Midsummer's Eve Gather, June 21-24, 1911. Year Seven of Ten
The 1911 Gather was extended over four days for the convenience of Angels and Reapers. Midsummer's Day, June 22nd, was chosen for the coronation of Britain's new King George V and Queen Mary. Reapers from many countries travelled into London with the foreign dignitaries and their entourages. London's Senior Housing could not hold them all. It seemed only sensible to use the Gather fields as an off-duty rest area. Gather Master Holbert and his team outdid themselves.
A preliminary setup began on the morning of June twenty-first. Four large Gather marquees were erected to provide a place for the weary to sit and snatch a restoring cup and bite before heading back into the human realm. Two more were set up next to the gymnasium to take advantage of the shower facilities; these held cots and blankets for Reapers on rest shifts. The Cafeteria had another marquee, and the third was general seating. Portals were opened to several foreign hubs to facilitate communications and travel. Setup of the rest of the tents would continue until evening.
Midsummer's Day, June 22nd, was an all-hands callout for the Coronation. The Gather itself would begin early on the twenty-second, providing a base of operations for Reapers from many foreign countries who were assigned to dignitaries attending the Coronation. The Gather would continue throughout the night so that its celebrants could port in and out as their schedules required. The Reapers' own ceremony would occur at nightfall, after the Coronation parades had finished and before the humans began the more serious partying around the City.
The Cafeteria tent would be ready on the morning of the twenty-third to feed those who were scheduled to oversee the Royal Progress through the City.
Breakdown would begin after breakfast was served on the twenty-fourth for the convenience of those working the Coronation Review of the Fleet. The six original tents would remain. Not until the last foreign Reaper had returned home would the Gather finally shut down.
All the excitement and stress meant a greater possibility of misunderstandings and disagreements. Alan and Eric were scheduled to be on-site for all four days to defuse any unfortunate situations. The first of these centered on the meeting tent.
Senior Smithfield's request for an Angelic modification to a Reaper blade had produced a flurry in the Garrison dovecote. There was a 'how dare they' faction, a 'sounds like fun' faction, and a 'not touching this with a battle lance' centrist group. On the first day Alan managed to get Smitty together with a few Angelic Artificers who were interested in functionality rather than politics. He arranged for refreshments to be delivered to their table at regular intervals and left them to it. He diverted to Eric any Angels who wanted to interrupt to argue about policy.
Eric removed a few Angels who were spluttering with indignation, handing them over to Color-Sergeant Bourne before fights could start. Here Eric learned an interesting fact; these unusually pugnacious Angels were chicks. They belonged to a new company at the Garrison. There were two sorts, the Created and the Uplifted. This group was visiting the tents on a break from their predawn duties. It was barely 0930 and already Bourne obviously needed a drink. Eric gave him coffee. In return he received a pledge of eternal gratitude and a sad story.
The Garrison had received a Flight of young Angels of both varieties, shortly after Colonel Artois had been promoted. Bourne explained that the Uplifted had the advantage of retaining some experiences and memories gained from human life. The Created were, um, well, new; meant well of course, had basic training and liturgy down pat, sounded good in choir, looked spiffing on parade; but not many social skills just yet, and a general unwarranted feeling of superiority to the Uplifted. They all were haughty, ill-mannered, ill-led dimwits who needed a few good battles to teach 'em who the real enemy was.
Eric ordered a storage tent set up for Bourne to use as exile for misbehaving twits. Two disgusted Senior Angels from Smitty's discussion group volunteered to keep the disgraced inside.
The Uplifted considered themselves promoted from humans who had Done It Right. The Reapers were humans who had Done It Wrong. The Uplifted presumed to snub the sin-stained Reapers, forgetting any manners their sainted mommas had smacked into them. The Senior Reapers would not tolerate disrespect from barely fledged Angels. Eric intervened when he could, rescuing the surprised and battered Angels from the educational process. One of them made an inappropriate and unwelcome demand of a Cafeteria Senior who was holding a pair of roast lifters. She and her Junior responded at once. Eric applied a hammerlock and marched the bleeding, soup-soaked Angel away before a Hey Rube call could bring out every knife in the kitchen.
