Eric Flint's Blog, page 299

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 11

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 11

Chapter 5: Wagon’s Ho!

Late July, 1634

On the Street outside the Fortney Property

“Do you have everything?” Judy Wendell heard at the Sanderlin lot where everyone was gathering to leave. The Sanderlins had a lot with two mobile homes on it, a single-wide for Ron, Gayleen and the kids, and a small trailer for Uncle Bob Sanderlin. One of the reasons they had taken the job was that it was getting harder and harder for them to make the rent on the lot. Besides, with one toddler and an infant, life was really hard on Gayleen, with the gradual loss of up-time labor-savers. Repairing things like washing machines and buying baby clothes . . . well, Judy could understand how it could get hard.

That wasn’t why Hayley’s dad had taken the job, though, and Judy couldn’t figure out why he would. Sonny Fortney made pretty good money, even if he did bounce from job to job like a pingpong ball. Hayley wouldn’t talk about it, except to say that her dad had his reasons. Judy didn’t think she approved of this move, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Except to make sure that Hayley had someplace to call if she got in trouble and enough money to make sure she could afford to run. In support of that, Judy and the rest of the Barbies had put together a packet of mad money for Hayley, twenty thousand American dollars in cash, hidden in a false bottom of Hayley’s steamer trunk. Steamer trunks came back into fashion again, after the Ring of Fire. The Barbies owned one of the companies that made them.

“I think so,” Sonny Fortney was saying to the Ken Doll. “We have the maps and the extra surveying gear in the trailer. Plus a load of trade goods so that we will have the glass beads to buy Manhattan.”

“Ahh,” sighed Prince Karl. “I have exposed my poor countrymen to the shifty up-timers. Good Lord, forgive me for my sins.”

“Why, Prince Karl,” Judy interrupted. Then she batted her eyes twice, tilted her head, and said, “You think we have taken advantage of you?”

“I’m going to go get Sarah to protect me.”

“Good idea,” said Judy the Elder Wendell. “Judy, behave yourself. You have our address, Gayleen. If you need anything, write us and we’ll send it off by mule train.”

“Thank you, though the idea of getting stuff by mule train still freaks me out a bit,” Gayleen said.

“Me too,” Dana Fortney said. “Especially diapers. Praise be for the tubal!”

“I don’t know about that. It’s a lot of trouble but the truth is I like having babies,” Gayleen said. “On the other hand, I’m getting close to forty, so maybe just one more.”

Which, Judy the Younger thought, bordered on clinical insanity. Judy looked around. It was quite a procession. There was the pickup truck owned by Bob Sanderlin, pulling a trailer that had the 240Z on it. It was followed by the Fortney’s 1994 Subaru Outback, also pulling a trailer, this time with their household goods. They would travel south toward Bamberg, then on past it to the Danube, where they would load the cars on barges for the trip down the river to Vienna. There were also several wagons, filled with both personal possessions, items Prince Karl was sending to his family, and almost anything else the travelers could think of. As well, their escort had a couple of wagons.

Istvan said, “We’re burning daylight, people.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Well,” he defended himself, “it’s a good line. Very descriptive of the situation.”

“Maybe,” Judy muttered, “but you don’t look a thing like John Wayne.” By virtue of the fact that only a limited number of movies had been brought back in the Ring of Fire, all of them had been seen on TV — most of them several times.

People started loading into the cars and wagons, and climbing onto horseback. It took another half hour before they actually got on the road . . . and between the horses and the wagons, they were moving at less than four miles an hour.

Wendell Household, Magdeburg

Dear Sarah,

It was nice to see you when you came to see the Fortneys off last week. I thought you looked lovely in the blue paisley you were wearing. It brings out your eyes, which looked as blue as the sky that day. But then, they always remind me of the sky.

Sarah read the letter with a great degree of disbelief. She was, since her last growth spurt, almost as tall as her mother. But if Judy the Elder was statuesque, and Judy the Younger looked like a ballerina, Sarah was just a gawky scarecrow. Still, it sure would be nice if she actually looked like Karl seemed to see her. David had certainly never said anything like this.

I have an appointment with Karl Schmidt in Magdeburg and am hoping that we might get together. I am trying to get him to sell me some steam engines for the LIC, but don’t have a great deal of hope. Do you have any influence with Heidi Partow? In any case, it makes an excellent excuse to go to Magdeburg to see you. One that even Josef can’t object to.

I’ll be taking the train up on Tuesday and meeting with Herr Schmidt on Wednesday. So, could we meet Tuesday evening? Or Wednesday, or wonder of wonders, both?

Sarah found herself wondering if Prince Karl was interested in her or just her connections. And that was weird. Prince Karl was a prince of the Holy Roman Empire. About as noble as it got in Europe. At least, that’s how it seemed to Sarah. He already had connections. It was weird, but it was, by now in Sarah’s world, a fairly commonplace weirdness. In her job, she regularly dealt with Graf this and Prince that. In spite of which, she wasn’t at all sure that she would ever get used to it.

That would make the trip wholly worthwhile, whether Herr Schmidt sees me or not.

Sarah considered. She still wasn’t sure but the only way to find out was to see him. On the other hand, she had no intention of pressuring Karl Schmidt to sell the LIC any engines.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 08

Polychrome – Chapter 08

Chapter 8.

He gazed tensely at the smoke and dust before him. The detonation had been even greater than he had expected, a blast that had cracked the nearest columns and left a choking cloud obscuring the area of impact entirely. Have I ended it even as it began? Or…

A figure was becoming visible. The smoke suddenly cleared, and his gaze was caught and held by ice-blue eyes, filled with anger and shock, staring furiously from a salt-white face. The glare from those eyes was of startling intensity, and Iris Mirabilis found himself momentarily seized by an impulse to step back, even as a great tide of relief washed through him. He remembered how he had brought down the lightnings; fear had galvanized the smaller figure, but instead of fleeing, this Erik Medon had merely thrown up one hand to protect his face, the rest of his body poised in stubborn, unyielding resistance. “Before destruction he will stand unbowed…”

“Well done,” he said as the last of the smoke dissipated. “Faced by danger, you do not turn your back upon it, showing that for you fear is weakness. You stand, you face that which would destroy you.”

The mortal was breathing hard, but the glare – while slightly lessened – was not withdrawn. “You hit me with a goddamned lightning ball just to find out if I run or not? This was just some stupid special-effect test?” The man’s voice, raised in anger, was surprisingly powerful; no match for the Rainbow Lord’s own, but nonetheless sending resonant echoes of outrage chasing themselves around the throne room.

Iris shook his head. “Vastly more than that, mortal man, and vastly more important, important enough that I had no choice but to risk ending our hope in the moment it arrived. Look you down.”

Now the anger in the face changed, yielding to astonishment and shock as the blond man realized that he stood on a narrow pinnacle of marble, barely wider than his own body, in the center of a still-smoldering crater sixty feet wide and reaching nearly ten feet in depth. “W… what the hell?”

The Rainbow Lord gestured; iridescent light coalesced in the hole, solidified to marble, leaving no trace of the devastation save the smell of scorched stone and the scarred columns on either side. “Come, Erik Medon. Sit with me, and I will explain. And in that explanation, I hope, you will come to understand that my actions were necessary.”

He caused a chair to appear near the throne, and seated himself on the throne as his guest – still clearly shaky from the sudden attack – lowered himself into the newly-formed seat.

“Okay,” Erik said finally, “Explain.”

“I have no doubt my daughter explained to you that it was our expectation that the hero she sought must be a mortal. But there is mortal, and then there is mortal.”

The blond head, with its somewhat receding hair, nodded. “Yes. She mentioned that most of the so-called mortals in Oz had at least some small amount of fairy blood, which was why they could end up finding their way here.”

