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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: The Aftermath, With Ethical Dilemmas

Ambros, Arrenji, and Voukli dropped into a plaza in Paris: obviously a version of Paris, despite the lack of several important landmarks from his own Line’s version.

His visor showed him three layers of force fields, one encompassing the plaza, another wrapped around the outer walls of a smallish fortified cathedral, and a third closely mirroring the walls of the cathedral itself.

“We’re sure he’s in there, then?” Ambros holstered his pistol and relaxed a bit.

Voukli shrugged: “Reds and Blacks have been pressing him and his bodyguards for three days. Traced their last Saltation to here. And this is where the Squids thought he’d go, at the end. His ‘last resort’ they thought.”

“They can’t Jump through our force fields,” said Arrenji: “If the Emperor is going to escape us now, he’ll have to do it on foot.”

Voukli nodded: “He’s supposed to have four women with him. At any one time three of them are armed and armored; whichever one isn’t armored is for his pleasure.”

Arrenji made a face.

Red Warrior Guild soldiers massed in the square near them. Arrenji made a handsign and they approached and spread out along the walls, eventually surrounding the compound completely.

Twenty Black Warriors dropped in, atop the walls, facing the cathedral. Arrenji made another handsign and one of the squads of techs moved forward. After a minute, the heavy oak door disintegrated.

The Blacks jumped down and charged the cathedral, smashing windows and breaking doors and entering through every opening so created.

Red Warriors flowed through the open gate, taking the inside of the wall and laying down cover fire throughout the gardens.

Gunfire broke out, the loud reports of ATL slugthrowers and the sound of blasters, countered by the buzz of Commonwealth microwave projectors and the zing of the Black’s own longarms.

Ambros heard the all-clear even as the Magistriae jogged forward. He followed close behind as they passed into the nave. Blacks were staged on either side of the vestry door, and on the dais behind the altar. More of them herded a sad-looking trio of prisoners into a corner; others dragged the corpses of their enemies aside, leaving a clear path for the Sacred Band trio.

The inner force field followed their movements, contracting as they approached their target.

“Stand ready,” Arrenji said, calm and sarcastic: “We’re about to call on his Majesty Jean IV, self proclaimed Emperor of the Multiverse. I expect he’s not going to welcome us...”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: All the Shit Hits Everywhere

“I am not a committed pacifist. I would not hold that it is under all imaginable circumstances wrong to use violence, even though the use of violence is in some sense unjust. I believe that one has to estimate relative justices. But the use of violence and the creation of some degree of injustice can only be justified on the basis of the claim and the assessment—which always ought to be undertaken very, very seriously and with a good deal of skepticism—that this violence is being exercised because a more just result is going to be achieved.”

― Noam Chomsky

The room lit up, the flash from outside bright enough to wake him from a deep sleep. He rolled to his feet, shielding his eyes. A deep, throaty “boom” filled his ears and he cursed in several languages:

“Jannet! Wake up! Now!” He used his Command voice, well aware that she had never before heard that tone from him.

She rolled over, muzzy with sleep, knuckling the matter from her eyes: “What? ‘Wha...”

He interrupted, still in Command mode, calm but firm: “Get dressed. Wake up Kim and Jimmy, then get upstairs. Wake up Marie and Luisa. Then put in your contacts, and grab your bag. Meet in the front yard in ten minutes.”

She stared at him, puzzled. She began to do as he’d ordered, slowly and reluctantly.

Then the ground wave from the explosion rolled through, shaking the house and bringing down some wallboard from the ceiling above her.

“Shit!” she yelled, and started throwing her clothes around, donning some, searching through the pockets of each item, looking for her phone.

From an Adjacent Timeline

Ambros deplaned at LaGuardia, groaning from the discomfort of six hours in a confined space. His left leg tingled and cramped briefly; multiple wounds demanded an accounting.

‘It wouldn’t do to arrive in New York by Shifter, with the damned Intelligence services watching the airport.’

It occurred to him that he could have Shifted to Cleveland or Pittsburg and suffered from a shorter flight: ‘I’ll do that next time...and there’s sure to be a next time, more’s the pity.’ Then he thought: ‘You know what? The hell with that nonsense. I should mark a restroom stall while I’m here, and just drop in there. Let all of the spies worry about how I get to wherever I am...’ 

