Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  “Yep. Ge­nu­ine lep­rec­ha­un. Fa­iry. Mysti­cal spri­te. Elf. Ma­gi­cal be­ing. Just li­ke the lit­tle sto­ri­es ha­ve al­ways sa­id. Don’t you pe­op­le re­ad?”

  O’Malley sig­hed. “Appa­rently not eno­ugh. What’s with the stu­pid gre­en su­it and the ho­key stick, then?”

  Mr. Tib­bles sig­hed back and lo­oked as if he we­re de­ci­ding bet­we­en vo­mi­ting and stran­g­ling him. “It’s all lo­cal. In Ha­wa­ii, we’re Me­ne­hu­ne. In up­s­ta­te New York, we’re lit­tle In­di­ans dan­cing in the corn.”

  “The Chi­ne­se cla­imed you we­re lep­rec­ha­uns, tho­ugh.” O’Mal­ley grin­ned.

  Mr. Tib­bles drew him­self up to his ma­xi­mum he­ight. “The Chi­ne­se are ca­pab­le of lying, you know.”

  Then so­me­one scre­amed and the ship jol­ted back in­to nor­mal spa­ce as a new pi­lot qu­ali­fi­ed for short-term di­sa­bi­lity.

  “What was that abo­ut?” Cas­sie ga­ve him a puz­zled lo­ok. The crew sprin­ted to­wards them sho­uting ac­cu­sa­ti­ons, qu­es­ti­ons and ple­as in fren­zi­ed Man­da­rin.

  “A hunch.” O’Mal­ley put up both hands and spo­ke fi­er­cely in chop­ped Man­da­rin. «Tell Chi­ef Han it will be do­ne to­mor­row, no so­oner.» They bic­ke­red, and when O’Mal­ley did not bud­ge or ne­go­ti­ate they slunk away sul­lenly, ob­vi­o­usly fe­ar­ful of ha­ving to tell the Chi­ef just that.

  On night six, O’Mal­ley fo­und the big­gest, war­mest ro­om pos­sib­le, com­man­de­ered ex­t­ra pil­lows and blan­kets and so­met­hing that re­sem­b­led so­lid fo­od and ma­de a fort of his swag. He left the do­or un­loc­ked and aj­ar. When Cas­sie ar­ri­ved, she did so we­aring a par­ti­cu­larly fet­c­hing gown of ho­me­ma­de la­ce.

  “What’s it to be, blo­od or me?” Her eyes daz­zled in the al­most lig­h­t­less ro­om.

  O’Malley lo­oked up from re­ading a bo­ok on Irish fol­k­lo­re. “You can ma­ke a fa­iry cir­c­le in the ro­om be­fo­re we blast off to­mor­row?”

  She slid the do­or clo­sed and loc­ked it, her hand wa­ving the latch clo­sed from ten fe­et away. “Oh, yes.” She smi­led and he felt en­c­han­ted. O’Mal­ley shrug­ged and sa­id no mo­re.

  On day se­ven, he lec­tu­red the pi­lots, war­ning them that if they ca­me out of fo­ur­te­en per­cent a se­cond ear­li­er than he as­ked them to, he wo­uld per­so­nal­ly shut­tle down, re­sign in front of Chi­ef Han and bla­me them by fa­mily na­me. He ad­vi­sed them to ta­ke tran­qu­ili­zers, ri­ce wi­ne, chew on wo­od or simply clo­se the­ir dam­ned eyes-af­ter all, they we­re flying thro­ugh a va­cu­um. Wha­te­ver it to­ok, they must not de­vi­ate co­ur­se, slow down or in­ter­fe­re with his and Cas­sie’s do­ings. Oh, and if they didn’t li­ke it, ple­ase fe­el free to call HQ right this in­s­tant and ask the Chi­ef to rep­la­ce him, sin­ce they had a much bet­ter idea. Stran­gely, no one ar­gu­ed and all se­emed ge­nu­inely ple­ased that he had fi­nal­ly be­en so me­an-spi­ri­ted as to thre­aten them.

  Then he went aft. He ca­me upon Cas­sie fi­nis­hing the cir­c­le, which she had cle­verly dis­gu­ised to lo­ok li­ke any old flo­oring in any old spa­ce ship. “I’ll ne­ed a kiss.” She le­ant for­ward and he com­p­li­ed.

  “For com­p­le­ting the cir­c­le?”

  “No.” She ga­ve him an enor­mo­us smi­le. “I just know I’m not go­ing to get anot­her chan­ce if this works.” He sho­ok his he­ad and let the en­gi­ne­ers strap him in.

