“So…you’re saying we’re all totally xxxxed?” Diego leaned back into his chair, massaging his troubled brow with his cybernetic hand. “Jesus xxxxing Christ on a bike.”
The battle had been won, but before us still lay the heart of the war.
The Caddiganite incursion, as you have heard, had been utterly defeated, with but a scant number surviving their ill-conceived aggression to flee scattered and impotent into the great sprawl of surrounding forests. At best count, nearly ninety of their number had perished in the assault on the settlement, although given how completely the accelerators wielded by Stewart and myself obliterated their targets, that number may well have been quite considerably higher.
Amongst the anarchists, almost a score had perished, and a similar number had suffered injuries both minor and dire. It was a terrible blow to such a small community, but though the paroxysms of lamentation and rage still flowed fresh through those who survived, and weeping and shouts of anger could be heard throughout the compound as bodies were prepared for interment, there was yet urgent work that required our attention.
Within the now-familiar wood-hewn meeting room of the Central Committee, two representatives of Her Majesty had assembled in conclave with the surviving leaders of the settlement. Stewart and myself, of course; with the notable absence of Suzanna, who had acquitted herself with such boldness upon the field of conflict that to exclude her from the discourse would have seemed a slight. But Suzanna had retired to quarters elsewhere, her heart still in tatters from the woeful news of Father’s untimely demise; she could not bear to be in the company of others, and preferred to enter her time of mourning in a place of solitude. Joao, faithful and solicitous as ever, remained at her side, for the company of servants is of such a different character than the presence of living souls that it did not feel to her to be an intrusion.
Of the anarchist leadership, there were three in attendance: Diego, of course; Raj, naturally; and finally the androgynous and now-black-haired Shain, who was clearly still struggling with the death of Liberty. That ill-starred guardswoman was, evidently, a lover to them, or one of their lovers, to be more precise; in our society, such a thing might be a scandal, but was unsurprising contextually, as anarchists are anarchists in both affairs political and affairs of the heart. Yet loss is loss, and human sorrow is human sorrow, and given that, one could but admire how well they were hewing to their duty. I would not have thought less of her had she chosen to tend to the dread business of grief, any more than I thought less of dear, broken-hearted Suzanna.
The crew of the Finch remained aboard ship, under the skilled governance of Stewart’s second in command, First Officer Gerald McLeish, a ruddy faced Scot who hailed from Her Majesty’s redoubt at Port Aberdeen. Gerald, or so Stewart had oft confided in me, was perhaps slightly overbold of speech, prone to speaking his mind without due consideration for propriety. Even so, Stewart considered him a dear friend, and took his candour with magnanimity; some of Gerald’s superiors during his service in the Royal Navy were rather less inclined to interpret his insights as anything other than borderline insubordination. He is, in point of fact, a friend to the both of us to this very day, and will freely and laughingly admit to this fault, which is of little import given the many admirable qualities he possesses. The Finch remained at station high above the settlement, keeping watch lest the Caddiganites attempted another attack.
Ernest and Thomas had taken provision of the necessary medical supplies from the small infirmary onboard the Finch, and with said supplies were aiding the overmatched settlement doctor in her care for the many and variously wounded. Each of our servants were capable of the most intricate surgeries, their dexterous hands, clarity of vision, and encyclopaedic grasp of both human anatomy and the medical sciences making them remarkably capable practitioners of the healing arts.
That, my most patient reader, is where matters stood. Let us return to those gathered about the table, where Diego had wondered aloud in the directest of manners as to the role he and his community might play in what was to come.
Stewart shook his head, untroubled by the profane character of the query. He had, as had I, quickly acclimated himself to the rough particulars of the anarchist vocabulary, understanding the intention underlying their crude and simple manner. Further, his friendship with his second in command had acclimated him to the well intended expression of such impolitic candour.
