SALTAROS: Shadows and Light
Nov. 13th, 2016 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zzambrosius_02CHAPTER THREE: The World Turns in a Gyre
“Saturday practice, rattan swords and armor, fun and games...” he murmured.
The essay had nearly written itself. ‘Often happens when I’m on a rant,’ he thought. ‘Now I need to edit it so as not to insult anyone unnecessarily.’
He pulled into the parking lot at a city park in nearby Springfield. He stepped out and stretched, groaning. ‘I always knew that staying in shape after age fifty was going to mean a lot of sore muscles and aching joints. Even with Commonwealth medical science that’s true, apparently.’ He knew, though, that he was in better shape than a fifty plus year old man should expect to be.
He looked around, wondering at the greater activity at this practice, compared to previous one he’d attended. The high overcast lit the scene in muted colors, save for the bright heraldry on some of the combatant’s shields and surcotes.
“I guess that since it’s not threatening rain today we have more types of martial arts being practiced...” he muttered, trailing off. He could see archery targets at the far end of the field, perhaps seventy yards away. There were fencers warming up with several kinds of bated steel weapons, beneath a shelter with a very high roof. That roof covered a pair of half-sized basketball court set up in the standard playground style; the paving under the sheltering steel top mixed asphalt with sections of concrete.
He ran through a set of exercises to warm his body up, soon feeling less elderly and decrepit. He acknowledged greetings from the other fighters, who were in various stages of armoring.
He lowered the tailgate of the truck and opened his armor bag. ‘I better check everything...’ He laid it all out for visual inspection: ‘The helm and gorget are fine...no problems with the mail, I checked that when I was preparing for that Halloween party...the scale reinforcement needs an hour’s work tightening up the laces, but it’ll do for today. The swords...rattan is getting a little soft on the broadsword, but the two-handers are all fine.’ He squeezed the head in his mock battle-axe: “All good.”
He strapped on his greaves, then completed the waist-down armor with the cuisses-and-knees assembly. His gambeson still looked good, and functioned effectively: ‘The crochet material is thick and tight enough that it would probably even resist a steel sword to some extent.’
Armed save for helm and gauntlets, he examined the shield: “Here’s the real rub,” he muttered: “Totally crunched top and bottom, and splintered on both sides: not safe for even another bout, I think.” He shrugged: ‘I oughta be doing longsword anyway...’
He glanced at the field: he counted twelve “heavy” fighters in armor. ’”Heavy” is SCA slang for those who fight in the style of the earlier middle ages, with rattan ‘swords.’’’ He could see more cars and trucks pulling into the lot.
Baron Darien came over and shook hands: “Nice to see you again,” he said.
“Looks like a good turnout today,” Ambros replied. “I look forward to a significant workout.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Ambros donned his helm and heavy leather clamshell gauntlets. He began his practice the way he’d finished the previous one: ‘Challenge each fighter to a set of three. See how well I do. Stop for a rest.’
He went slowly at first, not minding the results: he lost his first seven bouts, largely from not moving quickly enough to take advantage of openings. The impacts of the ‘Killing’ blows he took were significant; he recalled that the west coast kingdoms were famous for hitting harder and taking harder blows than the Midwest.
He rolled his shoulders, then, and gazed at his third opponent, whose name escaped him: ‘Time for some real-life sword-like-a-cuisinart fighting...hit a little harder than you did in Tennessee.’
After that, he didn’t lose a set. He excused himself after winning two fights from Baron Darien: “I’m winded. I need a break.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. I wanna fight Lord Tancred, though.”
Ambros doffed his gauntlets and helm and watched the two of them go at it. He pursed his lips and tipped his head to one side: “He’s got to have been US military; maybe even...”
When Tancred and Darien came off the field, Ambros spoke to the Baron: “Happy Birthday, Marine.”
Darien did a double take, then said: “Thank you, sir. And how did you know?”
“I was watching your foot work as you fought.”
“Oh. But I meant: how did you know to say ‘happy birthday’ on the tenth of November?”
“Huh.” Ambros contemplated: “I was gonna say: ‘Doesn’t everybody know that?’ but I guess almost nobody does, these days. I know it because I read the Marine Officers’ Manual back in the 80s.”
“Wow,” said Tancred. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugged: “I had...not an enemy, I guess, but someone I was in conflict with, who had been a Marine captain. It helped me figure out where the bastard was coming from.”
Darien laughed: “I guess it would. Were you overseas?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you serve overseas?”
Ambros laughed: “I’ve never served in any branch of the US military.”
The Baron gave him a quizzical look, almost disbelieving: “Okay...I guess.”
Ambros donned his helm: “I wanna fight that lady in the red and silver...gules and argent, I should say.”
“Watch out,” said Tancred: “She’s quick, and fast.”
“Yeah, I noticed. That’s why I want to mix it with her.”
She was fast, and quick, and her shield work phenomenal. He found himself at a disadvantage. He also found that he was grinning like a lunatic as they double-killed repeatedly.
He gave it up: “I can’t get through that guard without dying. Good work, Lady...?”
“Melissa,” she replied.
An hour later, when he’d completed his sets with every fighter there, and spent some time talking some relatively new fighters through the basic ergonomics of swordplay, (as he saw it) he gave it up: “I have another appointment this afternoon, and I need to shower before I go there. I’ll see you all later, eh?”
As he disarmed, he walked through every fight he’d lost, internally critiquing his footwork and cutting technique. The fights with Lady Melissa took up a lot of the thinking.
He pulled himself back into the present moment as he slid behind the wheel of the truck.
As he turned into the street he saw a truck pull out from the curb a half block away. He turned this way and that, and it followed him. He growled, then made a few random turns, until he shook the other truck at a light.
“Probably nothing,” he grumbled: “just a coincidence.” He decided to shower at the Salon, just in case: “Then to Veneta, to see Megan’s sister.”
Sandra smiled at him in a more-than-friendly way as she got up to leave. He nodded, saying: “Thanks again.”
Megan came from behind the counter, bringing him a fresh cup, and said: “You two were deep into it, how’d it go?”
He nodded again: “Good, good. Sandra had a lot of interesting things to say about Eddie Roth, and I have a lot to think about now.”
“Cool!”
He turned sideways on the bench, stretching his legs out on the seat, and leaned back against the wall. He sipped the chai, contemplating. He had only a few minutes to rest thus before someone approached. After a moment, Ambros realized that it was the County Sheriff, in mufti.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Sheriff,” said Ambros by way of greeting: “Want to take a seat?”
Sheriff Burr frowned: “You always seem to get me on the defensive,” he said.
“I offered you a seat,” Ambros shrugged: “Take it or don’t.”
Burr sat down, slowly. He frowned at Ambros, who grinned at him somewhat sassily.
Ambros spoke, still smiling: “I think I could analyze your discomfort around me, in a way that would allow you to relax a little. Then we could get on with the business you came to do, whatever that may be.”
The Sheriff raised his chin a little, and narrowed his eyes: “I’d be interested in what you have to say.”
Ambros laughed a little: “See, you are accustomed to people treating you as an authority figure, so when someone treats you as an equal—I think it would be fair to guess that you‘d think of that as a ‘mere’ equal—you feel as though you’ve been disrespected. You haven’t been.”
The Sheriff’s frown broke a little, and he essayed a slight smile: “You’ve always been civil to me. Not to Chief Black, but to me.”
Ambros smile disappeared: “Chief Black’s minions beat me up and arrested me falsely, used a bogus warrant to damage my property, and pulled numerous other evil stunts. It went on for weeks, and Black did nothing, zero, zilch to stop them or discipline them. If the person at the top of a hierarchy cannot run the damn thing, and keep his underlings under control and obedient, what’s he good for?”
“And I?”
“I don’t know,” Ambros mused: “I had a reasonably friendly first interaction with Deputy Dan, so I was inclined to be friendly to your department. So...is this just a social call?”
“Mostly. Dan has a few days off. He wanted me to warn you, so I’m doing it.
Chief Black has found some...disturbing, anomalous, and conflicting information about you. He seems to think it’s got to do with you, anyway. It has to do with a fellow named Scharffen. Ever hear of him?”
Ambros stayed deadpan: “With two f’s? It’s a brand of Swiss chocolate.”
“Okay. Let’s remember that I warned you. That’s at Deputy Samuelson’s request. Right?” The Sheriff got up: “Try to behave, okay?”
Ambros shrugged: “I tried it once. It wasn’t bad.”
Sheriff Burr walked off shaking his head.
Ambros made a note to pillage the Police Chief’s computers and find out what the hell Black was up to. ‘First, though: an early night. I’m still off sked, sleep-wise, from that early morning raid.’ He headed for home.
The next morning rolled around, and Ambros was up early. He dropped in to the main landing pad in the War Room at the War Guilds’ Command Complex in Athino Prima. Magistros Megálos of Sacred Band was the Primary Controller. His board fed directly into and out of a machine in which a woman stood signing at various smaller boards and singing commands to others. Based on her hand movements and signs, not all of the machine could be seen from the outside.
Megálos saluted Ambros in the style of the War Guilds: left fist over the heart, right fist directly above the left. Ambros returned the salute and nodded at the other people working in the room that day.
He glanced at the new machinery in the northwest corner of the room. ‘The new stuff is a lot like the other equipment in this room’ he thought: ‘it’s not all here. The people in this room work with the constituent materials of the Multiverse.’
The various machines in the War Room, and in other rooms visible through archways or doors, hummed or beeped or flickered as the workers interacted with them or stood or sat in front of them…or inside them. Some of the machines combined physical control boards with holographic interfaces; some of them penetrated the walls and continued on the other side; others twisted Escher-like into (apparent) nonexistence.
Megálos beckoned to him. Ambros went over to the main board, glancing at the telltales; he saw nothing alarming, at least to someone with his limited degree of knowledge. The boards were fairly self-explanatory, except for the need to know abbreviations and acronyms. ‘That’s exactly where I’m lacking,’ he thought: ‘I should take an RNA course on that stuff…’ Some boards were monitors only; others were command-and-control; still others manipulated the multi-dimensional fields that made up the Multiverse. They all looked like giant versions of the Commonwealth-tech screen on his laptop.
Megálos was a huge man with an enormous black beard. His hands and feet were large even in proportion to his frame; his fingers on the controls seemed amazingly agile considering their stubbiness. He wore black and red, the colors of the two major War Guilds: combined they signified Sacred Band, the intelligence and commando force that made up one percent or so of the Commonwealth’s military.
“You here for a mission?” asked Megálos.
“Nah, just some R and R. And I have to move Kim back to our Line, after her class. What’s up?”
“Little dust rising around your Timeline. Can you make a meeting later today?”
“If it’s before Sixth Bell. I have a lesson at my Salon at about a third past Seventh.” It is a rare meeting in the Commonwealth that lasts under an hour; fewer still stretch past and hour and a half.
“Five PM your Line,” said Megálos, showing off some knowledge of US Imperial Timelines: ”Okay, keep your MPS on and wait for a message. I gotta get Voukli, Arrenji, Averos, Iyelisi, and some other reps from US Imperial Lines. I & DG says your Strimeni, Kimani, is at a class at Tech Guild. I’ll let you contact her, and we can pull the others in your household over if we all agree to the need.”
Ambros made a face: “Serious stuff, huh? All right, I’ll talk to Kim, and if she thinks it’s a good idea, I’ll contact Luisa and Marie by MPS before I settle in.”
“Good man.” Megalos saluted again, and Ambros returned it. Then he meandered out of the room, pausing to stare at any board that might bear on ‘dust rising’ around his Home Line. ‘I don’t see anything odd on the boards.’
