Rain lashed against the leaded glass windows of Bobby Kestrel's secret chamber above the London docks. The steady drumming created a pleasant background rhythm--one of the few sounds that could penetrate the quantum-field dampeners surrounding his private sanctuary. Outside, Tudor London continued its grimy, chaotic existence, blissfully ignorant of the enhanced reality tucked into a partial phase-shift from normal spacetime.
Bobby sprawled in his high-backed leather chair, one boot propped against a small oak table, examining the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler with detached appreciation. The hyper-distilled spirit--his own creation--glowed in the firelight as he swirled it contemplatively.
"Been a hell of a week," he remarked to no one in particular, taking a long swallow that would have incapacitated an ordinary man. "Jane's fucking betrothed is getting bolder. Little shit had his hands on her wrist tight enough to leave bruises."
Captain Simon Blackwood nodded gravely from his position near the holographic projection dominating the chamber's center. "Margaret's report described concerning escalation in Lord Dudley's behavior. The intervention was implemented precisely as contingency planning specified."
"Should have put my fist through his face weeks ago," Bobby muttered, draining his glass in a single swallow before reaching for the decanter. "See how the little prick likes having someone stronger manhandle him for a change."
Thomas Harker adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles with the mechanical precision characteristic of the resurrected. "While Lord Dudley's behavior certainly merits correction, physical intervention would create potentially destabilizing political complications given his father's current position."
"He's still just a kid," Blackwood observed diplomatically. "Barely seventeen and drunk on the prospect of becoming king."
"A kid with his fucking hands on Jane's wrist hard enough to leave bruises," Bobby countered sharply. "Age doesn't excuse that shit. I've seen better behavior from actual children in the Whitehaven school."
"An ambitious shithead regardless of age," conceded Blackwood with a slight incline of his head. "Though perhaps one best handled through indirect means rather than personal confrontation given current political instability."
Bobby grunted noncommittally, his attention shifting to the holographic display floating above the central table. The three-dimensional projection--utterly beyond Tudor England's technological capabilities--depicted the lunar surface with precise detail. Massive structures dominated the moon's Sea of Tranquility, geometric shapes glowing with activity even from this perspective.
"Manufacturing output has increased twenty-seven percent since implementation of the automated mining operations in the Copernicus crater," Harker observed, studying data streams scrolling alongside the primary projection. "Warship production now exceeds initial projections by approximately three hundred units per lunar month."
Bobby gestured lazily, and the holographic display zoomed to show enormous vessels taking shape within cratered shipyards. Sleek, predatory craft with unmistakable military purpose rotated slowly in the vacuum as robotic assemblers swarmed across their gleaming surfaces.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" he remarked with genuine pride. "Dreadnought-class carriers with integrated manufacturing capabilities. Each one capable of producing its own support craft while maintaining forward deployment."
Blackwood studied the ships with professional appreciation despite his limited understanding of their actual capabilities. "Quite the armada, sir. Though perhaps somewhat... excessive... for the current conflict between Northumberland and Lady Mary?"
Bobby laughed, a sharp bark completely devoid of humor. "There's no such thing as overkill like well, overkill, but you're right--these aren't for Mary and Northumberland's little religious tantrum." He gestured again, and the display shifted to show a different planet entirely--a hellish sphere of roiling clouds and volcanic activity. "They're for Venus."
"Venus," Harker repeated carefully, the name clearly unfamiliar despite his scholarly background.
"The morning star," Bobby clarified, pointing toward the holographic representation. "Second planet from the sun. Currently a hellhole of sulfuric acid clouds and surface temperatures hot enough to melt lead. But eventually--" he gestured again, and the image transformed to show a blue-green world with swirling white clouds and vast oceans "--it'll look like this."
"You intend to... transform an entire celestial body?" Harker asked, his typically expressionless face showing rare confusion.
"Terraforming," Bobby confirmed, pronouncing the term deliberately. "Environmental engineering on a planetary scale. Venus becomes Earth-like, habitable, perfect." His expression softened uncharacteristically. "A time capsule for Eden."
The resurrected men exchanged glances at the mention of the name. Even in Bobby's most private sanctuary, direct references to Eden--the daughter he'd lost when quantum displacement tore him from his previous reality--remained rare enough to command immediate attention.
"The young mistress would appreciate such extraordinary preparation," Blackwood observed carefully, using the code phrase they'd adopted for discussing Eden in even secure settings.
