Eric Flint's Blog, page 221

Through Fire – Snippet 07

Through Fire – Snippet 07

I thought of Simon ordering him to protect me. In the same way that I felt Simon would be very hard to kill, I had a strong feeling — belied by Simon’s effete, frivolous appearance — that the ci-devant Good Man would be a very bad person to cross; and that Alexis, being his servant, would know that at an instinctive, deep-set level. On the other hand, I suspected Simon was remarkably intolerant of the lower classes giving him their opinions, and he would have trained this man to know that. So why was Alexis talking of having transferred his loyalty and of telling me the truth? “Who are you?” I asked. “And don’t tell me Alexis Brisbois. Who are you? What are you to the Good Man St. Cyr?”

“Head of his security force,” Alexis said. “If he’s still alive, and if not–” He stopped. “Do you trust me to scout for you and do my best to protect you in whatever course of action you choose to take? If I promise to report to you faithfully, to help you rescue Simon and anyone else we can if at all possible?” He nodded at me. “Come. Surely you don’t think I want everyone I worked with, my colleagues, my friends, my subordinates at the palace to die? If I hadn’t been ordered to get you out and protect you, I’d be up there fighting. If we can save anyone, I’ll accept your help. Do you trust me?”

It took me a moment, and I confess the answer came more from gut instinct than from reasoned thought, but I said, firmly, “Yes.”

He pushed the safety on his burner, handed it to me. “Then, trust me to disguise you. I can’t stand to be here and not be sure what’s happening out there, nor how much danger we’re in,” he said. “Or the danger everyone else is in. Nor what to do about it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going out. You stay here. If anyone — anyone at all — knocks ignore them. If anyone manages to open the door and it’s not me, shoot them. If… It might be better if they don’t capture you alive. If I don’t come back in… in two hours or so, you’re on your own. Try to make your way out, and Que Dieu — And try to be safe.”

I appreciated his not spelling out that if the burner was almost out of juice and I was out-shot, I should off myself. It was clear enough from what he didn’t say, but he didn’t say it. I’d made that decision of “better dead than captured” for Len once. I might have been wrong. Could I make it for me?

“When I come back, I shall knock this way,” he beat a distinctive rhythm on the sideboard by the bed. “Do you understand?”

My eyes might not be as innocent as those of Botticelli’s Venus, but they clearly had a way of looking startled and not fully sure of anything much. I knew this because throughout my life people had asked me if I fully understood unpleasant things and tried to prevent me from fulfilling my duty.

I nodded at Alexis, with a touch of impatience. “I understand,” I said. And I did. I might not understand the precise danger we stood in, but I understood that I was in danger.

He looked dubious, as though something in my look failed to reassure him, but he put his ear to the door, then opened the door a crack and looked out.

Turning back, he said, “I’ll try to be back. If I’m more than two hours, you’re on your own.”

And he left.

I stayed by the door, burner at the ready. The clock embedded into the wall above the mirror worked. Surprising, given the state of the rest of the lodgings. Looking at it, reminded me that time could pass much slower than any objective measurements showed.

It lacked five minutes to two hours since Alexis had left, when the knock came. I’d been considering what to do on my own and had almost decided I’d leave and search for a derelict building that I could occupy and from which I could range out to figure out what I could do to prevent more chaos and death.

Alexis knocked and I opened. He came in and tossed a bag onto the bed. “I got you hair dye. And an outfit. They’re in the bag,” he said, gesturing.

“But I want to know what’s happening out there.”

“I’ll tell you. We’re going to have to leave. It’s… madness. Chaos unleashed out there. We’ll have to get away. Clear away from Liberte. There’s revolutionary guards; there’s organized patrols. And then there are unorganized mobs, out for the blood of anyone who — of anyone connected with the administration.”

“But Simon–” I said.

“We can’t save him on our own,” Alexis said. “Not against this. We’ll need help. Remember I told you that you couldn’t fight a multitude all by yourself? You can’t. There’s mobs, but behind them there’s covert and implacable organization. I have some idea who is behind this, but no way to get at them on my own. They are seeking anyone connected to the Good Man, anyone who is — Anyone they can eliminate. The Good Man has friends outside the seacity. We must reach them and ask them for help.”

“He could die while we do that!” I said.

“Then he’d be dead already,” Alexis said. “But I don’t think he is. I think the chaos is just dressing on the real action. I think this is a planned revolution; I think there are people in charge, people who’ve been waiting for an opportunity, and they know that the Patrician is worth more alive than dead.”

“More?”

“As a hostage.” He sounded impatient.

“A hostage to whom? The Good Men?”

He shrugged. “Them, or anyone else. The Good Men don’t like their kind killed, not visibly, not even if they’re rebels. They certainly don’t like their kind killed by anyone but themselves. It might give people ideas. As for the Usaians, they don’t like rebels killed, and they might intervene to save him just because of that. They might be willing to pay or sign a non-aggression pact in exchange for Simon. First we need to get out of here. Then we’ll figure out how to save him. We’ll find outside help.” And then, “You should be disguising yourself.”

“I thought you said there was a better way than dyeing my hair!”

“You’ll see.”

I took the bag into the attached fresher and saw. Or thought I did. The hair dye he’d got me was not brown, but a cheap, obviously fake red. The bag also contained just as cheap, and equally obviously false makeup, contact lenses that changed my eyes to dark brown, and a dress that appeared to be made of some sort of plastic. It felt uncomfortable against the skin, but it changed my look completely. I’d been considering dyeing my hair brown or black and wearing a unisex suit of the sort that manual laborers used to cover up their real clothes. I now realized that would have made me stand out like someone who was trying to disguise herself.

This, though — from the obviously fake hair color, to the overdone makeup with my now-unremarkable brown eyes surrounded by black liner and highlighter, and with the cheap, but ruffled and ornamented pastel-pink dress — looked like I was trying to call attention to myself and had nothing to remarkable to make note of.

As I put the makeup on, it occurred to me that Alexis’ competence in this particular situation was very odd. It didn’t strike me as something people could simply think their way into. But who would the head of security of the Good Man St. Cyr have conspired against? And why and how would he have needed a disguise?

Whatever he was, whatever he had been, Alexis seemed like he had a lot of experience with conspiracy.

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 22

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 22

When he opened his journal Phillip’s eyes fell on the last entry. It was about the effect of the Plantago major paste he’d used to treat the teams’ insect bites. He thought about it. The blister wasn’t a bite, but maybe some of that paste would sooth it. It certainly couldn’t make it worse. Phillip wrote up his thoughts about the wart being lifted off the flesh by the blister before hunting out the pot. It wasn’t immediately soothing, but over time he ceased noticing the finger.

****

The next day Phillip stopped off at Eufemia’s cottage to show her his finger, and to hopefully talk to her about the local plants she used. His finger turned out to be a bit of an ice breaker for that discussion.

“What have you done to your finger?” she asked pointing to the bandage Phillip had wrapped around it.

“It was itching, so I applied a simple balm to it, and wrapped it in a bandage to ensure it stayed in contact with the blistered area.”

Eufemia started to undo the bandage. “What did you use?” she asked.

“A paste made of Plantago major.” Phillip didn’t expect Eufemia to know plants by their Latin names so he showed her a few leaves he’d brought with him.

Eufemia took a leaf from Phillip and crushed it and sniffed. “Plantain. That’s a wise choice. Did you know that a tea from plantain leaves can be used to treat someone with the runs?”

Phillip leaned closer. “No I didn’t, could you describe the treatment?”

That evening

Phillip was late returning to the teams’ lodgings. He’d ended up spending all day with Eufemia, following her around her garden learning how to identify plants and what they could or shouldn’t be used for. He was happily contemplating going over what he’d recorded in his journal as he entered the inn.

“Where’ve you been all day?” Michael demanded the moment he entered.

Phillip was a little taken aback at the aggression Michael was displaying and took a couple of steps away from him. “I’ve been talking to the village wise woman about the local plants.”

The anger in Michael’s face dropped immediately and he reached out a hand and dragged Phillip over to a table. “What did you learn?” he demanded.

“Well, did you know an infusion made from Plantago major can be used to treat diarrhea?”

Michael shook his head. “Anything else?”

Phillip laid down his journal where Michael could see it and they spent the next hour before supper going over the various information he had gleaned from Eufemia.

