Snippet – Conquistadors (Stand-Alone Cross-Time Invasion)

Prologue, Timeline A (Protectorate Homeworld)

“And so, the final preparations have been completed,” Captain-General James Montrose said. The holographic projection couldn’t hide the anticipation – and impatience – in his voice, his determination to get on with the operation before politics shifted and he was, perhaps, removed from his post. “The 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division awaits your command.”

Protector Julianne Rigby, one of the Triumvirs of the Protectorate, studied him thoughtfully. Montrose was a man on the make, a man of burning ambition, a man who felt he had something to prove … a man whose hopes and dreams might carry him to the Inner Circle itself, where she sat, or sending him crashing and burning into nothingness. He was tall and handsome, wearing a uniform tailored to make him look both dashing and imposing … he’d had it put around, more than once, that his looks owed nothing to cosmetic surgery or gene-splice techniques. His dark hair was cut in a manner that recalled Alexander the Great, barely within regulations, something Julianne couldn’t help finding both amusing and worrying. Alexander had conquered most of the known world, true, but he hadn’t known how to keep it. His empire had barely lasted longer than himself.

Her lips twitched. A man like Montrose would be a threat, under other circumstances. He was charismatic, capable, and experienced, having cut his teeth fighting primals and teaching degenerates the error of their ways. The Protectorate prided itself on being a meritocracy, and an ambitious man could rise far even if he started with nothing, but there were limits. No one man could be allowed to put himself above the rest, even in name. They were lucky, she supposed, that they could send him to fight in other timelines. He would have a chance to earn his spurs, and develop the skills he needed to rise even higher, and the Protectorate itself would benefit. And if he lost …

“We will be in touch,” Protector Horace Jarvis said. “Your orders will arrive shortly.”

He tapped a command. Montrose’s image vanished, leaving the three triumvirs alone.

“I don’t trust him,” Jarvis said, curtly. “He’s too ambitious.”

“There’s no such thing,” Protector John Hotham said, calmly. “We need a man like him on the other side.”

Julianne couldn’t disagree, even as Jarvis swung his head towards her. The Crosstime Transpositioner was the Protectorate’s greatest invention – and the Interdimensional Gates a close second – but it had its limits. The 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division would be transported to another world, through one of the ‘soft places’ the scientists had charted over the last year, then … the division would be on its own until a second division could be rotated through the dimensions, or a pair of gates set up to allow instant travel between the two. Montrose would be on his own, without any supervision. There were agents in his staff, of course, with instructions to ensure he didn’t exceed his orders too broadly, but it was impossible to prepare for every possible contingency. A man like Montrose would have no trouble arranging matters so he didn’t violate the letter of the law, no matter what he did to the spirit.

Her eyes hardened. The Protectorate had discovered and colonised four timelines so far: one seemingly devoid of human life, one shattered by a disease that had seemingly come out of nowhere, and two dominated by empires that had reached a certain point and stagnated. They had never developed anything more advanced than wind and sail technology, with gunpowder remaining little more than a curiosity rather than a weapon of war, and they hadn’t posed any challenge when the first expeditionary forces had arrived. The occupants of the disease-ridden timeline had actually been glad to see the invaders, something that still amused the occupation authority. They were very loyal, far more than any degenerates or primals from the home timeline. They might even be qualified for full citizenship in a century or two.

“We are the only timeline that has developed technology,” Hotham said, echoing her thoughts. The researchers believed the Protectorate was effectively unique. Their explorations of other timelines tended to back the theory up. “There are limits to how far Montrose can go.”

“If he builds an empire, it will be difficult to dislodge him,” Jarvis countered. “Legally …”

He let the word hang in the air. Julianne saw his point. The Protectorate offered vast rewards to the men who conquered new worlds, from lands and titles to real power that could be passed down to their descendents. Montrose would be in a very strong position if he claimed the entire world for himself, and his senior officers, and trying to dispose him would be disastrous unless there was very clear proof of mismanagement or treason. Montrose had his supporters, amongst the Outer Council, and they would unite against the triumvirs if they thought they were treating their hero unfairly. And others, who had little love or concern for Montrose personally, would back him for fear of setting a ghastly precedent that could – would – come back to bite them.

“If he occupies yet another low-tech world, if he claims it all for himself, it is not a major problem,” Hotham said. “By the time his conquest is thoroughly developed, he will be dead.”

“Unless he encounters a high-tech world,” Jarvis said. “It could happen.”

