Evening, fellow Loungers.

For the past year or so I've been plotting and scheming on what I hope to be a fairly large-scale piece of writing, very little of which has thus far been put to paper. That said, I sat down recently and hammered out the introduction for on the characters (a junior army officer). As I myself have no military experience, I'm forever in search of opinions and advice from those that have been there and done that.

So before I post what I've hammered out so far I'm curious to see if anybody would actually be interested, and also whether or not there would be any conceivable breach of board protocol in doing so; I like it here and would prefer not get booted for busting any regs.

In the meantime I can tell you that it's a dozen-odd pages, sort of an odd half-breed of western and alternate history (somewhat difficult to explain in the space here) and probably less blatantly offensive than most television, and it doesn't contain any shooting...yet. That comes later.

Any takers?

Or, inquiring of the powers that be, any objections?

John, I suggest you contact forum member bellevance, AKA Don Bredes. He's a mystery/detective story writer, and offered to help those trying to be in one of his posts. (And I like his novels, too -- good, entertaining reads! Think I have read at least two, maybe three.)

New suspense novel by a forum member

Mystery novelist Robert Parker dies at 77

If it doesn't violate the rules, I'd like to see it. You seem pretty articulate. Be interesting to see what you come up with.

As a writer myself, I know how important feedback is. And you have to start somewhere.

After publishing almost 4,000 magazine and newspaper articles, I began my first novel, about half done now. I learned to flesh out characters and use dialogue effectively by writing TV fan fiction. One tip: just hide in the room and watch as your characters speak. If you know them well, all you have to do is listen to them in your head to know what they're saying, and how. Writing good dialogue is often the hardest thing in fiction. I have a pal who's written many articles and several non-fiction books. But he cannot get past a dialogue block to write fiction.

What the characters say and how they phrase it helps much in shaping them for your readers.

Warmest wishes for success!

T-Star

Yes please, post it. Post it. Why haven't you posted it yet? Moar. Moar. MOAR!

(Just getting you ready for what's coming your way.)




Cat

__________________
Think for yourself.

...and away we go.

***


Ten years he had wanted this, and now he was sick to his stomach at the promise of tomorrow. Of course the uncertainty didn't show. It never did. He studied his reflection in the small mirror as he closed the front of his cadet's jacket; the uniform spotless, seams in perfect alignment, brass buttons polished to the sheen of gold, the fingers moving in practiced order. On his feet, high boots buffed by hand until the leather shone like black glass. Around his neck the heavy black collar required of all who attended the Citadel as students. Above it all the face, the expression faintly aristocratic, the eyes calm as they measured the man opposite.

Early on, Val Dunning had learned the value of a properly composed countenance, the ability to show a presence of mind not always felt. Composure was his armor, and behind that he could conceal anything. He had learned to hide the disappointment before the army, almost a decade ago. In time he taught himself to hide pain, confusion and uncertainty. Or so be believed until he came to the Citadel, the best reputed of all military academies on the Continent, where every seasoned officer, every instructor, and every upperclassmen were finely honed to detect fear, pain, or uncertainty and - if those were found lacking - to gift the student with suitable replacements.

He brushed at his uniform and listened. Outside in the square, the third year cadets were shouting, forming the underclassmen for the morning's ceremonies.

But he had a leg up. He was not immune, but he suffered less than most of his classmates, boys from noble families less accustomed to be told of their limitations who tended to lock up and stand frozen save a quivering jaw or a mouth agape, responses that only seemed to enrage their tormentors or, if the day was going especially sour, draw others. More than a few had broken when drillmasters or upperclassmen attacked en masse, reporting to the commandant within the hour to surrender the small silver token that was the primary measure of their worth at the Citadel.

This is your commission! a senior cadet had screamed at them in their first formation, holding his own token above his head. The class was newly issued tokens of their own, most clutched in sweating hands since - as explained only minutes before - proper officers in the king's army did not carry things in their uniform pockets. Four hundred boys stood in ranks and listened in rapt attention as the upperclassman stalked up and down their rows and columns. You do not lose your commission! To lose your commission is to disgrace the service! To be disgraced is to be dead!

In truth, they would later learn, the token itself was not the commission. Rather, those who survived their time at the academy would take theirs to the farrier at the Home Guard stables to have their name, class rank, and service commencement date stamped graven one side, the likeness of the king on the reverse. Then and only then would they have a formal officer's commission and a place in the crown's army. Until such time it was one more article for which a cadet had to account, a coin-sized piece of silver easily misplaced and quite frequently the target of senior cadets, who in their free time devised new and amusing ways of separating an underclassman from his token.

If they succeeded - or if the cadet broke and surrendered it of his own accord - there remained a final insult.

Dunning remembered those. No matter the hour, no matter the weather, the full academy would muster in formation on the parade ground. At the head of the field was a long stand where instructors and honored guests and generals would stand to watch their charges pass in review. At one end would be the commandant at the other the cadet, and before the eyes of his peers he would cross the hundred feet of open stand and place his token in the pot.

Night seemed to be the worst. Of the class of four hundred and some only seventy were left standing, and most of those who had searched and found themselves lacking had done so in the dark hours of the morning, their departure ceremony held under weak electric light. They were hated especially by those that remained; not necessarily because of their weaknesses or shortcomings, but because any inconsiderate soul who forced his comrades from warm beds and much needed sleep was held in low regard on general principle. To a man they would have been markedly better liked - if not respected - for having waited until after breakfast.

In a move that had become habitual over the past days he touched two fingers to base of his throat, pressing lightly and feeling the disk in the small pouch strung around his neck, the token newly replaced.

As was traditional at the Citadel, seventy men graduated in a class. Some would go to the army, others to the navy, a very few to the marines. The top ten percent - the best seven of the seventy - would carry forth the distinction by trading their silver blank for a gold commission. A man with a golden ticket was almost assured the assignment of his choice. Since the moment he had decided his destiny lay in the crown's service Dunning had known which he wanted.

In his second year he was called with his classmates before a board of serving military officers to declare their preference. When called from the ranks he marched to the board, squared his shoulders, and stood at attention before a panel of men who had fought across oceans and continents under the royal colors, who had visited the farthest corners of the world, gazed on spectacles that the best of correspondents could never capture with words, and whose records were sufficiently distinguished as to allow them the option of returning to train the next batch.

"Your preference cadet?" The speaker was a man past forty, stout, his dark hair salted with silver. From his left hand were missing three fingers.

In an instant he felt the temptation of vast golden deserts, of jungles, of faraway places where snowcapped mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, of people with brown almond-shaped eyes or skin the color of obsidian who spoke in strange, twisted languages. Of animals that could only otherwise exist in the imaginations of children. Of massed armies clashing on the plains against some faceless enemy and ironclad ships of the line firing desperate broadsides in precise sequence. For the moment all the world was before him. He could choose any station where the crown held sway. It was a heady moment.

But he held firm. He stood at attention with his cap tucked under his arm and his heels touching and his uniform spotless. He did not hesitate.

"Imperial Horse Guards, sir," he said crisply.

He waited. The board had his records. Two years so far, impeccable as his dress and military bearing. Even then he was a top cadet.

And the Imperial Horse Guards were the finest soldiers. He had seen them once, when he was young and the king crossed the ocean on a tour of his empire. Great men on stout black horses, parading in flawless order. Unlike the regular army the Guards kept to the old. Each man wore a shining breastplate and flowing cape in the king's colors. On their heads they wore steel helmets like knights of old, and instead of rifles - with which, as the royal household guard, they were quite proficient - they carried polished halberds and heavy swords. Their horses were warhorses proper, huge animals bred to fight with hooves and teeth from the time they were placed under saddle, hooves flashing with steel shoes.

He waited. For a moment the board studied him. Dunning kept his face an impassive mask.

"Noted, cadet."

"Sir." He clicked his heels, made a parade-perfect turn, and resumed his position in the formation. There was no confirmation or denial, but even then he was certain of his place. He was an ideal cadet. They could not refuse.

Even now he allowed himself a faint smile. Picturing himself not in the anonymous white of a cadet, but the king's own colors. He would have to leave the Continent, of course, but that was both expected and acceptable. With no luck he tried to imagine what his father might say. To attend the Citadel was one thing. To survive was a mark of distinction. Now to get the Imperial Horse Guards - that was an achievement. For an unclaimed son with an unwed mother, especially.

