Eric Flint's Blog, page 180

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 34

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 34

Then the helmets disappeared in a sudden eruption of a dirty cloud of smoke and earth with a dirty red spark at its heart.

A moment passed in silence before the deep rolling boom reached out to drum his chest, pound his ears.

“Merciful God!” the mahout groaned as the cloud expanded into the descending line of dawn’s light.

Utter surprise made a hash of Dara’s thoughts. A third of his forces were gone in the blink of an eye.

“Mined!” Mohammed shouted to him from the ground. He had not mounted his own elephant.

Mined. Dara nodded stupidly, kicking his thoughts into motion. They had mined the fort with a massive black powder charge, which was why they’d defended it so fiercely but with so few.

He blinked. And why they left the palace intact for looting. Which begs the question whether or not Mukhlis Khan is even alive, let alone set the fire we were all watching like idiots!

Horses and men suddenly started screaming along the western edge of the camp, which was now the rear of Dara’s army.

BAM! An easily-recognized volley of massed arquebus fire from the north — his right flank. More screams from men and wounded horses followed.

But, he hadn’t brought any arquebuses. The thought came slowly, like he’d spent the night on an opium-smoking bender instead of preparing to command his first battle.

“There!” one of the bodyguard shouted. The call was chased by a sound it took his inexperienced ears a moment to identify: the heavy crunch of a hard-driven arrow striking through mail to bite flesh.

Mohammed’s veteran instincts set him into motion. He started shouting at the sowar, turning them to face the threat to the rear and flank as he ran for his horse, leaving Dara and the elephants.

It was then Dara heard the pounding of hooves from the south. Dara blanched at the sight of a party of at least five hundred mounted lancers charging home into the rear of what had been his left flank.

Where were they all coming from? What should he do?

Someone was screaming at him.

“What?” he shouted back.

The mahout, yelling over the rising din of the sudden battle that had surrounded them on three sides, repeated his question, “Where do I go, Shehzada?”

Dara took a deep breath and tried to take stock of the situation. The lancers were nearing the Red Tent. Having lost their spears in the corpses of Mughal warriors, most of the Sikhs were still charging forward, laying about them with swords.

There was no further gunfire from the north, only a roar from the throats of men engaged in the life or death struggle of hand-to-hand combat. One volley and they’d charged. Now they were in among the men.

Dara’s eyes slid to where Mohammed had mounted up. The chief of his nökör had already started to get the men to face the threat, but each trooper was hampered by the tight confines created by the man and horse beside him. Mohammed needed time.

Time the charging cavalry would not allow. The left flank was already crumbling, the Sikh cavalry having penetrated nearly all the way through that element of Dara’s army and to the center.

They had to be stopped.

Dara picked up the powerful recurve bow already strung for his use and shouted, “We go to face their cavalry, mahout!”

The thin little man whose name Dara hadn’t bothered to learn smiled, eyes alight with a warrior’s spirit. “Yes, Shehzada!” He bent over the head of Gajendra. “Lord of Elephants, it is time you earned your keep and showed our prince your worth!”

The bull elephant responded to his handler’s exhortations, turning in place with surprising agility. He surged forward, armored flanks clanking. Dara looked back and was comforted to see the other elephants following.

There was no room to maneuver, no niceties, nothing but to charge headlong and hope his own men were able to get clear before Gajendra and his brood smashed into the Sikhs.

Timing each release of the bow-string with the gait of the elephant, Dara started serving targets with his arrows.

The heavy bow drove shafts through armor and flesh, tumbled riders from saddles. He had time for only three arrows before his elephant slammed into the cavalry. Horses and riders shot away from Gajendra’s passing, transformed in his wake to broken, heaving mounds of tangled flesh and broken bone.

A rider came in close, hacked at the elephant’s neck, catching an ear instead. The angry pachyderm lowered his head and caught the man’s mount under the withers with his tusks. With a heave he sent rider and horse together into the air.

Dara nocked another arrow. In this, at least, Dara had been lucky: most of the Sikhs had already lost their spears, and had nothing to reach him with.

He drew and loosed, taking a man in the head. Drew and loosed, taking a rider’s horse in the neck with his arrow. Again. This time the arrow snapped against the man’s raised shield.

His shoulders were burning now, the repeated drawing of the heavy bow tiring muscles unused to such prolonged abuse. Ignoring the pain, he drew and loosed again, but the arrow found nothing more vital than the earth.

His hand was collecting another arrow when his eye caught upon morning light splashing from a spear tip. A lancer had ridden ahead of Gajendra, turned, and was riding back toward him.

Horse and elephant closed with alarming speed. Dara nocked arrow to bowstring as the man couched his spear. He drew and loosed, but his target swayed to one side and Dara missed.

He was reaching for another arrow when the Sikh disappeared from view below the mahout and Gajendra’s head. There followed a crash and a loud, crunching snap.

The massive beast stumbled. Dara leaned forward in the howdah and was nearly pitched from it as the elephant fell to its knees. Then the sliding, shuddering halt of Gajendra made the howdah snap forward and strike the mahout in the back, launching him screaming over the elephant’s head.

Dara didn’t see where he fell, concentrating instead on preventing his own fall. He wrenched his shoulders and lost his bow, ended hanging from one of the uprights that held the roof of the howdah, but managed to keep his grip.

When it was all over, Dara hung over the still head of his dead mount and saw the cause of Gajendra’s demise: the Sikh’s spear-hand had struck lucky and true, entering scarcely a hand-span of unarmored space around the elephant’s eye and snapping off in the heavy skull.

Dara dropped to the ground a gaz below his feet, stumbled and fell on his back in the blood-slick turf. He rolled over, hands shaking as he put them beneath his body. Knees protesting the additional weight of armor, he drew his sword and surged erect, searching for threats.

A Sikh warrior, powerfully built and well-armored but lacking a horse, moved smoothly toward him with sword and shield at the ready.

Wishing for his own shield, Dara recognized the footwork. The man was using — if not the style, then certainly one very similar to — the style Dara’s Hindu sword master had taught for use on uneven ground. Dara adjusted his stance accordingly, made for a patch of clear ground.

“I am Bidhi Chand,” the man announced, stopping a few steps out of reach.

“Is that to mean something to me?” Dara asked, drawing katar and dagger both into his left hand. Without a shield, they would be both threat and protection.

A shrug of broad shoulders: “I thought you might wish to know whom to curse when you fall dead at my feet.”

“How polite of you.”

A broad smile and even teeth. “We serve.”

“Who?”

“All of us.”

“No, who do you serve?”

Bidhi Chand’s smile disappeared as he hung his chain veil. “Exactly.”

The tip of Bidhi’s sword was a blur as they closed. They met, parted, turned.

Again Bidhi advanced. Dara tried to dictate the flow of the combat, but quickly found he was facing a master, unable to touch the other man with his blade. He felt the mail protecting his armpit part, saw the rings spin free in the morning light as they completed the exchange.

The dance was fast, too fast for Dara to sustain for long.

“Breathing hard, already?” Bidhi Chand asked when next they parted.

Dara detected no mockery, merely a mild interest he found more unsettling than any attempt to goad him would be.

Still, if he would give Dara time to draw breath, he would not complain of it. He nodded, took a deep, controlled breath, and replied on the exhalation: “Yes. Among those failures I regret most today is that I was never diligent in training my body to prolonged combat.”

“An understandable regret,” Bidhi said, moving forward. Dara was fascinated by how seamlessly the man switched between styles. He tried to keep his eye on the blade-tip; got slammed in the face with the shield for his trouble, swayed sideways to avoid the following crosscut he could not see but knew was coming. Tried, but still felt the hot kiss of a blade parting the tender flesh under his arm where Bidhi had opened the armor on their last pass.

Staggering, Dara tried to duck under the return cut flashing toward his head. The blade caught him a glancing blow on the skullcap, setting his ears to ringing and stars dancing to the tune.

Something hot and wet was dribbling along his suddenly-cold flank. He swayed, felt another hot kiss, this time in the belly.

The last thing Dara Shikoh saw was the dew-and-blood-damp earth rushing to embrace him.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 20

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 20

“I would never have seen them,” said Basil. “How did you . . . ?”

“You’re a scientist,” answered Tabor. “I’m security. Spotting things like that is part of my job.”

They followed Shenoy through the passage into the jail, where a newer, less-rusted robot behind a desk told them to leave their weapons with it. Tabor turned his over, and then another robot, far smaller, without appendages but rather with half a dozen wheels pointing in all directions, approached them.

“Hello,” it said with an accent Tabor couldn’t quite identify. “I am your guide. Your request is to inspect both the prison cell in question and the security holograms. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is,” said Shenoy.

“Then if you will follow me, I am at your service, and can answer any questions you may have.”

“That is quite satisfactory,” said Shenoy. “And what shall we call you?”

The robot was silent.

“Are you all right?” asked Shenoy.

“Yes, sir,” said the robot. “I am fully operative.”

“I was wondering, since you didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t have a name.”

