by Terry Brooks
Rocan was nodding along as he spoke. “You voice the same questions I did. But Tindall saw what you and I didn’t. So much of what impacts our lives is weather-driven. Too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry. Floods, fires, hail, snow, and cold; periods of endless drought and winter. Winds can destroy our homes and threaten our safety. We don’t have enough food when we need it. All sorts of aberrations over which we have no control can dominate everything we do. Think about it. One nation has abundant rain while another swelters in endless heat. Floods destroy the crops in one nation while another has perfect weather for growing and harvesting. The number of combinations is endless.”
Shea shook his head. “But a machine? How can a machine change something as powerful as weather?”
“Science can change anything, once you understand how the system works. Sure, nature determines the weather, but Tindall saw that a machine could replicate this. Climate conditions are not set in stone; they are variable and can be altered for short periods of time—sometimes even permanently.”
But Shea was having none of it. This was so bizarre, so far removed from anything he had even thought was possible, that he could not bring himself to accept it.
“You say all this like it could really be done, but no one has ever done it, have they? What’s to say that this one man—this Tindall—will be the first? How do you know you haven’t thrown all your credits down a rathole for the last three years?” He gestured at the strange machine. “Do you even know how to make this thing work?”
“No,” the other admitted at once. “I don’t. But Tindall does. He built it; he understands it. And you’re missing the point. We aren’t guessing. Everything I’ve just told you isn’t a theory. This machine has been tested—several times now. Tindall has used it to alter the weather, and I was there to see it happen. Annabelle works. She can do exactly what she is supposed to.”
The boy stared. “You saw this machine change the weather?”
“Three times. Once changing clear skies to a thunderstorm; once changing the temperature from boiling to freezing; and once from wind to calm. Do you see how incredibly useful this will be for the Races? Can you imagine what it could accomplish?”
Rocan paused. “Understand this, Shea. I am committed to this course, because I think it will impact the way the world works in ways we can’t even begin to imagine yet. Weather is geographically segmented, changing in different places in different ways. And regional change allows for those in a certain location to benefit. Think of all the ways the people of those regions could improve the condition of their lives. Think of all the ways using a machine like Annabelle can provide needed help. The results are more far-reaching than you can imagine! When people are content, dissatisfaction diminishes, aggression lessens, and peaceful coexistence becomes more realistic. I want that. I want to help make that happen.”
“You really believe all this,” Shea said quietly, studying the gambler. “You think this can happen?”
“I know it can. I’ve knocked around for most of my life with no particular purpose in mind. But now, finally, I have a chance to accomplish something important. I don’t want to look back and realize my life has meant nothing. I could keep gambling and gathering in my winnings and salting them away, but that isn’t much of a legacy. But this…this incredible chance that Tindall is offering…this is something I knew right from the first that I needed to grab hold of. And now that I have, I’m not letting go.” He paused, flushed with the passion of his words. “And I’m offering the same chance to you.”
Shea frowned and shook his head. “And why would you do that? What would be the point of bringing me into this business? You said you wanted me to fetch and carry. You said you wanted me to get in and out of places you couldn’t. And I can do all that; it is what I signed on for. But I can’t do anything to help with this weather machine of yours, even if I believed everything you just told me. Which I don’t.”
“I think you do believe.” Rocan put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re just reluctant to let yourself do so. I was like that at first, too. I didn’t believe. I couldn’t see the point in such a machine. Besides, if it could do what Tindall said, the Federation would take it away from him the moment they found out about it. They wouldn’t let some half-baked scientist share that sort of discovery with other nations. They would want it for themselves. That’s why Annabelle is here, in my warehouse, where even Tindall doesn’t know how to find it without my help. You see? He believes in me as much as I believe in him. I financed this whole project; I made it possible for him to build his dream and test it.”
Shea started to say something more, then stopped himself. Rocan was right. He did half believe, because the idea of such a machine was so incredible that he wanted to believe. But it was so far removed from anything he had ever encountered or thought to imagine that he was struggling.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Believing in this is hard.”
“Like believing in Seelah was? A mix of human and moor cat? A shape-shifter? And then you saw her. And you saw what she could do.”
“I guess…”
Rocan edged closer. “I need you, Shea Ohmsford—namesake of the boy who once needed my ancestor Panamon Creel. We need each other. We can make this machine a part of everyone’s life in the Four Lands, and I can help you escape your circumstances by providing you with a purpose in your life and the credits to do anything you want.”
He squeezed the boy’s shoulders tightly. “But I need you now—at this moment, it happens—for exactly the reasons I first told you. I need someone who can get in and out of places I can’t. The unfortunate fact remains that, without Tindall, the machine is useless. Only he can operate Annabelle. Only he understands enough to keep her running or fix her if she breaks down. But now that Commander Zakonis has him locked away in Assidian Deep, I’m afraid the old man won’t survive. Zakonis cares nothing for Tindall; what he wants is to get his hands on me. And he’s using Tindall as bait. He knows I’ll come for him.”
