A Special Providence

“Mute phone. Henry, we have to move. Now.” He touched the younger man on the upper arm and they set off down the walkway. “Stay out of the street if you can. Some of those puddles are over your shoes. Phone on. Who is this?”

“Donneval! Thank God. Where are you?”

“Who is this?”

“Oh! Morton Sollivar. I met you at a conference at the University a few years ago. Danel Tarson said I should call you. He brought us out here after the shooting started and he left and he hasn’t come back!”

“Ah. Who else is in your party? And where are you?”

“We’re in a stable, or a barn. Some big building with animals. It’s dark.” The voice named a half-dozen people. Allison’s head twitched at the last one: “Professor Jorum Tenbaald.”

“Mute. Henry, do you know any of these people? Phone, call Tarson on separate link.”

“Tenbaald is a parachrono-physicist at New Thebes University. I took some classes there, not from him, but he’s well thought of in the discipline. Who are Danel Tarson and Morton Sollivar?”

“Tarson is an agent for American operations; he works for me. Quiet, competent. He’s not answering his phone. Sollivar? Never heard of him; don’t know why he thinks I know him. Cross the street here. Keep moving – not hurried, but purposeful. Head down – tip your hat to the lady. Here we go. Phone on. Sollivar, you need to hold on. Be quiet and wait for Tarson to come back.”

“He said to call you for help! Where are you!”

“On my way to the party. We’re a mile or two from Preston Hall, coming up the River Road.”

Allison threw him a puzzled look. They rounded a corner and crossed another street to the livery stable. “Mute. Disconnect. This smells bad, Henry. Very bad. Use your stunner on the upper floor while I open the doors. We need horses immediately and I’ve no time to rouse the stable master.”

“We’re going up to Preston Hall?”

“Freya’s furry tits, no. We’re getting out of Charleston before Frost figures out where we are and sets the Masons after us.”

Allison stopped waving his stunner over the upper floor and dropped his arm. “Not going! Phillip, they’re calling for help! Those are our Brothers in danger!”

“More likely a trap, Henry; I’ve never heard of any of those people except Tarson. It would be different if I could speak to Tarson. If he isn’t answering it’s because he can’t. And my nose itches.”

“That means you smell a trap?”

“No, it means I’m allergic to hay… get a move on, damn you! Horses, there! Saddles, there! Harness, there! I’ll leave some money by the box…”

“I don’t understand what’s going on, Phillip! Why can’t go help those people? Or take a room here and work out what’s happening!”

“I don’t know what’s going on either, but… listen. You’ve never heard of Kierianne Frost? Don’t stop working, just listen. She’s a Sword, as I am. Every organization has an executive committee. The Swords are the action arm of the Brotherhood. We watch for unethical behavior among the Brothers and Sisters. You know, using small changes for personal gain, or using outline technology. But we also watch over our Brothers and Sisters for more serious lapses. Kierianne is one of the agents who would be called in to solve a serious problem… ‘No man, no problem’ as Stalin said. Stalin? Never mind. I’ll explain later.

“A few years ago she went over the line on the Edwardian World War line. Part of her rehabilitation involved settling on this line and living as a low-level agent-in-place. Plus we hoped if we watched her she would lead us to her fellow plotters. That’s part of the reason I’m here. Now I don’t know why physics professors from New Thebes would be here – I don’t even know if they really are at Preston Hall. Maybe the whole thing is her idea of a joke. But I don’t think it’s funny and I’m not going to go riding off in the dark into what could be a very tricky situation. We can look up a friend of mine instead. He’ll know what’s going on, or he can call someone outline who does. Hey, we have time travel, remember? Odds are the help has already arrived.”

“But why can’t we just stay here in the city? And… can’t she locate your phone?”

“The Masons could find us, especially at that tavern. Secret society. We start some variation on every timeline. Invaluable for intelligence-gathering and low-level work. Cheaper in this case than starting a new religion… didn’t you take ‘Employment and Co-option of Contemporary Organizations’? I swear I don’t know what they’re teaching agents these days. Don’t worry about our phones. There’s only one satellite in each hemisphere and they can’t get a good fix on us through those. Now lead those horses out… we’ve got to get on the road!”

