Timediver's Dawn

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  After we returned to the camp—or temporary base, as it was called by the head marine, a burly man a good two heads taller than me who titled himself the Colonel-General Odin Thor—we listened to lectures, Some were on weapons. Some were on the situation in Westra, and how the marines were rebuilding the government structure after the wide-scale destruction by the Enemy.

  Unlike many of the other unwilling recruits, I listened, trying to sort out fact and propaganda. You could even ask a question, provided the questions were factual and not questioning the ConFeds.

  After the first few days, I could have left at any time, since I knew where the stores were kept and since I had regained the weight I had lost. But the same problem remained. Although some ConFeds had clearly fired my house, and probably killed my father, where would I go?

  So I stayed, getting into better physical shape than I had even for athletics at the Academy, learning whatever I could, and keeping my mouth shut. I lost track of the days, blurring as they did into the onset of spring, but kept working, especially at the hand-to-hand. When I left the marines, I’d need it.

  At night, sometimes when I wasn’t totally exhausted, I practised my sliding from place to place. No longer did the dives under the “now” leave me exhausted, but my appetite remained enormous.

  “Never saw a small man pack away so much,” observed Selioman. Probably in his late twenties, old style, he had been in the converted stables that served as barracks when we had arrived.

  “I guess I’m just nervous.”

  “Nervous? Ha! You never get upset, Sammis. You look like you’re waiting for something to happen,”

  I shrugged.

  “Look. The forcers all see it. Don’t you wonder why one is always watching you?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “They have. If you weren’t so young, Carlis would have made an example out of you early.”

  “Carlis?”

  “The mean one, with the scar. He looks like he’s ready to kill you when he sees you practising out in the yard.”

  “Do you think I should give it up?” I had discovered that one of the younger subforcers, Henriod, had been a martial arts master, and I had asked him for some pointers in my limited free time. That had grown into a series of pre-dinner workouts. He could still best me, most rimes, but I was beginning to be able to use my undertime sight to anticipate most of his actions, and before long, I suspected, I would be able to beat him. Not that I could afford to let him, or Carlis, know that, especially if what Selioman had said was true.

  “I wouldn’t. Everyone, including the colonel-general, has heard how hard you work. Quitting would give Carlis an advantage and a way to say you were slacking off.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  But I thought about it, and took another tack, easing up on the martial arts and getting another subforcer named Weldin to instruct me on some on the marines’ gear other than weapons. In practice, that meant the steamers and their accessory equipment. It also meant I spent most of my free time helping him and the maintenance crew clean the big beasts. Every few days, it seemed another one arrived from somewhere, often with a different paint scheme, sometimes even bearing the name of a hauling organisation. Weldin and his crew, all men, cleaned them, repaired the ceramic and glass fibre panels where necessary, and repainted each with the ConFed logo and colours. I generally got the grubbiest work available for the limited time I was free.

  Still. . . what else was I going to do?

  For one thing, I started eavesdropping, dropping out of sight for a few moments, from the few places where I wouldn’t be bothered, like the outhouse the recruits had to use, to duck under the now and watch.

  If I got the right angle, though I couldn’t hear from the undertime, I could see, and I was beginning to read lips.

  The most interesting place to watch was the room where the colonel-general had his maps of Westron. Often he and the experienced squads were gone for days at a time. The maps told some of the stories, because when he returned the one that showed the areas controlled by the ConFeds was usually changed, showing an ever-expanding wave of blue moving back toward Inequital.

  About the time it was clear that winter would indeed end, they split us up and put us in with the regular squads—scouts, troopers, or maintenance. Because of my work with Weldin and the fact that I clearly had some mechanical ability, I was one of two who went to maintenance. Selioman was the other.

  Henriod told me he was sorry I hadn’t been selected for scouts, but both Carlis and Weldin had overruled him. I knew why.

  Another batch of involuntary recruits arrived, and, then, Weldin called us together in the big barn that housed our dozen or so steamers.

