Timediver's Dawn

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The Bardwalls are mountains, Sammis,” she had said. “Compared to them, most of the mountains of Westra are mere hills.” Strangely, in retrospect, I had never asked how she knew. She knew so much, often revealed merely in passing, that it had never occurred to me to ask until I no longer could.

  The wind began to pick up, colder than in the valley. By the time we reached the crest of the second hill, I had refastened all the clips on my parka, and there were traces of rime ice along the depressions beside the road.

  The road, not quite wide enough for two big freighters to pass comfortably, looked older than the Eastern Highway, with actual ruts worn in the stone. How long that had taken I could not guess, but it meant that the road probably predated the Westron Monarchy and might have even been built when some Eastron Duke ruled the area.

  Ahead, to the right, on my side, I could see a lump or pile of something near the crest of the third hill. Each hill was a little higher than the one before. The fences were still in good repair, untouched by the fires that had gutted the plantation houses and the freeholder’s houses.

  I focused the telescope on a lump off the shoulder of the road—a burned-out steamer, reduced to a heap of ceramic parts and tubing, and ashes from the now-burned frame. A non-military vehicle, without the metal framing of a ConFed or Security steamer.

  When we were within a dozen rods, I saw the gaping holes in the tubing, holes that could only have come from military weapons. The rust was not as heavy as on the wrecks at Bremarlyn, and the ashes were still nearly black.

  I glanced down at Carlis, who watched the way ahead as intently as the lookouts, and wondered if the steamer had been merely trying to escape the ConFeds. Since Carlis was not smiling, he hadn’t had anything to do with it.

  Not one of the ConFeds, including the other troopers, gave the wrecked steamer more than a passing glance. I saw a glint of metal, like a buckle or pin, in the ashes. Then we were past the wreck and heading downhill again.

  The road was quiet, except for the sounds of the convoy. Not even a single grossjay appeared on the wooden fences or by the scattered evergreens. Nor did any ground squirrels poke their snouts from burrows. I didn’t see any burrows, either.

  With each hill came fewer fences, fields, and meadows—and more trees. Older and taller trees. With each hill, Carlis’s lips clinched tighter. And the shadows got longer, and the wind colder.

  And I got hungrier, my stomach tightening into a dull aching knot.

  As the convoy neared the top of a particularly long hill, with the steamer protesting more than usual, I caught sight of some life. Short piles of logs were laid out in stacks beside the road. Tree stumps lined both sides of the old highway, as did piles of ashes, whipped by the gusty wind like snow, where the brush had been burned.

  “Camp coming up!” Carlis half-bellowed.

  I curled my feet in my boots, trying to keep them from getting too numb. With my luck, and because my guts had rebelled so much, I was facing an even longer wait, if Selioman had been correct. Even if I hadn’t puked my guts all over the freighter, at least twice Carlis had seen me losing control.

  That probably meant cleanup detail.

  Twheet! Twheet, twheet, twheet! I jumped, banging my sore thigh against the sentry box from the piercing whistle.

  “Slow down. Watch for the flag on the right. The entry road is narrow. Take it easy.” Carlis was squinting into the twilight, leaning forward.

  I saw the flag before he did. “Flag on the right, sir! About twenty rods up, sir!”

  “Slow it down.” Carlis ordered the rating.

  The steamer slowed and lurched, and I banged up against the sentry box again.

  The wind gusts had subsided to a steady moaning, and my breath was beginning to form frost clouds. Even with the extra space provided by the felling of the trees nearest the old highway, I felt hemmed in by the height of those remaining, many of which towered close to fifteen rods above the plateau. Most of the stumps were broader than I was tall.

  Black oaks grow slowly. I remembered one which had stood in front of our house, less than two handspans thick. My father told me that he had planted it himself when he had been about my age.

  After the turn the convoy was headed west again, along the narrower stones of the side road toward the almost totally faded orange glow of a sun that had set behind the mountain hills. Another kay before brought us to a stone wall. The stones were grey-black, and the old-fashioned parapets by the gate looked down on me a lot more than I looked down to the ground.

