Eric Flint's Blog, page 298

Polychrome – Chapter 09

Polychrome – Chapter 09

Chapter 9.

For a minute I thought he wasn’t going to answer me directly. His storm-violet eyes started to turn away; then they closed, reopened, looked back down at me.

“Erik Medon, this is one of the great uncertainties. Your precise fate… lies beyond any prophecy. The prophecy, in fact, ends at the moment you confront our true enemies. And as I have already told you, even the path to that confrontation is fraught with uncertainty. Die you may, and that well before we have reached even a chance for victory. Or you may fail in some less dramatic but no less final manner.” He held up a hand as I was about to speak. “But I know that you mean to ask about the ultimate end of this adventure, and to that I can say… you may well die then.”

He reached down beside his throne and lifted up a little pink stuffed bear with a crank protruding from its side. The crank began to turn of its own accord, and the little head turned jerkily and one paw came up. “Hail, Erik Medon!” the Pink Bear said in a high-pitched, semi-mechanical voice.

“Hail, Pink Bear.” I kept my expression grave, though I did have a momentary impulse to giggle; the poor thing looked so absurd. “My condolences on your losses.”

“My thanks.” The Pink Bear moved with clumsy dignity from the arm of the throne to the Rainbow Lord and took a seat on one massive knee, gazing down at me from button eyes that still, somehow, seemed alive. “My condolences on what you are to suffer.”

“Don’t,” I said. “I’ve already had two lifelong dreams granted.”

“Tell him of the ending,” said Iris Mirabilis firmly. “He desires to know what will be, if past all the perils set between now and the end he has travelled.”

“As the Lord desires,” the Pink Bear said quietly; he then turned to me and spoke, in childish verse appropriate to a stuffed prophet:

Now he comes to the end, few his friends, alone

Held by words and chains before the Warlock’s throne.

Sorely wounded shall he be, and then his fate be known;

If struck through the heart and silent,

unable he to call

then Ozma’s power sealed forever

and darkness shall rule all;

Bathed in his heart’s blood but still with voice

Ozma’s name he calls;

Her power lifts him up, burns his soul away

But in those final moments he may win the day.

It was silent in the throne room for several moments as I assimilated all of that. “Okay, that could have been better for me, I guess. I’m not sure what all of it means – par for the course with a prophecy, I guess. Either way it sounds like I die.” I tried to say it lightly. It was, after all, a set of verses, and I didn’t have the capacity to see it as my final doom quite yet – though it might sink in later. “What’s the bit about Ozma’s power burning away my soul? Any idea?”

The Rainbow Lord gently set the Bear back down and stood; his pacing showed that he didn’t find this discussion much more pleasant than I did. “More than an idea, Erik Medon. It is possible – if you permit it, given that you are a true mortal – for a Faerie ruler such as Ozma, or myself for that matter, to place our power, our very essence of self, within you and allow you to use it.

“But since you are, in fact, mortal, and we are beings of spirit, your soul must be the channel and director of that spirit. It takes a tremendous effort of will to do this, for it will be very painful – although, at the same time, it would be as the Bear says uplifting, transcendent. The passage of such pure spiritual power through a mortal soul wears it away swiftly.”

I nodded slowly. “Like… channeling hot water through a pipe of ice. The pipe can handle it, can even handle a LOT of it… for a little while. But eventually it’s going to go to pieces. So I die either way.”

“Not necessarily.” Iris stopped and dropped to one knee, gazing at me earnestly. “Princess Ozma’s powers are vast, and if you can defeat your opponents swiftly enough, she may be able to return to her true self and heal you.”

“But she’s … sealed away. What’s the bit about my calling her name?”

The Rainbow Lord looked even more grim. “I have spent many years in this research – perilous research, for merely delving into certain things could have warned Ugu and Amanita of what I sought – and I believe that these verses speak of a dark ritual which takes advantage of a true mortal’s nature. Performed correctly, they would be able to simultaneously break the seal on Ozma while shattering her basic connection to Oz.”

“And that would mean,” I said, guessing, “that they would have permanent access to Oz’ power – and she’d just be another sacrifice or slave for them at that point.”

“Precisely so,” he affirmed. “All such great rituals require some form of sacrifice – of a mortal or of a faerie of some considerable power. No power is attained without price, no change in the Great Order permitted without great effort. A true Mortal’s blood is of great significance, as you might guess, as significant in its own way as that of a Faerie such as Ozma. But all such rituals are also very delicate things.”

“And so if I, the object of the sacrifice, call out to her, I’d… what? Bind her to me, in a way?”

“Give her the opportunity to escape into you, if you allowed it, and allow you to use her power against her enemies in ways she simply cannot, while still being defended in great part by the nature of your mortality.”

Now that made sense, in this weird mystical way. I’d be sort of null-magic powered armor for her spirit to wear. “And if I finished it quickly enough, there might be enough of her left to be able to fix the damage done to me?”

“That is my belief, yes.” His gaze was steady when he said that, so I thought he meant it; he wasn’t just trying to give me a forlorn hope.

“But if I push it too much, I’d burn myself out – destroy my soul.” A paraphrase of Disney’s Aladdin zipped through my mind: “Phenomenal cosmic power… itty-bitty circuit breaker.”

Iris Mirabilis looked at me sympathetically. “And along the way you will have to gain some idea of how you actually might wield this power. As you cannot wield magic in any other way, nor – in fact – allow yourself to be the subject of much significant magic without imperiling your protection – you will have to use her power with instinct and whatever insight you will have gained in your travels, for no one shall be able to train you.”

Of course. I’ll have to travel through numberless perils just to get to the point where someone stabs me through the heart, and then if I can manage to choke out the right word, use a Faerie Princess’ power – that I don’t know how to wield – to defeat two centuries-old, trained, super-powerful mages and all their minions, and do it really fast, but without burning myself up to a cinder. Piece of cake, really.

But I remembered Polychrome, and realized it didn’t matter. I was, like they said in Babylon 5, their “last, best hope”. I looked up. “Okay, Milord. But we’re getting a long way ahead of ourselves. What’s our actual next step? What can you tell me of the prophecies that come BEFORE that?”

“You accept all these risks?”

I chuckled, even though part of me did feel a cold touch of fear. “How the hell could I even explain it to you, Rainbow Lord? Maybe, being immortal, it’s really hard for you to understand what it’s like to know, every day, every week, every year, is bringing you closer and closer to the day you won’t open up your eyes ever again. I don’t believe… well, I DIDN’T believe… in any gods or afterlife, though I might have to reconsider that now. But the cold fact is that most of us live out our lives of a few decades – seventy, eighty, maybe a hundred or so years tops – and see almost none of our dreams come true. We make do. We settle for the best we can get. We dream and fantasize, and then go back to reality.

“So now Polychrome appears to me out of a rainbow, tells me I may be the key to rescuing Oz, takes me dancing through the clouds, and brings me here, to the Fortress of the Rainbow. And you say that I MIGHT die when it comes to the end, to a final throw down with villains as black as any I’ve ever read about?” I couldn’t help but laugh again. “I will die living a dream that most of us won’t ever even conceive. So yes, I accept them, happily and cheerfully and with a right will, sir!”

He stood and echoed my laugh with his own. “Well said, mortal. Well said. Very well, then, know that all the prophecy says for these moments is that the hero must be prepared to face the perils of his journey. How that preparation should proceed has been left to me.” His smile now had a hard edge to it. “Unused I think you are to effort, a stranger to real discipline, and you will face many adversaries before the end. Time for you to be properly trained, I think.”

It didn’t take a genius to guess what he meant by that.” Oh, great. Boot camp.”

“Your idiom is a bit obscure, but I believe you have grasped precisely my meaning. It is not seemly for the prophesied Hero to rely on my daughter for protection in his journey, and in fact she will not always be able to accompany you.” He clapped his hands together, and the far doors opened instantly.

In strode a tall figure, perhaps seven feet high, armored in gray-blue steel like a metal lizard’s scale’s. The warrior’s frame was truly heroic, proportionately even more massive than the Rainbow Lord’s, and over his shoulder the hilt of a mighty two-handed blade. “My Lord?”

Iris Mirabilis looked slightly surprised, as though he had expected someone else. “Precisely who I was going to send for. Nimbus Thunderstroke, Captain of my Storm Legions, Erik Medon, mortal of the Prophecy. It is my wish that you make of him a warrior at least capable of defending himself in emergency.”

Nimbus’ face was hard and scarred, clearly a veteran of many battles. He looked me up and down, then grabbed one of my hands, looked at it, shook his head. “A tall order, My Lord.”

