Christopher G. Nuttall's Blog, page 34

The Right Side of History Snippet 1

Comments?

Prologue I

The room stank of fear.

Constance, Lady-in-Waiting to Queen Francoise of Alluvia, pulled her dress around her as the noise from beyond the walls grew louder.  Night was falling, but the city outside was cast into sharp relief by towering infernos.  The riots had become a revolution, crowds of rebels and thugs throwing lighted torches into the homes of the great and the good.  She huddled closer to the rest of the royal companions as the queen stared at her husband.  He’d once been a great man and a greater king.  He’d chucked Constance’s chin and whispered promises of royal favours, if she wished to become his.  Now, he seemed almost diminished.  The kingdom was fading alongside its king.

It had all happened so quickly!  Constance could barely keep track of each piece of news – bad news – before the next arrived.  There had been fights over bread in the marketplace, of all things, fights that had turned into riots.  The Royal Guard had arrived to break up the fighting, the City Guardsmen had turned on them and … Constance wasn’t sure what had happened next, but the king had lost control of his city.  The castle gates had been slammed closed, wards snapped into place by royal magicians, but it hadn’t been enough to save everyone outside the walls.  She’d heard a messenger screaming a warning about mansions going up in flames.  The mob was running rampant, tearing through the aristocratic walls and hunting down the money-lenders and speculators.  Constance had heard a tale of horror from the guards on the battlements, before the queen had cut them off.  The money-lenders had been marched to the embankments and thrown to the rocks below.  Their wives and daughters hadn’t been treated anything like so kindly.

She shivered, helplessly, as the shouting grew louder.  The mob was calling for blood … royal blood.  Constance herself was a very distant relative of the king – her family lands were on the other side of the country, near the border with Rose Red – but somehow she was sure it wasn’t enough to protect her.  The bodyguards and chaperones her father had sent with her, when he’d allowed her to enter the queen’s service, were nowhere to be seen.  She hoped they were safe, wherever they were.  But she feared the worst.

“Got out there.”  Queen Francoise voice cut through the stifling tension.  “Order them to disperse.”

Constance winced and tried to hide it.  The queen was a sharp-tongued woman, more of a man – Constance would never dare say aloud – than her husband.  Two male children who’d survived to adulthood, as well as three daughters, had made her position unassailable.  The king could hardly refuse to treat her with the respect she’d earned, even though he had no compunctions about taking mistresses and then discarding them.  And yet … Constance could tell that the queen was making a mistake.  Her husband was trapped between fire and water, unable to confront the crowd or lead his men into battle against the mob.  All he could do was wait.

“If only Dater was here,” Queen Francoise snapped.  Her favourite son, according to rumour, had been disbanding his army when the rioting had turned into full-scale rebellion.  “He would teach them all a lesson.”

“Dater is a long way away,” the king said, mildly.  “And I sent Hedrick out as soon as the trouble began.”

“You should have sent him to deal with the crowds,” Queen Francoise accused.  “And now they’re at our door!”

The king turned away from his wife, his fists clenching with anger.  Constance understood.  A king could not be a king if he couldn’t exert authority, over his wife and children as much as his kingdom.  Everyone knew it was just a matter of time before the Crown Prince, perhaps pushed by his mother, started to demand more power and authority than his father could reasonably give him.  Dater was old enough to rule and young enough to make his mark, if he inherited the throne.  He was certainly prominent enough to seem a viable replacement, if the king lost too much face to rule.  It wouldn’t be the first time a king had ‘voluntarily’ surrendered his power and gone into exile.

Constance looked at the stone floor, trying not to attract attention.  The king’s temper was starting to boil.  She didn’t want to face his fury, not when no one would lift a hand in her defence.  The assembled nobles feared the king too, feared what he might do if his back was pressed against the wall.  Constance felt cold, wondering – deep inside – if it might be better if the king was … convinced to abdicate in favour of his son.  Dater was a dashing young man, so handsome and bursting with energy that no one would dare to stand against him.  Had he not been the hero of the wars?  Had he not taking on a necromantic army and smashed it in an hour of furious combat?  Had he not turned down the hand of Lady Emily herself, for the good of the kingdom?  Constance’s heart fluttered at the thought.  She was too lowly-born, for all the blue blood in her, to attract the prince … but she could dream.

She glanced up as Councillor Triune ran into the room.  He was normally jovial and warm to everyone, even the lowliest maidservants, but now his jowled face was streaked with sweat and his hands were shaking.  Constance knew she shouldn’t listen, as he hastily knelt before the king, but she couldn’t help herself.  Knowledge was power in the court, particularly if one got it before anyone else.  She had long since mastered the art of eavesdropping without making it obvious.  She didn’t know why she bothered sometimes.  As a young woman from the borderlands, she was rarely considered important enough to matter.  The only thing that kept her from being sent home was the favour of the queen.

“Your Majesty!”  Councillor Triune sounded as if he wanted to panic.  “The sorcerers are dead!”

A rustle ran round the chamber.  Constance swallowed, hard.  The walls were strong, but the royal court didn’t have enough men to hold them after the Royal Guard had been slaughtered.  Or deserted.  Or joined the rebels.  The stories just kept getting worse and worse.  If the rebels turned their attention to the castle, they could get over the walls.  The sorcerers were dead.  It was only a matter of time before the wards fell. 

The king glanced at his queen, then at the barred window looking over the courtyard and the city beyond.  The bars weren’t that strong.  If the rebels captured a catapult, or one of the new-fangled cannon, they could put a shot right through the window.  Constance took no interest in military affairs, but even she knew that walls couldn’t be held forever.  And then … she tried not to think about it.  The rebels wanted blood.  Her blood.

No, she corrected herself.  It was unlikely any of the mob knew who she was.  They want the king’s blood.

An idea flashed through her mind.  She could leave the chamber, perhaps on the pretence of going to the toilet, and swap clothes with a maid.  She could pretend to be a maid.  No one would know, if she was dressed as a maid … the rebels would ignore her, allowing her to walk out and then … and then what?  She didn’t know the city, beyond the inner walls.  She couldn’t hope to walk home.  She had only the faintest idea of the way!

“We have a plan,” Councillor Triune babbled.  “The troops will create a diversion.  The rest of us will get into carriages and flee to the army camp.  And then …”

“Excellent,” the queen said.  “Dater will purge the city with fire and blood.”

The plan didn’t seem a very good idea to Constance, but no one bothered to ask her opinion.  It was just taken for granted she’d be accompanying the queen, along with the remainder of her ladies.  Councillor Triune’s men urged them down the stairs, into the rear courtyard, as troops ran forward to rally at the forward gates.  They’d always struck Constance as fops, when they hadn’t been trying to court her in their clumsy manner, but … they were going to die in defence of their king.  She wished she’d been kinder to the last knight who’d tried to court her.  He’d been so dreadfully earnest she’d laughed in his face.

She winced at the noise as they scrambled into the royal carriages.  It was hardly her first time in a coach, but … she wished she was on horseback.  An eager horse and a clear road … it was all she asked.  The littlest princess asked for a horse for herself as she was bundled into another carriage with her nanny, her mother ignoring her cries as the door slammed firmly closed.  Constance was tempted to suggest the princess was given a horse, that she was given a horse, but she didn’t dare.  Councillor Triune fussed around, snapping orders to the guards as the sound of fighting grew louder.  His face was too grim for her to risk speaking her mind.  If he got the royal family out, his future would be assured.  He was hardly going to alter the plan on her say-so.

“Get in,” the queen snapped.  “Now!”

Constance heard someone – Councillor Triune, perhaps – give the command to open the rear gates as she scrambled into the carriage.  The regal vehicle lurched as the door was banged closed, then started to move.  Constance found a seat and sat down, trying not to look at the queen.  The expression on her face promised death and destruction – and social exclusion, perhaps, for the one who disturb her.  Constance tried not to shiver openly.  Law and order was breaking down everywhere.  She didn’t want to think about what might happen if the Crown Prince couldn’t regain control of the city.  How many of the dressmakers and jewellers and others she’d patronised were about to die?

“They’ll pay for this,” the queen said, more to herself than the rest of the passengers.  It had the air of a blood oath, a promise that could not be broken.  “They’ll pay in …”

The shouting grew louder.  The carriage lurched again, then crashed to a halt.  Constance reached for the window to pull back the blinds, the queen slapped her hand hard enough to hurt before she could touch the fabric.  The carriage was quivering, as if someone was beating their fists against it … Constance started back as the door shook, then came free.  A grim-faced man stared at her, his gaze swiftly turning into a leer.  Behind him, the city burned.

“Look,” he shouted.  “We’ve captured the royal whores!”

His hand snapped hold of Constance’s wrist before she could pull back and yanked her forward.  She tumbled out of the carriage, hitting the paving stone before she could catch herself.  Pain shot through her as strong arms yanked her to her feet, holding her so firmly she couldn’t pull free.  The queen was dragged out too, to hoots and hollers from the rabble.  Her eyes were wide with fear.  Constance struggled against her captor, but she couldn’t break free.  He was just too strong.

