'Arc of Life' is an experiment. What happens if you use the same basic idea, with the same or similar characters, but change the genre? Does the genre effect the story at all?
The central premise of all three of these stories is similar to 'Life Line', which was written by Robert A. Heinlein in 1939. However, any inspiration drawn from that was entirely in my subconscious: it was only after I had begun to develop the idea into a story that I remembered 'Life Line'.
In a small office, in an undistinguished building, a middle-aged woman does vital work for her country.
Every day, people come to her office. She shakes their hands, makes some notes, then shows them through to the next room.
They think they are there for interviews, or for medical examinations, or to be given some information. They are not. They are there to shake her hand.
‘The Prime Minister will die on the 23rd day of next month, at half-past three in the afternoon.’
The note, protected in a clear plastic evidence bag, was just that one line. It was printed in a standard font on a strip of plain paper. I turned the bag over but the other side of the paper was blank.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” confirmed Stourwood. “Delivered to the offices of the Corbury Tribune in an unmarked envelope, apparently by hand.”
There being nothing more to learn from the note, I considered Stourwood himself for a moment. Freckled face under frizzy red hair. He looked younger than he was, and a lot less intelligent than anyone working for me would be. I liked deceptive appearances.
“So why doesn’t this go straight into the crackpot file?”
“It was passed to me by someone I know from my time with the Met. David Krane. He’s an Inspector now, and nobodies fool. If he thinks there’s something in it, I believe we should follow it up. I’d like to speak to David at least.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He knows what you do?”
Stourwood looked uncomfortable. “Well sir, not specifically, of course. But he is aware that I have an interest in possible terrorist activities. And of course, if I talk to him about this I may have to reveal a little more.”
“Hmm.” One of the intractable problems of all Intelligence work. You want all the information to flow inward towards you, but to keep lines of communication open, sometimes information has to flow outwards. The trick is to keep that as limited as possible.
I looked at the note again. “On the 23rd of next month the Prime Minister will officially be at Chequers, having informal discussions with members of the Cabinet. Unofficially he will be elsewhere, meeting with other people, regarding matters of extreme sensitivity which are above your security clearance, Stourwood. For him to suddenly die in such circumstances would be, ah, awkward. Very awkward. For that reason alone – and on your word regarding Inspector Krane – I think we should take a look into this. We are, after all, the Threat Evaluation Office, are we not?”
“Yes sir. I’ll get on to David, then.”
“Actually, Stourwood, when I said ‘we’ I meant it literally. And in person, rather than on the phone. Corbury is about fifty miles away, I believe? I rather fancy a run out into the country. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow. You’re driving.”
It was not just the prospect of a day out that had prompted my decision – though I did relish the thought of getting away from my desk and PC screen for a while. But the real reason was the mention of Corbury. For some reason, it was ringing subliminal bells. But I couldn’t think why.
I’d hoped a nights sleep would have brought it to the surface, but not so. Nor did a quick search through the classified computer archives of the Office: Corbury had never been a Threat, had never sourced or hosted a Threat, had no connection whatever with any sort of Threat of the sort that my Office evaluated.
But as we drove through some pleasant countryside on a bright spring morning, it occurred to me that perhaps I had a personal connection. Had I ever been there?
I dug out my tablet and found some pictures of Corbury. A typical looking little place, somewhere in the grey area between small town and large village. A parish church dating to the Normans, with ugly Victorian extensions. Several pubs, a village green turned into a car park and a Market Square dominated by a featureless three story supermarket. All very typical. I’d been in hundreds of places like it. It was still ringing bells though. I tried another search, and mentally kicked myself when I made the connection.
“Stourwood, do you recall how our Prime Minister began his political career?”
“He won a by-election, I believe. A safe seat, but he did rather well and increased the majority significantly.”
Stourwood gave me a sideways glance, wisely and accurately suspecting a trick question.
“That’s correct, but it was not his first venture into politics. Interesting that you don’t know that. It shows what a good job has been done of quietly burying that information. The fact is that he first attempted to get into parliament about ten years beforehand, running for a marginal constituency in a general election. And guess which constituency it was?”
“The one that includes Corbury?” Stourwood suggested, hopeful of redeeming himself.
“Exactly. The particular thing about it, though – and the reason why so much effort has gone into hiding it – is that he was caught out in a rather embarrassing lie!”
“A lie, Sir?”
“Well, he wouldn’t admit to it, of course. If pressed I expect he’d talk about ‘An error of judgement’ or an ‘Unfortunate miscommunication’. But the fact is that at the time he was very young, barely old enough to legally stand.”
“18”
“And about three months as I recall. But he obviously felt – and probably correctly – that he wouldn’t be taken seriously at that age, so he claimed to be 25. Managed to fool a lot of people for far longer than it should have, but of course it came out eventually and it made him the laughing stock of the election. Ended up losing his deposit and making a humiliating retreat out of public life until it had all died down and he was able to make a comeback.”
“I can see why he doesn’t want it known.”
“That’s right. Corbury is a topic he’d prefer to avoid.” I sat and reflected for a moment. “Come to think of it, I was there at the exact moment his lie was revealed.”
“Really sir? How come?”
“I was a young copper then. Drafted in to help police the election. Our man was out and about in Corbury, doing the ‘meet the public’ thing. I was ambling along behind him – there wasn’t any trouble happening, none expected.
But then there was a woman in the crowd. He was working his way along, shaking hands – she didn’t actually offer hers, but he grabbed it anyway and she looked at him like she’d had an electric shock. All wide eyes and open mouth. Which made me move a bit closer, and I heard her say to him:
“You’re too young! You’re barely 18!”
And the look on his face. Surprised, shocked, angry – but mostly, guilty. Gone in a moment, covered up with a laugh and some innocuous remark, then he was on to the next person. But he couldn’t take back that moment, and I wasn’t the only one to see it. A reporter got interested, did some digging, and next morning it was headline news.”
Stourwood pondered this for a moment, before asking the important question. “How did she know?”
I smiled. Always good when one of my team demonstrate their fitness for the job. “I’ve no idea, but I did wonder. She disappeared into the crowd, nothing further heard from her.”
“And is there a connection to this note? Apart from Corbury, that is.”
“Another good question. Well, we’re nearly there now, so lets seek some answers.”
Corbury Police Station was tucked away behind the supermarket, a block of dirty concrete tacked onto a pile of crumbling red brick. It looked like a visual representation of Multiple Personality Disorder. Inspector Krane had an office on the second floor of the concrete block. A beefy man who was probably more intelligent than he looked, he greeted us with a polite wariness and some institutionalized coffee.
“Thank you for coming down. I wasn’t sure if you’d take it seriously.”
“Threats like this we always take seriously, until we’re sure they’re not,” I told him. Not really true, but it’s sort of thing that’s expected of us. “But my question is, why did you take it seriously?”
“Because I know who it came from. Who it probably came from, that is. A lady called Juliet Morton. She’s something of a local...ah… celebrity?” He shook his head. “Celebrity is probably overstating it. But well known. Mostly for being a bit strange. Reclusive, keeps to herself. However, she does have a rather unique talent. She tells people what their birthday is.”
“Their birthday?” asked Stourwood. “So she knows how old someone is?”