Bobby's eyes remained fixed on the transformed Venus floating above his central table. "She will. When she arrives." He drained his second glass, the rare vulnerability vanishing behind his typical sardonic mask. "I don't know when she'll show up--if ever--but Eden doesn't break promises. She'll find me eventually. These--" he gestured at the warships again "--ensure the time capsule stays secure until then."
"Secure against what threat, precisely?" Harker inquired with scholarly precision.
"Mechanoids," Bobby replied, the term falling like lead between them. "Parasitic machine intelligence. They harvest resources--entire planets, solar systems--to replicate themselves. No emotion, no mercy, no concept of 'enough.' Just coldly logical resource acquisition and perfect reproductive efficiency."
Blackwood's weathered sailor's face revealed careful attention despite the subject's obvious unfamiliarity. "And these vessels will defend against such threat?"
"They'll keep the Mechanoids away from Venus," Bobby confirmed, gesturing at the massive fleet taking shape in lunar dry-docks. "And maybe Earth too, if I'm feeling generous. The Mechanoids won't fight losing battles or wars of attrition. Show them you're willing to fight to the last atom to protect something, and they'll usually move on to easier pickings. Plenty of uninhabited solar systems without superintelligent defenders."
The men nodded with perfect seriousness despite clearly struggling to comprehend the cosmic scale Bobby discussed so casually. Interstellar conflict against mechanical entities that neither slept nor felt pain--wars spanning galaxies and millennia--existed so far beyond their Tudor-era framework that genuine comprehension remained impossible despite their enhanced capabilities as resurrected agents.
Bobby gestured again, and the holographic display shifted to show current-day England--specifically, the muddy fields of East Anglia where two armies maneuvered toward inevitable confrontation.
"Northumberland's finally committed his entire force," Blackwood observed, studying the tactical display with professional interest. "Nearly seven thousand men massing south of Norwich, including the Tower garrison he previously held in reserve."
"Stupid fucking move," Bobby remarked, refilling his glass. "Leaving London vulnerable while committing to direct confrontation in February? Weather alone makes that a tactical nightmare."
"Perhaps desperation drives uncharacteristic risk acceptance," Harker suggested with analytical precision. "His position deteriorates daily as rumors regarding the forged amendment spread despite his information control attempts."
"Speaking of weather..." Bobby's smile turned wolfish as he gestured toward a secondary display showing a massive satellite in high orbit above Earth. The enormous construct--utterly invisible to Tudor-era observation capabilities--bristled with advanced technological apparatus including weather modification systems currently directing energy into East Anglia's atmosphere.
"Forecast calls for unexpected heavy rainfall," he announced with mock solemnity. "Quite the unfortunate development for an army relying on cavalry charges and matchlock firearms, wouldn't you say?"
The display shifted to show Northumberland's forces struggling through increasingly muddy terrain as dark clouds gathered ominously above them. Rain began falling in sheets, creating immediate chaos among troops accustomed to fighting in favorable conditions against relatively disorganized opponents.
"They'll attribute it to divine intervention," Blackwood predicted with professional assessment. "Particularly Mary's Catholic forces. God's will made manifest through timely precipitation."
"Divine intervention indeed," Bobby agreed with sardonic smile. "Though perhaps from slightly higher orbit than they're imagining."
The tactical display zoomed to show a solitary figure lay prone beneath camouflage materials, an unusually sleek weapon braced against his shoulder. The magnetic railgun sniper rifle--technology from humanity's 25th century--looked absurdly anachronistic against the medieval battlefield below.
"Frost has maintained perfect position despite deteriorating conditions," Harker noted, examining telemetry data streaming beside the primary display. "Core body temperature optimal despite environmental exposure."
"Certain targets need to suffer unfortunate battlefield accidents," Bobby remarked casually, though his intent gaze belied the statement's apparent nonchalance. "Particularly commanding officers whose removal might accelerate conclusion without necessitating total force elimination."
"Northumberland himself?" Blackwood inquired with professional detachment.
Bobby shook his head. "The cowardly fuck is safely ensconced in London rather than risking his precious ass on an actual battlefield. We'll deal with him separately once his military position collapses completely."
A voice emerged from the tactical display--Edwin Frost's distinctive clipped tones transmitted through the advanced communication system embedded within his resurrected form.
