Here is a small file for you to use. I asked my student at UCD to download a big file for me, from the Web, put it on a disk, and mail it to me. Sadly, it is not so practical to download a big file (several megabytes) in Thailand ;-( But my big file still have not come -- so here is a small one I put together for you to use. Aj. Phillip Del Rey sample chapter list Authors whose names start with A-G ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bill Adams and Cecil Brooks: THE UNWOUND WAY Publication date: originally published November 1991, reissued December 1994 Copyright © 1991 by the authors THE UNWOUND WAY is a first novel that Locus called "tremendously impressive." In my opinion, not enough people read the darn thing the first time around (like not everybody), so we're reissuing it along with Adams & Brooks's next book, THE END OF FAME. THE UNWOUND WAY is about the very existentially confused ex-playwright and political fugitive Evan Larkspur, who took a Rip-van-Winkle-ish sleep in a bubble universe outside space-time and came back a century later to find his plays (far-future adaptations of Shakespeare) famous, the young and disappeared playwright Larkspur revered, and himself in a total pickle. Because the government thought they knew where he'd been all these years, and wanted to pick his brain--destroying it in the process--for what he'd learned. And also because only Larkspur had the symbolic heft to spearhead a resurgence of the anti-government intellectual cult that he had been part of in his youth--which the government had almost wiped out in his absence. But Larkspur wasn't sure he was really himself...maybe he was just an amnesiac who woke up one day thinking he was the famous playwright returned. THE UNWOUND WAY is funny in an ironic, dry way, and it has literary allusions woven into the very warp and weft of the plot. It's intellect-tickling adventure sf. THE END OF FAME Publication date: December 1994 Copyright © 1994 by the authors Ex-media darling, fugitive, and vanished playwright Evan Larkspur gets forced into spying for his enemies, the Column--who of course don't know who he is. (Unfortunately, neither does he--is he Larkspur, or a deluded amnesiac?) His target? None other than Evan Larkspur, recently returned, it seems, from a years-long space survey gone wrong. Larkspur the Imposter is putting on a new play on the waterworld Venezia. Larkspur the spy auditions for the play...and snags the leading, autobiographical role. Things get more complicated from there, especially for poor Evan L., who has quite a few conflicts--within and without--to wrap up before the final curtain comes down. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Toni Anzetti: TYPHON'S CHILDREN Publication date: October 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Toni Anzetti Colonists inhabit a teeming ocean planet that seems to be a wondrous paradise. But then the land erupts with incomprehensible violence, consuming their new home in a fiery hall. Death is everywhere-- most menacingly, within-- as every child born on Typhon suffers degenerative mutations. Two outcasts, a near-obsessed scientist and a mutated young girl, embark on a perilous journey in an effort to deliver their people to safety.* *part of the Del Rey Discovery series ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Nathan Archer: MARS ATTACKS: MARTIAN DEATHTRAP Publication date: April 1996 Mars Attacks (R) and © 1996 the Topps Company, Inc. Mayhem and Martians in a murder mansion--based on the cult-classic trading cards. At the beginning of the Martian invasion of Earth, a strangely diverse group of humans (from bikers to accountants to beach bunnies) takes cover in the sprawling Gelman Mansion. There they are hunted down by a Martian Death Squad and their uncontrollable giant insects. Each Mars Attacks novel includes exclusive trading cards. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BABYLON 5 books by various authors: CREATING BABYLON 5 by David Bassom Publication date: October 1997 in trade paperback Babylon 5 (R) and © 1997 by Warner Brothers, Inc. Babylon 5 is now a two-time Hugo Award winner, and David Bassom's exciting history of the Babylon 5 television series, CREATING BABYLON 5, will be brought to United States readers as a Del Rey edition this month. This is a profusely illustrated volume with color and black & white photos and behind-the-scenes material. Our edition will sport a stunning new cover featuring digital imagery created by Netter Digital; it's slightly revised to reflect recent events in the television series, and adds Seasons 3 and 4 to the Episode Guide. BABYLON 5: IN THE BEGINNING by Peter David Publication date: January 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. The novelization of the original screenplay by Babylon 5 series creator J. Michael Straczynski. This is the epic Earth/Minbari War, which nearly led to the annihilation of the Human race, and resulted in the creation of the Babylon 5 space station. BABYLON 5: THIRDSPACE by Peter David Publication date: July 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. A mysterious artifact is found in hyperspace, and disturbing dreams plague Babylon 5. Their source is Thirdspace, TNT's next Babylon 5 original movie, slated for July '98. And THIRDSPACE is Del Rey's latest B5 novel by New York Times bestselling author Peter David. The action takes place following the defeat of the Shadows and before the onset of the war with Earth. The galaxy is a dangerous place, and thanks to this ancient, cosmic evil, it's about to get a lot more dangerous. BABYLON 5: DARK GENESIS: THE BIRTH OF THE PSI CORPS by J. Gregory Keyes Publication date: October 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. The fabric of Babylon 5 is astonishingly literary in scope and style, and it posed a major challenge. Even though we knew the viewers were intelligent--prime readers--we had to convince them the books we would produce were necessary to the telling of the saga. The answer: we hired series creator J. Michael Straczynski to outline the stories. They had to be the truth. We can't just make up something cute, then claim it's real; it has to be real. Straczynski made it so. What remained was the task of finding the actual novel writer. I'd met J. Gregory Keyes at conventions, and he'd revealed to me that he didn't get Babylon 5 where he lived. The solution: he had friends who taped hours and hours of the show, and then they would all spend weekends together in B5 video-fests. B5, he confided, was the only media SF he followed religiously. So when I asked Greg if he'd like to write our first B5 novel trilogy, featuring the Psi Corps, he jumped at the chance. The result has been the best Babylon 5 fiction ever written--just ask Mr. Straczynski himself. BABYLON 5: SIGNS AND PORTENTS by Jane Killick Publication date: March 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. The saga (of our season guides) begins! A rundown of the entire story that unfolded in Babylon 5's groundbreaking first season, as well as the story behind the filming of those seminal episodes. Cast lists have been added to this American edition, and there is a special eight-page color photo section included. BABYLON 5: THE COMING OF SHADOWS by Jane Killick Publication date: April 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. Babylon 5's second season introduced the Shadows, whose ultimate threat very nearly spelled the end of the Babylon 5 space station and led to the phrase all Babylon 5 fans know--"If you go to Z'ha'dum, you will die." This volume outlines the entire second-season story, along with behind-the-scenes secrets, and the US edition offers complete cast lists as a bonus! BABYLON 5: POINT OF NO RETURN by Jane Killick Publication date: June 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. A complete synopsis of Babylon 5, season three, with the behind-the-scenes secrets from the set. (This follows Killick's earlier season guides, SIGNS AND PORTENTS and THE COMING OF SHADOWS.) BABYLON 5: NO SURRENDER, NO RETREAT by Jane Killick Publication date: September 1998 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1998 by Warner Brothers, Inc. NO SURRENDER, NO RETREAT sums up the spellbinding fourth season of Babylon 5: Captain Sheridan being pronounced missing and presumed dead on Z'ha'dum, Delenn feverishly rallying support for an all-out offensive against the Shadows, internal strife among the Centauri erupting in a shocking and violent betrayal, and Garibaldi resigning as security chief and plotting against his comrades. From The Hour of the Wolf to the shattering finale, The Deconstruction of Falling Stars, Jane Killick's summaries and analyses capture the action and intrigue of Babylon 5 circa 2261--the year everything changed. BABYLON 5: WHEEL OF FIRE by Jane Killick Publication date: April 1999 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1999 by Warner Brothers, Inc. The fifth and final season-by-season guide, featuring the confrontation between the telepaths and the Centauri. BABYLON 5: A CALL TO ARMS by Robert Scheckley Publication date: January 1999 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1999 by Warner Brothers, Inc. The Shadow War is long over, and the Interstellar Alliance--presided over by former Babylon 5 commander John Sheridan--is about to celebrate the fifth anniversary of peace among its united member worlds. But a planet, annihilated by an unspeakable weapon appears in chilling dreams. A world with a secret, promising Armageddon. For the Drakh, once servants of the bloodthirsty Shadows, are following in the footsteps of their vanquished masters--preparing to launch a devastating interstellar war. Their first target: Earth. This threat will draw Sheridan back to Babylon 5--and into an uneasy partnership with a beautiful and deadly survivor of Shadow genocide. In the desperate race to warn Earth, he must face an apocalyptic showdown with the ultimate war machine--one capable of killing an entire world... BABYLON 5: DEADLY RELATIONS: BESTER ASCENDANT by J. Gregory Keyes Publication date: March 1999 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1999 by Warner Brothers, Inc. The tale of Alfred Bester, from childhood to the point where he turns his sights toward the Babylon 5 space station. BABYLON 5: FINAL RECKONING: THE FATE OF BESTER by J. Gregory Keyes Publication date: October 1999 Babylon 5 (R) and © 1999 by Warner Brothers, Inc. In the stunning finale to the Psi Corps trilogy, the Corps's ruthless commander, Alfred Bester, watches as the monstrous telepathic police force he built is toppled by a new resistance movement. Now, targeted as a war criminal, the once-dreaded Bester is on the run and struggling to build a new life on the ruins of his sinister past. But the forces of justice--and vengeance--are closing in... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Greg Bear: DARWIN'S RADIO Publication date: August 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Greg Bear In the next stage of evolution, humans are history... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Alice Borchardt: THE SILVER WOLF Publication date: June 1998; June 1999 in paperback Copyright © 1998 by Alice Borchardt THE SILVER WOLF is the story of a young woman betrothed to a man she has never met. A distant relative--Charlemagne--plans to bestow her on a mountain lord who controls a strategic pass through the Alps. Closer to home, however, her uncle knows of one hindrance to the union, and he plans to exploit that knowledge and his young charge. She's a werewolf. And while Charlemagne, the uncle, the mountain lord, and the pope all maneuver to control her destiny, the wolf within the woman fights for her freedom and dignity. Set against the lush background of a crumbling Roman Empire, this is vivid and involving and not your usual werewolf novel at all. This paperback edition includes a new interview with the author. For more, visit THE SILVER WOLF Web feature! NIGHT OF THE WOLF Publication date: August 1999 in hardcover Copyright © 1999 by Alice Borchardt Eight hundred years before the events in THE SILVER WOLF, Maeniel is reborn out of the ruins of a Gallic tribe and falls for a beautiful woman. This love vanishes following a Roman massacre and Maeniel as wolf and man will hunt and be hunted all the way to the gates of Rome. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Elizabeth Boyer: KEEPER OF CATS Publication date: January 1995 Copyright © 1994 by Elizabeth Boyer Elizabeth Boyer is unique--what other writer explores the lighter side of good, old-fashioned Norse gloom and doom? In KEEPER OF CATS, a young girl goes to live with her five grandmothers (don't ask!) on their rocky, wind-swept old farm. To Jutta's dismay, just about the only thing her ancient relatives are raising are cats-- scads of the imperious little monsters! It isn't long before Jutta's fed up with hard work, batty crones, and too many cats. She befriends a wealthy widow who's charting ley lines through the barrows at the foot of the hill. But the widow is really searching for a magic cup--as are the local chieftain, a couple of visitors from another plane--and probably the grandmothers! The barrows get awfully crowded; people t turning up dead--and unless the grandmothers, or their cats, can help, headstrong Jutta might be next! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Terry Brooks: THE TANGLE BOX Publication date: April 1995 in hardcover Copyright © 1995 by Terry Brooks The Magic Kingdom series is much lighter than the epic-fantasy Shannara series, featuring, for example, a Court Scribe who by magical mishap has been turned into a Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier--with hands. The characters are average-Joe types, and the plots cross between our own world and a magic world. The series (MAGIC KINGDOM FOR SALE--SOLD, THE BLACK UNICORN, and WIZARD AT LARGE) would be a good introduction to light fantasy for nonfantasy readers, especially younger ones. In THE TANGLE BOX, Terry Brooks sends ex-lawyer, now-king Ben Holiday back to the Magic Kingdom of Landover, where an exiled wizard and his crabby bird companion beg Ben to be allowed to remain there. Ben agrees, despite the warnings from his doglike Court Scribe and the wizened old wizard Questor Thews. But the exiled wizard is under the spell of a dark sorcerer, and Ben himself gets entrapped in THE TANGLE BOX. WITCHES' BREW Publication date: April 1995 in hardcover Copyright © 1995 by Terry Brooks In WITCHES' BREW, former Chicago lawyer--now High King of the Magic Kingdom of Landover--Ben Holiday's daughter is born, and, not surprisingly, she has magic powers. But then Mistaya disappears, taken by the witch Nighshade. Ben has to battle seven champions, each in a different form, to get her back. But something about the nature of his opponents makes Ben wonder just who the champions came from... FIRST KING OF SHANNARA Publication date: March 1996 in hardcover Copyright © 1996 by Terry Brooks Each of the seven Shannara novels has been a New York Times bestseller, selling in all over 10 million copies. And over the years Terry Brooks has been asked thousands of questions about characters and situations in the series. In FIRST KING OF SHANNARA, which is set 500 years before THE SWORD OF SHANNARA, Terry answers in great detail the most important of those questions: How were the Druids destroyed? What happened to Paranor? What is the early history of the Shannara family? How did the Sword of Shannara come to be? Anyone who enjoyed the previous Shannara titles, or likes epic fantasy, will enjoy visiting the beginnings of the Shannara epic in the latest--and possibly the last--Shannara book. RUNNING WITH THE DEMON Publication date: September 1997 in hardcover; July 1998 in paperback Copyright © 1997 by Terry Brooks RUNNING WITH THE DEMON, the first of a brand-new fantasy series, is Terry Brooks' most ambitious novel yet. The same huge-scope battle between Good and Evil that made the Shannara books the biggest epic fantasy since Tolkien forms the backdrop for RUNNING WITH THE DEMON, but this time Brooks takes that battle to our world. Instead of Shannara, it is Hopewell, Illinois, where the Knight of the Word and the Demon of the Void converge...where one young girl stands between Good and Evil, and the fate of humanity depends on the outcome of the struggle. The tone is dark, and Publisher's Weekly said: "Brooks's pacing is fabulous, and he manages to surprise and yet to maintain a feeling of inevitability." Shannara fans will find much to satisfy them; and those who've never tried Terry Brooks before will find they are in for a rare--and pleasant--surprise. RUNNING WITH THE DEMON Web site: http://www.randomhouse.com/brooks/ A KNIGHT OF THE WORD Publication date: August 1998 in hardcover Copyright © 1998 by Terry Brooks It is several years after the conclusion of RUNNING WITH THE DEMON. Nest Freemark, now an Olympic Gold Medal runner studying as an undergraduate at Northwestern University, has returned home to Hopewell, Illinois, to settle the estate of her grandfather when she is asked to visit Seattle to persuade John Ross, Knight of the Word, to return to the service of the Lady--or face dire consequences. Reluctantly, Ross agrees--even when his dreams tell him he will murder the Wizard of Oz. KNIGHT OF THE WORD Web site: http://www.randomhouse.com/brooks/ ANGEL FIRE EAST Publication date: October 1999 in hardcover Copyright © 1999 by Terry Brooks When Running with the Demon appeared two years ago, it was recognized at once as a masterpiece in the making, a bold departure that promised to revitalize contemporary urban fantasy and showcase Terry BrooksÕs vast storytelling gifts as never before. The second book of the series, A Knight of the Word, raised expectations even higher. Now, in Angel Fire East, sure to be hailed as his most ambitious, most accomplished work yet, Terry Brooks brings his bestselling epic trilogy of good and evil to an unforgettable close. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chris Bunch: THE WIND AFTER TIME Publication date: March 1996 Copyright © 1996 by Chris Bunch Joshua Wolfe, loner, fighter, and almost-alien, finds evidence that the long-gone Al'ar aliens--or some of them, anyway--may not be gone at all. But as his search brings him closer and closer to the truth, it also brings him closer and closer to whoever it is who wants him stopped...forever. This first volume of a science-fiction thriller trilogy titled SHADOW WARRIOR shows fans of the Sten novels that, although he has gone on to write epic fantasy, Chris Bunch has not forgotten his roots in--and love of--science fiction.. HUNT THE HEAVENS Publication date: September 1996 Copyright © 1996 by Chris Bunch Chris Bunch continues the dark thriller begun in A WIND AFTER TIME in HUNT THE HEAVENS, the second book of the Shadow Warrior trilogy. In this one, Joshua Wolfe and his Al'ar companion are coming close to finding out where the rest of the Al'ar went when they disappeared...provided they can live long enough to complete their quest. Plenty of guns and intrigue to move the story along. THE DARKNESS OF GOD Publication date: December 1997 Copyright © 1997 by Chris Bunch Chris Bunch concludes his Shadow Warrior trilogy with this book, a dark adventure of alien intrigue and a horror that could destroy all the worlds of humanity once and for all... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Edgar Rice Burroughs: TARZAN: THE LOST ADVENTURE with Joe Lansdale Publication date: May 1997 Copyright © 1997 by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. For decades the final, unfinished Edgar Rice Burroughs Tarzan manuscript remained hidden, locked away. Now, thanks to co-author Joe Lansdale, Tarzan will trek to the lost city of Ur, save a beautiful young archaeologist, and stop those who would kill anyone standing between them and the city's fabled treasure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Orson Scott Card: ENCHANTMENT Publication date: April 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Orson Scott Card Orson Scott Card is one of those writers who never fails to amaze me. His extraordinary language and imagination draw me into his stories, but it's his characters that keep me glued to the page. They feel so real to me that I find myself nodding in agreement and thinking, "Yes, that's exactly the way life is" or, "That's just how a person would react in that situation." His work is so rich that I can read the same book over and over and find something different and wonderful each time. ENCHANTMENT does all this and more. In addition to showcasing all of Card's hallmark talents, this novel breaks new ground--no small feat for a writer of such high caliber. ENCHANTMENT Web feature ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jack Chalker: GODS OF THE WELL OF SOULS Publication date: October 1994 in trade paperback Copyright © 1994 by Jack L. Chalker GODS OF THE WELL OF SOULS is the conclusion of the new, three-volume Well World series The Watchers at the Well, in which Nathan Brazil and Mavra Chang end their circuitous journey to the Well of Souls and confront one of the Markovians, builders of the Well world, and readers finally learn the true nature of the immortal known as Nathan Brazil. "A damn fine storyteller...Chalker is a master." --Orson Scott Card THE WONDERLAND GAMBIT, Book One: THE CYBERNETIC WALRUS Publication date: October 1995 in trade paperback Copyright © 1995 by Jack L. Chalker Jack Chalker's fertile imagination has taken SF readers to the outer reaches of the universe and beyond. Now, The Wonderland Gambit takes Chalker fans into far stranger places and worlds, where the line between virtual reality and actual reality is blurred beyond recognition. THE CYBERNETIC WALRUS is the first of three novels in the Wonderland Gambit story. But this Wonderland will make Alice look like a mere babe in the woods. THE WONDERLAND GAMBIT, Book Two: THE MARCH HARE NETWORK Publication date: December 1996 in trade paperback Copyright © 1996 by Jack L. Chalker Cory Maddox is thrust from cyberworld to cyberworld--controlled by shadowy manipulators and pursued by fellow prisoners. In his quest for a way home, he can't trust anyone or anything--not even own senses. THE WONDERLAND GAMBIT, Book Three: THE HOT-WIRED DODO Publication date: February 1997 in trade paperback Copyright © 1996 by Jack L. Chalker The long-awaited conclusion of The Wonderland Gambit, as Cory Maddox tries desperately to discover the secret behind the shadowy figures who control the cyberspace matrix. HORRORS OF THE DANCING GODS Publication date: December 1995 Copyright © 1995 by Jack L. Chalker Jack L. Chalker finally returns to the realm of the Dancing Gods with a fifth installment in the adventures of Joe the truck driver-turned-barbarian hero-turned-wood nymph. This time, Joe's son Irving gets involved in the action--really involved!--as the powers of God and the Adversary mobilize to halt an invasion from the Dark Beyond. It takes a writer of singular imagination to put a spin on the scary stuff, and who better than the author of the Well World saga, The Four Lords of the Diamond , and The Rings of the Master? THE DANCING GODS: PART ONE Publication date: December 1995 Copyright © 1984 by Jack L. Chalker For anyone who wasn't around for the adventures of truck-drivin' Joe and Marge the waitress in the magical realm of Husaquahr, Del Rey offers this 2-for-the-price-of-1 value pack: THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS and DEMONS OF THE DANCING GODS, available together for the first time. It's frugal fantasy fun. PRIAM'S LENS Publication date: May 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Jack L. Chalker Humans had finally gone to the stars, as the dreamers had always hoped; celestial stretches of the galaxy became the playgrounds of a new spacefaring race. But now these worlds were being taken over by Titans, creatures with unimaginable, godlike powers. There was one chance to stop them. Helena, one of the Titan-dominated planets, concealed an untapped, hundred-year-old weapon--Priam's Lens... SF adventure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Richard Chizmar: SCREAMPLAYS Edited by Richard Chizmar. Copyright © 1997 by Richard Chizmar SCREAMPLAYS is an anthology of full-length screenplays and teleplays by the modern masters of dark suspense and the supernatural. It features an introduction by Dean Koontz, the author of many New York Times #1 bestselling thriller/suspense novels; an original teleplay by Stephen King, horror novelist extraordinaire; several rare, never-before-seen scripts; and original versions of classic films. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Arthur C. Clarke: 3001: THE FINAL ODYSSEY Publication date: March 1997 Copyright © 1997 by Serendib DB We've all been waiting an awfully long time for Arthur Clarke to tell us what those mysterious Monoliths really are! Now that NASA's Galileo probe has been sending back lots of intriguing information about Ganymede and Europa, read the long-awaited 3001: THE FINAL ODYSSEY, and see how on-the-mark Clarke's predictions are turning out to be! This is also a chance to meet up with Dave Bowman and Hal again, and see what life on Earth might be like a millennium from now. And surprise surprise, the main character is...Frank Poole? EARTHLIGHT Publication date: October 1998 in trade paperback Copyright © 1953 by Arthur C. Clarke Classic science fiction from the grandest of all grandmasters--whose predictions continue to come true almost daily! Reissued in trade paperback. REACH FOR TOMORROW Publication date: October 1998 in trade paperback Copyright © 1956 by Arthur C. Clarke Classic science fiction from the grandest of all grandmasters--whose predictions continue to come true almost daily! Reissued in trade paperback. TALES FROM THE "WHITE HART" Publication date: October 1998 in trade paperback Copyright © 1956 by Arthur C. Clarke Classic science fiction from the grandest of all grandmasters--whose predictions continue to come true almost daily! Reissued in trade paperback. