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1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – eARC

Is available at http://www.baenebooks.com/p-2371-1636-commander-cantrell-in-the-west-indies-earc.aspx 

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 32

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 32

 

Chapter 19

“What did you say?”

Albrecht Detweiler stared at his oldest son, and the consternation in his expression would have shocked any of the relatively small number of people who’d ever met him.

“I said our analysis of what happened at Green Pines seems to have been a little in error,” Benjamin Detweiler said flatly. “That bastard McBryde wasn’t the only one trying to defect.” Benjamin had had at least a little time to digest the information during his flight from the planetary capital of Mendel, and if there was less consternation in his expression, it was also grimmer and far more frightening than his father’s. “And the way the Manties are telling it, the son-of-a-bitch sure as hell wasn’t trying to stop Cachat and Zilwicki. They haven’t said so, but he must’ve deliberately suicided to cover up what he’d done!”

Albrecht stared at him for several more seconds. Then he shook himself and inhaled deeply.

“Go on,” he grated. “I’m sure there’s more and better yet to come.”

“Zilwicki and Cachat are still alive,” Benjamin told him. “I’m not sure where the hell they’ve been. We don’t have anything like the whole story yet, but apparently they spent most of the last few months getting home. The bastards aren’t letting out any more operational details than they have to, but I wouldn’t be surprised if McBryde’s cyber attack is the only reason they managed to get out in the first place.

“According to the best info we’ve got, though, they headed toward Haven, not Manticore, when they left, which probably helps explain why they were off the grid so long. I’m not sure about the reasoning behind that, either. But whatever they were thinking, what they accomplished was to get Eloise Pritchart — in person! — to Manticore, and she’s apparently negotiated some kind of damned peace treaty with Elizabeth.”

“With Elizabeth?“

“We’ve always known she’s not really crazy, whatever we may’ve sold the Sollies,” Benjamin pointed out. “Inflexible as hell sometimes, sure, but she’s way too pragmatic to turn down something like that. For that matter, she’d sent Harrington to Haven to do exactly the same thing before Oyster Bay! And Pritchart brought along an argument to sweeten the deal, too, in the form of one Herlander Simões. Dr. Herlander Simões . . . who once upon a time worked in the Gamma Center on the streak drive.”

“Oh, shit,” Albrecht said with quiet, heartfelt intensity.

“Oh, it gets better, Father,” Benjamin said harshly. “I don’t know how much information McBryde actually handed Zilwicki and Cachat, or how much substantiation they’ve got for it, but they got one hell of a lot more than we’d want them to have! They’re talking about virus-based nanotech assassinations, the streak drive, and the spider drive, and they’re naming names about something called ‘the Mesan Alignment.’ In fact, they’re busy telling the Manty Parliament — and, I’m sure, the Havenite Congress and all the rest of the fucking galaxy! — all about the Mesan plan to conquer the known universe. In fact, you’ll be astonished to know that Secretary of State Arnold Giancola was in the nefarious Alignment’s pay when he deliberately maneuvered Haven back into shooting at the Manties!”

“What?” Albrecht blinked in surprise. “We didn’t have anything to do with that!”

“Of course not. But fair’s fair; we did know he was fiddling the correspondence. Only after the fact, maybe, when he enlisted Nesbitt to help cover his tracks, but we did know. And apparently giving Nesbitt the nanotech to get rid of Grossclaude was a tactical error. It sounds like Usher got at least a sniff of it, and even if he hadn’t, the similarities between Grossclaude’s suicide and the Webster assassination — and the attempt on Harrington — are pretty obvious once someone starts looking. So the theory is that if we’re the only ones with the nanotech, and if Giancola used nanotech to get rid of Grossclaude, he must’ve been working for us all along. At least they don’t seem to have put Nesbitt into the middle of it all — yet, anyway — but their reconstruction actually makes sense, given what they think they know at this point.”

“Wonderful,” Albrecht said bitterly.

“Well, it isn’t going to get any better, Father, and that’s a fact. Apparently, it’s all over the Manties’ news services and sites, and even some of the Solly newsies are starting to pick up on it. It hasn’t had time to actually hit Old Terra yet, but it’s going to be there in the next day or so. There’s no telling what’s going to happen when it does, either, but it’s already all over Beowulf, and I’ll just let you imagine for yourself how they’re responding to it.”

Albrecht’s mouth tightened as he contemplated the full, horrendous extent of the security breach. Just discovering Zilwicki and Cachat were still alive to dispute the Alignment’s version of Green Pines would have been bad enough. The rest . . . !

“Thank you,” he said after a moment, his tone poison-dry. “I think my imagination’s up to the task of visualizing how those bastards will eat this up.” He twitched a savage smile. “I suppose the best we can hope for is that finding out how completely we’ve played their so-called intelligence agencies for the last several centuries will shake their confidence. I’d love to see that bastard Benton Ramirez y Chou’s reaction, for instance. Unfortunately, whatever we may hope for, what we can count on is for them to line up behind the Manties. For that matter, I wouldn’t be surprised to see them actively sign up with the Manticoran Alliance . . . especially if Haven’s already on board with it.”

“Despite the Manties’ confrontation with the League?” The words were a question, but Benjamin’s tone made it clear he was following his father’s logic only too well.

“Hell, we’re the ones who’ve been setting things up so the League came unglued in the first place, Ben! You really think someone like Beowulf gives a single good goddamn about those fucking apparatchiks in Old Chicago?” Albrecht snorted contemptuously. “I may hate the bastards, and I’ll do my damnedest to cut their throats, but whatever else they may be, they’re not stupid or gutless enough to let Kolokoltsov and his miserable crew browbeat them into doing one damned thing theydon’t want to do.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Benjamin agreed glumly, then shook his head. “No, you are right about that.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not going to stop there,” Albrecht went on. “Just having Haven stop shooting at Manticore’s going to be bad enough, but Gold Peak is entirely too close to us for my peace of mind. She thinks too much, and she’s too damned good at her job. She probably hasn’t heard about any of this yet, given transit times, but she’s going to soon enough. And if she’s feeling adventurous — or if Elizabeth is — we could have a frigging Manty fleet right here in Mesa in a handful of T-weeks. One that’ll run over anything Mesa has without even noticing it. And then there’s the delightful possibility that Haven could come after us right along with Gold Peak, if they end up signing on as active military allies!”

“The same thought had occurred to me,” Benjamin said grimly. As the commander of the Alignment’s navy, he was only too well aware of what the only navies with operational pod-laying ships-of-the-wall and multidrive missiles could do if they were allied instead of shooting at one another.

“What do you think the Andies are going to do?” he asked after a moment, and his father grated a laugh.

“Isabel was always against using that nanotech anywhere we didn’t have to. It looks like I should’ve listened.” He shook his head. “I still think all the arguments for getting rid of Huang were valid, even if we didn’t get him in the end, but if the Manties know about the nanotech and share that with Gustav, I think his usual ‘realpolitik’ will go right out the airlock. We didn’t just go after his family, Benjamin — we went after the succession, too, and the Anderman dynasty hasn’t lasted this long putting up with thatkind of crap. Trust me. If he thinks the Manties are telling the truth, he’s likely to come after us himself! For that matter, the Manties might deliberately strip him off from their Alliance. In fact, if they’re smart, that’s what they ought to do. Get Gustav out of the Sollies’ line of fire and let him take care of us. It’s not like they’re going to need his pod-layers to kick the SLN’s ass! And we just happen to have left the Andies’ support structure completely intact, haven’t we? That means they’ve got plenty of MDMs, and if Gustav comes after us while staying out of the confrontation with the League, do you really think any of our ‘friends’ in Old Chicago’ll do one damned thing to stop him? Especially when they finally figure out what the Manties are really in a position to do to them?”

“No,” Benjamin agreed bitterly. “Not in a million years.”

There was silence for several seconds as father and son contemplated the shattering upheaval in the Mesan Alignment’s carefully laid plans.

“All right,” Albrecht said finally. “None of this is anyone’s fault. Or, at least, if it is anyone’s fault, it’s mine and not anyone else’s. You and Collin gave me your best estimate of what really went down at Green Pines, and I agreed with your assessment. For that matter, the fact that Cachat and Zilwicki didn’t surface before this pretty much seemed to confirm it. And given the fact that none of our internal reports mentioned this ‘Simões’ by name — or if they did, I certainly don’t remember it, anyway — I imagine I should take it all our investigators assumed he was one of the people killed by the Green Pines bombs?”

