Eric Flint's Blog, page 202

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 15

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 15

Chapter 7

Vienna

“So what does Wallenstein want — besides keeping his head?” Ferdinand III, in that moment, reminded Janos Drugeth more of his pig-headed father than himself. His tone was sour; the expression on his face more sour still.

Janos glanced at Noelle. He was pleased to see that she was withstanding imperial disfavor without any seeming effort. Her own expression was polite, attentive — and in some indefinable way that was much too subtle to warrant taking any offense, it was also distant. So might a taxonomist study an interesting new insect to see how best it might be classified.

“Keeping his head suggests that he’s also keeping his throne,” she said evenly.

Ferdinand waved his hand. “Yes, yes, of course.”

Janos decided it was time for him to intervene. Perhaps he’d be able to nudge the imperial foul mood in a more useful direction.

“I think it might be better if we considered what we might want from Wallenstein.” Seeing the still-mulish look on his monarch’s face, his tone roughened a bit and, for the first time since the audience began, he transgressed protocol by using the emperor’s given name. He normally only did that when he and Ferdinand were alone.

“Ferdinand, the Turks are coming. There is no doubt about it any longer. They haven’t begun the march from Belgrade yet but that’s just because they’re waiting for the spring grass to grow a bit more. And by all accounts of our spies, that army Sultan Murad has assembled in Belgrade is enormous. It’s probably as big as the one Suleiman brought against us a century ago.”

Ferdinand now looked weary rather than petulant. He wiped his face with his hand.

“Do you really think it’s that big?”

Janos shrugged, the motion constrained both by the chair he was sitting in as well as his cumbersome dress uniform. “Who really knows? The number in the chronicles of Suleiman’s siege ranged from one hundred and twenty thousand men to three hundred thousand. All I can say for sure is that we’re somewhere in that same range today. If you press me — yes, I know you are — I’d guess at the lower end of the range. Spies almost always overestimate an enemy’s numbers.”

He sat up straighter and leaned forward, his hands planted on his knees. “But it doesn’t matter, Ferdinand. Even if he only has one hundred thousand — even ninety or eighty thousand — we’re badly outnumbered. In 1529, the Spanish emperor Charles V sent pikemen and musketeers to support us, and when the Turks attacked in 1683 — would attack, did attack, however you put something that happens in another universe — the kingdom of Poland came to our aid. Today? Whether they admit it publicly or not, the Poles and the Spanish will be supporting the Turks. So will the Russians, most likely.”

Ferdinand head came up. “The Russians also? Do you really think so?”

Janos waggled his hand back and forth. “Define who you mean by ‘the Russians.’ I don’t doubt the Tsar would support us. But Mikhail’s off in Ufa trying to hold together some sort of government in exile. Sheremetev holds the real power in Moscow and he favors the Poles and they’ll favor the Turks. The point is, we’re only going to have two possible allies in this coming war.”

Ferdinand’s expression went back to being mulish.

Janos threw up his hands. “Face it, will you? We need the United States of Europe — and we need Bohemia.”

****

Noelle was simultaneously appalled, apprehensive — and, being honest, a bit thrilled. She’d known Janos was close to the Austrian emperor but she hadn’t realized just how close that relationship really was. There were rulers in Europe — there’d certainly been rulers in Austria! — who’d have ordered Janos arrested for the way he was talking to his monarch. Some of the harsher and more intemperate of those rulers would have had him beheaded as well.

And… this was the fellow she intended to marry. Not simply marry, either, since it wasn’t as if either of them planned to settle down for a quiet life in some out-of-the-way province, raising children and chickens. (Her mind veered aside for a moment. Did they raise chickens in Austria? She realized she wasn’t sure.)

No, they planned to remain right here in the capital of Austria-Hungary, and continue to be engaged in High Matters of State. The one time she’d used that expression in front of Denise and Minnie — “High Matters of State” — their response had been immediate:

“That translates as ‘chopping block’ in English.” That came from Denise.

Minnie’s contribution was: “Yeah, but I think they let your family bury the head with your body afterward. Better than what usually happens to common criminals.”

Janos turned to Noelle. “Help me out here. Explain to Ferdinand what the USE is likely to offer — and want in return.”

Appalled, apprehensive — and a bit thrilled.

Prague, capital of Bohemia

“Yes, I’m comfortable here, Don Francisco. Quite comfortable — as you’d expect of a suite in Wallenstein’s own palace. But it’s still a prison and you know it perfectly well.”

Duke Albrecht of Bavaria turned away from the window and gave Francisco Nasi a look that was more exasperated than angry. That same exasperation had been subtly indicated by his use of the name “Wallenstein” rather than the new title: “Albrecht II, King of Bohemia.”

He transferred the same look to the third man in the room. “I also appreciate the amenities that you and your wife Judith provide me with, Mr. Roth. If you might someday include a key that would let me out of here at will, I’d appreciate it even more.”

Morris Roth, seated on a chair not far from Nasi’s, smiled but said nothing. Since there was really nothing to say in response to that remark.

Albrecht sighed and turned back to the window. With his hands clasped behind his back, he looked down at the very impressive gardens that formed the centerpiece of the palace Wallenstein had had built in the previous decade. “What am I more concerned about, however, is the fate of my two sons. Who are also being held in captivity — and in their case, Mr. Roth, by your people, not the Bohemians.”

Roth cleared his throat. “Ah… Actually, Your Grace, my wife and I are now both citizens of the Kingdom of Bohemia. That’s been true for some time, in fact.”

“Please. I’m not taken in by that any more than Wallenstein himself is. He knows and I know and you know — Don Francisco certainly knows! — and probably every butcher and brewer in the city knows that you did that as matter of diplomatic courtesy. In the name of all that’s holy, Morris” — for a moment, he lapsed into the friendly informality that usually characterized their exchanges when Roth visited — “you were born in the future. In what you yourself believe to have been a different universe altogether. You were, are still, and always will be an American, regardless of what nationality you adopt for official purposes.”

Morris said nothing in response to that, either. Instead, he tried to shift the discussion back to the duke’s children.

“I assure you, Albrecht, that the commitment of the United States of Europe to religious freedom is unwavering.”

“Really?” The younger brother of Bavaria’s ruler turned his head and gave Roth a skeptical glance. “Then perhaps you can explain why Michael Stearns — with the agreement of that party he established, the Fourth of July group — has conceded to Gustavus Adolphus’ demand that every province of the USE be allowed to create an established church.”

It was Morris’ turn to look exasperated. “Mike did that for practical reasons — and it’s irrelevant to your two boys anyway. They’re being held — ah, are guests — in Bamberg. Which, I remind you, is the capital of the State of Thuringia-Franconia, a province which does not have an established church.”

“Until the next election.”

Roth made an impatient gesture. “Your Grace, please stop playing the naïf! You’re an astute observer of political affairs and you know perfectly well the Fourth of July Party will be returned to office in the SoTF — probably with an even bigger majority than they enjoy right now. If you want to call your sons prisoners — or hostages, whatever term you prefer — so be it. But they are still in the care of their tutor, Johannes Vervaux — who is a Jesuit, as you well know. No one is or will be interfering in their education. No one is or will be making any attempt to coerce them into abandoning Catholicism. For Pete’s sake, Albrecht! The president of the SoTF — and the likely next prime minister of the USE — is Ed Piazza. Who is a Catholic himself.”

Without looking away from the window, Albrecht raised his hand in a placating gesture. “Yes, yes, I know. I am not trying to be offensive, Morris. I am simply concerned.”

“Sure. They’re your kids and you miss them. Frankly, if it was up to me I’d have them sent here, along with their tutor. But…”

There wasn’t anything further he could really say, other than: But Gustav Adolf is calling the shots here and he was born in this century and this universe and he doesn’t have any qualms about using two kids as hostages.

Which… wouldn’t help the situation. And which was something the Bavarian nobleman knew perfectly well already.

Nasi now cleared his throat. “Albrecht, we came here today for a reason.”

The duke turned away from the window again, hesitated for a moment, and then moved over to take a seat in a chair facing Nasi directly and Roth at something of an angle.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You want to begin a discussion — completely tentative, with no formal or official sanction whatsoever from anyone in position of authority — on the question of whether I might be willing to agree to supplant my brother on the throne of Bavaria. Assuming you can remove him from that throne, either by force or by his agreement to abdicate.”

The man who’d once been Mike Stearns’ spymaster and now ran a private espionage service that was probably the best in Europe shook his head. “That assumption is a given, Albrecht. One way or another, Maximilian is going to go. If it has to be done by force…”

Nasi shrugged. Morris Roth picked up the train of thought. “If your brother’s forced off the throne — whether he lives or dies, and under those circumstances I wouldn’t place great odds on his survival — then Bavaria will come under the direct administration of either the USE or Sweden. That’ll be something of an argument, I think. From Gustav Adolf’s point of view, Bavaria is almost as much of a problem as a conquered territory as a still-independent one.”

Albrecht smiled, without much humor. “Yes. Even as greedy as he is for absorbing new territory, does he really want to ingest that big a population of Catholics?”

Nasi and Roth both nodded. “Exactly,” said Nasi. He nodded toward Morris. “The situation is a bit the same as always exists with us Jews. For an enlightened ruler, having some of us around is an asset. Having too many…”

“Can be a problem,” his fellow Jew completed. “I think you’re probably right that Gustav Adolf feels the same way about Catholics. He already has a lot of Catholics in the USE, but they’re still a distinct minority — even in Thuringia-Franconia. Add in Bavaria…”

He shrugged. “Catholics would still be a minority in the nation as a whole, but they’d now have a province that was almost entirely Catholic. That wouldn’t bother me or any up-timer, but the emperor’s Lutheran tolerance only stretches so far.”

There was silence in the room, for a few seconds. Then Albrecht said, in a voice as cold as the expression on his face: “My brother murdered my wife with his own hand and caused the murder of my oldest son. You can boil him in oil for all I care. Let us begin from there.”

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 59

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 59

Chapter 33

“Well done,” Aille said again at the end of the sharing of knowledge about the Khûr system and its inhabitants. Caitlin shook her head, but said nothing. The three Jao newcomers looked at the hologram of one of the captured Khûrûsh-an which was slowly rotating above the conference table. “They could be a formidable people,” Aille continued as his angles shifted to a simple introspection. “It’s unfortunate that they seem to be so . . .”

“Paranoid is the best word, we’ve decided,” Caitlin completed the sentence.

“As you say.” Aille kept his gaze fixed on the hologram for another long moment, then he turned his head to face Caitlin, angles shifting to curious inquiry. “You have oudh, Director Kralik. What do you plan to do next?”

