War of the World Makers

by Reilly Michaels

  She knew that one day she would stand in this same place, perhaps a million years from now, and nothing would be left of Anhalt, or the castle. Even the dust of it would have long since been blown by winds to other lands, of no more consequence than the echo of a voice dying in the mountains. But the stars would still be unchanged, the eternal need for creation still there, twinkling down forever.

  * Оверман *

  A MAN WHO LOOKED LIKE A DUCK WITH A DROOPING BEAK faced Freddie in the main castle doorway off the courtyard as she escorted Babette back into the castle. Though she could hardly call him a man. More of a boy. His face very pale and slack, long soft nose, small dark eyes—an ugly face with a look of stupidity about it. He wore a purple velvet waistcoat, a white shirt beneath, and a big gold chain hung about his neck. He carried a riding crop in one hand, and his breath reeked of alcohol. He stared at Freddie's clothing with his drink-glazed eyes, saw her white riding pants and high leather boots, and his face sneered. Apparently, women dressed in such a fashion greatly offended him. He next turned his gaze to Babette and sneered again. Apparently, the sight of a servant offended him also.

  He raised his riding crop to rest in his other hand, and said to Freddie with a voice that sounded like a Russian woman with nasal blockage, "What means these pants of yours? Are you a servant here, or an elected king of peasants?"

  "I am who I am, sir, and my pants are not your concern," she answered in a forceful way in an attempt to put the little ass in his place. Freddie was determined to get around him without haste and escort Babette to her bedchamber. Whoever he was, he must be the son of a Russian nobles, though she'd never seen him before. The droopy duck face lifted his riding crop and smacked it into the palm of his hand, staring at Freddie with theatrical anger. She laughed to herself, but watched him with a cold face.

  Does this ass pickle desire to strike me?

  "What are you about with that crop, sir?" Freddie asked.

  "I have been lashing my hounds!" he exclaimed, his stinking alcohol breath punishing her while his eyes brightened with the announcement, as if the memory of lashing hounds excited him. "I court marshaled one and hung another from the walls for disobedience."

  "Why would anyone favor the harming of animals?" she asked him, her tone a mixture of disgust and curiosity. She noticed the head of a toy soldier sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. Is the ass pickle playing with toy soldiers also?

  The pickle answered with an air of contempt, "I take no special pains to beat dogs any more than serfs, miss peasant queen ... All must be disciplined."

  "And with help from that soldier in your pocket? Do you fancy yourself a general?"

  "I like toy soldiers," he said indignantly. He then removed the soldier from the pocket and lifted it up to Freddie's face. A Prussian dragoon in white coat and tri-cornered black hat. The soldier pointed a musket at Freddie's nose. The duck-faced pickle shook the soldier back and forth and said, "Pow! Death to peasants! Pow!"

  Freddie glanced at Babette who returned the look, both of them having the same thought at once:

  Is this little ass pickle insane?

  Tired of his smelly breath and childish stupidity, Freddie pushed her way past the boorish ass pickle as he continued to point the dragoon at her and say, "Pow!" and walked with Babette up the grand wooden staircase to her room. Like in old days, Babette would later come to Freddie's bedchamber with a mug of warm milk and a bedtime story. So simple yet so relaxing, and right now, she desired that over any grand city floating on the edge of forever.

  Other servants passed them on the staircase or in the hall, and whether maids or butlers, they greeted Freddie respectfully, as usual, but stared at Babette as though seeing a circus freak. This behavior alarmed and irritated Freddie. As she would later learn, the servants recalled Babette's voice crying out in terrible pain, a voice so loud that it rattled the castle and boomed over the Anhalt fields. Rumors said Babette had been engaged in an act of extremely painful love making with Temujin Gur, the Mongol wizard of Empress Elizabeth, thus her many cries and moans. A rumor begun by Princess Johanna's maidservants transformed Babette to a horse, since everyone knew Mongols preferred to mate with horses. Regardless, everyone agreed that Temujin Gur, upon having his way with the screaming Babette slut, ascended from the castle in a state of disgust. Babette, however, remained behind, implanted with his demon seed—perhaps even carrying a human horse monstrosity in her womb.

