Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

SIDE DOOR PULLMAN Shelly Keller splinted the scraped, bloodied, now-clean-and-bandaged ankle without comment. She'd done this too many times over the years, several from this exact location. Every last one of them were strangers, visitors, sight-seers, delighted with this photogenic vantage to capture The Lady Esther as she chanted powerfully around a curve and below their rocky vantage. "Found your phone," one of the Irishmen called from half a hundred yards down-slope, holding up the wayward implement: he swarmed up to where Shelly was just finishing with immobilization. She slipped expert fingers into the gap in the splint, made one final pedal pulse check -- "Pulse is good," she announced, looked at the patient. "What say we get you out of here." A red-faced young man looked back at her, embarrassment shoved aside by the pain of his injury. He grimaced, he nodded. Shelly's talkie gave its musical triple-chime as the radio repeater on the mountain's peak kicked in: "Squad One Sierra, status." Shelly picked up the blocky, black-plastic Motorola with the heavy duckie antenna. "Sierra One, patient is packaged, stable and ready to move." "Evac enroute, ETA three." "I roger your three, moving now." The patient was picked up, carefully placed on a surplus US Army litter -- Shelly suspected it dated back to the Second World War -- she took the lower end, hoist it and set the hand grips on her shoulders, started down-slope, taking her time. Two Irishmen took the head, carried the litter's handles down at arm's length, doing their best to keep it level. Even though their patient was blanketed and belted, he still gripped the shafts: the short trip down hill, toward the railroad tracks, was (shall we say) less than smooth. It wasn't bad, you understand, it was just ... well ... terrain. The inspection car labored industriously up the tracks, a boxcar rumbling ahead of it, both side doors open and latched: willing hands hoist the handles into the boxcar, the patient was brought in, set down: someone snatched Shelly under the arms, swung her briskly back, swung her powerfully forward -- she planted her work boots on the deck, got the heels of her hands under her, crab-walked ahead two or three steps before she turned and cocked a fist at whoever seized her with such undignified efficiency. Shelly shook her fist at her husband -- who was both grinning like a schoolboy, and managing to look utterly innocent -- "I oughta knock you into the middle of next week!" she declared, completely forgetting she was standing beside the patient's head, who probably had no idea what just happened to her. The Sheriff's eyes widened: "Wednesday or Thursday?" he called cheerfully, then: "Everyone on who's riding?" Irishmen jumped off, swarmed back up the slope: they'd come in via four wheel drive, the squad was halfway down the mountain at the highest wide spot they dared bring the ambulance: the Sheriff stepped back, lifted his Stetson, signaled the engineer. The inspection car gave its cheerful, high-pitched tweet-tweet! and the boxcar began to move under them. "I wish I could get this on video," the young man on the cot groaned. "I got most of it," his girlfriend offered -- he'd missed seeing her hoist into the boxcar (her ascent was considerably more dignified and less surprised that was Shelly's insertion). "Did you get my phone?" "I've got it here," an Irishman said, grinning beneath his handlebar as he handed the scratched implement to the young lady under discussion. "It's kind of scratched up but the screen's not broken." The Sheriff sat his stallion and watched the patient removed from the Firelands Fire Department's first-out squad. He looked down as an afternoon shift nurse, just arriving, stopped and caressed Apple-horse's mane, then looked up at the lawman. "What happened?" she asked, squinting a little against the brightness. "Young fellow fell off his feet," Linn grunted. "Tourist?" "Yep." "Flip-flops? Clogs?" "Yep." The nurse shook her head. "Fetched him out on the rails." "Let me guess. He was getting pictures of the steam engine." "Yep." "So the train he was photographing, brought him down?" Linn's voice was quiet, as were his eyes. "Nope." "No?" "They fired up the inspection car and pushed their luxury spacious evacuation car ahead of 'em." The afternoon shift nurse gave the Sheriff a skeptical look and raised an eyebrow. "They brought him down with the inspection car pushing a luxury car," she echoed slowly, arms crossed, looking at the lawman the way a schoolteacher might regard a prevaricating schoolboy. "Yep," the Sheriff replied, his face utterly solemn. "Genuine, honest to God, Side Door Pullman."

NIIICE!! I do admire both your efficient use of time, and your excellent accuracy! Lead On!

