Eric Flint's Blog, page 305

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 13

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Interview With the Artist

The apartment door opened in front of me, at least to the limit that the chain on it would permit. Two bright blue eyes looked somewhat up at me, framed by blue-black hair and set in a pretty, well-defined face. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“I’m Jason Wood.”

“Oh, right, Dad’s expecting you! Hold on, I’ll get the chain off here.” The door closed. I heard rattling, and “Dad! Your guest’s here!”

When the door opened, I saw Sky Hashima walking towards me, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mr. Wood, please come in.” He shook my hand. “This is my daughter, Star,” he said, and I shook hands with the girl who had greeted me. “Star, we’ll be in my studio — this probably won’t take long, but please don’t disturb us.”

“Okay, Dad. You want anything to drink, Dad, Mr. Wood?”

I smiled at her; she obviously knew something was important about my visit. “A soda would be nice — ginger ale?”

“We’ve got that. Dad? Water for you?”

“For now, yes. Thank you, Star.”

Sky led the way into his studio; his hair was longer than his daughter’s, but despite traces of silver here and there, was otherwise just as night-dark. Their features were also similar enough; there wasn’t any doubt about who her father was, and in this case that was a good thing for Star. “A very polite young lady.”

Sky gave a small chuckle. “Ahh, that’s because she thinks you might be a good thing for her dad. If she thought you were trouble, you’d have needed a crowbar to get inside the house.”

“And when she’s old enough to date, I’m sure you’ll be just as protective.”

“Star will be old enough to date when she’s ninety. I’ve told her that already.” We shared another chuckle at that. “I recall meeting you at that little show I did at one of the libraries, Mr. Wood, but I didn’t think you were really interested in art.”

“I’m not, really,” I confessed. “Thanks, Star,” I said, as she came in, handed us each a glass, and left. “I came to that show with Sylvie, who is interested in art and found some of your pieces quite fascinating. But I do have a few other acquaintances who have more than a passing interest in art.”

“And…?”

“And it so happens that one of them is looking to find people to sponsor — to be a sort of patron of the arts. I remembered you and wanted to see what kind of work you were doing, and if (a) you were serious about it, and (b) you were willing to meet with him to discuss it.” I studied some of the canvases set around the studio. One thing that impressed me was Sky’s versatility; I saw paintings which were, to my uneducated gaze, random blots of colors, shapes, and streaks, and others which were landscapes or scenes of such sharp realism you almost thought they were windows rather than paintings, and some in-between, which really didn’t follow the accurate shapes or lines yet somehow conveyed the essence of the thing he was depicting.

Sky had an expression that was almost disbelieving; I realized that it must sound almost like that classic of Hollywood myth, working in a restaurant and being discovered by the famous director who stopped in for a cup of coffee. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all. Would you like to meet him, then?”

“If he’s ready, I’ll go right now.”

I laughed. “Not quite that fast — I have to let him know, then he’ll either set up the meeting, or have me do it. He’s a bit eccentric –”

“That’s almost a requirement for being a private patron these days. Patronage used to be standard practice, back in Leonardo’s day, but those days… long gone.” He took a gulp from his glass and looked at me. “The answer to the first question is yes, I am serious about it. I make an okay living from my framing work, but if you look around you must realize that the stuff I’m producing represents major investment of time and effort. I could do an awful lot of other things with the money I spend on my art, but my art’s worth it to me.” He smiled again. “That doesn’t mean I’m at all averse to seeing my art start making money rather than taking money, however.”

I grinned back. “Excellent. Now, why don’t you just show me a few of your favorites here and explain to me what you’re doing, so I can give my friend a capsule overview and he’ll know what to expect.”

Sky was only too pleased to do that, and I spent a good half-hour or more listening to him describe his intentions and techniques in several of his works. I noticed that he, like almost all artists I’ve ever met, mentioned all the myriad ways in which his works failed to live up to his expectations. It’s always been a source of frustration that someone can produce something that’s clearly amazing, and all they can think about is how it is flawed — often in ways that no one but they themselves can see. It does however seem to be an almost required characteristic for an artist, and I’ve heard similar things about writers.

Finally I shook hands with him again and left. “Thank you, Sky. I’ll be getting back to you very soon. Nice meeting you, Star.”

A short time later I pulled up into the curved driveway which was becoming increasingly familiar to me, and smiled to Morgan as he opened the door. “Good evening, sir. Master Verne is in the study.”

“Morgan, do you ever get tired of playing the butler?”

He gave me a raised eyebrow and slightly miffed expression in reply. “Playing, sir? This is my place in the household, and I assure you it is precisely what I wanted. I have, with some variation in regional standards of propriety, been performing these duties for considerably longer than the Pharaohs endured, sir, and had I found the task overall onerous or distasteful, I assure you I would have asked Master Verne for a change.”

People like Morgan gave the phrase “faithful retainer” an entirely new, and impressive, meaning. “Sorry. It’s just that it sometimes strikes me you’re too good to be true.”

He smiled with a proper level of reserve. “I strive to be good at my job, sir. I feel that a gentleman such as Master Verne deserves to have a household worthy of his age and bloodline, and therefore I shall endeavor to maintain his home at a proper level of respectability.”

“And you succeed admirably, old friend,” Verne said as we entered. “Jason, every member of my household has chosen their lifestyle and I would never hold them to me, if any of them chose to leave. It has been a great pleasure, and immense vindication, that not one of my personal staff has ever made that choice… though on occasion, as of my recent descent into less-than-respectable business, they have made clear some of their personal fears and objections.” He put away a book that he had been reading and gestured for me to sit down as Morgan left. “I have been taking up some considerable portion of your time, Jason. I hope I am not interfering in your personal life — your friends Sylvia and Renee, for instance, are not suffering your absence overly much?”

I laughed. “No, no. Syl’s off on some kind of convention for people in her line of work and isn’t coming back for something like a week from now, and I only get together with Renee once in a while. Most of my other friends, sad to say, aren’t in this area — they’ve gone off to college, moved, and so on, so I only talk with them via phone or email. Really. So have no fear, I’m at your disposal for at least the next week or so; the only other big job I have at the moment I can work on during the day.”

“Excellent.” Morgan came in with his usual sinfully tempting tray of hors d’oeuvres and snacks. “By the way, Morgan, have there been any further problems from my erstwhile business associates?”

“No, sir. They have found that it is not easy to intrude here and have apparently given up after I was forced to injure the one gentleman at the store.”

“Very good. I shall send another message to Carmichael emphasizing that I will be extremely displeased if any more such incidents happen, but it does appear he has learned something about futility.” He turned back to me. “And how did your meeting go?”

“I think he’d be a great choice, Verne. He’s clearly serious about his work, and with my limited grasp of art I think his stuff is really, really good. If you want to meet with him, he’s willing to meet any time you name.”

“Then let us not keep him waiting overlong. Tomorrow evening, at about seven, let us say.”

“I’ll give him a call now.” Suiting actions to words, I picked up a phone and called Sky Hashima. As he’d implied, he was more than willing to meet then, and assured me that he’d be able to assemble a reasonable portfolio by that time.

“I’m glad you’re going to check him over yourself,” I confessed. “I know just enough about art to know that I really don’t know the difference between ‘illustration’ and ‘art,’ and that the latter is what you are interested in.”

Verne smiled. I was, at least, getting used to seeing the fangs at various moments, although I also had to admit that they weren’t that obvious; someone who didn’t know what he was would quite probably just assume he had oddly long canines. “You may be confident, my friend, that I would still wish to see for myself even were you an expert in all things artistic. If I will sponsor anyone, it will be because I am convinced the person deserves my support. Now that that is settled,” he said, pulling out a chessboard, “would you care for a game?”

I pulled my chair up to the table. “Sure… if you take black and a queen handicap. You’ve got a few years on me.”

“A queen? A rook.”

“You’re on.”

 

The Savior – Snippet 07

The Savior – Snippet 07

It was time to put a stop to it.

When they reached the interrogation site, Timon saluted von Hoff with a hand across the breast.

“Which one?” von Hoff asked, nodding toward the prisoners.

Timon pointed out Bara. “That one, sir.”

Von Hoff strode forward and knelt beside Bara. He scowled, but spoke to the Hurthman in a low, friendly tone. Abel had gotten in position to translate, but, to Abel’s surprise, his colonel spoke the Hurthish patois tolerably well.

“What I want to know,” said the colonel, “is how many other militia bands like yours are there?”

“Want my mar,” said the youth, gasping between his words. “Want to go home.”

Instead of answering, von Hoff reached out with a hand and placed it on the rope above the young man’s head.

“I won’t lie to you. Your chances of going home are not good.” Von Hoff leaned over and casually applied pressure to the rope. “Now, how many other bands are there? Where are they heading?”

“I don’t…know, sir,” Bara gasped.

Von Hoff shifted his weight, pressing down harder on the rope.

One of the Hurthman’s elbows seem to disintegrate — the cartilage that held the bones parted — and Bara flopped down to one side, his right elbow bent in the opposite direction from its usual fold.

Bara screamed a rasping, almost silent scream, like steam escaping from a pot with a tight lid. Abel glanced at von Hoff. He was trembling, deliberately controlling his breathing, a terrible scowl on his face.

The colonel is not enjoying this, Abel thought.

Von Hoff seemed to have had enough with the young Hurthman. He rose, set his jaw firmly, and moved to another of the staked men.

This man was older. The screams of Bara had agitated him — which had perhaps been von Hoff’s purpose. The older Hurthman was grunting and feebly struggling against his bonds.

Von Hoff put a hand to the rope that bound his ankles, pressed down. “The youngster won’t answer me, and will die in agony for it. So I’ll ask you,” said the colonel, still in the patois. “How many others?”

This man bit his lip until blood ran, but then something inside him seemed to crumble and he answered in a dry, choking whisper. “Seventeen that I know of, bossman, sir,” he said. Von Hoff eased the pressure, but left his hand on the rope.

“Seventeen bands from Hurth?”

“Yes, bossman, sir.”

“Go on.”

“The seventeen First Families, they were to put in two bands apiece, the way I heard it. Twenty men each. One to fight and one to go scouting.” The man closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Tears welled from his tightly shut eyes. “For the love of the Law, please remove your hand, bossman, sir.”

“All right.” Von Hoff pulled his hand back and stood up. “But my officers may have other questions.” The colonel turned to Abel. “Anything, Major?”

Abel asked the obvious question. “Is there a general agreement between Progar and the Blaskoye? Do all the scouts travel along the Rim?”

