Moment of Truth

by Michael Pryor

  And it looks as if we have one more than I expected, Aubrey thought. George was looking dour as he guided the diminutive Sophie through the thronging crowds, using his bicycle as a flying wedge to part the way. With Sophie right behind him, and Aubrey and Caroline following, they made their way past the Post Office, around the

  cathedral – which was doing brisk business – and back to their base.

  The area was even quieter than usual, apart from a line of barges signalling that some people were creative in their fleeing techniques.

  Inside, George made coffee while they sat around the battered oval table that was the everyday meeting place on the ground floor. Nothing revealed that the place was a secret base. They’d gone to some lengths to make sure it looked like a solid, if messy, book bindery with ramshackle shelves, bales of paper divided into reams and quires ready for printing, materials for marbling end papers, presses, glue vats, racks of hand tools, sewing tools and gilting tools.

  To a casual eye, Aubrey hoped it would be convincing. A not-so-casual observer wouldn’t take long to become suspicious, but Aubrey hoped in that time they’d be able to do something about said suspicious observer.

  And Sophie? he wondered as he took his seat. Is she a casual observer or a suspicious one?

  Sophie looked pale and solemn as she sat at the table. She clutched the mug of coffee George gave her as if she were cold, but she didn’t put it to her lips. She studied each of them in turn. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Aubrey knew what they had to do, but he had no idea what they were going to do about her. He caught George’s eye, then Caroline’s. ‘Sophie, we can tell you some things, but there are other things we can’t tell you.’

  ‘You are with your security services, aren’t you?’

  Aubrey stared.

  ‘I told you she was sharp,’ George said.

  ‘We’re part of a larger team,’ Caroline said, without waiting for Aubrey. ‘We’ve been asked to do some reconnaissance in this area.’

  ‘Caroline,’ Aubrey said sharply. ‘That’s enough. I’m in charge of this team and–’

  ‘Aubrey dear, I know that’s what they told you, but we won’t have any of that nonsense, will we?’

  Aubrey stopped. ‘Nonsense?’ he repeated, but since his mind was still echoing with ‘Aubrey dear’ he thought that even managing that single word was quite a good effort.

  ‘Nonsense. All that military business about who’s in charge and the like. It’s much too rigid for my liking. And, I suspect, yours.’

  ‘What?’ Aubrey paused. He took a deep breath. Then another. ‘In any military situation you must have a chain of command to ensure discipline, morale and–’ He was sure there was something else. Was it uniforms?

  Aubrey dear?

  He stumbled on. ‘And other important things. I’m a firm believer in it.’

  ‘Are you? So you’d be happy to do whatever I said if I were in command? Without question?’

  Aubrey flailed a little, making quite unintelligible noises. George grinned. ‘She’s got you there, old man.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Caroline said. ‘Now, Sophie, while Aubrey is collecting himself, we can’t leave Divodorum. At least, not until the others get here.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Others from our service.’

  ‘But will they still be coming? When they hear of what has happened?’

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ George said. ‘This might upset things somewhat.’

  ‘Tonight,’ Aubrey said, making a grab at seizing the initiative again. ‘Caroline. Me. We’ll get in touch with headquarters and see what’s going on.’

  Aubrey dear?

  The artillery barrage kept up all day. George prepared a lunch that was careful with its use of provisions, but still delicious – quiche, a light salad and fresh bread he’d baked. Sophie talked about the assignments her newspaper had sent her on, mostly designed to pump up morale in the Gallian public. She’d been told to concentrate on happy bands of brothers joining up, factories increasing output of weapons and munitions, young children scavenging scrap metal for the war effort. It all sounded familiar, but with a Gallian twist. She’d noticed, too, that care was being taken to bar some key occupations from enlisting, for example – vignerons and cheesemakers. In Albion, it had been gamekeepers and brewers.

  As the day wore on, the thumping of the artillery changed. In counterpoint to the heavy beat of the Holmland guns came a sharper, more staccato hammering that Aubrey hoped came from Gallian emplacements. They gathered on the roof to see if they could confirm this and were uniformly dismayed to see smoke from a dozen or more fires in the north-west.