She felt horror, numb horror, sinking into her as she looked past the carriage.  The king’s carriage was ahead of her, the king himself being manhandled away by a group of men in red shirts.  They were on the embankment, too close to the river to escape … she wondered, suddenly, if that had been deliberate.  She couldn’t see Councillor Triune anywhere.  The king’s man had vanished …

A commanding voice cut through the crowd.  “Take the whores to the Final Prison!”

Constance shuddered as her captor started to push her forward.  She’d heard all the stories about the Final Prison, about how it was the last port of call for men sentenced to death.  If someone went in a prisoner, they didn’t come out again.  Panic gave her strength: she stamped on her captor’s foot as hard as she could, then ran to the embankment.  The river had dwindled over the last few months, as summer had started to bite, but if she could get into the water she could swim down to the distant lands beyond the walls.  They wouldn’t expect her to be able to swim.  Countrywomen learnt as a matter of course, but cityfolk regarded the idea of women swimming as perverse.  It was …

“Stop,” someone shouted.  “Now!”

Constance jumped … and realised, too late, that she’d misjudged.  The river had shrunk too far.  She was plummeting towards jagged rocks and the remains of sunken ships, not waters that might hide her long enough to let her escape.  She thought, suddenly, of her parents.  Would they ever know what had happened to her?

In truth, she feared they would never know.

Stuck in Magic CH5

To answer a handful of questions …

The story is set just after the end of Oathkeeper, but it is on the far side of the Allied Lands (Think France vs. Korea) and there’s only limited awareness of everything that’s happened since Emily’s arrival in SIM.  Emily herself is partly a legend – and hardly anyone knows she’s a cross-dimensional traveller.  Elliot would guess it, if he put the pieces together.  (Jasmine isn’t going to say much about Emily.) 

Emily has scooped up most of the low-hanging fruit, when it comes to tech improvements.  Elliot knows stuff he can’t really use without investment and time (to make the machines to make the machines).  He’s far from stupid, but he doesn’t have any of the advantages Emily enjoyed.  (Heroine, Daughter of Void, Noblewoman, Sorceress, Etc).

There isn’t going to be any major contact between the two characters (perhaps).  I’m not sure how canonical this story is going to be, which is why I’m doing this as a long-running serial rather than a more normal project. 

Chapter Five

I couldn’t decide, not really.

The city did start to grow on me, as Jasmine and I spent a handful of days exploring the streets.  It was weird and wonderful, yet – in so many ways – alien and horrific.  There was a bit of me that insisted I could fit in, that I could find a job and build a life for myself, and there was a bit of me that wanted to stay with Jasmine and her people.  It wasn’t easy to decide.  The city wasn’t a very safe place and yet staying with the travellers would mean – eventually – subsuming myself in their society.  They’d made it clear they would accept me, but only on their terms.  And I wasn’t sure I wanted that kind of life for myself.

I spent the week, when I wasn’t helping Jasmine and the others, exploring the city.  The basic design reminded me of New York – the streets and buildings were laid out in regimented patterns – but generations of inhabitants had laid their own work on top of the chessboard, creating their own little worlds within the city.  I walked past temples for a dozen different gods co-existing in uneasy harmony, then strode through a magical section – it was oddly empty, as if no one visited unless they had business there – and peered into what was self-evidently a gated community for the rich and powerful.  The guards looked nasty enough to deter anyone, beyond hardened thieves.  I guessed they had authority to do whatever they liked to intruders.  The law probably didn’t apply to the wealthy.

My instructors had taught me to learn the lay of the land.  Or the lie of the land, as one of them had cracked.  It wasn’t easy.  I spoke to people – Jasmine had encouraged me to speak to as many strangers as possible, to ensure I leant the language quickly – but few of them really wanted to discuss politics.  The questions I wanted to ask would raise eyebrows, I was sure, because they were the sort of questions that would make it clear I really was a newcomer.  I bought mugs of foaming beer in bars and taverns, then sat and listened unobtrusively as people – merchants and farmers, mainly, as well as runaway serfs – talked and gossiped.  And, slowly, a picture began to emerge.

The city was, technically, a free state.  It owed loyalty to the king, but the king didn’t seem to have any real authority over it.  The city itself was run by the city fathers, who were elected by property owners.  If you didn’t own property, I guessed, you were effectively disenfranchised.  The property owners could run the city to suit themselves.  Or could they?  The merchants grumbled about taxes and tariffs laid down by warlords and aristocrats, making it harder for them to turn a profit as they moved from city to city.  I had the uneasy feeling the city’s independence wasn’t anything more than an illusion.  The walls were strong, but the city could be surrounded and besieged very easily.  I doubted the locals had enough food within the walls to withstand a siege.  The local warlord could bring them to their knees very easily.

There were more and more details, from a hundred different people, that I tried to slot into a coherent whole.  There was a king, who had a daughter … and only a daughter.  The general opinion seemed to be that she’d be married to one of the warlords, sooner or later, and the outcome would be civil war as the rest of the warlords banded together against their new king.  It definitely sounded like a recipe for trouble.  I did my best to work out how the different places went together, but it wasn’t easy.  My mental map was effectively blank.  They might as well have been talking about somewhere on the other side of the world.

The stories seemed to grow wilder as they touched on events further and further away.  A king turned his kingdom into a land of the dead.  A naked woman rode a dragon and melted down a castle, in hopes of putting the rightful heir on the throne.  A sorceress lost her powers, only to come back stronger than ever before.  A university … the word brought me out of my listening trance.  Was there another dimensional traveller?  Or was it just a wild coincidence?

I mulled it over for a while, then dismissed it as useless.  The stories were so wild that I couldn’t tell how much of them were actually true, if any of them were true.  And even if I knew, what could I do with the knowledge?  I had no way of knowing where to find him or … or anything.  If people were being dumped randomly into the world, they could be scattered right across the globe.  The thought made me shiver.  I could have found myself drowning if my car had been dumped into the ocean …

A sense of loneliness washed over me as I stared down at my drink.  The night was growing darker.  The erotic dancers were coming onto the stage, but … I didn’t want to look at them.  I felt oddly disconnected from the world around me, lost in my own thoughts.  The patrons were starting to hoot and holler, waving their hands at the dancers.  It could have been a rough bar near a military base, except … I stood, leaving the beer for whoever wanted it.  I didn’t trust it.  Alcohol was supposed to be safe, but I had my doubts.  Besides, I’d seen enough shady characters around to know it was better to remain sober.  The last thing I wanted was to be mugged.

The darkness was hot and muggy, the air smelling of spicy food and rotting meat.  My stomach churned as I walked past a row of stalls, selling something akin to kebabs and sausages.  I didn’t want to know what went into the meat.  Behind the stalls, a sewer gaped open.  The stench almost overpowered the food.  I forced myself to breathe through my mouth as I kept walking, heading down the road to the campsite.  I didn’t want to be anywhere near the stalls, not when they didn’t even have the slightest respect for hygiene.  The sewer had to be a breeding ground for disease.

I kept one hand on my pistol as the crowd closed in around me.  They were just too close … I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that I’d been all around the world.  And yet … I tried not to look at the street rats – little boys, mainly – running through the crowd’s legs.  They wanted to rob me, to steal what little I had … I shuddered as I saw a small boy who was probably a girl.  Her face had been so badly mutilated that I knew it was just a matter of time before she died in a ditch.  No one seemed to be helping the poor kids.  Their lives had only just begun and yet they were already over …

My gorge rose.  I’d seen poverty in America – I’d grown up in poverty – and yet, this was different.  This was worse.  There wasn’t any hot and cold running water, let alone computers, televisions and any other modern concepts.  I’d learnt to hate the people who thought they were helping my community, as a young boy, yet I had to admit they were trying.  Sometimes very trying.  Here … there didn’t seem to be anyone interested in helping the poor.  I guessed that anyone who did would have very dark motives indeed.  The boys could be turned into pickpockets, like Oliver Twist; the girls … I shuddered.  I didn’t want to think about it.

I heard someone shouting further down the street, sounding more like a carnival barker than a protester.  I hesitated, then walked towards the noise.  I wasn’t the only one.  The shouting was coming from a courtyard, just like the one granted to the travellers.  I frowned as I passed through the crowds, noting that the onlookers seemed to range between very rich and middle-class.  It was odd, I thought.  What was it … a flash of light burst out of nowhere, illuminating the courtyard and revealing a stage.  A show?  I stared as five people were pushed onto the stage.  For a moment, I thought it really was a show.  And then I realised it was something far worse.

