BLACKBIRD
A Warrior of the No-When
by
Martin Schiller
Author of “Sisterhood of Suns: Pallas Athena”
& Other Works of Wonder and Imagination
Printed with the Express Permission of the Masters
PANTARI PRESS
Seattle, Washington, United States of America
Second Universe, 21st Century
2017
© Copyright 2017 Martin Schiller. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0692865750
ISBN-10: 0692865756
DEDICATION
For Joseph Campbell
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1: A Light in the Darkness
CHAPTER 2: The Sign of Six
CHAPTER 3: The Greatest Lie Ever Told
CHAPTER 4: Into the Empyrean
CHAPTER 5: The River of Time
CHAPTER 6: A Warrior of the No-When
CHAPTER 7: The Mask of the World
CHAPTER 8: Hitler Day
CHAPTER 9: Anasazi
CHAPTER 10: Ouroboros
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
In which I describe the circumstances of my childhood, my acquaintance with the Bookmen, and my decision to rebel against the Masters.
When I was very young, the Bookmen were an abstraction; they fulfilled the role of cautionary monsters that my parents employed to ensure my best behavior. ‘Behave’ they would warn me, ‘or the Bookmen will come and take you away.’
Much later, two events occurred that taught me that the Bookmen were not mere bogeymen, but quite real, and worthy of both my fear and defiance. They also indelibly changed the course that my life would have otherwise taken.
The first of these occurred when I was but 12 years of age. I had just begun to change into a woman and my mother had taken me shopping for garments that were more appropriate to my new station in life. I was quite proud of my elevated status and feeling happy, and because of this, I did not notice the man running for his life until he was almost upon us.
I can still recall the stark terror on his face, and the look of utter hopelessness in his eyes as he tried to outrun the oculon and the group of uniformed men who were accompanying it. Two of them wore the severe black garments of the Bookmen, and the other three were red-coated soldiers equipped with immaculate white pith helmets and rifles fixed with bayonets.
I also remember the terrible sound that the fugitive’s body made when he tripped on a cobblestone and fell to the ground. And also the cry that came from my own throat when one of the gleaming silver mechanica stationed in the square suddenly came to life, and seized him up by the collar of his coat.
Of course, my mother, having far more sense than I, did the right thing and clapped a hand over my mouth as the Bookmen caught up with their quarry. But she did not turn my eyes away from what occurred next, and thinking back, I believe that she may have harbored some hidden sympathies for the Free Radicals, and wanted me to see what kind of justice the Masters dealt out to those who defied their will.
As I watched in horrified fascination, the fist-sized oculon settled into a hover to record the event, and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, the senior-most Bookman declared the man to be a traitor to the laws of the Masters. Then he drew his pistol from its holster.
It seemed to be a gigantic thing to my young eyes, and it terrified me, but it was as if I was under some kind of spell and could not look away as he placed it against the prisoner’s temple. Then there was the awful, sharp report as he fired and I felt my knees grow weak as the poor fellow’s brains splattered against the stones. Were it not for my mother catching me, I am certain that I would have collapsed.
But before she could whisk me away from the gruesome scene, I witnessed one more thing. It was what the poor wretch had died for. As his hands went limp with death, it rolled from his grasp before being seized up by the nearest Bookman.
It was a simple hand-torch, operated by batteries--a common enough bit of contraband in my world--but no less damning for that. Even at my tender age, it made me understand more firmly than ever, that to defy the Masters, no matter how small the infraction, meant death.
To soothe my shattered nerves, my mother took me to a sherbet shop that was well away from the place, and did her best to focus my mind on happier things. Nonetheless, the damage had been done, and it had left its indelible mark upon me.
The second occasion was far less horrific in nature, but just as drastic. This time, I was in school, and our teacher, a wise and gentle woman named Mrs. Welch, called us to attention and pulled down a map of the world. It showed the full extent of the English Commonwealth, and I was both amazed and impressed by the extent of its influence, particularly in North America.
The flag of the United Kingdom waved from shore to shore, overshadowing the paltry achievements of the Spanish in Mexico, and keeping the Russians at bay in the cold dark forests of Canada. And seeing this, I reflected on how mighty my nation was, and how proud I was to be an Englishwoman at such a momentous period in history.
A moment later, Mrs. Welch destroyed all of my self-assurance and sense of superiority with one simple statement. “This is our world,” she informed us, glancing briefly at the oculon sitting in its polished brass cradle in a corner of the room.
“It has been completely mapped. Not a single centimeter of our planet remains unexplored, nor unexplained. There are no new frontiers for your generation to explore, and no great causes to embrace.’
“When you come of age, your task will be to take your place in a well-ordered world where your future has already been determined for you by the Masters. And your only calling will be to render obedience to the Crown, and beyond it, to the Masters themselves.”
I was utterly shattered by the horrible, grey conformity of this pronouncement. I had never thought of myself as any kind of explorer or adventurer, but to be told that any possibility of a greater life had been stolen away from me before I might have even dared dream of it, sounded like the worst sentence ever passed by any judge, in any court. At that instant I decided that I would become a rebel, and prove both my teacher and society wrong.
