Son of Heaven

by David Wingrove

‘That true?’ Hammond asked, touching the man’s neck with the barrel of his gun.

  The man look petrified. As well he might, for half the village was out now. Men and women were hurrying down the slope, coats thrown over their shoulders hurriedly, every last one of them clutching a weapon of some kind.

  ‘It’s t-t-true… We… w-we were part of a p-party… out of B-b-b-Broms -grove.’

  ‘Bromsgrove. In the Midlands?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So what were you doing here, in Purbeck? How many of you were there?’

  ‘Th-th-three th-th-thousand… maybe m-m-more.’

  There was a murmur of surprise at that.

  ‘Three thousand?’ Hammond sounded stunned.

  Again the man nodded.

  ‘So what happened to the rest?’

  ‘Th-they g-got t-turned back… on the b-big road north of here. Armed t-troops… they c-came out of n-nowhere. Th-that’s how my f-friend got h-hurt.’

  ‘Must be Branagh’s men,’ Randall said. ‘Can’t think who else it’d be.’

  Charlie Waite, the landlord of the New Inn, arrived right then, with two of his sons. They were carrying torches, and in their flickering light, they could see the faces of the men for the first time, see the blood-caked clothes of the one who’d been injured.

  ‘Christ…’ Jenny Randall said quietly, appalled by the sight. ‘The poor boy’s been peppered with bullets!’

  But Hammond wasn’t concerned with that. He nudged the kneeling man again with his gun.

  ‘Why were you on the road?’ he asked. ‘Three thousand men… what were you? An army?’

  ‘R-r-refugees,’ the man stuttered. His eyes were wide. You could see he expected every moment to be his last.

  ‘Refugees, my arse,’ Charlie Waite said, coming up alongside Matthew Hammond, the two big men towering over the kneeling stranger.

  Waite reached down and grabbed the man by the neck and shook him. ‘Tell me the truth, you fucker!’

  Peter looking on, grimaced. He had seen this side of Charlie Waite before. The man had a short fuse and no sympathy. His intercession could only mean trouble.

  ‘N-n-not just men… w-women, t-too. And k-k-kids.’

  The wounded man groaned and opened his eyes. Jenny Randall looked to her husband, concerned.

  ‘We’ve got to do something… the poor boy…’

  Charlie Waite looked round, enraged by her sympathy. ‘’E’s like that, Jenny, cos he deserves to be like that! I bet a crown to a penny they were mercenaries. Not a woman or child among them.’

  ‘Then why’ve they no weapons?’

  ‘Because that’s what mercenaries do. As soon as things turn against them, they throw away their weapons…’ He looked back at the man he still had a grip on and shook his head. ‘They would have marched straight through if Branagh hadn’ta intercepted them. And where’d we be then? Facing the same dilemma, only with a thousand times as many of the bastards! Let’s have done wi’ ’em, I say.’

  There was a loud click as he took off the safety on his gun.

  Peter acted instinctively. Before Waite could place the gun to the man’s head, he stepped in and knocked the gun aside, then stood there, between Waite and the now hysterical man.

  Waite looked astonished. ‘What the…?’

  Peter glared at the innkeeper. ‘I didn’t blow the whistle so you could come and kill them. I could have done that myself. You want to kill them, you’re going to have to kill me first, and then you’ll have to deal with my dad. No, we keep them… tie them up and lock them away somewhere safe, till the rest come back. Then we decide. And Jenny’s right. We give them the benefit of the doubt, and tend to that one’s wounds. Then if he dies, it’s not our fault.’

  Waite sneered at him. ‘You think that matters, boy?’

  But Peter wasn’t having any of it. Waite didn’t scare him. ‘Oh, it matters, Mister Waite. It matters more than anything.’

  It was just after eight when, unexpectedly, Rory from the record stall turned up after all, a very pretty young woman on his arm.

  ‘Tom… Jake… this is my daughter, Roxanne.’

  ‘Rory!’ Jake said, delighted, jumping up to welcome him. ‘I thought you were heading off to Cornwall…’

  ‘I was… then her ladyship turned up, out of the blue, so I thought…’

  ‘Oh, you’re very welcome. Both of you! Shove up everyone… make some room for our good friends here!’

