The Long War

by Terry Pratchett

  The ground shuddered under their feet.

  Jansson, queasy, stepped back quickly. Sand, thrown up from the foot of the building, settled back quickly in the dry air. What looked like a kind of lizard shot across the valley floor, seeking the shelter of a heap of rocks. Above them creatures like buzzards rose up, alarmed, cawing.

  There was a grinding rumble.

  And, to Jansson’s blank astonishment, a whole section of the flat valley floor sank out of sight, down into the ground, revealing—

  A ladder. Rungs cut into a stone wall.

  ‘Ha!’ Sally clapped her hands together. ‘I knew it. Natural concentration of uranium my butt.’

  The kobold came to Jansson. ‘Watch.’

  ‘Watch what?’

  ‘No.’ He tapped his wrist. ‘Watch-ssh.’

  Bemused, she handed over her old police-issue timepiece.

  He held it up to the sunlight, trying to read its face. ‘Eight minutes-ss.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Sally repeated, staring at the hole in the ground. ‘The first time we came here I said so. There’s a nuclear pile in that pyramid, or under it. It’s old, old and abandoned technology, yet still hot. So old that later generations, who’d long forgotten the accomplishments of their ancestors, were attracted by the strange phenomena of the ancient waste. And were slowly killed off by it. Of course, this is the way the story was supposed to turn out. All ancient civilizations leave behind underground vaults of secret weapons. And each key works only once, I’m guessing . . .’

  Jansson’s cop instinct told her there must be more to this situation than that old movie cliché. This was all supposed to be millions of years old. What possible technology could endure such a time? And why would you set up such long-duration caches anyhow? For whose benefit? The only alternative was that these caches were somehow being replenished. But who by, how, why?

  The kobold was still glaring at her watch, a caricature of a timekeeper, and now wasn’t the moment for speculation.

  Jansson turned on the kobold. ‘Eight minutes until what, monkey boy?’

  ‘Until tomb seals-ss again.’ He studied the watch face, but numbers were evidently a mystery to him. ‘Less-ss now . . .’

  Sally turned. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘No.’ Jansson grabbed her arm with all the strength she could muster. ‘You said it’s radioactive in there.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I already bought the farm, Sally. Let me.’

  ‘Monica—’

  ‘I mean it. I feel like I owe Joshua.’ She put on her determined face. ‘What do I have to do, flash my badge?’

  ‘Go, then. Go, go!’ She actually pushed Jansson away.

  It seemed to wear Jansson out just crossing the dry river bed to the hole in the ground. Was she going to be capable of doing this? What if she just got stuck down there, when the kobold’s eight minutes were done? No help for that, if so. Get on with it.

  To her relief the ladder cut into the wall was easy to climb down, with fat hand- and footholds. Getting back out might be more problematic . . .

  ‘Sally, how much time?’

  ‘Seven minutes. Less. I don’t know . . . Shift it, Jansson!’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’

  At the base of the shaft she stood in a puddle of light from above. A kind of corridor, too low for her to stand upright, led off into the blackness. Only one way to go.

  She carried a flashlight in her pocket, smaller than her thumb, with no iron parts so it worked when she stepped. She was an ex-cop; she always carried a flashlight. She flicked it on now, and followed a splash of light into the deeper dark. Joshua had always carried a flashlight, she recalled. Even as a thirteen-year-old, on Step Day. That was Joshua. This is for you, Joshua, she told herself as she drove herself on. To hell with trolls and beagles. For you.

  The walls seemed to be of unpainted stone, no markings, no signs. Yet they weren’t smooth; they were ridged, in uncertain, uneven patterns. Tentatively she touched the markings, let her palm run over them as she hurried deeper into the corridor. She got the sense of meaning in the markings, like the time she’d attended a cop’s familiarization class on Braille. Was this the writing of the reptile-folk who had built this place? Tactile, not visual?

  ‘Jansson! You might want to move your ass . . .’

  She came to a T-junction. Unbelievable. Maybe the markings gave definite directions, one way or another: THIS WAY TO THE MAGIC RAY GUNS. But they were useless to her.

