Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

Made the mistake of piously imitating an old b'ar. Didn't bother to start the Jeep for better than a week ... through the coldest nights of the year so far. Tried to start it yesterday. Wouldn't roll the engine. A lengthy session on the charger and it fired up and ran fine today. 7 year old battery ... I reckon that one's paid for itself!

All things considered, an alpenstock ain't a bad idea a'tall!

FRAME AND BINDER Retired Police Chief Will Keller regarded the matted, framed drawing: his eyes were bright, wrinkled at the corners, the way they were when something pleased the man, and right now he was pleased indeed. "I drew this part," Victoria said, her pink, clean-scrubbed finger indicating the lifelike, detailed pencil drawing of a Fanghorn in full charge, cleverly enough rendered to seem to be coming off the eggshell paper, about to ram into and tromple over top of the viewer. "Michael drew that part." Her finger shifted, withdrew: Will knew the horse, a rearing Appaloosa mare, and he knew the shouting girl astride the hoof-slashing mare, the little girl with the delighted, shouting expression, slinging her Stetson by its brim in salute as her brother came rip-roaring alongside on the war-charging Fanghorn. Uncle Will looked at the picture, looked at Michael, at Victoria. "You do know we're trying to keep the Confederacy a secret," he said quietly. "This is safe," Victoria said knowingly. "It's not a photograph." Will nodded, frowned at the drawing, shook his head. "I do well to draw a stick figure," he sighed. "You two ... ever since I can recall, you both had this gift!" "That's what Lightning looks like," Victoria said. "I had her run toward me so I'd know how to draw them!" "Lightning thought it was fun," Michael said softly. "I dismounted and stood where Victoria was, and I had Lightning run at me the same way as we did Victoria, so I could see what she -- Victoria -- looked like when Peppermint reared when Lightning came past." He grinned at the memory, then shivered. "Peppermint got tired of just staying in one place," Victoria explained. "She wanted to turn and run with Lightning." She looked at her twin brother, bit her bottom lip, considered for a moment, then admitted, "We almost ran into Michael." "It was close," Michael admitted, "but I had to know what they looked like when Lightning came through like that!" "That," Will said softly, "would be pretty damned intimidating, having her come at a man like that!" The twins nodded together, and their voices as well: "It was!" "I do appreciate this," Will said softly, looking from one to the other. "Thank you." Sheriff Jacob Keller eared the hammer back on his blued-steel .44. "Don't," he said -- one word, quietly spoken. It was enough. More than just the Firelands colonists were familiar with the triple-click of a single action revolver coming to full stand, and the proliferation of Westerns through the Known Worlds popularized the notion that the plow handle revolver on a lawman's belt was a tool of mystical power, able to slap down the biggest, meanest sort with incredible ease -- an image Jacob took pains to reinforce when he took pistol practice out on the Martian sands. Little boys and grown men watched the Inter-System broadcasts, watched as the pale eyed Martian Sheriff casually walked around a pile of sand, as he drew, fired, as a yellow-painted steel silhouette twisted and swung as if actually feeling the impact of a hard-cast .44. Jacob shot into jugs of liquid, sometimes drawing both revolvers at once, a smooth, coordinated fast draw, hitting two plastic gallon jugs at once, blasting them both into impressive sprays of water -- hot water that vaporized, crystallized into clouds that sublimated away before they hit the ground. When it became necessary to address the violent, or the deadly, the image Jacob cultivated worked in his favor -- not always, those who chose to indulge in recreational compounds, those enraged or impassioned, often disregarded the reasonable, the sensible When Jacob eared back the hammer on his engraved, blued-steel .44, when Jacob spoke one word, quietly, it had the desired effect. A knife fell to the deck and an individual felt himself sobering with a most unpleasant velocity. Uncle Will opened a three ring binder he'd unwrapped: it arrived by common carrier, and instead of a return address, it had a pencil-drawn rose inside a horseshoe, and he knew who sent it. He opened the notebook, read the note stuck to the inside of the front cover: Uncle Jacob said he and Marnie helped you cast bullets. He said what he's loaded with, he cast himself, with your furnace and your mold. Will turned the page, grinned at the remarkable drawing: he wasn't sure if it was Michael or Victoria who rendered this, but when he looked at Jacob's delighted face, when he saw the look of delight on a baby boy's face as dear old Dad took him under the arms and swung him waaaaay up toward the ceiling, Will couldn't help but smile a little, for he'd done that very thing with Jacob, when Jacob was but a babe in diapers. Another page, another drawing: Jacob sitting with his little boy beside him, Jacob's hand gripping his son's -- a light grip -- the next page, Jacob's hand, spread wide across Joseph's shoulder blades, his face turned toward his son and his mouth open a little, and Will could almost hear Jacob's praising encouragement as his son painstakingly plied his pencil and formed letters on paper. Another page: Ruth, buxom and motherly, laughing as she knelt, all skirts and smiles as Jacob lay on his back, pressing the laughing, squealing little boy like he'd press a weight. I don't think I could do better with a camera, Will thought, nodding. Another page, and Jacob stood, his arm extended, thumb just coming off the full-cocked hammer, his eyes hard, unforgiving. The drawing was flawless. The drape of his watch-chain across his vest, the curl and texture of his handlebar mustache, his bladed stance, the slight tilt to his Stetson ... Will nodded again, turned the page and laughed. He saw himself, holding something in a picture frame, with Victoria pointing to it and her mouth open in explanation. Will raised his head and looked around. If I frame these, he thought, I'll need more walls to have room to hang 'em!

