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Quinn Abercromby's Journal  Alnwick Castle isn't under siege, precisely. Under siege would imply the castlefolk being hunkered down while surrounded. The Americans gathered outside haven't got the numbers any more to surround the castle; they're just lined up along the road, their weapons trained on the place where their commander died. As for the castlefolk, they're on the battlements themselves for the most part. Quinn long ago purchased a shipment of blasters from Lando Calrissian, at Milliways, for defense against just such a situation as this. It's not a siege, it's a Mexican stand-off. And into the tightly strung atmosphere comes the sound of engines. The Americans' current leader's eyes narrow, and he says, without turning his head, "Ballantine! What the hell is that?" Ballantine, a tall dark-skinned New Yorker on the left end of the Americans' line, peers through his binoculars. So do several of the castlefolk- the ones who dare to look away from the Americans, anyway. "Looks like... huh. Captain, looks like it's that Quinn guy." The American leader snorts. "What's he think he can do now?" "I dunno, but he's got someone else with him..." Ballantine frowns. "Huh. Where the hell'd he get a truck like that?" "What?" The door from Milliways opens onto a stairwell in Alnwick Castle. "I never did manage to get the door to the Bar to open on purpose, except when we had a lot of people here who had to go back," he says apologetically. "Everyone all right? The infirmary's two levels down." He's mad. He's got to be. Van Zant's survived long enough to get across the ocean, yeah, Quinn's got to give him that, but that doesn't change the fact that the man is absolutely bloody insane- The old military men had fought the dragons from fighter planes, but their weapons hadn't been able to match the beasts' maneuverability. Van Zant's men jumped out of the bloody helicopter to net the things so they'd be vulnerable to the one guaranteed kill shot: an explosive charge straight down the throat. That was a sort of madness, to be sure, but these days just going outside was a sort of madness. The men leaping out of the helicopter (they had a working helicopter!) was just one more case of taking your life into your own hands. Fine. He could see that. But- We've run the epidemiology on these things, their pilot- Alex? Was that her name?- had said. Ronnie says they breed like reef fish. There's only a handful of males in the world- one male, one big territory. He passes through the nesting grounds and fertilizes all the females. Kill him, and you take out the next generation. The European male's in London. We think he's the first, and the oldest. Quinn didn't have to think. He knew. He'd seen- oh, yeah, so had the people who'd made it out of Pembry, they'd gone to London hunting and something had tracked them back to their fortress. He'd told the Americans as much, that not a one of them knew a damned thing about destruction until they'd seen that happen, but half his mind had been back at twelve years old in a dank dripping void that the geological surveys had missed. Van Zant would've laughed, if he'd been capable of laughter. He'd even turned to call out to the other castlefolk- But the American's words never came, because somewhere high overhead the castle's hawk cried out. The alarms began sounding before he could even speak. "Dragon!" shouted Eddie, who'd not once let go of his blaster since his own horror in the tomato field. "To the shelters, everyone-" Van Zant's eyes gleamed. "Not us," he said. "Alvarez! Jefferson! Piscatella! Get your packs on! Alex, get that bird in the air! I want those beacons up before she's more than a hundred yards off the ground! Man the fifty cal-" He turned to Quinn and though he didn't quite smile he came oh so very close as he said, "You stay out here. You need to see this. I don't know how your people used to do it, but this is how my people roll." The grey ribbon of road slicing across the hillside is about the only thing that still looks to be in nearly as good condition as it was when the wandering survivors first found their way into Alnwick Castle. The way Quinn sees it, that makes as much sense as anything else around this place. Not like dragons spend a lot of time spontaneously scorching access to the old motorways, after all. If a road goes unused, it's not all that likely to wear down in a bare two decades' time. 