  Jake had given up on the idea of getting Tom back to bed an hour past. He only had to look at his friend to see what good this was doing him. Him and them all, if the truth be told, for the anxieties of the day had been washed away in a tide of alcohol.

  ‘Wha’ral’i’be?’ Eddie asked, getting to his feet unsteadily. ‘A pi’ fr you, Ror? An’ wha’ral’a-gir’ave?’

  Dick Gifford snorted with laughter. ‘Lissen to ’im! Pissed as a fuckin’ newt!’

  ‘A pint would be ace,’ Rory said in his best cockney, for that moment the only truly sober man among them. ‘An’ the same for Roxie, ta.’

  Eddie leaned closer, winking at the girl. ‘S’on’a’tab…’

  Jake looked to the girl, then back at her father and shook his head. ‘Nah… I don’t reckon she’s yours, Rory. Much too beautiful.’

  Rory grinned. He didn’t care what people made of him, but clearly any praise of his daughter was very welcome. And she was a good-looking girl, full-figured with long curls of dark brown hair. Looking at her, you could see why Becky had found it so hard to get and keep a man. Roxanne, on the other hand, probably had to fight them off.

  ‘So what do you do, Rox?’ Tom asked. He was sat right back now in his chair, a look of autumnal mellowness about him.

  ‘I engrave glass… words… designs… flower patterns…’ The men were leaning forward now, attentive to what she had to say; every last one of them smiling as they took in this new breath of fresh air to their table.

  ‘Thar’s a stall in the market,’ Billy Leggat said, gesturing with his pipe, ‘that ’as a few pieces like that. Lovely things, they are. ’Spensive, though…’

  Roxanne grinned. ‘Those are mine.’

  ‘An’ tha makes a livin’ from it?’ old Ted Gifford asked.

  ‘Truth is, no,’ she said. ‘Not a great call for it, if I’m honest. But it’s what I want to do. And Dad helps me out from time to time, so…’

  Rory put his arm about his girl and squeezed her to him.

  Just then, Eddie reappeared with their beers. He had spilled a bit, but most of it was there.

  ‘Ror… Rox…’

  ‘Fuckin’ Japanese, ain’t it?’ Frank Goodman said, nudging his neighbour, then putting his fingers up to his eyes to make slits of them. ‘Wha’ you fink of it so far? Ror-rox!’

  One or two of them laughed, but Tom and Jake were clearly a bit embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Jake said, quietly, apologetically. ‘It’s a lovely name. Did your mother take it from the song?’

  Roxanne, however, looked blank. Rory leaned forward. ‘Her mother didn’t like music.’

  Tom laughed at that. ‘Christ, Rory… you do pick ’em!’

  ‘Don’t I?’ He looked at his girl again. ‘Mind… she does look a lot like her ma did at that age. That was when I first met her. We were on the road, both of us. Refugees. She was tryin’ to get home… to Cornwall… while me… I was just trying to get as far away from London as I could. Bloody madhouse it was.’

  About the table there were dark looks at that mention. For the first time in an hour or two they’d been reminded. Of how things had been. Yes, and how they might yet be again.

  ‘Well, she’s a lovely girl,’ Becky said, smiling at her rival. ‘Such lovely ’air… I used to ’ave ’air like that…’

  ‘Jack ’Amilton used to ’ave ’air, too,’ Ted Gifford said drily, and they all set about laughing again, Becky included.

  The talk had got little further when their old friend Hewitt, Branag
h’s man, made an appearance. He looked like he’d been riding hard, for the sweat still clung to him and his face was black with dust.

  ‘Jake… can I ’ave a word?’

  Hewitt took him outside, into the cold air. His patrol were nearby, their horses tethered. Like their captain, they all looked like they’d not washed in days and their eyes had a tired, desolate look to them, like they’d seen too much.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just wanted to warn you. There’s been an encounter…’

  ‘An encounter?’

