John Ringo - Council Wars 01 - There Will Be Dragons

by There Will Be Dragons(lit)

  Given the vastness of modern information and the dependence upon the Net, determining what to learn once past the "baby steps" of reading, keyboarding and mathematics through integral calculus, the choice of emphasis and speed of advance became complicated.

  Rachel and Herzer had both found that they enjoyed learning and had a shared interest in history and ethnology. Rachel leaned more towards the day-to-day aspects of life in prior centuries, from Egyptian beer-making techniques to the operation of devices like the "automobile," whereas Herzer was fascinated by the way that things worked and were put together. He had eventually gained the equivalent of a bachelors' degree in historic structural engineering. Marguerite had advanced at a slower rate because she spent more time on the socialization aspects. She had eventually settled upon a focus on social interaction and holistic living design.

  As Rachel walked over, she noted that not only had the palsy apparently stopped, but Herzer had put on weight, muscle-mass, since the last time she saw him. Now he looked like a sculpted Greek god. The cut lines looked. good on him, but they were hardly fashionable and there was no way, in three days, he could have gone from relatively flaccid to cut and defined without some really serious bod-mod.

  "Hello, Herzer, out of the operation and into bod-sculpting I see."

  "Hello, Rachel," he said with an embarrassed expression. "It's what my body would look like if all the exercise I was doing had done anything but keep the palsy in check. And it's all mine, genetically; I wouldn't let the surgeon bot touch my genes."

  "I hope not, after all the work mother did on them," she said, tartly. Then she sighed in exasperation at herself. "I'm sorry, Herzer, I know how much it must mean to you to finally be free of that awful."

  "Condition?" he asked. "I believe the term that was once in vogue is 'spastic freak.' "

  "Now you're being snotty," she said, looking at his glass. "Wine?"

  "Fruit juice," the teen said. "It's going to be a while before I feel. comfortable poisoning my body."

  She summoned the same and looked around. "I had no idea that Marguerite had so many friends," she said. "It makes me wonder if she really thinks of me as a friend or just an odd acquaintance."

  "Oh, I think she thinks you're a friend," he said, nodding at the crowd. "She just has lots of room for friends. Marguerite is a very charismatic young lady and she makes friends easily. But I don't think everyone in this crowd is her friend; some of them are just acquaintances or friends of friends. Everybody wanted to be at this party."

  "Where do you know her from?" Rachel asked. "We were all in day-camp together, but she's never mentioned you since then."

  "Oh, our parents occasionally get together," Herzer said. "But she really asked me because she knew you were going to be here and she somehow got the impression that we were friends."

  "So you're a 'friend of a friend?' " she said.

  "More or less," he replied with a bitter smile. "I don't have a lot of friends myself. Something about a revulsion to spastics."

  "You're better now," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "And you're going to stay better. What you have to do now is either reintroduce yourself to people or meet new people. You've got plenty of time, centuries, to make friends."

  "I know," he replied sadly, hanging his head. "But I want it now. You know, I've never had. a girlfriend. I mean, I had a couple when I was a kid. But the damned complex popped up when I was ten and since then."

  She carefully removed her hand and gestured around. "Lots of girls to meet here."

  "Sure," he replied, trying not to sound hurt.

  "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 wyverns. 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 flashi
ng 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!"