Eric Flint's Blog, page 179

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 24

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 24

CHAPTER 14

Occo was abruptly pitched onto the sand. Looking up, she saw that the Skerkud Teleplaser was expanding rapidly. But where Bresk’s expansion — now receding, she noticed — had been uniform, that being undergone by the Teleplaser bore more resemblance to a youngling’s toy being unfolded. One peculiar-looking appendage after another extended outward. Within a few minims, the relatively small and simply-shaped Teleplaser had become a towering . . .

Whatever. It looked vaguely like a cross between a construction derrick and one of the crude mannequins used by primitive farmers to scare away pests from their fields.

“SECURITY BREACH!” the Teleplaser boomed. “SENSORS HAVE BEEN SPIRITALIZED! COMPONENTS OF REPRIMAND ARE BUOYANT!”

Some sort of sea creature surfaced a short distance from shore. One of the Skerkud’s new appendages whipped in that direction. There was a blinding flash from the tip of the appendage and that portion of the sea creature above water was vaporized. Presumably that portion still below the surface was parboiled, because the Teleplaser’s weapon also turned a goodly-sized patch of the ocean into steam.

Then, two more of the Skerkud’s new appendages made a peculiar waving motion. To Occo’s astonishment, the sea itself was parted, the waters somehow pushed back as if by a mighty force screen, exposing the ocean floor to a distance of several leagues.

A number of marine animals of various kinds were left behind, flopping and wriggling and squirming on the wet sand and rocks.

“TRANSGRESSORS EXPOSED!” the Teleplaser boomed. “ABASEMENTS IMPEND!”

More of the slender attachments came to bear on the exposed sea floor. Within moments, everything that flopped or wriggled or squirmed was incinerated or hammered into paste — or, usually, hammered into paste and then incinerated.

“THREATS, HAZARDS, MENACES, JEOPARDIES AND PERILS OSTRACIZED! ATARAXIA RESTORED!”

The Teleplaser’s attachments folded themselves up out of sight as rapidly as they had been extended. As soon as the last one vanished, the Teleplaser shrank back down to its original size and shape.

Occo and Bresk stared at the device.

Bresk made that little rippling motion in his mantle that indicated bemusement. “It’s really not too bright, is it?” Ju’ula opened one eye. “What do you expect? Skerkie works in security.”

The other eye appeared and Ju’ula brought both to bear on Occo. “You got to watch that, Mama. You can’t use trigger words like ‘Fiends’ and ‘Old Ones’ around Skerkie.”

“But . . . you just did.”

“Sure. It’s okay for me to use them. I’ve got a Caliber Twadda Grade 51 Duke clearance. Plus, in this instance, a clear need-to-know. You only have a Caliber Olog Grade 2 Duck clearance. And no need to know anything at all since the Fiends and the Old Ones — and the Hoar Ghosts and Unfriendlies and Estrangers and They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — are either long gone or never existed or are doing a good imitation of one or the other.”

“May ignorance and obscurity preserve us,” Bresk said softly, intoning one of the three prayers sanctioned by the Naccor Jute’s auditor board.

In her mind, though not aloud, Occo intoned the other two.

Seek not revelation lest you be revealed.

Leave unto others what you would have others expose.

It was now clear to her that the Warlock Variation Drive was far more than simply a transportation device. In some way still unclear, the Drive — no, best to call her Ju’ula — knew many of the secrets of the Old Ones and the Other Old Ones that had eluded all sects and denominations of the Nac Zhe Anglan.

(And who were the Hoar Ghosts and the Unfriendlies and Estrangers and They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Had that ancient war of divinities and devils been a many-sided one instead of the straightforward clash of two parties it had always been thought to be?)

It was just as clear, however, that attempting to probe Ju’ula directly on these matters would be unwise so long as the Skerkud Teleplaser was in the vicinity. For that matter, it was possibly unwise under any circumstances, at least until Occo had learned more of the Warlock Variation Drive’s nature. So far, Ju’ula had done nothing inimical — leaving aside the inherent dangers of its bizarre method of travel — but it was obvious that if she ever did have her animosities aroused she would be an even greater peril than the Teleplaser. A device that could literally transmute reality could . . .

Could . . .

Could . . .

Occo had a momentary image of herself transformed into the shredded nerves of a vast creature being subjected to torment by —

It did not bear thinking about. Once more, in her mind, she recited the three sanctioned prayers and drove the image under.

“Right, then!” she said vigorously. “Let’s get about finding this Envacht Lu outpost. Bresk, lead the way.”

For a moment, the familiar looked as if he might complain or protest. But after casting a wary glance at Ju’ula, he just flapped his mantle a couple of times. Eight probes were dislodged and came to swarm above him. Bresk emitted the signals by which he controlled the probes and an instant later they were speeding off along the shoreline.

“Let’s go north,” he said. “The big river is that way and it’s probably our best bet.”

His innate familiar nature resurfaced. “Keep in mind that I use the term ‘north’ out of sheer whim, since the insane method of transport you used to bring us here did not allow for adequate geographic orientation.”

***

The weather on Cthulhu, as it turned out, seemed to run toward torrential rainfall right around noon as well. Once again, Bresk was pressed into service as an impromptu parasol. With, once again, the inevitable verbal accompaniment.

After some medims of that, Ju’ula had had enough.

“I can’t bear this any longer,” she said. “Mama, give me an image.”

“Of what?”

“That one’ll do.”

Belatedly, Occo realized that she’d half-imagined herself lashing Bresk with a multi-tongued whip while the familiar was suspended in chains over an open fire.

And —

Sure enough. They found themselves in some sort of dungeon. With Bresk suspended in chains over an open fire and Occo holding the instrument of chastisement in her hand.

Never in her life had she struggled so mightily against temptation. In truth, she probably would have succumbed — just for a few minims, only a few, so richly warranted and deserved! — except that a large creature was even now advancing upon her. The creature was clad in some sort of metal harness, which could barely be seen because the thing was encased in that bizarre skin excretion so highly favored by mammal-analogs. Fur, they called the stuff. Or, sometimes, hair.

“Don’t let it touch me! Don’t let it touch me!” Bresk shrilled. “That fur-shroud is bound to have vermin in it. Not to mention — ow!” — the thing had cuffed Bresk as it passed by — “noxious oils.”

“Intruders are forbidden!” the creature bellowed. “You have no right to be here!”

“I know you’re not going to let that furball talk to me like that, Mama,” said Ju’ula. She brought her eyes to bear on the creature itself. “He — it’s bound to be a he — doesn’t have any better than a Caliber Flizz Grade 1 Du clearance.”

The creature came to an abrupt halt and peered down at Ju’ula. “It’s Grade 1-A Du.” Its tone was aggrieved.

Occo had been rapidly considering her options. She decided that an arrogant display of overweening status was the best tactic.

“Silence!” she bellowed. “I demand the location of the nearest Envacht Lu outpost. And be quick about it or I’ll have your — ah — whatever that’s called that your fur is attached to — stripped right off.”

“It’s called his hide,” Ju’ula provided. “But you don’t actually want the location of the nearest Envacht Lu outpost because we’re no longer in your sidereal universe and the way the branes are fluctuating at the moment the odds are no better than 90,000-odd-to-1 that Dimwit here will know the right one. What you really want is –”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 37

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 37

Chapter 21

Agra, Red Fort, The Diwan-i-Khas

November, 1634

Expectations high, Jahanara and Nadira eagerly awaited their first sight of the envoys from the future as Father made short work of the day’s regular business.

Jahanara glanced up as Nur entered the women’s area. Her great-aunt sent a nod Jahanara’s way before sitting with her typical grace.

Jahanara hid her discontent. It would have been nice to have had this bit of excitement to herself. Now she would have to conceal the depth of her interest, lest Nur use it against her.

“Bring them forth, then,” Father said.

Realizing she’d missed an announcement, Jahanara put away her thoughts and looked through the jali.

Amir Salim appeared, a significant party of strangely-dressed men in his wake.

Jahanara forgot Nur’s presence, leaning forward to peer at the foreigners. Almost all of them stood a head taller than the courtiers lining their path. One was of such enormous size she was sure he could crack a skull with but one hand. Two of the men had beards so blond she thought them beardless at first. Craning her neck, she spied several burkhas at the rear of the party.

Amir Yilmaz strode forward and bowed three times before the Peacock Throne. The ferenghi did likewise, some with a good deal less grace.

Father eyed them a moment, his expression inscrutable, then waved permission for Salim to speak.

“Al-Sultan Al’Azam wal Khaqan al-Mukarram, Abu’l-Muzaffar Shihab ud-din Muhammad, Sahib-i-Qiran-i-Sani, Shah Jahan I Padshah Ghazi Zillu’llah, I present to you the party of envoys representing the trade interests of Gustavus Adolphus, Emperor of the United States of Europe.” He made a sweeping gesture that took in the entire party.

One man stepped forward and bowed again, then spoke in a deep voice that was immediately translated by a fellow in his party that looked somewhat familiar. “Sultan Al –”

“Sultan Al’Azam! Sultan!” the shouts coming from somewhere else took everyone completely by surprise, Father’s guards included. Blades were bared and the dais between the ferenghis and Father quickly covered in armed retainers ready to cut down any threat.

Those courtiers closest to the throne edged away, their own retainers closing about them. While not permitted arms in the royal presence, still they stood to defend their rulers and chieftains. Such were the dynamics of power in Father’s lands that there were many who had cause to fear assassination, even at court.

Jahanara looked from them to search for the source of the shouts, eventually spotting a man pushing through the envoys, turban and sash marking him as a post-rider.

She saw the giant foreigner put his weight on the balls of his feet as if preparing to rush the messenger.

Before he could launch his attack and push things even further into chaos, Salim had him by the wrist. He must have found the right words to calm the big fellow, because he settled back on his heels.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Shah Jahan shouted, standing, ringed with steel.

