by Baen Books
“What is his intent, do you think?” Churchill asked.
Isaac Newton’s expression was grave. “I hope it is merely to kill all your soldiers, John.”
Daniel the butcher’s son gasped audibly.
“Quite,” Churchill agreed. “I’d rather have them dead than raised against me as more of those rotting Lazars.”
“A counter-spell!” Father Grant suggested. “We gather the men in a church until the danger is passed, and we ward the church, further, against the Necromancer’s black art.”
“Isaac’s black art, you mean.” Churchill chuckled. “No, I think not.”
“How would you know when the Necromancer had tried his spell and failed?” Newton pointed out. “Even assuming I could create a counter-spell that would defend against such an attack. It is I who am to do this, is it not? When you say we, Father, do you not mean Isaac Newton shall do it?”
Father Grant wanted to apologize for his presumption, but what came out was a mumble, incoherent even to himself.
“What about silver, John?” Newton asked. “How much have we got?”
Churchill shrugged. “This army marches more on paper redeemable with the Knights of Saint John than it does on specie, Isaac. I doubt I have enough coins to give each man a silver shilling to clutch.”
“And that might not be enough to protect them, in any case.” Newton frowned.
“I have a different idea.” Churchill’s eyes gleamed.
“Tell us,” Father Grant said.
“I have a conceived a scheme that should save the men of Aldershot,” Churchill said, “as well as any other men whose baptismal records Cromwell has stolen. And it won’t exhaust my wizard or cost me silver. And indeed, it should allow us to lay a trap for the Necromancer’s men.”
“It certainly sounds good, John,” Newton said. “What other miracles might it accomplish, this plan of yours?”
Churchill smiled slyly. “It will make of Father Grant here a sort of magician.”
“No,” Edward Grant murmured. An uneasy feeling pinched his stomach. “I don’t see how that could possibly be true.”
“Father Grant,” Churchill said, “I think you are the only man who can save the Aldershot lads from the Necromancer now.”
Grant’s knees trembled. He drained the last of his goblet and set it on the table. “What do you need?”
“Sergeant,” Churchill said to Daniel, still standing in the door of the tent. “I need you to round up every stray animal in camp. Let us spare the horses, if we may, but every other animal. I mean very cow, goat, dog, cat, rat, and mouse you and your men can find. If it were less cold, I’d set you to trapping snakes as well. My orders, no exceptions, any man resisting is to be knocked unconscious. Am I clear?”
“Aye, sir.” Daniel offered a weary salute and exited.
“And me?” Grant asked. “What do you need me to do?”
“First,” Churchill said, “I need you to steel your conscience.”
##
His sobs long since exhausted with the rainfall, his eyes red and his heart black, Father Grant crouched in the gorse thickets on a ridge overlooking Churchill’s camp. With his travel cloak wrapped around him and his hat pulled down low, he should be invisible from the valley, a black blotch against the dark green gorse. Dawn was near. At the edge of camp, the horses grazed where they had been picketed, blissfully unaware anything had happened.
Churchill’s men lay strewn about camp. Some were on cots, others in tents, some on the ground beneath trees, others slumped forward at watch posts. The fires, hammered by rain until midnight, were now almost extinguished.
At the far end of the valley, the sound of marching.
Unnatural marching; too regular, too wooden.
The horses heard it first, and responded. They pulled at their pickets, they whinnied in protest.
Father Grant, alone in the gorse where John Churchill had left him, forced himself to watch.
The men of Essex and Kent, the Roundheads, came into view first. They wore the Necromancer’s black and brown. They carried muskets over their shoulders and bandoliers of cartridges over their chests. Their marching was disciplined enough, but it was human.
Behind the easterners came the Models.
They were the height of men, and some had faces painted onto their knob heads. Garish red devil faces, or crooked crimson grins under green hair, or bright yellow circles with black dots for eyes. Some also had black uniforms painted on their wooden bodies, but many were unfinished, showing garishly what they were—wooden puppets, the height of men, holding spears. Age, weather, and battle had chipped and splintered them, leaving many of them as spiny as hedgehogs.