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ James Clemens: WIT'CH FIRE Publication date: June 1998 in trade paperback, March 1999 in paperback Copyright © 1998 by James Clemens WIT'CH FIRE is a potent mixture of adventure, prophecy, and magic, set in a dark land, with unforgettable characters. From the girl Elena, unknowing heir to a magic that will destroy her world, to the warrior Er'ril, bound to a duty that will not release him to a peaceful death, the cast of WIT'CH FIRE draws readers into a terrifying and dangerous new universe. We think Jim Clemens is a major new talent. Check out our Web promotion for reader reviews and other information! WIT'CH STORM Publication date: May 1999 Copyright © 1999 by James Clemens The sequel to WIT'CH FIRE, a stellar first novel of a world in peril, and of Elena, a girl whose gift of magic awakens an ancient, slumbering evil. Well, they say you should let slumbering evil lie, 'cause once it wakes, all sorts of disaster and havoc break loose. In WIT'CH STORM, Elena's intrepid band of resistance fighters rises to the deadly occasion, and new allies surface to confront the menace. But not all will come through the devastation safely... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Allan Cole: THE WARRIOR RETURNS Publication date: April 1996 in hardcover Copyright © 1996 by Allan Cole In THE FAR KINGDOMS, a walk-on role made a great impression: Rali, sister of adventurer Amalric Antero. Her part of the grand Antero adventure was told in THE WARRIOR'S TALE, but that was the last we heard of her, except for a mention (in KINGDOMS OF THE NIGHT) of her having been lost at sea. Well, she wasn't--not exactly. And THE WARRIOR RETURNS tells what really happened to her when all thought she was lost forever. Because as long as any Antero was still alive, the family and their city-state of Orissa would not be safe from powerful spirits eager for even more power. The editor found this book great fun: not only does it bring back a really memorable heroine for even more harrowing adventures, but it introduces a beguiling little girl and manages to tie up any loose ends left hanging after the first three books of the series. WIZARD OF THE WINDS Publication date: June 1997 in trade paperback Copyright 1997 by Allan Cole The editor's favorite new fantasy in years--a sweeping tale of magic, adventure, romance, treachery, greed, and death unlike any other fantasy out there. It's definitely epic, but that's about all it shares with the usual fantasy. Demons and humans, kings and floating circuses, and magic that feels about as real as it gets...with a historical feel that makes one believe that sometime, somewhere, this adventure actually happened! WOLVES OF THE GODS Publication date: February 1998 in trade paperback, February 1999 in paperback Copyright 1998 by Allan Cole An evil king back from the dead, shapechangers with slavering jaws and even more frightening magic, and an entire village on the run...in the sequel to Wizard of the Winds. The editor likes to think of this series as the 1002nd night of Scheherezade! THE GODS AWAKEN Publication date: September 1999 in trade paperback Copyright 1999 by Allan Cole In this volume, Book III of TALES OF THE TIMURAS, the realm is tormented by catastrophe. Lord Safar Timura, the great wizard, is trapped in the doomed world of Hadin, condemned to suffer and die, over and over again. It is up to his wizard son, Prince Palimak, to stop the disaster slowly poisoning land and sea. Though he is half human and half demon, even Palimak may not possess the awesome powers needed to free Safar and discover the great lost tomb, guarded by a fierce she-beast who holds secrets to halt the terror. There are many enemies, barbarian kings, monsters of the underworld--and, lording over all, the Demon Moon, looming in silent, bloody challenge. With the help of Leiria, warrior goddess, Palimak must destroy the doomspell and confront the sinister Demon Moon. Only then will the gods be awakened and the world be saved . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Allan Cole and Chris Bunch: THE WARRIOR'S TALE, An Epic Fantasy Publication date: November, 1994 Copyright © 1994 by the authors It's set in the same world as last year's big fantasy THE FAR KINGDOMS, but THE WARRIOR'S TALE isn't precisely a sequel--it tells the story of Rali Antero (sister of Amalric Antero, the hero of THE FAR KINGDOMS), the leader of a famed troop of female soldiers. Rali gets manipulated into taking on a job she doesn't think she or her troop will return from: track down (by ship) the most powerful evil wizard in the world--the last Archon of Lycanth--and do him in. KINGDOMS OF THE NIGHT Publication date: June 1995 in hardcover Copyright 1995 by Allan Cole and Chris Bunch Amalric Antero is a sad old man, mourning the loss of his wife and his youth and despairing over his bad-seed, no-good, one-and-only son. Then a gorgeous young woman comes along and drops two bombs on him: 1) She's the granddaughter of his old friend/enemy Janos Greycloak (he never even knew that Janos had ever fathered a child!); and 2) What they thought was the Far Kingdoms--the kingdom of Irayas that he and Janos had discovered in their youth--wasn't the Far Kingdoms at all! And she knows where the real Far Kingdoms really is! And she wants him to go with her to find that legendary land! Well, Amalric can hardly resist, can he? And so he sets off with the beautiful Janela Greycloak on an adventure that will bring him new love, new discoveries, and even return his youth to him-- not to mention set off the greatest battle with demonic forces he world has ever known... If Mary Renault had written a novel of the adventures of legendary explorer Richard Burton, this is the kind of book that would have resulted. If Scheherezade had had another thousand nights to kill, this is the story she might have told. KINGDOMS OF THE NIGHT continues the tale begun in THE FAR KINGDOMS and THE WARRIOR'S TALE, but you need not have read those books to enjoy this one. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dan Cragg and David Sherman: STARFIST: FIRST TO FIGHT Publication date: October 1997 Copyright 1997 by Dan Cragg and David Sherman FIRST TO FIGHT, the premier novel in the Starfist series, is about Marines and the war they find themselves drawn into on an interstellar humanitarian mission in the 25th Century. Written by combat veterans and designed to resemble a Marine or LRRP combat memoir, FIRST TO FIGHT will appeal to young men, soldiers, and those interested in the military. STARFIST: SCHOOL OF FIRE Publication date: August 1998 Copyright 1998 by Dan Cragg and David Sherman STARFIST: FIRST TO FIGHT was the first volume in this military-sf series. Now, in SCHOOL OF FIRE, we follow no-longer-newbies Privates First Class Dean and Claypoole on their second mission, this time to the planet Wanderjahr, where a rebellion is in progress. Military SF by guys who know their military stuff. STARFIST: STEEL GAUNTLET Publication date: January 1999 Copyright 1999 by Dan Cragg and David Sherman It's the 25th century, but the Marines are still looking for a few good men... After the resource-rich planet Diamunde is seized by the armed forces of industrialist Marston St. Cyr, the Confederation Marines face their most desperate battles yet against the mechanized forces of the bloody usurper. Promised a walkover by military planners, instead the Marines must run a gauntlet of steel, with weaponry three hundred years out of date. For the Confederation's invasion army to seize the planet, the Marine FISTs first have to secure a planethead against St. Cyr's much larger forces which are equipped with superior weapons. Together with their outgunned comrades, the Marines of 34th FIST must do the impossible--or die . . . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Brian Daley: SMOKE ON THE WATER Publication date: January 1998 Copyright © 1998 by Brian Daley Though they contemplated a final suicide mission of blood, guts, and glory, the Exts knew their warrior superskills were no match for the LAW--Legal Annexation of Worlds--who were sent into space by the mighty Periapt potentates to colonize new populations against the evil, alien Roke. Among the Ext draftees bound for Periapt were Allgrave Burning, his technowizard cousin Lod, and beautiful, death-scarred Ghost, all sworn to a greater purpose, destined to fight in a star-torn war like none other. A SCREAMING ACROSS THE SKY Publication date: July 1998 Copyright © 1998 by Brian Daley The next book in the Gammalaw SF saga. THE BROKEN COUNTRY Publication date: November 1998 Copyright © 1998 by Brian Daley This third novel of the military science fiction series GAMMALAW brings our conscripted warriors one step closer to their ultimate battle. The Exts were a group of hardcore veterans who lost their fight for freedom to Periapt forces. Their new leader was a politician who sent them to Aquamarine, a world where a sentient water-entity controls the natives, and expected them to be the muscle to back up her diplomatic overtures. However, Aquamarine was not what they expected, and shocking dangers--some from within their very midst--could put their lives in jeopardy. TO WATERS' END Publication date: March 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Brian Daley In the final face-off, victory or oblivion is their only choice... The battered GammaLAW mission to the alien planet Aquamarine could end in failure if Commissioner Dextra Haven and her conscripted warriors don't stop the destruction of the awesome sentient Oceanic by the Aquam natives. The surprising conclusion to this action-packed science fiction series. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Susan Dexter: THE TRUE KNIGHT Publication date: January 1996 Copyright © 1996 by Susan Dexter Susan Dexter shows flair and style in this romantic sequel to THE WIND WITCH. She tells the classic tale of a boy who wants to be a knight, a girl who wants to be a magician, and an ensorcelled swan who wants to stay a swan. This is the third. heartwarming installment in The Warhorse of Esdragon series. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gardner Dozois and Stanley Schmidt, editors: ROADS NOT TAKEN Publication date: July 1998 Copyright © 1998 by Gardner Dozois and Stanley Schmidt An anthology of Alternate History short stories, all originally published in either Asimov's or Analog. Fans of the genre will enjoy this collection of fun excursions, but this is also a great introduction for newcomers to Alternate History--a chance to sample a variety of approaches to changed history and see what it's all about. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Lord Dunsany: THE KING OF ELFLAND'S DAUGHTER Publication date: July 1999 Copyright © 1924, renewed 1951 by Lord Dunsany The poetic style and sweeping grandeur of The King of Elfland's Daughter has made it one of the most beloved fantasy novels of our time, a masterpiece that influenced some of the greatest contemporary fantasists. The heartbreaking story of a marriage between a mortal man and an elf princess is a masterful tapestry of the fairy tale following the "happily ever after." THE CHARWOMAN'S SHADOW Publication date: August 1999 Original copyright © 1926, renewed 1954 by Lord Dunsany. A classic for the ages, Lord Dunsany brings us a tale of an apprentice sorcerer and the price he must pay to save a serving woman's shadow from evil. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dave Duncan: THE HUNTER'S HAUNT Publication date: April 1995 Copyright © 1995 by Dave Duncan If you like charming mountain inns, intriguing characters from diverse lands, tall tales, and appalling truths, check into THE HUNTERS' HAUNT. Omar the storyteller takes refuge there during a blizzard--but it's the weather inside that's frightful. As Omar and his fellow travelers huddle by the fire, they learn what a lot they have in common--and how much each of them has to lose if Omar's stories get out of hand... This is a sequel--or companion novel--to Duncan's THE REAVER ROAD, which introduced Omar the Storyteller. Fans of Duncan's epic fantasy series The Seventh Sword, A Man of His Word, and A Handful of Men will find these books a little lighter and just as funny. THE CURSED Publication date: May 1995 in hardcover Copyright © 1995 by Dave Duncan Dave Duncan, author of many fantasy and science fiction novels for Del Rey, explores a whole new direction in his new, single-volume, stand-alone novel THE CURSED. It's the story of Gwin, a widowed innkeeper who offers shelter to a young girl "cursed" with the magic power of healing. Gwin's accidental involvement with magic changes her life in ways neither she nor the reader could ever have anticipated, bringing her love and tragedy, adventure and magic as she serves as midwife at the birth of a new empire. Duncan's a master of upending the established conventions of the fantasy genre, and he says he believes THE CURSED is the strongest book he has ever written. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ David (and Leigh) Eddings: THE BELGARIAD, Part One: PAWN OF PROPHECY, QUEEN OF SORCERY, MAGICIAN'S GAMBIT Publication date: October 1995 in three-in-one hardcover volume PAWN OF PROPHECY, QUEEN OF SORCERY: 1982; MAGICIAN'S GAMBIT: 1983 Copyright 1982, 1982, 1983 by David Eddings It would be hard to find a more popular modern fantasy series than David Eddings' Belgariad , and harder yet to find such a series that has not been available in hardcover. But in the unlikely event that you're on such a search, look no further: the first three books of Eddings' first series are now published together in hardcover for the first time in the US--with the author's review and revision, so this is the way the series should be read. It makes a perfect companion piece for BELGARATH THE SORCERER; readers are reporting that they want finish BELGARATH and go straight to the Belgariad to follow the Old Wolf's story straight through. THE HIDDEN CITY Book Three of The Tamuli Publication date: September 1995 in paperback Copyright 1994 by David Eddings THE HIDDEN CITY is the conclusion to The Tamuli--and additionally to The Elenium, the series that began the tale of Sparhawk and Ehlana. This volume unfolds the long-awaited conclusion to the story of Sparhawk, Knight and Queen's Champion, in the exotic eastern realms of the Tamul Empire. When the minions of the foul God Cyrgon kidnap Sparhawk's wife, Queen Ehlana, they demand that he surrender Bhelliom, the jewel of power, to reclaim his bride. Sparhawk and his cohorts set out to thwart the evil God and rescue the queen. Rousing epic adventure in the standard Eddings mold. BELGARATH THE SORCERER Publication date: August 1995 in hardcover Copyright 1995 by David and Leigh Eddings This is the Eddings' long-awaited return to the world of the Belgariad and The Malloreon. Fans will recall that Eddings wrote, at the end of his New York Times hardcover bestseller THE SEERESS OF KELL, that "There will be other days and other stories, but this tale is finished." But even as he (sly devil) was putting a firm end to the tale of Garion the Godslayer, Eddings was planning to go back and tell the beginning of the story. After all, Ancient Belgarath and his daughter Polgara the Sorceress had spent eons fighting the battle to determine the fate of all creation--don't try to tell him there wasn't a rip-roaring story in that! Now, aided and abetted (as always) by his previously unindicted co-conspirator and spouse Leigh, David Eddings gives us the epochal autobiography of Belgarath himself, the original big bad Old Wolf. POLGARA THE SORCERERESS Publication date: November 1997 in hardcover Copyright 1997 by David and Leigh Eddings Finally! The long-awaited life story of Polgara, including the early, tomboy days she spent up a Tree with her birds, the growth of her magic, the lost love, how she became a duchess, the dancing slave girl sojourn, and the deep, dark secret of the only person ever permitted to call her Polly--and live! Polgara is one of the most striking characters in all of fantasy, and readers who have followed her adventures since PAWN OF PROPHECY will revel in a chance to get to know her better, at long last. THE RIVAN CODEX Introduction and Preface Publication date: October 1998 in hardcover Copyright 1998 by David and Leigh Eddings What THE SILMARILLION was to The Lord of the Rings, THE RIVAN CODEX is to the worlds of David and Leigh Eddings. Truth to tell, I'd give anything for a new Eddings novel, a new world where David and Leigh can work the magic they did with The Belgariad and The Malloreon, The Elenium and The Tamuli. But while the Eddings are busy inventing a new world and peopling it with heroes and villains and just-plain-folks (skulking and otherwise), it's nice to peek behind the scenes and see what went into inventing the world of The Belgariad. It helps you appreciate why it does take so long to start a truly new series. And, as one of the first people to see the rough material of this book said, it's actually very giving of Dave to share this much of the creative process with his readers. And as impatient as we all are for a new adventure, I think we've got time to sit and reminisce with old friends... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Philip José Farmer: TO YOUR SCATTERED BODIES GO Publication date: July 1998 in trade paperback Copyright 1971 by Philip José Farmer The award-winning novel that took us to Riverworld for the first time, and launched one of the most famous sagas in science-fiction history. This is the first of five Del Rey trade-paperback editions of Philip José Farmer's classic novels. Farmer is one of science fiction's classic writers--here's your chance to read him if you've missed him so far. THE FABULOUS RIVERBOAT Publication date: September 1998 in trade paperback Copyright 1971 by Philip José Farmer Springing from TO YOUR SCATTERED BODIES GO, Philip José Farmer's famed Riverworld saga is now available in its entirety, as the denizens of Riverworld (including Mark Twain, Sir Francis Burton, and many more) seek to uncover the deadly secrets of the masters of the land. THE FABULOUS RIVERBOAT is the second in the Riverworld series. THE DARK HEART OF TIME Publication date: June 1999 Copyright 1999 by Philip José Farmer The award-winning Riverworld author writes his first authorized Tarzan novel, thrusting the Lord of the Jungle deep into unknown lands where he encounters a bizarre man-beast, the crystal tree of time, and the City Made by God. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ William Forstchen: THE GAMESTER WARS Publication date: repackaged August 1995 Copyright 1987, 1988, and 1993 by William R. Forstchen Bill Forstchen has long entwined his love of science fiction and his love of history in his writing, and the Gamester Wars trilogy is no exception. These books were published individually in the late 80s and early 90s, and have been unavailable for a year or so. This three-in-one edition presents all three books in the trilogy together for the first time. For fans of military SF or alternate history, Forstchen's use of historical characters in a far-future setting is a recipe for a galaxy-spanning tale of war, greed, and interstellar mayhem. We think it's also lots of fun. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Alan Dean Foster: MID-FLINX Publication date: November 1995 in hardcover Copyright © 1995 by Thranx, Inc. Alan Dean Foster's most popular characters are probably the red-haired kid known as Flinx and his unusual pet, the "mini-drag" Pip. The last Flinx and Pip novel was FLINX IN FLUX, published back in the late '80s. At long last, Foster is picking up the threads of the Flinx saga and taking Pip and Flinx on a wild adventure in one of Foster's more interesting locales, Midworld, a planet with a huge, globe-covering rainforest and some very unusual denizens. MAD AMOS Publication date: March 1996 Copyright © 1996 by Thranx, Inc. A collection of fantasy short stories about Mad Amos, craziest wizard in the wild west. Fantasy of a different--and fun!--sort, from the author of the Pip and Flinx and Damned series. THE HOWLING STONES Publication date: January 1997 Copyright © 1997 by Thranx, Inc. SF adventure set in the Humanx Commonwealth, not only dealing with some very difficult aliens but also revealing a bit more of the truth behind the mysteries set up in earlier Humanx novels: who--or what--came before the Humans and Thranx? And just how dangerous might they be? PARALLELITIES Publication date: September 1998 Copyright © 1998 by Thranx, Inc. A lighthearted but scary romp in which one man accidentally is made into a gateway to alternate realities and finds himself flipping uncontrollably from one "parallelity" to another. He encounters bizarre worlds and familiar--but not quite--worlds; he meets himself--young, old, female, dead. Somehow he's got to find the mad scientist who did this to him, to get him to undo it--but how can he be sure he's got the right scientist, in the right world, and won't end up trapped in the wrong world forever? This is Alan Dean Foster doing his roller-coaster/funhouse sf--a lot of fun and not a little unsettling! PHYLOGENESIS Publication date: June 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Thranx, Inc. Alan Dean Foster has captivated readers with his Humanx Commonwealth, but the Commonwealth might never have been if it weren't for two seemingly insignificant beings. In the years after first contact, humans and thranx agreed to a tentative sharing of ideas and cultures despite the ingrained repulsion they had yet to overcome. Mindful that one day they might need each other as allies, the leaders of the two species conceded that the only way to reach an accommodation was through a slow, lengthy process of limited contact. But then a human thief and a thranx poet met by chance and formed a bond that would surpass all regulations. PHYLOGENESIS is the first book of the Founding of the Commonwealth. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Leo Frankowski: CONRAD'S QUEST FOR RUBBER Publication date: December 1998 Copyright 1998 by Leo Frankowski Long awaited by fans of the Conrad Stargard series! Leo Frankowski returns to medieval Poland with a new adventure for time-traveling engineer Conrad Stargard. With the conquest of the barbarians well in hand, Conrad seeks to find a way to modernize Poland. But the materials he needs cannot be found in northern Europe. So he organizes the first expedition teams and sends them off on a quest to find rubber trees in the exotic and treacherous Amazon jungle. Lighthearted time-travel SF that especially appeals to the gadget-happy and invention-minded. "It's good to have the adventures of Conrad Stargard continued after a long hiatus. They gave us a fascinating view of medieval Poland in a vigorous, enjoyable story, together with insights of technology and even, subtly, economics. By now we're into a complete world-of-if, equally fun to explore."--Poul Anderson ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Robert Frezza: CAIN'S LAND Publication date: January 1996 Copyright 1996 by Robert Frezza After leading the second rebellion against the Japanese corporation that colonized the planet Suid Afrika and then attacking Tokyo itself, the Imperial Army's own Colonel Anton Vereshchagin has retired, leaving Suid Afrika in the control of the people he was sent to suppress. In Cain's Land, Vereshchagin is asked to come out of retirement by a very unlikely source--the Japanese Ambassador to Suid Afrika--to lead an expedition to the newly discovered planet Go-Nihon (nicknamed Neighbor) on behalf of the Japanese empire he betrayed. First, he must convince the Suid Afrikans that the Empire's expedition is not a ploy by the Japanese to regain control of their former colony by diverting its military. Then, he must learn what threat the Neighbors pose. Unfortunately, the men he dispatches to Go-Nihon soon learn that the aliens--bipedal humanoids nearing the ability to travel between planets--are a militant, distrustful lot more intent on learning how human technology works than in seriously negotiating a treaty of friendship. When, having learned all they think they can, the aliens kidnap the negotiators and attack those humans not in orbit, the negotiations become all-out war. Once again, the men and women of Col. Vereshchagin's 35th Infantry must overcome tremendous odds merely to survive. THE VMR THEORY Publication date: December 1996 Copyright 1996 by Robert Frezza Ken and Catarina were first introduced in McLENDON'S SYNDROME. In THE VMR THEORY, Naval Intelligence assigns Ken and Catarina to visit the planet Macdonald, where the first nonhuman intelligences known to man have been discovered (if you don't count dolphins and lawyers). The Macdonalds want to conquer the Universe. Problem is, they must first conquer humanity. Ken and Catarina are to prevent that. Its the funniest sf since Bill the Galactic Hero! