British
develop their aerospace sector. Oh, and remember to include runway construction, fuel and repair equipment and facilities, munitions, bombsights, gunsights, training, and anything else I've forgotten. That's a higher priority than your ultralight squadron, I'm afraid, but it's a much bigger job. The Pepsi's all yours."
Late afternoon of a golden summer day. On a low ridge overlooking a gently sloping vale, a party of riders—exclusively male, of gentle breeding, discreetly armed but not under arms—paused for refreshment. To the peasants bent sweating over sickle and sheaf, they would be little more than dots on the horizon, as distant as the soaring eagle high above, and of as little immediate consequence.
"I fear this isn't a promising site," said one of the onlookers, a hatchet-faced man in early middle age. "Insufficient cover—see the brook yonder? And the path over to the house, around that outcrop?—we'd stick out like pilliwinked fingers."
"Bad location for helicopters, though," said a younger man. "See, the slope of the field: makes it hard for them to land. And for road access, I think we can add some suitable obstacles. If the major is right and they can bring vehicles across, they won't have an easy time of it."
Earl Bentbranch hung back, at the rear of the party. He glanced at his neighbor, Stefan yen Arnesen. Ven Arnesen twined his fingers deep in his salt-and-pepper beard, a distant look on his face. He noticed Bentbranch watching and nodded slightly.
"Do you credit it?" Bentbranch murmured.
Ven Arnesen thought for a moment. "No," he said softly, "no, I don't." He looked at the harvesters toiling in the strip fields below. It didn't
look
like the end of the world as he knew it. "I can't."
"They may not come for a generation. If ever. To throw everything away out of panic . . ."
Ven Arnesen spared his neighbor a long, appraising look. "They'll come. Look, the harvest comes. And with it the poppies. Their war dead—their families used to wear poppies to remember them, did you know that?"
"You had your tenants plant dream poppies in the divisions."
"Yes. If the bastards come for us, it's the least I can do. Give it away"—he looked out across his lands, as far as the eye could see—"for free." He coughed quietly. "I'm too old to uproot myself and move on, my friend. Let the youngsters take to the road, walk the vale of tears as indigent tinkers just like our great-greatgrandfathers' grandsires once more. These are my lands and my people and I'll not be moving. All this talk of
business models
and
refugees
can't accommodate what runs in my veins."
"So you'll resist?"
Ven Arnesen raised an eyebrow. "Of course. And you haven't made your mind up yet."
"I'm . . . wavering. I went to school over there, do you remember? I speak Anglische, I
could
up sticks and go to this new world they're talking of, I'd be no more or less of a stranger there than I was for seven years in Baltimore. But I could dig my own midden, too, or run to Sky Father's priests out of mindless panic. I could do any number of stupid or distasteful things, were I so inclined, but I don't generally do such things without good reason. I'd need a
very
good reason to abandon home and hearth and accept poverty and exile for life."
"The size of the reason becomes greater the older one gets," yen Arnesen agreed. "But I'm not convinced by this nonsense about resisting the American army, either. I've seen their films. I've spent a little time there. Overt resistance will be difficult. Whatever Ostlake and his cronies think."
"I don't think they believe anything else, to tell you the truth. If—when—they come, the Americans will outgun us as heavily as we outgunned the Pervert's men. And there will be thousands of them, tens of thousands. With
tanks
and
helicopters.
Sure, we'll kill a few of them. And that will make it worse, it'll make them angry. They're not good at dealing with locals, not good at native tongues. They'll kill and they'll burn and they'll raise every man's hand against them and their occupation, and it will still take a bloody five years of pain and tears and death before they'll even think about changing their approach. By which time—"
"Look." Ven Arnesen raised his arm and pointed.
"Where?"
"Look
up."
A ruler-straight white line was inching across the turquoise vault of the sky, etching it like a jeweler's diamond on glass. A tiny speck crawled through the air, just ahead of the moving tip of the line. "Is that what, what I think it is?"
"A contrail." Bentbranch's cheeks paled. "It's them."
"Are you sure? Could it be something else? Something natural—"
"No. Their
jets
make those cloud-trails, when they move through the sky."
"And they look down on us from above? Do you suppose they can see us now? Lightning Child strike them blind."
"I very much fear that they're anything but blind." Bent-branch looked away as the aircraft's course led it westwards, towards the sunset. "Though how much detail they can see from up there . . . well, that tears it, of course. They will be drawing up maps, my lord. And they care naught that we know their mind. I find that a singularly ominous sign. Do you differ, can I ask?"
"No." Ven Arnesen shook his head as he stared after the aircraft. "No." But Bentbranch was unable to discern whether he was answering the question or railing against the sign in the heavens.
Ahead of them, the main group of riders, Lord Ostlake and his men, had noticed the contrail; arms were pointing and there were raised voices. "We should warn them," Bentbranch said, nudging his horse forward. Ven Arnesen paid him no attention, but stared at the sky with nerve-struck eyes.
Out over the ocean in the east, the U-2's contrail was already falling apart, like the dreams of future tranquility that it had so carelessly scrawled across.
It would not take many more forty-thousand-foot overflights to update the air force's terrain maps.
The old woman had been reading a book, and it still lay open on her lap, but her attention was elsewhere. There was a discreet knock at the door. She looked up as it opened, and adjusted her spectacles, unsurprised at the identity of her visitor. "Yes?"
"Your grace." The door closed behind him. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
"No, no . . ." She slid a bookmark into place, then carefully closed the book and placed it on the table beside her. "I've got plenty of time. All the time in the world."
"Ah, yes. Well, I'd like to apologize for leaving you to your own devices for so long. I trust you have been well-attended?"
"Young man, you know as well as I do that when one is in a jail cell, however well furnished, it does little good to grumble at the jailer."
"It might, if you harbor some hope of release. And might reasonably expect to be in a position of authority over your captor, by and by." He raised an eyebrow, and waited.
She stared at him grimly. "Release." She raised her right hand. It shook, visibly. She let it fall atop the book. "Release from what?" The palsy was worse than it had been for some time. "What do you think I have to look forward to, even if you give me the freedom of the city outside these walls? Without imported medicines my quality of life will be poor. I can't use that liberty you hint at." She gestured at the wheelchair she sat in. "This is more of a jail than any dungeon you can put me in, Riordan."