Eric Flint's Blog, page 332

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 30

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 30

Then he thought that of course, the call had been that strong.  But she must be famished and half dead.  He was famished and half dead.  He needed protein to recover from his shift.  So would all of them.  He turned to look at the men.  Well, they’d have to get help from them.  And he supposed listening to them wouldn’t hurt either, since he wanted to know what had got him in this predicament, to figure out how to get out of it.  “Meat,” he said.  “We’ll need protein.  We all shifted.”

“Of course.  If you come to your apartments with your bride and your… assistant, we’ll provide food and clothes.”  He looked up and must have read Tom’s resistance to the whole bride thing in Tom’s eyes, because he said, “And we’ll explain why it is your duty to all dragons to do what you must do.”

* * *

“Tom,” Kyrie said, as she slammed the brakes on, and ran out of the car.  She was hugging him before she realized he was smeared in blood, and stepped back and said, “Ew” at the smears of blood on her clothes.  Tom looked whole, so the blood…

“Whose blood?” she asked.

Tom looked tired, so tired.  He turned to one of the older men in the group and said, “Would you see to the Liu brothers, and put them somewhere until they… recover.”

The man looked like he was going to say something, then sighed.  “The one who is… limbless will…”

“Take longer, yes.”  Now in addition to tired, Tom looked vaguely embarrassed.  “But I’m sure his brother will be back before that and can look after him.”

Again the man looked like he was going to speak, but only nodded.  And looked disapprovingly at Kyrie.  But Kyrie had possessed herself of Tom’s hand, and even though the man glared at their hands, together, he said nothing.

However, as Old Joe, whom Kyrie had decided to bring along, also shambled out of the car, and walked towards them, clacking his teeth, the man looked at him, and then at Tom and said, “That, no.”

Tom looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled, a tired smile at Old Joe.  “He’s a friend,” he told the man, his voice full of sudden hauteur and command.

“He can’t be a friend.  He is –”

“A friend,” Tom insisted.

The man looked like he as on his last nerve.  And how someone could look that disapproving while completely naked, and showing off a little middle-age belly and a lot of white chest hair, Kyrie didn’t know.  But he did.

“Very well.  It is always as the Great One wishes, of course.  Though we’re not used to that rapid a change in policy and without knowing all that lies behind it.”  He bowed to Tom and lead them into the restaurant.  It was closed of course.  It must be…

Kyrie could not remember, but she knew it was well past midnight.  The restaurant had that look the diner only had once a year, when they closed the day after New Year’s and things got really cleaned.  It always spooked Kyrie a little.  It was like entering in a place that had been alive and full of people and finding a silent tomb.

The Three Luck Dragon had the same empty feeling, like eye sockets devoid of eyes, like a house with all the curtains closed, and the rooms in dim lighting.  The dim lighting was true.  There were what appeared to be nightlights burning along the restaurant, here and there, enough to allow them to avoid tables and furniture while following Jao.

He took them to a small room across from the kitchen.  In it as a table, and two chairs, as though disposed for an interview.  He walked past it to the opposite wall, and lifted the picture on it — of several fat children playing on a dragon.  Behind the picture was a lever which he pulled.

The entire wall slid away, revealing it was a sliding door designed to look like wall board.

Beyond it.  Tom stopped just ahead of Kyrie and said “Whoa.”  Which was about what she was thinking.  It was something like what a Hotel Casino called The Forbidden City might look like, in the center of Vegas, or at least what its honeymoon suite might look like.

For one, there was entirely too much red.  Red dripped in tassels from elaborate chandeliers painted with more scenes of dragons and children — it made Kyrie wonder if it was a desire for fertility or a a meal setting — red draped the bed in the middle of the room, red was color of the silk carpet that covered the floor and the walls were lacquered red, gold and black, in a shiny, polished look.  Was it possible to sleep in this room and not dream of blood?  Was that a plus?

Kyrie blinked at it.  Fortunately the light was somewhat dimmed to mood lighting.  Then again perhaps that was not fortunate.  The bed was large enough to accommodate ten people, and they didn’t need to be really close friends, either.  What had the Great Sky Dragon done for amusement?  She glared at the pictures of happy dragons and happy children, one of which was in a mural, occupying most of the wall.

“Cozy,” Tom said, in a definitely dry tone.

Jao didn’t seem to catch the irony.  Instead, he said, “It is, of course, not your primary residence, but only the place where you — Where he — Where Himself stayed when he was in town.  Lately that was, of course, often, because he wished –” He gave a look towards Tom and another at Bea and seemed to run out of steam.  In rather less a fluent way, he led Tom to the closet and showed him clothes, in his size.

Kyrie noted most of them were exactly the sort of thing Tom wore most of the time: t-shirts, jeans, though there appeared to be a tux at the back, and there was definitely a suit.  But on the extreme right of the closet were what appeared to be traditional Chinese attire from before the revolution.  The sort of thing one expected to see in movies about China in the nineteenth century.  She quirked her mouth slightly, wondering what Tom would look like in those, and knowing there was no chance in hell of ever finding out.

When Jao opened a door to the side of the closet, which like everything else around here seemed to be a trick door, hidden in paneling, she could barely glimpse a bathroom within.  But Tom turned around and said, “Bea, if you wish to wash first?”

Jao gave Tom a wounded look.  “Sire,” he said.  Then turned to Bea, “I’ll show the lady her bathing room.”  Which apparently came with a closet of its own, filled with rather a greater variety of clothes than Tom’s side.

How nice, Kyrie thought.  His and hers.  And felt rather dizzy and a bit nauseated.  She had an impression that the expectations of the triad would be more difficult to defeat than she expected.

Servers swarmed in, setting up little tables with bowls of food on them.  It did not improve her mood.

* * *

Tom leaned back under the water, feeling it soothe him, deriving great comfort from its immediacy, its warmth.  He didn’t look down until he was reasonably sure no blood would be running down.

He should be used to blood by now.  It wasn’t the first time he’d got covered in blood.  Many times, it had even been his.  But he wasn’t used to it.  Didn’t want to be used to it.  He wanted blood to remain something alien, as it was to most people.  As it hadn’t been to him since the night he’d been kicked out of the house.  He still remembered the blood-stains on the sidewalk, blood sprays staining the walls and the elderly orangutan-shifter telling him that, really, he didn’t want to know.  He still had nightmares about that sometimes, but whatever had happened remained locked in his memory and inaccessible.

When he was sure that the water would be running clear, he washed his hair and body.  They had exactly what he used, including Mane and Tail shampoo, and he thought that it was impossible the Great Sky Dragon had used the same products he had.  So they must have stocked for him, and they knew him far better than he was comfortable with.

He came out of the shower, still not sure what to do.  He had a strong feeling that he should — if he wanted to keep power in the triad — have to marry Bea.  But he didn’t want power in the triad.  Of course, the question was if he could give up power in the triad and stay alive.  As in despotic government systems, the alternative to being the heir to the throne was not being allowed to go your merry way — it was being dead, so that whoever took the throne didn’t feel threatened by you.

There was a white terry robe behind the door to the bathroom, and he could have wrapped himself in it, but that seemed a little too intimate.  He was going to have to go out there and have a conversation with all those people, including Jao and Old Joe.  Any gathering in which Old Joe seemed to be the sanest non-involved participant was enough to give a man cold sweats.

So, instead, he dried himself, then dressed in the clothes he’d brought in with him: jeans, a clean t-shirt that he only realized afterwards had the saying Dragons are fiery lovers.  He wondered who’d picked it.  In normal life, it was the sort of sly humor that might have appealed to him, but just now it didn’t seem nearly as funny.

He tied his hair back with a ribbon provided, and made a face at himself in the mirror.  Where had those dark circles come from?  He suspected Kyrie had thought he was having a stroke in the storage room.  Perhaps he’d had one.  Perhaps he was now lying in a comma and all this was an hallucination.  It made more sense than anything else.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 09

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 09

Chapter 5

Magdeburg Times-Journal

December 4, 1635

There was a formal groundbreaking last week for the construction of the new surgical wing of the Magdeburg Memorial Hospital in Greater Magdeburg. Participating were Mayor Otto Gericke, Dr. James Nichols, Dr. Balthazar Abrabanel and Dr. Paul Schlegel. Also present were Georg Kühlewein and Johann Westvol, members of the City Council of Old Magdeburg, respectively Altbürgermeister and Bürgermeister of that august body. Masters Kühlewein and Johann Westvol are among the leaders of the syndicate that won the contract to design and build the new wing. It is to be hoped that the new wing will be completed with all dispatch, as our growing city needs to be able to offer the best medical care available.

* * *

         Stephan Burckardt, private secretary to Master Georg Schmidt, merchant, leading member of Magdeburg society, and member of the Council — the Rat — of Old Magdeburg tapped on the open door.

“Yes?” Herr Schmidt didn’t look up from the contract he was reading. “What is it, Stephan?”

“The newspaper has arrived, master.”

Now the merchant lifted his gaze from the paper he was scanning and held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

Stephan steeled himself — the boss would not be happy about this — advanced far enough to hand Schmidt the paper then retreated through the doorway as quickly as he could.

From his chair at his desk out of sight of the merchant, Stephan licked his lips and wiped his forehead. The air seemed to be getting thicker, much like a sultry afternoon right before a thunderstorm. Except that this was colder.

Stephan picked up his pen, put it down, shuffled some papers, unable to focus. The quiet in the other room was ominous. He knew from experience that nothing good could come from this. It was times like this he wished he was back with the men in the room across the hall, simply making entries in ledger books all day long; not subject to Master Schmidt’s direct gaze all day, nor privy to so many of the master’s secrets.

“Stephan.”

“Master?”

“Come take dictation.”

Maybe, Stephan thought to himself, the master wasn’t taking it so badly after all. He clung to that thought until he rounded the door frame into the office, whereupon the thought expired as if it were a mouse trod upon by an ox.

The master’s hands were clasped in front of him, and his head was bowed. Stephan stopped as he saw Schmidt’s fingers were twisted almost to the point of breaking, and the flesh of his hands was nearly corpse white they were clasped so tightly. Tension radiated from the master’s shoulders, and he really wished he could be someplace else at just that moment.

Schmidt raised his head. Stephan swallowed at the fury boiling in the man’s eyes. His employer was by nature an angry man. God above knew that the master had shown a plenitude of evidence of it in the past. But this was beyond anything Stephan had ever seen before.

At least the master was not looking at him. Stephan edged away from the path of his gaze, as if out of the line of sight of a weapon.

“One would think,” Schmidt said, his normal rich baritone almost a whisper and sounding as if it were being forced through a sieve, “that one could count on his relations. I needed — my partners and I needed — that contract. And all my august brother-in-law, the oh-so-magnificent Otto Gericke, who gazes at the world from the heights of Magdeburg’s Parnassus and whose chamber pot does not stink like other men’s; all he had to do was hint to the hospital committee that they should favor our contract proposal.” His voice started to rise, the words coming more quickly. “But apparently that was beyond him! It was too much to ask him to help the husband of his sister. Or rather, his half-sister. His older half-sister. Let us by all means be precise. Never mind that Sophie –”

Schmidt broke off that thought. Presumably, some things he would not say, even in front of Stephan — who, for all practical purposes, had the position of a slave.

Stephan knew that losing that contract had hurt the master’s pride. But even more important to the pragmatic Schmidt, it had hurt him in the strongbox. Stephan was aware just how badly the master had needed that contract, since he also served as Schmidt’s accountant. Funds were tight since the Sack of Magdeburg back in 1631. To make things worse, his wife Sophie was not the most frugal of women. And he had been forced by his associates to put up a sizeable share of the funds to pay the architect and prepare the offer. He had needed that contract, but Kühlewein and Westvol had gotten it instead.

