by P. S. Power
There had been terror attacks in the last months, in different locations, which had people worked up. Scared and not knowing who to blame. The guilty parties came to mind, but the PC crowd was making common sense too hard to get away with. Really, what started to happen in front of him was probably this world’s version of that, he knew. Several of the others, moved forward, to debate the idea that assassination was a useful tool in war.
Renner was the minority voice, though Cleot held back, listening as Bronner and Timmy laid out their arguments. Tim was the youngest person there, for all the recruiter had been calling George a boy. He was under twenty-four, there, so by law he wasn’t an adult yet. Old enough for war, or marriage, but not for voting as the old song went. Not that they had that kind of thing there. The king wouldn’t allow it, he was certain.
The kid shook his blond head, his brown eyes looking upset. Angry.
“If we allow wanton murder like that, then what’s to keep anyone from doing the same to us? Where would a people be without a king to guide them?” He looked as if he were trying to be wise, but the words were clearly just the common thought there. They really couldn’t imagine anything but what they’d always known.
Everyone nodded, except, again, Cleot, Renner and George. He just waited, watching what was going on. It meant the other men were looking at him by the end of things, but unlike his normal habit of forcing everyone to engage as much as possible, the master there just nodded a few times and let things wind down quickly. Everyone had their say, but it was mainly just a reiteration of what Timmy had proclaimed. You didn’t kill the leaders, because that would invite others to kill yours.
As if they weren’t going to try it anyway.
He didn’t add anything at all, until Cleot dismissed the others and called him over with a wave of his right hand. The army recruiter was standing there next to him still. A callused hand came out from the grizzled man, who had used a bit of cloth, a strip of it, to tie his gray hair back in a ponytail. They clasped forearms, since that was the secret sign of the Weapons Masters.
Except that, of course, it didn’t fit with the fight that had just taken place. Meaning the other man had either faked the handshake, or had held back a lot, out in the yard. Controlling the fight so that George looked better than he should have during the unarmed portion of things. Then ramping up when they moved to steel. Why that was, he couldn’t tell, but it made sense that it had taken place.
Cleot saw the look on George’s face, understood it, and nodded.
“Years ago Renner and I were both under Master Little, in Terryville. He’s here to see about setting up our town’s defenses. It looks likely that we’ll have to fight, sooner rather than later. The Tollan nomads have been pushing at the Western border again. We’re only fifty miles away give or take, if true fighting breaks through. It’s the long border as well, so odds are, each town will have to fend for themselves. The king can’t field that many troops after all. None can.”
That was a known thing really. At least George had been tracking it. He recalled that, from his work as a cartwright. Everyone talked to the guy who fixed their cart. It was a lot different than those coming for auto repair that way. Probably because it just wasn’t as technical seeming. That or really different customs in the two places.
“Most of the work lately has been for the army. I’ve been noticing that. I work with wagons. Building and repair, not as a driver.” It was a skill, and in that trade, he was actually considered a near master. Then, he started that one at ten, so had worked his way up the ladder of skills by twenty. That was a fairly normal progression. Truthfully he was ready to go off as a journeyman, but had held out there for a while, in Homess, so that he could finish his training with Cleot. Having mastery of two things was better than only one, after all.
Part of it was also due to the strange things that happened to him. The changing back and forth between worlds. He didn’t talk about it with anyone, since it was kind of clear that almost everyone, in both places, would think he was bugnuts crazy, if he did.
Which, honestly, he wasn’t completely certain he wasn’t.
That didn't mean he got out of living his life though. Even if it was hard at times. In one place, he was living with the constant threat of terrorism, and here it was of barbarian attacks by outlanders. Really, the situation was similar for both, but the Tollan were more understandable. They just wanted the women and whatever goods or cattle could be stolen away.
The Islamists wanted everyone else converted or dead for religious reasons. He got that, and so did some of the customers at work. The government however kept acting like they could be appeased, if they were just understood well enough. That because all followers of Islam weren’t evil, that no one was allowed to point out that some, a good and healthy percentage, had ideas that would end in people being dead, if they were allowed to follow through with them.
On the great side, that wasn’t his personal issue, that day.
George had fixed three cars, one large, heavy axle wagon and practiced fighting in the afternoon. What he was doing in the other world at the moment, he didn't know and wouldn’t until after he shifted back. If that even happened. One day, he thought, he simply wouldn’t. As a kid, it had never happened. Not until after he’d been hit in the head.
Then, boom, one day, out on patrol, he was living another life. One that he recalled perfectly. That seemed the causation, the brain damage. It was light really, and hit on the right side of the temporal lobe. It hadn’t even scarred him that much, though there was a line in his skull there, if you felt around carefully. That part didn’t really show, the hair on his head covering it well enough.
He’d read up on it, thinking, at first, that it had to be that, the damage done, but as far as George could tell, that wasn’t the case. Crazy people, stories aside, didn’t have access to entirely different worlds. They didn’t even believe that was happening for the most part. They certainly didn’t have it surrounding them all the time like he did. For the moment, there, standing where he was, looking at Cleot and Renner, it was very clear that he was in the real world.