"Primary target acquired. Lord Richard Barkley commanding Northumberland's right flank. Permission to execute?"
"Granted," Bobby replied without hesitation. "Make it look like stray fire or archer's luck. Nothing suspiciously precise."
On the display, they watched as Frost made microscopic adjustments to his aim before squeezing the trigger with mechanical precision. The railgun discharged with barely perceptible recoil, its hypervelocity projectile crossing the battlefield faster than Tudor-era observers could possibly track.
-----------
Three kilometers away, Lord Richard Barkley stood tall in his saddle, bellowing orders at the disorganized mess of men before him. The rain had turned their formation into chaos, matchlock weapons rendered useless by the downpour. His face was flushed with rage beneath his ornate helmet, spittle flying from his lips as he screamed at a young drummer boy.
"PICK UP THE FUCKING PACE, YOU WORTHLESS CUNT! SIGNAL THE ADVANCE OR I'LL HAVE YOUR BALLS CUT OFF AND FED TO—"
The hypervelocity round struck Barkley just below his left eye. The specialized projectile—designed to fragment upon impact with organic tissue—created a catastrophic pressure wave inside his skull. The back of his head exploded outward in a spray of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments that spattered across his horrified standard bearer.
Barkley's body remained upright in the saddle for a surreal moment, headless save for his lower jaw which hung from ragged tendons. Then it slumped forward, sliding off the horse to land face-first in ankle-deep mud. The animal, spooked by the sudden movement and the smell of fresh blood, reared violently and bolted through the formation, trampling three soldiers too slow to dodge its panicked charge.
The standard bearer—a fifteen-year-old nobleman's son on his first campaign—stared in slack-jawed horror at what remained of his commander. Warm droplets of Barkley's blood mixed with the rain on his face. The boy's breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps as his mind struggled to process the sudden violence.
Then he vomited, a stream of half-digested breakfast splattering down the front of his once-pristine uniform. His knees buckled, sending him to the ground beside Barkley's twitching corpse. The Northumberland banner he carried—a symbol of authority now rendered meaningless—fell into the mud where its elaborate embroidery began soaking up rainwater and blood in equal measure.
Across the formation, soldiers exchanged confused, terrified glances. None had heard the projectile's passage. There had been no warning, no identifiable source of attack—just their commander's head exploding as if struck by divine lightning. Several men crossed themselves instinctively, murmuring prayers to ward off what they perceived as supernatural judgment.
"Jesus fucking Christ," whispered a grizzled veteran near the front line. "Did you see that? His head just... just fucking burst!"
"It's a sign," responded another, voice trembling. "God's turned against us. Mary has the true claim—we're fighting against His will!"
The whispers spread through the ranks with alarming speed, each retelling more dramatic than the last. Within minutes, the right flank's already fragile morale was crumbling.
-----------
"Confirmed elimination," Frost reported clinically through the communication system. "Collateral effects optimal. Surrounding officers attribute casualty to divine intervention rather than conventional attack. Command structure compromised. Right flank showing significant tactical disorientation."
"Beautiful work," Bobby approved, gesturing for the tactical display to pan across the battlefield. "Any reports from our embedded assets regarding morale conditions?"
"Significant hesitation observed among conventional forces," Frost's voice reported. "Rumors regarding the illegitimacy of Jane Grey's claim have spread despite information restriction attempts. Approximately forty percent of common troops express reluctance to directly engage Mary's forces given questions regarding rightful succession."
"And Mary's side?" Bobby inquired, studying the tactical display carefully.
"Similar erosion of zealotry," Frost confirmed. "Queen Jane's religious reforms permitting private Catholic worship have undermined recruitment among moderate Catholic nobility. Primary remaining forces consist almost exclusively of hardline religious adherents and Spanish mercenaries with limited understanding of succession complexities."
"Perfect," Bobby nodded with evident satisfaction. "Let the zealots kill each other while minimizing collateral damage among those actually showing basic rational thought. Ideological natural selection at its finest."
The tactical display shifted to show the battle's center, where Northumberland's main force attempted to advance through increasingly muddy terrain under steadily worsening rainfall. Their matchlock firearms--requiring exposed gunpowder and burning match cord--functioned poorly or not at all in the deluge, while their supporting cavalry found themselves mired in deepening mud.
