Strong lay curled in Anna's sleeping bag, small fists splayed against her ribs, breath a whispering engine. In his dream the world always folded back into the same neat, indifferent board: the System. Numbers and icons floated before him like drifted stars.
ACCOUNT: STRONG — SOUL POINTS
CURRENT BALANCE: 2,628,610 SP
The ledger blinked, and the numbers dissolved into the dream. Now the System painted its possibilities in a language his small, hungry mind could accept: a sea of warm milk, wide and white as a winter field, bobbing with Christmas food—pies, roast joints, trays of mince pies—floating like little islands. Over that sea, winged crusaders sailed, feathers bright as an angel's, rifles held like banners. The sight was both ridiculous and holy; the angels clicked and the milk steamed under a low, patient moon.
He looked up and the moon was Anna's red hair in a halo, her face smiling down like a loving god. Under her, Sheepy ran across that cloud-sky—a barking dog made of fluff—patrolling the horizon.
The System was desperate to make the baby do more, to use its power. But how does one tempt a baby into anything that leads to points spent and points gained?
Strong merely laughed in his sleep—an animal, delighted sound—and the milk rippled like applause. The System considered another clever prompt about how the baby could have anything he wanted, then simply let out a tired sigh.
With the sudden clarity of a child pulling free of a strange play, he stirred awake. Drool tasted on his lips, cold and sweet. He tightened his hold on Anna and rolled his head toward the mat-box entrance. In the dark beyond, Sheepy kept vigil—one eye half-open, one ear cocked. Shadows moved behind the flap.
He could make out men shifting in the underbrush. Braveheart's silhouette cut and uncut the trees as he paced; the others gathered in a line like soldiers. They were dressed alike in the terrible mismatch that had become their uniform: cloth and plate, old and new braided together. They looked like crusading knights with modern military equipment strapped on top, their helmets medieval. Everyone was dressed so—everyone except Sir Braveheart, who still looked like a homeless man, now a homeless man leading nine heavily armed and armoured crusaders.
Their movements made a faint click-and-clack—an odd music to a baby's ear. It was the first time Strong had heard such sounds in his short life, and still he understood by the look and the noise that they were powerful.
Braveheart turned and leaned to look inside the mat-box. Behind him the first light of dawn was rising. Anna stirred, rubbing her eyes. Strong pushed his cheek to her chest and blinked up at the homeless-looking man who had become a sort of leader.
"Good morning, Miss Anna," Braveheart said—his voice soft and sure as a rope thrown to shore. "Do not worry. All will be well. Trust us. We will make you proud. We will make Scotland free again. Rest and do whatever you wish—we will meet again here or at your Hope estate. Now we must go."
Anna squinted, still sleepy and barely able to comprehend. "What are you…? Is it already breakfast time?" she murmured, dry and puzzled.
Braveheart smiled like a man who had just won the lottery and was about to rob a bank—because that was, essentially, what had happened and what he was about to do. He bent for a moment as if to bless the baby, then stood. Sheepy blinked at him. The others took their cue and began to move. In order, they pushed through the bushes with heavy steps, the sound crisp in the chill air. Braveheart ran at their head, full of excitement, leading the way. They stepped over the shallow run of the Water of Leith and vanished onto the footpath—nine crusaders following a homeless madman.
They ran beneath Dean Bridge like something straight out of Comic-Con—marching at first, then breaking into a sprint. Soon they cut off the footpath, crashed through bushes, and spilled into the city. It opened before them in cold perspective: asphalt, lampposts, tall buildings with bands of glass and graffiti, an abandoned lot yawning like a mouth—things the crusaders had never seen. There in the parking lot the white van waited, a hulking block of metal, its doors closed like a tomb. Braveheart had intended to tie up Anna and stuff her in there; now he flicked the locks and ordered the medieval men inside. They filed into the rear like worshippers entering a chapel before heading to war.
He shut the back doors, went around, slid into the driver's seat, glanced back once, and said, "Fuck yeah, this is going to be awesome."
Inside the van, the crusaders clutched their AK-47s with bayonets like spears and stared around at one another in awe; even the metal box of the van amazed them—never had they seen so much iron in a war-wagon. Braveheart gave one last, simple instruction, pressed a ten-pound note into Sir Egg's hand, and said, "Remember—money. This is money. Go get me money, okay?" Sir Egg nodded, slightly confused. Braveheart turned the key.
The engine coughed and the city unfurled past in strips of glass and shuttered shops. In the cramped, metal chapel at the back, the men sat shoulder to shoulder—a grotesque choir of past and present. Prayers were whispered; faces hid behind visors, turning them into icons rather than men.
Back at the mat-box, Anna snuffled and rolled; Strong burrowed into her warmth. Sheepy, faithful and foolish, kept one lazy eye on the outside world—until Strong's bladder betrayed him. Warmth spread.
"Ewww! No, Strong—don't pee on me! Oh no!"
And so the first day of motherhood began for Anna.