Iris nodded. “Precisely. Moreover, those which appear mortal here in the realms of Faerie are themselves descended of such mixed blood. They are perhaps not possessed, for the most part, of any of the powers of the more pure of blood, but the key part is that the existence of that blood makes it possible for them to connect with the realms of faerie… and for the power of faerie to connect to them.”

The mortal’s understanding was swift; he saw the blue eyes flick back to the place where the crater had been, the brows draw close, then raise. “But one of truly pure mortal blood…” he began, slowly.

“I see you have the essence of it. Your mortal blood denies you any chance to have found Oz through the random events that brought others here. But it also denies faerie power any chance to affect you without your direct and willing cooperation.” Iris gazed outward as he continued. “Mortals live in the world of the physical, of the solid. The essence of your soul is there purely as the structure of life, the necessary spark that differentiates you from the base materials of which you are made. Contrariwise, the Faerie are beings of energy, of spirit, with a far slighter connection to the world of mundane matter.”

“So what you’re saying is that you faerie types can’t hurt me.”

He laughed. “Do not make that mistake, my would-be hero. We cannot hurt you with magic – we cannot impress the pure will of our souls and powers on you. But I assure you, a hard-driven blade wielded by my hand, or that of any warrior of Oz or other faerie realm, will kill you as surely as if it were wielded by mortal hands. You are not invulnerable, merely protected from certain forces in a way that no faerie can be.”

Erik Medon nodded. “I understand. Still, that’s a pretty big advantage.”

“A necessary one, in fact.”

“Necessary?”

The Rainbow Lord leaned forward. “Understand me well, Erik Medon. You have passed the tests of prophecy, and now we step beyond the point where another might be chosen. If you cannot do what must be done… we shall fail, or at least be forced into a long and bitter war whose effects shall recoil upon the mortal world as well.

“Yet the prophecies of the Bear give neither you, nor I, certain paths to victory. Today I will tell you what I may – and what I must. But it will be still up to you to make the right choices. Some actions are clear. Some are not.” He sighed, and for a moment he could not keep the worry from his face. “And the best of paths will still not be easy.”

He looked down, to see the blue eyes meeting his with a surprising understanding. The mortal’s mouth quirked upwards in a sad smile, and he spoke.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

 

The Savior – Snippet 23

The Savior – Snippet 23

3

Loreilei Jacobson did not heal easily. The shot had hit her lower rib and broken it. Mahaut suspected that it had then been deflected into her small intestines and done damage there. There was no exit wound. Controlling the bleeding was very difficult. The wound was large — the ball seemed to have entered at an angle — and she had to apply bandages and pressure to a large area until the servants came with a board made into a stretcher.

It’s the same board they used to carry Edgar in, she reflected.

It had been scrubbed, but there were still bloodstains within the willow wood grain. Getting Loreilei onto the board had provided its own difficulty. Mahaut was determined not to move her very much, and she’d had to make the servants understand this and not jostle her.

Meanwhile poor Frel sat nearby looking on worriedly with his one unswollen eye. He was hurt, and maybe hurt badly, but someone else would have to tend to him. Later she learned that the someone else was Bronson, the stable master, and his wife. Frel had recovered for a day in the feedloft while the couple attended him between their duties. A day later, Josiah Weldletter had come to take his son home in a padded wagon bed.

By the time Loreilei was in a bed, shock had set in. There was little Mahaut could do but keep the girl in clean bandages and alternately warm or cool her as her body shuddered with fever and chills. She did not regain consciousness for three days. During that time, she had occasionally stopped breathing, and Mahaut had pushed her own breath into the girl’s lungs to keep her alive.

Always Loreilei’s breath came back within moments. Her niece was tough.

Deep sepsis had set in, and with it great pain. Mahaut allowed Loreilei to eat and drink only broth of wheat, strained dak soup, and water for many days. She was afraid that whatever healing might be going on in Loreilei’s gut would be undone by food passing through it. The wound healed slowly, but within a month new skin and scar tissue had covered it.

It’s a very pretty little scar in comparison to mine, Mahaut reflected. Of course, she’ll never think so. If she lives.

Yet slowly the girl recovered. After three weeks, Mahaut believed her niece fit enough to leave her side for several hours to take exercise and weapons practice. Loreilei’s parents and uncles and aunts came by frequently after Mahaut permitted them in her rooms.

Never Benjamin.

Even in the early evening, when she went through the main sitting room to get to the latrine, she did not find him in his usual spot in the large chair he adored.

“Has he left the house?” she asked one of the servants coming by on his rounds.

“No, Land-heiress, he is still sleeping here. But he takes his meals alone and comes and goes like a ghost.”

After two weeks had passed, Frel and his stepfather, Josiah Weldletter, had appeared at the door one afternoon. They would never have been allowed to come unless Benjamin had known of it and approved. Loreilei had immediately brightened. The two sat and talked while Weldletter, who was a captain in the Regulars and a cartographer working full time in the office of the district military command, told Mahaut what news there was of the wider world.

After the first visit, Frel came often. It seemed that Benjamin had resigned himself to the match. He’d spoken before of marrying Loreilei to a powerful First Family in Lindron who had expressed interest in establishing a connection to House Jacobson. Solon had four daughters, however, and Loreilei had a sister who was now a toddler. Benjamin might get his wish for the union of alliance sooner or later without Loreilei. He usually did.

Finally, after ten rises of the three-day moon, Levot, Loreilei was well enough to walk, gingerly, to her own quarters and begin her life anew. Mahaut doubted she would ever be able to run and gambol again. Any jarring movement brought her pain. Being alive at all would have to be consolation.

 

 

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 23

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 23

Chapter 23: Remembering Old Times

“Okay, Jason, what’ve you got?”

That was Renee, straight to the point. “A whole lot. But first, come here; there’s someone I want you to meet.”

She followed me to the living room. Verne rose from the red chair, bowed as I introduced them. “Renee Reisman, Verne Domingo.”

She didn’t shake hands. “Jason, we’ve had our eye on this man for some time. I’d like to know just what his connection is with you.”

“I shall explain, my lady,” Verne said. “Look at me,” he continued in a low but commanding voice.

Reflexively she shot a glance into his eyes — and froze.

He stepped closer, touched her temple gently with his right hand. He gazed intensely at her for several seconds. “Remember,” he said.

Renee’s eyes widened. A choked scream burst from her lips, and she staggered back, sagged, pale and shaking, onto my couch. “Oh dear God …” She closed her eyes, massaged her temples, and took several ragged breaths. Finally she raised her head. “I… I remember now. But until now, it was like those memories didn’t even exist.” She stared at Verne, still shaking.

“My sincerest apologies, Renee — may I call you Renee? Those memories were still there; merely locked away, as you requested. But Jason has convinced me that we need your aid, and we both knew that you must have your full memory to help us.”

The old Renee was reasserting herself, albeit slowly. “That bad, huh?” She raised an eyebrow at me. “I’d assume that his being here means that he isn’t our killer.”

“You’re right.”

She turned back to Verne. “Okay, Domingo. Now that my brain is back, this had better be real good. Because,” she shivered again, “I don’t think that I’ll be able to go through that again. Having my memory switched on and off like a light …”

Verne smiled, the gentlest expression I’d ever seen him use; his fangs didn’t show. “Milady, you showed courage far greater than mine to undergo that treatment once; neither of us either desired or expected that you would once more ask to forget.”

“Damn straight.” She ran her fingers through her hair, took a deep breath, and crossed her legs. “All right, let’s have it.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 40

This book should be available now so this is the last snippet.

Trial By Fire – Snippet 40

One final scan of the blackness beyond the window showed him what had to be a shift carrier, far “above” him. The traffic, the coveys of protective drones, the PDF turrets: everything told him it was an Arat Kur military vessel of extreme importance. But rather than having a main weapon built along the length of its hull, this one had a detachable spinal mount: a narrow oblong that had been affixed atop the keel, but was not integral to it.