  Then the co­un­t­down, the usu­al rev up and the far less hyste­ri­cal ac­hi­eving of fo­ur­te­en per­cent. Pop! Tib­bles ap­pe­ared and this ti­me O’Mal­ley un­s­t­rap­ped to gre­et him.

  “I’m sorry, old fri­end.” He spo­ke for­mal Ga­elic. “I was wrong to be so ru­de last ti­me.”

  Tibbles lo­oked to­uc­hed and Cas­sie nod­ded. “Well, al­ri­i­i­ight.” Tib­bles blus­hed, cle­arly ple­ased to be ap­pre­ci­ated.

  “I re­al­ly do be­li­eve in you, Tib­bles. I want you to know that.” O’Mal­ley ga­ve him a curt bow, com­p­li­ca­ted by the lack of gra­vity. “I was wrong to not be­li­eve the old sto­ri­es. Lep­rec­ha­uns do exist and I know, now, that so do­es ma­gic.”

  “It’s not en­ti­rely fancy physics, you know.”

  “I know.” O’Mal­ley star­ted to pa­ce. “It’s a qu­an­tum sig­na­tu­re from a col­lec­ti­ve ge­ne­tic un­con­s­ci­o­us.”

  “Exactly.” Tib­bles be­amed. “I think you ha­ve ac­tu­al­ly le­ar­ned so­met­hing. And I tho­ught you we­re to­tal­ly stu­pid.”

  “I’ll ta­ke that as a com­p­li­ment.” O’Mal­ley and the elf chuc­k­led. “Sha­ke? No hard fe­elings?”

  Tibbles put out his tiny mitt and sho­ok O’Mal­ley’s vi­go­ro­usly. “You know, I’m ho­ping you pe­op­le stop cal­ling me he­re.”

  “I think we’ve le­ar­ned our les­son,” O’Mal­ley as­su­red him. Tib­bles tur­ned to go. O’Mal­ley pus­hed a but­ton on the wall. The ship in­s­tantly drop­ped out of the Pul­se Dri­ve, as if the pi­lots had be­en po­ised over the Kill but­ton, pun­ch-drunk and pra­ying for the sig­nal. Tib­bles ga­ve a low mo­aning wa­il.

  “These are cal­led han­d­cuf­fs,” O’Mal­ley ex­p­la­ined, de­mon­s­t­ra­ting that he and Tib­bles we­re now firmly pi­ni­oned to­get­her by a chunk of me­tal.

  “You can’t.” The lep­rec­ha­un strug­gled, his legs kic­king.

  “Fairy cir­c­le.” O’Mal­ley po­in­ted to Cas­sie, who bat­ted her eye­las­hes.

  “I’m in big tro­ub­le,” Tib­bles sa­id to no one in the ro­om.

  “I want my pot of gold.” O’Mal­ley eyed the elf.

  “What?” The lit­tle man strug­gled. “Abso­lu­tely not.”

  “Then you stay. I’ve got the Cha­ir­man of a very lar­ge me­dia cor­po­ra­ti­on who wo­uld lo­ve to put you in a ni­ce glass box, shuf­fle you aro­und and ma­ke a few bil­li­on cre­dits off you.”

  “You can’t, you won’t…” The elf star­ted to shrink in hor­ror, but he co­uld not pull far sin­ce O’Mal­ley had him sus­pen­ded by the cuffs.

  “Gold. It’s in the bo­oks. I want it.” O’Mal­ley yan­ked the wret­c­hed lep­rec­ha­un to em­p­ha­si­ze his po­int.

  “I can cur­se you,” the elf co­un­te­red. Cas­sie co­ug­hed and Tib­bles sud­denly blus­hed. “If you hadn’t bro­ught a witch with you.”

  “But I did bring my own witch and my own fa­iry cir­c­le and now I ha­ve my very own lep­rec­ha­un.”

  “I don’t, I can’t get the gold right away.”

  “Then I get pic­tu­res and the plas­tic box and a to­uring elf show, and you get to do stu­pid spri­te tricks for the vi­de­ocas­ters.”

  “The pri­ce of gold is re­al­ly, re­al­ly low the­se days.” Tib­bles bit his lip.

  “You ha­ven’t got an­y­t­hing ot­her than that to of­fer,” Cas­sie sa­id non­c­ha­lantly.

  “And if I did?” Tib­bles’ fa­ce lit up.

  “I’ll ta­ke the for­mu­la for a wor­king pul­se dri­ve, one that bre­aks the spe­ed of light sa­fely.” O’Mal­ley lif­ted the gno­me to ne­ar eye le­vel.

