Eric Flint's Blog, page 178

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 28

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 28

“I don’t know, though, why the Mules who left chose to clone these people. I understand from the boys’ thought-chatter, and some verbal ones, that the ones on board were cloned too, but those… those clones of the people who went are raised more like children, even if in a spectacularly dysfunctional family.”  He caught my gaze and smiled a little bit, but it was a smile with no joy at all.  “Yes,” he said.  “I do understand that in any circumstances it would be dysfunctional, since the original mules were raised in crèches, with virtually no real human contact and no understanding of real human family.  But that’s how these boys were raised.  The children whose originals weren’t aboard, were raised in crèches, mostly by AIs, though I understand sometimes the living mules intervened, dispensing justice – or sometimes injustice – from above with no warning and no compunction.”

“But why?” I said.  “And how?”

It was Laz who spoke, eyebrows wrinkled above eyes that were as green as my husband’s but not cat-shaped.  “They said they had sample genetics of everyone supposed to be on the ship, for medical reasons, and they made us from that because they thought they’d need help… if… if they arrived at a world they could colonize.”

I raised my eyebrows.  “And they didn’t arrive at a habitable world?”  The story made no sense.  It smelled.  It smelled mightily. After all, their intention might have been to go to Alpha Centauri or another such world, but if they’d got there, why were they back here?  If it had proven uninhabitable, why not go further?

And if they’d intended to create these children to help with the taming of a wild world, why had they only created them in the last 20 years or so?  Laz was maybe all of seventeen, the others were younger.  If they’d made clones of all the others left behind, were they of an age?  I was willing to bet just from these three’s wild adorning that none of them were over forty, certainly none were 300 years old, because that would be a different dynamic.  Then why?

Laz shrugged.  “There was…  Father took control and he says that there might be some virtue in colonizing a wild planet not fit for humankind, but it is not for them.  That they longed for Earth and the beauty of Earth, which gave them birth.  That they’re as entitled to live here, as the rest of humanity is.  And so, they sent us, to ask –” He stopped, and said, “Perhaps you’re not the right people to ask, but –”

“But I already know it,” Kit said.  “Yes, and while we might or might not be the right people to ask, at least two of this group have power on Earth, and there are others.”  He nodded at Simon and Lucius, but he spoke to me, “They were sent to ask for a place on Earth.  Any place they can colonize and make their own, create their own independent city state or kingdom. One of their own, with entry barred to anyone else.  They promise to be harmless, if others will not harm them.”

“But –” I said, and saw Lucius frown.  It made no sense for them to ask for such a thing. After all, who had the right to grant them a place on Earth? On the other hand, in their time, there had been a linked, oligarchic government.  Worldwide. Hell, until recently there had been a linked oligarchic government.  Now with the Earth riven by revolutions… well–

“I’d say any place they can take and hold would be their own,” Lucius said drily.  “Why ask us.  And more importantly, why send children to ask us?”

“And why these children?” I asked.  “Children made from the genes of the people they left behind?”

Simon cackled.

Even if I hadn’t known it was him, in the changed appearance of Julien Beaulieu, I’d have known him by that.  “Ah, mes petits.  As usual you are all too refreshingly innocent.”  Simon was using heavily French accented Glaish.  It was something he put on when he was acting particularly outrageous. I swear I could hear my husband and Lucius rolling their eyes in unison.  “It is obvious they think there is still an oligarchy holding Earth.  Likely they approached twenty years ago and scouted the Earth, and realized there was one and who was in charge.  Then they withdrew and made these children, because what better way to appeal to the Good Men than with their own young clones?  Granted that doesn’t explain Jarl, but they probably thought he was still revered on Earth.”

I snorted.  “Which means they had no idea that the Good Men had not only destroyed their own reputations in retrospect, but also in a way cannibalized their own young clones to continue existing undetected.”

“Precisely ma cheri.  And that’s not in a way.  It is literally what they did, consuming the future to continue the present, to appear to be mortal men, amid mortal men. That’s what makes it so funny.  That they thought to use immature clones to appeal to men who’d happily kill their own immature clones, so they could have their brains transplanted into the clones’ bodies and legally inherit from themselves. It is to laugh. If you have a particularly black sense of humor.”

“Enough,” Kit said.  “That leaves us with the question of what to do with these innocents?  Do we let them return with a message that there is no one who can grant them such a thing, and that if they can take and hold any portion of the Earth it is theirs?”

“Father won’t believe that!” Laz said.  Little brother was now awake and struggling with his bonds.  I kept a sharp eye on him, but all he did was wail, “He’ll have us killed, or worse.”

I didn’t ask what was worse.  I’m sure there were many, many worse things that could occur to minds marinated in malice for centuries.  Hell, my late unlamented father himself could easily come up with worse.

“He said,” Laz said, with an effort at coherency and clarity of speech, “That we were to ask the Good Men, and to have the council of Good Men grant us license to land.  They said anyone at all in an official position, even harvesters in Circum would be able to get us in touch with the Good men, and that once the Good Men knew we existed they would not resist seeing us.  But they said the permission must be official.  We can’t be led into a trap.”

So, paranoia, added to everything else, which also tracked with the Mules I’d known.  It was enough to make you wonder if Jarl had been right and if the ones who’d left in the Je Reviens were the better half of the Mules. If the better half was this paranoid…

Simon cackled, “I tell you. They scouted! Before they made these children.”

Seemed likely, since they knew about the Good Men, and who they were.  I didn’t bother arguing, but said instead, “Well, if we can’t give them assurances, ourselves, should we speed them to the Good Men side?”

Two people answered simultaneously.  One of them was Fuse, who yelled, “We can’t let my father know that Thor exists!” and Lucius who said, in a tired, tight voice, “I don’t need any more blood on my hands, thank you so much.”

“But they’ll try to get there, since we can’t help them,” I said.  “And I know my own little brother, as I knew the old bastard, and as I know myself.  He’ll try to escape, and he’s quite likely to manage it, if he wants it badly enough.”

Lucius frowned. There was a look to his face that resembled nothing so much as the sky before thunder. “You’re not the only delegation they sent,” he said, rounding on the boys.  “Are you?  Were you hand-picked?”

There a shake of the head from Lars, a shrug from Morgan.  Thor’s eyes were fixed on Fuse, as though trying to puzzle something out.

“Who else is — who else did they send?” Lucius said.  “Who else did they make?  Who are all of you? Is there one of every Good Man who ruled on Earth twenty years ago?”  He sounded as if he was in the grip of some great emotion, but I couldn’t tell what it was.

“Five other delegations,” Laz answered.  He was puzzled, probably by this big man being so urgent in that question.  “If they all failed, then they’d send others.”

“Is there one of you who — who looks like me?” Lucius asked.  And suddenly I understood.  For reasons hard to explain, Lucius had once had a “little brother.”  Not really, of course, just a younger clone, but given out as a brother, and raised as such, in his “father’s” dysfunctional family.  Max had died when his father had needed a new body for his brain.  Max had been my friend.  I hadn’t known Lucius who was in prison when I had come of age.  But I understood from people who’d known them both that Lucius really considered Max his little brother, and had loved him as a sibling.  Now here was someone like Max, who might have been sent elsewhere in the world, possibly into a trap, possibly to be killed without Lucius being able to do anything to save him.

Laz frowned at him, but it was Little Brother who spoke.  “You’re… Keeva?”  and to Lucius’ nod.  “It’s John,” he said.  And looking slightly at Laz, “Can’t you see it? It’s John Carter.”

A light, visibly, went on behind Laz’s eyes and he said.  “Oh.  Yes.  He was also sent with… with Tom. Tom Sawyer and Christopher Robin.”

Lucius was all urgency now, “How old are they?  Where were they sent?”

“John is my age,” Morgan said.  “Twelve. Tom Sawyer fifteen.  Christopher Robin is Laz’s age or a little older.  I don’t know where they went.  They didn’t know where they were going. We were told to just find Good Men.

Lucius said a word he really shouldn’t say in front of children, even if the children were feral.  He looked like he’d suddenly developed a hell of a headache.  He’d pulled his com from his pocket, and started pushing buttons before he looked around wildly and said, “Excuse me a moment.”

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 27

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 27

***

In one respect, at least, the heterochthonatrix was indeed helpful. She placed one of her mission’s transports at Occo’s disposal. She even provided her with a chauffeur.

That was perhaps a mixed blessing, since the chauffeur in question was a male Ebbo named Circumvents-Jeopardies-and-Exposures — an insalubrious monicker, it would seem, for someone in that line of work.