Rocan smiled. “So I need you to go instead.”
* * *
—
Months ago, Rocan then explained, he had been told by Tindall that the individual pieces of his weather machine were ready to be assembled and tested. At that time, everything was stored in a building just outside the city walls in a less desirable part of the extended city. Arishaig had grown since its destruction and rebirth, and much of it had sprawled out onto the plains beyond the protective walls of the central city. But there was privacy, too, in such marginalized places, and Tindall was free to work without interruption.
Now, though, since the individual components and housings for the machine had all been constructed, they needed to be taken to a more secure location—one that would allow for final assembly and testing without the danger of attracting attention. Rocan arranged for such a place, and under cover of night Annabelle’s separate parts were airlifted into the city and lowered through hatches in the roof of the warehouse that was to be their new home. It took two weeks and a dozen flights, each one risking a discovery that would put an end to the entire project. But Rocan Arneas was nothing if not resourceful, and he imported members of his Rover family from the Westland to undertake the task of transport—men who, once paid and paid well, would then return to their homes and say nothing of what they had seen.
When the repositioning of Annabelle’s individual parts was finished, Tindall undertook the assembly, checking to make certain all would work as expected. Upon completion of that task, the testing of the machine began. Rocan was there for each experiment, still hopeful—but doubtful, as well.
After the very first test, all his doubts were gone.
“It was after midnight and there were clouds masking the stars on a moonless night. The weather was forecast to be nothing but sun for weeks to come. It had been the same for weeks before, and the prospect of drought was st
arting to become a concern.” Rocan shook his head in wonder. “But Tindall wasn’t worried. There would be no drought, he insisted. Annabelle would make sure of that.
“So on that night, the old man had me roll back the roof hatches so he could test Annabelle. She had been absorbing sunlight for days, storing sufficient power to allow her diapson crystals to release the energy necessary to change the weather. I stood there and watched him, excited for what might happen and worried for what might not. I was not yet wholly convinced. I was not the believer Tindall was. So even to see the machine come to life—to hear its sounds grow louder and watch its lights brighten—was astounding. A deep whining rose from the machine, and I was afraid it might bring unwanted attention. But Tindall assured me the city’s other sounds would mask it.
“Most of Arishaig was sleeping, anyway, and we were in this district of the homeless and lost, far from the mansions of the well-off and respectable—and far from the districts where nightlife flourished. The results would happen quickly, Tindall assured me; no one was likely to notice anything. Or if they did, it would only be to note the unusual change in the weather.”
Shea listened intently, caught up in the story now, wanting to hear it all. Seelah had returned from wherever she had gone and was curled up on the bench with her head in her companion’s lap, golden eyes fixed on Shea in that disconcerting way she had. All around them, the warehouse was silent, and Annabelle was inert and inactive, no more than metal parts and radian draws and light sheaths—no more than a promise. But in the story Rocan was telling, she came fully alive.
“She began to vibrate with a deep rumbling. Tindall was working levers and turning wheels and adjusting gauges. It was exhilarating to watch, even though I had no idea what he was doing. He continued with his preparations for long minutes, taking readings and waiting for his creation to ready herself.
“Then all at once he threw this huge lever that released a blaze of particle-filled light out of the machine’s funnel through the open roof and into the night sky. There is no other way I can describe it—a pillar of light with dark bits of matter caught within its grasp. It was a burst of brightness that became a pillar and twisted upward through the dark—like a tornado or a waterspout, but one formed of light. It rose and held position for I don’t know how long, because I lost all track of time, and then it shattered like glass into millions of glowing pieces that swept through the ragged layer of clouds and disappeared. It was over and done with in less than a minute.”
Rocan shook his head. “Tindall turned off Annabelle and closed the roof again. Nothing had happened, and I thought he had failed completely. I was embarrassed for him and angry with myself. Three years of hard-won earnings, lost. Three years of work, wasted. Mostly, I was heartbroken, despondent—knowing that my dream of changing things was gone. I could not even bring myself to speak.
“Then Tindall told me to listen. I did as he asked and heard the sound of thunder rumbling across the skies. I saw a flash of lightning through the warehouse windows. Suddenly a downpour opened up, the rain pounding down, drops striking the walls and windows with such ferocity that I could scarcely hear myself shouting. Tindall shouted along with me, and we danced around the room like madmen as the rain fell. The proof I was looking for—hoping so hard for—was right in front of me.”
He grinned at Shea, his eyes alight with passion. “It can be done, my young friend. It has been done before, and it can be done again. We can change the weather. And by doing so, we can change the world.”
* * *
—
Thus Shea had come to believe in Tindall’s machine and been persuaded help Rocan Arneas in his efforts to free the old man from the prisons of Assidian Deep. And now here he stood, right outside the jaws of the beast, at the doors of the prison, ready to carry out his part in what even Rocan admitted was a risky plan. He found himself wishing—not for the first time—that Seelah could be there with him. But Rocan had explained that she could not enter a place like Assidian Deep because its walls were constructed of so much iron that she would not be able to function. Iron was anathema to a creature like herself, and to willingly enter a place like Assidian Deep was not only impossible for a Faerie creature, but also life threatening. Otherwise Rocan would have considered sending her in to rescue Tindall instead of Shea.