“How awkward,” said Shenoy. “Will it annoy you if I give you one?”

“Certainly not. That response has not been built into me.”

“Fine. Then I shall call you H. P., and you may call me Lord Shenoy.”

“H. P.,” said the robot, and then repeated it. “H. P., I like it, Lord Shenoy.”

“Then proceed, H. P., and we will follow you.”

“This way, gentlemen,” said the robot, wheeling off down a corridor.

Most of the cells were empty, and all of them were bleak and depressing. Finally the robot came to a stop.

“This one?” asked Shenoy.

“Yes, Lord Shenoy.”

Shenoy stared at the robot for a moment. “Lord Shenoy seems a tad formal, now that we’re friends.”

“We are?” said the robot.

Shenoy nodded. “Yes. You may call me Sir Rupert from now on.”

“Thank you, Sir Rupert From Now On,” replied the robot. “I have just unlocked the cell. You are free to inspect it.”

They entered the cell, which had three cots, a sink and toilet in one corner, and not much else.

“And all three were incarcerated in this cell?” asked Shenoy.

“Yes, Sir Rupert From Now On.”

“Just a simple Sir Rupert will do.” Shenoy looked around. “How many cells have you got in this place?”

“Two hundred and thirty-six, Sir Rupert.”

“And how many prisoners?”

“Today? Nine.”

“When the incident in this cell occurred?”

“Fourteen.”

Shenoy frowned. “With all these empty cells, why lock all three in just this one?”

“I cannot answer, Sir Rupert.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Cannot.”

Shenoy stood there with his hands on his hips, looking slowly around the cell.

“Hard to believe,” he muttered. “Very hard.” He turned to the robot again. “And the cell was never unlocked?”

“No, Sir Rupert.”

Shenoy looked around again, frowning. “Even if something like an alien snake got in, there’s no way it could get back out.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” Tabor said, “but why not?”

Shenoy blinked his eyes very rapidly for a moment, then sighed. “That’s right,” he said at last. “You don’t know what happened here, do you?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s probably time we all took a look at it.” He turned back to the robot. “H. P., we’re ready to view the security holograms now.”

“I will take you to the conference room, which is set up to display them,” answered the robot, leaving the cell and heading off down another corridor.

They arrived at a room that was somewhat larger than the cell they had just left. The walls were plain and unadorned, there were half a dozen armless chairs made from some alien hardwood, and at one stood a projection unit.

“Please be seated,” said the robot.

“Thank you, H. P.,” said Shenoy, sitting down and trying to ignore the chair’s total lack of comfort. Tabor and Basil followed suit.

“Are you quite sure you want to see this?” asked the robot.

“Quite.”

“It may have . . . unfortunate . . . side effects,” said the robot.

“I would expect nothing less,” replied Shenoy. He turned to Basil and Tabor. “You’ll be staying, of course,” he said to his assistant. “But there’s nothing vital for you to watch, Russell. You can wait outside this room if you prefer.”

“What do you think you’re going to see?” asked Tabor, unimpressed.

“Something that no technology known to humankind will explain,” answered Shenoy.

“You sound like you’re about to tell a story to frighten kids at bedtime,” said Tabor.

Shenoy shrugged. “Go. Stay. At least you were warned.” He turned to the robot. “I think we’re ready now, H.P.”

Tabor expected the room to darken, or music to start, something to make him feel like he was watching a holographic projection, but nothing happened. Then the cell door opened and three prisoners were ushered in by a pair of armed guards, who left without saying a word.

The three men began speaking to each other in low tones. The one of them jumped up and cursed.

“Goddammit!” he yelled.

“What is it?”

“Something bit me!”

“Must be a mighty hungry bug to make you yelp like that,” chuckled the third man — and suddenly he wasn’t chuckling any more, but was screaming.

“What’s happening?” whispered Tabor.

“Just watch,” said Shenoy.

Suddenly the first man’s body began jerking, not as if he was having a seizure, but as if some huge carnivore had grabbed him around the midsection and was shaking him vigorously. Blood started spurting our from half a dozen wounds that hadn’t existed seconds earlier, the man screamed just once, and suddenly he no longer had a face with which to scream.

The second prisoner raced to the door and began yelling for the guards, but was soon pulled away by some unseen thing or things, and was literally torn limb from limb, one leg flying against a wall, an arm rolling under a cot.

The third prisoner backed into a corner and crouched down, terrified. That lasted about ten seconds. Then he, too, was torn apart, his screams echoing down the corridor.

“What the hell happened?” whispered Tabor. “Some kind of force field?”

“You’ve never seen a force field do anything like that,” replied Basil.

“Then what was it?”

“Quiet!” said Shenoy sharply.

“Why?” demanded Tabor. “It’s all over.”

“Not yet,” answered Shenoy.

“But they’re all dead,” said Tabor — and even as the words left his mouth, he saw the first body vanishing a huge mouthful at a time, though there was nothing there, nothing he could see, devouring it.

Soon there were the sounds of inhuman growls, and the other two bodies began vanishing in the same way.

They watched the strange, sickening scene for another ten minutes, and then the robot shut down the projector.

“What the hell did we just see?” said Tabor, frowning.

“The deaths of three prisoners.”

“I know that,” replied Tabor irritably. “But what killed them, and what happened to them after they were killed?”

“Clearly they were eaten,” answered Shenoy. He turned to the robot. “May I have a glass of water please, H. P.?”

“You don’t seem surprised by any of this,” continued Tabor.

“Men died,” said Shenoy, accepting the water from the robot. “It happens all the time.”

“Not like this it doesn’t,” said Tabor. “And if it did, we wouldn’t have come all this way to watch what happened.”

“True,” agreed Shenoy. “But you’re missing the most important part, the reason I came all this way.”

“I’m all ears,” replied Tabor sardonically, “Some men were killed and then eaten by some kind of invisible beasts. What’s to miss?”

“Why does one creature eat another?” asked Shenoy.

“To sustain its own life force,” said Tabor. “It’s true everywhere in the galaxy.”

Shenoy smiled. “Is it?”

Tabor nodded his head. “Some die and become food so that others can live.”

“So much for universal truths,” said Shenoy.

“What are you getting at?”

“If I’m right, those men were killed and devoured by the Old Ones,” said Shenoy. A grim smile crossed his face. “And how do you sustain life when you yourself have none?”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 20

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 20

Lost Boys

Je Reviens

Let it be noted I much prefer traveling in a comfortable flyer than on broomback.  So did Eris, who fell asleep as soon as I secured her in a seat which had special adaptations for children.  Since this was Lucius’ flyer, it merited a side long glance at him, while I fumbled with the infant-adaptor module, which was sort of a pull-out crib.

He looked amused, and I got the impression he enjoyed puzzling me.  After a while, he reached over and set the proper adaptor.  “Nat has siblings,” he said, in the tone of voice one uses when trying not to laugh.  “And often I’m the only family member who can work with them around, since most of my work is writing things and appearing in hollo casts.  I do a lot of my work at parks and zoos.”

He waited till Fuse and I were strapped in, on either side of the pilot seat, then pulled up at least three screens worth of info before programming a route into the flyer.  I said, “Difficult route?”

“No.  I just don’t like to find myself in the middle of a shooting match.  And some of the things used… could bring us down.  So I check what is happening on the route.  A lot today, apparently.”

“I just flew,” I said.  “On the broom.”

“Yes, but Nat says that angels protect you.  Or something.  Which considering some of the things he survives…”

“It’s safe with Athena,” Fuse said.  “She’s always safe.  Because she’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt those with her.”

“I don’t normally mean to hurt anyone,” I said.  Though it wasn’t precisely true.  I’d tried to hurt people with malice aforethought several times before.  And sometimes even managed it.

Lucius was programming our course, and spoke without turning around, “It’s not a bad idea, or a bad thing to hurt people when they’re trying to hurt you or those you love.  It’s something I had to learn.”  His voice had the sort of slow, thoughtful cadences that betrayed he had put deep thought into the words.

“You said Kit was with Simon?” I said.

“Yes, though perhaps I shouldn’t have said it.”

“But Simon is dead.  I saw it on –”

Lucius pushed the button to input the route, then turned his chair around.  “There have been… issues.  There was a revolution in Liberte,” he said.

“I know.  I saw the hollos.”

He shook his head.  “It’s more complex than the hollos show.  Simon… set the revolution off without meaning to, and the only way it could be brought under control was for someone to take charge who was experienced, someone who understood and could control the armies and the loyalty of those who knew how to run the domain.  As you must understand that person was…”

“Simon?  But he–?”

“Ah, no.  What was killed was one of his replacement clones.  Acephalus or nearly so.  Created as emergency bodies for… for the Good Man.”

“The what?” In Eden it was normal for people to grow bodies, or at least body parts, in order to replace their own in case of injury or accident, as well as to forestall aging.  Just not conscious bodies or bodies that moved under their own power.  “But it could move!”

“Yeah, the Good Man made them that way.  Healthier. It can be exercised and develop muscles of its own.”

