ANGELS
By Philip E. Batt
Copyright 2013 Philip E. Batt
For my family.
Sometimes, following a daydream takes you to the most unexpected places.
''Never again will the tyranny of these latter days be inflicted upon the glorious state of New Brunswick. From the snowy mountains to the open plains, all shall now breathe deep and free once more. This historic, hard fought victory, made possible by the sacrifice of the blood of heroes, will never be forgotten. Let it be said, and written into the pages of history for all to see, that when its darkest hour came, the Empire showed its worth.''
Emperor Josef, Imperial Year 2229.
(Excerpt from ''A History of the Empire'', by Jeffry de Colenge, IY 2302)
1
The Tenth Day of New Year,
Imperial Year 2332
The boatman strained as he pulled on the hand-worn oars. Perched on the single bench of his tiny craft, he guided the boat through the thick cold fog that shrouded Highport harbour, covering everything in a blanket of secrecy and silence. The padded row-locks fixed to the side of his craft kept his efforts quiet as he drove himself on, but the sound made by the wash of his progress bounced back from the wall of mist in an echo which seemed to wrap itself around him.
Dark shapes of ghostly hulks loomed above like monstrous beasts in the night pacing just out of sight, searching, silent witnesses to his lonely task. Cold moisture dripped upon his head, falling from the curtains of weed that hung down from the thick-linked chains that thrust into the dark water, pulled tight by the weight of the man-sized iron anchors lodged far below in the depths. No one on the decks above would see him, shrouded as he was in the grey cloak that nature had sent to aid him.
He glanced over his shoulder towards the dock as it emerged from the fog. It was as if the shroud was alive as he watched, reaching, searching for a way to breach the defences of the city. He smiled. If he knew Highport half as well as he thought from his frequent visits then its very presence would be adding to the reputation for menace and danger that clung to this part of the capital. Superstitious residents would have kept away, fearing that the old tales were true and that the creatures riding on the mist would claim their souls and take them back to the ocean. The more sensible folk, at least those that were still awake, would be curled up by the fire telling tales, trying to keep the nervousness away. So much the better, he told himself.
The man steered the boat into the side of the dock, bumping it against the side of the wooden jetty, allowing the padded rollers that hung from its bow to cushion the impact. He pulled the oars from their seats, placing them with care into the bottom of the boat. There could be no sound to warn of his arrival.
A foot or so of open water still remained between the boat and the mooring pole and he reached across to tie the boat to it, pulling the mooring rope tight. He raised himself to standing, the vessel rocking from side to side as he stepped across to the wooden walkway that skirted the harbour. His soft-soled boots planted silently on the weathered boards as he looked to either side to check he was still alone.
All around him the city remained peaceful and still as he crept along the harbourside. It took only moments to reach the ancient stone steps that led up to the cobbled street above and as he made his way along he stretched out his arms, allowing his hands to pass across the stones on either side as they dripped with the moisture brought by the fog.
The boatman looked around him as he reached the summit, searching for a sign that would point the way to his final objective. But there was none. He reached into his pocket pulling out his watch to check the dial. In the gloom, he could just make out the position of the hands.
One a.m., he saw. He was early.
Slipping the timepiece back into his pocket, he crossed the street towards the buildings that met the dockside. With one last glance left and right he faded into the shadows and waited.
Peering out from his place of hiding, he watched the dense, greasy smoke as it rose from the chimneys of the faceless houses and tenements, climbing slowly in the damp air before falling back towards the ground and mixing with the billowing fog, adding its acrid aroma along with a brownish hue that swirled and danced as it mixed with the clean greyness that nature had sent.
Then, the fog began to move and swirl, flowing inwards slowly and silently as it was sucked towards a darkening shape that coalesced deep within the depths. The outline solidified with a slow grace and the boatman's heart rate increased. If he didn't know better he could have thought the shape belonged to a demon rising from the very underworld itself to claim him. But that was just stupid superstition, he told himself.
The mist unfolded, as if a curtain had been pulled aside by an unseen hand, and the Hooded Man stepped out of the murk. He approached the dockside and glanced glanced around him, looking for something.
The boatman slipped out of the shadows, making his way across the cobbles to join the man. The Hooded Man turned towards him as he approached and was already offering his outstretched hand as if he had sensed the boatman's presence long before he had heard him. The man's palm and long thin fingers were cold in the night air, although his grip was strong and purposeful.
'I trust that you had a smooth journey.' The Hooded Man’s words cut through the mist and deep into the boatman's soul.
'It was as I expected,' he replied, 'although, this pea-soup is beyond anything I have seen in all my born days.'
