Fast Forward

by Lou Anders

  Swift comes the Hour of the Bull, rushing upon us! Our foes have commenced their attack. Now their leader confronts us, the knife in his hand hidden by his coat. A henchman stands behind him, ready to support him. A second circles behind us. Our minds are our best weapons, always. A ready mind for a red blade! We are not sheep to stand empty-eyed, awaiting the blow.

  At once: the Hour of the Wolf. They find themselves engaged. We ourselves fight them, wolflike snapping and thrusting, and wolflike slaying man after man. Behold the empty eyes of our foes, those who thought to surprise us, themselves surprised!

  Tiero wiped the point of his pen with a scrap of flannel and cast his mind back to the table of contents he had planned and written with so much care. Best to begin the next chapter now, to get it well launched while he might still write by daylight.

  THE FOE

  HIS TACTICS AND WEAPONS

  When we fight a duel, we are at pains to learn all we can about the man we are to engage. Has he fought on previous occasions? If so, what have witnesses to say about his skill, his methods, and his preferred attacks? Has he studied at a school of arms? If the answer is no, we will be prone to relax—perhaps to relax overmuch. If it is yes, what is it that school teaches?

  Beyond those simple questions lie many another. Is he old or young? Is he lame? Short of breath? Courageous or cautious? And so on.

  If we are to defend ourselves on the streets, still more if we are to render those streets safe for the defenseless, we must learn all we can about those who have made them dangerous.

  Tiero paused to dip his pen, but did not dip it. How would it look, this book of his, when it was displayed in the bookshops? When it stood among the other books on his shelf? Would he, as its author, be consulted as to the style of the letters? The binding?

  Yes, absolutely. He was writing it to please the President-Protector, and the publisher would surely know—would not publish the book unless he did, for that matter. Such an author would be asked, and his every suggestion followed. A plain typeface, in that case, neither florid nor feminine. (And he must be sure to dedicate the book to President-Protector, and make absolutely certain that his dedication was included.)

  As for binding…

  He let his eyes rove over his own books, bound for the most part in dark cloth or darker leather. Vellum! He had seen a vellum-bound book somewhere, surely. No doubt in a bookshop. A leather thin but tough—like a good swordsman—and tan in color, like the face of a man who spends the greater part of each day outdoors. That was it. The title gold-lettered on the spine: SWORDS FOR PEACE. Beneath it, in letters somewhat smaller, TIERO OF TRIN. Almost, it seemed that he could see it before him.

  He dipped his pen.

  We should learn something of their weapons as well. Few if any will have swords. Long knives are the weapons most favored, and thus a weapon we must understand best if we are to be prepared. Yet our foes wield another weapon more important still.

  If our minds are our own best weapons—and they are, never doubt it—are not the minds of our foes their best weapons also? We may deride the foes we find in the streets as men of little education, but they too have learned. They know how and when and where robberies and murders are best carried out. And too often it is they who find us. Let us learn what they know.

  Full of thought, Tiero wiped his pen and returned it to the cylindrical vase that held half a dozen others. When his book was printed and sold, would not he be asked, not once only but again and again, about his own encounters with thugs in the streets? clearly, he would. It could not be otherwise.

  Yet there had been none. For half a minute or more he reflected on his career. Lessons at the greatest of all schools, and assiduous practice. Three duels, all against famous opponents. Two score matches with foils and two score wins—after which he had been acclaimed everywhere as the greatest swordsman of all. Thus his interview with the President-Protector. Thus the President-Protector's suggestion. Three fights on the close-cropped greens of dueling grounds. Forty or more mock fights, always on the boards of some estrade.

  And here he was, wielding the pen instead of the sword. Reciting, like any other student, his masters’ secondhand opinions.

  It would not do.

  Rising, he drew his sword. Its dial showed it at full charge. The white ray-skin that would keep his hand from slipping, even if it were drenched with blood, remained tightly glued to the metal of the hilt. His thumb found the demon-stone, and his blade leaped forth, aglow with fell Tyrian energy in the dimming room. A meter. Two meters. Three. A meter and a half. Two.