  ‘St Ophir, I think,’ Sophie said, pointing past the more northerly of the ridges. ‘The villages of Plaisance, Mellies, Brabaque,’ she said, moving south one by one. ‘I’m sorry, I do not know the rest.’

  She shivered and George, without taking his eyes from the horizon, put an arm around her shoulders.

  Aubrey marvelled at the effortlessness with which he did it. George didn’t hesitate, or ponder, or make a false start. He simply saw Sophie’s need and responded in the simplest, most honest way possible.

  I wish I could do that, he thought, then corrected himself because he didn’t want to put his arm around Sophie, lovely though she was. If the circumstances called for it, if he was the only person around, of course he would do what he could and it would be a pleasure and, he hoped, helpful.

  He shook his head. I’m getting worse. I’m babbling to myself, now.

  Caroline nudged him. ‘You’re awfully quiet. Are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ he said and she took his arm in hers.

  ‘A thoughtful answer.’

  A war was approaching them as they stood there, rolling toward them full of blood and metal, but Aubrey found time to feel heartened.

  Eighteen

  George went to Sophie’s hotel to fetch her belongings, and reported that Sophie’s motorcar had disappeared, along with the driver. He’d joined the exodus from the city, according to the concierge. Many people were streaming out on any road that led east or south. The train station was bedlam, as well, and rumours spread quickly in such an environment. The Holmlanders were on the edge of the city. The Gallian government had given up on defending Divodorum. Special submersibles were coming down the river.

  Sophie bought copies of any newspapers she could find. The tenor of the headlines varied wildly, from overwhelmingly optimistic pronouncements about the readiness of Gallian forces to dire warnings about Holmland advances. Aubrey searched for any mention of Albion but scant column inches were devoted to the Gallian ally apart from a small mention that the King was again unwell. Aubrey hoped Bertie was bearing up in trying times.

  In the middle of such uncertainty, Aubrey concluded that it was best to keep busy while they waited for radio contact, so they engaged with more hammering and sawing. The aim was to organise somewhere for Sophie to sleep. In a pinch, she could have taken one of the cubicles meant for the remote sensers – when they arrived – but they had the timber and they had the time...

  Well after midnight, a tired-eyed Caroline turned away from her listening post. ‘Finally.’ She handed Aubrey a sheet of paper then she stood and stretched, much to Aubrey’s delight, for Caroline’s stretches were uninhibited and languorous. He was convinced that such a display would be a success on any stage, anytime. ‘It’s short, whatever it says.’

  Aubrey only took a few minutes on the coding machines before he had it. Yawning, he came out to find Caroline, George and Sophie at the oval table, talking in low voices over hot chocolate. ‘We can expect our remote sensers tomorrow,’ he announced. ‘1400 hours.’

  ‘Just after lunch?’ George said. ‘What happened to night-time drop-offs?’

  ‘These operatives are coming by train.’ Aubrey frowned at the message. ‘Delicate types, some of these remote sensers. They may be afraid of flying.’

  ‘Hmm. The
y should get remote sensers who are a bit more robust.’

  ‘I don’t think there are any two-fisted, steely-eyed remote sensers.’

  Sophie wrinkled her brow. ‘Remote sensers?’

  Aubrey paused, aware they were talking about their secret mission. Having Sophie there was already so comfortable and natural that he’d actually forgotten that she wasn’t part of the unit.

  ‘I think it might be time to explain,’ he said, ‘as long as you understand that you can’t write about this.’

  Sophie shook a finger at him. ‘You do not have to worry, Aubrey. George has told me to put away my pen.’ She smiled across the table at George, who smiled back. Aubrey thought he looked like someone who was in the middle of a happy dream. ‘Most times,’ Sophie continued, ‘when someone tells me not to write a story, it makes me think that story needs to be written. But this time, I understand, and I trust you.’