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ David Gemmell: LEGEND Publication date: November 1994 Copyright © 1986 by David Gemmell A common theme in British author David Gemmell's books is the reluctant hero who would like to stand apart from the woes of the world, but who finds that he is the only person who can right a great wrong, and so goes to his fate to be a hero. In LEGEND, Druss had been the stuff of legends, but the grizzled warrior had retreated from the world. But when a mighty fortress is destined to fall to barbarian hordes, Druss comes out of retirement to fight one last, hopeless battle. LEGEND is dark, battle-charged, and violent. It's the kind of book where you can smell the scent of war. THE KING BEYOND THE GATE Publication date: February 1995 in the US Copyright © 1985 by David A. Gemmell Once the mighty fortress of Dros Delnoch had stood strong, defended by the mightiest of all Drenai heroes, Druss, the Legend. But now the fortress itself was corrupt, ruled by a mad emperor. Only one man dared stand against him--Tenaka Kahn, a half-breed, an outsider, despised by all. Yet he would become a great leader of men--and a hero. This is the sequel to Gemmell's most popular book, LEGEND. Gemmell is well known (as in major bestseller) in England and less known in the States for his historical and brave-guy-against-tall-odds heroic fantasy. QUEST FOR LOST HEROES Publication date: July 1995 in mass-market paperback Copyright 1990 by David A. Gemmell The Drenai military fantasies began with David Gemmell's critically-acclaimed LEGEND, and QUEST FOR LOST HEROES takes place two centuries later--the third of four installments we will offer for American audiences. Gemmell is known for taking a hero who seems past his prime, then placing him in a situation that demands that he face his greatest challenge. In this adventure, a peasant boy named Kiall sets out on a dangerous quest against the Nadir hordes. He is joined by the heroes of Bel-Azar, and one of his companions is secretly their greatest hope--the Earl of Bronze. WAYLANDER Paperback. (SWS) Publication date: November 1995 Copyright © 1986 by David Gemmell The prequel to the international bestselling fantasy LEGEND, and the fourth and final (for now) installment in Del Rey's offering of Gemmell's Drenai saga. This is the tale of the warrior known as Waylander in his quest through the haunted lands of the Nadir in search of the lost Armor of Bronze. GHOST KING Publication date: January 1996 Copyright © 1988 by David A. Gemmell The King of Brittania has been assassinated, the great Sword of Power has vanished, and chaos and terror rule the day. The enemies of the realm amass their forces, bent on spreading destruction, and they are aided by the powers of the Witch Queen and the Lord of the Undead. The unlikely heroes are a frail boy and an aging mountain warrior. But the boy has the blood of kings, and the warrior is the legendary Lord of the Lance, Culain. They must overcome incredible odds if they hope to prevail. And they just may succeed, for they have a secret weapon--Culain knows the secret of the Witch Queen. LAST SWORD OF POWER Publication date: September 1996 Copyright © 1988 by David A. Gemmell Continuing the Stones of Power saga and the tale of Uther Pendragon, as he faces Wotan, bloodthirsty leader of the Goths. Only Uther, the aging warrior Revelation, and the blind girl Anduine can stop Wotan from opening the Gates of Hell. High fantasy adventure. WOLF IN SHADOW Publication date: February 1997 Copyright © 1986 by David A. Gemmell Meet Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man, whose post-apocalyptic world is threatened by an eternal madman whose power stems from the Bloodstone--a Sipstrassi Stone of Power that has been corrupted, perhaps beyond redemption. It falls to Shannow to stop Abaddon, Lord of the Pit, and his unholy legions. THE LAST GUARDIAN Publication date: July 1997 in Del Rey paperback Copyright © 1989 by David A. Gemmell Jon Shannow, one of David Gemmell's most popular characters, returns from the dead to face an enormous evil that reaches across the seas of time itself. BLOODSTONE Publication date: December 1997 in the US Copyright © 1996 by David A. Gemmell Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man, returns to face the living, evil embodiment of the all-powerful Sipstrassi Stones of Power. IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF Publication date: June 1998 in the US Copyright © 1997 by David A. Gemmell The return to the fantastic realm of the Drenai, and to the legend of the Waylander. David Gemmell's epic and historical fantasy has a whole SF/F imprint named after it (LEGEND, in the UK) and has put him on bestseller lists internationally. DRUSS THE LEGEND Publication date: November 1998 in the US Copyright © 1994 by David A. Gemmell The latest in the famous Drenai cycle and the prequel to Gemmell's most famous and most popular adventure, LEGEND. In this book, Druss the axman risks everything to save his young bride. THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER Publication date: May 1999 in the US Copyright © 1999 by David A. Gemmell Druss the Deathwalker returns in this sequel to LEGEND, as he joins the warrior known as Talisman on a mission to retrieve the stolen Eyes of Alchazzar, mystic jewels of power, and to free the Nadir tribes from the hordes of the Gothir. THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND Publication date: October 1999 in the US Copyright © 1999 by David A. Gemmell He was known as Druss. The Deathwalker. Though the blood of merciless butchers coursed through his veins, he had found a fragile peace through his love for beautiful, mystical Rowena. Then came the day when Druss returned to their village and found everyone deadÑmassacred by slavers who had stolen the women to sell for gold. Rowena was among the missing. Armed with only his powerful double-bladed ax, Snaga, Druss went after Rowena. His journey would carry him from the highest thrones of power to the deepest dungeons of depravity. Along the way, he would battle savage monsters and descend into terrifying lands of black magic and demons. Interested in David Gemmell? Visit his Featured Author section. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Scott G. Gier: GENELLAN: PLANETFALL Publication date: August 1995 Copyright 1995 by Scott G. Gier DEL REY DISCOVERY OF THE YEAR When the Earth fleet is almost routed in a battle with aliens, it flees into hyperspace, leaving behing one crippled ship. The crew of that ship is forced to evacuate to a nearby planet, where they then must learn to survive while they wait for rescue. On that planet, they meet the sentient natives, low-tech winged people, and befriend them; they also meet the enemy--the warlike Kon from the next planet over. It's up to one lieutenant to somehow hold together command of her mixed group of spacer marines and civilians and to make some kind of peace between humans and both alien races before war destroys them all. This is military sf; it's also first-contact sf; it's a story of survival; and it's got believable, likeable characters. GENELLAN: IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOON Publication date: July 1996 Copyright 1996 by Scott G. Gier Continuing the story begun in GENELLAN: PLANETFALL, this book examines the building of the colony on Genellan and the tentative peace between the humans, the bearlike Kones, and the winged cliff-dwellers. In IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOON, Lt. Buccari is torn between her duty to her son and the other people of Genellan and her duty to the space fleet--especially now that both are under attack: Genellan by another faction of the Kones, who claim the planet as their own; and the fleet by the same horrendous aliens who years earlier wiped out entire colonies and now have it in for Buccari personally. IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOON brings back most of the great characters from the first book, as well as introducing a few new and equally engaging ones. And as with the first book, there's plenty of military action, adventure, romance, and heroism. GENELLAN: FIRST VICTORY Publication date: November 1997 Copyright 1997 by Scott G. Gier This is one of those rare combinations of realistic, gritty, gripping military action and compelling human (and alien!) drama. The Earthlike planet Genellan is caught in the center of a growing interstellar conflict, as the humans and their new allies, the native cliff-dwellers and the bearlike Kones, must unite to defend their shared world against the depredations of the dread Ulaggi, who have already destroyed entire worlds and civilizations. Romance, adventure, tragedy, and small victories all blended seamlessly with acts of war. The editor is particularly fond of the Genellan books for their compelling characters, which she too often finds lacking in military sf. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Geary Gravel: MIGHT AND MAGIC, Book One: THE DREAMWRIGHT Publication date: February 1995 Copyright © 1994 by Geary Gravel The book's editor says: I'm addicted to computer games, and my favorite kind of game is the computer role-playing sort--not just because I can fight and cast spells and interact with the game environment, but because I can enjoy the experience of exploring an entire fantasy world, complete with its own people, creatures, scenery, etc. One of my favorite games of this sort is New World Computing's "Might and Magic," and I thought what better game to try tying a novel into? I chose Geary Gravel to write it because I thought he could write a great novel set in this world. Oddly enough, he's not a gamer himself. Even more odd is this: the new installment of the game got delayed, so Geary had to write the book from whole cloth. In fact, the game company promised to tie their game into our book! So what we've got here is a novel that works both as a fantasy adventure and a tie-in. You can read and, I hope, enjoy this book even if you've never played a computer game in your life. And if you've played "Might and Magic," you might enjoy this book as a peek into the future of the game (though it won't give anything away!), an experience to tide you over until the long-awaited next installment finally comes out. MIGHT & MAGIC, Book Two: THE SHADOWSMITH Publication date: April 1996 Copyright 1996 by Bill Fawcett & Associates This is the second of three books tying in to the editor's favorite computer role-playing game: Might & Magic. Interestingly enough, the next edition of the game was delayed in development, and we went ahead with our books, so the next game will actually be based on OUR book, rather than vice versa! First the mountain boy Hitch thinks he has a big problem when he's asked to take over the job as the legendary Dreamwright. But that's nothing compared to his latest problem: he and his unusual companion, known as the Hatchling, have accidentally stepped through a strange portal and exited somewhere else... The Hatchling must get back to his crashed ship, but little do they realize that someone else wants that ship too: the evil Shadowsmith himself. Lots of adventure and magic. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Lois Gresh and Robert Weinberg: TERMINATION NODE Publication date: January 1999 Copyright © 1999 by Lois Gresh and Robert Weinberg In a world online, nobody is safe, nothing is private, no transaction is secure. A single keystroke on the Internet, and a billion dollars vanishes from innocent people's bank accounts. It could happen. And it does--in Lois Gresh and Robert Weinberg's electrifying new novel The Termination Node. Judy Carmody is the total hacker--a free-wheeling California freelancer who at twenty-something is the best in the business of Internet security. But even Judy has never seen anything like the cyber-heist that instantly vaporizes the assets of a major bank. Somehow, someone has perfected an advanced computer code that cannot be traced, a code that threatens to plunge the world economy into chaos. Whoever has masterminded the theft has thought of everything--including the elimination of every hacker who could possibly unravel the code. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Nicola Griffith: AMMONITE Publication date: February 1993 Copyright © 1992 by Nicola Griffith --Winner of the 1993 Lambda Award for best lesbian sf novel. --Shortlisted for the 1993 Arthur C. Clarke Award and a Nebula nominee for 1994. A lot of people liked AMMONITE. Here are some of them: "A knock-out first novel" --Ursula K. Le Guin "A marvelous blend of high adventure and mind-boggling social speculation--it marks the arrival of Nicola Griffith as a new sf star for the 90s." --Kim Stanley Robinson "A noteworthy first novel...A powerful story of connection, allegiance, and obligation." --Vonda N. McIntyre The New York Times Book Review and a lot of other papers and magazines liked it a lot, too. It's the story of a rather isolated woman who takes the job of testing a new vaccine on a recently discovered planet, GP, that harbors a mysterious virus. She has to contend with the military force sent to the planet by the company that employs her, the indigenous population of the planet--human, but after 500 years without contact, disquietingly changed--and finally, her own sense of not belonging--on GP, or anywhere. SLOW RIVER Publication date: August 1995 in hardcover Copyright 1995 by Nicola Griffith Winner of the 1996 Nebula Award for Best Novel! Winner of a Lambda Award (for best lesbian sf)--the author's second Every once in a while, an author pigeonholed into a genre (sf, in this case) writes a book that bursts the genre's boundaries and brings his or her work to the attention of a whole new audience, dragging the genre along willy- nilly. That's what Nicola Griffith, author of the award-winning AMMONITE, has done with SLOW RIVER, which has a deceptively simple set-up: it's the story of a young woman from a rich, powerful corporate dynasty who's separated from everything she thinks defines her: her family, her status, her money, her career, her identity itself. She has to start over from scratch, on the underside of a near-future European city, with nothing, building a new person from the ground up. Few of us ever get that chance once we've embarked upon our lives, and the central question of SLOW RIVER is who you are, who you become, when you have nothing left--what core of yourself remains when you strip everything external away, and how much control do you have over what crystallizes around it? Of course there's a lot of thought-provoking skiffy stuff in SLOW RIVER-- information crimes, ID implants, bioremediation of the environment through genetically tailored bacteria, a future Net with its own mechanisms and its own scams--but SLOW RIVER is more a novel (type: sf) than science fiction (form: novel). And we will no doubt get the usual snide reviews of the "I can't believe it's from Del Rey" type for publishing it (though Locus and SF Age have so far loved the book without any such commentary). So if you're looking for a book that stands up to mainstream novels like Jane Smiley's A THOUSAND ACRES, Pat Conroy's books, and Dorothy Allison's BASTARD OUT OF CAROLINA, plus rings the literary-genre bells of, say, Ursula K. Le Guin, try SLOW RIVER. Don't take my word for it--try the sample chapter. That was what grabbed me when the book was first submitted and refused to let go. (The months until the manuscript was finished were No Fun!) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ H-M Authors | N-Z Authors ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Table of Contents | Books@Random Catalog | Sample Chapters | Newsletter THE UNWOUND WAY by Bill Adams and Cecil Brooks ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Publication date: November 1991; reissue December 1994 copyright © 1991 by Bill Adams and Cecil Brooks ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Permission to download this sample for personal use only is hereby granted by Del Rey Books. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted text without permission in writing from the publisher. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod, And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of. Some oracle Must rectify our knowledge. The Tempest V,i. Part One -- THE MASK Chapter One I emerged from the sun's dazzle into a new world, night and stars. The vivid greens and raw-meat reds of the rain forest outside, the humidity and cascading bird calls, were tucked behind me by an airlock door. Humans can't follow the three-week days of the planet Zenobia. Indoors, they keep their own calendars and clocks, and within Conde's manorhouse it was just past midnight. All the scarlet-curtained windows had been polarized black, a hologram image of Zenobia's night sky projected within the frames. After the heat outside, the air conditioning was like the brandied kiss of the young woman who met me at the door--a pleasant shock, a new dazzlement. I think she introduced herself as our patron's niece, hostess for our cast party, but she was already pretty badly dazzled herself. I followed the flow of guests into the great hall, cheerfully resigned to the decadence of the occasion. The Actor, the Smuggler, the Fugitive--each lives for a successful run. I was all three that night, and felt I deserved a triple crown. The play was done. The contraband had been delivered. And my new identity appeared to be better-connected than usual. I relaxed and took in the panelings of native wood and the wine-red carpets, my fellow players in flamboyant costumes and the local gentry in formal dress. I found another ostentation less amusing--human servants, in livery designed to make fools of them. But man must drink, even if the serving tray is strapped to some pageboy's head, and I had just snagged an extra glass when I reached the entrance to the buffet room, and saw it. For a moment I thought I'd begun one of my special dreams, those torments that rip me out of Reality and leave the torn edges flapping. It was real, though. Not quite the sword of Damocles, perhaps, but hanging over my place at dinner just the same. The bust, the mask, the mocking face of bronze. Always bringing me down to earth, and back to beginnings. The Blue Swathe--that's what they called this fringe of the human sphere. At least three different waves of colonization had rolled through it, turning up rich new worlds every time. Even in this age of the Column government, an air of frontier freedom remained. Local legislatures had recently voted in civil libertarian reforms--optimistically anticipating a rumored policy shift by the Column's shadowy Consultant. This had attracted me. I'd entered the region as one act in a small carnival--a conjuror, the real me in a way, despite the fanciful alias: "Praku Ras." The outfit had folded unexpectedly, on a mudball of a mining planet. I'd been stranded, no salary saved and no theaters to fall back on. Fortunately, I was only seven years out of Naval service, and the universe remains abrasive enough to keep my martial skills polished. Shiphandling, for instance. Under the name Lars Park, I soon picked up a pilot's job with the Hermes Line, the only courier service franchised to operate within the Swathe. I started at the bottom--probational half-pay, and an obsolescent boat that burned up half its backups on every sunplunge. But part of me had always wanted to experience faster-than-light travel just that way: alone, solely responsible, free to feel the immensity and insanity of it. We sling ourselves into the curved space at the very rim of a star, protected from its energies only by wrapping them around ourselves. The stronger our bootstrap-shield grows, the steeper we make our descent. And if we are not deflected into a dangerous spin, and if we do not take in energy too fast and burn out, and if the force field curves to singularity against the slope of the gravity well--we squeeze ourselves out of space entirely, following a geodesic through praeterspace into the domain of a new star. And yet, I finally learned, the sense of wonder slips away. The job turned into a dull grind as I transported messages, packages, and news dispatches from star to star throughout the Swathe's Six and Thirty Sodality. Only the smuggling kept me aware and alive. My dispatchers insisted that if I didn't play along as the other pilots did, I would never be promoted to the permanent list. Anyway, I rationalized, smuggling is a not a crime against people, only their Customs--bad manners, in other words, and no more. But when I demanded an overdue raise, the Hermes Line kicked me out, using evidence of the "misconduct" they'd forced on me as their excuse. It was obviously a racket. I wasn't arrested, for one thing; a trial would have exposed the smuggling as company policy. But the company gave me a good scare and, to get rid of me, a letter of introduction to a Swathe labor exchange. I used it, too, which meant not changing my name again--two mistakes, but I couldn't see that at the time. Once the labor exchange found me a part in a play, I couldn't see past the footlights. I originally signed on as an understudy, but when the lead had an attack of temperament --something about wanting to be paid--I picked up his role. Odysseus in Phaiacia--by Larkspur, of course. I'm not a first-rate actor, but a great part can make you look great if you understand it, and I understand that one better than any man living. The interstellar craze for live theater and Larkspur had just reached the Swathe, in what was billed as the Odysseus play's centennial year. Our production moved from triumph to triumph, feted afterwards by local Society; something about verse plays always brings out the rich. I enjoyed the tour--hell, I reveled in it. But I was irked because our canny impresario paid me only scale, putting me off with vague promises of a tour-end bonus. I don't live for money, mind you, I live for experience--but that costs money. It's the bait that never stales; it draws us back to old and obvious traps. One night on Woodvyl a man named T'ung came backstage and introduced himself as another exploited ex-pilot for the Hermes Line. He said he had a plan to cheat them out of a fat smuggling fee. So revenge as well as greed demanded I help him. My part in the scam was to be simple. All I had to do was wear a certain bracelet to the troupe's next port of call, Zenobia. The dull grey band didn't look like much. But it had belonged to a Discocephalic alien once, and like every other nonhuman intelligence of which the human race had ever found traces, the Discocephalics had been extinct for millennia; that made the artifact extremely valuable. A Zenobian would pick it up on behalf of one Maximilien Conde--a big-time defense contractor who hadn't wanted to be involved with more professional smugglers. The risks seemed slight, since the iron-alloy bracelet had no face value and could be worn openly. But I think I was surprised, given this perverse universe, when everything went off without a hitch. The contact man showed up the evening of our first Zenobian performance, relieved me of the contra"band," and paid me in full. For the next few weeks I had nothing to worry about except our leading lady's boyfriend, or perhaps the continual whine of our troupe's director: "Why are you tampering, Freeman Park?"--his stubborn refusal to take my word for it that if Larkspur had lived past twenty-two, he'd have fixed Odysseus's closing speech. And meanwhile the play rolled across the Zenobian landscape like a great golden engine, with cheering crowds to greet it at every stop. I hadn't been surprised when we received invitations to hold our cast party at Conde's manor and Conde's expense. The contact man had implied that this was coming, and I'd looked forward to the role of "secret guest of honor." And here I was. Only that bronze face--my own dark side, the shadow of the past--could bring me down now, I reminded myself. But in fact a future had already been hung and honed for me; a winding hall of mirrors, and an upraised axe. I entered the room and faced the damned thing. They had it rigged to float head-high in the air, above a little table between the smorgasbords, with passage on either side to go around and view the back. I assumed at first it was a hologram, sharper than most. I'd seen such copies before; they were so commonplace you'd have thought the wealthy would pass them up as vulgar. But someday I would have to visit Schaelus's original bronze, in his subject's restored dorm room at Nexus University--the Larkspur Museum. The piece has the crazy virtue of Jacques Louis David's Napoleonic paintings: neoclassic lines so clean that they make the romantic seem realistic. Face-on, it appears to be the bust of a young man. He's just begun to turn and look upward at something surprising and inspiring. His hair is worn long and unbound, to the shoulders. Styles come and go, and when we wore our hair that way it didn't seem effeminate; but here it emphasizes the slenderness of the subject's neck. The eyes and their lashes also conflict with the otherwise virile cast of the face. I wonder why people like to see their poets as androgynous. Perhaps it's an attempt to picture the Muse as well as the man; here, it does work. Then you walk around the bronze, and discover that it's not a simple bust, but a hollowed facade, like a death-mask. And it shares an optical illusion with death-masks: under the right lighting, the concave inner side begins to appear convex, another outward face; it's like the drawing of a transparent cube, which you can mentally flip back and forth as you decide which end is toward you. Schaelus deliberately spent as much effort on the inner side as on the facade, to maximize the illusion, the uncertainty. What is it meant to suggest? We peek beyond the young man's enigmatic face to find--nothing, except an opportunity to see through his eyes. But if we attempt this, we find the eye-holes opaque and the face unexpectedly confronting us again. A cool comment on a legend that's also a fine work of romantic art. But I hate it for the lie on the little plaque in front: EVAN LARKSPUR 1594-1616 If Light is but a wave, then why not surf? --The Enchanted Isle I don't mind the choice of quotation, apt or not. But I object to the name--the pretense that this is a portrait, when there is no resemblance at all. That's what I was thinking when a female voice whispered in my ear, "He's you," and maybe that's when the evening began to turn on me, maybe that's when I entered the mirror-maze behind the mask. "What?" I said, looking to see who had followed me around the table--an attractive blonde. The alcohol gleam in her eyes made it impossible to guess whether her shoulder-straps were supposed to fall that way or not; I couldn't give the problem the attention it deserved, because she hit me with it again: "He's you." But she went on, smiling now that she had my attention: "He's me. That's what Schaelus is saying. Everyone wants to put on that mask, and see himself as Larkspur. Everyone likes to imagine . . . taking off the way Larkspur did, seeing something better out there, and just turning his back on all this . . . crap." On the last word she gestured to indicate the room, the planet, or the Column and its Consultancy ruling over us all--a fling of the arm that settled the shoulder-strap question, anyway. An older, soberer, richer-looking gentleman came up behind her, turned her around and readjusted her dress; she raised her arms and took it for granted, like a six-year-old. "Romantic nonsense, of course," the boyfriend--if that's what he was--said to me: "This whole notion the young have, of Larkspur as a social critic." "Uh-hunh," I said, and started to move