Horror flowed through me as I took in the sight.  Four of the five people were in manacles, making it impossible to fight or run.  The fifth wasn’t shackled, but had a nasty-looking collar around her neck.  Generations of atrocities flashed through my mind as the barker – no, the slave dealer – started to talk.  The slaves were a mix of colours, but … I recoiled in horror.  My ancestors had worn chains too.  Was this what awaited me, if I stayed in the city?  Or what …

The dealer kept babbling.  The shackled men had been legally enslaved, he insisted; they were good for five days work out of every seven.  I recoiled as the bidding started, the price rapidly going up and up.  I couldn’t believe anyone would bid for a slave … no, I knew better.  I’d seen slaves in the Middle East.  If this culture accepted slavery, if it saw nothing wrong with enslaving people … I studied the slaves themselves, trying to determine how they felt about the whole affair.  Two of them – insanely – looked pleased.  A third was loudly declaring that he was worth more than a pittance.  I couldn’t understand it.  It was just horrible.

My mind raced, trying to come up with a scheme to free them.  But nothing came to mind.  The crowd would tear me to pieces if I tried … I touched the pistol, then shook my head.  Back home, orders had prevented us from doing anything about barbaric traditions.  Here, I was just as helpless.  All I could do was watch.

I turned away as the collared girl was pushed forward.  The crowd grew louder, screaming for her to take off her clothes.  She was pretty, her tanned face a mix of a dozen different roots.  I granted her what little privacy I could by not looking, cursing myself for … for what?  There was nothing I could do for her, but look away.  I forced myself to push my way through the crowd and out of the courtyard, fleeing the helplessness gnawing at my very soul.  I’d heard of horror – I’d seen horror – and yet the sight behind me had unmanned me.  There was nothing I could do.

It’s easy to be detached if it happened in the past, or in a country that isn’t yours, I thought, in a fit of self-mockery.  But it’s harder to just watch it happen when you’re trapped in the same world …

I lost track of time as I stumbled through the city.  Rationally, I knew I shouldn’t be surprised.  Slavery was the mark of a primitive society, with a primitive mindset.  It wouldn’t survive the dawning industrial revolution … or would it?  Slavery had been on the decline in the United States before the Cotton Gin had suddenly made it cost-effective again.  I didn’t want to think about it.  And yet, the nightmare pressed against my mind.  What sort of society would condone such treatment?  I really shouldn’t have been surprised.  I’d seen enough, over the last few days, to know I was trapped in a medieval world.  Slavery and serfdom was just … normal, as far as the locals were concerned.  I wished, desperately, for a portal back home and a chance to recruit my army buddies.  Magic or no magic, a small army of men with modern weapons could punch out the opposition and start reshaping the world.

But it’s not going to happen, I thought.  Whatever force had brought me here had done so, seemingly, at random.  Jasmine had told me there was no way to guarantee I’d get back home.  I am trapped …

The air changed.  My instincts sounded the alert.  I looked up and frowned as I spotted a gang of older toughs, manning what looked like a makeshift checkpoint.  They were an oddly diverse lot, but there was no mistaking their intention.  A young lad eyed me as I walked towards him, gauging my willingness to stand up to him.  I looked back at him evenly, silently daring him to try something.  I didn’t like the odds, pistol or no pistol, but I didn’t have it in me to back down.  Show weakness to a human wolf and he will be forever at your throat.  The boy stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and said something to his companions.  I guessed it was a dismissive remark, a droll observation that I probably didn’t have anything worth the effort of stealing.  I understood, all too well.  It was important to save one’s face in such a world.

I heard laughter behind me.  The brats were laughing at me … I ignored them with an effort.  The City Guard should be dealing with them, but … the City Guard didn’t seem to be good at anything beyond pushing people around and, really, it wasn’t much good at that either.  I found it hard to believe they had any sort of authority, let alone a way to keep the street toughs under control.  Back home, the cops had all sorts of advantages.  Here … they didn’t even have a monopoly on legal force.  No wonder the city was so ridden with crime.

My thoughts were spinning, again, by the time I reached the campsite.  The travellers were packing up, readying themselves for the next stage of their eternal journey.  Brother Havre gave me an unwelcoming look … I balled my fists, trying to resist the temptation to start a fight.  He’d spent some time, yesterday, trying to convince Jasmine to walk out with him.  She hadn’t been interested.  I thought he was jealous.  Idiot.  Jasmine was young enough to be my daughter.

Jasmine herself was sitting by the caravan, brewing a potion over a fire.  She looked up and smiled as I approached.  “Did you have a good time?”

“No,” I said, bluntly.  I was too tired to dissemble.  “I saw a slave market.  I … how did they wind up slaves?”

“Depends,” Jasmine said.  “People in debt sometimes sell themselves into slavery to pay off their creditors.  Or they are enslaved, by order of the court.  Or … criminals are enslaved to repay their debt to society.  In theory, we are told, a slave can earn money for himself so he can buy his freedom.  In practice …”

“Let me guess,” I said.  “The slave’s master will keep charging interest until the slave owes him more money than ever before.”

“Sometimes,” Jasmine agreed.  “It does work, sometimes.  The slaveowners aren’t supposed to cheat the slaves.  A slave who knows he has no hope of buying his freedom is a slave who can turn on his master, or simply run away.  There’s a certain incentive to play fair.”

I squatted beside her, feeling sick.  “It’s disgusting.”

“Yes,” Jasmine said, flatly.

“Doesn’t anyone try to change it?”  I shook my head in disbelief.  “It’s … it’s horrible.”

Jasmine shrugged.  “The city-folk have their little ways,” she said.  “They can govern themselves as they wish.”

“As long as they don’t upset the local lord,” I pointed out.  “Right?”

“Yeah.”  Jasmine let out a breath.  “Even for us, freedom is never free.”

I sighed, inwardly.  I thought I understood.  The Diddakoi had their freedom, but it came with a price.  They were a highly-stratified society, one that could never put down roots or become a steady community.  Those who chose to play by the rules were welcome.  Those who didn’t were either shunned or asked to leave.  I wondered, suddenly, if Jasmine would be pressured into marrying  her father’s choice, even though she had magic.  It was never easy to leave a tightly-knit community.  I’d known people who’d been cut off from their families for marrying outside their culture. 

Jasmine snapped her fingers at the fire.  It died, instantly.  I felt a shiver, despite the warm air.  I was never going to get used to magic.  It was just … unnatural.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Jasmine said.  She stood, brushing down her skirt.  “Do you want to stay?”

I hesitated.  I didn’t want to stay in the city and I didn’t want to lose myself in the Diddakoi.  They weren’t bad people, but …

“I think I’d like to see the next city,” I said, finally.  “Is that allowed?”

Jasmine grinned.  “It’s just the same as this one,” she said, waving a hand towards the nearest building.  “The name is different, but the people are just the same.  Unless you go to Dragon’s Den or Pendle and they’re both on the far side of the world.”

I nodded.  I wasn’t sure Jasmine’s grasp of geography was any better than mine, given how vague she’d been about how some places related to others, but if a town was over a hundred miles from Damansara it might as well be on the other side of the known world as far as the locals were concerned.  There was nearly three thousand miles between New York and San Francisco and, without modern transport, travelling from one to the other would take months.

Jasmine touched my hand, lightly.  “You can stay for the next part of the journey,” she said, “but you’ll have to make up your mind soon.”

“I know.”  I wished I had an answer.  There wasn’t much I could do for the Diddakoi, beyond manual labour.  It wasn’t as if they needed me.  Jasmine had been very kind and helpful, but I knew it was just a matter of time before she went back to school.  And then … I snorted at the thought of going back with her.  What place did I have in a school of magic?  “I’ll decide at the next city.”

“Good.”  Jasmine grinned at me.  “And right now we’d better get some sleep.  Grandfather wants to leave bright and early tomorrow morning.”

I saluted.  “Yes, My Lady!”

Stuck in Magic CH4

Comments?

Chapter Four

The city – Damansara – was … striking.

I was used to cities that sprawled out until they blurred into the suburbs, overrun towns or countryside.  Damansara was a walled mass, with a clear line between the city and the country outside.  The land immediately outside the city had been cleared, providing absolutely no cover for an invading army bent on looting, raping and burning its way through the city.  I could see a handful of men on the battlements, watching the distant horizon.  I hoped it was just paranoia.  The idea of being caught up in a war was far from appealing.

The stench grew worse as we made our way towards a gatehouse that looked a lot like the Jugroom Fort.  It wouldn’t stand up to modern weapons for a second, I decided, but it would be difficult to assault without firearms and explosives.  The gates were designed to allow only a couple of wagons and carts through at any one time, ensuring the guards would always have the advantage in numbers.  I was pretty sure there were cauldrons of boiling oil positioned above us, ready to make life miserable for anyone who caused trouble, and archers on the battlements.  I’d seen archers in the SCA.  Bows might not have the flexibility of guns, but an arrow through the gut could be lethal.  The men who’d died at Agincourt might as well have ridden straight into machine gun fire.