It would stay that way, until he was in the other place. Where that would seem to be the real one.
Which didn’t mean that he wasn’t insane, after a fashion. People could, and did, have weird reactions to brain damage from time to time. It was probably better, more logical, to assume that he was brain damaged and living in one place or the other, rather than thinking that he was living in two worlds like he seemed to be.
The thing there was, at the point that he’d been injured in Iraq, he’d also been kicked in the head by his family’s old mule there in Stena. In short, he didn't know which world was the real one. There was no way to tell, as far as he could determine. Over ten, nearly twelve years, he hadn’t worked it out, anyway.
Cleot slapped him on the arm, bringing him back to the moment.
“George. I noticed that you didn't join in the discussion back there. Is there a reason for that?”
“Not really. I disagreed, but know that what everyone else was saying is the more moral idea. Not that we should protect other kings or… What do the Tollan have, clan chiefs?”
That got a nod from Renner.
“Aye on that. They fight in loose family bands. Personal combat is their way, man to man, rather than in battle lines. We win, when they’ll face us on the field. Most times that means we end up attacked in the night, as we try to sleep, given that.” His eyes were a bit dark for a moment, as if a memory of horrors were hitting him and he was trying to hide the idea.
George got it. The thing was, there in Stena, he wasn’t supposed to. He nodded anyway, and patted the man on the shoulder.
Cleot gave him a funny look, which was probably about wondering why he’d done that. On the great side, while the people of Stena were all horrible homophobes, they didn't assume that everything that took place was a signal of people being gay. George wasn’t interested in men, so that m
eant Cleot was thinking something else. What that was however didn’t come through for the time being.
He went on then, thinking for a bit.
“Hence getting with the Weapons Masters? That’s what we train for… Personal combat. One on one, three on one… Without that much honor in it, regardless of the fine words from earlier. We aren’t really warriors though. There’s a difference between hitting a man with a blunt iron edge and taking their head.”
That got a nod then, and a slight smile from the war vet.
“That’s my thought on it, truth be told. Still, skilled people fare better on the field of war than those who simply flail about. Places for both, but my plan is to enlist those that have an edge to start with. The other way is to throw people at the problem until enough of them become good or prove out. The deaths are drastically higher that way. Then, we don’t get much time to do this. Best guess, we see the first incursions here inside the next six months. Spring, like as not. Not here, by needs, but this far into Stena. It would be worse, but winter is upon us and the barbarians hold back in the snows, for the most part.”
George grunted a bit, thinking about trying to take Russia in the winter, of all things. It wasn’t a thing he could mention, or a thing that he knew was even real, but the people of west Stena were hardy in the snow. Everyone could use snow-skis, sledges and snow shoes. On the other side of the mountains it was lower and warmer, he thought. A desert. A cold one half the year, but they didn’t get a lot of white stuff on the ground to slow them down. It meant they didn't grow up trained to handle that kind of thing.
“So, we need to work this in two phases? Start a training program for those that could fight but don’t know how, and special units to act as guards and forward scouts while the others get up to speed?” George kept his face still, brushing at his brown hair.
That, his looks, didn’t change a lot from one place to the other. In Stena, he was fit, white and brown eyed. The same as in the other world. There he looked older, but not by that much. About ten years, if that.
Renner stared at him for a while. It was a knowing thing, rather than annoyed. Then, slowly, gave a nod.
“Cleot has taught you well. I didn’t know that he’d cover military strategy like that… We didn’t back when I was training with him, under Master Little.” There was a baffled tone, but the man finally smiled and shook his head, as Cleot went still.
Staring directly at him.
What he didn’t do was call George on what he’d said.
“That isn’t a horrible idea. We’ll have regular military, but we need some irregulars in each town or city. We like as not won’t be seeing a full invasion. Just raiders and thieves. This happens every ten, twenty years. The Tollan come in, hit at us for a while, until we send real forces into their lands and slap them around hard enough that they don’t want to bother again for a time.”
Renner seemed to consider something for a bit, then nodded, waving at them both.
“Not bad. As long as we leave them all at home most of the time, unless there’s a real threat, we won’t have to pay them. Irregulars… Well, if the barbarians come for their women, men will fight regardless. Might as well make it half official and teach them enough to keep them alive. I have your hands in this? We might have to send people to other towns to set up. Not every place has Weapons Masters like you do here.” There was a sly look at George then, as if that made any sense.
He just snorted.
“If you want that, you have to pay me. It’s too hard to make a living as a traveling cartwright to be manageable that way. Tanners and farmers are in the same place as far as that goes as well. You can’t take that kind of thing on the road easily.” Though, he could probably manage it, with a filled wagon that had supplies and tools. The thing there was that it would be uncertain, since most places had people that did that work already. If there were a lot of open work spots in other places, he could just move and set up shop.
