Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1)

by Doomsday Book (lit)

  "I've gotten clearance for you to enter the quarantine area. When are you coming up?" he said as soon as the tech answered.

  "That's the thing, sir," Andrews said. There was a visual, but it was too fuzzy to read his expression. "I don't think I'd better. I've been watching all about the quarantine on the vids, sir. They say this Indian flu is extremely dangerous."

  "You needn't come in contact with any of the cases," Dunworthy said. "I can arrange for you to go straight to Brasenose's laboratory. You'll be perfectly safe. This is extremely important."

  "Yes, sir, but the vidders say it might have been caused by the university's heating system."

  "The heating system?" Dunworthy said. "The university has no heating system, and the individual ones of the colleges are over a hundred years old and incapable of heating, let alone infecting." The bellringers turned as one to look at him, but they did not break rhythm. "It has absolutely nothing to do with the heating system. Or India, or the wrath of God. It began in South Carolina. The vaccine is already on the way. It's perfectly safe."

  Andrews looked stubborn. "Nevertheless, sir, I don't think it would be wise for me to come."

  The bellringers abruptly stopped. "Sorry," Ms. Piantini said, and they started again.

  "This fix must be read. We have an historian in 1320, and we don't know how much slippage there has been. I'll see to it that you're paid for hazardous duty," Dunworthy said, and then realized that was exactly the wrong approach. "I can arrange for you to be isolated or wear SPG's or -- "

  "I could read the fix from here," Andrews said. "I've a friend who'll set up the access connections. She's a student at Shrewsbury." He paused. "It's the best I can do. Sorry."

  "Sorry," Ms. Piantini said again.

  "No, no, you ring in second's place," Ms. Taylor said. "You dodge two-three up and down and three-four down and then lead a whole pull. And keep your eyes on the other ringers, not on the floor. One-two-and-off!" They started their minuet again.

  "I simply can't take the risk," Andrews said.

  It was clear he couldn't be persuaded. "What is the name of your friend at Shrewsbury?" Dunworthy asked.

  "Polly Wilson," he said, sounding relieved. He gave Dunworthy her number. "Tell her you need a remote read, an inquiry and bridge transmit. I'll stay by this number." He moved to ring off.

  "Wait!" Dunworthy said. The bellringers glanced disapprovingly at him. "What would the maximal slippage be on a drop to 1320?"

  "I've no idea," Andrews said promptly. "Slippage is difficult to predict. There are so many factors."

  "An estimate," Dunworthy said. "Could it be twenty-eight years?"

  "Twenty-eight years?" Andrews said, and the amazed tone sent a gust of relief through Dunworthy. "Oh, I wouldn't think so. There's a general tendency toward greater slippage the farther back you go, but the increase isn't exponential. The parameter checks will tell you."

  "Mediaeval didn't do any."

  "They sent an historian back without parameter checks?" Andrews sounded shocked.

  "Without parameter checks, without unmanneds, without recon tests," Dunworthy said. "Which is why it's essential I get this fix read. I want you to do something for me."

  Andrews stiffened.

  "You don't have to come here to do it," he said rapidly. "Jesus has an on-site set up in London. I want you to go over there and run parameter checks on a drop to noon, 12 December, 1320."

  "What are the locational coordinates?"

  "I don't know. I'll get them when I go to Brasenose. I want you to telephone me here as soon as you've determined maximal slippage. Can you do that?"

  "Yes," he said, but he was looking doubtful again.

  "Good. I'll telephone Polly Wilson. Remote read, IA inquiry, bridge transmit. I'll ring you back as soon as she's got it set up at Brasenose," Dunworthy said, and rang off before Andrews could renege.

  He held onto the receiver, watching the bellringers. The order changed each time, but Ms. Piantini apparently did not lose count again.

  He telephoned Polly Wilson and gave her the specifications Andrews had dictated, wondering if she had been watching the vidders, too, and would be afraid of Brasenose's heating system, but she said promptly, "I'll need to find a gateway. I'll meet you there in forty-five minutes."

