Lightspeed Issue 33

by Tad Williams

  Another round of artificial thunder rattled the panes of glass, and she thought perhaps she ought not to stand so close to the window.

  Pleasure had never been the purpose of this journey. She was here as part of the entourage of the Crown Prince, her brother. As Maud, Princess of Wales, granddaughter of Her Royal Majesty, Victoria, Harry was meant to be seeking out potential royal suitors. That was the public reason for her presence here. Privately, she was one of the advisors George trusted completely. They’d come to France on matters of diplomacy with wartime allies. Then the war had come to them.

  She and George, along with the ambassador, Lord Dufferin, some members of his staff, and a contingent of guardsmen, had gathered in the embassy’s upper-storey parlor to discuss their response to the danger. Harry advocated immediate evacuation. George insisted such an evacuation would be cowardly, causing Britain to lose face before their French allies. Of course, Harry hadn’t wanted George to make the trip in the first place. German aggressions toward the city didn’t surprise anyone; the invasion had been moving steadily across France. The French had so far refused offers of military aid, which had infuriated George. He’d planned this visit to prove the strength and fortitude of the British people in the face of danger.

  Well, they’d certainly have their chance to do that, by and by. However much one wanted to prove that the slavering beast posed no threat, sticking one’s hand in said beast’s mouth was perhaps not the ideal way to demonstrate one’s courage. They were firmly within the beast’s jaws now, and could only hope it didn’t decide to snap. And yet, George insisted, he wasn’t afraid. He would inspire the British people with his boldness. Very well, then. Harry had taken it upon herself to make sure the heir to the British Empire got home alive.

  George paced, making the whole room nervous. “We have an entire naval fleet waiting in the channel, with airships to spare. We could stop this entire war with an afternoon of aerial bombardment!”

  Frederick Hamilton-Temple-Blackwood, Lord Dufferin, was an elderly man who had been granted this posting as a reward for a lifetime of service in the far-flung colonies, governing both Canada and India. He’d had decades of practice speaking gently and clearly to excitable royals.

  “Yes, certainly, Your Highness. But we’re on French soil, and we cannot act without their permission, which they have not granted.”

  “But they know very well the city will fall without British assistance!”

  Lord Dufferin sighed. “And yet the French foreign minister assures me that the French troops are holding the line very well and we should reserve our forces for maintaining control of the channel.” He repeated the claim because it was his duty, but he sounded as if he had grown tired of duty.

  “Clearly he’s lying!” George said.

  “And so national pride will surely doom us all,” Harry murmured.

  She thought she did not speak the words aloud, but George, the ambassador, and indeed everyone else looked at her. Pressing her lips together, she studied the seams of her gloves, reminding herself that she was supposed to be demure.

  A particularly loud crash and rumble shook not just the paintings, but the walls themselves. George went straight to the window to look out, and Harry jumped after him to pull him back. A second rumble shook the glass.

  “Get away from there,” she hissed, then tried to make the gesture look as if he had stepped forward to steady her instead of the other way around. She murmured, “That one was different.” George’s brow furrowed as he recalled the sound. It hadn’t been an explosive shell, Harry realized, but something else. An impact, an object falling without an accompanying explosion.

  A speaker box sitting on a table near the fireplace rang a signal. One of the secretaries answered, and the young man’s face drained of what little color it had left.

  “What is it, Michaels?” Lord Dufferin asked calmly.

  “My lord, it’s the lieutenant from the guard post. I … I’m not entirely sure … what …”

  “Out with it,” George glowered. Michaels quailed.

  “Your Highness. The lieutenant says he’s never seen anything like it.”

  Harry risked a look out the window, sheltering behind the heavy velvet of the curtain.

  The far edge of the wide lawn leading from the front of the building had acquired a crater, a cloud of dust rising up from it. Soldiers swarmed onto the lawn, making noise but not accomplishing much. What had created the crater: some kind of armored container, the shape of a shell but the size of a carriage. After its flight and impact, the container had split open on a set of hinges. Smoke rose from the opening.