  Just the area in front of the closed and timbered gate was illuminated by the yellow of the etheline lights. The guard stations and the walls were dark.

  The freighter sounded its whistle again, and I jumped.

  The big freighter lurched to a stop.

  Outside the gate, a single sentry appeared. Several lights flashed along the parapets to indicate that there were more guards waiting. Still, I thought the whole exercise was stupid. A raiding party would try any place but the front gate.

  The walls dated back before the Resurgence, probably to before the time of the Eastron occupation. I figured they were that old because of the thickness. While the secrets of powder and guncotton had survived the ups and downs of Queryan history, with each fall more metal had been lost, and the struggling Westron baronies could not afford to use iron or lead shells, not if they wanted other more pressing tools, like lathes and pumps and steam engines. Stone balls were fired from the few bombards that could be sledged from siege to siege. Thick walls tended to defeat the use of the bombards.

  “Identify yourself!” demanded the guard wearing the purple uniform of a Security officer.

  “ConFed detachment two, sent by Colonel-General Odin Thor. The password is ‘Vanish.’ “ Carlis’s voice was merely a half-bellow.

  One of the lights on the wall played over Carlis and the rating at the freighter controls, then dropped down to illuminate the stone pavement leading to the gate.

  Creakkkk . . . urrummmbbblle . . . The gate began to open. The seco vanished back into the wall.

  “Follow the line of torches to the barracks,” called another voice. “Someone will meet you there to guide you to the unloading docks and the maintenance facilities.”

  Carlis nodded and grunted. The rating began torquing up the engine pressure, and, by the time the gates were fully open, we were rolling toward the darkness on the other side.

  Whatever the installation had been before, it was big. In the early evening darkness, I could not see where the walls ended, only that they continued north-south without reaching a corner or turning point within light or shadow distance.

  “Keep it slow . . .” added Carlis.

  The line of torches curved to the right. To the left ran another road or street. Both seemed to be lined with foundations of a series of buildings long since taken down. Buildings that had been substantial—if the stone foundations were any indication.

  Once the freighter came to the bottom of the incline, the road and the line of torches ran straight to a long two-story stone building able to hold hundreds of troopers. A steamer runabout, with functioning headlamps, waited before the building.

  “Welcome to the project.” The voice came from the steamer, clear, penetrating, ironic, and distinctly feminine. A woman stood on the running board of the steamer next to the empty driver’s seat.

  Even in the dim light from the torches and the freighter controls I could see Carlis’s surprise. The forcer said nothing.

  “Follow me,” added the woman, swinging into the steamer in a single fluid motion.

  “Go ahead. Follow her,” snapped Carlis.

  The last glimpses of twilight had completely faded by the time we traversed another half kay of old stone roads and right angle turns.

  The convoy finally chuffed to a halt behind another ancient stone structure.

  “Download team!”

  I winced, wondering if Carlis would add me to the unloading and c
leanup party for my failures to keep my stomach totally in line, but he glanced at me, than glanced away. “Road sentries— dismissed! Report to Subforcer Henriod for quarters and grub assignments. Engineers! Report to Subforcer Weldin . . .”

  Carlis’s instructions went on and on, but I put the sentry box in order, shouldered the projectile gun and climbed down. My legs were shaky, and I was very careful with the handholds and footholds. By the time my feet touched the hard pavement stones, Carlis was barking more orders to move the freighters to the unloading docks.

  I retrieved my pack from the locker under the sentry box. It felt like a load of stones.

  “Road sentries. Answer up.” Henriod’s voice was loud, but tired. “Rarden?”

  “Here, sir!”

  “Eltar?”

  “Here, sir!”

  “Sammis?”

  “Here, sir!”

  Henriod ran through a dozen names, then stopped, and cleared his throat. “We have quarters in the barracks building. On the second floor. Take any bunk you want in the open area. The rooms with double or single bunks are for officers, forcers, or subforcers.

