by S. J. Ryan
“It's a trap!” Bivera shouted.
At least half a dozen more men on foot emerged from the woods, waving swords and screaming battle cries. Bivera reversed. More armed men streamed onto the road behind, converging. With both ways blocked, Bivera hastily dismounted and slapped the horse's flank. Riderless, it dove into the southern group The men dodged aside, leaving a gap in their encirclement. Bivera sprinted toward the cover of the woods – but not fast enough. A ring of blades closed around him. He unsheathed his sword and cursed his lack of armor.
For an instant, Bivera became aware of everything – the trees, the brush, the vapor from mouths and nostrils, the rage in the faces. These would be the last things he would ever see. His last thought would be, I should have become a farmer.
“Hyaaaah!”
Out of nowhere, a tall rider in hood and cape charged among the attackers, hacking and slashing. The blade passed within centimeters of Bivera's face at inhuman speed and clanged against another sword, knocking it from the assailant's hand. Metal flashed and blood splattered and men fell and groaned. The survivors scattered.
Bivera was alone then on the road with the tall rider. He breathed again, surprised that he had been allowed to continue doing so. The tall rider's horse pranced as it steadied its footing, and the general gazed up at the face obscured by shadow beneath the hood. The features were approximately those of Valarion, yet the expression was fixed, the complexion waxen.
“Stay here!” the rider shouted, in a voice that was not quite Valarion's. “I'll attend to this myself!”
The tall rider vanished down a side trail and Bivera was left alone among the prone and writhing bodies of his former attackers. The soldiers arrived and their captain dismounted and shouted something to him. Bivera barely heard and muttered, “I'm all right! Let's go after the Emperor!”
“He said we were to keep a distance,” the captain replied.
“Why would he say such a thing? You must have misunderstood! He is the Emperor! Your job is to protect him! Now keep up!”
He pointed at a mounted soldier, then at the ground. The soldier dismounted and doubled with another rider. Bivera took the soldier's horse and led them down the side trail. After the first few meters, the ground became uneven and slippery. The path must have been seldom used, and it was overgrown with brush and fallen branches were everywhere. They would almost have made faster progress on foot, and if the rebels were hiding on foot among trees, Bivera and the soldiers would be too busy staying astride to give a fight.
They reached a small clearing where a man on horseback was waiting. Bivera could tell from the resumed slouch that this time it was again Valarion. The horse had changed back to the original too, Bivera sourly noted.
“My Lord,” Bivera said, suppressing the sarcasm from his voice. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” Valarion replied. “I was unable to give further pursuit, however, owing to the density of the brush. It is unsafe here. Let us return to the village.”
Bivera arranged the soldiers in a proper security cordon and they headed east at a sensible pace. Neither man spoke. Back among the huts of Laydon, soldiers were waiting, swords ready and pointed at a cluster of men in chains.
The lieutenant hailed the Emperor and announced, “Prisoners, my Lord!”
“Have you identified the leaders?” Valarion received a nod. “Show them to me.”
Two men were shoved forward. Bivera's eyes widened with recognition. The older one was the brigand Faron, better-groomed and ruddier in complexion than seen last time, but unquestionably the prisoner that had been placed in Inoldia's care. The man next to him Bivera had never seen before, but the steady look in his eyes told of intelligence and fearlessness. Both men wrestled with their chains and glared at Valarion, who gazed sternly from his mount.
“Do men such as you have names?” Valarion demanded in the voice of judge and executioner.
“I am called 'Tracker,'” the younger one said. “And who are you?”
“You don't recognize him?” Faron said to Tracker. “That pile of fetid trash is none other than the Emperor!”
“Stay!” Valarion said to the raised swords of his angered men. To the prisoner named Tracker: “I suppose you'll deny that you took reprisals against these people.”
“We were in this area for routine scouting,” Tracker said. He turned his eyes about, taking in the village's devastation. “This looks like typical imperial work.”
