Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted January 28 Author Posted January 28 (edited) WHEN IN DOUBT, CHEAT! It was a contest of wills, and Michael was not winning. He did, however, have an advantage his long tall Pa lacked. Michael's Confederate field -- a much improved version of the one that kept him from being incinerated when he and Lightning inadvertently came into an area where military maneuvers were not supposed to be conducted -- was modified such that, when the fiery Appaloosa stallion dropped his head between splayed forelegs and did his best to mule-kick one of the two moons overhead, Michael sailed through the air, tried to tuck and tumble and land on his feet, and ended up slamming into packed ground, almost flat on his back. As Michael's spine had been completely regrown, as he'd known pain beyond what most grown men could even survive, as he had an honest paranoia about reinjuring himself, when he landed, he just kind of laid there, mouth open, gasping in wind that somehow had not been knocked out of him. When he realized the Confederate field soaked up the impact of landing, and the actual shock to his lean young body was almost nonexistent, he snarled, clamped his jaw shut, came up on all fours and charged the stallion. Michael Keller stopped -- fast -- he skidded awkwardly, one leg thrust forward, then he rose, looked at the offending equine, still bucking around the circular corral. It took an effort, but he unclenched his fists, he took another long breath, blew it out. The stallion apparently thought this was great fun: he came mincing over, as if daring Michael to try again, and Michael did. This time, when he felt the stallion start to bunch up, he drove his head down, grabbed an ear between even white teeth, and bit. Hard. The stallion squalled. It wasn't the pure, beautiful, whistling whinny of a horse declaring its strength and mastery and happiness, it was the distressed wail that meant something was very wrong and the realization that it had just been bested sunk through his thick horse skull. Michael felt his teeth meet, he opened his jaw, spat out some hair, sat up. The stallion's eyes walled and Michael felt him shivering beneath him. "Now, damn you," Michael muttered, spitting again, "walk!" The stallion was not the only recalcitrant saddlemount Michael worked that day. The stallion was, however, the one Michael kept coming back to, and fooling with, and gentling with caress and brush and thick pinches of shredded, molasses cured, chawin' tobacker. Whether it's because the rebellious child is the one most loved by a parent, whether it's because this horse honestly had the most spirit, the most raw strength, the greatest intelligence, or whether because of a tall boy's bruised pride, Michael worked with this particular stallion more than the other horses. It wasn't that he tamed it, or that he got it gentled down, it was more like there was some kind of a truce between them, and there was speculation among men who knew horses, that each party thought this to their benefit, and both horse and rider thought each had bamboozled the other. Whether in spite of any of these, or because of any of these, Michael and this particular stallion matched up well. Slingshot wasn't the smoothest riding horse Michael ever straddled. Slingshot wasn't the fastest, though in fairness he was in the top three. He was the contrariest, he was the stubbornnest, he was honestly the one most likely to try and duck under a low branch or wipe Michael off against a convenient tree -- but when he found none of these things worked, when other riders uses curses, kicks and quirts on him when he tried such things, and Michael did not -- well, Slingshot found himself under saddle leather for Michael more often, and offered less protest when it was Michael in the saddle. Lightning, of course, was not impressed, but she had her adopted colts to tend; still, she would snuff elaborately at Michael's legs, then lift her head and grunt as if at a bad odor, after Michael came to her after a day's work with Slingshot. Michael's father watched on his computer screen, a rarely seen, gentle smile as he marveled at his son's skill: Barrents watched with him, whistled quietly: "Boss, there is a horseman!" Linn nodded and said softly, "He's twice the chevalier I ever was!" "Is that what he's doing for a living now?" Linn nodded. "Very nearly, or so I understand. He's borrowed my old experienced horses and he's using them to teach young men." Linn smiled. "What was it the man said about the Lipizzaners? 'The old men teach the young horses, and the old horses teach the young men.' " Barrents gave a chuckling double-grunt, the way he did when his old friend managed to tickle the Navajo's funny bone. "Is he making a decent living at it?" "I gather he is. He's got quite the commerce in books and Angela built on that and she's dealing in printing presses, paper making ... and hemp." "Hemp?" Barrents was a hard man to surprise, but Linn heard just the hint of surprise in his lifelong friend's voice. "Outlasts cotton several times over, it's better than jute for rigging on a sailing-ship. Makes fine rag paper that outlasts wood pulp paper seven ways from Sunday. That's opened the door for technologies from Confederate Central -- they install nuclear rippers on every stack, at every waste discharge of any kind, all waste is reduced to its subatomic components and reassembled into something they need." Linn shook his head. "All that's beyond me. I'm just a poor dumb hillbilly." Barrents rested a warm, strong, blunt-fingered hand on the shoulder of a man he'd known since earliest childhood. "My sons have out-done me," he said quietly, "and I couldn't be prouder!" Linn nodded. "Me too, Buddy Joe," he said, just as quietly. "Me too." Michael looked at Thunder and Cyclone, one hand on Lightning's shoulder. He looked up at the big, slow-blinking Fanghorn mare's blunt, businesslike skull. "Down," he said, his voice quiet. Lightning folded thick-boned, hard-muscled legs, bellied down with a surprising grace. Michael walked over to Thunder, laid a hand on the young stallion's shoulder. "Down," he said. Cyclone looked at Lightning, looked at Michael, bellied down without being told. Thunder looked at her, turned his neck toward Michael, bellied down. Michael gave them each a peppermint, called them good puppies, the way he'd done when he was but a wee child -- when he and Victoria were still very young, they laughed and called their Daddy's colts "Horsie Puppies!" -- and Michael still secretly called them puppies, which he thought nobody else knew, which everyone else in his family thought was sweet and charming, and fortunately nobody teased him about. Michael threw a leg over Thunder, eased a small amount of weight down onto the saddle, while stroking his neck and murmuring to him. The young Fanghorn's eyes closed and he chirped happily, delighted for the attention. Michael didn't put more than a very little of his weight onto the saddle: he came off the bellied-down stallion, went over to Cyclone, called her a good little puppy, threw a leg over, let her feel a very few pounds' weight in the saddle, all the while caressing her and murmuring to her, all while under Lightning's watchful gaze. Michael came out of the saddle: "Up!" he called, with a dramatic lift to his palms. Lightning came to her feet, towering impressively over the three. Cyclone looked around, came to a stand as well. Thunder, however, didn't so much stand, as sneak: he coasted over to Michael almost on tiptoes, if it's possible for a hooved Fanghorn to walk on the tippy-toe edges of hard, broad hooves: Thunder's head lowered, he stuck his neck out, he very delicately nipped at Michael's backside, seizing the dangling wild rag -- he bit, he pulled, he danced back, waving the big white kerchief with blue polka-dots triumphantly. Michael Keller, horse-handler, Fanghorn-rider and young businessman and entrepreneur, yelled, grabbed futilely at the fluttering poka-dot, chased after him, and Thunder whirled, hobby-horsed away, just out of reach. Cyclone thought this was a fine game so she came bouncing along as well, and Lightning, not to be left out of the fun, trotted after the three, whistling approval. Sharon's head turned and she looked from her dispatcher's desk back toward the closed door of the Sheriff's office, then she smiled as she recognized the sound. The Sheriff and his chief deputy were laughing at something, and laughing well indeed. Edited January 28 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 2 2 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted January 31 Author Posted January 31 NOTHING MUCH, JUST CAUSIN' TROUBLE, HOW 'BOUT YOU? "Howdy, Pa!" Linn grinned at the scrubbed-clean face of his growing son, reddened cheeks glowing in what must be cold air: Linn saw snow landing on Michael's Stetson brim, saw his son's breath from between the turned up sheepskin lined collar as he spoke. "How does Lightning handle the cold weather?" "She's fine, sir. Thunder and Cyclone are wallerin' like a couple pups, playin' in the drifts!" Linn grinned, nodded: Michael saw his father's brows crowd together a little and knew the Grand Old Man had a question. "Michael, did you happen to travel back East by any chance?" Michael's grin was quick, bright, genuine. "I did, sir!" "I thought that might've been you, but all they really had on camera was your saddle blanket." Michael grimaced. "Didn't mean to cause trouble, sir." Sheriff Linn Keller's grin was just as quick, just as genuine as his son's. "It couldn't be traced to us, Michael, and I have to admire what you did!" Michael squinted at a gust of wind, as snow sleeted across, heavier now, a there-and-gone crystal curtain between himself and the camera/screen. "I reckon you'd best find shelter out of that wind." "We'll be home tonight, sir. Is Mama still fixin' meatloaf for supper?" Michael lowered his arm, glad to get his wrist-screen back into his coat-sleeve: that wind was finding every gap in his insulation. Lightning lifted her head and whistled: Thunder and Cyclone charged across what was, in warm weather, a tallgrass meadow, but was now either scoured down to dry grass and frosted, or drifted nearly tall as a grown man: they were two kids playing in the snow, lowering their heads, driving their flat, juvenile bone-bosses into the fluffy white stuff and whistling delight as they blasted drifts into clouds of crystal powder. Fanghorn, colts and a pale eyed rider drifted ahead of the wind, toward a sheltered lee they knew of. A worried looking woman cleaned the tracheostomy tube, dunked it in white vinegar, sloshed the scrubbed-clean plastic vigorously and set it out to dry. Her daughter's trach was freshly changed and she was breathing more easily now. There was a knock at the door -- a brisk shave-and-a-haircut. "I'll be right back," she murmured, and her daughter signed a quick "OK" -- she communicated with sign language, her fingers fast and surprisingly graceful from years of practice. The mother wiped her hands on a towel, snapped it over her shoulder, opened the door. A tall boy -- not a young man yet, but getting there -- removed his black Stetson. "I understand your insurance gave you grief," he said without preamble, extending a thick yellow envelope. "You likely had to pay out of pocket for a night nurse for your daughter. It would be a blessing on me if you'd accept this." "I -- what --" The young man replaced his Stetson, touched his hat-brim, turned: he swung a leg over what she thought was a horse, until it stood, until she realized this monstrous, muscled creature was almost horse shaped, but elephant tall. The rider touched his hat-brim again, then they rode ahead. The mother drew back, opened the thick, surprisingly heavy envelope, took a look. She ripped the envelope, laid out the contents, tore the paper bands on thick bundles of bills, started to count. Her jaw dropped as she whispered a sum to the still air, then she grabbed for her purse, for her phone, she pulled up an app and took a look at what the doorbell camera might have caught. The only thing she really saw was the insignia on the saddle blanket, an insignia that made the evening news when they covered the story on the insurance company's refusal to pay for a night nurse for her daughter's care. The evening news showed a gold, six point star, in the lower rear corner of the saddle blanket -- that, and blond fur with forked lightning paths in lighter fur. A family sat down to supper: laughter, quiet voiced discussion, the smell of