by John Dalmas
The Lion Returns
John Dalmas
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by John Dalmas
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-57824-3
Cover art by Larry Elmore
First printing, August 1999
Distributed by
Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Brilliant Press
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to
ELIZABETH MOON
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Parts of the first draft were critiqued by members of the Spokane Word Weavers, a writers' support and critique group. The second draft was critiqued by two science fiction and fantasy authors: Patricia Briggs and James Glass. And as always by my wife Gail. My thanks to all of you.
The Farside series grew out of an invitation by Jon Gustafson to write a short story for a WesterCon program book a few years ago. I rather quickly realized it was not a short story, but the opening chapter of a novel. Thank you too, Jon.
PROLOGUE
The distance across the Ocean Sea to Vismearc is said to exceed that from fabled Tuago to the River Erg. It took fifty-eight days and nights to sail across, and fifty to return. Of the four ships that set out, only one came back, and very fortunate its mariners, for those days and nights were beset with storms, and sea dragons with necks like mighty snakes. The larger of them snapped men from the deck. And there were monstrous eels whose very stare was venomous, but fortunately they were rarely seen.
And when the sea had finally been crossed, Vismearc itself proved no less dangerous. Great birds dwell there, their hearts as black as their plumage. They are more clever than a man, and large enough to carry a sheep through the air. The women in Vismearc birth many children, in order to have any left after the birds have taken what they wish. Several birds together would attack a man and clean his bones in minutes, so that no one walked out alone, even to relieve himself. While one man voided his bowels, another stood by, sword in hand, to protect him. And there are bees large as sparrows, that make honey of surpassing sweetness, but a single sting causes men to swell like bladders, and die horribly.
But most terrible of all are the hordes of savage warriors no higher in stature than the nipples of a man. Short of leg but long of arm, they have bodies of stone, the strength of giants, and no concept of mercy.
Yet it was for Vismearc the ylver set sail from their island home, those centuries back. For though their mariners had read of the terrors they would face, their fear of the Voitusotar was greater. And no man knows whether any of them arrived in that frightful land, or if they arrived, whether any of their progeny yet live.
Oiled parchment found in the archives of Hwilvoros Palace.
PART ONE
The Plans Of Men
The physical universes are not designed for the convenience or pleasure of humans or other incarnate souls. Intelligence, diligence, and good intentions do not necessarily produce security, comfort and pleasure. There are no guarantees.
One can try and one can hope, but one's expectations are often disappointed. On the other hand, today's victories sometimes lead to tomorrow's woes, while out of today's woes may grow tomorrow's blessings. The roots of joys and griefs can be distant in both time and place. So it is well to be light on your feet, and not too fixed in your desires.
Vulkan to Macurdy,
on the highway to Teklapori
in the spring of 1950
1 Leave
Captain Curtis Macurdy's train pulled slowly up to the red sandstone depot. Through a window he saw his wife on the platform, flowerlike in a pink print frock. Without waiting for the train to stop, he moved quickly down the nearly empty aisle, grabbed his duffel bag from a baggage shelf, and when the door opened, swung down the stairs onto the gray concrete.
Mary saw him at once, and crying his name, ran toward him. Putting down his bag, he caught her in his arms and they kissed hungrily, while the handful of other disembarking passengers grinned or looked away. It was Thursday, June 1, 1945. Servicemen on leave were commonplace.
"You taste marvelous," he murmured. "You smell marvelous."
She laughed despite eyes brimming with tears. "That's perfume," she said, then added playfully, "Evening in Paris." She looked around. The air was damp and heavy; smoke from the coal-burning locomotive settled instead of rising. "Perfume and coal smoke," she added laughing. "And soot."
He picked up his bag again and they walked hand in hand to the car. It was she who got in behind the wheel. That had become habitual. He got in beside her, feasting his eyes.
"Hungry?" she asked,
"For food you mean? Yeah, I guess I am. I had breakfast on the train somewhere west of Pendleton, and a Hershey bar at the station in Portland."
He knew from her letters that she'd moved out of her father's house and rented the apartment above Sweiger's Cafe. He was curious as to why, but hadn't asked. She'd tell him in her own time. She pulled up in front, and they went into the cafe for lunch. Ruthie Sweiger saw them take a booth, and came over with menus. "Look who's here!" she said. "How long has it been?"
He answered in German, as he would have before the war. "Not quite three years. July '42."
Her eyebrows rose, and she replied in the same language. "Your German sounds really old-country now. You put me to shame."
"It should sound old-country." He said it without elaborating.
"Curtis," Mary said quietly in her Baltisches Deutsch, "people are looking at us."
He glanced over a shoulder. At a table, two men were scowling in their direction. Curtis got to his feet facing them, standing six feet two and weighing 230 pounds. One side of his chest bore rows of ribbons, topped by airborne wings and a combat infantry badge. Grinning from beneath a long-since-broken nose, he walked over to them.