ON THE BACK STAIRS Children they were, and like children, they slipped away from adults' watchful eyes every chance they got. It's what children do. They sat side by side in companionable silence, each knowing the other a kindred soul, each realizing without outward proofs or adult assurance they were bonded somehow, conjoined on a deeper level than didactic instruction. Sarah Lynne McKenna sat beside Jacob Keller, each leaning against the other, neither speaking: beneath them, behind them, above them, voices, a piano, the sounds of saloon and of commerce, coming through hand-fitted walls and stairs, but between them ... silence, and this was a comfort to them both. Each bore scars, terrible scars, from adults who'd done terrible things to them both. Not all the scars could be seen with the naked eye. Both knew their responsibilities; both knew the duties expected of them; both lived now in stable homes, both loved and trusted their parents, those adults to whom they had to answer, those adults who -- thus far -- had given no sign of violence toward them, no sign of temper toward them. Neither trusted completely. Both had been hurt far too deeply, too terribly, to ever trust anyone with the innocent completeness of a child. No one but each other. Jacob blinked a few times, the way he did when a notion occurred to him, and Sarah saw this and smiled just a little, laid her hand on his, squeezed gently. "How come these steps are so clean?" he almost whispered. Sarah smiled, thrust out a foot, pointed her toe like a dancer: "I had these made," she replied in a soft voice. "Felt soles. I wear them here." "Felt?" Sarah nodded. "I wear these indoors when I wish to be silent." Jacob's brows puzzled together a little. Sarah smiled. "I dust these steps myself." "You said nobody else knows about them." "They don't. I locked the panels above and below so nobody can get in. The panels are cleverly enough made you can't tell it's not just part of the wall." Jacob scratched his head, frowned. "We're the only two who use these steps," she whispered. "I dust them so we can sit here and not get our backsides dusty." Jacob turned his head, his shoulders, considered the length of this hidden staircase, looked back at the pale eyed girl seated beside him. "That's an awful lot of work, just for us." Sarah dropped her head, leaned into him a little more. "It's the only place --" she whispered, then she swallowed, and Jacob turned, ran his arms around her, held her. "You're safe here," he whispered, and he felt her shiver. "You're the only one I feel safe with," she whispered back, and he heard her voice tighten in her throat, at least until she lifted her face and added, "you and Twain Dawg." Jacob's grin was quick, boylike, bright, that there-and-gone look of delight that lifted her heart, that expression so very few people had ever seen. It would be another year before the Sheriff would find written corroboration of several peoples' suspicions, that he was sire to both children, that they, Jacob and Sarah, were blood relation: until then, they knew only they had a deep affinity, the knowledge that each could trust the other with more than their immortal soul. "Jacob." The man's voice carried the warmth a father feels for a son, and Jacob could hear the smile hidden in the man's single word. "Sir." Sheriff Linn Keller stopped, looked around again -- the man's eyes were never still, he was perpetually watchful, a trait Jacob took as normal, for the men he looked up to all exhibited this same tendency. "I had a big lie to tell you," Linn said quietly, "and damned if I can remember just what it was!" Jacob almost never smiled in public, but here, with just the two of them and the Sheriff's stallion as the only witnesses, Jacob allowed his smile to flow from the corners of his eyes down through the rest of his face. "Would it be swampland for sale in the Great Mexican Desert, sir?" Linn frowned, shook his head. "No, that was last week. Might have been Professor Nonesuch's genuine snake oil." "The kind that makes a man younger, smarter and better lookin', sir?" The Sheriff snapped his fingers, winked: "The very thing!" he declared. He looked around again, eyes busy, searching. He'll pull out his watch now, Jacob thought, and sure enough, the Sheriff curled his fingers, pushed up on a vest pocket, brought out a watch. Jacob had designs on that very watch, and a surprise in mind: he'd have to be slick, he'd have to be quick, but when he was done, he believed both his Pa and the woman he refused to call Mama would be pleased. Jacob smiled as Sarah flowed down the steps in her felt-soled slippers. She'd had them made to look like her other pretty patent-leather slippers -- "I don't want Mama to know about these," she explained, "she'll ask why I had them felt soled" -- Jacob nodded, once, his expression suddenly stern, and Sarah bit off the rest of her explanation, swallowed the words, suddenly uncomfortable. Sarah was above Jacob: he stood, held out his hands, and Sarah took them, took another step down, until they were eye to eye. "Sarah," Jacob whispered, "I hide things too." Two children with old eyes hugged one another, suddenly, desperately, each knowing in the most secret part of their wounded souls that here, here was the one living creature in all the world that would understand, that was the most worthy of the other's