by Laer Carroll
It was just at dusk local time. Lights were coming on all over the city, those which weren’t already on. As always the shapechanger enjoyed the view. Cities might be piss-ugly on the ground but from the air they were fairylands.
They passed near the EiffleTower and everyone craned their necks to get a better view. It was close enough that several dinner guests inside the famous Café de l’Air waved at them. They all waved back, grins on their faces.
They flew over the Seine. Boats flowed both ways on it. Many were tour boats, long, flat, with two levels with many comfortable seats. Many had cafés on them, some of them world-famous.
The flight was slow and almost dreamlike. Bethany enjoyed it as much as her friends, though with her superscientific bubble she’d seen such sights many times. Like sunsets and virgin snow and forest they never palled.
Too soon a loop of the Seine came up and on their right they saw the famous Village Olympique. Now a huge entertainment park, several years ago it had housed the Summer Olympics. The one during which a still unknown team of parachuting special-operations soldiers had rescued several dozen hostages from terrorists.
The air-car landing reprised its take-off in reverse. From the top of a parking garage Cécile took them down and to the front of a tall white hotel building. Through the windshield they could make out a hundred feet ahead a twin tower, the one where the hostages had been held.
In the hotel lobby as they stood at the reservations desk Naomi told them that a tip to their driver was unnecessary as a “very generous tip” was included in the reservation. The rest of the fireteam ignored her and tipped the young woman. At the end so did Naomi, ignoring Cécile’s widened eyes as she looked at the large bill in her hand.
Bethany snickered. “She’s so bossy,” she said in a confidential aside, quite loud for a true confidential comment. And in near chorus came the rest of the fireteam’s near-ritual comments.
“Yes, bossy, that’s the word.” “Dictatorial.” “Yes, but she has a good heart.” “True.” “True.”
Naomi nobly ignored the comments.
Soon they were in their suite. It had six rooms around a central living-room-like meeting place. The sixth room was declared an office and soon five laptops were set up and plugged in. After, of course, closets were filled with clothing and shoes. After all, priorities had to be observed.
After much wrangling in the week before during online reservations Bethany had wound up with one of the two balcony rooms. She’d wanted to make sure she could dive into the sky if she wanted to.
The rooming situation settled, everyone refreshed themselves and primped and argued loudly about how they were to dress for dinner and a night out .
The fireteam descended to the lobby and set out into the now complete dusk. They found that between the twin hotels there were two long promenades running north and south with a wide green between them. On the green were young trees festooned with lights and a winding packed-stone footpath which paralleled the promenades.
They went north on the closest promenade. Window shopping, ordinarily an activity they all loved, lost out to finding a suitable dining place. After passing up three with much argument they settled on a French restaurant. After all, they were in France to experience the French experience, not (as Gerard said with curled lip) MacPherson’s or Burger Barn.
Soon they were examining large laminated menus and discussing items. Brigitte and Gerard ordered something that would let them share tastes. Lihua and Naomi did the same, Naomi (who’d learned French when she was very young) translated for the others, with Bethany sometimes chipping in.
In the end it was Bethany with her more fluent Parisian French who made the orders, though the waiters spoke fluent English (and no doubt a dozen other languages). She insisted on it, she said, because there were some gastronomic homophones which the waiters could confuse.
Naomi was delighted to lead off the a capella symphony of comments on the subject of Being Bossy.
At the end of the meal all four women loudly argued about who would sleep with Gerard that night. In the end they flipped coins and Bethany “won.” As they left the establishment she held tightly onto his nearest arm and walked out bumping his hip with hers.
But as they walked the next two hours it was Brigitte who was on Gerard’s arm. Again Beth wondered futilely at the tight emotional connection between the gay man and the straight woman who did not find him the slightest bit attractive.
Ah, but they made such a beautiful couple.
Back in their suite they all ordered champagne and chatted briefly before turning in.
Beth dressed in shorts and a tee and flip-flops as if to go to bed. Then she stepped out onto the balcony. She vanished in a swirl of wind.
In the worst part of Paris petty crime was reduced a small but noticeable amount that night. One battered would-be robber complained bitterly about being “enticed” by une petite Americaine .
·
The next morning the fireteam dressed comfortably but fashionably. Let it never be said that Americans were poorly dressed. They had breakfast of crepes in the hotel’s restaurant. Except Bethany. She had a big steak cooked au jus and sides and a large iced tea.
Her loving companions insulted her horribly while she ate and ate and ate. She finished by smacking her lips. She even managed to belch quite loudly.
They swore to shun her. Unfortunately she was the one who’d managed to secure a rental air car and a French all-air license.
At the rental agency (to which they were delivered by a courtesy ground car) Naomi suspiciously examined that license while the paperwork was being finalized. She held it up to the light.
“Got to be a forgery.”
Gerard said, “You know C&R. They could do this.” “Yeah.” “Yeah.” “Got to be.”
The young man who was handling the rental ran it through a machine. A green light glowed. He looked at her companions with disgust.