“Apparently. Years back, her mother made a living as a clairvoyant. Seances, ‘Are you there, Mother’ and that sort of thing. Not terribly successful, until she brought her daughter in on it, with this date of birth trick. Local rumour said she was always right. Even people who thought she was wrong, later found out she was right.”
“Potential for trouble, there,” I suggested.
Krane nodded. “And trouble there was. Somebody of consequence discovered that they were a little older than they’d thought – and that they were therefore illegitimate. Which caused all sorts of upset. Wills were contested, harsh words were spoken, and the elder Mrs Morton was forced to abandon her career.”
“And the daughter?”
“Juliet Morton has kept a very low profile since, but she is still exercising her gift, or whatever you’d call it. She has a website, where she offers to tell people their true date of birth. For a fee, of course. Apparently she makes a comfortable living out of it.”
I nodded. “It’s surprising in this day and age that so many people know little of their own background. But here’s the question – if she can tell a persons date of birth, can she also know the date of their death?”
“She’s never made that claim.” Krane pursed his lips thoughtfully. “As far as I know. But local rumour suggests that perhaps she can.”
“I think we should visit the lady. Discreetly, of course, Inspector. I take it you have her address?”
Given her background and reputation, Juliet Morton should have lived in a dark gothic mansion, half hidden behind ominous looking trees. But she failed to conform to the stereotypes, and instead inhabited a small suburban semi at the edge of town.
Nothing remarkable about the woman herself, either. Short, plumpish, middle-aged, and entirely ordinary. She opened the door with a wary expression.
I flashed my ID at her. It was genuine – all my ID’s are – and showed me to be a senior Police Officer. “Ms Morton? My name’s Cranton. I’d like to ask you about this.” I showed her the note.
I half expected a denial, or an attempt to slam the door in my face. Instead, she nodded, with a look of weary resignation on her face, and beckoned us in.
As we followed her into a neat living room, I tried to recall the woman I’d seen in the crowd. But it had only been a glimpse, and a lot of time had passed since. There was nothing in this person to spark recognition, so I simply asked.
“Thirty two years ago, you told a young politician that he was lying about his age. Correct?”
She sat down, waved us over to a couple of armchairs. “I didn’t actually accuse him of lying. I just said he was younger than he claimed. I wish I’d kept quiet. But he grabbed my hand, and of course I knew at once. I was surprised, and blurted it out.” She shook her head regretfully. “Nowadays I wear gloves if I go out. I don’t want to touch people by mistake.”
“So you only have to touch people? To know their date of birth?” Stourwood looked sceptical.
“Just one touch,” she confirmed. “Skin to skin.”
“And their death?” I asked quietly.
She nodded.
“An unusual gift,” Stourwood commented.
“More of a curse.”
“Yet you make a good living out of it.”
“It helps some people to know the truth of their birth date. And it helps me to be able to live off that. It means I don’t have to go to work. To meet people.”
“Because if you meet people, you might touch them?” I said gently.
“I’ve found that at some point, there’s always a touch.” She sighed. “It’s remarkable how tactile people are.”
“And if you touch – you know?”
“I know.” Her gaze on me was steady, but there was no disguising the pain on her face. “Knowing when people will die… you can’t understand how much of a burden that becomes.”
“Do you learn anything else?”
She shook her head. “It’s like I see their lives as a sort of curve. Or an arc, if you like. It rises out of – somewhere, I can never see where – it goes up and comes down and finishes. Somewhere. I know when it starts, and when it ends. But what comes in between I know nothing of. Just how long it is.
Stourwood curled his lips a little. It was a role we’d agreed on beforehand, he the sceptic and I the sympathetic ear. But I suspected that he fell quite naturally into the role. “And do people pay for that knowledge as well, Ms. Morton? What’s the going rate for that information – or do you do it as a package, birth and death dates all neatly laid out together?”
She flinched. “I never tell people when they’re going to die. That’s not something that anyone really wants to find out. Sometimes they ask, but I tell them I don’t know. I only do birth dates.”
“And yet you tried to make the Prime Minister’s death date public knowledge.” I pointed out.
“No. Not public knowledge. I knew that the newspaper would never publish something like that. But I hoped it might come to someone’s attention. Someone like you.”
“Ah. And why was that, Ms. Morton? Were you hoping that we could prevent it?”
“You can’t. It’s not like I see possibilities that might lead to his death. His date of death is as certain as his date of birth. But when a Prime Minister it’s a momentous event, one that will have consequences. I thought it best that someone be warned. So that they can be prepared.”
She watched me thinking about what she’d said. “Yes, the implications are unsettling,” she said quietly, in agreement with my unspoken thoughts. “Our life, our death – is fixed. Our actions, our decisions make no difference at all.”
Stourwood was too deeply into his sceptic role to think about it. “Yes, very disturbing I’m sure. If there’s a grain of truth in it! But tell me this – why make it known now? You’ve had this knowledge for years. He’s been PM for the past three! But only in the last month before this supposed death do you come forward with it? Explain that!”
She shot a glance at me, as if in appeal.
“It’s a reasonable question, Ms. Morton,” I said.
“I suppose so. OK. There’s something else. Something I’ve only slowly become aware of over the years. It wasn’t until recently that I became concerned enough to actually check my suspicions, but when I did...”
She got up and went over to a desk in the corner. Opening one of the drawers, she took out some sheets of paper, and brought them back to the coffee table that stood between us.
“Here.” She spread the papers out. “I remember everyone who I’ve ever touched. I remember the exact length of their lives. I decided to write them down. All the dates. And then I put the results onto a graph.
“The years are along the bottom, number of deaths I know of are down the side. You see?”
I saw. It was very obvious. A long line, with only minor variations, which suddenly shot up to a peak.
“This is the Prime Minister’s death.” She indicated a cross she had marked, at the beginning of the spike. “The death of an important person. And immediately afterwards, a sharp increase in the death rate.”
She shuffled papers. “I’m not that good at mathematics. Or statistics, whatever this is. But I worked out how to correlate this result against the dates of birth. It’s quite clear that the sudden increase in deaths is most significant amongst young men. Men who will be in their twenties and thirties. In the months following the Prime Minister’s death, a disproportionately large number of these will also die.” She looked up at me. “I’m sure that you gentlemen will be able to draw better conclusions from this than me. But it appears that the PM’s death will precipitate a...” She stopped and pursed her lips. “...A conflict. A war.” She looked at Stourwood. “The deaths can’t be prevented, as I’ve said. What is going to happen, will happen. But perhaps, at least we can be prepared for this. Someone can be prepared.”
There was a long moment of silence, but it was broken by an incongruous noise – Stourwood, snorting in derision.
“Well, that was very cleverly done, Ms. Morton. Nicely put together with all these dates and charts. Quite an impressive doomsday scenario. But it all relies on one thing, doesn’t it? It all stand or falls on this remarkable ability you have. Claim to have! And where’s the proof of that?”
“You can check. Look at the dates! I’ve included names, you can find out how accurate they are!”
“But there’s a much quicker way to verify your story, isn’t there?” Stourwood was on feet, holding out his hand. “Touch me, Ms. Morton, and then tell me my date of birth.”
She had gone pale. “No. I can’t do that.”
“As I thought!” Stourwood turned to me. “I think we’re finished here, sir.”
“No! You don’t understand!” Morton had risen to her feet as well. “If I touch you, tell you your date of birth – then I will know your death as well!”