'If' being the operative word here. Every eye along the castle's forward wall is fixed on the southern end of the road, where a handful of battered, mostly greenish-grey vehicles are heaving into view one after the next after the next. "Marauders," says Creedy. "It's been years since we've seen them." There's a moment's pause, and Creedy almost smiles. "Ah, look on the bright side. At least we're not alone." One tank. Two armoured personnel carriers. Two trucks (where did they get the fuel? Alcohol or petrol, where did they get the damned fuel?). And people visible in every one of them, even mounted atop the tank. The tank's gun swings around to face the castle. Eddie's blaster muzzle is trembling; Quinn shakes his head a little, then raises his voice. "Set your weapons to stun, all of you," he calls. "Even if they fire first, we're going to need answers out of them." The vehicles stop directly in front of the approach to the castle. For a moment Quinn wonders if they've heard him. Then the tank opens, and a bald, bearded man pulls himself out. As he works his shoulders back and forth, gaze raking over the castle and its grounds, the flag patch on his leather vest is perfectly clear. Creedy makes a small, disgusted noise. "Only one thing worse than a dragon," he says, shaking his head. "Americans." The man takes a swig from a flask before bellowing out, "Who's in CHARGE?"; Creedy claps Quinn on the shoulder. The Yank walks off the front end of his vehicle, spreads his arms, turns about: I have no weapons, I mean your people no harm. Quinn sets his jaw and looks to Creedy. "Anything happens," he says, "you know what to do." "Aheh- no, I have no idea," Creedy answers. "Me neither," Quinn admits. After that, well, there's only one thing to do, and that's go down and meet the fellow at the gates- tank and all. God, that's a big tank. "You responsible for this place?" the American asks; he's got a cigar end clamped in his teeth and tattoos swirling on his shoulders. Where the hell did you get the cigar? Quinn's wondering. This far after the fact the thing shouldn't even be worth chewing- has this man been to Milliways, too? But all he says aloud is, "Who're you?" "Name's Van Zant. Kentucky Irregulars." "You're a long way from home, Van Zant- you lost?" Van Zant pulls the cigar from his mouth. "Rebuilt a National Guard C-5A. Flew it eight thousand miles on two engines and tried to set it down on the old strip outside of Manchester. Lost a hundred twenty-two men, most of my fuel. We need shelter, a place to refit our artillery- we'll be out of your hair by 1800 hours tomorrow." Not Milliways, then; the cigar must be some sort of lucky find, or else just something he holds onto. It doesn't look lit, anyway. Quinn looks over the trucks, the tank, the soldiers. They're running ragged as anyone he's ever seen, and he's got a good fifty or sixty people on the battlements armed with distance weapons good enough to make even a dragon angry. It makes him braver than he'd thought in the face of visitors like this. "That's a good story," he says, his blaster resting against the palm of his hand. "Especially in the bit about the plane, but there hasn't been anything in the air for twenty years. That's their territory." The American's mouth twitches. "It's my territory," he says. "It's your territory. They're just renting it." He ought to tell the man to turn around, to go back to wherever it was he came from and take his madness away where it can't hurt anyone, but before he can speak Van Zant raises his voice. "Don't be a fool," the American says. "We can do this easy-" Quinn fixes him with a look. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, Van Zant," he says. "We're better set than we look. Why should we be frightened of the likes of you?" The American reaches under his vest and holds up a short, pointed bit of what looks like ivory on a chain. "Ever seen one of these?" he asks. "I got it off the first one I killed." "The plane was better," Quinn answers. "So you're a dragon killer? That's not even original." "It was in the wheat fields just south of Coffeyville, Kansas," says Van Zant. "November. It was a month of mist. Right around sunset when it caught us in the open. Twice it came in on us, twice it missed the heart of us... and that's when I had the epiphany. See, they have great vision in the day, and even better vision in the night... but in the failing light they can't focus-" There's a memory at the back of Quinn's mind, of desperate running with Veronica, of a dragon that swooped overhead repeatedly and never did manage to pin exactly where they were. It was sunset, he remembers that. Maybe Van Zant sees it in his face, maybe he doesn't, but the American lowers his hand and holds the tooth out to Quinn. "Magic hour," he says. Quinn takes up the tooth, peers at it. Van Zant's saying something about the Dalton boys, about Coffeyville, about rising up and taking the enemy down. It doesn't matter. He's too busy remembering. "You try anything," he says at last, thinking of that moment of wondering why they weren't dead, "and I'll kill you." That, it seems, the American believes. Van Zant nods