They trundled their minimal luggage for a trip to the south of France to the air car. They’d kept the hotel suite for the rest of their possessions, courtesy of Naomi’s parents. After all, the ‘rents owned part of the hotel chain.
They all donned their seat belts and the cross-shoulder belts. Gerard managed to clash his seat belt loudly when he closed it.
“How could she have earned an air car driver’s license?” “Got to be a fake.” “We’re all going to die.” “Promising young lives cut short.”
“OK, you feebs. Shut – up! I’ve got to talk to air traffic control.”
Gerard squeezed in a last pathetic “So promising.”
In French Bethany spoke just loudly enough for the dashboard microphone to clearly pick up her words.
“Paris Air Traffic Control, this is Air Car L, repeat L, zero-five-one-two-one. Requesting take off using this flight plan.” She punched an icon of a button on the bright dashboard display. This sent the flight plan she’d been entering for the last two minutes.
“Wait ten, one-two-one. Wait ten.”
“Wait ten.”
She turned her head to speak to those in the seat behind her and to Gerard, who’d claimed the shotgun seat before anyone else.
“Ten minutes to wait, he said. Could be more, could be less.”
“When did you learn to fly an air car?” said Naomi. “I was expecting another chauffeur.”
The dashboard speaker clicked twice.
“That plan is approved. Good voyage, one-two-one. Lift within one minute, repeat one minute. ”
“Thank you, Air Control. Lifting now. Good day.”
Everyone had understood the controller’s Bon Voyage . And her colloquial Bon temps . They tensed.
For no good reason. The autopilot controlling the air car lifted the vehicle in a smooth forward upward arc. The wheel in her hands tilted down and moved forward. She kept her hands on it even though the ‘pilot was controlling it in case she needed to over-ride it.
That was very unlikely, but she would
take no chances with her friends. And in reserve was always her bubble.
Behind Beth seat-back screens like those in an air liner lit up with a map showing their path. On it yellow arrows pointed out landmarks: the EiffleTower, the Louvre, Versailles, many others. Some were even close enough to be seen below them. The three women in the back seat excitedly began pointing out the ones they could see below them.
Gerard grumped. Bethany smugly pointed out the disadvantages of leaping to yell “Shotgun!” until she took pity and punched up his map display. Then he joined in.
Conveniently everyone forgot to ask again when she’d learned to fly an air car and get a license to do it.
Of course, she had an explanation. Though the truth was that Sandrine Ascaride had learned, using a good fake of her driver’s license with Bethany’s name and photo on it.
The Paris outskirts flowed beneath them. Occasionally their path was bent as errant air traffic came near. The autopilot on the car was excellent. Nevertheless Bethany kept her extrahuman senses alert. Her robot kept its unhuman senses likewise alert. It kept silent, however, unless she or the autopilot missed something. Only once did they do so.
Once Naomi leaned forward and said, “Are you getting tired? ”
“No, dear. I love this. Sit back and have fun.”
The distance to their first national tourist attraction was 260-something kilometers south of Paris, or about 160 miles. At a leisurely 300 miles an hour this took about a half hour.
“Coming up on No-Hant Vic. See there on the left a bit?”
She brought the car slanting down to a quarter-mile height. Below them the modest yellow two story “mansion” resolved out of the rolling green country-side.
“My God,” breathed Brigitte. “George Sand’s house!”
The author who used that pen name was world famous. Born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, later by marriage Baroness Dudevant, she had written numerous plays and novels, had famous love affairs, and died in the late 1800s after a late-life renaissance in her career.
The revival had been helped by the publishing house of the massive Irish conglomerate De La Roche Enterprises. It had commissioned English translations. This had caused Sand to learn the language. She’d even moved to Ireland for a time with her husband and several grand-children.
Brigitte idolized Sand. So naturally Gerard had thrown his weight behind her to make sure they stopped off there.
“We’re passing by it!”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get there. France doesn’t allow air cars too close to national treasures. We’re going about five miles further and will come back on the ground.”
Brigitte was instantly all in favor of avoiding Nohant.
La Châtre was a modest city or large village. It looked old but was modern enough to have an air car parking area.
“France Air Control. Air Car L, repeat L, zero-five-one-two-one. Diverting to this location. For rest stop.”
“Acknowledged, one-two-one. Going to see George Sand’s place? ”
“Exactement.”
“Bon temps.”
“Descending. Bon temps. ”
On the ground they hired a conveyance: a horse driven cart, all part of the tourist experience. Brigitte was in heaven.
The driver dropped them off at a combined restaurant and small hotel. Brigitte immediately said they had to stay overnight.
The rest tortured her for fifteen minutes by refusing, giving ever more ridiculous excuses. Finally the usually gentle Brigitte threatened them all with immediate horrible murder if they did not give in.
Visibly “fearful” they agreed. They checked into the hotel minus their luggage. The two unlimited credit cards quickly convinced the hotel clerk they were not vagabonds.
“I’ll get the luggage,” Bethany said. “You find a good table for an early lunch. Order a rare steak and sides for me.”
Her four companions agreed and left the hotel lobby. She exited the back. A comprehensive glance around showed she was unwatched. She arced into the air.