Still, there seemed no particular hurry required. If Occo’s presumption that the villains she sought were of supernatural origin — divine or demonic; that distinction meant nothing — then it seemed unlikely that they operated according to a time schedule measured in days, or even years. And if Circumvents-Jeopardies-and-Exposures operated the vehicle in a stately manner of progression, at least there was none of the nerve-racking uncertainties associated with travel-by-Teleplaser. Much less travel-by-Warlock-Variation-Drive!

They left the Envacht Lu station in late afternoon, flying at a low altitude over the soggy terrain that bordered the river on whose banks the station was located. A torrential rainfall came after sundown, as it had before. Stolidly, the Ebbo chauffeur ignored the downpour and continued onward, now flying entirely by instruments.

He continued to do so through the night. Even after the rain ended, visibility was very poor. Apparently, Cthulhu possessed no moon; at least, none large enough to cast a noticeable amount of light.

Shortly after sunrise, another downpour began.

“The weather here is predictable, I take it,” Occo commented to the chauffeur.

Circumvents-Jeopardies-and-Exposures, heretofore as stolid in his demeanor as in his driving, brightened up a bit. “Yes. It’s quite delightful. The planet’s only redeeming feature.”

Shortly before noon, they arrived at the outskirts of a bedraggled-looking town.

“Where is the prison?” she asked.

The Ebbo pointed at a jumble of buildings more-or-less in the center of the town. “You will find it there. More or less.”

“What do you mean, ‘more or less’?”

Circumvents-Jeopardies-and-Exposures opened his vestigial wings and snapped them shut again. “As you will see, Human architecture can best be described as haphazard.”

He clittered at the controls with a digit for a moment, and the hatch at the rear of the transport began to open. “Can you read Human script?”

“Poorly. But my familiar can handle that problem.”

“In that case, instruct it to look for a large sign that says PEN-TENT-ARY. That’s supposed to be ‘penitentiary’ but the illumination mechanism has been failing for some time and Human repair procedures are even more haphazard than their architecture.”

Occo pondered the peculiar term. Penitentiary. “Is this intended to be a place where Humans come to express sorrow at their own misdeeds?”

“Yes. As you may have deduced by now, the species is pathologically optimistic.”

“So it would seem.” The function of Nac Zhe Anglan prisons was rational: to inflict suffering on criminals in order to provide law-abiding individuals with vengeance and retribution.

“You had best hurry,” said the chauffeur. “The noon downpour is about to begin and I am not waiting for it to end before beginning my return journey.”

***

Occo made it into shelter before the rainfall began. Just barely, for her progress had been slow. Not wanting to risk their modes of travel in the tight confines of a town, she’d had to carry not only the Teleplaser but Ju’ula as well. Unfortunately, while Bresk could be of great assistance at many tasks, the familiar was not strong enough to lift much weight.

Nor buoyant enough, although . . .

Occo made a note to herself to investigate the possibilities of — what had Ju’ula called it? — disemboguelled hydrogen. Bresk would complain bitterly, of course. But while that would be irritating it would also be entertaining.

Fortunately, however haphazard Human notions of building construction might be, they seemed to dislike being drenched as much as Nac Zhe Anglan did. So, while it took a fair amount of time for Occo to find her way through the ramshackle half-maze that was the Human town’s peculiar design, at no point was she exposed to the downpour that she could hear pounding on the roofs above her.

Eventually, they came into what passed for a covered plaza of sorts. Across the way, above an entrance that seemed to be more solidly designed than most they’d passed, Occo saw a flickering sign whose weirdly angular Human script . . .

Might say most anything, so far as she could determine. But since she and her familiar were neutrally linked again, that didn’t matter. Long ago, Occo had programmed the familiar to know the dialects of every major sentient species in the explored galaxy.

Bresk?

The word came out with two bizarre interspersions, either way. That’s not how the chauffeur pronounced it, Occo pointed out.

Well, which is it?

They went across the plaza. As they neared the entrance, the force screen went down. More precisely, it flickered away. If that was a fair indication of the prison’s general level of maintenance, it was something of a wonder that it still held any prisoners at all.

Inside, they were met by a robot. No polite and cordial guide robot, this one, however. The robot was almost as big as the corridor it stood in, was festooned with what seemed likely to be weapons, and had a disposition to match.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?”

Occo wondered if her universal translator was malfunctioning. The robot’s syntax was puzzling. “It seems to be using the fuck-word as a noun in this instance.”

<Don’t expect consistency from Humans. Generally the fuck-word is used as a verb, but it has many applications. The fuck-word is often encountered as an essential auxiliary verb, as well as a gerund, a participle and an adjective. Keep in mind, though — >

One of the robot appendages extended toward them. At the tip was something that might be a Human version of a flamethrower, an intestinal discombobulator, or . . . a performance award, for all Occo knew.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? THIS IS YOUR SECOND WARNING.”

Under the circumstances, Occo decided the presumption it was a weapon was warranted.

“We wish to speak to the Warden.”

“FUCK YOU. THE WARDEN’S BUSY.”

“Any suggestions?” Occo asked her familiar.

“All right, then.” Occo raised her voice, trying to emulate the robot’s booming peremptory tone as best she could. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you! Take us to the warden. Now!”

The robot stood there motionless.

“Oh, right.” She raised her voice again. “Take us to the fuck warden!”

The robot remained motionless. But the appendage holding the probable-weapon was retracted.

<Okay, we’re making progress> said Bresk. <Try using it as an adjective.>

“Take us to the fucking warden!”

The robot swiveled on its base. “FOLLOW ME.”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 27

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 27

“And serve notice to any future young men,” Simon said, in that under-voice tone that was supposed to be heard while pretending it didn’t want to be heard.

“And we hadn’t picked a name,” I said.  “And Eris is a pretty name.”

“I thought we’d agreed on Jane,” Kit said.

I didn’t dignify that with an answer.  Ninety percent of married life is pretending not to hear the remarks to which the only possible response is an almighty argument.  Instead I smiled at him, and took a deep breath.  “It’s good to have you back.  And you need a fresher.”

“Something awful,” he agreed.  “I didn’t get a chance to bathe in their ship, and then when I took a lifeboat and Danegerou — I mean Thor, over there, there wasn’t a fresher.”

“So, they took you hostage, and you escaped and took one of them hostage,” I said, filling in the blanks. “And you came to Earth.”  I smirked inwardly that he also called Fuse’s clone Danegerous. “But who are they?  Besides the clones of men three of us were cloned from?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Hell of a coincidence that, but perhaps not–” He shrugged.  “I gather sooner or later–  Look, this is why I chose to come to Earth even after I took Thor hostage, instead of trying to find you in Circum and going back to Eden.  First, I was almost sure Eden wouldn’t take well to Thor.  And second, I thought Earth needed some warning.”

“Warning?” I said.  Granted, on body decoration alone, this lot looked like slightly more savage Vikings, but I was fairly sure they were just spectacularly feral children.  Look, Mules never got prizes for being well adjusted, okay?  And whoever had made these kids wasn’t even a genetic relation, on account of the fact that the closest genetic relations the boys had were Kit, myself, and Fuse. Nor would he or she have any reason to care for these children.  And obviously they hadn’t.  But feral also meant a lack of discipline.  I couldn’t understand how these three striplings, aggressive, sure, but not really capable of much complex strategy could threaten all of Earth.  Hell, they couldn’t even threaten all of Eden, even if my husband weren’t able to fully conceptualize a planet the size of Earth and kept thinking of it in terms of his native colony, in a hallowed asteroid.

Kit stared at the boys, then looked at me.  “They didn’t tell me this, you understand, I just surmised it from hearing to their thoughts cross-chatter, that they are sent to Earth with a mission, to find a safe place for …” He paused and took a long breath.  “You remember what Je Reviens means in Ancient French, right?”

“I’ll return?” I said.

“It did.”

“What?”

“The Je Reviens did return.  As far as I can figure out they are orbiting Earth, somewhere, and they sent down these most unlikely emissaries.”

It took me a while to process this.  The Je Reviens was a – no, the only – interstellar ship ever built by inhabitants of the Earth.  It had been built by the mules, back when they called themselves the bio lords, and when they had more or less reigned over the Earth like absolute despots in a way even the Good Men hadn’t managed.  They had used it to escape the riots that put an end to their rule.