  Satisfied, he released the stone.

  It would take him an hour or more to get from his own well-appointed and almost luxurious lodgings to that very quarter of the city he had scrupulously avoided all his life. By that time, day and even twilight would be of the past. But first—

  A necklace, the largest he owned, with a tourmaline at its center that might be mistaken for almost any other jewel in a bad light. Rings for his left hand, where they would not interfere with his swordcraft. Earrings, too. Dangling earrings sparkling with small gems. Silver and brass, raked from a drawer and dumped into the soft leather bag dangling from his belt, provided the appearance of ready wealth.

  It was called the Questing Quarter, that part of the city. Questing because it was (or had been) here that men went looking for women, and women for men. Because it was (or had been) here that people of every station came in search of strong drink. Because it was (or had been) here that gamblers came to lose the little wealth that remained to them or that they had been able to borrow. Fifty years before, it had been popular and fashionable. It was worn, hard, and a trifle dirty now. When it was frequented by persons of quality, as it sometimes was still, they were generally men who hoped that poverty and perversion might season lives grown stale.

  Swaggering into a tavern, he ordered a double brandy. His eyes challenged every man there while he sipped it, and he left feeling certain that he would need his sword before he had gone another block.

  Nothing of the sort occurred. For a time he wandered the streets of the quarter in search of the darkest and most deserted. All of them proved dark, and none were deserted. Once a drunken roisterer nearly vomited on his boots; he skipped quickly to one side and reflected that it was his closest approach to danger.

  Half a dozen well-dressed men went into a house whose tightly drawn curtains leaked a pinkish light. He joined them, accepted another brandy, took a chair in what had once been a reception hall, and watched as nearly naked strumpets paraded one by one among the chairs and ottomans.

  One was little more than a child.

  One was fat.

  One had red hair, and freckles half concealed by powder.

  One had a scarred cheek.

  One was ten years older than Tiero himself, if not more.

  One had been struck in the left eye not long ago; the bruises had just begun to fade.

  One was extremely tall, and thin to the point of emaciation.

  One had long golden hair—darker toward its roots.

  One was somewhat drunk. She was the last to be taken, leaving Tiero alone with the oldest, the thinnest, and the redhead, who said, “Me, right? Come on. I'll show you my room.”

  He shook his head and rose.

  The oldest said, “It has to be one of us, unless you want to wait until one of your friends is through.”

  “None of you,” Tiero told her, “nor will I wait.”

  The thinnest tapped the wall with her knuckles. A door opened at once, and a big man with a cudgel entered. Leveling his left forefinger at Tiero, he said, “I don't want no trouble with you.”

  Seeing that the big man was watching his right hand, Tiero drew his sword with his left, little handicapped by the rings that flashed from all four fingers. His thumb found the demon-stone, and the blazing energy of his blade severed the cudgel half a finger's width from the big man's hand.

  “You shouldn't play with things l
ike that,” Tiero told him. “You might be hurt.” The point of his blade nudged the fallen cudgel, which burst into flame.

  Outside, he walked the street in the Hour of the Lion, letting himself lurch and stagger a trifle—something the brandy made easy—but always aware of his surroundings, and particularly aware of anyone walking behind him. Time passed. The moon rose, rendering the dark streets less dark. There were fewer walkers now, and far fewer jitney coaches threading their way among them.

  He entered a gambling den, tired, not quite sober, and firmly resolved that this would be his final stop of the night. A few large bets—after which he would leave, still apparently rich and ripe for the picking.

  He made two and won both, dumping the gold his bag could not contain carelessly into his pockets. If this would not do it, nothing would.

  Nothing did, clearly. A block, two blocks, three, and he was forced to turn away from the hurrying traffic and honest commerce of Bargain Avenue.