Timon took the colonel’s place and touched his fingers against the rope that bound the man’s wrists. One tap was enough to send a paroxysm of agony across the man’s visage.

“Your answer?” said Timon. He took the pressure from the rope.

The Hurthman cried out, gasped to catch his breath.

“Yes. It is known. The eastern paths are open if Kerensky of the Blaskoye has sent guides.”

“So other bands such as this one might be lying in wait as we march,” von Hoff said. He smiled grimly. “Well, we know what to look for.”

The colonel turned to Timon. “Get him out of that contraption, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

Timon motioned to one of his men, who stepped forward with a knife and followed von Hoff’s orders. The Hurthmen lay gasping and moaning on the ground. There was no question of any getting up to flee, even if there were a chance at escape. None of them presently had working joints with which to do so.

Colonel von Hoff brushed the dust from his pants. “I think we’re finished here,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Timon replied. “And what’s to be done with them, Colonel?”

Von Hoff shrugged. “Suggestions?”

Timon answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Recommend crucifixion, sir.”

Von Hoff put a hand to his chin and considered the groaning prisoners. “Yes, that will do, I suppose.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“No, please, master bossman, sir!” one of the Hurthmen called out. The prisoners may have spoken Hurthish, but they understood the word “crucifixion” well enough. It was the same word in Hurthish.

Von Hoff glanced at the group with distaste, then turned back to Timon. “Captain, pierce those Progar tongues with their own nishterlaub crossbow bolts while you’re at it,” he said. “That should be a display the locals won’t forget. Someone of the Land let them pass through the eastern fields without alerting us, after all.”

He turned to Abel. “What was the platoon that was attacked, Major?”

“Friday Company, the Second, sir.”

“See that these prisoners are staked along the roadside near the Friday Company encampment. They’ll want to see justice done.”

“Yes, sir.”

Abel showed them the way to the roadside and stood by to watch as ordered.

Timon knew his business. When they reached the spot for the crucifixion, dawn was beginning to break. Timon’s interrogation baggage train carried three wagonloads of stakes for crucifixion.

Of course they do. Stout riveroak is scare anywhere north of the Delta.

The stakes were lashed to daks. Likewise, the prisoners had been slung over daks and tied in place as well. Once at the roadside site, the riveroak was quickly drilled and beaten together to form crosses. The interrogation detail used wooden dowels made of heartwood maple from the Delta as fasteners.

By the time they arrived, some of the prisoners had recovered enough to stand upright. These were made to dig holes by the roadside. They were then ordered to strip naked and place their remaining clothes — only a loincloth at this point — and sandals in a pile.

A group of four of Timon’s soldiers laid each Hurthmen upon his cross. This was done gently, not out of pity, but to insure proper alignment for the nails that would be driven through wrists and feet.

When his turn came, Bara struggled momentarily, broke free, and tried to crawl away, but Timon kicked him hard, professionally, and the Hurthman stopped moving. This time, Bara’s arms were bound to the crosspiece to hold him in place.

Timon’s squad worked as a well-honed unit. The backs of the wrists and feet were aligned with perpendicular grooves previously drilled in the crosspieces. Then maple stakes were driven through wrists and through the bone cluster on the top of the feet, out the back, and into the grooves. The result was a neat tongue-and-groove bond that was tighter than mere nails driven into wood might have been.

The prisoners writhed and groaned at first. They were soon made silent when their tongues were pulled out with tongs and a crossbow bolt driven through each tongue’s flesh.

Some tried to rip the metal rod through their tongue by pressing it against the inside of the lip in order to rip the bolt out. None succeeded.

Tongues are made of some tough meat, Abel thought grimly.

Upon Timon’s order, the crosses were lifted up, along with the men hammered to them. Each cross was dropped into its hole. Stones were piled at their bases to hold them upright. The staked men were perhaps two elbs from the ground, but the distance might as well have been a hundred leagues. Their feet would never touch the earth again while they lived.

Timon had placed them on the western side of the road, facing east. Dawn brightened to day. The sun rose over the Rim, and the crucified men closed their eyes against the sudden brightness.

Abel considered for a moment whether or not to order them blinded in order to avoid the slow torture of the rising sun in their eyes. It went beyond his colonel’s orders, and he wasn’t sure Timon would do it in any case.

Best not, lad. The sun in their eyes is the least of their worries, said Raj. Besides, you still have the dead to bury, don’t you?

Yes, I do, Abel thought. The Friday Company funeral. He’d almost forgotten.

 

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 12

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Mystery of a Brother

“Sure, Syl — I’d love to go out tomorrow. You want a movie or something else?”

“How about Sabers of Twilight? I’ve heard that one’s a lot of fun and just up your alley, Jason.”

I grinned into the phone. “Because of the pretty girls in interesting costumes? Sounds fine. Odd how you don’t mention the pretty boys in tight leather outfits.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t up my alley too,” she said with a laugh. “All right, after we lock up tomorrow then.”

“See you!”

I turned back to the pictures on my screen. This is a real possibility.

Verne had given me the go-ahead to both start figuring out how to put select pieces of his collection onto the market, and to start helping him find proper clients that he could be a patron of. The first part was not terribly hard; it was more a matter of deciding how much should be sold and how much should be donated, since a lot of the really valuable stuff was considered national treasure by places like Egypt. While Verne’s possession of these treasures was (obviously) far before the cut-off date at which such possession would be considered theft, it was still a matter of political delicacy and publicity; giving the treasures, at least the most high-profile ones, back to their original owners for display, would earn Verne a lot of respect.

If, of course, we could keep people from asking too many of the wrong questions.

The other side was somewhat harder. In the long run, Verne would probably do the selecting himself — he was after all the guy who was supposed to be the patron and knew a lot more about art than I ever would. But he was also busy… rebuilding himself, I guess would be the way to put it. The Verne Domingo I now spoke to was rather different than the one I’d first met, and I knew part of that was through making an effort to re-connect with his older self, and with the people who had followed him through history.

I’d remembered an art show I’d gone to with Syl some time back, and seeing the paintings online confirmed my memory. There was something special there, even to my casual eye. This Sky Hashima was a good candidate, and even better, he was local.

The door chimed, and I glanced at the clock in surprise. It is that time already.

Xavier Ross sat down nervously. “So… did you…”

“You were right, Xavier,” I said without beating around the bush. Taking the laptop from the drawer I’d kept it in, I handed it back to the young man. “There were other entries during that period of time. Someone deliberately erased them, and a pretty large amount of other data too, before the police got their hands on the machine.”

He leaned forward. “Is there… anything that tells us what he was doing?”

I shook my head. “Not much. There were quite a few missing entries — looks like he was on the trail of whatever-it-was for at least three months. A couple of earlier entries had been modified after their apparent date, so probably there were hints even as long as five months ago, but from what you said your brother knew how to keep a secret.

“What’s in those entries, though… I can’t get much of anything. Whoever did the erasure knew what they were doing. I only got a few cryptic phrases out of dozens of entries – I’ve collected them here,” I handed him an envelope, “And one last interesting point.”

“Well?”

“The most recently tampered-with files I managed to get enough out of to see that they were written in the format he used as a tickler file for travel. He had apparently bought himself a ticket to JFK Airport in New York City — he was supposed to be leaving within a few hours of the time he died. Since the police didn’t seem to look into it, I’d guess he’d done so with cash, under another identity.”

“Really? Where do you think he was going?” Xavier blinked. “Wait, another identity?”

“Not entirely unheard of for people looking into dangerous stuff. He probably had used this other ID several times.”

“Can you … find out more about what he was doing? Track him, now that you know something?”

I frowned. “I… guess I could do a little more searching. If I can figure out his alternate ID or IDs, that’d make it a lot easier. But that’s way out of the work we’d already agreed on.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

I hesitated. He’s really … obsessing over this. I could tell by the intensity in his gaze that this was desperately important to him. I’d also checked with Renee about the case, so I knew that Xavier simply didn’t agree with their conclusions.

I also knew that Renee wasn’t entirely happy with the way the Los Angeles police had closed the file, either, but she had no say in the matter. It was their jurisdiction; this was just where the victim’s family lived.

“All right,” I said after a moment. “I’ll see if I can trace where he went and what he did. That’ll be a thousand-dollar retainer, though; I have no idea how hard this will be.”

After I ran his card and he left, holding the laptop tightly to him, I stared out the window for a while. I didn’t have whatever weird sense Syl used, but I was very used to trusting my instincts. Most of the time, when the police investigate a case and close it, it’s because they’ve actually found the perpetrator and the case is closed.

But my gut said that in this case, Xavier Ross was right to be uncertain; it wasn’t just what I’d found on that machine, but what Renee had said. If Lieutenant Renee Reisman wasn’t happy with the way a case had been solved, that was enough for me; something wasn’t right. Unfortunately, while the answers the police had given Xavier didn’t take into account this evidence, getting them to reopen the case directly on what amounted to stuff that wasn’t there? That would be a tough, tough call.

“Okay, Jason,” I said to myself. “Let’s see if we can trail someone who didn’t want to be found.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 24

Trial By Fire – Snippet 24

Chapter Twelve

Adrift off Barnard’s Star 2 C

Caine’s voice startled Trevor out of his daze. “You feeling any better?”

“Sure. Fine.” Trevor clenched his torso against the shiver that coursed through him.

Caine frowned. “Even though your temp and pulse are back to normal, you’re still cold from shock and exhibiting impaired movement, particularly in the left arm.”

“You done, doc?”

Caine leaned back. “I’m just trying to help.”

And that is of course true, and I’m just pissed that I had to depend on a rookie to get back here to our module. That impairment had made for an interesting return from the alien wreck: semiconscious EVA veteran Trevor Corcoran riding piggyback on EVA neophyte Caine Riordan for more than a minute. If my old SEAL instructor Stosh had seen it, I’d never hear the end of it.

Fortunately, what Riordan lacked in training and experience, he had made up for in common sense. Or so it seemed to Trevor, who closed his eyes and tried to recall what had happened after he had started to mumble and stumble on the Arat Kur ship. He vaguely remembered Riordan linking several tethers and reeling the exosapient across the gap between the wrecks after he and Trevor were secure on the module: a suitably undignified transit for the murderous overgrown cockroach.

