by John Ringo
“We get all sorts of trouble from Bible thumpers,” Mandy said, shaking her head. “I mean, so I read tarot, what’s wrong with that? It’s like they think we’re the Devil incarnate and they don’t even know what the Devil really is. I mean, the Christian symbology for the Devil is the Horned God who wasn’t evil at all, he was just a fertility spirit. Sometimes human sacrifices would be made to him but that was the ritual and it’s no different than transubstantiation if you think about it. Both of them involve human sacrifice and at least the worshippers of the Horned One didn’t eat their victims. Well, not usually and not in the later worship. By the time Christianity ran into the worship of the Horned One most human sacrifice had been eliminated which, let me tell you, really pissed the old guy off. But the Devil didn’t have anything to do with the Horned One. He’s just a modification of the shedim Shaitan. And Wicca doesn’t derive its powers from either the shedim or the Horned One though some call on the Horned One but I think that’s all about fertility, not that Norm and I have any problems in that regard but thank the Goddess he’s not like my ex. I wish he’d get sacrificed to the Old Gods. But they’d probably spit his soul back out.”
“Yet, the God of the Old Testament and the New Testament are the same God,” Ruby said, smiling and ignoring Mandy’s digression. “How do you justify obeying only one set of rules, especially when they’re at odds?”
“It’s corny,” Barbara said, shrugging. “But I really do ask myself ‘What would Jesus do?’ Not ‘What would Solomon do?’ I may sometimes feel the rage of David, but I only let it loose against persons who truly do evil, who live in it. Being rageful when… oh, somebody cuts you off in traffic or some woman is being snippy about whose daughter is smarter than whose, that’s not being a Christian. Nor is beating your wife.”
“And would that be being a Jew?” Kay asked, dryly. Barb noticed that her accent flattened out slightly. “Since that’s the Old Testament God?”
“I don’t know as much about Judaism as I would like,” Barbara admitted, carefully. “But the Talmud encompasses far more than the books that are found in the Old Testament. And the study of it is thousands of years old, with a great deal of interpretation, as I understand it. I’ve never heard that wife beating is common amongst those of the Faith of Abraham. Is it?”
“Not noticeably,” Kay replied, smiling. “Is this what you usually do, stand around and debate religion?”
“Oh, no,” Barb admitted. “Normally I have to stand around and make nice little comments about how gracefully a friend’s daughter fell on her face during cheerleading practice or trade casserole recipes. I much prefer this. The talk is much more… broadening.”
“You’d better watch that,” Mandy said with a laugh. “You’ll end up questioning all sorts of assumptions.”
“Not fundamental ones,” Barbara said, smiling. “Those are far beyond belief for me. For one thing, I clearly separate the social overlay of humanity from the Truth of the Risen God. I won’t preach, but the power of the Lord Jesus Christ is very real. As you should know, Mandy,” she added with an arched eyebrow.
“This is your first con?” Ruby asked.
“Oh, yes,” Barb said, laughing. “I… well, my husband thinks I’m at a religious retreat. And I was, but one of the ladies at the retreat was coming to the con and she knew I was a… reader of Miz Goldberg’s books, so she suggested I come along. I find it very interesting.”
“You’re also here with a gentleman,” Kay said.
“Really?” Mandy squealed. “Something else the hubbie doesn’t know?”
“He’s a friend of Janea’s,” Barbara said, primly. “I’m staying with Janea, I’ll point out.”
“It’s not a problem,” Kay said. “I was just wondering. Where did you study martial arts?”
“How did you know… ?” Barb said then paused. “My dad got me into it when we were in Hong Kong before the turn-over. I’ve been studying it ever since.”
“The religious conference,” Kay said. “Would that be the Foundation for Love and Universal Faith?”
“Yes,” Barbara said carefully. “You know about it?”
“A bit,” Goldberg replied. “What did you think of your fellow attendees?”
“They were a very… eclectic bunch,” Barb said, looking at Goldberg with more interest. She noticed that the accent had faded again, just a bit.
