by Barney Broom
The acting profession was well represented. Brinsley Sheridan and Sarah Siddons with her Kemble brothers arrived, meeting Dora Jordan, who was accompanied by her young protégé, Catherine Halliday. As hot air from the bonfire continued to inflate the enormous balloon, viewers gazed in anticipated wonder.
Sitting in her carriage, Dora Jordan greeted Stephen Kemble who walked over to welcome her.
“Stephen!”
The actor/director kissed Dora’s outstretched hand.
“Your sister appears in good health.”
Seeing her brother in conversation with her rival, Mrs. Siddons gave a slight bow from her carriage.
“The London stage is fortunate indeed to have two of the finest actresses treading its boards.”
“You flatter, sir.”
Kemble eyed Catherine, whose expression was subdued.
“Miss Halliday.”
“Sir.”
“You are excited by the day’s activities.”
Catherine sighed. “A bag filling with hot air to take flight, who knows where men might travel next?”
Grasping her meaning, Kemble burst out laughing.
“Well said, Miss Halliday, well said. Bags of hot air – perhaps there’s more surrounding the envelope than filling it!”
Dora and Kemble laughed. Catherine managed a smile. Kemble raised his hat and walked away, still chuckling.
“Your wit covers your mood, Catherine. I know you have been désarroi since the departure of your young matelot, but men coming and going are a woman’s fate.”
The Duke of Clarence and his royal entourage arrived in several carriages. Although bows and smiles greeted Mrs. Jordan, no intimate acknowledgement was made. A man emerged from a group surrounding the balloon and came over to them. Bareheaded, he made his bow.
“Noting your presence, ma’am, and recently admiring you on stage, I beg to present myself.”
Dora Jordan smiled.
“Shawcross, a colleague of Signor Lunardi.”
“The balloon man. A pleasure I’m sure.”
“I wonder if you’d do me the honour of allowing me to show you the dirigible and its gondola?”
“Honoured, sir, but I’m well satisfied with my position, thank you. However, perhaps my young friend would like to avail herself of your kindness?”
Shawcross bowed again and looked at Catherine, who did not seem best pleased. Nevertheless, alighting from Mrs. Jordan’s carriage, she allowed herself to be led towards the balloon.
Surrounded as it was by an assortment of people, its owner, Vincenzo Lunardi, was rhapsodising on the wonders of flight. Shawcross guided Catherine through the throng and stopping a few paces from the basket, explained the rudiments of aviation – ‘science’, ‘hot air’, ‘lift’.
“… the whole rising upwards do you see?”
Gazing at the ridiculously small pannier now attached beneath the giant balloon, Catherine was dubious.
“It looks very dangerous.”
“It’s the future.”
Lying at the bottom of the basket, Podric pushed off some canvas covering him and looked down at himself. He was back wearing his midshipman’s uniform, complete with buckled shoes and stockings. That was good; programming himself precisely would be the only way any recognition was currently possible to anyone profiled in the game.
Sitting up, Podric heard a man talking nearby. Peering through the gondola’s wicker slats, he identified his beloved listening to Ian Shawcross! The pilot called away, Catherine looked at the crowd.
“Catherine.”
The girl turned and gasped as she saw Podric standing in the basket.
“Podric?”
Dusting tarp residue from his coat, Podric looked up at the vast balloon. Catherine walked over to him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Er… testing something.”
“A balloon?!”
Love flooding back, they gazed at each other.
Suddenly, a gust of wind rocked the gigantic capsule, uprooting its pegs and the rope guys it was attached to. The lifting basket snagged Catherine’s chemise, and a piece of her garment was caught in the woven willow.
“Hold me.”
Disturbed at the gondola pulling her gown, Catherine dropped her parasol and grabbed Podric. Another sudden swirl of air pulled the balloon clear of its anchorage. Clutching his lover, Podric fell backward. Both he and Catherine collapsed on the wicker floor inside. Their first instinct to embrace was interrupted by cries of amazement and concern. Standing, the two looked down at the scene. Floating thirty feet from the ground, desperate attempts were being made to catch the dangling ropes that hung tantalisingly close to flailing fingers. As one, the crowd bellowed and gawped as the balloon took flight.
Inside the basket, things weren’t quite so romantic. Although all appeared serene from the ground, the gondola bucked around violently. The young people were compelled to grip its sides to avoid falling out. Still, the sight below was amazing; eighteenth-century London in all its magnificent squalor spread into the distance. Whilst bright, the winter’s day was cold and Podric took off his jacket, draping it around Catherine’s shivering shoulders.
“I love you Podric. I think you’re crazy, but I love you.”
The simple way she spoke made Catherine’s sentiment all the more powerful. Podric would have told her that he loved her too, but just then the basket gave a particularly violent lurch. Using one of the guys, Podric whipped it around their bodies, tying them to the gondola. Air in the balloon seemed to be sustaining their height – if anything, they were climbing – England’s capital fast receding beneath them. Scanning the horizon, squally weather could be seen approaching.
“Podric, I’m scared.”