  “Painful.” Tib­bles whim­pe­red and his eyes te­ared. O’Mal­ley did not­hing but yank har­der. They re­ma­ined that way as the lit­tle man went thro­ugh six co­lors, ran­ted, thre­ate­ned, swit­c­hed lan­gu­ages, and then fi­nal­ly sig­hed. “Okay.”

  O’Malley han­ded him a no­te­bo­ok with an era­sab­le pen. “Now.”

  “I’m right han­ded,” Tib­bles com­p­la­ined.

  “We’ve got all day, don’t we, Cas­sie?” Cas­sie nod­ded and smi­led. She cros­sed her legs ma­king her lit­tle suc­ker-bo­oti­es swish. No­body sa­id an­y­t­hing. Tib­bles de­ve­lo­ped an ama­zing abi­lity to wri­te with his left hand.

  When
the lep­rec­ha­un had co­ve­red ro­ughly twenty pa­ges, he han­ded the pen and no­te­bo­ok back. “Okay.” He smi­led wanly. “You won.”

  “Great. Thanks.” O’Mal­ley star­ted re­ading the elf’s han­di­work. “Now swe­ar by Qu­e­en Mab, on yo­ur sac­red ho­nor and upon the sworn co­de of the fa­iri­es that all you ha­ve writ­ten is true and go­od, that you ha­ve in right fa­ith gi­ven what is due and pa­id yo­ur debt.”

  “You re­ad the bo­ok.” Tib­bles’ fa­ce dro­oped in­to des­pa­ir.

  “I re­ad all the bo­oks, you lit­tle cre­ep.” O’Mal­ley yan­ked on his cap­ti­ve aga­in. Tib­bles wor­d­les­sly re­ac­hed for the bo­ok, to­ok the era­ser, and fi­xed a do­zen as­sor­ted di­ag­rams, re­num­be­red so­me for­mu­las and to­ok up anot­her three pa­ges with pre­vi­o­usly un­w­rit­ten sche­ma­tics. Then he han­ded it back, the lo­ok on his fa­ce to­tal­ly de­fe­ated.

  “Swear.” O’Mal­ley prod­ded him.

  “I so swe­ar be­fo­re Mab my Qu­e­en and my sac­red ho­nor, I ha­ve do­ne as as­ked and the debt is pa­id. One pot of gold or its equ­iva­lent.” Tib­ble’s eyes lol­led. “Bas­tard.”

  O’Malley cuf­fed him. “Hey. Don’t talk li­ke that in front of a lady. Apo­lo­gi­ze.”

  “Sorry,” whis­pe­red Tib­bles, his left fo­ot ma­king a pat­he­tic fi­gu­re eight on the flo­or. The cuffs un­loc­ked at O’Mal­ley’s cue.

  Pop! Just li­ke ma­gic, the lep­rec­ha­un was go­ne.

  “You we­re plan­ning this all along?” Cas­sie wat­c­hed him clo­sely, cle­arly im­p­res­sed.

  O’Malley shrug­ged as the crew be­gan to shuf­fle in, lo­oking for signs of lep­rec­ha­uns or ex­p­lo­si­ons.

  “Somewhere aro­und the ti­me I to­ok to sle­eping un­der to­ols and tab­les, it oc­cur­red to me to think of a way to cap­tu­re the guy. I’m from Bel­fast, af­ter all.”

  “After all,” Cas­sie ag­re­ed. They tri­ed to hold off the throng’s new bo­ut of qu­es­ti­ons, which, stran­gely, we­re de­vo­id of ac­cu­sa­ti­ons or thre­ats. Ap­pa­rently, the Chi­ef had eit­her in­ves­ted him with new po­wers or ever­yo­ne’s des­pe­ra­ti­on had simply gi­ven him a lit­tle bre­at­hing ro­om.

  O’Malley or­c­hes­t­ra­ted the gro­up. Scan­ned co­pi­es of the no­te­bo­ok ne­eded to be ma­de. For the­ir part, the en­gi­ne­ers did so­met­hing ca­pab­le and swift, using things with gre­en lights that lo­oked li­ke pas­ta rol­lers. Wha­te­ver they we­re, in one swe­ep all the pa­ges we­re re­ad, di­gi­ti­zed, fi­led and pro­bably cross-re­fe­ren­ced with fo­ot­no­tes.

