Conrad Starguard-The Radiant Warrior

by Leo Frankowski

  CONRAD STARGARD:

  THE RADIANT WARRIOR

  LEO FRANKOWSKI

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  The Cross-Time Engineer copyright © 1986 by Leo Frankowski; The High-Tech Knight copyright © 1989 by Leo Frankowski; The Radiant Warrior copyright © 1989 by Leo Frankowski.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original Megabook

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 0-7434-8863-6

  Cover art by Gary Ruddell

  First Megabook printing, December 2004

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Frankowski, Leo, 1943-

  Conrad Stargard : the radiant warrior / Leo Frankowski.

  p. cm.

  "A Baen Books original megabook."

  ISBN 0-7434-8863-6 (hc)

  1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Middle Ages—Fiction. 3. Mongols—Fiction.

  4. Poland—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3556.R347C655 2004

  813'.54—dc22

  2004017093

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

  Printed in the United States of America

  BAEN BOOKS by LEO FRANKOWSKI

  A Boy and His Tank

  The War With Earth (with Dave Grossman)

  Kren of the Mitchegai (with Dave Grossman)

  The Two-Space War (with Dave Grossman)

  The Fata Morgana

  Conrad's Time Machine

  Conrad Stargard: The Radiant Warrior

  The Cross-Time Engineer

  Prologue

  Author's Note

  Medieval Time

  Monks got together eight times a day at approximately even intervals for prayer. Since they rang the bells at these times, everybody else got into the habit of using the same designations, even when there wasn't a monastery around.

  Prime. The first hour. Daybreak.

  Tierce. The third hour. Halfway between dawn and noon. About nine a.m.

  Sext. The sixth hour. Noon.

  None. The ninth hour. Halfway between noon and sunset. About three p.m. Actually, this is where the term noon came from, as a joke. There was once this monastery, the inmates of which, as a mark of their austerity, swore that they would not eat each day until the none bell struck. Well, since they were the ones who were in charge of ringing the bells, and since a guy gets awfully hungry sitting around and praying, the none bell sort of got to be rung a little earlier each day. The townspeople, noticing this, got to calling mid-day "none," to ridicule the monks, and the name stuck, eventually turning into "noon."

  Vespers. Sunset.

  Compline. Halfway between sunset and midnight. Around nine p.m.

  Matins. Midnight. Actually, matins means "morning." A matinee was the morning show back in the days when theatrical performances were normally given in the afternoon. With the advent of artificial lighting, the main shows were moved to the evenings and the matinee was moved to the afternoon. Then recently, I was invited to an "evening matinee," and then somehow the performance got delayed until midnight. In the course of things, we have wandered entirely around the clock.

  Lauds. Halfway between midnight and dawn. About three a.m.

  Please note that the hours are not the same size, but change with the season. In a high latitude area like Poland, this meant that some hours could be three times longer than others.

  "Damn it! I have five doctorates!" she shouted.

  He looked up from the pile of Polish government forms on his desk and surveyed the dumpy, middle-aged waitress in front of him. Why me, Lord?

  "So?" he said dryly. "It happens that, academically, you are below average at this installation. I have nine. I am also your boss, and you are screaming at me."

  "But it isn't fair!"

  "Right. But then nobody ever claimed that the Service was fair—or that the universe was either, for that matter. This is your first day here. If you have a problem, you may tell me about it. But if you raise your voice one more time, I will bounce you off three of these walls before you hit the floor. One of my doctorates is in martial arts. Clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now, what precisely is your problem?" He leaned back, his fingertips touching to form an arch.

  "Everything!" she shouted, and then remembered her situation and started again quietly. "This is all a mistake. I shouldn't be in twentieth-century Poland. My field is ancient Greece. And this fat forty-year-old body! Doctrine is that one should start out a tour of duty as a teenager! And having to tend tables at a bar! And—"

  "Hold it and keep your voice down! Now, you say there's been a mistake. Let's check the record." He touched four nondescript spots on his battered wooden desk, and a display appeared in front of him, individual letters glowing white in the air.

  "Hmmm . . . born in North America, 62,218 b.c. . . . approved for child rearing; eleven children . . . retired at forty-five, attended Museum University 62,219 b.c. to 62,192 b.c. . . . doctorates in medicine, Slavic languages, psychology, and Greek literature . . . accepted into the Historical Corps . . .

  "First assignment, Periclean Athens! God, what luck! Do you realize that I have twice petitioned to vacation in Periclean Athens and have been turned down both times? More people want to visit than there are natives in the city. And you get it as a first assignment!"

  "Well, sir, my usual body isn't this flabby mess. And if you know the right people—"

  "Humph. Then I recommend a program of diet and exercise. In any event, your record there was less than outstanding . . . meddling in local politics, interfering with an assassination."

  "But a hetaera was supposed to be interested in politics."