“Me?” Caitlin said in surprise. “I thought you . . .”

“No,” Aille interrupted. “This is not my responsibility, not under my control. I do not have authority. Yours were the hands into which Preceptor Ronz gave the oudh, and he did not send me out here to replace you. The search is still yours to direct.”

Aille saw the rest of the Jao in the conference room shift their angles to various permutations of agreement. Even Fleet Commander Dannet did so.

Caitlin turned to Pleniary-superior Tura. “Then you haven’t come to replace me?”

Tura’s angles immediately returned to a seemingly effortless neutral. “No, Director. The Preceptor did not dispatch us to supplant you. You will remain.”

Ed Kralik nodded. Aille saw Caitlin’s observation of that action, and likewise saw her sit up straighter and her shoulders shift back, all human forms of displaying resolution.

“Then why are you here?” Caitlin asked. Her tone contained a certain sharpness, Aille decided. Understandable, perhaps, at least to and for a human.

“Preceptor Ronz sent us,” Aille replied. “He did not share his reasons.”

“The Preceptor is a Bond strategist,” Yaut said. “He holds secrets until they expire of age.”

Caitlin’s mouth curved in a reluctant smile. “Okay. So the decision is still mine. What do you advise?”

“Decisions do not need to be made now,” Aille said. “Give your Lleix and jinau officers some time with these new guests of yours. Let them see what they can develop.” He stood. “Meanwhile, spend some time with your husband.”

Caitlin’s smile took on a different character.

****

“Terra.”

“Te-hra,” Kamozh tried to duplicate the sound that Lim, the voice of his master Boyes, pronounced.

“Terra.”

“Ter-rraH.” Kamozh tried again.

“That is close,” Lim said. “Sergeant Boyes wants you to learn the Terran language if you can. You will probably find it easier than Jao or Lleix, and all on this expedition speak it.”

“Boyesh,” Kamozh attempted the name of his master.

“Boyes.”

“Boyeshsss.” Kamozh wrinkled his muzzle. “The ‘sss’ sound is hard for us.”

“I understand,” Lim replied, “but it is a very common sound in Terran.”

“I–we–will learn it,” Kamozh said, looking around at his retainers. They all indicated understanding of the implied command.

Kamozh looked back to Lim. “Is it permitted to ask questions?”

Lim folded her hands in front of her. “Within reason,” she replied. “I will inform you if I am not allowed to answer or if I do not know the answer.”

“Why do you carry the long rod.” Kamozh gestured toward the staff.

“The staff.” Lim used a Terran word that was new to Kamozh. Of course, since they had just begun to learn the language, almost all Terran words were new to them.

“Shtaff . . . no, ssstaff.”

“Correct.”

“Was it a mark of office? A tool?”

“It could be considered a tool,” Lim said, “in some places by some people. In others, it could be considered a weapon.”

“A weapon,” Kamozh said, with a look to his retainers. Shekanre in particular looked interested. “Are you then a warrior?

Lim made a motion with her hands that mimicked a Khûrûshil gesture denoting humor. Kamozh was again surprised at how well she and her fellows knew his culture, at how much they had assimilated. If he closed his eyes while she spoke, she sounded almost like a resident of the southern continent. He thought he caught hints of the capital city in her speech.

“No,” Lim said. “Sergeant Boyes and his fellows and officers in the jinau are the warriors. I serve the same masters they serve, but I am not jinau. I am studying with a master teacher who is also a fighter, though, and he has me carrying the staff for a time to learn a lesson.”

Kamozh heard a muffled sound behind him, and looked around to see Shekanre’s muzzle wrinkled. That caused a certain memory to surface in his own mind. He turned back to Lim and made the humor gesture himself. “I believe I understand. I once was directed to carry a heavy hammer for days to properly learn a lesson my father’s Weaponsmaster had set me.”

“I would like to meet this master teacher,” Shekanre said in a low voice.

“I will enquire if that can be done. If not immediately, perhaps soon.” Lim rearranged the folds of her robe. “But now, back to Terran.”

Kamozh sighed. Learning the monsters’ language was harder than he’d thought it would be. He’d rather carry a hammer.

****

Caitlin’s com pad pinged. Faced with setting down her wine glass or disengaging her hand from Ed’s, she gulped the wine and set the glass down, then touched her pad. Lieutenant Vaughan’s face appeared in it.

“Yes?”

“The communications survey has been reestablished, ma’am.”

“Thanks for the word, Flue.”

The picture blanked out with no further comments, and Caitlin turned back to where her husband was running his thumb across the back of her hand, which sensation was sending a tingle up her arm.

“You’re monitoring the Khûrûshil communications?”

“Of course we are,” Caitlin replied. “But this was about something else. I gave Dannet an order after the meeting to get our people listening outward again.”

“You’re looking for another civilization?” Ed sounded surprised.

“Yes. Regardless of whether or not we can somehow connect with the Khûrûsh, we can’t stop here.”

“Hmm. I guess I can see that,” Ed said. Then a leer crossed his face. “But meanwhile, where were we?”

****

Gabe Tully looked at both 2nd Lieutenant Vikram Bannerji and his replacement as Gabe’s intelligence officer, 1st Lieutenant Joe Buckley. Gabe had tapped Buckley from the jinau company serving on the Lexington when Bannerji had transferred to work with Ramt in dealing with the Ekhat slaves. Like most of the officers in the jinau in the exploration fleet, he was doing work that in the old pre-Jao days would have been done by someone probably a couple of ranks higher than his current rank. But between the loss of military troops during the Jao conquest, the Jao emphasis on “being of service”, and the Jao’s elimination of separate military arms and their resulting waste of duplicated functions, a lot of younger officers were filling what used to be called staff positions when they weren’t in combat suits.

“So that’s it, Colonel,” Buckley concluded his briefing. “According to Pyr and Garhet, the Khûrûshil civilization is definitely only slightly ahead of the pre-Jao Terran culture in terms of actual technology, but because their culture is more homogenous, they actually made better progress in getting out into space than we did.”

“Anybody got a read yet on why they’re so paranoid?” Tully asked.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Buckley answered. “We’re all waiting to hear if Lim and Sergeant Boyes manage to dig some explanations out of your guests.”

“Well, they’ve gotten past the introduction stages. Maybe Lim will get some data out of them soon. Have the tech geeks on Lex managed to get the computers we yanked out of that ship running yet?”

“Yes and no,” Buckley said. “They think they’ve got them running, but what they’ve been able to find is so heavily encrypted by a culture that they have no Rosetta Stone for, that at the moment they’re just muttering about it. It may take a breakthrough from over here to get them in.”

“Right.” Tully looked over to First Sergeant Luff, only to see him making a note on his com pad. “We’ll pass the word to Lim and Boyes to see what they can do about it.”

Tully looked at his own com pad for a moment, then said, “Bannerji, what are you getting from the Ekhat slaves? Anything that will affect us?”

“Hard to say, Colonel,” the young Hindu replied. “Every day we learn a little bit more about the slaves. They’re called the Trīkē, for example. And they definitely came off of a Complete Harmony ship. In fact, that whole squadron was Complete Harmony.”

“Does that tell us anything we didn’t already know?”

Bannerji shook his head. “Nothing new. Just confirmation of some of our lower level theories and suppositions. Fleet Commander Dannet and the senior captains were not surprised. The four factions don’t seem to relate very well to each other. In human terms, it’s almost like they’re four religious denominations that to an outsider look to be almost identical, with very minor differences that to themselves are unconquerable divides. The Interdict in particular has been known to occasionally communicate with the Jao with an aim to discommode one or more of the other factions.”

Tully remembered his first trip inside a star, and felt a chill run down his spine. “You mean like they did with Aille right before the attack on Earth.”

Bannerji’s face took on a very grim and hard cast at the reminder of the cataclysm that had engulfed part of southern China and almost lapped over into his homeland. “Yes, sir,” was all he said.

Tully shrugged. “If Ekhat want to see other Ekhat die, I’m okay with contributing to that cause. Anything else?”

“The Jao are a little stirred up.”

“How so?”

“They really don’t like the Complete Harmony. They’re the ones who uplifted the Jao, after all.”

“That going to affect anything that Caitlin has in the works?”

Bannerji shrugged. “They’re Jao.”

“Right.” Jao, Tully thought, who even now still mostly deserved the modifiers crazy fucking in front of their species name. “Keep me posted.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 14

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 14

Besides, both Denise and Minnie had heard the famous story before they’d even arrived in Vienna.

“Pretty hard not to like a girl who knees a prince in the balls when he gets fresh with her,” was Minnie’s way of putting it.

“Can’t argue with that,” said Denise.

****

The event itself went reasonably smoothly. Noelle was relieved to see that the Barbies — especially Judy Wendell — kept a close eye on her two sometime-wayward charges and steered them out of trouble.

Thankfully for her own peace of mind, she never overheard Judy’s running commentary on the various royal, noble, and patrician attendees at the gala affair, which ranged from derisive remarks on personal foibles to explications of episodes far too scandalous for three teenage girls to even be discussing, much less analyzing in detail.

Ingolstadt

“How many are there?” General Timon von Lintelo lowered his spyglass and looked at the officer standing next to him on the wall. That was Lorenz Münch von Steinach, the colonel in command of the Bavarian cavalry units stationed in Ingolstadt. Two reconnaissance patrols had just returned after scouting the area north of the city.

“The exact number of the enemy forces isn’t known, General.” Munch used his chin to point to the north. “That area is too heavily wooded for the scouts to be sure they saw everything. But whatever the precise figure might be, there’s no doubt at all that we’ll be heavily outnumbered.”

Lintelo grunted. The sound had something of a sarcastic flavor, but the general didn’t give voice to it. Lintelo was partial to Munch. Had the cavalry colonel been another officer he might have received an open reprimand for not being able to provide an exact figure for the enemy’s force — and never mind that such figures in the middle of a war were always at least partly a mirage.

That they were heavily outnumbered was the key point anyway. The exact ratio — three to one, four to one, possibly even five to one — was somewhat academic. When Duke Maximilian learned that General Stearns and the USE’s Third Division were concentrating their forces at Regensburg, he immediately drew the conclusion that their plan was to march directly on Munich, rather than trying to recapture Ingolstadt first.

It would be a bold move, leaving an enemy fortress in his rear, but the American general had a reputation by now for being bold to the point of recklessness. So, the duke had ordered almost two-thirds of the soldiers who seized Ingolstadt in January to withdraw and rejoin the main Bavarian army just north of Munich.