Correction, that is what I’d learned in my educational programs, but it wasn’t… strictly true.  I’d found it wasn’t strictly true when I’d become a refugee in Kit’s native colony, and learned their half of the story. Only about half the mules had left on the Je Reviens.  It had been intended for all of them, and also for the people I’d learned in my early schooling to call “the servants of the Mules.”

This too was a misnomer.  Oh, sure some of the people who had been meant to flee with them had been literally the servants of the Mules – or bio lords as they preferred to call themselves – as each one of the hundred and fifty or so of those who’d been improved to be almost a different breed of human, had controlled a vast territory that usually comprised two or three of the old style land nations as well as some sea-cities.  Government like that, particularly as an oligarchy, needed a vast bureaucracy and, more importantly, a trustworthy bureaucracy.

The bio-lords employed the best of whatever they required, be it assassins or paper-pushers, and the best, by the late twenty first century were always bio-improved before birth, by ambitious or prudent parents. Enhanced for speed or intelligence, for beauty or acting ability or a thousand other characteristics.  Or most of them, for those born to ambitious, prudent and rich parents.

However, when – as I understood it – the Mules had taken panic and decided they were about to be routed, and therefore started building the Je Reviens, the primary plan had been to take not only the Mules and their servants, but every conspicuously-bio-improved person, away from the revenge, wrath and destruction that had been labeled “the Turmoils” in my history holograms.

I still didn’t know what had caused them to leave in a panic, too, in the barely-built Je Reviens.  I knew some of the people they’d left behind, they’d left behind on purpose: people like my so called father.  Daddy dearest couldn’t be trusted with a ship full of people not as improved as himself and vulnerable to the idea of superiorly bio-engineered Mules any more than a wolf could be trusted penned in with a cargo of sheep.

I’d never fully understood if Father’s particular kink was sexual – though it was that too – or if his homicidal sadism was a response to deep psychological wounds of another kind.  The only thing I was almost sure of was that it was not genetic, since I’d never felt any need to torture or kill my sexual partners.

But I did understand the decision to leave him behind.  Others, it wasn’t as clear why they’d been abandoned.  As I understood, Jarl had made the decision, and that decision must rest on his knowledge of his own kind, growing up.  I had to be satisfied that he hadn’t thought them suitable.  I suspected some of his decisions might have been rooted quite simply in his likes and dislikes, such an obvious, deep seated hatred of the original from which Simon had been made.

The rest of the people, the vast numbers of “servants of the mules” left behind seemed to have been left through the hurry in which the Je Reviens had departed, rather than due to any moral or practical judgment.  In other words, there were only so many people they could collect and give warning to, and only so many who’d made it to the Je Reviens in Earth Orbit, before it left.

And while vast numbers of those left behind had died – burned, beaten, crucified, killed by mobs insane for vengeance and vindication – a number had survived, and reproduced and many had attained power in the households of the mules, who’d risen again to power under the guise of Good Men. My friend Nat Remy, and in fact all of my friends who weren’t the clones of Good men, were descended from those highly bio-improved people.

The ones who’d left with the mules – mostly close retainers and functionaries – had been offloaded in Eden, an asteroid hollowed and made suitable for human habitation for their convenience.

Only fifty or so mules had left in the Je Reviens, and no mere “improved humans”.  The justification given in Eden was that only the Mules had left because they were the only ones who had a chance of attaining the distant star to which the Je Reviens was aimed.  And Jarl Ingemar, and Bartolomeu Dias, Mules, both, had stayed behind in Eden to “guide the development of a free society.”

I’d never bought either of those, any more than I bought the stories Earth told its schoolchildren.  It seems like hiding and whitewashing the past is one of the great vices of mankind, to be undertaken whenever someone feels he can get away with it.  Sometimes it’s not even for any particular reason, but to make things somehow tidy.

But now I looked at these… children.  The Mules, by the time they cast away from Eden, had been alone in the Je Reviens.  No one aboard the interstellar ship had been able to have children: not naturally.

When the mules were created, back in the twenty first century, they’d been – as the most extremely bio-engineered of all people – all sterile and all male, the last a failsafe for the first.  They were so modified, even though most looked perfectly normal, that their creators didn’t want them in the human reproduction stream.  Originally they had had stops on cloning, too, though that had not managed to survive a hundred years.

And it wasn’t out of the question that even creatures who could live hundreds of years – even if the political necessities of Earth had required that they change bodies more often than that – might want progeny.  But I had trouble believing that, and besides these three…  These three were clones of Mules who had stayed behind on Earth. Why on Earth?

“I don’t understand,” I said, turning to look at my husband, then back at Morgan, and Laz and Thor.  “These aren’t clones of the Mules who went.  They are –”

“Clones of those left behind, yes,” Kit said.  “I don’t know why.  I know how.  I’d be surprised if the Je Reviens hadn’t contained genetic samples of ALL the bio lords, as a way to treat them and to grow… spare parts for them, should it become necessary.

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 26

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 26

We Come In Peace

I turned.  Kit came running into the door of the flyer.  I realized what I had heard was his involuntary reaction to finding the door forced, when I heard running steps behind him, and then Fuse saying, “I told you she’d be all right.  She’s Athena.”  I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or scared by such confidence.

My husband’s eyes look like cat eyes.  It’s a side effect of their being bio-engineered to pilot the darkships without auxiliary lights, to diminish the chances of being caught in the powertree ring.  At first I’d found his expressions unreadable.  Utterly opaque and alien.  But now I could read them fairly well.  It didn’t hurt that there was a mind-link, which transmitted in succession worry, confusion, relief, and finally amusement.

It was his cat eyes, and his calico hair that made it hard to identify the redhead as a clone of the same man, but now it was obvious.  He looked like a younger, not bio-engineered in appearance Kit.

Kit stepped up to where I was tying his clone’s hands.  I was using for the purpose a pink and purple band with cheerful clown faces that I suspected Luce used to attach a pacifier to a child.  It was sturdy, though, and pliable enough.  He examined my handy work, when I was done.  Then he stepped over to baby brother whom I had bound hand and foot – because I knew where he came from – and then over to Thor, whose pockets Kit started going through methodically.

Fuse looked intently at Thor, in silence, as though trying to evaluate something.  I assumed he’d recognized his own clone, but I wasn’t going to ask.  The new Fuse was disturbing and unpredictable, both in his level of maturity and in his reactions.

Eris continued crying, and I went over to the net, got her, put her on the sling, attached to me.  Simon and Luce came in.

Well, I surmised the fourth man was Simon.  I had reason for it, since he moved like Simon, and he was Simon’s height and also, when he looked at me, his features split in an unholy grin that I knew all too well.  But he didn’t look like Simon.  Someone had darkened his skin two shades, his hair had loose curls, much like mine, and his eyes were now a deep, dark green.  It was the expression in them that was still Simon’s.

There was something challenging in it, at the bottom of it, as though he were daring me to call him by his old name.  I pretended great absorption in Eris, as I checked her diaper which was dry, then said, in an off hand tone, “Emperor Julien Beaulieu, I presume?”

He cackled.  Lucius rolled his eyes and stepped towards the control panel.  “I disabled the genlock,” I told Lucius, virtuously.  “I didn’t burn it.”

“Thank you.  I realized my stupidity immediately after leaving,” he said, as he pulled the panel and – presumably – set about reconnecting it.  “I fully expected you to have burned it, in order to hear what was going on outside.”  He gave a quick smile, as though mocking himself.  “And I’d have deserved it.”

Fuse was talking to Kit over the contents of Thor’s pockets, a series of spheres and weirdly shaped packages, and vials.  At one point, Kit turned pale, reached very carefully for a cylindrical object and walked away with it, outside the flyer.

Eris having decided she wanted to nurse, I sat down on a chair and took care of that, while Simon, Luce and Fuse took each of the boys and strapped them in to auxiliary seats which pulled down from the ceiling near the wall.  Then they tied them to the seats.  Halfway through it, the oldest one, Kit’s and Jarl’s clone, woke.  I felt his gaze on me and realized he was frowning intently.  I checked there was nothing showing from the nursing that could give him a shock, but there was nothing, except Eris’ head disappearing into my suit.

As I looked, his lips moved, at first soundlessly and then “Who are you.  What are you?  You look like… Sinistra? Like Morgan.  Like you’re made from the same genes.”

“Athena Hera Sinistra,” I said.  “Legal daughter of the Good Man Alexander Milton Sinistra. And you?”