“Sultan Al’Azam, terrible news!” the messenger cried, waving the satchel that was as much a mark of his station as the turban and sash.

A muttering like the wind through tall grass swept the Hall of Audience.

Nadira’s hand shot out, clutching hers in a painful grip.

“What news is of such import that you interrupt the court?” Father’s question knifed through the muttering with such menace it stopped the messenger in his tracks.

“Sultan Al’Azam, I bear horrible news.”

Too late, Jahanara saw tracks of tears in the dust coating the man’s face.

Still clutching Jahanara’s hand painfully, Nadira released a slow, animal groan of purest agony, tears coursing down beautiful cheeks.

* * *

Salim released Rodney’s wrist as the wailing of a fresh-made widow reached his ears. None of the envoys moved, quite likely a good thing under the circumstances.

“Lost, Sultan Al’Azam! Your son and nearly all his host were lost!” the messenger threw himself on the ground before the dais, landing beside Salim’s feet.

Mutters of shock and disbelief made the rounds through the hall. He dimly heard Angelo, the Venetian translator, making sure John understood.

Though Salim had trouble understand this himself. Dara, gone? And with him, hope of religious tolerance.

Through his own stunned surprise, Salim saw Shah Jahan pale. “Lost? How?”

“Set upon from ambush and cowardly tricks as they invested Ramdaspur.”

More mutters, though now there was a hot blade of anger and rage cutting between the sobs still sounding from behind the jali.

“My son?” the emperor choked.

This time the man bowed so low it was almost a complete prostration. “Struck down while leading a counter-charge that nearly saved the situation.”

The court groaned as Shah Jahan, Sultan of Sultans, Ruler of the World, swayed on his feet.

“This will not stand!” That was Aurangzeb’s voice, cracking across the hall.

Dragged from his fugue by the cry, Shah Jahan drew himself to his full height and raged: “And it will not! I shall have a mountain of skulls set in a tower to rival the monuments of my forebears! Gather the hosts, I ride to crush this upstart and all his people! Gather them now!”

Cries of, “Allahu Akbar!” and “Sultan Al’Azam!” crashed against the walls of the Hall of Public Audience like waves on stone, doubling back among the pillars and courtiers.

Belatedly, Salim realized that the people in his charge were not only discomfited by the shouts and anger surrounding them, but had reason to fear for their safety.

Like hungry lions, the gathered nobles were looking for something to tear into. The foreigners were not members of the pride, and therefore game to be brought down.

Rodney leaned down, said so quietly that Salim barely heard him, “Things is about to go very bad, J.D.”

“Yeah, I know,” John answered, hands balling into fists.

“Do nothing untoward, gentlemen,” Salim hissed. He turned to the throne and the emperor.

“Sultan Al’Azam, please!” he bellowed, raising his arms above his head. “Sultan Al’Azam!” He had to get the emperor’s attention or things would — “Sultan!”

The emperor turned furious eyes on Salim and barked: “What?”

All of the hall went silent.

Salim lowered his arms, head, and voice. “Sultan Al’Azam, the envoys were in the midst of introducing themselves. They understand what a shock this news is, and ask leave to retire, under your protection, until such time as the Sultan Al’Azam wishes to see them again.”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 23

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 23

I was sorely tempted to call again, to make him say something that might give me a clue.  I didn’t.  The worst part of being a grown up and responsible is that you have to hold back on the things you really would like to do.  Or even feel a need to do.  If Kit felt as though my calling to him would endanger him, I’d have to be very uncaring to actually call out to him again.  I suspected that I was in fact very uncaring, but I’d learned to act like real humans.  Kit was a real human and the last thing I wanted to do was disillusion him and destroy his love for me.

I watched as Fuse and Lucius – and was Lucius really handing Fuse a burner?  Did he have any idea how far that man would go for a good explosion? And that Fuse, damaged and half healed, might not have a full sense of his own mortality let alone other peoples’? – cautiously approached a large, darkened doorway.  They must have heard something coming from there, otherwise why fixate on that particular doorway?  I realized since the flyer was landed and sealed, it was impervious to outside noise.  It must be, since I couldn’t hear the seagulls.  But that was no good.  I had to know what was happening out there.  Even if there weren’t a fight imminent, I hated not knowing what was going on.  I hated being left behind, at any time, and not knowing what people I cared for were facing.

Now, with my safety and Eris’ dependent on what happened out there, I had to know.  I just had to.  I jumped to the control panel, and attempted to turn it on.  The damn thing was keyed to a genlock on the dash, its membrane waiting, presumably for Lucius’ genetics to turn on.

Normally my way to deal with genlocks was to burn them out.  I considered them personally offensive, because they were just a stupid membrane with a circuit behind, and once you burned them you disabled the circuit and could then have your way with whatever mechanism it had protected.

It was offensively stupid to use them as locks because they were so easy to disable.  I mean, I could see why people on the street thought they were a good idea, but even my own late, unlamented father had used them, and that was double stupid, as he should have guessed that my genetics were close enough to his in the key components to be able to open them.  Of course, the penalties for burning the genlocks were terrible, but they’d never been a consideration for me.  While Father was alive, and my status was as daughter of a Good Man, I’d been above the law.  And now I was just outside the law, a stranger whose home was in another world altogether, and whose brief sojourns on Earth were as brief as possible.

But I still didn’t think it was a good idea to burn out the lock on Lucius’ flyer.  I suspected he would get a little testy at that, and besides, my dim sense of honor, mostly learned from Kit, told me it was a bad thing to do, since he was helping me. I had to be an adult, yet again.

So, instead of burning out his lock, I opened the panel, and looked at the mechanism, till I figured out which circuit to detach, to do the equivalent of burning the genlock, but in such a way that it could be reconnected in seconds and that the big blond lunk wouldn’t feel the need to kill me for it.

I found it and disconnected it, then the alarm that went with it, before it could do more than let out a brief, loud, peep.  I held my breath, in case that had wakened Eris, but she continued sleeping, and I took a deep breath, pulled up, turned the flyer on, in wait mode and listened.  Listened as hard as I could…  Seriously, why would the man leave me with a baby in a dangerous situation without giving me the opportunity to fly his flyer or even to hear in case there was danger outside?  And he was bio-designed to be smart.  Imagine if he weren’t.

I found the button that allowed sounds from outside to penetrate, and jumped.  The sound of screaming seagulls was everywhere, as they lifted, again, from the building into which Lucius and Fuse had disappeared.  Something must have startled them anew, but they were so loud I could hear nothing else, and now Eris started screaming.  I bounced her gently, trying to get her attention, and it seemed to work for a moment.

Outside there were shapes, barely visible among the seagulls.  Perhaps human shapes.

In that moment I heard young, strangely accented voices just outside the flyer, “– take their flyer and go.”

“It would be stupid,” another voice said.  “They’ll take ours.”

“Ours is a damned lifeboat,” said a third voice.  “I wish them luck of it. You can’t maneuver.  With theirs, we can go anywhere on earth.  ANYWHERE!”

“That is a point, but where could we go?  And what will Father say if we lose our boat.”

“I don’t care.  This is not working the way we expected.  That idiot knew nothing.  We must go somewhere where we can find the power brokers and deliver the message. And then we’re free.  Free, Laz, think about it.”

These words were clear, but they must have done something, some movement, some gesture, that set off the seagulls again because all I could hear after that was a mumble, and a fizz and the screams of the disturbed birds.

A fizz.  Like a burner.  They were burning the genlock on the door.

Damn it! Lucius was going to be upset his flyer was vandalized, but it wasn’t my fault.  Worse, and double damn, these – boys? — were undoubtedly the crew of the triangular ship.  And they were outside.  And even though it had been said my husband had a hostage, this was clearly more than one person. And they were nobody’s hostage.

Which meant that Lucius and Fuse were, what? Dead? Incapacitated?  To say nothing of Kit and Simon?  My throat closed at the thought of Kit or even Simon hurt in one of those buildings.  Not that I wished ill on Lucius and Fuse, and frankly, by virtue of being with me, they were of mine and I’d defend them and avenge them if needed, but Kit and Simon made it personal.  If one of them were bleeding to death in that warren of buildings, how would I get in and rescue him? How could I find him, if the coms didn’t work? Because I had to find him or them and rescue them.  I had to.

I calmed myself down with the reassurance that these people were afraid of being followed, which meant they couldn’t have killed all the people on my side and against them.  Possibly they hadn’t killed anyone, just somehow managed to evade them and get out of the building.

Right.  And these voices sounded young.  Like really young.  One of them still had a relatively high soprano and another’s voice wavered between soprano and basso profundo, in the way boys’ voices do between the ages of twelve and sixteen or so.

None of which made me feel better about the fact that they were going to be here in seconds.

I was armed.  I’m always armed.  I’d rather be naked than unarmed.  But that wasn’t the point.  There were three of them.  There was one of me.  And I had to protect Eris.

Against normal people, this wouldn’t be a problem.  I was fast enough – a skill not developed, but acquired via genetic manipulation of my genes by those who created me – that I could and often did defeat more people than that.

However, here caution applied.  I had no idea who these people were or where they came from.  They shouldn’t be enhanced of course, but…  For all I knew they were the spawn of tentacle monsters.  What I did know is that they had been fast enough and strong enough to subdue and kidnap Kit who, on top of being created the way I was and having the same super-speed from his genetic legacy, had been changed by a bio-engineered virus in utero, to maximize that speed.  If they could capture Kit, no matter if they’d caught him at a disadvantage outside the ship, then they would be able to match my speed.  So, a frontal confrontation was out of the question.