  Cassie be­gan to ask a qu­es­ti­on, but a sud­den gib­be­ring ex­ci­te­ment in­ter­rup­ted her. It ap­pe­ared so­me­one, eit­her dow­n­s­ta­irs or on the star­s­hip, had re­ali­zed what O’Mal­ley had han­ded them. The en­gi­ne­ers di­sap­pe­ared and the new pi­lot rep­la­ced them, his fa­ce sto­lid in re­sol­ve. He sput­te­red so­me harsh Man­da­rin at the pa­ir, em­p­ha­si­zing the words with a hand chop.

  “He sa­id?” Cas­sie step­ped clo­ser to O’Mal­ley. Did she do ner­vo­us­ness?

  “Han wants us.”

  Minutes la­ter, O’Mal­ley and Cas­sie fo­und them­sel­ves un­ce­re­mo­ni­o­usly sho­ved to­wards anot­her chu­te and top­pled down the ele­va­tor to­wards Le­vel A and the Grand Bo­ar­d­ro­om.

  Around twenty tho­usand mi­les abo­ve the pla­net, she mut­te­red, “When did you fi­gu­re it out?”

  “The Hwa thing.”

  “What’s a Hwa, an­y­way?”

  O’Malley brus­hed a red curl off her fo­re­he­ad. “The old na­me the Japa­ne­se used upon ar­ri­ving in Chi­na. It me­ans dwarf in Man­da­rin. Un­til they be­ca­me a mo­dern po­wer, the Japa­ne­se we­re the lep­rec­ha­uns of Chi­na.”

  “They own half of the Mo­on now.” She cur­led clo­ser to him.

  “But, in the an­ci­ent sub­con­s­ci­o­us they we­re, and to so­me ex­tent still are, dwar­ves.”

  “And…”

  O’Malley snor­ted. “You ne­ver re­ad Jung, did you?” The ca­bin was si­lent. “Pro­to­cols are in­di­vi­du­al sets of ru­les which ha­ve lo­cal me­aning on a sub­con­s­ci­o­us and thus, qu­an­tum le­vel. That me­ans the Fa­erie Con­t­ract wo­uld bind.”

  “I tho­ught you re­ad co­mic bo­oks all day.”

  “Well.” The ele­va­tor pas­sed so­me kind of al­ti­tu­de mar­ker. The Man­da­rin ma­de lit­tle sen­se at the­ir spe­ed. “I sub­s­c­ri­be to a few re­gu­lar ones, but they’re monthly and that le­aves me with a ti­me lag at the end of the month.”

  “Hwa?” Cas­sie ca­me clo­se eno­ugh that he lo­we­red his vo­ice.

  “Well, Tib­bles is so­me kind of ali­en-that’s pro­bably a sa­fe bet. He chan­ges with per­cep­ti­on. So what did the Chi­ne­se see? Hwa. They had to ha­ve sent a Japa­ne­se om­bud­s­man first.”

  “Who saw Japa­ne­se lep­rec­ha­uns.”

  “The Ainu-I he­ard the pa­ra­me­dics ha­ul Fu­ri­ka­ki out of his of­fi­ce last we­ek scre­aming abo­ut the Ha­iry Hill Men.”

  Cassie po­si­ti­oned her­self on his sto­mach. “You co­uld ha­ve ta­ken the gold, Mr. Ainu.”

  He la­ug­hed and smo­ot­hed her ha­ir lightly. “Pri­ce of gold’s re­al low the­se days.”

  She jab­bed him in a soft spot. “But why re­al­ly?” The ca­bin ga­ve a fa­int hum but he did not spe­ak. She jab­bed aga­in.

  “Okay.” He twir­led a curl of her ha­ir. “Bet­we­en us?”

  “Of co­ur­se.” She kis­sed his arm.

  “We’re the only ones, Cas­sie.”

  “Only ones what?” She sat up.

  “The only ones who ha­ve a po­si­ti­ve re­la­ti­on­s­hip with fa­eri­es. The En­g­lish get ab­duc­ted, the Swe­des get ra­va­ged, the Japa­ne­se are con­ta­mi­na­ted, the Chi­ne­se in­va­ded. Hen­ce, the stret­c­hers.”

  Cassie’s fa­ce chan­ged co­lor. “Do­es Han know?”

  O’Malley pat­ted her leg. “One sus­pects he must. Pot of gold and all.”

  “So why not so­met­hing el­se?”

  O’Malley’s eyes glit­te­red. “The Irish in­vent star tra­vel. Too go­od to pass up. What’s yo­ur ex­cu­se?”

  Cassie rub­bed her chin. “How do you know I don’t just li­ke go­ing re­al­ly fast?”

  He put his hands be­hind his he­ad and chuc­k­led. They fell si­lent. By the next al­ti­tu­de mar­ker, they had fal­len as­le­ep.

