by Anthology
He turned his motorcycle over to the group stationed at the gate, and told them to have it ready for him in case he should want to leave in a hurry. He then made his way to the antechamber of Louis XIII, where he was met by La Chesnaye, the king’s valet de chambre, who told him the king was anxious to see him, and he could pass in to his Majesty’s private chambers immediately.
Louis greeted him with open arms. “My dear Monsieur Clive it is good to see you once more,” he dripped. “You have neglected me of late, and I have been suffering fits with my gout, but I guess I should not complain, when you have done it for the good of my kingdom.”
“You may rest assured, your Majesty, that I did not desert you by choice. There was a little matter of saving my own skin, and of undoing the damage I had inadvertently done to France. Otherwise I would still be here dispensing pills, and looking after your comforts.” Clive wondered why the king had avoided mentioning the queen’s disappearance, and he decided that his Majesty was about to ask a favor.
“You will, of course, reoccupy your quarters here in the Louvre now that you have returned, will you not?” continued the king.
“Your hospitality is most gracious,” replied Clive, “but I fear that I shall not be able to accept it, for as soon as I finish up a few loose ends here I shall return to my country.”
“Tout Monsieur, you can’t leave us now when we need you so much—we have some marvelous plans for you.” The king’s voice expressed a note of alarm.
“And to whom do you refer as ‘we’?” asked Clive, impatiently.
“Ah, yes,” said the king, as though it had just slipped his mind momentarily, “M. de Richelieu is truly humbled by his part in the recent unpleasantness, and with me he has been making plans that will make complete reparations for the damage done by the revolution, as well as to make France the truly great and wealthy empire she deserves to be.”
“I knew I could smell smoke,” thought Clive. “These plans couldn’t include my tanks, and other equipment of war, could they by any chance?” he asked.
“Ah, such foresight, Monsieur, I see our minds run in similar channels,” said the king. “It is agreed then that we are to have this equipment for our conquest of England and Prussia?” As though these last words were a signal, the cardinal stepped through the curtains that separated a small closet from the king’s chambers. He reminded Clive of a weasel about to invade a rookery.
“I thought you would show up for the killing,” Clive said to His Eminence. And then turning back to the king he said: “As for your question, your Majesty, I will say this, my refusal of this very request once nearly cost me my life, and it did take the lives of untold hundreds of your subjects. Now that I am in control of this monster that has wreaked such havoc, I have no intention of turning it once more on the innocent people of Europe. That is my final answer, take it or leave it.” The king appeared thunder-stricken, while Richelieu stiffened, the feline smirk leaving his feature in the cruel, cold mask of the professional executioner.
“Monsieur,” said the latter, “I have here two documents. One is an order making you governor of England, under His Majesty, King Louis XIII of France, the other is an order for your arrest and execution upon the charge of abducting Her Highness, the Queen. You have your choice, and may I say that this time I have my guards just outside the door;”
“You already have my answer, Monsieur,” said Clive, defiantly, “but if you wish to see Her Highness, the Queen, again you had better defer my execution until I can return her to France.” Richelieu looked at the king. this was a matter for Louis to decide, but the latter looked at his minister as though trying to read an answer in his face.
“You can tell who’s bossing this league,” thought Clive.
“You must bear in mind, Your Majesty, that the queen deserted you when you were facing your darkest hour,” said the cardinal.
“Perhaps it would be well for you to tell the part you played in the queen’s so-called ‘desertion’,” Clive interrupted. “Tell His Majesty about the open threats you made upon her life, tell him—”
“Enough!” shouted Richelieu. “Guards, arrest this man!”
Doors flew open on both sides of the room, and the cardinal’s guards poured into the room. Clive jumped backward toward the door he had entered, which still remained closed, arid seizing a small object from his pocket he dashed it to the floor. There was a tinkle of breaking glass, accompanied by a mild detonation, and the room was immediately filled with a suffocating, blinding vapor. The guards stopped in their tracks, and Clive turned his attention toward the closed door—it had been locked from without. Two well-placed shots from his revolver destroyed the lock, and in a moment he was bounding down the stairs three at a time, toward the courtyard where his motorcycle awaited him. He arrived in time to see his musketeer friends standing off a group of His Eminence’s guards. He immediately lent his assistance, and plunged into the melee with his revolver blazing in one hand, and his saber flashing in the other. The attackers were soon overpowered, and Clive motored away from the Louvre, throttle wide open.
“Well, this is it,” he said to himself, as he made his way to the northern gates of Paris. The moment he came in sight of this gate, however, he could see that the way was blocked, the cardinal was determined this time that the American should not escape. Now he was alone, without the assistance of the faithful lackeys that had taken him through the barricade before. He swung his motorcycle around, there was still one chance, the plane, and he raced toward the place where he had it secreted. He had left the plane guarded by a machine-gun crew, and as he neared the clearing where it rested he heard the staccato of machine-gun fire.
“Good,” he said to himself, “at least the cardinal hasn’t cut off that means of escape as yet.” He burst into the clearing and raced toward the plane under the protective fire of the gun crew. He found d’Artagnan in charge of the crew, and they were standing off a handful of the cardinalist guards who were sniping from behind a low wall at the edge of the clearing.
