Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 14 Author Share Posted March 14 (edited) LESSONS IN GUNFIGHTING: PROPER ATTIRE Sarah Lynne McKenna was still standing in the smoke-filled hallway, her face the shade of a sun-dried corpse: the lighting, probably, for her complexion was always remarkably healthy, except when the Rage was upon her. Sarah Lynne McKenna stood with her feet apart, her sharp little heels driven into the carpet, giving the impression that she’d driven spikes through her heels and deep into the floor, to anchor herself in place: her expression was one of anger, and forgiveness was nowhere to be seen in her appearance. Sarah Lynne McKenna was wearing her sharp-heeled shoes, her stockings, her corset: her hair was loose, curled, cascading down over the front of one shoulder and the back of the other, and Sarah Lynne McKenna gripped a blocky, businesslike, bulldog .44 in one white-knuckled fist. Luck alone would have two constables in front of the hotel when the fracas began: a bellman ran out, snatched at one uniform coat-sleeve and said something about a group of men intending a guest harm: at the first shout from within, the other constable put his whistle to his lips, blew a loud, discordant blast, then the two ran inside, just in time to be hit in the face with two fists of funneled sound. Gunfire, from within. To their credit, they drew their weapons and charged, looking left, looking right, the bellman in pursuit: “Upstairs, upstairs!” he shouted, and two City constables charged up the fine, broad staircase, a passageway better suited to men in fine suits and women in elaborate gowns, than the sight of two uniformed officers of the law, weapons in hand. They came to the top of the stairs and stopped. They honestly froze. Smoke layered the air, four men lay dead and dying, and a woman with white eyes and a colorless face raised a hand to display a bronze shield. “AGENT McKENNA, FIRELANDS DISTRICT COURT!” she declared loudly. They saw the badge only because it was raised, for the human eye is drawn to movement. It was not until they’d been badged that they realized this woman, standing defiant and commanding over a field of slaughter, was wearing little more than her frillies and an irritated expression. Ambassador Marnie Keller stepped through the Iris, looked around. She grabbed Ruth by the shoulders, pulled hard, pulled her over backwards – Ruth gave a surprised little squeak, fell back, fell through the portal with Marnie, landed on her back atop of the Ambassador as the Ambassador landed on her back on the floor of her quarters – Marnie grunted a little as the weight hit her, then the two women struggled upright, Ruth’s arms clutching their blanket-wrapped son. “Stay here,” Marnie hissed: she picked up a stubby, businesslike shotgun, surged through the Iris, and was gone. Sheriff Jacob Keller’s eyes were dead white and his face was colorless, the flesh drawn tight over his cheekbones: his bloodless lips were peeled back, giving him the appearance of a living skull: early in his law enforcement career, he’d developed a profound liking for the police shotgun, an opinion he had absolutely no reason to change over the years, and with a pounding on the door to his quarters, with shouted voices and demands that he open up, he waited inside, a double handful of Remington justice ready and waiting for anyone to defeat his security protocols. Marnie stepped up beside him, the twin to his fighting artillery in her gloved hands. He looked at her, elegant in a McKenna gown and a ruby brooch at her throat. “Overdressed for a gunfight, ain’t you?” he snapped. “You’re a fine one to talk.” Jacob chuckled. When the first impact hit their door, when the first beeps of an override attempt came from the internal keypad, Jacob’s gunbelt went around his waist, he clapped his uniform Stetson on his head and snatched up the twelve-gauge. He looked at the screen, counted the attackers. “Front to back,” he said. He heard the metallic click of Marnie’s safety disengaging. “Explosive charge,” Marnie said quietly. “Now.” Jacob released the door, it slid open. Jacob and Marnie fired, fast, accurate: the fighting was close-in and brutal: of eight that sought to assault the Sheriff’s quarters, six were killed right away. Two tried to run. They died running. Jacob grabbed the explosive charge, opened the disposal chute – a precaution he’d installed just inside his door, for just such an occasion – the explosive went into the hatch, he slammed it shut. The payload and its timer were instantly annihilated, disassembled at the subatomic level: the components were automatically scanned as they went in, and could be documented at a later time for evidentiary purposes: the crisis was ended before the last of the smoking, empty shotgun shells quit spinning on the clean floor. Sarah Lynne McKenna thumbed fresh rounds into her shotgun, handed Jacob two rounds, two rounds again: as she fed them to him, he fed them to his own 870. Jacob emerged, swung his gunbarrel to the left; Marnie swung right, her own Portal of Death looking unblinkingly in the opposite direction. Each one advanced, silent, deadly: a quick interrogation of the screen beside the closed airlock doors showed the cameras were covered. Jacob turned, looked at his sister: Marnie turned, raised a gloved hand. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, then raised a hand, gestured as if raking her eyes closed: Cameras are blind. Jacob nodded grimly. The two raised their fists, rock-paper-scissors: Jacob secured the airlock door behind him with his personal override, ran barefoot down the hallway, took up a position against the wall, opposite his sister. He went to one knee, shotgun to shoulder, nodded: Ready. Marnie keyed in her personal priority-override code. The airlock swung open. Nothing. She stepped out, eyes busy, reached up, pulled black electric tape off four camera lenses: she brought these inside the airlock, laid them carefully, sticky side up. Forensics would examine them for trace DNA and fingerprints. She closed the airlock, secured it with her personal priority lockdown: she and Jacob went to the other airlock, took their positions just as something started hammering from the other side. Jacob went to the comm pad. The cameras were blind, but audio still worked: he keyed in a command: “Who goes there!” he demanded. “Damage Control!” came the return shout. “Deputy Rutter is with us!” “Eddie!” Jacob shouted. “Here!” Eddie Rutter shouted back. “Eddie, the cameras are blind. Look for black electric tape. Remove carefully and preserve for Forensics, do it now!” “Roger that!” “And scan for explosives!” The vidscreen lit up: Jacob saw Damage Control in protective suits, saw the equipment cart, saw his deputy: he keyed the unlock sequence, the airlock door hissed open. Eddie Rutter stopped, his jaw opening in honest surprise: he managed to winch it shut and asked, “Sheriff, do you usually gunfight naked?” Ambassador Marnie Keller, demure in a McKenna gown and gloves, savored the moment when her brother turned a truly remarkable shade of red, when he realized he’d just engaged in a gunfight wearing his hat, and his gunbelt, and an irritated expression, and absolutely nothing else whatsoever. Edited March 14 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 2 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 15 Author Share Posted March 15 DISCHARGE A drone hovered invisibly in the space between here and there – silent, stationary, waiting: high-res cameras swung at movement, locked onto their subject. Below the drone, closer to ground level, another of the kind – instead of hovering at twenty meters, this one was about shoulder high to a tall man. Both recorded the same subject. A horse, at full gallop, reaching out and stabbing the earth with steelshod hooves, shoving the earth away behind it, and astride the shining-black gelding, a pale eyed woman, her blue cape floating behind her: she was leaned forward in the saddle, she was standing in her stirrups, her hands pressed flat against the shining-black racer’s neck just under the mane. The lower-altitude drone zoomed in, enough to catch her lips move: augmentation supplied her voice as she encouraged her mount, “Run—run – run –RUN!” A woman in a white dress, a woman in a white winged cap, led: behind her, two more, astride spotted Appaloosa mares, two grinning children, both with their Stetsons bouncing on their backs, held with storm straps, pulled loose by the velocity of their travel, and between them, a third horse, with an empty saddle, with shortened stirrups, even shorter than the eight-year-olds that flanked it. The shining glass doors of the hospital opened, a cluster of people emerged: balloons, bouquets, smiles, and at its center, a slight figure, bald, wearing a surgical mask, with delighted eyes visible over the mask: gone were the IVs, the monitors, the tubing: Carissa struggled to stand, there in the hallway, but stand she did: she rose, steadying herself for a long moment with one hand on the arm of the hated wheelchair, then she reached up, she seized the braided cord attached to the bell. Carissa seized that braided bell-pull and she yanked, hard as she could. She’d told that pale eyed nurse that when she left, she intended to yank the cord hard enough to rip it out of the wall. The bell flipped, shining in the fluorescent light, it gave a loud CLANG: Carissa released the cord, dropped back into her wheelchair. The mask hid only part of her expression. There was no way it could hide the absolute joy! in the young eyes that shone out over top that damned mask! Doors hissed open, people laughed and clapped and emerged, just in time to see a formation of hard-running horses turning, together, a living diamond of charging horseflesh: muscle and hair and willing hearts and a promise in living form swung around in a big circle, pointed directly at them. Few things are as impressive as a cavalry charge. When a pounding, surging, charging wedge of hooves comes thundering in a straight line directly toward someone, it is impressive, it is almost frightening: when they come clattering into the parking lot, slowing fast, when three of the four not only ride in formation, but also rear, that blood-freezing, screaming, whinnying challenge of two trained Appaloosa war-horses, striped forehooves windmilling in the morning sunlight, hearts quicken and soar – for not only is it a promise kept, it is a living link to the days when men and horses charged into battle, to carry the mailed fist of Justice to the evildoers: when restless horseflesh came back to earth, head-shaking, hoof-dancing, impatient, when a shining-black racer danced, impatient, then walked slowly up to a delighted, bald-headed child in a wheelchair, lowered his nose to sniff expectantly, and the child, remembering, unwrapped two red-and-white-spiral peppermints, held them out on a flat palm for the shining-black racer to snuff loudly, to rubberlip gently, to crunch with laid-back ears … when a child who hasn’t been outside the hospital in far too long, caresses living horseflesh, when she stands, when she takes a staggering step, another, lays her hands on the living neck, and the horse drapes his head companionably over her shoulder – A white-uniformed nurse swung down from the saddle as her cohorts came up on either side, as they separated, as a patient (but deceptively fast) Appaloosa came head-bobbing up – “I promised you’d leave here horseback,” Angela said firmly, her voice encompassing the entire entourage, including everyone, parents, staff and patient alike, and brooking no disagreement whatsoever from anybody at all. The drones kept their silent vigil, recording a personal victory, a promise kept: a medical monster hadn’t eaten a child alive, a disease was vanquished from this young soul, a patient was being discharged, in triumph and in victory, and the pale eyed nurse who’d take care of this child, this dedicated soul who’d made this happen and who’d made this promise, hoisted her far enough to get her left foot in the doghouse stirrup. “Throw your leg over now,” she said quietly, “just like we practiced in physical therapy” – the child swung her leg, swung it again, and suddenly she was astride. She was sitting in a saddle, she was higher than she’d ever been! She reached up and tore the hated mask from her face, let it fall. A bald-headed child astride an Appaloosa mare threw her head back and laughed, the sun warm on her face, her voice echoing off the back wall of the hospital. Michael gripped her other foot, guided it into the stirrup, looked up. “She’s knee trained,” he said, “so she doesn’t have a bit in her mouth.” He grinned boyishly up at her – he turned, boosted into his own saddle, looked ahead. “Angela?” Angela swung aboard her Daddy’s shining-black racer, turned: the patient was a little girl, and she was dressed like girls dress, in pastel jogging pants and sneakers, in a loose top, but when Angela settled a pink Stetson on her, drew the storm strap up a little, a shutter tripped and a little girl’s expression of utter and absolute delight was captured for the weekly newspaper’s front page. The Confederate Worlds saw the images of a now-familiar nurse at full gallop, leaned out over the neck of a shining-black horse, blue cape floating behind her, the white winged cap giving the impression of greater speed: the image of this now-familiar nurse settling a pretty pink Stetson on a happy child’s head, with the same grace as placing a crown on a newly inaugurated royal, was viewed throughout the Thirteen Systems with absolute approval. One common element among all the Confederate worlds, was a love of horses and dogs, and when a silent, watchful Bear Killer bayed his approval, there was laughter and the polite pattering of applause. Angela raised her hands for silence. “I made a promise,” she declared firmly, “that when – not if – Carissa beat that cancer, upon her discharge, she would go home horseback.” Angela swept the assembled with pale eyes, her palms still toward them. “Carissa made a promise as well.” The sliding glass doors were still open. From within there was a thump, a metallic, distinct CLANK. Carissa tilted her head a little, her eyes wide, surprised: her mouth opened, she looked at Angela. “I did it,” she squeaked. “I ripped the bell out of the wall!” 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 15 Author Share Posted March 15 OVER, AND OVER, AND OVER AGAIN The New York Irishman sat where he and his fellows sat, shoulder to shoulder for the service. The church was empty now, and silent: the congregation long since filed out and gone, his fellows returned to the firehouse. His fellow red-shirted firemen looked back, looked at Sean: their broad shouldered, iron-muscled Chief followed their gaze, then looked back at his men, shook his head at their expressions of concern, tilted his head: they left the church, leaving one man alone with his God and with his thoughts. When the church filled with sound, it was with voices joined in harmony and adoration, but when silence filled the church, it was a damaged silence, a fractured silence, like a heat-crazed windowpane that hadn’t yet fallen into shattered crystal crumbles. The New York Irishman stared ahead, his expression that of a man lost. They’d had a bad one. He’d assaulted the fire as he always did, he’d charged in close and fought the Beast at belt buckle distance, he’d laid about with the weapons he had, and he’d charged up the ladder – he’d assaulted the climb, some said he’d gone up the extension ladder as fast as a man can run on level ground. Someone was screaming to death in an upper story. He’d gotten to the window when something let go, when fire roared out at him, when he smelled burnt hair and felt his skin sear, when he dropped his head to shade his face with the brim of his helmet and the heat beat him back and when they lowered the ladder its upper end was black and alligatored a little from the heat. The New York Irishman sat in the silent, empty church, alone, hearing a desperate voice screaming, wordlessly, helplessly, one long, sustained, shivering, agonized shriek: he knew when the sufferer took in a breath, after this one scream, they’d inhaled the same liquid hell that was burning their outside, and they burned to death from the inside as well. His breathing was quicker now and he smelled it, the smell of flesh burning. His fingers raised to what used to be his handlebar mustache, now a shadow, a memory, a singed stubble: he touched the blisters on his face, he lifted his fingers before he could cause himself further pain: his hands closed, fisted, pressed down against his knees and he lowered his forehead against the pew in front of him. He sat, alone, hearing that one, long, shivering, desperate, agonized shriek, more terrible than could possibly come from a human throat. They’d found what was left of her, on overhaul. They’d put her in Digger’s box and carried the box to the wagon at shoulder height, six men in seared and filthy rubber coats, six men with grim expressions and black chins. The New York Irishman said not a word through overhaul, through cleanup, through scrubbing the hose and hanging it to dry in their tall, chimneylike hose drying tower: he’d let the Doc work on his face, he’d traded sweaty, wet, filthy clothes for clean, he’d hung his boots to dry, and he’d done it with all the expression of an automaton. No one outside the Irish Brigade really understood why they phrased things the way they did. They didn’t say “It was burnt through the roof before we were even called.” They said, “We lost a house today.” They didn’t say, “They were dead before we were called.” They said, “We lost someone today.” They didn’t say, “There was no way humanly possible to have gotten to her.” Each man said the same thing. It wasn’t “We” lost one today. It was, “I lost one today.” It was personal. When the deceased was interred, there was no family to grieve this one soul, returned to its Maker, but there were men in red shirts gathered for the occasion: every member of the Irish Brigade, with the gold Maltese Cross embroidered on their red wool bib front shirts, all but one with a fiercely curled handlebar mustache: they carried the coffin at shoulder height, they bowed their heads at the graveside, and each man helped lower the box into the ground. Burial was of a Saturday. In Sunday’s service, the name of the deceased was uplifted in prayer, and after Sunday service, one of the Irish Brigade remained behind, in the ringing silence of the empty church, listening to that one shivering, desperate, wailing scream, over, and over, and over again. 3 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 16 Author Share Posted March 16 THAT’S WHAT I WANT It was Friday night. Two lean figures shrugged into backpacks, ran the water tubes over their shoulders, clipped the tubes in place. Two lean figures opened their rifles' bolts, thumbed in five rounds of dull metallic cartridges, pulled the stripper loose, slipped the stamped-metal clip into a pocket, thumbed the rounds down and closed their rifles’ bolts. Surplus Soviet bolt-action rifles were slung. One rifleman looked at the other. They walked down the hand-cut stone steps, off the grey-floored porch, walked to the neatly circumscribed border between the driveway and the yard. Two figures leaned forward into the dark, started to run, well-polished and tight-laced boots silent in the moonlit darkness. "I don't know why you even try," Shelly said quietly. "It's Friday night, you know you're not going to relax." Linn held his wife around the waist, leaned his head down, kissed the side of her neck, brought his mustache up until it tickled her ear. "I took Friday night off so I can have some time with you," he whispered. "Mmm, tell me more," Shelly hummed as her husband nibbled her earlobe, carefully, mindful of the pierced earrings. "The kids are getting some size to them. I thought it wise to be home. Girls Marnie's age are going out on dates." Shelly looked up at her husband, smiled. "I remember when you started dating me." "I do too," Linn grinned. "You made popcorn." "I didn't know you then. I figured if you turned out to be all mouth and hands, I'd just stuff popcorn in your mouth." They laughed quietly, Linn's eyes sliding over to the cupboard where they kept the popcorn popping kettle. "You know if we make some we'll have to make a couple batches." "Mm-hmm." Conversation was suspended as husband and wife held one another in the quiet of their immaculate kitchen. When they came up for air, Shelly whispered, “I’m liking this. How long will the kids be gone?” “It’s Friday night,” Linn whispered. “You know kids and their Friday night dates.” His mustache tickled her lip and conversation was suspended for a significantly longer period this time. Two figures ran through the mountain darkness, their boots setting a regular cadence on the lonely ranch road. They spread apart, running just outside the tire tracks -- a depression in the dirt roadway passed between them, shining-wet with standing water, reflecting the increasing starlight -- they converged again, continued their run, turning a little now, heading uphill. Jacob and Marnie ran steadily, not competing: each ran in step with the other, each brought the slung rifle off the shoulder, carried at high port: they slowed, stopped, moved behind what looked like a 55 gallon drum over on its side, set up on some kind of platform. Marnie went first. She cycled her bolt, thrust the rifle into the end of the drum, sighted on the rectangular target in the distance, pulled the trigger. A white-painted silhouette twitched, gave a satisfying CLANK as the surplus Soviet slug smacked into it, knocking cheap white spray paint into dust. Every shot was the same -- a dull fump! *clank!*-- their labors in constructing a muffling chamber had been successful; Marnie fired four more times, then Jacob. They would police their empties the next day, in the daylight: Marnie topped off the Mosin's magazine with single rounds while Jacob fired, she waited while he reloaded, then they resumed their run. No words were exchanged, no conversation held; each one heard, in their memory, the singing chant their pale eyed Gammaw used when running with Willamina's Warriors: they could have recorded such running songs, played them back on a miniature player of some kind, but neither wanted anything that would interfere with their hearing. Marnie had been wounded, deeply and severely injured, at too young an age, and this honestly scarred her psyche: Jacob grew up a lawman's son, and had listened to his father's, and other lawmen's recounting of close encounters of the unpleasant kind. Both knew that unpleasantness, that violence, visited itself upon all souls at one time or another. Both knew they were going into the law enforcement profession. Both knew they intended to be ready when violence came to them. Both lean young figures ran steadily through the night. Linn carried his wife up the broad, hand-fitted stairs, the same set of stairs his ancestor’s best friend Charlie Macneil built into this fine old house more than a century before, the same stairs up which Macneil carried his own bride for the very first time, the same stairs up which Linn carried this same bride for the very first time, many years before, and not a few times since. Linn’s eyes were a light blue as he looked into his wife’s face, into her eyes: he stopped halfway up, leaned his head down, kissed her, whispered “I could swim in those eyes,” and as Shelly giggled with anticipation, he resumed his ascent. There was just enough moon to see by, with their eyes acclimatized to the dark: Jacob stood, breathing deeply, controlling his respirations. Marnie exhibited no such control. Her face was contorted in a teeth-bared grimace, a mask of hate as she assaulted the bayonet dummy, a plastic mannikin on a spring-mounted pipe stand: Marnie’s grunts and snarls were genuine – Jacob knew these were not the sounds of a weaker-muscled girl trying to generate more power with each strike, these were honestly the sounds of someone who hated! – who hated with a deep purple passion – someone who drew on the hell that scarred her young soul at far too young an age, and only now, now that she was far from the place that hurt her, far from the now-dead people who’d done such terrible things to her, now she could let that hate out, and she did. Viciously, violently, with absolutely no reservation whatsoever. Jacob watched as Marnie assaulted that bayonet dummy, using her rifle the way their pale eyed Gammaw taught them: Marnie used the rifle with the deadly efficiency their Gammaw learned overseas – muzzle thrusts, butt strokes, rakes, cuts: Jacob knew the Mosin was built by the same people who built anvils, he knew the rifle was made for uneducated, ham handed peasants to use in wartime, and watching his sister’s controlled, full-power assault on the mannikin, he was glad for the rifle’s more than robust construction. Part of his mind remembered his pale eyed Gammaw telling him the US Military no longer mounted a bayonet lug on their issue M16s and M4s because “the Mickey Mouse gun is too delicate to take the stresses of bayonet fighting” – her words – which is why she’d been known to snatch up an AK and lay about the enemy like Samson laying about with the jaw bone of a jack mule. Jacob watched his pale eyed sister’s fast-moving fury and wondered if that’s what their Gammaw looked like when she waded into the middle of the enemy, and then he remembered someone who’d served with her, someone who’d told him in quiet voice that his Gammaw went into an ambush at the top of her lungs, murdering from within the enemy’s close-packed ranks, how she’d screamed like a damned soul falling into the vortex of Hell itself, and how that long, sustained scream froze men’s hearts while she drove Soviet steel into men’s guts and ripped it free, spraying blood and men’s lives as she did. Jacob shivered, blinked: Marnie was backing up, breathing heavily: here in the mountains, this granddaughter of a fighting Marine was silent, pale eyes glaring at what used to be a bayonet dummy. “That one’s dead,” Jacob grunted. “On to the next.” A pair of sixteen-year-olds turned, continued their run, deeper into the mountains. “Next dummy’s mine,” Jacob grunted. “Yeah,” Marnie grunted back. Linn came downstairs, freshly showered: his wife was relaxed, smiling in her sleep. Linn was restless, as he always was, knowing it was Friday, knowing things happened on Friday, knowing he might yet be called. Coffee gurgled in his big ceramic mug, steamed as it warmed in his hands: he trickled in a little milk, prowled restlessly, turned out the kitchen light and looked out the night-darkened window over the kitchen sink. I don’t see a white wolf. This is a good thing. He looked at the clock. He had no worries about his young: their younger children were asleep, you could fire a cannon and they’d not wake; his eldest two, Jacob and Marnie, were out, but Linn knew they would not be on the road, or partying, or carousing. He’d helped them lay out their running course, and he’d helped them design and build the steel drum muffler, lined with Styrofoam and insulation and set up on a well built platform of crossbucked scrap lumber. I wonder how well it’ll work for them, he thought, smiling a little as he remembered hanging the steel silhouettes, delegating their painting to Marnie’s precise hand: when the first can of the cheapest white paint they could buy, hissed dry, Marnie stepped back, yelled “Quarter a shot!” and tossed it skyward. Father, son and daughter all three drew and fired: what used to be an aerosol can spun, fell, hit the ground, six holes – three entrance holes, caved in a little, three exit holes, torn metal petaled out, bore mute testimony of the accuracy of the draw-and-fire of three pistoleros. Linn smiled as he remembered the moment, sipped his coffee, half expecting the phone to ring: I know my luck, he thought, there’s damn little chance I’ll get a night’s rest of a Friday night. The Bear Killer's head came up, his ears lifting: Linn saw the great black brush of a tail start polishing the floor. Jacob and Marnie came in, breathing deeply, controlling their breath: Linn knew they'd been out for a run, and anyone else running for the distance they’d just covered, would have been taking deep, air-hungry, gasping breaths. He himself knew he could not have sustained the run his eldest children just managed. Linn knew they'd been busy in the barn, cleaning corrosive residue from the bores; they stood the rifles muzzle-down in the gun case, muzzles resting on folded rags, to catch any surplus oil that ran out of the now-scrupulously-clean barrels. Jacob and Marnie came in, sock foot, set their unlaced boots on the rubber boot tray, came over to him, breathing deeply, their cheeks healthy pink and cool to the touch. "How'd it go?" Linn asked quietly. "Marnie outshot me," Jacob admitted, grinning, "as usual." "Not by much," Marnie countered, "and I couldn't outrun him!" Linn smiled quietly, nodded, looked across the kitchen. "Popcorn?" Marnie laughed quietly. "You have to ask?" "Sis?" Marnie shook grated Parmesan on her popcorn, flipped the bowl carefully, distributing the powdery flavoring evenly: she looked at her brother, raised an eyebrow. "Sis, every girl in school is strapping on high heels and chasing boys on Friday night. You're out running with me. I know I suffer a sparkling personality and ravishing good looks, but your social life really sucks!" Marnie lowered her head, glared playfully at her brother over a set of nonexistent spectacles. "I could say the same for you, Little Brother!" "I'm serious, Sis." "So am I. Why aren't you out drinking beer, chasing girls and running hot cars?" Jacob sook his head, frowned. "My automatic pilot hasn't taken over yet, Sis. I'm honestly afraid of what I might become once it does." "You look pretty controlled to me." Jacob's jaw eased out thoughtfully as he frowned at his fragrant bowl of freshly popped corn. "I don't want to betray a girl," he whispered. "I've seen too much of that already." Marnie nodded, sampled her popcorn: Jacob saw the approval in her eyes -- whether for his answer, or for her popcorn, he wasn't certain. "Sis, we carry the genes for addiction. Gammaw's Mama was a drunk and a damned drunk. I'm told it skips a generation. That would be us. Passion can be as addictive as alcohol or drugs." Marnie closed her eyes, nodded, shivered. "I'll meet the right girl and raise a family, just not yet, and I don't want to start because I have to." Marnie rested her hand on her belt, stood hip-shot, regarded her brother with a an appraising look. "You sound hopelessly old-fashioned, Jacob." "Yeah," Jacob nearly whispered, looking bleakly into his popcorn. "Passion. Uncontrolled strong emotion. Once I start I might not be able to stop." "Able? Or want to?" Jacob's young eyes were haunted as he replied quietly, "That's what I'm afraid of, Sis. I might not want to stop, and that's addiction!" Linn looked across the kitchen, at the wall phone hanging patiently beside the door frame. “At the risk of throwing a jinx on it,” he said finally, “I’m going to give up and go to bed.” Marnie set down her bowl of popcorn, skipped up to her long tall Daddy and gave him a quick, tight, happy hug, pressing the side of her head against his chest: Linn chuckled, hugged her back, buried his face in her hair, took a noisy sniff. “You smell like outside,” he chuckled, and Marnie giggled to hear his voice rumbling deep in his chest, and Jacob grinned to see this interaction. For a moment, for one quick little moment, Jacob saw Marnie as a giggly little girl, and Linn as the laughing big strong daddy, and Jacob thought to himself, That’s what I want. In due time, yes, but that’s what I want! 