trust. They slacked their long embrace, but still held hands, pale eyes looking into pale eyes. "I have something to show you," Jacob whispered. He curled his fingers, pushed up under a vest pocket, turned his hand and opened it. Sarah tilted her head, interested: they sat, Sarah's skirts rustling quietly as she arranged them under her. "Pa's watch," Jacob whispered. Sarah gave him a puzzled look. "I had this one made," Jacob explained. "I played hell gettin' his watch and gettin' it to a man that did engravin'. He chased this one" -- Jacob showed Sarah the closed watch cover -- "just absolutely exactly like his, only here in the middle -- see this? -- I had him add this and I told him to make it just as real as he could." Sarah marveled at the closed cover of the watch. In an arc, almost a compete circle, beautifully engraved into the hunter's case, the words Sheriff Linn Keller Sarah knew the Sheriff's watch bore his name, she'd seen something was engraved on it, and she'd been able to look at it -- she'd learned to read men, she knew when the Sheriff shifted his weight and dropped a shoulder slightly, when he looked around with his hand open a little in front of his belly that he was going to push his watch up and palm it before he read it -- she'd been close enough to see his name, engraved after this exact wise. Jacob saw her lips draw up at the corners, saw her expression soften as she studied the center of the watch cover. "A rose," she breathed, and Jacob grinned -- she looked up into Jacob's eyes -- Sarah hugged him again, quickly, impulsively, released, looked down at the rose engraved in the center of what used to be bare, polished metal. Jacob's thumb pressed down on the stem and the engraved watch-cover flipped open. Sarah's eyes widened and she cupped her hand over her mouth, and Jacob heard her quick, delighted breath as she blinked, as she leaned a little closer, as she stared at the inside of the watch cover. "Jacob," she whispered, "it's Aunt Esther!" Jacob's cheeks reddened and his eyes narrowed -- she felt his silent laughter -- they stared at the flawless, lifelike, hand-painted portrait of a truly beautiful woman, a woman with red hair and green eyes, a woman regarding the viewer with a quiet and knowing expression. Esther Keller looked up at them from the inside of the watch-case. Jacob closed the case -- reluctantly, Sarah thought -- he slipped it back into his vest pocket. "I've already shown Mother," he said quietly, and his expression was troubled: he blinked quickly, lifted troubled eyes to Sarah and asked, his voice serious: "Sarah, when she looked at this, her eyes watered up and she had to dab at her eyes." "It's all right, Jacob," Sarah whispered, her hands warm and reassuring as they closed about his hand and the watch that it held. "That means that she's happy enough to cry!" Jacob blinked, confused, worried his bottom lip between even white teeth, looked at Sarah again and raised one eyebrow, just the way she'd seen the Sheriff do when discussing a confusing matter. "It made her happy?" Sarah nodded. "Mama cried because she was happy and Mama cried for sorrow." He looked at Sarah, slipped the watch back into his vest pocket. "I don't reckon I have women figured out," he admitted, his hand protectively flat on the vest pocket, then she saw his eyes change as his train of thought was switched onto another set of tracks. "I'll need to trade out his watch," Jacob said. "I'll play hell doin' it while he's asleep." "Why not just give it to him?" Sarah suggested. "Walk up to him and tell him his watch is due for a cleaning and hand him this one, tell him a man ought to have an extra." Jacob chewed on a knuckle as a smile flowed down from the corners of Jacob's eyes and over the rest of his face, and Sarah, silent on felt-soled slippers that looked just like the pretty shoes she usually wore, flowed like a ghost across those boards underfoot that would not groan and betray her passage, and she looked through a peep-hole she'd discovered years before and watched as Jacob walked up to his father, spoke: the man turned toward Jacob, Jacob held out his hand. She could not see the Sheriff's face -- the brim of his hat was in the way -- but she could tell by the square-up of his shoulders, the slight straighten of his habitually-straight spine, that the man was pleased, even before he opened the watch-face. She saw Jacob's hand raise a little, curled fingers indicating the watch, she saw his thumb twitch -- probably following his words, she thought, he might be telling the Sheriff to take a look and see if the time is right -- Sarah bit delicately on her knuckle as she saw the Sheriff's thumb tighten down, as the lid snapped open -- The Sheriff's head came up a little, and Sarah could just see his curled, iron-grey mustache widen and lift a little, the way it did when the man smiled, and Sarah wiggled a little with absolute delight as she saw the man nod, as he gripped Jacob's shoulder, as he turned to show the portrait to someone standing beside him. Sarah drew back, rose gracefully, turned: she pressed a release, slid another, eased the panel aside on its silent, waxed track, slipped into the hidden back stairs, closed the panel and made sure it was locked: she hugged herself with happiness, remembering the moment when a father laid an approving hand on his son's shoulder.