There was a constantly changing board near the main exit: Information and Data Guild kept tabs on news, gossip, class and meeting schedules, and functioned as rumor control. Also, I & DG usually had a pretty good idea where any individual was. He handsigned at the sensor and got a confirmation: Kim was at a History of Technology lecture in the main hall of Technology Guild’s Skolo. ‘Also, the meeting I just agreed to is now provisionally set for Fifth Bell at the SB Master’s Council chambers.’ He knew without counting that that was an hour and a half past noon, his time.
“Lunch,” he said aloud: “Lunch and then a trip to the Arena. I’ve been looking forward to this date for a while.”
He strolled the halls of the Complex, nodding to acquaintances and saluting the few SB Guild-sibs that he encountered. There was a bit of a ruckus at the door of one of the computer rooms: he frowned and detoured around the clot of people. They were handsigning, and talking loudly, in jargon that he didn’t understand.
He took his usual route to the Main Hall: the ‘elevator’ took him down-sideways-and-up, opening into that Hall. It was castle-like, three stories tall and built of enormous stone blocks. Shelves covered in books and scrolls lined the walls, but the ceiling echoed his footsteps as he paced across the empty room: “That’s exceedingly odd,’ he thought. “Even the speaker’s platform is empty.” His words bounced back at him from the dressed stone of the roof and front of the Hall.
He approached the small door at the right of the main entrance. That was a monstrous pair of oak and iron doors, closed and barred against the cold weather of early Cooling. The only other person in the Hall sat by the smaller door, reading a scroll and humming tunelessly.
“What’s up, Diallos? Where is everyone?”
“Gone to meetings, I guess. Shit’s hitting. I’m surprised you’re not called to a meeting yourself.”
“I have one scheduled for Fifth.”
Spathos Diallos glanced at the news feed, then grunted: “Yeah, I see that now. High Status meet-up, that. Figures, though.”
“Yeah? How so?”
Diallos narrowed his eyes: “You haven’t heard? ATL Prime made an all-out assault on one of the United States Imperial Timelines. Number Six.”
Ambros’ eyes went wide: “Wow. What’s the status?”
“I don’t know. The Gates are down, though, the ones in that Line.”
“Oh. Wow.” That implied major alterations to the geology of the places where the Gates stood.
Diallos nodded: “Yeah.” He pulled a box off the shelf behind him. Ambros placed his Shifter in it; a little light on the lip of the box lit up.
“Kala meró, Spathos,” Diallos said.
“Ki esos.”
Ambros strolled along Odho Aeolenae, the Street of Winds. He made a beeline (as in a zig-zag route along several streets) for Plataeo Socratosena, the Plaza of Socratos. There, he knew of a couple of decent cafes and a beer bar. He’d intended to eat some lunch, and then meet Voukli at the Arena for the Commonwealth Hoplite Drill Championships. It seemed unlikely that Voukli would be able to attend, considering. ‘It’ll be a short day for me, as well,’ he thought: ‘But I’d really like to see at least a little of the competition.’
He stood in the mob of people in front of one of the cafés, waiting his turn. Listening in, he realized that the news had just begun to circulate. Rumor mixed with the facts, as he knew them, and swirled around the little crowd. When he judged that his turn had come, he pushed to the front and handsigned for a rice-basil pesto-and-veggies bowl.
He turned, with the food in one hand and a stein of hot tea in the other. Two men stood there, frowning. “Oops,” he said: “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”
One man nodded, and stepped up to the counter: apology accepted.
The other fellow glared at Ambros, then turned away in disgust.
“Have a nice day, Spathos Regulos!” Ambros called after him. He kept his tone civil, and his expression bland. Reg made a rude gesture behind his back as he stomped off to another café.
Ambros shook his head and headed for a table in the street. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to know whose turn it is, after four and a half months experience,’ he mused: ‘They never stand in a line, apparently that’s just not done; and they step to the counter according to some unfathomable combination of first-come first-served, Status, evidence of hunger, and whether you are a regular ‘customer’ at the establishment…I can’t say anything about the other guy, but Regulos is surely in the wrong here. He can’t touch me for Status, and I’ve never seen him at this joint before.”
He ate his lunch in a sober and thoughtful mood.
Kim appeared across the table from him and sat down, looking exhausted and overstimulated. She smiled robotically and then put her face in her hands.
“Hello, Kim,” he said, “or, I guess I should say: Skolari Kimani.”
She looked up: “Gods,” she said, in lightly accented Rational Hellenic: “I’m not at all sure I care for that version of my name. Kimi is even worse, though.”
“There are other variations. If you just call yourself ‘Kim’ that would be pretty normal.” He grinned: “It implies celibacy, though.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that. I’ll look on the Kyklo for naming customs, later.” She leaned back, stretching her neck from side to side: “Have you heard the news?”
“A sketch of it, and a lot of rumor. I & DG is going to be busy tonight.”
“Yah.”
He took her hand: “You were just in class at Tech Guild. Tell me what you learned?”
She shook off her distraction and really smiled at him: “Gates, the discovery and exploitation of the Timeline Gates. You probably have that History from RNA sessions.”
He shook his head: “Only the barest outlines. I’m working my way forward from the founding and back from the present, in RNA and read-study; that’s kind of in the middle of the history, so I haven’t got there, yet.”
“Oh,” she said. “You know, the most interesting thing to me is the way they discovered the whole phenomenon. It’s not like they are smarter than we are, but they sure do a better job of exploring the possibilities when weird and unexplained stuff happens.”
“Right. But that’s largely cultural, yes?”
“I guess. I mean, in the sense that neither church nor state nor even expense can keep a really dedicated researcher off the trail of an odd occurrence. The discovery of the First Gate…”
“I know nothing about that. I can’t even infer anything from the later commentaries I’ve read. What happened?”
“Well, a very young woman named Arrisini disappeared in the mountains near Athens. So, in our Line we’d be scared for her, we’d think that she’d maybe been kidnapped and raped or something…but we’d give up looking for her after a while, because it would be expensive and maybe dangerous. Somebody looking for her might get lost or injured, and the weather would eventually get bad, and...
“In the Commonwealth they just looked for her for a lot longer. And one of her cousins was in Technical Guild, and her brother was in History, and they were B.S.ing about the case in the Library one day. Her brother, Ursos the Younger, had a bunch of paper and parchment records of happenings in the area, and he noticed a pattern of disappearances over several centuries…”
Ambros said: “In my first RNA session I got some key dates burned into my mind, including YC 542 for the discovery of the Timeline Gates. Parallel to 1749 AD.”
“Exactly. The Commonwealth had mid-to-late nineteenth century tech at that time, except that their early mechanically powered analog computers were way more advanced than Babbage’s machines ever got. Anyway, Ursos and the cousin, Kirani, did a bunch of calculus and geometry and pinpointed the location of the Gate.” Kim was vibrating with excitement: “A permanent Gate, two kilometers from the walls of Athens, and invisible at that time.”
“So let me guess: they chucked a rock through, and nothing happened. Then…how’d they turn it visible?”
She chuckled: “With a sheep.”
He covered his ears: “No.”
“Yes. A very hungry sheep, whose only thought was of grass and hay. They herded her through the spot where they believed the Gate was and—hey, presto, the Gate opened.”
“What, on a barn full of hay?”
She laughed: “No, on a parallel Timeline where that part of the country was grassland rather than rocky waste.” She sobered: “What they did not find was Arrisini.”
“Oh.” He frowned: “Right. She walked through that Gate thinking about some unknown thing...daydreaming maybe...”
“Yeah,” she said, equally downcast: “She coulda wound up anywhere in the Multiverse. On the other hand, Ursos and Kirani’s multiple trips though the Gate searching for her, that taught us so much about the Gates and how they worked and all. You’ll see, when you get to that part of the History. They have gigantic Status and stuff all over the world is named after them. Their descendants have kept the family Status up, too.”
“And Arrisini?”
Kim made a face: “She is considered a kind of...I guess you’d say a martyr...a sacrifice to the Multiverse. There’s a whole Mystery Cult that reveres her. Your friend Megálos is the local Priest in that cult.”
“That figures, in a way. Actually, it’s weirdly cool, and very fitting.”
“It is?”
He grinned: “Yeah. Megálos is the reigning expert on the structure of the Multiverse, among the laymen at SB. He’s always hobnobbing with the Techs...he speaks their mathematical languages and understands their jargon. Averos says he sometimes plays the seven-eleven-D programming games they love so much.”
Her eyes got big: “Oh. That Megálos.” She grinned: “Anyway, that family is called ‘Arrisini’s Line’, in tribute. They paved the way for all of this...” She gestured around at the City.
He nodded: “Interesting. So, alien Timeline Gate technology and power sources, combined with the science and scientists of a truly free society, and working mechanical computers, led to the invention of a bunch of stuff that we’d never have thought of in our Home Line: Shifters, power modules, four-strand memory RNA for hard drives and as drugs to enhance education, inertia-canceling tech for air and space craft…”
“Yes,” she said, then continued more sadly: “and then, after we stumbled upon the l’Iriquois Empire Timeline: plasma swords, particle-beam weapons for out in space, slug-throwers based on electro-magnetic particle accelerators…”
“…and timers and fuses that let us use the power mods as explosives. Among other destructive innovations.” Ambros’ mind drifted for a moment as an encyclopedic knowledge of Commonwealth weapons tech flowed in a fast-moving stream across his mind, hijacking his eyes and ears for rapid-fire images and keywords that would allow him to get a similar ‘lesson’ on strategy and tactics.
“Yeah.” Kim’s somewhat depressed comment pulled him back to the real world.
They sat there for a while. Ambros contemplated the state of the war with the Authoritarian Timelines: “I’m getting curious and worried about the meeting we have at Fifth Bell,” he said: “Oh, yeah, Sacred Band wants you there, if you can make it.”
“I think I’d better. Have you called the others?”
“Do you think I should?”
“Definitely.”
“Right,” he said: “I’ll get to it, then.”
Kim got up and went to get some food. While she was occupied, he activated his MPS. The hologram of a Shifter appeared, about the size of a very thick wristwatch. He used the thing as a phone and contacted Megálos at the Command Complex.
“Hey, Magistros,” he said: “Kim and I agree: the other two, Marie and Luisa, ought to be at that meeting.”
“I hear you,” Megálos replied: “Shall I patch you through? Or I could just contact them and transport them from here…”
“Do that. They both know who you are.”
“Kala. Tha symfromei.”
‘That word is a contraction of the RH verb form for “I comply”,’ he thought:
‘With the future-particle “tha”, it’s “wilco” in RH, a step beyond “akuo sas” or “I hear you”.’
Megálos using that expression indicated a certain level of respect: ‘He is informing me that his personal estimate of my overall Status has jumped a bit. Also that he will see to the women’s transport, not just take my desires into account. Hmmm.’
He contemplated the customs and ‘rules’ implied by the language and jargon peculiar to the War Guilds: ‘If a soldier or operative has volunteered for an operation, and accepted my Command of it, then “akuo sas “ is all the response se need make to any command I give. The implication being...”I said I would obey your commands for the duration of the battle, and I heard you.” But I’m not in Command of any operation right now, so...Hmmm indeed.’
He looked up from de-activating the MPS to see Voukli arriving at the café. She saluted and he returned the gesture.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he said: “Figured you’d be busy.”
She made a face: “I was, but I’m stuck now. The meeting this afternoon will make some decisions, and I have to wait for those. I decided I might just as well keep our date. Rather than staring at the Boards and stewing about the situation.”
Kim set her lunch down and hugged Voukli. Their embrace was quite snuggly. ‘Those two have been very touchy-feely lately,’ Ambros thought. He grinned inside, his imagination working overtime. He disciplined his expression: ‘Kim will surely let me know if anything intimate is brewing.’
“So, what are you two going to see today?” Kim tucked in to her lunch, eating quickly.
