by John Ringo
Herzer noticed that most of the other fighting had died down as the two continued to hammer at each other. He had already had a good solid two hours of mock combat and his wind was not what it had been before the Harzburg mission. Bue, on the other hand, seemed to be made of iron. No matter what he tried he couldn’t get in a crippling blow nor did the NCO seem to be tiring.
“You’re getting soft, Herzer.” Bue grinned.
“All that easy living up in Harzburg,” Herzer admitted, gritting his teeth. He knew one blow that might work, but it was chancy and right on the edge of illegal in competition. When he realized he was about to die or drop he hooked Bue’s shield with his and lifted both of them, an almost impossible maneuver. Then he dropped to one knee and drove his practice sword upward into the NCO’s unprotected stomach, doubling him over retching.
“I’m still… better than… you…” Herzer gasped, bending over and panting.
“Cristo, I’m unmanned,” Bue said, clutching at his stomach.
“And now you see why we keep Class One as far apart as possible,” Gunny said to a background of applause.
Herzer didn’t know how long the NCO had been watching but he managed to struggle to his feet.
“And I thought it was because we were the best of the best,” Herzer said, grinning despite his fatigue.
“You’re pretty good,” Gunny admitted grudgingly. “But you want to try that maneuver on me?”
“Not in a long lifetime,” Herzer admitted. He walked over to the armor rack and hung up his shield, helmet and sword, then stripped out of the sweat-soaked armor. “You okay, Bue?”
“I’ll be okay,” the NCO admitted, walking over to rack his own gear. “Where in hell did you learn that little trick?”
“Tarson,” Herzer said. “Desperation is the best teacher.”
* * *
After showering off, he had breakfast with Bue and Gunny. The mess hall was neutral ground and Blood Lords did not maintain strict separation between enlisted and officers so several other officers were having breakfast with the “troops.” They caught up on what had been happening and talked about the “old times,” just a couple of years before, when the Blood Lords were being formed.
After breakfast Gunny and Bue went off to their duties and Herzer headed downtown. He thought, again, that while Gunny was still sharp as a tack, he seemed to be losing the edge just a hair. He’d picked up that Gunny no longer ran the basic entry test for the Blood Lord trainees; the first ruck run up the Hill. He just couldn’t make the time anymore. It had only been two years, but two years of running class after class had clearly taken it out of the old NCO.
Retiring him was out; he’d either be one of those guys who just hung around all the time or he’d die or commit suicide. All he had known before Fall was living what he had researched as the life of a senior noncommissioned officer. Something was going to have to be done, but offhand Herzer couldn’t think what.
Herzer wondered, not for the first time but the first time clearly, what Gunny had been like when he was a youngster. Or Duke Edmund, for that matter. He had looked at both of them, when he first started out, as the near order of gods. And now there were people who looked at him the same way. Had they been screw-ups? What was the force that drove them to be who they were? You had to have something seriously odd in your background to live the lives that they had lived before the Fall, not to mention what they had done after it.
Who were they really? People looked at him as if he was something special. Even as he walked downtown, people would come up to him and nod and whisper as he passed. Herzer, the victor of the Line. Herzer the Undefeatable. He knew he wasn’t any of those things. But he wore the mask, wore it so well sometimes it felt as if he was becoming their belief. But he knew, inside, that he was the same screwed-up kid who had run away from Daneh’s rape. Who had needed to be hammered on the anvil of the Blood Lords, and of life, to attain any sort of competence. Who still screwed up from time to time.
Who were they, really?
Those thoughts carried him as far as the bank and he wandered in abstractedly, scarcely noticing when he reached the newly installed desks.
“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asked.
“Stephanie?”
Gone was the flippant social butterfly. The woman had her hair up in a bun and a severe expression of less than friendly competence on her face.
“Lieutenant Herrick, I believe?” Stephanie replied.