Von Lintelo wasn’t privy to Maximilian’s plans, but he was sure the duke intended to meet Stearns somewhere in the open field rather than waiting for him to invest the Bavarian capital. Maximilian was given to boldness himself, and he’d recently hired the Italian general Ottavio Piccolomini to command the Bavarian army. Given the circumstances of that hiring, Piccolomini would have his own reasons to act decisively.

Piccolomini had distinguished himself during the recent Mantuan War — although more as a diplomat than a soldier — but his principal bona fides were peculiarly theoretical. Much like the French marshal Turenne, Piccolomini’s rapid promotion was due primarily to what was said about him in the American history books. Apparently in that other universe he’d been a major figure in military affairs.

Hiring the commander of an entire army because of his other-worldly and future reputation bordered on folly, perhaps, but Maximilian didn’t have many other choices. The duke’s behavior since the treachery of the Austrian archduchess who was supposed to have married him had been savage and often not very sane. As a result, Bavaria had hemorrhaged experienced commanders. Just to name two of the most prominent, General Franz von Mercy and his immediate subordinate Colonel Johann von Werth had both abandoned Bavaria after Ingolstadt had been lost due to the treachery of its commander, Cratz von Scharffenstein. Von Werth had since gone to work for Grand Duke Bernhard in Burgundy and von Mercy had taken employment with the Austrians.

Piccolomini would be anxious to prove himself, therefore. And he would probably share Maximilian’s assessment that Stearns was a lucky commander rather than a competent one. Von Lintelo shared that assessment himself. The American’s luck was bound to run out soon, and where better to have that happen than on the hills and plains of northern Bavaria?

Regensburg

“This seems completely silly for such a risk,” complained Stefano Franchetti.

“Look on the bright side,” said Bonnie Weaver, grunting as she heaved another sack of leaflets over the rim of the gondola. She was in something of a foul mood because the only reason she’d gotten drafted into doing this grunt work was because she’d done Heinz the favor of picking up the leaflets at the printer’s and then discovered that apparently she was expected to deliver it to the airfield herself.

That meant dickering with a nearby teamster company to provide her with a wagon and driver and then deciding she had to accompany the wagon to make sure the delivery was done properly — and then deciding she had no choice but to provide Stefano and Mary Tanner Barancek some help in loading the sacks of leaflets into the gondola because Franchetti was being sullen and Barancek was being Size 4.

“What’s the bright side?” groused Stefano.

“These things only weigh about twenty-five pounds, which Mary ought to be able to handle well enough. Who knows? If the brass decides to list tonight’s adventure as a combat mission — which they probably will, just to avoid having to wrangle with your boss Estuban over the surcharge — then Mary gets her qualifying run. One of three, anyway.”

“Hey, she’s right!” said Mary, looking cheerful. She went instantly from Struggling Size 4 to Hefty Size 10.

It took only a few minutes more, after that.

“Why so many sacks?” Mary wondered.

“From what Heinz told me, Major Simpson wants the streets of Ingolstadt paved with those leaflets. Have fun tossing them overboard.” And with that, Bonnie headed off. Happily — no fool she, and the teamster hadn’t asked for much and it was a government job anyway, not like she was paying for it — the wagon was waiting to take her back into town.

Six hundred feet above Ingolstadt

The rockets made a pretty sight, Tom thought. Between their innate inaccuracy and the fact they’d had to aim by moonlight obscured by clouds, none of the missiles got dangerously close except one — and all that one did when it exploded was pepper the bottom of the gondola with shrapnel that never penetrated. And he’d stayed far enough away from both of the rail gun pits that neither one of them ever opened fire at all.

He had Stefano slow down once they got over the city because he wanted to make sure the leaflets didn’t fall outside of the city limits. There wasn’t much chance of that happening, with the very light wind that night, but Tom didn’t want to take any chances.

This expedition was based on pure guesswork, as was true of almost any psychological warfare tactic. But Tom thought his guesswork was probably on the money, and if he was right he’d be saving himself and something like twenty thousand soldiers from USE army and the SoTF National Guard a fair amount of grief.

“Okay, that’s the last one,” said Mary. She was breathing heavily and the moonlight shone off a sheen of sweat on her face. Between her slenderness and the pace at which they’d been working, she was close to exhaustion by now.

“All right, Stefano,” said Tom. “You can go to full throttle.”

Damn, those lawnmower engines made a racket.

For some odd reason, two rockets were sent after them when they were at least half a mile beyond the city limits. Whoever fired them was probably motivated by sheer frustration, because there was no chance at all they could have done any damage.

“Do you think it was worth taking the risk?” asked Stefano, when they were another five miles away and headed back toward Regensburg. The young pilot was sounding quite cheerful now, though. Combat bonus pay was nice, once you knew you’d gotten clear.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Tom replied.

Ingolstadt

The battalion of Italian mercenaries had several men who could read German, and even two who could read English. But it hardly mattered since the contents of the leaflets were translated into Italian and Spanish also — as well as French, Polish and Dutch.

AMNESTY

ALL BAVARIAN SOLDIERS WHO SURRENDER WILL BE GIVEN AMNESTY WHEN WE CAPTURE INGOLSTADT EXCEPT THE TRAITORS IN THE 1ST BATTALION.

The 1st Battalion had been the one whose treachery had allowed the Bavarians to retake Ingolstadt.

“Well, fuck,” said one of them, after his buddy translated it for him. He didn’t read at all. At least half of the battalion was illiterate.

But, by daybreak, every single one of them knew what the leaflets said.

****

The first breakout took place just before noon. General von Lintelo didn’t move quickly enough and make sure all of the guards at the gates were from reliable units. About thirty Italian mercenaries from the 1st Battalion got out through the west gate before control was restored. An hour later, another twenty or so overpowered the guards at another gate and got out of the city as well. Several dozen more — no exact count was ever made — got out right after them.

Thereafter, von Lintelo regained control of all the gates.

Until nightfall. Two hours past sundown, after a quick negotiation, the Swiss mercenaries guarding the west gate pocketed their bribe and led the Italians out of the gate themselves.

Maybe there’d be amnesty given to Swiss who weren’t in that battalion… and maybe there wouldn’t. Words were cheap. Every soldier in the garrison, no matter what his origin or what unit he belonged to or what language he spoke knew that by now, sixteen years after the White Mountain and five years after the sack of Magdeburg, there were no troops as hated in central Europe as those in the employ of Bavaria. They’d all heard of the enemy’s new battlecry: “Magdeburg quarter!”

And the Bavarian troops had behaved almost as badly when they took Ingolstadt as they had five years earlier in Magdeburg. If the USE army retook the city, there was most likely going to be another slaughter. Amnesty be damned. Magdeburg quarter.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 58

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 58

None of the others had noticed her yet where she stood still near the door. She raised her head to its highest extension, and began to intone the aria. Her pitch was high; the timbre soft; the volume low. The sound carried, but was perhaps felt more than heard.

Third-Mordent was near the end of the third iteration of the theme when a few of the crowd began to fall silent and drift away from the throng in the middle of the room. Some of these noticed her and slowly moved her direction. One by one they drifted near.

When the fifth iteration of the aria began, the two or three Ekhat nearest her began to sing it along with her. By the third motif, all of the drifters had aligned themselves on her, and were singing. Even as Third-Mordent watched, three more turned from the contention in the center of the workroom and established themselves on the edge of the group surrounding her. They joined the melody almost immediately.

By now close to a third of the original group had joined Third-Mordent’s melody, were singing according to her harmony. The aria had become the strongest force in the workroom, and the remaining unaligned Ekhat had all turned to face her.

Third-Mordent stepped forward with deliberation, continuing to hold her head high despite the urge to slip into predator mode. She could feel the tegument around her neck hardening, trying to contract and pull her head lower and forward. She overrode the instinct, and began to sing even louder.

She focused her attention on the three largest of the remaining Ekhat, seeing from their posture and stances that they were strongly resisting her building harmony, her attempt to assimilate them into her structure.

Pitching her voice to batter now, rather than entice, Third-Mordent elevated both volume and tone, leading her structure to assault the remainder. She was rewarded by several of them shaking their heads.

Suddenly there was a rush of Ekhat in Third-Mordent’s direction. She stood her ground, prepared to blade dance, but the flow divided and went to each side of her, swelling both the composition of her structure and the volume of her aria.

Two-thirds of the Ekhat in the room now stood beside or behind Third-Mordent, and most of the rest were drifting away from the center. Only the three largest, the three resisters, were still opposing her theme, her aria, creating only dissonance as they tried to combat the harmony that almost dominated the workroom.

At last, the three made common cause and adopted a common theme that they could sing. They made a strong presentation of it, but it was too little, too late. The towering wave of Third-Mordent’s structure almost crushed their song even as it began.

Third-Mordent advanced again, approaching the center of the workroom to directly confront the triad of resisters. She felt the others beginning to curl around the edges of the room, advancing to assimilate all who stood in their paths.

The largest of the resisters, head down, eyes red, gave a piercing shriek that just for a moment interrupted the harmony. In that moment, the three snapped open their forehand blades and attacked.

Third-Mordent stood her ground, her own forehand blades ready, still singing. As the resisters neared, she suddenly shifted to a descant theme above the melody of her aria, which she projected directly at the central attacker. Just before the resister entered Third-Mordent’s scope, she stumbled.

That opening was all that Third-Mordent required. The blade dance that followed was short, but intense. The dissonant squalls of the resister tore at Third-Mordent’s descant, just as her larger forehand blades tore at Third-Mordent’s body. Yet the stumble had opened a gap, and before the resister could recover Third-Mordent was inside her guard.

It ended with the resister keening on the deck of the workroom, one forehand blade cut off entirely, the other broken, all legs on one side cut in various places so that they would not serve their functions.

The resister still tried to stand; still tried to attack, mouth gaping open to exude mindless screeching. But all she could do was push her stricken body around on the deck, small manipulators reaching out to grasp her foe.

Third-Mordent stepped back, flicked her blades to clear them, and folded them away. The descant strengthened as she turned to see the other two resisters mobbed by the other Ekhat in the room. Their completed bodies lay in widening pools of ichor. They had not gone down alone; there were three others completed and several more with serious gashes in their teguments.

Third-Mordent took the aria and descant to a cadence, where she paused. The room fell silent. The other Ekhat stood spaced around her, gazing at her, some with heads held high, others on the verge of predator mode with heads lowered and reddened eyes.

A low rumble filled the room. Third-Mordent spun to see Ninth-Minor-Sustained standing in the open lift door, intoning a pitch so low that Third-Mordent didn’t think she could emit it herself. Even as she listened, secondary tones were added, imparting a resonance to all who stood in the room.

