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thenarator · 6 years

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ok so it’s not the temeraire madoka au i asked you guys about but i wrote some temeraire modern-au, reincarnation-au, soulmates-au stuff and i thought i’d see what you thought of it.

“Any monkey can walk upright; just because they can assume a human form does not mean they deserve human-”

Iskierka closed the laptop with a click, cutting off the recording of the opposition’s political rally they had been watching, and for this Temeraire was grateful. He had not realized, until he saw the care with which she handled the screen, how close he had come to slamming it down. Watching Arthur Lords’ speeches always riled him up, but he had even less patience for it tonight. He sat back in his desk chair and took a deep, steadying breath, trying to get himself under control.

“Vile man,” Iskierka spat.

“He is rather, isn’t he,” Temeraire said. It wasn’t a question.

Iskierka hummed in agreement, flipping her long red hair over one slim shoulder. She was perched on the edge of the large mahogany desk in Temeraire’s study, a place she had long established as her own no matter how many comfortable chairs Temeraire packed into the room. She preferred to position herself as inconveniently as possible for everyone involved, the better to make everyone pay attention to her. He had long since stopped putting things in her way.

“Two hundred years I’ve been fighting for our rights,” Temeraire continued heatedly, “and two hundred years we’ve been proving that we can be valuable to society. He acts as though dragons being anything besides organic war machines is some desperately untried scheme that will assuredly end in chaos.”

“He will make no progress on that front,” Iskierka assured him offhandedly. “You and I alone have too much of a stranglehold on the business world; if the government tried to take us down, they’d bring down England’s economy with us.”

“He can still make life difficult for us,” Temeraire argued. “According to the latest polls he’s got 27% of the British populace believing that reincarnation is a myth, and the dragon-captain bond is manufactured in order for dragons to steal human children.”

Iskierka huffed dismissively, not even liking to dignify such a position with a response. She, like Temeraire, had funded several studies that proved, unequivocally, what all dragons already knew: a dragon could always tell when their captain had been reincarnated, and with only a small amount of exposure to people, places and things they had known in their previous incarnations captains could remember the details of their pasts lives with amazing accuracy. Of course, these studies had been accused of being doctored to suit the needs of those funding them, so even though the majority of the public believed them, they did the dragons very little legal good.

There were no studies proving that the opposing position, that these memories were falsely implanted by dragons who had made themselves parts of their young captains’ lives, had any merit whatsoever, but that did the dragons very little legal good either.

Temeraire knew that dragon rights had made great strides in the last two hundred years. They were citizens, with the right to vote, attend universities, own property and hold positions in government. Some had opted to remain in the military, even after the advent of the aeroplane, but many had chosen to adopt other professions and the vast majority had accumulated significant wealth over the last two centuries. Humans had, at first, balked at the idea that reincarnation was a reality, but now it was generally considered a high honor to have a family member who was a reincarnated captain, and especially lucky for the parents of such a child who now did not have to worry about their future. Many dragons were able to simply gain custody of their infant captains straight away, or insert themselves into the captain’s family while they were young.

There were still, however, people like Arthur Lords. People who believed dragons were devils, sent to subjugate humanity with the advantage of immortality and the ability to shapeshift between human and dragon form. People who believed dragons had to be subjugated themselves, for the preservation of the humans who rightfully deserved the position of power. People who could gain little traction in denying dragons their rights, and so instead made nuisances of themselves by advocating for “parents’ rights,” the right of those to whom reincarnated captains were born to deny them their birthright. People who advocated for the chance to keep the captain away from their dragon, even going so far as to lie to them through childhood and even, if certain laws were passed, well into adulthood.

It did not help matters that the most recent reincarnation of Laurence, Temeraire’s beloved captain and historically another great proponent of dragon rights, was Arthur Lords’ only son.

“He is a wretched man,” was all Temeraire said. He felt that if he went any further than that he might actually do something, and that would not end well.

“You’ll find no arguments here,” Iskierka said dryly. “After he hired that lawyer to help my Granby’s new parents get a restraining order against me, and a gag order so I could not even tell the press, so he could not even hear about me through word of mouth-”

Temeraire sighed loudly, cutting her off. He did not feel up to listening to her complain about her situation with Granby’s latest reincarnation. He knew he ought to have more sympathy for her, but he did not have the energy tonight.

“What’s the matter with you?” Iskierka sniffed. “Usually you’re all too happy to talk about the sins of those anti-dragon zealots.”

Temeraire looked away. “It is Laurence,” he said quietly. “He is . . . close, tonight. His father must have taken him into the city for some reason, but he has been so far away for so long that he feels as though he is on the property.”

Iskierka opened her mouth, a haughty expression on her face for some unfathomable reason, when suddenly the intercom on Temeraire’s desk crackled to life.

“Mr. Tien,” came the voice of Temeraire’s personal assistant Natalie, “there’s been a disturbance near the south gate. Security has asked us to stay inside until they apprehend the intruder.”

Temeraire’s heart skipped a beat. He looked up at Iskierka, to a see a look of surprised speculation on her face. Clearly the thought that had occurred to Temeraire, the one making his skin prickle and his blood race, had occurred to her as well.

