Eric Flint's Blog, page 205

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 61

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 61

Jonathan nodded. “I’ll get onto it as the moment I get home.”

Phillip walked Jonathan to the door and watched him put the folders and jar of ointment into one of his bicycle’s saddlebags. Then, with a quick wave Jonathan was on his bike and pedaling away. Phillip waved him off and turned round, to find the expectant faces of Hans, Michael, and Kurt watching him.

“Jonathan has agreed to check the English translations before passing them on to Herr Trelli to check the explanations you wrote,” he told them.

“Herr Trelli won’t find anything wrong with the explanations,” Kurt said.

Phillip was in total agreement. A lot of the booklets were taken straight out of a selection of up-time chemistry textbooks. The only way the booklets could be wrong was if the textbooks were wrong, and that was unlikely, because surely the textbooks had been written by knowledgeable up-timers.

A few days later, Grantville

It was a fine Saturday afternoon when Jonathan walked over to Trelli’s GoodCare pharmacy with the printouts. As he entered the pharmacy he looked around. Not seeing Mr. Trelli anywhere he headed for the counter. “Hi, Mrs. Little. Is Mr. Trelli around? I’ve got something I want to show him.”

“Lasso’s . . .” Susan Little looked up, and whistled. “What happened to your eye?”

Jonathan sighed. The bruising around his eye couldn’t go down soon enough. “I was helping out with Tracy Kubiak’s Ladies Self-Defense course and I caught a swinging arm,” he explained for what felt like the thousandth time.

Susan winced and leaned closer to have a better look at Jonathan’s eye. “Are you using anything for the bruising?”

“Dr. Gribbleflotz gave me something that seems to be working.”

“Oh? What?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Just some ointment.”

Susan looked skyward for a few second before shaking her head and looking at Jonathan. “I haven’t heard of any Dr. Gribbleflotz ointment. How long has he been making it? We’d be happy to sell yet another Dr. Gribbleflotz product.”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “I guess I can ask him next time I see him.”

Susan nodded. “You do that. Just remember though, that Lasso will want to know what goes into it before he’s willing to sell it.”

“Willing to sell what?” Lasso Trelli asked as he appeared at his office door. “Hi, Jonathan. What brings you here today?” Lasso’s eyes locked onto Jonathan’s eye. “Who hit you?”

“One of the girls at Mrs. Kubiak’s Ladies Self Defense class accidently hit me,” Jonathan explained for the one thousand and first time. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

Jonathan pulled the printouts from the satchel he had across his shoulder and offered them to Lasso. “Some of Dr. Gribbleflotz’ laborants have got together to prepare a multilingual booklet for each of the Dr. Gribbleflotz alchemy sets that explains the science behind each of the experiments, and I offered to ask you to check out their chemistry.”

Lasso had a quick skim through the pages. “Did you type these up?” he asked.

Jonathan nodded.

“You used a spellchecker, didn’t you?”

Jonathan nodded.

“It shows,” Lasso said. He waved the printouts. “What’re they planning on doing with these?”

“They want to sell booklets to accompany the chemistry sets.”

Lasso nodded. “I’ll have a look at them. If they’re any good, we might cut a deal to include them in the chemistry sets.”

“Thanks, Mr. Trelli.”

“No, thank you, Jonathan.” He studied Jonathan’s eye for a few seconds. “I’ve got an ointment that’ll help with the swelling,” he offered.

Jonathan shook his head. “Thanks, Mr. Trelli, but Dr. Gribbleflotz has already given me something for my eye.”

“Really? Is it any good?”

Jonathan nodded. “You should have seen my eye before I started using it.”

“Do you have some I can run some tests on?”

Jonathan shook his head. “I’d rather you talked to Dr. Gribbleflotz before doing anything like that, Mr. Trelli.”

Lasso nodded. “Fair enough.” He shook the printouts. “I’ll have a look at these and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Trelli,” Jonathan said. He waved to Susan as he walked out of the store. He paused outside the door to consider his options. He was felling hungry, but he didn’t like paying for food when there was plenty waiting back home. With the thought of saving a couple of dollars he turned to head home. A short distance away he thought he recognized Richelle Kubiak pushing a Baby Jogger. He let his eyes follow her as she walked away from him.

Richelle was obviously enjoying a walk in the sun, waving to people she knew, and Jonathan was just about to turn the other way and head home when he saw her do a double-take and speed up. Where previously her progress had been carefree, now there was a sense of urgency as she took the side street that led to the shortcut over the hill to Mahan Run

Jonathan searched for what had scared her, and saw a heavyset man staring after her. That wasn’t unexpected. Lots of men stared at attractive young women as they walked past. But then the man started walking purposefully in Richelle’s wake. It could just be nothing, but Jonathan felt sure something about that man had scared Richelle. He started after them.

****

Richelle was desperately trying not to panic. Had that really been her step-father’s brother? Had he recognized her? How had he found her? Was it just an accident that he’d been visiting Grantville and seen her, or had he come to Grantville because he knew she was living there? She glanced back over her shoulder, but the trees meant visibility along the dirt track she was following was limited to twenty or so yards. She increased speed.

****

Jonathan didn’t like the idea of Richelle being followed up the shortcut by a man who scared her and the sooner he caught up with her the better. He started jogging. A few hundred yards later he heard screaming and started running.

He rounded a corner in time to see Richelle swing a branch at the man. It broke, leaving her weaponless and off balance. The man threw her to the ground and pulled a knife.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Jonathan shouted. It was a silly question, but it served the purpose of distracting the man’s attention. He continued to approach, breathing heavily as he struggled to recover his breath.

“This is none of your business,” the man said. “This harlot have been condemned to death for the crime of incest.” He turned his head to spit in Richelle’s direction. “She entrapped my brother, and they were both convicted and sentenced to death. My brother was executed immediately while the whore’s execution was delayed until after she gave birth to my niece. But she escaped.” he turned to glare at Richelle. “You will tell me who helped you before I execute you.”

Jonathan was scared. The man was shorter than him but probably had thirty pounds on him, and none of it looked like fat. He was also armed with a knife. The man didn’t look particularly skilled with the knife, but it still gave him an advantage. “Drop the knife,” he said. “Your laws don’t apply here in Grantville.”

“God’s law applies everywhere,” the man said as he turned to face Jonathan. “She’s entrapped you too has she? Just like she entrapped my brother.”

There was a religious fervor in the man’s eyes that told Jonathan he wouldn’t listen to reason. Not that Jonathan was particularly interested in getting him to listen to reason. He’d heard enough to know that the man constituted a risk to Richelle’s continued safety. The law in Grantville might not condemn a victim of incest to death, but he wasn’t sure were Grantville’s law stood on extradition. That left him with only one possible course of action. Jonathan licked his dry lips and advanced on the man. “I’m not going to let you hurt Richelle.”

“Then I will kill you first,” the man said as he came at Jonathan, swinging the knife in front of him in an arc.

Jonathan kept his eye on the knife as he slowly closed the distance.

A backhanded swing of the knife forced Jonathan to skip back out of reach, but when the man swung the knife back the other way Jonathan’s long hours of training took over. His left hand swung, grabbing the man’s knife hand. Moments later his right hand joined his left hand. With a double-hand grip on the knife hand Jonathan twisted the wrist as he swung his arms up and spun under the swinging arm. This caused the man’s arm to bend so that the knife was now pointed at his gut. At this point Jonathan’s brain caught up with what his body was doing – a number four knife counter. He pushed hard, trying to drive the knife into the man, but he lacked momentum to stick more than the point into the man’s body. It was a conscious decision to slam his knee into the pommel of the knife, driving it into the man’s body.

The man screamed and crumbled. Jonathan released his grip on the knife hand and stood there, staring at the man whimpering on the ground, clutching at the knife buried into his body just below his ribs.

Jonathan staggered back a few steps, almost standing on Richelle as he fixated on the handle of the knife moving as the man breathed. The look on the man’s face as he struggled to remove the knife was just as distressing. “Don’t remove the knife!” he called, to no avail.

After a struggle the man managed to pull out the knife and tried to sit up. The bloodstain on his jacket grew, and then he fell backwards.

Jonathan swallowed the bile trying to rise from his stomach as he gingerly approached the man and felt for a pulse. It was there, barely. He stared at the still growing bloodstain on the man’s abdomen. He knew the theory. A knife left in place could stem the flow of blood from severed veins and arteries, but if you removed it, the blood could flow. The man had only minutes before he would be beyond help.

Jonathan turned his mind back to the living. Richelle was just getting back to her feet and appeared deeply shocked. He thought about offering her his jacket, but he caught sight of Lenya with her blanket lightly covering her. Under the circumstances, he thought, that would probably be better. He quickly exchanged his jacket for the blanket and draped the blanket around Richelle’s shoulders. She pulled it tight and inhaled. Jonathan saw her shoulders relax and mentally complimented him on his good sense. He wasn’t sure how she would have reacted if she’d smelt the sweat on his jacket.

“We have to go back to town and report this,” Jonathan told Richelle.

She stared at him blankly, so Jonathan wheeled the baby buggy around to face the way they’d come and gently nudged Richelle along until they were both heading back to town. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder. The man was in shadow, so he couldn’t tell if he was still bleeding. He might have a better chance of survival if Jonathan ran back for help, but that would have meant leaving Richelle and Lenya alone.

Grantville Police Station

“Hold that position,” Fred Sebastian said.

Jonathan did the best he could to do what he was told as the flash illuminated him.

“That’s it. I don’t think there are any more angles I can take,” Fred said. He turned to Jonathan. “Do you have any injuries that I haven’t photographed?”

Jonathan shook his head. “No, you’ve got them all, and I don’t understand why you’re bothering. He touched his black eye. “This wasn’t caused by the guy I fought today. He didn’t touch me. I got the shiner from Richelle.”

“During Tracy Kubiak’s latest ladies self-defense class,” Officer Estes Frost hastened to say.

Fred looked up from winding back the spool of film he’d just shot. “You volunteered to help out at one of those blood fests?”

“Sensei said I had to prove my temperament if I want to go for my black belt this year,” Jonathan said.

“Was it worth it?” Fred asked.

Jonathan thought of how Richelle had fought back today. “Yes,” he said.

Fred shrugged. “Well, if you think a black belt is worth getting beaten up by a bunch of dangerous females. . .” He turned to Estes. “How soon do you want the prints?”

“Any time in the next couple of days,” Estes said. He turned to Jonathan. “Now, let’s get your statement.”

Jonathan watched Fred Sebastian, who had to be at least seventy, walk away. “Why did you make him walk up the hill to photograph the body?” he asked.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 01

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 01

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught

By Eric Flint

PART I

April, 1636

Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what’s a heaven for?

Chapter 1

Regensburg, Upper Palatinate

The march from Regensburg was supposed to have begun at dawn — and so it did, in a manner of speaking. The cavalry patrols had actually passed through the city’s gates before sunrise. Right on schedule.

But now that he’d been a general for almost a year, Mike Stearns had learned that military time schedules bore precious little resemblance to what he’d considered “punctuality” in those innocent days when he’d been a civilian. In this, as in so many things, Carl von Clausewitz’s old dictum applied. Perhaps better to say, the future dictum, since the man wouldn’t even be born for another century and a half, and then in a different universe.

By now, Mike had memorized the damn thing: Everything in war is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult.

