S. Stirling - Against the Tide of Years

"Oh, shit," Kenneth Hollard said and pulled the hand-held radio from his webbing. Outside the wall of the great open yard, a growing clamor came from the streets.

"Ian. Wake up."

Ian Arnstein did, blinking gummy eyes and swinging his feet down from the bunk. The sleeping arrangements of the dirigible were pull-man style, bunks that were strapped up against the ceiling when not in use.

Right now they were in use, and only the night watch was awake. The interior of the Emancipator's big gondola was quiet under the drone of the engines-they were running on four, to save fuel. Soft light blinked from the instruments forward and from bulbs overhead. For a moment he simply stared at them, his mind whirling back through the years to days when electric bulbs were a commonplace, not a wonder. Then he rubbed his face and yawned. Doreen was sleep-rumpled too, but on her it looked fairly good.

Chill air seeped through the permeable sides of the craft. He shivered a little, pulled a blanket around his shoulders, and accepted the cup of hot cocoa that his wife put in his hand.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Ken's on the radio from Babylon," she said. "It doesn't look good."

"Oh, Lord," he muttered. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

He pulled on his clothing-wool pants and sheepskin jacket and cap-then made his way up the central corridor. Outside, the moon was shining on the peaks of the Anti-Taurus range, north of what would have been the Turkish border in the twentieth century. He stopped for a moment to look and shiver. The Emancipator was rising only gradually, threading her way between the mountains rather than soaring over them, and they were close enough to look big. Snow glistened salt-white on the higher peaks, and he could see a long streamer of it blowing off one only a few thousand yards to his left. Below that were dense forests, deep black-on-black in the moonlight.

Brrrr, he thought-it was spring, but nobody had told that high mountain country below. I'll be glad when we get into the plateau. He went on to the forward control area of the gondola. The same view was spread out on three sides there, but it looked less intimidating with the ordered activity of the flight crew. Vicki Cofflin and her second-in-command were bent over the navigation table.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Hi, Councilor," she said. "Right here-north of what would be Diyarbakir, heading northwest toward Hattusas. On course. Should get there about an hour before dawn, another three hours or so."

"Okay, then," Ian said, feeling the last tendrils of sleep leaving him. "Let me at the radio and we'll find out what's gone wrong now."

He sat in the chair next to the communications officer and accepted the headset from her. "Arnstein here," he said, conscious of a very slight grumpiness in his tone.

"Colonel Hollard here," came the voice in his earphones. "I'm afraid we have a… bit of a situation."

"What do you mean?" Arnstein snapped. It wasn't like Ken to be slow coming to the point.

"We've got a full-blown revolt here in Babylon."

Damn. He wasn't altogether surprised, though. These people didn't believe in accidents. If something went wrong, it was gods or demons responsible, offended by some lapse of piety or let in by the breaking of a taboo.

"That isn't the worst of it, of course," Hollard went on.

"What could be worse than-wait a minute, do I want you to tell me?"

"No, but I'm afraid you need to hear it."

Ironic, Kathryn Hollard thought. This was the rooftop-cum-balcony where she and Kash had met the week before. Now it was their command post.

From here she could see the flame-shot darkness of Babylon the Great. This northern district by the river and the Ishtar Gate wasn't too bad; the Royal Guard had it under firm control, and the Marine battalions were marching in down the Processional Way, along with the rest of her New Troops. Elsewhere fires were burning; she could see one three-story building about a quarter of a mile away clearly, backlit by flames. Flames shot out of the slit windows, and then the flat roof collapsed, the heavy adobe tumbling down on anyone still left within. Faint in the distance came the surf-roar of the crowds, screams, the clash of metal… and now and then the faint popping crackle of firearms.

The smell of it came too, carried on the cool night wind, the rank scent of things not meant to burn. Fire was a terror in these densely packed cities without running water. Let it get out of hand, and a firestorm could consume everything within the walls.

King Shuriash lay on a bed in one corner, his breath slow and heaving. Justin Clemens rose and tucked away his stethoscope. Priests and ashipu came closer to the bedside, their chants a soft, wailing falsetto under the distant mutter of conflict.

"Definitely a stroke," he said as he came over to the high commanders. "And a bad one. I've made him as comfortable as I can, but there's nothing I can do. It would be a mercy if he didn't regain consciousness; there's extensive brain damage, I suspect."

Prince Kashtiliash's face was like one of the carvings of protective genii outside the palace as he went to bend over his father, but there was gentleness in the touch of his hand on the grizzled black hair.

"The king is fallen," he said grimly to the generals and courtiers gathered around him when he returned. "I rule in his place, until he awakens-and if he does not, I am the king. Does any doubt it?"

A few glanced at each other, but nobody spoke. Instead, one by one, they went to their knees and then to their bellies; there was a rustle of stiff embroidered fabric, clinking from the officers in their scale corselets. One by one they muttered, "La sanan, sa mahira la isu! The king who has no rival!"

When they rose, he nodded and went on, "We must put down this rebellion, and we must do it swiftly."

"Indeed, O Prince." That was Kidin-Ninurta, his diplomat face carefully blank. "Cannot our friends, our new allies, assist in this?"

Kenneth Hollard nodded. "We will give what aid our ally requests."

"I will request as little as I may," Kashtiliash said. Kathryn caught the slight relaxation from several of the nobles and military men. "I would not have it said that my reign rests on foreign blades, no matter how close and friendly the alliance. Yet to bring troops into this city is to risk their lives from the disease."

Servants came in carrying a large table, a map unrolled upon it. Kashtiliash grunted as he recognized the view, drawn from above the city.

A general stepped forward. "The west bank is mostly quiet. The main trouble is in the older parts of the city-here, here, here. Around the temples of Enna and Nergal particularly." He hesitated.

"Speak. I do not blame the bearer for the news," Kashtiliash said.

"Lord Prince, we have found many bodies dead of the new plague as we push forward in those areas. The men… they are brave men, Lord Prince, in the face of spear and sword."

"But they fear the plague demons-as would any men with sense."

He walked to the edge of the rooftop and rested his hands on the balcony. "Cordon off those areas," he said. "Barricade the streets; tear down buildings where necessary, to create gaps." There were substantial areas of Babylon where you could go from roof to roof almost as easily as walking at ground level.

"Use the troops who have been through the inoculation. Let no one into these areas. Women, children, and men surrendering may come out-provided they submit to the inoculation themselves. Send them then to the quarantine camps. Shout these terms over the barricades."

He used a good many English terms in those sentences, but they were ones most people in the palace had picked up perforce over the last week.

"And there shall be no more foolishness in the rest of the city. All the troops shall be inoculated, one company at a time. While they wait, the others shall cordon off the city so"-his finger slashed across the map, dividing the mass of Babylon into segments.