Analog SFF, October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Switched on autopilot; and finally able to sit back, look around, relax—cautiously speculate whether cautiously speculating whether worst was over might, all by itself, jinx us.

  Sighed at own silliness. Glanced over shoulder at passengers; then looked across at Danni, observed, “It's going to be a long ride home. Without the big tank, our cruising range is cut by about a third. But even more importantly, with this mob, we're going to have to stop frequently, for food, water, and ... uh ... comfort. That little potty back there isn't going to accommodate all these kids very long between dumps.”

  Mentor smiled back cozily. Expression suggested might be enjoying private joke. “It may not take as long as you think,” she replied. Smile had acquired feline qualities; got impression of metaphoric feathers tangled in imaginary whiskers.

  Mystery not long unraveling, however: Even as speculated about Danni's smug attitude, wondered about enigmatic comment's genesis, noticed favorite violence mentor suddenly looking past apprentice, slightly behind me, out side windows—just as Tasha's softly awed tones could be heard from rear: "Whoa..."

  And cockpit abruptly darkened.

  Volume XV

  Tracking Tracker Tracked

  Head snapped around...

  Few manmade objects loom larger, more impressively than C-17—unexpectedly discovered pulling up close alongside, slowing to maintain formation, huge ship's wing substantially overlapping own whole airplane.

  As spun open-mouthed back to Danni, saw second Globemaster slowing grandly to relative stop on other side, then holding station.

  Eyes surely bugged at sight—to this point, Danni had offered no hint AAs here in force. If had thought at all, assumed she had come by herself to retrieve errant apprentice. Paired C-17s triggered instant, hugely guilty realization of just how much effort must have been expended on Idiot Girl Runaway's behalf.

  For briefest moment, wondered how AAs had found us so quickly in air, but once again mentor justified widespread mindreading suspicions: Held up satellite phone, from just above keypad of which green on LED glowed. “You called them?”

  “No. I was going to, of course, once I got around to it. But, as you know, actually calling has never been necessary.”

  Belatedly, Danni noted apprentice's uncomprehending expression. Blinked, eyed me with astonishment. “No fooling? You mean you didn't know these things are GPS-tracking enabled? We thought you shut them off outbound because you were afraid we'd use them to locate you and reel you back in.”

  Didn't quite scuff toe on decking as admitted, “No; I just didn't want anybody calling and making me feel even guiltier about taking the plane and running off on my own.”

  “And I so would have,” Danni replied, cocking unconvincingly disapproving brow. “I turned it on as soon as we reached the plane. Except for the few minutes I had it shut off to avoid EMP damage, Teacher's known right where we were.

  “Thanks to Terry and Lisa, of course, they've been keeping up-to-date on your progress, so they knew when to put down at an airfield and shut everything off until the EMP had passed. But immediately thereafter, as you see, they came looking for us.”

  Sheepishly, tech-challenged Plucky Special-Ops Girl turned back to window. Even with Globemaster's colossal fuselage just under hundred feet away, reflections on portholes not helpful in resolving details behind them; still, pretty sure recognized many beloveds’ faces peering out.

  Satphone rang.

  Flinched; eyed it as if likely to bite. Figuratively, at least, probably was.

  Danni hit talk, eyed me smugly as quipped, “Smith-Foster Invasions; castles stormed, dragons slain, innocents rescued...” Mentor listened two seconds; then smile intensified, condensing into downright wicked grin. “It's for you," she said pointedly, handing over phone.

  Hesitancy with which accepted instrument probably would not have increased markedly had phone actually been ticking. Still, music had to be faced. Eventually.

  “Hello?”

  "You," breathed Adam testily, “got some 'splainin' to do....”

  * * * *

  C-17s cruise at 450 knots. In fact, slowing to match Stallion's 188-knot cruise had required fair degree of attention on part of big-tin pilots during brief formation link-up. Unsurprisingly, Globemasters got to agreed-upon Surgut rendezvous nearly an hour before us.

  Which meant, of course, by the time we got there, entire rescue-of-rescue expedition complement standing outside on tarmac, waiting, watching for Intrepid Girl Aviatrix to arrive in stolen plane.

  Audience included Scott, Kenny, Bill—and Lennel....