 

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 03

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 03 

Chapter 2

Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

Colonel Hugh Albert O’Donnell, the expatriate Earl of Tyrconnell, slugged back the contents of the small, clear shot glass. The liquid he gulped down burned from the top of his gullet to the bottom of his gut and filled his head with fumes that, he still suspected, might be poisonous. But at least this time he wasn’t going to –

The burn flared at the back of his throat and he coughed. And choked and sputtered. He looked up at his hosts — Grantville’s two Mike McCarthies, one Senior and one Junior — who looked on sympathetically. The older man also seemed to be suppressing either a grimace or a grin. Hugh put the shot glass aside politely.

“Can’t stomach moonshine, eh?” There was a little friendly chiding in Don McCarthy the Elder’s tone.

“Alas, and it pains an Irishman to say it, I cannot. It is not as similar to poteen as you conjectured. And it has not ‘grown on me’ as you Americans say — not the least bit, these past six nights. My apologies.”

“Ah, that’s all right,” said Mike the Younger, who disappeared into the kitchen and promptly returned with a perfectly-cast squat bottle, half-filled with liquid of a very promising amber color. “Want to try some bourbon?”

Hugh struggled to understand. “Is it a drink of that line, of that family?”

“`Of that line — ?’  Oh, you mean the Bourbons of France? No, no: this is American whiskey — uisce beatha — made in some of the Southern States. Interested?”

At the words ‘whiskey’ and its Gaelic root-word, uisce beatha, Hugh felt his interest and even his spirits brighten. He sat a little straighter. “I am very interested, Michael.”

Smiles and new drinks all around. But the small glasses were poured out very carefully this time, as though the ‘bourbon’ was precious nectar — and then Hugh realized that indeed it must be. The label, the bottle, the screw-on cap: all bore the stamp of machine-manufactured precision. This was a whiskey from almost four hundred years in the future. It would be a long wait indeed before any more was available. Hugh resolved to savor every drop. He raised his glass. “Slainte.”

“Slainte,” replied Michael McCarthy Sr. with a quick, wide smile.

Michael the Younger mumbled something that sounded more like “shlondy”. He obviously saw the grin that Hugh tried to suppress. “Maybe you can teach me how to say it later?” Mike Jr. wondered sheepishly.

Marveling at the taste of the bourbon, Hugh nodded. “If my payment is more bourbon, you may consider yourself furnished with a permanent tutor in the finer points of Gaelic.” Hugh felt his smile slip a little. “Well, as permanent as a tutor may be when he must leave on the morrow.”

“Hugh,” began Mike Jr., “I’ll say it again: Dad and I would be happy — very happy — if you’d reconsider and stay a few more days.”

O’Donnell waved his hand. “Forgive me for having struck a melancholy note. Let us not ruin this fine drink with dark thoughts. Besides,” — he hoped his light tone would change the mood — “the name of this whiskey reminds me that I need to practice my French pronunciation. Which, up until now, has usually been employed in the exchange of pleasantries over the tops of contested revetments and abatis.”

The answering smiles were polite, not amused. Michael Sr. rolled the small glass of bourbon slowly between his palms. “Why are you brushing up on your French?”

Hugh sighed. “A man must eat, Don McCarthy.”

“I’d have thought that would hardly be a worry for you.”

Hugh shrugged. “While I was in the employ of the king of Spain, you would have been quite right. But I am no longer the colonel of a regiment, nor a Knight-Captain of the Order of Alcantara, nor may I even remain a servant of my own godmother, Infanta Isabella of the Lowlands, since she remains a vassal of Philip IV of Spain. I am, as you would say, ‘unemployed.’ “

Don McCarthy leaned back. “So — France. You are becoming a true soldier-of-fortune now.”

“You may say the dirty word: yes, I am now a ‘mercenary.’  I have little choice. So too for all us Irish ‘Wild Geese’ in Spanish service. Our employer’s ‘alliance’ with England runs counter to any hope that Philip will make good his promise to liberate Ireland. It is a failure that is anticipated in your own histories — although there, the reasons were somewhat different. Besides, I do not wish to find myself fighting you.”

“Fighting us? How?”

“How not? Spain’s enmity toward your United States of Europe is unlikely to abate soon. So, if I am not willing to become the physical instrument of that hatred, I must take service elsewhere. And that decision reflects not just my loyalty as your friend, but the practicality of a seasoned officer: becoming a military adversary of the USE seems best suited to those who are in an intemperate rush to meet their maker.”

Michael Sr. smiled a bit. Michael Jr. frowned a bit.

Hugh leaned toward the latter. “What is it, Michael?”

“Nothing. Just thinking, is all.”

“Thinking of what?’

Michael Jr. seemed to weigh his words very carefully before he spoke. “Well, Hugh, we might be working for the same boss, soon.”

“You, Michael — working for the French? How could that be? Just last year, they attacked the USE.”

“Well, yes . . . but that was last year. We have a treaty now.”

“Michael, just a few days ago, did your own father not quip that the honor of nations is, in fact, an oxymoron?”

“Dad did, but I’m not counting on French honor.” He snorted the last two words. “I’m thinking practically. My guess is that the French are going to be lying low for a while, at least with regards to the USE. So it should be safe for me to do a short stint of work for the French, just to make some extra money. To handle some extra expenses.”

Hugh frowned, perplexed. Then, through the doorway into the kitchen, he saw Mike Sr.’s German nurse bustling busily at a shelf lined with his many special ointments, potions, and pills.

Michael Sr. spoke up. “Yep, I’m the ‘extra expense.’”

“Perhaps I remember incorrectly, but isn’t your wife –?”

“A nurse. Yes, but she’s needed elsewhere, and there’s not a whole lot she can do for me that any reasonably competent person can’t.”

“And the USE does not provide you with adequate care in exchange for both your wife’s service, and your brother’s?”

“Oh, they provide, but it’s pretty costly, taking care of a crusty old coot like me.”

Hugh smiled, not really understanding what a ‘coot’ was or how it might acquire a crust, but he got the gist by context.

Michael leaned towards his father, subtly protective. “So I found a way to make a lot of money pretty quickly, I think. But it involves going over the border.”

“To France.”

“More specifically, to Amiens.”

Hugh started. “You mean to work for Turenne?”

Michael nodded, looked away.

Hugh did his best to mask his surprise. “Really? Turenne? And his technical, eh, ‘laboratories?’ ”

Michael nodded again. “I negotiated the leave of absence a while ago. My bags are pretty much packed. Literally.”

“And Stearns, and Gustav, will allow you to provide technical assistance to Turenne?”

Michael shrugged, still looking away. “This down-time version of America is still a free country. We brought that with us and kept it. Mostly. Besides, I’ll only be showing the French how to achieve something that I’m sure they’ve already studied in our books.”

Hugh nodded, wondered what this ‘something’ might be, and also if there might be some way for Michael and he to combine their westward journeys. He leaned back, feeling a surge of relief at even this nebulous prospect of having a comrade as he began to seek his fortune in France. It was a good feeling to think one might not start out on a new career completely alone, almost as warming as the fire which threw flickering shadows around the walls and even painted a few on the back of the front door.

 

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 31

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 31

 

“Clothes are clothes,” Berry said. “What’s the big deal? I never understood it. Might as well get all excited about different kinds of breakfast food.”

“Like I said, unnatural.” Ruth looked back at Steph. “I can see the advantages.”

“How about combining the two?” suggested Kham. “A small flophouse with a small boutique attached?”

“I can’t see the benefit. I think you’d be more likely to combine the disadvantages of both. But it’s my turn to ask questions. What — exactly — did you want this safe house for? Or for who, I guess I should say?”

“The truth is, we don’t know yet. The ‘who,’ I mean. The other function of the safe house — which might wind up being its only function, for all we know at the moment — is to serve as a permanent drop box. That means a place where information can be passed on. Or along.”

“Or along…” Steph nodded. “In other words, your — should I call it the ‘now-developed team’? — will actually be at least two teams. Maybe more. And you need them to be able to stay in touch without actually being in touch.”

“Ah… well, yes.”

A voice came into the room, from a hidden speaker somewhere.

“This is cumbersome,” the voice said. “Ms. Turner, are you in or out?”

“Who are you?”

“Who the hell are you?”

The first question came from Steph; the other from Andrew. Both of them were looking around the conference room, trying to spot the source of the voice.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” the voice said.

“Do you recognize that voice?” Steph asked Andrew quietly.

He shook his head. “Nobody I know. But it’s someone from the Traccora system, I’m pretty sure. We had a slaver crew come through Parmley Station from there once. The accent’s pretty distinctive.”

“In or out, Ms. Turner?” the voice repeated. “There are security issues involved. If the answer is ‘in,’ we’ll continue. If it’s ‘out,’ we thank you for your assistance — it’s really been quite helpful — and bid you farewell with our good wishes.”