In stark contrast, Mary's forces--equipped with Bobby's advanced flintlock rifles featuring covered firing mechanisms largely immune to rainfall effects--maintained devastating firepower despite the conditions. Their disciplined volleys cut through Northumberland's struggling infantry with ruthless efficiency while staying safely beyond effective range of the enemy's increasingly useless matchlocks.
"I should be there," Bobby remarked suddenly, watching as a particular captain in Northumberland's forces rallied his men for a desperate charge against Mary's center. "Could end this shit in about thirty seconds if I didn't have to worry about maintaining plausible deniability in this superstitious fucking era."
Before the men could respond, Frost's voice interrupted through the communication system. "Secondary target identified. Captain William Rutherford attempting to organize counterattack against Mary's center. Permission to eliminate?"
"Granted," Bobby confirmed immediately. "Make it convincing but not suspicious."
On the tactical display, they watched as Captain Rutherford gesticulated wildly, attempting to reorganize his scattered men into effective formation despite the driving rain. His theatrical gestures made him momentarily visible above his soldiers' heads--a brief vulnerability that Frost's enhanced perception instantly identified.
The railgun discharged again, its hypervelocity projectile traversing four kilometers in milliseconds.
-----------
Captain William Rutherford stood tall among his men, a loyal dog of Northumberland to his core. Unlike many commanders who'd accepted their commissions out of political necessity or family obligation, Rutherford believed with religious fervor in Northumberland's cause and Jane Grey's legitimacy.
"STAND FAST, YOU WORTHLESS SHITS!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips as he gripped his ceremonial command staff. "THE LORD PROTECTOR HIMSELF WILL REWARD THOSE WHO HOLD THIS POSITION! COWARDS WILL HANG BESIDE TRAITORS!"
Rain plastered his expensive doublet to his broad frame, the gold embroidery now mud-spattered and sodden. Despite the miserable conditions, Rutherford had established a remarkably effective defensive position atop a small rise that commanded the surrounding terrain. His men—terrified both of Mary's advancing forces and Rutherford's legendary brutality—maintained disciplined formation despite the chaos engulfing other sections of Northumberland's army.
Lieutenant Morris crouched nearby, squinting through the downpour at Mary's distant lines. "Sir! Their center's advancing! We should fall back to secondary positions while—"
"FALL BACK?" Rutherford roared, backhanding the younger officer with enough force to split his lip. "WE ARE THE BACKBONE OF HIS LORDSHIP'S ENTIRE FUCKING DEFENSE! EVERY OTHER COMMANDER OUT THERE IS A SPINELESS CUNT COMPARED TO ME!"
Morris wiped blood from his mouth, knowing better than to protest the treatment. Rutherford's temper was as infamous as his tactical brilliance. Men who questioned him openly tended to find themselves assigned to suicide charges or simply disappeared after battles concluded.
"Of course, sir," he mumbled, tasting copper. "I merely thought—"
"THINKING ISN'T YOUR FUCKING JOB!" Rutherford screamed, his face contorted with rage as he grabbed Morris by the collar. "YOUR JOB IS TO RELAY MY ORDERS PRECISELY AS I GIVE THEM! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE WORM?"
The younger man nodded frantically, desperate to escape his commander's grip. Rutherford held him a moment longer before shoving him roughly toward the line of pikemen struggling to maintain formation in the increasingly muddy ground.
"GET THOSE USELESS CUNTS INTO PROPER SPACING!" he ordered, turning his attention back to the battlefield spread before them. "THREE RANKS, NOT THIS CLUSTERFUCK OF DISORGANIZED SHEEP!"
The hypervelocity round struck Rutherford precisely at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, timed perfectly to coincide with distant artillery fire from Mary's position. The specialized ammunition—designed for maximum psychological impact rather than merely efficient elimination—created catastrophic hydrostatic shock wave upon impact.
Rutherford's head didn't merely explode; it separated from his body with such violence that it briefly achieved significant altitude before plummeting back to earth nearly fifteen feet from where his body remained momentarily standing. Blood fountained from the ragged stump of his neck in rhythmic pulses, spraying those nearest him with warm crimson.
His body teetered for a surreal moment, arms still raised mid-gesticulation, before collapsing into the mud with the boneless finality of a marionette whose strings had been simultaneously cut.
Lieutenant Morris, still wiping blood from his split lip, found himself suddenly drenched in far more significant quantities of his commanding officer's vital fluids. The warm spray covered his face and chest, mixing with rainwater to create diluted rivulets that dripped from his chin and fingers.