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 16 Author Share Posted March 16 THE REASON WHY A pale eyed young woman in a white uniform dress spread a blanket on the cold, damp ground, a blanket manufactured several light-years from the planet on which it was being spread: the underside repelled the damp, the upper was soft, almost fuzzy, insulating, welcoming to the touch. The young woman knelt on the blanket, pulled the disposable protective covers off her thick-soled, white uniform shoes, then sat, legs folded: graceful, feminine, she looked around at the regular row of shaped stones that extended to her left, to her right. Below her, a place she knew as home, a small town in the Shining Mountains, a place more famous on distant planets than here. The woman smiled as she remembered listening to the legends and stories, handed down through generations of Southrons, those descendants of warriors plucked from Lincoln’s War by aliens who wished to assemble a disposable force of primitives. The history of the Confederacy, and how these few were able to use the learning devices forced upon them by the aliens, to learn enough to overthrow their captors, to annihilate their abductors, to prosper and spread and ultimately claim the Thirteen Star Systems, is well known, and will not be discussed further: no, let us instead remember those tales told this lovely young woman, those ancestral memories of the far West, the Shining Mountains, of rivers of big shaggy beasts thundering across endless prairies, of great granite crags that tore open the sky itself with granite teeth. Angela Keller had no wish for fame, no desire for notoriety, yet she was the best known face on all the Worlds: perhaps – no, not perhaps, definitely – because she herself was a daughter of the Shining Mountains, because her Daddy was a long, tall, honest-to-God Western Sheriff who rode an honest-to-God, spotted Appaloosa stallion. (Popular imagination gave this lawman's preferred mount fighting fangs and the ability to annihilate a regiment by exhaling a liquid river of immolating flame, but this was merely conjecture, and existed only in illustrations in children's books) Angela Keller looked at the twin tombstone and remembered what she’d been told, what she learned as her father spoke quietly, his voice heavy with guilt, that night she decided she would become a nurse after all. Angela Keller had spoken of this earlier that day, on a planet far from where she sat, legs tucked under her skirt in her family’s section of the Firelands cemetery. She’d been asked why she became a nurse – a not uncommon question. Her answer surprised her, but it did not surprise a young couple whose sons were alive because of this offworld healer. “My father had twins,” Angela said in reply to the question, “and they died of something called a glioblastoma. It’s fast moving and at that time it was incurable. My father knew here” – she’d tapped her forehead with a bent foreknuckle – “that he could not possibly have caused their condition." Her expression was serious as she tapped her breastbone with curved fingers and added, "Here" -- tap, tap -- "he had a harder time convincing himself. "That it hit them at such a young age was almost unheard of; that it hit identical twins, almost at the same moment, was so rare as to make being struck twice by lightning look commonplace.” She’d looked around, looked back at the questioner. “I remember the guilt and the sorrow in my father’s voice. “I determined that I would do anything I had to, that I would do everything in my power, to keep that sorrow from claiming his soul yet again.” A young couple heard her words in a news broadcast, a special edition covering the improvement in healthcare, with this pale eyed young woman as the face of advancing medicine, and the couple looked at one another and at the limp, lethargic, sleeping child propped up between them. Their own daughter was diagnosed with just such a deadly cancer of the brain, and they were told there was no hope, and then this pale eyed young woman appeared in their hospital with all the ladylike grace of the legendary Texas twister – even here on Tortuga, the most distant planet in the Confederacy, Texas was remembered, Texas was legendary, and a Texas twister had long been part of their vocabulary. This woman hadn’t suddenly appeared in a whirlwind, she hadn’t waved a wand or sprinkled sparkling dust and magically effected a cure: no, there were surgeries, there were machines and modalities and injections, there were tests and examinations and scans, most of which were not familiar to the medical community. Another remarkable young woman, just as lovely, but in a McKenna gown, arrived with this wing-capped Healer: her skills as a diplomat were tested, taxed, exercised, for nobody – no profession, no avocation, no physician – takes kindly the arrival of an interloper whose skills are greater than their own. Diplomatic skills and persuasion prevailed: the child was terminal, after all, and her death was assured: if nothing else, perhaps these efforts could learn something useful about the condition: and during these diplomatic discussions, diseased tissues were removed, the seeds were chased down, found, eliminated, the body’s own T-cells turned into killer T’s, programmed to find and utterly destroy cancers in any form: by the time the medical community reluctantly granted its consent for the child’s treatment, the cure was already effected, and the cure was complete. Angela looked at a double tombstone and remembered what it was to help a bald headed little girl relearn to walk, relearn how to eat, relearn how to speak: much of her memory was gone and would very likely never return: it was a mercy that she recognized her parents, that she reached for her Daddy’s hand, that she was able to slur “Mama” when her mother picked her up. Angela swallowed as she remembered, chewed on her bottom lip, looked up. “I never knew you,” she whispered. “Daddy spoke of you once. He was almost shattered when you died, but he hid it and never spoke of it. I did not know about you for a very long time, but you two” – she smiled, just a little, wiped at a trickle of wet running down her cheek – “you two are how I became a nurse, and then I got my hands on Confederate medicine.” A pretty young woman sat in the Colorado sunshine, protected from the chilly mountain wind by the invisible dome-field projected over her by the blanket she sat on: she looked at the names on the tombstone – KELLER, she read; on the left, EMIL, and on the right, GOTTLEIB: the stone was new, set less than a week before. Her Daddy, the Sheriff, was a man of deep feelings, but a man of self-flagellation, whose mistaken assumption of guilt prevented his marking the double grave with a stone, until he’d made peace with himself over the death of his twins. That evening, Angela addressed a new class of nurses on Tortuga: the subject turned to things not understood, and Angela brought out the example of her father’s twins, dead of a fast-moving and then-incurable brain cancer. “I do not pretend to understand how these things work,” Angela admitted. “I cannot say they were put on this earth to steer my course. I can tell you what I believe – and what I believe may well be completely wrong.” She looked into the depths of the class: half a hundred young woman were seated before her, half a hundred, every last one of whom admitted that she’d chosen this profession because of what each and every one of them saw in this pale eyed woman in a white uniform dress and a winged cap. “I believe that God Almighty does not cause trouble to befall us,” she said, “but I believe He is not at all bashful to use such troubles as teaching aids. My father’s twins died well before I was born, and the sorrow in my father’s very soul turned me in this direction. I do not believe Emil and Gottleib were born, to be killed for my benefit. I believe they were born, and what happened to them was a tragedy, and I took that grief and did something useful with it.” She smiled, just a little, and added, “On the other hand, if I know so damned much, why haven’t I made a million dollars and retired, eh?” 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 17 Author Share Posted March 17 A DISPLAY OF WESTERN ART Two pale eyed children rode side by side down the nighttime city street, under the twin moons of a planet they’d never seen before today: their Appaloosa mares were well matched, their tack was identical, their riders' attire very nearly so. Their only real difference was that one rider had twin braids, laid over the front of her shoulders, and the other rider, didn’t. They each had a scabbarded rifle under their right thigh, they each wore tan Stetsons and electric-blue, silk wild rags, each had mirror-polished Wellington boots thrust into black doghouse stirrups. Even their saddle blankets were identical: heavy, serviceable, brown, with a gold six point star embroidered just behind the saddle skirt, and black lettering across the star’s equator. A gold six-point star, bearing the single word: SHERIFF. They rode erect, at ease, comfortable in the saddle, stirrup to stirrup, watchful, as alert as two hounds striking a hot scent. The city street they rode, was momentarily, unusually silent, and absolutely without traffic: steam broughams were stopped in the street, abandoned, doors open; people ducked, cowering behind light poles, behind post-boxes, at the unaccustomed sound of gunshots: a stray round found the coil of a brougham, a cloud of steam hissed out, loud, angry, throwing an absolute, opaque wall of floating condensation over most of the street. Michael Keller leaned down and gripped the wrist of his engraved Winchester. Victoria Keller leaned down and gripped her Winchester at the same moment. Twin children from another world pulled blued steel authority free of their floral-carved, background-dyed scabbards. Their mares needed no further urging. Rival thieves tried to hold up the same shop at the same time: the shopkeeper pushed a round at one of them and his back wall inherited two rounds in reply, then two rival thieves, believing themselves shot at, shot at the first two thieves: people scattered, the city police responded, brought their black steam-wagons up outside the involved shop. Confusion, gunshots: a man was hit – his scream wasn’t as shrill as a woman’s, but was just as sincere – two Appaloosa mares, noses punched straight out ahead of them, blasted free of the steam-cloud, charged two pair of scared, head-twisting, pistol-swinging holdup artists. Michael’s mare hit first. The collision of a fast moving horse’s chest with a human can have only one result. To the onlookers it was magic: a spotty white horse with a rifleman astride, blasting out of the roiling wall of pain hissing like vaporous blood from the wounded vehicle – a horseman, leaned forward in the saddle, charging these enemies to the public order: the dull, grunting thud of a collision, a spray of arms and legs, then another collision, another awkward, spinning tumble to the pavement: Michael’s mare skidded a little as she came about, Victoria’s mare reared, screaming her challenge, dancing on her hind legs, Victoria’s young legs clamped hard around her mare, her denim covered backside plainly welded to saddle leather. Horses’ screams echoed between the buildings, shivering through the drifting cloud of steam: Victoria’s mare came down to earth, there was the sound of Winchester steel slamming open, slamming into battery. Two blued-steel barrels came down level. Michael’s mare stood dead still, waiting: Victoria’s mare threw her head to the side, waiting for the gunshot. “THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!” a child’s voice challenged, loudly, commanding: “DROP THE WEAPONS OR I DROP YOU!” Two were too badly hurt to offer any further hostilities. The other pair, on Victoria’s side of the street, looked at one another. One raised a revolver. Two rifles spoke. The revolver fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. The other threw his pistol into the street and ran. Michael’s mare was off like a shot. Michael’s thumb laid over the rifle’s checkered hammer, he felt it half-cock, thrust it into the scabbard: as fast as the runner was, the mare was faster. Michael Keller, a mere boy, a child of the granite mountains, was riding a mare his father trained, a mare trained for riot, for war, for hostilities: Michael had ridden her in barrel races, he’d ridden her in balloon shooting competitions, he’d practiced roping from his mare’s back: his fingers had eyes as he brought his lariat free, shook out the loop, floated it through the air. The mare dropped her hind quarters and splayed her forehooves: two quick turns around the saddlehorn, the line snapped taut. Michael casually coiled his plaited-leather reata, in no hurry at all: his mare’s forehoof was on the prisoner’s back where the man tried to roll over, presumably to try and come up on all fours and attempt a desperate, scrambling escape. It’s kind of hard to escape when a steelshod hoof plants itself between a holdup’s shoulder blades, when a percentage of a mare’s weight bears down through the focus of a hard hoof. Michael turned in the saddle, looked behind. His father was beside Victoria. Michael’s pale eyes tightened a little at the corners as he took a mental snapshot of the moment. As big as a full grown Appaloosa mare is, his father’s golden stallion was that much bigger. As competent, as confident as his twin sister sat a-saddle, his father was that much taller, that much more impressive. Michael saw his father was speaking quietly to his little girl, saw his father nod once: Michael saw Victoria had already scabbarded her rifle. Michael’s eyes tightened a little at the corners as he watched. Victoria was looking at her Daddy with big and innocent eyes, oblivious to staring city folk regarding this new and novel experience. It was well known their City was to have visitors – their City, of all on the planet – and no less a personage than a genuine Western Sheriff and members of his family! Nobody – not residents, not dignitaries, not the police, nobody – ever thought circumstances might require the response of a Western Sheriff – this creature of legend, this storied demigod, something known only in stories, in books! The police were quick to converge: the Sheriff did not dismount – he knew his position gave him a psychological advantage – but he was quick to spot the senior ranking officer present, address himself to the senior rank, to give him full command of the scene, to make it clear that he, the Sheriff, had no intention of usurping their collar … although they may wish to take the fellow in custody down the street yonder. By the time running feet reached young Michael’s prisoner, this pale eyed young Keller was dismounted, was on one knee beside his prisoner, talking quietly: the prisoner was only too happy to allow the responding officers to take him into custody, and when they’d secured him, loaded him into a steam powered transport, once they asked the prisoner what he and the Sheriff’s son were talking about, the holdup’s eyes widened at the memory and he said in a husky whisper, “He said if I didn’t behave, he’d let that horse of his eat me!” Angela Keller was not the featured offworlder on the evening’s InterSystem broadcast, though she did watch it, she and her classroom full of nursing students. The class would normally not watch the evening news on the blackboard-sized screen, but word spread among the students that Miss Angela’s family would be visiting: Angela knew the class would be distracted, wondering, and so she turned on the InterSystem broadcast. They’d expected to see a stiff, formal reception in the stiff, formal, ornate chambers reserved for meeting dignitaries with diplomatic credentials. They honestly did not expect to see the adventure, complete with horses’ hooves, loud and clattering on pavement, gunshots, a live action drama, broadcast as it happened! The ladies watched their wing-capped instructor smiling behind her cupped hand as she stood to the side, watched with them, watched as a pale eyed lad thrust a rifle into the scabbard under his leg, as a young boy untwisted in the saddle, as his arm raised with a deceptively gentle but obviously controlled swing, as a lariat became a living thing, as plaited leather dropped over the prisoner, brought him to a sudden, unexpected, very effective, feet-in-the-air, flat-on-his-back, HALT! The voice-over was professional, polished, almost oily: “And here we see that legendary Western art of the Lariat, employed to capture the criminal without the need of further effort.” The lariat snapped taut, a criminal’s feet swung out, still running in mid-air, at least until his body hit the ground, hard, until he tried to scramble upright, until a horse’s hoof planted him solidly down against the sidewalk. “We’ve seen the beauty of horses on our own worlds,” the voice said, the syllables carefully shaped, precisely enunciated, “but we have never seen genuine Appaloosas from the American West. We have read about them, we have seen holovids that drew on writers’ imaginations, but this is the first time our world has seen the genuine article.” The image shifted to the moment two hard-charging mares punched out of a cloud, an absolute, street-covering wall of steam, hooves pounding, ears laid back – “Two young riders with Winchester rifles, driving forward into the face of a running gunfight, fearless in the face of danger, both horses and riders obviously skilled and well trained in the art of keeping the peace, even at their riders' tender ages. “It is noteworthy that when their father, Sheriff Linn Keller of Firelands County, Colorado, who’d been delayed in conference with their reception committee, arrived on the scene, he was quick to return authority to our police respondents, and to give them full credit in the event.” Angela Keller’s face reddened a little as she turned from the screen, looked at her students. Every one of her nursing students, and two other instructors in the back of the room, were looking at her. Every last one of them, looking at her, as if she’d had something to do with this living adventure they’d just watched. Angela Keller looked back at the screen, at the image of a long, tall, lean waisted Western Sheriff astride his tall, strutting, shining-gold Palomino stallion, flanked by two children who rode with the same ease, the same confidence as their father, as the Sheriff touched his hat-brim to one of the police officers, as they turned and rode slowly away from the camera. Every student smiled, but none laughed aloud as Angela shook her head and declared at the screen: “Show-off!” 3 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 18 Author Share Posted March 18 (edited) I FOUND THE ANSWER THERE This is the end of the story: Ambassador Marnie Keller cupped her hand over her mouth, her pale eyes widening as she looked at the contents of the shallow, white-cardboard box: she reached in, lifted a pair of jogging pants free of tissue paper, held them up. She read the discreet embroidery on the front of one thigh, the embroidery on the front of the other thigh, blinked, bit her bottom lip, then she turned and ran into the next room, threw herself across the bed, drove her face into a thick, fluffy pillow, and released the memory her unexpected gift just triggered. Ambassador Marnie Keller, a woman of dignity and persuasion, wife and mother and Sheriff Emeritus, shrieked her honest, genuine, hysterical laughter into the pillow in the privacy of her personal bedchamber. This is the middle of the story: Sheriff Linn Keller looked sidelong at his daughter. Marnie Keller sat with her family in the front pew of the Firelands church. Marnie, like her Mama, sat very properly, looking very ladylike: she wore her Sunday best, of course, as did each member of the family; at the Parson's quotation of the Psalm -- "Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life," she blinked innocently -- then, feeling her father's eyes upon her, she turned her head and looked at the pale-eyed Sheriff with the colorful cheekbone, and blushed a bit, for she was the reason he'd sported this new look. Linn was Sheriff, and had a talkie about his person; he discreetly wore an earpiece, and there were times when he rose and paced quickly, silently down the aisle, waiting until he was at the rear of the church, or preferably outside, before addressing Dispatch on his talkie. When Linn pulled out his cell phone, began tapping out a text, Marnie assumed it was in response to a summons given him over his white-plastic earpiece. The next day, Marnie found a flat, white-cardboard box on her bed: she opened it, withdrew a pair of grey flannel jogging pants. On the front of the left thigh, in half-inch-high red script embroidery, the word Goodness: on the front of the right thigh, in blue, half-inch-high script embroidery, the word Mercy. Marnie heard her father's step outside her bedroom door; she turned, just as he knocked discreetly at her bedroom doorframe. Linn's grin was broad and genuine as he saw his daughter holding them up. "I thought it appropriate," he said quietly. This is the beginning of the story: Sheriff Linn Keller bent over the back of the couch and seized his daughter's wrists. Marnie was relaxing -- she'd showered, she'd bested all comers in hand-to-hand, she'd punched, blocked, grappled, she'd thrown men well bigger than herself, she'd put opponents on the deck fast, hard and nasty, and she'd come home with a sense of triumph and her father's delighted approval. Had she been given a trophy the size of a Mack truck, she'd not have been as pleased as she was with her father's crushing hug, his seizing her under the arms and hoisting her into the air -- grown young woman that she was -- and in a moment of reverie, she lifted her eyes from the Psalms, hearing his voice, loud and rich and full, "I AM PROUD OF YOU!" When someone suddenly leaned over the couch and seized her wrists, her action was pure reflex. She snapped double, drove sock feet under the attacker's armpits, snapped her lean, sculpted, athletic horsewoman's legs down. Sheriff Linn Keller flew through the air with the greatest of ease. His landing was less than graceful, and as he admitted later, the human cheekbone is a poor tool for trying to bust a hole in a hardwood floor. Marnie's hand came down on the open scripture. She glanced down at what she'd just read, looked at her father, just rolling over, one hand to his cheekbone: he raised his head, looked at his darlin' daughter with a crooked grin and said, "I deserved that!" Marnie Keller gave her long tall Daddy her very best Innocent Expression, stood, picked up her Scripture and read aloud, "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all of my days!" She closed the Book, dropped it on the sofa, looked very directly at her Daddy. Marnie slapped her left thigh. "This is Goodness," she said, then slapped her right and said, "This is Mercy!" Ambassador Marnie Keller returned to the guest parlor and the congratulations of dignitaries, at having concluded a successful, if contentious, negotiation: she accepted a sparkling crystal flute of something bubbly, raised it as a toast was proposed to another successful negotiation, and after the ceremonial sip, one of the Planet Vicksburg negotiators drifted over to her and inquired her inspiration for throwing a loud and obnoxious representative over her shoulder and into the swimming pool. Ambassador Marnie Keller looked at her well-dressed colleague with big and innocent eyes, sipped her bubbly, smiled. "The poor man was so hot tempered I feared he might catch fire," she said quietly, "so my action was in the interest of sparing us a conflagration. Besides" -- she smiled -- "I have found the Psalms useful in such moments." "You mean when he grabbed your arm and shouted in your face?" Marnie lowered her crystal flute and smiled quietly, blinked. "One can meet violence and hostility with violence and hostility," she murmured, "and sometimes that is the right solution. "Sometimes a more ... Scriptural ... approach is called for." She tilted her head, smiled gently. "I remembered a Psalm from my days at home, and found the answer there." Edited March 18 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 4 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 18 Author Share Posted March 18 (edited) PARDON ME, SIR, IF I SPEAK THE TRUTH When the chief editor looks up and sees a clerk speaking harshly to a child, it scarcely merits a frown. When the elevator closes behind the child and descends, and the chief editor only then realizes who that child was, the moment grows somewhat more concerning. When the elevator opened four minutes later and the same child – a lad of about ten years, rides out of the elevator on an Appaloosa mare, his jaw set and his eyes hard and accusing as he glares at the clerk who’d obviously confused himself with someone important – well, this sight is enough to bring a newsroom to a fast and absolutely silent halt. The chief editor came over, looked up at the young man who’d distinguished himself on the street just outside, not two nights before. “John Rowley,” he said, reaching up and extending his hand. “Michael Keller,” the rider replied, leaning down and gripping the older man’s soft hand with a firm and callused hand. “How can we help you, Mr. Keller?” “Your newspaper spoke poorly of your police response,” Michael said, his voice carrying well – he was obviously accustomed to speaking, as he’d pitched his voice to be clearly heard at distance, and he enunciated his words with a precision not usually heard in one of his few years. “Oh?” “Sir, there is an expected response time. They don’t have a crystal ball and neither do I. Someone has to call them, they have to decide and assign who goes where. My sister and I were already there and we saw what needed done, so we … did.” “ ‘Expected response time,’ “ the editor said slowly, eyeing young Michael with an appraising eye. “I don’t usually hear such language from a boy.” “No, sir, I don’t reckon you do,” Michael agreed, grinning, “but most of your boys don’t grow up listening to my Pa talk like that.” “Your … ‘Pa.’ Did he put you up to this?” “No, sir. I read your paper and I knew you likely didn’t have the whole story.” “And what is the whole story, sir?” Michael leaned over, crossed his forearms on his saddle horn, shoved his Stetson well back on his head and grinned – a contagious, sincere, boyishly innocent grin. “It’s just as I said, sir. Your police had to be called, they had to make sense of the call, then they had to start from the word go. That takes time.” He paused, then added, “Victoria and I were already there.” “Shouldn’t you have waited for the police to take proper charge of the situation?” “No, sir,” Michael said firmly. “Something needed done right away, and we did what was needful, right away. “It’s like a house fire, sir. Every minute of fire progression requires many more minutes than that of extinguishment. If you have criminals that already shot the place up and now they’re shooting at one another, you have to shut ‘em down fast before they cause any more harm.” Michael’s eyes were just as direct as his words. “We did just that.” “You took a life.” “No, sir, we did not.” Michael’s young voice was firm, uttered with conviction, and he came upright in his saddle as he said it. “You shot the man dead.” “We did that, sir, but he killed himself. I bear no responsibility if a man throws himself on the spear I hold. If that fellow bears a weapon at me, he is bought and paid for and his blood does not stain my hands. He made the choice and he died by his own poor choice.” “That is … an interesting defense,” the chief editor said thoughtfully. “Thank you, sir.” The chief editor offered his hand again, and Michael took it without hesitation, and the photograph of a boy on a tall horse, a mounted child of the Colorado mountains, horseback in the middle of a major newspaper’s newsroom, shaking hands with a grandfatherly-looking chief editor, made the front page of the afternoon edition. Not an hour later, in a hospital corridor on the Confederate world of Tortuga, a clutch of nursing students were gathered around a still-warm, just-printed newspaper, an edition held open by several hands: there were murmurs, abbreviated gestures: the paper crackled a little as delicate, feminine fingers gripped the fold, pulled it down, as a pair of pale eyes under a winged cap looked at them and asked gently, “Something interesting?” The students swung around, surrendered the paper to their mentor: they were clustered around her like chicks in blue-and-white pinstriped dresses, more watching Angela than looking at their just-abandoned publication. Knowing glances shot across the small space between them: a voice whispered, “She’ll say it!” and more heads than one nodded in agreement. Angela’s pale eyes ran through the article, tightened a little at the corners, they way they did when she was pleased: she nodded a little, looked long at the picture, at the image of a young boy in blue jeans and a Stetson, astride a spotty, bored-looking, tail-slashing Appaloosa mare, in the middle of a crowded newsroom, with clerks, reporters, secretaries and a photographer openly staring: the boy was in an agreeable handclasp with an up-reaching older man: beneath the photograph, the caption, “Young deputy sets the record straight.” Angela knew her brother was not a deputy, she knew he would not falsely identify himself as such: from the article, she knew he’d come to give due credit to the jurisdictional constabulary. Angela folded the paper, handed it back with one hand, cupped her hand over her mouth with the other. “Well?” one of her clinical students prompted. “Say it!” Angela laughed, thrust a chin at the newspaper and declared, “Show-off!” Edited March 19 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 3 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 19 Author Share Posted March 19 THEY'RE SAFE Sheriff Jacob Keller squinted against the smoke burning his eyes. His son, William Linn, grabbed a sawed chunk, rolled it up against the rain barrel, stepped up and onto the barrel's rim. Jacob turned, surprised, not expecting to hear a splash, not expecting to see water rolling over the rim as his son jumped in, fully dressed: William Linn squatted as far as he could, seized the rim, launched out. He ran for the doorway, shoved his Pa aside, disappeared into the hot hell of the burning cabin. "DAMMIT GET BACK HERE!" Jacob bellowed, ripping the wild rag from around his neck: he strode over to the rainbarrel, thrust the wadded wild rag into the restless water, brought it out, tied it across his face -- He turned at the sound of coughing, saw a pair of steaming, wet legs scissoring rapidly under a smoking, skirted figure bent over his shoulders: Jacob's son -- thirteen years old now, a man grown in Jacob's day, pale eyed and skinny and near as tall as his Pa -- scuttled rapidly away from the cabin, bent over, rolled the coughing, gasping girl off onto the ground: he turned, squinting, ran back toward the doorway. "NO!" Jacob shouted, realizing with honest surprise he was shouting his fear: he kicked himself that his son showed more sand than he -- Jacob bent over double, somehow knowing the smoke was a little less thick, the air a little less hot, than if he'd gone in upright -- He tripped, nearly fell over something that wasn't entirely solid. Jacob squatted, gripped cloth, felt the body within: a good double handful of material, he turned, toward the fuzzy rectangle that was the doorway, half-carrying, half-dragging something, or someone -- William Linn reached over the bed, reaching, found nothing: he dropped to the floor, swung his arm under the rope bed. It was hot, hot, the air was foul and seared his throat, the soaky wet double thickness of cloth over his face was drying out fast and he wanted to get OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT, and he remembered what it was to be scared and alone and in trouble of his own making and God's grace alone got him out of that one and he was DAMNED! if he was going to leave ANYONE in this place and it on fire -- He found a hand, gripped a wrist, heard a whimper: he seized a forearm, pulled, he shifted backward, turned and braced his boots against the solid side of the bed, felt water run out of his boot tops and up his pants leg, he pulled, dragged someone out from under the rope bed -- William laid down and rolled toward whoever this was, he pulled an arm over him, rolled whoever this was, over atop him, then he saw light yonder and made for the light, the white light that meant outside, not the dirty fast moving yellow hell boilin' overhead -- William Linn, son of Jacob, grandson of Old Pale Eyes, shot through the doorway like an insane crab, running hard on two knees and one scraped and bloodied palm, a singed, soot-faced little girl laid over on top of him: he got her other arm, pulled her arms over his shoulders like he was shouldering into a backpack, he ran on his knees until he could get one boot under him, then he come up on his feet and ran into his father. Jacob seized his son and the burden and yelled "I'VE GOT HER!" and William turned, coughing, looked back at the cabin just as the roof fell in with a gout of flame and sparks and a cloud of smoke and fire rolling up toward the clear blue heavens. William Linn heard running feet, heard men's shouts. He bent over, coughing, fell against his Pa's belly, collapsed to his hands and knees, then to his elbows and his knees: he rolled over on his side, head thrown back, gasping, coughing, trying to squint some tears back into his eyes. He didn't realize the tears and the snot were both running. All he knew was it was hard to breathe, his throat was on fire, someone shoved something smooth and round into his hands and he tilted the canteen up and dumped it over his face, into his eyes, into his open mouth. Jacob Keller watched as a man and his near-grown son, just in from the fields, embraced his wife and his daughters, none of them not looking at what used to be a solid and well built house. If they were missing anyone they'd be looking at the fire. Jacob gripped his son's shivering shoulder and called to the kneeling, clustered family, "Is anyone missing?" "No," came the reply, "we're all here," and the family held one another, their heads leaned in and touching, every one of them with a double armful of what was important. William Linn rolled over, squinted up at his Pa. "Are they safe?" he asked, coughed, turned his head, spat, asked again: "Pa, are they safe?" Jacob nodded, gripping the canteen with bloodless fingers. "They're safe," he said. "You got them all out." 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 20 Author Share Posted March 20 (edited) TESTIFY! “May it please the court.” The prosecutor looked to his right, surprised: he hadn’t noticed the visitor – How did I miss her? I always look carefully – How --? “Ambassador Marnie Keller, deputy Ambassador for the Confederacy, Ambassador-at-Large for the planet Mars.” “Madam Ambassador,” His Honor the Judge said gravely, “be welcome at our proceedings.” The Ambassador nodded formally, dropped a very ladylike curtsy, glided forward into the space between the Bench and the Tables. “If it please the Court,” she said, her words pleasant, pitched to be heard clearly, “the Diplomatic Service would answer any questions pertaining to the recent unpleasantness. I understand these proceedings are convened for that purpose.” “They are, Madam Ambassador.” “Mister Prosecutor, I understand you wish to call Michael Keller to the stand.” The prosecutor rose, swallowed: this was a complication he had not expected, and he had the sudden feeling that, whatever argument he might put forth, he was going to lose. “Madam Ambassador, that is my intent.” An Iris dilated behind the Ambassador. This was the very first time in the history of the entire planet that anyone, ever, rode a horse into the courtroom. The Ambassador turned, palm extended: she caressed the mare’s nose, smiling as the peppermint was lipped off her flat palm. Michael Keller dismounted, ran a hand under the mare’s neck: she turned, he whispered something to her, and she re-entered the Iris, and was gone. Michael removed his cover, placed it very correctly under his off arm: he wore a black suit, carefully tailored to his young frame: he looked up at his big sister, who winked reassuringly, turned, glided back to her seat. Michael turned to face the prosecutor. “Sir,” he said formally, “how can I help you?” The prosecutor rose. “Your Honor, I wish to have the witness sworn!” “Objection,” Marnie called, rising: “the Diplomatic Service is not here as a defendant, simply as a clarifier of fact!” “Sustained,” His Honor declared without hesitation, then looked at the confident young man standing almost directly in front of the Bench. “Young man,” he said quietly, “please speak frankly.” Michael turned, looked very directly at the Judge and replied, “I understand, sir.” He turned back. “Mister Prosecutor, I will ask you one more time, sir, how can I help you?” “I understand you were present when shots were fired on our peaceful city street.” “Your street was not peaceful, sir. Your police had not yet arrived, and men were shooting at each other and at anyone they saw.” “And you shot them.” “No, sir. I shot one of them. I ran over another, as did my sister.” “Your sister – she is as cold a murderess as you?” the prosecutor challenged, hoping to rattle this composed … child! “Objection!” Michael smiled, held up a hand, turned back to the prosecutor. “No murder was done, sir,” he corrected, “and unless you need spectacles, I believe it is quite evident that I am of the male persuasion.” Marnie held her breath, while quiet laughter rippled through the jury, through the gallery: even the Judge smiled behind a concealing hand. Her coaching was bearing fruit, but her brother was only ten years old: he was very evidently his father’s son, but how long could he continue being so well-spoken? “Your Honor!” the prosecutor protested. His Honor raised a forestalling palm. “As the Ambassador pointed out, Master Keller is not here as a defendant.” “Your Honor!” The Judge smacked his gavel against the sounding-block. The Prosecutor looked like he’d bitten into a sour pickle, closed his mouth on unspoken protest. Michael waited. “Young man,” His Honor said, “I believe you were a firsthand witness to all that transpired.” “Yes, Your Honor.” “Could you tell us, in your own words, what you saw that night.” “Sir, our father bade us ride on ahead while he tended the formal reception. We were told to follow the street straight into the middle of beautiful downtown, and we’d know where to stop.” “Where did you stop?” “Sir, we heard gunshots – we heard one, a few, then several. “We knew it was hitting the fan. “I looked at Victoria and she looked at me, we reached down and pulled our Winchesters and we rode to the sound of the guns.” His Honor raised a hand, frowning. “Is this the kind of thing children do on your … world? Ride to the sound of the guns?” Michael raised his chin, his jaw firm. “Sir, it is what my family does.” “I see. And … who is your family?” “If I may, Your Honor.” “Madam Ambassador?” Marnie stepped forward, a thin rectangle in her gloved hands: she came up beside her younger brother, tapped the screen she held, swiped, tapped again. The courtroom disappeared. Each living soul in that courtroom was suddenly alone, watching, each one a lone spectator. Two men, horseback, faced one another on an empty dirt street. One drew a Bowie; the other, a curved Cavalry saber. Their horses began to walk toward one another, then trot. They saw a lean-waisted man with pale eyes, a cavalry saber and a determined expression, a man wearing a six point star: as they watched, the star grew until they could read the word SHERIFF across its equator. The viewpoint shifted, swung behind the man with the Bowie knife, to an ambusher, behind a dead horse, raising a rifle, obviously aiming at the advancing Sheriff. “This is Sheriff Linn Keller, Firelands County, Colorado,” the Ambassador’s voice said, quietly, and each ear heard it as if she were speaking with them personally: “he rides into single combat with the leader of the gang that just failed to take the town. “This” – the view shifted – a red-headed woman ran forward, off the Boardwalk, slapped a palm on the hitch-rail, vaulted it as easily as a schoolgirl: she dipped, snatched up a dropped Winchester rifle, snapped it to shoulder and fired and fired and fired again, advancing until the rifle was empty, then swinging it hard by the barrel, broke the stock off on what used to be an ambusher’s head: again and again she swung the rifle, driving the bloodied receiver into a crushed, red ruin, until she threw the broken implement to the ground, bent at the waist and screamed at the unmoving, very dead carcass, “NOBODY SHOOTS MY HUSBAND!” “Esther Keller,” Marnie’s voice said, “wife of the first Sheriff Linn Keller.” Another pale eyed man in a black suit, seizing a man’s wrist, twisting it back. A heavy-bladed knife fell to the ground: callused hands seized collar and crotch, raised a yelling, fighting drunk overhead, drove him face first into a water-filled horse trough. More images: a pale eyed woman in a blotchy uniform, her cheekbone scraped, bleeding, running through the dark, firing a rifle, then swinging it, using its butt, its bayonet to deadly effect: an explosion, she flew through the air, twisted, landed flat on her back in the blast crater: she drew a pistol, fired, fired again, until it was empty, then pulled a knife and screamed, “COME AND GET ME, DAMN YOU!” “Sheriff Willamina Keller,” Marnie’s voice said, “mine and Michael's grandmother.” A pale-eyed boy now, running through the Sheriff’s jail block, shouldering into the empty inner office, busting the glass from a display frame and yanking out a revolver older than he was: a boy about Michael’s age who ran out the front of the Sheriff’s office, where a pale eyed woman was falling backward, debris flying from her chest: the boy spun around, raised the revolver, fired, six fast but obviously deliberately aimed rounds. “This was the assassination attempt on the same Sheriff Willamina Keller,” Marnie said. “Her son Linn – Michael’s father, and mine – was Michael’s age when he used his dead grandfather’s service revolver to kill the would-be assassin.” The view melted, shifted, coalesced: a young woman planted her boots very deliberately on either side of the painted center line, a Winchester rifle in hand: she raised it, pale eye steady behind the tang mounted peep. Everyone in the courtroom was looking through the peep sight, every eye saw the gold bead on the windshield of the approaching, fast moving vehicle, every eye saw the string of police cruisers screaming in pursuit. They saw her finger close about the trigger. They saw her dive to the side just after the rifle recoiled, they saw her hit the ground, roll, saw her come up on her feet, whistle: a shining-black horse came over and she thrust a boot into the stirrup, waited until three lights-flashing, sirens-screaming, screaming traction vehicles streaked past, then galloped in pursuit. “That,” Marnie said, “is me.” She paused. “That was me, right after I killed the man who’d just killed our Chief of Police, or so I’d been told.” Another image: two mares, their ears laid back, blasting out of a wall of steam, two matched Appaloosas with pale eyed young riders, rifles in hand, charging the combatants who turned, startled, just in time to be run into, run over: two riot-trained Western war-horses spun, one rearing, screaming a hoof-driving challenge, the other swapping ends, dancing as delicately as a ballerina, right before two rifles came up, right before a youthful voice shouted “DROP THE WEAPON OR I DROP YOU!” – right before a pistol was swung wildly, brought to bear in their direction, right before two rifles spoke and the image froze, capturing the look of surprise on a man’s face as his pistol parted company from his grip, hung in mid-air. The scene changed one last time. The final image was a still shot. It showed an Appaloosa mare, her haunches down, the intervening braided-leather line taut, vibrating, between the saddlehorn and a man in mid-air, knees bent, still trying to run, arms pinned to his side. “The two who were run over,” Marnie said as the images disappeared, as everyone felt a moment’s disorientation at finding themselves in a courtroom once more, “are in hospital. They will live, they have given their testimony. Rather than shooting all who were involved, only one – only the one who posed imminent deadly threat to the community at large – died that night.” Marnie turned, glided back to her seat, sat. Michael Keller looked slowly around, looked very directly at the prosecutor, turned, and looked at the Judge. “Will there be anything else, sir?” “Counselor?” “No … no questions, Your Honor.” “The Court thanks the Ambassadorial Service for their … clarification,” the Judge said carefully. Marnie rose, glided forward: she stopped, curtsied to the Judge: “The Ambassadorial Service is most pleased to extend any aid and assistance possible.” The Iris opened – black, silent – Michael and Marnie turned as two horses, one spotted Appaloosa mare and one truly huge Frisian with fuzzy feet – paced sedately into the courtroom. The Prosecutor rose. “Did you bring that rifle into this courtroom?” he demanded. Michael ignored him, thrust a well polished Wellington boot into the doghouse stirrup. “Are you armed?” the prosecutor challenged. Marnie and Michael mounted together, as smoothly coordinated as if they’d rehearsed the move. Marnie turned, walked her shining-black Frisian through the Iris. Michael looked at the prosecutor. “Sir,” he said, “if I were buck naked, I would still be armed with the most effective weapon known to man.” He turned his mare – the Winchester rifle was plainly visible in its carved, background dyed scabbard – and Michael reached up, touched his forehead. “I have my mind, sir, and the mind is the one most formidable weapon ever devised.” He grinned – suddenly, boyishly, and added, “My Pa taught me that!” A prepubescent boy in a handmade black suit, astride an Appaloosa mare, rode through the Iris, disappeared. Edited March 20 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 21 Author Share Posted March 21 A STATEMENT I reached under my coat tail and pulled a loaded magazine free, handed it to Michael. “Trade ya.” Michael blinked pale eyes, swallowed: he reached into a hip pocket, pulled out a magazine. I traded him my full mag for one that was two rounds shy of empty. “Michael,” I said quietly, “you asked if you could bring a pistol, and I told you no.” “Yes, sir.” “You disobeyed me.” “Yes, sir.” “You action was deliberate and willful.” “Yes, sir.” I looked past him, at the still-moving forms of multiple rock snakes, the smallest of which was the diameter of Michael’s thigh. I looked my ten year old son very directly in the eye. “Michael,” I said quietly, firmly, “you did the right thing.” “Yes, sir,” Michael agreed solemnly. “I did.” Things had been … strenuous … back home. Marnie and Angela both suggested we take some vacation time. Unwind, relax, see some sights, meet new people. Relax. Shelly shooed us along, telling us she’d enjoy having some peace and quiet around the house, she’d have the usual suspects clean horse stalls and tend feed and other chores, go on, get out from underfoot, and so we did. We rode a vast and grassy plain on a planet with a green sky, rode what looked like horses, if you ignored their fangs and their the spiral fighting horn growing out the middle of their heavy-boned, slightly-oversized heads; we climbed mountains not so different from the mountains back home, pulled lumps of gold from streams – fist-sized lumps so common as to be ignored by locals, lumps we carefully squirreled away and sent back home – we sat for speeches and receptions, we ate food flavored with absolutely foreign spices (to their credit, my children did not “Yuck Patooey” when encountering something completely new to them!) – and finally we stood on a poured-concrete overlook that gave us a genuinely frightening, absolutely breathtaking view of a waterfall that made the famous Niagara look like a leaky faucet – both in river’s width, and in the depth of its plunge. The noise alone was truly spectacular, more felt than heard, as if all of Creation were cascading into an eternal, infinite abyss. I stood in awe, gazed at the falling waters, the rising mists, reveled in this raw, natural POWER!, and I honestly felt pretty damned small, leaning against that grey painted pipe railing and watching this magnificent cascade, with a big idiot grin on my face. Michael and Victoria, typical ten-year-old children, looked at it, accepted it, then scampered back away from the circular viewing area: they gripped the bottom pipe rail, did an acrobat’s dive to the coarse rocks below, ran toward the water’s edge. Two laughing children, looking out over the smooth, almost oily surface of the water, the artificial smoothness that only occurs right before a waterfall: Michael found a flat rock, hauled back, skipped the stone across. Victoria chose a smaller stone, threw it harder, got six skips to Michael’s five. Marnie stood beside me, leaning forward, her eyes closed: she told me later she imagined she was at the prow of a great and powerful ship, blasting its way through hostile, dark waters on some vital mission. We barely heard the first two gunshots. I turned – automatically I turned to cover what was directly behind me, my hand knifed under my unbuttoned coat, I was cussing myself for relaxing, for letting my guard down, I never do that, I NEVER do that – a warden was running toward us, shotgun in hand, looking out over the rail: he started to raise the gun, hesitated. From the look on his face I knew there was trouble and plenty of it, and I was right. Michael’s arms were driven forward, he was firing steadily – I remember how the fired hulls spun, golden in the sunlight, then he swept Victoria behind him with his off hand, swung, fired again: Victoria ran a hand under his coat tail, grabbed the back of his belt: she went forward, toward us; he walked backward, firing: Victoria was his eyes, Michael was the tail gunner, as they exercised a strategic retreat from multiple approaching enemy. The warden swung his shotgun, fired, fired again: I was over the railing, landed on the only flat rock available, jumped from one to another, snatched Victoria up and turned. I don’t remember levitating but I got from that big heavy rock fill up onto the platform in a tenth of a second or less. Still have no idea how I got under that bottom rail with Victoria, but Marnie tells me that’s what I did, some kind of a twisting dive: she seized Victoria, pulled her up onto the broad, textured cement walkway. Michael continued to back toward me, pistol in both hands again: he swung, fired, lowered his aim, fired again. Something broad and dark moved close to his right boot: his hand dropped, he fired twice, quickly. His hand went under his coat, came out with a boxy black pistol magazine: I watched as he dropped the partly-empty mag into his hand, thrust in the full replacement, thumbed the partial into a hip pocket. He turned, looked at me, swept his eyes across, then in one smooth, well-coordinated move, he holstered, jumped, grabbed that bottom pipe railing, swung his legs up and thrust himself onto the concrete walkway. The warden swung his shotgun down and fired where Michael had just been, and blew a bloody hole in something flat, black, and coffin shaped, with a charge of heavy shot. I grabbed Michael around the waist, Victoria around hers, surged to my feet, and I did my level best to make Jesse Owens look like a cripple. Marnie ran with us. I did not have to look to know she had a weapon in hand, that she ran half-sideways, her own pistol pointed behind us, covering any danger that may seek to follow. The warden ran backwards, shotgun up and at the ready: we made it to the paved parking area, stopped. “They won’t leave the rocks,” the warden shouted over the waterfall’s roar: he thrust his gun at Marnie, dropped to his knees, snatched up Victoria’s skirt: “Are you bit?” It is not a usual thing for a stranger to lift my little girl’s skirt and regard her leg closely, and to this day I do not know why I did not try to kick his head off his shoulders. Maybe it’s because he shouted “DID IT BREAK YOUR SKIN?” in a voice little removed from a full scream of utter panic. Marnie went to her knees beside him: she looked, bobbed her head left and right, turned Victoria a little, looked again, then lowered her skirt, gripped the warden’s shoulder. The man had no color left in his face, his lips were white, his eyes looked like boiled eggs, he swayed a little and nearly fell. We got him back to the steam-brougham before his legs failed him altogether. Michael stood facing the waterfall, pistol in hand. Marnie had his shotgun held at the ready: she paced to the side a little, pale eyes busy. The warden half-sat, half-fell back against the steam-brougham’s front tire. I handed him a flask and he tilted it up, took a long swallow, another, then he handed it back, seized my wrist. “The girl,” he shouted. “Is she bitten?” I shook my head: his hand tightened, then released, his chin dropped to his chest and the hand that had seized my wrist, clapped itself over his face, and he abandoned himself to the racking sobs of a man suddenly plunged into an abysmal, soul-devouring grief. It took us a while to get the story out of him. His daughter had been Victoria’s age. His children were only newly arrived to this continent. Nobody thought to warn them to stay off the rocks here: rock snakes grew to the thickness of a man’s thigh, their poison was potent and irreversible: his daughter, being a happy, laughing child, was skipping rocks as mine had been, when the vibration of jumping from one rock to another brought out the hungry predators. His daughter had been bitten. He described how it poisoned her blood, how despite immediate transfusion of her entire blood volume, it had not been enough; how the poison was not only hemotoxic, but also neurotoxic, how it attacked the nerves behind her eyes first, and then her spine, and then the brain itself: he blamed himself for her death, and when he saw Michael reacting to the emergence of a huge snake, when his first two rounds went into its coffin-shaped head just as it drew back into a fighting S to make its strike – the snake’s head swung forward, as if bowed in a prayer of gratitude at this easy meal -- but with two rounds through its brain, all it did was raise its head and knock Victoria off her feet – the Warden ran up at the top of his lungs, and he and Michael both fought a rear guard action as more of the venomous vipers came out of the rocks, looking for an easy meal. Michael and I had a talk afterward. He’d asked me about bringing his pistol along on this vacation trip. I’d told him no – he could bring his rifle, as it was a well engraved presentation piece, and it might do to show off something of the kind, but the idea of what many would see as a child, with a sidearm, might not be well received. Michael disobeyed me. Michael intentionally and deliberately disobeyed. His disobedience meant his sister was alive – his disobedience probably meant he was alive as well. We sat together and talked quietly, once we’d returned to guest quarters, and I told him that – under law – it is not illegal to refuse an unlawful order, and that sometimes the right thing to do is to disobey. “My Mama told me American soldiers are some of the most effective in the world, because when they see an opportunity, they take it,” I added. “Other nations’ militaries will follow orders, they’ll advance to a location and stop and wait for orders to advance again. If a bunch of hell raising Americans get to the stop point and they can take another objective – or they can strike a critical blow – they’ll do it on their own hook.” I pulled Michael’s mostly depleted magazine from my hip pocket, looked at it. “Two rounds left,” I said. “Yes, sir.” “I don’t think you missed any.” “No, sir.” “Michael, I want you to remember my handing you a full magazine and trading you for this mostly empty.” “Yes, sir.” “When you become a man of authority, you will have need to express confidence in someone.” My voice was quiet, the voice of a father in a teaching moment. I could have raised hell with him for his disobedience. I could have lowered the boom. I chose instead to teach. “You will need to show them you trust them, in spite of whatever happened.” “Yes, sir.” “I did that when I gave you a full magazine, and did not demand you surrender your pistol.” “Yes, sir.” Michael did remember that day, and he did have occasion to express such confidence in someone under his command, but that was not for many years, in a place far from where father and son sat, talking in quite voice, two pale eyed men wearing tailored black suits, two men who wore a discreetly concealed sidearm as naturally as they wore their trousers. 