“Nice work, my dear d’Artagnan,” he called out. “Now if you will take charge of the gun in the plane, we will all leave as soon as I get the motors started.”
The motors started without any trouble, and as soon as they were warmed up sufficiently Clive signaled to the remainder of the crew on the ground, who clambered aboard, and the plane roared down the field and off the ground amid a few desultory shots from the attackers.
In less than an hour they were flying over Amiens, and Clive circled low to land near the cavern, but once again Richelieu had him checkmated for there was a large company of guards stationed at the entrance to the cavern. They had built up a crude fortification, and were prepared to withstand any abortive attempt by a ground force to penetrate the entrance. Seeing this, Clive gunned his motors and climbed once again to a safe altitude.
“There’s only one way to get past that guard,” he said. “I’ll have to get hold of one of the tanks.”
“Monsieur Athos has four tanks in his command, and he is campaigning near Lille, not far north of here,” said d’Artagnan.
“Good,” said Clive. “I will get in touch with him.” He switched on his radio, and almost immediately he heard his call signal come through the headphones, it was Athos’ voice he heard.
“Come in, my dear Athos. Where are you?” he asked.
“We are on the road just north of Amiens, and we can see your flying machine circling above the city,” came Athos’ voice through the receiver. “We have already heard of your flight from Paris. Can we be of any assistance to you?”
“Providence must have sent you, my friend, as I was just about to search for you,” said Clive. “Stop by that field ahead of you, it looks like a good spot for a landing.”
The tanks were lumbering up to the field about the same time that Clive brought his plane to a landing. The occupants of this strange array of vehicles dismounted for mutual greetings.
“How goes the campaign,
Monsieur Athos?” asked Clive.
“I have found the northern provinces in very good order, Monsieur Clive, and I am at present returning to Paris,” replied the musketeer.
“Do you intend taking the tanks into Paris with you?” asked Clive.
“Yes, Messieurs Porthos and Aramis were to meet me in Paris, and if no more word of uprisings came we were to return to Calais and dispose of the equipment as we had planned,” Athos replied.
“Well you must change your plans, my dear Athos, if you do not want to see France embroiled in a war with all Europe, for the cardinal is waiting to seize these tanks as soon as they enter Paris,” Clive cautioned. “You must warn the others also, so that they will not be caught in His Eminence’s trap.”
“And what about you, Monsieur, you are fleeing when you have it in your power to make others flee?” asked Athos.
“Let’s not say ‘fleeing,’ ” said Clive, “but rather ‘leaving by choice’. I fear that no matter how good my intentions, as long as I am here I will always be a menace to France. Perhaps when this mess has been forgotten I shall return for a visit, but for the present I will borrow one of your tanks, and take my leave.”
“And her Majesty, the queen, Monsieur, will you not bring her back to us?” the musketeer asked anxiously. Clive felt his face flush to the ears. He would have preferred no mention of this matter, but after all, this was an important problem as the queen was dear to the hearts of the musketeers.
“I shall certainly bring her back, my dear Athos, if she wishes to return. For this reason you must keep one radio set, and when I return I will send you a message, and you can come and get her.” This seemed to satisfy the musketeers, for they had little doubt that the queen would want to return.
“If I am successful in gaining the entrance to the cavern, destroy my plane, and then come and get the tank, and destroy it,” Clive continued as he climbed into one of the machines. “Farewell, my dear friends, I shall treasure every memory I have of you, and shall look forward to a future visit with you.” With the farewells of the musketeers still ringing in his ears, Clive maneuvered the tank toward the cavern.
With the tank it was an easy matter to destroy the fortifications at the entrance to the cavern, and to scatter the defenders. Clive ran the tank right into the cavern’s portal to prevent attack from the rear. He quickly shed his clothes and plunged into the stream of-water. He had proceeded to where the water was deep enough to start swimming, when a tremendous explosion rocked the cavern. Pieces of rock splashed in the water nearby, but fortunately none hit him. Looking back, Clive could no longer see any light, the entrance to the cavern had been completely sealed.
“Well that’s that,” thought Clive. Unconsciously a great weight had been lifted from his mind—there was no longer anything he could do for France, and Anne was less than an hour away.
CENTURY TO STARBOARD
Liz Williams
Vittoria Pellini
Diary entry, 12 August 2008
Julio and I went down to the port today, to see the Ship for the first time. It’s truly amazing—I had no idea how big it would be. The hull, if that’s what you call it, must have been hundreds of feet up from the water, and I couldn’t see the other end at all. Not surprising, since it’s supposed to be a mile long, but even so . . .
We flew into Singapore from Rome this morning—Julio had to see some people, so we thought we’d combine his business, whatever that is, with a visit to the Ship. After all, in only a few months, it’s going to be our home. Rome’s so hot these days, with all these climate changes, and the villa in St Barthelemy’s been simply unliveable in. So, as I said to Julio, it really does make sense to go and live on something that can move around all over the place. I know it’s costing a few million, but it isn’t as though we can’t afford it—and there’s the whole tax avoidance issue, of course. And if the brochure’s anything to go by, the shopping will be wonderful—the latest seasons will be showing, and as I told him, I’ll really be saving on all the airfares, because it costs so much to go to New York these days, now that they’ve brought in the flight restrictions. So the Ship definitely makes sense. Julio muttered something about people saying the same thing about the Titanic, but he just likes to grumble. It’s his ulcer.
