Eric Flint's Blog, page 259

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 14

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 14

Ashok hesitated. From the top of the mountain he’d been able to see into the lands of several great houses. At the time he’d not realized how truly small they really were. Taking one last longing look at the map, Ashok hurried and limped after his instructor.

More torches had been lit along a corridor. It led further into the mountain. “I’m curious, Ashok. Why did you attempt the test so early?”

He was required to give only honest answers to his superiors. “I don’t think I can last another year without my sword.”

Ratul grunted. “Thought so.”

That didn’t answer whether he’d get Angruvadal back yet or not, but it wasn’t Ashok’s place to question. He would prove himself or die trying.

They entered another, smaller chamber. The room was plain, but the shape of it gave the impression it had once been used for more. There were strangely shaped alcoves all around the interior, empty now, their original purpose a mystery. Ratul gestured toward an altar in the center of the room. “Behold, the Heart of the Mountain.”

It was so black that it seemed to burn a hole in his vision. The hungry darkness seemed to absorb their torchlight. He had to turn his head a bit so that he could actually see it from the corner of his eye. The heart appeared to be a jagged, twisted mass of metal the size of a child. It was the biggest piece of black steel Ashok had ever seen, big enough to forge a dozen swords or thousands of valuable fragments. Some people had a sense for magic, and though Ashok had never been naturally gifted in that way, even he could feel the energy radiating from the Heart.

The metal device twitched. As he watched, it twitched again. It really was beating.

“This is the Order’s greatest weapon, old as your precious Angruvadal, from the time when magic was common. We’ve kept it for over a thousand years. This is what makes Protectors more than men. When you touch it, you will take part of its power with you for the rest of your days. It will sting you and infect your blood. The influence of the Heart will be yours to call upon for the rest of your life. It can make you stronger, hardier, and hone your reactions. With sufficient concentration you can direct it to empower your senses, but it can only do so much at a time. You will heal faster and even survive wounds that would be fatal to a normal man, but it will not make you immortal. An injury sufficiently devastating will still kill you. It may stay death for a time, but nothing can postpone death forever. Well, nothing legal at least.”

“I have already been touched by magic.”

“Indeed. For one such as you, the defensive power of the Heart combined with the offensive skill bestowed by your ancestor blade, I can only imagine what the Order could accomplish with such a weapon at its disposal.”

There was no better cause than justice, so Ashok didn’t mind the idea of being a weapon in its behalf. “What if I’m unworthy?”

Ratul had a laugh like a dog’s bark. “The Order decides who is worthy, and if you weren’t, I’d have had the guardians toss you off that cliff. Magic can make you tougher, but it can’t give you character. That’s why our program is so harsh. Flawed acolytes must be weeded out. The Heart does not care about birth or honor. I imagine a casteless could take from it if one was clever enough to find his way in here. Only a bearer would think of such a question. Don’t worry. It is not like Angruvadal. The Heart has no opinions of its own.”

It was not his place to disagree, but in Ashok’s experience, all black steel had ghosts inside of it. Some of them were just louder than others. He peered closer into the burning darkness. There was something wrong with the Heart. There was a weakness to it. “Lord Protector, you can see magic inside of things, can’t you?”

“I have that gift, yes.”

“How much magic is left within the Heart?”

Ratul didn’t respond. Ashok looked over to see that the master was scowling. “Less than when I first saw it for myself, but enough.”

When magic was worn too thin its container would fail. “What happens when the Heart shatters?”

“The Order will die,” Ratul said simply.

Ashok moved away from the Heart. “Then I will not use up any for myself. Save the magic for someone better.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but that isn’t how it works. No, Ashok, this is your final test. To become full-fledged Protector the Order requires this. I’m one of the few who can see magic, which means that when you touch the Heart, I will see you for what you truly are. This is necessary, for the good of the Order and for the sanctity of the Law.”

“This is a command?”

“Yes.”

Ashok nodded, stepped toward the Heart of black steel and placed his hands on it.

The world turned to blood.

* * *

The promotion ceremony was over. Only two acolytes had attained senior status this season, not nearly enough to make up for attrition and their dwindling numbers, but one showed great promise and far more importantly the other possessed a sword that could supposedly defeat armies. Mindarin was excited at the prospects. However, Lord Protector Ratul seemed to be in a worse mood than usual.

The Hall of the Protectors was a vast stone fortress cut from the mountainside, far too large for their dwindling numbers. Mindarin joined his commander on the balcony overlooking the empty training ground. “I’ve been told that in times past, our numbers were so great that our formations took up this whole space when they presented themselves for inspection.” Ratul snorted. “We used to be so respected that we received so many obligations that we had to turn some away. I can’t even imagine. Now we can barely fill one corner with children. So this is what it feels like to preside over a dying order…But then I wonder if it truly has to be that way.”

The acolytes were gone, allowed a few hours to celebrate some of their number successfully advancing or to mourn the one who hadn’t made it back. It was their choice. Ratul went back to staring off into space, sucking on his teeth, mulling over something.

“What troubles you?” Mindarin asked.

“The truth…”

“That’s an unusually cryptic pronouncement. You saw something strange at the Heart, didn’t you?”

“Any other acolyte and I would have cut him down on the spot, but the Order needs that sword.” Ratul sighed. “Dark times are coming, my friend.”

Mindarin felt his hopes dashed. “Ashok then. Did you receive a prophecy?” Such a thing was rare, but not unheard of when dealing with the Heart. “Did it show you his future?”

Ratul spit over the edge and watched it fall. “Bah…I’m weary from the journey. That mountain seems taller the older I get. I don’t want to talk about it now. It’ll be dealt with in time. Good night, Mindarin.” He left the rail and began to walk away.

“Did the Heart show you the future?” Mindarin called after him.

“No.” Ratul didn’t look back. “It showed me the past.”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 15

A Call To Arms – Snippet 15

Which wasn’t to say he was pleased by the delay, of course. The Volsung Mercenaries’ headquarters was right where Ulobo’s data had put it: in the city of Rochelle on the planet Telmach in the Silesian Confederacy. Once Llyn had collected a proper crew from the covert section of Axelrod’s mining operation in Minorca, which had allowed him to use the full capabilities of General Khetha’s modified courier ship, he’d arrived at Rochelle less than six months after his rather hurried escape from Casca.

Only to find that Gensonne and several of his ships had headed off elsewhere in the Confederacy.

The liaison who’d been left to man the office had said they would probably be away for a year, possibly two. Llyn, with no intention of waiting that long, had reboarded his ship and headed off to track them down.

That trip had eaten up much of the time he’d saved by the serendipity of Khetha being on Casca. But that was all right. There was still one more test Axelrod’s people needed to make anyway before Llyn could greenlight the invasion. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he added.

“Not at all,” Gensonne assured him. “Actually, our business here went faster than I’d expected. Another month or two, and we’ll be ready to look at your job.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Assuming it proves to be worth our while.”

“Let’s find out,” Llyn suggested, handing a tablet across the desk.

Gensonne accepted it with a grunt and settled back to read.

As he did so, Llyn took the opportunity to study the man.

Gensonne was pretty average-looking, as mercenary chiefs went. Light-skinned and blond, with blue eyes, he had the near-focus look of a man who had spent most of his life aboard ships.

His history was far more colorful than his bland looks would suggest. He’d served for several years with Gustav Anderman, and had been on hand when Anderman defeated Ronald Devane and added the Nimbalkar system to his growing empire. For a while, as Anderman settled into his new role of emperor, it had looked like Gensonne might be in line to take up a significant and senior role in Anderman’s navy. There were indications, as well, that Gensonne might be hoping to emulate his boss’s successes, with his sights set on a couple of other small colony worlds in the region that could be added to Anderman’s empire.