meat loaf, of green beans with onion and bacon, of taters and gravy, of fresh baked bread: Shelly complained good-naturedly that she cooked for thrashers, her husband said he was trying to think of a good smart remark to make and his mind just went blank, and his wife squinted one eye shut and shook a menacing fist at him, at least until he grabbed her wrist, kissed her knuckles and murmured, "You good lookin' thing, can I flirt with you?" Meat loaf was slabbed off and deposited on plates, plates were circulated around the table and loaded down, when china settled to the tablecloth Linn bowed his head and said "Hello, plate!" and a half dozen sweet rolls sailed through the air and most of them hit his forehead or scalp -- he caught two of them, and Snowdrift made short work of the ones that hit the floor -- and the sound of knife and fork prevailed, at least until clean plates and covetous glances announced the arrival of the coveted "Time for Dessert!" Pie and ice cream, distributed generously, while Shelly pretended to ignore that Michael and Victoria put their plates on the floor -- "Prewash," Michael described it innocently some years before, as Snowdrift et. al. polished the china free of any remainders -- Victoria looked at her Daddy, and at Michael, and said something about seeing a mystery man and his generous financial gift to a woman who'd had to take out a short term loan due to an insurance firm refusing to pay what they were eventually shamed and embarrassed into paying. Michael managed to look very innocent as he paid close attention to fresh homemade still-warm-from-the-oven apple pie and the double scoop of vanilla ice cream atop the sugar-dusted crust. "Nobody knows who it was," Victoria continued, "but they did show the only thing she got on her doorbell camera." She held up her pad, turned the screen toward Michael, showed the still shot of a gold, six point star on a black saddleblanket, with blond, lightning-streaked hide showing behind. "Michael," she said in a scolding sister's voice, "what have you been up to?" Michael sat up very straight, pale eyes wide and innocent as he looked around the table, at every face there, then back to his twin sister's knowing expression and the screen she still held toward him. "Oh, nothing much," he said casually, "just causin' trouble, how 'bout you?" A thirteen year old girl looked out her window and waved, and a boy about her age, wearing a black suit and a black, flat-crowned Stetson, grinned and waved, and then the big blond horse he rode reared, huge hooves smashing at the air. In the next room, a mother sat, staring at the pile of cash on her table. She could pay off that loan she'd taken out, and then some. 3 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted January 31 Author Posted January 31 A PROMISE KEPT The robot ship coasted silently in the silence between stars. A heavy walled pipe extended through its hull into the black vacuum. The ship was moving at a fantastic velocity, but owing to a lack of landmarks, it seemed to be still, unmoving. A cloud of dust and crystallizing gas trickled from the pipe, a surprisingly cohesive stream that spread, dissipated, disappeared. Michael Keller waited until the funnel was empty, until the dust was gone, educted with a stream of dry nitrogen, into interstellar space. He'd made a promise. A crystal hung from his vest, a crystal with a pinch of dust in its faceted heart: he wore a watch fob, and in it, the last earthly remains of a girl he'd known as Juliette. Michael loaded the eductor into the ejection hatch, launched the spent device into the void, guaranteeing every milligram of ground, burnt, bone ash was sent to the stars she'd seen when her bandages were first removed from her regrown eyes. Michael Keller manipulated the controls that closed the hatch, sealed the ejectors: he turned, addressed the robot ship. "We're done. Take me home." An Iris appeared before the ship; they passed through the black ellipse, and disappeared. Michael sat heavily, remembering, staring at the long, faceted crystal at the end of his watch-chain. He remembered how her arms felt, how she held him around his middle as she rode behind him, as Lightning took them to places he'd seen and described to her -- the great falls, where he'd shot rock snakes that tried to kill his twin sister, and him -- he'd taken her to glaciers, windy and cold, to seashores that glowed at night, he'd taken her to a planet where bright, screeching parrots fluttered around them, swinging around branches like acrobats. He'd taken her to a prairie where herds of bovines moved like a broad, shaggy river, she'd laughed with delight as they stood atop a rocky promontory and felt the earth shivering underfoot at the passing of thousands of hooves, he'd taken her to a night-darkened field where glowing insects flashed green in an ancient mating dance, looking like living emeralds bobbing in a velvet pool. He'd held her hand as she whispered that she did not want to die in a hospital, she wanted to die at home, in her own bed, and he'd set beside her and held her hand as she relaxed, as the cancer ate into her brain and murdered her as she slept. He'd been with her when she was examined, when Confederate medicine, for all its miracles, failed to stop the cancer that damned flesh-burning plant caused, and he'd tried his best to find the plants that did this, only to discover they'd already been rooted out and destroyed. Michael Keller held her as she whispered that he'd shown her beauty she never knew existed, he'd urged Lightning to greater speed as they thundered across a prairie, surrounded by whistling Fanghorns, running as if to escape Death itself. All this he remembered as he sat, alone, in the silence of a robot ship, holding a pinch of dust, sealed in a crystal, attached to his watch chain. An electronic voice said, "Arrival," and the rear hatch opened. Michael stood, settled his Stetson on his head. He saw his Pa's Appaloosas, he saw fence he and his Pa worked on and painted and rode together and kept up, he saw the pasture he'd known since earliest childhood. Michael remembered how Juliette clapped her hands with delight and laughed at the Appaloosa colts, running and kicking and playing in the pasture, he remembered how gentle her words had been when she murmured, "Horsie puppies," and he'd looked sideways at her gentle smile, and he remembered how happy he was in that moment. Michael walked out into the pasture, half sick with grief. He walked over to one of the white mares that drew the fire wagon, fed her a pinch of molasses cured chawin' tobacker, bent his wrist and murmured "Ship, released," and the robot ship rose silently, turned, eased through an Iris, disappeared. He laid an arm over the mare's back and buried his face in her long mane, forbidding himself the grief that roared like ocean's anger over the rock dam of his resolve, and he remembered the night when they unwrapped the bandages from Juliette's new eyes, and how the first thing she saw was the stars, and he remembered how she held his hand and whispered to him that the cancer was killing her and they couldn't stop it, and promise me you'll send me to those stars I saw when I had eyes again. Michael Keller gritted his teeth and forbade himself to make a sound. His shoulders heaved and he locked his grief deep in his throat as an Appaloosa colt came up and nosed him under the arm, and he swallowed hard and rubbed the curious little mare's back the way he did when the colt came up and nosed up under Juliette's arm, and then his. Pale eyes watched him, from a distance: a mother moved, as if to go to her son, but a father shook his head, and she stopped. "I don't understand," Shelly whispered, her throat tight, for she knew what it was to lose someone she loved. Linn was silent for a long moment, his arm around his wife's shoulders, then he raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and she felt a scalding drop of saltwater drop on the back of her hand. "Sometimes," he said, and swallowed, and started again, for he too knew what it was to say that final goodbye. "Sometimes a man has to keep a promise." The last long red ray of the setting sun reflected off the crystal on Michael's watch chain, as bright and pure as a maiden's heart. 2 2 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted February 1 Author Posted February 1 NEVER SPOKE, NEVER FORGOT Sheriff Jacob Keller laughed as his grandson strutted noisily down the boardwalk, just button-bustin' proud of himself, leading a Paso Fino colt half beside and half behind him. Sheriff Jacob Keller leaned his head forward a little to see this clattering wonder. The gait of a Paso is rapid, unique, exquisitely smooth: this is an inborn, inbred gait, it is not taught, it is the natural pace of this fine breed, and even their very young colts walk with this rapid pace. Juvenile boot heels were almost lost in the waterfall of tiny hooves on warped boards. Jacob's son Will leaned against the opposite side of the ornately turned post. The Sheriff's Office was of stone now, but the boardwalk remained -- there were plans to replace it with a stone walk, but that hadn't happened yet -- the snowshed roof that overhung the board walk in front of the Sheriff's office sheltered the Deacon's Bench (where to human knowledge, no deacon had ever parked his backside), and in season -- which was almost every day -- loafers, idlers, whittlers, liars and other interesting folk would take their ease, at least for a little while. The pair watched as this representative of their pale eyed bloodline strutted happily past them, all little-boy grin and flannel shirt, unbuttoned vest and hat cocked back on his head: granddad and Pa waited until their progeny crossed the rutted dirt street (soon to be brick paved, or so they'd been told!) and down the broad alley toward the livery. Father and son looked out over the street, at a local cat on one end of the horse trough, at one of the stray dogs at the other: the pair had a truce: neither intruded on the other's territory, though their young were not signatories to this territorial understanding: kittens were known to climb atop Mount Hounddog and sleep, or bat the scarred tail, but woe betide any representative of the Canine Kingdom that intruded upon Feline Territory! "Will?" Jacob's voice was deep, confident, the reassuring tones of a father who was certain of his place in the world, the comfortable voice of a man standing in the sunlight, soaking up a little heat on an otherwise chilly morning. "Yes, sir?" "Thank you." Silence for several heartbeats. "You're welcome, sir." Jacob's ear pulled back a little at the note of uncertainty in his son's reply. "Will, you're first born." "Yes, sir." "I was too." "Yes, sir." "A man makes his first mistakes and his worst mistakes and his most often mistakes with his firstborn." "Sir?" Jacob pushed away from the porch post, turned to face his son: Will turned as well, puzzled. "Will, you've done better as a father than I did with you. I'm proud of you!" "Sir?" Will replied, honestly puzzled. Jacob laid a fatherly hand on his firstborn's shoulder, and Will saw the humor, deep in his Pa's pale eyes. "You're doin' good, Will, and I'm proud of you!" Linn sat on a bale of hay, grateful for the thick, folded saddleblanket that kept prickles from insulting his denim covered backside. Michael sat beside him, silent, clutching an invisible blanket of misery like it was something precious. Linn pulled out his watch, unfast it from his watch chain: he pressed the stem to flip open its cover, handed it to his son. "Don't think I showed you this yet," he said, his voice gentle. Michael took the watch, frowned a little as he looked at the inside of the hunter case, then he grinned, looked up at his Pa, honestly delighted. "Sir, that's gorgeous!" Linn winked. "Your Mama likes it!" Shelly's image looked up from the inside of the watch case: it was Confederate work, engraved with lasers or something, Linn wasn't sure quite how it was done, he only knew his wife's portrait was actually engraved into the metal, colorized somehow, and had a protective layer of something over it to prevent its damage. Michael nodded, started to hand it back. "Look closer, Michael." Michael's hand stopped, drew back, and he frowned a little as he studied the image again. "Look around it. Circling the portrait." Michael tilted the watch, frowning: he ran an exploring fingertip into it, looked up at his father, puzzled. "A hair?" Linn nodded, smiled a little -- almost sadly, Michael thought as his Pa