Voukli laughed: “About this time every year, Kopelae from all over the planet converge on Athino for the Hoplite Phalanx Drill Championships. Or what were once championships, there is not actually a competition anymore, in strictest sense of the word.”
“Oh,” said Kim: “What do they do, then? And who’s in the Phalanxes?”
“People we’d call teenagers,” said Ambros: “Both genders…I should say all genders, things are not so binary here as they are at home.”
“We don’t deploy our military as Phalanxes anymore,” said Voukli: “Not too often anyway.”
“That may change if we attack the ATLs with larger numbers,” Ambros pointed out.
Voukli frowned: “You are right, that could change. What would a Phalanx armed with slug throwers and APS’s do differently from a massed pike formation? Interesting idea…But for now, the Phalanx drill is a sort of...what you’d call a sport. People tend to voluntarily age out at about sixteen; so it’s a pastime of people who are newly adult and want some of the comradery of their school days to continue.”
“Like a marching band with spears,” said Ambros.
Kim giggled.
Voukli laughed: “More or less exactly. Flutes, horns, drums and spear work as a collective martial art.”
“Are there judges?” Kim was finishing her lunch.
“Beyond the level of cheers and applause, no. Not anymore.” Voukli smiled, as if at memories: “It’s a hard-fought contest for those cheers, though.”
“Do you two mind if I come along?”
“I don’t mind at all,” said Voukli.
Ambros took Kim’s hand and said: “Let’s go. We should be on time. We’ll only be able to stay for the first hour anyway.”
They strolled through the City of Athino Prime. That City was (and is) the nerve center of the Prime Commonwealth Timeline, and the most influential locus of resistance, anywhere in the Multiverse, to the Authoritarian Timelines. The fog slowly lifted over the City and the sun peeked through a break in the overcast.
Ambros glanced back at the Akropolis; he stopped for a moment in awe. The sun illuminated the east side of the hill, making the colors jump out at him. The varied greens of winter vegetables and the many hues of late-blooming flowers reflected the light of the sun onto the whitewashed walls of the Temple District. It was a kaleidoscope of shifting tones and colors, a tie-dyed City, wonderful to behold. People all around them cried out in joy, or sighed and pointed at the scene. Kim and Voukli embraced him; he felt tears on his face. For that one moment, he was happy clear through.
They found seats in the Arena, in the SB section. Ambros hand-signed at the seat that Kim would sit in, indicating her status as the guest of a Sacred Band operative.
The Arena consisted of a huge set of stands, in a U-shape: the long horseshoe of bleacher seats enclosed a space approximately the width of a US style football stadium, and three times as long. The section of seats reserved for SB was near the center of the south side of the stadium: the open end faced roughly west-northwest.
Scattered over the surface of the playing field were at least twenty Phalanxes. Commonwealth Phalanxes, as he’d learned from RNA sessions, consisted of blocks of people, twenty wide by twenty deep. In the early days of the Commonwealth, from 1206 AD until about YC 150, the Phalanxes had been nearly all male. There had been exceptions, of course: a last-ditch defense of Athens in YC 65 among them.
By the Fifth Century of the Commonwealth the Phalanxes were fully integrated. A hundred years later they were obsolete: hence the ‘sport’ of Phalanx Drill.
As they took their seats, the next group began its presentation: flutes and horns sounded a fanfare and the Kopelae stood to guard. The pike-bearers marched and counter marched, formed columns and squads, and finished after about five minutes with a shout, and in a formation that resembled a porcupine, spears pointed all around. The applause from the stands was moderate, with a few people cheering.
“They were a little sloppy,” said Voukli. She gazed at the program on her seat’s holographic desktop: “Under fourteens, from Mongolia. Well, we are a little sloppy when we play their games, right?”
Ambros grinned: “They didn’t look sloppy to me, and I don’t know what Mongolian games are. Horseback tricks, I assume.”
Voukli nodded: “You assume correctly. This next bunch is from Maorio. They contended well last year.”
Maorio, said the RNA, was a regional Polis, a kind of mega-Polis that encompassed huge swaths of Oceania and mainland Asia. The warrior culture of what his Line called New Zealand had, in the Commonwealth Line, conquered most of the Pacific Rim: “In the absence of western explorers and conquerors,’ he thought: ‘the Maoris became a great Empire, during the Fourteenth Century in my Line’s calendar...their adoption of Commonwealth customs around 1410 really accelerated the unification of the planet...’ The RNA wanted to lead him down a rabbit hole into stuff about the Maori version of Red Warrior Guild and their odd relationship with the rest of the Coalition’s military. He suppressed that.
‘Later,’ he thought. The info rolled back at him, like a wave, and he pushed it back, surprised at how tough it was to keep it away. ‘Maybe stay away from RNA for a bit,’ he chided himself: ‘At least until you get the geography integrated.’
The Maori troupe’s flutes whistled an eerie, dissonant tune and Ambros’ attention returned to the field. Then the horns brayed; with a crash of drums the Maori Phalanx began.
‘They are snapping through those moves with a lot of élan,’ Ambros thought: ‘I can see the difference, now that I see this bunch.’
He said as much to Kim, adding: “This looks a lot like a Haka, with longer spears.”
She nodded: “Yeah, they are better.”
“Way better,” said Voukli as the Maorae finished up. She rose immediately and hollered and clapped; Kim and Ambros joined her, applauding noisily.
They watched four more troupes, including one from Athino, before Voukl said:
“Better get moving, you two. Meeting in a third of an hour.”
They all rose, reluctantly. Three young women in SB colors immediately took their seats.
Ambros, Voukli, and Kim were the last to arrive. The meeting was in the chamber dedicated to the Sacred Band’s Council of Magistrae.
Once they were past the security apparatus, they entered the hall. At the far end there was a dais, with a dozen comfy chairs in a slight arc, facing the audience. The rest of the hall had similar chairs that faced the dais, set on a sloping floor.
They took their places: Ambros and Kim in the front row next to Luisa and Marie, Voukli on the dais in the chair reserved for the junior-most Magistre.
Ambros looked around: he pointed out a group from Black Warrior Guild, led by a woman: “That must be Magistri Ellisi. I’ve heard of her.”
The women knew what BWG was, although he’d had a hard time differentiating their mission from Sacred Band’s when he’d tried to explain it to his Twines.
“We overlap a bit, okay?” had been his final statement.
Red Warrior Guild didn’t have a full delegation at the meeting, just a single representative: she sat in the back, elderly and frail-looking, but with sharp eyes and a separate recorder for her Guild’s records.
A woman with shockingly green hair and eyes led a delegation from Postal Guild. Ambros indicated her and her delegation to the women: “Postal Guild does a lot of intelligence and espionage, as well as running the Kyklo and its appendages. They also still deliver paper letters and other objects.”
“Why would Postal Guild be spies?” asked Luisa.
Ambros grinned: “Why is the US Secret Service part of the Treasury Department? An accident of History, in both cases. In the Postal Guild’s case, they had people of all sorts carrying messages on established routes, including near all of the borders of the original Commonwealth. They were already hearing and sharing information, from ‘official’ reports of cross-border activity sent to Athens by the northern Polisae and Guild branches, to rumor and gossip. One day, one of their carriers put on a wig and went across the border. She got useful information, so...”
“So the Commonwealth encouraged the Guild to do some more of that,” said Kim.
“Exactly!” Ambros’ grin went away.
“What?” asked Marie. She was always the most attuned of the three women to the moods of people around her.
“What what?” Ambros riposted.
“You stopped grinning that sarcastic grin of yours and stared at the dais. Is somebody texting you?”
“No,” he replied: “And I don’t intend that grin to be sarcastic. But I was just struck by something: How old is Megálos, really?”
Luisa’s chin rose a little and she tipped her head to one side: “Right. People aren’t necessarily the age they look to be, in this Line. Are they?”
“They definitely aren’t,” said Kim.
Ambros said: “Megalos appears to be senior to Arrenji, in this Council. He appears to be even younger than she does. Is he actually older, or did he get his belts before her? Or maybe he’s just better at administrative stuff?”
They all looked from one to the others; no one had a clue.
“And I also wonder...what’s his real name?”
“Oh. Right. Megálos just means ‘Big Man’, right.”
“I think ‘Big Guy’ is closer to the meaning; a subtle difference. But he must have a ‘real name’, right?”
“No clue,” said Luisa, speaking for them all.
This conversation coincided with a lot of other activity: the usual beginning of an “afthono-style” meeting, where everyone talked at once and sophisticated machinery recorded all of it.
Megálos let everyone present yack for quite a while, exchanging such information as they each had; people handsigned and spoke, documents passed hand to hand, or shot from one Shifter to another in electronic form. Ambros downloaded everything he got into Kim’s tablet.
Finally Megálos said: “Let’s get it going. Postal Guild, what the hell happened?”
The green haired woman from that Guild rose: “I apologize for this Intelligence failure. Here’s the word we have: At Fifth Night Bell this morning, our time, Prime ATL launched an all-out invasion of US Imperial Timeline Six.”
Danilos, who was from USIT Eight, was sitting nearby, biting his lower lip. He shook his head in dismay, shuffling some papers in his hands and tearing up a little.
Ambros handsigned condolences: USITs Six and Eight were very similar, and obviously the news hit Danilos hard. He nodded at Ambros, and signed his thanks.
“They propped open every gate on Six, and blitzed toward the various capitals,” said the Postal Representative: “They used nazi-era tactics, and it nearly worked.”
“Something stopped them, though,” said Megálos: “All the Gates in that Line are down. The machinery in the War Room can’t even detect them.”
“Skolaros Danilos has a report from Black Warrior Guild, and it explains that,” said Postal.
Danilos rose. He was a little shorter than Ambros, and very slight. He’d gotten stronger, almost wiry, when Ambros tutored him in swordplay; it seemed as though he’d been keeping up with those exercises. Still, he looked like a breeze might blow him down. His hair was red and he freckled at the slightest touch of sunshine.
He spoke nervously: “BWG made a number of sorties via Controlled Saltation. Line Six is in a state of complete chaos. All four large ruling class blocs have been decapitated.”
After the muttering died down, he continued, more confidently: “This is what I think happened. Jean l’Iriquois, or his general staff, misjudged the situation badly. The US, Russian, Chinese, and European blocs all had command-and-control and satellite data, which the ATL force either disregarded or failed to knock out. The leaders of the blocs hesitated for only a very short time, until they were sure the attack was real. Their satellite imaging told them where the enemy troops were coming from, dropping in, in their Line.”
Ambros put his face in his hands and groaned.
“They came to an agreement: they lowered their anti-missile defenses and nuked the Gates in each other’s territories.” Danilos voice was firm, but he looked sick: “Of course, they all cheated: Moscow, Washington, The Hague and Beijing are all gone now.”
Postal spoke again: “They nuked a lot of other cities as well. Population is currently down to about two billion, from six and a half. It’ll fall lower, maybe even to zero.”
“There are an unknown number of ATL Prime soldiers trapped in that Line, now,” said Danilos. “They have probably got ammo and food for a tenday or so, but the radiation and the cold is gonna hamper their ability to hold out anywhere.”
Postal spoke grimly: “Whatever is left of Line Six’s various military machines are engaged in a campaign to exterminate what remains of the invaders. That bloodbath is well under way already.”
“And then they will likely turn upon each other,” said Danilos: “To the extent that they can. All four blocs are guilty of overstepping their agreement, and bombing the other three capitals.”
It was relatively quiet in the room, for a long time, as each of the attendees muttered, handsigned, or ‘texted’ each other via MPS and Shifter. Then a real silence finally descended: Megálos let that sit for a couple minutes, then said: “What shall we here do about this…abominable situation?”
“What can we do?” Ambros asked.
“We should try to help those people,” said Kim.
