Guardsman

by Pam Uphoff

  She disappeared before he could thank her. Or snarl at her. Licked the applesauce bowl.

  Then he clicked the tv back on to watch the end of the movie.

  Which was just as ridiculous as the rest.

  “And Endi Dewulfe turns out to be Xen Wolfson, Master Spy? And apparently our doctor?” Davos shook his head. “The future is weirder than I’d ever thought.”

  “No kidding.” Lucky Dave sniffed. “So the master spy can apparently come and go freely? Where’s the sense in that? Don’t we have anyone who could have fixed me up?”

  “No.” The man walking in was wearing some sort of stiff white robe over an ugly dull blue shirt and matching pants.

  Hideous styles . . . at least Ra’d wasn’t wearing anything like this so maybe I won’t have to, either.

  “Didn’t you notice the boggled expressions on everyone’s faces, yesterday?”

  Lucky Dave shrugged. It doesn’t hurt to shrug! “I was not at my best, yesterday.”

  “Well.” The doctor glanced between the pair of them, then looked worriedly at the tv screen behind the commander’s bed. “Let’s talk about what you three need. Physical therapy for you two. And I honestly have no idea about . . . the Prophet.”

  Lucky Dave sat up and swung his legs off the bed. “They call it the healing trance. He woke briefly today. He’ll need to eat every three or four days. I don’t know if he should exercise then or not.”

  “Well . . . we’ll see. In the meantime the Registrar is going to stop by and test you all for which . . . genes of the Prophets you have.” He shot a glance at Nicholas. “And get you registered properly.”

  Lucky Dave wrinkled his nose. “You mean these four letter codes that are mostly unpronounceable?”

  “Yes. I highly recommend you try for pronounceable combinations. And bland is much to be preferred to funny or crude.”

  Davos chuckled. “Unlike Ra’d? Yes, we’ll take his fiasco as a warning.”

  Lucky Dave sighed. “I certainly hope we can beat the common sense of a fifteen-year-old. Yeah, bring on the Registrar. Time to join the future.”

  ***

  “Well. At least we both have Vs.”

  Lucky Dave nodded. “But a D would have been nice. But U, U, and E for the vowels? And they have to be the first and last letters?”

  The Registrar looked over at them, from the foot of Nicholas’s bed. “The W is also considered a vowel, and is often silent.”

  Lucky Dave blinked. “Well . . . that’s a big change from a thousand years ago.” He looked back at his list. “T,V,E is as close to Dave as I can get. Stick the W in front of it, and . . . what the hell.”

  “This is ridiculous.” His little brother was frowning at his list. “Wtva? I don’t think so.”

  Lucky Dave limped carefully around to look at list. “Avos. It’s pronounceable and you just have to add the D for a logical nickname.”

  The Registrar shook her head.

  “Oh. Right. Avso.”

  Davos nodded. “It’s got as many of the right letters as possible.”

  Lucky Dave limped, his right leg weak after however long in a splint, and peered over the Registrar’s shoulder.

  Good looking young woman. I wonder what the dating protocols are? Do I need her father’s permission to ask her out? Not that a father would let her near a no-power son.

  “What does the commander have? Oh, even worse. At least there’s an N. And A, O, H, Q, and S. Not that you can come close to Nicholas with that mess. T, V, W, Z, F, E?”

  The Registrar’s neck and what he could see of her check were getting red.

  Too close. Invading her personal space.

  He backed away and sat down on the bed before his leg gave out. “The silent W, then N.”

  “Or E, N.” Davos pushed himself upright. Wobbled and eased back down.

  Six weeks, more or less, of lying around, trying to magically heal his guts while not quite starving. But he’s going to survive.

  “That’s good. And maybe Q, A? That’s not actually bad. S, A. or H, A? Or an O.”

  “Pronounced Enqa or Enqo? That’s a bit more masculine.” A frown from the Registrar. “To my ears.”

  “Or pronounce it Nicko? So, E,N,Q,O” Lucky Dave sighed. “I think that’s the best we can do.”