  He left the bellringers still bobbing and went over to Brasenose. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, and there were more people on the streets, though many of the shops were closed. Whoever was in charge of the Carfax carillon had either come down with the flu or forgotten about it because of the quarantine. It was still playing "Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella," or possibly "O Tannenbaum."

  There were three picketers outside an Indian grocer's and a half-dozen more outside Brasenose with a large banner they were holding between them that read, "TIME TRAVEL IS A HEALTH THREAT." He recognized the young woman on the end as one of the medics from the ambulance.

  Heating systems and the EC and time travel. During the Pandemic it had been the American germ warfare program and air conditioning. Back in the Middle Ages they had blamed the Jews and the appearance of comets for their epidemics. Doubtless when the fact that the virus had originated in South Carolina was revealed, the Confederacy, or Southern fried chicken, would be blamed.

  He went in the gate to the porter's desk. The Christmas tree was sitting on one end of it, the angel perched atop it. "I have a student from Shrewsbury meeting me to set up some communications equipment," he told the porter. "We'll need to be let into the laboratory."

  "The laboratory is restricted, sir," the porter said.

  "Restricted?"

  "Yes, sir. It's been locked and no one's allowed in."

  "Why? What's happened?"

  "It's because of the epidemic, sir."

  "The epidemic!?"

  "Yes, sir. Perhaps you'd better speak with Mr. Gilchrist, sir."

  "Perhaps I had. Tell him I'm here, and I need to be let into the laboratory."

  "I'm afraid he's not here just now."

  "Where is he?"

  "At the Infirmary, I believe. He -- "

  Dunworthy didn't wait to hear the rest. Halfway to the Infirmary it occurred to him that Polly Wilson would be left waiting with no idea where he'd gone, and as he came up to the hospital, it came to him that Gilchrist might be there because he'd come down with the virus.

  Good, he thought, it's what he deserves, but Gilchrist was in the little waiting room, hale and hearty, wearing an NHS face mask, rolling up his sleeve in preparation for the inoculation a nurse was holding.

  "Your porter told me the laboratory's restricted," he said, stepping between them. "I need to get into it. I've found a tech to read Kivrin's fix."

  Gilchrist looked belligerent. "It was my understanding that your tech had read the fix before he fell ill."

  "He did, but he's in no condition to tell us what it said." And there's something wrong with it, he thought. "Andrews has agreed to read it by remote, but we need to set up transmission equipment."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," Gilchrist said. "The laboratory is under quarantine until the source of the virus is determined."

  "The source of the virus?" he said incredulously. "The virus originated in South Carolina."

  "We will not be certain of that until we've obtained positive identification. Until then, I felt it was best to minimize all possible risks to the university by restricting access to the laboratory. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm here to receive my immune system enhancement." He started past Dunworthy toward the nurse.

  Dunworthy put out his arm to stop him. "What risks?"

  "There has been considerable public concern that the virus was transmitted through the net."

  "Public concern? Do you mean those three halfwits with the banner outside your gate?" he shouted.

  "This is a hospital, Mr. Dunworthy," the nurse said. "Please keep your voice down."

  He ignored her. "There has been 'considerable public concern,' as you call it, that the v
irus was caused by liberal immigration laws," he said. "Do you intend to secede from the EC as well?"

  Gilchrist's chin went up, and the pinched lines appeared by his nose, visible even through the mask. "As Acting Head of the History Faculty, it is my responsibility to act in the university's interest. Our position in the community, as I'm certain you're aware, depends on maintaining the good will of the townspeople. I felt it important to calm the public's fears by closing the laboratory until the sequencing arrives. If it indicates that the virus is from South Carolina, then of course the laboratory will be reopened immediately."

  "And in the meantime, what about Kivrin?"

  "If you cannot keep your voice down," the nurse said, "I shall be forced to report you to Dr. Ahrens."

  "Excellent. Go and fetch her," Dunworthy told her. "I want her to tell Mr. Gilchrist how ridiculous he's being. This virus cannot possibly have come through the net."

  The nurse stamped out.

  "If your protesters are too ignorant to understand the laws of physics," Dunworthy said, "surely they can understand the simple fact that this was a drop. The net was only open to 1320, not from it. Nothing came through from the past."

  "If that is the case, then Ms. Engle is not in any danger, and it will do no harm to wait for the sequencing."