I shivered, helplessly.  There was a sense of age around the gatehouse that was almost a physical presence.  I’d seen buildings from the colonial era and none of them had the sense of being hundreds of years old.  This one looked as though it had changed hands time and time again without ever losing its sense of purpose.  I felt tiny and insignificant as we joined the line of horse-drawn carts waiting to pass through the gatehouse, my eyes threatening to water as the stench grew worse and worse.  I’d been in a dozen hellholes with poor sanitation and no clean water and this was worse.  The stench of too many people and animals in too close proximity was almost unbearable.  I did my best to bear it without complaint.

The guards eyed us nastily as we inched through the gatehouse – I was uneasily aware that the building was designed to let the defenders pour boiling oil on unwanted guests – but waved us through without comment.  I was surprised.  They looked the type of guards to demand bribes before they let anyone through the gates, their clothes so tattered that the only thing that marked them as guardsmen were the white sashes on their shirts.  I’d seen more impressive policemen lazing in their cruisers or stuffing themselves with donuts.  And yet, some of them had lean and hungry looks that bothered me.  It was never good to attract the attention of the police in a third world country.  They were almost always deeply corrupt.

Jasmine looked uneasy as we made our way onto the streets.  I didn’t blame her.  The city reminded me of New York, although the buildings were smaller and much less impressive.  They seemed to hem us in, looming over the crowded streets and casting long shadows into our hearts.  I had the sense we were driving straight into an ambush, although I couldn’t have said why.  A team of men with modern weapons could have made an attacker pay in blood if he wanted to take the city.  And the local population would pay too.

I studied the crowds curiously as we made our way down the road.  They were of all colours and creeds, from men darker than myself to women so pale I thought they were albinos.  There was no unity, as far as I could tell: there were people covered from head to toe and people wearing barely enough to cover their privates.  Some looked extremely rich, surrounded by cronies and bodyguards as they paraded through the city; some looked so poor they had to be beggars, constantly begging for alms.  I felt a pang as I saw a handful of amputated men, sitting by the roadside.  There was nothing I could do for them.

The stench – incredibly – seemed to get even worse.  I tried not to think about the sewers.  I wasn’t convinced that any of the buildings had any plumbing.  The buildings themselves were an odd mix, a blending of medieval styles from all over the world.  I thought I saw European influences, mingled with Arab and Far Eastern.  It was easy to believe, suddenly, that I wasn’t the first person to find my way across the dimensional gulf.  I was alone, but if an entire town or city had been scooped up and shipped to a new world …

Jasmine pulled on the reins as we entered a large courtyard.  “We’ll be setting up here,” she said, as the rest of the travellers parked their caravans in a circle.  It reminded me of cowboys readying themselves to repel an ambush.  “And then we can go explore.”

I nodded, stiffly.  My arms and legs were aching, but that was nothing a little exercise wouldn’t cure.  Jasmine hopped down effortlessly and waved to her grandfather, who started barking instructions with the air of a man who expected to be obeyed.  I scrambled down beside him and hurried to work, lifting boxes of goods out of the caravans and piling them up as directed.  Jasmine was setting up a small stall, a structure that looked oddly childish until she completed the finishing touches.  A couple of younger girls hurried up with a tray of tiny glass jars and bottles.  Potions, from what she’d told me earlier.  I still found it hard to believe they actually worked.

“It’s a little quieter than I expected,” Brother Havre said, from behind me.  I tried not to jump.  I’d always had the feeling he didn’t like me.  Given that he kept making eyes at Jasmine, I was fairly sure he was jealous.  “There should be more people on the streets.”

I gave him an odd look.  The courtyard was empty, save for us, but the streets beyond were crowded.  New York wasn’t so busy and, the last time I’d visited, it had been heaving with people.  It looked as if there was no hope of getting out of the courtyard, let alone back to the gatehouse and onto the road.  The older folk looked uneasy as they finished setting up their stalls.  I didn’t blame them.  I’d grown up in a city and I found Damansara oppressive as hell.

“There should be more,” Brother Havre repeated, reading my face.  “It’s oddly quiet.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.  A pair of wealthy men – judging by their clothes – appeared on the edge of the courtyard.  “Who are they?”

“Inspectors,” Brother Havre said, darkly.  “You go back to Jasmine.  I’ll take care of them.”

I nodded.  I had no trouble recognising his attitude.  I’d been much the same, before the army had knocked it out of me.  I was tempted to point it out to him, but I knew he wouldn’t listen.  I wouldn’t have listened at his age.  Instead, I turned and walked back to Jasmine’s stall.  She smiled at me as I came up.

“Grandfather says we can explore the town,” she said, pressing a pair of coins into my hand.  “We just have to be back in time for tea.”

I felt an odd little qualm.  Jasmine hadn’t said anything about it, but … it was clear I’d have to make a decision, soon, about what I wanted to do with myself.  Stay with the travellers or find a place somewhere else … I cursed under my breath as I accepted the coins and studied them thoughtfully.  I just didn’t know enough to make up my mind.  What was I going to do?  I didn’t know. 

Jasmine passed me a long cloak, then donned one herself despite the heat.  I pulled mine on and followed her out of the courtyard, into the packed streets.  They weren’t as bad as I’d feared.  The crowd seemed to know when and where to move, walking in long lines that moved surprisingly quickly.  It was worse on the roads.  Oxen carts clashed constantly with horse-drawn carriages, their drivers shouting curses at each other … it struck me, suddenly, that they might be real curses.  A handful of guardsmen were trying to calm everyone down, but it didn’t look as though they were having much luck.  It looked as though a dozen fights were constantly on the verge of breaking out. 

I kept my eyes open, watching the crowd.  A small boy – he couldn’t have been older than eight – eyed me speculatively.  I eyed him right back and he looked away … a pickpocket, probably.  An older man groped Jasmine’s rear … I started forward, intending to punch his lights out, but there was no need.  There was a flash of light and a wave of heat … he staggered away, clutching his hand and cursing openly.  I stared at her in astonishment.  I would never be truly used to magic.

It was all around me, I realised dully.  Street magicians played with fire for the locals, or performed tricks that might have been sleight of hand … or real.  I’d seen my share of street performers, in the states and overseas, but I wanted to stop and stare like a rube.  Jasmine stood next to me for a few moments as a man turned a woman into a statue, moved her into an absurd pose, then released the spell.  She staggered, her face twisting as if she was unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry.  Jasmine caught my hand and pulled me away.  I didn’t try to resist.  I didn’t dare lose her, not in a city I didn’t know.

Jasmine kept up a running commentary as we made our way onwards.  The veiled men and women were high-ranking aristocrats … or, the cynical part of my mind added, people aping their social superiors.  How could one tell if one couldn’t see their faces?  The middle and merchant classes wore more dramatic clothes respectively, showing off their wealth if not their breeding.  The poor wore rags.  I couldn’t help feeling sick at the sheer number of poor and desperate people on the streets, from pickpockets working the crowd to topless prostitutes who looked as though they were coming to the end of their lives.  I saw the desperation in their eyes and shuddered, helplessly.  They didn’t want to be on the streets, but what choice did they have?

We walked past a row of temples – Jasmine’s disdain was obvious – and past a set of mansions before circling back towards the marketplace.  There were fewer people on the streets, something that alarmed me before I realised it was getting hotter and hotter.  The locals probably took siestas, sleeping through the heat and returning to the streets when it grew cool again.  Or as cool as it ever got.  The terrain outside the city strongly suggested the kingdom was one bad summer from drought and famine.

“This might interest you,” Jasmine said, as we stopped by a stall.  “What do you think?”

I stared.  The stall was covered with books.  They looked oddly tattered, as though they’d passed through multiple hands or simply produced by printers who didn’t quite know what they were doing, but … they were books.  And the letters on the front were English letters … I reached for one and picked it up.  The language was impenetrable gibberish, as if someone had tried to transliterate a foreign language into a pronunciation guide, but … they were English letters.  And Arabic numbers.  I’d wondered, earlier, if I was truly the first person to cross the dimensional gulf.  I knew now I was not.  There was no way a completely separate world could have duplicated the letters and numbers so precisely.  God knew Latin and Chinese numerals had nothing in common with their Arabic counterparts. 

The sense of unreality washed over me – again – as my eyes swept over the rest of the books.  There were instructions on how to build a steam engine … I couldn’t read the text, as if the book had been produced by IKEA, but I could follow the diagrams.  Others showed how to produce printing presses, abacuses and looms … one of them looked something like a spinning jenny.  I stared down at a book about the human body, shaking my head in disbelief.  It was just … unreal.

“My wife laughed at that book,” the stallkeeper said.  He had the air of a man telling a joke that never got out.  “Can you believe they left out one of the holes?”