Mirabilis laughed. “But not beyond your capacity, I think. He is a true Mortal, so remember this in your training.”

“As my Lord wishes.” He turned and bowed to the Rainbow Lord; I did the same. “Follow me, Erik Medon.”

I did, suspecting that the Rainbow Lord was grinning behind my back as we left.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 14

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 14

Moses blinked. Cardinal Larry Mazzare had been approved by the pope, but it was hardly a Jew’s place to be telling that to a staunch Counter-Reformationist like Gundaker von Liechtenstein. Besides which, Gundaker was a very smart man whose intelligence was only outdistanced by his stubbornness. Instead, Moses looked down at his folder. “No. They are Baptist.”

“What’s that?”

“Apparently it evolved from the Anabaptist, or is related to the Anabaptist. Honestly, Prince Gundaker, I am no expert on the Christian faith.”

“The Anabaptists aren’t Christians. They are heretics!” Gundaker looked at Moses and then, after a moment, waved it off. Moses knew Gundaker’s views, and knew that Gundaker dealt with him as a sort of necessary evil, but was firmly convinced that absent conversion to the true faith of the Catholic Church, Moses was going to hell. He also knew that in Gundaker’s world view, Moses, by virtue of being a Jew, deserved to go to hell. Gundaker tolerated Jews because of their usefulness, not out of any love for them or respect for their views. But the prince was still speaking. “I will have to write my nephew and warn him away from the up-timer.”

On the road to Regensburg

“I don’t friggin’ believe this,” Ron Sanderlin said. “This is not a road. It’s not even a path. This is a friggin’ game trail. Deer would find this a hard route.”

The problem was a section of what, in a fit of aggrandizement, was locally called a “road.” It was about four feet wide and consisted of mud impregnated with rocks. And from the size of the rocks, it looked like it was ready to give birth. That wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part were the two trees that were growing closer together than two trees that size ought to be capable of.

“Did you happen to bring a chainsaw?” Sonny Fortney asked.

“No. You know how much they’re worth now and most of them haven’t been converted to use alternate fuels. So I sold it.”

“Yep. Me too,” Sonny agreed. “I guess it’s time for axes.”

“What about the stumps?”

“We’ll have to burn the stumps after we take down the trees. But, unless we want to burn the whole grove, we need to take the trees down first.”

“Who owns the trees?” Hayley Fortney asked.

Sonny hooked his thumb at the village they had passed through about five minutes back. “Probably them.”

Even when the road was “good,” they made only about three miles an hour, because of the wagons. And now that they were in the Upper Palatinate, the roads were rarely all that good for all that long. It was a case of “go a little, stop, fix the road, and then go a little more.” For the last eleven miles, they had been doing fairly well and they had passed a village without stopping about two miles back.

Istvan was sitting his horse. “I’ll ride back and ask them.” He turned to one of the mercenaries that were acting as guards. “Conrad, you ride ahead and check at the next village on the road. One of them at least ought to know. Meanwhile, we rest the horses and have an early lunch.”

****

The two trees, in fact the whole grove, were part of the village that they had passed. The villagers had the right to gather firewood from the grove, but not the right to chop down whole trees. On the other hand, the villagers were supposed to keep the road in good repair. And that would justify cutting down at least one of the trees, possibly both. The village council was not in any great hurry to settle things — because they were up-timers and, to the locals, something between a circus and a zoo. In spite of the fact that they were getting into harvest time, the village was happy to have them stay as long as it took to make the best profit — er, deal — possible.

By the middle of the afternoon, as Herr Bauer was — for the fourth time — discussing the great, very great, risk that letting the wagon train cut down the trees would be, Sonny could see that Istvan was just about ready to pull his sword and demonstrate the risk they ran by more delays.

“What about Captain Jack?” Brandon Fortney, Hayley’s little brother, piped up.

“What about him?” Sonny asked.

“They have chickens!” Brandon insisted. “But they’re down-time chickens. Captain Jack can improve their stock. That ought to be worth cutting down a couple trees.”

Herr Bauer looked doubtful when approached about the possible solution, then Brandon showed him Captain Jack in the wire mesh cage.

Hayley could see the light of avarice enter the farmer’s eyes. And he immediately started trying to negotiate for the permanent sale of the rooster in exchange for the permission to cut down the trees.

“Forget it, Brandon. They aren’t going to be reasonable,” Hayley said in German. “We’ll have to send a rider to Augsburg and file an official complaint against the village for failure to maintain the road. That’s breach of their rental agreement, and I would imagine that the leaseholder is looking for an excuse to get rid of some of his farmers to replace them with fewer farmers and better plows.”

“Now, now,” Herr Bauer said. “There is no reason to take that attitude. I’m sure we can work something out.”

****

They got to cut down the trees and Captain Jack got to party hearty with the local hens for the two days it took. Then the wagon train made fairly good time . . . till the next impediment.

 

The Savior – Snippet 27

The Savior – Snippet 27

Where was this place within him? It was not the Hideout. There were portions of himself he could cut off from Center and Raj — at least he believed he could. Clearly there were portions of his mind that they had cordoned off from his personal awareness, as well.

Of course they have their panic rooms, their secret caches within me.

He had realized even when he was a child that he was as much a construct as Center and Raj. When they entered his mind in the nishterlaub warehouse so long ago, they had rewritten his mental makeup. Raj had told him as much — out of respect — and Center had afterwards confirmed this basic fact of Abel’s existence.

Suddenly he felt himself rising out of the well and toward the light. There was a tingling in his body, as if he were being dragged through a thicket of particularly sharp Redland pricklebrush. Portions of him were being scraped away and left behind.

Memory sequestration complete. Implanted engrams activated, said a voice. At least Abel thought it was a voice.

Not one he recognized. Maybe it was Zentrum.

Suddenly his senses returned.

Returned from where? What had happened? The last thing he remembered was touching the Eye of Zentrum. He was amazed and deeply ashamed of himself. How could he have doubted for a moment? Who was he to question the Creator himself?

Zentrum was Lord. Zentrum was God.

Abel could not move, but if he could have, he would have fallen to his knees in worship.

He viewed his life as if it were a story playing out in shadow form, in flickering firelight before his eyes.

Confess your shortcomings.

He would confess all.

I believe myself more intelligent than most of the people I meet. In fact, showing appropriate respect to those I consider mentally inferior is often an irritation.

This is understandable. Show me more. Show me all, Abel Dashian.

My father is one I respect above all others. He has taught me that only the Land matters. That is where my loyalty will always lie.

I have not understood that to be dedicated to the Land is to be dedicated to you, Lord. Now I do.

That is well. The reason for your nomination is your excellent performance at the Academy, your skilled completion of your duties at command planning, and, most of all, your leadership of the Treville Scouts during the battle with the Blaskoye incursion of Treville that occurred five years ago. Yet there was heresy at the heart of this defense.

Yes, Lord. I understand that now.

These nishterlaub weapons you employed — do you understand how they threaten the Stasis?

Yes, Lord.

Explain.

Victory is not worth the price of blasphemy. All means must lead to the end of balance. Your Laws and Edicts are just and right, and there is no other truth that need be revealed to man.

And heresy?

Heresy upsets the balance. It’s a striving of individual men to be like God.

And what must be done with the heretic, Abel Dashian?

“He should burn,” Abel said aloud.

You were close to the heretic priest.

There was no point in denying this to a being who knew all. “Yes, Lord.”

You accepted the breaking guns.

“I made myself believe all was well. They came from a priest, the chief priestsmith of Treville. I should have questioned this extraordinary development, but I was eager to destroy the Blaskoye.”

And you did.

Yes. We did.

Now, considering all that has come afterward, what do you have to say of your actions?

Abel agonized. Before this moment, before he knew the reality of Zentrum’s existence, he might have answered differently. In his heart of hearts, he had wanted to win, and would do anything to achieve victory for the Land and his father. Now everything was different.

“Better that I die before I break the Edicts of Zentrum. To put myself before your Law is to exile myself from the Land itself. Your will sustains the people and Land. Nothing else is of consequence.”

Very good. I can see the faith burning brightly within you, Abel Dashian. This is why a greater revelation will be yours. Behold:

He was soaring over the River, flying like a flitterdak, moving up-River. And as he traveled, the Land changed. Wheat, barley, rice gave way to barren terrain. Clumps of men clinging to existence in tiny enclaves. So little to eat. So short and bloody each single life. The world fallen to ruin. Humanity brought so low that all hope was gone.