  “You’ll have to walk back there. Stay in groups of three, at least. Keep your weapons until Janth and I get there with the locks for the armoury. Late mess after unloading.” He looked over the sorry appearance we presented. “Dismissed.”

  Eltar, Farren, and I walked back together, following the line of torches. The torches were attached to wooden piles that had once held broadcast light bulbs. The bulbs and their metal holders had been removed. After less than twenty rods, my shoulders began to ache from the weight of the light pack.

  “Sammis?”

  “Unnh?”

  “You came from Bremarlyn . . . ?”

  I didn’t want to answer that one, but not answering would have been worse. Just from Carlis’s comments, I had picked up on how little the ConFeds cared for the gentry.

  “Um-hummm,” I answered.

  “Funny, you don’t act that way,” mused Eltar.

  I shrugged. What could I say, really?

  “You really gentry, Sammis?” asked Farren. He had a nose that made night-eagles look snub-nosed.

  “It depends on how you figure it. My father was. My mother wasn’t. I hope I got her common sense along with his name.”

  That got a chuckle from Farren.

  “What’s it like, being gentry?” asked Eltar.

  Terwittt, terwittt. Some night bird punctuated Eltar’s question.

  I stumbled on a rough paving stone, although, between torches and stars, there was certainly enough light for me.

  “I never thought of it that way,” I finally answered. “I knew we had more than other people, but at . . . school there were sons of farmers, tradesmen, and mechanics. We lived in a large house, but many were larger. My father was from a long line of gentry, but my mother wasn’t. She used to say that she didn’t even know her own grandparents. Until everything fell apart, I never gave it much thought . . .” I cleared my throat. That was difficult because it was dry. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you ask?”

  Eltar shrugged. “Always wanted to know. Mother died. Dad ran the store, and he always bowed to the gentry, and they dressed better, but they didn’t look any smarter, and they didn’t act any smarter. We were poor, and they barely seemed to notice us, except when the taxes were due or when the highway levies were demanded . . .”

  “. . . and when some young gentry lad showed up in a flashy steamer and made off with the pretty girls and dumped them back pregnant,” added Farren.

  I was tired, and there wasn’t much else I could say. They were talking about things I’d never done or seen.

  But, from what I’d overheard, they were the sort of things that had happened. I hadn’t been old enough for that, and, besides, neither of my parents would have approved.

  “You ever have a steamer?” asked Farren.

  “No. Nor a girl,” I admitted ruefully.

  They both laughed, and by then we were walking up the last few rods to the barracks. Even Eltar, with all his size, kept shrugging his shoulders to keep the weight of his pack from stiffening his muscles.

  XXII

  THE LOW-SLUNG STEAMER runabout was back by the main entrance to the barracks, with a Seco guarding the purple machine. He carried a weapon I’d never seen before, a short-barrelled gun not long enough to be a true projectile rifle nor short enough to be a handgun.

  “Riot gun,” observed Eltar quietly.

  I must have looked puzzled.

  “That’s what the Secos used on the crowds at Wavertown.”

  “Wavertown?”

  The three of us had stopped on the far side of the half-circle stone drive as we surveyed the Seco and the runabout. The security officer turned toward us, casually letting the weapon move in our direction.

  “You didn’t learn about Wavertown in school?” Farren’s voice rose.

  “No. What was Wavertown?”

  “Wavertown was where the Secos killed two hundred miners for refusing to work the deep seams.”

  “The deep seams?”

  “You’re hopeless, Sammis,” sighed Farren. “Look. All the easy metal is gone. At Wavertown, there were deep seams of iron ore. You know, the stuff they make steel from? The seams were so deep that a lot of miners got sick from the heat and the fumes. Some of them died. The government said they died from drinking too much etheline. The Secos took over the mines. The miners refused to go back to the deep seams. The miners held a public meeting, and the Secos surrounded them and ordered them to the mines. The miners refused. The Secos shot them. Two hundred died, and close to a thousand were wounded.”