After cycling through the airlock, he recalled Caine removing his spacesuit and examining him, talking as he went. “Trevor, I want you to hear what I’m seeing, so you can tell me how best to help you. Minor burn marks on the right palm, apparently where the current entered. Seems like the suit’s anticonductivity layer helped considerably. Your fine motor control still seems poor. Are your ears still ringing?” Trevor seemed to recall nodding, or maybe he had just intended to do so.

In the three minutes it took Caine to conduct his layman’s examination, Trevor had felt himself relapsing into shock. Caine hustled him back into his emergency suit, set the internal temperature to twenty-five degrees centigrade, and threatened mutiny if his superior officer attempted anything more strenuous than closing his eyelids.

Which Trevor may have done for a while; he wasn’t sure. However, his next memory was of Caine dragging the alien–still by the tow line and none-too-gently–down to the lower level of the module, the ponderous creature floating lightly through zero-gee like an improbable, lopsided balloon on an industrial-strength string. After sealing the presumed Arat Kur in one of the deactivated rooms, he had returned to the control room and instructed the computer to restore minimal environmental functions in the makeshift prison cell: heat, air, and light.

Meanwhile, Trevor had slipped back into the doze-daze from which Caine had now just solicitously roused him. And for which Trevor’s expression of gratitude had been a facetious jibe about his amateur doctoring. Trevor sought a conversational olive branch: “You’re getting better at your zero-gee turns. A little awkward yet, but that will come with time. How’s our pal?”

“Some pal. He’s all right I guess, but who can really tell? He just lays–well, floats–there.”

“Which is a bit of a problem, since getting him was only step one. Now we’ve got to correct the ship’s two-axis tumble. Also, we took too many rads today. We’ve got to reach some shielding soon or we’re cooked. So we’re going to need to learn how to communicate with our pal pronto. Fortunately, I think we’re off to a good start. Your one message to him so far got through loud and clear.”

“You mean ‘stop being troublesome or I shoot’? That got through because it was simple and universal.”

“I disagree. It got through because the alien was motivated–highly motivated–to understand it.” Trevor removed his helmet, ran a gloved hand through his hair. “I think we have to maintain that level of motivation if we’re going to get anywhere.”

“If you’re wrong, however, then all we’re going to do is widen the current rift between us.”

Trevor shrugged. “If the creature has genuine cause to believe that it will die unless it cooperates, then it will be sure to find a way to bridge that rift.”

Caine frowned. “That assumption is predicated upon human behavior patterns.”

“So? What else do we have to work with? We have to proceed from a known commonality–self preservational instincts–and aggressively exploit that.”

Caine shook his head. “I don’t think it’s going to be that simple. Even if we use intimidation, and I’m not ready to, fear won’t work unless it’s placed within a meaningful context.”

Trevor stopped in the middle of removing a glove. “What do you mean, ‘context’?”

“Let’s say we employ threat and it works. The alien is scared. Scared for its life. Then what? How do we tell it what we want? We still have a critical gap in communication. It doesn’t know what it must do to alleviate the negative stimuli. More specifically, it doesn’t know how to communicate its intention to cooperate, because it doesn’t even know our words or gestures of propitiation.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we try to learn more about our prisoner.”

“And how are we going to learn more about a creature that won’t, or can’t, talk with us?”

“Let’s start with the basics: physiology. What you said about their ship architecture also holds true for living things, too: form follows function. Maybe a detailed look at what we suspect to be an Arat Kur body will give us some insights into the species’ psychology.”

“Maybe. Maybe it will simply give the bastard another opportunity to attack us.”

“I doubt it,” Caine disagreed. “We still have the gun, and it’s displayed a thorough understanding of what that means.”

“Yes, but perhaps it’s had time to formulate a new strategy. Suicide, for instance.”

“Trevor, if the Arat Kur wants to commit suicide, then we’re done for. Neither positive nor negative stimuli will compel it to cooperate.”

“That’s not necessarily true.” Trevor chose his next words carefully; he was sure that the idea behind them would not be popular. “Negative stimuli can produce results even when a subject wishes to die.”

Caine looked up. “Trevor, are you talking about torture?”

Trevor tried to find the carefully oblique phrases that were the stock-in-trade of official milspeak, gave up. “Yes, torture. If necessary.”

Caine shook his head. “Trevor, leaving ethics aside for a moment, let’s recall our intel and survival objective: that the alien communicates with us. Sure, if you use pain, you might make him talk. Or, on the other hand, because the alien’s psychology and physiology cause it to have radically different reactions, it might clam up for good. Then instead of having the possibility of getting answers, we find ourselves facing the certainty of death.” Caine stared straight into Trevor’s eyes. “Besides, we might owe him.”

“We owe him? What and why in hell do we owe him anything?”

Caine maintained his unblinking stare. “How did his ship get nailed?”

“Hazawa’s PDF laser. Damn good shooting.”

“No argument. But why did this particular exosapient even come into range of that weapon? Why did Hazawa even have a chance to shoot at him?”

“He–” Oh Christ. “All right, we were running a diplomatic beacon: a white flag. It was wrong, but it was also a mistake. On the other hand, these bastards have invaded our territory and, judging from yesterday’s results, killed a shitload of our brothers and sisters in arms. That wasn’t a mistake. It was coldblooded murder. This little shit is a soldier. He’s earned whatever he gets.”

“How do you know he’s a soldier?”

“What?”

“What if this Arat Kur is not a soldier? Remember what you said about his craft: not much like a military design. Maybe that’s because it isn’t part of their military. In which case, maybe he isn’t, either. In that case, we’d be torturing an Arat Kur civilian, possibly to death, whom we ambushed while showing a white flag.”

Trevor closed his eyes. The ethical issues had become even more murky than his vision and more uncertain than his balance. “Okay, then what do you suggest we do?”

“We suit up to go below and meet our prisoner.”

*   *   *

Trevor saw Caine’s feet disappear into the access way leading to their module’s lower deck. Ironically, Riordan was now better moving in zero-gee than Trevor, who bumped awkwardly along after him, left arm dragging and his legs twitching at inopportune moments. Trevor swam through a gauntlet of orange emergency lights to catch up with Caine at the Arat Kur’s prison cell and produced the handgun. Caine nodded, overrode the lock on the door, and pushed himself forward–into darkness.

“Damn it. I meant to turn the lights on in here.” Caine’s helmet lights winked on, played quickly about the room.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 02

Polychrome – Chapter 02

Chapter 2.

I snapped the computer case shut and locked down the screws. “All set.”

“Thanks, Erik.” Lisa said with a tired smile. “You didn’t have to –”

“No, I didn’t, but it wasn’t a big deal and you need that thing running tomorrow. Don’t we finish the next big volume for State Legal this week?”

“Yes, you’re right. But –”

“No buts.” I was actually exhausted myself – repairing three machines that had chosen to, as an English acquaintance of mine used to say, go “tits up” all at once was a pain in the butt. And not, technically, my job, though at Pinebush Publishing I sort of got all the technical jobs that weren’t technically mine, whenever I was around. But the exhaustion probably contributed to my being honest. “You’re some of the few people I managed to keep from offending at one point or another, so it’s worth it.”

Lisa blinked at me in surprise. She was a very pretty, very tall young woman – 30, which I suppose wouldn’t be young for some, but was for me – with hazel eyes and short brown-blond hair. “You’ve muttered things like that a couple of times before, Erik, but I honestly can’t understand why. You’ve almost never said anything offensive in all the years you’ve been here.”

I sighed and sat down. “Maybe offended isn’t the right word for a lot of it. But…” I glanced at her, purse in her hand. “Do you really want to hear the answer, or do you want to get home?”

“Is it really that long?”

“That’s a rather personal question, sir!” I said in a Monty Python voice, and she gave a rather unladylike snorting chuckle in response. “There’s the Reader’s Digest version, I guess. When I came here I had just started… growing up. Yeah, I know, I was 30 and now I’m staring at the big Five-O. Only relationship I’d had for any length of time had blown up just a bit before. I had about twenty years of being a rebellious angsty teenager before I decided to reach my 20s, so I actually never figured out what the hell I wanted to do with my life – so I didn’t do anything.” I didn’t want to go into the details – it would sound like self-pitying whining. Probably would be self-pitying whining. Might even be already.

“You? Angsty? Erik, I’ve known you since I started working here six years ago and one thing I admire about you is that I didn’t think angst and you even knew each other.”

“Okay,” I amended, “Not usually angsty, at least not where other people could see it. But interested more in having fun – of the pretty quiet geeky kind – than doing Serious Work, and…” I shook my head. “Ahhhh, never mind. I wouldn’t have said anything about it if I wasn’t so tired. I don’t want to complain about my life; for everything bad, I’ve ended up with at least as much good. And what’s the point of stewing over it anyway? If you don’t believe in things basically working out, you’d have a pretty bleak life, I’d think. I don’t understand people who walk around thinking ‘the world is a dark and lonely place’, to quote something you won’t know.”

Lisa shook her head. “You’re right, I don’t, but at least let me tell you that whatever anyone else thought you should’ve done, everyone here is damn glad you ended up working here.”

“An opinion I intend to keep earning by doing the work I can do whenever I’m around. Now get going. I’ll lock up.”

“All right. Will you be in tomorrow?”

“I don’t think you’ll need me as long as these little monsters stay fixed. See you on Friday.”

She waved as she left; I grinned back and then went to wash up.

The conversation had stirred up some of my old, rare regrets. Well, no, not rare, but rarely indulged. I generally didn’t see the point in regretting things that were past, or at least of agonizing over them. Changing the past wasn’t possible, and so going back over what I should have said, or not have said, or done, was… well, like picking a scab off. There might be some strange fascination in it, but in the end you were just hurting yourself and interfering with the healing process.

I locked up the offices and went out to my car. Which didn’t help, because it used to be my father’s car, which reminded me of the whole conversation again. My dad had died not too disappointed in me – at least he’d seen I had a stable job and a reasonable chance at living out my life on my own – but my mom hadn’t seen enough to know that I’d started to turn things around before she’d died – during a routine examination. My brother was married, had kids, a real career, and I hadn’t really managed to do anything of significance even on the family scale, despite having been the genius of the family. Not even a steady girlfriend. Or these days not even an unsteady one; all the female possibilities in my small circle of friends had already paired up, and I had no experience of how to look – and a general, gut-level aversion to LOOKING, in that sense.

“Oh, bah. Cut this crap out,” I said out loud to myself as I pulled out of the parking lot onto the Washington Avenue Extension and turned right. “You did finally get your own life, and a job you like, which is more than a lot of people manage. You don’t have to work all that much because you’ve got a big cushion you inherited – which even fewer people have.”

