by John Ringo
“Herzer, I don’t have a boyfriend for a reason,” she replied. “I haven’t met any that I like enough.”
“Including me,” he grumped.
“The ones I like don’t like me and the ones who like me I don’t want to be girlfriends with,” she said. “Story of my life.”
“Well, I’d be happy for one that liked me,” he said.
“Is that an elf?” she asked, changing the subject. Elves were rarely seen outside of Elfheim. The relatively early genetic engineering had been locked in by the Council during a flurry of legal controls imposed by the Net in the wake of the AI wars. Since then, many of the legal controls had been relieved but a few, regarding harmful biologicals and, strangely, elves, had been left in place. Now, it was impermissible to Change into full elf mode, and even the template for them was locked; the only way to become an elf was to be born as one. There were various rumors about why such a simple Change would be outlawed but if the elves knew the reason, they were keeping their own council.
The tall figure, with the distinct height, swept-back hair and pointed ears of the elven race, certainly looked like one. Or an almost illegal replica.
“Yes,” he said. “I asked. Another one of Marguerite’s friends. Via your father as I understand.”
“Father does have some elf friends,” she said, considering the visitor more carefully. “I think that’s Gothoriel the Youth. He occasionally goes to the Shenan Renn Faire.”
“Well there’s no way we can get a chance to talk to him,” Herzer said, looking at the crowd around the distant figure.
“Oh, my word,” Rachel said as a massive figure appeared in the air and then hunted around for a place to land. “It’s a dragon!”
There were only a handful of surviving dragons in the world. Dragons, by legal definition, were sentient beings. Nonsentient beings that looked somewhat like dragons were referred to as wyvern. No person could Change into a dragon since the AI wars, when dragons had fought primarily on the side of humans and, like elves, they were “grandfathered” as a species. Over the years their extremely low birthrate had dwindled the species, long lived as it was, to almost nothing.
After hovering for a bit, the dragon finally cleared enough space to land and then Changed into a redheaded girl in an emerald green dress. With a general wave she disappeared into the gathering crowd.
“Not much of a chance to talk to her, either,” Herzer noted.
“Or to get around Marguerite,” Rachel said. “Speaking of which, where is Marguerite?”
“Not here yet,” Herzer replied. He let go of the float-glass he was holding and adjusted his twentieth-century “tuxedo” then grasped the glass again, taking a sip. “I asked one of the butler-bots. He says she is intending a special surprise for everyone.”
“And it looks like she was waiting for the dragon to arrive,” the girl replied as two projections in twenty-fourth-century dress appeared at the entrance to the maze and waved a space clear.
“GENTLEBEINGS,” a voice boomed through the crowd. “MARGUERITE VALASHON!”
There was polite applause at this over-the-top entrance — by and large the culture preferred a more sedate introduction — but the applause faltered and then picked up as a blue glowing cloud, projecting Marguerite’s smiling face, appeared in the archway and floated out into the crowd.
It took Rachel a moment to adjust. At first she thought it was just a special effect but then the reality caught up with her. “She had herself Transferred!” she gasped.
“Apparently,” Herzer said in a sad voice.
“What’s your problem?” she asked. “I mean it’s my friend that just got turned into a cloud of nannites!”
“I know, but…”
“You were sweet on her?” she asked. “A Transfer can take any form, you know. She’s still a girl… sort of.”
“Like I said, I’d only seen her a couple of times since school,” he snapped. “I wasn’t… sweet on her. I’d hoped to get that way, though.”
“Hopeless, Herzer,” she said, gesturing around at the crowd. She started to walk towards Marguerite’s apparent path, hoping to get at least a greeting in edgewise. “Marguerite’s got more boyfriends than my dad’s got swords.”
“What’s one more,” he said, following behind her. “Speaking of your dad…” he continued as Marguerite turned towards them.