So now the responsibility for this endeavor belonged solely to him. Shea was willing to try to make the plan work, but down inside, where you took a true and unburnished look at such things, he found himself doubtful of success. Still, everything Rocan had told him of the effort that had gone into the construction of Annabelle and the stunning successes of the testing she had undergone, coupled with the other’s certainty that only Tindall could operate the machine, was enough to persuade him he should at least try.
He glanced over at Rocan. Would this subterfuge work? Would any of what Rocan Arneas had planned for this rescue have any chance of success?
“Time to go,” the other said, and not quite dragging a still-reluctant Shea behind him, he started for the prison gates.
* * *
—
At that same moment, Ketter Vause was standing at the floor-length windows of his office, looking out over the brightly lit buildings of the city. He had been doing so for some time, thinking through the dilemma of the Skaar invaders and the destruction of his advance force. It was confirmed now; his scout had returned. The man stood not ten feet away, waiting for Vause to bid him to either stay or go, but Vause was ignoring him.
The scout had returned well after sunset. Faithful Belladrin, still on duty—though Vause was sure not willingly at this hour—had brought him to the Prime Minister immediately upon his arrival.
“Prime Minister.” The scout had bowed deeply, his uneasiness palatable. “I did as you ordered and flew to the Mermidon to make contact with the advance force. There was no one there. The camp was destroyed—everything burned, blackened, smashed to pieces. There were clear signs of explosions. All of the warships and transports had obviously been destroyed, along with their crews. There were bodies—or parts of them—everywhere.”
Vause had felt his heart constrict, his fears confirmed. “Our soldiers?” he asked, wanting to be certain. “All of them dead?”
The scout nodded. “There was no one alive in that camp.”
Still Vause could not believe it. “Surely someone escaped! Did you conduct a search?”
“I found no one alive anywhere, Prime Minister.”
All dead. Everyone who had gone with Dresch to the Mermidon was dead. He had known it from the moment he had read that message from the Skaar princess, and yet he had not wanted to believe it. He felt fresh rage building inside him, red hot and hungry for redress.
“Was there any evidence of how this happened?” he had pressed the other man.
The scout shook his head. “But everyone who was dead, everything that was destroyed? I found it all on our side of the river—or in the river itself. Bodies had washed up here and there—our soldiers, not theirs. The battle appears to have been fought entirely on our ground, not theirs. If we attacked them, wouldn’t some of the fighting have occurred on their side of the river?”
Vause had turned away then without a word and walked to the window of his office, where he continued to stare out into the night. The more he examined things, the more certain he had become that Ajin d’Amphere’s claim that the Skaar had only been defending themselves was patently false. This was a deliberate act of aggression intended to demonstrate the Skaar military superiority. By now, it was clear and undeniable that these Skaar were invaders and, in spite of the protestations of that princess, that they intended to take what they wanted by force.
“You may go,” he said to the scout, addressing him finally, with a quick glance over his shoulder. “You have done well. But you are not to speak a word of this to anyone. Not a word!”
He waited until he heard the door close, scuffing the floor with the toe of his slipper, looking at nothing as he thought through it all. It galled him no end that there were no survivors. An eyewitness might have provided a better explanation for how such attacks were carried out. That at least might have given some insight into why such wholesale destruction was possible. But even more infuriating was the sense that he was being toyed with. He could not escape the feeling that there was something more to all this than was apparent, that he and the Federation were somehow pawns in a larger game.
Yet his course of action now was clear. He must report the loss of Commander Dresch and his advance force to the Coalition Council. The response would be predictable—outrage followed by insistence on action followed by endless debate that would disintegrate swiftly into dithering. Whatever they chose to do, they would not want to make a mistake. They would not want to expose themselves to public censure for acting too swiftly or inappropriately. They were politicians, no matter their individual titles, and they all thought pretty much the same way—condemnation was to be shifted onto someone else and blame was to be avoided at all costs.
Ketter Vause was something similar, but not entirely. He was a politician and shared an inclination to proceed with caution. But he was also a soldier. He had come up through the ranks of the Federation army, attaining the rank of commander before he was drafted to become Minister of Defense and eventually Prime Minister, when his predecessor became ill and died. His mindset as a military man was to act, not to debate. When you were threatened, you responded. When you were attacked, you fought back. If you were mistaken or if there was collateral damage, you accepted blame and argued necessity. But you acted. You did not sit on your hands.
Now he would be asked to wait while the council debated the matter. This could take days, even weeks. The council would be troubled by the lack of witnesses. They would be disturbed by an absence of convincing evidence. How could they be expected to know exactly what had happened? How could they make a decision on the matter when everything surrounding the incident was so vague? What if these Skaar, these people from another land who protested their innocence, were telling the truth about what happened?