But then, without explanation — or at least none that Llyn had found in the files he’d read on the trip to Rochelle — Anderman had abruptly pulled the plug on Gensonne’s ambitions. Gensonne had apparently responded by taking his core crew and a couple of small ships Anderman gifted him and going home. He’d ended up on the fringes of the Solarian League, where he’d started to build an organization of his own, one without Anderman’s inconvenient list of scruples. Eventually, he’d relocated into Silesia, with his growing collection of ships and men, and ever since had been taking on the kind of jobs Anderman would never have touched.

Llyn didn’t know why Anderman and Gensonne had parted company, though he had his suspicions. Still, Gensonne’s record was one of competence, certainly enough to handle the subjugation of the Star Kingdom of Manticore. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

And in fact, the Anderman connection made things perfect. An investigation in one direction would dead-end at the late General Khetha and his homecoming ambitions, while an enquiry in the other direction would conclude that Gensonne had been inspired by his former chief’s example to try his own hand at the whole planet-conquering game. Either way, Axelrod’s name would be completely out of it.

Across the desk, Gensonne stirred in his seat. “Interesting,” he said his eyes still on the tablet.

Llyn waited a moment, wondering if there would be more. But Gensonne just flicked to the next page, his black eyebrows pressed together in concentration. “Is that a good interesting, or a bad interesting?” Llyn asked at last.

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t good,” Gensonne growled. “You realize this is a star nation that can conceivably field somewhere in the vicinity of thirty warships? Including six to eight battlecruisers?” He cocked his head. “That’s one hell of a fighting force, Mr. Llyn.”

Llyn smiled. It was a standard gambit among mercenaries, one that had been tried on him at least twice before throughout the years. By inflating the potential risks, the bargainer hoped to similarly inflate the potential payment. “You apparently missed sections fifteen and sixteen,” he said. “The bulk of that fleet is in mothballs awaiting the scrapyard. What’s left is either half armed or half crewed or both. Our estimate is that you’ll be facing no more than eight to ten ships, with maybe one of those ships a battlecruiser.”

“I did read sections fifteen and sixteen, thank you,” Gensonne countered. “I also noted that the most recent data here is over fifteen months old.”

“I see.” Standing up, Llyn reached across the table and plucked the tablet from Gensonne’s hands. “Obviously, you’re not the group we’re looking for, Admiral. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”

“Just a moment,” Gensonne protested, grabbing for the tablet. Llyn was ready for the move and twitched it out of his reach. “I never said we wouldn’t take the job.”

“Really?” Llyn said. Time for a little gamesmanship of his own. “It certainly sounded to me like you thought the job was too big for you.”

“There is no such job,” Gensonne said stiffly, standing up as if prepared to chase Llyn all the way through his office door if necessary to get the tablet back. The fact that Llyn was making no move to leave seemed to throw him off stride. “I was simply making the point that your intel was stone cold, and that any merc commander would want an update before taking action.”

“Was that what you were saying?” Llyn said, feigning a puzzled frown. “But then why did you imply that the odds –?” He broke off, letting his frown warm to a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. You were trying to amp up your price.”

Typically, Llyn knew, people hated to see their stratagems trotted out into the sunlight. But Gensonne didn’t even flinch. A bull-by-the-horns type, with no apologies, no excuses, and no regrets, nicely consistent with Llyn’s analysis of the man. “Of course I was,” he said. “I was also looking for more information.” He gestured to the tablet. “We can handle the job. Trust me. The question is why we should bother.”

“A good question,” Llyn said. As if he was really going to let a mercenary leader into Axelrod’s deepest thoughts and plans. “You’ll forgive me if I respectfully decline to answer.”

Gensonne’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Llyn thought the other was preparing to delve back into his bag of ploys and tricks. But then the admiral’s face cleared and he shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “You’re hiring mercenaries, after all. Not fishing for investors.”

“Exactly,” Llyn said, his estimation of the man rising another notch. Gensonne knew how to play the game, but he also knew when to stop. “So. Are the Volsung Mercenaries the ones for this job? Or would you rather keep on hitting small mining colonies and helpless freighters?”

Again, Gensonne’s eyes narrowed. But this time it was the narrowing of a predator’s eyes as the animal prepared to spring. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, very softly.

“Oh, don’t worry — I’m not planning to tell anyone,” Llyn assured him, rather surprised that his piracy shot in the dark had drawn some blood. The thought had only occurred to him a few days ago as he contemplated all the attention Manticore and Haven were putting into their pirate hunt.

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 15

Raising Caine – Snippet 15

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s purr rose in a surprised surge. “You are quite correct, Doctor. We rarely induce special subtaxae to care-take xenobiomes during their transitional phases. Rather, we provide the most suitable extant subtaxae with symbiots that allow them to adjust to the local environment without resorting to intrusive devices.” He paused, his sensor-cluster head swiveling more directly toward Riordan, who realized he had blinked several times during Yiithrii’ah’aash’s explanation. “You are perplexed, Caine Riordan?”

“No,” Caine confessed, “but your explanation left me with about a dozen questions. And I can’t figure out where to begin.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s purr modulated into a subaudial hum. “We will have time for all those questions after today. By then, I expect some of those queries will have been answered, others will have changed, and many, many more will have arisen. For now, let us walk into this world we call — well, in the dead language you use for attaching scientific classifications to objects, it would roughly translate as Adumbratus. But before our journey, we ask that you spray yourself with the contents of these canisters.”

Responding without any overt summons, Yiithrii’ah’aash’s two companions brought forth the boxes that actually proved to be semi-rigid angular bags. They dispensed the canisters.

“What does this do?” asked Morgan Lymbery, squinting at the container suspiciously. It appeared to be made of a very fine-grained version of the same material which comprised the extrusions that secured their cargo-mod — and that had burrowed straight through Joe Buckley.

Yiithrii’ah’aash was already dousing himself with a mist from one of the containers. “The contents are scent markers, adapted from both our own pheromones and local spores. The latter ensures that the local biota will find you wholly uninteresting, and the former ensures that our own transplanted biota will be affined to you.”

“Affined?” asked Tina Melah. “Is that still a word?”

“Was it ever?” echoed Trent Howarth.

“Actually,” answered Esiankiki, “it is the past-tense verb form of ‘to have affinity for.'” She turned to Yiithrii’ah’aash. “So your own flora and fauna will identify us as living beings who are non-threatening?”

“That is a most adequate summation, Ms. Salunke.”

“How easily does it come off?” asked Dora Veriden darkly from the back of the group.

“The markers are not readily soluble. They do not simply remain on your skin, but will, by osmosis, vest in the outermost cells of your epidermis. This contact with your own fluids enhances their duration and eliminates the risk of dissolution.”

“That’s not what I was concerned about,” Veriden muttered.

As the group applied the spray, Yiithrii’ah’aash continued. “We will be near hard shelter at all times. You must follow me, or our guides, to that cover quickly in the event of a solar flare. This is a low-activity period for GJ 1248, but no star has fully predictable cycles and red dwarfs have the greatest proclivity to deviate from their own patterns.

“Lastly, while there are few bioforms on this planet that would intentionally threaten you, no environment is without risks. This is why you are wearing filter masks in addition to the scent markers. Various airborne spores are present here, and since no humans have visited this environment before, we cannot be certain of their effect upon your respiratory tract. However, we have been able to ascertain that, if you keep your duty-suits sealed and your masks on, you need fear no exposure hazards for several weeks, at least. Now, please follow me.”

As the legation trailed Yiithrii’ah’aash across the tarmac, Riordan realized that the surface was comprised of neither macadam nor tar, but, from the look of it, was some kind of finely-threaded plant that had hardened into a chitinous mass.

Bannor drew alongside Riordan. “Moment of your time?”

“Take as many as you’d like.”