“No. Not quite. I am saying, Diego, that there is considerable cause for alarm, particularly for those of us who inhabit this region. The object that was so cruelly stolen from Her Majesty is not necessarily a weapon, but it could certainly be used as such. It contains within it technologies that are at the very leading edge of the Royal Society’s science, and as such represents a quite nontrivial risk. Should Caddigan’s scientists and engineers find the wherewithal to circumvent the security protocols of the containment device you have described as a “sepulchre,” we may all be in grave danger.”
Raj piped up. “Couldn’t you people just, I don’t know, just, you know, slaughter them? Doesn’t seem to be much of a fight when you put your minds to it, honestly.”
“It will not be simple, and yes, we will be doing all that we can, my friend. Our reconnaissances, coupled indicate that they have already integrated technologies stolen from us on other occasions into their arsenal; the rail guns are perhaps the most notable recent example, but evidences suggest other, equally pernicious devices may now be in their possession or under development in their slave-factories in the Floridian archipelago. Not every fight will be as easy as the one we just concluded.”
This, given the losses the anarchists had just suffered, proved too much for Diego to stomach. His voice raised in an irritated growl. “Easy? You call that easy? We nearly lost…”
Raj gave a loud hissing sound, which was enough to still the outburst. “Diego. Listen to the man. Listen.”
Stewart continued. “I do, as that force was just a small fraction of what the Hammer could have brought to bear in this region. Suffice it to say that we take this threat with all due seriousness, and we do not take victory for granted. To that end, our entire North Atlantic fleet is as we speak gathering off the Virginia coast. Three regiments of the Queens Royal Airborne Hussars have been called to active service, and I anticipate their arrival here within the next several days. We shall begin with an aerial bombardment, at which point the Hussars will breach the outer perimeter of the Caddiganite forward base. They shall be reinforced by a regiment of Heavy Fusiliers, which together shall establish control of the facility. Should these efforts fail, and secondary action be necessary, the Admiralty has standing orders to destroy not simply the Caddiganites, but also the contents of the sepulchre. There, Raj, is your simple course of action. But there is a substantial risk.”
“What?” rumbled Diego. “What risk?”
“The sepulchre contains the very heart of Her Majesty’s Power. Within it is an energy source that I cannot, for reasons of security and the integrity of the Crown, divulge. If it is damaged, there is a significant likelihood that it might…explode.”
“It’s…got a, what, a nuke in it?” piped Raj.
“In a manner of speaking, yes, but one of a very particular nature and design which again, I cannot divulge. But I shall share this: Should it go critical, the resultant detonation would be almost entirely unprecedented.”
“So, worse than Nagasaki? Worse than London?”
“London is an excellent and relevant frame of reference, Raj. And possibly worse. Should the Caddiganites open the sepulchre incorrectly, or if it is damaged, there is the risk of the complete obliteration of all life in a hundred kilometre radius. Or potentially much larger. We have only theoretical and simulated data for such a calamity, and our models are not reassuring. It may be a risk we are obligated to take, should we be unable to secure the contents of the sepulchre, but for rather obvious reasons, we’d prefer not to explore that thread of potentiality.”
“But you might?”
“Yes. Should my efforts prove unsuccessful, that is our next course of action. The fleet, which will shortly stand at its full fighting complement of thirty five ships of the line, should prove sufficient to be more than a distraction, as it can wholly destroy the base; if not, and if the Caddiganites’ newly found capacities thwart our efforts, the Admiralty will bombard the site from orbit, and we shall be obligated to rely solely on the vagaries of chance as regards any collateral damage.”
“Collateral damage? Meaning all of us dead? Are you xxxxing serious?”
“Yes, Diego. In that scenario, yes. I wish I were not. You. I. This settlement. All of us. But that is only if our assault fails, and if our failsafe fails. I assure you that the Crown will make every effort to ensure that we succeed. I will stake my life upon it. That, in fact, is Her Majesty’s specific desire in this circumstance.”
