Trouble in Paradise (The Directorate Book 3) Read online

  Blob was puking on the sidewalk, Ape cussing, cradling his arm.

  Ebsa sighed. "Need a medic?"

  Ape bared his teeth. "I can get to the doc myself."

  "Take Blob with you. A scan never hurt anything."

  Blob spat and said something about the sexual proclivities of Ebsa's mother.

  "Doubt it. Otherwise I'd have some siblings." Ebsa watched them walk off, shadowed them carefully to make sure they really did go to the student med center.

  "Not," he told the others later, "that there was much wrong with them, although I always worry about kicks like that."

  Ra'd shook his head. "You're a natural born nanny. You even worry about the bad guys. I'd have left Blob to choke in his own vomit."

  Paer eyed Ra'd, shook her head. "I'd just have thought wistfully about it."

  "I didn't kick him that hard!"

  Azko nodded. "We're still, mostly, at schoolboy level harassment."

  Heak snorted. "So they have to escalate before Ra'd can slaughter them wholesale? Pity."

  "Ooo, you've been hanging around with us for too long." Paer's grin faded. "It's not funny, though. I know you're good Ebsa, but they'll bring more than four of them next time."

  ***

  "The shift of the Warrior culture into district governments." Ebsa eyed his sociology professor.

  Professor Acze sniffed. "I see you are in the team training track. By all means, study the warriors. But your research had better have some solid sociological theme to it. Go away." The professor apparently considered thirty seconds sufficient face-to-face time. "And send in the next idiot."

  Ebsa bounced out, grinning. I could almost like that guy. He caught the eye of the next student lined up for a personal approval of a research subject, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Your turn."

  It was quite surprising, how few warriors there had actually been.

  Until he thought about it.

  All the Prophets' children were Halfers, with no power.

  Their sons all had the priest gene, but they didn't know about the testosterone effect. So they could collect a tiny amount of power, but do very little. The daughters, the One power gene is recessive, so they too were virtually powerless.

  And they didn't understand that the Oner women, even Halfers with just a single power gene, would not get pregnant unless the man was higher in engineered genes.

  And the female prophets didn't realize that either. They married into the existing power structure—and had no children until their husbands died and they returned to Makkah and married Prophets themselves. They lived for centuries, but even so they only had a total of fifty-seven children.

  Their twenty-nine daughters were the first "Princesses." Title and power linked from the start.

  The twenty-eight sons were trained to be warriors; their group quickly became known as the Warriors of the One True God.

  The Halfer daughters of the Prophets married other prophets, and then the ranks of the Princesses and the Warriors swelled. And the Priests. At first mostly the sons with a priest gene but no power gene. Good bureaucrats and very good at persuasion. Then, as they admitted that some of their children hadn't the aptitude for warfare, many priests had both power and the priest gene. And became very persuasive. They, and Princesses married to influential people, kept the government's goals in line with the Prophets' wishes. And had very few children.

  The accidental castration of a young teenager resulted in the blossoming of his priest gene's power. And pretty soon eunuch priests were running the whole show. Magicians of incredible power, the equal of the Prophets.

  But the warriors. I'm studying the warriors.

  The twenty-eight first warriors were stronger than any who followed.

  There were over three thousand men with power in the next generation. Which was spread out over the first two centuries. Hell, no one knows when the last of the Prophets actually died.

  Two Prophets died at the Arrival. Half died in the first two centuries, and the accepted date for the end of the Reign of the Prophets is 320 yp. The world was unified. The Warriors and Priests set up regions and districts for governance and began mixing with the multitude again. So again, there were few children who could collect power. Until they started intermarrying. And a century later they were trying to concentrate the genes, forming the Clans we still have today.

  How much did we lose, in diluting the genes, not just the artificial insertions, but all the rest of the genes, into the Multitude? Now we've got those insertions back together . . . but would the lack of the rest of the genes explain the loss of the extreme abilities of the early Warriors? Of the Prophets themselves?

  But this is sociology, not genetics. I wonder how the training of the generations after the wars changed? Researching the change from Military Governors to Social Elite could actually be fun. If I can find the time to do it justice.

  And the first blessed weekend.

  "What do any of you have planned?" Paer looked all bright-eyed.

  Ebsa groaned. "Shopping. The field was not kind to my wardrobe, and damn it, I'm still growing. I hate spending money when I'm going to outgrow it again in six months."

  Ra'd stretched out his arms and eyed his exposed wrists. "I suppose I ought to as well."

  Paer shook her head in sympathy. "Oner men. I've heard some of you grow until you're twenty-five."

  Ebsa hunched his shoulders. "I hope not. I think I'll skip the long sleeves until it gets cold. Then maybe everything will still fit in the spring." One only knows how I'll afford a coat this winter. I could barely fasten my old coat last year, and chucked it so I could travel light for the internships.

  Paer perked up. "Good plan, you two could use a bit of wardrobe assistance."

  Ebsa and Ra'd swapped glances. Shook heads.

  The girls giggled, and hauled them through five shops, each with horrifyingly high price tags. And they were certain that he could pay a tailor to make the hems just perfect.

  Ebsa groaned and waited until Paer wasn't looking to slide out the door of the latest shop. He galloped around the nearest corner, and headed for the bus stop down the street. What he bought from a fabbermart was all a bit too loose and too long, and didn't drain his funds.

  The others ambushed him on the path to the dorms.

  "Coward." Ra'd scowled at his own bags. "Why didn't you help me escape?"

