by Pam Uphoff
In return, the witches filled The Harpy with copper pipes of various sizes, and suggested that more steam engines would be useful.
Chapter Twenty-two
10 June 2119
The man in Kuwait sounded desperate.
They'd had very poor rains, and could they bring grain?
A new voice from Red River broke in and said they were still short as well, and as long as they were in Cairo, why not bring all they could handle?
While Kuwait and Red River argued over who ought to get their theoretical cargo, the compass conferred, and decided they'd risk having difficulty getting back up the Red River.
"We might as well find out now if we can make it, you know?" Lance grinned. "We can always yell for Harry to come help us poor stranded travelers."
"How true."
They loaded the hold with sacks of wheat and maize, then piled more on deck for Red River. Then they sailed east.
The Red River was shorter of grain than they'd let on, and while they argued about selling the entire shipment to them and going back for more, the tenor of the Kuwait messages changed. How many passengers could they take? New Bombay had invited them to move there, and it seemed like a good idea.
They sold three quarters of the grain to Red River traders, and headed down the river.
In the five days it took them to get around the Arabian peninsula, Kuwait's water situation went from bad to dire. By the time they docked, the question of transporting livestock had become moot. The refugees piled in. Frighteningly few of them. Chris was afraid to ask how many had died. Perhaps there weren't very many people there in the first place. Some of the western villages are smaller than this.
Even so, there wasn't enough room for everyone. The Harpy was wallowing and ten men stood on the dock, expressionless. All the bags of grain were piled on the dock. There wasn't anything else they could strip out of the boat. A woman sobbed, behind him. Will they survive long enough for us to make a round trip?
Chris took a deep breath . . . exhaled. "Matt? See if you can raise Harry on the shortwave. If he can come . . . tell him to grab his mast, hard, and we'll summon him. Can't hurt to try, but we need his boat, not his spear."
Reception was lousy, ". . . can't possibly work, but I've got the mast."
Chris closed his eyes and pictured the old man, standing in the boat. "God of Travelers, help us in our dire need. Come with your boat."
The Harpy rocked a bit, and he opened his eyes. Harry and the Viking bobbed just off their side.
Harry laughed. "I don't think you're supposed to be able to game the system like this!"
They hastily swapped people around, to get families back together, and sailed immediately. The compass formed up and heated air masses to keep the wind in their favor.
***
He was starting to get used to it.
A scary thought all on its own.
But he had no time to think about it, just recognition of what was happening and throwing up a physical shield. For offense, he was, as usual, wagging his damned sword from atop a rearing stallion.
He looked around, sorting combatants into groups. The people on the inside were defending their homes, the people outside were attacking, and doing a damned poor job of it. Jet leaped forward, taking aim at the largest bunch of raiders. They carried torches in the twilight, no, they were throwing torches at the houses. Jet plowed into them as they looked for targets. Torches dropped, a gun appeared. The sword swung and blood gushed. More guns. On the moving horse, he couldn't stabilize the shield by driving it into the ground. The kinetic energy of multiple hits knocked him completely off the horse. He landed in an experienced roll. A flash of memory, a parachute, hitting the ground and rolling back to his feet.
He managed to not cut or stab himself with his own sword and came up swinging. The blade was sharp enough, hard enough, to remove the hand with the gun. He stabbed the next man through the heart. Pulled the sword back and rammed the pommel into the face of the man right behind him. Blood splattered as the nose crushed. He punched out at a man. The sword's cross guard hit the man's throat. Wolf's breath caught as he saw men aiming at Jet. The horse laid ears back and charged. Undeterred by bullets. Can Jet make magic shields? And suddenly the bandits were running away instead of toward him. A distant shout of triumph, men running, carrying something between them. A black shadow galloped up, and he reached up to grab the horn of the saddle, and used the horse's speed to aid his leap to the animal's back.
They crashed down in his wine tasting room, heavy hooves booming on the wooden flooring.
The big video screen was still playing the movie he'd started.
"Well, horse, I wonder where we were that time?"
The horse snorted, and he dismounted stiffly and led him out. They both needed a bath, or perhaps a midnight swim in the stream to get all the blood off.
On his return, he clicked on the shortwave. Everyone was talking about the raid on Gibraltar.
About the beacon.
Stolen by two men, large, running to fat, one with red hair, the other a blonde.
***
The wallowing, overloaded boats sailed into the harbor at New Bombay at noon.
Chris felt like kissing the marble quay.
He suspected some of his thin, seasick passengers did kiss it. Might have just been stumbles after a week on a boat. They'd balanced speed against their over loaded condition and magicked up enough wind to cause choppy seas, but not large waves.
"Pitiful, just pitiful."
Chris looked up from handing his last passenger ashore to see an exquisite woman looking them over. The yellow silk robe she wore glowed in the sun, and her deep honey tan glowed with it. Lustrous black hair rippled down her back. She looked to be perhaps, sixteen. Her large dark eyes met his gaze and left him gasping for breath.
She walked past him to where the Viking was just now typing up. "Oh Harry, you risked your life for these pitiful creatures? They'll take some feeding up before they'll even be decent factory workers. The women? Well, I suppose we need some servants."
