Collected Driblets of Dahak's Orbit at the Fifth Imperium Snippet Feed

Much Fall of Blood - Wed Mar 10 7:11:46 EST 2010

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 07:11:46 -0500

"Much Fall of Blood" by Mercedes Lackey, Dave Free and Eric Flint, last updated Wed Mar 10 7:11:46 EST 2010

There were barely twenty of them left. Looking back to see if he was being followed, Vlad realized that the flanking party of Magyar had reached the col behind them. His pitiful little force was caught between two sets of enemies. But it was too late. The little ragtag group of rebels, all that remained of his army, had begun their doomed charge. All he could do was to wave his sword — he had no idea how to use it from the saddle — and race towards the chaos that had been their campsite.

At the top of the slope someone else yelled: “Charge!” And: “He must be taken alive!”

Vlad heard that quite clearly. It was the last thing he remembered hearing clearly for the next few minutes.

If there was one thing more stupid than trying to charge up a scree slope, it had to be charging down one. It was undoubtedly the shortest way down, and in the dust and perhaps in the haste of the moment it might have seemed a good idea.

Vlad had no time to think of his enemy’s logic. He was hacking at an armored man. This was not about swordsmanship. This was about survival. A pitch-fork in the neck assisted his foe’s fall. And somehow he was through to the other side of the Magyar troopers, with nothing but the trail they had followed up here in front of him, and the bulk of his force intact.

Emeric had some thirty-three battered men paraded in front of him. They were all that remained of a once-proud troop of a hundred and twenty that had set off on a well-planned dawn raid on the encampment of Vlad, Prince of Valahia.

“I think,” he said, smiling nastily at his great aunt’s beautiful features, “that you had better leave military matters me, Countess. I came expecting to find things in good order. Instead I find you have countermanded my instructions and made things a great deal worse. I did have my doubts. You are very skilled . . . in other areas.”

He did not say that he had come because one of the captains whom he had seconded to her had sent a letter to his commanding officer, who had in turn carried it to the king. Emeric might need the man in the future. Besides, he thought it wise to let her think he that had guessed. Actually, the disaster had come as a rude shock to him. She was usually so devastatingly efficient.

She looked down her nose at him. “The operation was well planned. Your troops are inadequate. They were late. They should have arrived simultaneously at dawn.”

He wondered if she realized that she had just reprieved them from drastic punishment. “Let us hear what they have to say,” he said. He pointed to a trooper. “You. Explain.”

The man was gray and shaking. But he was no coward, Emeric had to admit. “Sire. It was steeper than we realized. It took us much longer than we thought. Captain Genorgi had us out at midnight, riding up. We should have been in position hours before dawn. Everyone thought we would be, but we lost the moonlight in the valley. It was pitch dark and very rough going. We had to lead the horses.”

“If you’d lamed my horses in that I would have had you flayed. But surely it had been scouted?”

The trooper nodded. “It’s rough terrain, Sire, but not that bad in daylight. We just didn’t realize that it was an ambush. A trap.”

“And scouts?” asked the king.

“We had some Croats watching the camp from the other ridge, Sire. But they could only see fires. They didn’t realize that the fires were a decoy. We’d have all been killed if our scouts hadn’t sounded the warning. I was coming up the second valley. We killed some of their infantry. But when we heard the fighting, Captain Genorgi told us to leave hunting them and push on for the gap.”

“And then?”

“We heard them massacring Lieutenant Mascaru’s men when we got to the top. There were hundreds of them, Sire. Not just the forty peasants without weapons or training like we’d been told. All yelling ‘Drac!’ and cutting our men to pieces. Captain Genorgi gave the order to charge, and we rode to the rescue. But it was a trap. Prince Vlad . . . He’s not human, Sire. He’s a demon. He made the slope give way under us. I was lucky to get out alive.”

“This may be temporary,” said Emeric, and then remembered that he was not punishing them. “You did well. Now. Return to the ranks. I want to speak someone who was with the other column.”

The trooper was plainly unable to believe his fortune. He bowed and retreated.

“Well?” said Emeric. “Were there no survivors of Lieutenant Mascaru’s column?”

Where had Vlad found a general with this level of military expertise? Where had he found weaponry, knights, or at least cavalry? Emeric suspected treachery, and a far better woven plot that he had guessed at.

Nervously a man with a bandaged head came forward. “Me, Sire.”

Emeric looked at him. A big man, but plainly shaken by the military disaster. So they should be. They were among his best. “And how many knights did they have?”

“More than us, Sire. A hundred at least. They took us in the flank out of the dust.”

“And who commanded them? I need some ideas. Boyars have families.” He smiled thinly.

The soldier looked nervous. “Sire, I think it was Prince Vlad himself. They were all yelling for him, or at least all yelling ‘Drac!’ That’s what they call him. He’s a huge man all in black clothes, black hair and a white face, and you can’t kill him. I shot him at the top of the slope, but he didn’t die. Then in the melee he knocked me out of the saddle just with his gaze. His eyes . . .”

The man shuddered. “I’ll swear our swords barely touched.” The soldier realized what he was saying, shut his eyes, and began to mumble a prayer.

It was all Emeric could do not to kill the idiot on the spot. This was exactly what he did not need. The Magyars prided themselves in the belief that they were the finest heavy cavalry in the world — as Emeric himself did. The accursed Knights of the Holy Trinity used magic, that was all. And now, here was an upstart little princeling who had shaken the confidence of his finest, shaken the very foundations of his kingdom. A man who was, it appeared, rapidly building a more terrible reputation than he himself enjoyed.

In a shallow cave that was barely more than an overhang, Vlad and his fourteen surviving men, neither looked nor felt terrifying. They felt alive . . . but only just. Of the fourteen, only eight were not walking wounded. They were all still stunned by their first real combat, and the sheer ferocity of it all. Yes, they had escaped. Some said they had seen Magyar butcher Magyar in the chaos of rolling rocks and dust. It appeared that those in the dell had taken their rescuers — those that survived the scree slide — as yet more attackers.

Whatever happened, Vlad’s men had escaped with their lives — those who had not paid with theirs. But they had lost almost all of their food and the better part of their number.

Yet, somehow, Vlad’s men regarded him as a hero. Vlad did not know what to make of this, but it filled him with shame. Still, he had learned one thing. Watchers were now posted. And there were several ways to flee carefully scouted. But he did not know quite what to do next.

The one thing he did not expect was for his watchers to be calling him excitedly, happily. He came to look. A sense of some relief washed over him. He recognized at least three of the men leading a party of perhaps fifty others. Not soldiers, or at least certainly not recognizable as such. There were a number of pack ponies, a few donkeys, and most of the men were carrying large bundles.

Mission of Honor - Wed Mar 10 7:11:46 EST 2010

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 07:11:46 -0500

"Mission of Honor" by David Weber, last updated Wed Mar 10 7:11:46 EST 2010

“So you’re satisfied with our own security position at the moment, Wesley?”

Benjamin IX, Protector of Grayson, leaned back in his chair, watching the uniformed commander in chief of the Grayson Space Navy across his desk. Wesley Matthews looked back at him, his expression a bit surprised, then nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace, I am,” he said. “May I ask if there’s some reason you think I shouldn’t be?”

“No, not that I think you shouldn’t be. On the other hand, I have it on excellent authority that certain questions are likely to be raised in the Conclave of Steadholders’ New Year’s session.”

Matthews’ expression went from slightly surprised to definitely sour and he shook his head in disgusted understanding.

The two men sat in Benjamin Mayhew’s private working office in Protector’s Palace. At the moment, the planet Grayson’s seasons were reasonably coordinated with those of mankind’s birth world, although they were drifting slowly back out of adjustment, and heavy snow fell outside the palace’s protective environmental dome. The larger dome which Skydomes of Grayson was currently erecting to protect the entire city of Austen was still only in its embryonic stages, with its preliminary girder work looming against the darkly clouded sky like white, furry tree trunks or — for those of a less cheerful disposition — the strands of some vast, frosted spiderweb. Outside the palace dome, clearly visible through its transparency from the bookcase-lined office’s window, crowds of children cheerfully threw snowballs at one another, erected snowmen, or skittered over the steep, cobbled streets of the Old Town on sleds. Others shrieked in delight as they rode an assortment of carnival rides on the palace grounds themselves, and vendors of hot popcorn, hot chocolate and tea, and enough cotton candy and other items of questionable dietary value to provide sugar rushes for the next several days could be seen nefariously plying their trade on every corner.

What couldn’t be clearly seen from Matthews’ present seat were the breath masks those children wore, or the fact that their gloves and mittens would have served the safety requirements of hazardous materials workers quite handily. Grayson’s high concentrations of heavy metals made even the planet’s snow potentially toxic, but that was something Graysons were used to. Grayson kids took the need to protect themselves against their environment as much for granted as children on other, less unfriendly planets took the need to watch out for traffic crossing busy streets.

And, at the moment, all of those hordes of children were taking special pleasure in their play because it was a school holiday. In fact, it was a planetary holiday — the Protector’s Birthday. The next best thing to a thousand T-years worth of Grayson children had celebrated that same holiday, although for the last thirty T-years or so, they’d been a bit shortchanged compared to most of their predecessors, since Benjamin IX had been born on December the twenty-first. The schools traditionally shut down for Christmas vacation on December the eighteenth, so the kids didn’t get an extra day away from class work the way they might have if Benjamin had been thoughtful enough to be born in, say, March or October. That little scheduling faux pas on his part (or, more fairly perhaps, on his mother’s) was part of the reason Benjamin had always insisted on throwing a special party for all the children of the planetary capital and any of their friends who could get there to join them. At the moment, by Matthews’ estimate, the school-aged population of the city of Austen had probably risen by at least forty or fifty percent.

It was also traditional that the protector did no official business on his birthday, since even he was entitled to at least one vacation day a year. Benjamin, however, was prone to honor that particular tradition in the breach, although he’d been known to use the fact that he was officially “off” for the day as a cover from time to time. And it would appear this was one of those times. Events were building towards the formal birthday celebration later this evening, but Matthews was among the inner circle who’d been invited to arrive early. He would have found himself in that group anyway, given how long and closely he and Benjamin had worked together, but there’d obviously been other reasons this year.

The high admiral regarded his protector thoughtfully. This was Benjamin’s fiftieth birthday, and his hair was streaked progressively more thickly with silver. Not that Matthews was any spring chicken himself. In fact, he was ten T-years older than Benjamin, and his own hair had turned completely white, although (he thought with a certain comfortable vanity) it had remained thankfully thick and luxuriant.

But thick or not, we’re neither one of us getting any younger, he reflected.