  The Registrar nodded. “That’s nice, and inoffensive. And you are all Withiones. Two-sixteens! Both of you!” She frowned at her instruments. “That’s odd. The Prophet Nicholas is a two-fifteen? How can a Prophet have a dropped gene?”

  “I haven’t a clue what you are even talking about.” Lucky Dave sighed. “What is a two fifteen?”

  “Oh. Two hundred and fifteen genes on the twelve insertions. Eighteen on each insertion, but a few genes get dropped on occasion.” She frowned at the commander, oblivious on the bed. “Or so we thought. Maybe some insertions started with fewer?”

  She shook her head. “Well. So, I checked on how you three were to be registered. So. . .” she pointed at Davos. “You are Avso Withione Daiki Makkah.” The pointing finger moved to Lucky Dave. “Wtve Withione Daiki Makkah. And the Prophet is Enqo Withione Nicholas Makkah.”

  “How come he gets his name in there?”

  “Clan Makkah. Sub clan Nicholas. Which includes his daughter, son, and two grandchildren. Subclan Daiki already has Alvi registered.”

  Davos stirred, and Lucky Dave jumped in quickly. “So the sub clan is our nearest Prophet ancestor?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you just say I have two grandchildren?”

  The Registrar jumped at the voice from the bed. “Yes, sir! One Nicholas. Sir!”

  “Ra’d’s, I presume?”

  “Oh! Yes, Sir! Everyone knows he’s keeping company with a Comet Fall Witch! That Nighthawk who didn’t murder her boyfriend!”

  “I . . . see that I shall have a long talk with my son.”

  Yeah. “Keeping company” with a witch? Two bastard grandchildren?

  However . . . Lucky Dave poked the button for the nurse.

  She must have been hovering outside, because she popped right in.

  “Can you get something for Commander Nicholas to eat? Right now, while he’s awake?”

  “Oh!” She disappeared even faster, and returned with a tray.

  He’s waking more often. Is that good or bad? Is he healed, or is this hospital too noisy? Unsafe feeling?

  But the commander approved of the “name” and ate his tiny meal before slipping back into the healing trance.

  ***

  The Crazy Redhead brought them ID cards and cash cards. “Not that there’s anything to buy here, but we’ll get you out of here soon enough.”

  Dave eyed the two plastic rectangles, and shrugged.

  But as soon as she was gone, he took a short exploratory walk and found a window. He leaned against the wall and studied the tall buildings, the multitude of styles, the sheer size of the built-up area. The green, treed, areas were squared off and surrounded. There was a sense of . . . permanency, robustness to it. He gimped back toward the room, caught sight of what he suspected was the nurses’ break room. Chairs and tables, some tall machines with glass fronts showing various goodies. He eyed the controls. Those buttons, a slot for a card . . . He limped back to their room and sat for a few minutes . . . Dammit, we ate an hour ago. I’m going to be hungry until . . . He grabbed the “cash card” and gimped back down the hall . . .

  The cute little nurse confiscated his candy bar. “Give your poor system time to recover!”

  Damn.

  ***

  Then physical therapy.

  “Both of us at once?” Lucky Dave shot a worried glance toward the commander.

  “Not to worry.” The head of the guard detachment stepped out of the orderlies’ way as they wheeled a chair in for Davos. Sergeant Scar—apparently how they pronounced Wsca—grinned. “I’ll stay right here, and make sure he eats if he wakes up. Relax. We all know Isakson and Ra’d will kill us if we let anything happen
to the Prophet.”

  Right. Isakson trains these guys. Ra’d knows them—and they’re the ones sent to back up Crazy Redhead One. So . . . trusted by their president.

  “Right.” He squared his shoulders and got out of bed.

  At least we’re dressed. No doubt Umaya and Jadida sent the clothes. He shot a glance at Davos, painfully attempting to cooperate with the orderlies. Or maybe just Umaya.

  ***

  After having his flexibility and strength measured, and performing exercises designed to be as painful as possible, he gimped back to the room. Paused outside at the sound of voices.

  “. . . compounded the error by invading, and getting our asses handed to us by a mix of wizards, witches, and cavalry. Yes, with horses and swords.”

  Lucky Dave stepped into the room. Scar was talking to Nicholas, who was sitting up and eating.

