by Steve White
Jason sternly dismissed such thoughts from his mind, for his immediate concern was the whereabouts of Angus Aiken. The red dot denoting the young Service man’s TRD was worryingly absent from his neurally projected map of Bell Isle’s immediate environs. So he expanded the map’s scope.
There! North of Richmond, moving slowly south. At least Aiken was alive.
Angus Aiken waved goodbye to the two Rangers who had been accompanying him, and turned his horse’s head southward, riding parallel to the railroad tracks toward Richmond.
Various delays had prevented him from reaching Richmond by the first of the month. But finally Mosby had lent him an escort and sent him south. He was sorry to say farewell to those men, beside whom he had fought so often. He lacked Carlos Dabney’s in-depth knowledge of history, and he had no real appreciation of the rights and wrongs of this more-than-five-centuries-old conflict. But he knew good men when he saw them.
And at any rate the war was just about over. He lacked Dr. Dabney’s erudition or Commander Thanou’s experience, but he had received a basic historical orientation. So he knew that the Confederate capital he could now see before him in the dissipating James River morning fog was innocently experiencing its final moments. Later today it would be evacuated by the Confederate government and army, and tonight it would be burned.
He badly needed to make contact with Commander Thanou before any of that happened. For that, he would just have to rely on the commander’s cyberneticized ability to locate him. And, perhaps, on whatever ill-defined help could be provided by Gracchus, who had seemed very emphatic about his desire to be in Richmond around this date.
He wished Gracchus was with him now, for without Commander Thanou’s neutrally displayed map he would have to ask directions to find his way around in the city. With a sigh, he urged his horse onward.
“Well, here it is,” said Jason, standing beside an overhanging crag and staring down at the rather artfully concealed hole where a plug of rock had been removed and then replaced over the nanobot cache below.
From memory, he’d had no trouble locating the cache that Jason Mk I would destroy tonight by the light of burning Richmond from across the river. Naturally, they had left it scrupulously alone, but it had served the purpose of confirming that his implant’s detection feature for such things was functioning properly. Unfortunately, that feature was extremely short-ranged. So it had taken them longer than he would have wished to find this second one, even though it wasn’t far from the first. Both were on the southern side of Belle Isle’s rocky, wooded spine. The opposite side would one day be quarried for rock, leaving a cavity which would fill with water and become a lake that would further enhance the scenic quality of the island’s northern side. But this slope would be practically unfrequented even in the twenty-fourth century, when Belle Isle had once again become a recreation area alongside the falls of the James.
It was, Jason thought, a bit of foxiness of the part of the Transhumanists to emplace this second string to their bow so close to the first—the last place one would normally think to look for it. Also, this was probably the only place where it could lie undisturbed for centuries of change and upheaval in the greater Richmond area. And this area, with its hub location in the eastern North American conurbation of the twenty-fourth century, was a natural target for the initial civilization-destroying effects when the nanobots woke to malevolent life on The Day.
“Well,” said Mondrago, interrupting his thoughts, “now that we know where it is, we’d better backtrack and get across the river to the city.”
“Right,” Jason nodded. “We need to link up with Angus and find a place—maybe Elizabeth Van Lew’s house, which according to Carlos is outside the area that gets burned—where we can lie low for three days.” But even as he spoke, his somber gaze remained on that inconspicuous circular crack in the flat rock. His left hand, moving by an unconscious impulse, went to the Confederate cavalry canteen that held a small but very powerful explosive device. And he brooded on a subject never far from his mind since his return from Port Royal: the Observer Effect.
Pauline Da Cunha’s implant is going to pick this up two days from now, when she comes here to confirm that Jason MK I succeeded in taking care of the first cache. That’s why we’re here now. And that’s why we have to wait three days before blasting it. But … what if I were to simply blast it now? What’s to prevent me—?
At that moment, he noticed a tiny, flashing blue dot at the lower left corner of his field of vision. With a spasmodic motion, he whirled around.