I put the book down, wishing – suddenly – that I could read.  It was easy enough to sound out the words – I guessed there was no clear agreement on proper spelling – but … Jasmine’s spell didn’t seem to work quite right when I said the words to myself.  I was tempted to ask if we could buy one of the books, but … I frowned as I realised the true implications of what I was seeing.  I’d assumed my knowledge of modern life would give me something to sell, when – if – I left the travellers … I cursed under my breath.  I should have known better than to assume anything.  All of the low-hanging fruit, when it came to industrial development, had already been plucked.  I didn’t know if there was another cross-dimensional traveller or not, but it didn’t matter.  I could no more produce a jet engine or a computer for them than I could get pregnant and give birth …

Jasmine steered me down the stalls.  I followed, feeling numb.  Stalls selling food contrasted oddly with stalls selling weapons, primitive blunderbusses and muskets that looked as if they would explode in the user’s hands.  It was strange to note that the stallkeepers had gunpowder weapons out in the open, but no edged weapons bigger than a dagger.  There were no swords, no spears … it made no sense.  Or did it?  If gunpowder weapons were unreliable, and I had the feeling they weren’t particularly accurate, they might not be seen as dangerous to the balance of power.  The thought made me smile.  If the gunsmiths were producing blunderbusses now, what would they be churning out in a decade or two?  I hoped I’d be around to see it.

I touched the pistol at my belt and smiled.  The odds were good it would be worth a lot of money, if I sold it.  I didn’t want to sell it.  I’d had to leave behind far too much already.  And besides, it would useful … at least until I ran out of ammunition.  There was no hope of finding more, not here.  I doubted the local gunsmiths could do anything with the pistol, except – perhaps – taking it apart for ideas.

Jasmine stopped in front of a food cart and bought a pair of squidgy sandwiches that might have passed for hot dogs, if they hadn’t been squashed by the seller.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat it – the cart looked terrifyingly unhygienic – but my stomach rumbled loudly the moment I took a sniff.  The stench of the city had faded … no, it hadn’t faded, I’d just gotten used to it.  I wanted a bath.  It didn’t look as through the locals bothered to wash.  Even the richer ones looked filthy.

This city is a breeding ground for disease, I thought.  I’d seen all kinds of diseases in third world hellholes, some of which had been alarmingly close to home.  Do they even know to boil water before they drink?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.  There was no water on sale, not even the ever-present bottled water I’d seen in the Middle East.  Everything looked alcoholic, which made a certain kind of sense.  Beer and wine had been safer, at least in the short run, until people had figured out the importance of clean water.  I gritted my teeth, then bit into the sandwich.  It tasted better than I’d expected, with a spicy sauce that make my mouth burn, yet … I didn’t recognise the meat.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what I was eating either.  Cat?  Dog?  Snake?  Who knew?

“We’d better start heading back to the caravans,” Jasmine said.  She gave me a sidelong look as we started to walk.  “What do you think?”

I hesitated.  The city might grow on me, if I let it.  I could find a place to stay, surely … I shook my head.  I didn’t know where to find a job or … or anything.  I looked at the beggars and shuddered, wondering if I’d end up begging myself.  What could I do, to make a living?  Teach the locals how to make sandwiches?  They already knew how to make sandwiches.  I probably knew all sorts of things they could use, but … how could I make myself heard?  I didn’t know. 

“I don’t know,” I admitted.  The city did have its good points.  “If I stay … what would I do?”

“They’re very accepting of newcomers here,” Jasmine told me.  “People come from all over the world, just to trade their wares.  There’s always work for someone who’s willing to work.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.  The Diddakoi weren’t that accepting.  I’d have to dedicate myself fully to them, if I wanted to stay permanently.  It was just a matter of time, I feared, before they started asking pointed questions.  “When do I have to decide?”

“We’re due to leave in five days,” Jasmine told me, as we entered the courtyard.  She squeezed my hand, reassuringly.  “You have until then to decide.”

Musings on the US 2020 Election

Musings on the US 2020 Election

Normal commenting rules apply.

I didn’t spend much time blogging about the 2020 US election.  (Some people will consider that a relief – you’re welcome ).  Part of the problem, of course, was that I simply didn’t have the time, certainly when compared to the 2016 election.  The rest of the problem was that things kept changing time and time again, to the point where I started composing articles entitled Why Trump/Biden Is Going To Win and discovering, when I finally had time to put hand to keyboard, that they were already outdated.  I spent a bit of time putting together lists for each candidate, ideas for reasons behind their victory/defeat … without committing myself, because I couldn’t say, with any real certainty, that one candidate had an edge over the other.

And most of those reasons were inaccurate.

I listed reasons that the winner would win.  Many of those reasons appear to have been largely irrelevant.  I listed reasons the loser would lose.  Ditto.  Both sides predicted a landslide victory, propelled by a wave of silent voters.  Both sides appear to have had a wave of voters.  Trump may have lost, both in the popular count and the electoral college, but he did astonishingly well in many ways.  This bodes ill for the future.  Indeed, in many ways, this result was the worst possible.

First, Trump may have lost the election, but ‘Trumpism’ has not been discredited.  The populist vote cannot be discounted.  Indeed, now that Trump himself is shuffling off the political stage, it will be easier for his lukewarm supporters to raise the banner of his ideology – insofar as it really exists – without the colossal inconvenience of the man himself.  In short, as I have said before, Trump is a symptom rather than a cause of the US’s problems and the election result proves it. 

Second, Biden did not deserve to win.  The Democratic Party as a whole did not engage in a period of soul-searching, reconfiguring and eventual production of a candidate who could appeal to lukewarm right-wing voters as well as the left – in short, someone who could appeal to the majority of the country.  Biden himself was parachuted into the nomination by the party elites, while Harris failed to get through even the first hurdle when she tried to snare the nomination for herself.  The party, in short, learnt nothing from 2016.  Biden won, at least in part, because he wasn’t Donald Trump.  Ironic as this is, it promises problems for the future.

Third, the media – both the mainstream media and social media – completely abandoned all pretence of impartiality.  This is, as far as anyone on the right is concerned, blatant foul play.  Open censorship – openly biased – undermines trust in the media and the system itself, ensuring – for example – that if a recount was held tomorrow and Biden won fairly, a sizable percentage of the country wouldn’t believe it (even though it was true).  The media – too – learnt nothing from 2016.  Instead of realising their mistake and cooling down, they created a fertile ground for conspiracy theories. 

Fourth, and perhaps worst of all, trust in the voting process has been badly undermined.  The red flags may or may not be signs of fraud, as is currently being alleged, but it should go without saying that they should be investigated openly.  Given the importance of the process, every precaution should have been taken to ensure that the voting system – mail-in ballots, for example – was airtight.  Instead, there seems to have been a degree of sloppiness that would be unacceptable elsewhere.  Again, this created a fertile ground for conspiracy theories. 

It is common, these days, to blame everything on Donald Trump.  And yet, the problems facing the United States – the problems that propelled Trump into the Oval Office, existed well before the idea of ‘President Trump’ was anything more than a Simpsons joke.  Upon taking office, Biden will have to tackle them or face a far stronger challenge in 2024.  This problems include:

One – a political/economical/corporate elite that has become increasingly detached from the realities of life, both in America and the rest of the world.  This elite, lacking understanding of how things really work, repeatedly makes mistakes that do immense damage to America’s power and prestige.  Worse, this elite is steadily closing ranks against newcomers both Left and Right.  They worked hard to exclude Trump, but they are doing the same to Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and her ilk.

Two – a federal bureaucracy that is increasingly incompetent, unrestrained, uncontrolled and indeed uncontrollable, working more for itself than for the country as a whole.

Three – an ever-growing network of activists, both Left and Right, that are making increasingly absurd demands and, now they see Biden as President, will expect him to produce (or else).  This is matched by increasing loathing for such activists.

Four – a media complex, as I noted above, that is longer remotely impartial and thus untrusted (even by the people it favoured). 

Five – an endless series of economic problems that are  making citizens increasingly desperate and thus more likely to turn to populists like Trump and Ocasio-Cortez (who has a fair claim to being the left-wind version of Trump). 

Six – a worsening global climate, caused by elitist mismanagement and geopolitical realities that the US was unable or unwilling to tackle. 

Seventh – a growing sense of political disenfranchisement, amongst both the Right and the Left.  The Right believes that Washington doesn’t give a damn about them (and, now, that the election was stolen): the Left believes that Washington forced them to accept Biden and Harris as its candidates, rather than Sanders, Warren or anyone else. 

None of these problems were caused by Trump.  But it cannot be denied that Trump, and the response to Trump, made them a great deal worse.

***

The problems facing Joe Biden would daunt Lincoln, who was perhaps the last true American statesman.  It is very easy to carp and criticise when one is not responsible for actually fixing the problems.  It is a great deal harder to actually fix the problems, particular when one side regards you as an illegitimate president and the other expects you to bring a New Heaven and a New Earth (as Trump will happily testify).  Biden must follow a policy calculated to steer between those two poles, a task that would be extremely difficult for a man in his prime.

