When Heaven Fell
a memoir of
the late twenty-second
century
by
William Barton
author’s preferred edition
116,000 words
Copyright © 1995, 2012 William Barton
Public Domain Cover photo:
“Planetoid Crashing into Primordial Earth,” by Donald Davis.
Dedication
Margaret St. Clair
C.L. Moore
Leigh Brackett
on whose shoulders...
Previous Books by
by William Barton
Hunting On Kunderer
A Plague of All Cowards
Dark Sky Legion
Radio Silence
Yellow Matter
When Heaven Fell
The Transmigration of Souls
Acts of Conscience
When We Were Real
Moments of Inertia
Collaborations by
William Barton and
Michael Capobianco
Iris
Fellow Traveler
Alpha Centauri
White Light
For more information visit:
williambarton.com
Science Fiction in Search of a Lost Age
Table of Contents
Foreword
One. A Pall of Smoke
Two. The Next Day, Brilliant and Hot
Three. The Coastal Monorail Home
Four. A Black and Starry Sky
Five. Brilliant Yellow Sunshine
Six. Indigo, Tinged with Violet
Seven. Flooded with Feeling
Eight. The Next Afternoon
Nine. Warm Sunlight
Ten. The Sun Slid Down the Sky
Eleven. Sunlight Burning on Eyelids
Twelve. Scouring the Heavens Clean
Thirteen. An Infinitely Deep Sky
Fourteen. Nothing Real Anymore
Fifteen. A Dry and Fiery Wind
Sixteen. Marching in the Dust
Seventeen. A Bright Night on Karsvaao
Eighteen. Magnificent Desolation
Nineteen. Another Night on Kkhruhhuft
Twenty. Springtime in New York
Epilogue.
Deleted Scene
List of eBooks
Foreword
When Heaven Fell is, in many ways, an important transitional work in my career. By late 1993, things were not going so well as I’d hoped. Capobianco and I had seen Iris and Fellow Traveler published. The books had sold well, but we weren’t working on anything new. Dark Sky Legion had been published and greeted, if not with acclaim, at least with a great deal of interest. But Radio Silence, written to be “more accessible” on the advice of my agent, had been rejected by Bantam and was now bouncing around to no effect. And that same agent said he wouldn’t represent any more books until Radio Silence sold.
For lack of anything better to do, I sat down and wrote some short fiction, “Almost Forever,” “Yellow Matter,” “Changes,” and “Slowly Comes a Hungry People.” These all sold, albeit to second-string magazines like Aboriginal, Interzone, and Tomorrow. At least that told me I could write short stories, if I wanted to. I started working on a story about nuclear war called “Age of Aquarius,” and had a lot of trouble with it. I finally put it aside, maybe halfway through.
In the end, I decided to see if I could get around my recalcitrant agent, and start writing novels again. I had been working on a story I was going to call “The Return of the Native,” about a sepoy mercenary (what’s called a spahi in Arabic) coming home on furlow after many years away. I could see how it would become a novel, so I wrote an outline, then maybe 20 pages of sample chapter. Because I’d had some success with a draft of “Age of Aquarius” as a first-person narrative, I did the same with this new one.
Then I contacted an editor I knew, at a big New York SF publisher, who agreed to look at it. They loved it, bought it, and three more books besides. So much for the benefits of having an agent! Of course, they laughed at the title, and eventually I called it When Heaven Fell, after a line from “Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries,” by A.E. Housman.
And when I finished writing my shiny new novel, I went back and finished up “Age of Aquarius” using the skills I’d honed writing the book. It sold to Asimov’s and wound up a finalist for the Hugo Award.
Writing career part three, six more novels in the 1990s, was under way, and though I didn’t know it then, so was part four, fifteen stories sold to Asimov’s, over the next ten years or so.