That motion saved his life, for at the same instant a crack! was heard and a bullet missed him so closely he could feel the wind of its passage. It smashed into the rock wall behind the spot where his head had been, sending slivers of stone flying into his face.
They all dove for cover behind boulders, as more shots rang out in fairly rapid succession. One of them grazed Dabney’s left upper arm. He must be using a Henry repeater, thought Jason, recognizing the sounds as those of a rifle rather than a revolver. They drew their Colts—already loaded, just in case—and returned fire, sending the shooter ducking behind the rock outcropping that had concealed him, on the crest just above them. There was a brief lull in the shooting, and Jason, ignoring the stinging cuts on his face, looked around him. To the left was a declivity that seemed to offer a way to flank the rifleman’s position.
His Colt had only two rounds left, but this was no time to reload. “Alexandre,” he hissed. “Cover me and keep him down.” The Corsican nodded, and fired off a fresh fusillade. While the Transhumanist was sheltering behind his rock, Jason slithered off into the declivity and began scrambling up a steep slope, circling around as fresh rifle shots rang out.
The shooting had paused again when he emerged from behind the boulders and, sheltering behind a tree growing through a crevice in the rock, saw the Confederate-uniformed Transhumanist lying prone, reloading his Henry and talking.
Implant communicators did not require audible speech; subvocalization sufficed, which was very handy for covert operations. But the Transhumanist, unconcerned with concealing his presence under the circumstances, wasn’t bothering with that. He was speaking in a low voice. Jason activated his implant’s recorder function, complete with the same sound amplification feature he had used while sitting in Jefferson Davis’s waiting room.
“… and so I have them pinned down,” the goon-caste Transhumanist was saying. “But there are four of them, and … Yes, sir. Understood. I’m to slip away, get back across the river, and rejoin you in the city. But what if they … ? Oh, I see. Of course. They can’t destroy it now … No, sir! I never intended to question your orders. I abase myself! … Understood, sir. Signing off.” The Transhumanist peered over his rock barrier, fired three shots in rapid succession, then slid backwards down the slope, got to his feet and turned around … to find himself squarely facing Jason, who stood with leveled Colt, its hammer drawn back.
With the unnatural quickness of his caste, the goon brought his rifle around. Before he could complete the movement, Jason squeezed his trigger and sent a bullet crashing through the butternut-clad chest and the heart behind it. The Transhumanist swayed and fell face-down, dead before he hit the ground.
“Come on up here!” Jason called out. The others joined him, and Novak, who was particularly skilled in low-tech first aid, tied a bandage of torn cloth around Dabney’s arm. Meanwhile, Jason and Mondrago examined the dead Transhumanist. As expected, he was carrying nothing of any use to them.
“But,” Jason explained, “I overheard him reporting to his boss—Stoneman, I imagine—who is over in Richmond now.”
“If it is Stoneman, I wonder if he’s been here all along, since we last saw him in January,” Mondrago wondered, “or if this is a different ‘mark number’.”
“There’s no way to know. And it’s not something we need to know just now. The point is, he’s expecting this goon to report to him. So that’s one more reason for us to get ov
er to the city before he expects us.” Jason turned to Dabney. “Carlos, are you up to it?”
“I’ll be all right, Commander. It’s just a shallow wound.” Gamely: “In a way, it’s a good thing. There are so many wounded men in Confederate uniforms around here just now that we ought to have at least one.”
“Then let’s go. We have to get back across the shallows to the south bank, then north across the Mayo Bridge.”
Dabney got unsteadily to his feet. “Of course you realize what we’re going to be walking into, don’t you? By the time we enter downtown Richmond, the news of Lee’s message to the War Department will be starting to spread, and—”
“Believe me, Carlos, I know. In fact, I remember.” Jason smiled briefly, as he recalled seventeenth century Port Royal. “I seem to be making a habit of being on hand for the deaths of cities.” Then other recollections of the seventeenth century banished his smile. “And of course we’re going to have to think about the need to avoid any contact with our own previous ‘mark numbers’ … and with Pauline Da Cunha …” He gave his head a shake. “Let’s go,” he repeated.
