zzambrosius_02

SOME THOUGHTS ON THE SOCIETY FOR CREATIVE ANACHRONISM
and the Peculiar Pickle our under-examined customs have led us into.


I. Something Old:

A. The reasons for a short-term Crown.
        One reason for such short reigns was articulated to me by someone who was there at the beginnings of the SCA: "The reason we wanted a new King every few months was *specifically* to prevent anyone from accumulating too much power."
                
We drifted away from this understanding, especially (it seems to me) in the Kingdoms on the West Coast of the continental USA. The change happened so slowly that a lot of people missed it, including the people whose actions started and perpetuated the change. Yes, but...not everyone involved in the drift towards borderline abuses of power in the SCA was unconscious of what they were doing, IMO. I saw some of them do it, and it looked to me like they were doing it on purpose...

        I've also seen people who want the temporary rank of King or Queen and the permanent perks associated with a Royal Peerage but who don't (IMO) understand the job. What is the job? Spectacle! (I'll get deeper into that soon.)

        So having a new King or Queen every six months or so means new people get a chance to shine, and someone who's first reign is a disaster can think about that, and maybe learn, and do better next time. That has its merits.

        Right now I'll just say that if we're doing the Middle Ages as they "should have been" then we do need—IMO—a ceremonial King or Queen. How we choose them developed almost by accident, and it's been taboo in the SCA to question that. Rattan fighters—the Chivalry, mostly—have held their (our) kind of swordplay to be superior to all other Arts, and many of them believe it's the ONLY fair and just way to choose our leadership, and hence our Aristocracy. This has aspects of a religious belief, which makes it hard to argue with in certain circles.

        It needs examination, tho, really it does.

B. Riffing on the "Word of the Crown is Law".

        This was originally conceived of as a lark: "There are no such things as Bears." Or "Chocolate Chip Cookies are Coin of the Realm." How and when did we reach a point where a King could tell a Peerage Council that they *could not meet* except in His August Presence, and pass this off as Law? (See Part I section C, directly below)

C. Imaginary Power and the necessity of consent.

        No rank in the SCA carries even the tiniest hint of real-world power with it. We contend (I deliberately did not use the word 'compete' there) in multiple disciplines (Arts, Service, Martial) for Status among our manifold sub-sub cultures; but being Baron is, as I used to say, like being the President of your local Moose Lodge. You're a big man in the Lodge, and you have some built-in status among Meese worldwide...but that won't buy even one cup of tea or get you out of a traffic ticket. This goes for the Peerages, including Royal Peerages, as well. Such power as we have is *Imaginary* and dependent upon agreement to the rules of the game.

        This is something a lot of people seem (to me) to miss: the need for people to consent to the Rules of the Game. Since these are, like the Roman Constitution, largely unwritten, every exercise of *Imaginary Power* at an SCA event requires the intentional Consent of at least a large majority of those involved. Very few people want to be ordered about and pushed around, and even those folks usually want the ability to withdraw consent.

        Of course, they always CAN, dontcha know. They can leave: for a day, for a weekend, for a reign...or for good. This is the reality that a lot of "Powerful" SCAdians try not to think about, at least in my experience. Driving people to that extreme is harmful to the organization.

        So...

        The greater your notional 'power' the larger the number of people who must consent to your use of it. A Duke or Countess, if they wish to appear with a suitable retinue, has to recruit and train and get the agreement of those persons who will constitute that retinue. This may be accomplished thru negotiation (as by gathering students and squires around you) or by inspiring people who truly want to embody the Medieval Virtue of *Service* to join with you in the Spectacle you desire to present. Of course, you need to be awake to your vision of that Spectacle, if you want to truly embody the rank you have attained.

        And usually, the people in the retinue expect to receive some kind of compensation for their work: instruction, knowledge, verbal and emotional support, to perhaps be "spoken for" in Peerage Councils, or even just the reflected Status of the person they are serving. "Non-specific Reciprocity", as anthropologists or anarchists might name it.

        I have also seen people create retinues by bullying, usually by leaning on new peoples' desire to fit in. There's a lot of turnover in those retinues, because...well. Employers in the modern labor market have similar problems with retention, but they have more real world power than Duke Hutch the Horrendous, who can ruin your weekend, but not make you homeless.
        
