“Ma’am,” Loren answered, automatically, her hand going to cover her left wristband.
“Your pass?”
“I…” This was it: the moment she had been waiting for. All the sleepless nights, all the dreams, all the desperation of her determined flight up here. “I need to see the Consort. I have urgent business with him.”
The woman guard—she had red hair, longer than Loren’s, pulled back in a ponytail, and unusually pale eyes—stood a little taller and glanced at her partner. “Your pass, Citizen,” she repeated.
The male guard nodded and still said nothing.
Loren sighed and held out her wrist. “Gramma Francesca sent me, from Deck 47, in the three hundreds. The errand is urgent, and she programmed my pass quickly—it might not be exactly right.” Of course it’s not exactly right—it’s not even sort of right. But it’s all I’ve got.
The woman took Loren’s hand, turning it gently, and peered at the left wristband. It was an odd echo of the Consort’s action two days ago.
And, oddly, the touch gave Loren the same shivering thrill.
In the privacy of her own mind, Loren laughed at herself. Now any time someone gives me a new assignment or checks my status, I’m going to giggle like a schoolgirl? Oh, wonderful.
The guard finished her inspection, frowning. She turned to her partner and began to speak quietly in coded language.
The woman was going to deny Loren. They were going to stop her, to send her back. This was her only chance, and they were going to stop her.
Loren yanked the heavy wrench out of her pocket and held it high, brandishing it over both their heads. “I know it’s wrong, and I don’t care. I’ve got to see the Consort! I have to!” She reached back; she’d hit the man first, and maybe the woman would run.
The female guard didn’t move, didn’t speak, for a long moment. Then she drew her weapon in a blur of movement and Loren’s world went blank.
~o0o~
Loren awoke in pain—the usual pain, from a stun-blow, magnified by what must have been several applications of Control and Direction to her wristband.
She was lying on a cot in a small holding cell. Had she been sent back to Deck 47? Most likely.
Loren sat up, rubbing her face, trying to ignore the pain. Her head seared with it, and the backs of her eyes, and a stab of agony ran through her left calf muscle. “Oh….”
After a minute, the pain ebbed a bit, but still, Loren wished she had a huge handful of Pain-Free. Or a big ration of slivovitz.
Why was her calf hurting so much? Hadn’t the guard hit her in the chest, as they usually did?
Loren studied the small room as her vision steadied. No manual controls on the inside of the hatch, just a keypad and a sensor. Yes: a holding cell. Too bad for her if there was a fire or a life support failure. Perhaps a bit more spacious than she’d expected, but since she had never occupied one, merely repaired the isolated airflow systems supporting them, she wasn’t entirely sure.
One long table against the bulkhead, with nothing on it; a sink, with no mirror over it; a small sanitary device in the corner, with a ration of wipes beside it. The cot upon which she sat, steel frame with the usual thickness of mattress and the usual blanket. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing she wouldn’t have expected to find.
It took her a while to realize what was different about the cell. The bulkheads were painted mauve, with dark green accents.
~o0o~
After a time, the hatch slid open. Loren crouched on the cot, her knees drawn up, rubbing the sore calf. Her headache surged forward as her eyes snapped to the hatchway.
It was the redheaded guard, alone, and unarmed. She slipped in, then tapped the keypad. The hatch snicked shut behind her.
“What…?” Loren started, then stopped herself. This whole business had more than a whiff of danger to it. Of things that weren’t allowed.
“Quiet,” the guard said, unnecessarily. She sat beside Loren on the cot, perhaps just a bit too close, facing her.
From this distance, Loren could see that her pale eyes were sea-gray. It was a striking look, with the lush red hair.
Hair that was now loose and flowing over the woman’s shoulders.
“Tell me why you’ve come here,” the guard now whispered, “and I may be able to help you.”
“I…” Loren stared back into the woman’s eyes. God, she was beautiful. Loren had been with women before—what girl hadn’t?—but it had never done anything much for her. Women together: that wasn’t how the romances went, after all. “I told you. I came to see the Consort.”
The woman shook her head, but a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, you said that. But you know and I know that your gang boss didn’t send you. Look: tell, and I might be able to do something. But quickly.”
Loren bit her lip, then told the woman all.