Voukli was surfing through images in the big holo-display above their heads: “Mostly useless,” she said: “I agree that food and temporary shelters, and perhaps some Medical interventions, those we ought to send. Allied Lines may help. But more than a season’s effort is likely to be wasted time and energy,”
Ambros stood up and spoke emphatically: “We should do all we can. There’s an opportunity, here.”
Voukli made as if to interrupt, but Megálos handsigned her silent: “Say on, Spathos.”
Ambros continued: “It may be futile. The planet is probably heavily poisoned by various industrial by-products. All USIT Lines share that. Add radiation to the mix, and the cold...But we have a situation here where the ruling class and most of the militaries have been eliminated at a blow. If we can save a breeding population in that Line, and teach them Logic and direct democracy by assemblies or something like that, while there is still a manageable population, we may get an Allied Line out of it.”
“That would take a while,” said Arrenji.
“It would.” Ambros remained standing.
Voukli said: “It might be do-able, though. Med Guild will provide Iatrae, they say. And prophylactic medicines for any volunteers who want to go through. USIT Six is probably not salvageable in the short run. Too much radiation, too cold a winter coming on. In the long run...who knows?”
Danilos spoke: “I’ll organize BWG to do what can be done.”
Megálos looked at him sidelong: “Do you have the Status for that?”
“Who cares?” asked Danilos: “Black Warrior Guild will follow me or they won’t.”
Arrenji grinned: “Good man. Keep me in the loop, please.”
Danilos assented to that, then began making calls with his MPS: his was a civilian version, for use within Commonwealth Prime.
Ambros sat down, and mused on that: ‘He is the equivalent of a civilian employee of a USIT military force. He has no Command Status at all...’ He wondered how the fellow would do organizing Black Warrior soldiers. He shrugged.
Arrenji said: “Do you suppose that Emperor Jean is planning more of this shit?”
Magistro Skavo rose then. Se was a person of indeterminate gender, to look at.
‘Apparently indeterminate for real as well as in appearance,’ Ambros thought: ‘Se said to me: “I would not hate living as a woman, nor dislike being a man. I am however, neither. And both.” I wonder if I’ll ever find out what se means by that?’ The neuter pronoun, its origin and its use, were second nature to him by then.
Skavo said: “Certainly he is. The first eight enumerated USITs are all dominated by very conservative versions of the so-called Republican faction. This person, ‘Bush’ is, in all his cognates, a patsy to the nearly fascist segment of his own party, which is probably why ATL Prime chose one of them for a first attempt at conquest.
Ambros said: “So they’ll shrug off this setback, not even count the dead, and make another attempt in a few tendays; a year at the most.” He put his fist by his ear, asking for silence: “I’d like it on record that I am afraid of something way worse than an attempt on another USIT. I’ll bring some more alarming scenarios to our next meeting.”
Skavo spoke: “Do you have any idea what to do about the more alarming scenarios? Or are you just alarmed?”
“I do have some ideas,” said Ambros: “I’ll be thinking about that as well. Right now, I think we should focus on USIT Six.”
Megálos agreed: “Line Six is the subject of this meeting. Give me some proposals.”
Voukli suggested: “Put some operatives into USIT One through Eight, to start countering the influence of the fascists.” Postal tapped that into a doc that appeared on the wall behind the Magistrae.
Arrenji said: “Magistrae should study each Line by RNA, and someone should master them all.”
They all looked at her; she grimaced: “Not me. I’m over the limit, well over. I have a good base in Line Seventeen, so I can help them whenever I’m needed.”
“I,” said Danilos: “I am empowered by BWG to offer our aid to Spathos Ambros.” He walked over and handed Ambros a Token, a coin with the symbol of Black Warrior Guild incised upon it. The wings of the hawk glittered, its tongue and claws shone, picked out in reddish gold highlights.
“This is gold,” Ambros said: his fingers had become familiar with the feel of that metal in recent days.
“Yes,” said Danilos: “We offered you our aid already. Now we are upping the offer. The Magistrae say they will take any action that you judge necessary to the salvation of your Line, USIT Seventeen.”
Ambros’ eyes narrowed: “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
Magistri Arrenji spoke then: “Tangentially, there is near-consensus in the various forums on the Commonwealth Kyklo: we are urged to start taking the fight to the enemy. I believe this to be sincere; the last few tendays we have seen a significant uptick in the number of young people attaching themselves to Red Warrior Guild and beginning study at the Skolo.” She paused to let that sink in: “Part of our more aggressive stance is to preserve what has not yet been corrupted. There is consensus in the War Guilds: we will make a concentrated effort to salvage the United States Imperial Lines, starting with Seventeen. Since we have operatives in that Line.” She grinned at Ambros: “Got any ideas about how to start?”
“Yes. Marie and I in particular have been talking about this. Line Seventeen has some advantages and we want to exploit them. We thought about starting an online magazine, where we would print articles exposing the corruption of the System and offering Commonwealth-style solutions to the problems of social organization.”
“We would want to start small,” said Marie: “Bi-monthly for a while, and using only Line Seventeen tech. But then...”
Luisa continued the thought: “...Then we could use your tech...” She paused for her headset-translator’s aid: “...to draw a lot more attention to our writing than we’d otherwise be able to get.”
Kim said: “We would then use whatever influence we gathered to encourage ground-level organizing, concentrating on the practical: food, clothing, and shelter for the worst-off.
“At that point, we’d also begin to emphasize the ‘propaganda’ aspect: shaming people whose wealth is really hoarding, and harms the Commons.”
“The other part of the propaganda is the ‘what we can do’ aspect: suggestions about how to form Affinity Groups and other kinds of revolutionary organizations. What is direct democracy, and how does it work, that sort of thing.” Ambros grinned ruefully: “That bit is a little harder.”
Marie said: “We can lessen the weight we’ll be carrying by using edited translations of dissertations and articles published here in the Commonwealth, to do that last part.”
“Where does all that get us, though?” asked Danilos. “How does that promote a better outcome for the planet, in your Line or in mine?”
“It doesn’t help directly,” said Ambros: “What we need, in my Line and in yours, is a worldwide wildcat General Strike, with at least 75% participation.” He put his fist by his ear: “My opinion.”
Kim jumped in: “And following the collapse of the System thus provoked, we would need a global conversation about where to go from there.”
“To get to that...” Luisa continued, after another pause: “...we need to educate a lot of people, very quickly...”
“About ‘Logic, Emotional Honesty, and truth-testing Premises.” Marie grinned: “and in Line Seventeen: Kindness and Courtesy.”
“Line Eight, as well,” said Danilos. “In spades,” he said, in American.
Ambros laughed. Then he sobered and said: “Now, I’ve helped to produce this kind of newspaper in the past. The magazines and tabloids we published always collapsed in the end, for various reasons. Only one of the many titles I worked on still publishes regularly, and it has taken on a decidedly reformist tone. We, our new Affinity Group, are discussing ways to dodge all the pitfalls.”
“Meantime,” said Kim, “My father is going to help Ambros in his infiltration of the local ruling class in Eugene. Aunt Clem may be useful in that way, as well.”
“I’ve started moving among the homeless, too,” said Ambros. He nodded at Skavo: “Your suggestion: both at once.”
“Do you think...” Danilos seemed troubled: “Do you think this plan will come to fruition soon enough to save the Line? I’m pretty sure that it wouldn’t work fast enough in Line Eight.”
“I don’t know.” Ambros stated that emphatically. “But I do know that any plan that doesn’t include the educational aspect we have discussed will fail. And people have to do the ground-level organizing themselves. We can’t lead them, or the whole thing will fail, as it has many times in the past.
“Give me an idea how to speed that process up, and I’ll grab on with both hands. Okay?” That last word was in American, not the RH equivalent: ‘Endaxo.’
“I’ll think about that,” Danilos said: “Do you see no place where BWG can help you? At this time, I mean.”
“Not at the moment,” said Ambros.
Marie said: “When the time comes, we’ll let you know.”
Danilos looked puzzled.
Ambros said: “There may come a time when the application of force, Black Warrior style, is needed. Then I’ll redeem this Token.” He held it up; he’d been rubbing it between his fingers ever since he’d received it. He slipped it into the hidden space inside the thigh pocket of his cargoes, and snapped the flap shut.
‘That’s enough about Line Seventeen for now,” said Kim. “I want to know what we are going to do about the situation in Line Six.”
“Excellent point,” said Arrenji: “let’s get down to it. As I see it, we can either provide medical and humanitarian aid, separate the warring parties in order to lower casualty rates, or both.”
Megálos spoke: “I say, get the ATL troops out of range of the Line Six militaries, then Jump in with a lot of food and ‘tools of peace’ all over the planet. We’ll see, then, whether any of them manage to survive.”
“That’s a good start,” said Skavo: “Pacifist Deme will certainly support such a course...”
The next day dawned wet and chilly. Ambros had a full day planned, and no time for delays, if he was to get everything done. First, he had to pick up Kim from her sister’s place.
“Driving people around like a cabbie,” he muttered, as he left the house that morning: “It’s more than a little bit absurd, considering the tech I have at my disposal...but! There’s always a “but”, isn’t there? In this case, I can’t use the tech for just anything, or I’ll surely blow my cover sooner rather than later.” He reminded himself to discuss the inevitability of a blown cover with his mentors: ‘Gotta have a plan for that moment...’
He steered Luisa’s truck around a tight curve on the road out to Miss Crowell’s house. He muttered as he drove: “Pick up Kim, get her back to Rose House. Load up Marie and get her to the silk shop, before that shipment of saris comes in. Turn the truck back over to Luisa, then I’m off to the Commonwealth for that meeting at the café...”
Another vehicle came around the next turn in the road, crossed the centerline and accelerated. He had just enough time to register the appearance: ‘...green...big, maybe two-ton...giant iron bumper...’ Then he spun his steering wheel, hammered the brake, then gunned the engine and popped the clutch. He used the lane that the other driver had abandoned; he felt a bump on the rear of the bed as he shot by. He jerked his truck back to the right side of the narrow road.
“Shit!” he shouted, slowing down and checking his mirrors. The behemoth was backing and filling, clearly trying to get turned around. He gunned the engine again and took off, brakes screeching and tires wailing as he pushed the limits of what the old ’96 Nissan would do.
“Shit, shit, shit!” The larger truck was catching up; he couldn’t outrun it.
He saw what he was hoping for, a side road even narrower than the one he was on. He touched the brake, spun the wheel, and let the rear end drift. When he was facing to the left, he floored the accelerator and shot the truck into that side road, which wound its way into the hills around Spencer’s Butte.
‘Where’d ya learn to drive like that, old man?’ he thought, grinning. He heard the assailant’s brakes screaming, and then a crash.
In his mirrors he saw the other truck smashed into a power pole, steam rising from its radiator. Men jumped out of the truck, and he heard gunshots: One, then two more. His grin disappeared; he gassed the engine and went airborne, briefly, as he got over the first rise. His teeth clacked together painfully as the truck landed.
He drove more carefully then, working his way up and down the Butte. When he felt safe, he stopped the truck and checked his position with the MPS.
“Okay, I can get to the mansion on this road, if I don’t take any left turns.”
He got out and walked around the truck, examining the finish minutely. “No damage; there’s some green paint rubbed off on this panel.” He got a towel out of the cab and rubbed until the paint was gone.
He activated the MPS again, then knelt down and reached under the passenger side fender: “Huh. That’s a GPS transmitter,” he said, grimacing. He turned it over, twisted the cover loose and pulled out a tiny battery. He put the battery in one pocket, and the bug in the other.
‘I guess I better have a talk with Dan Samuelson and maybe Pete Morley. I’ll have to fit that into today, like it or not. One way or another.” He started the truck and began nosing it along the very twisty back road towards Miss Crowell’s, while plotting a homeward route that didn’t follow his outbound trail.