  A woman screamed and he whirled, not conscious of having drawn the blade that flamed in his grip. He had thought himself about to be attacked, supposing that the woman had screamed to warn him. In that, he had been wholly mistaken. A dozen doors behind him, the woman was struggling furiously in the hands of two burly men. A third held open the door of a black coach larger than any jitney. Tiero shouted something—or perhaps, nothing—and sprinted toward them.

  A moment later, she was sprawling in the filth of the street, and swords burned in her captors’ hands. Tiero parried a clumsy thrust, and severed the arm that had held the threatening blade.

  His second antagonist proved a worthy opponent. For a full two seconds their blades flashed and clashed like the lightnings.

  The second man fell, his wounds spurting blood. As he did the door of the black coach slammed shut. The driver's whip cracked and the coach rattled away, all four horses plunging forward under the lash—galloping before they had taken four strides.

  Tiero sheathed his sword and helped the weeping woman to her feet. She kissed him, damping his face with her tears, and shook with sobs until the jitney he had flagged down for them had put the Questing Quarter behind them. At last she gasped, “I was so fr-fr-frightened! I st-still am.”

  “You're safe with me,” Tiero told her. “Who is he?”

  “A s-suitor. That's what he c-calls himself. I…I knew his first w-wife. Oh, you won't believe me! I know you won't!”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “Sh-she k-killed herself. It's what they s-say.” The sobs broke out anew.

  “He drove her to it?” Tiero had heard of such things.

  “She—oh, I'm so g-glad we don't have a mirror. I'm a mess. I know it! Don't look at me.”

  “I've looked at you a great deal already,” Tiero told her quite truthfully, “and you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. The man I saved you from wants you because any man would.”

  “You?” She turned toward him. Her upper lip still trembled, but she smiled; and Tiero, seeing that smile in the fitful light that found its way through the oiled-parchment windows of the jitney, felt that no honor the President-Protector might confer could be even half so great.

  “I am a human man,” he said. “You smiled just now. No man who'd seen your smile could ever dream of any other woman.”

  “Your tongue is as nimble as your blade. Has no woman ever told you how handsome you are?”

  “Of course not. What woman would be fool enough to believe such a lie could pass for gold?”

  “But you're married?”

  Tiero shook his head. When she said nothing, he added. “Now you'll wonder whether I killed a wife, or drove one to suicide. I've never had one.”

  “I—you'll want to know my name…”

  “I should have introduced myself some time ago. I apologize. My concern for you was such as to drive all considerations of mere politeness far from me. I'm Tiero of Trin.”

  “The swordsman! I should have guessed! They—those two men you killed. They were bravos. He hired them. You can't have known.”

  “I knew that they were abusing you. I needed to know nothing more than that.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Will—I keep jumping ahead. It's a terrible habit. My name is Corlane Ryki Marella, Chatelaine-minor di Mirbellos. It means my father—it means that he—”

  “Is Lord of Mirbellos,” Tiero finished for her, “and that you're his elder unwed daughter, My Lady Chatelaine.”

  She swallowed, the tiny sound lost in the rattling of the jitney. “His only daughter. His only child. I mean, it doesn't say that but it's the truth.” Beneath his chin, her hand lifted the face he had averted until his eyes looked into her own. “I'd never lie to you, Tiero. Not after what you did. Never! And now you're getting all respectful, and My-Lady-Chatelaine-this and My-Lady-Chatelaine-that, and I don't want that. Call me Ryki. It's what all my friends call me, I assure you, and if you're not a friend, who is?”

  Tiero smiled. “I'll try to remember, Ryki. Please don't be angry if I should slip up now and then.”

  “That man—his name's Mercus—will go to my father's townhouse. He'll bribe a servant to tell him whether I'm there, and where. Probably Aengius. Will you—will you please, Tiero darling—take me home with you? I'll be safe with you tonight, I know.”

  Scarcely able to speak, Tiero gave the jitney coachman new instructions.