“You murder innocent people!” Faron shrieked at Valarion. “You blame it on us! Is there no depth of foulness to which the Empire won't stoop? But I suppose the rot begins at the top!”
The men stirred, but the Emperor raised his hand in halt-gesture.
“Hold your tongue, Faron,” Tracker said. He faced Valarion again, smiling grimly. “My Lord, would you care to make a wager?”
“A wager?” Valarion asked.
“You will soon be marching your legions into the west, will you not?”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, it has to be somewhere, and to the east is sea.”
The look on Valarion's face told Bivera that this interaction, at least, was unscripted.
“You said a wager,” Valarion snapped. “What's it about?”
“I assume you believe that you will be victorious in your conquest of Britan. I believe Britan will swallow you.”
“We have brought the best legions in the empire, and what do you have to oppose us? Clumsy farmers!”
“You have legions of thousands, but this is a land of millions.”
Bivera was aware of the provincial census figures and knew that to be an exaggeration. But then, it wasn't by much.
“So we wager on my success. What can you as a prisoner offer as payment if you lose?”
“If you return alive from the west, then I will make a full confession of whatever you want me to say and do.”
Valarion cracked a smile. “And if I do not return?”
“You have doubts?”
Valarion's smile faded. He barked to the soldiers, “Take these men to the cells at Government House.” He glared at Tracker. “You have your wager. If I do not return, you will be released. I give you the bond of the Emperor's word, and I will hold you to yours.”
Tracker closed his eyes and bowed. As he was dragged away, Bivera realized the cleverness of the man. By the Emperor's implied commitment to his wager, Tracker had won himself and his fellow prisoners a reprieve until Valarion returned from the west. And if Valarion didn't return, perhaps Tracker had won himself and his fellow prisoners freedom.
Bivera's eyes shifted to Faron. Now there's a fool, he thought. Set him loose and he promptly has himself caught again. Only by sheerest luck had he come close to assassinating the Emperor.
Luck, Bivera thought. Was any of this truly by chance?
The soldiers were moving out, leaving the civilians to collect their dead amid the debris and smoldering ruins. Surveying the devastation, Bivera remembered from only minutes before the stilted lines, the well-dressed villager's speech, the contrivance of the doll. He could barely control the rage.
He trotted over to Valarion and said, so sharply as to border on disrespect, “My Lord, may I speak to you in private?”
Valarion bowed and they rode down the road a way, in sight but out of earshot of the soldiers. Valarion looked tired, almost sleepy, and waited for Bivera to speak. All but forgetting that he was addressing the Emperor, Bivera blurted:
“This was the most ill-conceived scheme that I've ever seen! Who do you think it deceives? The people of Britan know of these tricks. This action has done nothing but sully the reputation of the Empire. We've slaughtered innocent people, and not only that, they were of the few Britanians who've come to our side. Forget for the moment the ethics, what of the sensibility of this ploy?”
“I quite agree,” Valarion said.
“You . . . do?” Bivera asked in confusion.
“You'd best speak to In
oldia.” Valarion's voice was calm, almost listless. “This was done at the direction of the Sisters.”
Valarion unscrewed a flask, took a swig and rode off.
Bivera fumed and followed at a distance bordering at open disrespect. Yet he did not want even farmers in the fields to see him riding alongside the Emperor who had consented to a butchery that was sure to become infamous. He scowled at the chest of his uniform, perfectly tailored by his wife and impeccably creased by his orderlies, and wanted to rip it off and ride half-naked despite the cold of the day. But to publicly show disdain for the Imperium would jeopardize his family's welfare. He flicked the reins and rejoined the soldiers.
Later that morning, he was sitting in his new office aboard the barge, staring at a blank sheet atop which he had written in high flourishing script: Letter of Resignation. He heard a deep thrumming noise. He looked around, puzzled. As the din grew louder, he turned his head upward. He raced outside and joined the crowd of onlookers, who were matched by equally enthralled crowds on shore and aboard the other ships.