“Tell security I will see to it myself,” Temeraire replied, then leaped from his chair. He could feel Iskierka’s presence behind him as he moved through the mansion at breakneck speed. Dimly he heard Natalie calling after him but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It probably wasn’t. In all likelihood it was not. But what if it might be? What if it was?

It seemed an eternity and no time at all passed between the revelation and reaching the south gate, but Temeraire immediately saw the disturbance Natalie had been speaking of. Two of his security team, burly men in kevlar, were clutching at a small boy of maybe twelve years of age. His blond hair flopped wildly side to side as he struggled, and his blue eyes shone in the dark.

“Let him go!” Temeraire croaked. He was surprised by how his voice sounded, rough as though from disuse.

The two men immediately jumped apart, leaving the young boy staggering to keep his feet. He stumbled a few steps forward, toward Temeraire, then paused. He looked pale and angry, but when he caught sight of Temeraire his expression shifted into one of confusion and uncertainty. Despite this, Temeraire thought he spied a glimmer of hope in the boy’s eyes.

“Laurence?” Temeraire asked. He did not need to ask. He knew perfectly well it was Laurence.

Laurence continued to stare at him, unmoving.

“No,” Temeraire shook his head, “it’s Alex, isn’t it? In this lifetime? Your name is Alex.”

Laurence hesitated a moment, then said, “Are you Xiang Tien?”

Temeraire smiled. “Properly my Chinese name is Lung Tien Xiang, but Xiang Tien is the name I use in England. You, however, may call me Temeraire.”

“So it’s true,” Laurence said, wonderingly. “I am . . . we are . . .”

“Yes,” Temeraire nodded slowly. He did not know how Laurence had found out, having been kept famously isolated from the highly public custody battle, but it was plain that he had somehow learned of their bond against his father’s wishes. “We are.”

Laurence took a halting step forward. Immediately Temeraire dropped to his knees, arms outspread to receive him. He had never wanted to hold Laurence more in his life, even when the only form his could assume was that of a 20 ton dragon. Twelve years of separation was long enough. But he would not force it.

“Come to me,” he begged. “Dear Laurence, please, come to me.”

Laurence came. Stumbling at first, his quick strides ate up the distance between them and then he was throwing himself into Temeraire’s arms. Temeraire grasped him tightly, holding him as close as he dared. He did not want to frighten Laurence, deprived as he had been of all reminders of his past lives, but he needed the contact so very much. He could feel his strength returning, feel the weakness that had come with Laurence’s long absence ebbing away. Suddenly he felt like he could take off and fly without even shifting into a form with wings.

Eventually Laurence began to squirm, and Temeraire let him go. He knew he had missed the Rapid Eye Movement that had come with the first of Laurence’s memories; Iskierka had probably seen it, standing behind him, but that was unimportant. What was important was what came next. Would Laurence remember the words? The ones they had said to each other in each and every one of Laurence’s lifetimes so far?

“I will not make you stay,” Temeraire said carefully, looking deep into Laurence’s clear blue eyes.

Laurence smiled, eyes bright and oh so achingly familiar. “No, my dear,” he said, reaching out to touch Temeraire’s face, “I would rather have you than any ship in the Navy.”

“Oh Laurence!” Temeraire cried, tugging the little boy back into his embrace. He laughed against Laurence’s hair, feeling more than hearing Laurence’s answering laugh against his skin. He felt Laurence’s skinny arms clutching at him, and he stood, lifting his captain up and spinning him around.

“Temeraire,” Laurence said, still laughing slightly, “Temeraire put me down!”

“No,” Temeraire argued, “I do not want to! I have only just gotten you back, I will carry you around for a few days yet, I think.”

With his renewed strength he tossed Laurence into the air a little, then quickly scooped him out of his fall so that one of his arms was beneath Laurence’s knees and the other supporting his back. He felt lighter than air, like he could carry the boy in his arms around for a week without getting tired, even in this shape. He had Laurence back. Finally.

“Temeraire!” Laurence laughed, louder now. “Temeraire, you can’t-”

“I’m very sure I can,” Temeraire insisted, and Laurence put his arms around Temeraire neck, still laughing.

“Ahem,” said a testy voice behind Temeraire, making him turn with Laurence still in his arms. Iskierka was still standing a little ways back, tapping her foot on the garden path. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Unless Mr. Lords is hiding just outside that gate, ready to sign over custody, then Alexander Lords has run away from home and Xiang Tien is in violation of his restraining order.”

“He didn’t violate it!” protested Laurence, “I came to him!”

“I do not think the law will see it that way, if your father has anything to say about it,” Iskierka pointed out.

Immediately Temeraire’s brain went into overdrive. He could not give Laurence back. Not now, not ever. He could not let Laurence stay in the mansion either; that would surely be the first place the police would look for him, and if he did stay he would have to be kept a secret until he was 18 at the very least. He would not be able to go outside. That would not do. They could not stay here then, and nowhere in England would be any better. Temeraire was too high profile, his movements too closely watched. Anywhere he took Laurence they would be found.

Anywhere in England.

