zzambrosius_02

I haven't posted any fiction here for more than three months, which is too long.

I don't have a Short story completed, and I'm not ready to start the next serial, so here's a work in progress, which has no due date on it

A 30,000 year old cynic rambles about his mostly wasted life.

Rated M, PG, X, whatever. Naughty words and naughtier ideas.

WAITING FOR THE REVOLUTION

What? Oh, who cares?

Oh, you care? Sure, fine, whatever…

All right. You got a lot of tape for that thing? Cause it’s a long, long, story...OK, memory, whatever. Your machine has plenty of ‘memory’...I got that, too.

See, I remember when a guy wanted to hear me tell my tale...it was a long tale even then...he had a slab of clay and a stylus made of reed. (laughs uproariously for a while)

Gimme that bottle back...What? Drink myself to death? (laughs bitterly) If only!

Lessee, when was it I figgered it out? I had a clue, just a hint, when I buried my grandson...my first grandson. Killed by a sikkuduk. Oh, a mastodon, you’d call it. Yeah, the rest of the band, they were getting it, too.

What? How the hell did I know? I felt strong, healthy, I could still run fast. Here’s a clue for you: everybody was strong and healthy and could run fast. When you weren’t anymore, you died. That grandson I buried? Musta been about sixty, sixty-five maybe. We didn’t keep such careful track of things back then…

But still, I looked young. I didn’t know that, we didn’t have any mirrors. But I knew the others were getting leery of me, I sure did.

Okay, look me over here: how old am I? No, I know what the damned driver’s license says, it says I’m thirty-eight...look at me, really look. Look into my eyes…

Heh. Can’t do it for long, huh?

So that’s when it began, when I had to leave the hunting band that birthed me. So I had to find another one...yeah, rugged individualism is crap. I survived for three years alone that first time, but it was no fun. Then I found a group of eight people, six of them women or girls, two preteen boys. They took me in, they needed what I had.

What? Hunting skills, and courage. Or stupidity, depends on how you look at it.

Nah, we spoke the same language…sorta. It took a couple months to get used to the way they said some of the words.

(sighs) That was a good time. Took them not quite three generations to start looking askance at me, like before…

So I moved on. Ran the same scam again, and again, and...what? How many times? How the hell do I know? Must have been ten thousand years. Over and over…

See, we humans were just not that thick on the ground, for a long time. And a band that had enough of their own men was not gonna take in a stranger. Ten winters alone was as long as I ever had to go, usually it was closer to two.

Lotta travelling to find a new band, each time.

It was, oh, probably the fifth time I had to go off on my own that it began to dawn on me that something was really screwy. Right? Cause of that ‘no mirrors’ thing. And because I’m not really that smart.

One day I happened upon a very still pond, no wind, no frogs or fish disturbing the surface, and I got my first look at myself I’d had in ages…(laughs) literally ages. And there was that reflection...I looked like the great-grandson I’d just left behind, like I was still maybe sixteen years old.

I just sat there staring for a really long time. I couldn’t put it together, make sense of it. I still can’t.

Nah, you can’t. You got a high level of empathy, sure, but you can’t imagine. What? Oh, sure. I can see stuff about you...like the way your dad was always...okay, sorry, I won’t bring that up again.

Okay, so the Paleolithic as you call it, and the origins of agriculture.

(scoffs) Oh hell, don’t be silly. We didn’t ‘discover’ anything all of a sudden. That’s rot. People in those days...in those centuries, in those millennia...we knew all about seeds and growing seasons and all that. And legumes, and nuts. We knew about grafting fruit trees, we’d come back to places where we’d set up groves of the things, or where our ancestors had. Eat like mad for three weeks...oh, right, there was no such thing as a week. Or an hour. We had days and months and seasons. We were really free, in a way nobody nowadays can even imagine.

(shakes head) No, you can’t. You can’t.

Same with wheat...what? No, strip the seeds away, toss about ten percent back out into the field, cook the rest into porridge, eat and fuck and sing and dance and then go hunting. It was a wonderful life. Really: nobody ever did anything like what you would call work, ever.

The real reason that nobody ‘settled down’ and turned into farmers was that no one wanted to work that hard, until there were so many people around that we just had to.

We had to.

I say ‘we’, but I didn’t stay. I watched it start, and then...first time some fathead decided he was ‘in charge’ and started telling everyone else what to do…(Mostly work harder while he sat on his fat butt)...I left.

Okay, I read a book a couple decades back, by some anthropologist…I dunno. Harris, maybe. Anyway he figgered it out, somewhat. When you hunt for protein and gather for everything else, you can only work so hard. As he put, you can’t intensify your labor.

If you’re a farmer, you can. Up to a point. Up to that point, the harder you work, the more food you grow. More food means more kids, then they can work harder, too. See how that happens? You think you’re getting ahead. But you’re not, not really.

You are just working harder. So, like I said, I left.

See, for a long time a guy could just do that. Go back into the wilderness, find a band of hunters, and do that thing again.

No, not every year. It didn‘t get harder to do that by the year, but it got harder to do that, to be a nomadic hunter-gatherer, it got harder every generation.

Then one day...one century...you find all of the good grassland infested with farmers, and the forests full of what the anthropologists call ‘horticulturalists.’ Every river valley covered with tillage, every… came the time when the only land, the only territory not farmed was the places that were just too rugged: mountain people are tough as lions, gotta be. Or, y’know, too dry or wet or infertile.

(shakes head, laughing) Not great territory for hunting either. Get it?

By that time we were nomadic herders, hardly hunting at all. And the farmers hunted, too. But they stayed put, you know? They worked so hard...We still had it better...except.

What? Oh, we had to keep our population down.

(burps; tears fall)

Look up “Preferential Female Infanticide”.

No. We didn’t call it that...we didn’t call it anything. It was a really long time before I even realized that was going on.

What? Cuz women took care of that shit. I was a man. Too stupid to see it. See, I’m not real smart...I was never real quick on the uptake, as you folks say now. I’ve just had an unusually long time in which to become wise.

We had to keep moving, too. I must have walked a million miles, all over Eurasia and Africa. I don’t have any idea who first got the idea to get on the back of a horse, but I’d have kissed his feet if I’d have met him.

Or hers, yeah, I know. But I bet it was a guy, cause it’s such a crazy dangerous thing to do...later, in Greece, there was this guy who figgered out how to tame horses without breaking them. (Shrugs) Check him out: Xenophon. Good friends with Socrates. Cute wife. Cute kids. Helluva guy.

Anyway, eventually that life became just too hard. You couldn’t, you just...farms everywhere. The water was the biggest problem. You couldn’t, we couldn’t get the flocks down to the riverbank to water them. Farmers would fight you.

Well, yeah, of course if we’d known about the steppes, we mighta gone there. But you do realize there were already people living there by then, right? That’s about when people really started fighting and killing each other in big bunches. You had to have that grass, and access to the water.

Yeah, I fought.

Killed people? Sure. I dunno how many.

Look, I was what? Twelve thousand? Thirteen? I don’t know. But I knew so many dirty tricks...by the time the Bronze Age came around, I was...invincible.

And I heal real quick, too...doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Yeah, sometimes. Sometimes you could talk to the farmers, you know, negotiate. “We’ll graze our flocks and herds on your stubble and fertilize the hell out of your fields every year in the fall, and you’ll give us access to water and leave us be as we come and go.”

One generation or three, then some fathead gets to be Mr Big among the farmers and decides to piss all over the agreement.

Fucking Bronze Age.

Look up “Hydraulic Despotism.” (laughs) No we didn’t call it that, we just lived it. China, Ashurbanipal, the Pharaohs, ‘descended from the Gods.’ Such rot. In the case of the people you call “egyptians”, I knew the first sumbitch pharaoh’s grandfather. One eye, one foot, about as godlike as a pimple.

Shoulda killed him sooner.

What? Before his woman had a daughter, and she had a son...pharaoh my ass. That’s when it all started.

That’s why I laughed so hard when you complained about waiting so long for The Revolution...Shouldn’t have laughed, sorry. (laughs bitterly)

Anyway…

It did all get worse. You can’t imagine.

Look, I did the thing, all right? After eight or nine generations of Pharaoh-itis I got it into my head to be the pharaoh. Easy-peasy, lady.

(laughs really hard for a while) Listen, I was maybe fifteen thousand years old by then, right? There wasn’t anything I didn’t know about what you call ‘human psychology’…

In about eight months, I did it. End of the First Dynasty? Hotepsekemwy? That was me! (laughs) You know that bit from that movie? “It’s a Trap!” (laughs again, tragicomically.) Worst forty years of my life.

Oh, sure, I ate the best food, drank the best beer, fucked all of the most beautiful women…Nah, I never had to use force, chicks would line up for a shot at the Great Pharaoh Hotepsekemwy.

I still hated it.

Again, no. You don’t get it. You ever strangle one of your husbands? The father of your kids? No?

I don’t wanna talk about it. Pharaohs are assholes, especially me. Not like they get a choice. So one day I pretended to die.

Remember what I said about ‘human psychology’? Easy trick. People see what they expect to see. I walked west after that, right into the desert...made a big hundred mile loop through the sand and rock, came back to “Egypt” about a hundred miles north of where I left.

Somebody saw me, recognized me. Rumors flew. Next thing ya know, pharaohs could live forever, if the gods let them…”They pass into the west to their eternal godhood.” My bad.

In a way it’s true, huh? I’m still here.

Anyway, I recalled where I’d originally come from, my birthplace. I remembered my many voyages, and I remembered...the way I’d got into Egypt. I remembered that there were people where I came from when I left...Eh? From Europe, silly. That’s what you call it. We never called it anything…right, now you’re starting to get it.

So I headed back that way. Had to go east into the desert, nip back into the Nile Valley for water and supplies occasionally. Bloody awful journey.

But I reached the coast, and turned east again. Then North, when the coastline curved that way. I got lost a lot whenever I strayed from the coast. Everything had changed; I’d see a rock that I vaguely recalled from the trip south…(shrugs) Most of the time it was just a rock that sorta looked like the one I remembered.

Anyway, I got grabbed by the...Hittites? I guess you’d call ’em Hittites. They didn’t call it Turkey then. What? Oh, I don’t even remember. I could sing you one of their songs. No? Maybe another time.

Anyway... They enslaved me. Whips and chains and working outdoors in the hot sun or in nasty bitter cold. Huh? ’Bout a hundred years, I guess. Still better than being Pharaoh.

Oh, no I tried. Nobody since has been better at “slave security” than the Hittites. Bastards. Stone cold. If you tried to get away they’d kill one of your friends. Not you. Your friend. They’d kill him slowly and make you watch. See how that works?

How’d I get away? (laughs sarcastically) You wouldn’t believe it...Okay, okay, sure. So there was this Princess...never mind. Laugh if you like. Somebody did all those things for the first time, though. Y’know?

Uh-huh. I managed to get back to Europe. No more mastodons. No more ice! Can you believe it? A lot more people, too. Still few enough to do the hunter-gatherer thing, though. Lots of smaller game. I went back to that.

It was always in the back of my mind, though...soon there would be too many people again, and the farmer thing would start. It wasn’t quite as great a life, with that in the back of your mind.

People started doing it...farming. I retreated into the deepest woods I could find. I guess, though I don’t know for sure, that it was in Poland or Germany as you call them now.

I sat by my fire deep into the night one night, and I thought about all of the BS shamans and medicine men I’d known. I decided that I would create a Haunted Forest.

“Laugh while you can, monkey boy!” (laughs hysterically for a short time, then stops suddenly.)

You don’t think it could have worked, huh? Lady, I bet I could do it now...I could go up into the woods---the National Forest---and BE fucking Bigfoot. I could...’course, I‘d have to kill a few people and mysteriously disappear their bodies. I’d have to scare the shit out a couple people and let them get away...and kill some while they was scared and screaming so they’d show it on their dead faces.

It would so work.

Yeah, it’d be a lonesome life. So what?

I’ve been lonely since I walked away from my first family. How long ago was that? Since the Early Paleolithic?

Thirty thousand years? Fifty?

I dunno. Don’t much care, either.

Huh? Oh, yeah. I can tell a lot more. Fucking Bronze Age. It came to an end, of course. I’d been hiding out in the deep woods for a long, long time. There was a really big river, it made a loop around a little bunch of mountains, and there was some badlands, real rocky dry soil in the rainshadow of those mountains. There was stuff to eat year-round. I made that area my own, scared everyone else away. The original Haunted Mountains.

I came out one century, and holy hell, did I beat it back to my hideout.

Why? Iron tools, steel weapons. And money. See…

It’s like this: before there’s money, people are shitty. They’ll enslave you, they’ll steal your labor. Work people to death…But once there’s money? Then you have to pay the army in coin, and you need way more slaves just to keep the economy ticking.

Oh, that’s rich. (ponders) Interesting expression, huh? I always laugh at people who say that: “Hard work never hurt anybody.” Ha! I’ve seen so many people die from overwork in my life…

Sweetie, when the Hittites started running low on slaves, they’d just start another war. Every civilization after that did the same. Those things go together, you know.

Right. You have no idea. Do you? First, there are probably more true slaves on Earth right now than there have ever been. If for no other reason than the sheer number of humans infesting this planet. And second, if you work for wages you are still a slave, it’s just that your true status is hidden from you by an illusion of freedom. Money in your pocket is an illusion that makes you fight to maintain your own slavery.

“INSERT HERE”

We could live that way again...Yes, yes we could. Not as hunter-gatherers, no we couldn’t do that. But we could be so much freer, if we’d only “dump the bosses off our backs.”

(sings:) “Are your clothes all patched and tattered?

Are you living in a shack?

Would you have your troubles shattered?

Then...”

Okay, I won’t sing.

But I spent the last three hundred years tryin’ to make that happen. (looks askance at the bottle in his hand; screws the cap back on and sets it aside.) I’ll have a beer…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I guess Hellas should be next. O! Athini! How I miss your marble hills! (Translate)

Actually, I lived in all of those places, one after another. By then there were cities big enough to kill you over and over, but nowhere near big enough to lose yourself in. I died every fifty years or so...then off to some other city, as far from the last one as still spoke Greek. That got easier, as the Greeks colonized the whole Mediterranean. Till they ran up against Carthage.

By then I really didn’t want to fight anymore, okay? Sometimes we negotiated with them, but the Carthage lot were tough negotiators, and even nastier if they decided to fight.

When that shit hit, I went east again. Athens, Macedon, Epirus, Boetoia...the one place I wouldn’t have anything to do with was Sparta.

(Shrugs, laughs) See, I was looking for a good time, not too hard a job, no real responsibilities. People generally thought I was about twenty by then: “Nice young man, not too ambitious, but very polite…”

Sparta...those guys were flat out barking mad. “For six hundred years no Spartan woman ever saw the smoke of an enemy’s campfire.” Begs the question: “Whatever happened at the end of that six hundred years?”

Epaminondas of Boeotia, that’s what.

I was in Thebes when the showdown came. Spartans were camped out on the Acropolis of Thebes, supporting the Theban aristocracy, making sure that the Boeotian democratic tradition couldn’t take hold again.

But of course it did. You want to hear about that? Kinda boring actually. The buildup to a revolution always is.

Okay, and I made an exception to my “study war no more” resolution for the Spartans.

We killed those creeps so dead...then we’re like: “What now?”

We did what Boeotians always did: we had a meeting and elected a Big Man. We called him the Boetarch. Happens we made a good choice. Epaminondas! There’s a Greek hero nobody talks much about. We armied up and headed south, gonna put those Spartans out of mischief for good. Heh heh heh!

Huh? Okay, the Spartans were slavers. I mean, lots of Farmers had slaves, all over Greece, even in Boeotia.

Sure but only one or two apiece. They worked alongside their masters and ate the same lousy boring food and drank the same nasty bitter wine as the master and his family. The Spartans enslaved an entire nation, the Messenes. Nobody did the “industrial slavery” thing on that scale again until the Confederacy. The Helots hated their masters. You bet they did.

As we marched south we kept running into bands of escaped or exiled Messenes...Like I said, Messenia was a Spartan conquest, for six hundred years they toiled for Sparta. Sadistic shits, those Spartans.

Anyway, these Messenes would come to join our army, without weapons or armor. We’d say: “Why do you want to go back to Sparta?”

“We want to eat them raw.”

That was the answer.

Bunch of them did it, too. I mean, not literally...for the most part.

All of Sparta’s northern allies deserted them for our side: Achaia was a real blow to them. The Achaians really knew their way around the Peloponnese.

That was a fun trip! We marched three times around the City of Sparta, daring them to come out and fight.

Nah, too chickenshit. See, Epaminondas led us when we beat them the year before at Leuctra. They didn’t want anything to do with us after that.

No, we never fought them. We marched on down and burned the docks at their port, we marched north and freed the Messenian Helots, then we helped them build a fortified City.

Sparta survived, sorta. They never re-conquered Messenia, though. They were never anywhere near so rich and powerful again. Never again a real threat to Boeotia, either.

When Epaminondas’ time as Boeotarch was over, he went back to his farm, and fought in the front of the Phalanx when we had to fight again. Spartans killed him a few years later...I lost my appetite for war. Again. (sighs).

I don’t know. You wanna hear about Alexander?

I was living in Thebes again, awhile later. Along comes this kid, kicks our asses. I mean, we were the Sacred Band of Thebes, lady, nobody messed with us and lived to tell about it…that day, Alexander wiped us just about out. Everything we did, he was ready for. So everything we did was wrong.

He wanted to be King of the World. After his old man kicked the bucket, he just about managed it.

I saw him a few times...gods, he was pretty. Plus, he wasn’t ever afraid of anything or anyone. That has a powerful effect on women, you know. Well, yeah, he liked boys, too. No law against that in those days.

Okay, the Oracle. You’re wondering about that story? I wasn’t there, I only heard the propaganda. Well, I heard the rumors, too. I really couldn’t tell you which story is true.

Now the story about old Socrates and the Delphic oracle, that one *IS* true. I was there. “Is Socrates the wisest man in world?” asks whatsisname. “Yes.” says the Oracle.

The Oracle...she never answered yes or no...except that one time. Or so it is said in the old lore.

As far as Alexander and the Oracle, whether she said he was invincible because he was dragging her off by the hair or whether it was a genuine Oracular Pronouncement...? It wouldn’t have mattered. He was a very intent young man.

I was there in Macedon ‘cause I was following this other guy around. Aristotle. And Aristotle was Young Alex’s tutor.

No, I wouldn’t say I was his student...or rather, I would say that, but he wouldn’t. He treated me more like a go-fer. Meant I got to listen in. Learned to read…

Oh, yeah, Aristotle intended just the outcome he got. Alexander was old Ari’s spear, and the target was Athens...Aristotle died a happy man.

Like I said, I had lost my appetite for war. I cut off three of the fingers on my left hand so I couldn’t hold a shield. That made the warmongers leave me alone, mostly.

Well, yeah...they grew back. Took about two hundred years before they looked normal.

Why the hell do ask me that? How the hell do I know?

(shakes head) I will NOT wind up in some government lab or a mad scientist’s breeding program…

Look: I expect that if my head had ever left my shoulders, I couldn’t have grown a new one. I expect that’s how most of us die.

Well... just by logic and probability there have to be others, right?

(shrugs diffidently) Twice. In the Bronze Age, a woman. Wanted nothing to do with me.

In the eighteenth century, as you call it. Ran into this guy twice, on shipboard and on the docks.

We avoided each other, both times.

Huh? Oh, I can tell. We got a look about us: shifty, alert, suspicious...and wise, even when we don’t start out smart.

Think about it. If it seemed to you that you could live forever, or close enough, do you want to start hanging out with people like yourself? How long till some shorty twigs? I’m a tough guy to kill...but the odds are against me, seriously, if I get called a witch.

The Romans…okay, recall that I was sorta sliding by in those days. When the Romans started bashing everybody, I just went with the flow.

Recall here, I didn’t want to fight anymore. So I had to have a gig of some sort. Well…Remember I told you old Aristotle accidently taught me to read?

I could read and write in Greek, right? Once I learned to talk like a Roman, I never lacked a paying gig.

Learned to keep my mouth shut about that Yeshua guy...Oh, Jesus, called the Christ. (belches rudely)

Lady…(sighs resignedly)

No, I never met him. I was back and forth through that part of the world for five centuries, bracketing his alleged lifetime. Never even heard of him until he was dead...if he was ever alive. But, I mean...Messiahs were a dime a dozen in ‘Israel’ in those days. I ran that scam myself.

How? Play on people’s hopes and fears, promise them you’ll kill all of the Romans, lose a battle, grab the swag, get outta town and don’t come back for a hundred years. Uh-uh. (Voice changes, becomes stentorian) The Messiah is unbeatable! The Messiah is a military genius and his fist can kill a thousand invaders at a blow! The Kingdom of God is at Hand! My brother Israelites…” (laughs quietly.) It sounds even more stirring in Hebrew or Aramaic.

My guess at the time was that about one third of the messiahs were pure scam artists, like me. The rest...I think a bunch of them really believed their own hype. Mostly deluded...like all those Pharaohs. I guess it makes a kind of sense: believe all the shit right up till moment you drop dead and if there’s nothing on “the other side”...well, you’ll never know. Right?

That guy Paul of Tarsus, though…him I actually met. (shakes head) Couldn’t call him a friend. (shakes head again) Biggest Prude In History. Definitely not The Messiah.

Are you kidding? Nothing saintly about him. He staged a coup, after Masada. That’s all. After all of the real leaders of the sect died at hands of the Romans...Huh? Oh you know: James, Magdalen, John, Judas, Rebekkah, Thomas, Hannah. Those are the names as translated.

Right. Look, those were the people I knew, okay? And Judas was there, I tell you. Or another guy with the same name…His buddies called him Siccarios. Nasty man with a knife, let me tell you. I called him “sir”. In Aramaic, of course.

I know how medieval monks translated the story. Never saw any of that.

Anyway, when they were all dead Paul was the one who grabbed the reins.

One good thing about Paul: I got to quit re-circumcising myself every ten years. Oh, remember I told you how I heal real fast? Yeah, that too.

‘Bout the only good thing about that guy, though. Yeah…for a guy who wanted everyone to die a virgin, and said you shouldn’t even get married unless you just couldn’t keep it in your pants…

Let’s just say the old prude plunked his magic twanger as much as anyone I ever met, maybe more.

Lotta plunkin’ going on back in the day...monotheism and monogamy saw to that.

You don’t realize, cuz of contraception and all, but it used to be a real risk to get laid, especially for women.

Jews and Romans were about equally uptight, in somewhat different ways. Both cultures let rich folks do whatever they wanted. But everybody else?

People had to be careful, cuz some guys would get it into their heads to kill you if you did the bump with their wives or daughters. No matter how bad the women wanted you…

But after Paul hijacked the Christian cult, everybody got even nuttier about chastity and celibacy and virginity. (shakes head).