“But that’s disgusting.  And bioengineering is forbid –”

“And you think that means totalitarian, secretive rulers haven’t done it.”  Lucius gave me a look that enjoined me to be my age.  “We know they cloned themselves, plus whatever went into creating you.  We don’t have much provable knowledge, because we only have one of the doctors who did this, most of the others ran away, went underground or are missing.  Simon’s was an Usaian and tried to mitigate what he did, but we do have a clue as to what went on.  Anti-bio-engineering laws were and are for the little people.”

I opened my mouth and snapped it shut.  I’d seen how much my father cared for rules that hampered or mattered to other people.  Lucius smiled.  It wasn’t a good smile.  Just a mirthless stretch of the lips.  “Precisely,” he said.  “Anyway, so he had a near anecephalous – without a brain – clone killed, and he … It’s complicated, but we’ll say he had surgery to change his features and he proclaimed himself –”

“The Emperor Julien Beaulieu,” I said.  “The rat bastard.  I should have recognized the style.  Beaulieus as a currency, now. That should have told me it was Simon behind it.  Megalomania.”

Lucius smiled, a tight smile.  “Precisely.”

“So, we’re going to his palace? Kit is there?  With… a hostage?”

Lucius made a face.  “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.” Honestly, when I die, if I have a grave, and if anyone wants to give me an epitaph beyond Thank all divinities, she’s dead I would like Nothing is ever easy or simple.

“Well, as you’ll probably understand, we can’t go to Liberte Seacity and visit the Emperor Julien.  You know that.  In fact your husband could not stay there.”

“So?”

“There is a place,” he said.  “And abandoned algae processing platform, in the middle of the sea.  It’s far enough from any routes and small enough that we shouldn’t be in danger.  Sim– Julien had your husband and the… hostage brought over by submarine.  They wait us there.”

“You keep saying the hostage.  Who is this hostage?”

“I understand your husband said it’s one of the people who tried to capture him.  But that you have to see him to believe it.”

I didn’t know what to even answer.  My mind conjured thoughts of tentacle monsters, but I was fairly sure that wasn’t it.  For one, if Kit had been captured by a tentacle monster, he’d probably have said so.  I mean “I have a hostage and he’s a squid” would be an irresistible line for anyone, particularly my husband.  But I also didn’t understand why he wouldn’t have given us a description of any outlandish enough captor.  Was this really Kit?  Was he being coerced or otherwise under duress?

Luce went back to fiddling with the controls, and scanning a scrolling screen that indicated – as I understood it – the danger spots.   He made minor corrections to our course as we went.  When he got closer, or at least, I assumed so, he started pressing the link button and saying “Come in Slasher.”  It took me a moment to make sense of it, and realize it was Simon’s old broomer nickname, Gutslasher.  Frankly, I’d never seen Simon slash any guts, but he had taken a fancy to the name, and I think gave it to himself, which figured.

No one answered.  At first I wondered if there was some answer in the screen Luce was staring at, but kept pushing the button and repeating his call, and after a while I said, “No answer?”

He shook his head looking upset.

“Kit?” I called mentally, and got back a sense that he was nearby, but no answer.  That had never happened.  Unless, of course, he was unconscious.  The idea made me want to punch something.

I unbuckled.  Fuse and Eris were asleep.  I came to stand behind Luce’s chair, where I could look at the other… well, not screen.  It was actually a hologram of the terrain behind us and a little to the front, materialized in a cube beneath the dash.  The tech had still been too new when I’d left Earth two years ago and it was amazing to see it fully functioning in a normal flyer now.

The hologram, itself, showed nothing but water, except for a structure in the distance.

“The algae processing platform?” I asked.

Lucius nodded.

It was becoming more clear by the minute, as we approached it.  These platforms had been cutting edge science a hundred years ago.  Built more or less by the same process as the seacities, but more cheaply, they were assemblages of dimatough, ceramite and metal, often with terraces of dimatough underneath to create shallow seas where they didn’t exist, and ideal conditions for the cultivation of food-purpose algae.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 33

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 33

Chapter 19

A few kos west of Ramdaspur

October, 1634

The courier came to a halt in front of the Red Tent, dismounted and spoke: “Suleiman Khan reports he will have claimed the fort in your name by nightfall, Shehzada.”

Dara offered a satisfied smile. The army had invested the small fort west of the Ramdaspur just hours before. Suleiman was making excellent time, especially given Dara’s own request that none of the farmland of the Sikhs be unduly damaged.

Dara nodded and gave the messenger leave to depart. He checked the angle of the sun. About two hours remained before sunset. He looked again at the small fort and said to Mukhlis Khan: “Hardly seems a battle. Suleiman Khan is far quicker than I thought he would be.”

Mukhlis waved a languid hand, drank from his chalice of chilled wine. “They can hardly be called warriors, these farmers. That they were too few to resist your vanguard, and from behind walls, even, is proof of their weakness.”

Dara watched as the dust rising from all around the fort cleared briefly, showing Suleiman Khan’s men atop one wall.

He hated how hard he had to work to keep the plaintive note from his voice as he continued: “I can scarce see what is going on, we are so far to the rear.”

“While I would not turn down a chance at the choice loot Suleiman is sure to collect, your father would have my head should you come to needless harm, Shehzada.”

“Perhaps both desires can be satisfied. Scouts reported Hargobind’s palace, the place they call The Eternal Throne, lies just beyond the fort, and was evacuated upon our arrival. Surely securing it would be a blow to Sikh morale, and give the sowar an opportunity to enrich themselves.”

Appealing to Mukhlis’ greed worked: “If Shehzada insists, then I can see no reason to refuse.” The older man set his goblet down and called for a horse.

“Horses?” Dara asked.

“Elephants are too slow for this type of work, and would make your presence obvious to the enemy.”

“Clever.”

A wry grin. “My father sired no fools.”

Manor of Guru Hargobind

The guru’s throne complex was a substantial set of attractive buildings designed around an open plan that made it poorly suited to withstand an assault. So poor, the Sikhs had not even bothered to defend it: Mukhlis Khan, Dara, and their combined bodyguard of nearly two thousand men rode in unopposed.

Within moments Mukhlis Khan’s men had dispersed and set about stripping everything of value from the opulent residence.

“Shehzada?” Mohammed, captain of his personal bodyguard, used the single word to request permission for Dara’s bodyguard to join the khan’s men.

Dara gave a minute shake of the head in reply, belatedly sensing the displeasure of his men as the order to stay mounted was relayed.

So be it. Mian Mir would not look upon this day with pride in his pupil: the Sikhs were favorites of the Living Saint, and he would consider making war for loot well beneath the righteous man.

The thought was punctuated by the sounds of breaking glass and shattered porcelain from across the yard.

Mohammed spoke: “Should I set a guard, Shehzada?”

Dara shook his head. If he denied his men the chance at loot, the least he could do was not give them extra duty.

A large pile was quickly growing in front of Mukhlis: ornaments of gold and silk, casks of drink and incense as the man called out to the occasional trooper, claiming a choice piece of loot for his own.

Wishing that war were otherwise, that there existed some other manner in which he might prove himself worthy of the throne, Dara raised his eyes and squinted into the setting sun just in time to catch sight of the Sikh banners being pulled down from the ramparts of the mud-walled fort to the west of the palace.

“Mukhlis Khan,” he called.

“Yes, Shehzada?”

“I return to camp. See that no fires are set here. The new governor may wish to use it as his residence.”

“Yes, Shehzada.”

Red Tent, Camp of Dara Shikoh

Aside from the occasional disgruntled trumpet of his war elephants, the night camp was quiet on their return. Those not actively guarding the camp were at Maghrib prayers, facing Mecca.

Though he wished for the solace of prayer himself, Dara found a messenger waiting for him as he pulled up in front of the red tent and dismounted.

“What is it?” Dara asked, striding into the golden glow of the lanterns set about his tent. Mohammed remained with him, removing his chain-backed gloves and taking a position near the low table Dara used for correspondence.

The messenger did not wait for his prince to take a seat among the cushions. “Shehzada, Suleiman praises God and extends his complements: the fort is taken with minimal losses.”

“How many?”

“One hundred and two dead, another hundred wounded.”

“So many? How many of the enemy killed?”

“Fifty-two, Shehzada.”

“Any prisoners?”

“No, Shehzada. They refused to be taken alive.”

Those were acceptable losses for storming fortifications. Aloud, he said, “I see. Suleiman remains in the fort?”

“Yes, Shehzada. Further, Suleiman Khan begs permission to sally forth and take the town tomorrow at dawn.”

“Extend my complements to the Khan on his rapid and well-conducted assault. I will see him well rewarded for his successes.” Dara drank to buy time to consider what orders he should give next. Erring on the side of caution, he said, “Suleiman Khan may make preparations, but he must await orders from myself or Mukhlis Khan before launching any attack.”

“Yes, Shehzada.”

“Go, and tell him I am most pleased.”

“Yes, Shehzada.” The messenger bowed and departed.

