Not Less Than Gods (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “Did it hit?” Pengrove craned his neck, squinting through the night.

  “Didn’t hear it.”

  “I did,” said Bell-Fairfax, holding his hand out for another bolt. Ludbridge supplied one.

  “And the fearsome Czar was asleep in the royal bed,” murmured Pengrove sotto voce, “in his imperial purple nightgown with his initials embroidered on it in gold, dreaming of, er, being driven across the frozen Neva in a chariot pulled by Turks and Frenchmen . . . when suddenly, his pleasant dreams were shattered and so was his bedroom window . . .”

  “Don’t make him laugh, you bloody fool,” growled Ludbridge. But the bolt flew home and they heard no glass breaking.

  “Hit the target, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax, lowering the crossbow. “I heard it.”

  “Then we’d better vanish into the night,” said Ludbridge. “Just in case anyone else heard it. Come along!”

  They fled back along the front of the Admiralty, pausing only to strap the big crossbow back in place. Bell-Fairfax pulled his coat on over it once again, and they walked on. They were about to cross back diagonally to the church when they heard a commotion coming from the other direction, toward the Neva.

  “Stand to,” Ludbridge ordered.

  “What is it?” whispered Pengrove. But they could hear the voices clearly now, echoing across the empty ground: men engaged in mortal struggle, fighting on the Isaakievsky Bridge. One broke free and ran; they could hear his footsteps pounding a moment, and then there was a gunshot, shockingly loud. The runner faltered, but kept on, albeit at a reduced pace. The others came after him and caught him near the base of the Bronze Horseman.

  “Good God, they’re the Americans,” said Bell-Fairfax.

  A distant cry from another quarter, now; watchmen were coming to investigate the shot. And from the base of the monument, words suddenly distinct: “Stop kicking him, boys, stop! He’s no good to us if you kill him!” Even with the distortion of echoes, they recognized the voice of the Reverend Amasa Breedlove.

  “Well, I guess that Prince Orlov could get a dead man to talk,” said someone else, and then shouted, for their victim had pushed away from the monument and was running again, straight down the square toward Ludbridge and the others where they stood. Even dragging one leg, his speed was remarkable. His captors were prevented from following him by the arrival of watchmen from the direction of the Winter Palace. There were roared orders in Russian.

  The runner dove into the shadows of the Admiralty and came face-to-face with Ludbridge and the others. He half-collapsed forward, staring at them wildly.

  “Please,” he gasped, clutching at his leg, which was throwing off a shower of sparks through what appeared to be a bullet wound. “I beg thee all, run for thy lives. Opasnost’! Da?”

  Ludbridge looked at the blue-crackling wound, looked back into the American’s terrified face.

  “What becomes of illusions?” he said.

  The American started. He grabbed at Ludbridge’s lapels. “We dispel them!”

  “And we are everywhere,” said Ludbridge. “Bell-Fairfax, pick him up. We’re going to run.”

  Bell-Fairfax stooped and caught the man around the knees, hoisting him in a fire brigadesman’s carry and keeping his hands well away from the sparking bullet wound.

  “Across to Admiralty Avenue and down, at your best speed. Now!” said Ludbridge. They ran for their lives.

  Bell-Fairfax quickly outdistanced the others, vanishing ahead in the darkness just past the first canal. Ludbridge heard the angry voices behind them falling silent, which was not a comfort; if the other Americans had explained themselves to the satisfaction of the watchmen, both parties might soon come hunting them. He had dropped his lantern, but the bag of paving blocks was still swinging from his belt and swung to strike him with every step he took. Pengrove kept pace with him, sprinting easily, and when they had crossed the second canal they darted to the right and worked their way back to the house on Anglisky Avenue.

  Bell-Fairfax and the American stranger were waiting for them in the shadows under the trees. A handkerchief had been tied around the hole in the American’s leg; it was already scorching black where it touched. Ludbridge acknowledged them with a nod as he came staggering up the path, closely followed by Pengrove, but said no word. He knocked on the door in a prearranged signal. A moment later the door was unbolted and Hobson stood there blinking at them sleepily.

