S. M. Stirling & David Drake - The General 01 - The Forge.pdf

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The General, Vol. I: The
Forge by S.M. Stirling
and David Drake (1991)
Chapter One
The rat screamed.
Raj Whitehall spun on one heel, the beam of his carbide lamp
stabbing out scarcely faster than the pistol in his right hand.
"Shit," he muttered, as the light fell on the corner of the
underground chamber. The rodent was dead now, dangling from
the jaws of a cat-sized spersauroid, a slinky thing with a huge
head and slender body carried high on four spidery legs. It
blinked at them with eyelids that closed to a vertical slit, and
then was gone with a rustle of scales against rubble. Raj
grimaced. One of the few pleasant things about living in East
Residence was that Terran life had mostly replaced the local. But
not in the catacombs, it seemed.
Thom Poplanich laughed. "Careful, Raj," he said. "Those
bullets will bounce, you know."
Raj grinned back a trifle sheepishly as he holstered the
weapon. A genuine five-shot revolver, it was as much a badge of
nobleman's rank as was the saber he carried slung over one
shoulder. Both were as familiar as his clothes; Whitehall had
been born in Descott County, hard country two weeks' journey
north of the capital, where men went armed from puberty. The
 
platinum stars and hunting scenes inlaid in the steel of the
revolver were a badge as well, of membership in the Governor's
Guard.
"Spirit of Man of the Stars," Raj said, and touched the silver
wafer etched in holy circuits that hung around his neck. "This
place makes my skin crawl." Everyone knew the catacombs
under New Residence were ancient and huge… but those were
just words until you saw it. This complex could house the whole
population of the capital, with room to spare—and New
Residence was the largest city on Earth.
"Not a spot for a picnic," Poplanich agreed.
The abandoned elevator shaft he had found below his
apartments ended in this floor of rubble; from the hollow sounds
and the way it shifted, there must have been levels below.
Rust-streaks marked the lines of ancient machinery. Now there
was only the cool gray surface of fused stone, and one half-open
door… no, wait.
"Look at this," Poplanich said. He walked quickly over the
broken rock and flicked his lantern's beam downward, moving
with a studied grace. " That hasn't been here since the Fall."
It was a tallow candle stub, resting in a congealed puddle of
its own grease. There was a smokemark above it, but dust lay
thick over all.
"But it's been there long enough," Raj commented, trying the
door. It was frozen in its half-open position, but there was just
room for his barrel chest. "Hand me the paintstick, will you,
Thom?"
They would need to be very careful not to lose their way, down
here in the catacombs. He touched his wafer again. Everything
around them was a product of men who had lived before the Fall,
when the Spirit of Man of the Stars had infused their souls. You
could see it in the way the rock was carved, seamless and even, in
the strange bits and pieces of shattered machinery, the very
materials unfamiliar. There might even be…
 
"If we come across any computers, we'll have to tell the
priests," he said.
Thom laughed. "They don't need genuine relics any more," he
said with easy cynicism. "Haven't you heard what the last synod
ruled about the Miraculous Multiplication?"
Raj flushed; they were both just turned twenty-five, but there
were times when Thom Poplanich made him feel very much the
raw youth, a rustic squire in from the provinces. Even in tweed
and leather hunting clothes, the other man had a slim
self-assured elegance that spoke often generations of urban
aristocracy. Raj touched his amulet again. It was comforting to
know that this was the genuine article, recovered two centuries
ago and blessed by Saint Wu herself. Even if the Church had
ruled that belief made the relic holy, rather than the reverse.
He forced himself into the door and pushed with knees and
hands, back braced against the wall. For a long moment nothing
moved, until he took a deep breath and threw the strength of
shoulders and back into it, timing the contraction to the
exhalation of his breath the way the family armsman had taught.
A seam parted along the side of his tight uniform jacket, and the
thick slab slid open with a protesting screech of tearing metal.
Raj dropped to the floor in a crouch, panting slightly.
"Showoff," Thom said as he sidled past. There was surprise
and slight envy in his tone; his friend grinned.
"A strong back comes in useful for other things than pulling a
plow," he said, raising his own lantern. "Let's keep turning to the
right."
* * *
Raj genuflected again, touching brows and heart to the
ancient, dust-shrouded computer terminal.
"Look, there's not much point in going on," he said. This was
the fifth level down from their starting-point. Emptiness, offices
and storage space, eerily uncorroded metal and the smell of
damp stone. And enough computer equipment to stock every
 