  "Not in any danger? You don't even know where she is!"

  "Your tech obtained the fix, and indicated the drop was successful and that there was minimal slippage," Gilchrist said. He rolled down his sleeve and carefully buttoned the cuff. "I'm satisfied Ms. Engle is where she's supposed to be."

  "Well, I'm not. And I won't be until I know Kivrin made it through safely."

  "I see I must remind you again that Ms. Engle is my responsibility, not yours, Mr. Dunworthy." He donned his coat. "I must do as I think best."

  "And you think it best to set up a quarantine around the laboratory to placate a handful of crackpots," he said bitterly. "There is also 'considerable public concern' that the virus is a judgment from God. What do you intend to do to maintain the good will of those townspeople? Resume burning martyrs at the stake?"

  "I resent that remark. And I resent your constant interference in matters which do not concern you. You have been determined from the first to undermine Mediaeval, to keep it from gaining access to time travel, and now you are determined to undermine my authority. May I remind you that I am Acting Head of History in Mr. Basingame's absence, and as such -- "

  "What you are is an ignorant, self-important fool who should never have been trusted with Mediaeval, let alone Kivrin's safety!"

  "I see no reason to continue this discussion," Gilchrist said. "The laboratory is under quarantine. It will remain so until we obtain the sequencing." He walked out.

  Dunworthy started after him and nearly collided with Mary. She was wearing SPG's and reading a chart.

  "You will not believe what Gilchrist's done now," he said. "A group of picketers convinced him the virus came through the net, and he's barricaded the laboratory."

  She didn't say anything or even look up from the chart.

  "Badri said this morning that the slippage figures can't be right. He said over and over, 'There's something wrong.'"

  She looked up at him distractedly and back at the chart.

  "I have a tech ready to read Kivrin's fix remotely, but Gilchrist's locked the doors," he said. You must talk to him, tell him the virus has been firmly established as originating in South Carolina."

  "It hasn't."

  "What do you mean, it hasn't? Did the sequencing arrive?"

  She shook her head. "The WIC located their tech, but she's still running it. But her preliminary read indicates it's not the South Carolina virus." She looked up at him. "And I know it's not." She looked back at the chart. "The South Carolina virus had a zero morbidity rate."

  "What do you mean? Has something happened to Badri?"

  "No," she said, shutting the chart and holding it to her chest. "Beverly Breen."

  He must have looked blank. He had thought she was going to say Latimer.

  "The woman with the lavendar umbrella," she said, and sounded angry. "She died just now."

  TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOOMSDAY BOOK (046381-054957)

  22 December 1320 (Old Style.) Agnes's knee is worse. It's red and painful (an understatement -- she screams when I try to touch it) and she can scarcely walk. I don't know what to do -- if I tell Lady Imeyne, she'll put one of her poultices on it and make it worse, and Eliwys is distracted and obviously worried.

  Gawyn still isn't back. He should have been home by noon yesterday, and when he hadn't shown up by vespers, Eliwys accused Imeyne of sending him to Oxford.

  "I have sent him to Courcy, as I told you," Imeyne said defensively. "No doubt the rain keeps him."

  "Only to Courcy?" Eliwys said angrily. "Or have you sent him otherwhere for a new chaplain?"

  Imeyne drew herself up. "Father Roche is not fit to say the Christmas masses if Sir Bloet and his company come," she said. "Would you be shamed before Rosemund's fiance?"

  Eliwys went absolutely white. "Where have you sent him?"

  "I have sent him with a message to the bishop, saying that we are in sore need of a chaplain," she said.

  "To Bath?!" Eliwys said, and raised her hand as if she would strike her.

  "Nay. Only to Cirencestre. The archdeacon was to lie at the abbey for Yule. I bade Gawyn give him the message. One of his churchmen will bear it thence. Though, certes, things go not so ill in Bath that Gawyn could not go thence himself without harm, else my son would have quitted it."

  "Your son will be ill-pleased to find we have disobeyed him. He bade us, and Gawyn, keep to the manor till he come."

