The Time Roads

My secretary bent to whisper a reminder in my ear. This was Peter Godwin, the senior member of this delegation. I had encountered him once before, when he demanded Thomas Austen’s pardon. The breath fled my body for a moment, in astonishment at his audacity. A rush of whispers echoed through the chamber.

“Tell me this ultimatum,” I said softly.

“That we be given representation at this Union of Nations—a seat for each District.”

Meaning, a declaration of their status as independent states.

“And if I do not grant this request?”

“Then we will ask again,” he said.

“And again,” said another.

“And again,” Michael Okoye said. “We will continue to ask, until you admit yourself wrong to keep us as bonded servants to your empire.”

“And if I never do?”

“Then we shall do more than ask,” said Peter Godwin.

* * *

“They have declared war,” I said to Lord Ó Duinn. “War. And you advised me to listen.”

“It was necessary for you to see and hear for yourself, Your Majesty,” he replied. “To understand that we cannot ignore the Anglian question any longer.”

We spoke in quiet undertones, our faces fixed in expressions of polite interest as we watched the bare dirt field where the Éireann war department would present its newest aeroplanes for the queen’s inspection. Ships and armies and the occasional balloon fleet had served to defend us for many years, but Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh had introduced these new machines, saying that Éire faced a new century and new enemies. If our Union of Nations did not succeed, we would need new weapons to defend ourselves.

“Now I have heard this petition, what do you advise?” I said.

Despite my effort to speak softly, my anger leaked into my voice. Lord Ó Duinn, however, did not balk. “Invite the delegation to stay,” he said. “Grant them a second interview, in private, to discuss their request—”

“I cannot consider—”

“No,” he said firmly. “You cannot. But I suspect Peter Godwin does not wish you to. He spoke to provoke you into tyranny—to make Thomas Austen’s case for violence. If you grant them the grace of further conversation, they cannot later argue that diplomatic means had failed.”

One of the new aeroplanes rumbled from its hangar onto the square field. Its nose was a rounded snub of iron gray, its wings little more than two thin wafers of steel on each side, connected by wires. Six other machines of like construction followed to form a short line before the royal grandstand. The first accelerated its motor, a deep-throated rumble that spoke of power kept in check.

“You believe they have the capacity to attack?” I asked.

“Not that. Or rather, not them alone. What I believe is—”

A roar, like that of a hunting lion, shivered the air as the first aeroplane surged forward over the track. It bumped and jolted, then gathered speed to cast up clouds of dust, so that I only saw the upper half of the plane with its pilot and companion, and two men stationed in a second row of seats. Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh was now explaining in an excited undertone how the aeroplane was equipped with guns and bombs both.

The first plane launched into the air. The second had begun its race down the concourse. A ground crew hurried between each of the remaining machines. Lord Ó Tíghearnaigh continued to speak of the advantages of aeroplanes over ordinary balloons. He had just begun to describe how they could work in parallel with our ground defenses when the air exploded.

Several things happened at once. A great wind struck me in the face. I fell to the ground amidst a chaos of broken chairs. From all around came the roar of voices, then the crackle of gunfire and yet another explosion. The air stank of diesel fuel and a strange electric scent that called up old memories, old terrors. My father calling out, Áine! Run! Hide!

Before I could regain my feet, a body landed atop me, driving the breath from my lungs. I slithered free, coughing and gasping for air. Another explosion rocked the viewing stand. I lurched forward and tried to brace myself. My hand came in contact with cold doughy flesh—Lord Ó Duinn. He lay sprawled in the wreckage, his eyes wide, his gaze fixed and unnatural.

A third explosion echoed from the airfield, another scorching wave rolled above us. Now I caught the scent of blood and burning human flesh. Lord Ó Duinn’s body twitched. He struggled against me.

“—Majesty—”

I could barely hear the words—my ears felt muffled as though we were buried in dirt. When a man seized my wrists, I struggled to break free. He hauled me to my feet and I saw his face.

“Aidrean!” I shouted. “What has happened?”

Aidrean Ó Deághaidh shouted back, but I could not make out his words. He glanced around and signaled to someone else nearby. I was bundled away from the exhibition field and though a pair of nearby doors into a large empty building. This had to be one of the hangars for the aeroplanes. I jerked back, my thoughts tangling together the aeroplanes and explosions, but Aidrean gripped my arm tighter and half-dragged me through the doors.