“It is bad enough,” the master resumed after a moment, speaking again in that strained whisper, “that he allowed those bastards Kühlewein and Westvol to win out over us. But now he celebrates with them?”

Schmidt exploded into motion, sweeping his arm across the desk to send a thin-walled Venetian rose-colored glass wine decanter and matching glasses flying to crash against the wall and shatter into tiny slivers. Then he picked up the pages of the paper and slowly and carefully tore the paper in half, making sure that the picture of the grinning Kühlewein and Westvol was sundered in the process. He tossed the shreds of paper onto the spreading pool of wine, then spat on the mess for good measure.

Stephan found himself backed against the wall by the door, wishing that he could escape.

Schmidt spun and stared out the window for some time, back to Stephan, obviously still seething.

Eventually, the master squared his shoulders. “Very well, then. We’ll start a new game.” He seemed to be talking to himself. Then he half-turned his head and said: “Take a letter, Stephan.”

He barely gave Stephan enough time to sit down and pull out a notebook. “Address it to Signor Nicolas Benavidez, Venice, Italy.”

“To Signor Nicolas Benavidez, Venice, Italy.”

Stephan’s ability to read and write Italian was a major reason why Schmidt had hired him years ago. He tried not to think of why he was still working for the merchant. A temptation to . . . adjust . . . Schmidt’s accounts and pocket the difference had not gone undetected, with the result that he was now bound to Schmidt with chains he saw no way of breaking.

“Look up the address, add the usual greetings and pleasantries,” Schmidt said. “Here’s what I need to say: Esteemed Sir, I find that I am in need of that favor that you promised to me some years ago. It would be a great help to me if you would send me two of your best men to assist me in a matter. These need to be men that know how to handle difficult situations.’

Stephan noted all that down. He looked up to see the master staring at him.

“Got all that?”

Stephan nodded.

“Good. Close it with the usual. Make it even more flowery than you usually do. Have it ready for me to sign when I get back. No copy for our files.”

Schmidt spat again on the now-soggy newspaper, picked up his hat and started to leave. He paused in the doorway long enough to add, “And clean up that mess.”

After the outer door slammed behind Schmidt, Stephan laid his notebook down on his own little desk in the outer room, found a scrap of towel and a box, and walked back into the master’s office. He knelt to gather the sodden newspaper scraps and place them in the box, then gingerly picked out as much of the broken glass as he could find. Finally he mopped up the spilled wine as best he could.

After disposing of the box and its contents, Stephan straightened the chair behind the desk, neatened the contract pages where they were still open on the desktop, and generally made sure the rest of the room was in order. Then, returning to his own desk, he pulled out cheap paper to draft the letter on and a much better grade for the final copy. Every movement was precise, subdued, exact. As you’d expect from a lowly clerk who’d once made the mistake of thinking he might soar into the heights of embezzlement.

The analogy with Icarus didn’t occur to Burckardt himself. He was a clerk born into a very modest family, not a figure from myth. Icarus had plunged to his death in the sea. Burckardt has gotten his wages lowered, his hours lengthened, his person demeaned. His prospects ruined also, of course — but they’d never been good anyway.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 02

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 02

Chapter 2.

          Ariane stood unmoving in the doorway, afraid to break the magic of that moment. Her own heart had leapt when Wu Kung’s hand moved to stop DuQuesne, but the incredible light that had seemed to shine from Marc’s face was something she’d never even imagined possible. She had heard tears of sadness being blown away in a wind of relief and happiness that she’d never thought Marc would ever feel. She just watched, holding her hand out to keep Davison back for however long that shining moment of pure joy continued.

          Finally the massive form of DuQuesne turned slightly, and – still with a smile that held a touch of a young man’s innocence – he spoke. “Come on in, Ariane.”

As she did, Dr. Davison just behind, Wu Kung’s head turned slightly, and his eyes widened. She wasn’t sure what caused that reaction, but whatever it was he got it immediately under control; not surprising in a Hyperion.

What was surprising was that Wu Kung suddenly leaped from the bed, staggering, then forcing himself upright; she saw with startled eyes that he was holding to the bed with his tail, keeping himself from falling.

Davison was there immediately. “Sir! You’ve been in virtual sims for fifty years! You can’t just –”

She could see that the diminuitive Hyperion – he’s maybe a few centimeters taller than Gabrielle, if that – was weak, and he had to be in agony no matter how good the nanosupport had been, after five decades unmoving. Yet his head came up and he smiled, a sunshine ray of joyous pride that denied the very existence of pain or weakness. “HA! I can, because I did, and I do!” His voice was another surprise; it was gentle yet slightly rough, and much higher-pitched than she had imagined, the voice not of a great warrior god but of a laughing child.

Abruptly, however, the Monkey King realized that he was standing proudly in the buff. With a grimace of mortified embarrassment so comical that neither she nor DuQuesne could quite restrain a laugh, he half leaped, half tumbled over the bed, dragging the sheets with him as he fell to the floor, knocking the monitoring equipment aside. “Aaiiii!” he shouted, followed by several Chinese, mixed with some Japanese, words she was sure were either curses or something close to it.

DuQuesne was still laughing, with more hints of tears in the corners of his eyes. “Ahhh, still the same old Wu, leaping first and looking later for the landing spot!”

“It is all their fault!” came the voice from behind the bed and a screen of white sheets. “When I lived on the mountain I had none of this modesty! I do not remember learning it, but there it is!”

Dr. Davison had made his way over to that side. “Please, sir, at least let me look you over first. I’ve never even HEARD of someone waking from that long a virtual simulation, let alone moving immediately thereafter.”

“Oh, you’re… a healer. Yes, okay, look, then, do your poking and whatever.” Despite the words, it was clear that the Monkey King was already tired, glad of the excuse to sit still for a few moments.

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you at last, Sun Wu Kung.” Technically, she knew that the Monkey King would be referred to as “Sun” by his friends, but in the Hyperion version apparently “Wu” had been his nickname. She, not being a friend yet, used his full name. “Marc has told me a lot about you.”

“Heh. Not a surprise. She is yours, eh, DuQuesne? But where is K?”

Even under the olive-toned skin she could see DuQuesne’s skin darken with a blush. “Mine? Don’t you go making mistakes like that, Wu. She’s her own and no one else’s. As for K…”

“Never mind. It will be a sad story, I can hear that in your voice, and I … I am not ready for sadness. It is not a time to be sad.”

“So… Sun Wu K—”

“Wu, please, like all the other barbarian friends I have call me.” She saw the flash of his smile to take the sting out of the words; the little fangs added sharp punctuation to the grin. It’s odd, she thought. I’ve seen people with much more extreme mods than he has on the surface, but I feel a little different about his. Maybe it’s because his are ones he was born with, if “born” is the right word, and the ones I see in the typical crowd weren’t.

“Wu, then. Thank you. Call me Ariane. ”

“It will be an honor, Lady Ariane.”

“Don’t you go using formal titles on me. And it’s Captain if you insist.” She was surprised to find that she meant it. Captain Ariane Stephanie Austin was who she was now.

“HA! You strike back! Good! I do not want to be treated like a weakling. So ask, you were going to ask something, yes?”

“Yes, I was. It seemed like you weren’t going to wake up… and then suddenly you did. What happened?”

There was an embarrassed tone to his laugh, and one slightly furry clawed hand went behind his head. “I had some sense beaten into me.”

DuQuesne’s laugh was almost a snort. “I get it. Sha, right?”

“He picked me up and threw my self-pitying and worthless ass into the river! Then when I came up he told me that I was even more of an idiot than he had believed, and he kicked me over the mountain!” Wu was now kneeling on the floor behind the bed, leaning on the mattress and gazing at them with a fond smile that seemed rather at odds with the violence he was describing. His eyes, she realized, were a brilliant shade of green-gold. “That hurt. And so I tried to argue with him and put him through a couple of cliffs, but that just got him to laugh at me for not even having the conviction to throw a decent punch. That was when I realized he’d dragged the waterfall over to fall on my head.”

She glanced at DuQuesne. “Um, is this the usual way you have discussions with Wu Kung?”

DuQuesne grinned. “It’s like with a mule. ‘First, you get his attention…’”

“ANYway,” the Monkey King continued, with a twinkle in his eye acknowledging DuQuesne’s jibe, “He then sat down on top of me and told me why I was an idiot. That you had come to me for help that only I could give, in your world, and that I was too much of a coward or too soft from living here to actually show the honor that the Monkey King should display, and that if I didn’t have the courage to go with you I didn’t deserve his friendship, Sanzo’s love, or even a name to be called by.” He laughed again. “You want to know his exact words after that, DuQuesne? He said, ‘He gave us life, you stupid monkey! Rescued us from your enemies, rebuilt our world so you could crawl in here and hide! Kill us? We’ll still be here, you fool, even if you go away for a hundred years! Now if you ever were the Monkey King, if you ever wielded that Staff for love and mischief and defeated a thousand enemies, if you ever were the Great Sage Equal Of Heaven, you will pick yourself up and go help that man, go see the wonders we can never dream… and one day, perhaps, bring us out with you.’

“And,” Wu Kung concluded, looking somewhat shamefaced, “he was completely right. Sha usually was whenever he got preachy, you know. I was just being a coward, hiding inside myself. FIFTY YEARS? I’m ashamed, DuQuesne, ashamed, mortified! I’m amazed you even wanted to come back for me.” The Monkey King looked around. “Did you… come for the others too?”

DuQuesne shook his head. “Not sure how to approach them yet, Wu. But we will.”

“Of course we will. Once I understand this new world enough to tell them, we will come back for them all.” He glanced over at Dr. Davison. “Well, healer?”

Davison shook his head. “You must be in agony every time you move. You really should –”

“Pain is nothing. I will work hard and I will not be in pain after a while. Pain passes. Am I healthy? Can I go?”

“Well… yes, the nanomedicals kept you healthy, and your… unusual metabolism certainly helped, but –”

“No buts! If DuQuesne came here, it’s time to move! I need my clothes!”

She looked at DuQuesne. “After fifty years, his clothes –”

“– Had better be right where I locked them up.” DuQuesne said. “Hang on, Wu, I’ve got the only key code to unlock ‘em. Except you ought to shower off, first. Nanos or not, there’s nothing like a real shower to get a guy going after a long sleep, and you’ve been playing Rip Van Winkle for about five decades.”

Davison looked reluctant as his erstwhile patient (still clutching a sheet around him) made his painful way into the indicated bathroom. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s okay, Doctor.” DuQuesne spoke surprisingly gently. “This is what I always hoped might happen. You’ve done your part. He’ll be fine, I guarantee it. You know what he is.”

The serious face suddenly gave a boyish smile, and Davison shook his blond head. “Yes, I do, and I suppose that’s part of it. I would give … a great deal… to see what happens next.”

DuQuesne nodded. “Maybe you will, Doc. If that’s really what you want. You proved you’ve got what it takes. There aren’t many people I’ve ever trusted in the last fifty years, but I’ve had to trust you with Wu every single day. And you did good. If you want, I’ll recommend you for any damn job you want, including the one we aren’t talking about right now.”

Davison smiled back. “Thank you. And I will think about it.” He turned to go, obviously recognizing that they’d have private things to discuss, then paused. “Out of curiosity — when I first started, I got records of … Wu Kung’s condition, but you’d sanitized all the records. How many of us were there?”

“Taking care of Wu, you mean? There were four before you, not counting the years I did it myself at first. You were the fifth.”

“One every ten years. I see.” Davison nodded, the minor question answered, and left.

DuQuesne watched him go, then nodded. “Come on.” He led the way to a door panel at the rear of the room. As he opened it, Ariane could see that it, and the entire structure of the vault behind it, were reinforced ring-carbon composite, the toughest material available outside of the Arena. “A vault like that for some old clothes?”