“Rachel!” the Transfer cried. She’d formed into a semblance of herself, wearing a pale blue body-cloak. But there was a blue glow around her that designated a Transfer and her voice, either through deliberate choice or an inability to master sound yet, had a reverberating overtone that was eerie and just a shade unpleasant; it reminded Rachel of ghost vids.
“Marguerite,” she replied as Marguerite shifted through the welcoming crowd. “How… surprising.”
“It was a gift from my dad!” the Transfer said with a smile. She shifted into a delphinoform and hung in the air. “Look! I can mer any time I want!”
Rachel smiled painfully and thought about her mother’s lecture on Transfers. Humans went through natural changes in personality as they aged, their bodies going through a series of programs leaving the person of sixty different from the person of thirty different from the person of fifteen. Because the changes were a combination of experience and experience-influenced physiology, wildly random in their forms, there was no way to simulate them for a Transfer. So a Transfer, except for whatever experiential change might affect them, became “locked” in an age. From her mother’s experienced perspective, the worst possible Transfer, other than a child, was a teenager. People didn’t just get calmer and wiser, by and large, from experience. They got calmer and wiser because their bodies were programmed to.
Marguerite, however, would remain forever sixteen.
It was an odd thought. Instead of growing up in tandem, and presumably remaining friends, she suspected that by the time she was old, say, thirty, that it would be hard to stay friends with a sixteen-year-old Marguerite.
Other than that she thought it was neat.
“I love your dress, is that a reenactor look?” Marguerite continued, hardly noticing her friend’s pause.
“Imperial court dress,” Rachel replied. “From the time of the Chitan Imperial Court.”
“And your mom finally broke down and let you do some sculpting,” Marguerite said. “It looks good on you.”
“Thank you,” Rachel replied, not looking at Herzer. “Have you said hello to Herzer?”
“Charmed, miss,” Herzer said, bowing. “A beautiful transformation of one already a beauty.”
“Speaking of transformations,” Marguerite said as she changed back to human form and ignoring Herzer’s comment. “You’re looking… better. Did Ms. Ghorbani… uhm…”
“Fix me?” Herzer asked, unconsciously flexing. “She did the neural work. I had a friend help me with the sculpting.”
“Oh, okay,” Marguerite said, dismissing him. “Rachel, I’ve got to go say hello to people. But I want to get together later, okay?”
“Okay,” Rachel replied. She’d realized that Marguerite was just about the only person at the party she wanted to talk with, but she felt constrained to hang around. “Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
She sighed and looked around, wondering how to ditch Herzer.
“About your dad,” Herzer said, continuing where he’d left off. “I was wondering, could you introduce me?”
“To my dad?” she asked. “Whatever for?”
“Uhm, some friends of mine have gotten into the whole reenactment thing,” he said. “You know your dad’s sort of famous, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she said, shortly. She wasn’t about to go into how disinterested she was in reenactment. Her father had dragged her to events since she was a kid and every trip seemed to be like a continuation of school. Learning to cook over smoky wood fires was not her idea of fun. And learning to hunt and butcher was just grotesque.
“I’d hoped
to meet him; I’d like to see if he’d be an instructor for me.”
“I’ll send you an introduction projection,” she said. “Oh, look, it’s Donna. I think I’ll go talk to her. Take care of yourself, Herzer.”
“Okay,” he replied to her retreating back. “Have fun.”
CHAPTER FIVE
When Edmund came through the front door of his house he was more than a little surprised to see Sheida Ghorbani lounging in his chair, a goblet of wine in her hand while her lizard was perched on the table snacking on a mouse.
“Make yourself right at home, why don’t you?” he asked, shaking off his cape and hanging it up. After stamping a bit he took off his boots. These were right/left fitted with a good sole and oiled leather; he wasn’t so into period that he was willing to wear the rotten footwear available in even the high Middle Ages. Once he had them sort of cleaned he set them outside the door on the portico; they were coated nearly knee-high in mud.
“Anyone else would simply translate from the inn to their door,” Sheida said, taking a sip. “Or all the way into the house. Only our Edmund would stomp through the mud. Nice vintage by the way.”
