Ash: A Secret History (214 page)

I will never know whether Florian would have ordered my death, at this moment.
She moved from Angelotti’s side, knelt, and touched the woman’s golden hair.

“This—” Angelotti’s light voice came from behind her. “This, the Faris, she thought she was the weapon of the Wild Machines. Knowing now that it is you, and that they control you, and that you cannot stop this – why then, yes, madonna; she was wise to try and kill you. You have something you will do.”

When she looked over her shoulder, it was to see him finishing reloading the arquebus. Rickard’s white face stared, appalled; Rochester, shouting orders to the command staff, had not noticed what happened on his blind side; Dickon de Vere was nodding to himself.

“Do it,” the Italian said, “or I will finish what she began. I saw the Wild Machines at Carthage, madonna. I am scared enough to kill you.”

A wave of pressure went through her. She swayed, moving away from Florian’s body, facing him. Tears had cut white channels through the powder-black of his face; she saw it clearly in the torch’s light. He bit at his lip. He stood some ten, eleven feet away; far enough – if his arquebus missed fire – to draw his falchion before she could get to him.

He’s serious,
she thought.
And he’s right.

Ash smiled.

“Yeah, I got something I can do. I didn’t know it until now. You’re a persuasive man, Angeli.”

“I am a frightened man,” he repeated, steadily. “If you die now, there will still be a chance for us to wage war and destroy the Wild Machines. We would have time. Madonna, what can you do? Can you resist their force?”

Another wave of weakness: deep in mind and body.

She grinned at him.

“They control me. I can’t stop this. I can’t do anything,” Ash said. “Except – I can talk to them. I can still do that.”

She walked a few feet to the overgrown fallen altar. The torch illuminated the stonework, the carved lions at the four corners, and, on the front panel, the Boar under the Tree. She knelt down in the trodden snow.

“Why?” she said aloud. “Why are you doing this to us?”

The voices in her head, multiple and cold, braided themselves into a single inhuman voice:

‘
IT MUST BE
.
WE HAVE KNOWN FOR LONGER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE THAT IT MUST BE
.’

A sorrow pierced her.

Not her own, she realised in shock; not a human sorrow. Bleak, implacable grieving.

“Why
must
it be?”

‘
WE HAVE NO CHOICE
,
WE HAVE LABOURED THROUGH AEONS FOR THIS ACT
.
THERE IS NO OTHER WAY BUT THIS
.’

“Yeah. Right. Just because you want to wipe us out,” Ash said. Her tone was sardonic. Her face dripped tears. She felt Antonio Angelotti’s fingers gripping her pauldron, where he stood behind her.

“It’s bad war,” she said. “That’s all it is.
Bad war.
You just want to wipe us out.”

‘
YES
.’

Pressure grows in her mind, the impetus to an act she cannot deny.

“Why?”

‘
WHAT IS IT TO YOU
,
LITTLE SHADOW
?’

“You want to wipe everything out,” she said. “Everything. As if we’d never been, that’s what you said. As if there’d never been anything but you, from the beginning of time.”

‘
MORE HAS GONE INTO THIS THAN YOU CAN KNOW
,
IT IS TIME
,
BURGUNDY DIES
.
IT IS
—’

“I
will
know.”

Ash
listened.
She wrenched: mind, soul, body; fell forward across the snow-covered stones, tasting blood in her mouth.

She realised that she was not being resisted.

‘
WE SORROW FOR YOU
.’ The voices of the Wild Machines clamoured in her inner hearing, ‘
BUT WE HAVE SEEN WHAT YOU BECOME
.’

Bewildered, Ash said, “What?”

They sing in her head, sorrowful voices, the great demons of hell mourning:

‘
FOR FIVE THOUSAND YEARS
,
WE GREW
,
MINDS
,
BECOMING BRIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
.
WE SENSED YOUR WEAK FORCE
,
DEDUCED WHAT WE COULD
,
FROM GUNDOBAD
,
WE LEARNED THE WORLD
—’

“I just bet you did,” Ash muttered sourly, on a mouth full of blood and snow. She was simultaneously aware of Angelotti standing over her, falchion in hand, the rest standing back as the noise from the line-fight shrieked closer to the chapel; aware of every muscle tensing as she flinched at the fighting; and of the voices thundering inside her head.

‘
WE HAVE COMMUNICATED FOR CENTURIES
,
WATCHED YOU FOR LONGER
,
AND WE HAVE CALCULATED
—’

‘
SWIFTER THAN THOUGHT
,
SWIFTER THAN A MAN
’
S MIND
—’

‘
AND FOR CENTURY UPON CENTURY
—’

‘
CALCULATED WHAT YOU WILL BECOME
.’