— William Barton
February 2012, at the
Barking Spider Ranch
One. A Pall of Smoke
A pall of thin gray smoke hung over the battlefield. Smoke from the natives’ primitive guns, smoke left over from the hydrocarbons they used in their inefficient IC engines. Smoke drifting up toward the mountain passes, from burning forests, burning cities. Particles in that smoke from the burning bodies of natives we’d killed already.
My company of Spahi Mercenaries and I had just come over those tall, beautiful mountains, just come from finishing off the Imperial Legions of Threnn-Haaé, now crossing the borders of Shônetk, on a world we understood was called Thôl. They were splendid mountains, towering, incredible, unbelievable behind us, a perfect backdrop for the deeds we were about to do.
The natives called them the Mountains Without Clouds, a supra-Himalayan range, shiny gray stone erupted from the surface of the world, continents in collision, grinding against each other, pushing fragments of landmass up and up. Here, they stood forty thousand meters, sticking right up out of the atmosphere, mountains without trees, without soil, without snow, mountains without clouds, peaks jagged, beyond the reach of wind and rain, only the sun to grind them down.
A voice whispered in the back of my head, “Jemadar Athol Morrison.”
I blinked on the command circuit, and said, “Here, sir.” Waiting for Rissaldar-Minor Jennings, battalion commander, to give the word. In the distance, a battery of frightened natives opened up with their big guns, probably violating the stern discipline that had kept them lined up across this broad, dusty plain. Lined up in the tawny bronze sunset, waiting, though they knew what we were, and knew what was going to happen to them.
Shells came whistling down, ruddy, garish explosions lighting up the hillside, making the ground vibrate under my boots. Shrapnel from a nearby hit came buzzing through the air, making little ticking sounds as it bounced off my armor. There were about a million of them waiting out there, the flower of their warlike nation, armed to the teeth, as dangerous as anything this world had ever produced.
And, of course, the full muster of a standard Spahi company is 256 effectives, officers, noncoms, and troopers together. You had to feel sorry for the poor bastards. The invasion had been going on for almost a week now, and they knew what was coming.
Maybe it was a little like this when they came to Earth. A little bit, not much. We fought harder, so much harder that six hundred thousand and more Kkhruhhuft mercenaries lay dead on Earth before it was over. Of course, they killed eight billion of us in return...
I was a kid then. It didn’t seem real to me, no matter how scared my parents were, just more exciting drama on the entertainment net. Not real, never real, even on the day when I looked up in time to see a human-built starship explode in high Earth orbit, violet light punching right through a pale blue sky, making me flinch, leaving me to blink away spots and watch the fire fade away.
Somewhere up there, beyond this tawny and dust-filled sky, an armed warship of the Master Race floated in orbit, bearing its cargo of software and little blue poppits, the beings who’d conquered us all. Old st
ories always imagine alien monsters, invaders from beyond the sky. Mighty beings, larger than men, fanged monstrosities.
It’s what we thought the Kkhruhhuft were when they came. Only later, when we were already humiliated, did we discover they were no more than servants, slaves really, of the... intelligences who called themselves the Master Race. Not the poppits, little blue things the size of frogs, frogs with the behavior patterns of ants. Not them at all.
Somewhere. Somewhere far back in time, the little blue frogs built anthill cities, hives that grew more complex and more complex still. Hives without mentality that evolved machines, machines that made more machines, machines that learned, slowly, ever so slowly, how to think.
You have to wonder just when, and why, the mechanical servants of those nonsentient little blue frogs decided to call themselves the Master Race. A master race that would then go out and conquer the universe.
Jennings whispered, “Get on with it. The Master’s getting impatient.”
Impatient? Why, when they had damn-all forever? Maybe they know something we don’t. “Yes, sir. Fifteen minutes.”
I scanned the battlefield, memorizing the lay of the land, the natives’ order of battle. Low-lying hills rimming the plain, a river winding back and forth, silver-tan under a brassy sky, orangish sun low in the west, not quite setting below more distant hills. Far away, right on the horizon, was a red brick city, one of the few we hadn’t burned. Well, its turn would come.