The landing pad underfoot smoothed into what seemed like a vast plastic expanse. “After what happened with Buckley, I think we have to assume that some of our team members may be, well, infiltrated.”

Caine made sure that neither his face nor his gait changed. “Hard to see how. No one knew this trip was coming, and Downing, Sukhinin, and Rinehart reviewed the final candidates with very fine-toothed combs.”

“Agreed, but still we’ve got Buckley dead trying to break into his own, or maybe someone else’s, gear. And we won’t get a chance to learn anything more until the Slaasriithi give us access to the cargomod again. But in the meantime –”

Caine suppressed a nod. “In the meantime, we have to presume that where there’s one inexplicable wildcard, there could be others. I just don’t see what an enemy agent would hope to achieve, or how.”

“Neither do I. And Buckley could simply have awakened into this gig knowing that he had to get rid of some incriminating black-market goods that were sent along with his gear. But we can’t rely on that supposition.”

“Agreed. But since we can’t confirm that or some other motive, we’d just be spinning our wheels when it comes to internal security protocols. So, we’ll have to be on constant watch for anything suspicious. Which means we won’t be watching anything very well.”

“No argument, sir. But one suggestion, if you don’t mind.”

“Look, Bannor: I’m not a professional soldier or a covert operative, so I’m glad for any advice you care to give.”

“First, don’t beat yourself up because you didn’t put safeguards in place after Buckley started acting hinky. Everyone makes mistakes in this business. And although you started as an amateur, you’re losing rookie status pretty quickly. Second, and more important, make sure you keep some distance from Keith Macmillan.”

“Do you think he could be suborned?”

Bannor clucked his tongue. “If I thought that, I’d tell you to stick to him like a tick. Never let your enemies out of sight. No, I’m thinking he’s your best bet for sniffing out if something is brewing in the legation.”

“You mean sabotage?”

“I don’t think that’s likely, but as you’ve said, we’ve got no leads and no hypothesis, only nonspecific worries. In that situation, the most valuable asset you can have is a pair of eyes and ears that no one knows is a member of IRIS. So if you chat with Keith too often, or act as though you have innate trust of him, then any plants in the group will notice. That means you lose Macmillan as the one trump card that you’ve got mixed into the deck but can pull out at any moment. Keep him as a secret asset that might either tweak to a plot in the making, or who can be in the right place to reverse a — well, an unfortunate incident.” Rulaine squinted ahead, toward a cluster of low, squat cone-like trees. “You would not believe how often problems arise in the most unlikely places and for the most unlikely reasons.”

Caine remembered narrowly avoided assassination attempts on Delta Pavonis Three, in deep space, in Washington DC, in Greece, at the Convocation, on Barney Deucy. “Major Rulaine, that is one bit of tactical wisdom of which I do not need to be convinced.”

Rulaine grinned crookedly at him. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

They reached the edge of the pseudo-tarmac as Yiithrii’ah’aash led the legation to join with a cluster of Slaasriithi from the same subtaxon as his new attendants. Continuing onward, the ambassador began gesturing and explaining something about the grove of bush-trees which they were entering.

“Come on,” urged Caine. “Let’s not miss the tour.”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 14

A Call To Arms – Snippet 14

BOOK TWO

1541 PD

CHAPTER TEN

“…and as always I wish you safe journeys,” the middle-aged man on the display said. “Godspeed, Lorelei. Come home to me soon.”

The message ended. For a long moment Senior Chief Fire Control Tech Lorelei Osterman stared at the empty display, her emotions pinballing between the familiar and rock-solid warmth and love for her widowed father, and her extreme annoyance at the position he’d just put her in.

Watch over young Locatelli was what he’d said. Babysit the snot-nosed nephew of the Navy’s Commanding Officer of System Command was what he’d meant.

Blast him for putting her into this position, anyway.

Still, she should have expected it. Her parents had been long-time friends of Admiral Locatelli and his wife before Osterman’s mother passed away six T-years ago. When she heard that Locatelli’s nephew and four other freshly-minted ensigns had been assigned to Salamander, it was only logical that Locatelli’s father would call her father, who would message her.

There was still some hope that the kid would be assigned to aft weapons instead of Osterman’s forward weapons division. But given that the elder Locatelli knew she was aboard, the odds were depressingly good that the admiral had pulled whatever strings were necessary to put him in her part of the ship.

And thus continued the Royal Manticoran Navy’s slide into hell.

The sudden abdication of King Michael two years ago had been the first knell. Not that Edward was a bad king. Far from it. On top of that, he’d been an RMN officer, which meant he understood the needs of the Navy even better than his father had.

The problem was that Chancellor of the Exchequer Breakwater was still hell-bent on draining every drop of blood from the Navy that he could and transfusing it to his private MPARS fiefdom, and so far Edward hadn’t found the backbone to stand up to the man.

Complicating that hemorrhage had been Knell Number Two: the abrupt and equally unexpected resignation of Defense Minister Calvingdell shortly after Damocles’ return from Casca.

The rumor mill had worked overtime on that one, without ever reaching any solid conclusions. But there had been hints. In the weeks after Damocles’ return from the Cascan fly-by Osterman’s private sources had marked several high-level, closed-door meetings between Calvingdell, Prime Minister Burgundy, and First Lord of the Admiralty Cazenestro. Sometimes those meetings had included one or more of Damocles’s officers and petty officers, and King Edward himself had joined the group for at least two of them.

The rumors surrounding the Cascan trip itself were just as murky and equally unsatisfying. The official news reports spoke of a multiple murder that had occurred in Quechua City while Damocles had been there, but no one seemed to know how or why the RMN and Star Kingdom were involved.

All Osterman knew for sure was that when the round of meetings was finally over, Calvingdell was no longer Defense Minister. Unfortunately, Breakwater had been Johnny-on-the-spot there, too, somehow managing to pressure Prime Minister Burgundy into reinstating Earl Dapplelake to that position.

Osterman had liked Calvingdell. The woman had been elegant, articulate, and a good foil for Breakwater’s schemes. She’d persuaded Parliament to authorize out-system pirate hunts and good-will visits, all of which had not only been the absolutely right proactive response to Secour, but had also raised the Star Kingdom’s visibility and prestige among its neighbors.

Dapplelake, in contrast, had been the Defense Minister who had authorized the Mars debacle.

And now, here was the third knell: the rebirth of nepotism.

Calvingdell had stopped that, too, or at least had slowed it down. The brief resurgence in funding and enlistment had allowed the Navy to go for quality, not just cater to the vicarious military dreams of the Lords and Ladies lying thick upon the ground.

Her uni-link signaled. Bracing herself, Osterman clicked it on. “Osterman.”

“Todd,” the voice of Commander Maximillian Todd, Salamander’s XO, came tersely. “Captain wants to see you in his office.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Osterman said, suppressing a sigh. Three guesses as to what this was about.

Sure enough, Ensign Locatelli was waiting with Captain John Ross, Baron Fairburn, when Osterman arrived in his office.

“Senior Chief,” Captain Fairburn said, nodding to her. “I want to introduce you to Salamander’s newest officer. Ensign Fenton Locatelli; Senior Chief Lorelei Osterman.”

“Pleased to meet you, Senior Chief,” Locatelli said, giving her a brisk nod of his own. The nod was so obviously an attempt to imitate the mannerisms of his famous uncle that Osterman had to consciously suppress a wince. What looked good and proper on a face lined with long naval experience looked ridiculous and pretentious on a kid barely a third his age. “I’ve heard good things about you from my father and uncle. I’ll look forward to having you serving under me.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Osterman said. Serving under me. Not teaching me how to do my job or even serving with me.

Even senior officers who’d earned the right to speak that way almost never did. Only ensigns came wrapped in such confident arrogance and oblivious ignorance.

