Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 1

by Eric Flint

  "Might it be the landlady?" the lieutenant asked.

  "I think she likely sold off his property," the colonel answered, "enough to feel guilty about. She's too tall anyway."

  "If I could go to there again, I might be able to find her," Shironne said.

  "How?"

  "I think I might recognize her if I ran into her."

  "We don't have any better lead, sir," the lieutenant said. The colonel reluctantly agreed.

  Once they reached the boarding house again, he helped Shironne down from the carriage, silly hat wobbling on her head. They made their way back up to the sergeant's rooms.

  Shironne stopped inside the doorway. She knelt, removing one glove to feel the threshold. Dozens of people had crossed through, boots dropping street dust and horse dung in tiny bits all about. Near the edge of the doorway, she found a trace remembrance of the woman's bare, bloodstained foot. She told the colonel.

  "Would you recognize her if you touched her?"

  "I might, sir." Shironne laid her hand over the print, trying to get a feel for the woman. Her feet had been dirty, with that taste of blood on them, but Shironne separated out her sense of the skin and sweat from all the distractions. She rose awkwardly, the lieutenant's hand coming under her elbow to help her rise. "Maybe I could touch all the doorknobs."

  The colonel thought amusement at her. "The landlady will think we're insane. Lieutenant Kassannan, why don't you go inform the woman we're going to search the premises."

  The lieutenant hurried away.

  "Can you do that, sir?" Shironne asked.

  "On your say-so? Certainly. So, how do we proceed?"

  "Perhaps if I feel each of the doorknobs, I might know if she touched one."

  "Well, then, let's take one floor at a time." He led her down the hallway, grasped her gloved hand and laid it against a doorframe.

  She felt for the handle with her other hand and cringed. "Ew. He should wash before he eats."

  "I hope you realize the vast majority of people won't wash enough to satisfy your tastes."

  Shironne laughed. "I suppose not, sir."

  They tried every door on that hallway. She found a great deal of filth, but nothing relevant to the murder.

  The landlady returned with the lieutenant in time to witness Shironne's confrontation with the last door. "Witch," she hissed and scurried away in fear.

  "It's a good thing I'm wearing a veil."

  "Some people are superstitious. Don't let it concern you." He led her to the next floor, and she proceeded to touch all the doors, finding nothing.

  The stairwell to the fourth floor narrowed, forcing the colonel to walk behind her. The pine railing under her bare fingers bore the taste of only a few different hands, oil and dirt and sweat worn into the wood. "She's been here," Shironne told the colonel.

  His patience turned to anticipation. Shironne sensed the lieutenant tensing as well. She located the last step and stopped on the landing. "Is the ceiling low?" she asked.

  "Yes," the colonel answered.

  Shironne suspected he must be stooping, given the pinched sound of his voice. "How far to the door?"

  "The first is three feet ahead and two feet to your right."

  She followed his directions. The knob felt only of a man. "Not this one, sir."

  "Ten feet down the hallway," he said.

  She walked ahead, trailing her gloved hand against the wall. She felt at the knob once she'd located the door. "Um, she has touched this one, sir."

  "Kassannan, go ahead." The colonel's hand settled on Shironne's shoulder, drawing her back behind him.

  The lieutenant passed her in the cramped hallway. She rapped on the door. "Army Investigations. Open up."

  Shironne heard no response.

  "How certain are you about this?" the colonel asked.

  "I know she touched the doorknob. That doesn't mean she lives here, sir."

  "We're at the end of a hall. Nowhere else to go."

  The lieutenant knocked again.

  Shironne heard the sound of feet on the floor inside then. "I heard something, sir."

  "So did I," he said. "Let me, Kassannan."

  The colonel pulled away from her. Shironne heard something strike the door and realized he must have kicked it. The sound came again. She heard a crash as the door gave, banging into the wall behind it.

  "Army," he called as he stepped into the room, away from the hallway. The lieutenant followed, leaving Shironne standing alone there.

  Fear prickled through the hallway. Shironne fought it, uncertain whether it was her own. She did fear abandonment in unknown places.

  She laid her gloved hand on the wall and felt along it, seeking the door again. Following would be better than being alone. She found the doorframe and stepped into the room. A garret apartment, she decided. The colonel must have had to bend down to get in through the low door.

  The room smelled dirty, faint hints of soured milk and urine making her wrinkle her nose. She heard the colonel speaking to the lieutenant, their muffled voices indicating they'd passed into a different room.

  Shironne took a step in that direction, but stopped when her foot touched something unexpected on the floor. She tried tapping about and discovered there were objects all about her, small things that would surely trip her should she try to run. Something large huddled on the floor to her left, fabric like a jacket or blanket. Fear welled again, causing her breath to go short.

  "Not in the closet, sir," the lieutenant called from far away.

  "I found an access to the next apartment. Go back and get the girl."