away, but he acted as though I were arguing with him. "Oh, he was a fringe colonial, true," the boyfriend went on, "but he must have had aristocratic ties. He got into Nexus U. itself, was accepted into one of the 'exclusive' secret societies there--a Kanalist fraternity, of course, The Enchanted Isle is full of their symbolism--" "Hans is jealous," the blonde pointed out, turning only her head. "Hans was blackballed." "Envy," Hans said. "Nouveau types are the worst snobs. Like Larkspur himself," he went on, for public benefit now; a few other guests, china and silver in their hands, had drifted into distant listening positions. "His plays were obviously written for a coterie audience. Can't you just see the colonial boy trying to fit in with the old guard at Nexus, learning Ur-Linguish to smarten up his accent? That's what led him into the treasure-trove of forgotten Earth literature. He was no genius. Homer, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Rostand--those are the geniuses. People say 'adaptation' and 'hommage,' but the right word is plagiarism." "Totally unfair," said another woman, looking on, and her companion added, "What about the Satires?" Hans ignored them. "Larkspur would be forgotten today if not for a romantic death--and the rise of nouveau snobbery under the Consultancy." "Watch it," someone said in a low voice, but we were far from the Column's central worlds and its Shadow Tribunal, and everyone just laughed. "Oh yes, we're all supposed to be good Ur-Linguophiles now," Hans said, shaking a finger at me as though I had been arguing with him. "Even in the Swathe, our class is supposed to speak with a central-sphere accent. Where better to pick it up than in memorable verses? And if the plays are full of the sort of heroic, larger-than-life characters the Consultancy would like to have in the Column Navy, all the better for recruitment, eh?" "Totally unfair," repeated the outriding woman, an intense brunette in a conservative dinner gown. "Larkspur can't be blamed for the way his work's been used since his death. He was an individualist, an old Alignment Federalist. I think that's why he ran away and joined the Navy--the last bulwark of the old order. He was an Old Rite Kanalist, too, and he saw that the Reformed Rite lodges were selling out to the Column. He saw--" "He saw The Enchanted Isle flop within the elite community that was supporting him," Hans said, swooping to the kill, "so he decided to give up amateur theater, accept a commission in a Nearlight Survey, and make a vast vulgar fortune, like--" "Like me," said a self-assured voice at my side. There was another general laugh, as the speaker wedged his way into the center of the group. By the time he clapped me on the shoulder I'd guessed that he was our host, Sir Maximilien Conde. I regained my composure. Wherever Larkspur is played, they gossip about his life. As the lead player, I was a natural target; no doubt our director would have to listen to the same literary yatata when he arrived. But there had been something about the way they'd gathered around me . . . Of course, in Conde's case I was the secret guest of honor, a colorful character who had done him a favor. No doubt that explained the look of hidden knowledge in his eyes. "So Larkspur took an easy way out, is that what you're saying, Hans?" Conde's voice didn't boom, but it did carry. Tanned, taut, and energetic, he could have passed for eighty years old, but a closer look said a hundred, the end of middle age; the great shock of white hair was no clue, probably dyed from a duller grey. "But Surveys weren't short private hops in those days, remember. Only big Navy ships like the Barbarossa could control the scoop-fields. You had to sign up for a five-year cruise with only twenty mates for company. Suspend-sleep most of the time, and sixty or seventy years passing for the folks you left behind-- relativity effect. You try kissing that much of your background goodbye. Don't forget, too, that many ships still just disappear, like Larkspur's. Not an easy way out, when you don't come back." "But Larkspur still could," said the blonde, suddenly, and the childishness of her drunken voice seemed fey, oracular. "He could come back tomorrow, couldn't he? If the Barbarossa had just . . . overshot a few months, that would be another few decades, our time. He could come back tomorrow, still in his early twenties . . . find himself appreciated at last . . . " "Not for long," I said--all too easily: "A century has been kind to the seven plays you have. It's glossed over their faults, and quoted all the best lines into your ears from childhood. If Larkspur came back, all his new plays would only seem thin by comparison. And once Larkspur started showing off at the same parties as your other writers, stealing the prettiest girls from your critics--they'd have to tear him down to human size." "But the quality is there," the brunette insisted. "The talent behind the legend. He could start over from scratch, under a pseudonym. If anyone could write like that now--" "We'd tell him to stop imitating the sentimental style of a hundred years ago," Hans insisted, and when someone playfully booed, he added: "Tell me you don't see that phrase twice a month in the reviews!" Only I could know how right he was. Objectively, a funny scene--but no fun to play. God is one of the more heavy-handed ironists. "He couldn't conceal his identity anyway," Conde said. "Not if he cashed in the Barbarossa's data-record. It would be one of the largest fortunes in history, even split twenty ways after the Navy's cut. Look how many planets Del Mehta and I discovered with only a ten-light-year baseline. If anyone ever did make it back from a hundred-year circle, tangent to the fringe like that, they'd be able to fill in the pre-space access data for thousands of stars. The revenues would be fantastic. Unimaginable." "But I wonder if Larkspur cared much about money," the brunette said. "That much money cares about you," Conde said with conviction. "Ever hear the 'selfish gene' theory--humans just the vehicles that genes use to perpetuate themselves? Well, a fortune is selfish, too. It doesn't want to be broken up, so it buys its owner a defensive arsenal of banks and lawyers and senators. And you use them. Because by then you're in the arena, and the only way out is on a stretcher." "Oh poor Sir Max," Hans said, and everyone laughed again. The scene was breaking up, I suddenly knew; God is also pretty pacey. "These self-made men--who would have thought? I can assure you that when the fortune comes with the genes, one doesn't feel so insecure." "Just twice as selfish?" I asked--no malice, just the pull of the ad lib-- "And the representative of Art scores in the final round," the blonde concluded dully. ". . . Where can I throw up, anyway?" "She's all yours, Hans," Conde said. "Anyway, I was hoping for a private talk with my fellow peasant here." They didn't wheel away at his word, of course, but a few minutes later we were alone with the mask. He gestured toward it. "Can't expect a worm like Hans to identify with a man like that. Not even sure why I do, sometimes. But Larkspur and I were born the same year. And there's Odysseus in Phaiacia; I think I understand that character better than any man alive . . . Terrific likeness, isn't it?" I tried to shake the illogical feeling that he was on to me. After all, if a shrewdie like Conde did suspect my real identity, he wouldn't coach his friends to play cat and mouse with me in public. No, he'd do what half the powerful men in the galaxy would be willing to do, given a clue--take me to some very private place and have me torn apart brain-cell by brain-cell until I answered the questions: Where is the Barbarossa and her crew? Why haven't you used her data? What's the big secret? But there aren't enough answers to satisfy them. So Larkspur must remain a hollow Name, and I a nameless man.V "Terrific likeness," I agreed solemnly. "Didn't know holograms came that sharp." "Oh, it's not a holo." He reached out and rapped his knuckles against what I had taken to be the empty air between us and the mask. "A simulacrum. One of our Blue Swathe specialties. A column of luminotrope glass, with the image etched inside. The outer layer has the same index of refraction as air. The inner mix reflects an image quality optimized to the ambient light. No projector or display-lamps necessary. They're heavy as hell, though--that's the export drawback. You and I prefer more portable wealth, don't we?" There it was again--or no; of course: he was just talking about the bracelet. "That's old business. I'm happy." "But so am I, Park. Always happy to find someone I can do business with. And I have a new proposition for you--if we could talk about it now, before more people arrive?" He raised one hand to a blank wall in the shadow of the mask; it changed color and slid aside. I followed him through the portal, glad for the change of scene. I'd had enough exposure to the public for one night. The next room was a large office, all dark reds and browns, smelling of leather, cigars, and the oddly peppery local wood. The door became solid wall behind me as I backed into it, trapped. Before me stood a tall young man in a crisp white Column uniform. His expression was uncertain, but the pistol in his hand was definitely aimed at my head. Chapter Two When everything falls apart, I don't panic. Not any more; it happens too often. In this case the cop--or whatever he was--looked as trapped as I felt, and that made it easier to keep a poker face. Conde seated himself behind an impressive desk and mocked us with an introduction. "Freeman Lars Park: Citizen Bunny Velasquez, of the Commission on Non-human Artifacts. As you may know, Freeman Park, local governments have to yield all alien relics they discover to the care of the Column." I adopted an expression of courteous boredom and took a chair. Velasquez shifted his feet nervously for a moment, then followed suit, handling the pistol as though it were a prop he hadn't rehearsed with yet. He was as thin as he was tall, pale-haired, pink-faced, and blue-eyed, with an overbred look--somewhere between petulance and bafflement--that brought back my Nexus University days. He appeared to be just out of college himself, and the white tunic's upright collar bore no silver tabs of rank; probably just an aide of some sort. With hammy slowness, Conde pulled something from the top drawer of his desk. I was not surprised to see the bracelet I'd smuggled for him. "Some weeks ago," he said, "this artifact was stolen from an official repository on Woodvyl. Soon Citizen Velasquez of the Artifacts Commission heard that the thieves were offering it for sale. He asked a local Citizen known for his archaeological pursuits--myself--to pose as an interested buyer. Ten days ago, my agent contacted the gang's middleman--that's you--and bought back the item." His fingers were hovering over a small console on the desk, but I took an actor's deep breath--the kind you can't see--and cut in before he could activate it. "You can skip the replay of whatever recording your agent made," I said. "I'm sure it does sound as if he were making a purchase from a thief. So what? We both know better. Velasquez isn't an investigator, he's a flunky. And you're no honest citizen. You must have heard of me through the Hermes Line, and if you have any ownership in that, I can tie you to their smuggling operations. It's a nice try at a frame, Sir Max, but I'd make you unhappy if it actually came to a Column court. Why don't you simply tell me what you want me to do, minus the blackmail? Maybe you can afford to just pay me." Conde barely hesitated. Then he laughed and said, "Nice try yourself. But I calculated the value of this bracelet carefully. Your genetic pattern would be checked against outstanding Column warrants, I suppose, but then you'd be remanded to a local court-- where I have influence. Slandering me there would only add years to your time, believe me. "Still--what do you say, Bunny? Didn't I tell you he'd handle himself well? You're right, Park. The Hermes Line disposes of troublesome pilots through my labor exchange, which screens them for talents I can use. I've discovered a number of exceptional employees that way, over the years. To our mutual benefit. As you said, I can afford to pay. "So let's start over. You seem to be a sharp operator. I'll put my problem to you as a paid consultant, and we'll see if you can come up with a better solution than I have. Fair enough?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE END OF FAME by Bill Adams and Cecil Brooks ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Publication date: December 1994 copyright © 1994 by the authors ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Permission to download this sample for personal use only is hereby granted by Del Rey Books. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted text without permission in writing from the publisher. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter One The dead emperor wears a mask, but I know better than to lift it and see his face. I can't quite recall the details of the legend, but I know I mustn't do that. The ring is closing. An impersonal voice reverberating from the outer sphere, as if an attendant were telling me it was time to leave. But there is no exit. The room's solid gold wall curves around me in a perfect and unbroken circle. I look up. Above two meters the wall ends, not in a normal ceiling, but in a transparent glass bubble, beyond which burn the billion naked stars of deep space, so many that they light the room. It is a small chamber--but wasn't it larger a moment ago?--and empty except for myself and the dead emperor. He lies in his bier, a strangely dramatic figure in his moldy and decaying military uniform, though he is no larger a man than myself and I see no sign of the great red beard of legend. Of course, there might be something under the silver mask. The ring is closing. The bubble must burst. The room is growing smaller, that's what it means--even now, the circular band of golden wall contracts with the deep moan and shriek of metal under stress. And, above, the glass of the bubble dome begins to shiver. A little more pressure and it will shatter; hard vacuum will reach in, blow me apart before I can even suffocate, and freeze-dry the fragments as they fly. Only the dead emperor can save me. That's the legend, sort of like Arthur's: the once and future savior king. The anointed hero who fell on the way to the Crusade, but who waits in a cavern of glass while crows circle in the sky to watch the world for him, his red beard weaving round and round the bier until it reaches the seventh coil, when the world will need him again and he will awake...and I know his name: B A R B A R O S S A Why does it hurt to say it? Has the air already begun to leak from the shrinking room? There is a crash like thunder, and a crack flashes across the dome, the shape of lightning and just as white against black space, and above the violated-airlock hiss comes that disinterested goddess voice-- Domina's voice: The ring is closing. The bubble must burst. And the crown must pass. The crown, yes! If I were wearing his magic crown, I'd be the immortal, unkillable one. There's still time, though the curved wall of gold is almost touching me, while crack after crack snakes across the bubble ceiling. Standing to one side of the bier, I bend over the corpse and grip the emperor's crown with both hands, ignoring the wisps of dead hair that brush at my wrists like spider's legs--and lift. But the crown is heavier than I expected. Gold, not spired like most medieval crowns, but rising in crenelated tiers like the layers of a labyrinth, and it's really a helmet, all of a piece with the mask that covers the face. If mask is the word--a flat sheet of silver that now mirrors my own desperate eyes, my bared teeth as I strain to remove it. And meanwhile the hiss of escaping air has become a roar, above which I can faintly hear: The ring is closing, The bubble must burst. And the crown must pass From the last-- to the first. As the walls snap tight around the bier to make a big gold coffin, forcing me up and on top of the corpse, to crouch over his clay and bones in an obscene posture as I yank and yank at the crown and the mask, and the bubble bursts above me, a trillion shards of glass suspended like snowflakes for an instant before the explosion of escaping air hurls them at the stars, and now the vacuum of space is coring my lungs like razors of ice as I bend and strain-- --and the mirrored front of the helmet is a centimeter from my face when it suddenly comes free, leaving me eye-socket to eye-socket with his face, the face I feared, the last face I'll ever see-- And I wake the hell up, of course, my heart ringing in the darkness like fists against the hatches of a sinking ship. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TYPHON'S CHILDREN by Toni Anzetti ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Publication date: October 1999 in paperback Copyright © 1999 by Toni Anzetti ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Excerpted from TYPHON'S CHILDREN by Toni Anzetti. Copyright © 1999 by Toni Anzetti. Excerpted by permission of Del Rey Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter One Dilani swam outward from the edge of the world with long, strong strokes. The morning light still shone fresh and warm on the shores of the small island behind her. She swam through sun dazzle on tropical waves, but she pictured the darkness that lay below: the last tip of the beach sinking away behind her into the shelf, the slope, and at last the abyssal plain under the weight of the Deep's eternal night. She envisioned her parents swimming outward, too, from their world into the night of the Deep above, coming to rest at last on Typhon as if on a lone atoll. All the first generation had made that crossing, yet they forbade her to swim beyond the reef, when the whole world lay beyond it. A slight increase in turbulence and a quickening of light in the water told her that she had crossed the lagoon and was closing on the reef. She broke her rhythmic stroke to let her fingers trail across the dart gun at her belt. The reef crossing was the most dangerous part of the swim. She drifted into a glittering cloud of shilliks and moved lazily along with them, hoping the multitudinous shimmer of the round, silver fish would camouflage her from predators. Puffy pink monkeyfaces and piku like crimson droplets of blood darted aside from her approach. She saw the intricate lacework of the reef passing below and felt cooler currents swirl around her as she approached deepside. Lifting her head from the water, she couldn't see Per, but she knew he was out there, on the skipboard among the waves. She had seen him set out from the shore on another forbidden foray beyond the reef. He had refused to take her with him, as he always did, but she knew she could find him. She would show him that she, too, could take risks and explore the Deep. He would have to change his mind. Suddenly the shilliks scattered and dispersed, faster than she could follow. From the deep blue below, a woven ivory crescent whipped gracefully outward. One of its edges, fringed like a frayed basket, encountered a clump of fish and knotted immediately around half a dozen of them. The tendrils blushed pink. The fish dulled and shrank till the sated tendrils allowed their husks to flutter downward out of sight. Dilani froze in midkick. She hadn't expected tangleweed at this point on the reef. There had been none the last time she had ventured out alone. It was possible she might escape. The tangleweed had touched shillik last, so it wasn't attuned to her. It might pursue the fish, if she did not move. With agonizing slowness, her residual momentum carried her over the reef. The tangleweed was a very large clump. She glimpsed lazily moving branches as big around as her waist. She averted her eyes. Then she saw new shapes, beyond the fleeing shillik. Gray shadows hung in the deepening blue. Boogers! Her feet kicked in panicked reflex, before she could think, and the pale weed responded. An exploring limb whipped out and just brushed the sole of her foot. For a moment, she thought it would ignore her, but then the limb curled back and wrapped around her ankle. Her foot stung, then went ominously numb. Holding still was useless once the weed had found her. So was fighting, but she struggled with all her strength. She reached for her knife and lashed about with it. The weed had a texture like tough leather and was almost impossible to cut. White limbs wove about her, immobilizing her left side, until only her right arm and head could still move. A casual tendril found her breathing mask and twisted about it, tearing it away, then discarding it as inedible. A rush of bubbles feathered across her face. Now she had only the time it would take for her lungs to empty, and the weed would win. They had warned her not to swim out to the reef, and they had been right. Numbness spread up her leg and across her ribs. At least being tangled didn't hurt, she thought. It was better than being caught by the boogers. Air leaked from her lungs, trickled, then rushed out, and convulsively she struggled to fill them with the treacherous water that felt so cool and comforting on her face, but burned and stabbed in her throat. Her mind revolted against her body's actions. She tried to cling to the last few seconds of air, but a force greater than her will pumped her chest as she tried to breathe the water. Her fingers fumbled the knife and let it fall as her body went limp in the tightening grasp. She no longer felt the weed's cutting grip. Instead, it seemed as if the water itself held her in its arms, pulling her deeper, trying to tell her something. She felt the water push against her ears with invisible fingers. Then something awful happened, tearing her from the numbness. Something poisonously sharp and blinding exploded into the water around her, and her failing body convulsed again. The tangleweed whipped away, slashing her as it withdrew. Then she was gripped and pulled from the water. She found herself sprawled on the skipboard, vomiting and choking. Without waiting for the retching to stop, Per rubbed her face and eyes with a spongy, strong-smelling wipe. He even forced it over her mouth and tongue. She fought against it until she realized that his rubbing stopped the burning pain of her skin. She was able to blink her eyes, and then to sit up. The water pooling around her on the board's deck was pink. Abrasions on most of her exposed skin oozed blood, and her left wrist and ankle bore parallel cuts from the grip of the weed. Already the wounds ached. When the numbness wore off, they would hurt badly, but she could deal with that. What hurt more was that she had bungled her attempt to impress Per. Per shook his fingers at her. Should not, should not. Always the same message. She spotted the harpoon gun lying where he had dropped it--careless, he might lose it that way--and pointed to it, curious about how he had driven off the tangleweed. "Explosive head." His fingers worked deftly while he spoke. "Filled with something I cooked up myself, mostly ammonia." Through the pain, Dilani was pleased that she remembered the name and that he didn't have to spell it out for her. "You remember how tanglewood in the marsh withdraws if you piss on it? That's what gave me the idea. But I had to come up with a delivery system that keeps it from dispersing in water. You gave me a chance to test it, but you've ruined the rest of my day. Now I have to go all the way back to shore with you." "What were you doing?" she signed, vainly trying to change the subject. "I was lying in wait for boogers. Caught you instead," he signed, a wry smile playing across his face. He stuck gel dressings from the survival kit on the worst of the cuts. Salt stung fiercely in the other abrasions as the numbness induced by tangleweed toxin started to wear off. He snapped a tether on her so she wouldn't slip from the board. She wasn't worried. Per had more skill with a skipboard than anyone. Taking a skipboard out beyond the reef was forbidden, as was swimming that far, but he did it all the time without paying any attention to the protests of the other adults. Dilani crouched close to the mast to unbalance the board as little as possible while Per turned it toward land. Slow tears of shock and pain trickled down her face. She knew Per would turn her in when they reached shore, and there was no point in arguing. The skipboard grounded with a shudder she could feel through the soles of her feet, and Per let her limp across the tidal flat alone while he wrestled with the mast assembly and a net bag that held writhing, slimy boogers. Their mean, triangular mouths worked as they tried to find something to rasp, and the caustic slime that coated their fat, muscular bodies seeped through the net. Per held them well away from his body. His arms were already spotted with healed and half-healed booger sores. She waited for him on the beach and tried to take the mast from him. He resisted, but finally gave in and let her help. Far down the beach she could see Whitman Sayid waving at them. Even at that distance, she could see how angry he was. As they came closer, she could see his mouth opening and shutting, scolding away whether she could hear him or not. More scolding, more bossing--that was all she had to look forward to, unless she could get Per's attention. In desperation, she dropped the mast in the sand and grabbed his free arm, shaking it till he looked at her. Then her hands moved insistently to her temples, as if she could pull the knowledge she needed out of the air. "Teach me!" she signed. "Take me with you; show me what you know!" He put her off with an impatient gesture. She planted herself firmly in his way. Her hands shaped her anger and her need in wide, slashing gestures. "No! Stop! Listen to me! Nobody listens to me! Are you more deaf than I am? Who else will teach me if you don't? Nobody learns to sign but you, and you won't pay attention when I try to sign to you. What happens if you go out beyond the reef someday and die, like they