Fairburn was watching her closely, clearly hoping she would verbally fawn a little. Unfortunately for him, Osterman had no intention of doing so. After a couple of seconds of silence, the captain’s lip twitched with resignation and he nodded again. “Very well. Ensign Locatelli, you’re dismissed. Senior Chief, a word, if I may.”

He didn’t speak again until the door had sealed behind the ensign. “I have the sense, Senior Chief, that you don’t care for the new addition to our little family.”

“I’m sorry you were left with that impression, Sir,” Osterman said. “I have nothing against Ensign Locatelli.”

“Except that he’s an ensign? And a Locatelli?”

“Neither has anything to do with the situation, Sir.”

“So pleased to hear that, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said acidly. “You are aware, I trust, that Admiral Locatelli is the main reason you’re wearing a Navy uniform right now and not an MPARS one.”

Osterman made a face. But he was right. After Mars, they certainly couldn’t count on the Defense Minister’s judgment and backbone. The only person standing between the Navy and Chancellor Breakwater these days was indeed the System Commander. “Yes, Sir,” she conceded. “I just…permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Of course.”

“What you just said is true,” she said. “Furthermore, everyone aboard knows it. I’m concerned that he might therefore be treated differently than if he were Ensign No-Name.”

Fairburn’s eyes narrowed. “Rest assured, Senior Chief, that neither I nor anyone under my command is going to treat him as anything more than a brain-dead wet-ear who needs petty officer help to find his boots in the morning.”

“I hope that will be the case, Sir,” Osterman said. “Will that be all, Sir?”

“For now.” Fairburn raised his eyebrows. “Just make sure you don’t backflip the other direction and lean on him harder than you would your Ensign No-Name.”

“No, Sir, I won’t.” Osterman dared a small smile. “Even if that was possible.”

Fairburn gave a little snort. “Of course, Senior Chief. What in the world was I thinking?” He waved a hand. “Dismissed.”

* * *

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Llyn,” Cutler Gensonne said, the prominent and self-awarded admiral’s bars glinting on his shoulders as he seated himself behind his desk. “My apologies if the journey was a bit more than you were expecting.”

“Not a problem,” Llyn assured him.

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 13

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 13

Then he picked out a few familiar shapes that would not have changed over time, like the Gujaran peninsula, and the western blob that was Uttara, the northern and westernmost parts of their nation respectively. “Impossible…” Ashok muttered as he forced himself to stand up. His leg burned and threatened to betray him again, but he needed to get closer. Ashok found another torch on the wall and lit it from the fire pit. He placed himself directly beneath the gigantic map and held up the flame.

This was a map of the entire world.

Their nation, the entire world of man, took up but one small corner. There were several other lands across the seas, some far larger than theirs, and hundreds of islands in between. As he moved the flickering torch back and forth, he realized there were thousands of carved dots casting tiny shadows. A quick check of the one continent he was familiar with revealed that the holes seemed to represent cities, with the bigger the shadow, the larger the place. Most seemed to correspond to the seats of the houses today, though there was no Capitol in the center, and there were a few dots where there was nothing today, but most matched…They had to be cities. When he went back to examining the rest of the map, he realized there were thousands of dots, spread across every landmass except for the ones at the very top and bottom. “Impossible,” he said again.

Ashok couldn’t say how long he stared at that map, memorizing every line, staring upward until the muscles in his neck began to ache and he got dizzy. It was easy to lose track of time when you found something so incomprehensible.

“It is rather impressive, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t heard the Lord Protector return. “Is Devedas –”

“That boy is too stubborn to die. As determined as he is to make up for his father’s failures, it wouldn’t surprise me if someday he was given my office.”

Ashok turned back to the carving. “I don’t understand this.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. This map comes from the time before the demons fell to the world.”

It was forbidden to speak of the time before the Law in anything but the vaguest of terms. The acolytes only learned of it in passing, because it had been a dark and wicked time, so corrupt that it still influenced lawbreakers today. “The Age of Kings?”

“Before that, even. The houses were tribes back then. Fighting the demons is what forced us to name a king. It wasn’t until long after we drove the demons into the sea that we discovered kings could be nearly as bad.”

“We haven’t been taught much about those days.”

Surprisingly, Ratul didn’t yell at him for concentrating on frivolous, useless things, and to the Lord Protector anything that wasn’t fighting or preparing to fight seemed frivolous. Instead Ratul joined him beneath the map. “In ancient times, man had settled across the whole of the world. We were one of nine continents. There wasn’t one nation like there is now, but hundreds of them, a multitude with different ways, different languages, traditions, different color skins, they even had different laws. They fought wars against each other, traded goods and thoughts, even animals. It was routine for man to travel across the sea in mighty ships.”

“That’s illegal, not to mention stupid,” Ashok stated dismissively, even though he was talking to a superior.

“Not in those days. The oceans were just large bodies of water, nothing more, until there was a war that consumed the heavens, and the demons were defeated by the gods and cast down.”

“Gods?” Ashok asked. Advocating the existence of such things was highly illegal.

“I speak metaphorically of course. Regardless of where they came from, there was a time before demons and a time after. They fell from the sky and began to destroy everything. Across the entire world, cities burned, and men fled before them. They nearly exterminated us. It wasn’t until we used the black steel to drive them into the water that the oceans became hell. The demons have owned the sea ever since.”

“Do you know where black steel comes from?” Despite spending years with three pounds of it riding on his hip, nobody had ever been able to explain it to him.

“There are only fantastical tales by those deluded enough to worship false gods,” Ratul answered a little too quickly.

It was hard to imagine this ancient world of travelling foreigners and no supreme law to rule them all, until it had begun raining demons. Angruvadal had been forged in those days and it still remembered them. Ashok would have liked to see what that world had been like, but the memories locked in his sword were limited to battle after battle, and nothing beyond. Ashok could relive every fight of every bearer, but he’d never understand what any of them had been fighting for. “What do the fanatics say about the origins?”

Ratul gave Ashok that heavy lidded glare, letting Ashok know there would be no good answer to that question. “The demons destroyed most of civilization, and what histories survived were questionable at best. They’re locked away in the Capitol library now, under the careful eye of the Archivists’ Order. The Age of Kings was based on lies, so the records that passed through their priests’ corrupt hands were tainted until everything was twisted to serve their greed. Regardless of where black steel comes from, ever since our victory, man has controlled the land and demons have held the sea. We don’t try to cross the water and they are not allowed to walk upon our land. This arrangement has held for fifty generations.”

Scanning the dots on the other lands, Ashok tried to take it all in. Some of them cast much larger shadows than Vadal City and the census said nearly a million people lived there…It was hard to imagine a city even bigger. “What happened to the people in all those other continents?”

“Who knows? Dead more than likely. The demons nearly ended us here. Perhaps other nations weren’t so lucky. Did they discover magic like we did? Maybe in those other places the demons won and now those slimy things are the ones living on land.”

“That would be trespassing. They should be punished.”

Ratul actually appeared amused by that. “I admire your commitment, but sadly that’s a bit beyond our jurisdiction to enforce, Ashok.”

For now, Ashok thought to himself. He couldn’t abide the idea of anything, demon or human, flaunting the Law.

“Regardless, if any foreigners survived like we did, we’ll never know. Crossing the sea is impossible, so for all practical matters, we’re all that remain…You know this. Mindarin must have covered it in your lessons.”

“Briefly.” They didn’t waste too much of the acolytes’ precious training time on ancient history. Protectors were focused on enforcing the rules now, not dwelling in the past. How one got to the destination was not nearly as important as maintaining order once there.

“Myself, I’m a student of these things. I’ve read everything available about the ancients and sought out the best scholars in the Capitol to discuss our history.” That was a surprise. Normally, Ratul only seemed interested in teaching them how to kill people more efficiently. It was hard to picture him actually enjoying something. “I’ve been fascinated by the subject my entire life. If I’d not been obligated to the Order, I might have made a fine Archivist, but enough of this. There is one final test for you.” Ratul walked away.