“That’s it, then,” said Andrew, sounding relieved. He rose to his feet again. “Let’s go, Steph.”

But she made no move to rise. “If I go, what happens to Nancy?”

Both Kham and the unseen voice started to speak but Berry interrupted.

“Shut up, both of you.” She gave Steph a very direct gaze. “I will take care of her until you get back. Or if you don’t come back at all. Whatever Nancy needs and for however long those needs might last.”

She didn’t add I swear or I promise or any other such phrase. She didn’t need to.

Kham now spoke. “Beowulf will assume all costs of your daughter’s education, Ms. Turner. I assure you — “

“Hush. I knew that the moment you advanced the proposal. The one thing you people aren’t is stingy. But that’s not what I needed to know. If I get killed on this mission — and don’t waste time telling me it can’t happen, because it’s Mesa we’re talking about — then Nancy‘s lost the only family she has. She needs people more than money.”

She and Berry looked at each other for a bit longer. Then Steph nodded. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Steph!”

She turned to Andrew. “I hate those people, Andrew. You have no understanding of how deep that hate runs. You just don’t. You and your folk had it rough on Parmley — rougher than I did, in some ways — but you were always you. You always had pride. You weren’t defined by other people. People who despised you and made sure you knew it for as far back as you could remember and who rubbed your face in it every chance they got and if you protested or argued — even looked at them cross-eyed — they’d beat you or kill you. And do it with impunity.”

She took another deep breath. “They just lost that impunity. I didn’t realize it at first, when we got off Mesa. Not at all, those months we drifted in space in the Hali Sowle. But after we got to Torch and I saw that new world being created…”

Andrew opened his mouth; then, closed it. Then, rubbed his face.

“I guess I’m a little old to discover patriotism,” Steph said. “Or maybe that’s just giving myself airs and this is really nothing more than a primitive desire for vengeance. I don’t care. The stinking bastards finally lost their impunity. And now somebody is getting ready to drive in the blade and I want my hand on the hilt too.”

She looked away from him and up at the wall. “That’s you, isn’t it, Victor? And Anton’s with you?”

“In or out, Ms. Turner?” the voice said. “You understand that if the answer is ‘in’ and you later change your mind we’ll have to sequester you until the mission is completed?”

“I thought you’d say ‘we’ll have to cut your throat.’”

“Why would we do that?” The voice sounded genuinely puzzled. “No point in it.”

Steph laughed. “I knew it! It’s Victor. Yes, I’m in.”

Andrew puffed out his cheeks. “Well. Me too, then.” He pointed an accusing finger at the wall. “Don’t argue with me, Victor! I’m coming too, it’s settled. And how the hell did you get rid of that godawful Nouveau Paris accent?”

“Why would I argue with you? I can think of at least two ways you could be very useful, just off the top of my head. Yes, it’s Victor. Berry, Ruth, Henry — show them in, please. Anton finally woke up. Thandi and Yana are climbing the walls. They don’t handle tedium well.”

There was a brief pause, perhaps two seconds, and the voice continued. “Yana says she votes for the boutique. Thandi won’t come right out and say it but she obviously does too. I have almost no idea what you’re talking about and Anton’s already looking bored but I think it’s probably a brilliant idea. Come on it and we’ll pursue it further.”

Berry and Ruth rose from the table. Kham followed them after pulling out his com and keying in some instructions.

One of the walls of the conference room began sliding aside. Beyond, Steph and Andrew could see a corridor. It looked like a hospital corridor, for whatever undefinable reason.

****

“It’s quite cunning, actually,” Victor said, sticking a finger against his throat. “It’s a nanotech method. They do something to my vocal cords and fiddle with the laryngeal nerve. Don’t ask me the details because I don’t have a clue. And, voila, my Nouveau Paris accent that I could never get rid of — it was always my one big weakness as a spy — is transformed into a Traccoran accent.”

“I hate it,” said Thandi, who was lying on a bed next to him. “I don’t mind his new body. But that new voice of his…”

Victor’s physique hadn’t changed much. There’d been no reason to change it since it had been quite normal. But his face was completely different. He was a very handsome man, now, in a slightly androgynous way. Dark eyes were now a bright, pale green; dark coarse hair cut short was now a fancy blond hair style. Combine that with the new voice and there wasn’t a trace left of Victor Cachat.

Anton… looked pretty much as he had before. Oh, his face had been completely changed, but he still had the same short, squat and extremely powerful physique.

Andrew Artlett frowned. “I don’t get it. What’s the point of leaving your body the same? No offense, but there aren’t too many people who’re built like that.”

Zilwicki got a sour expression on his face and pointed at Victor. “Blame him. I was supposed to get redesigned as a Hakim grandee, but –”

“That idea was a non-starter,” said Victor, “once we realized that the only way to disguise him would be to make him so fat he’d look like a beach ball. So fat, in fact, that he’d face real health issues. What was far more important than that –”

“Minor issues of my life span and morbidity, that is,” said Anton. Sourly. ” — was that he’d be so corpulent he’d have a hard time moving quickly in case he needed to. Which, on this mission, is not unlikely. So…”

Victor crossed one hand over the other. “The original plan was for Anton to go in as a Hakim grandee with Yana as his servant. I suggested we swap the roles. Now Yana isthe rich bigwig and squatty here” — a thumb indicated Anton — “is the menial servant. Hakim’s got a big mining industry so they use a lot of modified heavy labor slaves. Look just like him, in fact.”

“He doesn’t have a slave marker on his tongue,” objected Steph.

“That’s not really necessary,” said Anton. “Hakim — this is about its only saving grace — is pretty easy-going about manumission. By now, there are quite a few descendants of ex-slaves around.”

Cachat turned his head toward an open door to the side. “Yana, stop sulking in there. You’ve got to show yourself sooner or later.”

“Screw you. This was your idea. I plan to hold that grudge the rest of my life.”

Yana Tretiakovna came into the room. She moved with a somewhat mincing gait, quite unlike her usual athletic stride.

The reason was… obvious. Steph smiled. Artlett grinned.

“Don’t. Say. Anything,” warned Yana. She glared down at her new bosom. Her very, very impressive new bosom.

“Mind you, it’s likely to be a short life,” she said. “I’m bound to topple over and kill myself the moment I get distracted.”

“It’s a status symbol in a number of Verge cultures,” Kham elaborated. “And the wealthier you are, the — ah — more voluptuous you are.”

Steph and Andrew studied Yana a bit longer.

“So what do we call you now?” Andrew asked. “Midas?”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 02

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 02 

“And the difference is –?”

“The difference is huge. Her Mom — her dad’s second wife — was nobility, but not high enough for anyone to consider her kids potential inheritors of the throne. It’s called a morganatic marriage.”

“Thank you, I still read trashy historical romances, so I’m familiar with the term.”

“Oh. Sorry. But princess or not, she’s one of the brightest apples of her father’s eye. He loves all his kids — he’s a really good guy, that way — but he’s especially fond of Anne Cathrine and her younger sister, Leonora.”

“Another blonde, buxom beauty, I’m assuming?”

Eddie decided not to point out that Anne Cathrine’s hair was decidedly red-blonde. “Uh, no, not at all. Leonora is a brunette. And…well, she’ll probably be a pretty attractive woman. But she’s already sharp as a tack. Not pushy, but has a real sense of her self, of what’s right. And doesn’t like having her Dad determine her future.”

One of Jessica’s eyebrows elevated slightly. “She sounds like a handful for King Daddy. Good for her. And good for the Princess Anne Cathrine that she chose you.”

Eddie shrugged. No reason to add the somewhat embarrassing footnote that Anne Cathrine and he had been surreptitiously ‘pushed together’ by King Daddy, who despite some of his lunatic schemes, understood full well just how advantageous it was to have his daughter married to one of the up-time wizards who had been instrumental in shattering his naval attack on Wismar last year. Happily, Anne Cathrine’s heart had already been moving precipitously in Eddie’s direction, so King Daddy’s stratagems had been, practically speaking, more of an emphatic imprimatur than an imperial order.

Jessica leaned back, arms crossed. “So if she wanted to stay in Grantville for a few weeks or months, instead of three days last fall, why shouldn’t you and she have done so?”

“Because of how it would have looked, Jessica. I was the king’s hostage after Lübeck, and his convalescent patient.” He gestured down toward his leg. “But instead of ending up as a diplomatic football, I became part of the whole war’s diplomatic solution.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you know the old story: how ‘young lovers’ from two sides of a conflict become the basis of peace between enemies. Funny how a little intangible ‘feel good’ stuff like that can go a long way to easing tensions, making things a little smoother at the truce, and then the treaty tables. Which rolled right on into the deals that led to Denmark’s entry into a restored Union of Kalmar with Sweden.”

