John Ringo - Council Wars 02 - Emerald Sea

by Emerald Sea(lit)

  Still, I had this image, glorious and terrible, of dragons fighting orcas (go watch Blue Planet: The Open Oceans to see where that came from) and I had to get them to where the book was based. The world did not permit a base in south Florida (yes, this all takes place on Earth in the far future) so they had to be transported there by ship. But... why not have it be a ship that they could take off and land upon?

  You begin to see the ugly truth of how stories are created, at least by me. Kind of like legislation and sausage.

  Thus was created the dragon-carrier. And that's when I really got carried away.

  I grew up on tales of naval aviation; my late uncle was a Navy fighter pilot in WWII. And while I'd never care to be a crewmember on one, much less a pilot (a bigger bunch of suicidal adrenaline junkies cannot be found), carriers are fascinating.

  Carriers are the most complex system ever created by man and it is only with enormous difficulty that they function at all. (As the French, Chinese and Russians all have learned to their dismay.) Packing all the planes; people, fuel and parts to support the planes into a ship-much less having it all arrive where and when it is needed in a carefully choreographed dance-has taken the U.S. Navy generations to perfect. Just so that airplanes the size of WWII bombers can leap into the air and return to decks not much larger than WWII carriers with regularity. It's an amazing feat and makes me proud of my country and my countrymen. Yes, even the Airedales. (Slang term for Navy pilots.)

  So it is with the dragon-carrier that I have taken the greatest liberties. Many of the items in this book were not invented until late in the development of carriers. Yet all of them were imagined and then engineered by the bright characters in my book in the space of a few short weeks. I'd considered having the different groups of carrier operations personnel wear different colored uniforms, but I felt that was pushing it.

  I also played fast and loose with many of the seascapes. There are no specific inlets as described, but there are places very like them in the Berry Islands. Big Greenie is real, but it's by Bimini, not in the Berrys. Nor is the entrance to the Bahamas Banks on the east side exactly as described, but it is very close. And, who knows, in a few thousand years it might be exactly as described; hurricanes, erosion and the continuous build-up of the Bahamas Banks change things drastically in decades much less millennia. Whale Point Drop, however, is real, and much as I described, minus the spring and the cave. If you don't believe me, go check. The lighthouse, however, is private property. I wish it was my private property, but I haven't sold that many books yet.

  So, permit me the liberties that I take, and I hope you enjoyed the book. That's, really, all that matters.

  As usual, I'd like to thank the people who aided me in this book, either through information or by providing the characters that make it so rich.

  Evan Mayerle, who is indeed a very inventive aviation engineer.

  Bast, who, while not quite the character in the book, can see it on a clear day.

  Hank Reinhardt for chopping pork shoulders so artistically.

  Chief Robin Brooks, the best damned chief in the Navy.

  Elayna for heroic baby-sitting beyond the call of duty.

  Pete Abrams for the rabbit. If you want to know where the rabbit came from, google "Bun-bun" and prepare to lose two weeks of productivity. Start at the beginning, read the first month, and then prepare to laugh yourself sick, probably at work with your boss watching.

  And, most especially, I'd like to thank the crew of the Blackbeard Cruise Ship, Pirate's Lady: Antja the Deck Wench, Jason the Divemaster, Jackson the engineer, Pete the cook, Bill the mate, and, yes, Bruce the captain, owner of Blackbeard Cruises. All of whom put up with such truly insane questions as "If you were a mer-man, where would you live?"

  If you're a diver and stout of spirit, I recommend the Blackbeard Cruises for the fun, price and the rum punch. Especially if my brother is directing the ratio of rum to punch. Although, sorry Bruce, not in January. Yes, the hypothermia was from experience. As was the seasickness. Including the thyme. On the other hand, if you're a Canuck, go for it. Scopolamine patches are over-the-counter in Canada and sixty-four-degree water is, apparently, positively balmy to our northern neighbors.

  Thanks for reading my books and I hope to bring you more adventures with Herzer, Edmund, Bast and Daneh in the near future.

  Who knows, maybe even the homicidal rabbit.

  John Ringo

  Commerce, Georgia

  July 2003

  Abn1508@mindspring.com

  WARNING: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE!

  The following story, while not pornographic, does contain erotica. If it were a movie it would probably be rated NC-17, possibly X. Since as an author I'm best known for my combat science fiction and "closing the bedroom door," I thought this warning in order. The erotica, for reasons that should be obvious in the story, is necessary and central to the development of both characters and plot. I've previously posted "Megan's Tale (The Harem Girl's Story)" so that a large group of fans could comment. (On Baen's Bar which can be accessed via the Baen website, www.baen.com. I'm there pretty much every day in Ringo's Tavern. Trolls will be ejected at waist height.) Their comments ranged from "this was a bit much for me" to "flesh it out." (Pun intended.)

