John Ringo - Council Wars 01 - There Will Be Dragons

by There Will Be Dragons(lit)

  "That means that whoever has the generators, has the power," Ishtar said. "I'm tracing the flows that they're using right now and they're drawing on spare power from two of the reactors in Ropasa. If we can prevent them from gathering power from the others."

  "Then we start calling in people that we know we can trust to go and take physical possession of the generators," Sheida said with a nod. "At that point we will control their output and Paul can't have it." Her face creased and she smiled. "Okay, I've joined Ishtar in hammering the Council Chamber. I also put a teleport block over them."

  "That takes power, too," Ishtar said with a frown. "And two can play at that game; one just went on here."

  "Yes, but I have a decent road out," Sheida laughed. "Let them try walking out of the Council Center."

  "Then we end up having fights for the generators," Ungphakorn said, ruffling his feathers furiously. "We'll have to shield each of them."

  "But I'd bet money I have better friends at that sort of thing than they do," Sheida replied, nodding. "Okay, avatars on the way."

  "We're taking power from general usage already," Ishtar noted in wonder. She looked up at the hills around the house. Where once had been trees towering into the sky was now a blackened heath; the secondary effects of an irresistible force hitting an inanimate object. "There's enough to sustain the Net currently, but if we keep this up."

  "If we don't keep it up, Paul and his 'five year plan' wins," Sheida replied. "We can't let that happen."

  "And we have two additional Keys," Aikawa noted, holding one up. "That puts us at near parity with them."

  "But we don't have anyone to vote or use them," Ishtar said. "We need two. Two that we can trust."

  "I know one," Sheida said.

  "The power grid." Ishtar gasped, her eyes staring into the infinity of the Net. "The power grid is. going down."

  * * *

  The two fighters circled each other warily each searching for an opening. They were armed and armored alike, mail, helmet, a cuirass and shield, wielding long swords easily in their right hands.

  After a moment's fruitless circling, the larger sprang forward with a yell and jammed his shield against the smaller man's shield, searching over it for a strike.

  Harry Chambers laughed and fell back at the shield charge, swinging his sword to the side to skitter over the larger fighter's shield edge.

  "You're getting slow in your old age, Edmund," he chuckled, dancing out of range.

  "So are you," Edmund replied, but he had to admit to the reality of the statement; he and Harry had been sparring for years and never had the lighter fighter taken the shield rush that easily. "That just means I have to be craftier."

  "Fat chance," Harry replied, leaping forward with a series of blows. He rang blow after blow off of Edmund's shield, careful not to snap the blade on the boss or the metal-rimmed edge. But the series of blows had their intended effect, driving Edmund back for the first time that he could recall. "Weak, Edmund. All this soft living is making you weak."

  "I'm afraid you're right," Edmund gasped, trying to retaliate. But his blows rang softly against the lighter fighter's shield and he could not check the rush. Finally, he stumbled, a misplaced piece of kindling rolling out from under his foot, and he dropped to one knee, holding the shield above him now to wield off the blows.

  "Weak, Edmund," Harry cried in delight; it was the first time he could recall succeeding this easily. He considered for a moment if maybe he should back off, but he still hadn't landed a strong blow, just a series of chops on the shield that was slowly battering the reinforced plywood.

  "Yes," Edmund gasped, drawing his sword back. "I guess I'm too old," he continued as the sword flew forward, well under his opponent's, and crashed into his thigh. There was a spurt of blood and Harry let out a shriek. Suddenly, things weren't what they seemed.

  "Lord God, Edmund!" Harry shouted, crumpling to the ground, his hand clapped over the spurting wound. "What did you do to your sword!"

  The sword's own blunting field should have stopped it from doing any cutting damage, although Harry would have had a Charlie Horse to remember. For that matter, Harry's own defensive field, reduced as it was, should have prevented the contact. Neither had activated.

  "I didn't do anything," Edmund said, dropping to both knees and grasping his friend's hand. "Let me see."

  "It bloody hurts!" Harry shouted. "Bloody hell does it hurt!"

  Edmund pried the younger man's hand away and looked at the wound. It was a deep cut, on the outer thigh. The sword had cloven through the ring-mail and underpadding, then into the flesh of the quadriceps. It was bloody, but it wasn't life threatening; there was no bright red spurting of arterial damage or even the slow, solid flow of a cut vein.

  "It's only a flesh wound," Edmund said, frowning.

  "It's a bloody painful flesh wound," Harry replied, sitting up on one elbow since the shock of surprise had worn off. "Edmund, why isn't there a repair cloud on it? Why does it hurt?"

  "Why did the damned sword go home?" Edmund asked, rhetorically. "Butler." He paused for a moment then frowned. "Butler!"

  "Genie?" Harry said. "Oh, shit, Edmund. Genie!" There was no reply. No voices answered out of the air and no projections appeared.