The Created weren't sure they wanted to associate with anyone whose soul was human in origin. The Created considered Reapers debased and damned cockroaches. The Uplifted were obviously the same lower life form, with pretensions. The Created snubbed everybody and duly learned that Divine origin did not protect them from their fellows, their Sergeant or the Reapers. There was a passionate Angelic donnybrook out behind the tents. Eric called upon the vengeful Cafeteria staff to bring a fire hose to break it up, but not until all the participants had bruises to remember it by.
The exile tent was nearly full. The kids were at least well-drilled enough to obey Bourne; there were no escape attempts. Eric thought that a pity, as the Senior Angels on guard looked like they would welcome a chance to provide some training. Another disagreement broke out in the seating area.
Finally enough was entirely too much. Alan decked an Angel, dropped out of battle mode, straightened his jacket and pulled rank. Dragging his stunned opponent by the collar, he formally requested Bourne to take his insolent adolescents home. They and all their Flight were disinvited from the Gather grounds for the year. This was a Reaper celebration. The Reapers had every right to enjoy it. The Garrison's Seniors were welcome to attend, of course, but the Gather was not to be used as daycare or a school of etiquette for terminally rude squabs unfit for polite company. A memo to that effect would go straight to Colonel Artois with copies to Uriel and Madame Administrator. Eric murmured something about Grell attending the Gather the next day. To Alan's surprise, though not to Eric's, Bourne apologized and agreed to remove his fledglings at once. He gathered his bashed-up, shame-faced, dripping recruits and left.
Alan sighed. "I've worked so hard to improve cooperation with the Garrison. Why would they do this to us? I hope I haven't destroyed your friendship with Bourne."
Eric snorted. "Ye've done him a great favor, me Light. Bringing them here was no idea of his. The Garrison's expanding. There are new officers too. A leftenant, far too conceited to listen to his sergeant, assumed this was a rest area set up for and by the Divine Realm. He's the one ye flattened. Nice hit, by the way. With him unconscious, Frank's in charge. He's welcomed your order to dump the chicks back in the nest."
"Inexcusable. The food services are furious. So's Holbert. So am I."
"The self-important kiddies thought we were staff, not their hosts. D'ye think Frank doesn't know what Grell would do to anyone who patted her ass and told her to fetch him a drink? And all the foreign Reapers are unknown quantities who might be equally explosive. He'll report this to a captain with a brain, or at least an ounce of experience, and some remedial correction will be applied to the deserving. The Garrison owes us big for this training session. Send yer memo. Artois will want it for disciplinary action."
June 22, 1911
The Reapers expected a comparatively quiet day, with most of the Londoners eschewing their ordinary amusements in favor of pomp, parades and celebrations. The Death lists were short for the daylight and early evening hours. The Angels were present to deal with the demons attracted by the politics, pride and vanity that naturally accompanies governmental pomp and ceremony. The glittering spectacle was entrancing enough that the demons were willing to declare a temporary truce with the Angels, all sitting on the rooftops along the parade route. Some long-time foes were even sharing programs.
William had requested that Cortland schedule Sutcliff into Westminster Abbey for the Coronation. It was a gesture of affection, and also a plot to keep Grell from hindering Knox's acceptance of a new trainee. The fabrics, the costumes, the jewelry, the ceremony thrilled her top to toes. She followed the return procession to Buckingham Palace. By the time her shift was finished at 1600, the apprenticeship was finalized.
On that day Eric matched thirty-nine graduates to London Teams, including Reyes to Knox. Seven other Branches likewise held interviews and accepted talented trainees. The process expanded into a second large tent. Eric went to Senior Gather Master Holbert and requested a third tent for the following year.
"There's no more room here, sir, but we can open a portal on a pleasant uninhabited area and pitch a tent or two there. Will that do?"
"Aye, admirably. It's only for a couple of years more, then the Academy class sizes will likely shrink a bit. After that we might use a portal exclusively so these Gather tents can return to general seating and workshops. Whatever ye'd like best, Gather Master. Congratulations on yer promotion."