  Megan is an important character whose experiences in this story will shape her, and the world of the Council, for some time to come. I think that the majority of my readers are mature enough to not have a problem with the following story. I don't exactly read these things as bedtime tales to my own kids. To those of you who do, my apologies and be glad for the warning.

  PROLOGUE

  In a Time of Darkness (Megan's Tale)

  The girl washing clothes by the side of the rushing stream might once have been pretty. Now, with the exception of her forearms, she was filthy and skinny, her long, brown hair hanging in tendrils around her face. She wore the remains of a fine, blue cosilk tunic, which had been tied up in the heat, and matching pants that had been cut off at midthigh. She was barefoot and her feet were heavily calloused.

  Less than a year before Megan Samantha Travante, like all the humans of her time, had lived the life of a god. Before the Fall, with the omnipresent Net to care for every need, humans wallowed in almost inexhaustible luxury. A person could live anywhere, even under the sea or in the photosphere of the sun, Change themselves into almost any form. Food was available with a word, replicated in any form. Safety was guaranteed by personal protection fields capable of surviving in any possible conditions.

  Megan's life had been slightly different from the norm. Her father was one of the few remaining "police" of the era, a man who tracked the limited criminal element that sprung up even with enormous luxury. And he was very good at his job. Good enough that he had pressed his only daughter into studying more than was normal for the period and developing a high degree of personal paranoia, not to mention defensive capabilities, which made her strange to many of her friends. Joel Travante knew that even in Paradise the serpent always lurked in the human breast, and he was sure that his daughter knew it as well.

  With pressure from her father, and her mother who was an expert on preindustrial art, Megan had used the resources of the Net to develop herself in ways strange to many of her peers. She attended few of the innumerable parties; she, in fact, had very little social life. Her life had been dedicated from an early age to intensive mental and physical training. Teaching methods had advanced along with every other art and science. Besides audio-visual systems that practically hammered knowledge into the young mind there were direct input methods available. Between the two, no realm of knowledge was closed to even the youngest. At first under her parent's pressure, and then on her own for the acorn does not fall far from the oak, Megan had used them to amass an education that would have astounded most professors of previous eras.

  The Fall, though, had caught almost everyone by surprise. The Net was managed by the Council of Key-holders, thirteen people who b
etween them held the keys to the program that managed the Net. They had fallen out, the reasons given ranged from their own statements to wild rumors, and started a civil war that had drained the power from the Net and thrown the world into a state of instant barbarism.

  Megan had been seventeen at the time of the Fall, not yet officially "released" by her parents, but free to wander at will. She had been visiting a friend in Ropasa when the Fall came while her mother was, presumably, home in the Briton Isles and her father on assignment "somewhere" in the world. Thus she had been left to her own devices. She had managed, through the smarts and paranoia that her father had inculcated, to avoid the worst aftereffects of the Fall. She hadn't been raped, unlike some of her friends, and she hadn't been one of the women chosen as "consorts" to the Changed legions of New Destiny. But it hadn't been easy to avoid either. Finally, she had found work as a washing girl and general servant for one of the elders of the local town. It wasn't a great job, but she had plans. She had skills that were rare in the post-Fall world. Most of those skills required an industrial base that was sorely lacking in the small town she had stumbled into. So she bided her time, watched for opportunities and kept her head down. In time, she'd work her way out of squalor.

  In the meantime, she had clothes to wash.

  "Excuse me, young lady," a quavering male voice said behind her and she sprung up, holding the stick she had been beating the laundry with as if it were a club.

  But the voice had come from an old man who was leaning, wearily, on a stick. Even with the stick, he was no threat.

  "Excuse me for startling you," the old man said. He was dressed in rags and his feet were as worn as her own. "I was hoping that you might help me across the ford."

  The girl cocked her head at him and, keeping her hand on the stick, walked to support his off-side.

  "This is very kind of you," the old man said. "There is not much kindness to be had in this Fallen world."

  "It's okay," the girl replied as they entered the stream. "I'm surprised you're able to survive."

  "Well, I make my way, you know," the old man replied. He was skinny and his long hair hung in greasy locks over his face and he stumbled on the round stones of the knee-deep ford. "Food is where you find it and I can work, sometimes. Not much to steal from old Paul so no trouble from bandits. I could wish that that damned Sheida hadn't caused all this trouble, though."

  "I wish all the Council were damned to hell," the girl snarled. "I wish... oh, I wish too much."

  "Sometimes we feel we are," the old man muttered. "And tell me your wishes, young lady."