They speak together, as one:

‘
YOU WILL BECOME DEMONS
.’

“I’ve seen war, and I’ve done war,” Ash said flatly, getting herself back up on to hands and knees. “I don’t think I need to believe in demons. Not given what men do – what I do. That doesn’t give you any
right
to wipe us out!”

‘
WHAT YOU HAVE DONE IS NOTHING
,
ALL THE ATROCITIES OF WAR
,
FOR CENTURIES
,
ARE AS NOTHING TO WHAT YOU WILL BECOME
.’

Kneeling back, tears dripping down her face, in bitter cold, in darkness, she cannot help a hysterical hilarity creeping into her mind.
I’m arguing with demons at the end of the world. Arguing! Shit.

She said, “Worse weapons, maybe—”

‘
YOU CHANGE THE WORLD
,’ soft voices sang in her mind, lamenting. ‘
GUNDOBAD
.
YOU
.
EACH MAN HAS HIS BURDEN OF GRACE
.
YES
,
WE OURSELVES HAVE BRED THE RACE TO PRODUCE YOU
,
BUT WE HAVE ONLY DONE FIRST WHAT YOUR RACE WOULD HAVE DONE IN TIME
.
THERE WILL BE MANY ASHES IN YOUR FUTURE
.’

Bewildered, breath coming hard in her throat, she forced out: “I don’t – understand.”

‘
YOU WERE BRED TO BE A WEAPON
.
STRONG
:
STRONG ENOUGH TO MAKE UNREAL THIS WORLD
.
THERE WILL BE MORE
,
BRED LIKE YOU
,
WE HAVE FORESEEN IT
.
IT IS INEVITABLE
.
AND THE WEAPONS WILL BE USED
–
UNTIL AT LAST
,
THERE WILL BE NOTHING SOLID
.
WE WILL NOT EXIST
.
THE MANY SPECIES OF THE WORLD WILL NOT EXIST
.
THERE WILL BE ONLY MAN
,
THE MIRACLE-WORKER
,
RENDING THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE UNTIL IT TATTERS
.
CHANGING HIMSELF
,
TOO
.
UNTIL THERE IS NOTHING STABLE
,
WHOLE OR REAL
;
ONLY MIRACLE UPON MIRACLE
,
CHANGE UPON CHANGE
,
AN ENDLESS
,
CHAOTIC FLOW
.’

Colder than the snow she knelt in, Ash said, “More wonder-workers…”

‘
IN THE END
,
YOU WILL ALL BE WONDER-WORKERS
,
YOU WILL BREED YOURSELF INTO IT
.
WE HAVE RUN THE SIMULATIONS A BILLION
,
BILLION TIMES
:
IT IS WHAT WILL BE
.
THERE IS NO WAY TO PREVENT IT EXCEPT BY PREVENTING YOU
.
WE WILL WIPE OUT HUMANITY
,
MAKE IT AS IF IT HAD NEVER EXISTED
,
SO THAT THE UNIVERSE WILL REMAIN COHERENT AND WHOLE
.’

VII

It entered her mind complete: words processed so rapidly that her understanding was not verbal: was an intact apprehension of a world which may flow, slide, mutate, morph into multiple realities, none with any more stability than any other. Until pattern itself is lost, structure unstructured; geometry and symmetry lost. And there is no mind with any continuous self, that cannot be changed, by a friend, or enemy, or a momentary impulse of despair.

“That’s why?” Ash found herself shaking, dizzy. Fear shook her pulse. “That’s why. What – just destroy us? Is that it?”

‘
YOU ARE OUR WEAPON
,
WE WILL CHANNEL THE SUN
’
S POWER INTO YOU
,
NOW
.’

‘
GIVE YOU ALL POSSIBILITY
,
ALL PROBABILITY THAT EVER HAS BEEN
—’

‘
ROOT OUT YOUR PEOPLE
,
WHEREVER IT HAS BEEN POSSIBLE FOR THEM TO BE
,
MAKE IT DIFFERENT
,
IMPOSSIBLE
—’

‘
COLLAPSE THE BIRTH OF YOUR KIND INTO IMPOSSIBILITY
—’

‘
MAKE HUMANITY AS IF IT HAD NEVER BEEN
.’

It sears into her: knowledge she does not want, would rather not know.

“I just thought you wanted to wipe us out because you wanted to be the only ones!”

‘
IF YOUR SPECIES SURVIVES
,
THEN EVERYTHING ELSE WILL DIE
–
WORSE THAN DIE
,
IT WILL CHANGE
,
CHANGE AGAIN
;
BECOME UNRECOGNISABLE
.’