I managed a smile, which stopped feeling pasted on as I noticed the magnificent view dead ahead of me: three immense thunderheads towering over Albany. I love storms, always have, and these looked like they might be delivering a doozy to the Capital Region.

And, I continued to myself, you may not ever have achieved your pipe dream of being a writer, but you still give people some fun through your imagination as a gamer. Which, again, is more than a lot of people manage.

A part of me would always feel I was a failure, I knew, but I wasn’t going to let that part dominate. I had a decent life, and it was stupid and nonproductive – and ultimately self-destructive – to insist to myself that I should have Done Something Special. Especially since THAT part of me wouldn’t even be satisfied if I’d done everything my parents had hoped for; no, that part of me was the part that never finished growing up and wanted to change the world in the kind of way that simply didn’t happen.

“There isn’t any magic in the real world.” I reminded myself, and then with a sudden grin, corrected myself. “Except that.”

“That” was one of the most magnificent rainbows I had ever seen, now looming over the city in the almost-setting summer sunshine slanting over the city. Rainbows were pure magic to me, whispering in my mind of the Bifrost Bridge and Hermes on his messenger duties, of promises of gods and leprechauns and other things, some very near to my heart. And this was an amazing rainbow, fairly blazing against the dark undersides of the clouds beyond, a second, nearly as intense bow paralleling it, a hint of a third visible at points. One end looked as though it came down in Watervliet, the other much nearer, not far from the side of I-90 – somewhere around Westgate Plaza. I drove homeward towards that brilliant arch, pretending that I would be driving under it.

Then I almost drove off the road as I realized two things:

The setting sun was ahead of me… and so was the rainbow. And the rainbow was getting closer.

Impossible, I thought to myself, staring even as I forced myself back into one of the driving lanes.  Rainbows are only visible with the light behind you! They’re products of light reflected back at you. They’re an illusion, they can’t ever be caught up to! If the rain got more intense, it might make a rainbow look like it was getting closer for a few moments… but look at that thing!

The mighty rainbow’s arch now rose so high that I had to crane my neck to see it – while constantly glancing back down to make sure I didn’t hit anyone – and the colors were so strong and real that they obscured even the brilliant white of the thunderclouds’ tops behind them. It’s impossible, but I’m seeing it.

And I found myself passing under the rainbow, one end disappearing in trees to the left, the other coming down not half a mile off… My God, it is in Westgate!

I took the Everett Road exit at a dangerously high speed considering the wet pavement, but the little Subaru only skidded a bit. More dangerous were the other gawkers. Most people might not understand why the rainbow can’t get closer, or why it’s only visible with the sun over your shoulder, but most people do know it can’t happen, and there were quite a few people following this same route to find out what was going on.

The end of the bow was off to the right now, huge as the Golden Gate Bridge and awesome as Niagara Falls, stretching up into the infinite sky. I was at Central Avenue, turning, but now the bow was fading. “No, no, no, no, NO!” I shouted hopelessly, as I saw it lifting, dwindling, disappearing, gone. I was at the entrance to the Plaza, but the rainbow had disappeared, leaving everything once more dull and ordinary and the same.

No, wait, not quite. There was a ring of people gathered in the middle of the parking lot – I couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like to be standing around the rainbow’s end – and…

I skidded the car to a stop, sitting across two spaces diagonally, and practically leaped out. There was something or someone in the middle of that circle. I couldn’t make it out, but…

“Excuse me… sorry… Let me through!” I muttered as I bulled my way into the ring of spectators, which seemed to be at least five or six people deep by now. Whoever it was in the middle – it was a person – they were not very big… moving around a lot, rhythmically, almost dancing –

No. It can’t be.

I felt a terrible chill of awe and joy, and terror that I might be utterly insane, that only grew worse as I drove through the crowd, now not even hearing the protests around me, drawn forward. It simply wasn’t possible…

But there was a flash of violet-blue eyes as she spun, laughing, answering some question, a face seen in that moment of such beauty that I could not even imagine words to describe it, golden hair drifting like rays of sunshine around a gauzy-veiled body I didn’t dare look at, hair bound only by a simple black cap, and delicate feet dancing, moving, following a phantom music that seemed in turn to follow her own motions.

I slowed and stopped at the edge of the crowd, unable to approach closer for fear that to approach would shatter the impossibility into the dull awakening moments of morning. But the feelings could not be restrained, and I heard myself speak, my voice strained with wonder, and awe, and a pure incredulous joy:

“Polychrome?“

I saw a radiant smile dawning on her face as she turned towards me. Then her gaze reached me, and the smile… faltered. It did not… quite… go away, but it was clear that she’d been expecting someone, and that someone wasn’t me. Well, big surprise there. Of course she wasn’t expecting some overpadded over-the-hill Oz fanboy.

The real question – assuming that I wasn’t dreaming or totally nuts – was what the hell she was doing here at all. I couldn’t remember any instance of Polychrome showing up outside of Faerie at all.

She took a step forward, towards me, and even though the fading of the smile had thrown a little cold water on my original dizzying elation, just that motion brought a lot of it back. “Sir? Do you … know me?”

“As surely as I know Dorothy and Ozma and Button-Bright, Lady Polychrome,” I answered, feeling that some faux-formality would at least allow me to keep from babbling like a loon.

Her lovely brow wrinkled — just a touch – as though she were thinking, trying to work something out. Then her face smoothed out, and I caught a tiny movement of her shoulders, a shrug. “Then I must speak with you, sir. Might I know your name?”

The crowd was starting to look at me, too. Oh-oh. And there’s a cop getting out of his car to see what’s going on.

“In a moment – for now, I think we need to go somewhere quieter!” I prayed she’d understand.

Fortunately, her quick gaze showed she was already thinking along those lines. “Surely, sir.”

Suddenly her hand was in mine; I felt my heart stop as it prepared to leap out of my chest, but then I forgot that as I found myself leaping for real, carried by a spectacular jump that cleared most of the crowd. I landed slightly off and stumbled, but recovered. I realized she was just going to run, and pulled back; given how easily she’d seemed to lift and carry me, I was startled by how suddenly she jolted to a halt, as though I’d been stopping a toddler. “Not that way – here!”

She blinked at the car – Of course, she probably never saw one in her entire life – but when she saw me yank open the door on my side, she simply nodded and leapt to the other side, pulling the door open and sliding into the passenger seat in a single fluid motion like a leaf settling to the ground. Thank god I cleaned the car this weekend. It’s still kinda messy, but at least there’s room in the passenger seat.

I started the engine and put the car in gear. The crowd had started to follow but none of them seemed inclined to get in the way, and the cop was just running around the side of the crowd…

I pulled out fast, heading for the main exit. For once, I was lucky with this light; it was pure green, and I went straight through. I could get into a maze of streets in that direction pretty quick, and this wasn’t something I wanted to explain to anyone. I heard Polychrome give a delighted laugh as we accelerated, apparently enjoying the novel sensation of a self-propelled vehicle. Glancing in the rearview, I could see that there were no cars following me.

With the immediate crisis over, it finally began to sink in. What the hell have I just gotten into?

 

The Savior – Snippet 06

The Savior – Snippet 06

Center’s voice cut into the vision in Abel’s mind. It is highly likely that the route took them through the Redlands itself. Observe:

Sunburnt face, sunburnt body previously pale from Northern climes. The young Hurthman had a name. It had been woven into his dont’s saddle to mark it as his property.

Center had, of course, noticed and recorded.

That name was Bara. Bara was also the Hurthish word for a type of small and harmless cliff-dwelling flitterdak.

Bara had always hated his name.

His own father had given it to him. To call your only son after a weak and easily frightened nothing of a cliff-hanging creature was low and mean. This may have been the first thing, but it wasn’t the last thing his father had done to humiliate him — that was thrice-damned sure.

On the way south, they’d climbed up the Escarpment trail it seemed forever, breathing their own dust and that their donts and pack animals kicked up. Bara rode in the front, just behind his father.

The band was made up of men who lived on the lower portion of the Escarpment in the village of Hurth from which the region took its name. The Hurth clans made part of their living by gathering the eggs of flitterdaks and their carnivorous cousins, the flitterdons, which nested among the Escarpment crags.

The Hurthmen made the other part of their living by engaging in forbidden trading with the Redland barbarians.

This was the reason Bigelow had used them. He needed men who could travel unmolested down Redland paths to spy on the Guardians, and yet who would not look and act like barbarians once they came back into the Valley. So he’d hired a Hurthman militia.

Now they were almost at the Valley Rim. Bara rode behind his father in the line of donts climbing the secret and dangerous paths.

Dar always with his back to me, and expecting me to trot right along, my nose to his ass, curse him. I’m eighteen; I’m my own man, thrice-damn him. I should never have come. I should’ve put my foot down.

Should’ve. Hadn’t.

But when they returned to Hurth, things were going to be different.

Bara wasn’t sure how he would accomplish this, but he was determined to strike out on his own, find some other way to make a living. Maybe he would make the frightening decision to move to the provincial capital of Orash itself, find some kind of work there. Or find another trade in Hurth itself. It was a town, wasn’t it, even if only a small one?

They had crested the Rim and ridden a short ways into the Redlands when, seemingly out of nowhere, a force of Redlanders appeared. They were at least fifty strong, warriors of the Miskowski tribe led by a Blaskoye noble from the look of it. The Miskowski wore russet robes, practically the same color as the surrounding Redland terrain. The leader, however, wore white robes edged with blue, the garment of the Blaskoye sheiks. Nowadays no tribe traveled or traded without its Blaskoye overseer sent by the Council of Law-givers and its new chief — a Blaskoye named Kerensky.

I’m my own man. I can turn around now. I don’t have to get involved in this.

His father smiled that crooked smile of his and stretched out a hand as one of those Blaskoye rode up. The Blaskoye leader grasped his father’s arm in greeting.

They would have a royal escort through the Redlands.

I’m still on the Rim. I can turn around now, go back to Mar and tell her I’ll have no more to do with Dar and his heresies. Him treating me like the Blaskoye treat them Miskowski, like slaves.

Then his father motioned Bara and the others forward with a flick of his hand.

Curse him. I can go back now. I will!

But he didn’t.

Because he was more afraid of his onrushing choices than he was of the Redland wastes. He may be a Valleyman, but he knew the way of living in the Redlands well enough, knew how to act. The Redlanders treated the Hurthish traders with at least some measure of respect. Here he could be sure of not being taken for a rube, as he might be in Orash. Or as the new village idiot, as he might be in Hurth

Here in the band of his father, Bara felt safe.