  Edmund looked around. They were in the training area behind the forge, one of three on his property. He finally shrugged and got his arm under Harry. "Keep your hand on that and I'll get you into the forge."

  "Okay," Harry said faintly. "I'm not feeling particularly well."

  "It's shock," Talbot explained, leading his limping friend into the building. "I need to get you laid out again." He first sat the fighter down on a bench then laid out some leather mats before lowering him to the floor. "Carborundum!"

  "Not a good situation, is it, O meat bag?" the AI said, sticking its head out of the blast furnace.

  "What in the hell is going on?" Edmund asked, as he searched frantically for something that was reasonably clean to place on the wound. Finally he settled for a fresh batch of cosilk waste and pressed it into the mess on Harry's leg. "Why are you responding and the genies aren't?"

  "The Net is down," the AI replied. "The Council is fighting amongst itself. They're diverting all power, and all processing power, to that. I am an independent entity."

  "Oh. hell," Harry groaned. "No bloody nannites?"

  "Nope," the AI said. "Not unless something falls out quick. You're not the only ones who are in a bad way; nobody has any power anywhere. That means no food, no water, no light. Things are starting to get bad already."

  "Paul's coup," Edmund muttered, looking around the forge.

  "What?" Harry asked.

  "Sheida told me that Paul might be planning a coup. We discussed means of defense. Carb, where do the AI's stand?"

  "Most of them are sitting it out," the AI replied frankly. "The only thing that can destroy us is the Council, acting in concert. Whichever faction wins will come down hard on the loser's supporters."

  "Where do you stand?" Edmund asked, wrapping a leather strap around his friend's thigh to keep the cosilk in place.

  "I've read Bowman's manifesto," the AI said, acidly. "I don't think so."

  "Can I read it?" Edmund asked, standing up.

  "I could read it to you," Carb said. "But I can't produce it. I'm. somewhat lacking in power myself."

  "How bad is it?"

  "Well. how much charcoal do you have?" the AI asked.

  "Not all that much," Edmund admitted. "We're towards the end of the cycle. But if I parcel it out."

  "If I drop below eight hundred degrees C, I'm toast," Carb said, bluntly. "Or, rather, I'm not toast, so I'm dead."

  "Dead, dead, or quiescent?" Harry asked.

  "I might be able to back up a few functions, but I'm not sure I'll recover," the AI admitted. "Call it mostly dead and maybe unrecoverable without a miracle. Which doesn't look likely right now. By the way, Sheida is calling in all her markers; you're going to get a call soon."
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  "I've got to see to Harry," Edmund responded. "Then to the village. I'll talk to her when I have to." He turned to Harry and waggled a finger at him. "Don't you die while I'm gone!"

  "I'll try not to," Harry said weakly.

  Edmund trotted across the courtyard, the weight of his armor virtually unnoticed, and entered a side door of the house. Down a corridor in a long-unopened storeroom he pulled open a locker and rummaged to the bottom. There he found a pack and dragged it out. A quick check of the contents sufficed and he ran back to where the injured fighter was lying.

  "I didn't know you knew any AI's," Harry said when he entered. The injured fighter's color was, if anything, a tad better.

  "It wasn't supposed to be general knowledge," Carb said. "But, all things considered."

  Edmund unbuckled Harry's armor and started stripping off the pants.

  "Edmund, I never knew you cared," Harry joked, helping with the heavy steel. "It would be easier if I stood up."

  "It would be harder if you passed out," Edmund replied, pulling the armor away from the wound. The cosilk padding was quickly cut with a belt-knife, then he opened up the green backpack and started rummaging through packages.

  "What's all that?" Harry asked with a tone of deep interest.

  "Very old fashioned medical gear," Edmund replied, withdrawing a bottle of antiseptic and some small, clear packages.

  "This is gonna hurt," he said in an offhand manner as he poured much of the contents of the bottle of brown liquid into the wound and onto his hands.

  "JESUS ON A CRUTCH!" Harry yelled, practically sitting up. But he didn't bat the bottle away. "What was that?"

  "Something called 'betadyne' that they used to use back in the ooold days," Edmund replied. "It's okay, next we're talking really medieval medicine," he continued, pulling a curved needle out of one package and a long piece of string out of the other.

  "Is that what I think it is?" Harry asked.

  "Would you prefer some boiling pitch?" Edmund asked. He pulled some clamps out of the bag and shut the wound, then began applying the suturing needle. "I mean, that would be really period. Nothing like a nice cauterization to start the day."

  "No," Harry replied, gasping as Edmund tied off the first suture. "Stitching is just fine. Antique, but fine."

  "Hell of a lot of damage to the quad, here, buddy," Edmund said, putting in another stitch. "Sorry about that."

  "No way you could have known," Harry said with another gasp.