D. How the Illusion of coercive power (which we cultivate) damages recruiting and retention.

        People who are coerced by authority in their "mundane" lives will react negatively to being coerced in their recreational (and re-creational) activities. An enthusiastic recruit who has great interest in History will be attracted by our coolness, our Spectacle (clothes, tents, etc and Martial Activities) but may well be repelled by Royal Peers (among others) who exhibit Authoritarianism or (sometimes) Dark Triad traits.

        This will (at the least) soon reduce enthusiasm; and may drive away the exact sort of people we'd want to have, leaving us (often) with the sort of person who would seek to control others and rise to (illusory) power in the group. Or with sort of follower who "kisses up and kicks down" as the saying goes.

        So, to the extent that we inundate newcomers with BS about fealty and the absolute power of the King and Queen (without making the imaginary nature of the power *abundantly, absolutely* clear...) we sabotage our own growth. That hurts us, folks.

        A somewhat tangential example of this phenomenon happened to me long ago, when Egil's was held at Buford Park out near the Arboretum. As Baron of Adiantum at the time, my lady and I frequently walked the entire grounds–sometimes together, often separately–sometimes adorned with the tokens of our rank, and sometimes not. This gave us at least the illusion of being in touch with what was going on, you see?

        I walked by an encampment that was a bit isolated, and saw this guy I vaguely knew from the gym/spa I was working out at. Let's call him...Wally. Wally was standing in the only entrance to that camp, which was otherwise completely surrounded by blackberry briars and tall bracken and spiky looking shrubberies. It looked deliberate, like a wall to keep passers by out. Wally was playing his bagpipes. (He wasn't bad at it.)

        I waved at him, and he nodded back, since he couldn't wave and pipe at once.

        Later on I saw him at the spa. We got to talking SCA and I asked: "How come I never see you at the list field, or on Merchant's Row? And you never pipe outside your camp..."

        He was like: "What? What are you talking about?"

        "Haven't you ever even attended Court?"
        "HUH?"

        Me, frowning: "There's a lot going on, man. Aren't you an archery guy? (He said he'd placed third in the (mundane) Oregon State Open archery tournament) There are multiple shooting tournaments at the Archery field. Ya Know?"

        *HE DIDN'T.*

        Turns out, he was recruited to attend the event by a lady, and she took everyone's money and registered the whole household and *withheld* from the others in her group things like the Site Pamphlet, where the schedule of events was in those days. Wally literally had no idea that things like contests, tourneys, court, or shopping opportunities were available. He thought that every camp was like the one he was in, where no one went out and visitors were discouraged.

        I clued him in, expressing shock at the power play his lady friend was pulling. He soon told others in the household, and...let's just say I was not surprised when the group broke up, nor was I sad.

        But it's an example of how people intent on controlling others might act. And the way she went about it, assuming she could (from a position as a relative newcomer to the SCA) exert control over "her" household...that stuck with me.

        Think about the kind of damage a more experienced member might do, especially a Jim Jones type.

II. Something New:

A. Medievalism.

        Medievalism is not actually new, per se. There has been nostalgia for times past since people first noticed that things were different "now" than "then". The peculiar form that such nostalgia took at the time of the SCA's foundation might have been ephemeral, if the founders had not begun the task of codifying it for our use. Rediscovering through research and *experiment* the arts and culture of a wide range of extinct (or imaginary) civilizations was a new-ish thing in 1966, and tho there were (and still are) a lot of fits and starts, that's what the best of us in the SCA still do, in my opinion.

        I'm aware of people who say our Rattan fighting is entirely unrealistic. I'm not gonna argue that here. My Opinion? Rattan fighting most closely resembles foot combat in the 9th-12th Centuries CE. But...NOBODY KNOWS exactly what that was like. The earliest "fightbook" we have is from about 1300 CE.

        People wrote songs and epic poems about the warriors of the world pre-14th C. A lot of the people who wrote that stuff were monks, tho. Pardon me if I doubt the veracity of their descriptions of combat.

        I submit that our experimental evidence of what works and what doesn't against a person armed in chain and pot helm is as good as we are likely to get. Unless, of course, some earlier illustrated manuals of swordplay should appear, which is a possibility.

        That said, that kind of swordplay doesn't cover the entire period of the SCA's interest. By 1450 CE in Italy, and gradually in the rest of Europe soon after, people were carrying rapiers and side-swords and mostly street fighting with little or no armor. They still got out some plate and helms for wars, and sharpened up their broadswords and spears. But that was not their daily life.

