by John Ringo
“Hey!” the brunette snapped.
“Most women,” the man corrected.
“Well, there’s a bit of a reality to that,” Duncan said. “I mean, market-wise it’s indisputable. But the question is, why?”
“Do tell us, laddy!” Don said, taking another heavy drink. “You’re the thinker in this lot.”
“Not the only one by a stretch,” Duncan said. “But there are a few known facts about the differences, physiologically, between male and female brains. One of them is that in fetal development, males get more separation between the two lobes of the brain. It’s actually a function of testosterone. That means they can separate logic from emotion more effectively than females. That gives them the ability to look at things with clearer logic, in general.”
“I think I’m pretty logical,” the brunette said. She didn’t seem as upset about his statements as she had been about the “scrap of science” comment.
“Ah, but you’re a bit odd, as a female,” Duncan pointed out. “You yourself have commented that you act more like one of the boys. And I, who find virtually any woman from fifteen to fifty to be worthy of a passing thought about afternoon delight, am not physically attracted to you at all. Because you do come across as ‘one of the guys’ and I am irresolubly het. I suspect you’ve got a bit less connections than most women, ergo you can deal with a situation with less emotional input. Now, me, I probably have a few more connections than your average bear, thus my gift of gab and a bit of ability to write.
“It’s not a hard and fast thing; human beings are individuals not groups. It’s more of a bell curve with males trending more to the ‘logic’ side and women more to the ‘emotion’ side. Now, the point to that is that each has strengths and weaknesses. I suspect that it’s why females gravitate, in general, to more emotional or nurturing professions. In business they tend more towards marketing rather than operations. In medicine they tend towards nursing and softer arts rather than, oh, surgery. And they bring strengths to those areas. It’s not a matter of better or worse. A coldly analytical SOB makes a great accountant and a fair operations manager but a lousy marketing guru. But it would also explain why they tend more towards fantasy rather than SF. And especially tend away from military fiction which is much more cold and brutal than most of the rest of the genre.”
“I’ve read a fair amount of military fiction,” Barbara said. “And I certainly don’t come across as one of the guys.”
“Not in the slightest,” Duncan said, waggling his eyebrows. “However, have you any military background?”
“My dad was in the Air Force,” Barbara said.
“Culture modifies nature,” Duncan said, shrugging. “You were inculcated in the military culture. It might be why you gravitated over here; it seems to happen. Military people just seem to turn up around us. I think it’s something in the tone of the laughter that says: ‘Really bad no-shit story being told over here.’ I suspect, however, that you’re not much of a science fiction reader.”
“No, not really,” Barb admitted. “I got forced to read some in high school, but I never really liked it.”
“Bleck,” Duncan said, sticking out his tongue. “Probably Bradbury or Ellison. Bradbury shouldn’t happen to a goat.”
“Hey, I like Bradbury,” the brunette said.
“I know, and I forgive you,” Duncan said. “You also like Ellison, which is a far greater sin against man and God. However, as the Lord said, let he who is without sin cast the first stone and I do admit to occasionally reading Asimov and enjoying it. Albeit, his very early work before he got full of himself. ‘Christmas on Ganymede’ was really the height of his writing oeuvre.”
“You’re a Christian?” Barbara asked, surprised.
“Catholic,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Sort of. I know the tune and can dance to it. I really think of myself as a fallen pagan of Christ.”
“What’s that?” Don said, screwing up his face. “That’s one I hadn’t heard before.”
“All the old gods got wrapped into the Christian pantheon as saints and angels and such like,” Duncan said taking a sip of his own drink. Barb had assumed from the color that it was whiskey as well, but she suddenly suspected that it was iced tea. Which seemed an awfully cold drink for such a freezing night. “My namesake, for example, is naught more than various war-gods absorbed by the early Christian church. And as a Catholic, I don’t have to pray straight to the Big Guy. I can use the chain of command, which works just fine for my brain. So in the very few cases where I think prayer is in order, and occasionally when it’s not but I think he might like a word or two, I pray to Michael. Certainly worked for me in Division.”
