by Pam Uphoff
"So, what did the mages say?" Cost frowned at the cages. "Ugg. Do you know how long it's been since I had to deal with chickens?"
"Well, I refrained from bring a milk goat home, didn't I?" Trump eyed the cage. "I guess I'd better think about where to build a coop."
She stuck the cage on the sunny side of the house and walked back to her room to clean up.
Hell was stirring and looking much more human-like. She got him a snack from the kitchen and climbed into bed to make him eat it.
"Are gods any good at weather?" she asked between bites and kisses.
"We generally notice if it's raining." He yawned and stretched, looking a lot more awake than he had in months. "Why?"
"It was a cold winter, and now a late wet spring. We need about two weeks of sunshine to dry out the fields enough to plow and plant."
"We've taken up farming?"
She snickered. "We as in 'Westerners', or maybe even 'people'."
"But, I wanted to plow."
"Umm, innuendo. You must be waking up. How about an improvised fertility rite in the fields?"
"Goodness, you have taken to the agricultural life. How marvelously alarming."
She dragged him out what he called 'french doors' on the spot, but didn't make him chase her very far.
He yawned his way back to bed, and she climbed up to the top of the island and meditated on the weather.
She'd never paid much attention to it before, not scientifically. But she could see the different layers of air, and the directions of the winds and the rainstorms coming in . . . Warm air rises. If she warmed the air up to the north, and it rose, would it pull the storm north? Away from them? She gave it a try, pulling the Earth power and reaching five hundred miles north to turn it into infra red heat some thousand feet above the ground. Dead easy, when you've been reaching out nearly to the Moon.
With daily meditations, she managed two weeks of frequent sunshine, and the fields got plowed. She guiltily tried to get two weeks of dry weather up north, for their late planting. And then spent the summer bringing in the rain twice a week or so.
The mares ruined what little landscaping there was on the island, but kept down the brush as well. The hens escaped, but came whenever she brought out food from Hell's kitchen for them. She never did find any eggs, but finally supplied them with a rooster so they were quickly over run with chicks.
'Her' vagrants were happy to take all that she could catch.
Hell finally returned to a normal waking and sleeping, and seemed to find her weather control incredibly sexy.
With the grain crop growing and healthy, high society quickly shed the austerity fad.
***
Trump found Hell in their rooms poking at the clothes she'd laid out for him.
"Why did I ever take you to the Art Museum? I should have known you'd choose the most absurd style of male dress ever invented."
"I think you'll look very handsome in the suit."
"Tuxedo. Bow ties are worse than the rest of the scarves-around-the-neck styles." Hell sighed loudly.
"Rumor has it that a bunch of the Young Bloods are going to come in doublets, hose and codpieces." Trump looked innocently at him. "Would you have preferred . . . "
"No. In fact, I withdraw all objections, but point out that since I had a perfectly good business suit from the twenty second century in my closet, that making a tux was completely un-necessary." He squirmed. "The cufflinks are very nice, however."
She chuckled and slipped into the spaghetti-strapped, body molding, deep green dress. Checked the hair and makeup in the authentic twenty-first century picture and got to work. Costume balls had become the rage in Karista, and this one had a history and art theme. It was going to be very fun, even if they did arrive in a carriage instead of a limousine. Ah well . . .
King Rebo, in a twentieth century 'zoot suit,' made a very brief appearance, and it took awhile for the party mood to lighten up, after the old king's departure.
"He looked bad. Awful, in fact." Trump said, unexpectedly bothered.
"He's a hundred and eight." Hell said. "If he didn't have so many engineered genes he'd have died decades ago. Last I remember from Earth, life expectancy was in the eighties, and no one lived past a hundred and thirty or so."
"Except the engineered?" Trump eyed him.
"In theory. We were so new, the genes that were supposed to extend our lives hadn't been around long enough for us to know. The first actual live births of engineered children were only about thirty years older than me, and I was twenty-four when we . . . emigrated, or escaped or whatever."