DuQuesne shook his head. “Very special clothes.” From within he pulled out a surprising folded mass of clothing, edges glittering with gold, red, purple, and other shades. The big man reached back in and pulled out a long, bright-red enameled staff with gold-capped ends and a slender circlet of gold. He strode over to the closed shower doorway, knocked, and opened it. Wisps of steam drifted out. “Hey, Wu; I’m putting your clothes here on the counter.”

Wu Kung said something she couldn’t quite catch, but it seemed satisfactory because DuQuesne came out empty-handed and closed the door. They waited.

A few minutes later the door suddenly opened and Sun Wu Kung tumbled out, bounding to his feet and halting before the two with a gesture at once so grand and comical that Ariane found herself laughing and clapping at the same time. Wu Kung’s outfit was something that had never existed outside of Hyperion, a strange cross between the robes of a Chinese Emperor, the simplicity of the martial-arts gi worn by countless students of karate and kung-fu, the formal dress of the Japanese Samurai, and the fancies of any number of writers. It was layered and colorful, with formal lines yet open design for movement, symbols and patterns stitched across it in rich, deep colors, Imperial crimson and royal purple and majestic azure and immortal jade. His black-red mane of hair was bound back by the golden circlet, a single water-clear diamond like a glittering eye in the very center of the circlet, and his clawed right hand gripped the staff. He bowed extravagantly low, and then grinned up at them both. “Behold the Monkey King, reborn into this foolish world anew. Show me your adventures, for else I will grow bored!”

DuQuesne shuddered theatrically. “And there’s a disaster we don’t want to see!” With an uncharacteristic and surprising show of affection, he suddenly swept them both into a crushing hug. Just as abruptly he pulled away, held Wu out at arm’s length, looking straight into his eyes. “You don’t know what this means to me, Wu. Thanks.”

Ariane was still recovering from the hug as Wu said, “After that, I think I do. You’ve gotten soft, DuQuesne!” The emerald-auric eyes sparkled, and one dipped in a wink. “I think I like it! Now let’s go – I want to hear all about this ‘Arena’ place and why you need a simple warrior like me.”

DuQuesne snorted, looking a bit embarrassed and much happier. “You’re just about as much a ‘simple warrior’ as I’m an ordinary power engineer, Wu, so let’s not overdo the modesty.” He led them out.

“Marc,” she said, glancing back, “weren’t there … any others in this ward?”

“Four more,” he answered quietly, the smile fading but not gone. “Don’t worry. That’s why Davison left. He’ll be moving them now.”

“Why moving them?” Wu was curious. “Why not wake them up too?”

“They all had their reasons to stay in their worlds, just like you, Wu. Before I try to drag ‘em all out, I want to know I’ve got a place for them, like I do for you. And as for moving them? Safety.” DuQuesne saw the confused expression, shook his head. “I’ll explain, once we’re out of here.” He smiled again. “It’ll be okay, Wu. For the first time in years… I think things are finally going to work out all right.”

 

Spheres of Influence – Chapter 01

Spheres of Influence – Chapter 01

Spheres of Influence

Sequel to Grand Central Arena

By Ryk E. Spoor

Chapter 1.

The slender blond man glanced up from his desk, startled – DuQuesne had, of course, been suppressing the station security systems. Couldn’t take a chance that someone would be warned, if things had gone bad.

          The startled look immediately gave way to caution. “Stop right there, please.”

DuQuesne stopped immediately; Ariane did the same. He saw Ariane looking around, and could tell she’d recognized that they had not in fact entered the reception area, but were in a sealed and – from the click behind them – locked separate chamber.

“If you are Marc DuQuesne, you gave me some very specific instructions prior to leaving me. You will now prove to me that you are in fact Dr. Marc DuQuesne.”

DuQuesne turned towards the left side of the room, strode over, and placed his hand against it for a moment. Then he looked at the other man. Make damn sure I get this part right… “Let’s see… it’s a Tuesday. Ninety-seven rows, tungsten, and a nurse who wasn’t a robot,” he said enigmatically.

The man looked down at a display in front of him, and the suspicion dissolved to a cheerful smile. “Dr. DuQuesne! I did not expect you to be visiting at all!”

“I said I’d be here regularly when I could.” He grinned down at the doctor, who was only barely shorter than Ariane but looked petite next to the massive Hyperion. “How’re things going?”

“Well enough, I suppose. There hasn’t been any significant change in the past months – any more, I gather, than there was in my predecessors’.”

“Good.” DuQuesne glanced to his side apologetically. “I’m forgetting my manners. Captain Austin, this is Doctor Davison. He’s … been watching over a few friends for me.”

Davison’s expression held a bit of speculation. “Captain Austin of the Holy Grail expedition, of course. And you’ve brought her with you. I’m … startled, given the extreme measures you took to make sure no one else even knew where this was.”

“It’s … necessary, now.” The tension was back, his shoulders now rigid as steel, aching with anticipation and, he admitted, fear and doubt. “And I appreciate the fact you’ve been willing to keep to those extreme measures.”

“It hasn’t been easy at all. No outside contact, even electronic contact only through your methods… but I’ve kept my end of that bargain.”

DuQuesne smiled, trying to ignore the tension. “I know you have… and believe me, you and my friends are probably alive because of that.”

He looked down at the blond-haired doctor levelly. “Can I see … him?”

“Naturally. You’re paying the bills, so to speak.” Davison led them to one of the other doors, which opened at their approach.

Within was a top-of-the-line nanosupport facility, a medical setup he suspected that Ariane had only seen a couple of times for pilots who had been so badly injured that they needed their brains regrown and personalities re-engraved from backups. But this was a permanent installation… and the figure lying on the bed was also wired to something that was not one tiny bit like ordinary monitoring equipment.

“I need an inductor, Doctor.”

Davison froze in the middle of starting the typical “patient condition review” speech. “I beg your pardon?”

“An inductor. I’m going in. I have to talk to him.”

Davison stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, turning to a nearby cabinet. “It’s your call, of course,” Davison conceded. “But as with the four others, this subject has been in sim-induction for the entire time of my tenure and, I must presume, that of my predecessors as well. I really do not know how he will react to an intrusion at this time.”

DuQuesne nodded slowly. He saw Ariane still gazing with amazement and consternation at the figure on the bed – humanoid, very humanoid, yet… clearly not human, stout clawlike nails on each hand, gold-brown fur on the body, the head adorned with red-black unruly hair that was a bit too stiff and rough for human, a face subtly changed with some features broadened and shifted, sharp, long canines just visible in the slightly opened mouth, and, folded around the body, a long tail. “He’ll talk to me. I don’t know if it will do any good… but it’s been way too long since I tried. And things are different, now. Maybe… just maybe…”

He found he couldn’t bring himself to actually verbalize the hope. It had been too long, too much pain and regret. He almost snatched the induction connector from Davison’s hands. “I’d better do this now, before I lose my nerve.” He took a deep breath, feeling lightheaded. Never let myself realize how much this mattered… how much I felt guilty about the whole thing. He sat down next to the bed. “Ariane… could you and the Doc wait outside?”

He could see she had a thousand questions, but she didn’t even say anything. She just nodded and gestured to Davison, who followed her out after a long, worried glance. Good man, Davison. Worried about whether I’m going to hurt his patient, even though I’m the guy who’s been paying for his care for the last fifty years.

Alone finally, he set his teeth. Into the illusion again. The original illusion. His skin literally seemed to crawl at the thought. He’d managed to break a lot of the old fear, the habits, learned to even enjoy the sim-adventure games that were one of the most popular forms of entertainment across the Solar System… but this was different. This was the honest-to-God, pure-quill, one hundred percent original Hyperion simulation, preserved after the fall for just this purpose – to give a life to those for whom the real world offered nothing.

He forced his hands up and, with a convulsive movement, set the inductor on his head.

The soft-lit, quiet extended care ward vanished. Suddenly he stood in a mighty forest, cool green trees towering over him like brooding giants, a rush of brightly-colored birds streaking through the branches with song and chattering. It hasn’t changed.

Of course, why should it? His world lives and grows, but stays the same, too. He chose this, begged for it even. Do I have a right to come here again? I promised to let him live in the home he understands for as long as he lived.

DuQuesne shook himself, then glanced around. There… that’s the mountain path.

The path wound through lush undergrowth; behind him, DuQuesne knew, it ended at a deep pool of a mighty river. In the distance he could hear the sound of a cataract. He might be there even now, fishing. But the slant of the sun is late… I hope…

He walked lightly, quietly. The forest was filled with life, but all shied away from him when they spied DuQuesne’s massive frame. No animal could mistake his movement for that of any prey, only of another hunter to be avoided.

Suddenly, a second too late, he became aware that seemingly-random flutters of branches had been nothing of the kind. He started to turn, but too late, as something powerful smashed into his shoulders from behind, sending him crashing headlong into the brush. He rolled, striking out, but his opponent was already gone, vanished, no, behind again! Another strike, this one at his knees, another at his arms as he tried to roll, and he found himself flat on his back, gazing up…

At a figure with a laughing, slightly-fanged face, hanging head-down from a branch above him from a strong tail, spinning a gold-capped staff idly between its fingers. “DuQuesne? DUQUESNE? Is it really you?”

He couldn’t help but laugh in return at the simple joy on his old friend’s face. “Really me, Wu. It really is.”

Wu Kung dropped from the trees above and threw slender but tremendously strong arms around him, lifting DuQuesne and spinning him around like a child. “Marc! This is wonderful! It’s been so long! I have to show you around! There’s so many things for me to tell you!” Wu let go and bounced into the tree again, pointing. “Up this way! I haven’t bothered to make a new path, but if we go straight up, we can get home much faster!”

“And how many trees do I have to swing through, Wu? You know I’m not exactly as light as you are.”

The Hyperion Monkey King laughed again. “No, no, just a steep path, no cliffs, follow me, come on, follow!”

DuQuesne smiled and followed, hammering his way up the slope as Wu Kung bounded from ground to tree to stone with abandon, urging him onward.

Abruptly they burst from the trees to a clearer space, a steep crest of the hill that afforded a view extending out to the horizon. Massive limestone hills, pillarlike, reared from the plains below, more brilliant and picturesque versions of their karst-born models in Yangshuo on Earth. DuQuesne paused, admiring the view and the shades of the setting sun. Simulation it may be… but it’s his home right now, and the simulation is breathtaking in its own way.

“Sanzo! SANZO! It’s DuQuesne! He’s here to visit!”

As always, it gave DuQuesne a major jolt of cognitive dissonance to see a slender, beautiful young woman answering to that name. They put every version of the Journey to the West ever made into a blender and came out with this. It was another jolt – somewhat smaller – to realize that in some ways Sanzo, with her long dark-blue hair and athletic martial monk’s figure, was not at all unlike Ariane. Very much like Ariane, actually. That’s an interesting coincidence.

Sanzo smiled and bowed a welcome. “It has been far, far too long, Master DuQuesne,” she said. “I hope you may stay and eat with us?”

“I have business to attend to, Mistress Sanzo,” he answered, “but I may be able to, if time permits.”

“I shall plan for it, then.” She looked to Wu Kung. “Our sons will not return from the Three Ways until tomorrow, so there is also room for him to stay.”

“Yes! That would be very good!”

This is making it… a lot harder than I thought. Sons? Of course there would be. Dammit. “Look, Wu – I have to talk to you first. It’s really important.”

For the first time he saw a flash of comprehension in the Monkey King’s eyes – the knowledge that there were important things left unsaid, truths unthought. He saw a plea there, too, one to drop it, leave it lie, to stay a day or two and return to his “faraway land” without disturbing that which was here, in Sun Wu Kung’s paradise.

