Other Earths (18 page)

Aeve put out a hand, as if touching enemy magic.

“Your Majesty, be careful—” I started to say, but Aeve was already beginning the incantation I had given her, her own power rising now, the authority of the rightful ruler of Albion, calling upon her ancestors, summoning up the protection of the dead.

It was protection that was needed. A ship was coming down the mouth of the Winterbourne, a galleon with tattered sails, sides so encrusted with barnacles and shells that the ship looked more like some dredged wreck than a proper vessel. I saw the pilot standing at the wheel, a white face beneath a tricorner hat. The Lowlander. The
Dutchman
. And a ship that would sail the seas forever, unless someone not human offered another choice, an unrefusable bargain.

They say the Dutchman ruled the seas beyond death and all who sailed upon them . . . Behind his ship came others: Spanish flags flying, French, a longship with a boar’s crest. Dozens of ships, all those that had gone down in the seas off the coast of Albion, the wraiths of enemy vessels, conjured by the Queen-under-the-Hill.

“Queen Aeve!” I shouted, above the sudden roar of magic and dead water. “Call on the Thames!”

And she did. She used incantations that blazed through me like flame, words that I, not of royal lineage, should not have heard, spells that are in the blood and bone of Albion’s ruling house. Oldmark was crouched on the floor of the rocking boat, his hands clasped to his ears. I nearly joined him.

Then a wind stirred my hair, and I turned. The prow of a ship arched above us, an immense thing, far larger than it had been in life. Its sails billowed out, lit by a light that I could not see, as though it were catching the last rays of the sun. I had never set eyes on this ship before, and yet I knew it: the lost
Rose,
with Admiral Drake standing at the wheel.

I seized an oar. “Oldmark! Set to rowing! We have to get out of the
way.
”

Aeve was still in the prow of the rowing boat, arms outstretched, calling magic in. I didn’t want to be responsible for pitching the Queen of Albion overboard into her own river, but I didn’t want to be run down by even a spectral ship, either. Frantically, Oldmark and I hauled the boat around as the
Rose
glided forward.

The Dutchman’s ship turned, wheeling on a tide that wasn’t there. I saw the guns of the
Rose
blossom silently over my head and a watery fire erupt from the sides of the Dutchman’s ship. There was the flame of a cannon behind the Dutchman’s vessel; the
Rose
gave a great shudder, as if struck.

“Mistress Dane!” Oldmark cried. “Turn her! Turn her now!”

But we were too late. The
Rose
glided forward and through us, sleek as a swan. Everything went black for a moment—it’s not pleasant, being run down by a ghostly galleon. My bones rang and my teeth chattered. When I could see again, the
Rose
was bearing down on the Dutchman’s ship, and the magic that had drawn the ghost of the Winterbourne upward was congealing, drawing around the Dutchman’s vessel to imbue it with power. Coldgate was once more visible through the shimmer of the river. The guns blazed again from the
Rose
, and this time I heard them. The Dutchman’s ship gave a groaning creak and listed. We huddled in the rowing boat, Aeve damp-browed and shaking, and watched the Dutchman’s ship go down.

It sank, stone-swift, as if the Thames had swallowed it. With it went the magic of Under-Hill, sucked into its wake, but the Winterbourne did not go too. Instead, I saw the course of the river turn and shift, sweeping away the post with the skull and all the spectral ships, carrying them out into the wide channel of the Thames and away toward the sea. At last the river was also gone, a foaming tide, and Coldgate loomed pale through the river mist. When the fog parted a little, I looked for the
Rose,
but it was no longer there.

 

Aeve proved more generous than I had expected, but then, I had saved her throne for her. I rode back to Gloucestershire and Severnside on a chilly November morning, a moneybag heavy against the flank of the mare. I felt drained, the wonder of what I had seen sitting within me as heavily as my reward, and I was thankful to see the Severn curling between its red-earth banks, with the blue hills of Wales rising beyond.

But I did not think I would be visiting those hills in the months to come, for fear of what lay beneath them. I set my heels to the sides of the mare and rode hard for home, along the river shore.

 

 

The plane was a JU 88 with all the proper markings, and only God knew where Donovan had gotten it. “We’re over London,” the man known as Paul Potter murmured. Crouching, he peered across the pilot’s shoulder.