“And you came from there to here?” Goldberg asked. “To observe the con?”
“Yes,” Barbara said.
“Interesting,” the woman replied. “Well, it’s getting late and these old bones can’t handle the chill as well as they used to. I’ll bid you all good night.”
After a round of good nights she headed for the far side of the atrium and Barb bit her lip.
“I forgot to ask her something,” Barbara said. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute?”
She strode after Goldberg and caught her as she was waiting for the elevator. There were three young people in black waiting for the elevator and when Barb caught the word “vampires” she perked up. But a moment later she realized they were talking about a game.
“Miz Goldberg?” she said as the elevator arrived. “I was wondering…”
“How I know of the Foundation?” Kay asked as they got on the elevator.
“Uhm…” Barbara said then paused again since they were in the elevator with the teenagers. “Actually, I was wondering about you. It’s… something that Daddy taught me.”
“I’m just a writer, miss,” the woman said. “A very old one who is going to bed.”
The three got off the elevator at the second floor and as the door closed so did Barb’s face.
“You’re a hell of a lot more than a writer, Miz ‘Goldberg,’ “ Barbara said. “The way that you deflect questions is straight out of the manual on avoiding being pumped.”
“And you’re a hell of a lot more than a homemaker, Mrs. Everette,” Kay replied, just as hard. “What’s going on at the con?”
Barbara paused for a moment more then shrugged.
“There’s a serial killer,” she said as the doors opened again.
“Go ahead,” Goldberg said as they stepped out of the doors. “You’d be surprised what you can say at a con. I’ll just tell anyone who hears it that you were trying to sell me on writing an idea you had for a novel.” She stopped and sighed. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”
“Well, this would make a good one,” Barb said as they reached the woman’s room.
Barbara explained the nature of their mission to the woman as the writer took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. When she was done, for the first time the woman really looked old.
“And Special Circumstances thinks the killer is one of my fans?” Kay asked, still rubbing her feet.
“You even know about that?” Barb asked, her eyes narrowing.
“You’d be surprised what I know, kiddo,” Kay replied, her accent entirely gone. If anything it sounded a bit New York. “Yeah, I know about SC. Is that old stick Germaine still in charge?”
“Yes,” Barbara said. “He recruited me.”
“You should have run screaming,” Goldberg replied with a sigh. She got up and went to the room’s refrigerator and pulled out a split of champagne and a bottle of orange juice. After pouring equal measures into a plastic cup she drank about half of the mixture before sitting back down and lighting another Virginia Slims. She took another sip, a long drag on the cigarette and then looked Barb square in the eye. “Special Circumstances eats people and spits them out as mangled husks. I hate them in a way. Oh, I know that they do the Lord God’s work. But they use their people like donkeys. No, even donkeys get some rest. I know most of the people that talk to me at cons by name. Young male?”
“Male anyway,” Barb said, shrugging. “Brown hair. He might wear silver moonstone jewelry.”
“I’ll come up with a list,” Kay said, thoughtfully. “You’re circulating looking for suspects?”
&
nbsp; “I’m… I have some feeling for these things,” Barbara said. “It’s not very well trained, but…”
“If he’s halfway good, he’ll be cloaking,” Kay said, sliding up on the bed and plumping the pillows behind her. “You could walk right past him in the hall, you could talk to him and get nothing. If he’s cloaking and you’re not, he can see you, so to speak, and know you’re either a hunter or a target. He can get more power from someone like you than from just any old child. And if he’s gathering power in moonstones he can shield that from you with silk, so you won’t be able to feel his power source either. You know all that?”
“I… sort of,” Barb said. “I’ve picked up… a few of those things. But I’m new to this.”
“So why are you on such an important case?” Kay asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m strong,” Barbara said, firmly. “I am strong in my faith and the Lord’s hand shelters me.”