“I thought—”

The screaming clamour of the outside world penetrates. Her eyes fly open: she sees the legs of men running past, across the circle of blood-soaked snow in the torch’s light; hears the shouted orders; smells urine, snow, mud; hears a scream—

A man falls down beside her. Angelotti. He is grabbing at his thigh. Arterial blood spouting up in a perfect arc.

“Shit!” Her hands are thick with blood, trying to grab him, stem the flow.

‘
LITTLE WARRIOR
,
YOU DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE MIRACLE WARS
.’

“I don’t want to see any wars!” She leans her weight down. Antonio Angelotti looks up at her with shocked eyes. A broad shoulder intervenes: Richard Faversham, yanking bandages into place; cloth welling red – femoral artery cut? Or just muscle-tissue slashed, up to the groin? But so much blood, so fast—

‘
WE WILL GIVE YOU WHAT GIFT WE CAN
.
YOU MUST DIE
,
IN THE CHANGE THAT YOU NOW MAKE
.
BUT WE WILL GIVE YOU THE POWER OF OUR CALCULATION
.
MAKE
,
FOR YOURSELF
,
A NEW PAST
.’

“But I won’t exist!” She is still staring at Angelotti: the woman-soft skin of his filthy face smoothing out. “You want everything of us to go, that’s what your change will do!”

‘
YOU MUST EXIST
,
FOR THIS MIRACLE TO BE
.’

The voices in her head soften:

‘
THERE MUST BE A HUMAN HISTORY
,
FOR YOU TO HAVE BEEN BORN TO DO THIS
.
IT WILL BECOME A GHOST-HISTORY
,
AS ALL YOUR RACE VANISH AND BECOME IMPOSSIBLE
.
YET
–
THAT GHOST-HISTORY MAY BE ANYTHING YOU CHOOSE
.’

“I don’t understand!”

‘
WE WILL GIVE YOU THE POWER TO CHOOSES IT
,
YOUR NEW GHOST-PAST
,
AS YOU PERFORM OUR MIRACLE
.
ADJUST THE THINGS THAT WERE
:
MAKE A NEW THING THAT HAS BEEN
.
YOU WILL DIE IN THIS INSTANT WITH THE REST
,
BUT YOU WILL HAVE LIVED A DIFFERENT LIFE
.
ILLUSORY
,
MERELY PROBABLE
,
BUT IT MAY
–
WE HOPE IT MAY
–
BRING YOU AN INSTANT
’
S PEACE BEFORE NON-EXISTENCE
.’

There is a pressure in her chest. The morning of the fifth of January 1477 is black. Men scream and die in this darkness. The cold bites. The pressure grows; she grabs at her head, wrenching the strap and buckle of her helmet, ripping it off, until she can grab at her skull with her hands—

‘
ALL WE NEED IS YOU
,
OUR WEAPON
,
YOU BREEDING
,
THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT YOUR LIFE AS A WARRIOR THAT WE NEED
.
WE LISTENED TO THE MIND THAT CAME TO INHABIT THE
MACHINA REI MILITARIS
,
YOUR
“
GODFREY MAXIMILLIAN
”.
WE KNOW YOU
,
THROUGH HIM
.
WHEN YOU MAKE YOUR MIRACLE NOW
,
AND CHANGE THE WORLD
,
YOU MAY MAKE IT SO THAT YOU HAD LOVING PARENTS
,
A FAMILY
.
SO THAT YOU WERE CARED FOR
.
SO THAT NO ABANDONMENT HAPPENED
–
IT IS NOTHING TO US
:
YOU WILL STILL BE ABLE TO DO WHAT WE NEED YOU TO DO
.’

The pressure on her chest is memory.

A man’s big hand, pressing her down. Adult knees pushing her legs apart. A ripping pain that cores out from the inside of her: a child’s genitals torn, spoiled.

Tears spilled down her face. “Not twice. Not to me. Not twice—”

‘
WE THOUGHT IT WOULD BE KIND
,
YOU COULD HAVE BEEN BORN TO THOSE WHO WOULD CARE FOR YOU
.
MEMBERS OF YOUR SPECIES OFTEN ARE
.
YOU MAY CHANGE THESE THINGS WITH OUR CONSENT
.
OBLITERATE RAPE
,
HUNGER
,
FEAR
.
THEN
,
WHEN YOU DIE
,
IT WILL BE IN THE MOMENT OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF THAT LOVE
.’

Under her hands, Antonio Angelotti sighed. She felt him die. Her blood-gloved hands reached out, touching his hair, closing the blue-veined lids of his oval eyes. She smelled the stink of his bowels and bladder relaxing. Richard Faversham lifted his shaky tenor, sung blessing all but inaudible over the shouting.