When Ninth-Minor-Sustained added a difficult tertiary tone, Third-Mordent felt her mind recoiling, sliding away from what she was hearing. Yet the others in the workroom stood straighter, looked around as if uncertain where they were, and began leaving through the outside doors, by ones and twos and threes.

Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s voice fell silent afterward. Third-Mordent stood still, head high, manipulators raised, as her ancestress approached. Ninth-Minor-Sustained looked around at the completed Ekhat, ending with a long stare at the panting crippled red-eyed hulk that had once been a dominant female. Her eyes finally lifted to Third-Mordent, and her head twisted in an effect of inquiry.

“I failed,” the younger Ekhat replied in a dirge. “I did not bring harmony to all.”

There was a long silence.

“Hear me,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained whisper-sang. “It was no failure. It was not total success, no, but it was no failure. You built harmony, you included others, and you held against dissonance and attack. It was no failure.”

Ninth-Minor-Sustained moved to loom over the wrecked resister, who had mindlessly pushed with her legs until the hulk of her body had wedged against a wall. “All were older than you, all were from fecund lines. This one, and these others”–a manipulator waved at the other two completed resisters–“were all from your ancestress’ progeny: this one from a direct line from Descant-at-the-Fourth, the others from collateral lines.”

Third-Mordent approached. “Why?”

“Your most dangerous enemies will always be those first of your own lineage, and second of your own factions.”

There was a long moment filled only by the panting of the resister while Third-Mordent began considering the thought that she was most at risk from those with whom she had the most in common. A door seemed to open in her mind, enlarging her perspective. It almost drove her to predator mode.

Again she asked, “Why?” in different tones and with a glottal stop.

“To see what you would do,” her ancestress replied as she turned away from the ruined hulk of a still breathing, still bleeding Ekhat.

“And?” Third-Mordent’s pitch was high and ascending, a demanding query.

Ninth-Minor-Sustained seemed to take no notice of her descendant’s importuning. “It was a lesson that your lesser ancestress never learned.”

That brought Third-Mordent up short, as if a cable had been thrown around her neck to throttle her. She had been wary of Descant-at-the-Fourth. That Ekhat had been truly formidable, and dangerous to all around her. Yet she had envied her as well, and had taken satisfaction at being descended from her fierceness, even in a collateral lineage, even now that she had met Ninth-Minor-Sustained. It disconcerted her to hear her elder ancestress’ words.

“Within all factions of the Ekhat,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained returned to a whisper-song, “control of others is more often attained by subversion. You can force alignment for a short time, but is that control? You can destroy one by strength and assault, but is destruction control?” She looked back at the one who had been near destroyed by Third-Mordent. “To turn one to your purposes, whether in knowledge or not, is more skillful. If such ones as these must be completed–and if you survive, complete them you will–let them be completed for your purposes.”

Ninth-Minor-Sustained turned back to the wrecked resister. “This one is from your lineage, from my lineage. She is from your creche, from two cycles ahead of you. You may have seen her there, before she survived the final tests and was released.” There was a moment of stillness. “Complete her. Now.”

Third-Mordent bared a forehand blade, and approached. The resister stirred enough to raise her head again and screech thinly at her, all tone gone, all melody gone, only dissonance left. She tried to lunge at Third-Mordent, but her head fell to the deck as her muscles gave out. Third-Mordent’s forehand blade pierced the nearest eye, transfixed the brain, and severed the major neural ganglions at the top of the spine. Completed at last, the final breath poured from the resister as a moan, her desperately wounded body sagging into the spreading pool of her own ichor.

“Have your wounds tended,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained intoned. “The one near your eye is dangerous.”

Third-Mordent summoned servients to clear the room and tend her wounds, with her ancestress’ last whisper-song still ringing in her mind: “Control.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 13

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 13

Chapter 6

Vienna, capital of Austria-Hungary

Minnie Hugelmair was not easy to impress. Her best friend Denise thought that was simply a function of her personality, but Minnie herself ascribed it to her glass eye.

Well, not the glass eye so much as the absence of the real one. She’d lost that in the course of a riot in the streets of Jena which got started when some drunken Lutheran apprentices interpreted a song she was singing — a German rendition of The Romish Lady, whose verses were as stalwartly anti-Catholic as you could ask for — as advocacy for Popery and work righteousness.

Prior to that time, Minnie had been a foundling with no particular political or theological convictions. She’d been taken in by the American Benny Pierce and taught to play the fiddle and sing, something she discovered she had a real talent for and enjoyed doing. Then she lost her eye to a thrown cobblestone — she’d gotten a concussion out of that, too — and when she regained consciousness she came to several conclusions to which she’d held firmly since.

First, since Benny had adopted her in mid-riot to keep her from being arrested and hauled away to prison, she had a fierce attachment to him. And, by extension, to all his fellow Americans since she now considered herself one as well.

Second, all theology was idiocy and all theologians were idiots.

Third, theologians being invariably supported by the state, you had to keep a close watch on all public officials, who were also prone to being idiots.

Finally, having only one eye was an advantage in some respects. In particular, a one-eyed young woman was not likely to be fooled by swindlers, charlatans — theologians being prominent in that category — or any other manner of scoundrel, especially official ones. That, because all such rascals depended upon the illusions created by stereoscopic vision. Seeing everything in two dimensions allowed a young woman to see them for what they really were.

Still, there were times…

“Wow,” she said, looking around the chamber she and Denise had been ushered into. “This is ours?”

Denise seemed a bit abashed herself — and she was normally about as easy to abash as a hippopotamus. “That’s what Noelle said.”

A few seconds of silence followed, as they continued to examine the room. Then Minnie said: “I don’t think there’s more than ten square inches of undecorated wall anywhere.”

“Doesn’t look like, does it? I’ve never seen this many portraits outside of a photographer’s studio in Fairmont my mom dragged me into once. Except these are painted. I bet one or two of them are even by that guy Michael Angelo.“

“Who’s he?”

“Some famous Italian artist. He painted the… Pristine Chapel, I think it was. Or maybe it was the Vatican. I can’t remember.”

As they’d been talking, they’d been slowly circumnavigating the room — or it might be better to say, navigating it, since there weren’t all that many open square inches of floor space either.

“It’s like a furniture store show room,” Denise said, maneuvering her way around an expensive looking armchair. It was ornately carved but, from an American viewpoint, scantily upholstered.

Once they completed their investigation of the quarters they’d been assigned in the royal palace, they began examining the central item of furniture in the room.

“That is a bed, right?”

“I think so. I want this side,” said Minnie, pointing.

“Yeah, sure.” Denise and Minnie had shared a bed plenty of times and Minnie always wanted the side that let her good eye see what was coming.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come –” But the door was already opening before Denise could finish the invitation. Noelle Stull came through, looking simultaneously pleased and preoccupied.

Neither Denise nor Minnie had any trouble interpreting the peculiar combination. Noelle was pleased because for the past two days, since they’d arrived in Vienna, she’d been able to spend considerable time in the company of Janos Drugeth. She hadn’t seen the man in person since…

Well, since she more-or-less tried to shoot him on the Danube but wound up shooting the river instead. She even had a tattoo placed on her butt to commemorate the occasion, depicting a death’s head topped by a debonair feathered cap over crossed pistols and the logo I Shot The Danube.

That had been almost a year and a half ago. Since then they’d conducted their courtship by mail. Janos hadn’t seen the tattoo yet but it was becoming increasingly obvious that he would before much longer.

Probably not before they got married, though. Both of them were devout Catholics and, allowing for some leeway in how one interpreted the phrase, pretty straight-laced.

The preoccupied part of her expression was due to the reason for Noelle’s presence in Vienna. She hadn’t come here simply or even primarily to conclude a courtship. That had been an excuse which everyone found convenient because it allowed the USE and Austria-Hungary to begin comprehensive negotiations without anyone’s having to formally admit as much.

Which they weren’t prepared to do yet because the diplomatic situation had any number of awkward aspects.

For the Austrian emperor — Ferdinand was still using that title even though he’d disavowed any intention of reconstructing the Holy Roman Empire — the awkwardness began with the fact that he was a Habsburg and his Spanish cousins were still enemies of the United States of Europe. That enmity was no formality, either. Spain and the USE had clashed militarily in the recent past and both nations expected such clashes to continue.

For the USE and Austria both, there was the still more awkward problem that the USE was allied to Bohemia and now wanted to make peace and if possible develop an alliance with Austria — which still officially characterized King Albrecht of Bohemia as the traitor Wallenstein whose head need to be removed as soon as possible. Not surprisingly, Wallenstein was adamant that any rapprochement between the USE and Austria had to include a settlement on the status of Bohemia that was acceptable to him.

For the moment, no ambassadors were being exchanged. Instead, a lovestruck American lady who just happened by coincidence to have the confidence of the current president of the State of Thuringia-Franconia and the probable future prime minister of the USE just happened by coincidence to be in Vienna visiting her betrothed who just happened by coincidence to be one of the Austrian ruler’s closest friends and advisers.

Hence the mixed expression on Noelle’s face. Pleased; preoccupied.

“So when does Count Dracula get to see the tattoo?” asked Denise.

Noelle gave her a look that would have been irritated if she hadn’t been in such a good mood. “That joke stopped being funny at least a year ago. And it’s particularly inappropriate since I just got back from spending a couple of hours at Janos’ church talking to the priest who’d be officiating at the wedding assuming it happens which seems pretty likely given that Janos was right there with me discussing the same issue.”

Minnie nodded solemnly. “That settles it, then. Janos Drugeth is not a vampire. Can’t be if he was standing on consecrated ground and didn’t burn right up on the spot.”

Now she looked at Denise. “And I have to say I’m with Noelle on this. That joke stopped being funny at least a year ago.”

Denise grinned. “Fine. I’ll let it go. What’s up, Noelle? I don’t think you came here just to tell me that your squeeze turns out not to be undead after all.”

Noelle pointed over her shoulder with a thumb. “They’re going to be holding some sort of fancy formal feast tonight, officially in honor of some official but really for our sake.”

“Oh, yuck,” said Denise.

“Double yuck,” agreed Minnie.

“Yeah, I know, it’s not exactly your cup of tea. But you’ve got to show up, whether you like it or not.”

“What the hell are we supposed to wear?” demanded Denise. “What I know about how to dress for a formal seventeenth fucking century formal dinner is — is — ” She looked like a fish gasping out of water as she tried to think of a suitable analogy.

“If I took out my glass eye would they still make me come?” That was Minnie’s contribution.