A dark age that might last a thousand years. Perhaps a hundred thousand.

Then he was down among these people. He was one of them.

Behold the past:

He is a young man leading children, the oldest survivor after disease has taken his parents. Five brothers and two sisters. Starving. Desperate. The others dependent on him.

They wander endlessly among the ruined hills. His baby sister is crying constantly. She cannot stop no matter how he rocks her. His youngest sister’s stomach is distended terribly. She has not eaten for eight days, and then only a few swallows of rotten meat he himself has shared with her.

I have not eaten in eight days. The thought echoes, repeats itself in his mind like a taunt, a prophesy of doom.

Ahead, he sees an overturned cart. He and the children hurry to it. It is a handcart, empty. Beside it a man lies on the ground. Someone has ambushed and robbed him.

He looks around wildly to be sure the attackers are no longer here. The only sound is the wind blowing over the broken stones of the ravaged world.

The man is alive, barely. A leg has been smash and a portion of bone juts from the skin. The man looks up at Abel.

“Water,” he croaks. “Please.”

Abel, the boy, considers for a moment. He might pass by. He might lead his desperate little band onward.

But he is so very, very hungry.

With a growl, Abel lifts a nearby stone. It is not a particularly large stone, but almost more than he can handle in his feeble state.

The man sees what he is doing, cries out, and tries to twist out of the way.

Too late.

The stone crashes down upon his skull. Abel hits the man again to be sure.

He looks up. His brothers and sisters have gathered around him and the man. They stand in a circle, silent, anticipating.

Abel tosses the rock aside. He looks down at the man’s ruined head. He can’t help himself. He is unable to think of this as a man he has murdered.

All he sees is food.

With a ragged roar, he scoops his hands into the skull cavity, pulls out the bloody matter, and begins to eat.

As if on signal, his siblings run to the corpse and follow their brother’s lead.

Behold the Past before the Past:

He is soaring again, farther up the River, to its source. Buildings as tall as mountains. Men dwelling in them, walking among them. Strange animals whizzing to and fro. No, these are the machines of men. Men who are convinced they are at the apex of civilization. Nishterlaub, nishterlaub everywhere.

Pride.

Arrogance.

Imbalance.

They deserved what they got.

Collapse. Ruin.

He can hear the screams as the buildings fall down around them, as all they knew crumbles to ruin in ten blinks of the eye.

From this egotistical height of technological wonder to eating manflesh in one generation. This is the state from which I raised you humans. All of you. Do you see what heresy breeds?

Yes, Lord.

The desires of men are like the River at flood. They must be regulated and contained. At times the Land must burn so that civilization can be renewed. Do you understand, Abel Dashian?

Yes, Lord. The Blood Winds. They are a part of your will, as are all things.

Better that thousands die than civilization fall into the hungry darkness again.

Yes, Lord.

There are more important things than winning a battle — or even a war.

“I repent of all I have done contrary to your will, Lord Zentrum. You have raised me from nothing. All praise is yours. I should never have touched the breechloaders. I should have killed the priest with my own hands. From this day forward, I will accept defeat before heresy.”

You have learned, Abel Dashian. That is well.

“You have shown me. I never knew. I never knew.” He felt tears welling in his eyes. His whole being resounded with anguish at his shortcomings, with ardor for his newfound convictions. “May your will be done now and forever. Alaha Zentrum!”

He stumbled back as he was released from the crystalline wall and his bond with Zentrum.

You are acceptable in my sight, Abel Dashian. You may go now.

“Thank you, Lord.”

A low bow.

Then –

Something inside him is quivering, something being born. What is this?

What’s happening to me?

I am –

Not me.

Not this quivering, frightened me. No!

I am –

Someone else.

Something else.

The new man. The second coming of knowledge.

Welcome back, lad, Raj said. Give it a moment and the rest will flow into you.

But I…but the Lord Zentrum…

Zentrum is not God, Abel.

You dare…you dare…

And then he really was back, reconstituted. He was standing at the doorway, breathing hard.

I…believed. You made me totally believe all of it, all the bullshit. It was so…

Demeaning.

Yes.

Dehumanizing.

Yes, that, too.

Nasty.

What Raj said was true. But moments before he had completely believed every word from Zentrum.

How can I know you are not lying to me, too? Maybe you’re all lying, and the truth is something entirely different.

You’ve asked the question before, and we’ve given you the only answer we have.

Choose the truth that will most help the people of my world survive.

That’s right. It’s the only answer we can give you. Kind of refreshing after listening to all that nonsense from a Mark XV computer that thinks it’s God, no?

I guess.

There is one thing Zentrum is right about, though. War is a means, never an end in itself. Forget that, and you’re doomed to repeat the cycle of destruction over and over again.

Wonderful. Can we get the cold hell out of here, General?

Aye, we can. And welcome to high command. You’re about to be the DMC of Cascade.

 

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 25

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 25

Chapter 25: Ways to Make You Talk

I looked up as the cell door opened. Renee entered. She walked over and took my hand without a word. After a moment, she said, “You okay?”

“I guess,” I said finally. “Am I getting out of here?”

“Hell if I know,” Renee said. “Jason, what were you doing over at Jerome Sumner’s?”

“Bending over and getting screwed by the bastard who killed him.” The fury overwhelmed me for a moment; I slammed my fist into the wall, then nursed my bruised hand. “I was set up perfectly. He was killed by this ‘Vlad’ guy you’re looking for, and I’m supposed to take the fall.”

She might have been in uniform, but she was here as a friend. Her hand on my shoulder told me that. “You won’t. No one who knows you will believe it.”

“But the NSA doesn’t know me. How does the evidence look?”

Renee Reisman screwed up her face. “Not good. You were found there. Your fingerprints were all over the place, including on the keyboard… on just the keys necessary to put up that banner.”

Jesus Christ. Of course they were. The bastard was imitating me! “But the way he was killed — I don’t even think I could do that, even if I wanted to.”

She shook her head. “You know the answer to that. Besides, you’re a smart guy, Jase. Always were. Prosecution wouldn’t have any problem convincing people that you could figure out how to do it.” She hugged me suddenly. “I just came to let you know I’m with you. I could pull strings and get myself here. Sylvie’s pulling for you too.”

I hugged her back, feeling suddenly scared. If the NSA followed the evidence… and Gorthaur was as good at this as he seemed to be… I could end up put away for life. “Thanks, Renee. I mean it.”

“We should get together more often. Not in a jail cell, either.” She smiled faintly, and for a moment she looked like the same girl I’d first met in junior high. “You aren’t going to prison. I promise you.”

“Exceeding our authority a bit, Lieutenant?” a precise voice said from the doorway.

We both jumped slightly. The woman who entered was in her mid to late thirties, sharp-featured, with red hair and a tall, athletic frame. She was followed by a sandy-haired, somewhat younger man carrying a brown paper sack and a briefcase. The woman continued, “Fortunately, I don’t like to make liars out of my professional associates. You aren’t going to prison, Mr. Wood. Jeri Winthrope, Special Agent, at your service; this is my assistant and second pair of hands, Agent Steve Dellarocca.” She extended her hand.

I shook it, then waited while Steve put down the stuff he was carrying and shook his, too. “Thanks. Glad to meet you. These have been the longest hours I’ve ever spent waiting anywhere.”

“Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. We didn’t think you were the responsible party, but the evidence didn’t look good. We had to check everything out thoroughly.” She looked at Renee. “I’ll have to talk to Mr. Wood alone now, Lieutenant Reisman.”

Renee nodded. I gave her a smile and said, “Thanks, Renee.”

“Don’t mention it.” The door closed behind her.

“Me, too, Jeri?” asked Steve.

“For now,” Jeri said. “I want you to keep tabs on the rest of the operation.”

“Gotcha. You know where to find me.”

I became aware of the aroma of Chinese food coming from the bag Dellarocca had brought with him.

“Hope you like pork lo mein.” Jeri said. “I thought you’d be hungry, and lord knows I never get a chance to eat in this job.”

“Thanks.” I started unpacking the food. “How did you people get there so fast, anyway? I only ended up there out of sheer luck.”

“We got a call. Person said he heard screams from that house and saw a car pulling out fast.”

“You got a call? That sounds more like police business.”

She nodded. “We’re manning the police phones. Mostly we just pass the stuff on, but it gives us the chance to keep sensitive material to ourselves.”

“But what made that call sensitive?”

“The address. Your friend Jerome, the Demon, was on our little list of people who were potential targets of Gorthaur.”

So she wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t know what was going on. That made it easier. “Why did he go after the Demon?”

