Helm

by Steven Gould

  Sylvan shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Siegfried turned back to the Helm, muttering, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He looked at his copy of the manual once again to identify the contact points.

  This was handwritten on paper. The original had been found by clay harvesters, buried in a riverbank. It was sealed in an airtight case but wasn’t one of the permanent books—it was an original paper manual, cracking and disintegrating. Making his copy had required destroying the original page by page.

  He took his ground, a solid copper wire with an end that had been painstakingly filed down to almost hair thinness, and inserted it into an almost invisible hole in the helmet’s interior surface. The ground posed no risk and he wasn’t worried about it, but the next step, the five-volt wire, quickened his breath and brought sweat to his hands. He wiped them carefully on his pants before inserting the wire.

  A previously clear portion of the Helm suddenly darkened, and Siegfried held his breath as it resolved into Arabic numerals.

  5.73

  “High, but well within tolerances,” he breathed. He put the next wire in. The display changed.

  5.73 13.42

  He inserted the last probe.

  5.73 13.42 11.92

  Then the three sets of numbers blinked and disappeared replaced by the words Diagnostic Mode. There was a crystalline tone, like fine glassware ringing and then a stream of words.

  Photovoltaic cells self-test: FAIL marginal

  Capacitors at .01 capacity

  Charging capacitors with line current

  Time until Full Charge: 15.4 min

  Checking memory…

  Checksum OK, Full P mode, 96% full

  Diagnostics Off

  Time until Full Charge: 14.7 min

  Siegfried’s laughter filled the room. “They waited decades for it to charge in the sun and we’ll do it in a quarter hour!” He flipped through the pages in the manual until he came to the next section. “This is where you come in, son.” He gestured at the pendulum clock set on the wall. “When I say ‘go,’ begin counting off seconds. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Sylvan said shortly.

  “Good. Ready? Go.”

  As Sylvan began counting, Siegfried pulled the five-volt lead from the helm.

  When three seconds had gone by, he put it back in. The display changed:

  Menu

  1. Clear Imprint Set

  2. Change Imprint Mode

  3. Download Imprint Set

  4. Exit

  “Yes! It works.”

  Sylvan winced at the words, which were more shouted than spoken. “Should I keep counting, then?”

  “No.”

  Working through the menu using pulses from the five-volt lead, Siegfried selected Change Mode. The display changed.

  Basic »Full P«

  With another pulse it changed to:

  »Basic« Full P

  Then:

  Confirm? Yes »No«

  He confirmed. There was a series of five beeps and the display read:

  Basic Mode Enabled

  Download Imprint Set Now? »Yes« No

  He selected “no.” There was a loud prolonged beep.

  Setup Incomplete!

  Download Imprint Set Now? »Yes« No Other

  He selected “other.”

  WARNING! Manual Mode is NOT recommended!

  Confirm Manual Mode? Yes »No«

  “Stupid machine! I don’t have the equipment to do an imprint download.” He selected “yes.”

  There was another series of five beeps and the machine read:

  Manual mode selected

  Select length of imprint

  »1 min« 5 min 15 min 20 min

  He selected one minute. The display changed.

  Manual Imprint Mode, 1 minute cycle.

  It returned him to the menu and he exited.

  Time until Full Charge: 11.7 min

  “Sylvan,” Siegfried said, his lips drawing back from his teeth, “bring me a prisoner.”

  The Cotswolder scouts scanned the riverbanks around the pillar of smoke and steam before waving in the rest of the troops. The cavalry split into three elements, one on the road, one swinging wide to the downstream bank, and one upstream.

  It did them no good.

  The archers loosed their first arrows prone, invisible, from under brush and ponchos. It must’ve seemed like the very ground vomited missiles. They stood for the next volley, converting the ground from brush-covered rock and gravel to overwhelming hostile forces.

  Those at the rear tried to flee, only to find their paths blocked by more earth-colored soldiers with pikes, swords, and bows.

  None escaped.