“I’m not ‘our Edmund,’ ” Edmund replied, walking over to the matching chair and throwing another log on the fire in front of it. Fireplaces were inefficient methods of heating a room as large as the front hall and he’d often considered breaking down and putting in a potbellied stove. But that was too out of period for his tastes. So he put up with having to spend half the winter in front of the fireplace. “Charlie sent it up from down-valley; he’s finally replicated some of the rootstock from the Merovingian period. It’s not nearly as undrinkable as most people thought.” He sat down and stuck his feet up in front of the fire. “So to what do I owe the pleasure and privilege of a visit from a Council member? You realize, of course, that that ‘our Edmund’ sounded uncomfortably like a royal ‘We.’ ”
“Come on, Edmund, it’s Sheida,” she said bitterly, stroking the lizard as it downed the last of the mouse. “Remember? Sister of some redhead named Daneh? Sister you were dating first?”
Edmund smiled without looking at her and summoned a glass of wine for himself. “That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t me who disappeared for twenty-five years,” she replied, taking another sip and twisting a strand of hair around her finger.
“No, it wasn’t. I still don’t know why you dropped in.”
“We… the Council… I have a problem,” she said.
“And you came to an old recreationist, a, what was the phrase, ‘a man so stuck in the past his Latin name has saurus in it,’ for help?” he asked.
“Yes, Edmund, I’ve come to you.” She stopped for a moment indecisively then went on. “I came to you for a few reasons. One of them is that you’re so steeped in the past that you understand it, and the… problem I’ve uncovered hasn’t been faced for nearly two thousand years. I also came to you because you’re a good strategist, as good a one as I know. Last but not least, I came to you because… you’re my friend. You’re family. I trust you.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking into the fire. “I had begun… I’ve been wondering lately if anyone even remembered I existed.”
“We all remember,” Sheida said. “You’re quite hard to forget. Also hard to live with, but that is another matter.
“I have to ask for your word that you won’t mention any of this to anyone. It’s… I’m not sure that what I think is going on is reality. I might just be going paranoid in my old age…”
“There’s nothing wrong with paranoia,” Edmund said with a shrug. “It’s when you can’t separate reality from fantasy that’s the problem.”
“Well, I wish this were fantasy,” she sighed. “Do you know Paul Bowman?”
“I know of him,” Edmund said, shifting to look at her. “I don’t think we’ve ever met if that’s what you mean.”
“I think Paul is planning a… well, the only correct term appears to be ‘coup.’ ”
* * *
Rachel had met Donna Forsceen through Marguerite and cordially detested her. The girl thought about nothing but the newest fashion and looked like a young boy from all the sculpting. So she only exchanged a few words and then moved on to the buffet. She looked at it and groaned. There were two types of food available, the usual heavily spiced and extremely hot food that was all the rage, and an array of chocolate confections. She didn’t like the current trend towards “how hot can we make it,” and simply grazing off the chocolate would probably put ten pounds on her, all in the wrong places. As soon as she was eighteen she was going to be sculpted down to a toothpick, whatever her mother thought, and have it locked in.
“Rachel! Rachel Ghorbani! What do you think?”
The voice was high and squeaky and emanated from a unicorn about the size of a large pony. Rachel picked up a strip of protein flavored somewhat like pork, immediately flashing back to one time when her father made her eat opossum, and regarded the creature with puzzlement. The unicorn was a brilliant white, of course, she’d rarely seen much imagination in the unicorn look, had golden hooves and horn and bright blue eyes.
“Very, uhmmm…” she paused. “Barb, is that you?”
“Yes! Do you like it?”
Barb Branson hadn’t been the brightest brick in the load before she started off on Change after Change. Normally there was no real threat to personality or intelligence integration in Changes. But in Barb’s case, “normally” didn’t seem to be working out; Rachel was sure Barb was getting dumber with each Change.