Eric was glad to give Cortland and Onayemi a trainee. A little early for them, Onayemi only having four years as a Senior, but better they entered the bad times with an apprentice capable of self-defense. It allowed Alan to assign another Admin Junior to help with their paperwork while they scheduled all the new Mentorships to protected areas. One hundred seventeen Reapers. Seventy-eight Seniors with thirty-nine trainees. More trainees would be working with single mentors while the other mentor worked the demon sweeps. The only unmatched Senior teams were those with less than five years' experience. They would not be able to keep all the greenies surrounded by non-teaching Senior Teams. He needed to start his lists for next year. At least Grell had been reasonable about her new trainee. She'd been in alt about the Coronation, and Molly had asked for all the details. The two had spent the next couple of hours in a deep discussion of that most formal of ceremonies.
Alan guided students applying for internships to Research, Admin, Collections and Supplies. One went to Medical, two of his TAs to the Cafeteria, four gadget lovers to the Monitors and one especially clever youngster directly to Franklin and Cole. Six requested Spectacles. Alan found Lawrence Anderson watching a pickup football match. Anderson accepted the applicants after a short conversation which was probably mostly about football. Alan was pleased with this toe in the door. Spectacles, before the increase in class sizes at the Academy, had been a closed static system of centuries-old employees. Only the growing population had made Anderson consider expanding his workforce.
At 1130 Alan took three hopefuls to the Scythes tent. While Scythes did not take interns, they did occasionally interview promising undergraduates for future apprenticeships. Alan turned his students over to the same Senior who had interviewed Smitty seven years before. As the Senior took the applicants off to the food tent, Alan took a moment to look around.
The Scythes tent displayed the new Smithfield Supplies Scythes Marks I and II (already affectionately known as the Crowbar, a folding blade set below a three-inch jimmy spike) and offered Demon Restraints to Angels. Smitty himself was resplendent in a blindingly white lab coat with the golden pin of rank on his lapel. His new glasses were smaller wireframes to fit under safety masks, bifocals for close work, with detachable magnifiers. Also present in the tent were the newly promoted Seniors Ten Hagen and Terry, a well-matched Collections team. Alan congratulated them all on their advancement. He allowed himself a flush of pride in their success. Had it already been seven years since he'd brought Smitty and Dutch to London as interns? Five years since he had moved Terry from a toxic triad to excellent mentors? They'd all done wonderfully well. He hoped that this year's crop of interns would prosper as well as these three. He wished Smitty the best of luck in completing the next five grueling years of his training, and asked him to give his compliments to Engineer Crawford on the success of his apprentice.
Leaving the tent, he circulated through the Gather, greeting those who had been his students and interns and teaching assistants, now Juniors and newly promoted Seniors. All seemed happy and doing well. Time to get a quick lunch before his next group of candidates arrived.
So far, so good. The other shoe would drop in the fullness of time. Today, however, was a gift to be savored and remembered in the scent of rosemary.
On their way back from a noon-to-1600 split shift in London, Ten Hagen and Terry heard a shouting match in the Scythes tent. Somebody wanted a new Supplies model and somebody else was extremely upset about it.
"Oh, shit," said Terry, who was not a man given to common vulgarity. "Brandon's been hired by Supplies. He must have moved out. Anders is right off the rails."
"We need to get them out of there, too many weapons in that tent," said Dutch, and started to run. Before they reached the tent, Reapers and Angels started running out. Two were dragging Brandon, who was bleeding and shouting. Three were surrounding a screaming, pushing Anders, trying to keep him away from his ex-partner.
The Scythes staff ordered everyone else out, then collapsed their tent to keep their stock away from the combatants. They ported out from under the canvas to set up a defensive perimeter.
Terry ran to urge Brandon away. "You know how crazy he is, move! Go!" Brandon was refusing to leave. Ten Hagen turned toward Anders. Fairbairn and Fitzwilliam were coming in from the left, and Humphries from the right. "Anders, calm down! Stop this!"
Anders screamed, "Humphries, you bastard! All of this is your doing! Your fault!"
"Anders, calm down-"
Anders pulled something from his coat, something short and blunt and ugly. "From Hell, Humphries!" He fired point-blank.
As Humphries fell, Anders spun and shot wildly, randomly at the Reapers around him, then fired at Brandon. The gun jammed. Ten Hagen dropped him with a single punch to the solar plexus as Slingby had taught him years ago. He stooped and snatched away the weapon. Fairbairn was down. Moreau was down.
