her right ear and her voice became tight with urgency.  “We must return inside.”  She said.  “At once.”  She snapped.  Michael gave a long stagey sigh and called out.  “Cobham, get Katherine to collect the children.  Helga wants us cooped up again.”
“Immediately.”  She said sharply.  From by the rear entrance, two fully cyber armoured guards were already lumbering down the path.
“Very well.” Michael looked away as if there was no rush and lazily called out.  “Katharine!” 
Charles and Terence struck almost simultaneously.  Charles attempted a short punch to Helga’s larynx but she caught his hand easily, and with contempt shining from her face twisted his forearm, forcing him to his knees. Then the stiffened edge of Terence’s right hand smashed into her cervical vertebra hard enough to momentarily overload her subdermal neural implants.  Gasping in shock and surprise, she began to sag, letting go of Charles’ right arm.  Charles spun to his feet, striking up and under her nose with the heel of his left hand, driving her septum up and into her brain.  A look of surprise bloomed briefly in her eyes.
Already dying, Helga crumpled and dropped through the fountains thin crust of ice with a wet splashing crunch.  The two approaching guards saw her fall sideways, booted feet still twitching and kicking.  They stopped to draw side arms only to abruptly drop to their knees as the little EMP mine secreted by Terence in the path instantly shorted out their cyber enhancements, overloading their neural implants, temporarily blinding them.  “Towards the Long Water!  Run!”  Charles roared the order as his partner ran back to disarm the two temporarily disabled guards.   Charles grimaced and sprinted, ignoring the pain from his broken right arm, glanced briefly back at the family as alarm sirens on top of the old palace blared outrage.  Reaching the downed guards, they stripped the still writhing bodies of weapons before running back down the path.
From overhead there was the burring sound of an old-fashioned rotary aircraft engine throttling back hard.  A white T-shape covered with irregular black zigzags of anti detection coating roared down from over the perimeter, twin floats smashing ice, sending hundreds of gallons of muddy slush cascading out onto the gravel path on either side.  “Run!  Get in the bloody seaplane!”  Terence roared at them as he dodged around straggling bushes towards them.  Michael turned and followed Charles as he ran past, pea gravel spitting up in his wake.
“The children!  The children!”  Shouted Katherine as Charles approached at a dead run.   Without hesitating, Charles scooped up Richard and Victoria as though they weighed nothing.  He jinked as he heard the snap-snap of gunfire and sprinted towards the end of the long water where the old fashioned Canadian Viking VH-2 floatplane had pulled up and was already turning with the help of a green coveralled co-pilot and a length of rope.  A sudden zip in the air made him involuntarily hunker down as he ran, pulling his two struggling charges in tight to afford them at least some protection from EuroPol gunfire.  Then the same sound as Terence returned fire.  He heard a shriek and a shout as Katherine fell, and kept running, resisting the urge to turn and help.  From behind came the undeniable harmonics of a little girls terror “Mummy!”  
“Get her away!  Get her away!”  Michael’s voice snapped as he scrambled to his feet, already bleeding from a wound to his shoulder.  “Give me that gun!  Now! Damn you!”  He demanded as Terence ran up to him to render assistance.  Terence reached out just as Michael gasped hollowly.  A high velocity round punching through Michaels chest with a wet thud.  He stumbled, a surprised look on his face, then coughed blood once before another two bullet strikes dropped him across the already still form of his wife.  Tiggy screamed as Terence scooped her up, putting his head down as he ran.  A EuroPol arrived at the fountain and swung his semi-automatic up to fire, only to topple over slowly as the EMP mine less than two metres away instantly fried his implant enhanced nervous system.
Pulse hammering in his ears, agony in his arm, chest tight, breath spewing white clouds in front of him, Charles ducked under the high wing of their rescue aircraft and jumped onto the Seaplane’s float, literally throwing Richard and Victoria into the stripped down aircraft’s eight-seat cabin.  The co-pilot reached out towards him, mouth moving, urgent words drowned by the revving engine as the eighteen metre wingspan Viking began to line up for a takeoff run.
Suddenly Terence was shoving Elizabeth into Charles’ arms and he passed her up into the cabin, waving the door shut.  More shots zipped past them, one chipping the port wing support strut as Terence shoved one of the stolen 5mm Semi—automatics into Charles’s hand.  A hundred yards away by the oval fountain, Cobham the Butler, shirt and old fashioned frock coat spattered and streaked with his employers blood, struggled to lift the dying Prince’s head to help him breathe.  Katherine was down and unmoving, her elegant dark overcoat stained with several splodges of black where three high velocity rounds had ripped her life away.  
Now dark figures in cyber armour were literally pouring out into the privy gardens from all directions.  The pilot frantically gestured at Charles, who simply waved him to take off before casually stepping off the float onto the path as though alighting from a train. 
The Viking’s ageing gasoline rotax engine revved hard then began to move away from the waters edge towards the perimeter, rudder flicking minor corrections, still mostly out of range of all but the few rifle-carrying guards.  At full throttle it accelerated away from the Palace, leaving twin foaming furrows in its wake for a hundred metres before lifting Swan-like into the air.  After a few seconds the small aircraft was airborne, hedgehopping at a top speed of two hundred and thirty kilometres an hour to avoid Radar and EuroPol Helivane patrols.  Fast enough to dodge numerous security patrol drones and blimps.  “Ah!”  Terence staggered as he was hit but remained standing.  He coughed, bright red staining his lips.  “God Save the King.”  He grinned at Charles and spat blood.  “The children are okay.”  He ducked down and the automatic in his hand cracked twice, the sound of the heavy unsilenced EuroPol weapon echoing across the Privy Garden.