  The Eight Hundred now had one hundred and fifty horses though they lost ten men in the ambush. Eighty-five of the Cotswolders died before the rest surrendered. The resulting prisoners were told of the Nullarbor invasion of Cotswold before they were sent floating downstream with guards.

  Leland looked at the bodies strewn across the slope, his mouth a tight line. He shuddered and forced his attention away from the dead.

  Gahnfeld, just up the hill, was shouting orders. “Mount the scouts. Dress them as Cotswolders and get them out there. We may have just taken out the entirety of the local forces, but we must know for sure.” He turned to Leland and raised his eyebrows.

  Leland added, “Also mount a signal squad and get them to high ground. We need contact with Koss.”

  “Yes, Guide. Shall we start the rest along the main road?”

  “Yesterday, Myron. Yesterday.”

  When the guards came for him, Bartholomew thought it was another problem in the kitchen, as when Siegfried’s chef wanted to consult on the draft controls of the ovens. But the guards, after taking him from the cell, went away from the kitchens, toward the workshops. Maybe it’s another work detail.

  They wouldn’t trust the old staff to prepare food but they did use the prisoners for general labor—hauling firewood, cleaning the stables, and laundry.

  But they usually took more than just one prisoner, and it wasn’t Siegfried’s son who commanded the guards.

  The hairs on his neck stood on end when they entered the plating workshop. The smell of sulfuric acid and silver nitrate was strong. He recognized Siegfried immediately, even though he was turned away from the door, doing something at a workbench.

  Siegfried looked over his shoulder and said, “The chair.” He nodded at a heavy oak armchair brought down from the main hall and fitted with a set of leather straps and metal buckles, ex-horse tack by the look of it.

  Is this what happened to Martin? Dame Bridgett?

  He started to resist when they pushed him down into the chair but stopped when Sylvan put a dagger to his throat. “Sit!”

  They closed the straps around his biceps, wrists, ankles, chest, and lap. Finally they placed a loop of wire around his neck and pulled it taut against his skin.

  “Don’t move,” Sylvan said, “or you’ll choke yourself.”

  Bartholomew wondered what the alternative was, but held himself still.

  “There, all charged,” Siegfried said from someplace behind Bartholomew.

  “Everybody out but Sylvan.”

  Me, too? Bartholomew thought. He doubted it.

  The guards filed out and Sylvan closed the door behind them and threw the bolt. He turned and leaned against the door, arms crossed, face impassive.

  Siegfried’s steps walked closer and he spoke again. “Remember—don’t say anything during the imprint period or you’ll mess up the process.”

  Sylvan nodded. “As you wish, Father.”

  “Okay. Here. We. Go.”

  Something cold and hard slid onto Bartholomew’s head and he jerked, surprised, but the wire loop around his throat brought him short. Then the thing settled onto his head and he felt a burning sensation on his scalp, then…

  He had to listen and watch. Something was about to happen. Something importa
nt. Something more important and urgent than anything he’d ever seen or heard in his entire life. His eyes were wide open, unblinking. His ears heard every scrape of movement, every breath of air. His spine was erect, rigid, totally fixed.

  A man stepped in front of him and bent over, putting his face in front of his. Siegfried. He spoke.

  “You exist only to serve me. You will obey me before all others and obey those I direct you to obey. You will do nothing that might harm me. If necessary, you will die to protect and serve me. Serving me fills you with joy. Disloyalty to me causes you pain and sorrow.”

  And then Siegfried repeated it.

  Each word riveted Bartholomew, etched itself in his memory like a chisel carves letters from granite. He silently echoed it when Siegfried repeated it, each word matching Siegfried’s and building, building, building. By the third repetition he was repeating the words aloud, first in a croaking whisper, then in a stronger, firmer voice. The voice of a man with a purpose.

  “—ving you fills me with joy. Disloyalty to you causes me pain and sorrow.” Siegfried looked up at the clock, then back into Bartholomew’s face, then the force, the force that had held Bartholomew’s eyes open, his spine erect, left him, and he slumped into partial darkness, unable to control himself, sagging down against the wire and choking.