The Hooded Man closed his eyes and breathed deeply, sucking in the cold damp air. 'It is wonderful, don't you think?'
The boatman shuddered. The Hooded Man was just flesh, but in this half-light he could easily have been mistaken for something other-worldly. 'It is not to my taste,' he said.
'If you had spent as long in this city as I, my friend, you would have little choice but to get used to it.'
'Then I am grateful that I will not be here any longer than necessary.'
'Hmm,' the Hooded Man said, the deep recess of his cowl in dark shadow as he turned towards the boatman. 'To business, then.'
The boatman nodded. 'To business.'
'I have a message for you to deliver,' the Hooded Man said. 'It is of the greatest importance, concerning the future of the Commonwealth.'
'I understand.'
'Take it to Conn.' The Hooded Man held out a parchment, tightly rolled and bound by a thin black ribbon. 'It gives the location of his next attack, the patrols there will be sparse and the Queen's men will not be expecting an incursion so far to the east. As long as he plans the task with his usual care, the troops should be no match for his men.'
He grabbed the boatman's arm and pulled him close.
'But do not forget,' the Hooded Man added, 'that it is important that some of her men escape. They must be allowed to report to her that they have seen the attackers wearing the uniform of the Empire.'
'It will be done.' The boatman took the roll and pushed it inside his leather bag. 'It will take some time to get to him. My ship will cut off a large part of the journey, but there will still be the long trek overland and up into the hills.'
'Of course,' the Hooded Man replied, 'just get there as soon as is possible.'
The boatman pulled tight the strap on his bag.
The Hooded Man continued, 'In any event,' he said, 'as soon as the Emperor is removed from office we will have a free hand to mould events across this continent in any way we see fit. One way or another New Brunswick will be ours again.'
'The message will be delivered,' the boatman said. 'You can depend on it.'
'I know,' the Hooded Man paused, smiling at the boatman, 'you have been loyal beyond fault. It will be remembered.'
The boatman nodded his gratitude at the recognition.
'I wish God’s speed to you and your
brave crew, I pray that the ancestors see you safely home.' The Hooded Man released his firm grip on the boatman's arm and stepped away, shrugging his shoulders to adjust his clothing into a more comfortable position.
From the darkness of the hood that covered his head and narrow face the man's cold grey eyes stared back at the boatman, his thin lips smiling. Not for the first time that night he felt his skin crawl and the cold he felt in his bones seemed to be caused by more than just the night air.
The Hooded Man glanced left and right, and turned, his cloak billowing behind him as if driven by some unearthly wind. Then, he set off, heading back towards the city.
The boatman watched the fog envelope the man once more as he faded into the night, his presence now only marked by the swirling mist which folded itself behind him as he passed. Then, as soon as he could see the Hooded Man no more, he made his way back across the street toward the steps that led down to the water.
2
The Fourteenth Day of New Year,
Imperial Year 2332
Captain Thomas Winterburne reached the dockside just as the newly risen sun edged higher in the cloudless sky. The last shadows of the night seemed to know that their time was nearly over and clung onto the corners of the buildings that edged the harbour for as long as they could. The watchtower stood before him, perched like a lighthouse on the northern edge of the harbour and as he reached the bottom he looked up towards the platform, grabbing the hand-rope and climbing the weather-worn wooden stairs to the top.
Twenty-eight treads.
The count was a habit that he had practised every day, one of the familiar routines he had developed to give him a sense of security in a chaotic world. He paused as he reached the top, taking a deep breath before striding across the platform to take up his favourite position on the southern edge.
He had always regarded this tower as his place, perhaps even more so than his office at the Headquarters, and in many ways it was a perfect haven in a sea of people and noise where he could rise above life and take stock of everything. The golden glow from the sun washed over the harbour; a relentless tide, unstoppable.
A light sea breeze tried to take his hair, but he had tied it into a tail behind his head and only his fringe responded, falling across his face. He raised his hand to push it out of his eyes. It's was too long and he knew that he needed to get it cut. Then he smiled. It would fail a regulation check...if there was such a thing.
Down below, the main mast of a fully rigged sailing barge pointed with a shadowy finger to the edge of the quayside and beyond to a curled pile of coarse ropes and metal-ringed barrels that sat on the walkway. Two of the barge's crew ventured out onto the deck, throwing open the door to the hold with a crash, and in the process disturbing two black-headed gulls which took flight and shouted back at them in protest. A small brown and white terrier emerged from behind the men, full of excitement, yapping its own comment after the birds.
Winterburne loved port duty, and there was no better place to be than by the sea. This was his city, his port, and most of the people played by his rules...usually. Technically, of course, none of that was true, but he also understood that it was that belief that gave him the energy and commitment to continue keeping the