He knew Clausewitz’s axiom as well as he knew Murphy’s Law — which applied to military matters even more stringently than it did to the affairs of civilians.

Civilians. Those happy-go-lucky, carefree, insouciant folk in whose ranks Mike could vaguely remember himself being counted once. Back in those halcyon days when he’d been a coal miner worried about nothing more substantial than methane explosions and roof falls. Or the prime minister of a nation, whose frets over issues of war and peace, prosperity and poverty, and the schemes and plots of traitors and malcontents had never troubled what he remembered as blissful sleep.

Pfah. Tell a cabinet member to do something, be it never so problematic and ticklish, and the task would get done — started upon, at least — within the hour.

Tell an army to do something as simple and straightforward as walk out of a town — just walk, no running required — and move on down the road — fifteen miles, maybe twenty; no more — and you’d be lucky if the ass end of the army made it through the gates by noon. The camp followers coming behind wouldn’t manage the feat until mid-afternoon.

He could also remember a time when he’d intended to eradicate the pernicious seventeenth century military custom of having camp followers in the first place. He’d been brought up as a stout American lad, watching John Wayne movies. You never saw a mob of camp followers trailing after John Wayne, did you? Sands of Iwo Jima, The Longest Day, The Fighting Seabees — not a camp follower anywhere in sight. Not even in his civil war movie, The Horse Soldiers. For that matter, not even in the movie where he’d portrayed the Mongol emperor Genghis Khan, The Conqueror, although Mike wasn’t entirely sure about that. The film had been such a turkey that he’d stopped watching it halfway through. It was possible that a stray camp follower might have wandered across the stage toward the end.

Not likely, though. And it wasn’t just the movies. Mike had served a three-year stint in the United States Army. That would be the army of the United States of America, long before the Ring of Fire happened.

Did the U.S. Army have camp followers? Not unless you counted the families living on a military base — but that wasn’t really the same thing at all. When American soldiers went on campaign back up-time, their families stayed behind. They sure as hell didn’t trail after the soldiers like a gigantic caravan.

Caravan? It was more like a circus train without rails. All that was missing were elephants and a carousel.

“I’d think you’d have become accustomed to this by now, General.”

Turning in the saddle, Mike saw that his aide Christopher Long had come up behind him and was now almost alongside.

“I think a grin like that on an adjutant’s face when addressing his commanding officer is probably a court-martial offense,” Mike said. He wondered if he sounded as sour as he felt. “I still have the occasional daydream about a lightning offensive. We even had a name for it where and when I came from: Blitzkrieg.”

By then, his other aide, Ulbrecht Duerr, had ridden up in time to hear his last sentence.

“‘Blitzkrieg,’ is it? Lightning war. Ha! No wonder those stupid German descendants of ours lost most of their wars. Went charging out without proper consideration of what it takes to keep the supplies coming.”

He now looked at Long. “Have you noticed, Christopher, that our commander is always disgruntled at the beginning of a campaign?”

Long smiled. “Oh, yes. I’ve come to expect it.”

Mike was about to make some retort but…

Was it true? What he really that predictable?

He thought back on previous campaigns.

Well, maybe. After the first one, anyway. Well. After the first day of the first one.

“Remind me again why I don’t ban all camp followers,” he said.

“First, because the men would probably mutiny,” said Duerr. The cheery tone in which he said that was surely a court-martial offense. Court-martialable? Mike wasn’t sure of the proper usage — which just went to show he was still a civilian at heart. Carefree, happy-go-lucky…

“We’d have to hope they’d mutiny,” added Long, “because if they didn’t, they’d soon enough start dying of hunger or exhaustion or disease — or any combination thereof.”

“On account of there’d be no one to feed them or keep their clothing reasonably clean,” Duerr continued, still sounding cheery.

“Or tuck them in at night and sing them lullabies,” Mike grumbled.

“This sort of bitterness really doesn’t suit a man as young as you are, General. Look at me! Much older than you, I am — not to mention properly scarred in a soldierly manner.”

He held up a crooked forefinger, which hadn’t healed quite properly after being broken at the Battle of Ostra outside Dresden. Duerr had several scars on his body which were actually more impressive, but they were covered by his uniform — and besides, he was inordinately proud of this one. He’d defeated an enemy cavalryman in hand-to-hand combat even though his injury had forced him to fight left-handed.

Mike had had his own adventures in that battle, and quite splendid ones at that. He’d had two horses shot out from under him. Not one — two. But he’d come out of it quite unscarred, at least bodily.

Whether he’d come out of it unscarred mentally as well…

Too soon to know, he thought. He didn’t think he’d developed PTSD so far, if “developed” was the proper term to use. He’d have to ask Maureen Grady the next time he saw her. She ran the Department of Social Services and was probably — no, almost certainly — the best psychologist in the world.

Having settled that issue to his momentary satisfaction, he went back to grousing about what really bothered him on this sunny day in April of 1636.

“Is it really too much to expect an army to move faster than an old lady with a walker?”

“Is a ‘walker’ something like a cane?” asked Christopher Long. “If so, the answer is ‘yes.’ A competent crone can out-hobble any army in the world.”

“Taken as a whole,” Duerr qualified. “A detached cavalry unit could certainly run her down. Flying artillery also.”

****

Had he cross-checked that last assertion with the commander of the Third Division’s flying artillery, Duerr would have gotten an argument. Lieutenant Colonel Thorsten Engler, normally a calm and phlegmatic officer, was having as close to an apoplectic fit as such a man could manage. He was even swearing a little. At least, by Thorsten Engler values of swearing.

Only under his breath, though. The actual swearing was being done by a lieutenant whom Thorsten was observing, since it would have been inappropriate for the commanding officer to deal with the problem directly.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 46

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 46

Chapter 24

Third-Mordent stood in the center of Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s great hall, listening to the antiphonal servient choirs render her latest work, a ricercare inspired by the actions of Seventh-flat during the blade-dance that had left so many Ekhat completed. Unlike Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s usual practice, she had segregated the choirs by species: Anj, Trīkē, and even hard to locate and preserve Huilek, not common in the quadrants controlled by the harmony master’s faction. Two small choirs of each servient species provided strong voicing of the characteristic timbres of each species, which Third-Mordent had used in building the piercing harmonies of the ricercare.

A flicker of motion caught out of the corner of her eye resolved into the presence of Ninth-Minor-Sustained. Third-Mordent immediately went still.

Ninth-Minor-Sustained listened to the ricercare with what appeared to be pleasure, judging from the manner in which her forehand blades exposed their edges at certain moments in the work. The shrill descant of the Anj brought an edge of agony to the work as it was laid atop the staccato chanting of the Huilek. The fundamental structure of the work was declared and determined by the resonant point and counterpoint of the Trīkē singers. There was an invidious, inexorable, even implacable motion imparted to the music by the cycling of the fundamental theme by the Trīkē that elevated the work well above a level that an Ekhat of Third-Mordent’s attainments should have reached.

As the work began its third iteration, Ninth-Minor-Sustained intervened with a fluted “Cease.” There was immediate quiet. The choirs were frozen in place, panting. “Disperse,” the harmony master intoned. Within moments, the two Ekhat were alone in the room as the last of the Trīkē hurtled through a doorway, all six limbs scrabbling to make the turn in the corridor as the door irised shut behind it.

Third-Mordent remained still. Her control was excellent by this point. There was no pressure from instincts or hungers; only alertness and focus as Ninth-Minor-Sustained stalked around her.

The harmony master moved to face Third-Mordent. “Excellent,” she trilled. “You have learned the first lesson of control: do nothing without intent.” That took the form of a semi-toned downward scale.

Ninth-Minor-Sustained looked away from her descendant. “This was interesting,” she sang in a soft soliloquy. “I will remember the choirs.” There was a moment of silence, before the harmony master sang in multi-toned voicing that verged on Dissonance, “Destroy the music.”

Almost that made Third-Mordent lose her posture. Perhaps an eye twitched, or a manipulator quivered for a moment. Ninth-Minor-Sustained whirled and shrieked, “Still!”

The tonal blast affected Third-Mordent’s central nerves, causing jets of pain all along her central nerve trunk. Her vision whited out instantly, and for long moments even her physical sensations were loosened. Gradually all sensations returned to normal, and her eyes cleared. It surprised her that she was still standing in the same position. It would not have astonished her if she had been sprawling on the floor when her perceptions resumed.

Ninth-Minor-Sustained was very close to her, edges of forehand blades exposed. The harmony master’s gaze was very sharp. Third-Mordent returned the gaze in kind.

After a moment Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s blades retreated into their sheathes, and she moved back one step. “Good,” she returned to the soliloquy mode.

Third-Mordent remained silent. At length, the harmony master turned and walked over to the window in the corner, the one that gave a viewpoint into space.

“It is time for you to learn the second lesson of control,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained sang in a pure tone, its simplicity underscoring the import of the lesson. “Never give anything away.” The harmony master looked to Third-Mordent. “Release.”

The younger Ekhat retained her posture for a long moment after Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s command. The harmony master was staring out the window, but Third-Mordent could see her ancestress’ eyes reflected in the window surface, so she knew that she was still under observation herself. Only when there was no doubt in her mind that she would betray no weakness did she move, taking deliberate steps until she stood just to the left of the harmony master. She remained silent, and waited. A long moment passed. Ninth-Minor-Sustained at length made a gesture of approval.

Third-Mordent broke her silence. “Why?”

Nine-Minor-Sustained was, predictably, indirect. “First, never reveal all your skill to anyone. Not in harmony; not in blade-dancing; not in melody. Never.”

Third-Mordent dipped a manipulator in a gesture of understanding.

The harmony master continued with, “Second, never praise anyone not of your faction, your lineage, or under your control. Never.” With another whisper-aria, Ninth-Minor-Sustained sang, “The ricercare was well done indeed, but if I could see Seventh-flat limned in its harmonies, so could others.”

Third-Mordent again fluted, “Why?”

This time Ninth-Minor-Sustained was more direct, responding in dirge mode, “The youngling that began the blade-dancing,” and there was no question who was being referred to, “the one that Seventh-flat completed, was the latest and last of her personal progeny, newly come from the contests of the creche.”

Third-Mordent absorbed that and considered all the implications before responding, “Can Seventh-flat touch you?”

Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s response was, “Not yet.” She turned from the window and left without another note.

****

The Khûrûsh response came as the Lexington crossed the orbit of Khûr-liyo. Unfortunately, it was not a response that Caitlin wanted to hear.

“Spacecraft launches detected!” a Jao sensor tech called out. “Coming from three locations on the moon. Three, no, more, ten, sixteen, eighteen craft detected.”

“Twelve more detected launching from two bases on the planet,” a human tech called out.

“What propulsion system are they using?” Dannet snapped out.

“Wait, wait,” the Jao tech said. Numbers and characters flashed up on the main view screen. “Nothing like Jao or Ekhat systems.”

“It’s an atomic rocket engine,” the human tech called out. “High thrust, hydrogen fuel, speed and duration of maneuvering limited only by amount of reaction mass.”

Vaughan’s fingers were flying pulling in the sensor reports and at the same time calling up the human files he had a vague recollection of reading while he was in the naval academy. He looked at the readouts. The Khûrûsh craft were already building up a surprising velocity. But the shielding on those things was criminally thin. Granted that the atomic piles in those rocket engines couldn’t be very large, but the radiation being emitted would be lethal in very short order to anyone not behind shields of some kind. They weren’t even as effective as the NERVA designs the humans had never put into use.

