Fictions

by Nancy Kress

  The High Priest said, “I cannot give permission for such a political disruption without understanding fully every possible detail. Tell me again.”

  Lambert hid a grin. The High Priest did not need to hear it again. She knew the whole argument, had pored over it for days, most likely, with her advisors. And she would agree; why wouldn’t she? It could only add to her power. Brill knew that. He was being asked to explain only to show that the High Priest could force him to do it, again and again, until she—not he—decided the explanation was sufficient and the Church of the Holy Hostage issued a permanent hostage permit to hold one Anne Boleyn, of England Time Delta, for the altruistic purpose of preventing a demonstrable, Class One war.

  Brill showed no outward recognition that he was being humbled. “Your Holiness, this woman is a fulcrum. The Rahvoli equations, developed in the last century by—”

  “I know the Rahvoli equations,” the High Priest said. And smiled sweetly.

  “Then Your Holiness knows that any person identified by the equations as a fulcrum is directly responsible for the course of history. Even if he or she seems powerless in local time. Mistress Boleyn was the second wife of Henry VIII of England. In order to marry her, he divorced his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and in order to do that, he took all of England out of the Catholic Church. Protestantism was—”

  “And what again was that?” Her Holiness said, and even Culhane glanced sideways at Lambert, appalled. The High Priest was playing. With a Research Director. Lambert hid her smile. Did Culhane know that high seriousness opened one to the charge of pomposity? Probably not.

  “Protestantism was another branch of ‘Christianity,’ ” the Director said patiently. So far, by refusing to be provoked, he was winning. “It was warlike, as was Catholicism. In 1642 various branches of Protestantism were contending for political power within England, as was a Catholic faction. King Charles was Catholic, in fact. Contention led to civil war. Thousands of people died fighting, starved to death, were hung as traitors, were tortured as betrayers . . .”

  Lambert saw Her Holiness wince. She must hear this all the time, Lambert thought, what else was her Office for? Yet the wince looked genuine.

  Brill pressed his point. “Children were reduced to eating rats to survive. In Cornwall, rebels’ hands and feet were cut off, gibbets were erected in market squares and men hung on them alive and—”

  “Enough,” the High Priest said. “This is why the Church exists. To promote the Holy Hostages that prevent war.”

  “And that is what we wish to do,” Brill said swiftly, “in other time streams, now that our own has been brought to peace. In Stream Delta, which has only reached the sixteenth century—Your Holiness knows that each stream progresses at a different relative rate—”

  The High Priest made a gesture of impatience.

  “—the woman Anne Boleyn is the fulcrum. If she can be taken hostage after the birth of her daughter Elizabeth, who will act throughout a very long reign to preserve peace, and before Henry declares the Act of Supremacy that opens the door to religious divisiveness in England, we can prevent great loss of life. The Rahvoli equations show a 79.8 percent probability that history will be changed in the direction of greater peace, right up through the following two centuries. Religious wars often—”

  “There are other, bloodier religious wars to prevent than the English civil war.”

  “True, Your Holiness,” the Director said humbly. At least it looked like humility to Lambert. “But ours is a young science. Identifying other time streams, focusing on one, identifying historical fulcra—it is such a new science. We do what we can, in the name of Peace.”

  Everyone in the room looked pious. Lambert kept her face blank. In the name of Peace—and of prestigious scientific research, attended by rich financial support and richer academic reputations.

  “And it is Peace we seek,” Brill pressed, “as much as the Church itself does. With a permanent permit to take Anne Boleyn Hostage, we can save countless lives in this other time stream, just as the Church preserves peace in our own.”

  The High Priest played with the sleeve of her robe. Lambert could not see her face. But when she looked up, she was smiling.

  “I’ll recommend to the All-World Forum that your hostage permit be granted, Director. I will return in two months to make an official check on the Holy Hostage.”

  Brill, Lambert saw, didn’t quite stop himself in time from frowning. “Two months? But with the entire solar system of Hostages to supervise—”

  “Two months, Director,” Her Holiness said. “The week before the All- World Forum convenes to vote on revenue and taxation.”

  “Now I would like to inspect the three Holy Hostages you already hold for the altruistic prevention of war.”

  Later, Culhane said to Lambert, “He did not explain it very well. It could have been made so much more urgent . . . it is urgent. Those bodies rotting in Cornwall. . .” He shuddered.

  Lambert looked at him. “You care. You genuinely do.”

  He looked back at her, in astonishment. “And you don’t? You must, to work on this project!”

  “I care,” Lambert said. “But not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  She tried to clarify it for him, for herself. “The bodies rotting . . . I see them. But it’s not our own history—”

  “What does that matter? They’re still human!”

  He was so earnest. Intensity burned on him like skin tinglers. Did Culhane even use skin tinglers, Lambert wondered? Fellow researchers spoke of him as an ascetic, giving all his energy, all his time, to the Project. A woman in his domicile had told Lambert he even lived chaste, doing a Voluntary Celibacy Mission for the entire length of his research grant. Lambert had never met anyone who actually did that. It was intriguing.

  She said, “Are you thinking of the priesthood once the project is over, Culhane?”