I never had any trouble. No, really. Remember that Human Psychology thing I was talking about? Try this again: look deep into my eyes…

(Laughs, seductively) Okay. Sorry. I won’t do that again. But I could. You would.

Yes you would.

So: back to my story. Rome fell. ‘Course, no one noticed, at first. Huh? Cause first of all, the West end of the Empire had been in slow decline for ages. Constantinople was actually on the rise, until a millennium went by...people’s experience of everyday life depended on the quality of the local governors who ruled them. Some places, the shift from Pax Romanum to Christian theocracy and rule by local thugs was so smooth and gradual that no one noticed. Other places, total upheaval at the breaking point. Meet the new boss! He’s gonna rape your daughter!

Anyway, for the next thousand years or so, “waiting for the revolution” meant “waiting for god to kill the nobles so we can have heaven on earth.” And occasionally, killing all the nobles in one neighborhood...never spread fast enough to be effective, though.

Look up “Cocaigne”.*

I dunno. The “Middle Ages” were not my favorite time on Earth, quite frankly. The only way a guy could have a decent diet and also get laid regularly was to surf that very fine line between “wealthy commoner” and “simple country squire”. If you got too rich, they’d knight you, and then you had to join them in their “Never Give Up War!” routine.

What? Oh, no...commoners became nobles all the time. See, everybody died, a lot, and way younger than at any time previously in history.

So, some King wins a battle, and he’s got twenty dead knights on his side, plus a bunch of conquered territory where all of the ruling class is dead or fled. He fills some fiefs with younger sons, promotes some squires to knight...and he still has some empty fiefs to fill.

“C’mere, varlet: I saw you fighting and I see you grabbed a horse. Can you ride it? Excellent! (pretends to draw a sword:) Kneel! I dub thee once, I dub thee twice, I dub thee knight (What’s yer name, kid?) Rise, Sir Bob.”

Happened all the time. Poor guy probably bit it in the next battle, though. High casualty rates if you didn’t have state-of-the-art armor and a really good horse.

Now in the Paleolithic, as you call it, lotta folks died young. Childbirth, hunting accidents, big cats, wolves, bears. But if you made it to forty or so, you had as good a chance to reach sixty or seventy as people do nowadays.

In the Middle Ages...first, you got organized warfare. That killed as many women and kids as it did knights and soldiers, maybe more. Then there’s disease. That started with the first cities.

In the Paleolithic...Well, arthritis doesn’t kill you outright. Colds and flu can be dangerous, but they were rare.

Why? Look, those viruses need closely-packed humans to spread. If one of the twenty people in your hunting band caught a rhinovirus, then you’d all get it, and maybe half of you would die. Same with most viruses. Pox, plague, mumps, measles...they need, at minimum, a landscape with villages spaced less than a day’s walk apart. Or cities. Cities are way better for viruses. Paleolithically, we were nowhere near that populated, at least early on.

Nah. We’d go two or three years without seeing another band.

No, we didn’t usually fight. We usually had an orgy, and then swapped sons for daughters. (laughs happily) I really miss those parties. New people to fuck, new blood for the band, no reason to fight.

(laughs) Cuz we didn’t own anything, and objects didn’t own us.

Sweetie, that smartphone owns you.

“Methinks thou dost protest too much…”

Willy? Yeah, but that’s getting way ahead of the narrative. You need to keep me on schedule here. Flashbacks are one thing, if you let me bounce forward to Shakespeare or the Commune or the Situationists, we’ll wind up with a muddled jumble of un-editable nonsense.

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cockaigne

Okay, enough already.

This business of my heels hurting so much all the time is getting f*ckin’ old.

It’s making me too damn sedentary. My joints are unhappy with so much sitting around, and I’m having trouble keeping my weight down. It’s also messing with my writing...if I don’t do Martial Arts, or tai chi or SCA fighting or the like, my mind goes into a funk. I spend too much time surfing the internet and lying to myself about when and how much I’m gonna write.

So...

I think I’m gonna have to make a couple pairs of turnshoes and some pattens, and learn to walk all over again, like a real Viscount.

Gotta go. See ya!

I had a dream recently and I've been slowly processing it. In this dream, the revolution had happened, and was successful. I wore a strange "uniform" of some sort but I was conscious that it wasn't very uniform, if you get my drift. That is, the colors indicated my branch and rank, but the style was unique: no one was required to wear the same stuff.

(I know that's very Commonwealth. So what?)

I also reralized that I must have participated in some aspect of the fighting, in spite of my age. (I was my current age in this dream...)

In the bulk of the dream I attended a meeting at some (formerly) prestigious university, where one department (Philosophy? Economics? The Philosophy of Economics? This remained unclear)...

Anyway, this one department was *led by/inhabited by* some people who weren't down with the overwhelming changes occurring in the Whole World Around Them.

My mission, which I had evidently accepted, was to explain to a group made up of students and faculty what was going on outside their ivory tower (They seemed utterly unaware, as if they had barricaded their building [and their minds] against all the news and information that might have clued them in.)

I also had to sort of "give them their options" as to ways they might react to the new "Assembyist" society that had sprung into existence in the wake of the Revolution. I explained that the world was now made up of a kind of "town meeting democracy taken to an illogical extreme" and that the local assemblies were rapidly federating at the ecosystem level, and people were talking about how to create a non-coercive global confederation to deal with the few remaining problems that were actually global in nature.

They didn't like that news very much at all.

I told them that since the things they studied were so arcane that no one much had any interest, that their options included remaining in a "Faculty/Staff/Student" hierarchy, and thus remaining out of step with Society as a whole.

The students in particular had a tough time dealing with that: "We have a choice? What do we do?"

"Think for yourselves!" I exclaimed. (Monty Python-ishly)

That really got the professor's panties in a twist.

Anyway, as I was awakening, I seemed to be in a second meeting, where I told people it didn't really matter what the people I'd been talking to decided. Something like: "The new economy can support a fair amount of chaff." Sorta like: "What they are studying is now History, not what they thought it was..."(The History of the Philosophy of Money Economies?)

I am entirely aware that this dream constituted a *wish-fulfillment fantasy*. Or maybe it's "Sardonic-Synchronic Bleed-over From an Adjacent Timeline", IDK. But it would never have been so detailed if I hadn't been writing the peculiar Fiction Novels that I've been doing.

Gotta go. See ya!

Mrs Nicholas (Clementine) Orenhauser-Crowell

The Italian Ambassador’s Residence

Saloniki, Thessalonika, Hellas

Mrs Clement (Irene) Orenhauser

97328 Chambers Road

Eugene, Oregon, USA

Dearest Mama,

I must point out first of all that the above return address is very temporary. Since the Axis diplomats have abandoned their embassies and consulates, the Greek government has quartered us here. But I doubt that any missive you send, however promptly, will reach us here before we have returned to Athens; so send any reply to our house there.

I have no idea whether there is mail awaiting us back home, but I expected a letter from you at about the time we left, (April the 2nd) and so I write in anticipation of your expectations. I must imagine the questions you would ask, and answer them where it is possible for me to do so.

Why are we in Thessalonika? It’s complicated. Nicholas had to come, he was sent by the Government to take actions related to the defense against the Germans. Yes, they are on their way; in fact, it would surprise me if you did not hear of the fighting before you receive this letter.

Whatever the case, neither Eleanor nor I wished to be separated from Nicholas in such difficult times, and so we are all here, the children as well.

I can hear you already: why would we even consider taking the children into a city so soon to be a war zone? Nicholas’ point exactly, but...in the end he had to admit that there is (or will soon be) no safe place in Greece for a child of any age. Here at least my babies are under my own care, and in my sight at (nearly) all times.

It was the most difficult discussion of my marriage, and it hurt me deeply to insist, but I prevailed. If I must die defending Clem and Nicky, so be it.

I don’t really expect it to come to that, but... Such are the times in which we live.

Nicholas is buried in paperwork, mostly reading dispatches from the border and intelligence reports from Greek spies inside Bulgaria and Romania. Eleanor and Ysabet are drilling the children in German phrases. (Ysabet is the children’s Swiss nanny, you did not meet her during your most recent visit.)

I have begun firearms training for Nicolette.

Yes, of course I have. She is past seven years old; I was six when Daddy started me on rifles and shotguns. His logic—that the wild lands around our home had many bears and other savage beasts inhabiting them, and that I should be able to defend myself against such—was impeccable. That the beasts approaching our beloved Hellas are Italian soldiers and Nazis does not alter the equation. Indeed, if Clem were not so small a boy for a four-year-old, I’d have him shooting as well. He was such a large baby when he came to term, but he has not grown at the pace of most children. I suspect he is taking after me in that way. At any rate, I have shown him how: how to disengage a safety, chamber a cartridge, and aim. I hope he is never required to use such knowledge.

“Squeeze the trigger, don’t yank,” I told him. Such are the times in which we live.

Put down your blue pencil, mother. I repeated that sentence on purpose. It bears repeating, does it not? I repeat it in my heart all too often.

Anyway, we are scheduled to return to Athens within the week. Write to me there, for the time being. We will hope and pray for a better outcome than seems likely at the moment.

All our love to you and Daddy,

Clementine.

The house shook as a bomb went off, all too near. Nicky shrieked and burrowed in deeper beneath the bedding, while Clem stared at his hands, frowning.

Eleanor ran into the room and pulled Clementine to her feet: “Is anyone hurt?”

Clementine scooped her son into her arms and said: “I think not. Nicky?”

Nicolette kept crying. Eleanor pulled her out from her hiding place and said: “No blood. We must flee, Clementine. We must!”

“I know! I don’t want to go without Nicholas!”

“We must...” The entry door downstairs banged open and Nicholas’ voice boomed up the staircase: “Clementine! Eleanor! Nicole...”

“We’re here!” Clementine carried and led the children into the next room and unlocked the gun case: “Nicky, you take the shotgun. Remember that the first cartridge is a dum-dum round, and never...”

“I know, mama. Never point it at anyone I don’t want to shoot at.” Nicky had clamed down, as she usually did when given a task to do.

“Excellent. You take this pistol, Clem, but don’t chamber a cartridge unless I say to. Understand? Do both of you remember your colors?”

Clem spoke, unexpectedly: “Gray are Nazis, Black are SS, dark tan are Italians...” He pulled the magazine out of the grip and checked that it was full. He slammed it back in with a snap.

“...Light tan or khaki are Brits, and we shouldn’t shoot at them,” Nicky took up the litany.

“Yes, and we all know what Greek uniforms look like.” Clementine took up two rifles and handed one to Eleanor: “We go southwest, towards the port.”

They pounded down the stairs, and Clementine ran to Nicholas and embraced him. He turned from where he stood, watching the door, to accept her kiss.

“Second Panzerkorps is at the gates. Some Waffen SS units are already in the city.”

The explosions they could hear were far away, perhaps a mile: “That hit near the here must have been a fluke,” said Eleanor.

“It was an artillery round, at its longest range. But some smaller guns have been hitting the downtown area for a while now. And if we stay here we’ll be seeing tanks all too soon. I have a car, though. Get out of the house and get in it, I have to set an incendiary in the Library.”

‘Where he has been working,’ thought Clementine. ‘It’s best to take no chances.’ She wished she had secured some of the antique books that the Italian Diplomatic Corps had collected over the years. ‘But how would I carry them?’ She put it out of her mind.

In only a few minutes, Nicholas came running out of the house.

A muffled thump issued from the back of the Ambassador’s residence, and smoke appeared immediately from behind the house. Nicholas slid behind the wheel.

The tattered remnants of blue-and-white Greek flags on the aerials identified the vehicle as an official conveyance, and Clementine wondered where Nicholas had gotten it: ‘This is not his usual car...’

Soon they were barreling along the roads towards the sea, Nicholas driving with a controlled disregard for ordinary rules of the road.

In spite of the circumstances, Clementine found herself thinking about his embrace. She stifled the urge to grab him, and checked the load on her rifle.

For half an hour, they rode through the streets of Saloniki, dodging other traffic (a very few cars, and some military vehicles headed for the front) and shell craters and debris (by far the greater threat.) Nicolette held the map, and she and Eleanor called out alternate routes to Nicholas, Eleanor’s baritone alternating with Nicky’s girlish piping.

Nicholas’ visage grew increasingly grim.

They reached an impasse: too much debris blocked the street, and there was no other way to the docks.

He braked the car to a stop and punched the center of the steering wheel: “We’ll have to walk.”

At that moment they heard the squeal of tires from two directions: one vehicle, a delivery van, crashed into the rear of their car, throwing them all forward. Then a second car slammed into the front right quarter of the limousine, partially spinning the car around.

Nicholas cursed as he opened his door and rolled out onto the ground, bringing his carbine to bear.

“Nicky! Clem! Stay by me!” Clementine cried, disliking the way her voice broke under stress.

“I’m here, Mama,” said Clem. Nicky jacked a cartridge into the shotgun.

Eleanor fired her rifle and a man fell to the ground, screaming in his death throes. Nicholas shot the pistol out of his hands, causing a louder wail to fill the space between the buildings.

Clementine looked around, her head on a pivot, expecting more attackers. They came out of an alley, six of them, and reached her before she could aim her rifle. One man seized her and two others grabbed the children. All three men began an immediate retreat into the alley that had sheltered them; the two carrying Nicky and Clement traveled much faster and were almost immediately out of sight.

Clementine screamed and twisted in her captor’s embrace, turning herself and jabbing her fingers into his eyes. He yelled in Greek and fell to the ground, kicking at her, blinded by her attack.

Clementine grabbed him by the crotch and twisted: “Where are they taking my babies?” He shrieked but gave no information.

Eleanor ran by, rifle at port arms, following the kidnappers.

Nicholas shouted: “Get under cover, Clemmy, there’s another one on the rooftop!”

She rolled behind a wrecked car and watched in horror as the head of her erstwhile kidnapper exploded into shards of bone and a mist of blood with bits of brain within. Nicholas fired his carbine and a man fell from the roof across the boulevard.

She ran to the spot but found him dead. She stamped her foot in frustration.

Eleanor trudged out of the alley, tears flowing: “They got away. They had another car at the end of the alley.”

Clementine slumped to the ground weeping.

Eleanor spoke to Nicholas: “What shall we do?”

He drew a deep breath, considering for a very short time. Then he said: “I want you two to head cross-country. Go to the country house, wait for me there. The townhouse will be your fallback, and the docks at Piraeus after that. Angelos is already heading to the townhouse, to try to find Miriam and Stavros, and escape the country. If you run into them, go with.

“I am going to find the bastards that took our children, and all of the Gods of Mankind have mercy on their souls when I catch up with them.”

“I...I have to go with you!” Clementine struggled to her feet, and Eleanor hastened to help her.

“No,” said Nicholas firmly: “I will surely need to use Commonwealth technology to find the miscreants. You can’t go there, we’ve tried it several times. Three days at the estate, fallback, three days at the house in Athens. Then to the sea, and England if you can get there.”

“But, no, but…”

Eleanor interrupted her: “Clem, he knows what he’s doing. Let’s go. Kiss him one last time, and then we go.”

Clementine obeyed, kissing her husband: “Au revoir, my love. Bring me back my babies, or save them from their captors, at the least.”

She said nothing about vengeance; seeing the look on Nicholas’ face, she knew she didn’t need to.

“I will save them,” he said.

He watched as they gathered their arms, and all of the food that they could carry, and looted ammunition from the corpses of their enemies. Clementine kissed him once more, a brief but passionate kiss; Eleanor embraced him, saying: “Get to work, you big dildo.”

He nodded, the faintest trace of a grin on his face at her witticism. He didn’t linger once they turned the corner.

He slapped at his left wrist, activating his Multiversal Positioning System in emergency mode. That caused the invisible machine (invisible to all but Nicholas, that is) to connect via arcane means to the War Room.

He called up all of the information he could find on the situation in Saloniki, as it was at that moment. The machines red-flagged a lot of potential Line-splitting. He cursed, in several languages. ‘I shall have to be on tip-toes, when I want to be smashing the whole continent into splinters. ’Rairosine!’ He shut down the machine.

He dragged his rucksack out of the wreckage of the boot, and quickly emptied it of all but food, water bottles and ammunition. He snagged the maps that Eleanor and Nicolette had been using to guide him, and then set off at a trot down the alley.

When he reached the far end, he paused: “I don’t know of any other way to pursue those animals except the ‘Seven League Boots’ option.”

He shrugged, dismissing whatever damage he might do to the integrity of the Timeline. He touched the Shifter in his pocket, gazed at the end of the street and Saltated to the spot.

He had no trouble following the fleeing car; there was really only one way back north out of the City, when starting from that alley: ‘See the next open street, Jump, look around, repeat.’

When he’d reached the edge of town, happily at a place where there was not any active combat to deal with, he took cover temporarily in a ditch. There he turned on both the Shifter and the MPS, so as to get a real-time look at the landscape around him, as if from high in the air.

Swooping his Point of View over the area, he quickly zeroed in on his prey: “It helps that it is the only civilian vehicle moving in the area,” he grumbled. He prepared to Shift. He stopped short and cursed in an even larger number of languages.

“Ratshit on a plate in a feast hall,” he finished. He watched from on high as the car bearing his children swung around a curve and right into the clutches of a Waffen SS unit, tanks and infantry mixed.

He dropped the POV lower, so he could see what was happening: “Oh, dear,” he said, bereft of curses with which to express himself. He watched in helpless fury as his foes passed the children from the sedan to an SS staff car, which made a three point turn and sped off up the hill to the north.

As soon as the staff car was out of sight, the SS commander present drew a pistol and shot all three of the kidnappers dead.

He slapped the MPS again, contacting the War Room, and asked the techies there to track the SS car.

He stared into the distance, his expression bleak.

“I’d better get to the Commonwealth and start a real high-tech search. I will probably need my armor...”

Clementine stood trembling, her dress half torn away, her undergarments slashed. The man in front of her gestured with his knife, and she looked around the room in a panic.

The bedroom showed every sign of what it surely had been: a teenaged girl’s room in the house of an unusually prosperous farm family.

She drew a deep breath, and finished stripping away her clothes, except for her stockings and boots. She continued to breathe deeply, fighting for calm in the face of what was likely inevitable. Her eyes floated around the room, seeing no escape.

In one corner she could see an old dried out bloodstain, on the floor and walls: ‘No one could lose that much blood and live…’ The probable causes of such a stain flitted across her mind; she tried to dismiss them, they didn’t bear contemplating.

The thug stepped forward; he placed the blade against her breast, leering. He spoke in the lowest-class version of modern Greek, the demotiki as academics named it. She did her best to ignore---no, to not even hear---his words of admiration for her beauty and his intent to violate her. He expressed that intent as crudely as he could imagine, desiring to frighten her and by that means increase his foul pleasure, she assumed. His teeth stood out blotchy white and gray against his dirty face as he pressed her back towards the bed. She glanced behind: the bedclothes lay askew, the bottom sheet stained with blood and semen and whatever other dirt and scum its new owner carried with him whenever he laid himself down.

Her mind drifted toward Eleanor. She could hear no sound of any assault upon her lover; the other men among their captors had been obviously drunk, and they’d continued to imbibe after dragging the women into their commandeered dwelling.

‘Perhaps they will be too drunk to ravish Ellie tonight...But if we cannot escape, they will awaken with that in mind.’

Her attacker pressed her back onto the bed, then dropped his trousers, stepped out of them and climbed atop her.

She shuddered. The lout was uncircumcised, and filthy. Even with his foreskin in place, he had very little size to boast of.

‘Is this beast to put his tiny penis into me, where only Nicholas has been for so many years?’ She turned her head from side to side, trying to avoid his mouth on hers. She hated how high-pitched her protests were, thinking that her squeaking voice excited him.

She heard the knife clatter to the floor. ‘He has no need of it now,’ she thought: ‘His weight and strength are enough...’

She felt the touch of his sex on hers, and began to weep. He laughed and pressed her harder.

She turned her head to the right and saw a few items on the nightstand. She gazed there, to distract herself. Then she stiffened, seeing what she’d sought.

He laughed, thinking her terrified; the fear drained out of her and rage rose to replace it.

She relaxed, feigning submission; she turned her head and made as if to seek his mouth. She placed her left hand on the side of his head, pushing her tongue at him. He grunted and drove his tongue into her mouth, eyes closed. He let out a muffled chortle.

“Startin’ to like, missy? You like that big thing comin’ in?”

She relaxed herself all over, sighing as though she were some maiden, softening her defenses, though still keeping him at a slight distance.

She slowly moved her right arm, groping at the nightstand, and found what her hand sought: a pencil, left there by the former occupant of the room, she guessed.

She fingered it, finding the point with her fingertip and turning that point to make herself a dagger.

She arched her back and twisted, moaning: “Please,” she cried, then pressed her mouth against his, driving in her tongue yet again.

She held her weapon tightly and aimed it truly. With her tongue still dancing in his mouth, she rammed the pencil into his ear and through into his brain.

His back arched as he tried to pull away; she clung to him then, keeping his mouth occupied so he couldn’t make any noise beyond a strangled grunt.

She opened her hand and slammed her palm against the eraser end of her dagger. The point came out the other ear, just touching her left palm where she still held him near.

She fell back onto the sheets, pushing him away from her. He rolled off the bed, staggering, making grasping motions at his ears. Then he slowly sank to the ground and fell over on his back.

She got up, her fury still raging, and kicked his crotch repeatedly, hard enough to crush his testicles. She found his knife, cast aside in the midst of his animal pleasure, and cut his penis off and stuffed it into his mouth.

He bled profusely from the wound, so she knew that he hadn’t yet died. ‘Good,’ she thought, hoping that he was still conscious enough to have felt the cut.

She left him there to finish dying. She began to search in the drawers and the closet, seeking clothes to replace her own. ‘This girl was a bit of a tomboy, and not large...good thing I am so petite.’

She found trousers in a drawer that fit her well enough, and a long shirt and overcoat. A knitted watch cap completed her outfit: ‘It still gets cold at night, especially in the mountains.’

She belted on his gun and knife belt and sheathed and holstered her new weapons.

She soft-footed it along the hall, peering into each room as she passed. The brigands lay about the floors and on the beds, snoring and stinking of drink and of their unwashed states. At the end of the hall she found Eleanor, bound to a chair and gagged.

Eleanor’s eyes opened wide; she’d have grinned if she could have.

Clementine stepped over the prone form of a man, then turned and cut his throat with quick slash. She did the same to the other three brigands that lay about the room, and then began to cut Eleanor free.

“Three rooms,” she whispered, retrieving their weapons from the corners of the room: “Several men in each.”

Eleanor nodded, pulling the gag out. She said nothing, merely checking the magazine on the rifle and chambering a cartridge. They each flipped their safeties off and went into the hall. Each of them stood outside one of the rooms, and at a nod from Eleanor they shot their captors dead. The ones in the third room were too inebriated to rise and fight or flee. They fell even as they tried to stand.