“Okay, but all that was finished even before you got married. So why not come back sooner?”

“Well, that whole ‘young love’ angle could also have lost a lot of its fairy-tale glow unless we got married pretty quickly, since, er . . . since — “

“Since there was no way of knowing how long it would be before the young wife might become a young mother. And how it might embarrass King Daddy if there were fewer than eight months between bridal bed and birthing bed.”

“Uh…yeah. Pretty much.” Eddie hated that he still — still — blushed so easily. “And once I was officially part of the family, I needed to get introduced all around Denmark. And any noble that did not get to host us for a short stay or a party or some other damned meet-and-greet event was sure to get their nose out of joint. And of course, the order in which we went to all these dinners and dances was how King Christian demonstrated this year’s pecking order amongst his aristocracy.”

“And he got to show off his own prize-stud, up-timer wizard, bought fair and square at the territorial negotiation table last summer.”

“Yup.” Although, truth be told, Eddie had found the whole circus of his semi-celebrity more than a bit of an ego-boost. Who would have ever guessed that his marginal nerdiness would one day make him a star? Back up-time, in the twentieth century, his identity as gamer, military-history nut, and educated layman on all the related technologies had made him one of the boys that the hot-looking high school girls had looked straight through — unless they needed help with their homework. But here in the seventeenth century, those same qualities, along with his service and wounding in the recent Baltic War, had made him the veritable crown prince of geek chic.

Of course, the down-timers didn’t see the geekiness at all. To them, he was simply a young Renaissance Man, a creature all at once unique, and brave, and furnished with powerful reservoirs of knowledge that were surprisingly deep and unthinkably wide. And Anne Cathrine was his first and most ardently smitten admirer. Which suited him just fine since, reciprocally, he was her biggest fan, as well.

“And so as soon as King Christian was done with you, your prior master, Admiral Simpson, snatched you back to Lübeck?”

“Well, Admiral Simpson never stopped being my C.O., even when I was a prisoner of war. Afterward, too. So when you get right down to it, all the gallivanting I did in Denmark was really an ‘extended leave to complete diplomatic initiatives’.” Eddie swayed into motion, put his right hand out, used the cane in his left to steady himself. “Jessica, thanks so much. The prosthesis — the leg — feels so natural, I know it’s going to make a huge difference in my life.”

Jessica smiled. “Well, that was the objective. And you’ve got a lot going on in that life. Seems, in some ways, that the Ring of Fire has been a good change for you.” She glanced down; her smile dimmed. “I mean, I’m not saying that it was worth losing a leg over, but — “

“I know what you mean, Jessica. Without the Ring of Fire, I’d probably have been working a nowhere job now, trying to figure out a way to pay for college as the weeks and months mounted up, and I had less and less in the bank to show for them. Sure, I’d have both legs — “

“But you wouldn’t be so alive, wouldn’t have so much to look forward to?” Jessica’s eyes were still not as receptive as they had been before, but they were engaged again, trying to understand.

“Yeah, I think that’s it. Up-time, I just might be surviving day after dull day in my parents’ basement, but here, I’m living life. For real. And so is she.”

Jessica frowned, not understanding. “‘She’? Who? The princess?”

Eddie nodded, released Jessica’s hand, started moving — surprisingly swiftly and surely — for the door. “Yup.”

Jessica held him with her wondering voice. “How did the Ring of Fire make her — well, more alive?”

Eddie turned. “It didn’t make her more alive, Jessica. It kept her alive. In the old history, Anne Cathrine died on August 20, 1633. But for some reason, when we arrived here in 1631, our actions sent out waves of change that radiated into her life, as well. Who knows? Maybe a ship carrying plague didn’t make it to Copenhagen, or she missed a dance where she was exposed to typhus, or any one of another million possible rendezvous with death that she was prevented from making. All I know is that she’s here now, and very alive. But back up-time, where she was part of what we called ‘history,’ she was dead ten days after her fifteenth birthday.”

Jessica’s mouth was slightly open. She seemed to be searching for something to say. And was failing.

Eddie nodded. “Thanks again, Jessica,” he said. “Say hello to your folks for me.” He swung around the door jamb, tugging the door closed behind him.

 

 

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 30

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 30

 

Chapter 18

When Steph Turner and Andrew Artlett were ushered into the conference room, they were surprised to find Queen Berry and Princess Ruth waiting for them. There was another person in the room whom they didn’t recognize. That was hardly surprising, since they’d only been in the Beowulfan capital city of Columbia for a short time. Their ship had arrived the previous evening.

“Where’s Victor?” Steph asked. “And Anton? They were the ones who sent me the message to come here right away.”

Andrew pulled out a chair for her and helped her get seated at the table in the center of the room, facing Berry and Ruth and the unknown man. He wasn’t usually given to such gallantries, but he was trying to evade the gazes coming his way. The ones that indicated and what is he doing here?

Recognizing the gazes, Steph said a bit awkwardly: “Andrew, uh, decided to come with me.”

Having sat down by then, Andrew got a little belligerent. “I know I wasn’t invited but I also know Cachat and Zilwicki. They’re up to something. Involving Steph. Which means ‘up to no good,’ most likely. They got a history. So I came along to make sure Steph doesn’t get hustled.”

Berry and Ruth looked at each other, and then at the man Steph and Andrew didn’t know.

“I guess it’s your call,” Berry said to him.

The man chuckled. “Who knows? This whole project is scrambling everybody’s pre-existing notions of proper jurisdiction. But I’ll kick it off.”

He swiveled in his seat to face Andrew. “I assume you’re Andrew Artlett, right? The now-famous — in some circles, anyway — starship mechanic who jury-rigged the repairs on the Hali Sowle that enabled Cachat and Zilwicki to bring back their galaxy-shaking — that’s almost literally true — intelligence from Mesa.”

“What of it?” Andrew demanded, leaning his weight on forearms planted on the table.

Steph put a hand on his arm. “Hon, I think he’s being complimentary. Ease up on the testosterone, will you?”

“Um.” Andrew settled back. The expression on his face was that of a man who was embarrassed but was valiantly refusing to acknowledge the fact. “Um,” he repeated.

“I’m Henry Kham,” the man said. “I’m with… Well, for the moment let’s just call it the Inter-Agency Development Team.”

“‘Inter’ between what agencies and developing what and who’s on the team?” Andrew demanded.

Steph gave him an exasperated glance. “I think we’ll find out soon enough. Now will you puh-lease let Mr. Kham finish what he’s saying.”

“Um.”

Kham smiled. “The interaction is between a number of organizations representing — so far — four star nations. Beowulf, Manticore and Torch being three of them, which is why we’re here. The Republic of Haven is also involved but they didn’t have a representative available to come to this meeting.”

“Where’s Victor?” asked Steph.

“He’s tied up at the moment.”

A little choking sound came from Berry, followed almost immediately by the same sort of noise from Ruth. Kham gave them an inquisitive glance. “A poor choice of words?” he asked.

“Ah… ” Ruth shook her head. “No, no. That’s fine.”

Berry murmured something that sounded like except he usually does the tying although Steph wasn’t sure. The young queen’s face was a little puffy, as if she was doing her best to stifle laughter.

Ruth flipped her hand in a shooing motion. “Keep going, Henry. Don’t mind us.”

Kham turned back to Steph and Andrew. “As for the project we’re developing, it’s basically simple. As invaluable as the information Cachat and Zilwicki brought back was, we need more. So we’re planning to insert another intelligence team on Mesa.” He now looked directly at Steph. “And we want to ask you to accompany them.”

Andrew looked like he was about to object but Kham held up his hand. “Hear me out, please. We wouldn’t be expecting Ms. Turner to play a direct role in the intelligence-gathering. What we’d want her to do is set up a safe house and provide the actual operatives with guidance and advice.”

“No,” said Artlett. He stood up and extended his hand to his companion. “Let’s go, Steph.”

“Andrew, sit down,” she said.

He stared at her, half-gaping.

“Sit. Down,” she repeated. “First, it’s my decision, not yours. Second, you’re being rude. Keep talking, Mr. Kham. What sort of safe house and with what — and how much — money?”

Kham shrugged. “We hoped you’d tell us what would work best as a safe house. Money’s not an issue. We’ll provide it, and as much as you need.”

Steph pursed her lips and her eyes got a little unfocussed.

Artlett sat back down. “Steph, you can’t be seriously –”

“Be quiet. I’m thinking.”

