Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  She'd kept the sa­me bed­ro­om set-bed, end tab­les, dres­sers, chests, and so forth, tho­ugh. Her mot­her had re­tur­ned to El­f­land when Amy was too small to re­mem­ber, but had left that bed­ro­om fur­ni­tu­re as a par­ting gift, and even af­ter the mo­ney sud­denly po­ured in fol­lo­wing the unex­pec­ted suc­cess of Amy and Ti­ta­nia, that hand-car­ved el­ven fur­ni­tu­re had be­en much the ni­cest stuff in The Ca­bin.

  Dad had bo­ught go­od things, all le­at­her and oak and very Scan­di­na­vi­an, that we­re now in sto­ra­ge; he'd left Amy's ro­om alo­ne be­ca­use it was hers, and his of­fi­ce be­ca­use he co­uld not be­ar the tho­ught of chan­ging an­y­t­hing and pos­sibly je­opar­di­zing the ama­zing luck that had ta­ken him, af­ter fif­te­en Lit­tle Amy bo­oks, from a re­li­ab­le sel­ler for every lib­rary's col­lec­ti­on, and the re­ci­pi­ent of a few fan let­ters every month, to the Ti­mes bes­t­sel­ler list.

  Probably he had ma­de 99% of the mo­ney he ever ma­de in the last six ye­ars of his li­fe. She won­de­red what he might ha­ve do­ne dif­fe­rently if he had known that tho­se we­re the last six. Pro­bably writ­ten one less Lit­tle Amy bo­ok to ma­ke ti­me for the se­ri­es fi­nis­her he al­ways sa­id he wo­uld do so­me day, spent a lit­tle mo­re ti­me tra­ve­ling, and had ho­okers up at The Ca­bin twi­ce a we­ek. And drunk mo­re, la­ug­hed mo­re, and eaten mo­re piz­za-with-ever­y­t­hings. Dad hadn't be­en the type to mo­urn abo­ut to­mor­row, no mat­ter how ine­vi­tably it was clo­sing in. Which had so­met­hing to do with tho­se ti­mes in Amy's chil­d­ho­od when she had be­en for­bid­den to an­s­wer the pho­ne be­ca­use it might be "the mo­ney bas­tards," Dad's ex­p­res­si­on for bill col­lec­tors, "they're li­ke god­dam Tol­ki­en's god­dam orcs but not as well writ­ten, Amy, and if you talk to one on the pho­ne he can ste­al yo­ur so­ul."

  The sta­irs she as­cen­ded, and the ba­lus­t­ra­de we­re elf-car­ved, too, part of the list of things Dad had put in­to the ca­bin, li­ke rep­la­cing the pi­ne­wo­od flo­ors with map­le and the pla­in old ther­mo­pa­ne win­dows with old-fas­hi­oned do­ub­le sas­hes, to ma­ke it mo­re li­ke The Ca­bin in the Lit­tle Amy bo­oks. When she'd be­en ni­ne, the­re had be­en a ste­el uti­lity sta­ir he got for free from a wa­re­ho­use that was be­ing torn down, and they had re­j­o­iced at get­ting to spend two we­eks in­s­tal­ling it, fi­nal­ly rep­la­cing the strap­ped on ex­ten­si­on lad­der they'd used be­fo­re then.

  "Talk to me, Amy, this is scary."

  " You're sca­red? You've got a gun and you're eighty mi­les away."

  At the top of the sta­irs, she flic­ked on a light and wal­ked down to her bed­ro­om do­or, far down at the end of the hall (at le­ast the pla­ce had al­ways be­en big).

  When she flip­ped the light switch, she gas­ped.

  "Amy! Are you okay!" Der­rick's vo­ice in her ear was de­man­ding, as if she we­re a pat­rol­man abo­ut to do so­met­hing fa­tal.

  Her soul- what she tho­ught was her so­ul-what she had tho­ught was her so­ul-was on the bed, as a qu­ilt. A big, gor­ge­o­us, el­ven-ma­de qu­il­ted com­for­ter, with a raw silk fa­ce prin­ted and em­b­ro­ide­red with the pat­tern she re­mem­be­red so well, a very ni­ce one and it wo­uld pro­bably ha­ve cost a tho­usand dol­lars at the gift shops in Che­yen­ne or Sid­ney, but no­net­he­less it was not a so­ul, it was just yo­ur ba­sic shiny elf-qu­ilt, as­to­nis­hingly warm, eter­nal­ly du­rab­le, fas­ci­na­ting and ele­gant.