CLEARWATER Sheriff Jacob Keller was a man who took his work seriously. He was quick to listen and quicker to act when the need arose; he was slow to speak, save for those occasions when he was obliged to speak in a language sinners understood. Sheriff Jacob Keller was generally considered to be quiet, polite, good natured, quick to lend a hand, and absolutely, unfailingly, fair in his dealings with the lawful and the lawless alike. Fortunately, in the Firelands colonies, crime was quite low -- it was not nonexistent, human nature is human nature, and there are always those who will seize an opportunity or exploit a perceived weakness -- but Jacob worked hard to keep his bailiwick both safe, and peaceful. Jacob was quick to celebrate achievements; he was one who pointed out the positive, generally in a quiet word to someone, which gave that someone the opportunity to speak of it, publicly, as if it was their idea. When their Parson approached Jacob and said they'd like a good old-fashioned baptism, Jacob nodded. "Tell me what you have in mind," he said. The two men retired to the big assembly hall, where several folk were taking a break, socializing, visiting: Jacob shook hands and listened, and laughed, moving easily through his people -- his people! their Parson thought -- they drew coffee, and as usual, Jacob got a thick slab of sourdough bread, still warm from the oven, and troweled on a generous layer of golden-yellow, fresh-churned butter. The Parson decided to follow his fine example. Jacob got one bite when something young, blue and fast-moving charged his position: Jacob dropped his sourdough back onto his plate, turned, went to one knee and spread his arms. A little boy with a delighted expression miscalculated approach vector, approach velocity and proximity, which meant Jacob caught the speeding little boy at the moment of collision: the Sheriff's laugh completely hid his grunt as he hoisted an excited child off the floor, as young legs stilled, as excited eyes blinked and a bright and youthful smile lit the general area like a hundred watt bulb. Jacob went back down to one knee and set the boy's feet on the floor: he shoved his Stetson back on his head and said in a fatherly voice, "Somethin' tells me it must be good news!" "Shewiff, I dwew this!" the boy exclaimed, and he held a tablet up, half-covering his face. Jacob looked at its blank screen, blinked, raised an eyebrow. The little schoolboy's face fell as he saw the Sheriff's expression -- he turned the tablet -- dismay washed over his youthful features and his young shoulders sagged with disappointment. Jacob took the tablet: "Let's see if we can retrieve it," he said quietly. The Parson watched as a little boy bounced on his toes, fairly vibrating with anticipation, disappointment and hope, in equal amounts: when the Sheriff handed it back with a quiet, "Is this it?", the Parson saw the boy's eyes widen with absolute delight. "I dwew this!" he declared, and the Sheriff grinned and nodded, and for a moment, their world was shrunk down to one happy little boy and one quietly pleased lawman. "And you drew it well," the Sheriff said quietly. The boy hugged the tablet, and its recovered image, whirled, ran noisily for the exit, probably to show someone else: the Parson saw Jacob's shoulders move, just a little, and he knew the man was laughing, likely as much at a memory as at the experience that just triggered it. Jacob looked around, his expression relaxed, and the several faces turned his way, all reflected the shared moment, where a little boy had something to show someone special. Jacob sat, laughed quietly, picked up his coffee and took a noisy slurp. He looked over at the Parson. "Now are we talkin' a glory-fied bathtub," he said conversationally, "or do you want to arrange a clearwater river someplace?"

To quote Paul Harvey, "I am listening with both eyes!"