  “Lord Dufferin,” Harry said, turning to the ambassador. “Perhaps you might notify Admiral Montgomery of the fleet about our situation?”

  “Already done, highness. If you’ll wait just a moment—”

  More squawking came through the box, then the disconcerting sound of ray blasts, and a scream from just outside the window on the lawn. All Harry’s fears were come to pass. She kept her breathing still, folded her hands before her, and considered the options. Unfortunately, their options rather depended on what George and Lord Dufferin did next. At times, she was grateful for her corset for keeping her upright and steady.

  Another call came in on the speaker box, this time from the firm voice of an officer outside the immediate crisis. Without being close to the earpiece, Harry could only hear an occasional word: evacuate and airship. Good.

  She put her arm through the crook of George’s elbow, and he clutched her hand protectively. His jaw was set in a determined frown, and—God help them all—he looked ready to storm down the stairs to face the trouble himself. It would be the brave thing to do. “It isn’t as if there aren’t enough other heirs to take my place,” he’d argue. That wasn’t the point, she’d argue back.

  Lord Dufferin seemed distinctly relieved when he turned to them.

  “Your Highnesses, the Navy has sent an airship to evacuate you. If you’ll proceed to the roof, we’ll have you to safety soon enough.”

  “I still say it’s cowardly, running away,” George muttered.

  He was more nervous than he let on, because he didn’t comment on Harry clutching his sleeve and dragging him after the ambassador.

  “If you hadn’t insisted on appearing brave in the first place, you wouldn’t have to worry about appearing cowardly now, would you?” she chided.

  He shifted her grip on him so that he appeared to be dragging her even though hers was still the guiding pressure.

  In the next room—the antechamber to the ambassador’s parlor—a swarm of soldiers and embassy attachés joined them, surrounding them protectively, forming a clump of people trundling up the stairs. All of them tense, fearful.

  This wasn’t meant to be happening. Their Crown Prince, in danger, and it could be that every one of them felt some responsibility. Really, however, it was no one’s fault. Though whoever among the General Staff had assured the Prince that Paris was safe would likely have a difficult time of it in the near future.

  At the top of the stairs, a clerk threw open the door, revealing the iron struts of the mooring tower, and the crowd spilled through it and onto the roof. Soldiers raised rifles to the air while others blocked the Prince with their bodies, sheltering him against the base of the tower. Harry was caught up in the rush and unsure if their protectors even saw her as anything but an extension of George. As usual, and hardly worth commenting on.

  “The rescue ship should be here any moment, Highness,” the ambassador huffed. The climb up the stairs had winded him. Harry was glad to see the secretary, Michaels, at his side, offering support.

  Across the slate-and lead-tiled roof appeared open sky, and beyond the embassy’s garden lay the vista of Paris. Harry allowed herself a moment to enjoy the view, glimpses of the Tour Eiffel, Arc de Triomphe, the Seine and its beautiful bridges. All made heartbreaking by being partially shrouded in heavy billows of smoke and the tails of falling shells.


  A green ray blast arrowed past the roof, and a swarm of guards pulled George and Harry out of the way.

  “Where’s the airship? I don’t see it,” George said, shading his eyes and standing to look. Harry pulled him back down.

  Harry also shaded her eyes, looking to the northern sky a bit more discreetly than George had done. “There it is,” she said, her heart sinking.

  It wasn’t a proper airship but a scout, the smallest vehicle used by the aerial Navy, meant for courier duties, reconnaissance missions and the like. With only room for a pilot and passenger, it moved quickly and with great stealth—indeed, even when she was looking right it at, it seemed to vanish against the backdrop of the sun and sky. It was, in fact, the ideal craft with which to evacuate George without drawing the attention of enemy spotters. Harry approved.

  Except, of course, it meant she’d be staying in Paris a bit longer, didn’t it?