It was a thought which had occurred to him more frequently of late, especially when he ran into Manticoran officers half again his age who still looked younger than he did. Who were younger, physically speaking, at least. And more than a few Grayson officers fell into that same absurdly youthful-looking category, now that the first few generations to enter the service since Grayson’s alliance with Manticore had made the prolong therapies generally available were into their late thirties or — like Benjamin’s younger brother, Michael — already into their early forties.

It’s only going to get worse, Wesley, he told himself with an inescapable edge of bittersweet envy. It’s not their fault, of course. In fact, it’s nobody’s fault, but there are still a lot of things I’d like to be here to see.

He gave himself a mental shake and snorted silently. It wasn’t exactly as if he were going to drop dead of old age tomorrow! With modern medicine, he ought to be good for at least another thirty T-years, and Benjamin could probably look forward to another half T-century.

Which had very little to do with the question the protector had just asked him.

“May I ask exactly which of our esteemed steadholders are likely to be raising the questions in question, Your Grace?”

“Well, I think you can safely assume Travis Mueller’s name is going to be found among them.” Benjamin’s smile was tart. “And I expect Jasper Taylor’s going to be right beside him. But I understand they’ve found a new front man — Thomas Guilford.”

Matthews grimaced. Travis Mueller, Lord Mueller, was the son of the late and (by most Graysons) very unlamented Samuel Mueller, who’d been executed for treason following his involvement in a Masadan plot to assassinate Benjamin and Queen Elizabeth. Jasper Taylor, was Steadholder Canseco, whose father had been a close associate of Samuel Mueller and who’d chosen to continue the traditional alliance between Canseco and Mueller. But Thomas Guilford, Lord Forchein, was a newcomer to that particular mix. He was also quite a few years older than either Mueller or Canseco, and while he’d never been one of the greater admirers of the social and legal changes of the Mayhew Restoration, he’d never associated himself with the protector’s more strident critics. There hadn’t been much question about his sentiments, but he’d avoided open confrontations with Benjamin and the solid block of steadholders who supported the Sword and he’d always struck Matthews as less inclined than Mueller to cheerfully sacrifice principle in the name of “political pragmatism.”

“When did Forchein decide to sign on with Mueller and Friends, Your Grace?”

“That’s hard to say, really.” Benjamin tipped his swiveled armchair back and swung it gently from side to side. “To be fair to him — not that I particularly want to be, you understand — I doubt he was really much inclined in that direction until High Ridge tried to screw over every other member of the Alliance.”

Matthews snorted again, this time out loud. Like Benjamin himself, the high admiral strongly supported Grayson’s membership in the Manticoran Alliance. Not only was he painfully aware of just how much Grayson had profited, both technologically and economically, from its ties with the Star Kingdom of Manticore, but he was even better aware of the fact that without the intervention of the Royal Manticoran Navy, the planet of Grayson would either have been conquered outright by the religious lunatics who’d run Masada or at best have suffered nuclear or kinetic bombardment from space. At the same time, he had to admit the High Ridge Government had proved clearly that the Star Kingdom was far from perfect. In his considered opinion, “screw over” was an extraordinarily pale description of what Baron High Ridge had done to his alliance so-called partners. And like many other Graysons, Matthews was firmly of the opinion that High Ridge’s idiotic foreign policy had done a great deal to provoke the resumption of hostilities between the Republic of Haven and the Star Kingdom and its allies.

As far as the high admiral was personally concerned, that simply demonstrated once again that idiocy, corruption, and greed were inescapable elements of mankind’s fallen nature. Tester knew there’d been more than enough traitors, criminals, corrupt and arrogant steadholders, and outright lunatics in Grayson history! Indeed, the name “Mueller” came rather forcibly to mind in that connection. And for every Manticoran High Ridge, Matthews had met two or three Hamish Alexanders or Alistair McKeons or Alice Trumans, not to mention having personally met Queen Elizabeth III.

And then, of course, there was Honor Alexander-Harrington.

Legions of Fire - Wed Mar 10 7:11:36 EST 2010

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 07:11:36 -0500

"Legions of Fire" by David Drake, last updated Wed Mar 10 7:11:36 EST 2010

Varus wore the ivory head around his neck on a thin leather thong. Though he didn’t reach under his toga while he listened to Piso’s class exercise, his fingers curled with memory of how the talisman had felt.

“You were a prostitute!” Piso said. His left arm was crossed over his chest, while he swept his right out to the side as though he were pointing at a meteor plunging toward the Forum. “You say that you remained chaste and begged for alms instead of surrendering your body to your clients, but the only evidence we have is your word. The word of an admitted prostitute!”

Piso was declaiming from the rostrum in front of the Temple of Julius Caesar, facing his teacher and the remainder of the class in the Forum below. Pandareus and some of the students — Piso’s friends and sycophants, at least — had notebooks out, either waxed boards or thin sheets of wood to write on with a brush.

Varus didn’t need notes to remember clever twists that his fellow classmates came up with. Besides, in Varus’ estimation, the chances of Piso doing so were slim to none.

The subject set for Piso’s speech was whether a woman who remained chaste after being captured by pirates and sold into prostitution could legally become a Vestal Virgin. The situation was improbable, but it taught logic and technique as clearly as an ordinary case of legacy-fishing.

“Your children would be barred from becoming priests . . . ,” cried Piso. He clapped his right arm to his chest now and flung the left one outward. Like his voice, his gestures attempted by enthusiasm to make up for their lack of grace. “Because their mother had carried on a sordid occupation. Are we therefore to say that you are worthy of becoming a priestess yourself?”

The varied business of the Forum went on untroubled by the declamation. At least three other classes were going on nearby, though the babble of business was enough to drown the speeches in the general noise.

Occasionally passers-by would glance toward them, but the exuberant gestures had probably drawn their eyes. Piso looked enough as though he were hurling things from his raised vantage point that a prudent man would take heed.

“Should the Consul give way to you if he meets you as priestess in the street?” Piso bellowed, changing the angles of his arms yet again. “To you, a woman whom a crippled Levantine properly approached if he still had two copper sesterces in his begging bowl!”

There were cheers and stampings of applause from behind Pandareus and the semicircle of his students. Though the Senate was in session, the Emperor hadn’t made his appearance yet. Piso’s father and his political cronies had chosen to attend the boy’s declamation, doubtless planning to rush into the session if the glittering progress of a guard detachment warned them that the Emperor was on his way. The session was being held in the huge Julian Basilica today; the entrance was within fifty yards.

What did the senators really think of the declamation? Perhaps they were impressed by it. This wasn’t an age which valued subtlety, and Piso certainly displayed the present virtues of noise and color to an impressive degree.

“Do you say, ‘The pirate who captured me can attest my virginity’?” Piso demanded. He’d initially shown some variation in his gestures, but now he seemed to have settled on mirrored pairings of one arm crossed, the other extended. “Perhaps, but your witness won’t be able to visit you in your temple should you become a priestess!”

Saxa had never come to one of Varus’ declamations. He’d attended early classes occasionally, though he wasn’t an orator himself and didn’t pretend to care about technique or about literature more generally.

Varus had never cared for argumentative declamations like the present one anyway. They were the stuff of courts and public assemblies, where a bold lie which couldn’t be uncovered was more effective than any amount of calm reason.

Philosophical declamations were far more attractive to him. Varus had been quite pleased with the way he’d brought his audience to consider whether Alexander should sail from the mouth of the Indus River and turn east, attempting to cross the globe-girdling Ocean. He’d summed up on the one hand that water was the First Element and should not be conquered by any man, even Alexander; and on the other that this would be the longed-for moment when human civilization and the world should have the same boundaries. Pandareus had spoken highly of some of his figures of speech, and even Piso’s claque had jotted notes.

But Saxa hadn’t been present. Varus smiled with rueful affection. For as far back as he could remember, his father had been an antiquarian: a man who enjoyed unearthing odd scraps of knowledge. He had a great deal of information, but he hadn’t been able to organize it in any fashion more complicated than a vertical stack.

More recently, though, his researches had descended into what could only be described as blatant superstitions, sillinesses that were unworthy of the attention — let alone the belief — of an educated man. And Saxa did believe in them. He not only practiced magical rituals himself, he let a self-proclaimed Hyperborean wizard lead him in the gods knew what directions.

Though Varus no longer saw the twelve dancers, they chanted in his mind as their demon companions hissed in unison. It was a dream, but it haunted his waking hours. It was a dream!

“You wheedled would-be customers to give you as alms what they had intended to pay as the price of your body!” said Piso. “Well and good — you remain a virgin. But is this the art which a priestess uses when speaking to the goddess of the hearth? Surely not! Yours was a whore’s trick and a whore’s manner. Your very demeanor is an affront to chaste Vesta!”

Corylus stood to Varus’ left. His notebook was out for courtesy’s sake, but he wasn’t jotting anything down. Varus knew that his friend disliked Piso even more than he himself did, but he was unfailingly polite when they interacted.

On the frontier where Corylus had been raised, life was harsh and weapons were never far to seek even in the most civilized surroundings. As the chant seethed in his blood, Varus realized for the first time that his friend was always courteous because he was constantly aware of violence, not despite the fact. Varus didn’t doubt what Corylus was capable of if the necessity arose, but Corylus understood better than the other students the difference between what was necessary and what was simply possible.

Corylus’ declamations were forceful and closely reasoned, but he didn’t gesture nor did he use the flourishes and allusions that would have made his speeches more striking. His wide reading — he wasn’t as widely read as Varus, of course, but given the limited opportunities he would have had on the frontier, his knowledge was remarkable — would have allowed him to sprinkle colorful passages from the great poets and historians whether Latin or Greek.

It didn’t seem to bother Corylus that Piso and his cronies sneered — behind the backs of their hands — at what they called his lack of erudition. As a Knight of Carce Corylus wasn’t eligible to enter the Senate, and he’d been bluntly dismissive when Varus had asked if he hoped to make his name as a lawyer.

Corylus spoke as a military officer would when suggesting a course of action to a superior or explaining it to his juniors. Varus decided that if the sneers didn’t bother his friend, he could learn to ignore them also.

“This court, this goddess –”

Piso thrust out both arms to point at the round temple of Vesta beside where his audience stood. He looked like a bad statue of Phaethon dragging on the reins as the horses of the Sun ran away.

“– this sacred sky of Carce –”

He pointed straight up, though his face still glowered at his audience.

“– allow only one answer: you must be barred from the priesthood!”

Piso’s father and his fellow senators called, “Huzzah!” and stamped their feet loudly. The other students applauded also, ranging from the enthusiasm of the speaker’s cronies to the polite tap of Corylus’ right foot. Even Pandareus gave a nod which could be taken as approving.