One set of footsteps came banging up the stairs. Clementine raised her rifle to her eye and waited.

“Idiot,” she said, as the man fell back down the stairs, drilled through the forehead by her shot.

They didn’t need to speak. Eleanor went cautiously down the stairs to finish clearing the house. Clementine systematically looted the upper floor, recovering her rucksack and filling it with ammunition and holstered handguns.

She walked the hall, eventually finding a lavatory at the end of the L-shaped hallway.

She shuddered as stripped away her new trousers, then opened the cabinets and found what she sought.

“Medicinal alcohol first,” she muttered. She sat on the floor, leaned back, and soaked her privates repeatedly with the stuff wincing and occasionally crying out. She repeated the process with hydrogen peroxide, then used some unguent to ease the inflamed tissues.

“Clear!” Eleanor’s voice drifted up from the ground floor.

“On my way!” She donned her trousers again, and bloused them into her boots.

Her pack rattled as she trotted down the stairs. She tipped her head back at it and said: “Pistols and ammo.”

“I have as much food as will fit in mine,” Eleanor replied.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Clementine.

“Just a minute...did he...?”

“He didn’t penetrate, but he may as well have. Can we save this for later?”

“All right. But...”

“Let’s just say he was careless. If he’d decided to bind me, I’d have been helpless, but he was in a hurry to...enjoy...”

She shook her head: “Later, I said. Let’s go. We are less than a day away from the country estate.”

“We should push on while it is yet dark,” Eleanor agreed: “Look, I found a compass!”

They left the carnage behind and trudged back towards the road.

Nikodemos checked his MPS, and snarled. He pushed the right buttons and waited for the printout. It snaked out of the printer at a painfully slow rate.

He yanked the first pages out and stared at the long list of equations and variations, cursing continuously. He prepared to load the next scenario, and then stopped. He stared at the window, seeing the reflection of his haggard face. He checked the MPS again and cursed some more, halfheartedly.

“The Greek Army of Epirus is in full retreat, except for those who mutinied and surrendered...not much else they could have done, the German advance was cutting them off to the southeast. But that means...”

He pulled the rest of the printout free of the machine and read the parameters within which he could work: “Right. I can act, and do what must be done...if I’m careful. What must be done and not a bit more. This is a temporal choke-point; I can keep the descendent Lines down to twenty or so, if I stay within these parameters.”

He fed the final scenario’s schematics and prerequisites into the machine, and turned on his heels. He left the “quantum abatement-rebatement” calculator on, hoping it would ping him with an acceptable solution: ‘I dare not wait any longer...I must save my family.’

He reached the locker room, where he began to don his armor. He yearned for a better answer, but the machine did not call him back.

He carried his helmet under his arm. He had a memory crystal in his other hand; his weapons he’d checked and double-checked. He seemed grim indeed when he entered the War Room. Everyone there stared; no one had ever seen him in armor before. Some of his equipment was out-of-date, but seeing his visage, no one laughed or said anything.

A very young man named Megálos staffed the Jump Gate. Megalos was soon to be a Master in the Black Warrior Guild. He took the crystal from Nikodemos and raised his eyebrows.

“Sacred Band privilege,” Nikodemos said, tersely. He walked to the Jump-Point and stood fidgeting. “What’s taking so long?”

Megálos waved his hands, changing the settings: “The machine doesn’t like the coordinates. Here you go...stand ready...Jum…”

NIkodemos dropped into the lowest level of the dungeons in a castle in Bavaria. He knew exactly where he was; he stood still and silent, waiting for his vertigo to pass and his eyesight to adapt.

Before that could happen, he heard voices. The dim light wavered as though the source moved towards him.

He cursed, silently this time, and moved carefully forward until he could peek around the corner of the stone walled niche he stood in.

Heinrich Himmler himself stood there, a swagger stick in one hand, an electric torch in the other hand, and nasty expression on his face. He spoke. Nicholas was fluent, not even needing to translate the German: “Take them upstairs…”

Nicholas drew a deep breath, hearing his children’s cries of fear and the chortling of Himmler and the guards. They began to pace towards his hideaway, and he put his helmet on. He drew out his plasma sword and fingered the settings.

Clement walked between two SS men, his fists clenched and arms straight down. Nicky screamed continuously as another thug dragged her by her hair.

“We will put them on a train to Athens,” said Himmler: “We will send the mother a little token or two, and she will surrender herself and tell us where her husband is hiding.”

“I am not hiding,” said Nicholas, just loudly enough to startle the Nazis. He activated his APS and cut at the guard who held his daughter’s hair. The plasma blade sliced the man in two, his face contorted, his eyes wide, dying slowly as blood leaked from the half-cauterized wound that separated his torso from his hips.

Nicholas rammed his armored elbow into Himmler’s face, allowing himself just a touch of satisfaction at the splintering sound of cheek and jaw cracking under the assault. He pounded another guard’s face with the butt end of his sword, driving the thug back two paces, and then he shouted: “Nicky! Clem! Get in the niche behind me!”

The children recognized his voice and obeyed, scampering away from their captors and around their father. Nicholas swiped with the sword and removed the third guard’s arm, even as he was drawing a pistol. He then shoved the point of the sword into the eye of the man who remained standing; he kicked a Luger out of Himmler’’s hand and moved the sword to dispatch him.

‘I could so easily kill this wretch...I think I don’t dare…’

After only a moment’s hesitation, he stepped backwards into his hiding place: “Stand close to me, kids…” When the two were leaning against him on either side, he deactivated the sword and spoke to Megálos: “Pull us out, Spathos!”

They dropped in on the landing pad in Athino; Nicholas pushed the children off the pad and said: “Take care of the kids till I get back! Use the second set of co-ordinates!”

“I hear you, Magistros,” Megálos said. He waved his hands and touched the screens in front of him, not looking at the pad at all.

Clementine ran a hand through her hair, which had begun to escape the pins that held it in its bun. She jacked another cartridge into the rifle and peeked carefully out through the window.

“They coming?” asked Eleanor.

“Momentarily, I believe. Perhaps, anyway. I think even Hauptsturmfuhrer Schmoltz is hesitant at this point. Almost got the bastard on that last charge.”

“I saw that. Took his helmet right off.”

They laughed, the laughter of people who could clearly see their deaths coming.

Clementine said: “Schmoltz has made it clear that he has strict orders to take us alive…”

Eleanor shook her head: “Obeying that order has already cost him thirty men. His remaining force has to run around and over the corpses of their comrades. He may be ready to kill us when he gets in the door.”

“If he gets in the door. But I’m not getting captured.”

Eleanor rolled over to where Clementine lay prone, her rifle between them: “You have a bullet in that pistol still?”

“I do. Yourself?”

“I have one left…do you think they will try again today?”

“Maybe not. It’s nearly dark.” Clem peeked out at the stony slope that constituted the only approach to their home: “They haven’t tried to sneak up in the dark since that first time…”

Eleanor sighed: “They may try again tonight, though. Will you sleep first?”

Clementine shook her head: “You first. You stay awake better in the early hours. I’ll wake you at one AM or so…” She sighed sadly: “I wonder where Nicholas is...dead I suppose.” A tear trickled down her cheek: “And the children…?”

A fusillade of bullets hit the stone and adobe walls of the house and the remains of its surrounding wall. Eleanor rolled back to her post and Clementine snarled as she brought her rifle to bear. Schmoltz appeared at the broken spot in the wall, and she drew aim and fired.

The SS man stopped stock still, grasping at his side. She worked the lever on the Winchester and aimed again.

A purplish-black streak of light cut through the gloaming and sliced the man in two. Panic began among his subordinates, SS training or no, as they fell one by one to the uncanny weapon. Clementine saw a man in strange armor, scales and plates of some bakelite-like substance, as he wielded the plasma blade two handed, moving among the fleeing men. Their faces shone white against their black uniforms in the dark, terror and confusion evident in their expressions as they fired their weapons at their attacker, in utter futility.

One last Waffen SS man stood up, triggering a machine pistol at the armored man. That worthy stood for a second, bullets ricocheting off his armor, then cut his assailant in two, vertically.

The armored man then turned and approached the house, slowly. He spoke: “Clem? Ellie?”

“Nicholas!” Clementine arose, her thumb automatically activating the safety as she slung the rifle over her shoulder. She ran for the front door, unbarring it and flinging it open. She charged out of the house and threw her arms around him, weeping.

He lifted her off the ground and carried her back into the house:

He placed Clementine in a chair, saying: “Rest, relax, you are safe. I am going out to make sure that all of our foes are dead, and then we must talk. Bar the door again, just in case,” he said to Eleanor.

He strode out through the heavy, castle-like double doors that let into the front garden. Eleanor put the massive oak bar back into its place, then moved to the shattered window to the left of it. She watched as Nicholas wandered over the small battlefield, an intensely bright torch above his head, illuminating the rocky garden and broken wall. In his right hand he held a pistol, and each SS man got a double tap to chest and head. The pistol made no sound at all; whatever sort of bullet it fired did enormous damage to the dead or near-dead Nazis.

The stress and trauma of the last few days overwhelmed Clementine; she sat weeping, the rifle fallen to the floor at her feet: “He’s alive, Ellie,” she said, repeatedly: “He’s alive!”

“He is.”

“Oh, but what of the children? Where are my babies?”

“We may hope that Nicholas has news…” Eleanor’s stern and stoic mein gave some comfort to Clementine. Nevertheless she wept, and could not stop.

Nicholas came back to the house; Eleanor opened the door to let him in and he helped put the bar back in place.

He slowly disarmed himself, removing each piece with care and stacking them just so. At last he stood there, wearing the coverall that Hellenic soldiers customarily donned beneath their armor.

Clementine looked up at him, trying to staunch her tears, and said: “The children…?”

“They are safe.” He dragged a kitchen chair over in front of her and sat on it. He shook his head.

“When will I see them? Oh, darling, take me to them, now!”

He bowed his head. Clementine saw his tears falling onto the backs of his hands as they rested on his thighs. He looked up at her, shaking his head: “I don’t think I can. It’s…”

Eleanor drew a deep breath: “You took them to the Commonwealth Line?”

“Yes. There neither of you can go. I don’t...I couldn’t find another solution, one that would re-unite us all and yet not be disastrous for this Line.”

He drew forth a sheaf of papers from within his coverall: “Here, see…”

Clementine snatched them from his hand. She could feel the distinct texture of the paper that the Commonwealth produced. She flipped through the stack, her eyes dry now, scanning each page. She drew her own breath in: “Oh damn,” she said, and began to weep again.

Eleanor sat beside her, on the arm of the chair, and embraced her clumsily: “Whatever is the problem?”

“It’s...the equations...quantum rebatement options…” She broke down and her tears spilled onto the page in front of them. She shuffled through the documents: “Nick is right, I fear...Oh, my babies!” She slid to the floor, inconsolable.

Eleanor joined her there, beginning at last to weep as well. Nicholas sat where was, crying in his own way.

Finally, Clementine sat up, drying her eyes: “They are safe, though. Yes? In your home Line, where there is no war, nor any hunger or want?”

“They are safe,” he said getting a ragged handkerchief out of his pocket: “I daresay that Athino is the safest city in the Multiverse.”

“That must console us, for the nonce. If ever...”

He nodded: “If ever it seems possible to re-unite us all, I will endeavor to do that. I will work with every fiber of my being to accomplish that.”

An explosion interrupted his speech. They heard the sound of a powerful diesel engine growling up the slope. Another explosion followed, rattling the little remaining glass in the windows and startling them from the depths of their grief.

Nicholas dropped from his chair and rolled over to the window, out of which he cautiously peeked.

“Damnation!”

“What is it?”

“A Panzer, at least one. It seems to be methodically taking out every house in this end of the valley...typical Nazi trick, collective punishment.”

“One of the SS men must have called for support; with their comrades dead...” Eleanor pounded the floor with a fist: “...they will kill all of our neighbors, in vengeance for our stand against them here.”

“Yes, there’s an SS insignia on the tank.” Nicholas began donning his armor again: “You two pack: food water and ammunition, and have your weapons ready. I must take out that Panzer, and so give our neighbors a chance to flee. When I have accomplished that mission, I will return to you, and we’ll get you out of Greece, by one means or another.”

They sat together there for some time, until Nicholas returned. He stripped off his armor, and then used his Shifter to banish it to who-knew-where: “I can’t be seen in this armor again. Let’s go,” he said. He shouldered the largest of the rucksacks that lay at the ready, and took the carbine out of the gun rack.

Nicholas led the way, cross-country: “We can’t use my Shifter just now…”

“I know,” said Clementine. They spoke in murmurs, barely audible to one another: “If we can get to the Inn at Skaramagos by midnight, we should be able to Shift to the near edge of Athens at dawn.”

Eleanor said: “Why can’t we...never mind, I believe you two.“

They passed out of the valley and into the plain.

“Pssst!” said Eleanor, pointing.

“I see them,” said Nicholas.

They crouched behind a boulder. “I really hope they pass by. I don’t want to use my Commonwealth weapons again, and the firearms from this Line are so damn noisy…” Nicholas grimaced as the men turned in their direction.

Clementine peered out from behind their slight cover: “Those are Wehrmacht troops, with a couple of Italian additions. A small patrol,” she whispered. The sounds of the men joking as they walked along the road reached them, worrying them all.

Clementine thought: ‘This track is suitable for no vehicle larger than a pony cart, really. If German soldiers are patrolling here, they must have the main road secure…’

She glanced at her husband and saw him come to the same conclusion. ‘So much for a side trip to Skaramagos…’

He tipped his head ever so slightly. One of the soldiers was approaching their hideaway. Eleanor opened her bag and whispered: “Here, Clem, use this.”

She gaped for a second or two; she wondered where Ellie had managed to coin a hand grenade, but, forbearing to ask, she took it from her lover’s hand. ‘Pull the pin, count to three,’ she thought, recalling Nicholas’ tutoring: ‘...and throw!’

Her practice paid off: the bomb landed right in the midst of the patrol, even as she hit the ground behind the rock.

The explosion shook the rocks around them and deafened them, so close was it. As soon as the shrapnel ceased to fall, Eleanor was on her feet. She drove a knife into the nearest soldier’s neck and yanked it back and forth.

Nicholas stood silent, waiting for their ears to recover, as Clementine and Eleanor made sure of the others.

“Pretty much blown to bits,” said Eleanor, stoically knifing one of the more intact corpses.

Clementine felt a little bit sick: ‘We can’t be too compassionate in these circumstances,’ she thought: ‘but their poor mothers. How can we?’ She thought of the families driven from their homes all over Greece, all over Europe. She thought of the concentration camps they’d heard about. She thought of the man who had tried to rape her: ‘A traitor, one of those Hellenic fascists...those bandits are all over this part of Greece.’ She steeled herself.

“Well done, my loves...” Nicholas moved from body to body, taking what he could find intact: a Luger here, some magazines there, a map of the area with Waffen SS markings on its cover, rations and canteens. They divided the load.

“If possible, I will leave the killing to you two,” he said. “Less disruption of reality that way. I will use these looted weapons in place of my own, if I must take action, but…”

“...But it’s better that we women, natives of this Line, do the dirty work.” Clementine sighed, and stood as tall as she could: “I understand. We’ll do what we must.”

Nicholas peered at the map in the moonlight. “That way,” he gestured: “More or less directly to Chaidari, then on to Athens.”

Eleanor led the way, down the rough trail toward the plains.

Clementine led the way through the maze of narrow streets and winding alleys that was Old Town Athens. She had her Winchester, her favorite rifle, and she pointed it at each doorway as they passed. ‘Safety off,’ she reminded herself: ‘cartridge chambered…’

Eleanor carried her rifle at port arms, head pivoting around the streets, eyes on the balconies and rooftops. Nicholas took up the rear, his looted pistol in his coat pocket and his hand on the grip of it. He checked behind them frequently, and moved from side to side when possible to eyeball the route ahead.

Night slowly fell over the City. Eleanor whispered: “Soon it will be too dark to risk movement, Clem. Better find us shelter soon.”

“I know,” said Clementine. “I don’t want to bust in to just any shop, though. I want to get to Philippo’s, I know he already escaped the City and I know where his spare key is…”

“Keep going,” said Nicholas: “You know this part of the City better than either of us…”

“I do,” she agreed. “It looks so different with the lights all out and rubble everywhere. Oh, look!”

She pushed her way across and through some downed trees and shrubberies; she reached a door, and her free hand swept across a ledge nearby. The key fell to the ground and she retrieved it.

Soon they were ensconced in chairs near the back of the café. Nicholas had set his flashlight to barely bright enough to read by, then fetched food and drink from the kitchen nearby.

They ate as the famished eat, having had very little since four days before, when they had fled their home. Clementine leaned over the sheaf of calculations and code words that Nicholas had brought them; she made notes in the margins with a stub of pencil.

After a while, Eleanor asked, gently: “Any luck?”

“It’s...even worse than I thought. This part of the Multiverse is…” She shook her head: “Chaos.”

Eleanor turned to Nicholas: “Really?”

He shrugged: “If we are very fortunate, this Line will only fragment into a dozen alternates. Each of those will be---how to say this?---susceptible to further fragmentation for at least a century. Eventually…”

Clementine shook the sheaf of paper and said: “Eventually, the Lines we are creating now will diverge enough from one another that the whole mess will stabilize. But that’s only true if Nicholas—Nicholas in particular—takes pains to absent himself from all of the descendant Lines…”

Eleanor sighed: “I shall have to take your word for that. It seems a cruel jest by fate, but the world at war is not kind to lovers, ever.”

“It is not,” said Nicholas. “The Multiverse at war seems worse than unkind: a vicious practical joker, with a penchant for sly backhanded dope slaps.” He slumped in his chair, the first sign of despair he had shown them.

“Courage, my husband,” said Clementine.

“And to you two as well.” He grimaced: “Athens seems deserted, which means most of the people formerly resident here have fled the bombing, and likely most of those are in Piraeus, trying to flee the country.

“It’s by far the most likely escape route,” he concluded.

“You still mean to take us there?” Clementine had put away the pile of paper that sentenced them to separation; she had a map spread out and a compass in hand.

“I do. There must be English warships still in port...I’ve seen signs of British Commando work all along our route to here, so at least one ship must be there...to evacuate them, if England and Greece together fail to hold back the Nazi tide.”

“Do you see any hope that they will hold?” asked Eleanor.

“None whatsoever.”

It rained in sheets as Nicholas led them along the docks in Pireaus. Clementine clutched at her hat with one hand and her newly looted cloak with the other, as Nicholas, bare-headed, strode along, propelling her by a hand on the small of her back.

The chaos on the docks raged nearly complete. Men shouted orders, and women and children found themselves herded about from place to place by gruff, angry, and often nearly panicked men.

Eleanor heard English, French, Greek and even Polish voices, and at least a thousand people crowded each dock, desperately trying to flee the imminent occupation of Athens by the Italians—and their Nazi allies. Artillery could be heard to the northwest, where the front line lay, creeping inexorably towards the City.

Nicholas made no attempt to push their way through the crowds onto the docks themselves; rather, he approached the stern of a British warship, drawn up against the esplanade, and seeming to be nearly ready to sail. White letters across the stern read: ‘HMS Valiant’

A lone marine stood guard there, his rifle at port arms, his eyes scanning the crowd as it surged one way and then the other, each person within it seeking succor on any ship that might take them aboard.

“This is your escape, my loves. We may hope for nothing better than a rope ladder. Once I have seen you safely aboard...”

“You must leave us, for good.” Clementine stood dry-eyed, staring at her husband, sadness overwhelming her, but not a bit showing.

“I must.”

Eleanor shed a few tears: “I don’t underst...”

“I know,” said Nicholas: “But Clementine does. It is implicit in the abatement-rebatement equations that she has been studying.”

“It is true, Ellie my love.” Clementine lowered her head: “Will you ever be able to return to us?”

Nicholas said: “You saw the calculations...”

She nodded: “It is very unlikely, then.”

“Yes.” Nicholas turned to face the stern of the ship: “You, marine!” he shouted, his nearly perfect King’s English echoing over the disorder on the docks.

The marine shouldered his rifle and leaned over the rail: “Sir?”

“Do you recognize me, man?”

“Not sure I do, sir...”

“Then get Lieutenant Andrews to this rail, as soon as may be.”

“I...”

“Don’t argue, man, time is of the essence!”

“Sir!” the marine cried, and turned and ran forward.

Within a couple of minutes, a very dapper Royal Navy officer appeared. He stared in wonder for a moment, then said: “Lord Crowell! We’d thought you must be dead!”

“I am likely to fulfill that prophecy yet, Andrews. I shall have to go in search of my children, with little hope of finding them or returning. Meanwhile, I want my wife and our companion out of Greece, yesterday if possible.”

“Sir! I am on the job!” Andrews turned forward and shouted orders.

Soon a rope ladder snaked down to the dock. Andrews cried: “Can your ladies climb this? I can get a...”

“I daresay we can climb, Lieutenant!” Clementine shouted: “Eleanor, you first.”

Eleanor went first to Nicholas and kissed him, more passionately that ever she had before. She turned then, and snatched at the ladder, climbing efficiently up toward the military men who awaited her.

Nicholas spoke: “Clementine, my love. My one true love...”

She bowed her head against his breast, the wet woolen coat chill against her cheek: “My only man...”

He embraced her and spoke into her ear: “You must tell everyone that I went to search for the children. It will seem as though I vanished, along with them, in chaos of Nazi occupied Europe.”

“Yes,” she said, rather matter-of-factly: “Can you...?”

He knew what she desired: “It is possible that you will occasionally receive...mysterious packages that contain photos, or letters, from some strangers.”

“Strangers who are my children. I will hope for whatever news that you can send.”

“Yes. Do hold on to hope, my love.”

He kissed her then, longingly. They separated slowly, until only their fingers touched; He took a step, and turned, disappearing into the crowd before she could say a final farewell. The ship behind her let loose a blast from its horns, bells rang, men shouted.

“Milady!” the marine called out: “Only a moment or two more before we sail!”

She stood for a few seconds, wavering: ‘I should go with him...’ She knew she couldn’t: ‘No telling what kind of madness would result if I did...’

“Milady!”

She sprang to the ladder, seized the rung above her head with both hands and felt herself lifted off the docks as the ship began a ponderous forward movement. She swung forward, catching herself with her feet to keep from slamming into the ship’s hull. She looked up and saw sailors and marines heaving at the ladder, drawing it rung by rung up to the deck. She turned and gazed back at the docks, getting one final glimpse of Nicholas as he climbed the steep street towards the top of the nearest hill.

‘He will watch us depart from there,’ she mused.

“Milady!” Lieutenant Andrews grabbed her arm and pulled her bodily over the rail: “Your pardon, Milady.”

“Don’t mention it, Lieutenant. I am safe here, thanks to you; a little rough handling is not consequential.”