He shifted uncomfortably.  The rope going up from his ankles to his hands was probably too tight, but having been tied down with too much leeway, and having managed to escape, I was not about to make that mistake.  Not with these kids.  I had a feeling they’d learned to fight before they learned to walk.

“I’m Laz,” he said.  Then blushing a little.  “At least that’s my… my call name.  I’m Lazarus Long from Ingemar made from Jarl Ingemar’s genes.” He turned a wandering look towards Kit “I think he is too, but… changed. We didn’t realize the resemblance when we … when we captured him, because he was suited and… modified.”

The name he used tickled something in my deep memory.  Something about a series of books I read long ago, in my father’s library, now probably reduced to ashes, but for a long time the place where I hid from everyone else in the household.  “Lazarus — from a book?”

He smiled, as though surprised.  “Yes.  From some books by an ancient author.  We — None of us had names, just the names of the people we were made from, but that was not us, so we took the names of story heroes.”

I remembered the character that name attached to, and I decided that this one bore watching very closely indeed.  I could sort of see how a redheaded child with no name could be attracted to the moniker, but I wondered how much he’d modeled himself on his name sake.

“He’s Thor?” I said, pointing at Fuse’s clone who had come awake and was staring at Fuse and being stared at in turn.

“Yes.  From the god of lightnings,” he said, with a small smile, as though realizing the funny idea of an explosives bug naming himself after Thor.  Then with a movement of the head. “And he’s Captain Morgan.  Of the … Sinistra.”

“Yeah. For lack of a better term, my little brother.”

Laz nodded.  “But you’re a woman.  How can you be a woman?  When Father made us –” He stopped.  “I mean, they tried to make women, but they all died or were sterile.  So. That leaves us.”

I wondered who “Father” was.  Some rogue doctor in an unused portion of Circum?  It was possible.  Only at that moment, Kit came back in.  When Fuse turned to look at him, he said, “I threw it away.  Far into the sea.”

Fuse nodded.  “Quite right.”  Then he turned to Danegerous, aka Thor, “You shouldn’t have that in your pocket, kid.  It’s not stable enough. You were seconds from blowing yourself up.  I can’t believe you didn’t.”

Thor looked sullenly at him, and pushed his lower lip out. “I’ve done it hundreds of times.  It’s a very effective explosive.”

“Well, stop doing it.”  Fuse sounded like the patient adult.  Hair, scars and all, he looked suddenly concerned and… paternal and also very grown up?  It was an expression I’d never expected to see on that face.  “You could have got killed.  And your friends with you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thor said.  And burst into tears.  He bawled with the abandon of a very young child, tears and snot running freely.  Between sobs, he got out, “Father is going to kill us all, anyway.”

“Hush now,” Laz said.  He sounded older than his years and very caring.  I caught a resemblance to the tones Fuse used, and wondered what role he’d played in the younger boys’ lives.  Was he the oldest?  How many of them were there?  And where had they grown up?  “No reason to assume that.  We can still find… movers and shakers and present the petition.”

“What petition?” I said.

Kit made a sound.  I can’t describe the sound, it being part sigh and part huff, as though he were both grieved at the situation, and upset at having to explain.

As I looked at him, he smiled, tight lipped.  “I don’t even know how to explain,” he said.  “Except that I think I can explain better than they do.  The proposition itself is a simple one, but I sense undercurrents, and I have questions both about the whole setup of this situation, and the nature of the people who sent them to Earth with this mission.”

He frowned, wrinkles forming on his forehead, the sort of worried wrinkles I sometimes evoked, not just because he thought whatever I was doing was wrongheaded, but because he couldn’t understand my motivations.  When he spoke, he did it slowly, as though he were trying to think through something.  “You see, I heard them talk, and more importantly I heard them think enough that I can fill you in some, and Laz can probably fill in what I don’t know.”

“You can hear us think?” That was Laz, his eyes wide.

Kit shrugged and managed an almost smirk.  He turned to me, as he continued, “I wasn’t sure they couldn’t hear me, either, Athena.  That’s why I didn’t answer you.  They ambushed me while I was outside the ship, trying to fix the circuits.  I couldn’t fight them off without risking drifting off to space.  And I didn’t want them to find you and the baby, not in the state you were in, tired and defenseless. You wouldn’t have been able to fight at all, and I’d have been impaired, defending you because if they captured you, it would all be over.  We’d be done. I couldn’t risk you, no matter how much I wanted to fight them off.  So I went with them quietly, and just hoped you would find my note and come after me.”

“I did.  That’s why I came to Earth, and if you think it was easy totting Eris–”

His eyes widened, “You named her Eris?”

I felt my face get hot.  “Well, she was born during a battle.  I thought it was appropriate.”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 39

The book should be available now so this is the last snippet.

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 39

“French?” Gervais asked.

“I’m afraid not. Portuguese, English and Dutch are the most common European languages here, and even they are not at all common.”

“I speak Dutch, and we’ve all been working on our Persian,” Monique said.

“I will ask the diwan what servants he can assign you that may be able to interpret.”

The silk-robed man Salim had been speaking to earlier emerged from the shadowed portico, calling the amir to him. After a brief consultation, Salim summoned them and said, “It appears I should not have been so concerned. Begum Sahib is, as usual, a step ahead. She has already obtained a translator for the ladies. It seems everything is prepared.”

John hugged Ilsa, whispered, “Be safe.”

“I will.”

Agra, Red Fort, The Harem

Monique and the other ladies looked about themselves in awe as they followed the eunuch through the harem.

“Mein Gott!” Ilsa whispered.

Everything was either covered in silks, decorated in precious stones, made of gold, or a combination of all three. Thick, luxurious carpets deadened sound and gentled each step.

“A girl could get used to this,” Priscilla said.

“Papa would have a fit, there’s so much gold lying around…”

“It’s no wonder the men are kept out, these girls are wearing next to nothing!” Ilsa said, watching a pair of women cross the gallery ahead of them.

Ilsa plucked at her burkha. “It would be nice to wear something lighter than this blanket.”

Priscilla nodded. “We’ll need to figure out exactly what we can get away with, first.”

Trying to hide her own level of unease with the amount of skin the women — girls, really — were showing, Monique said, “Keep in mind that what is acceptable for the family or their servants may not be for us, or for me, as an unmarried woman.”

“True.”

The eunuch led them into a square chamber about ten yards on a side with a pair of arches set in each. A young girl of about twelve stood in the center of the room, head bowed.

Monique shook her head. God, but they know how to show their wealth. If the halls leading here had been richly decorated, this room showed so much wealth as to verge on the obscene.

Papa would have a stroke.

The eunuch came to a halt beside the girl and spoke with her a moment before turning to face the mission women and addressing them in Persian. The girl began translating into thickly-accented but understandable English almost immediately, “Diwan Firoz Khan would welcome you to the harem of the Sultan Al’Azam, and wishes you to know that whatever your needs, he will see them filled if it is within his power to do so.”

Neither of the other women seemed to understand what the girl was saying, so Monique stepped forward, “Our thanks, Diwan Firoz Khan, we are most impressed with our…common living area?”

The diwan flushed, stepped over to one of the arches and lifted the silk hanging. Beyond was a boudoir dressed in a riot of silks and plush pillows. “Each of you will, he hopes, be comfortable in your individual sleeping quarters.”

“Of course we will.”

“You have but to call, and someone will answer. Now, he begs leave to depart, as there are a great many…” she paused, looking for the word, “things he must attend to.”

“Of course. We hope to see him again under better circumstances.”

The eunuch left, obviously in a hurry.

“And what is your name, young lady?”

“Sahana, Mistress.”

“Monique, please.”

“Pardon, Mistress?”

“Monique is my name, and these ladies are Priscilla Totman and Ilsa Ennis.”

Both her companions nodded.

“Where we are from, we like to be on a first name basis with those whom we are closest with.” A white lie, for her part, but one that did no harm. “Now, I would love to know, how is it you came to speak such excellent English?”

“My mother served Sir Thomas Roe, and taught me the rudiments of the language. Later, I was purchased by Jadu Das, a servant of the English Company, to work at their factory, where I continued to listen to that language.”

Both her companions looked uncomfortable at something the girl said. She mentally reviewed the statement, then asked, “Purchased?”

“Yes, Mistress Monique.”

“And were you purchased again for this duty?”

“Yes, Mistress Monique.”

She wondered just how much loyalty a slave had to any master, let alone new ones. “I see. Will there be anyone else to assist you?”

The girl looked scandalized. “No, Mistress Monique! I can do the work myself.”