Each ship’s subsections were modular, which made every ship a reconfiguration of interchangeable elements. The only exception was the smooth-hulled shift cruiser that he had seen closely–once–after being rescued from the hab module off the shoulder of Barney Deucy. Streamlined, radically different in design and appearance, it had looked like a craft out of place within its own fleet. Judging from the shift-cruiser’s retractable weapons blisters, sensor clusters, integral spinal weapon, and in-hull weapon and vehicle bays, it was also the only one that had been built expressly for the purpose of waging war.

A whole invasion fleet–and only one model of ship that was built for the sole purpose of waging war.

Which was, on reflection, consistent with Darzhee Kut’s claim that the Arat Kur had been without war for many centuries. Hardly unusual, then, that they did not have warships, any more than they had a standing fleet. Probably, for them, retaining provisions for war-making was a troublesome business necessitated solely by the existence of their unpredictable neighbors.

As the CoDevCo shuttle sped down toward the clouds, its nose pitching up into an atmobraking attitude, Caine caught sight of the hulking body armor of the two Hkh’Rkh, who were strapped in alongside his Arat Kur warders in their articulated combat suits. One race knew no war; the other knew nothing but. Strange allies.

Or, perhaps, he thought, estranged allies.

*   *   *

As the shuttle emerged from the monsoon clouds hanging thick and low over the island of Java, Caine felt his breath catch involuntarily. Black plumes, some rising up from immense fires clearly visible at their three-kilometer altitude, dotted the landscape. The largest of the conflagrations was located five kilometers west of the chaotic, sprawling, sea-hugging metroplex that was Jakarta itself. The shuttle sheared away even farther from that tower of smoke, just as a brace of nonhuman air vehicles swept over them, firing missiles as they headed groundside, forward thrusters beginning to rotate into a VTOL attitude.

Across the aisle, Eimi Singh put a hand to her small earbud, then turned to Urzueth. “I am sorry, esteemed Administrator Urzueth, but Soekarno spaceport remains unavailable. We will have to divert to a direct landing in our compound.”

Caine stared at Urzueth. “A most interesting way to not invade a planet.”

Urzueth glanced out the window, then back at Caine. The unreadable Arat Kur features did not change for a full two seconds. Then, the mandibles became animated again. “Caine Riordan, you misperceive. These fires you see, we did not cause them.”

“So those attack craft heading planetside belong to someone else?”

“Oh, no, they are ours, but they are responding to requests for assistance. From the human government.”

Caine felt slightly nauseous. “The human government?”

“Yes, President Ruap’s provisional Indonesian government.”

Eimi leaned in with a shy, apologetic smile. “The destruction you see is the work of renegade army units. They have severely damaged Soekarno Spaceport. They have disabled various utilities, and as if to prove their bestiality, have actually attacked and destroyed countless food warehouses.”

“And how long has this ‘rebellion’ been going on?” Caine asked, his throat dry.

“Four days,” answered Eimi.

Caine looked at Urzueth. “And how long ago did your first ‘advisors’ and ‘security consultants’ start landing?”

Urzueth eyes seemed to tighten in their ridged settings. “Five days ago.”

Caine leaned back in his chair. “I am guessing that would be shortly after Mr. Ruap’s coup began.”

Eimi shook her head. “Oh, there was no coup. Mr. Ruap was compelled to take control of the government when the last president was assassinated and the new leadership refused to acknowledge the rights granted to CoDevCo regarding the mass driver site.”

Caine studied Ms. Singh narrowly. “And what rights would those be?”

“Full legal possession of the site itself, including complete autonomy to authorize air traffic of any origins into or out of the mass driver facilities.”

Caine smiled. “Let me guess. The old leadership objected to ‘air traffic’ from the Arat Kur fleet. Specifically, troop landers.”

Urzueth bobbed. “Yes, now you understand.”

Caine looked out the window at the smoke- and fire-scarred patchwork quilt that comprised the coastal flats of Java. “Oh yes, I understand perfectly. And I have also learned another quirky difference between our languages, Esteemed Urzueth.”

“And what is that?”

“Those whom you call ‘renegade rebels,’ we call ‘resistance fighters.’”

*   *   *

The CoDevCo shuttle, engaging its VTOL thrusters as it glided smoothly over the dingy, cockeyed checkerboard of Jakarta’s rooftops, dropped suddenly lower.

The civilians in the craft–Urzueth and Eimi Singh–grasped at the seat-backs in front of them as if to arrest their fall. The military types–the Arat Kur guards and the Hkh’Rkh “security advisors”–simply swayed in their seats. Caine discovered that he now fell into the latter category: he reflexively distinguished the quick drop as a maneuver, not a loss of control.

“What is the problem?” Eimi almost stammered into her collarcom.

The pilot’s answer came over the cabin PA. “Apologies to all. We’ve just been told we are not cleared to land at CoDevCo’s rooftop vertipads. We’re going to have to wait until we can be a assured of a safe approach to the ground pads.”

“Why?” Eimi asked her collarcom. Whatever answer she got was sent privately to her earbud. Caine leaned over, raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“A disturbance down in the city,” she explained with an apologetic smile. “It seems the rebels have sent professional agitators into the streets and have managed to stir up some of the people against the government. That makes it harder for our associates’ airborne surveillance assets”–she smiled quickly at Urzueth–”to detect threats in advance.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Well,” she said, her reply punctuated by a nervous flutter of her eyelids, “some of the rebels are said to have to have rockets.”

Caine pointed at a crowd-filling square not far below them, near some kind of railway station. “Down there, you mean?”

“No,” corrected Eimi. “That’s just one of the riots stirred up by the agitators. The actual rebels are much fewer in number. But some of them are engaged with our forces north of here. So we shall stay low, where they cannot detect and target us.”

Caine hoped Eimi and the pilot were right about that assumption. If these “rebels” had laid hold of any reasonably modern AA systems, they would be capable of both designating targets and launching missiles from non-line-of-sight vantage points. He looked north. Tilt rotor VTOLs the size of small cars–and of distinctly nonhuman design–darted and weaved over the ramshackle roofscape. Smoke rose from the street. AA rockets went skyward between the billowing black plumes, vectoring toward the VTOLs. All but one of the rockets exploded in midair, apparently intercepted by active counterfire systems onboard the ROVs or possibly from some rear area support position. However, one rocket did find its mark. It clipped the side of a dodging VTOL, the blast taking out one of the rotors. The crippled alien craft faltered down toward the street, another rotor now wobbling.

The shuttle’s main engines cut out, ending its forward movement. But in the moment of comparative silence as its vertical thrusters rose to full power, Caine heard an uneven susurration almost directly below. Looking down, he discovered that the source of the ragged murmur was the rioting crowd, its distant roar now drowned out by the whine of the shuttle’s VTOL turbofans.

At the west end of the square in which the crowd had gathered, lines of troops began to emerge from an old squat stone building: probably a bank or armory or museum before being converted into fortified barracks. The troops came out the front door in two perfect lines, quickly forming a dull gray bulwark along the western edge of the square. As they grew in number, filling in from the back and pushing forward, the crowd shoved back, becoming more agitated. Their previously stationary placards were now waving and shaking like battle flags. A number of the more agile protestors had shinnied up lampposts, clambered onto kiosks, some shouting slogans with the aid of bullhorns and portable sound systems.

The gray ranks facing them were eerily uniform: each soldier was of identical height, wearing identical equipment. None had donned riot gear. Their rifles were at the ready, stocks tucked against their hips, barrels slightly raised.