Wretchedly unhappy, but safe.

Safe from the unknown future.

Interpolation complete.

* * *

Accurate to the ninety-five point six percentile, Center intoned. Abel snapped out of his vision of the Hurthman’s progress. It had lasted, in real time, only the blink of an eye.

“If he’s the son of the leader, his name is probably Bara. And I can tell he’s been in the Redlands,” Abel said to Timon. “The Blaskoye led them down and put them on our flanks.”

Timon looked up toward Abel. “What? How do you know that?”

“I was in the Scouts, remember? I’ve spent time in the cursed place,” Abel replied. “Anyway, Bara’s a common Hurthish name. It means something like ‘Junior.’ Ask him.”

Timon gave Abel an inquisitive look, but turned back to the young man. He motioned for his squad to crank the ropes up a notch. Timon leaned over, turned the Hurthman’s head, and looked the young man straight in the eyes.

“Speak,” Timon said. “Speak, Bara of Hurth.”

Cursing himself and his father, Bara began to spill all that he knew. Abel translated. After this, Timon sent a runner to notify the regimental commander that the interrogation had reached a critical point. The first of the prisoners had broken.

* * *

Colonel Zachary von Hoff had been an instructor at the Guardian Academy, and then Abel’s commanding officer for his year in the planning division. Timon may have chosen his specialty after graduating the Academy, but Abel had his chosen for him — by von Hoff.

“Do you think the man who orchestrated the destruction of the Blaskoye horde at the Battle of the Canal is going to get a regular company command? Think again, Dashian.”

“My father led the Battle of the Canal.”

“And his son understood the use of the nishterlaub breechloaders, drafted the battle plan, and led the Scout charge that broke the final Blaskoye resistance,” von Hoff had replied. “I know this because your father told me as much in a written response to my inquiries. You see, I am writing the record of that battle for the Tabernacle archives.”

“My father exaggerates.”

“I think not,” said von Hoff. “In any case, you came into the Academy already a captain. Tradition dictates you leave a rank higher. To give you a company would be akin to military heresy. Not quite a breach of the Laws and Edicts, but close enough in our world. No, your specialty will be planning with an eye toward eventual brigade or district military command.”

So, whether Abel liked it or not, von Hoff had appointed himself Abel’s mentor. And when the Progar Campaign was announced, the Academy martial instructors had taken their primary posts: as brigade commanders. This was the Goldie way. Usually brigade-sized units within the Guardians were demobilized for much of the year. Most of the Corps’s day-to-day activity was garrisoning the capital and policing the Lindron District in company-sized troops. Brigade-size maneuvers occurred only in the yearly war games and practice drills.

An appointment as a tenured military scholar at the Academy was also an appointment to brigade command staff or higher. It was Goldie tradition that teachers must also be fighters.

As soon as von Hoff had taken up his brigade duties, he’d requested Abel as his executive officer for the campaign. Abel’s long and fairly content stint as Cascade District military commander had come to an end, as he’d known it would.

Center had predicted the call up nearly a year before it happened.

Von Hoff is no fool. He knows a good thing when he sees it, Raj had commented when the messenger delivered Abel’s new orders.

To accept the commission is a necessary strategic move, Center put in. Abel will now be in a position to affect long-range outcomes through individual initiative — with proper guidance.

But you’re not going to like this excursion up north, lad, said Raj. The Goldies are not being sent to Progar to police it or even merely to conquer it. They are going to make an example of the place. You haven’t seen that kind of slaughter yet.

How is that not policing?

If I were in Zentrum’s place, with his goals, I would burn the place to the ground and salt the earth with the ashes of the people.

There had been the Progar water heresy, which had been going on for decades. The people of Progar had developed ways to harness the abundance of water and the power of the quickly running streams in their mountainous region. Plus, there were rumors of experiments with metal and weapons even beyond the crossbows of the Hurthmen. There was some sort of modification of the musket underway. Modifying the rifle, as Zentrum had shown in Treville by burning the chief priestsmith, Golitsin, was utter nishterlaub. An unforgivable breach of the Edicts.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 23

Trial By Fire – Snippet 23

For one brief instant, Caine could not look away from the surreal scene of Trevor being hug-crushed by a crab-roach. Then reflex and adrenaline took over. Caine uncoupled the carabineer clip, and, with the decompressive flow almost gone, he aimed himself at Trevor and kicked at the wall.

Too oblique and too hard. Caine went corkscrewing toward the floor, instead, hit the deck at an angle, and bounced. He swam through a slow, spastic cartwheel. Between frantic curses and calls to Trevor, his own breath echoed loudly in his ears. Only when he came to a stop–upside down and with his legs tangled in the hanging garden of cables–did he realize that Trevor was answering his calls.

“Caine, I’m–okay. Take it–easy. Reorient–yourself.”

“Reorient myself, hell! Christ, Trevor, what were you thinking? That damn thing might have killed you. Might still intend to.”

“Caine, we–can’t h-hurt–it. It’s rigged–the bridge. Could have–r-rigged engineering. With a–bomb. Need it–alive.”

Damn it, he’s right–and I’m a fool for not realizing the same thing. Caine kicked his legs free and somersaulted to turn himself over and reassume an up-down orientation that matched Trevor’s. He was vaguely aware that he had performed this tricky zero-gee maneuver with the surety of a pro.

The alien’s six-limbed grasp on Trevor was tight, but not dangerously so. It was, however, immobilizing. One of the alien’s legs had wrapped around the upper part of Trevor’s left armpit, jamming that arm in an awkward, elevated position. Trevor’s right arm was pinned to his side by another appendage, and while his legs were free, they were out of reach from any surface against which to push.

Oddly, the Arat Kur–for it was certainly not a Ktor or a Hkh’Rkh–seemed less capable of movement than Trevor. Although dominating the human with a grapple that would have been the envy of any collegiate wrestling star, the exosapient was motionless. Caine drifted closer cautiously, thumbed the ammunition selector back over to the setting that loaded antipersonnel rounds. He laid the gun against the side of the Arat Kur’s thorax.

“Might as well–aim at–head.” There was a grunt of extra effort in Trevor’s voice.

“As if we have any indication that’s where its brain is. And I thought you said you were all right. Your voice: you can hardly breathe. That damn thing is crushing you.”

“No–not the–the reason.”

“What do you mean, not the reason?”

“Not the r-reason for my–voice. Shock;–everything stiff. Hurts. Hard to talk. Can’t m-m-move well, either.”

Caine looked for and found clinical signs consistent with the aftermath of electrical trauma. A small, but high-speed tremor in Trevor’s right arm was visible even though the Arat Kur’s claws held it in a viselike grip. There was also a faint intermittent twitch in his friend’s left arm and more pronounced involuntary motions in his right leg. At least there was still movement, but that didn’t preclude more serious internal damage. “Trevor, read off your biomonitor values.”

“Already–checked. Pulse and temperature high. All–all others, nominal. I’ll be–okay. J-just get–get this guy–off me.”

Caine extended his arm, pushing himself a meter back from the tethered amalgam of human and alien. Detaching the Arat Kur necessitated an initial inspection of its physiology–or, rather, of its bulky, podlike vacuum suit.

The fabric of the suit was tougher and more rigid than that used in human suits. Each limb covering was comprised of separate, well-articulated segments, making it unnecessary to ensure mobility by using more pliable materials. Reasonable. The Arat Kur body seemed to have no waist, no hips, no long limbs: in short, it was only capable of limited movement. With less of a demand for flexibility, Arat Kur garment designers could focus more on strength and durability.

It also seemed that Arat Kur didn’t have heads, simply a cluster of sensory organs on their front-facing surface. Accordingly, the alien’s spacesuit was topped by a wide, shaded dome, flanked by a brace of small, highly distorting mirrors. Caine considered his own fun-house reflection for a moment. No head meant no neck. No way to reposition the visual sensory organs without repositioning the whole body to face the object to be observed–unless the visual field was expanded by using mirrors. Hmmm. I’ll bet these bastards spent a lot of evolutionary time worrying about, and being terrified by, threats from their rear. Possibly a useful tactical and psychological factor.

Mounted just beneath the Arat Kur helmet-dome were two well-articulated sleeves, each ending in a set of cruciform mechanical claws. The claws were heavier and blunter than he would have expected in a tool-using species, but then he reconsidered his conclusion. Vacuum gloves turned even the slenderest human hand into a clumsy, bloated paw. The same could certainly be expected of alien space garments.

There were a few external control surfaces visible, all of which were in recessed pits ringing the rim of the helmet-dome. Glyphs were visible under each touch-sensitive panel. More were printed on the small, dorsally-mounted life-support unit. All of which were absolutely meaningless to Caine.

Not discovering anything particularly useful to the purpose of prying the Arat Kur apart from Trevor, Caine started with the most basic approach: brute force. However, repeated attempts to lever open the alien’s claws, or to cause its limbs to relax, were completely unproductive. “Maybe it’s died. Maybe rigor mortis has already set in.”

Trevor’s voice, sounding somewhat more relaxed, disabused Caine of that notion: “No, it’s alive.”

“How can you tell?”

Trevor’s teeth chattered once before he replied. “It’s sh-shaking s-slightly.”

Trevor sounded like he was growing cold, probably going into shock. And the exosapient was obstructing access to the manual overrides for Trevor’s suit thermostat–

–Suit thermostat? Hmm. That might be a better way of getting the Arat Kur to move: fiddle around with the life-support unit on its suit. But adjusting the alien’s life-support pack might also kill it. The device was a mystery of orange and green lights, recessed indicators, and small access panels, all linked to the rear of the helmet-dome–

Wait. The rear of the helmet dome. Of course. That gives me an even simpler option. Caine maneuvered to a position behind the exosapient, keeping his gun trained on the center of its thorax as he produced a pry bar from his own toolkit.

“Wh-what are y-you doing, C-Caine?” Trevor did not sound good at all.

“Conducting a psychological warfare experiment.” Keeping the handgun tight against the exosapient’s midriff, Caine ran the pry bar along the center of the alien’s life-support unit. Then again, slowly, softly from the bottom up to the top. Let’s see how you feel about having a hostile alien constantly tapping and bumping at your back.

There was no immediate reaction. Might be time to increase the implied threat from behind. On the next pass of the pry bar, Caine let it graze the rear edge of the helmet-dome.