  "Just the usual," she laughed, bitterly. "To be home. To be fed. To not have to worry about the cold or having to dodge gangs of men."

  "Where do you live?" the old man asked as they reached the far side of the ford. He stumbled over the slight bank and then sat down, resting his feet in the water.

  "With a couple in town," the girl replied, sitting down next to him. "They took me in after the Fall. I... well I do their cleaning and laundry and stuff. The man is one of the town elders and it's a good enough life. They protect me, at least."

  "Do you... perform other services for him?" the old man asked, delicately.

  "No, he's never even asked," the girl replied. "I don't exactly dress up around them, though. I... don't know what I would do if he made it a condition of staying. But I think Master Jean's wife would have something to say about it if he did. He lives in fear of her."

  "Yes, yes," the old man said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Not the most idyllic life, though." He peered at her and then nodded. "Good genes, good phenotype. I think you'd clean up well. Yes, you'll do. You'll most definitely do."

  "What?" the girl said, suspiciously, getting to her feet. She held the laundry club protectively in front of her and looked around, afraid that the old man was a scout for some group of thugs. "I'll do for what?"

  "As it happens, I can make your dreams come true," the man said, suddenly standing without the club and holding out his hand. "I can make it all better."

  The girl felt the world swirl around her and she lost consciousness.

  In a moment, the two were gone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When the girl awoke it was in a stone chamber. She lay on a soft bed covered in a fine cosilk coverlet. Her filthy clothes were gone and she wore a robe of light yellow silk, or something so like it she couldn't tell the difference. The room had a desk, on which sat a fine silver vase and a washing basin. There was only one door and a barred window high on the wall.

  She got up and walked to the door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily. On the other side was a corridor lined with other doors. One end ended in a blank wall, but there was light and an open area at the other end. And female voices.

  She walked down the corridor uneasily but was surprised at the sight that greeted her. There was a high-ceilinged chamber at the end, with slits near the roof to let in light and several corridors leading off of it. There were several women in the chamber, lounging on pillows strewn around on the floor. Some of them were sewing but most were simply sitting, talking in low tones, or playing board games. Some of them were just... sitting. They seemed vacant. They smiled happily all the time, but didn't talk or play the games. They just sat and stared at space, as if fascinated by the walls.

  All of the women were dressed... scantily. Most wore robes like the one she was wearing, their legs slipping out revealingly at the open bottoms, while a few were wearing camisoles and panties or even lighter lingerie. All of them were more well-fed and healthy looking than any but the most successful of the post-Fall women that she had known. They were all also, even by the standards of the time, very good looking.

  "Ah, our sleeper awakes," one of the women said, getting to her feet. She was a tall, thin brunette wearing a camisole outfit and high-heeled strap-sandals.

  "Where am I?" the girl demanded. "What... what is this place?" She had a sinking feeling that the answer was evident.

  "Well, food and a bath first," the woman replied. "I'm Christel Meazell, by the way. And you are?"

  "Megan," the girl said. "And I want some answers."

  "As I said," Christel answered, smiling brightly but clearly in no mood for back talk. "First some food and a bath. I suspect you're starved and you definitely need a bath."

  Christel led her down one of the corridors and into a long room with a table occupying most of it. Christel clapped her hands imperiously and in no more than ten seconds a woman came in bearing a platter heaped with food. The woman, who was much older than those in the chamber and not nearly as good looking, slid the platter dexterously onto the table and laid out the plates and cups she had carried.

  There was roast pork, hot from the oven. Mashed potatoes. Hot loaves of bread. Butter. A huge bowl of steaming broccoli. Gravy. Spring carrots. Megan's mouth watered at the sight.

  "Sit," Christel said. "Eat."

  Megan started to sit down and then looked at her still dirty hands.

  "I hate to eat this as filthy as I am," she admitted.

  "Eat first, then a bath," Christel said. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't gorge yourself and then throw it all up."

  "I won't," Megan said as both of the other women retired from the room.

  She carefully served herself small portions of everything. The bread was succulent. The carrots were heaven. The broccoli was ambrosia.

  None of this kept her from scoping out her surroundings. The door at the end of the room clearly led to the kitchen. One of the other corridors, at least, was going to lead out of what was clearly a prison. On the other hand, she was being fed and there was the promise of a bath. She also suspected that there was more than one layer she would have to penetrate. And she had no idea where she was. The "old man" had clearly used power to knock her out and then ported her here. Wherever "here" was; it could be anywhere on earth. Whoever the "old man" was, he had power. Which meant he was either a member of the Council
or in their employ. Which meant escape, if even possible, would be problematic at best.

  Better to reconnoiter the territory rather than make a break and fail. Gather information. Interrogate, carefully. Get the lay of the land.