But Wu was also his friend, and part of him knew DuQuesne would not have come if he didn’t have some terribly important purpose. “Of… course. Sanzo, we will be nearby – just over the other side of the ridge, to speak of whatever secret matters DuQuesne has on his mind.”

He bowed to Sanzo as they took their leave, and then followed Wu over the nearby ridge. “Thanks, Wu.”

The Monkey King fidgeted, no longer so cheerful. “We … were allies in a great war, you and I. I cannot refuse to hear you out.”

Even in your own thoughts you try to evade it. As did I. As K does, even better that I could manage. “Wu, you know I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think I had to.”

“I know. But… you promised. Never again.”

Yeah. I did. But I also promised myself that I had to find a way, someday, to free you from yourself. “Something’s happened, Wu. Something huge. Something wonderful, in a way, but also pretty scary.” He took a deep breath – very vaguely aware, with the part of him that still had the perceptual skills of the ultimate end of Hyperion – that his real body was not breathing deeply, was sitting quietly inert, almost paralyzed, with the mind occupied in this waking dream. “I want you to come back with me.”

Wu shook his head, frowning. “No. No. I told you…” his voice suddenly took on the pleading tones of a child, a little boy who knew that something terrible was waiting for him, and that there was no way to avoid it, “… told you, I don’t want to anymore. I can’t. There… it’s cold. Cold, and none of my friends can follow. Just you. And there’s no place… no place for me.”

He stepped forward, reaching out. “Wu –”

A sledgehammer smashed into his jaw; for a minute the pain was so shockingly, blazingly overwhelming that he thought, impossibly, that it had been broken. The impact sent him crashing uncontrollably through the brush, over a small cliff, to land with almost bone-breaking impact on thin turf. He managed to roll slightly aside and the gold-ended staff hammered a small crater in the dirt rather than trying to shatter his ribs. “NO!” Wu Kun shouted, and yanked him up, shaking him like a rat in the jaws of a terrier despite the fact that DuQuesne outweighed him by three to one. “Why do you want to destroy them? They’re my family! My friends! Don’t come here saying those words again! I can’t! I can’t!” The too–wide green-gold eyes were filled with all too human tears. “You KNOW there’s nothing out there but cold and loneliness and machines, there’s no poetry in the sky, no trail of wonders, no miraculous Dragons waiting under the ocean, just … just …”

Oh, damn. DuQuesne felt his heart ache inside. It’s harder than I thought. So much harder. He saw Wu sinking to his knees, looking at DuQuesne’s blood on his hand.

“Wu… there is a place now.”

For a long, long moment he was sure that Wu wouldn’t ever answer – that he either would not hear, or was too angry and afraid to accept what he did hear. But then, finally, the childlike tenor whispered, “… a place?”

“Yes, Wu.” He forced himself to stand as he searched for the right words, words so critical for this moment. “Something so wondrous and terrifying, something so huge and strange that… that even the Buddha would spend a year closing his hand around it and still never grasp it. A place where a thousand races of… of demons and gods walk and speak, where there are worlds floating in the clouds, where you can fly up to touch the suns or sail a ship off the edge of the sea into that infinite sky.” He heard his words, heard also the deep voice of Orphan as he tried in his own way to tell them of the Arena. “A place that’s called the Arena, where challenges given and received can determine the fate of a hundred, a thousand worlds. Where there’s magicians, and priests and… and everything you could imagine, Wu. And things neither of us can.”

He became aware of a massive gray-green figure, taller than he was, at the edge of the forest. Horned, half-concealed in a cloak woven of river-mist, Sha Wujing of the Seven Hells watched them with an unreadable expression on his broad, leather-skinned face. This version of the river-ogre of the original Journey West had been a king of the underworlds, one of Wu’s first opponents, eventually – after a long time – an ally and finally friend, though a grim and rarely warm one. Sha stood silently, listening and watching.

Wu stayed kneeling on the ground. DuQuesne saw tears falling on the grass. “Sounds… amazing… But I have to stay here, DuQuesne. My family needs me. My friends… this world has its own dangers that come to it, that I have to protect it from…”

“I didn’t joke when I said I needed you, Wu. This is it, Wu. This is the place … we were meant to be. A place where we can make a difference. Where there’s everything at stake… and every day hides an adventure.”

But Wu shook his head, unable to say anything. DuQuesne looked down and realized it was too much to ask. He had hoped…

The shadow of Sha Wujing fell over him. “Go.”

DuQuesne didn’t like being ordered by anyone… but he knew that there was nothing more to be said. “Yeah.” He turned and started off, glanced back at the still-immobile form of Wu Kung. Goodbye, Wu.

With the decision, he found himself once more sitting by the bedside of the warrior Hyperion, near the form which hadn’t moved for five decades. He closed his eyes, feeling once more tears that he hadn’t shed for so long coming to the surface. Goodbye, Wu. I’ll let you … stay where you belong.

But he couldn’t make himself leave Wu Kung’s bedside. Not just yet. Seeing that smiling face, full of mischief and innocence and wide-eyed wisdom, had made it far harder. Wu hadn’t been one of the first group, the five of them who had seen through the lies and begun the downfall of Hyperion, but he had become the heart of their group, the one all of them looked to for a smile or reassurance or the certainty they needed to continue. And DuQuesne just could not leave that behind.

He sat there quietly, trying to let go, to leave it all behind, but it was much harder than he had thought it could possibly be. He would start to move, and then he’d see K’s delighted face, laughing as Wu kept DuQuesne always just out of reach during a supposed sparring match. Or, more often, he’d remember that last look of hopeless determination on the Monkey King’s face as he prepared to make his last stand against the invaders.

The door opened slowly. “Marc?”

With a start he realized he had been sitting there far, far longer than he’d thought. An hour, maybe more. Don’t really want to check. “Sorry, Ariane. Looks… like this is a bust.”

The look she gave him said more than words could have. He returned it with a faint smile.

He took a shaky breath, then rose and started to turn.

A hand caught his wrist.

A shock of adrenalin and hope shot through him and he looked back.

Through eyes barely open, Wu Kung looked up at him, tears trailing down his cheeks. “… An adventure, huh?”

A great morning sun of joy seemed to explode from his heart, and he threw back his head and gave a booming laugh that echoed in his own ears, feeling chains of guilt and fear decades old just fading away into triumph and relief. “The biggest you can imagine,” he said, kneeling down and taking both of Wu’s hands, grinning from ear to ear at the weak, answering smile on the tear-streaked face.

“Welcome back, Wu.”

 

Spheres of Influence – What Has Gone Before

Ryk has asked me to post snippets of Spheres of Influence every M W F ending with Chapter 29.

Spheres of Influence – What Has Gone Before

What Has Gone Before (and a little bit that Has Come After!)

Previously in Grand Central Arena:

The solar system of 2375, population fifty-five billion, approaches utopia as closely as most of humanity could imagine. The advent of efficient power harvesting, storage, and transmission of all kinds combined with nanoassembler systems called “AIWish” units has allowed even the poorest people to be assured of plenty of food, comfortable shelter, access to the immense interconnected webwork of information, entertainments, and heathcare sufficient to extend human youth and lifespan greatly; this has also assisted other advances in material and engineering sciences to produce a fully-flowered Space Age, with huge colonies on Mars, orbiting Earth, and elsewhere. Artificial intelligences assist human beings in their daily lives, with most people having a built-in “AISage” who serves as one of their closest friends and a secretary, memory aid, research partner, or almost anything else.

Because of these things, and because of a short but bitter electronic conflict a few centuries past called the Anonymity War, governments as we know them are almost a thing of the past and human individual rights and privacy are nearly unbounded; only the shadow of the horrific “Hyperion Project” has caused any sort of effective central government to arise in the last 50 years, comprised of the Space Security Council (SSC) and Combined Space Forces (CSF) which basically intervene when and if there are conflicts beyond the ability of the ordinary people to address – and ordinary people can have truly staggering resources to their name in 2375.

Work, as we know it in the 21st century, is also effectively a thing of the past. People do not need to work to survive, and the closest equivalents of “money” are called “interest credits” or vectors, where additional resources are given by people to someone that interests them in some way. People now entertain themselves at whatever they wish, ranging from mountain climbing to adventures in full-immersive virtual realities called simgames.

Only one of the great dreams of humanity seems to have been truly elusive: that of reaching the stars.

At the beginning of Grand Central Arena, Doctor Simon Sandrisson believed he had solved that great riddle, and for various reasons assembled a crew for a manned vehicle, the Holy Grail, to test this “Sandrisson Drive”; the crew included power engineer Dr. Marc C. DuQuesne, controls specialist Dr. Carl Edlund, systems integration and conceptual engineer Dr. Steve Franceschetti, medical specialist Dr. Gabrielle Wolfe, nanomaintenance engineer Dr. Thomas Cussler, biologist Dr. Laila Canning, and – as a last-ditch backup – Ariane Stephanie Austin, top pilot in the Unlimited Space Racing league.

With this crew, Dr. Sandrisson plans a simple demonstration jump into “Kanzaki-Locke-Sandrisson  space” which will allow the Holy Grail to effectively travel many times faster than light; they will jump, wait for the onboard fusion generator to recharge the Sandrisson Coils, and then jump back, having traveled perhaps a third of a light year in a few days’ time.

But as soon as the Holy Grail makes the first jump, everything goes wrong; the nuclear reactor shuts down, and all automation – including the AISages on which most of the crew rely – crashes. Only Ariane Austin’s skill at manual piloting saves Holy Grail from crashing into some impossible, unimaginable wall that appeared before them.

Nothing they can do will restart the nuclear reactor, or bring the artificial intelligences back online, and if they can’t find a source of very considerable power, they will be stranded forever in what appears to be a spherical space twenty thousand kilometers in diameter. With most of the crew still suffering from the trauma of losing their AISages, and having their own specific responsibilities, it is decided that for the interim Ariane Austin will be the acting Captain and leader of the stranded Holy Grail crew.

Scanning the interior of this spherical space shows that there is a way into the surrounding structure, and they begin exploring for something that may offer them a way home – and explain where they actually are, and what this structure is. During that exploration, it is revealed that Marc DuQuesne is one of the few survivors of the infamous Hyperion Project, product of a terribly misguided attempt to replicate various heroes of myth and fiction which, so to speak, “Went Horribly Right”. DuQuesne has spent the last fifty years trying to play the part of a normal human and really only wants to live a relatively ordinary life.

On a deeper probe of the interior of this mysterious location, Ariane Austin, Marc DuQuesne, and Dr. Simon Sandrisson encounter alien lifeforms. Shocked to be able to actually understand what the aliens are saying, they nonetheless intervene – for reasons they do not entirely understand at the time – to prevent what appears to be a lynching or kidnapping of one semi-insectoid alien by others; another, mysterious figure in dark robe-like clothing simply watches and then disappears.

The rescued alien calls himself “Orphan”, and seems friendly enough… until DuQuesne notices a suspicious tenseness and prevents him from actually entering the area of the installation (which Orphan calls a “Sphere”) that the humans have set up camp in.

Orphan admits that entrance to that portion of the “Sphere” would have given him considerable opportunity to control entry and exit from the Sphere – and by implication, to humanity’s solar system. Despite this, Ariane and the others decide that Orphan could be useful in at least allowing them to understand what they’ve gotten themselves into.

Orphan agrees to be their guide and instructor, and reveals the truth; that the huge structure they are in are just one of uncountable billions of “Spheres”, each of which represents a single solar system – and there is one Sphere for every solar system in every galaxy throughout the universe, floating in a lightyears-wide space called simply “The Arena”. Outside the shell of the Sphere is not vacuum, but air, light, and even gravity on the “top” of the Sphere, called the Upper Sphere – a place which provides living space similar to that found on a Sphere owner’s native world.