“Thank you, Milady...”

“Ma’am will do. Or Mrs Crowell. I am not actually a Peer in your country, you know.”

Andrews bowed a trifle: “I understand.” He had reddish hair and a bit of the Scots in his tone: “Will it please you to meet the captain, and warm yourself in the quarters we have prepared? Your companion has already...”

She looked at him, interrupting: “Soon, sir, but not now. I will stay here, I believe. Until Piraeus is out of sight...”

“As you wish, Mil—ma’am.” He removed his peacoat and wrapped it around her shoulders, over her cloak and hood. “If there is any more I may do to assist you, my post is just beyond that hatch. Door.”

“Thank you.” She turned to gaze at the port city behind her, silent, with tears running down her cheeks. ‘He’s there,’ she thought, staring at the hill, now hardly to be seen in the fog and rain. ‘Good-bye, my love, my one man, my children’s sire...I will endure the years, hoping to see you again, one day.’

A bank of fog enveloped the ship; all sight of the city vanished in that mist.

After a long moment, she turned and staggered towards the hatch, still weeping silently.

Nicholas stood at the top of the hill, looking down over the Port of Piraeus. He perspired heavily beneath his heavy wool coat. He watched the HMS Valiant sail into a thick bank of fog.

His stoic expression crumbled. He held back his tears, but his face showed every bit of his woe.

His Shifter pinged in his ear.

He sighed, controlled his emotions and expression; he reached into his pocket and touched the device,

“Magistros Nikodemos.” It was the voice of Vahvos, a Hellene of Finnish ancestry. He often staffed the Urgent Communications board at the War Room in Athino Prime.

‘The inevitable summons has arrived,’ he thought. He said: “I hear you.”

He drew a deep breath: ‘Nicholas Crowell is about to die, for all practical purposes. I will never be this man again.’

The voice in his ear babbled on a while; he hardly listened. ‘Same old stuff...another emergency in a Timeline where I have some expertise…’

“I hear you,” he interrupted: “Lock on to my Shifter and bring me home.” He realized that he would never again be fully, emotionally, all the way “home” again.

“I hear you, Magistros!”

A skinny mongrel dog came trotting over and sniffed about the spot where he had stood. After a while, it ambled off puzzled, the only witness to his final departure from that Line.

Mrs Nicholas (Clementine) Orenhauser-Crowell

Dromo Presvisa 27

Maroussi, Athens, Hellas

Mrs Clement (Irene) Orenhauser

97328 Chambers Road

Eugene, Oregon, USA

Dearest Mama,

I am sorry this reply is not as prompt as you are accustomed to receiving from me; Clement was sick with the flu last week, and the week before the Diplomatic community in Athens was in an uproar because of the tragic events in Germany in the previous week.

I am grieved to hear of Daddy’s illness. All of the family here in Athens send best wishes, and hope for his recovery.

Your letter rec’d on November the 8th is on my desk and I will endeavor to reply to your queries in order. I am, sad to say, unable to answer all of your questions: some answers I do not have, and others I may not give you.

I can tell you nothing of Uncle Richard’s location or movements, for the former reason. ‘Orenhauser’ seems to be an acceptable name among the Nazis—‘Aryan’ enough, whatever that means—and the Nazis are those he has been consorting with. Needless to say, he has not contacted us here, nor in Geneva. He is, as Daddy would say, “dead to me”.

He’ll be dead for real if Nicholas sees him wearing that uniform.

I am giving away no secrets to answer your second question. Nicholas estimates that war is indeed inevitable, perhaps as soon as next summer. The annexations of Austria and Czechoslovakia seemed calculated to bring the rest of Europe into conflict with the Reich. Nicholas thinks that Hitler’s next big move will be at either Switzerland or Poland, with Denmark as an outside chance. In any event, England and France seem unlikely to sit on their hands again.

And no, I have no idea what the Greek Government will do in the event of a Europe-wide war. I suspect that King Yeorgos (George, you would say) is leaning towards neutrality, but I don’t have any evidence for that.

If Nicholas knows, it is something he has chosen not to speak of.

We are all working on languages. I have become very accustomed to the Swiss version of French; Eleanor has become very fluent in Greek, and I can plug along in that language. No, I can’t actually read Greek with any fluency, but I can speak a bit and understand more.

Eleanor and I have taken up the study of German. I don’t like the language, but considering the circumstances, with the family spending so much time in Geneva, it is useful to understand the things people say in cafés and on the streets. At least a quarter of the conversations in Geneva are in German. That includes the Swiss version of German, which is...different, shall we say.

As for an escape plan, in the event of disaster: yes. We have several. I shan’t (for obvious reasons) detail any of them here. But whatever our plans, events are likely to make them redundant: “No plan survives contact with the enemy,” as Eleanor is wont to quote.

The near future? We are due in London before the New Year, as Nicholas has been placed on King George VI’s Honors List...yes, he is to be dubbed a knight. Please don’t make any fuss about that, I have already registered my objections. I can see why this is happening and I understand the reasons that Nicholas must accept. I sigh, but he is correct.

If you wish to visit us again, I think that after the New Year but before spring would be best. Then we will be here in Athens; I would not wish to see you in Geneva, with Nicholas’ predictions in mind.

I enclose more photographs of the family here in Athens, and one of Nicholas speaking on the floor of the Assembly of the League of Nations. Is he not an imposing figure?

We shall eagerly await news about your travel plans; give daddy a kiss for me, and let him know that we are fervently praying for his recovery.

All my love Mama,

Clementine

Eleanor snorted: “Praying? Fervently?”

“I know, sweetheart, but it’s the least she expects. And the least I can do, really: to white lie about it, since she’s become so devout lately.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. And it’s the easiest on us as a family, as well. Even if...” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“...Having become aware of the immensity of the Multiverse certainly puts all of Scripture into doubt,” added Clementine.

“Clem...that’s a bit understated.”

“All right, all of human Scripture is the insane maunderings of Bronze Age Nomads, or worse. But take care not to even hint at that opinion in public. Bad enough that your surname is a bit Jewish-sounding; let your Atheism be known, and we‘ll have no end of trouble.

“I know, I’d never let on.” Eleanor changed the subject: “Has Nicholas spoken to you about travel plans?”

Clementine shrugged: “We are wavering between ship and train. The train is winning out, what with our customary Christmas Eve party and all; we’d have to leave the day after Christmas to arrive in London on the 30th...and have Nicky’s birthday celebration on the train.”

“Hmm. There really is no way to be certain of arriving in time by boat, is there?”

“I’m afraid not. We’ll surely have a sleeper car on the train, though.”

“Oh, I know...but sex on shipboard just has a nostalgic feel for me.”

Clementine sat on Eleanor’s lap: “The letter I can post tomorrow...”

After several kisses Eleanor stood up, lifting Clementine off her feet.

“Ellie! What are you...oh. Oh!”

“Are you going through with this?” Clementine had made no secret of her dislike for the idea.

Nicholas made a face: “We’ve been over this. It would be out of character for the man I am pretending to be to refuse.” He grinned then: “It will give me a small advantage in future negotiations with the German ruling class, to be Sir Nicholas of England and not merely an Ambassador of the King of Greece.”

Eleanor said: “Yeorgos Basileos of Greece has no objection to this knighting, Clem. And it will be...”

“I know,” Clementine interrupted: “I promise to behave when we are called into the King’s presence... but it’s 1938, for goodness’ sake. What does it mean to be made a knight in this day and age?”

A fellow in the uniform of the King’s Own Guards stepped to Nicholas’ side: “Mr Crowell, His Majesty will see you now.”

Nicholas offered his arm to Clementine, who took it gracefully, and they entered the small but elaborately appointed room where George VI held court.

“Your Majesty,” said the guard, in a stentorian voice: “Mr Nicholas Crowell, with Mrs Crowell, and Miss Eleanor Greenlaw.”

“We command them to approach Us.”

Clementine nodded to the King as they approached; Eleanor sketched a quick and graceful curtsy, as she was a subject of the Crown.

When Nicholas knelt before the King, Clementine felt a thrill, unwilling though she was to curtsy or bow before a monarch. She stood still, her hand on Nicholas’ shoulder as the two men spoke to one another.

“Mr...erm.” The King consulted a card handed to him by his assistant: “Mr Nicholas Crowell, of Hellas: We are right well pleased with your service to Us, and to all of Europe, in your role as our cousin of Greece’s Ambassador to the League of Nations. In recognition of this, and in hope of encouraging your continued service in the cause of peace, We are minded to admit you to an honorary membership in the Order of the British Empire as a Knight Commander of that Order.”

“As I am sure Your Majesty is aware, I am a citizen of Hellas. My first duty is to the government of his Majesty George II of Greece. That said...”

The King spoke then, smoothly entering the opening that Nicholas had left him: “We understand fully. You are, however, also a British citizen...I believe?”

“I am, Majesty.”

“As an honorary Knight of Our realm, you would not be meant to swear fealty to Us, and neither We, nor any successor, would ever ask you to compromise your loyalty to Our cousin.” The King reached to his right, taking an ornate sword from a sheath held by a lackey: “Will you then accept this honor from Our hand?”

Nicholas said: “I will, Your Majesty”

“Will you now swear to be a good and true Knight, from this day forward, until death take you or the world end?”

“I swear it.”

“Then I dub thee Sir Nicholas, Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire.” said the King, laying the sword on Nicholas’ shoulder. His Majesty winked at Clementine as he set the sword on the other shoulder—Clementine moved her hand in time for the sword to touch—and then on Nicholas’ head.

The King returned the sword to its sheath, then laid an elaborate sash over Nicholas’ right shoulder.

“Rise Sir Nicholas,” said the King: “Rise and go with God, and may your labors be fruitful, and your life happy.”

“I thank Your Majesty,” Nicholas bowed as he stepped backwards towards the door. A servant bowed to Nicholas as the family exited the room, and then followed them out.

“Here, Sir, is your honor,’ he said, handing Nicholas a document calligraphed and illuminated on parchment.

Nicholas glanced at it briefly and said: “Oh, thank you.”

“We must get back to the hotel, and prepare for tonight’s Ball,” said Clementine.

“And you must read those cables from Geneva,” said Eleanor: “One of them is flagged as from Herr Oster.”

“Gods above and below,” muttered Nicholas. He turned and spoke to the servant: “Thank you for your service in seeing that I got this...” He waved the parchment absently, already worried by the news.

The servant bowed at their retreating backs, as Clementine smiled over her shoulder at him. She noted his stunned expression, and briefly regretted such levity: ‘It is not fair to unleash that much sexual energy at a boy...a boy who surely has no way to process it.’ She put the incident out of mind, being as concerned to hear Oster’s report as the other two were.

“Where is Papa today?” Nicolette asked. At not-quite-six years old, she had the peremptory tone of her maternal grandmother, and a six-year-old’s insistence on knowing everything.

“I told you yesterday, sweetie, he had to go to Bern for a meeting.”

“Why?”

“Because the gentlemen and lady that he needed to meet could not come to Geneva.”

“Why couldn’t they?”

Eleanor intervened: “For grown-up reasons, dear.”

Nicolette’s expression made it plain that she did not think that a satisfactory answer: “You never tell me anything.”

“We tell you quite a lot, as you know.” Eleanor’s expression made plain her amusement: “What we don’t do is tell you everything; often because we don’t know the answers, sometimes because we judge you too young for some information.”

“Humph,” said Nicolette, knowing that answer for an evasion. She also knew that it was the end of the matter, for the time being.

“Eat your croissant, Nicky.” Clementine finished her own pastry, and then sipped at the tea: “Perfect,” she said. Three-year-old Clement gazed silently at his own brunch, frowning.

‘He is silent more often than not, not at all like Nicky,’ thought Clementine.

Eleanor said: “Our waiter is pointing at you, Clem.” She spoke in an off-hand way, not wanting to disturb the children, especially not Clement, who had finally begun to eat.

Clementine didn’t look behind herself: “Pointing me out to someone?” She opened her handbag and touched the handle of her Colt.

Eleanor nodded, just a bit: “To a man in a neat but out of fashion suit, with a very pink day cravat...and a badge, which he is displaying to said waiter.” She put her hand under the flap of the man’s suit jacket that she wore, finding the handle of her own revolver.

Clementine kept the pistol grip in hand, badge or no: ‘It’s a measure of how tense things have become in Geneva that I carry the thing about in daytime,’ she mused. ‘Let’s just see how things go...”

The gentleman made a wide turn, so that they could both see him as he approached.

He bowed slightly to Eleanor, as he would to a man; he bowed lower before Clementine: “I beg your pardon, Milady...are you Ambassador Sir Nicholas’ wife? Mrs Clementine Crowell?”

“I am, as you perfectly well know. And?”

“I am Anton Samuel; I am working with the City Police. If I may prevail upon you, I have an errand to dispatch. I will not detain you long, perhaps twenty minutes...If you will?”

She nodded, slowly: “You need my assistance, then? In what form?”

Mr Samuel glanced sidelong at the children; he drew out a small notebook and jotted something in it, then turned the note so she could see it; it read: ‘A body to identify, if you can.’

Clementine made sure that Eleanor had also seen the note, then rose: “Certainly, I will do what I can, since my husband is unavailable.”

She kissed the children, Nicky first, and left Eleanor to deal with them for the time being. She could hear Nicky’s questions and Eleanor’s replies as the policeman escorted her out of the café:

“Where is Momma going?”

“To the Police Station, I imagine.”

“Why?”

“That policeman wants her to look at something, and answer questions.”

“Why?”

“Because your father is in Bern, and your mother’s job is to...”

The sound faded away as they exited the café. A cab awaited them.

They arrived at the central police station, a building made of white stone. After some formalities, which included establishing her identity beyond doubt, Samuel led her along a hallway to an elevator. They descended into the basement of the place. Samuel then escorted her into a frigid room with corpses on tables and a dignified medical examiner in charge.

That worthy led them to a table and drew back the sheet covering a woman’s body.

Clementine drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

“Milady?” the policeman prompted.

She set aside her irritation at the title: ‘These circumstances are tragic, quite so; no need to make this officer’s day any more difficult.’

She swallowed. The scone she’d eaten a few minutes before went back down her throat.

“Yes, Officer. I recognize her, though I don’t know her name…her real name.”

“Ah,” he said, bowing his head: “Could you tell me how you knew her, and what you do know about her?”

She sighed. The policeman immediately took her arm: “Allow me to escort you to an office, Milady.”

“Please do.”

He led her back to the elevator. After going up several floors, they entered into a warm and welcoming room, apparently the office of a high-ranking police official. To her surprise, after seating her, her escort went around the desk and sat in the chair behind it.

The man’s shabby suit and extravagant cravat clashed with their surroundings. She sat up straighter, frowning a little: “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, sir?”

“I am with the SND. Pardon me: you would say Strategic Intelligence Service. I am…liaison. To the local police.”

“I see.”

“The deceased?” he asked.

“She introduced herself to me as ‘Maria’. She said she represented the FAUD in Germany. The anarchist labor union...”

The gentleman’s expression showed that he knew the organization. He spoke in German then, saying something like: “I will be dipped in mustard.”

She suppressed her reaction. ‘He must not have known she was in town. A serious lapse, for counterespionage…’

He said: “A passerby found her body in a drainage ditch near the river…”

“In the condition in which she now is?”

“Even so.”

Silence ensued. Clementine knew without further discussion that the Nazis had murdered ‘Maria’. ‘By the condition of the body, they took their time about it, too.’

“Milady…”

“Call me Madam Crowell, s’il vous plaît.”

He raised his chin, and an eyebrow: “Of course. Madam Crowell, you conceive I am sure that this is a bit of an embarrassment.”

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

“Certainly. You did not know that the anarchists of Germany had an operative in Geneva. Now you realize that the Nazis have an operative of whose identity you are unaware, and one with a distinctly sadistic streak. These revelations must be of great concern to you.”

“You deduced this? Of course you did. May I prevail upon you, madam…?”

“Sir?”

“I hope that you will be kind enough to not speak of this incident for the time being…”

She smiled sweetly, and devastatingly: “I will, of course, tell my husband. Miss Maria was an acquaintance of his, and....a source of intelligence.”

He sighed: “I must rely upon Sir Nicholas’ reputation as a close-mouthed man for my comfort. Fortunately…”

“Yes, he is that,” said Clementine. “May I return to my companion and our children? I have been away rather longer than you promised.”

“I will escort you back to the café myself.”

“That will do.”

She put her hand inside her handbag again, gently holding the pistol’s grip in her hand. As soon as she had sat down in the back seat, she drew the weapon out. She glanced at the driver, and checked all of the windows in succession. Finally she relaxed, just a bit.

Again, Mr Samuel raised an eyebrow: “I hope your husband has taught you to use that pistol properly. If you are going to be carrying it around in the City, I mean.”

“It’s best to make no assumptions, sir. My father taught me to handle arms, beginning when I was but six years old.”

“I beg your pardon...”

“You have it. Here is the café, sir. I need to take leave of you now. I must contact my husband as soon as may be.”

“Ah...Might I ask why?”

She shrugged: “It makes no difference now, but Miss Maria was meant to be meeting Nicholas in Bern...today, actually. I hope his other contacts have some news for him, and that between us we may find the thug who treated her so badly.”

Samuel bowed his head: “I hope for the same outcome, Milady. Your pardon: Madam Crowell.”

She disembarked from the cab, and strode into the café: back straight and with a determined look upon her face.

Nicholas sat glowering, a shot of whiskey in hand. He held his mouth tightly, an expression that Clementine had come to know.

She smiled sadly: “Darling...if you feel that you shouldn’t say more...”

He shook his head: “It’s not that at all. Things are coming together in a very dangerous way.”

The sun was past its peak in the sky, and a breeze stirred the flowering shrubs around their patio. May had entered Athens with gentle weather and plenty of sun.

Nicholas grunted. He said: “I received a coded message from Herr Oster.”

“Your source in the Abwehr,” Clementine nodded.

“Yes. Apparently while the talks are going on to keep the peace with France and England, other, secret negotiations are occurring. Germany and the Soviets are, even now, negotiating a non-aggression pact.”

“The Nazis are publicly negotiating with the Russians,” said Clementine, frowning.

“Those talks were supposedly economic in nature,” said Eleanor.

Nicholas nodded: “Oster claims the other work is being done sub-rosa, hidden in plain sight by the economic negotiations.”

“Typical.” Eleanor had developed a distinct dislike of most diplomacy since she had come into close contact with diplomats.

“It is typical, sadly” said Nicholas. “Oster thinks the deadline is early September...and Poland is to be divided between Russia and Germany.”

“Hitler has been accusing the Poles of manufacturing mustard gas,” said Eleanor, nodding knowingly: “We ought to expect some sort of False Flag event in early September, I suppose.”

“That is very likely...” Nicholas trailed off.

He stood, tossed back the remaining liquor, and began to pace: “If this war begins, my prime mission in this Line is a complete failure. I suppose...”

“What?” Clementine asked.

“I ought to give some thought to how we can keep our family together. Since Clementine cannot easily Shift Lines.”

Clementine’s heart seemed to skip a beat, and she drew in her breath, briefly panicking. At last she said: “Do what you must, husband.”

“We will all do what we must,” said Eleanor.

“Yes,” said Nicholas.

Clementine’s expression mirrored his, bleak and pessimistic: ‘He hasn’t much hope,’ she thought, suppressing more panic: ‘I’ve seen the equations...it does not look good for us.’

She mused then on the likely outcomes of the seemingly inevitable war: “It is not much comfort to us, but our problems are but a small part of the horrors that will likely engulf all of Europe...”

“Small cold comfort indeed.” Nicholas shook his head: “But we must keep up pretenses, mustn’t we? No one else in the West knows about the talks between Ribbentrop and Molotov, so...”

“So we must pack as always and take the train to Geneva in August, as though the League of Nations will meet as usual.” Clementine rose. “In the meantime, Athens is lovely, and our children are at the guest house with my mother...”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow: “Then shall we live in the moment, while we yet may?”

“I vote yes,” said Eleanor, standing up and taking Clementine’s arm: “Give us half an hour, Nick; then you may come to our bedchamber. We’ll be very ready for you by then.”

He bowed and sat down, pulling out his watch: “I shall be as patient as possible.”

They swayed a bit as they strolled towards the patio doors.

Clementine flirted her way across the ballroom floor, her senses alert for the kind of conversation that would tell her something---anything---about the world of diplomacy, or the world without.

The Greek government hosted the Ball, in celebratory anticipation of the opening of the Assembly in a month. Geneva throbbed with the usual excitement, as ambassadors and bureaucrats and royalty from around the world arrived, more of them every day. Brunches and teas filled the days, and soirées of many sorts the evenings.

‘This Ball is ever so fancy,’ she thought, smoothing her skirt. The men all wore the usual tailcoats and white ties, or military dress uniforms; women competed to wear the most expensive (or revealing) gowns.

Miriam had made the gown she wore that evening: red silk, strapless and appearing to be always about to simply fall away from her bosom. ‘I would attract male attention if I wore a habit; in this gown there is hardly a man here who hasn’t looked at me with lust. A fair number of the women, as well.’

The men who approached her were mostly not useful to her; their talk was aimed at her body, planting seeds that they hoped would lead them to her bed at some future time. That they each and all knew her to be married, and with children, seemed to add spice to the flirtations, for many of the men.

‘It’s so tiresome, really...I must not show any sign of that.’ She finally found the spot she wanted, at the edge of the crowd around the Ambassador from Poland. She flirted idly with two gentlemen from Argentina, while most of her attention stayed on an exchange of views occurring behind her, between the Polish Ambassador and the wife of England’s representative.

Those two spoke in polyglot fashion, as was not unusual in Geneva. She understood the French, and had enough German to keep up with the subject at hand, which was (of course) German intentions toward Poland. Under cover of innocent small talk, the Ambassador gave the lady important intelligence on the subject, which he knew she would convey to her husband.

Neither of them apparently noticed her eavesdropping. Had they noticed, they’d know that she also would convey their words to her spouse.

She listened to that rather interesting conversation, and made polite listening noises to the gentlemen who held forth before her.

She saw her husband in conversation with George II, King of Greece.

She knew that the King had plans to take a train to Greece the next day, and she knew that he was due to meet with his military advisors very soon. In that, she sensed her husband’s hand on the tiller of the ship of state.

Nicholas made a small handsign near his watch pocket, letting her know that the conversation he engaged in was of interest to their family.

When the crowd moved and the conversations she had involved herself in ended, she made excuses to all who approached: “Pardon me, my husband calls...I beg you, speak to me about this at a later time...Sorry, I simply must...s’il vous plaît…Danke...”

She arrived at Nicholas’ side in time to hear the King say: “I insist; your services to Us warrant this title, and I will distrain you to the rank if need be.”

Nicholas bowed politely: “No need of that, Sire. I see the diplomatic necessity, and will accept your Majesty’s accolade.”