  “Now that we have recovered the capital area from the Enemy, the colonel-general and the scouts have retaken the ConFed base near Mount Persnol, the closest Imperial installation remaining to the capital.” Weldin cleared his throat, then smiled. “We will begin transferring our operations there to reinforce a special project which offers us a chance to take the fight to the Enemy.”

  I kept my face blank. A special project to take the fight to the Enemy? An enemy that apparently could appear at will in much the same way as I could? The strategy maps and my limited undertime lip-reading had shown me nothing of that, but with a shade more free time in the evening, and the ability to walk the grounds behind the outlying wired fences, I had more opportunity to duck undertime. I resolved to use it as soon as possible.

  XX

  THE CONVOY—THREE freighters, the lead steamer, and the repaired armoured steamer— waited, chuffing, on the stones of the Eastern High-way bridge at Herfidian, to head through the bridge gates toward the muddied and lifeless hillside. I was on the first freighter, lined up directly behind the lead steamer. Even in the winter-weight uniform, I wanted to shiver.

  Watery grey light from a barely risen sun spilled through high and hazy clouds. In the chill morning air, both breath and the exhausts from the steamers cast thin white plumes from the bridge out across the marshes and the knee-deep water of the river.

  In addition to the head gate guard, two squads of marines were turned out, weapons unlimbered, behind the stone ramps flanking the bridge gate—one squad on each side, both squads facing the muddy slope where the highway angled until it reached the brush and trees beyond the enemy’s circle of destruction.

  “Still clear, sir.”

  The subforcer received the report without a word and nodded to the gate guard, who in turn began cranking the heavy bridge gate open. That gate had been something else in the time before destruction. Once mother had driven me, in that superb golden steamer of hers, to Jillriko, and the Herfidian bridge had been without gates then. The part of Herfidian west of the river had also existed then. Now there were marines and gates, and only half of the central town remained.

  As we lurched forward through the gate, with one hand I clung to the support rail. The other clutched the telescope that came with the lookout’s perch where I teetered. My eyes strayed to the projectile rifle stowed in the holder next to me, ready for use. I hoped I wouldn’t have to, but I recalled the holes and blood that had decorated the freighter I had seen from the roadside so many weeks before.

  Whufff . . . chuff . . . whufff . . . With the slight coating of slippery mud dust on the highway stones, all the steamers began to strain once they reached the beginning of the incline.

  Ccccrrrruuunnnch . . . Even with the freighter partway up the lower section of the hill, I could hear the sound of the bridge gate finally closing behind the armoured steamer.

  “Lookouts! Number one and four, rifles on standby. Two and three, cover the brush out there under the trees, out to the side.”

  Using my ability to slide out of the here and now to check the area from behind the non-time black curtain would have been safer scouting. It would also have revealed my secret and had me killed as one of the witches of Eastron. So I focused the scope out to my right, trying to see who o
r what might be hiding. One grossjay, patches of winter leaves on closed branches, and browned grasses flashed through the lens at me. We weren’t supposed to use the scopes until after we spotted something. The restricted vision told me why.

  Wuhhufff . . . chuff . . . skreee . . . The freighter lurched again as the driver overcorrected on one wheel.

  Clunk! My head connected with the hard wooden railing of the sentry box.

  “Verlyt!”

  “Quiet!” snapped Carlis from beneath.

  As I swallowed the blood from my just-bitten tongue, I steadied myself with my left hand and stowed the telescope.

  Whuuuufff . . . chuuufff . . . whuff . . . In approaching the crest of the hill, the freighter lurched forward, ponderously, swaying side-to-side with each lurch. And with each lurch and each sway, my stomach lurched also.

  Whhuuufff . . . skreee . . . whufff . . . chufff . . .

  By now I could smell old oil and bitter steam. Had I eaten that morning, that food would already have found its way elsewhere.