~o0o~
She waited in the cell. After she’d poured out her heart and soul, the woman—Sonia was her name, and it suited her, Loren thought—had nodded, then hugged her tightly. “Be strong,” she whispered. “I’ll be back.”
The next time the hatch opened, though, it was just an orderly with a tray of food. Rations that were neither better nor worse than what she’d get in the gang mess back on Deck 47 or from the dispensers scattered throughout her part of Ship.
She ate the food, though she had little appetite. At least her aches and pains were subsiding.
A few more hours went by. Loren was wishing hard that the cell had been provided with an entertainment console when the hatch snicked open again, and Sonia entered.
The Consort was right behind her.
“Ohhh,” Loren sighed, as they both stepped into the cell and closed the hatch behind them. Full of words, she was, thousands of words—and they all failed her, in this moment. The moment she’d been waiting for; the reason she’d taken this risk, risen to this level…
“Yes, this is the one,” the Consort said to Sonia.
“I thought so.” Sonia sat on the cot beside Loren once more, though Loren barely noticed. The Consort stood just inside the hatch, watching her with an unreadable expression. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He was even more beautiful than she’d remembered.
“Have you told her?” he asked Sonia.
“Not yet. I wanted to be sure.”
Now Loren turned to the other woman. “Told me what?”
The redheaded guard took Loren’s hands, both of them, and smiled at her. Yes, the woman was lovely indeed. Was everyone so gorgeous here in the upper echelons? Even the workers? Loren shook away the thought. It didn’t matter. Of course they were good-looking. That was why they were privileged, right?
“We have an exciting proposal for you.”
This is it, she thought, as a thrill filled her chest, saturated her heart with joy. She had been right. The Consort was looking for escape, a way out—he had singled Loren out, chosen her—life was a romance indeed…
Even if it wasn’t playing out exactly as Loren had hoped, had dreamed. It would be better if it were she and the Consort alone, if it were his hands in hers right now, not Sonia’s…
But the woman was still talking. Loren had missed the first few words, but snapped to attention at the word “Outside.”
“…never recruit for such missions openly,” she was saying. “Too many people think they’re strong enough, capable enough, for what we face out there, but they’re not.”
“Out… Outside?” Loren stammered. What?
“Yes.” Sonia smiled even more broadly. “It’s a new mission, just being formed, to map out our arrival. In this generation! The team will be doing planetary surveys. Exploration and mapping. High danger, high chance of injury…”
“High reward.” The Consort finally spoke again. “And we think you’re perfectly suited as the team’s biomechanic.”
Loren stared back at the man of her dreams. Her mind was both blank and racing. Thoughts, half-formed, flitted through her head and
then vanished, chased by other, even crazier thoughts. Finally, she managed, “Why me? There must be hundreds of better engineering techs in and out of the bio specialties.”
“But none more daring. None with your initiative.” Sonia again. “Look at what you’ve done, all the rules you’ve broken, the risks you’ve taken.”
“But not… That wasn’t for going Outside.” She didn’t want to die! Were they insane? Was she going to wake up at any moment, safe in her own bunk?
The Consort laughed. “No, of course not. As Sonia said, we can’t advertise for this—we’d get all sorts of fools. You couldn’t have known.”
“We’ve had our eye on you for some time,” Sonia went on. “When your gang boss first reported that you routinely modified your work logs to cover the fact that you finished jobs faster than anyone else, but didn’t ask to take on a new assignment, we knew you had ingenuity, and a strong sense of self-preservation.”
“I…” Gramma Francesca had known about the logs? She thought she’d hidden that without a trace.
“And when we reviewed the records of what entertainments you ordered, we knew you were a dreamer, a woman with imagination.” The Consort, this time.
“No one without imagination survives Outside.” Sonia gazed at Loren, her face serious, pleading.
They meant it, these people. But no, there was no way.
Unless…
“What is the reward?” she asked.
Sonia beamed back at her, and the Consort smiled and took a step forward. “Name your price.”
Loren looked up into his eyes. “You.”
His smile fell away and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be a fool, Citizen.” Her heart sank at the tone of the Consort’s voice. “I meant credits, privileges—anything you desire that one of your station can have. Extra rations, larger quarters. Any work assignment you request upon your return.”