THE EX-TOURIST Sheriff Linn Keller's polished boot was propped up on the bottom rail. His daughter's polished white, stitched-top cowboy boot was propped up in like wise. The Sheriff was tall enough that he folded his arms across the top board and rested his chin on his forearms, completely ignoring the usual layer of dust. Angela wasn't quite that tall: she rested a hand on the white-painted board, looked under the top board. A Fanghorn colt hobby-horsed alongside Appaloosa foals of similar vintage -- they nosed one another, ran ahead, played tag like children on the playground. "Michael wants to acclimatize them to Earth horses?" Angela asked. "Mm-hmm." Father and daughter watched the horses, listened to the mountains, to the four-count chant of The Lady Esther pulling out of station. "The Abbott sends his greetings." Angela felt her father's eyes tighten a little at the corners: she did not have to look to know the man had a quiet look about him that he got when he thought about old friends, about men he admired and trusted. "I trust he is well." "He is." "Is he still the guardian of a woman's virtue that he's always been?" Angela felt her ears start to warm. "You ... heard about that." "I heard that something happened. A tourist in a fancy dress someone mistook for a docent, or a noblewoman. Gypsy men who wanted to distract her and steal her purse. One got his arm broken for his trouble, one got his nose pasted up onto his forehead and the backup with a knife ended up on a slab." "Sounds like an adventure novel." "Couldn't have been you, of course." "That was how long ago?" "Six hours." "I wouldn't have time to fly back from there to here in six hours." "I know." Silence, again: the white mares came over, bumming, and the Sheriff opened the gate, stepped inside, Angela following. They spent several minutes feeding them pepper mint candies and caresses. "What else did Marnie have to say?" "That European officials bribe as well as anyone." "And ...?" "And their surveillance seems to have suffered some malfunction. They're calling it solar flare activity, something that wiped out video in the entire area." "I see." "Funny thing," the Sheriff said quietly. "Even fiber cable was affected." "Imagine that," Angela murmured. "I don't pretend to understand all that high-tech stuff." The Fanghorn colt ran her blunt head under the Sheriff's arm and grunted, begging attention: the Sheriff rubbed her briskly, and the blunt-headed colt closed her eyes in pleasure and leaned against him with a distinct sigh, which brought a laugh from Angela and a smile from the pale eyed lawman with the iron grey mustache. "You have an admirer." "Reckon so." He looked at Angela. "You okay, darlin'?" Angela blinked a few times, nodded. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? -- well, maybe I'm a little sore ... we handed out Douay bibles until my shoulders ached, and I spent quite a bit of time on my knees teaching the Rosary." Angela reached into a pocket, pulled out a green-glass-beaded Rosary, held it up in both hands, studying it. "I understand Esther Keller gave Daisy one of these," she said softly. "I believe she did." "Is that the one in the Firelands museum?" She looked at her big strong Daddy, and saw the smile tightening the corners of his eyes. "That's the one, darlin'." Angela nodded, considered, pulled it back as one of the colts reached in as if to taste-test it. "No you don't," Angela scolded, poured it back into her pocket, cupped a hand under a silky-furred jaw and shook her Mommy-finger at the curious young equine: "Not for you!" she scolded gently, which gained her a nose-punch and a happy tail-slash. "Has the Abbott tried to recruit you for the White Sisters?" Linn asked, and Angela heard the amusement in the man's voice, for she knew good and well that her Daddy knew the answer already. "Daddy," she sighed, "he wants me to sing with the Sisters in my nursing whites." "Really?" Linn asked, surprised. "They're opening a clinic and he wants me on staff." "Your thoughts?" He turned, slouched a casual shoulder into the fence rail, crossed his legs and hooked both thumbs in his belt, the very image of amused indolence. "I think it'll be a good place to train my students." Linn considered this for several moments, finally nodded. "Reckon you'll be vacationing in Europe again soon?" Angela's pale-eyed glare was answer enough.