The crowd reacted to these unresponsive serried ranks with even greater agitation. It seemed to surge and pulsate like a distempered unicellar organism, uncertain of its next action. Then, two almost invisible objects–bricks, possibly, from their angular outlines–crossed the gap from the restless social amoeba and disappeared into the ranks of the motionless, identical soldiers.

Their response was immediate. The muzzles of the lead rank came up and sparkled. Caine heard what sounded like a distant ripping of cardboard. As if being melted away by acid, the facing side of the social amoeba began to evaporate, leaving an irregular stain of heaped bodies to mark the prior limit of its outer membrane.

At the other end of the wounded organism, the cytoplasmic crowd started bleeding out into every street and alley that led away from the square, the body of protest deflating and ultimately disappearing–

Except for those heaped corpses whose own blood had begun to paint the streets of Jakarta with a black-red stain. Which–even if today’s late-afternoon rainstorm washed it away–promised to live on in the memory of those hundreds who had been there, and those thousands to whom they told their tale.

As Caine watched, a small, stick-thin figure–maybe a young teen, maybe an elderly person–crawled out of the tangle of bodies, dragging useless legs.

The shuttle rose slightly and resumed its forward progress. “Final approach,” announced Eimi buoyantly.

Caine watched the faltering stick-figure pulling itself away on weakening arms until he couldn’t see it anymore.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 10

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 10

“I’m afraid that Judy is right about Sarah being better off in the public sector.” David buttered a roll, as he explained. “It’s not that she lacks the skills of business. At least no more than most of us up-timers. But she doesn’t like it and, frankly, she finds it difficult to understand those who do.”

“That may well be true, David, but that simply speaks well of her honesty and fairness.” Karl took a sip of the hot cocoa.

Judy waited a moment to see what David would say, but when he didn’t speak, she did. “Sarah isn’t some plaster saint, Karl. She gets all self-righteous about it and forgets that all us greedy capitalist types are necessary. Also that we aren’t bad people, we’re just trying to get things done.” Well, Karl did need to know what he was getting into.

“And the money’s nice, too.” Karl laughed.

“Don’t go all noble on us, Judy!” David said. “We wouldn’t know how to deal with a noble Judy the Baracudy.”

****

Delia joined in the laughter. It was clear to Judy that Delia was aware of the various levels of the conversation. What was less clear was what she thought about it, though Judy had a sneaking suspicion that Delia was laughing at the children. Sarah and David’s breakup had been about as amicable as such things ever are, but then neither David nor Sarah were very open about what they were feeling. Judy was quite sure that both were hurting over the breakup. In their pride, if nothing else. She was also quite sure that they would both work hard to do the right thing as they saw it. So David and Karl were dancing around the issue of Sarah by talking about her financial skills and lack of business orientation. Delia would be aware of all that, and while she was fond of Sarah, David was her grandson.

“But won’t it make your relationship more difficult to maintain with Sarah in Magdeburg?” Karl asked.

“We broke up, Karl. It was pretty friendly as breakups go, but there it is.”

“Oh.” Karl was clearly at a loss as to what to say to that.

Judy could almost hear him thinking. Yes, Karl, she thought. “Yippee” is the wrong thing to say.

****

The next day Judy got a call from Karl. “So what was last night about?” Karl asked as soon as she came on the line.

“Sarah is on the market, Ken Doll. Last night was giving you the heads up.”

“What made you think I’d be interested?”

“Please, Karl. I’m not blind.”

“Sarah . . . ?”

“She is blind, Karl. Even bringing her roses won’t do it. You’re going to have to tell her you’re courting her or she won’t realize it. Mom, by the way, isn’t blind. She’s known for months.”

They talked for a while about the best techniques and what Sarah liked.

Wendell House, Grantville

“What’s this?” Sarah Wendell took the card from Agnes, the maid. The card was white and embossed with the Liechtenstein coat of arms, printed in three colors on top quality white card stock. Aside from the coat of arms, it had Karl’s full name and phone number. Along with an extension scrawled on the back. The phone number was for Liechtenstein House, a rather palatial residence located less than a mile from the Ring of Fire and equipped with all the up-time conveniences. The extension would have the caller put through to the prince’s private office, or wherever he happened to be in Liechtenstein House, with the minimum delay. However, Sarah already had both the number and the extension. So she didn’t see the point in Karl sending her his card.

Agnes rolled her eyes, but Sarah didn’t notice. She shrugged and picked up the phone.

Liechtenstein House, outside the Ring of Fire

“I assume this is about the LIC,” Sarah said as she entered Liechtenstein house, speaking to Karl even as she gave her coat to one of his footmen. “So, why all the intrigue? Are your uncles after more money?”

“Always,” Karl said. “However, this is not about the LIC or the family lands. It’s an entirely different matter.”

“What has Judy done now?” Sarah asked. “Has she gotten you into that commodities trading company? You should have learned from the American Equipment Corporation.”

Karl realized that Sarah was nervous. She didn’t normally jump to conclusions so quickly. What he couldn’t tell was why she was nervous. Was she afraid that he was going to tell her that he wanted to court her or afraid that he wasn’t? Karl found it surprisingly hard to bring himself to broach the subject. He ushered her into the small dining room and seated her himself.

Finally, she asked, “All right, Prince Karl. Just what is this all about?”

“I would like to court you, Sarah. Date you. Whatever the up-time phrasing.”

Sarah didn’t say anything, just looked at him like a deer caught in a bright light. Karl waited as long as he could, which wasn’t very long at all, then backpedaled a little. “I’m not asking you to marry me right now. I just want you to shift me from acquaintance to suitor in your mind. Get used to the idea. Get comfortable with it.”

“But I’m moving to Magdeburg in two days.”

“Magdeburg isn’t that far. There are letters and telegrams, the trains and even airplanes.”

“Not many, and they aren’t safe.”

“Not yet. But people are building them now. They will be.”

“I don’t know, Karl. Maybe you should wait a few years before you decide to become a jet setter.”

Karl looked blank, and Sarah said, “Never mind.” Then she looked at him. “Okay, Karl. I’ll move you to possible suitor.” Her lips quirked a little . . . “But suitors are supposed to sweep girls off their feet. Do you think you’re up to it?”

Karl took her hand gently and lifted it to his lips, touched it with a butterfly kiss.

“I’ll work on it,” he said.

 

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 09

1636 The Viennese Waltz – Snippet 09

Chapter 4: Open Season

June, 1634

Higgins Hotel, Ring of Fire

Judy the Younger stretched on her bed in her suite at the Higgins Hotel. Mom and Sarah hadn’t moved to Magdeburg yet, but Judy wanted to get settled before they left. Getting to stay in Grantville had been a massive struggle, but worth it. She wasn’t staying on her own. Her parents wouldn’t go for that. But Delia Higgins was considered a good influence. Mostly, Judy admitted with some chagrin, because Delia wasn’t buying Judy’s schtick. Most adults, Judy could get around, one way or the other. Not Delia. “Some people just aren’t charmable,” Judy muttered resentfully, stood up, and padded across to her desk. Not that she was really all that resentful. She just felt that she was supposed to be.

Judy’s desk was oak, built since the Ring of Fire with a combination of up-time equipment and down-time craftsmanship and was a masterpiece. Literally. Judy knew the master. The whole top two floors of the Higgins was like that. Furniture, art, all made in a fusion of seventeenth-century craftsmanship and twentieth-century tools and techniques. Vernon Bruce, Delia’s Scottish interior decorator, would have nothing less in the penthouse, even if Delia didn’t care. Delia had given him his shot by hiring him to decorate the Grantville Higgins and now he was in high demand. She was his patron. Delia Higgins and David Bartley tended to do that . . . collect retainers almost against their will. So did Mike Stearns, come to think of it. They couldn’t all be natural leaders, could they? Well, Mike Stearns was. With Delia and David, though, it was something else. People saw opportunity in them and down-timers, especially, responded with personal loyalty. That happened to almost any up-timer who didn’t screw it up. Not all the time, but a lot.