"How very strange your World must have been." She oogled a pair of young men wearing codpieces. Unfortunately they looked more embarrassed than swaggering.
Hell snickered. "Not half as odd as this one. Trust me, you woke me to a very, very strange place. Magic everywhere. Swords, even a few actual knights in plate armor."
That worried her a bit. "Would you have rather we waited another century or two to wake you? I expect you'd have felt more at home then."
"No. You wouldn't have been there." Hell touched her cheek lightly. "And really, this society is good. It has a decent justice system, and a government that gets most things done. It could use a bit more education, a bit less arrogance in the top echelon. Sports cars. Bikinis." He shrugged. "The worst thing that could happen would have been the magic users taking over and subjugating the rest of the people."
"I think we've tried that, a couple of times."
"Yes. In fact I remember one of them, so the Post Fall period doesn't have a monopoly on tyrant wizards. The competition between the mages and the witches was our problem, with both of them trying to either recruit gods to their causes or eliminate us altogether. Then the industrial age came along and we didn't need magic for much of anything. But neither industry nor magic could save us from the comet. What did we do wrong? This time we diverted it with a fraction of the strength we had the first time . . . "
Trump poked him. "Enough. You can ramble in memories later tonight. Right now you are going to dance with me."
"Sorry, it seems so odd."
She sniffed. "If magic users weren't any big shakes in your industrial society, perhaps some of the magic users weren't trying very hard to stop the comet."
He jolted to a stop and stared at her. "Good. God. Art's pathetic group of 'sophisticated intellectuals.'"
She sighed, and didn't comment further as he danced mechanically through three waltzes, his mind elsewhere. The fox trot made him pay attention, and he choked back laughter all the way through something he said was definitely not a Texas two step.
"I love you my Trump. Now is the best time of all, because you exist." Then he took her to the dance floor and with a bit of subconscious learning they showed Karista High Society what a Tango was supposed to look like.
Comet Fever
Winter Solstice 1376
Karista
Fireballs streaked across the southern horizon. More ordinary falling stars, tiny bits of the comet, zipped through the sky, moving generally southeast to west. Damien dashed out and closed all the shutters and doors in the barn, and the horses quieted a bit.
They had split their chances, Max and Code taking their families out to the farm. The granite knob the cabin and barn were built on should suffer less earthquake damage than structures built on sediments. Like their house here in town.
They'd split up the horses, too. Code had his favorite, Midnight, out at the farm and Damien kept the other stallion, Solstice, in town. He'd kept both geldings and one mare here as well, so they had two teams available. The stallion was sixteen, and probably the one with the most common sense. He was standing with his head up, studying the flashes of light that still shown through gaps here and there in the barn. Not that it wasn't a good sturdy barn but horses were prone to respiratory infections and needed good ventilation. The gaps under the rafters brightened and dimmed irregularly. The two geldings, Ollie and Pol where half
way to panic, bouncing around in their stalls. The mare, a daughter of Midnight and grandfoal of Solstice was snorting a bit, but watching the old horse.
"Stop that." Damien leaned over the stall partition and talked to the two geldings. "It's merely the End of the World, millions of people dying. Dear god. What's wrong with the Earth, that they couldn't just help these people? No, they had to humiliate and punish them as well. Sometimes I hate my government."
Solstice stomped.
Chaos tilted her ears his direction, then back to those strange flashes. The geldings quieted a bit. "That's right. If they don't think it's scary, it probably isn't very dangerous, right?" The ground rolled under his feet and the horses crashed around their stalls, stopped, shivering. "Maybe a little scary."
Something big hit somewhere. Down in Southern Auralia? Something big enough to trigger quakes here? Or worse, if that was a direct shockwave, we'll be toast as soon as the blast wave arrives. "If it was ten thousand klics away, the ground shock would take about an hour to get here? More or less? And the air blast. Assuming it was almost at the speed of sound, how the hell fast would it be going? I haven't actually got a clue. Call it ten or eleven hours. A bit after noon. Okay? We'll save the freaking out until then."