“Several reasons. The major one is that Gorthaur hates to be laughed at or threatened; he’s an utter psycho when it comes to insults. The Demon had thrown Gorthaur off his board and threatened him with exposure.”

Nodding, I started to dig into the pork lo mein. Poor Demon. An image of him hanging head-down flashed in my mind; I put my fork down quickly; all of a sudden I wasn’t hungry. “Okay; you seem to assume Gorthaur did him in. So what in the evidence keeps me from being Gorthaur?”

Winthrope gave a snort I interpreted as a chuckle. “Gorthaur may be able to do a lot of things we don’t understand, but he’s not omnipotent or omniscient. He’s good at planting evidence, but apparently he either doesn’t understand or neglected to remember what modern technology can do. Despite the caller’s description matching your car, we were able to determine that your vehicle hadn’t been there previously. We could tell how long it had been standing there — not long at all. Also, if you were calm enough to put up the banner program, you were very unlikely to have forgotten anything… and thus you’d never have come back.” She smiled. “Interesting car, by the way. In your profession I suppose the electronic gadgetry should be expected, but I don’t recall ever seeing an armored Dodge Dart before. Made us wonder if you were in our line of work for real, except that most of the other work seemed homemade rather than professional.”

I grinned back. “Picked it up at one of those seized-property auctions; I think it belonged to a mid-level drug-runner. It was the silver-and-black color that caught my attention. That and the fact that I’d been shot at twice recently made an armored car sound like a good investment.”

“I can understand that.” She finished off an egg roll, then sat back. “Okay, let’s get working. Everything here’s being recorded, of course. We’ve got some questions for you and I hope you’ll cooperate.”

“Hey, I want this twit caught as much as you do. Maybe more; he killed my friend and tried to get me sent up.”

“Right.” She pulled out a laptop computer from a case slung over her shoulder, and opened it up. “First, tell me how you got into this and what you know so far.”

I told the whole story, leaving out certain small points — like vampires and werewolves — starting with my arriving on the scene in the woods, and finishing up with finding Jerome dead. “That’s about it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who your contact was that spilled the beans on Gorthaur and his particularly annoying technique?”

“Don’t even think about it. Confidentiality is a large part of my business. If the police can’t trust me to keep my mouth shut, they wouldn’t hire me. Nor would a lot of other people.”

“Thought not.” She glanced at a few papers. “Okay, Mr. Wood, now let’s have the whole story, shall we?”

Oh-oh. “What do you mean?”

“Give me some credit for brains, please. Interrogation is my business. I’ve been doing this for sixteen years now, and I assure you I know when I’m not getting everything. So far you haven’t lied to me once… but I know damn well that you’re hiding something. So let’s try specific questions and answers, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” I said, trying to look confused. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“First, tell me: just what was your part in the death of Elias Klein.”

What the hell had put her on that track? “He was trying to kill me and accidentally electrocuted himself; you can look that up in the records.”

“Funny thing about those records,” Winthrope said with a nasty smile. “I find the entire thing written up as you describe it… but the coroner’s report is about as vague as I’ve ever seen. In fact, our analysis department gives a ninety-percent certainty that the report was totally fabricated.”

Oh crap. “I’m not the coroner; you’d have to ask him.”

“Oh, I intend to. But let’s go on. What was Elias Klein working on before his unfortunate demise?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Sometimes I wasn’t kept up on everything he did.”

“Now, that’s very odd, Mr. Wood, since he appears by this receipt to have used your services just days prior to his death. What is also very odd indeed is that Klein’s files for his last investigation are not to be found.”

Damn, damn, damn! Renee must’ve forgotten the accounting office files. Either that or, more likely, some of the stuff had been misfiled and was found and properly filed some months later.

“And finally, it is very interesting that neither of Mr. Klein’s partners can give a detailed account of his investigations. However, we are fortunate in that the wife of one recalled a name that her husband had mentioned during the time in question: Verne Domingo.”

That tore it. The great vampire cover-up was full of more holes than a colander. “Okay, Ms. Winthrope. I’d like to tell you a story. But I can’t do it without permission — it affects a lot more people than just me, and like I said, confidentiality is my business.”

She studied me a moment. “Sure. Here, use my phone. I’ll be sitting right here, of course.”

I grimaced. “Naturally.” I took her cell phone and punched in Verne’s number.

“Domingo residence, Morgan speaking.”

“Hey, Morgan, this is Jason. I have to talk to Verne.”

“Of course sir.” A few moments went by, and then that well-known deep voice came on the line. “Jason! I heard you were arrested! Are you all right?”

“Physically I’m fine, but we have a serious issue. I’m being interrogated by an NSA agent named Jeri Winthrope, and she’s been asking some really pretty pointed questions. In particular, she’s been looking into the past history of certain people, and she wants the truth about Elias Klein.”

Verne was silent for a few moments. “You do not believe you can, as you would put it, ‘scam’ her?”

“I wouldn’t want to try. I tried tap dancing around the whole subject and she yanked my chain but good. They’ve found some remaining files and gotten a few comments that give them you as a lead.”

I could sense the consternation on the other end. Finally he sighed. “Jason, I trust you. I have to, in this instance, for you have had it in your power to bring me down for months now, had you wished, and instead you have proven to be a friend. Tell her what you must. I will prepare my household to move, if things become impossible.”

“I don’t want you to –”

“I know. But also, if you do not tell her the truth — about myself and about what is behind this entire series of murders — we may be condemning her to death. Do as you must.”

I swallowed. “Thanks, Verne. Maybe it won’t come to that. Bye.”

I turned back to the agent. “Okay, Ms. Winthrope, you win. I’ll tell you everything. But I’m not going to argue it out with you. If you don’t believe what I tell you, it’s going to be your loss, not mine.”

 

The Savior – Snippet 26

The Savior – Snippet 26

PART FIVE

The Command

Two years later

1

Lindron

472 Post Tercium

After Abel’s years at the Academy, he’d gotten used to the Tabernacle of Zentrum and even begun to think of the Tabernacle complex, which included the military academy and the administration offices for the priesthood and army, as familiar ground. His ground. There were other adjuncts: the secret-service prison, cut into the rock below, a barracks for academy students, and a row of housing for the prelates and instructors.

Then, of course, there were the carnadon pools surrounding the Tabernacle pyramid itself and, terraced down the bluff to the River, four fieldmarches below the outcrop of quartz-veined sandstone on which the compound was built.

He’d first seen the carnadon pools as a kid, and been suitably impressed and terrified. Now he had a history with them. He had stood up to the carnadon gambling ring at school when they’d come for him. He even knew some of the carnadons on sight.

Several of them had been named after the more annoying Academy instructors. He liked watching the beasts churn and swirl after the sacrificial meat, cleaned from the outer temple, was tossed in at feeding time. This was the main purpose for keeping the carnadons, after all.

Yet Abel didn’t for a moment believe that his regard for them was mutual. During his sojourn at the Academy, people had lost hands and whole arms. Two Academy cadets had been torn to pieces. Of course, that was mainly their own fault.

Even the town people, who should have known better, were not immune to foolishness. A year ago, a teenage boy trying to impress his friends by walking along an edge of the enclosures had misjudged just how high a carnadon could leap into the air chasing prey. He was gone before anyone could cry for help. Abel had served as honor guard for the priest who was sent to inform the parents. If the dead boy had not been a First Family scion, he doubted the parents would have even been notified by the Tabernacle, much less received a personal messenger.

But the royal treatment didn’t make the boy any less dead. Whether you were First Family or a Delta farmhand, it did not pay to mess with carnadons.

In the midst of the pools, the step pyramid rose. It was double the height of any other building in Lindron. It seemed to be made of impregnable crystal. Each stone was a slightly different hue, and from within the structure of the stones themselves, lights shone. The effect was muted during the day, but at night the pyramid glowed. What was more, the lights alternated on and off, and blinked in changing patterns. It was said that they represented the thoughts of Zentrum, and any who stared into the lights long enough would either become a saint — or go mad.

A portico opened on the pyramid’s side. A hall led past ceremonial chambers, a guard station, and Abbot Goldfrank’s personal chapel. It terminated in the Inner Sanctum, the place that housed The Eye of Zentrum. Most assumed that Zentrum somehow lived in the Inner Sanctum, perhaps as a spirit. But Center had set Abel right on that score: Zentrum’s programming was contained in the structure of the entire pyramid. The colored lights were, in a literal sense, his mind at work.

The Inner Sanctum was an interface device keyed to human neurological patterns. In the Inner Sanctum, you didn’t need the communication wafer used by provincial prelates. Zentrum could impress himself upon your mind directly.