“Uldra, take evasive action!” Dannet ordered. “Pool Buntyam, Ban Chao, join on Lexington from north, Arjuna from south.”

“What are you doing?” Caitlin demanded.

Vaughan suppressed a snort. “Bloody obviously buying time,” he muttered as he continued to make notes of what was going on.

The Fleet Commander turned to Director Kralik. “That,” she said, pointing a finger at the main view screen, “is a hostile launch. Those are warcraft, closing on an attack heading. We are getting some maneuvering room until we can see what their plans are, and calling in reinforcements so they can be of use when we need them.”

“You don’t know they’re going to attack,” Caitlin responded.

“Missile launch!” the human tech shouted. Dannet looked sternly at the director, and her body flowed through a sequence of angles Vaughan couldn’t follow. Then she turned away.

Everyone on the command deck turned their eyes to the main view screen, where small slivers of light had detached from the leading group of the ships launched from the moon and were racing ahead toward the Lexington. “Laser decks, fire on the missiles!” Terra-Captain Uldra’s voice snapped that order out immediately.

Caitlin turned to Pyr. “Shut off the automatic broadcast, and for God’s sake start telling them to back off before they get destroyed! Tell them we want to talk, not fight, but we will defend ourselves. Get that out now!”

 

Through Fire – Snippet 45

Through Fire – Snippet 45

Brother

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Simon said. “It is precisely that simple.”

Brisbois was quiet a long time. Then he sighed, “Simon,” he said, and it was the first time I’d heard him call my friend by his first name, but it must not be the first time he’d done it, because there was no surprised reaction. However, the tone in which Alexis said “Simon” was more earnest and pleading than when he said “Patrician” or “Good Man” or “Protector” or “St. Cyr.”

“Simon,” he said again. “I know what your plans were. I know what you wanted to do, but I don’t think it’s possible. I think you’re going to give up something of your dream, to change it, and I think even you will see it. There are people whose lives depend on your actions, on your assuming responsibility. Innocent lives that have done nothing to deserve the hell about to be unleashed on them.”

Simon stood up, his movements jerky. I realized for the first time that he was very tired. I thought if he’d slept since the attack on the palace it had been catnaps, possibly in not very safe refuges. And once more I wondered where he’d been and why.

He shook his head. His mouth hardened. “I am tired of being responsible for people,” he said. “I am tired of being told that the lives of innocents depend on me.”

The statement shocked me, said like that, in the full light, well, not of day but of a relatively well-lit cheap motel room. All my life I’d been told I was responsible for others. Because I was faster, smarter, stronger, I was supposed not only to look after those I liked, but to make sure that even those I didn’t like didn’t somehow run afoul of me. So, for instance, no matter how bad their offenses against me, I wasn’t allowed to challenge anyone to a duel, because if I killed them and in the process showed how much better I was, though I might be technically correct, everyone in Eden would turn against me.

My brother — to call him that — Kit, had it easier than I because he had been bioengineered, visibly, as a cat as the pilots of darkships were called. He had the eyes that looked — though weren’t, exactly — feline, and so everyone knew he also had reflexes faster than any normal human being. As such, he could excuse himself from a duel by pleading the advantage this would give him. He could admit to being better than normal humans at a myriad things and they’d leave him alone.

I couldn’t. Not unless the ability in dispute were navigation or an instinctive feel for machinery. For some reason those weren’t often brought up in normal everyday life.

So I was in the unenviable position of having to be responsible for both myself and others, of avoiding injury even to those who openly courted it by antagonizing me. It didn’t make for a sweet disposition. I narrowed my eyes at Simon, who was crossing his arms on his chest, narrowing his eyes and glaring daggers at Brisbois.

I had never agreed so much with anyone, and yet something nagging at the back of my head told me Simon had no right to shrug off the load his birth had imposed on him just because he was tired of it.

“You can’t give up your responsibility just because you’re tired,” Brisbois said, softly, in the sort of voice a man uses to speak to an injured child. “I understand your exasperation, and I understand why you’re tired of it all. I approved of and agreed with your plan, remember? You were going to give up rule, and you were going to go off and be a colonist in the territories, with no more responsibility to Liberte than any other citizen.” He glanced sideways at me, for just a second, but suddenly I knew, with absolute certainty, as though it had been said, that part of Simon’s plan included marrying me. I wasn’t sure if I was offended at the idea that he thought he could just marry me if he wished, or if I was touched at his plan. Of course, someone like Simon wouldn’t know rejection. How could he? He’d been born the heir to the Good Man of Liberte. Anything within the confines of the isle would have been his for the asking. Everything except freedom to be himself.

And on that I was flattered that he understood he couldn’t have me as his lady, as a Good Man. He wanted me as a friend and a partner, not a decoration. I looked at him with softer feelings than I’d ever entertained, as Brisbois went on, “Then when this horrible attack happened, I went along with the rougher plan that we were going to get you executed — and to hurry it up with false rescue attempts — so that you could disappear, knowing that at the same time that you and I were going to rescue every one of our kind we could. But that plan has escaped our hands as much as your former plan, Simon. We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Simon’s protest had all the petulant defiance of the very young.

“Because, Patrician, it’s gotten out of control. We meant to re-create the revolution, did we not, without the dark side of it? Well, you meant to do so. I wasn’t sure the feat was possible, but I liked the idea and encouraged you to try it. Except that, just like the first revolution, back in ancient France, it has all fallen in the wrong hands. For reasons beyond our control, you couldn’t stay in power and slowly guide people to greater freedom and a more equitable society. You were deposed, the palace was attacked, people got killed, and then Rose seized control and more people were killed.”

“Rose…” Simon rubbed his hand across his face, as though trying to get rid of cobwebs. I wondered how tired he really was. “She is a problem.”

“No, what Rose is,” Alexis said, “is insane. She’s not in control of the populace because she’s not in control of herself. There are ways people like us can go. We, I mean, not the improved ones, not people like Jonathan LaForce or Corin who are enhanced, but were still raised by real mothers and fathers, but people like Mailys and myself, and, I suppose you: the motherless ones, the surrogate born, the crèche raised. Once we find out who and what we are, we can come to terms with it and scream defiance in the face of the world, saying, yeah, I’m unnatural and what of it? I’ll show you what someone unnatural can do. Or we can hate what we are and envy everyone who was born of a real mother and a real father. We can let that corrode us and destroy the basic decency within us and our sanity too. It is insane to want what you can’t have. Most of us — you, I think — choose a mixed path. But Rose — Rose chose self-hate and envy at full throttle. She chose to hate herself and all like her, and to work to make sure that no one was ever created or ever lived who wasn’t born in the natural way and of natural parents.”

“Myself, you suppose?” Simon said. It felt like a scream, and wasn’t any less scary for being said at normal voice. “Do you have any idea how much more I had to bear, finding out I’d been born, not even as someone designed for a purpose, but as a blank, one of those kept down in the… in the lab. That I was no one and nothing, but a body my putative father could take over to continue his life? Do you have any idea how that felt, particularly when I’d been raised to think of myself as… as special… the son and heir of the Good Man? Particularly when I had all these plans for what I was going to do to improve the lot of the seacity?

“And then to find out it was all a lie. And that yet, somehow, unless I wanted to be responsible for a monstrous invasion and massacre, I had to stay on; I had to devote my entire life to perpetuating a horrible regime because the alternative was worse? No, Alexis, you have no idea what I, myself, faced. And you have no right to tell me I have to keep on facing it. You don’t own me.”

The last came out as a roar.

Alexis Brisbois was quiet a long time after that, staring at Simon, who glared up at him. I thought that pose of indignation must be hard to maintain, that pitch of anger difficult to keep. I could almost see the flagging of his indignation behind his eyes, replaced not by calm but by an immense tiredness.

Alexis spoke again in the slow, patient tone, as though Simon were an overwrought child, “No one owns you. And some of us will help you, always, for the sake of what you’ve already done; what you’ve tried to do. But some of those people who served you are like Johnathan, Simon. They have families. Both the parents who agreed to have them improved, and the children they’ve sired. There are children like Tieri, orphaned and lost, who will get killed by the turmoil, or killed in the invasion. Right now, our best hope for resisting the invasion and coming out on the other side alive are the enhanced and trained people who are scattered and running. They will come to your voice, but to none other. Simon, the good and the bad will die together if this isn’t stopped.”

Simon’s face contracted in a snarl. “Damn you,” he said. “Damn you.” Then the snarl became something like a hiccup. “And I can die trying to protect the innocent, but no one, no one can stop this. Certainly not I. I am dead, Brisbois, as far as the seacity is concerned.”

Alexis shrugged. “Not so far as those of us who know you are concerned. I suggest, Simon, that to begin with we organize our people and take down–” He took a deep breath, “My wife and Jean Dechausse and the whole merry circus of blood-thirsty, power-hungry moral cripples. And then we can… perhaps, organize a defense. Hasty and of course it’s not guaranteed we’ll survive, but we can perhaps defend Liberte?”

Simon looked at him a long while, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I wish I could believe we had a chance.”

“I’ll stay,” I said. “I’ll help.”

“Will you?” A quick look of Simon’s and the old laughing mockery — maybe self-mockery — was back in his eyes. “You don’t have to, you know? We’re not your people and you owe us nothing, and there’s a good chance it’s going to end up with all of us dead.”

“Will it?” I asked. “And how am I not your kind? I also was assembled protein by protein and have no real parents. If I’m not your kind, I don’t know who is. And I also learned that it’s my responsibility to care for others, because they are weaker than myself.”

He put his hand to me and touched my fingers — just the tip. “I should send you away,” he said.

“Are you under the impression she’d stay away?” Brisbois asked, amusement in his voice. “Have you met Madame Sienna?”

Simon gave me a look with a raised eyebrow, as though asking me to corroborate or deny. I shrugged and shot what I hoped was a quelling glance at Brisbois, but I said, “I’m not going to hide and quake while you two go face danger. It’s not my style. And I owe you too much to repay it with indifference.”

“In the name of gratitude, she helped organize an attack on the prison.”

“You mean people died in it,” I said. “And I do understand that, but–”

“No, Madame Sienna. People dying in a situation like ours is inevitable. The point is to make sure the right people die. From what you said, you both killed some of the infiltrators making war on our people, and you freed some who were headed for execution. Your effort might have been misapplied, and that is our fault for not informing you of our plans, but even so you did more than we could have done on our own.” He gave Simon a look. “You see, Patrician, it is useless to keep her out of our plans.”

I was so stunned at being praised without irony by Brisbois and on something in which I thought I was guilty of a mistake too, that all I could do was mumble, “It was LaForce’s idea.”

But Simon only nodded as though all of this made perfect sense. He set his mouth in a hard line, and said, “Fine, then. Let’s set out and start gathering people who can help us fight Madame Parr and stop the invasion of the seacity.”

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 60

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 60

A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her round until she faced Tracy. “I mean it, Richelle. After lunch you can pad up and run through the same drills, but this time Jonathan will be allowed to use any counter he knows. It’ll be a whole new ballgame.”

“Bring it on!” Richelle said, using an Americanism Papa Ted often used.