SMITE THE SINNER, STOP THE SIN It was Earth, but it wasn't home. Angela Keller was smiling, chatting pleasantly with her guide: Angela wore a tailored McKenna gown, conspicuously out of place in this scenic European tourist city: as good as her reflexes were, they were not as good as a silent, flanking clergyman in a robe of unbleached linen. Abbott William's staff came around and down, hitting the attacker's forearm hard enough to break one of the two bones in the butt-grabber's forearm. Angela came around, bladed hands up: her chop caught her attacker under the right ear -- hard -- she blocked a grab from the dirty-faced man beside the first attacker, drove the heel of her hand into his nose hard enough to flatten it up between his eyes. The Abbott's staff spun, he caught the first attacker behind the knees, hauled both legs out from under him, caught a third attacker who was thrusting forward with a knife. This ended with a single shot from a blued-steel .357, a knife falling from dead fingers, blood and brains spraying high and back. Angela's shot, at an upward angle, absolutely stopped this more deadly attack: there were screams, some froze, others ran. Angela and the Abbott exchanged a look: he stepped close, turned, they pressed themselves back-to-back, Angela touched her wrist-unit, and they disappeared. Angela Keller reloaded her scroll-engraved, gold-inlaid, five-inch Smith & Wesson: she carefully, precisely, extracted the one fired empty, she precisely, very exactly, dropped a fresh, nickel cased round into the empty chamber. She closed the cylinder, slowly, deliberately, holstered, fastened the thumb break without looking, drew her top discreetly over it. The Abbott leaned on his staff, his expression quiet. Angela looked at the man. "A lady," she said carefully, her enunciation very precise -- unusually so -- "appreciates it when her honor is ... unhesitatingly ... defended." The Abbott bowed a little, accepting her thanks with his usual quiet gravity. "I suppose this is going to cause problems," Angela sighed. "Our quick exit will help muddy the waters," the Abbott said quietly, and Angela smiled. "You sound like you've been reading Sherlock Holmes again." The Abbott laughed, nodded: "I have." "I can always tell." She was silent for several long moments, looking steadily into the man's eyes. "Thank you," she said softly. "I know you could have taken care of yourself," the Abbott replied. "But ...?" The Abbott's expression became uncharacteristically hard. "I will not abide ..." he said quietly, stopped, his teeth set together as he looked aside. "As I recall," Angela suggested, "when Christ was faced with sinners in the Temple, He threw tables over and took a flogger to the sinners." The Abbott considered this, frowned a little, nodded. "Smite the sinner and stop the sin?" she suggested, and the Abbott laughed quietly. "I think," he said thoughtfully, "you may have ... changed ... my ecclesiastical worldview somewhat." Angela consulted her wrist-unit. "Marnie?" she called. "I may have caused problems. I'm visiting in Europe, and ... " Angela blinked a few times and the Abbott saw her turn red. "Yooou've ... heard about it already," Angela said, her voice subdued. The Abbott watched, knowing Angela's communication was polarized, such that only she could see and hear what was being said. "Okay." She lowered her arm, looked at the cleric. "She's on it," Angela said resignedly. "Between her persuasive skills and a poke of gold, she's satisfied she can make it go away." She shook her head, frowned, looked around: they were alone in a mountain meadow, in a nearby nation. "Why don't we go distribute Michael's goods?" the Abbott suggested. "There are those worlds where our True Faith survives, and is thirsting for the Word." Angela looked at the Abbott and smiled. "I think I'd like that better than Europe."

One wave short of a shipwreck A sandwich shy of a picnic Tighter'n John Wesley's hatband Sharp as a bowling ball

My first wife, rest her soul, wanted no obit, no service, and her cremated remains sprinkled on her Daddy's grave. Done. My wife wants much the same, but her ashes into the Ohio River, at a particular place she used to sit and watch the sun set. I'll arrange that very thing. My ashes will be scattered in a particular patch of woods where I can listen to the native oaks whisper secrets to one another, where I can hear grouse drum and squirrels cuss. Service? Anyone wants to have one on my behalf, be my guest, but I won't be there.

