by Barney Broom
“Archie!”
His name hissed, the voice appeared to come from behind some brocaded drapes.
“Er… Who’s that?”
Archie also kept his voice low.
“Don’t you know your partner’s voice?”
“Where are you?”
“Behind the curtain, you idiot!”
“Come out then.”
“It’s better I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Come nearer.”
Archie moved closer to the heavy curtain.
“Why the secrecy?”
His question met with a derisive snort.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to have been experiencing the revolution.”
“Okay… How did you do that – my voice?”
“Ever heard of mimicry?”
“Ha! Not bad. And finding me?”
“There have been a few developments.”
“Thought so.”
Archie peered around the chamber.
“What’s with the thug coming in as a participant?”
“Dormant at the moment, I trust?”
“Uhuh.”
“Figured we might need some help – active assistance at some point. He’s got the sort of talents that could be handy to have around.”
“Hmm… So why not appear, oh wise one?
“Ever heard of The Terror?”
“Of course I have.”
“Work it out then. I haven’t come back as a somebody… I’m the Supreme Being.”
“You’ve flipped.”
“Think so? It has its advantages. Everyone’s terrified of everyone around here. No one sees me… no one is allowed to see me; I’m the voice of the revolution. Today I speak for Robespierre, tomorrow it could be Talleyrand. Nobody knows. I can go wherever I want, do as I please.”
“Right little Hydra.”
“Wha—”
“Greek stuff. Don’t worry – maybe another adventure one day.”
“God, keep on the case, Archie. Now listen. You and your lot’s trial’s been brought forward to tomorrow morning.”
“How d’you know—”
“Skip interrupting! They’ll be a diversion. Do you remember Ivy Bickerstaff in Drinkwell?”
“Er…”
“The old dear with the macaw.”
“The nutter?”
“Well – maybe she’s not quite so crazy. Anyway, she’s here in Paris now.”
“How?”
“I profiled her. Whatever happens, you’re to do what she tells you. You’ll have some protection but you must follow her instructions.”
“What about the others I’m with? You know I’ve found…”
“Cosima. Yes, I know. She’ll go with you and the little French countess and her mum and dad.”
“Mum and dad? The Duke and Duchess… How?”
“Enough! The guards are coming back.”
“What about Robespierre – my report from Bonaparte?”
“The Incorruptible has other concerns.”
There was a commotion in the passage.
“One last thing…”
The curtains ruffled slightly.
“Make sure you have Dog with you.”
“That anima—”
The guards appeared at the court entrance.
“Talking to yourself, prisoner? Guilty as accused!”
The men laughed heartily as they led him away.
A trial always resulted in big crowds at the Convention and this one was no exception. The public jammed the Palais De Justice to witness the junta’s quick removal of the aristocracy. Tried and sentenced in minutes, groups of twenty or thirty were condemned at a time. There seemed to be no counsel for prisoners’ defence. The accused themselves pathetically attempted to fight their cases. A tyrannical-looking man – Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville – sinister in demeanour and possessing the customary revolutionary arrogance – was attorney for the prosecution.
“Because of these crimes against the state, I request… no, demand the accused be pronounced guilty!”
“Condemned. Next!”
Judge Presiding Saint-Just was peremptory in his sentencing and the mournful people were taken roughly from the court. The notary called the next witnesses to take the stand.
“Bring in the Duc and Duchesse d’Angoulac, the Comtesse d’Angoulac, the Marquise Badeni and the man presenting himself as a British soldier but who, in fact, is an agent spying against the Republic. Vive la République!”
The crowd roared its appreciation. The arrival of these prisoners though was somehow different. The French duke and duchess, their daughter and the marquise all entered with dignity. Captain Light of his Britannic Majesty’s 4th Life Guards strode in with a positive swagger, accompanied by his enormous Irish wolfhound. The dog barged court officials who backed off. This allowed the captain a brief moment centrestage.
“The prisoner will stand with the others.”
“Citizens, I protest this trial is invalid on the grounds that I am not really here.”
Archie’s French was not perfect but the crowd got his meaning and looked nonplussed. The judge advocate was unimpressed.
“Get this idiot out of here. He’s holding up proceedings.”
“But his trial?”
“He’ll go with the rest. Just remove him from the court.”
The official turned to several attendants.
“Seize the prisoner!”
Officers of the court began to converge on Archie. Sensing his master could be in trouble, Dog let out a mighty roar, causing the men to hang back. The Judge Advocate had had enough. “Call the guard!”
The guard attempted to enter but the courtroom, already in confusion, now experienced a further interruption in the form of English housekeeper Ivy Bickerstaff. Her single tooth blackened and her hair awry, a giant macaw sat perched on her shoulder. Ivy’s appearance was fantastic and excited the masses. The magnificent bird began to flap its multi-coloured wings. The jostling crowd gave way to the woman as she swept up to Archie.
“You must be the British cap’n. Your dog ready to have some fun?”
“Indeed he is, Mrs. Bickerstaff.”
