“Enough,” I said. “No cart, then. We need to go to St. Cipriano’s now and see Father Lavigne.”
Once we climbed down from the roof, Reg wrapped Lugano’s missile in the tarp from the rubbish cart. It looked almost as if the big Italian were carrying a coffin. The shantytown boys took their cart and left while Lugano and I trotted to St. Cipriano’s. Mama was nowhere to be seen.
“You want what?” Father Lavigne demanded, glancing nervously at Lugano.
“Ring the fire bell,” I said. “Get people in the streets. The other churches will pick up the peal if you begin it.”
“But there is no fire.”
“There will be,” I said darkly. “There is a plot against the Pope himself, and it has come to New Albion. We can stop it now, peacefully, before the next Great War breaks out. But you need to ring the fire bell to begin things.”
Father Lavigne shook his head. “Peter—”
Then Mama stepped through the church doors and took the priest’s hand. “Peter is touched by God this day, Father. Please. You have known us for many years. Hear me. Please. My husband is in prison, the city is in danger. My son, maybe he can save us.”
“The Archbishop will have my head,” said Father Lavigne, but now he was nodding.
“As soon as you can,” I said.
“Grazie,” Lugano added.
As we ran toward Water Avenue, I asked the big man, “Do you know how to shoot that thing?”
“Si.”
“Is it big enough to destroy a building or something?”
“No.” He considered that as we jogged along, tongue sticking out of one corner of his mouth. “Make a big hole in a wall, maybe.”
Perfect. I knew exactly what I would do. “I will show you the target, then.”
We came out onto Water Avenue near the Ministry of Commercial Affairs. I tried to imagine the layout as I had seen it from the spirit road, the people in the cellars. The prison where Papa was. They had been below the entire width of the building. Where would ‘a big hole in a wall’ do them, and Papa, the most good? After a moment’s thought I pointed out a series of tiny windows set at street level, admitting light for what I had always thought were storage rooms. They stretched to each side of the main entrance.
“Can you hit one of the windows mid-way between the entrance and the corner on the right side?” I hoped to God no one was in the cell we would be aiming at, especially not Papa, but I had to hit it somewhere. Then the prisoners could escape, carrying my father and their stories with them.
“Si.” Lugano grinned, set the missile down, and pulled the tarp off.
People immediately drew back from us, muttering, but then the fire bell began to ring at St. Cipriano’s. Two Civil Guardsmen came out on the portico of the Ministry building and stared at us.
The legs snapped into place on the launcher’s frame. Lugano grunted as he lifted the back end off the ground, essentially leveling the missile. He opened a little panel in the sleeve and toggled two buttons. “Un momento.”
“One moment is all you’re going to get,” I said, watching the Civil Guardsmen draw their pistols and start toward us. The bells at Santa Clara and All Angels’ picked up the fire signal almost at the same time, though the carillon at the Civil Palace was still silent. I stepped around the missile and put myself between it and the approaching Guardsmen.
“Hey,” said one of them. “Aren’t you Hubert Fallworth’s kid?”
The other looked thoughtful.
“Down now,” said Lugano in an ordinary voice.
I dropped to the cobbles, slamming my knees and elbows painfully onto the ground as the world roared and flame washed across my back. A moment later the earth tossed me upward in perfect silence.
Something was wrong with my ears.
A shadow flashed over me, a big man practically in flight.
I sat up to see Lugano fighting both of the Guardsmen. The missile’s launch frame lay toppled next to me. I put one hand on it to support myself as I rose, but it burned me.
I held on despite the pain in my palm. I could barely stand as it was.
“Hey,” I shouted, but I could hear nothing.
People were running around with their mouths moving as if they screamed. Smoke billowed from the Ministry of Commercial Affairs, much more than I would have expected from one big hole in a wall. Everything was quiet as midnight.
Something was definitely wrong with my ears.
“Hey!” I shouted again.
Lugano finished knocking heads together, came and picked me up to sit on his right shoulder. I could feel him shouting, feel the muscles move in his neck as he yelled. People stopped running, turned to face him and me.
“There is a coup,” I said as loudly as I could, though I could hear nothing. These people wouldn’t understand about the Pope, but they would understand about New Albion, since the shootings this week. “Some of you go into the basement of the Ministry right now. Some of you go the landing field and search the aeroplane right now. Everyone must know what is being done to us.”
I could see the crowd twist and turn, like an animal searching for its tail. They were worried. They were afraid. I could only imagine the noise of their panic, though I could hear none of it.
Then they went. First a trickle, a few men picking their way into the smoke and dust of the shattered façade of the Ministry building as others began to stumble outward from the wreckage. Some more men began to head east, toward the landing field. More followed. The trickle became a flood, and then it seemed like half the city was on the move.
By the time the Civil Guard arrived in force to beat Lugano and me into submission, the real fight was over. I was happy to be arrested by New Albion’s Guard because it kept me away from the false priests with their machine pistols.
I was more happy that I had not become another man with a gun.
A green bird came to me that night in my cell beneath the Civil Palace. There being no more prison for the politicals, they’d put me in with the drunks. I didn’t know where Lugano was, but I hoped he was going to be all right.