  She turned left at random, hurried down a corridor, hunching to avoid the low ceiling. Another junction! She took another left, what the hell. But remember the way back, remember the way . . . The walls were broken here by what looked like storage shelves. She saw pots, boxes, heaps of what looked like clay tablets, engraved. More records? Other kinds of stuff, equipment she couldn’t even recognize . . .

  ‘Jansson!’ Sally’s voice was very faint now.

  Another T-junction. She went right, again at random. And now her flashlight picked up a ruby glint.

  Rack upon rack of ray guns.

  Lobsang apologized for the way humans, some humans, had treated trolls. He spoke of lobbies pressing the US government to grant trolls human rights, at least within the US Aegis, the long footprint of America across the Earths. It was only a start, there was no way to ensure that every human everywhere would behave as decently as they should, but it was a start . . .

  ‘Maybe it’s the best we can offer them,’ Bill said to Joshua, speaking loudly to make himself heard. ‘Kind of symbolic, but real nevertheless. Like the British Empire formally abolishing slavery in the early nineteenth century. Didn’t get rid of slavery overnight, but it was a sea change.’

  ‘He sounds like Martin Luther King with a heavenly choir. Typical Lobsang.’

  ‘I wonder how much of this abstract stuff they can understand,’ Bill said.

  Joshua shrugged. ‘Their collective intelligence is different from ours. If they get the basic message – give us another chance – that might be enough.’

  ‘And what about giving these beagle beasts Dan Dare ray guns? Where’s the morality in that?’

  ‘Well, they’re not our guns,’ Joshua said. ‘And we didn’t provide them in the first place. If we live through this there’ll be other parties to follow, proper contact. We can talk to the beagles then about peace, love and understanding.’

  ‘Sure we can. After we’ve all had rabies shots. So you think this is going to work? This whole mad stunt of Lobsang’s? And what then?’

  To Joshua, all his life, the future had been nothing but a continual surprise. ‘Tomorrow never knows.’

  There was a soft tap on his shoulder. He turned, to look up into the cold eyes of Snowy.

  ‘Talk to t-hrrollss. Going well?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. Your work-k done?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Josh-shua?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hrr-run.’

  The rock hatchway had slid back into place, and save for a patch of disturbed earth there was no sign of the passageway into the ground.

  Only a heap of toy-like sci-fi blasters, retrieved from the cache.

  Oh, and the ring, which had somehow been spat back out, to lie on the ground.

  Jansson sat in the dirt, shivering despite the heat.

  Finn McCool hissed, ‘Have guns-ss. Now back to beagles-ss. And ss-ay goodbye to Josh-ssua.’

  Sally snatched up the ring and harangued him. ‘What did you mean by that, you piece of garbage?’

  He backed off, hands raised defensively. ‘Deal nearly finish-ss,’ he said. ‘Ray guns. Trollen. Now payback. Granddaughter honour Joshua. You say goodbye to him-mm . . .’

  Sally glanced over at Jansson. ‘You any idea what he’s talking about? I’m guessing, nothing good.’

  ‘Gang culture,’ Jansson murmured, exhausted. ‘Like that, maybe. The honour of the warrior. She’s going to grant him a good death. Maybe t
hat’s what he means.’

  ‘Shit. Then we have to help him.’ Sally glanced around. ‘What have we got? Think, think.’ She pocketed the ring, and a ray gun that she slipped inside her sleeveless traveller’s jacket. ‘What else? You. Little Joe.’

  The kobold cringed. ‘What, what?’

  ‘You got your walkman?’

  ‘Stone that sings-ss?’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘But, but, but, mm-mine!’ He sounded like a child.

  She grabbed his wrist so he couldn’t step away without her. ‘It’s that or your left bollock. Hand it over. Now we go back. Get ready to step, Jansson . . .’

  66

  JOSHUA BACKED AWAY from Snowy, and from Bill, who scrambled to pack up the translation gear. Some instinct guided Joshua towards the river bank, the flowing water.

  How the hell was he supposed to handle this? He was barely conscious as it was. The device on his back felt like a huge malevolent crab now, digging its claws deeper into his flesh with every pace. Maybe the painkillers were wearing off.