        Even before that, longsword forms developed, some of them for armored combat, some of them precursors to rapier play. Lately, the SCA has adopted Cut and Thrust rules to account for that period of transition.

        But by then, choosing a King by battle was pretty much out of style. (Before you start yelling, yes I am aware of Bosworth. The rest of Europe was astounded that such antics were going on in "modern times" tho.)

        For a lot of heavy fighters, the idea of choosing a Crown by means of a Cut and Thrust or Rapier tourney is unthinkable. But other people ARE thinking about it, or even of using Arts and Sciences as part of the process. There's nothing sacred about how we do things, even if we sacralize the spaces in which we do them. (See Part II,section B, directly below.) Our Social Contract is mostly unwritten, and thus amenable to negotiation and amendment.

        For a lot of folks, we're way overdue for a general shakeup/down.

B. Interactions in imaginary spaces.

        For some years I have been telling people that I see the SCA as an "intercontinental, decades-long, mostly improvised piece of Performance Art." As part of this performance, we have divided big chunks of the world into Kingdoms and Principalities that exist only in relation to our organization. The form this takes on the ground is the invocation of 'sacred spaces' where our imaginary social relations can exist and flourish. The closer one is to the 'presence of the Crown' the nearer one is (theoretically) to the sacred.

        The fact that we rarely invoke these sacred spaces with ceremony or official announcements does NOT mean they haven't been unconsciously sacralized.

        Within the sacred spaces we intentionally or unintentionally create, most of us seek to *enact* the Virtues, Chivalric or otherwise, that we conceive of as "Medieval".  This enactment of an imaginary society is wildly variable (of course.) Newcomers may be clumsy, or adapt so quickly that one assumes they are long-time residents of the space; people who have been playing for decades can have very different interpretations of what we are doing, and some even revel in willfull ignorance or flouting of the ground rules. Still, one can often see examples of Courtesy, Gallantry, Chivalry, Franchise, Service, and Courage throughout the spaces at an SCA event. Other Virtues are harder to see, but no less important for our overall satisfaction with the result.

        The way this all relates to our problems with recruitment and retention...see section I, C and D, above.

C. The Crowns and Coronets (Including Baronial) as Spectacle.

        Now first, a clarification: I am using the word "Spectacle" even tho it has a specific meaning in modern Political Economy (See The Situationist International, and Guy Debord specifically) as "a relationship among people *mediated* by an endless stream of images".

        For purposes of this essay, Spectacle will mean the common definition of the word: "a visually striking performance or display". But yes, I intend a bit of that Situationist thought to intrude. What our Spectacle distracts you from (at its best) is the mundane realities that underpin all of our efforts, and that intrude into our performance at the least invitation.

        So, when a fighter and consort enter Crown or Coronet, or a couple puts their hat in the ring as candidates for Baron/ess, what they are doing (IMO) is auditioning for a major role in our collective performance.

        If done consciously, with focused effort, this can result in outstanding performances, the sort where an entire ballroom full of people simultaneously draw breath and sigh with that awestruck "Oooooh" that is really way better than a standing ovation.

        A related point is that the Royal Peerages that we enjoy after serving in this capacity are not really *fighting* awards. They are for *service*. This is always the case for the consort, of course, but I maintain that it's every bit as true for the Victor. *I* regard my viscounty as something more akin to a Pelican than to a Knighthood or a MoD. One's skill at arms allows that person and their consort the *opportunity* to serve in that role; a person who won the Crown and abdicated before the performance would not become a Count/Countess.

D. The nature of such Improvised Performance Art

        Earlier I mentioned the way that mundane realities tend to intrude on our performances. Little stumbles are an inevitable part of improvisation. People fall in and out of our personas constantly, in part because we are constantly reminded of the "real" world, in large ways and small. Gliding over those stumbles without calling attention to them is the main escape from that distraction, I think.

        I just try to do my best to use proper titles and stay courteous, even when I'm bumped out of my groove.

        As Johann says: "Your Mileage May Vary."

III. Something Borrowed:

A. Modern hierarchies of oppression.

        I suppose it does not go without saying that one of the sources of friction in an organization like the SCA is our diverse membership, spanning class, race, and (mostly) political persuasion.