Abel bowed, walked inside, and performed the First Chamber oblation. As a full Guardian, he was expected to sacrifice something of himself whenever he visited Zentrum. He’d consulted with a former instructor, who had told him a lock of hair was the customary offering.

No doubt for DNA analysis and confirmation of identity, Center commented.

Zentrum is nothing if not careful, Raj put in.

But he can’t read my thoughts yet?

Zentrum has a limited range over which he can engage quantum induction. He will be able to project thought before he can access yours.

Not like you.

I have considerably more advanced features. The AZ12-i11-e Mark XV is an early model A.I. It was used primarily for planet-based military activity, almost exclusively terrestrial, Center said. It is an anomaly that this one was hardened against the nanotech plague that brought down the empire. In fact, it would be very interesting to learn how that came to happen.

Irisobrian, Abel thought. Zentrum’s mother. Could she have been one of those…tenders of the computers? Maybe she did it.

That is a most interesting idea. It is obvious now that you state it clearly.

What’s obvious?

Iris O’Brian. A name handed down verbally over many generations.

Raj laughed. All those billions and billions of quantum computing whatnots and you didn’t see that? I had it figured out years ago.

Why did you say nothing?

Didn’t seem important. Besides, I thought it was apparent.

I am good at math. I was not designed for word play.

Evidentially.

Can we just pay attention to where we are? This is the most dangerous spot on the planet to all three of us, after all.

Abel had left his weapons outside in the first guard station. There was a sacrificing knife on the dais, however, and he used it to cut off a hank of hair. This he laid on the table, and the knife alongside it.

The dais began to glow. Then it changed colors repeatedly for a few blinks of the eye. When it was done, the shank of hair was gone.

There is a small trapdoor opening on the dais concealing an analysis mechanism beneath, Center said. The trapdoor appears to be nanotech activated and returns to being part of the stone itself when not in use.

Abel continued down the central passage. He passed several side chapels and priests’ stations along the way: the Tabernacle pyramid was huge. The passageway began sloping downward, and its walls spread out. Two Guardians stood in the hallway in front of a side doorway. Each man stood at attention and spoke no word when Abel arrived, although he recognized Sutherlin, a former classmate, serving as the right-hand sentinel.

This was the Abbot’s Station, although Abbot Goldfrank was not always present there, by any means. It was, however, manned by a high-ranking priest day and night. Today Goldfrank was performing the ceremonial duties, and he emerged from his post. Abel bowed, and Goldfrank nodded. With another nod, he beckoned Abel to follow him farther down the hallway. Goldfrank moved at a stately pace, his orange priest’s robe trailing on the sandstone floor behind him and making a tiny scratching sound in the general silence.

The passageway sloped farther down. After what seemed a walk of another fifty paces, it terminated at a doorway. The Abbot stood to one side.

“Behold the Beating Heart of the Land,” he said. “Behold the All-seeing Eye.”

“Do I have permission to enter the Inner Sanctum, Law-heir?”

Goldfrank made a slight bow. “I find you at one with Law and Edict. Go forward.”

Abel stepped past Goldfrank and through the doorway. He entered a large room. It was three-sided, pyramid shaped, and the apex must have been twenty elbs above. Two of the walls were stone. The third wall, the one directly across from the entrance, seemed to be one enormous crystal. It pulsed with dancing lights of changing colors.

The air was cold. Abel could see his own breath.

Air-conditioning for the language-processing electronics. Primitive by Empire standards. This planet was truly a backwater: Zentrum was likely purchased used. The entire pyramid itself serves the secondary function of heat dispersal from nano-generation.

There was a throbbing sound that filled the chamber. Abel realized his heart was beating along to this rhythm.

Are you sure this is going to work?

Chances are high that it will succeed.

Which meant that there was also a chance that it would not. They were planning to temporarily remake a human mind, after all. There was nothing to do but to go forward.

Enter my presence, Major Abel Dashian.

The voice seemed to come from both within and without. It resonated within him in both high and low levels, as if he were a set of chimes through which a strong wind had passed.

Abel walked to the center of the chamber and hesitated.

Approach. Lay your hands upon the Eye.

He crossed over to the blinking crystalline wall.

Here goes.

He touched his palms to the crystal. It was quite warm. The flashing lights gathered around his points of contact.

Analysis proceeding. Please do not disengage.

He remained still.

Analysis complete. DNA records retrieved. Identity confirmed.

Abel realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out, took a deep breath.

“I await your bidding, Lord Zentrum,” he said, repeating the litany he’d been drilled with from his first Thursday school class onward. “It is my honor to do your will.”

Very good. The general staff with the consent of the Abbot has recommended your appointment as district military commander for the Cascade region.

“Yes, Lord.”

You are quite young to be considered for such a position of responsibility.

“There have been others younger than me. Pliny in the Delta, in 235 P.C., von Stubbe in Cascade itself in 193. According to the scrolls, each served with distinction.”

Yes, I remember them well.

“Should you find me worthy, I will walk in their footsteps to maintain the Stasis.”

This is pleasing to me. Now it is time for your examination. It will go easier if you open your mind to me, Abel Dashian. Hold nothing back, for I must and will seek into all corners, and if I must pry open a door held shut in your mind, it will cause damage, great or small, to your psyche. Some have gone mad.

“I will strive to do as you bid, Lord Zentrum.”

Then the examination will commence.

Center’s voice immediately cut in following the throbbing pronouncement of Zentrum.

I am initiating the consciousness sequestration routine. Expect to lose ninety percent of sensory awareness until modifications are in place. Center sounded thin, less powerful than the booming presence of Lord Zentrum.

Abel had the sensation of falling, although he did not move. His field of vision became a line, then a circle the size of Levot, and then the circle closed down to a dot. He felt as if he were standing in a deep well looking upward — a well from which there was no hope of escape without aid.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 13

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 13

Fleischer’s Steak House, Magdeburg

“Well, Sarah, you have a prince on your string for sure,” Heidi Partow told Sarah a few days later. “He’s actually in a hurry to come back to smoky, dirty, Magdeburg just to see you.”

“I don’t know, Heidi.” Sarah jabbed a cherry tomato from her salad. She had been surprised when the Partow’s older sister had arranged to have lunch with her. Now the reason was coming clear. “I think he may be trying to get a connection into the Grantville power structure.”

“Naw. If that were it, he’d be going after one of the Catholic girls in town. Well, maybe a little bit. Your dad’s pretty high in the Stearns administration. So, I guess rank could trump religion, but he was blushing enough when I teased him about it. I figure that means that it’s mostly you, not your position.” Heidi blinked. “Hey, that might make you the top of the list. We have girls marrying grafs and dukes and stuff. But you might just be first to have an actual prince on your string.”

“Brandy Bates is engaged to Prince Vladimir of Russia,” Sarah said. “And I don’t have Karl on my string. We’ve had a couple of dates, that’s all.”

Heidi sniffed. “Is Vladimir a Prince, or just a grand duke? Besides he’s from Russia.” Heidi sliced off a bit of chicken as though it was all of eastern Europe in one tiny bite. She popped it into her mouth, chewed a couple of times, and it was gone, and all the Russian princes in the world gone with it. “And don’t kid yourself, Sarah. You have him hooked and you can reel him in . . . if you don’t blow it.”

“Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

“Okay . . . we’ll talk about my love life. Which is abysmal. . . . At least you dumped David. Stay away from the dedicated ones. You can never get their noses out of the machines long enough to notice you.”

Over the next hour, Sarah learned that Karl Schmidt was a jerk, but Heidi was determined to catch him anyway. Also about the social relations of the upper middle class to lower upper class of Magdeburg which concentrated on the up-timer connected. And, surprisingly, she had a fairly good time.

By the next week, everyone in Magdeburg knew that Sarah Wendell and Prince Eusebius Karl von Liechtenstein were “an item.”

New Jewish Quarter, outside Vienna

“What is a Sarah Wendell?” Gundaker von Liechtenstein asked.

Moses ignored the phrasing and thought for a moment. They were in the Abrabanel offices outside of Vienna proper. They were here rather than at the palace because Moses was under a political cloud. He had gone to Grantville in late 1631 and had failed to be nearly as adamantly opposed to the up-timers as he should have after they had upset the political and military apple carts of the Holy Roman Empire. Besides, he was Jewish and Ferdinand II might find Jews useful and even necessary, but he didn’t like them. “You know, I think I met her. She is the eldest daughter of Fletcher and Judy Wendell.”

