A Girl in Time

by John Birmingham

  Things got nasty. Kitchens are dangerous places full of sharp edges and hot things. The ordered chaos that Cady had earlier tried and failed to understand exploded into disorder and violence as dozens of captive women took up knives and cleavers and pots of boiling water and oil, and fell upon the guards before they had moved more than a few steps towards the newcomers.

  The sudden, caterwauling din of riot and murder was like nothing Cady had ever heard. Not at the largest sports event. Not at the gnarliest rock festival. The screams of the women in revolt were as awful as those of the men they cut down. Loudest of all, because they were closest, were the yells and shrieks of her friend and the woman she was methodically destroying with vicious combinations of kicks and punches and fast-flowing body moves. Cady shrank away from them as Georgia finally threw Drusilla to the ground. The woman was alive, but she had no fight left in her.

  Georgia looked up, panting. Cady didn't recognize her. Those eyes did not look in on the soul of Georgia Eliadis. Hellfire and madness burned in there.

  “So,” said Cady, nervously, “still keeping up the martial arts classes?”

  Georgia slowly came back from wherever she'd been, shaking off the fugue state of her killing rage and taking Cady by the arm. Her grip was strong and it hurt.

  “We have to go,” she breathed heavily. “Now.”

  They ran, hand in hand, but they had no clear path and soon found themselves channeled into the presence of Calista, who looked like she'd taken off a couple more heads with that big ass bone chopper of hers.

  “It is a sign. It is the sign, as foretold,” proclaimed the crazy prophetess. “The Magi of iOS and Bungie have traveled here to free us, sisters. Lift them up and carry them forth into the day where freedom shall be ours.”

  And lo, were the reluctant magi lifted up and carried out of the kitchens and into the violent bloodswarm of a slave revolt.

  Cady lost contact with Georgia, which was almost as terrifying as the bloody mayhem and confusion of the uprising. Borne aloft against her plea, she crowd-surfed out of the kitchen on the insurgent tide. Mostly she saw only the ceiling of wherever they were headed, generally downwards and into darkness. After a few minutes in which the phalanx of murderous women rolled over all opposition, she found herself back in the cloisters outside the cells surrounding the little practice ground.

  As Cady was lowered to her feet, she witnessed the revolt spreading to the gladiators who turned on their less numerous guards and cut them down with kitchen knives. She turned away from the terrible spectacle. Who'd have thought that actual slaughter and horror wasn't nearly as much fun as the innocent virtual murder she'd enabled so many people to enjoy with her cool, little game back in the 21st century.

  “Gannicus, where is my husband?” a woman called out.

  Calista.

  And then Georgia reappeared, looking grateful beyond words to have found Cady again.

  The gladiator who had been locked up in the cell next to Smith was free and armed with a short sword he'd taken from a dead guard. It was painted with gore, as was Gannicus.

  “He was training in the main stadium, mistress,” he said.

  “Where's Smith?” Cady shouted over the uproar. “The man we came here with, the one in the cell next to—”

  Gannicus cut off her questions with a wave of the bloody sword.

  “Your man was also taken to the main training grounds,” he said.

  “But he's not a gladiator,” Cady shouted. The riot seemed to be reaching some new zenith of madness, buffering them in the seething crush and flow of the crowd through the cloisters.

  “It does not matter,” said Gannicus, leaning in to be heard over the rabble. “He defied Batiatus. I saw him. He was beaten for it, but that will not satisfy the appetite of the pig. The guards said Smith John Smith was to face il Scissore for the masters' pleasure.”

  “Cady, where's Smith,” Georgia shouted. She was standing right next to Cady, but had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the din. “I don't have Google translate like you, remember.”

  “Just wait,” Cady said before asking Gannicus, “What's il Scissore?”

  “The carver!” Calista shouted.

  Cady explained to Georgia.

  “Smith is fighting some badass called the Carver.”

  “Really? That doesn't sound good.”