“Natalie,” Temeraire said sharply, as she came panting down the garden path to come up short behind Iskierka, “have the jet prepped and get a car outside to take us to the airstrip.”

“When sir?” Natalie said, straightening and pulling out her phone.

“Now,” Temeraire said. He began walking quickly back toward the house, Laurence still clutched in his arms and Iskierka and Natalie trailing after him.

“What will the destination for the jet be?” Natalie asked, already dialing. “And how many passengers?”

“Two,” said Temeraire, holding Laurence a little tighter. “And we are going to China.”

“China?” Laurence demanded, squirming in Temeraire’s grip. “No seriously, put me down. We can’t go to China.”

“I’m very sure we can,” Temeraire informed him, very reluctantly setting Laurence back on his feet. He immediately seized his hand and began dragging him back towards the house.

“But why?” Laurence asked, letting himself be dragged. “What good will that do?”

“In China the law is different,” Temeraire said. “It is considered best for everyone if dragons and their companions are not kept separated, once they are known to each other, so no one will try and take you away. I have citizenship there and once I establish that you are my captain you will too.”

“But,” Laurence protested, “we can’t just leave England. What about my family?”

“Your family tried to keep you from me,” Temeraire said disdainfully. “I do not at all see why they should enter into my calculations.”

They reached the house, and Temeraire towed Laurence into the study. With difficulty he forced himself to let go of Laurence’s hand and begin rummaging around for the things he would need. His laptop went into his briefcase, along with two flash drives containing the details no one but himself knew about the running of his company and his long term plans for dragon rights in England. The safe behind a painting of himself and Laurence in their first lifetime together held the copy of Laurence’s passport and birth certificate he had clandestinely acquired years ago, as well as his own passport and the shining golden and ruby collar that marked him as a Celestial in human form. No one in China would look twice at their passports once they saw him wearing that.

“But we’ll never make it out of the country,” Laurence continued as Temeraire fastened the collar around his own neck. “They’ll stop us, won’t they?”

“No one knows you are here yet,” Temeraire pointed out, “and you may rely upon the discretion of my staff. We will leave by private jet, and we will be in French airspace within the hour. Once we are out of England no one will be inclined to stop us. Even after 200 years, we are still quite well liked in most of Eurasia.”

Laurence colored a little, no doubt embarrassed by being given credit for something he’d done in a past life. Some things never changed. With a sudden burst of fondness Temeraire knelt before him and kissed his forehead, cradling the back of Laurence’s head in his hand.

“You do wish to stay with me, do you not?” Temeraire asked urgently, once he had drawn back. “They were not just our words, earlier. I will not make you stay if you wish to return to your father.”

“No,” Laurence shook his head forcefully. “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay with you. I’m starting to remember, and to remember that I remembered before. I had this imaginary friend when I was a child; it was a dragon, a big black dragon, like you. My father punished me for it.”

Temeraire fought the urge to snarl. It was common, among reincarnated captains who were not immediately reunited with their dragons, to have their residual memories manifest as pretend-play. That Laurence had been punished for this perfectly natural phenomenon made Temeraire’s blood boil.

“He will not punish you anymore,” Temeraire said, straightening. “I will not allow it. Do you have any other objections?”

“No,” Laurence shook his head. He looked perfectly sure of himself.

“Then we are going,” Temeraire said, and took Laurence’s hand once again.

The nondescript black car picked Laurence and Temeraire up just outside the door to the mansion, well within the property line and away from prying eyes. The heavily tinted windows protected them from view, but Temeraire still held Laurence close to his side, afraid that the glare of a streetlamp might allow someone to see him if he sat upright. Laurence bore it without complaint, resting his head against Temeraire.

“What’s China like?” Laurence asked, cuddling closer to Temeraire’s side.

Temeraire smiled, stroking Laurence’s hair. “What do you remember of it?”

Laurence frowned. “I think my memories are mostly of my first lifetime,” he admitted. “I can feel that there are more recent ones, but the impression I’m getting is from earlier.”

“And what is that impression?” Temeraire wondered.

Laurence wrinkled his nose. “I remember feeling embarrassed,” he admitted.

Temeraire laughed softly. “It is always a little embarrassing, when you do not know a language well.”

“I don’t know any Chinese!” Laurence realized, nearly sitting bolt upright.

“You do,” Temeraire pulled him back down, “you just don’t remember that you do. It will come back to you, I promise.”

They spent the rest of the ride practicing Chinese. While in contact with Temeraire Laurence’s memory returned more easily, and he had used Chinese in all of his previous lives. He remembered most clearly the archaic forms of address to the Emperor and the crown prince, useless now but encouragingly accurate. Temeraire reminded him of some more modern greetings and Laurence picked them up with ease. It soothed Temeraire’s nerves, having Laurence so close and watching him remember so well, and it made the perilous car ride pass more swiftly.

Laurence was just mastering the pronunciation of a few newer Chinese words when abruptly a police siren erupted behind them. Temeraire’s heart nearly stopped, and Laurence jerked in his seat, then craned his head around to look out the back window. Immediately Temeraire pulled him back and pushed his head down.