I BE GRATEFUL FOR THAT! Parson Belden bowed his head, as did all at the big table. The Parson felt young eyes on him and looked over at Jacob's son Michael, who was regarding the sky pilot with as assessing look. "There is a question in your eyes," the Parson said gently, and Jacob, Linn, Annette and the several young, all heard the smile in the man's voice. "Pa says a fast blessing," Michael said -- it wasn't a request, it wasn't a hopeful utterance by a hungry little boy, it was a statement of fact. The Parson couldn't resist. "What kind of a blessing does your Pa say?" he asked, and adults around the table looked suddenly uncomfortable. Michael regarded the Parson with the innocent eyes of the guileless young and said honestly, "He'll say 'Hello, plate!' and we'll eat!" The Parson laughed quietly. "Mine's not quite that short," he admitted: he said grace over Sunday dinner, and the meal began. The Parson could not help but notice what he could see of Sheriff Jacob Keller's ears, were a hot, flaming, scarlet. The Parson made a mental note to intercept the man before he spoke to his son. Boocaffie closed his eyes with pleasure and lowered his head as the Parson's fingers worked their magic at the base of the Longhorn's ears. Michael insisted on showing the Parson how much Boocaffie liked biscuits, and after the sky pilot bribed the longhorn and rubbed the big beef's ears, the longhorn decided this stranger was all right and offered no hostilities. The Parson was cautious, he would admit if asked, he'd seen what a longhorn could do: he'd watched a bullfight arena where the contestants were not a bovine and a toreador, but rather a Texas longhorn and a California grizzly: it had been a bloody affair, both contestants came out in second place, and the Parson allowed as he'd just as soon not visit himself upon anything of the kind in future: it was with the memory of a longhorn tearing a grizzly open that he'd been somewhat tentative about offering this set of powder horns bolted onto one hell of a big beef, the biscuits Michael insisted were favored. The Parson was able to intercept Jacob before the man could address his son. Neither offspring nor the ladies heard what was said, but the Parson spoke with a shade of a smile, as if he remembered what it was to be a little boy, and honest to a fault, and Jacob in turn told the Parson he'd got that from the long dead Great-Granddad he never met, a man who was reputed to comment about a fellow who spoke to his plate before he'd eat, so that's where "Hello, plate!" came from. Linn drifted out and joined them, to Boocaffie's distinct approval, for Old Pale Eyes brought several more biscuits, and the ladies looked out to see the men laughing -- they heard but little that was said, the maid suggesting they'd said something about Sunday chicken being better than crow -- which of course couldn't be right, that didn't make any sense, that was silly, and the ladies happily gossiped and leaned toward one another and exchanged confidences, the way women will. Old Pale Eyes spit on the whet stone and frowned as he honed the Barlow blade on good Berea stone from back East. He'd handed one to the Parson, a small stone that a man could carry in a pocket -- he'd given the Parson's wife a big stone so she could put an edge on her kitchen knives -- she'd exclaimed with delight at this gift, for she'd used Berea sandstone in the past and knew she could put an edge on a butcher's blade with it. Michael watched solemnly as old and experienced fingers worked their magic: Linn slid two fingers into an inside pocket and pulled out a slip of paper -- he wiped the blade clean on the inside of his trouser cuff -- then he sliced a ribbon off the paper, a clean, effortless cut -- he thrust his left arm out, exposing his fuzzy forearm, and carefully shaved a small bare patch, lifted the blade and puffed shaved-off arm airs into the still air. He flipped the knife around and offered it handle first to his admiring grandson, winked. "Thank you, sir," Michael said solemnly, then boyish delight broke through in that big bright grin he'd inherited from his pale-eyed Pa. Parson Belden removed his Derby hat as he came across the threshold into his wife's tidy kitchen. Mrs. Parson looked at him, her cheeks flushed with baking; the smell of pies in the oven, filled the kitchen -- she laughed as she explained this was a fooler, she'd been given two pies still bubbling-hot from another's oven, and they were cooling on the window sill. The Reverend Parson Belden laughed as he hugged his wife, and she laughed as she hugged him back, and she gave him a puzzled look as he said "Smells better than roast crow!"

Here along the soggy south shore of Lake Erie, there were more tornado sirens in the past, but due to cost of upkeep and lack of maintenance, their numbers are greatly diminished. South of here along route 18 I recall seeing one. If memory serves, it's nonfunctional. I remember hearing a distant siren -- Grafton, maybe but not sure -- during the statewide tornado drill, when I marked in on one of the ham radio nets to report hearing it. Phone apps and electronic warnings are common enough now, outdoor sirens are quite scarce.

We keep having puny little Lake County temblors but I've honestly never felt one. The only underfoot shiver I recall was when the meteor detonated over Valley City. When all y'all write your experience with genuine quakes, to quote Paul Harvey, "I am listening with both eyes!"