The King turned to his factotum, who stood but a step away, to one side and behind him: “You heard? Then see to it, please. When next We are in Athens and our Ambassador has joined us, We will make his lordship’s promotion official. Meantime, he is to enjoy all the privileges of his new rank...ah, Kyría Crowell! We will allow your husband to give you the news.”

“Um…” Nicholas hesitated. “His Majesty is elevating us to the Hellenic Peerage, my dear.”

“I see,” said Clementine, wry and sardonic. “Must I now become a subject of His Majesty of Greece, and abandon my American citizenship?”

“For Our part, no,” said the King. “Your title can be honorary...I know that American law forbids you such a title…” The King paused for Nicholas, who smoothly entered the gap:

“His Majesty has offered us a most excellent estate, in the countryside near Athens. In the mountains, and very defensible in a pinch…”

“I see…”

Nicholas could practically hear Clementine’s thoughts, as she calculated the necessities and the likely future of their family. “Very well. Someone should call Eleanor; the children ought by rights to be asleep by now.”

“Yes,” said Nicholas: “My assistant has gone to find the phone. I think she will have to go scout this property for us, since I---we---cannot leave Geneva at this juncture.”

“We certainly cannot.”

They paused, gazing at one another. They could hear George speaking to his assistant: “...set back the repairs at Castle Mystra by a month and put those funds to repairing the outer wall at Kírie Nikolai’s new estate...no, the times being what they are I will grant the land to him by allod...see that the papers for the transfer of title are packed with my on-voyage luggage, in the official valise...We will complete this Grant poste haste.”

The King turned to them: “You and your Lady wife are dismissed for the time being. Kírie Nikolai, see me tomorrow at ten, for a consultation about the German problem.”

“As Your Majesty desires,” said Nicholas, bowing and stepping away. Clementine bowed also, as a man would; she took Nicholas’ arm and they departed, entering the dance floor and joining the waltz in progress.

Nothing of global importance seemed to happen for the next week and a half: Nicholas took leave of Geneva, again, saying he had to go home to the Commonwealth and do some calculations. Clementine kissed him goodbye, lingeringly.

The children began lessons with their new tutor, a woman chosen by Nicholas and Clementine for her deep knowledge of obscure historical events, and her fluency in German.

“The children speak Greek, English, and French with great fluency, Clement astonishingly so for a three year old,” said Eleanor.

“When he deigns to speak at all,” rejoined Clementine.

Eleanor sighed: “Yes. And I suppose German is a good idea, with the world tipping the way it is.”

“Yes,” said Clementine: “And perhaps Italian, if the worst holds off long enough.”

Of course it did not. By the afternoon of August 30th, the tensions near the border between Germany and Poland had reached their tipping point.

That day Nicholas appeared from nowhere, in the dining room at the Geneva house.

Clementine looked up from her afternoon tea, a custom she had adopted from Nicholas and Eleanor’s example: “You have never dropped in to any of our domiciles in the past.”

“I didn’t want Paths marking our homes out for any other Saltarae to find. That doesn’t matter now…”

She sighed. She rose and embraced him, kissed him passionately, and asked: “How soon must we be packed?”

“No idea,” he muttered. “The League is unlikely to meet this year, nor in the foreseeable future, I expect. We may need to return to Hellas on a moment’s notice, or we may have plenty of time…”

“Well, we have emergency suitcases and even rucksacks packed, of course.” She pondered: “I’ll have Ysabet pack up anything extraneous of the children’s stuff.”

She led him to a seat: “What’s up?” she demanded.

He grimaced: “Using the equipment I have at my disposal in the Commonwealth, I’ve detected what I believe to be the false flag operation that will start the war...German soldiers in Polish uniforms are bivouacked all along the border. Ribbentrop and Molotov have signed their non-aggression pact, and Molotov left that meeting to go straight to Siberia. I believe he’s meeting the Japanese, to negotiate an end to their mutual hostilities.”

Clementine drew in a deep breath: “It starts tonight? Tomorrow?”

“Probably. Within a week, doubtless.” He looked around: “Eleanor?”

“We had a little spat, nothing serious. I believe she spent the night at your suite in the Hotel du Ville.”

“I’ll call. I want us together, tonight...”

“Of course.”

Nicholas started as the telephone in the parlour jangled. He glanced at the clock on the mantle: “Three AM. This has got to be it.”

He strode across the hall and picked up the handset: “Crowell.”

He stood nodding: “I understand. I’ll be at the Assembly by seven, and I’ll see you there.” He cradled the phone gently, though his fists were clenched and his expression desperate.

Clementine and Eleanor came out of the bedroom together, Eleanor in a smock-like top and men’s pajama trousers and Clementine in a nightgown. She wrapped a robe around herself as she ran to him: “Has it started?”

“I am afraid so, dear. SS troops staged a series of false flag events yesterday and last night, and the Panzerkorps are moving to the border as we speak. By the time I get to the Assembly Hall the invasion will have officially begun.”

“When will you return here, and must we be ready to leave Geneva today?” Eleanor asked.

“No hurry. The Swiss Government has already declared its neutrality, so we can wait and leave for Hellas at our leisure.”

“Oh, yes, I read that.” Eleanor took both of them by their arms: “Come to bed now, you too Nicholas. The call you feared has come, and there is no need to stay awake waiting for another.”

“Yes,” said Nicholas: “I will come to bed, and I’ll hope for sleep.”

“If none of us can sleep,” said Clementine: “Then other activities may occur to us.”

“I suppose they may. I will…”

“...do your best, I know,” said Eleanor. “Half of you is worth a half dozen lesser men, Nick.”

“Don’t think too much, not now.” said Clementine, taking his other arm: “You’ll do enough thinking later today.”

Between them they led him into the bedchamber.

Thirteen months followed: very busy months for Nicholas.

Busy, but depressing: between the many and various declarations of war by various countries upon one another, the declarations of neutrality, and the Axis’ rapid victories on many fronts, he was alternately overwhelmed with diplomatic paperwork and mired in melancholy.

“Why in world did Avenol ask for you in particular to aid in his rump administration?” Eleanor had little love for the Frenchman, and none at all for the tasks he assigned to Nicholas.

He shook his head: “I have no real idea. Perhaps because of rather than despite my criticisms of him on the floor of the Assembly before the outbreak of the war...I had no desire to be in Geneva for any part of 1940, and here it is October and I’m languishing here, as his Majesty seconded me to Avenol, while Greece lies under threat from Mussolini...” He shook his head.

“Nevertheless, my duties here in Geneva are coming to an end. The Palace des Nations is pretty well mothballed, the records of the League are thoroughly secured...and Avenol is due to step down and cede his meaningless position to the Irishman.”

“So it’s back to Athens, soon?” asked Clementine.

“I’ve asked the Secretary General for leave to resign my post...I would guess we could travel by the twenty-third of October at the latest.”

“A week, then.”

“Can we be ready?” asked Nicholas.

Clementine shrugged: “In a pinch we could depart tonight. We’d leave a great pile of our possessions behind, but all the papers and documents, plus sufficient clothing and emergency food, are packed and stacked ready for flight. We could carry the really crucial stuff on our backs, and walk to Athens, if need be.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” said Nicholas.

Eleanor interceded: “We are prepared for the contingency. I will see to it that everything else is dealt with. Ysabet and Angelos will assist me: you two should concentrate on diplomacy.”

“Agreed,” said Nicholas. “You should both know: the Greek government’s...discussions...with the Italians are not going well. And there are a lot of Italian troops in the south of Albania, a far larger force than would be needed to hold the countryside.”

The women glanced at one another. “Frying pans and fires, as they say,” said Clementine.

“How in hell are we going to get back to Greece, anyway?” asked Eleanor. “If Italy is threatening to invade Hellas, and Germany owns the whole of northern Europe...”

“Two possibilities,’ said Nicholas: “We might ride the train across Vichy to Marseille, and take ship from there to Piraeus. Or we might fly...”

“Dangerous options, each of them.” Clementine bit her lips, worrying. “How well would our diplomatic status protect us?”

“On the train, completely. At sea? A Greek ship is still a neutral one, but Germany has shown some lack of regard for that status...in the air, we’d not be safe at all. It would be by far the fastest way home, though.”

They sat, not looking at one another, each buried deep in thought. They all looked up at once, and began to speak all together: “I think...” “We should go...” “...We must leave now!”

Nicholas rose, and drew them into his embrace: “Yes. We each think and feel the same way, therefore it is the right thing to do. I will arrange the train tickets, Eleanor...”

“I will supervise the final packing and Angelos will do what must be done for our security...”

Clementine said: “I will get Ysabet and the children ready and call for the motorcar...”

“Nicholas, I will want cash,” said Eleanor.

“Yes, of course: be as generous as you feel you should be with the rest of the staff.” He strode to the safe in the corner, spun the dial through its combination, and stared for a moment at the contents. After contemplating the near future, he grabbed two large stacks of banknotes, of all sorts: francs and marks and dollars and pounds. He stuffed those wads of cash into his pockets and abandoned the rest. He left the safe open as he headed for the telephone.

Clementine fell to her knees: “Oh, my that feels so good!”

Eleanor raised her back up: “Dry land, or at least a dock...we were definitely at sea too long.”

Nicholas came into sight, rolling their small pile of luggage on a cart. The children were riding atop the luggage, Nicky smiling and Clement frowning. Nicholas said: “Sir Michael Palairet has a car waiting for us. Ah, here’s his man...”

A uniformed figure appeared out of the mist and seized the luggage cart from Nicholas. Nicolette leaped down from her perch and Nicholas lifted Clement off with a sweep of his arm: “Let’s go. Sir Michael has news...”

Angelos looked at the car; he made a handsign to Nicholas, who nodded. Angelos jogged away, evidently taking a direct route home.

The Sir Michael's valet loaded their luggage and the chauffer opened doors and assisted the travelers with their burdens. Soon they’d joined the British Ambassador in the rather crowded passenger compartment of his car.

Palairet knocked on the glass; the driver rolled it down a bit.

“The scenic route, Walter. I must update Lord Nicholas on the situation.”

“Understood, Sir.” The glass sealed them in again.

“How much have you heard of the situation at the moment?” Sir Michael spoke in a terse fashion, worrying at his necktie.

“I know that the damned Italians attacked Hellas last fall,” said Nicholas: “We have been on the road for six months, old man, for a trip that would normally take a couple weeks at most.”

“We heard you were on the way. We feared that we’d lost you, you know.”

“You very nearly did, several times over. A month on the train line, most of which we were forced to walk, because of the bombings...then once we got aboard ship...”

Clementine said: “We steamed in circles, and back and forth across the Mediterranean several times. If it wasn’t one thing it was another!”

“U-boats?” Sir Michael asked.

Nicholas said: “Yes, among other things. Bad weather, a nasty fracas with some pirates, and stuck in various ports in North Africa, while the crew scrounged up fuel...The Nazis and Italians have looted far too much of the coal and diesel normally available...it was a nightmare.”

By that time, Nicolette and Clement had fallen deeply asleep, one on each side of Eleanor. Nicholas glanced at them, judged them safely unconscious, and said: “All right, old friend: what’s the real situation?”

Sir Michael leaned back in his seat, sighing: “October 28th last, the Italian army attacked via Albania. Our intelligence suggests that Benito expected the Bulgarians to join in, which would have spread the Greek Army pretty thin...Bulgaria never budged, though, so the Greek resistance was pretty stout. Then the King moved most of the reserves into the northwest, around Epirus, and counterattacked. A British expeditionary Force helped out there, but it was mostly your military that did the dirty work.”

“Amazing,” said Nicholas.

“Greeks got a big chunk of Albania. They didn’t get to Vlore, though, more’s the pity.

“They could have re-supplied by ship, if they had,” said Clementine.

Sir Michael raised an eyebrow: “Indeed.”

“When did the Germans get involved?”

“So far as I can tell, old Adolf didn’t want to mess around in the southern Balkans at all. He was quite happy sitting on the oil fields in Romania, which are crucial to his plans. Then Benito invades Greece, the Brits join in, and he has a potential British presence on his right flank.”

“An irritation, at least.” Clementine had her eyes closed, visualizing a map of the area.

“I can imagine. He’s a madman, you know. I watched him ranting like a maniac at Chancellor Schushnigg in Vienna...”

Clementine interceded: “How mad is he, really? He’s been extremely successful so far...militarily, I mean.”

Palairet frowned: “Your friend Herr Oster...”

Nicholas frowned: “...yes?”

“When he couldn’t reach you, he sent a message to me...he thinks the Fuhrer is contemplating an invasion of Russia.”

Clementine’s eyes opened very wide: “That would be...utterly mad.”

“Barking mad, I should say,” said Nicholas.

A moment of silence ensued. Then Sir Michael continued: “So, with the Germans lining up to attack Greece so as to save their ally Mussolini, old Benito sent in everything he could spare. I guess he hoped to move the Greek lines back a bit, to save his own face. The old bastard was there himself, you know, supervising the attack. Didn’t work. After two weeks of fighting, the Italians have backed off a bit...”

“And that’s where we are now,” said Nicholas, nodding.

“More or less. The Nazis are coming, though, sooner rather than later.” Sir Michael knocked on the window again, three times, rapidly. The limousine abruptly sped up and moved through the streets towards home.

Nicholas staggered into the kitchen of the old inn, rain dripping from every place from which rain could drip, and stood in the corner by the fire. Clementine got up, put the sleeping child in her improvised bed, and began to build up the fire. He used the bootjack to remove his boots; the soaking wet stockings came off along with them.

One look at her husband and she knew that he’d once again been unsuccessful. He held out a rusted piece of iron; it might once have been a stirrup or bit, but it was not a cache of gold sovereigns.

“It really is too bad that your machines cannot distinguish between iron and gold,” she said, as she helped him out of his coverall.

“That is too true,” he agreed: “I know that our Tech Guild is working on such improvements, but I don’t think they have even a prototype as yet.”

“Ah, well. When I first discovered your technological advantage over other members of your profession, I assumed that your expeditions to collect artifacts would be easy and simple,” she smiled gently: “I was wrong. Obviously.”

He stripped off his woolen underclothes, and stood there nude, shivering. “You are not entirely wrong, love.”

She used an iron hook to rotate their wash water cauldron out of the fireplace and onto the stones of the hearth. She watched as he cleaned himself, sluicing away the mud and sweat of a day’s hard digging. She bit her lower lip, feeling her libido rise. She thought of having his sex in her mouth, of the feel of it coming into her...

She glanced over at the crib, and saw Nicolette stirring: ‘Naptime is almost past,’ she thought, postponing any actual lovemaking for the evening, after their daughter’s bedtime.

Eleanor entered the kitchen from the other direction, and shook out her furled umbrella over the sink: “I found some more jars of pickles and potted meat, and a few eggs, at a farm a mile or so away.” She opened her bag and deposited her gleanings on the table, smiling at Nicholas: “My, that’s one fine sight to see.”

He raised an eyebrow, glanced at the crib, then grinned: “Later, my loves.”

Eleanor’s eyes followed his, and she shrugged: “Later indeed.”

Nicholas finished his wash, then asked: “Do either of you need a wash?”

When they each said no, he lifted his clothing from the floor and deposited it in the wash kettle. He set to work, swishing and rinsing and wringing, and finished by hanging his clothes by the fire to dry.

He went to the table, still nude, and held his arm over the jars one by one. Clementine knew that he had an unseen machine on his wrist, where an ordinary man might wear a watch; he removed two of the jars of meat and one of the eggs.

“These are questionable,” he said, going to the door. He set the jars outside the door, and threw the egg far into the gloaming, his muscles rippling.

Clementine found herself excited all the more, and tamped that feeling down: ‘For the nonce.’ she thought, a phrase she’d picked up from Eleanor.

Eleanor came back into the kitchen, bring pajama pants and a smoking jacket for Nicholas.

“Ah, thank you my dear,” he said, donning the clothes: “The child’s hour approaches.” He sat in the rocker, nodding and dozing, waiting for Nicolette to waken.

Three more fruitless days followed. On the afternoon of the fourth day, Clementine and Eleanor and Nicolette followed a muddy track through the nearby forest, Nicky clinging to Clementine’s hand and staring around in amazement.

The sun shone that day, and the wind blew warmer than it had since they’d arrived in that Line: ‘Fifth Plague Quiet Timeline,” Clementine thought. “I don’t think I even want to know the details, especially since Nicholas seems reluctant to speak of the subject.’

They heard their husband long before they saw him. He sang a work song of some kind, in that odd version of Greek that she and Eleanor were slowly learning. Eventually, following the sound, they came upon him.

The hole he stood in seemed to be but knee-deep, but it was close against the bole of a large oak tree. Nicholas wielded an axe two-handed, and chips flew madly about with every stroke. He had stripped to the waist, and sweat matted the thick hair that covered his upper body. He didn’t notice them, standing well away, near the edge of the clearing.

“Ah ha!” he cried: “Gotcha, you foul twisted rootlet!” He knelt in the mud and yanked. A piece of root about two feet long came out of the hole; he set it aside and dug beneath where it had been.

He pulled up a handful of mud, and shook it away from his body. Then he saw the three of them, and smiled: “Hello, my loves,” he said, grinning in triumph: “Look here!”

He picked up his water bottle from the ground beside the hole, uncorked it with his teeth and rinsed the handful of mud away, revealing the gleam of gold. Nicolette hopped up and down saying: “Papa! Papa!” He held the coins up, one by one, examining both sides of each. His grin grew wider.

“Good news, I take it,” said Eleanor.

“Good news indeed! We can now pack up and take leave of this place, go home and live in a civilized way again.”

Clementine sighed: “I’ll be glad of that, I admit. Even if we soon must travel again, to Geneva.”

Nicholas sighed and his expression turned calculating: “...indeed.”

Eleanor spoke: “You should tell him, now.”

“I expect he knows.”

Nicholas sat down at the edge of his excavation, his boots in the hole, and looked them over: “Oh, yes, of course. Nicky is twenty-eight months old, and weaned some two months ago. And you…”

Clementine tipped her head to one side: “...we are with child again, husband. You had a deal to do with that.”

He guffawed, then stood and made his escape from the muck in the bottom of the pit. He donned his shirt, buttoning it slowly, and then gathered axe and spade and coins and strode towards them.

He embraced Clementine and she turned her face up for a kiss. “You smell of sweat and leather and mud,” she said.

“And what do you propose to do about that?”

She tipped her head flirtatiously: “It is time for lunch, and then for Nicky’s nap...”

His smile came slowly: “At your service, Kyría.”

In Geneva:

Clementine sipped her tea. She watched Eleanor reading her mail, and sighed happily.

They sat at a table in a café not far from the Palais des Nations. Nicky smeared cheese over her face; at least some of it got into her mouth.

Eleanor growled.

Clementine looked up from cleaning her daughter’s face and raised an eyebrow, a bit alarmed.

Eleanor noticed: “Nothing to be worried about, sweetheart. Just a letter from my brother’s lawyer...”

“Oh, gods, are they still on about that?”

“I am afraid so. I shall have to re-iterate my position yet again, I suppose.”

Clementine sighed less happily: “Back to the Hotel du Ville, then. Is Nicholas due back from the meeting?”

“He is, but I should be surprised if he’s been let go yet.” Eleanor signaled the waiter, and signed the check, putting Nicholas’ name and position below her signature.

They strolled along the Grand Rue, Nicolette between them, grasping their hands tightly. ‘Not a very grand street, for all its name,’ thought Clementine: ‘...and very barren, not a tree or a park in sight, at least along this stretch.’

They arrived at the Hotel. Nicholas had leased a suite on the ground floor, for convenience’s sake; when Clementine asked at the desk for the key, the concierge informed her that Nicholas had indeed returned: “Your husband brought two gentlemen and a lady with him; they went in about an hour ago.”

“Thank you.”

She led the way along the pillared arcade, and entered the suite through the bedroom. By then Nicky had begun to fuss, so Clementine soothed and rocked her to sleep.

Eleanor appeared at the door of the chamber, and gestured for Clementine to come. She rose and gently laid the toddler down, then entered the main room, leaving the door ajar.

She found Nicholas in his accustomed seat in the center of the long side of the dining room table. Eleanor sat to his left; Clementine moved gracefully to sit at his right.

The three strangers sat at the other side of the table. The men wore suits, in the style of a year or so before, and the woman (who sat between them) had dressed as a soldier, save that her uniform bore no insignia or other identifying marks.

Nicholas gestured to his left: “This is Herr Oster, who has inside information about the German military. The lady is...”

The lady interrupted: “Call me Maria. I represent FAUD.”

“The anarcho-syndicalist trade union?” Eleanor asked wryly.

“Indeed.”

“And you?” Clementine asked.

The man sitting to the right said stiffly: “You may call me Konstantin. I represent the German Communist Party.”

“The home party or the exiles?” Eleanor inquired, clearly amused.

“I currently reside in Prague,” said Konstantin, uncomfortably.

Nicholas chortled: “He’s staying in Prague for now, too. However, he, and these other two as well, have agreed to supply me with information about what’s actually going on in Germany.”

Eleanor nodded: “Since the German withdrawal from the League, your contacts in their Foreign Service are harder to reach.”

Konstantin handed each of the women a newspaper, entitled “News From Germany” and bearing the KPD’s logo: “We have a good network in the unions, even in Maria’s.” He glanced sidelong at her; she sneered.

Konstantin continued, unruffled: “We intend to continue to publish, as long as possible, articles about the real situation in Germany.”

“And Herr Oster? I take it he’s in the German military, in spite of his civilian clothes.” Clementine smiled at him, a devastatingly brilliant smile, calculated to bring a man to his knees.

“I am,” said Oster, barely reacting to her smile: “I am a colonel in the Abwehr. ‘Military Intelligence’ you would say.”

Everyone sat silent, the other two Germans looking incredibly uncomfortable.

Finally ‘Maria’ said: “Why are you here?”

Oster took a deep breath: “There are many officers in the German military who are leery of the Nazis. I am one of them, and I am working with others. For my part I loathe Adolf Hitler, and have been hoping for his demise.”

“But what have you done about it?” Maria sneered again.

Herr Oster did not rise to the bait: “I have done what I can. For now, I am providing information to Mr Crowell here. I believe him to be a sincere advocate for peace. I, and many of the officers I am in contact with, believe that if Germany begins a war in Europe, that we are bound to lose. The Abwehr will work to prevent any such war from beginning.”

Another silence ensued. They read the various reports that their guests had provided, with Nicholas occasionally making notes in the margins.

Finally Nicholas said: “Gentlemen, madam: I have introduced my wife and our companion to you so that you will know them, and they you. If necessary you may pass papers or microfilm to them, and feel certain that it will reach me. In a pinch, you may confide in them...I rely upon you to do so in no way that draws the attention of the Nazis to them.”

