Women of War
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
FIGHTING CHANCE
PAINTED CHILD OF EARTH
SHE’S SUCH A NASTY MORSEL: A Web Shifters Story
THE CHILDREN OF DIARDIN: TO FIND THE ADVANTAGE
NOT THAT KIND OF A WAR
THE BLACK OSPREYS
THE ART OF WAR
GEIKO
SHIN-GI-TAI
THE LAST HAND OF WAR
WAR GAMES
FIRE FROM THE SUN
SWEETER FAR THAN FLOWING HONEY
TOKEN
ELITES
Staff Sergeant Torin Kerr Returns ...
“Shouldn’t you be at the first level by now?”
“Sir!”
Torin fell into step at the lieutenant’s right shoulder as Franks hurried off the concourse and out onto the road that joined the seven levels of Simunthitir into one continuous spiral. Designed for the easy transportation of ore carriers up to the port, it was also a strong defensive position with heavy gates to close each level off from those below; the layout ensured that Sho’quo Company would maintain the high ground as they withdrew to the port. If not for the certain fact that the Others were traveling with heavy artillery—significantly heavier than their own EM223s—and sufficient numbers to climb to the high ground over the piled bodies of their dead, she’d be thinking this was a highly survivable engagement. Ignoring the possibility that the Others’ air support would get off a lucky drop.
“Well, Staff, it looks like we’ve got the keys to the city. It’s up to us to hold the gates at all costs.”
And provided she could keep Lieutenant Franks from getting them all killed—but that was pretty much business as usual.
—From Not That Kind of a War by Tanya Huff
Copyright © 2005 by Tanya Huff, Alexander Potter and Tekno Books
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introduction copyright © 2005 by Tanya Huff and Alexander Potter
Fighting Chance copyright © 2005 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Painted Child of Earth copyright © 2005 by Rosemary Edghill
She’s Such a Nasty Morsel copyright © 2005 by Julie E. Czerneda
The Children of Diardin: To Find the Advantage copyright © 2005 by Fiona Patton
Not That Kind of a War copyright © 2005 by Tanya Huff
The Black Ospreys copyright © 2005 by Michelle West
The Art of War copyright © 2005 by Bruce Holland Rogers
Geiko copyright © 2005 by Kerrie Hughes
Shin-Gi-Tai copyright © 2005 by Robin Wayne Bailey
The Last Hand of War copyright © 2005 by Jana Paniccia
War Games copyright © 2005 by Lisanne Norman
Fire from the Sun copyright © 2005 by Jane Lindskold
Sweeter Far Than Flowing Honey copyright © 2005 by Stephen Leigh
Token copyright © 2005 by Anna Oster
Elites copyright © 2005 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
INTRODUCTION
“... the dagger is to defend yourself at great need. For you also are not to be in the battle.”
“Why, sir?” said Lucy. “I think—I don’t know—but I think I could be brave enough.”
“That is not the point,” he said. “But battles are ugly when women fight.”
—C.S. Lewis The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe
I’VE ALWAYS HAD TWO REACTIONS to Lucy’s conversation with Father Christmas.
First: of course battles are ugly when women fight. War is ugly when anyone fights. There’s no such thing as an un-ugly war.
Second: of course battles are ugly when women fight. Historically, anthropologically, by the time women get involved in war we’ve moved past the posturing and the rhetoric and gotten down to the ugly business of survival.
We did wonder, way back in the beginning before the stories started coming in, if the gender of the authors would make a difference in the approach. Fourteen stories is definitely too small a sample for any kind of social commentary but it was interesting to discover that the majority of the writers involved in this anthology—all women—didn’t actually include a war. Wars had happened or were about to happen but generally, the stories deal with women warriors. Women who were about to be warriors, women who were warriors, women who had been warriors and the personal costs they paid for taking up arms.
It was just as interesting to find that almost all the men who contributed did include a war. The exception being Steve Miller who wrote, as usual, with Sharon Lee. The only thing I, personally, am willing to conclude from this is that women, as a rule, take war more personally than men.
As for the actual stories, well, there are warriors you know, equally memorable warriors you’ll be reading about for the first time, and ways of waging war that will almost seem like art.
Tanya Huff
Historically, war has been defined as largely the province of men. This has always been something of a mystery to me. I was raised in a largely female enclave—five older sisters and a very strong mother. As such, the power of the female has always been obvious to me. I remember being in first grade and finding it patently absurd that anyone anywhere would judge women unfit for combat. Anyone who didn’t believe women could and would fight, as well if not better than men, simply hadn’t met my family.