“Of course you can. I was only worried that speaking for three garrulous women like us might be something of a trial.”

Sahana bit her lip. “Forgive my ignorance, Mistress Monique, but I do not know this word: Garuliss.”

“Garrulous. It means talkative.”

A broad smile drove the girl’s looks from merely pretty to exotic, impish beauty. “If I can manage to understand the drunken louts of the English Company, I durst think I can keep track of the words of a few women.”

“Oh dear,” Priscilla said, “I think we may have stumbled upon a young lady much like ourselves, Monique.”

Monique grinned. “I think you are correct.”

“Well then, on to the important stuff: can we take off these infernal blankets?” Priscilla asked.

Another grin. “Of course. Durst ye have clothing suitable to the harem?”

“No,” the women lamented.

The girl’s smile nearly split her face in half. “Well then, let me offer my first service.” She clapped her hands, calling out in liquid Persian.

Young, attractive attendants came from two of the alcoves, quickly stripping all three naked, then clothing them in garments that were far less modest but also far more appropriate to the climate.

Monique overcame her body-shyness by focusing on the clothes. She had rarely seen such fine silk, let alone worn the like. The feel of the shift was a fantastic experience. She was almost ashamed to don it, sweaty as she was.

“What’s the bathing situation?” she asked.

Another, wider smile and another clapping of hands was Sahana’s answer.

Monique could see how one might grows to like this, despite the hateful nature of keeping free people in bondage.

The other women, while each likely had their separate reservations, were likewise overcome by the luxurious comfort of their clothing and surroundings, at least for now.

Tomorrow for thought, today to ease fear and fatigue.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 26

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 26

CHAPTER 15

“Please,” said Heterochthonatrix Rammadrecula, gesturing toward a broad bench against the side of the chamber. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you care for some refreshments?”

Occo shook her head. Then, after an instant’s hesitation, moved over and perched herself on the bench.

“Are you aware that a lateral shake of the head is almost a universal negative indicator for intelligent species?” said the heterochthonatrix. “And a vertical nodding motion is almost as universally a positive indicator. The only exception among the major starfaring races is the Vitunpelay.”

More from a desire to be polite than because she actually cared, Occo said: “What do they do instead? Reverse the gestures? Nod instead of shake, and vice versa?”

“They have no uniform rule. Sometimes they nod, sometimes they shake — the gestures can mean either one. And there seems to be no logic to the choices they make. Experts I’ve consulted think the Vitunpelay do it just to be contrary.”

Occo wondered why anyone in their right mind would bother to consult experts over such a picayune matter. Who cared why Vitunpelay did anything? The species was at least half-insane.

“We’ll have to exterminate them eventually,” Rammadrecula continued, in that same oddly cheerful tone of voice. “But enough on that. So tell me, Gadrax-whatever-your-name is — and please note that I do not inquire — why did you come here?”

“As I just explained to your associate — ”

Rammadrecula made a rude noise. “Please! I heard what you told Proceeds-With-Circumspection. Who, I might mention, is my subordinate, not my associate. Surely you don’t think me so obtuse as to believe for one moment that a gadrax on a mission of malevolence would waste her time on a pesthole like Cthulhu” — the hetero-chthonatrix paused dramatically, rearing back in her posture — “unless she had reason to believe the Old Ones or their demonic antitheses were somehow involved. To put it another way, the gadrax does not — as she so shrewdly misled my subordinate — believe for one moment that the perpetrators of whatever rough deed caused her to assume gadrax status — and please note that I do not inquire as to the nature of that deed — are actually ‘unknown miscreants.'”

She rose up from the bench. “So! My response is clear. I must provide you with all possible assistance, no matter the cost. To do otherwise would allow my enemies — I can state with assurance that the ranks of the Envacht Lu are infested with them — to accuse me of dereliction of duty. ‘How so?’ you ask.”

In point of fact, the question had never once crossed Occo’s mind.

“It should be obvious,” Rammadrecula continued. “I am a scion of the Flengren Apostollege. I should rather say, was a scion of the Flengren Apostollege, for naturally I abandoned all previous affiliations when I pledged myself to the Envacht Lu. Nevertheless! There are many who insinuate that I retain those relations and allegiances. Given the well-known stance of the Flengren Apostollege concerning the identities of the High and the Low, were that true I should naturally be inclined toward thwarting your mission, even to the point of ensuring your own destruction. For — clearly! only a lackwit could fail to see this! — your mission at least calls into question that aforementioned divine ipseity.”

She lowered herself back down onto the bench. “As I said, my course is thus clear. I will assist you insofar as possible.”

Occo tried to grapple with the Heterochthonatrix’s reasoning.

Bresk was still neutrally connected. <The technical term Humans use for this unsane behavior is “paranoid.” The concept is itself not sane, since it presupposes that beings who worry about enemies may not have any enemies at all. Which is preposterous, of course, since everyone has enemies. Still and all, in this instance I think the term could be applied. The heterochthonatrix inhabits an alternate mental universe where people care what she thinks.>

Bresk’s assessment was probably correct, Occo decided. The question which remained was: how to extricate herself without producing unnecessary tensions? As witless as Rammadrecula might be, she was still an Envacht Lu official. To arouse her antagonism could lead to awkwardness.

“I thank you for your offer of assistance, Heterochthonatrix Rammadrecula, and rest assured that I will call upon that offer as soon as I determine my course of action. For the moment, though –”

“Don’t be vacuous!” said Rammadrecula. “The nature of my assistance is obvious. Since I am an expert on matters involving Humans, and since Humans are clearly at the center of this affair — why else would you have come to Cthulhu? — I will provide you with an introduction to the official in charge of their prison. They call him the Warden, by the way. He thinks me to be his friend because I possess a definite interest in Humans although in my cunning I have disguised all traces of my actual antipathy toward the species. They are fascinating, yes; but ultimately repulsive. However, I do not believe we shall find it necessary to exterminate them.”

“But why would I wish to meet the . . . ‘Warden,’ you call him? I see no reason I would have any interest in a Human prison.”

“You don’t, as such. But you will be interested in what has happened there a while back to some Human prisoners. In the course of your report to my Ebbo associate, you made reference to ‘unknown weaponry.’ Am I correct in assuming that the term was a nugget of honesty in a sea of dissemblance?”

warned Bresk. <That’s a trick question!>

Occo thought her familiar was giving the heterochthonatrix too much credit. She thought Rammadrecula’s remark derived more from conceit than subterfuge.

So . . .

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, then! Examine the recent destruction of some Human prisoners — and see for yourself that only ‘unknown weaponry’ could be the cause. One moment, please.”

Rammadrecula leaned to her right and spoke. “Proceeds-With-Circumspection, provide the gadrax with an affiche for Warden Chadwick. Nothing elaborate. Just a statement of my full confidence in her and a request for his assistance in her investigation.”

Looking in that direction, Occo got her first glimpse of the Gawad murkster. The crustacean was at the bottom of a large aquarium in the corner of the chamber.

The glimpse was a fleeting one, however. Within less than a minim, the flickering haze hid the creature from sight again.

The Ebbo’s voice came into the chamber. “Yes, Heterochthonatrix. What size bribe should I include?”

Rammadrecula looked at Occo, shaking her head. “Humans! They’re quite corrupt, you know. Almost as bad as Paskapans.” Then, speaking in the direction of the murkster: “The usual. We don’t want the Humans to think there’s anything special about the gadrax’s mission.”

She turned back to Occo. “Godspeed, Gadrax. If you’re not familiar with the term, ‘God’ is the Human superstition that there exists some sort of undetected and undetectable supreme being who has created everything and oversees the workings of everything despite having left not a trace of evidence to that effect. You can see why I do not foresee any need to exterminate them. The imbeciles will surely do the work themselves.”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 38

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 38

Shah Jahan’s face didn’t soften, but the mad anger of a moment before was replaced by a colder, more calculating one. “Yes, by all means. Keep them close, keep them safe. I will want them with us as I travel.”

Salim bowed. “Your will, Sultan Al’Azam.”

“Come to me once they are lodged and you have ensured they have mounts suitable to travel.”

“Your will, Sultan Al’Azam.”

The emperor turned and left, taking his councilors, Shuja, and Aurangzeb with him.

Salim slowly released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Feeling as if he’d just survived a battle, he turned to his charges and gestured them out.

Angelo, a step ahead of the rest, spoke in hushed tones.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” John muttered.