“I’m looking for Tom,” Herzer said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Nooo,” Herzer replied with a slight grin. “But I thought I’d drop by for old time’s sake.”
“Mr. Sloan is quite busy, but I’ll see if he has a moment.” She got up and went through a side door as Herzer took his first real look around.
Tom Sloan had started small. Prior to the Fall there was no such thing as “currency.” There were energy credits but they were traded, to the extent that any trading occurred, through the Net. Everyone had a relative sufficiency. Even Herzer, who as a young man had been “released” by his parents, had enough to not only pay for advanced medical treatment but also to maintain elaborate “enhanced reality” simulations. It took real energy to use up all your energy credits.
After the Fall, currency had at first been based on food. Food was distributed based on “credit chits.” One chit, one meal. Or rough food, slightly more than one meal, if you knew how to cook it. Over time the chits had transformed into the standard currency and as the society got more complex they had become the standard monetary form. You still could buy a meal or food from the government with chit in hand. But most of them were traded through what was becoming more and more of an economy. And even the term “chit” was falling out of the lexicon, replaced by “credit.”
Tom had gotten into the trading of chits early. He had accumulated stores of them, based on loans from the government and deposits by people who had a surplus. And he’d put the money to use, loaning it out in turn at often usurious rates. But he was scrupulously fair and honest, which went a long way to people letting his interest rates slide; too many of his early competitors had played fast and loose with people’s money. He had also handled investments and contracts for people like Herzer, people who had a small surplus and wanted to put it to work.
He’d clearly come up in the world. The small office he used to have had been expanded into a large building. There was a counter with some women behind it and a few offices off of the main lobby which apparently had Stephanie to guard it. There were also two inconspicuous real guards, hulking men nearly Herzer’s size. One of them he recognized from the town militia. He’d tried out for the Blood Lords but hadn’t been able to make the full training. He still looked more than capable of ripping any troublemaker in the bank limb from limb. Herzer nodded at him and the guard nodded back, not warily but fully aware that the Blood Lord would be difficult to rip if push came to shove.
“Herzer!”
Tom Sloan was a tall, good-looking guy anywhere between thirty and a hundred and fifty years in age, wearing a fine linen tunic and a pair of light-blue cosilk pants that just matched his eyes. He had sandy hair, a ready smile and a firm grip. Herzer was sure that he practiced the smile and handshake in the mirror every morning.
“Hey, Tom, got a minute?” Herzer asked.
“Always,” Sloan replied with a toothy smile. “Miss Vega, could you pull the lieutenant’s files and bring them to my office?”
“Certainly, sir,” Stephanie simpered, then scurried away. Herzer had been sure that the woman could never scurry, but she did it well.
“Come on,” Tom said, laying his hand on Herzer’s arm and leading him through the door. There was a corridor with more offices to either side. Most of them had their doors open and in each there were people, mostly women, poring over piles of paper.
“If one more thing changes in this town I’ll scream,” Herzer said.
“You’ve got no idea.” Tom sig
hed. He opened a door with “Sloan, President” on a brass plaque and led Herzer inside.
The room was comfortably but not flashily appointed. There were a couch and table, a couple of chairs and a medium sized desk. An étagère behind the desk had a few personal effects in it, including a small oil painting of Tom and a woman. Herzer vaguely recognized her but couldn’t place the face.
“You’re married?” he asked, taking one of the chairs. He fit in it poorly, which was normal, but he realized his legs were shoved up higher than usual. Then he realized that if he was “normal” sized he would have been looking up at the bank president.
“Last year,” Tom said. “I had an invitation for you…”
“But I was out of town?” Herzer grinned.
“Somewhat.”
“So what’s with the banker look?” Herzer asked.
“Changes.” Sloan grimaced. “Practically the first thing the new Congress did was pass banking laws and set up an independent federal bank board. I had to get investors, set up a charter, and do all the paperwork. Stuff that I could keep up myself blossomed into a full-time job to manage the reports that the feds require. I had to shift most of the investments that I was managing to another firm. I sent you a letter about that.”