Dara turned to his correspondence. Within moments he had finished the report begun that morning, informing Father and the court of his daily progress. When done, he called one of the imperial messengers into his presence and gave the report, in addition to his private correspondence, into the man’s hands.

That done, he leaned back among the cushions and finished his julabmost, idly reflecting that this much closer to the Himalayas it must be easier to fetch ice for his drinks.

He heard Mohammed sniff. It had, in the last few weeks, become the man’s method of requesting Dara’s attention — initially as an accident, now as a bit of short-hand code.

Dara turned to the man. “What is it, Mohammed?”

A clink of mail as the tall Persian shrugged. “I am uneasy, Shehzada.”

“Over what?”

“It seems too easy, Shehzada.”

“What?”

“The taking of the fort. So few defenders. That place could easily be manned by nearly two thousand.”

Mohammed was a veteran of Father’s wars, and Dara knew better than to dismiss his misgivings. “Tell me your thoughts.”

“Why so few defenders? We know they have not fled the town itself. Why die to a man if not to cover the flight of family and kin?”

“Perhaps because of the religious significance of the town?”

“Then why not man the fort fully?”

“Water?”

A shake of Mohammed’s head. “There is a tank in the fort, and the monsoon has just passed.”

“And we know we did not surprise them with our arrival,” Dara said. They had made no attempt to conceal their approach, hoping the Sikhs would attempt to meet them in an open-field battle where the vastly superior quality and numbers of Mughal cavalry would come fully into play.

A snort. “No, Shehzada, that is certain. And we were unmolested moving back and forth to the guru’s palace. Perhaps they wish to draw us into a siege? They must know we brought no heavy guns.”

“Aren’t their walls barely sufficient to require a ladder?”

Mohammed nodded. “And, by all reports their women are still inside. They may believe in equality between the sexes, but even that foolish notion must fail before the logic of a siege: more mouths means they will run out of food that much faster. It makes no sense.”

“Agreed.”

Dara’s stomach growled. “This talk of food has spurred my own hunger. Come, share a meal with me and we will see if we cannot divine the guru’s purpose together. At the very least, we can decide tomorrow’s order of battle.”

* * *

Dara just finished morning prayer when one of his slaves came in, sweating despite the cool pre-dawn air. He waved the eunuch permission to speak as another slave belted on his sword baldric.

“Shehzada, someone has set fire to the palace.”

“Damn him.”

Mohammed entered, fully armed and armored. “Do we go teach him the error of his ways, Shehzada?” he asked, clearly already aware of Muhklis Khan’s disobedience.

Dara considered, then shook his head. “No, I will not risk a confrontation and open break with him, not while there might still be fighting to be done.” He put on his helmet. But I will see to it that he is never made governor, here or anywhere.

“Are the men ready?”

“They are not just ready to attack the town, they are eager, Shehzada! I have ordered all the men to join their khans in the order of battle you commanded. They have but to mount up.”

“Message to Suleiman Khan: prepare to attack on my command. We will move out at first light.”

Dara followed his messenger from the Red Tent, stalking toward Gajendra, his armored war elephant. The massive beast knelt at the command of his mahout, allowing Dara to climb aboard.

Once the beast stood erect again, Dara looked to the east. The red fire and under-lit pall of smoke from the palace was clearly visible.

Damn him.

He looked to his men, preparing to issue his orders. Everyone was craning their necks to see the fire. Beyond them, Dara could even see the dawn-lit points of the helms of Suleiman’s men, lined up along the eastern wall of the fort, watching the palace burn.

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 19

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 19

Lost and Found

Of course Eris started crying halfway through the trip, above the ocean.  She cried so loudly even Fuse could hear her.  I realized he’d flown closer and was making the sign-language-gestures for “What is wrong?” over and over frantically.

Strangely, broomer sign language did not contain terms for “her diaper needs changing, she wants to nurse, and she’s probably upset at changing air pressure.”  So I flashed back, quickly, “Nothing” and “uncomfortable.”

He must not have believed the first part, because he flew close to us for a while.

Olympus seacity is a sprawling Seacity.  They used a lot of white dimatough in making it, so it manages to give an impression of Mediterranean beauty.  I wanted to fly the way I used to when Max was alive and a member of our broomer’s lair – to the side, and land on the terrace next to the sea.  We used to gather there often before a raid or a party.

But even from the sea I could tell that Olympus was now a military center, and as such I could not possibly just land anywhere.  Or I could, of course, but I wasn’t interested in getting shot out of the air.  People fighting a war didn’t have any kind of a sense of humor.

So I landed in front of what used to be the Good Man’s palace.  Fuse landed right next to me.  Eris was still raising a ruckus. Fuse looked worriedly at her, his eyebrows quirking. With his brain starting to function, he looked almost normal, despite the network of scars on his face, and the fact that he had patches of hair missing.  I wondered if his father had planned on cosmetic surgery after appropriating Fuse’s body, and then I wondered how difficult the surgery would be, and then I stopped being an idiot and wondered how to get to Lucius Keeva.

The entrance to the palace was through a massive and rather impressive staircase.  At the foot of the staircase were two sentinels.  At the top two others.

I stared at them.  They wore the sky blue uniforms that had been newly designed when I’d last been here.  But they were also armed with large weapons.  I thought that if I knew anything about how bureaucracies and armies worked, just blustering up to the door, particularly in my current, disheveled and rumpled condition, would not get me to Lucius’ presence.  Or indeed much of an answer.

I flashed a smile at Fuse, “Can you wait here?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes then shook his head.  “No.  I know I’m safe with you.”

“Ah…” I said, and because I wasn’t sure where Fuse’s mind was right now and if I was talking to an adult or a six year old, I said, “I’m going to lie a lot. Do not act surprised.”

His eyebrows rose, but he nodded once, and followed right behind me, all the way to the top of the stairs.

The guards were young, and tall and obviously worked out more than most men bothered to.  Clean shaven, brown haired, in identical sky-blue uniforms, they could have been twins, only they clearly weren’t.  Their features were different. And they were both looking at me as though I were something that had crawled out from beneath the rug.

I cleared my throat, “I need to see Lieutenant Colonel Lucius Keeva.”

They didn’t even change expressions enough to let me know they knew the name.  For a moment I wondered if they were some kind of incredibly realistic statues.  Then the one on the right said, “About?”

I couldn’t tell them anything that would get me to see Lucius but wouldn’t get other people curious about me, or Eris, or most of all curious about Kit and about Eden.  My father had been on a mission to catch Darkship Thieves and my father was dead, but it didn’t mean that other Good Men wouldn’t want to find Eden, particularly if they realized Eden had technology they lacked.  As for the other side of the fight, they too needed technology to defeat the Good Men.

So I said what I had planned to say.  In any place, at any time, there is a lie that will bring a woman carrying a child to the presence of a man no matter how well guarded he is or how high his station, and no matter how absurd her claim.  Or perhaps even more so if her claim is absurd.

Look, I grant you there will be exceptions.  Any woman showing up carrying an infant and demanding to see a Good Man would be sent away.  If she was lucky she’d be sent off with some money.

Or maybe not.  Though the Good Men were biologically the same Mules created and designed to be absolutely sterile back in the end of the twenty first century, it didn’t mean that they didn’t wish, sometimes, to pretend to be able to impregnate normal women.  Particularly when they were undercover as natural humans.

In the same way, my accusing Lucius Keeva of fathering my daughter was a double impossibility.  Or at least an impossibility and a high unlikelihood.  Now of course it was only an impossibility if you didn’t know I was of the same stock he was.  A Good Man-Mule could not impregnate a standard human woman.  Me?  I was a different matter. And as for the unlikelihood, I happened to know Lucius was in a relationship with my old broomer lair friend, Nat Remy.

However, I very much doubted two guards as young as these looked were going to attempt to argue the relationship angle, and if they knew that Luce was a mule, yet they might not put two and two together quickly enough when faced with an accusation.  I straightened my spine and I said, “About his daughter.”

“His…” the guard on the left said.

I looked at him, then at Eris.

He opened his mouth.  He looked like he was about to say something.  He closed his mouth.  He opened it again.  He looked helplessly at his watch mate.

I didn’t know how much they even knew about Mules.  Mules who had become the Good Men, had grown into such scary legends that amid their superhuman brilliance, their cruelty, and their disdain for humans the “sterile with normal human females” thing might have been lost.

But I swear the message they traded through their look was, if this is true and Nat Remy finds out, he’ll kill us all, so let the big guy deal with it.

One of them went up the stairs and in, to be replaced seconds later with another guard. And then the guards stood there, staring at us, and Fuse and I stared back at them, until I got tired of hearing Eris cry and knelt down, set her on the step, changed her diaper, then opened my broomer suit strategically so it still covered me, and proceeded to nurse her while Fuse watched with that strangely fascinated expression all males, of any level of mental development get when breasts and babies are involved.

Since I was sitting on the steps I had my back turned to the front door, and the first I knew of Lucius Keeva’s approach was the sound of his boots on the steps.  I got up and turned, just before he got to me.  He’s a huge man, over six feet tall, with long dark blond hair, and he looked confused and curious in equal measure.

