The Nightmare Stacks

by Charles Stross

  “Of course it is. Do you know who I work for?”

  “The government.” Cassie’s words, not Agent First’s, although they come ever more easily to her tongue now. “You are a magus, a, a sorcerer who steals mana by drinking blood.” He flinches in her arms. “And the government has a department, yes? A”—a memory of a childhood book springs into her mind—“a Ministry of Magic, based in Quarry House. YesYes? And you are bound by a geas of your own, an oath to serve your queen?”

  “Not exactly. It’s an oath to the Crown, not the queen,” he explains. “The Crown is a legal abstraction, not a person. And I have discretion, as an agent of the Crown, as long as I obey lawful orders and act in what I believe to be its best interests.” He pauses for a moment. “The oath doesn’t bind vamp—ma—people like me very well, either. It wasn’t designed with us in mind.”

  Lawful order is an oxymoron to Agent First—orders are law—but Cassie nods all the same. “Well, I am bound, and I have been given a direct order to pay attendance on my father, and if I fail to do so—with you—then, that’s it.” She shivers against him. “My stepmother wants to kill me.”

  “Where is this supposed to happen?” Alex sounds surprisingly calm. Having met his family, she has no idea why he’s taking this so well. They are, even by urük standards, startlingly mundane. They cannot have prepared him for confrontations with murderous magical stepmothers; for a moment Cassie wonders if he even understands her predicament. “The, the noon deadline?”

  “I don’t know exactly—not on a map, but I’m supposed to find the end of the nearest ley line. And there is one such here: I feel it below our feet. We found guards oath-bound to my stepmother: she did not place them here for my safety. If they kill me, she wins, and if they kill you, I will be in breach of my geas and she wins. There will be other obstacles. Even if I present you to my father and discharge the obligation she’ll find a way to . . .” She swallows. “We should not have come here.”

  “Too late.” Alex hits the send button on his phone, and the text message he wrote to the DM while Cassie was busy at the door is on its way. He feels abruptly light-headed, committed: “You have to present me to your father or die; very well, take me to him.” It’s dangerously close to reckless, he knows, but he’s not going to let this opportunity slip between his fingers. Also: “My—one of my bosses asked me to report on this place.” He nods towards the circle of occult energy surrounding the stairs. “We both need to go down there,” he adds. And with the implacable strength of a magus, he takes a step forward.

  * * *

  As Highest Liege circles in to land in Malham Cove’s sheltered vale—now concealed from casual intruders by a field camouflage glamour powered by no fewer than six battle magi—the vanguard of the cavalry strike force is arriving via the shadow road. High-stepping steeds pace to either side of logistics wagons pulled by great hairy steppe elephants. Their riders work to keep their snarling chargers away from the mammoths, who roll their eyes and swing their great sword-capped tusks towards any steed that threatens to get too close. The chargers glare at them, fury and spite filling their eyes. Ready for war, they wear coats of finely articulated steel plate, engraved with wards to absorb and deflect the death-bolts of mana-energized battle magic. The spiral-fluted horns that grow between their eyes glow with power: the Host’s cavalry do not ride horses but eldritch war-mounts, equoid horrors bound to service by All-Highest’s veterinary thaumaturges.

  The soldiers who ride them are also armored and protected by military-strength misdirection glamours and chameleon spells. To an eye equipped with suitable countermeasures, the advancing cavalry troops appear as refractive silhouettes. The landscape is visible through them, rippling and distorted, as if they are figures of glass or superheated air. To eyes lacking such countermeasures they are imperceptible save by the signs of their passage—broken branches, crushed vegetation. They move at night, for to be visible on the battlefield is to court instant death, and while the troopers of the mobile force bear swords at their hips, these are no more central to their combined arms doctrine than rifle bayonets are to the soldiers of the urük. Their real weapons are a barely perceptible pyramid of complex bindings and glamours, systems drawn from a baroque arsenal of mind-burning sorcery that constitutes the apex of a six-thousand-year history of mana-powered warfare and mental conquest. While the crudely mechanical aspects of their kit superficially resemble a late medieval knight’s, the leashed power at each soldier’s command is closer to that of a main battle tank.