I did not realize it at the time, but in all probability, kindly Mrs. Welch was far wiser than my childish mind could comprehend, and like my mother, most likely a Free Radical herself. By telling me that I had no choice, and no future, she had slyly set me on the course of independence, and ultimately, towards a destiny beyond all of my wildest imaginings.
CHAPTER 1: A Light in the Darkness
In which I detail my life, my love, my clandestine work with the Professor, and the role I play in the rebellion. Then, a dangerous liaison in the Underground.
A low hum coming from the street outside heralded the arrival of the Bookman’s car. Peering out the parlor window, I made out its sleek black form just as it pulled up to the curb. Most citizens, whether guilty or innocent, would have been unnerved by the sight of the machine, but I was not. And with good reason; its occupant was a daily visitor to our home, however unwelcome I considered him to be.
A moment later, the bell over the door rang, and one of the servants scurried to open it. When I came out into the hall and saw the maid taking his half-cape and leather shako cap, I had to fight the strong desire to grimace in distaste. I overcame the impulse however and adopted a polite smile instead.
Bookman Pierce commanded such a performance, for he was far more than a mere street Bookman. He was in fact, the senior most of his kind in our city, although to have looked at him for the first time, one would have never guessed it. Like his fellows, he wore a se
vere black uniform, and the only sign of his profession were a pair of winged hourglasses mounted on his high collar, with the dire motto of the Bookmen inscribed on a ribbon beneath them; “Tempus Fugit”
Most of the Bookmen, whether they were men or women, were solemn and silent things, but Pierce was even more taciturn and serious than the whole of them combined. The man never smiled, and no emotion had ever colored his speech in all the years that I had known him. The fact that his skin was also as pale as a corpse did nothing to lend him any cheer whatsoever, and his cadaverous appearance was only accentuated by his costume and the heavy black mutton chops that he favored.
Taken in his entirety, Pierce had always reminded me of a great black beetle, with all of the compassion and humanity of such a creature. He made my skin crawl, but because he was my father’s guest, I was left with no choice but to greet him and show him into our breakfasting room.
“Bookman Pierce,” I said, giving him the Zerodian greeting. “May nothing be with you.”
“And may nothing be with you, Miss Steele,” he replied flatly.
I pointedly ignored the heavy cavalry pistol hanging from his great belt, and the efficient looking sabre. No Bookman ever went unarmed, anywhere, and Pierce was definitely no exception. I had even heard rumors that he favored the blade for his grim work. He was, like all Bookmen, a servant of the Masters, and therefore an executioner.
I gave no voice to this though, nor to my true opinion of him. Disrespect of a Bookman was disrespect of the Masters themselves, and they dispensed death with little hesitation or provocation.
“My father is still at table,” I informed him. “We were just beginning to break our fast.”
“Good,” he returned. “I have important business to transact with him.” His eyes met mine as he said this, and I made certain to keep my gaze steady. More than any other thing, these had always been his most intimidating feature. They seemed to see right through a person to the very heart of any secret that they had locked away.
And I had many secrets to keep. Secrets which would have earned me a quick death if they were ever revealed to men like him. I was after all, a scientist. In our world, those who defied the edicts of the Book, and studied forbidden technologies as I did, risked their very lives. But I was also young, with all the intrepid carelessness of youth, and willing to take the risk without any true perception of the terrible cost that I might someday be required to pay.
No accusations came from his lips on this occasion though. As always, he merely nodded, and followed me into the breakfasting room. Now, looking back at those innocent days, I realize what a pathetic little fool I had been, and how much he had really known.
However, that is for a later point in my tale. I was still 18, young, and according to some of my admirers, quite beautiful. My life seemed filled with wonderful possibilities, and for all the fear and loathing that he inspired, Bookman Pierce and the Masters he served, appeared to have been deceived by my amateurish tactics. Rather than go on about this though, I think it best to leave things at that for the moment and return to my narrative.
When we entered the breakfasting room, my father rose, and greeted Pierce warmly. Unlike myself, he actually liked the man, and beckoned for him to take his customary place at his right hand.
“So, Bookman, how fares the land?” he asked as they seated themselves. It was the same question that he always put to Pierce when he visited.
“We arrested the members of a Free Radical cell last night,” Pierce informed him, taking a preliminary sip of his tea. “When they were apprehended, they had half a dozen electric torches, the beginnings of a megaphone, and a printing press that they were using to replicate their lies.’
“We believe that they were planning to use the megaphone to make speeches at the Public Market and then distribute their tracts to the crowd.”
“The bounders!” my father declared, his monocle popping free. “When will these reprobates learn not to defy the Masters and simply live their lives as decent, law abiding citizens? Tell me sir, what do you intend to do with them?”
Pierce drank a little more of his tea as my father replaced his lens. “We plan on a public hanging in the Market, two days hence. It should send a different kind of message to the populace.”