“Cut it out, both of you.” Again, Noelle pointed over her shoulder with the thumb. “I know you don’t know squat. That’s why I’m taking you to see Sarah and Judy Wendell and the other Barbies. They set up shop in the palace an hour ago, so they can all get ready for the occasion.”

Denise frowned. “Why are they coming?”

Minnie shook her head and gave Noelle a sad look. “Sometimes I worry about her, Noelle. Denise is usually pretty bright, but now and then…”

She looked at her friend. “They’re stinking rich. What more does anybody need to get invited to a fancy whatever-they-call-this? Dinner, ball, soiree, whatever.”

Noelle headed for the door. “Follow me. Now, Denise.”

****

As it turned out, the Barbies — especially Judy Wendell — were a lot of help. Denise and Judy knew each other, of course. They were just about the same age and they’d gone to school together before the Ring of Fire. But they’d never been close — and that, for two reasons.

First, they belonged to different crowds. Simplifying a great deal — which, of course, was exactly the way kids in middle and high school categorized everyone — Denise was a bad girl and Judy was a good girl. Denise’s father had been a biker who made his living as a welder; Judy’s father had been an insurance agent. Denise could often be found sneaking a cigarette behind the girls’ gym; Judy had never smoked in her life.

Secondly, the one thing they had in common had tended to keep them apart as well. They had been, by the generally held opinion of most girls and all boys, the two best-looking girls in their class. Neither Denise nor Judy cared very much about their appearance themselves. But the boys who clustered around them did, and that automatically tended to keep them at a distance from each other.

It was too bad, in a way, Denise was now realizing. Judy was a big help getting her and Minnie properly fitted out for the upcoming fancy event. Yet, much to their surprise, Judy was just about as irreverent and sarcastic about the whole business as they were. Looking back on it, Denise could now see where her impression of Judy as a stuck-up snot had probably been unfair. Up close, the girl had a pretty wicked sense of humor.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 57

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 57

Chapter 32

The door to the command deck irised open as Yaut drew near. Aille followed his fraghta through the opening, flanked by Pleniary-superior Tura on one side and Ed Kralik on the other. He noted Caitlin Kralik’s eyes widened slightly–he suspected in surprise–at the sight of the Bond of Ebezon officer, last seen at the side of Preceptor Ronz. This was followed by immediate delight at the sight of her husband.

Of course, Caitlin wasn’t the only one who evidenced surprise. Even Wrot’s whiskers twitched a bit. Interestingly enough, it was Fleet Commander Dannet whose stance never wavered from as pure an example of neutral as Aille could remember seeing.

It had taken more time by the human clock to join the newly-arrived flotilla to the exploration fleet than the humans had expected, Aille thought. To the Jao, time was accomplished when it was accomplished, but even for them the span from arrival to joining hovered for longer than desired before moving to completion. But what had been to the Jao a bubble of waiting time, had been long dragging hours to the so-linear humans, he knew.

As he stepped onto the command deck, Aille saw that for all her skill and knowledge in Jao-ness, Caitlin remained human in moments of crux. Instead of having all her subordinates displayed before her in the Jao manner, she stood to the fore, with Wrot and Dannet to her left, three Lleix to her right, and Captain Miller and Tamt directly behind her.

“Vaish,” Caitlin began, moving her arms into the angles for recognition-of-authority.

“Vaist,” Aille replied, his own angles showing a simple pleasure. He advanced to face her. “Well done, Director.” He took her hand to shake it in the human manner. “Well done, Caitlin. Well done to find another space-going culture in so short a time.”

He saw the young woman’s mouth twist a bit. Human-style regret, perhaps, or even dissatisfaction.

“It took longer than I wanted,” she said shortly, “and we haven’t found an ally. At least, not yet.”

“But you found someone else without destroying them,” Aille said. “And that is something we Jao have not excelled at. So again, well done, all of you.” He swept his gaze around the command deck. Here and there Jao angles fleetingly morphed to and through pleasure-at-proper-commendation, while human crew exhibited smiles ranging from small quirks of the mouth to large grins.

“And now,” Aille concluded, “show us what you have found.”

“This way to the conference room,” Caitlin said, with a nod to Tamt. The burly guard’s lines went to attending to duty, with a hint of righteous-pride creeping in. She led the way to a separate door leading from the command deck, which irised open as the approached.

****

Third-Mordent looked through the view glass down onto the floor of Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s large workroom. She heard the door hiss open behind her. The faint reflectivity of the glass gave her an image of who it was, so she did not turn as her ancestress joined her.

As was often her wont, Ninth-Minor-Sustained said nothing. Third-Mordent had yet to develop to respond to that powerful silence with the like, so she at length intoned, “Thirty-seven Ekhat,” in a soliloquy tone, soft, yet not infirm.

That was the count of the beings in the workroom. Thirty-seven Ekhat, of varying sizes, demeanors, and dispositions. Even through the glass she could faintly hear the dissonance produced as they confronted each other, singing savage attacks, competing with fractal tones and harsh stops and glissandos. Forehand blades were flicking in and out of sheathes around the workroom.

There was a brief clash between two of the Ekhat and another, swift and furious, lasting but a moment before they broke apart and rushed in different directions in the room. Third-Mordent continued to observe.

“Attend,” the barest whisper of song from Ninth-Minor-Sustained. Third-Mordent shifted her gaze and focus to her ancestress, who now had assumed what could only be called a mentorship over her. The concept was not unknown among Ekhat, but it was rare that two unmated mature individuals could retain a relationship long enough beyond the passage of simple knowledge or skills to arrive at this level. All too often, the weaker of such a pair simply became dead meat when the stronger tired of her.

Third-Mordent remained wary, but did not dispute with her ancestress. At this moment, she said nothing.

“Go create order,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained fluted. Third-Mordent waited for Ninth-Minor-Sustained to expand upon the instruction. Silence was all that was delivered.

Third-Mordent turned again to the view window, watching the flow of the individual bodies in the workroom; the shifting combinations of momentary allies that invariably dissolved into foes again; judging the dissonance that continued to incrementally rise, pulse by pulse by pulse.

She felt the moment arrive, that moment when a bell-tone sounded in her mind. Turning without a word, she left Ninth-Minor-Sustained standing at the view glass and moved to the lift that would take her to the great workroom.

****

Lim stepped onto the mat. She was tired–almost weary, if the truth were known–but that was not unfamiliar to one from the dochaya. She stood straight in her blue gi that she had adopted, and grounded the staff at her side.

The master was sitting at the other end of the mat in what he had told her was a lotus position, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed. It made Lim’s legs ache just to look at him, for her legs would not bend in those directions without either breaking bones or tearing flesh. Yet she knew it was not the limberness of his body but rather the limberness of his mind that made him what he was, and while she could not attain some of his physical capabilities, she could aspire to his mind. So she settled, legs slightly apart, and let her center drop low in her body, taking slow deep breaths as she did so, grasping the staff with both hands and letting some of her weight rest upon it.

She didn’t know how long she waited. It was odd how time sometimes seemed to stretch when she was near the master. But long or short, the moment came when his eyes popped open and he took a deep breath.

“Ha!” Master Zhao said with a smile. He arose to his feet in a single supple movement that Lim could not even describe, much less hope to emulate. “And are you ready to resume, my student, after the recent excitement?” he asked in Mandarin.

“Yes, sifu,” Lim replied, inclining her head in the only respect he would allow her to present.

The master stepped closer, looking up to her with the warm brown eyes that were so different from her own black. “And have you thought on your staff, student Lim?”

“Yes, sifu.”

“And your conclusions?”

Lim moved the staff in front of her. “It is a piece of wood.”

Zhao’s smile broadened.

She leaned on it. “It can support.”

Zhao nodded, still smiling.

Lim took the staff in both hands and held it horizontally before her. “It can be a weapon.”

“Indeed,” the master replied. “All of those are true statements, especially the last one. But is that its purpose?”

Lim shook her head in the almost universal human posture for negatives. “No, sifu.”

“Then what . . .” Master Zhao stopped as Lim took the staff in one hand and raised it up. His eyes tracked the staff as it slowly was lowered until the end of it barely rested atop his black hair.

“It extends my reach, sifu.”

Master Zhao laughed with joy and took the staff from her. “You have learned the lesson of the staff, my student.” He stepped to one side to place it back in the rack he had pulled it from some time ago. Lim felt a warmth inside her as his simple praise was absorbed.

Turning back to her, Master Zhao said, “We will find more ways to extend your reach.” He gave a slight bow, which Lim returned.

“Sifu, I would continue to carry the staff,” Lim said.

“And why would that be?” Master Zhao said.

“I do not think I have learned everything that can be learned from it.”

Master Zhao raised his eyebrows. “I see.” He simply looked at her for a long moment, then continued, “All right. It is true that there is more than one lesson to be learned from the staff. You may continue to carry it.” He raised his hands. “And now, come, let us push hands and see what we can see.”

Lim raised her own, and moved forward to be tested and taught.

****

The door from the lift to the workroom irised open, and the raw sound being generated by the Ekhat in the room washed over Third-Mordent. She stood still; not-moving, listening/feeling/tasting the dissonance. There was a faint sense of order in it, the very faintest of harmonies, almost imperceptible. Indeed, she realized that if not for the tutelage of Ninth-Minor-Sustained she would not have had the skill/sense/perception to hear it, that the raw sound would have been like raw sewage to her.

Third-Mordent focused on that hint of order and harmony. It took some moments, but before too long a theme formed in her mind; an aria, appropriately enough. With that, she stepped through the open doorway and let it iris shut behind her.

She eyed the milling crowd, direct vision unimpeded by the glass. In a moment Third-Mordent realized she was the smallest Ekhat in the room. Even the smallest of the crowd topped her by an increment.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 12

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 12

She herself didn’t find Kresse’s dark thoughts more than mildly exasperating. The leader of the Vogtland rebels was a capable man, but he tended to be rigid and prone to suspicion. He reminded her a lot of Gunther Achterhof — except Gunther at least had a good sense of humor. If Kresse had one, she’d never seen any evidence of it.

“Are we all agreed then?” she asked, looking around the table. “I will accede to the emperor’s summons and go to Magdeburg tomorrow.”

Her expression got rather sour. “By airplane. May God have mercy on my soul.”

Which he might or might not, she thought. She hadn’t been inside a church in years. In her defense — assuming it would carry any weight with the Creator, which it might or might not — she felt she’d been betrayed by the Catholic Church she’d been raised in. The soldiers who broke into her father’s print shop, murdered him and then subjected her to more than two years of torment had claimed to be defending the Catholic cause, had they not?