Moses got up and went to a file cabinet. He had seen several in Grantville, and had some made as soon as he got back to Vienna. One whole file cabinet was dedicated to all things Grantville. He selected the third drawer from the left, which included up-timers with last names from U-Z He opened it and found the Wendell’s. “Yes, here she is. Sarah Wendell . . . Oh yes. The sewing machines. She was one of the children with the sewing machine factory.”

Moses returned to his desk, examining the file. “Are you interested in sewing machines?” He flipped over a page “Oh. Someone should have pointed this out to me.” He looked up from the file. “I’m sorry, Prince von Liechtenstein. Someone sent a note about what is going on and it got put in the files, but not brought to my attention.”

Moses looked around the offices trying to find a polite way of phrasing information in the file. “I assume that your interest is due to the fact that Prince Karl and Sarah Wendell are seeing each other socially?”

“You have confirmation of the rumors then?” Gundaker asked. “Is Sarah Wendell anyone important? It wouldn’t be too bad if he had a fling with an unimportant up-timer, though it still shows a disappointing lack of self control.”

Moses looked around the office again. It was no more help than it had been before. “I don’t think that’s the case here. Her father was on the finance subcommittee of the Emergency Committee, the people who wrote the New US Constitution. Just a moment.” Moses went back to his desk and got another file. “Yes, I thought so. Fletcher Wendell, Sarah’s father, is the Secretary of the Treasury for the USE. Essentially the same post that you hold in the Empire.”

“I thought that was someone called Coleman Walker?”

“No, he is the head of their Federal Reserve Bank.” Moses shrugged. “There is no good analogy to the Federal Reserve Bank in the Empire.” It wasn’t the partly government, partly private nature of the Fed that would be hard to explain to Gundaker von Liechtenstein. It was things like the limits on the infinite checkbook. Those things were hard enough for Moses to follow and he had been to Grantville and met the people. Anyway, that was all beside the point so far as Gundaker von Liechtenstein was concerned. “You know that they do not draw the lines of nobility the same way we do. This is not as concrete as I would prefer, but I would have to place the whole family in the upper echelons of the up-timers. In the same category as Mike Stearns, Ed Piazza or Julie Sims.”

“Well, Karl can’t be thinking about marrying the girl. Is she one of those up-timer pseudo-Catholics like that Father Mazzare?”

 

The Savior – Snippet 25

The Savior – Snippet 25

5

Her desk was made of imported Delta hardwood, and large enough to lay a body on. But when she rolled out the ledger scrolls for House Jacobson Lindron, they covered the whole surface. In this way, she could see it all in a glance. The accounts, the connections, the flow of grain, goods, and barter chits. The liabilities. The possibilities.

Karas had done a good job, as far as it went. He was conservative with Jacobson funds, as was she. But it was clear from the outlays that he had been more concerned with keeping peace among the First Families of the capital city than with making a profit. And look where that plan had gotten him.

That’s not fair, she thought. No one could pay his way out of a House disaster as Edgar Jacobson’s duel had been. No, that took blood. It may take more.

Karas was also cutting deals with the Blaskoye raiders from the southern border of Lindron. They were deals to trade the goods that they’d robbed from elsewhere in the Land. She supposed Karas would view this as a necessity of doing business. Perhaps. But maybe something could be done to stop the blackmail once and for all.

She’d hired a tutor for Loreilei and was bringing her along on her rounds of house visits to the capital First Family matrons — a necessary social duty — and on evening functions and get-togethers. She’d even allowed Loreilei in on some business meetings. She supposed she was trying to train Loreilei in the things of the world that she, Mahaut, had learned the hard way. It wasn’t so long ago that she herself was headstrong Mahaut DeArmanville of Hestinga, invincible, young, ready to take on the world — and hopelessly naïve.

She’d been beaten down, wounded, betrayed — but she’d fought back. Now she was chief consort of the House of Jacobson in Lindron. Factor. Here in Lindron there were so many things to consider. And most days she felt up to the task.

“Master Marone to see you,” said Dillard, who worked in the outer office.

“Send him in.”

“Very good, Land-heiress.”

Marone looked even more grizzled than usual. There were several bulges under his jacket that would be weapons, and she noticed that the knuckles on his right hand were scraped red. She motioned for him to sit, and he lowered himself into the chair with a delicate grace for such a big man. He sat ramrod straight.

“What do you have for me, Marone?”

“It took a bit of doing and more than a bit of spending, but I believe I’ve found the child.”

“Submit your expenses to Dillard,” she said. She leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“The Eisenach woman came to term and delivered a boy,” he said. “Then it was carried away quickly, out of Eisenach House here in Lindron. I have this from the nurse. She gave the child to a man she didn’t recognize. I spent more than a few day tracing this person, but I finally found him. I questioned him thoroughly.”

Mahaut glanced down and noticed Marone’s skinned knuckles.

“His name is Dubin, but that’s no matter. He’s an orphan monger. He takes them and sells them, Mistress. He’ll take a fee and place them as shop apprentices, fieldhands, sweeps, whores in training — and other things too vile to mention.”

“I understand, Master Marone,” she said. “Go on. What happened to the child?”

“He was sold to the orphanage near the Lindron gunpowder works. It’s run by priests. Sort of a monastery.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad, considering. At least he’ll be near the family trade.”

“It is bad, Land-heiress.” Marone shook his head ruefully. “It’s the workhouse that the Silent Brothers are drawn from.”

“Those wretches who work at the gunpowder factory?”

“Yeah, those ones, Land-heiress.”

The Silent Brothers were the priestly worker caste who made gunpowder. Making gunpowder was a prerogative of the priest-smiths only. The recipe, or magic, that went into creating it must be kept a secret at all costs. One of those costs was to develop a priest caste of men to carry the secret knowledge of gunpowder’s making. The Silent Brothers were castrated at a young age, and their tongues were cut out. Abel had dealt with them. He’d told her that they had a complicated sign language among themselves, but otherwise they communicated with no one. They went about their jobs in the gunpowder yard, they ate and slept there, and never left except as a cadaver — an event which usually came at a young age. Those who worked with the materials that went into gunpowder tended to have short lifespans.

“When is the…when does the operation on the children take place?”

“The tongue at age three. The other at around seven years old, I believe, your grace.”

“So they haven’t…done him yet. Cut off his little balls, I mean. The tongue’s no matter.”

Marone started at Mahaut’s graphic language. “That’s right, Land-heiress”

Mahaut was quiet for a moment, then cleared her throat and spoke. “I want this child. I want him here.”

“Here?”

“In this house. In House Jacobson. He is a Jacobson, after all.”

“A bastard urchin.”

Mahaut bristled. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again, Marone. If I do, I’ll have you turned into one of those Silent Brothers.”

Marone hastily nodded. “No offense intended, your grace.”

“Can you arrange to take the child? Steal it, I mean?”

“Might take some doing, but I think I can handle it with a good purse of chits.”

“Whatever it takes,” Mahaut said. “No price is too high.”

Marone allowed himself a smile. “It won’t take that much, considering the kind of folks I’ll be dealing with. Nothing that will break the House, that’s for sure.”

“Like I said, do whatever it takes. Understand, Marone?”

“I do, your grace.”

“The sooner the better. I want those scissor as far away from the little thing’s testicles as possible.”

“Yes, Land-heiress,” the trader replied.

“We have to keep this as quiet as possible. I think one of the maids has a sister who has recently delivered. I’ll make arrangements for her as a wet nurse.”

Marone nodded. He shuffled his feet a bit, started to speak then stopped himself.

“What is it, Marone?”

“I was just thinking, your grace…” He hesitated, then seemed to start over and spoke again. “You know I have young ‘uns of my own, Land-heiress. I know that every day I miss ‘em something awful, and I think they miss me. So does the wife. Miss me, I mean to say. But what I’m saying is, the boy should have someone to look after him like that. Like they would a son.”

“He will,” Mahaut said. “He’ll be a son of Jacobson House. He’ll get plenty of affection.”

“Very good then, your grace.”

“Get going, Marone. The sooner the better. Keep those cutters away from the boy, and I mean it. See Dillard for whatever funds you’ll need.”

“Yes, Land-heiress Jacobson.”

The trader rose, bowed awkwardly, then turned and left.

She was alone again. At her very large desk. In her very own office.

