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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 36

by Edited by Eric Flint


  “I gu­ess I do, Bla­ke.” She nod­ded re­luc­tantly.

  “I’m le­aving the gun he­re.” He la­id it on the se­at of the cha­ir ne­arest the win­dow. “That will let me use both hands on you. If you try to ed­ge over to­ward this si­de of the bed, you’re go­ing to get hurt a lot wor­se than you wo­uld ot­her­wi­se. And no ven­t­ri­lo­qu­ism, un­der­s­tand? You’re go­od. I’ll gi­ve you that. But not­hing you try is go­ing to fo­ol me.”

  Where was the The­odo­re? As in­con­s­pi­cu­o­usly as she co­uld, Vi­ola felt for him with her fe­et. Not­hing.

  The big man was un­but­to­ning his alo­ha shirt. “You think you’re go­ing to re­port all this when it’s over?”

  Sensing the sa­fe reply, she sho­ok her he­ad.

  “I’ll say it was con­sen­su­al. How many co­up­les do think are ha­ving con­sen­su­al sex on this ship to­night?”

  Still won­de­ring des­pe­ra­tely what had be­co­me of the pink be­ar, she ra­ised her sho­ul­ders and let them drop.

  “Half. May­be mo­re. You and me will be in that half, just for to­night. But let me tell you this, if you do re­port it, so­met­hing very, very ugly is go­ing to hap­pen to you. And qu­ick. So you’d bet­ter ta­ke it li­ke a lit­tle sol­di­er and try to for­get it as fast as you can. May­be you’re won­de­ring how I fo­und out which ca­bin you’re in.”

  “No, Bla­ke.” She was trying hard to ke­ep her vo­ice from sha­king, trying hard to blink away the te­ars. “You le­ar­ned it the sa­me way Tim did. You ha­ve to-I had to-gi­ve my ca­bin num­ber to the wa­iter when I or­de­red.” It se­emed worth a try. “Tim has al­re­ady be­en he­re to­night, and he’s co­ming back.”

  “Sure he is. No­ises off, as the ac­tors say.”

  A plump pink arm was re­ac­hing for the blue ste­el auto­ma­tic on the cha­ir se­at.

  A half step ne­arer than that blue ste­el auto­ma­tic, the big man had drop­ped his je­ans. “Ta­ke a lo­ok. You li­ke it, right?”

  Shuddering, she sho­ok her he­ad. “You want me sca­red, d-don’t you? You want me t-ter­ri­fi­ed. Okay! Okay, I’m sca­red out of my wits. You did it. But-”

  The big man ed­ged ne­arer her, step­ping out the je­ans and bloc­king her vi­ew of the empty cha­ir. “Ta­ke off that skirt!”

  Slowly she sto­od, fin­ding her kne­es so we­ak she ne­arly fell, and fum­b­led with the ho­ok and the zip­per. “I’m f-f-fat. You’ll see. I’m v-very f-fat and-and ugly.”

  “Look lo­wer,” the big man told her, “and you’ll see so­me­body who do­esn’t think so.”

  As tho­ugh co­nj­ured by the big man’s words, the pink be­ar ro­se be­si­de Vi­ola. Both plump pink fo­re­paws we­re wrap­ped aro­und the blue ste­el auto­ma­tic.

  The big man’s jaw drop­ped.

  So did Vi­ola, sit­ting on the bed on­ce mo­re. When she had ca­ught her bre­ath, she tur­ned so she co­uld watch the big man and sa­id, “The­odo­re will sho­ot if I tell him to.” Her vo­ice, she fo­und, had so­me­how ste­adi­ed it­self. “May­be even if I don’t.”

  The big man’s mo­uth wor­ked so­un­d­les­sly.

  “Maybe you sho­uld lie down on the flo­or, or may­be just go wit­ho­ut ma­king any mo­re tro­ub­le. I’m not su­re which.”

  “Please!” the big man sa­id. “Oh, ple­ase!”

  “Please is ni­cer, Bla­ke.” Vi­ola’s smi­le was shaky, but it was a smi­le. “I li­ke ple­ase. Wa­it a mi­nu­te. Let’s see what The­odo­re has to say to you.” She fo­und the ring on the pink be­ar’s back and pul­led the cord.