“How?” one of the men asked.
“When I was jumping I’d just pray over and over again: ‘St. Michael, Patron of Paratroopers, Protect Us,’ “ Duncan said, shrugging. “Over forty jumps and nary an injury. Only guy I know who had more than twenty and never broke anything. These days I just talk to him from time to time when I need somebody to talk to who doesn’t talk back.”
“You were military?” Barbara asked.
“Just a grunt,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Not a very good one. Now I’m a decent writer some people like.”
“This is his way of fishing for compliments,” the brunette said, smiling. “He’s actually quite good. If you like military stuff you’d probably enjoy his books.”
“Unfortunately, most beautiful, gorgeous, curvaceous, long-legged, fine-boned, well-dressed blondes do not,” Duncan said, winking at her. “Especially those between the ages of sixteen and nineteen and a half. Alas, my primary market is males between the ages of fifteen and fifty. And I’m so irredeemably het. It’s a shame, it really is.”
“So, basically, you’re screwed,” the man with the beard said, laughing.
“Or not,” Folsom said, sighing. “But I will triumph. Unicorns. That’s the ticket.”
“I-I’ve been th-thinking about a s-story,” one of the men at the table said, suddenly. He wasn’t smoking, Barbara noticed, and she wasn’t sure why he was out there. He was in his twenties, at a guess, with lanky dark brown hair that had been cut in bangs that just didn’t look right on him. “I-it’s s-sort of unicorns in outer s-space. Well, n-not really, th-they’re not really u-unicorns, th-th-th-they just look s-sort of like th-them, but not horse looking more like s-seals because th-they can fly in s-space and th-they make a s-sort of bubble of air around th-them. Well, th-they don’t usually but th-they can if th-they have to and th-these kids find s-some and… Well, not kids, probably teenagers, th-they find th-them, I haven’t figured out just why th-they’re th-there but I’m working on th-that and th-these kids, th-their parents are probably s-scientists because I don’t th-think th-that it would work with th-them being asteroid miners. I th-think th-that asteroid miners would probably be a bit red-neck, and th-these kids are pretty s-smart. Of course, th-they could have not really s-smart parents. Or th-the parents could be pretty s-smart because you’d probably have to be s-smarter th-than most people th-think to be an asteroid miner. Anyway, th-these kids find th-these s-sort of unicorn th-things and th-there’s a group of pirates. Well, maybe not pirates, th-they might be aliens th-that are trying to take over th-the s-system. And th-the kids use th-the unicorns to s-sort of foil th-them and th-that s-sort of th-thing. What do you th-think?”
“Lovely idea, Baron,” Duncan said, nodding. If he’d noticed the digressions and the fact that the entire thing had been delivered in a monotone, not to mention that the story idea was weak and the plot nonexistent, he didn’t show it. Nobody seemed to and Barb decided that since they all knew the person, they must be used to it. Which was more acceptance than she’d have expected from a group of clearly military oriented people. Most air force officers would have impolitely told him to shove off long ago. “And if it sold, young lovelies would be all over you like flies on honey.”
“They won’t be all over me,” one of the guys at the table said, grumpily. “But I
really think my book has a chance.”
“So do I, Sean,” Duncan said, nodding. “Good story line, good characters. I think you’re a little long on the info dumps but what do I know? David certainly does well enough with them.”
“Still the wrong genre to fix my lack-a-nookie,” Sean replied. He was solidly built, probably in his twenties, with short hair and the look that said former military.
“Finally break up with Annette?” the bookseller asked.
“Ripped my heart out and stomped that sucker flat,” Sean said, bitterly. “Then she took out a restraining order. Now all my coworkers think I’m some kind of abuser.”
“Well, you do have a bit of temper,” Duncan pointed out.
“I never raised a hand to her,” Sean said, flatly. “I barely raised my voice. And that was only after I found her in my bed with her new boyfriend.”