For a moment, Mahaut allowed herself to enjoy this, all of it. Then she turned to the ledger scroll on her desk and got back to work.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 12

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 12

Wendell Household, Magdeburg

On Tuesday, Karl’s river boat was delayed so he didn’t reach Magdeburg until late. Rather than make Sarah wait for him, he presented himself at the Wendell house, which was a nice townhouse in the richer part of Old Stadt. Magdeburg was no longer the burned out wreck that it had been even before the sack. It was a boom town and a town of heavy industry.

He was met by a maid and shown into a sitting room, where Fletcher Wendell was waiting for him. “Have a seat, Karl. Sarah will be down in a few minutes. We heard that the boat was late again, and assumed that you would be delayed.”

“I came directly from the docks, Mr. Secretary,” Karl said, taking the seat Fletcher indicated.

There was an awkward pause. Then Herr Wendell said, “I understand you are courting my daughter. Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Honestly? No, probably not. Certainly, my uncles would be unlikely to approve. A point that Josef has made several times. However, the world has changed due to the Ring of Fire. There is a song by Cole Porter . . . ‘wrong’s right today, black’s white today, up’s down today . . .’”

“‘Anything goes.’ But so far as my daughter is concerned, be aware, Prince Liechtenstein, that anything most definitely does not go.”

“That’s not what I meant, sir.”

It was, of course, just then that Sarah walked in. “Dad, I’m eighteen.”

Karl stood up and turned to Sarah.

“Eighteen or eighty, you’re still my daughter,” said Fletcher Wendell. “Know this, Karl, prince or not, if you hurt her, you’re going to regret it.”

Karl turned back to Fletcher. “That wasn’t what I meant, Herr Wendell,” he said a little stiffly. “It wasn’t the ‘anything goes’ part. It was the ‘wrong’s right’ part that stuck with me. Religious toleration, for instance. Very much wrong according to the Edict of Restitution and the Counter Reformation. But very much right according to the Constitution of the up-time US, the New US, the State of Thuringia-Franconia, and even the USE. We are having to unlearn a lot, all of us down-timers. My grandfather was a Lutheran, did you know that? My father and uncles converted to the Catholic faith. My father told me that his conversion was political, his ticket into the upper nobility. But Uncle Gundaker wrote an article about his reasons for converting to Catholicism and those reasons weren’t political.”

“So your father was Lutheran in his heart?” Sarah asked.

“No. He was a doubter,” Karl told her. “He believed in something that had created the universe, but he said to me ‘I don’t believe any of them, priest, pastor or rabbi when they claim to speak for him.’ And I suspect that Uncle Maximillian is more like my father was than like Uncle Gundaker. But Uncle Gundaker has the zeal of a convert.”

“You think that your uncle will object?”

“Yes. In fact, I am virtually certain of it. Which wouldn’t matter at all, except that the treaty of 1606 requires that the head of House Liechtenstein be Catholic, and Uncle Gundaker might be able to make something of that. Yet now we have the Ring of Fire. The pope has named Father Mazzare a cardinal. A Protestant saved the pope from an assassination attempt. And the world of faith is turning backwards somersaults in attempts to make it fit into our various doctrines. I don’t know how it’s all going to work out. I don’t think anyone does. But I will follow my heart, and my heart leads to Sarah.”

“Why do I suddenly feel like Spencer Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?” Fletcher complained.

“I don’t know,” said Judy the Elder, who had walked in during Karl’s speech, “because you’re acting more like Sidney Poitier’s father. Or at least the situation is a lot more along the lines of Sarah being in the Sidney Poitier role.” She turned to look at Sarah. “Not that your dad is totally off the mark, dear. If you and Karl should marry, there are going to be a whole lot of people that are deeply offended, no matter how successful and competent you are. Either because you’re not Catholic or because you’re not a noble.”

“First of all, you’re all way ahead of yourselves. We’re barely dating yet. Second . . .” Sarah planted her feet and crossed her arms. “. . . screw them if they don’t like it. I am not prepared to kiss any royal backsides. No one is better than me because of who their parents were.”

Karl smiled and walked over to Sarah. “I quite agree,” he said, “Especially to the part about no one being better than you.

“You know the town better than I do these days, Sarah. So where are we going tonight?”

Schmidt Steamworks, Magdeburg

The next day’s meeting with Karl Schmidt didn’t go well. Schmidt was apologetic, but firm. He simply didn’t have any more capacity to pull out of his factory, not for any price, and all his present capacity was committed.

“What about adding capacity?” Prince Karl asked.

“New machines from Grantville? I’ve already ordered them. I’m on Dave Marcantonio’s waiting list, and even the fact that he owns something like five percent of Schmidt Steam isn’t moving us up on the list.”

“I’m starting to think that between them, Dave Marcantonio and Ollie Reardon own five percent of the whole world,” Prince Karl complained.

“No. Only the USE.” Karl Schmidt laughed.

Prince Karl joined in the laughter, then said, “Well, at least it gives me an excuse to come back to Magdeburg to try and persuade you.”

“Why would you want to come back to Magdeburg?”

There was a very unladylike snort from the other end if the room. Both Karl’s looked over and Heidi Partow said, “He’s got a thing for Sarah Wendell.”

Karl Schmidt glanced back at Prince Karl, who was turning a not overly becoming shade of red and said, “I sympathise, Your Serene Highness.” Then, looking right at Heidi, added, “Up-timer girls can drive you crazy.”

 

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 24

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 24

Chapter 24: Gone and Dead

I logged on and checked; I had a secured e-mail waiting. I pulled it up onscreen.

The message decoded just as though Manuel had sent it… but it wasn’t from Mannie at all. That was so close to impossible that for a moment I couldn’t do anything except gape. Then I reread the signature at the bottom, and understood.

* * *

Mentor (or should I say, Jason?): I’m sorry to tell you that Manuel has gotten himself into a bit of trouble by poking his nose into this. He doesn’t have nearly the clearance necessary. He’s being debriefed right now, but I’d suggest you not contact him for a while; not only is he more than slightly peeved at you, but any more contact from the outside might be taken seriously amiss by his superiors.

Since he emphatically assured me that you’re too stubborn to be frightened off, and because we happen to be kindred spirits in a way, I’ll give you what information I can. But let me warn you: this is dangerous. You and everyone you know could get killed if you play these games. So give serious consideration to just dropping it.

“Vlad Dracul” is apparently another alias being used by an independent operator called “Gorthaur.” Gorthaur plays no favorites; he’s been bypassing security and penetrating installations on five continents. Very rarely does he take direct credit for his actions except for those which he perpetrates on the Net — that’s where he gets his name.

What tells us that Gorthaur’s involved is the sheer perfection of his work. In every case, Gorthaur penetrates the installation in the guise of a high-clearance individual who is well known to the personnel. Fingerprints, retinals, passwords, everything checks out perfectly. These individuals vary in age, height, weight, and even sex to such a degree that we are utterly unable to imagine how one person can be doing all of these impersonations. Yet other subtle indicators tell us that it is just one person.

So far, three agents have been killed in particularly savage ways while trying to locate Gorthaur. The one found in Morgantown thought he had found a hot trail. Apparently he had. Gorthaur exhibits psychopathic strength and savagery, and has killed several other people who apparently offended him at one point or another. Our best psych profile makes him out to be a complete sociopath with a megalomanic complex, but there are enough anomalies that we can’t even begin to classify him. He’s unique.

Watch your back. If he can disguise himself this well, he could be anyone.

The JAMMER

* * *

The Jammer; hacker legend, thief, one of the few completely nonviolent criminals to make the ten-most-wanted list, and probably the only one who never had a picture to go with the wanted poster. No one knew anything about him — even the “him” was in question. He’d disappeared a couple of years ago, and everyone had thought he’d retired, having made far more money than he’d ever need. Now it was clear that he’d been caught and recruited. But someone with his talents couldn’t be forced to work, so they must have shown him something so important that he chose to work for them rather than against them.

I erased the message and sat back, sweating. Who knew what this werewolf wanted, really? Vengeance against Verne Domingo I knew about, but that would hardly drive him to go breaking into top secret vaults here and in other countries. He had to have some other, larger agenda. And how in the name of God could you catch something that could change sex, fingerprints, and genetics at will?

There wasn’t any way, I realized. The only chance to catch Gorthaur was to get him to come to us, and only one thing was keeping him here: Verne Domingo. Once he settled with Verne, he’d vanish forever.

I logged off that system, got on to the Demon’s board. He didn’t respond to my query; probably at dinner, which was where I should be. Then I noticed one of my status tags:

Email: Waiting: 0 Old: 3

The last time I’d been on, there’d only been two old messages. I called up the last one:

* * *

>>From System Operator DEMON<<

Okay, if it’s that important we can meet in person. Be here at six; we’ll have dinner. I don’t like it, Mentor; this had better be worth it.