I PREFER CHICKEN "MISTER FRANCES ROGAN." Frank Rogan's head lifted a few degrees and he laid his hand of cards down carefully, very carefully. Silence claimed the Silver Jewel like a molasses flood filling the room. Eyes turned toward the tall lawman in the black suit, turned toward the man standing from the poker table and turning to face Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller. The silence became utter and profound when the piano player lifted talented fingers from the ivories and turned on his padded, ball-legged stood. "Frank," Jacob continued, looking very directly at the man, "I came to tell you. You were right." Rogan's face didn't change -- a fast blink was the only betrayal of his surprise. "I came to tell you I was wrong," Jacob continued. "I had no call to speak to you like that and I'm sorry." Rogan's brows went from anger to puzzlement. It was an era where men seldom smiled, for fear it made them look weak. It was an era where honor was a touchy thing, where a hasty word meant blood on the ground, and here was one of the premier lawmen in the region. Apologizing. In public. Looking a man in the eye, in front of witnesses, saying that he was wrong and the man he addressed was right. "Can I buy you a beer, Frank?" Jacob knew this was the deciding moment. Either Frank would try to kill him, or they'd take a beer together and it would be over. Jacob's coat was unbuttoned, but not pulled back out of the way; his arms hung at his sides, his hand was not flat on his belly, ready to sweep under the coat and grab a handful of checkered walnut. Mister Frances Rogan chose beer. Both men drank at the bar, drank in silence: Rogan's eyes were busy in the mirror, as were Jacob's, and when both men finished, Jacob set his mug down and said quietly, "I will try to do better." Somehow this was a more powerful apology than his previous words. Sheriff Linn Keller came to his feet as Jacob came into the Sheriff's office. He recognized the look on his son's face. "Death notice?" he asked quietly. Jacob shook his head, turning his hat slowly in his hands, frowning a little as he sorted out what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it. "I just ate crow, sir," he said. Linn nodded, once: "Have a set." "I'll stand, thank you, sir." Linn nodded, turned, eased himself back into his office chair, grimaced and came off the seat abruptly: he'd broken his tail bone years before, and sometimes -- even when he sat carefully -- the healed bone still protested when he sat down. Jacob waited until his father found a comfortable arrangement. Linn looked at his son. "Frank?" "Yes, sir." "You spoke with him." "Yes, sir." "How'd he take it?" "He was surprised, sir, but he took a beer with me." Linn nodded slowly, and Jacob saw his eyes tighten a little at the corners... approval, he'd learned. "Good thought with the beer. Shows everyone you've both finished it." "Yes, sir." "You spoke to him privately?" "In public, sir. Over in the Jewel." Linn whistled. "Now that'll spread the word fast!" He looked at his son, considered. "You wanted to show everyone you were a fair man and the best way was to show it in public." "Yes, sir." Linn's eyes tightened at the corners again, and he nodded. "Good thought." "Thank you, sir." Linn shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaned forward -- Jacob knew this was to try and ease his lower back and maybe that damned tailbone -- "I've had to eat crow myself," Linn said softly, rubbing his palms together, the way a man will when he's feeling thoughtful. He looked up at Jacob and grinned. "I've et crow, but I prefer chicken!"