  "Your examiners felt otherwise. Well, let's see . . . After forty-one years in Athens, you returned to the university and obtained a doctorate in ancient Egyptian languages . . . were turned down four times on assignments in the ninth through thirteenth dynasties, respectively . . . eleven other requests denied . . . eventually you volunteered for an open assignment and got twentieth-century Poland.

  "Faced with this assignment, you requested the shortest possible tour of duty. It happens that your predecessor served twenty-seven years of a fifty-one-year tour, then quit."

  "She quit? But that means—"

  "Right. She was dismissed from the corps. What she does with the rest of her life is up to her. Most quitters end up drinking themselves to death out of boredom, although I hear the anthropology people are always looking for folks to track the migration patterns of Homo erectus."

  "Living off the land in prehistoric Africa?" She shuddered.

  "Right. Now, I don't see where you have a legitimate bitch. You volunteered for an open assignment and lucked out to the extent of indoor plumbing. You wanted a short assignment, and this one is only twenty-four years long. It obviously requires that your body match that of your predecessor, and the job fits nicely with your doctorate in Slavic languages."

  "I got that when I was trying for a slot in the court of Casimir the Great."

  He threw his hands up. "Damn it, young lady! Isn't it about time you grew up? We are out here writing the definitive history of mankind! The glory spots are few and far between. Most of it is plain, dirty grunt work, doing a mundane job well. And right now, y
our job involves serving drinks to a drunken tourist." He tapped a few places on his desk, and the display changed. "His drink is getting low. You'd better get back out there. I see that you haven't loaded the capsule yet."

  "Loaded what capsule?"

  "You didn't read your duty sheet? Damn, but you're inefficient! We are scheduled to ship nine tons of barley to the thirteenth century at 0227 tonight. You are to load it into the capsule."

  "So now I'm a stevedore as well as a bar wench?"

  "You think filling out government forms is a more pleasant occupation? Get out of here and get your ass to work!"

  She stomped out, and he returned to his stack of forms. What on Earth do they do with all of these things? They can't possibly have time to read them all. What is the psychology of it? Hmm—'The Psychology of Governmental Forms in Twentieth-century Eastern Europe' . . . There's a paper in that! . . .

  Chastised, the waitress went about her duties in a black humor. She swore bitterly as she manhandled sacks of grain onto a primitive lift truck, too angry to notice that the slots in the wooden skids under the sacks matched the forks on the truck. "Damn! Not even a bloody antigrav field! As if the primitives could understand it even if they could find this place!"

  Working in that ineffective manner, with runs up two flights of steps every fifteen minutes to check on her lone customer, it took her two hours to complete the loading. By then her uniform was torn, her nylons were in shreds, and she'd broken the heel from one of her shoes.

  "Ridiculous clothing!" she muttered as she stomped up to the main floor in her stocking feet. In her anger she turned off the lights behind her but forgot to close the doors.

  Chapter One

  The High Tatras are magnificent in the early fall. I had arranged to spend my yearly vacation backpacking in the mountains south of Cracow, and for the most part my timing had been excellent.

  The weather had been perfect, the color change was at its peak, and—since it was just past the usual tourist season—I had whole mountains to myself. The farmers were getting in the harvest, and all the children were back in school. All the teachers were back in school, too, which was unfortunate. I usually scored pretty well with schoolteachers.

  Vacationing, I generally ended up with some agreeable female companionship, but such had been sadly lacking this trip. I had been three weeks without, and frankly, my horns were showing.

  Well. My allotted two-week holiday from the Katowice Machinery Works was almost up, and there was one small errand I had yet to perform. I lived with my mother, and she had read a magazine article about the Zakopane Agricultural and Horticultural Research Station. I was going to be near Zakopane, so it seemed reasonable to her that I should visit the station and buy her some seeds.

  Just why seeds purchased at the ZAHRST should be any different from seeds purchased in Katowice was not explained. Neither was her sudden interest in gardening, although I suspect that she had visions of me in the backyard, hoeing up carrots, instead of being out with my friends. In any event, to keep peace in the family I had promised to buy some seeds.

  The station was served by a hiking trail as well as a road. I took the trail because the pleasures of walking are degraded by road dust and noise and because I am not friendly with the fat, motorized tourist who says, "You mean you walked up here?"

  The store was empty when I arrived. Empty, except for a few million seeds. It is incredible how many different kinds of plants there are. One rack had seeds for more than eighty different varieties of roses. Another had almost as many kinds of beets, lettuce, and strawberries.

  The prices on everything were low—trivial, really—so the thought hit me: The old girl wants seeds? Well, she's going to get seeds! Thousands of them! Not that I'm going to stick any of them into the ground!

  This slightly sadistic train of thought was interrupted as a magnificent pair of breasts came in from the back room. These breasts were followed by an equally magnificent young lady.

  "Sorry. I didn't know anyone was out here. Can I help you?" Her eyes were a glorious pale green that floated in a field of red freckles. Her hair was that incredible natural red that you see maybe once in a decade, and, oh yes, dear God, she could help me in so many wonderful ways!