* * *

Salim excused himself, stepping aside with a man — or perhaps a eunuch — in rich silks, as the rest of the mission moved out into the courtyard in front of the emperor’s throne room.

“Now that didn’t go as planned, did it?” Rodney asked as they halted in a loose circle near the center of the courtyard.

“No shit. I didn’t relish speaking in front of the emperor, but that was no fun,” John said, mopping his brow. The morning sun hadn’t yet climbed over the walls, but it was still considerably warmer than it had been when they’d entered the Hall of Audience.

A steady stream of men were leaving the court to mount up in the courtyard. Most were dressed like the man who’d interrupted their audience. Messengers, John supposed, dispatched with orders.

“Did anyone else get the feeling we were about to be torn limb from limb by that crowd?” Gervais asked.

“It certainly seemed likely, but for the amir’s timely intervention,” said Angelo.

John nodded. “Salim does have good timing.” He lowered his voice and asked, “Hey, Angelo, you didn’t have a chance to translate everything in there…So what, exactly, happened?”

“Shah Jahan’s eldest son, Dara Shikoh, was killed in battle along with his army. The one that yelled for blood, that’s another of his sons, Aurangzeb, I believe. Or Murad. I’ve never seen them in person. Regardless, the emperor has called on all his might, planning to crush the Sikhs and make towers of their skulls.”

“You said that before. Did he really mean it? I mean, actual, real towers? I mean, we saw some on the way here, but I thought they were old.”

“They don’t joke about such things. The Mughal dynasty traces its line straight back to Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, don’t forget. The last two emperors put up several such towers on the road between here and Lahore.”

“That’s some real medieval shit.”

“John!” Ilsa snapped.

John sighed, spared an old fashion look for Rodney. “Couldn’t say something? Maybe tell me she was coming?”

Rodney shrugged. “Nope. Pris is with her.”

“I sure am, Rodney, and try not to put me in the middle of fights between our friends, please?”

“Will do, honey. Sorry.”

John turned to face his wife, hating not being able to see all of her behind the veil. “And I’m sorry, too.”

She shook her head, took his hand in hers. “Remember how Nasi told us to act at court: as if we have no friends here, which is true, and that the walls have ears that understand English. And for good measure, we just had a great example of how volatile the court can be.”

“Duly noted. Trust no one.”

Rodney nodded. “X-Files all the way.”

“What does that mean?” Gervais asked.

“A show…oh, I’ll tell you later, our host is coming back.”

Salim returned with several people in tow. “The diwan of the harem has arranged quarters for everyone. The unmarried men will be staying with me, I’m afraid.”

“And my daughter?” Gervais asked.

“She has been invited to stay with Begum Sahib, if that is acceptable?”

“With the princess?” Monique asked, eyes wide.

“If that is acceptable? It is considered quite an honor, but I can explain, I think, if your traditions require otherwise.”

“Will I be able to reach her in an emergency?” Gervais asked.

“Only via messenger. The other ladies of your party will be free to call on her, of course.”

Monique cocked her head, switched to French to rattle at her dad, “Mais, nous ne pouvions pas demander une meilleure chance de se rapprocher de quelqu’un dans la famille royale!”

“Oui, Bien sur.” Gervais, still looking uncomfortable with the idea, switched back to English. “She gladly accepts.”

Salim nodded. “And the other ladies?”

“What about us?” Pris asked, clearly resenting being cut out of the conversation.

Salim kept his eyes off her, answered as if one of the men had asked the question: “Should they wish it, they may also reside with the emperor’s ladies. They will certainly be traveling with them.”

“What is your thought on this, Salim?” John asked.

Salim spread his hands wide. “I have been a widower for longer than I was married, so I can hardly speak to the difficulties of being separated from a wife, but the emperor will see that lavish gifts are given them and ensure their every need is met, not to mention ensuring their absolute safety. To do otherwise would be a great blow to his pride and primacy among sultans.”

He bowed his head slightly and spoke even more quietly. “Begum Sahib is also excellent company, a great wit, and someone I know to be most interested in you up-timers.”

Gervais cocked his head. “Excellent company? I thought the harem is closed to those not of royal blood?”

“Dara and I were — friends might be too strong a word — but we shared common interests and concerns.”

“Our condolences,” John said. Realizing, belatedly, that he hadn’t offered them to the emperor. So much for being a diplomat.

Salim accepted the platitude with a graceful nod. “When I returned from Europe, it was Dara who first heard me. Begum Sahib was behind the jali for that interview, and questioned me at length. As a result of that interview, I was eventually brought before the Sultan Al’Azam.”

John nodded, looked a question at his wife.

“I think it’s a good idea, John.”

“Me too,” Pris said. She turned to face Salim, who promptly averted his gaze. “Could you also help us with the proper way to show our respects and convey our sincere condolences to Begum Sahib?”

A bow. “Of course. Communication will remain difficult, however.”

“It will?”

“There are a very few here who speak English, fewer still who are not men and therefore barred from the harem.”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 25

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 25

“Maybe he’s just malformed.  How would you know?” Baby Brother was defiant and sneering.  “What would you know what a woman looks like, anyway?  And how many women can there be? On Earth?”

“Uh,” Danegerous said.  “Uh. Many. The hollos,” he said.  “From Earth.”

“Bah,” Baby brother said.  “They could just be differently dressed men. How would you know what they look like naked?  That’s the only way to tell if there are real differences.”

I saw the two older ones trade a look and thought there must be hollos that Baby Brother wasn’t privy to.  But why hadn’t they seen women?  And why did they seem to think women were rare?  Had they been raised in some home for the seriously mentally unstable, kept locked away from all of humanity?  Now I thought about it, it made perfect sense, actually.

“Come on,” the tallest and oldest one, the redhead, said.  “You don’t have to see what they look like naked to see they’re different.  In olden times, they were the people who gave birth.  Their whole body is designed for it.”

Baby Brother’s eyebrows went up.  He looked deeply thoughtful, in that way that my soi disant father had looked before he had someone arrested. He turned to me.  “Strip.  We’ll see if it’s true.”

Right.  And I’d see him in hell.

But I couldn’t say that, and I couldn’t mouth off.  There was that snuffle, snuffle from the toy storage at the back. I had to control my expression.  I had to find a way out of this.

I couldn’t run at him and pound him into dirt, because the other two might object, and if Baby Brother had the enhanced speed as I did, the other two might also.

And I couldn’t intimidate him with words, because I didn’t know where he’d come from or what he’d been through.  As I said, an asylum wasn’t out of the question.  Perhaps father had made him as a back-up body donor.  The thing was I didn’t know what to hold over him.  If someone has already been raised in hell, threatening him with flames is besides the point.  Which I’d proven over and over again when well-meaning ladies had threatened me with expulsion from schools where Daddy dearest had enrolled me.

When sane routes out of trouble are impassible, as my broomer friends had taught me, you take the crazy one.

I let my knees hit the floor, raised both my hands to my head, and bawled in the most sincere way I could manage, “Oh, please, don’t hurt me.”  My noise had the effect of covering any noise Eris might make.

By the corner of my eye, while crying, and cringing, I noted that Redhead and Danegerous had jumped back. Apparently my performance was terrifying.

But Baby Brother also resembled me in not scaring.  Or perhaps in scaring angry.

His lip curled up.  “He’s a coward,” he said, and stepped forward, raising his foot.  I had to struggle not to smile.  The more psychotic they are, the easier they fall.  And by genetics alone, poor Baby Brother was laboring under more issues than some long-running journals.

As he raised his foot to kick me, I bent forward, as though to grovel, and said, “Oh, please, I’m just a poor woman.”  I noted that both Redhead and Danegerous did a little mental shout of Told you so.  Which was good because it took them off guard too.

I grabbed Baby Brother’s foot before his kick landed, and pulled.  Up. Hard.  With Super Speed.

Look, just because they could move very fast, didn’t mean they thought other people could too.  Or perhaps they didn’t think women could.  Or perhaps they just couldn’t think.

As Baby Brother hit the ground with a resounding jar, and before he could roll over and shoot me, which he would have, given half a chance, I had removed his burners.  I slipped one into my pocket.  Then I lifted the insufferable brat by the tuft of ill-dyed hair, and pointed my burner at his head.  My idea was to use him a shield and threaten to shoot him.

But of course, nothing is ever easy or simple.  The horrible brat spun around, somehow, ignoring pain.  His hair tore at the roots.  Leaving me holding a hank of improbably colored hair, he got free.  I realized why he was missing tufts of hair.  Apparently fighting recklessly was one of his amusements.