  ‘We had word something was happening a few days back, from other travellers. We didn’t let it get out, of course, or people might not have come here for market. Anyway… a force of four hundred men were sent north to intercept. They took up a position at Sherborne, on the bridge over the River Yeo. We hit the bastards hard, before they had a clue what was happening and—’

  ‘Hold on,’ Jake said, interrupting him. ‘You said to intercept. What were they intercepting?’

  ‘An incoming force. Three, maybe four thousand men. Some of them were armed, but most of them had little but makeshift weapons.’

  Four thousand men… Jake felt a flicker of fear at the thought. There’d not been a force like that for years.

  ‘And we beat them?’

  ‘Drove ’em off. Killed a fair number, but most of them fled back north, over the fields, heading for Glastonbury…’

  ‘But not all of them.’

  Hewitt nodded. ‘A small body of them doubled back. Last thing we saw they were headed south-east, down your way… that’s why I thought I’d warn you.’

  The thought of it chilled Jake. ‘Thanks… but look, who were they? I mean… four thousand men…’

  ‘Midlanders. They’d been driven out, from what we can ascertain.’

  ‘Midlanders?’

  ‘That’s what the ones we’ve questioned say. And those accents… you can’t mistake it.’

  ‘Christ… and Branagh knew about this?’

  ‘Knew about it and acted.’

  Jake thought about it. His instinct was to set off at once and come back for the wagons later if need be, only it was far too late for that. The men were much too drunk.

  He went back inside, sobered by what he’d heard. Should he tell them? Spoil their evening? He decided not to. There would be plenty of time in the cold light of dawn to decide on a strategy.

  Pray god I’m not wrong, he thought. Pray god eight hours won’t make a difference. Yes, and pray god they’re all safe at home when we get back.

  Jake tried not to let what he’d heard make any difference, but it did. He couldn’t sit there now and laugh with them at this trifle or that; couldn’t enjoy the moment. The thought that they were sitting there while armed strangers were heading towards their homes was too uncomfortable to bear. He finished his beer – his last beer, he decided – then turned to Tom. If anyone knew what to do, it was Tom.

  He leaned in, speaking quietly to Tom’s ear. ‘I think I know why things were like they were today.’

  Tom was less drunk than he seemed. He turned and met Jake’s eyes. ‘Something Hewitt said?’

  Jake nodded.

  ‘I wondered when you’d tell me. When you came back in… your face… it looked like you’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘More like a bloody army of ghosts…’

  Tom’s eyes narrowed, taking that in. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Branagh sent his army north… to Sherborne… they had a battle there.’

  ‘Christ…’

  ‘Yeah. Four hundred men – well armed and well trained… against a band of marauders.’

  ‘I take it they won.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then why aren’t we celebrating? Why aren’t the bells ringing out?’

  Jake took a long breath, then told him. ‘The invading force. Hewitt says there were near on four thousand men. Midlanders. They drove them off, but… well, most of them fled north, but some, he doesn’t know how many… went south… south-east, to be accurate.’

  He saw Tom think about it, then realize what that meant. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Hewitt doesn’t know. Only that they seemed desperate. Something drove them out. And what could drive out a force of four thousand men?’

  There was the faintest tremor. The glasses on the table began to clink. Conversation faltered and then died as the men looked to one another, trying to make sense of it. The tremor grew, became a shaking. Pint glasses fell from some of the tables, shattering on the floor, while in the background the pounding boom of engines filled the air.

  Everyone was on their feet now, a look of panic gripping them. Across the bar, on the far side of the room, someone was screeching anxiously, like they’d totally lost it.

  Jake too was on his feet. ‘What in Christ’s name…’

  A sudden, brilliant light hit the square outside, flooding the bar. Men shielded their eyes, stumbling against each other. There was an uproar of voices.

  Jake pushed through, forcing his way outside, even as others staggered out into the brilliantly lit space. Out there the pounding pulse of the engines was deafening. It made the very air itself vibrate. Like the scouring, unforgiving light, it was coming from the sky directly overhead. Only that made no sense. It was over twenty years since there’d been any sign of aircraft in the sky.

  Besides, whatever it was, it was no plane or helicopter. No. This was something new; something entirely alien.

  Jake shielded his eyes, trying to make out the shape of the thing, its size. Only the light was so intense, so blinding, he could make out nothing.