“I’m only asking for my birth date,” Stourwood said firmly.
“But you will want to know your death date,” she said. “Now you know the range of my – gift. You won’t be able to help yourself. I’ve seen it before. Even if you left here without asking, it would prey on your mind, and sooner or later you’d come back. You’d have to know. And knowing – it destroys lives. I’ve seen it. Very few people can endure that knowledge.”
Stourwood looked uncertain for the first time, and I nearly told him to forget it. We would take the papers, check every name and date, draw our conclusions from that. Perhaps it would have been better if I had. But I doubt if things would gone very differently, even so.
“I’ll take that chance,” he said firmly. He stepped forward, reached out, and grasped her hand before she had chance to back away.
She screamed, tore her hand away, and dropped back into the couch, where she snatched up a cushion and buried her face in it.
Stourwood stared at her in amazement, as I drew my pistol, stepped behind him and shot him in the back of the head.
It was a small pistol. The noise wasn’t loud and it didn’t make a big hole. I caught the body as it slumped to the floor, directing it away from the coffee table and the papers there, and quickly padded the wound with a wad of tissues from Stourwood’s own pocket. The less mess the better.
Then I looked at Morton, who was still hiding her face.
“It’s alright. It’s over now.” I’d put the gun away.
She slowly peeped over the top of the cushion. Not looking at Stourwood. Eyes huge with shock and fear, fixed on my face. She was trembling.
“I’ve never been so close before. I mean, seeing that it was about to happen. Just then, right in front of me!”
“I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing to inflict on you, but I didn’t have much choice. It’s my job.”
“Your job? But – I thought he was your man.”
“He was. But not only mine.” I shook my head and sat down again, feeling weary. “Look, my occupation is preventing threats against our nation. Threats from foreign countries, but also threats from within. Our current Prime Minister is the greatest threat our country has faced in many years. He is planning to betray us all. He has a secret meeting in a few weeks with – well, you don’t need to know. Suffice it to say, arrangements have been made to prevent him from doing what he had intended. Of course, that will precipitate a response. We knew that was likely, and now you’ve confirmed it. The Prime Minister has his supporters.” I nodded at the body. “Stourwood was one of them. If he’d known what was coming – if he’d been allowed to get word out – well, it might not have changed anything. From what you have said, the PM will die as planned. But he might have made the aftermath worse. It could become… no. You don’t need to know. I think you’re already carrying enough unwanted knowledge.”
She glanced quickly down at Stourwood, then back at me. “Are you going to kill me as well, then? With all that I know?”
I raised an eyebrow, and she shook her head.
“I can’t see my own life. I’m as much in the dark about that as anyone.” She kept her eyes on mine, and I could she she was shaking. “But I don’t want to die. Please.”
“I’m not going to kill you. Promise. There’s no need. Very few people know about this, and I can make sure it doesn’t go any further. In fact, I’m going to do what I can to keep you safe in the unrest that’s coming.”
“Why? Oh. Of course. You want to make use of me.”
“I’m sorry. Your gift is too powerful, too useful to be ignored.” I stepped over Stourwood and sat down next to her. “I appreciate that it is hard for you. But it makes you valuable. And it’s a way of serving your country.”
I reached out a hand to hold hers. At times like this, the simple comfort of a human touch can mean more than any words.
She watched my hand move towards hers. And saw it stop and move back, as I thought again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.” But she didn’t look up again. Just sobbed quietly into her cushion. * At the end of each day, a man comes and takes away the notes she has made. The lists of names, and dates. Two dates to each name.
She lives in a flat above the office. She is well provided for. She spends her time alone. She drinks, and tries not to think about the people she has met that day, the hands she has shaken, the dates she has recorded. She drinks a lot. But not too much, because next day there will be more people to meet, and more dates to record.
That’s her job. She is serving her country. She wishes she could see her own life line, to know how long it must continue.
Arc of Life 2 (Alternative Western)
Out front of his office, Sheriff Davy Crane had put a chair, with comfortable if well-worn cushions, and positioned just right for him to sit back with his legs on the hitching rail and look over his town.
Corbury Creek wasn’t a big town, and most of it was along Main Street: the saloon, the general store, the livery stable, a barbers and a small church. That, and a few dwellings pretty much made up the whole thing, and the Sheriff could see them all from his chair.
He could also see the road into town (which was also the road out of town, being as Corbury Creek was the end of the road). So he saw the two riders in good time, well before they passed the sign at the outskirts.
First thing, he figured on them being Mining Engineers. There had been some talk about a new working being started over to Shayne, ‘bout twenty miles north of Corbury. Iron ore, some were saying over a few drinks in the saloon, though there were always a few dreamers holding out for gold, or at least silver. Either way, stood to reason that there might be something worth digging for round Corbury Creek as well, and hopes were high. A mine could bring some prosperity and growth to the town.
But as the riders got closer, Davy changed his mind. Sure, they were dressed in fancy city clothes and you wouldn’t mistake them for ranch hands, but they had a look about them that made him take his feet of the rail and loosen his gun in its holster. A keenness in their eyes as they looked around the town, and a hardness in their faces, and Davy’d lay a dollar or two that their business wasn’t with digging. Lessen’ it was a grave.
They stopped in front of him. “Take it you’re the Sheriff here?” said the older of the two. Thin face, greying moustache.
Davy, still sitting in his chair, flicked at the badge on his shirt, and nodded up at the sign above the office door. “Like it says. Help you gentlemen?”
“Likely you can.” The two men dismounted, hitched their horses and flashed badges at Davy. Much finer badges than the battered metal star he’d shown them, and bearing the words ‘Deputy Marshal’. “I’m Cranton,” said the older man. “This here’s Stourwood.” The red-haired younger man nodded to Davy. “Can we talk inside?” He had an East coast accent, Davy thought. An educated man.
Davy nodded and led the way in. It wasn’t a big space – desk, a few chairs and a stove with a coffee pot. The back of the office was barred off to form a cell, currently unoccupied. Cranton tossed a newspaper onto the desk.
“Fort Harding Banner,” he said. “From two weeks back.” He opened it up and pointed out a small section that someone had drawn a ring round. “See that? That’s why we’re here.”
It was just one line, which Davy read aloud. “The President will die on the 23rd day of next month, at half-past three in the afternoon.” “So that’s the 23rd of this month, then. And I heard tell that the President’s passing through Fort Harding that day?”
“That’s just so, Sheriff. On his way to California in his own private train, looking to build his support out there with a personal visit. He’s aiming for another term, and reckons California could help him to it. Plans on making a short stop in Fort Harding – no secret about that, whole town’s fixin’ to make a party out of it.”
“Would kinda spoil things if he died there,” Davy observed.
“That’s right. Now, we wouldn’t take too much notice of things like this in the ordinary way. There’s always someone making threats against the President, and mostly it’s not worth spit, but this is a little too specific for our liking. So we’d like to talk to the person who had put this in.”
“And you’re thinking they’re from Corbury Creek?”
“Man at the newspaper office thinks so. Woman in her forties, dark hair. Says she comes into town sometimes and does a little fortune telling, thinks she lives out this way. Thought maybe you could put a name to that?”
Davy nodded. “Maybe I can. Sounds like you’re looking for July.”
“Julie?”