Not that holding in place was about that for him.
He shook his head.
“Besides, I need to finish my training with master Cleot. That’s why I’ve been holding here in Homess. I don’t know how long that will take.” Probably too long, really. In the main they didn’t move quickly there, in Stena.
His master just nodded then. There was a wry smile to go with it.
“Well, you kicked Renner’s behind today. To be claimed as one of us you have to match or best three masters. I can vouch you’re close on enough for me. Not to consistently beat me, but that isn’t the point. You know the skills. We just have to find one more for you. Well, then you have to win, but that’s on you. I’ll look for that.”
The words were odd, to be truthful. They’d never spoken of it in regards to him, personally. For the last few years, Cleot had said he was good and getting better, but there was no mention of how long things would take. On average, it was about ten years.
“Am I good enough, do you think? I mean…” The thing there was that George, at least the part of him that worked in a garage fixing cars knew the answer to that. He was as good as Cleot, in a lot of ways. The man didn't even have secrets or tricks that were being held back. There was no magic or skill that had been hidden or anything. The Weapons Masters power came from constant practice and conditioning, not holding things back so they looked good in a pinch. “Which is what you were just saying. If I’m ready, then I can prove it. Let’s do that?” He was confident enough, without swaggering or seeming like he thought he was the best fighter ever.
Anyone could lose, after all. Even the greatest master ever. Learning to fight, mastering the sword and spear… Those things gave you a better chance of surviving a conflict. Even an untrained fighter could take your life, if you weren’t lucky, or something went wrong. In an instant.
Renner nodded and smiled brightly, his gray and silver beard moving as he rubbed at it. Using his dirty finger nails to really get in deep.
“Good then. I’ll see to payment for you. Get our boy here up to scratch, Cleot. The payment for a weapons master is higher than a cartwright, as far as the army goes.” There was a slap on the arm then, and it was clear that they were going to be speaking more about the topic.
Not that George got to hear the words. No, he warped again, only to find himself in bed, the covers pulled over him. In his tiny apartment.
Shaking his head, he rolled over.
It was clear that he was supposed to be asleep, in the world he found himself. It didn’t make sense for a moment, but he recalled an evening of working out, which was lifting weights at the gym, and then heading home, alone. He was due in at work at eight the next day, so sleep wasn’t a horrible idea.
Chapter two
George didn’t warp out constantly or anything. Normally it only happened a few times a week. Sometimes not even that often. The thing there was that, as soon as he was back, he remembered everything that he’d done. It was all there, with a bit of focus and thought.
That was good in a way, except for the fact that he really doubted that his mind was going to hold together too much longer under the strain. After all, he was a mechanic that had served in the Army for years. Not some kid in a fantasy land. Except that, when he was there, in Stena, instead of Springfield, that world seemed like it might just be the real one.
Part of him kind of wanted to think that it was all real, of course. The only thing stopping that one from seeming right was that no one else did that. There wasn’t even real proof that there were other worlds. Just the one he was in, and whatever he made up for himself.
He laid in bed, the alarm going off for about three minutes, thinking about that. The real thing there was, he knew, that he needed to get help. Drugs or something that would stop it from happening. It wasn’t that Stena wasn’t a great life in its own way, since he had it pretty decent there, though he did miss indoor plumbing while he was imagining that part. It was more that for different lengths of time, some long enough that he’d wondered
if he were just going to stay in one world or the other, George had been living on auto pilot. Missing out on his real life. Whichever one that was.
“It’s this one, idiot. No matter how real it all feels over there.” Unless it was the other way around.
The words got him to sit up, trying to get going for the day. It was early, but he wanted a shower and a hot breakfast before he went in to work. He was starting first thing that morning, but the place he worked wasn’t bad. His boss, Gary, was a good enough guy. It was just the two of them, and his boss’s wife. Wendy. She ran the front counter for the most part. Taking the money and setting up appointments.
She was a sweet woman. Not cute really, being too thin and tense seeming most of the time. Something had happened to her at some point, he was nearly certain. Something bad. It wasn’t his to question, so he didn't ask about it. He fixed cars, not people. Then, he hadn’t been asked to do anything that way, so had never tried. It made sense for him to avoid people as far as close relationships went, so Wendy and Gary were his people, more or less.
Gary was actually good looking. Like the kind of guy who probably should have been a movie star, and it was more than a bit strange to see him working on cars each day. He did it, and owned the place full out, which was important.
They were, more or less, all friends. Not the closest kind, but he’d met their kids, and everyone in the family seemed all right with him.
He had three eggs, since sticking to low carb made him feel better most days. He didn’t get a choice that way in the other land, since people there ate what was on offer, most of the time. They had bread, grains, as well as occasional meat. Hot cereal was eaten for more than one meal a day, as well as lots of stewed things. No one in Homess was starving, but there were only a few fat people there. In Springfield, most of the people were at least a bit plump. Not that he cared about that.