He rolled his eyes. But he kept quiet.

After half a minute or so, Steph’s gaze came back in focus. “A restaurant’s probably out, even though it’d be the easiest for me and ideal for a safe house.”

“Agreed,” said Kham. “We already thought of that, but…” He shook his head. “The problem is that we just don’t know how much data the Mesans still have on everything connected with Cachat and Zilwicki’s expedition. But you might still be in their records. We can disguise you, but part of those records are that you owned and operated a restaurant. That might be enough to get flagged if a new one opened up in the seccie quarters.”

Ruth spoke up. “I suggested a flophouse. From what I’ve read, there are a lot of cheap boarding houses in the area.”

Steph nodded. “Yeah, there are. A lot of seccies — men, mostly — are itinerant laborers. And the houses go in and out of business regularly, since they’re usually just someone’s home being turned to commercial use when need be. There aren’t any regulations governing boardinghouses except the same fire and sanitation regs that apply to everybody. But those don’t even get inspected for that often.”

“That’s what I figured. And it’d be pretty close to what you used to do, since — correct me if I’m wrong — part of what a boardinghouse provides are regular meals for the renters. Kind of like a small private restaurant.”

“No, you’re right.” Steph’s eyes got out of focus for a moment. Kham took the moment to interject himself.

“That was the objection, though, raised by — ah, one of the development team members,” he said. “That a boardinghouse is close enough to what you used to do that it might get flagged for attention also.”

“Could be,” Steph said. “But that’s not what makes me twitchy about the idea.” She gave Ruth a sharp glance. “Did your reading indicate the other services usually provided by flophouses?”

Ruth frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Laundry’s one of them. But like I said, the clientele is mostly male. So most flophouses provide prostitutes also. Sometimes that service is done directly by the woman — they’re almost always women — who own the house. But it’s usually contracted out.”

Berry made a face. “Steph, nobody would expect you –”

Steph laughed, quite cheerfully. “You’d better not! But that’s not the problem.” She gave Kham a look that was not quite condemnatory but came awfully close. “Am I right in thinking that your so-called ‘development team’ could come up with a whore or two, if need be?”

“Well… they wouldn’t be whores, no. They’d actually be trained intelligence operatives. But with that caveat, yes. We could.” He shrugged. “Spying and sexual favors go back together a very long ways.”

“Could you provide the pimp, too?” She waved her hand. “Never mind. Hypothetical question. I’m sure you could. Just like I’m sure that the reason Victor isn’t here is because you’re putting him through some kind of body modification process because there’s no way he wouldn’t insist on being part of this. Make him the official pimp and no other pimp would dare come near the place. Not, at least, after the first couple of ‘em got filleted.”

Steph shook her head. “But that’s still not the problem. Where were you planning to set up this safe house? Neue Rostock? That’d be the best district from the standpoint of avoiding the police. Either that or Lower Radomsko. But if you set it up in Neue Rostock you’d have to deal with Dusek’s organization, since they don’t let…” Her eyes got unfocused again. “Huh. Actually, that’s a possibility worth thinking about. Lower Radomsko would be a mess. Victor could handle any one of those crazy little gangs — wouldn’t even work up a sweat, knowing him — but there are just so many of them and they really can get pretty crazy. Let me think.”

Again, the unfocused look. After about a minute, she said: “The flophouse is a possibility. The other one is a boutique of some kind. There are a jillion of them in the seccie quarters. They open and close like flowers and most of them have the lifespan of mayflies. Nobody in authority pays any attention to them at all, except for those few in the better-off seccie districts that can get a credit line. They’ll get occasional inspections from credit rating services, which are private but have connections with police and regulatory agencies. But as long as you don’t try to buy on credit, you’re all but invisible to anyone except your clientele.”

“And those are… who?” Kham asked.

“Women, mostly. Looking for deals and…” She sighed. “Men make fun of us about it, but the truth is that a little fashion — even the cheap stuff within the reach of poor seccies — makes life a little brighter.”

“Amen,” said Ruth. When everyone looked at her she flushed a little. “Hey, it’s true even for royalty. Main difference is just that they — well, okay, we — can afford the expensive stuff. About the only woman of any class I know who’s completely indifferent to fashion” — her thumb went sideways — “is Her Mousety here and she’s just plain unnatural.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 01

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 01 

1636: Commander Cantrell In The West Indies

By Eric Flint and Charles E. Gannon

PART I

April, 1635

The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre

Chapter 1

Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

Lt. Commander Eddie Cantrell looked down at the stump six inches below his left knee as an orderly removed his almost ornate peg-leg. PA Jessica Porter — formerly Nurse Porter — approached with his new fiberglass prosthetic. The jaundiced-grey color of the object was not appealing. “Wow, that’s uglier than I thought it would be,” Eddie confessed as the orderly left.

Jessica shrugged. “It may look like hell, but it works like a charm. We’ve special-cast more than a hundred of these, now.” She fitted it tentatively onto the stump, looked up at Eddie.

Who concentrated on how it felt: a little odd — smooth and cool — compared to the wood and leather lashings that had just been removed. He supposed anything else might feel strange now, having spent a year and a half getting used to the cranky, creaky peg-leg that had been specially fashioned for him by King Christian IV of Denmark’s medical artisans. But now that Eddie paid closer attention to the new sensations of this prosthetic — “Actually, that feels much better. No rubbing.”

Jessica snorted in response. “Yeah, it ought to feel better. It’s custom-made. That’s why we made you stop by when you brought your princess bride with you last fall, to get a wax mold of your –” Jessica missed a beat, floundered. “Of your — your –”

“My stump,” Eddie supplied for her. “That’s okay; might as well call it what it is.” Which, he reflected, Jessica must do dozens of times a week with other amputees. But it was probably different with him. He was a fellow up-timer, a person she had known before the Ring of Fire had whisked their whole town back through time to Germany of 1631. And so, right in the middle of the Thirty Years War, into which meat-grinder Eddie himself had been thrown.

He looked down at the stump which had gotten caught in those pitiless gears of a new history-in-the-making. “So, that wax mold you took of my stump –?”

Jessica nodded as she secured the new leg. “We filled that mold with a mix of fiberglass and pine resin and presto: your new prosthetic.”

Eddie moved the new false limb tentatively. The weight was negligible. “It’s hard to believe that’s local — uh, down-time — manufacture.”

“Every bit of it,” nodded Jessica as she stood and stepped back to take a look. “They got the process from us, of course. We made the first few here at the Leahy Medical Center. But after that, there was no stopping all the down-time medical folks, particularly in the new university programs, from dominating the business. Good thing, too: we couldn’t kept up with the demand, here.”

“I thought fiberglass would be too hard for the local industries to make.”

Jessica was able to look him in the eye again. “That’s because you’re thinking of the stuff we made speedboats out of, back up-time in the twentieth century. That’s ultra-high strength fiberglass. The individual strands were very thin, and very uniform. I doubt any of us will still be alive when that technology makes its debut in this world. But this,” — she tapped the prosthesis; it made a much duller sound than the wood — “this is made of much cruder fibers. Down-timers can make them with a number of different drip-and-spin processes. Then they just pack it into the mold as tight as they can, pour in the pine resin, and, after a little more processing, out comes the prosthesis.

“That’s not the end of the process, of course. It needs smoothing and careful finishing where it fits onto the stump. But we didn’t stop there,” she said, her smile finally returning. “We added something special for you.”

“Oh?” Eddie wondered if maybe it had secret compartments. That would be kind of cool.

“Yep. Try stepping on it, then stepping off.”

Eddie shrugged: no secret compartments, then. He took hold of his cane, pushed off the examining table, stood tentatively on both legs, then stepped forward with the prosthesis. Well, that felt just fine. And step two –

– almost dropped him to the ground. As his real foot came down and he shifted his primary weight onto it, the heel of the prosthetic seemed to start rising up a little, as if it was eager to take its own next step. It wasn’t a particularly strong push, but he hadn’t been expecting it, and he flailed for balance.

 “Wha — what was that?” he asked, not minding one bit that Jessica had jumped over to steady him.

“That was the spring-loaded heel wedge. Cool, huh? When the sole of the prosthesis is fully compressed, and then you start to shift your weight off it to take the next step, it gives you a little boost. Like your own foot does.”

Eddie frowned. “Well, yeah, I guess. But I wasn’t ready for it.”

Jessica shook her head. “Sorry. Should have thought of that. We don’t experience that with the other amputees.”

“Why?”