all say you will? Who talks to me then? Who teaches me something besides cleaning fish? I'm alone!" She saw Per lift his free left hand as if to reply, but his right was still burdened with the bag of twitching boogers. His shoulders sagged. She thought he looked defeated, but she couldn't tell if that meant he was giving in to her plea, or if it was something else. "The Sayids sign. Teacher Engku signs. They teach you," he signed awkwardly, left-handed. She stood her ground. "Not enough! They can't teach enough. They don't know enough. They don't know anything! I want to know everything. Like you." "You think that? Think I know everything?" His face lost its weary look, and a shadow of his normal, mocking smile returned. She shook her head vigorously. "No! But you want to. Like those." She pointed to the boogers. The sign Per had invented for booger was finger-up-the-nose, but she was in no mood for jokes. "You keep looking at them. Why? Nobody knows. Nobody else cares but you. But they live here!" Per dropped the net so he could use both hands. "I don't have time to explain. They're mad enough already. Look--the committee doesn't want me to work this way. They won't let you work with me, if I want you or not. They have given you a work schedule. They're doing the best they can. I don't accept their decisions, but I'm an adult. I can make that choice. You can't." He signed in tense, jerky motions, close to his chest, showing his frustration. Per was one of two adults in the colony who signed to her as if it were a language and not an awkward set of code gestures. She could read his heart in his hands, whether he liked it or not. The others moved their fingers stiffly or vaguely, then gave up, flapping their mouths and leaving her out of the conversation. Sometimes she felt like a sea creature gazing through the transparent wall of the surface into a world where she could never go. "But they're wrong!" she signed. "You are right!" He picked up the bag again and stepped around her, signing. "Doesn't matter." She followed behind, her arm aching badly again after the incautious motion. She knew she was in trouble, but stubbornly she clung to hope. At least Per had not dismissed her. He hadn't said yes, but at least he had talked to her. Whitman Sayid was indeed very angry. He grabbed her and would have shaken her painfully, but Per stopped him. When Sayid saw that she was hurt, he brusquely signed "sorry" and then started scolding her again. "You had fish roster today! You run away again! Endanger community! Bad, irrespons--" he broke down in the midst of irresponsible. His signing was atrocious. On this occasion, that actually comforted Dilani a little. Usually it made her sad and angry. She had lived with Bey and Whitman since the bad thing happened, and Whitman still could barely speak to her. He lived on the opposite side of the transparent wall. Per said something, and Whitman's scolding turned toward him. They argued while Dilani limped along behind, feeling faint and sick. The mast slid from her grasp, and she stopped, swaying. Finally Per turned around and saw her. There were more indignant mouthings and arm shakings. Then Whitman hurried on ahead while Per put down his net and helped her to the hospital. There he eased her down onto one of the narrow cots and put a cup of fruit juice within her reach. "Drink that." He reached for the zips of her skinsuit and then frowned. "I'll get Dr. Melicar," he signed. The doctor was one of the people Dilani didn't mind, even though her signing wasn't nearly as good as Per's. Sushan Melicar's hair had gone gray. One side of her face was beginning to get wrinkled, but they were kind wrinkles. The other side of her face was more crumpled than wrinkled. The burning water had caught her and scalded her when the bad thing happened, and the treatments that might have restored her skin to perfection were unavailable on Typhon, as were the surgeries and implants that might have turned Dilani into a hearing person. Dr. Melicar came over to her cot, and her hands were gentle as she peeled off the gel and began to scrub the cuts with antiseptic and neutralizer. She, too, hesitated at the fastenings of the skinsuit. "Cut it off, only way," she signed. "Hate to spoil suit. Few extras." Dilani curled her good arm protectively around the suit. It had been her mother's. If the doctor cut it up, she didn't know where she'd get another. She thought about pulling it off over the injured and swelling limbs. "Leave it on?" she signed. "I'm not hurt underneath." The doctor probed the hurt arm speculatively. "If it swells, then I cut the suit. Guess it can stay till then." Stoically Dilani endured the cleaning of her wounds. The only anesthetic they had was made from tangleweed toxin, and her body had already absorbed a dangerous dose. She understood why the doctor could not give her more. The numbness still partially prevailed, so it didn't hurt more than she could bear. Finished with the painful task, the doctor smiled. Dilani could see that she meant to be kind, but she also saw how the lines deepened in Melicar's face. Dilani had brought the doctor more trouble by hurting herself again. "Drink more juice, and sleep," the doctor signed. "If you feel short of breath, pull the cord right away and I'll come back. Going to dinner now." Dilani lay back wearily and closed her eyes. She had a pounding headache. Tangleweed poisoning could make people really sick, though few got a chance to experience it. Usually, once the weed got hold of someone, that was the end. When encountered as tanglewood, which grew onshore in brackish water, it wasn't quite so deadly. It was easier to cut loose from it if you weren't drowning at the same time. As she lay there, drifting, she felt again the relentless delicacy of the tendrils pulling her down, and jerked awake. A series of thumps vibrated through the tubewood legs of the cot. Opening her eyes, she saw Bey Sayid trying to get through the door. It wasn't easy to push the wheels of his cart over the threshold, and she couldn't help him as she usually did. Bey's father was always talking about building a smoother-running cart for his son, but he never got around to it. That was another thing Dilani held against him. Bey finally succeeded, without spilling the dishes he had balanced on his lap and gripped between his toes. "Brought your dinner," he signed. "My father wouldn't let me bring any fish. The old no-work-no-eat blahblah. I brought you some spud mash. That's all we had. And stole you some chewynuts." He tried to put them in her hand, but she waved them away. "You eat them. I'm sick." She fingered up a few mouthfuls of mash. Unadorned spud was about the blandest thing in the world. The grownups constantly complained about spuds and talked about potatoes and rice and fufu and how much better all those things were than good old spud, and then they scolded the young ones for complaining and told them how lucky they were to have spud roots at all. In Dilani's opinion, the complaints came mostly from oldgens. Newgens had grown up on spud and liked it pretty well, boring as it was. "Tell what happened," Bey urged. "I couldn't get it from Per and my father shouting at each other." She sketched out the story for him, one-handed. She really didn't have the strength to tell it as it should have been told. The horror and magnificence of almost dying wouldn't come across with her there, flat on her back and one hand bandaged. Bey understood anyway. He was about the only one who did, other than Per and maybe the doctor. The doctor never said much, so you couldn't tell about her. Bey shook his head. "You shouldn't have done that," he signed. "Shouldn't! Shouldn't!" she mimicked angrily. "Only thing anyone says to me. Don't you start." "If you died I would lose my best friend," he signed calmly. She knew that was true, but she didn't want to answer it. She wanted Per to be her friend, but he wasn't interested, and meanwhile Bey had earned the title. He talked to her, translated for her, always stuck up for her, and protected her even when he didn't like what she was doing and wished she would stop. He had gotten in plenty of trouble for being on her side. Bey's skin was a smooth, even brown, and his arms were long and smoothly muscled. He had shiny, curling black hair, and the most beautiful brown eyes on the island. Everybody liked Bey. He was perfect from the crotch up. From the crotch down there wasn't much to him. His legs were the size of a baby's and curved out from his hips in a way that would never support his full weight. They weren't strong enough to have braces fitted to them. They ended in long, finlike feet that boasted flexible toes that had originally been webbed together. Surgery had taken care of that, and though they weren't pretty, he made them useful. He could hold an object securely in his lap and turn it around with his toes while he worked on it with his hands. He did the best fine handwork of anyone on the island, from net mending to fixing small machinery. His fingers had been webbed together too, and the scars still showed, but they worked all right. Bey was always working. Nobody ever said Bey was irresponsible or lazy, a danger to the community. Dilani liked him too, but that was just the trouble. She felt as if everyone, especially Whitman Sayid, was watching her to see if they would get along. Sometimes she thought the only reason Whitman had provided her with living quarters was to secure a mate for Bey. Of course, she should be grateful. She'd be a lot better off with Bey than with some of the other newgens. Nils Samerak, for instance. He had two legs all right, but his bones were huge and somehow misshapen, so his skull was too heavy for his neck and his eyes were sunk deep beneath ridges of bone. He walked, but he shambled, and his hands and feet were clumsy. Then there was Bader Puntherong: he was nimble and lively enough, but he had been born with a gap in his lips and his teeth pushed forward like a prow. Surgery had given some function back and made him look more like a human, but he still had hardly any chin and drooled when he forgot to pull his ill-formed mouth shut. Bey said his voice did not sound like the others'. Dilani wondered why Bader didn't sign instead. In private, she signed to him and he understood her, but if she did it when adults were watching, he looked pained and angry, and turned away to mouth flap with the others. If she could have, she might have traded her deafness for the colored wattles of skin that webbed Selma's neck and shoulders. It looked funny, but Selma could hear all right. There was something else wrong with Selma, though: something that made her turn blue and gasp for air if she moved too fast. Dilani thought she would rather be deaf than turn blue. Lila Skanderup had legs and a pretty face, but she also had something wrong with her spine, so she had to sit in a chair all day and didn't even go out in a cart like Bey. She wasn't in the running when people discussed possible mates, because although the Skanderups didn't talk about it, the word had gotten around that she could never have children anyway. "Lucky," she shaped with her fingers, and then clenched her fist to cross it out. Sure, they all thought she was lucky. Her index-of-functionality score was really high. She had a body, arms, legs, eyes, ears, a brain. Never mind that she couldn't hear. Never mind that she was forever shut out from their discussions--of her and her future. To them she was nothing but a functioning body. It didn't seem to occur to them that she had feelings. She couldn't speak her thoughts, so they assumed she had none. The room was beginning to get dark, though she could still see Bey by the glow of the nightlight. "You go back to your father," she signed. "Don't get into more trouble." She feigned a big yawn, even though she didn't feel sleepy any more. Bey shrugged. "Big meeting tonight," he signed. "Kids have to stay out of the way." Dilani looked past him, through the open door, and saw some of the adults--those who had been on special duty and hadn't gathered for dinner--ambling into the big house. The lights were on inside, and the big sliding shutters that led to the veranda were open to allow the cooling breeze to flow through the crowded meeting room. She could see shapes silhouetted against the light and could tell the speakers apart by the way they carried their bodies and by the gestures they made. "I can hear them," Bey signed. "I'll tell you if they say anything interesting." They watched the figures move about for awhile. "Uh-oh, poor Amina," Bey signed. "Melicar reports she has reached puberty. No lie!" He waggled his eyebrows lecherously, and Dilani slapped his hand. Bey strained his face in the expression Dilani had come to associate with the spelling-word groan. It meant he was uncomfortable and protesting against what he had just heard. "Phillips Roon speaking." Dilani had already seen Roon's tall, stooping form move to the center of the ring. "Our genetic responsibilities again. He says Amina is the youngest left alive of the second generation, and no children have been born since the disaster. Soon the older women will reach menopause. Decisions must be made. If we want to give up and die out, we should admit it. ÔThis is essentially a suicide pact, it is mental cowardice, and as a scientist I refuse to play along with it any more.'" As he signed the final sentence, he mimed Roon's pompous stance. Suddenly Dilani was acutely uncomfortable with Bey's presence in the darkening room. She knew what was coming next. Roon would talk about mating in all its possible forms, and she just didn't want to lie there, knowing what was in Bey's mind, and he knowing what was in hers. Admitting it to Bey would only make it worse, however. The only escape she could think of was to go to sleep. She let her eyes close and breathed steadily, even when she felt Bey lean close to her and brush his hand against hers. After a while she felt the thumping rattle again, and when she cautiously stole a glance, Bey had gone. He had left a glowstar on the table. Its luminescent limbs had curled back into its shell for the night, but they still glimmered faintly. Bey had filled her juice cup before he went. She thought she had been pretending to doze, but her eyes wouldn't stay open now. She slid down a precipitous shore into the depths of sleep. Per Langstaff was the only person who noticed Bey Sayid laboriously trundling his cart from the hospital building to the shadows at the edge of the veranda. That was because Per stood as near the door as he could get, as if to disassociate himself from the proceedings. He didn't give Bey any encouragement, but he looked at the boy once and then ignored him pointedly so Bey would know that he, Per, had no interest in reporting Bey's presence. Per felt that if the young Sayid wanted to watch his parent make a rat's rump of himself, he was entitled. A number of women, including Dr. Melicar, had responded angrily to Roon's speech, but he refused to yield the center of the circle. "I am only stating the facts. A refusal to face those facts will not make our situation nicer or easier. Quite the contrary. I'd like to see those of you who object come up with answers. You of all people, Sushan, should know better." Per, like everyone, knew that Phillips would gladly have maximized his genetic potential with the doctor. In spite of her injuries and her stubborn attitude, Roon considered her one of the more functional females remaining on the island. She had turned him down. "Perhaps you're right," Roon said, his reedy tenor turning ponderous with sarcasm. "Perhaps we should remain passive, do nothing, allow the next generation to make the decisions. They will inherit Typhon. It's certainly true that we cannot keep them much longer in the position of minor children. They are physically full grown and will soon demand their franchise right. However, let me point out that they number a mere two dozen--twenty-six to be precise--and if we leave them to work this problem out for themselves, we are doom- ing them to a slow death by genetic attrition. They simply cannot sustain human life on Typhon, alone. They could not if they were healthy. The pool is too small. As it is ..." He shrugged, the sentence unfinished. "We've been through this before," the doctor said wearily. "It simply isn't fair to bring more children to life when we know they will be severely handicapped from birth. We don't have the resources to care for the colony members we already have." "There are many possible alternatives," Roon said. "I've laid them out for you in some detail." "Yes, we can all imagine alternatives," Melicar snapped. "Unfortunately they are all unpalatable, inhumane, or demented." "I can't accept your characterization of eugenics as in- humane," Roon said stiffly. "It has been widely practiced throughout human history, by some of the most successful social groupings. Termination of an unviable neonate is no different in principle from fetal screening, which I trust we would all accept if we still had the equipment." "I won't try to stop you from terminating your own offspring," Melicar said. "But I won't help you impose that protocol on the whole colony. Anyone who wants to go along with you can self-deliver their child. I won't assist. Furthermore, I doubt that many women will go through the mental anguish of repeated births only to turn the life or death decision over to you." Rude noises signalled the agreement of most of the women present. Roon's ears reddened, but he plunged on. "We're dooming ourselves, as well," he said. "Without healthy offspring, there will be no one to care for us when we lose our faculties to age or illness. If you refuse to look for a solution, why not just euthanize ourselves at once and get it over with? You're deciding on mass suicide either way." Whitman Sayid apparently realized that the discussion was getting out of hand. He stepped forward, put a hand on Roon's shoulder, and whispered urgently to him until Roon finally yielded. "I hope there are alternatives that aren't quite that drastic," Sayid said, taking the floor. Per could see most of the members relaxing slightly. Whitman was blessed with a deep, mellifluous voice that produced a pleasant, comfortable feeling even when what he was saying was pure guano. "I don't think any of us could argue that we aren't in trouble. Out of all those who arrived from Skandia, one in ten remains. Of course, we all hope and anticipate that a second ship will arrive from Skandia one day soon." A chorus of jeers greeted this optimistic assertion, but he overrode them. "It is still possible. We have no reason to be convinced that their silence implies anything more than a communications breakdown. Help may already be on the way." "They'll be just in time to bury us," someone shouted. "My friend over there has a point," Whitman continued, unperturbed. "Even though help from Skandia may be coming, we still must try to help ourselves, if we can. With all respect to you, Sushan, we're going to have to pick the least unpalatable alternative, make a face, and swallow. It's true that time is passing, and we don't have the luxury of waiting for a perfect answer." "We've waited this long already," Melicar said. "It's been ten years since we finally admitted that it seems impossible to bear healthy children on Typhon. We've tried every combination among us, and nothing has worked. We've discussed this over and over again and found no solution. Why the sudden rush?" "First of all, we have not made a scientific effort to try every possible genetic combination. It's been done on the basis of individual preference, and in a haphazard way. We should seriously consider organized, methodical attempts, perhaps by artificial means to avoid social disruption. But Roon is right: we would have to decide beforehand how to deal with our failures." "But that's exactly why we haven't made a so-called scientific effort before!" Melicar said. "Because no one here is willing to bear children, only to discard them on the trash heap like so many spoiled omelets. We are human beings, Whitman!" Sayid stretched out his hands in a quelling gesture as a murmur of argument began to rise from the group. "Of course I realize that it must be an individual decision for the adult members, but I wish you would at least vote to discuss it." Sayid paused, then continued. "However, the highest-priority reason for action now is the newgens. As of today, they have all reached puberty. In the past, there was no point in discussing it, but now it's essential to find out if they can reproduce. I know I'm talking about our children, and I hate to put it so bluntly, but I have my own son to consider and I can't urge this too strongly. It may be that the problem, whatever it is, will only carry through one generation. We owe it to them to find out as soon as possible. We should begin planned matings of the functional females immediately." An uproar drowned out the last few words of his sentence. Dr. Melicar took his place in the center, only to be half pushed out of it by Olympia Haddad, Selma's mother, who in turn lost her place to Torker Fensila, the chief of fisheries. Per watched silently. In the past, arguments had sometimes changed course when someone remembered Per's presence. Occasionally he had courted attacks to make sure no decision could be made. It looked to him as if this discussion had gone too far for that to work, but still he moved forward. Before he could speak, though, Piping Melu pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I see you, Per," she called out from the floor. "Langstaff stands in the corner listening as if this discussion has nothing to do with him!" Piping had been pregnant four times, by three different fathers. The first two children had been stillborn, with deformities. The third had survived till age four, when he suddenly had stopped breathing. The autopsy had revealed a malformation of the pulmonary arteries. A fourth pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage. She had wanted to try again with Per, but he had declined her requests. "What right do you have to speak here? You won't donate, you won't pair, and you won't get on a recreational roster. Are you one of us or not, Per?" "My genetic material is my own." He had gritted out such discussions before. Though he understood Piping's reasons for reopening the question, he still found himself deeply angry. "If you're going to start forced breeding programs, we might as well be back in the Rationality. I have information for you, Piping: This isn't Skandia!" Torker still held the floor, and he unexpectedly allied himself with Piping. "Yes, what about him?" the fish boss said, addressing the group. "He hasn't contributed much lately, genetically or otherwise. He won't donate for a child, and he stays off the work roster most days, too. We need the fish pens enlarged. Instead he spends his time diddling around in the lab--or building pens for boogers, of all things. Boogers! Like we need more of them! Last month they got out and savaged the edibles! Does no-work-no-eat apply to everybody but him?" Per welcomed the personal attack. It looked as if his attempt to change the focus of the discussion had succeeded. "That was last rainy season, Tork," he said. "You must be losing your memory. There hasn't been a problem with my specimens in six months--unless you count the time some unknown person butchered my ramselfish and served them for breakfast." Once again Whitman tried to defuse the situation. "Per," he said in a confidential tone, as if they were chatting privately, "nobody objects to your running research in your spare time. In fact it's very commendable. But Torker has a point. There's all kinds of life-sustaining work that needs more hands right now, but you won't get on the roster. Furthermore, you're risking colony resources in unsanctioned ways. Just today you were out beyond the reef again, and look what happened." "My dear chubs and monkeyfaces," Per said, addressing the whole meeting and not just Whitman, "nothing will sustain our lives if we can't find out more about this place we're trying to live in. All I'm bound to do by our compact is contribute to the building of the colony as best I can. I'm doing that. Impeach my compact and expel me if you don't believe it. Otherwise leave me alone. I have work to do." "What about Piping's question?" Torker demanded. "Answer that!" At that point, Per's strategy turned against him. Apparently Whitman felt things had gone too far. He shut down the debate by forcing a vote on a motion to form consensus groups, for the purpose of discussing reproductive options. After another hour of voiced opinions, they reached agreement to have group rosters made up on a random basis and to begin the discussion in the next evening free period. The meeting broke up without the usual friendly aftermath of chat. People were disgusted, tired, and full of misgivings, and they plodded off in small, grumbling groups. Per accosted Whitman as soon as he found him alone. "Are you out of your mind? I thought you agreed with me." "From a scientific standpoint, Per, I suppose you're right. We shouldn't go on with this till we determine what's causing the problem. But I can't keep telling people that forever. It doesn't state in the compact that those who think they know best can run the show. If they reach consensus on some other form of action ... Well, it's their colony. Our colony, I mean. I don't set myself apart in this area. I can't go on opposing the clear will of the majority." "Even when you know they're wrong?" "Per, we tried for years to find out why the newgens were born damaged. That was fifteen years ago, at the beginning, when we still had all the people and all the resources we brought from home. We didn't succeed then. Now, when we've lost so much that we once had, the task is probably impossible. Given that, I want to do the best I can for my son. I don't want to leave him here, helpless, if something happens to me. If even a few functional children could be born, it would be worth it. I know you don't share my views, but you have no children to consider; so please don't try to take this moralistic attitude with me. I'll do whatever I have to