Archive for the ‘Kat Beyer’ Category
Captain Sanguine Solves A Problem
Thursday, November 29th, 2007
A laser torpedo passed most accurately over the bow of the ship and sped on into open space. It did not even leave behind a burn mark on the forward solars: a warning shot.
“A soupcon to starboard, Helm,” said Captain Sanguine, setting her teacup aside.
“Aye aye, Captain.”
“They seem a bit piqued.”
“Aye, Madam Captain.”
“Can’t think why.”
“Perhaps they don’t like the Law, Madam Captain,” ventured the Second Engineer. (His name was Hugo Dreadnought and he had been admitted to Sheriff’s Corps because he was the son of Samuel Dreadnought, Lord Peabody, Duke of Jupiter and Io. Even so, he was a fine engineer–just didn’t fancy being shot at.)
“Perhaps. Kindly hail them, First Communications.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
The screen before them flickered, and then a particularly ugly Martian appeared, glowing green with annoyance.
“Good evening, Madam Captain,” he gurgled when he caught sight of her. “I am Commander Wig Mxwibbleit of the good ship Dopplekibble. And you are?”
“Captain Harriet Sanguine of the good ship Protector. Good evening. What can I do for you, sir?”
The Martian glowed more fiercely.
“You can stop this demmed nonsense, Madam, that’s what you can do!” he gurgled. “All this stamping through my precinct as if you had jurisdiction, which you most certainly do not! What do you mean by it, madam?”
Captain Sanguine raised her eyebrows. As Helm said to the Engineers later, “I quite understand what you’re saying — we are the Law, and he ought to have recognized us right off. But when both parties have whacking great guns, it’s awfully important to preserve good manners.”
On the silent bridge, Captain Sanguine looked at Commander Mxwibbleit and everyone waited. At last, she sighed.
“The First Lord will insist on having the Sheriff’s arms painted too small to read. Perhaps you would care to examine them more closely? I will have them sent you.”
Commander Mxwibbleit stopped glowing at once.
“Ah. No need, no need. My mistake. Quite understood. Safe voyage, Madam Captain.”
“Thank you,” replied Captain Sanguine. “But do let us know if you need our assistance,” she added.
“Of course, Madam Captain. I do beg your pardon. Safe voyage.”
He faded cautiously from the screen.
Engineer Dreadnought muttered, “Ought to have him flogged.”
“I heard that, Engineer Dreadnought. Short rations for speaking ill of a superior officer,” said Captain Sanguine, picking up her teacup.
The Diplomat Teaches Leaving
Monday, November 12th, 2007
I was exiled, for I would not kill the Diplomat. He had arrived at our village on foot, with robe and begging bowl and a faded badge from the government of the planet Gaia. I had tried to kill him, and had learned that I would rather admire him instead. “Gaia rat,” they called him, and me, “helper of the Gaia rat.” But when I told them of his mysterious powers, how he had disarmed me by–talk? My own tears?–and how he had outlived our strongest poison, none of them were brave enough to kill him themselves.
“Go,” they said to me, my father, my mother, everyone I loved; “where?” I asked, and they said, “We do not care, for you are like the corpse of a stranger now,” and for a moment I felt my flesh crawl with chill, as if each cell in me were really falling still.
I said, “Then I will go with the Diplomat, and be twice dead to you.” Just as I turned away I caught a small movement of my father’s hand and knew then that they did care, that their whole hearts ached with love and anger.
I went to the orchard. I saw from the Diplomat’s face that he did not need to be told what had happened, but I told him anyway, while we walked. When I was finished we had reached the edge of home. I did not want to look back, but he said, “Will you be my student?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then look back,” he said, and added simply, “You must carry this place with you.”
I looked. I saw the cluster of bumps that were my people’s houses, sitting together like loaves at a feast; the glint of the solar stills and the oil press beside them; the hatcheries and the sheep-yard (not all things from Gaia were bad, were they?–I asked my people in my mind); the low stream running through the valley bottom, the orchards, the quiet flags on the hill–hanging flat today, though no doubt tomorrow they would carry a message to the other villages: “A son is dead.”
The Diplomat brushed my wrist with his rough thumb. We turned and walked down the hill.