“I don’t want that.” Loren felt herself filling with desperate urgency, a sense of recklessness. She had nothing left to lose. “If you’ve been researching me and watching me all this time, you know what I want. That’s why you’ve been following me personally, isn’t it? Haunting me. You know. And you know I won’t settle for some stupid larger bunk and a dozen extra drinks per cycle. You know.”
His expression was not changing as she spoke. She might as well be arguing with empty air. Beside her, Sonia looked sad, disappointed. It didn’t mar the woman’s loveliness any.
“Impossible,” the Consort finally said.
Loren stared back at him. Up close, she could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair was thinning, just a bit. His suit, though made of exquisite material, fit him rather too tight around the hips, too loose around the shoulders.
He was not perfect.
He was not the hero.
“Let me go below, then,” she said. “Just send me back.”
“It’s not that simple,” the Consort began, but Sonia interrupted: “Yes, it is. We haven’t told her anything that isn’t general knowledge, or at least general rumor.” She looked at Loren. “You can go.”
Who was in charge here? Surely the Consort outranked a mere guard? But the man only nodded, and within minutes, Loren was back in the same high-speed lift she’d come up on, carrying nothing but memories and hastily-swallowed tears.
~o0o~
Loren slouched in Frame Zero, the small bar on Deck 47, two ration glasses of slivovitz on the table before her. The murmur of conversation surrounded her; she listened idly to it, picking up words here and there, but nothing coherent.
Nothing interesting.
Garen walked in, scanned the room, and saw her. His face broke into a broad grin as he came over to her table and sat down.
“Hi! I haven’t seen you in days!”
“Yes. They’ve got me working over in the gardens at Hullframe 280. A big duct rupture. Got to do a bunch of reconditioning.”
Garen frowned briefly, then returned to grinning. “I’d love it if you’d show me some day…”
“No can do. I can’t pull you off of your own important work.” Gramma Francesca had him stripping bimetallic windings from old coil drive cores. Yes, her work gang boss didn’t miss a trick.
He sighed, then seemed to notice the two drinks. “Oh! For me? Thanks!”
“No.” Loren reached a hand out, ready to bat his away if he reached for one. But her tone was enough. Her tone, and her next words: “I’ve got a date.”
“Oh.” An awkward pause, as color rose in his sallow, unattractive face. Then he was gone.
“I’ve got a date,” Loren whispered under her breath. “A date with a redhead…”
Life wasn’t a romance, after all. Not in the usual, traditional sense: with tall handsome knights in shining armor. But that didn’t mean it had to be boring.
Mad Gus Missteps
From the ‘Legends of Beer’ Catalogue: Volume 17, Canto 210
Mark J. Ferrari and Shannon Page
Mark and I were at a party when our friend Phyl said, “Write me a story for my beer anthology! I need it next week!” I am a wine drinker; Mark, when he drinks at all, prefers sweet cocktails. Nevertheless, we set to it. The oral history transcript format (and the footnotes) were my idea; the plot, the humor, the delightful absurdity is all Mark. How Beer Saved the World was published by Sky Warrior in 2013.
_______________
The following is transcribed from an interview with extremely aged [1] German pig farmer Gustavo Dourtmundschtradel, conducted in English[2] by Roland Halifax, an oral history researcher from Bisonford University in Littleville, Iowa,[3] originally recorded on November 22nd, 1993 at Gustavo’s ancestral farmhouse in the hamlet of Frauschlesundmunster.[4]
RH: Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Herr Dourtmundschtradel.
GD: A man of my age is of no further use with the pigs, Herr Halifax. It is good to have some other occupation—and to hope, of course, that some of my ancestral lore may be preserved... For some more appreciative audience, perhaps, than my dummkopf [5] son, who never believes a word I speak, and his even dimmer offspring with their video games and little music players. [Thoughtful pause] I must confess to fearing that the Dourtmundschtradel line is failing. Soon, our stories may be all that remains of us.
RH: Ah... Well then... What story would you like to start with?
GD: It is always best to start at the beginning, ja[6]? So I will tell you first, Herr Halifax, the oldest story in my family’s possession. A tale of the liberation of Durn in Schkerrinwald—the place from which my line originates, too many centuries ago to count now.