  The pink be­ar lif­ted the blue ste­el auto­ma­tic an inch or so, aiming it or ap­pe­aring to aim it. Qu­ite dis­tinctly he sa­id, “Want to clo­se yo­ur eyes?”

  ****

  The Opposite of Pomegranates

  Marissa K. Lingen

  The re­al dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en hu­mans and fey is not the ma­gic: the­re are hu­man sor­ce­rers, so thick on the gro­und so­me pla­ces you can hardly ta­ke a step wit­ho­ut kic­king one. (I do not ad­vo­ca­te kic­king sor­ce­rers.) It isn't that we we­re born out­si­de and they we­re born (or hat­c­hed or con­s­t­ruc­ted) un­der the­re. Or may­be that is the dif­fe­ren­ce, but not the crux of it, li­ke sa­ying a Rus­si­an is dif­fe­rent from a Bra­zi­li­an be­ca­use the­ir ho­uses are far apart. The­re's al­ways so­met­hing el­se that's the he­art of the mat­ter.

  And so­met­hing el­se with the fey co­mes down to this: they only know how to ma­ke bar­ga­ins. My bowl of milk for my ho­usec­le­aning. Yo­ur fre­edom for yo­ur pot of gold. My an­s­wer to a rid­dle for yo­ur spell-but I get ahe­ad of myself.

  When my pa­rents we­re yo­ung-and my pa­rents we­re yo­ung for fo­ur hun­d­red ye­ars un­der the hill-the fey got the no­ti­on that they might bre­ed two chan­ge­lings to­get­her and get from the con­ti­nu­ing uni­on a se­emingly en­d­less stre­am of chan­ge­lings. Or at le­ast an easi­er stre­am of chan­ge­lings than the ones they'd got­ten ste­aling from hu­man crad­les.

  After her twen­ty-third month of preg­nancy, my mot­her de­ci­ded that this was not, in fact, the so­lu­ti­on to an­yo­ne's prob­lems. She was qu­ite firm on that po­int. The Qu­e­en of Air and Dar­k­ness her­self co­we­red when my mot­her yel­led that day. They let her out on the hil­lsi­de to fi­nish the job in a me­re three mo­re months. In Vic­to­ri­an Ire­land. With no mo­ney nor hus­band nor kin ne­arer than her ni­ne-ti­mes-gre­at-ni­eces, who we­re in Es­to­nia. My mot­her spo­ke ne­it­her En­g­lish nor Ga­elic.

  I'd li­ke to at­tri­bu­te that lap­se to them be­ing fey, but hu­mans so­me­ti­mes turn out clu­eless, too.

  Mother re­al­ly wasn't su­re which was wor­se: ma­king her way as a sin­g­le pa­rent in that pla­ce and ti­me or thro­wing her lot and mi­ne back in with the fey. They de­ci­ded not to gi­ve her a cho­ice. Af­ter all, the po­int of bre­eding chan­ge­lings had be­en to get mo­re chan­ge­lings. So back we ca­me, both of us how­ling and red in the fa­ce.

  I am told that I how­led for three days run­ning. I am told that I smi­led only for three pe­op­le: my mot­her, a fi­re ele­men­tal cal­led Kezhzh, and the ye­ti who en­ded up ra­ising me, a swe­et so­ul na­med Alits. (Alits, in our 120 ye­ars to­get­her, has sha­red many the­ori­es of gen­der with me. No­ne of them has im­pin­ged even slightly on Alits's own ex­pe­ri­en­ce of the su­bj­ect. I was six­te­en be­fo­re I un­der­s­to­od that the gen­de­red pro­no­uns exis­ted.)

  Alits ra­ised me in part be­ca­use Alits was the only one who co­uld do it wit­ho­ut ear pro­tec­ti­on for the first two ye­ars, and in part be­ca­use my mot­her had go­ne en­ti­rely mad. When she stop­ped how­ling, a few ho­urs af­ter be­ing bro­ught un­der­hill, she wo­uldn't stop smi­ling. You can't le­ave a baby with so­me­one li­ke that. Even the fey know that much. So it was off to Alits's pla­ce for me, with tiny lit­tle mit­tens and a tiny lit­tle squ­ir­rel fur ho­od.

