The Long War

In that, Ken was typical of his nation, in a way. The British experience of the Long Earth had been in the beginning mostly a painful one. Such had been the early exodus from these crowded islands, particularly from the battered industrial cities of the north, Wales and Scotland, regions isolated from the increasingly complacent city-state that was London, that a rapid population loss had led to an economic crash – even a collapse of the currency, briefly. They had called it the Great Bog Off.

But then the stepwise Britains had begun their own economic growth. And there had been a second wave of emigration, more cautious, hard-headed and industrious. By now there were whole new Industrial Revolutions going on in the Low Earths; the British seemed to have the building of steam engines and railways in their genes. Some of that hard-acquired wealth had already started to flow back into the Datum.

In the long run, in their exploration and colonization of the Long Earth, the British had proved to be thorough, patient, careful, and ultimately pretty successful. Just like Ken.

But now Nelson had his own journey to make.

They spent some time discussing the vigour and health of Ken’s flock. Then Nelson cleared his throat and said, ‘You know, Ken, I’ve loved my time here in the parish. There’s been a kind of peacefulness. A sense that although the surface of things changes, the soul of them does not. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Umm,’ said Ken.

‘When I first came here I walked the hills. There are signs of people having lived here for ever – since before England was England. In the graveyard and on the war memorial I found family names repeated across hundreds of years. Sometimes a man went away to fight for a king he didn’t know, in a place he’d never heard of. Sometimes he didn’t come back at all. And yet the land endured, you know? Even as this countryside, remote from the urban centres, has survived more or less intact through the great convulsions since Step Day. It must have been very hard for such men to leave such a place. Just as it will be for me.’

‘You, Rev?’

‘You are the first to know. I have had a word with the Bishop, and he has agreed that I can move out just as soon as my successor is in place.’ He looked out over the flocks. ‘Look at them. They graze as if they will graze for eternity, and are content with that.’

‘But you’re no sheep, Rev.’

‘Quite so. The fact is I’ve spent a lot of my life being a scientist, and am obligated to a different covenant than the one I bow to at the moment – although I must say that in my head the two have rather melded together. In short I need to find a new purpose, one more suited to my talents and my background. If you’ll pardon my immodesty.’

‘You’ve pardoned me for worse, Rev.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not. Now if you’re done here let me stand you a pint down the pub. And then I have some calls to make.’

Ken said, ‘Well, that’s nice. About the pint, I mean.’ He whistled. ‘Joy! Here, girl.’

The dog came bounding up, tail wagging, and leapt into Ken’s strong arms, just as she’d been trained, so she could be carried back to the Datum. She was a dog whose supper bowl was currently lodged in a different corner of the multiverse entirely, but who had no concern about that as long as her master whistled for her.

7

T

ELLING KEN A bit of news like that was as good as hiring a skywriter, Nelson knew. Well, what was done was done.

Once back at the rectory Nelson made a few follow-up calls, disclosing, apologizing, accepting congratulations.

Then, with relief, he told his computer to boot up, leaned back in his office chair, and watched the multiple screens light up. ‘Search terms. One: the return of the airship the Mark Twain. Two: the Lobsang Project. Supplementary: soc-media streams for last twenty-four hours, slanting towards current concerns, depth three Occam’s razor . . .’

Bandwidth here was generally dreadful, but not for Nelson. A man with a past like his – he’d once worked for the Black Corporation itself, if only indirectly – had a great many contacts in many useful places: favour speaks unto favour. Only last year a black helicopter had landed just short of the graveyard and the team of technicians that stepped out on to the glebe had left him with access to as much satellite traffic as he wanted – including some channels known to very few people indeed – and moreover the means to decipher those channels.

When he’d done with the latest soc-media chit-chat, he left his study for the kitchen. A search like the one he’d just initiated was never going to be quick, and, while his software agents were scuttling across the web, he warmed up a microwave curry.