He glanced at Eris – what was visible of her, since her head was hidden inside the chest of my suit, making me look hideously deformed – then at me.  “Thena,” he said, and extended his hand, before realizing mine were both occupied in holding Eris.  He dropped his hand and said, “Thena,” again.

He looked at Fuse, frowned, then back at me.  “They said, the guard said –” he frowned.  “Not unless some experimentation has taken place or I’ve become amnesiac.”

I smiled at him.  “I said what I had to say to see you.  I need to ask your help.”

Now his gaze sharpened, and he nodded once. “I see,” he said.  “Come with me.”  He waved to the sentinels that I was all right.  I noted that they more than likely couldn’t have heard our conversation, and that what they saw was a quick exchange and Lucius inviting me in, and I had to fight not to smirk.  By nighttime the rumors would be rife, not that either Lucius or I would care much, I suspected.  Unless, of course, Nat heard, wherever he was.

I started up the stairs after Lucius, and Fuse shouted, “Wait.”

I turned and realized the sentinels had blocked him, not that I could blame them.

Lucius turned and said, “Er –” Even as I said, “He’s with me,” and to Lucius, “He’s Ajith Mason, or if you prefer Fuse, a member of my broomer lair.  Nat will vouch for him, if you ask him.”

“Nat is… in some sort of high council meeting, but of course I trust you,” he waved for them to let Fuse through, and said, as he led us through the door to a darkened hallway, “I remember him.”

Fuse blinked.  Then spoke, “I remember too,” he said.  “A cell? In a prison?  And water coming in.”

Lucius turned around, “Yes.  You were the one who shot the door to my cell, and freed me from Never-Never.”

I knew that Lucius had been a prisoner in the infamous underground jail, and in solitary for 15 years, but I didn’t realize that Fuse…  Well, Fuse had been in on the raid.

“Possibly,” Fuse said.  “You must understand, I’ve been very ill.  I’m just recovering.  I have to stay with Athena.  She keeps me safe.”

Lucius frowned at that, but escorted us into a small room with sofas, and had three kinds of soft drink and little sandwiches brought in.  I had finished nursing and probably ate more than good manners dictated.  Not that anyone would notice.  Lucius looked at Eris, “Your daughter… she’s very little.”  He sounded like a man fishing for context.

Which was my opening for telling him everything that had happened to me since Kit’s and my return to Eden.  When I mentioned the Emperor Julien Beaulieu, he started to open his mouth, then shook his head.

I’d just finished when someone knocked on the door and came in.  She was a young, slim woman in an Olympus uniform, and she handed Lucius a slip of paper, which he read.  He frowned and took a deep breath. “That’s all Gloria, thank you.  You may leave.”

Once the door was closed, he turned to me.  “Your husband has just turned up in Liberte Seacity with a hostage.  They are now…”  He looked around wildly.  “They are elsewhere. Simon requests our help with the situation.”

“Simon?” I said.

But Lucius didn’t explain.  “We have no time to lose.”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 32

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 32

As Salim presented himself before the guards, a eunuch fled from the emperor’s quarters, the look in his eyes that of a wounded blackbuck hunted by lions. Salim’s concern ticked higher. The harem slaves and servants had been behaving strangely since last night, but no one who knew would tell him why.

Taking a steadying breath, he strode into the lion’s den, ready for nearly anything.

The emperor reclined among silken pillows, a minimum of attendants surrounding him.

Salim made the requisite three bows and waited to be acknowledged.

He did not have to wait long. “Amir. This morning’s reports indicate that envoys from the United States of Europe arrived in Surat some time ago, and even now make their way to us.”

The emperor leaned forward. “Did you know anything of this?”

“No, Sultan Al’Azam.”

“Do you know why it is that I am only now learning that such envoys exist?”

“Aside from an awareness that someone has failed you, no, Sultan Al’Azam.”

“Someone has, indeed, failed me.”

Knowing he could not speak to that without appearing defensive, and therefore responsible, Salim kept his silence.

After what seemed a very long time, Shah Jahan sighed and dropped his gaze. “Do you have an idea what these envoys might bring us?”

Salim spread empty hands. “Many were the wonders of that place. Perhaps one of their many books containing technical knowledge? Or some expertise in an area of endeavor that we have not had success in? Perhaps just more of the history brought back from that other time.”

“No offers of alliance?”

Salim shook his head. “I fail to see what they could offer you for such an alliance, Sultan Al’Azam. They share no borders with your empire or even with powers that share a border with us. Further: unlike the Portuguese, Dutch, and English, they have few ships to contest the seas.”

“Will their envoy be a noble?”

Salim smiled. “I very much doubt it, Sultan Al’Azam.”

“Oh? They would insult me with a commoner, then?”

“No, inasmuch as any of the people from the future are what we would call common, Sultan Al’Azam, they will be of no particular bloodline, but very well educated, in their own way.”

“Will any speak Persian? Be literate?”

“I doubt, Sultan Al’Azam, that one of those people from the future has already learned our language, but they will surely be assisted by those that do.”

“And their religion?”

“Christian, but…” he trailed off, uncertain how to say it without offering offense. Shah Jahan had allowed Akbar and Jahangir’s religious policies to continue, not out of any particular conviction that they were correct, but rather because he had been in mourning so long he had allowed many things to continue as they had been.

“But, what?”

“They are very tolerant of religions, Sultan Al’Azam. It is one of the laws of the land.” He paused, took a slight tangent in the hopes they could avoid the subject of religion. “In fact, their laws are meant to apply to all people within their lands, equally.”

The emperor sniffed. “And yet Baram Khan was murdered and no one executed for it.”

“I would respectfully remind the Sultan Al’Azam that we had already left the territories of the United States of Europe when Baram Khan was killed.”

A dismissive wave greeted that argument. “Despite my disfavor and the intent of his dispatch to Europe, Baram Khan was an envoy of this court and therefore entitled to receive the protection of whatever prince in whose territory he found himself…”

The emperor shook his head. “But your point is taken: these people are not likely to be the author of that insult, and therefore should not be punished for it.”

Salim bowed before that wisdom.

“Still, my brother sultan has expressed concerns about this country and its influence on the states between his and theirs.”

Salim summoned a mental map. “You speak of the Ottoman Sultan, Sultan Al’Azam?”

The emperor nodded.

“An understandable concern for the Ottomans, Sultan Al’Azam. I have witnessed for myself how the technologies from the future can changed the calculus of war.”

“I would not have my Sunni brothers believe I have abandoned them by entering into an alliance with these people.”

“I see the problem, Sultan Al’Azam.” The Sunni powers — Uzbegs, Mughals, and Ottomans — were always interested in limiting Shia expansion, especially that of the Persian Safavid dynasty that sat between them all.

“See, but do not agree with my analysis?”

“I agree that entering into an alliance would not be wise, Sultan Al’Azam, but no sensible person could fault you for having received official envoys.”

“Sensible does not always fall within those terms that define a Safavid. They ever look to take Kandahar from us. I cannot disregard the potential political costs of being seen to support the enemies of either the Ottomans or Persia.”

“All true, Sultan Al’Azam.”

Shah Jahan snorted. “What, no argument?”

“Sultan Al’Azam, since coming to court, I have found reason to thank God that I am not the one on whom such weighty decisions must fall. I have advised the course I think most beneficial, but make no claims to expertise in such matters.”

A thin, grim smile pierced Shah Jahan’s beard. “Does my most honest advisor have anything to add?”

“I cannot think of anything, Sultan Al’Azam.”

Another, broader smile. “I do enjoy your economy of words, Amir. So much so that I think we must find them employment.”

“You are too kind, Sultan Al’Azam.”

“You will have opportunity to prove my words properly weighted in your favor: I grant you command of five hundred, a robe of office and incomes necessary to act as host to the envoys from the USE and send you forth to deliver the dastak to the envoys.”

Salim sat silent, stunned. He had thought himself come into Shah Jahan’s presence ready for anything, only to have the emperor surprise him yet again.

“Did I surprise you?”

“Yes, Sultan Al’Azam.”

“Good. Gather men, and quickly. The envoys are already well on their way.”

“That may prove difficult, Sultan Al’Azam. Between the armies of your son and those of Asaf Khan, there are scarcely more than a hundred men not already in your direct service worthy of the name.”

“You have not called upon your clansmen?”

It was Salim’s turn to smile. “I have. Those are the hundred I spoke of. Most already ride with one of your hosts.”

The emperor returned the grin. “Well then, you have a core of fine riders. Still, we cannot have so small a party greet our guests.” He turned and spoke briefly to an attendant, who left at the run.

“I have summoned Diwan Firoz Khan, who has the care of the harem in his department. He will supply you another hundred warriors to fill your numbers while we await fresh sowar seeking employment.”

Those would likely be eunuchs and Turki warrior-women. Still, each would be a blooded warrior. In any event, if things turned to fighting, then the situation would have truly gone to ruin.