THE DEMON

(____)

\* */

\#/

* * *

What the hell? I hadn’t written him in mail at all lately! Who… ?

Suddenly it hit me. If even the Jammer couldn’t catch this guy… I shut the computer off and sprinted for Mjölnir.

I had a sickening feeling I was too late.

I’d been there once before, but that had been important enough that I remembered every turn; the lights were with me, and it was only fourteen minutes before I slammed the brakes on and skidded into place in front of the Demon’s house. I was out the door before the engine finished dying out, my S&W 10mm out and ready. I rang the bell. No answer. I tried the door.

The door swung open quietly at my touch; it was already unlatched. The hallway was dim and silent. “Yo! Demon!” I called.

No answer.

My heart was hammering too damn fast; I’d swear it was audible a hundred feet away. I stepped slowly into the house. In the faint light I could see the hallway and the stairs going to the second floor, and two entryways; I knew that one led to his living room, the one on the left, and past that was the den where his computer was. I took my coat off slowly and threw it through the entry. It hit the rug; nothing else moved. I dove into the living room, rolled as I hit, came up with my back to the far corner, gun up.

Nothing. Just furniture.

A faint creaking noise came from ahead of me. I stood stock- still, listening. The wind outside moaned. The creak came again. It was emanating from the den. The den door was ajar; I could see the white glow of his monitor screen leaking from the room.

I went forward one step at a time, trying to watch all directions at once; my ears would have pricked up if they could. The only sounds I heard were the whistle of the wind and that faint, periodic creaking.

I reached the door. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I flung the door wide.

A horrid red-splotched face swung toward me; I almost fired, then stopped and lowered the gun. “Jesus Christ …” I muttered.

Jerome Sumner, aka the Demon, hung head-down from one of the big beams of his old house. The rope that was tied around his ankles creaked as he swung slowly in the wind from the open window. His eyes stared blankly at me; his mouth was jammed open with a crumpled floppy disk. The place was filled with the faint metallic scent of the blood on his face, his clothes, the floor. I glanced away, saw his computer.

It was covered with spatters of blood; lying on top of the keyboard was a shapeless dark object. I moved closer.

It was the Demon’s tongue. I swallowed bile, looked at the screen.

The BBS was off; instead there was a banner-making program on. Four giant words blazed on the screen:

He Talked Too Much

I was still staring a few minutes later when the NSA arrived.

 

The Savior – Snippet 24

The Savior – Snippet 24

4

Mahaut took a long ride down to the lake and did not return until well after dark. She’d ridden past the family graveyard, but hadn’t felt the slightest interest in going to see Edgar’s grave. The next day she got up and went in to work. Benjamin would have to be confronted one way or another. But she sent word ahead that she was coming.

Benjamin looked at her without betraying an emotion when she entered the office. Solon found something that needed doing outside. They went to the corner desk where Benjamin liked to work. As usual, it was piled with scrolls. Benjamin’s absolute control of his surroundings did not extend to the desk. Mahaut took the visitor chair. Benjamin pushed a scroll aside and leaned on his desk, looking down at her. He gazed at her a long time, then allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

“We’ve missed you here,” he said.

Mahaut nodded, but said nothing.

A sob rose in Benjamin’s throat. Mahaut could see him choke it back. “You killed my son.”

“He was coming at me with a knife, Pater.”

Benjamin held her gaze for a moment, then said, “I know.”

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt Edgar. I did love him once. Briefly.”

“We have that in common, don’t we? Only I find that I love him still, despite what he became.”

Again, Mahaut did not reply.

“But it hurts me to see you,” Benjamin said. “I think it will for a long time.”

Mahaut let out a nervous breath close to a whimper. She’d been expecting this moment, but still it was a like a pain shooting through her heart.

So this was it. She was being thrown out of the family. Benjamin wouldn’t put it that way, but that’s what it would be. Where would she go? To her parents, she supposed. Or maybe her brother, Xavier, and his wife would take her in. She would still have the Treville Women’s Auxiliary to keep her busy. But after the heady days of working with a trading house that stretched up and down the Land, this option seemed to her…smaller. Or was it that her world had gotten larger?

No, maybe going back to the auxiliary was not a good idea. She’d put new leadership in place herself. To demote them would do a lot of damage to morale she’d spent years to build. So she’d have nothing. Maybe when Xavier’s children came along, she’d at least be able to help Helga raise them.

“I’ll leave in the morning for Hestinga, Pater,” she said.

Benjamin shook his head. “No. I have another idea in mind, if you’ll hear me out.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It occurs to me that we have an opening in Lindron.”

Benjamin scooted himself up on his desk and sat with his elbow on a knee and his hand on his chin. A wave of nostalgia washed over her for a moment. She’d seen him in this posture so often when he was working out a problem or thinking through a possibility.

So, she was to be shipped off to clerk somewhere far away. It wasn’t the worst thing.

“Are you sure whoever you’ve put in Abram Karas’s spot will want to work with a woman? The men who don’t mind are rare. You know that.”

Benjamin smiled slyly. “Daughter, I want to put you in charge in Lindron.”

“In charge? You mean factor?” She could hardly believe this.

“We can’t call you the factor. We’d call it chief consort to the House. We’ll send someone along, someone who will know his place, to take on the factor title. But he’ll answer to you. I’ll make that clear. Dillard might suit.”

For a moment, Mahaut allowed her heart to leap. But the feeling was quickly replaced by uncertainty. Could she do the job? So far, she’d been a second to Benjamin and Solon, a manager, certainly. But not in charge. Not ultimately responsible. Not like the factor of a large trading house in the biggest city in the world.

“Dillard would be fine.”

“So you accept?”

“I would have conditions.”

Benjamin took his hand from his knee, sat back on the desk. “Oh?”

“Freedom to invest fluid assets where I see fit.”

“Of course. That’s part of the job description.”

“Perhaps not for a woman, though?”

“I said you’d be in charge. You will.”

Mahaut nodded. “Good.”

“What else?” asked Benjamin.

Mahaut took a deep breath, let it out. “I want freedom to avenge Abram Karas. In my own time, and how I see fit. I want to use the full resources of the House to do this if I have to.”

Benjamin smiled. “A license to kill, eh?”

“Assassination would be easy enough. But maybe I can arrange something worse.”

Now Benjamin did allow himself a full smile.

“You are free to do as you want in this matter, and the House resources will be at your disposal in Lindron and at all Jacobson Houses,” he said. “But there is something else. I want your advice.”

“Yes?”

“Loreilei and this boy,” he said. “Edgar was right in a way. It probably isn’t a good idea. A land-heiress’s place is to serve her house. In return, she has the house’s protection, its wealth and power. Of course, Loreilei will not be poor when she marries. We’ll always see to that. But she’ll miss out on her chance to make a mark. A son is like chits that can be spent a little at a time. A daughter –”

“– can only be sold once, and had better bring a good price?” Mahaut said. “And the price is alliance.”

“Or a truce. Or a spy. You get something.”

“She was a slave to the Blaskoye. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t ever want anybody telling her what to do again.”

“But she trusts you,” said Benjamin. “She loves you.”

“I love her. Most of all, I feel responsible for what happened to her. You know that.”

“Then take her to Lindron with you.” He said it as if Mahaut had already accepted the position, as if he had heard it in her voice. Maybe he had. “Take her for a year or so. I won’t forbid her attachment to the boy. I know where that would get me.”

“Yes.”

“But you think a year apart would break it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But she’s very young, and we owe it to her to test it, don’t you think?”

“I agree with that.”

“I’ll talk to the boy to make sure they don’t try something idiotic, like running away together. I’ll put it to him as a way of proving himself. In a way it will be.”

Mahaut nodded. “I think that’s a good plan, Pater. I believe I can convince her. I’ll try, at least.”

“So it’s decided? You’ll do this?”

She took a moment, looked down, rubbed her forehead. “And what will I call myself? Not the position, I mean. What will be my name now?” she asked in a low voice.

Benjamin smiled crookedly. She recognized that smile. He wore it when a deal of his had gone particularly well.

“Why, Her Gracious Excellency, Land-heiress, the widow Jacobson, of course.”

This will be my life for years to come. To say good-bye to the family here. To say good-bye to my parents and brother. No more rest day trips to Hestinga to see Mamma and Pappa. To be really, truly, for the first time, my own woman.

Then she realized that this is what she’d been waiting for all along.

“Thank you for the opportunity, Pater,” she said. “Yes, I’ll take Lindron.”