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 22 Author Share Posted March 22 (edited) WHEN CAN WE START I’d seen my Mama do that. Mama had a gift with the young, a gift my Pa lacked entirely. Mama could sit down with anyone’s child, didn’t matter who, she could talk with them and regard them as seriously as she would an adult. Children need that. Children need an adult that can let them be a child. They also need an adult who will recognize when the child is not being a child. Marnie was doing that, as was Angela. Neither one used that saccharine voice, that artificial smile, that condescending attitude that is too often laid over children like a stifling pastel blanket, holding them down, keeping them in their place. I did not find out for a little while what this earnest conversation entailed. I am not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I am not entirely unintelligent. I know Victoria was troubled, and I know when the ladies drew apart and held a feminine conference, it was time to stay the hell out of their way. Michael and I retreated to a lonely place, a place where he and I ran pistol drills, reaction drills, where we both worked on transition drills, moving from one falling plate to another, clearing a rack of plates fast enough the first hadn’t fallen clear over before the sixth was beginning to fall. Michael and I practiced something new, something different: targets close in, on the ground, as he’d never been faced with such a practice run as he’d had to handle when those rock snakes came at him. Michael and I made discreet inquiry with the local constabulary, we asked their help in what I called a minor investigation, strictly unofficial, off the record: they were able to confirm that the Warden who’d described his daughter’s demise, after she was bitten there by the falls, where Michael and Victoria had been playing – that yes, he’d had a daughter, yes, she was dead; his daughter had indeed been bitten by a rock snake, it had bitten high up on her thigh: I reviewed the coroner’s report, and it did indeed corroborate the man’s story. I handed the report back, thanked the file clerk for her kindness. The constabulary, of course, already knew about our little adventure, and to a man they told Michael and I both that we were just pretty damned lucky Michael was able to brainshoot the first one, the one that was launching to bite Victoria. They also said, and it ran cold water right down my back bone when they did, that the only place to put an effective pistol shot, was a one inch by inch-and-a-half depression on top of their skull, two-thirds of the way back – draw a straight line across the broadest part of their coffin shaped head, then strike a line down the midline – where the two cross, you’ve a spot the size of two thumbnails where you can slip in a bullet. I did not inquire the construction of their bullets, nor their velocity: it’s possible our duty ammunition penetrates better – but when it counted, just as the rock snake was ready to flip its head up and drive forward for a killing bite – Michael was able to put lead through its brain and stop the jaws from opening. Michael was silent through most of this. His eyes told us he was listening, and listening intently, but he offered no spontaneous comment, confining himself to very brief, very polite answers if directly addressed. Michael did tell me later that one of the constables offered a quiet-voiced opinion to his fellow that he – Michael – was someone he – the constable -- would not want to face, as Michael had already killed a man and worse than a man, and under greater pressure than the speaker faced in his entire career. We returned to the ladies, just in time for the noonday meal. As guests – as diplomatic guests – we were afforded a rather elaborate meal: we ate with a good appetite, we ate with good company, and if you have an old joke but a new audience … well, I stood and asked Victoria for “a good Baptist blessing,” and she stood up and confidently declared, “Okay, Daddy. I speak fluent Baptist!” It was after the meal, after the obligatory but mercifully brief speeches, after I expressed our personal thanks for the hospitalities and kindnesses we’d been shown, there was one of the inevitable, spontaneous lulls in conversation, just as someone beside me offered a comment, and what was intended as a personal remark was inadvertently magnified. A dignified older man shook my hand and said approvingly, “Sheriff, you have a truly remarkable family!” I looked at my daughter, the Ambassador, known and respected throughout the Thirteen Confederated Star Systems; I looked at my daughter, the Nurse, the most famous nurse in all of the far-flung Confederacy; my youngest two, made suddenly famous through no desire of theirs: I looked at all them, and they looked back at me, and I swallowed kind of hard as I realized this man was right. He was right. I thanked the man and told him that yes, and I am pretty damned proud of them, and the man beamed his approval: not an hour later, in the privacy of the diplomatic shuttle, Victoria sat beside me and gripped my hand. She was frowning a little, the way I’d seen her Mama frown when she was arranging her thoughts. I waited. “Daddy,” she finally said, “Michael kept me alive.” “Yes, Sweets,” I said gently. “He did.” “Daddy, if Michael hadn’t been there, I would be dead.” I felt my other daughters’ eyes on me as I replied quietly, “Yes, darlin’, that’s true.” “Daddy, I don’t want to be helpless like that ever again.” Marnie spoke up just as Angela opened her mouth to reply. “Victoria, you’re ten now?” Victoria looked at her big sister, nodded. “Angela, how old were we when we started training with the Valkyries?” Angela considered for a moment. “I think I was ten.” “I know I was.” Marnie looked at her youngest sister. “Victoria, would you like to learn how to really fight like a girl?” I would honestly have felt better if Victoria’s face would have brightened with delight, if she’d have clapped her little hands together and jumped up and down and declared “Goody goody gumdrops!” like a normal little girl would. She didn’t. My littlest girl looked at me with pale eyes and then looked at her sisters with pale eyes, her expression as serious and as unexpectedly mature as her voice. “When can we start?” Edited March 22 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 22 Author Share Posted March 22 AN UNEVENTFUL NIGHT AT THE OPERA-HOUSE Men in fine suits and ladies in fine gowns filed into the opera house. Outside, carriages pulled up under the gas lights: one carriage saw a tall man, lean-waisted, with an iron grey mustache, disembark. Most of the men there waited for a lackey to run up with a step-stool for the lady to use: this man reached in, took his wife under the arms, hoist her easily up, and out, and swung her around, and down, her skirt flaring as he did. A green-eyed beauty gave her husband a look, open, unashamed: he raised her gloved hand, kissed her knuckles, and for a moment, only they two existed, and those women who saw this, felt envy, or jealousy, or disappointment: the look they saw pass between a red-headed woman in a fine gown, and a pale-eyed man in a tailored black suit, was the kind of look a woman dreams of. Husband and wife turned, walked with a stately pace into the grand and very well appointed Opera House. Ahead of them, a commotion: an individual who was not quite as well dressed, pushed his way between couples, obviously in a hurry: behind him, a shout: “STOP, THIEF!” A pale eyed man’s hand shot out, seized the runner by the throat, squeezed. The fleeing felon stopped, grabbed the coat-sleeved arm, clawed at the hard hand strangling off his wind, trying desperately to dislodge the grip empurpling his face and hazing his vision. A uniformed carriage-driver raised a tubular silver whistle to his lips, blew, then swore at his startled horse. A woman’s despairing cry, a wailing, “My necklace! My brooch!” A uniformed police officer ran up, saw a man being strangled: the city policeman raised his wooden truncheon, stopped when a hard arm took him around the neck, as a knee drove into his back and pulled his spine backward into a painful curve, as something cold and alarmingly hard drove into his ear, as something thunderously loud and distinctly metallic went clickity-click-clack-click-CLACK and he realized someone just screwed a pistol barrel into his ear and brought the hammer back to full stand. The lean-waisted man with a handful of another man’s throat, spoke quietly to his wife, turned: he reached up, turned his lapel over to display a six point star, with the word SHERIFF hand-chased across its equator: he turned a little more, shoved the choking man into the policeman’s arms. The arm released from the officer’s throat, the pistol barrel was withdrawn, a woman ran up, bristling like a Banty hen, screeching “THERE HE IS! THIEF! YOU STOLE MY NECKLACE, YOU SEIZED MY BROOCH!” – she snatched something shiny from the coughing, choking prisoner’s slackened grip. A well-dressed young woman with an elaborate hairdo and pale eyes, stepped back from where she’d had an arm around the officer’s neck: she turned, slipped her bulldog .44 into a concealed pocket in her voluminous skirt, and disappeared into the gawking, neck-craning crowd. Those present, those staring folk in fine clothing and startled expressions, moved aside as husband and wife continued on into the opera house, continued as if nothing was the least bit out of the ordinary. As they entered their reserved box seats, the woman looked at her husband with admiring eyes and murmured, “I did so want to do something enjoyable for your birthday, my dear.” Sheriff Linn Keller smiled, raised his wife’s gloved knuckles to his lips: his eyes were a light blue, and smiling, something few people save his beautiful bride and his children ever saw: she felt his lips press warm and firm against the gloves’ thin material, heard his gentlemanly murmur. “My dear, I do so enjoy an uneventful night at the opera!” 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 23 Author Share Posted March 23 (edited) ANOTHER NIGHT AT THE OPERA The original opera house was constructed with more good intentions than expertise. Two more arose on the foundations of the original, each one a little better designed, a little better made: architects learned from mistakes, from failures, from a partial collapse, most of a century earlier: this was the most recent version, three stories aboveground and two, belowground: it was home to presentations, theatre, orchestra and stage performances, and tonight it would feature a presentation that time, and changing tastes, had largely forgotten. The music was vaguely familiar, at least to those whose profession was music: its seminal tune was from “Orpheus in the Underworld,” but the music was part of a dance performance. French in nature, if memory served, or so conversations went: originally four women on stage, at least in its original presentation, though tonight's performance would involve many more than this meager performing population. Lively, bouncy, energetic, with flashing, stockinged legs, colorful layers of petticoats, ruffled layers thrown vigorously left, right, and otherwise, and distinguished guests for tonight’s performance, guaranteed a packed house. These particular guests included dignitaries from Offworld. The obligatory hover-camera swung to the private box: an Ambassador in her trademark McKenna gown, a well-known Nurse, looking quite lovely in a matching McKenna, an honest to God Earth-Western Sheriff, dignified in an iron-grey mustache and a severe, black, carefully tailored suit, and two equally well-dressed children, pale-eyed and unsmiling as they stood beside their father for the floating camera’s silent inspection. These distinguished guests held properly solemn expressions, at least until the camera was off them: protocol dictated that, once so viewed, they would not be subject to the intrusive eye again. Linn turned, looked at Marnie. “You’re not going to, are you?” he asked quietly. Marnie smiled: she turned without rising, ducked and was gone. “Don’t worry, Daddy,” Angela said. “You know what she’s like.” “Yeah,” Linn sighed. “I know.” It took a few more minutes for the theatre to finish filling, for the lights to lower: the conductor looked young, eager, energetic: his baton came up, as did his free hand. The entire theater held its breath. Victoria’s eyes were big, eager, anticipating; Michael, on his father’s left, reached into his own tailored black coat and brought out a compact set of binoculars, raised them. Linn saw his young fingers turn the focus wheel, saw his son’s face change as he smiled. Michael always smiled when the image came into focus. Angela felt Victoria’s breath catch as the music started, as the full power of a skilled orchestra filled the theatre, as Angela felt her spirit caught up in the bright, bouncy, energizing Can-Can. The InterSystem normally paid little attention to local cultural efforts, save only if there was something unusual or interesting. The attendance of both an Ambassador, and the most famous nurse in thirteen star systems, plus their genuine Western Sheriff father, all at the same time … well, that was unusual, that was newsworthy. The long, burgundy curtains shivered, withdrew to thunderous applause, the hover-cameras floating down, stopped. The dancers were already on stage, dancing as they ran: they flowed from left to right, turned, formed a living oval of motion, smiling and swinging their petticoats as they did. The hover-cameras made a several second long, left to right pan of the stage, of the dancers in feathered glitter masks and voluminous, colorful petticoats, of high-kicking, stockinged legs. It was the first time the Can-Can was danced on this Confederate world, and it was met with an absolute roar of approval as the entire audience rose, pounding their palms together in delighted approval. The members of the reserved box seats rose as well, applauded: Angela put two fingers to her lips, whistled: Michael’s binoculars went back into his coat pocket so he could applaud with both hands, and Victoria bounced happily on her toes, eyes shining as she pattered her gloved palms together. It was not a lengthy performance, but it was a very well executed performance: the dancers were vigorous, at once graceful, and athletic: the dignitaries in the reserved box seats studied the smiling glitter-masks, seeking, wondering: it was not until the performance was ended, not until Marnie’s return to the box by some invisible means – flushed, breathing deeply, obviously pleased with herself – that any there knew with certainty where Marnie actually was. The performance continued; there was more music, there were more performers, but the success of the initial number, the enthusiastic approval of the audience's applause, guaranteed it would be performed again. Those watching the InterSystem afterwards, saw the distinguished guests as they departed: laughing, relaxed, having very obviously enjoyed the show, they mingled briefly with a designated few of the dancers in the reception area, drinking from delicate crystal, long-stemmed glasses, laughing. None thought it out of the ordinary that the youngest of the dignitaries, the little girl in a knee length dress, carried one of the glitter-masks as if she’d been given a grand treasure. Edited March 23 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 23 Author Share Posted March 23 TWISTHORN An apple-cheeked girl screeched with childish delight as her mount drove, all hooves and thunder and speed in the cold wind, leaned out in a full-on gallop across a high mountain meadow. Hooves and pink nose and shining white tail, a denim skirt and healthy pink cheeks and even teeth, and an absolutely delighted expression: there is genuine magic when a rider is well matched with her mount, there is a melding of spirit and of will and any fortunate enough to witness such a moment, can genuinely appreciate the belief of natives – upon first seeing mounted Spaniards – that this was a new creature, neither man, nor horse, but one living flesh. A pale eyed girl’s delight brings the heart to rejoice, but such delight is too often short lived, and this was. Her mount looked mostly like a horse. Where the Appaloosa she’d ridden, back home, had a head beautifully sculpted and perfectly proportioned to their bodies, this one had a shorter, stronger neck, the head was larger, with a twisting ivory horn driving out from its heavy, bone-armored forehead. Victoria did not know it, but she was astride a stallion that forgot entirely about the young life on its back: a more primitive fire raged in its neo-equine heart: it turned, suddenly, then turned back, reared, screaming, hooves slashing the air, an invitation to war. Across the meadow, another of its kind, as large, as fast, and behind it, a clutch of mares: the stallions had fighting fangs and spiral horns, the mares had bony nubs: challenger and defender screamed, postured, shook their heads, threatened with a display of shining-black forehooves. Victoria clung to the saddle, her eyes big, a look of expectant delight on her ten year old face. She had absolutely no idea why her white horsie was acting like this. All she knew was, he was fast, he was powerful, he was fun! “Where’s Victoria?” Linn looked around, frowning. Their guide looked to the corral, opened his mouth. “Sheriff,” he said, “I think she’s in trouble.” Linn’s eyes went dead white. Linn turned, looked at his daughter, nodded. Marnie lifted her wrist-unit, tapped a command, spoke quietly: an Iris appeared, the Sheriff strode through it, disappeared. Marnie looked back toward the empty corral, the barely-open gate, looked at their guide. “A stallion, you said?” The guide nodded. “I thought she’d just ride around inside the corral.” “What lies beyond?” Marnie thrust her chin toward the high country. “The herd.” “Herd?” Marnie echoed, took a step closer. “Mares?” The guide nodded. “And the Herd Stallion.” The guide’s eyes shifted toward the Iris as something big, gold and fast moving emerged from the black ellipse, something big and shining, something with a pale eyed man astride, bent over the stallion’s blond mane. Sheriff Linn Keller came out of the Iris at a dead-out gallop, his stallion grunting with the effort: they ran past the corral, cast back and forth, the Sheriff’s pale eyes looking at the ground. “BEAR KILLER!” Something big, black and fast moving streaked past the Ambassador and the guides, something moving like the Black Arrow of Doom: the big mountain Mastiff threw his grey-muzzled head up, sniffed, looked up at the Sheriff, took out at run. The golden stallion didn’t have to be told to follow. Victoria stood up in her stirrups, hands flat against her big white horsie’s neck: she slitted her eyes against the wind, against the long white mane whipping in her face: joy fired her young heart, she rejoiced at the feeling of power, of speed, at the sight of her big white horsie charging another big white horsie. Until the two stallions reared, rammed one another chest-on. Victoria grunted, fell hard against her stallion’s broad, solid neck. Her saddle lacked a saddlehorn, but its front ridge drove into her flat belly: her knees were tight, her boots were still in the stirrups, she was still mounted, she had a double handful of long, white mane, and she was sticking to her stallion’s back like a burr in a hound dog’s coat. Shining-black hooves seared through clear mountain air as as the two stallions swung their heads, slashed at one another’s chests with their broad-based, spiral-ivory horns, slammed the sides of their heads into one another. Sheriff Linn Keller drew his rifle, curled his lip, whistled, high, shrill, as he cranked a round into the chamber. He had no wish to drop either of these magnificent creatures, but he was DAMNED! if he’d let ANY harm come to HIS LITTLE GIRL! Hijo del Sol had his own ideas, as did The Bear Killer. The golden stallion screamed his own challenge, charged: The Bear Killer bayed like the gates of Hell themselves were opening, he launched himself at the stallions, yammering his own ivory-fanged challenge: Linn raised his rifle’s muzzle, fired, fired again, blasting holes in the air. The warring stallions drew back, confused, dancing: “BEAR KILLER! HOLD ‘EM!” Two stallions who’d never seen a mountain Mastiff, who’d never seen a war-bred, flesh-ripping, blood-spilling canine warrior the size of a young bear, backed up, sizing up this new opponent. Hijo del Sol charged. The twist-horn stallion turned to meet the charge, but his attention was divided: the big golden Earth-stallion rammed him, hard, swung, kicked the challenger in the chest, hind-hooves driving through cold mountain air like steelshod lances: he reared, twisted, his own blood up. Victoria kicked free of her stirrups, fell backwards, slid off her stallion’s fur-slick rump, landed on her feet, ran to the side. A confused tangle of white fur, ivory horns, black war-dog – Linn pulled hard on bitless reins, yelled “BACK! BACK, DAMN YOU!” – Rey del Sol backed, turned, drove forward, behind the saddled Twisthorn. Linn leaned down, Victoria reached up, the golden stallion surged forward, a little girl’s hand seized the sleeve of her Daddy’s coat as her Daddy’s big strong hand clamped hard around her arm and PULLED, a little girl in pigtails and a denim skirt soared up and behind her Daddy. Rey del Sol was moving now, and moving fast. Victoria swung up behind her big strong Daddy and seized his coat with a grip you couldn’t have broken with two sticks of dynamite and a prybar. A golden stallion, two riders and a shining black mountain Mastiff turned, ran from the fight, leaving a saddled, twist-horn stallion and a herd-stallion watching their departure in some apparent confusion. The saddled Twisthorn grunted, trotted after the departing challengers; victory secured, the herd-stallion sang triumphantly as he trotted back to the clustered, restless mares, his supremacy secured. The guide lowered his binoculars, breathed a quiet, heartfelt and rather profane whisper of thanks to the Almighty. His saddled, twisthorn stallion was following the golden stallion and whateverthehell that big black thing was, and that was a good thing, the saddle he’d stirrup-shortened for that little girl was expensive and he’d no wish to have to pay for it, was it lost or busted. 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 24 Author Share Posted March 24 (edited) BEFORE THE ALTAR OF THE LORD Dana Keller, the pale eyed daughter of that pale eyed old lawman with the iron grey mustache, didn’t step into an Iris with her siblings and take advantage of her mandatory, post-shooting administrative leave, by going on vacation offworld. She set her course eastward instead. Dana was a singer, and a good one. Her voice was remarkable in its range, her vocal control was phenomenal, she’d been encouraged to become a professional singer. She preferred to hide her voice among the many in the Firelands Church Choir. There was an ache in her – when she realized how beautifully she could actually sing, she had a need to release the beauty she contained. She found that release in her grandmother’s closet. She found a white nun’s habit, a veil. This used to fit. I wonder if it still does? It did. A pale eyed nun smiled quietly at her reflection in her Gammaw’s tall, oval mirror, then slid the white silk veil in place, completely hiding her face. Nuns don’t giggle. I’ll have to work on that. Dana read in her Gammaw’s handwritten Journal, where the pale eyed ancestress used disguises of various kinds, just as had the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna: after Dana and her sister had the line of duty shooting, where each of them punch malefactors’ tickets to the Hell-Bound Train, after each was given the mandatory leave after such a shots-fired incident, Dana picked up a Sheriff’s Office phone and called a number, arranged to have a friend of the Sheriff fly into the local mountaintop crash patch – which they jokingly called Firelands International Airport, one barely long enough to accommodate a C130 with a damned skillful pilot at the controls – and she departed Firelands County via the Lear jet her father used on occasion. She flew to the East, toward the rising of the sun, with a disguise in her suitcase and a desire to see, and experience, one of the oldest pipe organs in existence. It was not unusual to have visitors in the Barrington church, especially with its restored, and completely functional, Roosevelt organ. It was, however, rather unusual to have a Catholic visitor in the First Congregational Church. It was even less common for the visitor to be a nun … a nun in an all-white habit, a habit that included a white, silken, full face veil. She bore a letter of introduction from someone known to the Senior Pastor there, a wartime associate whose name opened the doors and bade this silent Sister welcome. Her visit was timed with the rehearsal of a noted organist, one who could bring the full, soul-gripping strength of the organ’s thousand voices into passionate, powerful reality. It was not until the deep and majestically-voiced rhythm filled the mostly-empty Church, not until the few visitors’ souls were stirred, powered, impassioned by the driving rhythms sung in notes so low many were felt, rather than heard, that this visitor, this solitary, veiled, White Nun, rose. The other visitors sat in the very rear of the Church, furthest from the magnificent organ with its shining, hand-burnished flutes. She sat in front, as close as she could get to this magnificent instrument. She’d glided up the aisle, she’d knelt and crossed herself before the Altar, after the custom of her Order: she’d seated herself slowly, carefully, gracefully, in the front pew, her expression hidden by the white silk veil. She’d sat with head bowed, hands hidden in her sleeves, until her soul was filled: as the music compelled the listeners in the back of the Church to joy, it compelled this White Sister to dance. A woman, a Sister, silent, danced: she rose, she turned easily, silent on the balls of her feet, one arm rose, pointed toward the Heaven she hoped to attain, the other arm down, pointed to the Earth where she served: her dance was simple, she moved in perfect rhythm with the music: beauty there was that day, as the sun slanted colorful beams through the stained glass, as music soared and lived, joyful life in audible form, and a solitary figure danced before the Altar of the Lord. She spun with a slow majesty, she swayed: her dance was simple, stately, graceful, an expression of the consuming joy she felt, the joy she heard, the joy of the music that moved through her, that powered her very soul, and when the organist came to the final bars, so did her dance: her final turns were perfectly timed; she finished, facing the Altar: she knelt, she crossed herself: she bowed her head, her shoulders were shaking, and she bent lower, until her forehead was on the hard floor. She wept. A kindly old clergyman came up, knelt beside her: he gripped her shoulders and she fell into him, still weeping: she cried as if a terrible wound were burst open in her, and its contents spilt out in sorrow and in tears: the old man, having just heard music more glorious than anything this side of the Heavenly Choir, having just seen an earthbound angel dance more beautifully than he knew any human possibly could, held her as she buried her veiled face in his shoulder. He looked at the Altar, and he felt helpless: he had absolutely no idea how such profound, concentrated, distilled grief, could be contained where there’d just been such utter and absolute beauty. The Sister – who had spoken not one word thus far – slipped a kerchief from a sleeve, lowered her head, lifted her veil enough to blot her closed eyelids. “My dear,” the gentle old man said softly, “what brings you such sorrow?” The young woman lifted her veil, revealed a face that had once been beautiful: he saw a reddened, puckered, terrible scar, from the corner of one eye, diagonally across her face, another across her throat: he saw her swallow, she chewed on her bottom lip before speaking. “Forgive me,” she whispered in a husky voice. “I used to sing opera.” She lowered the veil, dropped her head back onto his shoulder: he held her and rocked her a little, the way he would a sorrowing child, a kindly old man who did not realize she wept, in order to heal. Her wound had to be opened. She’d known this. Her strength would not let her open it, for she would have to see it again. Her pale eyed soul was too strong, too proud in its strength, to admit to its hurt. It took this beauty, it took the stress of this continent-wide journey, it took the disguise, the pilgrimage, it took the surging, flowing strength of this audible joy, to break through her hard-walled reserves, and so a pale eyed young woman, whose wounds were soul-deep and festered, sought another means to reach through walls and wards and defenses she’d built to keep the horror at bay. Dana wept for the cleansing, this sudden emptiness: she’d put so much work and so much effort into containing a monster, to confining the festering evil that she knew would eventually insinuate through her walls and her wards and would silently, secretly steer her with its poisons, its subtle evils that escaped her guard. Brutality and force had done this to her. She could not defeat it with brutality and force in return. She wasn’t that strong. She sought sunlight through stained glass, she sought joy in audible form, she waded into a powerful river and danced in its singing waters: the organ’s voice shattered her own defenses and, like surging whitewater shoving boulders before it and washing away any puny obstruction that thought it could stop a river, blasted away a terrible black flood with color and with rhythm and with harmony and with melody, and now she was weak, she was spent, she was utterly without strength, her wet face pressed into a stranger’s shoulder as surrendered her strength, surrendered the efforts that had so utterly exhausted her, as the memory and the blackness and the infection washed away in that powerful river of a Roosevelt organ’s deep-voiced, compelling song. Edited March 24 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 4 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 25 Author Share Posted March 25 (edited) WE REMEMBER YOU A rented car was parked in front of the cemetery, well off the pavement. A young woman in uniform came out of the rented Jeep: she placed a uniform Stetson on top of her head, pulled down the back strap: she went through the chipped, weathered, silver painted front gate, eyes busy, obviously searching. She knew the tombstone she was looking for. She’d looked it up on Find-a-Grave, she’d studied the picture, she knew what she was looking for, and she knew what she sought was likely in the old section of the cemetery. She knew what she was looking for. She’d just never seen it in person. It took her a while to find it, but find it she did. HOWARD, it read, large and bold letters, suitable for the man’s stature in the local history. In smaller letters, also in relief in good Vermont granite, CLEM HOWARD. She stopped at the foot of the grave, her eyes busy: she studied the garden of stone ahead, then to her right, her left, she turned and frankly, openly, studied what was behind her. She turned again. “You confronted the wanted man,” she said, her voice quiet. “He’d shot someone in the head and you and the Constable figured the man you found was the killer. “He fell back and cut loose on you both. “You were hit and you still put six into him.” The tombstone made no reply. “What happened to you killed you in two days’ time.” Her voice was quiet, she swallowed hard, remembering, her eyes squeezed shut for a long moment. “We use what happened to you, and how you responded, in training.” She came to attention, raised a hand in salute, held it for a long moment. “Clem Howard, Chauncey Marshal,” she said. “We’ve used your lesson in training, and your name is spoken with respect.” She lowered her hand. “We issue body armor nowadays. If it were possible, I’d go back through time and fit you with a good Second Chance vest.” Her left hand rested on a slim, almost unnoticeable rectangle that rode her belt, a rectangle on which four pistol magazines sprouted, ready to hand. She herself wore no bulky armor under her military-creased uniform blouse. The rectangle on her belt, under her hand and behind the long boxy pistol magazines, was the miracle of Confederate technology that served as so much more than simply, incredibly effective, whole-body armor: what she wore just to the left of her belt buckle protected her against any known projectile weapon, any known energy weapon, fire, cold and hazardous atmosphere, and it did so silently, invisibly, and completely unobtrusively. “My Gammaw Willamina was a deputy marshal here,” she said quietly. “If you see her, tell her Dana says hello.” Deputy Sheriff Dana Keller, on vacation from Firelands County, Colorado, raised her hand in salute again, lowered: she executed a correct, military about-face, paced off on the left, departed the quiet, springtime Garden of Stone, by the same weathered, oxidized pipe gate through which she’d entered. Just before she opened the rented Jeep’s door, she hesitated, looked back at the tombstone. She smiled a little as she saw it. A single red rose, fresh cut, with drops of morning’s dew shining on the petals. “Thanks, Gammaw,” she whispered, then she reached up, removed her tan Stetson, scaled the hat over onto the passenger seat, climbed in. Deputy Sheriff Dana Keller looked back at the rose on the old tombstone and smiled, then she stepped on the brake, checked her mirrors, pulled the shifter into gear. “Time to go home.” I’ve put an awful lot of experience into many of the things I’ve written. No, I’ve never ridden a Twisthorn, nor have I opened an Iris and stepped between universes as easily as stepping through a doorway. I did serve under the Town Marshal who bought a cruiser shotgun and went for the cheap – a used High Standard from the gunshop without trying it out first. That’s the gun I’ve written about that would only cycle if it were held upside down. I proved this miserable point in the manner I described in one of my earlier stories. Additional, by way of history: Marshal Clem Howard, whose tombstone Dana sought out, was Town Marshal for the village of Chauncey, Athens County, Ohio, and was killed in the line of duty April 14, 1913. He and a constable, with two deputized citizens, went after a man who’d just shot another in the head. They stopped an individual, believing him to be the perpetrator. Marshal Clem Howard was right. Dead right. The perp fell back and opened fire. Marshal Clem Howard was hit and hit hard, but he managed to empty his pistol into his murderer, who had the courtesy to die a few minutes later. Clem was gut shot. It took him two days to die from his wounds. It wasn’t until after the Great Chauncey Shootout* that the village saw fit to provide an