  She still sounded furious, and as she lowered her hand, she clenched it into a fist, as if she would have liked to box Imeyne's ears the way she does Maisry's. But the color had come back in her cheeks as soon as Imeyne said, "Cirencestre," and I think she was at least a little relieved.

  "Certes, things go not so ill in Bath that Gawyn could not go thence without harm," Imeyne said, but it's obvious Eliwys doesn't think he can. Is she afraid he'd ride into a trap or that he might lead Lord Guillaume's enemies here? And are things going so "ill" that Guillaume can't quit Bath?

  Perhaps all three. Eliwys has been to the door to look out into the rain at least a dozen times this morning, and she's in as bad a temper as Rosemund was in the woods. Just now she asked Imeyne if she was certain the archdeacon was at Cierncestre. She's obviously worried that if he wasn't, Gawyn will have taken the message into Bath himself.

  Her fear has infected everyone. Lady Imeyne has slunk off into a corner with her reliquary to pray, Agnes whines, and Rosemund sits with her embroidery in her lap, staring blindly at it.

  (Break)

  I took Agnes to Father Roche this afternoon. Her knee was much worse. She couldn't walk at all, and there was what looked like the beginning of a red streak above it. I couldn't tell for certain -- the entire knee is red and swollen -- but I was afraid to wait.

  There was no cure for blood poisoning in 1320, and it's my fault her knee is infected. If I hadn't insisted on going to look for the drop, she wouldn't have fallen. I know the paradoxes aren't supposed to let my presence here have any effect on what happens to the contemps, but I couldn't take that chance. I wasn't supposed to be able to get catch anything, either.

  So when Imeyne went up to the loft, I carried Agnes over to the church to ask him to treat her. It was pouring by the time we got there, but Agnes wasn't whining over getting wet, and that frightened me more than the red streak.

  The church was dark, and smelled musty. I could hear Father Roche's voice from the front of the church, and it sounded like he was talking to someone. "Lord Guillaume has still not arrived from Bath. I fear for his safety," he said.

  I thought perhaps Gawyn had come back, and I wanted to hear what they said about the trial, so I didn't go forward. I stood there with Agnes in my arms and listened.

 
"It has rained these two days," Roche said, "and there is a bitter wind from the west. We have had to bring the sheep in from the fields."

  After a minute of peering into the dark nave, straining to see, I finally made him out. He was on his knees in front of the rood screen, his big hands folded together in prayer.

  "The steward's babe has a colic on the stomach and cannot keep his milk down. Tabord the Cottar fares ill."

  He wasn't praying in Latin, and there was none of the priest at Holy Reformed's sing-song chanting or the vicar's oratory in his voice. He sounded businesslike and matter-of-fact, the way I sound now, talking to you.

  God was supposed to be very real to the contemps in the 1300's, more vivid than the physical world they inhabited. "You do but go home again," Father Roche told me when I was dying, and that's what the contemps are supposed to have believed -- that the life of the body is illusory and unimportant, and the real life is that of the eternal soul, as if they were only visiting life the way I am visiting this century, but I haven't seen much evidence of it. Eliwys dutifully murmurs her aves at vespers and matings and then rises and brushes off her kirtle as if her prayers had nothing to do with her worries over her husband or the girls or Gawyn. And Imeyne, for all her reliquary and her Book of Hours, is concerned only about her social standing. I'd seen no evidence that God was real at all to them till I stood there in the damp church, listening to Father Roche.

  I wonder if he sees God and heaven as clearly as I can see you and Oxford, the rain falling in the quad and your spectacles steaming up so you have to take them off and polish them on your muffler. I wonder if they seem as close as you do, and as difficult to get to.

  "Preserve our souls from evil and bring us safely into heaven," Roche said, and as if that were a cue, Agnes sat up in my arms and said, "I want Father Roche."

  Father Roche stood up and started toward us. "What is it? Who is there?"

  "It is Lady Katherine," I said. "I have brought Agnes. Her knee is -- " What? Infected? "I would have you look at her knee."

  He tried to look at it, but it was too dark in the church, so he carried her over to his house. It was scarcely lighter there. His house is not much larger than the hut I took shelter in, and no higher. He had to stoop the whole time we were there to keep from bumping his head against the rafters.