Dabney touched his arm. “Commander, let me ask you something. You’ve never told me how Inspector Da Cunha died on your last expedition to the Caribbean. In fact, you’ve been quite reticent about it. May I know the circumstances of her death?”
Jason’s first impulse was a surly refusal. Then he decided that this man had been through enough with him to deserve an answer. He spoke very levelly.
“We were shipwrecked on the southern coast of Hispaniola. Before rejoining Henry Morgan’s men, we were captured by the Transhumanists who had been planting the seeds of one of their hidden cults—in this case a perversion of Voodoo that included, as did the historically attested Secte Rouge of later times, ritual cannibalism. They used Pauline as a victim. I watched, bound and unable to do anything about it, as she was butchered alive, cooked, and eaten. Afterwards, when I spoke to the Transhumanist leader, her grease was still on his lips … and I could smell his breath …” Jason could hear his voice start to waver. He clamped control on himself. “The Transhumaist leader paid. I was able to do that, at least. But now perhaps you understand why I don’t relish the thought of seeing her, still alive, knowing what I know.”
He turned and started toward the island’s south shore, leaving the shock-stunned Dabney to follow him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was late morning and the Virginia April sun was blazing when Angus Aiken rode south along Ninth Street, past stately homes and upscale hotels and stores, listening to the sound of Richmond’s various church bells. After crossing the rails of the Richmond, Fredricksburg & Potomac Railroad that ran east to west along the center of Broad Street, he proceeded another block south and found himself with the landscaped slope of Capitol Square rising gently to his left up to Jefferson’s Classical capitol building. Across the street on his right was St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. From within, he could hear a hymn coming to an end—something about “Jesus, lover of my soul.”
The street was largely empty, at this hour on Communion Sunday, and thus it was that Aiken could clearly see a figure in Confederate uniform emerge from a building one block ahead, on the right, and run in his direction. As the man approached, Aiken could see he was clutching what appeared to be one of this era’s telegrams. He dashed past and, to Aiken’s surprise, flung open the door of the church and entered. Aiken caught the sound of a sonorous German-accented voice reading the Communion service. He turned his horse’s head again and prepared to continue southward.
Then he saw four uniformed figures ahead, turning right off Main Street and advancing toward him on foot. The officer leading them was waving to him.
Recognition dawned, and he spurred his horse half a block before flinging himself from the saddle and clasping arms with a broadly smiling Jason Thanou.
“Commander! I don’t mind telling you it’s a relief to see you. I was delayed, and I’m only just getting into Richmond.”
“I know, Angus. I’ve been homing in on your TRD. Now, listen: we’ve pinpointed the secondary nanobot cache that we’re going to have to destroy subsequent to the day after tomorrow. In the process, we had a run-in with a Transhumanist who’d been left on watch. His boss is somewhere here in the city. We’re provisionally assuming he’s Stoneman—”
“I caught sight of him in the course of a skirmish in late February,” Aiken interjected. “Up around Ashby’s Gap, when we whipped the tar out of the Yankees at Mount Carmel Church.”
“All right.” Jason showed no sign of reaction to Aiken’s turn of phrase. “We’ll continue to assume it’s him, and that he’s not alone. And my ability to detect their bionics is, as you know, very short-range. For the next couple of days, we’re going to have to be on the alert every second …” Jason’s voice trailed off, and he stared past Aiken, who noticed that Carlos Dabney was staring in the same direction. Following their gaze, he turned and looked back at the church.
A small group of very grim men, some in uniform but most not, were emerging from the open door, through which Aiken thought he could hear the minister’s German accent growing thicker and his voice shakier. The group was led by a tall, gaunt, well-dressed man. They walked quickly south on the cobblestones of Ninth Street.
“Ten-hut!” said Jason as they passed. The time travelers came to attention, and Jason saluted, as Jefferson Davis passed without acknowledgment, staring fixedly ahead, his pale eyes seemingly focused on something that was slipping rapidly away and would soon be lost to sight forever.
“You know who he is, don’t you, Commander?” said Dabney.