Three men snored on bunks around me, though I still could not hear. A fourth sat and muttered at the wall, which made my deafness a blessing, though I prayed that my affliction was temporary. None of them noticed when the bird flew through the barred window, circled the cell twice, and came to rest beside me.
I smiled at it, having little to say. Everything was out of my hands now.
The bird looked at me, cocking its head as if to see if the view differed between one eye and the other. It glowed slightly. I thought I could see the ripple of its heart. Then the bird shook itself, leaving me with a tiny jade idol in my hands as it vanished in a cloud of sparkling green dust.
Save for the idol, it might have been a dream. I did not look to see if it more resembled Rodger or the sorcerer. Instead I kept it pressed between my hands, expecting no magic and finding none.
My memories were enough. I thought about Rodger and prayed to St. Cipriano for my friend’s soul.
Later, Papa came for me. His white shirt was spattered with dust and blood and stained with smoke but he was smiling.
Nothing was said as the Civil Guard brought me from my cell, but I found I could dimly hear the clink of keys. On the long walk home, Papa began to talk about coffee mills and pressing the beans and what he hoped his redesigned mill would do for the economy of New Albion. His voice was tinny and high, but I was glad to hear it. Trucks rumbled past us through the streets, filled with straight-backed men heading for Ostia, but I did not need to look to see who they were.
Rodger would rest little more easily.
As we walked through town in dawn’s first light, I even heard a distant roar. The Comète rose from the landing field, banked above the town, and flew away. No tongues of fire followed it, no missiles deadly and true. I knew with a certainty that the beating green hearts of nuclear fire had left with Father Kramer. If there was going to be another Great War, i
t wasn’t going to start here in New Albion.
Papa nodded at the aeroplane. “Your large friend,” he said, interrupting his own lecture on milling and grinding, “he has stayed behind, throwing himself on the mercy of the abbot of Our Lady of American Sorrows.”
I smiled, knowing Lugano would safe.
At home there was nothing to do but put the jade idol away and listen to Papa rant about coffee and colonialism. He did not mention Brasil and I did not ask about his speaking Portuguese. I rather imagined I’d find myself before the ministerial junta before too long and did not want to know any more. Rodger would have his funeral soon, while I had unfinished business of a friendlier sort in shantytown. There were American sorrows enough for me to face.
It was enough for today that my father wore no gun, and that I wanted none for me, and that a green bird flew free and happy in the dusty summer skies of New Albion.
About the Author
Photo by Michael Hiebert
Jay Lake lives in Portland, Oregon within sight of an 11,700 foot volcano. His fiction has appeared and/or is upcoming in Asimov's, Postscripts, Realms of Fantasy, and Æon among many other markets, as well as the critically acclaimed collection Greetings From Lake Wu. In addition to 44 Clowns, which he co-edited with Mike Brotherton, he is editor or co-editor of the Polyphony anthology series, All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, TEL: Stories and Exquisite Corpuscle.
Visit Jay Lake's website at http://www.jlake.com
Four Unforgettable Short Novels by the Hugo Award Nominee
Includes the Hugo Award finalist Novelette
"Into the Gardens of Sweet Night"
It's the kind of place where two boys might uncover the pope's nuclear machinations in Latin America following the Second Great War; where embattled environmentalists might call down dragons from the sky; where a pair of almost-brothers might learn the truth about their people and themselves. It's the kind of place where a dog and his young man might embark on a journey fraught with peril to return to the fabled Gardens of Sweet Night.
It's the kind of place from which you may never want to return.
ISBN: 1-931305-02-1
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On a Mission From God
God has set you upon this Earth to fulfill a mission. When the last trump blows and blood flows in the streets, you will ride out with your brothers to spread war, famine, pestilence and death. You are a figure of Biblical terror. You have haunted imaginations for two millennia. You are the harbinger of doom. You are... A clown!?
Something's gone terribly wrong with the End Times. The four horsemen have been mistakenly incarnated as clowns. Figures of terror in the minds of four-year olds, harbingers of doom if you happen to be a cream pie. What's so damned scary about clowns anyway? Actually, everything.
Includes stories from master of magic realism Bruce Taylor, surrealist genius Ray Vukcevich, and nine more authors.
Read the book. Count the clowns. But don't sleep, because they'll eat you.
ISBN: 1-931305-03-X
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* * *
Scorpius Digital Publishing Titles
* * *
44 Clowns: 11 stories of the 4 Clowns of the Apocalypse, Edited by Jay Lake and Mike Brotherton — Something has gone terribly wrong with the End Times.
After the Vikings, by G. David Nordley — Interwoven Stories of a Future Mars
The Algis Budrys Omnibus, Volume One — Some Will Not Die and selected short fiction
American Sorrows, by Jay Lake — Four short novels by the Hugo and Campbell Awards finalist.