That afternoon

Richelle was grabbed from behind. Immediately she grabbed for Jonathan’s right hand. Her right hand clamped his against her body while she ran her knuckles across the tendons on the back of the hand. When it released its grip she grabbed a couple of fingers and pushed them back. Her hand clamping Jonathan’s hand against her body formed a fulcrum against which she could apply pressure on Jonathan’s fingers. She smiled at him, confident that she had control of him.

Then something hit her in the midriff and she folded up. A moment later Jonathan wasn’t just free, he had her in an unfamiliar hold. One arm was levering her bent right arm so that she wanted to bend forward, while his other hand was pushing back at her shoulder. He wasn’t even really holding her, and he was still able to make her stand on tip-toes.

“Okay, you can let her go now, Jonathan,” Tracy said.

“Only if you grab hold of her so she doesn’t try and hurt me,” Jonathan said.

Richelle glared at Jonathan. He’d guessed that she was just waiting for him to let her go before retaliating.

Tracy grabbed her hand and Jonathan released his hold and jumped back a safe distance. Richelle made a move to attack him, but Mama Tracy had a firm grip on her.

“I told you not to be so cocky,” Tracy said.

“He hit me,” Richelle protested as she took in the interested expressions on the women who’d gathered around to watch the demonstration. “That wasn’t in the drill.”

“What did you expect him to do when you just stood there like that?” Tracy asked. She turned to Jonathan. “Would you like to demonstrate how Richelle should have reacted?

“Richelle, I want you to play the aggressor and grab Jonathan like he’s been grabbing you,” Tracy said.

Richelle ran her eyes up and down Jonathan’s nearly six foot frame, stopping when she met his eyes. He was smiling, and she just knew he was going to make her look foolish. “Do I have to?” she asked.

“The best way to learn is by experiencing the hold being applied to you,” Jonathan said before turning his back on Richelle and just standing there, waiting for her to start.

Richelle glanced around the gymnasium. Everyone but Jonathan was watching her. She swallowed and stepped up behind Jonathan and swung her arms around him. The next thing she knew she was yelping in pain because of the tension on her fingers.

“Okay, you can let her go now,” Tracy said.

Richelle settled her sore fingers safely under her arms and stared hard at Jonathan. He can’t have seen the daggers she was shooting at him, because he just smiled at her.

“You were too tentative,” Tracy said. “Now try again, but with a little more aggression.”

“Do I have to?” Richelle asked.

“Could I have a go?” Melanie Matowski asked.

Melanie was Miz Bitty’s youngest daughter, and she attended the same dance classes as Richelle. She was also one of a number of girls in the dance class that considered Jonathan Fortney cute. Richelle didn’t agree. Kittens and puppies were cute, not men like Jonathan.

“Okay,” Tracy said. “Are you ready, Jonathan?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Melanie, in your own time.”

Richelle watched as she swung her arms around Jonathan and hugged him. The thought that she seemed to be enjoying the contact flashed through her mind and she missed how Jonathan broke Melanie’s hold and skipped to one side while maintaining the finger lock. Melanie tried to lash out at him, but Jonathan was able to manipulate his hold so Melanie was unable to strike him no matter how much she tried.

“Okay, you can stop now!” Tracy said.

“How are we supposed to do that?” Richelle said. She waved at Jonathan. “He’s probably had years of training.”

“He has a name,” Tracy said pointedly, “And yes, Jonathan has had years of training.” She turned to Jonathan. “Do you have your black belt yet?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Sensei has invited me to grade this year.”

Tracy nodded before turning to the class. “Obviously none of you have the training to control someone like Jonathan was controlling Melanie, but then, I don’t expect you to.” She smiled. “No, if you are ever attacked and you get a finger lock like Jonathan just demonstrated, what you should do is immediately apply maximum force to dislocate the fingers.”

Richelle winced. Her fingers were sore enough as it was, she didn’t want to even imagine what they would feel like if Jonathan had dislocated them. She saw Mama Tracy was still talking and tuned back into what she was saying.

“Your demonstrated ability to hurt your assailant may cause him to cut and run, but if he does stick around, not only will the dislocated fingers make it difficult for him to grab you, the damaged hand will be extremely sensitive to being struck. If you are ever in that situation, don’t hesitate to attack that hand.” Tracy glanced around the class. “Okay, girls, pair off and take turns trying the counter you’ve just seen. Tommy, Jonathan, and I will roam around helping.

Late June, Jena

Philip was frowning at the letter he’d just received when he noticed Jonathan Fortney at the door of his study. Hastily he dropped the letter on the little occasional table beside his armchair. “Come on in and sit. Pull up a chair. How have you been?”

“Bad news?” Jonathan asked, gesturing to the letter Phillip had been reading as he limped over to one of the spare armchairs and collapsed into it.

Phillip glanced down at the letter he’d been reading and shook his head. “Just an inquiry from and old student of mine.”

“Anyone I might have heard of?”

“Johann Rudolf Glauber.”

Jonathan’s brows shot up. “The Johann Rudolf Glauber? The man who discovered Glauber’s salts?”

Phillip nodded reluctantly.

“And discovered how to make hydrochloric acid by adding common salt to sulphuric acid, and nitric acid by adding saltpetre to sulphuric acid?”

Phillip shot to his feet. “Johann Glauber did not discover how to make acidum salis by the action of Oil of Vitriol on common salt, nor did he discover how to make aqua fortis from Oil of Vitriol and saltpetre.”

“The encyclopedia I read seemed pretty sure, Dr. Gribbleflotz.”

Phillip started pacing. “I discovered those methods for myself more than ten years ago.” He stopped pacing to turn and glare at Jonathan. “Johann was my laborant for a year back then, and I taught him how to make acidum salis and aqua fortis using Oil of Vitriol.”

“Oh!”

Phillip nodded. “Yes, oh! Like everyone else with access to Grantville’s encyclopedias I too searched them for my name . . .”

“And didn’t find it,” Jonathan chipped in.

Phillip nodded. “And didn’t find it. But I did find my former student’s name, and that he was laying claim to my discoveries.”

“But not until 1648,” Jonathan said. “Why would he wait so long before claiming the methods as his own?”

Phillip shrugged. “Who knows? For that matter, who cares? In your history I was forgotten while Johann was remembered. Why? Because he was a self-promoter while I wasn’t. But this time I will beat him. I’ve learned from my mistakes. This time I’ve grasped the idea of self-promotion. This time I shall be remembered as the man who discovered how to make acidum salis and aqua fortis using Oil of Vitriol. Not some self-taught technician.”

“Didn’t you say he was your student for a year?”

Phillip glared at Jonathan for picking up on that little detail. He might have held his gaze long enough to force Jonathan to drop his eyes, or maybe that should have been eye, if he hadn’t suddenly noticed that Jonathan had a rather impressive black eye. “What happened to you?” he asked, gesturing towards the eye.

Jonathan brushed a finger lightly over the swelling that was trying to close his right eye. “I helped out at Frau Kubiak’s latest Ladies Self-defense course, and one of the girls accidently hit me in the eye.”

Phillip studied the eye and winced in sympathy. “I have an ointment that might help. Let me get you some.”

Jonathan held up a hand. “There’s no need, Dr. Gribbleflotz. I’ll be okay. I’m more interested in knowing why you wanted me to stop by?”

Phillip held up a single finger. “One moment,” he said before hurrying over to his desk and extracting three files from a drawer. “Have a look at these while I get the ointment.”

“What are they?” Jonathan asked as he accepted the folders.

“The laborants kept asking about the science behind the experiments in those sample alchemy sets you brought over, so Hans, Michael, and Kurt got together to prepare a booklet for each set that explains the science behind the experiments. We have them in three languages. I’m confident that the German and Latin versions are correct, but the manuscripts you have are the English translations, and while I can read and understand language very well, things go wrong when I try to speak or write in English.”

Jonathan flipped through the pages of one of the booklets, pausing to skim over what was written a couple of times. He looked up at Phillip. “But why do you want an English version? Hardly any of your laborants know more than a few words of English.”

Phillip nodded. “That’s true, but English is still a language of instruction in some technical subjects.”

“Only because the teachers aren’t sufficiently fluent in German or Latin yet.”

“Of course, but it means people are learning English, and that means that there is a market for an English translation, and best of all, with the three versions in the same booklet, the booklets can double as a language learning aid.” Phillip gestured to the file. “You have a look at them. I won’t be a moment.” He left Jonathan reading one of the manuscripts and hurried off to the store room and grabbed a jar of his special cure-all ointment with the added extracts of maggot. Jonathan was well into the first manuscript when he returned.

“How does it look?” Phillip asked as he opened the jar and placed it on the work table beside Jonathan.

Jonathan smiled at Phillip. “You were right. Things go wrong when you try to write in English.” He waved the manuscript. “Someone’s going to have to go through this and mark all the corrections that need to be made.”

“That’s the task for which I asked you to come.” Phillip smiled as he tilted Jonathan’s head back so he could study the swelling around Jonathan’s eye. “Hold still a moment.” He dug a finger into the ointment and applied it liberally to the swollen area before gently massaging it in.

“Ouch!” Jonathan’s cry of pain had Phillip backing off for a moment. “You want me to check the English in those manuscripts? Why?”

“Because you’re a native English speaker,” Phillip said as he started to gently massage in the ointment again, “and you don’t need to ask who wrote the original English translation.”

“Ah.” Jonathan tried to nod, but Phillip’s hold on his head prevented him from doing so. “You still haven’t told the Kubiaks that you understand English.”

“No. And I’d like to keep it a secret a little longer.” Phillip used a rag to gently wipe the excess ointment from Jonathan’s face before stepping back to inspect his handiwork. He nodded in satisfaction as he put the lid back on the jar and handed it to Jonathan. “I want you to gently massage a liberal coating of the ointment into the swelling twice a day for a week.”

“Thanks, Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Jonathan said as he accepted the jar.

Phillip waved away Jonathan’s thanks. “So, will you check my translation? I will pay you.”

“I’ll be happy to look at them, Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Jonathan said, “and there’s no need to pay me.”

“I insist.”

Jonathan held up the jar of ointment. “Then consider this payment.”

“It’s a lot of work,” Phillip said.

Jonathan shook his head. “I’ll type it all up on the computer at home and run it through the grammar and spell checker. It’ll hardly take any time at all. Then I can print everything out and pass it on to Herr Trelli to check the science.”

“If you’re sure,” Phillip said. He’d heard about the wondrous computers, but he’d never seen one working yet.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 45

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 45

Caitlin took a deep breath, and replied, “Very well. Begin.”

Dannet turned to the command deck. “Orders to the fleet: execute. Terra-Captain Uldra, begin.”

With that, the approach to the Khûrûsh began. Caitlin watched the main view screen to see the fleet split. All of the support ships, most of the lighter warcraft, and Sun Tzu remained in their galactic north position. The rest of the heavy ships, being Lexington, Arjuna, Ban Chao and Pool Buntyam, shaped course for the second planet from the sun.

Lexington began broadcasting a high-powered announcement crafted by the Lleix asking for peaceful contact in each of the five languages aimed directly at the home planet on all the Khûrûsh major communication frequencies.

****

Zhao Jiguang watched, arms folded, as Lim neared completion of the 64 Forms. She really was quite good, he admitted to himself. Even with the time it had taken him to adapt the forms to the movement ranges of the Lleix body, she had still learned the essential forms as fast as anyone he had ever taught. He was seeing her two hours every day, and he was sure that she was spending much of her off time working the forms as well. It showed. Her focus and intensity was almost scary.