The exosapient’s limbs flexed convulsively, released Trevor in its attempt to scrabble away along other, nearby wires.

But, anticipating that, Caine clung to the alien’s back. Avoiding the grabbing legs, he pulled himself forward until the top half of his visor was level with the alien’s helmet dome. He still couldn’t see anything inside; the material was too dark. No matter; obviously, the Arat Kur could see outward. Well enough, at least, to make out the ten-millimeter handgun that Caine laid against the helmet-dome. The alien’s movements became more frantic. Caine tapped the muzzle against the dome twice and then left it pointing directly inward. The alien’s movement ended abruptly; all six legs went limp. Caine smiled. It was nice to know that some concepts–such as a loaded gun–were capable of transcending even the barriers of species and language.

He looked over toward Trevor, who was making adjustments to his suit’s life-support unit. “What’s wrong?”

“Just setting the temperature a few degrees higher.”

Caine bound their prisoner with lengths of cable and wiring. Meanwhile, Trevor haltingly moved to hunch in front of what appeared to be the wreck’s central computer console.

“Anything interesting?”

“G-God, no. This writing looks l-like tortured s-spa-spaghetti trying to m-mate with cock-eyed d-d-dominoes. Be-besides, we don’t speak their language. That’s why-why I h-h-had to sa-save the little b-bastard. Whoev-ever he is.”

“An Arat Kur?” ventured Caine. “We’ve seen the Hkh’Rkh already, and the Ktor live in those big tanks on treads. And no other species seemed hostile at Convocation.”

“Arat Ku-Kur sounds r-right.”

Caine helped Trevor to drift away from the enemy ship’s bridge console. “So, we’ve caught an Arat Kur. Maybe. But whatever he is, you’re right: we have to find a way to communicate with him. Until we do, we can’t even dock this wreck with the Auxiliary Command module to pool the two vehicles’ resources. And without those combined resources, we’re just a pile of a junk heading into deep space.”

Caine stared past Trevor’s tremoring nod and trembling shoulder. The trussed exosapient was once again motionless. Maybe even smug. And perhaps it had a right to be. The alien might be their prisoner, but they were now hostages to its knowledge.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 22

Trial By Fire – Snippet 22

The structure and trappings of the fourth and final room were almost identical to the previous one. But here, there were telltale signs of use. A large object, akin to a narrow-necked inkwell with four radially symmetric depressions, had drifted into a corner of the room and floated there, unsecured. One cocoon-sleeping bag was neither fully open or closed, its lid hanging at an angle.

“This doesn’t look like any warship I’ve ever seen,” muttered Trevor as they moved back to the doorway.

Caine nodded. For a small craft, the design was too–well, indulgent: spacious sleeping compartments, sophisticated long-duration life-support recycling facilities, a comparatively roomy corridor, and of course, the tremendous fuel tankage capacity amidships. “No, I’d guess it was a recon vessel or a command nexus for drones on long-duration duty.”

“Recon,” Trevor asserted. “Otherwise, some of the drones which pranged the cutter should have gone offline when Hazawa knocked this hull out of action. Unfortunately, that doesn’t answer the most important question: how many crew were on board for the battle?”

“More important still, how many are left alive?”

Trevor shrugged. “No way to know that, but it has enough accommodations for four–which doesn’t make sense. Two crewpersons are enough to handle any of the missions this ship might undertake.”

“Military missions, yes. But what about paramilitary or civilian missions?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“What if your first comment was correct, that this ship wasn’t designed to be a military ship at all?”

Trevor looked around the craft again, as though seeing it anew. “Could be. Possibly a packet or a survey craft.”

“That’s what I’m guessing. Some kind of communications or research vessel, pressed into military service. Maybe it was even a civilian crew. Which might explain why we’re not seeing any of them.”

“Because they’re hiding?”

“Because they’re dead. If they weren’t used to military protocols, maybe they were operating without pressure suits when they got hit.”

“Interesting theory, but there’s still atmosphere and heat on board. So what killed them?”

“Maybe they were all in a chamber that depressurized; I don’t know. If any of the crew survived, why let us get this far in without trying an ambush?”

Trevor’s forced grin was visible through his visor. “Let’s go find out. Slow approach, no helmet lights.”

Caine silently counted off ten seconds as they drifted toward the opening at the end of the corridor. A faint glow within outlined large structures and confused silhouettes that resembled tangled spider webs. Trevor nodded to the handgun, pointed into the darkness, then tapped his helmet’s lights. Caine nodded, secured the weapon in a two-handed grasp, the targeting laser aimed just below the level of the doorway, poised to elevate swiftly to engage a target. Trevor aimed his helmet lights through the doorway, turned them on.

Cables hung down from the ceiling, draped across an object that looked like a cross between a chaise lounge and a bathtub: evidently an Arat Kur acceleration couch. Beyond the bathtub-couch was another, similar shadow, except its upper surface was made uneven by a distinctly lumpy silhouette. If that couch was still occupied, its occupant was no longer moving. Beyond that, and framed by other debris from the ruined bridge, the stars glimmered faintly through a transparent panel that was a match in size and shape for the opaque cockpit blister they had noted on their approach.

Trevor’s light swung slowly across the dense clusters of power conduits and narrower command cables that drifted in tangled spools and tentacles. “Looks like a convention of spider plants in there.” He snapped off the light.

“Looks like a tomb to me.”

Trevor nodded. “Yeah, I saw the silhouette in the far couch.”

Caine kept staring into the darkness. “Of course, another one might still be in there.”

“Possible, but why let us get so close? As you pointed out, the best time to ambush us was when we were moving up the corridor, trapped in a narrow space and without cover.”

Caine squinted into the darker regions where the wires were thickest. “Still–”

“Yeah, we still need to play it safe. But we’ve also got to finish checking out this bridge. Cover me.” Trevor swam into the room. His helmet lights swept back and forth across the clutter of cables and filaments like headlights roving along Spanish moss.

“Talk to me, Trevor.”

“Not much to talk about. I think this is a pretty large chamber, but I can’t be sure with this wiring all over the place.” Trevor drifted farther into the room, keeping his distance from the long, low Arat Kur acceleration couches and using the mass of cables for cover.

“What about the controls?”

“Can’t see anything from here. I’m going in to check out the first acceleration couch.”

“Hold it, Trevor.”

Trevor, already moving toward the long silhouette to his right, arrested his drift by grabbing a handful of cables. “Holding. What’s up?”

“I don’t think you should move directly to the acceleration couch. Use the cables for concealment, approach obliquely. That also gives me a clear field of fire if anything is lurking near the couches themselves.”

“Will do. Ready to start my move.”

Caine reangled the ten-millimeter until its targeting laser was painting a small, red circle on the nearest acceleration couch. “Go ahead.”

Trevor half rotated in space, swimming to the left and using handfuls of wiring to aid his progress–which halted suddenly. “Damn,” he muttered. His lights flickered through the sinuous shapes, painting shadow-snakes on the far wall.

“What is it, Trevor?”

“Almost got tangled. The cables are heavier in this part of the room, and I’m not seeing all of them. The helmet lights are too narrow-beam.”

Yes, it’s pretty dark where he is. Damn nuisance, too. Every other room in the entire vessel had some illumination, if only the emergency lights. But on the bridge even those were dark–

–Shit shit shit! “Trevor, kill your lights!”

“What–?”

“Kill your–!”

The ambush didn’t unfold the way Caine expected. No shot in the dark: not even that much warning. One moment, Trevor’s floating silhouette was resuming its forward motion, left hand tugging a cable he’d wrapped around his wrist for purchase; the next, there was a blinding sputter of blue-white sparks just above his handhold. Trevor bucked backward, suddenly rigid, immobilized by the electric current that had raced up his arm and into his body.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caine saw a darker shadow rise up from behind the second acceleration couch, the one probably occupied by an enemy corpse. He swung the ten-millimeter’s aimpoint over–but the shadow ducked down behind the couch again.

Tricky little bastard: a faulty wire, rigged as a trap. Probably command activated and probably dozens of other wires similarly rigged. And figuring that out has cost a precious tenth of a second. So think–fast.

Trevor’s paralyzed. Every second gives your enemy the opportunity to finish him off. The alien is probably armed, behind solid cover, and waiting for you to expose yourself. Meaning you’ve got no good options, except–

Caine snapped back the ten-millimeter’s ammo feed selector with his thumb: set for armor-piercing rounds. He grabbed his emergency’s suit’s safety lanyard, slammed the carabineer clip across one of the cruciform handles on the wall beside him. As the clip snapped into place, he brought up the gun, eyes tracking with the laser aimpoint. He thumbed the propellant switch over to maximum as the red circle jumped up along and above the couch, then up a short stretch of wall–

–keep that death-grip on the cable, Trevor. For just one more second–

Caine squeezed the trigger when the red aimpoint reached the cockpit blister. The ten-millimeter Unitech bucked savagely, although the report was muffled by his helmet. The smooth surface of the cockpit blister star-cracked but did not shatter. Caine swung the aimpoint back to the center of the radiate fracture lines and squeezed the trigger again.

He didn’t hear the second report, or rather, he couldn’t distinguish it. The cockpit panel blasted outward with a howl that swallowed the ten-millimeter’s feeble voice into the cacophonic cyclone of air, stray wires, and papers that maelstromed out into the vacuum of space.

Caine felt himself yanked in that direction, then yanked to an equally abrupt halt: the suit lanyard and carabineer clip squealed under the pull of his vacuum-sucked mass. But they held.

Trevor was still mostly motionless. The wrist-wrapped cable and tangled masses of wiring were holding him fast. However, the lump atop the second acceleration couch–a limp creature shaped like an oversized horseshoe crab-cockroach hybrid–went spinning out the breach in the cockpit blister. A moment later, a second, similar object, its outline made more vague by some sort of spacesuit, tumbled upward from behind the same couch, clutching frantically with six stunted ventral limbs. One of the rear limbs caught a slender wire, slipped, fumbled, clutched again–but weakly.

As the rush of air started to diminish, Caine raised the ten-millimeter, centered the red aimpoint on the struggling horseshoe-crab shape–

Nearby motion distracted him: Trevor had unwrapped his wrist from the cable mooring him in place. Caine’s breath caught. No, not yet! Grab another cable–just a few seconds more!