Things like trees, long, narrow leaves pale yellow-gold, moved nearby, fluttering in a wind I couldn’t feel, wind blowing on the outside of my armor. “Kathy Lee?”
The havildar leading my first maniple was a speck atop a nearby crag, waving to me, though she knew I knew where she was. Invulnerability can breed carelessness.
Down on the plain a howitzer bellowed, billow of orange fire and black smoke long preceding the sound, itself preceding the slow arc of the shell. Subsonic. Not enough kinetic energy to swat a fly.
“On your position, Kathy Lee.”
“I see it, sir.”
We both watched the black dot of the shell arc high, start on its downward trajectory. I turned up my helmet’s optical gain and watched the sputtering fuse. Another generation and they’d’ve been beyond that sort of thing. Just as well we came when we did.
Down, down... Kathy Lee tried to catch the damn thing but it came apart in her hands, powder spilling like red dust for just a moment, cloud enveloping her, then it ignited.
Blossom of fire and black smoke, rising in a little mushroom cloud, then the pressure-wave from the explosion washed over my sensors. Echo. Echo off the surrounding stone faces. I could see her there, standing in the fire.
Kathy Lee said, “Good thing they don’t have nukes.”
Good thing. We’d had nukes. Nukes, our own starships, fifty years’ advance warning, the whole works, and a fat lot of good it’d done us. Just gotten a few brave mercenaries killed, that’s all.
I triggered the command circuit. “Listen up. Action-Plan Bravo-Delta Six-Niner. Eight minutes. Mark.”
I spooled the 3D heads-up display and watched them move into position. Good enough. “OK boys and girls... five, four, three, two, one... go.”
And we moved. And fired. And killed them all.
Roscoe Leach’s maniple came down out of the hills, troopers moving like fleas, laying down an enfilading fire against the long rows of high-powered cannon. No danger to us of course, but we wanted them to get the idea. Maybe, just this once, they’d break and run, save themselves, let us have the damned field.
No such luck. I triggered in my targeting computer and started moving downslope, feeling a slight vibration as the weapons systems opened up. Bright pinpoint sparks of light in the distance. There. Right there, a brilliant flare as General Vshevrach’s command post went up. Well. We’d warned the silly bastard.
Over her maniple’s internal circuit, I heard Kathy Lee say, “A little slaughtering music, if you please, maestro...”
Anyone else and you’d expect “Ride of the Valkyries” maybe, or the 1812 Overture. When I was a havildar I’d favored “William Tell,” stirring stuff like that, but Kathy Lee’s favorite was the opening theme from the 2030s VR version of the Bugs Bunny Show. It seemed to work.
We swept down on the natives, watched their guns twinkle and flare, then the brave little devils fell down dead, like rows of wheat before the reaper.
o0o
The tahsildar’s name was Mamie Glendower, commander of Legion X Invincible, the half-million-plus soldiers garrisoned on Boromilith. She was about seventy-five now, thin, craggy, tough-looking as hell, more fire in those impenetrable black eyes than ever, clad in the dull green uniform of the Spahi Mercenaries, black leather and bits of red trim, tahsildar’s single-headed eagle on her collar, Master’s black and silver ID badge above her left breast, service hashmarks down the forearm of her left sleeve. Spahi Mercenaries don’t believe in campaign medals. Too many campaigns, too many heroes.
She’d been jemadar-major of her own regiment when I was a raw young trooper, fresh from Alpha Cee. Pinned on my first havildar’s chevron, full of good advice and special wisdom, kicked my ass for me when it needed kicking.
Now, I think she took special pleasure in pinning a jemadar-major’s three-diamond insignia to my collar-tab. “One of my own little chicks.” A quick peck on the cheek, then she stepped back, took my salute and held out my orders-packet.
I thumbed the release and looked at the display. “Hmh. IX Victorious, first regiment, second battalion, first brigade, under Rissaldar Tatanya Vronsky. Stationed on Karsvaao.”