Zhao had had talented–even very talented–human students before, who had learned at very fast paces, but even the best had been somewhat slower than this person who was not even of Earth. He had indeed been forced more than once to instruct her to take a slower pace; to even take time off. And he had to wonder if this was unique to her, or if all Lleix would perform this way.

Ah, Lim was coming out of Grasp the Bird’s Tail and moving to Gather Heaven to Earth, the final form. Zhao straightened as her arms went through the reaching up motion. As her arms descended to rest by her side, he took a staff from a nearby rack. Lim completed the form with a slow exhalation of breath; Zhao moved to stand before her.

He wasn’t surprised to see that her eyes were closed. He knew more than one Tai Chi practitioner who would practice with their eyes shut. “Well done,” he said.

Lim’s eyes flew open, and she put her hands together and gave a slight bow to him. “Thank you, sifu.” She had found the honorific for a Tai Chi instructor in the Terralore database, and he had been unable to convince her it wasn’t necessary to use it with him. For all that, she had determined to wear a karate gi, rather than human sweats or the loose Chinese style clothing that Zhao himself wore. He had no problem with that, actually. He was not that much of a purist, to the despair of some of the other Tai Chi masters in southern California.

Zhao set one end of the staff on the deck and clasped his hands around it together about shoulder height. He looked at Lim, staring deep into her eyes. She gazed back steadily. A long moment passed. When Lim did not look away, Zhao smiled. “Here,” he said, holding out the staff, “take this.”

Lim looked at it, but did not reach out to take it. “What is that? A weapon?”

Zhao snorted. “It’s a piece of wood. Take it.”

Lim slowly reached out both hands and took the staff, holding it in front of her with one end on the deck. “It is made of wood,” she said, “but that is not what it is.”

Zhao chuckled. “You grow subtle, my student. You are correct, it is made of wood, but that is not what it is. You will take this with you, and keep it with you at all times. When you believe you know what it is, tell me.”

****

So far there had been no response from the Khûrûsh other than even more intensive radar signals. “The cooks could put a cow out on the hull and it would be well-done in an hour from the radiation,” Flue Vaughan muttered.

The sensor techs had already reported the increased radar signals, so Vaughan just noted it in his logs, and continued watching Fleet Commander Dannet; who, at that moment, was approaching Caitlin Kralik.

“We are drawing near to the limit you set, Director.” Dannet’s voice was brusque, which was unusual neither for Jao in general nor for her in particular. “Do you still insist on your directive?” Her angles were all accepting-of-direction, though, from what Vaughan could tell. His interpretation of Jao body speech was continuing to improve.

Caitlin took a deep breath. Flue watched her out of the corner of his eye. Yes, she had oudh over the search effort, but the fleet commander seemed to press her at times. Flue wasn’t sure if Dannet was expressing a certain distaste for the director, or if it was legitimate under her position as fleet commander to ensure that certain orders were confirmed. Either way, it looked like Caitlin was getting a bit tired of it.

“Yes, Fleet Commander,” the director said in stern tones, body angles portraying absolute-command-to-subordinate in what even Vaughan recognized was a flawless posture. “All the other ships will halt one million kilometers out from the planet outward from Khûr-liyo’s L4 libration point, while Lexington moves to the L1 point. We are not going to come in like an invading fleet.”

Lexington was headed for an orbit between the planet and the moon, while the rest of the flotilla waited almost three times the distance from Earth to its moon. Vaughan had heard Caitlin’s explanation in the command meeting. She did not want the Khûrûsh to feel as if the Jao/human fleet was looming over them or “taking the high ground,” as Tully had put it. So Lexington would go in alone, and the rest of the flotilla would park far enough away that hopefully they wouldn’t be an adverse psychological component in the attempt to establish communications and a relationship, but still be close enough that if for some reason things dropped in the crapper they could come running.

The sensor techs had already confirmed that Lexington was bigger than any craft the Khûrûsh had in space at the moment. It was also pretty obvious to Vaughan that the drive systems the Khûrûsh were using with their ships weren’t anything in comparison to the Jao drives. Lex ought to be imposing enough, Vaughan thought, that the Khûrûsh would respond to the messages that were being broadcast.

Nothing. Even after the rest of the flotilla halted and Lexington continued on her own, no response from Khûr-shi. Only the incessant radar signals, which, as unbelievable as it seemed, were only increasing in strength and intensity.

“I can’t believe we’re not getting a response,” Caitlin said as they neared Khûr-liyo. “When the Jao came to Earth, we humans were addressing them as soon as it was clear they were intentional travelers from outside the solar system. Why are these folks not talking to us?”

She looked at Vaughan. He shrugged. “No answer, Director. No responses. Just more radar.”

****

Tully slapped the mat in surrender, and Sergeant Luff quit trying to insert his foot into his ear. Tully rolled over onto his back and accepted a hand up from the sergeant. He was breathing hard, and nursing a mat burn on his elbow. “You know, Top, I’m getting tired of you polishing the mat with my face.”

Luff gave a slight smile. “You’re improving, Colonel. You’ve started making me sweat a little, anyway.” His white teeth flashed in his coffee-colored face.

“Nobody likes a smart-ass, Top.”

The sergeant said nothing, just laughed with that deep resonant Jamaican voice.

Tully wiped his forehead off. Whether or not the sergeant was sweating, he definitely was. He looked over to the mat where Zhao and Lim were working together. “You think she’s getting it?” he asked.

Luff spread his hands. “Wrong guy to ask, Colonel. I know Tae Kwon Do and Jiu-Jitsu. I know enough about Tai Chi to recognize it, but that’s it. But from the outside, I’d say she’s making definite progress. Joe’s done a great job of adapting it to fit the Lleix conformity. Watching him has got me thinking about how to adapt Tae Kwon Do for the Lleix. I don’t know that any of them will ever want to learn it, but the mental exercise is good; and who knows, maybe I’ll come up with something new and unique.”

A raucous klaxon burst sounded three time, then a Jao voice came over the announcement systems. “All crew to battle stations. All jinau to assault stations. This is not a drill.”

Everyone in the gym surged toward the exit. Tully darted forward, yelling, “Make a hole, people! Make a hole!”

The troops opened a pathway through the throng, and he plunged through it with Luff on his heels.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 44

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 44

Chapter 23

It had been six days since the fleet had emerged in the system from their last jump. Dannet had congregated the fleet well to the galactic north of the star, above the system’s ecliptic. There they had waited while the Lleix, especially the Terralore elian, finished learning the language of the natives–or languages, rather. According to Lim, there was evidence of at least five different languages in use. One of them seemed to be dominant, however. The majority of the transmissions from the two inner planets were in that tongue, as well as all the transmissions from the outer reaches.

It was a situation much like Terra before the conquest, Caitlin mused. Many more than five languages then, true, but even then English had been the dominant tongue, despite the arguments of the French and the Chinese to the contrary. The conquest and occupation had simply sealed that position, as the Jao only learned one human language, and refused to speak to anyone who wasn’t conversational in it. Hopefully they would avoid that position of hubris here, but they had to start with something, so language #1 it was.

Caitlin looked at where the three Lleix sat together in her conference room. “Okay, tell me what you’ve got.” She sat back and let the Lleix take over the command meeting.

“We have detected at least five different primary languages in the broadcasts from the home planet we have listened to,” Pyr began, “as well as several dialects of at least two of them. Only one of those languages is in use in the other system locations, so we have focused on interpreting that one. All the names we will use are from the primary language.” He looked Caitlin’s direction.

“Understood,” she said, and waved a hand.

“The system primary is called Khûr,” Pyr continued.

His pronunciation of the word had a very nasal timbre. “Khûr,” Caitlin said, trying to reproduce it. “Okay, I’m going to have to practice that one. Go on.”

“The name means Holy Light in the primary language,” Garhet picked up the thread, “and that colors almost everything else we have been able to learn about the people.”

Lim spoke next. “It’s not clear if they consider their star to be a god, or if they only consider it to be a monumental sign of divine favor. There hasn’t been that much background available in the broadcasts. But they call themselves the Khûrûsh, which translates to People of the Holy Light.”

The nasal sound hit twice in that word. “Khûrûsh,” Caitlin whispered to herself, trying to push the sound through her nose to get the proper nasal tone to the u’s. Such an interesting sounding name, for the first independently contacted extraterrestrial race in human history.

“The home planet is Khûr-shi, which translates to Khûr’s home.” The sensor reports had established that the planet was a bit smaller than Earth, but occupied a similar location in its system that Earth did in the human solar system, albeit it was the second planet out instead of the third because the system didn’t have a Mercury analog. Multiple continents, blue water oceans, ice-caps, slight axial tilt; not an exact duplicate of Earth, but very similar. The fleet techs didn’t have an exact read on the atmosphere yet, but what they could determine was also a close match to Earth’s. Jao, Lleix, and humans could probably walk around without needing air masks.

“The major moon is named Khûr-liyo, which means Khur’s little sister. The minor moon or planetoid is named Khûr-io, which we think means something like Khûr’s dog or Khûr’s wolf. It definitely a reference to an aggressive animal of some kind, but we haven’t seen a picture yet of what it could be like.” From the sensor reports they knew that Khûr-liyo was approximately 2600 kilometers in diameter, which made it not quite three-fourths of the diameter of Earth’s Luna. This meant it was less than half the volume of Luna, and presumably less than half the mass. Khûr-shi would have noticeable tides, the science guys had reported, but not as strong as those of Earth. Khûr-io, on the other hand, was too small and too far out to have much of an effect on the surface of Khûr-shi.

Caitlin reminded herself that the Lleix were speaking from only six days of listening to old-fashioned radio and television broadcasts, and they’d only deciphered the video output three days ago. It was a miracle they had come up with what they had. “So what are the people like?”

“Scientifically and technologically, they appear to be somewhat beyond pre-conquest Terra,” Garhet said, “but we see nothing that indicates that they have any form of interstellar travel yet.”

Tully stirred in his seat down the table from Caitlin. “Are all their signals in the clear?” When Garhet looked to him and raised his aureole, Tully expanded, “Do they encode any of their signals, or is everything open for everyone to listen to and read?”

“Some three per-cent of what we have listened to in the last six days has been coded. Multiple systems have been used.” Garhet spread his hands. “Some we have deciphered. They appeared to be used by commercial interests. Others still resist our efforts, and those we suspect belong to governmental organizations.”

“Or military,” Fleet Commander Dannet added. Garhet nodded in acquiescence to the statement, but said nothing further. The point had been made that this civilization was not an elysium. With that dark thought in her mind, Caitlin motioned for the briefing to continue.

Pyr touched a control on his com pad, and a hologram sprang into being above the table, slowly rotating to give everyone a chance to view the figure. “This is a representative member of the species.”

“It’s a damn fox,” Caitlin heard Tully mutter. She had to admit that the face was definitely vulpine, and the russet colored fur and mane just reinforced the perception of a vertical fox; with one slight change from the Terran model–it had six limbs. The hologram blinked to another image, this one of a different Khûrûsh, caught as if in the act of running on all six limbs.

“What they look like doesn’t matter,” Caitlin said. “What is their society like?”

Lim took over. “Very structured, very controlled.”

Caitlin raised her eyebrows when nothing more was said. “Can you give me more than that?”

