They waited. Martin sat, looking at the ground. Irena paced, dried tears staining her face.
It was more than two hours before Franz came out of his improvised operating room.
Martin jumped. “How…?”
“I removed the bullet. She is stable for now.”
“Will she…?”
“She’ll live, but she’s going to have one hell of a headache.”
Huge sighs of relief escaped both the father and the daughter.
There were fresh tears on their faces. Irena was more practical, and she looked at Franz. “Will she…Is there going to be any permanent…?”
“It’s too early to tell.”
Martin was focused on the most important thing. “But she’ll live?”
“Yes.”
Martin did something he never thought he would do. He hugged Franz.
* * *
“Doctor Kreisel?”
Franz looked up from the boxes of Ebarin T they’d brought to Jihlava from Třebíč.
He’d been there for several days, mostly looking after Anna, who would make an almost complete recovery. So far, the only lingering effects were her limited use of her left arm and a slight speech impediment. She wouldn’t be like she was before, but it was much better than being dead, something with which she agreed.
Franz saw Sergeant Wilde standing in the door of his small laboratory. “Yes?”
“I heard you’ve decided to stay in Jihlava for a while.”
“I have nowhere else to go. Retz was conquered by Great Moravia. I can’t go back.”
“So, you’re going to make your antidote here?”
“I have to try. It’s the only chance we have.”
Wilde nodded. “You may be right. The Peacekeeper Command isn’t happy with me, as we’ve effectively declared war on Great Moravia, but they realize it would have happened sooner or later. Nevertheless, we need all the allies we can get—Martin Dusil was right about that.” Wilde smiled at Franz. “If a Specialist stayed with us, that’d be even better.”
“You know?”
“I’ve seen you fight, and I’ve seen you operate. Your hand-eye coordination is remarkable, as is your speed. You aren’t an Agent. I know; I’ve worked with them. And since Vienna and all of Austria used to be Teledyne territory…” He shrugged.
Franz nodded. “You’re right. I trained as a Specialist, but I don’t talk about it. My company wanted a good fighter as well as a good doctor for a certain mission, so I trained as both.”
“I know. And it’s funny. In a different place and time, we would have been enemies.”
“Yes. But if you want to see where the animosity between Corporations led humanity, look out the window.”
“I know—that’s what I’m saying. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
They shook hands.
“Anyway, Ms. Irena Dusilová asked me to remind you that you are to be her date at today’s festival. We captured enough provisions in Náměšt to throw a big party for the town. And, as you know, they make their own beer.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m going.”
Wilde shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t really know what they are celebrating.”
“They’re celebrating being alive. Every day you are alive is worth celebrating.”
* * * * *
Jan Kotouč Bio
Jan Kotouč is a Czech author of space operas, military SF and alternate history. His first novel has been published in 2009 and since then he’s written more than a dozen novels in the Czech language. Several of his works were translated into English. Apart from writing, he teaches at a university and is a popular speaker at a number of conventions. He is also one of the founders of the Czech fan club of David Weber’s Honor Harrington series.
You can follow him on his official Facebook page or on his website www.jan-kotouc.cz.
* * * * *
Shiva by Jon R. Osborne
Wet. Wet and cold. Miles Wirth recognized the sensation a moment before pain overrode his remaining senses. What happened? Where was he?
Memories flooded back, mingled with pain. The Swiss farmer caravan—their wagon had thrown a wheel. The rest of the caravan proceeded, while he and his wife Sarah waited with the wagon. The drovers promised it wouldn’t take long to fix, and who would dare attack the Swiss? The Swiss Guards were fierce and competent soldiers.
After fixing the wheel, the drovers had hurried to catch up with the caravan. A lone wagon proved too tempting a target. There was an explosion, an improvised boobytrap, and it spooked the horses. They ran off the crumbling road onto the shoulder, and the wagon tipped, flinging Miles from his perch and sending him tumbling down the slope.