accepted the watch back, closed the case, fast it back onto his watch chain, thumbed it into his vest. "It is a single, blond hair." Michael's brows twitched a little -- Linn knew this meant his son was surprised, that he wasn't expecting that answer -- he looked at his Pa and said, "Sir?" Linn chewed on his bottom lip, rubbed his palms slowly together. "Michael," he said slowly, "I had a girlfriend ... in college ..." He frowned, looked at the floor: Michael saw his body language shift just a little, he read this as defensiveness, and he was right. "Her name was Dana," Linn said softly, "and my Pa disliked her from the moment he laid eyes on her. I don't know if that's because he thought her a city girl, I don't know if it's just ... sometimes you meet someone and they remind you of someone else and you dislike them instantly. I don't know." Linn looked up, looked across the barn, looked through the workbench and the far wall, his voice distant, softer. "She had blue eyes and blond hair and honestly she was built like a fire plug but I loved that woman," he almost whispered. "She complained I had my Pa so high on a pedestal it's a wonder he didn't have nosebleed. She had no idea that's where I had her." Michael listened silently. He knew somehow his Pa was showing him a hidden part of his heart, and he knew he would have to tread very carefully to keep from bruising this -- this apparently tender memory -- and so he stayed silent, he listened closely to his father's gently spoken words. "I was firstborn, Michael, and a firstborn is trained -- first, foremost, before all else -- to OBEY. "Don't think, OBEY. "Don't ask questions, OBEY. "Even before don't take off your diaper, the firstborn is taught to OBEY -- immediately, without hesitation, without question." Michael waited; silence grew long in the stillness, then Linn continued. "My Pa did not like Dana, and so -- I'm a firstborn -- I broke it off because he didn't ..." Michael saw his father's head drop, slowly, saw his hands close into fists, then open. "Pa and I were estranged for a lot of years. "One day Mama and I were talking -- your Gammaw" -- Linn looked over at Michael, his expression soft, and Michael saw the smile of a good memory tightening up the corners of his Pa's eyes -- "she said Pa was working on an important speech, dictating it into a tape recorder and playing it back. "She said he looked at her all surprised and said, 'That sounds like Linn!' " He looked off toward the workbench again and continued in a gentle voice, "Mama said 'You're just now realizing this?' -- and she didn't say any more about it. "She didn't have to. "I realized then how much alike we were and that's why we were damn neart estranged for a time. "I went home and we set down and Pa and I talked for a good long while and neither of us said a thing about it and by then Dana married someone else -- she died ten years ago, rest her soul, pneumonia -- but this..." Linn pressed the stem on his watch, flipped it open again. "That one single hair," he said, "is from Dana's hairbrush." He dropped his head again. "The firstborn is taught to obey," he said, and Michael heard honest regret in his father's voice. "I dropped Dana and I've regretted that every single day of my life since then. I blamed Pa for a long time until I realized it was my choice, I could have married Dana anyhow, so I blamed me for a long time, and finally I let it go." Michael blinked, silent, digesting all this: his fingers closed gently around his shining, faceted crystal watch fob. "Juliette was a fine young lady," Linn said slowly. "I am genuinely sorry she was lost to us." "Thank you, sir." "Marnie filled me in on how you kept a promise." "Yes, sir." Linn turned, laid a careful, open hand gently on his son's shoulder blades. "Michael, I am proud of you." Michael swallowed. "Thank you, sir." Linn's jaw eased forward, his brows wrinkling together a little, then he looked very seriously at his youngest son. "Michael, follow your heart. I'm not the one marryin' the girl you take a shine to. If she's the right one for you, then you are not answerable to anyone for your choice." "Sir?" "Yes, Michael?" Linn's youngest son squirmed a little, the way he used to as a little boy, then he turned and looked very directly at his Pa. "Sir, why are you tellin' me this?" Linn considered for several long moments: he rubbed his palms thoughtfully together, he looked across the still, empty barn, listening to the ghosts that lived there, the memories that filled this shadowed space. "Michael," he said slowly, "a father realizes at some point that even his youngest is growin' up. You kept a promise, hard though it was." Linn swallowed, continued in a huskier voice. "When that happens, the Old Man has to realize his son just stood up on his hind legs and started makin' noises like a man. You've proven yourself many times, Michael, it just took this long and this one thing to soak through my thick skull." Michael nodded, chewed on his bottom lip, considered for a long moment, then he pulled out his own watch. He unfast it from his own watch-chain, pressed the stem, flipped open the cover and wordlessly handed it to his father. Linn looked at the blank inside of the watch cover. He tilted it a little to catch the light across it. Michael saw his father's eyes smile a little at the corners as his Pa saw a single hair, circling the inside of the watch cover, sealed to its stainless steel surface. 2 2 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted February 2 Author Posted February 2 OLD FASHIONED Sheriff Jacob Keller's breathing was deep, silent, controlled. He was alive, alive! -- more so than he'd felt in years! -- his face tightened and felt odd, and then he realized why. He had a broad grin on his face. Sheriff Jacob Keller pulled the pin on a flashbang, smacked it against his holster, held the spoon down: he extended his finger, punched in the master override code, knowing they'd expect him to do that, knowing they'd be ready to cancel the override. Not before he flipped the flash-bang through the brief gap in the airlock door. The door slid shut. He keyed in the override again as the muted detonation struggled through the heavy door: he spun through the opening, shotgun first, his deputy close behind. Two men were sagging, mouths open, eyes screwed shut, hands over their ears, and Jacob kicked one hard in the kidneys, driving his stacked-leather bootheel into the man's tenderloin, then drove the butt of his Ithaca into the base of the other one's skull. Jacob knew he had to get to the hostages. Jacob knew one hostage was already dead, a shaped charge plastic-welded between her shoulder blades had been detonated on camera before the hostage-takers made their demands. He ran down the hall, slice the pie at the corner, ran again, yelled "WE GOT HIM! THE SHERIFF'S DEAD!" A door opened and Jacob drove a charge of double-ought buck through a man's face, shucked the action as he twisted around the falling carcass. I need to confuse them, he thought, then yelled "YA IDIOT, DON'T SHOOT ME, I'M ONE OF US!" He dropped, skidded feet first through the doorway, sliding on his backside, knowing he'd have a belt buckle tall, formed-meltrock control panel for cover. He pulled the other grenade without pulling the pin, drew back, threw it, hard, then rose. The man on the other side held a weapon, but he turned at the sharp sound of the grenade smacking a panel -- Jacob brought the shotgun up -- The man's chest erupted as the shot swarm shattered spine, heart and breast bone, in that order, as it carried an incredible amount of blood and tissue with it as it sailed out into the big empty space of the control center. Sheriff Jacob Keller shucked the Ithaca, turned, made a full, swift, controlled circle. He came around the control panel. Two of the colonists' daughters were blindfolded, hogtied, a box on each of their backs. Jacob pulled a knife, cut the material of their coveralls, separating the plastic-welded explosives from between their shoulder blades. He rose, bent his wrist, keyed in a command: an Iris opened -- he tossed the square plastic boxes through it, touched another key, the Iris closed -- Sheriff Jacob Keller looked around, bent his wrist, raised it to his lips, spoke quietly. "It's taken care of. Hostages safe. Get Medical to Control Three, break, break. Firelands Three, actual." "Three, go." "Status?" "Prisoners secured. Should I take them to medical?" "Let Doc see 'em in cells." "Roger that." Sheriff Linn Keller watched the video, thanks to split screen and two screens: he watched with quiet eyes as his son moved like a panther, as he handled a situation with brutal and unforgiving efficiency. Jacob sat beside him, casually chewing on a sandwich. Linn finally nodded. "They demanded return to Earth?" Jacob grunted, nodded. "They didn't ask politely." Jacob shook his head, still chewing. "Murderin' a hostage," Linn said softly. "Bought and paid for." Jacob took another bite of the bacon cheeseburger, still warm from the Silver Jewel's grill. "I do admire your tactics." Jacob swallowed, picked up his coffee, took a noisy slurp. "I'm an old lawman," he grunted. "I like my shotgun reeeeeal well!" "Do you anticipate any problem with back shootin' that fella?" "Nope." Linn's smile made it no further than the corners of his eyes. "I do admire the old fashioned approach." 3 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted February 2 Author Posted February 2 THE PARSON'S DISCOVERY Reverend John Burnett held a single piece of straw, turned it slowly between thumb and forefinger, considered as he did the complexity of the living plant, the testimony to the Creator its dead stem presented to the discerning eye. He looked out over the empty pews, looked back at where the Sheriff's family sat of a Sunday, and he nodded, slowly, remembering the quiet words of that pale eyed Sheriff when the two of them sat on the Deacon's Bench out front of the Sheriff's Office, soaking up a little sun and politely ignoring the chilly air. "Parson," Linn said in a quiet voice as he languidly waved at a passing pickup truck, "do I recall that you have sons?" The Parson nodded, thoughtfully, felt a smile gathering behind his face. "Do you have grandsons?" Again the thoughtful nod, and this time the smile came to the surface: "I have two fine grandsons, Sheriff" -- he chuckled a little as he realized he'd just said "I have two fine grandsons," and recalled the first he'd first heard that identical phrase was when the Sheriff spoke it -- "and a granddaughter, with another on the way." "I do enjoy my grandsons," Linn said softly. "Their Mamas bring them to me and I burn off all the scamper and screech I can before I hand 'em back. Generally they're so wore out they sleep the night through and don't so much as stir." "This is good country to do that." "Especially with horses and dogs." "Oh, yes." They shared a comfortable silence. It is a mark of genuine friendship when silence can grow long between two men, and neither grow uncomfortable for the doing of it. "I found a stem of straw on the pew after services Sunday." The Parson was looking at a stray cat padding stealthily along the opposite curb: he saw the Sheriff's Stetson brim lower a little, then raise as the man acknowledged the statement. "Souvenir of your grandson?" Linn took a long breath, sighed it out, and the Parson felt more than heard the man's chuckle. "Reckon 'twas." Grampaw Keller rolled open the big sliding door rather than coming in the man door. The big rolling door made more noise. Ol' Grampaw had been a little boy himself, and he recalled how Uncle Pete would come looking for him, when he was yet a little boy, and Uncle Pete would come in that big rumbly side door with a grin on his face and a laugh all primed up and ready. Grampaw didn't stomp into the barn, but he did nothing to muffle the sound of boot heels on clean-swept concrete. "WHEEEEERE'S LITTLEJOHN!" he called. A little boy's happy giggle floated up from somewhere in the barn. "I KNOOOOOW THAT FELLA IS HERE SOMEPLACE!" Grampa Linn declared dramatically. "I'M A-GONNA GRAB HIM BY THE ANKLE AND TURN HIM UPSIDE DOWN!" Again the giggle: Linn looked around, saw a suspicious movement in a pile of straw, pretended to pay no attention to the big white tail sticking out of the straw, swinging happily back and forth. "I'M A-GONNA DUNK HIM IN THE CRICK!" Grampaw Linn rubbed his hands together, lowered his head, cast back and forth with an exaggerated scowl like an irritated bear. "I'M A-GONNA WALLER HIM AROUND IN COLD CRICK WATER AND GIVE HIM A SATURDAY NIGHT BATH EARLY!" Linn went over to the work bench: "WHEEERE'S LITTLEJOHN!" He picked up one of Shelly's little clay flowerpots, peered under it -- "Nope, not there" -- he turned, rubbed his chin, went over to the tractor and lifted the cushion off the stamped steel seat. "Nope. Not under there neither." Linn backed up a little, lifted his Stetson, scratched his thatch, frowned. "You know, I just can't find him anywhere!" The giggles were louder now, the sounds of a happy little boy who almost could not contain himself. "I RECKON I'LL JUST HAVE TO EAT ALL THAT ICE CREAM AND CHOCOLATE SAUCE ALL BY MYSELF!" A white Mastiff head and a laughing little boy fairly exploded out of the pile of straw: "Here I am, Gwampa!" -- and Linn turned, spread his hands in mock surprise: "LITTLEJOHN! I NEVER WOULD HAVE FOUND YOU!" A happy little boy scampered noisily over to his grinning Gwampa and got snatched under the arms, hauled off the floor and spun around, his legs swinging and Snowdrift dancing beside, watching with button-bright eyes as a delighted little boy, all healthy pink cheeks and even white teeth and giggles scattering far and wide, swung through the air in the safety of Gwampa's big strong hands. Linn came packing his laughing grandson into the house, carrying him by one ankle all red-faced and laughing, Snowdrift pacing alongside, looking immensely pleased with herself, Shelly and Marnie turning to look at the pair, at straw still sticking to Littlejohn's clothes and prickling out of his cornsilk-fine hair. Linn nodded a little and he, too, felt a smile gathering behind his face. "I reckon that fell off Littlejohn," Linn said softly. "You know how boys are, forever gettin' into stuff!" 