“Got it,” Herzer admitted. “But they’re still filtering the returns through you?”
“Yes, but I can’t advise on any of it or manage it,” Sloan admitted. “But I can bring you up to date on what we’re keeping in-house. Your deposits, fixed securities, things like that.”
“Okay, what is a fixed security?” Herzer said.
“Well,” Tom grinned. “You remember when I used to say: ‘Look, Herzer, leave it with me and I’ll give you five percent a year, guaranteed’?”
“Yeah.”
“Fixed security,” Tom said as the door opened up. “Ah, thank you, Miss Vega.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Stephanie replied, laying a thick file on his desk and walking out without a backwards glance.
“Put your eyes back in your head, Herzer,” Tom chuckled.
“Actually, I got a pretty good look last night in the baths,” Herzer admitted.
“I’ve been keeping up with your accounts,” Tom said, ignoring the comment. “But they’re managed by Posteal, Ohashi and Deshort…”
“Deshort?” Herzer asked. “Isn’t he the economy guy that Edmund was, is for that matter, always muttering about?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said, frowning. “His background is in preindustrial economic modeling. He’s on the board. But I didn’t know that he and the duke had problems.”
“Not problems, really,” Herzer said with a grin. “More like a mutual disadmiration society.”
“He’s on the board of the bank, as well…”
“In that case, I think I need another bank.” Herzer chuckled. “If Brad Deshort is involved in managing my money, I’d rather play the ponies.”
“Are you seriously disturbed about this?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know; how much have I lost?” Herzer said, still chuckling.
“You haven’t lost anything, Herzer,” Tom replied, seriously. “I’ve been very careful about your investments and so has PO and D.”
“I’m joking, Tom,” the lieutenant said, shaking his head. “Never joke with a banker about money.”
“If it really bothers you…”
“It doesn’t,” Herzer said, definitely. “Let’s look at the books, okay?”
It took nearly an hour to go over all the investments that Herzer had accumulated. He was surprised at that; he had no idea he’d gotten his finger in so many pies. But the eventual total was pleasant.
“Anyway, it’s a well distributed portfolio,” Tom finished. “There have been some losses; the sand-gravel business folded completely in fact. You came out of that with only a few pence on the credit, but everything else is going well. Fortunately most of your investments still fall into tax credited areas. We’ll see what the idiots in the legislature come up with next year.”
“And then there’s Mike Boehlke’s farm,” Herzer added.
“Yes, we don’t manage that, but Mr. Boehlke has made it into quite a business. A solid, if long-term, investment.”
“And another subtle joke,” Herzer pointed out.
“Excuse me?”
“One of the expressions we use in the military for getting killed is ‘buying the farm,’ ” Herzer said, his face distant. “Soldiers talk about finally getting out and buying a farm to settle down on. So when one gets killed, we say he ‘bought the farm.’ ” His face suddenly cleared and he grinned. “Either I’m already dead or I’m never going to get kilt.”
“I see,” Tom said, shaking his head. “So are you ever going to settle down on the farm you already have ‘bought’?”
“I dunno, Tom,” Herzer replied with a shrug. “I guess we’ll both have to live long enough to see.”
* * *
The worst problem for Joel about the dragon ride had been landing at the base at Washan. It was one of the growing army bases along the coast, though, and he quickly faded into the background. He’d ridden wyvern a few times before the Fall and the only new iteration was the length of the trip. Since wyvern could only make a couple of hundred klicks per day it had been a multiday trip across the country. But wyverns were still faster, and marginally more comfortable, than coaches.
When he landed at the base he made himself scarce, then started looking for transportation. The base was not actually at Washan but across the Poma River and there was a small town that had grown up outside the base, mostly to support the needs of the sailors and soldiers that roamed the area.