  Shironne stood frozen, very aware of the unidentified things on the floor. Dread beat through her senses. A board creaked behind her, and she heard the whisper of bare feet. A hand tangled into her braid, yanking her close against a wiry body. Her oversized hat tumbled away.

  "Sir," the lieutenant called. "She's in here."

  The woman held Shironne, trembling limbs pinning her. She wasn't terribly large but she had the strength of desperation.

  Her fear roiled through Shironne's senses. Shironne fought to control her mind, counting silently to restore calm. She tried to breathe slowly. Something cool and metallic pressed against her cheek, shaking in the woman's hand.

  "Let her go, ma'am," the lieutenant said.

  The woman shifted her grip on Shironne's braid, the back of her hand coming into contact with Shironne's neck.

  "Madam," the colonel said in a reasonable tone. "The girl is not your enemy. Let her go."

  The woman shook Shironne by her braid. Her dirty hand brushed Shironne's neck again.

  Shironne forced herself to touch the woman's mind. Her thoughts were strangely insistent and repetitive, impossibly chaotic and loud. They protested over and over that she didn't know what she'd done wrong.

  "Whatever did the sergeant do to you? Why did you kill him?" Shironne asked, hoping to direct the woman's attention where she wanted it to go. Her questions sparked only uncomprehending fear.

  The colonel continued to talk soothingly, as if to a child. The woman jerked Shironne farther away. Something small on the floor shifted under Shironne's foot and only the woman's painful grip on her hair kept her standing.

  She focused on the circle pressed to her cheek, recognizing it for what it was. She extended her senses through the metal, feeling the touch of the sergeant's hands on it. Metal was always easy.

  "The gun . . ." Shironne began.

  A shot sounded, deafening in the garret room. Blood, hot and personal, sprayed across Shironne's face. The woman jerked away from her, dragging her down to the floor. Shironne yelped at a sudden flare of pain.

  She felt the colonel's hands on her shoulders then, steadying her. He wiped at her face with a piece of starched linen, smoothing away most of the blood splattered across her cheek. She could feel his worry crowding around her. "I'm so sorry, Miss Anjir," he said. "I didn't realize she had a way to get back around behind us."

  Shironn
e calmed her breathing, easier now the woman's beating panic had faded. "She's insane, Colonel."

  "Was," the lieutenant said flatly. "She's dead."

  "Damn," the colonel said.

  Shironne took a deep breath. The colonel gave her the handkerchief and she began to scrub at her hand with it. "Um, the gun wasn't loaded."

  Clicking metallic sounds followed. "She's right, sir," the lieutenant said.

  "Well, the fact that she's in possession of it indicates she had some involvement in the sergeant's death." The colonel sighed, irritation surrounding him. "What a mess. Now we'll never know what happened."

  "Sir, I had to take the shot," the lieutenant said.

  "You're not at fault, Kassannan. I should never have brought Miss Anjir up here in the first place."

  Shironne sensed his frustration. "Sir, I could find out what . . . I mean, why . . . if we don't wait too long."

  His mind turned, weighing consequences and curiosity. "Are you willing to try?"

  She nodded, suddenly aware that her scalp hurt. She touched her gloved hand to the sore spot.

  "I'm afraid she ripped out a bit of your hair."

  The realization brought tears to her eyes, the pain sharpening. Her mother would be upset and would never let her work for the colonel again. "Is it bad enough my mother will notice?" she asked, blinking away the tears.

  "I will tell her myself," the colonel said sternly.

  Pain washed through the room, sobbing accompanying it. "You killed her," a voice cried— the landlady.

  "Sit down on the floor, ma'am," the lieutenant ordered. "We have questions for you."

  "You killed her," the woman repeated.

  "Yes," the lieutenant said. "Now sit down before I do the same to you. You've abetted a crime."

  The landlady's pain turned to anguish. She began sobbing noisily. "I tried. I tried. I tried so hard."

  "Come with me," the colonel said to Shironne, ignoring the woman. He replaced Shironne's hat, helped her stand, and walked her carefully through the room.

  "What's all over the floor?" she asked.

  "Toys and wooden blocks. A baby blanket, I think."

  Shironne could smell the blood, strong and metallic, almost tasting it with her too-sensitive tongue. She reached out with her foot and contacted the body. Kneeling next to the dead woman, she felt for the woman's face with her bare hand. The colonel put his hand on her sleeve and directed her away from the ruined part of the woman's face.

  "Witch," the landlady cried, "don't touch her."

  The colonel's anger flared, but he said nothing.

  "Quiet," the lieutenant snapped.

  Shironne pressed her hand to the dead woman's skin. Warm and soft still, the blood no longer moved under the surface. Everything had halted, stopped in its path.

  She reached deeper, searching for the scattered leaves of memory in the woman's mind. They'd had no time to decay yet, each preserved clearly for her to see. Shironne touched one and then another, confirming what she'd suspected when the woman had still been alive. She wasn't sane. She'd lost her child and then her mind.