4 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted Tuesday at 01:56 PM Author Posted Tuesday at 01:56 PM TO BURN, WITH FRUIT A distinguished older man with a military-neat mustache and an immaculately-tailored grey uniform smiled quietly as he listened to the discussion. As generally happens, whether in business or politics, more and better progress is made in a less formal atmosphere; here, men were gathered in twos, threes, no more than fours: the Chief Ambassador was one of three, drawn apart from the others, discussing matters and laughing. Music played in the background, crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, there was the scent of polished leather, of soap and cologne, the occasional whiff of tobacco -- a rarity on this world, imported at scandalous expense and used to show off one's personal wealth -- when a participant offered Marnie a cigar, as she spun to a stop in the middle of the dance floor, she accepted the hand-rolled, she tilted her head and smiled, she caressed the giver's jawline with delicate fingers: "I know the fortune this represents," she said softly, then returned the treasure to the giver's fingers: "My dear Senator, it would be wasteful to hold this until it was dry and unpalatable, and yet I am loath to burn up good money and blow it into the air as smoke!" Her smile took any reproof from her words: the sweep of long, dark lashes, the shine of her eyes held the man as she added in a soft voice, "You have done me a greater honor than you realize," then she claimed a nearby hand and whirled the startled victim into the center of the floor to continue the stately waltz being spun from the formally-attired orchestra. The Chief Ambassador listened gravely, nodded, frowned a little: an observer would see that he was very evidently giving the speaker his absolute and undivided attention: when he spoke, it was but briefly, and with a serious expression, and it was not until Marnie, red-cheeked and smiling, glided up to the men, not until she insinuated herself into their triad with a gloved hand on one man's left arm and her other gloved hand on another man's right arm, not until she arrived with bright eyes and a smile and the scent of lilac-water and soap and a mountain breeze, that the Chief Ambassador brought his hands from where he habitually clasped them behind his back. "Senator Bonsar," Marnie greeted a portly gentleman in a velvet-lapel suit, "I understand your son has entered local politics, with initial and gratifying success!" Senator Bonsar's chest puffed out a little, not quite matching the circumference of his belly: "He did, Madam Ambassador," he said gravely, inclining his head formally. "I would expect no less," Marnie smiled, "coming from a family known for achievement!" She turned to the second of the two men who'd been monopolizing the Chief Ambassador's time. "Your progress with implementing a mounted cavalry is truly remarkable," Marnie said plainly, her eyes wide and sincere. "I understand there is no lack of volunteer strength." "Indeed, my Lady," came the reply, as the speaker's face reddened like a schoolboy's. "With your permission, gentlemen," Marnie smiled, "I would be most pleased to review your troops tomorrow at noon." The Chief Ambassador's face was carefully grave: the man hid a smile, for Marnie was efficiently slipping in a wedge they'd discussed earlier, a means of separating Senator Bonsar from the appearance of favor he'd enjoyed. Marnie tilted her head, looked very directly at Bonsar, released her hold on the other man's arm. "Gentlemen, if you will please excuse us, the Senator and I have business." The Senator hid his surprise well: indeed, he managed to give the air of someone satisfied with an arrangement as he and the lovely Madam Ambassador turned and made their way to the refreshments table. They each received a broad, shallow crystal glass with a splash of something colorful, something that smelled of fruits: Marnie and the Senator raised their glasses in salute to one another, drank. Marnie frowned. The Senator murmured, "Is something wrong, Madam Ambassador?" "It's a bit weak," Marnie complained, then slipped two fingers into a concealed pocket, withdrew a thick, flat, silver flask. "May I reinforce your drink, Senator?" The Senator blinked, surprised: "Please." Marnie flipped the metallic cap open, gurgled a generous amount into the Senator's glass, diluting its half-volume of fruit punch with something water clear. Marnie raised the flask in salute, tilted the silver container, took a long drink, flipped the cap into place and slid it back into her hidden pocket. "MMMPH!" she grunted, squinting with approval. "Warms me all the way down!" The Senator blinked, surprised, then took a tentative sip of his own, almost recoiled as he swallowed. Marnie hoist her glass again. He had no choice but to hoist his as well. They each emptied their glasses. Marnie slipped the flask out, took another good tilt, frowned: "I have to get a bigger flask," she complained, "that's empty!" The Senator's eyes watered a little as something that felt like a cascade of fruit flavored, molten steel, seared its way down his pipe and roared into hot life behind his straining vest buttons. "I rather enjoy that blend," Marnie said conversationally. "Ground grain sprouts, fermented and distilled by masters of the art. There's no sugar mash in that one!" The Senator cleared his throat carefully as he felt whatever this Liquid Sledgehammer was, start to roar into his system. Marnie steered him to a nearby chair: he sat, his feet set carefully apart, his eyes wide as he concentrated on keeping his balance. Whatever that stuff was Madam Ambassador just gave him, was potent! -- he turned wondering eyes to Marnie as she claimed a man's hand, spun him about in a brisk dance step, apparently not affected in the least by having just slugged down at least three times the volume she'd given him! The Chief Ambassador had placed himself so he could both observe his conversation-partner, and watch whatever Marnie was pulling on the overblown Senator: he allowed himself a slight, a very slight smile as he saw her park the Senator safely out of the way and continue dancing with what seemed to be a randomly-snatched dance partner, but who was actually an individual with whom she wished to establish an acquaintance. Later that night, as they discussed matters in quiet voice back in their guest-quarters, the Ambassador remarked on her skill in neutralizing the Senator and his monopolization of Ambassadorial time: she smiled and reported she'd made excellent progress in both introducing herself informally to the individual she saw as an asset to them, and in showing the Senator as less powerful than he'd imagined. The next day, as Marnie cantered across a precisely-dressed rank of lean-waisted young men on restless, head-bobbing Appaloosa mares, a particular Senator watched from the visitor's platform, though he watched through the haze of a throbbing headache, thanks to the additional libations with which the lovely Madam Ambassador plied him: each time she added to his drink, she took a tilt straight from her flask. The Senator had no idea what devil's brew was in that shining silver flask, and he had no idea which armored war-hell spawned a woman who could drink that stuff straight and never show a flinch or a stagger afterward. The Senator watched as Marnie sat her Peppermint-mare, watching men on horseback maneuvering, wheeling on command, reforming: he watched as she laughed, as she brought two fingers to her lips and whistled, fluttering her lacy kerchief overhead with her other hand, for all the world like an excited schoolgirl thrilling at the sight of mounted men in formation, leaned out and running, a united cavalry at full CHAAARRRRGGGEEEEE!! It was not until afterward, not until a grinning young officer rode with her through the training grounds, not until Marnie accepted the young officer's saber, not until Marnie whistled and screamed "EEYAHOOO!" and ran her Peppermint-mare a-gallop between two rows of posts, slashing the native gourds atop the posts -- left, right, left, right, powerful, skillful swings of the borrowed saber, not until after she'd come to the end of the posts and their cleanly-sliced lower gourd halves surmounting, not until she laughed as Peppermint reared, screaming and slashing at the empty air with steelshod hooves -- not until she herself laughed with delight and returned the saber, handle-first, to its owner, the grinning young officer -- only then did the Senator see her produce that damned flask, and tilt it up, and apparently drink it dry. Marnie saw him shudder, and turn away, and Ambassador Marnie Keller, in blue jeans and red cowboy boots, a matching red Stetson and vest, slid the thick silver flask back into a pocket. A thick flask, divided. The Senator's half, the night before, contained the "Firsts" -- the first part of a moonshine distillation run: it was potent, but it contained the dreaded Fusel Oil, the stuff that gives the bad belly and the big head. The other half of the flask -- the half Marnie drank from -- was a very dilute solution of middle-run moonshine, the good stuff that warms the belly without the ill effects the Senator was ... enjoying. Marnie reared Peppermint again, raised the flask in salute to the shuddering Senator in the visitor's seats as lean young men raised their own broad brimmed hats and roared their approval of Madam Ambassador's horsemanship! 