soberly. "I didn't get your name," he says. "Quinn," Quinn answers, and although it's by and large against his better judgment, he turns to lead the way into the castle. [The majority of the dialogue is taken from Reign of Fire.] Some days start off better than others. You wake up, some days, and there's nothing to report; you get to your feet and lug yourself to the kitchen and there's nobody putting up much of a fuss. They've coaxed the kids into eating more of the unfamiliar stuff that grew out of the Milliways crops (it's been years since anything like this grew in England, after all) and they've started on the rest of the community's daily chores. Those days you like. You wake up on other days to the sound of the telegraph rattling madly and it's an instantaneous transition from dozy sleep to full alert, because that's the sound of Ken having spotted an incoming dragon. Those days you spend chasing the children into the castle's shelter, or rounding up the adults who might've already been about their morning tasks. Not your favourite mornings, those. And some days... Some days you hear the rattle and it's a pattern you haven't heard in a good four or five years' time, and it takes you a moment to remember what it's trying to say. Those days you're out of your bunk and sprinting for the armoury, shouting for Creedy and waking every adult male you can find along the way. The last time you heard that rattle the castlefolk used up nearly all the ammunition left in the world, or at least all that was left so far as you know- but it doesn't matter. Things've changed since then. You found a door. There's enough of Calrissian's blasters left in the armoury despite what Eddie did yesterday: one for every adult who can handle their use, and the rest for the noncombatants and children, who'll be hiding until the worst is past. Some days start off better than others. This doesn't look like it's going to be one of the good ones. There was a time when every single death was mourned with full force by everyone in the community, but it hasn't been that way in a very long time. An outsider might think it a paradox: as the number of people left in the castle drops, the more important each one becomes- but at the same time, the community-wide grieving decreases. It makes more sense if you've walked in their shoes, though. To take one death, or two, or five, and turn it into the means by which everyone left is paralyzed with sorrow for a time... well, it does no one much good. There's communal grieving when Quinn and Creedy return with Eddie Stax, and there'll be private grieving as they go, but no more than that. Life goes on. Life has to go on. The castle's children see nothing strange about this. They were born into this world, and they've lived all their lives in it. As far as they're concerned there's nothing strange at all about sorrowing for the Stax family one minute and filing into the painted hall the next. Creedy and Quinn (Mr. Quinn, to most of the kids) promised them the next chapter of the White Knight's adventures, after all. Time at Milliways isn't like time anywhere else. Quinn's been out of his own world weeks on end- months maybe- but the second the door swings open and he sees the fire once again, it all comes rushing back to him. And Creedy, too, he knows that without having to ask. The two men lunge through the door and into the flame, and everything that's happened in the quiet safe places of the Bar is forgotten. There's screaming, and there's running, and there's Eddie huddled up in a tight little ball with one of his daughters waiting for the end- "COME ON!" bellows Quinn, holding out one silver-gloved hand. Eddie Stax is an idiot about some things, but he's no fool. He grabs the hand as if it were the last thing in the world. His daughter follows a heartbeat after. Quinn doesn't know where Creedy is or what the other man is looking for, but as he shoves Eddie into the truck he catches sight of the other man. He's only got Eddie's oldest boy for company. That's not good. Quinn gets the truck started and they do their best to get out of there fast as they can, but the thing about dragons is that they're nasty cunning beasts. There's only one way out of that box canyon of fire and the dragon lands in it, drawing its breath in that horrible way everyone recognizes. If Jared weren't willing to ride on top of Quinn's truck and open a path with the water-spray they'd all be dead. Eddie's boy's climbing out onto the top of Creedy's truck to do the same and Eddie's staring in puzzled horror- "GET HIM DOWN! GET HIM DOWN!" shouts Quinn across to Creedy. Quinn knows what Eddie hasn't fully realised yet. Only it's too late for anyone to do anything, because the dragon's next jet of flame is aimed high. It doesn't even touch the trucks proper. It just