  He flushed. Color mounted from the dyed cheeks, light blue since he had been promoted to Project Head, to pink on the fine skin of his shaved temples.

  “I’m thinking of it.”

  “And doing a Celibacy Mission now?”

  “Yes. Why?” His tone was belligerent: a Celibacy Mission was slightly old-fashioned. Lambert studied his body: tall, well-made, strong. Augments? Muscular, maybe. He had beautiful muscles.

  “No reason,” she said, bending back to her console until she heard him walk away.

  The demon advanced. Anne, lying feeble on her curtained bed, tried to call out. But her voice would not come, and who would hear her anyway? The bedclothes were thick, muffling sound; her ladies would all have retired for the night, alone or otherwise; the guards would be drinking the ale Henry had provided all of London to celebrate Elizabeth’s christening. And Henry . . . he was not beside her. She had failed him of his son.

  “Be gone,” she said weakly to the demon. It moved closer.

  They had called her a witch. Because of her little sixth finger, because of the dog named Urian, because she had kept Henry under her spell so long without bedding him. But if I were really a witch, she thought, I could send this demon away. More: I could hold Henry, could keep him from watching that whey-faced Jane Seymour, could keep him in my bed . . . She was not a witch.

  Therefore, it followed that there was nothing she could do about this demon. If it was come for her, it was come. If Satan Master of Lies was decided to have her, to punish her for taking the husband of another woman, and for . . . how much could demons know?

  “This was all none of my wishing,” she said aloud to the demon. “I wanted to marry someone else.” The demon continued to advance.

  Very well, then, let it take her. She would not scream. She never had—she prided herself on it. Not when they had told her she could not marry Harry Percy. Not when she had been sent home from the Court, peremptorily and without explanation. Not when she had discovered the explanation: Henry wished to have her out of London so he could bed his latest mistress a
way from Catherine’s eyes. She had not screamed when a crowd of whores had burst into the palace where she was supping, demanding Nan Bullen, who they said was one of them. She had escaped across the Thames in a barge, and not a cry had escaped her lips. They had admired her for her courage: Wyatt, Norris, Weston, Henry himself. She would not scream now.

  The box of light grew larger as it approached. She had just time to say to it, “I have been God’s faithful and true servant, and my husband the King’s,” before it was upon her.

  “The place where a war starts,” Lambert said to the faces assembled below her in the Hall of Time, “is long before the first missile, or the first bullet, or the first spear.”

  She looked down at the faces. It was part of her responsibilities as an intern Researcher to teach a class of young, some of whom would become historians. The class was always taught in the Hall of Time. The expense was enormous: keeping the Hall in stasis for nearly an hour, bringing the students in through the force field, activating all the Squares at once. Her lecture would be replayed for them later, when they could pay attention to it: Lambert did not blame them for barely glancing at her now. Why should they? The walls of the circular room, which were only there in a virtual sense, were lined with Squares, which were not really there at all. The Squares showed actual, local-time scenes from wars that had been there, were there now, somewhere, in someone’s reality.

  Men died writhing in the mud, arrows through intestines and necks and groins, at Agincourt.

  Women lay flung across the bloody bodies of their children at Cawnpore.

  In the hot sun the flies crawled thick upon the split faces of the heroes of Marathon.

  Figures staggered, their faces burned off, away from Hiroshima.

  Breathing bodies, their perfect faces untouched and their brains turned to mush by spekaline, sat in orderly rows under the ripped dome on Io- One.

  Only one face turned towards Lambert, jerked as if on a string, a boy with wide violet eyes brimming with anguish. Lambert obligingly started again.

  “The place where a war starts is long before the first missile, or the first bullet, or the first spear. There are always many forces causing a war: economic, political, religious, cultural. Nonetheless, it is the great historical discovery of our time that if you trace each of these back—through the records, through the eye-witness accounts, through the entire burden of data only Rahvoli equations can handle—you come to a fulcrum. A single event or act or person. It is like a decision tree with a thousand thousand generations of decisions: Somewhere there was one first yes/no. The place where the war started, and where it could have been prevented.

  “The great surprise of Time Rescue work has been how often that place was female.

  “Men fought wars, when there were wars. Men controlled the gold and the weapons and the tariffs and sea rights and religions that have caused wars, and the men controlled the bodies of other men that did the actual fighting. But men are men. They acted at the fulcrum of history, but often what tipped their actions one way or another was what they loved. A woman. A child. She became the passive, powerless weight he chose to lift, and the balance tipped. She, not he, is the branching place, where the decision tree splits and the war begins.”

  The boy with the violet eyes was still watching her. Lambert stayed silent until he turned to watch the Squares—which was the reason he had been brought here. Then she watched him. Anguished, passionate, able to feel what war meant—he might be a good candidate for the Time Rescue team, when his preliminary studies were done. He reminded her a little of Culhane.

  Who right now, as Project Head, was interviewing the new Hostage, not lecturing to children.