  Those were the rumors, and Freddie vowed to put an end to them.

  How easily these people substitute harmful rumor for any show of sympathy or support, and without the slightest attempt to learn the truth.

  The foul talk not only wounded Babette deeply, it also tainted the air of the castle and interrupted the healing peace Freddie sought. And too, for the first time, it created a bias in her against the castle servants.

  The Princess von Anhalt could not deny it.

  Is there even one among them with sense or heart?

  * Оверман *

  DECIDING TO NOT KILL A CHILD, EVEN IF THAT CHILD was Adolph Hitler, Saravastra's war strategy office, working with Paganini, dispatched the Czarina Catherine to prevent Hitler's father Alois, in 1876, from officially changing his surname from Schicklgruber to Hitler. Too many battles had been fought in the Nexus Zone over the body of the child Adolph, and an Extinction Event threatened. Saravastra believed it would be similar to the devastating one that erupted over Hitler's failure to enter art school (the "Mein Kampf Point"), an Event that resulted in much loss of heroic life and black armor hardware. With a simple bit of aria then, one of the greatest mass murderers of history was castrated of his genocidal dreams even before he was born.

  Heil Schicklgruber?

  Dubai and Master Godfellow had failed to account for such a simple occurrence, and therefore placed no prior spell to defeat it; and the plan, subtle and brilliant in its conception, succeeded, for as all Saravastra knew, Dubai ceased to exist the moment the name change did not occur. Master Godfellow's dream world of the Overman literally evaporated beneath his feet. The Bodhisattvas of Saravastra, given to stoicism and chants, broke forth in joyous yells that echoed throughout the towers of their fabled cloud city. Paganini himself laughed heartily, and in his office overlooking the Himalayas, as the white birds of human soared in the distance, he and Catherine toasted the new future with a glass of Italian red wine.

  "To Herr Schicklgruber!" she said, raising her glass.

  Paganini smiled and relaxed in his straight wood chair. Catherine had never seen him so comfortable upon such an uncomfortable chair. He was like a new man. She continued, "It's hard to believe, Niccolo. I wish I could have seen the look on that bastard's face when Dubai winked out."

  Paganini nodded and related to her, between bouts of chuckling to himself, that Adolph Schicklgruber's early attempts at politics failed miserably. His opponents nicknamed him "Adolph Pökel-ficker" (pickle fornicator).

  Catherine laughed so suddenly that a mouthful of wine sprayed out of her mouth and into the air.

  "And that sealed his fate!" Paganini said, and summed up for her the time-ripple effects of the name change. The act of Pentagon, the American drone fleet, did not evolve in the 21st century to dominate and enslave Earth with Master Godfellow's help because the evil bitterness of one sick man a century and a half before never claimed a foothold in Europe. Countless millions of lives were saved, the Holocaust prevented, and World War II avoided. And with War Tracker now out of the picture, response would be very slow. "Edison will need time to regroup and pick up the pieces," Paganini said. "He will retire, most likely, to his City of Traps."

  Catherine had heard of the place. The City of Traps—Godfellow's land of his own creation—before Dubai, beyond Dubai. A thing of rumor and myth somewhere between a medieval courtyard in Barcelona and the methane lakes of Titan: a hellish paradise without sunlight and wide as Crete, long as the French coastline from Nice to Cannes. No one truly understood the why or how
of it, or even precisely where it could be found, just that it existed.

  "Saravastra's War Strategy Office will now conduct other actions," Paganini said, "and at a dozen or more points, keeping the pressure up." Even the Somme would be fought again, now that they knew the German counteroffensive worked—the WSO strategy being to strike often and interweave events in such a manner as to keep the enemy off balance, thus assuring the kind of peaceful future Godfellow hated most. And as a precaution, an observador paciente kept watch over Hitler's father Alois, to make certain he did never changed his mind about changing his last name—such a precaution necessary, for sooner or later, Master Godfellow or his forces would realize the source of the new time stream.