3 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted Wednesday at 01:15 AM Author Posted Wednesday at 01:15 AM TO TALK TO GOD Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller crossed her stockinged legs at the ankles, her feet delicately pointed: she wore a modest dress and heels, her hair was brushed and healthy, held back by an elastic headband. She sat very properly at the desk in her room, reading a book borrowed from her Daddy's library. She read Old Pale Eyes' original Journal. She frowned a little as she read, then her head came up, her brows drawn together, her mouth open in surprise. Daddy, she thought, you traditionalist scoundrel, that's where you got it! Marnie did not appreciate for many years, just what her pale eyed Daddy went through. His older sister left home after a screaming argument with their Mama. Linn didn't find out that's what happened, at least not for some long time: when she returned, years later, she had pancreatic cancer and a hollow-eyed little girl who regarded the world with the wariness of someone who knew too much about human nature, and how kind it wasn't. She returned the day Linn buried twin sons. Linn stood, he and his wife, stared long at two mounded piles of dirt -- very neat, very clean-edged, very precise, and very small: the sight of a raw grave, and knowing your own family is buried beneath that dirt, is bad enough, but when the grave is small -- when the mounded dirt is child wide and child long -- it is that much worse. Linn stood at the foot of his sons' graves, black Stetson in one hand, his other arm bent, his wife holding his arm, at least until she leaned against her husband and he ran his arm around her, and then they turned to one another and quietly shared their sorrow, while the few people remaining, pretended to not notice. Their little whitewashed church acquired an annex, an expansion of the Parsonage: an apartment was maintained for their designated sky pilot, but the annex was big enough for church dinners, and meals associated with weddings or funerals, and it was here that Linn and Shelly met Linn's sister and her little girl -- or rather, they met Marnie, and her Mama politely passed out and hit the floor, and ended up being taken by squad to ER. Marnie was four years old. Marnie's eyes were far older. Linn set his Stetson on one of the folding tin chairs and went down on one knee when his Mama introduced them. "Hi, Marnie," Linn said in a gentle voice, and Marnie blinked, surprised: she knew this man with pale eyes and a curly muts-tash was Important, but he wasn't Loud and Nasty Important like most of the men she'd had the misfortune to know. "Hi, Marnie," he'd said. "I'm your Uncle Linn." Marnie's expression saddened noticeably and she asked in a lost little voice, "You gonna hurt me too?" A man who'd just buried two sons that morning, swallowed hard, looked at this little girl who was just shy of having nobody in the world. He felt his heart ready to overflow his eyes, and then they did, and he swallowed again and whispered, "No. No, Marnie. I won't ... I won't hurt you." Marnie tilted her head, lifted a careful hand, caught a saltwater drop on her bent finger. "I'm sorry," Linn whispered, not trusting his voice. "My boys ... died of brain tumors." Marnie looked at Linn, her eyes wide and unguarded. "My Mommy is gonna die from a pan-cree-attick tumor," she said, "an' I'll be an orphant." Marnie looked at the man down on one knee before her and she asked, "When your boys died, did that make you an orphant Daddy?" Linn bit his bottom lip, nodded. Marnie laid a tiny little hand on the sleeve of his black, old-fashioned suit coat and looked miserably into eyes that felt the way she looked. "Gammaw said we're fam-bi-ly," she said with an exaggerated care. Linn nodded. "Yeah," he managed to husk. "I don't got no Daddy," Marnie said hesitantly, "an' you don't got no sons an' I'm just a little girl." Linn opened his arms and Marnie thrust into him, hugged him desperately around the neck as his arms wrapped around her and under her, and his other knee hit the floor and he leaned back on his Prayer Bones and whispered into her curly, light-brown hair, "Daddies love little girls," and he felt her arms tighten a little more around his neck. It did not take many days before Marnie had her own bed, her own room, her own clothes -- more clothes than she'd ever seen! -- a big curly furred mountain Mastiff snuffed loudly at her front and she'd giggled, and they'd fallen asleep on a hook rug in the middle of the floor, The Bear Killer curled up around her: she slept with the catastrophic relaxation of a child who finally gave up her hypervigilance, who finally relaxed: she'd come awake, stiff with panic as she was being undressed for bed, but The Bear Killer piled in bed with her and she was a little less afraid. Bad things happened to her when hands undressed her, and she'd stiffened, she'd frozen, when she felt what she'd been wearing, taken from her: her eyes were screwed tight shut, but the hands were gentle, careful, and she'd been worked into something flannel that smelled nice, and then laid down in a clean bed that smelled nice and The Bear Killer piled up beside her and cuddled against her and gave a great snorting sigh, and Marnie rolled up on her side and cuddled into him and allowed herself to relax. Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller sat very properly at her desk, remembering all this, as she read of the man her Daddy called Old Pale Eyes wrote of going into their little whitewashed church, as she read of his unburdening his grieving soul, for his little girl died back East -- he'd thrown a the splintered wall from a snakehead-gutted passenger car off the still form of a little girl with Kentucky-blue eyes and cornsilk hair -- he'd stood in the silence of their Church and he'd talked to God about it. He'd cried from the depths of misery in his soul, cried out unto the Lord that he wished to adopt that little child he'd found and fallen in love with, and his two best friends in all the world were waiting, hidden, one behind the piano, the other behind the handmade Altar: in a deep, booming voice, when that long-dead Sheriff declared to the Almighty that he wished to adopt this wee child, his old and dear friend's deep voice boomed, "AAANNNNDDDD SSSOOOO YYOOOUUU SSSHHHAAAALLLLL!" Marnie smiled as she read the handwritten admission that his knees nearly failed him in that moment, for it is not a light thing to hear the voice of God: a moment later he realized this wasn't the Creator speaking, but for one bright moment, he admitted, it felt like it! Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller looked up, pale eyes bright and smiling as she recalled her new Daddy taking her into their Church, how he'd walked down the aisle with his black Stetson under one arm, holding her hand with his other, and how they'd stopped at the end of the aisle, and looked up at the big, rough-timber Cross on the back wall. She remembered her Daddy as he said, "Lord, I wish to adopt Marnie." He felt her hand twitch a little with surprise as a deep and powerful voice intoned, "AAANNNDDD SSSOOOOO YYYOOOUUUU SSSHHHAAALLLLLL!" -- and then the Welsh Irishman rose, grinning, from his hiding place behind the piano, and the Judge from behind the Altar, and suddenly they were surrounded by laughing men shaking the Sheriff's hand, gripping his shoulder and pound his shoulder blades, Marnie felt herself picked up, handed from one man to another, and finally ending up in her Daddy's arms as an Important Man (Marnie learned early in her life to recognize Important Men) shook her Daddy's hand -- it was a little awkward, but he managed, in spite of having a double armful of little girl -- Marnie saw a look of absolute and utter delight on her Daddy's face as The Important Man said, "The adoption went through, congratulations!" Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller re-read words hand-written in good India ink, on good rag paper, and she smiled to imagine how that long-dead ancestor must've felt: Marnie knew what it was to lose people, and she knew Old Pale Eyes lost his little girl years before, and Marnie knew how healing it was to have a family again. That, she thought. That is why he talked to God about it! 2 2 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted Thursday at 03:01 AM Author Posted Thursday at 03:01 AM (edited) BAIRN "Sean?" Daisy's voice was quiet as she shot a green-eyed look at her hard-muscled husband. Sean Finnegan, the local Fire Chief, looked at his wife with a puzzled expression -- not that she called his name, that was not at all unusual, but the way she called his name. "Sean, I would speak t' th' Sheriff." Sean reached up, ran thick fingers into his Irish-red scalp thatching. "Daisymedear," he rumbled, "ye need not m' permission t' speak wi' th' Sheriff!" "Sean, he's a married man," Daisy fretted, "an' 'twould no' be proper --" Sean took his wife around the waist, drew her into him, careful not to interfere with her stir of the stewpot. "He's no' a married man, Daisymedear, he's th' Sheriff an' --" Sean stopped frowned -- Daisy didn't have to see her husband's face to know his brows crowded together, and she'd not need ears to know the man grunted -- he raised his hands, curved his fingers and began scratching his wife's back with long, carefully moderated strokes. Daisy arched her back a little with pleasure. "Finn MacCool," she groaned, "I'll gi'e ye a week t' stop that!" "Is it th' calendar then?" Sean asked, and Daisy stopped stirring, then started again. "Aye," she said quietly. "Daisy." Sean's lips fairly caressed her name as he spoke it. "Daisymedear, ye may speak wi' th' Sheriff whenever it pleases ye." Daisy shoved back against her husband, grabbed the oven door, pulled it open and reached in with a towel: she brought out two loaves of bread on a flat tin sheet, slid them onto a cooling rack, thrust the pan back into the heat-radiating oven and shut the door. A night and a day followed this exchange. Sheriff Linn Keller was most of the way from the Sheriff's Office to the firehouse, riding down the packed-dirt street on that fine big stallion of his, when Daisy came out the front doors of the Silver Jewel: she glared at the Sheriff's retreating backside, snapped her thumb joint, spat over her left elbow, stamped her right foot three times and crossed herself, then she whirled, seized the heavy door, pulled hard and stomped upstairs, wearing her ill temper like cloak. Daisy raised a knuckled hand to knock at the office door of the Z&W Railroad. She didn't get the chance. The door drew open quickly and Esther's amused eyes regarded her dear friend. "I knew you were coming," she said gently, and Daisy hesitated. "Then ye know why I'm here." "I bless you for remembering. Please, come in." Daisy swept in, sat heavily on the edge of the little cot Esther kept made up and ready: Daisy planted her elbows on her knees, dropped her face in her hands and growled quietly. Esther glided over to her, sat beside her, an arm around the Irishwoman's shoulders. "He's a deep one, he is," Daisy muttered as she lifted her face from her palms. "I know," Esther sighed. "Has he said a word about t'day?" "Only that he has business in Stone Creek." "Ah, the orphans, then." "Yes," Esther nodded. "That's ... his cousin?" Esther laughed quietly. "Yes," she nodded, and Daisy heard the smile in Esther's voice. "Damndest preacher ever did I see," Daisy whispered. "He's no' a Catholic but he'll kneel an' say th' Rosary wi' th' children that are." Esther nodded slowly, smiling a little at a memory. "He's goin' there because of ... t'day?" Daisy asked carefully. "He goes down at least every week since it's not far. Sometimes twice. He takes supplies, clothes, books, sometimes he hires a wagon." "He remembers what 'tis to lose his own young," Daisy said -- a statement, not a question. "Yes," Esther agreed. "He does." "That's why he goes t' th' orphanage." Esther made no reply; none was needed. Daisy looked over at her long time friend: "Does he e'er let ye in?" Esther dropped her eyes, bit her bottom lip: Daisy saw her fingers interlace, saw Esther's shoulders raise with a long breath, fall as she sighed it out. "Sometimes," she whispered. "I wished t' speak t' th' man," Daisy said quietly. "He has no need t' carry a'that himsel' --" Esther laughed silently, and the two women shared a knowing look. "I told him that," Esther said in a resigned voice, "and he said 'They're my ghosts to carry,' and that's all he'd say." Daisy spread her fingers, raised supplicating hands to Heaven above: "Ooooooh!" she snarled, "MEN!" -- then she and Esther looked at one another, and embraced, leaned their foreheads together, and laughed. Sheriff Linn Keller extended his hand. "Parson." Reverend Linn Keller returned the lawman's grip. "Sheriff." Willing hands were unloading the wagon: Linn handed his ecclesiastical cousin a sack -- "Coffee, and jarred-up fruit. I know your wife favors 'em for pies." Cousin Linn took the prized gunny sack, handed it off to a trusted adjutant, looked back at Cousin Linn the lawman. "You look troubled." Linn nodded. "Dark anniversary." Comprehension flowed into the preacher's eyes and he nodded. "How can I help?" "Some coffee, if you have it." A grinning little boy looked up at the Sheriff. Sheriff Linn Keller screwed one eye shut and bent down to look closely at the lad's face, then he opened that eye and squinted the other one shut: he squatted, motioned the lad closer, leaned his head down and murmured, "You'd best be careful, son. Some scoundrel done slud up close an' stole one o' your teeth!" The delighted little boy giggled and looked at the Parson, then back to the Sheriff. "Now them rascals that makes off with teeth, they'll throw the Hoo Doo magic spell on 'em and them teeth'll hop around under the full moon just lookin' for someone t' bite," the Sheriff added, "only they