The Shadows of God

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “That isn't true. Elizavet, your men love you. What we have of your old guard is utterly devoted to you. Look to them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you noticed them lately? They are in a strange place, they do not speak the language, they hardly understand anything of what goes on around them, and yet soon they must lay down their lives for a cause they scarcely understand.”

  “My father—”

  “Is not you. They did not leave Moscow for him—they left for you.”

  “But what can I do?”

  “Not ride into battle, of course. But be their tsarevna. Give them hope and heart.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It's a great gift, Elizavet. You exerted it in Saint Petersburg without even knowing it. Think how much you can accomplish if you put your mind to it.”

  Elizavet smiled, but then her smile shrank away. “Is this merely some ploy to improve my mood and rid you of my complaints?”

  “No. Partly. But what I say is true: the few Russians here are in the wilderness, and you can help to guide them. You are a tsarevna, a force to be reckoned with if you only choose to be.”

  “As you chose to be.”

  “I suppose.”

  Elizavet laughed, wiped the tears beaded on her lashes. “Very well, then. And will you now tell me where you are going?”

  “I'm going to battle.”

  “Not like that!”

  “This will be a different sort of battle, the sort that only I can wage.”

  “Let me come with you, then!”

  “There is no space for anyone else. None of my students is going. They are needed here, as you are.”

  Elizavet stood, noticeably trembling, and then she came and knelt and laid her head in Adrienne's lap.

  “Do not die,” she whispered. “Come back to us, and I promise to do my lessons, all to the end.”

  “You must do that whether I return or not,” Adrienne said.

  As they readied the Lightning, Franklin reflected that he would rather a bit more strategy was involved in the coming battle than a race by three generals to reach the ships. Still, they were generals, and presumably knew what they were doing.

  “I notice you did not mention our real goal,” Euler said, testing one of the brass valves for tightness.

  “What point in that? It would only have added a confusing element—and they might have even forbidden us. If we fail, the dark engines come alive, and most or all of us perish. To succeed, we need the army to capture the ships, or at least distract them from us. If we had time to build a real navy, things might be different, and we might be able to take them on better-than-even terms. After all, from what you and the others say, they were never able to build their own aeges, and that gives us an advantage.”

  “But they have made weapons that seek them.”

  “I've planned for that,” Franklin said, stepping back to survey his ship.

  The Lightning was a barge thirty feet long and ten wide, enclosed by a square cabin. She was framed with adamantium, but most of her was plain steel and iron, set with alchemical glass panes in the deck and bulkheads. She had more hatches than a thief has pockets—two in the bottom, for dropping grenades, two in the bulkheads for getting in and out on the ground, one in the roof. The roof was the oddest thing about the whole structure. A box on a box, it was five feet deep, because the cargo holds were there. As they would be hovering over the enemy, Franklin wanted the cargo as far from upward-flying shells as possible. So there was one more hatch—from the hold into the cabin.

  He watched as four burly soldiers loaded the holds, grunting with the weight of heavy casks full of grenades and other weapons.

  “We ought to have called her the Turtle,” Robert noted.

  “Well, we can sure tuck in our head,” Franklin allowed. “It has an aegis and some other scientific protections. But those below us will know we are a storm, never fear.”

  Vasilisa stuck her head out of the top hatch.

  “It's prepared, Benjamin, and we are all here. Shouldn't we get started?”

  “Not quite. We're waiting for two more. But see, there they are.” He gestured at the sedan chair, born across the muddy plaza in front of the palace by two stout Lorraine guards.

  “Adrienne? You've made peace with her, then? I knew nothing of this.”

  Red Shoes seemed pleased with their new passenger. “It is good,” Franklin heard him murmur, from where he sat on an empty rum cask, smoking a pipe and watching the philosophers at their tasks.

  “But she hasn't been prepared,” Vasilisa protested, “nor studied the equations.”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  Franklin walked over to see if he could help. The Frenchwoman could not move on her own, of course. Two of her guard carried her to the ship, then brought a special couch for her, which they tied to braces on the floor. There were similar braces everywhere, with leather straps attached, in case the air road became a bit bumpy.