  Catherine's good humor began to fade at the thought of it.

  When will the madness stop? Of course they will come, because their leader is still alive.

  Despite the great victory that stalled Godfellow's plans, she might have killed the supreme bastard on Mars if not for a betrayal. His death simply made more sense, as she and Mother Yarrow Maria believed. But their entire venture was a miserable and embarrassing failure. All she could show for it was a new hole on Mars and the memory of an attempted rape in the mud of the Somme. What did the sex maniac Godfellow say after he leapt upon her? "I've seen the nations rise and fall, I've heard their stories, heard them all, but love's the only engine of survival." And following her crushing blow to his groin with her knee only seconds later—a blow which broke the spine of the corpse and jammed its tip up and through the dead Welsh brain—she pushed him away; and as she lay there, cold and filthy, the fallen corpse only ten feet distant rolled onto its side facing her, lit another cigarette, and said with a passionate voice:

  "I love you more than anyone, Czarina.”

  Her aria magically eased her mind out of the trauma of being raped by a World War I corpse, and she decided upon doing so that she needed a vacation. Due to her new hatred of cigarettes, still tasted on her lips, she fantasized ending the tobacco industry in early America before it could take root and poison millions, but she knew Saravastra would not sanction such a thing—too many variables to consider.

  * Оверман *

  FOLLOWING HER TOASTS WITH PAGANINI, ALL OF SARAVASTRA celebrated in a grand hall known as The Hall of Patience, located within the Mother Tower, one of the city's tallest structures. Every spell captain and ally of the Pan-Buddhist Democratic Union (PBDU), human and inhuman, attended the new utopia party. Magogs, looking like giant horned devils, brought their growling children. Wizard Gods arrived in uniquely artistic and powerful forms, several blooming out to as many as seven bodies that walked, floated, and danced. Bodhisattvas landed in their black-armor war machines, the metal of them scarred and smoking as the white wisps of their souls rose from these machines to join their bodies awaiting them in lotus position atop a stage. Warriors from other eras strolled the hall, drinking whiskey and ale, or a concoction of black fumes reportedly "made in Hell." Leaders of the PBDU formed a line of hundreds of supporters chanting and carrying on high their yellow and black PBDU flags—their symbol being a Buddha seated in lotus atop an eagle. And over it all, Paganini's violin played delightful and uplifting music.

  All were happy, all shouting or laughing.

  A victory speech by Paganini was rumored to soon take place.

  Catherine stood atop a jade balcony in the Mother Tower, looking down on it all, and a gloom descended upon her. The Saravastra celebration seemed premature, even foolish, and false in a sense. Why? Because Godfellow was still alive. The night threatened to rise once more. But did the realization of such reality make her a negative person? A pessimist? The death and destruction of the 20th century threatened to reassert itself. The truth of this fact could not be avoided. Who would be celebrating then? None but the hyena Godfellow and his drunken Overmen, and on a Dubai Sky Isle while Sinatra played in the background.

  Such thoughts canceled her festive mood. She felt disgusted and had no wish to join the celebratory party at Saravastra, so upon the edge of a mighty cliff on the Big Sur coastline in California, during a Pacific sunset in 1579, she sat, watching the Golden Hinde. The ship of Sir Francis Drake sailed not more than a mile offshore. She marveled at the beauty and simplicity of the craft. It looked to her like a small wooden flowerbox sprouting huge white blooms: a ship of two large masts with two broad sails each, a smaller lateen mast on the stern, and another on the bow. All sails full, all snapping in the Pacific wind, pink-hued in the sunset.

  Might this be the real utopia?

  As she watched and breathed deeply the clean, pure air of California, a man strolled up and sat down behind her. She did not turn to see his face. She already knew his identity. He too watched the Golden Hinde for a few moments and said to her:

  "Why did you keep secret your plan to kill Edison Godfellow?"