ain't got a jaw for power so all they c'n do is kind of bounce off." He winked and gave the laughing little boy a solemn nod, then rose and looked innocently at his cousin, who shook his head and chuckled, then turned and led the way toward coffee that hadn't been drunk yet. Next day, when Daisy brought Esther's tea as she did every afternoon, Esther was red-faced and smiling: Daisy set the tea tray on a table, turned, planted her knuckles on her apron and hissed, "Out wi' it now, I know that look! Ev'ry juicy detail, an' don't be leavin' a thing out!" Esther took Daisy's hands, leaned her head close and whispered, "You remember we adopted a little boy and a little girl, and you warned me that bringin' a bairn into the household would cause pregnancy!" Daisy's eyes widened, she pulled back, looked at Esther's waist, clapped her hands to her mouth. Two women held hands and jumped up and down on their toes like a pair of excited little girls. Directly below them, a great, broad-shouldered Irishman's eyes narrowed, his grin broadened, and he nearly drove the Sheriff face first into the floor with a congratulatory slap between the shoulder blades. Sheriff Linn Keller did not have to buy a single drink the rest of the night. Edited Thursday at 03:02 AM by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 4 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted Thursday at 03:14 PM Author Posted Thursday at 03:14 PM BENEFIT Esther Keller watched as her husband trimmed up the wick, carefully topped off the lantern, lit it, turned the wick down to keep it from smoking up. Linn looked at his wife with an expression that revealed both his unhappiness, and his unwillingness to express it to his wife. "Jacob?" she asked quietly. Linn nodded, his bottom jaw sliding out as he did. "Whither away?" "I don't know," Linn admitted, setting the lantern down and resting his fingertips on the tablecloth. "I don't want to go hell-a-tearin' out into the dark and miss him." Esther laid a hand on her husband's arm. "You know I can ride," she whispered. Linn gave his wife a hard and serious look, and his words were just as matter-of-fact as his expression. "Darlin'," he said, "you can ride like an Apache and you can get more out of a horse than most men." He set his teeth together and looked away, reluctantly letting her see the depths of his unhappiness. "I'll hang the lantern," he said. "It's all I can really do." Esther looked to the kitchen window, to icy half-snow, half-sleet that rattled against the single-thickness, wavy-glass pane, and shivered a little. It was near full dark now, and their son was out in the storm, and they had no idea where. Jacob Keller labored steadily, cutting slash and brush and dragging it back to where his Pa showed him a man could shelter. Jacob was out on business and time got away from him. He'd thought to short cut across what he thought was shallow water, froze over: it was cold enough, long enough, it ought to hold up a horse and rider -- hell, cold as it was, it ought to hold up a team and a wagon! -- but he didn't consider shallow water is swift water, and ice with snow on top was not frozen as deep as he'd hoped. Apple-horse went through the ice, just shy of boot top depth: the Appaloosa stallion fought free of the coldwater deathtrap, thrashed and fought his way back to thicker ice along the edges: Jacob turned him toward the cliffs nearby, remembering his Pa showing him shelter that set crossways of the prevailing wind -- "Over yonder there's one that faces the wind," he'd said, "it generally drifts full in the winter. Man tried to shelter there, he'd freeze plumb to death." Jacob got them into the narrow opening, to the still air deeper inside: it was near to full dark, and Jacob was obliged to strike flint and steel and make a tinder fire just to see where firewood was cribbed up for use. He set two fires, one against each wall, with Apple-horse between, and then he pulled out a clean, folded gunny sack and rubbed the stallion down, rubbed him dry, went back to build up the fires again. Apple had an ice-cut on one leg, and Jacob had some goose grease he carried for just such purposes, and slathered it on the carefully-edge-dried cut: Apple was not happy, but the unguent soothed the cut, and Jacob unsaddled the stallion and bade him stand. As Apple was between two welcome sources of heat, the steelshod stallion offered no objection to their shelter. Jacob went out into the snow, grimaced as ice-pellets rattled off his Stetson brim: not for the first time that day, he damned his stupidity in not wearing his fur cap. Jacob cut slash, brush and saplings, brought them to the entrance, laid them and crisscrossed them and made a catch for the snowfall, knowing snow would trap and bank up and shut off the wind, and the more wind he could stop, the better off he and Apple would be. They wouldn't be warm, but they'd not be as cold. A big, black, curly furred creature lay on his side on the hook rug, a little boy laid up against his spine, sound asleep, one arm over The Bear Killer's ribs: another lay between the bear sized beast's forepaws and hind legs, not quite cuddled against the big warm furry belly, but almost. Youthful family, one at a time, carefully picked up and carried off to bed: The Bear Killer sighed, warm and comfortable in front of the cast iron stove, at least until a man with a lantern opened the front door and stepped out on the front porch. The Bear Killer came out with him, scented the wind, looked up at the Sheriff, looked out through falling snow and into night-shadowed distance. Linn checked his watch, nodded. He knew how long the lantern would stay lit with a full reservoir. Jacob fed Apple-horse the sweet rolls, rubbed the stallion's neck, murmured his apologies he hadn't brought a feed bag, he honestly thought they'd be home before dark and it was his fault they weren't. The stallion apparently liked sweet rolls. Jacob boiled up some tea and fried some dead pig, he threw bread in the grease and fried that too: somehow food tasted better out on the trail, unless a man was obliged to live out on the trail, then a woman cooked meal tasted better than anything comin' or goin', and that for a fact. Jacob stretched out on one blanket, there on cold dry sand, covered up with another. Wisht I had The Bear Killer here. Come springtime, Jacob knew, spring rains would flood out this friendly shelter; wood ashes and charcoal would be washed away and gone, only smoke stains and red-burnt rock showing where a man set two fires when he was needful. He was awake with the sun, or what little sun squeezed through snow-heavy clouds. Jacob tore down his sheltering barrier, shook the components free of snow and dragged them in and stacked them up, knowing they'd provide firewood for the next man who had to shelter here: he ran diagnostic fingers down Apple-horse's legs, felt and watched for any sign of flinch when he came to the ice-cut. Once he had better light to see by, he realized the cut was without swelling or heat, and apparently without pain, other than probably some bruise-pain: Jacob saddled his stallion, threw a leg over the hurricane deck, and horse and rider emerged into the hushed, cold, still and sparkle-white world. This time they skirted the treachery of shallow water ice. There were tracks in the snow, in front of the two story, timber home, tracks of a single horse that rode up to the porch, and stopped. If a man were to look and wonder and consider what the rider might have found interesting enough to stop, he might notice a peg on the porch post ... a peg where a man might hang a lantern. When Jacob slogged from the barn to the house, when Jacob stopped on the clean-swept porch steps and kicked snow off his boots, he climbed to the top step and hesitated, then reached up and lifted off the wick-charred lantern. He stepped inside, hooked off his boots, set the lantern on its shelf where it was usually kept, and looked at his father, asleep in a chair. Jacob looked at the oil can beside the door, where a man might set his refill of coal oil was he to keep a lantern refueled outside. Jacob walked silently into the kitchen, smiling a little as his mother turned with a pleased expression. Jacob put his finger to his lips, then hugged his Mama. "You're cold," she whispered. "I'm hungry," he admitted, "but Pa looks wore out!" Esther blinked, bit her bottom lip. "He hung the lantern," Jacob said -- a statement, not a question. Esther nodded. Jacob turned, looked at the coffee pot and then at the hired girl. She poured him a mug of scalding-hot and he thanked her, turned to his Mama and murmured, "I'll be right back." Jacob walked back to the parlor and squatted beside his Pa. He laid a hand on the Sheriff's shoulder, carefully, squeezed just a little, released. Linn took a long breath, opened one eye. Jacob offered him the steaming mug and Linn leaned forward, twisted one way, turned the other, grimaced. "I hung the lantern," he said. Jacob handed him the mug of coffee. "You showed me where to shelter and said there was wood enough for a stay," Jacob said quietly, then grinned. "Sir, when you spoke, I listened, and it was of benefit." 3 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted Thursday at 04:42 PM Author Posted Thursday at 04:42 PM BIKINI SHOT, WITH HEELS Sheriff Linn Keller slipped in the back door of the firehouse, closed the door quickly behind him to shut out the cold February air. His wife was in the Chief's office: he heard their quiet laughter, then Shelly came out of the man's office, pulled the door shut, looked at her husband and then looked down and shook her head. Linn waited until she ascended to the kitchen deck, until she came over to him. "Dearest?" he asked quietly. "Is all well?" Shelly laid a flat palm on her husband's unbuttoned uniform jacked and sighed dramatically, smiled a little. "You really need to stop leaving all those Journals lying about." Shelly pushed past her husband and out the back door, leaving the lean waisted lawman wondering just what in the hell had he done now. Shelly had two days off -- she worked one on, two off, the same as the rest of the Irish Brigade -- Linn waited until they were seated in the Silver Jewel, waited until they'd ordered their usual breakfast, waited until coffee arrived, then Linn looked at his wife with an honestly puzzled look. "Darlin'," he said, "what was that about me scatterin' Journals around now?" Shelly laughed, laid gentle fingertips on the back of her husband's hand. "Dana stopped by to see me," she smiled. "She had a question." Linn nodded, once, his face serious. "Chief saw her come in and look at me and then at him, and he said she could use his office, so we went inside. "He had a girly magazine open on his desk." "A girly mag." "It was open to an article." "An article." "A scholarly treatise on the intricacies of a vintage Volkswagen engine." "I see." "Dana and I came out and Fitz's ears were red and he mumbled something about having forgotten about what he'd been reading, and Dana patted his hand and there-there'd him, and said there's nothing to be ashamed of, reading about the opposed-four Porsche engine, and Fitz popped off something about not havin' any real good steamy pictures of her, and she laughed and kissed him on the cheek and said give her a day and she'd fix him right up." She didn't!" Shelly picked up her coffee, gave her husband a wicked look over the steaming rim of her mug. "Oh yes she did," Shelly said quietly. "Oh yes she did what?" Linn asked uncomfortably. "A bikini shot," Shelly said quietly. "With heels." Angela's mouth dropped open and she openly stared at her sister. "You gave him what?" "You heard me." Angela covered her face with her hand, her other hand across her belly, cupping her elbow as she shook her head and muttered, "Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb!" "Want to see what I gave him?" Angela lowered her hand, gave her sister the full benefit of wide-open, unblinking, dead-pale eyes. Dana smiled, pulled out her phone, swiped the screen a few times, turned the phone so Angela could see. Two sisters were silent for the space of several heartbeats. "We have to let Marnie know." That afternoon, the Sheriff rose at the discreet fingernail-tap at his frosted-glass-windowed door. "Come on in, Chief," he called. Fitz came in, red-faced, a manila envelope in hand. "Ya gotta see this," Fitz mumbled through a broadening grin. Linn raised an eyebrow. Somehow he had the general feeling Fitz was going to pull the rug right out from underfoot. "I let Shelly and Dana use my office for a conference the other day," Fitz admitted, "and there was a ... magazine ... I'd forgot about, was still open on my desk." "A magazine." "They kind of pulled my leg about it and I told Dana she'd never give me any bikini shots and I felt kind of left out, she she gave me one." "She gave you one." "Yep. She's wearin' ... well, see for yourself." Linn took the proffered 8 x 10 with an uncertain expression, looked at it, blinked, looked at the Chief, looked back at the picture. Two men looked at one another and laughed. The Sheriff was holding a color photo of a two-year-old little girl in a two piece swimsuit, standing in a pair of her Mommy's much-too-big high heels. 