He swung up to the saddle and turned to motion Allison to the other. A zipping whiz past his face was followed by a crack of splintered wood and the sharp report of a rifle. With a shout he put his head down, dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and rocketed down the street, Allison right behind, splattering mud on the screaming pedestrians as they went past.




The room is large, high-ceilinged and sparsely furnished. The floor is hardwood, polished to a high gloss and suitable for dancing. A few settees and occasional tables line the cream-colored walls on two sides. A third wall is set with imported and expensive mirrors and the fourth is formed of French doors paneled in glass, no less expensive a luxury than the mirrors. The doors are shut against the night chill and low fires burn in fireplaces on opposite walls. Warm light spills from oil lamps on tables built around the mirrored columns that support the upper stories of the house. The floor of the room is littered with bodies.

A lady stands before the mirrored wall, apparently studying her reflection. Her hair is a rich auburn, her eyes an uncertain color in the low light. Her gown is shimmering blue-gray satin, heavily brocaded and cut a bit daringly for a married woman, even one as young as she appears to be. One would have to know the woman very well to see the anger beneath her placid face. She turns to face the opening door.

A man steps through. Behind him the hallway is dark. He is also dark of hair and eye, slim in figure and sporting a moustache that frames red, pouting lips. Coat, trousers, hat: all black. A dove-gray brocaded vest overlays a sharp splash of orange fabric. His true name is Temic Messoune, but he is currently known as Charles Ravenal.

“He isn’t coming,” he says, and closes the door with no wasted effort. He waits, perfectly still.

“That fool Sollivar. We coached him through his lines and the fool tried to improvise anyway.”

Messoune glances down at a figure on the floor. “He paid for his mistake. Makhearne must have sensed something was amiss. Certainly he is not riding up the River Road tonight.”

She nods, reluctantly. “Donneval Makhearne is nobody’s fool. He will expect to be contacted by a response team of Swords. For now he will wait. When he realizes there will be no help coming from outline, he will react. Post guards and set the sensor wards for tonight, just for certainty. Tomorrow we will pack what we need and burn the house.” She lifts her chin in a gesture that includes the dead. “That will leave a cold trail for him to follow, and take care of this carrion besides.”

Messoune smiles, a small cruel flash of white teeth beneath a curve of lip. “Tenbaald was right, it seems. His device does jam parachronic travel. He would be gratified.” They both look down at the body of a thin blond man, sprawled on his back with a look of agonized surprise on his face.

“The Swords would already be here if they could,” she says.

“We’ll never be able to leave this timeline,” he cautions.

“One world is enough for me,” she responds, and smiles.

Supreme Emporer - not really a clue you need, but a nice easter egg none-the-less. The Knights love secret organizations - they make nice auxilliaries.

Stuyvesant - good to hear from you; hope all is well with your new family!

V:R is an improvement over V, so I recommend V:R to anyone who has already purchased V.

Estonianzulu - Thank you for the kind words. I'm finding this one a bit harder to get going than I thought which explains the somewhat terse nature of the first posts.

My day off has been busy but I'll try to get another post up tomorrow. I am trying to fight the temptation to post pages and pages and pages (which I usually do). As we go, please let me know if the pacing is OK.

There was a strip of open land between the scrubby woods and the ocean, a product of the soil which was too sandy to support anything larger than a few tufts of grass. Two men on horseback emerged onto the beach from a weedy trail, one shading his eyes against the light of the morning sun.

“You haven’t told me why we’ve come here,” Henry Allison said, breaking the silence that had held since breakfast in a clearing hours before. “In fact I think nobody has told me about any of this… this…” He struggled for appropriate words and then fell silent.

“We’re here to meet an old friend, the one I telephoned five days ago. He said he could be here this morning… look, there! There’s a boat!”

“A boat?” Allison took the bait as unthinkingly as a fish snapping at a shiny lure. “Yes, it’s a boat – a small one.”

“That’s all we’ll need. Henry, wave at them, will you? I’ll start stripping the packs. We can leave the tack in the tide pool, but I think we’ll need every piece of outline gear we have.”

“Why?” Reminded of his earlier question, Allison quit waving and shot a suspicious look at his fellow.