But none of them could throw that in his face one now. Regardless of the circumstance of his birth the army was a grand equalizer. Dunning might not carry his father's name, but he possessed considerable merit of his own. Name would count for less than deed. Before it had been opposite, perhaps. Not now.

He finished dressing and turned to his left and right, inspecting for wayward threads or specks of lint. Seeing none, he put on his inspection gloves and straightened his dress jacket. All that was missing now was the sword. A man might hold a commission, true, but until he held a sword he wasn't a real officer. Those would come later, issued in the order of graduation.

With some small feeling like sadness he surveyed his room. Plain, unadorned like all the cadet quarters. A narrow bed. A small desk. A window which was never allowed open in summer and forever let in the cold during winter. The standing closet inspected at random intervals once a week. On the foot of the bed his waiting luggage.

Nothing in the room remained of his life before the uniform. Very little within him remained, for that matter. No longer was he Val Dunning, low-born natural son of a railroad man. Now he was Brevet Lieutenant Valantine Dunning of His Imperial Majesty's Royal Army, soon to be Lieutenant Dunning of the Imperial Horse Guards, and heaven alone knew beyond that. He would see this room only once more when he came to collect his things. Then he would be off to serve king and country and the space would be assigned another cadet, another boy who would learn to hide things, to give nothing away. Another gold commission, possibly, though he knew it was unlikely.

He let himself out and walked to the parade ground under a sky scudded by clouds the color of pewter. Already the other cadets were drifting that way though the formal ceremonies would come later in the day. Most of those who remained he recognized, some he greeted and most he acknowledged with a nod. Making friends at the Citadel was a chancy affair. Some would fail. Some would quit. Most learned early in their time here not to forge ties too closely. Still, acquaintances were inevitable and as the seasons passed cadets gained a feel for who would stay and who would disappear.

Near the field he encountered one who had stayed. Jahnst Fremant was an odd match for Dunning and a odder match still for the army; where the academy lived and died on good order Fremant was frequently haphazard, where instructors sought to instill a sense of bearing and dignity Fremant was perpetually grinning at some small joke....where Dunning was fourth in his class Fremant would be sixty-eighth. Doubtless there was a place in the army for the man, though Dunning was hard-pressed to imagine where.

Fremant spotted him across the crowd and waved a half-greeting. He cut across the trickle of cadets, families, and well-wishers and drew himself up ramrod straight to feign a salute.

"Luhten-ut Dunning, sah!" The voice was pitched, but not by much. Fremant came from the provinces down south where life was slower and more sultry - which Dunning took to mean merely lazy and hot - and he'd brought his accent north, much to the delight of local women, which for reasons known only to God and females was found a source of great amusement and appeal. Winters at the Citadel had proven a challenge, unaccustomed as he was to the biting gale winds that blew in off the bay or snow in any significant accumulation and duration, but he had survived somehow. Fremant was a man of considerable surprises.

Dunning mirrored the salute, embarrassed at the exchange having drawn the attention of several passers-by. By regulation it was not altogether out of place, with Fremant entering the crown's service as an ensign and himself breveted to lieutenant as a reward for his class placement, but the significance was minor and largely a formality. A brevet lieutenancy netted him pay equal to a full lieutenant and no more; for all intents and purposes otherwise Dunning was an ensign, would serve in an ensign's capacity, and would have only the duties expected of an ensign. He would, however, have the privilege of being addressed by the higher rank and the not-insignificant advantage in silver.

"By God," Fremant said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not a day out of the academy and already a lieutenant. A captain with the month, a major by year's end, and soon enough you won't even recognize your old schoolmates."

"I'll recognize you," Dunning allowed himself to laugh. "By odor, if nothing else."

"Oh, you're a cruel one, lieutenant. Terrible cruel. But since you cut the very image of a fine young officer of the king I'll let it go. Have you got your orders yet?"

"No, not yet. Why?"

"Well - " Fremant rubbed his hands together. "A little bird flew by and told me earlier of a particular house on a particular street over in the lovely burg of Lowell, where a freshly minted servant of the crown might chance to find a number of patriotic young ladies who - "

"And what would these fair maidens ask in return?"

"Naught but to do their part for those brave young men who wear the uniform." Fremant laughed. "Patriotism is a wonderful thing."

Dunning eyed his friend, conflicted. On the one side it seemed trivial that his outing after the academy would be a pursuit of something as shallow. On the other, the Citadel was a place of strict discipline and few of the comforts a man might have enjoyed before the uniform. And he had not visited the commandant's office to claim his first orders, and likely would not for a few days yet. Until such time he had no obligations. Most ensigns would take the opportunity to return home, to visit relations and old friends before they were called away to their first stations.

Most of them. He himself had no real home to which he could return. The alternative - spend a few days idling away in the transient officers' quarters - appealed to him not at all. He weighed the possibilities.

He thought of the small room where he had spent the past years, and he shuddered at the prospect of staying another night. A lively evening in town, a decent meal, and a willing girl on his arm was just the thing.

"Sounds like an evening," he said.

"Good. There's a few others coming along. I'll find you after we're done. We'll have to hurry, though - last train for Lowell leaves at seven. We'll be cutting it fine."

"I'll be there." He clapped Fremant on the shoulder. "Hold the train for me, if not."

Fremant laughed and melted into the crowd.

Just like the man. Not even graduated and out of the academy and already he was arranging celebrations and victory marches. Still, there was a certain liveliness about Fremant. Any acquaintance knew that so long as he was around the atmosphere would be seldom be dull.

"Lehtenna Dunneh!" a man called from within the crowd.

Dunning half-turned and spotted the source, a middle aged man with a perpetual fighter's grimace. In the third year Captain Allmant lectured on leading small units and countering irregular warfare. In his lectures he paced back and forth before his audience, gesturing with a short curved sword that he had taken as a prize early in his army career. He cut an intimidating figure, even years away from his last battle, and not on account of his choice in accoutrements; his former garrison in the far east had suffered a nighttime infiltration by native guerrillas, and he'd been nearby when they succeeded in setting fire to the magazine, which proceeded to explode, burning him badly and pelting him with flying debris to which he later lost an eye. The left half of his face was a veined and miscolored pink, peppered with smaller scars and on occasion he neglected to wear his eye patch, which today was not the case, thankfully.

Allmant offered a crushing hand. "Eh see ye've mede it."

"Yes, sir."

"Et's good. Eh knew ye'd still be ere. Ye get too ged a mend fer tectics etherwise End eh see ye've get a ged home they gev yeh. Ged feghtin' men weth a ged leng hestry. Lets eh glery en the neme."

"Sir?" Dunning cocked his head slightly, less because of Allmant's natural butchery of the tongue - thanks in part to jaw injuries from his last duty - but because the Guards, despite their long history, were not widely considered a fighting unit. The captain's grip slackened somewhat.

"Eh? Heven't ye heard?"





"Native Rifles!"

Dunning stalked back and forth in the confined space before the major's desk, a sheaf of folded papers in hand. He had come to plead his case, and in the time leading up to his arrival he had foreseen a calm, collected exchange in which he made a reasoned appeal to authority and authority, having mistakenly wronged him through bureaucratic oversight, cheerfully corrected their slip and filed straightaway for the new orders that would send him to the correct station. He had hoped the simple clarity of his argument would sway them. Failing that, he hoped that his blood ties to the major would grease the wheels and add the necessary weight to expedite his appeal.

He was thus far disappointed.

Major Kerr only leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together across a belly that fought to escape the confines of his uniform jacket. Like most officers in administrative positions he had arrived a fit junior officer, only to see the years and a life of formal dinners and frequent parties take the polish from his boots and more than a little iron from his spine. He had smiled when first the young officer had entered his office; he was not smiling now, mouth drawn in a taught line, eyes fixed on the ensign - his nephew - as he stopped and drew himself up ramrod straight before a window smeared to opacity by the steady thrum of rain.

"Valantine," he said. "Ensign Dunning, sit down."

Dunning stood still, motionless as a statue in the parade posture known to all who had endured the forge of the Citadel and been refined from common men into the officers who would someday become colonels and generals. It was a proud stance. That of a man who had seen the enemy and elected to sink his heels in, plant the colors, and fight to the death.

Dunning turned to look over his shoulder at his uncle.

"They can't damn well do this to me."

"It seems they have," his uncle said. A peal of thunder broke, rattling the window panes. Dunning faced forward, through the murky glass. He didn't dare let his shoulder sag or his bearing slip. If he was to make a convincing argument he would have to keep all signs of slack and weakness out of his posture and countenance.