July 1616

They were still working their way around Lake Vrana a week later. Progress as measured in distance was slow, as they’d barely moved two miles in six days, but in terms of specimens they were doing very well. Michael had so many of them that he’d called a halt and they’d set course for the nearest civilization. The port city of Biograd na Moru beckoned, and now, while the teamsters checked the animals for trip and Michael wrapped up his specimens, Phillip took care of Dapple before collecting his satchel and finding a quiet place where he could check the condition of his finger.

He sat down in the grass and opened his satchel. In addition to anything else he might need at a moment’s notice, such as his latest journal, writing instruments, or food, it also contained a small medical kit. He pulled the kit out and opened it beside him. There was a scalpel made from a shaped piece of wood with a shard of obsidian mounted into it. He used that to trim back the loose skin that had been lifted by the blister before using a lens to check his finger. The wart was still there, but much smaller. That meant he had to rub it again with a blister beetle. Fortunately he’d prepared for this eventuality and he had a dozen or so dead beetles in a small pot. He opened that and used a couple of twigs to pick up a beetle and rub it against his finger.

He was putting the used beetle back when he heard a bit of a commotion. He sealed the pot and pushed the twigs he’d been using to hold it into the ground, so nobody could accidently touch them, before looking up. In the distance, maybe fifty yards away, a group of children were running around screaming. In his time living in the midst of the Rovarini family Phillip had learned that this was perfectly normal behavior with children, so he ignored it and concentrated on his finger.

He was just putting everything back into his satchel when the primeval scream of a mother in distress rent the air. Phillip, like everyone else within earshot, turned in the direction the scream came from. He saw a woman kneeling on the ground holding a small child who was obviously in some distress. Phillip jumped to his feet, thrusting the medical kit into his satchel and ran toward the woman, where a crowd was already gathering.

The woman was holding a boy about the same size as Giacomo and Francesca Sedazzari’s ten year old daughter. But this was a boy, meaning he was probably anything between eight and eleven. She was wailing over the child, holding him in her arms and crying out for something. Phillip knew enough to recognize the language as Hebrew, but after that he would only have been guessing. He turned his attention to the child, and froze. The boy’s face was badly swollen, and the lips were turning blue. Phillip took a deep breath and pushed his way forward. “Let me through!” he said, “I’m a physician,” he said as he fumbled in his satchel.

That cleared a way, and moments later Phillip bent down over the child. He forced open the child’s mouth and looked to see if he could force a cannula down the airway, but the tongue was swollen, suggesting that the throat may also be swollen.

The woman said something to him. He didn’t understand her, but he assumed she was pleading with him to save her son. Phillip swallowed. He could think of only one thing that could save the boy’s life. He would have to cut an opening into the trachea. Both Professor Frabricius and his mentor, Giulio, had written descriptions of how they felt the operation should be performed. Both of them had also recommended that it only be performed as a last resort. Phillip looked down at the boy. He was still struggling to breathe, but he his struggles were weakening. The face that should have been pink was pale and his lips were turning blue. That was enough to convince Phillip that a tracheotomy was the only way to save the child.

Phillip shoved his satchel under the boy’s shoulders so his head naturally fell back, extending the neck and opened his medical kit and grabbed the smallest of the curved brass cannula he’d had made according to his mentor’s specification just in case he had to perform this operation. Giulio had actually specified silver in his writings, but that was beyond Phillip’s purse. He also picked up his obsidian scalpel and felt for the cricoid cartilage just below the larynx with his free hand.

The only warning was the renewed screaming of the woman, but Phillip didn’t realized the screams were directed at him until she started to strike him. He held up his arms defensively as the boy’s mother continued to scream and lash out at him. “Someone hold her,” he screamed.

Two shadows grabbed the woman and pulled her away. Meanwhile Michael dropped down beside Phillip and took hold of the boy. “You’re going to do a tracheotomy?” he asked.

“It’s his only hope,” Phillip said as he relocated his target on the boy’s throat and spread his fingers to tighten the skin.

Michael whistled. “I’m only heard of the operation. Have you done one before?”

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 07

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 07

And Tully had to admit that the general had delivered on that one. Every detachment on the battleships had at least two experienced sergeants, and the assault group had experienced men in three out of every four non-officer leadership slots. The Jao were just as good. And First Sergeant Luff, crusty as he might be at times, was pure gold. He’d come out of the pre-conquest United States Marines, where he’d been a gunnery sergeant. There wasn’t anything that anyone, Jao or human, could pull that he hadn’t seen (or done) worse. There wasn’t a problem that anyone could think of that he didn’t have a suggestion or two about how to deal with it. And Tully had learned that if the first sergeant said, “If I might suggest, sir . . .” that he’d best pay attention. He’d learned that the hard way after one monumental goof, and Luff had saved his official colonel-type backside for him more than once since then.

Kralik had ended their talk with, “But get this straight, Gabe. Caitlin’s mission is what we used to call a reconnaissance in force. You may or may not end up conducting ship to ship actions, and maybe some raids along the way. But your purpose is to defend the fleet and the director. This is not an invasion force. You will not have enough troops and resources to take and hold ground against what the Ekhat could bring. So be smart. Be very smart. Not because of Yaut, or even Aille. You risk the fleet unnecessarily, you waste this command, and I’ll shred you. Yaut will get to sweep up the pieces.”

Tully came out of the haze of memory. “Gotcha, boss.”

He took another sip of coffee, and dove into the reports on his pad, skimming and thumb-printing as quickly as he could. Before long he was so deep in the routine that he was startled to hear his name.

“Gabe Tully,” a familiar voice said.

“Lim?” He looked to find the young Lleix standing before his table. She gazed at him with those narrow black eyes, her body very straight, and so utterly still; as the Jao, with all their fancy body-postures, never were.

“I would speak with you,” she said clearly.

“Fine,” Tully said, waving a hand at an armless chair. “Take a seat.” His pad chimed, and he looked at it. “Never mind,” he said, standing up and sliding the pad into a pocket. “I’ve got to head for my shuttle. Walk with me.”

Tully was fond of this particular Lleix, who had been among the first in the dochaya to believe him when he said the unassigned did not have to just give up and be second-class citizens all their lives.

“Do you need something?” he said, looking up into her silver face for a moment. Tully was not a short human, but even short Lleix topped him, with long graceful necks, upswept black eyes, a dished face with very little nose, and stocky slightly pear-shaped bodies.

She twitched at her robes, though they’d already seemed just fine to him. “I have no purpose on this voyage,” she said, matching her pace to his. Her black eyes glittered. “I am useless.”

They turned a corner. “During explorations, most of us in the fleet have no purpose,” Tully said, “and will not, unless or until we find another species or get into a battle with the Ekhat.”

She was silent for a moment, her fleshy aureole rippling across her head. “I am not accustomed to being useless,” she said finally. “All my life, I am working hard, cleaning elian-houses, fetching supplies, weeding and cooking and repairing, not just sitting around and–waiting–for something that may never occur. This–” Her black eyes gazed around at the ship. “This being unneeded is too hard. Studying Terralore is not enough. I require something to do–now.”

They stepped through a set of heavy blast-proof doors and turned another corner. It was clear to that the poor kid was bored out of her mind. He could certainly sympathize with that. He studied her from the corner of his eye. “What would you like to do?”

Lim stopped and twisted her fingers together, shifting her weight restlessly from foot to foot as Lleix often did when uncertain. “What is needed on the ship?”

“All jobs are currently filled,” he said, “but you could train for one of them anyway as a backup. What are you interested in? Engines? Communications equipment? Food service?”

She was silent then, as though she wanted to say something but did not know how to bring it up. “Pyr said humans used to fight one another,” she said finally.

“Yes,” he said, “we used to be very quarrelsome among ourselves, but now we use that energy to fight the Ekhat.”

His pad chimed again, reminding him of the shuttle. “Walk with me,” he said again.

“The Lleix tried to fight the Ekhat,” she said as they started down the passage, “especially at first, but they always just killed us, so mostly we ran away.”

Tully wasn’t sure where this conversation was going. “There’s no shame in refusing to fight a battle you’re sure to lose if you can avoid it.”

“The Ekhat drove us from our homes,” she said, “from lush beautiful worlds with perfect climates, soaring mountains, deep swift rivers. Every time this happened we left behind gardens that had been tended for a thousand years, great houses whose every room had been perfected over many lifetimes, and elian containing knowledge that has never been recreated.” She was silent for a moment, blinking. “We even left behind the Boh. The Ekhat took everything from us, including most of who we are.” She was quiet for several steps, then said in a low voice, “But we let them.”