  “Don’t eat if you’ve got freighter lookout,” Selioman had told me. “If you puke on the freighter, Carliss’ll make you clean all the puke out of the belts and gears—after you get there. It took Marin a week.”

  So I had stuffed some hard bread and an unripe but squishy pearapple into my pack for later. The cooks had just nodded.

  Whhhuuufff. . . whufff. . . whuff. The lurching died down, and the engine sound steadied as we crested the hill and reached the flatter part of the road heading to and through Bremarlyn.

  Swallowing hard, twice, I leaned out into the breeze, trying to take in some fresh air. What I inhaled had no oil scent, no steam, but the bitter odour of mould and dust, of death and destruction.

  “Bandit at quarter one!”

  I swivelled to the left to track Rarden’s call, but the tarp-covered supplies blocked my view. Belatedly, I swung back to scan the quarter three area, trying to see if we were heading into an ambush.

  Nothing moved except one grey bird on a limb without even winter leaves and a dark ground dog hole.

  “Fire at will!” shouted Carlis.

  I unstrapped the rifle, lifted it into the swivel, and released the bolt lock.

  Crump! Crump! Rarden let fire. One of the ceramic shells ploughed up the ground not a dozen rods from the freighter.

  “Hold your fire!” Carlis sounded disgusted. “Did you hit that ground dog, number one?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Next time . . . never mind.” Carlis waved the green flag from the cab to the freighters behind and to the bewildered lead steamer.

  None of it made sense. Scattered bandits wouldn’t attack an armed convoy with even one or two lookouts. And nothing, including spaceships and lasers, had been effective in stopping the enemy.

  “Stow arms!”

  After replacing the rifle, I studied trees, grass, holes in the ground, and occasional birds— usually grossjays.

  By mid-morning, we were passing the site of the old inn, just flat mud and plastered dust, not quite covering the blackened and split foundation stones.

  The one time I had eaten there on my birthday after leaving first childhood, Father had ordered me a blue chyst tart as a special treat. So splendid—I had looked at it and looked at it, not really wanting to eat it.

  “Go ahead,” he had said.

  Mother had smiled her mysterious smile.

  So I had eaten it bite by bite, forcing the lany fast bites into an unwilling stomach. While the tart had been tasty, I still wished I hadn’t eaten it, and mother knew that.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Father had mumbled with his mouth full of his own tart.

  I swallowed as the freighter continued its lurching past another memory and another place destroyed, past the two stones that were all that remained of the best meal in the region, and past the inn that led back toward Bremarlyn itself.

  Two tumbled piles of black sand and stone sat on a bare hillside, bare except for rock and mud, so bare I did not recognise the East Hill entry to Bremarlyn at first. Then, it may have been the angle, since I had never looked down on the gates to Bremarlyn—or what remained of them.

  While the steamers were not the quietest of machines, their hissings and chuffings were low enough and intermittent enough for me to hear the lack of other sounds. The smell of ash, not dust, clogged the air, and the clouds overhead seemed to thicken as the freighters whuffed up and past the ruined stonework.

  Peering from the lookout, I strained to see what had befallen Bremarlyn. Blackened trunks and grey ashes dotted the west side of East Hill, little enough remaining of the town forest park.

  The old Customs Port Building, dating from the early days of the Compact, which had served as the local library since the time of my great-grandfather, stood blackened, roofless, its windows glaring blindly into the grey-hazed noon. Of the two burned-out steamers in the side parking area, little remained except the shattered ceramic tubing trapped in charred and melted glass fibre panels.

  Strangely, Bremarlyn had been spared total destruction by the enemy weapons. Instead, it appeared as though every dwelling had been torched . . . the more impressive the building, the greater the damage.

  As the freighters hissed downhill, storing energy in their flywheels, my eyes searched for familiar places. Marshall Getana’s villa—flattened as if by an explosion. Salmarn Hooste’s estate— burned so thoroughly that the walls of the old stables had collapsed inward.