Puppets without strings.
Murderous, man-sized marionettes.
It was the Models, walking on broad wooden feet the size of tree stumps and stepping forward together, as perfectly synchronized as a clock, that made the unearthly sound of the Necromancer’s advance. Their joints clicked as they walked, and the movement caused the wood of their long limbs to creak like a forest in the wind.
The Roundheads reached the first watchmen, still at the edge of camp. They rolled the guards onto their backs, and then a collective cheer went up from Cromwell’s army.
Several of the soldiers bayoneted the already dead men, to be sure.
Father Edward Grant had saved Daniel and the other Aldershot lads from that fate, at least.
The other Roundheads broke rank and ran forward to loot the camp.
The Models stopped where they were. Controlled by the Necromancer, or by one of his sorcerous lieutenants, they had no lust for booty like that which drove their mortal colleagues.
Grant felt sick to his heart.
The Roundheads rushed forward. Most threw their muskets into the grass, anxious not to be burdened and slowed down by the cumbersome Brown Besses in their race to get their hands on silver rings, gold teeth, pay packets, even fresh food.
As the Roundheads flooded into camp a sudden horn blew.
At the horn’s signal, every man of Aldershot and every other man in Churchill’s Hampshire Corps sat up, took aim, and fired. A ragged BOOM rang out over the valley, wreathing the scene in blue smoke at the exact moment that a crescent sliver of orange sun rose in the eastern sky.
Roundheads fell on all sides.
In Edward Grant’s ears, the booming of the guns sounded like the ringing of the bell. Once for each man in the camp, and the last time for himself.
Stunned, disbelieving, most of Cromwell’s men only stopped their efforts to loot and stared instead. Churchill’s men fired again; each had lain within reach of as many loaded muskets and pistols as possible.
John Churchill’s men rose with pikes, bayonets, and swords, and charged into the unresisting Roundheads. In Grant’s mind’s eye, the book of the Gospels slammed shut. Again and again, once for each man who fell.
“Pikemen, form up!” Churchill strode from his tent with a pistol in each hand, hair flying behind him. It made a grand entrance, and for good effect, he fired the pistols at the Models.
The Models charged.
“Fire!” Churchill yelled.
He did not mean guns. As the Models crashed into the pikemen and slowed, becoming entangled with the long spears and halberds that tried to push them away, another dozen men charged from Churchill’s tent. Daniel the butcher’s son was one of them, and they held bottles in their hands. The bottles were stopped up with oily rags, and the rags themselves were burning.
In a frayed wave, the bottles hurtled through the air. Maybe half of them missed, but even those that struck the ground shattered, splashing the Models with flaming oil. The direct hits were even more impressive, coating the Models in some cases nearly from ball-like head to clomping foot in sheets of flame.
Some flaming Models managed to crash through the pikemen. If anything, the Models were more terrifying when aflame—their mere touch wounded, and one of them scooped up two of Churchill’s men, one
in each arm, and hugged them screaming to its chest as it collapsed, all three of them destroyed by the fire.
All three, snuffed candles.
But mostly, with Cromwell’s musketeers fleeing, Churchill’s men had only to hold back the Models while they burned down to cinders.
When the last Model was a heap of embers, Father Edward Grant staggered down through the gorse.
All night long, one at a time. He had asked each man in camp his full Christian name, and then by bell, book, and candle, he had excommunicated them. He had started with John Churchill, who’d done it, he said, to set the example, and he’d done it holding his father’s book. Isaac Newton followed, then Daniel the butcher’s son, and last of all Father Edward Grant.
Whose name, after all, was also in the Aldershot parish register.
Paradox. He had excommunicated himself, and God must have accepted it, because Father Edward Grant yet lived. But that was not blasphemy enough. Saving his own life by renouncing heaven was not vile and venal enough for this black night, no.