  Franklin was confronted by the formidable Crecy, who still regarded him with something between a hard winter and a glacier in her eyes.

  “I'm going, of course,” she said simply.

  “Of course,” he replied. “I'm happy to have you.”

  Crecy didn't answer but went to help settle Adrienne onto the ship. Franklin shrugged, returning his attention to the Lightning, hoping he hadn't missed anything.

  “You can carry one more, I hope?”

  Don Pedro. Franklin hadn't even heard him come up.

  “I would be more than happy for your help,” Franklin said, “but I fear your wounds—”

  “Are of no consequence, I assure you. I have given command of my men to Governor Nairne, but if you cannot make room for me here, I will lead them in the defense of the redoubts.” His eyes blazed.

  “Aye. Let ‘im come,” Robert said, from behind him. “We might need an extra sword, if things go wrong.”

  If things go wrong, it's scant good swords will do us, Franklin thought. But he held it in. With his wounds the Apalachee was better off in the Lightning than charging into battle. And Franklin, after all, bore a large measure of responsibility for the wounds.

  “It is my honor, Don Pedro, to have you aboard. And speaking of aboard”—he raised his voice—“all aboard that's coming. ‘Tis time to fly this thing.”

  And so they crowded on—Vasilisa, Euler, Red Shoes, Grief, Adrienne, Crecy, Robert, Tug, Don Pedro, and him.

  Franklin twisted the valves that engaged the engines, and the Lightning began to rise. He watched New Paris diminish into a patchwork of huts and muddy paths. For the first time, he hoped that he would see it again.

  Flame exploded in columns in front of them as the wing ship flew over, tossing Mongols, Indians, and Russians aside like rag dolls. It was a terrible and wonderful sight.

  “There, let them drink some of their own beer,” Oglethorpe shouted, “and now, forward!” As he said it he urged his own mount into motion. Now the guns in the redoubt started pounding, too, and belatedly the enemy artillery answered, and they were in the midst of the fireworks. Men and horses screamed, the air was choked with smoke, and the din was so great as to bring tears to the eyes.

  The charge had begun. Led by the airships and their grenadiers, three companies, ranged along the defensive line perhaps half a league apart, broke northward at once. In the center were the Swedes, with the French to the east and Oglethorpe and his men to the west. They had drawn lots for the more exposed flank positions, and Charles had lost.

  “Hold it together, lads,” he shouted. “There they are!”

  The cavalry they faced was like none he had ever seen before. Though some bore muskets, most of them wielded bows with improbably long range. Those would be of little use once the bowmen were in the trees, but crossing the expanse which had been defoliated by artillery fire, Oglethorpe's men were, for a moment, exposed. A rank of attackers came forward, fired, wheeled. Another.

  Arrows fell like d
evilish hail, thudding into horses and men.

  His men lowered their short-barreled carbines and fired as they rode, reloading with paper cartouches.

  A fresh line of explosions cleared out many of the archers as the airship made another pass, and then it was time for the first shock of the charge.

  Softened up by artillery and grenades, the enemy line crumbled. That was to be expected. While the colonies had aerial intelligence, the devil army did not—they had no way of knowing where to concentrate their men and, indeed, appeared to be massing for an invasion several leagues east. Nairne and the Apalachee would handle them there as best they could. For Oglethorpe and his companions, it meant an easy first engagement.

  And, indeed, now they were clear, and border troops and artillery would dispose of what they left behind, so they would not have the problem he had faced charging the guns a few days earlier.

  But the same air-gathered information that told them where they should break through told them something more worrisome: between them and the Russian airships there were at least two thousand troops. Even if they hadn't lost a single man just now—and Oglethorpe doubted that very much— that put the odds at right around four to one. And if the Russian ships managed to get airborne …

  You made your decisions, then you lived by them. No one had gainsaid him. For good or ill, it was begun, and there could be no retreat.