It had happened to the Barbies, that was for sure. In a way, the American Equipment Company disaster had been a godsend, and not just because it had got them together with the Ken Doll. It had also done really good things for their reputation. Everyone knew that they bought that company after it was already a failure in a big way. The fact that they had gotten most of the investors out with their skin intact had done wonders for their reputation, both for fair dealing and for sharpness. Judy decided that she really did need to do something nice for the Ken Doll for coming to their rescue like that. Which brought Sarah to mind. For some reason Judy couldn’t see, Prince Karl was totally bonkers over her sister. The trick would be to get Sarah to notice.

In retrospect, Judy was amazed that Sarah had ever gotten together with David, because she didn’t think Sarah would notice even someone as blatant as David was. Karl was a lot more subtle. A lot more careful. So careful that there was no way Sarah would see what was going on. He understood the up-timer rules pretty well, but love and sex were delicate areas any time. So Karl was doing his friendly flirtatious bit as a sort of a shield. But it was a shield that would keep Sarah from realizing he was really interested in her.

Judy picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. Instead, after a slight pause — no more than a couple of seconds — a voice came on the line. “Higgins Hotel switchboard. How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, Elsbeth. It’s Judy. Would you set up a call to Prince Karl Eusebius von Liechtenstein for me and call me back when it’s through, please?”

“Sure, Judy. Anything I should invest in?” Judy could hear the laughter in Elsbeth’s voice. Elsbeth worked the switchboard and was training to be a concierge, but she didn’t invest in the stock market. It was a running joke between them with Judy touting the most ridiculous nonexistent stocks she could think of.

“Sure! Casein dildos are expected to rise, due to reports of a splintering problem with their nearest competitor.” Elsbeth would never tell a dirty joke, but loved to hear them. Judy could almost hear her blushing and could hear the suppressed giggling.

“You are so bad. I’ll get your call.” Then the phone went dead.

It was only a few moments later that it rang. “What can I do for you, Judy?” Prince Karl sounded a bit distracted.

“How’s your phone security, Karl?” Judy asked “Elsbeth won’t listen and wouldn’t talk even if she did. How is it on your end?”

“I suspect Frederic listens, but he won’t talk.”

It was an important question. Places like the Higgins and large properties like Karl’s Grantville estate, or Prince Vladimir’s estate, had live operators while the larger exchanges had electromechanical routers.

“Oh. I don’t think that’s good enough.” Judy checked her schedule. “How about dinner at the penthouse, say, Thursday night?”

“Is it important?”

“Maybe. I’m being a busybody, Karl.”

“Hm, I wouldn’t want to miss that. But I have a dinner with Stavros Thursday. Something about steam engines for Greek fishing boats. Could we make it Friday?”

On Friday Judy had a date, as usual. This one to a play at the Grantville High Theater. The Desk Set, reset for the new timeline in Magdeburg with the Spencer Tracy role recast as an Up-timer Girl and the Katharine Hepburn role as Down-timer Guy. It was the opening and Judy’s sources said it was a hoot. “Sorry. Booked up Friday and Saturday. What about Monday dinner?”

“That should work.”

Higgins Hotel, Ring of Fire

The elevator operator took Karl up to the penthouse of the Higgins, where he was met by a maid who took his cloak and showed him to the small dining room. Delia was there, overseeing the staff as they put out the first course.

“Welcome, Prince Karl. David’s in his office and Judy is on the phone, but they should be in anytime now.”

“Just Karl, please, Frau Higgins,” Karl said. “In Grantville ‘prince’ doesn’t seem appropriate somehow.”

“Then call me Delia, Karl,” Delia said as her grandson David Bartley came in.

“Good evening, Karl,” David said in Amideutsch. “What’s Judy the Baracudy up to now?”

“I don’t have any idea, but it will probably be profitable.”

“Just networking,” Judy said, coming in behind David. “Nothing sinister.”

David snorted in disbelief and Judy stuck out her tongue.

They took their seats and talk turned to business. The Higgins Hotel was doing well and getting a reputation as the swankiest hotel in the Ring of Fire area, though the new hotel that was to be built on the bluffs overlooking the south side of the Ring would probably beat them out for view. A new Higgins was under construction in Magdeburg and Karl spent some time lobbying to get one in Silesia. In return, Delia lobbied him to write King Fernando in the Netherlands about putting one in Amsterdam. They talked about the American Equipment Corporation debacle and Judy the Younger brought up Sarah’s objection to the whole deal, with Judy bashing Sarah, and Karl jumping to her defense. David spent his time being evenhanded, and Delia watched over the whole thing.

 

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 22

Paradigms Lost — Chapter 22

Chapter 22: Three Conversations, One Problem

I got back to my house, opened the door, and went to the kitchen. A few minutes later, sandwich and soda next to me, I booted up my terminal program. I needed to contact “Manuel Garcia O’Kelly Davis.” Manuel was actually a fairly high-placed military intelligence analyst. I thought he was Air Force, but there was no way to be sure. I sent him a secured e-mail, asking for a conference. He agreed, and we set up the doubly secured relay, with me supplying a few bells and whistles that would make anyone trying to trace either one of us end up chasing their own tails through the telecommunications network. As per our long-established habits, neither of us used the other’s real name; to him, I was “Mentor of Arisia,” and he remained “Manuel.”

>>Hello, Mentor. You ready for the apocalypse? Less than six months to go!<<

I snorted. We often joked around about the “Y2K” problem, but it hadn’t been a joke for a lot of people I knew — it was a costly problem that people had put off for years and in these last few months people were scrambling to put the last patches in. Not that the disasters predicted were ever likely to have happened, but it WAS going to be a major pain in the butt. I typed back,

>>*MY* computer software is up to date. It’s you guys in the government that have to worry about your antiquated systems with two-digit date fields.<<

>>True dat. What’s up?<<

>>Got a problem. You have time?<<

>>Two hours enough?<<

>>Should be.<<

I filled him in on the situation, leaving out the gory details and concentrating on the NSA factors.

>>Can you find out what their angle is?<<

>>Christ. You don’t ask for much, do you. Look, I can check into it, but you’d do better to just drop out, you know?<<

>>I can’t. It’d nag at me forever.<<

>>I know the feeling. :) Just remember, anything I tell you, I didn’t tell you. Right?<<

>>Right.<<

I signed off, then finally got on to one of the underground boards; one run by a pirate and hacker that I knew pretty well.

>>Hello, Demon? You there?<<

>>Readin’ you loud and clear, Mentor old buddy. You slumming?<<

>>Looking for info, as usual. You still keep up on the doings of the rich and infamous?<<

>>Best I can, you can bet on it.<<

The Demon was a damn good hacker – almost on a par with the legendary Jammer — and very well informed. He kept an eye on criminal doings not merely on the Net, but throughout the world. He viewed his piracy as a matter of free information distribution; since I make my living by distributing information and getting paid for that service, I found myself simultaneously agreeing and disagreeing with him. Nonetheless, we got along pretty well since the Demon absolutely hated the real Darksiders — people who destroyed other’s work. To his mind, copying information was one thing. Destroying or corrupting it was another thing entirely.

>>Demon, what’s going on now that might be bothering the Feds?<<

>>You talking big or little?<<

>>Big, but not like countries going to war; NSA stuff.<<

>>Hold on. Lemme think.<<

I waited.