But to gain access to the Upper Sphere, the humans must first traverse the “Inner Gateway” which will take them to a location called Nexus Arena, and then – if they wish to gain the power needed to activate the Sandrisson Drive and return home – establish themselves as citizens of the Arena.

Ariane asks, naturally, how such citizenship is established; the answer startles and worries the entire crew. Everything in the Arena, it seems, revolves around “Challenges” between various groups, or “Factions”. A “Challenge” can be almost any sort of contest, but the essential character of a Challenge is that the stakes are significant on the scale of the Faction itself; for larger factions, that can mean, in essence, bets with literal worlds in the balance. There are over five thousand Factions and all of them have been in existence for thousands of years. Newcomers or “First Emergents” such as humanity haven’t been seen for over three thousand years.

In their first encounter with aliens, they turned out to have met no fewer than three Factions: Orphan, who is the leader – and sole member, currently – of the Faction of the Liberated; the Blessed To Serve, of the same species as Orphan but his major enemies; and the Shadeweavers, mysterious and reputed to have nigh-supernatural powers. Their initial venture to Nexus Arena introduces them to the factions of the Faith, who apparently see the Arena as a holy artifact or site, the Analytic who are an alliance of scientists and engineers, the Molothos who are a species of creatures inherently hostile to all others, and the quasi-faction of the Powerbrokers, who could sell enough energy to the humans to let them return home… if they had something to trade.

Having made this initial foray, Simon and Ariane stay behind while DuQuesne travels back to update the others on what they’ve discovered – and to lead an expedition to the Upper Sphere to see what resources they might have on top of their own Sphere.

It turns out that the Molothos have just recently discovered Humanity’s Sphere, as they send ships to travel through the airy spaces of the Arena and find other Spheres. The Molothos pursue and harry both DuQuesne and Carl Edlund, who accompanied him on this expedition, until trapping the two humans in the Molothos’ main encampment.

The stress and desperation of the moment causes DuQuesne to release all of the restraints he had placed on himself, and unleashes the full capabilities of a Hyperion on the terrified Molothos, defeating six Molothos in a few seconds and then interrogating the surviving officer, Maizas. A combination of careful planning, improvisation, and luck allows DuQuesne and Edlund to destroy the Molothos’ main vessel, Blessing of Fire, before it can reinforce the ground troops and take possession of Humanity’s Upper Sphere.

This turns out to be sufficient to count as winning a Challenge from the Arena’s point of view, and Humanity suddenly is a full-fledged Faction, with its own embassy building… and a new set of problems. Everyone wants to pal around with the new kids on the block, it seems… but they all have their own agendas. The humans also notice some odd characteristics of all Arena inhabitants; they seem more risk-averse than humanity, with odds of 100:1 being viewed in a similar light to those of a million to one by most human beings.

Ariane is invited by the Faith to observe the induction of a new priest, called an Initiate Guide, as part of a ritual that is conducted whenever a new Faction appears. During this ritual, she hears and sees things that seem magical, beyond any science that humanity understands, including a staggering display of power at the “awakening” of the new Initiate Guide’s abilities. It is clear that the Faith – including their leader, First Guide Nyanthus, and the new priest, Initiate Guide Mandallon, firmly believe there is a mystical, numinous power far beyond that of mortality that guides or watches over the Arena. Ariane is impressed, though not at all convinced, and on her way back is more disturbed when Amas-Garao, one of the Shadeweavers, appears from nowhere and has a short discussion with her that reveals that he did influence her to intervene on Orphan’s behalf, somehow. He is unimpressed, even amused, by her confronting him with this, and when pressed, disappears – at the same time somehow teleporting Ariane all the way from where she stands back to Humanity’s Embassy.

The faction of the Vengeance visits Humanity shortly thereafter – a faction who believe that, rather than a benevolent deific-like force, the Arena is a weapon, a tool to keep all other species imprisoned and controlled, and who are dedicated to discovering the secrets of the creators of the Arena, called the Voidbuilders, and wresting from them control of the universes.

Mandallon, the new Initiate Guide, is obligated to perform some service for Humanity; while he cannot provide the energy needed to return home (apparently older Initiate Guides could, but he cannot), he will attempt anything else. After some discussion, Ariane decides to ask him to heal the one member of their crew who has never recovered from the “crashing” of her AISages (she had three): Dr. Laila Canning. He performs a ritual which shows no objective mechanism for functioning, but nonetheless awakens Laila to herself… although Ariane, and DuQuesne, wonder if perhaps Laila Canning is not exactly who she seems to be, now.

It isn’t long before the Blessed to Serve trick Ariane into accepting a Challenge; the Blessed, and their leader Sethrik, come to regret this when Ariane specifies the Challenge mode as being deep-space racing, and manages to win the race with a final daredevil move that shocks all of the Arena natives.

Ariane originally intended to demand a full recharge for Holy Grail as the price for winning the Challenge, but Orphan – just in time – reveals that if all of the Holy Grail crew return home, leaving the Sphere empty, they forfeit all the progress they have made – they lose their Factionhood. The Sphere must always have at least one inhabitant from this point on. At the same time, Orphan admits that his meeting with the Holy Grail crew was not entirely accident; he was directed to go to a certain place, at a certain time, by the Shadeweavers, to whom he owed a debt. He admits that he still owes them at least one more service, meaning that he cannot yet be entirely trustworthy… even if he didn’t have an agenda of his own. She agrees to keep Orphan’s secret… but he owes her.

Ariane decides to have the Blessed foot the bill for having Humanity’s Sphere secured by the Faith, something which is necessary for peace of mind if and when they leave someone behind. This choice, while sensible, causes considerable conflict when revealed, partly due to the disappointment that they are not yet going home, and partly due to the fact that Ariane made this decision on her own. Ariane points out – correctly – that it was her decision to make, and if they didn’t want a Captain in charge they shouldn’t have made her one.

DuQuesne is aware she is correct, and leaves to cool off so he doesn’t argue any further. Amas-Garao takes this opportunity to contact DuQuesne, and shows him around the Shadeweaver headquarters in an attempt to recruit DuQuesne to join their ranks; during this tour, he witnesses part of the induction ritual for a new member of the Shadeweavers. When DuQuesne declines the invitation, Amas-Garao reveals that this was “an offer you can’t refuse”. The Shadeweaver is stunned  to discover that he cannot control DuQuesne’s mind (due to particular design work done by the Hyperion Project), but demonstrates vast, apparently supernatural power, eventually cornering DuQuesne before he can leave the Faction House.

But Ariane received a very short transmission from DuQuesne, enough to know he was in trouble, and has Orphan lead them to the Shadeweaver Faction House… just in time. In the subsequent battle, Orphan surprises everyone by first choosing not to abandon Humanity, despite his belief that they have no real chance against the Shadeweavers, and second by revealing that he has some sort of device that inhibits the Shadeweavers’ powers.

The combination of Orphan with the humans’ luck and skill allows the group to escape the Shadeweaver compound – at which point the Adjudicators – enforcers of Nexus Arena itself – show up to prevent pursuit by Amas-Garao.

However, the Shadeweaver faction itself then declares “Anathema” against the faction of Humanity, making most members of the Arena avoid doing business with them at all. Only the Analytic and the Faith stand with Humanity, which does at least allow them to continue to operate. During this time, Ariane and the others get to observe another Challenge, a maze-combat race that culminates with one contestant, Sivvis Lassituras, honorably ceding the Challenge to his opponent, Tunuvun, after Tunuvun prevents him from being injured or killed in a fall.

Shortly thereafter, Orphan mysteriously abandons Gabrielle Wolf during a shopping expedition to retrive basic supplies for the group, and she encounters a group of the Blessed to Serve who begin to systematically bully her in a strangely uncharacteristic way. By the time Ariane arrives, she sees Gabrielle injured and bleeding, and the exchange of heated words culminates in her issuing a Challenge to Sethrik, leader of the Blessed…

… who turns out to have been merely acting as the agent for Amas-Garao. The Shadeweaver accepts the Challenge and says the venue will be single combat… with the prize being either Marc DuQuesne or Ariane Austin herself joining the Shadeweavers. While DuQuesne is much more formidable, Ariane refuses to allow him to risk himself, feeling that he – as a full-functional Hyperion whose capabilities have saved them more than once – is much more valuable than she is. Also, by making herself both the prize and the opponent, she forces Amas-Garao to have to be careful to not kill the very thing he’s fighting for.

Despite this, and considerable preparation for the battle, the duel is clearly one-sided; even when Ariane succeeds in striking Amas-Garao, the effect is temporary, and eventually Amas-Garao stops even playing with her and uses his powers to systematically smash her back and forth into the walls and floor of the Challenge ring until she is beaten nearly unconscious.

But just as she is about to collapse, her drifting mind makes connections between multiple events – the ritual of the Faith she observed, the fragments of Shadeweaver ritual DuQuesne saw, an injury Amas-Garao took during the fight to rescue DuQuesne, and other things said by Arena residents – and tries one last desperate throw of the dice by invoking the same ritual as awakened Mandallon’s powers.

The energy detonates around her and Amas-Garao is barely able to defend himself, so shocked is he. It takes his concession, followed by assistance from six other Shadeweavers and Initiate Guides, to shut down the energy radiating from Ariane. Before Ariane can make her demand of the Shadeweavers, DuQuesne lets her know that he made a side bet that, now that she’s won, will get them the energy they need to get home; Ariane then takes, as her prize for victory, the requirement that no Shadeweaver shall ever in any way use their mind-affecting powers on any member of Humanity or their immediate allies unless directly requested to by the leader of the Faction. Amas-Garao hesitates, but the Arena itself states that this is a fair and reasonable demand and that the Shadeweavers will accept it.

The Shadeweavers and Faith then visit Ariane, saying she is now one of them – either a Shadeweaver or an Initiate Guide. She refuses to join either, feeling her responsibility for Humanity outweighs their factional leanings, and not trusting the Shadeweavers at all in any case. They then say that her powers must be sealed more permanently, since if she will not join either one, she will not have proper instruction on how to control it – and Ariane, despite not wanting to believe, sees all too clearly a demonstration of how her own emotions trigger dangerous reactions.

The sealing ritual requires seven members of Humanity’s faction. Ariane gets the Arena to allow them to temporarily empty Humanity’s Sphere to perform the ritual. During that ritual, a momentary disruption causes all of the power – of Shadeweaver, Faith, and Ariane – to converge for an instant on Dr. Simon Sandrisson; it seems to have no lasting effect, but for a moment Dr. Sandrisson feels that he can see, and understand… everything.

Returning Steve Franceschetti and Thomas Cussler to Humanity’s Sphere after the ritual, Steve, Tom, Ariane, and DuQuesne are suddenly confronted with all of the Gateways that would usually be available for the trip being occupied – thousands of Gateways all simultaneously in use…

… By the Molothos, who had deduced that Humanity’s Sphere was temporarily abandoned, and knew that if they failed to return to their Sphere within a reasonable time they would forfeit their citizenship. This trick is not a Challenge, but is potentially worse. However, Steve Franceschetti figures out a way past the apparently-impossible blockade and is successfully returned to Humanity’s Sphere.

Energy now provided, the Holy Grail preps to return, many months after departure, carrying Ariane, Marc DuQuesne, Simon Sandrisson, and Gabrielle Wolfe… and evidence of the impossible. “Kanzaki-Three, this is Experimental Vessel 2112FTL, Holy Grail, reporting back.” She grinned at the others, as she continued, “Control, you will not believe where we’ve been!”