church in the Civil Government and the barbarian lands as well.
Poplanich ran a hand over the swivel chair before the
terminal. Dust puffed up behind his hand, silver-yellow in the
light of the lantern.
"Feel this," he said, fascinated. "It looks like leather, but new
leather. This area's been abandoned since the Fall, it should have
rotted away to shreds." He swung the chair back and forth. "A
greased axle won't turn that smoothly, and this doesn't even
squeak ."
Raj shrugged. "They had powers before the Fall. The Spirit
withdrew them when they proved unworthy."
Thom nodded absently; that was from the Creed. "I still think
this was a naval installation," he said, picking up a plastic sign
from one desk. It was made of two strips joined at one long edge;
one side was blank, and the other bore black letters in the Old
Namerique tongue. Wez cainna bie fyr'd: slavs godda bie sold .
His lips moved silently, construing it first into modern
Namerique, and then into his native Sponglish. He frowned
absently. Well, of course , he thought.
"I don't know," Raj replied, heading cautiously out into the
corridor again. "The Book of the Fall—hey, there's a stairwell
leading down here, hand me the paintstick again—says the
military joined the Rebellion." They had both sat through
enough droning sermons on that .
Thom's teeth flashed in a grin. "Just as my own
interpretation—and please keep this from the Invigiles Against
Heresy, will you?—I'd say that the Brigade and the Squadron and
the others were pretty low-echelon units, out in the wilds when
the Fall came. They didn't cause the breakup of the Holy
Federation, they just seized power where they could when we
were cut off from the Stars."
Raj felt a slight discomfort; that was not outside the canons of
interpretation, but it was dangerously free-thinking. "Come on,"
he said. "Two more levels, then we go back."
 
* * *
"That's a light," Thom said in a hiss as they turned the corner.
His foot brushed aside a crumbling human femur; they had seen
enough skeletons on this level to grow blasé. A brittle pile of
brown-gray bone, hardly marked by the teeth of the rats, bits of
rope and stiff leather and rusted metal scattered about it.
Raj squinted, then turned off his lamp. His friend followed
suit, and they waited for their eyes to adjust. He could feel the
darkness fading in around him, and with it the enormous weight
of the catacombs. His mouth felt dry. That is a light , he thought.
A soft white light that was unlike anything he had ever seen; not
like sunlight, stars, fire, or even the harsh actinic arclights that
you sometimes saw in the Governor's Palace or the mansions of
the very rich. This was the light of the Ancients; the light of the
Spirit of Man of the Stars.
"Live equipment," he whispered, genuflecting again.
Blasphemy. Fallen Man's eyes are blind to the Light of the
Spirit. I am not worthy . With an effort of will he relaxed the
rock-tense muscles of his neck and shoulders.
"Thom, we shouldn't be here. This is something for a
Patriarchal Council, or the Governor." There was a slight tremor
in his hands as he drew his pistol, swinging the cylinder out and
checking the load. The unnatural gleam shone off the polished
brass of the cartridges. He was conscious of the uselessness of
the gesture; what good would a revolver be against the powers of
the unFallen? Of course, it was no more useless than anything
else he might do…
"Priests… " Thom visibly reconsidered. "Priests aren't notably
more virtuous than you or I, Raj," he said reasonably. His eyes
stayed fixed on the unwinking glimmer, shining slightly with an
expression of primal hunger. "Of course, if you're… uncertain…
you can wait here while I check. I wouldn't think less of you for
it."
Raj flushed. I'm too old to be pushed into something stupid
by a dare , he thought angrily, even as he felt his mouth open.
 

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