  He felt a hand push his head back, relieving the bite of the wire, heard a voice, a wonderful voice, say, “Dammit, this wire was a mistake—get it off him, Sylvan!”

  The pressure came off his throat and he coughed uncontrollably for a time.

  Slowly control of his muscles came back and he straightened, looking around, trying to find the source of that marvelous voice.

  There, watching him, Siegfried searched his eyes. Bartholomew waited, expectant, hopeful.

  “How do you feel?” Siegfried asked.

  Bartholomew smiled. “I feel good, Guide.” Guide—yes, this was his guide. And his guide cared about him. He cared about how Bartholomew felt.

  Siegfried gestured to Sylvan. “Let the guards in. And get me another prisoner.”

  “Don’t you have to charge the Helm again?”

  Siegfried nodded. “Yes, but that’s not why I want a prisoner. Go on!”

  Sylvan opened the door and left. The guards came in and Siegfried pointed back at Bartholomew. “Release him.”

  One of the guards held his arms from behind the chair while another knelt and undid the buckles. When all the straps were free, Siegfried waved them away from the chair.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Bartholomew Kwiats, Guide.”

  “Stand up, Bartholomew.”

  Bartholomew stood as quickly as he could.

  Siegfried pointed to a glass vat on the bench and said, “This is full of sulfuric acid, for the batteries. Do you know what sulfuric acid is?”

  “Yes, Guide.”

  “What would happen if I were to stick my hand in it?”

  Bartholomew became very uncomfortable. “It would burn your hand, Guide. Please don’t.”

  Siegfried nodded. “You look worried. What’s upsetting you?”

  “You aren’t going to stick your hand in the acid, are you?”

  “No. That was a hypothetical question.”

  Bartholomew exhaled and his face relaxed.

  Siegfried continued. “However, I would like you to put your hand in the acid.”

  “Now, Guide?”

  “Yes, Bartholomew. Now.”

  Bartholomew smiled and walked over to the bench, then plunged his hand into the glass jar without hesitation. He kept his eyes on Siegfried’s face, lest he miss an instruction. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice screamed out, but Bartholomew ignored it, irritated, afraid it would distract him from his first duty.

  “Very good, Bartholomew. You may withdraw your hand.”

  He pulled his hand from the jar and glanced at it. It was wet but otherwise unharmed. “Guide, this is not acid.”

  Siegfried smiled slightly. “Water.”

  The door opened and Sylvan came back in with two guards and a prisoner.

  Bartholomew looked. It was Sven, one of the junior kitcheners.

  “Do you know this boy, Bartholomew?” Siegfried asked. “Yes, Guide. He worked for me in the kitchen.”

  “Ah, excellent.” Siegfried turned to the guards. “Strap him in the chair.”

  Sven didn’t try to struggle but his eyes darted back and forth, returning always to Bartholomew. When he’d been secured, the guards stepped back to the door.

  Siegfried pulled his dagger from its belt sheath and held it out to Bartholomew, hilt first. The guards tensed.

  Bartholomew took the dagger and held it briefly to his forehead with both hands as he bowed, then held it loosely beside his leg.

  Siegfried pointed at the chair. “What’s his name?”

  “Sven Hilltopper, Guide.”

  Siegfried nodded. “Kill him.”

  Bartholomew raised the knife to waist level and tightened his grip. “Yes, Guide.”

  “I’ve a message from my mother, from Laal Station.”

  Koss looked up at Ricard, surprised. “Oh, really? How did it come?” The army was camped in the barrens, southwest of Laal Station. It was cold but dry and they’d met little resistance in their march. They talked in Koss’s staff tent, by a charcoal brazier.

  “Apparently, it was floated in a bottle down the falls and picked up downstream. Refugees brought it out of the valley and passed it to one of our scouts.”

  Koss was skeptical. “Are you sure it’s from her?”

  “Aye. It’s not signed but it’s in her hand and ostensibly from Petronius.”

  “Who is Petronius?”