  “In,” said Ludbridge, pushing past him. The others followed, the American dragging his damaged leg.

  “Truly thou wert sent by a careful Providence,” said the American, when the door had been bolted and Ludbridge had fetched out a bottle of vodka and handed it round. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, in sober clothing of a rather provincial cut, and had a plain, unremarkable face. Only the fact that a thin trail of smoke was trickling from the hole in his leg made him in any way distinctive.

  “If you like,” said Ludbridge. “You’re from the Franklins in Philadelphia, aren’t you?”

  “I am, sir,” said the American. “And if Dr. Franklin saw today the peril in which the Union stands, he’d weep for shame.”

  “Are you the one they sent to deal with Breedlove and that lot from Tennessee?”

  “I have been following them for months now,” said the American, with a sigh. He rubbed his red eyes. “The only survivor of my cell. Elias Matthews, at thy service and eternally in thy debt.”

  “Quaker, are you?”

  Matthews nodded. “A Friend,” he said. “As Lucas and Harloe were, the Lord rest their souls.”

  “They were the other members of your cell?”

  “They were,” said Matthews. His face was lined with exhaustion and he needed a shave. He flinched, suddenly, and held out his wineglass for more vodka. Ludbridge topped up his glass. He drank it off in a gulp and got unsteadily to his feet. “Before I tell thee more, sir, I’d beg a moment alone for decency’s sake. My leg pains me something grievous.”

  “Of course,” said Ludbridge. “Come along, lads.”

  They vacated the room and closed the door. They heard a rustling, and then a faint cry of pain; another cry; a clank and a thump.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m well,” replied a faint voice. Ludbridge swung the door open and they beheld Matthews slumped forward on the settee, resting his right elbow on his right leg. His left trouser leg was empty and his left leg, still wearing its boot, lay on the floor.

  It looked to be a mechanical wonder, gears and wires and a ball joint at the knee, with a great deal of leather strapwork that clearly served to fasten it to his body. Three cables protruded from the top, each one terminating in a sort of aglet. Their purpose was plain, for Matthews had removed his shirt and his mechanical left arm was also visible. Similar cables emerged from its artificial shoulder-joint and were wired into a flat box Matthews wore on his lower back. The leg-cables appeared to connect there too, when the leg was being worn. The metal had been gouged into his flesh when the other Americans kicked him, and he was now a mass of swiftly purpling bruises.

  “Look here, d’you want something stronger for the pain?” said Ludbridge, ignoring the fact that the others were staring at Matthews in horror. “We’ve got a medical kit.”

  Matthews shook his head. “I thank thee, brother, but I can bear it. It’s not so much a discomfort of the flesh; more the idea of discomfort, now that the leg is off. But the leg might well have exploded and that, I thought, would be the height of bad manners before such gracious hosts.” He managed a strained smile.

  “Is it likely to explode now?” Pengrove eyed the leg distrustfully.

  “I don’t think so.” Matthews leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Not now I have unconnected. There was the chance that I might have set off the bomb by accident, before I could see what harm the bullet did.”

  “You have a bomb in your leg?” Pengrove took a step backward.

  “Of course he has,” said Ludbridge. “What are we a
lways told? Do not allow the machines to fall into enemy hands.”

  Matthews nodded. “Before I ran slap into ye, I had thought only to find a place to die where no one else might be harmed by my holocaust.”

  “Poor old chap! You were spared that, anyway,” said Pengrove. Matthews looked oddly at him.

  “But . . . be ye members of the Kabinet of Wonders, or not?”

  “No; we work for the GSS,” said Ludbridge. “The London branch.”

  “Ah.” Matthews narrowed his eyes a little. “The British. And still I am indebted to thee, sir. But canst thou direct me to the Kabinet?”

  “Of course we can, my boy,” said Ludbridge soothingly. “This is their safe house, after all! We’ll take you straight to them in the morning, as soon as you’ve had a rest. For that matter, when was the last time you had a meal?”

  “Two days since,” said Matthews, with reluctance.