“Right then. Get ’im going and you and ’em follow me.”
Ivy nodded towards the dock where the d’Angoulacs and Cosima stood watching the spectacle as enthralled as everyone else.
“Your hound’ll be alright. Eamon’ll keep an eye on ’im.”
Smiling, Archie calmly took a military baton from an open-mouthed sergeant-at-arms. Waving it in front of Dog, he threw it into the crowd. The giant animal barked ferociously and leaped into the throng. With Eamon flying above, chaos erupted. The ensuing pandemonium allowed Archie to attend his fellow accused. The Marquise Badeni was already guiding the Duc, Duchesse and their daughter away from the stand, and the party was able to slip out of the frenzied courthouse.
“English entertainment.”
Cosima laughed. Ivy Bickerstaff was nearing the door as other cries and shouts went up.
“The prisoners are escaping; seize them!”
Several smoke bombs exploded causing further bedlam. Outside, a stunned Archie couldn’t quite believe what he’d just experienced. Little encouragement was necessary to press the escapees, who scurried after Ivy as fast as their legs could carry them.
The eccentric woman moved through Paris’s back streets with surprising speed. The residence Mrs. Bickerstaff took them to was set in its own substantial grounds. Approaching a set of rusted gates, she let out a low whistle. A small side entrance unlatched and they quickly slipped into the overgrown garden. Walking up the drive, much of it was covered with weeds. The property had a run-down look about it.
“’Tis how we like
it, see. Dilapidated. But when Frenchies come a snoopin’ they get trouble, that’s for sure.”
Mrs. B’s cackling laughter announced her arrival. The front door opened and a man in his forties, nondescript save for a slight stoop, stood aside.
“Mickle, we ’ave visitors.”
Ivy turned to Archie.
“’E’s ’ead of defence. ’E’d been his lordship’s valet but stayin’ on, e’s good with his hands; fixed up that gate so we could open it from the ’ouse.”
Eamon flew out, landing on Ivy’s shoulder, and seconds later, Dog came bounding up to Archie. Ivy laughed.
“I’d ’ave ’ad a florin they’d be ’ere afore us.”
Inside, several reception rooms led off what had been a grand hallway. Ivy took the group into one of them. A large drawing room, its furniture was shrouded with white sheets. Standing by a marble fireplace, Podric Moon stood talking to a middle-aged man. As the newcomers entered, the latter bowed and left.
“Ah, Citizen. ’Ere are your guests.”
“Thanks, Ivy. Any problems?”
“None we ’adn’t thought of. Smoke was good. I’ll… er… show these…”
She nodded to everyone except Archie.
“… some rooms. ’Spect the wimin ’ud like a rest.”
Ivy spoke an eccentric patois to the aristocrats who readily agreed to follow her. Podric and Archie were alone.
“You found me then.”
“No problem. When out of the game, I did some work to re-enter in synch with another character. Profiled characters like Ivy who don’t know us as UAR characters, can be locked down and involved in particular events. Witness recent activities. That man who went out, Braxby – he’s Wendover School’s caretaker. Few issues there, though his tastes are probably less of a problem for him right now than they will be in the future. Mr. Micklediver who’s sorted the defences here, he teaches metalwork.”
“So, Cosima is my daughter?”
“As a games character, she’s the Marquise Badeni.”
Rather than fly off the handle, Archie was thoughtful.
“And the chips now track a programmed participant enabling them to be located at any point precisely… That’s good. Why did you programme the thug and not profile him?”
“Another test and… fun. Where is he, by the way?”
“Last time I saw him he was all over the place. You’d just programmed him.”
“Thought that might give his loutish brain a few issues. The sooner he starts learning that not everything can be sorted by bully-boy tactics, the better.”
“Didn’t you want him here for his bully boy tactics?”
“It’s a long-term thing.”
Archie looked at his young friend.
“Hmm… So, these are the clothes of the ‘Supreme Being’? Seems like yarn cloth and twill to me. Boots are alright though.”
Podric was wearing a rough shirt and dark breeches with leather calf-length boots.
“What’s the plan?”
“An immediate challenge will be to thwart the revolutionaries and get the hostages to safety.”
“Obviously – and Podric, don’t keep telling me it’s just a game; it’s too damn real. Somehow Cosima’s profile has created her as a distant relative. My wife has foreign blood and Badeni is part of the bloodline. How do you account for that, Mr. Ultimate Alternative Reality?!”
Engaging Napoleonic Wars, the two creators immersed themselves in its world. Selecting ‘French Revolution’ and ‘Political Infrastructure’, the game requested further criteria – Location, Details of Participants and Political or Military advantages. His eyes flicking out of UAR, Archie sat back.
“Afraid we’re slightly off-piste.”
“We can reposition via ‘Bourbon Royalty’.”
Archie sighed.
“You know, Podric, I don’t really want to play Wars like this.”
Ever the games player, Podric continued to move his right fingers across his left wrist probing the challenge.
“What do you mean?”
Archie inspected himself. His dragoon’s uniform looked shabby now.