  Scar looked around and nodded. “And then instead of surrendering, the officers used remote triggers to kill the remaining troops, then shot themselves.”

  “They . . . we . . . killed our own troops?”

  “Yes, sir. The theory was to not give the enemy any information. What they thought the ground pounders could say that would be of any help is hard to say.” Scar shook his head. “Of course, now, we know they’re perfectly nice civilized people who would have treated captured enemy soldiers well. There’s a lot of low level unhappiness, in both the troops and in the population. The extended families of a couple hundred dead men. The families of every man in uniform.”

  Lucky Dave eyed Scar’s black with purple trim uniform.

  Scar nodded. “There was an incident, umm, eight years ago? Where it came out that a Spec Ops Team had terminal implants. And that the infamous Rael, yes, your Rael, had been given an implant in the guise of a vaccination.”

  “Not my Rael.”

  “True. She’s Xen’s Rael. Well, the Black Horse Guards are a branch of the military, so our doc examined us all. About a third of us had the implants. They removed them all. And the Army claimed to be removing implants in all current and former military personnel.”

  Nicholas scrapped his tray. “Pathetic meal. I’m surprised there weren’t any officers strung up by their own men. But then, they wouldn’t dare mutiny, would they?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “So . . . Rael works with the Army?” Dave tried to lean against the wall casually, and not like his right leg was about to collapse.

  Scar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Umm, President Orde lost a vote of no confidence and was sidelined for three months until a special election returned him to power. The interim government decided to take the opportunity to kill Wolfson. And ordered Rael to assist, as she was the expert on Xen Wolfson.”

  “How foolish of them . . . and obviously it didn’t work.”

  “Yeah. Xen wrapped them up and delivered them unharmed, once Orde was back in control.” Scar grinned. “I’ll get you the news casts, unless you want the fictionalized version.”

  “Do they make movies of everything?” Lucky Dave glanced over his shoulder and got out of the way of Davos’s wheelchair.

  “Damn it, I can barely stand up.” Davos sighed. “Hell, I have trouble sitting up.”

  Lucky Dave sniffed. “That’s what you get for laying around, all la-dee-dah, for weeks, just because you were gut-shot.”

  A snort from Nicholas. “I’m shocked any of us survived. I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to credit Captain Dave’s Luck . . . Again.”

  A giggle from the door.

  “Oh, God, the Redhead from Hell.”

  She was in uniform, hair flatter, just a few spikes on the ends of her sideswept bangs.

  And grinning. “All the vids with Lucky Dave in them have a seesaw of good and bad luck. But having seen what they do to solidly established facts, I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Lucky Dave ignored snickers from the commander and Davos.

  Movies. With me in them. Just. Kill. Me. Now.

  He gritted his teeth and decided to try for more information. “All right. We’ve seen this ridiculous movie. So we’re starting to get a grasp of who people are and how things works. But I’m failing to understand the difference between ministries and directorates, and how the military fits into it all.”

  “The Directorates report directly to the President, who appoints—and dismisses—the Directors. The Ministries are staffed and controlled by the Council, that appoints and dismisses Ministers. The military is nominally under the control of the Council through the Ministry of War, but an official State of War requires a vote of the whole Council and the concurrence of the President.”

  Rael nodded toward Scar. “And the Black Horse Guards are a permanently detached Army unit under the direct command of the President. Their main job is presidential security, but they are also Fast Response troops . . . umm, depending on which vid you watched, when Endi opened the gate to Granite Peak, the President had troops on the ground in fifteen minutes, and heavy weaponry on site in less than an hour. That was the Black Horse Guards.”

  “Huh.” Lucky Dave eyed her. “And you’re Directorate, but not a Black Horse Guard . . . Are there black horses involved?”

  Sergeant Scar nodded. “The Ceremonial Guard. Big tourist attraction. And those spectacularly beautiful parade horses can get us to anywhere on Government House grounds in two minutes flat. We drill it regularly. I can get from ‘playing statue at the front steps’ to the main rear door in seventy-two seconds.”