do." He checked himself and smiled in a friendlier fashion. "Of course, you still have my support as far as the work roster goes; don't worry about that. Torker is a boogerhead on this subject. You work twice as hard as most of his people, and your contributions have probably provided more food than you could have if you'd been out with a thrownet. I'll do my best to make sure you don't get choked off your research. "About the other thing, though--" He paused, then continued. "You may have to at least donate. It's not so much to ask, is it?" Depressed and in no mood for further battles over the same churned terrain, Per didn't answer him. He wondered how much of the discussion Bey had heard, and what he thought of it. Certainly the young Sayid's eavesdropping would ensure that the second generation would know all about it, whether the adults saw fit to tell them or not. He was beginning to think again about refusing to teach Dilani. It seemed that no one else wanted the job. If the newgens were going to end up facing Typhon on their own, they deserved whatever scraps of information might help them. And at least Dilani had shown some interest in learning. It was more than he had received from his own generation. Whitman walked briskly off toward his family quarters. Per suspected that all that good-fellowship hid some ugly feelings. Occasionally he caught a look in Whitman's eye that made him wonder just how trustworthy Sayid would be in an emergency. Maybe it would turn out that the public welfare required some pretty stern measures to be taken with Per Langstaff, a burr in Sayid's shoe for so long. Per sighed. He didn't enjoy the impatient dislike directed at him from all sides. And any talent he might have had for making people like him seemed to have died with Sukarto. And Doi. And Sofron. As he moved in darkness down the familiar path, he sensed someone waiting for him. It was Sushan Melicar; she stepped out and walked alongside him in a friendly way, as if to contradict his lonely thoughts. "I wish you wouldn't stir them up," she said. "I worry for you. What would happen if they really did impeach you, and you had to live outside the compact?" "Not a thing," Per said. It was an old conversation, and he took up the frayed thread of it where they had last dropped it. "They'd still need me. I could easily trade a living for myself, bringing in fish and usable materials. They'd end up having to give me my skipboard and my lab time no matter what. They complain, now, that I use those things, but who else wants to? They've all given up, Sushan. They're just waiting to die." "Not Roon," she said. Per made a noise indicating he chewed up Roon and spit him out. "That ester-laden fart. He's just playing with himself to keep away the fear of death." She breathed out the ghost of a laugh. "Aren't we all? There's a curious obsessiveness to the things we do. Torker thinks of nothing but catching fish, though we have as much as we can eat. Whitman behaves as if he's running for speaker of the Rationality. Roon and I argue and spit at each other, as if it matters who is right and who is wrong. "Why can't we simply allow each other our delusions? Whatever happens, we won't be here much longer. On Skan- dia, another Typhon colony will be checked off as lost--if it hasn't been already. They're supposed to show up every five years! Why haven't they come to check on us?" The despairing note in her voice was unlike her normally calm and levelheaded manner. Per put his arm around her. "What's the matter?" "Oh--" She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder. Then she straightened up and spoke with clinical precision. "Realizing that Amina has reached menarche just reminds me once again that my girls will never grow up. It's becoming an obsession with me. Today, patching up Dilani, I was thinking, Why was there no one to save my children as you saved her? When I treat people and they get well, I almost resent them for living. I know we may not have many years ahead of us, but at least we'll have those years. I think, Why them and not Lesper? Why their children and not mine? It's horrible, isn't it? Yet I can't seem to stop." "It isn't horrible," Per said gently. "It's only natural. It's only been two years. It takes people time to get over these things." She laughed a little wildly. "To get over it? Per, you're talking as if we're going to get well. We're terminal." "I won't accept that." His voice was still gentle, but there was iron in it. "I won't listen to you if you're going to start talking that way." "I'm sorry. I know: It can't be any easier for the parents who have to see their children every day and still wonder if they'll ever grow up. Amina's mother is probably crying tonight, wondering what's to become of her." She pulled out a scrap of bark cloth and blew her nose loudly. "Just walk me past the hospital, will you?" she asked. "I want to look in on Dilani before I go to bed." A faint beeping noise from the desk showed that someone was in the office. Dilmun Elsker looked up and smiled as they came in. There was never any shortage of volunteers for the night watch, since the job carried with it access to free time on the hospital computer. Packed in a protective flotation cover, it was the only unit that had survived the disaster. Most volunteers claimed they needed computer time for special projects, but Melicar frequently found them playing childish games and pretended she hadn't noticed. There was no need to pretend with Dilmun. Since she'd been injured in the worst of last year's storms, she hadn't been much good for fishing or gardening. She had chosen to make herself useful in the clinic, and Melicar figured she was entitled to play games if she wanted. Dilani was sleeping soundly, though not peacefully; a scowl was fixed on her face. Her color and breathing were good, her kidneys and liver functioning well, and the level of toxin in her blood had dropped. "Poor girl," Melicar said absently. Per snorted. "Don't waste your pity on that one. She's tough as tangleweed." "She worships you, you know." "Oh, garbage. She'd pester the life out of me, if I gave her a chance. It's sheer boredom and teenage orneriness." "She may be deaf," Melicar said, "but you can still wake her if you keep stamping around like that." She pulled him out of the room. "Boredom and orneriness?" she said when they were alone on the path again. "Sounds like someone else I know. I wish you'd give her a little of your time, Per. She's much like you. I think she's made a kind of hero out of you. And why wouldn't she? You've saved her life twice now." Per made no response. He didn't want to argue with Sushan, and he certainly didn't like the direction this discussion was going. "You and Sofron were always such good friends with Dilani's parents," Melicar said wistfully. "I remember picnicking on the beach: Sukarto and Doi, you and Sofron, Lesper and me. It's all such a long time ago." Still Per said nothing. Grief was omnipresent among the survivors, and there was nothing to say about it. Melicar pressed just a little closer, the pressure evident only as an increase of warmth where their arms touched. "Don't you ever feel the need for comfort?" "No, I don't." He stopped in the middle of the path, letting go of her. "There is no comfort in this situation. Since I'm still alive without it, I must conclude that I don't need it." Flipped abruptly from seduction to exasperation, she looked ready to sting him back. Instead she shrugged and let the moment go. "You still think Sofron is alive somewhere." "I hope I would be faithful to her memory even if she were not." "You see?" she said. "Obsessions. We're showing all the twitches of a dying organism. Good night, Per." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Back to Del Rey's sample chapter list MARS ATTACKS #1: MARTIAN DEATH TRAP by Nathan Archer ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Publication date: May 1996 in hardcover Mars Attacks (R) and © 1996 The Topps Company, Inc. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Permission to download this sample for personal use only is hereby granted by Del Rey Books. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted text without permission in writing from the publisher. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter One: DEATH ON TWO WHEELS Bud Garcia looked up at the sky ahead and frowned. He cranked the brake and brought the Harley to a skidding stop on the shoulder in front of a weathered billboard reading gelman mansion 4 miles. He kept the motor running, but put down his booted foot and stared overhead. Lenny, Blitz, and Screwy Joe pulled up beside him. Blitz and Lenny had their chicks with them, riding post, but no one got off; they all stared at Bud. "What is it, man?" Lenny asked, his eyes hidden by his mirrored shades, his head jerking nervously from Bud to the empty highway ahead and back. "Why'd you stop? We're in the middle of nowhere!" Bud glanced at him. "Take a look at that," he said, pointing, "and tell me what the hell kind of plane that is." Cruising far above the trees ahead of them was a green and yellow aircraft in a sort of modified flying-wing shape. Lenny looked, then shrugged. "Crap, man, I dunno. I'm no expert." "I am," Bud said. "My old man was in the Air Force until they booted him out for drinking on duty, and I know planes. I never saw anything like that." "It's coming this way," said Blitz's girl, Nancy. She was wedged in behind Blitz; the two of them were a lot for one bike to carry. Blitz was a hulking blond brute in black leather who always said he needed a lot of woman, and Nancy filled the bill--dark hair, tight jeans, and black leather jacket wrapped around a bountiful quantity of female flesh. Bud looked up, squinting through his own shades. Sure enough, the strange aircraft had wheeled and was heading directly toward the bikers at an altitude not far above the treetops. "Well, you'll get a good look at it, anyway," Lenny's chick, Marcie, said. She was thin and blond and nervous, matching Lenny point for point. "I don't think we want to," Blitz said. "Don't that look like a strafing run to you?" He didn't wait for an answer; he kicked off and rolled, ignoring Nancy's yelps of protest at the unexpected move. She had scarcely gotten a solid hold around his waist when he veered off the road and went charging across an overgrown meadow. The other three stared, eyes flicking from the approaching craft to Blitz and back. The thing's engine made a strange, keening wail unlike anything Bud had heard before. "I don't--" Lenny began. Then the aircraft opened fire, and Bud pushed off. The greenish death-rays tore bubbling black lines of molten asphalt in the highway, and when one touched the gas tank of Screwy Joe's chopper, the tank flashed into an orange fireball, flinging Joe and pieces of cycle in all directions. Lenny was luckier; he wasn't able to dodge completely, but threw himself and his bike sideways. The beam sliced through Lenny's foot and both tires. Marcie fell clear when Lenny threw the bike over; Blitz and Nancy were already a hundred feet away across the weeds, and Bud had rolled away just in time, mere inches out of the line of fire. Lenny's bike had stalled out when it fell, Bud had always liked his own chopper to run quiet, and Blitz was a field away; when the sound of the explosion of Joe's Suzuki died away, there were a few seconds of near silence. Joe himself was dead or unconscious, his face and chest burned black. Then Lenny looked down and saw the stump of his foot and started screaming. Marcie, who had been dazed by her fall, started shouting obscenities. And Bud looked up to see that weird thing in the sky wheeling around for another run. "What is it?" Marcie shrieked. "What'd it do to my foot?" Lenny bellowed. "Jesus, it shot my foot off! What the hell kind of cannon was that, some kind of laser?" Bud didn't answer; he looked around, assessing the situation. Joe was out of it for good. Lenny was down--his foot had been sliced away, and while it wasn't bleeding the way it ought to be, Bud didn't think Lenny was going anywhere anytime soon. Blitz had split, rolling cross-country. "Yo, Marcie," Bud called. "Need a lift?" Marcie looked up at the flying death-machine as it dropped into line for another strafing run, looked at Lenny lying crippled and pinned under the wreckage of his bike, and looked at Bud's Harley. She didn't bother answering, just pushed herself up and ran flat-out toward the Harley. "You son of a--" Lenny shouted. Then the returning attack craft's death-ray cut him in half. Bud's Harley was already starting to move when Marcie vaulted on, and she barely made it, but the two of them skidded out of the line of fire. Bud didn't hesitate; he cracked the throttle and headed over to see what Blitz was planning, if anything. He didn't have to get close to see just what Blitz was up to. The big man had pushed Nancy off the bike to get maneuvering room, and pulled his shotgun from its special boot. Now he was driving one-handed while the gun waved wildly in the other. Bud decided to just stay the hell out of Blitz's way; he roared across the field toward Nancy, though, to see if she was still in one piece. The craft was swinging around for a third run, and Bud was suddenly absolutely certain that the pilot was just toying with them. One biker killed on each pass ... that wasn't a serious attack, that was target practice. And what the hell kind of pilot was that, anyway? Much as Bud hated the fighter jocks his father had once worked with, much as he despised all authority figures, he knew no U.S. pilot would have casually blown away U.S. civilians that way. Not even redneck cops would--the risks of an investigation and of catching hell for it were too high. What foreign pilot would have been cruising along the American coast here? As of a couple of hours ago, when the six of them had eaten a late breakfast at the Motel 6 in Toppwood, the U.S. hadn't been at war, there hadn't been anything on the news on the TV over the bar ... And what kind of plane was that? It made snap turns like nothing Bud had ever seen. It bore no insignia he recognized, though there were yellow lines patterning the green belly. The airframe wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before--it was a lifting body, with the wings merging into the fuselage, but it wasn't the usual flying wing that showed up in the aircraft mags. What were those beams it fired? They weren't any sort of lasers Bud had encountered before, and besides, who had working laser weapons? And it was making its third run while Blitz was charging across the weed-covered field with his shotgun raised and ready. The death-rays, or whatever they were, flashed out again just as Blitz pulled the trigger--and the beams missed the biker by millimeters, as Blitz' s cycle wavered wildly from the shotgun's recoil. Blitz's shot missed, too--or at least did no damage. Blitz recovered his balance, roared his bike up onto the highway and aimed it straight toward the flying craft. He braced the shotgun against one thigh and pumped, readying it for another shot. "Come back here and take it, you murdering bastards!" he bellowed. The flying craft didn't do the same graceful wheel this time; instead it flipped over in a screaming Immelmann, and Bud decided that the pilot was angry about missing Blitz and wasn't going to play around anymore. "Nancy, get on," Bud barked, bringing his chopper to a mud-slinging halt directly in front of her. She looked at him doubtfully. "Three on a bike?" she asked. "It's a Harley," Bud said. "She can handle it. Hurry!" The shotgun boomed again, but at that moment Bud was too busy getting Nancy squeezed in between himself and Marcie to look. Besides, he doubted that a direct hit would even scratch that thing's paint. Because he didn't think it was a plane. It didn't make sense that there could be a plane like that anywhere on Earth, or that if there were, it would be strafing bikers here in the middle of Nowhere, USA. So, Bud had concluded, it didn't come from Earth. And somehow he didn't think a shotgun was going to be real effective against invaders from outer space. Then Nancy was on. He let in the clutch and rolled, and spared a second to look back over his denim-clad shoulder and see what was happening. The alien flying machine had slowed this time as it swept down over the highway; Bud decided the pilot was taking his time. Then beams flashed out--not just the cutting green ones like laser beams, which blasted through signposts and melted asphalt, but spreading bluish ones that seemed to have no effect on the highway or surrounding terrain. One of the blue beams swept across Blitz, though, and the big man screamed, going into sudden convulsions that sent him flying from his motorcycle. The bike skidded sideways and came to a smoking stop thirty yards up the road, while Blitz jerked and twitched wildly, head and limbs slamming against the pavement for several seconds before he lay still. Nancy screamed, and Bud winced--she was shrieking right in his ear. Meanwhile, he was wheeling as fast as he could away from the road and the open field; he intended to get in among the trees. They wouldn't provide very much shelter from that flying monstrosity, but they were better than nothing. By the time the thing had swung around for another run, Bud and the two women were out of sight beneath a huge old oak. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Back to Del Rey's sample chapter list BABYLON 5: IN THE BEGINNING by Peter David ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Publication date: January 1998 Babylon 5 TM & © 1998 Warner Bros. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Use of this excerpt from BABYLON 5: IN THE BEGINNING by Peter David may be made only for purposes of promoting the book, with no changes, editing or additions whatsoever and must be accompanied by the following copyright notice: copyright ©1998 by Warner Bros. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Prologue I had such dreams. Such dreams. I dreamt of power and glory and followers. I dreamt of protecting my homeworld from dark invaders. I dreamt of restoring my great republic to its former glory. I dreamt of a noble death in battle, with my hands at the throat of my greatest enemy. I dreamt of love and I dreamt of redemption. Such dreams. Such dreams. And I have achieved almost all of them. Who would have thought such a thing possible? For that matter, who would have thought possible that fulfillment of such dreams would leave me with nothing? Nothing. I sought to taste glory, and instead found only ashes in my mouth. Ashes and a sense that it was all useless. The lives disrupted, the lives lost, all useless, all wasted. For what did anyone learn, really? What did any of us, in the final analysis, learn? That question has bothered me greatly as of late. It is something that I have desired to attend to for some time now. You see, learning can only come from teaching. But teaching requires the investment of time on the part of the teacher who is to impart the lesson, and by the student who wishes to learn. In this instance, however, we are sorely lacking both. It seems, then, that I must become the teacher. But for that to happen, I must also be a student. For one cannot truly teach if one is not learning as well. I have long made a study of the history of Humans. They are a fascinating, squabbling little race. When my people, the Centauri, first encountered them, they seemed to have as much value as a pile of rotting spoo. They were creatures to manipulate, something to distract us, something to pass the time. Something that we could, in short, feel superior to. Perhaps our involvement helped to remove the sting from the fact that we, the Centauri, had become little more than a shadow of our former imperial selves. Oh, we could posture and preen, which impressed the Humans to no end. We sported flamboyant garb, great coats of deep purples and reds, shirts with flourishes, high boots. When around Humans many of us adopted an almost courtly swagger. We wore our hair high, in an arcing-upsweep crest style; the higher the hair, the greater the rank and office one had attained. It was symbolic, and we Centauri do so adore our symbols. The Humans had their own history, and I admit to taking an interest that was at first merely passing, bordering on the morbid. We were, after all, an older and more knowledgeable society. The Humans seemed a rather unimaginative lot. Even their planet name was astonishingly uninspired. Earth. Named for dirt. Second in unoriginality to their designation for the single moon that orbits their world. Namely: the moon. What was there that we could possibly learn from planet-bound dwellers such as the Humans? What could we learn indeed? Yet as I began to familiarize myself with Earth's history, I saw parallels to the rise and fall of our own Centauri empire. Numerous parallels, in fact, and as the years have passed, there have been more and more overlaps. Indeed, these have led me to speculate that certain events are universal constants, much as the laws of physics or mathematics. Just as the planets move under certain rules, perhaps events upon those planets unfold in a likewise similar manner. I leave to philosophers, poets, and those wiser in the ways of the universe than I the exact reason for this happenstance. I note, however, the following oddity. We are able to observe planetary movements, or mathematics, or other laws of physics, and we learn from them. We learn to predict an eclipse, or geologic quakes, or tides. We learn something as rudimentary as that, if we fall, gravity will pull us down. But we can observe history as much as we wish . . . and we never learn a thing. Not a single damned thing. We make the same mistakes, over and over, and the only thing we take from the previous generations' mistakes is a sort of insufferable arrogance. We sit in judgment of our sires and declare confidently that we are too clever, too canny, to stumble into the same traps. This time, we feel, it will be different. But it never is. It never, ever is. This has become clearer to me in my continued investigation and reading of Earth history. I have much time for reading, you see. There is little else to do these days. Little else except to wait for the inevitable to finally overtake me. Once . . . once I looked upon our race, and all I could see was how far we had fallen. I would look at the great palace, here in the capital city of Centauri Prime. The gleaming walls would evoke wonders of an age long gone. The city, built mostly by our ancestors, seemed to carry only reminders of our lost greatness in every curve, every decoration, every mural or statue that served as a testimony to days gone by. It pained me to see my people having reached such a state. Great Maker, look at what has happened to us since. The nights on Centauri are generally cool, but not this night. This night, the city below me burns. Many once-thriving areas are burned-out shells, skeletons of their former selves, while others are still in flames. The heat from the burning city radiates outward, and the air around me has a dull warmth to it. But from within me, I feel a chill. The inward chill interacts with the outward warmth, and I shiver, trapped in between. Trapped, as I have been for so many years. Once I had a vision of massive alien ships, filling the skies over Centauri Prime like an evil cloud. Now I look out my window, and see a great cloud of smoke, shrouding our world much like a fleet of alien vessels. And there was another time . . a time when I faced a mage, and he told me he saw--and I shall never forget his words--"a great hand reaching out of the stars. The hand is your hand. And I hear sounds--the sounds of billions of people calling your name." When I asked if he was referring to my followers, he shook his head and replied with a cold smile, "Your victims." That prophecy is driven home to me now, for as I look at the choked skies, the smoke seems to stretch out like massive, clawlike hands. My hands. My hands have brought us to this pass. By my hand. My true hand is old and withered, as withered as I. But my dark hand . . . how powerful it truly is. Far below, there is a fountain that I remember playing around, in my youth. I laughed and wrestled with my friends. I remember Urza . . . my good friend, my dueling companion. We sparred, frisky, two young Centauri, and he knocked me squarely into the fountain. I came up sputtering and laughing, outraged and amused, all at the same time. Urza Jaddo, yes. Yes, I remember my friend. I killed him. Years later, on Babylon 5, he died impaled on my sword. Babylon 5. As always, my thoughts return to that . . . place. Turning, turning in the darkness, like the axis of a great set of wheels. Yes, I believe I begin to understand. Wheels of destiny, massive and invisible, the past at one end of the station and the future at the other. And in the middle: Babylon 5, through which all events of the past would be channeled to create this . . . this abomination of a future. I wander. My mind wanders. The elderly are allowed such meanderings. And emperors . . . fawh! Emperors can do whatever they wish. So I am doubly entitled. I was speaking earlier of Earth history. In my perusals, I found myself drawn to the Roman Empire. Now, there was a time of emperors, of all sorts. Interestingly, it is the mad emperors who are the most memorable, and certainly the most evocative of those with whom I have had to deal. Our crazed emperor, Cartagia, for example, is certainly the spiritual brother of the insane Caligula. Never were my wits more tested, never was my survival instinct more pressed into service, than when I was part of Cartagia's court and had to remain two steps ahead of his madness--lest I lose my head. I was present when he was assassinated. Mine was not the hand that struck him, although it was certainly not for lack of trying. My readings would seem to indicate, then, that if Cartagia harkened back to Caligula, then I would be kin to the Emperor Tiberius Claudius. Certainly our early reputations were of a kind. He was considered to be a fool, as was I. But his foolishness served him well, for he survived all manner of plots and