Oster nodded: “But better not to contact them, lest they come under suspicion of having such secrets to hide.”

“Exactly.” Nicholas frowned: “How do we arrange your departure?”

“I will leave first,” Oster said: “I will examine the lobby and the streets hereabouts for surveillance. Whatever I find, I will ring this room from the lobby: one ring for ‘all’s clear’ and two for ‘prepare to evade tails’.” Oster’s English was very precise, and he enunciated each word very carefully, almost prissily.

‘I don’t think he’d be so prissy in a fight,’ thought Clementine.

“Very well. Let’s have a drink, then you can go.” Nicholas signed to Angelos, who poured the drinks.

‘He knows what each of them likes,’ thought Clementine: ‘They noticed that...should give them pause for thought.’

She drew a deep breath and sorted mentally through subjects suitable for talk, under such circumstances. She said: “How are preparations for the Olympics going, Mr. Oster?”

Deep beneath a Quiet Paris:

“Place Denfert-Rochereau,” said Clementine, staring at the street sign: “Is this not our destination?”

“It is. Are you certain you want to continue, my love?” Nicholas was doubtful.

“Don’t deny me a chance for some adventure, Nicholas. Soon I shall be too great with child to go with you upon these expeditions.” She patted her belly, now slightly swollen. “Besides, I never visited the Catacombs when Ellie and I were in Paris. She didn’t want to go, thinking them too...morbid, I suppose one would say.”

They stood in the street while Nicholas used his machinery to scout the way. Clementine could see the building that housed the entrance to the tunnels below; it stood just adjacent to a church or something, built of white limestone.

The entrance lay within a building painted all over with a greenish paint, so dark as to verge upon black. Broken glass windows gaped in the front and sides of the squat construction, and the door hung by its lower hinge, at an angle to the doorway. Both buildings had ivy and clematis coverings, the roofs invisible within mats of vegetation. Weeds grew through every crack in the pavements around them, and many houses lay collapsed and buried in bramble and fallen trees.

Nicholas gestured to her: “This will get us where I need to go...there are no collapsed ceilings or undermined floors between here and our goal, so it should be a mere walk in the park.”

She made a face: “If your park includes very steep stairways and human remains stacked like cordwood on all sides, then yes.” Their previous attempts to reach the crypt Nicholas sought had been unpleasant.

“You may wait here if you wish,” he reminded her: “I, however, must proceed. I promised that manuscript to Professor Terrou, and I’d not enjoy the interview if I failed to bring it back to him.”

She followed warily, stepping each time in his footprints. She held the hem of his jacket, keeping him to a slow pace: “This works better,” she said: “We raise far less dust at this speed, and we are not in a hurry.”

“I suppose not,” he said, slowing.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and walked along through ankle-deep dust for a few paces. She sneezed, and Nicholas coughed.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he said. He picked up a handful of the offending filth and touched it to his Shifter. He made signs with his hands while speaking words in his own tongue, Rational Hellenic. The majority of the dust vanished, with a hissing sound like a snake or possum.

She smiled, relieved: “Where did you send it?”

“Just to the streets above us.” He shrugged: “I will send it back when we are through with our errand.”

“Really? Why, I wonder…”

“Ah, well...there is little chance of multiplying Timelines while we are working in a Quiet Line like this one, but there is no sense taking chances, either. Even small changes made in a Line like this can bleed over into more populous parts of the Multiverse. I am here to purloin a long-lost copy of Aristotle’s Treatise on Comedy. I needn’t leave any tracks behind, or any clues to a future archaeologist...doubtless one descended from gerbils or raccoons, there being few other semi-sentient creatures wandering about the wilderness.”

She forbore to ask what occurrences had left this particular Line Quiet. Nicholas’ explanations of the disasters that had afflicted the other places he’d taken her…

‘They leave me,, very often, depressed and hopeless.’ She followed him along the passage, gazing with awe at the hundreds, no, thousands of skeletons that lined the hall: each in a niche in the wall, often with scraps of rich clothing or the remains of bibles or other books laid upon their sternums. She spotted one such niche, with tiny bones and children’s toys within: two skulls, the earthly remains of twins, perhaps, and not more than ten years old…

She sobbed, caught her breath, turned her back, brushed away her tears: ‘I know that such things happen…’

The vision haunted her as they walked on, descending several stairwells into deeper darkness. Nicholas shone a torch about.

‘I am no longer surprised by the machines and tools that my husband has, or I oughtn’t be. That is a very bright light, though.’

At length he stopped before a larger than normal niche. The body within, if one still lay there, was within a stone sarcophagus, the lid cracked and tipped on end.

“Damnation,” Nicholas said, mildly. “I hope this doesn’t mean that someone beat me to this…”

“Oh, my…”

He lifted the remains of the cover off of the coffin and laid them carefully aside. He leaned into the niche, and said, triumphantly: “It’s here!”

“Oh, good!”

He moved backwards, carefully: “It is very fragile.” He set it on the floor and sat down beside it. “I must determine whether it is complete, or not.”

He turned it carefully over, and opened the back cover, careful to do no harm to the binding. He lifted the back page free of its neighbor, just enough to read whatever might be inscribed upon it: “Finis!”

“It is complete, then?”

“It is. We can go home now, but slowly and carefully, for this is a treasure indeed.” He put the book into a padded box that he’d carried in a bag at his side, and they began the walk back to ground level.

A trip to Istanbul, not Constantinople

Nicholas stood on the back patio of the house in Athens. He sniffed the air, heavy with rain and redolent with the odor of mold and leaves returning to the soil. Eleanor opened the French doors and came out of the house onto the patio.

She wore men’s trousers and a safari coat, tailored to fit her body. On her belt she carried a pistol, a match for the one that Nicholas carried, a large caliber Smith and Wesson. Overall, she wore a light cloth coat, which hid the pistol from casual sight. She had a small knapsack, and a steel canteen.

“Clementine decided not to come along? I can’t blame her…” Nicholas fretted.

“This second pregnancy is being harder on her than the first. She’s been ten percent larger than she was when carrying Nicky, at every stage.”

Nicholas nodded: “I am sure it is exhausting. Do you have the camera I gave you? We must bring back pictures of our trip, at the least.”

“I have it,” said Eleanor: “Let’s get going, I want to scout that museum before suppertime.”

“Step close…”

They dropped into a cul-de-sac off a main street in Istanbul; it was late afternoon there. Nicholas led the way out of the narrow lane he’d Saltated them into. They strolled around the streets, taking in the sights and shooting photographs of the various buildings and landmarks. The ruins of the Blachernae Palace stood here and there, mostly built over since 1453. They stopped to take photos of the remains of the walls, only visible from what used to be the courtyard.

Nicholas took Eleanor’s arm and led her round about; her sense of distance and direction had improved since she’d begun to travel; she realized that they’d circled round the building that sat tightly against the ruined wall.

“There,” he said.

Eleanor replied: “That building?”

Nicholas nodded: “Look, a café there across the plaza. Let us have an early lunch, and then I will take steps to see what sort of obstacles lie in our path.”

“I am amenable.”

The waiter came and went, and a light meal arrived. They ate companionably, seeming to those watching them more like siblings than lovers. Few people could clearly see them, of course: they had requested a table in the darkest of corners.

She caught him looking at her, and smiled a little: “I see that look.”

“And what does it say to you?”

She laughed: “You wonder about my feelings for you. We haven’t spoken of this, for the reason that we didn’t want to test each other too hard. Until now...”

“Shall we then test each other, now? Shall we ask and answer, and face the hard facts forthrightly?”

“It seems as good a time as any. So...” She paused, examining him; knowing a courageous man when she saw one, she spoke frankly: “I have never been fond of the embraces of men.”

He nodded: “But during your year in Europe, with Clementine, you...”

“I rode many...not all, but many...of her lovers to the climax of my own pleasure.” She narrowed her eyes, studying him closely: “None of them were more to me than ambulatory dildos.”

Nicholas laughed, appreciating the image. Eleanor nodded, satisfied.

“I don’t doubt that I too was nothing more to you, at first anyway.”

“For the first four nights of our tryst, certainly. Things began to change when I saw how devoted Clem was becoming to you.”

“She enjoyed my lovemaking, that is surely true...” Nicholas mused.

“She more than enjoyed it. What impressed me was how manfully you labored to ensure her pleasure. That, sir, is a great deal of the reason that she fell in love with you.”

“I appreciate...”

“I am not finished...” She waited a moment and then said: “Clem is a very self-aware woman, for somebody her age. She knows very well that her submissive tendencies, when having sex, come from the pressures that her parents put upon her. She had to be, always, the ‘good little girl’, the perfect student, the ideal debutant. At every minute of every day. She accomplished all of that, but at a cost.”

“And that cost was?”

“She dominated her peers, being more intelligent and physically developed than any of them. Her teachers, her father, and especially her mother, all demanded that she be perfect. She dominated each situation that the adults in her life put her into, by attaining that perfection, or at least a simulacrum of it.”

‘I think I see where you are going...”

“I’m sure you do. When Clem and I fell into bed together...”

Nicholas waited.

In a moment, Eleanor continued: “It was such a relief to her that I could accept her submission, as utter and complete as it was, and yet not judge her. She and I are peers, Nick. The way I dominate our sex life does not carry over into the rest of our relationship.”

“I had noticed.”

“I never doubted that you had. And I dominate you as well, when the three of us are in bed together...that also does not carry over into the rest of our life together.”

After a thoughtful silence, Nicholas said: “If, as it seems, you are warning me not to let my sexual dominance of Clem carry over into our life...our shared life, with you in it as an equal...”

She raised her chin, that smooth, short motion that meant ‘yes’ in Greece. She sipped the remains of her tea: “We can let it go at that, then.”

“Very well. And thank you.”

“For?”

“For calling me Nick.”

She said: “You’re welcome. Now, about this little burglary we are going to engage in: explain to me what, how, and why.”

“Very well...the Byzantine Museum in Athens has, as one of its prize collections, a set of coins comprising nearly all of the Emperors of Constantinople.”

“I take it that the ‘nearly’ is the key to our goal.”

“It is. The Museo will pay, I am told, ten thousand pounds to the finder of any one of the missing coins, and a hundred thousand bonus to anyone who can complete their collection. As a result of researches I have done in my own Timeline and others, I have reason to believe that at least some of the byzants that Athens lacks were, at one time at least, in a deep subterranean room of Blachernae Palace...one of the oldest treasuries of the Emperors. Long forgotten, but maybe still there.

“I have another reason, non mercenary, for my desire to find these coins...”

“I am all ears.”

“I hope to find a coin of Leo the First, who is allegedly a distant ancestor of my family.

“That building,” he gestured, “shares a part of its basement wall with the room I believe holds our quarry.

“If we can get into the basement, we ought to have no trouble reaching the room I want to visit, clandestinely. No trouble other than a wall of heavy stones, that is.”

“You have a technological solution to the wall, I assume.”

“You’d call it technological, I suppose. I would call it brute force; a plasma sword is (or can be) an elegant weapon, but it can also shear though a stone wall fairly easily.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And I guess I’ll see it in action, soon enough.”

“Tonight, if I can find a way in this afternoon.” He drew forth from a pocket a small cube of bakelite, or so it seemed to be.

Eleanor watched with interest as Nicholas manipulated the cube. He glanced casually over his shoulders, one side and then the other, and then began unfolding the cube until he had a flat surface about ten inches square, and a tenth of an inch thick, if that.

He touched his left wrist to the corner of the bakelite square and a three-dimensional map of the building in question arose from the plastic.

She watched, fascinated, as he made arcane hand signs at the invisible machine upon his wrist. The room they sought to access lit up, and the room in the basement of the nearby building also. “Excellent!” he said. He made more gestures and then removed a small item from his pocket.

“Looks a bit like one of those pyramidal dice that certain nomad tribes play with,” said Eleanor.

“It is a homing device,” said Nicholas. He reached beneath the table they were sitting at; Eleanor heard the device snap as it attached itself to the bottom of the tabletop.

“When you are ready, we may continue our tour of the City.”

“This way,” Nicholas whispered. After Saltating into the café—well after midnight but nowhere near dawn—he’d led Eleanor down a flight of stairs in the rear of the building. They passed in near silence along a narrow tunnel that went under the plaza and toward their goal.

The passage was smelly and stuffy, and Eleanor found herself short of breath. Nicholas coughed, and said: “Bad air down here. Put this over your face, love.”

She did as he commanded; the tissue-thin cloth clung to her nose and mouth, terrifying her for a moment.

“Is that better?”

She breathed deeply, finding that was indeed: “Yes...”

They clambered over obstacles and avoided one pit in the floor. Nicholas wielded a torch of some sort, which mostly barely lit their way. She knew it could shine with an unnatural brightness, if such were needed.

“We’ll have to climb up, here,” he said, doing so. She followed, glad of his hand and the strength in his shoulders as he aided her.

“Is this it?” she asked, as they faced a wall of rough-cut blocks.

“Should be,” he said: “Stand right here, if you please.” He set the torch up as a lantern and drew out of his coat pocket an object, something like a runner’s baton, but smoothed into curves and appearing to have odd controls built in.

She stared in fascination as he moved those controls: a slide, a switch, and a turn of the base, like using a doorknob.

A “sword blade” appeared, a shining black blade that hurt her eyes to look at. He took a step back and slashed carefully at the wall in front of him, so that the mortar hissed and cried, and cracked and melted. He then used his Shifter to remove two of the stones, creating an opening in the wall.

Nicholas lifted the lamp and peered through: “I see gold, and other lovely things,” he said, stepping through the broken wall: “Beware, some bits are still hot...”

She followed him into the treasury, her heart pounding.

He stepped carefully, avoiding areas of the floor where centuries of dust mounded over objects fallen long ago from the shelves around the walls.

She watched him as he explored those shelves, and the piles upon the floor, a manic grin upon his face. He made notes in an ordinary sketchbook, marking where each stack of coins lay, and the dates and mint marks on the coins, where visible.

When he had documented the entire site, he carefully sifted through several of the heaps of ancient money, pulling several byzants out and pocketing them.

He held one up, showing her: “Leo!” he said in a triumphant whisper.

She leaned down: “So he is.”

He sighed: “I could spend months here, examining each of these coins...perhaps someday I shall. But now, we’d best be gone. I must replace the stones and disguise our temporary doorway.

She stood aside again as he manipulated invisible fields projected by his machinery.

He stood back, looking critically at he wall: “Considering that this room is very seldom visited, and never well-lit...that will do.” He gestured her close to him and said: “Back to our hotel!”

He Shifted them.

you may want to read or re-read this first: https://zzambrosius-02.dreamwidth.org/67433.html

Mrs Nicholas (Clementine) Orenhauser-Crowell

Dromo Presvisa 27

Maroussi, Athens, Hellas

Mrs Clement (Irene) Orenhauser

97328 Chambers Road

Eugene, Oregon, USA

Dearest Mama,

I am quite well, thank you very much; I hope you are the same, and Daddy also. Eleanor sends her love, and my husband Nicholas his regards.

I will endeavor to answer the questions in the order that you asked them in your letter, rec’d here yesterday, the 4th of May 1934.

You may come to visit your granddaughter at your leisure; Nicolette is just over four months old, and healthy as any baby I’ve ever met. Nicholas has commissioned a guesthouse to be constructed on our property, near the main residence. It should be habitable by July 1st, so any arrival after that time will be quite suitable.

You have calculated correctly: I was with child at the time of my marriage. What of that? Nicolette’s fortunes will be what they will be; the world is an uncertain place. Nonetheless, by our marriage Nicholas has acknowledged his paternity, and he has no lack of wealth. I am in mourning black, from your news of Grandmama’s death, but the fact that the family chequebook is now in Daddy’s hands causes me not the slightest trepidation. Need I say more?

As for the circumstances of Nicholas’ birth and family, those are not yet clear to me. Eleanor and I will doubtless have a ‘showdown’ with him soon (as Daddy would say). I trust my husband implicitly. He is, as you know, a diplomat, and parts of that business he might be required by the Greek Government to hold close. He makes a good deal of his income from the trade in antiquities, which means that he has sources and sites that he will not reveal to anyone. It is no great wonder, therefore, that he is close-mouthed about his affairs.

The photographs that you saw of the wedding reception, as published in the London Times, I have not myself seen. Among the things I do know about Nicholas is that he attended Oxford. I find it unsurprising that London gossips would find his marriage newsworthy.

The gentleman you inquired about was acting as Best Man for Nicholas; his name is Mr Mikaelos Atheninos, and I know not much more than that about him. And (as far as I could tell) it was a real sword.

Nicholas’ age...he is, according to his Greek documents, forty-five years old. He appears to be that. He has confessed that he is actually somewhat older, how much so I do not yet know. Whatever his age he is very vigorous, in all of the ways that matter to a young wife. Does that satisfy your curiosity? I could provide more details, but I don’t suppose I will.

I have enclosed several photographs taken of our family by Nicholas’ man Angelos. He has a good eye for composition, does he not?

Give Daddy my love, and do please let us know your travel plans, so that our chauffeur Stavros can meet you at Piraeus.

All my love,

Clementine

“Sassy,” said Eleanor, handing the letter back: “I never noticed you being so tart around your mother.”

Clementine smiled sweetly, moving Nicolette from one breast to the other: “I am in a new and different position now. She can no longer dominate me.”

Eleanor nodded, looking on mother and child with affection: “You are your own person now, a ‘wife and mother’. Your husband…”

“Our husband, sweetheart,” Clementine interrupted.

“Our husband,” Eleanor accepted the correction: “Nicholas seems perfectly capable of supporting us in a manner at least as luxurious as that to which you were accustomed.”

“Indeed. I suspect that he has sources of wealth that he has not yet revealed to us. We will need to have that ‘showdown’ pretty soon, don’t you think?”

“Forthwith,” Eleanor said, nodding. “I have arranged for us to confront him on the subject on Friday, when he returns from his latest trip.”

“Ahead of me, as always, love. Well, I’d best get this letter into its envelope…”

Angelos appeared in the doorway of the nursery, bowing slightly. Eleanor grinned mischievously. They exchanged some handsigns. Eleanor had quickly picked up the rudiments of the sign language that Nicholas and his servant used between themselves; Clementine had only begun: ‘Ellie is so much better at languages… she is already speaking Greek as fluently as I do French.’

Eleanor said: “Thank you, Angelos. The afternoon post is delayed, Clemmy. Angelos is going into town in a few minutes, and will post the letter for you at the main Post Office.”

“That’s excellent,” said Clementine. She finished addressing the envelope and placed the letter and some photos into it. She sealed it with Nicholas’ stamp, smiling a little as she did so.

Angelos took the letter, bowed slightly, and vanished.

“He acts that part so very well, Clem. Don’t you think?”

Clem nodded: “Exceptionally well. I wonder who he really is, and where he is from?”

Eleanor shrugged: “Nicky is asleep. You should be, too.”

“Yes. I’ll nod off here in a moment. Unless…”

“If you are amenable, our bedchamber awaits.”

“For you, my love, always…”

“Suppose,” said Clementine acerbically: “Suppose that we do indeed need to know the details of your life: your true age, where your money comes from, where you are from, originally…

Eleanor took up the narrative: “...and how it is that you come and go so mysteriously.”

Nicholas sighed: “Yes. Suppose we assume that. I have been reticent…”

Clementine interrupted: “That will not stand any longer. I will not stand for it, any longer.” Nicolette, as though sensing the tension in the room, began to fuss. Clementine rocked her, murmuring endearments.

Nicholas looked at Clementine, peeved: “I was saying: I have been reticent because the truth is, in the context of this Timeline, entirely unbelievable. And the only way to make you believe it is to tell all, and show all, and that ‘all’ is likely to be more than a little bit upsetting. Nevertheless, you are correct, the time has come.”

“First, my true age. I am, as of last Friday, one hundred and sixty years old.”

He waited. The women glanced at one another, and then stared at him.

He stepped behind his desk: “You do not protest? Does this not seem incredible to you?”

Clementine smiled, very slightly but very wryly: “Well, you had to be at least eighty…”

He returned the smile, wider but no less wry: “Did I really?”

“Of course,” said Eleanor: “Recall, I am an attorney. I have a number of detectives among my circle of associates.

“So, you attended Oxford, by your own admission. The date of your matriculation you always avoided saying, but I found it out. You completed the program in History there in 1875, at the apparent age of, oh, perhaps twenty-five.”

“You breezed through your undergraduate studies in a fashion that made even your most conservative professors doubt your youth and seeming inexperience,” said Clementine: “We have been extremely suspicious since we read your thesis. It has more than a few clues to indicate that there is something exceedingly strange about you…”

Eleanor agreed: “All of the ‘alternative outcomes’ that you wrote about…”

Nicholas shrugged: “Well, if you will accept my true age without, as the saying goes, batting an eye, I suppose…” He waved his hands in a peculiar way, almost like a stage conjuror, and his entire desktop lit up.

Both women sat bolt upright, and Clementine gasped.

The flat surface, the typewriter, the other items on the desk: all vanished. In their place, a three-dimensional image of Athens, but a very peculiar Athens, appeared.

“You asked several times about the black boxes that sit at the corners of this desk, and I evaded your questions. This is one of their functions: a holographic generator, tied to my home…’country’ by arcane means. Arcane, that is, by the standards of this Timeline.”

“You used that word twice already,” said Eleanor, warily: “Do you really mean to say…?”

“Yes. Other versions of reality do indeed exist. I am a native of one of them: ‘The Hellenic Commonwealth and Polity’ is the name of my home ‘country’, in a Timeline commonly referred to as ‘Commonwealth Prime’.”

After a moment, Nicholas said: “I see that I have indeed impressed you. Come, look closely at this version of Athens: Athino, as we call it.”

They marveled at the detail visible, especially when Nicholas moved the point of view closer to show them various buildings: “A large part of the city was reconstructed by our ancestors, beginning early in the Thirteenth Century, as this Timeline measures things.”

“At the time of the Fourth Crusade, then?” Eleanor asked.

“Indeed; that war was the precipitating factor in splitting off the Commonwealth Line from the Timeline that led to this world.”

“Continue,” said Clementine, her skepticism returning.

Nicholas heard the caution in her voice. He said: “I understand your reluctance to believe. I have prepared a demonstration that will banish your doubts forever.”

Eleanor glanced at Clementine, then turned to Nicholas with narrowed eyes: “What preparations should we make?”

“None are necessary, beyond perhaps fetching some sunhats. Miriam will keep a close eye on our daughter, and we will not be away from home for very long.”

“Shall we meet out front?” Clementine asked.

“No,” said Nicholas: “On the back patio will be better, I think.”

“If we need sunhats, then we likely also need sturdier footwear,” said Eleanor, taking Clementine by the arm: “Let us prepare ourselves…?”

“For a short journey,” said Nicholas, smiling knowingly.

They gathered at the appointed place less than a quarter-hour later.

