The Long War

They tried lifting people bodily out of the way, grabbing wrists and ankles and just lifting. But others, especially little kids, would come and sit on the person you were trying to shift. And even if you got a clean lift the person would just go limp, like a floppy mannequin, making him or her almost impossible to handle. Cutler, without referring back to Davidson, tried getting his marines to soft-cuff a few of the protestors. But the people involved would just flick away into another world, and come tumbling back where you couldn’t reach them. Maggie found herself impressed with the coordination of this flash mob blocking the square, with the training they’d evidently had in this passive-resistance stuff – with their determination and discipline, almost military class, though with different techniques and objectives.

And gradually the chanting was breaking out all over: ‘I will not! I will not!’

Cutler stormed back to Davidson, frustrated, angry. Maggie thought his right hand hovered a little dangerously near his pistol. He said to Davidson, ‘If we could identify the leaders, sir—’

‘With a mob like this there may not be any leaders, Captain.’

‘Then a couple of rounds above their heads. Just to scatter them.’

Without replying, the Admiral removed his cap, closed his eyes, and raised his lined face to the late-summer sun.

Cutler snapped, ‘No?

Then how the hell are we going to fulfil our mission here? Sir.’ That last syllable was almost a snarl, and Maggie thought Cutler had to be close to insubordination – if not to breaking down altogether. ‘We cannot let these people mock us, sir. They do not understand us.’

‘Understand us, Captain?’

‘Admiral, they have never met anybody like us. Sir – you and I have served, we have been to the front line. We have taken fire, we have followed orders, and we have not yielded. And because of that these people were able to raise their kids, and come out to these dumb log-cabin type of worlds, and play at being brave pioneers . . .’

Admiral Davidson sighed. ‘Well, the world has evidently changed around the two of us, son. In my view, the best kind of war is one that’s resolved without a shot being fired. Keep your weapon holstered, Captain.’

‘Sir—’

‘I said, keep it holstered.’

And now a man stood up in the heart of the crowd, and walked towards the officers. He was maybe sixty, portly, dressed as a farm labourer like the rest.

Nathan murmured, ‘I recognize that guy.’

So did Maggie. He was the guy with the favours, from a community called Reboot. Maybe now wasn’t the time to wave and say ‘Hi,’ she suspected.

The man faced Davidson confidently. ‘Fulfilling your mission all depends what that mission is, doesn’t it, Admiral Davidson? If you’re here to talk – well, that’s fine. I very much doubt if you’re going to achieve anything else today. Don’t you?’

Davidson eyed him. ‘And you are?’

‘Green. Jack Green. I helped found a town called Reboot. Now I work for Benjamin Keyes, Mayor of Valhalla.’ He held out his hand; Davidson shook it, to an ironic cheer from the crowd. ‘If you want to talk, why don’t you and your staff come to the mayor’s office? I’m sure your marines will be looked after out here; you can see the picnickers have brought plenty for everyone . . .’ He led Davidson away.

Captain Cutler, visibly livid, just stomped away, off into a side street.

Nathan glanced at Maggie. ‘With your permission, Captain, I’ll go keep an eye on Captain Cutler. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.’

‘Good idea.’

Nathan hurried away.

Mac stood with Maggie. ‘Ed Cutler needs therapy.’

Maggie thought that over. ‘So will a lot of us, if you’re right that war has suddenly become obsolete.’

‘I’m right, though, aren’t I?’

‘You usually are, Mac. You usually are.’

The shadow of a military-specification airship passed over the crowd. People looked up, shielding their eyes against the sun. ‘Ooh,’ they said, as though it were an advertising stunt at a football match. ‘Aah.’

That was when Maggie knew the mission of the Benjamin Franklin was complete. That her own future was to fly the Neil Armstrong II, into stepwise worlds unknown.

That, for better or worse, without a shot being fired, the Long War was over.

68

AT THE BEGINNING of September 2040, with the military mission against Valhalla formally abandoned, and the trolls starting to show up in numbers again across the Long Earth, Lobsang and Agnes announced they would be hosting a garden party in the transEarth facility that Lobsang had turned into his reserve for studying trolls: a park spread several West worlds deep around Madison.

At first Monica Jansson demurred, but Agnes came to see her in person in Jansson’s West 5 convalescent facility. ‘Oh, you must come,’ Agnes said. ‘Wouldn’t be the same without you. You were involved in the great adventure with those dog people, weren’t you? And after all, you are Joshua’s oldest friend from outside the Home.’