How Beer Saved the World

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Other than it’s a really good drink?” Betsy asked. “It’s high in certain trace elements, along with folate and some flavonoids—”

  Charlie interrupted. “And small N’Ferrans—egglings, even—need to drink at least a little veffen in order to survive.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she admitted. “Asa said that veffen saved N’Ferra once, when I asked him. But he couldn’t tell me why.”

  Charlie drummed his hands against the wooden desk. “My hunch is that veffen, like human dark beers, allows calcium to better bind to bones. And that it works even better for the N’Ferrans than it does for us.”

  Betsy frowned, a twitch of her lips. “Maybe... maybe we need to think about how the veffen is fertilized. They seem to do it only as a ceremony with many honored guests among the N’Ferran elite–”

  “—And there must be a reason for that,” Charlie finished. “We’ve never been told what it is. Yet now, after how many years of secrecy, they’re willing to show us? There’s something wrong with that, Betsy!”

  “I’ve been here ten years,” Betsy said quietly. She’d been on N’Ferra twice as long as Charlie, who’d been among the second batch of humans to make the nascent Terran Embassy a going concern. “And they continually rebuffed me—even Asa, who has said he’d be glad to tell if it were allowed. But I think he’d lose his status as a Fearless One—”

  “Which he’s about to lose anyway if my sources are correct,” Charlie put in.

  “They’ve always been willing to share their veffen, at least in small amounts,” Betsy said, thinking aloud. “If it’s as necessary to their culture as you think it is—”

  “I’ll put out some more feelers,” Charlie promised. “When, exactly, is this ceremony?”

  “The second of Dalgarsh, which is... eight days from now?”

  “Eight 14.8 hour days... that doesn’t give us much time. I’ll ask Stan if he’s willing to do some legwork.”

  Betsy knew Stanley Driscoll, the Terran Embassy’s science specialist, quite well. An older Terran, he was passionately interested in everything concerned with avian biology and had actually come out of retirement to study the N’Ferrans. So if anyone could find out what the N’Ferrans actually needed the veffen to do for them, Stan would be the man.

  “He’ll have to get over the N’Ferrans use of his full first name, too,” Betsy said dryly. “I know Stanley sounds strange—”

  “But they like it, and that’s what they’re going to call him, nyah!”

  They laughed, but without humor.

  “For now, I’m going to pretend that Scholar Asa did not request asylum and continue to try to find him,” Betsy murmured. “I’ll be the misdirection, while you and Stan try to figure out what’s going on.”

  <<>>

  Another four days passed before Stan Driscoll walked into Betsy’s public office. He waved triumphantly, then walked upstairs to her inner sanctum. She quickly disengaged from a few Terran tourists (visiting the embassy for the locations of bars that catered to human stomachs along with the ubiquitous veffen) and followed.

  Stan wasted no time. “At the veffen-making ceremony, I’ve heard that the N’Ferrans give chapter and verse as to how, exactly, veffen is so important to them.”

  “Did you find someone willing to talk with you right now, though?” Betsy asked as she took her seat behind her desk. “And should we wait for Charlie?”

  “He’s got a lead as to where Asayana is, so I’d guess not,” Stan said. “And no, I couldn’t get anyone to talk directly. But I did confirm your hunch that veffen helps the N’Ferrans, biologically—did you know that N’Ferran bones are abnormally brittle due to past radioactivity?”

  “The crust of N’Ferra has some abnormalities, I’d read—”

  “Exactly, and that’s why the Ruling Council distrusts our technology, as they equate it, I’m sorry, with radiation.” Stan shook his white-haired head.

  A deep bong rang out, which meant one of the other Embassy staffers had need of her, immediately. Betsy went to the glass plate and saw Charlie... alone. Something about his expression made her stomach drop.

  She quickly opened the door. “Charlie, what’s wrong?”