He aimed for my crotch with a well applied kick, and while it still hurt, it didn’t hurt me like he expected – I guess he really didn’t know any women – which allowed me to bring the burner  butt neatly into the side of his head, rendering him unconscious, just as Redhead dove at me.

I shoved Baby Brother out of the way and kicked Redhead in the crotch just before he hit me.  Of all the fighting I learned, both formal and street, for my money, the best training I ever got for combat was the ballet camp I once attended.  It allows such precision in high kicks. I jumped out of the way as he rolled on the floor clutching his family jewels.  Since I didn’t know his resiliency level, I pulled the burner from my hair – look, I didn’t know Baby Brother’s standards in weapon maintenance.  The one I’d taken from him might or might not work – and pointed a burner at him and one at Danegerous, who was backing up, both hands in full sight, his mouth working.

Weirdly, the Redhead, on the floor didn’t even look at me.  He howled, both mind and voice, staring at his companion, “Thor, don’t.”

Danegerous gave a little start, and looked mulish, while shaking his head.  “If we’re going to fail…  If we fail… You know what Father –”

“Fuck Father,” the redhead yelled. I felt wordless shock from the other two. “This doesn’t mean we’ll fail.  Just because the guy didn’t know anything about Earth, and we let Morgan try his way at making friends and influencing people, it doesn’t mean we failed at the mission.”  He looked at me.  “Look, Ma’am, I know we started badly, but if you give us a chance, we want nothing nefarious.  We’re emissaries on a peace mission.”

“And I’m Winnie the Pooh,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” Danegerous said with an edge of hysteria to his voice, his hand reaching into his pocket.  “We know him. He’s much younger than you.”

At the same time I yelled “Freeze.”

He didn’t, so I leapt across the room, grabbed his hand in mine and pointed the weapon at his head.  Only to point it at the redhead who made a jump at us.  Finding the burner pointed at his head, he lifted both hands, “Ma’am,” he said, the soul of politeness.  “You must let me get the stuff from Thor’s pockets.  He’s an explosives fanatic, and he’s trying to blow us all up.”

“I have to,” the so called Thor yelled.  “You know what Father will do to us if we come back defeated.”

Which is when his voice, wavering and adolescent though it was, found a place in my head.  “Thor… Mason?” I asked.

He froze.  “Wah?”

“From the genetic line of Ajith Mason?” I asked.

The Redhead who’d been inching closer, with all the stealth of a cat, stopped and froze too.  He stared at me.  And I caught a flash in the eyes that made his features click into place.  “And you,” I pointed the burner at him, and waved with it.  “You’re Jarl Ingemar’s clone.”

I should have known better.  Look, perhaps it’s genetic.  Like Little Brother I apparently had a way to make friends and influence people.

I’m not going to give you a blow by blow account.  I don’t remember it.  I remember Thor Mason squirming, trying to go for his stored bombs, presumably.  I mean, what would you expect from Fuse’s little brother?

I hit him hard, on the head, and eased him down quickly, just in time to deal with Jarl’s – and therefore my husband’s — clone who seemed unsure on whether to attack or not and therefore was at a disadvantage when I hit him hard.

I was in the process of tying all of them, individually and securely when Eris started screaming blue murder, and Kit yelled in my head Athena, Athena, answer me.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 25

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 25

“Hey!” protested the creature. “Don’t call me –”

“– just the ambiance of the dungeon. I’ll take it the rest of the way.” Ju’ula’s eyes seemed to grow a little unfocused. “It’ll help if you beat your familiar.”

Occo set to that task with a will.

“You’re not doing it right,” complained the creature. “The way that stupid thing’s built, whacking it like that won’t hardly hurt at all. You shouldn’t be using a flail in the first place. Red-hot pokers, that’s what you need. Give me a moment. I’ll fetch some.”

The creature lumbered off. Bresk’s wails of pain echoed throughout the dungeon. Occo reflected that the day wasn’t turning out so badly after all.

“Got it,” said Ju’ula.

An instant later, the dungeon vanished and they found themselves in the vestibule of a building. A startled Ebbo perched behind a desk looked up from its notescreen.

“What is this? Who are you? By what right –”

“Silence!” Occo bellowed again. “I am here on the express direction of Amerce Imposer Vrachi. She has required me to make a report whenever possible to the nearest Envacht Lu mission.”

She gave their surroundings a dubious appraisal. “This is the Envacht Lu outpost on Planet Catalog Number VF-6s-K55, is it not?”

That brought the Ebbo up short. Carefully, it set its notescreen down on the low table.

“I see,” the Ebbo said. “Yes, this is that outpost. Why did this Amerce Imposer — Vrachi, you say? Would that be Kyu Gnath Vrachi or Esmat Bala Vrachi? — require you to make a report? And a report concerning what?”

“I have no idea which Amerce Imposer Vrachi she was. She required me to make a report whenever possible because my home cloister was destroyed by unknown miscreants using unknown weaponry, which has led me to declare myself gadrax and led the Amerce Imposer to suspect that proprieties may have been transgressed severely enough that an Uttermost Reproach is necessitated.”

“I see. And I presume you came to Planet Catalog Number VF-6s-K55 because of its suspected status as an Old One site. If so, your visit will almost certainly be fruitless. Since the first discovery of this planet there have been — one moment, please” — the Ebbo’s digit flitted over the notescreen for a few instants — “Yes, my memory was correct. There have been four hundred and twelve recorded investigations, which excavated a total of 8,377 square leagues, and an untold number of unrecorded and unauthorized explorations. Not one of those turned up results that were not confusing and contradictory.”

The Ebbo looked back up from the screen. “For almost a century now — calculated by the local year — Planet Catalog Number VF-6s-K55 has mostly been used by Humans as a prison planet. The reasoning behind that behavior has so far eluded anyone except, presumably, Humans themselves.”

Its vestigial wings rubbed together briefly, making a rather unpleasant noise. That was an Ebbo mannerism indicating contemptuous dismissal. “Insofar as the workings of the Human brain can be called ‘reasoning’ at all. And now, gadrax — please note that I do not inquire as to your identity — make your report.”

“There is nothing to report. That is the report.”

“Splendid.” The Ebbo’s digit flitted once more across the screen. “Your report has been filed. You may be on your way.”

Occo looked about and spotted an entrance behind her and to the left. As she turned in that direction, however, a new voice came into the chamber.

“A moment, please. I fear my assistant is being excessively formal.”

The Ebbo seemed to hunker down a bit. “The term ‘excessively formal’ is an oxymoron,” it said, in a tone that seemed even more aggrieved than that of the dungeon-keeper.

“Perhaps,” said the new voice. “Still, I would prefer a more personal interaction with our visitors. Please send them into my bastille.”

“As you wish, Heterochthonatrix.” The Ebbo’s digit worked briefly at the screen and a panel in the wall slid aside. Beyond could be seen another chamber although its contents were not clearly discernable. Vision was obscured by a flickering haze which Occo recognized as the work of a Gawad murkster.

She was impressed. The marine crustaceans provided superb anti-surveillance protection but they were rare, hard to capture, and harder to keep alive in captivity. She wouldn’t have thought even the Envacht Lu could have afforded one for a minor outpost.

Unless . . .

“Link,” said Bresk. Occo raised her earflaps and a moment later her familiar’s neural connectors were inserted into the sockets.

<There’s no way a Gawad murkster would be here unless one of two things is true> came Bresk’s thought. <Either this isn’t a minor outpost at all — despite all appearances to the contrary — or this still-unidentified Heterochthonatrix is stinking rich. And if that’s true . . . >

Gloomily, Occo provided the rest of the thought herself. We’re probably dealing with an incompetent or scapegrace sent into exile because their wealth and influence was too great to be simply discharged.

But there was no way she could see to avoid the encounter. So, she made her way toward the chamber. Brest floated above, attached to the hard points. Ju’ula remained behind, still perched inside the Teleplaser.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“No, Mama. I agree with the fussbudget. For some things, the term ‘excessive formality’ is an oxymoron.” Ju’ula’s eyes remained closed through the entire exchange.

Occo saw no reason to argue the matter. So, she and Bresk entered the Heterochthonatrix’s chamber alone.

Once they entered the chamber, the visual haze began to clear. After a few minims, they could see a female Nac Zhe Anglan perched on a bench in an elevated alcove.