“That is the only right and proper way to handle it,” Father agreed. “These Free Radicals are becoming far too bold of late, and they need to be taught a firm lesson.”
Being the Provincial Governor of Northwestin-Cascadia, it was his job to see to it that our land obeyed the laws of the English Crown and the Masters, and to support the Bookmen. But to hear a man that I loved so dearly, vehemently approving of such terrible measures, and unknowingly cursing his own offspring in the process, made me ill.
Had there been such a thing as a God, I would have prayed to Him to inspire my father to see the light as I had, and join me in my rebellion. This was impossible of course, for there was no God, and no gentle road for those who chose to fight oppression such as I did.
Distressed, and wanting nothing less than to leave the Bookman’s presence, I pretended to suffer a mild attack of the vapors and asked to take my leave. Neither man objected, and they stood for me as I left the room.
I made directly for the study, but once there, I did not avail myself of the fainting couch. Rather, I remained standing, and worked to compose my roiling emotions by pacing the room.
Yet even there, I could not escape Pierce. A reminder of him hung in a place of honor over the fireplace. It was a reproduction of the famous Flammarion Print, and part of Camille Flammarion's “L'atmosphère: météorologie populaire.” Pierce had given it to my father on the occasion of his 50th birthday.
For those readers who are unacquainted with this unsettling piece of art, it depicts a robed man crawling through the very edge of the sky as if it were a solid thing, and discovering on the other side what the author called ‘the Empyrean’. This is portrayed as a fantastic realm, filled with strange wheels, glowing orbs and odd bands of clouds that challenge the starry, well ordered world that the figure is leaving behind.
It had always troubled me, not only because of whom the giver had been, but also for its subject content, and the inference that it made; that the incredible and incomprehensible were separated from our rational existence by less than a hair’s breadth.
Unwilling to linger in its presence, I departed the study and finally found the refuge that I craved in the solarium. There, I took up my sewing bag, and practiced my needlework until I heard the front door closing and the sound of Pierce’s car pulling away. As soon as I was certain that he was gone, I set down my project and returned to the breakfasting room.
“My dear,” Father inquired, “are you quite recovered?”
“I am,” I answered. “And I must apologize for my abrupt departure, but the subject matter upset me greatly.”
“No need, no need,” he replied, waving the matter into irrelevance. “A man’s business is oftentimes grim work, and we tend to forget to accommodate more delicate sensibilities.”
I gave him my best smile, although I was still pained by how easily he had agreed with the Bookman. “I am afraid that I must depart again,” I told him. “It is nearly eight and Elizabeth will be coming for me.”
He glanced up at the clock, and nodded. “Ah! So it is indeed. Mustn’t be late for your lecture. Off with you then.”
I gave him a peck on the cheek and left him to finish his meal and the rest of his newspaper. As he had said, I had a lecture to attend at the Maddenhill Academy of the Arts and Sciences for Women, and precious little time to make it to my appointment.
Grabbing my cloak and hat, I stopped only long enough to pin it in place and inspect myself in the hall mirror, before rushing outside.
Elizabeth Brookes was already there, awaiting me in her family’s carriage. She beckoned to me with a broad smile that immediately dispelled all of the gloom that Pierce had ushered into our home.
“Come along, Penny!” she called. “We’re late!”
Answering with an expression that was equally as bright, I hastened to the carriage, and as soon as I was aboard, we were off.
“I saw Bookman Pierce leaving in his car as I arrived,” Elizabeth commented. “Was it his usual morning visitation, or something more important?” She too was an enemy of the Masters, and a clandestine seeker of knowledge.
I immediately related the details of Pierce’s visit, and his dire news of the arrests and public hangings. Seeing my dark mood return, and ever the one to fight off the shadows with good cheer, she comforted me by placing her hand upon mine. This accomplished more than merely easing my mind though, and she was well aware of it, for she and I shared more than just our dislike of the Masters.
We were in fact, lovers, and had been since coming into our teenage years. Although our society did not consider Sapphism to be as serious an offense as homosexual relations, it was something that we kept to ourselves out of concern for the damage that it might have otherwise done to our reputations.
However, in the privacy of her carriage, we had no such concerns, and I placed my other hand atop hers without reservation, gazing deeply into her beautiful blue eyes. Wanton that she was, Elizabeth leaned in and kissed me passionately, banishing the last of my unhappiness in a wave of ecstasy that left me breathless. Had we not been expected for classes, and making such a short trip, I must confess that I would have taken things much further with her than this. However, this was not to be, and I had to satisfy myself with a solemn promise to repay her for her wickedness with a full measure of my own, later, and only when time allowed it.
A few minutes later, our carriage pulled up in front of Maddenhill and I spied the latest addition to this sacred institution, and once again found a reason to frown. Thanks to the rise in rebellious acts perpetrated by the Free Radicals, the twin lions which had once graced the entrance had been banished at the orders of the Bookmen. In their place, and standing on the very pedestals that these beloved statues had once occupied, were two mechanica, just as motionless as the lions had been, but a hundred times more intimidating.
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