Piso stepped down from the rostrum and bowed at the waist, sweeping his arms back to the sides as though he were about to dive into a swimming pool. He was smiling with triumph; the neck of his broad-striped toga was as wet as a used towel.

There’s never only one answer, Varus mused, lost in his own thoughts. There are often thousands of answers, and all of them may be wrong.

In his mind the dancers whispered Nemastes must die. They had no other answer, and their voices were compelling.

Hedia’s chair rocked to a threatening halt. The hired bearers looked scrawny compared to Saxa’s team, but they were fit and they got much more experience than the household slaves did. They hadn’t slipped once on the way to Corylus’ apartment on the Viminal Hill. Judging by Alphena’s cries from the following vehicle, the girl hadn’t been so lucky.

A Mighty Fortress - Wed Mar 10 7:11:36 EST 2010

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 07:11:36 -0500

"A Mighty Fortress" by David Weber, last updated Wed Mar 10 7:11:36 EST 2010

There’s a lesson there, Merlin reflected. Or a damned sharp bit of irony, at any rate, given how unpopular “reformers” like Cayleb Ahrmahk and Maikel Staynair are proving in the Temple just now!

“You realize,” the baron said after a second or two, “if he actually manages to get their navy reorganized for them, Thorast and the others will toss him to the krakens just as soon as they figure they can possibly get along without him.”

“Of course they will,” Merlin agreed a trifle sadly. “I think he knows it, too. Which only makes him even more dangerous, from our perspective.”

“So we’ll just have to do something about him ourselves,” Rock Point said more briskly. “Gwylym’s about ready to sail.”

“I know.” Merlin frowned. “In a lot of ways, though, I wish you were going, instead.”

“Gwylym’s just as capable as I am,” Rock Point pointed out. There might have been a touch of stiffness in his tone, and Merlin shook his head quickly.

“It’s not a matter of capabilities, Domynyk,” he said. “Believe me, no one has more respect for Gwylym than I do! It’s just that I’d rather the fellow in charge of singeing King Rahnyld’s beard had access to the SNARCs. Especially given how competent we’ve just agreed Thirsk is turning out to be.”

Rock Point nodded in acknowledgment, although the acknowledgment in question was obviously a bit grudging. Still, he really couldn’t argue the point. Admiral Sir Gwylym Manthyr had been Cayleb’s flag captain at the battles of Rock Point, Crag Hook, and Darcos Sound. He was an experienced seaman, possessed of a singular attention to detail and an iron nerve. He was not, however, one of the “inner circle” who had been cleared for the truth about Merlin, which meant he wasn’t going to be examining any “satellite imagery.” Nor, for that matter, would anyone assigned to his staff.

Unfortunately, Rock Point himself was the only one of Cayleb and Sharleyan’s senior naval officers who was part of the inner circle. Getting some of the others on board was a high priority, but, again, not something which could be rushed. Rock Point himself had argued strongly in favor of adding High Admiral Bryahn Lock Island to the list, and both he and Merlin were confident that the Brethren of Saint Zherneau would approve Lock Island’s admission quite soon. Of course, the question then arose of just who would inform Lock Island. With Cayleb, Sharleyan, and Archbishop Maikel all out of Old Charis, it would be virtually impossible to find the right messenger — somebody with the authority to make Lock Island listen if he didn’t take it well, and somebody he’d trust enough to believe when he did listen. Baron Wave Thunder might serve in a case of dire emergency, but still . . . .

“I could probably talk Bryahn into sending me, instead of Gwylym,” the baron said after a moment, but his expression was unhappy and his tone was tentative.

“No.” Merlin shook his head again. “Cayleb and Sharleyan are right about that. We need you right where you are, too. Or, rather, where you’re about to be. And, let’s face it, Dohlar’s a worry, but Tarot’s right next door. And White Ford is no slouch, either.”

It was Rock Point’s turn to a grimace, but he couldn’t disagree.

The Imperial Charisian Navy was the largest, most powerful fleet any single Safeholdian realm had ever boasted. It was rising rapidly to a strength of over ninety galleons, and it continued to expand. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to find itself matched against any other single Safeholdian realm; it was going to face the combined fleets of virtually every mainland realm. Worse, the Church of God Awaiting had poured out staggering sums to subsidize those fleets, although not all of the various kingdoms’ and empires’ building programs were equally advanced. The Temple Lands and the more northern ports of the Harchong Empire were considerably behind the shipyards of Dohlar and the Desnairian Empire, and that situation wasn’t going to improve for the Church any time soon. But the plain, ugly truth was that even with an unlimited budget (which it didn’t have) the Charisian Empire couldn’t possibly have matched the mainland realms’ combined building capacity. Nor was the Charisian supply of manpower unlimited, either. Ninety galleons, each with a crew of roughly five hundred, required forty-five thousand men. So far, the Navy had managed to meet its manpower requirements without resorting to impressment of its own, largely because it had always followed policies similar to the ones Thirsk had forced upon Dohlar and the Church. That was about to change, however, because there were only so many volunteers who could be attracted no matter what the inducement, and the manning situation was only going to get worse as the size of the fleet continued to climb.

And it was going to have to climb. Assuming the Church completed its current construction programs, it would command a fleet of over three hundred and ninety galleons — better than four times the current Charisian strength. A hundred and fifty of them would be converted merchant ships, but so were a quarter of the Charisian Navy’s galleons. And that didn’t even consider the two hundred-plus galleys the Church had built before it realized just how outclassed galleys had become. They might not be well suited to decisive broadside duels, but they more than doubled the total number of hulls the Church could throw at its opponents, and if they were free to operate while the Church’s galleons neutralized Charis’ galleons . . . .

The good news was that the ships in question were scattered between five widely separated navies. No single kingdom or empire could match the Charisians’ numbers, although Harchong would come close once it’s winter-delayed construction could be completed. Concentrating those widely dispersed squadrons would be at least as difficult as it had been to concentrate the forces detailed for the Group of Four’s original plans for Old Charis’ destruction. And even after they were concentrated, their companies would be sadly inexperienced compared to the Imperial Navy’s crews.

Earl Thirsk, at least, obviously recognized that fact. So did Gahvyn Mahrtyn, the Baron of White Ford, King Gorjah of Tarot’s senior admiral. Unfortunately, from the Church’s perspective, they were the only two fleet commanders still available to it who had ever faced the Charisian Navy in battle. The Earl of Black Water, the Corisandian commander at Darcos Sound, had died there, and Gharth Rahlstahn, the Earl of Mahndyr, and Sir Lewk Cohlmyn, the Earl of Sharpfield, who had commanded the Emeraldian and the Chisholmian components of Black Water’s fleet, were now in Charisian service. Even more unfortunately (for the Church), the fact that Thirsk and White Ford had been devastatingly defeated by then-Crown Prince Cayleb had caused their advice to be discounted by almost all of their fellow flag officers.

That was clearly changing in Thirsk’s case, but neither Harchong, nor the Desnairian Empire, nor the Temple Lands seemed overly inclined to profit by Dohlar’s example. Tarot did, but King Gorjah continued to languish under a cloud of disapproval. It seemed clear that the Group of Four continued to blame Tarot for the disastrous intelligence leak which had permitted King Haarahld of Charis and his son to deduce the Church’s strategy and come up with a counter strategy to defeat it in detail. That was grossly unfair, although with no knowledge of Merlin’s SNARCs, it was understandable enough. Particularly given Charis’ efforts to encourage exactly that reaction.

As a consequence, none of the Church’s galley fleet had been laid down in Tarotisian shipyards. Following the Group of Four’s belated switched to a galleon-based fleet, Tarot had been admitted to the building program, yet even then the Tarotisian component remained the smallest of all. And White Ford — who was quite possibly an even better combat commander than Thirsk — had been almost totally ignored.

Under the circumstances, the Church’s numerical advantage was considerably less overwhelming than it might appear. To set against that, however, the Empire of Charis was a very large, very vulnerable target. Charis and Chisholm, in particular, were six thousand miles apart, as the wyvern flew, and it was over two thousand miles from Port Royal, in Chisholm, to Corisande’s Cape Targan. A ship deployed to defend Charis was a minimum of a month from Chisholm under even the most favorable conditions of wind and weather, and it would take almost that long for a ship stationed in Chisholm to reach Manchyr, in Corisande.

Distances and transit times like that prevented High Admiral Lock Island from concentrating his own forces in a central position. In fact, he’d been forced to station twenty galleons in Chisholm, under Admiral Sharpfield and supported by the Chisholmian Navy’s surviving galleys. Another ten galleons and twenty-five galleys had been stationed in Corisandian waters under Earl Mahndyr, and Lock Island had retained twenty galleons under his own command, covering Rock Shoal Bay and the approaches to Howell Bay and the Sea of Charis.

That left barely forty galleons for other service, and freeing up even that many had been possible only because the Church’s war fleet was so widely scattered . . . and still so far short of completion. As more of the Church’s galleons became available for service, the various Charisian defensive fleets would have to be strengthened, which would reduce the strength available for other tasks still further.

Unless something could be done in the meantime to reduce the numbers opposed to them.

That was supposed to be Manthyr’s and Rock Point’s assignment. Manthyr, with eighteen galleons and six thousand Marines was bound for the Sea of Harchong. More specifically, he was bound for Hardship Bay, on the largely uninhabited Claw Island. There were reasons very few people lived on Claw Island. It wasn’t vey big — barely a a hundred and twelve miles in its longest dimension. It was also little more than two hundred miles south of the equator, and its barren, mostly treeless expanses of rock and sand were about as welcoming as an oven the same size. On the other hand, Hardship Bay offered a good deep-water anchorage, and the small city of Claw Keep would offer his squadron a home port . . . of sorts, at any rate. Even more importantly, it was better than twenty-one thousand sea miles from Tellesberg which put it “barely” five thousand sea miles from Gorath Bay. It also lay off the western coast of South Harchong, however, where a quarter of the Harchong Empire’s galleons were under construction, and it was less than fifteen hundred miles from the mouth of the Gulf of Dohlar.

The voyage to Claw Island would actually have been slightly shorter if he sailed east, by way of Chisholm, instead of west, past Armageddon Reef and around the southern tip of the continent of Howard, but he’d have both favorable winds and currents going west, especially this time of year. He’d probably average at least fifty or sixty miles more a day on his projected course . . . and it would still take him better than three months to complete the voyage.