SHOVELRY IS NOT DEAD "I don't think I'm supposed to." "Do you think you can?" Dana hesitated, considered, nodded. "C'mon, then." "Don't tell Mom?" "Nah!" Michael's grin was wide and wicked: he keyed in the sequence, the Iris opened, and Dana slipped through with her fellow conspirator, and immediately regretted the choice. Dana went from feeling almost warm, in the waning sunshine of her Daddy's pasture, to a snowy, cold, winter landscape. Michael brought one thing with him as he stepped through with her, and he set it on cold, crystalline snow. "Jump on," he said. "Michael, I'm cold!" Michael grinned. "Gotcha covered, Sis!" he declared: he reached over, snatched up his own coat, held it as she thrust her arms into the too-big sleeves: she buttoned up the tan canvas, grateful for the insulation. Michael dropped folded burlap on the grain shovel. "Have a set, Sis!" he declared happily, then ran a twisted-hemp line through the D-handle, wrapped it around the shaft twice, back through the D and tied it in a fast bowline. Dana gripped the handle, her heels resting on crystal powder: she ran a hand into one pocket, then the other, pulled out a knit toque, yanked it down over her fine blond hair, and as Michael jumped a-straddle of Lightning's Amish-made roping saddle and spun good hemp around the saddle horn, Dana's bare hands tightened around the straight-grain shovel handle. Lightning rose easily, without the awkward one-end-then-the-other Dana was used to seeing: the big Fanghorn turned, started out at a walk for exactly four steps, eased immediately into a trot. Dana's heels were off the ground now, hooked over the vibrating line, she leaned back, a wicked grin on her face. Mama would kill me if she knew, she thought, which made her even happier. Girlish laughter floated across frozen snow as a grinning older brother towed his little sis on a grain shovel, as Lightning picked up her pace, as Dana leaned experimentally, just a little, then a little more, until Dana was screaming with delight, squinting into kicked-up powder and cold winter wind, until Lightning leaned out into her ponderous-looking gallop, until Dana felt like she was setting the Land Speed Record! She leaned again, sent her shovel into an arc, leaned back, swung the other way -- her teeth were cold, her cheeks burned, she was laughing, she was barely under control, she knew any tiny upset and she'd be tumbling through the snow as Michael retreated with her ersatz sled -- but she didn't care! -- she hadn't done anything this wickedly, deliciously forbidden in far too long, and it felt good! When Dana sat down for supper with family that night, she looked quietly pleased -- which gained her a long and suspicious look from her mother, who recognized the expression of someone who'd been up to something. Her Daddy looked at her and she saw approval in his eyes, which meant he probably knew what happened, and saw nothing wrong with it. "There is color in your cheeks," he said in a quiet and fatherly voice. "The air agrees with you." Dana looked at her Daddy with big innocent eyes -- she was a pretty girl with a big ribbon bow in her hair, she wore a pretty frock and a guileless expression -- unlike Michael, who smiled into his meat and gravy with the expression of someone who'd just gotten away with a good one. "Michael, how's your piano business these days?" "Fine, sir. The hard part is finding piano players." "Does your sister still dress like a saloon girl and play piano in saloons when you sell a piano?" "She does, sir, but don't let her know I ratted her out!" Linn laughed, and Shelly shot him a dirty look as he continued, "I honestly pity the poor fool that tries anything with Angela when she's all gussied up!" Michael looked at Dana, who looked back, looked at her Mama, saw her chance. Michael remembered what it was to be healing and to want to heal faster, and he remembered the utter, absolute triumph! of the first time he was able to run again -- he'd been shambling toward a buddy's pickup truck, the best speed he'd been able to manage, his buddy was yelling "C'mon, Michael, we gotta go!" -- so Michael leaned forward until he was ready to fall and moved his legs fast enough to keep from it, and he was running, he was running! -- but he wasn't healed enough to be able to stop, and he drove into the side of his buddy's truck, but by God! he'd run! Dana saw her Mama was looking away from her, saw Angela was looking at her, knew the moment was safe. She looked at Michael and mouthed, Thank you! Michael winked back and grinned.

If it was me and my carcass, I'd be scared too! Still standing up on my Prayer Bones for you! Still haven't come up with that Great Brilliant Pronouncement, and boot leather still tastes like Kiwi Boot Polish!