  “Yeah, I don't think the name's ironic. I don't think they've even invented that yet.”

  The din around them was easing, just slightly. Everyone in need of being murdered must have been dead now.

  “This carving guy,” said Cady, “he's not like a wood worker or anything, is he?”

  She was hoping maybe the watch had missed some vital nuance in translation.

  “No,” said Gannicus. “He arrived here three months ago, a free man offering to fight for Batiatus. He has never been bested in single combat.”

  “All righty then,” said Cady. “Do you think we could go find our friend now?”

  33

  If there was a formal signal to begin the duel, it was lost on Titanic Smith. He edged forward to where his Bowie knife lay on the hard-packed dirt.

  Chumley backed off a few steps, giving his opponent space to bend down and pick up the weapon.

  Smith's back ached, his knees creaked, but his fingers closed around the familiar bone-handle grip with something like satisfaction. It did feel good to have ol' Jim back. He settled into a comfortable stance, or as close as he could manage in his battered state.

  “Chumley,” he said, “we still a got a path out of this without needing to spill blood.”

  Privately, Smith was minded to gut this feller like a pig for what he'd done back in London. But Miss Cady would surely say they needed his aptitude with the watch and all its complexities more'n they needed his innards feeding the flies. Chumley seemed able to step in and out of the years like other folk might get on and off a train. They needed to know how he did that.

  “I'm sorry if I done the wrong thing with Mr. Wu's timepiece,” he said, “or if I have given offense to some rule or charter of your timekeeper's guild, but I would plead both ignorance and innocent motive in mitigation.”

  The murmuring of the crowd shifted in tone, becoming a touch louder and hard-edged with disapproval. Everybody wanted to get to the slashing and the bloodletting. They didn't come for no debate.

  Whether sensing their hunger for the contest or simply wanting to get on with it himself, Chumley stepped carefully towards Smith. His movement was cautious, but unafraid. Smith rolled his shoulders to work out the knots and cramps of his recent pummeling, but he did nothing to bring on the moment from which they could not turn back.

  “Your intentions are irrelevant, John Smith,” said Chumley, easing just a little to Smith's left, putting himself in a flanking position, moving away from the heavy blade in Smith's right hand.

  “Maybe,” Smith conceded. He took no steps toward or away from Chumley, but he did pivot, just slightly, on the balls of his feet, keeping the man within his fighting arc. “I understand that ignorance of the law is no justification. But I would beg the chance to make restitution, to right whatever wrong I might have done, and to lift whatever sentence might lie upon my companions, Miss Cady and Miss Georgia, who are entirely innocent.”

  Chumley paid him the compliment of a glacial smile as he came in cautiously and tried a few experimental swings with his own short sword. It cleaved through the air with a hiss.

  “Marshal, you would understand that nobody is ever entirely innocent.”

  Still, Smith did not move.

  The angry buzz of the crowd had dropped back to an expectant murmur now that blood was in the offing.

  “In this affair, those young women are without sin, damn you,” Smith growled. “Any fault lies upon me alone. Since you must know how to pass between the years with alacrity, it would be the decent thing to return them home before all of this happened.”

  “They cannot simply step
back through the golden minutes,” Chumley said somewhat cryptically. “The complications are manifest now. They will run on until the end of time.”

  The apprentice began to circle him, forcing Smith to adjust his footing. He did not consider himself an expert with the blade, but he had spent some time with men who were, and he had applied himself to such lessons as they had offered. He did not present himself square on; to do so simply laid out a smorgasbord of targets for an opponent to choose. Instead, he arrayed himself in a slightly side-on posture, with the heavy steel blade held but lightly in front of him. Smith's knife was larger than the average run of Bowie knives because he was larger than the average run of men. The cross-guard stuck out an inch-and-a-half on each side of the cleaver-like steel. It was a dagger that would do for a man with one thrust.

  The crowd was growing restless at the lack of action. The toadies around Batiatus started to shout insults and oaths at the fighters. Or at least, Smith assumed them to be insults from the tenor of their cussing.