“I have been in an Ekhat ship,” Tully said. “I have fought against the crazy devils myself. They have endless resources, and are scary crazy, mad to destroy. I am sure that the Lleix did the best that they could under the circumstances.”

They took a turn into a wider passage.

Lim’s fathomless black eyes regarded him. “Did they?”

He didn’t know what to say then. The Lleix, with their emphasis on sensho, which ranked individuals according to age and height, viewed life very differently from humans. Even Lim and Pyr, who had been remanded to a slum solely because of their failure to meet Lleix standards of beauty, aspired to be old and tall, as though those qualities really mattered. Frankly, Tully was not surprised that, in the end, the Ekhat had pretty much kicked the Lleix’s collective ass, though he kept that opinion to himself.

“I am wishing to no longer be helpless,” Lim said. “I am wishing to learn to fight so that if we encounter the Ekhat again, I do not have to cower in my quarters and wait for others to save us.”

Tully regarded the young Lleix. “Isn’t there an elian that fights? Aren’t they building a Lexington for them?”

“The Weaponsmakers.” Lim adjusted her robes again. “But they were–are–not very good. Not effective.” The last almost sounded like a curse in her mouth.

The Lleix were not cowards, certainly. But it dawned on Tully that they had nothing in the way of a martial tradition as humans and Jao did. There was no separate function for soldiers in their society; nothing even close to a warrior elian. Instead, when the Lleix had been forced in the past to fight back against the Ekhat and Jao, they had turned the work over to the Weaponsmakers elian. From what Tully could tell, it was as if, in human terms, fighting World War II had been turned over to Rosie the Riveter and the engineers who designed the B-17s and the Sherman tanks. And Tully knew better than anyone that there was a world of difference between being able to make or service a weapon and being really good at using it.

The Lleix had no tradition at all, so far as Tully knew, of fighting hand-to-hand or at close range. For Lleix, “combat” was something that geeks did at a distance, using geek methods. If the enemy managed to get close, they were as helpless as so many lambs. Big lambs, but still lambs.

Tully spent a bit more time studying the young Lleix as they moved through the big doors to one of the Lexington’s shuttle bays. Lim had grown sturdy with better food and living quarters, and she was certainly intelligent, having learned English and other Terran languages with a rapacious ferocity that spoke volumes about her will. Her desire to learn combat was perhaps an unusual attitude for her people, but her determination was not–at least, not among those who had not been part of the elite. She had clawed her way out of the dochaya, and she wasn’t the only one who had when their one opportunity to do so had arrived, courtesy of Caitlin Kralik and one Gabe Tully. There was no doubt in Tully’s mind that she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 21

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 21

Francis smiled in relief. “And it did keep the insects away today,” he admitted. “Will you be reading the next chapter to us tonight?”

Philip’s brows shot up. “Yes, and thanks for reminding me. I have to let the innkeeper know.”

“Are you angling for better victuals again, Signor Gribbleflotz?”

Phillip grinned. That had been the result of him reading in inn common rooms previously. “That and because it is a sure way of getting most of the village together so Dr. Weitnauer can talk to them.”

“I could warn the innkeeper that you will be reading aloud in his common room this evening,” Francis suggested.

Phillip thought about the offer but shook his head. “He might want to see what I’ll be reading to his customers, so it’s probably best that I speak to him.”

That evening Phillip sat down to read to a packed house. He checked the small table beside him. There was a mug and a jug of the local cider to keep his throat lubricated. He poured a mug full and took a sip. There was shuffling about in the room as people got comfortable, and drinks were ordered. Phillip opened his book and adjusted the position of the lamps until he was comfortable with the light. Finally he was ready. A glance towards the inn keeper with a raised brow produced a nod of the head. He too was ready for the reading to begin.

Phillip inhaled the rarified air of expectation and started to speak. He gave a brief synopsis of the story so far before he started to read.

“Chapter twenty-four, In Which Is Continued the Adventure of the Sierra Morenaí. The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying,” Phillip read. His strong voice was able to be heard in even the most distant spots in the inn — the long hours reading to his landlord’s extended family in the barn had unexpected benefits.

After only a few sentences he knew he had the audience’s complete attention. The sound of the crackling fire being his only competition. It brought a sense of satisfaction, but also an obligation to deliver.

With each character he changed his voice, giving them different personalities so his listeners could more easily keep track of who was supposed to be speaking. Just like the children of the Rovarini in Padua this audience lapped it up.

Philip lost track of time as the thrill of all those people hanging onto his every word took over. Eventually he had to stop, and he closed the book to absolute silence. He’d held everyone’s attention all that time. With a sense of intense satisfaction Phillip stood and took his bows. “That’s all for tonight good people. You have been a wonderful audience, and for that I thank you. Now I must leave you to get on with your own business.”

He left the floor to Michael and found a quiet corner where he could rest. His thumb rubbed against a wart that had emerged on his finger recently. It had been annoying him for a couple of days now, but for various reasons he hadn’t got around doing anything about it. He knew a proper way to remove it, but it was bothering him right now. So he tried chewing on it. It was inefficient, but it did at least alleviate the itching.

He was checking his progress in the light of the fire when an older woman captured his hand and looked at it. “That’s the wrong way to get rid of it,” she said.

Phillip smiled at the grey-haired woman. “It’s annoying me. It’s right where my thumb rubs against the finger and it itches whenever I touch it.”

“There are better ways of making them go away than trying to chew them off,” the woman said.

“I know,” Phillip said. “Apply a slice of garlic that has been left to soak in vinegar.”

“I know a better way,” the woman said. “Come to my cottage tomorrow morning and I’ll show you how to get rid of it.”

Phillip realized he might have made contact with the village wise woman. Such women existed in most villages. They were women who knew the local herbal lore and cared for the health of the community. His great grandfather had written in his journals about how such women could be fonts of knowledge. He would be careful.

Phillip bowed his head. “Thank you, madam. I am Phillip Gribbleflotz. And you would be?” he asked.

“You may call me Eufemia. The innkeeper knows me.”

“Then tomorrow I will come and be schooled, and lose a wart. Which is your cottage?” he asked.

“You can’t miss it. It’s the third on your left when you leave the inn heading north.”

Phillip thanked the woman, watched her leave and settled down to wait for Michael.

Next morning

Phillip asked the innkeeper about the woman, and was reassured by his answer. Eufemia was not only the village wise woman, but also happened to be his mother. Phillip thanked the man for the information and left the inn heading north.

Eufemia had been right, her house, which was a riot of color, was impossible to miss. He opened the rickety gate and walked up to the door and knocked.

“Come in Signor Gribbleflotz,” Eufemia called.

Phillip entered the dark cottage and followed the sounds of a knife on a chopping board to find Eufemia pouring chopped vegetables into a kettle. A large grey and white cat was entwining itself around her legs.

“Take a seat in the sunlight,” Eufemia directed. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The moment Phillip sat down the cat stopped twining itself around Eufemia’s legs and walked over to where he was sitting, leaped onto the arm of the chair and sniffed Phillip before stepping onto him.

“Don’t mind the cat,” Eufemia said as she put the kettle to one side and grabbed a clay pot and a couple of twigs. “Now let’s have a look at your wart,” she said as she turned Phillip’s hand in the sunlight.

Eufemia took his hand in her left hand, and with her right she opened the pot and used the twigs to pick up a dead iridescent green insect about as long as her thumbnail was wide.

“That’s a Cantharis beetle,” Philip said, recognizing the insect from an example his landlord in Padua had shown him.

Eufemia shook her head. “No, it’s a blister beetle.”

“Right, sorry, different places, different names,” Philip apologized. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I am going to rub it against the skin around the wart.”

Phillip instinctively tried to jerk his hand back, but Eufemia had a firm grip on it. “Don’t be such a baby,” she said as she carefully rubbed the dead beetle against Phillip’s finger.

Moments later she released Phillip’s hand and he drew it protectively close to him.

“Don’t touch the area I brushed with the beetle,” Eufemia warned. “Anything that touches it will also blister.”

Philip immediately moved his hand clear of his body and stared at his finger. “I can’t continue to avoid touching my finger,” he protested.

“Just leave it a little longer and then we’ll wash it with soap and water.”

“Then what happens?” Phillip asked.