That was all right too.  Okay, I’d never run up against people – other than other bioengineered clones of Good Men — who could match me for speed, but I’d run up against plenty of them whom I couldn’t kill for a reason or another.  In my misguided youth, I’d run up against a lot of people I couldn’t even hurt without precipitating Daddy Dearest’s fury and much worse punishment.  So I’d learned psychological subterfuge, finagling, and deception.  Which worked against everyone no matter what the level of speed or even intelligence.  Most of the time.  Practically.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 23

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 23

CHAPTER 13

“So why are we here?” asked Bresk. The familiar’s compound eyes shifted about as it took in the dreary landscape of Cthulhu.

Occo was tempted to ignore the question, but she knew Bresk would just keep repeating it. Being fair to the little nuisance, Occo had programmed the familiar to press her for answers. The idea had seemed good at the time and she could still — abstractly — allow that it helped prevent her from slipping into unwarranted assumptions.

Yes, it was annoying. But shamans who designed familiars who weren’t pestiferous had lives which were either devoid of accomplishment or short, nasty and brutish.

“You heard the Warlock Variation Drive, didn’t you? Planet Catalog Number VF-6s-K55 — nicknamed ‘Cthulhu’ by Humans after some weird ancient god of theirs — is also — I quote the Drive directly: ‘The hell-planet of the Old Ones.'”

“I’m not deaf.” Bresk farted sarcastically. “Just deprived of necessary information. The fact that this” — the familiar’s big compound eyes got a little glassy for a moment, as it absorbed the surrounding sights on the planet — “judging from the evidence — let’s start with the smell — shitpot of a planet was once the favored crapper of the Old Ones in times so ancient the mind boggles to contemplate the eons which have passed does not explain why we are standing on said shitpot of a planet.”

“We’re looking for clues that will tell us who is responsible for the destruction of the home cloister.”

There was silence for a moment, followed by a very loud fart. “We’re looking for clues?” Another loud fart. “Let’s translate that statement from shaman-prattle to familiar-clarity. What you’re saying is that since you had no idea what to do from the very beginning, you seized on the one and only factoid in your possession — no, not even that! let us rather call it a nanofact — which was that there existed a planet that had once been inhabited by Old Ones — no, no, here I wander myself into the swamps and marshes of overstatement and over presumption! — let us rather say a planet that is thought to have once been inhabited by Old Ones. A thought, moreover, which is held in whatever passes for the mind of the most bizarre space drive in existence.”

Occo said nothing. She just continued her own examination of the area.

“Have I adequately summarized the situation?” demanded Bresk.

There was no point trying to ignore the pest. “Allowing for a great deal of unnecessary and unseemly sarcasm . . . Yes. I didn’t know where else to start.”

Bresk’s ensuing flatulence was a veritable symphony. After it was over, the familiar said: “Well, at least you can take care of one little vexation while we’re here. As it happens, the Envacht Lu maintains a small outpost on the planet.”

Occo was startled. “Here? Whatever for?”

“Who knows why the Envacht Lu does half the things they do? I’m just a hapless familiar, at the mercy of the whims of my mistress. All I know is that they have an outpost here. Well . . . Not here. It’s somewhere on the coast. Probably where that big river enters the ocean.”

They’d gotten only a glimpse of Cthulhu as they came in. The Warlock Variation Drive’s version of “planetfall” bore precious little resemblance to the sedate manner in which a spacecraft came down from orbit, with plenty of time — not to mention instruments — with which to study a world as one approached for a landing. Still, Occo had noticed the large river her familiar was referring to, and the ocean had been quite visible.

The problem remained . . . how to get there? It was much too far to travel on foot, and she had no means with which to purchase or rent transportation. The credit wafer embedded in her left forearm drew its funds from the Ghatta Vagary Exchequer, which would by now have learned of the Naccor Jute’s destruction. It would certainly no longer honor the account.

That left . . .

The first option was to obtain funds by working. But Occo was well-nigh certain that whatever employment was available on this wretched world would probably be scarce and would certainly not pay well.

The second option was one or another criminal method. Theft or robbery were the only viable alternatives. Embezzlement would take too long.

The third option was to use the Warlock Variation Drive.

Perhaps sensing the direction of her thoughts, Bresk spoke hurriedly. “With the Skerkud Teleplaser at your disposal, robbery is clearly the way to go. It’ll even dispose of the body for you afterward.”

But Occo had already tapped one of the Drive’s lobes before Bresk finished. “Wake up! I need you to take us to the coast.”

The Drive opened one of its eyes. “Quit joking, Mama. I don’t do menial labor.” The eye closed again. “Get Skerkie to do it. He’s dumber than a crate of rocks anyway.”

Occo stared down at the Skerkud Teleplaser. Once they’d landed on the planet’s surface she’d put it down immediately. The thing was heavy.

“It’s a ‘he’?” she wondered.

The Drive’s eye opened again — although not the same one. “What part of ‘dumber than a crate of rocks’ is unclear to you, Mama?”

“I’ve already got one sarcastic minion,” Occo grumbled. “I don’t need another one.”

The eye closed. “Wasn’t being sarcastic. Males are dumb, way it is. That’s why I’m female.”

Both eyes now popped open — very widely, too — as if an alarming thought had just occurred to the Drive. “It’s certainly not because of that . . . You know. Disgusting stuff you probably do like most of my Mamas did.”

The eyes closed. “At least, I presume they did. We never really talked about it. I don’t like disgusting stuff.”

An ancient, divinely-or-demonically-designed space drive who was a prude.

Could anyone ask for a better demonstration of the insanity of the Old Ones and the Other Old Ones?

Occo went back to studying the Teleplaser. She realized almost immediately that it would take only a bit of effort to imagine herself shrunk down to a size that would fit comfortably in the more-or-less tureen shape of the device. Or — better still — if the Teleplaser were expanded while she remained unchanged.

But would she then be dissolved in some unknown but hideously corrosive liquid like the Absolutist’s Toys had been?

Belatedly, it then occurred to her that the definition of a weapon was inherently viewpoint-based. One could easily argue that the difference between a weapon and a tool was simply a matter of epistemological reasoning.

She reasoned epistemologically. A moment later, she found herself perched inside the Teleplaser — and on the most comfortable and luxurious bench she’d ever experienced.

“A magic bowl, just like in the fairy tale!” exclaimed Bresk. “Mistress, you have your moments.”

The morphology of the Teleplaser had altered as well. It was now shaped more like a shallow bowl than a tureen — in fact, exactly like the magic bowl that Jeek Bedda Kresh had used to travel about in her various legendary adventures.

The whole situation seemed ridiculous, but . . .

Sternly, she reminded herself of the sage Hefra Ghia Diod’s dictum:

A sufficiently primitive magic is indistinguishable from technology.

“Up, Bowl!” she commanded. “Take us to the coast!”

***

As it turned out, the Skerkud Teleplaser really was dumber than a crate of rocks. There was no point giving it directions such as take us to the coast. The Teleplaser’s reaction to that command had been to accelerate briefly and then . . . coast to a stop. Left, right, forward, back, faster, slower — these were more-or-less the limits within which it operated. The Teleplaser also seemed able to manage up and down well enough, but Occo was unwilling to put its aptitude in that regard to a serious test. Surviving a misunderstanding when it came to left-right-forward-back was probably manageable. An error with regard to up and down . . .

Possibly not. Especially if the Teleplaser took it upon itself — himself, if the Warlock Variation Drive was to be believed — to interpret go down as a command to materialize them in the planet’s core.

So, Occo kept them just high enough above the planet’s surface to avoid obstacles — thankfully, the landscape was flat and mostly barren — and maintained a moderate speed. Bresk, unusually, made no sarcastic remark on the subject of their stately progression. That was presumably because the familiar had enough sense to realize that, riding in what amounted to an open-air conveyance, it would be the one to suffer the most if the wind of their passage got too severe.

***

By the time they neared the coast, night was falling and Occo decide to call a halt for the day. They still had no actual sight of the ocean. Its proximity was something Occo was deducing from the smell and Bresk’s analysis thereof.

“If you’re wondering, those oh-so-aromatic odors are a compound of various salts and what seems to be a truly massive quantity of decaying organic matter. Mostly plant matter, from what I can determine. Let us hope so.”

***

The weather on Cthulhu seemed to run toward torrential rainfall shortly after sundown. At this time of year, at least. Occo had no idea what if any seasons the planet might have.

Fortunately, the Skerkud Teleplaser adopted the shape of an inverted bowl as readily as it did an upright one. Not so fortunately, there turned out to be definite limits regarding the ancient device’s ability to expand itself. The shelter was barely large enough to hold Occo, Bresk and the Warlock Variation Drive, and was not in the least bit comfortable.

Occo, a stoic, passed the night in stolid silence.

The Warlock Variation Drive did the same, for whatever philosophical rationale motivated the ancient device. If any.

Bresk, stoicism’s antithesis, did not. Fortunately, its farts were odorless. Mostly.

***

At dawn, Occo commanded the Teleplaser to resume its upright-bowl shape and they set out again for the coast.

***

The weather on Cthulhu, as it turned out, seemed to run toward torrential rainfall shortly after sunrise as well.

There being no way to invert the Teleplaser and continue their forward progress, Occo ordered Bresk to suspend itself above her, assume as flattened a shape as possible, and provide as much shelter from the downpour as these contortions permitted while not letting itself be torn loose from the attachments due to the wind produced by their not-really-so-great-speed. Fortunately, there was no significant breeze associated with the rain itself.

To say the familiar complained would be an injustice to the verb. Bresk moaned, groaned, wailed, deplored, grieved, carped, denounced, griped, grumbled, lamented, caviled, protested, whined, remonstrated, reproached, whimpered, accused its mistress of bad faith and expostulated at length on the subjects of tyranny, injustice and oppression.

Eventually, the Warlock Variation Drive was prodded out of its torpor.