“Saturday practice, rattan swords and armor, fun and games...” he murmured.
The essay had nearly written itself. ‘Often happens when I’m on a rant,’ he thought. ‘Now I need to edit it so as not to insult anyone unnecessarily.’
He pulled into the parking lot at a city park in nearby Springfield. He stepped out and stretched, groaning. ‘I always knew that staying in shape after age fifty was going to mean a lot of sore muscles and aching joints. Even with Commonwealth medical science that’s true, apparently.’ He knew, though, that he was in better shape than a fifty plus year old man should expect to be.
He looked around, wondering at the greater activity at this practice, compared to previous one he’d attended. The high overcast lit the scene in muted colors, save for the bright heraldry on some of the combatant’s shields and surcotes.
“I guess that since it’s not threatening rain today we have more types of martial arts being practiced...” he muttered, trailing off. He could see archery targets at the far end of the field, perhaps seventy yards away. There were fencers warming up with several kinds of bated steel weapons, beneath a shelter with a very high roof. That roof covered a pair of half-sized basketball court set up in the standard playground style; the paving under the sheltering steel top mixed asphalt with sections of concrete.
He ran through a set of exercises to warm his body up, soon feeling less elderly and decrepit. He acknowledged greetings from the other fighters, who were in various stages of armoring.
He lowered the tailgate of the truck and opened his armor bag. ‘I better check everything...’ He laid it all out for visual inspection: ‘The helm and gorget are fine...no problems with the mail, I checked that when I was preparing for that Halloween party...the scale reinforcement needs an hour’s work tightening up the laces, but it’ll do for today. The swords...rattan is getting a little soft on the broadsword, but the two-handers are all fine.’ He squeezed the head in his mock battle-axe: “All good.”
He strapped on his greaves, then completed the waist-down armor with the cuisses-and-knees assembly. His gambeson still looked good, and functioned effectively: ‘The crochet material is thick and tight enough that it would probably even resist a steel sword to some extent.’
Armed save for helm and gauntlets, he examined the shield: “Here’s the real rub,” he muttered: “Totally crunched top and bottom, and splintered on both sides: not safe for even another bout, I think.” He shrugged: ‘I oughta be doing longsword anyway...’
He glanced at the field: he counted twelve “heavy” fighters in armor. ’”Heavy” is SCA slang for those who fight in the style of the earlier middle ages, with rattan ‘swords.’’’ He could see more cars and trucks pulling into the lot.
Baron Darien came over and shook hands: “Nice to see you again,” he said.
“Looks like a good turnout today,” Ambros replied. “I look forward to a significant workout.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Ambros donned his helm and heavy leather clamshell gauntlets. He began his practice the way he’d finished the previous one: ‘Challenge each fighter to a set of three. See how well I do. Stop for a rest.’
He went slowly at first, not minding the results: he lost his first seven bouts, largely from not moving quickly enough to take advantage of openings. The impacts of the ‘Killing’ blows he took were significant; he recalled that the west coast kingdoms were famous for hitting harder and taking harder blows than the Midwest.
He rolled his shoulders, then, and gazed at his third opponent, whose name escaped him: ‘Time for some real-life sword-like-a-cuisinart fighting...hit a little harder than you did in Tennessee.’
After that, he didn’t lose a set. He excused himself after winning two fights from Baron Darien: “I’m winded. I need a break.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. I wanna fight Lord Tancred, though.”
Ambros doffed his gauntlets and helm and watched the two of them go at it. He pursed his lips and tipped his head to one side: “He’s got to have been US military; maybe even...”
When Tancred and Darien came off the field, Ambros spoke to the Baron: “Happy Birthday, Marine.”
Darien did a double take, then said: “Thank you, sir. And how did you know?”
“I was watching your foot work as you fought.”
“Oh. But I meant: how did you know to say ‘happy birthday’ on the tenth of November?”
“Huh.” Ambros contemplated: “I was gonna say: ‘Doesn’t everybody know that?’ but I guess almost nobody does, these days. I know it because I read the Marine Officers’ Manual back in the 80s.”
“Wow,” said Tancred. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugged: “I had...not an enemy, I guess, but someone I was in conflict with, who had been a Marine captain. It helped me figure out where the bastard was coming from.”
Darien laughed: “I guess it would. Were you overseas?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you serve overseas?”
Ambros laughed: “I’ve never served in any branch of the US military.”
The Baron gave him a quizzical look, almost disbelieving: “Okay...I guess.”
Ambros donned his helm: “I wanna fight that lady in the red and silver...gules and argent, I should say.”
“Watch out,” said Tancred: “She’s quick, and fast.”
“Yeah, I noticed. That’s why I want to mix it with her.”
She was fast, and quick, and her shield work phenomenal. He found himself at a disadvantage. He also found that he was grinning like a lunatic as they double-killed repeatedly.
He gave it up: “I can’t get through that guard without dying. Good work, Lady...?”
“Melissa,” she replied.
An hour later, when he’d completed his sets with every fighter there, and spent some time talking some relatively new fighters through the basic ergonomics of swordplay, (as he saw it) he gave it up: “I have another appointment this afternoon, and I need to shower before I go there. I’ll see you all later, eh?”
As he disarmed, he walked through every fight he’d lost, internally critiquing his footwork and cutting technique. The fights with Lady Melissa took up a lot of the thinking.
He pulled himself back into the present moment as he slid behind the wheel of the truck.
As he turned into the street he saw a truck pull out from the curb a half block away. He turned this way and that, and it followed him. He growled, then made a few random turns, until he shook the other truck at a light.
“Probably nothing,” he grumbled: “just a coincidence.” He decided to shower at the Salon, just in case: “Then to Veneta, to see Megan’s sister.”
Sandra smiled at him in a more-than-friendly way as she got up to leave. He nodded, saying: “Thanks again.”
Megan came from behind the counter, bringing him a fresh cup, and said: “You two were deep into it, how’d it go?”
He nodded again: “Good, good. Sandra had a lot of interesting things to say about Eddie Roth, and I have a lot to think about now.”
“Cool!”
He turned sideways on the bench, stretching his legs out on the seat, and leaned back against the wall. He sipped the chai, contemplating. He had only a few minutes to rest thus before someone approached. After a moment, Ambros realized that it was the County Sheriff, in mufti.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Sheriff,” said Ambros by way of greeting: “Want to take a seat?”
Sheriff Burr frowned: “You always seem to get me on the defensive,” he said.
“I offered you a seat,” Ambros shrugged: “Take it or don’t.”
Burr sat down, slowly. He frowned at Ambros, who grinned at him somewhat sassily.
Ambros spoke, still smiling: “I think I could analyze your discomfort around me, in a way that would allow you to relax a little. Then we could get on with the business you came to do, whatever that may be.”
The Sheriff raised his chin a little, and narrowed his eyes: “I’d be interested in what you have to say.”
Ambros laughed a little: “See, you are accustomed to people treating you as an authority figure, so when someone treats you as an equal—I think it would be fair to guess that you‘d think of that as a ‘mere’ equal—you feel as though you’ve been disrespected. You haven’t been.”
The Sheriff’s frown broke a little, and he essayed a slight smile: “You’ve always been civil to me. Not to Chief Black, but to me.”
Ambros smile disappeared: “Chief Black’s minions beat me up and arrested me falsely, used a bogus warrant to damage my property, and pulled numerous other evil stunts. It went on for weeks, and Black did nothing, zero, zilch to stop them or discipline them. If the person at the top of a hierarchy cannot run the damn thing, and keep his underlings under control and obedient, what’s he good for?”
“And I?”
“I don’t know,” Ambros mused: “I had a reasonably friendly first interaction with Deputy Dan, so I was inclined to be friendly to your department. So...is this just a social call?”
“Mostly. Dan has a few days off. He wanted me to warn you, so I’m doing it.
Chief Black has found some...disturbing, anomalous, and conflicting information about you. He seems to think it’s got to do with you, anyway. It has to do with a fellow named Scharffen. Ever hear of him?”
Ambros stayed deadpan: “With two f’s? It’s a brand of Swiss chocolate.”
“Okay. Let’s remember that I warned you. That’s at Deputy Samuelson’s request. Right?” The Sheriff got up: “Try to behave, okay?”
Ambros shrugged: “I tried it once. It wasn’t bad.”
Sheriff Burr walked off shaking his head.
Ambros made a note to pillage the Police Chief’s computers and find out what the hell Black was up to. ‘First, though: an early night. I’m still off sked, sleep-wise, from that early morning raid.’ He headed for home.
The next morning rolled around, and Ambros was up early. He dropped in to the main landing pad in the War Room at the War Guilds’ Command Complex in Athino Prima. Magistros Megálos of Sacred Band was the Primary Controller. His board fed directly into and out of a machine in which a woman stood signing at various smaller boards and singing commands to others. Based on her hand movements and signs, not all of the machine could be seen from the outside.
Megálos saluted Ambros in the style of the War Guilds: left fist over the heart, right fist directly above the left. Ambros returned the salute and nodded at the other people working in the room that day.
He glanced at the new machinery in the northwest corner of the room. ‘The new stuff is a lot like the other equipment in this room’ he thought: ‘it’s not all here. The people in this room work with the constituent materials of the Multiverse.’
The various machines in the War Room, and in other rooms visible through archways or doors, hummed or beeped or flickered as the workers interacted with them or stood or sat in front of them…or inside them. Some of the machines combined physical control boards with holographic interfaces; some of them penetrated the walls and continued on the other side; others twisted Escher-like into (apparent) nonexistence.
Megálos beckoned to him. Ambros went over to the main board, glancing at the telltales; he saw nothing alarming, at least to someone with his limited degree of knowledge. The boards were fairly self-explanatory, except for the need to know abbreviations and acronyms. ‘That’s exactly where I’m lacking,’ he thought: ‘I should take an RNA course on that stuff…’ Some boards were monitors only; others were command-and-control; still others manipulated the multi-dimensional fields that made up the Multiverse. They all looked like giant versions of the Commonwealth-tech screen on his laptop.
Megálos was a huge man with an enormous black beard. His hands and feet were large even in proportion to his frame; his fingers on the controls seemed amazingly agile considering their stubbiness. He wore black and red, the colors of the two major War Guilds: combined they signified Sacred Band, the intelligence and commando force that made up one percent or so of the Commonwealth’s military.
“You here for a mission?” asked Megálos.
“Nah, just some R and R. And I have to move Kim back to our Line, after her class. What’s up?”
“Little dust rising around your Timeline. Can you make a meeting later today?”
“If it’s before Sixth Bell. I have a lesson at my Salon at about a third past Seventh.” It is a rare meeting in the Commonwealth that lasts under an hour; fewer still stretch past and hour and a half.
“Five PM your Line,” said Megálos, showing off some knowledge of US Imperial Timelines: ”Okay, keep your MPS on and wait for a message. I gotta get Voukli, Arrenji, Averos, Iyelisi, and some other reps from US Imperial Lines. I & DG says your Strimeni, Kimani, is at a class at Tech Guild. I’ll let you contact her, and we can pull the others in your household over if we all agree to the need.”
Ambros made a face: “Serious stuff, huh? All right, I’ll talk to Kim, and if she thinks it’s a good idea, I’ll contact Luisa and Marie by MPS before I settle in.”
“Good man.” Megalos saluted again, and Ambros returned it. Then he meandered out of the room, pausing to stare at any board that might bear on ‘dust rising’ around his Home Line. ‘I don’t see anything odd on the boards.’
There was a constantly changing board near the main exit: Information and Data Guild kept tabs on news, gossip, class and meeting schedules, and functioned as rumor control. Also, I & DG usually had a pretty good idea where any individual was. He handsigned at the sensor and got a confirmation: Kim was at a History of Technology lecture in the main hall of Technology Guild’s Skolo. ‘Also, the meeting I just agreed to is now provisionally set for Fifth Bell at the SB Master’s Council chambers.’ He knew without counting that that was an hour and a half past noon, his time.