  But a qu­ilt. Tho­ugh the pat­tern was in­de­ed just as long as he was tall, and-

  "Amy, are you okay? Say so­met­hing. I'm di­aling La­ri­mer She­riff's right now-"

  "I'm fi­ne, I was just star­t­led by so­met­hing that has not­hing to do with an­y­t­hing, sorry I wor­ri­ed you, you don't ne­ed to send the de­pu­ti­es."

  Of co­ur­se she re­mem­be­red that qu­ilt vi­vidly, now. She had be­en tuc­ked un­der it cle­ar back when she was yo­un­ger than Lit­tle Amy in the bo­oks. She had la­in on it with her ho­me­work open in front of her whi­le she chat­ted on the pho­ne abo­ut keg­gers and shop­ping trips down to Bo­ul­der or Fort Col­lins. She'd de­ba­ted ta­king it to col­le­ge with her.

  "I know you'll ha­te my as­king, but are you okay?"

  "I'm fi­ne," she sa­id, and re­ali­zed how husky her vo­ice so­un­ded. Her fa­ce was wet. "Just one of tho­se fin­ding my so­ul things. I've got PMS-Per­ce­iving My So­ul-okay?"

  "I think it's we­ird you can joke abo­ut it."

  "Well, I can cry, too."

  "Are you?"

  "Mind yo­ur own bu­si­ness."

  Amy just co­uld not be­li­eve that she had re­mem­be­red her fuc­king bed­s­p­re­ad as her so­ul. She had li­ved so clo­se to the Bor­der for so long-Wyo­ming was less than half an ho­ur's dri­ve up the hig­h­way from he­re, one low ran­ge and you'd be des­cen­ding in­to it-and so­me­how she had ma­na­ged to ma­ke a mis­ta­ke li­ke-

  "H'lo?" The qu­ilt mo­ved. "Hel­lo?" The vo­ice was sle­ep-dren­c­hed and sad. An arm, in a blue flan­nel sle­eve with Han So­lo on it, re­ac­hed out from un­der the qu­ilt; and a sur­p­ri­singly al­to vo­ice cro­aked "ah shit, ah shit, ah shit," as if it had not be­en used in months. The qu­ilt flip­ped back re­ve­aling a small, pa­in­ful­ly thin wo­man, big eyes and li­ver-lips be­ne­ath a messy mop of jet-black ha­ir that ma­de her lo­ok li­ke a de­ad dan­de­li­on. She gro­ped for her thick horn-rim­med glas­ses, on the bed­si­de tab­le, li­ke an old drunk fe­eling aro­und for his bot­tle, pul­led them on with a gri­ma­ce, and blin­ked at Amy thro­ugh a clo­ud of ble­ar.

  "Derrick," Amy sa­id, "it's what I tho­ught, and it's fi­ne, 'kay? I ne­ed to talk to Sam now. Thanks for be­ing the­re and put­ting up with me and ever­y­t­hing."

  "All right. Can I call la­ter abo­ut may­be-"

  "I'll call you. Pro­mi­se. Got­ta go." She clic­ked off and lo­oked at Sam ex­pec­tantly, not even con­si­de­ring be­ing angry; this was too per­fect and too typi­cal.

  "Ah shit, Amy, I gu­ess I sho­uld try to ex­p­la­in this or so­met­hing."

  "Well," Amy sa­id, "you're not in much sha­pe to ex­p­la­in an­y­t­hing, but I bet I can. Af­ter the fel­low­s­hip ran out, even tho­ugh you wro­te so­met­hing li­ke ten pic­tu­re bo­oks whi­le you we­re on it, you still hadn't sold an­y­t­hing, so you didn't ha­ve any mo­ney or an­y­w­he­re to go. The next fel­low­s­hip per­son wasn't due for mo­re than two months, so you put yo­ur stuff in sto­ra­ge and sin­ce you still had a key he­re, you stay he­re, sle­ep in my bed, be­ca­use it's the only one he­re, and wri­te at Dad's desk or the kit­c­hen co­un­ter, and ke­ep han­ging on and ho­ping yo­ur agent will call or so­met­hing. You're li­ving on mac and che­ese and bo­log­na san­d­wic­hes. That abo­ut co­ver it?"