“Does he always yammer like this?” The Drive had both eyes open and fixed upon the familiar stretched above them.

“It’s an ‘it,’ not a ‘he.'”

“No, you’re wrong, Mama. Only males are this irritating.”

Occo considered the matter. The Drive’s argument had . . .

Undoubted merit.

Still . . . “My familiar has no sex organs of any kind.”

“Neither do I,” came the Drive’s response. “But, properly speaking, gender is a state of mind, not of body. I should maybe mention that the consequences of even suggesting that I am not female are gruesome. Not to go all formal on you, Mama, but you are hereby officially warned.”

Occo considered the matter. The Drive’s caution had . . .

Undoubted merit.

“Bresk,” she announced. “You are henceforth a ‘he.'”

Immediately, the familiar’s litany of grievances shifted onto a new course. For the rest of their journey to the coast, Bresk waxed eloquently on the subjects of gender malfeasance, sexual disorientation, and the generally moronic nature of sentient creatures both of modern times and antiquity.

The Warlock Variation Drive made no further comment. But its eyes remained open. Sometimes very wide, sometimes very narrow.

***

The rainfall ended abruptly. Once the air cleared, Occo could see that they had finally reached the coast. The vista that greeted them was bleak. In both directions stretched a seashore that had only a few low dunes and occasional patches of grass to break the monotony. The sand was a dull gray-brown color. The color of the ocean was no different except that it was slightly shifted in the direction of gray and was not quite as monochromatic.

“Which way now, I wonder?” mused Occo. “Bresk?”

“How should I know?” came the sullen response. “All my records indicate is that there is an Envacht Lu outpost somewhere on this coast. Which, by the way, my records say measures seventeen thousand, four hundred and sixty-three standard leagues. At the rate we’ve been travelling it will take us more than four years to circumnavigate assuming we never stop to eat or rest or excrete noxious bodily substances.”

Its — no, his — eyes swiveled down to gaze upon the Warlock Variation Drive. “Or whatever she does instead.”

“I’ve decided I like you, Mama,” the Drive announced. “So you can call me Ju’ula.”

Her gaze moved on to Bresk. “On the other hand, you’re a pest so you have to call me ‘Ju’ulkrexopopgrebfiltra.’ No affectionate diminutives for you, fartboy.”

Bresk’s mantle swelled indignantly. “And what if I don’t, you fatbrained — What are you doing? Stop that!”

Bresk’s protest was called forth by its — no, his — rapid expansion. He was already twice his normal size. He looked like one of the sea creatures that inhabited the shallow seas of Beffel. Puffers, they were called.

“How do you like that, fartboy? Your sac is now filled with disemboguelled hydrogen from Hell World Number 883-Affa-Affa-Kawl.” The Warlock Variation Drive — no, Ju’ula — gave Occo a glance that seemed a little apologetic. “That’s by Fiend reckoning, of course. The Old Ones just figured every planet was a hell world so they didn’t bother to sort them out.”

Occo stared at her. “Do you mean to say . . . You know all the Old One planets? And what do you mean by ‘Fiend’?”

Ju’ula’s eyes closed. “Oh, Mama. Now you’ve done it.”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 36

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 36

Iqtadar sniffed loudly through his hooked and oft-broken nose, said something Bertram translated as, “pretty smells.”

Iqtadar’s men laughed harshly.

Angelo trotted up a moment later, immediately asked what was afoot.

Bertram understood one in five words that followed and what he could comprehend left him confused.

Angelo asked a one-word question, got a curt reply. He shrugged and translated. “A party approaches. Iqtadar says they are armed, but says that, as the party is composed of eunuchs and women, it is of little concern.”

“But, I thought they closeted all women, kept them from public view.”

“The Muslims do, for the most part. This is…different.”

“How does that work?”

Angelo shrugged, “The Turki women are an exception. There are some tribes among them that are known to provide warrior women as guardians for the harems of potentates, but it is not very common and certainly unusual in the numbers the outrider claims ride toward us.”

“Then the numbers indicate someone powerful enough to ignore certain…irregularities?”

Angelo nodded. “Almost certainly. In fact, they are likely commanded by someone in the emperor’s household.”

A troop of cavalry appeared in the distance, riding the shaded road that led to the capital.

“Headed toward us, that’s sure,” Angelo said.

“Yup,” John murmured. “And Angelo’s right, there’s some Amazons with ’em. In fact, only a few of them have what the locals consider a proper beard.”

Bertram glanced back at the up-timer, saw the man was using the telescopic sight of his rifle to get a better look.

“No guns, though. Just bows, swords and lances.”

“Perhaps you should lower the rifle, John. They may take umbrage.”

* * *

Salim let out a slow breath as the man in the van of the column lowered the up-timer rifle.

He’d seen what the weapons could do one cold European afternoon. The Albernian Mercenary Company had held the bridge against formidable odds all day, using rifles much like the one the up-timer held. That skirmish had furnished plenty of evidence that a trained rifleman could easily remove any of his riders from the saddle at distances far greater than the two hundred gaz or so of road separating them. He’d even done a fair amount of shooting with one, himself. In fact, it had only been running out of ammunition that had made him toss a wounded North off the bridge and light the bomb fuse meant to bring the bridge down. The memory of the freezing waters closing over his head and the desperate swim that followed caused him to shiver despite the rising heat of the day.

“What is it, Amir?” The woman’s voice drew him from the spell of memory.

Salim glanced aside, found bright eyes regarding him over a chain mail veil and recognized Atisheh, one of the warrior-maidens of the harem. Despite her seeming inattention, she rode with ease and practiced grace.

He waved a hand, clearing away the memories. “Nothing. A memory.”

She nodded at the party on the road ahead. “This is them?”

“Oh, yes. They have at least one of the weapons from the future. See the man sitting next to the giant one, the one settling something that looks like an arquebus on his back?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I see him.”

“That is a rifle. A much more dangerous firearm than any to be had outside of the village from the future.”

“The bearer is no rider, though. Look how he sits his horse. He’d be thrown after shooting.”

“Perhaps. The up-timers are not known for their skill at horsemanship. They relied on mechanical contrivances to convey them about.”

The conversation had carried them across much of the distance separating the two columns of horse. He raised a hand. His riders slowed, came to a halt a bare hundred gaz from the up-timers. “Atisheh, you and Abdul are with me.”

Abdul’s expression soured slightly. Clearly, his lieutenant did not care for this assignment — or perhaps, simply didn’t like to be seen riding with women and eunuchs.

* * *

“Let’s not make any sudden moves,” Angelo said, eyeing the riders just coming to a halt about a hundred yards away.

“No, let’s not,” John agreed. Every one of the warriors bore bow and blades, riding with an easy grace John could never hope to match. The women and some of the men — eunuchs, he supposed — wore both silks and mail. He never would have thought someone wearing that much silk could be so intimidating.

A big fellow emerged from the center of the riders, bearded and capable-looking. One of the women rode with him, as well as another man with a full beard, this one cut from the same mold as the first guy and — John looked sideways at Iqtadar. Looks like small West Virginia towns ain’t the only places to spawn folks with a similar look.

By pre-arranged plan, John, Iqtadar, and Angelo rode forward ten yards or so and came to a stop.

Iqtadar edged forward a bit more, peering at their opposites. After a moment he shouted, “Abdul?”

John flinched. The sudden noise and his rider’s movement made his mount rear. John kept his seat with far greater ease than he would have just a week ago. So much so that he was able to watch as the man to the right of the leader smiled broadly and called back, “Iqtadar!”

“You know this man?” he asked, through Angelo.

Iqtadar smiled, nodding. “I do. He is my kinsman.”

When the two parties drew close enough for regular conversation, the central figure spoke in accented but perfectly understandable English, “You are the envoy from the United States of Europe?”

Swallowing surprise at the man’s command of English, John nodded. “I am both envoy and authorized to speak on behalf of the others with that status in our party.”

“Shah Jahan, the Sultan Al’Azam…” the man launched into another series of untranslated titles and powers before returning to English, “greets you and offers you shelter in the shadow of his power for as long as you desire.”

Angelo gave a barely audible sigh. John shot a look the Venetian’s way. He looked a little deflated he hadn’t been called on to translate.

“We accept in the name of His Majesty Gustavus Adolphus and the duly elected government of the United States of Europe.”

“I am Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz, your mihmandar — your” — he searched for the proper term — “host for the duration of your stay. I am at your service. Whatever your needs, I will make every effort to see them met.”

“That is most kind of both the emperor and you, Amir. I am Mister John Dexter Ennis of Grantville.” He gestured at Iqtadar. “It appears our guide and defender, Iqtadar, is known to some of you.” He nodded at Angelo. “And this is Angelo Gradinego, our translator, late of Venice. There are others in the mission I’ll have to introduce you to, but on behalf of all of us, and Gustavus Adolphus, Emperor of the United States of Europe, I wish to inform you how pleased we are to be to be met with such a strong party.”

“As soon as he learned of your coming, Shah Jahan was overtaken with desire to see you in person.”

That might not be an entirely good thing: Don Francisco had said the Mughal diplomat bought some books in Grantville that revealed the history of European dealings in India — which had often been anything but savory.

“We also look upon the chance to meet the emperor with excitement and hope for a prosperous future.”

The amir relaxed fractionally and then waved a big hand at his male companion and across at Iqtadar. “With your permission, my kinsmen desperately want to talk to one another.”

“Your kinsmen?” John asked as the men in question started catching up with one another in rapid-fire Persian.

A small smile, nearly lost in the man’s beard. “Iqtadar does not recognize me, as I have been gone for some time, but we are cousins as well.”

“Oh?”

“I am only recently returned from Europe myself. I was part of Baram Khan’s diplomatic party.”

“I…see.”

Salim’s expression did not betray any feeling, one way or another, on the matter of Baram Khan’s fate.