“Lunch,” he said aloud: “Lunch and then a trip to the Arena. I’ve been looking forward to this date for a while.”
He strolled the halls of the Complex, nodding to acquaintances and saluting the few SB Guild-sibs that he encountered. There was a bit of a ruckus at the door of one of the computer rooms: he frowned and detoured around the clot of people. They were handsigning, and talking loudly, in jargon that he didn’t understand.
He took his usual route to the Main Hall: the ‘elevator’ took him down-sideways-and-up, opening into that Hall. It was castle-like, three stories tall and built of enormous stone blocks. Shelves covered in books and scrolls lined the walls, but the ceiling echoed his footsteps as he paced across the empty room: “That’s exceedingly odd,’ he thought. “Even the speaker’s platform is empty.” His words bounced back at him from the dressed stone of the roof and front of the Hall.
He approached the small door at the right of the main entrance. That was a monstrous pair of oak and iron doors, closed and barred against the cold weather of early Cooling. The only other person in the Hall sat by the smaller door, reading a scroll and humming tunelessly.
“What’s up, Diallos? Where is everyone?”
“Gone to meetings, I guess. Shit’s hitting. I’m surprised you’re not called to a meeting yourself.”
“I have one scheduled for Fifth.”
Spathos Diallos glanced at the news feed, then grunted: “Yeah, I see that now. High Status meet-up, that. Figures, though.”
“Yeah? How so?”
Diallos narrowed his eyes: “You haven’t heard? ATL Prime made an all-out assault on one of the United States Imperial Timelines. Number Six.”
Ambros’ eyes went wide: “Wow. What’s the status?”
“I don’t know. The Gates are down, though, the ones in that Line.”
“Oh. Wow.” That implied major alterations to the geology of the places where the Gates stood.
Diallos nodded: “Yeah.” He pulled a box off the shelf behind him. Ambros placed his Shifter in it; a little light on the lip of the box lit up.
“Kala meró, Spathos,” Diallos said.
“Ki esos.”
Ambros strolled along Odho Aeolenae, the Street of Winds. He made a beeline (as in a zig-zag route along several streets) for Plataeo Socratosena, the Plaza of Socratos. There, he knew of a couple of decent cafes and a beer bar. He’d intended to eat some lunch, and then meet Voukli at the Arena for the Commonwealth Hoplite Drill Championships. It seemed unlikely that Voukli would be able to attend, considering. ‘It’ll be a short day for me, as well,’ he thought: ‘But I’d really like to see at least a little of the competition.’
He stood in the mob of people in front of one of the cafés, waiting his turn. Listening in, he realized that the news had just begun to circulate. Rumor mixed with the facts, as he knew them, and swirled around the little crowd. When he judged that his turn had come, he pushed to the front and handsigned for a rice-basil pesto-and-veggies bowl.
He turned, with the food in one hand and a stein of hot tea in the other. Two men stood there, frowning. “Oops,” he said: “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”
One man nodded, and stepped up to the counter: apology accepted.
The other fellow glared at Ambros, then turned away in disgust.
“Have a nice day, Spathos Regulos!” Ambros called after him. He kept his tone civil, and his expression bland. Reg made a rude gesture behind his back as he stomped off to another café.
Ambros shook his head and headed for a table in the street. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to know whose turn it is, after four and a half months experience,’ he mused: ‘They never stand in a line, apparently that’s just not done; and they step to the counter according to some unfathomable combination of first-come first-served, Status, evidence of hunger, and whether you are a regular ‘customer’ at the establishment…I can’t say anything about the other guy, but Regulos is surely in the wrong here. He can’t touch me for Status, and I’ve never seen him at this joint before.”
He ate his lunch in a sober and thoughtful mood.
Kim appeared across the table from him and sat down, looking exhausted and overstimulated. She smiled robotically and then put her face in her hands.
“Hello, Kim,” he said, “or, I guess I should say: Skolari Kimani.”
She looked up: “Gods,” she said, in lightly accented Rational Hellenic: “I’m not at all sure I care for that version of my name. Kimi is even worse, though.”
“There are other variations. If you just call yourself ‘Kim’ that would be pretty normal.” He grinned: “It implies celibacy, though.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that. I’ll look on the Kyklo for naming customs, later.” She leaned back, stretching her neck from side to side: “Have you heard the news?”
“A sketch of it, and a lot of rumor. I & DG is going to be busy tonight.”
“Yah.”
He took her hand: “You were just in class at Tech Guild. Tell me what you learned?”
She shook off her distraction and really smiled at him: “Gates, the discovery and exploitation of the Timeline Gates. You probably have that History from RNA sessions.”
He shook his head: “Only the barest outlines. I’m working my way forward from the founding and back from the present, in RNA and read-study; that’s kind of in the middle of the history, so I haven’t got there, yet.”
“Oh,” she said. “You know, the most interesting thing to me is the way they discovered the whole phenomenon. It’s not like they are smarter than we are, but they sure do a better job of exploring the possibilities when weird and unexplained stuff happens.”
“Right. But that’s largely cultural, yes?”
“I guess. I mean, in the sense that neither church nor state nor even expense can keep a really dedicated researcher off the trail of an odd occurrence. The discovery of the First Gate…”
“I know nothing about that. I can’t even infer anything from the later commentaries I’ve read. What happened?”
“Well, a very young woman named Arrisini disappeared in the mountains near Athens. So, in our Line we’d be scared for her, we’d think that she’d maybe been kidnapped and raped or something…but we’d give up looking for her after a while, because it would be expensive and maybe dangerous. Somebody looking for her might get lost or injured, and the weather would eventually get bad, and...
“In the Commonwealth they just looked for her for a lot longer. And one of her cousins was in Technical Guild, and her brother was in History, and they were B.S.ing about the case in the Library one day. Her brother, Ursos the Younger, had a bunch of paper and parchment records of happenings in the area, and he noticed a pattern of disappearances over several centuries…”
Ambros said: “In my first RNA session I got some key dates burned into my mind, including YC 542 for the discovery of the Timeline Gates. Parallel to 1749 AD.”
“Exactly. The Commonwealth had mid-to-late nineteenth century tech at that time, except that their early mechanically powered analog computers were way more advanced than Babbage’s machines ever got. Anyway, Ursos and the cousin, Kirani, did a bunch of calculus and geometry and pinpointed the location of the Gate.” Kim was vibrating with excitement: “A permanent Gate, two kilometers from the walls of Athens, and invisible at that time.”
“So let me guess: they chucked a rock through, and nothing happened. Then…how’d they turn it visible?”
She chuckled: “With a sheep.”
He covered his ears: “No.”
“Yes. A very hungry sheep, whose only thought was of grass and hay. They herded her through the spot where they believed the Gate was and—hey, presto, the Gate opened.”
“What, on a barn full of hay?”
She laughed: “No, on a parallel Timeline where that part of the country was grassland rather than rocky waste.” She sobered: “What they did not find was Arrisini.”
“Oh.” He frowned: “Right. She walked through that Gate thinking about some unknown thing...daydreaming maybe...”
“Yeah,” she said, equally downcast: “She coulda wound up anywhere in the Multiverse. On the other hand, Ursos and Kirani’s multiple trips though the Gate searching for her, that taught us so much about the Gates and how they worked and all. You’ll see, when you get to that part of the History. They have gigantic Status and stuff all over the world is named after them. Their descendants have kept the family Status up, too.”
“And Arrisini?”
Kim made a face: “She is considered a kind of...I guess you’d say a martyr...a sacrifice to the Multiverse. There’s a whole Mystery Cult that reveres her. Your friend Megálos is the local Priest in that cult.”
“That figures, in a way. Actually, it’s weirdly cool, and very fitting.”
“It is?”
He grinned: “Yeah. Megálos is the reigning expert on the structure of the Multiverse, among the laymen at SB. He’s always hobnobbing with the Techs...he speaks their mathematical languages and understands their jargon. Averos says he sometimes plays the seven-eleven-D programming games they love so much.”
Her eyes got big: “Oh. That Megálos.” She grinned: “Anyway, that family is called ‘Arrisini’s Line’, in tribute. They paved the way for all of this...” She gestured around at the City.
He nodded: “Interesting. So, alien Timeline Gate technology and power sources, combined with the science and scientists of a truly free society, and working mechanical computers, led to the invention of a bunch of stuff that we’d never have thought of in our Home Line: Shifters, power modules, four-strand memory RNA for hard drives and as drugs to enhance education, inertia-canceling tech for air and space craft…”
“Yes,” she said, then continued more sadly: “and then, after we stumbled upon the l’Iriquois Empire Timeline: plasma swords, particle-beam weapons for out in space, slug-throwers based on electro-magnetic particle accelerators…”
“…and timers and fuses that let us use the power mods as explosives. Among other destructive innovations.” Ambros’ mind drifted for a moment as an encyclopedic knowledge of Commonwealth weapons tech flowed in a fast-moving stream across his mind, hijacking his eyes and ears for rapid-fire images and keywords that would allow him to get a similar ‘lesson’ on strategy and tactics.
“Yeah.” Kim’s somewhat depressed comment pulled him back to the real world.
They sat there for a while. Ambros contemplated the state of the war with the Authoritarian Timelines: “I’m getting curious and worried about the meeting we have at Fifth Bell,” he said: “Oh, yeah, Sacred Band wants you there, if you can make it.”
“I think I’d better. Have you called the others?”
“Do you think I should?”
“Definitely.”
“Right,” he said: “I’ll get to it, then.”
Kim got up and went to get some food. While she was occupied, he activated his MPS. The hologram of a Shifter appeared, about the size of a very thick wristwatch. He used the thing as a phone and contacted Megálos at the Command Complex.
“Hey, Magistros,” he said: “Kim and I agree: the other two, Marie and Luisa, ought to be at that meeting.”
“I hear you,” Megálos replied: “Shall I patch you through? Or I could just contact them and transport them from here…”
“Do that. They both know who you are.”
“Kala. Tha symfromei.”
‘That word is a contraction of the RH verb form for “I comply”,’ he thought:
‘With the future-particle “tha”, it’s “wilco” in RH, a step beyond “akuo sas” or “I hear you”.’
Megálos using that expression indicated a certain level of respect: ‘He is informing me that his personal estimate of my overall Status has jumped a bit. Also that he will see to the women’s transport, not just take my desires into account. Hmmm.’
He contemplated the customs and ‘rules’ implied by the language and jargon peculiar to the War Guilds: ‘If a soldier or operative has volunteered for an operation, and accepted my Command of it, then “akuo sas “ is all the response se need make to any command I give. The implication being...”I said I would obey your commands for the duration of the battle, and I heard you.” But I’m not in Command of any operation right now, so...Hmmm indeed.’
He looked up from de-activating the MPS to see Voukli arriving at the café. She saluted and he returned the gesture.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he said: “Figured you’d be busy.”
She made a face: “I was, but I’m stuck now. The meeting this afternoon will make some decisions, and I have to wait for those. I decided I might just as well keep our date. Rather than staring at the Boards and stewing about the situation.”
Kim set her lunch down and hugged Voukli. Their embrace was quite snuggly. ‘Those two have been very touchy-feely lately,’ Ambros thought. He grinned inside, his imagination working overtime. He disciplined his expression: ‘Kim will surely let me know if anything intimate is brewing.’
“So, what are you two going to see today?” Kim tucked in to her lunch, eating quickly.
Voukli laughed: “About this time every year, Kopelae from all over the planet converge on Athino for the Hoplite Phalanx Drill Championships. Or what were once championships, there is not actually a competition anymore, in strictest sense of the word.”