Julianne wasn’t inclined to believe it. The chain of events that had led to the industrial revolution of the 1600s – the overthrow of King Charles, the rise of the Protectorate, the development of steam-powered technology – were so unlikely she might as well have rolled a dice six times and gotten the same number every time. It might be possible, but it was vanishingly unlikely. The mindset one needed to develop practical technology was rare, apparently. Timelines held in the thrall of empires, or superstition, were unlikely to make any real progress. Even in the original timeline, it had been hard for the Franco-Spanish and later the Russians to realise they had to innovate or die.

“Or he could run into something that could kill him,” Hotham said. His mockery was carefully hidden, but not carefully enough. It was no accident. “He has his orders in that case.”

“And we know he’s loyal,” Julianne added.

She studied the display thoughtfully. The researchers had done their best, but there was no way to determine anything about the new timeline until someone actually jumped in and took a look. The basic theory suggested they couldn’t access a timeline too close to their own, certainly not one identical in every detail save one, yet no one had been able to figure out how to find the point of divergence from outside. It was possible there was a timeline in which the Roman Empire had developed technology nearly a thousand years before the Protectorate, or even one in which the dinosaurs had grown into intelligent beings rather than being wiped out by an asteroid strike. Or something completely inexplicable …

“He has his orders,” Hotham repeated. It was true. If Montrose ran into something he couldn’t handle, he had strict instructions to blow up his base and everything else. The destruction of an Crosstime Transpositioner, in theory, would be detectable, warning the Protectorate that there was a threat on the far side of the interdimensional walls. “Now … do we clear him to proceed or not?”

Julianne kept her face carefully blank as Jarvis glowered at Hotham. The two men were polar opposites – one willing to take risks, the other too conservative to gamble everything on one throw of the dice – and the Outer Council had elected her, in part, to ensure the two men could never be deadlocked and throw the entire government into paralysis. It was her job to propose a compromise, and yet nothing she could reasonably offer one man would satisfy the other.

“We assigned units to his command, did we not?”

“Of course,” Jarvis said, carefully. He knew she was playing dumb. He just didn’t know why. “He is the force’s commander, is he not?”

Julianne keyed her console, bringing up the 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division’s Table of Organisation. “We originally intended to assign additional logistic support,” she said, tapping the listing. “If Montrose found another primal world, the only thing limiting his reach would be local logistics. By the time we re-established contact, he could have the entire world.”

She met his eyes. “If we withhold two of the planned logistics formations, it would limit his reach, would it not?”

“A fitting compromise,” Jarvis said. “Sir John?”

Hotham nodded, curtly. Julianne suspected he wasn’t entirely pleased with the agreement, but he was too old a hand to think there was any point in arguing now. Crippling Montrose would be dangerous, if he ran into a peer power, yet all the researchers agreed that was unlikely. He should have no difficulty securing a lodgement and waiting for reinforcements, if the natives proved troublesome. The PEF was loaded for bear – or dinosaurs, her mind whispered – and had enough firepower, as well as supplies, to hold its ground against all anticipated threats. And if he did run into a peer power, he could at least talk to them …

“We can also expedite the second expeditionary force,” Jarvis added. “Once we have a solid lock on the other timeline, we can make sure Montrose is no longer alone.”

“Good thinking,” Julianne agreed. The sooner they added Timeline F to their conquests, the better. Their team as triumvirs would be over soon and they wanted – needed – something that would ensure their names went down in history. “Shall we proceed?”

She felt a twinge of doubt as the two men tapped their consoles. There really was no way to be sure what was waiting, on the other side of the interdimensional wall. The odds of meeting a real threat were unlikely – no one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet – but they couldn’t be dismissed entirely. There’d been no way to avoid giving Montrose considerable freedom to act as he saw fit, and yet … it might not be enough. If only there was a way to covertly recon other timelines …

We make do with what we have, she told herself, firmly. And the odds are very much in our favour.

Chapter One: Castle Treathwick, Spanish Wildlands, Timeline A

Captain-General James Montrose kept his thoughts under tight control as he walked through Castle Treathwick, inspecting the giant fortress one final time before the jump. The sheer size of the fortress was staggering – it truly was a castle, if not a design the original Lord Treathwick would recognise – and yet he was uneasily aware it might not be enough to cope with whatever the PEF found on the far side. There was no way to know what was on the far side. They were loaded for bear, based on what they knew from previous crosstime transits, but there was always a chance – however slight – that they would run into something really dangerous, perhaps even disastrous. Or fatal to his ambitions. To him, they were one and the same.