"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" he screamed, scrambling backward through the mud. "HIS HEAD! HIS FUCKING HEAD!"
The nearest soldiers stared in frozen horror at the impossible scene before them. No arrow, no cannon shot had visibly struck their commander. One moment he stood bellowing orders; the next, his head simply...separated from his body with explosive force. The abrupt transition from living terror to headless corpse occurred without apparent cause—a manifestation of violence without visible agency.
"Christ's mercy," whispered a grizzled sergeant, dropping to his knees in the mud. "Did you see that? No shot, no ball, nothing touched him! His head just...flew off!"
The men nearest Rutherford's body backed away instinctively, several making desperate warding gestures against supernatural influence. The timing of distant artillery fire had registered subconsciously among some, but the apparent disconnect between those far-off impacts and their commander's catastrophic decapitation created immediate framework for supernatural interpretation.
"It's divine judgment," declared a pikeman with absolute conviction, his weathered face pale beneath streaks of mud. "God himself has struck down this devil!"
"Blasphemy!" hissed a younger soldier, though his voice trembled with uncertain terror. "Captain Rutherford was the Lord Protector's most loyal—"
"Loyal to a false queen!" countered another, dropping his pike entirely as he backed further from the corpse. "This is heaven's verdict on our cause!"
Morris, having recovered minimally from the initial shock, struggled to his feet and attempted to restore order. "MAINTAIN POSITIONS!" he shouted, his voice cracking with strain. "THIS IS ENEMY TRICKERY, NOTHING MORE!"
The men stared at him with expressions ranging from skepticism to outright fear. Morris found his uniform front completely saturated with Rutherford's blood, creating macabre spectacle that undermined his attempted authority. Several soldiers began backing away, their formation dissolving despite his increasingly desperate commands.
"GOD'S BULLET FOUND HIM!" declared the sergeant who'd first spoken, his voice carrying across the wavering formation. "NO MORTAL SHOT COULD TAKE A MAN'S HEAD CLEAN OFF WITHOUT TOUCHING HIS BODY! THE ALMIGHTY GUIDED THIS BULLET HIMSELF!"
"God's bullet," whispered another soldier, the phrase spreading through the ranks with supernatural speed. "God's bullet found the sinner!"
Across the formation, soldiers began throwing down weapons. Some fell to their knees in prayer; others simply turned and fled through the deepening mud. Morris's increasingly frantic orders fell on deaf ears as the disciplined unit that had formed Northumberland's most effective defensive position disintegrated before his eyes.
"Return to formation!" he screamed, voice raw with desperation. "I COMMAND YOU IN THE NAME OF—"
"In whose name?" challenged the sergeant, rising from his knees with newfound conviction. "The false queen? The Lord Protector whose ambition damns us all? God has rendered His judgment, Lieutenant! Only a fool stands against heaven's verdict!"
Morris stared helplessly as the last vestiges of military discipline collapsed around him. Rutherford's body lay face-down in the mud, blood still pumping from the ragged stump of his neck in diminishing spurts. His head—once the embodiment of terrifying authority—rested several yards away, its features frozen in a rictus of surprised rage.
"It wasn't meant to be like this," Morris whispered, unheard beneath the cacophony of retreating boots and driving rain. "We were the rightful side..."
-----------
"Elimination confirmed," Frost reported dispassionately. "Surrounding troops attribute casualty to artillery fragmentation. Organized counterattack successfully disrupted."
The tactical display zoomed to show panicked disintegration among Northumberland's center as soldiers abandoned formation, fleeing ineffectually through mud that sucked at their boots with each desperate step. Mary's forces advanced methodically behind disciplined rifle volleys, maintaining perfect firing lines despite the adverse conditions.
"Battlefield supremacy established," Frost assessed professionally. "Northumberland's forces experience catastrophic command breakdown. Casualty differential currently favors Mary's forces by approximately seven-to-one ratio."
"Not exactly sporting," Bobby acknowledged with complete unconcern. "But considerably more efficient than letting them slaughter each other to eventual mutual exhaustion."
The tactical display revealed the battle's increasingly one-sided nature in brutal detail. A company of Northumberland's infantry attempted desperate defense against Mary's advancing center, forming hasty square formation as they'd been trained. Under normal conditions, their massed matchlocks might have repelled cavalry charges effectively despite numerical disadvantages.