The dark spot in the eastern sky grew and turned, becoming the shape of a sausage. A huge sausage, larger than any ship that floated on sea, larger than any building that Bivera had ever seen save the Coliseum. Within the interior of a two-story structure slung beneath the bulbous shape, behind panes of glass, silhouettes of men were illuminated by harsh interior lighting.
The hum he'd heard was coming from the spinning windmills at its sides. Yet 'windmills' was a misnomer, for there was no breeze to turn the blades. They were spinning on their own, fast enough to generate a breeze of their own. Bivera tried to understand. Men inside the housings mounted ahead of the blades must be rotating cranks to make the blades spin. Yet could a trireme’s compliment of rowers cause blades to spin as fast as these? It must be so, for what other explanation could there be?
It was as if the Coliseum had become airborne, looming its shadow over the bay. Soldiers and sailors and their overseers had all paused to watch. The streets along the waterfront were filling with onlookers, and Bivera imagined the whole city had come to a pause to stare at the majestic monster.
On the prow, in flowing script in black letters tall as a man, was painted the name : Triumph of Rome.
So what Valarion had said was true. Rome had built an airship larger than the one that the Britanians had stolen. For how could anything in the world rival this in size?
Bivera remembered hearing whispers at the banquet the night before, rumors that Kresidala was 'no longer a problem.' If this thing had anything to do with it . . . it would be a butchery that made Laydon insignificant.
The airship slowed and descended as it approached the adjacent barge, the one with the bigger of the two towers. The windmills ceased churning and the monstrosity slipped through the air with silence that was ghostly – for even the smallest boat rustles through water. Bivera had little doubt that he was seeing something that had come from the twilight between natural and supernatural.
Soldiers aboard the craft lowered ropes which the soldiers on the barge grabbed. With what must have been drilled precision, they oriented the nose and docked the ship with the tower. As the breeze upon the bay shifted, the ship's tail swayed, but the nose stayed attached to the tower. A walkway extended outward from the tower, and men behind the windows lined as if they were preparing to disembark.
Oracle, Bivera thought. The night before, Valarion had mentioned an 'oracle,' in a tone of voice that made it seem an even greater wonder than the airship. But what could be more astonishing than this?
“Sir.”
Bivera became aware of a lieutenant at his side. “What is it?”
“Sir, there's been a disturbance in Londa. Soldiers have been killed.”
“How many?”
“Just two sir, but I was told you wanted to be immediately informed of any instance of fatal casualties.”
“What now?” Bivera murmured. Barely able to peel his eyes away, he followed the lieutenant to a boat. On shore they were greeted with a contingent of soldiers, no horses this time. The streets were calm and there was no panic or riot, as Bivera feared might have come in response to the sight of the airship. Instead, the Britanians were quiet and still, watching. To his surprise, even the Romans seemed subdued.
Bivera was conducted to an intersection near Government House. There was blood in the street, and the unmoving bodies of two soldiers, badly slashed. Bivera inquired of a captain whose wounded arm was being tended.
“The shackles of the prisoners were not properly secure, and one had concealed knives,” the captain said. “They grabbed swords and we fought, but then they fled, and as the streets are a maze – “
Bivera silently inspected the dead soldiers. Both were very young. What idiot had assigned fresh recruits to prisoner escort? And why only three guards, when protocol demanded one for every prisoner in such cases? And why weren't the prisoners thoroughly searched for weapons?
“At least we got one of them,” the captain said, indicating the sole civilian corpse.
Bivera's boot pushed over the sprawled Britanian, revealing the face. Tracker's eyes were closed, his lips unsmiling. The bloody slit across his throat told of professional execution.
A shadow fell upon the body. Bivera turned slowly. Inoldia smiled back serenely. She was, he noticed, back to her former slender self.
“The Emperor says the doings of this day were plotted by you,” he said seethingly. “I assume that is true of this as well. May I inquire to what purpose?”