“A blister will rise where I rubbed the blister beetle. When the blister bursts you should check to see if the wart is still in your finger. If it is, then you repeat the treatment.”

“And this will work?” Phillip asked.

Eufemia nodded. “Yes. And even better, it doesn’t leave a scar. Unlike what would happen if you managed to bite out the wart.”

****

That evening the skin around the wart on Phillip’s finger started to itch even as it ballooned out. He examined the blister. The wart was right there on the surface. He played with the blister a little. Surely, if the wart was rooted in his flesh the skin fluid in the blister wouldn’t have lifted the skin away from the flesh? It was a thought, which he immediately wanted to enter in his journal.

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 39

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 39

I steered us onto the narrow lane and drifted over to the side when we pulled even with the restrooms. Making sure that no one was nearby, and leaving the engine idling, I got out of the pickup, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door. “You heard your mom. Use the bathroom and then come right back here.”

They crawled out of the truck and ran to the restrooms. I stayed by the truck, watching for Gracie, every second feeling like an hour.

Even as I waited for them to emerge from the outbuildings, I pulled out my phone and dialed Kona’s number.

“You got anything for me?” she asked upon answering.

“On Burt, you mean?”

“Yeah, on Burt.”

“Nothing to speak of, no, and I don’t have a lot of time right now. The other day you said something about a break-in at the Davett house. What can you tell me about that?”

The urgency in my voice must have reached her through the thin connection, because rather than telling me she wasn’t being paid to do my job, she merely answered. “Not much,” she said. “A neighbor called it in after hearing a bunch of noise from inside the house. Glass breaking, things being knocked around, stuff like that. So by the time the husband got home, a squad car was already there. Davett checked on a few valuables and then said nothing important had been taken and refused to file a report.”

That fit. Neil didn’t want to report it, because he knew exactly what the people who broke in were after, and he didn’t want to explain any of this to the police.

“So that was it,” I said. “No report, no investigation.”

“‘Fraid so. Why the interest?”

“I think it’s possible the people who killed Burt went to the Davett’s place looking for the same item.”

“This more than a hunch?”

“I wish. Hunches are about all I’ve got going for me right now.”

One of the restroom doors opened.

“I’ve gotta go, Kona. I’ll call again when I can.”

I closed the phone before she could say more. I figured she would still be ticked at me the next time we spoke, but I couldn’t worry about that now.

Emmy appeared in the restroom doorway, but waited for Zach. When he came out, she took his hand, but still she remained in the shadows of the building, watching me, waiting for me to signal to her that all was clear.

Like I said, smart kid.

I turned a slow circle, trying to act nonchalant. Seeing no one, I opened the truck door again and gave them a little wave. They ran back to the truck, climbed in, and tucked down into the foot well.

“Where’s Mommy?” Emmy asked.

I watched the end of the road for any sign of her. “She’ll be here soon,” I said. “Transporting spells take a little time.”

That wasn’t really true — they didn’t take any more time than other spells. But I didn’t want to scare her. I was concerned enough for the both of us.

“What are transporting spells?”

“They let you move things from place to place, or, in this case, they let you retrieve things that you can’t get to in any other way.”

“Like blankie?” she said.

“Like blankie.”

“I hope she remembers to get more of our food.”

“Me, too,” Zach said, the words muddy.

I glanced into the pickup. He had his thumb in his mouth and was staring at the truck door, his eyes a little glassy. Given the chance, in another few minutes he would be napping.

I heard a car rolling toward us along the loop road, and then the soft crackle of a police radio.

“Shit.”

“That’s a bad one,” Emmy said. I didn’t have to see her to know she was scowling. “That’s two quarters each.”

“Emmy, before this is over, I’m going to owe you a lot of money.”

I hurried around to the driver’s side, got in, and pulled away from the restrooms. I didn’t drive fast, and I had no intention of going far. But any cop who saw me there would be curious enough to stop.

“What about Mommy?” Emmy asked.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. We’re not going far.”

She watched me, her eyes wide. If she objected to me calling her sweetie, she didn’t show it.

When I was certain the cruiser hadn’t turned down this row, I found an empty site and pulled into it, hoping Gracie would find us.

Minutes dragged by. I started to wonder if I ought to circle around to that last row. If she’d been caught, I needed to know. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be arrested, too. Sure, I would probably be able to talk my way out of an accessory to murder charge; and if I couldn’t Kona would do it for me. But in this case, my fate was beside the point. As much as I hated the idea of taking the children to Marisol and Eduardo Trejo with news of Gracie’s arrest, that was better by far than getting caught ourselves and having the kids wind up back with an abusive father.

To my great relief, Gracie appeared on the road behind us a few minutes later. The kids squealed at the sight of her, and I had to shush them. She walked swiftly, but somehow managed to keep herself from appearing hurried or nervous. And her arms were full of an assortment of children’s books, clothes, and stuffed animals, including an old, gray and blue blanket that probably had once been white and blue. I assumed this was blankie.

Upon reaching the pickup, she flashed a crooked grin through the open window on the passenger side. “Sorry. I’d use a spell to grab one thing, and immediately think of something else I should also take. And I had to be careful not to take too much at once. The place is crawling with cops.”

“Well, climb in,” I said, “and let’s get out of here.”

“With pleasure.”

She passed a blanket through the window to Zach.

“Blankie!” he said, hugging both the blanket and his enormous zebra, and then sticking his thumb in his mouth.

Gracie frowned at this, but got in and handed another blanket and a stuffed puppy to Emmy.

“I know you don’t need them,” she said. “But I didn’t want to leave them behind.”

Emmy smiled. “Thanks.”

Gracie stowed the books and clothes at her feet, and cast a glance my way. “I wasn’t sure if you needed anything from your tent, and I don’t know what your stuff looks like. A transporting spell wouldn’t have done me much good.”

“It’s all right. There’s nothing in there but a cheap sleeping bag that I bought in Ajo.”

I pulled out into the one-way road once more and drove slowly through the campground, doing everything I could not to draw anyone’s attention, and hoping we didn’t meet up with another cop on the way out. Near the kiosk at the entrance, I saw the same officer we’d encountered earlier. He was leaning on a car with Nevada plates. A couple sat up front; two kids sat in back. I slowed the truck and waved at him. He straightened and squinted over at us. For a moment I feared he might not recognize us from a few minutes before. But then he waved and turned his attention back to the family from Nevada. I steered us away from the campground.

Before long, I had us on highway 85 heading out of the national monument. I had no idea where we were going, but I wanted to put as much distance as possible between us and all those police.

“So here’s a question for you,” I said, after we had driven for a while.

Gracie eyed me over the tops of the kids’ heads, her expression guarded.

“According to what witnesses told the police, and based on what I saw of the scene later, it seems that when you were cornered in the Burger Royale, you were able to cast a spell that drew on the building’s electricity.”

Emmy eyed each of us, perhaps trying to gauge where this conversation was going.

“What about it?”

I sighed, wondering if she was just naturally defensive, or if I brought this out in her. “I’d like to know how you did it.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t and I’d like to be able to.”

That brought a smile to her lips. “You’re asking me to teach you something about runecrafting?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“It’s not that hard,” she said with a lift of her shoulder. “There’s power everywhere — at least that’s what I was taught. And incorporating it into a crafting is . . . I don’t know. It’s like anything else.”

“I was taught something similar,” I said, thinking of Namid. “When you say to incorporate it, do you mean the way you would blood for a blood spell?”

“Yes! I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I think it’s similar. It’s part of the spell. I’ve done castings that draw on electricity, fire, I even used a running engine once. It makes my spells a lot more powerful.” She grinned again. “That’s how I bent the blade on that helicopter. I pulled the heat out of the ground and used that.”

My eyebrows went up. “That’s pretty amazing. So do you do it all the time?”

She shook her head. “I usually can’t do it more than once or twice in any given day. And even if I’m careful, I can get one hell of a headache afterwards.”

“I wonder why.”

“I think it’s because I’m using my body as a conduit for other types of energy, and my body doesn’t like that.”

I had wanted to practice these spells. That was the only way I was going to learn to use them. But we had a lot of driving to do, and I knew we might be attacked by weremancers at any moment. I couldn’t afford what might prove to be a debilitating headache.

“Do you want to try one?” she asked.

“I think I’d better not while we’re on the road.”

“You’re probably right. But I think if you approach these spells the way you would blood spells, you’ll be able to make them work when you need to.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you have talents the rest of us don’t.”