Despite giving Catherine his coat, the girl’s teeth were chattering; her knuckles were white as she clung to his side. Podric could have admitted he was too, but just said, “It’ll be alright. We’ll get down okay.”
“Okay? What’s that?”
Whatever Podric’s answer was got lost in the wind.
Clouds gathered and the light faded. The hour that followed was a terrifying experience. They climbed into thick weather then plummeted earthwards with uncontrolled velocity.
The balloon looked as though it would crash into the ground, but for some inexplicable reason levelled off fifty feet above rain-swept fields. Even though the weather was foul, people were working on the land and watched in awe at the crazy sight unfurling above them.
Though there was little to identify their position, Podric believed they’d travelled west from London. He thought he recognised Wendbury church spire with its crooked steeple, well known in the twenty-first century. So near yet so far. The balloon whipped away in a different direction and dropping even lower, only increased their sense of speed.
In and out of consciousness, Catherine was hypothermic. Podric knew that for her to have any chance of survival, they would have to land quickly. He looked down at the ground with increased desperation. The gondola hurtling over a ploughed field, Podric caught sight of a haystack.
“Catherine! Catherine!”
In her distressed state, the girl was barely sensible. Podric slapped her.
“Catherine. You must do as I tell you.”
Catherine looked at him with a blank expression.
“I’m going to climb out and I need you to get on my back. You’re roped to me so nothing bad can happen. Understand?”
Podric wasn’t sure if she’d absorbed anything he’d said but they had reached a point of no return. Roped to the basket, he somehow managed to get them both over the side. Then, with a firm grip on Catherine, he undid the rope binding them. Nearing the stack, he calculated the angles and at the critical moment, let her go.
“I love you!”
Th
e girl tumbled into the haystack. Podric watched as a ploughman ran to her aid. He could only hope Catherine was alright but seconds later another gust caught the balloon, rocketing it skywards into clouds and lost from sight forever.
No trace of the balloon was ever found.
***
Returning to reality in his bedroom at Briony Close, Podric savoured a feeling of extreme well-being. Although he knew he would continue to fine-tune his invention, this latest experiment paved the way to enabling a participant to automatically leave UAR. He could also now confirm to Archie that any accident or misadventure experienced inside the game would only be just that – a game accident, a game wound, a game death. The physical aspect of their games experiences had bothered Podric but for a different reason – his relationship with Catherine. After all, didn’t he feel his love for her? Surely it was as much a sensation (though of a happier kind) as a rapier wound or even death by misadventure!
Getting up, Podric went over to the laptop on his desk and logging in, made some minor adjustments to the revised exit methodology. Going into UAR this second time, he’d made a big step forward.
***
Sally Frost had recently decided to get fit. Clad in tracksuit and trainers, she was out jogging on the tow path running beside the River Wendle early on Monday morning, and was thinking about her friendship with Catherine Halliday.
Catherine was Sally’s closest friend and their propinquity was particular. Although overshadowed by Catherine’s good looks, Sally brought a lot to their relationship, which had recently been affected by the arrival of Podric Moon. Initially, Sally felt her position threatened by his presence and her friend’s interest in him, but she was gradually changing her mind, finding Podric’s shy diffidence appealing.
Approaching an intersection, Sally noticed movement in some bushes ahead. Pausing briefly to check her Apple wrist sports band, she was about to take the other path when a motorbike came out of nowhere and roared up behind her. Jumping out of the way, Sally tripped, winding herself. Skidding, the motorcycle narrowly avoided the river, but Sally couldn’t and tumbled headlong into the water.
The bike roared off.
Panting as she came up for air, a shocked Sally sank beneath the surface. She wasn’t conscious of strong hands grabbing her, hauling her out of the water and dragging her to the bank. Her lungs partly filled with water, the same powerful fingers pressed Sally’s back and then pushed her over, rocking her forward and causing her to spew. Lying back, when Sally came to there was no sign of her rescuer.
Arriving at school that morning, Podric was accosted by Miles Willoughby.
“Hear Big Barn’s out?”
Miles couldn’t hide the worry in his voice. Listening to this news, Podric felt less concerned than might have been expected. Given all his recent UAR adventures, he felt flat and disconnected. Somehow bumping into Norris Widget made him even more so. The Widge picking a giant bogey out of his left nostril reminded Podric that he’d been doing exactly the same thing in eighteenth century UAR!
“When did you last see me, Widge?”
Norris rolled the enormous bogey between his fingers.
“Hmm… Friday, was it, Pod?”
“You don’t remember meeting up again anywhere different?”
“What do you mean?”
Podric looked at him.
“Oh, nothing.”
Podric began to wander off.
“I did have some weird dream. All over the place, I was – like in another time…”
Satisfied with his nasal excretion, Norris flicked it away. Podric turned back.
“Anything else?”
“It was a bit crazy – things kept flashing by. I was in an old town with smells and stuff. Stank a lot.”
The school bell sounded.
“Liked it.”
The Widge smiled.
“Got to go, Pod – Miss Mullins has me on roster duties and you know what she’s like for time. See yer.”
