Ongoing Maintenance

I wrote this to aldersprig's fourth prompt.  It follows on from Licence Inspection.

It didn’t take much maintaining, not really.  He’d erected his shield over the city, protecting it from the enemy’s attacks.  He’d done it slowly, piece by piece, one performance at a time on street corners and in plazas, adding in chuckles, giggles and good humor as he went.  He’d even performed a little real magic in his shows, although that had come close to getting him into trouble.  The real magic was in the shield and the beauty of it was that most people, both on his own side and the enemy’s, didn’t know it was there.

Military magic dealt with force and explosions and pyrotechnic displays.  He couldn’t do those things and the people who could often couldn’t do the things he could do.  Often they couldn’t even tell that his spells had been cast.  That was his advantage.  They didn’t know what they were fighting.

Four half hour performances a day in front of an audience at various points around the city.  That was all it took, although he often did more because he enjoyed their reaction.  Enjoyed spreading a little happiness.  Perhaps under it all he was a showman?

The real payoff for him was when the enemy attacked.  Bombs were defused in mid fall.  Enemy aircraft got confused, landed at the wrong airfields and perforce surrendered.  Saboteurs inserted by stealth handed themselves in.  Magical attacks inexplicably failed.

He could tell when they changed their attack wizards; the flavor of the magic, the rhythm of the casting and the beat as they released their attack were different for everyone.  He’d heard that the enemy High Command did not take failure well.  He’d heard too that their magical augmentation on the battlefield was dropping off.  His own side wondered why his city alone was spared the nightly bombardment by firestorm.

Every night he felt the attacks bounce away was a victory.  Every change in opponent was an enemy resource eliminated.  Every night his city was safe and all for a few hours of work a day.

Ongoing Maintenance

I wrote this to aldersprig's fourth prompt.  It follows on from Licence Inspection.

It didn’t take much maintaining, not really.  He’d erected his shield over the city, protecting it from the enemy’s attacks.  He’d done it slowly, piece by piece, one performance at a time on street corners and in plazas, adding in chuckles, giggles and good humor as he went.  He’d even performed a little real magic in his shows, although that had come close to getting him into trouble.  The real magic was in the shield and the beauty of it was that most people, both on his own side and the enemy’s, didn’t know it was there.

Military magic dealt with force and explosions and pyrotechnic displays.  He couldn’t do those things and the people who could often couldn’t do the things he could do.  Often they couldn’t even tell that his spells had been cast.  That was his advantage.  They didn’t know what they were fighting.

Four half hour performances a day in front of an audience at various points around the city.  That was all it took, although he often did more because he enjoyed their reaction.  Enjoyed spreading a little happiness.  Perhaps under it all he was a showman?

The real payoff for him was when the enemy attacked.  Bombs were defused in mid fall.  Enemy aircraft got confused, landed at the wrong airfields and perforce surrendered.  Saboteurs inserted by stealth handed themselves in.  Magical attacks inexplicably failed.

He could tell when they changed their attack wizards; the flavor of the magic, the rhythm of the casting and the beat as they released their attack were different for everyone.  He’d heard that the enemy High Command did not take failure well.  He’d heard too that their magical augmentation on the battlefield was dropping off.  His own side wondered why his city alone was spared the nightly bombardment by firestorm.

Every night he felt the attacks bounce away was a victory.  Every change in opponent was an enemy resource eliminated.  Every night his city was safe and all for a few hours of work a day.

They Came In The Night

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's fourth prompt.

They came in the night, obviously, and erected their billboard for the whole world to see.  The aliens had moxie, chutzpah and hide.  It was hideous, it was eye catching and everyone on Earth could see it.  Every advertising firm on Earth would have kicked themselves but for one point – no-one on Earth could read it.

Lots of people tried.  The script was completely unknown.  The billboard scrolled and after six weeks the consensus was that there were sixty three different characters.  The scrolling indicated that it read right to left and top to bottom or left to right and bottom to top.  It was not clear whether the colour changes in the text carried content, added significance or were simply decorative.

In certain academic circles the fights between linguists became a spectator sport.  One university’s art department gained enormous academic respect with their proposal and support of the proposition that the billboard was, in fact, an installed art work.  Their languages department had retired from the argument with the academic equivalent of a bloody nose.  As a philosophy professor commented, the art department could swing a mean right dissertation when they wanted to.