  They al­lo­wed my fat­her to vi­sit on al­ter­na­te Thur­s­days, when they co­uld re­mem­ber it was a Thur­s­day in the first pla­ce. Thur­s­day was not an im­por­tant con­cept to the High Sid­he. Kezhzh was al­lo­wed to vi­sit whe­ne­ver he co­uld stand the cold, which was mo­re of­ten than al­ter­na­te fuzzy Thur­s­days. They ta­ught me how to ne­go­ti­ate with a brow­nie and how to call tom­ten and which oce­ans we­re su­itab­le for sel­ki­es.

  They ne­ver ta­ught me how to go out­si­de.

  It wasn't for lack of as­king-the­re was abo­ut a de­ca­de when I as­ked Alits every sin­g­le day. It didn't fe­el li­ke a de­ca­de to me, but it must ha­ve to Alits. Fi­nal­ly I de­ci­ded that Alits had won the bat­tle of wills, and I wo­uld ha­ve to do so­met­hing el­se to win the war.

  But it tur­ned out Alits had got­ten the­re be­fo­re me, too. I was
a fa­vo­red chan­ge­ling, small and win­so­me, and I bar­ga­ined for know­led­ge easily, for fa­vors, for tre­ats and tricks and ga­mes. I ca­j­oled my way in­to mo­re than one pla­ce I sho­uldn't ha­ve be­en, and the­re was al­ways Alits's lo­oming furry pre­sen­ce to ba­il me out if I got in­to tro­ub­le. But that sa­me lo­oming furry pre­sen­ce ma­de su­re I was not go­ing an­y­w­he­re out­si­de.

  Finally luck was with me. I saw a rock spri­te ca­ught in a mi­te trap. He was a bright pur­p­le, ve­ined with whi­te; at first I tho­ught that was his fury at the trap, but it tur­ned out he was that co­lor all the ti­me.

  "Want so­me help get­ting out of the­re?" I as­ked ca­su­al­ly.

  " No!" snap­ped the rock spri­te. "Stay away from me, chan­ge­ling! I do not ac­cept yo­ur help!" He ba­red lit­tle whi­te te­eth at me, re­ady to snap if I ca­me clo­ser.

  I shrug­ged and set­tled on the hill next to him. "Su­it yo­ur­self." I wat­c­hed him strug­gle. He gla­red. "I co­uld ma­ke that go a lot fas­ter, you know."

  "I know, Alits ta­ught you," he sa­id, stop­ping to rest and think. "But I don't ca­re to owe you a fa­vor for it."

  I shrug­ged aga­in. He star­ted to chant a spell. I whis­t­led tu­ne­les­sly.

  " Do you mind?"

  "Not at all," I sa­id. "I was just thin­king of the song I was go­ing to sing to­night."

  "I ho­pe you sing bet­ter than you whis­t­le," he sa­id.

  "I do. I'm sin­ging at the re­vel Bald Obix is thro­wing. They're ha­ving all kinds of mu­sic and spell con­tests and dan­cing-of co­ur­se dan­cing-and Alits is ma­king ba­na­na en­c­hi­la­das." Alits's ba­na­na en­c­hi­la­das, with mol sa­uce and cher­ri­es, wrap­ped in flat­te­ned fa­iry ca­kes, are fa­mo­us.

  "Oh, ye­ah?" sa­id the rock spri­te. He was trying to fe­ign di­sin­te­rest, but I had the equ­iva­lent of fi­ve ye­ars of be­ing thir­te­en. I can do di­sin­te­rest li­ke no­body's bu­si­ness. He didn't even se­em to no­ti­ce that he'd fre­ed him­self from the trap.

  "Yeah," I sa­id. "It's too bad you won't be ab­le to be the­re. It's re­al­ly so­met­hing to see."

  "Maybe I'll stop by," he sa­id.

  "Oh, I don't know. They ha­ve a do­or troll who'll ask you a rid­dle. If you don't know the an­s­wer, he won't let you in."

  "I'm go­od at rid­dles," sa­id the rock spri­te.

  I ga­ve him my best skep­ti­cal lo­ok.

  "How to­ugh are troll rid­dles an­y­way?"

  "The troll didn't ma­ke up the rid­dle," I sa­id. "Ca­nu­fi­el the Brown ma­de up the rid­dle."