“You know that?” Kay asked. “He’s a flighty God, our God. And he is our God. Slightly different approaches but the same God. And He has quite a few items on His plate. You can’t depend on Him to always pull your chestnuts out of the fire. And you’d better be sure you are powerful if you go up against a necromancer.”
“I have… battled before,” Barb said. “Something more powerful than a necromancer. And the Lord sheltered me.”
“You’re lucky,” Goldberg said, mirthlessly. “I lost a tad of my belief when… well, that’s neither here nor there. You keep firm to yours, it is your shield and sword if you know how to wield it.”
“You were in Special Circumstances?” Barbara asked, curiously.
“Not me,” Kay said, shaking her head. “A… friend was involved in one of their investigations. He died.”
“I’m sorry,” Barb said, sincerely.
“So was I,” Kay admitted, looking at the far wall and into the past. “But a lot of friends died and, honestly, some of them for less reason. He was… a bit more special to me than the others. There is a reason I’m Miss Goldberg in other words. And all his faith did not shield him. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t as strong as he thought, as I thought for that matter. Hold hard to your faith in the Lord, young one. And I hope that His hand is over you always. Good night, Mrs. Everette.”
Chapter Ten
With nowhere else to go, Barbara went back down to the atrium. Mandy and the others had disappeared so she walked over towards the group by the table. Somebody was singing and she vaguely recognized the song. Her father had sung it sometimes when he was really drunk.
“As the wind shook the barley…” the man said, picking up his glass and taking a slug. It was dark with something and from the bottle of Glenlivet on the table Barb could guess what it was. He was probably in his fifties, good looking in a lean-boned way with dark hair shot with gray. The group around the table was clearly enjoying the song and most of them were smoking. She noticed that one of them was the bookseller she’d spoken to earlier in the day. She wasn’t smoking but she looked right at home.
Behind the group was a man sitting on a blanket, writing in a notebook and ignoring the goings on around him. He was tall from what Barbara could tell, distinguished looking with a long face and short gray-brown hair, clean shaven and dressed heavily against the cold. A woman with long silver hair was seated in a chair between him and the group, subtly blocking anyone from approaching.
“So now I’ll play the patriot game,” the man sang as a couple of others tried to chime in. “And I think I’ve forgotten the rest.”
“You’re just not drunk enough, Don,” one of the men at the table said, laughing. “You’ll remember after another bottle.”
“That I may,” the man said, picking up his glass and draining it. “And what is this lovely apparition I do see before me?”
“Back off,” the man who had said something about being drunk said. “I get the blondes, you get the dark ones. That’s the deal.”
“A base canard, laddy,” Don said, grinning at Barb as he refilled his glass. “For certain blondes I will make an exception.”
“I’m married,” Barbara said, sitting down at one of the open tables. “But you sing very well. You remind me of my father. He used to sing that to me.”
“A shot to the heart!” Don said, grinning nonetheless. “Once a girl says you remind her of her father you’re either shot down or into a very strange relationship indeed. However, your chastity is safe around me, lovely apparition without a name, for I do not bestow myself upon other men’s wives. And I had noted the ring.”
“Just anything else with a skirt,” the bookseller said, smiling.
“Nothing of the sort,” Don protested, taking another drink. “They must be of reasonable age and willing. And unmarried and unengaged. Other than that, yes, I am willing to grace their bed and they need not even pay me. Can any woman ask for more? What is your name, lovely apparition? And avoid the laddy across the table. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing and far less moral than I. He prefers his own cooking but other men’s wives.”
“Barbara,” Barbara said, holding out her hand. “Barb Everette. And yours?”
“Donald Draxon,” Don said, shaking her hand and then bending over to kiss it. “Various appellations and honorifics on that, depending upon circumstances.”
“Like colonel,” the “laddy” across the table said. He was at least in his forties, slightly heavy but not fat by any stretch, with a look that said he’d once been in shape. He was smoking cigars instead of the inevitable cigarettes and Barbara found the smell refreshing. “And Esquire and up-and-coming writer if I have anything to do with it.”