        If we imagine a person who is wealthy, and whose income is mostly from multiple passive streams (as the Financiers say) then that person may find a craft or a service or art to which s/he can become devoted, and master it in less time than others might take. Or rather: the number of hours devoted to acquiring the skill may be the same, roughly; but the mundanely wealthy person can pack those hours into fewer days or months or years.

        In this way, and in others that I am sure you can think of, we tend to import the class system of our daily lives, that presses down on many people, into our game. Often this happens unconsciously, at least on the part of the mundanely "better" person.

        Now this needn't be fatal to us as a group, or to any individual. As long as those who have gained skill or earned status understand that we are all, and each, doing what we can, as and when we can do it.

        Yeah. But I've seen peers and near-peers who definitely look down on the scruffy teenaged kids in their ragged hand-me-down poly-cotton tunics and stained wool-blend cloaks.

        Some of those kids are at an event as a lark, and some of them are watching to see what they need to do to fit in better and advance. One of them may win a Crown someday, as many people have pointed out; and I have had no luck distinguishing that one from the others, when they first appear. More to the point: one of them may pioneer a new Art or previously understudied period or culture, enriching the organization in ways that we cannot foresee.

        (Kids raised by SCA parents often—but not always—skip this stage.)

B. Royal Peers as servants not masters.

        A lot of Peers and Royal Peers see themselves as servants to the Crown, and rightly so.

        My position is that we need to see ourselves as also servants to the populace, especially the newest members, and to understand that the retention problems the SCA is facing "spring (somewhat) from our own deeds".

        A big part of that service to the membership, as I see it, is more of that Spectacle I talked about earlier. As a Royal Peer that can be at a less intense and stressful level than it was when you were the center of attention. But you know: look the part, embody your art, and treat with chivalry, courtesy, gallantry—maybe even magnanimity—those of every degree.

        Like we all at least once swore to do...some of us with our hands on the Sword of State. Or on the Grail of the Summits. Or on some other relic of our shared performance.

        I don't know about you, but that's what I'm here for, even when I fail of my purpose.

C. The rule (?) of one thousand.

        My experience suggests that one person out a thousand citizens within any set of geographical boundaries will join Our Group. Ten % of them will play with elán and verve and persistence. From this ten percent come (eventually, perhaps) the Peers and Baronage.

        To the extent that this true, it means a town of 1000 people won't be a Shire, save by the creation of a strong and lasting household; a city of six thousand can reach Shire status easily, but it will be handicapped if it tries to become a Barony; and on up the ranks of branch status. (The BOD and the Corpora set the limits on branch size.)

        So a City with 200K residents might reasonably expect to find 200 people who will at least hang around and maybe help some with its local events, and twenty who will dive in and really work to make the Barony tick.

        One consequence of this is that if the Crown chooses the "wrong" candidate for the Baronial circlet, a bunch of stuff can go wrong really quickly. If there are twenty Pelicans in your branch and 18 of them are pissed by an unpopular choice for that office, one bad thing happens right away: it gets hard to find the person-power to put on the local events (which branches are required to have).

        In the long run, when we lose people? We lose institutional memory. And that means that we make the same mistakes as our forebears made, sometimes over and over.

        That's why Old Barons, and especially Old Baronesses, are so important to our game. Oriented locally, right on the scene, and remembering the decades-old fuckups.

        The rule of one thousand is also why branches in smaller towns are always so fragile: Let one feud between households fester, and before you know it the shire fails. And Corpora forbids a formal divorce. If somebody you really don't like lives in your zip code, you may have to travel long hours to participate at a different branch. I've seen that happen.

D. See what is happening in SBC

        The SBC (Southern Baptist Convention) is a modern religious denomination whose recent history has lessons for us in the SCA.

        I won't go thru the whole shebang, but the key thing is that their church, the denomination that is, has been losing membership at a catastrophic rate ever since about 1973. The Church itself, corporately, used various tricky statistical hand wavings to hide this from themselves and from the congregations that make up the "Convention". Around 2010 those tricks began to fail. Everyone noticed the problem.

        One of the responses—not the only one, but a telling one—by the men (they are all men) who run this thing is to say that the falling membership shows that their church is being "purified". The folks leaving were not "real Baptists, or even real Christians" and thus will not be missed.

        Meanwhile, the number of Butts in Pews continues to fall, and last year for the first time there were fewer congregations affiliated with the SBC than the year before.