Harry bristled. "I didn't rescue them so you could make slaves of them. They are our fellow Americans, with all the rights and privileges of all people."
A masculine laugh from the other side. "You are so soft, Harry."
Chris gawped again. The boy, young man, was golden. Hair, skin and eyes. He wore an open vest and loose pants, brilliant red silk embroidered with golden thread. Chris closed his eyes, and the pair glowed to his inner senses as well. He held up his hand, blocked, pushed the block out into a bubble all around. The searing light of the pair dimmed.
Even frowning down at him they were still spectacularly beautiful.
"Better soft than arrogant, Mercy. " Harry helped his last passenger off the Viking. "Use a bit of common sense and build up supporters, not frightened and angry subjects. Barry and Edmund are about to face a rebellion, you could be next." He stepped back into the boat and faded.
Water slurped hastily into the hole left by the boat, and slopped back to rock the Harpy.
The woman snorted. "I didn't realize he knew how to teleport. He could have saved himself a bit of distance." She sighed dramatically. "Well, all of you get up here. We'll sort you into some work groups and assign you a place to live." Mercy frowned as the former mayor of Kuwait helped his wife toward the steps.
Chris winced guiltily. She'd been a bit dehydrated and suffering from heat exhaustion when they'd picked them up. The week at sea hadn't been what she'd needed to recover, even though she had at least gotten all the water she needed.
"We'll split you men and women up, can't have the dregs reproducing."
Even sick, that caught everyone's attention.
Chris stepped ashore, and felt his compass coming with him.
They scooped up the children, and helped the others. It was a dozen steps up to the street that ran along the shore. Chris swept a look over the bright white city. As beautiful and cold as its mistress.
"Practical, young man. There's no mercy in the helpless bringing children into the world, so they can suffer and die."
Chris shivered and stiffened his shield. Harry said Mercy was merciful by her own standards. Three other men were walking down from the city to join them. No, two men and a woman.
The new woman eyed them dispassionately. "I think for now they had best be domiciled in the hospital. It is nearly empty, in any case, and the doctors can handle any illnesses.".
The older of the two new men shrugged indifferently.
The younger of the two men looked even younger than the golden boy. He eyed the refugees and wrinkled his nose. "There aren't enough of them to worry about, just feed 'em up a bit and let them find a place to do whatever they're good at."
The former mayor nodded. "We lost all our livestock. But we can hunt and fish. Just . . . the last of the water went so fast, those last two days . . . but we'll be back on our feet and working in no time."
Pax laughed. "And you'll owe us some work, for the care we've given you."
Chris shook his head. "Mayor, do you want us to sail you another day or two down the coast? These people don't seem very welcoming."
"You dare to criticize me?" Mercy's glow started showing the gleam of collected power.
The other woman snorted. "A rather obvious observation. Slavery is abhorrent to the civilized, stop trying to edge it into your society."
"You. . . !" Mercy cast a look at the golden boy. "Pax, why don't you deal with the refugees, while I explain a few things to Little Miss Logic, here." She turned a baleful glare back on the woman. "Abrams, you are so open minded, one is tempted to wonder if your brains have fallen out."
Chris dropped them from his consideration, watching the three men as they strolled a bit closer.
"We're gods, little boy. Get back in your boat and go away." Pax's head turned suddenly, as something else snagged his attention.
As one they turned, looking around.
Two figures stumbled out of thin air, one with his arms wrapped around a four foot cylinder.
Large men. One blonde, one redhead. Barry and Edmund.
The brothers were grinning through grubby smears and smelled of smoke.
"Hey! Look what we got!" Barry grunted, and his muscles all stood out as he lifted the cylinder. It had a base to hold it upright, and solar panels like the petals of a flower at the top.
A second chunk of realization dropped into place. The beacon. Chris stepped closer.
"How did you get here? How did you jump to somewhere you've never been!" Mercy snapped. Then the cylinder Barry was holding registered. "Is that the beacon?"
Edmund swaggered forward. "The one and only. I figure, one of those unnoticeable spells, and I can walk out of here, through the gate, and do anything I damn well please, back home. On Earth." He leered. "Want to know how much I'll charge you to join me?"
Mercy raised her eyebrows. "Why would I want to go back? I'm a Goddess here. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I was right in the middle of putting down a minor rebellion."
"Ooo! Can we watch?" Barry smirked and set the beacon down, keeping a possessive grip on it.
Mercy laughed. "Of course, unless you'd like to join the fun." She turned to look at Logic. "Well, you're all alone, now you cold-blooded fool. Do you really think you can beat me? Me?"
Peace turned away from the women, and started raising power as he walked down to the miserable huddle of refugees. "I think you lot need to learn your place here, then we'll all get along perfectly well."
Chris stiffened. And stepped between the god and the refugees, starting to gather power.
Pax eyed him contemptuously, Marty and Richie looked amused. Their smiles widened as the other mages stepped up to join Chris.
Marty sauntered down toward them. "Do you really think you can stand up to a God?"
Lance stepped to Chris's right. "We have to. Otherwise the half of you that are so full of yourselves will turn the rest of us into slaves. And that just isn't going to happen." He turned and stretched his hands out to the other mages.