From a biological standpoint, testosterone (among other things) has an obvious effect on men, leaving us with a higher tendency toward aggression, physical violence, and territorial behavior. Granted, we are not necessarily dictated by biology, but neither should we discount it and assume it powerless. The biological evidence points up an obvious question. If biology presents us with men who are more likely to gravitate to warlike behaviors and reactions, does it automatically follow that women are more peaceful? Over the years of studying feminist theory and gender differences, I’ve heard a number of arguments to that effect.
I’m not convinced. I think I’ve spent too much time surrounded by women to truly believe women are by nature more peaceful than men. React differently, fight differently, resolve conflict differently? Definitely. But by nature less inclined to fighting and war? Not only am I not convinced, I’m incredibly drawn to female characters in fiction who explore this topic.
Throughout those years of shifting pacifism and feminist studies, I’ve remained fascinated by the concept of female warriors and how gender plays out in the human phenomenon of war. This interest is one of the many reasons for my attraction to the fantasy and science fiction genres. Where patriarchal human history defined war as man’s territory, and woman as having no place there, fantasy and science fiction broke down those walls. The plethora of strong female characters in traditionally male domains captured me from an early age, and the genre has never failed to deliver.
The stories that follow explore women in war from a number of perspectives—from god-touched warriors to enlisted personnel, from officers to new recruits to veterans—and from a number of worlds. What links each to the next is the strength of that central female, as she goes about doing what must be done, however she must do it. Each story offers insight not only into an unforgettable female fighter, but also into how war is experienced by these women, and by their respective societies.
I hope you enjoy as much as I did the intense women who explode off the following pages, and the worlds to which they take you.
Alexander B. Potter
FIGHTING CHANCE
by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller are best known for their Liaden Universe novels and their several short stories featuring a bumbling wizard named Kinzel. Steve was the founding curator of the University of Maryland’s Kuhn Library Science Fiction Research Collection; Sharon has been executive director of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and has also served as president of that organization. They live in Maine, with lots of books, almost as much music, more computer equipment than two people need, and four muses in the form of cats. As might be expected of full-time writers, Sharon and Steve spend way too much time playing on the Internet, and have a Web site at www.korval.com.
TRY IT NOW,” Miri called, and folded her arms over her eyes.
There was a couple seconds of nothing more than the crunchy sound of shoes against gritty floor, which would be Penn moving over to get at the switch.
“Trying it now,” he yelled, which was more warning than his dad was used to giving. There was an ominous sizzle, and a mechanical moan as the fans started in to work—picking up speed until they was humming fit to beat.
Miri lowered her arms carefully and squinted up into the workings. The damn splice was gonna hold this time.
For a while, anyhow.
“Pressure’s heading for normal,” Penn shouted over the building racket. “Come on outta there, Miri.”
“Just gotta close up,” she shouted back, and wrestled the hatch up, holding it with a knee while she used both hands to seat the locking pin.
That done, she rolled out. A grubby hand intersected her line of vision. Frowning, she looked up into Penn’s wary, spectacled face and relaxed. Penn was okay, she reminded herself, and took the offered assist.
Once on her feet, she dropped his hand, and Penn took a step back, glasses flashing as he looked at the lift-bike.
“Guess that’s it ’til the next time,” he said.
Miri shrugged. The bike belonged to Jerim Snarth, who’d got it off a guy who worked at the spaceport, who’d got it from—don’t ask, don’t tell. Miri’s guess was that the bike’s original owner had gotten fed up with it breaking down every third use and left it on a scrap pile.
On the other hand, Jerim was good for the repair money, most of the time, which meant Penn’s dad paid Miri on time, so she supposed she oughta hope for more breakdowns.
“Must’ve wrapped every wire in that thing two or three times by now,” she said to Penn, and walked over to the diagnostics board. Pressure and speed had come up to spec and were standing steady.
“My dad said let it run a quarter-hour and chart the pressures.”
Miri nodded, saw that Penn’d already set the timer and turned around.
“What’s to do next?” she asked.
Penn shrugged his shoulders. “The bike was everything on the schedule,” he said, sounding apologetic. “Me, I’m supposed to get the place swept up.”
Miri sighed to herself. “Nothing on tomorrow, either?” “I don’t think so,” Penn muttered, feeling bad about it, though it wasn’t no doing of his—nor his dad’s either. Though some extra pay would’ve been welcome.
Extra pay was always welcome.
“I’ll move on down to Trey’s, then,” she said, going over to the wall where the heavy wool shirt that served as her coat hung on a nail next to Penn’s jacket. “See if there’s anything needs done there.”
She had to stretch high on her toes to reach her shirt—damn nails were set too high. Or she was set too low, more like it.