billows over the top of both trucks, enveloping the scrawny little humans trying to fight their way free. Jared's the only one in a firesuit. Eddie balls up like a millipede at that, eyes bright, arms clutching at his sides. The dragon doesn't much care. Anything that might've been able to sting it with blaster-fire is either dead or fleeing, and there's a meal to be had here. Nothing of meat or flesh, which they need as surely as any other beast, but the internal anatomy of dragons is such that if they don't balance themselves with alkaline ash their own juices eat them from the inside out. There's ash here in plenty, so it falls to; and the humans pull away, putting as much space between themselves and the latest funeral pyre as they can. Quinn will remember Milliways later, when he strips off the fire-suit and finds that he was carrying the Hogfather's gift of a sword all this time. For now, though, all that matters is to save what they can. There were a hundred and forty-six at the castle before. It's a hundred and forty-three now. Dammit. It's a quiet night in Northumberland, thanks to the chill August rains that swept through a few hours ago. There hasn't been a warm night in this part of England in a decade or more. Even the dragons stay home on nights like this; they're not cold-blooded, but that doesn't mean they fancy a chill any more than anyone else. The chill of the night isn't necessarily enough to stop certain people, though. Eddie Stax is tired of waiting for Quinn to wise up to what he's got, and so are most of his family members. "Come on," the stocky man murmurs in his children's ears, one at a time and as quiet as he can. "Dawn's coming." Even at this time of year, dragons have to eat. Eddie figures they've got a few hours before the first one of the day makes its morning pass over the far fields. They'd come back all right, just a moment after they'd left. There'd been an odd look, but then someone said "Milliways?" and Quinn nodded and that was that. No explanation needed, not beyond that. Not when there were new books and new music. And new stories; Quinn had a few to tell, of a world as hard-pressed as their own and a woman who lived in it. Had to be a woman, of course. The tale of that world wasn't a tale of dragons; no, it was a plague that came and carried off all the men. And other things, too. All the billy-goats and buck rabbits, all the tomcats and male mice; every one of 'em dead. Not the birds and not the insects, because they were different, but all the rest? Oh, yeah. In that whole world, he said, there was one man, and one baby boy, and one male monkey- and that was that. That was all they had to go on after that terrible plague- but go on they did, he said, and he'd show the woman's picture around after he said that. It was a good prop, whether it was a true story or whether he'd gotten it out of a book, and it had a moral, that no matter how badly off you were, you should keep slogging through it. And wasn't that what was important? It sort of had to be, that summer. That summer was the worst anyone could remember. Not for weather or for sickness, although two of the older men took sick with terrible fevers that nearly killed them- no, that summer was dragons, more often and more desperate than anyone could remember. The things were starving, after all. They'd look anywhere, for just about anything, and then move on. That was the only blessing: that the creatures had no patience and would keep going if they failed to find their food on the first or second pass. The whole castle got very, very good at running for the stairs that summer. Eddie Stax found the whole mess frustrating. Quinn had no intentions of turning the blasters on the itinerant dragons, he knew that- but what annoyed him more was that he had yet to be anywhere that he could split off from the main mass of people and make his own attempt on one of the things' lives when the alarm sounded. There simply wasn't a chance to get out far enough with blaster and backup. Not on his shift. It was beginning to look as if he was going to have to grab his family and head out on his own under cover of night. Quinn's always enjoyed waking up in Milliways. The sheer novelty value of the place never really goes away, as far as he's concerned. This morning's awakening was an entirely different kind of novelty, and very much to be appreciated at that. It's a bit later in the day now; he's clean, clothed, and awake. He should probably see if there's anything yet to be done in the stables, or if he should start putting together supplies and transport, but- well, honestly, there's not that much urgency on him right now. That'll come soon enough. Short form? He doesn't want to leave the room just at the moment. |
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