Gretchen wasn’t an outright non-believer like her husband, but she’d never found another church that suited her. The Protestant denominations all seemed… drab. Reverential but joyless.

She gave everyone at the meeting plenty of time to register any further objections or raise any questions. Since there didn’t seem to be any, she declared the meeting adjourned.

****

“I need to talk to Jozef before I go,” she said to Tata after everyone had left the room. “Do you know where he might be found?”

Tata sniffed. “Wherever there’s liquor available and young women whose tits are bigger than their brains.”

Gretchen smiled. It was true that Jozef Wojtowicz was an incorrigible womanizer. The Pole was handsome, charming, quick-witted — rather tall and well-built, too — and never seemed to lack female companionship.

Well… “Incorrigible” was a little unfair. He wasn’t stupid about it. He’d never once tried to seduce Gretchen, for instance, although it was obvious he found her attractive. He’d never chased after Tata, either. Unlike most womanizers Gretchen had known, Jozef — to use an American quip — generally thought with his big head, not his little one.

“Find him, would you?” As Tata started to leave, Gretchen stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Not you, yourself. You and I have other things we need to discuss before I leave. Get someone else to do it.”

Tata sniffed again. “I have just the person.”

****

“Why you?” Tata gave Eric Krenz a squinty look. “Two reasons. First, because you’re handy. Second, because you know every tavern in Dresden, including the ones with the prettiest barmaids that Wojtowicz will be chasing after.”

She held up a hand, forestalling Eric’s protest. “I didn’t accuse you of chasing after them yourself, did I? But don’t tell me you don’t notice these things because you do. I’m tolerant — I used to be a barmaid myself; it’s a necessary skill in the job — but I’m not blind. Your hands may not roam but your eyes do.”

Eric’s open mouth… closed. “Um,” he said.

“Be off,” Tata commanded.

****

Wojtowicz arrived a little over an hour later. Krenz’s guesswork had been good — he’d found Jozef in the second tavern he’d searched.

Then, of course, half an hour had been needed to negotiate with the fellow. Like all Poles of Eric’s acquaintance, Jozef was inclined toward stubbornness. Happily, like all Poles of Eric’s acquaintance, he was also inclined to drink. So, a pleasant if too brief time had passed in which a Pole and a Saxon commiserated on the unreasonableness of women.

“What does Richter want with me now?” wondered Wojtowicz.

“Don’t know, but it’s probably nothing good.” Eric drained a fair portion of his beer stein. “As I recall, the last time she summoned you into her presence she talked you into leading a reckless sortie against besieging troops.”

Jozef looked a bit apprehensive — but only a bit. “It can’t be anything like that. We’re not at war at the moment. Well… not here, at any rate.” He waved his hand in a vaguely southwesterly direction. “Over there in Bavaria they are, but we’re not involved with that.”

Eric shrugged. “There’ll be some unpleasant task that needs doing. There always is. It’s because of Adam’s fall, I think. Although I’m not sure. I’m not a theologian.”

Jozef’s laugh was a hearty, cheery thing. A passing barmaid gave him a second look. For probably the fourth time that evening, Eric suspected.

“‘I’m not a theologian,'” Jozef mimicked. “Indeed, you are not. I, on the other hand, am an accomplished student of the holy texts so I know that it was all Eve’s fault. It’s always the woman’s fault, you heathen.”

****

After Gretchen explained her purpose, Jozef didn’t find the quip amusing any longer.

Damned woman!

“I really think you’re… what’s the up-time expression?”

“‘Spooking at shadows’?” Gretchen supplied. “You’re probably right — but I still want to find out what’s happening over there.”

“Why me?” Jozef asked, trying not to whine openly. It was a stupid question, because the answer was obvious.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re a Pole. I want you to go into Polish territory and spy for us.”

“And that’s another thing! I am Polish, just as you say.” He tried to put on his best aggrieved expression. “And now you’re asking me to be a traitor –”

“Oh, stop it! I’m not asking you to sneak into King Władysław’s palace in Warsaw and steal state secrets. I’m asking you to go just over the border — well, a bit farther — and see what that swine Holk is up to in Breslau, or wherever he is now. Holk’s Danish, I think, or maybe German — and most of his men are Germans. So stop whining — which is phony and you know it — about your Polish pride. You know perfectly well you’ll get most of your information from other Poles on account of Holk’s men will have been plundering and raping and murdering them in the name of protecting them.”

Jozef made a face. Heinrich Holk’s reputation as the worst sort of mercenary commander was something of a byword by now in central Europe. What in God’s name had King Wladyslaw been thinking, when he hired the bastard?

“All right, I’ll do it,” he said. A sudden thought came to him. Maybe…

“But I want a favor in return.”

“What is it?”

“I want some batteries.”

Gretchen frowned. “Batteries? You mean… the electricity things? That store the electrical power?”

“Yes. Those.”

“What for?”

He tried to look simultaneously secretive and mysterious. “I’m not saying. It’s my business.”

That was fairly lame, but it was better than the alternative: I want the batteries so I can start using my radio again and get back in touch with my uncle and employer Stanislaw Koniecpolski, the Grand Hetman of Poland and Lithuania and the commander of the army facing the forces of the USE at Poznań, so I can resume spying for him on you.

Not wise.

After a moment, Gretchen shrugged. “I suppose I can spare one or two batteries.”

****

Later that night, having finished her preparations for the trip to Magdeburg — that hadn’t taken long; just packing a small valise — she mentioned Jozef’s request to Tata.

“What in the world would he want batteries for? — that he’d be so close-mouthed about?”

Tata sniffed. “Wojtowicz? He probably got his hands on one of those up-time sex toys — what do they call them? Bilbos, or something like that — and figures if he can get it working again he can impress one of the town’s — what do they call them? Bimbos, I think. Or dumbos.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 11

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 11

Chapter 5

Dresden, capital of Saxony

The look that Gretchen Richter was giving Eddie Junker fell short of friendly. Way short.

“The first and only time I flew in an airplane, you crashed the plane. I barely got out alive.”

In point of fact, she’d been completely unharmed. The plane had landed on soil that was too wet and soft, causing it to upend. But there had been no great speed involved and when things settled down Gretchen and Eddie had simply found themselves suspended upside down in their safety harnesses.

Still, it had been… startling, to say the least.

Eddie scowled. “That wasn’t my fault.” Since his girlfriend wasn’t there to take umbrage, he added: “Denise told me the airfield was suitable. Ha! If you have a quarrel, take it up with her. Besides, it’s irrelevant.”

He rose, went over to the open window and pointed to the southwest. “The new airfield is farther from the river and elevated a bit. Much better constructed, too, even if it hasn’t been macadamized yet.”

Gretchen didn’t bother to get up and look herself. She knew there’d be nothing to see even if she did. The large chamber in the Residenzschloss — also called Dresden Castle — that she’d established as her headquarters had a nice view of the city and the countryside. But the castle was close to the Elbe, not to the city’s walls. From that distance, the most she’d see on a very clear day was the elevated hut that passed for a “control tower” — which controlled nothing; ridiculous name — and possibly the outlines of the landing strip. But if the sky was overcast, as it was today, the airstrip would be indistinguishable from the surrounding farmlands.

“There won’t be any problem taking off, unless it rained very recently. And there will be no problem at all landing at Magdeburg because that field is in excellent condition. A macadamized airstrip — and radio capability, so they can warn us ahead of time if there is any problem with the weather.”

“And if there is?”

Eddie shrugged. “Then we fly back here. Or land somewhere the weather is clear. For Pete’s sake, Gretchen, Magdeburg is only one hundred and twenty miles from here as the crow flies — and we fly the way crows do. In a straight line. We can be there in an hour. No weather patterns change that quickly.”

Gretchen was distracted for a moment by Eddie’s use of the expression “for Pete’s sake.” The American euphemism had become widely adopted because it allowed the speaker to skirt blasphemy.

But only skirt it. A number of theologians claimed that the expression was still inappropriate since the “Pete” in question was clearly a reference to St. Peter. Whether taking the name of a saint in vain qualified as “blasphemy” could be disputed, of course, and there were other theologians who dismissed the argument on the grounds that “Pete’s sake” was clearly a reference to “pity’s sake” and therefore…

The distraction lightened her mood. She even smiled, being reminded of her husband. Jeff was known, when a theologian or cleric annoyed him, to refer to the present time as the miserable seventeenth be-damned century and if the preachers don’t like it they can kiss my rosy up-time ass.

Despite being what people called a lapsed Catholic, Gretchen had quite a bit more in the way of religious faith than her husband did. But she didn’t disagree with him very often on the subject of priests and parsons and their defects.

There was no point in her pining for her husband, however. He was off in Bavaria, leading one of the regiments in the Third Division. She had no idea when she’d see him again — leaving aside the possibility that it might be never, since he could get killed in the fighting. So, she forced her mind back to the issue at hand.

And then… forced herself to agree. She had a real dread of flying again, but the issue at stake was too important for her to be guided by fear.

Besides, it was the first time in her life that Gretchen had ever been summoned to an audience with an emperor. Somewhere underneath the hard revolutionary shell she’d constructed around her soul there was still a provincial printer’s daughter. She could remember the excitement in her town in the Oberpfalz — she’d been nine years old at the time — when Archduchess Maria Christina passed through once.

Despite herself, she felt traces of that same excitement now — and cursed herself for it, of course.

But all that was irrelevant. For her to refuse to answer Gustav Adolf’s summons — especially since it had been worded quite politely — would be a serious political mistake. And it would be almost as bad a mistake to delay her response by refusing to accept Francisco Nasi’s offer to provide her with his private airplane to make the trip. If she insisted on traveling overland the journey would take days — maybe even a week or more, depending on the state of the roads.

The prospect of doing so wasn’t attractive anyway. While Gretchen wasn’t afraid of horses she didn’t much like to ride them, either, any more than her husband did.

“Fine,” she said curtly. “We’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.”

“We could leave today, if you wish. There’s still plenty of daylight left and the weather’s good.”

“No. I have business to attend to before I leave.”

Eddie shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

****

“It may be a trap — a trick,” said Georg Kresse. “When you get there, they will toss you into a dungeon.”

Captain Eric Krenz shook his head. “I doubt if they even have a dungeon in Magdeburg. Most of the city is new, you know, built since the sack. That’s true of the Royal Palace and Government House, for sure.”

“So what?” demanded Kresse, scowling. He and Krenz didn’t get along very well. The leader of the Vogtland rebels found the young officer’s insouciance annoying.