He bowed. “As you wish, Sultan Al’Azam.”

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 19

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 19

CHAPTER 11

Tabor looked at the viewscreen as the ship waited for landing coordinates.

“You see anything that resembles cultivation?” he asked.

“Oh, there’s a little, in a more temperate zone that’s currently on the nightside,” answered Shenoy.

“Well, maybe they eat fish,” said Tabor. “But as far as I can tell, there’s just one ocean and not much in the way of rivers.”

Basil smiled. “They don’t have too many mouths to feed, Russ,” he said in amused tones.

“Oh?” replied Tabor. “What’s the population?”

“It varies,” said Basil, still smiling.

“If I could make people smile that much on purpose, I’d go into show biz,” said Tabor irritably. “What’s so damned funny?”

“It’s a prison planet, Russ.”

“That’s it?” he replied, surprised. “A prison and nothing else?”

“Well, a prison and not much else,” answered Basil. “A hotel for visitors, a few farms and fisheries, a refueling station . . .” He shrugged. “The usual.”

“And someone escaped, and the genius here has to figure out how,” said Tabor. “Well, it finally makes sense.”

“No one escaped,” said Shenoy, speaking up for the first time.

“Okay, someone threatened to escape,” amended Tabor.

“Not to my knowledge,” said Shenoy, staring at the screen. “Ugly, depressing little world, isn’t it? That’s not why they called it Cthulhu, of course, but the name certainly seems to fit.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” said Tabor. “Why did they call it Cthulhu?”

“Except for a few alien outposts, the planet was empty, deserted, when we first got here,” answered Basil. “But there had been a previous race.”

“What killed them off?” asked Tabor.

Basil shrugged. “No one knows. Hell, we don’t even know if they were killed off, or if they simply left for greener pastures.”

“And that’s why the aliens were here,” Shenoy added. “Almost all of them were Nac Zhe Anglan looking for answers themselves, because of their obsession with ancient supposed deities — or devils, according to some sects. But eventually most of them gave up and went elsewhere. ”

“Hard to imagine anything less green,” noted Tabor, nodding at the image on the screen.

“The ancient species left behind some structures, and even some literature.”

“Literature?”

“Holy books,” said Basil. “And somehow, the very best our computers could translate the name of their race was the Old Ones. So someone remembered Lovecraft, or more likely ran a bunch of searches for Old Ones, and came up with Cthulhu.”

“Interesting,” commented Tabor, who in truth found it less interesting than the origin of most planetary names.

“Coordinates received,” announced the computer. “ETA is 1825 hours ship’s time.”

“Son of a bitch!” said Tabor.

“What’s the problem?” asked Basil.

“I just realized those are the very first words the damned ship has spoken since Rupert beat it at chess.”

“I don’t think it was sulking,” said Shenoy, finally turning back from the viewscreen. “I think whatever got into it got back out.”

“And what do you suppose that was?” asked Tabor.

Shenoy shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll find the answer on Cthulhu.”

“Good,” said Tabor.

“Good?” asked Shenoy, arching an eyebrow.

“I was afraid you were going to say it was haunted.”

Shenoy uttered an amused chuckle. “That’s silly!” Suddenly his smile vanished. “Probably,” he added seriously.

Tabor gave Shenoy a quizzical look. “I presume the two of you are equipped with universal translators, yes?”

Shenoy looked a bit uncertain but Basil nodded his head. “Yes — him too. I double-checked. We’re not expecting to encounter any aliens on this planet, though.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Tabor. “Any time you visit another planet you want to be equipped with a UT. Even if you don’t run into aliens, there’s no law that says every human being in the galaxy has to speak English. I’ve been to one planet whose inhabitants — every one of them a human, mind you — speak almost nothing but Bukiyip.”

Shenoy frowned. “I’ve never heard of Bukiyip.”

Tabor smiled. “My point exactly.”

Basil had spent the time looking it up on his hand tablet. “Ha! I’d never heard of it, either. Turns out it’s indigenous to Papua New Guinea. One of the Arapesh languages — which I’ve also never heard of. How the hell did it wind up being an extra-solar language?”

“The story I got, from one of the only two people I met who spoke a language I knew, was that the planet had been settled by disgruntled Arapesh trying to keep their culture and language alive. And that was the last time I ever made the mistake of traveling off-planet without a UT.”

***

The ship landed a few minutes later. It tested the air, announced that it was breathable but recommended not breathing unless one had to, and shrugged off the gravity, which seemed pretty standard when Tabor finally emerged from the ship. He took a deep breath, decided that there were men’s rooms in bars that smelled better, and then followed Shenoy and Basil to the single Customs booth, manned by a somewhat rusted robot that slurred its speech.

“Welcome to Cthulhu,” it intoned. “You are expected, Lord Shenoy, sir. You, too,” it said to the other two.

“Thank you,” answered Shenoy. “I’d like to inspect the jail now, if I may?”

“Of course,” answered the robot. “There are only two reasons to come to Cthulhu, and that is one of them.”

“And the other?” asked Shenoy.

“Can’t you guess?” said Tabor.

“Oh!” said Shenoy with an embarrassed smile. “Of course. Where is the jail?”

“Go through that doorway,” replied the robot, indicating the direction with a cracked forefinger. “Then just follow the signs. If you are carrying any weaponry, you will have to leave it at the front desk.”

“None,” said Shenoy.

“None for me,” Basil chimed in.

“I’m not leaving mine here,” announced Tabor.

“This is the Customs desk,” replied the robot. “The front desk is in the jail.”

“Shall we go?” said Shenoy, heading off

As they headed toward the passageway, an impressive-looking alien emerged from it. The creature was about six feet tall, four-legged, with its torso rising straight up from the middle of the legs. Unlike a terrestrial quadruped, from the waist-equivalent down it seemed to have no clear directional orientation — much the way a tripod or stool might be said to face in any direction. Its upper torso and head, on the other hand, had a clear front-and-back orientation. There were only two arms and two eyes.

And two mouths, which was a little creepy. One above the other. The lower mouth was for ingesting food, for which purpose Tabor knew it had an impressive set of quasi-teeth, although they weren’t currently visible. The much smaller upper mouth was only used for breathing and speaking. The alien had no nose or nostrils. Its wide-jawed equivalent of a face was dominated by two deeply-set, large mustard-colored eyes.

Its legs and abdomen were clothed in what resembled Samurai-style armor; linked iron plates and lacquered leather, which was actually some sort of artificial — and much lighter — protective gear. The torso was covered only by a brightly-colored vest crisscrossed by several shoulder belts, one of which held some sort of weapon or tool in a holster.

“What the hell is that?” whispered Basil.

“It’s a Knack,” Tabor whispered back, watching the alien as it stalked away from them.

“A Knack?” repeated Basil.

“More formally, a member of the Nac Zhe Anglan species,” answered Tabor.

“Oh, right. I’ve see pictures of them, but . . .”

Tabor smiled crookedly. “They look a lot more in person, don’t they?”

The Knack vanished through the same door they’d come in through. Tabor continued his explanation in his normal voice. “That thing floating above it that looked like a squashed blimp with the biggest insectoid eyes in creation is . . . sort of a pet, I guess you could say. It’s a cyborg, though. Most of it is artificially manufactured.”

“Hideous-looking damn thing,” said Basil.

Tabor’s smile got more crooked still. “Wait’ll you meet a Vitunpelay.” Then, softly: “This is suddenly a very popular place for an out-of-the-way disgusting little dirtball with a jail and nothing else.”

“Maybe we’d better have a little talk with him,” suggested Basil.

Tabor shook his head.

“Why not?” asked Basil, frowning.

Tabor gestured very subtly toward four well-disguised holes placed regularly around the walls. “This is attached to a prison, remember?” he said. “There’s an armed man or robot behind each of those walls with weapons trained on us. We have permission to be here, so they’ll leave us alone . . . but if we confront the Knack, as you call it, and there’s any kind of commotion, well, if we’re lucky, we’ll live long enough to stand trial.”

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 18

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 18

It had eyes, too, as it turned out. They peered at her from somewhere deep within the ornate shell.

Huge eyes, of a size to match the thing. Red eyes. One might almost think they were furious —

“The Great Glai! Oh, and it’s angry!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “If you don’t immediately worship it by chanting the secret text known only to the Devotees of Glai the last of whom perished forty-six geological periods ago, it’ll lose its temper! And it’s short-tempered! Look! It’s already –”

The something-like-a-derrick-arm began to unfold. Objects emerged that looked very much like weapons.

< — okay, not that one. Try — >

The image that Bresk brought into her mind this time was that of a simple sphere, with three large dots — eyespots? who knew? — located equidistantly on the side.

Now they were in still another chamber. A much smaller one. The sphere was perched on a small pedestal on top of a larger one on top of a larger one in the middle of the floor.

It was very small. No bigger than one of Bresk’s eyes.

The sphere began to spin. It felt as if something was sucking at Occo’s consciousness.