  And Snowy followed. He wasn’t moving as quickly as Joshua, so the gap between them opened up, yet there was a steady, purposeful, relentless quality to his gait. Then he dropped to all fours, becoming even more wolf-like. A huge, big-brained, weapon-carrying wolf.

  Joshua was aware of the trolls watching, apparently curious, but none intervened. Other dogs watched too: Li-Li, the mordant Brian. More warrior types followed, it seemed, come to see the show.

  Suddenly all the beagles howled, a pack in full cry.

  ‘Come, Joshua-aahh,’ Snowy growled. ‘This fun-nn.’

  ‘Get stuffed, Krypto.’

  ‘And honour-hrr for you. Gift of Granddaughter. Life he-hhre, cheap.’

  ‘Big litters?’

  ‘Many born. All die. To die well is-s to have lived well-ll.’

  ‘That’s your culture. Not mine.’

  ‘Head high on her wall. Honour-hhr of place.’

  ‘Whose head?’

  ‘Yours-ss.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Joshua, succumbing to the inevitable, turned and started to jog, parallel to the river. ‘How can I win?’

  ‘Die well-ll—’

  ‘Any options aside from that?’

  ‘My head on wall-ll . . . Play fair-hrr.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I play fair.’ The beagle stopped, stock still, and closed its eyes. ‘R-run, human-nn.’

  Joshua didn’t hesitate further. He ran. He tried to think like a wolf, like a dog. Or rather, cliché scenes from every bad wolf-chases-man movie flashed through his head.

  What the hell. He dived into the river.

  Given this was generally such a hot, arid world, the water was surprisingly cold, the current strong, and it swept him downstream fast. Heavy in his clothes, he struggled to keep his head above the water. He considered kicking off his boots, then thought about running over open ground barefoot, and kept the boots.

  As long as he didn’t drown, this was a good plan, right? Throw the dog off the scent, like in the movies. But the pain from the lethal gadget on his back seemed even sharper in the cold water. And he felt like it was talking to him. You could always just step away. End it in a second. A bolt through the heart – how bad can it be? Better than getting your throat bitten out by Deputy Dawg back there. But he wasn’t dead yet.

  The river soon swept him away from the cultivated country, the fields, and into rougher terrain. He’d been brought into this place unconscious, and hadn’t had a chance to scope it out. Evidently the Eye of the Hunter, the city of Granddaughter Petra’s Den, really wasn’t so large. He’d need to find a place to hide before Snowy caught up with him—

  ‘Watch out-hrr.’

  The voice came from downstream. He struggled to get his head out of the water. There was Snowy, sitting on a rock as if waiting to be fed by his owner, calmly watching Joshua get washed by.

  He yelled back, ‘Watch out for what?’

  Snowy glanced farther downstream. ‘The hrr-rapids.’

  And in a heartbeat Joshua had been swept past Snowy’s rock, and over a low waterfall, and into the rapids. He was buffeted from one worn boulder to the next, a punch to the kidneys here, a slam in the chest there, as he tumbled through the rocks like a piece of lumber. He forced himself to give in to the surging, turbulent flow, to keep his limbs loose, to protect his head. But every time the pack on his back caught on some projection the pain was agonizing.

  Then he was through, squirted out like an orange pip from a child’s lips, and he was hurled even further downstream. When he glanced back, he could see no sign of Snowy. At least he might have gained some distance.

  A fallen tree lay across the stream. With a mighty effort he plunged that way, grabbed the tree as he went past, and pulled himself out of the water on to a bank of gravel. He sat up to protect his back, panting, one breath, two, three.

  There was nobody about. No Snowy. But now he had stopped moving he had time to concentrate on the pain in his back, a raking, ripping, tearing anguish. Worse, his lower back felt slippery again, and the damp gravel under him was stained red with blood.

  Joshua Valienté had been travelling alone in the Long Earth since he was thirteen years old. He had been in some tight spots before, and he was still around. There was no reason why he couldn’t get out of this one. And you can always step, just step into a different sunlight, and it will be over in a flash . . .

  Not yet. Think ahead. Dogs and scent, right?

  He pulled at his clothing. His shirt was a ruin anyhow; it fell apart easily. He threw one half into the water and let it wash downstream. Then he draped the other half over the tree that had saved his life. He stood, glancing around, and stared to paddle down the river, sticking close to the bank, staying in the water.