“Keep driving,” he instructed his chauffer, a steady man named Oliver who had been with him nearly four years.

“They want us to pull over sir,” came the reply.

“I’m aware,” Temeraire said tesitly. “Lose them.”

Not for nothing had Temeraire hand picked every member of his personal staff. Without further instruction Oliver made a hairpin turn down a side street. The police car whizzed past the road they had taken, not being fast enough to make the turn, but Temeraire knew there would be more.

“How did they know I was with you?” Laurence demanded. “How did they find us?”

“Finding you gone your father will have assumed I took you,” Temeraire told him, “or that you came to me. I imagine we left the house just before the police arrived. Someone must have seen the car leaving.”

Laurence opened his mouth to reply, but another sharp turn brought them out onto a main road again, the police car nowhere in sight.

“Do not worry,” Temeraire told him quietly, “we are nearly there.”

Once they had reached the private airstrip Temeraire shared with several other notable dragons, including Iskierka and her seven vintage planes, the police sirens were audible in the distance once more. Cursing under his breath Temeraire realized they must have guessed his plan. Somewhere above them a helicopter whirred in the dark.

“C’mon!” Laurence slid out of the car first, Temeraire close behind him. “We’ve got to hurry!”

The sleek black jet sat ready on the runway, like a dragon preparing to leap aloft. The door was open, the build-in set of stairs leading down to the tarmac. As Temeraire ushered Laurence up them, one hand on his back, a police car screeched into view.

“Halt!” cried a deep voice behind them, amplified by a megaphone, but Temeraire merely turned and hissed.

Once he and Laurence were inside he crossed to his usual seat and pressed the button to connect him to the cockpit.

“We are ready,” he said urgently, “put up the stairs and go!”

The policeman was still yelling over the megaphone as the hatch closed, but once the door was sealed there was silence. Laurence buckled himself into the seat across from Temeraire, looking pale but determined. Temeraire watched him, hating the police, hating Arthur Lords for putting them in this position.

“Do not be afraid,” Temeraire consoled gently, “we will-”

“Sir,” came the pilot’s voice from the speaker over Temeraire’s head. “We can’t take off.”

“Ignore the helicopter,” Temeraire instructed. “It will get out of the way.”

“It’s not that sir,” said the pilot evenly. “There’s someone on the runway. He’s not in uniform, he looks to be in a suit.”

Temeraire growled, realizing immediately who it was. Arthur Lords had not obstructed him enough; now he was going to physically put himself in their way.

“I don’t care!” Temeraire snarled. “Run him down if you have to, just get us in the air!”

“Wait!” Laurence cried, his eyes wide and distressed.

“Belay that,” Temeraire amended immediately, then let go of the button that activated the speaker. “Laurence, he will take you from me if we do not-”

“I know,” said Laurence, and his expression was pained. “You still can’t do it. You can’t become a murderer over me.”

“I have killed before,” Temeraire told him, “many men in battle, and men who tried to take you away before.”

“That’s one thing,” Laurence shook his head, “this is another. If you do this, here, now, you’ll be a murderer in the eyes of the law. Your political career will be over.”

“Humans have short memories,” Temeraire insisted. “By the time I must return her for your next incarnation they will have forgotten-”

“And what will dragon rights look like in the meantime?” Laurence demanded. “People will use this incident against your cause. All the dragons in Britain will suffer!”

Laurence shook his head, staring at Temeraire with pain and longing in his eyes.

“I won’t be the cause of your ruin, or the ruin of what you’ve achieved. I can’t, Temeraire.”

Involuntarily Temeraire let out a long, low keen. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to take Laurence and fly away, to gather him in and keep him close. To keep him safe. But Laurence did not want to be kept safe. He wanted to protect Temeraire, as he always had. He wanted to protect all of dragon kind, and he was willing to suffer for it. That kind of devotion was humbling, and Temeraire felt suddenly smaller than his human shape in the face of Laurence’s consideration.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, knowing perfectly well the answer would not change.

Laurence looked aside sadly, then back at Temeraire. “I’m sure.”

Temeraire hung his head and pressed the button to activate the speaker. “Turn off the engine and open the door. We are staying.”

#temeraire #william laurence #modern au #soulmates au #reincarnation au

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werewolves-are-real · 6 years

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Tentative first chapter of a modern-Temeraire AU, which is, naturally, Napoleon/Laurence

Present - 2005

French aircraft, like French warfare, has clearly made remarkable improvements in the brief reign of Emperor Bonaparte. Clouds slip under the plane's wings as the Dassault Falcon 60X ascends into the troposphere and levels out without a shiver.

Normally Laurence does not doubt that the dubious honor of escorting the French Emperor to these long-awaited peace talks would have fallen to a more senior officer, but he doesn't question his placement here today. One easy but prestigious milkrun before the Generals will have to hint – or outright tell him – that he won't ever fly in warzones again. Won't fly in any active actions. He will not regret the actions that have caused his new disrepute – the same actions that saved Temeraire's life, along with many others – but if he will be stripped of all use he may as well retire.

Laurence is only serving as co-pilot – an honor and social politeness of some sort that he does not fully understand – but the French pilot has been very curt with him. Not that this is unexpected; France has become very insular in recent years.