MOUNTED INFANT-RY Ruth moved in like a tugboat with a maternal instinct: something small, bundled and noisy was handed off from one maternal set of hands to another -- a later review of surveillance was met with the approvingly murmured words, "Quarterback Sneak!" -- Jacob received the football, stepped through the airlock door, lifted the flap of soft fuzzy blanket and frowned at the red, wrinkled, open-mouthed and very loud little boy-child. Jacob Keller pulled out a small, powerful light, held it almost into the little, scarlet, wide-open mouth, pressed the button, frowned: he switched off the light, returned it to an inner pocket. Beside him, the airlock whispered open, a little girl brought out two baby bottles: she lifted the flap of Jacob's coat pocket, slid them in, looked up at the Martian Sheriff, smiled shyly as he winked at her. Not long after, a Martian Sheriff and another man's child emerged from an Iris into a sunlit field. Jacob curled his lip and whistled, laid the blanket wrapped bundle down on wind-bent grass. Apple-horse, curious, bent his neck and sniffed at the unfamiliar creature that waved chubby little arms and looked around, wondering whether to cut loose and imitate a juvenile storm cloud or not. Jacob unbuckled the left hand saddlebag, pulled out a pint flask, wiggled the genuine cork out of the bottle's neck. The contents were a thin purple in color -- Uncle Will's Finest, half and half moon likker and home made wine -- guaranteed to go down like Mama's milk and blow the socks off a man's feet, carried by a pale eyed lawman for medicinal purposes only. He had medicinal need for this potent potion. Jacob dipped the pad of his little finger into the bottle, looked down at the grunting, restless baby boy. Right about then, the child decided it was time for another good long extended caterwaul. Jacob pulled its little red fist out of its mouth and quickly, with the ease of having done this before, lightly anointed angry red gums covering ready-to-emerge teeth with the soothing fires of distilled Numbitfast. He laughed silently at the child's shocked expression -- the protesting thrusts of a young tongue, until the realization that pain relief was better than its taste -- Jacob took advantage of this moment of juvenile confusion, plugged the bottle's milk-dripping nipple in, murmured "Storm Plug." Back in the Firelands Colony, Ruth towed two young children, one in each hand, into another section, smiling at the happy, energetic young: behind her, a young mother, frazzled, changed clothes: her husband stepped into the room, smiled, extended his hand. "It's been a while since we had a night out," he said, and winked. An Appaloosa stallion and a pale eyed Sheriff scented the wind, looked into the distance: yonder, just shy of the mountains and misty in the distance, a storm was building: the wind was carrying toward them, and Jacob smelled rain, he smelled ozone from the thunder storm: it was still miles away, the sun was still warm on his back, and he leaned forward slightly to cast his Stetson's shadow on the baby wrapped up in the blanket. Between the horse's motion and the comfort of a filling belly, and probably because chewing on the rubber nipple helped its sore gums -- and likely having worn himself out squalling as long as he had -- a little baby in a blanket and in a Sheriff's arms, relaxed, and fell asleep. Ruth discreetly withdrew as husband and wife were shown to their table. She'd given the wife a recall button to press, when they were ready to return; their other two children were napping under the watchful eye of another of the Firelands ladies: Ruth knew children, and she knew how important it was that they burn off nervous energy, and she'd taken them somewhere very near her home, a place where they could run and jump and leap into piles of fragrant straw, where they could chase billy goats with three horns, and the billy goats could chase them, back and forth in a sunlit field, with little baby billies bouncing after them, laughing: finally, tiring out, the goats came up and crowded up against them, the children each gripped a curled horn, and the billies trotted happily back, towing cheek-glowing, out-of-breath children, half a dozen curly-white Little Billies following. Jacob ducked to clear the crude lintel. He rode Apple into the open-sided shed: they just made it before the rains hit. Jacob swung down, carried the wiggling baby over to a work bench, laid him down and stripped him down. "I ain't as good at this as m'wife," Jacob muttered, "but I've changed my share of little backsides. Holt still now" -- and a father's experienced hands managed a swift and expert diaper change, complete with powder and frown. Jacob made sure the diaper was smooth, snug, secured: he rewrapped the sleepy little boy in the blanket, dropped the soiled diaper in a plastic sack and threw a knot in it -- "That'll hold the smell," he explained to the yawning little face that looked up at him -- "how's them teeth, hey? You need another gum rubbin'?" A little baby boy managed a truly huge, stretching yawn: Jacob picked him up, leaned him over his shoulder, over the spit rag he laid just in case. "You'n me," he rumbled, "we're like a couple old b'ars. We git our belly full, we git warm, we go to sleep!" Jacob raised his leg, got a boot into the doghouse stirrup, bounced twice, swung back into saddle leather. He had to hunch over just a little to keep his Stetson out of the crude rafters: he bent his wrist, tapped a command, and he and Apple-horse eased through an Iris, and the sound of rain on a tin roof was gone. The Bear Killer's head came up and his tail began slashing back and forth across the smooth stone floor. Apple-horse walked easily, daintily, steel shoes loud on the slick-polished deck: Jacob walked up to a particular doorway. "Ho," he called softly, and Apple-horse ho'd. Ruth smiled as she stepped out, caressed Apple's nose, then looked up at her husband, smiled: she raised her arms and received a sleeping little boy-baby. Jacob touched his hat-brim and Ruth stepped back across her threshold: an Iris opened, and Jacob walked Apple through it. Not five minutes later Jacob came through the door, smiled as Ruth glided over to him: Jacob's grin was broad and boyish as he held his wife. "Did they make it?" he asked quietly. "They're still there," Ruth said. "I imagine they'll spend the night." Jacob grinned, nodded, laughed quietly. "I wonder how many other Sheriffs do things like this?" Ruth caressed his smooth-shaven cheek, blushed a little as she did, but there was no missing the pride in her face, and in her voice, as she said, "Only the ones who take care of their people."