Baldur von Steigerwald (he was training himself to think of himself as that) was crouching as well. “I’m surprised there aren’t more lights,” he said.

“That’s the Thames.” Potter pointed. Far below, starlight—only starlight—gleamed on water. “Over there’s where the Tower used to be.” He pointed again.

“You think they might keep him there?”

“They couldn’t,” Potter said. “It’s been blown all to hell.”

Von Steigerwald said nothing.

“All London’s been blown to hell. England stood alone against Germany—and England was crushed.”

“The truth is awkward, Herr Potter,” von Steigerwald said. “Pretty often, too awkward.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Listening mostly to the steady throbbing of the engines, von Steigerwald shrugged.

“A damned bloody Kraut, and you call me a liar.”

“I’m just another American,” von Steigerwald said. “Are you?”

“We’re not supposed to talk about this.”

Von Steigerwald shrugged again. “You began it,
mein herr
. Here’s the awkward truth. You can deny it if you want to. England, Scotland, Wales, Australia, New Zealand, India, Burma, and Northern Ireland stood—alone if you like—against Germany, Italy, Austria, and Vichy. They lost, and England was crushed. Scotland and Wales were hit almost as hard. Am I wrong?”

The JU 88 began a slow bank as Potter said, “Franco joined Germany at the end.”

Von Steigerwald nodded. “You’re right.” He had not forgotten it, but he added, “I forgot that.”

“Spain didn’t bring down the house,” Potter conceded.

“Get back by the doors,” the pilot called over his shoulder. “Jump as soon as they’re open all the way.”

“You’re really English, aren’t you?” von Steigerwald whispered as they trotted back toward the bomb-bay doors. “You’re an English Jew.”

Quite properly, Potter ignored the question. “It was the Jews,” he said as he watched the doors swing down. “If Roosevelt hadn’t welcomed millions of European Jews into America, the American people wouldn’t—” The rest was lost in the whistling wind.

It had not been millions, von Steigerwald reflected before his chute opened. It opened, and the snap of its silk cords might have been the setting of a hook. A million and a half—something like that.

He came down in Battersea Park with his chute tangled in a tree. When at last he was able to cut himself free, he knotted ornamental stones into it and threw it into the Thames. His jump suit followed it, weighted with one more. As it sunk, he paused to sniff the reek of rotting corpses—paused and shrugged.

Two of the best tailors in America had done everything possible to provide him with a black
Schutzstaffel
uniform that would look perfectly pressed after being worn under a jump suit. Shivering in the wind, he smoothed it as much as he could and got out his black leather trench coat. The black uniform cap snapped itself into shape the moment he took it out, thanks to a spring-wire skeleton. He hid the bag that had held both in some overgrown shrubbery.

The Luger in his gleaming black holster had kept its loaded magazine in place and was on safe. He paused in a moonlit clearing to admire its ivory grips and the inlaid, red-framed, black swastikas.

There seemed to be no traffic left in Battersea these days. Not at night, at least, and not even for a handsome young S.S. officer. A staff car would have been perfect, but even an army truck might do the trick.

There was nothing.

Hunched against the wind, he began to walk. The Thames bridges destroyed by the blitz had been replaced with pontoon bridges by the German Army—so his briefer had said. There would be sentries at the bridges, and those sentries might or might not know. If they did not—

Something coming! He stepped out into the road, drew his Luger, and waved both arms.

A little Morris skidded to a stop in front of him. Its front window was open, and he peered inside. “So. Ein taxi dis is? You vill carry me, ja?”

The driver shook his head vehemently. “No, gov’nor. I mean, yes, gov’nor. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, gov’nor, but it’s not a cab.”

“Ein two-vay radio you haff, drifer.”

The driver seemed to have heard nothing.

“But no license you are haffing.” Von Steigerwald chuckled evilly. “You like money, doh. Ja? I haf it. Goot occupation pounds, ja? Marks, also.” He opened a rear door and slid onto the seat, only slightly impeded by his leather coat. “Where important prisoners are, you take me.” He sat back. “
Macht schnell!
”

The Morris lurched forward. “Quick as a wink, gov’nor. Where is it?”

“You know, drifer.” Von Steigerwald summoned all of his not inconsiderable acting ability to make his chuckle that of a Prussian sadist, and succeeded well enough that the driver’s shoulders hunched. “De taxi drifers? Dey know eferyding, everywhere. Make no more troubles vor me. I vill not punish you for knowing.”