I said it with a smile, but she merely stared back at me for a few seconds before turning away to gaze out the window.

“Gracie?”

“I’m going to try to get some sleep,” she said, without facing me. “Wake me if there’s a problem.”

“Yeah, all right,” I said.

I eyed her, but she had settled in against the passenger side door, her eyes closed. I was left to drive and to wonder what it was I’d said wrong.

 

Through Fire – Snippet 06

Through Fire – Snippet 06

Simon had taken me to where the painting was kept, in a vault to which it had been moved after the destruction of Florence. I think he believed the resemblance would flatter me. Instead, it had made me shake my head at the folly of the man from whose genes I was created and his old friend who’d helped him to make me. I’d known his friend. He’d been a sort of an uncle to me growing up. Until I saw that painting, I’d never realized he was insane. Broken, divided, lost, yes, but not mad.

So in that cheap hotel room, looking at my all too memorable reflection, I thought I must dye my hair brown. I must have said it aloud, because Alexis made a sound from the door. When I looked at him, I found him glaring back at me, over his shoulder. “You’re going about it all wrong,” he said. He looked disgusted or perhaps pitying. His face was hard to read.

I lifted my eyebrows at him, in an enquiry I didn’t know how to phrase, then said, “But I can’t stay here,” I said. “You must understand, I wasn’t made to sit and watch. I was told–”

He sighed. He sighed as though he were faced with all the stupidity of the world. He shook his head, shrugged. “I can’t convince you to be sensible, can I? At least allow me to represent to you that going out there, like this, with no idea of what you face and no more ability to move unnoticed in this world than a twenty-foot butterfly, is little less than suicide. If the whole seacity has decided to turn against the Good Man and anyone associated with him, you can’t fight them alone. If, on the other hand, it’s a small group causing all this, we can plan and overcome them.”

I was about to argue but stopped. I wasn’t completely stupid. It was just his assumption of mastery that bothered me. But he was right.

Alexis’ voice was low and raspy, and had just the edge of an accent. “Let me go and reconnoiter. I’ll bring you more clear intelligence, which you can use in your decision. You might still choose to risk yourself, but you’ll do it under advisement and that might fulfill what the Good Man meant by keeping you safe.” For some reason, unlike the edge of an accent that made Simon sound aristocratic and intriguing, it made Brisbois sound like a peasant, slow of thought. I realized the hands holding the burner were large and rough-looking, as if he tilled fields or built houses by hand in his spare time. “I doubt this entire riot is targeted at you specifically, but it doesn’t need to be particular to be fatal. And if you have to disguise yourself, dyeing your hair brown is all wrong.”

I looked back at the glass, and spoke to his reflection in the glass.

“What do you think is happening?” I said. I scanned his face for a hint of alarm, a look of … something that would give me an idea of what was likely to happen what the limits of possibility were. He was of Earth and more likely to understand better than I. I didn’t want a disaster to take me by surprise. Not again.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to say. I can’t be sure. I suspect, but…” He took a long, deep breath. “Only, in this situation, acting on a suspicion and being wrong might land us in worse trouble than we’re in already.”

“Right,” I said. “But not acting can kill us too, no? We can’t hide here until they track us down!” He’d lowered his eyebrows over his dark eyes, as though in deep thought. “Look, people broke into the palace. Into the ballroom. They weren’t the troops of the Good Men.” I remembered people in everyday outfits, normal looking people. I remembered blood and fire. “They can’t be that powerful. We should be able to do something, to rescue Simon.”

“No,” he said. “No. I’m almost sure they were… just people. And the people who fired at our flyer were the same. People from — People from here, people from Liberte. The transports never left the water, and I’m sure the Good Men aren’t behind this. But I’m not sure…” He made a sound of exasperation, as though his mind refused to formulate the words he needed in this situation. “I’m not sure who they’re hunting for, you understand? If it’s a list of names, I’m on that list or you are. Or are they just trying to kill a certain type of person? Or it might just be a spasm of rebellion against anyone perceived as wealthier or more powerful. I don’t know, and neither do you.”

“Simon said to get me out of there, but he didn’t come with us. He thought I was in danger and he was not, clearly.”

“No,” Alexis said. “I don’t think he thought he was in no danger. Don’t you know the Good Man would be gallant enough to rescue you while sacrificing himself? I do wonder what Good Man St. Cyr knew that–” He stopped. I didn’t say anything. Neither of us were sure of anything about Good Man St. Cyr, including being sure that he was still, at this moment, among the living. Remembering the invaders into his house and ballroom, the explosions, the destruction of what seemed like immutable order, I doubted it. On the other hand, I had the very strong impression that the ci-devant Good Man, by his own words Protector of the People, was not that easy to kill.

A long silence fell. Alexis kept his ear against the door. After a while he sighed. “Do you trust me?”

I wanted to say yes, but did I trust him? Define trust. I’d learned from the earliest age that I was different, and that trusting other people — even my adoptive parents — to know what was best for me could be bad. Very bad. I’d learned early on to make my own way, to forge my own path.

I’d trusted one person in the world. Len, the pilot of my darkship. I’d married him too. And then I’d had to kill him, because the alternative was far worse.

But here, on this strange world, with this strange man I’d been thrust upon, what was trust? Could I trust him as I’d trusted Len? No. Could I trust him to not try to overpower me and take me away from danger, as he’d been ordered to do?

“You have orders,” I said. “From the Good Man. Would you lie to fulfill them?”

Alexis laughed, a mirthless cackle. “Let me rephrase that,” he said. “Do you trust me to tell you the truth if I promise to do so?” He seemed to search my face. “Yes, I promised to protect you to the best of my ability, but the Good Man transferred my loyalty to you. That means I protect you, but tell you the truth and let you decide what course you take. I don’t think I could overpower you forever.”

 

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 30

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 30

CHAPTER 11

Newtown on Peltry

Adele stared at the text from Guy Mignouri, the 5th Bureau Resident in Newtown, for some seconds longer than the words themselves required: it is not suitable to meet now. i will inform you further in a few days.

Adele cued the link to Tovera, who sat opposite her on the striker’s seat of the signals console. “Tovera, we’re going visiting. It’s possible this will involve forced entry.”

“Should I bring something bulkier than the usual?” Tovera said.

“No, it’s likely to be very short range if it comes to that,” said Adele. Neither she nor Tovera was skilled with long arms, and Tovera’s miniature sub-machine gun had always proven as satisfactory as one throwing heavier slugs could have been. “But now that I’ve thought about it, I should have backup. Break. Captain Vesey, this is Mundy.”

Adele did not refer to herself as “Signals” or “Signals Officer Mundy” as she might have done at other times when she was being formal. Her present request had nothing to do with her RCN duties.

“Go ahead, Mundy,” Vesey said. Though Vesey was in command of the Princess Cecile during Daniel’s absence, she chose to remain at her normal duty station in the Battle Direction Center in the stern.

“I’m going to visit associates,” Adele said. “They didn’t respond as I expected when I informed them of my presence. It’s possible that there’s something wrong. I would like a squad to back me up at a short distance. Six should be enough. I hope to wave them off after the door is opened to me normally.”

“Do you want Woetjans to lead?” Vesey said. “And what sort of tools? Over.”

“I’ll have Hale to lead if you don’t mind,” Adele said, adding the junior midshipman and sending her the early part of the call. “She’s here at the navigation console at the moment. Woetjans is checking the A Ring antennas, and I don’t see that I need her for this.”

That was true, but it was also true that Woetjans tended to act quickly and with great force, as a bosun was required to do. Hale was cool in a crisis, but she was much less likely to get physical.

“And I don’t want to march through the city like an assault force,” Adele said. “I don’t want any weapons visible. I truly don’t expect serious violence.”

“We’ve got collapsible handcarts in a locker,” Vesey said. “One of them will hold guns politely, over.”

Hale was already alerting spacers for the duty, pinging them individually instead of using the general push. She was the kind of officer which the RCN needed.

“That will be very satisfactory,” Adele said, rising to her feet. “I’ll inform you of the results on my return. Over, that is out.”

“Sun is opening the arms locker,” Hale said. Sun was the gunner’s mate — the Sissie didn’t rate a Gunner — and doubled as armorer. “And I told Evans to bring a long-handled maul. That will fit in the cart also. We’ll meet the squad in the entry hold.”