Damien distributed hay and pats, then walked back to the house. He waved at his neighbor across the street. Bert had a chair out and was watching the show like a kid watching the fireworks on Unity Day. Damien walked back to the kitchen and tapped at the basement door. It popped open after a moment.
"Still nothing." Captain Andrai Andrews was his superior officer, and as Aunt Andrai Garci, his fellow mole in this medieval society.
"There's quite a light show out there. I'll man the radio, if you'd like to take a look."
She hesitated, then nodded. "I can't go through a major meteor strike and say 'Oh, I never looked.' Can I?"
"I think it's breaking up into small chunks. We may be lucky yet. Go look, though. It's spectacular."
Damien dogged the hatch behind her and turned the instruments back on. The static was bad, hardly unexpected. They tended to speak offhand about 'the radio' but it was only one of the many items they had running down here. The other instruments were reading oddly. The magnetic readings were jumping erratically, the gravity meter was a bit alarming, it was jittering along, down a full milligal.
"I hope the magicians know what they are doing." He refused to even calculate the energy required to do that. And from how far away? If they are in Ash, they're affecting a huge region. Constantly. And if they are in South America? Or Auralia, as it's called here. I don't even want to thing about people who can do that just with their brains.
A check of the spy cam found nothing going on across the back alley. The One World spy post had been manned for the last few months by a three man team. None of them were visible.
Two hours later the gravity meter settled back to normal and stayed there. The radio static doubled. And we have no idea what that means. Other than Andrai hasn't come back, which is very odd.
He waited another half hour, then pressed the exit switch. It would turn everything off for one minute, then resume recording. That was plenty of time to get through the hatch and close it. The basement was lined with a metallic mesh, grounded to conceal the EM signatures of their equipment from detection by the opposing side of the spy wars.
No sign of Andrai in the house. He even checked her bedroom, although the thought of her sacking out while this was going on was mind boggling.
The predawn sky was still streaked with light. The barn was relatively quiet. The empty apartments and Max's house, empty. Across the street, the porch was empty.
The local skyline was well lit. Too well lit. Fires? There was a background swell of noise. And occasional clang or whistle rose above the rest. Fires? Riots? Maybe it was time to take a ride.
Not the geldings. They were ordinary horses, and exhausted after panicking half the night. Solstice looked relaxed and perked his ears when Damien brought out the saddle and bridle. He pranced a little, tossing his head up to watch a fireball cross the southern horizon.
The city was in an uproar. Damien rode to the crest of the nearest hill for a better look. There were at least three fires, and people running about looking like panicking sheep.
Damien leaned and pat Solstice's neck. "They're worse than those two geldings." He turned him across the street, blocking a trio of men who appeared to be in pursuit of a running woman. They eyed him, and moved around him. Their apparent leader scowled when he failed to spot the woman. But a vicious look was all he was prepared to give Damien. They turned and went back the way they'd come. If Andrai had left their block, where would she have gone? The two tallest hills held the Palace and the Council Hall. On this side of town, the Temple of Ba'al was the next highest vantage point, and the god was long gone. He turned that direction and set off, watching the unpredictable people wandering the streets, and hoping to spot Andrai.
There was a riot around the temple, and he stayed well away. He could see smashed windows, and hear screams. Surely Andrai wouldn't have gone near this mob. A few men eyed the big pinto, but no one quite got up the nerve to actually try to take him. Damien rode back home, taking different streets, and touring the water front wharves. More restless people, looking like they'd shucked civilized behavior for the night.
Okay. Enough wandering. If Andrai went out, it was for a purpose. To see if a riot was coming their way? Or because the One World Spies had made a move? Could Andrai have spotted them and followed? What would they do? Assassinate a few key people in this chaos?