“Let’s talk about that when we’re someplace warm and dry. Then I’ll only have to say it once.”

With misgivings, Henry helped sort out the contents of the bags. Their fine party clothes were ruined from travel, so the rougher garments they now wore – liberated from a country store just outside Charleston – would have to suffice. Their outline, high-tech gear made a very small pile. Soberly they tucked it away in two small packs, took off their boots and socks, and walked down through the crusty sand to meet the boat.

A short wade through knee-deep water was necessary, but the three sailors in the boat were able to help them over the transom without incident. Then with a rushing noise the pump-jet hidden in the keel pushed the craft out of the shallows, the helmsman pointed its nose toward the horizon and the boat set out at a leisurely pace.

Allison pointed to the man who stood by the forward thwart, braced against the motion of the easy surf. “What’s he doing?”

“Scanning for fishermen or ships,” the helmsman said. “If one of those gets too close we’ll have to break out the oars and at least pretend to use them.”

“Good day to you, Justan. How does Mattais fare these days? Well, I hope?”

“Cap’n said don’t talk to you until he sees you himself,” the helmsman growled, and that was the end of the conversation. They rode steadily outward until the land was only a rim on the western horizon. Throttled down to a walking pace, the boat rose and fell on the increasing height of the waves. Then the bowman pointed at a circle of bubbles off to port. Allison leaned around the third sailor to get a better look, just in time to see a dark finger emerge from the water. Slowly it rose, no more than a hundred yards away, broadening into a fin. With a rush of bubbles the submarine heaved its broad back above the surface, an inset niche in its side serving as a landing ramp for the boat.

From the deck the submarine appeared to be broadly ovoid, with a raised deck running from bow to stern and a stubby fin jutting skyward from amidships. The two were bundled through the rear hatch before Allison could see anything very clearly. Waiting for them in the compartment below was a man in casual clothing, head topped by a stained and battered yachting cap.

“Mattais!” Makhearne said, extending his hand. The other man ignored it. “Put these two in a compartment with two guards at the door. Armed guards,” he emphasized. “Pat them down and get any outline tech they have. And scan them for tracers. Bustean! Bring us about and take us down before some idiot sees another sea-monster!”

And for the next hour, they cooled their heels in a compartment no larger than a hotel room. Allison turned on the entertainment set but all of its functions were disabled. Makhearne, predictably, refused to say anything beyond suggesting they take advantage of the facilities and fresh clothing in the closets. Allison found that clean hair, skin and teeth – and the feel of freshly laundered clothing – almost restored his good spirits.

Then the guards escorted them to a larger compartment, decorated in warm colors with framed mementos of marine salvage on the walls. Gold and silver coins on velvet, exquisite plates, even copper port-hole frames nestled on antiqued paneling. Rich drapes covered sections of the slightly-incurving wall. Tables were arranged restaurant-style to seat four. At one, face under-lit by the lamp in the centerpiece, sat the now-hatless Captain. They seated themselves and said nothing.

The captain broke the silence first. “We’ll talk, and then perhaps we’ll eat. Kierianne Frost has already messaged me. She ordered me to hold you, or anyone answering to the outline name of Phillip Sinclair, or of your general description.”

Makhearne looked directly at him. “And why would she be giving orders? She’s not the Resident on this line, nor is she the Senior Knight.”

The captain cocked his head thoughtfully. “That’s a good question, Donneval. She claims authority because her all of her superiors are dead.”

“I’m not, for one. And I can’t believe Richors is dead – he was in Dresden, last I heard!”

“She claims you killed them. All.”

A brief moment passes; Makhearne snorts. “Predictable. Look you, Mattais, you’ve known me for decades and you’ve known her even longer. Ask yourself one question: if the senior agents are dead, where are the Swords? Where is the response team? I’ve been waiting for contact for four days!”

The captain looked down at the tablecloth, and when he raised his eyes they held a terrible sadness. “Not just the seniors, Donneval: everyone. Kierianne, Temic, yourself, your intern, myself and my crew… we are the survivors. Everyone else died at the party in Charleston, including Richors. A dozen Brothers, plus however many people were in that scientific research group. All dead.” He looked down again. “Communication with the Chapter House is… down. Worse, I tried to send a message up by conveyor… and couldn’t. Something has stopped the conveyors.”

