Terry Pratchett - The Long War

Jansson said, “But you just stepped with us. The drugs have worn off now. Yet you’re still here.”

Sally grinned, an expression that reminded Jansson uncomfortably of the beagles, the wolf-people. “Oh, he knows that if he runs I will track him down. You won’t be able to hide. Will you, you little prick? Wherever you go I will find you, and kill you.”

The kobold shrugged; he had already seemed nervous enough. “Poor Finn McCool,” he repeated.

The heat, the dryness, were sucking at Jansson’s strength. “Shall we get on with this?”

“Good idea.” Sally glanced down the dry valley, at the looming stone mass of the building there. “Not too healthy for any of us, hanging around that thing.” Suddenly she had a ring in her hand. “This what you need, Finn McCool?”

On the beagle world, the trolls had gathered by a river bank. Joshua and Bill walked towards them. Bill was carrying a backpack containing Lobsang’s patent translation device.

Every step caused Joshua precise, relentless agonies. His lower back felt hot and damp, and he wondered if his stitches were ripping open as he carried the weight of the crossbow gadget. If so, the blood loss might kill him slow, even if he didn’t step to give the weapon the chance to kill him quick. Even his dodgy shoulder was hurting, a grace note added to the symphony of agony from his back.

He tried to concentrate on his surroundings. The river was wide, strong, placid, and its banks were dominated by green fields and forest clumps. From the fields, the beagles’ strange herd beasts had come to drink, sipping at the lapping water, lowering their misshapen heads.

And the trolls were here, by the water. A band of them had gathered at the closest point of the river to the Eye of the Hunter, where irrigation channels and open sewers cut across the ground to the town. As always the troll group, though sedentary in this world, was mobile in the Long Earth; at the fringe of the pack, scouts and hunters continually flicked away and returned, like ghosts.

There were hundreds of trolls, in this one band. Joshua could see they had been here for some time; the ground was scuffed and muddy, and there was a strong, unmistakable troll musk in the air. There were more bands like this, Joshua could see, spread along the river bank, and on the far side, and deeper into the country. The long call, unending, seemed to hang above them, a cloud of elusive memory.

Surely there were still trolls out there across the Long Earth; nobody had any real idea how many trolls there were in total. But this really did look to be where they were concentrating, he could see that. The centre of gravity of the troll population.

And the band before him was the very pivot of it all, as far as he was concerned. For there was Mary, the runaway from the Gap, and her cub Ham, unmistakable in the remnant of the silvery spacesuit the nerds at the Gap had dressed him up in.

As Joshua and Bill approached the trolls did not quite fall silent, but the volume of their song diminished. Ham sucked his thumb as he watched them, wide-eyed, apparently curious, like all young mammals.

Bill slipped the pack off his shoulders and unloaded it. It contained a tablet, blank and black, a couple of feet square, with a fold-out stand. Bill set this up, and placed the tablet to face the trolls.

Joshua glanced down. “That’s it? No on-switch, no boot-up?”

Bill shrugged. “Black Corporation shit. It’s not like the troll-call translators that Sally described, by the way, those trumpet things. Some kind of new Black Corporation shit. You figured what you’re going to say here? How you’re going to convince them that humanity loves them after all?”

Joshua had purposefully not thought this far ahead. He was no public speaker, and even preparing for town meetings back at Hell-Knows-Where tended to make him freeze up. “I figured I’d wing it.”

Bill patted him on the shoulder, gingerly. “Good luck with that.” He stepped back.

Joshua faced the trolls, standing straight, trying to ignore the liquid pain of his back. He was aware of them watching him, hundreds of pairs of those dark, unreadable eyes—backed up, he reminded himself, by hundreds of pairs of hairy arms, and fists like steam hammers. And he was the representative of a humanity that was probably still treating their kind as brute beasts across a million worlds. What the hell was he going to say?

He spread his hands. “Good afternoon.”

“Actually it’s still morning,” muttered Bill.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today.”

“That’s it. Start with a gag.”

The trolls were motionless.

“Whew. Tough crowd.”

“Shut up, Bill—”

“I didn’t say that, Joshua.”

Joshua turned. A figure stood beside him, tall, erect, still, with shaven head, in an orange robe, and with a broom in his right hand. “Lobsang.”

“I don’t mean to steal your thunder, Joshua. But I figured you could use a little backup.”

“You can never have too much backup,” Joshua muttered.

Lobsang smiled, and for an instant he flickered, shuddering into a cloud of boxy pixels—Joshua could see the green prairie through his substance—before congealing again. A hologram, then, projected from the box. Lobsang took a step forward, glancing back at the translator box. “Hit it, boys.”

The thrilling sound of a mass choir burst from the translator box and filled the air, a pounding, repetitive chant, a thousand voices. To Joshua’s ears it was not quite human, not quite troll, but a blend of the two.

The trolls looked astonished. They stopped grooming, stood up, all their faces turned towards Lobsang. And already, Joshua could hear, the song of the trolls was echoing the translator’s riffs.

Lobsang raised his arms, brandishing his broom. “My friends! You know me. I am Lobsang, who you know as the Wise One. This is Joshua. They call him the Wanderer. Yea, the Wanderer! And we have travelled far to speak to you…” As he spoke he backed up his words with rudimentary sign language, and his own voice sounded over the chorus from the translator box, thin, high, distinctive, like a Bach trumpet.

“Just when I thought my life couldn’t possibly get any weirder,” Joshua muttered.

Bill said, “I guess he can take this off around this world. Speak to as many trolls as he can get to. A hologram’s not going to grow tired. The Lobsang world tour, 2040. The good thing is we haven’t got to listen to it every time he does it…”

Sally handed Finn McCool the ring. “Show us.”

“Eass-y,” said the kobold. He took the ring between his supple finger and thumb, set it on his upturned palm, spun it—

The ring blurred into the air, still spinning, shot past Jansson’s face like a bright blue hornet, and made straight for the big stone building. It burrowed into the dirt at the base of the building’s face, whirring like a drill bit, throwing up a spray of sand, until it had disappeared.

There was stillness, silence.

Sally seemed irritated. She glanced at the kobold. “Now what?”

“Juss-t wait.”

Jansson smiled at Sally. “You OK?”

Sally shook her head. “I just get annoyed by stuff like that. Magic-ring crap. What a stunt. I mean, I could imagine how that could work: miniature accelerometers to detect the spinning that activates it, some equivalent of GPS to figure out where it has got to go, some kind of propulsion—magnetic? Even micro-rockets of some kind? Just a dumb trick, to impress the credulous, easily distinguishable from magic…”

The ground shuddered under their feet.

Jansson, queasy, stepped back quickly. Sand, thrown up from the foot of the building, settled back quickly in the dry air. What looked like a kind of lizard shot across the valley floor, seeking the shelter of a heap of rocks. Above them creatures like buzzards rose up, alarmed, cawing.