He was a tall dark-haired man, skin tanned from service in the primal regions of a world that largely, if not completely, belonged to the Protectorate. He was young for his role, barely in his forties; he knew, without false modesty, that he wouldn’t have been selected for the post without both consummate ability and careful politicking. It had taken two years, from the moment the crosstime researchers had zeroed in on another soft place allowing interdimensional transit, to ensure he was appointed commander and he had no intention of wasting it. The rewards would be vast, even if they encountered yet another world of primals who’d committed civilisation-wide suicide by stagnating. He’d be the first governor-general, able to parcel out lands and locals to his superiors; he’d be able to build a power base that might take him to the Inner Council itself. If he managed to take a seat before he turned sixty, he would set a new record. And it would silence, once and for all, the fools who whispered darkly about his bloodline. They would be forced to admit, at least to themselves, that he had done well.

The thought made him smile as he walked from section to section, speaking briefly with his regimental and aerospace commanders before sharing a few words with the men and women under his command. He wasn’t fool enough to believe they’d give him their all if they didn’t like and trust him personally, certainly when they were a long way from home. He’d had commanders who should have fallen foul of the Protectorate’s distaste for nepotism a long time ago, commanders who issued orders from the rear instead of leading their troops into battle. They had never quite known what was happening, and if they hadn’t been able to call on aerospace and orbital assets the primals would have given their troops a very hard time indeed. They might be primitive beyond words – it was popularly believed the primals couldn’t even speak, even though that was very far from true – but they weren’t stupid. A commander who underestimated them would get a black eye – and far too many of his men killed. James understood that, sometimes, men had to be sacrificed, but getting them killed for nothing was worse than pointless. Their friends and families would bear a grudge until the very end of time.

He put the thought aside as he surveyed the row of Cromwell tanks, ready to burst out onto the new world and take it by the throat. They represented enough firepower to daunt anyone, even a peer power, although James was honest enough to admit the primals were rarely intimidated for long. They had little choice but to fight, unless they wanted to join the Protectorate or simply cut their own throats. Who knew how the locals would react? Some had joined up at once, welcoming the intruders; others had fought, even though resistance had been pointless as well as futile. The videos of men on horseback charging tanks had been quite amusing, in a way, as wasteful as it was. They’d been brave, brave enough to join the PEF, but they’d been blown away effortlessly. And the shock had been so intense the remainder of the primals had simply surrendered, rather than adapting their tactics to give the invaders a very hard time.

James nodded to himself as he turned away and started the long walk back to the command centre. The man who had led the expedition to Timeline C was now wealthy and powerful beyond the dreams of avarice, with a seat waiting for him on the Inner Council if he chose to take it. James suspected, reading between the lines, that the older man – no fool – preferred to work in the shadows, rather than take control openly. It was tradition that, after serving a term on the Inner Council, a man would step into retirement to allow younger men to take his place. James knew he couldn’t abide it, at least not while he was young and energetic, and he suspected his predecessor felt the same way too. Glory and fame were important, but power was all that really mattered.

He stepped into the command centre and looked around, eyes flickering from console to console. Castle Treathwick was practically a closed environment in its own right, as isolated from the rest of the world as one of the giant orbital battlestations overhead. They were buttoned down as tightly as possible, just in case. They’d already encountered one timeline infected with something deadly – thankfully, modern medicine laughed at primal diseases – and there was always the risk of discovering something worse, something that might threaten the fortress and its garrison. James thought some of the planners had been drinking illicit substances, when they drew up contingency plans for scenarios no sane mind would contemplate, but there was no point in arguing with them. In theory, anything was possible. And besides, his enemies would use his doubts against him.

“Sir,” Doctor Cecelia Archway said. She looked ten years younger than him, with short blonde hair and a face that drew the eye, but he knew better than to underestimate her. Most scientists in the Protectorate were female, a tradition started by the famed Lady Treathwick herself, and no one would have dreamed of questioning it. “The Crosstime Transpositioner has completed the final set of checks. We can rotate into the other dimension in thirty minutes.”

“Good,” James said. It would have been ironic, indeed, if the checks had failed. A technical failure would be bad enough – it would give his enemies more time to plot to have him removed – but a failure to parse out the soft place and plan the transit would be disastrous. Castle Treathwick was a major investment, fully the equal of an orbital battlestation or a deep-space explorer, yet she couldn’t be moved as easily as either. “Any signs of trouble?”