Laurence is pulled from his thoughts as the plane jerks and creaks alarmingly. He frowns; it's the first noticeable sound the thing has made all night after more than 1200 miles of flight from Moscow, where the Emperor has just finished another set of talks. All the gauges read normal, but the plane shudders and groans.

He glances at the pilot. “Is this normal for the model, Sir?” he asks. But the officer does not acknowledge him, and his eyes are hidden behind black glasses.

In a complete breach of protocol the cockpit door slides open. It takes Laurence a moment to comprehend the irritated French scold: “What are you doing up here?”

Laurence glances up and tries to recall his briefing. “Nothing at all, Minister Fouche,” he tells the foreign Minister of Intelligence.

“Then damn well fly the plane!”

Laurence curbs his reply as the craft trembles. “I believe something is wrong,” he says instead, and the man shifts at once from furious to alarmed.

Again Laurence glances at the pilot. “...Sir?” he prompts, and when there is no reply he wonders if the man has somehow fallen asleep. He reaches out and taps the pilot's shoulder.

The French pilot falls over.

Fouche swears, yanking the pilot from the seat and tearing off his glasses. Open, dead eyes stare up at them. “What did you do?” the minister hisses.

“Nothing, Sir - !”

The plane shivers again. Fouche glances rapidly between Laurence and the controls, then comes to a decision. “Well, fly this plane, then!” He drags the pilot away to make room; this is unfortunately impossible to hide, and from the passenger area a riot of muffled questions break through.

Laurence ignores them and switches seats. “Yes, Sir,” he acknowledges grimly.

Fouche hovers ominously and with increasing impatience as Laurence runs through the standard diagnostic checks. “Call Paris,” Fouche snaps finally. “My security team - “ and when he rattles off a frequency Laurence has to admit,

“All communications seem to be down.”

Fouche vanishes into the back of the plane. Laurence checks the board once more, grimly, and then finding no choice angles down the plane's nose.

The rattling begins in earnest, easily accompanying the sickening dip of an artless descent. The door opens again. “What now?” someone demands.

“We are landing.”

“We are in the middle of the North Sea, Captain Laurence!”

“We are equipped for a water landing, Sir, and I do not trust this trip to fly to England – unless you have a better proposal. I would also advise - “ Laurence finally glances at the other speaker and stiffens.

Napoleon Bonaparte glares back impatiently. He is not as short as the papers say, Laurence thinks distantly. “Well?” Bonaparte snaps.

“...I would advise,” Laurence says, “That Your Majesty use parachutes to evacuate the plane; if there has been subterfuge at all it is not unlikely the plane has been rigged to explode, especially as this would be the most convenient time since leaving Russia. If I am correct we may have little or no warning.”

“Parachutes. And I suppose there are enough for all my staff? No?” Bonaparte sees the answer on Laurence's face. “I will not be made a coward by some terrorist. You think you can land this plane?”

“I shall certainly try, Sir.”

“Do it; and we, meanwhile, will search for answers elsewhere.”

If asked, Laurence would say that the use of cell-phones on a plane – especially one as advanced as the Dassault Falcon 60X - is not likely to do much harm; warnings against phone-use are mostly a precautionary measure these days, and primarily used to limit radio interference anyway, which Laurence for whatever reason cannot access. Still, under the circumstances it is exasperating as it is understandable to slide open the door, glance back, and hear the entire French convoy shouting into their phones.

Fouche seems to be insulting his subordinates; a man Laurence might recognize as the Emperor's brother-in-law us speaks wincingly in a pidgin French and Italian, apologetic and consoling, while Napoleon's head of household, Duroc, speaks rapidly and lowly into two different devices.

The Emperor himself is the picture of grim efficiency, splaying out half a dozen folders and holding a monitor close to his mouth as the plane rattles to pieces around them. “No, no, what did we do to Madame du Maurier? I – well, that is true. But she forgave us, and anyway she does not have the heart for killing. Of course it was a damn French assassin, do not waste my time, that is why we brought one of our own planes! To avoid assassins! - No – No, shut up if you have no good ideas. Limit your search to people in Paris; it does not help us if you question some culprit half the world away in a month when we are dead – Yes, what?”

Laurence clears his throat. “I beg your pardon; you should all sit down and secure yourselves. We are about to land.”

The next few minutes are likely fraught with tension for Laurence's passengers, but he can spare them no thoughts. The plane seizes in protest of the changing atmosphere as they descend through a cloud-bank and come into view of the glittering sea.

The Royal Air Force makes stringent preparations for every contingency – her officers, too, are expected to be well-versed in all intricacies of flight. This being said, Laurence has never personally overseen a water-landing before, mostly because they are typically avoided at every cost.

The problem is that planes are, first and foremost, designed to land one way; if an aquatic landing even occurs something has already gone very, very wrong. The Dassault Falcon 60X, like most passenger aircraft, has a series of small wheels that can jut from the base of the plane's body when landing begins. The plane doesn't put its full force on these at once; for a few minutes it will touch down and essentially fly parallel to the ground, slowly skipping over the earth and letting the wheels absorb speed and traction.