I remember when my grandsons were that size ... new parents and my wife went to get groceries, I stayed home with my week-and-a-half old grandson. They got home as I was finishing up changing his diaper. My Mama, rest her skinny, red headed soul, was truly a gifted and talented sort, as are mothers in general -- she could change a diaper on an ironing board (I'm convinced she could change a diaper on the narrow edge of a two-by-four!) -- but I'm not a mother. I'm a paranoid granddaddy. They found Joshua on his back, on the floor, me on my knees, sliding the clean diaper in under his clean, powdered backside. My wife and daughter looked at me like I had a fish stuck in my ear and asked why I was changing him on the living room rug. I r'ared up on my Prayer Bones and declared stoutly, "HE CAN'T FALL OFF THE FLOOR!" The new father nodded thoughtfully and told me later he agreed with my procedure!

I constantly delight in learning new things, and the concept of "Draining the Dog" is one of them! Thank you for that! I've known those times of magical light, those memories are from the days of my "Beardless Youth" ...

TO KEEP A CONFIDENCE Michael Keller breezed into the conference room with all the stealth of a dust-devil on a windy August afternoon. A dust-devil in a black suit and a broad, bright-eyed grin. He didn't run -- the Abbott considered that his twin sister might've skipped happily -- Michael's gait was rapid, but contained: he strode purposefully the length of the heavy timber table, placed a squarish, cloth-wrapped, string-tied bundle in front of the Abbott. The scent of coffee rose invitingly from the bundle, and William raised curious fingertips to the cloth, finding it pleasantly warm. He raised the warm bundle, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, smiled. "Fresh from the roaster," Michael grinned. "This isn't Confession but I need it covered with the Seal of the Confessional!" The Abbott placed the fragrant gift back on the tabletop, gave the tall, slender lad an amused look, nodded. Michael pulled a chair out, dropped into it, leaned forward -- for all the world like his pale-eyed father did, only with the nervous energy of youth -- elbows on his knees, hands clasped and two fingers steepled, he frowned at something inside William's ribcage and then looked up. "Abbott," he said, "I am convinced of the existence of God." It was not easy to surprise the Abbott: after a lifetime in the Priesthood, he'd heard confessions enough, he'd seen things enough, very little could surprise him. This, however, did. "Abbott," Michael pressed on, "I'm going to tell you some things this world isn't ready for yet, so bear with me." The Abbott nodded gravely. Michael pulled his sleeve back, bent his wrist: the Abbott saw something that looked like ... well, he wasn't sure what it was like: he'd seen Michael horseback, wearing leather roping cuffs, and this ... ... wasn't ... Michael passed two fingers over it, and it changed from flat black (leather?) to a complex-looking, glowing screen. Michael looked up toward the tabletop, the fingers of his off hand busy. The Abbott blinked, surprised: he'd seen such things portrayed on the silver screen, but never in person. "Hologram?" he hazarded. "Yes, sir. And for scale --" What the Abbott saw, rotating slowly end-for-end, was long, slender, silver: flat-footed legs extended, the image appeared to land delicately on the tabletop and what looked for all the world like the hinged bottom jaw of a sleek, dangerous bird of prey, lowered, to reveal a black sarcophagus. The sarcophagus rose, stepped off the lowered jaw, stood: black arms and black hands gripped the spherical black head, twisted, lifted. "Howdy!" Gracie's voice called, then her image gave the Abbott an assessing head-tilt: "You've lost weight, but your color's good!" The Abbott blinked as the image drew back, grew: suddenly Gracie was life-sized, standing through the table, with the great silver bird overhanging her shoulder, it jaw swung down behind her, absolutely filling the tall, quiet room. "Gracie?" Gracie laughed, that contagious laugh he remembered so well: she was ever a welcome guest in their Monastery, and as often as the Ladies' Tea Society joined the White Sisters in choral praise, so did Gracie with her curlyback fiddle -- she'd ride in on a mule in a mid-calf skirt and work boots, in a flannel shirt and a broke-brim hat, looking like a lost mountaineer, but when she pulled out her signature fiddle, she could spin magic from its strings fit to bring a strong man to tears for the hearing of it. "Abbott, I'm well on the other side of two star systems away," Gracie grinned. "I'm a Valkyrie -- we're a squadron of fighter-interceptors and we just got put in our place." "I ... have never ... heard Confession from a ... hologram?" the Abbott said hesitantly. Gracie laughed -- that contagious laugh of hers, easy, natural ... clean, he thought, then corrected himself. Innocent. No ... clean suits her better! "Abbott, I'm not stationed on Mars anymore. We're part of a thirteen star system Confederacy. Michael consulted with you on where to get Douay Bibles printed up for distribution. Faith is alive and well in all the Confederate worlds. Presbyterianism is chief among the represented beliefs" -- the holographic image turned, looked at Michael, looked back. "Abbott, we intercepted a rogue world sailing through space. God alone knows how it got knocked out of orbit. It was pretty much a planet sized frozen rock but it was headed where it shouldn't. "Each of our Interceptors command firepower enough to incinerate a planet, my ship here" -- she hooked a black-gloved thumb over her shoulder -- "can cut a world apart and play pool with the fragments, but there were complications." Gracie's transmitted image frowned and she turned to look at her ship, as if asking a question, or listening for an answer. "There were two interlocked pulsars that ... they each put out a spinning beam that could slice Gunfighter here in two, or burn her out and me with her, and flying through that would be like trying to swim a goldfish through two interlocking Cuisinarts. "We couldn't stop that rogue planet. "Abbott," Marnie said, her voice and her face suddenly serious, "my ship and I have eyes that can see light-years into the distance. We can slip between dimensions and cross universes in the space between heartbeats. I can see what color a DNA strand is, when I look through my ship's eyes, and my ship and I can calculate trajectories and solve problems that would take ten legions of mathematicians with quantum computers a lifetime to figure out." Gracie's life sized image in its black skinsuit, standing through the table in front of the cleric, looked very directly, very seriously at him. "Abbott," she said softly, "the entire squadron came together and we talked to God about it. "This was something we couldn't get through to stop, and by the time that planet bulldozed through the beams it would be too late to prevent its dropping into a gravity well and being slingshot toward occupied planets -- three of them all told -- we projected the damage it would do and we knew there's no way we could evacuate ahead of it and we wouldn't be able to stop it." Gracie closed her eyes, took a long breath. "We had two choices, Abbott. "We could sit there and watch a slow motion train wreck blast three occupied worlds into shrapnel, or we could call on the biggest, meanest, most powerful weapon system any of us knew about." The Abbott's interest was evident: he leaned forward, nodded once, unblinking eyes listening as intently as clean-scrubbed ears. "A temporal