  Sinking to approach the embassy roof, the scout ship’s nature became apparent: a simple framework and motor mounted underneath a gas envelope that wasn’t much bigger than a carriage. The pilot and passenger, well bundled and goggled to protect them from the elements, wore harnesses that locked them into rudimentary seats. The arrangement made her think of an aerial tandem bicycle, which might have been a romantic notion under different circumstances.

  Before the scout craft set down, the passenger unhooked his harness from the framework and jumped to the roof, carrying an anchor line with him, which he tossed to a pair of soldiers, not even bothering with the mooring tower. The two men braced the craft and kept it from rising again while the pilot pressed a lever that calmed the engine without shutting it off. The Aetherian glow of the humming motor cast a greenish light over the roof, even in daylight.

  The craft’s passenger quickly divested himself of his harness, coat and goggles, and approached George.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but will you put these on?”

  The prince stood again in preparation of blustering. “I thought you said this was a rescue!”

  When he didn’t move, Harry took the gear from the soldier. A lieutenant, by the insignia on his uniform. “Thank you, lieutenant,” she had the presence to say. “George, please put these on.”

  She offered the coat, and long-practiced habit caused him to hold out his arms. The coat was on, and the lieutenant helped her secure the harness’s buckles next.

  “But what about you?” George said to her.

  “This is the most expedient way to get you to safety, George. Don’t concern yourself about me.”

  Clear now as to what the arrangement of the craft meant, the prince turned to the soldier, to the ambassador, to anyone who would listen, and shouted, furious, “I’ll not leave my sister behind!”

  By the way the lieutenant’s eyes went round, he clearly hadn’t recognized Harry by sight. She hid a smile at his shock. Poor man.

  He sputtered, “Your Highness! We … we weren’t told of her highness’s presence and only accounted for …”

  She touched the soldier’s arm. “It’s all right. Help me get him to the scout.”

  He overcame his shock quickly and nodded.

  “George, you have to leave now,” she said, keeping her voice calm, even as more explosions shook the air.

  “If there’s only one spot, you should have it,” he said. “It’s the proper thing. The chivalrous thing.” He was a bulky man, and he let himself go heavy, dragging, even as they tried to pull him to the craft. The pilot’s eyes behind his goggles had gone slightly buggy with panic—he was running out of lift and power to get airborne again.

  “George, you’re much too important. England has lost too many heirs of late. We can’t lose you, too. Yes?” Their father, who should have been Edward VII someday. Their older brother, Eddie.

  Harry reached up to put the goggles on him. There was a brief, shared moment of grief as their gazes met. He knew she was right. Invoking their family ghosts convinced him.

  The lieutenant’s skilled hands secured the harness to its brackets on the craft’s framework.

  “Harry, promise me you will take care. Return home safe, do you promise me?” George commanded.

  “I promise,” she said, feeling suddenly weak, as if she’d been robbed of her honor. She didn’t say the words out of any thought that she could really keep such a promise, only to calm her brother.

  George held the soldier with his gaze. “Lieutenant, you must guard my sister with your life. Protect her, do you hear?”

  “Yes, Your Highness, gladly,” he said, very earnestly. Firmly and confidently, even. Harry suddenly felt safer, for no good reason other than she liked this lieutenant’s voice.

  The lieutenant retrieved the anchor line and tossed it to the pilot just as the craft shot up. The engine whined to a high pitch, and the scout dashed forward, a racehorse of the air. All that had gathered on the rooftop then sighed as one, because Prince George was now as good as safe.

  The next shell hit the corner of the building, sending up a rain of debris, hard stone and burning shrapnel. Harry ducked, throwing up her arm to protect herself. The lieutenant had somehow gotten himself between her and the explosion, which had knocked half the soldiers off their feet. The rest managed to scramble to the jagged remnants of the side of the building and aim rifles outward, though what they thought they could hit at this range, Harry couldn’t say. A few fired off shots, green energy bolts flaring with the sound of an electric shock. They needed airships and heavy guns to mount any kind of offensive. Aetherian weaponry was all well and good, but a conventional bomb dropped in the right spot still trumped all.