Once he got there, his Marines ought to be more than sufficient to capture Claw Keep and garrison the island, especially since the only reliable source of water on the entire sun-blasted spit were the artesian wells that served Claw Keep itself. That would provide him with a secure base from which to operate against both Dohlar and Harchong. He’d be a long way from home, although he’d be within nine thousand miles of Chisholm, but he’d be well placed to blockade the Gulf of Dohlar and intercept any effort to combine Thirsk’s galleons with the Harchongese contingent building further south around Shipwreck Bay, in the provinces of Queiroz, Kyznetsov, and Selkar. Even if he did nothing but sit there (and Merlin was confident that an officer of Manthyr’s abilities and personality should find all manner of ways to make himself an infuriating pest), it was unlikely the Church — or King Rahnyld or Emperor Waisu, for that matter — would be prepared to tolerate a Charisian presence that close to them.

His galleons would be substantially outnumbered — by almost four-to-one by Dohlar, alone, assuming the Dohlarans got all of their own warships completed and manned — but the greater experience of his crews and captains would offset much of that disadvantage. And the simple fact that Charis was once again taking the initiative, despite its numerical disadvantage, would have profound implications for the confidence and morale of his opponents.

And if worse came to worst, he could always load his Marines back aboard his transports and withdraw.

That’s the idea, at least, Merlin thought. And as a way to throw a spanner into the Church’s plans, it’s got a lot to recommend it. But I’d still feel better with Domynyk in command. Or if we could give Gwylym a com, at least! I hate having that big a chunk of the Navy out at the end of a limb that long when we can’t even talk to its CO.

Unfortunately, as he himself had just pointed out, they were going to need Rock Point closer to home. He and the remaining twenty galleons currently available to Charis would be moving their base of operations to Hanth Town on Margaret Bay, which would put him across the Tranjyr Passage from the Kingdom of Tarot. His new base would be well placed to assist Lock Island in meeting any threat against Old Charis from East Haven or Desnair. More importantly, however, he’d be in a position to operate directly against Tarot.

And Sharleyan was right about that, too, Merlin reflected. It’s more important than ever to . . . induce Gorjah to consider joining the Empire voluntarily. Or, failing that, to present him with a somewhat more forceful argument. Neutralizing Tarot would be worthwhile in its own right. Gaining Tarot as a forward base right off the East Haven coast would be even more worthwhile. And getting our hands on the galleons Gorjah’s building for the Church wouldn’t hurt a damned thing, either!

“I’d like to be able to do a lot of things we can’t do right now,” he said out loud. “Desnair’s starting to worry me, for one thing, and I really wish we could get at Harchong and the Temple Lands yards! But we can’t afford to uncover Old Charis and Chisholm, and that’s just the way it is. If Gwylym can keep Dohlar busy long enough for you and Gray Harbor to convince Gorjah to see the light, it’ll help a lot, though.”

“Then we’ll just have to see what we can do about that, won’t we, Seijin Merlin?” Rock Point said with a smile. “We’ll just have to see what we can do.”

Threshold - Mon Mar 8 23:19:31 EST 2010

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 23:19:31 -0500

"Threshold" by Eric Flint and Ryk Spoor, last updated Mon Mar 8 23:19:31 EST 2010

Nicholas Glendale leaned back in his chair, relishing the lightness of one-third gravity—though not quite as much as he was enjoying the majestically rotating view of the Red Planet through his office window.

Phobos Station was shaping up nicely. Basically the habitat ring of a Nike-class vessel with a docking hub, the Station was one of the subsidiary conditions of the Mars Treaty, a centralized location where missions to and from Phobos and Mars could be launched or concluded. Nicholas had wasted no time in making it clear that he intended to permit ships of any and all types to avail themselves of the station’s amenities, so long as they were willing to help support the station—or to out it more crudely, pay for the privilege. True, such use was implied in the nature of the Interplanetary Research Institute, which essentially owned Phobos Station. But by making it explicit and enthusiastic, Glendale hoped to ensure that the IRI would be more than just an overseeing body, but an active force in the exploration of the Solar System.

And, as Madeline pointed out, it would also make it a lot easier for us to keep tabs on all the other players. It was a bit of a jarring shift of gears to start thinking in those terms. While you did try to keep an eye on other scientists’ work in academia, the level of paranoia and security needed for his new job as Director of the IRI was something entirely different, and one of the least-pleasant parts of that job.

Having Fathom as his new head of security, however, certainly made it easier. As he thought that, he heard the faint chime from his door announcing her arrival. "Come in, Madeline."

"Good morning, Director. Or is it afternoon?" Madeline glided in, every golden hair impeccably in place as usual.

Easier on the eye as well as on my schedule, Nicholas mused. He was quite honest about the fact that he thought both Joe Buckley and A.J. Baker were exceedingly lucky men. Or perhaps just much easier to live with, he corrected himself. As an admittedly handsome and very well known figure, he’d been "lucky" that way four times, each time ending with a divorce; one friendly, one neutral, two savage. He’d been single for some years now, and suspected he’d be smart to remain that way. For whatever reason—probably flaws in his own personality, he’d readily admit—Nicholas Glendale and marriage just didn’t seem to suit each other.

"I suppose it depends on your preference," he said, in answer to her light question. "The standard Martian time is early morning. Hopefully we should be concluded by the time Joe is ready to call you."

She gave a slight frown. "I shouldn’t be that transparent."

"Madeline, my dear, you should be that transparent about something that isn’t at all a secret. You have to bounce constantly between here, Phobos Base, and Mars; the last thing I want to do is cause you to miss out on whatever you married Joe for. This may be a mystery to the rest of us, but as long as it keeps you happy…"

Fathom grinned, sticking her tongue out.

Glendale smiled in response. "Always glad to be of help. It’s time for the general briefing, is it?"

"With new wrinkles and info, yes. I’ve sent it to your email too."

"Which I will file with the others after I get the live presentation, yes."

Maddie sat down across from him. "Well, I’ll try to make it fast. First, Ares. I am required to tell you ‘thank you!’ once again by everyone on Mars. Yes, I know, that’s the fifth time, but they’ll probably send the same message for the next five times anyway."

"And tell Glenn, Joe, A.J., and the others they’re all welcome. Again." Nicholas had stretched several points to make a considerable portion of the shipment he’d brought with him from Earth, ostensibly intended to help set up the IRI, be delivered to Ares at very reasonable price. That wasn’t, in his view, charity. The division of Mars had given Ares essentially all of the Melas Chasma area as well as a number of other notable claims elsewhere—except for, of course, the Bemmie base on Mars. This made the IRI a political and economic island with exactly one neighbor: the Ares Project. It only made sense to be neighborly. The fact that many of the people involved were his friends just made it easier.

Maddie consulted her notes. "Walter Keldering is requesting another meeting with you. Probably wants to try to push for more U.S. direct access to the research."

"Of course he is," Nicholas sighed. "I suppose you’ll have to set one up; I don’t have any reason to antagonize the United States, even if I’m going to have to once more refuse him special privileges—whatever justification he’s come up with this time." Nicholas’ hopes had been that whoever was sent to replace Madeline would be a pure political yes-man, someone who just did exactly as he was told. Keldering was political, but unfortunately was very competent indeed. The former CIA operative had not attempted any bluster or bullying, as might have been expected from the current administration’s attitude. Instead he seemed to be almost infinitely inventive at finding legal and practical arguments that would lead to preferential treatment of the United States with respect to any new discoveries in the alien bases. Even Maddie had more than once voiced a grudging respect for Keldering’s unfailingly polite, doggedly resourceful approach.

Privately, Nicholas suspected part of Madeline Fathom was actually pleased with the situation; she enjoyed having an adversary who might occasionally test her steel. For Nicholas himself, however, Keldering was just an annoyance. "Put him down for an appointment in a week or so."

"Yes, sir. On the positive side, the finalized cooperative agreements with Ares have arrived and the Ares board of directors just signed all of them. Once you countersign, all our arrangements will be in place."

"Good."

"Let’s see… America’s got the second engine built and tested for Nike and is building two more for Athena. Europe’s keeping tight lips on the Odin. They’re making some major design changes, and I think what they’re planning is something more suited for outer system exploration. Based on preliminary hints and the fact that they’ve hired a number of people in a couple of related specialties, Jackie Secord and Dr. Gupta have both told me they suspect Odin will be designed to use a mass-beam drive as well as the NERVA rocket and standard electric ion drives." She glanced at Nicholas to see if he understood.

Nicholas nodded. "Ions or small particles fired at the ship which catches them, probably magnetically, thus transferring the momentum directly without need for using fuel. Very power hungry, however, yes?"

"I think they’re also planning on attempting solar powersats to run the thing. Do it far enough away from Earth to be no particular danger or nuisance and once you’ve proven the reliability, you can also then market the satellites to supply energy. We’ll have to keep a close eye on them. Japan’s well along in the construction of Amaterasu, and current buzz is that they’re planning to also build a real orbital colony. This has been a perennial favorite of Japan’s space enthusiasts, so that’s no real surprise.

"China, unfortunately, had their engine go bad—you heard about all that. I think what’s going to happen there is that the U.S. will apologize, promise to repair the thing at no cost, and probably sell them or give them another engine eventually. It’ll still slow down China’s deployment significantly, probably putting them last in terms of getting a functional reusable interplanetary craft going. They may benefit to some small extent from watching other people’s mistakes along the way, but overall it’s a bad break for them.

"India’s moving forward with the creation of the space elevator. They’ve named the project ‘Meru,’ by the way, after Mount Meru, the legendary world pillar in Hindu mythology. Preliminary calculations show that their proposed design will come in under a thousand tons total mass. Modifying the NERVA reactor to act as a power generator – not the best design if you start from scratch, but having the reactor already up in the sky counts for something – they’ll have plenty of power for dragging cargo up and down and keeping a station above the world running. You asked me about anchoring the thing down last time—something I didn’t know much about—so I checked into it. The design they’re using doesn’t really require much anchoring force—about as much as the designed transport capability, actually. They’re going to be splitting the base and anchoring it to several nearby ships, so it doesn’t have a single simple point of failure. Time to completion, about another year."

"One year?" Nicholas sat up straighter. "That seems awfully fast!"

"Apparently it’s within reason. And building up its capacity will be built into the design. In a few more years they’ll be able to send a thousand tons per week up or down. With the IRI and Ares having first call on much of that capacity, we will be a lot more comfortable—and after you made sure Ares got a cheap shipment," she gave him a grateful smile on behalf of Joe and his friends, "they’ll definitely make it long enough to survive the crisis."

"Which means we’re missing just one element: how are we going to get the stuff from geosynch orbit around Earth to here?" Nicholas said. "Slingshot?"

He was referring to the fact that if you placed a load farther out than geosynch, you could literally let it "fly out" like a slingshot, propelled in essence by the Earth’s rotation, just like a real sling spun about someone’s head.

"Possible—and, once Meru is fully operational, I’m sure they’ll be building some orbital slingshots anyway. But using Meru itself as a slingshot is limited by a lot of factors of timing and relative position between Earth and Mars. Some packages could be shipped up with their own little electric drives—once you’re in geosynch it’s a lot easier to get elsewhere—but that’d cut down on the actual cargo arriving here and make it a lot more expensive. We really do need our own ship."