“Oh,” said Kim: “What do they do, then? And who’s in the Phalanxes?”
“People we’d call teenagers,” said Ambros: “Both genders…I should say all genders, things are not so binary here as they are at home.”
“We don’t deploy our military as Phalanxes anymore,” said Voukli: “Not too often anyway.”
“That may change if we attack the ATLs with larger numbers,” Ambros pointed out.
Voukli frowned: “You are right, that could change. What would a Phalanx armed with slug throwers and APS’s do differently from a massed pike formation? Interesting idea…But for now, the Phalanx drill is a sort of...what you’d call a sport. People tend to voluntarily age out at about sixteen; so it’s a pastime of people who are newly adult and want some of the comradery of their school days to continue.”
“Like a marching band with spears,” said Ambros.
Kim giggled.
Voukli laughed: “More or less exactly. Flutes, horns, drums and spear work as a collective martial art.”
“Are there judges?” Kim was finishing her lunch.
“Beyond the level of cheers and applause, no. Not anymore.” Voukli smiled, as if at memories: “It’s a hard-fought contest for those cheers, though.”
“Do you two mind if I come along?”
“I don’t mind at all,” said Voukli.
Ambros took Kim’s hand and said: “Let’s go. We should be on time. We’ll only be able to stay for the first hour anyway.”
They strolled through the City of Athino Prime. That City was (and is) the nerve center of the Prime Commonwealth Timeline, and the most influential locus of resistance, anywhere in the Multiverse, to the Authoritarian Timelines. The fog slowly lifted over the City and the sun peeked through a break in the overcast.
Ambros glanced back at the Akropolis; he stopped for a moment in awe. The sun illuminated the east side of the hill, making the colors jump out at him. The varied greens of winter vegetables and the many hues of late-blooming flowers reflected the light of the sun onto the whitewashed walls of the Temple District. It was a kaleidoscope of shifting tones and colors, a tie-dyed City, wonderful to behold. People all around them cried out in joy, or sighed and pointed at the scene. Kim and Voukli embraced him; he felt tears on his face. For that one moment, he was happy clear through.
They found seats in the Arena, in the SB section. Ambros hand-signed at the seat that Kim would sit in, indicating her status as the guest of a Sacred Band operative.
The Arena consisted of a huge set of stands, in a U-shape: the long horseshoe of bleacher seats enclosed a space approximately the width of a US style football stadium, and three times as long. The section of seats reserved for SB was near the center of the south side of the stadium: the open end faced roughly west-northwest.
Scattered over the surface of the playing field were at least twenty Phalanxes. Commonwealth Phalanxes, as he’d learned from RNA sessions, consisted of blocks of people, twenty wide by twenty deep. In the early days of the Commonwealth, from 1206 AD until about YC 150, the Phalanxes had been nearly all male. There had been exceptions, of course: a last-ditch defense of Athens in YC 65 among them.
By the Fifth Century of the Commonwealth the Phalanxes were fully integrated. A hundred years later they were obsolete: hence the ‘sport’ of Phalanx Drill.
As they took their seats, the next group began its presentation: flutes and horns sounded a fanfare and the Kopelae stood to guard. The pike-bearers marched and counter marched, formed columns and squads, and finished after about five minutes with a shout, and in a formation that resembled a porcupine, spears pointed all around. The applause from the stands was moderate, with a few people cheering.
“They were a little sloppy,” said Voukli. She gazed at the program on her seat’s holographic desktop: “Under fourteens, from Mongolia. Well, we are a little sloppy when we play their games, right?”
Ambros grinned: “They didn’t look sloppy to me, and I don’t know what Mongolian games are. Horseback tricks, I assume.”
Voukli nodded: “You assume correctly. This next bunch is from Maorio. They contended well last year.”
Maorio, said the RNA, was a regional Polis, a kind of mega-Polis that encompassed huge swaths of Oceania and mainland Asia. The warrior culture of what his Line called New Zealand had, in the Commonwealth Line, conquered most of the Pacific Rim: “In the absence of western explorers and conquerors,’ he thought: ‘the Maoris became a great Empire, during the Fourteenth Century in my Line’s calendar...their adoption of Commonwealth customs around 1410 really accelerated the unification of the planet...’ The RNA wanted to lead him down a rabbit hole into stuff about the Maori version of Red Warrior Guild and their odd relationship with the rest of the Coalition’s military. He suppressed that.
‘Later,’ he thought. The info rolled back at him, like a wave, and he pushed it back, surprised at how tough it was to keep it away. ‘Maybe stay away from RNA for a bit,’ he chided himself: ‘At least until you get the geography integrated.’
The Maori troupe’s flutes whistled an eerie, dissonant tune and Ambros’ attention returned to the field. Then the horns brayed; with a crash of drums the Maori Phalanx began.
‘They are snapping through those moves with a lot of élan,’ Ambros thought: ‘I can see the difference, now that I see this bunch.’
He said as much to Kim, adding: “This looks a lot like a Haka, with longer spears.”
She nodded: “Yeah, they are better.”
“Way better,” said Voukli as the Maorae finished up. She rose immediately and hollered and clapped; Kim and Ambros joined her, applauding noisily.
They watched four more troupes, including one from Athino, before Voukl said:
“Better get moving, you two. Meeting in a third of an hour.”
They all rose, reluctantly. Three young women in SB colors immediately took their seats.
Ambros, Voukli, and Kim were the last to arrive. The meeting was in the chamber dedicated to the Sacred Band’s Council of Magistrae.
Once they were past the security apparatus, they entered the hall. At the far end there was a dais, with a dozen comfy chairs in a slight arc, facing the audience. The rest of the hall had similar chairs that faced the dais, set on a sloping floor.
They took their places: Ambros and Kim in the front row next to Luisa and Marie, Voukli on the dais in the chair reserved for the junior-most Magistre.
Ambros looked around: he pointed out a group from Black Warrior Guild, led by a woman: “That must be Magistri Ellisi. I’ve heard of her.”
The women knew what BWG was, although he’d had a hard time differentiating their mission from Sacred Band’s when he’d tried to explain it to his Twines.
“We overlap a bit, okay?” had been his final statement.
Red Warrior Guild didn’t have a full delegation at the meeting, just a single representative: she sat in the back, elderly and frail-looking, but with sharp eyes and a separate recorder for her Guild’s records.
A woman with shockingly green hair and eyes led a delegation from Postal Guild. Ambros indicated her and her delegation to the women: “Postal Guild does a lot of intelligence and espionage, as well as running the Kyklo and its appendages. They also still deliver paper letters and other objects.”
“Why would Postal Guild be spies?” asked Luisa.
Ambros grinned: “Why is the US Secret Service part of the Treasury Department? An accident of History, in both cases. In the Postal Guild’s case, they had people of all sorts carrying messages on established routes, including near all of the borders of the original Commonwealth. They were already hearing and sharing information, from ‘official’ reports of cross-border activity sent to Athens by the northern Polisae and Guild branches, to rumor and gossip. One day, one of their carriers put on a wig and went across the border. She got useful information, so...”
“So the Commonwealth encouraged the Guild to do some more of that,” said Kim.
“Exactly!” Ambros’ grin went away.
“What?” asked Marie. She was always the most attuned of the three women to the moods of people around her.
“What what?” Ambros riposted.
“You stopped grinning that sarcastic grin of yours and stared at the dais. Is somebody texting you?”
“No,” he replied: “And I don’t intend that grin to be sarcastic. But I was just struck by something: How old is Megálos, really?”
Luisa’s chin rose a little and she tipped her head to one side: “Right. People aren’t necessarily the age they look to be, in this Line. Are they?”
“They definitely aren’t,” said Kim.
Ambros said: “Megalos appears to be senior to Arrenji, in this Council. He appears to be even younger than she does. Is he actually older, or did he get his belts before her? Or maybe he’s just better at administrative stuff?”
They all looked from one to the others; no one had a clue.
“And I also wonder...what’s his real name?”
“Oh. Right. Megálos just means ‘Big Man’, right.”
“I think ‘Big Guy’ is closer to the meaning; a subtle difference. But he must have a ‘real name’, right?”
“No clue,” said Luisa, speaking for them all.
This conversation coincided with a lot of other activity: the usual beginning of an “afthono-style” meeting, where everyone talked at once and sophisticated machinery recorded all of it.
Megálos let everyone present yack for quite a while, exchanging such information as they each had; people handsigned and spoke, documents passed hand to hand, or shot from one Shifter to another in electronic form. Ambros downloaded everything he got into Kim’s tablet.
Finally Megálos said: “Let’s get it going. Postal Guild, what the hell happened?”
The green haired woman from that Guild rose: “I apologize for this Intelligence failure. Here’s the word we have: At Fifth Night Bell this morning, our time, Prime ATL launched an all-out invasion of US Imperial Timeline Six.”
Danilos, who was from USIT Eight, was sitting nearby, biting his lower lip. He shook his head in dismay, shuffling some papers in his hands and tearing up a little.
Ambros handsigned condolences: USITs Six and Eight were very similar, and obviously the news hit Danilos hard. He nodded at Ambros, and signed his thanks.
“They propped open every gate on Six, and blitzed toward the various capitals,” said the Postal Representative: “They used nazi-era tactics, and it nearly worked.”
“Something stopped them, though,” said Megálos: “All the Gates in that Line are down. The machinery in the War Room can’t even detect them.”
“Skolaros Danilos has a report from Black Warrior Guild, and it explains that,” said Postal.
Danilos rose. He was a little shorter than Ambros, and very slight. He’d gotten stronger, almost wiry, when Ambros tutored him in swordplay; it seemed as though he’d been keeping up with those exercises. Still, he looked like a breeze might blow him down. His hair was red and he freckled at the slightest touch of sunshine.
He spoke nervously: “BWG made a number of sorties via Controlled Saltation. Line Six is in a state of complete chaos. All four large ruling class blocs have been decapitated.”
After the muttering died down, he continued, more confidently: “This is what I think happened. Jean l’Iriquois, or his general staff, misjudged the situation badly. The US, Russian, Chinese, and European blocs all had command-and-control and satellite data, which the ATL force either disregarded or failed to knock out. The leaders of the blocs hesitated for only a very short time, until they were sure the attack was real. Their satellite imaging told them where the enemy troops were coming from, dropping in, in their Line.”
Ambros put his face in his hands and groaned.
“They came to an agreement: they lowered their anti-missile defenses and nuked the Gates in each other’s territories.” Danilos voice was firm, but he looked sick: “Of course, they all cheated: Moscow, Washington, The Hague and Beijing are all gone now.”
Postal spoke again: “They nuked a lot of other cities as well. Population is currently down to about two billion, from six and a half. It’ll fall lower, maybe even to zero.”
“There are an unknown number of ATL Prime soldiers trapped in that Line, now,” said Danilos. “They have probably got ammo and food for a tenday or so, but the radiation and the cold is gonna hamper their ability to hold out anywhere.”
Postal spoke grimly: “Whatever is left of Line Six’s various military machines are engaged in a campaign to exterminate what remains of the invaders. That bloodbath is well under way already.”
“And then they will likely turn upon each other,” said Danilos: “To the extent that they can. All four blocs are guilty of overstepping their agreement, and bombing the other three capitals.”
It was relatively quiet in the room, for a long time, as each of the attendees muttered, handsigned, or ‘texted’ each other via MPS and Shifter. Then a real silence finally descended: Megálos let that sit for a couple minutes, then said: “What shall we here do about this…abominable situation?”
“What can we do?” Ambros asked.
“We should try to help those people,” said Kim.