Water does not absorb because it pulls. On water, the plane does not skip or help the plane gradually pull down. There is only one chance to skate the plane across the water, perfectly at angle, so it doesn't crash and topple – at least not until everyone has had a chance to evacuate. In normal conditions this arrangement shouldn't be horribly difficult; in ideal conditions, it shouldn't be required.

Laurence methodically closes the air-vents and all other openings to the plane, hoping to keep it buoyant. He tilts the plan at a slight angle, so the nose will remain high, and keeps the wings carefully level.

Blotches of foam and roiling blue water pound over the viewscreen as they slam into the sea, jerking, rising; the plane skids like a ten-ton pebble before plunging down and bobbing, for one long heart-beat, above the water.

Laurence holds his breath.

____________________________

1989

“What do the poor sods think they'll accomplish,” is what John wants to know. He gestures at the television with a grimace, shaking his head. On-screen the bottom text reads, Rioters barricade house of the French minister!

“They'll be arrested by tomorrow,” dismisses Augustine. “Political protest means nothing these days; peaceful tactics are useless, and violence like this - “Augustine gestures with disgust, “Only causes trouble. And then people criticize that you should try a nice boycott, instead...”

Laurence must admit that this sounds correct. But he says, “It is certainly a statement.”

“I can make statements too,” Granby says. “All kinds of statements. I prefer the kind that don't get people arrested or beaten up by jumpy cops.”

A loud wail comes from the other room; Augustine excuses himself after sharing a brief, despairing glance with John. “Iskierka has to stop crying eventually,” John says, half to himself. “She's just a baby. She will stop crying eventually.”

Laurence smiles faintly. “I have no doubt,” he lies. Glancing one more at the bloody scene on-screen, he says, “I am afraid it is late; give my best to Augustine.”

By the time Laurence leaves the house no one in France has been arrested; the live broadcast just shows continuous rioting, continuous tales of tragedy. The next morning dawns too early. He wakens and starts to pack, fully intending to head out to the bus station, ride in to base, and ready himself for briefing and deployment. The Royal Air Force has been deployed in Bosnia and his number is up.

But the bus won't be arriving for half an hour; he's already packed, so Laurence circles his small sitting room for awhile, plucking his satchel, then flicks on the television while he waits.

He stares for a moment at the revealed screen, and then sits down.

BBC news continues to broadcast in Paris. Row after row of dismembered corpses run across the screen.

A close-up. Louis Bourbon, the caption reads under one bloody head. Late Minister of France.

_____________________________

Present

If someone has tampered with the plane there's a new danger in every action Laurence performs – he's already instructed the convoy to touch nothing, and for once he appreciates the value in having politicians with military experience. A few of the aides look a bit wild-eyed, but everyone does precisely as he says. Even the Emperor.

(Laurence reminds himself that very, very few people have been executed since Napoleon's reign began. It's not particularly reassuring.)

The Emperor's brother-in-law is head of the Armee de l'Air; he comes forward and watches Laurence suspiciously for a few minutes before seeming satisfied. At last the risk must be taken. Laurence powers down the craft entirely. Suddenly the engine's ominous stuttering whirs to a halt; the only sounds which remain are the slow, empty crash of waves and the echoing ocean as they bob over a barren sea.

______________________________

1989

“And now the new Directory of the Republic of France will read the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen - “

“They're turning into communists,” mutters Riley with disgust.

Laurence isn't sure. Some of the phrasing and rhetoric he has heard is a little disturbing (the French politicians over the radio keep calling each other 'citizen' and 'citizenyet' in a move eerily reminiscent of Stalinist Russia), but most of the Declaration sounds reasonable.

Of course, this Revolution started with a massacre; that isn't exactly a point in favor of the new French 'Directory'.

“I am afraid we are not in the best circumstances to judge,” Laurence says, and this his navy friend must concede.

The radio broadcast has monopolized attention throughout the compound, of course. There have already been mutters about a war in France, a war that would be much closer to home if the UK decided to intervene. Riley, Laurence and a few other naval and Air-Force officers have gathered outside the commissary to listen.

The reading of the Declaration is interspersed with cheers and shouts. Evidently the broadcast comes live from Paris. The reading does not last long, but after a pause, the broadcaster announces, “Eight people in hoods are now being led into the square, under guard – they're wheeling out a guillotine - “

Everyone waits, frozen.

“ - Oh. They're being put in the guillotines.” The broadcaster sounds a bit blank; in the background cheers rise, rise, blurring into static. “Their hoods are off – they - “

The broadcaster is drowned out by an explosion of shouting and screams.

And then her voice fades in, saying distantly, “Oh no. Oh no.”

______________________________

Present

“Completely helpless,” a man now identified as King Murat says to Laurence. Clinging to the sinking plane, and shivering in the water with everyone else, he does not look very regal in his borrowed life-jacket. “I do not like it, no; lost at sea, in this day and age! Good France will weep for our mysterious fates - “

“This is no fucking mystery,” Bonaparte says flatly. He throws his drenched phone at Murat, and it falls uselessly into the sea. “Fouche tells me a ship is coming from France; you will forgive me, Captain Laurence, if I do not care to journey the rest of the way by plane.”