  And we’re about to trust you, Aubrey thought. He told the story of their mission.

  ‘The remote sensers,’ he concluded, ‘are a speciality – a valuable speciality – that means the Department is willing to put up with quirks that they wouldn’t otherwise.’

  ‘So they’re coming by train.’ Caroline stifled a yawn with a hand. ‘Sorry. I hope they can get tickets.’

  ‘I’m sure the Directorate will have a way.’

  A volley of shells landed in the distance, one after the other, a deadly drumbeat. Sophie looked up. ‘They are so close.’

  ‘But getting no closer,’ George said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sophie. ‘A few hills, through the woods and they are here.’

  They fell silent, listening to the artillery trading blows in the night, and Aubrey found he couldn’t tell if Sophie were nervous, afraid, or intrigued by the Holmland advance.

  The distant shelling continued all through the night. At one stage, unable to sleep, Aubrey slipped out of his cubicle and climbed to the roof. Ominous flashes marked the horizon and he heard heavy thumping that only increased the sense of approaching doom. The Gallian artillery sounded much more sporadic than it had been earlier – and was the barrage closer?

  He shivered and went back to bed.

  Breakfast was a joint effort. Sophie joined George in the kitchen and the sound of spirited arguing had Aubrey and Caroline sharing concerned looks, but what emerged was a mouth-watering blend, combining George’s hearty cooking and Sophie’s more refined Gallian approaches. They grinned as they arranged platters on the oval table and Aubrey reasoned that it was tactful not to comment on their appearances. They looked as if they’d been in a flour fight.

  After breakfast, Aubrey and George cycled to the fortress to see a ragged column making its way toward them, coming from the battle front. Every lorry was damaged, and all of them were carrying wounded. The soldiers following the lorries were no longer marching – they were limping, the walking wounded. Aubrey counted more bandages than rifles.

  Rumbling out of the fortress gates were some undamaged lorries and a few squads of fresh soldiers, but the reinforcements weren’t abundant. The state of affairs looked dire, but Aubrey was itching with frustration because he didn’t know what was going on. ‘Let’s find Saltin,’ he said to George. ‘He may be able to tell us where we stand.’

  George frowned. ‘Aubrey. We’re at war. I don’t think a pair of foreigners can just walk into a Gallian military base like that. Not even friendly foreigners.’

  Aubrey paused. ‘A reasonable point, George. So I’d say that such a thing requires a certain attitude.’

  ‘I’m glad we stowed the bicycles in the woods,’ George muttered as they approached the gates of the fortress. ‘They would have spoiled the whole effect.’

  Aubrey nodded, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, even if the soldier on the stretcher they were carrying was far from capable of eavesdropping.

  Shuffling along at the rear of the column of wounded had seemed like an innocuous enough idea at the time, especially since Aubrey’s disguise spell – drawing on the Law of Sympathy and the Law of Seeming – gave them the temporary appearance of Gallian soldiers. They’d joined the column as it made its way past the woods where the bicycles were hidden, but they were quickly roped into helping with the wounded.

  The soldier on the stretcher was unconscious, and Aubrey thought he should be grateful for that, for the head wound under the rough bandage was bleeding. The way his head lolled didn’t bode well and Aubrey did his best to walk as steadily as he could to minimise jolting. The soldier’s uniform was covered with mud, as if he’d been swimming in it, and one boot was missing.

  Aubrey would have been surprised if the soldier were eighteen years old.

  Once inside, a quick glance at George told him that they shared the view that skulking off would be an unworthy thing to do, so for hours they worked with harassed medics and doctors, shifting the wounded, bringing food and water, mopping floors and dragging bedding to the industrial laundry, where the floor was red underfoot.

  Midday was approaching before the work slackened. By then, Aubrey and George were both working stiffly, like machines, pushed into silence by what they’d seen.