Jason nodded. “I once glimpsed him through his office door, in the Confederate White House. He’s not headed in that direction now.”
“No. He’ll be going to his working office in the Treasury building just south of Capitol Square, where he’ll convene his cabinet and staff. A courier from the War Department just brought him Lee’s telegram telling him Richmond must be evacuated. He’s never really believed it, you see, so he’s made no real plans for this contingency. The Confederate government will have to pack up and leave in a matter of twelve hours.” Dabney gestured toward St. Paul’s. “Dr. Minnegerode will manage to finish his sermon, but as the churches empty out, the word will rapidly spread and panic will start to set in.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Jason, gazing around with a haunted look. “Although Jason Mk I missed out on these early scenes. Even though he’s already here,” he added wryly.
“But you know what comes later.”
“Yeah,” remarked Mondrago grimly. His Mk I version had also been—and, in fact, currently was—here.
“Right,” Jason agreed. “So we’ve got to find a place to go to earth. Someplace where our earlier selves aren’t.”
“How about that train station where we hung out for a while after leaving Elizabeth Van Lew’s?” suggested Mondrago. “It will be a madhouse, with people trying to get out of town, so we can lose ourselves in the crowd. And the Transhumanists won’t try any funny business there.”
“The Virginia Central Railroad depot,” Jason nodded. “Good idea. Let’s go.”
He led the way toward Sixteenth and Broad, turning left and skirting the southern edge of Capitol Square. Across the street were government office buildings. Stacks of documents were being piled up on the sidewalks, and set afire. On the lawn of Capitol Square itself, the same was being done to wheelbarrows full of Confederate paper currency. The smell of smoke began to fill the air.
“Now it begins,” murmured Dabney.
By the time they reached the depot, there was another aroma in the air, one which only the most insensitive could fail to smell: that of incipient panic.
Jason knew it well, from various times and places. It grew as rumor spread, and wagons arrived under heavy guard, loaded with gold and silver to be loaded aboard railroad cars. To the south, a low rumble of sound could be heard as government officials franticall
y tried to secure passage on James River Canal packet boats. As the afternoon wore on, lines of frightened depositors at the banks grew longer and less orderly, and the streets grew more and more full of people and animals and every kind of wagon, and the noise from the direction of the river rose as a steadily growing stream of refugees poured along the canal’s towpath in the direction of Lynchburg. But so far there was nothing shrill about any of it. Most people stumbled about in a state of unreality, determined to continue to make the motions of normalcy.
Then, just after 4:00, criers rode through the streets with the City Council’s official evacuation announcement. Like a cloudburst suddenly dissipating a stifling miasma, full-blooded panic erupted.
“The council and Mayor Mayo—that really is his name—authorized a citizens’ committee to meet with the Union commanders and arrange the city’s surrender,” Dabney explained to Jason, raising his voice to be heard over the uproar from the increasingly choked streets: rumbling wagon wheels, shouting people and the pathetic shrieks of whipped animals. “They also passed a number of resolutions intended to maintain order. One was to destroy all liquor supplies, smashing the barrels and pouring the whiskey into the gutters. Another was to set fire to the tobacco warehouses. Both of those are going to turn out to be terrible mistakes.”
Jason glanced at Aiken. The young Service man’s face wore an unmistakable look of sadness as he watched the Confederacy’s death throes. Jason placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember, Angus, we can’t take sides.”
Aiken smiled. “Is it that obvious, sir?” Then he spoke forthrightly, almost defiantly. “I can’t help feeling that something of value is being lost. I lived and fought with Mosby’s men for months. They had a certain naïve dash, an innocent gallantry. The world won’t see their like again.”
“No, it won’t,” Jason admitted. Then he noticed a man who had “slave dealer” written all over him enter the depot, leading a coffle of chained blacks. He argued furiously with a guard who barred the way to one of the trains reserved for government use. The guard shook his head and hefted his bayonetted rifle meaningfully. The slave dealer threw up his hands in disgust and, with a resigned expression, unlocked his human property and walked away.