"Well?"

She grinned. "Bruce Irwin’s willing to be the captain and pilot if we get one built. As you know, Jackie Secord’s already offered to run the engineering side, and she’s keeping the reactor-engine assembly maintained now. Pricing on the standard Nike or Phobos Station habitat ring segments, though, is totally out of our league, even if we could get them to slow down their build schedule to supply us."

"We really do need something like that, though, don’t we?"

Maddie nodded. "Anything much less than one-third g as constant living conditions will cause a lot of health problems. In fact, I’d really feel more comfortable if we could push that up, and on some of the new ships like Odin they might well. They’ll have more time and luxury for crew selection, so they won’t have to worry about spin disorientation as much."

"Does Ares have a solution in mind?" This was one of the major reasons for establishing cooperation between the IRI and its closest neighbor. They were, as India had already recognized, the only talent pool of space-qualified experts who were not currently committed to a specific country’s space program.

"Since the full agreements haven’t been signed, I can’t officially say anything, but Joe told me to tell you ‘damn straight we do’. If it’s what I think, it will work, too."

Nicholas leaned back slowly. "Then get me those originals pronto, so I can sign them. Let’s get to work!"

Grand Central Arena - Mon Mar 8 23:19:31 EST 2010

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 23:19:31 -0500

"Grand Central Arena" by Ryk E. Spoor, last updated Mon Mar 8 23:19:31 EST 2010

"I… I'm afraid it's all very, very confused," Laila said. Her voice was the same, but the tone was not the abstracted, impatient one that had last been heard before their transition into the Arena. The scientist's contralto was soft and still somewhat thick from both disuse and crying.

It had taken almost half an hour for the revived woman to stop crying, and another fifteen minutes of quiet argument with Gabrielle Wolfe to convince her that they really did need to try to ask her questions now, rather than later – when memory might have faded. Even so, Ariane could feel her old friend's gaze tracking her like a security cam backed by a rifle. "Laila, it will help if you can remember anything. We're still trying to figure out what happened to you."

Her eyes surveyed the area narrowly, her analytic nature obviously not entirely subdued by her experiences. Given the circumstances, Ariane was glad that Mandallon had immediately left the room when asked; she was fairly sure that Laila hadn't actually seen him, and she was under enough stress as things were.

"This is… not Holy Grail. Or any place I'm familiar with," Laila said finally. "How… how long was I out?"

"Weeks," DuQuesne answered, bluntly. "We'll fill you in later. Right now, we need to know what you remember from the time we activated the Drive."

The biologist grimaced and forced herself to sit up. "Ouch. Yes, even with the nanomaintenance apparently one gets stiff after weeks. Indeed." She studied the others, then sighed. "It isn't pleasant. I wasn't even… me, I suppose." Her voice trembled. "I… there was a sort of 'I' there, in a way, I have a feeling of … of wandering through disconnected rooms, hearing voices. I think some of them were your voices. Others were speaking in languages I couldn't understand. And it was all empty at the same time, cold and lonely. It… it was like I imagine an infant might feel, abandoned, no one there, nothing to tell me who I was or where I came from. I saw… things go drifting by, animals, mathematical formulae, cell diagrams, DNA structures. Sometimes there were echoes of voices, of Linnaeus and Darwin and Crick I think."

"Your AISages?"

She nodded. "They're… gone now."

Simon looked surprised. "You're handling that… rather well. It took me quite a while to recover."

She ran a hand through her brown hair, then grimaced at the stiff, uncombed feel. "Yes… odd, I suppose. But… part of me seems almost glad, as though I never needed them." She frowned, narrow, delicate features furrowing in thought. "Which is very odd."

DuQuesne's expression was hooded; Ariane could tell he was worried, but not what he was thinking. "Go on, Laila. Do you remember anything else?"

"Oh! Oh, yes." She suddenly looked more animated. "I was wandering, not knowing who I was or where or even, really, that I was, and then … it was like there was a beautiful white light, and singing. I don't recognize the singing, it's … very strange, but somehow still beautiful. And as the singing and light got louder, I suddenly heard my name, and I said to myself 'yes, that's my name. I'm Laila Canning.' And when I said that, I heard my name being called from inside the light." She smiled suddenly, a quick sharp flash of white teeth like a lightning bolt. "And… this will sound silly. It already does, I suppose."

"No, not at all. Please, Laila, even if it does sound silly, just go on." Ariane wasn't sure what to make of all this.

"Well, I moved toward this light and the singing and the voice calling my name," Laila said slowly. Her gaze was distant, not focused on anything present. "And… well, I was moving. I mean, walking. There was grass, silvery-green grass with white and gold flowers, and a lovely smell, and there was… someone waiting for me, holding his arms out, the light spilling around him." She blushed visibly, looking uncomfortable. "You know, I'm a scientist, and this sort of cheap romance-sim imagery isn't what I thought my own mind would give me. But…

"… I kept walking toward him, and as I did I was more and more… me. I suddenly thought 'that's very strange grass, I've never seen it before, I wonder what species it is?' and I was thinking of picking a blade to examine it. But then I realized that the person calling me… wasn't a person. Human, I mean."

"Really?" Ariane tried to keep her expression neutral.

"Well, he was generally humanish, I guess, but he had a lot of features that were just wrong. Six fingers on his hand, three pairs of two opposed digits, for one thing. But I wasn't scared… or even all that surprised. And the light behind him…" Suddenly she had an almost ecstatic look on her face. "The light was filled with life. It was life, everything I've every seen or known or wondered… for just a moment, just one tiny moment, I understood life, I knew everything about it, all of the ways it could or has developed on a million different worlds, all the different species Earth has ever had, how to rebuild a Tyrannosaurus Rex from base pairs, exactly how the first living cell came to be… I knew this, it was child's play, all so obvious and beautiful and perfectly clear.

"And then he spoke my name again and took my hand… and… and it all went away, except the memory, and I felt myself breathe, and I remembered the scream as poor Crick cut off, and … well, it all hit me, and I started crying. Sorry about that." Laila Canning's embarrassment was still plain on her face.

Ariane nodded after a moment. "That's good enough, Laila. Sorry to be pushing you so soon after you came back to us. We'll leave you alone with Gabrielle for now, okay? She really wants to examine you, see if you can eat, all that kind of thing."

Laila nodded. "All right. But you have something – I'd guess a lot of somethings – to explain to me, too. I can tell that much."

"You're right," Gabrielle agreed. "But not until after I'm sure you should be discussing it. Now out, all of you."

The rest of them nodded and went to leave. Just as she stepped through, Ariane glanced back. For just a moment, she thought she caught Laila's eyes looking straight at her, brown eyes somehow analytically cold, yet with a vast interest and even amusement mingled in that momentary glance. But even as she thought that, she could see that Laila wasn't even looking at her, but at Gabrielle as the doctor conducted her examination.

This whole thing is really getting to me.

The Crucible of Empire - Wed Mar 3 7:32:31 EST 2010

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 07:32:31 -0500

"The Crucible of Empire" by Eric Flint and K.D. Wentworth, last updated Wed Mar 3 7:32:31 EST 2010

“For now, this contemplated commitment of resources is simply beyond my oudh,” Wrot said. “And I cannot send a communication asking for clarification that could be intercepted by one or more of the kochan.” His whiskers stiffened. “I must go back and consult with Preceptor Ronz in person.”

“What about our Lleix guests?” Caitlin said. “Are you planning on taking them as well? If so, it’s quite likely to be an even bigger shock than they’ve already had.”

“No, I think they should remain here,” Wrot said. He glanced aside at Tully. “And I think you should stay as well with Tully’s company for guards. They have no function on the ship at the moment, since we had to jettison Spine C.”

“But I have a number of Jao in my unit,” Tully said, “Won’t that freak these guys out if we all just drop in on their settlement?”

“You are their commander,” Wrot said. “The Lleix will see that all the Jao answer to you. That will only reinforce the idea that my kind are now human slaves and put off the time when we must make a full explanation.” He turned to Caitlin. “You can use the opportunity to continue negotiations with them, evaluate their preparations for the diaspora, and generally learn all you can about the situation, so that when we return, they will be ready to leave.”

Go down to that planet with only a few jinau to back her up? Caitlin closed her eyes, seeking for calm. He was going to strand her with the Lleix who had been so brutally mistreated for such a long time that they were quite likely to look upon contact with any alien species as nothing but the direst of threats.

But she had lived in the eye of the storm raging between human and Jao for most of her life before the deposing of Oppuk and the formation of Terra’s new taif two years ago. She knew better than anyone what existing in that sort of maelstrom was like. Venturing among the Lleix mostly likely would not be pleasant, but she could manage, and they deserved what help Terra Taif could provide.

“All right,” she said. At least he would have to be the one to explain all this to Ed, including the part about her being left behind on a potentially hostile world. She didn’t envy Wrot that. “When do we get started?”

“As soon as we can work out the logistics,” Wrot said. “Tully, requisition enough supplies to last at least three weeks and get the assault craft prepared.”

“What about Mallu and Kaln and the rest of the Krants?” Tully said. “They’ve been under my temporary command.”

Wrot considered. “They will remain under your command for the duration of this assignment. Anyone who can deal with the human Resistance on a regular basis can handle a few obstinate Krants.”

Tully looked unhappy, but didn’t argue. Caitlin took a deep breath and tucked up a stray lock of hair. The Queen of the Universe should always look her best. “Okay, now we have to go in there and sell this whole idea to the Lleix.”

She nodded at the guard who reached over and opened the conference room door for her. Holding her head high, she sailed back into the room, trying to exude confidence.

“Jihan,” she said with a calm that she most definitely did not feel, “we have a proposal for you, one that might save all Lleix, not just two thousand.”

The bright black gaze turned to her. “All Lleix?” Jihan said.

“All,” Caitlin said, taking a seat across from the silver-skinned trio. “I cannot promise yet, but we will try.”

Jihan spoke to the other two in the lilting Lleix language. They answered, eyes narrowed, and then all three focused upon her. “How save?” Jihan said.

“If we can work out the logistics,” Caitlin said, “we will summon our own ships to transport the Lleix to safety.”

“Many ships?” Jihan said. Its silver corona stood on end. “And what is lo-jiss-tix?”

“Many many ships,” Caitlin said. “I’ll explain logistics later. But, as I said, I cannot promise. For now, while we are trying to work out the details, this ship will take you back to your world, and I will go with you to meet the rest of the Lleix.”

“Cat-lin, Queen of the Universe, goes now to Valeron?” Jihan said.