  Smith did nothing.

  Chumley finally launched himself at the outlander. He came in as fast as a Comanche brave, but with the sabre control of a Spanish hildago. He would have been a devil to beat, but that was not Smith's ambition. He merely wanted to hold the man out, and to that end, he danced and dodged and parried and blocked. The steels sometimes sparked and clashed, and sometimes whistled through clean air.

  The crowd fell quiet, then found their voices, and their anger, when it became obvious what game he was playing. Initially cautious, then frustrated, Chumley increased his tempo, looking to pick apart Smith's defense. But wherever he struck, the Bowie knife flashed out in warding. Within minutes both men were puffing, and each had collected a few slashes and shaving cuts, but neither had suffered a grievous wound.

  Chumley retreated a few paces to consider his tactics. His eyes searched Smith's for an answer.

  “Free men do not kill each other for the enjoyment of lords,” Smith said, during this lull in their dance.

  “They do at this time, John Smith, and most others of my experience. You should accept what you have made necessary. If I fail, more will follow. Your fate is settled.”

  He came in again, feinting and weaving, changing his angles of attack, always looking to unbalance Smith, to force him onto his heels.

  The other man would win. Smith knew that. If this went on long enough, he would devise an attack that broke down Smith's defenses.

  There was another way, though. Smith fell back under a sustained assault, and left himself open to a straight thrust. Frustrated and even baffled by an opponent who would not attack in defense, Chumley leapt at the simple finishing move.

  Smith suddenly transferred his balance from one foot to the other, performed a little sidestep that would've wowed all the ladies at the Purdue County Harvest Moon Ball, and kicked the devil's legs out from under him.

  A roar erupted from the crowd.

  In a mortal contest, Smith would have been on him then, hacking off his sword arm and holding down his screaming enemy while he delivered the killing stroke. Instead he kicked the sword out of the man's hand and stood back.

  He turned to the party gathered around Batiatus.

  “One drop of this man's blood is more precious than all of your worthless hides stitched together,” he called out. The crowd roared again, but not in unity this time. Some of them were outraged, and some were behind Smith. He could feel it. They did not know what he had just said, but they could all see what he had just done.

  He reached a hand down to his fallen opponent and lifted him up.

  Chumley came to his feet, clasping Smith's forearm.

  The apprentice was the picture of confusion.

  He had prepared himself to die just a moment back.

  The men, and even the womenfolk, around Batiatus looked angry and scared; always a poor combination. They were still shouting and gesticulating wildly. The guardsmen, who in surrounding the fighters had allowed themselves to be surrounded by a hundred more fighters, looked anxiously to their bossman for instruction. Unlike his lackeys and fawners, Lentulus Batiatus, was silent and still, like a snake just before striking.

  He climbed to his feet, held out his fist, and stabbed his thumb at his own chest.

  A terrible roar went up and the guardsmen drew their weapons.

  Smith felt the grip on his arm tighten, drawing his attention back to the gladiator he had spared, all to bring on this very moment.

  Chumley was holding a blade.

  He thrust the stiletto at Smith's unprotected side, but the marshal had the benefit of many years' experience with the lowest and most vicious curs. He had hoped Chumley might take the proffered hand of peace, but he was ready to break the man's arm if not, and he did so, turning on one foot to dodge the strike, pulling Chumley off balance by his wrist, and slamming his hip into the vulnerable elbow. Weren't no amount of muscle or scar tissue you could build up to protect that particular joint.

  It came apart with a sickening crunch and a cry of shock and pain from Chumley.

  The guardsmen were not to be put off the execution of the master's order, though. They came on behind shields with spear points lowered. The crowd was now baying like Satan's own pack of monster dogs, heaving and pushing against each other and against the inner ring of guards.

  Smith heard the unmistakable crack of a pistol shot over the uproar, and was pulled off balance himself when Chumley, still screaming, drove a fist into the side of his knee. The last thing he saw as he toppled over was a single spear tip coming at his face.