"I graduated fourth in my class, Uncle."

"I am aware."

"Tell me then," he said, making a fist. "How is it that the army takes me from the Imperial Horse Guards and hands me off to a mongrel regiment like the Rifles. Explain it to me so that I can understand. I want to know."

The major made a sound that could have been a cough or a stifled laugh.

"I remind that you were never a part of the Imperial Horse Guards. You are a new ensign, subject to the whims of the army, and they will send you where you are needed. That, nephew, is the nature of the service."

He scoffed, fingering the disc worn on a leather cord around his neck.

The Imperial Horse Guards, the King's own household cavalry. By rights he should have gotten it. Instead they had given him the King's Native Rifles, two companies of horse and eight of foot that bore a reputation more akin to the barbarians of old than any modern royal army, their recruits drawn from jails, doss houses, and the far western frontier they were frequently called to police and pacify. To a professional military man such as himself the KNR was above the local militias kept by frontier lords, but not by much.

"I'll be wasted there." He slapped his orders on the edge of the desk. "This isn't good enough."

"Perhaps not."

"What can I do?" he asked. "How can I be reassigned?"

"If you must know, there is a way." The major snorted and rooted through his pockets for a handkerchief. He found one and blew his nose, then studied the result.

"Tell me," Dunning said, pleading. "Anything but the Rifles."

His uncle sighed and put away his handkerchief, pushing himself upright behind his desk. He picked up the orders his nephew had dropped.

"Go to the Rifles. Serve for a year. Comport yourself as the crown expects of its young officers. Then put in your request. The army will find you a place, of course. It won't likely be to the Horse Guards - in fact it almost certainly won't. But you'll be out of the Rifles and on to better things."

"A year," he said.

"Yes, a year. Twelve months. Four seasons. Enough time to learn the workings of the army and bloody your knuckles. If you find yourself unhappy at that point at least you'll be a man with a year's service to his name rather than a bothersome green cadet."

Dunning's temper flared.

"Fourth in my class," he growled. "Is that a bothersome green cadet?"

"Valantine, Valantine," his uncle laughed. "You were fourth in your class, yes. Your class was at the academy, and you are presently an officer in his His Majesty's Army - which you will find is not the academy. All tales and lore and legends aside, that golden disc you wear gets you no more weight than your peers. First in your class or last, when you leave the Citadel you are all of equal value to the crown, and as you've begun to learn the career of an ensign is not of much importance to anyone save an ensign."

"So it means nothing."

"It means you acquitted yourself well in the classroom and on the parade field," his uncle said. "No more. You cannot ride your achievements in bookwork to glory. Everything must be earned, nephew. If you want the Horse Guards you'll need to start now, and you'll find the game is changed significantly. You'll be against other good officers. Other men who were fourth - and third, and second, and first - in their classes, men who've got years of distinguished service to their name, men who have friends and blood relations in a proper court instead of fat old uncles who shuffle paper in a corps headquarters on the wrong side of the pond."

"And if I do - if I go the Rifles, and if I do well, and I prove myself - what does that get me?" Dunning tugged at the hem of his jacket. Part of him - some small part - was inclined to follow his uncle's advice, to put in a year's service with the hand he was dealt. The greater part, the pragmatist, the realist, knew that the regiment in which a man began his career was more often than not the regiment from which he mustered out. He would be promoted or penalized under its colors, serve with the same pool of men for the duration, and be borne by its caissons upon death. By turns, his every action would be known not only in the records, but in the minds of the men he was to lead. Any missteps would follow him to the end.

Transfers were not unheard of between regiments; they were however sufficiently uncommon as to raise considerable interest and require a good deal of paperwork and interventions from above. And, as leaving one's unit was considered a sign of weakness, inability to control subordinates, or poor temperament a man granted a transfer was often regarded in dubious light. Even if it was possible to escape the fate the army bureaucrats had chosen for him it was long odds he'd ever get anywhere near the Horse Guards.

Standing before the blurred panes of the window he felt the knot of doubt settled deep in his stomach that told him he would not win here. Worse yet, he was long beyond the point of a dignified withdrawal.

Coming in, he had walked a long corridor lined with the offices of important men, of colonels and generals, and suspended and aligned carefully between doors hung gilt-framed paintings of great battles ranging back into antiquity. He thought of the wide-eyed horses, erect on hind legs and pierced and bleeding in half a dozen places, of wounded officers still in the saddle and shouting orders, of the last man standing alongside, legs braced, one armed extended with a smoking pistol in the hand, the other bearing the colors, clutched to the breast as the waves of an enemy army broke around them like an angry sea.

Not all were victories. Yet knowing as much, he found some of the most stirring to be those in which determined men kept the faith until the moment of death. In which the King's battle jack waved in defiance until the last of his men were cut down. Since the day he had resolved to make the army his livelihood they had been his heroes, the men who had died long ago in the distant and dismal corners of the world, falling with a defiant curse on their lips for the hordes that streamed ever onward over the bodies of their fallen comrades.

He admired them not for dying but for the manner in which they faced death, for knowing that even if the colors were cased afterwards and the regiment stricken from the rolls that the names were not forgotten and their heroism and gallantry assured a legacy wherever the King held sway and army officers drank together. There were those who argued that honor meant little if life was the cost. For the most Dunning paid them little mind - tavern drunkards, educated men who lived comfortably in the protected glow of imperial might, those whose homes were protected by the batteries of guns they so wanted smelted into plows, who preferred to shower money and favor on the lazy and shiftless rather than pay the wages of a single soldier. Men with no need or understanding of honor and no grasp of any calling beyond their own contentment.

The battleground here was certainly not of his choosing, and the odds were not good. In the dreams of youth he had always seen himself as one of them. One of the fortunate few who faced the impossible and, with a little luck, lived to tell. Holding the line against whatever barbarians made up those parts of the world he'd seen only on yellowed and brittle pages of the old atlases in his father's library. Slowly it dawned that he might be able to salvage something of an otherwise untenable situation. The King's Native Rifles had a reputation, true, and by common knowledge they made for competent fighters, but by turns their shortcomings in the field of martial formality was no great secret.

Dunning stood, thinking.

True, he was only an ensign himself - a brevet lieutenant, if he opted to flatter himself - but while an ensign was hardly a powerful figure in the army's organization he was far from powerless. Supposing he went to the Rifles he would have two dozen men and a sergeant at his command. Not an army, perhaps, but not inconsequential. Highly consequential, in fact, should his squadron distinguish itself. If the wartime record of the KNR could be matched to a proper respect and observance of custom and ceremony it would be a fine achievement for a lackluster unit - not to mention a feather in the cap of the man who brought about the change.

Suppose, he mused, that his greatest glory came not from fighting to the death on some far continent but instead by the transformation of a lackluster regiment into the pride of the King's army? It might not get him a shot at the Imperial Horse Guards, but it could scarcely hurt. Given time it might even mean he'd get command of the KNR himself - an unappealing proposition at present, yes, but after the fact...that was something else.

"You've gone quiet, nephew," his uncle mused. "Resigned yourself to cruel fate?"

"I suppose." Dunning took his time in answering.

"It's a strange turn, sending a man Citadel man to the Rifles. Usually they promote their own - sergeant to ensign. Rare thing in this army, in this day and modern age. Perhaps even a touch barbaric. But I suppose they get along. You'll scarcely find a regiment with its name on more battles. It'd be a fine show of colors, did they carry any."

Dunning arched an eyebrow and dipped his chin. "Say again?"

"Hmm? Oh, right. They don't have colors, the Rifles. No flags, no streamers. Not a properly numbered regiment for that matter. Not even the imperial jack. I believe they have company guidons for parades and inspections, if they still hold those. "

He wondered if his face betrayed the disbelief that blossomed suddenly in his chest. He felt lightheaded. No colors! No number! Raising enlisted men - some of them probably even conscripts - to the officers' mess! Lunacy itself let free within the King's army.

"Good God," he said. "Are we sure they're even ours?"

"I'm afraid so," the major chuckled. "But all is not lost, ensign. Rough they may be, but the Rifles have always answered to the summons of the crown. 'Loyal Silvers' they call themselves. Should you see fit to delve deeper into their lineage you'll find they've won a goodly number of battles by themselves and turned a fair few others. I believe the KNR - what became the KNR, at any rate - was the first of the..."