  “Though knives and cudgels are, as I have said, the weapons most liable to be wielded by thugs, there was one occasion in my own experience in which I was forced to engage three men with swords.” Stretched lazily beside a sleeping Ryki, Tiero had begun a new chapter, whispering directly into his vprint. “That such situations are ever fraught with danger, I need hardly say. When engagement cannot be avoided—as in my own case—the swordsman must above all know that he faces an additional foe: time. If he does not win quickly, he will not win at all. In my own case I parried the thrust of an attacker with ease, and dispatched the maker of it at once. The second died nearly as fast. The third—”

  At this point, the door of Tiero's lodgings was kicked down by a red-faced Mercus. A moment later Mercus shouted, “Deceiver! Adulteress!”

  He shouted those things indeed, and more; but being a man of some experience in these matters, he did not shout them until the point of his blade had found Tiero's throat.

  John Meaney has been called “one of the best authors of hard SF in the world” by SFX, and Charles Stross proclaimed that his ambitious saga Paradox, Context, and Resolution (collectively known as the Nulapeiron Sequence) was a “glittering jewel in the new British space opera.” His most recent novel, Bone Song, fuses elements of science fiction with gothic fantasy. The story that follows could almost be a slice from a third fictional universe, one that forms some interstitial border between his space opera and his goth opera, existing just around the corner, sideways from now.

  Soft lighting and polished granite define the subterranean cemetery. A cool draft washes over oval stones atop each grave; while in the shadows, sharp-edged and hard, the headstones’ projected holos shine.

  Oh, Yukiko. You can't be gone.

  Yet a year has passed. Back then, as grief swirled through me, I knew it was a mistake to mark the headstone: Yukiko O'Connell née Akazawa; born March 27, 1995; died Austin, TX, August 13, 2021. But I had no energy to contest it. Instead, I allowed the funeral directors to label Yukiko's resting place—if you can call it that—with their own unthinking words.

  I miss you so bloody much.

  Other holos move as visitors stop by graves. At each mourner's left earlobe, a tiny embedded stone lights up, ruby and bright. No one notices—no one has ever noticed—that my ear is devoid of decoration, yet Yukiko's holographic image brightens into focus. The headstone registers my presence. It is the only sign I have that things are different with me.

  With us.

  Yukiko, my beautiful Yukiko, liked puzzles. She adored every paradox, if it was robust and challenging. And her portrai
t, somehow, is a moving holo that appears still. Perhaps it captured her in eyes-open meditation, enriching the universe, as she enhanced so many people's lives. Or is that a grieving man's illusion?

  The headstone's words were a mistake because Austin, August 2021 is a curse overloaded with anger, like Pearl Harbor or 9/11 in earlier decades.

  To my left, a short man called Abraham, aged seventy-three, approaches with a bunch of soft orange wallflowers, scarcely scented, their dark green stems wrapped with a rubber band. Abraham pauses at Yukiko's grave, en route to Muriel, his buried wife who lies at the end of the row.

  Abraham nods. I nod. It's not our wives but their rotted remains that lie here. You think Abraham and I fool ourselves about what we're visiting?

  On the first occasion we met, Abraham murmured something about the Atlanta August Virus. My reply was a snarl: “She died of cancer.”

  And I wonder how many other grieving relatives, two decades back, felt cheated or confused or something because their loved ones died on September 11 here in New York, somewhere other than inside the towers. For their deaths hurt just the same. Last year in Atlanta, the chimera-plague terrorists were not the sole bringers of disaster.

  I have long since apologized to Abraham for my angry words. Sometimes, after paying respect to our dead wives, Abraham and I adjourn to Doyle's Bar. There I can hear the accents of my native Dublin and scratch the weeping wound that is memory. But today, “I'm running late,” murmurs Abraham, while my overlapping reply is: “I've got a meeting, sorry.”

  It's all right, because there will always be another day…or there won't, in which case one of us will have no worries. I consider this as I back away from the grave.