He shook his head. “July. Like the month. Don’t know what other names she has, if any. But she’s got a place ‘bout a mile or so out of town.”
“If you can point us in the right direction...”
“Best I take you. Kinda hard to find otherwise. I’ll go get my horse.”
The road ended in Corbury Creek, but there were several trails leading further on. Davy took one that led up into higher country.
“So what can you tell us about this here July woman?” asked Stourwood after they’d been riding a spell. “Whatever sort of damn name that is.” He wasn’t as refined in his speech as Cranton.
“Not a lot. She keeps to herself, mostly. Keeps a few cattle, some hogs, comes into town now and then for supplies. Like the newspaper man says, she does a little fortune telling here and there. Heard tell her grandpappy was an Indian Medicine Man, but I don’t know the truth of that. According to her, she was brought up in a circus, out East, and her Mama did some fortune telling there. Born in July, they say, which accounts for the name. Both her parents died, and she tired of the travelling, so came out here to settle down.”
“She show any interest in politics, or the President?” Cranton wanted to know.
“Never heard her speak of it. But then, she don’t speak of much at all.”
“Doesn’t like people, then?”
Davy shrugged. “Never caused any trouble. Just prefers her own company, I guess.”
“What about this fortune telling?” Stourwood was looking sceptical. “Just hogwash, by my reckoning. Are folks round here dumb enough to go for it?”
Davy gave him a long look. “Seems to me that folks round here are no dumber than anywhere else. Sure, they’ll sometimes give her a few nickels to hear what she can tell ‘em. But mostly it’s for the fun of it.”
Stourwood was clearly unconvinced. “Well, if they’re not dumb, reckon they’d be pretty well roostered to get scooped into something like that.”
Davy wasn’t liking his attitude. “Could be. But it’s a fact that she knows things.”
“What things?”
“Well, she can tell you your birthday.”
“My birthday? What sort of fortune telling is that?”
Cranton put his word in. “She knows people’s date of birth?”
“That’s right. She can tell anyone the day they where born, down to the exact hour. Even folks that didn’t know the date themselves.”
“Yeah, well that’s easy enough, then!” Stourwood sneered. “They don’t know the date you can tell ‘em anything! Anywise, I’ve seen how these things work. There’s usually a plant, somewhere. She shouts out a name, a date, and they stand up and shout ‘That’s right!’ After that, everyone believes anything she says.”
Davy opened his mouth to tell Stourwood that that wasn’t how she worked. She didn’t do big meetings. But Cranton cut in.
“I think you’re missing the point here,” he said to Stourwood. “The thing the Sheriff is telling us is, if she really does know people’s birth-dates, then perhaps she knows their death-dates as well? That right, Sheriff?”
“You can ask her yourself,” Davy answered. The woodland they’d been riding through opened out ahead of them, revealing a small cabin and a few cattle grazing in the distance. As they approached a woman stepped out of the door and leaned on the wall as she watched them. She looked relaxed, but she was cradling a scatttergun in her arms.
“Don’t seem too neighbourly, greetin’ us with a gun,” Stourwood muttered. Both he and Cranton had pistols under their fancy jackets – Colt Navy’s, Davy reckoned from the brief glimpse he got - and right now Stourwood’s right hand was moving a little too close to his.
“These parts, folks are wary of strangers,” Davy reassured them. “Don’t mean they ain’t good neighbours, once you get to know them.” He waved at the woman. “Afternoon, Miss July!” he shouted.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” she shouted back. “You’ve brought company?”
“As you see.” Davy got to a more comfortable distance for talking before he continued. “This here’s Deputy Marshals Cranton and Stourwood. They’d like a word with you.”
July looked them over, and they did the same to her. A strong woman – not just physically, there was a sense about her, in her stance and her face and perhaps in her eyes, that this was a person who didn’t shy away from life, no matter how tough it got.
“You’d best come in, then,” she said, and led the way inside.
It might be a backwoods cabin, but she kept it neat. Not much in the way of furniture – a cast iron stove for cooking and heating, a bed to one side, table and a chair, a cupboard and shelves.
July put her gun on the table, and took the chair that stood with it. There was a bench along one wall, which the Marshal’s sat on, whilst Davy set himself down on the bed. Cranton held up the newspaper.
“This here piece in the ‘Banner’. Did you put that in?”
She barely glanced at it. “Happen I did.”
Cranton frowned. “Pretty controversial thing to say. Telling folks that the President’s going to die.”
“We’re all going to die, Marshal. Only a question of when.”
“Yes, well, that’s the point, isn’t it. You seem mighty certain about the when. We’re wondering how come?”
“I’ve got a gift. If you can call it that. Surprised the Sheriff didn’t tell you.”
“He told us you can tell a person when they were born.”
She shrugged. “Born and died. If’n I touch someone, I see both. The beginning and the end. Of course, I don’t talk so much about the end. It’s no trouble for folks to hear their birth-date. But they don’t much like to know ‘bout the other.”
“So why this in the paper? Why tell everyone the President’s going to die?”
“Well, the President’s kinda important, ain’t he? Now, no-account folks like us, we die, no one’s gonna make much fuss about it. But a President dies, that’s gonna cause a lot of problems, I reckon. I thought it’d be good to have a little warning. People might want to get ready for it. ‘Specially as it seems he’s goin’ to be in Fort Harding. That’s a big thing to be happening in a little place like that.” She nodded, as if confirming the thought to herself. “Folks need to be ready.”
“I ain’t buyin’ it,” said Stourwood. Blunt as a rusty axe, he continued “You’re lyin’. And it’s plain enough, ‘cos you just said yourself that you need to touch someone before you know when they’re gonna die. When did someone like you ever get to touch the President of the United States?”
“Long time before he was President. Back when my Ma and me were out East, travelling with a circus. One time, we were someplace in Pennsylvania. The President, he was running for Governor, or Senator – I don’ remember which, but he set up at the circus, gave a speech, came round shaking hands and saying hello. Right friendly. He asked my Ma to tell him if he was going to win, so she got him in her tent and gave him the full spiel. That included me shaking his hand, and then I knew his date of birth. Which I told her – we had some signs and such to pass that on – and she told him, which impressed him no end. Then she went on and told him what he wanted to hear. That’s how it worked.
Of course, I also knew when he’d die, but he didn’t ask about that, and we wouldn’t have told him anyways. Like I said, folk don’t like to hear it.”
“Lady, you tell a good story, but it’s all ballyhoo.” Stourwood stood up, walked over to July, and glared down at her. “So you tell us just how you know when the President’s gonna die. And I mean now!”
It might have been intimidating for a woman, to have a man looming over her and talking sharp like that. But if that was what Stourwood had hoped for, he was disappointed. July met his gaze full on and didn’t even flinch.
“You don’t believe me?” She held up her hand. “You want proof? Touch me and I’ll tell you when you were born. And when you’re gonna die, if you care to hear it.”
“The hell with that!” Stourwood stepped back and in the same moment, had his gun out and pointed at July. “You just damn well tell me the truth, or I’ll open a hole in your head and see if there’s any sense in there!”
“Hey, now wait a minute!” said Davy, sitting up and reaching for his gun, but Cranton had his out already, slick and smooth and fast as greased lightening. Out and pointing at Davy.