His briefcase and shoulder bag were all he had for luggage, so he passed through the checkpoints without undue delay. 

He detoured to a nearby restroom and marked the stall nearest the door by creating a Path on his Shifter.

That task complete, he exited and looked around. He followed a series of signs that said: EXIT or TO TAXIS until he saw daylight and doorways to the world outside the terminal.

A man in a chauffer’s uniform stood among others similarly dressed, holding a sign that read “ROTHAKIS”.

Ambros shook his head and limped slightly on a beeline for the fellow, who glanced at a photo and spoke:

“Mr Rothakis? This way, please...”

For a few minutes, it seemed to Ambros that the whole world became a continuous explosion. The communicator in his helmet spoke quietly in Megálos’ voice: “Stay down, soldier girls and boys, turn on your beacons if you’re hit. This is bad shit going down...”

Ambros had to agree: “I’m supposed to be helping the Red Warrior Guild get out of Bangui, since they got trapped...”

A bomb went off and Ambros yelled: “Way too damn close, Commander!”

“Endaxi...I got a read on position and I sent...”

Megálos’ voice faded out and Ambros’ “radio” gave him only static. He looked at his visor and saw a set of coordinates: ‘I don’t know if that’s the location of the artillery or not...’

He shrugged and spoke aloud: ”I really don’t wanna stay here, though.”

More explosions, all around his position: ‘Is this random, or am I bracketed?’

He sent the coordinates to his Shifter by a flick of his eyes. 

Another shell landed about twenty feet to the west of him: “Oh, fuck...” 

The shell didn’t go off: ‘A dud...’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: The Consequences of Folly

Ambros found himself on his back, in some sort of shallow depression in the ground. He could see trees, nearby and in the distance, trees of an unfamiliar sort outlined against a dark cloudy sky. He smelled smoke, and the putrid smell of burning human flesh.

Something expoded, not too far away and his adrenaline spiked: ‘I remember...’

He’d been called away from teaching a lesson at Red Skolo, to help out in Republique Centralafrique, Line Seven: ‘Situation did bite back, like I thought it might.’

He moved his limbs, one by one, and just a bit, to see if he’d been injured: ‘Apparently not.’

Then his memory returned...

“I dropped in on Megálos’ coordinates, but I found only his helm. Before I knew what hit me I was in a firefight, surrounded by three separate forces all bent on slaughtering each other.’

They’d only been shooting at him by accident.

He remembered seeing the shell crater and opting to get out of the line of fire. Then waking up...

He rolled over, and checked his MPS: ‘I’m where I’m supposed to be,’ he thought: ‘But nobody else who’s supposed to be here is.’

Ambros and Bruce dropped in to the Fair site on Saturday around noon. He used the wild area near Daredevil Palace as their drop-in: with his Shifter still active, he could see hundreds of Traces, the spoor of Commonwealthers visiting the Fair. He sent a mental command to the Shifter, shutting it down. It bore a distinct resemblance to a hockey puck, though it was fractionally lighter. He stowed it in the pocket on the front of his kilt.

He looked his companion over and thought: ‘Bruce is a Giant Ant, for all practical purposes. Oh, there are a lot of small differences...and big ones, too; like the Squid sticking out of the top of its head.’

Most people would see Bruce and call it an Ant, though: ‘We certainly did, when the Commonwealth first ran into them.’

He knew that the creature had an internal skeleton as well as its chitinous carapace. ‘...and the cyborg aspect, don’t forget that part. Most of its memory is in the mechanical-biological computer set in its thorax.’

Two metallic tentacles dangled from the silvery rectangular panel set into its carapace. Occasionally these waved around, often in sync with the antennae on the “Ant” part’s head.

‘The machine stores memory and works logically. The Squid feels emotion—exactly what sort is hard to say— and provides motivation. The actual Ant part is more or less a biological bicycle, although with senses that the other two parts lack. And these three organisms have been a commensal and collective intelligence for at least several million years.’

He spoke aloud: “This is gonna be a riot. I hope not actually...”