But Trevor’s movements were purposeful, even though they were unsteady. His left arm dangling, he rode the rapidly weakening current of outgushing atmosphere toward the jagged hole in the cockpit blister. As he swept over the acceleration couches, he simultaneously kicked downward and reached up with his good arm. His feet connected with the top of the second couch and pushed him up toward the horseshoe-crab shape. Trevor slammed into it and tried to get a firm grip, but the decompressive currents began tugging him away. He was pulled feet-first toward the hole, but his right hand found a length of cable and locked on–even as his left hand reached toward the alien. The creature’s multiple appendages grabbed it violently, then fought for purchase on Trevor’s suit and helmet, and, once secure, began to contract. Forcefully.

 

The Savior – Snippet 05

The Savior – Snippet 05

I’m sure you’re right, Center, but please let me just take your word on the math.

Timon and Abel had maintained their friendship after graduation, and taken an interest in one another’s careers — so much so that Timon had gotten special permission for Abel to accompany him on what he said was an “interesting” interrogation of an accused murderer.

That time, it was the fire coal stick that led to a confession and the location of the murder weapon — a reaping sickle that had been used to take off the head of a lover of the accused man’s wife.

“The stick is for show,” Timon explained to Abel. Timon and Abel stood by a brazier of coals some distance from the accused. Timon was reheating his coal stick for a final round of questions after waving it closely before the eye of the accused. He glanced back over his shoulder at the sweaty little man tied to the interrogation chair. “Mostly for show.”

“Have you ever actually gone through with it? Put one in an eye?”

“Yes,” Timon replied, after a pause. “Putting out an eye is one of the initiation requirements for first-year men in the Security Service. We pay the ones we do it to in barter chits. Pay them very well, I might add. Truth is, we have to turn volunteers away.”

* * *

Timon and his men used a spot near Abel’s own bedroll in the command area to conduct the interrogation. There was an irrigation ditch nearby filled with quickly flowing water. It served as both a threat for dunking and drowning, and as a source of white noise to mask screams. The Progar men were lying on the ground. Each was bound hand and foot to two stakes of about a fist’s thickness, one an elb from the head, one a similar distance below the feet. The stakes had been deeply planted in the soil by Timon’s enlisted team, who had metal-bladed posthole diggers for the task. The use of metal posthole diggers by the military had ancient sanction. They had been declared a weapon by Edict of Zentrum.

The stakes were outfitted with wooden pulleys through which ran ropes tied to the subject’s bound wrists and ankles. The apparatus was obviously constructed by the book, and Timon’s squad went about their task with a ruthless efficiency.

The pulleys had a ratchet action, and the ropes on the Progar men had been drawn tight enough to suspend them a finger’s width off the ground. It looked terribly painful to Abel. Bones and cartilage would begin to separate as the ropes grew taut.

When properly erected, the device is quite capable of pulling a man bodily apart, Center intoned. Joints separate before their containing tissue entirely gives, so it is possible to stretch without breaking —

That’s really all I need to know right now, thank you, Center.

A younger man with black hair and a sunburned face was the first to capitulate. He turned out to be the son of the commander Abel had shot dead. The young man — he was eighteen — was as angry at being captured as he was swimming in pain.

Timon noticed, and seized on this immediately.

“Your father sold you cheap,” he said to the young man. Abel translated into the Northern patois. These men were from a section of Progar called Hurth, and the patois was known as Hurthish. “You know that, don’t you?”

Abel translated.

When the man didn’t answer, Timon signaled his assistants, all specialist noncoms. The rope tension was smoothly taken up a notch.

The young man cried out, bit his lip in an attempt to control himself, but there was no standing this kind of pain.

Timon leaned down and abruptly shouted into the young man’s ear. “I said, you know that, don’t you?”

Abel mechanically translated his words.

“Yair,” the man croaked out, his speech slurring into the Hurthish for “yes.”

“Your old man was a fool, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?”

Timon didn’t wait for a translation, but signaled that the ropes be pulled tighter.

A moment of hesitation from the Hurthman, and then the words tumbled out. “Yair and curse his thrice-damned bones!”

“You have a family back home.” Timon framed it as a statement.

“Yair. Dar left Mar and the girls, and brung us down here. Now he’s got himself killed.” Tears welled in the man’s eyes, not merely from the physical pain. “What is Mar to do?”

Timon turned to Abel. Abel gave him the gist of what had been said.

Timon nodded. “And you did it for this.” He threw a sack to the ground beside the Hurthman. The bag had been found in the saddlebag of one of the donts. Inside were clay promissory notes. These were finger-length clay tablets etched with debt tallies and promises to pay, then the etched glyphs hardened by fire. Barter chits. The money of the Land.

Timon upended the bag and let one of the chits fall into his palm, and another onto the ground. He held the chit before the young man’s pain-widened eyes. “For this, your father made your mother a widow. I don’t blame you for cursing his name.”

As Abel translated, Timon slowly squeezed his hand into a fist. The barter chit in his grasp shattered. This was quite a feat of strength. Barter chits were almost as hard as stone. Timon opened his hand and scattered the shards that remained onto the ground.

The Progar man burst into a shower of curses.

After he had cursed himself hoarse, Timon smiled, emptied the purse, and stomped the remaining chits to smithereens.

“Well, now all that is done.” Timon leaned down close once again. “I’m going to ask you some questions. For each one you answer truthfully, I’ll have my men let out a notch on the ropes. But I warn you, I’ll know if you lie. And when you do, they’ll pull those ropes all the tighter.”

Timon sat down casually beside the stretched man and tossed the empty bag aside.

“Do you understand?” he said.

Abel left this untranslated. He figured the Hurthman got the idea of what was being said.

“Yair,” the young man answered.

“Good,” said Timon. He nodded to his men, and took the smallest amount of pressure off the ropes.

The Hurthman began talking in harsh gasps, but spilling out information. Abel translated as rapidly as he could.

The ambushers were a mercenary militia unit from Progar. They had been sent south by one of the oligarchs of Orash, Progar’s capital city. It only took a bit more stretching at the rack before Timon had extracted the oligarch’s name: Bigelow. The Progar District military commander had long since lost control of most militia units, if he had ever had it to begin with, and that control had gone to the local strongmen who ran the district. Bigelow was one of these men.

Even in Progar there had been news of the Guardian Corps’s muster. Many in Progar had been anticipating a police action. Nishterlaub materials and methods had long been a staple of life in Progar, so far was it from Lindron. Lately there had been experiments done even with weapons. For years, most of Progar had lived in the knowledge that it might be smited — it was only a matter of when. Now that time had evidently come.

The attackers had been paid to travel south and find out all they could. The mercenary group was to observe — and to harass and slow the Guardians if the chance presented itself — if, and only if, they could get away without being caught. They had placed their faith of a sure escape in the accuracy and range of their metal crossbows, and it had cost them.

A crossbow made entirely of metal except for the stock — a nishterlaub item, forbidden by Zentrum. A crossbow could be made of wood; when there was an alternative to metal or technological change, it must be used.

After the fight was over on the rise in the barley and the prisoners were secure, Abel had had trouble getting anyone to pick up the vile things from where they’d been stacked on the ground. He finally allowed his men to tie the crossbows on one of the Hurthish men’s dont and lead it into camp, minimizing the time any must be in contact with the nishterlaub metal of the bows.

So the Hurthmen made their night attack silently with iron crossbows and then retreated to the hill as a rallying point for flight. From the looks of their underfed mounts, they had come down along the grass-bare Escarpment, avoiding settlements and fields.

 

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 11

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Personal History

“All right,” I said, “you can meet people in the daytime if necessary. Just not a good thing to do often. That’s great — there are a lot of things, like signing papers, getting permits, and so on, that are close to impossible to manage if you can’t get the principal to make himself available when other people are.”

I was going over the notes I’d gotten that night, while Verne answered my questions and read the work-for-hire agreement. “Yes, I understand that,” Verne confirmed. “I will certainly make myself available for official meetings in the daytime, but would strongly prefer such things be very few and far between. By the way, I admire your wording in this agreement — making clear that part of your job is to take into consideration my special requirements, while being so utterly generic that someone getting a look at this agreement wouldn’t think anything of it.”

I grinned. “Wish I could take credit for that one, but I stole most of the wording from similar agreements for people with disabilities.” I stood up. “Okay, let’s take a look around your house here. Sometimes what you see in a man’s home gives you ideas — I’m assuming you keep at least some things around because you like them, not just for show.”

“Indeed I do. Most things are for my enjoyment, or that of my people.” Verne rose also and began to lead me on a tour of the house.

Verne Domingo’s “house” was one of the only ones I’d ever visited that deserved the appellation “mansion.” It rose a full three stories, sprawled across a huge area of land, and had at least one basement level (given my host’s nature, I was not at all sure that there weren’t parts of the house, above or below ground, which were being concealed). His staff numbered twelve; thirteen, if you counted Morgan. He seemed wryly amused at the coincidence of the number, and noted to me that it had been that way for at least three hundred years. “Therefore,” he said, “you must forgive me for putting little stock in triskaidekaphobia.”

“So none of your staff is less than three hundred years old?” I asked, trying to get my brain around the concept.

“Not precisely. What has happened is that, on the occasions I have lost a member of my household over the past few centuries, I have quickly found a replacement. This number seems to be suited to my requirements for efficiency, comfort, and security. My youngest, in fact, you have met — Hitoshi Mori is scarcely seventy-five years old, and has been in my service for forty-two years.”

“Morgan, I know, can work during the day. So they aren’t vampires like yourself, right?”

Verne nodded, pausing to point out the engravings which were spaced evenly around the walls of this room. “It is possible for someone such as myself to bind others to my essence — allowing them to partake of the power that makes me what I am — without giving them all the limitations of the life I follow. Naturally, they do not gain all the advantages, either.”

“No blood-drinking?”

Morgan shook his head, opening the next door for us. “No, sir. We do have a preference for meat, given a choice — our metabolism, to use the modern terms, seems to use more protein and so on. We gain immortality, some additional strengths and resistances, but nothing like the powers accorded to Master Verne.”

“This is my library, Jason,” Verne said as we entered another large room, with tall windows that admitted moonlight in stripes across the carpet before it was banished by Morgan’s finger on the switch for the overhead lights. “One of them, to be more precise. This contains those works which might be commonly consulted, or read for pleasure, and which are not so unusual or valuable as to require special treatment.”

The other three walls were covered with bookshelves — long, very tall bookshelves. A runner for one of the moving book-ladders I’d seen in some bookstores ran the entire circumference of the room, aside from the one window-covered wall. Other tall shelves stood at intervals across the room, with a large central space for tables and chairs. Two people were there now, one taking notes from a large volume in front of him, the other leaning back in her chair, reading a newspaper. “Ah, Camillus, Meta, good evening.”