  Not to imply that mere fact entire population of AAs’ top flying aces (including very own flight instructor) would be observing impending landing created any additional layers of self-consciousness in Intrepid Girl Flying Ace...

  Okay, okay—stop hounding me! Yes, Posterity, under drug-augmented, torture-based interrogation, might be forced to admit to taking a little extra care in setting up professional-quality, precision approach to perfectly executed three-point landing; nailing greased-on touchdown at point along runway such that, as plane slowed without needing to resort to crude use of brakes, gentlest dab at rudder pedal sufficed to initiate graceful, dignified turnoff from runway onto specific taxiway leading to AAs’ parked ships by directestmost route. Taxied up to giant transports parked by fuel island; used differential braking to rotate ship smoothly around inside main-gear wheel.

  Though not even pretending to be unaware of apprentice's insecurity-driven motivations, Danni watched with approving smile as eased ship to halt exactly halfway between big planes, prop spinner precisely on line defined by Globemasters’ nose radar domes.

  All right, mentor could tell. But didn't care. Felt it not unreasonable to anticipate certain amount of criticism lay in immediate future—but damn well would not include Plucky Girl Aviatrix's flying....

  * * * *

  Would have loved to have blended invisibly with crowd as kids flooded from Stallion, but not to be. Just as, by unspoken consent, crowd outside inconspicuously parted like Red Sea to let Teacher be first to greet us (more specifically, me), Danya, kids, even Maggie, all held back to let Guilty Party out door first.

  Sighed. Swung door open, jumped down. Turned to face Teacher. Expected more-sorrow-than-anger expression, possibly even (considering magnitude of offense) gentle reproof.

  Instead (notwithstanding two-week-shower-free personal bouquet), prodigal found self enveloped in beloved leader's arms, hugged until oxygen situation approached critical. Eventually, after drawing back slightly, Teacher looked deeply, soulfully into eyes; then: “Candy, I am so sorry. If only we had gotten here in time, we might have been able to help you get Marshall out.” Hugged again, then handed off to next in line—

  Adam ... For long moments, favorite only boyfriend in whole wide world held wayward squeeze by shoulders, offering hairy-eyeball glare from beneath thunderous brows. Then gave single token shake—and suddenly he, too, yanked me to him, wrapped arms around me, hugged as if planned never to let go.

  Finally, however, did pull back (a little). Deliberately then, very gently, cuffed Intrepid Special-Ops Girl up back of head; murmured, “If you ever do anything as idiotic as this again"—paused for long moments, regarding me with haunted-looking eyes before finally continuing—"without me...”

  Then kissed me, firmly if briefly; handed off to mob's next subset, consisting of rest of adopted family: Kim, Gayle, Lisa—and Terry!

  Birdbrained sibling positively launched from Lisa's shoulder, leaping to own; began head-diving, cheek-rubbing, doing frustrated best to initiate snuggle amidst chaos, all the while babbling, “Hel-lo, baby! What'cha doo-in'? How 'bout that. You're so icky-pooh bad!", etc.; while nonfeathered family members hugged, sniffled, contributed to chorus of sympathetic murmurs over having Daddy so unfairly, last-secondly plucked from grasp—as object of massed attention promptly dissolved all over them.

  * * * *

  With whatever brai
n cells could spare, had worried occasionally during mission about how to deal with situation if Terry, Maggie failed to hit it off. Concern proved unwarranted.

  Upon first meeting, Maggie focused The Eye upon featherheaded baby brother with every evidence of interest, desire to intimidate. Terry's response was to stand very tall, stare down at new, four-legged, Type A-personality sibling from vantage point of eldest sister's shoulder, first with one eye, then other; finally clicked beak firmly, suggestively, just once. Sounded very much like firecracker.

  At that point, some sort of communication apparently took place; because as Maggie's tail resumed normal, delighted-at-everything cadence, birdbrain bobbed head cheerfully, said, “How 'bout that.”

  Which was last anyone worried about them. In fact, an hour later, Terry was dozing one-legged on Maggie's shoulder as BC lay at Lisa's side (being stroked, scritched), watching with fascination as AAs swirled about all three planes, refueling, servicing, etc.