  He stepped inside, closed the door, and said. “Asayana’s been taken by the Ruling Council. We can’t get at him, though supposedly he will be available to you, and to you alone, directly before the veffen-making ceremony.” His eyes darkened to a near-black, something Betsy had never seen in the five years she’d known him. “The Ruling Council said everything will be explained at that time.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t believe it, either,” Stan said. “I’ve heard rumors of ghastly things done to elderly N’Ferrans such as Asayana at veffen-making ceremonies—”

  “Such as what?” Betsy demanded.

  “Ritual murder...” said Stan.

  “Blood sacrifice...” said Charlie.

  Stan and Charlie looked at one another, then by unspoken accord Stan went on. “Blood, you see, also appears to be needed in order to fertilize the various plants that make up veffen. And the N’Ferrans often make a spectacle of it, from what I’ve been told—”

  “And I,” Charlie agreed.

  “Even though voluntary transfusions are possible and would not harm the N’Ferrans if done in small quantities—which appears to be what is usually done to fertilize the veffen, from what I could tell—the Ruling Council likes to make an example out of certain notorious N’Ferrans.”

  “Thanks, Stan, for this information.” Betsy knew she needed to talk with Charlie alone, as there was something else he hadn’t yet said. “If the N’Ferrans would allow it, I’d like to bring you to the veffen-making ceremony.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but if what I think is going to happen actually does, I don’t want to be there,” Stan said. “I’m just sorry that you have to go. Because I don’t think anyone should have to witness something like that.” He then bowed, formally—an unexpected touch—turned on his heel, and left.

  “Betsy, there’s no good way to say this... Scholar Asayana’s wings have already been shredded,” Charlie said quietly. “If that would’ve been enough for the Ruling Council, we’d have seen him here days ago. So I’m certain they have more in store for him—please, please don’t go to the ceremony.”

  Charlie caught her before she hit the floor.

  <<>>

  Betsy dressed in her best Ambassadorial outfit—a deep, rich black jumpsuit with a black cape lined in gold silk along with gold boots without too much of a heel—and waited for Charlie to bring the aircar around. He made a nifty three-point landing, came up to receive her formally—Betsy assumed this was done for the sake of any N’Ferrans that might be watching—and walked her to the aircar. Charlie fussed over her until she was completely belted in. Then they headed to the agricultural city of Debreay.

  The place where Asa was scheduled to die.

  “You can take a blaster, you know,” Charlie’s voice said over the ’com. “For self defense—the charter allows it.”

  “If it was going to be that easy to get Asa away, I’d do it—but you know it’s not going to be that easy, if it’s even possible.”

  “Is that why you’re going?”

  “I know it doesn’t seem likely that anyone can help Asa now, but he’s my friend. He’s been my friend for ten years. And if there’s one good N’Ferran like him, who’s willing to get to know us on our own terms, I have to be there to honor him no matter what else happens.”

  “Better you than me,” he said quietly.

  Then, before she knew it, they were at the right coordinates. “I don’t see Scholar Asayana anywhere,” he murmured. “And there are no N’Ferran life signs for five klicks in any direction save for those six.”

  She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t see her, and waited as he landed the aircar. He opened up the door with a ceremonial flair, helped her down, and brought her over to the six high-ra
nking members of the N’Ferran Ruling Council. After bowing to them each in turn, Charlie said quietly, “Let me know when this farce is over.”

  She waved him off, then watched as he flew away. And did her best not to slump, as all of the N’Ferrans were less than four feet high... typical of their species, even though Asayana had been quite a bit taller at nearly five feet. She thought, I wonder if that’s one of the reasons he became a Fearless One? He already was quite a bit different, just being so tall in this society.

  “Strange, how you Terrans need artificial wings in order to fly,” said an artificial human voice through a machine—a voder—at the level of Betsy’s belt. She looked down, and saw one of the older Council members, one she knew could easily speak Terran, if he wished.

  They must want to insult me, she thought. Why?

  “We do our best, sirs and madams,” she said aloud with all due ceremony. Then, after bowing to each of the six delegates, she allowed herself to be guided by one of the Councilors to a nearby chair. Oddly enough, this one was properly sized for a human being... if they wanted to insult her, why give her a chair that actually fit rather than one sized for one of their own?