“You just settle back there, Sheriff,” he said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Davy carefully moved his hands away from his own pistol. “Who in tarnation are you? Not Marshall’s, that’s for damn sure!”
Stourwood chuckled, without taking his eyes off July. “You catch on fast, Sheriff!”
“We’re just businessmen,” said Cranton, “Looking to safeguard our investment.”
“I’m guessing you’re investment has something to do with the President dying.” Davy was thinking that if Cranton’s gaze shifted, even for a moment, he’d go for his gun. It wouldn’t be much of a chance, but it might be the only one he got. But Cranton showed no sign of giving him that chance.
“Good guess!” said Stourwood. “See, there’s some folks think that the President shouldn’t get a second term. Maybe shouldn’t finish this one. So we’ve invested a lot of time and effort to make sure that happens.”
“For a price.” July stared back at Stourwood, not looking at all intimidated by his gun or his threats.
“Well, of course for a price,” Stourwood sneered. “But you’re still not answering my question. How come you know the day and even the time when this is going to happen? Who talked to you? And what else do you know? How does it happen? Where?”
“”Can’t help you with that,” she answered. “What I see is, folks come out of someplace – don’t ask me where – and they travel through life in a sort of curve.” She drew one in the air. “When the curve finishes, they go back somewhere. Or go on somewhere, or maybe they just finish. I can’t see that, and I can’t see anything in between. I don’t know any how or why or even where. Just when.”
“And what about your life?” Stourwood extended his arm forward until the muzzle of his Colt was touching July’s forehead. He was grinning as he did it. “Can you see it ending – any moment now!”
“I can’t see my own life,” July said softly. “Never could. I don’t know when I’m gonna die.”
As she spoke, she reached up slowly and gently, rested just one finger on the hand that held the gun to her head. “But I see yours,” she continued. “You’re exactly 26 years and five days old. How about that, we just missed your birthday!”
Stourwood’s eyes widened, and the smile slipped from his face. “No,” he said. “You don’t know that. You can’t know that!”
“But I’m right, ain’t I?” July nodded. “Yeah, I’m right. And do you want to know when you die?”
There was a long, long moment. An eternity stretching out over a second, whilst Stourwood licked his lips and July laid the rest of her hand alongside the finger that touched him and Cranton’s eye’s started to slip away from Davy.
“Now,” said July. And as she said it she pushed Stourwood’s hand aside, and his pistol with it, whilst her other hand came up holding a knife which slid neatly through his fancy vest and between his ribs and into his heart.
His gun went off, deafening loud, and Cranton half turned, his pistol following, and in the same moment that it was no longer pointing at him, Davy had his hand on the grip of his ‘45. Didn’t wait to draw, just lifted his leg, cocked and fired all in the same movement, shooting through the bottom of the holster.
Cranton made a ‘whuff’ sort of sound and folded up in the middle, falling backwards to the floor. He tried to lift his gun, but Davy drew his properly and fired again, putting the fake Deputy flat out on his back.
Stourwood had dropped his gun and was on his knees, still staring at July while blood bubbled out of his mouth. He tried to say something, but then slumped over sideways.
There was a long silence as July and Davy looked at each other and at the bodies.
“That right? That you don’t know when you’re gonna die?” asked Davy. She shook her head. “Works on everybody except myself.”
“Heck of a risk to take, then.”
“Not really. He was gonna shoot me anyway – but once I touched him, I knew his time was up. Of course, I guess he might have killed me as well, but I figure I got off lightly. Half deaf and maybe got a powder burn on my cheek, but that’s a lot better than a hole in the head.” July touched her face gently and winced. “You?”
“Well, I’m still breathin’, which is a better result than I’d figured on a moment ago.”
“No, you were never goin’ to die today. I could have told you that.”
“And I’ve told you before, I don’t want to know! Why take the excitement out of life?” He examined his boots. “Hey, that was lucky! Thought that shot might have taken the sole off ‘em, and these are good boots!”
“You’re lucky you didn’t shoot your foot off, you damn fool! What the hell did you think you were about?”
Davy shook his head. “That Cranton was fast with his gun. Didn’t want to give him any time at all.”
“His time’s all run out. What’ll we do now?”
“I’ll take these bodies into Fort Harding, see Sheriff Mackensie there, get word to the real Marshall’s. Have to see if there’s anyone else in on this plot.”
“He’s still gonna die, you know. The President. Can’t stop that.”
“Guess not. But at least these two won’t profit by it. Let’s get them outside, they’re bleeding all over your floor.”
Arc of Life 3 (Steampunk)
Field Marshal Sir August Cranton, Lord Delamere, Knight Commander of the Imperial Order and Head of Imperial Security stood at parade rest and stared out at a magnificent vista of boiling clouds, laced with savage flares of lightening. His Imperial Majesty’s Sky-Ship Terrible – currently acting as his mobile headquarters – was cruising just a few thousand feet above the storm and late afternoon sunlight shone brilliantly on the cloudscape. A difficult place to be, in that the aethersphere would be disturbed and unpredictable, but Cranton had every confidence that the Wandsmen were adequate to the task. They would not have been aboard the Terrible otherwise.
Behind him, the door opened. There were only three people who would enter his private office uninvited: the King, who was not aboard, the Captain, who was on the bridge, and his personal assistant. The light but firm tread of footsteps confirmed it was the latter, and Cranton did not trouble to turn from the view.
“My Lord, the Captain sends his compliments and informs you that we will begin our descent to Corbury within the half-hour. He advises that, due to the storm below, our passage may become quite rough.” The lighting was such that Cranton could see his assistant’s reflection quite clearly in the wide armour glass window. As always, Melissa Stourwood was demurely dressed in dark green, a shade that exactly matched his own uniform, with just a sprinkle of silver lace at collar and cuffs to reflect the silver epaulettes of Imperial Security. It would of course have been inappropriate for Stourwood to wear actual uniform, but he noted her imitation of his own and approved. He felt it showed her appreciation of the unusual and privileged position she held. A position she had come to by being his niece, but had retained with hard work and ability.
Plus which, the colour set off her red hair very nicely.
“Thank the Captain for me, Miss Stourwood.”
“Yes sir. And we have just received this aethergraph from Captain Crane.”
Lord Cranton turned, took the slip of flimsy blue paper from her, and read the message aloud.
“Confirmed Sir Julian Morton currently resident at Morton Hall. Interviews with locals confirms his alleged abilities. Hall under surveillance, no arrivals / departures in last 24 hours. Awaiting your arrival. Crane.”
He turned to his desk, and set the aethergraph down. The broad expanse of polished oak was broken only by a green blotter, a black enamel pen, and another slip of blue paper, which Lord Cranton now picked up.
“I see Crane sent this from Corbury Police Station. Has Technical Division yet given any indication of where this came from?”
Stourwood joined him at the desk. Crane’s message was preceded by a string of letters and numerals, the code that indicated its origin and destination. The other slip had only the numbers 0000 before the text – a code indicating distribution to all operating aethergraphs, with no information as to the originating station.
“They have promised a full report in due course, sir. But their preliminary findings are that this could only have been sent by an unregistered aethergraph machine.”
Cranton made a derisive noise. “Of which there are only three in the country! One is in the Palace, one is at Imperial Military HQ, and one is here on this ship. We need a better answer than that, Stourwood.”