“Shall we join our two parties and continue?”

“Certainly, Amir.”

Angelo spoke up, translating for Iqtadar, who called a command and waved at the rest of the mission, even as the amir did the same to his warriors.

The escorts quickly formed up on either side of the mission.

Rodney, Gervais, and Bertram put heels to their horses, moving to join them at the front. Further back, John saw their wives and the warrior women among their escorts eyeing one another like two rival packs of wolves from some nature show, each pack uncertain of the other.

He turned back to Salim in time to catch the other man watching him.

“We had information that you were traveling in company with your wives.”

“Yes. Will that pose a problem?”

“No, not at all. I believe an opportunity to converse with your wives will please Begum Sahib immensely.”

“Begum Sahib?”

“The Princess of Princesses: Jahanara, eldest daughter of Shah Jahan.”

“Right, I knew that. It was her that, indirectly, provided our escort. Please forgive my lapse. The ah…The royal family is in good health, then?”

“Entirely.”

“Good to hear.”

Salim chuckled.

“What is it?”

“Forgive me if I misspeak, but I think you, like me, are not made for diplomatic speeches.”

John laughed, and was still laughing when Rodney, Bertram and Gervais joined them.

“What has you in stitches?” Rodney asked in English.

“We were just commiserating over our mutual lack of appreciation for the niceties of diplomatic speech,” Salim explained.

Rodney’s expression on hearing both Salim’s excellent English and the entirely accurate assessment of John’s character was so priceless it set John off again.

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 22

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 22

Come Out, Come Out

I just want to say that I and Lucius were both created by bio-enhanced madmen.  And at that moment, between my stomach plummeting somewhere below my feet and my hands clutching madly at the arms of the seat, I realized that I was very glad the madmen had been bio-improved and had designed bio improvements into us at well.

Look, I’m married to a man who, besides being as I am, designed to be faster than normal humans, had further been enhanced via a virus introduced while he was gestated, to make him faster, more accurate, with better reflexes than normal humans.  Which was all needed and important when flying amid the powertrees, with their dark trunks, their explosive pods.  All well and good.

And all of us were faster than natural-born humans and had better hand and eye coordination.  Which was also good.  But dear sweet gods of the ancients, it was still scary to be in a flyer flown by someone of whose specific capacities I couldn’t be sure and who was engaging in what would in other circumstances be suicidal maneuvers.

We flitted downwards, swaying within inches of a corroded reddish building, its windows like blank eyes.  All the while, the seagulls disturbed by our passage raised a white and black cloud that obscured the potentially lethal obstacles around us.  And all through it, Eris slept. Which meant my daughter had her father’s sense of self-preservation.

We swayed the other way just before hitting, then went sideways, the flyer on end, and my inner ear screaming we were falling.  We rushed down a narrow street between buildings, straightened again, and plunged under an arching bridge, before coming to rest on what looked like a plaza.  An ancient plaza, the surfaces of the surrounding buildings softened by time, so it looked like they were natural cliffs into which windows and doors had been cut.  In the center of the plaza there was a sculpture of some sort, but it had been so corroded by the salt winds that I couldn’t tell what it had once been: man, or dragon, dolphin or abstract.  Just a jutting form, with what might be arms or perhaps flippers raised to the uncaring sky, trying to uplift people who’d forgotten it.

I felt both dizzy and queasy by the time we landed.  Fuse woke up, stretched and said, “Are we there, then?”

I didn’t answer mostly because I wasn’t sure what the there was.  I got up as soon as I realized we’d stopped moving, and checked Eris, then started strapping her to me.  I felt a need to have her with me in this unknown place, facing who knew what dangers.  I needed to feel she was protected.

Lucius got up, and clicked his tongue again, this time with a tone of impatience, opened a compartment in the back of Eris’ seat and threw something at me.  I blinked, before I realized it was a real sling, of the sort one could carry an infant in, that would support her back and not let her slip.  Luxury.  I put it on and put Eris in it.  She didn’t wake, but made a sound like a creaky hinge.  Then I headed for the door, looking in my pocket for a burner.

Lucius grabbed my arm, “Athena, are you sure you want to go out?”

“What?  It’s my husband out there.  And Simon.  We came here to find –”

“Yes, to be sure,” he said.  “But I don’t mean that,” he said.  “I mean, do you want to take a baby into the middle of a potential firefight?  And you can’t leave her in here alone.”

I most certainly couldn’t leave her in there alone, and if he thought I was going to stay there alone, with her, he had another thing coming.  I’d read altogether too much history of the wars of mankind, to let the men go on and fight while I stayed behind, to be claimed as some sort of prize by the victors.  But then I thought of something more immediate, “Firefight?  Why –”

Lucius pointed.  Now that we were on the ground, windows had opened some layer admitting images into the flyer, and I could look out.  We’d parked in a plaza, and there, close enough to the shadow of one of the buildings that it wouldn’t be visible from the air, I could see a small vehicle that looked like a miniature of the triangular ship.

I cursed mentally.  This wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it changed everything.

Okay, so we didn’t know whoever had flown that had been armed.  Or that they’d get into a firefight with Kit, necessarily.  Except that we did, of course, know they had kidnapped my husband in space, and I couldn’t imagine anyone kidnapping Kit without at least the threat of firepower.  And I couldn’t imagine them following Kit, knowing what he could do, without being armed.  Because Kit was good enough in a fight to scare even me.  In fact, I’d lost several fights to him, before we’d arrived at our present good understanding. So —

So I wanted to go out there and kick some righteous butt.  Or more likely some unrighteous one.  I had never been the kind who stays behind at home and prays for the fighters.  For one I wasn’t a believing woman and wouldn’t be sure, exactly, whom to pray to.  For another, I had great faith in the power of my fighting, a faith reinforced through all the military schools, reform academies and mental hospitals Daddy Dearest had tried to confine me to in hope of taming me.

Whenever there was fighting to be done, I’d always been there in the thick of things, doing for myself what no one else could: fighting to keep me alive.

And I had vowed to fight to keep Kit and Eris alive too.  Kit because he fought for me, and Eris because… because I was responsible for her existence.

And that of course was the problem.  Before, when I’d leapt into battle with both feet, I had done so risking only my life, and often risking it in order to save it.  But now I was responsible for Eris who, for the moment, was wholly dependent on me for food and care.  Lucius was right that I couldn’t leave her behind in the flyer.  No matter how we locked that, someone could get in and hurt her or take her, and that was simply not acceptable.  But going into a potential firefight with the men, taking her was also unacceptable.  I’d worry about her getting hit as I’d worried in the fight in Circum.  But more importantly, concern for her would slow me down and make us both vulnerable.  It could lose the fight.

I said a very bad word, and Lucius’ eyes widened as though he’d never heard it before.  “Fine,” I said.  “I’ll stay.  But you shouldn’t take Fuse,” I said.  “If whoever is after Julien is in league with the Good Men, Fuse could be in danger, since his father is looking for a whole-body donor.”

But Fuse — I swear — patted me on the arm as he passed and said, “Don’t worry.  My father doesn’t have triangular ships.”  And then he was out.  Lucius hesitated long enough to give me one of his rings.  As it landed on my palm, I saw it was a com ring.  “I’ll call you if we need help,” he said.  “And if you need to run away.”

I thought both of those were fairly useless, since I suspected he’d rather be torn to pieces by wild seagulls than call on a woman with a baby for help, and that I’d rather be torn to pieces by wild seagulls than to run away just because I was told to. But I supposed we were both keeping appearances.  Or appeasing the back of the mind which was much alarmed by separating before facing the, for lack of a better term, bad guys.

I watched them leave the flyer.  I locked it.  I felt possessed of a sense of unreality.  This had never happened before.  I’d never stayed and let anyone else go fight for me.

Kit? I called out in my mind.  And I got back a sense of his presence, but no reply, again.  So he was here, very near, he wasn’t dead, but there was some reason he couldn’t answer.  The feelings that came with it were of being busy and also somewhat scared.  And that was odd.  Kit didn’t scare easy.

There was also a feeling like he wished I’d hush.  I’d never got such from him, except when he was in the middle of a difficult collection, so maybe that was it, maybe he was in the middle of something difficult and couldn’t afford to have his concentration disrupted.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 22

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 22

“I saw those fucking risks!” shouted Tabor. “They were torn apart in broad daylight by things the most sophisticated holocams couldn’t even see. They just came in here and killed Basil. Let humanity take a giant stride into the future over some other corpse, not yours.”

Shenoy sighed deeply. “You care that little for knowledge?”

“Let’s say that I care that much for surviving.”

Shenoy stared at him for a long moment, and then spoke again. “We’ve been here quite a few hours. It could be hunger that’s got us on edge. There’s supposed to be a cafeteria somewhere on the premises. Let’s go grab some food and while we’re eating perhaps I can convince you of the wisdom of staying here, at least for a few more days.”

“You can eat after everything we’ve seen?” asked Tabor incredulously.

“The human body needs nourishment, Russ.”

And the human mind — one of them, anyway — needs a little more common sense than it seems to come equipped with, thought Tabor.

“All right,” Tabor said at last. “I’ll have, I don’t know, coffee and maybe some pudding.”

“Good!” said Shenoy. “H. P., lead us to the cafeteria.”

“Follow me, Sir Rupert,” said the robot, rolling off down a corridor.

They turned twice, took an airlift to ground level, then went down one more corridor, and came to a small cafeteria, one that could accommodate no more than twenty diners at once. There were only four others at the moment, each in uniform, each at his own table. A prisoner was cleaning the tables and the floor.

Shenoy grabbed a tray and went down the aisle where the food was laid out, choosing a salad, a bowl of soup, and a slab of meat that came from no species of animal he had ever seen before. True to his word, Tabor picked up a cup of coffee and a dish of some kind of mutated fruit pudding, and then they returned to the table.