“Well, they’re either recent amputees, so they never adjusted to a regular peg leg. Or they come here because someone has told them that up-timers at Leahy Medical Center make the best prosthetics, ones with springs in them. So naturally, the first thing we have to do is sit them down and explain every detail, including the phases they’re going to go through in getting accustomed to using the new limb. Sorry; I should have observed the same protocol with you, should have warned you.”

Eddie grinned and shrugged off her apology, then took a few more steps. Now that he knew to expect that little boost from the prosthetic’s heel, it wasn’t so bad. In fact, Jessica was right: this was more like real walking, not the flat footed limp-and-waddle he managed with the peg-leg and a cane. With this, he could feel the potential for walking like a whole person again, like his old self. He could even imagine how he might be able to work in a little swagger, something to show off to Anne Cathrine . . .

“Eddie, I’m guessing that smug little smile means that the prosthetic is a success?”

“Uh, yeah. Thank you, Jessica.”

“Not at all. But tell me something, Eddie.”

“Sure.” He considered sitting, found he was still comfortable standing, something that rarely happened when he had been wearing the peg. “What do you want to know?”

“Well…why did you stay in Denmark once you were no longer being held as Christian IV’s own, personal prisoner of war last year? I mean, I know there was the wedding with his daughter, but — “

Eddie nodded. And reflected that in the past, he might have grinned while he explained. But in the past year, life itself had acquired a new gravity that made him less ready to grin and shrug his way through the living or recounting of it. His high school days, not quite four years behind him, now seemed a life-time away, a collection of memories that rightly belonged to someone else. “Mostly, I stayed up in Denmark because of love, Jessica.”

“You mean the princess didn’t want to come down here?”

“Oh, no, she was extremely eager to see Grantville.” Like pretty much every other down-timer who had the means to do so, the number one locale on Anne Cathrine’s list of ‘places to visit’ was the town of miracles that had fallen out of the future into Germany.

“So why not bring the princess back home, Eddie? You get tired of us?”

“Jessica, first of all, Anne Cathrine is not a ‘princess.’ She’s a ‘king’s daughter’.”

 

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 29

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 29

 

“He gunned down at least four of the bastards, as I recall. So let the damned media get their first actual look at what the expression ‘galaxy’s most deadly terrorist’ actually means.“

“That’s… probably a good idea on its merits, now that I think about,” said Anton.

As they’d been talking, Jacques’ head had gone back and forth between them. Now he raised his hands.

“You’re making me dizzy. I don’t understand — ” He broke off sharply, his eyes widening. “Oh, dear God in Heaven. That’s… brilliant.“

Thandi started whistling tunelessly. “If anybody thinks I can’t turn the Cachat Curl into a general-purpose workout routine, you’d best start thinking again. What the hell are you all talking about?”

Jacques pointed at Victor and Anton, moving his finger between them. “First, we start creating doubles for them at the same time as we’re putting them through the body-transformation and sheathing. Second — oh, somewhere around next week, as soon as everyone’s off to Beowulf, we start feeding little tidbits to the media. But we don’t stretch it out too long, because we want a big splash. A really big splash. Then we dump everything. Give Underwood as much material as he got when he did the Zilwicki exposé — what was it? Two years ago?”

“Three,” replied Anton.

“Hey!” said Berry. “It wasn’t an ‘exposé’. It was pretty positive, actually.”

“Positive, negative — it doesn’t matter,” said Jacques. “It’s just got to be explosive and exciting.” He now looked at Montaigne. “I haven’t seen this footage you’re talking about. Is it…?”

“Explosive and exciting?” She looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Let’s put it this way. Victor gunned down at least a dozen State Sec goons and Scrags. Jeremy did for the rest. There was one badly wounded survivor. Donald X — no, I guess he’s Donald Ali bin Muhammad now — shot him dead. That’s on the footage too.”

“We can probably cut that part,” said Anton.

“Why?” asked Victor. “Donald won’t care. Who’s going to charge him — or me, or Jeremy — with anything? The people with legal jurisdiction are the authorities on Terra. Given the current situation, they’ve got enough on their plates. I don’t think they’re going to be dredging up the Manpower Incident and sending out extradition notices.”

Anton grunted. “True. Keep going, Jacques.”

By now, Benton-Ramirez y Chou was on his feet along with Ruth, although he wasn’t pacing. “It’s brilliant. The media will go wild. I’m just starting to grasp at all the ramifications. For one thing…”

He looked down at Anton, and then at Cathy. “I know the basic facts about the Manpower Incident. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think it’s fair to say that Victor saved the lives of your children.”

“There’s no doubt about it,” said Anton.

“Yes,” said Berry. “I was there myself, although I didn’t see the actual shooting.”

Jacques nodded. “You’re all probably too close to it to see it for what it’s worth in propaganda terms. Right at the point where the leaders of Manticore and Haven are trying to convince their own populations that it’s time to end the galaxy’s bloodiest and bitterest war — and meeting a lot of resistance — we get a story splashed all over the media — first here in the Star Empire, then in the Republic of Haven — that tells how a young Havenite StateSec agent saved the lives of three Manticoran children — one of whom is now an officer in the fleet and another of whom is the newly-crowned queen of the new star nation of Torch — and began a friendship and later a partnership with the father of those children — who’s himself a well-known figure in the Star Empire — “

Ruth snickered. “Captain Zilwicki, Scourge of the Spaceways.”

“– that led eventually to the uncovering of the evil masterplan of the Mesan Alignment. Who, among their many other crimes, are the ones responsible for instigating the war between Manticore and Haven and keeping it going.”

He started rubbing his hands. “Not to mention that Victor was part of the underground opposition that eventually overthrew the Saint-Just regime. Oh, God, it’s brilliant. The media will slobber over it for weeks. And by the time they finally start tiring of it…”

He lowered his hands and grinned. “The doubles will be ready to go to work. We trot them out from time to time in front of the media — never too close and not too often, just enough — to give the impression that Cachat and Zilwicki are both neck-deep in whatever oh-very-hush-hush scheming is being done by the authorities — the authorities here, you understand, and later on Haven and maybe Beowulf — while they’re actually almost eight hundred light years away… On Mesa, which is the last place anybody would think they’d gone to.”

Thandi rubbed a hand over her face. “Okay, now I get it. What you’re proposing is basically a diversion. A whopping big diversion.” The hand came away. “You’re right. It’s brilliant. But we’ll need a double for me also. I’m too prominent a figure to just vanish. If people see my double engaging in what looks like discussions with my Manticoran counterparts, they won’t think anything of it. That’s exactly what they’d expect to see.”

Anton and Victor looked at each other. “She’s right,” said Victor. Anton nodded.

So did Jacques. “We’ll include you in the mix, then.” He thought for a moment. “Anyone else? This Yana person, perhaps…”

“No,” that came from Victor and Thandi simultaneously.

“Nobody will notice if Yana just disappears,” Thandi elaborated. “We need to give her a body transformation and a genetic sheathe since she was on Mesa with Victor and Anton. But she doesn’t need a double.”

“The same’s true of Steph Turner,” Victor added. “That’s assuming she agrees to come at all.”

Jacques pulled out his com. “Okay. So who makes the call? And who do we start with?”

Victor and Anton exchanged looks again.

“There’s something a little scary about that,” mused Cathy.

“You think?” That came from Berry. But she was smiling when she said it.

“We need to start with President Pritchart,” said Anton. He pointed at Victor. “He’s actually very disciplined, believe it or not. He won’t — can’t — agree to this without the approval of his superiors. And given that they’re bouncing his official status around, there’s no one except Pritchart who could sign off on it. As for who should make the call…”

Victor pulled out his com. “I’ll do it. I’d rather Jacques did, but… a special officer beards his own commander-in-chief.”

“Eloise Pritchart does not have a beard,” said Cathy.

Victor’s gloomy expression was back. “Stick around,” he said, as he keyed in some numbers. “By tomorrow she may have.”

His face got the slightly vacant look of someone who’s talking to someone far away. “This is Special Officer Cachat. Would you please pass on to President Pritchart that I need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

After a moment, he continued: “Yes, I know she’s very busy. This is important.”

Another moment passed. Victor rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you.” He turned off the com. “Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, ‘first thing we do, we kill all the bureaucrats’?”

Cathy shook her head. “No. It was lawyers.”

“He got it wrong, then.” He put the com away. “I wouldn’t hold out great hopes that I’ll be able to see her anytime soon. The president’s gofer — excuse me, assistant executive director — made it pretty clear that I was a nuisance with delusions of grandeur.”

“Is that so?” Jacques took his com back out. “Let me try, then.” He entered some numbers and within a short time got the same slightly vacant expression.