  "Yeah, I gu­ess it do­es." Sam sat up. "You're not mad."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Dad's will set up the Fo­un­da­ti­on to sup­port pe­op­le who kept swin­ging at wri­ting no mat­ter what. I think I ha­ve pretty go­od pro­of the Bo­ard was right abo­ut you. And I'm pro­bably only he­re for a day or two, and I know per­fectly well you'll ta­ke bet­ter ca­re of the pla­ce than I will. Do you ha­ve any mo­ney at all?"

  "About three hun­d­red in cash. I co­uld gi­ve it to you if-"

  "Not what I'm thin­king abo­ut. I just wan­ted to ma­ke su­re you're okay. Re­al­ly. But get dres­sed an­y­way. I'm for­cing you in­to sla­very-I ha­ve a trunk lo­ad of gro­ce­ri­es, be­ca­use I had be­en plan­ning to be he­re abo­ut ten days, and you get to help carry them in."

  "But it's yo­ur ho­use," Sa­man­t­ha sa­id, clim­bing out of bed, un­sel­f­con­s­ci­o­usly chan­ging in­to the je­ans and swe­at­s­hirt from the bed­post. " I'd be mad."

  "Then I'll ne­ver hi­de in yo­
ur ho­use. Things ha­ve be­en a lit­tle we­ird la­tely, and I co­uld use ha­ving so­me com­pany, and you pro­bably ne­ed so­me va­ri­ety in yo­ur di­et. Let's just get the stuff in and then we'll sort it all out over so­me fro­zen piz­za and Cas­t­les and Fat Ti­re."

  "Is it okay to say I lo­ve you fo­re­ver?"

  "Only if that me­ans I can te­ase you abo­ut the Star Wars jam­mi­es."

  Sam shrug­ged and sho­ok her black bangs out of her eyes, fin­ger-com­bing her thick mass of ha­ir. "Warm. My si­ze. Cle­aran­ce at Wal-Mart. Helps me stay in the right spi­rit for the re­aders. Be­si­des, Han and Che­wie rock."

  The fro­zen Whi­te Cas­t­les went in­to the mic­ro­wa­ve at on­ce, whi­le the oven war­med up a Red Ba­ron fo­ur che­ese. "This is go­ing to be mo­re ca­lo­ri­es than I get in a we­ek," Sa­man­t­ha sa­id. "Not that I'd dre­am of com­p­la­ining."

  The mic­ro­wa­ve pin­ged and Amy pul­led out the pla­te of sli­ders. They hud­dled over the cold be­er and warm Cas­t­les, go­ing thro­ugh both fas­ter than they had in­ten­ded to. They had be­co­me fri­ends al­most the in­s­tant that the Bo­ard cho­se Sa­man­t­ha (Amy wasn't sup­po­sed to me­et can­di­da­tes be­fo­re the cho­ice was ma­de), sha­ring a mor­bid sen­se of hu­mor and the sort of at­ti­tu­de that well-me­aning te­ac­hers had al­ways ta­ken them asi­de to talk abo­ut.

  They ba­lan­ced each ot­her so­me­how. Amy drew de­ad and pic­k­led things with frig­h­te­ning pre­ci­si­on. Sam wro­te swe­et, sen­ti­men­tal sto­ri­es of very yo­ung chil­d­ho­od, which ever­yo­ne re­cog­ni­zed as well do­ne and no one wan­ted to pub­lish.

  The last few months had be­en the sa­me; a ste­ady driz­zle of re­j­ec­ti­on slips be­ca­use her work "lac­ked so­met­hing." Sam ma­de a fa­ce. "Wish I knew what I lac­ked. Okay, so I've got no plot, but ne­it­her do­es Go­od­night, Mo­on. I wri­te abo­ut re­al­ly tri­vi­al chil­d­ho­od stuff but so do­es Be­verly Cle­ary. And I re­al­ly exag­ge­ra­te stuff and get re­al­ly silly, but, well, all I can say is, Shel Sil­ver­s­te­in, Cal­vin and Hob­bes, Ma­uri­ce Sen­dak, The Phan­tom Tol­lbo­oth. And of co­ur­se, Lit­tle Amy. Which I ho­pe you'll for­gi­ve me for sa­ying."

  "I li­ve to be sa­id. I don't know. Dad bro­ke his he­art and bank ac­co­unt for most of his li­fe, and two dif­fe­rent edi­tors la­id the­ir jobs on the li­ne to ke­ep the se­ri­es go­ing, and abo­ut fifty lib­ra­ri­ans and bo­ok sa­les pe­op­le cre­ated a fan club that co­uld ne­ver get up to a hun­d­red mem­bers-and then one day, pres­to, he do­es a lig­h­t­ning re-wri­te of A Mid­sum­mer Night's Dre­am, Ti­ta­nia stri­kes back with the gen­ders re­ver­sed, Lit­tle Amy as the Co­un­ter-Puck, and ma­king fun of my first boy­f­ri­end by set­ting him up as Bot­tom, and zip, bop, bang, he's ric­her than God."