>>Okay, there are about three things I can think of; but lemme ask, did something happen in your area?<<

>>Yes, that’s how I got interested.<<

>>Got you. That only leaves one. NSA and the other agencies have been checking your general area trying to locate a real nasty Darksider who calls himself Gorthaur. He’s a total sleaze. None of the respectable hackers or crackers will deal with him, but no one’s really got the guts to tell him to kiss off. There are a lot of ugly rumors about him. Or her, no one’s really sure either way. Gorthaur’s been heavy into espionage and industrial spying and sabotage. A real prize.<<

>>He ever sign on your board?<<

>>He did until I found out who he was. Far as I know, I’m the only one to tell him what I thought of him. I told him that he’d better not log back on ’cause if I ever got anything on him I’d turn him over to the cops so fast it’d make his chips spin.<<

>>Bet he didn’t like that.<<

>>He told me that it wasn’t healthy to get in his way. I told him to save the threats for the kiddies.<<

I frowned at that.

>>Look, Demon, if it turns out this Gorthaur is part of what I’m involved in, you’d better take his warning seriously. There’s already one corpse and the place is crawling with NSA.<<

>>I’ll be careful then.<<

I got off and sat back. Then I shut the system down and got up, turned around. A tall, angular, dark figure loomed over me, scarcely a foot away.

“Holy CRAP!” I jumped back, tripped over the chair, dropped my glass, fell. My head smacked into the edge of the table and I flopped to the floor and just lay there as the red mist cleared.

“My apologies, Jason. Let me help you up.” Verne Domingo pulled me to my feet as though I were a doll.

I pushed him away; he let go. “Christ! What in hell did you think you were doing? You scared me into next week!” I rubbed the already growing lump on my skull.

“I have said I was sorry. I did not wish to call you via phone; the government has ears, after all. And coming obviously in person would call just as much attention. I had only just materialized when you turned, and I had no chance to warn you.”

“Okay, Okay. Sorry I yelled.” I started for the kitchen, went towards the freezer.

“Sit, Jason. I will take care of that.” He took the hand towel from the countertop, rinsed it, dumped several ice cubes into it. Then he folded the towel into a bundle and squeezed. I heard splintering noises as the ice was crushed. “There. Put that on the swelling.”

I did. The cold helped, even when it started to ache. “What’d you have to see me for?”

“To explain, my friend.” He stood with his back to the refrigerator, stiff and somehow sad. “The story you told me last night… it had very disturbing elements in it, very disturbing indeed. I had to check them before I could believe what my heart knew was the truth. Now I must tell you what is happening here, and for you to understand, you must hear a little history.

“Vampires are among the most powerful of what you would call the supernatural races, but — as I am sure you have guessed — we are not the only such; most have …” he hesitated, then went on, “… either long since died out or else found some way to leave this world that is no longer congenial to them, but a few, either through preference or necessity, still live on. My people are, on the whole, cautious not to arouse the awareness of you mortals, and this suits us. Bound as we are to the world in which we are born, we cannot leave, and so we live as best we can without doing that which could rouse you who now rule it to pursue us.

“There was another race of beings, however, which was not so circumspect. They did not reproduce as we do, by converting mortals; they reproduced themselves as do most races, and this is perhaps why they had less sympathy for your people. But more likely they lacked sympathy because it was not in their nature; for they preyed on us as well.” He looked at me steadily. “Your people call them werewolves.”

I blinked. “Oh, no. Not again.”

“I am afraid so. You have stumbled into the realm of the paranormal once more.”

Vaguely I had the feeling that there was something missing — something Verne was avoiding telling me. But it wasn’t central; the main points, I was sure, were the real thing. But something else wasn’t quite… right. Well, maybe he’d clear that up later. I grimaced. “What was that line from Die Hard 2? ‘How can the same shit happen to the same guy twice?’ Look, how could werewolves prey on you? I mean, you guys are awfully hard to kill and once you die, well, you go to dust, at least the older ones. Klein took several days. Not much to eat there. Besides, couldn’t you just turn around and eat them?”

“We are not as invulnerable as you think.” He hesitated. “The truth is that it is not merely wood which can harm us. Wood harms us because it was once living. Any object composed of living or formerly living matter can harm us. Thus the werewolves could kill us with their formidable natural weaponry. As for the feeding… your writers have often glimpsed the truth. They did indeed consume flesh; but more, they fed on the raw emotions. Fear and despair, terror and rage, these things strengthened them; and when their victim finally died, they fed, directly, on the life force, the soul if you will, as it passed from the body. Nor could we return the favor. Their blood-scent was enticing, true; but any attempt to drain them only succeeded in slaying both parties. We immortals were a rare delicacy to them. We hid ourselves well, but they eventually would find ways to locate us. We fought them off on occasion, but they became ever more devious and effective over the centuries, leaving us alone for long enough that we began to feel safe, then returning to feast upon those who did not know their peril and were unready to defend themselves against the monsters.

“That threat accomplished what none of our talking had managed before; all the different … groups of the vampires united against the lycanthropes, and waged a long and bitter war. In the end we destroyed them. I myself confronted the last, and greatest, of the breed, and I slew him with great pleasure. He had been terrorizing the city of London while using a name which he knew would taunt me.”

“Vlad Dracul.”

He nodded.

“And now you wonder if you really killed him at all.”

“No.” He sat slowly. “I do not wonder at all. I know now that I did not kill him; that somehow he survived what I had believed were mortal wounds.”

“You’d better tell me everything about these things. Especially how to kill them.”

“Silver is the only way — at least the only way that you could make use of. I do not know in what manner, but the metal somehow disrupts their internal balance. Both teeth and claws, in their lupine form, are of some crystalline substance of great toughness. Their strength is immense, their cunning formidable, and their ability to shift shape, though confined to a vaguely wolf-like monstrous form on the one hand, is unlimited in the human range; they can be anyone at all. They do not fear night or day, nor does the phase of the moon have any effect upon them. They also have a talent similar to my own to charm and cloud other minds. They do not have my people’s ability to dematerialize, but they can prevent us from using it if they get a hold on us.”

“Ugh. Tell me, do they become stronger with age like you vampires?”

“I am afraid so.”

“And this one was the biggest, oldest, baddest of the werewolves when you fought him?”

“Quite. I was not alone, however.”

“Not alone? You mean you couldn’t handle him by yourself?” The thought was terrifying. I knew how strong Klein had been, how hard he was to kill, and since then I’d seen what Verne was capable of; trying to imagine something powerful enough to beat a vampire as ancient as Verne…

He showed his fangs in a humorless grin. “I will admit that we never found out. I had two companions …” He hesitated again before continuing, “… both of them… leaders of their own clans or families of vampires. Though normally enemies, we had realized that these creatures were more of a threat to us all than any of us. We ambushed him, all striking at once with the silver knives I had prepared for this moment, and threw the body in the Thames, the knives embedded in the corpse, so that his people would not find him in time to have any chance to save him. So swift were we that he never had a chance to strike back.”

“Marvelous.” I shook my head. “Well, at least you’ve eased my mind on one thing.”

“That being…?”

“I hate coincidences. I don’t believe in them. Now I know why he’s ended up here.” I looked across the table. “He’s been tracking you. And he’s going to kill you if he can.”

Verne Domingo nodded slowly.

 

The Savior – Snippet 22

The Savior – Snippet 22

“Haven’t you done enough to the boy, Edgar?” Mahaut said gently. “You’ve shown him his mistake.”

“I don’t think it’s quite enough. And I think Father would agree.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“What the cold hell do you know about it!” Edgar screamed at the top of his lungs. “Who are you to have an opinion on my father? He would not want that…thing inside his granddaughter, that I can promise you.”

“Maybe not, Edgar, but Benjamin wouldn’t want you to permanently hurt the boy. I’m sure of that,” Mahaut said.

She tried to shuffle forward without Edgar noticing, but her feet made a noise against the stone floor and Edgar shouted, “Stay where you are, woman!”

“All right.”

“What do you think you’re going to do with that arrow, anyway?” he said. “Toss it at me like a spear?”