  “Thought so. Bell-Fairfax, poke up the fire and open a tin of potted ham. We’ve got some fresh eggs and a first-rate loaf of bread. We’ll fix you a good old public school fry-up, you’ll see,” said Ludbridge.

  “Thou art too kind,” said Matthews, but his mouth was watering. He swallowed hard and watched as Bell-Fairfax fetched out a skillet and fried up eggs with slices of bread and potted ham. The resultant savory mess was presented to Matthews on a plate, with toast liberally smeared with jam, and another shot of vodka. While he ate ravenously, Ludbridge indicated by gestures that Pengrove and Hobson should take themselves off to bed. Though the mechanical leg had stopped sparking, it was still giving an occasional jerk, showing an inclination to work itself across the floor like some sort of grim clockwork toy, and so Pengrove and Hobson were glad enough to leave its vicinity.

  When Matthews, sated and blinking sleepily, handed off his plate at last to Bell-Fairfax, Ludbridge pulled out his cigar case.

  “May I offer you a smoke, sir?”

  “I thank thee, yes.” Matthews took one of Ludbridge’s cigars with his gloved mechanical hand—it seemed to function as smoothly as though it were his original—and accepted a light.

  “That’s rather a nicely designed prosthesis,” said Ludbridge, waving the lucifer out. “Better than anything we’ve got, just at present. We can do eyes, of course, and ears, but the mechanics of a limb require a bit more work.”

  “They are sensitive mechanisms,” said Matthews, with a rueful look at the floor where his leg had just kicked spasmodically.

  “Evidently! Still, I’ve no doubt the Kabinet can repair that one for you. They’re clever chaps.”

  “I look forward to meeting them,” said Matthews. “I was sent to warn them of a grave danger.”

  “Your fellow Yankees, by any chance?”

  “It may be,” said Matthews, as some of his former wariness returned. “I trust I may make my report to them in the morning.”

  “Of course you can,” said Ludbridge. “Though you should know that the Franklins have already sent out a general advisory. Oh, don’t worry about the washing-up tonight, Bell-Fairfax! Pour yourself a drink and come sit with us, there’s a good chap. To be truthful, we’ve had a few unfortunate encounters with the filibusters ourselves. They’ve set the bloody Third Section on us, in fact.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” said Matthews, but offered no further details. In the silence that followed, Bell-Fairfax pushed a chair up to the fire and took a seat by them. He helped himself to a glass of vodka and offered more to Matthews, who shook his head and set his own glass aside. Ludbridge blew a smoke ring.

  “Look here,” he said in a bland voice. “I know our nations aren’t on the best of terms. All the same, I’ll be the first to admit that George III was a bloody lunatic. The whole business was shockingly mishandled. And we’re all members of one fellowship, after all! We’re all working for the same great day. If you’ve a private report to make to the Kabinet, why then of course it must remain private. But since your countrymen have singled us out for attack, you might do us the courtesy of telling us a little about them, eh? Wouldn’t you say so, Bell-Fairfax?”

  “I would, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax, gazing steadily into Matthews’s face. “In order that we might protect ourselves, after all.”

  “That’s true,” said Matthew. He sighed. He leaned back tiredly, seeming to have resolved something in his mind. “Very well. I trust that all I tell ye shall be held in the strictest confidence? Listen not as Britons, but as brothers.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ludbridge.

  “My nation is at war within itself,” said Matthews. “And it stands in peril of its very soul. One pernicious thing caused the very bell to crack that signaled our freedom from kings and tyranny. Ye know well enough what that thing is.”

  “Slavery,” said Bell-Fairfax.

  “Aye. It prances like a mocking shadow after all our solemn posturings. All the noblest ideals of Liberty that we profess remain dreams, insubstantial while the negro groans in bondage.

  “We should have been, we must be a republic of liberty and justice for all. In that alone is our salvation, and toward that end we strive to abolish slavery. But now, a second grinning giant arises to tempt us to damnation.