“In the eyes of the Leaf,” Inoldia said, “Faron has been seen to attack the Emperor and conduct a daring escape. So his fellow escaped prisoners will report.”
“I see you’re assured that this one won't be doing any reporting.”
“Tracker was a very important figure in the Leaf. Faron is favorited to take his position now. If you were in the Leaf, could you think of a better candidate for promotion than brave, heroic Faron?”
“Laydon was one of the most loyal villages in Britan. You slaughtered folk who trusted us to defend them – for the sake of subterfuge!”
“General, isn't the loss of a village insignificant if we can avoid a war that will engulf a nation?”
“You want me to think of you as merciful?”
Inoldia's smile faded. “You would, if you knew what she would purpose.”
“She? What do you mean? Who is she?”
Inoldia – whom he had thought invulnerable to pain – shuddered and bent, as if stabbed by an invisible assailant. She cast a dark look and walked away wordlessly.
4.
Matt Four opened his eyes to darkness. But it was not the darkness that he expected. It was too warm and dry. There was a distant thrumming. The walls should have been stone, but they were metal. The chains around his wrists and ankles were small and lightweight, and should have been large and heavy. And where was the slime?
It took a few tries before he could utter, “Hello? Anyone there?”
“I am here,” a familiar voice said.
“Ivan,” Matt Four said, switching to subvocaling. “Is that you?”
“Properly speaking, I am not the Ivan that you expect. I am designated Ivan Beta, and am a partition of the neural implant of your archival template.”
“Last I remember, I was captured.” Matt pulled on the chains. “I gather I didn't escape.”
“I have no information as to whether you escaped on the occasion you refer to. However, you are currently a prisoner and I have revived you from a self-induced coma that appears to have had a duration of many years.”
“You mention my archival template. Is he here now? What year is this?”
“He is here now. It is the Standard Year 2835.”
“Time sure flies when your brain is non-functional. And where am I right now?”
“Your position is variable, as you are aboard an airship in motion.”
“Airship?”
“A lighter-than-air vehicle uti
lizing pressurized cells of hydrogen gas for buoyancy – “
“I know what an airship is. Just surprised they developed the technology so fast. Uh, we are still on Delta Pavonis Three, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Or maybe not. Is my template available?”
“He is in a state of involuntary sedation.”
“You mean, drugged? What happened? No, never mind – he was taken prisoner too, that's obvious. Well, can you give me more information on his current status?”
“I will contact Ivan Alpha.” Pause. “Ivan Alpha offers to provide you direct sensory data of his host's current situation.”
“I accept.”
Matt Four felt his body dissolve away, replaced by another. He lay on a narrow bed, his arms and legs tightly bound to the frame. The room was lit but windowless. The walls were metal, seemingly of the same kind that formed his own compartment. The cramped interior was filled with men. Some held rifles and watched his unmoving body, while others poked and probed with archaic medical instruments – stethoscopes, thermometers, syringes – that should have been in a museum.
“Where is this place relative to me?” Matt Four asked.
“It is twenty meters forward and one level down.”
“This thing is pretty big for a balloon-style airship. I take it, they're keeping him sedated so that he won't try to escape.”
“Ivan Alpha has reached the same conclusion.”
“Let me guess. When you try to neutralize the sedative, they inject more.”
“Correct. Toxicity limits are being approached, hence Ivan Alpha has discontinued efforts.”
“If you can fool them into thinking that he's still in deep sedation, you'll be able to revive him without them increasing the dosage.”
“Ivan Alpha has attempted that strategy. However, he has been unable to determine how his host's state of consciousness is monitored, hence he cannot deceive the monitoring method.”
Because it's too simple, Matt Four thought. As a neural implant matrix, Ivan would know how to shield his host against the most advanced electronic and nanotechnological monitoring. But old-fashioned, low-tech methods of telling if a patient was awakening –