Ariel, by Steven R. Boyett — A magical adventure through a world where fantasy and reality have collided, by the author of
Dark Corners, by Barry B. Longyear — A master of science fiction takes you to the darkest places in the human soul
Dreamlode, by John Meaney — Short fiction from the BSFA Award-nominated author of To Hold Infinity, Paradox, and Context
Fine Cuts, by Dennis Etchison — View the bright lights of Hollywood through the dark lens of Dennis Etchison’s imagination
Flesh Wounds, by Brian A. Hopkins — 30 subtle and disturbing stories by the Stoker Award winner and author of The Licking Valley Coon Hunters Club
Ghostland — Three haunting novellas by the Nebula Award-winning master of the modern ghost story, author of Street and The Well
The Goddess Letters — A timeless myth made new again by the Western States Book Award winner and author of The Hedge, the Ribbon
Hardwired, by Walter Jon Williams — The hard-hitting science fiction cult classic reissued with the sequel novella “Solip:System”
The Hedge, the Ribbon, by Carol Orlock — A storyteller, a hedge, and a ribbon weave a magical spell into the everyday reality of a small town. Winner of the Western States Book Award, by the author of The Goddess Letters
Hemogoblins, Stories to Chill the Blood, by Alan M. Clark and Friends — Stories to astound, startle, and amuse, illustrated with paintings by award-winning illustrator Alan M. Clark
Hong on the Range, by William F. Wu — Louie Hong’s adventures through a New West of cyber-enhanced cowboys and mechanized singing steers, by the author of A Temple of Forgotten Spirits
Hours of Darkness — 21 of the 21st century’s best horror writers spin tales about what happens in the dark
Immortal Khan, by H. Doug Matsuoka — IEB Award finalist — A tale of taoist masters, love, and laundromats, told in screenplay form by the author of Living Midnight
Life’s Lottery, by Kim Newman — Live the extraordinary lives and deaths of Keith Marion in the first electronic “choose-your-own-adventure” for grownups.
Living Midnight, by H. Doug Matsuoka — A dark future tale of mystery, music, and murder from the IEB Award finalist, author of Immortal Khan
Mars Dust and Magic Shows, by Mark Bourne — Unforgettable Stories from “science fiction’s best-kept secret”
Meridian Days, by Eric Brown — A novel of wounded lives and deadly intrigues on the planet called Meridian. By the British Fantasy Award-winning author of A Writer’s Life
Mobius Highway, by Howard V. Hendrix — Science fiction stories from the brilliant and daring author of Empty Cities of the Full Moon
Naming of Parts, by Tim Lebbon — Winner of the British Fantasy Award
Nearly People, by Conrad Williams — The British Fantasy Award and International Horror Guild Award-nominated novella
Neuron Tango, by Dana William Paxson — Highly original short fiction from an extraordinary writer.
Orphans, by Steven R. Boyett — The best short fiction from the author of Ariel
Pieces of the Sky, by Marina Fitch — Tales of love, loss, laughter, and yes, lust, from a rising star of sf and fantasy
Rags and Old Iron, by Lorelei Shannon — A novel of childhood betrayed, love lost, and secrets rediscovered, by the author of Vermifuge
The Schemes of Dragons, Book Two of War of the Dragons, by Dave Smeds — Another cornucopia of swords, magic, and brave men and women caught between awesome forces, by the Nebula Award finalist and author of The Sorcery Within
Something Rich and Strange, by Carrie Richerson — Extraordinary Tales of Fantasy from the Campbell Award finalist
The Sorcery Within, Book One of War of the Dragons, by Dave Smeds — A novel of magic, new worlds, and high adventure by the Nebula Award finalist and author of The Schemes of Dragons
Street, by Jack Cady — A novel about horror and heroes, by the Nebula Award winner and author of Street and Ghostland
Tales for the Long Rains, by Kij Johnson — Beautiful and enchanting short fiction by the Sturgeon Award-winning author of The Fox Woman
Talking to Shadows, by Phoebe Reeves — A story about murder, art, and transformation, from the Stoker Award nominee
A Temple of Forgotten Spirits, by William F. Wu — Jack Hong’s adventures in the world of spirits and the world of men, following the kei-lin, by the auth
or of Hong on the Range
Triad, by Sheila Finch — A Novel of Alien Contact by the Nebula Award winner
Vermifuge, and Other Toxic Cocktails, by Lorelei Shannon — Stories to make you shudder, weep, and laugh out loud, by one of today’s best new talents, and the author of Rags and Old Iron
The Well, by Jack Cady — A classic of modern horror by the Nebula Award-winning author of Street and Ghostland
Wildest Dreams, by Norman Partridge — A novel of death, deliverance, and the Devil in California by the Stoker Award winner
The Wizard's Nemesis, Book Three of War of the Dragons, by Dave Smeds — The conclusion of the high fantasy adventuer series by the Nebula Award finalist and author of The Sorcery Within and The Schemes of Dragons
A Writer’s Life, by Eric Brown, winner of the BSFA Award — A tale of literary obsession and haunting discoveries by the author of Meridian Days
A Quarterly Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy - Æon Speculative Fiction.
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New Albion Press — A fine selection of books for discerning readers of fiction and nonfiction
Crow Street Press — eBooks for Book Lovers