_______________________________

1990-1998

France seems to exist in its own sphere outside time; no one inside appears bothered that the U.N. and NATO have both been called to investigate the conditions of post-Revolutionary France. As talks linger it surprises everyone when Italy unilaterally declares war.

It's an even greater surprise when France emerges victorious.

“Napoleon Bonaparte,” says Admiral Roland when the squadron sits down to talk about it, what it means. “Papers have been calling him the Little Gunner of Toulon, because apparently he shot down some of their own Frenchies during the Revolution. Ha! Now he's a symbol of France, and he's Corsican-born to boot.”

The little gunner – as though those guns weren't fully lethal, as though the empty bodies of dead civilians which lined up Paris' tiled streets don't still find their way across the covers of newspapers. Caricatures of the Corsican general depict him screaming 'Liberte!' while hulking troops shoot at rag-clothed women and children. The pictures don't do justice to the vividness of pictures and tapes smuggled across the channel, videos carefully posted in hidden corners of the emerging internet by defiant French loyalists. But despite this evidence it is not until the war of Italy that Bonaparte's name first makes international headlines.

When the war begins Bonaparte is not even a senior general, but somehow it's his name, again and again, that makes the news. And it's his voice the people hear when Italy cedes to France, in his name that peace is called; Bonaparte is a name that the common Frenchman knows, and loves.

And the Directory is stumbling.

______________________________

Present - 2005

Bonaparte's men put Laurence under watch as soon as they're aboard the Fraternite, which he can well understand. What shocks him is that the ship still proceeds to England.

“Sir,” he says when the Emperor visits him in his small berth; he has, at least, been spared the indignity of a cell, which is promising “Do you still intend to continue with the peace-talks?”

“Until I know if an Englishman tried to kill me? Yes. You will forgive this treatment, Captain, but precautions are necessary.”

Bonaparte does not sound apologetic at all.

“Of course,” Laurence agrees. “But if I may – ought I not report these events to my commanders?”

“No. We would prefer to arrive and take events as they occur.”

“England will already know that something has happened to the plane, your Majesty.”

“Yes – but of the whole world, only those on this ship know everything. For the moment.”

Well, everyone does say that Bonaparte likes to attack by surprise.

______________________________

1999

France's finances deteriorate; crime rises; trade and insularity hurt the economy while widespread hunger, nearly as severe as the poverty that struck under the old Ministerial regime, begins to take hold. “At least we have freedom,” say French citizens, desperately, when bold foreign reporters dare to sneak into the country for interviews. But the world expects another change, another tipping point; what is freedom with an empty belly?

Napoleon Bonaparte decides to address the Council of 500.

How curious, news stations proclaim – its only a vague note of interest, made slightly more interesting because Napoleon's brother, Lucien Bonaparte, is president of France's new legislative body. But half of Europe sits up when Bonaparte is ejected from the council - as General Murat's troops storm the building, eject the democratically-selected legislators, and leave behind a bare committee who dissolve the reigning Directory under Lucien's direction.

Every television station in France shows one clip on repeat – a man inside the House brandishing a dagger through the air, hand jolting toward Napoleon's heart amidst a yelling mob of politicians. The shot is blown up from every angle.

Outside France, they show the now-defunct legislators being run down by mobs on the streets of Paris. The mobs are frenzied in defense of the new Consul. “Good god,” says an English news anchor, taken so aback that his professionalism falters. “Will they kill anyone for that madman – why do they love him so much?”

_____________________________

Present - 2005

“Well,” sighs Admiral Roland. “There is no saving you now – I cannot imagine a better scapegoat, nor a more willing one. What was that report, Laurence? Possibly due to negligence in checking equipment - “

“It is a possibility that must be considered,” Laurence says.

“It is entirely inaccurate. The French made the plane, the French checked the equipment - you were just accompanying them over as some ridiculous diplomatic courtesy and still you manage to take the blame. And despite rumors, my power is not unlimited. I can't save you when you're so damnably determined to hang yourself.”

“I would like no such thing. But we both know,” Laurence says, “That my career in the Royal Air Force is over.”

Roland scowls. “Not by any fault of your own,” she says at last. It's the first time she has openly supported his decision; Laurence appreciates, also, that she will not lie to him with false denials. “But you do not have to make it so easy to blame you, Laurence. You do not deserve this.”

“I do,” he says, and means it. “That is enough, Admiral, I promise you.”

_____________________________

2001

Within a week of his reign First Consul Bonaparte makes overtures to half a dozen major world powers, including the UK and Russia. There are no similar appeasements for the broken remnants of Italy, a handful of scattered papal states left under loose French control.

Bonaparte is painted as a military genius, a tyrant, a madman. But the image won't quite stick: he's accomplishing too much, and Britain dithers over a reply to his offer even as the Russians begin negotiating for a firmer peace treaty.

The franc has stabilized the French currency, and despite disparate beliefs members of every political party in France applaud Napoleon's educational reforms, his modernization of the financial system, the newer and simplistic bureaucracy that has already been a relief to average citizens. Religious minorities praise the protection of his Organics Act even as he somehow makes successful overtures to the Pope – an especially impressive feat considering that Marie Antoinette, famed socialite and late wife of France's previous minister, was sister to the previous Holy.