  While few non-gentry had lived in Bremarlyn, even the more modest homes had not escaped the burnings. Hawy Sarston’s home had been levelled—all four rooms. The same for Kryn Naerlta’s cottage. And under the odour of fire and ashes was a sickly stench that reflected the rest of the corruption.

  With a still-empty stomach, I managed to spit the bile welling into my mouth clear of the steamer, half-choking, half-retching the nothingness within.

  Carlis ignored the lookouts, wearing as he did a strange half-smile I feared I understood. By the time he looked back up I had wrenched my guts back into semi-obedience and merely looked greenish.

  At that moment, I wanted to choke him. I knew I could kill him at leisure—if I felt that way later. But I was sick, sick especially of pointless killing, and, scared as I was, sick of violence because of fear.

  On the right as the convoy entered the central square was the meeting hall, now just four toppled walls and charred timbers. At least five steamers were buried under the rubble of the side wall, and the odds were that their owners were buried on the other side of the same wall.

  So far as I could tell from my lookout’s perch, swaying in the noon-time haze and chill, not a structure in Bremarlyn had been left intact. Every one had suffered either fire or explosive damage, or both. Not a single wall stood above shoulder height.

  The two big community power receptors stood untouched. But the beamed power receptor grids had been removed. Removed, not destroyed. The antenna bases stood untouched, but the grids themselves had been unbolted. Why? It didn’t seem to make much sense, because the power satellites themselves had not functioned since the day I had left the Academy.

  In the windless depression beyond the square where the Eastern Highway turned to run arrow-straight toward Inequital, the sick stench of death even turned the ranker sitting by Carlis greenish. Carlis kept smiling. I kept trying to keep from gagging, if only to avoid cleaning the steamer.

  After a time, when all the steam vehicles had chuffed through the ashes, and the smells, and the memories, the convoy reached cleaner air and the emptiness and open meadows of the Great Valley that separated Bremarlyn from the capital.

  My guts stopped trying to turn inside out, and Carlis stopped smiling and started barking commands again.

  XXI

  WHUFF . . . CHUFF . . . WHUFFT, chuff, chuff . . .

  I kept looking toward the west, trying to see when I might be able to pick out the famed towers of Inequital.

  No steam freighter guarantee
d a smooth ride. Each crack in the stone pavement, each joint, translated into a jolt high above the road.

  The closer the convoy tracked the Eastern Highway toward Inequital, the more destruction and the less life there were. Bremarlyn had been bad enough, with the Academy a still-smoking ruin and the western half where Kryrel and Hargin and Solbar and so many classmates had lived yet another welter of arson and explosive devastation.

  As the afternoon began to fade, the steamers reached two low stone gates, heavily weathered and each standing in a pile of sand. The wind picked up, whistling slightly and coming from the west. I nearly gagged again, cold as the air was across my face, from the odour of destruction and mould.

  Belatedly, I recognised where we were as the highway widened. The gates marked the edge of the Imperial Preserve, but there were no trees, no bushes, no flowers. Even beyond them, where the towers should have stood, there was only dust and ash and destruction.

  My stomach had taken too many shocks. This time, as the scale of the destruction hit me, it only turned over once or twice in protest. At the same time, the total absurdity of the colonel-general’s plans seemed even more apparent. We were going to take the fight to an enemy that had levelled the largest city in our planet’s history? An enemy that had done so without a casualty? An enemy we had no way of even finding?

  “We’ll be taking the road on the left at the crest of the next hill . . .” Carlis was telling the rating at the steamer’s controls. “. . . leads toward Mount Persnol . . .”

  I looked back toward the flattened low hills, still not believing that nothing remained of Inequital, nothing of the capital where my mother had disappeared.

  The steamer lurched, jamming me into the side of the sentry box as it turned onto the narrower stone road that headed directly south toward the mountains. My mother had called them hills, comparing them most unfavourably to the Bardwalls of Eastron.