 

Raising Caine – Snippet 14

Raising Caine – Snippet 14

“Such work is uncommon,” Hirano admitted in a small voice.

Caine smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to be one of those rare researchers, would you, Mizuki?”

Her answering smile was also small. “I have shared my opinions in one or two papers.”

Karam snorted, but it was not a derisive sound. “Figures.” He boosted the craft slightly. “Pretty lively air here where the hotside drafts are zooming across to equalize the subzero soup on the dark side. We’ve just started biting into the atmosphere and I can already feel the buffeting.”

“You can?”

“Sure,” Karam answered as Qin Lijuan nodded her confirmation.

“I can’t,” Hirano confessed.

“That’s because it’s not your job,” Karam observed. “And that’s why we’re landing this barge in a hands-on mode. We’re depending as much on the feel of this bird and the nav-sensor readings as we are on the avionics and the flight computer.” Karam put his palm on the manual throttle and pushed the thrust higher, along with the shuttle’s nose.

Riordan felt the increased, thready vibration through his seat. “Isn’t this when we would normally be backing off the thrusters?”

Karam didn’t turn away from his instruments, but Caine could see a smile quirk the rearmost corner of his mouth. “So, you have been paying attention during the sims.”

“Weeks of running them again and again will even help a newb like me,” Riordan replied.

Karam nodded tightly as the shuttle jounced, settled, seemed to float upward on a giant palm before dropping down sharply. “To answer your question: yeah, at this point, we’d normally be backing off the thrust, letting the belly soak up the energy of our descent as we serpentine in to dump velocity. But here, that protocol would get us killed. We’ve got to get through the turbulence of the air masses moving from the brightside to the darkside. We need powered flight for that. And our glide path, even from this altitude, is fundamentally perpendicular to the plane of the equator.”

“Because we are making a longitudinal, not latitudinal, approach?”

“Correct, Captain,” Qin Lijuan answered, who was now in control of the shuttle as Karam plotted telemetry changes to compensate for new meteorological data. “However, it will not be convenient to answer further questions at this time.”

Riordan reflected that he really didn’t have any more flight related questions, now that the life-sustaining sections of the bioband were in plain view. It was a meandering valley cut with swathes of mauve, maroon, teal and aqua foliage, and they were slowly angling down into it from the hotside.

The thermals came in layers, the faint shuddering of the calm belts alternating with teeth-rattling surges from the more super-heated currents. At times, Karam and Lijuan had to fight to keep the shuttle from rolling by nosing slightly into the drafts, being pushed sideways as they maintained dynamic equilibrium against the lateral forces until they could get underneath each successive current.

After almost a quarter hour of jostling alongside and against the cyclonic winds rushing toward the distant glacial wall of the darkside, Lijuan was finally able to bring the nose back down. The shuttle slipped beneath the level of the terminal moraine which rose up like a long, high ridgeline interspersed with hillocks. As the craft did so, the orange-red light coming in the cockpit windows dimmed, the shielding ridge blocking the line of sight to the sun. The wide valley beneath them swum into sharper focus with the loss of the glare: patches of spongy aquamarine plant canopy snugged against the backside of the ridge. Swards of dusky maroon and vibrant violet flora reached out from its foot, shot through with occasion streaks and patches of white-washed ultramarine and teal. The sharply separated colors chased up and down faint bowl-shaped depressions, in and out of faint hollows where thin water courses glimmered in the indirect lighting.

“Damn,” muttered Karam, “I’ve been to at least half the green worlds out beyond Epsilon Indi. Half of the brown ones, too. But this –”

“Different?” Caine asked.

“And then some.”

Hirano, her nose pushed up against the cockpit glass, nodded in eager agreement.

Lijuan, who had transitioned back to dynamic controls, initiated the landing sequence. Two of the thrusters slowly rotated into a vertical attitude as the landing gear began groaning out of their wheel-wells.

“How long, Lieutenant?” Riordan asked.

“Four minutes, sir.”

“Then it’s time to have the rest of the mission break out the filter masks. We’ve got a planet to visit.”

* * *

With the entirety of the legation sheltering under the still-warm belly of the lander, Gaspard approached Caine and flipped open the speaking port beneath the filters of his mask. “Your security personnel seem pensive, Captain. Have you passed them any warnings of which I should be aware?”

Riordan squinted into the strangely diffuse light, saw that Yiithrii’ah’aash had now debarked from his own craft. Two significantly shorter but stockier Slaasriithi were approaching from the edge of the landing pad, carrying what appeared to be boxes. Caine shook his head. “No, I haven’t issued any special orders, Ambassador. My personnel just don’t like being tasked to protect against threats if they don’t have weapons.”

“And you have similar feelings?”

Riordan shrugged. “After what happened with Buckley, I can hardly blame our hosts for not allowing us to carry devices which could turn a simple misunderstanding into a massacre. Besides, I think the last thing the Slaasriithi want to do is to harm us.”

“I find it refreshing, if surprising, that you agree with our hosts, and with me, in this matter.”

“I do,” affirmed Caine, “but that’s not the same thing as saying that I don’t understand how my security team feels or that I don’t share their sentiments. I simply concur that, in this place and at this time, it’s best for us to leave our weapons behind. Besides, I don’t think Yiithrii’ah’aash was going to brook any debate on the topic.”

Gaspard’s voice conveyed what sounded like a rueful smile. “On that point we are in complete agreement, my good Riordan.”

As Yiithrii’ah’aash and his attendants drew close, the ambassador unfurled several long fingers into an undulating greeting.

Tygg’s sotto voce comment rose up from the rear of the ragged cluster of humans. “We wave hands; they wave fingers.”

That prompted a few chuckles and giggles, one of which came from Melissa Sleeman. Which means that Tygg is wearing a big, stupid smile right now. As Riordan raised a hand to return Yiithrii’ah’aash’s greeting, he stole a quick look at the ambassador’s new companions. These Slaasriithi were not only smaller and stocky, but had lightly furred, symmetrical protrusions where a hominid’s short ribs would be located. Yiithrii’ah’aash noted Caine’s curious stare. “They are not neoplasms, as you might conjecture if you relied upon visual parallels from your own physiology.”

Rena Mizrahi answered before Riordan could formulate an adequate response. “I can see that: the protrusions are too regular, both in their own shape, and in their bilateral placement.” She pulled in a deep, air-testing breath as she continued to assess the two protrusions on each of the new Slaasriithi. “The air here is somewhat thin. Are those bulges, uh, symbiotic — living — air compressors?”

 

Eric Flint Newsletter – 17 AUGUST 2015

I just turned in a novella to Kelly Lockhart titled “Up On the Roof,” for an anthology he’s editing based on John Ringo’s Black Tide Rising series. For those of you not familiar with the series, it’s John’s take on the zombie apocalypse theme. What I did in my story was depict how people might survive a zombie apocalypse in my neighborhood, using characters modeled (loosely—there’s no direct one-to-one relationship) on my own neighbors and people I encounter regularly whenever I go out of the house.

The characters, as is true of the part of the country where I live (which is northwest Indiana), are predominantly working class and racially mixed. So my characters are industrial workers, some retired and some active, a waitress and a restaurant manager, a cop and his daughter, a security guard at a casino and his wife who works in a factory making cardboard containers, etc. They are armed in the way in which blue collar civilians in the US usually are, but they are not survivalists or gun nuts and while some of them have military experience they are not a military unit of any kind.