He must push for sensible politics and, perhaps more importantly, shut down the nuts on his side of the aisle while reaching out to lukewarm Republicans.  This will not be easy.  The loonier left-wingers could say whatever they liked, as long as there wasn’t much chance of them ever being anything more than a tiny vocal minority.  Now, with the prospect of actually having to govern the country looming ever-larger, Biden must keep them under control.  They will see this as a betrayal, of course.

There’s a sense that Biden’s victory means a return to normal politics.  That, I think, is not true.  Trump failed to fix many of the problems facing the United States.  Biden will not find it any easier.  And, as Trump recedes from the stage, the problems that put him in power in the first place will start to loom large once again.

Updates

Hi everyone

If everything goes well – touch wood – I hope to finish Fighting for the Crown’s first draft tomorrow.  There will be a lot of editing, as usual, but hopefully it will be ready for release in a couple of weeks or so.  I’m also hoping to get through the second batch of editing for Little Witches, but – realistically – it will probably be released sometime closer to Christmas than I would prefer.  We shall see.

[image error]

The current title for the next Ark Royal book is Drake’s Drum, which is both a reference to the legend (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drake%27s_Drum) and a nod to the poem. 

My planned schedule is:

Dec – The Right Side of History (SIM21)

Jan – The Family Name (Zero)

Feb – The Face of the Enemy (SIM22).

I’m still thinking up new ideas for Fantastic Schools IV (stories suitable for younger readers) and V.  Any thoughts or concepts would be welcome. 

Chris

SIM Audio Update

Hi, everyone
 
The good news is that the audio version of Oathkeeper will be going live on 19th January – links for pre-order will be provided when I have them.  By then, barring accidents, the eBooks of Little Witches and Fantastic Schools III (including The Cunning Man’s Tale) should also be live.
 
The bad news is that Tavia Gilbert’s professional life has taken her to the BBC and she’s had to leave the SIM series, but Podium has lined up a replacement narrator: Saskia Maarleveld, who previously narrated the Zero Enigma books.  Please welcome her to the series and feel free to check her work out elsewhere.
 
Chris

[image error]

Snippet – Fighting for the Crown (Ark Royal)

Prologue

From: Admiral Paul Mason, Director of Alpha Black, Special Projects

To: Admiral Susan Onarina, CO Operation Lightning Strike

Susan.

As per your request, my department has spent the last two weeks conducting an extensive post-battle analysis of Operation Thunderchild.  This has not been an easy task.  The much-touted bioscanners were nowhere near as efficient as we were assured – surprise, surprise – and the urgent need for a retreat from the targeted system ensured a significant lack of late-stage data.  In short, there is a sizable question mark over both the data we collected and our conclusions and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not bring that to your attention.

However, a number of things can be said with a fair degree of certainty.

The BioBombs were less effective than we had hoped.  They certainly lacked the punch of an enhanced radiation weapon.  However, once the biological agent had established itself on the planetary surface it spread rapidly.  We believe it achieved effective continental saturation within two or three days of its deployment, destroying the virus’s chain of communication as it spread.  It took longer for the viral package within the infected hosts to break down, but it is clear that the biobombs took their toll.  The infection was uncontainable without extreme measures.  We assume the virus was as reluctant to cut off a limb to save the body – if I may use a crude metaphor – as ourselves.

It cannot be denied, as some officers pointed out, that the biobombs are weapons of genocide.  The counter-viral package is far more effective, and dangerous, than the tailored viruses released on Earth during the Age of Unrest.  It is also clear that the virus is unable to counter the infection without doing immense damage to its organisation and communication.  In short, unless the virus finds a way to counter the threat, we can expect to eliminate the infection from our worlds in very short order.  This will, however, condemn the virus’s hosts to death.  Our attempts to save hosts under laboratory conditions have had mixed results.  We cannot offer any sort of guarantee the host will survive, even in ideal circumstances.  The infected hosts on occupied worlds are certain to die, if we release the biobombs.  Frankly, if our backs were not already pressed firmly against the wall, I would urge the PM and the other world leaders not to deploy the biobombs.  We will be killing millions so billions might live. 

That said, I am not sanguine about the virus’s inability to devise a response.  Biological weapons do not survive, obviously, in the vacuum of space.  The virus can rearrange its ships along more human lines, relying on communications networks and datanodes to handle matters rather than blending viral matter into the control systems.  We expect some degree of early awkwardness, if the virus tries, but it does have access to experts!  If nothing else, it can simply copy our designs and integrate human systems – and our electronic servants – into its fleet.  I don’t know if there would be some improvement in efficiency – the virus does not appear to have problems handling its fleets, despite relying on biological networks – but it would certainly make it harder to get the biobombs onboard.  The marines might have to storm the entire ship to wipe out the enemy presence.  It would be considerably easier to simply insert nuclear bombs, then detonate them as soon as the marines withdraw.

A more serious possibility is the virus copying the biobombs and deploying biological weapons of its own.  It has, so far, been reluctant to commit population-destroying atrocities – although it has shown a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties – but that may change if it feels truly threatened.  As strange as it may seem, the virus may well regard its losses so far as effectively immaterial; a real threat to its very survival may provoke a nastier response.  We simply don’t know.  But, as I said, our backs are against the wall.  We have no choice.  We must use every weapon at our command to win before we lose everything.

It is my very strong feeling, Susan, that we should launch Operation Lightning Strike as quickly as possible.

Yours.

Paul.

Chapter One

“Do you hear that?”

Richard Tobias Gurnard turned over, momentarily unsure of where he was.  In bed, with Marigold … they were in London, he recalled suddenly, visiting the capital city before they reported back to HMS Lion.  He sat upright, blinking in confusion as the emergency lighting came on.  The hotel room, a grotty singleton that was all they could afford in London, had an air of unreality, as if he was still asleep.  He glanced at his wristcom and frowned.  It was the middle of the night and yet …

He felt a frisson of fear as he heard the scraping sound in the corridor outside.  The hotel was relatively quiet, he’d been assured; the manager had made a point of assuring his guests that the walls were completely soundproofed.  It wasn’t the sort of place that served breakfast in bed, or did anything beyond the bare minimum.  The peeling paint on the walls, and the scent in the toilet, suggested the owner simply didn’t give a damn.  And yet …

“I can hear an alarm,” Marigold said.  She sat up next to him, arms crossed over her breasts.  “Can’t you?”

Tobias listened, carefully.  The alarm was very faint, if indeed it was an alarm.  He wished, suddenly, that he’d paid more attention to the emergency procedures displayed on the wall.  His CO would have a lot of sharp things to say, if he knew; he’d insisted the gunboat pilots had to learn as much as possible, even if – technically- they didn’t have to know anything outside the scope of their duties.  Tobias felt his ears prickle as the scraping sound grew louder, wondering – suddenly – if the manager was trying to sneak into the room.  It was possible.  He’d certainly heard a lot of rumours about cheap hotels in London.  And yet …

The wristcom bleeped an alert.  Tobias glanced at it and froze.  BIOLOGICAL CONTAMINATION DETECTED, LONDON.  Sheer horror held him paralysed for a long chilling moment.  Biological contamination meant that someone had deployed a biological weapon … no, that the virus had gotten loose in London.  He remembered the sensor recordings from the previous mission and shuddered, helplessly.  If the entire city had been infected, they were screwed.  They had no weapons, nothing beyond their masks.  He hadn’t thought to bring an emergency kit.  It had honestly never crossed his mind he’d need it.

Marigold swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, hastily donning her clothes.  Tobias followed suit, eying the wristcom as if it were a poisonous snake.  He wanted to believe it was a false alarm, but … his mind raced, trying to determine what they should do.  The room wasn’t airtight.  It certainly wasn’t isolated from the remainder of the hotel.  A viral outbreak in the right place – or, rather, the wrong place – would spread through the hotel very quickly.  The scraping sound grew louder.  Tobias cursed under his breath, wishing – for the first time – that Colin had accompanied them.  His former bully turned marine would have been very helpful in a tight spot.  But Tobias had never even thought of inviting him.

“Someone is right outside,” Marigold said, so quietly she was almost subvocalising.  “That lock isn’t going to hold up for long.”

Tobias nodded, curtly.  He was brave, as brave as brave could be, behind a computer terminal … or, he admitted to himself, when he put his hands on his gunboat’s controls.  It was easy, somehow, to pretend he was still playing a game even when he flew the gunboat into combat with a fleet of enemy ships.  But in the real world, he knew he was a coward.  He’d put on some muscle since joining the navy – Marigold and his CO had convinced him to spent more time in the gym – but he was all too aware he couldn’t push anyone around.  Sweat trickled down his back as he donned his mask.  No one, absolutely no one, had a legitimate reason to break into their room in the middle of the night.  The manager – or the police – would bang on the door, then wait for the occupants to open it.  Whoever was on the far side, they weren’t friendly. 