issue sidearm for its lawmen. Below is one of the very first village-issued pistols, a Colt New Police, in caliber .32 Smith and Wesson Special. The badge is one I wore while a lawman for the same jurisdiction. *The Great Chauncey Shootout is local legend I have reason to believe, may be more fiction than fact. That will be discussed in the near future, when a pale eyed father and his pale eyed young talk about where Dana went on vacation. Edited March 25 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 2 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 26 Author Share Posted March 26 NEXT STOP, HOME! Dana Keller saw the wreck happen. One car passing another, cut in too fast, too short: one vehicle spun out, stopped in the median: the other spun, hit the heavy I-beam of a roadside sign. Dana saw the spray and knew the gas tank just ruptured. She nailed the brakes, steered onto the shoulder, felt the antilock vibrating against her bootsole: her hand swung through empty air as she reached for the microphone that wasn’t there – she seized her Stetson, punched the seatbelt release, shouldered hard against the door, bailed out. She ran, ran with the desperate knowledge that the vehicle was going to light up, a tank of gas sprayed under hard impact, vapors, hot engine – Habit alone got her Stetson on her head and out of her hands, she ran for the driver’s door – Gasoline was a broad, shallow stain flowing toward her, two crumpled metal jerry cans on the tailgate draining fast – Dana saw the fire roar into life and come right at her. She clenched her teeth, lowered her head, ran into the river of living fire, and disappeared. Interviews were conducted, shaky phone videos were examined. All anyone knew was that someone stopped in a Jeep, maybe a Sheriff’s deputy but with a funny uniform, someone who ran into the flames and through them, someone who got the driver out and then a child from the back seat – whoever it was, ran right through those flames to get to them, got ‘em out and ran that way, away from the fire, uphill, on the shoulder of the road, laid ‘em down in the edge of the grass and stayed with them until the squad pulled up. No, it was a woman, everybody started showing up and she went back toward the burning car. That’s when the fire department showed up. No, she got in that Jeep and turned around on the shoulder, she ran the ditch line back and got across the roadway and across to the other side. No idea where she went after that. Dana Keller waited until the medics arrived, then ran down the bank, back past the burning car to her rented Jeep: she got it started, hauled the wheel hard right as the fire truck came in behind her: she doubled back, climbed the bank, shot across the eastbound lane, across the median into the westbound, and took the first exit, hung a left and ran a State route she’d seen on the map earlier that day: she went through the county seat, headed out the Appalachian Highway to the Ohio University airport. A Lear jet was only just fueled up: she wheeled her Jeep across the little airport’s cattle guard bridge within 30 seconds of her estimated arrival time. Her father’s old friend loaded what little luggage she had, into the Lear; they both took the opportunity to offload some second hand coffee before taking off, and Dana purchased a couple extra bottles of water from the machine, for the trip. The pilot gave her an appraising look as she handed him two sweating-cold water bottles. “Miss Dana,” he said, “if you’ll forgive me, you present as professional an appearance as your grandmother always did!” Dana laughed and stopped at the foot of the short stairway. “Flattery,” she smiled, “will get you everywhere!” It was not until the Lear began its takeoff roll, not until Dana was belted in, settled comfortably into her seat, not until she’d stowed her water bottles in holders built into the armrests, that she rested a hand on her belt-mounted magazines, laid gentle fingertips on the finger’s-width-thick rectangle on her belt. I will have to thank the Ambassador, she made a mental note: I’ve never had to test it against gunfire, but this field generator is sure as hell proof against a gasoline fire! The pilot turned, looked back, grinned. “Like to come up, Miss Dana? Quite a sunset we’ve got tonight!” Dana released her seat belt, stood: she took a bottle with her, settled into the copilot’s seat, laughed. The pilot looked at her – he was an older man, with the quiet confidence of a veteran pilot – “Something funny?” Dana looked at him and smiled, looking less like a Deputy Sheriff, and more like a happy girl. “A friend of Gammaw’s flew bomber in the Second Disagreement,” she said, her eyes slowly crossing the crowded, complex instrument panel. “Gammaw told me his favorite entertainment after the War was to fly commercial, when they only had a curtain between the passengers and the cockpit – he’d poke his head through the curtain and look around and roll his eyes and say ‘My, look at all those clocks!’ – and they’d look at him like he had a fish sticking out of his shirt pocket!” The pilot chuckled, nodded. “Somehow, I can believe that!” He looked at her with almost a fatherly expression. “Like to try flying her?” “Oh good Lord no!” Dana exclaimed, shaking her head and shuddering. “Give me my horsepower under a saddle and I’m happy! Give me something like this and … well, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and I know just enough about flying to get into an awful lot of trouble!” They laughed; they relaxed; Dana did not realize she’d fallen asleep until she heard a quiet, fatherly voice say “Next stop, home!” 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 26 Author Share Posted March 26 MIRIAM Parson Belden was a man of routine. He’d put a morning into cutting and stacking wood – Parson or not, the cookstove needed fuel and so did the pot belly – he’d washed his hands and his face, he and his wife ate together, talking quietly, laughing a little as they discussed the stir that scandalous trick rider caused, riding through town all gussied up and doing handstands and summersets on that gaudy saddle, and the menfolk watching her with their tongues hanging clear down to their belt buckles – husband and wife each built on the other’s exaggeration, until both were laughing too hard to push the ridiculous further. The Parson finished his meal and withdrew to work on his sermon. As too often happens with men of the cloth, his desire to come up with something inspiring, informative, encouraging, and spiritual, was far greater than his ability to come up with something inspiring, informative, encouraging, or spiritual. He stared at the blank sheet under his hand; he turned the knife-whittled pencil in his fingers, remembering other clergy who would doodle or write random words, trying to prime the mental pump – he did neither, for he was a thrifty man, and wished not to spoil a perfectly good sheet of paper with anything but useful information. He sighed, parked his pencil: he rose, he knotted his necktie, he kissed his wife and settled his hat on his head and commenced to walk. The Parson had no particular destination; he trusted the Lord would guide his steps, would guide his thoughts. Sunshine was warm on his shoulders, the backs of his arms, his legs: he stopped, turned, looking around, relaxing his mind, listening for that Still Small Voice. He thought about talk he’d heard, talk of building a better structure for their Irish Brigade: he’d understood the Sheriff’s green-eyed wife invested monies she may not’ve actually had, in the building of a brick-works, and using the bricks to build the firehouse as the first showpiece of this local product. His mind wandered further: there’d been talk of building a hospital – their Doc had an office upstairs, in the Silver Jewel, which was fine if you had strength enough to walk up the stairs, or strong men to carry you up – the Parson’s mind went back to their own Irish Brigade. He knew there’d been a private effort to raise funds for a fire engine, for men to operate it, horses to pull the Steam Masheen and the ladder and hose wagon, and this was accomplished – how, he wasn’t entirely sure: he knew he’d find out, eventually, he always did. He thought of their little whitewashed Church. He wasn’t the first Parson here, but this was the town’s first Church: it wasn’t terribly big, it was built – as he’d said in a letter to an old friend, back East – on the New England Meetinghouse style: it was a rectangle, simple, functional, the only thing fancy about it was that the doors opened on the back corner instead of on a back wall or a side wall. The only other building of note he knew of, that opened on a corner, was a saloon back in Corning, the one where Froggy Schlingermann got punched so hard he flew backwards out the batwing doors and landed colder’n a foundered flounder in the gutter – never mind that ol’ Froggy deserved it, given the nature of his insult to another man’s wife. Tricky thing, that, he thought: honor was a touchy thing anywhere, even back East: here in the West, talk like that might earn a man bed space in the local boneyard. Pride, he thought: I might find a sermon in … pride … The Parson raised his eyes toward the town’s cemetery as he thought. The Sheriff’s son was riding off Cemetery Hill, toward him. The Parson stopped, admiring how well Jacob Keller sat the saddle. The Parson was a man who noticed things; though not a horseman himself, he could recognize one, and he knew the Sheriff’s son was very definitely what the French called a Chevalier, a “man of the horse,” if he understood the term correctly. His quick mind sidetracked, attracted to the word like a compass-needle to native lodestone. There were connotations of good breeding and good manners attached to the term, and as the Parson looked up at this lean-waisted, pale-eyed Chevalier, he considered that these qualities, too, fit Jacob well. “Howdy, Parson,” Jacob grinned, touching his hat brim. “Visiting a memory?” the Parson asked. Jacob frowned a little, then dismounted. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I would counsel with you.” The Parson was struck by his phrasing: this was something he would expect a man of breeding to say, a man of education: Jacob’s few years precluded his being a University man, what little the Parson knew of him, would not lead him to think Jacob the son of means or wealth. This intrigued the sky pilot. “I am very much at your service,” the Parson said gravely. Jacob took a long breath, turned, looked back toward Cemetery Hill. “Parson,” he said, “I was just up there lookin’ at a tombstone.” The Parson nodded, slowly, listening carefully. “Her name was Miriam.” “Ah, the blind girl.” “Yes, sir.” Jacob frowned again. “Sir, she could play the piano … very well indeed, and she danced with me, and danced well.” “She was blind.” “Yes, sir, stone blind. Her eyes were bulged out some and that’s what killed her.” “I remember being told …” “That she died hard, yes sir, she did,” Jacob interrupted, looking away, clearly troubled. He looked back, his jaw set. “Sir, that wasn’t right. She’d done nothing to deserve that. She’d … she was decent and she helped her Mama as best she could when their wagon broke an axle and her Mama went a-laborin’ and I birthed her baby right there beside the wagon trail, and Miriam did the best she could in everything she did and she … “ His voice ground to a halt: he looked away again, controlling himself: he was silent for several long moments, his eyes closed, then he opened his eyes and looked back at the Parson. “It was not right, sir. I’ve been tryin’ to figure why things like this happen.” The Parson nodded again, once, carefully, his eyes never leaving Jacob’s serious young face. “Parson, I’m not the brightest candle in the chandelier, but I can’t see the Almighty causin’ these things to happen. Even when Job was deviled, ‘twas the devil doin’ those things to him, not God. I don’t reckon God causes the bad to happen, but I can’t help but … notice … He is not a’tall bashful about usin’ ‘em to teach lessons.” Jacob looked away again, smiled with half his mouth. “On t’other hand, Parson, if I know so much, why haven’t I made a fortune already, eh?” The Parson considered this lean waisted son of that pale eyed Sheriff, his expression thoughtful. “Jacob,” he said gently, “you have a greater wisdom than most grown men.” Jacob laughed – an easy, good-natured laugh – “Well, Parson, I’m glad you think so, ‘cause sometimes I don’t think I know straight up from go-to-hell!” The Parson’s wife looked up as her husband came through their door. He hung his hat on its peg, went straight to his desk and began to write. Mrs. Parson smiled a little as she kneaded the bread dough. She heard her husband’s pencil scratching purposefully, steadily, on good rag paper, and she knew this meant he’d found the subject for his Sunday sermon. 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 27 Author Share Posted March 27 SHE HAS A GIFT Michael stood as their guest crossed the threshold. He’d been seated at the family’s breakfast table – dressed, ready for school, saddlebags waiting by the front door – his father raised an eyebrow at the early morning rat-tat, tat – “Dana?” Michael asked, glancing to the narrow door to his left, the one where a loaded .22 rifle lived. “She has a key,” Linn replied quietly: he glided toward the front door, silent on sock feet, interrogated the computer screen, smiled. He opened the front door without hesitation. A tall man with a little hair fringing around the back of his head, a lean, tanned soul with a staff in one hand and the other extended and gripping the Sheriff’s, stood at the doorway, his lined face wrinkling into a delighted grin. Michael rose, breakfast forgotten. Victoria had no such polite reserve: she scampered across the intervening floor, ducked around her Daddy, seized the white-robed guest in a happy hug and a delighted, “Woom Coffee!” Abbot William laughed, knelt, handed his staff to the Sheriff and hugged the delighted little girl (who wasn’t nearly so little anymore!) – he slacked his embrace, looked up at the Sheriff, looked at Victoria and said “Your pardon, my Lady, I was looking for a little girl of my acquaintance. Her name is Victoria, but you cannot be her, for you are much too grown!” She laughed again, and he hugged her again, and she felt him take in a long, shivering breath, and let it out. The Sheriff saw this, too, and saw the man’s eyes close against the sadness Linn knew he felt. William knew what it was to bury a daughter – that was part of the reason he became a Religious – and every time Linn saw that unhealed grief in his old friend’s soul, he swore he would never, ever, take any of his children for granted! William rose, looked across the intervening space at Michael, standing beside his chair: William cocked an eye at Linn and murmured, “Permission to come aboard, sir!” “Aboard, hell,” Linn laughed, “we’re settin’ down for breakfast! I’ll get you a plate!” “I won’t turn you down,” the Abbot smiled. Breakfast finished, the four adjourned to the broad front porch to wait on the school bus. The twins scampered down the gravel drive when they saw the big yellow school bus turn off the main route, start down the side road: they, and The Bear Killer, were at the end of the drive just as the bus choo-choo’d to a stop with the unmistakable hiss and sigh of air brakes: Linn waved from the front porch, The Bear Killer turned and galloped happily back up the driveway as the bus pulled away. Linn picked up his rifle where he’d parked it beside the front door, opened it, stepped aside to let William and The Bear Killer enter first, then followed them in. Linn and the Abbot sat at one end of the table, Linn at the very end and William on his right. Linn already had the breakfast dishes soaking in soapy dishwater, he’d poured William another mug of coffee – the Abbot soaked up coffee at twice the Sheriff’s rate of consumption – Linn sat, looked at his half empty mug and smiled quietly. “Abbot,” he said gently, “are you sure I can’t get you anything more?” The Abbott patted his flat belly, smiled. “I’m full as a tick,” he said. “Bacon and eggs are always better with good company!” “Victoria was glad to see you.” The Abbot laughed gently, nodded. “I remember when she was … younger.” His voice was soft, the voice of a man sharing something cherished. “She… her voice was excited … and she could not frame to pronounce ‘William.’ “It came out ‘Woom.’ “ The Sheriff nodded. “I remember.” “But she could say ‘Coffee.’ “ They laughed, they nodded, the Abbot looked speculatively at the Sheriff. “Dana.” Linn looked at his old friend: his expression did not change, but the Abbot could feel the change in the man, and he knew the Sheriff was listening closely to whatever words he was about to utter. “You know she sings with the Sisters.” Linn smiled a little, nodded. “I’ve heard her sing.” “She is quite the Bible scholar. She’s the equal of most seminarians I know.” Linn nodded again, took a short snort of coffee, swallowed. “She came to see me, Linn.” “Confession?” “No. Well, yes, but not …” Abbot William leaned back, his fingers flat on the table: he looked away, looked back, a look of amusement on his expressive, weathered face. “Linn, your daughter has both a strong sense of history, and a flair for the dramatic!” “I see,” Linn replied, affecting his best Innocent Expression. “She’s become an actress!” “Oh, she’s been that, for years,” William waved a dismissive hand. “She can become someone else or something else – do you remember when your mother discovered that long lost series of portraits, those … those glass plate treasures?” “I remember, yes.” “There were photographs of our early Monastery, of the Brethren ranked on one side, the Sisters on the other, how two chickens in the front looked like they were long and blurry because of the long exposure?” Linn laughed. “I remember those chickens look like they’re three feet long or better!” William leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingertips steepled. “Do you remember your mother describing how Sarah Lynne McKenna became an Agent of the Church?” Linn stopped and looked very directly at the Abbot. William waved a hand again: “No, no, Dana isn’t an Agent, don’t worry, the Holy Mother Church isn’t stealing her away to do clandestine investigation!” Linn raised an eyebrow. “From your introduction, I was beginning to wonder.” “No … but your daughter does have a penchant for disguise.” The Sheriff turned his head a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear. “Sarah Lynne McKenna became one of the White Sisters. She sang with them, and so does your Dana. Dana has not become a Religious, she does not wear the silver ring of Sisterhood, but when she is among us – when she comes to the Monastery – she assumes the Veil and she is indistinguishable from the Sisters.” “I see.” The Abbot removed one elbow from the table, gripped his lean chin between thumb and forefinger. “Linn,” he said softly, “she has absolutely the purest, most magnificent singing voice I have ever heard in my life!” Linn nodded. “She went back East on vacation. She felt it wise to go in disguise, after the … excitement … here locally.” Linn nodded again. “She has a love for a good pipe organ and she sought out one of the oldest working organs in the country, a Congregational Church in Massachusetts.” Linn tilted his head, favored his friend with a curious expression, clearly very interested in the man’s words. “She said it was one of the most powerfully beautiful experiences of her life,” the Abbot said softly. “She wept for its beauty.” “There’s something you’re not telling me.” “Ever the investigator, eh?” William smiled, nodding. “She had me write an introductory note, in case there might be resistance in admitting a Catholic Nun into a Congregational Church. I served on the Leyte Gulf with their chief pastor.” Linn nodded. “When she went in disguise, she went in a very old disguise.” “Old?” Linn frowned a little, his brows puzzling together as he did. “She came to see me afterward. It seems she took a cosmetic brush and nonflexible collodion, and painted an awful looking scar – from the corner of her eye, diagonally down and across her face, another across her throat.” “Sarah McKenna used that dodge, back when.” The Abbot snapped his fingers, pointed at the Sheriff. “Bingo. She said she raised the veil and said in a hoarse whisper she used to sing opera.” “Distraction technique. All the witness will remember is that awful scar and the husky voice.” “Your daughter could make a good living on Broadway, with the skills of disguise and that lovely voice.” “Her choice,” Linn grunted. “Now you’re holding something back.” Linn looked long at his old friend, as if weighing a decision. “Abbot, some things are not fit for the confessional.” “I’ve heard things, Sheriff. I’ve heard the blackest of stains on what the world thought were good men’s souls.” Linn leaned back, considered, his eyes tracking across the newly-painted ceiling. “Abbot,” Linn said quietly, “Dana does have an angel’s voice. I didn’t know she was into disguise as well, but I’m not surprised. Marnie …” The Abbott listened intently: he knew Marnie was recruited to Mars as their second Sheriff, he knew something happened to the Colony, there was almost no word about it these days. Linn slid his mug away from him, leaned forward. “Abbot, the Mars colonies are alive and well,” he said in a quiet, confidential voice, “and Marnie is quite the dancer. She was in disguise very recently, she danced the Can-Can with a professional troupe. I am trusting you with this information. There is considerably more that I cannot say, and what little I’ve given you would cause great … difficulty … if it were made known.” The Abbot nodded, frowned. “I’d feared them dead. There’s been almost nothing …” “Many of them were killed,” Linn admitted, looking away. He let an uncomfortable silence grow, then looked back. “Dana painted on a scar and said she used to sing opera.” The Abbot nodded, and Linn chuckled a little. “I knew Sarah Lynne McKenna would shake her trotters on the boards. Apparently my daughters have inherited some of her talents!” “ ‘Shake her trotters’?” the Abbot echoed. Linn grinned. “Slang for dancing on stage.” “Ah.” Linn’s eyes widened a little – it was rare for the man to be surprised, but that’s what the Abbot saw in the man’s expression as a memory came into focus. “Well I’d be sawed off and damned,” Linn said slowly. The Abbot raised an eyebrow, waited. Linn looked at him. “Dana. She’s been taking classes in the City. Dollars to doughnuts that’s been voice training!” “Encourage her, my friend,” the Abbot suggested. “She has a gift!” 6 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 27 Author Share Posted March 27 (edited) STRUT Sheriff Linn Keller assumed the badge when Tom Landers allowed as he'd had the job long enough, he was tired, his aches and pains persuaded him to hand the star off to someone younger. The new Sheriff promptly arrested the saloon's owner, the bank's manager, took a Territorial Marshal's kindness and hired in a bookkeeper, who listed the financial sins and wrongdoings of both businesses: Linn gave Dirty Sam a choice, by virtue of setting a table in front Sam's jail cell, dropping a bag of silver in the middle and stobbing two knives into the tabletop: Sell the Silver Jewel for this poke of hard coin, or pick up a knife and we'll settle it once and for all. Dirty Sam and the crooked banker did not last long in prison, Linn turned the Silver Jewel from a dirty saloon and whorehouse, into a respectable business and restaurant: when word spread that the games were straight and the new owner had a screw loose -- he just honestly gave the restaurant part to an Irishwoman he'd only just met, he'd handed the saloon part off to the barkeep as his own -- then he threw out the weighted wheels, he'd burnt marked and tapered cards, he'd thrown card sharpers and cheats out with great ceremony (and vigor) -- it took some time, it took all the funds he had, but the Silver Jewel became just that -- a jewel -- clean and sparkling, there on the main street, freshly painted, brightly trimmed, with offices and hotel rooms in the second story. Sheriff Linn Keller was seen taking a man by the throat -- not just pinning him against the wall, but hauling him off his feet and holding him there -- he was seen facing up to and facing down large and angry men armed with a variety of weapons, he was seen taking troublemakers by the collar and the belt and dunking them in the nearest horse trough, and he was seen to throw his recalcitrant four legged office chair out into the street and take an ax to the damned thing when it dumped him over backwards one time too many. This hard man, who'd survived a cannon blowing up beside him and stoving in some ribs, this man who'd been shot, stabbed, cut, run into and run over, earned the respect of hard men, not just because his word was Law, but because he was unfailingly, even-handedly, fair. He never failed to hear a man out: if there was a dispute, he would hear one man out completely, then he would hear the other man out completely. For this he was respected. This hard man, this pale-eyed badge packer with a temper he tried hard not to let slip, raised a hand to a woman this one fine day. In fairness, the woman was quite young. Quite young. I believe she was about four years old, as a matter of fact. The Sheriff's green-eyed wife was very carefully not watching as he did, for this ladylike little four year old was walking the narrow top plank of the wooden corral fence, her hand laid over her Daddy's knuckles: as long as she had a hand on her Daddy, she was steady and sure footed: the moment she raised her hand from his, she got kind of wobbly. The Sheriff was a strong man, a man of authority and of justice, and as such, he cultivated a very reassuring voice, and he put this voice to work with this four year old daughter of his. Angela Keller survived a terrible train wreck that killed her birth-parents -- an iron rail worked loose, as too often happened with iron rails; it rose when the train's wheels passed over and drove up like a snakehead, ripping the belly out of a passenger car, killing everyone in it and derailing the rest of the train. The Sheriff came upon the wreck right after it happened and started throwing debris aside and found this still, silent figure lying under what used to be the side wall of the passenger car. He'd seized the wall, threw it aside (a feat for three strong men, but in extremis, a man can do incredible things!) -- he'd knelt and brushed the blond hair from her face, then he picked her up and stood and threw his head back and cried out to the Heavens themselves. This was the child that walked the top corral rail, one hand on her Daddy's upraised knuckles, the other held delicately out to the side, her wrist bent back a little, the way she'd seen her Mommy stand. Angela found if she looked straight ahead, and not down at her shiny slippers treading the whitewashed plank, she was steadier: she looked straight ahead, lifted her hand from her Daddy's reassuring knuckles, took two steps -- and her third step was too close to the edge, and she fell. Jacob Keller was only just come into the Sheriff's life: his story is well known, and tragic: he was pacing silently inside the corral, keeping exact station with his father, his eyes upraised to the pretty little girl tightrope walking that top rail. Jacob had a very dim memory of doing just that as a wee child, and seeing Angela's confidence when her hand touched her Daddy, warmed a memory of doing something similar in his very early existence. He was looking up, he saw her step come to the edge, her next step half-off, when she lost her balance: she gave a little squeak, and fell neatly into his arms. Linn's hand thrust impotently into empty air, trying to catch what was already gone: he stepped back, saw Jacob holding Angela, saw her wide-eyed expression, her even white teeth as she laughed with childish delight: Jacob looked at her, looked at his father and asked quietly, "Sir, what shall I do with her?" Sheriff Jacob Keller stood a-straddle of his firstborn. His Pa was dead and gone a year now; he'd lived long enough to become Grampa to his own blood, and unofficially to a handful of young who more or less adopted him: Jacob held two wooden pegs he'd whittled out earlier, and his firstborn's upraised hands gripped these pegs. As long as young William Linn had hold of his Pa's fingers, he could walk -- no, not walk: Jacob's son strutted across the floor, chubby arms upraised, little pink fingers holding onto his Pa's fingers. Today William Linn held those smooth-whittled pegs. Jacob looked over at his wife, who smiled knowingly, nodded: Go ahead. Jacob started walking across the floor, William Linn holding onto those pegs, little bare feet patting soundlessly on the long rag rug: Jacob let go of the pegs and William Linn happily charged across the floor, arms up in the air, laughing. When he realized he'd been fooled, he stopped, wobbled, set down hard on his round little bottom, but it didn't take long after that to realize he could walk without holding onto anything, and not long after that discovery, that Annette carefully did not look outside as her husband set their son on the top plank of the rail fence around their corral, and walked beside his son as William Linn laughed and strutted like a tightrope walker, one hand laid over on his Pa's upraised knuckles. Edited March 27 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 28 Author Share Posted March 28 (edited) TEARS, DELIGHT AND ACCOMPLISHMENT Sheriff Jacob Keller, Firelands, Mars, grinned as broad as two Texas townships as his wife handed him their child. Ruth Keller smiled quietly, silently rejoicing at the expression on her husband's face. Jacob hefted their laughing little boy, hoist him well overhead, to the juvenile delight (and squeals) of his son, brought him down, bounced him a couple times, looked at Ruth and asked, "What have you been feedin' him? T-bone steaks and high nitrogen fertilizer?" Ruth laughed, tilted her head. "He has his father's appetite." Jacob swung their fist-chewing son up on his left hip, gathered his wife into him with his right arm, buried his face in the side of her neck, nibbling at her with his lips. "Darlin', I missed you," he mumbled, and Ruth giggled -- Jacob's richly-curved handlebar mustache tickled -- she hugged him back and whispered, "I missed you too!" Ruth felt Jacob's body change when the annunciator chimed. Jacob released his wife, turned quickly, one hand on his pistol: Ruth felt the static sizzle of a midfield that split the room in two -- she was behind it, Jacob was on the other side of it. He keyed a command into his desktop keyboard. Ruth saw his shoulders rise, then fall, and she knew he'd just taken a long breath and blown it out. He did not, however, lower the field. The door slid open, Marnie came smiling through the portal, an oversized picnic basket in