  "I've told you be­fo­re I star­ted re­ading tho­se bo­oks long be­fo­re Amy and Ti­ta­nia. I got Amy and the Sec­ret Ca­ve for Chris­t­mas right af­ter it ca­me out be­ca­use I was al­re­ady such a big Lit­tle Amy fan. Thanks for the fo­od but ple­ase don't in­sist that I crap all over the only go­od thing in my chil­d­ho­od."

  "Sorry. I re­al­ly do ho­pe wha­te­ver ma­de Amy and Ti­ta­nia a suc­cess wal­lops you next we­ek."

  "Can you stand one qu­es­ti­on? I re­al­ly don't want to be nosy-well, I do want to be nosy, but I don't want to of­fend you."

  "If you do I'll just bre­ak a pla­te over yo­ur he­ad and get over it."

  "Great. Uh, you just sa­id yo­ur fat­her was ma­king fun of yo­ur first boy­f­ri­end in that bo­ok-did you ha­te him for that?"

  "Hate him? I don't even re­mem­ber him. His na­me star­ted with W-Walt? Wally? so­met­hing li­ke that-and Dad sa­id, very ac­cu­ra­tely, that he was the sort of per­son you wan­ted to lo­ok at un­til you he­ard, the kind that the phra­se 'be­a­uti­ful but dumb' was co­ined for, and I was crazy abo­ut him then, I gu­ess, but I'd pro­bably ha­ve to re­re­ad the bo­ok. What are you la­ug­hing at?"

  "Oh, you re­al­ly don't re­mem­ber Amy and Ti­ta­nia."

  "I sa­id I don't."

  "Well, he was be­a­uti­ful and dumb and that was funny, but the idea of him be­ing na­med Wally, it's just-just so-I me­an-"

  Once Sa­man­t­ha got go­ing on the won­der­ful­ness of Dad's bo­oks, she co­uld go for ho­urs wit­ho­ut ever pro­du­cing an in­de­pen­dent cla­use, gig­gling and wa­ving her hands in­to a string of happy "you knows." Amy did her best to lo­ok stern. "Co­me on, ta­ke ca­re of yo­ur­self, Sam. Ma­ke su­re you con­su­me eno­ugh of all this lo­vely fat, carbs, and al­co­hol. You ne­ed it a lot mo­re than I do."

  "Doing my best. The­re's only so much of me to go aro­und it." She fol­ded up a drippy pi­ece of piz­za and ate it li­ke a san­d­wich. "Funny thing, for a lot of us, Amy and Ti­ta­nia kind of spo­iled things. We li­ked it, but not as much as the ear­li­er ones, and sud­denly Lit­tle Amy wasn't an in­si­de joke for sad lo­nely bra­inos. But it's go­od that af­ter all that work, yo­ur dad got so­met­hing out of it. That's a go­od thing, su­rely?"

  "Yeah. He did work hard for what he got."

  They de­ci­ded the first fro­zen piz­za and ro­und of be­ers wo­uld be lo­ne­so­me wit­ho­ut anot­her, and de­alt with tho­se in ple­asant si­len­ce be­fo­re Sa­man­t­ha fi­nal­ly sa­id, "Um, not that it's ne­ces­sa­rily my pla­ce to bring up the su­bj­ect, but what did you ha­ve in mind for the sle­eping ar­ran­ge­ment?"

  "Well, ow­ner­s­hip has a few pri­vi­le­ges at­tac­hed. I'm ta­king the bed. Can you be com­for­tab­le on the nap co­uch in Dad's of­fi­ce?"

  "I sle­ep the­re half the ti­me an­y­way. I was go­ing to sug­gest it."

  They got blan­kets and a fresh pil­low­ca­se for the nap co­uch pil­low from one of the ce­dar chests in Amy's ro­om. As Amy tur­ned the light off in the of­fi­ce, she co­uldn't help fe­eling that she re­al­ly ought to ha­ve tuc­ked Sa­man­t­ha in. "Go­od night, Sam."

  "'Night," the vo­ice un­der the co­vers mut­te­red. "Thanks for not be­in'ad."

  Mad? Sad? Bad? Pro­bably mad.