  ‘Nice t-hrry.’ Snowy was right in front of him.

  Joshua lunged to his left, away from the river, and ran across broken turf-like ground, not grass, something similar. The fallen tree that had saved him from the river was part of a shattered copse that looked as if it had been smashed apart by a lightning strike. He dived that way, rolled into the shadow of a big fallen trunk.

  The huge form of the beagle padded silently across his vision.

  Then he heard a human voice calling from far away, a male voice singing: a thin, wailing song, something about remembering Walter . . . The sound seemed to trigger a reflex in Snowy, and he bounded away.

  Joshua knew he had been granted seconds, no more. No point running. He clambered out of his cover, his back aching, and he could feel blood trickling down his bare flesh. He cast around the clearing, picking up fallen branches, testing them. Here was one, thick and solid, too long – he smashed it in two on a lichen-covered trunk. He had a weapon.

  A soft growl.

  He turned. Snowy had the chewed-up remains of Finn McCool’s walkman in his mouth. He spat the junk to the ground.

  Without hesitating Joshua whirled, swinging the branch as hard as he could. It slammed into the beagle’s heavy skull. It felt as if he’d tried to brain a marble statue. The impact shuddered up his arms, his aching back and even his bad shoulder hurt like hell.

  But the beagle stumbled, almost fell.

  Joshua glimpsed knives of stone and iron in the belt at Snowy’s waist. One chance. He leapt forward, his fingers grasping for a blade.

  But Snowy stood straight, almost gracefully, almost kindly, and simply shouldered Joshua to the ground.

  Now Joshua was flat on his back, with the crossbow gadget digging painfully into his spine. The man-wolf was on top of him, standing easily on all fours, his paws pinning Joshua’s limbs, his heavy head above him, staring down.

  A scent of meat on his breath. A glimpse of a wagging tail. Snowy actually licked his face.

  ‘This won’t hu-hrrt.’

  No, it damn well wouldn’t. Joshua braced to step, to put a clean end to this.

  But that hadn’t been Snowy’s voice. He glanced sideways,
in sudden hope.

  Not a human. Another dog: Li-Li. She said, ‘Granddaughter wants t-hrrophy. You want life. All can win-nnh.’

  Snowy panted. ‘I tell G-hrranddaughte-hhr I chewed your-hrr face off. Trophy head useless-ss.’

  Joshua gasped, ‘She won’t be happy with that.’

  ‘So I give he-hhr another-hhr trophy.’

  ‘What other trophy?’

  ‘Hold still . . .’ Li-Li bent, and closed her mouth over Joshua’s left wrist.

  As the great jaws closed, severing skin and tendon and muscle and bone, Joshua screamed.

  But he did not step.

  67

  GEOGRAPHICALLY VALHALLA was near the coastline of the inland ocean of this distant America, on Earth West One Point Four Million Plus Thirteen (stoner miscount correction applied, as Ensign Toby Fox solemnly told Maggie). The dirigibles of Operation Prodigal Son arrived in this world about midday of a sparkling late July day, and hovered in a blue sky as pure as a special effect in a computer game.

  Admiral Davidson briefed his captains. They were here to assert the authority of the United States over these rebels, he said, but he wanted a show of goodwill, not a shooting match. His strategy was that a detachment of marines would accompany a group of senior officers, to be nominated by the respective captains, in a march on city hall. It was to be a good-natured, hearts-and-minds kind of event. However, he added, the marines would be armed.

  And when Maggie heard that Captain Cutler from the Lincoln, the idiot who’d pulled a gun on Carl, was to be put in charge of this bizarre parade, she decided to nominate herself for the march.

  At the drop point they formed up, fifty personnel in all, and walked through the streets of Valhalla – through this city of Earth West one-million-plus-change, this symbolic stronghold of the rebels of the Long Earth. At Admiral Davidson’s orders the marines kept their weapons in sight but with safeties on. Meanwhile the silent dirigibles floated overhead, a menacing presence, full of watchful eyes, ready to act in a C2 role, as nodes of command and control – but, it was hoped, not as weapons platforms, not today.