Nicholas had strapped a pistol to his waist, beneath his coat. In addition, he had an object in his hand: something cylindrical, not very large, and matte black like the machinery on his desk.

He opened wide his arms, and said: “Come close to me, my loves; the machine we will use has a limited range…”

When they had snuggled up to him, he said: “This item we call a Shifter. It will take us to another world…Keenafthono!”

Before Clementine or Eleanor could protest or comment at all, as if the strange word had been an abracadabra, the world around them changed dramatically. Eleanor drew her breath in, audibly, and Clementine cried out, as they each suffered a slight dizziness. Clementine clung to Nicholas, gasping, until her vertigo passed.

They stood on a hill above the City of Athino. It was recognizably Athens, but clearly not their home.

“We can’t stay here long,” said Nicholas: “Your mere presence is slightly destabilizing to the this area of the Multiverse.”

“Why?” Eleanor tipped her head to one side, staring. “Look, Clem, that’s the Temple of Zeus. And the Parthenon, and the…”

“Those buildings were never contemporaneous in your Line,” said Nicholas.

“I know,” said Eleanor: “That large building, north of the Acropolis...I don’t recognize it.”

“The Library of Athens.” Nicholas twitched and shook his head: “We must go. I wanted you to see this, so you’d know that the display in my Library is not an illusion. But I’m getting nervous…draw close, ladies.”

They stood very close together again, and Nicholas held the Shifter between them.

Clementine opened her eyes, letting the dizziness wash away. She found herself in a darkened space, sitting down, with Eleanor’s hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Eleanor asked, concerned.

“I think so. What happened?”

“You fainted, my love. Nicholas has gone for some water.”

“Oh.” After a moment, she said: “You know, when I despaired over the places we hadn’t traveled to yet, thinking my pregnancy would put our Grand Tour to an end...”

Eleanor shrugged: “I said I expected that we would still travel a good bit, especially since you were marrying a diplomat and archaeologist...but I had no idea we would travel to places such as this.”

Nicholas came in through a doorway at the far end of a long hall and strode to them, a canteen in hand.

“Oh, thank you, darling. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do,” said Nicholas, reluctantly: “Some people react very poorly to the sort of inter-Timeline travel we’ve been doing. You are evidently one of those people.”

“Oh. What is to be done?”

He shrugged: “We are here now, so I think we should explore the area, as I’d intended. Then, when you are sufficiently recovered, we will Saltate back to our own patio. That should be easier on you, for a couple of reasons.”

“Really?” Eleanor asked: “What reasons?”

“Well, first she will be returning to her own Home Line. That almost always...resolves any destabilization in the Multiverse and in the person affected. And, since the Commonwealth Line is not involved, our final Jump today will not be anywhere nearly as dizzying.”

“I will take your word for that,” said Clementine, essaying to stand. “I should like to know where we are, and why you brought us here, to this particular place.”

Eleanor helped Clementine to her feet. Nicholas took her arm and assisted her along the hallway.

“We are in Mesopotamia, in a Quiet Line. I brought you here so that you could see how I gather the artifacts that established my first fortune in your Home Line.”

“What does it mean, a ‘Quiet Line’?”

He sighed: “It is a Line where all, or nearly all life is extinct.”

He led them up some stone stairs and into a plaza outside the temple where they had sheltered. The wind screamed across the desolate landscape, an empty plain of rocks and sand.

Clementine shuddered. Somehow she could feel the truth of Nicholas’ statement: “There really is nothing alive…”

“Very little, anywhere on this version of the earth,” said Nicholas. “Some bacteria, mostly shed from my skin and clothing, and strange animals that live on the ocean floor, far from land.”

“And you come to this horrible place why? To gather artifacts?”

“Yes,” he said: “I have found that museums and wealthy collectors will pay high prices for well-preserved pieces. Here, no one has looted, or bombed, or damaged anything since the fall of the First Persian Empire, in 330 BC. Follow me, please.”

He led them round about and eventually into a hall similar to the one they’d dropped into. “Since I’m here,” he said, “I will pick up a couple of things I set aside on my last visit.”

He opened a stone casket about the size of a jewelry box and pulled a couple of stone statues out. He stood the sculptures on top of the box and said: “Viola!”

Each piece stood about ten inches high, and showed a woman, nude to the waist, arms raised, with writhing snakes in each hand.

“One almost never finds these with their serpents intact, in most Lines. In this Line, a global disaster brought everything to a standstill, shortly after the fall of Persia.”

“The nature of that disaster?” Eleanor stared at him, impassively.

He said, after a moment’s hesitation: “A plague, one that had a truly devastating effect upon most living things. The nature of that plague would be hard to explain without a long lecture about the chemical nature of heredity, which your Line has not yet discovered.”

The women looked at one another, puzzled.

“The chemical nature of heredity…” Eleanor mused. “Hmm.”

“Indeed,” said Nicholas: “Hmm.”

Clementine frowned: “Can we go home now? I am feeling...sad, and fearful.”

Nicholas drew out his Shifter: “We can start home immediately.” He set two small cones, each about the size of a votive candle to either side of the statuettes. He then did something with the Shifter, eyeballing it and making arcane signs at it. The two little statues vanished with a puff of dust and a muffled pop. The cones went along, seemingly.

He gathered the two of them in an embrace: “I am going to separate the geographic and Timeline Shifts, for the sake of Clem. First we’ll Jump to Athens in this Line, and then directly from there to our own. Ready...?”

“Ready.” “I am.”

Nicholas Shifted them.

“Home again,” said Clementine.

Miriam met them as they entered the house from the back patio; Clementine took the baby and cradled her as they climbed the curving staircase to the Library. It struck Eleanor that Miriam had been not at all surprised to see them suddenly on the patio: ‘It implies that she is in on Nicholas’ odd means of travel...’

When Nicolette yelled, Clementine opened her dress and put the child to nurse.

Eleanor went to the liquor cabinet, poured a glass of sherry for Clementine, and a shot of scotch for herself. She regarded Nicholas critically.

At length she asked: “Why are you here?” Before he could speak she said: “I am not asking a rhetorical question, nor a philosophical one.”

“I understand. My...my ‘job’ here, among others, is to prevent, if possible…” He had a distant look in his eyes, as though he were not really seeing them: “...if at all possible, this Timeline’s likely descent into worldwide war, and perhaps it becoming Quiet.”

Clementine’s eyes went quite wide: “Is that likely, really?”

Nicholas shook himself, and went to sit by her side on the sofa: “It is always possible; this fellow Hitler…he makes things much more precarious.”

“He is such an idiot…” Eleanor began: “...such an evil, bigoted man.”

“Yes. But he is also the leader of a powerful nation, and one that has been persecuted by its neighbors. There is a great resentment among young and middle-aged Germans over the terms of the Treaty of Versailles…I’d have stopped the French from imposing the punitive clauses in the treaty, if I could have done. Since Germany and Japan withdrew from the League of Nations...”

Clementine nodded: “My father said, back when the Great War had newly ended, that the French were going to cause big trouble with their attitude.”

A silence ensued.

Eleanor said: “What are your other jobs?”

“Eh?”

“You said that peace in our Line is a job ‘among others’; I should like to know what the other jobs are.”

“Ah.” Nicholas walked round behind the desk and gestured above it, again as if conjuring: “Come here and look at this.”

They stood on either side of him, as the surface of the desk wavered and then showed a three-dimensional tangle of colored threads.

“It’s like a mad tapestry woven by blind surrealists,” said Eleanor.

Clementine snorted in amusement. She and Eleanor had gone to a Surrealist exhibition in Paris. Clementine found the works opaque and, in some cases, disturbing. Eleanor thought they were all quite amusing.

Nicholas said: “It represents the approximate state of the Multiverse in this particular...quadrant. Not the right word, actually, but the real situation is not amenable to linguistic description.” He waved a hand again: “Here are some of the mathematics.”

They stared for a while.

“Clem?” Eleanor touched her shoulder: “Are you well? ”

“Yes, I am...quite recovered. It’s just that, these equations, they are…” She shook her head: “Very outré. Bizarre!”

“Indeed.” Nicholas watched as she passed a hand over the Five-dimensional matrix, with its oddly laid-out numbers and letters. “Does this make any sense to you?”

“In some ways.”

“Clementine is good at mathematics,” said Eleanor: “Intuitively, even when dealing with new concepts.”

Clementine walked around the desk, stopping to look from different angles at the display. She pointed at one section of the three dimensional ‘tapestry’: “Timelines diverge, then? They split into two or more, each a little different?”

“Yes. Another of my tasks, that. To…”

“Yes of course,” Clementine interrupted: “You must keep things from going...madly, badly wrong!”

Nicholas smiled, wanly: “Yes. We seek to reduce human suffering, in all of the worlds. Timelines rarely diverge when things are going well…Even our enemies try not to multiply the Timelines unnecessarily.”

“Our enemies?” Eleanor asked.

“I will tell you all, bit by bit,” Nicholas grimaced: “But, yes: as this Line is dealing with the Axis and the threat of a catastrophic war, the Commonwealth and its relatives and allies among the Lines are fighting against an authoritarian threat.”

Eleanor frowned: “I see. So we will try to keep this Timeline whole, and at peace, and you will leave mysteriously for your own home Timeline when you must, for various reasons. But Clem and I...”

“...Can probably not visit there, I am afraid. I, however, must occasionally go there, to study what consequences have occurred as a result of my actions. I am mostly a benign presence here...”

Clementine frowned: “Except...Oh!” She pointed mutely at part of the displayed equations.

“Yes,” said Nicholas, amused: “Quantum rebatement, the techs call it. My presence in this Line is a potential disruption, though I have been cautious. I have not yet caused the Line to splinter…” He waved his hand across the insubstantial tapestry of colored threads: “...and oddly, your pregnancy and our marriage have settled that a bit. I’m a little more like a native of this Line, now.

Eleanor frowned: “I can see how that would work. Now let’s talk about what we are going to do about the uncertain and rather frightening situation this world...this Timeline...is in.”

Nicholas shrugged: “I have received this telegram,” he said, diffidently. “I am inclined to accept the offer.” He handed the flimsy sheet to Clementine.

She pursed her lips: “We should have to move to Geneva, at least part-time, if you are to be the Ambassador again.

“Indeed,” said Eleanor.

“I took the liberty, the last time I was there, of purchasing a large house on a small plot of land near the City.” Nicholas sighed: “The complexities of diplomacy in a Line like this, in a money economy enslaved to the idea of Exchange, are beyond daunting. But I have some experience, and I am a known quantity. The League of Nations will welcome my return, and I will be well-placed to do...whatever needs to be done. Whatever can be done”

Nicolette fussed; Clementine sat down and began to pat her back, eliciting a massive belch. Clementine cleaned up the mess; the baby’s eyes slowly closed, and she slept.

Clementine caught Eleanor’s eye, and they nodded simultaneously. Eleanor touched Nicholas’ shoulder and said, gently: “What is your real name, Nicholas?”

He drew in a deep breath, then said: “I will tell you, but I must warn you that there is some risk in it.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow.

“Sometimes small things affect the Multiverse in unexpected ways,” he explained: “But I agree, I must tell you. I am Nikodemos ‘the Latest’ Athininos.” He absent-mindedly made the Commonwealth handsign that placed the scare quotes around his cognomen. Then he smiled: “Master in the Thinker’s Guild of Athino, Master in the Black Warrior Guild, Athens chapter, in the Hellenic Commonwealth, Master in the Sacred Band of the same Polis and Commonwealth; I am unranked in the Mathematics Deme, but I spend a lot of time there…” They watched as a very slight ripple, as it were a wave in a stream, passed over the tapestry upon the desk.

“Guild? Deme?” Clementine was amused and curious.

“Yes,” said Nicholas: “How do people who want no money and who bridle at the giving and taking of commands and the existence of vertical hierarchy actually organize a society?”

“Economics, politics, culture.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes: “How indeed?”

“Our ancestors organized around the three things that nearly everyone had: Polis, Guild, and Deme. Polis is where you live; everyone over the age of twelve is an equal citizen of the Polis they inhabit.

“Guilds organize the necessary labor of our society. Nearly everyone has at least one Guild affiliation; some people have several, or even many. The Demes organize—when any organization is seen to be necessary—the things that people do when they are not ‘at work’: hobbies, religion, political leanings…I could give you a book that explains the history of my Line, and sets these institutions in their natural habitat.”

“Please do that, and soon.” Clementine handed the baby to Eleanor, and then rose, more upright than usual with her chin held high: “If I am to be the Ambassador’s wife, I must look the part. I must be perfect in the role. I have preparations to make.”

“Indeed,” said Nicholas: “What do you conceive will be your role?”

Clementine smiled widely: “I must tread lightly, speak firmly, and hear everything that women say when there are no men about.” She turned thoughtful: “I must make myself immune to the cruelty of gossips, but hear all that they say.” She frowned: “I suppose I will be subjected to flirtation from men I have no interest in, and I must seem amenable, and mine such men for what information they may have.” She sighed: “I shall be the hostess, and the organizer of such afternoon teas and evening soirees as your post demands that you host…”

“No,” said Eleanor: “I shall be the organizer, and I shall make certain that every party goes off perfectly. I am best-suited to that job; you will not concern yourself.” She turned to Nicholas: “I will also hire, train and oversee the servants at our House in Geneva. You will not concern yourself with that. Angelos will come with you, of course. Stavros and Miriam will keep the house here.”

“There will be many details to work out…” mused Nicholas, unnecessarily.

“Yes,” said Clementine: “I shall want to know when the next session of the Assembly is due, and how soon we must travel...But right now I must consult with Miriam about dressmakers in Athens. I shall need more formal wear, and I’d best get at least some of it made before we travel…” She strode towards the Library door.

At a Dig in a Quiet Kent:

Nicolette toddled across the dusty floor at an astonishing speed, waving a stick of kindling and squealing wildly. Clementine scampered in pursuit of her daughter, puffing a little as she chased her down.

Eleanor worked assiduously at one corner of the room, digging with an old whisk-broom at the cinders and ashes that had accumulated there. “Men seem able to adapt to the most appalling levels of filth when they are in the throes of their occupations.”

Nicholas entered the kitchen, carrying an enormous armload of firewood, most of which he fed directly into the blaze in the fireplace. “Archaeologists rarely have the budget to bring a housekeeper along; as a solo archy, I have come to accept that I will live in somewhat vile conditions when I’m on a dig.” He grinned: “Wait till I start the real digging, and you see what becomes of my coveralls.”

Eleanor swept the rest of the small room speedily, with efficient strokes of the broom that left nothing at all on the varnished wooden planks of the floor: “Now that we are here, perhaps you’ll explain a bit more clearly what it is we are seeking.”

“Yes,” said Clementine: “Why this place in particular?”

“The ‘King and Queen’ public house in East Malling, Kent,” said Nicholas, mischievously.

“Precisely.” Clementine gave up trying to restrain Nicolette. The child shrieked as she ran along, waving her arms enthusiastically. She fetched up against a table leg and stared at the grain of the wood, up close, for a few seconds. Then she sat down abruptly and began to gurgle: “Ma ma ma ma ma…”

The adults, who had watched as though hypnotized, returned to their conversation. Nicholas said: “We ought to visit this place in our own Line, one day. It’s really quite a nice little pub, with quite a history…”

“Yes, its history is undoubtedly the reason for our visit here in a Quiet Line.” Clementine had long ceased to be amused by her husband’s mysteries. “What I want to know is what exactly you—we—are here looking for.”

Nicholas brushed the bits of bark and fir needles and splinters from the front of his boiled-wool coat and said: “I am here to dig around the area near this pub to see if I can find some coins…”

“Go on,” said Clementine.

He shrugged: “The pub’s been here since 1537, in your Line’s calendar. The second publican died mysteriously, supposedly after stealing some coins from the church nearby...and if I can find those long lost coins, I know a collector who will pay handsomely for them.”

“What sort of coins?” Eleanor asked. “My father was a collector, and I have some interest in such things.”

“These would be English gold Sovereigns minted between April and June of 1483…” Nicholas waited to see if the ladies would get the reference.

Clementine frowned, seeming to calculate; then she sprang up and ran to catch Nicolette before she could get out through a hastily repaired, and hence not very secure, window. Nicolette protested such interference with a howl, but soon became distracted by some bugs crawling across the hearth.

Meanwhile Eleanor had slapped her knee and guffawed.

Nicholas said: “You were raised here in England, were you not?’

“I was; not too far from here, actually. Ha’ant yew ‘eard that in m’ accent? Y’awld dabster, and from some awld alleycumfee, too.”

Clementine stared in amazement: “Ellie! I never heard such expressions from you!”

“No, and you likely won’t again. English school drove that accent deep inside of me, and America nearly entirely buried my English accent, as well. Anyway, gold sovereigns minted in those months would be in the name of Edward V, he who was never crowned. Correct?”

“So it is said. In your Line there are a few museum pieces, all with very minor alterations from Edward IV’s coinage. The ones I’m seeking would have come from a then newly engraved die, with the boy king’s face instead of his father’s.”

“I see,” said Clementine: “You know...the very existence of such a coin says something about Richard III, don’t you think?”

“It would,” said Eleanor: “But what? The partisans of Henry VII will never admit any evidence, however convincing to you or me, that puts their narrative of the Wars of the Roses in doubt.”

“I suppose not…”

“Anyway, I’d best get upstairs and clean the bedchamber. I’ll call down to you when I’m ready to make the bed.”

“I’ll listen for your call.” Clementine blew Eleanor a kiss, then ran off after the child.

Nicholas settled down with drawings of the village as it was in 1500 and blueprints of the public house from the time of its most recent remodeling, 1901. He set a matte black disk on the floor and signed at it, producing a 3D image of the area as it existed presently, and whistled a tune. Then: “Anomalous metals,” he commanded: “Up to six ells deep.”

Clementine smiled, watching him work while rocking their daughter to sleep.

1300 + words into the other project! A very productive day!

It's gratifying when an entire incident, 1500+ words, falls out of my head onto the page.

I hadn't been writing much lately, July was "that" sort of month. Mosty read-throughs and notes and similar chores...Today I got going. Not the thing I thought I was going to write, the chapter is way out of sequence, but hey: that's what came to me. Plus, the best way I've found to get moving is to put the characters to work, get _them_ moving. So: Horses, weapons, armor, a routine patrol...an unexpected complication...and Saráyi gets a chance to show her quality. Four pages, 1363 words, and the chapter is parked facing downhill. A good day!

Strange Times at the Oregon Country Fair

A short story by A.M.Brosius

They dropped in to the Fair site in the wild area near Daredevil Palace. With his Shifter still active, Ambros Rothakis could see hundreds of overlapped Traces, the spoor of Commonwealthers visiting the Fair over the years. 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 a patch pocket on the front of his kilt.

He looked his companion over and thought: ‘It’s 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.’

He knew as well 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. 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...”

“Rrrr-iot.” The Ant part rotated its head back and forth in that odd way they had: “Thisss isss ‘a metaphor’?

“Yes.” It was hard not to think of the thing as the Ant, even though the ant part was by far the least sentient of the three bits.

The Ant hissed again: “Ssss. For research purposes this-unit has submitted to this...” It rattled the chain attached to a collar around its “neck”.

“Yes,” said Ambros: “You want to know more about humans? This is one aspect of human society. A festival, where some societal norms are absent or reversed, as a contrast to ordinary life. The collar and chain will make you look like an ‘ambiance performer’ rather than a dangerous and unpredictable alien life-form.”

“This-unit is intensely curious. Let us proceed.”

Ambros led the way out of the drop-in site, careful to disturb the vegetation as little as possible. The Ant seemed to understand that: it stepped as carefully as he did. As they approached the edge of the path, the Squid part of the organism shrank to an alarmingly small size, all of its tentacles tucked within itself and its cowl drawn down almost within the Ant’s carapace.

They appeared out of the shrubbery without any warning to the crowd. As people became aware of them a hush fell over the area.

‘That’s an almost eerie thing,’ thought Ambros: ‘It’s never really quiet anywhere on the Fair site during the day.’

His companion’s head swiveled back and forth and its antennae waved and twitched as it sampled the air and listened to the sounds of far-off voices and music. It took up almost the whole of the Upper River Loop as it moved across a narrow bridge and up a slope towards the Eight. Ambros stopped their progress as soon as he got to a wide enough spot on the path.

The crowd nearby was focused to a person on the spectacle of a bearded, longhaired, top-knotted man in a psychedelic kilt, white cloth belt, and long open vest crocheted out of fine white yarn, leading an eight-foot-tall Giant Ant on a chain.

The Ant rose onto its rear legs and waved the front ones about: “Hello humans. Z-z-t.”

The crowd exploded in cheers and applause. The Ant slowly settled back onto all sixes and squatted to the ground.

Ambros grinned and led the Ant onward through the tree-shaded paths and into a larger open space along the edge of the Eight.

The crowd followed; they gathered round, inching closer bit by bit.

A woman in a fairy dress with a feathery wand asked: “Is that a puppet? I mean, an...an automaton? Or is there a person inside it?”

“That’s a good question,” Ambros replied, truthfully. He continued in the same vein: “It’s a person, of sorts.”

“What’s its name?” asked a little boy of six or so.

Ambros pursed his lips: ‘It calls itself ‘This-Unit’ most of the time. I usually call it ‘You-Unit’, but I sometimes call it Bruce just for fun.”

“May we call it Bruce?” asked a girl, about the same age as the boy.

“Ask it.”

The girl reached out tentatively and touched the Ant’s palps: “May we call you Bruce?”

The Ant rose up a little, so that its front legs were free of the ground, and said: “This is satisfactory.” It leaned forward and let its palps range over the girl’s face, which caused her to laugh. After a moment, its mandibles spread wide and clicked, locked in the open position. Ambros sighed, relieved.

The other kids giggled. More children gathered around, since there seemed to be no danger. Parents hung back, allowing the kids room for exploration.

The Ant turned its head towards Ambros: “This is immature human? Of which sort?”

“Ask.”

“I’m a girl, obviously!” the child preempted.

“That is not obvious to...sssBruce-unit.”

Ambros stared at the Ant, astonished: “You never called yourself Bruce.”

“Immature human asked ‘May we’. Immature humans may.”

“Children,” said Ambros: “Or kids, more informally.”

“Data filed. Children. Kids. Girls...”

“And boys. Sometimes, though rarely, both or neither. When in doubt wait for the child to say.”

“Understood. Humans are fascinating.”

“I know,” said Ambros: “After all, that’s why you are here. Look about you...”

The creature swiveled its head: “Thezzse humans in zzshelters...” It waved its front legs

“Booths,” said Ambros, understanding what the Ant found puzzling.

“Booths...these they have in the Commonwealth, yesss? For distribution of goods and foodstuffs, this-unit recalls.”

“Indeed. Like a Thenoma Plataeo in the Commmonwealth, this festival functions as a craft fair, in part. This is a money economy, though. Things work differently as a result. Do you see how?”