  Tired already of the formal diplomatic dance, she decided to get down to brass tacks. “You invited me here for a veffen-making ceremony. Where is it?”

  “There must have been an error in translation,” said the Councilman’s voder. “The veffen has been made. We just want you to drink some.”

  “Where is Vkandwe Asayana?” she asked instead.

  “He has completed his life’s work,” was the unsettling response. “He has fed the veffen.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Betsy asked sharply.

  “Blood seals the crop, and only blood,” the Councilman said in Terran. “We don’t care if the blood comes from criminals, or human-lovers like Vkandwe Asayana.”

  Oh, great, thought Betsy. Xenophobia rearing its ugly head again. I really thought we’d gotten past this on N’Ferra.

  “Asayana associated with you,” the Councilman continued. “He was getting old, couldn’t fly, and we needed his blood. So we took it from him…but at a price.”

  “What price?” Betsy demanded. They killed him for his blood? Charlie and Stan were absolutely right.

  “We’ll tell you, but you must drink—”

  “Why?”

  Another member of the Council, this one a blue-feathered female limned by her gold half-cape, spoke by voder. “We all must drink veffen every day, or we can’t walk, much less fly. And without our blood, the crops do not flourish.”

  “Such was our surmise,” Betsy said quietly. “But why must I drink this particular veffen, knowing what I now do about its manufacture?”

  “You will do so, or we will expel you—” said the first Councilman.

  “And lose all our commerce?” Betsy laughed bitterly. “I don’t think so.”

  “It is considered an honor to be at an end-of-life ceremony,” said a third member of the Council, this one feathered pure black and wearing a black and silver half-cape. “You’re the first Terran to ever see it.”

  Lucky me, she thought.

  “We toast our fallen comrades as a way to say... thanks?” the voder sputtered. “As a way to bring them... immortality, of a sort.”

  “Asayana’s a Fearless One,” Betsy said. “My hunch is that Fearless Ones do not normally do this. So again, why must I, as I am a Fearless One of my own species?”

  “We were divided,” a fourth voder spoke. This one was from a gold-feathered female wearing a navy half-cape. “We knew Vkandwe Asayana had asked for asylum. I, myself, wished to allow him to leave N’Ferra... if he could. And I saw no point to shredding his wings, either.”

  “Why tell me this?” Betsy demanded.

  “Veffen saved our lives, which is something we promised Asayana we’d tell you in exchange for his blood,” the fourth Council member said. “Our world was nearly destroyed three hundred years ago by fire.”

  Radioactivity, Betsy knew. Not a normal fire, no matter what the voder said.

  “—and only the veffen crops survived. But they did something strange…”

  Crop mutation. Not unknown in the annals of history.

  “—and after that, the only way we could get the crops to bloom properly was to give them the blood, first of our animals, then of ourselves…”

  The first Council member threw up his hands. “She doesn’t need to know all this!”

  “Yes, she does,” the fourth member said. “It was our bargain with Asayana. He said if we told you what had happened, you’d be able to tell your people... and maybe you could help us. Our people will die without your help, because the blood we have is not enough.”

  Betsy stared at her.

  “Moreover,” the fourth member continued in Terran, “Asayana has been telling us this very same thing for the past four boryani. But not all of us wanted to listen.”

  Betsy bowed to her, and thought hard. That last reason—that Scholar Asa had seen no viable way to continue fertilizing the veffen by blood—must be why Asayana went to his death. As a Fearless One, he had celebrated knowledge and went wherever his knowledge took him. This time, his fearless nature had led him to allow himself to be sacrificed in order to attempt to save his world, because that was the only way the Council would agree to ask the Terrans—ask her—for help.

  “We’d need more than six scientists working on this, so we’d have to expand the Embassy,” Betsy said. Her heart was breaking, but Asa had died to give her this knowledge. She couldn’t help but use it.

  Which is what she knew he’d expect.

  Quickly, the N’Ferrans agreed. But then, they insisted that she drink the veffen in order to seal the deal. And she knew she’d have to do it, even though after this she knew she’d never drink veffen again.