He half-listened as his uncle went on, talking at great length about the role of the volunteer militiamen who had armed themselves with all manner of private weapons (of which rifles of comparatively small caliber were favored over larger bored muskets of the day) elected their own officers, provided their own uniforms and kit, and preferred to lie in ambush and kill at long range rather than standing should to shoulder in battle lines with their regular army brethren. They were a highly insular group - hated by the King's enemies, kept at arm's length by the King's officers, and decried widely in the gentlemens' circles as a form of institutionalized murder.

The Rifles, their ranks graced by precious few gentlemen, took little notice. In the beginning the unit raised itself from a small hamlet on the coast - the major forgot which one, exactly - and so, with ranks comprised of butchers and tanners and tinsmiths they marched to war, fortifying their ranks from taverns and small gaols along the way. More than a few men had escaped the noose by donning rifle green, and more than a few others had traded the life of a father and husband for a chance at uniformed adventure. There was no great formality in joining, few disqualifications and, so long as a man kept his rifle clean and demonstrated an ability to put it to good use, no questions asked.

"...of course all the army carries rifles now, so the title is somewhat redundant. Still, they take a considerable degree of pride in the fact that they had them first. It may very well be that's the only thing from which they take their pride but no matter."

Major Kerr had been gesturing as he spoke, hands waving back and forth to lend action to descriptions of battles or weight to the words shouted by Rifle officers past. Now he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over the gold buttons of his straining red jacket.

"You may not believe this, nephew, but you might have done worse."

"Possibly." Dunning's excitement at the possibilities of turning his squadron into a crack unit was ebbing.

Still - he forced himself to stand straight, to touch his heels together - he was a Citadel man. Top of his class with the gold disc as proof. That was no small trick. There were unseen machinations in the hierarchies and bureaucracies that had a hand in this, that much he was certain. Fleetingly he wondered if his uncle was so involved, perhaps as the result of some long-ago slight he himself had forgotten. But no - no, he knew the cause of this, the one reason that held up where others failed.

He tapped the backs of his fingers against the window glass, chilled to the touch. The high collar of his gray woolen cadet's jacket chafed his neck. Buttoned up to the throat it was ideal for the cool, damp autumns and winters at the academy, markedly less so for a cramped office kept hot by a potbellied corner stove. He could see orange flames licking inside through gaps around the door and kept close to the window, which was steadily admitting a cold draught.

"Should you decide to pursue the matter I can provide you the names of officers who might be willing to hear you out. This assuming you can convince them." The major produced a scrap of paper and selected an ink pen from a well on his desk. "I regret that I have no real pull outside this office. Keepers of records aren't held in great esteem by the rest of the army, it seems."

"No," Dunning said.

"No?"

"No, I'll take it." Dunning's voice was measured. Composed, as had been drummed into him over the course of the previous years when facing an unpleasant obstacle that nevertheless had to be surmounted before progress could be made. If nothing else the Rifles were a regiment that took to the field; he supposed he'd rather that than assignment as a quartermaster's assistant or hospital administration or any number of other bureaucratic dead ends. He might not be getting his first choice, but damned if he was going to survive the Citadel and wear the uniform for the purpose of shuffling papers. He had no desire to follow in his uncle's footsteps.

The major moved as if reaching for a pen and paper. "You're certain?"

"I'll take it," he repeated. There was a silence.

"Well then. I believe that concludes our business, ensign."

"I believe so."

"Right. Now I find I must get back to my bean counting - God forbid the army misplace its head, though I'm certain it's been done before. Good day to you, nephew. Good luck."

"And to you, major." Dunning stiffened his spine, clicked his heels, and turned to go. He eased the door closed behind him and tried to muffle the sound of his footfalls. Having made a false advance he had no desire to explain his presence to any curious officers who might question the nature of his visit. He trusted his uncle would pass it off as a farewell visit before his departure west. How the major would have explained the raised voices earlier he didn't know.

Fremant was waiting outside, sitting on the gallery rail. At Dunning's approach he sprang from his seat, dusting the seat of his trouser, and shrugging into his heavy overcoat. Like many of the Citadel's former cadets, he had not yet acquired the silver to have his general issue uniforms tailored, and the misfitting dress and oversized coat gave him the air of a well-dressed beggar.

"Well?" he pressed. "Did you get him?"

"We spoke," Dunning said.

"And?"

"The matter has been settled."

"Good." Fremant grinned, donning a broad-brimmed hat. Assuming a dramatic pose, he swept an arm across the panorama of the street, blocked on the opposite by the fortress-like side of a brick warehouse. The rain had slackened, but the sky remained cloudy, rumbling with discontent, and the cobblestones were polished to high sheen. "We've got a few minutes for the train, but no need to lag. Officer or not, the railroad waits for no man."

"I may not go," Dunning said, his earlier optimism for the future dampened further by the wet, miserable state of things.

"The hell you say." Fremant grabbed him by the arm dragged him down the steps. Dunning didn't fight him. He'd already lost one battle today, and he hadn't the heart to lose another.

The "Great One", would be flattered at the use of his tag line.
Welcome John.

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Always Stay Strong!

John-

You proofread well; I saw only one error, a plural where you needed a singular term. Dang it, I forgot where.

The rub is, one wonders when this took place. Oh: you used both Imperial and Royal in one sentence. That's overkill, and if these men were British, Royal Horse Guards is correct. "Imperial" smacks of Japan or Star Wars.

I recognize the allusion to frontier riflemen and the allusion to the early Rifle regiments of the British Army and their distinctive dark green uniforms.

But I need to know when and where this was. If you lose that sense of reality, you may lose your readers, the ones who have a clue about such things.

Otherwise, you are a splendid writer, certainly as good or better than I am, and I hope for publication. of my books. If you find the right market and select a publisher that caters to that market, I should think your chances are quite good.

Thanks for sharing. This was well done, if a bit baffling as to time and place.

T-Star

If you ever get tired of the rejection letters, do like I do and use Lulu.com to get your book done. I write for the joy of writing, and telling a story. If the grammar isn't quite right, then oh well, last time I checked, very few people speak "correctly" these days as it is. I've finished two novels in a series, half done with the third, a children's book and a book of short stories, and it's all fun until that point where it turns to work...you'll look over that manuscript a hundred times, then a hundred more, changing little things here and there until you drive yourself mad and hand it off to someone else to read and see if they can find anything wrong with it! But when it's all said and done, whether you get it published by a traditional house, go electronic with it for Kindle or Nook, or publish it yourself, there's still something special about having a few of them sitting in the bookshelf with your name on them.

I think it's quite good. A nice intro for what is sure to come next as the character matures.

Typo in this one, ""It's a strange turn, sending a man Citadel man to the Rifles."

Saw an incomplete sentence, beginning with "of," but it didn't matter, really.

Good work!

You write well. Thanks.


Cat

__________________
Think for yourself.

Try Baen. They publish a lot of Sci-Fi/Alternative history.

I take it that the Brits won the revolution, or that it never happened, and this is America in the mid to late 19th Century?

Royal and Imperial can be used interchangeably. Read old Sherlock Holmes stories for examples.

If this world evolved in a manner similar to the Britain in our world, people would have been able to buy officer's commissions. Professional military academies were and are meant to encourage any with aptitude to try their hand at things. (An obscure Corsican famously did rather well for himself after studying artillery.) Thus if there is an academy up and running, I suppose things have deviated a bit from the conventional UK military of our time/world.

The Duke of Wellington, before he was the Duke of Wellington, got his start fighting in India against the locals. In colonial Era European Armies some officers did manage to rise to high rank as a result of successes in the obscure areas.

I don't know what the tech level of underlying doctrine is. Mounted units in our world, at around this time, were often considered to exist for shock value. IE a massed charge with sabers and lancers. Sounds like the frontier unit is more mobile and used as a reaction force and for screening/recon.

You have my interest and my attention. That's quite an accomplishment these days. I'd buy the book. I'd pay RETAIL!.
Alternate time lines are tricky but you do it well.
Please let me know were I read more of this. I'm hooked.

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Field Researcher. IGC

Thanks, all. Compliments and criticism alike.