To know for certain when the spell had been cast, John Churchill suggested, and also to give the Necromancer the impression that his magic was succeeding, Isaac Newton added, they had agreed it was important that something die.
After excommunicating each man, therefore, Father Edward Grant had baptized an animal by the same name. Cats, dogs, mules, vermin. Baptized and then penned up, tethered, or caged, and last of all to receive baptism had been a scrawny brown mouse christened and baptized Edward Grant. In that one final case, Grant had baptized the mouse first, hoping he might still then have the authority to do so, before excommunicating himself.
He shook at the memory.
The animals had died one at a time, simply dropping in their tracks. Churchill had organized his battle plan and given his men orders, then sent Grant up onto the ridge to be out of harm’s way.
Now, as Grant staggered down the hillside, cold and bone-tired, feeling a fever begin to burn up his forehead, Churchill strode forward to meet him. Daniel the butcher’s son followed a few paces behind.
“Father!” Churchill called, opening his arms to embrace him.
Grant accepted the embrace, reciprocating it but little. “No,” he said, “I am no father. Indeed, I am not Edward Grant.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out the little brown mouse, stiff and cold. “This was Edward Grant. Father Grant, Christian.”
Churchill looked at his face carefully. “Maybe. But if so, then you are Edward Grant, magician. Edward Grant, hero. Edward Grant, the man who saved England.”
Grant was too numb to respond. Instead he staggered on. “I must gather the animals up.”
“Why?” Churchill asked.
“They died Christian beasts. They deserve Christian burial. God forbid one of your men try to eat a baptized sheep. In the eyes of God and the church it might be cannibalism.”
“I’ll help you,” Daniel offered. “I’ll dig a grave for each, if you like.”
Churchill chuckled uneasily. “Of course.”
Grant took a few more unsteady steps.
Then he collapsed, but Daniel caught him.
Churchill called again. “You really have saved England, you know!”
“You’ve saved me,” Daniel whispered. “You brought me to salvation again, Father.”
“Have I?” Grant stopped, not looking back but gazing on the camp, where Churchill’s men now looted the bodies of the Roundheads for their bits of silver and copper, their weapons and ammunition. He looked up into Daniel’s face, blunt and honest and wearing a look of mixed pride and surprise. “Perhaps. And have I also damned England? Have I damned you, Daniel? Have I damned us all?”
Preparations and Alliances
A Story of the Arenaverse
Ryk E. Spoor
i.
Saul Maginot stood at the entryway for the shuttle Tranquility, ignoring the unusual sensation of having two physical bodyguards to either side of him. This was not terribly difficult as much of his attention was currently focused on dealing with the empty void in his head where his AISage, Elizabeth, usually lived. Elizabeth had been Saul's constant support and companion since Saul had been a young boy, which was about seventy years back or so.
But here in the Arena, no artificial intelligences or even sophisticated automation could function—barring, of course, the nigh-omnipotent Arena itself, if the intelligence that sometimes spoke for the Arena was an AI and not a living being. Even within the Harbor, the central hollow portion of the Sphere that represented humanity's original Solar System in the Arena, only simple automation or living intellects functioned; even high-power sources, such as nuclear fission, fusion, or antimatter, would not work. The Arena had its rules, and when you were here, you had no choice but to obey them.
It was a frighteningly lonely sensation, to be isolated in one's head after seven decades of having someone constantly with you . . . but it was also strangely exhilarating. He could have thoughts that were utterly private, make his own decisions without anyone or anything interfering or second-guessing.
And this is how the inhabitants of the Arena live their lives. And how our visitor's species has lived for its entire existence.
The immense door at the end of the Dock slid open with a ponderous majesty, and three figures passed through the gap: two human and one . . . not.
The human in the lead was none other than Thomas Cussler, the Governor of the Arena-side human colony now growing in the Inner as well as the Upper Sphere. Bringing up the rear was a military guard—CSF uniform, looks like a captain . . . ah, yes, Captain Ashita. Good man, remember him well.