"Do I know you guys from somewhere?"
"I don't think so," one of them answered, rising. "We came over from Idaho last year. We log for the Severtson brothers."
Macurdy extended a large hand. "My name's Curtis Macurdy. I used to log for the Severtsons, before I joined the sheriff's department. With luck, I'll be back for good before too long."
Both men shook hands with him, self-conscious now, and Curtis returned to the booth, grinning again. "A little public relations for the sheriff's department," he said, in German again. "And food for thought about people speaking German."
Ruthie left to bring coffee, then took their orders. While they waited, Curtis and Mary made small talk, and looked at each other. Curtis felt her stockinged foot stroke his leg. When their food arrived, they ate quickly, without even refills on coffee. Then Curtis paid the bill and they left. They held hands up the narrow stairs to her apartment, and when Mary closed the door behind them, she set the bolt.
For a long moment they simply stood, gazing at each other. Then they stepped together and kissed, with more fervor than at the depot. Finally Mary stepped back and spoke, her voice husky. "The bedroom," she said pointing, "is over there. I am going to the bathroom, which is over there." Again she pointed. "When I'm done there, I'm going there. Which is where I want you to be."
After a couple of minutes she arrived at the final there. He was standing naked by the bed. She wore only a negligée, and as she walked toward him, dropped it to the floor.
"Oh God, Curtis!" she breathed in his arms. "Oh God, how I want you! How I've wanted you these three long years!"
* * *
Their first lovemaking was quick, almost desperate. Afterward they lay side by side talking, talk which was not quick at all. There was much he hadn't written; much of it would have been deleted by military censors if he had. And things she hadn't written, not wanting to send bad news.
He knew of course that Klara, Mary's grandmother, had died of a heart attack the previous autumn. He'd gotten that letter while in France, training dissident Germans to carry out sabotage and other partisan actions in Hitler's planned "National Redoubt." And he knew that Mary's dad, Fritzi, had married after Klara's death.
Mary had moved out of her father's home because she hadn't gotten along with Margaret, Fritzi's wife. Margaret was basically a good woman, Mary insisted, but bossy and critical, in the kitchen and about the housework. And insisted that Mary, as "her daughter," attend church regularly with Fritzi and herself. Even though Mary was thirty years old, and been married for twelve of them. The matter of church attendance was Margaret's only position that Fritzi had overruled—previously his own attendance had been fitful—and Margaret had backed off without saying anything more about it.
Mary's uncle, Wiiri Saari, owned several rental houses. Lying there on the rumpled bedsheets, the young couple decided to let Wiiri know that when Curtis got out of the army, they'd like to rent one of them.
Curtis suggested they spend the rest of his leave on the coast south of Tillamook Bay, where they'd spent part of his leave in 1942. Mary agreed eagerly. She'd already gotten a week's leave from her job at Wiiri's machine shop. She could probably get it extended.
With a slim finger, Mary followed a long scar on Curtis's right thigh. "I wish—" she said hesitantly, "I wish you didn't have to go back. Mostly I felt sure you'd come home, but sometimes I wasn't very brave. I was so afraid for you. And the Japanese? People say they won't give up, that they'll fight to the bitter end. And you're dearer to me than my own life."
Curtis kissed her gently. "Don't worry," he said, "I won't have to fight the Japanese." He paused, sorting his thoughts. When he spoke again, it was in a monotone, all emotion suppressed. "I was never in ETOUSA; that was a lie, a cover story. In the hospital in England, while I was recuperating, I was recruited by the OSS, because I spoke German well. Railroaded is the word. After they trained me, they smuggled me into Germany on a spy mission. In Bavaria lived with people I had to kill. Kill for good reasons."
He stopped talking for a long moment. Mary looked worriedly at him, waiting, knowing he wasn't done.
"People I saw every day," he went on. "One of them especially I knew and liked; I had to shoot him in the back. Another I killed treacherously, while he was shaking my hand. I needed to kidnap him, but first I had to make him unconscious, and ... sometimes you misjudge how much force to use. You can't afford to use too little."
He paused, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'll tell you more about those things sometime." Again he paused. "Those ribbons on my Ike jacket—they include the Distinguished Service Cross, the next highest decoration after the Medal of Honor. That one's from Sicily. I almost bled to death there. One of the two silver stars is from Bavaria; they're one step below the DSC. You can read the commendations that go with them."
He reached, touched her solemn face. Her aura matched her expression. This wasn't easy for her, he knew, but she needed to hear it. "Anyway I'm done with war now," he went on. "For good. It may not be patriotic to feel that way, but I'm done with it. I'll tell you more about that too, someday. It's not only this war. It's stuff from before. From Yuulith, stuff I saw and did there that I never told you about."