  Behind the first screening cavalry company follows a long convoy of logistical support and specialized combat forces. Here come the sauropodian air defense basilisks, hooded heads held high as they sniff the alien air, giant paddle-feet thudding on the rocky ground; their support teams trail cautiously behind, riding on wooly pachyderms, wearing armor polished to a mirror-like shine. Four tumbrils of slaves, pulled by the fittest of their own number, stand ready for the magi’s replenishment—for combat sorcery eats mana a hundred times faster than more typical invocations. A guard of infantry with power maces march alongside them, death’s head illusions filling the crystal visors of their battle helms. Two more companies of cavalry ride out of the gate to the shadow roads. And then the first two lances of the All-Highest’s personal bodyguard appear.

  While all this is happening, Highest Liege walks across to the pavilion where First Lance has established a field command headquarters for the theater air defense group.

  First Lance is head to head with three subalterns, poring over a map, when Highest Liege enters. As one, they straighten up, then abase themselves before her. “Rise, rise,” she says impatiently. Of First Lance, she asks without preamble: “Have you observed the high-altitude vehicles of the enemy?”

  “Yes, my Liege. They appear to be of no military significance—”

  “Yet they are numerous and consistent in their course, for the most part.” While she has seen many smaller fliers traveling in various directions, the southeast-to-northwest track appears to be highest, and home to the largest urük-carts. “We need to determine whether the urük have, in fact, any offensive airborne capability at all. So I have a mission for air defense to draw them out.”

  It will, if nothing else, make a spectacular welcoming display to herald her husband’s arrival in the new world; hopefully it will also confirm that the urük are as defenseless in the skies as they are on the ground. And if they aren’t, that’s what the headquarters glamour is for.

  * * *

  All-Highest rides into the camp in the predawn darkness the day before the assault: a tall figure encased from toe to crown in the black fluted armor of command, surrounded by the power and the glory of his personal escort—an entire lance of battle magi, two companies of heavy cavalry, and his headquarters staff.

  Behind him heavy siege golems trudge, thunder-footed, behind the cavalry chargers. They carry the hollow tubes of thaumic catapults—bolt-throwers able to split the meters-thick stone walls of castles from tens of leagues away. They are followed by other specialized weapons systems: suppressors, the wingless relatives of firewyrms that can drain the mana from an enemy battle-mage or combat construct at long range; diggers, lowing like eyeless cattle, that can liquify soil and defensive earthworks; and the walking dead, animated by eaters, bearers of mana bombs.

  It’s a pitiful excuse for an army, All-Highest thinks, but it’s all he’s got, and it will have to do. Failure is unthinkable, for if he fails it means the end of the empire and the final downfall of civilization on this and every other world.

  Which is not an option.

  As his cortege winds past munitions dumps and grooming stations, soldiers and slaves stop whatever they’re doing and make signs of obeisance: a salute with arms from the soldiers, full prostration from the slaves. All-Highest acknowledges only the most senior officers in passing. Out of the corner of one eye he notices a slave, insufficiently fas
t to kneel, being dragged aside. Irritated, he turns his head and raises his left hand, palm up. The soldier behind the slave freezes, sword in hand, as All-Highest looks at the miscreant groveling at the trooper’s feet. “That displeases me,” he says, almost gently, and closes his fist. The slave convulses and drops, blood squirting from ears and eyes. All-Highest turns back to his destination, the shimmering mirage of the staff headquarters tent. As reminders of his authority go, this one is minor, even low-key. But spare bodies are few enough that a true demonstration of his might—a periodic necessity, to keep his more ambitious vassals from seeking to evade the web of his geasa—will have to wait. Once the first stage of the conquest is complete there will be plenty of scope to remind them of his determination.

  His procession takes him past an odd spoil heap, a head-high mound of cracked and scorched stone statues. “What’s this?” he asks.

  “All-Highest, these are the remains of urük who stumbled across our air defense batteries today. They are more numerous and more curious than forecast.”