“Very nice, Barb,” Rachel replied. “Very… very unicornish.”
“That’s because I’m a unicorn, silly!” the girl trilled, spinning in place. “I love it! Ooo, there’s Donna! She’ll go spar!”
“I’m sure she will,” Rachel replied, heaving a sigh as Barb trotted off. “I swear, even when I can Change I’m not going to get that addlepated.”
Finally she loaded a float-plate with some grilled protein, the same one that tasted, she swore, exactly like opossum, and looked around to see if anyone had arrived who was worth talking with. The elf was still surrounded by a huge group of people, all hanging onto his every sibilant word, and there was a wall of mostly male bodies around the dragon, who in human form was on the far side of gorgeous even if her body was a bit on the busty side as well.
Rachel got as close to the elf as she could, without being rude, hoping he would notice her and maybe call her forward. When that didn’t work she stood at the back of the group and tried to listen to the questioning at the center. Unfortunately, the conversations on the periphery blotted it out and she couldn’t even Cast to the center because of the privacy shields so many of the people had up; the technique effectively created a pool of privacy around the centerpiece so that only those in the first circle or so could hear what he was saying.
“Rachel, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Herzer whispered in her ear.
She stifled a sigh and looked around. Then up. Then up some more. She had seen some large humans and humanoids before but the person Herzer was with was very physically imposing. He was about two and half meters tall and broad in proportion. Herzer was not small, but next to this person he seemed slight. The stranger had dark skin, black really and not melanine black but some other additive that made it look black as midnight. When she finally stepped backwards for a good look she noticed some slight elven enhancements and wondered at them. Because of the Net ban on full elven upgrade, elven enhancements were generally frowned upon, especially by the elves. Adding an elven look was… impolite. The thought came that she knew who she was looking at just as Herzer introduced them.
“Rachel this is…”
“You’d be Dionys McCanoc, wouldn’t you?” she asked with a nod. “Protein strip?”
“Indeed.” His voice was mellifluous and she suspected that if you didn’t keep your wits about you you’d drown in it. But Rachel for some strange reason found
herself mildly repulsed instead. It was just too much. The size, the sardonic elvish and not-elvish face, the voice set to charm the skin off a mink. When he took her hand he kissed it and drew his thumb across the inside as he withdrew, sending a shiver through her body but leaving her emotionally even more determined to resist the charm onslaught.
“And you are the beauteous daughter of Edmund Talbot and the fair Daneh Ghorbani. I know your mother of old.” He had moved forward to take her hand, crowding her personal space again and making her have to crane her neck to look up. But she refused to back up again. He could damn well hit her shields first.
There was a slight emphasis, somewhat embarrassing, on the “know.” Or it would be embarrassing if Rachel hadn’t heard her mother’s comments about McCanoc. Daneh had gotten out of the reenactor movement, but it didn’t mean she didn’t keep up with some of the politics. And Daneh had much the same opinion of McCanoc that Edmund did. Rachel was sure that if she was here she’d have an even lower one. On the other hand, Rachel was pretty sure mother had never met McCanoc, so that was one flat lie she’d caught him in.
“I am sure you know my mother and father; they are well known in the reenactor movement. As are you, Dionys,” she said with a simpering smile. No reason to incur his wrath herself and a lie for a lie. “Whatever brings you here? I would think such a… simple affair would not be to your tastes.”
“Oh, Marguerite’s mother and I have some dealings, you know,” he said. “And when I was invited I was delighted to find that Herzer and Marguerite were friends. Now we’re all friends together,” he added, making an expansive gesture.
It was only then that Rachel noticed the group with him. She couldn’t determine what it was about the group of five that hovered at his back but she couldn’t find a thing to recommend them. One of them looked at her and positively leered. Just like McCanoc to somehow round up a group of total losers. But what in the hell were he and Herzer doing hanging out? She felt a flash of irritation and distress and put it down to having big-sisterly feelings for the boy. Until recently he’d had almost no social life at all.