Evans was a short, broad Power Room technician who was good-natured and extremely strong. Almost as strong as he was stupid, Adele would guess.

“There shouldn’t be any shooting,” Adele said as she strode quickly to the down companionway. “If there is, Tovera and I will start it.”

Unless they’ve shot both of us in the head, Adele thought. She couldn’t help being precise, but at least she had learned not to say everything she was thinking. At that, she could imagine Tovera shooting back after being killed the way a headless chicken ran about.

Barnes was still closing his boots as he stumbled into the boarding hold a moment after Adele. Dasi, his partner and fellow bosun’s mate, was helping Sun shift two sub-machine guns, two stocked impellers, and a carbine — Hale’s weapon of choice — into the cart which Evans and Bledsoe had assembled. The maul was already there.

It was a remarkable performance. Aloud Adele said, “It makes me proud to be a Sissie.” Or at least it would have if she hadn’t already been proud.

“Can you tell us what to expect, mistress?” Hale said. Other spacers were looking toward the group from hatchways and the quay; that was inevitable and not a problem.

“What I’m afraid of,” Adele said, “though I don’t expect it, is that agents of the 5th Bureau have taken over the office of my associates.”

She didn’t bother explaining that her associate was also a 5th Bureau agent. The details didn’t matter to the Sissies; all they needed was to be told the situation they might be facing.

“It’s only three blocks,” Adele added. “And I hope just to knock on the door and be admitted. If you stay fifty feet behind me, you’ll be close enough to call if I need you.”

Adele was wearing a civilian suit in light green, cut much the same as a set of utilities. Tovera’s suit was on the tan side of cream; her attaché case was brown and looked like leather even from quite nearby. The material was actually an expensive composite and would stop anything short of a slug from a stocked impeller.

The ground floors of the buildings facing the harbor were ship chandleries and bars, while the upper stories were spacer’s lodgings, brothels, and pawn shops. The next block inland was inexpensive shops below civilian apartments. By the third block back from the water, the buildings were duplexes and private residences, many of them with a ground vehicle parked on gated driveways.

The Residence looked like a single-family residence — and probably was that as well as containing communications equipment. The walls were of dark blue brick, fired from a local clay, and the curtained windows seemed normal unless you recognized the frames as being much wider than the outer glass alone would have required.

Tovera pushed the button on the call plate and said, “Mistress Simmons and her secretary to see Master Mignouri.” When she got no response, she rapped sharply on the panel — and still got no response.

Adele was holding her data unit. She keyed the Execute button to signal the door’s electronic latch. There was an internal clunk and the panel swung open. It was five centimeters thick and made of armor plate.

Both Adele and Tovera had their weapons out, but beyond was only a second door, this one opening inward. It had a latch but no visible lock. The handle rotated easily, but the panel rattled against a bolt on the other side when Tovera shoved against it.

Adele turned and called, “Evans!” The squad of spacers was only ten feet back instead of fifty, but there hadn’t been much traffic on the street — and anyway, it didn’t matter.

Hale had removed the tarpaulin covering the handcart, but Evans didn’t bother to reach in for his maul. He rushed to the door, lowered his shoulder, and slammed into it. The panel broke lengthwise in the middle.

The halves dangled — one side by the hinges and the other by the bolt near the top edge of the panel. Evans’ mindless straight-ahead smash had been the best way to deal with the problem, which Adele found disturbing.

A cabinet had been slid against the inside of the door, but Evans rolled it back — it was on casters — in the same rush that had taken him through the door panel. Beyond was a reception room with chairs against the walls and a small table holding a vase of flowers probably picked in the front garden. A woman leaned on the table, weeping into her hands.

“Don’t shoot!” Adele shouted as Barnes and Dasi rushed past her brandishing weapons. Evans was picking himself up from the floor when the cabinet — a musical instrument, Adele now saw — rolled back.

Tovera took the weeping woman by the hair and shouted, “Who else is in the house?” while looking up the staircase. The woman continued to sob.

“Bledsoe, with me!” Hale said and started up the stairs, holding her carbine forward in both hands. The tech following her had one of the sub-machine guns.

“Don’t shoot my husband!” said the woman who had been crying, the first intelligible words she had spoken.

“Hold up, Hale!” Adele said. “Tovera, let her go.”

Tovera released the woman’s hair and stepped against the wall. She kept her weapon raised, but she had stopped pointing the muzzle at the stairs when Hale started up.

“Who are you, mistress?” Adele said. “And who is your husband?”

“I’m Yvette Mignouri,” the woman said. She closed her eyes and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was younger than Adele had guessed — probably mid twenties — and would be attractive after she washed her face and calmed down. “My husband is Guy Mignouri. Please, why have you attacked us? There’s nothing here to steal!”

“Call your husband down,” Adele said. “Tell him not to carry a weapon.”

“He can’t come!” Yvette cried. “He can’t move! He’s had a stroke! Please leave us alone!”

Ah!

“I’ll check!” said Tovera as she slipped past the spacers on the stairs. The other spacers were backing to the nearest wall and pointing their guns upward — with the exception of Evans, who didn’t have a weapon. He was scratching his crotch with a puzzled look.

“I was directed to call on Guy Mignouri, the 5th Bureau Resident in Newtown,” Adele said. “When I didn’t get a satisfactory reply to my queries, I came to view the situation for myself. Why didn’t you report that your husband was incapacitated?”

“He’s here all right,” Tovera called from the stairhead. “Hooked up to what I’d call a first aid machine. It seems to be keeping him alive, but he’s not going to get better any time soon. If he ever does.”

“Guy will get well!” Yvette said with a quaver that suggested she might be about to resume crying. “He’ll be removed if they learn and this is his first field posting. He’ll never get another if he’s removed now!”

He can’t do his job so he has to be removed, Adele thought. She didn’t say that out loud. She had learned long before Mistress Sand recruited her that other people didn’t see the obvious as clearly as she did.

 

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 06

The Span Of Empire – Snippet 06

“I will go and speak to Tully,” she said to Pyr’s back. It was Tully who had first taught her English, coming to the dochaya day after day, telling her and everyone else who lived there in long endured misery that they could have a better life, but they would have to make it for themselves and not wait for the elders in the elian to simply give it to them.

“Let me know when the ship is ready to jump,” Pyr said without turning around.

“Yes,” she said and slipped out of the room.

****

“Did that go as you expected, Colonel?” Tully’s companion asked after they exited the meeting.

“Pretty much, Sergeant Luff, pretty much,” Gabe replied. “The director isn’t going to give up after this, even if she did talk like that was one of the options. Not after finding those dead worlds. All that does is make her more determined to find other civilizations.”

“I can see that,” the sergeant said. They hit a T-junction in the hallway, and paused. “Sir, we’ve got a little over half an hour before the shuttle leaves. I’d like to check in with the lead sergeant from Lexington’s jinau detachment. Last I heard, he had a suggestion about training that sounded good.”

“Go to it, Top,” Tully responded. He tapped one of his pockets. “I’m going to find a cup of coffee and a table somewhere and see if I can make a dent in this month’s paperwork before returning back to the Ban Chao.”

“Very good, sir,” the other said. “Meet you back at the shuttle.”

The first sergeant took off down one angle of the hall, and Tully went down the other. Before long he found one of the Lexington’s officers’ messes and stepped in. He pulled a cup of coffee from the appropriate machine, settled at a mess table, and took an appreciative sip of the dark liquid. Lexington had picked up a few traditions from some of the United States Navy personnel who had survived the conquest and made themselves of use in the new era following the establishment of Terra taif. One of their traditions was having good coffee.

Tully propped his pad up and opened up the next in an interminable series of reports that he needed to read and approve. If he’d realized just how much paperwork being a colonel involved, he’d have turned down the promotion when General Kralik offered it.

Of course, he wasn’t sure that the general would have let him say no. He still recalled that conversation rather well.

He’d been called to the general’s office not long after the Valeron expedition had returned with all the Lleix refugees that would come with them. “Take a seat, Tully,” Kralik had said before he was two steps in the door. The general’s voice was brusque; his face was showing lines that Tully hadn’t remembered being there. Above all, the normally unflappable Kralik seemed to have an air of harried patience.

“Tully, I’ve got a job for you,” the general began.

“Back to dickering with resistance groups?” he’d asked.

“No. We pulled in the last of the effective ones while you were gone, and the others are evaporating now that jobs are available again. No, I need you to take a command.”