Even at a glance, the bench was luxurious. And it took Occo no more than a moment — a moment produced by simple surprise at seeing it in person — to recognize that the kinetic fresco adorning the wall behind the bench was the work of the Green Pramusect’s famous Dextralyceum. It must have cost a not-so-small fortune.

“I bid you welcome,” said the figure on the bench. “I am Heterochthonatrix Heurse Gotha Rammadrecula.”

<Oh, marvelous> came Bresk’s thought. <The richest and most powerful affiliance in the entire Flengren Apostollege. Which, if you’re fuzzy on the theology involved, is about as far removed from the Naccor Jute as possible. How did someone from that pack of fanatics ever wind up an Envacht Lu official? And a heterochthonatrix, at that!>

Occo was wondering the same thing herself. There were no formal rules governing the matter, but the general practice of the Envacht Lu was to select its recruits from those creeds which tended toward ecumenicalism, so long as they stayed short of the outright agnosticism espoused by such as the Naccor Jute. The Flengren Apostollege, on the other hand, was anything but open-minded on the subject of the precise nature of divinity and daemoncy. They even claimed to know the names of the Highest and the Lowest figures in the ancient cataclysm.

One of the Highest of which had been the deity Rammad, to whom Heurse Gotha’s lineage claimed affiliation. Her name meant Swollen in the Esteem of Rammad’s Sodality.

<Humans have an expression for this too, came Bresk’s thought. “You’re fucked,” they’d say.>

Occo was in no mood for her familiar’s obsession with Human foibles. I have no idea what a fucked is, but I’m sure I’m not one of them.

A sense of amusement came through the neural connectors. <It’s not a noun, it’s a verb. It’s the human way of copulating. It’s really slimy. Not to mention complicated. Would you believe they — >

SHUT. UP.

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 24

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 24

I banished misgivings.  Look, whomever my wiles hadn’t worked against, they always worked against males.  Mostly.  Almost. Practically. They hadn’t done me much good against Kit, but my darling was a jaded bastard. How many of them could there be in the universe? And could any of them sound as young as those people outside had?

Fast, I made sure of the hidden burners, one at my ankle, one under my hair, and one where it’s really none of your business.  No, not there.  That would impair any fast movement.

Eris had fallen asleep.  I engaged my fast speed, because I knew I had seconds only, to disengage the sling, grab her, and stow her in the back, where a net held back an assortment of toys and blankets and stuff that testified as eloquently as his words that Luce did indeed spend a lot of time babysitting young ones.  I sort of rolled her in a blanket, so that it protected her from any sharp toy edges, but did not cover her face fully.  I was hoping she would pass unnoticed in the middle of the mess, and no one would realize there was a baby back there.  I was fully aware that if they grabbed my daughter they’d render me less effective.  Not incapacitated, but less effective. Or more effective in a “kill them all” sort of way, but that too had its liabilities.

Bless the child, she did not wake up, though she did make a little aggrieved sigh, which caused me to kiss her forehead, before I returned to the middle of the flyer, the open space between seats, where I did my best to appear surprised as the door burst open.

The surprised look was made much easier by what the intruders looked like.

They walked in, in a group, as though none of them trusted the other to go in first.

They were as I’d expected three boys and very young.  They were dressed in what looked like those one-piece baby suits made adult size, only they had boots over their feet.  This was strange enough, as was the fact that these one-piece suits had been embellished with patches, scribblings and bits of metal sewn on.  It was fairly startling that the two who had cut off their sleeves had what appeared to be a welter of scars and blue ink all up their arms.

But none of this – none of it — compared to the strangeness from the neck up.  First of all, they all looked startlingly familiar, but I had trouble identifying them, because…  Because it looked like a piercing freak had gone insane in an electronic components store.  The one in the center, who looked older than the others, had red hair, which he’d carefully shaved so it only grew on half his head.  I’m assuming shaved.  For all I knew he’d killed the follicles, of course.  The half that remained glittered with metal, glass and who knew what the heck else, all of it looking like he’d salvaged it from a computer room.  His eyebrows were pierced all along their length with more glittering components inserted.  There was something orange and green and metal through his left nostril.  There was a blue indecipherable symbol on his forehead.  He looked indefinably familiar, but it was hard to focus through all the facial piercings and tattoos.

The one on the left looked really familiar; must be all of 12 and was prettyish in the way boys sometimes are just before or at puberty.  What remained of his hair – he seemed to have eliminated random patches of it – was inexpertly dyed blue and straightened, so you could see that his hair was both curly and black.  All down one side of his still-babyish face, he had scribblings in blue ink, that disappeared into his collar.  His eyes were blue and feral.

The one on the right also looked familiar, but not as much, was maybe 14, had a still-round face that would probably turn sharper with age. He had fewer of the blue markings, but his ears were stretched with what appeared to be spools of some sort, his scalp was completely bald and seemed to have electronic components actually growing on it.  He had cut off his right sleeve to display a welter of blue wink in designs that included a dragon and made me wonder if these were in fact the sort of primitive tattoos no one used in the twenty fifth century.

In the middle of the designs was a single word: Danegerous.  Yes, it was misspelled.

I’m not a prude or an innocent, and there were very few things that people could do with their body that shocked me.  I grew up between the high class of Earth, the bioengineered Good Men, who treated normal populations as disposable sludge, and in broomer lairs, where frankly most of the population treated themselves as disposable sludge.

But there was something to the way these boys were body-modified that put a chill up my spine and made me realize I was dealing with something completely different.

Throughout the ages, humans had dressed and adorned themselves to look different or to signify membership in some group or family.  I was going to assume these boys were adorned according to some tribe or affiliation.  I was hoping the tribe was “The Insane Neurotics” because that was how they looked.

Before I could make sure that my air of surprise was just perfect, they’d replied with their own hair of surprise.  Nose-pierced red-head jumped back.  I mind-heard him say Whoa!

Danegerous stood rooted to spot and I heard him mind-proclaim to the world at large It’s a woman.

And the baby, the little twelve year old was holding two burners out and pointed at me.

The shock that I could hear them mind talk hit me at the same time that I recognized the youngest one.  I recognized his movements, the crazed look in his eyes, I recognized the sort of mind that always, always, reaches for a weapon first; the type of temperament that views anything strange and fascinating as something that should be shot first, so it could be dissected later at leisure.

Staring at me, those baby blue eyes in the tattooed face were my Daddy-Dearest’s eyes and my eyes too. I didn’t know how this was possible, and I was not even going to make any guesses.  Just as I wasn’t going to make any guesses about their mind talk.  We’d heard that the telepathy bio-ed into the mules was limited and bonded.  That is it had to be a bonded pair to allow it to flow.  Though really, Kit and I hadn’t been when we’d first talked, but an exception doesn’t negate the rule.

Unless these three were bonded, of course, which was possible, as there are many kinds of bond.  But I didn’t want to know why I could hear them, anyway, nor why or how this kid was … for lack of a better term, my baby brother.  I just knew he was.  He’d been made from the same genes that had gone into making me and my late father, Alexander Milton Sinistra.  The feral blue eyes were the same that had stared out of the mirror at me for most of my growing up years.  I hadn’t even realized they had changed until now.

A cold shot of fear went up my spine, because let’s face it, I knew myself, and I’d known daddy.  No one with those genes could be trusted, not even for the simple things that untrustworthy people could be trusted with, like, you know, not doing things that will get them killed.

My face must have turned to stone.  He hadn’t recognized me, or the relationship between us.  Which was good, I supposed.  I was measuring the space between us and figuring out how to disarm him.  I wondered if the other two were armed too.  So far they were not making any effort to reach for guns.

“How do you know he’s a woman?” Baby Brother asked, in voice, glaring over his shoulder at the other two while keeping his weapons trained on me.

With anyone else, I’d have risked a lunge at him. I would.  But with him, which is to say with myself, it was too risky.  It might push him past slightly annoyed into homicidal maniac.  I felt a trickle of cold sweat run down my back.  From the pile of toys I heard the snuffle, snuffle, snuffle that was often the precursor to a really good Eris; cry.  Surely not.  Surely she wasn’t going to start…  Please, don’t start.  I didn’t want to see what these feral children could do to a baby.  I was going to guess they had no protective instincts of any sort.

I took slow, controlled breaths.

The redhead, who was clearly the oldest one, blushed.  It was kind of weird to see someone that pierced and tattooed blush, but blush he did.  His voice was gruff and low as he said, “Look at her.  She –” He made gestures in the front of his chest, even though Baby Brother had gone back to staring at me and wouldn’t see me.  “She looks like a woman.”