3 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted yesterday at 02:15 AM Author Posted yesterday at 02:15 AM (edited) NAMESAKES Michael leaned back in the saddle, gripped the cantle with his gloved right hand, carefully worked his off hand into the saddlebag behind him. He leaned back without twisting his spine. Michael leaned forward again, unfolded the topographic map, studied its curving lines: he looked ahead, his breath drifting quickly away on the winter-cold wind. Lightning blinked, looked around, apparently less than impressed with her surroundings. I read about the place, Michael thought. Pa said it faced this-a-way, crossways of the wind. He didn't say if 'twas a big enough gap for Lightning to fit! Michael eased Lightning ahead, turned her a little to the left -- There! Lightning sensed Michael's triumph: she lifted her head, scented the cold wind, advanced a little more quickly. Dana and Shelly sat at the corner of the kitchen table, their heads leaned toward one another, the way women will when discussing womanly matters: supper was ready and would only need heated, which is why God Almighty invented the microwave, at least according to Shelly's perpetually irreverent husband. "Mama," Dana asked in a quiet and serious voice, "was I a difficult birth?" Shelly blinked, surprised: "No, dear," she said gently, "you were my easiest delivery!" "Sooo ... they didn't have to section you." Shelly leaned back a little, surprise plain on her face: "Why, no ... why ever would you ask?" Dana frowned, looked away, looked back. "Dana ... you're not ..." "No, Mama, I'm not," Dana said quickly, then closed her eyes and took a long breath. "I'm sorry. That didn't ... I didn't mean to snap." Shelly waited -- not because it's something she learned from her husband, when interrogating a subject, but because she was honestly at a loss what to ask. "Mama, there are so many circles. Old Pale Eyes was named Linn. Daddy is named Linn. They both have a son named Jacob. Jacob back when had a son, Joseph, and our Jacob has Joseph." She waved a hand as Shelly started to say something. "I know, I know, there are no Michelles, we have no Esther, that Jacob married Annette and we don't have an Annette, there was a Michael back when but no Victoria" -- she looked at her mother with frightened eyes, hesitated. "There was a Dana, Mama, and that Dana killed her Mama in childbirth." Dana's voice quivered a little as she spoke, as she clutched her Mama's hands. "I ... hoped ... I didn't almost kill you." "Oh, honey," Shelly breathed, "no. Not even close." Michael left it up to Lightning to decide if she wished to go into the dark cleft. He thrust an arm forward, his wrist-unit's broad beam fanning into the dark. It opened quickly once they were inside. Michael leaned back again, got into his other saddlebag, pulled out a small crystal sphere, half the size of a cue ball: he tapped at his wrist-unit, turned his palm over, let the sphere float upward. Light bloomed, a harsh white illumination that showed the interior clearly. Michael's pale eyes took it in: at the upper end, daylight, but not much of it; a stream, running through. He looked left, looked right, saw where rock was burnt red. Likely that's where he laid his fires, he thought. Direct and reflected radiation, steep enough to carry smoke off. Michael looked around, touched his wrist-unit, lifted a hand; the ball subdued itself, settled into his waiting palm, became a miniature crystal ball again, was returned to its home in the saddlebag. Fanghorn and rider came out of the cliff face and back into the wind. Lightning turned to her right and began to drift with the wind as snowflakes started up again. Michael consulted his wrist-unit, smiled a little: an Iris opened, and they rode through the black-velvet cat's-eye, and disappeared. Dana was only just back in her quarters on Second Prime when her wrist-unit vibrated. She consulted it, looked at Michael's face grinning up from her wrist, and smiled. "That sounds wonderful," she murmured. "Give me a minute." It didn't take her the full minute: she'd changed quickly, snatched up two large towels, keyed in an Iris. Brother and sister lay back in a sandy-bottom, warm, steaming pool that smelled of ... minerals? ... the water was shockingly clear, with neither swimmers nor algae. Lightning floated happily in the deeper end, unshod hooves barely grazing the bottom: if it's possible for a bony-headed, conical-bossed Fanghorn to look drowsy and contented, she did. "I needed this," Dana nearly whispered. "I know Lightning did," Michael murmured. "She's got a good cold tolerance, but she does love the Springs!" Michael looked up, at a sky that was only just beginning to show stars. He and Dana floated on their backs, heels resting on the sandy bottom, light anchors holding them in place. Michael raised an arm, pointed: steam feathered off his arm as he did. "There," he said. Dana followed his gesture. "I don't know the constellations here," she admitted, then looked at her younger brother. "That's where Juliette is?" Michael nodded, smiled a little. "The stars ... were the first things she saw with her new eyes," he said softly. "Now she's among them." Dana didn't know what to say, so she took her Daddy's advice, and said nothing. Michael's voice was soft as he added, "I've never seen a more beautiful cemetery." He looked over at Dana. "Old Pale Eyes' son Jacob fell for a blind girl who died right after he met her. He buried her at his expense and set the only zinc marker in the Firelands cemetery." "I remember reading that." "I think her name was Miriam." "I think it was." "Jacob said if he and Ruth have a little girl, that's what they'll name her." "Is Ruth ...?" Michael turned his head, grinned at her. "I'm not supposed to know. When they tell you, act surprised!" "Cross my heart," Dana murmured, sketching a quick X in front of her swimsuit top. She looked over at Lightning, who was happily lowering her head and blowing bubbles in the steaming-warm water. "Jacob told Ruth he'd like his little girl to play piano. Josph is learning." "I think Littlejohn is too." "Marnie liked the idea of dressing up like a saloon girl and singing bawdy songs as she played a saloon piano," Michael mused, "until she realized a Sheriff really shouldn't do that if she wished to be seen as the no-nonsense Sheriff." "I know my sister," Dana replied. "Where does she gussy up and thump the ivory 88?" Michael smiled knowingly. "I'm not supposed to know!" "But you do," Dana pressed. "Where?" A pale eyed woman with legs that ran clear up to Hail Columbia wore a skimpy saloon-girl costume and a feathery glitter mask: she played a brisk tune while four girls in costumes identical to hers, in seamed stockings and heels the same as she, danced and high-kicked on the stage, while men whistled and pounded tabletops and yelled encouragement. The one woman who wasn't dancing was seated at the ivory 88, laughing with delight as she set the dancers' tempo. The barkeep took a lump of native chalk and scrawled on a sawmill cut plank: Sarah McKenna, then set the plank up across the top of the piano, so their new piano player's name -- or at least, the name she gave -- was displayed boldly the width of the piano's top. The plank fell down once, it was knocked over when a patron brought her a beer and was careless when he set the mug, and the piano player pushed it over backwards when the inevitable saloon brawl started: she twisted into the middle of the fist-swinging melee as one of the girls hopped off the stage and took her place at the piano, as what had been a dancing-girl in a scandalously-short dancing costume played a lively tune while the former piano player climbed up onto a chair and then onto one of the round tables, set her hands on her slender waist and began happily high-kicking in time to the music. Her name might not have been Sarah Lynne McKenna, but she sure acted -- and danced -- like her namesake! Edited yesterday at 02:15 AM by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 3 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted 18 hours ago Author Posted 18 hours ago BLAZE, FOG, AND BLOOD Marnie leaned her forehead against Peppermint's head. The Appaloosa mare was content to let her. Marnie's hands caressed Peppermint's silky jaw: eyes closed, she reviewed the day, shivered a little as she did. Sheriff Linn Keller's voice was Daddy-strong and Daddy-confident as Marnie heard it again, years and leagues and impossible distances from where her Daddy spoke those words. She'd remembered them, and she'd taken them to heart, and she'd practiced them often, and practiced them to her benefit. When in doubt, her Daddy taught her, cheat. Whenever possible, cheat. As often as possible, cheat. To the greatest degree possible, cheat. She remembered looking at her Daddy, doing her best to look wide-eyed and innocent, which fooled everybody in the entire world except only her pale eyed Daddy and her all-knowing Mama. She remembered how much trouble her Daddy had, keeping a straight face as he said these words, until his humor broke through his reserves: with a laugh, he'd dropped to a hunker, he'd run his hand around her slender waist and he'd said gently, "Don't cheat if it's illegal, immoral or fattening, darlin', but take every possible advantage. Cheat as best you can. Like this." He'd been booming down a load of pipe on a friend's truck -- his friend was laid up with a broken hand, and her Daddy was making a delivery for him, and to do that, father and daughter loaded two-inch heavy-wall pipe on the man's truck, her Daddy wrapped chain around it from the underside, secured the chain around the corners of the headache rack, slid links edgewise through the grab hooks, then he'd put the snap binder on the chain and taken a pull on the binder. "Watch this, Marnie," he said, and threw the heavy steel handle over with an effort. The pipes crowded together, and he reset the chain, tightened it again until he could make no more headway. He'd taken a three foot length of the same two-inch, thickwall pipe, and he'd honestly beat the hell out of the bundle -- then he released the binder, took another bite, tightened the bundle -- he'd beat it again, from the sides this time, took another bite, shortening the snap binder's grip on the bundling chain. This time it was too tight to muscle over. He'd looked at Marnie and grinned -- "Let's cheat on this!" -- he took the three foot war club, slid it over the handle of the snap binder. It took an effort -- he'd hauled it until it went over center and SNAP! it was fast down -- he took the three foot length of pipe, tapped the chain experimentally -- "Singin' tight!" -- then he boomed down the back of the bundle in the same manner. Marnie believed in her father's version of cheating. To that end, she had certain items of emergency equipment available, wherever she was, discreetly staged: when she emerged from a restaurant where she'd just dined with a half-dozen women from the planet, women who were curious about this pale-eyed Ambassador, she froze and threw an arm in front of her dinner companion, stopping her abruptly. Marnie turned, her eyes suddenly very pale: "Sound the alarm," she said, her voice tight -- the ladies stared openly as Marnie seized her skirts, charged across the street, no longer the laughing, pleasant, decorous Madam Ambassador -- no Ambassador ran like a blue-satin arrow! -- they watched as Marnie skidded to a fast stop, drew her wrist up to her chest, did something -- A black-velvet ellipse opened beside her, tall as she was and three feet wide -- Marnie reached in, seized a red cylinder, brought it out, one dainty, lace-gloved hand death-gripping the chromed squeeze-valve on one end, her other arm hooked under it -- Marnie stepped up to the door, bent a little, freed one hand and tried the knob: she drew the extinguisher