That had set Tully back a bit. He’d figured he’d stay with his assault company on Lexington if the resistance work was going well.

“What kind of command?”

“All the ground forces in Caitlin’s flotilla.”

He remembered his jaw dropping as he looked at Kralik in shock.

“You’re making me a freakin’ general?”

Kralik had chuckled, and a few of the lines on his face had eased.

“No, I’m making you a freakin’ colonel. Mind you, I could almost justify a general, because by the time we put a full assault group on the Ban Chao and fill all the companies on the battleships, you’ll have close to an old-time brigade’s worth of bodies. But neither one of us are ready for you to be a general. It’s enough of a stretch giving you the eagles of a colonel.”

“But why me?” He remembered the moment of panic he’d felt. Truth be told, some days the echoes of that panic still were felt. “Don’t you have real colonels you could use? Someone with experience at the job? What about Rob Wiley? He was on the Lexington, too.”

Kralik had leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers over his flat stomach. “Yep. And General Wiley and the others are all going to more important, more high profile positions. You haven’t been back long enough to catch on to what’s happening. Aille has us expanding the jinau forces as rapidly as we can; space, air, and ground. We weren’t much more than sepoy troops before, mostly just keeping order and occasionally dealing with the Resistance. Now we’re adding new companies every month, organizing new battalions every quarter. We’ve got three new divisions formed up while you were gone.

“We’ve learned the Ekhat lesson, Gabe. They’ve got our attention. China alone has mounted two of those new divisions, even after the diversion of resources to deal with the aftermath of the plasma bombing. We have recruits from all over the world. And Aille will see to it that they are ‘of use’ in the war against the Ekhat.

“We can train them–barely,” the general had said as he sat back up straight. “We can shove the best of them through quickie officer training and get embryo company officers, enough to keep things organized. And between us, the Europeans and the Chinese, we’ve been able to find enough–barely–effective senior officers to get by. What we don’t have is the middle–we don’t have anywhere near enough experienced field grade officers, even using the simplified organizational structures the Jao have mandated for the jinau. That’s where the casualties of the conquest have really hurt us. You’d have been put to work months ago if you’d been here instead of haring off in the Lexington.”

“So why me?” he’d repeated his question. “Why for this one?”

Kralik had started counting items on his fingertips. “One: you have a reputation as a fighter, of not backing down from anybody. The humans respect that, and even more importantly, the Jao respect that. You will have a lot more Jao troops under your command than you’ve had before, so that respect is important.

“Two: right now you are one of a unique–and very very small–group of humans. You have fought Ekhat up close and personal and survived, and brought most of your troops back as well. You have no idea what your reputation among the troops is like because of that. That kind of track record is invaluable.

“Three: the Fleet Commander will be Jao, no two ways about it. It will be years–decades probably–before we have enough sufficiently experienced human ship captains to even consider putting a human in that position. But because Terra taif and Krant kochan contributed almost all the ground troops for the fleet, we can put you in as ground forces commander, which means that you will counter-balance the fleet commander, as well as giving Caitlin someone she can rely on with no hesitation.”

“Politics,” he’d muttered. “I hate that.”

“Time to grow up, Tully. The Jao–or at least Pluthrak kochan–could have taught Machiavelli a thing or two, and Preceptor Ronz could have tutored Sun Tzu and Miyamoto Musashi. You’re going to deal with it for the rest of your life; you might as well get good at it.”

Kralik had ticked off one more finger. “Four: you not only have a reputation of being a fighter, you’re a damn good one. If it comes down to hand-to-hand combat for any part of the fleet, I can’t think of anyone better to have on hand.”

The general had folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m not going to leave you hanging totally out to dry, Tully. We’ll find some good sergeants and Jao equivalents for you. They may be more valuable to you than a bunch of new officers.”

 

BUT FOR WALES?

I’m under some fairly serious deadline pressure right now and will be for a couple of months. So I won’t be writing the sort of long essays I did last year on the subject of literary awards in general and the Hugo awards in particular. That said, since the nominations for this year’s Hugo awards have now been published and it’s obvious that the Rabid Puppies have been up to some mischief again, I figure I should say a few words.

Let me start by quoting something that George R.R. Martin said in a recent post he made on his “Not a Blog” blog:

Sad Puppies 4, this year headed by Kate Paulk, changed its approach and produced a recommended reading list, with anywhere from one to ten suggestions in each category, rather than slating four or five. The process was open and democratic, which Sad Puppies 3 often claimed to be but never was. Paulk also avoided the ugly excesses of the previous campaign, and never stooped to the sort of invective that her predecessor, Brad Torgersen, had been so fond of, with all his talk of CHORFs and Puppy-kickers. For all this she should be commended.

I agree with George and I think that’s as much as needs to be said on the subject of the Sad Puppies. Whatever I think of any specific recommendation they made is neither here nor there. The Sad Puppies have as much right to make recommendations as does anyone else. Locus magazine does it routinely and no one objects—nor should they.

The situation with the Rabid Puppies, however, is quite different. It’s obvious that they voted as a disciplined bloc again this year and they have enough supporters to make a difference in at least some of the categories. They also, this year, used the sleazy tactic of including in their slate a number of works by authors who have no connection to them at all and who might very well have gotten nominated anyway. They did the same thing in a number of other categories, such as best editor.

In short, the only difference between the Rabid Puppies this year compared to last year is that they have gotten slimier. This should come as no surprise to anyone, since slime is pretty much Theodore Beale’s stock in trade.

The question which arises—which is what I want to address in this essay—is how people planning to vote for the Hugo awards should handle the issue.

The way it was handled last year by a very large number of voters was to use a club labeled “No Award” and wield that club with no discrimination at all. In any category where the Puppies’ slates predominated, these voters simply smashed the whole category—often at the expense of authors and editors who were quite blameless in the affair and at least some of whom probably did deserve to win the award.

I thought the tactic was stupid last year, but I understood why so many people fell back on it. Most Hugo voters were caught off guard by the surprising effectiveness of the combined slate tactics of the two Puppies factions. By the time they realized that the Hugos had largely been hijacked, it was much too late for anyone to organize an effective response. Willy-nilly, what happened was that people turned “No Award” into their own counterslate.

Well and good. But this is 2016, not 2015, and if anyone has been caught by surprise this time around you must have been asleep. This time, you’ve got no excuse for reacting emotionally without thinking it through.

We all have mottos and axioms that we often use as guidelines to get through life. One of my very favorites since I saw the movie (A Man For All Seasons) when it came out half a century ago, is this line by Sir Thomas More:

Why Richard, it profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world… but for Wales?

The line is occasioned by Sir Thomas More’s reaction to being betrayed by someone who was given a bishopric in Wales in exchange for his treachery. The point being made here is that selling your soul to the devil is a dumb thing to do under any circumstances, but for Wales?

What are you, a complete idiot?

Which brings me to the point of this essay:

Theodore Beale and the people who follow him are idiots. They are petty chiselers and pipsqueaks whose notion of “the righteous battle against leftist wickedness and social justice warriors” is to try to hijack a science fiction award.

A science fiction award? Meaning no disrespect to anyone who cares about the Hugos, but the very fact that Beale and his gaggle of co-conspirators think this is a serious way to wage political struggle should tip you off that they’re a bunch of clowns with delusions of grandeur.

So treat them that way. This time around—remember, it’s 2016, not 2015—don’t hyperventilate, don’t work yourself up into a frenzy, don’t overact. Just treat the nominations the same way you would in any other year. Ignore who nominated who because, first, it’s irrelevant; and secondly, if you do you will be falling for a hustle by an idiot like Beale—which makes you an even bigger idiot.

Is anyone who’s planning to vote for the Hugos so ignorant or so stupid that they really think authors like Neal Stephenson, Jim Butcher, Lois McMaster Bujold, Brandon Sanderson, Alastair Reynolds and Stephen King need a slimeball like Theodore Beale’s approval to get nominated for an award? Are they so ignorant or stupid that they think editors like Toni Weisskopf, artists like Larry Elmore and movie directors like Joss Whedon and Ridley Scott are in the same boat?

Grow the fuck up.

Just vote, that’s all. Take each category for what it is and vote for whatever or whoever you think is most entitled to the award this year. Do NOT use “No Award” unless you really think there’s no work or person nominated in a category who deserves it at all.

It’s bad enough under any circumstances to behave like a child having a temper tantrum.