“The Marble of Mental Mayhem!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “No one knows how it works because by the time they find out — well, probably long before then but who knows? — their brains have been transformed into the state known by the Psychists of Lawal as Consistently Uniform Paste. ‘CUP,’ for short.”

Occo sent a psychic snarl at her familiar.

< — think this is so easy you try — something — ever organized this stupid catalog — something — maybe this one — >

The image came to mind of an object that looked vaguely like a ceremonial tureen. Seeing no other option — her brain now felt like it was starting to shred at the edges — Occo brought it into focus.

The chamber they were now in was about half the size of the Hall of Saints. There were alcoves inset along the walls which contained small statues of . . .

Whatever they were.

“The Absolutist’s Toy Army!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “And look! They’re coming alive!”

Sure enough. The hideous-looking little things — she’d call them creatures except they looked more like misshapen lumps of coal and clay — hopped out of the alcoves and landed on the floor.

And began growing. Quickly. As they grew, features began to emerge from their surfaces.

She found herself missing the simplicity of mere lumps.

“Aren’t they ugly?” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “We’re menaced by a fate so horrible that even the Nebular Harpies refuse to sing –”

<I think that’s it.>

Occo stared at the elaborately-decorated tureen resting in the center of the floor. It was fairly large, but delicate looking. She hurried over and picked it up.

The thing was heavier than it looked, but she could hold it easily enough, at least for a while.

The Warlock Variation Drive began chirping excitedly. “It’s the Skerkud Teleplaser! The Skerkud Teleplaser! Oh, the Toys are done for now unless they get back into their niches!”

But the Toys didn’t seem at all fazed by the sight of the Teleplaser in Occo’s hands. They began moving toward her, in a gait that was something like a snail’s movement. Slime was left on the floor behind them.

Happily, they were moving at a snail’s pace. Unhappily, the pace of a very large snail. They’d be upon her in a few minims.

“How does it work?” she demanded.

< — supposed to know? This catalog was compiled by a cretin, from what I can — >

“Who will eat who first?” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “Oh, the terror! The trepidation!”

Eat . . . Tureen . . .

Occo imagine the tureen full of Toys. Tiny ones.

The tureen was instantly full of very small Toys — and they’d all vanished from the chamber itself.

The Toys looked angry, though. At least, they were flopping around energetically and some of them were already sliming their way up the side of the bowl.

Soup. She pictured the tureen full of boiling water.

And so it was. The Toys began squirming frantically.

“They won’t last long! They won’t last long!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “The Teleplaser uses only the fiercest blight!”

Occo looked more closely. The Toys were starting to dissolve. And the boiling water . . .

Didn’t look much like water, actually. More like . . .

Transparent mercury?

She didn’t know. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to know. Only traces of the Toys were now left and they’d be gone within . . .

They were gone. The liquid vanished from the bowl.

“You are the meanest Mama I’ve ever had!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “This is such a grand adventure! What next? What next?”

Occo could hear noises coming from beyond their chamber. That was the sound of troops and military equipment being brought forward.

She didn’t know the capacity of the Teleplaser, but she was skeptical that it could devour entire armored vehicles.

And she saw no reason to find out. She was by now confident of her grasp of the Drive’s workings to think that she could finally use it to reach her destination.

“Stay linked,” she ordered Bresk. “Show me VF-6s-K55.”

The image of an astronomical photograph came to a mind. An arrow pointed to one of the multitude of faint dots on the image.

They were still in the chamber in the Repository. The sounds were getting louder.

“Oh, you sillies!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “You need to see where I’m going! That’s not a place! How am I supposed to find it?”

“What does the planet look like?” Occo demanded.

<How am I — something — when all you gave me was — something — images in my records are only — something — names, not stupid — something — alog numbers. Give me a name!>

Occo didn’t know the name of the planet. She wasn’t even sure it had one. For Nac Zhe Anglan, anyway. But she remembered that there were some Humans living on the planet. And now that she thought about it . . .

The creatures did have a name for it. Katha . . . something.

“Do your records include Human catalogs?”

something — never boring.>

“Look for a planet named Katha-something. Or maybe it’s Ktha-something.:

<Katha . . . nothing. Ktha . . . nothing.>

Kathi? Kthi? Ktho?

No — she remembered!

“It’s Kthu-something.”

The image of a murky-looking planet came to Occo’s mind. Murky-looking, because superimposed over the planet’s image was that of some sort of peculiar . . .

What was that thing?

“Cthulhu!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “I haven’t visited the old guy in such a long time!”

They were hurtling toward a gigantic monster perched on a cliff. Its torso seemed to be that of a reptile. Its head . . .

The closest analog Occo could think of were some of the molluscan predators she’d seen on the water world Tweddle. But they’d been tiny compared to this horror.

“It never goes well! He’s eaten all five of my Mamas who came to visit! Well . . . Using the term ‘eaten’ pretty loosely. What will Mama do now?”

The tentacles were spreading out, beginning to engulf them on all sides. At their center gaped a beak that looked like a cavern.

Or a wormhole.

Well, of sorts. Close enough. Occo brought the image of the planet into clearer focus, doing everything in her power to blank out the monster.

“No Mama’s ever thought of that before! Wheeeeeeeeee!!!”

They swept into the beak, through the — maw? the gullet beyond? who could say? — and —

Emerged in empty space. Floating before them was a brick-colored planet with no visible seas and little in the way of cloud cover.

“The hell-planet of the Old Ones!” chirped the Warlock Variation Drive. “Oh, you are the very very best Mama I’ve ever had!”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 18

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 18

But at the end, all of it hadn’t done much for them.  Oh, they’d acquired great power not once but twice, world power, the kind of power that controlled entire territories, peoples and lands.

None of which seemed to have made them happy.  What I’d known of Doctor Bartolomeu, what Kit’s brief struggle with Jarl’s personality, what I remembered of my father, had revealed unhappy personalities, forever seeking for something they couldn’t find, and for which power and wealth, possessions and adulation could not compensate.

I’d come to believe it was that they’d not been raised as humans but as something both better and worse, both superhuman creatures capable of saving mankind, and as things: artifacts made and operated for a purpose.

The split between the two sets of expectations had cleaved their souls.  So it hurt to see a picture of these three, young and seemingly happier in their friendship, their new freedom and their newfound ability to travel than they’d ever be again, even at the pinnacle of power and strength.

I managed to turn the hollo off, which was good since it had gone blurry as though my eyes were filled with tears, which was stupid, because what was there to cry about? They were all dead and beyond hurt.

The next attempt at breaking into the outside world with this link actually got out and I found myself setting a search on the news.  There were about a million news items about ships: launched ships, stolen ships, war ships, bombed ships, ships in engagements in war at sea.  There was nothing about triangular ships, and the search brought up no images that looked like the ship that had attacked me.

A momentary panic assailed me, the fear that I’d dreamed it all.  In some of the books I’d read there was stuff about pregnant women hallucinating or going insane.  But surely hallucinating an entire battle was beyond even my ability.  And it would mean Kit had what?  Fallen off the surface of the ship?

No.

I started searches on the names of my friends.  Jan Rainer came up in reports of military actions.  Sieges and assaults and the like.  I judged he was likely to be a commander in the active war, and therefore not someone whom it would be safe try to contact.  I noted in some interest that he was still called the Good Man.

I then searched for Simon St. Cyr.  What came up was a holo of someone holding up a decapitated head.  I blinked.  Then swore and turned it off.  It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach and it took me a moment of shaking before I collected myself.  There might have been tears.  I’d never loved Simon.  At any rate not like I loved Kit.  It was more that we’d been friends since we were very young, and I’d liked him a great deal. We’d been lovers more out of boredom than out of love, but we’d belonged to the same broomer’s lair.  We’d planned operations together, we’d fought together.  And most of all, he’d listened to me, and I’d listened to him.

Kit thought he was many kinds of reprehensible, and truth be told, he was, but it wasn’t bad reprehensible.  What I’m trying to say is that in the end I’d be able to trust him with anything, just as he could trust me.

That severed head.  Those staring eyes.  The blood.  I swallowed down hastily.  I couldn’t imagine Simon losing control of the situation to that point.  What in holy hell had been happening on Earth while I was gone?

Half blinded by moisture in my eyes, I typed in Lucius Keeva’s name.  It came up almost immediately, in page after page after page.  Apparently Luce had been doing broadcasts of some sort every week to rally the troops.  They called him Lieutenant Colonel Keeva.  I realized with a pang that when I’d asked for him on Circum as Good Man Keeva I’d been wrong.  No wonder they’d been confused.

But even though I should feel upset that I’d run in such a precipitate way and ruined a good air-to-space for no reason, I was so relieved that someone I knew was alive and in power of some sort, after I thought he’d been killed, that all I felt was relief.

I sat there for a moment, then started looking again at Keeva’s location.  Yeah, the military title might mean that he was away at war, in some dangerous location, but then the weekly broadcasts argued against that.  I found a reference to Lucius being quartered in Olympus, and I thought I must get to him.  If he had his finger on the levers of military bureaucracy, he would be able to tell me if those triangular flyers even existed.