hand, covered with a tucked-in, red-and-white-check tablecloth -- "I didn't think you'd want to make your wife fix supper when she's just getting home!" Marnie suggested quietly. Jacob nodded, took the basket, touched a control on his belt: the invisible field sizzled out of existence, and the two women embraced, a chubby set of arms reached for his Aunt Marnie, and the table was quickly set for three adults and a child. Supper was a cheerful event: Ruth turned her attention to feeding their little boy in moments where Marnie described young Michael pulling a clandestine pistol and hitting an area the size of a man's thumbnail to stop an extremely poisonous reptile from killing his twin sister; she turned big and startled eyes toward the description of Victoria riding a fighting twisthorn stallion -- Ruth knew twisthorns, and she'd seen their stallions fight -- she smiled as Marnie described Dana, disguised as one of the Faceless Sisters, singing in adoration before the ornate Altar in the Rabbitville monastery. Ruth had heard Dana sing -- in fact, she'd sung duets with Dana, and delighted in how well they harmonized -- and then she looked, puzzled, at her husband and back to Marnie at the description of Dana's sojourn East, to bathe her wounded soul in the sonic waters of the restored, fully functional, Roosevelt pipe organ. Marnie and Jacob both knew Ruth loved music in all of its forms, and when they realized Ruth had absolutely no idea what a pipe organ was, they looked at one another and smiled. Inquiry was made, then arrangements, and while The Bear Killer and Snowdrift collaborated on riding herd on a laughing little boy who'd never seen a pair of truly huge, mountain Mastiffs before, three people sat in the front pew of the Barrington Congregational Church as a guest organist brought tears to a pale eyed lawman's cheeks, delight to his wife's face, and a sense of accomplishment to a pale eyed Ambassador in a McKenna gown. Edited March 28 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 29 Author Share Posted March 29 ARE YOU AN ANGEL? “Grampa?” An old man snorted and blew as he scrubbed his face with a double handful of good cold freshly pumped wellwater. A little boy cocked his head and regarded his ol’ Granddad curiously. The old man, as was his habit, was stripped to the waist before he washed up: like most men of his vintage, he was lean, his skeleton could be seen – most of it, at least – the result of a hard life and hard work and many years. He reached up, pulled down a flour sack towel, rubbed wet arms and his wet face, briskly scrubbing water from his ancient hide, looked at his grandson. “Eh?” “Grampa, how come your ribs is funny?” the boy asked, pointing. “Hah? Them?” The old man approached his grandson, sat down on a handy sawed chunk. “You mean here?” The little boy traced careful fingertips down the irregularities, nodded, his eyes wide and solemn. “Does it hurt, Grampa?” “Sure as thunder did,” the old man grunted. “What happened?” The old man snorted, coughed, laughed and coughed again, spat. “I was young oncet,” he said. “Warn’t that long ago, neither. Hold old are you, boy?” “I’m five, Grampa.” “I used to be five,” the old man said thoughtfully. “Built me a cabin, too.” “You built a cabin when you were five?” “Oh, ya. I was about your size too.” “Grampa,” the lad said skeptically, “ya did not!” The old man frowned, hawked, spat, rubbed his stubbled chin. “Well, hell, maybe I was a little older,” he said, “but I near to kilt myself buildin’ it!” He’d laid out how he wanted to notch the logs, and notch them he did. He’d cut them to a uniform length. John Noble was a young man and John Noble was an exacting man, and John Noble knew whoever looked at what he built, would judge him by the skill of his work, and he, John Noble, was not about to do anything but first rate work! He’d sawed his logs to a uniform length. He’d laid stone for the foundation, rather than lay logs directly on dirt: most cabins were quick and dirty in their construction, built in a hurry to beat the cold weather: John laid out where he wanted the cabin set, he leveled the ground, what little had to be leveled off, he set his stones where he wanted them. He was better than a fair hand with an adz, and God be praised he had one: he’d made trade for tools, he’d found or scrounged or bought others: he drilled holes, cut pegs, tapped in the wooden stays that would hold his logs tight. John worked as young men work – steadily, mightily, putting the lean cords of muscle and sinew against the weight of fragrant timber. He’d cut skids and he’d used his mule and good hemp rope to skid timbers, cut flat on the bottom and on the top, he’d set them tight atop one another, he eased one heavy timber after another up the skids and to the top of the walls he was raising. He was doing well for one man working alone, until one of the skids kicked out and the timber came down on top of him. Sheriff Linn Keller knew there was a cabin being built, and he knew roughly where, and frankly he was curious to take a look at it. When he came in sight of the cabin, his stallion surged forward into a gallop. “There I was, a-layin’ under attair log,” his Granddad said in his old man’s voice, “and damned if this-yere fella didn’t come just a-gallopin’ up on an honest to God Appaloosa stallion.” “A stallion?” his grandson asked in a awe-struck voice. “Damn right, a stallion,” his Granddad nodded. “Know how t’ tell an honest to God Appaloosa stallion?” His grandson shook his curly-haired head. The old man raised a clawed hand up in front of his mouth, two fingers extended, curled a little. “They got fangs, they do, an’ they eat bears an’ bull elks f’r breakfast!” The old man winked and the boy grinned uncertainly – his Granddad didn’t always tell things the way they really were, but he was his Granddad and he was old and that meant he was really smart and maybe stallions really did eat bears an’ bull elks! “Anyway when attair log come down atop of me, why, one end hit a rock ‘r it would’ve mashed me flat an’ kilt me t’ boot!” “Grampa,” the boy said softly, “I’m awful glad it didn’t!” The old man leaned closer, screwed one eye shut: “Me too, sonny, me too!” Linn set a chunk on the rock the high end of the log was resting on. He tucked his backside, gripped the timber, took a long breath, took another, gritted his teeth. He brought the log up and over and on top of the chunk he’d just set there. It seemed steady enough – Linn grabbed another chunk, set in beside it – he went around, ran his arms under the injured man, pulled him out from under. Linn knew he hurt the man, pulling him like that, but he knew he had to get him out, get the timber off him. He didn’t know what else to do for the man. “Oh it hurt, all right,” the old man said thoughtfully. “It hurt like two hells and a sledgehammer, but y’know what?” “What, Grampa?” the boy breathed. “I’m alive t’ complain about it. Y’know why?” “Why, Grampa?” The old man leaned closer again, looked very directly at his grandson, his expression suddenly, humorlessly, stonefaced, serious. “There’s angels in this world, boy,” he said, “an’ one of ‘em rode that Appaloosa stallion.” “Really?” the boy asked in a marveling voice. The old man nodded. “You c’n tell,” he said, “there’s white about an angel, boy, and this one … when I looked up I seen them white eyes an’ that’s how I knew.” He nodded again, his own eyes growing distant, seeing the memory again. “I likely passed out, must’ve. Come to an’ there was folks tendin’ me. Found out ‘twas an honest t’ God surgeon workin’ on me. His boy’s the doc over’n Firelands.” “Dad?” a woman’s voice called. “Coming?” The old man sighed, stood, hung the flour sack towel back on its peg. “Help me back int’ m’ Union suit, sonny, yer Mama wants t’ eat.” A new student, a new school year, and Miz Sarah was greeting each one personally, as she always did. One little boy, shy the way new students often are, had trouble raising his eyes from the floor. When he did, when Miz Saran bent over and asked gently, “And what is your name?” he looked at her – his eyes grew big, startled, his mouth opened into an absolutely surprised O – “My name is Sarah,” she said. “Do I know you?” He swallowed, blinked, looked left, looked right, blinked again, and then he whispered, “Are you an angel?” Miz Sarah smiled, just a little: she went down on her knees, rested her hands gently on his young shoulders, drew him closer, laid her cheek against his and whispered, so only he could hear: “Nobody else knows,” she said, her sibilants tickling the fine hairs on his pink-scrubbed young ear: she drew back, smiled gently. “Our secret?” A big-eyed little boy nodded, awe struck. In his young mind, a promise was a promise. An angel asked him to keep their secret. When he was a little boy, his Granddad told him about seeing an angel, and how to recognize one. When he became a Granddad, he told his young grandson about his Granddad, and how he’d seen an angel, and he told his young grandson about the angel he met when he first started school. A little boy came home from school, his eyes shining with excitement. His mother recognized the signs, and smiled quietly as she set a saucer in front of him with his usual after-school peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He usually devoured his snack, then ran outside to play: she watched him eat slowly, thoughtfully, completely at odds with the contained excitement in his eyes. His Mama sat down, tilted her head a little, studied her son. “Did something happen today?” she asked quietly. He nodded. “Can you tell me about it?” He blinked rapidly, nodded. “Mama, they sent an angel to Mars today!” he whispered, his eyes big and sincere. “An angel?” she asked. He nodded. “She looks just like us, Mama, but Grampa told me what to look for!” Later that night, on the evening news, the split-screen portraits of Marnie Keller and Dr. John Greenlees Jr were shown: the local station was making much of the local folk chosen for this second Martian launch, the big colony ship that would absolutely establish a long-term human presence on another planet. “There she is, Mama! Do you see it?” “See what, Bobby?” He pointed, his voice as excited as his expression: “Grampa told me what to look for! Right there, Mama! See it?” His Mama looked at the TV screen, and the formal portrait of the pale-eyed Deputy Sheriff Marnie Keller looked back at her. “She’s an angel,” a little boy’s voice breathed. 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 29 Author Share Posted March 29 FENCE SETTIN' I wasn't sure at first. I thought it was my daughter Dana, settin' on the top rail of the whitewashed fence behind the barn, least until I got close enough to see her boots. I couldn't help but grin. Marnie wore red cowboy boots and Dana wore black, and these ... these were red. I clumb up on the fence and throwed my leg over, then my other leg and there I set beside my darlin' daughter, and her lookin' out over the pasture, her eyes full of memories. Dana and Marnie both braided their hair and wrapped it around their necks, and twice it spared them a throat-slash in a close encounter of the bladed kind: both times the attempt was not well received, and the individual that tried it, come out in second place -- one will be in prison another twenty three years, the other commenced to assume room temperature our friendly local coroner's slab. We set there side by side, neither of sayin' a word. I hadn't expected Marnie to show up. Ordinarily she'd open an Iris in my study and step out lookin' all gorgeous and ladylike in a McKenna gown, and she'd told me she was known in all the Confederate worlds by the way she dressed -- "brand recognition," she'd said, and smiled as she did. I waited for her to speak. If she was here, and she wasn't in her Ambassador's gown, she was here as just her, and that suited me fine. I saw her bottom jaw slide out and she looked down and said, "Daddy, do you remember when I first came out here?" "I remember," I said gently, for the evening was quiet, and there was no need to speak loudly a'tall. "You brought me out here to show me the horses." I thought of that evening, and how little she was ... four years old, no bigger'n a cake of soap, big eyed and scared of everything, even me. I didn't know quite what to do with her but I figured if I acted like I did, why, I might do something right, so we come out here behind the barn and I whistled up the mares and I let Marnie stand behind me as the mare come up and snuffed at my shirt front, and two others come up, and I unwrapped several of those red and white swirlie striped peppermints and proceeded to bribe the mares with 'em. I told Marnie horses bribe as well as any politician. She pretty much hid behind me, least until one of the colts come up, one of the little bitty fresh laid ones, I don't reckon he was more'n two days old: hungry, frisky, curious, he come up a-buttin' his Mama for a meal and she stood for it and Marnie watched that cold with big and solemn eyes and when he come up for air, why, Marnie started out from behint me just a little an' that colt saw her and I don't reckon either of 'em had ever seen a little bitty version of the full grown product before. I let nature take its course: Marnie was hesitant to touch the colt, but she did, and the colt laid his chin over her shoulder and Marnie looked at me with great big eyes and I said quietly, "He's giving you a horsie hug," and Marnie tentatively, carefully, gave the colt a hug. The mares wandered off and the colt followed his meal. I hunkered down beside Marnie and she looked at me with big and wondering eyes and she looked after the horses and I said "What are those called, Marnie?" and Marnie whispered "Horsie puppies." I couldn't help but grin to hear it. All this went just a-whistlin' through my mind in the two seconds after she asked if I remembered, and I allowed that I did. "I didn't know what a good man was," she said, her voice distant as she swam through memories of her own. She turned and looked at me and said "I never knew anyone could be gentle, but you were." I nodded slowly. "You taught me to be a lady, Daddy." Now that honestly surprised me, for I don't ever recall teachin' her how to sit or stand or walk with a book balanced atop her head, I never taught her to sew nor flirt nor pout, and Marnie laughed, for I reckon I looked surprised, or confused, or both. "You ... treated Mama like a lady. All the time. I don't ever remember your raising your voice, not once, not ever, inside the house." She smiled and interrupted me before I could say it -- "I know, Daddy, you dislike loud noises!" I laughed, nodded. My daughter knew me better than I realized, but I was not surprised at this. "I remember ... it wasn't much later, a week or so ... you asked me if I'd like to ride a horse." I nodded again. Marnie looked down, swallowed. "I was scared," she whispered, then she looked at me, and I could see that little girl she'd been, looking at me out of those pale eyes, alone, vulnerable, frightened. "I was scared to ride a horse, Daddy, I was scared to tell you no, I was scared to do anything that would raise your voice or raise your hand --" "You were walking on eggshells before you started school," I murmured. "Do you remember what you asked me next?" I smiled, for there was a memory I had chambered up and ready to go. Little four year old Marnie Keller wore a frilly dress, and knee socks and little saddle shoes, her hair was braided and she sat on the top rail of the fence behind the barn. The big man with pale eyes walked a spotty horsie up to her and it sidled up to her and he said, "You could ride with me. Come on over behind me, darlin'." Her pale eyes were uncertain, her face was pale, she swallowed hard, but she hooked her heel on the second rail down and leaned forward -- she grabbed the shoulder of his coat and she stepped over, onto the saddle skirt -- she had not the least idea that she could sit, and what Shelly saw when she came out to call them to supper, was a strutting Appaloosa stallion at an easy canter, mane and tail floating in the chilly evening air, a pale eyed man with a big grin on his face riding proudly in the saddle, and standing up behind him, a laughing little girl with even white teeth, a little girl with blanched-white knuckles as she death gripped the man's Carhartt shoulders, as she stood up behind him, feeling taller and faster and happier than she ever remembered being in all her young life! "I remember," I said quietly. "That was the first time you ever rode a horse. Your Mama still has the picture." I looked over at Marnie. "Do you know what I saw when I looked at that picture?" Marnie blinked, curious, smiled just a little, shook her head. "I used to stand up behind my Mama a-horseback, when I was that size. Mama had a picture, I don't know whatever come of it, but I remember ... feeling ..." I looked down and I couldn't help but smile. "Marnie, you looked happy. You looked at the world for the very first time with fearless eyes. When I saw that picture, I knew I'd done something right." Marnie reached over, laid her hand on mine. "You did many things right, Daddy. That's why I'm here." "Oh?" "I wanted to sit here and remember the first time things went right in my life." There are times in a man's life when he realizes just how profound an effect he's had, and this was one of those times. "I wanted to sit on the fence, Daddy. Here's where it all started." 3 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 30 Author Share Posted March 30 “BUGLER! SOUND RECALL!” A pale-eyed ambassador tilted her head and regarded the Judge: her expression, her posture, told His Honor that he had her undivided attention. She’d been formally received: on a world where the swiftest transportation was the fastest horse, the arrival of a boxy, chisel-nosed shuttle, shining and silent and descending from the skies, was unusual enough to catch the eye: the shuttle, as it always did for a State visit, descended along a prescribed course, and watchers knew to anticipate its approach from a particular direction, they expected to see it descend along a designated path: signals were passed, flashes of reflected sunlight if in the daytime, torches ignited in a particular pattern along relay-points, if at night. The shuttle’s course was long and straight; it came at a steady velocity, slowing only after crossing the river; one mile more, and it came to a stop, hovered, descended straight down in the middle of a grassy clearing. The pale-eyed Ambassador stood in the shuttle’s broad hatchway as the fan-shaped ramp lowered: a brass band greeted her with a brisk air, a distinguished representative removed his fine, tall hat and formally bade her welcome: only then did she set foot on the soil of this Confederate world. Ambassador Marnie Keller allowed the representative to take her hand, raise it to his lips: his expression was solemn, his eyes unusually so: Marnie knew the man to be a charming dinner companion and an expert dancer, and she also knew that his delight would be expressed with shining eyes and a cheerful voice. She saw instead a troubled man. A dignified woman in a McKenna gown sat across from His Honor the Judge. Tea was brought, hot, steaming, fragrant: Marnie had been instrumental in introducing both the Camellia shrub and Bergamot to the planet, and both were enthusiastically embraced: on this trip, she’d brought coffee plants, and complete instructions for their horticulturists, but for now, tea was a new drink, and very popular with those who could afford it. Marnie’s choice of the tea and bergamot was intentional. There were multiple well-established crops introduced to this world’s fertile soils. Marnie did love her Earl Grey tea, and tea had receded into distant legend in the common imagination. Her gift of plants the year before, with instructions on where to plant them, and how to care for them, when and how to harvest, was enthusiastically received. The first crops were carefully dried, brewed, sampled and pronounced good. Marnie knew that a very few containers of dried leaves were sold, among those few who could afford it just yet … and she knew these were sold in Japanned boxes with illustrations of a woman in a long gown, presumably her engraved image, pressed into the heavy paper boxes in four colors. “Your Honor,” Marnie said neutrally, “you have the look of a troubled man.” He nodded, set his delicate china teacup down, untasted. Marnie set hers down as well. If the matter was serious enough to warrant his emptying his hands and giving his full attention to what he was about to say, it was serious enough for Marnie to empty her hands and give him her undivided attention. “Are you familiar with our methods of execution?” he asked. “I am not.” “For particularly heinous crimes, we have the Pits.” “I am not familiar, Your Honor.” “I believe you have Coulter’s Hell on your world.” Marnie smiled, just a little, nodded. “I’m familiar with Coulter’s Hell,” she affirmed. “I have been through it several times.” “We have something similar.” “Is yours a place of execution?” “It has been. One pit is reserved for … truly terrible crimes.” Marnie waited as the man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There are mud pits in various colors. Our men of science tell me they can color up from mineral content, or from something they call algae.” “I am familiar with several varieties of colored algae.” “There’s one pit that has something in it. It’s not algae. If you throw … they tested it yesterday to make sure it works … they threw a dead chicken in it and watched it dissolve.” “Dissolve.” “We make condemned prisoners view this dissolution, one week to the day of their date of execution.” “And how are the prisoners executed?” The Judge swallowed, looked away, looked back. “Terrible things happened,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Terrible. I hesitate to describe them.” “Your Honor, you’ll find I have a cast iron stomach. Please speak plainly.” “There was brutality, Madam Ambassador. Cruelty and monstrosity more terrible than a civilized mind can grasp. A man was found guilty, and he was placed in a small metal cage. The door was riveted shut and remains so.” Marnie’s eyebrow raised. “He was … his cage was placed on a wagon, and this was taken to the place of execution. “He was shown the ramp his cage would slide down and into this bubbling pit. “The dead chicken was thrown in and he watched as … as whatever devil’s soup lives there … dissolved the chicken.” “The prisoner will be dissolved alive.” “The pit is quite warm. I am told it’s not hot enough to boil a man to death, but he’ll scream with pain when he is introduced. The cage will sink to half its depth and he will … between the heat, and being eaten alive …” The judge shivered. “The family of his victim will be assembled, to witness this most horrible death.” Marnie nodded, tilted her head a little, studied the Judge’s face. “And you are quite sure you have the actual culprit.” The judge nodded, then shook his head. “There is always doubt, Madam Ambassador. Evidence was presented and the jury was convinced. This fellow … he is a known criminal, but to create horrors of the magnitude of which he is accused …” The Judge shook his head. “He was brought back from having been shown, and one week to the day from his guilty verdict, he will be slid down the ramp, still riveted in that small steel cage, and he’ll scream his last, while his victim’s family watches.” “And when will the execution take place?” “Today.” “Then I am just in time,” she murmured, and picked her tea up again. The Judge looked at his tea, still untouched, shook his head. Marnie placed her delicate teacup on its saucer just as an urgent knock drove against the inner chamber’s door: a messenger threw the door open, paper in hand. “Your Honor,” he said, “we convicted the wrong man!” The Judge powered to his feet. “Your Honor, when is the execution?” “He’s being taken there now!” “How do we stop it?” The Judge looked at the messenger. “Have my surrey hitched up!” “Yes, sir!” “Your Honor,” Marnie said crisply as they rose, “can we get to my ship? It’s swifter than –” “Yes,” the Judge said, “we can do that!” A bugler and a red-faced Sergeant rode ahead of the Judge’s surrey. The bugler blew a sharp summons, clearing the road ahead of them: the Judge’s face was grim, he had an arm clamped hard down against his chest, reins in his off hand. The chestnut was a pacer, and swift: she was a racer, and the lightweight, two-wheel surrey was a younger man’s carriage, but it suited the Judge, who remembered what it was to drive behind a fast horse, and never lost that love. Marnie spoke quietly into her lace-trimmed sleeve-cuff: as horsemen and a racing-style surrey came into the clearing, men came to attention on either side of the diplomatic shuttle: the boarding-ramp was down, the pilot was at the controls, Marnie hiked her skirts and jumped from the surrey, hit the ground running. Three steps and she was on the ramp, her hand gripping the Judge’s coat-sleeve. The ramp was only just beginning to whine shut when the shuttle jumped straight up like a scared jackrabbit, if a jackrabbit can make a hundred yards straight up in two seconds. “Does the condemned have any last words?” A known thief looked out through the bars that held him, crouched and cramped, for the past week. “Would it do any good?” he snapped. “I didn’t kill nobody, so be damned with you all!” The executioner nodded at an old man, who hitched a spring loaded hook onto a heavy ring welded to the back of the condemned man’s small cage: when the mechanism raised the back of the ramp and the cage slid into the pit, a team of mules would be used to pull the empty cage back up the timber ramp, as buckets of water sloshed the hungry mud off the metal, lest the mud it dragged back onto the wooden ramp, eat great gouges in the ramp. When the cage came out, they knew, it would be completely empty. The hungry mud would have eaten every particle of the prisoner. Silence descended over the scene: the executioner brought out his watch, consulted it. The prisoner, alone, naked, waited for the mechanism to activate, waited to hear gears and springs beneath him start to clatter, start to hoist the back of the ramp, start to slide him into Hell while he was still alive. Something silver streaked over the horizon toward them. The diplomatic shuttles were normally silent. This wasn’t. The shuttle screamed through the air, a high-pitched half-whistle, half-siren, louder as it approached, shining and arrow-swift, drawing a straight line for the Place of Execution. His Honor muttered, “If only we had a bugler!” “Bugler?” the pilot laughed. “We can handle that! What call, sir?” The Judge’s eyes widened. “Sound Recall!” The pilot’s hands danced over a small keypad, and Marnie smiled, just a little, as her uniformed Confederate pilot murmured, “Sound files, bugle calls, Recall.” Beneath them, a hatch opened, a bank of a half dozen loudspeakers dropped into the slipstream, adding to the ship’s rumbling vibration as it shrieked through the air. The executioner watched as the hand swept upward, biting chunks from a man’s lifespan with each tick of its mechanism. He gripped a short, smooth, cast-iron handle, waited for the appointed moment. The watch’s long, slender second hand touched the ornate, hand-painted 12 at the top of the age-yellowed watch dial. The executioner gripped a small handle, pulled, stepped back: the preacher began reading from the Book, and beneath the condemned man, beneath the riveted-shut cage, a powerful spring began to unwind, turning an axle, turning gears, turning a screw mechanism which hoist the back of the ramp. Heads rose, mouths opened as something boxy and silver stopped overhead, dropped straight down toward them, as the commanding, sharp, precise notes of Recall shivered the air. “STOP THE MECHANISM!” The executioner shoved at the short, cast-iron handle, shoved harder, desperately trying to stop what he’d started: he put both hands on the smooth, red-painted handle, shoved impotently at the locked bar, the well-greased mechanism sounding like it was chuckling at his efforts. The mule skinner spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, picked up the reins: “Yup there, now, yup, boys,” he called, and the mules surged forward, against the chain. The cage started to slide, stopped suddenly, held by the chain and by two mules. The shuttle landed, the ramp dropped, the Judge ran up, his hand driving into his coat. He pulled out his gavel. A Judge’s gavel was made of the hardest wood on the planet. Its handle was turned, shaped, given particular decorative looking rings that served as a key, as a signature: the Judge’s gavel was the only thing that could stop the ramp’s mechanism: as the silver diplomatic shuttle lifted, pirouetted, backed against the rising ramp, the landing ramp blocking the cage from sliding off smooth timbers, the Judge drove the handle of his gavel into the execution machine’s socket. Gears slammed to a stop. The Judge looked at the executioner. “We have the wrong man.” Sheriff Jacob Keller listened to his sister’s recounting of her latest diplomatic venture. “What happened after they got him out of the cage?” “They made the official proclamations that he was innocent, that the right man was found, the usual language.” “What about him? Any compensation for wrongful conviction?” “I argued that his reputation was stained beyond redemption and through no fault of his own. We agreed that a fresh start was indicated, so we moved him to another world entirely, someplace that had never heard of him or his homeworld.” Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I set him up with his own tea plantation,” Marnie smiled. “That was a year ago. Yesterday I received a package of tea by courier post, and a note.” She handed Jacob the note. I hope this blend is to your liking. It was signed with an ornate, capital R. Marnie raised a small, cloth-wrapped package, closed her eyes, took a deep, savoring breath. “He got the blend just right.” 