With his fingertips he felt the rugged scars of his buttocks, and his voice took on a tone of wry amusement. "This," he said, then ran a finger along the longest of the surgical scars on his right leg, "and these will help me stay out of it. Among the things I did to get ready for Germany was, I practiced walking with a limp. Till it was automatic. Along with my scars, and pretending to be weak-minded, the limp explained why I wasn't in the German army. And kept me out of it while I was there."
Again his voice changed, became dry, matter-of-fact. "I'm due to report at the Pentagon on June 19. When I get there I'll be limping, just a little. And no one will question it; my medical records will take care of that. At worst they'll have me training guys somewhere."
* * *
That evening they ate supper with Fritzi and Margaret. Margaret questioned him about the war, his family, his plans. His answers were less than candid; her aura, her tone, her eyes, told him she was looking for things to disapprove of. He felt a powerful urge to shock her, tell her about his weird AWOL at Oujda, in French Morocco. About the voitar and the Bavarian Gate; the promiscuous Berta Stark, now a good wife and foster mother; the sexually ravenous, half-voitik Rillissa; the sorceries in Schloss Tannenberg. Instead he recited generalities.
Afterward he told Mary that Margaret might be good to Fritzi, but he himself wouldn't care to be around her. Though he didn't say so, he was aware that Fritzi was having regrets. Curtis saw auras in much greater detail than Mary did.
* * *
The next day they got in their '39 Chevy and drove to the coast. There they rented a tourist cabin, and spent ten lazy days strolling the beach, listening to the gulls, watching the surf break on great boulders and basaltic shelves, and hiking the heavy green forest. He left for D.C. on the 13th, planning to spend a couple of days in Indiana en route, visiting family.
* * *
Curtis's parents, Charley and Edna, had had no further contact with the Sisterhood. Not that he'd asked—all that was behind him, for good—but they'd have mentioned it. Charley's back had gone bad, and he'd sold the farm to his elder son, Frank. Frank was running beef cattle on it because he couldn't get enough help to raise crops, and couldn't afford to quit his job as shop foreman at Dellmon's Chevrolet. Frank Jr., a platoon sergeant, had come back wounded from France, and was training infantry at Fort McClellan. He wanted to farm the place when the war was over.
Curtis left Indiana feeling both good and bad. The farm he'd grown up on had changed, and his parents had become old in just the three years since he'd last seen them. On the other hand, Frank was looking out for them, and when Frank Jr. got out of the army, the farm would be in good hands.
2 Job Interview
At the Pentagon, Macurdy reported to a major in G-2—Intelligence—who looked him over thoroughly and with disapproval. "The OSS," the major said, "has little or no role in the pending invasion of Japan, and some of its personnel, including yourself, are being transferred to other services. You might have been transferred back to the airborne, but you have twice been transferred out of it as medically unfit. And the Military Police"—he paused, then added wryly: "to which you once were assigned but in which you never served, have rejected you on the basis of your subsequent service behavior.
"There is also the problem of your rank. Your captaincy may have been appropriate to OSS activities, but you lack both the training and the experience to serve as a captain in the airborne or other infantry organization. They might have been interested in you as a sergeant, but not as a captain."
He gazed disapprovingly at the large young man across the desk. Having read his service record, Macurdy's surly expression didn't surprise him. "At any rate," he continued, "for some undecipherable reason you have been assigned to us. Perhaps because of certain very limited similarities of function between G-2 and the OSS. We have found your personnel records both interesting and puzzling. Frankly, your history in the OSS is sufficiently odd and undocumented to bring into question your veracity and your mental health. While the irregularities in your airborne history were impractical to analyze, since so many of the people with whom you served were subsequently killed or invalided out.
"Your combat record, on the other hand, is well documented, and impressive if brief. Overal
l, however, it seems clear that you showed remarkably little respect for standard procedures, and for army ways of doing things in general. Which you might have gotten away with in the airborne, or"—he grimaced slightly—"the OSS. But not in military intelligence. Even your injuries and medical-surgical history, after the traffic accident in Oujda, are utterly incompatible with your subsequent assignments and combat record." The major peered intently at Curtis, as if hoping to perceive the truth. "Afterward, when reassigned to the Military Police, you avoided the transfer by going AWOL from the hospital, and by some still undetermined subterfuge, inserted yourself into the 505th Parachute Infantry."
He looked down at the blotter on his desk, then up again. "My commanding officer has instructed me to ignore all that, since the results redounded to the benefit of the war effort. So now I am faced with the problem of what duties to assign you. Your alpha score was rather ordinary, and your education ended with 8th grade. Your courage is beyond question, and your German passed as native." He paused. "Despite your conspicuously non-German name. But German is now irrelevant. I can send you to military intelligence school, but by the time you could complete it, we're unlikely to have any need for you."