In the driving rain, however, their weapons repeatedly misfired or failed entirely. Exposed gunpowder became sodden, match cords extinguished, firing mechanisms jammed with mud. Mary's flintlock-equipped forces exploited these failures ruthlessly, advancing within perfect firing range while maintaining lethal volleys that systematically eliminated officers and disrupted command structure.
"Tertiary target identified," Frost's voice announced through their communication system. "Sir James Ashton coordinating defensive position. Critical to maintaining Northumberland's left flank integrity. Permission to eliminate?"
Bobby studied the tactical display, evaluating the battlefield situation with inhuman precision. Ashton—a broad-shouldered brute with a reputation for exceptional brutality even by Tudor battlefield standards—had managed to establish a reasonably effective defensive position despite the deteriorating conditions. His men appeared marginally more disciplined than the rest of Northumberland's forces, maintaining rough formation despite the chaos surrounding them.
"Granted," Bobby confirmed after brief consideration. "But make this one theatrical. I want psychological impact beyond merely removing tactical capability."
The display zoomed to show Ashton barking orders from atop a small rise, his massive frame instantly recognizable despite the distance and weather conditions. Known for his physical strength and sexual depravity in equal measure, the man had earned his knighthood through unstinting loyalty to Northumberland rather than any particular merit. His predilection for raping captured enemy women had been overlooked given his undeniable effectiveness on the battlefield.
Frost made careful adjustments to his weapon, the railgun's targeting systems compensating automatically for wind, rainfall, and humidity factors beyond conventional human calculation. The specialized ammunition this time contained fragmentary components rather than standard penetrative design—intended for maximum visual impact rather than mere elimination.
"Engaging," Frost reported dispassionately.
The railgun discharged with barely audible pneumatic hiss, its projectile crossing the battlefield in fraction of second. Rather than striking Ashton's head, this round deliberately impacted his lower torso—specifically the genital region that featured so prominently in soldiers' fearful whispers about the man's brutal proclivities.
The specialized ammunition detonated on impact, creating expanding pressure wave that literally tore Ashton's lower body apart from within. His legs separated explosively from his torso, genitalia disintegrated into unrecognizable red mist. The effect, to observers on the battlefield, appeared as though divine judgment had specifically targeted his instruments of sexual violence.
Ashton remained conscious for several agonizing seconds, staring down in uncomprehending horror at the catastrophic injury. His mouth opened in silent scream before shock mercifully rendered him unconscious. His blood pumped into the muddy earth in diminishing spurts as his heart stuttered to a stop.
The men surrounding him—many of whom had quietly participated in or purposely overlooked his atrocities against civilian women—reacted with superstitious terror rather than merely tactical concern. The specificity of the injury appeared deliberately judgmental rather than random battlefield chance, creating immediate psychological impact beyond mere command elimination.
"Target neutralized," Frost confirmed clinically. "Psychological impact optimal. Surrounding troops attributing injury pattern to divine retribution for specific personal sins rather than conventional attack. Left flank integrity compromised beyond recovery capability."
Bobby nodded with satisfaction, watching the immediate disintegration of discipline among Ashton's formerly cohesive unit. "Poetic fucking justice," he remarked without sympathy. "Karma's a bitch, but sometimes she needs technological assistance to deliver prompt results."
The tactical display shifted to provide comprehensive battlefield overview. With three key commanders eliminated through precisely targeted intervention, Northumberland's already precarious position had collapsed into catastrophic disarray. Individual soldiers abandoned positions en masse, fleeing into the surrounding countryside without regard for tactical coherence or organizational integrity.
Mary's forces maintained disciplined advance, systematically capturing territory while accepting surrenders from increasingly demoralized opponents. The battlefield had transformed from potential contested engagement into one-sided route within mere hours—precisely the accelerated resolution Bobby had engineered through targeted elimination rather than wholesale slaughter.
"Approximately seventy percent of Northumberland's forces now in full retreat," Frost reported through their communication system. "Remaining organized resistance below fifteen percent of initial deployment. Mary's victory is complete and unequivocal."
"Perfect timing for the history books," Bobby observed with satisfaction. "February 16, 1552—Mary Tudor defeats Northumberland's army near Norwich, securing her claim as rightful queen despite Jane Grey's technical coronation nine months earlier."