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted March 31 Author Share Posted March 31 (edited) WHEN A LADY TAKES A NOTION A little girl with a winning smile and shining blond hair strutted up to the cash register with her Secret Weapon under her arm. She set a pink plastic piggy bank on the counter, and the bill from their meal. It was her Daddy's birf-day and she wanted to take him out to eat, and so they went to a restaurant and had a Happy Birf-day meal. (She tried hard to say "Birthday" but she'd lost a couple milk teeth in front, which made precise diction difficult) The young man behind the register watched as the little girl gave the plug in the belly of her pink plastic piggie a quarter-turn: he expected her to dump out a handful of pennies and quarters, and that her Daddy, smiling indulgently behind her, was the one who was really going to pay the bill. The child reached into her pink piggy with two tiny fingers, teased out the corners of a couple bills, laid two twenties atop their dinner check: she replaced the pink piggy's plug, tucked it back under her arm as if it were a football and she wasn't going to let the opposing team lay a finger on it. She waited patiently while the young man made change, handed to her. "That's a lot of money for a little girl," he said, smiling a little. "How'd you come across that?" Marnie Keller gave him a big, shining smile, made all the more adorable by her missing incisors: "You just never know what you're going to find on the street these days!" She turned, scampered back to their table: eyes followed her rapid, pattering progress, a pretty little girl in a frilly dress and shiny shippers, a little girl who gave the waitress a good tip, ran back, took her Daddy's hand, looked up at him. "I didn't tell any-boddie it was your birf-day," she said, sincerity shining from her young face. "I didn't want nobody singing and clapping like they did last week!" Linn laughed, dropped to a squat, hugged Marnie: she felt his silent Daddy-laugh, then he whispered in her ear, "Thank you for saving me that public humiliation!" That evening, Shelly tilted her head and looked at her husband. Linn was at his desk in his study, laughing. He looked up, motioned her to come closer: he pointed to the screen, still chuckling. "Look at that," he said quietly. "The news makes just all kind of hay over mounted officers running down a shoplifter!" Linn raised his head, thrust his chin toward the window, and they both looked outside at a pretty little blond haired girl in red cowboy boots and a matching Stetson, a serious look on her face as she spun a lariat -- she spun her loop beside her, then overhead, she eased her patient old mare ahead, still spinning the plaited leather and making it look easy. "Has she seen this?" Shelly murmured. Linn laughed. "No she hasn't," he replied, "and I'm not going to go giving her ideas!" "I understand she treated you to Happy Birthday dinner out." Shelly's hands rubbed his shoulders and he groaned with pleasure: "I'll give you a week to stop that!" Shelly bent down, whispered "You rake, carousing with a younger woman!" "Wasn't my idea," Linn sighed as his wife's talented fingers kneaded the tensions from his neck and shoulders. "I learned a long time ago, when a lady takes a notion, it's best to go with it." "What would you think of this lady's notion of Happy Birthday Cake and Ice Cream?" "I think that would be best shared with all hands." Shelly laughed, squeezed her husband's upper arms. "I think we can arrange that!" Edited March 31 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 5 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 1 Author Share Posted April 1 (edited) VACATION Sheriff Jacob Keller felt his stomach shrink, twist up into knots. He would have given a good percentage of his eternal soul to have a good saddlehorse under him. All he had was what he wore, and that felt pitifully inadequate. What he was facing was kind of like a Texas longhorn, only instead of an impressive breadth of horns, these were curled like a mountain goat’s – one symmetrical curve, a full circle of smooth ivory horn, with the points projecting alongside and just ahead of the big beef’s nostrils. It did not help any that, even if Jacob were mounted, the bull’s shoulders would have been saddle horn tall. Jacob stood alone in the middle of the street, tasting copper, crouched just a little: he wore his usual brace of .44 Magnum single action revolvers, given him by his father, a brace of frontier justice he’d used more times than one to keep himself alive – against the mechanical, against the inanimate, against the occasional human opponent. Jacob Keller, Sheriff of Mars, was on vacation. Jacob Keller, Sheriff of the Firelands colony, dressed as he was comfortable: well polished Wellington boots, a tailored black suit, the matched, engraved revolvers discreetly worn under his now-unbuttoned coat, a black Stetson, forgotten on top of his head. He knew there were people on the street, he’d gauged their reactions, he’d concluded this big beef was bad medicine, and he did what he always did. Sheriff Jacob Keller acted to keep as many people safe as he possibly could. Heavy horns, he thought, curled for impact. Thick skull to carry that weight. Cape buffalo have a bony forehead plate. Damn, I want a brain shot but can I get one? Marnie Keller smiled as she gripped her brother’s shoulders. “You need a vacation, Jacob,” she’d said persuasively. “I know just the world you’d like. Their horses aren’t too bad, they have McClellan saddles instead of a good roping saddle, the food’s good” – she’d batted long lashes and managed to look very innocent – “and they think very highly of a certain, honest to God, Western Sheriff!” She’d finally convinced him that some time away would do him good. She’d talked him into a week away from the Firelands colony. Now he stood in the middle of the street, not knowing his wife was watching, her eyes wide with fear, from an upstairs window in the local hotel, looking at a bull bigger than all of Creation itself, a bull that stopped and stared at this puny two-legs that dared defy it, a bull that bellowed with the sound of a monster and pawed at the packed dirt street and very obviously was more than ready to charge her husband. Ruth Keller looked down at the child she held, brought the infant up against her bodice, bit her bottom lip, watching as Death on cloven hooves sized up the man she loved. Jacob’s weight came up on the balls of his feet. He saw movement to his right. So did the bull. People were getting the hell off the street -- apparently they were smarter than he was -- to his right, a mother with a child's hand in each of hers, looking over her shoulder, fear-widened eyes and a desperate expression telling Jacob that she only needed a few more seconds, just a few seconds to get out of sight -- Jacob saw the big head turn, saw weight shift, saw massive muscles ripple under shining, healthy fur – “HEY! HAMBURGER! OVER HERE, YOU FOUR WHEEL DRIVE MAIN COURSE!” Jacob whipped off his coat, spun it over his head, curled his lip, whistled, high, shrill, commanding. “YEAH YOU! I’M TALKING TO YOU, HAMBURGER! GET OVER HERE, SANDWICH, YOU LOOK LIKE A MAIN COURSE TO ME!” The bull turned back toward Jacob, shook its head – an awful, slow-motion shake, owing to its size, its weight. Jacob brought his coat down, snapped it like an impatient matador. “HEY, TORO! TORO! COME AND GET IT!” Ruth felt her eyes start to water up as the bull lowered its head, as it roared more than bellowed. Ruth watched her husband, a lone man in a black suit, distracting the monstrous, curl horn bull long enough for the last few people to get down the alley and out of sight. Jacob spun the coat around, thrust his arms into it. Ruth’s white teeth bit down on her knuckle – Her breath caught in her throat – One man alone, a man whose eyes went from worried to ice-pale, a man with a face the color of parchment and stretched tight over high cheekbones, charged a bull that made the African mbogo look like a child’s toy. Jacob Keller, son of a pale eyed Sheriff, grandson of a pale eyed Sheriff, saw the big head come down – His head’s down, he can’t see me – He'll see me if I run to the side -- No help for it! Jacob screamed defiance as he ran, as he jumped, an honest to God running leap. He’d read where the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna ran screaming toward a charging longhorn, how she’d seized the horns near their mossy base, how she’d vaulted neatly over its back. Jacob didn’t even try. The bull’s head swung up – Jacob was running up the bull’s snout -- Jacob almost got to the fur-covered boss, that heavy plate between the roots of the heavy, curled horns, before he was thrown – Sky, earth, sky, earth, IMPACT – Sheriff Jacob Keller landed flat on his back on the packed dirt street. Ruth was not breathing. She saw Jacob twist, come up on all fours – Oh dear, he’s gotten his coat all filthy, she thought, then she slapped the thought aside, looked around – All there was, was one of the surveillance cameras, mounted on the window sill, looking out onto the street -- Dear God, why didn’t he bring a rifle? Why didn't I bring mine? Jacob fought to get wind into his shocked lungs. He saw the bull’s retreating backside. Jacob came up on the balls of his feet, he threw his head back, desperately tried to get air, sweet air! – his hands swept his coat tails back, he gripped the matched pair of .44s, waited, fighting to clear the sparkles in front of his eyes. I can’t take another hit like that. Men came running out, grabbed Jacob, arm and belt, hustled him quickly off the street. Jacob allowed them to set him down, inside, on one of the hotel’s elaborate, padded parlor chairs, inside, where it was shadowed and cool. He shook his head, threw his head back, rose. Something pastel came swarming down the stairs on the other side of the room – Ruth? Jacob felt his wife’s arms around him, heard her whispers, felt her kiss his lips, on his cheeks, heard her frantic words as she poured her pent-up fears over him like dumping a bucketful of feminine apprehension over his head – Jacob managed to get a deep breath into his lungs. He looked around, turned a little, one hand on his wife’s forearm: “The bull … how do we stop it?” “We don’t,” came the frank answer. “We just let ‘em go, everyone gets off the street.” “And if you don’t?” “We get killed.” A heavy, faceted mug of something sweating-cold, amber, with a foamy head, was pressed into his grip. “Here, man, you’ve earned this! You kept my wife and children from –” Jacob’s pale eyes drove into the speaker’s brown eyes. The man’s voice stopped. One man looked at another. A pale eyed Sheriff nodded, just a little, then he raised the mug, drank. Ambassador Marnie Keller came down the stairs considerably more slowly than had her sister in law. The moment Ruth triggered the emergency alarm, Marnie rose, keyed in a quick command, stepped through the midnight-black portal to a preprogrammed destination, one she herself arranged. She’d stepped out of an Iris, in the rented room upstairs, she’d picked up the smiling, arm-waving baby with apple cheeks and chubby arms, carried him downstairs with her. The Ambassador hung back, watching, her back to a wall: she discreetly held up a tablet, watched the surveillance playback: a raised eyebrow was her only reaction. Jacob lowered the half empty mug, took a long breath, handed it back. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I needed that.” He looked across the room at his sister: Marnie glided forward, a gentle voice and a feminine, gloved hand on men’s shoulders, and they parted to let her through. Marnie smiled as she handed Ruth the yawning bundle, turned to look at Jacob. “I can get you a clean suit,” she offered innocently, then tilted her head and asked, “Are you enjoying your vacation?” Edited April 2 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 2 Author Share Posted April 2 FEET OF THE KING Sheriff Jacob Keller and his wife sat down to supper. Marnie joined them, which caused an even greater congestion at the doorways: Jacob’s actions on the street outside instantly promoted him to hero status, and the Ambassador was already well known, thanks to the Inter-System news broadcasts: had Angela joined them, with her own Inter-System exposure, the press of humanity, gazing upon these personages, would have prevented anyone from entering or leaving the hotel entirely. Ruth smiled quietly as Jacob addressed the serving-girl with his usual gentle voice: after looking over the menu, after deferring to his ladies, allowing them to order first, he looked at the waitress and said, “If I could trouble you for the special, please,” and Ruth and Marnie shared a look as the star-struck girl nearly melted in her moccasins: here was a man who could’ve demanded the most expensive items on the menu, who could have said “Give me such-and-such” in a demanding tone … but he ordered with a gentle voice, with a gentle smile, and he asked, rather than really ordered. Their dinner conversation was quiet voiced and good natured. Marnie’s analyzers scanned each dish as it came to their table, ensuring the provender was compatible with the human digestive system: there were worlds where trace elements, or toxic elements, were assimilated into what would be perfectly edible in another soil: such was not the case here. They ate in the main dining room, like anyone else; they ate the same food, sipped the same sweet tea, as the other diners around them, and they pretended to not notice that they were the subject of nearly everyone else’s attention there in the dining room. After their meal, after pie (and after cleaning up their happy son, who managed to get pie over an impressive percentage of his young face), Marnie consulted her watch and smiled: she led them into a larger room, apparently used for meetings, where Jacob was hailed for his heroic actions, where he met those who’d been on the street when the intruding bull made its way down their main street, when Jacob distracted it from its usual crushing assault on anything that wasn’t bovine. Mention was made of a mechanical malfunction that failed to completely shut the town’s gates, those great, heavy, timber-and-riveted-iron valves that were constructed to keep out the undesired: repairs were still underway, he was told, but temporary barriers were in place to prevent a recurrence. Jacob was asked to speak, and he expressed his satisfaction at the meal, his delight with the hospitality his family and himself were receiving, he laughed a little as he admitted he must have looked a fright after landing flat on his back – “I was spoken to,” he said carefully, “about the filthy nature of my suit afterward,” and his gentle voice, his rueful expression, got a laugh from those present. “I will admit,” he added, “that we are being treated like royalty, and thank you for that kindness” – he looked around with that gentle smile, he reached his hand around to the small of his back – “but I’m afraid your new King has feet of clay, for I find I now have a fine accumulation of aches and pains!” A reception was held afterward; Jacob and his wife were formally introduced to a remarkable number of people: a nervous looking woman shook his hand, carefully, as if afraid he might burst into bright splinters: her husband’s grip, a moment before, had been enthusiastic, but hers was tentative: Jacob hesitated, looked more closely into her face. “Ma’am,” he said, “do I recall you had a child in each hand yesterday?” She blinked, swallowed hard, nodded. Jacob took her hand in both of his, looked very directly, very intently into her face. “Ma’am, a lesser soul would have abandoned her grip and run to save herself.” His voice was quiet now, very serious. “You didn’t. You got your children to safety, peacefully or otherwise.” Jacob took a breath, his pale-blue eyes boring deep into hers. “Ma’am, I’ve been called a hero here tonight, but if anyone here is a hero, it’s you!” Jacob’s intent expression, his quiet words, flashed over the Inter-System and were seen and heard on many worlds, including a blue world in the Sol system, where a husband and wife were watching on a screen that received signal via an interdimensional portal unaffected by such limits as the speed of light. His image, his smile, his words were carried by the Inter-System: pale eyes watched, familial ears listened as Jacob’s image, as his words, came over their screen, their speakers: Shelly leaned over her husband’s shoulder, hugged him from behind, whispered “He sounds just like you,” and Linn chuckled and said “He’s a better speaker than me,” and patted her hand. “ ‘Your King has feet of clay,’ “ he quoted, chuckled, shook his head. “Jacob, my son, you could run for office!” 4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 2 Author Share Posted April 2 A GOOD MAN'S TEMPER Tables were removed, chairs spirited away: fiddlers, musicians, laughter: Ambassador Marnie Keller's hand was cool in a stranger's callused grip as she spun like a top, as her skirt flared with her turn: celebration was dear to a grateful community's heart, until a scream shivered in between the fiddler's notes like a bloodied knife blade. Jacob and his sister froze, turned: two faces went pale, tight, their eyes going glacier-white. A Western Sheriff's hands knifed under his unbuttoned coat, an Ambassador's hand drove into a hidden pocket in her skirt, and two agents of the Law wove quickly through confusion, through concern. Jacob stopped at the door, turned to his sister. "I'll need my stallion," he said quietly. "I'll call for backup." Marnie raised a bent wrist to her lips, spoke urgently, as Sheriff Jacob Keller drew his right-hand .44 and thrust the door open. Not again, he thought, his jaw clenched: by God! you are NOT doing this AGAIN! An Iris dilated, tall and narrow, behind him: Jacob turned, thrust through the Iris as Marnie stepped out of the double doors, looked up the street. Her gloved hands tightened on the checkered grip of a .44 Bulldog revolver that suddenly felt ten sizes too small. Marnie turned, thrust through the Iris behind her brother. Men surged to the window, started toward the doorway, at least until a golden stallion fairly detonated out of the Iris, followed by an Appaloosa stallion: their riders were bent low over their necks to keep from cracking heads with the lintel, and two horses made two surging leaps to the dirt street, turned. Jacob Keller dropped the breechblock on a Sharps rifle, thumbed in a shining brass cartridge the size of a panetela: Marnie, beside him, cranked the lever on a rifle she knew intimately. Two dismounted, two strode forward: their stallions, restless, danced behind them, but stood, ground-reined, waiting. Jacob shouldered the Sharps, thumbed the tang mounted peep sight up, went to one knee. 90 grains of soft coal detonated in the rifle's steel throat, a slug the size of a man's thumb drew a fiddlestring through the air, and half a thousand grains of Linotype alloy smacked the curlhorn squarely between the eyes. The oncoming, grunting, head-shaking bull didn't drop, but he did stagger. Marnie danced to the side -- that's the only way to describe how she moved, she was not a creature of two legs, she did not walk, she moved on the balls of her feet, half-floating, half-skipping, lining up to drive Winchester brass and lead behind the bull's leg as it came alongside: she was cheeked down hard on the rifle's comb, her eye hard and unblinking behind the Marble's peep, red lips pressed grimly together. A smoking brass hull spun slowly through the air, another brass panatela shoved into the breech: Jacob closed the lever, sighted again, corrected for the bull's lifting of his head -- The trigger was smooth under his finger, the front sight steady on the bloody spot between its horns -- The bull lifted its head, Jacob hesitated, lowered his aim, broke the shot. This time, when half a thousand grains of hard cast lead hit, it punched through the now-horizontal sinuses and through the brain. A bull that made the biggest Texas longhorn look like an underfed calf, collapsed like a baggie of ground beef. Sheriff Jacob Keller swept back the heavy Sharps hammer, dropped the breechblock, lowered the muzzle, dunked in another round without looking, closed the breech. Sheriff and Ambassador flanked out, moving together, moving as they'd practiced a thousand times, back home: they advanced on the threat, rifles at the ready, moving slowly, steadily. Jacob was well to the unmoving beef's right, Marnie symmetrically to its left: Jacob looked at his sister, nodded. The two walked slowly up to the beef. Jacob grabbed the ear, lifted, shoved the rifle's muzzle deep into the ear canal, took a good two hand grip on his octagon barrel buffalo rifle and pulled the trigger. Smoke, blood, but no movement. Jacob backed up, wiped the hammer back and dropped the lever, let the smoking round hit the packed dirt street, looked back the way the beef had come. He and Marnie looked at one another, headed up the beef's back trail, to where people were converging on something that might have been human, at one time. Jacob turned, curled his lip, whistled. Two stallions cantered up to them, two agents of the Law swung into their saddles. Two pale eyed riders gigged their mounts into a gallop, toward the gates that were supposed to be repaired, supposed to be proof against another incursion. Someone had to let this one in. Someone's idea of a joke just got a woman killed. Someone just earned a hemp necktie! The local law received the prisoners from the pale eyed Sheriff and the Ambassador. They were alive, they were not damaged, but they were more than cowed, between the knowledge that their idea of a joke got someone killed, that they'd been wordlessly confronted by a legend on a shining-gold stallion, a legend with the cold, unforgiving eyes of a polished granite statue: the Sheriff took some time to wipe the blood off his rifle's muzzle, took some time to slide the Sharps back into its saddle scabbard: the dining room was silent as he walked inside, his tread slow, heavy, his hat in his hand. "I'm looking for His Honor the Judge," he said, his words carefully, precisely spoken. Ambassador Marnie Keller stood beside her brother, her gloved hand wrapped delicately around his arm, her Winchester rifle laid back over her shoulder. A dignified man came forward. "Your Honor," Jacob said quietly, "I find I am no longer festive. The Ambassador will be pleased to inform me when my testimony may be required in tonight's event." Jacob raised his eyes and his voice both. "I thank one and all for your kindness," he declared. "We have been received with the very best of hospitality, and I am very much obliged for that." Technology on this world had not progressed to traction vehicles of any kind; steam was but in its infancy, horsepower was the prime mover, and so when the Sheriff's words were followed with the clattering rumble of a Diesel tractor, the Sheriff smiled grimly. "The Ambassador and I felt it only proper that we should help you remove that big carcass. I doubt me not you have teams that could move it, but my conscience wouldn't let me sleep at night if I just dropped that much meat without offering to get it out of your road." A golden stallion stuck its head through the open double doors and muttered: Jacob turned, grinned. "I know, fella. Be right there." Sheriff Jacob Keller turned, walked over to his stallion, backed the shining-gold Palomino out of the doorway and into the street, mounted. The Ambassador followed, fed her Appaloosa a striped peppermint, rubbed his neck and cooed to him, to his obvious, tail-slashing pleasure: the hotel's celebratory crowd poured slowly out, gawping at something they'd never seen before: they never suspected the possibility, much less knew of the existence, of a tracked, yellow, Diesel-powered tractor with CATERPICKLE boldly stenciled on the heavy steel arms running to the raised blade. A company of grey-uniformed soldiers hitched the tractor to the dead beef: heavy nylon straps, run through the clevis, safety pinned to the drawbar: the operator, red-eared with the self-conscious realization that he was being openly stared at, bumped the throttle forward, half-turned in his seat, made sure his cargo was moving, set a steady, noisy course down the street, half-a-hundred single-file men moving in military step, on either side. Jacob looked at his sister. "Company strength," he said. "You weren't kidding about backup." Marnie smiled: "I get results, little brother!" 3 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 4 Author Share Posted April 4 SCIENTIFIC DISCOURSE "I realize this is an advanced placement student." "But ...?" "These drawings. Anatomically, they are very precise." "I understand they were done from slaughterhouse exemplars." "And these?" "These were the result of research. I believe the London Museum of Natural Sciences was the cited reference." "He has citations?" "Right here." Pages turned; frowning eyes scanned the pages, nodded. "His main premise is that ... had the so-called Texas Longhorn evolved with more curled horns, like the mountain goat ..." "Had natural selection favored that, yes." "That the skull would have responded with a greater bone density at the stress points, to endure head-butting collisions." "The longhorn skull -- this sketch ... figure 7-4, Professor ... these are ..." "Yes?" A page turned, another. "These were done by a mere schoolboy?" "I watched him," came the solemn reply. "He did them from memory, and when I questioned his sources, he called up what he called an 'Anatomic Disassembly' on his school computer." "Anatomic," the professorial skeptic repeated slowly, "disassembly." "A slaughterhouse, sir." "Slaughterhouse." A slow, disapproving shake of a professorial head. "Why isn't a schoolboy out chasing cats up a tree or playing video games?" "He is advanced placement, sir." "Hm." "The London Museum citations. These are actual ... Anatomic Disassemblies" -- the Professor's adjutant heard the slight smile in the skeptical educator's voice -- "of an African cape buffalo?" "They are, sir. Bone density measurements, testimonies from a variety of wild game professionals, African big game hunters, natives. There are cited discussions of bullet-strikes to the bony boss between the horns, attempts to brain-shoot mbogo, even with the most powerful of African big-game rifles, without success." The Professor gave his assistant a long, assessing look, remembering how the man ordered his breakfast eggs in one of the African vernaculars, even to the point of using the proper Q-click, something difficult for a non-native and impossible without extensive, immersive exposure to the culture. "I've seen what Mbogo can do, sir," his assistant said quietly. "If this young man's curlhorn -- I believe he even coined the name -- had indeed evolved on this continent, it would have been a most formidable impediment to settlement of the New World." "Hmp." The professor grunted: he looked around, backed up, sat on the corner of the teacher's desk, frowned at the pages in his hand. "These drawings are extremely precise," he said softly, "his premise is clearly stated, he supports his arguments with facts and citations. His use of medico-veterinary terminology is flawless. I find his premise sound." The professor nodded thoughtfully, looked at his assistant. "Never in my career," he said softly, "have I ever done this at a grade school science fair." His assistant pulled out a tablet, started recording. "I am awarding this young man a superior rating. Blue ribbon prize. I wish to sponsor him in his higher education. You've confirmed this is all original work." "I have, sir." "Brilliance like this should be encouraged. Avail him of whatever he needs -- with that skill in his anatomic renderings, he could teach art classes, I doubt if he could benefit from them." The professor's voice trailed off, he looked down at the thick bundle he held. "Superior rating. See to it." "Yes, sir." 