  The rock spri­te lo­oked da­un­ted, and rightly so. You don't sur­vi­ve long as a High Sid­he if you can't ask kil­ler rid­dles. So­me­ti­mes li­te­ral­ly.

  "I'll tell you the an­s­wer, tho­ugh," I sa­id.

  The rock spri­te's lit­tle pur­p­le fe­atu­res twis­ted. "For what?"

  "Oh, not­hing much, re­al­ly," I sa­id. "You know how ge­ne­ro­us we hu­mans are."

  He lo­oked even mo­re sus­pi­ci­o­us. "Tell me."

  "All I want to know is how to open a do­or in the hill."

  "Oh, no," he sa­id has­tily. "Oh, no, no no no. Alits wo­uld kill me."

  "Alits is a big teddy be­ar," I sa­id. "And Alits wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve to know."

  "Forget it," he sa­id. "Just for­get it. I can ma­ke you a lo­vely nec­k­la­ce, char­med to gi­ve you the vo­ice of a bard-"

  "Bards don't know when to shut up," I sa­id.

  "To gi­ve you the se­eming of any cre­atu­re un­der­hill."

  "I got bo­red with sha­pes­hif­ter ga­mes when I was a tod­dler. They al­ways smell li­ke them­sel­ves."

  "To let you fly."

  I rol­led my eyes.

  "Anything!" he scre­amed. "Anything but that! If Alits wan­ted you to le­ave the un­der­hill, Alits wo­uld ha­ve ta­ught you how! Alits has big furry whi­te arms for rip­ping rock spri­tes to bits! Alits has po­inty vi­ci­o­us ivory te­eth for ren­ding rock spri­tes' crunchy flesh from the­ir bo­nes! Alits has-"

  "Alits has no idea that you're tal­king to me," I po­in­ted out.

  When he didn't im­me­di­ately reply, I knew I had him.

  So I whis­pe­red the an­s­wer to the rid­dles, and the rock spri­te-glan­cing fur­ti­vely aro­und him-tal­ked his way aro­und the spell for me. They ha­ve a kind of co­de wor­ked out, so that spells can be ta­ught wit­ho­ut be­ing cast. This is par­ti­cu­larly use­ful for bat­tle ma­gics. It al­so co­mes in handy when you don't par­ti­cu­larly want to sho­ut abo­ut what spell you're le­ar­ning.

  I wo­uld ha­ve to wa­it for the right ti­me to open the do­or to the up­per world. The rock spri­te was a nu­isan­ce at the party, but no one knew I'd let him in, and I cer­ta­inly wasn't go­ing to tell them. He sta­yed well cle­ar of me, too-not wan­ting Alits to ha­ve any re­ason to qu­es­ti­on him (or rip his arms off) when I went abo­ve, I sup­po­se.

  I fi­nal­ly got my chan­ce when one of the Puck's co­usins, a strag­gle-ha­ired be­a­uty cal­led Fee, went mis­sing. Or rat­her, when ever­yo­ne no­ti­ced she was mis­sing; she had be­en go­ne at le­ast a month. No one co­uld be su­re. But they all tur­ned out in for­ce to find her. They sus­pec­ted fo­ul play. So did I, but what I sus­pec­ted even mo­re strongly is that they wo­uld all be dis­t­rac­ted and wo­uldn't no­ti­ce one mo­re ex­cur­si­on out­si­de, mo­re or less.

  I had just fi­nis­hed dra­wing the first spi­ral in sil­ver dust when the rock spri­te ap­pe­ared. He was in such a hurry he had lost his hat. I had ne­ver se­en a spri­te wit­ho­ut a hat. "Stop! Stop it! Now is not the ti­me!"

  "Now is the per­fect ti­me," I sa­id, ad­ding the first of the fi­ve ru­nes. "Ever­yo­ne is dis­t­rac­ted."

  "They'll be con­vin­ced that who­ever to­ok Fee to­ok you, too!"

  "So?" I sa­id, dra­wing the se­cond ru­ne. "I'll be back be­fo­re they no­ti­ce, and if they did no­ti­ce, I'd just ex­p­la­in to them that I wasn't ab­duc­ted. End of story."