EXERCISE Sheriff Linn Keller came through the door with a big box of doughnuts. He set them in the middle of the conference table with an unnecessary vigor. He looked over at the box of coffee, hot and ready to dispense, the cups beside it, the carton of half-and-half, then he looked at his several offspring, regarding him with serious and slightly uncertain eyes. Linn threw the lid open on the box, dropped a stack of napkins on the open lid, seized a chocolate-iced with sprinkles. "This meeting is now called to order," he said in a serious voice. "Ham on rye." Victoria leaned over the table, placed a small box beside the stack of napkins, flipped open the lid to reveal a ham sandwich on rye. She looked innocently at her big strong Daddy and said "You're predictable." Ambassador Marnie Keller tilted her head, then came around the corner of the table, bumped her Daddy with her hip, snatched up a cream-filled, chocolate-iced stick doughnut: Linn raised his arms, hip bumped her back, then he took her wrist and her waist and danced a turn between the table and the wall. He released her wrist, set his doughnut down and picked up the sandwich, took a bite. "Made it myself," Victoria said quietly. Michael looked at her and asked, "Onions?" "Yep." "Minced garlic?" "Of course." "Floor sweepin's?" "Most definitely." "Chocolate chips?" Marnie asked hopefully, and Victoria glared at her. "I am not a barbarian," she said tartly. "Good Barbarian Sandwich," Linn mumbled through his partly-chewed mouthful: he took a swig of coffee, chewed some more, swallowed. "Okay. I need some exercise and it seems that jumping to conclusions is popular so it's my turn. If telling Michael how to treat his sons means I'm dying, Marnie, you told me a full-house .357 is good medicine against aliens. Are we at risk for attack?" Marnie was not at all surprised at her father's directness. At his question, yes, but not his directness. Marnie plucked up a napkin, laid her stick doughnut on it, untasted: she turned, pressed a button on the podium, and a screen hummed down from the ceiling. It was entirely unnecessary -- if she used vidual aids at all, she used holograms, which looked as if they existed in three dimensions, but the screen brought everyone's attention to the same place at the same time. "At this time we have no credible intelligence that would indicate impending alien attack," she said. "Good. Sounds too much like work," the Sheriff grunted before taking another bite of sandwich. "The distances involved," Marnie continued, "are utterly unworkable. Maintaining commerce in thirteen star systems taxes our transportation to its very limits as-is. The nearest neighboring alien civilization we know of, is two star systems further than our outermost settlements." "You still had to have the Valkyries run off those aliens that trespassed into Confederate space." "We did," Marnie agreed. "They were using a generation ship to survive a viable crew over time and distance necessary to get that far away. We used Iris jumps to take them back into their homeworld's orbit, we told them don't come back, we left." "And once they develop the ability to trace an Iris jump, Firelands here will be seen as a busy hub and we'll be visited, and that makes it my concern." "Yes it does," Marnie agreed, "and yes, if they ever develop that ability, they might -- but Earth is as ... imagine the Thirteen Star Systems as shaped like a lopsided football. The pointy end -- here --" Her gloved left hand extended at arm's length from her shoulder. "Here is where Confederate Central is. "The thirteen star systems are in roughly that asymmetrical footall in between, and clear out here" -- her right hand extended out at shoulder length -- "is Earth. "The alien civilization that we did encounter" -- she looked very directly at her father -- "is an equal distance away, roughly here" -- she thrust a gloved hand overhead, came up on her toes. "And they are vulnerable to a .357," Linn said. "They are. They are coming into energy weapons big time and they've already abandoned projectile weapons altogether. This is reflected in their armor. Any military will put its limited defense funds into the most likely attack modalities. We scanned the alien ship, we scanned their orbital platforms, their surface." "Hmp," Linn grunted, unconvinced. "How about anatomic diagrams, their appearance, what do they wear into battle?" "I'll get you all that," Marnie promised, tipping a palm toward him. "Now what about those cyborgs that hit Mars and killed my grandchildren?" the Sheriff asked. Michael took a long, silent breath as he heard the edge in his father's voice, an edge that meant deep, hard. and mean: Michael was cut of the same cloth as his father, and he heard his father speak but once about the cyborg Berserkers that attacked the Martian colony, but he never forgot the quiet note of a strong man's rage, well contained. "We've found only one thus far," Marnie said, and Angela saw Marnie's face held less color than it did: the grandchildren to whom the Sheriff alluded, were Marnie's first and second born, a boy and a girl, and she closed her eyes against the memory of holding her sister as she grieved and grieved hard at their deaths. "Only the one, the one that attacked the colony?" Marnie turned and faced her Daddy squarely. "Yes." "Can you find them if they show up again?" Marnie was quiet for several long moments, then she nodded. "We got a good scan on their ship before the Valkyries blew it to dust," she said quietly. "We have drone scouts saturated through the system, looking for that particular energy profile." "Again," Linn said, sitting down with a fresh coffee drawn from the bladder box, "I have to ask. What are the chances they'll come here?" "We have assets enough in orbit -- around Earth specifically -- that I'd rate any attempt at incursion at zero or slightly less." "You're sure about that." Marnie stopped and drove her pale eyed gaze into his. "Quite sure," she said quietly. "I am not responsible for the planet," Linn said, "but like I said, once they trace Iris technology and determine this is a hotspot, here's where they'll come, and Firelands County is my responsibility." "I used Uncle Will's revolver that he gave me, to take out every drone they sent," Marnie said quietly, her hands closing into fists: "I hunted them down and I sent them to HELL!" -- her voice was little more than a whisper, but her face was pale and her eyes were polished ice -- "and then we preserved the carcasses. They appear to have taken alien soldiers and enhanced them into cyborgs." Linn nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving his daughter's. "Shoot for the brain, shoot for center mass. We issued .30-30 lever guns for civil defense, then switched to compact FN-FALs. If another Berserker ever shows up and gets through, we'll send it too." "Is there anything else with which we should concern ourselves by way of alien attack?" "No. No, that about covers it." Linn nodded. "Good. Jumping to conclusions is too much like exercise." He shoved the last piece of sandwich into his mouth, chewed, looked at Victoria. "Good barbarian," he mumbled.