“I dunno, gov’nor, and that’s the honest.”

Von Steigerwald’s Luger was still in his right hand. Leaning forward once more, he pressed its muzzle to the driver’s head and pushed off the safety. “I vill not shoot now, drifer. Not now, you are too fast drifing, ja? Ve wreck. Soon you must stop, doh. Ja? Traffic or anodder reason. Den your prain ist all ofer de vindshield.”

“G-gov’nor . . .”

“Ja?”

“My family. Timmy’s only three, gov’nor.”

“Longer dan you he lifs, I hope.”

The Morris slowed. “The bridge, gov’nor. There’s a barricade. Soldiers with guns. I’ll have to stop.”

“You vill not haf to start again, English pig.”

“I’m takin’ you there. Only I’ll have to stop for ’em.”

“You take me?”

“Right, gov’nor. The best I know.”

“Den vhy should I shoot?” Flicking the safety on, von Steigerwald holstered his Luger.

The Morris ground to a stop before the barricade. Seeing him in the rear seat, two gray-clad soldiers snapped to attention and saluted.

He rolled down a rear window and (in flawless German) asked the corporal who had just saluted whether he wished to examine his papers, adding that he was in a hurry.

Hastily the corporal replied that the
standarteführer
might proceed at once, the barricade was raised, and the Morris lurched ahead as before.

“Vhere is dis you take me, drifer?”

“I hope you’re goin’ to believe me, gov’nor.” The driver sounded painfully sincere. “I’m takin’ you the best I know.”

“So? To vhere?”

“Tube station gov’nor. The trains don’t run anymore.”

“Of dis I am avare.”

The driver glanced over his shoulder. “If I tell you I don’t know, you won’t believe me, gov’nor. I don’t, just the same. What I think is that they’re keeping them down there.”

Von Steigerwald rubbed his jaw. Did real Prussians ever do that? The driver would not know, so it hardly mattered. “Vhy you t’ink dis, drifer?”

“I’ve seen army trucks unloading at this station, gov’nor. Cars park there and Jerry—I mean German—officers get out of them. The driver waits, so they’re not going to another station, are they?” As the little Morris slowed and stopped, the driver added, “’Course, they’re not there now. It’s too late.”

“You haf no license vor dis taxi,” von Steigerwald said. His tone was conversational. “A drifer’s license you haf, doh. Gif dat to me.”

“Gov’nor . . .”

“Must I shoot? Better I should spare you, drifer. I vill haf use vor you. Gif it to me.”

“If I don’t have that, gov’nor . . .”

“Anoder you vould get. Hand it ofer.”

Reluctantly, the driver did.

“Goot. Now I gif someding.” Von Steigerwald held up a bill. “You see dis vellow? Herr Himmler? He is our
Reichsf̈hrer
. Dere are numbers, besides. Dos you see also, drifer?”

The driver nodded. “Fifty quid. I can’t change it, gov’nor.”

“I keep your license, dis you keep. Here you vait. Ven I come out—” Von Steigerwald opened the rear door of the Morris. “You get back de license and anodder of dese.”

As he descended the steps of the underground station, he wondered whether the driver really would. It would probably depend, he decided, on whether the driver realized that the fifty-pound occupation note was counterfeit.

To left and right, soiled and often defaced posters exhorted Englishmen and Englishwomen to give their all to win a war that was now lost. In one, an aproned housewife appeared to be firing a rolling pin. Yet there were lights—bright electric lights—in the station below.

It had been partitioned into offices with salvaged wood. Each cubicle was furnished with a salvaged door, and every door was shut. Gray-uniformed soldiers snapped to attention as Von Steigerwald reached the bottom of the stair and demanded to see their commandant.

He was not there, one soldier explained. Von Steigerwald ordered the soldier to fetch him, and the soldier sprinted up the stair.

 

When the commandant arrived, he looked tired and a trifle rumpled. Von Steigerwald did his best to salute so as to make it clear that an S.S. colonel outranked any mere general and proffered his orders, reflecting as he did that it might be possible for him to shoot the general and both sentries if the falsity of those orders was detected. Just possible, if he shot very fast indeed. Possible, but not at all likely. The burly sentry with the Schmeisser submachine gun first, the thin one who had run to get the commandant next. Last, the commandant himself. If—