Their survival depends partly on weapons but mostly on being smart and decisive—and being willing to help others. Insofar as I have a beef with apocalypse stories, it’s that they tend to grossly underestimate the survival value of being cooperative and behaving decently to people and tend to grossly overestimate the extent to which a dog-eat-dog mindset would really help you very much in a real catastrophe. I should make clear, by the way, that that’s not a criticism of John Ringo’s novels in the series. John’s actually very good on this subject, which is part of the reason I enjoyed the series.

John Scalzi is also writing a story for the anthology. I’m not sure who else is. Sarah Hoyt started to, but I gather that her story wound up being so long that they’re probably going to publish it as a separate volume.

And now I’m hurrying back to work on The Gods of Sagittarius since I’ll be seeing my co-author Mike Resnick in a few days at Worldcon and he’ll start crabbing at me how come I haven’t finished the damn book yet… (he crabs pretty well, too)

Raising Caine – Snippet 13

Raising Caine – Snippet 13

Chapter Twenty-One

Bioband’s valland; GJ 1248 One (“Adumbratus”)

Karam Tsaami was in the pilot’s seat of the delta-shaped lander and was not at all happy. He hadn’t been since the slightly smaller, but more versatile and rugged Euro model had been stricken from the legation’s inventory just hours before their departure from Sigma Draconis Two. Two small maintenance glitches and sub par thrust measurements resulted in the mission planners going to the second vehicle on the roster. The TOCIO-manufactured Embra-Mitsu lander was capacious, but also more lightly built and, if push came to shove, simply didn’t have the thrust-to-mass ratio of the EU model, despite its responsiveness.

Karam’s displeasure was increased when the Slaasriithi prohibited the legation’s Wolfe-class corvette from serving as the lander, citing its paucity of passenger couches. Karam had argued the milspec advantages of the craft’s speed, agility, toughness, and systems redundancy. Yiithrii’ah’aash had patiently heard him out and then explained that the humans had to land in their own craft and only one, if possible. So the Embra-Mitsu would suffice. The career pilot had muttered imprecations and suspicions about the Slaasriithi just finding a convenient excuse to keep them from landing in a warship. Caine observed that this might be true but, given the nasty surprise that Joe Buckley had dealt to everyone’s easy confidence in the safety of the mission, Yiithrii’ah’aash certainly had the right to err to the side of caution. Tsaami’s dark grumblings did not cease, but they did subside.

Karam put his hand on the hard-dock release lever, and called out, “I need a vocal confirm that you are strapped in. All the green lights on my board are not good enough.”

A confirming chorus came from the passenger compartment. The three other persons in the cockpit — copilot Qin Lijuan, planetologist Hirano Mizuki, and Riordan, whose ostensible job was security overwatch of flight operations — murmured their own assent.

Karam pulled the handle; he preferred manual controls for some functions. “Okay, everyone, we’ve got some odd descent telemetry on this ride, so be prepared for a few sharper-than-average turns. Here we go.” He puffed the attitude control thrusters to put the nose down and in line with the trajectory guidons and waypoint boxes painted on his HUD visor. The world beneath them rose into view — and revealed itself to be a world like no human had ever seen before.

* * *

Riordan stared at the faintly ovate planet. Scientists and planetologists had speculated that such worlds would — indeed, must — exist. Its primary, a red dwarf labeled GJ 1248, was just thirty-nine million kilometers away. Consequently, the planet was not only face-locked to the star, but had been structurally deformed by it.

Qin Lijuan’s eyes were wide. “Is it slightly egg-shaped?”

Hirano Mizuki nodded. “The inner pole, the part of the planet always closest to the star, was constantly stretched in that direction throughout its formation.”

“Which is one of the two things that makes landing here so challenging.” Karam was fussing with his instruments, particularly his navigational sensors. “I’ve never had to put down on a world which isn’t functionally a sphere. Orbit tracks are messed up. The relationship between altitude and gravity are skewed.”

Qin Lijuan was studying the instruments carefully. “Because in a sphere, a constant orbital altitude means constant distance from the center of gravity.”

“Right. But here, not so much.”

“Would a polar orbit be better? If you remain consistently over the meridian, you will be able to follow a roughly circular orbit with roughly consistent gravity.”

Karam nodded. “That’s what I’m shooting for. But it’s easier said than done, lacking a full planetary survey and nav charts. The Slaasriithi relayed the relevant astrophysical data, but the software on this barge doesn’t have a preset template for a non-spherical planet.”

Riordan glanced at Karam. “So you’re running the nav numbers in real-time?”

“No other way, Captain. Couldn’t run a simulation since I didn’t have the time to write a custom subroutine. So we’ll still need some adjustments on the way in. You ready to help with that, Lieutenant Qin?”

Her hands rested confidently, lightly upon the controls. Qin Lijuan didn’t even bother to nod; she simply glanced at him.

Karam rolled the shuttle, boosted so that its approach to the planet became oblique. Riordan watched as GJ 1248 A’s sun-blasted surface swam across to the right hand side of the cockpit windows, sinking as it went.

Qin’s left eyebrow raised. “We’re going down there? Without hard suits?”

Hirano Mizuki’s answering smile was almost invisible. “We won’t need anything more than filter masks.”

Qin’s other eyebrow rose to join the first. “How is that possible?” She tracked a raging, twister-pocked dust storm as it scoured its way across the ochre flatlands over which they were passing. “The temperature down there must be over two hundred degrees centigrade.”

Hirano nodded. “More, in places.”

Riordan glimpsed the terminator, the line marking the border where the perpetually sun-scorched side of the planet gave way to its perpetually lightless hemisphere, and noted that it was peculiarly smudged: not at all like the hard, crisp demarcation that he had seen while orbiting comparably featureless moons and planets. Is that a lifezone lying along the terminator?”

Karam nodded. “Yeah. Yiithrii’ah’aash briefed me on this for a grand total of two minutes while you were sleeping off the gas. The Slaasriithi call this kind of world a meridiate. A face-locked world that is large enough to retain both an atmosphere and some water can develop what they call a bioband that follows the terminator’s meridian.”

The bioband was only a few hundred kilometers wide, and the sunward margin of it still showed no sign of water or plant-life. But whereas the far wastes of the sunward face were flat and uniform in both color and reflectivity, the margins where it abutted the bioband shaded into darker patches. There were also more geological irregularities along that fringe. Glacial deformations resembling dried finger lakes, hillocks and successive ridgelines paralleled the edge of the zone that human planetologists that speculatively labeled the “life-belt.” The ridges became higher and more frequent as they receded toward the more shadowed center of the zone.

“Terminal moraines,” Hirano commented.

Caine nodded, watching them accumulate and stacking into a washboard collection of faint, meridian-following ribs. “The limits of a glacial advance?”

Hirano nodded. “Yes. We can’t see the darkside glacier yet — most of it will be well-shadowed — but it won’t be a perfectly stable formation. Stellar flares and libration will change the temperatures in the bioband. With those changes will come glacial advances and retreats. And every time the glacier retreats, it will leave behind one of those.” She gestured down at one of the ridges paralleling the further, darker reaches of the bioband.

Riordan watched Karam align the shuttle to follow the same meridian-riding track of the terminal moraine. “Assuming that there is any periodicity to temperature change, there should be some spot where the glacier is most likely to halt, right?”

“Yes,” Hirano confirmed with an eager nod. “That moraine should be the highest, being a compound of multiple terminal deposits. It would logically function as a kind of sunside ‘wall,’ according to some of the planetological predictions.”

Karam glanced at Hirano Mizuki. “I’m not unfamiliar with planetology, given my job, but I’ve never even heard of speculations about a world like this — uh, ‘meridiate.'”

 

A Call To Arms – Snippet 13

A Call To Arms – Snippet 13

Winterfall didn’t know what was about to happen, or what Breakwater was going to do in response. But no matter what went down in the next few minutes, Winterfall was determined that he himself would come out looking as good and as professional as possible.