Sighing, she pulled the shirt on and did up the buttons. If Trey didn’t have anything—and it was likely he wouldn’t—then she’d walk over to Dorik’s bake shop. Dorik always needed small work done—trouble was, she only ever paid in goods, and it was money Miri was particularly interested in.
She turned around. Penn was already unlimbering the broom, moving stiff. Took a hiding, she guessed. Penn got some grief on the street—for the glasses, and for being so good with his figures and his reading and such—which he had to be, his dad owning a mechanical repair shop and Penn expected to help out with the work, when there was work. Hell, even her father could read, and figure, too, though he was more likely to be doing the hiding than taking it.
“Seen your dad lately?” Penn asked, like he’d heard her thinking. He looked over his shoulder, glasses glinting. “My dad’s got the port wanting somebody for a cargo crane repair, and your dad’s the best there is for that.”
If he could be found, if he was sober when found, if he could be sobered up before the customer got impatient and went with second best ...
Miri shook her head.
“Ain’t seen him since last month,” she told Penn, and deliberately didn’t add anything more.
“Well,” he said after a second. “If you see him ...”
“I’ll let him know,” she said, and raised a hand. “See you.”
“Right.” Penn turned back to the broom, and Miri moved toward the hatch that gave out onto the alley.
Outside, the air was pleasantly cool. It had rained recently, so the breeze was grit-free. On the other hand, the alley was slick and treacherous underfoot.
Miri walked briskly, absentmindedly sure-footed, keeping a close eye on the various duck-ins and hiding spots. This close to Kalhoon’s Repair, the street was usually okay; Penn’s dad paid the local clean-up crew a percentage in order to make sure there wasn’t no trouble. Still, sometimes the crew didn’t come by, and sometimes they missed, and sometimes trouble herded outta one spot took up in another.
She sighed as she walked, wishing Penn hadn’t mentioned her father. He never did come home no more except he was smoked or drunk. Or both. And last time—it’d been bad last time, the worst since the time he broke her arm and her mother—her tiny, sickly, soft-talking mother—had gone at him with a piece of the chair he’d busted to let ’em know he was in.
Beat him right across the apartment and out the door, she had, and after he was in the hall, screamed for all the neighbors to hear, “You’re none of mine, Chock Robertson! I deny you!”
That’d been pretty good, that denying business, and for a while it looked like it was even gonna work.
Then Robertson, he’d come back in the middle of the night, drunk, smoked, and ugly, and started looking real loud for the rent money.
Miri’d come out of her bed in a hurry and run out in her shirt, legs bare, to find him ripping a cabinet off the wall. He’d dropped it when he seen her.
“Where’s my money?” he roared, and took a swing.
She ducked back out of the way, and in that second her mother was there—and this time she had a knife.
“Leave us!” she said, and though she hadn’t raised her voice, the way she said it’d sent a chill right through Miri’s chest.
Chock Robertson, though, never’d had no sense.
He swung on her; she ducked and slashed, raising blood on his swinging arm. Roaring, he
swung again, and this time he connected.
Her mother went across the room, hit the wall and slid, boneless, to the floor, the knife falling out of her hand.
Her father laughed and stepped forward.
Miri yelled, jumped, hit the floor rolling—and came up with the knife.
She crouched, the way she’d seen the street fighters do, and looked up—a fair ways up—into her father’s face.
“You touch her,” she hissed, “and I’ll kill you.”
The wonder of the moment being, she thought as she turned out of Mechanic Street and onto Grover, that she’d meant it.
It must’ve shown on her face, because her father didn’t just keep on coming and beat her ’til all her bones were broke.
“Where’s the money?” he asked, sounding almost sober.
“We paid the rent,” she snarled, which was a lie, but he took it, for a second wonder, and—just walked away. Out of the apartment, down the hall and into the deepest pit of hell, as Miri had wished every day after.
Her mother ...
That smack’d broke something, though Braken didn’t find no busted ribs. The cough, though, that was worse—and she was spittin’ up blood with it.
Her lungs, Braken’d said, and nothin’ she could do, except maybe ask one of Torbin’s girls for a line on some happyjuice.
The dope eased the cough, though it didn’t stop the blood, and Boss Latimer’s security wouldn’t have her in the kitchen no more, which meant no wages, nor any leftovers from the fatcat’s table.
Miri was walking past Grover’s Tavern; it was a testament to how slim pickins had been that the smell of sour beer and hot grease made her mouth water.
She shook her head, tucked her hands in her pockets, and stretched her legs. ’Nother couple blocks to Trey’s, and maybe there would be something gone funny in the duct work he was too big to get into, but Miri could slide through just fine.