  * * * *

  Volume XVI

  Grownups’ Table

  Okay, Posterity; now that (sigh) Two-Time Plucky Savior of Our People has had modest interval to shower (hot water!—buy stock; it's going to catch on); catch several hours’ coma-level sleep in actual (clean!) bed; be duly lionized at Adam-catered fete-together (at which almost got teary again, watching prison camp kids’ faces glow upon learning The True Meaning of Food); digest events (i.e., swallow bitter taste of, face responsibility for, almost rescuing Daddy—did hell-bent determination to prosecute solo mission carry seeds of own downfall? [on upside, didn't die this time, not even once]); take first baby steps toward coming to grips with all those killings; wallow in warm-fuzzy satisfaction of having rescued kids; as well as pleasant afterglow from visiting Father Toys en route home after all (with promise of further contact, commerce between settlements)—it's back to business as usual.

  Equally as usual, first step: Bringing current journal up-to-date. And very first commentary in own hand (following marvelously complete, detail-rich Terry: Lisa-plus-Kim/Danya sections) simply has to be inaugural entry in your Humble Historiographer's new thesis-in-progress: Life's (Real) Operant Principles. Still mulling whether work should be endnote/addendum to The Journals of the Life & Times of Candy Smith-Foster, Plucky Girl Adventurer, or bud off to form independent monograph. Guess depends upon how many (Real) Operant Principles turn up.

  But here's first: One can get away with anything, so long as manage to save world in process.

  Remarkably, not one cross word uttered on subject of stealing plane, weapons, tools, supplies; dragging entire Mt. Palomar special-forces group—replete with associated support personnel, two huge aircraft, tons of matériel—more than third the way around world just to save Quixotic Girl Adventurer from consequences of own headstrong folly.

  Initially, scale of AAs’ operation quite took breath away, nearly smothered Yours Truly in self-inflicted guilt. Of course, that was before Danya got around to updating brash, frequently-more-trouble-than-she's-worth apprentice regarding Teacher's revised threat-elimination schedule: Massive effort wasn't entirely All About Me.

  Just mostly.

  At least according to Lisa, only member of party willing initially to part with uneditorialized summary of events. Even now, while haven't heard so much as single word of overt criticism, most grownups, to greater/lesser degree, varying by individual, do seem under compulsion to slip in subtle message about wisdom/benefits of Working Together For Common Good, not to mention (just incidentally), My Own Good, when commiserating with would-be Daddy-rescuer over bad luck.

  All except—surprise!—Danni, who, after reflection, quietly opined that primary mission's failure not blanket indictment of Plucky Special-Ops Girl's solitariness per se. Even if she had caught up to me the day before, mentor observed, outcome likely would have been the same. Simply too many unfavorable, unpredictable, uncontrollable elements, all converging at wrong place/time. Some problems, she confided, don't have a solution.

  Probably this sounded more comforting inside her head....

  Adam, however, though has forgiven me for not taking him along, still watching me like Maggie keeping eye on known rogue sheep; clearly worried that, given slightest excuse, will go haring off on another private crusade.

  And, to be fair, had every intention of doing just that at earliest opportunity, if AAs failed promptly to follow-up on Meyrin clue. However, since returning to fold, have been invited to every strategy session with Teacher, Wallace, Danni, Peter, other AA special-forces operatives.

  And presence not merely palliative, token, cosmetic: Very first time in attendance, asked to present briefing concerning activities, observations, conclusions. Teacher particularly interested in subjective impressions of opposition; details beyond those included in journal.

  On occasions when have risen to ask question, contribute observation, suggestion, discussions that follow give every impression of consideration at least as serious as those that attend Danni's, Wallace's, other senior operatives’ input.

  Mostly, however, been sitting quietly, listening, thinking.

  Been doing lots of thinking.

  Meyrin, f'rinstance ... Most AAs, original and/or adopted, seem agreed, probably refers to small Swiss village by that name, hardly more than bedroom community, where many CERN personnel lived when off-duty.

  Makes ominous sort of sense: Khraniteli perpetually on trail of ever higher-tech Ultimate Solutions to eliminate problem represented by existence of everyone else, but particularly evolutionary successors. Clearly, therefore, one of previous civilization's largest concentrations of scientific research facilities, established in support of world's second-biggest particle-accelerator laboratory, sure to contain resources applicable to numerous lines of inquiry directed toward that end.