"Though Northumberland himself remains safely ensconced in London," Harker noted with scholarly precision. "His personal political position compromised but not yet eliminated despite military defeat."
"That particular problem resolves itself within the next week," Bobby replied with casual certainty that suggested events already arranged beyond their immediate observation. "Once news of this defeat reaches London, the Privy Council's current support structure collapses entirely. Fucking politicians always abandon sinking ships with remarkable alacrity."
The tactical display zoomed toward a particular section of battlefield where Mary's forces had surrounded a pocket of Northumberland loyalists. Unlike the wholesale slaughter such situation might typically produce, Mary's commanders appeared to be accepting surrenders with surprising restraint—precisely the behavior Bobby had quietly encouraged through his various proxies within her command structure.
"Minimizing unnecessary casualties," Blackwood observed with professional approval. "Particularly among common soldiers with limited understanding of succession complexities."
"Practical politics rather than merely mercy," Bobby corrected, though without particular cynicism. "Mary needs functioning kingdom rather than merely blood-soaked victory. Can't rule effectively over mass graves and widow-filled villages regardless of technical legitimacy."
Harker studied the battlefield data with scholarly detachment. "Records suggest approximately six hundred total casualties despite forces exceeding fourteen thousand combined participants. Remarkably restrained by contemporary standards."
"Six hundred is more than enough," Bobby replied, momentary grimness breaking through his typical sardonic tone. "Particularly given most were avoidable deaths serving merely political ambition rather than legitimate national necessity."
The chamber fell briefly silent save for steady drumming of rain against the windows—rain Bobby himself had engineered through orbital technology utterly beyond Tudor England's comprehension. The weather modification, like the precisely targeted eliminations, represented intervention operating within carefully calculated parameters: significant enough to alter specific outcomes without triggering broader recognition of external manipulation beyond conventional explanation.
After a moment, Bobby gestured at the holographic controls, a cruel smile playing across his lips. "Let's give them a proper biblical moment, shall we? Sun breaking through the clouds after divine judgment has been rendered."
"Sir?" Blackwood's weathered face registered brief confusion before understanding dawned. "Ah, a sign from heaven itself, as it were."
"Precisely." Bobby's fingers danced across the glowing interface as he manipulated the advanced weather modification systems orbiting invisibly above the battlefield. "The Catholics will interpret it exactly as expected—divine favor made manifest through atmospheric conditions."
The tactical display showed the torrential downpour that had devastated Northumberland's forces beginning to slacken, dark clouds parting with unnatural speed given the previous meteorological conditions. Sunlight broke through in concentrated beams that illuminated the battlefield below with almost theatrical precision—most prominently where Mary Tudor herself sat astride her horse, directing her victorious forces.
"The timing is rather... pointed," Harker observed with scholarly precision. "Some might consider such meteorological specificity suspicious rather than merely fortuitous."
"In another era, perhaps," Bobby acknowledged with sardonic amusement. "But these superstitious idiots will attribute it to divine intervention without blinking. 'God's blessing upon the rightful queen' and all that theological horseshit."
The display zoomed to show Mary's reaction as sunlight suddenly bathed her position. Her face—previously grim with battlefield determination—transformed with genuine wonder as she gazed skyward at the inexplicable atmospheric shift. Around her, soldiers dropped to their knees in spontaneous prayer, many crossing themselves with fervent reverence at this apparent divine manifestation.
"Military victory followed by celestial endorsement," Blackwood noted professionally. "Powerful combination for consolidating popular support beyond merely aristocratic factions."
"She'll need it," Bobby replied, his expression hardening as he contemplated the political situation beyond immediate battlefield conditions. "Mary faces significant challenges despite today's victory. Northumberland still controls London and the administrative infrastructure, regardless of his military setback here."
On the tactical display, they watched as Mary issued commands to her gathered officers. Despite the apparent miracle of clearing skies, her expression showed pragmatic focus rather than religious ecstasy—exactly the practical leadership Bobby had calculated in supporting her claim against Northumberland's forces.
"Her priorities appear tactical rather than spiritual," Blackwood observed with professional approval. "Securing the battlefield and establishing organized pursuit rather than merely celebrating apparent divine endorsement."
"The real test comes next," Bobby remarked, gesturing toward a secondary display showing wounded soldiers scattered across the muddy battlefield. "Let's see if divine favor translates to practical mercy or merely self-congratulatory zealotry."