… What has Come After

The Space Security Council and Combined Space Forces have been forced to accept the reality of the preposterous story told by the Holy Grail crew. It becomes evident, however, that they feel the Holy Grail crew – and especially “Captain” Ariane Austin – are not the proper people to be representing Humanity going forward; the opposition to their ally Saul Maginot is led by Councillor Oscar Naraj, who has been maneuvering for the top spots in both the CSF and SSC for many, many years.

Ariane and the others have no intention of letting people who do not understand the Arena go charging in and trying to run things themselves… especially when there is one key factor they don’t know: that the Arena itself has designated Captain Ariane Austin “Leader of the Faction of Humanity” – and that title is one that even all the governments of Earth cannot take from her. Only she can yield it – and she won’t until she finds someone both willing to take it, and able to understand just what they’ll be dealing with!

Simon and Gabrielle return to Holy Grail to prepare it for a return as fast as possible – with needed cargo and trading materials – while DuQuesne takes Ariane on a secretive but, he assures them, desperately important mission, one they have to complete before the SSC and CSF can construct their own Sandrisson Drive craft.

DuQuesne’s mission turns out to be seeking out the few remaining Hyperions who might be willing to help them; some turn out to be dead, while one is revealed to be an old acquaintance of Ariane’s as well – Velocity Celes, top driver for the Unlimited Ground Racing circuit.

But all their initial movements were also blinds, tricks to shake off a pursuit that DuQuesne would not name, but clearly fears, so they could arrive at one particular location…

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 08

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 08

Chapter 4

          Mary Simpson stood as her guests entered the room.

“Good morning, Senator Abrabanel, President Piazza.”

When Rebecca Abrabanel had asked to visit, Mary had suspected that the resulting conversations would involve politics to some extent. After all, given that Rebecca was the senator to the USE parliament from Magdeburg, that her husband was the former (and first) prime minister of the USE, and that she was one of the leaders of the Fourth of July political party, it would be difficult to find something to discuss with her that didn’t involve politics in some manner. And seeing the senator accompanied by Ed Piazza, President of Thuringia-Franconia, up-timer, and also a leader of the Fourth of July party, simply confirmed her suspicions.

“Mary,” Ed said, holding out his hand. She grasped it, glad that he was a seasoned enough politician to know the difference between a firm grip and a crushing one, even — or especially — for someone as small as she was.

Ed released her hand, and she turned to Rebecca, who offered her hand in turn. “Ed, Rebecca, it’s good to see you,” Mary said as she shook hands with the other woman. “You know Lady Beth, of course.” Lady Beth Haygood, the up-timer who was head of the Duchess Elizabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls in Magdeburg and also happened to be one of Mary’s lieutenants, stepped forward from where she stood before her chair for another round of handshakes.

“Please, be seated,” Mary said, motioning to the nearby chairs. They settled in as Mary motioned to Hilde who was hovering nearby to present the coffee tray. Mary poured the cups and handed them around, then settled back with her own, grateful that it was strong and hot enough to fight the chill from the outside weather. Like many people who were both short and slight, she seemed to suffer more from cold than larger folks. Thinking back to winters in Pittsburgh, she shivered a bit, and took another sip.

“One of the reasons I like to come to your parlor,” Ed said with a smile. “You do serve a good cup of coffee.”

Lady Beth nodded in agreement.

“Thank you,” Mary said. “Don Francisco finally made connections for us with a supplier of the best beans, and Hilde has learned the best ways to roast and grind them, so I’ll admit to enjoying my own coffee.”

“Walcha’s Coffee House isn’t bad,” Lady Beth observed. “A lot of the teachers go there.”

The conversation continued on that line for a couple of minutes, until Mary brought it to a close after there was a brief lull. “To see both of the leading lights of the Fourth of July Party sitting in my parlor puts me in mind of the days when the Pittsburgh politicos would come around looking for a favor.” She smiled at them over her cup.

Rebecca set her cup down on a side table, and leaned forward a bit in her chair, expression becoming more intent.

“Mary, I want to thank you and Lady Beth agreeing to meet with us on such short notice. And you are correct; we do have something important to ask of you.”

Mary took another sip of coffee to feel the warmth slide down her throat. She had had some contact with the senator in the past, of course. How could she not? Rebecca Abrabanel was not only a government figure in Magdeburg, but was also the wife of Michael Stearns, who’d been the prime minister of the USE during the time when Mary had become the leading social light of Magdeburg. They weren’t close friends, not by any standard, but there was a solid respect between the two women.

“Rebecca, if you and Ed need to bring something up with us, then given the times we’d best be available to you. So what’s up?”

Mary almost expected Ed Piazza to take the lead, since he was an up-timer and would be perfectly comfortable speaking to another up-timer. Her estimation of the senator went up when she continued as she had begun.

“We need your help,” the other woman began. “With everything that’s going on with Gustavus Adolphus and Oxenstierna, it’s pretty obvious that the chancellor is trying to draw what Ed calls the center of gravity from Magdeburg to Berlin.”

“It’s like this, Mary. If Oxenstierna gets everyone to start thinking that Berlin is the center of power and all things governmental . . .” Ed continued.

“Then he’s gone a long way toward becoming the de facto government,” Mary completed the thought, “regardless of the legalities involved.”

“Right.” Both Rebecca and Ed sat back in their seats.

“I’m neither a politician nor a political theorist,” Mary said, “so I’m not much help in the political arena.” Ed Piazza snorted at that, but Mary ignored him. “You must want something from me, though, or we wouldn’t be having this little chat.”

Rebecca resumed with, “Mike told me that you once said you wanted Magdeburg to glitter. Well, right now we want, or rather, we need you to make Magdeburg glitter like it never has before. We want every newspaper in the empire and all the surrounding countries to be filled with news about Magdeburg. We want Magdeburg to be so present and so prominent that Berlin seems like a country village beside it.”

Mary set her cup aside and steepled her fingers beneath her nose. After a moment, she looked up. “Unofficial propaganda, huh? By downplaying Berlin, you downplay the chancellor and his cronies.”

“Exactly!” Ed barked with a grin.

Mary frowned. “I can see that. But you realize I can’t be overtly political in this — in anything. I am the Admiral’s wife, after all.” They all heard the capital letter as she pronounced her husband’s title.

Admiral Simpson’s stand of neutrality in the chaos swirling in northern Germany was widely known. Everyone over the age of twelve had their opinions as to whether or not it was a wise or prudent position for him to have taken, but no one doubted that he meant what he said.

“Caesar’s wife,” Lady Beth inserted in support of her leader.

“Who must be without reproach, yes,” Rebecca said. “We are not asking for coordination and collusion. Simply that you do those things you would ordinarily do, but as prominently and loudly and, ah, ‘splashily’ as you can, if there is such a word.”

“There is now,” Mary replied with a smile. She sipped her coffee while she thought on everything that had been said, and much that hadn’t.

Naturally, she was tempted to ask for some funding. The arts always needed more money, and squeezing the powers-that-be for it was something Mary Simpson had done for so long — first in Pittsburgh, in another universe; now here in Magdeburg — that it was almost second nature to her.

But it would be a bad idea, in the long run. As much as she’d love to add an additional revenue stream to the Arts Council, she needed to maintain a public image of political neutrality. She could afford to let that image get strained, but not get broken outright.

No, this was something that would just have to be done for its own sake. When her cup was empty, she set it down on its saucer on the table before her and looked to her guests.

“No cooperation, no collusion, no conspiring. We will do what we think is best, and you will find out about it through normal channels.”

Rebecca looked at Ed. He nodded.

“Agreed.”

“Then I think we have an understanding,” Mary said. “Keep an eye on the papers.”

****

          When her guests left, Mary accompanied them to the door. Just before the door closed behind them, she heard Ed Piazza exclaim, “Not political, hah!”

She was still smiling when she returned to Lady Beth in the parlor. Mary looked over at her friend and lieutenant as she refreshed their coffee. “What do you think?”

Lady Beth had a note pad open and was already reviewing notes. “Salons, concerts, recitals, parades, feast celebrations, we can do lots of things. There are at least a couple of news reporter types in town that we can probably work with for articles, maybe more.”

Mary nodded. “We need to commission some musical works from the local composers, but at least one of them needs to be based on King Arthur. The theme of the wounded king who would return to his people in their time of trouble would just absolutely resonate with most of the folks.”

Lady Beth frowned. “It might be better to use Barbarossa as the subject, since he was a German emperor and his legend has many of the same elements — especially the theme of the sleeping ruler who will someday return to save his nation.”

“It’s a possibility,” Mary said, “but… The problem is that I can’t see the legend serving well as the story for an opera. So Emperor Barbarossa is sleeping with his knights somewhere under — what mountain was it?”

“There are variations. Some say Kyffhäuser, in Thuringia; others say it’s Mount Untersberg in Bavaria.”

Mary shook her head. “How do you do an opera based on a bunch of sleeping men? And what’s probably still worse from a dramatic standpoint is that there would be no suitable female roles in such an opera. Well, I suppose…”

She made a face. Lady Beth laughed. “Yes, a bit difficult! The only woman anywhere in the Barbarossa legend is his wife Beatrice who was insulted by the Milanese. And the emperor took his revenge by forcing the authorities of the city to eat figs coming out of the hind end of a donkey. How in the world would you stage that? — much less put it to song!”

Both women chuckled. Then Mary said: “No, best we stick with the Arthur legend.”

“Great idea,” Lady Beth enthused. She rubbed her hands together. “Get a couple of memorable songs out of it to put on the radio and send out the sheet music, and it could weld people together like nothing else. Only make it better than Camelot. I never could stand that show,” she muttered. “Julie Andrews — pfaugh!”

“And I know just the people to pull it off,” Mary said. “How soon can we get Amber Higham and Heinrich Schütz over here? What’s the use of having a theatre director and a great composer among your friends if you don’t put them to use?”

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 29

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 29

Chapter 15

“What do you mean by the dragon egg,” Kyrie asked, sliding into the booth across from Old Joe.  She’d put a bowl of clam chowder in front of him, and slid a plate of souvlaki and gyro meat in beside it.  She had put silverware down too, but Old Joe was always whimsical about silverware, using it when he very well felt like and ignoring it or treating it as jewelry the rest of the time.

This was one of the times he’d chosen to ignore it — which was just as well, because the sight of Old Joe with fork and knife twisted into what remained of his hair always made people turn and stare, and Kyrie would much rather they didn’t attract attention just now.

So she tried not to act offended or put off as he drank the clam chowder from the bowl and stuffed meat in his mouth with his fingers.  He must have been aware of her disapproval, nonetheless, because he used the napkin on his fingers and lips before answering her.  “It’s the knowledge of all the dragons.  It always passes to Great Sky Dragon when Great Sky Dragon dies.”

“Uh?  What do you mean it passes to him when he dies?  Do you mean in the spirit world or something?”

Old Joe shook his head, then resumed stuffing his mouth.  Kyrie got up and got a cup of coffee for herself and one for Old Joe.  She took a sip of her cup while she waited for him to answer.

“Like,” he said, at last.  “Like when the king is dead someone becomes king, so like, the king is dead, long live the king?”

“Oh.  The new Great Sky Dragon gets… knowledge?  What knowledge?”

“The knowledge of all the sky dragons before.  The dragon egg it’s called.”  He frowned.  “Or was called when the curr–  The last Great Sky Dragon inherited.”  He reached across and patted her hand, as if he thought she needed reassurance.  ”A long, long time ago.  More time ago than I can count.  The other Sky Dragon.  Before dragon-boy.”

Perhaps Kyrie had known it all along.  Surely she had known it was a danger since she’d heard Bea’s story, but the idea was so preposterous that Kyrie had been keeping it at bay.    “I… you mean Tom is the Great Sky Dragon?”