“So what? The construction took place right under the nose of Mike Stearns, that’s what. If they’d tried to include a dungeon he’d have put a stop to it. He could have, too — he was Prime Minister back then.”

Gretchen intervened before the dispute could escalate. “I’m not concerned about its being a trap, Georg. Gustav Adolf would have to be an idiot to do something like that, and whatever other faults he may have he’s not stupid. What concerns me is simply what the purpose of this summons might be. I don’t see what the emperor and I have to talk about.”

Kresse immediately veered from being suspicious of the emperor to being suspicious of… Gretchen herself.

“He plans to suborn you. Turn you traitor to the cause.”

Krenz barked a laugh. “What part of ‘the emperor is not stupid’ are you having trouble with, Georg?”

“It’s not funny!”

“Yes, it is. The next thing you’ll be saying –”

“Enough!” said Tata. She didn’t quite shout, but given Tata that hardly mattered. She was a young woman and short to boot, but had a very forceful personality. “There’s no point to this argument.”

She gave the Vogtlander a fierce look. “Even if Gretchen were to be swayed to treachery by the emperor’s mystical force of will — that would be in between his seizures, I guess — it would take a bit of time. By then she’ll be back and can give us all a report and we can make up our minds whether your worries are well-grounded or –”

“Stupid beyond belief,” Krenz muttered.

Tata glared at him. “I said ‘enough’! I meant it! Don’t try my patience, Eric!”

Krenz seemed suitably abashed. Gretchen doubted if he really was. More likely, he’d just decided that risking Tata’s wrath wasn’t worth the pleasure of baiting the Vogtland leader any further. When all was said and done, after all, Tata was the one in the room in position to expel Eric from her bed. Krenz might not view that possibility as a fate worse than death — not quite — but he’d certainly not be happy about it.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 56

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 56

PART IV

On the Frontier

Chapter 31

“It appears that you found your goal,” Aille continued from the main display.

“We did and we didn’t.” Caitlin ran one hand through her hair. “Yes, they are a developed space-faring culture. But,” this time she ran both hands through her hair, resisting the urge to pull it out, “they appear to be xenophobic to an almost insane degree.”

Aille’s position shifted, but she couldn’t tell quite what angles he was assuming. “Like the Ekhat?”

“No,” Caitlin replied. “Or at least, not quite that bad. But they will not talk, and they attacked us as soon as we approached a planet. Now, less than a day later, they’ve launched a massive attack from all their planets. We’re headed out of the system to keep from having to destroy them in self-defense. You need to do likewise. Get your ships out past the cometary ring, and we’ll join up then.”

Aille nodded. “Agreed. We will talk.”

The view screen blanked, then reset to the display of the system schematic with the various Khûrûshil ships noted with past and projected trajectories all shaping toward the Terra taif fleet components.

Caitlin looked over to Wrot. “Okay, what is Aille doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see him, or anything, but having him pop up here is just really odd.”

Wrot’s posture changed, moving through several until it settled into the angles of reluctant-convergence. “My doing, I suspect. I sent word to Preceptor Ronz of your plans.”

“You what?” Caitlin stared at him in disbelief.

“When we arrived at Ares Base, I sent a report to Ronz describing your decision to move the search to the Sagittarian Arm.”

Caitlin crossed her arms. She was pleased with herself that her response was in a moderate tone. “Okay. Was there any particular reason why you felt a need to do that?”

Wrot shrugged. “You made a significant change in the direction of the effort. I reported that to him.”

“Without telling me.” That wasn’t a question.

“It wasn’t necessary for you to know. It would have changed nothing you did.”

Caitlin felt her teeth grinding together. She turned away and clasped her hands behind her back to keep from assuming the simple angles for pure outrage.

He’s not human, Caitlin reminded herself. He’s not back-stabbing you. She knew Wrot well enough to know that he would have no problem being blunt to her face. A snort escaped her at that thought.

She felt her jaw relax and turned back to face the old Jao.

“Do I have oudh over this search and this fleet, or not?”

“Director, you do.” Wrot had shifted to neutral angles, but his whiskers kept shifting to something hinting of concern. He did not drop his eyes from Caitlin’s however.

“Then why? Why go behind my back with this?”

“Not behind your back,” Wrot said. “Parallel lines. You have oudh,” he continued with a wrinkle to his muzzle, “but the preceptor is the sponsor of the search. I am under your oudh for the tasks of the search, but I remain under his when he asks for opinions and reports.”

“But why would he want that? Does he not trust me after all?” She fought to keep the whine from her voice.

Wrot’s ears flipped out and his whiskers tilted in the abbreviated posture for wry-humor. “The Preceptor trusts you as much as he trusts Aille,” he said. That caused Caitlin to blink in surprised. “But he is also the preeminent Bond strategist.”

“So?” Caitlin asked after a long moment of silence.

Wrot’s angles moved from wry to sly. “Caitlin, Preceptor Ronz understood all the truth and dependent corollaries about the saying ‘Don’t put all your eggs in one basket’ long before he ever heard it.”

“So you’re a reality check on me?”

Wrot huffed in irritation. “No, nor am I a spy, or anything else like that. Stop thinking like a human.”

“Then what?”

“Mmm, you might think of me as a parallax view.”

That thought stopped Caitlin’s thoughts. “So what did you tell him? No,” she said immediately after, “I don’t want to know.”

She turned away again and took a slow walk around Lieutenant Vaughan’s station, breathing slowly and deeply. Her anger had not totally faded, and neither had her concern.

“Did you think I had some reason, some motive, to try to keep my decision to relocate the search a secret?” she said over her shoulder. “That would have been pretty stupid, after pulling into Ares Base and stocking up on everything there was to get.”

Wrot shrugged. “You’re not stupid,” he replied. “You might recall that neither am I.”

Caitlin took several steps away, and stood watching the main view screen, squeezing her hands tightly where she gripped them behind her back. She felt the eyes of the group clustered near Vaughan’s workstation staring at her.

At length, Caitlin turned and paced back to face Wrot. “Do I have oudh over this search?” she softly repeated her question, looking up into his eyes.

“Director, you do.” Wrot said nothing more, moved nothing, simply stood in neutral.

“Good.” Caitlin nodded at the confirmation. “We’re done with this, then. Except–” she released her hands and assumed angles for absolute-command-to-subordinate“–you will not communicate outside this fleet in any way without my express approval. Understood?”

The old Jao said nothing, but his angles shifted to obedience-to-lawful-commands.

Caitlin looked at the others, including Vaughan. “Not a word,” she said. “Not. One. Word.”

Her tone was much the same as it always was. Nonetheless, everyone obviously felt discretion was the better part of valor at that moment. No one spoke.

****

Aille took position beside Terra-Captain Sanzh and watched the main view screen in Footloose’s command deck, waiting for the rest of his flotilla to arrive. Three of his seven ships were now clear of the photosphere, one was still rising in the plasma currents, and the sensor tech had reported that the rest should emerge from their jumps very soon.

“Directions, Governor?” Sanzh asked quietly as the fourth ship crossed the transition of the photosphere.

“Have your navigator shape a course that takes us directly away from those fleets,” Aille said, with a nod toward the view screen, “but in such a manner that we can before long bend to galactic north and join with Director Kralik’s fleet.”

The Terra-captain gave a brief version of a simple compliance posture, then moved toward the navigation workstation.

Aille waited for time to complete. It didn’t feel that it should be long.

He spent the time considering both the tactical and the strategic situation found with these new aliens. It did not surprise him that Caitlin had found another intelligent race with a high technological civilization. It did, however, surprise him how quickly she had done so. He mulled that while he watched the main view screen display, with the changing fleet dispositions. Ollnat, he at length decided. Always ollnat with these humans. Caitlin’s decision to move to the Sagittarius Arm was such a perfect example of why the Jao needed Terra taif.

At that moment the last of the flotilla’s ships emerged into clear space. Terra-captain Sanzh looked to Aille, angles flowing into awaiting-direction. Aille considered the view screen’s presentation of the system and the ships within it. The time flow crested.

A thought occurred to Aille at that same moment. “Contact Rafe Aguilera on Trident,” he ordered.

The view screen cleared, then showed Rafe’s face.

“Sir?”

“Rafe, here is your field test for Trident. Go back into this sun, and cruise the northern quadrant until you’re either down to a week’s supplies or you are ordered out.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed and he peered into the pickup as if he was trying to read postures. “You reading something into this, sir?”

“No,” Aille responded. “But if something does happen, I think I want you there, not out among the comets and dust clouds.”

“Gotcha,” Rafe said. “Cruise the north quadrant until you tell us to come out. Do you want reports?”

Aille thought about that. He had discovered some time ago that humans had almost a fetish about reports. They would invent reasons to create and demand reports. The Jao disliked this.

On the other hand, Aguilera was good at his job. “Yes, on whatever schedule you like.”

“Will do, sir. Anything else?”

“No.”

The view screen blanked, and after a moment Trident turned and moved back toward the sun. It wasn’t long before the big ship was lost behind the curtains of plasma. Aille then turned to Terra-captain Sanzh. “Go.”

Pleniary-superior Tura appeared at Aille’s side as the captain passed the word to his navigator, who in turn passed the word to the other ships of the flotilla. “Why did you leave Trident behind unsupported?”

“So it would be of use. That is what the ship is designed for, after all.”

Tura accepted that with no visible reaction. She said nothing more, and after a time moved over to watch the navigation workstation.

****

“Honored Rhan, please permit us to make an ending.”

It startled Kamozh to hear himself addressed as Clan Lord. For just a moment, he expected to hear his father’s voice respond to the address. But then bitter memory of what had happened a few hours ago resurged to the forefront of his mind.

The young Khûrûsh-an leader turned from where he was watching a display of the seemingly receding system primary. Khûr had been the primary god of his people for ages. In the last few generations, however, as the knowledge of the Khûrûsh increased, and as they attained spaceflight and moved out to other planets in their system, more and more of the people began to think that whoever and whatever might be considered to be the creator of the Khûrûsh themselves, the star was not it. Kamozh considered himself to be an enlightened and educated individual, but even so, at a very basic, very elemental level of his being, seeing the star dwindling in size in the viewer awakened an almost atavistic sense of panic that the young officer was having a bit of trouble squelching. Perhaps even more than a bit.

He was not surprised to find all five of the surviving crewmen of the clanship Lo-Khûr-sohm abased before him in the “embracing dirt” position. In addition to the old clan leader, they had also lost Penzheti, their chief engineer, wounded when their ship had been shattered around them by the monsters in their great ships. The survivors were flat on their bellies, heads curved to the right, limbs outstretched except for the right forehand curved around to cover their eyes. All except one, that is, and his lips wrinkled a bit in sad humor to see his father’s most trusted servant, Weaponsmaster Shekanre, head raised enough to stare at his new clan leader and ask for death.