But for Beale?

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 38

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 38

CHAPTER 13

Gracie didn’t respond right away. She was watching me, her mouth open in a small “o.” Her expression reminded me of one I saw on Billie’s face on those rare occasions when I managed to surprise her.

“That was you,” she said in a breathy whisper.

“What was him?” Emmy asked.

“Mister Fearsson –”

“Jay, please. I really don’t like being called Mister Fearsson.”

“That old man called you Mister Fearsson,” Zach said.

I laughed. “You’re right, Zach, he did. I don’t like him either.”

Gracie regarded me for several seconds. “All right, Jay it is. Jay here is a bit of a hero. He managed to . . . to catch a man who had been doing some terrible things to people in Phoenix.”

Emmy faced me. “What terrible things?”

I glanced past her to Gracie, wondering how much to say.

“He was killing people, sweetie,” Gracie said. “And apparently he was using magic to do it.”

“That’s right.”

Gracie’s cheeks had lost some of their color. “I had no idea.”

“The police kept that pretty quiet. Some people know.” I thought of Amaya. And Saorla. “But it’s not general knowledge.”

“So he’s in jail now?” Emmy asked.

I faced forward again, feeling a sudden need to keep my eyes on the road.

Which, of course, left it to Gracie to tell my lie. “Yes, he’s in jail.”

Emmy eyed us both before giving a little shake of her head “No, he’s not.” To me she said, “He’s dead isn’t he?”

Smart kid. Thinking about it, I realized that I should have waited until Gracie and I were alone to mention Cahors. I had a lot to learn about being around kids.

“Is he dead?” Emmy asked, sounding less certain, and more afraid.

Gracie and I exchanged another look.

“It’s all right,” she said.

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I had some help, but yes I did. And while it’s a terrible thing to kill someone, given the chance I’d do it again. He was a bad man.”

“Who else have you killed?” Zach asked.

This was not a conversation I wanted to have with anyone, much less a five year-old kid. Fortunately, his mom stepped in.

“That’s not an appropriate question, Zach.”

He frowned, but said. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. It’s not something I like to talk about, okay?”

He nodded, and for several moments no one said a word. A dry wind blew through the windows and the crunch of gravel and squeak of my father’s truck filled the cab.

“Did you kill him with that gun?” Zach asked, breaking the silence.

“Zach!” Gracie sounded mortified.

“I was just wondering!”

“Hey, there’s a coyote.” The timing couldn’t have been better, and I didn’t even have to lie this time. I pointed out the front at a coyote slinking along the top of a low ridge, weaving among the saguaro trunks.

“Where? I don’t see it.”

Gracie spotted it right away and pointed it out to both kids. I slowed, then stopped to be sure they both saw it. I even gave those old binoculars back to Zach.

While they watched it, I checked the sky again. No sign of another chopper.

Once the coyote disappeared from view, I got us moving again. The conversation careened all over the place, which I imagine is normal where five and eight year-olds are concerned, but it steered clear of the Blind Angel Killings.

At the end of Ajo Mountain Drive, I turned onto the main park road and headed back to the campground. As we neared the campground loop, though, I saw a white and blue highway patrol SUV with its lights flashing. It was parked outside the ranger station near the campground payment kiosk.

“Damn!”

“Bad word!” Emmy said. “You owe us a quarter, Jay. Each of us.”

I didn’t answer.

“You think they’re here for us?” Gracie asked.

“Call it a hunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got a tip from some anonymous concerned citizen. You are wanted, after all.”

“As if I needed the reminder. So what the –” She glanced at the kids and apparently decided she didn’t want to lose any more quarters. “What are we supposed to do?”

“I’m afraid that if we go near the campsites, we’ll be arrested.”

“We? What did you do?”

“I’m with you; they’ll assume I’ve been helping you. Which makes me an accessory after the fact.”

She blew out a breath and pushed a hand through her hair. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sorry.”

“I knew what I was doing when I came here.”

She dipped her chin, but I could see that her thoughts had already turned elsewhere. “All our stuff is at the site. Including the minivan.”

“They’ll impound the van. It was spotted at the scene of a crime. And they’ll probably take the rest as well.” I checked my mirrors and scanned the area for additional police cruisers or cops on foot. We didn’t need any more surprises. “Is there anything there you can’t live without?”

Emmy peered up at her mom and pointed at Zach, shielding her hand with her body so that her brother wouldn’t see.

Gracie closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes, a couple of things. Nothing I want to name right now, but leaving without them could . . . make things unpleasant.”

I had an idea of what she meant. As a kid, I’d never been particularly attached to my blanket, but Zach had mentioned his earlier, and it seemed important to him.

“All right,” I said. “I have an idea. You know transporting spells, right?”

A smile creased Gracie’s face, the first one I’d seen that wasn’t tinged with fear or anger, weariness or irony. This was pure smile, and it transformed her face. I’d already known she was pretty; any fool could see that. But when she smiled like that, she was beautiful.

I looked away, made a point of checking the mirrors again.

“That’s brilliant,” she said. “But at this distance . . .”

“We’ll get closer, but I need for all of you to hide.”

Just like that the smile was gone, and she was all business. “All right. You hear that kids? We’re playing a little hide-and-seek.”

Zach grinned. I think Emmy knew better than to mistake this for a game.

They couldn’t all fit in the space in front of the seat, and there was no room at all behind the seat. Which meant that before this was over we were going to have to be more creative. But first we needed to find a place where they could hide for a few minutes.

I had the two kids crawl down in front of Gracie, in the passenger side foot well. Gracie put on a pair of sunglasses, poured some water into her hands and spiked up her hair, and then leaned against me as if she was my girlfriend.

Emmy didn’t like this at all; Zach giggled.

“Quiet, kiddo,” Gracie whispered. “Not a peep, okay? And Emmy, this is only for show. Promise.”

“I have a girlfriend, Emmy,” I said. “I love her very much.”

This might have mollified her a little. I couldn’t be certain, and I had bigger concerns. A uniformed cop had emerged from the ranger station. Halfway to the SUV, he spotted the pickup and halted.

Show time.

“Here we go,” I whispered.

I pulled forward, slowing when I pulled even with him, but not stopping. I didn’t want him coming over to the truck. They were scouring the campground for a mom and her kids; as long as he didn’t see Emmy and Zach, we would probably be all right.

“I wasn’t sure if we could go through,” I called to him.

He took a second to study us both, but then he nodded. “Yeah, you’re fine. You have a site in there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What number?”

If I gave him the number of my site, which was do close to Gracie’s, he would have questions for me. Instead I gave him a number that would place us at least three or four rows from the end of the campground. I wasn’t sure which was the greater risk: that I gave him a number of an unoccupied site, or one with people in it who might show up at any moment. Mostly, I hoped we’d be far from here before the lie boomeranged on me.

He nodded and waved us on.

I steered us along the outside loop past a couple of rows of RV sites and then pulled over within sight of a restroom. I checked the mirrors, looked around, peered down the row. I saw no one.

“Okay, listen up, kids,” I said. “I want you to run to that restroom over there. Each of you get in a stall and lock the door. Don’t come out until we tell you it’s all right. Got it?”

Emmy wrapped her thin brown arms around one of Gracie’s legs. “Mommy, I don’t like this.”

“I’m not sure I do either, sweetie.” Gracie said it to Emmy, but she was watching me.

“I can leave all three of you here, but I have no idea what I’m trying to find in your tent. My transporting spells won’t work.”

A horn blast made all of us jump. An RV had pulled up behind us.

“Crap,” I muttered.

I waved a hand at the guy and started forward again. He turned off a few rows later. We kept going, creeping closer to that last row, which, I felt certain, had to be crawling with cops. Four rows from the end, I spotted another restroom near the road.

“We can try this again,” I said. I checked my mirrors. They were clear. “Or, if you think you can pull off the spell from this distance, we can try that.”

Gracie’s brow creased. “This is awfully far. Can’t you drive us closer?”

“I can. But if we run into a cop, and he wants to look in the truck, we’re scr — we’re in trouble.”

“I have another idea,” Gracie said.

Before I could ask her what it was, she opened the door and hopped out of the pickup. “Turn here,” she said. “Having the kids use the bathroom is a good idea. We might have a long drive ahead of us. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I didn’t have time to respond. She jogged off the road and onto what appeared to be a dirt trail following the perimeter of the campground.

If they caught her now, I was really in trouble.