  "Tying them off is the hardest part," Edmund commented. "We're going to be calling you Gimpy for a while."

  "Edmund, can I ask a question?" Harry said, as the third suture went in.

  "Sure."

  "Why do you have an old-fashioned medical kit?"

  Edmund hesitated for a moment then tightened the last suture. "In case I'm someplace the nannites don't do all the repairs."

  "But the only place like that is."

  "Edmund Talbot?"

  Edmund spun in place on the floor and pointed the sword he hadn't even realized he'd carried in at the apparition, which turned out to be an avatar of Sheida Ghorbani.

  "Edmund, Paul attempted his coup," the avatar said. "I need every person who has any training in. well in war, here with me. He has already attacked power plants and I need them secured. I can port you now."

  "No," Edmund replied, lifting Harry to a sitting position.

  "Edmund, I know you would not side with Paul. He represents."

  "I know what he represents," Edmund replied. "I'm not siding with Paul. But I'm also not leaving here. Make sure that you tell Sheida that and that she's thinking tactically instead of strategically. Tell her that."

  "She wishes you to become a Council member," the avatar said.

  "What does that mean?" Edmund asked.

  "They seized two Keys in the fight in the Council Chamber. She wishes you to vote one."

  "Holy shit," Harry whistled. "Council member."

  "No," Edmund said after a moment's thought. "Tell her that this is my place. We have to rebuild before we can do anything. She needs me here. Tell her, strategic not tactical."

  "I shall," the avatar said, winking out.

  "What in the hell did that mean?" Harry asked, leaning into the older fighter. "Bloody hell that hurts."

  "Well, let's go get you some anesthetic," Edmund said. "Fortunately, I just put up some corn liquor; it should be about mellowed out."

  "Sounds good to me."

  They limped into the house and into the kitchen, where Edmund dumped Harry in one of the chairs and began opening cabinets.

  "The first thing you need is a fluid replenisher," Edmund said, sliding a bottle across the table. "Then, the moonshine."

  "This is just great," Harry said, taking a deep chug of the blue liquid. "Everything's gone?"

  "It sounds like it," Edmund said.

  "I can't go home," Harry said, taking another drink.

  "Not unless you can walk to London. Robert has been building period ships, not Middle Ages period but sloops and barkentines, that sort of thing. He might be able to get you home."

  "Daneh? Rachel?"

  "No communications," Edmund replied, taking a sip of the moonshine. "No way to know. I suppose if I'd taken Sheida up on her offer."

  "That's."

  "It's happening all over the world, everywhere," Edmund said, coldly. "Not just my family. Everyone's family. Think about how bad it must be out there. We're in a room that is designed to survive without power. Think about Fukyama in his damned floating castle!"

  "Ouch, good point. And you're staying here?"

  "First of all, can you imagine anywhere better to be?" Edmund asked, waving around at the fixtures. The hams hanging from the rafters, the garlands of onions. "Where should I go?"

  "The south road to find Daneh and Rachel?" Harry suggested.

  "Perhaps," he sighed. "But. people know where this place is. Do you know how rare that is; that someone can find a location on a map? People will come here. The term's so old it's like 'slave' and 'villeigne' but we'll get 'refugees' coming here, on the roads that remain."

  " 'All roads lead to Faire,' " Harry said.

  "Damned near all that are left. So, do you want to leave Myron in charge? Or Tarmac?"

  "No," Harry said.

  "That's what I meant by Sheida thinking tactically. Unless one side wins right away, this. this war, speaking of another old term, is going to drag on. And if it does, somebody has to be down on the ground, picking up the pieces. I think my place is there, not standing guard over some damned fusion plant."

  "And if Paul wins?"

  "In that case, my place is vengeance."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "I suppose I deserved it," Rachel sighed and moved her wyvern.

  The three-dimensional chessboard was a large hologram of ascending platforms. Different pieces could move in different ways and all pieces were not equal. Stronger pieces, by and large, could move only horizontally, crossing to higher or lower grids at specific points. Flying pieces, though, like the ascending levels of dragons, could move up or down however many places were available by their movement. However, they could not destroy all "land" pieces. This time, however, her wyvern had stooped upon one of Marguerite's pawns that was in a strategic spot, and a wyvern could kill a pawn. There was a brief flurry of battle and then the pawn fell in battle and reappeared on Rachel's side of the board.

  "That's stupid," Marguerite replied, reaching out one ephemeral hand and directing her mother dragon in counter. "You're practically a grown up! You should be able to control your own body. Body control is where all control starts. If you don't have control over your own body you don't have anything. Look at me."

  "But your parents approved changing you into nannites. Mom doesn't approve of any modification. I mean, she's really into 'natural' you know?" Rachel's castle moved up a space, leaving it a straight shot to put Marguerite's fortress in check. The pawn had been in the way before.