He rode home, a last check, and then he dropped into the basement and picked up a folding stock short barreled rifle. The C&W was designed as a compromise between concealable size and accuracy. He slung it over his shoulder then shrugged into a large black overcoat. Not terribly comfortable while riding, but, the best way to both carry and conceal it. He switched his tack to Chaos and headed back toward the city center. Time to see what was going on. As best he could. The sun was above the horizon, but the smoke was getting thicker, leaving the City in a purple twilight.
The closer he got to the Palace, the more people were on the street. He was stopped altogether a mile – four large blocks – away by the sheer press of people. The mob was fairly quiet., but he turned around and circled at a distance. A large fire about three miles past the palace caught his eye. Arson from the riots, or a small meteorite, incandescently hot from its atmospheric entry? Actually, meteors started out so cold, from space that they really weren't a fire hazard. At least the stony meteors weren't supposed to be. Nickle-iron, on the other hand could heat through quickly. It might be dangerous . . . or if a big meteor hit, the ejecta, melted and thrown in a nearly ballistic path . . . that could start fires . . . he had no idea how big it would have to be to throw molten rock six or seven thousand miles from the impact. And after all, this was—or had been—a comet. Lots of ice. Smaller amounts of heavier stuff.
"But all things considered, I'd druther have arsonists." He kept his voice down to a mutter. Only Chaos gave any sign of having heard him.
A close group of mounted men trotted across his path. It was light enough to recognize General Rufi Negue, the king's brother, riding past. Damien eyed the mix of obviously experienced middle aged men and the younger men around him and wondered if any of them were the Crown Prince or the tertiary princes. He turned his horse and followed. The General was a high value target in his own right. The odd Western practice of pairing brothers to run administration and military worked well. Crown Prince Leano would be hard put to rule without his brilliant and popular brother's military reputation to back him up. Leano's dissolute youth and marriage to a commoner had robbed him of the support of the nobles. His sons' grasp of power would be even weaker, lacking a grandfather, uncle or cousin with political power.
Damien suddenly recognized one of the men with the General. "Lefty" Lebonift. Explorer and spy. A magician. Damien hung back a g
ood ways, not wanting to be spotted. The crowd near the fire gave way to the troops and closed up behind them. Chaos snorted and worked her way through as carefully as a larger-than-average horse could. People in the crowd muttered about Travelers, this World's gypsies, but they gave way until Damien halted the mare at a corner a block away from the blaze. It looked like scattered fires over several city blocks. If there had been any wind at all, it could have spread disastrously. It was already drafting the air toward it and up, and Damien shivered at the thought of a firestorm, here in this nearly medieval society. Nearly. They did have piped water and sewers. He could see sprays of water aimed at the edges of the nearest fire. Obviously they'd given up on the burning building and were concentrating on keeping it from spreading. Up ahead, the general was dismounting. Damien looked around for a better view. The building next to him had balconies, but they were well occupied.
"Chaos." Damien waited until the mare swiveled a ear around to listen to him. "Whoa." She turned her head enough to see him with one eye, at the firm command. He dropped his stirrups, and with a steadying hand against the wall, got a knee up on the saddle seat and shakily stood up on the horse's back. Break my neck doing silly things like this . . .
Lefty was walking up to the fire, the other troopers staying back. The flames were dying down, as he walked up. They must have been just about out of anything combustible.
Damien surveyed the crowd, and just a bit ahead spotted the Oners. All three of them were going into a building further down the road. Back to Lefty. The fire was out . . . surely it was a coincidence that it had died as he approached? The magician turned and headed for the next fire, as the hoses were turned on the ruin, barely steaming. It couldn't possibly be too cool to flash the water into steam, but damned little steam was joining the pungent smoke that was making his eyes water.
The Oners stepped out on a balcony, a block ahead. The natives in front of them didn't even look around. They were looking down the street. One of the Oners pulled out a rifle.