Smitty grabbed the gun from Dutch. He checked the barrel. "Damn! Dutch, these bullets are scythe metal. Get the doctors in here. You, sir, roll Humphries over on his side—yes, plug the exit wound. Seniors, keep those others still until the medics can clean the wounds. They won't heal without treatment. "
Chandra Gupta knelt, whipped off his tie, bound Anders' bleeding hands behind him. He looked up at Dutch. "Van and I will deal with this one. Go get the doctors."
Slingby ran up and dropped to his knees, stripping off his gloves. "Alan, hold on!" Fitzwilliam was tearing open Humphries' shirt, having pulled off his own gloves. Ten Hagen ported to the Infirmary to raise the alarm. Humphries was past saving. But others could be helped.
Oh, this was not good. He had awakened blinded by the Light. There had been shouting and screaming and pain. Obviously something very bad had happened. Had happened to him. No one else was here beside him. He hoped that meant that the others were all safe. Reapers were, after all, hard to kill. Like rats and cockroaches. They had to be.
Reapers stood neutral between Heaven and Hell. Reapers gathered all souls, reviewed their life records to see if extended life would benefit all their Realm, and released them into the Light. There they would be Judged and sent on to whatever they most needed or wanted according to what they deserved.
Reapers could not enter the Light unless they had earned Forgiveness. No Reaper currently active had ever heard of Forgiveness being extended to one of their kind.
Alan believed that Thatcher and McCain had been Forgiven; but he knew that he believed it because he desperately wanted it to be true. Not believing it would have meant he served a cruel and vengeful Highest. He could bear what a cruel and vengeful Highest would do to him; but not that such punishment would be visited on his partner and his friends.
A faint flash of memory; he had been here before, once to be condemned; once again, begging mercy for his partner. The Light had not been so close. This was the second time he had been scythed. His third death.
Now Alan knelt outside the circle of Light. He had made it to his knees but no higher. There was a round hole in his chest, which, he thought, was an odd shape for a scythe wound. Will's pruner? Had he died in a sparring accident? He straightened his back and bowed his head before the True Judge. Softly he repeated his daily prayer, a request for his partner's health, happiness and safety. Many said that Reapers' prayers were ignored while they served and forbidden once they entered Hell. Perhaps this was his only chance to be heard.
Alan Humphries.
The weight of that voice rocked him downward. He caught himself on his hands. He straightened again. Not the Highest, but a very high-ranking Archangel revealed in fullest splendor.
Hail Azrael.
You have earned a choice, Reaper. The voice did not sound particularly happy about that.
Sir?
You may rest. Or you may return to your Realm to complete work that remains undone.
As always, a choice between two options that were not fully explained, probably because both had unpleasant facets. Alan really wished the rulers of the Realms would stop doing that. In some ways, they were more alike than any of them would care to admit.
If I ask for rest, will I lie forever chained in the flames of Hell? If I ask for work, will I eternally spin cobwebs in a forgotten corner of an unknown Branch?
There was a flicker of amusement.
We have enough spiders, Reaper. If you desire rest, you will sleep.
Most reapers spoke of sleep as the starving spoke of food. But no mention of where, how well or for how long. Bad choice, and not the one they wanted him to make. Besides, he would not leave Eric alone in the grief and madness of a broken bond. How could he leave Eric at all?
If you return it will be as yourself. There will be pain, immediate and future. There will be sorrow. Always, there will be work. If you earn it, you will receive another Choice at the end. What would you wish, Reaper?
I wish to return to my partner and my place. But thy will be done. It usually is, one way or another.
It shall be as you have chosen, Reaper.
Was there a hint of approval? The Light receded, or perhaps Alan was falling away. Alan reached after it, then dropped his hand. It was painful to see it go. Or was the pain in his chest merely physical?
The pain grew. Light, a comfortingly ordinary light. The screaming had faded to whimpers. Still some shouting. His hand; someone had his hand; there was another bare hand on his chest. He was on the floor? The ground? His vest and shirt open, and someone was trying to grant him time.
"Alan, me Light, stay with me now, the doctors are coming, Fitz is giving you time, Alan, open up to the bond a little more. Me Light, me Light, hold on...
It's all right, he tried to say, they want me here. They always get what they want.