back, used it as a ram, hit the door hard at the latch -- once -- she drew back a step, thrust into it, swinging the extinguisher and putting her weight behind it, she drove its bottom hard against trauma-cracked wood -- Marnie leaned back and kicked the lock-shattered door, dropped the extinguisher's base, seized the valve with her free hand, ran her finger through the pin, yanked. Tank in one hand, horn in the other, Marnie advanced into smoke and flame, crouching a little, protected by her Confederate field and rage: she squeezed the handle, rolled a cloud of carbon dioxide before her. She knew the fire; she'd seen this kind before -- liquid hydrocarbon of some kind -- coal oil, she thought, or petroleum distillate, kerosine maybe, or hell maybe some vegetable oil. Whatever it was, the building was wood, the fire was hot and moving fast, and Marnie knew when she drove the door open, it got a good draft of fresh oxygen. If she didn't kill it fast, it would kill everyone in the building. Someone came in behind her -- "WHATTAYA DOIN' STOP THAT!" -- Marnie dropped, hooked her arm around the tank, brought it around: she drove the end into a man's gut, shot him with a cloud of cold vapor, gave the next man a good face full of cold suffocation and hauled the tank back for momentum, decked him -- hard -- broken arm, she thought, and realized with a fierce joy she honestly didn't give a good damn! Marnie turned back to the fire, gave it another long, noisy fogging, looked up at the ceiling: another few quick squirts, and it was out overhead. Marnie looked around, turned, stomped out into the open air, holding the nozzle like a weapon, gripping the squeeze valve with the other: she stopped on the sidewalk, waved the nozzle and shot a puff of vapor into the air as the fire truck came snarling down the road toward her. Marnie stepped carefully away from where the firemen would make entry; she set the heavy tank down, watched with assessing eyes as men pulled the crosslay, settled masks on their faces and shoved inside the darkened, scorched interior. One of their number with the single trumpet of a Lieutenant on his helmet shield approached her and asked her what happened: he spoke carefully, as if at once recognizing he was addressing Madam Ambassador herself, and yet realizing she was witness to a situation. After Marnie filled in what she could, after she opened the Iris and stowed the discharged extinguisher, Marnie lifted her skirts and stepped down to the street, looked both ways and glided back to where spectators were openly staring. Marnie Keller -- a much younger Marnie, still a schoolgirl -- positively devoured every reference she could find that mentioned, described or quoted a legendary war-goddess who (in her young mind) wore armor and wings and carried a sword, a mighty figure of legend with a silver Corinthian helmet and a skirt of plates: if it had to do with Sarah Lynne McKenna, Marnie wanted to read it, to know it, to be it! Marnie read of Old Pale Eyes' wife Esther and how she hired European blademasters to keep up her own skill with a fencing schlager: she read of Old Pale Eyes and his Cavalry saber and how he worked with the honed, curved blade on a regular basis, how his wrists were like iron and stayed that way to the day of his death, thanks to swinging a yard of steel on a daily basis. Marnie took an interest in the blade, at a very young age. Shelly may not have considered it a properly ladylike pursuit, but she did approve of dance lessons: it was one of the only areas in which Shelly's husband conspired ... not against his wife, exactly, more like he conspired with his daughter. Marnie reasoned that bladework was a dance; she fell in love with Ukranian sword-dancing, and got really good at it -- but she never confused it with the more deadly art of the shiv, as practiced by those less than law-abiding souls she'd first known as a very young child. Marnie was, honestly, deadly with a blade of any length, and her efforts showed in her musculature. She did not bulk up, like a man would, but her arms had not the slender taper of a woman of leisure. Madam Ambassador's wrists, like those of her honored ancestor with the iron grey mustache, were like iron, and she, too, made a habit of swinging a yard of steel on a daily basis, and so, at the dinner with the half dozen curious ladies from the planet she was visiting, when she was asked why she was never seen with less than long sleeves, she'd smiled and raised her teacup and said in a soft voice, "It would not be very ladylike," and took a dainty sip of the local oolong. 2 1 Quote
Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 Posted 2 hours ago Author Posted 2 hours ago (edited) CALL ME ANYTHING BUT LATE FOR SUPPER! Shelly prided herself on caring for her family. Shelly worked, yes; Shelly was not just a paramedic, she was a damned good paramedic, and she took a fierce pride in that. She took an equally sincere pride in the care she gave her family. Shelly stood at the far end of the table, regarded plates and forks and cups and glasses with satisfaction. There were times when the Silver Jewel did the cooking, and there were times when Shelly did the cooking, and when all her children -- or at least most of them -- came to her table, she showed her pride in the lay of the table and the provender which she prepared. Laughter and voices and the smells of good home cooking filled the kitchen, with the welcome interruptions that always occur: Jacob hugged his Mama and lifted her an inch off the floor, gave her a little shake -- she whispered "Ouch, do that again," and this time she lifted her arms and Jacob picked her up again, and gave her that little shake, and they both felt her spine pop in both protest and in relief. She bent, but only a little, to receive the happy hugs from the twins; Linn stood back and watched, smiling a little, he gathered his young in both arms and laughed quietly and listened, and when Angela murmured to Shelly that Marnie might not make it, Linn saw a shadow of disappointment cross his wife's face. Angela looked at her Daddy and said, "She is testifying in court. A capital case," and she saw her Daddy's eyes grow serious as he gave her a single, acknowledging nod. Michael saw his Mama's eyes go to Marnie's place at the table. "Mama," he said gently, "you know Marnie. If it's suppertime, she'll be here!" "The People call the Madame Ambassador!" Madame Ambassador rose, glided diagonally across the courtroom, from the Prosecution table, across in front of the Judge's bench, to the waiting Bailiff, nervous with a closed Book in hand. Marnie smiled a little as she recognized the cover: it was one of the newly printed Bibles Michael arranged to have freighted in. Marnie raised her right hand, laid her left palm on the Book, swore the usual oath: she smiled just a little and winked at the Bailiff, then she turned, sat the witness chair as if she were a Queen settling into a cushioned throne. "The Court thanks the Ambassador for her participation," the Judge said formally: "we recognize that the Ambassadorial Service does not usually take a hand in local matters." "I thank Your Honor," Marnie acknowledged, then looked at the prosecutor, who tried to look stern, but succeeded in looking uncomfortable. "Madame Ambassador," he said, "could you please tell the court what occurred on the day in question." "Briefly, I observed an arson fire in an occupied structure, and I moved to save lives by extinguishing the fire." "Objection," Counsel for the Defense popped up like a cork from deep water. "The witness has no credentials in firefighting, it is not possible to know this was an arson fire!" Marnie rose, bent her wrist up, tapped a control, looked at the defense attorney and smiled, then turned to the Judge. "I believe the Court grants the Ambassadorial Service leeway in reply," Marnie smiled: not waiting for reply, the courtroom disappeared -- or so it seemed to everyone in the courtroom. Each of them was standing inside a fire structure, feeling heat, smelling smoke. A figure in a filthy fire coat and helmet went to one knee, hauled the chrome Elkhart nozzle up, yanked the gate open, twisted the nob: a tight fan spray erupted, hissed, drove against the flames roaring up the wall and across the ceiling: they felt cool spray from the nozzle, heard the hiss and click of the self-contained breathing apparatus, saw the grim and determined expression through the air mask's face plate -- the expression in those pale eyes was unmistakable. The scene twisted, changed. None there were familiar with a garage that serviced over-the-road tractor-trailers, but no one had to be conversant in this unfamiliar transport to realize they were in a cavernous structure, smoke banked down to belt buckle height: they saw the same pale eyed figure, firehose under one arm, assaulting something blazing, harsh and bright, ahead of them in the thickening smoke. It did not matter that nobody in the courtroom, save only the witness, knew what a tire was. Nobody there doubted the seriousness of the moment when one of the tires exploded from heat, then something came flowing toward them, a river of living fire. They felt the pale eyed firefighter on the nob scream "PULL BACK! GIMME A SECOND LINE IN HERE, PULL BACK!" The scene cleared, and everyone was back in the courtroom: Marnie turned off the holographic envelope, sat. "You will find," Marnie declared coldly, "that my experience, my training and my credentials exceed anything your firefighting forces on this planet have. They were trained by my home department back in Firelands, and I was a fire paramedic with that department. " The Judge shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rapped his gavel. "The Court accepts expert testimony from this witness." The defense attorney was still standing. "You stated that the building was occupied, is that correct?" Marnie again rose, bent her wrist: this time the courtroom was transported to the Firelands County Sheriff's Office. Marnie walked through in uniform, confident, relaxed: she stepped to the head of the table in the conference room, pressed a tabletop control, lighting up the screen behind her. "Observation is our stock in trade," Marnie said. "When we meet someone we are constantly sizing them up and we are watching their hands. When we arrive at a building, we are looking at it -- we are not just casting our eyes casually across the front, we're looking first for threats to ourselves, then threats to everyone else. We're looking for signs of occupancy, whether residence, transient or commercial. Movement behind windows, movement of a curtain, light from within." The courtroom reappeared and Marnie held up a gloved hand, and in it, a six point star. "I am still Sheriff Emeritus on Mars, and a commissioned Sheriff's Deputy back home in Firelands. I make it my business to notice things, including which buildings are occupied." "Objection overruled," the Judge rumbled, giving the defense attorney a warning glare. "Madame Ambassador, you spoke of your actions as saving lives." "Yes." "Could you clarify that for us, please." Marnie tilted her head a little, the way a woman will, and gave the prosecutor a patient look. "I have survived fires, sir," she said, "in my earliest childhood, some very bad people tried to kill us by setting fire to our building. It is God's grace alone that we managed an escape, and that with nothing but the clothes we wore. Firing a building condemns those above the fire to death, whether by smoke inhalation, by immolation, or by jumping to their deaths to escape the flames. Persons in buildings adjacent are in similar jeopardy, as a fire will not confine itself to one building. To extinguish the fire is to save lives, and that's what I did." She shot a challenging look at the defense attorney, who looked away, uncomfortable. Shelly began setting big serving bowls on the table, Angela set a big bowl of fresh, steaming light rolls; butter, gravy, onion-roasted vegetables, all added their aromas to the atmosphere: just as Shelly thrust the serving spoon into the mashed potatoes, an Iris opened and a smiling set of eyes with Marnie wrapped around them, emerged from a slender Iris: she kissed her Daddy on the cheek, hugged him quickly, impulsively, like she was a little girl again. "I was just about to call you," Linn murmured, and Marnie looked at him and giggled, "Call me anything but late for supper!" Edited 2 hours ago by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 1 Quote
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