“Gavin?”

Winterfall gave his neck scarf one final pat. “Yes, My Lord,” he said. “I’m ready.”

* * *

“Are you ready?” King Michael asked.

Edward gave a final tug at his collar. “Almost,” he said. “Just one more minute.”

“One more minute?” His father gave him a small smile. “Really, Edward. That was the same line you gave me when you were eight and were trying to stall your way out of something you didn’t want to do.”

“Consistency is a virtue,” Edward said reflexively, his mind still back in the dining room.

“Only if you’re consistently right,” Michael countered. “Otherwise, it’s the granddaddy of all vices.” He paused. “She’ll be all right, Edward,” he said more quietly. “She’s strong, and she has all of us to help her get through it. The more important question is whether you’re going to be all right.”

Edward looked sharply at him. Was his father really going to bring up those horribly ill-advised words?

No, of course not. He was merely referring to the next few minutes.

And to the many, many minutes beyond.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “You’ve prepared me well. Despite my best efforts to the contrary.”

“You did fine,” Michael assured him. “It just took you awhile to hit your stride.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do try to hit it a bit faster this time.”

“I will,” Edward promised. He hesitated. “They’re not going to like this, you know.”

Michael shrugged. “Some won’t. At least not at first.”

“Chancellor Breakwater?”

“His was one of the names that came to mind,” Michael agreed. He shifted his shoulders. “And with that, I believe your minute is up.”

Edward forced a smile. “Which was your consistent line,” he reminded his father.

“You asked for a minute; I gave you a minute,” Michael said with another smile. “The art of compromise.” He sobered. “Just remember that compromise never means giving away your core values. Ever.”

“I know,” Edward said softly.

“Good.” Michael straightened up —

And suddenly, he was once again King Michael, ruler of the Star Kingdom of Manticore. “It’s time. Let’s do this.”

He headed across the Royal Sanctum toward the door. Edward followed.

Wondering if the collar would be less uncomfortable if it wasn’t for the lump in his throat.

* * *

“Wow,” Travis said when Lisa reached the end of her story. “That was…just wow. You’re all lucky someone didn’t get killed.”

“Someone did get killed,” Lisa reminded him.

“I meant someone from Damocles,” Travis said hastily, feeling his face warming.

“I know,” Lisa said. “Though from what Commodore Henderson told us about General Khetha, I don’t feel as sympathetic as I did at the beginning.”

“They’re sure that was who it was?”

“Very sure,” Lisa said. “Once they knew his ship had been stolen, and found out from the people at his mansion exactly who had gone missing, they knew who to test for. After that, it was just a matter of putting together enough surviving DNA for a positive ID.” She took another strawberry from the bowl Travis had placed in front of her end of the couch, which she’d been mostly ignoring while she told her story. “And of course, once the police pulled up what they knew about the Canaan situation, and what he’d done before he was kicked off the planet, they wrote the whole thing off as revenge.”

“I don’t believe it,” Travis said. “There’s something else going on.”

“See, that’s what I thought,” Lisa said, her face brightening. “But Henderson and Nabaum — that’s the police lieutenant who handled the case — seemed to think that was all it was. They said it wasn’t for any of the treasure he stole, because the mansion wasn’t touched, and he didn’t have anything in banks or safe-vaults.”

“That they know of,” Travis pointed out. “Maybe he had something stashed away and the killer needed an access code or something.”

“His people say no,” Lisa said. “Though of course they could be lying through their teeth.”

“Yeah,” Travis said, searching for a different topic. Talking with Lisa was always enjoyable, but he’d hoped to avoid talking shop tonight. “Speaking of teeth, you may have noticed that Crumpets has a new chew toy.”

“Yes, I did,” Lisa said, reaching down and retrieving the half-eaten hybrid of colorful cloth and more durable rawhide. “Did she lose the old one, or just eat it wholesale?”

“Good question,” Travis said. “I’m guessing the latter, since I’ve searched this place fore to aft and haven’t found any trace of the old one.

Lisa waved a hand at the couch she was sitting on.

“Did you look between the couch cushions? Not under the couch, but between the cushions?”

For a moment Travis stared blankly at her. How in the world would a dog that size –?

“No, I didn’t,” he confessed, standing up. “Uh…”

“Allow me.” Smiling, Lisa stood up, made a magician’s abracadabra gesture, and lifted up the cushion she’d been sitting on.

And there it was. Slightly more bedraggled than the last time Travis had seen it, but it was indeed Crumpets’ old chew toy.

“I’m not even going to ask,” he said.

“Probably just as well,” Lisa said, replacing the cushion and resuming her seat. She wiggled the toy at Crumpets a moment then tossed it over her head, sending the little animal scurrying after it. “Our best guess was that she liked smelling it nearby when she was on the couch with us.”

“Ah,” Travis said, feeling his throat tighten. Our. Us. How did Lisa’s ex always manage to intrude on these conversations? “Well, I guess now she’s got two of them.”

“Trust me: a dog can never have too many chew toys,” Lisa said. “You have any idea what this big broadcast is about?”

“Nope,” Travis said, watching as Crumpets trotted back with her newly-rediscovered treasure. She settled down at Lisa’s feet and started gnawing it. “I was hoping you might.”

Lisa shook her head.

“Not a clue.”

There was a chime from across the room, and the vidscreen came on. “Ah — here we go,” Travis said, swiveling around in his seat.

“You’ll see better from here,” Lisa suggested, pointing to the other end of the couch.

“Thanks,” Travis said. Feeling a little odd, he got up and sat down near her. Not too near, of course, but not so far away as to be insulting.

On the screen, King Michael stepped to a podium adorned with the Royal Seal of the House of Winton. Dressed in his full regalia of state, he looked every millimeter a monarch.

“My people,” he said into the pair of microphones on the podium, his voice deep and confident.

And yet, behind the richness of his tone, Travis sensed a hint of weariness.

“Citizens of Manticore, Sphinx, and Gryphon; Members of Parliament; My Lords and Ladies.”

There was every reason for him to be weary, of course. The daily wrangles with Parliament; the decisions necessary to keep the Star Kingdom running smoothly; not to mention the continual squabbles for power between the RMN and MPARS.

“In the eighteen years that I’ve been privileged to be your king, the Star Kingdom of Manticore has experienced unprecedented growth. We’ve continued to move along the path of recovery from the devastation of the Plague, and with the additional citizens who have come to us via the assisted immigration program we have become a stronger and more vibrant society. The Royal Manticoran Navy has guarded us against external threat, while the Manticoran Patrol and Rescue Service has risen to the challenge of securing the safety of travel within our borders.”

The image went to split screen, the second image showing a slow pan across the assembled Lords. Chancellor Breakwater was prominent among them, his face studiously neutral. Two seats down from him, Travis spotted his brother Gavin, wearing the same expression.

“We have begun building our own merchant marine, and our industrial capacity continues to flourish. You have worked together with fortitude and patience, and I have no doubt that we have a bright future ahead of us.”

“But that future will not be mine to oversee.”

Travis felt a sudden tightness in his chest, the weariness in the King’s face suddenly taking on an ominous edge. Was he ill? Discouraged?

Dying?

“For reasons which must remain private, I have decided that I can no longer lead the Star Kingdom of Manticore. Accordingly, I am today declaring my abdication from the Throne in favor of my son, Crown Prince Edward.”

Travis felt his eyes widen with disbelief. King Michael was abdicating? Beside him, Lisa said something shocked-sounding under her breath. Travis barely even noticed.

“I have no doubt that he will lead you with dignity and strength, and I know that you will accept him with the same loyalty and honor you have always shown me.

“Thank you, and may God be with you all.”

With that, he stepped away from the podium.

And was gone.

