The Long War

Don’t get involved, Jansson told herself. You’re retired, and you’re sick. Your crusading days are over.

There was, of course, no choice. She turned off the monitor, popped another pill, and started making calls.

And on a world almost as far away as the Gap:

A creature that was not quite a human faced a creature that was not quite a dog.

People called the humanoid’s kind kobolds, more or less inaccurately. “Kobold” was an old German name for a mine-spirit. This particular kobold, peculiarly addicted to human music—in particular 1960s rock music—had never been near a mine.

And people called these dog-like creatures beagles, equally inaccurately. They were not beagles, and they were like nothing Darwin had seen from the most famous Beagle of all.

Neither kobold nor beagle cared about names humans gave them. But they cared about humans. Or rather, despised them. Even though, in the kobold’s case, he was also helplessly fascinated by humans and their culture.

“Trollen unhap-ppy, everywhere,” hissed the kobold.

“Good,” the beagle growled. She was a bitch. She wore a gold finger-ring set with sapphires on a thong around her neck. “Good. Smell of c-hrr-imes of stink-crotches stains world.”

The kobold’s speech was almost like a human’s. The beagle’s was a matter of growls, gestures, postures, pawing at the ground. Yet they understood each other, using a quasi-human language as a common patois.

And they had a common cause.

“Drive stink-crotches back to their-hrr den.” The beagle lifted her body and stood upright, raised her wolf-like head, and howled. Soon responses came from all across the humid landscape.

The kobold exulted at the chance of acquisition as a result of all this trouble, acquisition of the goods he treasured himself, and of others he could trade. But he strove to hide his fear of the beagle princess, his unlikely customer and ally.

And at a military base on Datum Hawaii, US Navy Commander Maggie Kauffman gazed up in wonder at the USS Benjamin Franklin, an airship the size of the Hindenburg, the brand-new vessel that was hers to command…

And in a sleepy English village the Reverend Nelson Azikiwe pondered his little parish church in the context of the Long Earth, a treasured scrap of antiquity amid unmapped immensity, and considered his own future…

And in a bustling city more than a million steps from the Datum, a one-time stepwise pioneer called Jack Green carefully phrased an appeal for liberty and dignity in the Long Earth…

And at Yellowstone Park, Datum Earth:

It was only Ranger Herb Lewis’s second day on the job. He sure as hell didn’t know how to deal with this angry in-your-face complaint from Mr. and Mrs. Virgil Davies of Los Angeles about how upset their nine-year-old, Virgilia, had become, and how Daddy had been made to look a liar, on her birthday. It wasn’t Herb’s fault if Old Faithful had failed to blow. It was no consolation at all when, later that day, the family found their faces all over the news channels and websites as the geyser’s misbehaviour hit the headlines…

And in a Black Corporation medical facility on a Low Earth:

“Sister Agnes? I have to wake you again for a little while, just for calibration…”

Agnes thought she heard music. “I am awake. I think.”

“Welcome back.”

“Back from where? Who are you? And what’s that chanting?”

“Hundreds of Tibetan monks. For forty-nine days you have been—”

“And that dreary music?”

“Oh. You can blame John Lennon for that. The lyrics are quotes from the Book of the Dead.”

“What a racket.”

“Agnes, your physical orientation will take some time yet. But I think it should be possible for you to see yourself in the mirror. This won’t take long…”

She could not tell how long, but eventually there was light, very soft but growing steadily.

“You will feel some pressure as you are lifted to a standing position. It should not be unpleasant. We cannot work on your ambulant abilities until you are stronger, but you will meld into your new body with minimal pain. Trust me, I have been through this myself many times before. You will be able to see yourself about… now.”

And Sister Agnes looked down at herself. At her body: pink, naked, raw, and very female. Without feeling her lips move—and indeed without actually feeling her lips at all—Agnes demanded, “Who ordered those?”

2

Sally Lnsay arrived at Hell-Knows-Where fast and furious. But when had that ever been unusual?

Joshua Valienté heard her voice coming from the house, as he was heading back from an afternoon’s work in his forge. On this world, as on all the worlds of the Long Earth, it was late March, and the light was already fading. Since she’d shown up on the day of his wedding nine years ago, a visit from this particular old friend had been rare, and generally meant that something was amiss—amiss in spades. As Helen, his wife, would also know all too well. His stomach knotting, Joshua hurried his step.