The lights went out.  Darkness, warm darkness, enveloped them.  Tobias sucked in a breath as Marigold activated her wristcom, using it as a makeshift torch.  They hadn’t thought to bring flashlights either.  Tobias hesitated, then picked up a chair as he heard the lock starting to give way.  It wasn’t an electronic lock.  The lock and key were something out of a period drama.  Tobias suspected, in hindsight, that it wasn’t as charming as he’d thought.  The lock could be opened by anyone who had the key, a copy of the key or the tools and skill to simply pick the lock.

He took his mask and pressed it against his face, then picked up a chair and waited.  In hindsight, he should have brought his pistol.  Military personnel were required to be armed at all times, in a world that could shift from peaceful harmony to screaming chaos in the brink of an eye.  His CO would probably scold him for not being armed … Tobias prayed, as the lock clicked, that the CO would have the chance.  The door opened, so violently Tobias almost dropped the chair.  A shadowy figure rushed into the room, running towards Marigold.  No, towards the light.  Tobias panicked, bringing the chair down on top of the figure’s head.  It crashed to the ground, then kept crawling forward like a giant crab.  Tobias stared in disbelief – blood was leaking from a nasty wound to the head – and then brought the chair down again.  The figure – the zombie – didn’t seem to notice.

Tobias realised his mistake, a second too late.  The zombie infection was in complete control of the host’s body.  Crushing the zombie’s head wouldn’t kill the host.  The host had died when the infection had taken root, then built control structures within the body.  He felt a stab of pity as the zombie reared up, hands lashing out towards him.  He kicked the zombie as hard as he could – not hard – and then brought the chair down again and again, breaking the zombie’s legs.  It wasn’t enough to do more than slow it down.

“That was the manager,” Marigold said.  The man had once been jovial – and sleazy enough to make Tobias want to take a shower after shaking his hand.  Now, his body was a mangled pulp that was somehow, absurdly, still trying to advance on them.  “We have to get out of here.”

“Got it,” Tobias agreed.  He checked his wallet was still in his pocket – he had a feeling he’d need ID, when they ran into the police or the military – then keyed his wristcom.  There was no update, nothing to indicate the authorities were already moving to contain the threat.  He hoped – prayed – they were.  They should be.  The military had plenty of experience deploying troops to counter everything from riots and terrorism to outright viral infections.   “Where do we go?

“Out of here,” Marigold said.  “Quickly.”

Tobias nodded as he made his way to the door and peered outside.  The corridor was dark and silent.  His imagination insisted it was as dark and silent as the grave.  He told that part of him to shut the fuck up, then forced himself to think.  The hotel wasn’t that big.  If the manager had been infected … it was possible the other guests had also been infected.  If there were other guests … it was that sort of hotel.  Tobias cursed under his breath.  He didn’t have any night-vision gear, no way to see in the dark.  And even if he could, the viral particles were too small to see with the naked eye.  He touched his mask, checking – again and again – that it was firmly in place.  Breathing deeply might be enough to get him infected.  He wouldn’t even know until it was far too late.

And the moment they see our lights, they’ll know we’re there, he thought.  The virus didn’t even need to do that.  If there was a sufficient concentration of viral matter in the air, the virus would be aware of their presence even if it couldn’t infect them.  He wanted to go back to the room, barricade the door and wait for the police, but he knew that might just get them killed – or worse.  The zombie behind them was – somehow – still alive.  We have to move fast.

He glanced at Marigold, her face pale and worried, then told himself to be brave as he inched down the corridor.  The carpet felt soft under his feet, their passage making no sound at all.  He thought, just for a moment, that he could hear men and machines in the distance – helicopter blades clattering against the humid summer air – but the sound didn’t seem to be coming any closer.  Ice washed down his spine as he remembered the reports from the last mission.  The infected world had been hot, very hot.  The virus had been able to survive in the open air, to the point that opening one’s mask was effectively committing suicide.  He found it impossible to believe the virus could last indefinitely in the British weather – it would rain sooner rather than later, if he was any judge – but it could do a lot of damage before it died.  Someone who got infected, without ever knowing they were infected, could do one hell of a lot of damage before they were tracked down.

The air grew warmer as they reached the stairwell and looked up and down.  Tobias tried to think what to do.  In a video game, they would head upwards and find their way to the roof and then jump from rooftop to rooftop until they reached safety.  The real world was much less obliging.  Colin and his comrades might be able to get out of the trap that way, but Tobias had no illusions about his lack of physical prowess.  He’d always been picked last for games … he put the memory out of his mind as he started to make his way down to the ground floor.  The stairwell was cramped, narrow enough to make him feel almost claustrophobic.  The darkness seemed to reach out and touch him, as if monsters were lurking within the shadows.  He shuddered, helplessly, promising himself he’d move to a lunar city or an asteroid settlement as soon as his enlistment was up.  His country hadn’t treated him very kindly.

Lights flared, outside.  Tobias flinched, hefting the chair as if he expected someone to come crashing through the windows.  He’d known the windows were there, but … he stared into the darkness.  The lights just added to the air of unreality.  He forced himself to move faster, reaching the bottom of the stairs as the sound of helicopters grew louder.  The building rattled as the aircraft flew over the hotel.  It felt as if they were only an inch or two above the rooftops. 

Marigold shined the makeshift torch ahead of them, then froze.  A body was lying on the ground, a child … Tobias stumbled backwards, swallowing desperately to keep from throwing up inside the mask.  The body was a shifting mass of … he recoiled, unwilling to look at the figure.  It had to have been a child, but the body was so badly warped that he couldn’t tell if it had been male or female.  The darkness swallowed the body as they picked up speed, hurrying towards the door.  It was closed and locked.  Tobias gritted his teeth, suddenly very sure there was something nasty right behind them, and hit the door as hard as he could.  The lock shattered.  Tobias blinked, then stumbled outsight.  Blinding lights struck them a second later, so bright his eyes hurt even after he squeezed them tightly shut.  Marigold whimpered.

“DO NOT MOVE,” a voice bellowed.  “DO NOT MOVE!”

Tobias froze.  His eyes were still closed, but he could hear men running towards them.  The light dimmed suddenly.  He risked opening his eyes and saw three men in heavy-duty HAZMAT suits.   Their eyes were hidden behind their masks.  He shuddered, suddenly all too aware that the troops could be infected themselves.  And yet … he couldn’t move.  He could see more troops on the other side of the road, guns pointed directly at Tobias and Marigold.  He wanted to scream at them, to insist they were pointing their guns at friends, but he couldn’t say a word.  The troops didn’t know any better.  Tobias himself didn’t know any better.  The virus might have already gotten its hooks in them.

He offered no resistance as they were shackled, then pushed towards a large open-topped lorry.  The troops pressed samplers against their necks, testing their blood for any traces of infection.  They relaxed, slightly, when the tests came back negative.  Tobias wanted to suggest they be unshackled, but the words caught in his mouth.  A handful of other people were already in the lorry, their arms and legs shackled to metal railings.  They looked as shell-shocked as Tobias himself.  The troops half-pushed, half-lifted him into the lorry and shackled him beside the others.  Marigold followed a second later.  Tobias gritted his teeth as the UV lights grew stronger.  In theory, if one of them were infected, the infection wouldn’t spread to the rest.  In theory …

The virus managed to get a foothold in the city, he thought, numbly.  A pair of helicopters flew overhead, spotlights stabbing down at the ground.  What else has it done?

The lorry lurched into life.  Tobias gritted his teeth as the vehicle rumbled down the eerie street.  The sky was still dark, but the spotlights lit up the community with a blinding light that cast out the shadows.  There were hundreds – perhaps thousands – of troops on the streets, all wearing masks if they weren’t wearing HAZMAT gear.  A row of AFVs sat beside a barricade, one clearly thrown up in a hurry.  Tobias shivered.  He’d walked past the barricade only a few short hours ago, back when the world had made sense.  The barricade hadn’t even been there.  London had shifted from an old city, repaired and rebuilt after the Troubles and the Bombardment, into a Lovecraftian nightmare, a horror from the days biological weapons had been deployed by terrorists and rogue states alike.  He’d heard the stories – he’d studied the official version in history class and the unofficial version on the dark web – but he’d never really understood the reality.  It had been nothing more than history to him, until now.  He shuddered, again and again, as they drove past more troops,  They looked ready for anything.  Tobias devoutly hoped that was true.

“STAY IN YOUR HOMES.”  A police car drove past, blue lights flashing as the message was repeated time and time again.  The racket was so loud Tobias was morbidly certainly no one, absolutely no one, was still asleep.  They’d be having nightmares long after the night was over.  “STAY IN YOUR HOMES.  STAY OFF THE STREETS.  IF YOU FEEL UNWELL, CALL US IMMEDIATELY …”

“No one will listen,” an older man predicted.  He looked to be the sort of person Tobias had disliked once upon a time, a schoolyard bully grown up into a manager bully.  His walrus moustache wriggled as he spoke.  “They’ll all be trying to get out before the infection gets them.”