        I'm sure you get what I'm talking about. If you don't...?

        I've rarely heard this said, as yet, but it floats around as a subtext in our various discussions of recruitment, and especially of retention:
        "We didn't need them anyway cuz they were not *real* SCAdians, or even real Medievalists..."

        Now don't get me wrong. I don't want Nazis in the SCA, nor Klansmen, nor any of their foul ilk. I'm happy that we've begun to shed them, at least the ones who make themselves known.

        Just keep in mind that we've lost some good people over the last decade who took a lot of expertise, a ton of hard-won knowledge and scholarship, and a lot of institutional memory with them. And IMO it wasn't modern left-right politics that drove most of them away, it was internal back-biting and cruelty that did it.

        Newcomers come and go, and the SCA is not a suitable game for everyone: Remember that one-in-a-thousand thing that I've observed? But when a near-peer with teaching skills and reasonably good manners throws up their hands and leaves in a huff? That I consider a loss to us EVEN IF I didn't like that person very much.

IV. The "The Royals and the Peers are Arrogant Assholes" Blues.
        
        I titled this section the way I did, because I've actually heard people say that, and, considering the stories they told, I had a hard time finding a way to dissuade them from their opinion. I figure there are probably stories about me circulating out there, talking about times that I fucked up; and others may find themselves in the same pickle that I did, now and then, when thinking to defend me.

        So...In conclusion, here are the TL;DR point of the above:

        IMO the SCA is not just a game, it's a performance.
        The Crowns, Coronets, and Baronage are among the stars of the Show. So ya gotta act your part, okay?
        Your Title in the SCA really does depend on the consent of the Populace: what does it even mean to "be" a Countess or a Duke if almost everyone thinks you're an ass?
        There is way too much of what I consider borderline abuse of power in the SCA, and we lose membership as a direct result of it. We can do better.
        I assume that most of us are doing as well as we can; I want to learn and do better, and I think you (whatever your status) could do that too.
        And since (IMO) our numbers are and always will be limited by mundane reality, we really have to do better if we want to reverse the downward trend we all see occurring.
        And some Magnanimity would help a lot, IMO.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: The Aftermath, With Ethical Dilemmas

Ambros, Arrenji, and Voukli dropped into a plaza in Paris: obviously a version of Paris, despite the lack of several important landmarks from his own Line’s version.

His visor showed him three layers of force fields, one encompassing the plaza, another wrapped around the outer walls of a smallish fortified cathedral, and a third closely mirroring the walls of the cathedral itself.

“We’re sure he’s in there, then?” Ambros holstered his pistol and relaxed a bit.

Voukli shrugged: “Reds and Blacks have been pressing him and his bodyguards for three days. Traced their last Saltation to here. And this is where the Squids thought he’d go, at the end. His ‘last resort’ they thought.”

“They can’t Jump through our force fields,” said Arrenji: “If the Emperor is going to escape us now, he’ll have to do it on foot.”

Voukli nodded: “He’s supposed to have four women with him. At any one time three of them are armed and armored; whichever one isn’t armored is for his pleasure.”

Arrenji made a face.

Red Warrior Guild soldiers massed in the square near them. Arrenji made a handsign and they approached and spread out along the walls, eventually surrounding the compound completely.

Twenty Black Warriors dropped in, atop the walls, facing the cathedral. Arrenji made another handsign and one of the squads of techs moved forward. After a minute, the heavy oak door disintegrated.

The Blacks jumped down and charged the cathedral, smashing windows and breaking doors and entering through every opening so created.

Red Warriors flowed through the open gate, taking the inside of the wall and laying down cover fire throughout the gardens.

Gunfire broke out, the loud reports of ATL slugthrowers and the sound of blasters, countered by the buzz of Commonwealth microwave projectors and the zing of the Black’s own longarms.

Ambros heard the all-clear even as the Magistriae jogged forward. He followed close behind as they passed into the nave. Blacks were staged on either side of the vestry door, and on the dais behind the altar. More of them herded a sad-looking trio of prisoners into a corner; others dragged the corpses of their enemies aside, leaving a clear path for the Sacred Band trio.

The inner force field followed their movements, contracting as they approached their target.