The two had gotten swiftly to their feet upon seeing that Verne had entered. Camillus was the one who’d led the three-man assault team that had kidnapped me; a man of average height, slightly graying brown hair, brown eyes, and the wide shoulders and bearing of a career soldier; despite a strongly hooked nose, I was sure that Syl would have rated the tanned, square-faced Camillus highly on looks. Meta was a young lady — or, I amended, a young-looking lady — whose height matched Camillus’, but whose long, inky-black hair very nearly matched her skin shade. Despite that, her eyes were a quite startling gray-blue, and her features were sharp and even, giving her a look of aristocratic elegance that made questions of beauty almost inconsequential.

“No need to rise,” Verne said with a smile, “But since you are up, please say hello to Jason Wood.”

“Mr. Wood.” Camillus’ grip was as strong as I would have expected. “Domingo’s spoken of you quite a bit of late. My apologies for a certain… comment on your prior meeting?”

I grinned. “As long as the threat’s withdrawn, sure.”

“It is forgotten, then. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist.”

“Sure,” I said. “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m the master-at-arms and in charge of security here,” he responded.

I noted the nature of the material scattered around his side of the table and grinned. “And how do you feel about that?”

He understood exactly what I meant and grinned back. “You have me there. By all the gods, security has changed in the past century! At least in the old days the common man didn’t have access to sorcery; nowadays, you can pick up one of these,” he gestured at several home electronics catalogs, “and order up something with the eyes of an eagle and the hearing of a bat that will send all it sees and hears right back to you.”

“Well, I noticed the security setup you have here; it’s not bad for a man who seems to still be playing catch-up on the century.”

He acknowledged the comment with a bow. “Mostly done on contractor recommendations. I’m not comfortable, though, with having anything in the house that I don’t understand.”

“Then ask me; once I’ve got Verne’s problem out of the way, I’ll be glad to bring you up to speed; I’ve got plenty of resources in the security area.”

“I’ll do that.” he said, smiling. “Oh, sir,” he said, looking at Verne, “Carmichael sent a pretty pissed-off message to you. I don’t like the tone of it.”

The two of them went off a ways to discuss Carmichael. I turned to Meta and shook her hand. “And your position here is… ?”

“I suppose you might call me… librarian? Archivist? Something of that sort.” Her grip was much more gentle, though not a limp fish by any means.

“Ah, so I’m in your territory here.”

She smiled. “It is of course Master Domingo’s, but I have jurisdiction as he allows.”

Meta and Verne let me wander the library for a few minutes; it was rather instructive, I thought, to see just what Verne thought of as “not unusual or valuable enough” to warrant being kept elsewhere. Even with my relatively limited knowledge of books, I noted several items on the shelves that would easily bring in several hundred dollars if sold.

The next hour or so of the tour passed without notable events — the other staff might be sleeping or out for the evening, but whatever the reason I didn’t run into any more.

Finally, Verne led me down a wide flight of stairs into the basement, which was as high-ceilinged and opulently furnished as the downstairs but had clearly greater security. “And here is my bedroom.”

“Wait a minute. I thought you said that room on the second floor was your bedroom?”

“My show bedroom — the one that visitors of most sorts will be told is my bedroom, if they have any occasion to ask or discover it. I can rest there, if necessary, but here, enclosed in the earth itself, I am better protected.”

The room was very large; I was vaguely disappointed not to see a classic pedestal supporting an open, velvet-lined coffin, but instead there was a huge four-poster bed with heavy curtains about it. Several small bookshelves stood at intervals along the walls, along with some large and oddly elaborate frames for paintings, a desk and chairs, a fair-sized entertainment center, and two wardrobes. Besides the paintings there were a few other objects on the wall, most of them weapons of one kind or another. I wandered around the room, studying these things carefully. The oddity of the painting frames became clear when I realized they were double-sealed frames — museum quality, for preserving fragile materials against the ravages of time. Probably nitrogen-filled.

“So, Jason,” Verne said finally, “Does anything occur to you?”

I rubbed my chin. “I’m getting something of an idea, it’s just being stubborn and refusing to gel. I need just one more thing to trigger it. Unfortunately, I haven’t got any idea what that one more thing is.”

“Well, I have saved the part I believe you will find most entertaining for last,” Verne said. “It is of course natural that I would place those things I value most in the most secure area. Here is the entry to my vault — a small museum, if you will.” He led the way to another room, relatively small and undecorated, whose far wall was dominated by a no-nonsense, massive door of the sort suitable for banks and government secure areas. Verne placed his hand on a polished area near the door, then punched in a number on a keypad and turned the large handle. The door opened onto another set of stairs going down to a landing which ended in another door — also clearly strong, though nothing like the several-foot-thick monster Verne had just swung open. I paused, but he gestured me down. “Go first, Jason. I think you will find it more effective to see it without my leading the way.”

I shrugged, then went down the steps. As I reached for the door handle, I saw it turn and push inward, as though grasped by an invisible hand. I felt the prickle of gooseflesh as I realized that this wasn’t any cute gadgetry, but a subtle demonstration of Verne Domingo’s powers, clearly for the effect. I felt myself momentarily immersed in something mystical, standing at the edge of ancient mysteries. The black door swung open, into inky darkness. Then the same unseen force switched on the lights.

I can’t remember what I said; I think I may have gasped something incomprehensible. What I do know is that I stood for what seemed an eternity, staring.

In that first instant, the room was ablaze with the sunlight sheen of gold, the glitter of gems, the glow of inlay and paint so fresh it might have been finished only yesterday. At first I couldn’t even grasp the sheer size of the vault’s collection; it wasn’t possible, simply wasn’t even imaginable that so many artifacts and treasures could be here, beneath a mansion in upstate New York.

Once more a quote from long-ago years surfaced: Lord Carnevon to Howard Carter as Carter took the first look into the tomb of Tutankhamen: “What do you see?”

And Howard’s response: “Wonderful things.”

There were statues of animal-headed gods, resplendent in ebony and gold, bedecked with jeweled inlay. A wall filled with incised hieroglyphics provided a sufficient backdrop to set off coffers of jewelry, ceremonial urns, royal chariots. Farther down, beyond what was obviously the Egyptian collection, were carefully hung paintings, marble statues, books and scrolls in glass cases, something at the far end that shimmered like a blown-glass rainbow…

I stepped slowly forward, almost afraid that the entire fantastic scene would disappear like smoke. I reached out, very hesitantly, and touched a finger to the golden nose of a sitting dog.

“From the chambers of Ramses II,” Verne said from behind me, almost making me jump. “His tomb was looted quite early, as things go; I managed to procure a large number of the artifacts, which was fortunate since otherwise they would have been melted down or defaced for valuable inlay and so on.”

I just shook my head, trying to take it in. Ramses… II? “That’s the one they associate with Moses?”

“Indeed.”

I walked cautiously around this first incredible chamber, stopping at a huge sarcophagus. The golden face rang a faint bell, which was odd because there were very few Egyptian nobles I’d ever seen statues or busts of. What… I studied some of the symbology, not that I was an authority or even much of an amateur in the field, but because maybe something would trigger a memory. As an information expert, it’s a matter of pride to get the answers yourself, even if it’s by luck.

There! That disc, the rays…

My head snapped up and I looked at Verne in disbelief. “No. It can’t be.”

He inclined his own. “Can’t be… what?”

“Ahkenaten. That’s the Aten, and it’s all over here. And I’ve seen a couple busts supposed to be of him. But I thought they found his mummy.”

He smiled faintly. “I did hear that someone had found something they believed to be Akhenaten’s mummy. Since this has never been out of my, or my people’s, possession since shortly after finding out that the Sun-Pharoah’s tomb was being looted, I must incline to doubt that what they found was indeed Akhenaten.”

It was then that the idea finally crystallized. “Good God, Verne, I’ve got it.”

He looked at me. “What is it?”

“Art, of course!” I waved my hands around at the treasures that surrounded us. “The art world can be tolerant of strange hours and stranger habits. You’ve already got stuff to sell or donate — no, wait, hear me out. You speak many languages, you certainly have various connections around the world, and, well, you appear to have taste and style which I don’t have. You could deal in rare artworks, maybe be a patron to newer artists, and so on.”

Verne looked thoughtful. “True. I have in fact been a student of the arts, off and on through the centuries; I could determine authenticity in many ways, not the least being firsthand experience of how many things were actually done. Even though I would not, of course, wish to reveal the source of that information, simply knowing the correct from the incorrect is something that I could justify with the proper scholarly logic.”

“Yep. It’s always easier to write the impeccable logical chain to prove your point if you already know where you’re going.”

“But selling these masterworks… I have kept them safe for thousands of years, Jason. Do not speak lightly of this.”

“I’m not taking it lightly, not at all,” I said earnestly. “Verne, these things would rock the archaeological world — and I haven’t even looked in the rest of this vault; to be honest, I’m almost afraid of what I’ll find. Stuff of this historical and cultural value should be out there for other people to appreciate. Hell, just the aesthetic value would justify putting it out there on the proper market. Okay, it’s impolite at the least to go around breaking into someone’s tomb and ripping off their stuff, but since it was done long ago, shouldn’t the work of those ancient artists at least have the chance to be fully appreciated?”

Verne’s expression was pained; a man listening to someone trying to tell him to give up his children wouldn’t have looked much more upset. Then Morgan spoke.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I think Master Jason is correct.”

Verne just looked at him, silent but questioning.

“If you truly wish to open yourself up, as you once were, sir, I think this means not keeping everything locked away. Not just your feelings, sir, but those things of beauty which we treasure. We have guarded them long enough, sir.” He gave another look that I had trouble interpreting; it seemed filled with more meaning than I could easily interpret, something from their past. “We already know of someone whose love of beauty and fear for its fate transformed him… in ways that I would not wish to see happen to you.”

Those last words got through to Verne; he gave a momentary shiver, as of a man doused with cold water. “Yes… Yes, Morgan. Perhaps you are right.” He turned back to me, speaking in a more normal tone. “Your idea certainly has merit, Jason. I shall consider it carefully, and discuss it with my household. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to examine the best ways for me to begin on such a course of action.”

“Sure,” I said, wondering if I’d ever quite know what was going on there. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it, then.”

I cast a last, incredulous glance over my shoulder at that vault of wonders, then headed up the stairs.