  Amy he­si­ta­ted a mo­ment in the do­or­way. The big, high tri­an­gu­lar win­dow-one of Dad's few re­al­ly suc­ces­sful bu­il­ding pro­j­ec­ts-fra­med Ta­urus's he­ad, with the Ple­i­ades in the up­per right cor­ner and just the tip of Ori­on's bow in the bot­tom po­int. She had se­en the sa­me stars fra­ming Dad, slum­ped as­le­ep over his desk.

  She clo­sed the do­or very softly.

  Back in her ro­om, she un­pac­ked her duf­fel, and the­re was her stu­pid so­ul aga­in, still a li­fe­less gray rag, with that re­mar­kab­le dra­wing on it. She spre­ad it out on her bed­s­p­re­ad to lo­ok at it a bit mo­re, po­si­ti­oning it ca­re­ful­ly-the di­amond that en­c­lo­sed the ga­udy Va­len­ti­ne he­art on the bed­s­p­re­ad was the sa­me sha­pe and si­ze as-

  Though the lights we­re on, the flo­or was dark as it rus­hed up in­to her fa­ce.

  "Come on." A hand was sha­king her sho­ul­der, in an an­no­yingly ten­ta­ti­ve way. She rol­led over on her back, and it was Wol­f­b­ri­ar lo­oking down at her, exactly as he had be­en when she had be­en thir­te­en and he had be­en wha­te­ver age an elf ever is; they are all per­pe­tu­al­ly new­born, which is the only way they can be­ar li­ving fo­re­ver, and they ne­ver die, which is the only thing that ma­kes the­ir in­ten­se sen­sory me­mory en­du­rab­le. "Co­me on. Wa­ke up."

  "What hap­pe­ned?"

  "Your so­ul be­ca­me not-in-pi­eces."

  "Whole," Amy sa­id, sit­ting up and rub­bing her he­ad. She'd had han­go­vers she li­ked bet­ter than this. "Who­le," she re­pe­ated. El­ves we­re li­ke that with hu­man lan­gu­ages; they wo­uld usu­al­ly only le­arn one of any pa­ir of an­tonyms.

  "Whole," he sa­id. "Yo­ur so­ul has be­en not-who­le f
or a not-bri­ef ti­me."

  Or then aga­in, who re­al­ly un­der­s­to­od el­ves?

  "Yes, it has. Sin­ce… oh, my. Sin­ce the night in he­re." Her eyes wi­de­ned. "We hid you in the trunk be­ca­use my dad was co­ming up­s­ta­irs yel­ling 'Who is up the­re with you?'…"

  Now she re­mem­be­red the kis­sing and to­uc­hing that had got­ten mo­re and mo­re ex­ci­ting; the fi­nal wild mo­ments whe­re she had whis­pe­red "yes, yes, yes…"

  The ne­ver-be­fo­re-tes­ted bed cre­aking and squ­e­aling in rhythm, bet­ra­ying them but she hadn't ca­red-

  Then "What the hell are you do­ing up the­re? Is Wol­f­b­ri­ar up the­re with you?" in a drun­ken bel­low from the front ro­om, and the re­ali­za­ti­on that Dad's lit­tle pi­xie must al­re­ady ha­ve go­ne ho­me, and the thumps of a big man hur­rying up a lad­der… Wol­f­b­ri­ar hi­ding in the ce­dar trunk, wil­ling him­self to not-be.

  But sin­ce he wo­uld not exist to ter­mi­na­te the hi­ding spell, he had had to set a con­di­ti­on. And with Amy's so­ul newly di­vi­ded, su­rely it must ha­ve se­emed to him that she wo­uld re­pa­ir her so­ul as so­on as pos­sib­le, so he had ma­de her so­ul's re­uni­on the trig­ger for his re­ap­pe­aran­ce, but… well, so­me­ti­mes you just don't get aro­und to things, she tho­ught.

  She sto­od up, bre­at­hing de­eply, and now her vi­si­on had cle­ared and be­co­me do­ub­le aga­in, the way it na­tu­ral­ly was for a half-elf. She saw The Ca­bin as she had known it as Lit­tle Amy, and she saw the clum­sily mo­di­fi­ed pre­fab ho­use by the bor­row pit. Her elf-eye de­lig­h­ted in the we­ave of sil­ver in the walls, and her hu­man eye saw the ro­ugh-fit­ted, sta­ined and uret­ha­ned but ne­ver san­ded eno­ugh num­ber two pi­ne of the flo­or, and-