John Ringo - There Will Be Dragons

“Hi,” Herzer said, ducking his head in greeting. Then he picked up his spoon and basically inhaled the food.

“You have to be careful with that,” Courtney said with a snort. “I did that the first night and then threw it up all over the table.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” Herzer said. There was a slight queasiness, but Tom had had some rations left so he hadn’t been starving the last day or so. He mopped up the bowl with the small piece of bread and then ate that. “That’s it, right?”

“Right,” Mike said gruffly. “New here?”

“Just got in,” Herzer said then paused. The details of his journey didn’t make for very good storytelling.

“We’re on our second day,” Courtney explained. “You know you get three days?”

“Yes. And they said someone would be around to find me then. I’d wondered about that; how do they keep track?”

“Some people skate out,” Courtney nodded towards the tent. “But on the third day they stop giving you meal chits if you’re not otherwise employed. They’re talking about some sort of apprenticeship program. We’re hoping to get into that.”

“What else is there to do? I saw a couple of guards.”

“They’re not much,” Mike said. He had a tight, short manner of speaking that was blunt enough to be right on the edge of rudeness. But Herzer sensed it was just the way he was rather than anything intentional. “There’s talk that Talbot’s going to set up a professional guard and police force. But there’s been too much going on with the farm battles.”

“Farm battles?” Herzer asked. “We’re having wars already?”

“No, not that,” Courtney interjected. “It’s just the arguments about how to get the farms running.”

She gave him a fairly concise description of the various positions, then shrugged. “Mike and I, well…” she looked over at him and shrugged again.

“I want a farm,” Mike said. “I want my own farm, mine and Courtney’s. I don’t want to farm somebody else’s and I don’t want to share it with a bunch of people. I know I can make it run if I don’t have to worry about sharing it with a bunch of losers.” He gestured at the various people still sitting at the tables.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Herzer said. “I’d never thought about being a farmer myself…”

“Farming is what makes an economy like this run,” Courtney interjected enthusiastically. “It’s hard work, maybe the hardest there is. But it’s rewarding, too, if you get good land and do a good job at it. We’ll succeed,” she reached across and took Mike’s hand. “I know we will.”

“But you’re going to do the apprenticeship program anyway?” Herzer asked. He noticed that Mike seemed uncomfortable with the touch and disengaged as quickly as possible.

“I want to see what else there is,” Mike said. “And there’s more to farming than just putting seeds in the ground. Knowing a little bit about coopering and carpentry and smithing will be useful.”

“There’s supposed to be a week or two of combat training, too,” Courtney noted.

“Well, I guess I’ll see about this apprenticeship program,” Herzer said. The sun was setting in the west and he suddenly realized he was bone weary. “Where do people sleep?”

“There’s separate bunkhouses for the men and women,” Mike said. “I usually walk Courtney over to hers and then find a place to sleep.”

“You can come with us if you want,” Courtney said.

“Uhm…” he looked at Mike who shrugged disinterest in whether he did or not and then nodded. “Okay, if you don’t mind.”

They walked through the crowds in the gathering darkness to one of the many log-frame huts. Up close they were much less sturdy than they appeared at a distance, and the walls were filled with cracks where the logs didn’t meet. The roofs were made from wooden “shakes,” slightly mounded pieces of wood about two decimeters long, a decimeter wide and a couple of centimeters thick. He suspected that they leaked like a sieve in the rain.

He waited as Courtney kissed Mike good night, on the cheek, then followed the young man across the encampment. Mike seemed to find his way in the dark remarkably well for having been there only a day.

“I think you see better at night than I do,” Herzer said as he stumbled on one of the innumerable potholes. The area had been a forest up until a few days before and while the stumps had been rooted out and the holes filled, the rains had caused the soil within to slump.

“A couple of generations back on my mother’s side is a cat Change,” he said. “I do see well at night.”

“Do you know why there are so few Changed here?” Herzer asked, the question that had been nagging at the back of his mind coming to the fore again.

“Not really, but Courtney and I were discussing it. She thinks it’s a matter of adaptability. Most of the Changed take more energy, either food or externally derived, than unChanged humans. So, naturally, they were going to be at a disadvantage when the Fall came. Think about a werebear, for example. They need a lot of food, every day.”

“Yeah.”

“Or, think about a guy with wings. He’s got wings, but he can only fly with external power. And the wings weigh thirty, forty kilos. Take away power, make him have to walk for days to get to shelter…”

“Yeah.”

“Makes me glad I never Changed. You ever think of Changing?” The question was hard edged, almost accusatory but, again, Herzer put it down to personality.

“Not really,” Herzer answered honestly. “A little bigger, a little beefier…” He flashed back to the scene at the bridge. Bigger wouldn’t have helped unless he was the size of a giant.

“You’re pretty big already,” Mike said with a questioning tone.

“That’s mostly natural genetics,” Herzer replied. “I… the muscle is sculpted but I worked for it. I was sick most of my life and I couldn’t bulk up no matter how hard I tried. So when I got fixed…”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mike said. “Here we are.”

Mike pushed open the flap — which appeared to be made of rough-cured deerskin — and led the way into the interior. Already the room was filled with the sound of snores.

“There’s a spot over here,” he said, pointing down the middle of the room.

To Herzer the interior was as black as pitch and quite cold. “Are there any blankets?”

“Not unless you brought one, but it warms up after a while,” Mike replied. He led the way down the center aisle to a spot between two of the sleeping bodies.

“Keep your boots on and double knot the laces,” his guide said. “I had somebody try to steal mine the first night.”

“Okay,” Herzer said, sitting on the floor. It was dirt and both moist and cool, and the air in the room was damp and filled with odors. He was suddenly glad that the problem of human body odor had been solved generations before, otherwise the room would have been truly foul.

He fell asleep on that happy note.

Rachel woke up with a face peering at her upside down.

“Who is this sleeping in my bed?” the girl asked. Her voice was low and sibilant with odd under and overtones, as if she was speaking through the opening in a cello.

Rachel sat up, pulling the bedclothes to her and spun around so that she could see who she was addressing.

The girl standing arms akimbo by the bed was short, no more than a meter and a quarter, and very oddly dressed. She had a sharply pointed face and long, black hair that dropped in curly waves down her back. She was wearing what could only be described as a green leather bikini made of some soft, washed leather. Leaves were entwined in her hair. On her left shoulder she had a pauldron while the other was bare. On her right calf she had a metal greave while her left calf was covered in a fur leg warmer. She was wearing sandals with a very slight heel and on her left forearm was an archer’s brace. That appeared to be the only bit of her ensemble that wasn’t for show since it was heavily scarred on the inside.