Miles opened his eyes. How long had he been out? Grey October clouds obscured the sun, but it was still daylight. He took an inventory of his limbs—nothing seemed broken. He sat up, prying himself from the mix of mud and weeds at the bottom of the ditch. Brush obscured his view of the top of the slope. He gathered his feet and pushed himself upright, but remained crouched.
Pain twinged in his left ankle, annoying but manageable. His hands passed over his gear in a practiced inventory. His hossleg carbine was missing; it had been in his hands when he was thrown. Should he search for the gun or check above? Miles pulled his pistol. Sarah could be up there.
Miles resisted the urge to call his wife’s name as he clambered up the slope. The autumn reeds were determined to thwart his attempt at stealth. Miles crested line-of-sight to the road. There was no sign of Sarah, the wagon, or the attackers. A dark crater in the road marked the handiwork of their assailants. They had detonated a bomb buried in a pothole as the horses approached. It was a miracle the wagon hadn’t followed Miles down the hill.
Miles traced the path of his fall. No wonder he had been left alive. Tall reeds and ditch-brush obscured his landing spot. A quick survey of the road showed no one else as far as the eye could see. Smoke curled from a farmstead in the distance, but it was at a right angle to the road. Miles doubted the attackers would be so close. If they seized a Swiss wagon, they would take it to their encampment, or to town to sell.
What of Sarah? The same applied to her. Would she be more valuable to the bushwhackers as entertainment or chattel to be sold? Despite the chill from his wet clothes, anger warmed Miles’ blood. First things first—whoever took Sarah needed to be shot. He anticipated a lot of shooting. Miles retraced his steps down the slope to search for his hossleg.
Fifteen minutes later, he found the bastard offspring of a magnum pistol and carbine among the brush to the left of his resting place. It appeared intact. The weapon was simple compared to leftovers from the corporate days, but it was built tough. After a quick check to make sure the barrel wasn’t clogged with mud or debris, he slipped it into his back holster and scaled the hill back to the highway.
Miles tugged on the chain leading to the watch tucked into his combat vest. The clockface read four o’clock. He had about three hours until sunset. Normally, he could make it to the Fort in three hours. With his ankle, he’d be lucky to reach the Hessen Cassel Waystation. Someone there may have seen something, assuming the bandits didn’t strike out on a side road.
No, they had a wagon full of Swiss goods and food. They would take it to the Fort, and hopefully Sarah with it. She was a Medizer, trained in both folk herbalism and what passed for modern medicine. She wasn’t a doctor, but when Dr. Abrahms passed, she and a handful of other Medizerin would be as close as the farmers would get.
Miles swept the area one more time, seeking any clue. The lack of blood was encouraging. The drovers wouldn’t have put up a fight—that’s why they had guards. Sarah may have been tempted to resist, but if she drew a weapon, she would forfeit any protection offered by the red cross on the white armband.
Miles set off north. Would the bandits honor a red cross? They had attacked a Swiss wagon, after all. Attacks on caravans had become so rare, some in the community questioned the need for ‘men of violence.�
� Miles had been a Swiss Guard for five years and had only seen seven attacks.
The surviving agrarian community learned the hard way their pacifist beliefs would not survive the Fallen World. Within two years, they huddled on the brink of extinction. A cadre of corporate Specialists, cut off from the home office by The Fall, interceded during a bandit attack with brutal efficiency. They struck a deal with the local community—give the Specialists and their families a home, and they would defend the confederation of Swiss Amish, Mennonites, and traditional farmers trying to adapt to the loss of modern technology. The coalition became commonly known as the Swiss. The corporate soldiers formed the backbone of the Swiss Guard.
Nowadays, no one with a lick of sense messed with a Swiss caravan. If the vicious reprisal of the guards wasn’t deterrent enough, the ensuing food embargo on the offenders and anyone perceived to be their allies stifled the temptation.