  “He is a doctrine asserting that it is America’s manifest destiny to expand—by conquest. To rule over an empire, in the very name of the principles it must betray thereby. The Almighty Himself, this doctrine saith, gave America this divine right, though the tyrants of old claimed to be the Lord’s anointed too.

  “To this end the Indian is hunted from his native place and exterminated, but he is not the last victim of this vicious hypocrisy. Nothing less than the whole of the two continents conquered will satisfy it; and the end result will be a vast empire of white slave-holding Americans ruling plantations, living like feudal kings above the grave of that great Experiment on which our nation was founded. We would be a second Rome, greater and more damned.”

  Matthews was shaking with emotion. Bell-Fairfax made to pour him another drink, and this time he held out his glass. “Forgive me. I burn so with anger, I may die of it.” He drank again, set his glass aside, and continued:

  “This doctrine has its filibusters fighting in its cause.” Matthews pronounced the word with a sneer of distaste.

  “But how did they come to be shooting at you?” said Ludbridge.

  Matthews grimaced and shook his head. “I must tell thee all, I see. One of our brothers in Philadelphia had an apprentice, whom he brought into our ranks. The said boy was gifted beyond genius. He devised the means by which I was given back mine arm and leg. He rose through our ranks too young, on that account. Too soon, and his pride made him foolish.

  “He attended a lecture by one of these filibusters, and was filled with the fire of their ambition. He came to us and argued earnestly that we ought to be underwriting the filibusters’ cause; for, he said, ought not all nations be enforced to become Christian republics like our own?

  “We reasoned with him, explaining that such an argument itself betrays the spirit of our republic and denies Christ. We may, and ought, persuade other nations by our shining example, but never by force of arms. He grew angry. He broke with us; he went to the filibusters.”

  “Good God!” Ludbridge feigned being shocked.

  Matthews nodded miserably. “We are quartered in a building Dr. Franklin himself purchased, when he founded the American branch. Mounted above the door of the inmost meeting room is an ancient emblem, given to Dr. Franklin, so it’s said, by thine own branch, before the revolution began. It is the bas-relief head of a lion, enameled in green, and in its jaws it held a disc of pure gold—gold made by alchemy, we were told. More, it was whispered that the disc itself was scribed with the alchemical means for making gold, though in secret and coded phrases and an obscure alphabet.

  “Before his desertion, the boy climbed up secretly and wrenched the gold disc free, and took it with him to offer to his new companions.”

  “Good God,” repeated Ludbridge. “What a
calamity. When did this happen? We can’t have our secrets known, old chap!”

  “It happened at the beginning of this year,” said Matthews. “And our secrets will not be known. The boy is dead.”

  “Dead, is he? That’s convenient.”

  Matthews scowled and reddened. “We are no murderers. He was thrown from his horse, it seems, and killed. Even so, he had had some words with the filibusters, and delivered the golden disc to them. What he revealed to them we do not certainly know; but they are now aware that we exist, and have that which would greatly further their cause, if they could lay hold of it; which is to say, the technologia.”

  “That’s damned bad.”

  “I know.” Matthews took a drag on his cigar. “Well, we managed to find their meeting place, and planted a transmitter. We learned a little of their intention to meddle here, and so a cell was put together to follow their agents and observe them—Lucas, Jenkins and I. We discovered enough to alarm us, in the Holy Land, and we knew we must find out more.

  “Lucas, who was a negro, went to them and told a story of having been brought to Bethlehem by his master, who had died of fever there. He offered himself to their service if they would only pay for his passage back to the States. Well, sir, they took him, since they wanted a servant who spoke English. He traveled with them after that to Constantinople. Jenkins and I followed, and he sent us his reports with a transmitter he had concealed in a prayer book. I fear they treated him badly; he was chained in their rooms when they went out, but he endured it for the sake of the mission.

  “He learned the whole of their plot, and whence they were bound. He copied their papers and dropped them through a window to Jenkins and I. We bid him escape—it was easily done, for he had a device to cut through steel. He wanted to wait until midnight, but we persuaded him to leave while they had gone out to supper, for we had booked passage on a ship to take us to this city and it was due to sail at half past eight. Would to God we had waited!