The competing schools of thought continued their analysis for years.  Punctuation and word division were the easiest but without the equivalent of a Rosetta Stone no-one had any way of deciphering sound or meaning.

The breakthrough finally came on Mars.  A survey group from the Third Multinational Expedition stumbled onto an encampment and recognized the script labeling the buildings.  Thus humanity’s first direct alien contact was made with a tour company cook.

No-one actually asked the aliens what the billboard said, they were too busy persuading the company not to up stakes and pull out of the solar system.  Finally it was a tourist that an engineer found taking pictures of a water pump who provided a translation in return for a promise of secrecy about his own activities.

Last chance to see a Class 4 civilization before the shift to Class 5 or extinction.  Enter at own risk.

And the list of prohibited imports.

They Came In The Night

I wrote this to ysabetwordsmith's fourth prompt.

They came in the night, obviously, and erected their billboard for the whole world to see.  The aliens had moxie, chutzpah and hide.  It was hideous, it was eye catching and everyone on Earth could see it.  Every advertising firm on Earth would have kicked themselves but for one point – no-one on Earth could read it.

Lots of people tried.  The script was completely unknown.  The billboard scrolled and after six weeks the consensus was that there were sixty three different characters.  The scrolling indicated that it read right to left and top to bottom or left to right and bottom to top.  It was not clear whether the colour changes in the text carried content, added significance or were simply decorative.

In certain academic circles the fights between linguists became a spectator sport.  One university’s art department gained enormous academic respect with their proposal and support of the proposition that the billboard was, in fact, an installed art work.  Their languages department had retired from the argument with the academic equivalent of a bloody nose.  As a philosophy professor commented, the art department could swing a mean right dissertation when they wanted to.

The competing schools of thought continued their analysis for years.  Punctuation and word division were the easiest but without the equivalent of a Rosetta Stone no-one had any way of deciphering sound or meaning.

The breakthrough finally came on Mars.  A survey group from the Third Multinational Expedition stumbled onto an encampment and recognized the script labeling the buildings.  Thus humanity’s first direct alien contact was made with a tour company cook.

No-one actually asked the aliens what the billboard said, they were too busy persuading the company not to up stakes and pull out of the solar system.  Finally it was a tourist that an engineer found taking pictures of a water pump who provided a translation in return for a promise of secrecy about his own activities.

Last chance to see a Class 4 civilization before the shift to Class 5 or extinction.  Enter at own risk.

And the list of prohibited imports.

Friendly Fire

I have written this to ysabetwordsmith's third prompt.

Ismail was nervous, which was understandable.  He was being smuggled into the military headquarters of a foreign nation to do something that was probably going to destabilize their government.  The members of that government would probably call him a terrorist, which was fine with Ismail – he’d certainly succeeded in terrifying himself

To be fair, he’d been terrified since the Caliph had given him this task.  His family had served the Caliph of the day since his ancestor Gabal had fled Constantium just ahead of arrest.  Gabal had spent the rest of his life dueling evil sorcerers, banishing demons and bolstering the Caliph’s forces with magic.  He’d served not because he’d converted to Islam but because he’d believed in what the Caliph was doing.  Ismail had that belief in common with his distant ancestor.

The Caliph was concerned about the behavior of the government of the most populous nation on the northern half of Vinland.  Their own military was concerned about them which was why he was entering the Pentagon-

“We’re coming up to the security check now,” said the general whose legs and overcoat hid him, huddled on the floor of the car, “don’t even breathe hard.”

Inside the grounds, the car was parked and Ismail left it with the general and his staff officer, dressed in a major’s uniform.  He’d had to sacrifice his beard, but that was a small matter.  They went straight to a basement room where an exhausted Knight of the Church in a naval chaplain’s uniform had preparations well underway.  The Knights’ covert persecution was but one thing that disturbed the Caliph.  The man in the cleaner’s uniform helping him belonged to a lodge that’d been dealing with such things since before Europeans had come to these shores.

It took him half an hour to be ready and only that again to perform the spell.  This was the lynchpin location and Ismail had been thorough in setting up his boundaries.

“Well?”  One of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was asking.

“It’s worked,” Ismail told him, “Whether it’s done what we expect will depend on what it had to work on.”