  He snorts. Ignorant savages, prancing around the landscape as if they owned it. A question occurs to him: “These are only the ones who saw too much? The glamour holds?”

  “The glamour holds, All-Highest. There were many more of them during the day than was expected of such a remote site—this appears to be a place of some ritual significance to them.”

  “Well.” He looks at the basilisk-stricken corpses again: “See to it that the pile is secure. I don’t want it falling on the tents.”

  As All-Highest enters the headquarters pavilion, all assembled bow their heads and salute, fist-to-heart. He walks between their lines to the throne of bones, takes his seat, and looks to his left. “Honorable Wife,” he says. “I believe you have been busy. Report, if you please.” It is no less an order for being phrased prettily, but it is a signal of his esteem that he words it so courteously. Highest Liege of Airborne Strike Command is pleasing to the eye, lively in bed, and eagerly ruthless: all welcome improvements over her predecessor, the sullen cow whose treasonous plotting she exposed. So he smiles, tight-lipped and teeth concealed from view, as she ducks her head submissively, ears back, and launches into a description of what she has seen from the skies of this world.

  “There are many sky-carts passing over this land,” his wife explains, with an illustrative vision that makes his eyes widen with enlightenment. “We believe them to be part of the urük society’s transport system, but they are extremely vulnerable. They are also highly visible . . .”

  She makes the case for an additional diversion, and All-Highest’s ears twitch appreciatively as she finishes. “That would be an excellent use of your force,” he says. “I have been considering our options for a feint, and this will certainly help misdirect the enemy’s attention.” He inclines his head. “I hoped we might have another day or two for final preparations, but in view of the number of urük roaming these hills we must commit our full force to the planned attack no later than tomorrow morning, at the first hour. Accordingly, I am bringing all our plans forward. Honorable Wife, it would please me if you would prepare and execute your plan at dawn tomorrow.”

  Highest Liege of Airborne Strike Command displays excellent mastery of her expression, but he cannot help but feel her tension and dismay. “It shall be as you command, my husband,” she says, despite the sudden change of tempo: oh yes indeed, she’s an ambitious one. “I should hasten to obey . . . ?”

  “You may go.” He reaches out to touch her forehead as she dips her face, ears back and tilted close to her head. He tastes her apprehension and the hot, dry tension of her desire. “Bring glory to our house, Honorable Wife, and I will remember your deeds this day.” It’s an old formula, but she seems pleased to accept it.

  As soon as she is gone he turns to his First of Diviners and Records with a broad, undignified grin. “Well, First!” he says, now visibly amused. “How goes our infiltration of the enemy palace?”

  “I believe the plan goes well, All-Highest. A siege is certainly feasible, and perhaps easier than anticipated—these people are rank amateurs at the art of war—but your other scheme is also bearing fruit.” First of Diviners and Records dips his head. “Your wife’s animosity towards her predecessor’s get has had the desired effect, and Agent First is indeed motivated—and has made contact. The urük lack much in the arts, but they do have a handful of magi. And Agent First has become passing close with one of their number.” First of Diviners and Records looks more than slightly smug: “So close, in fact, that she has offered the threefold invitation and the sharing of food and drink, and he has accepted.”

  All-Highest’s ears go up. “Really?” he purrs.

  First of Diviners dips his chin. “Truly, All-Highest.”

  “Just so.” All-Highest pauses for a moment, savoring the impending victory: To capture an enemy magus is always excellent, but to entrap a member of the palace magi without their liege even knowing is a triumph of subterfuge. His daughter has excelled: he will have to order Highest Liege of Airborne to leave her unharmed, lest his ruthless new wife inadvertently weakens him by depriving him of a loyal and effective spy. He clenches his fist, recalling his daughter’s geas. “Let her bring this urük vassal to me, that I may bind him as the first of my new subjects and take his face for our convenience. And then we shall proceed: first with the ground-based strike force, second with my wife’s airborne feint—and then with the true strike, into the defenseless heart of the enemy’s palace, wearing the visage of one of their own magi.”

  * * *

  Cassie does her best to warn Alex: “This is a really bad idea.”