Voukli was surfing through images in the big holo-display above their heads: “Mostly useless,” she said: “I agree that food and temporary shelters, and perhaps some Medical interventions, those we ought to send. Allied Lines may help. But more than a season’s effort is likely to be wasted time and energy,”
Ambros stood up and spoke emphatically: “We should do all we can. There’s an opportunity, here.”
Voukli made as if to interrupt, but Megálos handsigned her silent: “Say on, Spathos.”
Ambros continued: “It may be futile. The planet is probably heavily poisoned by various industrial by-products. All USIT Lines share that. Add radiation to the mix, and the cold...But we have a situation here where the ruling class and most of the militaries have been eliminated at a blow. If we can save a breeding population in that Line, and teach them Logic and direct democracy by assemblies or something like that, while there is still a manageable population, we may get an Allied Line out of it.”
“That would take a while,” said Arrenji.
“It would.” Ambros remained standing.
Voukli said: “It might be do-able, though. Med Guild will provide Iatrae, they say. And prophylactic medicines for any volunteers who want to go through. USIT Six is probably not salvageable in the short run. Too much radiation, too cold a winter coming on. In the long run...who knows?”
Danilos spoke: “I’ll organize BWG to do what can be done.”
Megálos looked at him sidelong: “Do you have the Status for that?”
“Who cares?” asked Danilos: “Black Warrior Guild will follow me or they won’t.”
Arrenji grinned: “Good man. Keep me in the loop, please.”
Danilos assented to that, then began making calls with his MPS: his was a civilian version, for use within Commonwealth Prime.
Ambros sat down, and mused on that: ‘He is the equivalent of a civilian employee of a USIT military force. He has no Command Status at all...’ He wondered how the fellow would do organizing Black Warrior soldiers. He shrugged.
Arrenji said: “Do you suppose that Emperor Jean is planning more of this shit?”
Magistro Skavo rose then. Se was a person of indeterminate gender, to look at.
‘Apparently indeterminate for real as well as in appearance,’ Ambros thought: ‘Se said to me: “I would not hate living as a woman, nor dislike being a man. I am however, neither. And both.” I wonder if I’ll ever find out what se means by that?’ The neuter pronoun, its origin and its use, were second nature to him by then.
Skavo said: “Certainly he is. The first eight enumerated USITs are all dominated by very conservative versions of the so-called Republican faction. This person, ‘Bush’ is, in all his cognates, a patsy to the nearly fascist segment of his own party, which is probably why ATL Prime chose one of them for a first attempt at conquest.
Ambros said: “So they’ll shrug off this setback, not even count the dead, and make another attempt in a few tendays; a year at the most.” He put his fist by his ear, asking for silence: “I’d like it on record that I am afraid of something way worse than an attempt on another USIT. I’ll bring some more alarming scenarios to our next meeting.”
Skavo spoke: “Do you have any idea what to do about the more alarming scenarios? Or are you just alarmed?”
“I do have some ideas,” said Ambros: “I’ll be thinking about that as well. Right now, I think we should focus on USIT Six.”
Megálos agreed: “Line Six is the subject of this meeting. Give me some proposals.”
Voukli suggested: “Put some operatives into USIT One through Eight, to start countering the influence of the fascists.” Postal tapped that into a doc that appeared on the wall behind the Magistrae.
Arrenji said: “Magistrae should study each Line by RNA, and someone should master them all.”
They all looked at her; she grimaced: “Not me. I’m over the limit, well over. I have a good base in Line Seventeen, so I can help them whenever I’m needed.”
“I,” said Danilos: “I am empowered by BWG to offer our aid to Spathos Ambros.” He walked over and handed Ambros a Token, a coin with the symbol of Black Warrior Guild incised upon it. The wings of the hawk glittered, its tongue and claws shone, picked out in reddish gold highlights.
“This is gold,” Ambros said: his fingers had become familiar with the feel of that metal in recent days.
“Yes,” said Danilos: “We offered you our aid already. Now we are upping the offer. The Magistrae say they will take any action that you judge necessary to the salvation of your Line, USIT Seventeen.”
Ambros’ eyes narrowed: “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
Magistri Arrenji spoke then: “Tangentially, there is near-consensus in the various forums on the Commonwealth Kyklo: we are urged to start taking the fight to the enemy. I believe this to be sincere; the last few tendays we have seen a significant uptick in the number of young people attaching themselves to Red Warrior Guild and beginning study at the Skolo.” She paused to let that sink in: “Part of our more aggressive stance is to preserve what has not yet been corrupted. There is consensus in the War Guilds: we will make a concentrated effort to salvage the United States Imperial Lines, starting with Seventeen. Since we have operatives in that Line.” She grinned at Ambros: “Got any ideas about how to start?”
“Yes. Marie and I in particular have been talking about this. Line Seventeen has some advantages and we want to exploit them. We thought about starting an online magazine, where we would print articles exposing the corruption of the System and offering Commonwealth-style solutions to the problems of social organization.”
“We would want to start small,” said Marie: “Bi-monthly for a while, and using only Line Seventeen tech. But then...”
Luisa continued the thought: “...Then we could use your tech...” She paused for her headset-translator’s aid: “...to draw a lot more attention to our writing than we’d otherwise be able to get.”
Kim said: “We would then use whatever influence we gathered to encourage ground-level organizing, concentrating on the practical: food, clothing, and shelter for the worst-off.
“At that point, we’d also begin to emphasize the ‘propaganda’ aspect: shaming people whose wealth is really hoarding, and harms the Commons.”
“The other part of the propaganda is the ‘what we can do’ aspect: suggestions about how to form Affinity Groups and other kinds of revolutionary organizations. What is direct democracy, and how does it work, that sort of thing.” Ambros grinned ruefully: “That bit is a little harder.”
Marie said: “We can lessen the weight we’ll be carrying by using edited translations of dissertations and articles published here in the Commonwealth, to do that last part.”
“Where does all that get us, though?” asked Danilos. “How does that promote a better outcome for the planet, in your Line or in mine?”
“It doesn’t help directly,” said Ambros: “What we need, in my Line and in yours, is a worldwide wildcat General Strike, with at least 75% participation.” He put his fist by his ear: “My opinion.”
Kim jumped in: “And following the collapse of the System thus provoked, we would need a global conversation about where to go from there.”
“To get to that...” Luisa continued, after another pause: “...we need to educate a lot of people, very quickly...”
“About ‘Logic, Emotional Honesty, and truth-testing Premises.” Marie grinned: “and in Line Seventeen: Kindness and Courtesy.”
“Line Eight, as well,” said Danilos. “In spades,” he said, in American.
Ambros laughed. Then he sobered and said: “Now, I’ve helped to produce this kind of newspaper in the past. The magazines and tabloids we published always collapsed in the end, for various reasons. Only one of the many titles I worked on still publishes regularly, and it has taken on a decidedly reformist tone. We, our new Affinity Group, are discussing ways to dodge all the pitfalls.”
“Meantime,” said Kim, “My father is going to help Ambros in his infiltration of the local ruling class in Eugene. Aunt Clem may be useful in that way, as well.”
“I’ve started moving among the homeless, too,” said Ambros. He nodded at Skavo: “Your suggestion: both at once.”
“Do you think...” Danilos seemed troubled: “Do you think this plan will come to fruition soon enough to save the Line? I’m pretty sure that it wouldn’t work fast enough in Line Eight.”
“I don’t know.” Ambros stated that emphatically. “But I do know that any plan that doesn’t include the educational aspect we have discussed will fail. And people have to do the ground-level organizing themselves. We can’t lead them, or the whole thing will fail, as it has many times in the past.
“Give me an idea how to speed that process up, and I’ll grab on with both hands. Okay?” That last word was in American, not the RH equivalent: ‘Endaxo.’
“I’ll think about that,” Danilos said: “Do you see no place where BWG can help you? At this time, I mean.”
“Not at the moment,” said Ambros.
Marie said: “When the time comes, we’ll let you know.”
Danilos looked puzzled.
Ambros said: “There may come a time when the application of force, Black Warrior style, is needed. Then I’ll redeem this Token.” He held it up; he’d been rubbing it between his fingers ever since he’d received it. He slipped it into the hidden space inside the thigh pocket of his cargoes, and snapped the flap shut.
‘That’s enough about Line Seventeen for now,” said Kim. “I want to know what we are going to do about the situation in Line Six.”
“Excellent point,” said Arrenji: “let’s get down to it. As I see it, we can either provide medical and humanitarian aid, separate the warring parties in order to lower casualty rates, or both.”
Megálos spoke: “I say, get the ATL troops out of range of the Line Six militaries, then Jump in with a lot of food and ‘tools of peace’ all over the planet. We’ll see, then, whether any of them manage to survive.”
“That’s a good start,” said Skavo: “Pacifist Deme will certainly support such a course...”
The next day dawned wet and chilly. Ambros had a full day planned, and no time for delays, if he was to get everything done. First, he had to pick up Kim from her sister’s place.
“Driving people around like a cabbie,” he muttered, as he left the house that morning: “It’s more than a little bit absurd, considering the tech I have at my disposal...but! There’s always a “but”, isn’t there? In this case, I can’t use the tech for just anything, or I’ll surely blow my cover sooner rather than later.” He reminded himself to discuss the inevitability of a blown cover with his mentors: ‘Gotta have a plan for that moment...’
He steered Luisa’s truck around a tight curve on the road out to Miss Crowell’s house. He muttered as he drove: “Pick up Kim, get her back to Rose House. Load up Marie and get her to the silk shop, before that shipment of saris comes in. Turn the truck back over to Luisa, then I’m off to the Commonwealth for that meeting at the café...”
Another vehicle came around the next turn in the road, crossed the centerline and accelerated. He had just enough time to register the appearance: ‘...green...big, maybe two-ton...giant iron bumper...’ Then he spun his steering wheel, hammered the brake, then gunned the engine and popped the clutch. He used the lane that the other driver had abandoned; he felt a bump on the rear of the bed as he shot by. He jerked his truck back to the right side of the narrow road.
“Shit!” he shouted, slowing down and checking his mirrors. The behemoth was backing and filling, clearly trying to get turned around. He gunned the engine again and took off, brakes screeching and tires wailing as he pushed the limits of what the old ’96 Nissan would do.
“Shit, shit, shit!” The larger truck was catching up; he couldn’t outrun it.
He saw what he was hoping for, a side road even narrower than the one he was on. He touched the brake, spun the wheel, and let the rear end drift. When he was facing to the left, he floored the accelerator and shot the truck into that side road, which wound its way into the hills around Spencer’s Butte.
‘Where’d ya learn to drive like that, old man?’ he thought, grinning. He heard the assailant’s brakes screaming, and then a crash.
In his mirrors he saw the other truck smashed into a power pole, steam rising from its radiator. Men jumped out of the truck, and he heard gunshots: One, then two more. His grin disappeared; he gassed the engine and went airborne, briefly, as he got over the first rise. His teeth clacked together painfully as the truck landed.
He drove more carefully then, working his way up and down the Butte. When he felt safe, he stopped the truck and checked his position with the MPS.
“Okay, I can get to the mansion on this road, if I don’t take any left turns.”
He got out and walked around the truck, examining the finish minutely. “No damage; there’s some green paint rubbed off on this panel.” He got a towel out of the cab and rubbed until the paint was gone.
He activated the MPS again, then knelt down and reached under the passenger side fender: “Huh. That’s a GPS transmitter,” he said, grimacing. He turned it over, twisted the cover loose and pulled out a tiny battery. He put the battery in one pocket, and the bug in the other.
‘I guess I better have a talk with Dan Samuelson and maybe Pete Morley. I’ll have to fit that into today, like it or not. One way or another.” He started the truck and began nosing it along the very twisty back road towards Miss Crowell’s, while plotting a homeward route that didn’t follow his outbound trail.
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Date: 2016-11-14 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-11-14 11:26 pm (UTC)