  Adrienne leaned on her couch, so that she could see her son, far below. In her diagrammatic sight, he appeared as a sphere, with waves and rays emanating to connect him to the mala-kim and to stranger things yet.

  He looked, in fact, very much like her hand.

  “He is still there,” she said, “in the center ship.”

  “Good,” Franklin said. He smiled, but she recognized the quality of it. He was worried.

  “That were passin’ easy.” Robert grunted, lying on the floor with his nose pressed against the thick pane. “They still ain't made no motion.”

  “Our aegis hides us,” Franklin said, “for a time.”

  “We gonna drop grenados on ‘em?” the big man called Tug asked.

  “Not yet,” Franklin replied a bit absently. “No use in letting them know we're here until they notice, or until our forces scare them off the ground. Then you can toss out all the grenados you want.”

  “Good.” Tug grunted. “I'm goin’ t’ open a cask or two o’ ‘em.” He ambled toward the ladder leading up to the hold.

  Crecy knelt by Adrienne. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well, Veronique. Able.”

  “Able to what?”

  Adrienne looked back down, this time with her mortal eyes. There, half a league below the airships, were tiny dots. And yet it was no great distance really. And she could feel him. Her hand hummed in sympathy with him, as one chime will hum when a like-tuned one sounds. It must be one of Lomonosov's less-perfect affinities, the ones that faded with distance.

  Like love, perhaps? What sort of attraction was less perfect than that? Or less useful?

  She realized that Crecy was still awaiting an answer. “Nico has to be stopped,” she said.

  “You tried once before.”

  Adrienne took her friend's hand, touched it with her angel digits. “No,” she said softly, “I didn't.”

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Adrienne glanced up. “Mr. Euler.”

  “Ah! You remember me.”

  “Of course. I read one of your papers, though I do not recall the topic. One of Swedenborg's students, weren't you? Did you tell Franklin that?”

  “Yes. He knows what I was.”

  “And yet he trusts you?”

  “No, not entirely.”

  “Neither do I. I find it too strange that you are here— especially since I remember hearing that you died.”

  He smiled grimly. “I had to vanish from Russia, Mademoiselle. Few seek the dead.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “I just wanted to tell you—I'm honored you are here. I—”

  At that moment, Tug, who had been poking around in the storage area, began cursing violently, and then a gunshot boomed and another. Tug fell through the open hatch with a wet thud, but managed to scramble to his feet, though his white shirt was rapidly soaking red with blood.

  “Hijack!” he shouted. “B'goddamn but they shot me!”

  Crecy drew two pistols and aimed them at the hatchway, just as two men in red coats dropped down, wielding kraft-pistoles. Her and Robert's pistols barked like twin hounds, and both men fell, one shot in the head and the other in the belly.

  The next instant a grenade bounced on the deck, fuse sputtering.

  Robert was already running that way, his second pistol aimed up, seeking a target in the hatch above. Without breaking stride, he snatched the bomb up and flung it through the lower hatch, into open sky. Crecy, meanwhile, leapt to stand near him, firing up into the hold.

  Two guns boomed above. Crecy stood unscathed, but Robert cursed and fell. A lithe form followed the bullets down, an Indian with a tomahawk in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  Red Shoes raised his pistol reflexively when Flint Shouting hurled himself from the hold, but the Wichita's weapon spat first. The ball struck Red Shoes’ outstretched hand, scorched up his arm, cracked against a bone in his shoulder, then leapt weirdly to take off most of his right ear. He fell back, feeling almost like he was floating—it was very strange. Everything outside his body seemed preternaturally real—Franklin shouting Sterne!, the hatch slamming shut, Flint Shouting arcing over him like a panther.

  I'm sorry, brother, he thought. And in that moment, he knew he could do nothing, would do nothing. It was over.

  Then a black hole appeared in Flint Shouting's chest, as Grief shot him, and a much larger one in his belly, in consequence of Robert shooting him from behind. The Wichita looked surprised, and his knees wobbled drunkenly. He made it the next step, and fell heavily next to Red Shoes, the ax dropping from his hand.