“Hopefully Sir Julian will be able to throw some light on it, Sir.” “Maybe. So far, it’s the only lead we have – and my thanks to you for it, Stourwood. All those supposedly bright young men in the Intelligence Office and it’s a young woman like yourself who makes the only useful connection!”
“It was just a bit of gossip I heard, My Lord.”
“Ah, you women are always listening to gossip! But in this case, it may actually be of value.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Sir Julian Morton. You know, I believe I met this fellow once. . At one of those Palace affairs the King holds to patronise the lesser nobility. Odd sort, but I wouldn’t have pegged him as an insurrectionist. Still, you never know, do you?”
He thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desktop. “However, better not to have all our eggs in one basket, eh? Send a message to the London Office. The aethergraph factory is to be closed down with immediate effect and put under direct control of Imperial Security. All workers to be arrested and held for interrogation. If someone’s built an illegal aethergraph, Stourwood, then it’s someone at the factory and we’ll dig them out! Get that off before we land.”
“Yes sir.” Stourwood placed several sheets of paper on the desk. “Before I attend to that, My Lord, I wonder if you might sign these?”
He gave them a suspicious look. “What’s this? More damned administration, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Just routine matters, but necessary.”
Lord Cranton glanced at the top sheet. “Requisition for uniform belt buckles? Why am I being bothered with this?”
“Owing to the recent increase in the numbers of Security Officers, this has become a major budget item, sir, and must therefore have your approval.”
“Damned inconvenience. Still, if that’s the price we have to pay to maintain order...” he picked up the pen, signed the form, and proceeded to sign the other papers without looking at them. “Good thing you’ve got your eye on the ball, Melissa. Going to be damned inconvenient when you leave and I have train some young idiot to do the job!”
The abrupt switch from formal to personal indicated a change of subject. Melissa was well used to this approach and knew perfectly well what was forthcoming.
“As long as you’re happy with my work here, Uncle, I have no reason to leave. And no desire to do so.”
“Um. Well, that’s as maybe. But you’re not getting any younger, m’dear, and it’s well time you were getting married and having children. Matter of duty, after all. To the family and the Empire!” He nodded at the aethergraph messages. “This man Crane, for example. Had my eye on him for a while. Good man. Might fit the bill. I’ll think on it.”
“Yes, Uncle. Perhaps I should accompany you when you interview Sir Julian? It would give me a chance to meet Captain Crane myself.”
“What? Is that necessary?” He waved a hand to forestall her explanation. “Never mind. I don’t see any harm in you tagging along if you wish. Should be safe enough with myself and Crane there.”
“Thank you, Uncle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to that message before we land.”
Lord Cranton waved at her again, this time in dismissal. He returned his attention to the mysterious aethergraph slip, and read it aloud. “ ‘The King will die on the 23rd day of next month, at half-past three in the afternoon.’ ” He slammed his fist down on the desk in annoyance. “Damned insurrectionists!”
The Terrible burst through the low clouds in a burst of purple aether-fire. Despite the conditions, the Captain’s navigation was exemplary: the lights of Corbury shone in the evening gloom just half-a-mile to the south, whilst Morton Hall was almost directly below them. Some smart work by the Wandsmen brought the sky-ship to a safe landing on the wide lawn before the house, which was dwarfed by the vessel’s bulk. The aetherwands were withdrawn into their housings, save for a few which remained active to provide power to the ship’s electrical systems. Such us the upper gun turrets, which had been brought to bear on the house and its approaches.
Hatches opened, ramps lowered, and a company of marines marched out, weapons at port, and fell in facing the house. The officer in command turned and saluted as Lord Cranton descended, with his assistant following behind. Cranton had added to his uniform a service revolver, holstered, and his gold-braided cap: Melanie wore a shawl over her dress, a bonnet in the same dark green, and was carrying a small ladies handbag. She thought that they looked exactly like a senior military officer and younger female relative about to pay a formal call, rather than Security Officers attempting to forestall a major national crisis.
“Surround the house, Major,” Cranton ordered. “No one to enter or leave. Any person who attempts to do so is to be arrested for questioning by Security.”
“Yes Sir!” barked the Major. “Will you require our support within the house?”
“I doubt it. Keep your men clear unless I specifically instruct otherwise. This is a Security matter, and the less you know about it the better! Ah – here’s Crane.”
Crane approached from the edge of the lawn, a tall and broad-shouldered man with a military moustache. Being in civilian clothing, he did not salute, but stood smartly to attention.
“At ease, Captain. Let me introduce my niece and assistant, Miss Melissa Stourwood.” His niece and assistant may have noticed the slight emphasis he put on ‘Miss’: Crane certainly did, smiling broadly and raising his hat. “Melissa, Captain David Crane of Imperial Security – but of course you already knew that. Well, lets get on with it.” He set off towards the house, Crane by his side and Melissa following behind. “Now, what intelligence have you gathered on this man, Captain?”
“Well, sir, Sir Julian seems to be a very popular man in the local area. Among the lower classes at any rate. He’s made himself something of a nuisance to the authorities hereabouts, calling for the ‘rights of the common person’ to be respected and even challenging court rulings he considers ‘unjust’.”
“Ah. A troublemaker and disturber of the peace, eh? And this supposed ability he has?”
Crane looked discomfited. “As to that sir, there’s a lot of strange stories going round. It’s generally believed that he only has to touch you to know your exact date of birth, down to the very hour!”
“Some ridiculous party trick! Easy enough to find out when someone was born, there are parish records after all. Still, I suppose it impresses the locals. People of that class are always gullible.”
“Yes sir. Only, there have been cases where the person concerned has had no record of their birth-date. But when Sir Julian told them, they’ve been able to confirm it. One young man apparently discovered that the man he thought his father could not have been, having been away at sea when he was conceived. The fellow’s mother had lied about his true age to hide her infidelity, but confessed all when confronted!”
“Hah! Damned embarrassing! But there’ll be more to that story than there appears, mark my words. Dig into it and you’ll no doubt find that some money changed hands. Morton’s money, I would suggest – spent to build up his reputation for esoteric knowledge.”
“I dare say you’re right, sir,” said Crane. “But there’s another side to this. It’s also said – though more discreetly – that he can also tell you the date of your death, with the same accuracy! Some interesting stories about regarding that, I can tell you!”
“Oh, I’m sure there are.” They had reached the front doors of Morton Hall. Away from the presence of the Terrible, the house became more imposing. A tall building of dark stone, walls and shuttered windows rising to sharp roofs and pointed towers. Very much the sort of place you might expect to find someone who could see both birth and death, Melissa decided, though she kept the thought to herself. In any case, her uncle was still speaking.
“This fellow is out to stir up trouble, Crane. That’s clear enough. Well, we’ll soon put a stop to it. You have your pistol, of course?”
“Sir!”
“Very good. Keep it handy, just in case, though I doubt if we shall need it. I know this sort: likes to work in the shadows, but when we confront him directly he’ll sing a different tune! See to the door, Captain.”
The door was in keeping with the rest of the house: large and of solidly built of dark wood and black iron. It occurred to Melissa that, should it be locked, then Captain Crane would be hard pressed to ‘See to the door’ on his own. However, it swung smoothly open on his approach, revealing a middle-aged man in a servant’s uniform.