RH: Can you give me even an approximate century in which to place this account?
GD: Ach du Lieber Himmel![7] No, lad. My tale comes from a time before centuries had been invented. This is from the... How is it in English? ... The Jahren sehr lange Geschichten.[8]
RH: Good heavens![9] That’s quite an old story! However did you come by it?
GD: I had it from my father.
RH: And ... do you know how he came by it?
GD: Had it from his father, of course—who had it from his father, and so on. I am 91 years old, Herr Halifax. The time we have is maybe short to waste on such trivialities, ja?
RH: Sorry. Do go on.
GD: Well, as you will no doubt have heard, Europe was a dark place to be living in those days. But even by such standards, the isolated village of Durn was darker than most. It had many nicknames then, all of them words for misery of one kind or another.
RH: I’ve never heard of any Durn Village.
GD: Of course not. It was gone not long after this story transpired. The meager valley to which it clung was but an inhospitable rent in the high mountains of Schkerrinwald.
RH: Where is Schkerrinwald, exactly?
GD: Gone as well—a mere century or two after Durn. The whole empire of Vorkenfast was never more than one of many tenuous experiments in kingdom-craft back then.
RH: I must confess, I’ve never he
ard of an empire named Vorkenfast either.
GD: How could you have? I would never have heard of it myself, were my people not descended from the place.[10] And yet, out of Durn, meanest village of Schkerrinwald, least kingdom of the tenuous Vorkenfast Empire, came the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon Europe.
RH: Which was...?
GD: Why, beer, of course![11] And my own many-times-great-grandfather was the man who first brought that golden gift into the land of Germany.
RH: I’m sorry... Did you just say ... that your family introduced beer to Germany?
GD: Ja.[12]
RH: [Unintelligible sounds of surprise and/or confusion.]
GD: Before you inform me once again that you have never heard of this, Herr Halifax, allow me to concede that any tangible evidence of this claim vanished with my ancient ancestors, which is why I have never elected to tell even my disappointing son of this secret handed down through so many of my forefathers. I have no doubt of the tale’s veracity. Neither my father, nor any of his fathers were liars—or fools.[13] My son, alas, is the first of us for that. But I am German,[14] and my people do not so much enjoy playing the laughingstock as do those of your young country, so I have kept silent until now. You seem a pleasant fellow, wise enough to value the past more than most, but if you think my tale too improbable, let us leave it and proceed to some other.
RH: No, no! Please, Herr Dourtmundschtradel, continue. I’m quite fascinated.
GD: Very well, then...
The valley of Durn, as I was saying, had been oppressed for decades by a tyrant who styled himself Lord Augustus Stephenson of the Brown Feather;[15] a paranoid bombast who kept a small army of henchmen stabled like cattle in his heavily fortified manse upon a steep rise at the valley’s southern end. This pretense of a castle squatted like a guardhouse between the village and a great waterfall that marked the valley’s only navigable passage to the outside world. No one came or went from Durn without Lord Stephenson’s leave, which is to say that almost no one ever came or went from Durn at all—except as prisoners or exiles.[16]
This self-styled “Lord” was universally referred to by the valley’s unfortunate inhabitants as Mad Gus—never within his hearing, of course—for few in Durn had not suffered frequent outrages at his unpredictable whim. Mad Gus saw punishment as a preventative measure. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was not just his favorite Bible verse; it was the only one he knew. He liked it so well that he had it carved upon his coat of arms.[17] A week did not go by without someone’s wife dragged from the house and sold to slavers in remuneration for some petty debt to Stephenson, real or imagined—or someone’s home or barn torched in the middle of the night as warning against whatever wrong Mad Gus imagined was being contemplated in their hearts—or someone’s child abducted and caged up at the castle until he or she grew old enough to serve Mad Gus as yet another henchman or kitchen drudge—or someone’s husband beaten just for entertainment in the fields or village square by the tyrant’s “peacekeepers”. Neither loitering, truancy, gossip, nor public play or celebration were allowed in Durn. Only labor was tolerated there, and Mad Gus took all of whatever anyone’s labor produced beyond the little required by them to starve through another winter without actually dying.[18]
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