  Ricard blushed. “A cloth rabbit I had as a child.”

  Koss chuckled. “I see. What does she say?”

  “She has intelligence and can pass it to us.”

  “Let me read it.”

  To: Commander Mounted Pikes

  From: Petronius, Same old place

  Have news of here. Need reliable path for future messages.

  Meet contact in Kitchen of Birthday Party midnight Thursday.

  Contact knows your face.

  “What does she mean by ‘Kitchen of birthday party’?”

  “We celebrated her last birthday at the Blue Whale Inn.”

  “Ah. Very clever. Even if this was intercepted, it only identifies you, safe with your troops.” He held it to his chin and pursed his lips. “Risky rendezvous, though. We now outnumber his forces in Laal, especially with the Eight Hundred marching from the south, and, with the Nullarbor invasion of Cotswold, he’s unlikely to be reinforced. I’m not sure I want to risk one of our experienced commanders in an intelligence operation we don’t need.”

  Ricard spread his hands. “What about Guide Dulan and all our people still in Laal Station? What if she can get us inside without a protracted siege? It could mean the difference between taking the Station intact or destroying it, not to mention the lives saved.”

  Koss closed his eyes. Hostages slaughtered was one of his recurring nightmares, especially after the recent destruction of the Cotswold forces under Plover. He kept expecting to hear of a bloodbath at Laal Station from the refugees or his agents scattered around the Tiber Valley.

  “Well, you have me there. Heavens knows Siegfried did it. I wonder how?” A traitor? His spies knew nothing about it. He returned to the matter at hand. “Could she have written it under duress?”

  Ricard shook his head. “Then she wouldn’t have used Petronius and they wouldn’t know about that.”

  Koss grunted. “Well, we can try it. I’ll send you over the mountains the way our couriers have been traveling, weather allowing. It’s snowshoes and frostbite, but the Cotswolders don’t stray there. You can just make it by Thursday if you leave today.”

  Ricard nodded and started to turn, but Koss stopped him with his next words. “If you don’t make it back, I’ll give command of the Pike
s to Dexter.” He paused, waiting for that to sink in. Dexter and Ricard did not get along. “So be careful, dammit! If there’s any hint of a trap, run for it. No risks. Understand?”

  Ricard grimaced, then spat in the brazier. “I understand.”

  Marilyn had been installed in a guest bedroom with its own bathroom and newly mounted set of throw bolts on the wrong side of the door. There were three windows but they were arrow slits, too narrow for her body. At her request, she’d been provided with warmer clothes, since they didn’t trust her with fire for the stove that heated her suite.

  When they brought her meals, armed guards stood without while a servant brought the tray in and fetched the tray from the previous meal. In the three days since their arrival these were the only faces she’d seen. She’d asked for reading materials and a chance to exercise outside but if these requests had been passed on, they’d been ignored.

  She was almost wishing that Sylvan would come force his obnoxious presence upon her. It would give her something to do.

  Be careful of what you wish for, she thought when Sylvan arrived at dinnertime with more servants. They put candles on the table and set two places. A servant remained behind, for table service, when the guards shut the door and threw the bolts.

  She expected him to exult in the situation, to glory in his role as her jailer, but he seemed subdued, preoccupied.

  “Mmmm. Good mutton, eh?” he finally said. “These mountain grasses are good for that. And this wine!” The wine was from the Station cellars.

  Marilyn, eating to maintain her strength, didn’t comment. She didn’t touch the wine, wanting a clear head. He was inoffensive enough at the moment, but she remembered her guards, the slaughter on the mountain road, and the flames from the aid station.

  “You’re not saying much, my pet.” Sylvan took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. Wherever he’d been, he was back now.

  I’m not your pet, she thought, but said nothing, chewing mechanically.

  He leaned back in his chair and sucked on his teeth, probing at a piece of mutton stuck between his molars. “I wonder what sort of wife you’d make,” he finally said. “You’re not very pretty and you’re flat-chested but the rest of you isn’t too bad. I could always keep a mistress on the side.”