“Stand ready,” Arrenji said, calm and sarcastic: “We’re about to call on his Majesty Jean IV, self proclaimed Emperor of the Multiverse. I expect he’s not going to welcome us...”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: All the Shit Hits Everywhere

“I am not a committed pacifist. I would not hold that it is under all imaginable circumstances wrong to use violence, even though the use of violence is in some sense unjust. I believe that one has to estimate relative justices. But the use of violence and the creation of some degree of injustice can only be justified on the basis of the claim and the assessment—which always ought to be undertaken very, very seriously and with a good deal of skepticism—that this violence is being exercised because a more just result is going to be achieved.”

― Noam Chomsky

The room lit up, the flash from outside bright enough to wake him from a deep sleep. He rolled to his feet, shielding his eyes. A deep, throaty “boom” filled his ears and he cursed in several languages:

“Jannet! Wake up! Now!” He used his Command voice, well aware that she had never before heard that tone from him.

She rolled over, muzzy with sleep, knuckling the matter from her eyes: “What? ‘Wha...”

He interrupted, still in Command mode, calm but firm: “Get dressed. Wake up Kim and Jimmy, then get upstairs. Wake up Marie and Luisa. Then put in your contacts, and grab your bag. Meet in the front yard in ten minutes.”

She stared at him, puzzled. She began to do as he’d ordered, slowly and reluctantly.

Then the ground wave from the explosion rolled through, shaking the house and bringing down some wallboard from the ceiling above her.

“Shit!” she yelled, and started throwing her clothes around, donning some, searching through the pockets of each item, looking for her phone.

From an Adjacent Timeline

Ambros deplaned at LaGuardia, groaning from the discomfort of six hours in a confined space. His left leg tingled and cramped briefly; multiple wounds demanded an accounting.

‘It wouldn’t do to arrive in New York by Shifter, with the damned Intelligence services watching the airport.’

It occurred to him that he could have Shifted to Cleveland or Pittsburg and suffered from a shorter flight: ‘I’ll do that next time...and there’s sure to be a next time, more’s the pity.’ Then he thought: ‘You know what? The hell with that nonsense. I should mark a restroom stall while I’m here, and just drop in there. Let all of the spies worry about how I get to wherever I am...’ 

His briefcase and shoulder bag were all he had for luggage, so he passed through the checkpoints without undue delay. 

He detoured to a nearby restroom and marked the stall nearest the door by creating a Path on his Shifter.

That task complete, he exited and looked around. He followed a series of signs that said: EXIT or TO TAXIS until he saw daylight and doorways to the world outside the terminal.

A man in a chauffer’s uniform stood among others similarly dressed, holding a sign that read “ROTHAKIS”.

Ambros shook his head and limped slightly on a beeline for the fellow, who glanced at a photo and spoke:

“Mr Rothakis? This way, please...”

Ambros led Randy from the War Room. They walked the halls.

Randy wore a medallion, one that identified him as ‘New Citizen, Guild or Skolo: Uncommitted’. People working or socializing in the many niches on either side of the hallways saluted him gravely, each after the manner of their own Guilds.

“Why are they all saluting me?” Randy asked.

Ambros grinned: “A general principle: each one thinks that you may choose their Guild; you may one day be a consequential member of their Guild. See, it’s not just War Guild members who are working hereabouts: Thinker’s, Technical, even some Laborers, plus History...they are all here on one sort of errand or another. Recently I eavesdropped on some Road Guild Magistrae at one of the basement cafés here in War Guild Command Complex.”

Randy frowned, clearly thinking hard, then said: “So on the off chance that I might choose their Guild, they...”

“They treat you with respect, and hope for the best,” Ambros finished. As they passed through the building, people began gathering their belongings and preparing for the evening’s ceremonies.

At length they passed through the Main Hall. A woman in Dissenter’s robes, her hair in a tightly braided topknot, held forth for a group of Red Warrior students:

 
Ambros sat on the table, his body drenched with sweat, his cloned leg aching like it was newly attached. The Physical Therapy Magistros sat on a stool across the room, making notes on a lapscroll. He spoke to the Technican who’d been twisting and testing his leg: “What’s your opinion?”

She said: “He’s good to go. If he keeps up his exercises, he should have no more trouble. The leg will ache in wet weather, and maybe if he’s under stress...for perhaps another year or so, but that’s normal.”

“Endaxi,” said the Magistros. The fellow grinned: “Good health to you Spathos, and may we never see you here in the Temple again.”