Someone had either forgotten the lesson or was new to the game. If the brigands were unlucky, he would catch up to the caravan and the remaining dozen guards. That would be bad for Sarah, as the raiders could use her as a hostage or shield. The Swiss Guard had a policy against giving in to demands, and the hostage’s life depended on the guards’ celerity and marksmanship.
Three hours and no one accosted him. A heavily guarded petrol truck passed him heading south, and Miles gave the vehicle and its protectors a wide berth. The riders on a lone wagon moving at a brisk pace eyed him warily as their horses clopped past, ignoring Miles’ plea for a ride. He couldn’t blame them—it would be foolish to stop for an armed stranger.
He was still a mile from Hessen Cassel when the sun touched the horizon. His ankle throbbed with every step. A fifteen-minute brisk walk would take at least thrice as long; he was fatigued and sore. Nothing to do but limp forward.
* * *
“Travis, you better not be wasting my time,” Troy Streeval grumbled as he pushed open the door into the warehouse. His cousin had sent an urgent message, hinting that he had prime goods for sale and a deal too good to pass up. Troy’s guards followed him into the rust and concrete shell of a building. “If this is anything less than spectacular, I’ll let my boys take turns whipping your ass.”
“Is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?” Travis’ gap-toothed grin split a pale, pocked face. Travis was as tall as Troy, but lean and rangy, like an ill-fed dog. Troy had 70 pounds on Travis, mostly muscle.
“You’re a cousin. Let’s leave it at that,” Troy countered. His guards stepped to either side. While they weren’t engineered corporate Agents, both were imprinted with a guard skillset. Troy eyed the half-dozen lowlifes gathered around a tarp-covered wagon in the middle of the warehouse. If he gave the word, his two men would lay waste to Travis’ little gang of inbred amateurs. “The only reasons I came here are because you’re kin and Cousin Shellie asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“How is Shellie? You hitting that?”
Troy bit back a retort. He’d spent yet another day putting out fires created by his boss’ increasingly erratic leadership. More crises waited for him upon his return; he didn’t have time for banter. “Get to the point. Did you boost a wagon that you need to unload? I hope I didn’t drag my ass down here for a wagon and two horses.”
“The wagon is loaded. Some dumbass traders were too cheap to hire an escort.” Travis grinned, exposing the tobacco-stained teeth that remained in his mouth. “What I think you might be interested in was their passenger. Bring her around.”
Two men emerged from behind the wagon, dragging a young woman between them. Troy’s eyes were immediately drawn to the white armband emblazoned with a red cross. Yes, the woman was attractive and appeared healthy, but the cross marked her as a medic. People trained in the medicinal arts were valuable to any community, doubly so to any group prone to violence.
“It was all I could do to keep my boys from having at her,” Travis remarked. “Had to shoot one of them to make my point, though I can hardly blame them. If I didn’t think she was worth a bundle, I would have taken her myself.”
The woman’s gaze swept across the room without focusing. “What did you dope her with?” Troy asked. At least Travis had the sense to keep his band of misfits from raping the woman. As pretty as she was, her skills were much more valuable.
“Nothing too strong. I gave her a little something to mellow her out,” Travis replied. “If she’d put up too much of a fight, I might not have been able to hold my boys back.”
“What do you want for her?” Troy asked.
“Don’t you want to see what’s in the wagon?”
“Nope.” The medic was a prize. Travis could sell his pilfered goods in the markets. “However, if I don’t take the medic off your hands, I’d place even odds that your men will defy you tonight, even if they have to kill you.”
“My boys are loyal,” Travis protested. Troy didn’t point out that none of the gang voiced their support. The balding guy with the hook nose was too busy undressing the woman with his eyes. The rest remained silent and watched the proceedings. “She’s yours for 800.”
Troy scoffed. “Maybe she should examine your skull. You must have banged it. I’ll give you 200.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Travis shouted. Two hundred was a sizeable sum, but it wasn’t the princely price of 800. Split among his men it would allow them to live large for several months or keep them well fed for over a year if they were prudent.