“Sounds like you need to go back and reread the Iliad, laddy,” Don said, hiccupping. “Women are the root of all evil.”
“And men are the whole rest of the tree,” the brunette quipped.
“Well, I wouldn’t have fooled around on you,” a muffled figure said. The person was bundled up beyond belief in the cold. She had on a University of Tennessee jacket with the hood up, a scarf wrapped around her face and mitten-clad hands thrust into her armpits. Barbara could only guess she was a female from the voice and a tuft of blond hair sticking out of one side of the hood. Even her eyes were too shadowed to be seen.
“Thanks, Sadie,” Sean said, grinning. “But you’re taken.”
“We’re just friends,” the man next to her said, gruffly. He was probably in his fifties with a round face and body. With the beard and demeanor he looked like nothing so much as a rotund bear. He was the one who had made the comment about women not liking science. “And after two wives fooling around on me, I wouldn’t expect anything else,” he added.
“Men are naturally polygamous,” Duncan said, grinning. “Women, on the other hand, are simply designed to be unfaithful.”
“Now that’s an outrageous statement,” the brunette said, smiling. “Which means you have some backing for it, knowing you.”
“I’ll skip the men being naturally polygamous; it’s too long,” Duncan said, nodding. “But the ‘naturally unfaithful’ is easier. Study was done a few years ago. One group of women graded men on the basis of ‘hard’ or ‘soft’ looking. Then another group graded the men on their attractiveness, but it was calculated against their menstrual cycle. The closer they got to their menstrual cycle, when they were less fertile in other words, the more attractive the ‘soft’ looking men got. The closer they were to fertile, the more attractive the ‘hard’ looking men got. When asked to choose which they would prefer as a husband, for the long term, to raise children with, most chose the ‘soft’ looking males. The reason generally given was that the ‘nicer’ looking guys would probably make better fathers. More nurturing than those hard looking bastards.”
“Hah!” the round bear laughed. “I wonder how many ‘urban males’ are raising bastards?”
“Well, divorce proceedings are a bad random population,” Sean said. “But over thirty percent of the children that are tested in disputed custody cases turn out to not be the children of their supposed fathers.”
“Women are naturally unfaithful,” Duncan said, shrugging. “Once you’ve got that through your head everything else follows logically.”
“So are you one of the guests?” Barb asked, her eyes narrowing. Among other things, although he was somewhat older, the writer fit the parameters. He certainly didn’t seem to care much for women. She considered trying to read him, but wasn’t sure if anyone would notice. The shock she got when Mandy noticed still had her unsure.
“For my sins,” Duncan said. “Every year I turn and twist on the hook, and every year I seem to return.”
“And do you go to a lot of conventions?” Barbara asked, curiously.
“About four or five a year,” Duncan said, shrugging. “I enjoy them but they cut into writing time. But I need them, too. They let me get out in the mix of society and recharge the writing pool. I do a good bit of traveling for research as well. I’ve spent a fair amount of time in Virginia lately, researching another book. Again it gets me out in society; writing is a very lonely job. Helps with characters, too.”
“You might find yourself in a book someday,” the brunette said. “So watch out.”
“I call it soul stealing,” Duncan said, grinning.
Barbara got a cold shiver at that and decided that she just had to open up and see what she felt from the man. But there was nothing there. She reached out and felt the sort of mixed… grayness she’d come to feel from some people. But Duncan had… nothing. Not a feel of necromancy and not what her instructors had talked about with “shielding” or “cloaking.” This was more like some sort of anti-power shield or even total soullessness. He seemed powerful, and that shield certainly seemed to indicate that he was. But the power seemed oddly… familiar. She couldn’t be sure but she didn’t think he was evil. She wondered just how much he really talked to the saints.
“Well,” Barb said, standing up and smiling. “This has been a fun conversation, but it’s getting late for me so I’m heading in. If I end up in a book, I’d like to at least be informed.”