  When they ar­ri­ved, a fle­et of Dra­gon La­di­es whis­ked them back in­to the ste­ri­le cor­ri­dor and he was aga­in out­fit­ted with clot­hing, this ti­me a ter­ribly fa­mi­li­ar blue pin stri­ped su­it. Even the tie se­emed stan­dard is­sue. The Sec­re­ta­ri­at us­he­red them in­to a small of­fi­ce whe­re a be­aming te­am of ten Star­D­ri­ve exe­cu­ti­ves wel­co­med them. Chi­ef Han had op­ted for a black su­it with, mi­rac­les, a cre­am and crim­son tie.

  “Sit.” All pre­sent sat. O’Mal­ley wa­ited in si­len­ce, thin­king.

  “You ha­ve pla­ced us wit­hin sche­du­led pa­ra­me­ters. Se­ven­te­en mi­nu­tes ago, our crew com­p­le­ted the first fas­ter than light vo­ya­ge in hu­man his­tory, re­tur­ning sa­fely to the star ba­se.” The ot­her ni­ne men be­amed, cle­arly de­lig­h­ted and re­li­eved. Han lit a ci­ga­ret­te and wat­c­hed the smo­ke curl. “Expla­in yo­ur­self.”

  “Isn’t that Star­D­ri­ve’s who­le pur­po­se?” O’Mal­ley fid­dled with his tie.

  “But you are not Star­D­ri­ve. You work on the se­cond flo­or.” Han ga­ve them a pi­er­cing sta­re. “Why did you help us?”

  Cassie co­ug­hed. “The pri­ce of gold re­al­ly is thro­ugh the flo­or.” She shrug­ged and lo­oked to O’Mal­ley.

  “She’s right.” O’Mal­ley let go of his col­
lar. “I’d pro­bably ma­ke mo­re with a mo­dest ra­ise, which I think one co­uld re­aso­nably ex­pect for such work.”

  “We’re not even pa­ying Ms. Mor­ga­ine, al­t­ho­ugh you can rest as­su­red her sis­ter now has ex­t­re­mely well-com­pen­sa­ted em­p­loy­ment for li­fe.”

  “Morgaine?” O’Mal­ley tur­ned to her.

  Cassie smi­led. “Pa­gan witch, re­mem­ber.”

  “And you, Mr. O’Mal­ley,” Chi­ef Han spo­ke as if pu­nis­h­ment we­re be­ing do­led out, “we ha­ve de­ci­ded to pro­mo­te.”

  O’Malley gro­aned, in­s­tantly fil­led with reg­ret.

  One of the exe­cu­ti­ves set up a tri­pod with a lar­ge flow chart prin­ted with im­pos­sib­le to re­ad squ­ig­gles. He co­ug­hed, con­sul­ted a set of no­te cards and be­gan, “As you can see from our cor­po­ra­te struc­tu­re…”

  Cassie ro­se. O’Mal­ley pa­nic­ked and re­ac­hed out his hand.

  Cassie pum­ped it. “I’ll see you la­ter.” She star­ted wal­king.

  “You will?” His sto­mach be­gan to act up. What if he had to we­ar a su­it ever­y­day?

  “Magic,” she whis­pe­red in lus­ci­o­us Ga­elic. He wat­c­hed in an­gu­ish as his Cas­sie sa­un­te­red from the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om.

  Chief Han wa­ited un­til she had left, then to­ok over for the exe­cu­ti­ve, dro­ning on in grand ges­tu­res abo­ut so­me new po­si­ti­on with enor­mo­us po­wer and res­pon­si­bi­lity. But all O’Mal­ley he­ard was “su­it, su­it, su­it.” Af­ter se­ve­ral pa­in­ful mi­nu­tes it grew qu­i­et. All the men sto­od. He sto­od. One by one the men sho­ok his hand. Han pat­ted him on the sho­ul­der.

  Dazed, he fol­lo­wed a fe­ral lo­oking Dra­gon Lady to his new of­fi­ce, now on the fi­ve hun­d­red and se­venth flo­or. He clo­sed the do­or and whim­pe­red. So­me un­k­nown lac­key (the new Om­bud­s­man?) had mo­ved his ge­ar in­to a lar­ger and far mo­re lu­xu­ri­o­us spa­ce. He had a win­dow vi­ew, two pot­ted plants and so­met­hing an­ti­que in the cor­ner. His only so­la­ce lay on the desk: an in­ter­com box with “Fi­ona” han­d­w­rit­ten on the pe­eling la­bel.