“We have failed the Khûr-melkh,” Shekanre said, “and we have failed your father and you. Please permit us to make an ending, that we might expiate our failures.”

“How will you do it?” Kamozh asked, out of a sense of morbid curiosity. “We have no weapons.”

“I will end each of the others,” Shekanre replied, “then I will tear out my own throat.

The old Weaponsmaster could probably do that, Kamozh mused. The main artery to the head was located just under the skin at the front of the throat, and it could be ripped open with their own claws, although it was not exactly easy to accomplish, especially on oneself. It was not, however, the customary way to commit suicide among the Khûrûsh. But of all the Khûrûsh Kamozh knew, Shekanre was at the top of the list for having both the strength and the self-discipline to execute himself in that manner.

The fur on the back of Kamozh’s neck bristled at the thought. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Shekanre was fully abased and no longer looking at him. It took a moment for Kamozh to find his voice.

“Get up, all of you.” Kamozh clapped forehands and midhands together sharply. “No one is going to die. And besides, you look silly.”

There was a flurry of motion as all of the retainers pushed up and settled on their haunches, midhands on the floor and forehands at their sides. Kamozh looked at them all with a lifted lip, exposing eyeteeth as a mark of sharp emphasis.

“Which one of you had the brilliant idea that you should just waste your lives and leave me by myself among these monsters?” The tone of his voice was somewhat humorous. The growl that followed was not.

Most of the others looked at the youngest of the retainers, who had the grace to look abashed and turned his head away from Kamozh. “Ah, Neferakh,” Kamozh said drily, “you have read one too many of the old tales. This is the real world, not the realm of heroes and sorcerers and night warriors.”

There were chirrups and chuckles from the others, until Shekanre said, “Your father, Rhan Mezhen, would have allowed it, Rhan, for the honor of the clan.”

“Perhaps he would,” Kamozh replied, “but I am not my father.”

They all fell silent at that, for it had been only hours since their clan leader, Kamozh’s father, had been killed by the monsters before their very eyes.

At length, Kamozh continued with, “My father was honorable, and did his duty and fulfilled his responsibilities to his death. And it is just as well, probably, that he has passed into Khûr’s presence, as he would find no honor in being a slave of the monsters.”

There was another moment of silence.

“For myself,” Kamozh said, “I believe that honor is larger than the stories make it. I believe that honor is deeper than the lines that lead to the throne of the Khûr-melkh.” There was a sharp inhalation from several of the retainers. “I believe that honor is wider than the dance of Khûr-shi and her sisters around The Holy Light. And I believe that we will have honor here, if no other way than to each other.”

“Here–here among the monsters?” Shekanre asked. “Among the enemies of Khûr?” The retainers were all wide-eyed, even the Weaponsmaster.

“Even so,” Kamozh said. “I don’t know if it is Khûr who has placed us here, or the Trickster. But we will have honor.”

The retainers were silent, but one by one slipped back into the “embracing dirt” position as they placed themselves in submission to his leadership. Even Shekanre did so, saying nothing.

Kamozh looked at them, and sighed. “Get up,” he said quietly. “All of you, get up. We will meet the future on our feet, not our bellies.”

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 55

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 55

“Paranoia,” Vaughan said quietly. Caitlin turned to him, realization dawning in her own mind. “We’re not . . .”

“. . .the first alien race they’ve met,” Caitlin completed the thought. “Damn, but that makes sense. That would explain everything that’s happened.” She thought some more, then said, “Open that channel to Tully back up, please.”

After a few moments, she heard, “Tully here. What’s up, Caitlin?”

“Colonel Tully, we’re coming to the conclusion over here that the Khûrûsh have had at least one bad experience with another alien race, maybe more than one.”

There was a whistle, then, “Yeah, I can see that. We’re starting to get more conversation going, over here. I’ll make sure that gets added to the questions.”

“And one more thing, Gabe,” Caitlin said.

“Yeah?”

“I really want to know if they have ever seen or heard of the Ekhat. Show them pictures of Ekhat and Ekhat ships. If they’ve been traumatized, well, who do we know is the most likely candidate to do the traumatizing?”

“Got it. Will do.”

“Thanks.”

****

Third-Mordent was again blade dancing; again with a male who was larger and stronger and perhaps faster. He was also smarter than her last opponent. He did not rush her, simply strode forward, forehand blades at the ready, head down and red eyes glaring at her.

She danced aside from his first blow, diverted his second to the side, and spun inside the reach of his blades, blocked both the grasping claw and the small manipulator with a movement of one of her own forehand blades while she reached up and carved a crescent around one of his eyes with the other.

The male recoiled with a hiss of pain, and Third-Mordent danced away, untouched.

White ichor was flowing down over the male’s eye, half-blinding him. He repeatedly shook his head, slinging the ichor in spatters around him, but the gash was wide and the flow profuse. His manipulators would not reach that high.

At that moment, Third-Mordent knew that she could complete the male. It might take her more than a few passages in the dance, but she could do it. Ninth-Minor-Sustained had not cautioned her against it, so it would be permitted. She cocked her head to one side, viewing the male from the perspective that displayed the fresh wound to its best advantage. Would completing this one be wasteful, she considered. Fewer males survived the crèches than females, and there had been generations that had been blighted by a lack of viable males.

Third-Mordent formed a leit-motif in her mind, then sang it. The male turned his head so that his clear eye focused on Third-Mordent. She danced around him in a controlled slow pavane; he turned to follow her.

She sounded the leit-motif again; his body started trembling. At first it seemed to be the predator urge–but no, his head was lifting. Still, he was poised with forehand blades ready, tensed, poised, intent. It surprised her that, as intensely as he appeared to desire to spring on her, he was restraining himself. She darted a glance at Ninth-Minor-Sustained, who stood at one end, a looming monolith, unmoving.

Third-Mordent focused her gaze back to the male, sounding the leit-motif a third time. He edged away from her, raising his forehand blades. She flowed to one side; the male turned, but stepped back a pace. She stepped the other direction. He backed away from her.

Step by step, slow move by slow move, she danced and he retreated.

He ended in a corner, hemmed in, unable to dance away. Third-Mordent paused in front of him, poised, one forehand blade still and one drawing a slow line in the air. The one clear eye moved between the moving blade and her face. The blade stopped, and so did the eye.

The pose held for a long moment.

“Enough.” Ninth-Minor-Sustained broke her silence and her pose. Third-Mordent stepped away and relaxed, lifting her own head and folding forehand blades away.

The male didn’t move as Ninth-Minor-Sustained approached him, singing a soliloquy. Her manipulator lifted a cauterizer to treat the male’s wound, and Third-Mordent smelled the order of burned flesh. Ninth-Minor-Sustained stepped back and waved a manipulator at the male, who folded his own forehand blades away and moved to the nearest door, slipping through it when it irised open.

Third-Mordent stood still, head high and manipulators lifted, as Ninth-Minor-Sustained turned to face her.

“And now you see the third lesson of control–controlling others. We begin–now.”

Third-Mordent felt a frisson of fear at how Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s voice did a rapid glissando into her lowest register. The fundamental pitch she attained resonated with overtones that pierced Third-Mordent’s mind in ominous ways.

****

Lim turned away from the hologram that was floating in front of the entranced Kamozh. “He says they have never seen anything like that ship.”

“Okay, show him the Ekhat next,” Tully said, watching over Boyes’ shoulder. The Khûrûsh-an had reacted in surprise when Tully had entered the room, but had quickly settled down when Tully had simply merged into the Boyes/Lim group.

Lim touched a control on her com pad, and the hologram flickered and changed to the floating form of an Ekhat adult.

Kamozh recoiled with another baritone hiss. He chattered away at Lim, pointing an emerged claw at the hologram.

“He says that that is a monster indeed, nastier than anything they have ever seen.”

“So they have never seen the Ekhat before?”

Lim spoke to Kamozh. He chattered back at her. She turned back to Tully. “Never to his knowledge.”

****

Caitlin pointed to Vaughan. “Put it on public, please.”

After a moment, Tully’s voice was heard in the command deck.

“Caitlin, here’s what we have at the moment. First of all, the larger ships use more missiles, some of the same type as we’ve seen, but some also with nuclear warheads.”

Dannet turned at that note and began issuing quiet orders to the communication technician.

“Second,” Tully continued, “according to the one guest who is talking, once we get beyond the orbit of the outermost planet, the Khûrûshil ships should break off. Definitely if we move on past the outer cometary ring.

“And last, they have apparently never seen the Ekhat.”

“Okay, thanks. Keep us posted if you get more information out of them.”

“Will do.”

****

Some hours had passed, and the Terran fleet was moving well beyond the shell of the fifth planet’s orbit, continuing to head for the frontiers of the Khûrûsh system. Caitlin’s flotilla had rejoined the fleet without more combat, although the Khûrûshil ships from the inmost planet had launched a few missiles at their closest approach, a couple of which Pool Buntyam had blown out of existence just to be safe. The Jao propulsion technology was definitely superior to the natives’, and once the Terran ships were clear of the possibility of direct interception, their lead kept increasing.

Once the fleet was clear, Caitlin returned to her quarters.

She had not intended to go to sleep, just to rest for a few moments, but she awoke to her com pad pinging at her. Rolling out of the bunk, she tapped a control. “Yes?”

“Director, you’d better get back to the command deck.” That was a Jao voice she didn’t place. “We have ships jumping into the sun.”

“Who . . . never mind. On my way.”

Caitlin didn’t say anything to her guards as she flew by them. They managed to catch up to her by the time she reached the lift to the command deck. “Come on, come on, come on,” she urged the lift.

When the doors opened, Caitlin burst out into the command deck. “What’s happening?” she demanded.

“Two ships in the sun, one emerging from the photosphere,” Terra-Captain Uldra responded as the lift door irised open and a dripping wet fleet commander entered the deck. Dannet had obviously been in the pool when the notice reached her. “More about to arrive.” The lift door irised open again, this time admitting Lieutenant Vaughan who slid into his workstation and started tapping control pads like a drummer.

“Are they Ekhat?” Caitlin’s heart was in her throat.

Before Uldra responded, one of the communications techs called out, “Contact made, asking for Director Kralik.”

“Put it on the screen,” she ordered, pointing to the main view screen. The system template display snowed out, then cleared to reveal a very familiar face.

“Hello, Caitlin,” said Aille.