  The only weapons Flint Shouting had left were his eyes. His flat, accusing gaze fastened on Red Shoes; and Red Shoes could not shake it, could not avoid it.

  The hatch slammed down even as Franklin recognized the face glaring down from it.

  “Sterne!” he shouted, and fired his pistol. It sang off the metal and rapped a few times around the cabin.

  Above, through the closed hatch, he thought he heard laughter.

  “Be damned!” Franklin roared, lunging toward the ladder. Someone caught him by the scruff of the neck.

  It was Tug. “Don’ go doin’ that. He'll blow y'r head off.”

  Franklin struggled for a second, then nodded savagely.

  “Somebody watch that hatch. Shoot the bastard if he opens it.”

  “I'll do that,” Crecy said. She bent and took the weapons from the dead and not-quite dead redcoats, then stood with both aimed up.

  “Robert? Tug?”

  “Hit me in the ribs.” Robert grunted. “Just skinned me, maybe cracked a bone. I'll live.”

  Tug was in more serious shape, bleeding heavily from between his heart and his shoulder. He had wandered over to stare at the Indian who was dying next to Red Shoes, who might be renamed Redhead at the moment, considering all the blood.

  “Flint, m'lad.” Tug grunted. “Why'd y’ go an’ do that?”

  The Indian wheezed. “You … saw … my village. Why … ask?”

  “What's Sterne up to?”

  Flint Shouting coughed up a huge bubble of blood, but then his next few words were clear. “I do not know. I do not care. I helped him escape because I heard he was your enemy. He said he could get me close to Red Shoes. That's all …” He coughed again. The whole conversation, he had never looked at Tug or Franklin, only at Red Shoes. He coughed a third time, and something broke in him. His eyes set. He did not breathe again.

  Franklin stood and looked at the ceiling. “They must have smuggled themselves in the grenado crates.” Franklin groaned. “And now he's up there with ou
r munitions.”

  “That's not our only worry,” Adrienne said.

  “What?”

  “That grenado Mr. Nairne tossed from the ship —it got their attention. In a few seconds, we'll be under attack.”

  “Tighten up, lads!” Oglethorpe shouted. Once again, he wished he had more disciplined troops. The constant harassment of the Mongols and Indians on their western flank was having its effect, drawing the Yamacraw and wilder rangers to separate themselves from the main body of the charge, where they most probably were picked to pieces. He couldn't tell; all he knew for sure was that things were getting mighty thin on that side, and that those who went whooping and hollering west never returned.

  He felt he was pushing through a black fog, one gradually closing on them. In the heat of the charge, there was no way to get the aerial intelligence he needed, so he had no way of knowing how the enemy was gathering ahead—but they were surely gathering.

  But they had certainly pressed more than a league. The ships couldn't be that much farther.

  He was thinking this as they came over a rise and stared straight into a line of artillery that stretched as far as he could see in either direction.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, taking in the black maws of cannon, firedrakes, kraftcannon, and weapons he in no wise recognized. He heard the sudden bellow of the Swedish battle cry to his right, and knew the line stretched even there. The damned taloi again, making artillery more mobile than it ought to be.

  “This looks like fun,” Parmenter said. Oglethorpe heard the quiver in his voice.

  “Let's give ‘em only one volley at us, lads!” Oglethorpe shouted. “Don't even think to let the Swedes beat us to our goal! For God and the Commonwealth!”

  And once again he led the charge.

  For a long moment, it seemed the cannon would stay silent, that they would repeat their feat of weeks past and blow through the line like a swift wind.

  But the only wind came from the north, a fiery wind, tearing through them as if they were dry leaves. Parmenter, on Oglethorpe's right hand, was suddenly headless. Oglethorpe saw it out of the corner of his eye, and glanced in astonishment at the way the ranger's body remained upright, hands gripping the reins. Then Parmenter's horse caved in from the front, and Oglethorpe couldn't look anymore, because he had his own troubles.