  “Oh God, what of the rest of us?” Michaels the secretary said, finally out of reserve.

  “Get hold of yourself,” Lord Dufferin ordered. “We will make do, as always.”

  The ambassador’s gaze landed on Harry and revealed resignation. If the princess, granddaughter of the Queen herself, could not be saved, what of him? She could think of no response. Her hat had slipped a bit, the pin coming loose, a curl of hair falling down to her cheek. But she also felt a rock-like calm, and not a bit of her expression wavered.

  The ambassador bowed his head to her and made for the staircase.

  This struck Harry as a not terribly wise choice. The building was groaning, bits continuing to crumble off from the hole the bomb left. The structural integrity was perhaps not entirely trustworthy any longer. But the man was one of the old type; he would go down with his ship.

  She and the lieutenant stood side by side, watching where the ambassador had retreated, while the commander of the embassy guard, a Captain Smith, looked grim and shouted orders to form his scattered men into some sort of unit. Half headed downstairs, half remained on the roof, standing guard.

  “What are we to do with Lord Dufferin?” Harry said, sighing.

  “I don’t much care, highness. He isn’t my concern, you are,” said the lieutenant.

  She blinked at him, finally able to have a good look at the man. He was average height, with an athletic build under the wool of his uniform. His collar was open, his boots scuffed, and he wore a belt with a pistol and holster strapped low to his thigh. Not regulation, not polished, but imminently comfortable. In his late twenties or early thirties, he’d lost any freshness he might have had as a youth; he was rough, weathered. She imagined he’d carried out daring rooftop rescues or the like quite often.

  “Sir, what is your name?”

  “Lieutenant James Marlowe, Your Highness.” He started to salute, started to bow, stopped both in the middle and scowled.

  She nodded. “Right. We should be moving, Lieutenant Marlowe.” The scream of another bomb, one of the heavy kind like the one that had landed in the garden, approached. She looked up, searching for it, to see where it would fall.

  “Your Highness, I hope you will accept my deepest apologies for this inconvenience.”

  She gave him a baffled frown. “As if you had any say in the matter. Never mind,
we don’t have time for formalities.”

  The scream whined upward in pitch, and all of them on the roof ducked, sheltering themselves out of some vague hope that it would do them any good. The targeting on this bomb was off—it struck across the street, punching straight through the roof of the building there and blowing a wall outward. More debris rained down to the streets below.

  Marlowe clutched her arm in a protective grip, and his tone was urgent, which made him sound a touch less comforting than he’d probably meant. “I will get us out of this, however terrifying this may seem—”

  “Lieutenant Marlowe, I will not wilt, I assure you.”

  They exchanged a glance. His startled expression—that one of the fairer sex would speak so confidently—was familiar; Marlowe’s surprise passed more quickly than it did with most people who encountered her.

  He lifted his head and gazed out, through the smoke and debris still falling. Towers of smoke could be seen, surrounding the embassy. “Those last few shells weren’t part of a general bombardment,” he said. “They’re targeting the embassy.”

  He was right; the damage was localized. “Because of George? They knew he was here?”

  “It’s only a thought.”

  She felt a cold fury, tempered by the thought that it wouldn’t have been hard to learn of the prince’s presence here. They didn’t make the journey public, certainly, and traveled with a fraction of his usual entourage. But the airship displayed his flag until just before docking at Calais, and anyone watching would have seen it.

  “Lieutenant, however much I dislike the idea, there’s really only one way off the roof. I suggest we take advantage of the pause in the attack,” she said.

  He nodded. “Indeed. After you, then.” He urged her toward the door leading to the stairs, and she complied.

  But at the top of the stairs, she stopped. From three stories down on the ground floor, someone screamed. Then another. The pulsing shots of Aetherian rifles fired in rapid sequence, then fell silent. Another soldier screamed.