Diary entry, 14 November 2008
Back in Singapore again, and this time we’ve actually been on board. I’m just so thrilled. We’ve seen our apartment, and it’s a dream, it really is. It’s twice the size of our place in Monaco, and the furnishings are beautiful—exactly as I told the design consultant, and you know how hard it is for these people to get things right. It’s high up, too—right on the uppermost deck, just as we wanted. There are gardens below, and swimming pools, and full satellite links so Julio can work. I can’t wait, but I’ll have to, because the Ship doesn’t set out until May. That’s nearly six months away, and I’m going to go crazy in Italy.
Diary entry, 3 May 2009
Our first night on the Ship—we’re sailing tomorrow. Julio and I have been getting to know our new neighbours, the Seckers—really, really lovely people, even if they are Americans. But not ostentatious—old money, you see. Well, old money for the States, anyway. Originally from Seattle, but they got out before the quake (obviously!) and since then they’ve been living in Houston. Said it was horribly hot. Commiserated.
Diary entry, 4 May 2009
Sailed today. Just fabulous, seeing all those thousands of people lined up on the dock to see us off. I didn’t even realize we were moving, and neither did Lydia Secker, though she says that she’s always been as sick as a dog on every boat she’s ever been on and she’s told her husband that if the Ship starts making her throw up, she’s going right back home to Houston, firestorms or no firestorms.
Diary entry, 16 August 2009
Can’t believe it’s been a year since we first saw the Ship. I was a tiny bit worried that I might get bored here, but what with all the travelling I’ve just been so busy. And there’s the salon, and then the shops—and I’m learning Japanese! Made quite sure that Julio was listening when I told him this as I’m getting just a little tired of that “you’re hardly an intellectual, darling” line of his.
We’re out into the Pacific now. The sea looks just like my Versace silk camisole, but apparently we’re expecting a storm later on. We’ve been through a typhoon already, off Manila. I thought I’d be terrified, but actually it was quite exciting, and we couldn’t feel it at all—the Ship’s big enough to ride out even huge hurricanes.
(Later) They were right. We’re in the middle of the storm now, and I’m looking down on these enormous waves. Feels safe in here, though. It’s very quiet—we’re totally soundproofed. I just went out on deck—couldn’t resist—and the funny thing is that it’s quiet out there, too. I thought there’d be howling winds and everything, but it was really silent. I suppose we must be in the eye of the storm or something.
Diary entry, 17 August 2009
Storm’s still raging outside. I got up this morning when the alarm went off, because I’d booked in for a facial with Sylvie, and even though it was half past ten it was dark as pitch outside. Julio’s been up since eight, trying to get through to the Network, but he says it’s down.
(Later) Went out on deck again a few minutes ago and I was wrong—it isn’t entirely dark. There’s a kind of pale green light along the horizon, like a neon strip. Maybe we’re coming out of the storm.
Diary entry, 18 August 2009
Storm’s finally over, thank God. Not that I was scared, exactly, but it was so weird, seeing that faint light and then nothing else. Now, the sea’s calm as a pond again, lovely blue sky. Apparently we’re not far off Honolulu now, so they’re going to put into port later today. Ship’s communications are still down.
(Later) Well, we’re in Honolulu, but I think something’s wrong. Lydia and I called the purser and asked if we could hire a cab to go into the city, but they’re not letting anyone off the Ship. They won’
t say why. And we can see the city from the deck, but it doesn’t look right. It looks almost as though part of it has been bombed. Some of the apartment blocks are like ruins and I can’t help thinking of terrorists. There’s been so much of that lately. Just horrible. I ran back inside and asked Julio if he could find out what was up, but the Network won’t come on.
Diary entry, 19 August
Ship left Honolulu last night, when everyone was asleep. Woke to find that we were back out at sea, and still no computer. Julio went down to complain to the communications people, and I went with him. Asked what had happened in Honolulu, but they wouldn’t tell us. Julio thinks they didn’t actually know, but they must do, mustn’t they? We think we’ve figured it out, though—it must have been a volcano. That’s why the city looked such a mess, and why the storm lasted so long. Must have been ash. Bit worrying, though—do volcanoes affect the sea bed? And I was looking forward to Hawaii, too. The communications guy says we’re heading up to Tokyo.
Julio went quiet in the elevator and I finally winkled it out of him—he’s wondering how long we’ve got provisions for. Told him not to be totally ridiculous; the Ship’s massive; we must have food for years. Julio said not so sure—the whole point about luxury accommodation like this is that the food’s freshly flown in; we’ve seen the helicopter landing every day, and now it’s not coming, for some reason. Never mind, I said, there’s a helicopter on board, isn’t there? And if that doesn’t work we’ll just have to catch lobsters. Anyway, I’m sure they’ve got stuff on ice.