“Excuse me sirs,” that was a senior officer, “Colonel Anderson is on the line.  The Congressional Chamber is almost empty.  There’s a lot of reddish smoke…”

“Simulacra,” said Ismail flatly, “Not possession, replacement.  Your Congressmen may still be alive but we’ll need to find them quickly.”

Friendly Fire

I have written this to ysabetwordsmith's third prompt.

Ismail was nervous, which was understandable.  He was being smuggled into the military headquarters of a foreign nation to do something that was probably going to destabilize their government.  The members of that government would probably call him a terrorist, which was fine with Ismail – he’d certainly succeeded in terrifying himself

To be fair, he’d been terrified since the Caliph had given him this task.  His family had served the Caliph of the day since his ancestor Gabal had fled Constantium just ahead of arrest.  Gabal had spent the rest of his life dueling evil sorcerers, banishing demons and bolstering the Caliph’s forces with magic.  He’d served not because he’d converted to Islam but because he’d believed in what the Caliph was doing.  Ismail had that belief in common with his distant ancestor.

The Caliph was concerned about the behavior of the government of the most populous nation on the northern half of Vinland.  Their own military was concerned about them which was why he was entering the Pentagon-

“We’re coming up to the security check now,” said the general whose legs and overcoat hid him, huddled on the floor of the car, “don’t even breathe hard.”

Inside the grounds, the car was parked and Ismail left it with the general and his staff officer, dressed in a major’s uniform.  He’d had to sacrifice his beard, but that was a small matter.  They went straight to a basement room where an exhausted Knight of the Church in a naval chaplain’s uniform had preparations well underway.  The Knights’ covert persecution was but one thing that disturbed the Caliph.  The man in the cleaner’s uniform helping him belonged to a lodge that’d been dealing with such things since before Europeans had come to these shores.

It took him half an hour to be ready and only that again to perform the spell.  This was the lynchpin location and Ismail had been thorough in setting up his boundaries.

“Well?”  One of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was asking.

“It’s worked,” Ismail told him, “Whether it’s done what we expect will depend on what it had to work on.”

“Excuse me sirs,” that was a senior officer, “Colonel Anderson is on the line.  The Congressional Chamber is almost empty.  There’s a lot of reddish smoke…”

“Simulacra,” said Ismail flatly, “Not possession, replacement.  Your Congressmen may still be alive but we’ll need to find them quickly.”

Washup

This follows on from Found.

“Teachers aren’t always right,” protested Clare to her spouses arrayed around the table, “And it’s not as if she had a plan, she was always a dreamer.”

“As I’ve always understood it,” Dale was seated directly to her left, “One of the advantages of the Leverage Examination is that unexpected opportunities can be offered after your results are determined, particularly in the general category.”

“Which all take time,” retorted Clare, “Time she didn’t have.”

“Why not,” Gwellen was puzzled, “Surely she had all the time in the world?”

“Not if she was going to be ready to be married when Ebony and Beth were,” Clare pointed out, “She’s two years younger than them – she never had time for day dreaming or she’d be holding people up.”

“It might have been better if Ebony had been made to wait to get married,” Shasta put in dryly, “My blood daughter needed to grow up a lot herself, as it turned out.”

“But Ebony’s eldest, she sets the pace,” Clare protested, “And I always wished Sorais was more like her.”

Her words hung in the air, redolent of poisonous echoes.

“I thought we’d heard the last from her,” said Harric quietly from his place on Clare’s right.

Meanwhile in their hotel rooms, a modest small family suite that was almost too large for their tiny family, Ewald was sliding into bed beside his wife.  As he did so Sorais rolled over and kissed the pectoral knot in the tattooed rope-chain that trailed from front flank to rear flank over his left shoulder. A small ritual of their married life.  On the face of it the tattoo was at odds with who he seemed to be, his parents and siblings thought it a strange remnant of his widowerhood but to her it was an intrinsic part of his personality.

“Your blood mother has got some very old fashioned ideas,” he commented as he put his arm around Sorais, “It’s almost as if someone has gotten into her head.”