Between them, currently blindfolded, was a diminutive creature; standing no more than a meter and a half, its body was covered with a smooth, shiny integument more like chitin than skin, glimmering white with patches of brilliant purple. Bipedal, it had a well-muscled, somewhat humanlike body with three-fingered hands and three-toed feet that looked nearly as capable as the hands, and a long, powerful tail. The head was smooth and rounded; though the blindfold covered up the large, red-tinted eyes that Saul had seen in pictures, he could see the small mouth beneath an equally small nose and the faint bumps of the inset ears. Despite being blindfolded, the creature walked with a smooth, confident stride that somehow conveyed a feeling of great power that belied its small frame.
Thomas stopped as the main Dock door finished closing. "You can remove the blindfold, sir."
The figure reached up and removed the blindfold. I'm a bit sorry we had to do that, Saul thought, but it seems the interior of our Sphere is very different from that of others, according to DuQuesne, and that is a secret we need to keep, at least until we know what it means.
Now visible, the slanted ruby eyes of the alien glinted with both a sharp intelligence and caution, scanning the entire area. The body relaxed, a nigh-subliminal increase in fluidity of motion, and it moved forward to walk alongside Cussler.
"Tunuvun of the Genasi, allow me to present to you Commander Saul Maginot of the Combined Space Forces of Humanity. Commander Maginot, Tunuvun of the Genasi, Master of Challenges and Leader of the Faction of the Genasi."
Tunuvun bowed low, with arms and hands spread wide and head kept raised so that his gaze maintained contact with Saul's; Saul repeated the gesture as best he could. "It is a great honor to meet you, Leader Tunuvun. Welcome to our Sphere."
"A far greater honor is mine, Commander Maginot," the Genasi Leader said; his voice was a high tenor, with a tone in it that gave great emphasis to the words. "If what my friends and allies-in-arms Ariane Austin and Sun Wu Kung have told me is true, I am the first alien—the first not of your Faction—to be allowed to enter your Harbor and, I am given to understand, journey to your home system itself."
"That much is true, Leader Tunuvun; I have been told that your Faction has explicitly and directly allied itself with ours?"
"It was your aid—and your champion, my new brother Wu Kung—that gave us our Sp
here and thus our recognition as First Emergents, as citizens of the Arena. There is no value we could place on this debt, Commander, without diminishing its true nature. Do you understand that?"
"I believe I do—at least intellectually. Your people are natives of the Arena, but have never had a Sphere of your own, have hardly ever had the opportunity to visit what we call "normal space." You have been . . . second-class citizens."
"At best. Yes. And so you understand that we must offer whatever aid we can to your people."
"It is appreciated, Tunuvun—may I address you without the honorific?"
A bob of the head and shoulders. "Of course. May I reciprocate?"
"Please. Call me Saul. As I said, it is very much appreciated, Tunuvun. But for now, I think we may have at least as much to offer you. As a Faction even newer than our own, you've got a lot of work ahead of you." He gestured to Tranquility's airlock. "Please, enter. I'm sure you're looking forward to seeing our solar system."
The body vibrated, the tip of the tail buzzing faintly. "I am as excited as a child on his first journey, Saul. A few of our people have been able to visit the other side of the sky, but not I. And now, as I understand it, we have our own world on your side of the sky, and we must learn how to live there as well." His head tilted suddenly. "Many apologies if this is insultingly obvious . . . but I have been told that the Arena's gift of speech does not function in that other space."
"You are correct, Tunuvun, but fortunately for us both, our mutual friends also thought of that; Simon Sandrisson sent us data on your language and we have what should be an excellent translation program. It seems that, because of your people's unique position in the Arena, your actual language has been studied fairly extensively by scholars of multiple factions, including the Analytic, and I am told that this should make the transition relatively simple—language-wise, at least."
Tunuvun gave a grunt that Saul somehow sensed as a nod of assent. The Arena's translation protocols are sometimes eerie. "Then I will not be reduced to waving my hands to indicate I need to eat."