“Doesn’t look very appetizing,” remarked Tabor, indicating Shenoy’s tray.

“The only purpose food serves is to keep the brain going for another day,” answered Shenoy.

“You believe that drivel?” asked Tabor.

Shenoy smiled. “No, of course not. But if I can fool my body into believing it, at least I won’t die of obesity or diabetes.” He took a mouthful of the meat and tried not to make a face. “Fooling my brain is a bit harder.”

“To say nothing of your taste buds.”

“Right,” replied Shenoy. “Let’s not mention them, and maybe they won’t notice what I’m eating.”

Suddenly the prisoner who had been mopping the floor shrieked once, then started frothing at the mouth. He turned slowly, surveying the room, and his eyes fell on Shenoy. He uttered an inarticulate howl and ran toward him, hands outstretched as he reached for Shenoy’s neck.

“Don’t kill him!” said Shenoy in low tones. “He clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Tabor felled him with a single sharp blow to the jaw. The man dropped to the floor. He opened his eyes a few second later, screamed again, and reached feebly for Shenoy, who was bending over, looking at him. Tabor hit him again, and this time he fell back, unconscious. A moment later, the guards who’d been eating in the cafeteria were swarming all over the prisoner. Their version of “subduing with minimum force necessary” was . . . quite expansive, especially given that the inmate was already unconscious.

“Do you know him?” asked Tabor.

Shenoy shook his head. “I never saw him before in my life.”

“I didn’t think so,” said Tabor. “Look, Rupert, it’s obvious that someone or something wants you dead. You’ve been lucky so far, but your luck can’t hold out much longer. Are you ready to leave Cthulhu?”

“I can’t,” answered Shenoy. “I need more time.”

“How long?” demanded Tabor. “I need an exact limit, and after that I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you to the ship if need be.”

“You’d do that?” asked Shenoy, half-surprised and half-amused.

“You watch me.”

“If I’m slung over your shoulder, I’d be in a very awkward position from which to watch you.”

“Just give me an answer, goddamn it!”

“Two days,” said Shenoy.

“Earth Standard 24-hour days?” said Tabor. “I don’t know how the hell long it takes Cthulhu to rotate.”

“Earth Standard 24-hour days,” agreed Shenoy.

“All right,” said Tabor. He resumed his seat and took a spoonful of his pudding, trying not to make a face. “As long as we have a deal and I’m stuck here for two days, I might as well help you. What do we do after we finish this meal, and what in particular are we looking for?”

“I wish I could tell you,” answered Shenoy. “Basically, anything that seems wrong or out of place.”

“That could be a lot of things,” said Tabor, frowning.

“I know.”

“I mean, hell, it could be anything from a half-devoured body, to a towel on the floor, to –”

“To an insect in the soup,” said Shenoy, fishing one out with his spoon.

“Not in this place,” Tabor corrected him. “I have a feeling that bugs in the soup are par for the course.”

“Probably,” agreed Shenoy, staring at the bug. “But I think we’ll change and make sure this one naturally occurs on Cthulhu.”

They spent another few minutes trying to pretend they enjoyed their food, then got up.

“There are three levels,” said Shenoy. “We’ve already been to the lower one, though I’ll want to inspect it more thoroughly. But for now, why don’t you take the top level and I’ll take the middle one.”

“And I’m looking for anything that seems out of the ordinary?”

“Right.”

“In an interstellar jail on an isolated prison planet named after an evil god?”

Shenoy nodded his head.

“Maybe I should look for something ordinary,” suggested Tabor sardonically. “Might be a hell of a lot rarer.”

“I like you, Russ,” said Shenoy with a smile. “I’m glad they assigned you to me.”

Well, I’m glad someone’s happy about it, thought Tabor.

“Let’s meet back here in, say, two hours?” suggested Shenoy.

“You got it,” said Tabor, heading off to an airlift.

He was back two hours later. The cafeteria was deserted. Shenoy and the robot showed up about ten minutes later.

“Any luck?” asked Shenoy.

“Not that I could recognize,” answered Tabor. “How about you?”

“A bit,” was the answer. “Hints, really. Not facts, at least, not facts that most people would recognize as such.”

“Stop talking like a witness who’s afraid of incriminating himself and tell me what you think you’ve got.”

“Remember our little chat about how things appeared like magic to the uninitiated?”

“Yeah.”

Shenoy leaned forward. “That was all right as far as it went, but . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Get to the point,” said Tabor.

“What if I were to tell you that I’ve found enough hints, uncovered enough unrelated and seemingly trivial things, in the past day to lead me to conclude that the Old Ones really did use magic?”

Tabor frowned. “You’re kidding!”

“Am I smiling?”

“Then you’re crazy.”

Shenoy shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think they used magic, and that it got out of control and destroyed them. There are monsters waiting to be released, monsters against which our technology may prove useless, or at least inadequate, and I’ve got to find out where they are and figure out how to stop them.”

“I think you’re nuts,” replied Tabor. “How long can it take to humor you and prove there are no monsters here?”

“Oh, they’re not here,” said Shenoy. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“Okay, they’re not here,” said Tabor. “Where are they?”

“That’s what I have to find out.” Shenoy got to his feet and checked his timepiece. “By my count I have more than forty-five hours left. That should prove more than adequate.”

Well, at least your clock is working, even if your brain isn’t. I’ll give you your forty-five hours, and then it’s back to civilization, such as it is.

But it didn’t take forty-five hours, or even twenty-four. Tabor was sitting at a cafeteria table, sound asleep and snoring gently, when Shenoy laid a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently.

“What is it?” asked Tabor, opening his eyes and shaking his head to clear it.

“We can go now,” said Shenoy.

“Back home?”

Shenoy smiled and shook his head. “No. I’ve found enough things to convince me that our next port of call is Cornwallis IV, near the Messier 39 cluster.”

“That’s way the hell out,” complained Tabor.

“Yes, just about one thousand light-years. I’m ready to leave whenever you are. And since we’re almost certainly never going to get any meaningful answers from Basil’s body, we’ll take it with us and jettison it once we’re in deep space. That’s as close as I can come to a respectful funeral.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” mumbled Tabor, rubbing some sleep from his eyes. He stared at Shenoy and finally managed to focus his eyes. “Cornwallis IV,” he repeated. “Just what the hell do you expect to find there?”

“The secret to the Old Ones’ magic.”

Tabor sat erect. “Okay, I’m awake now.” He paused. “The secret to their magic?”

“At the very least,” said Shenoy.

“At the very least?” repeated Tabor, frowning. “What more could there be?”

Shenoy smiled. “I should think that would be obvious.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

“Why, the Old Ones themselves,” said Shenoy.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 35

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 35

Chapter 20

Agra, Red Fort, The Harem

November, 1634

“Shehzadi, Diwan Firoz Khan humbly requests a moment of your time this morning,” Smidha said, overseeing the slaves as they applied the last touches of henna to Jahanara’s feet.

“Oh? Do you know why? We aren’t due to go over the harem’s financials for several days.”

“No, Shehzadi, I do not.” Smidha shooed the slaves away. “He would only say the matter was of some import.”

“Very well, send for him.”

Smidha nodded to one of the attendants, who went in search of the harem’s diwan.

When they were reasonably alone, Smidha leaned in close. “How are you feeling, daughter of my heart?”

Jahanara shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Father maintains his distance, but has not otherwise punished me for…whatever it was I did to incite his anger the other night.”

“You speak, yet do not answer my question.”

Feeling a smile curl her lips, the first since Father’s outburst, Jahanara explained: “I hurt, Smidha. I do not know why. I have known my place for many years, yet when Father was yelling, it was as if I was hearing those things for the first time…” She shook her head, drew a deep, cleansing breath. “I suppose I had not realized how much hope I still held that he might be swayed from his position.”

“Perhaps he will change it of his own accord, given time, Shehzadi.”

Jahanara nodded, was saved from voicing her doubts by Diwan Firoz Khan’s arrival.

“You wished to see me, Diwan?”

“Indeed, Shehzadi: foreign travelers we have never seen before made landfall in Surat and are now making their way inland in hopes of an audience with Shah Jahan.”

“All foreigners must use Surat if they wish to trade within the Empire. Why should this group rouse your interest?”

“For three reasons, Begum Sahib. One: our spies in service to the English Company report that their factors expressed some consternation at their presence.”

“Wait, something about these folk displeases the English?”

“Yes, Shehzadi. I had suspicions who they might be, but wanted confirmation before reporting to you. Diwan Kashif was able to furnish such confirmation: the strangers are, at least in part, from that town from the future that furnished the papers and books, this –” He had difficulty with the odd word — ‘Grantville.’ ”

“I see now why they interest you! Please continue.”

“Two: the diwan you assigned to oversee your interests in Surat had reason to interact with them.

“Lastly: the emperor met privately with the man he has chosen as mihmandar to the visiting dignitaries.”

“Fascinating. When will they get here?  Never mind that! Who else knows of their approach?”

“They are two, perhaps three days from Agra, Shehzadi. The latest information — merely a day old — and learned at your father’s knee: they stopped at one of your caravanserai just five days slow ride from here.

“As to who may know,” he waggled his head, “I do not think a great many, despite the selection of a mihmandar. As you know, the court has been focused of late on your brother’s campaign to punish the Sikhs. Between that and the departure of Asaf Khan’s army, there has been little attention to spare.”

“He what?” Smidha blurted.

“Who?” Jahanara asked, at nearly the same time.

“The emperor has chosen and dispatched a mihmandar to see to the needs of the foreign dignitaries and return them to court. I only know of it because he called upon me to provide riders from the harem guardians.”

“Who did Father choose?” Jahanara repeated, suspecting she knew the answer.

“Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz, who has also been promoted to command five hundred and given robes so that he cut a suitable figure and the mace for presentation to the envoys.”

“I see,” Jahanara said, glancing excitedly at Smidha.

“Why did Diwan Kashif treat with them?” Smidha asked, caution driving her back to her original question.

“They were unclear on certain of our ways, and thought Kashif the governor.”

“Kashif corrected that misapprehension, did he not?” Jahanara asked, suddenly fearful. The last thing she wanted was for Father to remove Kashif for overstepping his authority. He’d barely taken up the post and finding a replacement would be most problematic.

“Yes, Shehzadi. He also ordered the escort we provided him when you assigned him to Surat — which was to return to Agra anyway — to escort the foreigners here to Agra.”

“Somewhat beyond his purview,” Smidha said.

“But excusable, given the ferenghi’s error,” Firoz Khan offered.

“He was ordered to keep his head down and simply work at improving our holdings in Surat,” Smidha continued.

“And has done an excellent job, even in the short time he has been in charge.”

Jahanara hid a smile. Such public statements of support for the people he’d put up for appointment was one of the reasons Jahanara had chosen Firoz Khan to manage Father’s harem. He was — if not overburdened with too many scruples — at least not inclined to withdraw his support from a subordinate at the first sign of royal displeasure.

“Still, what did they offer Kashif, to encourage him to take such risks?”

“Kashif said they gave him a number of high quality sequins. He requests orders as to how to dispose of them. Both the quantity and quality reported by Kashif are confirmed by my independent sources in this letter, here.” The diwan presented a letter.

She waved his proof away, trusting his word on this subject.

The diwan slid the letter back into his robes, but Jahanara did not miss his pleased smile.

Patting the letter, he went on, “Kashif explains that the people from the future did not deign to reveal what they plan to offer in trade, but that they purchased forty pack horses from your concerns there, mounts for a dozen riders, re-mounts for same, and hardly blinked at the costs, which were quite high.”

“Only a dozen in their party?”

“Including the wives of three of them, yes.”

“Wives!?” Smidha and Jahanara chorused in surprise.

He nodded, smile dimpling smooth cheeks once more. “Indeed, Shehzadi.” He waved a hand as if such information was of little import, “There were more men aboard their ship, but they remain there as of the last report.”

“You tease!” Jahanara said.

He wagged his head, put a hand to his breast. “Who, me, Shehzadi?”

“Tell me of these women, you reprobate.”

He pretended a swoon. “Forgive me, Shehzadi!”

Jahanara couldn’t — entirely — prevent a snort of laughter, choked out: “Only if you desist immediately and tell me of these wives!”

“They were respectful of modesty, and went about covered when required, but Khashif’s spies claimed that when aboard their ship one of them displayed golden hair and all of them went about on the ship dressed in clothing completely inappropriate to the climate.”

“What clothing?”

“Woolen dresses, I think.”

She gestured at her own silk top, one of the class of fabrics called water for its utter sheerness and translucent qualities. “Wouldn’t that itch terribly?”

Firoz Khan shuddered. “I imagine so.”

“Fascinating.”

“Do we have translators for these women when they join us in the harem?”

“Not at the moment, Begum Sahib.”

“Who was it the amir stayed with when we finally found him?”

Firoz nodded, taking her unspoken advice. “The home of Jadu Das, a merchant factor for the English. I shall start there. Thank you, Begum Sahib.”

“Any idea why the women accompany this mission?”

“None.”

Along the river Yamuna

“When do we arrive?” Bertram asked, trying out his Farsi. He had been practicing intensively with Angelo, but knew he was some months, at best, from fluency. Every member of the mission needed to learn or forever be at the mercy of translators, assuming someone could be found.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Iqtadar said. He gave Bertram a measuring glance and added, after a moment: “You learn quickly.”

Bertram thanked the chieftain and reigned in to wait for Rodney and John. Both up-timers sent a lazy wave his direction. John even smiled. Smiles had been more frequent from him since he and his wife had survived the bandit attack unscathed.

“Iqtadar says we’ll make the gates of the city tomorrow.”

“Nearly there, at last,” John said, adjusting his seat in the saddle.

“Ever fly anywhere? You know, before?” Rodney asked.

“A few times.”

“The world got a whole lot bigger after the Ring of Fire, though there’s lots of folks in the USE trying to shrink it back up again.”

“Sure, they’re working miracles with what we’ve got,” John said, “but we’ll be in our sixties before there’s enough planes to make even short passenger flights commercially viable, let alone international flights.”

“No argument here.”

Bertram shook his head.

“What?” John asked.

“So much change, so quickly, and yet you complain that things are proceeding too slow!”

John shrugged. “Not complaining, exactly. I always preferred riding rails to flying wherever possible, anyway. It’s just the pace of things was –”

John cut off mid-sentence, looking ahead. Bertram followed the line of his gaze, saw one of Iqtadar’s scouts riding back at the gallop.

“He looks in a hurry.”

Bertram looked back along the line of the column, found Angelo riding with the ladies a hundred paces or so to the rear, giving them their language lessons. He whistled as loudly as he could. Everyone in earshot looked his way. He pointed at Angelo and waved the translator forward, speeding up to a canter to rejoin Iqtadar himself. He heard Rodney and John fall in and was comforted by their armed presence at his back.

The chief was speaking to his second as Bertram rode up. Neither seemed tense, but Bertram had seen how the Afghans could go from seeming indolence to violent action in a heartbeat.

The outrider pulled up and spoke too rapidly for Bertram to understand. From his tone, the man wasn’t distressed, which was some slight comfort.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 21

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 21

CHAPTER 12

Shenoy spent the next few hours examining the cell minutely. Finally he turned to the robot.

“I’d like to see the adjoining cells now, H.P.” he said.

“Certainly, Sir Rupert,” replied the robot. “If you tell me what you are looking for, perhaps I can help.”

“I have no idea,” admitted Shenoy. “If I were to quote a very famous fictional detective, I would say that I am looking for the detail that matters.” A self-deprecating smile crossed his face. “I only hope that I’ll recognize it when I come across it.”

“What does this detail look like?” asked the robot.

“I wish I knew. Basil, you might examine the cells further up the line.”

Basil nodded and walked off.

“Russell,” continued Shenoy, “you might as well go and get yourself a sandwich or some coffee or something.”

Tabor shook his head. “My job is protecting you. I’d better stick around.”

“If I’m attacked by the Old Ones, or whatever the hell it was that attacked the three prisoners, how do you plan to protect me from them?” asked Shenoy.

“I don’t know,” admitted Tabor.

“Well, then?”

“You don’t know what you’re looking for,” replied Tabor. He smiled. “Well, then?”

Shenoy laughed. “Point taken. Come with me and who knows, maybe you’ll solve the mystery of the ages.”

“I just hope I survive it,” said Tabor earnestly. “That was a pretty shocking holo.” He frowned. “What could cause something like that?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” replied Shenoy. “Basil thinks it involves a technology that diffracts or bends light so that whatever killed those men seemed invisible.”

“Do you think so?”

Shenoy shook his head. “It would still need an energy source, and according to all the physical and visual records, nothing entered or left the jail that night. And I doubt that even if such a technology existed, you could focus it through walls from, what, half a mile or more away, and home in on the very cell where it was needed.” He grimaced. “And even if it did exist and could do all that, it was only used in the service of some beings or creatures that could kill three men in a matter of a minute, devour about half of them, which I estimate comes to about two hundred pounds, and still remain agile and skilled enough to make their exit through a force field and a score of holo cameras.”

“It sounds like magic when you put it that way,” remarked Tabor.

“I wish they’d strike that word from the language,” said Shenoy. “It leads to sloppy thinking.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Show a flashlight to a primitive being on a world that’s had no outside contact and he thinks it’s magic. I’m sure in our race’s youth and adolescence everything from gunpowder to penicillin to airplanes seemed like magic. The problem is that if you believe in magic, you have no compulsion to discover how things really work, and sure enough you spend the rest of your life believing, not in scientific principles, but in magic. I’m sure it’s comforting — well, except when you’re being eaten by invisible beasts — but it doesn’t lead to knowledge or solutions.”

Tabor grinned.

“What is it?” asked Shenoy.

“I take my hat off to you, Rupert,” he said. “You’re the archetype of what I grew up believing was a genius.”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t follow you.”

“You can solve some of the more mystifying puzzles of the universe, you can debunk someone everyone else thinks is magic” — he grinned again — “but you can’t remember to shave your lower lip or how to make coffee, and your socks don’t match. That’s my notion of a genius.”

Shenoy looked down at his feet. “You know, I could have sworn . . .” His voice trailed off, and suddenly he laughed aloud. “Well, I seem to have the absentminded part down pat. Let’s hope I can live up to the genius part as well.”

“Before the Old Ones get hungry again,” said Tabor devoutly.

“Relax, Russell. What you saw happened more than a year ago.”

“If they can walk through force fields, and neither men nor cameras can see them, who says they have to eat more than once a year?” Tabor shot back. “Or who says they didn’t eat yesterday and now they’re hungry again.”

Shenoy shook his head. “You still don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me,” said Tabor.

“They broke into a high-security prison with such ease that if all they were interested in doing was eating men, or sentient beings, then why didn’t they stay? And if they did stay, why has no one else been injured, let alone eaten?”

“So you think it was a one-and-out incident?”

“So far.”

Tabor frowned. “What do you mean, so far?”

“No one else has been trying to find out what happened here,” said Shenoy. “Well, at least until the Knack we just saw, assuming that’s why it was here. So if there’s something they don’t want known — their race (if they are sentient beings), their technology, their methodology — they’ve had no reason to return, or re-enter the prison, until now.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” said Tabor, fingering his weapon nervously.

“Somehow I thought not,” said Shenoy, looking amused. “There’s something to be said for not being aware of all the possibilities of a situation.”