“Good evening, Sirs. And Madam,” he added, seeing Melissa. “Your arrival was noted, and Sir Julian awaits you in the conservatory. If you would follow me.”
The servant led them across a wide entrance hall and down a corridor. At the back of the house, double doors opened into a long room, walled and roofed entirely in glass. Even in the dull light that had found its way through the lowering clouds, there was no need of other illumination. It could be quite clearly seen that the conservatory was a haven for flowers of all kinds. Melissa was not an expert in horticulture, but thought some must be orchids. However, there were many other more mundane species visible, including several varieties of rose. On this overcast day, the intensity of the colours was muted, but not so its heady aromas.
Lord Cranton sneezed, and muttered something under his breath. Melissa couldn’t make out the words, but the tone indicated displeasure. He marched forward, leading the way along a narrow path between the blooms.
At the far end of the room a space opened up, sufficient to contain a small table, several chairs, and a dark haired man of indeterminate age Seated at the table, he was in the process of carefully pruning a potted flower. He did not stand as they approached, or even look up, but began speaking to them all the same.
“You perhaps wonder at my interest in flowers. I think the truth of it is, quite simply, that my peculiar talent does not work on plant life. I have no idea when they will die – other than what I have learned from experience, of course – and you cannot imagine what a relief it is, to tend a living thing and not to know at once precisely how long it will remain living. It makes working with them seem to have a point, as if by my actions, by my caring I can actually make a difference.”
He put down his tools and looked up at them at last. “I presume that is why you are here? My talent, so called?”
Lord Cranton took the aethergraph message slip from his pocket and slammed it down on the table. “We are here because of this! Are you or are you not the author of this threat?”
Sir Julian looked at the message. “I did not send this message – I have no aethergraph, nor any access to one – but the information it contains certainly originated with me.” He met Cranton’s glare with a steady gaze. “I was half expecting a visit from Imperial Security, but I am surprised to find its Commanding Officer attending on me in person. And in such style! Had I known you planned to land a sky-ship on my lawn, I would have had it properly prepared. I’m afraid that aetherfire is very damaging to grass.”
“I am not concerned with your grass!” Cranton snapped. “I am here in person because you have made threats against the King! That is a threat to the very lynch-pin of our nation, and I take that very seriously, even if you do not!”
Sir Julian shook his head. “Forgive me if I seem facetious, My Lord. It’s just my way of facing these matters. But please allow me to correct you on one point. I have made no threats against the King, or against our nation.”
“No threats? Then what am I reading here!” Cranton stabbed a finger at the paper in emphasis. “You tell us that the King will die – you even name the very day and hour! Tomorrow, in fact! How is that not a threat?”
“It is not a threat because I have no part in causing it. I merely share the information.”
“Oh, so you’re an innocent party in all this, eh? I doubt that! I know your game, Morton. You’ve spent years building up this ridiculous reputation for being able to predict people’s death, and now you’ve somehow managed to get your hands on an aethergraph to spread this message far and wide. Panic and confusion, that’s what you’re looking for. And this – some sort of signal to your insurrectionist friends? Planning to start an uprising, are you? Do you have assassins preparing to carry out your ‘prediction’?”
“I’ve made no secret of my politics, Cranton. And yes, I’d like to see a change of government. Nor do I have any affection for the King – a cruel and stupid man, who’s reign has been a disaster for the common people of the Empire. But I have not planned an uprising, and if His Majesty dies at the hands of assassins then I will not have brought it about.”
“The King will not die at all!” Cranton asserted. “He has been taken to a place of safety, and security around his person has been tripled! No assassin will get within a mile of him, I promise you.”
“I’m sure you know your business, My Lord. But he will die, none the less.”
Sir Julian leaned forward, took a small knife from his collection of pruning tools, and scratched a line in the already well worn surface of the table. It began at the edge, described an arc across the wood, and finished back at the edge.
“When I touch someone, I see their life as a curving line, like this one. I see where it begins” - he indicated the point where he had begun the line - “and I see where it ends.” He tapped the other end with his blade. “We come into life, we travel through it, we leave it. I know nothing of the journey. I cannot see the circumstances of their birth, the events of their life, or the manner of their death. But I am never wrong about the times.” He sat back in his chair. “The King will indeed die. Perhaps by accident, perhaps by illness. Given his reputation, he will quite likely drink himself to death. But I will not have caused it.”
Standing behind her uncle, Mellisa noticed a red flush creeping up his neck, and was prepared for the explosion that followed.
“ENOUGH, MAN! Enough of your NONSENSE! Do you think me some gullible peasant to believe this – this – FOOLISHNESS!” Struggling for words, Lord Cranton compensated with volume. “You – you – CHARLATAN!”
Sir Julian looked at him and said, very quietly, “24th of March, 1895.” Arrested in fully flow, Lord Cranton stared at him, speechless for a moment. “What?” he finally got out.
“Your date of birth. 24th March, 1895. I shook hands with you, several years ago at some court function – do you remember? I shook hands with the King as well, same event.”
“I – that means nothing. Nothing!” Lord Cranton began to recover himself. “My date of birth is on record.”
“You were born at half-past-ten in the morning. Is that on record?” Sir Julian leant forward. “And would you like to know when you will die, My Lord?”
The red flush had spread to his cheeks, but Cranton was very much in control himself, and spoke again in a tight, controlled voice.
“Sir Julian Morton, I am placing you under arrest. You will be taken into the custody of the Imperial Security Forces and held under my personal authority for questioning. You will divulge all you know of this plot and those involved in it, and when I am satisfied that you have said everything I wish to hear, you will go to trial on a charge of treason and insurrection – for which the penalty is death. Tell me, Sir Julian, how long a life do you predict for yourself?”
Sir Julian had gone pale. As well he might, thought Melissa, for he had just heard a fate of long torture and certain death pronounced on him – no matter the official wording used. Imperial Security had a sinister reputation.
But he replied steadily enough. “I don’t know my own death. That has always been hidden from me. But I think I will probably outlast you, my Lord. You only have a few minutes left: use them wisely!”
“Hah!” Cranton made a noise somewhere between contempt and amusement. “You think you can frighten me? I’ll see to it that you regret the attempt! Captain Crane – take this man back to the Terrible, find him a cell!”
“Yes, Sir,” said Crane. He reached inside his jacket and produced a short-barrelled revolver, which he kept pointed at Sir Julian’s head as he came round the table. “I suggest you come quietly, you’ll find it preferable!”
“Come quietly? Give myself up to the travesty of justice that Imperial Security dispenses? I think not!”
He moved much faster than anyone expected – least of all Crane. As the Captain came within reach, Sir Julian lashed out with his left hand, knocking the pistol aside, whilst driving forward with his right. The right hand, that still held the little pruning knife. Little, but very sharp, and long enough to go through waistcoat and shirt and flesh, up between ribs and into Crane’s heart.
The Captain’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened in shock. If he made a noise it was drowned in the sound of his pistol firing, the bullet decapitating a yellow rose before smashing its way into a large planter.
Lord Cranton swore, flipped open his button down holster and had his own weapon out and aimed in one fluid motion. But Crane had fallen forward, obstructing his aim. He stepped to one side, looking for a clear shot, but there was a sharp report from behind him and a massive blow to his shoulder. He staggered, gun falling from his hand, legs giving way to send him sprawling.