“No, sir,” Cecelia assured him. “We should be able to rotate through the interdimensional barrier without problems. The receptors will just have to deal with the aftermath.”

James nodded, curtly. Castle Treathwick was surrounded by heavy walls and enough firepower to deal with any reasonable threat, from biohazards from Timeline E to primals with actual weaponry. They would see the castle vanish, when the Crosstime Transpositioner was triggered, and be replaced by … whatever was on the other side. The region had never been particularly heavily populated in Timeline A – the Spanish had largely left it to the natives – but that might not be true on the other side. The Inca Empire of Timeline C had established quite a few settlements in the region, and would have gone further if they’d had the tech to make them permanent. Luckily for the invaders, they’d barely progressed past sticks and stones.

“They’ll be able to deal with it,” he assured her. The odds were good the receptor team would have to deal with nothing more dangerous than a patch of desert, perhaps – although it was statistically unlikely – with a handful of nomads thrown in. If worse came to worst, they could always call down orbital bombardment and sterilise the entire area. “We jump as planned.”

The doctor nodded, and hurried back to her duty station. James smiled to himself as he took his seat and studied the main display. There weren’t many military assets – or townships – outside the fortress and the receptor force, something that worked in their favour. There would be no risk of an enemy force getting loose, let alone into the heartland, before it could be contained or simply smashed from orbit. The locals had largely been brushed aside, decades ago, and did their best to stay away from the townships. Some – descendents of Spanish and Mexican intermixing – had even joined the Protectorate, trying to build lives and careers for themselves in a world that didn’t give a damn about the colour of their skin. Others just wanted to remain alone …

General Stuart Essex joined him, looking grim. “Sir, they withheld the 2nd and 3rd Logistics Divisions.”

James took the datapad, cursing under his breath. The reason behind the decision was almost painfully transparent. His enemies wanted to make sure he couldn’t stake a claim to the entire world, on the far side, before they sent in reinforcements … and, on paper, there was nothing he could do to object. The public reasoning was simple, and unassailable. On one hand, the logistics units were needed elsewhere; on the other, James had strict orders to establish a foothold first and foremost, rather than haring off to take possession of everything. He had no need, on paper, for the kind of logistics support that could move an entire division from one side of the world to the other. And it was hard to argue otherwise when the demands of the endless war in Central Asia came first.

We should just carpet bomb the entire place, he thought, darkly. The Protectorate saw the entire region as a training ground, giving its soldiers a taste of fighting in an environment where defeat would be nothing more than a minor nuisance, but personally he suspected it was as petty and pointless as landing an entire army division on Mars. There’s no need to play war with the primals when we can put an end to them, once and for all.

He studied the datapad for a moment longer, then looked up. “We’ll cope,” he said, curtly. It wasn’t a major problem. There were ways around it, if they discovered an empty world, and if they didn’t … they might have more serious issues to worry about. Have the logistics officers revise their plans to account for the missing transports.”

Stuart scowled. James kept his expression under tight control. He hadn’t wanted Stuart for his second-in-command, even though the man was – on paper – perfectly qualified. Stuart was well-connected, which meant he’d been promoted ahead of other officers … often without the experience he needed to make full use of his new rank. He was a good organiser and bureaucrat, and the PEF needed a senior officer who knew how to handle logistics, but he’d never really been tested in combat. Worse, the various captains looked down on him for not being a combat officer. James had calculated it would make it harder for his subordinates to unseat him, if they thought they had cause, but it was a gamble. He would have preferred a more experienced man serving as his second.

Although a more experienced man would seem a worthwhile replacement if I slip up too badly, he reminded himself, coldly. And I needed support from his backers.

“We will have trouble keeping the regiments supplied if we run into trouble,” Stuart pointed out. James couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fussy bureaucrat, even though his family had ensured he and his siblings had the best genetic treatments money could buy. “Even with the remaining logistic transports, it will be difficult …”

“It depends on what we encounter,” James said. “We will adjust our plans accordingly.”

He smiled, rather dryly. If they encountered a timeline like Timeline B or E, there would be no threat. The local wildlife in Timeline E was remarkably aggressive – there’d been no humans to tame the beasts – but it wasn’t a threat to armed men. Local humans might be more dangerous, yet the PEF still had enough firepower to dominate the local region until reinforcements arrived. The only real risk was a peer power and that was vanishingly unlikely. No one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet.