I decided it was late enough – or early enough, depending on how you looked at it — to get going and got up, changed Eris again and fed her, then wrestled her into the improvised infant brooming suit.  It seemed to me that human infants had been maximized for difficulty of dressing, moving every which way except the way that would help you dress them.  As she became more awake, it was sort of like trying to wrestle a greased octopus into a party dress.  Her arms flung everywhere except where they needed to go, and when I pulled them into the right place her legs started kicking.  And then she smiled, as though it were the best game ever.  I had a vague impression this one was going to be trouble.

She stopped smiling when, after I’d dressed, I strapped her to my middle.  She made a face like she was going to cry, but then thought better of it, as I opened the door.  Fuse was waiting.  I had a moment of alarm, but he looked worried, not menacing.

“Thena?” he said, staring at me.  “Where are you going?”

“I need to go to Olympus seacity,” I said.  “I need to find Lucius Keeva.”

“Who?” Fuse said.  And I realized even though his brain might be getting fixed by whatever the nanocites were he’d been given, he wasn’t going to remember or to remember very clearly the things that had happened while he was brain-damaged.  I said, “Max’s older bro –” Then remembered he knew as well as I did why we’d been made, that is as body-replacements for near-immortal and unable-to-reproduce mules.  “The first clone Dante Keeva had made.  He was rejected beca — He was rejected and sent to prison on trumped up charges, because they thought he’d realized about the brain transplants, but his father didn’t want to discard him in case he needed –”

“An extra body,” Fuse said.  “Like my father.”  He seemed already more coherent than yesterday.  “I see.”  He frowned.  “I have a vague memory he’d murdered someone…”  He shrugged.  “But those things can be faked.  He’s Good Man again? I remember him in the lair.  Looking for Nat.”

I frowned.  “He’s an Usaian, and he’s serving in the army of Olympus Seacity.”

“Oh.  Was Max an Usaian?  Did I forget?”

“No, I think Lucius converted.”

“Why do you want to see him? You’re safe here.  Why would you go out of here?”

I told him.  I told him as simply as I could.  He didn’t ask me to repeat but he did frown as though he were making an extraordinary effort to follow the thoughts.  At the end he nodded.  “I shall go with you,” he said.

“No.  You’re hiding here for a reason.  If Jan finds out that you –”

“Jan can boil his head,” Fuse said.  “He’s not my boss. I’ll be with you.  You won’t let my father take me.  You’re better than Nelly.”

In the context, being considered better than a single-column robot with cutlery arms was high praise.  After all he’d build Nelly himself.

“I’ll fix Nelly,” I said, feeling guilty.  “As soon as I can.”

He shook his head.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll just go with you.  I remember how you fight.  I’ll be fine.”

He disappeared towards his room and I considered getting dressed very quickly and escaping, but Fuse did seem to be much better and he didn’t deserve for me to behave so churlishly to him.

So in addition to Eris, I’d have a half-child I’d be responsible for.  I missed the days when I was only responsible for myself.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 30

Don’t know how it happened, but Snippet 30 & Snippet 31 were reversed on when they were to come out.

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 30

Chapter 18

Red Fort, The Harem

October, 1634

Gargi sighed as she knelt behind Nur. She heard a click as her advisor picked up one of the ivory combs from the tray. Soon after, Gargi’s fingers and comb began the process of separating Nur’s mass of thick hair to expose the gray roots.

“What news of the new spy placed upon us, Gargi?” Nur asked, the scent of the dye in her nostrils.

“Already compromised, Nur Jahan.”

“So quickly?”

Nur could hear the smile in Gargi’s tone. “Kamadeva favored us: the spy is quite enamored of another of the harem guards, Omid. I caught them sharing embraces Diwan Firoz Khan would almost certainly find objectionable. Especially as the guard still had use of a hard member, something that would have him trampled were the emperor to learn of it.”

Nur refused to be scandalized by her advisor’s news or reference to a Hindu god, and calmly opened the last of the mail. “A party of traders from the city of Hamburg,” she read aloud.

The dye-laden brush in Gargi’s hand paused. “I am not familiar with that place.”

“Part of the north of Europe. A city-state like Venice, if I recall correctly. But that is not what is of interest here,” she lifted the paper, “but that they have since embarked inland, supposedly seeking Agra and an audience with the emperor.”

“As all foreigners who wish to trade here must.”

Nur nodded, checked the date. “They should be arriving within the next few weeks.”

Gargi pulled her hair back into line a little ungently. “Why this interest in trade? Jahanara appears to have all the incomes from Surat well in hand.”

Ignoring Gargi’s less than tactful mention of powers she no longer possessed, Nur picked another note from between her toes. “I have here information that they bribed Jahanara’s new diwan in Surat — Kashif Khan — with, quote, ‘sequins the likes of which have never before been seen. Not even the Venetians have ornament of such quality and lightness for sale.’ ”

Gargi didn’t bother to scrub the disdain from her reply: “Still, it seems he was bought cheaply.”

“Perhaps, but a small bit of information included in the report makes me think this particular group is more important than the usual foreigners.”

“Oh?”

“These foreigners had a number of women with them, and many spoke a different language from that of the crew of their ship, one that was at least related to English, but had many words my informant did not recognize.”

“I do not understand the significance of that information.”

“The people from the future, the ones Baram Khan was sent to investigate, they are supposed to speak an English dialect.”

“I see.” The combs paused with a click of ivory. “Then you think these foreigners are from the village Baram Khan was sent to?”

“I do.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean for us?”

“Opportunity, perhaps.”

“What kind?”

“I do not know, yet.”

“Well, I foresee one difficulty already.”

“And that is?” Nur asked.

“Purdah.”

Nur shrugged. The traditions that kept women separate from men had been less an obstacle for her when her husband had yet lived, but even then she’d been unable to sidestep them entirely.

“Perhaps it is time to seek additional allies; ones who might be able to talk with these foreigners, find out what they plan?”

“My options are yet limited by my tenuous return to favor.”

“I know.”

“Yet you have someone in mind?”

“I am sorry, but no.”

“None?”

“None that are worthy of the effort, no.”

“Are my options really so limited?”

Again the hands working at her hair stopped. “As I told you when you went to speak to Jahanara: you should have kept silent about your knowledge of the attempt on your life, and therefore made her see you as less a threat, even a potential ally. You insisted. Here we are.”

Nur cocked her head, looking at her advisor out of the corner of her eye. “I could not let such behavior pass.”

“So you said.”

“Careful, Gargi. You overstep.”

“I know. It is only concern for you that drives me to such extremes. Please forgive me.”

Nur allowed herself a tiny sigh. “No, you are correct in nearly every detail. I let my anger get the better of my judgment and your sound advice.”

Gargi’s hands resumed their work, oiling and combing through Nur’s thick tresses. A few moments passed in silence before she spoke again. “Speaking of anger and poor judgement: perhaps it is time to contact Mullah Mohan.”

“Gargi, surely you would not choose him to try and speak on my behalf to the foreigners?”

A delicate, derisive snort. “Of course not. But he will require some time to adjust to the idea of a woman ally, and you will require some time to develop exactly the right method to manage him properly. Beyond that, there has to be someone among his supporters who has the political acumen required to keep him afloat at court. Perhaps you can learn who that is, and develop them as a go-between.”

“I do not think such a person exists. Since the emperor has…returned control of government to himself, Mohan has not enjoyed the same eminence he enjoyed before.”

“All the more reason to approach him now.”

* * *

“Hard to believe,” the emperor mused.

“Your pardon, Sultan Al’Azam?” Salim asked. Placing a finger in the book.

The emperor waved a hand to encompass Red Fort and the luxuries of his quarters. “That all this will be subjugated by the English — my empire, the people of Hindustan and the peninsula, all of them conquered and cowed in such a short span of years by a people from so far away.”

Salim opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. It wouldn’t be wise to contradict the emperor. Not wise at all.

The emperor had seen him, however. “What is it, Amir? I did not order you into my presence so that you can keep your thoughts locked behind those cheap turbans of yours.”

“Sultan Al’Azam, did your own dynasty not do precisely the same thing?”

The emperor gave a snort and smiled broadly. “Indeed they did, though they came riding, not sailing. And what I meant to say was that if it is God’s will that this should all fall to the English, then why resist?”

“With respect, Sultan Al’Azam, I do not think that God has chosen this medium,” Salim tapped the book, “to show us a future set in stone, but to warn us where we are bound, that we might mend our ways and change our course.”

Salim saw the briefest of tightening around the emperor’s eyes. “If this,” the emperor gestured at the book, “is not certain to happen, how do you explain the construction of my wife’s tomb, exactly to my specifications, in the picture from the future?”

Salim cocked his head, considering. “I suppose that some things, improper things, might be changed for the better, according to God’s will. Viewed in this light, your care for the design and construction of the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal cannot be anything but proper in His eyes…”

“Do you ask or tell me, Amir?”