GatorFarmer is closest so far on the setting, though it still requires a bit of explanation. The guess that this is the North American content sans the American Revolution was my initial concept, so...my congratulations to you, sir. The chronology is a little tougher to pin down; I'm shooting for something like the 1890s up to the turn of the century, but as this is a fictional/alternate/quasi-fantasy piece the ballpark figure is probably sufficient. At a stretch you might consider it steampunk without the widespread shiny trappings of technology and science. I'm toying with the idea of pushing up the colonization of our ersatz New World to Roman times, which to my thinking yields a world that looks somewhat like western Europe in the Peninsular War, albeit with a few modern improvements and a more American flavor in places. Feudalism plays a part in government, but at this point nobility has been quietly succeeded by tycoons. Sort of an age of the robber baron with actual barons.

My hope is that by the time this is finished and fitted, we'll have a half-dozen or so point of view characters, all of whom will be affected to some degree by events far larger than themselves. By and large the driving force behind the major plot events centers on unrest among the peasant/working class, culminating in something not terribly unlike what transpired in Ludlow, Colorado the early part of this century. Essentially a snowball effect that leads to disaster, brought on by people with varied intentions (some good, some bad, some earnest but misguided, some defensive...some outright evil).

Thus far I've sketched the following major players:

- Ensign Dunning, whom you've met. Well intentioned, but green and occasionally hazardous and misguided as only a young officer can be when given authority that exceeds his practical experience.

- Bosun McCann. Something of a misnomer, since he's actually a second officer on an iron-hulled freighter which starts our story somewhere in the Far East. McCann's big and he's strong, but less of a thinker when his temper's up and that tends to get him into trouble, which occurs frequently.

- Cable Hollard, a railroad bull on one of the western lines. Not as much of a hard case as some, but he's going to be among the first personally affected by the growing peasant unrest. He may be the darkest character of the bunch, considering he falls pretty hard before this is all done.

- Reno Norton. Norton is our everyman with a somewhat mysterious past. Also, the closest we're liable to see to the mythic gunfighter in this story...with a couple of twists.

- Rance Furst, who may or may not be a POV character. At any rate, Furst is the son of a wealthy industrialist. After his father's death he assumes control of the Furst coal mining empire and thereafter makes a number of missteps that prompt larger events later on. There's a fair to middling chance he's also a few cards short of a full deck.

So. One facet of the world down, four or five to go. That'll be a while yet, considering right now my writing speed can be favorably compared to a snake in winter. However...there will be a number of small arms of familiar lineage that you might recognize, and I'm tempted to post some of those in the interim.

Until such time as I have more content to share, my sincerest thanks for your time, opinions, and advice.

Quite a complex piece of writing. Not my style, unfortunately.

One or two comments: "The hell you say." is far too John Wayne for the period. Ensign and major should be written without capitals when used in a general sense, but when used as a title in speech I thing they should have capitals. In the phrase "and every upperclassmen were finely honed to detect fear" you should use "was" instead of "were", as the list is of individuals, each one separated by a comma, rather than groups. The sentence should make sense for each individual in isolation. Remove all the others in the list and the phrase should still be correct. Thus the phrase would read "and every upperclassman (not upperclassmen) was finely honed to detect fear". Replace "every" with "each" and see what I mean. I don't know why you used the singular "officer" and "instructor" and suddenly jumped to a plural for uperclassmen. Every is a singular word.

You use the word "jack" several times, but I would prefer the word "flag", especially when referring to the battle flag. I believe the use of the word Jack is of naval origin referring to the flag flown from the Jack Staff at the bow of a ship in harbour. The exception of course is the British flag, which is almost universally referred to as the Union Jack.

I think I noticed that the subject was fourth in his class, but later became first. Maybe I am seeing things.

I might be a little pedantic in these matters, but I fear a publisher would be just as pedantic.

Not a bad piece. Obviously much time has been spent in its preparation. I hope you ultimately find a market for it.

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Kill it, cook it, eat it.

Aha! That's the plural that should be singular that I was trying to recall.

Anglaispierre summed this up well. But perhaps you'd have caught it on proofreading. You clearly have that basic skill.

Unfortunately, I, too, fear that this plotting is not quite my cup of Darjeeling. But that's an individual thing. Alternative Universe sci-fi fans may eat it up!

I thought that it was going to be the classic young officer makes good on the frontier story. The Ludlow type situation and unrest angle is interesting.

You might want to check out, if you haven't already, The Iron Heel by Jack London.

David Drake writes some novels along those lines, though he tends to set his in the future or Roman times rather than an alternate time line. He's the guy who wrote Hammer's Slammers. Worth checking out.

Do they have Babbage machines?

A simple point of departure for such a timeline is to have had Fergusson actually take the shot and kill George Washington. Fit it into a prologue and the reader gets a flare for the differences. That or cover art with Red Coats on horses fighting Apaches or some such.

It helps to have a woman involved. Easy source of conflict. Gives the young officer and the everyman type something to compete over. If you like period Jack London pieces you can make her a socialist agitator or anarchist or some such. For extra challenge she could be ruthless and simply using them both.

Anglaispierre, Texas Star - much appreciated. I've read through this one more times than I can count, but I've also learned in my odd decade of toying with fiction that you cannot possibly have too many sets of eyes on a story or criticism from too many angles.

I regret that it isn't to your taste so much, but variety keeps the world interesting. This is also a reason I'm generally loathe to try and explain the entirety of the thing. I fear some of my descriptions give the wrong impression. Personally, I'm of the mind that it's more western than anything else, but time will tell I suppose.

GatorFarmer -

In a sense, it is. Dunning starts out somewhat uncertain, though I can say with few reservations that he polishes out into a decent officer.

As for the rest, I can assure you that there are a number of women involved (one who may come back as a primary character if I get the first book done and have steam left for a second) and another who is a source of considerable conflict in her own right.

I'll make a note to check out the titles listed.

Can't say as I'm too familiar with a Babbage machine, though. What's it do?

Well, I for one really enjoyed that little read. Didn't read for errors or anything else-but just fo enjoyment. I want to read more. That in itself must mean something.

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Forum consigliere

Caje-

It means everything! That's the ultimate test of a work. But a writer also has to know where the errors lie, so that they can be corrected before a critical agent or editor sees the mss. Sales turn on such things.

But I'm so glad that you posted that. John Bell needs to get reader reactions that tell him if people want to read his story. He's very good.

I'd probably read the book, myself, had his officer been graduating from Sandhurst and been sent to fight the Pathans along India's NW frontier in a normal time frame, say from anywhere from 1900-WW II.

An author named Bernard Cornwell does historical fiction very well, indeed. He's probably best known for his series about an officer (Sharpe) with Wellington in the Napoleonic wars, but also has a fine series about a Dane serving the cause of Alfred the Great. I learn a lot about those times from the latter,although I was confused for a time about the fellow not wearing a sax, a big dagger. Turned out that what he called his smaller sword was his scramasax. The author must have heard from others who pointed out the name and he used it. Even when swords are the norm, authors sometimes don't know their guns, so to speak...

I think sci-fi fans will join you in liking John's book. He's a heck of a fine writer, and deserves to read your comment.

T-Star, have you read George MacDonald Fraser's Flashman series? Bet that is your cup of Darjeeling...

Onomea-

Nope. I've seen it, but gather that it's sort of a parody, in a rather camp manner. I think the hero is also sort of a rake. That may be what you meant, as a result of my post about reading the shark attack article in, Playboy and admiring certain supermodels? I do consider beautiful women to be animate sculpture, a living art form.

I have read books set in colonial India, like I mentioned above, although I don't recall the British author's name. And a family friend gave me a book (written about 1912) when I was a boy. I suppose that it had been in their library for many years, and they were quite elderly, even when I was a lad.

It's called, The Way of an Eagle, if memory serves. A young officer is told by his colonel to get the colonel's daughter safely away from a fort under seige by Muslim jihadists. Yeah, they were already causing trouble...And in those times, for them to have been alone together for weeks in the wild was socially unacceptable. He pretty much had to marry the girl. Been many years since I read that, but I think it worked out okay for them.

I've also read John Masters's Indian books, including his autobiography, in two volumes. And watched a TV show called, Lives of the Bengal Lancers or some such, back when I was about 12. I already liked the Webley MK VI revolvers in it. One was my first handgun, at age 13. Mother had to sign the paperwork.

And I like a 1960 (?) movie set in 1905, in which a British captain had to rescue a Hindu prince from Islamic extremists. It's been sold as both, Northwest Frontier and Flame Over India. The DVD cleans up the VHS film quality, I'm happy to say. One of my boyhood fantasies was to be an officer in India in colonial days. And I've sometimes imagined myself with Cortes in Mexico. Maybe I've lived before...or just have active fantasies. Oh, well: the latter does help a writer!