The Lleix were silent for a moment, then Lim said with what appeared to be reluctance, “They are much more authoritarian than Jao, or even Lleix.” Caitlin pursed her lips and almost whistled, stopping when she remembered the Lleix phobia. “Out of human history, there are strong parallels with pre-Meiji Japan.”

Caitlin sat back, absorbing that.

“Jeez,” Tully muttered. “Shogun, and all that? That could be a pain.”

“Not necessarily,” Caitlin responded. “One great advantage to a hierarchy is if you make solid contact with the top rank, you’re in all the way.”

“Yeah, and if the top rank doesn’t want to have anything to do with you, what happens then?” Tully said with a grimace. “We really don’t want to set off an interstellar World War II here.”

A few of the Jao’s angles slipped to versions of bewildered, but most of them understood the reference. The Terralore elian Lleix knew recent human history better than the humans did, of course, so they understood both the reference and the thrust of the comment. They said nothing.

Caitlin thought for a moment, considering everything that had been said, then tapped the table and said, “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do it . . .”

****

A day later the Lexington’s command deck was operating like a well-oiled machine. Jao and humans alike knew their jobs, and did them well. Caitlin looked around as she joined Wrot and Fleet Commander Dannet in the open space in front of Lieutenant Vaughan’s console.

“Sensors report that they are still lashing us with radar, Fleet Commander,” Lieutenant Vaughan reported from his workstation. The one that Caitlin usually sat at had been given to Pyr the Lleix, with Garhet standing beside him. Lim had returned to Ban Chao.

The natives had not taken long to notice the arrival of the fleet seven days earlier. By the time the last of the Lexington class ships had emerged from the photosphere of Khûr, the first radar signals had begun to reach them, emitted from Khûr-liyo and various spacecraft scattered around the system. It had never let up. There had been no attempt to contact them; no spacecraft sent their way; simply the radar.

Dannet made no comment, and gave no useless orders such as “Keep me posted,” or “Let me know if anything changes.” Being Jao, she took it for granted that such would be the case. And with the Lexington’s crew trained to the high level it occupied, it would be the case. So the fleet commander looked to Caitlin, and said, “All is ready, Director.”

 

Through Fire – Snippet 44

Through Fire – Snippet 44

Fraternite

Day of Truce

“Stop that, Alexis,” Simon said. “She’s not a danger.”

“She’s not a danger,” Brisbois said, his burner unwavering at my chest, “if she is Madame Sienna. If she’s not?”

Simon made a sound, but he was looking at me, his eyes narrowed. For a moment I wondered if he knew about what the people of Olympus could do and had done to change my appearance. Then I wondered if he was a ghost or if they had some way to bring men back from the dead. And then I thought nothing as he turned to Brisbois and said, “It looks like a standard job of disguise, well enough, I daresay, for her to pass in a crowd and not to be identified on sight anywhere in Liberte, but, Alexis, I can smell her. It’s Zen.”

I could smell him too. One doesn’t think about it, even with enhanced senses, but when I was very young I remembered identifying people by smell. Now I realized that though I hadn’t thought about it, he too smelled familiar. This was undoubtedly Simon St. Cyr. But I’d seen him beheaded.

For the first time, and I surely hope the last time in my life, in response to something as paltry as an emotional shock, my legs got shaky, and I had to sit.

“I don’t feel all that well.”

Brisbois continued pointing the burner at me, but as I bent to put my head down at my knee level, he let out air in a sustained hiss, as though releasing annoyance, and said, “Merde. I knew she looked different. Yes, she was… modified to pass. The Good Man Keeva’s idea, I think.”

Simon made a sound that wasn’t quite a cackle, and said, in a tone of profound loathing, “He would.”

Once more I wondered what things I’d missed of those that passed between normal humans. I’d thought they were friends. I’d thought–

“He couldn’t send troops,” Brisbois said, in the tone of a man who gives the devil his due. “He was hamstrung. He wanted to help you.”

Simon snorted.

That was enough. It was his snort, and I knew it. I sat up. I glared at him, “I saw you dead,” I said. I realized I was shaking. “I saw you beheaded. They held up the head to the cameras. They said le roi est mort. They–”

At the time the shock had been so great, and processed with all the fear and the chase immediately following, that I had not taken that scene as real. It’s hard to explain, but it was more like a set scene, something out of a theater production: Madame with her medals, and her entourage, and the crowd going silent, while proclamation was made to the holo pickups.

Now I saw it with perfect recall. The head, with its still-living eyes. Blood at the lips. Blood pouring out of the neck.

I ran straight into the fresher and threw up into the toilet.

When I recovered, Simon offered me his hand to stand. I ignored his hand and pulled myself up by holding onto the sink. The mirror above it reflected my own image, pale and staring, like the face of a drowned woman.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I don’t know what you saw. I didn’t mean for you to–”

I rinsed my mouth, spat out the water, turned to him, wiping my mouth to the back of my hand. “I saw you dead,” I said again, and then, “I saw you beheaded.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I never meant for you to–”

“Go to hell.” It wasn’t even an imprecation. It was a civil exhortation. I wasn’t sure how he had managed this, but I was sure he had somehow faked his own death for reasons I couldn’t fully understand. Which meant he’d never needed to be rescued. Which meant I was an idiot.

He looked aggrieved, as though my reaction were all out of proportion. “No, you don’t understand. I never meant for to be here at all. You were supposed to stay safe. I told Brisbois.”

That’s when I punched him. It wasn’t a hard punch. I couldn’t have put force into a punch just then. I was exhausted, my head was spinning, and the image of his beheading remained in my mind, so it was like punching a ghost.

He held onto his jaw, blinked at me. Part of him looked bewildered, incredulous, as though no one had ever punched him in his life, and I wondered if that was Simon’s tragedy. No one had ever spanked him. I said again, “Go to hell. This is not a game. I was trying to save your life. I didn’t want you to die. I thought I owed you something.”

His eyes widened in even greater shock than at being punched, “You were? You didn’t? You did?”

How do you even answer that? I didn’t have to.

Brisbois loomed behind him. He moved Simon out of the way, gently but carelessly, as though he’d been an object blocking Brisbois’ passage. “You were at the palace?” he said. “Why were you at the palace? You were never supposed to break into the dungeon.”

“Of course I was,” I said, bewildered. And to Simon, in an accusatory tone, “I was trying to save you. You can’t have recovered from being beheaded. So that must have been faked. I don’t know how you did it, but I wonder about the poor sod who was beheaded in your place. I suppose he was altered to look like you?” He shook his head, slightly, but I ignored it. “Just as I was modified. Oh. Hell.”

He sighed, and put out a hand. “Ma petite–” he said. His hand was cupped as though he’d hold my forearm, but he never made contact. He pulled back, instead, and said, “No one was beheaded.”

“I saw–”

“I think perhaps,” Brisbois said, “we should retreat to the room proper and find out what Madame Sienna has been up to, and who might have tailed her here. We might not be safe here.”

“We are safe,” I said. “No one followed me. I was too fast.”

“Pah,” Brisbois said, and I expected him to deliver himself of one of his charming lectures on the stupidity of women in general and myself in particular. “Pah. Come sit down, Madame, and tell me exactly what you’ve been doing.”

I wouldn’t have obeyed if the back of my brain hadn’t been so fully occupied in figuring out how Simon could have survived, how he could say no one had been beheaded. I instinctively recoiled at Brisbois’ demand, but then I realized I had to find out what had happened. One thing I was sure of: Earth or not, people did not grow spare heads.

I walked out of the fresher, in between them, and sat on the edge of the bed, my hands on my knees. “You told me to run and to take care of the children. By which I presume you meant Corin and Mailys.”

“Did you?” Brisbois asked.

“Yes,” I said, and then it occurred to me I had no idea if Corin or Mailys were still alive. He couldn’t have expected me to keep them safe while running for my life, after the attack on the palace. And yet, I was absolutely sure that’s what he expected. The sense of failure that had pursued me since watching the beheading now crushed me. And then I realized Simon was still alive. And if Simon was still alive, I’d been the victim of a massive deception. Perhaps more than one.

I told them everything I’d done, how we’d ended up in the Bonnaires’ home, about the child, about Jonathan LaForce.

“Jonny is alive, then,” Brisbois said, sounding relieved.

“Yes,” I said. “Or at least he was alive when we parted.”

Brisbois nodded. “He’s alive then. He’s one of those you can only kill by catching him unwary. If he knew they were after him, he’s alive. If you’re alive, he’s alive.”

I frowned a little, feeling as though my ability to survive had been disparaged, “He might have been pursued more closely.”

Brisbois pursed his lips. “Maybe,” he said. “But why was he looking for me? Why was he in my office? Besides wanting to save the others? And he should have given me some credit. I was trying to get the others to safety already.”

“There is other stuff. There is… your wife.”

For just a second there was an expression of extreme shock in Brisbois’ face. “My wife?”

“Rose Parr. Madame. They said she was your wife.”

“Ah,” he said. His voice sounded really hoarse. I thought I saw Simon smirk out of the corner of my eye. “Not these last ten years at least. She–”

“Set him up to get caught and killed,” Simon said, and as Brisbois opened his lips, he lifted a hand. “Peace. I’m aware I did as well. I claim extreme necessity and also the extreme fear of a trapped animal. But I didn’t even know who you were, much less being intimately acquainted with you. And I think I’ve made up for that lapse, have I not?”

Brisbois didn’t say anything, but I got the impression his eyes flashed. “We have no time for foolishness,” he said. I thought he was talking to me, because it had the same tone of his prior diatribes on women, but then he glared at Simon, “Not even a rousing game of let’s see if we can make Alexis squirm. What has my ex-wife to do with this, Madame Sienna?”

“I am to understand she’s trying to eliminate all enhanced people as well consolidating her power over the non-enhanced. I heard there were hundreds of executions.”

“Thousands,” Simon said, sounding distressed. “She had people flown from the territories. I’ve been on the edges of the plaza. I’ve seen it…” He shook his head. “That’s why my execution had to be staged as soon as possible. So I could help people.”

I wanted to ask him how he could hurry the execution. I realized he must be the man I’d seen with Brisbois in the dark, talking of hurrying the Patrician’s execution, which solved at least one of my problems for me. Whatever else was true or not, Brisbois was loyal.

But there was a more pressing matter than my curiosity to know exactly how I’d been deceived. For one, I was almost sure the deception hadn’t been aimed at me, or not only at me. “I don’t know how you intend to help people,” I said, “but LaForce says our case is dire. Besides the executions, the fleet is about to attack and–”

For the first time I had Simon’s attention. He stood straighter, and asked, “What fleet?”

“The Good Men,” I said. And as I saw him shape his mouth to say ‘Merde” I said, “Not that one. Apparently with our internal dissension, there is more of a chance of taking us with a smaller force, and so they… they are. Or they’re trying to.”

Simon had been standing next to the door to the fresher. Now he leaned against the door frame and slid down it, to sit on the dubiously clean floor. He made a face. “How many ships?” he asked. “How many men?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“But Jonny LaForce thought they were a problem?” Brisbois asked.

“Yes, he said it was a reason we needed to free the Patr — you, Simon. Because only you could organize forces for defense fast enough. He said something about their bringing as many of their troops to bear as they could, so that they could crush Liberte, before returning to their war with the Usaians.”

He pursed his lips in a silent whistle, then turned to Brisbois. “Alexis?”