“This is Jacques Benton-Ramirez y Chou, Third Director at Large of the Planetary Board of Directors of Beowulf. What is your name, please?”

A few seconds passed. “Well then, Assistant Executive Director Hancock. I need to speak to President Pritchart.”

A few seconds passed. “I didn’t say I needed an appointment, Ms. Hancock, I said I needed to speak to President Pritchard. If you require an explanation of the word ‘now’ I can have it provided for you by my cousin. That would be Chyang Benton-Ramirez. He’s the Chairman of Beowulf’s Board of Directors.”

A few seconds passed. “Thank you, Assistant Executive Director Hancock.”

To the people around him he said: “She’s getting her.”

A couple of minutes passed. “Eloise? Jacques here. Something very important has come up. I need to meet with you as soon as possible. I’ll be bringing your Special Officer Cachat with me. Captain Zilwicki as well. And General Palane.”

A few seconds passed. “Splendid. Fifteen thirty it is.”

He put away the com and glanced at his timepiece. “Okay, we’ve got a little over two hours. We’d best get moving.”

****

After they left, Ruth sat back down at looked at the HD. The talking heads were still at it.

“– unfortunate, I agree, but there it is.” Yael Underwood was saying. “We just don’t know very much about Cachat and what little we do know is half-speculation.”

“Boy, are you in for a wild ride,” said Ruth.

 

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 28

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 28

 

Chapter 17

The first thing Thandi Palane noticed when she came into the suite was that the central salon’s furniture had been rearranged so that all the couches and chairs had a good view of the HD wallscreen. The paintings which normally filled the screen had been replaced by a talk program.

“– know anything about this man,” said one of the people sitting around the table that was pictured in the center of the screen. She was a red-haired woman with sharp features that matched her sharp tone of voice.

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said the man sitting at one end of the table. The table had an odd sort of L-shape, which led Thandi to think the man in question was the talk show’s host or moderator.

The man glanced at a small screen recessed into the table. “We know, for instance, that he was the governor of La Martine province for a short time.”

“Short time!” That came from the same red-haired woman. The barked laugh that followed had the same edge to it that Thandi was already coming to associate with the woman — for whom she was also already developing a dislike.

“That’s what I believe is called a ‘euphemism,’” the woman continued. “He was relieved from his post almost as soon as he got it — and I can’t help but notice that that came after he spent time under arrest. You can’t help but wonder –”

“Cut it out, Charlene,” said a woman sitting at the other end of the table from the man Thandi presumed to be the moderator. “None of this even qualifies as ‘established fact’ in the first place, much less any interpretation of it. The events both you and Yael are referring to took place during the revolution that overthrew St. Just — and in a Havenite province that’s far distant from our own borders and about which we know precious little to begin with. Everything about that revolution is still murky, especially at the edges. So I think it behooves us –”

Thandi turned to Ruth Winton, who was sitting on one of the couches next to Victor. “What’s this?”

“It’s a show called The Star Empire Today,” said Ruth. “The moderator is Yael Underwood.”

“He’s the slimeball with the long blond hair and weaselly expression sitting on the far right,” said Anton Zilwicki, who was seated on another couch in between Jacques Benton-Ramirez y Chou and Catherine Montaigne.

Cathy laughed. “God, I swear! Nobody can hold a grudge like a Gryphon highlander.”

“What grudge?” asked Thandi.

Berry had come in right behind her and provided the answer — after laughing herself. “Underwood’s the one who outed Daddy. That happened before we met you at the funeral ceremony for Hieronymus Stein on Erewhon.”

“– do you refuse to admit that everything about him — “

“– why am I the only one here who seems to remember, Florence, that this man was our sworn enemy until yesterday –”

“– go so far as Charlene, but what does seem fairly well established is that his role in the Manpower Incident was hardly –“

Thandi tuned out the yabber-jabber. “What do you mean by ‘outed’?”

“Underwood did a whole show devoted to Anton,” explained Cathy. “He let the Talking Heads blather for a while before he trotted out somebody who actually knew something and that guy — Mr. Wright they called him, didn’t they, Anton? — really spilled the beans.”

“I found out later his real name’s Guillermo Thatcher,” said Anton. “He’d recently retired from SIS — that stands for Special Intelligence Service, if you didn’t know already, which is the Manticoran civilian spook agency — and someday I hope to catch him in a dark alley with no witnesses around.”

Thandi smiled. The smile widened when she saw the gloomy expression on Victor’s face.

“– Special Officer Cachat,” the Charlene women was saying, “and you really have to wonder exactly what the ‘Special’ part of that entails, don’t you? If you ask me — “

“And now they’re outing Victor, I take it?”

“Trying to,” said Anton. “It’s pretty flimsy stuff so far, and” — he jabbed a thick finger at the HD screen — “I don’t think there’s any Mr. Damn-the-bastard Wright equivalent on this panel. It’s mostly been a pillow fight between Shrill Charlene and the other woman. Her name’s Florence Hu and she’s more-or-less the Liberal Party voice on the panel.”

Cathy sniffed. “Emphasis on the ‘less,’ if you please.”

“They’re swinging at each other plenty fiercely,” Anton continued, “but how much damage can you do with a pillow? The simple truth is that none of them know very much about Victor to begin with. That includes Yael Underwood whom I also have daydreams about meeting in a dark alley someday.”

Thandi slid onto the couch next to Victor and patted his hand. “Don’t let it bother you so much, dear. It’ll be over soon enough.”

Victor’s expression, amazingly, got more gloomy still. “I’m afraid not,” he said.

“Oh, come on. These so-called ‘news talk shows’ have the attention span of a gerbil. By next week –”

“Victor is all they’ll be talking about,” said Anton. “Well… might take a bit more time than that, depending on this and that and the other. There are some ways, Thandi, in which you don’t know Victor that well. The reason for that sourpuss expression on his face isn’t because of what’s on the HD screen now. It’s because he knows what he ought to do next and he really, really, really doesn’t want to do it.”

Victor grunted. “The reason for the sourpuss expression, as Anton puts it, is because I find his ability to figure out what I’m thinking distressful as well as disturbing. He’s getting better at it, too, to make it still worse.”

Thandi frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Berry, now standing next to her, looked back and forth between the two men. “Look at ‘em. It’s like they belong to some sort of weird club. You know, the sort of goofy super-exclusive fellowship that’s got stupid secret handshakes.”

Ruth suddenly sat up straight and clapped her hands. “Oh, my God! That’s brilliant, Anton and Victor! It’s absolutely brilliant!”

She jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth, gesticulating in a manner so vigorous it was almost wild. She came within a centimeter of knocking over a very expensive-looking vase perched on a side table. “You’ll have to get approval, of course. Might even have to go all the way to President Pritchard. But she’s an ex-spook herself so she’s bound to understand why it’s such a great idea.”

Striding back, she passed by Benton-Ramirez and Chou and waved her hand at him. “He’ll have to sign on, too, obviously. But I can’t imagine that’ll be a big problem.”

Jacques looked up at Thandi and Berry. “What are they all talking about?”

Thandi shrugged. “Got no idea. Spook-think doesn’t come naturally to me. Victor, would you care to enlighten us?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should rephrase that. If you don’t explain yourself I’m going to take up a new aerobic exercise. It’s called the Cachat Curl.”

“Can I watch?” asked Berry.

Victor raised his hands in a gesture that combined exasperation and surrender. “Given that there’s clearly no way to avoid publicity about…” (A deep breath, here.) “…me, we should run with it. Turn it to our advantage.”

“Pile it on with a shovel,” chimed in Anton. “As thick and treacly as we can. Make sure the news outlets are obsessed with the story and for as long as possible.”

He looked at Jacques. “You’ll have to help. To make the scheme work right, we’ll need to create a double for Victor. Um. Me too, I guess.”

“No ‘guess’ about it,” said Victor. “Yes, you too.”

Anton chuckled but didn’t look away from Jacques. “They’ll have to be sheathed with our DNA, I’m thinking, not just nanotech body-transformed. Just in case someone manages to pick up trace residues. We won’t expose them to the media directly, of course, since that would require them to be able to act like we do as well as looking like we do.”

“God help the universe,” muttered Thandi.

“That would get… tricky,” Anton went on. “But it doesn’t matter. Once we leak Victor’s entire history to the press — and we do know where all the bones are buried –”

“Oh, so many many bones,” chortled Ruth, still striding. “God, the media will go wild!”

“Especially when we leak the Ballroom footage of the Old Town gunfight,” said Anton.

Victor made a noise that sounded like a vehement protest strangled before it took actual form in words. Anton gave him a sideways look. “Of course we have to release that, too. It’ll be the icing on the cake, Victor. You know it as well as I do.”