Tobias said nothing, but he feared the older man was right.  The infection had clearly gotten its hooks into the district.  He’d heard rumours about emergency plans, from the careful evacuation and sterilization of the infected area to its complete destruction by nuclear weapons.  Tobias doubted that any British Government would authorise the use of nuclear weapons on British cities, but the government might be desperate.  The Prime Minister was in a precarious position.  Tobias didn’t follow politics and even he knew that.  Decisive action against the virus, at the cost of hundreds of innocent lives, would either boost the man’s career into the stratosphere or utterly destroy it.  In this day and age, it was hard to tell which.

The vehicle rattled to a halt.  Tobias watched, grimly, as the soldiers unhooked the rear of the lorry and started dragging the prisoners out.  He’d been through mil-grade decontamination procedures before, when there hadn’t been any real threat.  The process had been strict, but not that strict.  This time, they could take nothing for granted.  Tobias doubted they’d see their clothes again, after they went through decontamination.  It was rather more likely that everything they wore – and carried – would be incinerated.  The military wouldn’t take chances, not now.

“I’m not infected,” the older man protested, as he was half-carried out of the lorry.  “I’m not infected!”

“Be quiet,” a soldier growled.

“Do you know who I am?”  The older man glared at the soldier, trying to stand upright in shackles.  It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so serious.  “I’m the managing director of Drills Incorporated and …”

“I said, be quiet,” the soldier repeated.  He hefted his shockrod menacingly.  “You’ll be checked as quickly as possible and released as soon as we’re sure you’re uninfected.”

Tobias kept his thoughts to himself as the older man quietened.  He wanted to protest, but he understood.    The soldiers really couldn’t take anything for granted.  For all they knew, the entire lorry-load of prisoners was infected.  They had to be careful, very careful.  And if that meant treating civilians – as well as Tobias and Marigold – like dangerous terrorists …

They don’t have a choice, Tobias thought, glumly.  They don’t have any way to be sure we’re not infected.  And nor do we.

Updates (Little Witches+)

Hi, everyone

It’s been a very mixed week.  On one hand, The Truthful Lie and Debt of War came out in close succession.  (If you liked them, please review.)  On the other, we’ve been having home improvements done, which made it impossible to do much of anything past Monday.

[image error] [image error]

I’ve just completed the first run-through of Little Witches, following the feedback I got from beta-readers.  Lots of little changes … some bigger than others.  I’m hoping to have it published within the month, but there are two more edits to come (and we still need a cover, of course.)  I intend to write the next three books in a fairly tight stream, for reasons that will become apparent in Little Witches.

I also intend to start work on Fighting for the Crown (Ark Royal) tomorrow.

I hope you’re all keeping well .

Chris

PS – we’re still looking for stories for Fantastic Schools. Why not write one?

OUT NOW – Debt of War (The Embers of War III/Angel in the Whirlwind VIII)

The Commonwealth Civil War has stalemated, but both sides—desperate to win at all costs—are looking for ways to end the fighting before everything they’ve built is turned to ash. King Hadrian, on the edge of madness, searches for allies who might help, at a price. His enemies, all too aware the battle is far from won, search for long-forgotten truths that might tear the king’s forces apart and end the war in a single blow. For Admiral Kat Falcone and Commodore William McElney, caught on opposite sides, everything they’ve ever loved is at stake.

William knows a secret, a secret that may end the war if he and his friend Kat can work together long enough to use it. But powerful forces are arrayed against them, intent on fighting the war to the bitter end. One false move and they’ll both fall into fire…

…And hundreds of planets will burn with them.

Download a FREE SAMPLE, then purchase here: Amazon US, UK, CAN, AUS

[image error]

The Last Jedi Problem

I was going to write this as part of a bigger essay, but it probably does better as a singleton.  Normal commenting rules apply.

The Last Jedi proved to be a highly controversial movie when it came out and several years (and a pair of underperforming follow-ups) have done nothing to redeem it.  The movie is both objectively and subjectively terrible, with widespread character assassination, shrilling and – bluntly – a complete disregard for the factors that made Star Wars popular in the first place.  However, that alone is not enough to seriously damage a franchise.  The far more dangerous aspect, and the one that did serious damage, was the response to criticism.

There were essentially two groups that criticised The Last Jedi.  One group felt that it was a poorly conceived, poorly written and poorly directed movie that laughed in the face of previous canon (and expanded universe/legends canon).  They had legitimate complaints.  The other group was composed of misogynists and racists.  Their complaints were not legitimate.  The response from the film’s producers and supporters, however, was to smear the first group with the second.  The bad apples in fandom were used to attack the rest of fandom.

This is a cunning tactic, in the short term.  If you regard your critics as misogynists and racists (and homophobes, transphobes, xenophobes (etc, etc)), and insist this is true regardless of all evidence of the contrary, you can delegitimize their complaints.  This absolves you of the responsibility to listen to their complaints, let alone act on them.  Who wants to give even the slightest hint of legitimacy to misogynists and racists (etc, etc)?  No one. 

It’s easy to see why someone would feel that this is a reasonable tactic.  The Last Jedi was not cheap.  Disney invested a hell of a lot of money in the franchise.  Delegitimizing the critics, at least in theory, saved the producers from having to admit they’d made a serious mistake.  In practice, it undermined the franchise by making it clear that the producers simply weren’t interested in listening to criticism, let alone improving upon their work.  It’s possible to argue that The Last Jedi, Solo and The Rise of Skywalker made money and therefore the producers weren’t too far wrong.  However, the franchise significantly underperformed after The Last Jedi.  Given the sheer magnitude of the fanbase, this should worry anyone with an eye to the bottom line.

The producers and their supporters argued that the fans were over-entitled.  There’s some truth to this.  However, it is also true that vast numbers of fans kept the faith from the moment Return of the Jedi rolled the last credits until Disney produced The Last Jedi.  Those fans purchased books, computer games, toys, endured the prequel trilogy … in short, they were emotionally invested in the franchise.  It is not unreasonable to feel that one has a right to expect a reward for such investment, even though – objectively speaking – the fan has no claim on the producers.  Nor is it unreasonable to feel personally insulted if you’ve been called a misogynist, a racist or one of a dozen other things you know you’re not.

This touches on something I’ve mentioned before.  A good-faith attempt to address the complaint, by accepting it is valid or explaining why it is not, would have gone a long way towards solving the problem before it got out of hand.  It might not have satisfied the critics, but it would have convinced outside observers that the producers were taking the complaints seriously enough to write a refutation.   Bad faith responses – calling someone a racist, for example – simply undermine credibility.  It suggests, very strongly, that there is no good answer to the complaints.  And once you start insulting people, any hope of a peaceful solution goes straight out the window (not least because it’s impossible to prove a negative.)

The Last Jedi is just a movie.  Fundamentally, it doesn’t matter what happens to Star Wars.  But what happens when this approach is taken to … well, everything?  Over the last few years, we have found out.  It isn’t pretty.

It is not easy to see things from someone else’s point of view.  A very rich and powerful person, with all the trapping of his wealth and rank, simply cannot grasp how carefully a poor person must manage money.  He can very easily push for supermarkets to stock only expensive foodstuffs because, to him, they are not expensive at all.  He cannot understand that he’s just made life harder for the poor person, who now has to somehow find the money to pay for food or starve.  Said rich and powerful person might push for criminal justice reform without thinking through the consequences, because – at base – he does not have to face the consequences.  The man who lives in a gated community, with a private security force, doesn’t have to deal with criminals on the streets.  He cannot understand why the poorer people would sooner lock the criminals up and throw away the key.

And because he doesn’t understand that, he doesn’t understand why the poor hate him.

People are not generally selfish.  But they are motivated by self-interest.  If you fail to take someone’s self-interest into account, and to accept that their feelings are valid, you should not be surprised when they come to hate you.  If you delegitimize their feelings, and effectively delegitimize them, they come in turn to delegitimize you.  And then they don’t pay any attention to you.  Why should they?

Going back to The Last Jedi, the producers were attempting the impossible.  They wanted a movie that would both appeal to the fans and the general public.  To do the former, they would have had to assess what made Star Wars popular in the first place and do more of it (the thinking that led to the Thrawn trilogy).  To do the latter, they would have had to streamline the plot as much as possible.  Instead, they ended up with what was once called – quite aptly – a beautiful disaster.

This could have been avoided.  A clear-sighted assessment of what viewers – both fans and the general public – wanted could have been done.  (As Marvel did when it started creating the MCU.)  It would have required, however, an understanding of their fanbase – and what the fans wanted – and this was verboten.  Instead, they drove away their fanbase without bringing in replacements.  They chose to attack their fans instead of accepting they’d made a mistake and trying to fix it.

But, in this day and age, admitting a mistake can be fatal.