Old Joe nodded.  “At least… there seems to be…. Something is not right, but he is, at least, in the place of the Great Sky Dragon right now…”  He clacked his teeth together in the way that, in alligator form, always gave the impression that he was laughing.  “Acting Great Sky Dragon.”

“But Tom would never accept it,” Kyrie protested.  “Tom would never want to be… they’re a criminal organization.  He’d never –”

“No,” Old Joe said.  “You don’t understand.  No choice.  No choice for dragon boy.  It’s in the blood.  The memories follow the blood.  It was… built that way when we came to this world.”

“When we came to this world?” Kyrie repeated, as she suddenly had a disturbing vision of Old Joe as a UFO cultist.  Besides, she was absolutely sure she hadn’t come to this world, she had been born here.

“When our kind came to this world,” Old Joe said, and again patted her reassuringly.

“We were built so some people would… remember for everyone.  And the Great Sky Dragon might be the only line that still goes on that remembers. Part because they keep to themselves, dragons do… ” He frowned.  “The rest of us have forgotten.  Even I have forgotten, and I was supposed to remember.  I was…  But dragon-boy has the inheritance in the blood, he has the dragon’s egg, and if he has the pearl…”  An odd sound as he put his tongue up between his two widely spaced front teeth and sucked air.  “If he figures out how to use the pearl… Then he could remember all that he needs to remember.”

Kyrie’s head reeled.  “Built? No, forget that.  Just tell me…  Why would Tom need to remember anything?”

“Well,” Old Joe’s eyes had a look of faraway remembering, as though looking upon unheard-of vistas.  “Our people were hounded from world to world, weren’t they?  We came here for refuge, didn’t we?  But we must remember, because I can sense their agent among us…  Whatever happened to the old Dragon was their doing and unless dragon-boy is ready to stand up to them…”

“Yes?”

“Even if he’s ready to stand up to them, but doesn’t know how to… we’ll die in this Earth too, and we’ll be gone forever.”

Two tears ran down the dirt embedded in Old Joe’s face while Kyrie tried to make sense of all of this.  Only thing she could know for sure was that Tom was in danger.  Tom had been thrust into a position of prominence he didn’t want and he was now in danger because of it.

She fixed Old Joe with a stern gaze.  She didn’t know if it would work on him, though she had, in the past, managed to stop him from eating cats and dogs by convincing him that she could see everything he did and that she was not amused.  But her gaze and her voice of command worked on the strangest people, even Rafiel.  So she stared at Old Joe and said, sternly.  “Don’t you dare wander away and disappear.  You must talk to Tom about all this.  We must go and find him, so you can talk to him.”

“Why would I disappear?” Old Joe asked, in a puzzled tone.  “I was coming to talk to dragon boy and you.  I got myself clothes for that.  And I know where you’ll find him.  He’ll be in the place of dragons, of course.”

* * *

The dragons vanished much too quickly and Tom, almost dropping from tiredness, found himself shifting back and being alone in the parking lot, except for two middle aged Chinese gentlemen behind him, Conan to his right side and… He frowned at the girl at the other end of the parking lot.  She looked eerily familiar.  “Bea,” He said.

“Bea Bao Ryu,” Conan said.  “We spent years investigating her family… back when I was… that is, when…”

Tom understood Conan was suddenly afraid of saying that this had happened when he was working for the Great Sky Dragon, because now Tom was the Great Sky Dragon, and so Conan must be working for the triad again.  Tom sighed and looked sidelong at Conan, “You know you’re free, right?  To do whatever you please, and pursue your bliss with that damned guitar and that ridiculous ten gallon hat of yours?”

Conan gave him a smile, but then the corners of his mouth shook and he looked even more tired than Tom felt, “It’s not that… simple… uh… sire?”

Tom laughed at that, impossible not to.  “If you call me your reverence or something like that, I swear I’ll hurt you.”

Conan’s eyes went out to the two corpses on the parking lot.  “Like you did them?”

“No.”  Tom had almost forgotten what he’d done, but now he shuddered at it, a shudder made worse by his being covered in blood.  “No.  Conan, I had to do it.  Do you think I had a choice?”

“No.  I know you didn’t.  And I think I know more about this than you do,” Conan said, his voice low, steady, but filled with an odd vibrating tone.  “And if I’m right, all of us are going to find ourselves rather short on choices.”

Tom was going to ask Conan what he meant, but at that moment one of the men behind him said, “Sir, if you would.”

Tom turned around.  The two middle aged Chinese men, one of whom he — vaguely — remembered meeting at a get-together of owners of local eateries when they’d planned the last “Eat Goldport” weekend, at which people could buy a coupon book then sample several eateries at discounted prices during the weekend, was the owner-of-record of the Three Luck Dragon.  A careful search of his memory disclosed the first name Kevin and the family name Jao.  Tom said, “Mr. Jao,” and raised his eyebrows.

The man bowed again.  “We have quarters prepared for you… and your bride, and we will tell you the whole situation as we know it.  What happened to… to your revered ancestor and…”  He looked at Conan.  “If you trust him, he can join our councils.  We gather you trust him, since he’s long been your henchman.”

Tom looked at Conan.  “I trust him.  But I have no bride.  At least no bride here.”

The man beside Mr. Jao cleared his throat, and looked intently at the other side of the parking lot.  “Miss Ryu will more than adequately provide dragon –”

“No,” Tom said, with near-horror.  Not that he had anything against Bea Ryu, of course.  She seemed okay.  But she suffered from the terrible handicap of not being Kyrie, and that was insurmountable in his view.

“Uh,” Mr. Jao said.  He spoke perfectly unaccented English, which Tom found fascinating, since at the dinner of restaurant owners he’s spoken like a stereotypical Chinese immigrant.  Wheels within wheels.  He supposed the man would now tell him to whom he was lying and for whom.  Maybe.  But he didn’t want to know.  He had a strong feeling the Triad was into far more shady business than drug running, murder for hire or even hunting down innocent dragon shifters.  He had a feeling the business of the triad was far far bigger and more dangerous and dirtier than anything he could have imagined.  That feeling was partly from his gathered impressions, while he was in everyone’s mind for that brief moment after…

After what?  After the Great Sky Dragon had died?  He didn’t know.  Instead, what he knew and knew with absolute certainty was that he wanted no part of any of this.

Jao raised his voice and called “Miss Ryu.”

She came.  She was good to look at naked.  Tom could think that, even while being aware that he’d rather a thousand deaths than marry her.  Or anyone but Kyrie.

Bea was slim and shapely, but she walked towards them like a beaten dog.  He suddenly remembered she’d just come back from death, and wondered what had managed to make her change and come here.  What could have been a strong enough impulse?

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 07

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 07

****

          The city of Magdeburg in the year 1635 was unique throughout Europe; throughout the world, actually. There was no place like it.

          On the one hand, it was old. The city name originally meant “Mighty Fortress,” and historical records indicated that it was founded in the year 805 by none other than the Emperor Charlemagne. Histories of the Germanies, whether contemporary or from the up-time library in Grantville, mentioned the city often. It had many connections with Holy Roman Emperors over the years. It became the See of the Archbishop of Magdeburg in 968, and its first patent and charter was given in1035. It was even one of the easternmost members of the Hanseatic League. And Martin Luther had spent time there, beginning in 1524, which perhaps explained the subsequent dogged Protestantism of the city.

On the other hand, Magdeburg was new. The city had been besieged by the army of the Holy Roman Empire from November 1630 until May 20, 1631. The siege culminated in The Sack of Magdeburg, in which over 20,000 residents were massacred. Over ninety percent of the city was destroyed by fire, and what little wasn’t burned was ransacked, looted, plundered, and pillaged. Magdeburg was devastated; prostrate.

Then came the Ring of Fire, with the arrival of Grantville, West Virginia, from the future. And everything changed.

Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden and champion of the Protestant cause, connected with the up-timers from Grantville, and set in motion a train of events which gave birth — or rebirth, if you prefer — to the modern Magdeburg of 1635.

Pre-Ring of Fire Magdeburg was small, by up-timer standards. The area within the city walls was about half a square mile. It was shaped something like a right triangle, with the long side of the triangle running parallel to the river Elbe, and the hypotenuse side running from northeast to southwest. The normal population of the city had been about 25,000 people. That boosted to nearly 35,000 during the siege, as everyone from the surrounding regions who had a contracted right for shelter and sanctuary moved into the city when the HRE army approached.

Magdeburg in 1635 was a very different creature. Gustavus Adolphus, now proclaimed emperor, had decreed that the city would be the capitol of what became the United States of Europe. Otto Gericke was appointed mayor of the city, and was given imperial instruction to make Magdeburg a capitol city of which the emperor could be proud. And things just kind of mushroomed from there.

Instigated by the up-timers, north of the city were the naval yards, where the iron-clad and timber-clad ships of the USE Navy had been constructed. There wouldn’t be any more ironclads in the foreseeable future, and the timberclad construction had slowed down considerably. But the yard was still working and its work force was still fully employed. The Navy Yard’s machine tools and facilities were being turned into the USE’s major weapons manufacturing center and were now working around the clock. In theory, that was to provide the army fighting the Poles with the weapons they needed. But nobody was oblivious to the fact that those same weapons could easily be used to defend Magdeburg itself, in the event the current crisis turned into an all-out civil war.

South of the city was the coal gas plant, surrounded by a constellation of factories which were powered by the plant’s output. All of these operations drew hungry unemployed and underemployed men from all over the Germanies. So, since early 1634, the city had become home to a horde of Navy men, factory workers and skilled craftsmen. Inevitably, construction workers had followed to provide homes for the workforce and facilities for the employers. All this gave Magdeburg a certain flavor, a “blue-collar” spirit, as some of the Grantvillers called it, which was certainly fostered by the Committees of Correspondence. It also made for interesting times.

But workers, and their families, need places to sleep, and food to eat, so rooming houses and bakeries and such began to grow up to the west of the old city. And it turned out that the big businesses along the river side needed smaller businesses to make things for them, so various workshops began to appear in the western districts.

By late 1635, Greater Magdeburg occupied several square miles along the riverside and to the west. No one had a good estimate as to how many people lived in the new city because of the constant influx of new residents, but the Committees of Correspondence had recently told the mayor that they thought it was approaching one hundred thousand. Germans, Swedes, Dutch, Poles, Hungarians, Bohemians, even the odd Austrian, Bavarian, or Rumanian could be found in the city streets or swinging a hammer at the Navy yard.

A population of that size would naturally have a leavening of rough-edged men. Hard men, one might call them, who would be more inclined to follow the ways of Cain than of Abel. Mayor Gericke realized in late 1634 that the city watch of the old city was not able to deal with the influx of these men, so in early 1635 he requisitioned a couple of Grantvillers with police experience from the up-timer units contributed to the USE army to try to mold the city watch into something that could provide up-time style civic protection and police services to the whole city.

The city watch had never been held in high esteem, so there was a certain reservation on the part of many of the citizens and residents to take issues to them. The well to do patricians and burghers of Old Magdeburg could afford to utilize the courts. The workers of Greater Magdeburg couldn’t afford a lawyer, most times, so their recourses were three: take it to the Committees of Correspondence, if the matter was one that the CoC was interested in; handle it themselves or with the aid of their friends; or take it to the newly formed Polizei.

Such was Greater Magdeburg in December 1635: newly born, vibrant, alive, with a spirit like no other city in the world; and sometimes an edge to it that could leave you bleeding.

Such was the city Gotthilf thought of as his own. Such was the city that he and his partner watched over.