The Havenite agent’s expression had passed beyond gloomy by now and had entered the territory shared by sullen rancor and spread the misery. “I’ve never seen that footage, but it’s got to include Jeremy as well as me.” He gave Cathy a sharp look. “Yes?”

“Well… yes, it does. Right at the end.”

 

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 27

Cauldron of Ghosts – Snippet 27

 

“My own ancestors — and Honor’s, of course” he nodded at his niece “– ended up in command of the Rescue Fleet. In a way, since the League grew out of the relief effort and the kick in the pants that gave to interstellar commerce and travel in general, you could say the present day Sollies are at least partly our family’s fault, I suppose. On the other hand, there’s more than enough blame to go around where that minor problem’s concerned, so I don’t intend to dwell on it. But the lesson Beowulf and most of the rest of the human race took away from the Final War was that they never — ever — wanted to face that sort of nightmare again. And the ‘super soldiers’ and, possibly even more, the mindset of the Ukrainian supremacists, was almost worse than the gene-engineered diseases.”

 Several of the others looked a bit surprised by his last sentence and he snorted.

“I know. Compared to the Asian Confederacy’s nightmares, the Scrags were actually almost benign, weren’t they?” He gestured at Yana. “I mean, look at her. Then look at Honor. Not a lot to choose between them, is there?”

Yana and his niece looked at each other for a moment. Then Honor smiled slowly and shook her head.

“No, not a lot at all,” she murmured.

“But the idea behind the Ukrainians was even worse,” Benton-Ramirez y Chou said softly. “The Confederacy had seen its super soldiers as weapons systems, tools that wouldn’t be allowed to reproduce and certainly weren’t any sort of pattern for the future of humanity. But the Ukrainians had intended all along to force the evolution of the next step, of Homo superior, and that was what had initiated the entire conflict. All of the carnage, all of the destruction and the billions of lives which had been lost, started in the Ukrainian ideal of designed genetic uplift. The further weaponization of biotechnology, and of nanotechnology, made the devastation immeasurably worse, but the people trying to dig the human race’s homeworld out of what had become a mass grave were determined that it wasn’t going to happen again. The Beowulf Biosciences Code evolved directly out of the Final War. That’s why it unequivocally outlaws any weaponization of biotech in general . . . and why it places such stringent limits on acceptable genetic modification of humans.”

“And Mesa doesn’t agree with that, obviously,” Victor said.

“No, it doesn’t.” Benton-Ramirez y Chou agreed. “Leonard Detweiler thought it was a hysterical overreaction to a disaster, an isolated incident which, for all its horror, had after all been limited to a single star system. Mind you, the bio weapons had jumped the fire breaks between Old Earth, Luna, and Mars, but even at their worst, they’d never gotten beyond Sol’s Oort cloud, and the human race had lots of star systems by then. And even if that hadn’t been the case, then surely humanity had learned its lesson. Besides, he didn’t have any real objection to outlawing weaponized biotech — or he said he didn’t, at any rate. It was the Code’s decision to turn its back on targeted improvement of the human genotype, to renounce the right to take our genetic destiny into our own hands, that infuriated him. ‘Small minds are always terrified by great opportunities,’ he said. He simply couldn’t believe any rational species would turn its back on the opportunity to become all that it could possibly be.”

He paused for a long moment, then sighed deeply.

“And the truth is, in a lot of ways, Detweiler was right,” he admitted. “Again, look at Honor and Yana. Nothing horrible there, is there? Or in any of a dozen — two dozen — specific planetary environment genetic mods I could rattle off. Even you Graysons.” He smiled at the Mayhews and shook his head. “Without the genetic mods your founders put into place so secretly, you wouldn’t have survived. But what Detweiler never understood — or accepted, anyway — was that what the mainstream Beowulfan perspective rejected was the intentional design of a genotype which was intended from the beginning to produce a superior human, a better human . . . what lunatics from Adolph Hitler to the Ukrainian supremacists to the Malsathan unbeatables have all sought — a master race. For all intents and purposes, a separate species which, by virtue of its obvious and designed superiority to all other varieties of human being must inevitably exercise that superiority.

“Detweiler never understood that. He never understood that his fellow Beowulfers were repelled by the reemergence of what had once been called racism which was inherent in his proposals.”

 Several members of his audience looked puzzled, and he snorted and looked at Catherine Montaigne.

“I’m sure your friend DuHavel could explain the concept,” he said.

“And he’s done it often enough,” Montagne agreed just a bit sourly, and glanced around at the other table guests. “What Jacques is talking about is the belief that certain genetic characteristics — silly things like skin color, hair color, eye color — denoted inherent superiority or inferiority. As Web is fond of pointing out, once upon a time Empress Elizabeth would have been considered naturally inferior because of her complexion and relegated by her inferiority to slave status.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Elaine Mayhew said sharply, and Benton-Ramirez y Chou chuckled with very little humor.

“Of course it is. It’s the sort of concept that belongs to primitive history. But the problem, Elaine, is that what Detweiler was proposing would have reanimated the concept of inherent inferiority because it would have been true. It would have been something which could have been demonstrated, measured, placed on a sliding scale. Of course, exactly what constituted ‘superiority’ might have been open to competing interpretations, which could only have made the situation even worse. We Beowulfers are fiercely meritocratic, but we’re also fanatically devoted to the concepts of social and legal equality, and what Detweiler and his clique wanted struck at the very heart of those concepts.

“So we told him no. Rather emphatically, in fact. So emphatically that if he had attempted to put his theories into practice on Beowulf, he would have been stripped of his license to practice medicine and imprisoned.”

Benton-Ramirez y Chou shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible our ancestors overreacted, although I’d argue they had good reason to. On the other hand, Detweiler was damned arrogant about his own position. He was deeply and profoundly pissed off by how . . . firmly his arguments were rejected, and it would appear the present-day members of this ‘Mesan Alignment’ have taken his own overreaction to truly awesome heights. When he shook the dust of Beowulf from his sandals and emigrated to Mesa, he took with him a sizable chunk of the Beowulfan medical establishment. A larger one, really, than the rest of Beowulf ever anticipated would follow him into exile, although it was still only a tiny minority of the total planetary population. And that, Catherine,” he smiled wryly at Catherine Mayhew, “is exactly why the enmity between Mesa and Beowulf has been so intense for so long. You could say that Mesa is Beowulf’s equivalent of Masada‘s Faithful, and you wouldn’t be far wrong. In fact, you’d be even closer to correct than most of us have imagined over the last five or six centuries.”

“That’s . . . a bit of an understatement, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Zilwicki observed, and Benton-Ramirez y Chou nodded.

“Absolutely. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since you dropped McBryde’s bombshell on us, and I’ve come to the conclusion that what’s really behind this entire master plan of theirs — assuming McBryde got it right, of course — is more than simply finally accomplishing Leonard Detweiler’s dream of creating a genetically superior species. That’s obviously part of it, but looking at what we did already know about Mesa and Mesans, I’d say an equally big part of it is proving they were right all along. It’s been a long, long time since the Final War. The feelings of revulsion and horror it generated have largely faded, and the prejudice against ‘genies’ is far weaker than it used to be. In fact, I would argue that if it weren’t for the existence of genetic slavery, that prejudice probably would have completely ceased to exist by now. If this Alignment had been willing to take even a fraction of the resources it must have invested in its conspiracies and its infiltration and the development of the technology that made Oyster Bay possible and spend it on propaganda — on education, for God’s sake — it almost certainly could have convinced a large minority, possibly even a majority, of the rest of the human race to go along with it. To embark, even if more gradually and more cautiously than the Alignment might prefer, on the deliberate improvement of the human genome. For that matter, in the existence of people like Honor and Yana we’ve already deliberately improved on that genome! But I don’t think it ever really occurred to them to take that approach. I think they locked themselves into the idea that their vision had to be imposed on the rest of us and that as the people whose ancestors had seen that division so clearly so much sooner than anyone else, it’s their destiny to do just that. Which is one reason I compared them to the Faithful, Catherine. Their whole purpose — or the way they’ve chosen to go about achieving it, at least — is fundamentally irrational, and only someone as fanatical as the people who built ‘doomsday bombs’ to destroy their entire planet in order to ‘save it’ from Benjamin the Great and the rest of the moderates could possibly have invested so much in that irrationality.”

“I agree,” Honor said softly, her eyes dark. “I agree entirely. And that’s what truly scares me when I think about this. Because if they really are religious fanatics in some sort of Church of Genetic Superiority, then God only knows how far they are truly prepared to go to drag us all kicking and screaming into their version of Zion.”