“Two-fifty, and I’ll forget you have the hots for Cousin Shellie,” Troy offered. It was growing late, and he wanted to end negotiations before someone became foolish. The ginger fellow on the left appeared to be debating whether they could get the drop on Troy and his men.
“Fine.” Travis gestured for his men to hand the woman over to Troy. “Don’t see why you have to get uppity over Cousin Shellie, unless you’re banging her.”
Troy shook his head and pulled a flat metal case from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He flipped it open, careful to obscure the contents from prying eyes, and extracted the agreed upon amount of script. He clicked the case shut and stowed it, waiting until one of his guards had custody of the medic.
“A pleasure doing business, Cousin,” Travis said as he accepted the payment. Troy fought not to wrinkle his nose at his cousin’s rank odor. “You sure I can’t interest you in—”
“Nope. Sell your spoils in the market and hope the owners don’t show up,” Troy interrupted. He gestured for his men to precede him through the door. One guided the dazed woman, and the other took point. Travis’ men were focused on splitting the take.
“Here’s the deal—you belong to Baron Harkness,” Troy said once he joined the woman in the back of the car. The old petrol vehicle lurched into motion. “We need a medic, so your skills are valuable. You follow the rules and do what you’re told, things will go easy for you. Try to escape, try to act up, and we’ll use the imprinter on you.”
The woman furrowed her brow in confusion. Troy would have to explain everything again when she was lucid. “Miles?” she asked.
“It’s not far,” Troy replied. Hopefully he could keep the medic out of Harkness’ sight. The boss had a penchant for pretty women and could be hard to dissuade. Harkness cared less and less about what would benefit them in the long term over what would satisfy him now. The barony was suffering because of his erratic hedonism. Hopefully it wouldn’t be an issue much longer.
* * *
“Miles? You look like shit.”
“Nice to see you, Hedda,” Miles replied as he limped through the door of the Waypoint Inn. Hedda knew everyone who frequently travelled the crossroads at Hessen Cassel. While she conducted trade with the Swiss, their caravans rarely lingered on the route to and from The Fort. Miles slumped into the closest chair, ignoring the stares of a dozen patrons.
Hedda rounded the end of the bar. She plunked a brown glass bottle on the table. “What happened to you? I thought you would have been with the convoy?”
Miles craned his neck to meet the blonde woman’s gaze. She was as tall as Miles, and broader in the shoulders. “I should have been. I don’t suppose you noticed a straggler wagon pass through here?”
“Can’t say I did,” the burly barkeeper replied. “I’ll ask Vessily; he’s been outside pretending to work on the west palisade.”
“I saw something,” a dark-skinned man sitting at another table offered. His garb marked him and three others as drovers.
Miles fished out some script. While his credit as a Swiss Guard was good with Hedda, he wanted the men to see him pay. “Get these men a round.”
“I assume you will spend the night?” Hedda asked. Miles nodded. He wouldn’t make any progress during the night, especially with his ankle. Nighttime travel bordered on suicidal even without being lame.
“About two hours ago, a lone Swiss wagon rolled through,” the drover said. “I noticed it because you never see one by itself. I figured that was why it had all those guards.”
Miles took a drink. The beer was cool and malty. He’d need to make sure he didn’t fall asleep too soon. “How many guards? Was there a woman with them? She would have had a Medizer, a medic, armband.”
“I saw a girl or woman, but I didn’t notice a red cross on her,” the drover replied. He looked to his fellows. Two of them shrugged. “I reckon there were six guards and two drivers.”
“She had a blanket over her shoulders,” the fourth man added. “Her hair was a bit red though—not coppery like a ginger, but redder than blonde.”
It had to be Sarah. That she was sitting up was a good sign. The teamsters must be dragging their heels if they passed through only two hours ago. He needed to set out at first light—about seven in the morning. That gave him ten hours.
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