  34

  Not wanting to be separated again, Cady and Georgia held hands as they ran into the main stadium amidst the snowballing riot of mutinous slaves. Cady was wired and jittery, expecting to be cut down at any second. Her friend seemed less fearful. In fact, for the first time since arriving here, Georgia seemed to have found herself. In violent action.

  Thousands of hours of training in a martial art that was thousands of years old probably helped with that.

  Cady, unfortunately, was finding that her mad skills at coding digital violence for hi-res smartphone screens wasn't nearly as useful. She did her best to stay somewhere near the middle of the fast moving pack, even though she desperately wanted to catch some glimpse of Smith.

  The main stadium was much grander than the little training ground surrounded by the prison cells. It was easily as big as a high school football ground. The sunlight was harsh after the subterranean tunnel from the prison, and she squinted against the glare. The light was different here. Not just in this part of the world, she thought, but at this point in history.

  The noise in the tunnel had been oppressive—the screams and stamping of feet, the clash of metal on metal—but there was an even greater uproar out here in the open. For a second she was scared that it might be a crowd celebrating the murder of Marshal Smith. But as they ran onto the hard packed earth and the tight knot of bodies loosened up and spread out, she could see they were hurrying from one mad slaughter into another.

  Hundreds of men hacked and bashed at each other. More combatants poured onto the field from the dark mouths of tunnels around the stadium.

  “We have to find Smith and get out of here,” she shouted at Georgia.

  But Georgia didn't reply. She pulled Cady to one side with a violent tug, saving her from injury at the hands of some half-naked man wielding a heavy pole. Hard to believe she'd missed him. Dude looked like an unhinged leather fetishist as he swung the giant length of hardwood around, raising it on high as though he meant to smash Cady's head in. Georgia didn't give him a chance. Shrieking as loudly and savagely as any of the crazy people around them, she threw herself at the attacker, scissoring her legs around his midriff and using the impact of her body mass to jackknife him in half. She rolled quickly to one side, and before the man could regain his feet, Gannicus ran him through with a sword.

  Cady was beyond screaming. She'd had her fill of horror and imagined ther
e was nothing more to shock or terrorize her.

  The cavalry charge proved her wrong.

  Four men came thundering out of the darkened maw of a tunnel on the far side of the stadium, riding directly at the slaves. They swung swords and spears and weapons of a design Cady had never seen before. The first horse crashed into the crowd and bodies flew through the air.

  Cady saw Georgia dive to take what cover she could find rolled up in a ball next to the man she and Gannicus had just killed. The gladiator, however, stood his ground. He waited for the next rider, resolute, as though challenging him to a game of chicken. Man and horse came on and it seemed that Gannicus would be mowed down until, at the last second, he deftly twirled aside like a matador avoiding the bull's horns. He turned in a complete circle, hacking the rear leg of the poor horse clean off.

  Well, maybe not so clean…

  The shrieking of the injured animal only added to the insane furor and turmoil. It crashed down in a three-legged heap, crushing half a dozen people and creating a barrier that tripped up the horse directly behind it. Screaming Georgia's name, Cady ran to pull her friend out of the jumble of bodies. She had lost track of the fourth horse and rider, but they were gone, maybe fled, maybe pulled down and hacked to pieces by the mob.

  “GEORGIA!”

  And then her friend was there, appearing through the chaos like a conjurer's trick. She was breathing heavily and covered in blood, but she pulled her lips back from carnivore teeth and ran to Cady.

  “We have to find Smith,” they both said in unison.

  They'd lost contact with Gannicus, with Calista, with anybody who might have helped. There was no sense to the boiling cauldron of violence. Men and women raked at each other with animal ferocity. There had to be some order to it, Cady thought—slave versus master, the oppressed and their oppressors—but she could not sort one from the other.

  Georgia armed herself with a sword.