rift opened up. We found where it led, a year later -- God opened the rift, the rogue planet sailed through it, the rift closed and a cosmic billiard ball was plucked from the table before it could shatter three worlds." "Where did it go?" the Abbott asked quietly. "In a decaying orbit around a neutron star. It'll be torn apart and pretty much its dust will be sucked down onto the star and that'll be it." Gracie tilted her head, hefted her spherical helmet. "Gotta go, Abbott," she smiled. "Got a train to catch." "A ... train," the Abbott echoed skeptically, and Gracie laughed, and the Abbott smiled to hear it again. "We do what good we can, Abbott. We're constantly on patrol. We're not the only life out there and we've had to draw lines in the sand, and I'm due to patrol a known border sector." Gracie lifted her helmet, started to ease it down over her Marine-short haircut, then she hesitated, lowered the helmet. "I'll be talking to God about it." The Abbott watched as the life-sized image of a black-skinsuited woman, standing through the solid timber table, slipped the helmet over her head, twisted it slightly: he heard a distinct, metallic *click!* -- the figure turned, walked back to the huge silver bird's open jaw, turned, lay down, and became a shining-black, human-shaped sarcophagus once more. The silver jaw closed -- silently -- then the entire Interceptor simply, silently ... ... disappeared. Michael's voice was quiet in the sudden, hushed absence. "When the cockpit closes," he said, "there oughta be something. It ought to whine shut, like hydraulics maybe." The Abbott nodded thoughtfully, looked down at the beads, forgotten in his hand. "I should have given her this to take with her," he whispered. "She was a hologram, Abbott. This is real" -- Michael patted the fragrant cloth package of fresh-roasted, still-warm coffee -- "Gracie was a projected image." He tapped at his wrist-unit, considered, smiled. "Abbott, all this is under the seal of the Confessional. This world isn't ready to know about us yet. As far as anyone knows, Mars is lightly populated but cut off and they've not been able to raise a signal. Nobody knows for sure whether the colony is alive or not. They are. "Marnie isn't Sheriff anymore, Jacob is, only this world doesn't know that. "Marnie is Ambassador for the entire thirteen star system Confederacy, this world doesn't know that. "We have technologies that make Earth's most advanced achievements look like scratching stick figures in the dirt. "Do you remember after a Christmas service, you gave each of the Ladies of the Tea Society a little leather wallet with a Rosary in it?" The Abbott blinked, smiled, nodded. "Gracie has hers with her. It's in a pocket of her suit. She has a Bible with her and she doesn't just read it daily, she studies it." The Abbott considered this, nodded. "Abbott, thirteen star systems has more inhabited, Earthlike planets than I can think of offhand. I've been to several, but not all. Their level of technology ranges from early steam industrial level to well more advanced than Earth. The seminal history of this Confederacy is ... a subject for another time." "Which means ... you're trying to make a point." Michael looked at the Abbott, and the cleric saw something that surprised him. He saw memory in Michael's eyes, and he saw a fear of that memory. "I was shot," Michael almost whispered, "my Fanghorn and I. It was an energy-rifle that could cut a battleship in two with one slice. It overpowered our field and burned out my spine and did more damage to my back bone than anyone realized." He swallowed, closed his eyes for several long moments: the Abbott leaned forward, laid cautious, gentle fingertips on the back of Michael's hand. Michael opened his eyes, gripped the Abbott's hand, looked at him with the expression of a scared, hurt little boy. "They had to pattern me a new spine," he whispered, "they scanned Victoria's spine and regrew mine -- the bony structure -- but they couldn't regrow a neural net from hers. They patterned hers but they had to honestly regrow mine from the word go." Michael shivered. "Abbott, doctors are good and technology is fine, but they ... can't ..." Michael closed his eyes again, took a long, steadying breath, grimaced. "PTSD, I guess, sorry about that," he whispered. "That'll happen when you feel your body burning from the inside." Michael's grip remained tight around the Abbott's tanned, callused palm. "You remember the joke about the scientist challenging God to a creation contest. The scientist reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt and God said "No, get your own dirt!" The Abbott smiled, just a little, nodded encouragement: Go on. "Doctors and technology don't make their own dirt," Michael said, his voice serious, his breathing betraying the stress of memories he really didn't want to look at again. The Abbott laid his other hand, warm and reassuring, over Michael's, pressed gently. "I understand," he said quietly. Michael rose, still holding the Abbott's hand. "Thank you," he said, his voice tight. "I had to talk to someone and I figured I could trust you to hold this confidence." Michael released the Abbott's hand, bent his wrist, tapped at the screen, or whatever it was the Abbott saw: something tall, black, elliptical opened behind Michael, at the far end of the long, heavy table, and something huge, ugly, blond-furred and lightning-patterned walked slowly out of the ellipse, hung its blocky, muscled neck over Michael's shoulder, chirped like a contented canary as Michael caressed its blunt, broad nose. "This is Lightning," Michael said. "She and I were hit with the same energy rifle and she had to heal same as I did, only she's tougher. She had to heal on her own, until Victoria rubbed some Starfighter nanos into her so she'd heal faster." The Abbott had absolutely no idea what starfighter nanos were, but there were some things a man of the cloth simply accepted. Life sized holograms were a new experience, but the Abbott accepted this. A black ellipse and a genuinely huge and rather ugly horse-thing was another. Michael unwrapped two peppermints, said "Hold out your hand." The Abbott watched as this fanged horse-thing sniffed, clearly interested, then delicately lipped the swirly, red-and-white hard candies off his palm. Michael handed him a cloth -- "for the horse slobber," he explained -- the Abbott laughed quietly, handed the used rag back. "Lightning and I have been tried in the same fires," Michael said, "literally." The Abbott sat alone in the conference room, considering. He'd blocked off an hour's time, to meet with Michael, and he'd used nearly the full hour. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the high ceiling, remembered a spaceship and its pilot, a monstrous horse-thing with fangs and a quiet voiced, pale eyed, tall boy of his acquaintance, and he smiled, just a little. "Saint Mercurius," he murmured, "sometimes you go to the Confessional, and sometimes it comes to you." He looked out the window, looked up at the cloudless winter sky, smiled quietly. He asked me to keep this meeting in confidence, the Abbott thought as he felt amusement tickle his belly from the inside. I don't think that will be difficult. Who would believe that I had a spaceship, a fighter pilot and a Monster Horse with fangs, visit me all on the same day? He picked up the squarish, cloth wrapped bundle, lifted it to his nose, closed his eyes, took a long, savoring sniff. He looked at the stenciled brand inked into the cloth: Ambassador's Blend McKenna Coffee Works The Abbott laughed quietly. This, he thought. This they will believe.

