John Ringo - There Will Be Dragons

“Fat chance,” Harry replied, leaping forward with a series of blows. He rang blow after blow off of Edmund’s shield, careful not to snap the blade on the boss or the metal-rimmed edge. But the series of blows had their intended effect, driving Edmund back for the first time that he could recall. “Weak, Edmund. All this soft living is making you weak.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Edmund gasped, trying to retaliate. But his blows rang softly against the lighter fighter’s shield and he could not check the rush. Finally, he stumbled, a misplaced piece of kindling rolling out from under his foot, and he dropped to one knee, holding the shield above him now to wield off the blows.

“Weak, Edmund,” Harry cried in delight; it was the first time he could recall succeeding this easily. He considered for a moment if maybe he should back off, but he still hadn’t landed a strong blow, just a series of chops on the shield that was slowly battering the reinforced plywood.

“Yes,” Edmund gasped, drawing his sword back. “I guess I’m too old,” he continued as the sword flew forward, well under his opponent’s, and crashed into his thigh. There was a spurt of blood and Harry let out a shriek. Suddenly, things weren’t what they seemed.

“Lord God, Edmund!” Harry shouted, crumpling to the ground, his hand clapped over the spurting wound. “What did you do to your sword!”

The sword’s own blunting field should have stopped it from doing any cutting damage, although Harry would have had a Charlie Horse to remember. For that matter, Harry’s own defensive field, reduced as it was, should have prevented the contact. Neither had activated.

“I didn’t do anything,” Edmund said, dropping to both knees and grasping his friend’s hand. “Let me see.”

“It bloody hurts !” Harry shouted. “Bloody hell does it hurt!”

Edmund pried the younger man’s hand away and looked at the wound. It was a deep cut, on the outer thigh. The sword had cloven through the ring-mail and underpadding, then into the flesh of the quadriceps. It was bloody, but it wasn’t life threatening; there was no bright red spurting of arterial damage or even the slow, solid flow of a cut vein.

“It’s only a flesh wound,” Edmund said, frowning.

“It’s a bloody painful flesh wound,” Harry replied, sitting up on one elbow since the shock of surprise had worn off. “Edmund, why isn’t there a repair cloud on it? Why does it hurt ?”

“Why did the damned sword go home?” Edmund asked, rhetorically. “Butler.” He paused for a moment then frowned. “Butler!”

“Genie?” Harry said. “Oh, shit, Edmund. Genie! ” There was no reply. No voices answered out of the air and no projections appeared.

Edmund looked around. They were in the training area behind the forge, one of three on his property. He finally shrugged and got his arm under Harry. “Keep your hand on that and I’ll get you into the forge.”

“Okay,” Harry said faintly. “I’m not feeling particularly well.”

“It’s shock,” Talbot explained, leading his limping friend into the building. “I need to get you laid out again.” He first sat the fighter down on a bench then laid out some leather mats before lowering him to the floor. “Carborundum!”

“Not a good situation, is it, O meat bag?” the AI said, sticking its head out of the blast furnace.

“What in the hell is going on?” Edmund asked, as he searched frantically for something that was reasonably clean to place on the wound. Finally he settled for a fresh batch of cosilk waste and pressed it into the mess on Harry’s leg. “Why are you responding and the genies aren’t?”

“The Net is down,” the AI replied. “The Council is fighting amongst itself. They’re diverting all power, and all processing power, to that. I am an independent entity.”

“Oh… hell,” Harry groaned. “No bloody nannites?”

“Nope,” the AI said. “Not unless something falls out quick. You’re not the only ones who are in a bad way; nobody has any power anywhere . That means no food, no water, no light . Things are starting to get bad already.”

“Paul’s coup,” Edmund muttered, looking around the forge.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Sheida told me that Paul might be planning a coup. We discussed means of defense. Carb, where do the AI’s stand?”

“Most of them are sitting it out,” the AI replied frankly. “The only thing that can destroy us is the Council, acting in concert. Whichever faction wins will come down hard on the loser’s supporters.”

“Where do you stand?” Edmund asked, wrapping a leather strap around his friend’s thigh to keep the cosilk in place.

“I’ve read Bowman’s manifesto,” the AI said, acidly. “I don’t think so.”

“Can I read it?” Edmund asked, standing up.

“I could read it to you,” Carb said. “But I can’t produce it. I’m… somewhat lacking in power myself.”

“How bad is it?”

“Well… how much charcoal do you have?” the AI asked.

“Not all that much,” Edmund admitted. “We’re towards the end of the cycle. But if I parcel it out…”

“If I drop below eight hundred degrees C, I’m toast,” Carb said, bluntly. “Or, rather, I’m not toast, so I’m dead.”

“Dead, dead, or quiescent?” Harry asked.

“I might be able to back up a few functions, but I’m not sure I’ll recover,” the AI admitted. “Call it mostly dead and maybe unrecoverable without a miracle. Which doesn’t look likely right now. By the way, Sheida is calling in all her markers; you’re going to get a call soon.”

“I’ve got to see to Harry,” Edmund responded. “Then to the village. I’ll talk to her when I have to.” He turned to Harry and waggled a finger at him. “Don’t you die while I’m gone!”

“I’ll try not to,” Harry said weakly.

Edmund trotted across the courtyard, the weight of his armor virtually unnoticed, and entered a side door of the house. Down a corridor in a long-unopened storeroom he pulled open a locker and rummaged to the bottom. There he found a pack and dragged it out. A quick check of the contents sufficed and he ran back to where the injured fighter was lying.

“I didn’t know you knew any AI’s,” Harry said when he entered. The injured fighter’s color was, if anything, a tad better.

“It wasn’t supposed to be general knowledge,” Carb said. “But, all things considered…”

Edmund unbuckled Harry’s armor and started stripping off the pants.

“Edmund, I never knew you cared,” Harry joked, helping with the heavy steel. “It would be easier if I stood up.”

“It would be harder if you passed out,” Edmund replied, pulling the armor away from the wound. The cosilk padding was quickly cut with a belt-knife, then he opened up the green backpack and started rummaging through packages.

“What’s all that?” Harry asked with a tone of deep interest.

“Very old fashioned medical gear,” Edmund replied, withdrawing a bottle of antiseptic and some small, clear packages.

“This is gonna hurt,” he said in an offhand manner as he poured much of the contents of the bottle of brown liquid into the wound and onto his hands.

“JESUS ON A CRUTCH!” Harry yelled, practically sitting up. But he didn’t bat the bottle away. “What was that?”

“Something called ‘betadyne’ that they used to use back in the ooold days,” Edmund replied. “It’s okay, next we’re talking really medieval medicine,” he continued, pulling a curved needle out of one package and a long piece of string out of the other.