  “I know.” He renews his counting cantrip, crosses the line of salt, and pauses at the edge of the grid. He pulls out his phone and fires up the occult countermeasures app, sets the thaum field counter to buzz the phone if it detects a spike in the flux reading, then shoves it back in his pocket.

  Meeting Cassie was not an accident. That’s the most devastating blow; everything else—alien hominid invaders, soldiers trying to kill them—is trivial. That stuff is all part of the job, but he’d nearly mistaken Cassie for part of the jigsaw puzzle of life, or maybe a thread leading back to the tangled hairball world of mundane humanity. It’s lonely and cold out on the edge, with no stronger connection than a weekly vial of blood in a mailing envelope, but for a while he’d begun to hope that—well, never mind.

  The DM taking an interest in Whitby, and later in the Lawnswood bunker, was not an accident either. Forecasting Ops are notoriously Delphic but they sometimes shine a torch beam on dangers lurking in dark corners. Why the DM chose Alex in particular as the tool with which to probe this particular headache isn’t clear to him, but then, it shouldn’t be: what Alex doesn’t know he can’t disclose to the enemy. And that, he is very much afraid, is what Cassie is.

  His trainers were keen on drilling a particular outlook into Alex, and now he’s trying to apply it to his situation: observe, orient, decide, act. Well, he’s had an eyeful this evening, but what does it mean? It’s time to finish observing and get oriented.

  Alex’s pulse fills his ears as he studies the grid. The notation around the outside is unfamiliar, but consistent with the form of a containment field. It might be safe to cross—it probably is, if all it’s for is to distort or divert a ley line—but he can’t be certain without further study and that’s going to take too long. On the other hand, he has a source right here. He looks back at Cassie, feigning nonchalance: “Where are you from, why are you interested in me, and what were those guys doing outside?”

  Cassie’s eyes are huge in the darkness. “I wanted to watch a movie with you first, to explain.”

  “A movie? Which movie?”

  “A famous film called Dr. Strangelove. Movies are wonderful! My people don’t have them but I could sit and watch them all day except Dr. Strangelove, which makes me cry because it’s so true. I thou
ght it would make it easier to explain. Have you seen it?”

  “I’ve heard of it, I think—is it a war movie?”

  “Oh yes, but it’s so much more, and I need to show it to you, but there’s no time—” Cassie leans close, almost nose-to-nose with him. “It is important because it is the story of my people. Except not, because it is about your people and their cold war, but what I mean is, it’s a metaphor.” Her speech cadences are shifting slightly, he realizes, her grammar falling into the patterns of an alien language. “After the Sisterhood of the Red Night opened the gateway to the end of the universe by mistake, our All-Highest in her wisdom ordered a, what you would call a strategic attack. She was not expecting the Fellows of the Blind Tyrant to blow up the moon in retaliation, and then the Eaters beyond Time came swarming out from behind the blackened stars to steal the minds of every magus on the surface, and All-Highest and the entire court of the Morningstar Empire were killed by one of the first impactors, and only those of us sheltering deep underground survived the rain of lava when the sky caught fire, YesYes?”

  “Um,” Alex says, then stops, unsure what he can say that will cause her to slow down and show him the sense behind this demented tirade of names and apocalypses. “Really?”

  She clutches his arm and peers at him intensely: “When the empire fell, the chain of command fell also, the oaths of loyalty, the bindings of obedience. My father is now the All-Highest of all that remains of the empire—dust and ashes and his own small command, lurking at the bottom of a mountain thousands of, of kilometers away from the capital. The mineshaft gap, don’t you see?” Her grip tightens as she leans against him again. “The film Dr. Strangelove is like the origin story of my people. It is a parable of our recent history! And what happens next is what happens after, after history ends.

  “My father commands the only remaining Host. Barely three thousand knights and their slaves and warbeasts survive, and we are running short of food. Our own lands are lost forever, the world destroyed and the ruins ravaged by monsters. So he ordered his magi to unseal the shadow roads and lead us to a new home. And my stepmother persuaded him to send me first, to probe the way forward. Or to die, she hopes.”