“Well, something like that,” she said.

Wrot left Caitlin with the Lleix while he went up to the control deck to give Terra-Captain Dannet her new orders. One hundred thousand Lleix! The number chased itself round and round in his mind, both a wonderful and frightening revelation. The marvelously many descendants of those who had escaped the Jao’s ancient brutality now translated into the same number who were, as a human would say, in harm’s way. When they had all been believed extinct, the Jao could feel regret at having exterminated such a wise species, but now that the Lleix had been discovered alive, they became a responsibility, and a heavy one at that. What had been a matter of regret was now a matter of conscience.

The lift doors opened and he stepped inside, his thoughts racing. The Lleix had to be moved soon. There was no time to scout out of the way worlds for a suitable new permanent home. Taking them to Terra was the best option available at the moment, unless Preceptor Ronz had a better idea. But settling them there, even for a short time, could draw the attention of the Ekhat once again. If they realized that Terra Taif had cheated them of their prey, they might well launch another major attack on Terra.

Therefore, speed was of the essence. The sooner the Lleix were removed, the less likely the diaspora was to be detected. The Ekhat were coming back. He felt it with every fiber of his being. Not now, or even “tomorrow,” but soon.

The lift stopped and he stepped out onto the busy Control Deck. Lights were flashing, crewmen darting from station to station to station. Dannet was leaning over a console, pointing out a discrepancy to a human technician.

“Terra-Captain,” he said, striding across the deck. “We have new orders.”

Her eyes blazed green, but her body said only respectful-attention. They both knew who had oudh now that the battle was over, however little she might like it.

“We will achieve orbit around the fourth planet in this system for a short time,” he said, “then head back to Terra with all speed possible.”

A Taint in the Blood - Wed Feb 17 21:13:04 EST 2010

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 21:13:04 -0500

"A Taint in the Blood" by S. M. Stirling, last updated Wed Feb 17 21:13:04 EST 2010

The two killers snarled as they spread out in the big sauna and advanced, lips pulled back to show the wide white gape of their teeth. The air was rank with the scent of their aggression. Adrian answered with a snarl of his own, one that turned into a full-throated racking scream. The wordless challenge-cry of the king predator:

Mine! Mine the land, the herds, the blood, the mates! Mine!

It checked them for the merest fraction of a second. He could feel their intent narrow again, focused like the edge of their knives; they were Shadowspawn, and powerful. Not as powerful as he, but there were two of them and the silver-inlaid, glyph-warded knives were deadly, annulling luck, canceling the Power’s ability to heal the wounds they made. Adrian knew a single instant of irony; that was the same sort of weapon he’d learned to use when he was the Brotherhood’s fosterling. The two sides of the ancient struggle were more closely linked than either would admit.

Then his intent was as pure as theirs. One came in, lunging leopard-fast up the stair-like seats, sweat gleaming across the bright patterns printed into his skin. The knife ripped upwards towards belly and genitals. Adrian swayed his hips aside, fluid and sure, and lashed out with the ball of his foot as he pivoted on the other. The man rode it, flinging up one arm to take the impact and tumbling down the wood-sheathed tile of the benches, coming to his feet and shaking his head at the base.

His companion was already attacking, the knife flashing in a blurring X-figure of slashes before him. Some remote part of his mind spoke in Harvey’s voice; memory held a tinge of sunlight filtering through the boards of a barn somewhere in the Texas hill country too, and the sweaty feel of a practice-hilt in his hand.

If it’s a knife-fight, accept that you’re going to get cut and cut bad. Just make sure the other mook’s worse-off.

Adrian lunged into the other’s attack. That broke his rhythm for the merest second; he’d been counting on the unarmed man retreating. Silver-veined steel slashed down his deflecting forearm and into his thigh, like a razor of sun-hot fire.

Pain! Painpainpainpain—

Blood-scent, his own, rank and terrible; the knife-arm slipped free of his grip and whipped back for the stab up under the short-ribs. For an instant they were locked chest-to-chest, and Adrian’s other hand flashed up and clamped on the back of the knife-man’s head with fingers like iron rods.

“Sh’tzeeeez ak-ot!” he spat, while their faces were close as lovers’.

Mhabrogast commanded the mind; the Power flowed out of him. The man’s galvanic reaction sent him to the floor in a twitching, writhing, heel-drumming fit, and hurled Adrian back. A thin keening sound came out of him, endlessly. Adrian snatched up the knife where it had fallen; more pain lanced up his right arm, without the shielding glove. The other blade-man halted his rush and poised in a wary guard.

Then he smiled thinly. Adrian’s leg buckled under him. The blood was flowing too fast, and he couldn’t spare the focus to clamp the vessels from within. On one knee he kept the blade pointed out, swaying as gray gathered around the edges of his vision. Cold seemed to be blowing around him, despite the dry heat of the sauna—

“Hey, asshole!” a gravelly voice said cheerfully.

The tattooed Shadowspawn turned in a blur of speed. The massive bummpf! of Harvey’s coach gun seemed to flow into the motion, and the knife-man jerked backward as the soft slug struck his face just above the nose and smashed open his skull with a dull wet cracking sound. Pinkish-white-gray tissue and blood spattered on the tiles and mats. Harvey took another step forward and brought the other barrel to bear on the head of the convulsing figure on the floor.

Bummpf!

“Good Shadowspawn,” he said with satisfaction, breaking opening the weapon’s mechanism and slipping in two more shells. “Good ‘n dead. Dead-dead, too, not just body-dead.”

Adrian let the savage focus slip away from his mind. Harvey caught him as he buckled; even the burn of silver in the leather jacket was distant. He felt himself laid down, and the towels turned into tourniquets.

“Let’s let the Council cover things up, ol’ buddy,” he heard, as if from another room or another year. “Got to get you to a doc.”

Hands clamped on his wounded arm and thigh. The pain was there, but didn’t matter.

“And let’s see if I can Wreak a little, here, partner, before we move you.”

“Ellen,” Adrian whispered.

Then he screamed, as Power flowed into the open wounds.

The welcome wagon hadn’t tried to unpack her personal possessions. Ellen’s bags rested on the king-sized bed. It was made up with fresh sheets, and the walk-in closets and the drawers of a tall rubbed-oak armoire held the sort of thing Monica had mentioned, clothing that could be bought off the shelf on short notice. The room had a half-empty feel anyway, no knickknacks or pictures on the walls. The window opened onto the small interior yard between the house and the Casa Grande’s perimeter wall; it let in a sweet scent of cut grass.

She’d packed the bags to a quick command of: Take what you can’t replace with money, and evidently her subconscious had been functioning. All she remembered from the time was a blur of terror, but they were full of a jumble of things like Mister Wabbit—loved into shapelessness when she was small—and her family photographs and other mementoes. She hesitated; taking any of them out would be like admitting she was living here. Then she defiantly put Mister Wabbit on the shelf over the head of the bed.

“There. Keep an eye on things, you wascally wabbit!”

She dressed in sweats with a sports bra beneath and a headband and a pair of very good running hightops, and started stretching outside the house. The Lane was very quiet; Jamal had finished his routine with the weights and was sitting on the bench. He stared expressionlessly at her, made no response to her wave and then went inside.

Peter showed up; his gear was well-worn. The bruises and sore spots made her wince a little and go slowly at the limbering-up motions; he waited patiently.

“Ummm... Jamal really isn’t friendly, is he?”

Peter sighed. “I’ve had exactly one sentence from him since he arrived last September. From LA, I think.”

“What was that?”

“I’m nobody’s bitch, you faggot, so fuck off.”

“Ouch!”

“Yes.” A hesitation. “I usually sort of resent that; I’m not gay, I’m just small, for Christ’s sake! But... it’s hard to feel hostile to someone in his position. And I have this horrible feeling that he replaced me at the bottom of the list.”

“The list?”

“The one she’d kill if she felt in the mood for that. The one she would miss least afterwards. Don’t mention that to the others, by the way. I just violated the Lucy Code.”

Ellen winced. “Double ouch. Let’s run, shall we?”

He nodded, relief on his face: “How tough do you want it?”

“Not too-too, in new shoes—though these feel like suede gloves for the feet. And I’m still feeling a bit rocky in spots.”

“I usually run in the mornings, when I can. Care to join me?” He held up a hand. “I’m not hitting on you. Not that you’re not attractive, but... that sort of thing is not really practical for any of us here.”

“Why do men always apologize for not hitting on you all the time including the grossly inappropriate ones?” Ellen asked, with a wry quirk to one corner of her mouth. “It’s like sorry for not interrupting you incessantly or I regret that I can’t breathe onion in your face.”

“Because we wish women would hit on us all the time,” he answered promptly. “I realize the reverse isn’t true.”

They set out slowly, warming up as they left the end of the cul-de-sac. There was a brick bicycle path at first; that faded out as they worked their way onto a dirt path that snaked beside a seasonal brook under eucalyptus and native oaks. She kept quiet for half an hour, simply feeling the push of legs and flex of muscle, enjoying the body doing what it was supposed to do. It cleared her head as well.

“Did you... have anyone in Los Alamos?” she asked after a while, pacing the words to her breath.

“Not seriously, lately. And I’m very glad things were that way.”

She nodded. He went on: “You were really involved with Adrienne’s brother? And he didn’t...”

“No. Things got sticky, but he never... well, obviously he never drank my blood! I didn’t know about any of this stuff; that was a big part of why we were splitting up, he wouldn’t tell me things. I knew he was keeping a lot of secrets. He’s a good guy, basically. I can see now looking back how hard he had to fight not to... do things. I may have unintentionally been tempting him.”

Peter nodded. “Left up here, past that clump of bamboo. You know, they can play games with your memories, if they can get close to you for a while. Break your brain-codes. You sure he didn’t do that?”

That made her miss a stride; then she laughed harshly. “That’s like trying to prove that the world wasn’t created six minutes ago!”

“Yeah, classic non-falsifiable hypothesis. Sorry!”

“No, I can’t be sure. I’m morally certain, though. Thanks for giving me another creepy thought to keep me awake!”

“De nada. Do you hate him for getting you into this?”

“No,” she said.

Odd. I wasn’t certain that I didn’t until just now.

Aloud: “No, what Adrienne’s done is Adrienne’s fault, and they hadn’t had any contact for years. She’s got some twisted love-hate-desire thing going on with him, at least on her part; he hates her and he’s afraid of her. All he wanted was to be left alone and live something as close to a normal life as he could. I was part of that, I think. And she... wants... me because he did. I get this really creepy feeling that to her... messing... with me is like fucking him.”

“I don’t know if I could be that objective. And yes, the Doña tends to give you that creepy feeling, doesn’t she?”