If you endorse the Flashman series, I may try one. My used book store probably has them. Are they pretty good, or just a sarcastic parody of traditional values? Are they set in the time of the Crimean wars? I've glanced at the covers of some. One reminded me of a photo used in publicity for, The Charge of the Light Brigade. (The anti-war movie, not Tennyson's poem.)

Oh: a confession: I used that phrase about one's cup of Darjeeling because that tea region is so well known and it fits the literary use. Actually, I prefer fuller tea from the Brahamaputra Valley in Assam or (best of all) the better Ceylon teas. (Twining's Irish Breakfast is an excellent blend of Assam-grown tea.)

Thanks for the tip about the Flashman books.

T-Star

I read the Flashman series, or parts of it, maybe 20 years ago. It is parody, he is a rake, and also a great coward, who get's decorated through misunderstandings of his actions in battles. Camp, yes. But I thought them pretty funny, and enjoyable light reading.

In a more serious vein, how about Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin series? Master and Commander, etc. That's probably the best historical fiction I've ever read. I also like the Bernard Cornwell's Saxon series. Great stuff!

Onomea-

I did read, Master and Commander. In the book, the rival ship was American, but that wouldn't play well with movie audiences here, so that was changed. Both the book and the film were excellent, as you know.

I also read a Hornblower book or two, and my son sent me some episodes of the TV mini-series, with Ioan Griffud (sp?) as Hornblower. And I saw one of the older movies, with Gregory Peck playing Hornblower.

I like it!
I love historical fiction, and although the "alternate history" books have never been of particular interest to me...it seems like you are on to something.

I read your passage aloud to my wife, who is a published author and editor, and she thinks you have the potential to go far with your writing!

You can check out her website at: http://suzannekingsbury.net/editing/
(that link is specifically for her editing services, but you can browse her complete website as well...)

You might want to send her an email, if you are interested in working with an editor who can help you through the whole process;from rough draft to publication. She has helped over 45 books come to publication!

Whatever you do with it, keep writing and sharing. Good writing is becoming a lost art!

Thanks for sharing with us!

I'm not John, but am in the same boat with a book mss. that I hope to complete soon. I'll check your wife's site, but can you give a round figure for what her services usually cost? I think my book mss. will run about 300-350 pages. It's a modern detective story, a police procedural.

Thanks,

T-Star

The Babbage machine is worth googling. In essence, it almost brought along the computer age a century early. It was a manual computer, I believe meant to run looms. A modern recreation built to the exact specs actually worked. Like the steam engines that seem to have been toys in miniature in ancient Rome, it's one of the great "What ifs" in history.

Thanks for your interest, and it's great to know that we have some writers on this forum!
(pm sent)

Well I don't know if you got all your periods and commas in the right place but I found the story pretty entertaining and if you post more I'll read more.

__________________
Chad

I see this thread is still moving. I am both surprised and flattered.

On the subject of remotely similar fiction, I've gotten up to the fifth or sixth book in the Sharpe series, I'm presently chewing through the first Aubrey/Maturin adventure and if I can ever find the set and afford it I mean to pick up the Hornblower books, having watched and enjoyed the first four episodes of the A&E adaption. I've got all the Sharpe episodes, and while those are better than most current television there are some fairly radical departures from the source material.

GatorFarmer -

I'll look into it, but I suspect the engine is probably a bit out of my ballpark for this one. I suppose a better explanation than that partial text wall I posted earlier would be to say that I'm taking a general point in the 1890s (mostly accurate to available technology of the period) but with a few instances of artistic license), and setting the whole affair in a a world with basically similar geography and cultures as ours.

I hesitate to call it fantasy because that conjures a certain mental image for most people, and my world is devoid of magic, mythical creatures, or quests for the enchanted whats-its. Same reservation goes for steampunk since it lacks the emphasis on gadgetry and doesn't focus so much on the well-to-do. I can't call it a western because it doesn't take place in the American West, per se, and it's not truthfully an alternate history as, despite the influences, none of the great empires are presented in accurate fashion.

It's a mongrel kind of story, I suppose, but it allows me a free hand in writing about things that interest me - the military culture that preceded World War I, various aspects of merchant shipping, the myths of the classic western, lesser-known episodes of U.S. history, steam railroading, and the pandora's box of human nature.

I'd be happy to post more once I get it committed to paper. At present it's looking like our next character will be the railroad bull, whose armament this particular crowd might find interesting and a picture of which I hope to be posting soon.

As ever, your continued comments and criticism are appreciated.

Very interesting, Gator. Thanks. I had never heard of him before!

Well you got my attention and would also like to see more; I agree with earlier editorial comments and will not repeat them.

1632 (novel) by Larry Flint has some similar perspective although it is more "steampunk" alternative history than your premise I would think he would be interested (He is publisher/editor/author of Baen)

Maybe call it an alternative Western? There's been some books like that in the past - Harry Turtledove did one set in the 1880s where the Confederacy fought the Union out west (the CSA having won the first round in the 1860s). This was a prelude to the USA v CSA in WW1 and WW2.

I wrote an oddball Western myself but never did much with it. It was told first person from the point of view of the none too bright side kick character, Billy. He worked with a former Foreign Legion officer and Swiss Emigre named Rolf Steiner and had amusing adventures, many of which involved Rolf's sometime girlfriend and her girlfriend. And an orangatang (too lazy to spell check). And zombies. And Billy's penchant for accidentally starting fires.

Alternative western might the be the closest thing I've heard so far. Or I could do the lazy thing and not worry about it until after I'm finished, which is looking better and better the harder I try to nail this thing down. Definitely something-western, though.

Meantime...I put this animal together the other day, and I figured it might be of some interest to the readers here.



It'll appear predominantly in Cable Hollard's parts of the story as it's one of a couple of designs readily available to the E&NW's railroad police (one of the others being based off the 1893 Winchester shotgun - still working on that, though).

Kind of looks like Frankenstein's monster, so...is it wrong that I halfway want one?

I thought that I would add a writing attempt of my own science fiction story. Your thoughts, comments and criticism are all welcome.

Thank you!

Charlie



I swirled the ice floating in my whiskey and water coffee cup and stared at the photograph of my long dead wife. The only good thing about being old was that death would come soon, I hoped. First thing this morning I was greeted with the smashed in fender of my old sports car; someone had stolen it last night for a joy ride, crashed it and then thoughtfully returned it to its parking place. Later that morning my landlord informed me that my rent check had bounced. The bank official reported that somebody had raided my bank account via the ATM and reduced my total finances to just $10.00. Soon I would be living under a bridge. I swallowed the last of the whiskey and lay down on the bed with my clothes still on. Sleep came quickly.

I awakened just as quickly; my body was sore all over. I was definitely not in my apartment and the floor was hard. A low burning kerosene lamp on a table provided the only light across the room. Footsteps sounded from outside. The door creaked as a cloaked figure entered and shut the door behind him. When he turned around my heart almost stopped. I tried to scream but my throat closed and could only make small noises. It had a face with huge eyes and a long ugly nose extending down its chest.

“Welcome to Hell” a muffled voice said. The demon turned its back to me and placed something on the table next to the door. What turned around to face me appeared to be a rather tall, slim young girl or woman with chestnut hair tied in a ponytail; long lashes framed cornflower blue eyes. She glanced at the table that held her ‘face’ and said, “You’re wondering about the gas mask; I’m allergic to phosgene, you know.”

“You almost scared an old man to death; who are you and where am I?” I demanded.

“Old? You look as young as me.” she laughed. She pointed at the mirror on the wall. “Go take a look at yourself.”

I stood in front of the mirror and touched my face. The wrinkles were gone and my hair was once again dark brown. “This is impossible. Where am I and what have you done to me?” I shouted.

She ignored my question. “Take it easy, Pops. I’m in charge here. You just do as you’re told and I’ll answer questions when I feel like it.” Her voice had a condescending tone. “Go look out the window by the door; just stand and watch.”

The window framed a portrait of death and destruction such as I had only seen in history books. There were trenches strewn with barbed wire and shell holes were everywhere. Corpses were littered across the landscape as far as I could see. Guns and equipment were in abundance. The scene was so gruesome that I had to turn my head.

“Don’t look away. Look at the corpses down at the left; the ones nearest the cottage,” she commanded. “The light is beginning to dim. In just a few moments they will begin to twitch. Look carefully at the big Kraut with the rifle bayonet in his chest.”