She snuggled in.  “If anyone’s inside her head, it’s her blood mother.  I remember Grandmama as a tough old lady who offered us cake or sweets if we could run fast enough, or add fast enough or whatever it was she wanted us to do each time we came over.  She always set me against Ebony and Beth – I never got cake, they were always two years ahead of me.”  She cuddled in closer.  “I used to be afraid she’d hit me with her stick.  When I was old enough to get away with it, I stopped playing that game.  My brothers and sisters seemed to like her fine.”

He hugged her firmly in response.  “I think the rest of your parents liked me.”

“I think so too,” she agreed and they both relaxed a little.

“It’s odd to be having that conversation for the first time after we’ve been married for so long, isn’t it?” he commented wryly.

“It is, isn’t it?”  There was a trickle of laughter in the back of her voice as she agreed with him.

He skimmed a hand up her torso.  “So, do you want to…?”  Another marital ritual.

“Yes please.”

Back around the table Dale was asking, “So what hold did the old crow have over you?”

“She threatened to have Hanalda come home from the convent and replace me.  She’s eldest, it would have been her right and how could she not want to be married to you?”  Clare sounded small and alone.

“It never occurred to you that we might have had views on that?” asked Evan.  “Quite aside from Hanalda choosing to be a nun.”

“Mother was good at persuading people to do what she wanted,” pointed out Clare, “and Hanalda, well, she’s more likeable, more loveable than me.  She always was.”

Washup

This follows on from Found.

“Teachers aren’t always right,” protested Clare to her spouses arrayed around the table, “And it’s not as if she had a plan, she was always a dreamer.”

“As I’ve always understood it,” Dale was seated directly to her left, “One of the advantages of the Leverage Examination is that unexpected opportunities can be offered after your results are determined, particularly in the general category.”

“Which all take time,” retorted Clare, “Time she didn’t have.”

“Why not,” Gwellen was puzzled, “Surely she had all the time in the world?”

“Not if she was going to be ready to be married when Ebony and Beth were,” Clare pointed out, “She’s two years younger than them – she never had time for day dreaming or she’d be holding people up.”

“It might have been better if Ebony had been made to wait to get married,” Shasta put in dryly, “My blood daughter needed to grow up a lot herself, as it turned out.”

“But Ebony’s eldest, she sets the pace,” Clare protested, “And I always wished Sorais was more like her.”

Her words hung in the air, redolent of poisonous echoes.

“I thought we’d heard the last from her,” said Harric quietly from his place on Clare’s right.

Meanwhile in their hotel rooms, a modest small family suite that was almost too large for their tiny family, Ewald was sliding into bed beside his wife.  As he did so Sorais rolled over and kissed the pectoral knot in the tattooed rope-chain that trailed from front flank to rear flank over his left shoulder. A small ritual of their married life.  On the face of it the tattoo was at odds with who he seemed to be, his parents and siblings thought it a strange remnant of his widowerhood but to her it was an intrinsic part of his personality.

“Your blood mother has got some very old fashioned ideas,” he commented as he put his arm around Sorais, “It’s almost as if someone has gotten into her head.”

She snuggled in.  “If anyone’s inside her head, it’s her blood mother.  I remember Grandmama as a tough old lady who offered us cake or sweets if we could run fast enough, or add fast enough or whatever it was she wanted us to do each time we came over.  She always set me against Ebony and Beth – I never got cake, they were always two years ahead of me.”  She cuddled in closer.  “I used to be afraid she’d hit me with her stick.  When I was old enough to get away with it, I stopped playing that game.  My brothers and sisters seemed to like her fine.”

He hugged her firmly in response.  “I think the rest of your parents liked me.”

“I think so too,” she agreed and they both relaxed a little.

“It’s odd to be having that conversation for the first time after we’ve been married for so long, isn’t it?” he commented wryly.

“It is, isn’t it?”  There was a trickle of laughter in the back of her voice as she agreed with him.

He skimmed a hand up her torso.  “So, do you want to…?”  Another marital ritual.

“Yes please.”

Back around the table Dale was asking, “So what hold did the old crow have over you?”

“She threatened to have Hanalda come home from the convent and replace me.  She’s eldest, it would have been her right and how could she not want to be married to you?”  Clare sounded small and alone.

“It never occurred to you that we might have had views on that?” asked Evan.  “Quite aside from Hanalda choosing to be a nun.”

“Mother was good at persuading people to do what she wanted,” pointed out Clare, “and Hanalda, well, she’s more likeable, more loveable than me.  She always was.”