Mahaut looked down. She was still clutching the black-fletched arrow. “No, I was practicing with it when Loreilei came to get me.”

Frel groaned and tried to sit up. The effort was too much. His arms shook, came out from under him, and he collapsed.

“Please Edgar. Let him go,” Mahaut said. “You’ve taught him his lesson.”

Edgar shook his head. “He’ll come back. His kind always do. Look at you, for example.”

“As I remember, you came after me,” Mahaut said quietly.

“You didn’t mind. You loved it.”

“I didn’t know any better. And I was seventeen. I’d just discovered sex. It wasn’t you in particular, Edgar.”

“He needs to be dealt with,” Edgar said. “My contribution to the Family.”

“Not this way.”

Edgar spun, pointed the gun at Mahaut.

“Shut up!” he said. Mahaut gasped, took a step back. “Just shut up.” He turned back around to Frel, steadied his aim.

“No!” Loreilei shouted. Whatever fear had been holding her in place melted and she rushed forward. Edgar backed away from her, but she wasn’t going for him or the gun. She placed herself between Edgar and Frel. “No, uncle,” she said.

Brave, thought Mahaut. And foolish.

“You were a slave once, weren’t you?” Edgar said. “Weren’t you, niece?”

Loreilei slowly nodded.

“It seems the filth did not quite wear off of you. You are still a slut, I fear.”

“You will not shoot him.”

Edgar lowered the gun. He took a step toward Loreilei. “Of course not,” he said. As he did so, he turned the pistol around in his hand, now gripping the top of the barrel.

Mahaut shouted a warning, but it was too late.

With a vicious snarl, Edgar swung the pistol butt at Loreilei’s head. The crack of the wood handle against skin and bone was audible. Loreilei dropped like a rock through water and hit the stone floor. Her head was spurting blood from a gash from her temple to her ear. She did not move.

“Stupid little slave whore,” Edgar muttered.

Mahaut was wearing a simple tunic belted over women’s leggings. She transferred the black-fletched arrow to her left hand, and her right hand went to the back of her belt.

Edgar lined up on Frel.

Mahaut’s hand emerged from behind her back with a throwing knife. She turned the action of drawing the knife into an overhand cast, as hard as any she’d ever made. The knife flew across the five paces separating her from Edgar. It sunk into his left shoulder, the wounded shoulder. His arm jerked at the pain.

The pistol fired.

For a moment, Mahaut feared she’d been too late. But there was a puff of rock beside the altar, beside Frel, where the minié ball struck the pyramid altar.

Then, in the same eyeblink, there was the sickening sound of a ricochet.

Loreilei cried out. She clutched her side. Blood began to pour from a wound that could be nothing else but the bullet Edgar had fired.

It was a terrible wound.

Loreilei is not going to get up from that one.

“What did I do?” he said, looking down at the girl. It wasn’t said with pity, Mahaut knew. It was anger that the unjust world treated Edgar Jacobson so shabbily.

Edgar dropped the pistol. With a yell of defiance, he took the knife in his arm by the hilt and pulled it free with his left hand. “I’ll kill you for this, Mahaut!” he said. “This time, I’ll kill you.”

He spun around, Mahaut’s knife in his hand and raised to strike.

With a quick, sharp, and strong shove, Mahaut sunk the black-fletched arrow into Edgar’s chest. It scraped against a breastbone but found a way through, between. She pushed harder. She pushed until the arrowhead tore through Edgar’s shirt in the back and emerged on his other side.

“You bitch,” Edgar gasped.

“Husband,” said Mahaut. “You never said a truer word.”

Mahaut backed away, and Edgar stumbled backward, clutching the arrow shaft. He struggled feebly, and Mahaut realized he was trying to pull it out.

Good luck with that, she thought. The black-fetched arrows were made with a curving barbed arrowhead to make such an attempt futile.

The Scouts called them mankillers for a reason.

After a moment he either gave up the struggle or lost strength. He stumbled toward her. She took a step back.

And Edgar Jacobson toppled over and fell face-first at Mahaut’s feet. This drove the arrow the rest of the way through until the better part of the shaft was sticking out his back.

Edgar’s leg spasmed once. Twice. And then he ceased to move at all.

“No, no!” It was Frel. He’d pulled up his pants and found the strength to crawl over to Loreilei and examine her. “No, no, no.” He took her limp form into his arms, cradled her.

Mahaut stepped over Edgar’s body and came to kneel beside the two lovers.

“She can’t be, she can’t be gone,” moaned Frel. “It’s not fair. She was rescued. She was saved. Nothing bad should ever happen to her again. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

He truly does love her.

Mahaut did not reply. She let Frel hold Loreilei for a moment, rocking her, stroking her hair. Loreilei’s head lolled to the side.

Mahaut touched the boy’s shoulder. “You have to let her go now, Frel,” she said.

Slowly, Frel lowered Loreilei’s body to the floor. Mahaut looked down at the wound that had killed her. On her right side was a hole oozing blood.

When the shot woman’s head touched the stone floor, Loreilei gasped suddenly. Her eyes sprung open, then rolled up in her and head and closed again.

“Blood and Bones!” Mahaut leaned over, felt Loreilei’s neck for a pulse.

There. Faint, but there.

“She’s alive, Frel,” Mahaut said. Another gasping breath from Loreilei.

The girl was a fighter.

Her niece tried to speak, but only a bloody bubble emerged from her lips. Mahaut leaned over and brought her lips to Loreilei’s. She pinched her niece’s nose closed, then blew air into the mouth. Down to the lungs.

Loreilei’s chest rose. Then, with a primal heaving sound, Loreilei threw up. The bile ran onto the floor, mingling with her blood. But after that, the girl breathed more easily.

“You stay with her,” she said to Frel. “I’ll go and get help. Can you do that?”

Frel nodded.

“Good.” Mahaut rose. The hem of her tunic and the knees of her leggings were now soaked with Loreilei’s blood. And that of her husband. She turned and stepped over Edgar’s prone body.

Then she spun back around. The arrow, point first, was still sticking up from Edgar’s back.

No need to let that go to waste. I might need it again soon.

Mahaut reached down. She got a good grip on the shaft. With a yank, she pulled it the rest of the way through.

Then, putting the arrow, slick with blood, into the quiver that hung at her side, Mahaut went to find enough servants to transport her niece to Mahaut’s own quarters.

She did not send for a doctor. Instead, she settled down in a chair beside the bed. She had a cot brought in to sleep on.

It would start all over again. The picking through the wound for ball shrapnel, the boiled bandages. The long wait to see if any of it had worked.

She was nursing Loreilei when Edgar was buried in the Family yard on a small rise outside of Bruneberg. No one insisted she go. No one came to get her. She might have made the effort, despite it all, but Loreilei needed her. The living needed her.

Mahaut didn’t make it to Edgar Jacobson’s funeral.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 39

Trial By Fire – Snippet 39

Chapter Eighteen

Washington, D.C., Earth

Downing paused by his office’s outer door long enough to switch off the central power and data conduits. As he opened the door and shrugged into his coat, every circuit except for those which monitored the wall-embedded faraday cage physically disconnected from the power grid with a thrunk.

Even before he got the door closed, his palmcom buzzed in a pattern reserved for IRIS-related personnel. He tapped his collarcom. “Downing.”

“Hello, Uncle Richard?” Elena. Sounding contrite. A tone of voice he wasn’t much accustomed to, coming from her.

“Hello, Elena.”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I left with a snide remark.”

“Understandable, Elena.” Nice getting an apology. In this business, he was usually the one making, not receiving them. “What can I do for you, dear?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about–oh, wait a minute. Is Trevor there?”

“No. He left the office just a few minutes after you did.”

“I see.”

Downing waited, began to wonder at the length of the pause–

“Uncle Richard, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Certainly.”

“Not over the phone. Over dinner. My treat.”