“If you’re asking me my opinion of LaForce’s estimate, let me assure you that this is not something to dismiss out of hand. I’ve known Jonny since he was a toddler. He can be impetuous; he’s something of a hothead; he pens romances in his spare time, but he’s simply the best second-in-command I’ve ever had. If he says we’re about to get attacked with overwhelming force, we’re about to get attacked with overwhelming force. I don’t know the details, but I’m sure his intelligence is good.”

Simon looked… odd. Not quite confused, though confusion was part of it. It was a look somewhere between annoyance and disappointment.

He took a deep breath, “Not attack us as such, Alexis. This has nothing to do with us.”

“It doesn’t?” Alexis asked.

“No. All we have to do is gather our people and get them out of here before the attack. And then we’re fine. They can take all of the isle and Madame in the bargain for all I care.”

Alexis Brisbois’ face hardened, something like disbelief casting his features into stone, “Monsieur le Patrician, it is not that simple.”

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 59

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 59

Phillip winced at the mention of the jingle. He cringed every time he heard it. It was tacky, and it reeked of advertising. Still, according to Frau Mittelhausen, sales of all of their products had jumped since they started sponsoring some program on the radio. “What would I have to do if I agree to them using my name?”

“Nothing, Dr. Gribbleflotz. Although they might want you to record a few advertisements, sort of like you do for the ‘and now a few words from our sponsor‘ segment before each episode of ‘Robin of the Committees of Correspondence‘.”

Phillip realized he was nodding and hastily stopped. He didn’t enjoy recording those messages, but Frau Mittelhausen insisted. No doubt she would insist on him making some sort of speech about the alchemy sets. He sighed. Women were so bossy and managing. “Very well,” he said, “you may tell Frau Kubiak that I’m agreeable.”

“That’s great,” Jonathan said. “Herr Trelli’ll be pleased.”

Phillip tried to fit the name to a face, but he couldn’t imagine the Herr Trelli he knew having anything to do with selling chemistry sets. “Herr Trelli at the Vo-tech?” he asked, just to be sure.

“No, Herr Lasso Trelli of Trelli’s GoodCare Pharmacy. He owns my local pharmacy, and he asked me if I thought you’d license them the use your name to sell chemistry sets.” Jonathan sent Phillip a wry smile. “He’s the guy I asked about iodine and the medical uses of mercury.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right.” Phillip smiled at Jonathan. “You doubted that mercury could be used to treat the great pox because you understood that it was too dangerous. What did your Herr Trelli have to say about that?”

“He said that that right up until a year or so before the Ring of Fire you could buy a mercury based paint-on antiseptic, and that topical use, that means applied to the surface of the skin, might be able to treat the ulcers you see in stage one syphilis.”

“So my great grandfather was right?” Phillip asked.

Jonathan glanced around at the interested faces of the laborants and sighed. “Yes, Dr. Gribbleflotz, your great grandfather was right.”

“Naturally,” Phillip said, trying not to appear too smug. Of course he’d known that his great grandfather, the great Paracelsus, would never have prescribed a treatment that damaged a patient’s health, but it was nice to know up-time medicine agreed with the treatment. “Now, what should we do with these alchemy sets?”

“I think you should let your laborants try them out, Dr. Gribbleflotz, just to see if you think the instructions are adequate.”

Phillip was aware of a sudden change in the room. He glanced along the surrounding laborants. A few of them had practiced begging faces on. Others were merely looking at the alchemy sets like starving children around a table of food. He picked out his three best laborants, Hans, his personal laborant, and Michael Siebenhorn and Kurt Stoltz, the two eldest and best educated of his laborants. “Hans, Kurt, and Michael, I want the three of you to each take one of the alchemy sets and supervise a small group of laborants as they try the experiments provided.”

Phillip would have said more, but the laborants were making too much noise as they quickly formed themselves into three groups. He glanced at Jonathan, who was looking enviously at the laborants. “You can join them if you wish,” he said.

“Thanks, Dr. Gribbleflotz,” Jonathan said before joining the throng.

Monday night, Grantville

Tracy was on edge as she waited for Richelle to get home from dance class. Her adopted daughter had never been out alone this late before, and if Ivan hadn’t offered to pick her up after dance class, she wouldn’t have let her go. She leapt to her feet, disturbing Toby, who’d been sleeping peacefully on the window seat, and started pacing.

“Stop worrying,” Ted said from the safety of the kitchen. “Richelle’ll be okay.

Tracy stopped her pacing to shoot her husband a glare. “She’s never been out this late, and you know how strangers scare her.”

“She’s attending ballet class,” Ted said. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Tracy shuddered as she started to imagine what could go wrong, but her imaginings were interrupted by the sound of a pickup truck coming down Mahan Run. Moments later light from the vehicle’s headlamps passed across the windows, and Tracy rushed out onto the deck.

Richelle climbed out of Ivan’s pickup and with Lenya in her arms, danced across the drive and up the steps onto the deck. “It was wonderful, Mama Tracy.” She stopped dancing long enough to kiss Tracy before dancing to the railing and calling down to Ivan. “Thank you for the ride, Herr Drahuta.”

Tracy watched her adopted daughter dance into the house with her baby in her arms before walking down the steps to her husband’s cousin, who was unloading Lenya’s baby buggy from his truck. “Thanks for picking up Richelle and Lenya,” she called.

“Hey, no trouble,” Ivan said as he passed the collapsed baby buggy to Tracy. “I have to go past the school on the way home from the station.” He shot a look in the direction Richelle had taken. “If that’s what happens to a girl who attends one of Bitty’s ballet classes, I’m glad our girl is only three.”

“Did you talk to Bitty?” Tracy asked as she accepted the baby buggy.

Ivan shook his head. “No, but I wouldn’t worry about Richelle. I had to tear her away from her new friends.”

Tracy read the grin that accompanied Ivan’s comment to indicate that he wasn’t really serious. “Who was she with?”

“Lynette Fortney, Bitty’s Melanie,” Ivan paused for a moment before continuing, “and Cathy McNally.”

Tracy sniggered. “You do realize Cathy took up ballet before she was five?”

“Noooo.”

Tracy nodded. “Lolly told me that Cathy was so hyper-active that it was a choice of ballet, karate, or medication, and the local karate school didn’t take students that young.” She smiled at the anxious glances Ivan was sending across the road. “Has Caecilia stopped running around everywhere yet?” she asked.

Ivan shook his head. “Do you think we should enroll her in a ballet class?”

“Talk to Lolly,” Tracy said. “Well, thanks again for looking after Richelle. We owe you.”

Ivan shook his head. “Nah. Richelle’s already got that covered.” He shot Tracy a grin. “She’s agreed to babysit the horde this weekend.”

Tracy shook her head ruefully. “You’re taking unfair advantage of the poor girl. There’s no way picking Richelle up on the way home from the fire station is worth taking on your mob for a weekend.”

“But you will let her stay at our place all weekend?”

Tracy hesitated to answer. There were lots of good reasons why she should object, but. . . .

“The boys like her,” Ivan offered, “and you are just across the road.”

That was true, but . . . Tracy was still hesitant.

“And there are plenty of guns in the house.”

That was probably meant to reassure Tracy, but it failed. “She doesn’t know how to shoot.”

“What?” Ivan protested. “Why not? If you don’t have something suitable, I’m sure I can dig something up.”

“It’s not that,” Tracy said. She sighed. “Richelle’s got issues . . .”

“Something to do with Lenya’s father?”

Tracy nodded. “And now some boys at school are giving her a hard time over being an unwed teenage mother.”

“You think she might pull a gun on them if she knew how to use one?” Ivan grinned. “It’d probably scare some manners into them.”

“I’m not worried about her pulling the gun. I’m worried about her using it on them.”

Ivan whistled. “That might be going a bit too far. What about running her through one of your Ladies Self-defense courses?”

“I’ll think about it,” Tracy said, “but I’ll need a couple of male training dummies, are you volunteering?”

“Jeez, Tracy, you could at least pretend that the guys aren’t there to get beaten to a pulp.” He shook his head. “Sorry, you’re going to have to find some other poor sucker. Meanwhile, you should teach Richelle to shoot.” He held up his hands. “She’s too young to have a carry piece, but with so many guns in the house, she needs to know how to handle them safely.’

Tracy signed. “You’re right. I’ll get on to it.”

“Right. See you same time tomorrow.”

Tracy waited for Ivan to start down the drive before going back into the house, where the first person she saw was Ted.

“Richelle seems to have enjoyed her dance class,” he said.

Tracy nodded. “She enjoyed it so much that she volunteered look after Ivan and Belle’s mob this weekend as payment for bringing her home.”

Ted whistled and shook his head. “Still, it’ll do her confidence a world of good to be given the responsibility.”

Saturday morning, a couple of weeks later.

Richelle noticed Jonathan Fortney the moment she stepped into the Middle School gymnasium. She couldn’t really miss him, because he and another young man were sparing on some mats in the middle of the floor with most of the women and girls enrolled in the self-defense class standing around watching. “What’s he doing here?” Richelle muttered. She winced at just how petulant she sounded. A glance to the woman beside her told her that Mama Tracy had heard, and was amused.

“Tommy Karickhoff is probably the highest ranked martial artist in Grantville. He used to be an instructor at a dojo in Fairmont, and he’s helped me with the self-defense courses before,” Tracy Kubiak said.

Richelle rolled her eyes. “I mean Herr Fortney.”

Tracy’s lips twitched. “I told Tommy I needed an extra warm body and he said he knew someone who might be suitable.” She smiled innocently at Richelle. “It seems Jonathan was that someone.”

Richelle turned her attention back to Jonathan and Herr Karickhoff just in time to see Jonathan lunge forward with a knife. What followed happened so quickly that Richelle wasn’t sure what she’d seen. But it looked like Herr Karickhoff grabbed Jonathan’s knife hand in both of his hands, ducked under the arm, and somehow stabbed Jonathan with the knife Jonathan was holding. It was only when both of them stood up and Jonathan handed the knife to Herr Karickhoff that she realized he hadn’t been hurt. She turned to Mama Tracy. “Isn’t that dangerous?” she asked.

Tracy shook her head and waved the combatants over. “Hi, Tommy, Jonathan. Richelle wants to know if the knife counter you were doing is dangerous.”

Tommy tossed the knife he was carrying to Richelle, who had a panicky moment before she caught it and realized it wasn’t a real knife.

“Even a real knife it takes a real effort to actually stick it into someone with that move,” Tommy said.

Richelle handed back the rubber knife. “Will you be teaching us moves like you were doing, Herr Karickhoff?”

He shook his head. “The best thing to do when someone starts waving a knife around is be somewhere else.”

Richelle’s brow screwed up as she considered what she’d just heard.

“Tommy means you should run,” Tracy said. “I’ll cover what else you should do later in the program.”

Richelle nodded her acceptance of Mama Tracy’s dictate, but something still bothered her. “If your best advice is to run, why practice fighting someone with a knife?”

“Because sometimes running away isn’t an option,” Tracy said. “Enough of this. Are you two ready to get started?” she asked Tommy and Jonathan.

“Any time you are,” Tommy said. Jonathan nodded in agreement.

Richelle gave the two men one last glance before hurrying off with Mama Tracy to join the other women assembled for the Ladies Self Defense class.

****

Four hours later Richelle stumbled out of the gymnasium with Tracy for the lunch break. “He’s horrible,” she said.