Shain spoke up, their voice husky from crying, but nonetheless imbued with both intent and curiosity. “You’ll stake your life on it? What does that mean?”
I, too, was bright with attention at Stewart’s utterance, for that was the first I had heard tell of Her Majesty’s intent on this matter; for reasons most obvious, my whole person was aflame with both pride and trepidation.
Pride, because it is only in the most portentous and significant of circumstances that Our Lady deigns to condescend to matters particular. All of us know that She trusts the affairs of state to Her Appointed Ministries, for what Monarch of Beneficence chooses to rule alone as a singular tyrant?
It has been a trifold sennight of weeks since you received, in the Post, the chapter containing my humble meditations on the role of the Ministries and Societies in the maintenance of the Crown and our singular way of life. I shall not repeat what I have already so sufficiently elucidated, which may easily be brought to mind by a reading of that volume, but rather offer this confirming statement: In matters trivial or intimate, Her Royal Highness leaves us such latitude that it is indistinguishable from the deepest freedom. In matters of middling import, Her Gracious Hand is but the softest whisper in the ear, the very gentlest touch of a shepherd’s crook against the side of a naively scrolloping lamb before it finds itself in a place of danger. Yet She is, in matters crucial to our wellbeing and the integrity of Her Commonwealth, utterly engaged and thoroughly capable, guiding us with wisdom and strength, our very present and corporeal Athena.
Such troubles have been blessedly few, and that my beloved Stewart himself was seen as worthy of personally carrying out Her Majesty’s wishes was a remarkable honour.
Trepidation, because…
Well, naturally, because the mere thought of losing Stewart was to me a mortal horror. I simply could not imagine existence without him at my side. Every vision of my future, every thought of my station as Countess Montgomery and my duty to the Peerage, all of it was devoid of meaning should it not be undertaken without him at my side.
It really is no more complicated than that. That Stewart was willing to lay down his life for Queen and Peerage was without question; I too share that profound conviction, as do you, no doubt, dear reader.
To lay down one’s life is one thing. To lose the entirety of one’s vision of the future is another matter altogether. And so it was with the deepest of interest that I listened as Stewart presented Her Majesty’s intent.
“It is Her Majesty’s will that I join the first wave of Hussars in their aerial assault upon the Hammer firebase, with the stated purpose of securing the energy source within the sepulchre. Assuming that we are not simply cut to ribbons on my approach, I may be able to lock down the sepulchre, and thus spare us the greater danger that might occur should it be damaged.
There is, of course, a nontrivial risk to my person.”
There was a momentary pause as Stewart’s voice fell silent, his voice hanging in the air, and all present considered his statement. It was Diego who spoke first, growling in his typically measured manner.
“So…there’s nothing for us to do? Just sit here on our hands, while you take care of everything? ”
Stewart was once again unperturbed by the stridency of our ally, and merely nodded. “Those are Her Majesty’s orders, conveyed directly to me by the Queen herself. I do not for a moment question Her wisdom, or Her intent. Let it be said that the danger of a detonation is not our greatest fear.”
“There’s worse? Worse than being slagged by a nuke?”
“There is, my friend. Worse still would be if Caddigan’s scientists and engineers successfully open the sepulchre, and ascertain the function of the device within. If they are able to reverse engineer what they find, or glean any of its workings through the pernicious cunning they have already shown in co-opting our technology, they would become a force most terrible, a peril to both the Peerage and to all of those, such as yourselves…who wish to live as they choose. In the hands of a heartless tyrant, I dread to imagine what depredations would ensue, and the horrors of the long bleak reign that would follow.”
Diego nodded. “Yeah. OK. There we’re on the same xxxxing page, Stewart. So, what do you need us to…”
Again, Diego was interrupted, his voice stilled, but not by any welcome or calming interjection. All started to their feet, for our ears were filled with the unique and particular tonality of the Finch discharging her particle cannon, once, then again, then again.
Something was terribly awry.
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