  Lambert stifled her jealousy. It was unworthy. And short-sighted: She remembered what this glimpse of human misery had meant to her three years ago, when she was an historian candidate. She had had nightmares for weeks. She had thought the event was pivotal to her life, a dividing point past which she would never be the same person again. How could she? She had been shown the depths to which humanity, without the Church of the Holy Hostage and the All-World Concordance, could descend. Burning eye sockets, mutilated genitals, a general who stood on a hill and said, “How I love to see the arms and legs fly!” It had been shattering. She had been shattered, as the Orientation intended she should be.

  The boy with the violet eyes was crying. Lambert wanted to step down from the platform and go to him. She wanted to put her arms around him and hold his head against her shoulder . . . but was that because of compassion, or was that because of his violet eyes?

  She said silently to him, without leaving the podium, You will be all right. Human beings are not as mutable as you think. When this is over, nothing permanent about you will have changed at all.

  Anne opened her eyes. Satan leaned over her.

  His head was shaved, and he wore strange garb of an ugly blue-green. His cheeks were stained with dye. In one ear metal glittered and swung. Anne crossed herself.

  “Hello,” Satan said, and the voice was not human.

  She struggled to sit up; if this be damnation, she would not lie prone for it. Her heart hammered in her throat. But the act of sitting brought the Prince of Darkness into focus, and her eyes widened. He looked like a man. Painted, made ugly, hung around with metal boxes that could be tools of evil—but a man.

  “My name is Culhane.”

  A man. And she had faced men. Bishops, nobles, Chancellor Wolsey.

  She had outfaced Henry, Prince of England and France, Defender of the Faith.

  “Don’t be frightened, Mistress Boleyn. I will explain to you where you are and how you came to be here.”

  She saw now that the voice came not from his mouth, although his mouth moved, but from the box hung around his neck. How could that be? Was there then a demon in the box? But then she realized something else, something real to hold onto.

  “Do not call me Mistress Boleyn. Address me as Your Grace. I am the queen.”

  The something that moved behind his eyes convinced her, finally, that he was a mortal man. She was used to reading men’s eyes. But why should this one look at her like that—with pity? With admiration?

  She struggled to stand, rising off the low pallet. It was carved of good English oak. The room was paneled in dark wood and hung with tapestries of embroidered wool. Small-paned windows shed brilliant light over carved chairs, table, chest. On the table rested a writing desk and a lute. Reassured, Anne pushed down the heavy cloth of her night shift and rose.

  The man, seated on a low stool, rose too. He was taller than Henry—she had never seen a man taller than Henry—superbly muscled. A soldier? Fright fluttered again, and she put her hand to her throat. This man, watching her—watching her throat. Was he then an executioner? Was she under arrest, drugged and brought by some secret method into the Tower of London? Had someone brought evidence against her—or was Henry that disappointed that she had not borne a son that he was eager to supplant her already?

  As steadily as she could, Anne walked to the window.

  The Tower bridge did not lay beyond in the sunshine. Nor the river, nor the gabled roofs of Greenwich Palace. Instead there was a sort of yard, with huge beasts of metal growling softly. On the grass naked young men and women jumped up and down, waving their arms, running in place and smiling and sweating as if they did not know either that they were uncovered or crazed.

  Anne took firm hold of the windowsill. It was slippery in her hands and she saw that it was not wood at all, but some material made to resemble wood. She closed her eyes, then opened them. She was a queen. She had fought hard to become a queen, defending a virtue nobody believed she still had, against a man who claimed that to destroy that virtue was love. She had won, making the crown the price of her virtue. She had conquered a king, brought down a Chancellor of England, outfaced a pope. She would not show fear to this executioner in this place of the damned, whatever it was.

  She turned from the window, her head high
. “Please begin your explanation, Master. . .”

  “Culhane.”

  “Master Culhane. We are eager to hear what you have to say. And we do not like waiting.”

  She swept aside her long night dress as if it were Court dress and seated herself in the not-wooden chair carved like a throne.

  “I am a hostage,” Anne repeated. “In a time that has not yet happened.”

  From beside the window, Lambert watched. She was fascinated. Anne Boleyn had, according to Culhane’s report, listened in silence to the entire explanation of the Time Rescue, that explanation so carefully drafted and revised a dozen times to fit what the sixteenth century mind could understand of the twenty-second. Queen Anne had not become hysterical. She had not cried, nor fainted, nor professed disbelief. She had asked no questions. When Culhane had finished, she had requested, calmly and with staggering dignity, to see the ruler of this place, with his ministers. Toshio Brill, watching on monitor because the wisdom was that at first new Hostages would find it easier to deal with one consistent researcher, had hastily summoned Lambert and two others. They had all pressed in the floor-length robes used for grand academic ceremonies and never else. And they had marched solemnly into the ersatz sixteenth- century room, bowing their heads.

  Only their heads. No curtsies. Anne Boleyn was going to learn that no one curtsied anymore.

  Covertly Lambert studied her, their fourth Time Hostage, so different from the other three. She had not risen from her chair, but even seated she was astonishingly tiny. Thin, delicate bones, great dark eyes, masses of silky black hair loose on her white nightdress. She was not pretty by the standards of this century; she had not even been counted pretty by the standards of her own. But she was compelling. Lambert had to give her that.