Her plans to fly back with the luggage was thwarted by an alert cart driver. So she rode again by horsy carriage, chatting companionably with the driver. Before she pulled the luggage out she went around to the horse and talked with him and rubbed his ears and gave him perfect health.
She gave the driver a big non-monetary tip along with a small one in coins: perfect life-long health.
Arriving at the table where her friends waited she was quickly served a big meal: of delicate salmon in a tart smooth sauce with more traditionally French sides and wine. She glared at them but ate it with great enjoyment.
They hung up their clothing and put their toiletries in their individual bathrooms, small and old but very clean.
They toured the nearby musée de George Sand before hiring an ancient taxi to take them to Nohant-Vic. At the mansion home of the famous writer even Gerard quelled his irreverence.
It was a modest manse, really, not a mansion. Two stories, with a good many comfortably appointed rooms which looked as if the owners had just stepped out.
Brigitte said, “The curators spend a lot of effort keeping it that way. We can even sit down and chat.”
So they did.
It almost felt to Bethany (and, she found, to the others) as if any moment the Sand/Dudevant family would come in and demand the intruders get out.
Their elegant friend, a stray hair out of place, an historic event, also said there was a legend that upstairs in Sand’s writing room the ghost of Sand sometimes showed up sitting at the table.
Lihua immediately said they must go and “see the ghost.”
“Dumb ass,” said Gerard. “There’s no such thing.”
Naomi looked annoyed. “No, Jerry, there isn’t. Jesus, can’t you be respectful of something just this once?!”
Lihua said, “No, of course there isn’t. But I’d love to see her writing room.”
Shrugging, Brigitte stood. Naturally she knew exactly which stair and which hall to take.
The room was closed. Brigitte opened it, stood aside, and waved them into the room.
There was an immediate impression of organized chaos. The room was sparse except for a table, high-backed chair, bookshelves with dozens of books (which the shapechanger’s superior eyes told her were fakes) .
The chair was rocking. Very slightly. Beth noticed it first but Lee saw it next.
Suddenly the chair slewed around and an old woman in archaic clothes was sitting in it with an annoyed look on her face.
Beth almost triggered her shield. Then she saw it was a hologram. A very expensive one, it must be, to be so detailed and three-dimensional to eyes without 3-D glasses before them.
Gerard said, “Gee. I think I peed my pants.”
They all turned to the doorway where Brigitte was holding in giggles. They advanced upon her and she fled lithely down the hall and stairs.
The rest of them were snickering by the time they caught her. Though Gerard kept trying to hide his chortles. But he kept breaking into giggles.
“That was mean,” he said, alternately grinning and grimacing in “anger.”
The rest of the tour they spent walking around the farm and through the barn where they fed veggies to fat horses and other animals. It was a working farm, in just the same way it had been a century ago.
They also walked a marked path to a nearby river, more a large stream than river. There was a bathhouse there with machines which dispensed archaic swimming clothes which Brigitte claimed were inauthentic. They changed into them and stored their valuables in a safe. Then they swam where Sand and her last lover (and later husband) and her children and grandchildren and guests had swum.
Afterward they walked back to the manse. There they joined a half-dozen other tourists in a supper which Brigitte claimed was authentic by servants dressed in period clothing. These they tipped big but received only a bow or courtesy as the “servants” stayed in character.
It was dusk when they w
ere picked up by a taxi hired by cell phone by Naomi.
In the hotel sitting room they sat for a time, recounting their reactions to their visit to the museum and to the manse. They retired early.
At least the others did. The shapechanger sneaked out and went up into the sky. And up. And up.
At the edge of the atmosphere she watched the world below turn further into night. She felt... She felt cast loose in time. She could almost believe that below her Sand still lived and strove to sculpt her life and the literature she created.
And below in Germany she/Roberto Rodriguez strove to build the Prussian army into one which would one day curb the third Napoleon’s dreams of Empire. And below in Hungary she/Maelgyreyt still terrorized Mongols. And farther back in time the ghost-like entity which somehow had sired them and likely many more shapechangers had dropped to earth with fellow ghosts in Ireland or mayhap England. Carrying the memories or part souls from dozens of aliens.
For long minutes—or maybe hours—she hung there, little goddess, young superhero. Then she plummeted to earth like a fallen angel to seek her bed.
·
The five were subdued at breakfast, all but Bethany making do with a croissant and hot chocolate or tea or coffee. The shapechanger ate several omelets and a pot of coffee well-flavored with cream and sugar.
Midmorning they took a taxi to the air car, strapped in, and Bethany took them into the sky.
After clearing their amended path with the air controller he said, “How was the Sand visit? ”
“We saw the ‘ghost’.”
A chuckle greeted that. Then “Un moment.” A minute later he returned.
“Scare you?”
“Some of us are lying and saying No. Not me.”
He chuckled and signed off with a “Bon voyage.”
“Chatty fellow,” said Gerard. “What did the two of you talk about?”
Naomi, whose French was rapidly returning to her childhood ease, answered.
“She told him you shat your pants.”