Stuart nodded. “Do you wish to check in with the remaining captains?”

“They know their duties,” James assured him. He’d never liked senior officers peering over his shoulder when he’d been a junior himself. The captains were prickly and independent, not the sort of officers who’d be happy with their superior checking on them. They’d worked long and hard to earn their posts and they had no intention of letting their efforts be wasted, not when they might be able to climb even higher. “We did enough drills to know the captains can handle their regiments.”

Stuart saluted, then hurried off. James watched him go, keeping his thoughts to himself. The drills had been carefully carried out, pitting the PEF against a series of enemies from primal insurgents to modern-day armoured forces, but there had always been a question mark over their true enemies. They thought they were ready for anything, yet … were they? They’d worked out how to coordinate in the middle of a battlefield, against enemies who matched their tech and had the umpires on their side, but … what would they face when they rotated into a whole new world? The drills, even the live-fire field exercises, hadn’t been real. The coming transit was.

We’re warned to expect the unexpected, he thought, as he studied the live feed from the various regiments, departments and orbiting sensors. But if we knew what we were expecting it would hardly be unexpected.

The timer blinked on, counting down the minutes to transit. James keyed his console, checking the links to the receptor force. They’d be cut, the moment they jumped; he’d be alone, in sole command of an isolated force, a force that would remain out of touch with its superiors for weeks, perhaps even months. They would be completely alone, unable to summon reinforcements or requisition supplies. It was a terrifying thought, for all the fabbers and machine shops within the vast fortress. He’d been in the military for nearly twenty-five years and yet he’d never been out of touch with his superiors, not even when he’d been stationed briefly on the moon. He was solely responsible for the men and women under his command, in far more ways than one. Success would boost his career to the very highest levels; failure would send him crashing into obscurity, blighting the family name even if he never returned …

To win or lose it all, he thought. The family motto, stubbornly kept despite their ancestor being on the wrong side of a civil war … James had never been certain if the Protectorate quietly admired James Graham, First Marquis of Montrose, or if his family had been lucky enough to survive long enough for reconciliation, when it became clear that Charles Stuart’s cause was hopelessly lost. James could not stop himself from reaching for the stars, even though defeat – or even ambiguous victory – would ruin him. He could not fear his fate when the prize was worth any risk. I could not be me if I didn’t gamble everything on victory.

A low tremor ran through the fortress. James tensed, eyes darting from console to console. The Crosstime Transpositioner was ready. The armoured infantry and tanks were ready. The aerospace forces – flyers and drones – were ready, the latter linked to command and control stations within the command chamber. The point defence too … it was unlikely, to say the least, that they would emerge into a battlefield, but there was nothing to be gained by taking extra chances. They were already taking the biggest one of all. The medics, the intelligence staff, the logistics … volunteers all, mercilessly drilled to ensure they could handle anything, and ready. He could feel the tension pulsing in the air, training holding it at bay. They were ready.

His terminal bleeped. “Sir, the Council has just sent us a good-luck message.”

“Thank them for us,” James said. He had enemies on the council, but even his worst opponent would understand the Protectorate came first. If the mission failed, the consequences would be incalculable. “And tell them we’re beginning the final countdown … now.”

His finger ran down the console, taking them past the point of no return … although, in truth, they’d committed themselves long ago. Another tremor ran through the base as the fusion generators powered up, channelling vast amounts of power into the Crosstime Transpositioner. The power levels required to transit, even once, were so high that it was a given the system would not survive the jump, no matter the outcome. James had a private suspicion the council hadn’t pushed to correct that problem because it ensured enemies on the far side couldn’t capture an intact Transpositioner. The databanks had been carefully purged of anything that might allow the natives to build their own. James understood the logic, even though it worked against him. If they did run into a peer power, the last thing they wanted to do was make the new threat more dangerous.

“Now hear this,” Stuart said. His voice boomed through the fortress. “Ten minutes to transit. I say again, ten minutes to transit.”

James lifted his eyes and studied the display. It was just past midnight … it would be the same on the other side, allowing them to arrive in the dead of night. It was possible no one would even notice their arrival, at least at first, or … who knew? The basic shape of the North American continent would be the same, he thought, but beyond that …? The politics could be very different. Or they might not exist at all.

He braced himself as the timer started to count down the final seconds. It wouldn’t be long now.