“That’d be fine by me,” Ambros said, a little grumpy. He sent a note to Combat Medical, announcing his full recovery, and copied that note to the Sacred Band chat space on the Kyklo.

Then he walked out, both legs equally pained, as had not been the case since he’d been injured: ‘I suppose that twisting both legs past discomfort and affirming that the injury is no longer affecting my gait was worthwhile...’

He suspected that Temple physicians and techs got a rise out of doing PT on Warriors: ‘Just to see how much suffering we can take.’

He dismissed that thought as unworthy. He muttered: “Now I need another shower, though, and clean clothes.” He walked right past the Baths, wanting the cleansing power of the ‘magic’ lockers in the Command Complex, rather than a random outfit from the Laundry. 

The trip to Tokyo for his now-routine speech and Q & A had been, until now...routine.

‘Weird that jetting around the planet to talk about “The End Of The World As We Know It” has become so everyday for me.’

He put that aside: ‘My sparring partner here is a shihan: a sensei’s sensei. Relax and concentrate...’

 
Ambros said: “I think I’m ready...”

“Will you be back tonight?” Kim asked.

“50-50.” Ambros replied: “it’s likely that I’ll run into friends, get invited to dinner or parties, drink too much, and sleep by somebody’s fire. If not, I’ll be back tonight.”

“Tomorrow morning, then,” she laughed: “I’ll stay the night, and see you when you drop in.”

Ambros also laughed. 

He had his SCA armor on, rattan arming sword and longsword and his shield in a duffle over his shoulder. He picked up a nine-foot carbon fiber pike from the floor beside him. He waved good-bye to Kim, and dropped in to a spot near the Main Battle Field at a site in Pennsylvania.

‘This is the biggest, most elaborate encampment of SCAdians in the world: every year in August right here on this ground,’ he mused.

He looked around; no one paid him any mind. ‘As I expected. I dropped in right beside the Field, and no one even noticed!’ He laughed to himself: ‘The sheer number of people hereabouts, as the first big battle of the day approaches, almost guarantees that my sudden appearance would go unnoticed.’ Being in armor, he fit the scene so well that even someone who looked right at him as he manifested would simply convince themselves of some explanation.

Ambros and Bruce dropped in to the Fair site on Saturday around noon. He used the wild area near Daredevil Palace as their drop-in: with his Shifter still active, he could see hundreds of Traces, the spoor of Commonwealthers visiting the Fair. He sent a mental command to the Shifter, shutting it down. It bore a distinct resemblance to a hockey puck, though it was fractionally lighter. He stowed it in the pocket on the front of his kilt.

He looked his companion over and thought: ‘Bruce is a Giant Ant, for all practical purposes. Oh, there are a lot of small differences...and big ones, too; like the Squid sticking out of the top of its head.’

Most people would see Bruce and call it an Ant, though: ‘We certainly did, when the Commonwealth first ran into them.’

He knew that the creature had an internal skeleton as well as its chitinous carapace. ‘...and the cyborg aspect, don’t forget that part. Most of its memory is in the mechanical-biological computer set in its thorax.’

Two metallic tentacles dangled from the silvery rectangular panel set into its carapace. Occasionally these waved around, often in sync with the antennae on the “Ant” part’s head.

‘The machine stores memory and works logically. The Squid feels emotion—exactly what sort is hard to say— and provides motivation. The actual Ant part is more or less a biological bicycle, although with senses that the other two parts lack. And these three organisms have been a commensal and collective intelligence for at least several million years.’

He spoke aloud: “This is gonna be a riot. I hope not actually...”

Ambros woke the next morning to an epiphany. Marie lay beside him, almost awake. He groaned. His left leg cramped, or seemed to.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

He sighed: “I dreamed that Otto Bauer was living in my office at the Salon.” He gestured: “In the ceiling. Crazy.”

“Yes...” she said, eyes more open and eyebrows raised.

“It got me thinking: Posse Comitatus obviously knew I’d respond to their fake note from Mark; they must have a bug in my office. They had to know I was there to find the note, before kidnapping Mark, right?”

“Yeah, I guess...”

“They couldn’t have been tailing me without my tech noticing. So...”

“So you better find that bug.” She rolled over: “I need more sleep. I have to cook for that party at the Country Club tonight...”

He kissed the back of her neck: “See ya.”