I turned back to ask a question.

“No! Don’t look at me. Look out through the window like I told you to,” she shouted.

I stared through the window into the twilight. After some moments the corpses began to twitch; the soldier with the bayonet in his chest grasped the blade with both hands and began to pull the piece of metal out. Other dead soldiers struggled to get to their feet while some already mobile picked up their rifles and advanced up the hill. Machine gun fire from the top of the hill rained down on attacker and defender alike. Rifle fire erupted and screams echoed but still the soldiers advanced upward. The defenders, Germans from their feldgrau uniforms, leaped from their trenches and swarmed down to meet the attackers. The sounds of battle became louder and louder. I was almost mesmerized by the sight of death and destruction.

“That’s enough. Come over here and sit down.” Her voice jerked me back to reality.

She sat at the table and watched me as I approached. She indicated the chair located on the opposite side of the table and pointed downward. I sat.

“If you are wondering if they can get in here. the answer is no. You are quite safe as long as you are stay inside. Even the bullets can’t fly our way.”

“This can’t be real. It’s like a scene from a living dead movie. Where are we?” I asked.

A sarcastic laugh sounded, “Its very real. This is Belleau Wood in France. The date is June 16, 1917. I call it Hell. Every night this same scene restarts and next day everything is reset to as it was before. It will continue this way throughout eternity.”

She said nothing further but just stared at me. I smiled and extended my hand across the table. “My name is Jack Long. Who are you?”

She sneered at my greeting. “I don’t care what your name is. You are a man and good for only two things, fathering babies and doing menial labor. You will obey everything I tell you without question.”

I couldn’t take any more of her insolent attitude. I stood up, placed my hands on the table and leaned toward her. Anger lowered the tone of my voice. “Now see here young lady; that’s no way to talk to your elders. If you give me any more **** I’ll turn you over my knee and paddle you.”

She in turn stood up slowly and looked me squarely in the eyes. Her voice was icy, “I am a Historian. If you ever touch me, you will pay dearly.” She held her hand up in front of me with her thumb and index finger about two inches apart. A spark arced between them; I could smell the ozone. “I can turn you into a charcoal stick if I want to. If you ever grab me, I will kill you or I’ll throw you out of this cottage and let those gruesome creatures tear you apart.”

“What’s a Historian?”

“I travel through time and record historical events in my mind. I can play them back to my people so that they can see and feel everything that I experience.” She said smugly.

She seemed to be delusional, irrational and dangerous so I decided to agree with her for the time being. “I’ll do whatever you want.’

A superior look crossed her face. “Good; that’s settled. You will address me as Mistress. Tomorrow I will show you your chores.” She poured another drink and banged the bottle on the table. “This is good German brandy. I suggest that you have some; getting drunk is the only way to make it through the night.”

We sat there and stared silently at each other and listened to the din of battle sounds. I matched her drink for drink. Finally we were both drunk. She made her way to the makeshift bedroom, pulled the curtain that separated our beds and disappeared behind it to make ready for bed.

I was awakened next morning by the Mistress prodding me in the back with the end of a broom. “Wake up, bright eyes. Go wash your face. Coffee is on.”

I stared in the mirror after drying my face. I was still young, appearing to be in my mid twenties. My eyes had turned emerald green overnight. My jaw dropped. “That’s genetically impossible,” I mumbled.

“Anything is possible in this Hellhole,” she laughed. “Drink your coffee and we will begin your training.”

The first item was learning how to make coffee. Dishes needed washing. Next chore was to sweep the floor of the cottage at least four times a day or more as needed; she was a cleanliness nut. I got my first look at the outside when we went to empty the chamber pot.

The cottage was of typical French architecture and was surrounded by trees with maybe 75 yards of land on a side undisturbed by war. Water from a creek flowed through the property; it was blood red but she assured me that it would be clear and drinkable in a couple of hours. There was a small vegetable garden out back and a dead tree with an axe stuck in it to the right of the cottage. Beyond the cottage perimeter there were the signs of war, death and destruction in every direction.

“The garden provides vegetables. I pick them in the morning and the plants renew themselves each night. It’s your job to chop firewood for the woodstove. We burn what you chop, the tree renews itself overnight and you chop tomorrow.’

I looked at the pot that I was holding. “What do you want me to do with this, Mistress?”

She looked pleased. “Just walk over into no mans land and pour it out; you can pour it on a corpse if you want to. It will be gone in a couple of hours anyway. After you put the pot away we are going to go shopping.”

My job was to precede the Mistress and move the corpses out of the way so she wouldn’t have to step over them. As we slowly made our way up the winding path, she pointed out all the points of interest like unexploded ordnance, land mines and soldiers who had died particularly excruciating deaths.

“Look down there; see the two soldiers in the shell hole covered in fog. That fog is phosgene; it’s extremely poisonous. The soldier on top is trying to pull the gas mask off the other’s face. Be careful not to fall in because you will die a horrible screaming death too.”

“You were wearing a gas mask last night; won’t it kill you too?”

“I can’t die in this world except from extreme head trauma or by being burned to death; I was almost burned nearly three hundred years ago. With most mishaps, the worst that can happen is for me to get very sick, so sick that I might wish to die, and then I recover. Phosgene can’t kill me; it just makes me sneeze a lot.” She looked toward the crest of the hill. “Move it Pops and quit jabbering. We haven’t got all day.”

Finally we got to the highest point of the hill where the machine gun nest was. Behind it was a relatively undamaged structure with sandbags on the top and each side. She identified it as the Command Post. I moved a couple of dead bodies and we made our way inside. She pointed towards a couple of shelves and told me to load up the canned goods. While she rummaged through the rubble looking for the brandy I did some investigating myself. I spotted a holster and belt hanging on a nail in an upright timber. Inside was an almost new Luger.

I was examining it when I heard her yell, “You idiot! Put that down. War toys are for criminals. We need to go back to the cottage.”

We made our way back down the path in silence.

I placed the canned goods on the shelves while Mistress opened the brandy bottle. It didn’t take long before she started drinking again. It seemed like the only thing to do around here was to get smashed.

After a period of time, Mistress decided that I could be trusted with the chores. She rarely interfered except when she chose to be crabby, which I attributed to her time of the month. Mostly she just sat on the porch in her straight-backed chair propped against the wall and stared off into space. Each day, time passed more agonizingly slow than the last. I amused myself by looking for war souvenirs even though I wasn’t allowed to bring any back to the cottage.

One day I was scrounging around in the command post when a piece of fallen roof shifted. I stared past the debris into darkness. Moving the damaged part revealed a small room. Inside was a cot with a leather dispatch bag and a wooden box sitting on it. The bag held packets of German Marks; I guessed that payday must have been coming. The box held something more interesting; bottles of what looked like liquor. I took a swallow and spat it out. That stuff must have been 140 proof.

‘Hmmm,’ I thought, ‘Mistress might like this; maybe she’ll stay plastered.’

I carried the box down to the cottage and placed it on the floor of the porch in front of Mistress. She awakened from her trance and looked annoyed, starting to say something harsh.

“Look, I found some more liquor. Are you interested?” I asked hopefully as I opened the box lid.

A smile flickered across her face. “Good job, Pops. Bring it inside.”

She grabbed a bottle as soon as I placed the box on the table. Putting the bottle to her lips, she took a swallow, belched and then licked her lips. She must have had a cast iron stomach; it didn’t seem to bother her a bit.

She took another drink from the bottle and told me to fetch a cup. “This is good stuff. I think I’ll really sleep good tonight.”

She drank steadily into the evening, alternating between the brandy and the new booze. I thought she could hold her liquor pretty well until she started dancing. She hummed a waltz tune to herself and flowed gracefully around the room, holding her arms out as she danced with an imaginary partner.

She stopped dancing abruptly and her slurred voice announced, “More booze.” She moved unsteadily toward the table and tripped over her own feet, falling directly toward the table’s corner.

Without thinking, I jumped from my chair and tackled her, pushing her away from the table. Breaking glass clattered. She landed on top of me and then all hell broke loose.

Mini lightning bolts erupted from her hands, forearms, and anywhere else there was a patch of uncovered skin and it was all directed at me. I heard the crackling of electricity and smelled ozone. I felt like a million Tasers were sticking my body; every nerve in my being was on fire. Finally the fireworks stopped. She pulled herself off and stood up glaring at me.