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 4 Author Share Posted April 4 YOU GOT ME ON THAT ONE! Jacob Keller stood and regarded the gunrack against the wall beside the pot belly stove. He turned the Sharps rifle sideways, then he took one of the '73 rifles and turned it likewise. Jacob Keller stepped back, pale eyes considering their relative length, depth, contours, construction. Jacob Keller stepped back up to the gunrack and returned each to its precise resting position, then he slid open the drawer and brought out two loaded rounds. He brought out a .45-70, and he brought out a .44-40. It took some doing but he managed to work the bullet out of each. Jacob knew his Pa would not be back for some time. He went over to his Pa's desk and drew out two note sized sheets of paper. Carefully, slowly, he poured the powder from the .45-70 into a pile; below it, on the other sheet, the powder from the bottleneck .44-40. He set the bullets base-to-base, considered the pairing with his eyes and his fingers, then he set each on the desk blotter, regarded their relative lengths. His serious expression had not changed since he'd come into his Pa's office: he picked up each bullet, hefted its weight. Jacob tried to reassemble the rounds, realized that without a nutcracker tool -- which he didn't have -- he'd play hell trying to re-bullet the cases. He lifted the lid on the stove, scaled in the powder -- one, then the other -- a boy would normally smile at the sizzling *foof*, the bright sparkle of loose powder committing to the coals -- but his young face remained expressionless. Jacob rolled each bullet in one of the sheets he'd used; rolled, folded over, inserted into a pocket with the empty hull: he opened the heavy timber door, opened it, stepped outside, a tall, lean young man in a black suit. His pale eyes were busy from the moment he hesitated at the opening of the door; they were just as busy as he stepped outside, until he looked up the street and to the left. There. There's where the murderer stood. Jacob recalled what it was to seize his coughing, bleeding Pa by the collar with his off hand, his good right hand filled by the Army Colt he'd taken from the monster that murdered his Ma: Jacob fired at his father's would-be assassin, fired twice more, until Macneil stepped out the door with that buffalo rifle and settled the fight with one shot: he and Macneil dragged his Pa off the dirt and over the boardwalk and safely inside -- Jacob closed his eyes, took a long breath, opened them, looked again. He'd killed men easily, at that distance, with a .44-40 lever gun. The Sharps, he knew, spoke with authority, and if a man knew his rifle, it carried that authority for a respectably greater distance. Years later, another Jacob Keller, a young man in a handmade black suit, would make that same considering comparison between the same two cartridges, only he would follow this with a study of ballistics tables, and then live fire on steel plates at varying yardages, and after this particular Jacob Keller became a husband and father, and had occasion to employ a Sharps rifle on a dirt street a very long way from home, he expanded his study of relative ballistics to include a scholarly assessment of a longer case than that used by his Pa's Sharps -- a .45-70, factory converted to fixed metallic from the tobacco cutter, and with the fragile dogleg firing pin to prove it. Jacob knew that he might need a rifle with greater stopping power than his Pa's Buffalo Rifle, and so he had one custom made -- a genuine Sharps it was, a .50-100, and his careful research showed him a 500 grain, paper patched Linotype cast over 90 grains of 2F gave him the best accuracy. It also had a healthy kick to it. His Pa loaded the 350 grain Gould's Express in his .45-70, and Jacob one time laughed that he had to respect a rifle with an "Express" load that still carried 350 grains' weight. Jacob Keller had occasion to use that .50-100, and not all its uses were terrestrial: most, but not all, like the time he stood on a highway overpass, then folded his legs and sat, in that order: he had two heavy dowels in hand, held them like cross sticks, laid his rifle's octagon barrel over his gloved fist and drove a single round through the radiator and an impressive percentage of a truck's engine block, stopping the hijacked tractor-trailer with one shot: he was presented with a broken timing gear mounted on a plaque, afterward, with the brass tag beneath that read "One Shot, One Kill" (the truck was killed, the driver was taken alive, persuaded to surrender by the sight of that big blossom of a blue cloud from the overpass ahead, and the even more persuasive sounds of a sledgehammer hitting, and the horrible noises of a shattered engine beneath him) When Sheriff Jacob Keller was intercepted and interviewed by an eager young reporter for the Inter-System, Jacob stopped and patiently endured the reporter's congratulations, the intrusion of the hover-camera: the reporter, of course, inquired if Jacob felt any fear as the curlhorn came down the street toward him, knowing full well a victim's blood was still wet on the beast's cloven hooves. "Mister," Jacob asked quietly, "are you familiar with buffalo?" "Buffalo," the reporter echoed. "No, I ... I'm afraid I'm not." Jacob lifted his chin a little, considered, then laid a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder. "The American Bison is a big and impressive beast," he said quietly, looking over the man's shoulder at his pale eyed sister, who was busy with her tablet. "Big Shaggy is native to the North American continent, this native bovine is fast, agile, strong and would be a match for that curl horn outside." There was a grunt from behind the reporter and Jacob stepped a little to the side. The reporter turned, surprised: something huge, shaggy and solid stood beside him. "This is a hologram," Jacob said, "the real thing is back on Earth. What I used was a buffalo rifle. I had occasion to stop a buffalo, back home, and that same rifle worked here too." Jacob and Marnie gracefully ended the interview, leaving the eager young man to talk to his hovering observer: Marnie gave her brother an affectionate look and murmured, "You used that on a buffalo back home?" Jacob grinned -- that quick, boyish grin he only shared when nobody else was watching -- "You remember when I shot that hijacked truck from the overpass?" "The one where the State Trooper wanted your scalp, until the Governor said he wanted to give you a medal?" "Yep." Jacob pulled out his phone, tapped and swiped, brought up a picture. "Right here, Little Sis. See, I'm standing beside the fender ... let me slide this picture over ... see what it says on the door?" Marnie laughed, swatted Jacob on the shoulder. "Buffalo Trucking," she sighed. "You got me on that one!" 2 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 5 Author Share Posted April 5 ANGELUS MORT "I know that look, Mr. Keller." Shelly hung her head over her husband's shoulder, crossed her arms over his chest. Linn was sitting at his desk, in his study at home, staring at a dark, blank screen. Linn murmured, "I reckon you do." "You're thinking about her." "Yes." His word was little more than a whisper. "What's the memory?" Sheriff Willamina Keller willed her mount to greater speed. She held a child across the saddle in front of her, one hand clamped tight over the bloodied cloth wrapped around a small arm, the other holding the shivering, pallid body against her. She rode with her lips peeled back, but silent -- she did not even snarl -- she wished she could scream, she wished she could RAGE!!! -- she thought of that IDIOT MOTHER who pulled the broad, impaling glass out of the wound, who pulled the cork out of the bottle, slicing the artery: Willamina ripped her reproduction flour sack dress free, turned it with practiced speed into a tight-wrapped pressure dressing, then more cloth, a twist, an improvised torniquet: now she rode the wind itself, trying desperately to outrun pursuing Death. Horses' hooves, rhythmic, swift; a woman who fought a device from a pocket, spoke into it, calling ahead to her dispatcher: speed was her ally, swiftness, her friend: Willamina rode with the knowledge that, fast as she rode, the Reaper might yet win this race. She made the back of the hospital, the ambulance entrance: she hit the ground flat-footed, bearing her pallid burden at a flat-out sprint: there were cruisers, men in uniform, shotguns held muzzle-up: all they knew was, the Sheriff was inbound, fast, there was a casualty, they knew nothing more, but whatever it was, they intended to be ready. Willamina seized the sodden cloth as it was cut free of the child's arm. Her son ran with her as she twisted around people, ran for the door she'd come in through. Linn stood back, watched, somewhere between concern and alarm, as his mother slapped the bloody bundle against both sides of the door, then leaped, smacked the lintel above: she ran to one side, to the next door -- then to the next -- Linn ran with her, silent, not interfering, not at all sure what to do. Every door -- every door the same, blood on the uprights, left, right, then overhead: Willamina came back to the ambulance doors, to her ground-reined mount, recovering from its run; Willamina staggered inside, her face lined: she seized the lid of the nearest biohazard can, slammed the sodden cloth into the red bag, dropped the lid. She staggered for the nearest sink and washed her hands -- thoroughly, viciously, scrubbing at her hide with a surgical-prep sponge. Linn came up behind his Mama, gripped her shoulders. He felt her breathing -- fast, irregular -- she did not shake him off -- he squeezed, once, gently, then released and came around beside her. "I know him," Willamina muttered as she turned her hand up, as she ran soapy bristles under her close-trimmed fingernails: "I've changed his diaper, I bought 4H fundraisers from him, I showed him how to play the harmonica in a lonely place where it echoed between the rocks." Willamina stopped, turned suddenly, faced her son, her face crumpling with grief. "It's hardest when it's someone you know," she whispered, then she dropped the soapy scrubber in the trash can, rinsed her hands, toweled them dry. Sheriff Willamina Keller was a hard woman, but sometimes things got to her, and this ... this was one of the times. "Mama," Linn murmured as he held his silent, shivering mother, "are you all right?" "No," she hiccupped, shaking her head a little. Her voice was hoarse, little more than a whisper -- a vicious, snarled whisper. "No, but the Angel of Death will not cross the threshold!" Angela Keller grabbed the bleeder barehand. She ran beside the wheeled cart, she had a death grip around a white-faced child's arm: the cart was lowered, picked up, thrust into the rear of a traction vehicle. Angela surged inside with the patient. Angela Keller was a nurse, and she was here to teach a class: she was dressed, her whites were impeccable, her hair carefully styled and her winged cap pinned in place. This world had vehicles, and where there are vehicles, there are collisions; where there are collisions, there are injuries, and she'd screamed for her driver to stop: she helped extricate the patient, she assessed the blood loss and wished for an IV setup, but she had to make do with what she had, and that was two hands and the knowledge that transport was enroute. Angela rode in the back of what passed for an ambulance; they discharged at the hospital -- at least I know their medical system, she thought; they'll have competent surgeons working today -- she rolled into ER with the patient, she looked across at the bearded, bespectacled surgeon, one she knew, one who was surprised to see such a famous personage here, in one of the only dedicated emergency departments on the planet. Angela gave him a concise report: the doctor nodded, began giving orders: Angela warned him that she was holding an arterial bleed, moved her free hand to the proximal pressure point: bandages were packed under to collect the flow when she removed her hand, and flow there was. A man forced his way into the treatment room -- "I'm his father," he cried, and Angela fixed him with a cold glare and said "Back up against that wall!" -- he did, in time for another team to run in. "We have it from here," the bespectacled young surgeon murmured. "Yes, Doctor." Angela grabbed the bloody bandages from under the arm, turned to the father. "I need your help," she snapped. "Come with me." She powered out of the room, the father following. "They're going to explore the wound, there will be x-rays and other tests," Angela said, her voice crisp, precise: "he's lost a lot of blood but he's got a good surgeon." She pushed through the doors they'd come in. Angela turned, pressed the bloody bandage against the side of the doorway, turned, pressed against the other doorway. She looked up, looked at the father. "Take me around the waist and boost me up," she said, squatting: "Up!" Angela Keller shoved hard against the pavement, the father's grip around her waist bringing her another yard off the ground. She pressed the bloodied bandage against the lintel, came down. "On to the next!" Linn turned the screen back on so Shelly could see the Inter-System broadcast. It showed a woman in a bloodied dress and a grim expression, a woman who was scrubbing her hands, hard, fast, a woman who turned to another familiar figure who opened a wooden sword-case. Angela looked directly at the hover-camera and said, "You choose your battleground," she said quietly, "and I choose here!" Nurse Angela Keller, an angel of healing, raised two swords in salute: she strode to the doors through which they'd brought the injured patient, and she began to dance. Sharpened, shining Damascus steel wove a screen of steel just inside the doorway. It was a dance of grace and of skill, it was danced by a beautiful young woman, it was danced by a healer in a bloodied dress: behind her, a rhythm, beaten against the shining tiles with what sounded like a heavy staff. The father described in a quiet voice, to the woman in a McKenna gown keeping time with a heavy staff, how Angela had marked the only three doors of the hospital, and he had no idea why, save only that she might have taken leave of her senses -- his eyes turned toward the nurse, dancing with beauty and steel in the doorway, weaving destruction from one wall to the other and back. "Do you remember," the pale eyed woman in the McKenna gown said quietly, "the promise that was made at Passover?" "Passover?" The worried father blinked, shook his head. "In ancient Egypt, the last of the Plagues. Those houses marked with the blood of a lamb were passed over by the Angel of Death." "Ah," the man breathed, then looked at Angela again. "But ... the blades?" Marnie gave him a sympathetic look. "She has seen things that would curl the hair on a bald man's head," Marnie explained. "Each sorrow, each death, each loss, each injury she treats, adds its weight to her soul. If she doesn't discharge all that stress, she'll explode. Besides" -- Marnie smiled -- "if you were the Angel of Death, would you want to come up against all that steel?" Angela stopped, turned; Marnie stopped her staff, lowered it silently. A snap of the fingers; a horizontal Iris appeared, the staff thrust into it, disappeared: Angela replaced the Schlager blades, pushed the floating sword-case into the Iris, thanked her sister in a quiet voice, then turned to the father. "Come with me." Two women and a man marched down the hallway, turned to the right, stopped. The doors -- green-painted, with SURGERY NO ADMITTANCE painted across them, opened. The surgeon came out, stripped off his mask, his hood, looked at the ladies, at the man between them. "He'll live." Shelly's hands gripped her husband's shoulders. "Wow," she breathed. "Yeah, wow," Linn agreed, reaching up and laying a warm hand over his wife's cool fingers. 3 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 6 Author Share Posted April 6 PINWHEEL Ambassador Marnie Keller lay back in a clawfoot slipper tub and hummed with pleasure as she leaned her head back against a padded headrest, and finally -- finally! -- allowed herself to relax. She'd been negotiating for the past week, combining skills that would have been at home in a defense attorney's toolbox, a politician's podium, a used car salesman's presentation: she listened, she discussed, she arbitrated, she suggested, encouraged, discouraged, agreed, refused, laughed, glared, wheedled, and at one point she planted her knuckles on her slender waist, patted her foot like a disapproving schoolteacher, then shook a gloved finger at an individual and threatened to turn him over her knee and spank his backside if he didn't behave. The Ambassador smiled at that last memory, sighed out a long breath, blowing a minor cloud of soap-bubbles as she did: after a long and difficult negotiation, Marnie liked little better than a long soak in a hot bubble bath, and her Ladies-in-Waiting made very certain Marnie's bathwater was precisely at her specified temperature, the soapsuds were at least a foot deep, and Mendelssohn's Vassermusik played almost inaudibly, from invisible, very high quality speakers. Sheriff Jacob Keller's week had been similarly difficult. Their government, like any government, had challenges and challengers; there'd been a trial, and those involved in the conspiracy to assassinate him, were discovered, tried, convicted. There were other serious matters that demanded Jacob's time: the Mars colony was increasingly popular as a tourist attraction, with guests from Earthlike worlds in the Confederacy delighting in the one-third gravity: there was a steady manufacture of plastic sleds, a steady clientele for their mountain sliding slopes -- smaller, shallower grades for beginners, higher and steeper for more experienced sledders, and finally the highest, a mile up, which was only done with special sleds that just happened to incorporate certain safety features ... like inertial dampeners, force fields and other measures to make sure participants didn't kill themselves as they achieved truly terrifying velocities. Jacob had to coordinate the simple but effective measures to stop a virus brought in by a visitor, something against which the new generation of Martians had no defense: it was at this point that offworld exposure was recommended for all colonists, to build their immune systems and prevent recurrence of this debilitating condition that left its victims sweating, weak, very unwell. Jacob suffered it himself, at least briefly: Doc Greenlees called it "The Common Cold," and Jacob muttered it had been so long since he'd had one, it wasn't common: local distillation of fermented grains was increased, and the off-duty salute of "Your Health!" came back into use as glasses of Liquid Sledgehammer were companionably raised. Jacob's relaxation did not take the form of a fragrant, warm soak in a handmade copper slipper tub. No, Jacob's relaxation involved an extremely accurate, marvelously precise rifle. An air rifle. Jacob closed the bolt on a just-swaged, hollow-skirted lead pellet. He'd used an empty percussion cap tin to establish the size; the targets were heavy paper; crossed lines intersected in a one-quarter-inch black dot. Jacob sat down, grateful for the foam cushion under his bony backside. He settled in behind the rifle. The pressure-chamber hissed as it filled with the exact volume of air, at the exact pressure Jacob preferred for this work. Jacob Keller, Sheriff of Firelands, Mars, felt his waxed handlebar mustache bend up a little as he cheeked down on the comb of the rifle. He closed his eyes, took a long breath, blew it out; he opened his eyes, looked through the rear peep. He breathed once more, started his squeeze ... *Blap* Jacob opened the rifle's bolt, carefully rolled in another miniscule projectile: he closed the bolt, charged the chamber, cheeked down and took a sighting look at the newly-changed paper wafer. *Blap* Sheriff Jacob Keller disciplined his entire body, willing himself to stillness, feeling his heartbeat: he did not time his trigger squeeze to break the shot between heartbeats -- he'd been told there were those who did, and he'd never been able to, without rushing the squeeze and reducing his accuracy -- five times he charged the air rifle's chamber, five times he fired: finally he rose, waited for the wafers to be delivered on a round plastic platter that looked like it was riding on a roller skate down a steel plank toward him. Jacob slipped each of the wafers, in turn, down over a mandrel, turned the round table beneath it slowly, the arm of a dial indicator riding with a diamondite whisker against the edge of the circular target. Of the five he shot, four showed a deflection of one full one-thousandth of an inch, the others deflected in increments of ten-thousandths of an inch. All but one. The second one was without deflection. Jacob stared at the round, heavy paper wafer with the hole at the precise midpoint. His pale eyes tightened a little at the corners, then he grinned with absolute delight. "Pinwheel." 3 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 6 Author Share Posted April 6 AND THE SHERIFF LAUGHED The local sewer plant was not a common recipient of casual visitors. When the Sheriff's cruiser rolled slowly through the open gates, the operator raised his head from the glass-fronted analytical balance, turned the knurled knob to raise the support under the shining, stainless-steel pan. Grant raised his hand, flagged the Sheriff in: Willamina looked around as she stepped into the pole building with the tall, peaked, snow-shedding roof, walked with her usual confident step toward the closed lab door. Grant wrote down the last numbers the balance displayed: he straightened, worked his back a little. "Don't let me interrupt," Willamina murmured. "You're just in time," Grant said, grimacing as he stood, gripping the backrest of his padded stool. "Time for a break. I can offer coffee ... it's instant?" he added hesitantly. "Instant's fine," Willamina smiled, then tilted her head. "How's your back?" Grant sneered up the right side of his upper lip. "That good." "Yeah." "Come on," Willamina said softly, running a companionable arm around his shoulders: "I think you need that break." "After this morning, yeah." They went into the other room, built into the pole building, the combination office and meeting room: as two mugs of water heated in the microwave, Grant tossed a gaudy, gold-trimmed, red-velvet pillow on a folding metal chair and gestured for the Sheriff to sit. Willamina watched as Grant dropped a pillow recycled from a bed he used to have, onto another folding tin chair: she assessed his posture with a professional's eye as he stirred shining brown crystals into one mug, then the other. "Creamer?" he offered. "Black's fine, thank you." Grant handed her a steaming mug, handle-first: only then did he sit, and when he lowered himself onto the fluffed pillow, he did so slowly, carefully. Willamina blew across her scalding payload, remembering how she liked to do that as a child when the air was cold -- blow steam a surprising distance in the still air of a chilly room -- she sipped her coffee, decided to wait a bit for her next taste. "One of those mornings, you say?" Willamina prompted. "Yeah," Grant sighed, stirring powdered whatever into his brew: he set the plastic container back on the shelf, laid his spoon on a stained, folded paper towel, held the mug by its handle, hunched forward the way a man will when he'd like to take some strain off an injured lower back. He found the least uncomfortable angle, looked up and almost smiled. "Y'see," he grunted, "I can get in trouble just settin' in my easy chair." Willamina laughed, nodded: "Grant, you're not supposed to imitate my bad examples!" "Top this one," he challenged. "Salesman came in today, one of our regulars, I bought some stuff we needed, and I forget what went wrong -- his phone wouldn't connect or something and he had trouble filing the order, so what do I do, open mouth, insert foot." "Ahhh," Willamina nodded understandingly. "Oh, it gets worse. Me, I make wit' da smaht remahk that ever since that scoundrel Murphy passed all those Murphy's Laws, it's good folk like him and me that's had nothing but grief!" Willamina raised a hand, wiggled her fingers: "I can identify!" "Yeah, but then he gets a funny look on his face and he said "My name's Murphy!" Willamina laughed, her eyes widening: "No!" "Oh, ya. Now me, I didn't miss a beat, I said 'And now for my next act, I'll put my other foot in my mouth!' " Willamina laughed again, slurped noisily at her coffee, wiped a dribble from her chin: Grant leaned forward, handed her a paper towel: Willamina wiped her chin, her hand, wadded the towel up and made a flawless hook shot into the rusty-seamed, enamel-grey trash can. "That," she declared, "has me beat!" Willamina tilted her mug up, drained it: she handed it back, coughed, harrumphed, nodded. "Thank you, Grant," she said quietly. "I needed that." Grant nodded, finished his own. "You know they've mounted a dedicated bench in front of the municipal building." "I heard." "It'll be dedicated to Wally. They were going to install a brass plaque but they decided to router the dedication into the top slat." "I'll never sit in it," Grant said quietly, hostility in his voice: it was a year since his boss's death, and the resentment of the man was as strong, under his words, as it had been since before the man's demise. Willamina rose, looked very directly at Grant. "Grant, that back has me worried. Are you going to be all right?" "Oh, I'll be fine," he said dismissively. "I've got to be." Willamina stepped closer, took his freckled cheeks between her hands, gave him a motherly stare. "Grant," she almost whispered, "you're the only one of you we've got. Please take care of yourself." She tilted her head again, smiled: "Who else can take a perfectly good sour mood and absolutely ruin it?" Grant laughed a little at this, nodded. "I will," he promised. Willamina was halfway down the driveway before she released the laughter she'd been containing. " 'My name's Murphy,' " she quoted to the empty air: she made a mental note to remember that save-it-with-a-laugh line about "For my Next Act." And the Sheriff laughed. 4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted April 7 Author Share Posted April 7 (edited) NOT WHAT I HAD IN MIND "Tell me you didn't." "Hell, it was a simple unplug this and plug in that!" "Yeah, right, what if we get a run?" "It's Monday, ya dip, nothing ever happens the first of the week --" BLAAAAAAAA-- "Fireland Emergency Squad, woman in labor, Firelands grade school, second floor office, time out ten-oh-three." The German Irishman looked at the Welsh Irishman, clapped the lid on the siren box, wound in one screw, slid it back into the dash, wound in one screw and dropped back, sliding out of the squad's cab. He pulled back as the Captain and his daughter swarmed into the squad -- shoreline was grabbed, turned, pulled free -- the door hummed and rattled open and bright mountain sunlight roared into the shadowed bay. The Welsh Irishman grabbed the breakaway on the exhaust, twisted pulled: they saw the brake lights come on, just before high powered lights began to flash, just before the squad rolled out, turned, started up the street. Two Irishmen looked at one another, uncertain, then grinning, then laughing like two schoolboys. The door was halfway shut by the time the Captain reached for the siren switch. Sheriff Linn Keller came out of his inner office, frowning a little, pencil crosswise between even white teeth: he held a folder, turned a page over, another, clearly studying the material he carried. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up, his frown going from study to puzzled, one eyebrow raised as the squad accelerated past the Sheriff's office, all lights and swift response and bagpipes. The folder, forgotten, was snapped closed, laid on the sidetable beside the coffee pot. Sharon looked up, looked at the Sheriff: Linn looked back, and two voices said, "What was that?" Captain Crane jerked his hand back from the siren box like it was hot. Then the drums started: deep, commanding, punctuating the warpipes' screaming "Scotland the Brave": he was too busy driving, to worry about what was coming out of the siren speakers, only that something was, and it was loud, and it was working! Crane swung the wheel left, came down on the throttle, around two suddenly-stopped cars, up the street and over the rise, braked, turned right, accelerated uphill, toward the schoolhouse. Shelly looked over at her father, as surprised at her father's reaction as she was at what was coming out of two, 100 watt, waxed, polished, chromed Federal siren speakers: "PLAY IT, DAMN YOU!" the Captain yelled cheerfully: he killed the siren and they pulled up right in front of the grade school's front door. Sheriff Linn Keller braked hard, skidding a little: he ran up the front steps of his own house, tapped quickly at the panel on the door frame, shoved his key into the lock, twisted: burnished Wellington boot heels were loud on spotless wood as he strode for the stairs, as he sprinted up to the bedroom: a slam, another, as he got into one dresser drawer, then another, muttering "Dammit Mama, you had it in here!" -- he ran downstairs, heedless of the racket he was making in the silent house. The Bear Killer was dancing at the foot of the stairs, then galloped out the front door ahead of the Sheriff, hit the ground, took one bounding leap and sailed across the driver's seat and into the passenger side. Linn held a bundle clamped tight under his left arm: he slammed and locked the front door, re-armed the system, turned and jumped off the front steps, grinning like he did when he jumped the steps as a boy: he got in, slammed the Jeep's door, set the precious bundle between himself and The Bear Killer. Linn grinned, pulled ahead, turned around quickly: he stopped, closed his eyes, took a long breath, laughed at himself. "Old habit," she said aloud. "You're not delivering this baby. Relax, Linn!" He laughed again, reached over, rubbed the grinning Bear Killer, then came off the brake and proceeded down the driveway in considerably less of a hurry. "Firelands ER, Firelands Squad One." "Firelands ER, go." "Firelands ER, we are on scene with a woman in labor, para three gravida four, active labor, mother states child is a month early. Mother is three fingers and fully effaced, preparing to transport." Linn frowned when he heard this: his jaw slid out as he considered, then he reached over, wiped his finger across three rocker switches, horizontally mounted so they could be turned on by running a finger from far to near. Blue indicators glowed on the switches as Linn's Jeep lit up with blue-white-and-red LEDs. "Showtime," Linn said seriously. "Cap better have his ball glove. They'll never make the hospital." A woman's scream echoed down the hallway, down the stairs. Two medics stopped, lowered the cot, swung it to the side. "Aren't you going to do something?" a teacher demanded. The Captain stifled the desire to backhand her. "Keep this hall empty," he said firmly, tearing the plastic wrap off the box they hoped they'd really, really not have to use: Shelly murmured to the laboring woman, brought the laboring mother's knees up, lowered the head of the cot: she raised her talkie. "Dispatch, Firelands Squad One. Active delivery, water just broke. We are not yet loaded. Send lifting assistance." "Dispatch, Firelands Actual on scene." "Firelands Squad One, sending lifting assistance. Firelands Actual, I roger your on-scene. Break, break. Firelands Fire Department second squad, lifting assistance, Firelands Grade School, the stork is landing." The Captain thrust one hand, then the other, into the sterile gloves, bent, reached in, looked at his daughter, nodded. Shelly gripped the laboring teacher's hands: "Squeeze if it hurts," she said quietly, looked at her father. "Para three, gravida four," Shelly said in a worried voice. "Whatta we got?" "IN THE BUILDING!" a man's voice boomed from below. Linn turned: "UP HERE! FOUR MAN LIFT!" Irishmen assaulted the stairs at a dead run, their commanding shout preceding their charge: "WHATTAYA NEED, CAP!" Boots pounded up the stairs, a mountain Mastiff gave a happy whuff! as he crested the stairs with the running Irishmen. "Mother, deep breath," the Captain said, his voice deep, reassuring. "Blow out, deep breath again, OKAY, MOTHER, PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH PUSH!" Linn stopped, looked at his wife. "Whattaya need?" "CROWNING!" the Captain grinned, glanced over. "Linn, keep this hallway clear!" Linn looked up: the principal was coming toward him, looking big-eyed from the cot to the Sheriff and back. Linn powered forward, gripped the principal by her shoulder. "Get on the PA," he said quietly. "Until I say otherwise, nobody leaves their room, tell them the stork is landing and we have to keep the runway clear. This is not a lockdown, this is --" "IT'S A BOY!" the Captain yelled. Irishmen swarmed the cot, pounded one another on the back, looked approvingly at the Captain: "WILLY MAYS DOES IT AGAIN!" came the delighted shout. The principal turned pale, swallowed hard: the Sheriff took her by the elbows to steady her. Linn looked at the principal. "Do you need to sit down?" She nodded: Linn eased her down, patted her hand: "Just sit here for a minute," he said quietly. The Captain looked up: "Mother," he said in a gentle voice, "do you plan to breastfeed?" The teacher nodded, biting her bottom lip, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Give me a minute," he said softly. "I need to cut the cord. Afterbirth should come right after, then we'll change the sheet under you." The Captain wrapped the infant in the fluffy receiving blanket, then the Sheriff sidled in close. "Here," he said. "Wrap him in this." When the newest member of the community arrived at their hospital, when he was examined and pronounced healthy and perfect, he was again wrapped in the Sheriff's gift, and formally presented to his father and his family. Sheriff Linn Keller stood back and watched, grinning, as this youngest Maxwell of the Clan Maxwell, was presented to Clan and Kin, wrapped in the correct Clan Maxwell plaid. For some odd reason, the next time the siren was used, it sounded like a siren, and no official mention was made of what two of the Irish Brigade swore privately was just a joke, it was sheer and fantastic coincidence that bagpipes heralded the birth of another Maxwell, but someone with a steady hand and a rotten sense of humor, painted a blue stork beside the yellow storks on the squad's fender ... this newest stork did not carry a blue sling for a boy, or pink sling for a girl. The stork itself was blue, and its sling was Clan Maxwell plaid. Edited April 7 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 3 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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