He walked down a street lined with pawnshops, bars and barbershops, watching the small groups that moved on it. There were a remarkable number of barbershops and they seemed to do a brisk business. As he passed one he noticed that the “barber” was a scantily clad young woman and had to make a rapid reassessment of the situation.
It was the middle of the day, though, and there weren’t many crowds. He considered stopping in one of the bars, or one of the barbershops for that matter, and seeing what he could pick up. But that wasn’t part of his mission so he continued down the road to where a small complex of buildings was set off to the side of the town. There was a corral with about a dozen horses, most of them in decent condition, a small barn and an even smaller building with a porch out front. He walked to the latter and slipped inside.
The interior was dim; there were only two unglazed windows in the front area and the afternoon was overcast. So he was startled to hear a female voice from the rear of the room.
“Help you?” she said.
The woman wasn’t young, wasn’t old, probably somewhere in her first century. She was seated behind a counter looking at him over the top of a piece of paper.
“I need to catch the stage down towards Newfell,” he said, stepping up to the counter.
“Next stage isn’t for three hours,” the woman replied, setting down the paper. “Stage goes all the way to Newfell Base.”
Reaching the base on the stagecoach was not part of his plans. He glanced at the wall, where a map was mounted, and then down. “Well, I’m only going to Tenerie, not Newfell. I’m actually headed for the coast; I just found out I’ve got friends over there who made it through the Fall.”
“Tenerie’s thirty credits,” the woman said, pulling out a ledger book. “Can you afford it?”
“I think so,” Joel said, pulling out the silver he had gotten in Chian and one of the bronze coins. “I’ve got a twenty piece and some silver.”
The woman sighed at the latter but pulled out a scale and measured out the silver to make thirty credits. “You need to get this changed, you know. Hardly anybody out here uses chunk metal anymore and I can’t give you what you’d get at an assayer’s office for it.”
“Okay,” Joel said. “I’m from up the road towards Raven’s Mill. Plenty of people still use it up there.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to the big city,” the woman grinned. “Nobody around Washan, or Newfell for that matter, uses that stuff anymore. You might over on the coast, I don’t know about those hicks.”
She wrote him out a chit for the stage and picked up the paper in apparent dismissal.
“Thanks so much for your help,” Joel said, turning and going back out into the street.
Three hours. Assuming it was on time. That might mean two hours. Or four. Or nine for that matter.
Beyond the corral was an inn, clearly for the use of overnight customers from the stage. Across the street from it was a bar with two barbershops closely adjacent. But on the other side of the barbershops was a building with a large, freshly painted, sign that said “Sundries.”
Joel wasn’t sure what “Sundries” meant in this case; it might be a larger and more complicated version of one of the “barbershops.” But he suspected it might mean such lost luxuries as, oh, a razor, soap, maybe even new clothes.
He walked over to the shop and was pleasantly surprised. It was well stocked with shelves of clothing, toiletry items and even premade shoes.
“Can I help you?” the clerk said, coming from around the counter at the rear.
“I need a new set of clothes,” Joel said, fingering a folded pair of pants made of some heavy material. “And some toiletry items. And a bag to carry it in.”
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “We sell a lot of such things to soldiers and sailors who are being moved other places. That’s a material called ‘denim.’ It’s just starting to come off the lines, quite the new fad. Heavy, double-woven cosilk with double stitching. A pair of those will last you for years and years, just getting more comfortable with each wearing.”
“I need a pair of those, a shirt, some underthings, not made out of that…”
“Of course, sir,” the clerk smiled. “Might as well be leather, like the dwarves.”
“Or hair shirts like the Blood Lords,” Joel said.
They found clothes in his size and Joel picked up a selection of toiletries. He had never had his beard growth permanently stopped before the Fall. It made more sense to intermittently stop it; growing a beard always looked more natural than even the best implant. But that meant he had to either grow one permanently or shave, and of the two he preferred a clean chin.