“God save the King.”  Charles smiled back, and an eye-blink later felt two hammer blows strike his chest simultaneously as high velocity rounds spun him around and drove the breath from his body.  He fell heavily onto his back with a crunch of gravel, a look of mild irritation on his face.  Funny how that didn’t seem to hurt.  He thought as he pushed himself over into a prone position and took careful aim at a running guards head.  He squeezed the trigger, hearing Terence calmly loosing off shots as though on the firing range, and watched the man he had aimed at drop onto the path backwards as though punched in the jaw.  
Rounds scuffed the path and icy turf all around them before he heard rather than saw the kneeling Terence hit simultaneously and drop backwards, hand still struggling to take aim as he lay on his back.  Terence coughed, struggling to move before his gun hand fell back.  “Charles.”  The inflection in his voice begged mercy from his old friend.  EuroPol Guards were approaching at a more leisurely pace now with weapons ready.  All the EMP mines were gone; Charles had less than four rounds of ammunition left.
“No problem.”  Charles said, tasting the blood on his own lips.
“Thanks.”
“It was my honour to serve.”  Charles said calmly.
“Charles?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
 “God speed.”  Charles said simply, and carefully shot his colleague underneath the chin.  Blood and brains spat out from the top of Terence’s head out onto the frozen path, and the fierce light in his eyes went out forever.  Charles smiled with relief as he saw the seaplane wheel overhead, doubling back to confuse any pursuit.  Still smiling, he jammed the automatics hot muzzle under his own chin before pulling the trigger.
Cobham, his overcoat and suit bloodstained but otherwise unharmed, knelt by his employers’ corpse and composed the body with all the care of a father for a beloved son.  He glanced aside at Katherine’s sightless stare before moving over to her body, arranging it just so to the background theme of the Seaplane clearing the perimeter, performing this duty oblivious to the guards approach and the shooting from his would-be liberators.  His final duty, as he saw it, was to at least try to give his master some dignity in death.  The children were away, that was good.  The future at least now had a future.
He was ensuring Katherine’s coat was arranged decently as the roar of an approaching radial engine overhead almost masked the crunch of booted footsteps.  Without prompting, he stood slowly and carefully raised his hands before a EuroPol guard raised his gun and deliberately shot the butler between the eyes.  Cobham toppled to the ground as if in slow motion, a faint look of irritation creasing his face as if his summary death were only a minor inconvenience.
As the Seaplane passed low overhead, just clearing the laser anti-aircraft shield, Richard Windsor’s disbelieving thirteen-year-old eyes saw the older man drop untidily over his mother and father’s bodies.  He gasped.  Cobham dead?  Why Cobham?  He was a kind man, a good man who never did harm to anyone.  He didn’t have a gun.  Why did the guards shoot him?  Richard tasted salt and felt tears running freely down his cheeks.  Inside he felt hopelessly numb.  His sisters crying in the background didn't help.
The pilot turned low above the Thames, and headed west towards the rendezvous point he’d been given, some seventy kilometres outside London’s western sprawl.  He pushed the aircraft’s nose forward and down before the engine suddenly spluttered.  “Oil pressure’s dropping.  Engine must have taken a hit.”  He said loudly, throttling back slightly.
“The children are okay.  They’re upset, but okay.”  Reported the co-pilot.
“I’ll get us as far west as I can, but it’s going to be a bumpy landing.”  The pilot shouted over the increasingly erratic engine noise.  “We won’t make the rendezvous at Studland bay.”
Twenty minutes later, the pilot made a nervous forced landing forty-five miles on near a little place called Benham Lock on the disused Kennet & Avon Canal.  
When their floats hit the overgrown surface of the polluted icy water, the seaplane float rudders dragged them to a skewed halt pulling huge mats of foetid vegetation along in their twin wakes.  An overhanging branch of a frost killed willow tree smashed the eight-metre long Port wing in two, slewing the light aircraft awkwardly into the overgrown towpath where it began to sink, hidden from above by a canopy of thickly matted branches.
Inside the useless cockpit, the pilot unsnapped his seat harness.  “Everybody out!” he shouted above the racket of cracking composite.  The door was kicked open and all five scrambled one after another onto the muddy bank.
“Where are we?”  The co-pilot stripped off his helmet to reveal a shaven scalp and café-au-lait tinted skin.
“Benham lock, on what was the Kennet and Avon canal.  I think.”  The Pilot dropped his helmet on the ground and unzipped the front of his overalls.  Underneath he wore scruffy street clothes.
“Mike, how the hell are we going to make that rendezvous now?”  The co-pilot shepherded the three tearful children onto a drier patch of ground while they took stock of their situation.
“We aren’t.”  The Pilot looked around for an access to more secure footing. “Don’t worry Seb, I have friends near here, they’ll help.”  He set his lips in a thin but determined smile.