“Like your hypothetical caveman?”

“Point taken,” replied Shenoy. “And no insult intended.”

After another hour, and two more cells, Shenoy was no closer to fending the unknown and unidentified object he sought

“Ah, well,” he said, “we might as well take a break. I’m getting hungry.” He paused. “I wonder how Basil is doing?”

“Probably coming up blank, or he’d have called you,” said Tabor.

“Still, you never know.” He stepped out into the aisle and raised his voice. “Basil?”

There was no answer.

“Basil?” he called again.

Still no answer.

“Maybe he got hungry too,” suggested Tabor.

“Maybe,” said Shenoy dubiously. “But let’s go take a look, just to make sure.”

He began walking past a number of cells, followed by Tabor and the robot, until he came to one with the door open. He entered it, and found Basil sprawled out on the floor.

Tabor gently pushed him aside, knelt down, and examined Basil for vital signs without finding any.

“Dead?” asked Shenoy.

“Yeah,” replied Tabor. “But there doesn’t seem to be a mark on him — and no one’s been nibbling on him for lunch.”

Shenoy turned to the robot. “H. P., tell your superiors that we have a dead man here.” He paused. “And that their problem, whatever it is, isn’t over.”

***

“No,” said Shenoy calmly. “It’s out of the question.”

“The hell it is,” said Tabor firmly. “I’m in charge of keeping you alive, and I say we get the hell off this planet while the getting’s good.”

Shenoy shook his head. “We can’t leave before we have the autopsy result.”

“I’ll give it to you right now,” said Tabor. “Basil died from unknown causes.”

“If we stay I may find out what the causes were.”

“If we stay you may join him,” responded Tabor. “It’s time to leave.”

“I can’t,” insisted Shenoy. “Something very strange is going on here, something that requires investigation and a solution.”

“Damn it, Rupert!” snapped Tabor. “You’re talking about it like it’s a problem in a textbook. People die here, some hideously, and for no discernable reason. I don’t know what’s happening here or why, but I don’t want us to stick around and be killed while we’re trying to find out.”

“Let me ask you a couple of very simple questions Russell,” said Shenoy.

“Russ,” Tabor corrected him. “And make them short as well as simple.”

“Do you think these deaths were a matter of choice?”

“Hell, no! No one chooses to die, and certainly not like this!”

“I said it wrong,” replied Shenoy. “Let me reword it. Do you think they were a matter of selection?”

Tabor frowned. “Selection?”

“There are other prisoners, plus guards and administrators. Do you think the three we saw in the holo and Basil were selected by any rational process?”

“I’m remembering the holo,” answered Tabor. “Nothing rational did that.”

“Then why stop with only those three?” persisted Shenoy. “Clearly whatever killed them can come and go as it pleases, or as they please, if there’s more than one of them. Obviously it could have slaughtered the entire prison, guards and inmates alike. But it didn’t. It stopped at three. Why?”

“But it didn’t stop at three,” said Tabor. “It just killed Basil.”

“That’s because Basil, and by extension I, represent a threat to it or them.”

“Oh, bullshit,” growled Tabor. “What do you know now that you didn’t know yesterday?”

Shenoy allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “That’s why I’m reluctant to leave.”

“I don’t follow you at all.”

“It’s obvious that I do know something I didn’t know yesterday, and so did Basil. The trick is figuring out what it is.”

Tabor stared at him. “Do you realize what you’re saying — that if you don’t know shit they’ll leave you alone, but if you’re on to something, they’ll tear you to pieces?”

Shenoy smiled again. “Oh, very well put, Russell! I’ll make a thinker out of you yet!”

“You’ll make a corpse out of me first,” said Tabor.

“Remember that little example I gave you about children and magic?”

Tabor glared at him but said nothing.

“Russ, in this case, we’re the children. There are principles at work here that if we can understand and master may move the human race ahead by centuries, or possibly even millennia. How can you turn your back on that and just walk away because of a few risks?”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 21

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 21

In their heyday they had housed thousands of people who worked shift on and shift off on turning the aquatic plants into semblances of other plants and animals, generally speaking more appetizing to humans.  I’d had algie-steak once.  For a steak it had tasted an awful lot like a marine plant, and that was about the best I could say for it.  However, at one time, after the “improvements” the Good Men had made to agriculture, which had rendered vast portions of the continents uninhabitable, algae had been the food of the world.

And they’d come almost exclusively from these platforms.

This one, as we neared looked… almost mystical.  Years ago, when Father had to make a visit near them, I’d seen the ruins of Petra.  They’re in the Middle Eastern protectorate, and they’re these great big, reddish-stone buildings and cliffs, some of the cliffs carved into entrances to… I suppose cave dwellings, though that’s not what they looked like.

Seen in pictures they look like just red rocks and red buildings, but looking at them in person one gets the feeling they’re the forgotten remains of something greater than us.

Oddly the abandoned station looked the same.  It was reddish, possibly because it had been made with more metal than most, or maybe because someone had poured dimatough in an interesting color.  Its molded forms rose and fell, like cliffs on an island, but all the surfaces looked rounded as if the wind and the sea had been working at it for millennia.  And it was vast.  I mean vast.  Not as vast as a seacity, but I suspected that was because, like many other such installations, most of its space was under water.

I looked at the buildings that must, at one time, have housed thousands of workers.  We were now close enough to see seagulls fly around and to hear their calls.

“How are we going to find Kit or Julien in this?” I asked.  I was making an effort.  As hard as it was, I meant to remember to call my old friend by his new name.  I suspected, among other things, that it was a matter of safety. His surely, and possibly mine.  It had been my experience, growing up as the daughter of a Good Man, perforce close to secrets of state, that letting others know what you knew was rarely safe.

Luce made a sound.  It wasn’t a word, or a sigh, but a sort of click of the tongue behind the teeth.  It had a tone of annoyance as well as of worry.  “They were supposed to answer,” he said. “I’ve tried everything including Si — Julien’s private com ring.”

My gut tightened.  “Uh,” I said.  “Is it possible — I mean, if Kit took a hostage, and someone had captured him before, is it possible that his captors followed him?  I mean, is it?”

Lucius waved his hand.  “That or that someone else saw Julien leave and followed him, or ambushed him or otherwise captured him.”  He made the clicking sound again. “This is not a good place, or a good thing.  Julien is too… He’s always been too careless.  And he has enemies.  Some of them I even sympathize with.”

“Yes,” I said.  “But his Machiavellic plans have a tendency to turn out all right,” I said.

“Only if you assume that what they result in is what he wants.  I mean, the man is so sharp he cuts himself, and he often doesn’t know how his own plans are supposed to go.”

I didn’t say anything.  It was often very hard to know what Simon had planned, and whether he’d just rolled with the punches and adapted and made the best of a bad thing.  In a way he was rather like a cat, by which I don’t mean the pilots from Eden, but the real cats from earth.  He could fall and roll and end up on his feet, appearing dignified and giving a good impression of “I meant to do that.” Even when I knew things had gone completely out of control.

“The problem is,” Lucius said.  “I’m not sure what to do now.  They arrived by submarine so I’m not sure that we can spot it from the air.  And I really don’t know where to look.  If they’re in trouble in there, it could take us days of searching before we find them and help them.  It seems we ought to return to Olympus and resign ourselves to wait for a call, if they come out of this all right.”

“No,” I said.  “The birds.”

This piece of eloquence merited me a look from Lucius over his shoulder, a look that said as clearly as words, What? Only perhaps with more emphasis and implied swearing than any words he could use.

I shook my head and disciplined myself to explain.  Sometimes when I have a flash of insight it is really difficult to moderate my impatience and take people through it word by word, till they get it.  The fact that I could communicate with Kit with near-instantaneous thought-images which carried their own emotions had done nothing to make me better at explaining things in logical steps.  “No.  Is it possible to arrange this hologram thing so we see better, without needing to go nearer?”

“You mean for size?” he asked.  “Sure.”  He did something on a touch screen and not only did the images size increase but the tank they were in increased too, which was startling, as I’d been assuming it was some sort of glass.  I had to get me one of these.

“How does this help?” Lucius asked.  “I mean we can overfly the island, but I don’t think we can see them.  Not if they’re in one of the buildings.  Or even in the part of the buildings that’s underwater. We’d have to get very lucky.”

“The seagulls,” I said, and before he could turn around and look at me again as though I’d sprouted a second head, I said, “You see, there is a certain number of them in the air at any time, but you can see there are a lot of them also on the buildings, on land, everywhere on the station.  My guess is that in the absence of visitors or inhabitants, they’ve colonized the entire station and are used to having it to themselves.”

“Probably, but it’s not like we can interrogate seagulls.”

Is it my lack of ability at explaining, or are people, even smart people, unusually dull when I try to communicate my ideas?  Or do they do it to upset me?  So many suicidal people, so little time.

“No,” I said, and only added stupid mentally. Mostly because I wasn’t seventeen anymore.  Also because though I don’t think he would, the man could break me in two with one arm behind his back. “You know birds, right?” I remembered he was rumored to have spent fourteen years in solitary confinement and realized he might very well not know birds, so I hurried on, as fast as I could, before he could say anything, “You see, they startle easily.  If they’re used to the station without people and suddenly there are a bunch of men tromping around, possibly fighting, they’re going to fly up, alarmed.”

Lucius tilted his head sideways, looking at the tank and at the white and black dots of the seagulls on the screen, “I suppose –” he said.

He never told me what he supposed because at that moment, at about ten o’clock on the station’s circular plant, a flock of seagulls flew up suddenly, in great numbers, screaming.

“As good as we’re going to get,” he said.

And I stumbled to my seat with some difficulty, almost falling to my knees, as he made the flyer dive down towards the spot from which the seagulls had flown up.