“Well”–he looked at his watch–”I suppose so. Where do you wish to go?”

“Papillon.”

“Elena, that’s in Alexandria, rather off my beaten path. I know you’re fond of the ambiance, but–”

“Well, that’s just it, Uncle Richard. What I want to talk to you about is–well, it’s personal.”

“I see. Well then, yes, of course. Papillon it is. What time would you like to meet there?”

“A little after seven?”

“Can we make it a bit later?”

“Have you tried to get in there recently? They’re so swamped by eight PM, you’ll wait an hour just to get your salad.”

Richard checked his watch. “Fair enough. I’m going to have to step lively if I want to make it on time. See you there.”

“See you.”

As the elevator opened, he checked the IT security protocol update from Langley. They were recommending full surge protection measures from seven PM onward, full shut-down where feasible. Hmmm, expecting a lively night when the Arat Kur realize they’re not getting a reply to their new demands? Downing began buttoning his coat as the doors slid closed.

*   *   *

As Opal exited the cab with the groceries and prescription vitamins and supplements, she paged her townhouse, activated its welcome protocols, and checked her palmcom: no calls, no messages, or data to any of her accounts. She went up the stairs two at a time, grazed the print-reader with her thumb, inserted the mechanical key, and entered.

–and immediately saw the red light flashing rapidly on the house-control screen, just beyond the vestibule: not a casual message. A high priority send, either from a government source, or relayed through a government server. She plunked her shopping down unceremoniously on the table next to the coat rack and pressed the flashing light to trigger an immediate display.

It was a letter, and it was from Caine.

Opal:

I am being allowed to send a brief message while under direct Arat Kur supervision. It may be the last you receive from me for a while, since I am waiting to board a shuttle that will, I am told, take me down to Jakarta.

I am well. My time at Barnard’s Star was interesting. And my time with the Arat Kur since then has been very informative.

I’m sorry this letter has to remain so general and bland, but I literally have two Arat Kur warders staring over my shoulder as I write it. However, please trust me when I tell you that, under no circumstances, including direct orders from Downing or any other superior, should you try to come to Jakarta. Based on what little I have seen of the planetbound military traffic, and the scant situation reports that my hosts have shared with me, the situation in Indonesia is becoming increasingly unpredictable and violent.

Please please please remain where you are and stay safe. And if you happen to–

MESSAGE ENDS. TRANSMISSION TERMINATED AT THE SOURCE.

Opal stepped back from the screen, realized she’d started crying. She didn’t stop to wipe her face, but slammed open the door into the hall closet. Sorry, Caine. Can’t take your advice. And I can’t wait for Downing to send me off to rescue you, probably with a bad team and a bad plan that’s likely to get both of us killed. Assuming he’d even give me the green-light in time. It’s three to one odds that poor, sweet Trevor is going to get crucified when Case Timber Pony gets exposed while in-country and that you’ll be left swinging in the breeze before I can get you out.

Nope, I’m not waiting. I know what needs to be done, and I’m going to get about doing it. Right now.

Uniform, boots, sidearm went into her gym bag. She wished she had web gear, but she’d take care of that as soon as she got to San Diego. That’s where scuttlebutt said the action was. Lots of boots were converging on that Pacific gateway port, more than remained in the billets there. Lots more. So they were getting shipped out to somewhere in the Pacific, and given what she’d heard in Downing’s office and in Caine’s message, she had a pretty good idea of where that would be.

Pulling the remaining gear out of the closet, she smiled through her still blurred vision. And if you thought I was just going to wait for you here, Caine Riordan, then you don’t know this country girl. Not by a fucking country mile, you don’t.

From low orbit to Jakarta, Earth

Flanked by a pair of combat-suited Arat Kur, Caine waited to board the shuttle while the Arat Kur administrator he had come to know as Urzueth Ragh attempted to engage him in small talk. “I conjecture that you are looking forward to returning to Earth. I know our improvised accommodations cannot have been very pleasing.”

Caine had no intention of replying, but glancing over, saw that Urzueth remained focused upon him, evincing the peculiarly canted posture which, in Arat Kur, indicated a resolve to wait. In perpetuity, if need be. Caine relented. “I have appreciated the many efforts you made at accommodating our unusual needs. The representatives of the Homenest have been most gracious.”

“As are you, for saying so,” Urzueth said with the bob that signified more than a nod but less than a bow. “But on the other point, are you not gratified to be returning home?”

Caine considered how to respond truthfully, but not provocatively. “Not under these conditions.”

Urzueth seemed distressed, but not particularly surprised. “I regret that the situation is so–discordant–on your planet, right now.”

Caine was not able to let that blithe euphemism pass unremarked. “I was not aware that ‘discordant’ was synonymous with ‘invasion,’ in the Arat Kur language.”

“Invasion?” Urzueth now seemed genuinely surprised. “It is true we have invaded this system, but not your planet.”

Caine turned to look at the Arat Kur directly. “Perhaps I have misinterpreted the updates from you and Darzhee Kut regarding the establishment of a blockade around Indonesia, your seizure of its mass driver, and the imposition of a no-fly restriction on the entirety of my planet?”

“You are correct in your recitation of the facts, Caine Riordan, but incorrect in attributing the causes. It is true that we imposed the no-fly restriction unilaterally, but we did so in order to fulfill our obligations to the human authorities who have invited us to protect the mass driver from sabotage, and Indonesia from extranational conquest.”

Caine was so stunned that he could only get out the words, “And who invited you–?” before the pressure door into the shuttle landing bay finally opened. The answer to Caine’s half-asked question walked through it.

A slender young woman wearing what amounted to CoDevCo livery stepped into the passenger and cargo marshalling area in which Caine and Urzueth waited. She extended a hand; her voice was soft, almost shy. “Mr. Riordan, I am Eimi Singh. I am here to escort you planetside, along with our exosapient guests.” She turned to Urzueth. “Is everyone gathered and ready, esteemed Administrator Urzueth? We have a fairly tight operational window, the flight crew tells me.”

“Not just yet, Ms. Singh. We are still awaiting–my error; here they are. The security consultants Mr. Ruap requested. Just over from their ship, I believe.”

 

Caine turned. Two Hkh’Rkh in battle gear emerged from the inter-bay access corridor and stalked toward the group, their massive, sloped shoulders swaying slightly from side to side as they approached.

Urzueth turned back to Caine. “Now, you wished to know who invited us to assist in your planet’s affairs, Caine Riordan?”

Riordan turned away. “You have just answered that question. Quite clearly.”

*   *   *

The CoDevCo shuttle did seem to be on a tight schedule. As soon as its attitude control thrusters had pushed it backward out of the bay, it performed a one-hundred-eighty-degree tumble, followed by a one-hundred-eighty-degree roll, and then nosed down into a fairly steep angle toward the atmosphere. Caine, at a window seat, affected a distracted hundred-meter stare to cover his intense scrutiny of every detail of every ship he could see. He had all of about half a minute in which he would be able to make observations.

In addition to a host of specifics which he hoped he would not forget if he ever got debriefed by naval technical intelligence experts, he was immediately struck by a profound overall impression of the Arat Kur warships in general. They were not, in fact, warships. Not in any permanent sense, at least. On close inspection, they appeared more like multipurpose designs.

As the shuttle accelerated briskly planetside, he glimpsed what looked like a frigate being serviced by a tender. But, in actuality, they were the same class of ship, or would have appeared so at a fast glance. Detailed study revealed that the majority of their differences were ultimately modular in nature. The frigate had a larger engine deck, had a greater number of thruster pods, and had launch bays in place of cargo containers. But otherwise, the similarities between the craft were marked.

Passing another hull–a small mothership for atmo-interface craft–Caine noted the same style of construction, and the exact same thruster pods he had seen on both the frigate and the tender.