My body convulsed for a while and the pain finally began to abate. I sucked in a ragged breath, groaned and raised myself up on one elbow.

I had enough. I would rather die than live like this. “Pretty lame if that’s the best you can do. Wanna try again?” I rasped defiantly.

Her eyes widened in amazement. She gasped, “You’re not dead.”

When she made no further comment, I challenged, “You bragged about being a video recorder; play that last scene back so we both can see it.”

She held onto a chair back to steady herself. “It won’t do any good; you will only see what happened through my eyes.”

“Well play it anyway, Sam. I want to see it.”

The scene played at normal speed before our eyes, complete with sound and holographic images; I was able to feel her body move in dance, her emotions seemed happy. When it reached the point just before she tripped, I said, “Stop! Now play it in slow motion.”

The image flickered and began again; she stopped dancing and walked toward the wooden table. I felt her trip and fall forward. The image of the table corner moved in slow motion toward a point squarely between and just above her eyes. I felt the blow to her body and watched the room jumble in an arc of flurried movement. Then I was on top of my own body looking downward; I felt the hatred in her mind loose the electrical current to destroy her attacker. She wanted to kill.

“Enough!” I shouted, “Stop it!”

The image stopped immediately. The room’s atmosphere felt ominously heavy.

She sat down on the chair that had steadied her. Her voice was low and the words came slowly as if she was forcing herself to say something that she didn’t want to say. “I judged you very badly. That blow to my head could have killed me. You knew what the penalty was for grabbing me, even to save me, yet you did it anyway.’

She stood up; this time her tone was regal, speaking to an inferior person. “I’ll have to think about this tonight. Now its time to get you into bed.”

She moved toward me as if to help me get up. I held up my hand. “That’s enough electricity for one day. I can get to bed myself.”

Her voice came softly this time. “I’m harmless; I can’t even light a candle until I re-charge.”

She helped me get to my feet and into bed. The last sound I heard was that of her sweeping glass.

I awoke the next day without the familiar feeling of her prodding me in the back. Every muscle was sore but at least I was alive. I found her on the porch; she had dragged the table outside and a bucket filled with spring water rested upon it. She sat with a dripping rag wrapped around her head.

“It looks like you have a mistress sized hangover,” I observed.

She groaned and made a face. “This is one of those days when I wish that poison had killed me.”

Moving closer, I said, “I can help if you’ll let me.”

“How? You’re just a man.”

“Your neck and shoulder muscles are so tight and bowed that they are bulging out from your skin. If you promise not to shock me I think that I can rub some of the pain away.”

She let out a long sigh. “Go ahead and try. I’m not recharged yet. You took every thing I had last night.”

She leaned forward and moved hair away revealing her neck. I loosed a couple of buttons at the back top of her dress to expose her shoulders. Then I began to rub using my thumbs and the balls of my fingers. Gradually the muscles began to loosen; I continued to rub using gradually less pressure until she at last sat up straight.

“Thank you, Jack, I feel almost human now.”

“Anything to please the Mistress,” I answered dryly.

She turned to face me. “My name is Margo, Pops and Mistress no longer exist. We are not friends but now we are not enemies either.” She gestured with her hand toward the other chair. “Please sit with me. I know that you have many questions and now I am ready to answer some of them.”

I sat down facing her.

“You said that you couldn’t die. Does that mean you aren’t human?” I asked.

“I’m human enough but I come from what you would call a parallel dimension. I was born to be a historian. In your world that would be similar to a network news reporter except I record all I see and hear in my mind, kind of like a video recorder. When I return home I replay the events I recorded for my people. My mind has a guidebook, something like your history atlas, that I can page through. When I see an interesting event in history I just stop at that page and will myself to enter history at that point.”

“So how did you come to be stuck in this hellhole?”

She sighed, “That’s a long story. My brother accompanied me when I came to record a news announcement relating to a UFO visit. We were concealed in an alcove above the banquet hall listening to the speech when we were engulfed in a bright green light. A moment later just the two of us were standing here alone in front of this cottage. I don’t know how we got here or why we were imprisoned”

__________________
SWCA # 2294

Raider-

Looks good. You may want to add a hyphen where he mentioned his "long-dead wife." I think it needs a hyphen. Not really certain. Spelling and grammar are otherwise excellent, no worries there.

Otherwise, it is...otherwise! Kinda weird, but some sci-fi fans will really like this, if you tell soon what's going on, and clarify what's happening to these people. Don't make the girl so demanding, but she seems to be mellowing. I don't get the banquet hall bit at the last. Weren't they supposed to be covering a UFO sighting, not a banquet and speech?

I'm really curious to see what others here think. You and John Bell both seem to like these other dimension stories.

Are magazines like Amazing Science Fiction still being published, or the Isaac Asimov one? I know that a lot of sci-fi writers got their starts in such titles. Or, is this going to be a book length mss.?

Yes, this will eventually be a book length manuscript. The press announcement about the UFO took place in a banquet hall. They sneaked into the alcove to cover it.

Margo has a very good reason for being so demanding; actually she is a real b-word. Her inner conflict and her issues with Jack will be reconciled by the end of the story.

As a tidbit, how would you like to be saddled with this unbreakable prophecy as a baby?


“One last thing and I’ll leave you alone. You said there was another reason why you hate men. Will you tell me what it is, please?” I really wanted to know.

“This is the last question that I will answer today.” Margo replied.

“In my plane of existence, a female child called a Historian is born about every thousand years. The death rate for newborn Historians is very high; that’s why we who have this power have such long life spans. When the child reaches two years of age, the mother brings her before our Seer. This holy woman blesses the child and pronounces an unbreakable prophecy for it. The prophecy for me is this:

Her Beloved shall be he who is, but who never was.”

The problem is that her man, her Beloved, cannot exist so she is condemned to be alone forever.

__________________
SWCA # 2294

A bit too much whiskey and next thing you know you wake up to some woman in a gas mask prodding you with something and telling you to call her Mistress...

I've had mornings like that. Solemn nod.

Reads like the sort of thing that Baen does. They really ought send an editor to poke around here.

I'm not happy with "The cottage was of typical French architecture ". It's like saying a log cabin in the Blue Ridge mountains or a colonial style house (whether it be English, French, Dutch, German, Spanish) is typical American architecture.

France is a very large country, twice the area of New England and New York, and has many architectural styles. A "typical" Norman or Breton house would be totally different to a house in the Mediteranean region. The Battle of Belleau Wood was fought in the Aisne region of Picardy.

According to Wikipedia, the Germans used great quantities of mustard gas, not phosgene, in that battle.

I saw one more mistake that I intended to comment on, but lost it. I wasn't proof-reading, so I may have missed others.

An interesting read. I read it start to finish. Although it is not my kind of story, I enjoyed it.

__________________
Kill it, cook it, eat it.

Let's see: this holy woman condemns this babe to not have a man, so she blames men. Yeah, that figures. That does sound like real life.

I'm enjoying the reads. I liked the demon who turned out to be a woman in a gas mask, the WWI scene and all.

What I think is so cool about fiction is that -- "SNAP!" -- the writer can create anything, anything at all. It's like a magic trick, and ever so entertaining.

...Ralph was drained, totally exhausted, covered with mud, hungry after 48 sleepless hours of crawling through the vermin infested swamp in what might prove to be yet another execise in futility. The nail file embedded in his left pectoral throbbed. His Swiss Army knife had grown dull, after two crocs, one nutria, and the gay scoutmaster whose yodel had so enraged him six hours ago. Was there no end to this ****** swamp? ... Maybe, just maybe, if the ST-6 meteor hit by sunrise, the Injuns would back off...

Speaking of that woman in the gas mask, have any of you read the late Robert C. Ruark's, Something of Value? Fair movie, excellent book.

There's a scene where an old Kikuyu man is being interrogated about his involvement in Mau Mau terrorism.

He is induced to believe that he has been sent to the afterworld and sees a man in a gas mask, which he has not seen before. This man is supposed to be a demon, who will soon see him in Hell, if he doesn't confess. And a pet hyena was employed to further convince him that he was seeing dreadful things to come. It worked. Such people were very superstitious, and the gentleman farmer who was questioning him had a rep as a white witch doctor. I think Ruark got this account from friends in the Kenya police and his white hunter pals.

Those witty lads also sometimes beat the feet of suspects, and one wryly observed, "Confession is good for the soles."

I knew that gas mask reminded me of something.