“Who?” Tracy asked.

“Jonathan. He was always grabbing me.”

Tracy grinned. “He’s only supposed to be trying to grab you. It’s not his fault you haven’t been able to avoid his attempts.”

Richelle glared at Tracy. “He hurt me.” He hadn’t really hurt her, but she hadn’t liked being grabbed.

“And you hurt him back.”

A smile flittered across Richelle’s face as she remembered some of the things she’d done to Jonathan. There had been the kicking and punching, which hadn’t been quite as satisfying as she would have liked because of the protective padding he was wearing. Although she had managed to drop him with one knee attack to the groin even with the protection he was wearing. Then there had been the grappling. She’d had him writhing on the floor with one particular finger hold.

“Don’t get too cocky, Richelle. Jonathan could have countered any of your attacks.”

Richelle snorted her disbelief.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 43

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 43

PART III

On Strange Shores

Chapter 22

Tully let his breath out after Ban Chao stabilized in the target sun. He could see Lim looking at him from where she sat on one of the jump-seats, and held up a hand. “Don’t say it.”

She closed her mouth and looked at him. He could see the thought behind her eyes. If you don’t like to Frame Point jump, why are you here? But since it was unspoken Tully ignored it.

Vanta-Captain Ginta krinnu vau Vanta stood in the center of the command deck, listening to every conversation and comment, reading the sensor reports from the bottom of the main view screen while he watched the currents of the sun around them. Tully relaxed a bit more when Ginta ordered, “Take the ship out of the corona. Show me damage control reports.”

The sensor report bar shrank in size and the damage control report bar popped into place on the view screen. As a Terran-built ship, the displays usually used human colors as defaults for readouts and reports, so Tully had no trouble translating the mostly green bar with a couple of specks of orange as “Came through with flying colors, maybe scraped the paint a little bit.”

He pulled his com pad out and checked on the jinau. As they had been doing this whole voyage, they rode out the jump in armor standing in their shock frames. All green there as well . . . wait, there was an orange blip. Tully touched it and it expanded to show detail. He snorted. Apparently Private Ciappa managed to get crossways in his shock frame and got his arm severely bruised in one of the jolts the ship had suffered when it first dropped into the sun.

Tully shook his head as he put the com pad away. You had to wonder about the private. A good kid; honest, hard-working, wanted to do well. Just not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Ah, well, Sergeant Cold Bear would see to him, and probably give him an earful about just how stupid he’d been this time around.

Ban Chao crossed the transition from solar corona region to clear space. “Take us to ecliptic north. Wide-sweep sensors!” Ginta ordered.

Tully stood and moved to stand beside the Vanta-Captain. “So, we’re good?” Ginta nodded. “When do we know if we’re in the right system?”

The sensor readouts on the main view screen changed. A plot of the system rapidly took shape, showing three, four, no, seven planets. Ginta pointed to one quadrant of the screen, and said, “About . . . now.”

Human numbers and Jao characters jumbled together in that quadrant, and sorted themselves out. One of the human command crew whistled.

“What?” Tully asked, restraining himself from grabbing Ginta by the shoulder.

The Vanta-Captain shifted to a posture that Tully sort-of recognized as expressing good humor or cheerfulness. He looked over to Tully and jerked his head at the screen. “That, Colonel, indicates there is more electromagnetic energy emanating in this system than Terra produces even now. It looks like . . .” he paused as the numbers changed, then continued, “at least three separate planetary sources, plus at least two lunar sources from moons of one of the outer planets, plus a few moving sources in the system.”

“So, lots of radio and TV,” Tully said, “and moving . . . you mean they have spaceships?”

Ginta gave the human shrug. “We won’t know for sure until we get close, but probably.”

“Caitlin’s going to squeee over this,” Tully muttered.

****

Flue Vaughan whistled when the readouts began feeding him real-time information after Lexington crossed the corona transition line of the target star into open space. Seven planets. Reading from the star out, first there were two rocky types near the star, only one of which was in the liquid water zone–barely. There was a third rock ball much farther out, definitely outside the liquid water zone. Beyond that were two Jovians and a Neptune cousin. The count was completed by something that was closer to a planetoid than a planet wandering in the outer edges of the system.

Caitlin Kralik got out of her seat and came to look over his shoulder. “Okay, what do we have? Did we get the right system?”

“Oh, yeah,” Vaughan said. “This is the jackpot. We have technology here, here, and here.” He highlighted first the two inner planets on his workstation main screen, then the third planet, and finally the more distant fourth planet. “Very strong electromagnetic activity that is regular and patterned, so almost certainly artificial. And,” he paused for a moment, “it doesn’t match any known Ekhat patterns.” He looked at her and grinned. “We found it, Director. This is what you’ve been searching for all along–a technological civilization to reach out to.”

****

Caitlin felt her facial muscles stretch in the biggest grin of her life. Vaughan’s expression matched hers. When she looked around, so did Caewithe Miller’s.

Another civilization! One unknown to Jao, to humans, and please, God, to the Ekhat as well. Another people to recruit to the resistance against the Ekhat.

And this was only the beginning! Where there was one, there would be others. She was as certain of that as she could be.

She wanted to laugh; she wanted to dance. In the end, she did neither, restraining her glee to a single fist pump.

****

Third-Mordent stood at Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s side watching various Ekhat moving through the harmony master’s great hall, listening to the servient choirs.

“Watch,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained whispered in an arietta pitched for Third-Mordent’s hearing only. “Watch for control, and learn.”

One of the Ekhat, a female, was slightly smaller than Third-Mordent, which made her the youngest in the hall. Third-Mordent didn’t know who she was. She wasn’t in any of the faction lists that Third-Mordent had been studying at Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s directions.

The young female moved stiffly, her head constantly moving to increase angles of vision around her. It seemed to Third-Mordent that the female was on the verge of dropping into predator mode. This thought was reinforced when her red-tinted eyes became visible.

None of the other Ekhat in the hall seemed to be aware of the young female. Ekhat of various factions stepped carefully around one another, with an occasional glimpse of a forehand blade but no other indication of the mutual antipathy that existed. This was perhaps due to the fact that they were in Ninth-Minor-Sustained’s hall, and none wanted to do anything that would provoke the harmony master. She had a reputation for completing arguments or conflicts begun by others in a very final manner. Third-Mordent, having been personally schooled by the harmony master, thought that such restraint on the part of those milling around in the hall represented the height of Ekhat wisdom.

That all changed in an instant. A larger, and therefore older, Ekhat male from a small splinter faction backed away from an even larger female of a more predominant faction at the same time that the young female was stepping back in a similar situation. Their hindquarters touched.

The young female jumped as if she had been kicked, then spun, forehand blades fully extended, slashing indiscriminately at every being near her.

Three Anj servients in one of the choirs were eviscerated. Their blood splashed across the rest of the choir, who trembled and moaned, but remained in their place and before long resumed their chanting.

The male whose touch had stimulated the young female’s frenzy screamed as both rear legs were slashed open. His wailing formed a counter-motif to the Anj cries as his legs failed and his hindquarters hit the floor in a growing puddle of white ichor.

One other reacted too slowly to avoid damage and received a deep slash along one flank.

Third-Mordent watched as forehand blades snapped open all around the hall. The servient choirs all scurried back against the walls and huddled on the floor as their Ekhat masters rampaged; shouting/screaming/keening/shrieking. At first, it seemed as if Dissonance had invaded the hall, but after a moment harmony began to emerge as half-tones/quarter-tones/fractal-tones splattered across the Ekhat sonic spectrum and merged into a towering colossus of aggressive harmony that had an almost physical presence in the hall.

The cries of trampled servients and wounded masters in counterpoint began to tease at Third-Mordent’s senses, almost alluring her to add her blades, her voice, and perhaps her ichor, to the frenzy. Ninth-Minor-Sustained still loomed at her side; that presence served to leach away the siren call of blood and blade dances.

Third-Mordent noticed that Ninth-Minor-Sustained was looking in one particular direction in the hall. She followed the harmony master’s gaze and focused on one Ekhat in particular; a female who, although not as large as Ninth-Minor-Sustained, was still imposing. To Third-Mordent’s eyes, the other female was still, which she found odd. There was no movement to the female; not even her tegument twitched; yet she seemed to exude threat, as all those near her to took pains to stay a distance away.

“That one,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained sang quietly, barely audible over the harmony mélange that pressed upon them, “that one has control.”

It was as if the harmony master had judged everyone else in the hall, and dismissed all but this female. Third-Mordent focused her attention on the female. She chirped an interrogative.

“Seventh-flat,” the harmony master responded.

That registered with Third-Mordent. The large female was a very important member of a Complete Harmony faction that mostly opposed Ninth-Minor-Sustained. Now she had Third-Mordent’s undivided attention.

Several of the other Ekhat were downed, either dead or dying. Most of the rest were wounded to one degree or another; white ichor streaked almost every white form in the room.

The young female that had provoked the confrontational performance had managed to avoid serious damage. She was currently backed into a corner, waving her forehand blades at any Ekhat who drew near. Until this moment, the members of the factions had focused on others who were nearer and more dangerous. That was no longer the case.

Two Ekhat, one female and one male, moved towards the young female from opposite sides. It was not a coordinated attack; the two were from different factions. From their movements, however, they were among the most adept of those in the hall.

The youngling was trapped in her error of having placed herself in the corner. She now found her movements restricted, and was unable to avoid/evade/elude the blade dancers who approached her. There was a whirlwind of flying flashing forehand blades, and then the young female was lying on the floor, broken. The two attackers immediately turned on one another.

Seventh-flat’s forehand blades flicked out. Third-Mordent watched as she danced through the hall, leaving a trail of smashed and maimed Ekhat behind her, until she confronted the two blade dancers. They had a bare moment of warning before she intruded in their dance, changing it to a deadly pas des trois. As good as they were, their dance was graceful, exhilarating, and foredoomed.

Third-Mordent watched Seventh-flat’s skill with some admiration. The blade-dancers were beset from the onset, forced to the defensive from the first stroke. Seventh-flat kept them reeling back and back and back, using her size, strength, and speed to force them down the hall.

In the end, Seventh-flat simply out-danced them, and in a final flourish of her blades left first one and then the other staring at the hall with blind eyes as their final breaths left their bodies and ichor oozed from rent flesh.

“Formidable,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained whisper-sang.

The nature of the harmony in the hall had changed. The choirs were huddling, with many of the servient members damaged. Many of the Ekhat were either dead or wounded so severely they could not contribute tones to the work. And even those who were still mobile and still able to sing began to fall silent as Seventh-flat picked her way back up the hall to where the young female Ekhat lay whose reactions were the catalyst for what had happened.

Third-Mordent was surprised to see the young female attempt to raise her head when Seventh-flat loomed over her. Third-Mordent heard the beginning of a keening tone from the youngling, before Seventh-flat completed her with a sudden quick stab of a forehand blade.

Seventh-flat looked to where Ninth-Minor-Sustained stood. She made no song, no tone, no sound at all; simply stared at the harmony master. At length, she flicked her forehand blades, snapping the ichor that coated them into straight lines on the floor. The blades folded back into their sheathes, and Seventh-flat turned and left the room; still atypically silent.

“That one,” Ninth-Minor-Sustained intoned softly after the door closed behind Seventh-flat, “that one is dangerous. She will lead her faction before long.”

Third-Mordent absorbed that prediction.