“Mmzzss. We do. Our-unit...our collective judgement finds each of thezsse systems unnecessarily complex.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.”

Some people had wandered off by then; apparently comparative economics was not as amusing as their earlier interaction.

“Show this-unit more things...other aspects of this festival.”

Ambros nodded: “Can you hear the music? Let’s go dancing.”

“What is ‘dancing’?”

The remaining kids laughed uproariously at that question, and their parents laughed a bit, too. Then all the children began to dance, hopping and wriggling and saying: “Like this! Listen to the music!”

The pulsing bass of a reggae band carried from Mainstage to where they were hanging out.

The Ant twitched and its limbs moved rhythmically. Then it said: “Is it wise for this unit to...jump...like that?”

Ambros said: “Maybe not. I’ve seen you jump. Can you hop just a little bit? As in a few centimeters off the ground?”

“SssBruce-unit will try...” The creature flexed its legs and seemed to ponder. It jumped about six feet in the air; the kids leapt away, in some dismay. The Ant pulled its legs in tight so as not to land on any children. Then it stood to all sixes and said: “This-unit will practice in less crowded conditions. Immature humans are each separate intelligences...sssyes?”

“Indeed, they are. Best to do them no harm, under any circumstances.” Ambros gazed sternly at the Ant, which got its attention.

“This-unit comprehends.”

Ambros led the Ant along. A man slapped Ambros on the back, saying: “That’s an amazing performance, dude. You gotta leave out the middle part, though...”

The Ant rose partway and Ambros said: “Chill.” They’d arranged code words for certain aspects of human behavior. Ambros had explained: “Humans often engage in ritualized violence. ‘Chill’ means I am not in danger, however it may appear to you-unit.”

Eventually they reached Sally’s Alley and approached the stage.

The stage was built in the same rustic style as the booths, though of much sturdier materials. The foundation of the construction looked to be enormous logs, cut into pillars and set so as to uphold the stage. The band played a slow reggae beat; the musicians and singers all wore dreadlocks, and performed in various states of undress.

“Is this too loud for your sensory apparatus?” Ambros inquired.

“This-unit hasss already adjusted.” It waved its antennae at the stage, and its metal tentacles echoed the movement: “D-dreadlocksss?”

Ambros shook his head vehemently: “Not the same meaning here in this Line. Those people have no connection to Eleni Leontari. Or Arrenji-unit.”

“None?”

“None whatsoever.”

The Ant seemed disappointed, though Ambros wasn’t sure how he could tell.

“Okay,” said Ambros: “So, ‘dancing’ consists of rhythmic movements of nearly any sort, sometimes prearranged between two or more partners, sometimes improvised on the spot.”

“This-unit has accessed ‘Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary’ via your ‘Webz’. This-unit does not know how to begin...dancing.”

Ambros grinned: “I recommend that you begin by bending your limbs and straightening them, in time to the music.” Ambros demonstrated; The Ant made shift to imitate him, though six segmented legs made the movement quite odd by human standards. People nearby stared, and tried not to stare, and by various means displayed their curiosity. The Ant seemed not to notice.

“Now try lifting one or two feet from the ground...remain in time with the music...”

“How isss thisss?”

“You are definitely dancing. Never seen anything like it, but it is dancing.

A cloud passed across the sky, blocking the sun briefly. Ambros looked around the horizon, frowning; a chilly breeze passed through Mainstage Meadow, and then dispersed, leaving the temperature somewhat lower in its wake.

A group of children, of both genders and several ages, came twirling along, dressed in full-circle tie-dye skirts that floated out around them as they spun. They laughed and squealed as they changed course; they circled the Ant and Ambros twice before twirling away again.

Ant asked: “Should This-unit spin also?”

“If you do, make sure your limbs do not contact any humans...”

“Understood. This-unit’s visual field is...you would say 345 degrees. This-unit could spin safely...zzzz-but perhaps We will not.”

Ambros nodded: “The better part of valor, and all.”

“This-unit does not understand...”

“Hmm. Maybe some other time would be better to explain the concept of ‘Valor’.”

“This-unit concedes. The definition in ‘Webster’s’ is...ssszz-ridiculous?”

“I can’t argue with that statement.”

Ambros danced for a while. The Ant did its best, but soon squatted down in the position that meant: “No aggressive intent”.

“Would you like to do something else?” Ambros asked.

“Yess.”

“We could go down East Thirteenth, look at the various crafts on display...we will have to approach the stage closer, then go into the shade on the left.”

“This-unit agrees.” The Ant stood, but stayed on six legs.

The two of them passed along a row of food vendors on their left, weaving between groups of people: some separated by age or gender, some wildly mixed. At least five percent of those they passed wore some sort of outlandish outfit. The Ant stood out even among them.

One man stopped them: dressed as a policeman and walking on short stilts that lifted him head and shoulders above most of the crowd, he spoke mock-officiously: “Do you have a license for that Ant?”

“Chill,” Ambros whispered. Then he replied to the ‘officer’: “For Bruce? He doesn’t need a license, he’s a Free Ant.”

“I see. Well, go about your business then,” the fellow said. As Ambros and Bruce went past, the not-cop said: “That’s the most convincing insect costume I’ve ever seen. Unless it’s a robot...”

Ambros laughed: “Technically a cyborg, actually.” He noticed the guy staring at them as they proceeded. Not-cop frowned, seemingly nonplussed.

They passed a pushcart selling ice cream bars. A girl of about ten years approached, holding a half-eaten chocolate covered treat. She said: “Would you like some ice cream, Bruce?”

Ambros shook his head: ‘Of course, every kid on site knows the Ant’s name by now.’

Bruce hesitated: “Bruce-unit is not scheduled to take nourishment this...zzcycle. But...we will tassste it.”

The girl held the stick high, and the Ant carefully abstracted a dollop of sweet from the end. It touched the stuff with its palps, quivering in reaction.

‘Not sure how I know a shudder of pleasure from any other sort...’ thought Ambros.

The Ant slowly placed the ice cream in its mouth; its mandibles worked, though there was nothing to bite.

It legs straightened, and it shook all over. The girl giggled and other people laughed as well.

Some adults frowned and became more alert.

“You okay, Bruce?” asked Ambros.

“O-o-o-kayyy. That is very high-energy food. Must pauzsse...and control this-unit’s reaction.”

“Got it.” Ambros gently moved the crowd back a bit, saying: “I think Bruce could use a little space, folks.”

Ambros spotted Jake From Security, whom he had met the previous year; Jake watched them intently, occasionally speaking into his radio.

Thunder growled and rumbled. A moment later the sky lit up with lightning off to the west, and very shortly another peal of thunder rolled over them.

People looked to the west in alarm. One woman said: “This wasn’t in the forecast...”

“Precipitation will lassst approximately one of your hours, then dissipate,” Bruce-unit declared: “Many low-lying paths will flood. This Meadow is safe...”

Several people stared openly at the Ant, clearly wondering.

One woman said what many of them were thinking: “How could that thing possibly be a costume or a robot?”

Rain began to fall. Many people scattered in search of shelter; others danced and reveled in the shower, which slowly developed into a downpour.

Ambros said: “Y’know Bruce, I think we better get out of Dodge.”

“Ambros-unit’s reference is obscure. But This-unit comprehends the meaning.”

Ambros led the way back towards the traditional drop-in and jump-out point. He kept his head high, grinning at anyone who stared at them. The rain sluiced from the Ant’s carapace; Ambros soon found himself soaked to the skin.

The Ant suddenly halted, touching Ambros’ shoulder with a foreleg. The machine in the Ant’s chest beeped loudly, forcibly reminding Ambros that the ‘Ant’ was not the sentient part of the organism. The machine said: “Unit-Ambros: this path is flooded ahead.”

“You mean Upper River Loop?”

“Correct designation.”

“How bad?”

“This-unit would not risk stepping in the flow...”

“Right. Let’s head back via East Thirteenth, we’ll send you home from the woody end near our booth.”

They sped up their pace; as they passed Jake, Ambros said: “I guess there’s some bad flooding near Daredevil Palace, Jake. Maybe you should call that in, huh?”

Jake paused, indecisive, then began talking into his radio: “...flooding at URL reported to me by passerby...check on it...barricade...”

Jake’s voice faded as they proceeded to East Thirteenth.

They moved along as fast as Ambros could walk; he slowed the alien down with murmured code words whenever it went too fast for him: “I don’t want to be running. That would just draw attention. And I desperately want to avoid further attention.”

“This-unit agrees. Too many of the humans now doubt that We are a robot or a costume.”

It did not surprise him at all that Jessica, also from Security Crew, picked them up as they passed Community Village. She began to tail them.

Many places along the hard clay path had pools of water, sometimes reaching from one side of the way to the other. Where the pools did not reach the footing was treacherous, and people slipped and slid as they moved about.

The Ant ignored the pools and ponds that blocked the way, striding straight through them. Ambros followed, still holding the end of the chain: ‘Now my boots are soaked through as well.’ He thought.

Suddenly Jessica passed them, at a trot. Her radio squawked at her and she sped up, running and slipping as she went.

Ambros and the Ant soon caught her up: she stood by the side of the road, yelling into her radio as thunder drowned out all the voices nearby.

The wind kicked up again, and it began to rain harder yet.

Nearly everyone standing about was looking up, shading their eyes from the rain. After a moment, Ambros looked up too. Among the leafy branches tossing in the freshened gale, he could see what had to be a child, clinging to one of the larger boughs.

His immediate instinct was to climb after the kid. He looked at the tree and said: “How the bleep did the kid even get up there? There are no side branches for thirty feet!”

“I don’t know how he got up there!” cried a woman standing right next to Ambros: “He has really strong hands! He’s always climbing things!”

Lightning struck a tree less than a hundred yards deep in the woody area nearby. That tree splintered and briefly caught fire, until the downpour snuffed it out. Thunder rolled over them and they felt the shockwave hit them; the ground shook.

The woman screamed and buried her face in her hands.

“Bruce-unit could rescue this child,” said the Ant. “We can summon aid...”

Ambros put his own hand over his face, as the wind howled louder yet and the tree swayed and creaked in the blast. He nodded:

“Do it. Whatever you have in mind. Do it.”

The Ant didn’t trouble to unfasten the chain from around its neck: it just used its mandibles to snap it off short and tossed the broken end to Ambros: “M-m-move these humans back!”

Ambros complied: “Move back a bit please, come on, folks, give the Ant room for whatever it wants to do...”

Two other Ants appeared. Several people screamed.

“That blows our cover...” Ambros shook his head, but continued with crowd control: “... keep back, please...Bruce has a plan...”

Jessica joined him in calming and moving the growing crowd back.

The other two Ants were smaller than ‘Bruce’, one of them significantly so; that smallest one had a distinctly brownish tone to its carapace, and a smaller abdomen.

The Brown Ant scuttled over to the tree and went up like any ordinary sized ant would. The middle sized Ant followed. Bruce went towards the bole of the tree, picking Ambros up with the pincer on one middle leg: “Unit-Ambrose must stand here!”

“Whatever you say, Bruce.”

The Ant climbed until it was a good four feet above Ambros’ head. Then the child shrieked, and all the adults nearby ran towards the base of the tree, trying to see what was going on.

The kid cried out again, then came into the sight of those on the ground. The Brown Ant, now oriented head down, held the kid’s belt in one pincer and passed him to the middle Ant, which creature passed him from one pincer to another until it could pass the child to Bruce, and hence to Ambros where he stood on the ground nearby.

Ambros held the child firmly by the waist, looked into his eyes, and asked: “You okay, kid?”

The boy burst into fresh tears. Ambros yielded the child to his mother, who began alternately scolding and kissing and hugging and ranting.

Bruce turned itself round on the tree trunk, so that it, too, clung to the tree head down. The fashion in which Bruce did that made it clear to all that Bruce was neither a robot nor a costumed human.

“This-unit should ‘Get out of Dodge’. Yes?”

“You and the horse you rode in on.”

The Ants vanished one by one, with the whooshing sound that their exits from a Timeline always made. Most of the people roundabout were concentrated on the rescued child, and heard nothing over wind, rain, and thunder.

But Jessica From Security happened to be looking right at Bruce as the creature faded from sight, until it was simply gone.

Ambros caught Jessica’s eye: “To report or not to report. That’s the question, right?”

She stared bleakly at him. She shook her head: “No way I can make anyone believe this...” she waved her hands: “...no matter how many witnesses I have.”

Thunder grumbled to the east of them.

“Well then,” he said: “I guess I’ll just go on about my own affairs.” After a moment he said: “Dry clothes. That’ll be first...”

He walked away as the wind died and the rain passed to drizzle.

You know what I think is funny? I mean, really, REALLY funny? Hilarious, even?

A newly "elected" POTUS chose an agent of a foreign gov't (I'd go so far as to say "A Russian Spy") as his National Security Advisor. Think about that.

For someone with my political positions, that's...just wonderful. By which I mean: a cause for great wonder and amazement. Not to mention hilarity.

If I were to write that into a novel or story...it would only work in an obvious farce.

And no one in the media (as far as I've seen or heard) has even mentioned that. Perhaps they don't dare.

https://www.dissentmagazine.org/article/false-promise-universal-basic-income-andy-stern-ruger-bregman?utm_source=Dissent+Newsletter&utm_campaign=9f7bafcc00-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2017_04_13&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_a1e9be80de-9f7bafcc00-101953589

Alyssa Battistoni is a PhD candidate in political science at Yale University and an editor at Jacobin magazine.

Hmmm...Marian and I were loading our groceries at Gross Out when a man on a bicycle cruised by. He stared for a second and then shouted in a sarcastic voice: "Ah, yes, Islam, forcing nine-year-old girls to marry forty-year-old men on penalty of death for mumble mumble years!"

I looked up from loading, and stared at him. He was thirty-ish with short brown hair and a scruffy beard. I looked around, puzzled. No obviously Muslim folks anywhere in the lot. I turned my puzzled (Quizzical, Bemused?) expression in his direction.

I gotta admit, my puzzled stare is frequently interpreted as threatening by other people. Anyway, he took one good look at me and pedaled away as fast as his little tootsies would go.

I was wearing a hat that looks a bit like that hat customarily worn by the former President of Afghanistan, so maybe he took me for a refugee or immigrant.

But...Marian was there, and she didn't even have a hat on, much less a headscarf or anything more modest. So that hat, all by itself, apparently convinced Mr. Ignoramus that I was a muslim.

Honestly, folks, if you're gonna be a bigot and shout it out to the world, at least know your stuff. Willful ignorance is nobody's bliss.

Epilogue: Some By Dint...

Ambros dropped in to the Country Fair site in the Alcatraz Quiet Line. He had his tent, salvaged from his camp in the Swamp, and a pack full of food and drink. He walked slowly along the muddy or flooded trails, until he found an elevated booth, with what must have been a sleeping room well above ground level. He climbed slowly up, shoving his tent before him and following, grimly.

He set up his camp, laid out his sleeping bag and made himself a meal. While eating it, he contemplated: “I’m here, I told everyone, to get away from things for a while. I need some alone time, and a bit of deep meditation. Bloody PTSD. Fucking Squids.” He thought about what he’d said to the Ant when he’d upbraided it: “…raped my brainstem.”

“Yeah. This is probably something like how a rape victim feels. Can’t get the feelings out of my mind, little things set me off. Always lookin’ around for a damn Gate to pop up. Lose track of what I’m saying.

“I was good as long as I was busy. Armored up, with weapons in hand…Now everything feels scattered; I feel like I’m flailing around, and I’ve certainly seen some personal failures lately.

“Time to assess my strengths and weaknesses, and by extension the strengths and weaknesses of my side in the War. Probably spend a deal of time crying my eyes out, as they say. We’re gonna start, though...with a little trip.”

He extracted the little lump of mushroom sporoid he’d carried around for years. ‘It’s marvelously potent stuff, a mind-blowingly powerful hallucinogen, but the effects last only a couple-three hours. Or a day and a night, if I take enough. I better do that.

“Been about ten years since I took a trip into my subconscious, and I could sure use some insight about now. Fungus, don’t fail me this time...”

With his pocketknife, he carved away a hunk of the stuff. He’d got it so long ago that he couldn’t recall the date, from a fellow named Steinetz, a mycologist of some renown. In the thirty-some years since, he’d tripped on tiny bits of it about eight times: ‘About eight? I should check my journals, once I’m home again.’

He rubbed the sliver between his fingers to break down the fibrous mass a bit, rolled it into a pill, and downed it with a drink from his canteen.

He crawled into the tent and then into the sleeping bag. He wrapped a silk scarf around his ankles, and put his hands in the patch pockets on his thighs, maneuvering the velcro partway closed, so he couldn’t pull his hands out without concentrated effort. He closed his eyes.

He waited for the stuff to take effect. He felt himself drifting, and slowly fell asleep.

He could not tell whether he woke or not. He could not ascertain whether his eyes stood open or stayed closed. He seemed to float, in a sea or atmosphere of red.

( Read more... )

So..."SALTAROS: Shadows and Light" is nearly all posted; only the Epilogue remains. That will lead readers directly into the third and final book in the series. No title for that one yet. What is to be done? In partial order, since #10 is ongoing, and short stories happen when they will:

1. Re-read SALTARAE/SALTAROS. Make notes into the Chapter outline for Book Three. Probably expand Chapter Five of SALTAROS with some food-porn and Chapter Sixteen for other reasons. (Correct any remaining typos on the way)

2. Format for paperback publication.

3. Upload paperback; slow read on editing copy; make final changes; publish paperback.

4. Arrange for "Novel Release Party" at local pub.

5. e-book formatting, first for Lulu, then for Am*azon.

6. Publish e-books.

7. Finish writing "SARÁYI: a Story of Ambition" Repeat above steps for that book. (This book is about 1/3 written.) Finish early 2018?

8. Write and serialize Book Three in Saltarae/Saltaros series. Work concurrently on "PYRKAGAE: the World in Flames" which will be the fifth and final book in the "13th Century Series" (That book has a partial chapter outline and I know the end.)

9. "A Separate Reality" and "Waiting for the Revolution" are projects that I will work on as time and inclination allow. I refuse to set a deadline on either one. Also occasional short stories. (I should decide what to do about that novella I wrote about Clementine and Eleanor and Nicholas. (If Tor fails to actually call for manuscripts, that is...))

10. GET OFF MY ASS and sell these damn books, cause they're good books and entertaining and more people ought to enjoy them and also think about the polemics that I hide in plain sight in every damn one of them...

SO!

Gotta go. See ya!

CHAPTER TWENTY: When the Fecal Matter Hits the Air Conditioning Unit

Ambros and Kim approached the Downtown Athletic Club. A man in a pseudo-military uniform swept the front door open. They strolled through. He glanced at his MPS, which showed him the time in several places. ‘Nine PM on the dot, here in Eugene,’ he thought. He looked at Kim, who was holding his arm in the time-honored fashion. She grinned. Her gown was an off-the-left-shoulder stunner, slightly off-white silk with gold threads woven in. She had pearls and gold wire (provided by Aunt Clem) braided into her hair.

He looked around quickly, noting the men’s clothes: posh, even sumptuous, but pretty much all the same: white shirts with just so much ruffle to their stiff fronts, white bowties, white tailcoats, trousers with knife-sharp pleats, and every cummerbund the same shade of red and perfectly pressed and tied.

His outfit stood out in every way possible, though it was sharp. He was not, however, ruffled in any way, cummerbunded. He wore his newest kilt; its pleating was, if anything, sharper than that on the other men’s trousers. The red and black check looked good with his coloring. He wore a black jacket of Commonwealth cut, more like a vest than a tailcoat in its rectangular construction. His red Spathos’ and white Knight’s belts gleamed and the bronze buckle of the white one practically glowed from polishing. He’d chosen the linen ‘river boatman’s shirt’, and donned a shiny white silk ascot over the button placket rather than under. ‘This way I can flash this fancy stickpin, which is also a camera,’ he thought. His Free Walkers he’d polished to a high gloss; his longsword he’d strapped and cross-strapped so it sat perfectly upright and immobile, the hilts belt high, the pommel right in front of and a little below his left armpit. The brooch that secured the end of the great kilt over his right shoulder glowed like the belt buckle. He’d put his hair in the usual topknot, but it was fresh out of a tight braid and fly-away fluffy.

( Read more... )

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Various Ceremonies, and that Hearing

Ambros pulled his socks on, and then donned a pair of Commonwealth-issue harness boots. He checked himself in the mirror: All in dark green and gray camo, black boots, and a dark green balaclava.

He reflected on his appearance: “Better. Not good. But Better. A mostly good night’s sleep helps some.”

Kim came out of the women’s room into the main hall of his Salon, similarly dressed.

“Ready?” she asked.

“I’d better be. Don’t want to be late.”

It was the Eve of Winter Solstice; it would be a day of unpleasant errands, he knew, to be followed by the Ceremony of Darkness and Light in Athino.

Ambros drew Kim close and got out his Shifter. He concentrated on the spot he’d scouted earlier that morning, and then Saltated the two of them up into the south hills of Eugene.

“This way,” he whispered, taking her hand. He led her down a little ways, on a seldom-used path near the cemetery.

He stopped. She stayed behind him, waiting.

“Right here,” he said, still whispering.

“Okay.”

They waited; he scanned the scene with his binoculars. He could see, about forty yards away, the gravediggers making their final preparations for the graveside service.

( Read more... )

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Blood and Boom and Bugs

Ambros sat in his office at the Salon, ciphering his life.

The Commonwealth-augmented Mac G5 that he worked at pinged him. The office door stood wide, and by leaning back he could see the main entrance on the west side of the building. He leaned back.

He frowned: “That’s...oh, that’s Bradley, the guy who owns the Tae Kwon Do dojo just south of here...” He pondered: ‘I wonder what he wants. Let’s go all formal on him.’

He tapped the G5 to sleep and headed for the door.

“Come on in, sensei. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering how you were doing...”

Ambros said: “Let’s go back to my office. I’ll make some tea.”

“Sounds good.”

( Read more... )

Ladies and Gentlemen and those between and "out there": On Sunday you may read CHAPTER EIGHTEEN of "SALTAROS: Shadows and Light". Same Fire sign, same Fire station: on my blog at DreamWidth! Stuff is happening fast, now.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Blood and Boom and Bugs
In which Ambros answers sensei Bradley’s questions; sees Hannah D’Angelo arrested; has a confrontation with some Posse C remnants; pays off his mortgage; detects and avoids a dangerous situation; has a talk with Magistri Gennasi, with satisfactory results; agrees to attend the meeting that so many people want him at; sees Zazu blow ‘Hector’s’ cover, destroying the agent’s career; posts his essay on Deep Flanking to the Kyklo; takes heart at the slight stir caused by his family’s e-zine; and has a deeply disturbing confrontation with Giant Ant/Squids.

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