  "You've ne­ver be­en out on the sur­fa­ce be­fo­re, and you're not go­ing alo­ne!" The rock spri­te le­apt in­to the mid­dle of my spell and spre­ad its short, squ­at­ty limbs as far as it co­uld re­ach. I snif­fed and con­ti­nu­ed with the third ru­ne. When the spell was com­p­le­te, I sa­id the word of po­wer. The rock spri­te squ­e­aked in an­no­yan­ce, but the hill fell away be­ne­ath him, and a do­or to the out­si­de glo­wed.

  He pic­ked him­self up and sto­od, arms akim­bo, in the ope­ning. "Go back, chan­ge­ling!"

  "Back? I'll go thro­ugh you if I ha­ve to."

  "Oh, ye­ah?" sa­id the rock spri­te. "Awful­ly to­ugh for a hu­man, aren't you?"

  "You re­ady to find out?"

  He def­la­ted sud­denly and mum­b­led so­met­hing I co­uldn't ma­ke out.

  "What was that?"

  "I sa­id, let me co­me with you."

  I sta­red down at him. "I don't ne­ed a bab­y­sit­ter."

  "It wo­uld ma­ke me fe­el bet­ter. Then I might ha­ve so­me chan­ce of thro­wing myself on Alits's mercy and li­ving thro­ugh all this."

  "I told you, she won't find out."

  "I'll go with you," sa­id the rock spri­te in a slightly des­pe­ra­te vo­ice. "Let me go with you."

  If I stuck aro­und ar­gu­ing much lon­ger, so­me hu­man was go­ing to no­ti­ce a do­or out from un­der the hill, or the spell wo­uld shut down, or so­met­hing. "Ye­ah, all right, co­me on," I sa­id.

  I'm not su­re what I ex­pec­ted of the out­si­de. He­re's what I got: the co­lors are pre­dic­tab­le, mostly. Un­der the hill, we ha­ve Sid­he la­di­es with eyes gre­en as grass, but mo­re of­ten than not, we don't ha­ve grass gre­en as grass. Things out­si­de stay whe­re you put them, or if they don't, you can see what hap­pens to them in­s­te­ad.


  Outside, things ma­de sen­se in ways I didn't know I'd be­en mis­sing.

  "How stran­ge," I sa­id alo­ud.

  "Yes, isn't it?" sa­id the rock spri­te. "And now you've se­en the out­si­de. Co­me on, then, back we go."

  "You go ahe­ad if you want," I sa­id. "I'm go­ing ex­p­lo­ring."

  "Outside isn't li­ke un­der the hill!" pro­tes­ted the rock spri­te. "You can't just go ex­p­lo­ring!"

  "Relax," I sa­id. "I ha­ve a kni­fe in my bo­ots and an en­ti­re ye­ti's ar­se­nal of de­fen­si­ve spells at my fin­ger­tips. What mo­re co­uld I ne­ed?"

  Scuttling af­ter me, the rock spri­te did not reply.

  We wal­ked down a dusty ro­ad ma­de of a drab, smelly black ma­te­ri­al. The rock spri­te tri­ed to stay in the grass, chat­te­ring at the hu­man mac­hi­nes that pas­sed us. I had no idea how much ti­me had pas­sed-not be­ca­use it felt va­ri­ab­le, but be­ca­use it felt so­lid for the first ti­me in my li­fe-when we saw hu­man bu­il­dings. The ones with la­bels sa­id they we­re a bank, a church, and a di­ner.

  "I'm hungry, spri­te," I sa­id. "You hi­de in the bus­hes. I'm go­ing in­to that di­ner."

  "Oh, no," mo­aned the rock spri­te. "No, no, you can't. Re­al­ly re­al­ly. Alits will-"

  "Kill you. You've sa­id that part. Ha­ven't I pro­mi­sed to pro­tect you from Alits? Are you do­ub­ting my oath, spri­te?"

  "It's only ef­fec­ti­ve if you stick aro­und to ful­fill it," sa­id the spri­te.

  It daw­ned on me what he was sa­ying. "Wa­it, so if I eat so­met­hing up he­re-"

  "Some things are fi­ne," sa­id the spri­te has­tily. "Want an ap­ple? We can get you an ap­ple. Or so­me ni­ce co­oki­es. So­me hu­mans do okay with co­oki­es. The di­sir tra­ined-"

  "What can't I ha­ve?"

  The rock spri­te, in­tel­li­gently, sa­id not­hing.

 

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