  She remembered Asa, his calm certainty, his intelligence, his strength, and his final, ironic toast. This gave her the courage to take up the mug and take one, ritual swallow. “To Vkandwe Asayana! The finest Fearless One I’ve ever known, who gave his life in the pursuit of knowledge.”

  “To Vkandwe Asayana!” the Councillors echoed.

  And the deal was done.

  Betsy hoped that somewhere, wherever Asa was now in his pursuit of knowledge, that he was smiling. Because she knew she wasn’t.

  One Burp to Save Them All

  Irene Radford

  Berd followed behind the caravan’s magician. They both checked the cords and bindings of the precious cargo loaded onto sledges. The casks of beer gave off small whiffs of yeast and malt and hops. More hops than usual. It had been a good year for hops. The heady aroma eased his mind and soothed his posture.

  But not his concerns. He still double checked everything the magician touched. The magician had appeared out of the dark surrounding the campfire last night, just as the men wandered off to their bed rolls. He had papers assigning him to this caravan. Berd couldn’t read the words on the paper but he recognized the wax seal of the mayor of Brewtown.

  The mayor’s approval didn’t mean Berd trusted the magician.

  One loose strap and fifteen casks would roll back off the sledge, break apart and spill the rich amber liquid into the thirsty plains of Coronnan.

  The caravan hadn’t had a magician along their route in nigh on twenty years. Every power-mad one of them had signed on with one lord or another as battlemages, neglecting their normal duties. Berd had been loading and lashing cargo so long on his own, he didn’t didn’t see a need for the man wearing a faded blue tunic and trews, carrying a twisted staff.

  Stargods only knew the central plains needed moisture. All the beer in this entire caravan wouldn’t raise a clump of mud. But there were a lot of thirsty people at the end of the journey. Three cities hadn’t yet managed to clear their wells once the peace treaty had been signed. Poisoning and clearing wells was a specialty of battlemages. Maybe this magician could finish the cleansing. In the meantime, Berd had the res
ponsibility of transporting beer safe for drinking from the springs of sweet water in the foothills across the wide plains of plentiful grains to the coast, where even clean wells were brackish with bay and tides and unfit for brewing. And he had to get these casks to the city intact.

  This magician wasn’t exactly young, more like an old geezer past his prime. No longer strong enough or keen enough to stand up to a battlemage. Chances were, his eyesight had faded along with the dye on his journey clothes.

  “You needn’t double check everything I do,” the man in blue said, with his back to Berd, a full sledge ahead of him. “I know how to stabilize a load.”

  Berd grumbled something rude into his beard rather than reply.

  “I understand that the caravans, indeed all of Coronnan, has been missing magicians for too long, but the wars are over and we are back, with royal sanction. We actually have a king with authority now too. And the blessing of the dragons. I intend to do my job of easing the journey. Do you still have problems with steeds stepping into overly deep ruts and upsetting the cargo?”

  Berd had to nod at that. As the seasons changed weather played havoc with the trails, filling in some holes, deepening and widening others.

  “And do your steeds still bog down in mud?” the magician asked.

  Berd allowed a wry grin to crease his face. “Not this year. Ain’t had morn’n a trace a rain in six moons. No mud to slow us down.”

  “Fewer creeks and ponds on the route to ease the thirst of the animals who do most of the work,” the magician reminded him. “And what few water sources remain, you can’t be sure are safe until someone drinks from them and sickens… or survives.”

  “Um…” Berd didn’t have an answer to that. The caravans had gotten so used to fending for themselves, they hadn’t thought a magician could actually help. They were running out of caged rats to test the purity of water on.

  The war had killed more than people.

  “My name’s Lyman,” the magician said, pulling on a strap and retying a knot that had come loose.

  “Berd,” the drover replied, chagrined. He recognized the knot as one of his own. It shouldn’t have loosened this quickly. Young Jyson, now, he couldn’t tie a knot in a neck scarf, let alone on cargo. He learned, but slowly. At the moment he was better suited to feeding the steeds.