schemes, and eventually acquired rulership even though it was not something that he truly desired. He was old and weak and crippled, as am I. I cannot draw a single breath without pain stabbing my chest, and every fifth or sixth breath I am racked with coughing. And he was a historian. He strove to teach, as I have mentioned. He wanted others to learn from the mistakes of his forebears. And in a way, I think he desired to be remembered. He wanted the immortality that fame provides in death and which the body cannot provide in life. He unspooled the histories for anyone who would listen. I shall do so, as well. For I stand on the brink, I believe. The smell of burning buildings, of charred flesh, hangs in my nostrils, burns in my lungs. I have a body that is breaking down, I have prisoners to deal with, and I have a destiny--long denied, long craved--to finally fulfill. But it is not right that it end without my making at least some effort to keep to the tradition of my spiritual kin. I shall produce my own history. I shall tell the story, yes. As I survey the wreckage of my world, of my dreams, I shall let all who come after me know as many of the details as I can recall. For, as cynical as I am--as weighed down as I may be by the great burden of responsibility which hangs upon me much in the same shroudlike manner as the smoke of destruction hovers over our once-great city--I still want to believe that there is hope for someone to learn from what has gone before. That I may teach those who will come after me. I sit now in my inner sanctum, my private office. There are no windows, although, in that respect, it's not all that different from the rest of the rooms in the palace. There are windows, yes, but they have been covered, ostensibly for protection and privacy. Though I'm not entirely certain, I think my advisers believe that, if I were able to look out at the devastation from wherever I may be, at any given time, I might eventually go mad. I defer to their considerations for the most part. But one window remains. One window in the throne room, curtained, but through which I peer from time to time, looking out at the physical realization of my greatest nightmare. I keep hoping that repeated exposure will allow me to build up a merciful immunity. The first time I ever entered this room, it was at the invitation of Cartagia, who displayed to me a line of disembodied heads, and seemed oblivious of the fact that they were dead. The heads have been long disposed of, but I can still feel their lifeless eyes drilling into me. I would not have it any other way. For that way I need never worry about building up such emotional detachment that the plight of my people might fail to affect me. I am fully aware that the latter sentiment contradicts the former. Self-contradiction is the prerogative of women, fools, and emperors. A history, then. Where to begin. Where to begin. Babylon 5, I suppose. That is where the story must start. Since it was a station created by Humans, then I shall reckon the time as residents of Earth do. Twenty-one years ago, as the Humans measure it. There is a large bottle next to me on the desk. I un-stopper it and toss back a swallow, and it burns in a most satisfying manner as it dribbles down my throat. Many people claim that alcohol clouds the senses. Poor fools. When I have liquor in my veins, it is the only time that I can see matters clearly. The more alcohol, the more clear everything becomes. I have been seeing matters with startling clarity as of late. I was there, at the dawn of the Third Age of Mankind. It began in the Earth year 2257 with the founding of the last of the Babylon stations, located deep in neutral space. It was a port of call for refugees, smugglers, businessmen, diplomats, and travelers from a hundred worlds. It could be a dangerous place, but we accepted the risk because Babylon 5 was our last, best hope for peace. When I first arrived on Babylon 5, the commander was a stiff-jawed fellow named Jeffrey Sinclair. But he left after a time, under mysterious circumstances, to meet an equally mysterious fate. He was replaced by Captain John Sheridan. Sheridan was the station's final commander, and it was under his leadership that Babylon 5 was transformed. It became a dream given form . . . a dream of a galaxy without war, where species from different worlds could live side by side in mutual respect . . . a dream that was endangered as never before, by-- What is that noise? Laughter. I put aside the recording materials and listen carefully. Who could laugh at destruction? Certainly someone who has no regard for loss of life, who is inured to the horrors that have occurred these past days. I am intrigued to see such a being. This is not to say that I haven't met such creatures before. I saw skies full of them. I met another who was their agent, whose head I eventually stuck on a pike. But none of them ever laughed with quite that brand of carelessness or lack of concern. Children. Yes, of course, children. At least two. I hear their rapid footsteps, their gleeful chortling, as they are running through the halls of the palace. How in the world did they get in here? Absurd question. Who is there to stop them? All but a handful of my most faithful guards and retainers are gone, and the size of this place is monstrous. A couple of small beings gallivanting about could easily slip through. For that matter, even if they had run into guards they would probably receive no more than nods and winks of mirth. Very little these days strikes anyone in the palace as especially funny. One must find one's amusements where one can. And then I hear an adult voice, a woman. She is calling with extreme urgency, "Luc? Lyssa! Where are you?" The voice--musical, softly accented--is unfamiliar to me, but I know the names she has called out. They are most familiar to me. But from where, from where do I . . . I snap my fingers as I realize. Of course. Luc and Lyssa. Nephew and niece of Urza Jaddo. When I slew Urza, those many years ago, it was less a murderous act on my part and more a suicidal decision on his. Urza faced dishonor; his house was in disarray. By challenging me to combat and then dying at my hand, he put his house under the protection of the House Mollari, forall time. In later years, the House Mollari became the Imperial House, and the protection over the House Jaddo became that much more thorough. There is my answer. That is why, even if they did encounter any guards or retainers, these children would have been allowed on their way. They are under my protection, and so no harm may come to them. I have not met these children, however, except whenI officiated over their naming ceremonies when they were infants. I am a memorable individual, but I doubt that they would recall me. I drink in the sound of their laughter, a man parched of emotion, with a soul as dry and shriveled as my skin. I hear them clattering about in the very next room, in the throne room, the seat of power. Since they are under my protection, the children have--by necessity--lived fairly sheltered lives. Urza's family resided in a home I had specially built for them, near the palace. I sought to bury my guilt in the foundation of a house. Being part of the House Jaddo, they have been raised in an environment that respected tradition and protocol. In more recent days, I had the family moved into the palace itself--to relative safety. The Great Maker only knows where their parents have gotten off to. I can hear the woman who must certainly be their nurse or governess. She has just entered the throne room, and is all too aware of where they are, where they shouldn't be. A glimpse. She is young and lovely. Most Centauri women shave their heads completely, but many of the younger ones--including this one--keep a single, long trail of hair descending down their backs. Some men cluck and shake their heads, but I find the fashion attractive. The children had been running about, but I heard them stop moments before the nurse came in. No doubt their attention was caught by the sight of the desolation outside my window. The young boy has an impish and determined air about him, his hair a bit wild and disheveled. The girl is softer and more quiet, wearing a cap. "No . . . no, no, you shouldn't be in here," the nurse says. She speaks so softly that it is barely above a whisper. That is of no particular import to me. I have become quite skilled in listening in on any conversation that I find of interest. I managed to stave off at least two assassination attempts in that manner. I dredge my memory, to see if I can recall her name. Senta, was it? No, no, Senna. I recall now. A longtime retainer of that house. Been with the family for quite some time. Yes, it is most likely Senna who is with them. "You can't play here," she continues. The laughter is gone. I mourn its passing. In its place I hear the sound of the boy, the one called Luc, speaking in an awed tone. "What happened to the buildings?" he asks. So I was right; they did become somber after looking out my window. I can tell that Senna is searching for the best way to answer this fairly straightforward question. While she tries to find the best way to phrase it, I make my way from my private room. Their backs are to the throne and so they do not see me slip out from behind the curtains, stepping into the concealing shadows of the canopy. I allow my withered fingers to slide along the cool material of the chair. For so long, I wondered what it would be like to occupy this seat. Now . . . now I wonder what it would be like to be free of it. Well, if I am fortunate, I shall not have to wait much longer to find out. Senna has found her explanation, and even for a child, it must be a most unsatisfying one. "They . . . fell down," she says. "Some bad people made them fall down. That's why," and she gestures aimlessly, "all the windows in the palace are covered, so you can't see . . ." I can see her take the opportunity to afford herself a glance out the window. She shudders at what she sees, and I cannot blame her. As for me, however, I have long since given up my shudders. I have seen and done too many horrible things to indulge in pointless displays of physical concern. But she has many shudders left, apparently, much as women seem to have an endless fount of tears available to them. She looks again, in the same manner that one keeps glancing at a rotting corpse. It is a terrible sight, and you are aware that you should not, but it carries with it a grim fascination. "If they find out you've been looking . . ." she says, her voice trailing off. After all, who knows what hideous punishment is reserved for the awful crime of seeing what one should not have to look at? The boy, Luc, is the first to stir, and he looks mildly impatient. Children do not suffer fools gladly, which is why there is a sizable shortage of child politicians. "Then why is the window here, if we're not supposed to look?" "This is the Emperor's window, Luc," Senna tells him, her voice a whisper, unaware that her every word is audible to me. "He's the only one who can look out of the palace. That's why we can't stay. We have to go, before--" Go. They prepare to go, and suddenly my lack of company weighs more heavily upon me than I can stand. "No," I say abruptly, "it is all right." I lean into the light, away from the throne. Senna's recognition, though her back is to me, comes in two stages. She stiffens, my voice hitting her even as she must be trying desperately to deny to herself the reality of what she hears. Slowly she turns, doubtlessly hoping that she will not see what she already knows will greet her eyes. She stares at me with a somewhat frozen look. Ironically, it strikes me, I very likely cut an impressive figure. I am garbed in the traditional white. The white of light, the white of virtue. Truly, the irony is rather sickening. I feel the rumbling of the hacking cough in my chest, but I suppress it. It is not right for the moment. Yes, an attractive woman, this Senna. Not a rich woman; she is merely a nanny, after all. But she clothes herself well. Were I a younger man, I might approach her with some suggestions. Of course, as Emperor, I could likewise approach her, and my merest intimation would immediately be interpreted as imperial decree. She would have to grit her teeth and submit with a smile plastered to her face. I hate myself for even contemplating the notion, and I hate my body for what it has become. But my body is the least of my problems. She bows slightly, her body frozen like a hinged stick figure. "Majesty . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry," she stammers. She gestures vaguely in the direction of the children, except she's not looking at them. Her eyes are riveted on me, though she is not looking into my eyes. She is likely too intimidated for that. She is staring instead at the gleaming golden breastplate that hangs about my neck, my symbol of office. I hope she finds the lustrous purity of it more to her liking than the withered, dying corpse-on-legs that it adorns. "They meant no harm, they're only children--" How kind of her to inform me. I thought perhaps they might be sentient vegetables. I laugh to myself with mild amusement. It is not much of a joke, but it is mine, and I shall cherish it for, oh, a second or two. "I know," I say softly. I pause, trying to recall the last occasion when peals of mirth rippled through the throne room. I believe it was when my late wife, Timov, came for a visit. She took one look at me, propped up on the throne, the imperial buffoon, fooling everyone--but not her. Never her. She chortled disdainfully, never saying a word, and she turned and walked out. I never learned what it was that she had come to accomplish, what the purpose of her visit had been. Perhaps that was all she intended to do: see me, laugh, and leave. Charming woman. Should have had her executed when I had the chance. The recollection passes through my mind in a moment. "It has been a long time since I have heard the sound of laughter in this room," I continue ruefully. "A very long time." The children are cowering behind Senna, although with that odd combination of fear and defiance that only children can master. I indicate them with a slight inclination of my head. "Let me see them." Senna's trembling increases. It may be that she believes some sort of punishment is imminent. That I am merely lulling them into a false sense of security. Perhaps she believes I will grab the children up and swallow them whole. Who knows what terrible stories about me are in circulation? Actually, come to think of it, I do. Vir Cotto, my one-time assistant and the inevitable heir to the throne, keeps me apprised. I don't know which are more disconcerting: the stories that are utter fabrication, or the stories that are true. She begins to back up, ushering the children toward the door. They peer out from around her skirts as she says, "We really should--" In as calm, as unthreatening a tone as I can muster, I tell her, "It's all right. Stay." It is comforting to know that I am still capable of assuaging fears when I truly put my mind to it. Her shuddering stops, and she ceases to hasten the children out the door. I address the next words to the children, as I say, "Let me see you." Slowly they move toward me. The girl appears sullen; the boy is trying to muster his bravery. He has pride, this one. Like his uncle. May it serve him well and, ideally, not quite as fatally. I know their names, of course. I heard Senna call out to them. But let's see how they handle directly addressing the Emperor of Centauri Prime. "And what are your names, hmm?" I am not surprised when it is the boy who answers. He draws himself up, squaring his shoulders. "Lucco Deradi," he says very carefully, very formally. Well trained, this one. He includes the girl with a glance as he says, "This is my sister, Lyssa." Deradi. Yes . . . yes, that was the married name of Urza's youngest sister. I wait a moment for the little girl to say something, but her reticence continues. She does not seem particularly afraid of me, however, now that her initial trepidation has passed. Still, it would seem she has no intention of opening her mouth. "Doesn't talk much, does she?" I ask Lucco. He shakes his head and seems a bit sad, as if I've touched on a difficult subject. "No. She's always quiet." He lowers his voice slightly, as if he is imparting confidential information that she couldn't possibly be overhearing. "We think maybe there's something wrong with her." I take a step closer, sizing her up. She doesn't look away. Yes, definitely not afraid of me. I could use a planetful of females such as her. "Or something very right," I say, and although I am addressing the boy, I am looking at the girl. "The quiet ones are the ones who change the universe, Luc Deradi. The loud ones only take the credit." I'm pleased to see that the familiar use of the informal "Luc" draws a smile of appreciation, if not outward surprise, from him. I'm about to speak again, but then the cough bubbles up in my chest once more and this time it will not be denied. It seizes control of my chest, racking me with a fit so profound that I feel as if I'm about to vomit up a lung. I reach out, bracing myself against the throne. Somehow it's appropriate that I draw strength from it, at least for a moment. Great Maker knows that the damned thing has drained away enough of it over the years. Slowly, achingly, it subsides, and I see Luc looking at me with outright skepticism. "Are you really the Emperor?" Luc asks. I cannot blame the lad. The Emperor should be something majestic. Impressive. Not a wretched old man. "I sometimes ask myself the same thing," I say, and then see the puzzled expression on the boy. I must make a mental note of that: Ironical comments are usually wasted on children. I nod and, throwing aside what passes for Mollari frivolity these days, I assure him, "Yes . . . I'm the Emperor. Here, you see . . . ?" I tap the breastplate. "This is the seal of the Centauri Republic. Only the Emperor can wear it. So either I am the Emperor, or I am in a great deal of trouble." My words ring in my ears a moment, and then I add, "Or both." The boy cannot take his eyes off it, having had it brought to his attention. And so I remove the breastplate. I waggle a finger at Luc and say, "Come here." Senna's eyes go wide as I drape it around Luc's neck, adjusting it as if it's a perfect fit, though in truth it is hanging loosely about him. "For the next five minutes, you are the Emperor of what was once the vast Centauri Republic. You may give one order. Any order you desire. Make it a good one. What do you want?" Even as I ask the question, the irony of it is not lost upon me. What do you want? Years ago, more years ago than I can count, a man came to Babylon 5. People believe that evil automatically looks evil, but true evil is actually pleasant to see. His name was Morden, and he had a most charming air, like a salesman who knew he possessed a product that one simply had to have. And he said to me, "What do you want?" I told him. Great Maker, I told him and got precisely what I asked for. And the torched world outside is the result. I think on my words to Morden, but quickly pull myself away. Instead I focus on the boy. I must prioritize. Time enough to dwell on Morden later. At least, I hope that there will be time enough. Luc considers the moment with a gravity that I would have thought impossible for a child his age to acquire. Would that I had given the same question as much thought, decades ago. And then he says in earnestness, "Tell me a story." The request catches me completely by surprise. I am not at all sure what I was expecting in my impulsive little game. A request for riches, or toys, or fame. Some bit of silliness or frivolity which would catch the fancy of a child. But . . . a story? It was as if the child's entire history was laid out for me with that simple request. A day-to-day existence of neglect or lack of attention by his parents. A desire to have his imagination engaged by someone, anyone . . . even an old, washed-out man who happened to be his emperor. Senna looks mortified by it all. Clearly feeling it has all gone too far, she gestures for the boy to be quiet. "Luc--" she begins. But I wave her off. Imperial privilege, after all, even though the power is nominally in the hands of a child. In a way, I wonder if the power has not been in the hands of a child ever since I assumed the throne. "No, no, it's all right," I assure her. "He did far better with that question than I did." I study the boy thoughtfully a moment. "And what kind of story would you like to hear?" To my surprise--to say nothing of my amusement--the girl whispers in his ear. She does so with great urgency and seriousness, and the lad seems most annoyed that she has chosen this moment to make her wishes known. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I'm not entirely certain if he's addressing me or her as he says, "I want a story about great battles, wars and bravery and heroes and villains." I go on the assumption that he's talking to me as I nod gravely. "I see. And what does your sister want?" With that unique dissembling manner that only a child can produce, he says, "Nothing." This less-than-honest reply garners him a sharp elbow to the ribs. A blessedly silent female his sister may be (a trait that I am quite certain will evaporate once she reaches an age where males would prefer a little quiet), but shy in making her feelings known she most definitely is not. He sighs with exasperation. "She says she wants to hear a true story." I understand his annoyance. To him, "true" is to be equated with a history lesson, and there is little that is more boring to a child than history. Flights of fancy are far preferable to that which is grounded in reality. The poor, unknowing lad. He has no way of grasping that the truth can be far more horrifying, far more exciting, and far more tragic than anything that the most inventive of fiction writers could possibly produce. And then I realize. I, the would-be historian, am having the way pointed out to me by children. Perhaps the Great Maker himself is desirous that I lay out history for generations to come. But now, here, staring into the face of my potential audience, I realize the folly of my earlier inten-tion. I had intended to begin the story at Babylon 5. But if I simply toss the children into the middle of the labyrinth of politics, deceit, alliances, agendas, and schemes which laced that ill-fated space station, they will never be able to understand it. It will be far too complex to untangle. I said the lad would be emperor for five minutes. Five minutes ? To explain everything that occurred on Babylon 5, it would take me five years. No, no. If I am to produce a history of the events which helped to form a galaxy--by nearly shattering it first--there is only one reasonable place for me to begin. And that is, of course . . . in the beginning. "Very well, then," I tell them. "I will give you both what you want." This announcement piques the interest of both children, who--from their expressions--clearly believe that such an endeavor is impossible. "A story about great deeds. About armies of light and soldiers of darkness, about the places where they lived and fought and loved and died. About great empires and terrible mistakes." I pause, momentarily displaying that old Londo Mollari flair for the dramatic. "A true story." For the moment, at any rate, I have their attention. Even Senna looks intrigued, momentarily putting aside her trepidation as her natural female curiosity gets the better of her. A female as a spellbound audience. Yes, that brings back fond memories as well. "You see," I tell them, warming to my subject, "I was there, at the dawn of the Third Age. It began with the Humans, you know. They are the quiet ones I mentioned before. They changed the universe. But in doing so, they paid a terrible price. It began thirty-five of their years ago..