 

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 28

Noah’s Boy – Snippet 28

Old Joe looked dubious, but followed her into the hallway of the diner, and waited while she got clothes from the pile they kept for him in the storage room.  They bought them at the thrift store any piece of clothing for a dollar day, and blew a couple of hundred dollars twice a year.  As far as Old Joe’s mind went, clothes were consumables.  He’d wear them when they made him do so, but he wouldn’t bother to take them off, or hide them so he might wear them again.  Instead, he would shift and either tear them to shreds in the process or soon afterwards, while he walked around.

Kyrie had often read reports of an alligator wearing a tattered t-shirt, and it was only the fact that she had some will power and could control her more whimsical moods that had saved her from giving Old Joe a bowler hat.

When she came out with the bundle of clothes, he took them, but looked at her, sheepishly.  “I got to wash?” he asked.

“We don’t want people in the diner to be all disgusted at your being filthy,” said.

Old Joe looked very sad and said something she couldn’t quite understand, but which she suspected was his version of “when in Rome” though considering this was Old Joe, it might very well be “When in Atlantis” or “When in Mu.”

He disappeared into the women’s restroom, because it was the more spacious one, and also because Kyrie, frankly, didn’t trust him not to try to wash in the urinals.  So, whenever Old Joe washed, he washed in the ladies room.  Kyrie stood at the door, waiting, preventing any woman from trying to get in.  Not that any did.  There were still few people in the diner, and none got the urge just then.

When he was clean, Joe knocked from the inside, and Kyrie opened the door.

He still looked like a derelict.  To make Old Joe look like something other than a derelict would take… well, probably plastic surgery.  The truth was that his wrinkles had wrinkles, and that the wrinkles on his wrinkles had got so much ground-in dirt in them that they might as well be tattoos.  Or maybe they were tattoos.  Whenever Old Joe had grown up, it was now almost unimaginably long ago, and it was, almost certainly a pre-literate society that had left no trace.  Maybe facial tattoos had been a manhood ritual or something.

So, he still looked dirty, and his remaining white hair looked as wild as Einstein’s but less clean.  And he…  It wasn’t so much that he stooped or shambled.  Oh, you could say he did both, but the words were, to an extent, inadequate.  Yes, he stooped.  Yes, he shambled.  But his posture was more reminiscent of someone who had collapsed into place over centuries, becoming not so much aged as… petrified, stratified.  Like a little mountain in human form.

Still the eyes that looked at her weren’t tired or stony at all.  Instead, they were full of the merriment he seemed to find in anything unusual or unsettling.

And Kyrie realized there was something very unusual indeed, as she realized he was still clutching the filthy trench coat in his — presumably just washed — hand.

Old Joe had dressed in that trench coat without Tom or herself making him.  And that was kind of like hearing the sun had risen in the west, or that soup had fallen from the sky.  It was impossible.  Absolutely and completely impossible.

But he’d done it.

She looked into the twinkling eyes and asked, carefully, with slow suspicion dawning that she wasn’t going to like the answer at all, “Why were you going to come into the diner?”

He grinned.  “I hear dragon boy got dragon egg.  I wanted to know how he’s doing with it, because…”  He looked suddenly embarrassed.  “I like dragon boy.  He’s nice people.”

Uh oh.  He knew what had happened to Tom.  It should have been a relief, Kyrie thought, because if Old Joe knew it, it meant that Old Joe could tell her what had happened, and maybe even why and how to get around it.  But it didn’t feel like a relief.  This whole dragon egg thing didn’t sound pleasant.  She had a vision of a juvenile dragon bursting from Tom’s chest and bit her lower lip.

“Go into the corner booth,” she said.  “And wait.  I’ll bring you food.”

And she was left to torture herself with scary suppositions while she wiped down the soot marks from wall and sink and the water splashes from the floor.  They really should install a shower in the storage room the next time they had some spare cash.  This having people wash in the ladies’ room was messy and probably violated all sorts of rules and regulations.

Of course, next time they had some spare cash sort of assumed things would return to normal.  And Kyrie wasn’t sure of that at all.

* * *

Was it really Tom up there, in front of the restaurant?  Bea had trouble believing it.  She’d met his dragon, after all, on the ledge of that Bed and Breakfast tower, but the truth was that if Tom perched on that ledge now, he would have taken it down.

He was… enormous.  How did a dragon grow.  And then she heard his voice in her mind.  Standing at the edge of the crowd, she saw the two idiots stand and challenge him.  Not that she was sure they were idiots.  But then, they had had to be.  No sane person would challenge something the size Tom was now.  And no sane person would challenge anyone, dragon or human, whose eyes showed as much bewildered fear as Tom’s did at that moment.

Tom didn’t want to be where he was.  That didn’t surprise her.  She’d gathered he had no intention of being a leader of the Triad.  But he was there and — as he issued the challenge, because it was very obvious what he meant by we fly — she realized he would fight for the position he didn’t want.

She wondered why.

Then she stopped wondering.  She’d met Tom only this day, and she couldn’t say she was his lifetime friend.  But Tom was … The Tom she’d met had seemed to be polite, caring, nice, in outdated but probably accurate terms a good man.

Nothing could have prepared him for seeing his dragon take to the air, flanked by the two blue dragons.

It should have come as no surprise that both the blue dragons went up at once.  Or perhaps it should have.  She didn’t know.  What were the rules of sportsmanship for Dragons?  And did it matter if two went up at the same time against another dragon that was so massively larger than any of them?

Like every other dragon present in the parking lot, she sat back and turned her face up to watch.

Tom flew straight up, green-blue underside flashing bright.  He looked bigger, more substantial than the other two.  But the other two weren’t daunted.  The larger one tried to fly to the side of Tom and bite him on the neck.  Tom evaded it, almost skewering himself on the other dragon’s claw – out and trying to disembowel him.

And then it seemed to her that Tom lost patience.  He reached out with arm-claws, and grabbed the other dragon’s arm and twisted viciously and pulled.  Clearly he had more strength than the others, because the arm tore off the dragon’s body.  A fine rain of blood fell on the upturned faces of dragons.

Tom kicked away the larger blue dragon trying to attack him, almost disemboweling the dragon in the process, and turned his fury on the smaller blue dragon.  Methodically, like a psychopathic little boy with a fly, he ripped off the dragon’s other arm, then the nearest leg.

And then he flamed, burning off the dragon’s wings as the dragon, in shock, tried to run away.  And as the dragon’s friend tried to attack Tom by burning at Tom’s side, presumably to pull him off from his friend, Tom turned, without hesitation, and burned him, full in the face.

The smaller blue dragon had fallen like a stone onto the parking lot, his blood spattering those who’d hastily moved away from his falling path.  The bigger one now fell too, hitting the pavement with force, close to Bea who’d scuttled back onto the little side street to give him room to fall.  She had a chance to see him hit, blood splattering up from the impact, and then shift, almost immediately, into a small Chinese man with a burned face and shoulders.  He was dead.  Very, very dead.  She felt queasy to her stomach, and looked again, as Tom returned to stand in his spot, in front of the restaurant.

Was this really the same civilized, kindly man she’d met earlier?  She couldn’t believe it.

Neither could she believe the way the other dragons closed in around the fallen, not stepping on them but surrounding them completely, not wary of being near corpses or paying them any more mind than if they’d been a discarded candy bar wrapper.

He reared up on his hind legs, stretching his body to the sky, “The Great Sky Dragon is dead.  The Great Sky Dragon lives forever.”  And, as though on cue, every dragon prostrated themselves and Bea did too, with them.  But she wondered how bad this would get.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 06

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 06

On the day that he met Byron, Gotthilf was the youngest member of the city watch; the newest; and possibly the angriest. He hadn’t really wanted to be paired with the lieutenant, and he wasn’t of a mind that the over-tall up-timer had anything to teach him or anything to bring to the city watch. But their first case — one involving the murder of a young girl and a young blind lad involved in faginy — had opened his eyes to what the Polizei could do.

          So now, even at his young age of 23, Gotthilf was an ardent supporter of the captain and the lieutenant, having quit his clerking position and thrown himself into the job. He was now one of three detective sergeants on the force, partnered with Byron, and still one of the youngest men in the Polizei.

And that and a pfennig will get me a cup of coffee at Walcha’s Coffee House, he gibed at himself.

The two men walked into the station house, hung their coats on pegs in the hallway, and headed for their desks. They flipped through the papers and folders laying there, then looked at each other.

“See the captain?” Gotthilf asked.

“Yep,” Byron responded.

They headed for Reilly’s office on the second floor. Byron took the lead.

“Chieske, Hoch.” The captain set down his pencil, folded his hands on top of the document he was reading, and nodded toward a couple of chairs a bit to the side of his desk. “Have a seat. Any progress on that floater case?”

“The one the river-front watch pulled out of the water a few days ago, looked like he’d been run through a meat tenderizer before he got dumped in the river?”

“That’s the one. The floating corpse who was identified as . . .” Reilly picked up a different document from his desk. “. . . one Joseph Delt, common laborer.” His eyebrows arched.

“Officially, nothing to say,” Gotthilf began.

Reilly nodded. “And unofficially?”

“Nothing,” Byron responded with a shrug before Gotthilf could speak.

The captain steepled his hands in front of his face. “Why? Or why not?”

“No leads, captain,” Chieske responded.

“Make some. Start flipping over rocks and talking to bugs and snakes, if you have to, but get me some results, and soon. You know as well as I do what’s going on here, Byron. It’s not as if American history wasn’t full of it.”

Seeing Sergeant Hoch’s quizzical expression, the police chief elaborated. “Magdeburg’s a boom town full of immigrants, with more coming in every day. We had a lot of cities like that in America back up-time. It went on for centuries. Certain things always came with the phenomenon, and one of them was the rise of criminal gangs. I’ll bet you any sum you want — don’t take me up on it, I’ll clean you out — that what we’re seeing here is one or more crime bosses trying to establish themselves in the city. These men being killed are the ones who were too stubborn, too stupid — or just couldn’t learn to keep their mouths shut.”

He leaned back in his seat. “There’s no way to completely stop it from happening, but we need to at least keep it under control. Because if we don’t and it gets out of hand, sooner or later the city’s Committee of Correspondence will decide it has to crack down on the criminals. I don’t want that, Mayor Gericke doesn’t want that, you don’t want that — hell, the Fourth of July Party and even the CoC itself doesn’t want it. But it’ll happen, sure as hell.”

Gotthilf made a face. The leader of Magdeburg’s Committee of Correspondence was a man named Gunther Achterhof. Like most people in today’s Magdeburg, he was an immigrant. He’d arrived from Brandenburg with his younger sister, the two of them being the only survivors of a family ravaged by the mercenary armies that had passed through the region.

Gunther had also arrived with a sack full of the ears and noses of stray mercenary soldiers he’d killed along the way. He was an honest man, but one whose concept of justice was as razor sharp as the knife he’d used to kill and mutilate those soldiers. If he unleashed the CoC’s armed squads on the city’s criminal element, they’d certainly bring order to the streets — but they’d also shred any semblance of due process and reasonable legality in the doing.

As it stood, there was already a fair amount of tension between the CoC and the city’s fledgling police force. If these kinds of killings continued with no one apprehended, the CoC’s existing skepticism concerning the value of a duly-appointed police force would just be confirmed.

“You got it, captain,” Byron said.

“Go on,” Reilly waved a hand. “Go encourage the good citizens of Magdeburg to be good citizens.”

Gotthilf followed Byron up the hall, down the stairs and out the main entrance of the building, grabbing their coats on the way. He caught up with his partner outside, waving for their driver to bring up the light horse-drawn cart they used for transportation.

“So what are we going to do?” Gotthilf asked as the cart pulled up.

“Dig some more,” Byron replied tersely. Gotthilf followed his partner onto the cart, and they left to begin digging.