10
Impossible is not French
Archie, restless at waiting for Podric’s report, decided that he must do something. Sleeping badly since they’d got back from their recent adventures, he rose early, showered and dressed. He then did two unusual things – he packed himself a valise and going downstairs, collected Dog. The animal and its master strolled out to his Facel Vega HK 500, then hit the road heading for London.
Checking into his club, he left Dog with the janitor who always spoiled him and going to a room, unpacked his overnight bag. He intended to go by Secorni’s offices during the morning and see Cy Zaentz, before touching base with Monty Limmerson and perhaps meeting Kaliska Monroe.
Thinking about his solicitor’s new head of corporate affairs, the games creator reflected how he must ask Podric about profiling her into UAR. Indeed, as he thought about their discussion, Archie conceded that he must consult with his young partner more deeply about Ultimate Alternative Reality and its workings, period. With this in mind, he went down to breakfast.
Returning from his repast, Archie picked up a message from Podric requesting that he go online. The teenage games genie’s email outlined the codex strategy Podric had been working on predetermining an individual’s exit from the game. Archie replied enquiring if he was sure it worked, and was advised that it had been tested.
So… his young friend had already been in again! When they’d parted Podric had demanded Archie didn’t resume any UAR activity unless accompanied. This aggravated the games creator. Normally a fiercely independent man, he hated the idea of being reliant on his young partner where UAR was concerned. For his own self esteem, Archie needed to prove to himself that he could manage his alternative reality adventures unassisted.
Deciding it would be preferable to be somewhere quiet – away from people and a place where he wouldn’t be bothered, meant for Archie one thing. A call to Mrs. Evans.
Checking out of his club that same morning accompanied by an excited Dog, Archie guided his Facel Vega west, speeding down the M4 towards Bristol, the Severn Bridge and Wales. When married, one of the few genuine pleasures he and Charlotte had enjoyed was their time at Bwthyn Anghysbell. A few miles from Aber Village, the remote cottage was situated in the hills above the Talybont Reservoir in the Brecon Beacons. Completely isolated, its great advantage was its relative proximity to London. A call to the owner, Mrs. Evans, had established the place was free for a month. Archie immediately booked it.
Arriving later that day, he took Dog for a walk up Pen y Fan, and returned to discover Mrs. E stocking the fridge with basic provisions. Adding his own fermentedly vintage liquid supplies, Archie closed the door. Making himself comfortable, he considered his upcoming adventures with eager anticipation. He was ready!
***
Looking down the mountainside at the desolate scene below – the smoke-filled city in the distance, frigates and ships faintly visible on the grey sea behind – a column of dejected allied prisoners made their exhausted way over the scraggy terrain.
A bruised Life Guards captain, his tunic ripped and breeches torn, carried another man on his shoulders. Prodded by a bayonet, Archie Light fell forward and dropped his burden. The French soldier kicked and rolled the other over. Don Tweeney’s dead face stared sightlessly back at them.
“Wasting your efforts, prisoner. He’ll see no more action. Vive la République!”
Spitting at Tweeney, the Frenchman clubbed another struggling survivor and moved on. Archie looked around in despair. All his intentions failed, the intensity of the conflict and his attempt to remove Napoleon before he ever established himself as a major force had left him empty and exhausted.
“Déplacer ton cul!”
Mounted on a charger, the chasseur interrupted Archie’s thoughts.
Getting up, he began to think about the course of events after the siege. Certainly, Bonapa
rte was promoted and his influence on the army and France rapidly grew, but where had he gone after the evacuation of the city?
Having toiled their way down to its gates, the prisoners entered Toulon through the Porte d’Italie. Stopping in the Boulevard Strasbourg, Archie was vaguely aware of being segregated. He and several other British officers were removed from the column and escorted up the drive to the property that had been the Allied headquarters, but was now taken over by the French.
Led to the rear of the house, Archie and others were pushed down some steps into a fortified dungeon. The door clanged shut behind them and for several seconds Archie could see nothing. His eyes gradually adjusted; the grate under the courtyard allowed a little light into the cell. Finally, a figure emerged from the gloom.
“Heard you’d played the hero, Light. Didn’t get you very far, did it?” These words of welcome were uttered by Captain Drummond.
“Being confined to quarters is no path to glory. You missed a good battle, Drummond.”
“Why, you—”
Despite his situation, Archie smiled.
“I seem to recall I’m your senior by several months and accordingly, you can address me as ‘sir’.”
Whatever reality he was living in, Archie hadn’t lost his provocative touch.
“You—”
Drummond’s remonstration was abruptly cut short by the sound of the door being reopened. Several fusiliers stood guard as French General Jacques François Dugommier entered, accompanied by a British general who Archie recognised as Charles O’Hara.
“Here are your captured officers, General. You may select one of them to assist you.”
O’Hara moved around the cell looking at each man in turn. On seeing Archie, a glimmer of recognition crossed his face but he continued to walk amongst the men a little longer before turning to Dugommier.
“Captain Light will suit my needs. Thank you, General.”