In all my years working with mostly guys (we'll not talk about my years as a nurse) that is probably the mildest and least offensive story I heard!

It's all what you're used to. I genuinely feel for those fine folks south of the Mason-Dixon who are getting genuine winter weather through no fault of their own! Mama Nature is playing nasty with them! I'm not about to complain about living in what my in-laws are convinced is the Frozen Arctic Tundra, we knew it got cold in winter so bein' here is our own fault!

Fellow at work brought the lunchroom to a fast, shocked silence by admitting in conversation he'd been a racist. He allowed as he bought a car with a big engine. He said he racist that thing up the road just as hard as it would to and then he racist that car back down the road hard as it would go and he said after he turned around and started north again this-yere PO-lees come in behind him and all of a sudden bein' a racist got way too expensive for his pocketbook, so he sold that car with a big engine and he didn't racist that thang no more!

THE BOLSHOI MEN'S CHORUS Shelly dropped her head a little, glared at the German Irishman, planted her knuckles on her belt and tapped her foot like a schoolteacher addressing a naughty student. "You'll let me take a look," she said quietly, "or Chief will order you to ER and they'll strip you down to the altogether and take pictures!" Shelly turned, raised her Mommy-finger, and the rest of the Irish Brigade withdrew from the bunkroom. "I'm getting better," Shelly murmured. "I didn't even have to shake my finger at them!" The engineer unbuttoned his red-wool, bib-front shirt, pulled it off, tossed it on the bed. Shelly took his left hand, pulled gently: he straightened his arm. She frowned, turned him to get better light from the window on his swelling wrist. "I don't think --" he started, and Shelly's glare was enough to stop his hopeful words. She laid her palm under his, then tapped his fingertips, watching his expression as she did. "Pain?" He shook his head. Shelly slid her palm down to mid forearm. She raised her own arm, flexed her wrist down. He bent his to match. She slowly hyperextended her wrist, drawing it back as far as it would go. She saw no sign of discomfort on his face as he imitated her movement. Once she was satisfied he hadn't chipped the left distal ulnar prominence when he slipped on a concrete step and fell, she had him drop his drawers, examined the side of his knee the same way her husband examined a horse's leg: not only with observation, but with the laying on of hands. To be perfectly honest, Shelly's examination was as professionally efficient as her husband's equine assessments: after having him grab the foot of a bunk and do a deep knee bend while her fingertips listened on either side of his knee, she had him pull his drawers back up. She laid a hand on his shoulder as he cinched his belt, looked him in the eye and said with a straight face, "You'll live." "Gee, thanks for the sympathy," he muttered, looking red-faced at Chief Fitzgerald, who had his arms crossed, with one hand covering his mouth and hiding the lower part of his steadily reddening face. "Do I at least get a lollipop for being a good boy?" the engineer complained in the whiniest voice he could manage, and Shelly dipped two fingers into her uniform blouse pocket, pulled out a cellphone wrapped, cherry flavored sucker, handed to him. She looked at Fitz and said, "Nothing broken, I don't think there's anything chipped. Cleared for duty." "Good enough!" Fitz nodded. "I feel like an ass, fallin' like that," the engineer muttered. "If you like, I can arrange the Bolshoi Men's Chorus to sing in a harmonious minor note," Shelly said, straight faced: she clasped her hands in front of her breastbone and swayed dramatically as she sang, "Duuummmbbbbb, Duuummmbbb!" She came up on her toes, kissed the red-faced German Irishman on the cheek, spun like a giggling little girl, skipped over to the firepole -- a jump, a drop, a happy "Wheee!" and she was gone. A voice echoed up from below: "Hey, we're jealous! We didn't get a lollipop!"