  Shironne found a distinct memory of Sergeant Merha speaking with the woman in the foyer of the boarding house. He'd been polite and kind. That simple act alone triggered her obsession with him. He was meant to give her another child, she'd believed, only he hadn't wanted her. She waited in his bed, but he didn't want to lie with her. In her desperation, she struck him.

  "I really don't think she realized what she'd done, sir," Shironne said, drawing away. "She knew she'd done something wrong, because her sister ordered her up here and wouldn't let her come down again, but I don't think she understood she actually killed him. Yesterday when you ran into her downstairs, she was waiting by his door for him to come back."

  "I won't send her to a madhouse," the landlady sobbed. "I'll keep her safe. I promised."

  They found the sergeant's army-issued knife in the landlady's kitchen. Even under the film of soap, Shironne could still feel his blood on the blade. Together with the gun, the colonel claimed, they had evidence enough, and the landlady confessed it all.

  * * *

  Her mother was furious— quietly, tearfully so, but furious.

  The colonel had taken her back to the Army Square where she'd been able to clean her hands and face to her own satisfaction. Lieutenant Kassannan sponged the stains from her worn brown dress, and Shironne re-braided her hair, hoping the sticky and painful patch would heal quickly. The colonel was correct in believing she'd not be able to hide it.

  Sitting at the servants' table in their kitchen, he confessed everything. "Madam, I wouldn't lie to you," he finished.

  "Because you know very well I would sense it if you did," her mother said in a trembling voice. Her hand stroked Shironne's hair, easing over the painful spot. "I shouldn't have agreed to this."

  "Madam, I could sorely use someone with her talents. I would like her to work for me from time to time, if . . ."

  "Colonel, I let her have her way this time because she gave her word. Not again."

  "Madam," the colonel said in a serious tone. "Your child has a very rare talent. Is it not her duty to use it for the good of others?"

  Shironne wondered how he knew what effect that word would have on her mother. "Mama, I think I could be really good at this."

  "I will," her mother said after a moment, "consider it."

  "That, Madam Anjir," the colonel said softly, "is enough for today." Shironne heard the rattle of paper. "I would like for you to memorize this. It's my address."

  Her mother radiated a strange mixture of guilt and hope. "I can't . . ."

  "Any hour of the day or night, Madam, you or your daughters may go there. Should you need a safe haven, I mean. My servants will know your names." He'd made sure Shironne memorized it in the carriage on the way back to the house. "After all, I did warn you that I'm one of the prince's closest friends. That makes me almost family, Madam."

  Shironne heard him rise and move toward the servant's door.

  "You shouldn't interfere, Colonel," her mother said without any heat behind her words. "In any way."

  "Hmm. I'm just . . . the interfering sort, I suppose," he said, and then was gone.

  * * *

  Chicken Soup

  Written by A. F. Tesson

  Illustrated by Alexandra Dawe

  "Moooom! Patton's eating my dinosaurs!"

  That rotten dog again. Eliza pulled the last of the laundry from the dryer and grabbed the basket. She yelled down the hallway, "Patton! Get in here!"

  Cold rain pattered on the windows. The smell of Grandma's homemade chicken soup wafted from the kitchen. Her husband Joseph had a cold and Grandma had always said that chicken soup fixed everything.

  "Mom! Patton won't stop!"

  Eliza sighed. Laundry would have to wait. Patton adored Joseph and would do anything he said, but she knew the mutt would ignore her until feeding time. Joseph was working late that night, so it was up to her to keep the peace.

  She set the laundry basket on the sofa and went to her daughter's room, calling Patton as she walked. She stopped at the door and her thoughts tumbled about in her mind as she tried to make sense of the unreal scene before her.

  Dozens of colorful ankle-high plastic dinosaurs dashed for cover as Patton darted about the room and snapped at them. Panicked cheeps and tiny roars sounded through the room.

  Five-year-old Gillie jumped up and down on her bed and yelled at the scruffy dog to stop. Patton chased a red ankylosaurus, but it dodged the dog's jaws and hid inside a dollhouse.

  Eliza gripped the door frame to steady herself. She recovered her wits and bounded across the floor to her daughter. "Come here. Don't worry. We'll get out of here."

  "No, Mom." She slapped Eliza's hands away. "Make Patton stop."

  A blue stegosaurus clambered over her foot, its own feet warm on her bare toes. Eliza cringed as it tried to hide behind her ankle. Patton shoved at her leg to get at the d
inosaur.

  "Mom, help Steggie!"

  Eliza grabbed Patton's collar and held the squirming dog while the toy stegosaurus scrambled under the bureau. She pushed Patton out of the room and shut the door. A frustrated whine echoed in the hallway.

  Eliza leaned on the door. What was happening? "Gillie, you have some explaining to do."