Soon they were moving up a pair of ruts through dense pasture and onto a ridge. The conversation went in spurts; the usual origin-story you exchanged with a new friend. Her small-town Pennsylvania coal-country roots, the struggle to get to New York and work her way through NYU, the way paintings had taken her to another world. His professional-class Minnesota background, physics a door into the nature of things. The way they’d been fifty miles apart for years and never even dreamed the other existed.

“This rock is a good place to turn. It’s all chaparral for a bit after this—limestone slope. Good steep ground but not this late and not unless you’re up to it.”

“Woof!” Ellen said, leaning over to get her breath under control.

Her lungs seemed dry and inflexible for a few moments, and her skin heated by a flush like an interior sunlamp. The air was cooling, but that felt good.

“I needed to run off the sugar but I’m still more wiped than I thought.”

Peter nodded. They trotted on a little more; the sun was to the left and a little ahead, making the bare branches ahead black outlines. She stopped again when they rounded a clump of oaks and found themselves facing a small group of white-face cattle, up to their bellies in the deep green grass.

“They’re OK,” he said as he noticed her freeze.

“They’re big. I like cows best already disassembled.”

When they’d moved off she turned and said: “You got in trouble for something about the Power, didn’t you? That’s why... they... wanted you dead. Or someplace like this, fully under control.”

Peter nodded. His handsome mobile face turned to the shadows in the east. “How much mathematics do you have?”

“Hey, Art History BA, remember,” she said. “I can use TurboTax if I concentrate very very hard. If it’s obscure technical terms in Renaissance Italian painting you want, I’m your gal.”

He sat down on a stump. “OK, short form. The Power doesn’t come from inside the Shadowspawn brains. It can’t. Brains just don’t generate that much energy. What they do is modulate the Power, tapping it from a deep level. Like a transistor in a radar set. They step it up or down and shape it. But the energy comes from somewhere else. Follow me so far?”

She nodded, and he continued: “What put me on to it was results on probabilistic analysis of—

“Woah! Artsie math aversion reflexes kickin in! Let’s get going, then. You know, what puzzles me is that we... our ancestors... were ever able to overthrow them.”

He rose and they trotted slowly downward. “I suspect it’s because there just weren’t many in any given spot, back when humans were rare.”

“A sort of lions vs. zebra thing?”

“Exactly. But now the upper limit’s vanished. And their numbers and their genetic purity have been increasing fast the last hundred years. It explains a lot. Think of the early legends... you know those?”

She smiled at him, mopping at her face with the sleeve of her sweats. “Art History, remember? It’s obligatory to know the loves of Zeus and that sort of thing.”

“You know how crazy the world seems in those myths? How... anything-can-happen? Dreamlike and arbitrary?”

Her eyes went wide in alarm. “You mean it was like that?”

“Around the Shadowspawn, yes. Probabilities start to blur into each other. The damned luck! They’re probably the reason we believe in luck in the first place. There’s no such thing, really—not as sort of a personal possession, or a muscle that’s stronger in some people than in others.”

“Except for them it actually does work that way.”

“Right. And it explains so much else, too.”

“Like why the Greeks thought ghosts needed blood? And why so many gods demanded human sacrifices?”

“Yeah, but more fundamental things as well. Why do humans want gods at all? Why do we believe in them without proof?”

“Oh. There was proof.”

He nodded. “For a hundred thousand years we had gods, for 96% of the existence of the human race. And spirits and ghosts and survival after death—for some.”

She shuddered, and he made a hands-in-the-air gesture.

“You know the really ironic thing?” he said. “I think that if we could understand the Power, we could use it. I mean, everyone could. We’d need something like a very capable, very specifically tailored quantum computer. But all they’re interested in is keeping potential competition down.”

She frowned. Running downhill was harder, or trickier, than going up, but her balance adjusted automatically.

“Why don’t they do that themselves? Surely they’d be in the best position to investigate the Power.”

Peter laughed, half genuine amusement, half bitterness. “What animal does Adrienne remind you of? Not a bitch, please. Really.”

“A cat,” she said instantly. “I like cats, but they’re not tame. We can have them around because we’re stronger and smarter. The big ones we put in zoos or nature parks.”

“Smart! We’re apes that became more like wolves. Shadowspawn are apes who became like wolves and then decided they’d rather become like cats instead. And what do cats do if you leave them to themselves?”

“Hunt and play at hunting. Torture mice. Eat. Sleep. Groom themselves. Fight other cats for territory and mates. Screw.”

“Exactly. I—”

An engine sounded from around the curve of the track ahead, the whining burble-hum of a new electric-drive hybrid. They stopped in surprise as a tardec utility vehicle stopped, a low-slung boxy body of angled plates on four oversize wheels, the sort of thing you saw on news reports from dry dusty places where things went boom a lot. It didn’t bristle with weapons, but there were antennae and the man beside the driver was looking down at some sort of display screen. Another followed it.

The riders looked like soldiers; at least they had body armor, which Ellen could recognize from the news, and bulbous helmets with sensor visors ready to be flipped down, and each had an ear-mike with a little thread-microphone at one corner of their mouths. They carried odd foreign-looking assault rifles as well.

Eight of them were Asian, but not quite like any she’d seen before. Short barrel-chested bandy-legged men, tough and stocky with the weathered skin of those who’d always been out-of-doors in all weathers; they swung down and spread out, going down on one knee facing outward. They were relaxed and alert, their eyes never stopping; their sense of tensile presence reminded her of good tennis players, even in their heavy boots and gear. Besides the usual military paraphernalia their belts held big inward-curving chopping knives.

They don’t seem like a brute squad, she thought. Just... focused.

The ninth was a white man, older but very fit, with gray threads in his clipped brown mustache, and very cold gray eyes. They met hers through the growing shadows...

This one knows, she thought. He’s not one of them, but he knows. Maybe the others don’t, maybe they do, but he really knows who he’s working for. What he’s working for.

“Hello, Dr. Boase,” he said; his voice was clipped upper-class British.

“Captain Bates,” Peter replied neutrally.

Then he turned his head to her: “I’m Harold Bates, head of site security here for Brézé Enterprises, Ms. Tarnowski. Were you heading in for the evening? It’s a biggish bit of wilderness to be out in, on foot and after dark.”

His voice was impeccably respectful. Ellen nodded when Peter said cautiously: “Yes, just heading home.”

“Cheerio, then.”

He switched to a fast-moving language, evidently the one the soldiers spoke, and the two runners stood aside as they climbed back into their vehicles and drove by.

“Who are the soldiers for? It’s not as if they need guns to keep us from running away.”

“They have enemies,” he said, and shook his head when she would have gone on. “Later.”

Adrian! Be careful! she thought. Then: Would men with guns have any chance against... well, he must be able to do all that stuff too?

It was full dark when they were at the head of the trail again where it joined the Lane, and chilly enough that she felt she’d be glad to get indoors; during the day this gentle climate was enough to make you forget it was only the middle of February. There weren’t any streetlamps along Lucy Lane, only little lights over the courtyard doors. That left the ambient level low enough that the frosting of stars and crescent moon were helpful. And a trickle came through an open window in Number One.

They were about to walk by when a shriek of raw pain stopped her in her tracks. Peter took her arm and tried to urge her along. Then she heard pleading. Monica’s voice, high-pitched and urgent:

“Oh, Addi, don’t. Don’t! Please! Not there—ow! That hurts. It hurts so bad!”

Another scream, then a delighted laugh, and a low moan broken with choked-off muffled sobs: “Ow... ow... oh, owwwww... ow... ow...”

The noise fell behind her. They stopped outside Number Five.

“I guess this wasn’t a milk-and-cookies sort of evening,” Peter said quietly. Then: “And Monica keeps forgiving!”

He was quivering; she could feel that. She touched his arm.

“This is just so totally awful, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

He nodded. She took his arm again and felt it rigid. Then he began to shake; she hesitated, then pulled his head down on her shoulder. The sobs were soundless, but the tears soaked through the fabric of the sweatsuit. His arms came up to embrace her clumsily. After a moment he straightened and wiped at his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“Thank you,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Pete? Look, I’m not hitting on you either, but I don’t want to spend the evening with a pillow over my head. Come on in and have dinner and we’ll talk about something else. Maybe watch a movie. OK?”

He nodded wordless gratitude.

The High King of Montival - Thu Jan 28 21:04:05 EST 2010

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 21:04:05 -0500

"The High King of Montival" by S. M. Stirling, last updated Thu Jan 28 21:04:05 EST 2010

Bend
Capital, Central Oregon Ranchers Association
March 20^th, Change Year 25/2023 AD

“This city is going to fall,” Signe Havel said bluntly.

The rancher-delegates who made up the CORA assembly roared—some in agreement, some in protest, some to hear themselves make noise, as far as she could tell. It echoed off the walls of the old pre-Change theatre; shouting faces shone desperate in the light of the gas-lamps, a thick smell of sweat and burnt methane and hot lime, wool and leather and linen. The representatives of the city itself and the smallholders who farmed the irrigated land upstream and down mostly just stared at her wide-eyed.

“Why can’t you stop them?” someone shouted.

Signe leaned forward and braced her hands on the sides of the podium, and the lames of her articulated suit of plate clattered slightly against each other, despite the backing of soft leather. Moving quietly in armor was like trying to tiptoe in a suit sewn with cowbells. She wanted them to notice it; notice the nicks and the indented lines that looked like someone had taken something sharp and pushed it against the steel very hard. Which was exactly what had happened, and she still had the bruises underneath.

“You may notice we’ve all been trying to do exactly that, your people and mine.”

She paused to let the way she looked—and for some of the closer delegates, smelled—reinforce the words.

Rationally it’s silly to wear sixty pounds of metal to talk to people, she thought. But then again, who ever said war is a rational activity? And the whole world went crazy when I was eighteen. It’s been getting worse ever since. My armor is a symbol, and Mike taught me about the value of symbols. He used them and knew he was using them, even when he believed in them himself. Because symbols hit down below the part where knowing makes any difference.

She was very tired, tired enough that her eyeballs felt as if they’d been rolled in a mixture of fine grit and cat hair before they were stuffed back in their sockets. There was probably enough red around the pupils to drown out the blue.

I’m forty-one now. I can’t go for days without sleep anymore. Willpower makes up for the tired and the hurt and the hungry but every time it takes a bit more water from the well and someday soon I’m going to run dry.

“It hasn’t been working, no matter how hard we try, because they outnumber us three to one,” she said, when the noise had died down a little.

If anyone but Mike Havel had been flying that light plane over the Bitterroots on Change Night, she and her family would have died like hundreds of thousands of others. Signe thought of them sometimes, whenever the present seemed too grim to bear; astronauts in orbit when all the city lights below went out and the ventilators died, passengers in 747’s at thirty thousand feet glancing up in a flickering moment of silence, people in submarines or down at the bottom of gold-mines when the pumps stopped.