For a long moment, Travis just stared at the screen. The camera belatedly turned to follow the King — the former King — from the stage and into the wings, then shifted back to a view of the Lords.

They looked as stunned as Travis felt.

King Roger had died in office. So had his daughter, Queen Elizabeth. Travis had grown up assuming that was the way of things, that Manticoran monarchs gave their entire lives for their people and for the crown. The king is dead; long live the king.

Now, without warning, all that had changed. The Star Kingdom was entering uncharted territory.

And Travis had never been good with uncharted territory.

“Travis?”

He started, turned to look at his side. Lisa was still sitting there, gazing at him with what looked like concern on her face. “You all right?” she asked.

Travis forced a nod. “Sure,” he said. “It’s just…that was about the last thing I expected.”

“You and the rest of the Star Kingdom,” Lisa said darkly. She nodded at the TV. “Looks like Crown Pr — like King Edward is going to speak.”

Travis looked back. With his father now gone from the stage, Edward had stepped to the podium. In the background behind him was his son, Richard Winton, resplendent in his black and gold Academy cadet uniform.

Only now they were King Edward and Crown Prince Richard.

Travis took a deep breath. He’d survived uncharted territory before. He would survive this one, too.

Lisa had set Crumpets down on the couch between them. Absently scritching the dog behind her ears, Travis braced himself for this new and unexpected future.

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 12

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 12

Chapter 6

Eighteen years ago

“If you’d not been here to guide us, we would’ve frozen to death before we found this entrance. The directions we were given were flawed for this last part. It would have led us to the wrong part of the summit.”

“Correct, Ashok,” Ratul said as he knocked the ice from the hidden doors. They were cut from the stone and camouflaged so well that they could have camped on them and never known. “The Heart is the most vital possession of the Order. Only those who pass the test may know the true location. It is possible that an acolyte may fail the test and flee the Order. They have already demonstrated their lack of character. They could talk. What then?”

The solution was obvious. “Execute them.”

“Easier said than done in some cases, so it is better to deceive all the acolytes. Those who pass learn the truth. Should you ever speak of what you see beyond this point, your life is forfeit. If you are ever tortured for this information, it is better that you will yourself to die rather than give it up. If you ever tell of this place, you will be hunted down by the entire Order and destroyed, for the Heart is the source of our power.”

Ratul did something with his hands, it seemed as if he were tracing invisible pictures on the stone, but whatever it was was hidden from view by his fur coat. The door should have been frozen solid, but it slid open with the grinding of stone against stone. Steep stairs led down into the mountain. Ratul started down and they followed. It was good to get out of the wind, but Ashok didn’t like how there was no visible mechanism for opening the heavy door inside. Regulated magic was legal, but he had an instinctive personal distrust of the craft. Magic was made using the leftovers of broken ancestor blades and the remaining life spark of long-dead bearers.

“From this point forward, nothing you see can ever be spoken about with anyone who is not a Protector of senior rank or higher. You have already given me your oath. Whether it be a chief judge, the highest arbiter in the Capitol, the Thakoor of your house, or if the Forgotten himself descends from the heavens in a rain of fire and asks about this place, I don’t give a damn, you will not speak with them about the Heart. Understood?”

“The Forgotten is imaginary, Lord Protector,” Ashok pointed out.

“Damn, boy, you are a literal sort. Come on.” Ratul started down the stairs.

The acolytes followed. Ashok was still having a hard time walking. His joint made a clicking noise in his pelvis with each step, and the pain was grating. The cuts on his chest burned, but the blood had dried to his undershirt enough to form a sort of giant cloth scab, so he was in no danger of bleeding to death. Devedas’ was keeping pressure on the laceration in his side, but the wound on his head was still slowly leaking through his hood. He was looking deathly pale and had vomited a few minutes before, but Ratul had denied their requests to stop long enough to tend their wounds.

Devedas slipped, stumbled down several steps, but caught himself on the wall before falling completely. Ashok grabbed him by the arm and helped him stand. Since one foot was numb, that almost caused both of them to go tumbling down the stairs. Some mighty Protectors they were.

He’d never been good at offering encouragement. “Keep going. It’s not far now,” Ashok said anyway.

“You don’t know that,” Devedas whispered.

“I can still hear you,” Ratul said from below. “Your bodies are frail. Bones break, blood spills, and the Law is deprived of yet another valuable enforcer. That’s what the Heart is for. When your own proves insufficient, it will beat on your behalf…But the boy is right, Devedas, it isn’t much farther.”

The magic door ground closed behind them, plunging them into complete darkness. Footsteps told him that Ratul was still descending. Devedas muttered something incomprehensible, and then the two of them limped along after their instructor.

The blindness was unnerving. The stairs continued. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Normally Ashok was so focused he would have counted, but now he was too tired to think. Something was making his nose itch. The mountain had been almost sterile. In comparison this placed smelled old. It was quiet except for the scrape of their boots against the stairs, their gloves along the walls, and Devedas’ labored breathing. Ashok was taking a lot of Devedas’ weight now as the older acolyte was having a hard time staying conscious. “Stay with me, brother,” Ashok pleaded as Devedas’ head wobbled around on his neck. If he went limp, they would fall. “I’m not strong enough to carry you.”

Below them, Ratul began to whistle a tune. Then his footfalls changed. He’d left the stairs and reached a level surface. That gave Ashok hope. There was some rattling of metal on metal, and then the scrape of a firestarter. Thankfully, an orange light appeared. The glow spread as Ratul took the torch and touched it to a big fire pit. Whatever was in it was dry and immediately ignited. By the time he got Devedas to the bottom the chamber was filling with light and heat. His skin prickled. They’d been cold for so long that the warm air felt like being stabbed with thousands of needles.

“Bring him this way.” Ratul ordered as he walked further inside and lit another fire pit. Ashok was having a hard time keeping up. “I was told there used to be lanterns here that never went out, but all magic breaks down eventually. The lights died generations ago, yet we make do. I sense a parable about society there.”

Ashok stepped on an uneven part of the floor, and for whatever reason, that was enough. The strength went out from his injured leg. It crumpled beneath, and the two acolytes fell down. He hit the ground with a grunt. “Oh, what now?” Ratul muttered as he came back. He roughly rolled Devedas over and lowered an ear to his chest. “Hmmm…This one is worse off than I thought. He’s bleeding to death and doesn’t have enough sense to complain about it.”

“He did complain, Lord Protector. However, you didn’t listen.”

“We’re going to have to work on that unflinching honesty of yours, Ashok.” Ratul effortlessly hoisted Devedas up and put him over one shoulder. “Wait here. I must get him to the Heart immediately.”

The master carried off the other acolyte, leaving Ashok alone.

He lay there on the hard floor for a time, flat on his back, letting his exhaustion seep from his body into the mountain. Ashok was incapable of fearing for himself, but it was interesting to discover that he could be worried about someone else’s fate. He didn’t want Devedas to die. Ashok had never had a friend before. Well, at least if you didn’t count Angruvadal, but he wasn’t sure if an ancient magical killing machine could actually be considered a friend.

The fire pits cast just enough light to see the high ceiling of the chamber. This place may have started out as a cave, but it had been worked and polished until the walls were smooth. However, there was large, rectangular, section on the wall above him that was intricately carved and casting odd shadows. It took his eyes time to adjust enough to figure out what he was looking at.

It was a map.

Ashok had seen many maps. Mindarin used them during his lessons and had several posted in the training room. He’d seen maps of house borders, of the trade routes between them, even maps of all of Lok, where great rivers were lines and cities were nothing but specks. Only this wasn’t like any map he’d seen before. He couldn’t figure out what house’s lands it was showing. Something was wrong with this one, he couldn’t place his finger on it, but the map seemed totally unfamiliar. Legal borders changed over time, but coasts and mountain ranges didn’t.