  However, sad experience has taught me that pouncing on them tends to frighten them off. So I smiled, making sure that my mouth was closed and that I wasn't drooling.

  "I expect so. My mother wanted me to buy her some seeds."

  "Then you've gotten to the right place." She returned my smile. Glory! "Did your mummy give you a shopping list?" She was wearing a light print blouse and was definitely without a bra. Nothing in there but healthy Polish girl!

  "Well, no. Actually, she was pretty vague about it. I was hoping to get some friendly expert advice."

  "I think I qualify as a friendly expert. Where does she live?" She was still smiling, a good sign.

  "We have a house just outside of Katowice."

  "And what sort of soil do you have?"

  "I don't know. It stays on the ground and is reasonably polite about it."

  "No, silly! I mean is it sandy or clay or loam? What color is it? What's growing there now?"

  "Well, it's sort of brownish. It doesn't stick to your shoes like clay, and we are presently harvesting great quantities of prizewinning crabgrass." I set my pack on the floor, using it as an excuse to edge a little closer, still smiling. She didn't retreat.

  "Okay. That's something to go on. Now you have to decide on what you want."

  I knew exactly what I wanted. But patience was still needed.

  "I thought we might get a little of everything and let her do the choosing later."

  "Sensible. Do you like strawberries?"

  "I absolutely love strawberries." Strawberry blondes even more.

  "Then these are definitely for you." She reached across to one of the stands and gently bumped me with her hip. First contact! And she had initiated it!

  "Now, this variety is perfect for a home garden. The strawberries come in all during the growing season from early spring to frost, and it's a perennial." She wore the slightest hint of perfume.

  "You've talked me into it."

  "And these are great if she wants to do some canning—they all come in at once."

  "Sold." She wore a skirt and nylons. None of this modern pants nonsense.

  "And this is a new climbing variety."

  "The wonders of modern science."

  And so we went up and down rows, throwing seed packages into a brown paper bag. Following her was a pleasure. She was as perfect behind as she was in front.

  "You're certainly enthusiastic about your job. Do you make a commission on all this?"

  "Of course not, silly. This is a state-owned facility. But sales do count toward my efficiency rating."

  "Well, we wouldn't want you to get a poor efficiency rating . . . uh, what is your name?"

  "Anna."

  "Anna. A lovely name."

  "And yours?"

  "Conrad."

  "Hmm . . . Conrad has such a strong, masculine sound." She was still throwing seeds into the bag.

  "Anna, what do people around here do when they're not selling seeds?"

  "Not much, once the tourist season is over."

  "But there must be some place where you folks hang out."

  "Well, the group here at the station usually stops for a drink at the Red Gate Inn." She was still smiling.

  "And where is this wonderful establishment?"

  "Oh, it's not all that wonderful. But it is sort of quaint. It's been there for hundreds of years, and they've never even built a road to it."

  "Then how do you get there?"

  "You came in by the trail, didn't you? Then you must have come from the south; you would have passed it coming from the north."

  "An inn on a hiking trail?"

  "About half a kilometer down. You know, that trail is ancient. It shows up on the oldest maps. Once it was the only road thro
ugh here. Caravans used to travel on it."

  Caravans? Zakopane is surrounded by some of the highest mountains in the Carpathians. Unless you travel by the modern, dynamite-blasted road or you are a mountain climber or a helicopter pilot, there is only one way in or out—north. Within a hundred kilometers—to both the east and the west—there are ancient mountain passes into Czechoslovakia, but this area is one huge cul-de-sac. Nothing medieval would have traveled through here. The area's only natural resources are good hiking, great skiing, and magnificent scenery—none of which are particularly transportable by caravan mule.

  However, I did not want to spoil her romantic notions. I wanted rather to encourage them.

  "Amazing. I really must see this place. Is there any chance that you would be by there this evening?"

  "There is an excellent chance." She winked. "I live just beyond the inn."

  The world was wonderful. Anna was wonderful. And yes, I was wonderful, too, so my mood wasn't seriously dampened when she figured up the bill. It seems that while the price of a pack of seeds was trivial, 342 times trivial equals substantial. Actually, it took a fair bite out of a week's pay.

  But I wasn't going to let that bother me. Not when there was an evening with Anna to look forward to.

  The trail to the Red Gate Inn wound among pine forests below the High Tatras.

  I had earned my engineering degree in Massachusetts, studying at the expense of a wealthy American relative. My summers had been free, and I had spent one of them hiking in the Appalachians. They were good mountains, but somehow they were never mine. These Tatras—this Poland—is my country, and I love it.

  The Red Gate Inn was a surprisingly large place. Besides a restaurant and a taproom, it had rooms for rent and housing for its workers.

  It was about four in the afternoon when I arrived, and I realized that I hadn't asked Anna about her quitting time. Well, she would get there when she got there.

  The restaurant was tempting, but a meal with Anna was more tempting, so I went into the taproom, a lovely old cavern with huge oak beams and polished ancient furniture. Only the lighting and the taps themselves were modern.