Mostly they’d been the lucky ones, at that. For them it had been fairly quick. Five billion and more had died in what followed, died slowly of thirst and hunger, of plague, or killed for what little they had or the meat on their bones.

And thanks to Mike we survived. Survived the plane crash, survived that year after the Change, survived... life. For a while. Life’s so dangerous nobody gets out of it alive, he used to say, and he’s been dead fourteen years now. I’ve got this bad feeling about what’s coming down the tracks.

She poured strength into her voice, willing desperate men to see sense:

“The Prophet’s maniacs alone outnumber all the troops the countries of the Meeting... the High Kingdom of Montival—“

Freya, we’re calling the whole country something because someone barely old enough to shave suggested it in a letter. What next? How desperate for hope are we?

“—can muster. The United States of Boise outnumbers us by about the same margin. If we try to meet them here in open country, they’ll crush us. They didn’t beat us at Pendleton last year because they were better, they beat us because they were good enough and there were Loki’s own lot of them. They want big decisive battles. We can’t afford to fight on their terms, we have to make them come to us. Bleed them until they’re down to a level we can tackle.”

A man got up; elderly, leathery: Rancher Brown of Seffridge. A good man, steady. He’d been an ally of the Outfit in the wars against the Association in the decade after the Change.

“What’s wrong with Bend?” he asked; they’d agreed on the question beforehand. “They have to come at us here, and we’ve got the city wall and plenty of food.”

Signe made herself grin. “You have to ask? The wall’s good enough against a bunch of bandits or Rovers. It’s too long and too low for an army with a good battering and assault train—wheeled belfries, siege towers, trebuchets, which Boise has and will lend to the Corwinites. And the water supply can be cut off. You people should really have thought of that.”

She saw embarrassed winces. The CORA had trouble agreeing on the time of day, normally. War wasn’t normal times, but it was a bit late now for major engineering.

“I thought that... that thing that happened was supposed to stop places falling to the Cutters,” Brown said.

People made the signs of their various religion, or muttered prayers... or curses, or both. Signe kept calmness, but only just. That flash of pain and the ringing voice in the middle of Juniper Mackenzie’s ceremony:

Artos holds the Sword of the Lady, she remembered that tolling voice speaking within her. The Sun Lord comes, the son of Bear and Raven! The High King comes, as foretold! Guardian of My sacred Wood, and Law! His people’s strength, and the Lady’s sword!

She cleared her throat, swallowed, and went on: “That means their spooks can’t hoodoo men into opening gates any more,” she said.

And added to herself: We think. Aloud:

“It does absolutely nothing to keep them from coming over the walls on ladders. When—“ She nearly said if and then went on: “When Artos gets back, things will be different. Until then we’re on our own.”

Another roar, and a general shout of what good are you, then?

She slammed a gauntleted fist down on the podium. “We Bearkillers stand by our promises, and by our friends!” she shouted.

That had the double advantage of being true, and being known to be true. The Outfit had shed a lot of blood over the years making sure everyone knew it. Everyone, including the people expended, had thought it was worth it. Quiet fell, slowly and incompletely.

“Bend will fall, and with it everything this side of the Cascades, before we can hope to get help. Before Rudi... Artos gets here. Your home-places aren’t fortified, not really, not the way the PPA’s castles are up north. But if we hold Bend long enough, you can get your families and your livestock through the passes, which have forts we are strong enough to hold. Hold for a long time, long enough for the snow to close them, while you hit and run and pull back into the space you’ve got so much of out here. We—and the Clan Mackenzie and the Corvallans and everyone else in the west—guarantee you lodging for your people and grazing for your stock during the rest of the war, and all the help we can give after it, to rebuild. We’ll take your families in. Nobody starves as long as anyone has food.”

That set off another explosion; she waited it out, while the sensible ones argued the hotheads into line. It took less time than she might have expected; but then, they were ranchers, not farmers. Losing buildings and the crops some grew would be painful, but their real wealth was their flocks and herds.

With those and their people safe, they’d be willing to scorch their land as well as fight across it, turn it into a wasteland where the enemy would starve while the battered at the Cascade passes and they harassed his outposts and supply columns.

I hope. I never liked you, Rudi. I kept seeing Mike with Juniper when I see you. When I think about you. But we need you, and badly.

When the meeting ended and Signe was back in her rooms, she sank into a chair and stared at the ceiling, watching the lamplight flicker on the stained plaster and smelling hastily cleaned-up mustiness, as if this suite had been boarded up right after the Change and only opened when Bend started getting crowded with people pushed ahead of the Prophet’s armies.

She was too limply exhausted to even think about removing her armor, much less hunting up food and drink. She felt too tired even to sleep; the sort of bun-fight she’d just been through took more out of you than work or even fighting, and her mind stayed hopping-active even when her eyes closed. She started slightly at the feel of someone working on the buckles and catches.

Her eldest son shook a finger at her when she looked, Mike Havel Jr. in all the tireless glory of seventeen years. He looked like Mike too, more and more every year. Taller already, just a hair under six feet, though his hair was yellow-blond to his father’s raven-black.

Which makes him look more like Rudi too, even if there’s no red in it.

Otherwise the same hard-cut masculine good looks emerging from under the last of childhood’s padding, high cheekbones, straight nose, square cleft chin, long-lashed light eyes that had already cut a swath through the more susceptible females of his generation.

“Mom, you need to get some sleep. You need to eat first. And no disrespect... but you need a bath, real bad, too.”

All Gods witness, I still miss you, Mike, she thought, then smiled at him.

“Glad to see someone’s attending to business, Brother Havel,” she said.

He’d earned that title, and the small white scar of the Bearkiller A-list between his brows, young as he was. Earned it on a battlefield, while still a military apprentice.

He knew it too, from the moment’s flash of reckless fighting-man’s grin; it sat a little oddly on a face that was still nearly a boy’s. That she still saw as a boy’s, unless she made herself look at him as a stranger might.

“Someone has to do it, Sister Havel... Mom.”

She groaned a little with relief as the last of the war-harness was removed, and a junior took it away clanking in a canvas sack to be cleaned and have the dints hammered out. Mike Jr. went to the door and returned with a tray.

“Eat, ma’am,” he said again.

He placed it in front of her; a slab of rare prime rib, some fried potatoes, pickled vegetables and a half-loaf of bread and butter on the side, with a wedge of dried-apple pie and cheese to follow. Winter food, but good.

Mike stood at parade rest with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the far wall.

“You’re in the field,” he said. “You don’t know when you’ll get another chance at a hot meal. Never pass that up.”

“At ease,” she replied.

The smells tickled at her nostrils, and she took up a fork and dipped a chunk of potato in the spicy Bend-style ketchup and pointed with it before she put it in her mouth.

“Sit.”

He relaxed then—Bearkiller discipline bit deep—and sat in the chair across from her. The suite was comfortable by modern standards, which meant there was a blaze going in the fireplace and you only needed a coat despite the chill early-spring night of the high desert.

“So...” he said; the order had put him back in pupil mode, which meant he could ask questions. “What the hell are we going to do now?”

“Fight,” Signe said succinctly.

The first bite had made her ravenous; there had been nothing but field rations for the past week, and not always that. She ate with slow care anyway. He was right; this might be the last chance for a good long while. It was something Mike had always said too. He’d probably gotten it from her, though. He hadn’t been old enough to remember his father, not really. For him the first Bear Lord was something put together out of stories, and out of the shape his life had left in the world he helped to make.

“Mom, you were right out there. If we go at them straight-up, well, they’ll know they’ve been in a fight, but then it’s pork chops at Odin’s All Night Diner for us until Ragnarok.”

“We have to fight. A delaying action at least. Evacuating this bunch of range-country anarchists is going to be a nightmare, especially considering how late they’ve left it. We have to cover them... us and the rest. I hope the PPA can send some help but that’s iffy. Boise is pressing them hard, even with the castles.”

“Time,” Mike Jr. said soberly. “We have to play for time. Until Rudi gets here.”

Her mouth twisted slightly. If he hadn’t been so self-controlled, Mike Jr. would have sighed in exasperation. She caught it anyway, of course.

I am his mother, after all!

And she had that odd floating feeling you had when you were very tired, or some types of very drunk; as if you were perfectly lucid, but some part of your brain was missing. The part that decided what to say and what to leave out.

“Don’t worry,” she said dryly, tearing a chunk off the bread and buttering it. “I’m not going to let it get in the way of business.”

“I didn’t think you would, ma’am.”

Signe swallowed and chuckled. “The hell you didn’t. You’re growing up now—you’re old enough to be told things—but you’re not forty yet. I don’t know if emotions get weaker as you get older, or you just get better at controlling them. That’s supposed to be part of growing up.”

His expression was perfectly calm, but it radiated: I am grown up!

No, you’re not, she thought. You’re getting there, you’ve fought and seen blood shed and you’re not a virgin any more either, but there’s a lot more to it. I want you to live long enough to be an adult. I want to see your children. And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it except to try to win this war, or at least not lose it.

Aloud: “But one way or another I’ve got it covered. Hey, Brother Havel—what matters most, what you’re feeling, or getting the job done?”

He snorted; there was only one answer to that, for a Bearkiller of the A-list. For a Havel. A hesitation, then:

“You know, Mom, I like Rudi... Artos, I suppose, now... fine. Always did.”

Signe nodded, mopped the plate and began on the pie. “You’re his brother... half-brother. He’s blood-kin to you.”

“And a hell of a man.” Another hesitation. “I, well, I always thought he had something of Dad in him.”

“Yes, he is, and yes, he does. Even as a kid, you could see what he was going to grow into; Mike was proud of him, though he didn’t say much about it. But to me he was also always a reminder of your father straying. And don’t let either ‘get over it’ or ‘that was before you two were married’ go through your mind. You’re going to find that you don’t get over things that easily; feelings become a habit, after a while, and they’re hard to kick. Even when you’re tired of them. And the other part... all that shows is that you’re a man. Or male, at least. Which I suppose is for the best.”

He managed to suppress the infuriatingly smug smile until she gave a weary grin.

“Artos is... well, if we have to rely on somebody, he’s the one I’d pick, ma’am. Plus that Sword thing. Whatever.”

Signe nodded. That was business, and the appraisal was accurate, of the man and of the situation. She’d manage to smile and cheer at the coronation of Artos the First, if they won. Life hurt, and then it hurt some more, and then you died. What mattered was that you did what you had to do without sniveling about it.

And if we don’t win, we’ll be too dead to care.

“Bath,” she said. “Sleep. Work tomorrow.”