A WOMAN'S ADVICE Dr. John Greenlees toweled another plate dry, set it carefully in the cupboard, turned and picked another just-rinsed, still-warm plate. Shelly could tell he had something on his mind. Normally everyone who shared the supper table, would lend a hand with dishes, but somehow her husband and children knew Marnie's husband wanted the detail, and so they discreetly ... evaporated. Shelly waited: mothers are wonderfully perceptive creatures, and she knew the younger man had something on his mind. When the last plate, the last cup, the last dish was scrubbed clean, dried, set away, Dr. John hung the dish towel where it normally draped: Shelly tilted her head a little to the side -- so that's where Marnie gets the habit! -- and said, "What's on your mind?" Dr. John Greenlees, physician and surgeon, frowned a little as he considered: he'd had his words all ready, and suddenly they seemed awkward and uncertain. "It's Marnie," he finally said. "Oh?" "I need your advice." "Oh." Shelly's eyebrows went up, she nodded thoughtfully, then she looked at the cupboard behind Dr. John's left shoulder. He turned, withdrew two coffee cups. The pair sat at the corner of the kitchen table, each with a steaming mug of coffee. "You need my advice," Shelly prompted. "About Marnie?" He nodded, his face serious -- he looks so much like his father! -- John was hunched over his mug, shoulders rounded, forearms on the tablecloth: he leaned back suddenly, threw his shoulders back and looked at his mother in law. "Marnie is having nightmares," he said, "and I don't know what to do!" Marnie Keller was waiting for her husband when his Iris appeared. He stepped out of the black ellipse into their parlor and stopped, surprised. Marnie did not stop: she powered forward, stepped up to her husband, ran an arm around behind him and her other hand behind his head, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him rather soundly. Dr. John returned both the intimacy, and the embrace: when they came up for air, he whispered, "I love your welcome home speech!" Marnie looked up at him, affection in her eyes and welcome in the pressure of her womanly form against him. "John," she whispered, "thank you, we need to talk!" Her expression may have shown affection, but his confessed confusion: he sat beside her and she gripped both his hands in both of hers. "John," she said decisively, "I have not been ... as attentive ... as I should have been, and I must beg your pardon for my distraction." Dr. Greenlees frowned, looked curiously at his wife's solemn expression. "Dearest ... you are an Ambassador." "Yes, but I'm also your wife." "You have never failed to be my wife." Marnie's hands tightened, just a little, and she looked past him, then looked back. "John," she sighed, "I can't say I prevented a war, but I delayed one." "I might count that a good thing," John said slowly. "It is," she agreed. "The more we can delay hostilities, that many fewer men will die." "If I recall correctly, you single handedly prevented at least three wars." "I had help, but yes, and more than three." Her voice was soft, but her eyes filled with memories and she looked away. "John, I've been having nightmares." John almost -- almost! -- said "I know," but some instinct bade him to silence: instead, he pulled his wife into him as he leaned back a little, and she sighed and laid her ear on his chest, the way she did when they were courting. "What are your nightmares?" John asked softly. "Let us look the Devil in the face!" "I stood on a reviewing stand," Marnie said, her voice as haunted as her wide, staring eyes. "Mine were the inspiring words that sent fine young men to die. "They were cavalry, John, and they were beautiful ... shining horses and shining lances, pennants and guidons and uniforms, straight lines and disciplined ranks and mine was the voice they heard, telling them to go forth to ... to war." He felt her breath catch, felt her breathing quicken, heard her voice drop to a whisper. "Mine was the last voice they heard before they died." Shelly Keller blinked rapidly, frowned a little, sipped her coffee as she arranged her thoughts: John saw her eyes swing left, as if looking into her husband's study, and she knew at least one of her thoughts was of him. She lowered her coffee. "Linn has nightmares." John studied her face as he listened. "His are either things that happened that he couldn't prevent -- those are the worst -- or things he fears might happen, and those are almost as bad." Shelly swallowed, set her coffee down. "He came across a wreck. He was off duty -- I don't think he was ... he may not have been a Sheriff's deputy yet. His father was still alive. He ... the car ... he knew the car. "It was a rollover and the gas tank was split, and he bellied down to look and saw the driver was hanging upside down from the seat belt. "Then it caught fire. "He had a small extinguisher but it was useless, he tried but he couldn't ... he couldn't help ... that's been thirty years ago and he still wakes up hearing screaming." John nodded somberly: he knew the wreck, the victim was his father's classmate, a good friend ... but he never knew Linn was first on scene, nor that he'd been powerless to help. "There were others. "He tried to talk a man out of committing suicide. "The man blew his brains out while Linn watched. "He came across a wreck and it caught fire as he arrived, and all he had was a two-and-a-half pound dry-chem. He still wakes up hearing the driver scream to death." "Has he seen anyone about this?" "No," Shelly sighed. "He'll tell me 'They're my ghosts to carry,' or 'I got me into it, I get me out of it.' " Dr. John Greenlees listened to his wife's quiet, stressed syllables. He bent his head a little, kissed the top of her head. "Dearest?" "Hm?" "You play poker." It was a statement, not a question. "Mm-hmm." Dr. John reached up, pulled the knit afghan off the back of the couch, drew it over them both. "What are the odds that yours actually will be the voice to send them to war?" Marnie hesitated. "Dearest, you are the Ambassador. You talk people out of fights. Yours is the voice of reason and of good counsel. You help find compromise and you give them a way out." "I don't want to fail, John," she whispered. "Know what I think?" he asked quietly. Marnie looked up at him like a little girl looks hopefully at her Daddy. "I think you actually give a genuine good damn about what you do as Ambassador. "I think you have a conscience tall as a shot tower and big around as a church. "I think those nightmares are remote possibilities that you can foresee. "I think you are the smartest, wisest woman I know, and I think you will fight like ten red-handed hells to keep anything of the kind from happening!" Dr. John Greenlees tightened his arms around his wife, his voice quiet, strong, filled with conviction. "Marnie, you've seen death and you've dealt death and you've screamed at death. You went to war when those Raiders murdered our children and tried to murder everyone in the Colony." His voice sank to nearly a whisper. "You know what war is, and that's why you're Ambassador. You don't want anyone else to have to see what you've seen!" Marnie was quiet for several long moments -- long enough John wondered if she might have slipped into exhausted sleep -- then she murmured, "You're right." "When Linn has nightmares," Shelly confided quietly, "I'll feel him quiver -- he rarely moves, but he'll shiver just a little. I'll lay my hand on his breastbone and his hand will slice out from under the covers and press mine to him, and I'll feel him shaking. He'll take one deep shivering breath, then he'll relax and that's it for the night." Dr. John Greenlees lay beside his wife, her hand in his. He lay awake until drowsiness claimed him, until his soul submerged in the silent lake of slumber, and the dark lake remained undisturbed.

Okay, I shouldn't read when I'm dog tired ... ... I looked at the illustration and thought "The plural of Cthulhu?"

Mention of butter pecan and vanilla with chocolate syrup and suchlike ... now I want me some ice cream ... ... years ago (and I mean YEARS ago!) I read that Alaskans ate more ice cream per capita than anyone else. No idea if that's still true or not, but with this chilly season, I find myself very inclined to ice cream!