  Rael giggled. “Yes, they have—totally unofficial—competitions. During drills. During the Real Thing—that assassination attempt—they had to slow down to avoid trampling the fleeing crowd. They formed a rather large screen around the president and his daughter, getting them out to an aircar.”

  Scar nodded. “I transferred in a couple of months later. We don’t let the surveillance recordings out of our hands, so no one can plan around them. But, One, do they ever make us study them.”

  Huh. Sounds like . . . a good place for an old soldier . . . who’s not very old . . . except . . .

  “So are you all those Withione things?”

  “Nah . . . well, a lot of us, but we’re all the way down to Halfer . . . might be some Multitude.” Scar shrugged. “We have enlisted men as grooms for the horses, and we take care of the president’s private horses too, including the daughter, Paer Withione’s Olympic jumper. Her horseboy is still bragging about taking out a woman attacking her. Because they aren’t just horseboys.”

  So I could be a horseboy? Except that stuff Ra’d gave me . . . I didn’t take it seriously. Didn’t think it over.

  And anyway, Commander Nicholas still needs a guard.

  But the Registrar said I was . . . Wtve Withione. Holy. Shit.

  So . . . “Lucky” Dave, how are you going to explain your lack of magical training?

  Davos looked from Guard to Redhead. “So . . . I couldn’t help but notice that you have developed a lot of magical techniques, well past anything we knew. Where do we get lessons?”

  Hot. Damn. Good job, little brother.

  “Well, if you all come to Versalle, you can join the training sessions for the Guards and Agents.” A giggle from the Redhead. “We do realize that your first duty is to Nicholas,” a nod to the commander, “but you are both going to be heavily recruited by almost everyone. I . . . await with gleeful anticipation what sorts of job offers a Prophet might attract.”

  A snort from Nicholas. “I’m an army officer. A strategist. Am I correct in thinking there are no wars underway?”

  “Not at the moment.” Scar shrugged. “I’ll get you some docu-dramas on the Helios . . . encounters. And current events. But there’s nothing crucial happening, right now, if you prefer to get your updates in roughly chronological order. Hmm, ‘The Survivors of Rangpur’ next, I think. It’s all about your families’ reintroduction to modern times, and a surprisingly honest look at the One. Then ‘Embassy,’ with the start of cross dimensional dip
lomacy.”

  Rael raised her eyebrows. “What vids have been inflicted on them so far? There hasn’t been much time.”

  Lucky Dave grinned. “Horseboy.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Well . . . I am glad to see you recovered. Now, that was in 1396? Seventeen years ago?” Lucky Dave thought that over. Looked at the Mad Redhead. She recovered fast enough to have a baby the next year? And . . . “and President Orde is still in office? How long are terms and are there limits?”

  “Terms are for five years, with elections on the Oughts and the Fives. Four terms—unless voted out—is the usual and expected. A few have gone for a fifth term, but that’s fairly rare. Orde has mentioned that he feels like he’s ossified, so I suspect he won’t run again.” She shrugged. “So a year and a half until the campaign chaos starts.”

  “If the president isn’t running for reelection, won’t that be low key for you lot?”

  Shaken heads.

  Scar sighed. “The Presidential Directorate provides security to all the candidates. Eight parties. Multiple candidates each. Sometimes some independents.”

  “Heh. What’s the time frame?” Lucky Dave sat up. Damn, this is my kind of stuff. Not elections, but security.

  “One Muharram 1415, everyone with any interest declares. Legally they cannot declare until then, but since they cannot hold a government job while campaigning, they’ll have been resigning over the previous weeks, which everyone will take as an unofficial announcement.”

  Nicholas frowned. “Bit of a career gamble, isn’t that?”

  Rael nodded. “Yep. Especially if they are already in an elected position. They can’t hope to be rehired, if they lose. Realistically, though, there’s only four parties with a chance of winning, and frankly, even our Modernists are thin on the ground.”

  “So there could be a major change of policy in two years. So, tell us more of the nuts and bolts.”

  Rael paused. “Does that mean the mechanics of it all? Well, as soon as the soon-to-be candidates start resigning, the knives will come out, as their supporters jockey for influential positions in the campaigns, hoping that will lead to influential government positions when their candidate wins.”