  A gun went off, then another.

  ‘You idiots!’ he screeched. ‘Don’t fire at it! But his words were swallowed up by the noise of the craft, the twin pulse of its engines, which was so loud it seemed to be inside him now.

  And then, as suddenly as it had struck, the light went out, the blackness in those first few moments so total, so absolute, there was a great moan of fear.

  Jake blinked his eyes tight shut, then opened them again, craning his neck to look up at the ship. For a moment he could see nothing. It was as if he had been blinded. All he could see was the burned-in image of the craft’s searchlight on his retinas. Then, as that began to fade, he got the vaguest glimpse of its outline, the silvered shape of it in the moonlight as it withdrew; a strange, inhuman-looking craft, much larger than anything he’d ever seen.

  The pulse withdrew. Slowly the air grew still.

  ‘D’you see that?’ someone yelled. ‘D’you see that on its wings? Fuckin’ aliens!’

  But Jake had seen it too, right at the end, even as it had accelerated out of sight.

  Dragons. Those markings… they were dragons.

  And as he thought it, so he could feel the touch of the finest silken threads on his face, the faintest trace of sulphur and cinnamon on his tongue. And, pervading all, like a coil of swirling, dark red smoke, the outlines of a face. Oriental. Brutal.

  Jake fell to his knees, recognizing the triggered memory; knowing now without a shred of doubt who it was.

  ‘It’s the Chinese,’ he said, looking to Tom, who stood nearby, his shocked face turned to the sky. ‘It’s the fucking Chinese…’

  PART TWO

  The East is Red

  SPRING 2043

  Barely fifty, but already my face is old, my hair white.

  I travelled this whole coast fleeing from The State.

  Rough cloth saved my shivering bones

  As I roamed the awful cold.

  Thus began the years of my disease.

  Everywhere the people were mud and ashes.

  Between heaven and earth,

  There’s nowhere a body is safe.

  We may never find the roads back home.

  We weep our eyes dry in the river.

  — Tu Fu, ‘Running From Trouble’, 8th Century AD

  Chapter 4

  FUTURES

  The datscape explodes upon my s
kin. Cascades of dark violet flakes drift through an umber skein of smoke as I step in. Close by, a magma heave of glowing cerise rests at the centre of a landscape of outrageous geometric shape, outrageous colour. If I gently squeeze my eyes within the mask, vision reveals the ghostly layers beneath, another dozen data levels, all of it painted in vital, vivid colours, like a child’s spilled toy box, distortedly alive, in constant movement, constant flux.

  Everything has meaning here. Our senses are fine-tuned to discriminate. Colour denotes commodity, density value, fluidity the transferability of stock.

  It is a market, after all.

  The great curve of the dome arches above me, studded with glowing metallic teats – ten thousand and more – spinning fine threads of information into the flow, like coloured silk, building and demolishing the datscape nanosecond by nanosecond, like the universe itself, a constantly unfinished work.

  Layers. There are endless layers to this. The datscape has the power to make a metaphor quite literal. It is a massively complex feedback system, the computer world’s most powerful metonym, accurately reflecting the world of markets. Subtle changes of colour, of texture, of flow, all of these are significant, for everything here has a mathematical expression. In the instant it exists, everything here has a precise monetary value.

  I move on, past massive termite towers of a dense cyan blue, past pulsing, globular moulds of bright magenta. Skeletal trees of silver-black thrust skyward, their branches rippling like the innards of some pulsing, transparent insect. Beyond lie massive hills of coloured geometry and shape – mushroom growths heaped up alongside crystals of a thousand different hues, subtle variants of shade from which furred golden leaves and sinuous chains of bright red stickiness emerge like parasitic growths. And through it all flow streams of fierce, glowing colour, steaming and vaporous, while in the air a spectral, flickering snow storm of fine crystals briefly blurs the sensory feast.

  Dali’s migraine. Cyber art meets cyber commerce.

  A world of avatars and avarice. How does it look? I’m often asked. How does it feel to be inside? But it isn’t how it looks that strikes one most, nor how it feels. It’s how it smells.