“I don’t know how to contact you,” Duncan said, widening his eyes and batting his lashes. “And I’m not about to ask for your number, it would probably be to a suicide hotline. But I shall give you a card. If you wish to contact me you may and I will tell you if you’re going to be used as a character. I make no promises about what the character goes through, however.”
“He turned me into a slave girl,” the brunette said, laughing.
“I’ve told you there was a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Duncan said, plaintively.
“Sure there was,” the woman replied, grinning. “I believe you!”
“If you didn’t trust me, why are we sharing a room?” Duncan protested.
“I didn’t say I didn’t trust you,” she replied. “I just said we had to have separate beds.”
“Conditions, conditions,” Duncan sighed, pulling out a card. “I hope to hear from you, Barb. Meeting you has made my evening.”
“It has been… enlightening for me as well,” Barbara said, nodding as she walked away. As she walked up the steps to the door she felt wetness fall on her face. Looking back she could see the snowflakes hanging in the lights of the atrium. She hadn’t seen snow like this in years but as she looked at the beauty she shivered. The snow could hide so much.
Chapter Eleven
As she was on the way upstairs she almost collided with Janea as she ran out the stairway door.
“Where is he?” Janea said, breathlessly.
“What?” Barb asked, looking around for threats. The dancer was clearly chasing someone with bloody intent.
“Skinny kid, wearing black!” Janea said. “Dark hair, pimples!”
“I didn’t see him,” Barbara said, still looking around. “Well, actually, that describes half the kids at the con… You’re sure it’s him?”
“Damn straight,” Janea said. “He manifested right in front of me, bold as brass. As soon as I… Ah hah,” she snapped, hurrying down the corridor at the sound of a door closing.
Barb followed as Janea ran to the far end of the corridor and turned into another stairwell.
“Listen,” Janea said, holding the door open. There was a sound of a door shutting but Barbara couldn’t be sure from which direction, up or down.
“Should we call Greg?” Barb asked, nervously. Wait, why was she nervous? She’d dealt with a demon, what was a necromancer to that?
“I think he went down,” Janea said. “But you go up. Call me if he’s up there.”
“I will,” Barbara said, darting up the stairs. She checked her piece on the landing and then darted up the final steps, throwing open the door at the top. There were three boys just outside the
landing, one of them bent over gasping for air.
“She’s been chasing me like a hound,” the boy gasped, breathing in and out heavily. “How the hell can she run that fast in heels?”
“Well, between the three of us, we can take her,” one of the others said. He was taller and a tad older than the youngster who was hyperventilating. All three were dressed in black but the duster the man was wearing had several cabalistic signs on it. “She’s only a second level Hunter.”
“The hell you will,” Barb said, her hand still on her piece. “She’s not who you should be worrying about. Janea! Up here.”
“Gotcha!” Janea yelled from downstairs.
“Just stay still and don’t make any sudden moves,” Barbara said, pulling out her cell phone with her left hand.
“What the hell are you talking about?” the older boy said, looking at her askance.
“Gotcha,” Janea said as she skidded through the door. “Oh, holy shit!”
“Welcome to vampire central, Hunter,” the older boy said, maliciously.
“I’m outta here!” Janea said, turning around.
“Not so fast, Hunter,” the boy said, pulling out a card. “Let’s see your powers.”
“Damn,” Janea said, pulling out her own card. “I’ve built up sixteen defense points.”
“We’re unified in a circle,” the boy said. “That’s a total of twenty-five attack points.” He held up a fist and counted. “One, two, three.”
“Hah!” Janea said, holding two fingers up. “Scissors to your paper!”
“Damn!” snapped the boy who had been gasping. He’d managed to recover and now he looked like he wanted to spit.
“You can escape, Hunter,” the older boy said, putting away his card. “But you’d better keep your face out of sight by night. We know you now, Hunter, and we’ll be looking for you. All of our circle will be hunting you, Hunter.”
“Right, Barb, we’re leaving,” Janea said, taking her arm.
“You were playing a game?” Barbara nearly shouted as the door closed. “I was ready to draw on them!”