“Ah, laddy, we’ll get there,” Don said. “Never fear, we will shake the publishing industry to its very foundations. What brings you to the con, Barb the Lovely?”
“I read Miz Goldberg’s books,” Barbara said.
“Goldberg?” Don asked, puzzled.
“Mystery writer,” the still unintroduced “laddy” said. “Lives in Charlotte. Short, Jewish, a bit zaftig if a tad on the old side. All else bears not repeating in nonsecure circumstances.”
“Forsooth, laddy, do tell,” Don said, filling his empty glass again. “We are among friends.”
“Seriously, Colonel, not in nonsecure circumstances,” the man said, firmly.
“Bloody security,” the colonel said, taking a deep drink from his glass. “I hates it, I hates it my precious, I does.”
“You’re really a colonel?” Barb asked, smiling and changing the subject. Although she also made a note to pick “laddy’s” brain.
“An instructor at the War College,” “laddy” said, smiling lightly.
“For my sins,” Don sighed, sadly. “All these bright young colonels and Navy captains being indoctrinated in PC rhetoric and me the only one trying to stem the tide. You know, Barb, it is perfectly legal to take hostages and hold them against the good behavior of the inhabitants of an area? And then kill them if the inhabitants aren’t good? I mean, if you do it right. Iron-clad legal.”
“He’s the instructor in the law of land warfare,” “laddy” said. “Which is a bit like giving Satan the keys to the Pearly Gates. Especially since he’s the most bloody minded, legalistically sneaky bastard the Army’s ever spit out.”
“I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” Barbara said, looking at the other man. The rest of the group was just watching the by-play between the two.
“Folsom Duncan,” the man said, bowing slightly. He was wearing a long black leather coat that had to be lined against the cold unless he was superhuman.
“And you’re a writer as well, sir?” Barb asked, curiously. She knew she had made a mistake when about half the group laughed.
“You see!” Duncan said, mock angrily. “What is it with this genre? I’ve got to start writing mysteries or that unicorn story or something!”
“He’s one of the biggest writers in science fiction,” the bookseller said, grimacing at Barbara’s faux pas. “At least based on sales
. And he’s always lamenting that there aren’t enough good looking females reading SF.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Duncan said, waving his hand and wafting cigar smoke around. “It’s totally normal. I’m not by any stretch a household name. And the publishing industry is so diverse that readers of one genre rarely know another. Which is why I should write romances or teeny-bopper thrillers or Goth or something. That’s the way to get the chicks for free. And getting the chicks for free is the only true pursuit for a grown-up male. Before puberty, of course, it’s avoiding them like the plague.”
“You’re married,” Barb pointed out, noting the wedding ring.
“It doesn’t mean I can’t flirt,” Duncan said, smiling. When he smiled his face came alive and Barbara admitted that she did find him attractive. “I’m not quite as aggressive about it as Donald here, but I certainly enjoy the dance. It helps, however, to have the cachet of being a ‘published author.’ It sort of breaks the ice. Among other things, it skips right over the lousy pick-up lines. Women come up to me and say ‘So what’s your next book, Mr. Duncan?’ Very refreshing.”
“Well, not much,” the brunette said, laughing. “Mostly they say, ‘Who the hell are you?’ ”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Duncan said, sorrowfully. “I’m going to write a book about unicorns. Get surrounded by young lovelies that have to know what’s going to happen to ‘whatsername.’ ‘Well, young lovely nubile lady,’ I’ll say, ‘it just so happens that I have my latest work in progress up in my room. I’ll squeeze you in between nine and nine-thirty. I hope you can handle multiple orgasms.’ ”
“I have some problems with that,” Barb said, her eyes wide.
“Oh, so would I,” Duncan admitted, hastily. “Among other things, my wife would kill me and there’s all these laws and things about underage females. But it’s a lovely thought.”
“Women don’t like anything that’s got a scrap of science to it,” one of the men at the table said. He was a heavyset older guy with a thick gray-brown beard. “They only want to read horsey stories about dragons and unicorns.”