“I want to go with whatever hand is dealt me inside this reality world.”
“What, not activate it like we did with Captain Nelson then, moving to London? That was exciting – being inside NW and going through different Options.”
Archie lay back in his chair.
“That was before I’d really begun to live inside UAR. You know how I feel about the situation we’re in. Anyway, you said our next challenge was to get the prisoners out.”
Disengaging Napoleonic Wars and UAR, Podric blinked, clearing his eyes.
“We will, but like you say, we’ve got side-tracked into this adventure since the Fall of Toulon. Napoleonic Wars revolves around Napoleon – his battles, his strategy, his career – making himself emperor, his enemies, opposing alliances…”
Podric relaxed.
“I kind of understood how you wanted to stop him when we were still learning about life inside the game, but the whole point of UAR is to give us another mechanism whilst playing. We still want to win – beat Napoleon, but in a form of reality which is unique to us.”
Archie stretched. He looked tired.
“I’m just staying with it, Podric. I know I was sceptical but for me, UAR has turned into much more than an alternate games world. I feel I’m communicating with my daughter now and reconnecting with my life.”
Not quite believing what he’d just heard, Podric looked at his partner, who drifted off to sleep. Getting up, UAR’s inventor left the room and went into the library where he sat down to think. Archie’s desire to use Ultimate Alternative Reality as a replacement life worried him. Podric had invented UAR for adventure but Archie apparently wanted to make it his life, which suggested it had taken over his reason for being. That was awry.
The afternoon gloom wore on. Ivy appeared in the doorway.
“Beggin’ pardon, Podric, but your people ‘ave been bathed – terrible ’abit – and I was thinkin’ of supper. I expect you’ve been making plans. It, er, wouldn’t be clever for you to be ’ere too long. There’ll be a terrible uproar about the escape.”
Archie walked in.
“Have the revolutionaries been here before?”
“Oh lord, yes sir. But they usually stay away ’less they’re very suspicious – and I expect them to be very suspicious. It’s the bird. Someone’ll remember ’im from ’ere for sure.”
“What about your escaping?”
“Oh, don’t worry about us. We’re more sorted than you think.”
“All your weapons of mass destruction, eh, Mrs. Bickerstaff?”
Ivy Bickerstaff looked at Archie blankly.
“He means all the defences Mr. Micklediver’s devised, Ivy.”
“Oh, them. You ain’t seen nothin’. You want to see when Eamon’s dive bombin’ ’em. That really gets ’em jumpin’.”
15
Vaulted Walls
In spite of the day’s traumatic escape, dinner that night was surprisingly fun. Though simple, the food was plentiful and the atmosphere convivial. Whilst initially nonplussed about their hosts and how they came to be in the empty British ambassadorial residence, the Duc and Duchesse were glad to be alive and entered into the banter that suffused the table.
The d’Angoulac family had been in almost continuous attendance at the Court of Versailles for a number of years and had run into debt – so much so that the Duc had been forced to sell off most of his property. The king assured him that he would one day reinstate their possessions but his and the queen’s subsequent demise rendered the family both homeless and financially impoverished.
“Have you thought of escaping to England?”
Archie looked up, catching his partner’s eye. Th
e Duc was thoughtful.
“Would we be welcome in England, m’sieur?”
Podric nodded.
“Yes.”
“Is it a good country?”
The Comtesse Louisa was beguiling.
“It’s better than your being in France right now.”
“I hear many who can afford it are escaping there, but we have no money.”
The Duc was sombre.
“I think I may have the answer to your difficulties.”
Taking a pouch from his leather bag, Podric poured out its contents. Gold Louis coins covered the table. A huge sigh went up from the diners.
“Perhaps this will resolve your difficulties? A little something from the revolution.”
Podric separated out some coins.
“Some must assist the settlement of our account here but there will be enough for your needs. It would help you reach England – your family and the marquise.”
Looking down at the table, Cosima suddenly got up and left. A minute or two later, Archie followed. He found Cosima in the darkened drawing room staring out at the overgrown garden.
“You feel in a dilemma…?”
Apparently ignoring him, the young woman continued to stare at the unkempt wildness.
“Your home in Austria—”
“What is England like, Captain?”
Cosima abruptly cut in. Archie was thoughtful.
“It’s not perfect, but then where is?”
He walked over to the window.
“‘O England! Little body with a mighty heart. Were all thy children kind and natural!’ So says Mister Shakespeare. The English are not always kind or natural, but it’s unlikely what’s going on here would ever happen there.”
Archie took a last look at the bedraggled grounds.
“I don’t know when anyone can ever say what a place is like… Is France simply the murderous bloody country it appears to be right now? And your country – mountains, lakes…”
“Home.”
Archie closed a shutter.
“Yes. And home is home – good or bad.”
Sounds came from the hall and there was a light tap on the door. Ivy Bickerstaff appeared, candle in hand.
“Sir! Mickle says they’re a comin’. You’ve to follow me – quickly now!”