  I shook my head. The Eastron Sympathy Revolt had been nothing like that. The southern miners had refused to support the war effort against Eastron and had sabotaged the mines so badly that they were never reopened. When the Secos had tried to stop the sabotage, the miners rose and tried to keep the troops from the mines until the destruction was complete.

  “Look, Sammis. You’re gentry. Or you were. Do you think your folks were going to tell you that they beat down freemen and miners? And what about Nepranza?”

  “What about it?” I asked softly. I’d never heard about it. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Nepranza was three-four years ago. What world were you in? Just because some minor lord got uppity when a few youngsters got too friendly with his daughters, the Secos murdered a dozen. Then they did have riots. The lord’s girls were fine, they said, but a lot of the town’s daughters weren’t. They were dead, or wished they were.”

  I just kept shaking my head. Did they think that the newspapers would have hushed up the kind of massacre that Farren said had taken place? Or the supposed events in Nepranza? My pack felt like it weighed as much as the steamer that waited by the barracks.

  “Do you really believe that drek about natural choice of the gentry?” Farren’s voice was almost a shout.

  The Seco was sneering openly as Eltar grabbed Farren’s arm.

  “Chill it, Farren. Sammis doesn’t honestly know. Can’t you see that?”

  I wanted to slug them both—Eltar for being so damned condescending, and Farren for believing that all gentry had forked tongues and fangs. I didn’t do either. I just walked away from them.

  “Still gentry at heart . . .”

  “. . . just chill it. . . lost both parents . . . made it through ConFeds . . .”

  Just as I drew up to the runabout, careful even in my rage to keep a good distance from the dark-haired Seco with the riot gun, he swung to back to face the barracks door, and stiffened.

  “Valtar? Have any of the ConFeds arrived back here?” The woman who had greeted Carlis so efficiently stood full in the torch lights, glancing past the Seco toward Eltar and Farren, who were still mumbling about me. “Are those the first?”

  I tried to keep my mouth shut as I studied the woman. She had sandy-blond hair that glinted in t
he light, and a figure that might almost have seemed boyish, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, until I saw her even narrower waist. Despite shoulders nearly as broad as mine and short hair cut square across the back of her neck, she was clearly feminine. Her face was almost elfin, except for the set of her jaw. I liked what I saw of her figure.

  She reminded me of someone, but I was in no shape to remember who.

  “Trooper.” The words were directed at me.

  “Yes, Colonel.” I had no idea what she might be, but she radiated authority.

  At my response, she smiled, a professional smile. Even so, the smile softened her expression momentarily, made her look years younger, close to my own age, before she wiped it away. She was attractive in a familiar sort of way, but that could have been because it had been so long since I had been around any real women. “We’re a military project, Trooper, but not military. I’m Dr. Relorn.” She studied me again. “How long before the rest of the troops arrive here?”

  Her scrutiny left me feeling uneasy, as if she saw right through me. “The other road scouts, about twelve in all, are on the way back. The unloading crews will be a while yet.”

  “You are?” she asked, the smile clearly gone.

  “Sammis, ConFed maintenance, Doctor.”

  She frowned, then let the expression drop. “The barracks are yours. There’s no power right now, but we should be able, now that you have some mechanics here, to get the standby steam generators on line within a day or two.”

  I would have liked to talk more, but Farren and Eltar were sauntering up the drive, and the Seco was positively scowling. So I inclined my head. “Thank you, Doctor. We appreciate it.”

  She nodded in return. “Good night.” Again, her eyes seemed to look right through me. She smiled briefly, and it seemed for a moment as she and I were alone in front of the ancient stone barracks.

  Then the smile was gone, and a doctor who acted like a colonel stood there. Probably twice my age for all that she looked young when she smiled. She turned, and I shook my head.

  “Did you see that?” Farren’s voice grated on my nerves. “She talked to you?”