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE SILVER WOLF by Alice Borchardt ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Publication date: July 1998 in hardcover; June 1999 in paperback Copyright © 1998 by Alice Borchardt ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Use of this excerpt from THE SILVER WOLF by Alice Borchardt may be made only for purposes of promoting the book, with no changes, editing or additions whatsoever and must be accompanied by the following copyright notice: copyright ©1998 by Alice Borchardt. All Rights Reserved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter One The sun was going down. The fiery circle shone past the acanthus-crowned columns of a ruined temple. They cut the incandescent ball into slices of red radiance. Almost night, the girl thought. She shivered in the chill autumn air gusting through the unglazed casement window. It was barred--heavily barred. One set of bars ran horizontally, the other vertically. They were bolted into the stone walls of the tiny room. She knew she should close the window. She should reach out through the bars, pull the heavy shutters shut, and seal them with the iron bolt. But she pushed the idea out of her mind with a sort of blind obstinacy. The sight of freedom, even an unattainable freedom, was too sweet to give up. Not yet, she told herself, only a little longer. Not yet. The air that raised goosflesh on her arms was sweet to her nostrils. Oh no, more than sweet. Each vagrant increase in flow, each slight change in direction, each passing movement sent images to the deepest part of her mind. She could sense the fragrance of thyme. The delicate scent was mixed with the heavy smell of wet marble and granite. These scents and others stood out against the tapestry of odors given off by the flowers and greenery that cloaked the ruined palaces and temples of the ancient emporium. The vast restless spirit of this place, the greatest of all empires, seemed at last brought to rest at the soft hand of the great green mother herself. Regeane hadn't known what to expect of the once-proud mistress of the world when she'd come to Rome. She didn't expect what she found. The inhabitants, descendants of a race of conquerors, lived like rats squabbling and polluting the ruins of an abandoned palace. Oblivious to the evidence of grandeur all around them, they fought viciously among themselves for what resources remained. Indeed, little was left of the once-vast river of gold that flowed into the eternal city. The gold that trickled in these days gilded the altars of the churches and the palms of papal officials. Regeane's mother, desperate to save her daughter's soul, pawned what few jewels she had left. The money paid the bribes necessary to obtain a papal audience and finance the equally expensive papal blessing. Regeane had gone into the awesome presence, her body drenched in a sweat of terror. If her ailing mother said the wrong words to the church's leading prelate, she might find herself being burned or stoned as a witch. But, as she approached the supreme pontiff, she realized just how foolish her fears had been. The man before her was a ruin. Ready to be taken by age and sorrow. She doubted if he understood much of anything said to him. Weeping, her mother implored the intercession of God's chief minister on earth with the Almighty. As the ever-dutiful Regeane knelt, she kissed the silken slipper and felt the withered hands pressed against her hair. In addition to the thick smell of incense and Greek perfume that pervaded the room, she detected the musty, dry smell of aging flesh and human decay. God, it was powerful. He is ready to die, she thought. He will go to speak on Mother's behalf to God in person very soon. However, she knew this blessing, as all other blessings her mother, Gisela, had traveled so far and squandered so much of her wealth to gain, would do no good. This was the end. Regeane knew it. She was frightened. If the pope himself could not lift this strange curse from her and let her live as a woman, to which earthly power could she turn? More to the point, to which power could her mother turn? Gisela was fading as quickly as the only-too-human man on Saint Peter's throne. Though a comparatively young woman, Gisela was worn down by the fruitless journeys she had taken with Regeane and by a secret sorrow that seemed to fill her mind and heart with a bottomless wellspring of grief. Regeane lied. Her mother believed. And for the first time in many years, Regeane felt the tiny woman who had traveled so far and borne so many burdens was at peace. Regeane's lie carried Gisela through till the end. Three days after the papal audience she had gone to awaken her mother and found Gisela would never wake again--not in this world. Regeane was alone, staring through the bars. She watched with greedy eyes as the sun became a half circle that faded into a glow silhouetting the tall cypresses of the Appian Way. The deep blue autumn twilight emerged. Then, and only then, did she turn from the window and wrap herself in an old woolen mantle and return to her pallet bed. With the exception of the low bed and a small, covered, brown terra-cotta pot in the corner, the room was bare. Regeane sat on the bed, her shoulders against the stone wall, her legs dangling, head thrown back, eyes closed. She waited silently for moonrise. The silver disc would be lifting itself above the seven hills now. Soon, very soon, its journey across the sky would bring it to her window where it would throw a pool of silver light on the floor. Ignoring the cross-hatched black lines of bars, she could drink at that pool, allowed once more to breathe in the air of freedom. The door to the outer room slammed shut. Damnation. The girl on the bed scoured her mind for oaths. No...curses. As a young girl, she was never allowed to speak them, but she could think the words. And she often did. Oh, how she did when those two were present. There were worse things than loneliness. Overall, Regeane felt she preferred silence and emptiness to the presence of either her Uncle Gundabald or Hugo, his son. "I pissed blood again this morning," Hugo whined. "Are all the whores in this city diseased?" Gundabald laughed uproariously. "All the ones you find seem to be. It's as I told you. Pay a litte extra. Get yourself something young and clean. At least young--so all the itching and burning a few days later are worth it. That last you bought was so old, she had to ply her trade by starlight. What you save on whores goes out in medicines for crotch rot." "True enough," Hugo said irritably. "You always seem to do better." Gundabald sighed. "I'm sick of instrucing you. Next time, retain a bit of sobriety and get a look at her in a good light." "Christ, it's cold in here," Hugo said angrily. A moment later Regeane heard him shouting down the stairs for the landlord to bring a braizer to warm the room. "It's no use, my boy," Gundabald told him. "She's left the window open again." "How can you stand it?" Hugo grumbled. "She makes my skin crawl." Gundabald laughed again. "There's nothing to worry about. Those planks are an inch thick. She can't get out." "Has she ever..." Hugo asked fearfully. "Oh, once or twice, I believe, when she was much younger. Then I took matters in hand. Gisela was too soft. That sister of mine was a fine woman--she always did as she was told--but she was weak, my boy, weak. Consider the way she wept over that first husband of hers when the marriage was so abruptly...terminated." "She divorced him?" Hugo asked. "Ah, yes," Gundabald sounded uneasy. "To be sure, we told her to divorce him. She had no choice in the matter. Even then, everyone could see Charles' mother was becoming a power at court. There were many well-endowed suitors for Gisela's hand. The second marriage was much better--it made us all wealthy." "Now all that's gone," Hugo said bitterly. "Between you and Gisela, if our coffers have a miserable copper in them we're lucky. You always wanted to rub shoulders with the great magnates of the Frankish realm. In order to do that, your shoulders had to be covered with velvet and brocade. And, oh yes, the magnates wanted to feast. Worse than a horde of vultures, they swarmed over your household devouring everything in sight. And like vultures after the carcass was picked clean, they departed in a cloud of stink and were never seen again. "Whatever they missed, Gisela laid hands on, squandering it on relics, shrines, blessings, and pilgrimages, trying to lift the curse from that wretched brat of hers. You told me to get myself something younger. I've a good mind to pay that cousin of mine a visit...by day of course and--" Hugo screamed. "Father, you're hurting me." Gundabald's reply was a snarl of fury. "You so much as touch that girl and I'll save us both a lot of trouble and expense. I'll slice off your prick and balls. You'll be the smoothest eunuch between here and Constantinople. I swear it. She's the one and only asset we have left and she--must --marry. Hear me!" Hugo howled again. "Yes, yes, yes. You're breaking my arm. Oh, God. Stop!" Hugo's howling ceased. When he did speak, he sniveled sarcastically. "Who would marry that...girl?" Gundabald laughed. "I can name a dozen right now, who would kill to marry her. The most royal blood of Franca flows through her veins. Both her father and mother were cousins of the great king himself." "And those same ones who'd kill to marry her will run a sword through both you and the girl the moment they find out what she is." "I don't understand how you are the fruit of my loins," Gundabald snarled. "But then your mother was a brainless little twit. Perhaps you take after her." Despite the sadistic nastiness of Gundabald's voice, Hugo didn't rise to the bait. Most of the people around Gundabald quickly learned to fear him. Hugo was no exception. Gundabald continued, "You liked the way we lived well enough when we were in funds. Vultures, eh! That's the pot calling the kettle black. You fucked all night, fed all day, and drank the clock 'round with the best of them. Shut up! Leave things you don't understand to your elders and betters. And send for some food and wine--a lot of wine. I want my supper, and I want to forget what's in the next room." "It was a mistake to bring her here," Hugo said. His voice was high and nervous. "She's worse than ever." "Christ Jesus! God!" Gundabald roared. "Even a dumb animal has the sense to do what it's told. Dolt with the brains of a cobblestone! Shut up and at least get the wine. My God! I'm dying of thirst." Marry, she thought listlessly. How could she marry? She didn't believe even a snake like Gundabald would connive at something so dangerous, or succeed if he tried. Her mother still had a little land left in Franca, a few run-down villas. They generated only enough money to feed and clothe the three of them. But nothing she was heir to would be enough to attract the attention of any of the great magnates of the Frankish realm. As for her relationship to Charles--a rather distant connection to his mother--a king beginning already to be called the great. The dear lady, Bertrada, had never even for one moment acknowledged Regeane's existence. In fact, one of the things that endeared Bertrada to King Peppin the Short was that she was followed by a whole tribe of relations. They approached the court ready to swing their swords for church and king. However, their odd wagon load of loot managed not to fall into the king's treasury. Regeane was not distinguished--she had nothing to offer. She was a woman--poor and not beautiful. She didn't think there would be many seeking her hand in marriage. Yet if Gundabald could find some poor mope to swindle, she had no doubt he would auction her off without the slightest compunction and then leave her to her fate. Regeane just didn't think he would find anyone. Besides, Gundabald had, as they said, a hot throat and a cold prick. He wanted to cool the one and heat the other as frequently as possible. To indulge himself he needed what little money came in from her estates. He would certainly sell her, but not cheaply. It remained to be seen if he could get his price. At the moment, she couldn't bring herself to care much one way or the other. When the papal blessing proved fruitless, the thread of hope that had drawn her across the Alps and sustained her in the difficult journey to Rome...failed. Gisela's death had been the final blow. She had been her daughter's only protection against a world that would destroy Regeane in an instant if it so much as guessed the girl's secret--and against the worst excesses of Gundabald's greed. She had been Regeane's only confidant and companion. Regeane had no other friends, no other loves. She was now abandoned and utterly alone. Dry-eyed, Regeane had followed her mother's body to the grave. She was overcome by a despair so black, it seemed to turn that bright day into bitter night. Now a faint silver shadow appeared against the blackness of the floor. There is nothing left but moonlight, Regeane thought. Drink it, drown in it. She will never reproach me. I will never see her tears again or suffer because of them. Whatever may become of me, I am alone. She stood, stripped off her dress and shift, and turned toward the silver haze. The gust from the window was icy, but pleasure wouldn't exist without the sharp bite of pain. Even the brief flash of orgasm is too intense to be absolutely pleasurable. The cold caress was seduction, the quick cruel touch that precedes pleasure. Regeane went forward boldly, knowing that in a moment she would be warm. Naked, she stepped into the silver haze. The wolf stood there. Regeane was, as wolves go, a large wolf. She had the same weight as the girl, over a hundred pounds. She was much stronger than in her human state--lean, quick, and powerful. Her coat was smooth and thick. The pelt glowed silver as it caught the moonlight on its long guard hairs. The wolf's heart overflowed with joy and gratitude. Regeane would never have admitted it in her human state, but she loved the wolf and, papal blessing or not, she would never let her go. From the bottom of her heart, she reveled in the change. Sometimes, while in her human state, she wondered who was wiser, she or the wolf. The wolf knew. Growing more beautiful and stronger year after year, the wolf waited for Regeane to be ready to receive her teaching and understand it. The silver wolf lifted herself on her hind legs and, placing her forepaws on the window sill, peered out. She saw not just with eyes as these maimed humans did, but with sensitive ears and nose. The world humans saw was like a fresco--dimensionless as a picture painted on a wall. To be believed in by the wolf, a thing had to have not only image, but smell, texture, and taste. Ah God...how beautiful. The world was filled with wonder. The rain must have come in the evening. The wolf could smell the damp, black earth under the green verdure as well as mud churned up by horses' hooves in a nearby lane. The woman hadn't noticed it. She'd spent the day wallowing in her grief, mourning her mother. For this she earned a brief flash of contempt from the wolf. But the wolf was too much a creature of the present to dwell on what was past. She was grateful for each moment. And this was a fine one. Usually in Rome, the scent of man overpowered everything else. The effluvia of stale perspiration, the fetid raw sewage floating in the Tiber, the stench of human excrement which--even by comparison to that of other animals--is utterly vile. All these filled the air and pressed in around her. Overlaying them all were the musty omnipresent evidence of human dwellings--stale wood smoke, damp timber, and stone. But not so tonight. The sharp wind blew from the open fields beyond the city, redolent of dry grass and the sweetness of wild herbs growing on the hillsides near the sea. Sometimes the fragrant winds from the Campagna carried the clean barnyard smells of pig and cattle, and faintly, the enticing musk of deer. The night below was alive with movement. The cats that made their homes among the ruins sang their ancient songs of anger and passion among forgotten monuments. Here and there the slinking shape of a stray dog met her eye; occasionally, even furtive human movement. Thieves and footpads haunted the district, ready to prey on the unwary. Her ears pricked forward and netted what her eyes could not see--the barely perceptible thump of a barn owl's wings in flight, the high, thin cries of bats swooping, darting, foraging for insects in the chill night air. The rush and whisper of the hunters and the hunted, silent until the end. The agonized death cry of a bird, taken in sleep on the nest by a marauding cat, rent the air. The chopped-off shriek of a rabbit dying in the talons of an owl followed. Those sounds and smells, and many others, were woven together by her wolf senses into a rich fabric of unending variety and everlasting delight. The silver wolf dropped her forepaws to the floor with a soft, nearly inaudible cry of longing. Then her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl at the sound of voices in the other room. Hugo and Gundabald ate. The wolf's belly rumbled with hunger at the smell of roast meat. She was hungry and thirsty, longing for clean water and food. The woman warned her night side to rein in her desires. She would get nothing. The wolf replied. For a moment they were both gone--the woman from her prison, the wolf from her cage. The wolf stood beside a clear mountain lake. The full moon glowed silver in the water. All around the lake, black trees were silhouetted against mountains glittering white with unending snow. The memory faded. The wolf and woman stared at the locked door. The wolf and woman both understood imprisonment. Regeane had spent most of her life behind locked doors. Long ago, she'd learned the punishing futility of assaults on oak and iron. She ignored what she couldn't change and bided her time. They were speaking of her. "Did you hear that?" Hugo asked fearfully. Hugo's hearing was better than Gundabald's. He must have heard her soft cry of protest. "No," Gundabald mumbled through a mouthful of food. "I didn't and you didn't either. You only imagined you did. She seldom makes any noise. That's one thing for which we can be grateful. At least she doesn't spend her nights howling as a real wolf would." "We shouldn't have brought her here," Hugo moaned. "Must you start that again?" Gundabald sighed wearily. "It's true," Hugo replied with drunken insistence. "The founders of this city were suckled at the tits of a mother wolf. Once they called themselves sons of the wolf. Ever since I found out about her I've often thought of that story. A real wolf couldn't raise human children, but a creature like her..." Gundabald laughed raucously. "A fairly tale made up by some strumpet to explain a clutch of bastard brats. She wasn't the first and won't be the last to spin a yarn to protect herself." "You won't listen to anything." Hugo said petulantly. "She's gotten worse since we came here. Even while her own mother was dying she..." The silver wolf's lips drew back. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight like ivory knives. Even in the wolf's heart, Hugo's words rankled. The smoldering anger and the brief, sad rebellion were pointless. The locked door stood between her and her tormentors. The barred window remained between the magnificent creature and freedom. She began to pace as any caged beast will, obeying the wordless command: Stay strong. Stay healthy. Stay alert. Fear not, your time will come. Chapter Two Maeniel was a worrier. today he had a lot of worries as he stood on the half-ruined gallery once intended for the delight of a Roman governor. He envied the man, who had probably stood here once, taking the air and complacently surveying his broad domains. Today, among other things, Maeniel worried about the hay. It didn't seem to be ripening as fast as it should. And they needed that hay to carry them through the long, cold winter. Still, he sighed; the man had been too powerful to worry about hay. He'd probably had other concerns, possibly even more troubling than Maeniel's. Say, for instance, politics in Rome. "Politics in Rome," he muttered. Gavin, the captain of his guard, sat dozing on a bench, his back against a mural of Perseus slaying Medusa. The gorgon's head in the hero's hand glared at him. This didn't worry Gavin. Nothing worried Gavin. He opened one eye and repeated, "What about politics in Rome?" "I was just thinking that even though the Roman governor didn't worry about the hay as I do, he probably worried about politics in Rome." Gavin opened both eyes. "Let me get this straight. You left off worrying about the hay to worry about what a long-dead Roman worried about?" "Yes," Maeniel said. "Thank you for clarifying that." Gavin closed his eyes. "Now if you don't mind, I'll go back to sleep." "It doesn't seem to be ripening as quickly as usual," Maeniel persisted. "The hay, or politics in Rome?" Gavin asked. "The hay." Maeniel bit his lip. Gavin sighed deeply, opened both eyes, and looked out over the surrounding countryside. The land lay drowsing in the warm gold of the afternoon sun, a picture of tranquil, bucolic beauty. Three prosperous villages lay scattered along the mountainside surrounded by tilled fields, their deep green just beginning to bear the first tinge of autumn's rich red, brown, and gold. Higher up against the face of the mountains were scattered flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle, fattening in the high summer pasture. Beyond them, snowcapped peaks floated in delicate ethereal beauty against the sky. "The hay," Gavin said, "seems to me to be ripening much as it always has ever since we came here." "Do you really think so?" Maeniel asked hopefully. "Yes," Gavin replied, closing his eyes again. Maeniel shook his head. "Still, I hear from Clotilde that it's going to be a bad winter. She says the fleeces of the sheep have grown twice as thick as is usual and--" "No," Gavin said firmly. "I won't listen anymore. Every year at this time it's the hay. Then, when that's in, the question will be, is it enough to carry us through the winter? Or should you send to the lowlands to buy more, to ensure the survival of our stock? Then, you will fret yourself about wood. Have we enough? Suppose a really bad storm comes and the snow is too deep for us to venture out to cut more? So we must cut more now, stacking it ever higher and higher until we must sleep in the snow because the wood fills all of the houses. "In between, you will be venturing out in blizzards to visit every cow, sow, ewe, and nanny goat with a pain. To hold her hoof until she delivers. If one sneezes, you hear it in your sleep and come wake me up to commiserate with you. Hold the lantern up, Gavin. Ply your axe with a will, Gavin. Pull, Gavin. Push, Gavin. Take your men and fall on those brigands, Gavin. I know they are not on my land, but I like it not that they raided so close, Gavin. "Now it is the worries of deceased Romans, and politics that concern us not at all in our mountains. At first I wondered when Rieulf, old and ill, placed his demesne in your hands. But after the first winter I understood the wisdom of the old man's choice. He definitely knew how to pick the right man for the job." Maeniel listened meekly to Gavin's tirade. They were old friends. He heard it several times a year when Gavin grew frustrated with him. "I wish," Gavin wound down, "that you would find some-thing else to worry about besides hay or the sheep, goats, wood, and snowstorms. At least it would be a change for me to listen to." His voice trailed off as he sniffed the air. "Fresh baked bread," he whispered. "I forgot it's Matrona's baking day." His body floated from the bench. He seemed pulled along by the enticing odor, his nose sniffing the air. Maeniel placed one big hand on Gavin's shoulder and pushed him back down on the bench. "Matrona has a lot of work to do on baking day. She becomes very irritable. Remember the time I had to rescue you? She was trying to push you feet first into one of the ovens. You had both feet braced against the wall on either side of the door. You were screaming at the top of your lungs, and if I hadn't--" "You didn't have to rescue me," Gavin denied hotly. "It's just that I'm a gentleman and didn't want to hurt her." "To be sure," Maeniel soothed, "to be sure. Besides you were right ... I mean about the worry business." "You're giving it up?" Gavin asked. "No," Maeniel said. "I have a new one." He handed Gavin a letter. Gavin gave it a cursory glance; then realizing its importance, he began to read more slowly. "Not politics in Rome," Maeniel said. "Politics in Franca. The woman comes recommended by Charles, the great Charlemagne himself. I had better marry her." "I wouldn't," Gavin said handing him back the letter. "I'd tell the great Charles to go fly his hawks or chase Saxons, whatever the hell a king does. Forget marrying. When some royal cousin comes here, lock your gates, sharpen your sword, and wish them Godspeed over the pass into the valley. I'm betting you'll never hear any more about her." "I can't take that bet," Maeniel said quietly. "The stakes are too high." "No, they aren't," Gavin insisted. "You're sitting in an impregnable fortress. This rock has never fallen to assault, not even in the time of the Romans." "And if Charles ever seriously decides to dig me out," Maeniel said flatly, "he can. Why do you think I send Charles' court a hefty sum of silver? Every year a nice present of gold and jewels is sent to the court in time for Christmas. I keep the roads clear of thieves and bandits, don't overcharge the merchants traveling through the pass. In between I keep my fingers crossed. So far he's left me alone. "But no more. The reckoning has come, and in a form I can't really quarrel with. He's offering me a marriage with a woman of the royal house. I dare not refuse. The letter says she is young, comely, and--" "The letter," Gavin broke in, "does give every pertinent fact about the lady: her birth, her lineage, yes, every fact, but one. What's wrong with her?" "What could be wrong with her?" Maeniel asked. Gavin stared out glumly over the village. "Now who's the optimist? Aside from dire poverty, I can think of a few things. Promiscuity, drunkenness, insanity, dishonesty, stupidity, leprosy, cruelty, and greed. Any and all of the above. In addition, she'll probably turn out to be a humpbacked dwarf with only one tooth remaining in her head and halfwitted in the bargain." "Sometimes I think it was a mistake for your father to send you to school. It stimulated your imagination no end," Maeniel said. "I know," Gavin agreed. "I told him that every day until it was a question of what would wear out first--his arm, his belt, or my backside. As it was, you and I both ended up trying to run away to seek our fortune. Well, we found it, and now you must marry this ... creature to keep it." "It's a small sacrifice," Maeniel answered. "Let's hope," Gavin said. "If she's a humpbacked dwarf, she may have a pleasant personality. If she's insane, I'll see she's cared for. Drunken, dried out at intervals; promiscuous, persuaded to be discreet. Cruelty and greed can both be restrained. And even leprosy, God help me, can be treated. At this altitude the sick either recover quickly or die." "That's it," Gavin said. "Look on the bright side. She may not survive the first winter." "Or she may be as the letter says: young, comely, and amiable. Poverty might be her only real fault." "No," Gavin said. "If that were the only problem, they'd never be offering her to such as you. A down-at-the-heels Irish mercenary. If it hadn't been for Rieulf, we'd still be earning our bread selling our swords hither and yon. As it was, you did him a service and he began to love you. You were lucky ..." "That's true." Maeniel looked out over the valley again, still somewhat preoccupied by the hay. "What do you think, Gavin? Should we get some of it now and--" A loud yell erupted from the direction of the kitchen. Maeniel turned. Gavin was gone. The lure of fresh-baked bread had proved too much for his captain to resist. Gavin on a horse, sword in hand, might be the terror of every brigand in the mountains, but when he fought Matrona, he invariably lost. Maeniel decided to go rescue him. Leaving the hay and the future to take care of themselves, he started off in the direction of the commotion in the kitchen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------