  This was what happened in war, Aubrey thought as one of the medics ordered them to take a break. They sat on a step in the sun, across a small courtyard from the infirmary. Someone had planted lavender nearby and the bees were happily bumbling through its purple wonder. The books go on about the glory and the triumph, but for every moment of heroism, there are a thousand poor sods who end up the operating table. Or worse.

  George was resting his elbows on his knees, and he cupped his chin in his open hands. ‘D’you think,’ he said in a voice that was flat, ‘that if we brought all the leaders of all the countries together and showed them this, they’d realise what a stupid thing war is?’

  ‘I doubt it. They’d probably march about, congratulating all the wounded on their sacrifice and wondering where the cameras were.’

  ‘I thought as much. So we’d better do what we can to stop this war ourselves.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely.’

  They found Major Saltin at the airfield. The disguising spell had lapsed, but Aubrey and George were wearing uniforms they’d found while fetching clean clothes for the soldiers who were wounded but ready to go back to the front.

  Saltin quickly ushered them into the hangar and then into an office. It was spacious, with a large window overlooking the airfield, but its appointments were modest: a cheap desk, a few mismatched chairs, a cabinet that looked as if were made of cardboard. The telephone on the desk was by far the newest item in the room. ‘I did not expect you to still be here! You should leave the city now, while you still can.’

  ‘We’re hearing that a lot, lately,’ Aubrey said, taking a chair gratefully. He could still smell the burning cloth of uniforms singed in shell blasts. ‘I can’t say that it suggests much confidence in the Gallian military response.’

  Saltin shrugged. Aubrey noticed the weariness in the dark circles under the airman’s eyes. ‘We were not ready for this.’

  ‘War was declared seven weeks ago and you’re not ready?’ George said. ‘I don’t think an enemy sends letters, letting you know they’re coming.’

  ‘But the Low Countries,’ Saltin protested. ‘Holmland and its allies were coming from that direction. No-one attacks through the Grentellier Mountains.’

  ‘I think it’s called strategy.’ Aubrey had to raise his voice more than he wished, because of the ornithopter work going on in the hangar. ‘Tell me, Saltin, what happens if Divodorum falls?’

  Leaning against the wall, Saltin grimaced. ‘The entire Mosa valley is open to the south. Baligne, then Taine, then Remense. None of these cities is fortified. Lutetia after that.’ He hissed. ‘Gallia could fall.’

  The horror of that prospect held each of them silent for a moment. Aubrey imagined Holmland troops marching up the streets of Lutetia, the people cowed, the alliance in tatters. With Gallia taken, Albion’
s strongest ally on the Continent would be gone. What would stand between Albion and invasion then?

  George scowled. ‘Punching through the Low Countries and through north-east Gallia at the same time is a masterstroke,’ he said.

  ‘I think the Marchmainers will have something to say once the Holmlanders get through the Low Countries,’ Aubrey said.

  Saltin straightened at the mention of his home region. ‘They shall not pass. Marchmaine may have little love for Lutetia, but we are Gallians all the same.’

  ‘And what about the people of Divodorum?’ Aubrey asked.

  ‘It is bad,’ Saltin admitted. He pointed through the glass of the door at the battered ornithopter. ‘We have few craft available. We sent one out yesterday, in the afternoon, to see what is happening.’ He shook his head and growled with displeasure. ‘Our pilot was nearly killed. His craft was struck by magically enhanced shells.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’ Aubrey asked, and he knew he’d never be able to read an account of a battle again without wondering about the reality behind bald statements like ‘more than three thousand wounded’.

  ‘He won’t fly again.’ Saltin’s declaration was careful, but his face made it clear that this, to an airman, was the fate to which death was a preferred option. He sighed. ‘But he reported that our forces have halted the Holmland advance – for now. They have had heavy casualties, and desperately need reinforcements, but they have dug in and are holding.’

  ‘Reinforcements,’ Aubrey repeated.

  ‘They are coming. High Command has sent a division. It arrives today. By train.’

  Aubrey had visions of his remote sensing team standing forlorn on the platform in Lutetia, watching as a train pulled out, packed full of soldiers. ‘A special troop express?’