He landed half on his side, rolled onto his back and looked up at his niece. She was holding a pistol, a double-barrelled little thing, small enough to fit into her handbag. One of the barrels was still smoking. The other she was aiming at his head.
“Wait!” said Sir Julian. He had pushed Crane’s body off him and risen shakily to his feet. “Not yet, Melissa. He still has a few moments.”
“What difference does it make?” she asked, but didn’t fire.
“Melissa...” gasped Lord Cranton. “You? Why?”
“Because of what I’ve seen, Uncle. Especially in these last few years. The oppression, the injustice. The cruelty. The way you use aetheric technology to maintain power and wealth for the few, when it could be a boon to all.”
“No… you don’t understand. We keep order. Stability. Best for all. The aether, it is too powerful to be let loose. You have no idea… we must keep control. For everyone.”
He sank back. He was growing weak. The dark sky above was even darker than before. His pistol lay on the floor, nearby, but he couldn’t reach it.
“Not for everyone. Just for yourselves.”
“But you are one of us!”
She shook her head. “I have renounced that. All my privileges of class. And what privileges were they anyway? The privilege of being forced into a marriage I did not want, made to have children to serve your narrow Imperial dream? Preserving the rule of some drunken lout like the King, or people like yourself, Uncle? I’ve seen the truth about your world, your dream – and my conscience would not allow me to remain in it.”
“The message – that was you?”
“Yes. From your own aethergraph. Which is why you couldn’t trace it.”
“I was right then. It was a signal.” Cranton could feel a coldness creeping up his limbs. But if he could hold on... The shots must have been heard. The Marines would come. “A signal for insurrection.”
“Yes, Uncle. A signal. But more than that. A pretext to bring you here.”
“Why?”
“We knew exactly when you would die, of course. But not how. And the manner of your death is important, Uncle – especially when it is so closely followed by that of the King. We needed you out of the way – you are the single biggest obstacle to a successful insurrection – but not in a way that might cause a major Security operation. Better, we thought, if you were to die in some quiet place. Better if the fact of your death could be hidden for a while. Better if no one but us knows what happened.”
“The Marines...” he gasped out. It was getting harder to breath. He coughed, and tasted blood. The bullet must have touched a lung.
“You ordered the Marines to stay outside, remember? And when I go back to the Terrible it will be with written orders from you. The Marines will re-embark, the ship will return to London. No one will question them. Who would dare?”
“I will... not sign... any such order.” It came out much weaker than he’d intended.
Melissa shook her head. “You already did. On the ship, before we landed. Along with the requisition for belt buckles. And the orders that will come into force when the King dies. Security Forces to stand down. The Army restricted to barracks.” She leaned closer. “It’s a long time since you checked what I gave you to sign. You could never be bothered with all that routine administration. And I will be aboard the Terrible, with your aethergraph, ready to answer queries, confirm orders and give further instruction – all in your name. By the time anyone starts to ask where you actually are, it will be too late. The insurrection will be unstoppable.”
“You treacherous, murdering...” He had to stop for breath. “Damn you Melissa!”
“It’s time,” said Sir Julian.
“Damn you first, Uncle,” said Melissa, and shot him cleanly through the head.
She lowered the gun slowly, then looked up at Sir Julian.
After a moment, she asked “What would have happened if I hadn’t shot him the second time?”
Julian shrugged. “He would have died anyway. He would have died then even if you hadn’t shot him at all – though he would probably have shot me first! Don’t dwell on it. I’ve discovered it’s pointless trying to make sense of it all. The human mind cannot encompass the implications. Things happen as they happen: we accept it and move on.”
“Yes.” Melissa took a deep breath and began reloading her pistol. “Time, indeed, to move on. I must get back to the ship and pass on Lord Cranton’s orders. You’d better get your servants to move these bodies.”
“I’ll have to fetch them. I ordered them over to the other side of the house. If things had gone awry, I wouldn’t want them involved.”
“One more thing...” Melissa put her gun away, stepped over her Uncle’s body, and quite deliberately touched Sir Julian’s face. “Tell me,” she ordered.
He flinched from her hand, then took it gently in his own and shook his head. “Why? That sort of knowledge is too much. It ruins lives – I’ve seen it. I wish I didn’t know. I don’t want you to have that burden.”
“I have to know that I will live long enough to see this through. Please Julian. I’m not expecting this to end well for me. I know the risk. I just need to know that I will have time enough to make it worthwhile.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then stepped forward, took her in his arms, and whispered into her ear. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and held on to him for a moment, before stepping back again, face composed.
“That will suffice. Thank you, Sir Julian.” She turned abruptly, and left without any further farewell.
Sir Julian looked after her long after she had left the conservatory. For perhaps the millionth time, he silently wished that this strange and awful talent had passed him by: or if it had to come to him, that he might at least know how long he must bear it.
Conclusions: what changed with the genre?
(NB – ARC 1 is written in first person, the others in third. That’s not connected with the genre, just my own whim!)
1. The first change I noticed was in the characters themselves. Put them in a different world, and they become slightly different people. The most obvious example of this was the ‘gifted’ person. In the first story, Juliet is a shy, withdrawn woman, who keeps people at a distance. In the second story, July also keeps to herself, but is far from shy and withdrawn. Living alone in a remote place means that she has to be a much tougher person: a Juliet in that situation would be out of place. In the third story, Sir Julian is able, as a minor noble, to control how much distance he puts between himself and others, and therefore chooses how and why he uses his gift.
2. The changing characters led naturally to a change in the details of the story. As the writer, I could have enforced the original pattern on all the versions, in which case Stourwood would always be shot by his (or her) boss, Juliet / July / Sir Julian would have gone to work for the government, and so on. But to me that wouldn’t have fitted the characters. A tough western woman like July wouldn’t react like a timid suburbanite like Juliet, or an aristocrat like Sir Julian.
3. The different story environments also suggested different developments of the plot, and different outcomes. What felt like a plausible sequence of events in a present day British setting didn’t fit so well into the other scenarios. Of course, that was just my feeling about it, and I could have stuck rigidly to the first outline. But as a writer, I prefer to go with my instincts: stories have to be allowed enough freedom to be themselves. So the secret agents working to guard the nation, became hired assassins and then enforcers for an oppressive regime – depending on which world they inhabited.
4. All these changes meant that ultimately the stories had different things to say. They were all, in some respect, about knowledge, but they made different points. In Arc 1, unwanted knowledge is shown to be a burden: as Juliet herself says, it’s more of a curse than a gift. In Arc 2, knowledge proves to be a dangerous thing: knowing things, and letting people know that you know things, can make you enemies. In Arc 3, knowledge is a tool that can be used to manipulate the course of history.
4. So, somewhat to my surprise, I’m forced to the conclusion that changing genre’s is more than just changing the furniture. It has a more subtle effect than that. Putting the same basic story ideas into a different genre alters characters, suggests different story-lines, opens up different possibilities, takes the writer (and the reader!) down different paths. Of course, this is just my conclusion, from one experiment. Hardly scientific, not even science-fiction-tific! Perhaps you might think differently? Have a go yourself. Try writing some stories in different genres. Feel free to use my characters and basic idea: I’d be interested to see what it would like through someone else’s lens, and perhaps as a historical novel, or a romance! Or use one of your own story ideas. Let me know how it goes!