Pax gestured to his fellow gods. Richie shifted uncertainly, then shook his head and walked away.
Barry and Edmund laughed. "Run away Baby!"
Richie shook his head. "Perverts and slavers. Go play with each other. No one else wants the pair of you."
Chris turned his attention back to the Compass.
Lance was pouring on the power in the East position. Matt was South, strong and solid. Vince was West, excited, but in control. With Tyrone sandwiched between Lance and Matt, he couldn't get into much trouble. Hugh was the weakest magically, but he was safe beside Chris. Dane and Javier were young, but strong. They worked so well together you'd never guess their inexperience.
Power flowed around the compass, strengthened, flowed faster. Lance held a physical shield over the compass as a whole, Matt took over the mental shield.
Chris held the beautiful spinning loop of pure power and turned his head to gaze at the two gods striding down the street towards them.
No.
Problem.
He could see clearly, as Pax flicked out power in the form of a fireball, and batted it away. He braced and absorbed the quick shock of a stun spell. He reached out with a delicate slice and the red vest dropped away from one shoulder. Pax jumped in shock, flicked a glance at his shoulder, then turned and threw a wave of kinetic energy at them.
Lance shifted the base of the shield out, sank it into the marble, and the blast of energy screamed up the slanted shield and passed over them.
Dane created heat, up high, and the air rose. Clouds formed with uncanny speed.
Chris sent another precise slice, the vest dropped. Another, and Pax yelled in pain, scrambling backwards, clutching his pants, blood on his side and his hands.
"Oh, damn, sorry! Very clumsy of me," Chris called. Thunder grumbled like deep, distant laughter. The day darkened.
"Damn it Marty, do something," the golden boy snarled.
Chris looked over at the other fellow.
"Engage in a dock-side brawl? Oh, I don't think so." He turned away, and Pax lunged, grabbed him.
"You're going to let them get away with that?"
"They seem to be getting away with it."
Pax's grip tightened as he swung the man around, between him and the Compass. What he threw had aspects of mental magic in it; the part of the Compass that was Matt threw everything he had into that shield. Black and poisonous, the magic seeped around, under, through . . .
The Dane part released the lightening. It struck the apex of the nearest building, danced down to the fence. Too fast to see the strokes and return strokes, it bounced down and left scorch marks as it was forced toward the gods. Pax and his shield scrambled backwards, and abruptly disappeared. Dane let the lightening go. He and Matt leaned on each other, barely keeping the circle intact.
The poisonous spell seeped away.
Chris eyed the remaining gods, and goddesses.
Edmund was laughing. "Oh, good show, but now we could blow you over with a huff and a puff."
Logic pressed her lips together, then raised her voice. "God of War, I summon you!"
Chris barked out a brief laugh . . . Barry and Edmund were both grabbing for the beacon. Chris threw a push, staggered them. Pushed again. Threw a flash of light.
Light gleamed off sword and armor, the rearing horse touched down.
Chris yelled and pointed. "The beacon!"
The black horse leaped for it, the warrior leaned to grab. Barry and Edmund tackled the beacon. And they were all gone.
Chris cursed under his breath and looked around.
Mercy turning back to face Logic, Richie watching from up the hill.
Logic's mouth quirked up in a grim and confident smile. Mercy stepped back and disappeared.
Chris straightened in alarm, as he felt a wave of powerful magic.
"Not to worry, that was just Mercy ta
king her whole house with her. I do hope she doesn't come back." Two more waves of power swept over them. The goddess nodded in satisfaction. "Just as well. Those five are not suited to be leaders." Logic dusted her hands. "I must say you young men were impressive. Why don't you stay for a while? You can get your refugees settled, and train some of the people here." She cast a judicious gaze toward the embarrassed Richie. "Set a good example for someone who needs one. And I will show you how teleportation works."
Chapter Twenty-three
19 June 2119
Teleportation, the conscious control of it, involved holding precise patterns in one's head. The recognition of where you were, the recognition of where you wanted to go, and a bridge of spells that swapped mass, momentum and orientation.
Chris learned first how to jump around New Bombay. Then he brought up his memory of the Inn. The front porch. Home. He stepped there.
Jamie yipped in surprise then grabbed him and kissed him. "How did you do that! Good grief. Everyone isn't going to start popping in and out of places are they?"
"I hope not." He swayed and grabbed for a chair. "It . . . takes a bit of energy."
She stuck her head in the door, and returned. "I see that. And how far away were you?"
Chris grinned. "Very. Look, did the Old Wolf get back? Did he get the beacon away from Barry and Edmund?"
She shook her head. "He came back empty handed. Everyone's in an uproar about it, and over-reacting to everything else. Ira Penner tried to—oh, grumpy old Vito caught your mares in a cattle drive and they have the cutest little black foals—and Penner tried to have them put in the auction, and Vito, can you believe it? Stood up and said, no, they were your mares, branded with your registered brand, and they and their foals were yours. They nearly came to blows over it. And Lillian is pregnant. Cassie and Iris too, which isn't helping the situation with Penner."