Makhearne sagged as the last sentence went home. “Ah. No. Ah. I was afraid… There’s no way to know then if we’re cut off or… if everything outline is gone. Dear God.”

The captain studied his reaction intently. “I haven’t responded to Kierianne’s message, Donneval. I’m trying to figure out what is going on and what options I have.”

Henry Allison leaned across the tabletop. “Listen. I have been left in the dark long enough. I am done with being talked over and around and past. I want to know who you are and what is going on here!”

Makhearne moved a hand from one to the other. “Matthias, this is Henry Allison, my intern. Henry, meet Captain Mattias Nemor, commander of the submarine ‘Argonauta’.”

“Nemo!” Henry gasped. “You mean – you!”

“Nemor,” the captain corrected him politely. “Two lessons you can learn from that, Henry – never drink West Indies rum in a dockside tavern and never trust a Frenchman.”

“But… but!”

“The Order keeps a low profile on almost all the outlines, you know. There’s no need to hide on some – such as the Massive Retaliation line – because there are no civilized survivors. But we need a lot of money for operations, and the Charter requires we be self-supporting. So we have sidelines in archaeology and marine salvage, and a small fleet of subs equipped with mini-subs, divers and recovery gear. Even if a treasure ship is found later they never find all of the cargo.” Nemor smiled slyly. “Guess why.”

“Matthias… I need to know where you stand.” Makhearne’s quiet statement held no trace of fear.

“I think you could have killed them,” Nemor said judiciously. “I’ve seen the Axe in operation, don’t forget. But the Charleston papers are reporting Preston Hall destroyed by fire with bodies everywhere and no survivors. You were never the dramatic sort, Donneval. When the Axe came down there were no messy traces left. Yes – I’ve known Kierianne longer than you have, and I know she’s changed these last few years, and not for the better. And I saw your face when you heard the conveyors wouldn’t run. You really didn’t know, did you? That settled the question, for me.”

“The Axe?” Allison said, but they ignored him.

“What you don’t see is that I can’t be of much help to you. We have some specie and gems on hand, and the ‘Argonauta’ is a transportation fit for a king. But she will wear down and give out, in years and not decades. We three will live on long after my poor ship shuts down.”

“Just now we need sanctuary, and money, and time to plan. You can help us with that, Mattias – and Kierianne need never know.”

The captain shook his head slowly. “If I’m with you, Donneval, I’m with you all the way.” He extended a big hand, and after a second’s puzzled hesitation Makhearne reached out his own and they shook.

“If you aren’t going to shoot us,” Allison said, “I think it’s time you fed us.”

Nemor laughed. “An excellent suggestion, my young friend!” He pressed a button near the centerpiece. “Allain? It will be three for dinner, after all.”

TheExecuter - I hope this last post helps bring the main elements out. Our heroes - and villains - are indeed cut off, and to the victor belongs whatever the future may bring.

Vann the Red - Either I just don't have the time I once did or I've lost the knack of making long posts. These all seem short to me... I apologize for not posting more often. I've not had the urge to write these last few days.

coz1 - thanks! I depend on you to help me keep this thing between the lines.

The only thing I don't like about the portrait of Kierianne Frost (Charlotte Ravenal) is the angle... but when I saw it I knew it was her.

J. Passepartout - I'm just glad you found my AAR and are taking the time to read and comment. I love hearing what you have to say, always.

The Masons will continue to play a part on both sides. As one of Isaac Asimov's characters once observed, "It's a poor atom blaster that won't point both ways."

Stuyvesant - glad to hear all is well on the domestic front. I'm equally glad to see you back reading and commenting - the place lacks a certain something when you aren't here.

I think you'll see the Knights are ordinary humans with some unusual technological gadgets. They do have an extended lifespan, so - barring war, plague and the like - you should plan on their being around for the full game.

You should not assume I won't let them die if that's where the story goes.

Draco Rexus - what else is needed is good writing, which I will try to provide. Please feel free to ask questions, point out mistakes and otherwise help me along. Good to hear from you!

Amric - did someone say 'Update!'?