Glendower said, “Mandelstam’s old outfit. They rate you highly.”
“Thank you, ma’m. I had a sound example to work from.”
She laughed. “Ma’m, my ass! Sit down, soldier. Hoist a few with a worn-out old bag.”
“Hardly worn out...” Gently, gently...
“Don’t be so fucking polite, Athy. Even my burdars cringe.”
So I sat down and held out my hand for the double shot of Spanish brandy she offered. Distillería Mendoza-Reyes, 2149; probably the last good run before the invasion. I understand, these days, all you can get is home-made crap.
Mamie Glendower was a rare beauty when I first came on board, not much more than fifty then, muscular, long-legged, with a handsome face filled to the brim with solid, honest character. It’s hard to tell a wrinkly old woman she’s still beautiful, even when it’s true. They just don’t want to hear it.
I used to hang around her when I could, especially after I made rank and could hold my head up in tough company, would wish I could have her, would then go home and screw the hell out of my poor little burdar. I imagine that was the lot of many a young male Spahi on the move—but she was nice enough about it. Especially since she stuck absolutely to regs.
No, uh, fraternization. That’s why they give us burdars, you know. And you don’t want to be in combat with your bed partner. What if they buy one in front of you? Some people don’t believe in it, but what the hell? If it was good enough for a woman like Mamie Glendower, it had to be good enough for the likes of me.
As I put down my glass, she said, “One more thing, Athy,” pulling a little black plastic square out of the breast pocket of her tunic and handing it to me.
I turned the thing over in my hands, suddenly feeling slightly unnerved. All right, this makes it real. Jemadar-Major, for Christ’s sake.
“Go ahead.”
I put my thumb over the phone’s recognition node and felt the scan tingle on my skin, several kinds of radiation probing the cellular structure. It awoke with a buzz of soft, almost-modulated static, the background ebb and flow of planetary command net traffic. I said, “This is 10x9760h, logging on.”
There was a series of brief pauses in the static, then a soft, genderless voice said, “4m21subXR, acknowledged.” His master’s voice. Funny to think of it that way.
Square waves modulating in the near dis
tance, a buzzing shriek, then the voice said, “3C286b, transmitting up the line.” Up the line. Through interstellar space, using whatever impossible comm channel the Master Race had found, the FTL communication that went with their impossible FTL drive. Logging me into the Master’s Net.
I released the node and slipped the phone into my breast pocket, then turned to the tahsildar. “Well, I...” Nothing to say, then. I stiffened to attention and snapped off a sharp salute.
Mamie Glendower only laughed, and said, “Welcome to the ranks.”
o0o
Later, I went outside, walking back toward my crib, enjoying a bright, sunny day. Boromilith is a lovely world, probably too good for the likes of a mercenary legion base, with a warm, even, late-Cretaceous-like climate. Feathery gray-green trees, low, low rolling hills, broad beaches beside warm, flat oceans. Docile natives, gentle, scaly little folk, bipedal, less than a meter tall, with eyes like juniper berries and a vague scent of lime in their sweat.
This place had been ruled by the Master Race for about forty-five centuries already, not long as such things go, but long enough for the natives to understand it’d go on forever. A quiet place, but conveniently located on the outskirts of a big, open cluster of low-G/high-K stars a few thousand parsecs from the local frontier.
What will Earth be like, when they’ve sat on us for a period equal to the length of recorded history? Maybe humans will be nice and docile by then too. Or maybe not. They say the Kkhruhhuft homeworld has been occupied for 17,000 years. Docile? They weren’t very docile when they came down out our sky.
Something in the genes, maybe. There’ve never been any Boromilithi mercenaries.
“Hey, Athy!”
I stopped, turned. Jemadar Solange Corday came hurrying across the compound, tall, willowy black African of mostly Nilotic descent, a head taller than me, hair like a velvet skullcap. A good soldier—we’d been in on the Threnn-Haaé business together. “Hi, Solange. Stop off somewhere for a cold one?”
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