  Plus, like all things Swiss (publicly, at least), Meyrin thermonuclear-warhead-free zone. Theoretically makes ideal location to put Daddy back to work hunting for/assembling hominem-eating superbugs under close supervision, without raising specter of consequences of allowing sudden-death-in-a-lab-coat (or so Khraniteli now believe—tee-hee) Doctor Superspook access to Big Bangs.

  Regardless, as close as Khraniteli have come to wiping us out in past, seems to me last thing we need is to allow them to spend significant alone-time in facilities with potential to develop yet another doomsday bomb, hominem-physiology-specific bug or death-ray, or some equally armageddonous toy.

  In my view, presence of Khraniteli at CERN alone, quite independent of Daddy-retrieval issue, should mandate immediate departure on recovery/housecleaning mission, if for no other reason than to drive ever-scheming, genocidal monsters the hell out of there—or just blow whole thing up after saving Daddy, if conservative pest control deemed impractical. Yet AAs persist in thoughtful approach; only activities evident at this point are information-gathering, review, planning, etc.—i.e., talk.

  All of which creates ethical dilemma: On one hand, since clearly being regarded/treated now as adult equal, would seem to have equally clear obligation to behave adultly. Can't just bail, run own op, merely because others’ ranking of priorities may not match Berserker Special-Ops Girl's view of situation, not to mention differing opinions on timetable, strategy, tactics.

  Regardless how indefensibly wrong their position is.

  I mean, if did that, what would Danni say?

  On other hand, when exigent circumstances arose, isn't that exactly what mayhem guru did herself ... ?

  Hmm. Never anticipated becoming grownup would be so complicated....

  Copyright (c) 2008 David R. Palmer

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Reader's Department: THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

  by Tom Easton

  Galaxy Blues, Allen Steele, Ace, $24.95, 322 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-441-01564-1).

  The Automatic Detective, A. Lee Martinez, Tor, $14.95, 317 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1834-3).

  Dragons Wild, Robert Asprin, Ace, $14.00, 361 pp. (ISBN: 9
78-0-441-01470-5).

  A World Too Near, Kay Kenyon, Pyr, $25.00, 423 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-642-6).

  Tigerheart, Peter David, Del Rey, $22.00, 302 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-345-50159-2).

  The Martian General's Daughter, Theodore Judson, Pyr, $15.00, 234 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59102-643-3).

  Grease Monkey, Tim Eldred, Tor, $19.95, 352 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1326-3).

  The Dragon Done It, Eric Flint and Mike Resnick, eds., Baen Books, $24.00, 402 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-4165-5528-5).

  The Other Roosevelts, Mike Resnick, Subterranean Press, $35.00, 204 pp.

  * * * *

  Allen Steele's Coyote trilogy began with the idea that in the not-too-distant future, the US turned thoroughly into the night of the religious right, giving a Department of Internal Security the powers of East Germany's erstwhile stasi or the Soviet KGB, and interning dissident intellectuals (DIs), meaning any scientist, university faculty member, or educated person who dared to question the party line. The tyrants said they had brought America back to its roots, its true self, but the Bill of Rights was no more. If one felt that Steele was using SF to point a finger at current trends, one was quite right. In the real world, we have elections to give us hope of change. In his, elections were a thing of the past and there was no hope. But ... Starship Alabama was about to launch, and the DIs managed to hijack it and settle the world of Coyote free of tyranny. And when the folks back home eventually sent more ships to bring the rebels back under thumb, they licked ‘em (see Coyote Rising, reviewed here in May 2005).

  So now Coyote is free and independent and in touch with the alien hjadd civilization. But the tyrants remain back on Earth. Galaxy Blues begins with Jules Truffaut, who has been booted from Earth's space corps, but knows the ropes well enough to sneak off under another name and eventually stow away rather cleverly on a Coyote-bound ship. He plans to claim political asylum, but first he has to get there. Alas, he is caught, and though he manages to steal a lifeboat and land safely, now his primary status is criminal, not refugee. Deportation looms.