Despite ongoing tensions over the Revolution, Napoleon himself is a figure of contradictions and debate. He becomes hard to criticize. Then in 2004 a news black-out, which is nothing strange for this new France, blocks information about the reborn country for a full six days. Finally the drama leaks that there's been an assassination attempt on Napoleon himself.

And, suspecting old supporters of the Bourbons were responsible, Napoleon responds like this: he arranges to have Minister Louis' cousin, the Duke of Enghien, kidnapped in the dead of night, brought to Paris, and shot before anyone notices his absence.

______________________________

“What do you mean he is to blame,” Bonaparte asks.

Laurence sighs a little. This farce will be terrible enough, but he did not realize he would be personally interrogated by the French Emperor. “Plainly Mr. Laurence did not sufficiently check his plane,” says Admiral Croft. “In light of that negligence - “

“Someone tried to kill me and you fib like a child,” Bonaparte accuses. “You are not even in the Air Force, Admiral. Captain Laurence. Do you personally check your plane before each flight?”

Laurence is forced to admit, “I run the systems through the computer, and conduct basic safety tests, but engineers on-base are responsible for general maintenance.”

“Yes. So. What did you do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What did you do that your superiors are so quick to see you destroyed?”

_______________________________

2005 – Two Months Previous

“You'd think someone would know,” John complains. He gestures at the television, currently broadcasting yet another rundown of the situation in France. “'More information as it is uncovered' – that means they don't know anything... Iskierka, no.”

Iskierka looks entirely unfazed but leaps back when Temeraire eyes her suspiciously. She drops her paintbrush on the carpet (Laurence sighs) and begins tearing apart her paper instead.

He needs a bigger sitting room. One with a divider, perhaps, so when Iskierka visits she and Temeraire don't need to look at one another.

They were somewhat kinder to each other when Temeraire was still sick.

“I can't imagine that anyone will know when Napoleon is arriving until he's already in the country,” Augustine says. “I mean, he has his supporters even here, but he's just as likely to be shot as anything else.”

“Or his plane could get mysteriously lost,” John says darkly. “Save everyone some trouble.”

Laurence shifts uncomfortably. This hits a little too close to home.

He hasn't told anyone about his next assignment – his last assignment - for obvious reasons. In six weeks he'll be heading to Moscow to be drilled in security protocols, briefed by the French ambassador there, and instructed about the Dassault Falcon 60X to help transport the French diplomatic party, including Napoleon himself, back to Britain. The concession of a British co-pilot was meant to be a symbolic gesture; to Laurence it feels not only useless but potentially disastrous. He's been studying his French furiously since being given the assignment.

“You've been quiet,” says John suddenly. “What do you think of this nonsense, Will? You usually won't stop talking about politics.”

Laurence clears his throat. “We had peace three years ago,” he says. “I see no reason we cannot have it again; I hope only that this new resolution can be more lasting.”

“That treaty didn't last a year,” John complains. “And then Napoleon got himself crowned Emperor; an Emperor in Europe, like this is the Middle Ages. Anyway, that's not what you usually say.”

“I will always support the prospect of peace,” Laurence protests.

“You're usually a bit more cynical about actually getting it, though.”

“He is a soldier,” says Augustine dryly.

“I think we are quite due for a peace; there has been very little fighting on land between our two countries, and neither nation should wish for that. France and England are close enough to do great damage to one another in this day and age.”

“Piss poor time to be in the navy,” John agrees. “But you know Napoleon would attack us by land; he's done it to Spain and Italy. I'm more surprised he hasn't tried, really.”

“We have not yet provoked him sufficiently – that is the only, the sole reason for his restraint. If we are to prevent such war we must find peace; I do believe we could win such a war, but the costs would be too great.”

“I can agree with that,” Augustine says. “And even aside from the risks of war, peace would be wonderful; all this fear is awful. And I'm tired of seeing planes patrolling overhead, like we're going to get attacked any second – I'm sure this isn't what you imagined when you joined the RAF, Laurence.”

“That matters little enough. I will be finding something else soon.”

“Damn you will,” John snaps. “They're idiots if they fire you - “

“I will not be fired,” says Laurence wryly. “ - I am lucky not to be court-martialed, rather; it has been considered. It is still being considered. I had best resign now while I still can. This is all for the best, John, I promise you.”

“At least you'll have more time with Temeraire,” Augustine says when John looks mutinous. “Gong Su is a good man, but Temeraire will be thrilled to have you in England permanently, Laurence. You only have one more trip, do you not?”

“Yes,” Laurence agrees.

And what he'll do after that, he has not the least idea.

______________________________

Present

“I see,” says Bonaparte when Croft continues to sputter. Laurence looks away. “Very well; be assured I shall find out. If you want him cast away so badly that is all well and good. I will hire Mr. Laurence, then, and he will not be your concern any longer.”

“What?” asks Admiral Croft.

“What?” demands Laurence.

#Temeraire #my fic

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