  The man was Niccolo Paganini. His voice was quiet, certainly no longer happy.

  Catherine answered him, her voice emotionless. "Because you would have said no to the plan. But bold results call for bold action."

  "True, though it was not his time. We at Saravastra know that."

  "So all of you prefer the continued insanity of time war?"

  "Czarina, I prefer a future of peace."

  "Then why not let loathsome scum die, Niccolo? Why?"

  "There are reasons ... We cannot tell you. You must believe me, it is vital that he lives to fulfill a destiny. The entire future of this planet depends on it."

  Catherine paused to control her temper, and said to Paganini with irritation in her voice, "Perhaps, Niccolo, this is all really about you finally besting Godfellow, and he being around to see it. If he's dead, thumping your chest over his body is far less satisfying."

  "You know that is absurd," Paganini said with a touch of hurt.

  "Then why? Why keep him alive to plan more war and domination?"

  "Must I repeat myself?" he asked, his voice emotionless once more.

  "Who betrayed us then? Black Agnes?"

  "Black Agnes talked to several Mother Yarrows about seeing your younger self at the Somme. I was informed and personally heard the thoughts of Maria of Pozzuoli. She cannot hide them from me. She tried."

  "So ... you told Godfellow of our plan?"

  "Yes."

  A long pause as the Golden Hind sailed further south and the sun dipped below the western horizon. "You betrayed me, Niccolo. You allowed me to die, and those serfs sacrificed to bring me back to life, and I feel like hurting you," she said with a cold voice.

  "You betrayed our cause, Catherine," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "The last World Maker of aria died because she acted foolishly."

  "Because you gave her up to Godfellow to be murdered?" she asked, turning around to face Paganini in the gathering darkness.

  "No. She was unaware of his many protections, and she was overconfident."

  "But now I am supposed to trust you?"

  "Always trust we believe in a cause, and will do right by that cause. And so you know, Dubai is no more and Edison is without War Tracker. A new time stream is in place, which you made happen. Do you fully comprehend the magnitude of our victory?"

  "So War Tracker is forever gone from our lives."

  "No ... We have it captive, on Surya."

  "What?"

  "The force we brought to bear only pushed War Tracker beyond Earth's gravity and injured it. We now hold it prisoner."

  "Then you can use it—"

  "No. Without Edison it lies and squalls like a child. It will take him years to create another one."

  "I see, well, I have no choice but to be your good little soldier, Niccolo."

  "You make your own choices, Czarina."

  * Оверман *

  Saravastra Sept 4, 1898.

  Niccolo and I argued last evening while I attempted to relax at Big Sur and watch the Golden Hind sailing south. I love Mother Yarrow Maria, and her presence is a reassuring one, though she can keep no s
ecrets because Niccolo will not have it. I reminded him that I died after confronting Godfellow, and in effect, he had been the one who condemned me to that fate. My youthful and naive self was killed by Eréndira, sent by Godfellow, and all because of Niccolo. She and I might still have failed to kill the pompous God One on Mars, but at least those monsters Eréndira and Mandukhai would not have been present. And as I consider it further, 'God One' is an appropriate term for the likes of him, for like an Old Testament Jehovah he brings wrath and manipulates whole nations, laying waste without conscience. Most strange though, this time travel business, especially when one considers the way in which the altered past can suddenly inflict guilt and other terrible memories never before possessed.

  I know that as Czarina I will raise a feudal Russia from the muck of ages, and do many good things to alleviate the people's suffering. This future I see for myself, but at what cost? Who can possibly understand what I must endure? I read about myself in books, in libraries and other places in future years, though only my memoirs hint at the true insanity of life with Peter. Though I find it still unbelievable, I am now one of the four most powerful beings on this planet and yet I must endure an infantile hell created by a moronic fool. Only my escapes in time at the request of Saravastra and Niccolo provide any relief, and the adventures I experience, however fruitless or meaningful, are well received by me. Anything is good substitute, even Virgin Mary torture when compared to the maddening presence of "the whelp" as so many call him.