  "Because I'm a coward. Besides, you can probably afford that sort of stuff. And the shoes to go with them."

  Snort. "Yes, but that doesn't mean I wanted to spend the money that way."

  Ebsa nodded. "You're just too damn nice."

  Ra'd laughed.

  Paer and Heak had been glaring and giving him the silent treatment, but at that they started giggling.

  Paer punched his arm. "Someday I want to see you in some really good clothes. " She shrugged. "Sorry. I . . . didn't think . . . "

  That I'm dirt poor, and now you're probably hoping I don't realize that you thought you were taking me to inexpensive shops. "I have different standards. You'll just have to take me as I am. Or not, of course."

  Heak eyed them and sidestepped to nudge Ra'd. Waved a pointed finger between them, and raised her eyebrows. Ra'd nodded.

  "Oooo!"

  "But they're being very studious. Professional. I'll bet they can keep it up for a whole 'nother week." Ra'd grinned and walked on.

  Ebsa sniffed. "See you tomorrow. I'll try not to blind you with my sartorical splendor."

  "Sartorial."

  Ebsa grinned back at Paer. "Depends on what I meant, doesn't it?"

  After-dinner study in the old library became their new necessity. Ebsa felt like a slacker, with only eight classes. "At least Martial Arts and Equipment don't have any homework. And Current Affairs is just show up and pay attention. How did I let Ajha talk me into taking a class in the leadership track?"

  "Because that's where you're headed." Ra'd tapped Ebsa's sociology research. "I'm going to steal half your
sources for my Comparative Cultures report, and then recycle it all into Military Science. I'm doing a report on the early transition and guerrilla warfare."

  "May not help you a lot. I've decided to focus on three very different situations. Alcairo, with a huge victorious Islamic Multitude population, Montevideo, with a conquered Christian Multitude population, and Black Point, established in a virtually uninhabited area by mostly Oners and Halfers."

  "Ah. Montevideo would be good."

  Ebsa nodded. "Quite a lot of raids by the militias that formed up from the survivors of Buenos Aires. My local history class took part in a reenactment . . . we were hideous, but I'll bet I've still got those maps . . . and pictures. See if you can get credit for a unique source . . . " He found his old files and the reenactment stuff and sent it all to Ra'd. "There you go. The battle of Governor's Hill." He coughed modestly. "After a fashion, but there was some attempt to stick to the known occurrences."

  Ra'd looked at the pictures and grinned. "You lot were much too clean and well dressed to be part of any militia I've ever heard of."

  Ebsa sniffed. "Check the reading list. We all had to read the biographies of at least three participants. And our guerrillas were neither nice nor sane. Not that Governor Ianson was a sweetheart, either. My sociology report is likely to use him as an example of how not to do it, and his son for how to do it."

  "No doubt. Warriors are trained to win, not be fair. They do tend to be sticklers for the law, but they also tend to create laws they won't have trouble following themselves."

  Present tense. Slipping around friends.

  Paer opened her mouth to comment, then shut it.

  Ebsa smothered a smile. She knows his history . . . I suppose it's mostly secret for the sake of allowing the women and children to live normal lives. And Ra'd and Isakson, as well.

  Chapter Five

  12 Qadah 1403

  The first Magic test. A very simple test. "List what magic you have learned or improved, over the summer. Write an essay on anything magically related."

  What? Oh Bloody One! So . . . is this testing for placement, for knowledge, or for extra warnings to never, ever do that again?

  He sighed and listed all the things he'd learned from his internships last summer. Insect repellent, weak micro-porous long term physical barriers, slice, fire starter . . . There were a lot more than he'd realized, at the time.

  For the essay . . . he decided on philosophy.

  We all know about the standard steps upward in our power. We know how puberty, loss of virginity, parenthood, feeling a child first touch the power, and becoming a grandparent provides a boost, a complexity, to our magical abilities.

  Yet there seems to be some other jolts to our psyches that should have an effect on our magical abilities.

  The first time we fear for our lives.

  The first time we fall in love.

  The first time someone proves to be unworthy of one's regard.

  The first time we choose to commit a criminal act.

  The first time we have to choose to risk death, or stand by and let another person die.

  The first time we witness the death of a loved one, or close relative.

  The first time we kill another person.

  The first time we choose to kill another person.

  I have, Thank the One, not experienced those last two. I hope I never find out, personally, if that has caused a change in my magic. Or only to my soul.

  Ebsa shuddered to give away that much . . . couldn't think of anything else to write. Waffled. Sent it in. Probably flunk. There wasn't much magic in the very brief essay. If it even counted as an essay.

  Then freedom, the weekend. Paer headed for a stable where she could rent a horse. Ebsa braced himself and followed. "Something very calm and quiet, please." He looked past the wrangler's shoulder where Paer was mounting a huge chestnut gelding. It was prancing and pawing the ground and looked like it was ready to fly. "Nothing at all like that one."

  The man grinned and produced a mild little bay mare. They cruised around a tiny ring a few times, then he headed out for a ride along quiet tree-lined paths, occasionally looping back to the stables, where Paer was jumping her fiery mount. "Looks good!" he yelled—and headed back to the park for what was actually a nice peaceful hour. He turned Suzy back over to the wrangler and settled down to watch Paer work. She and the horse were both sweating by the time the horse decided he could indeed jump something of an unusual color, and in fact jump an entire course without a single buck or swerve.

  She was grinning as she got off. "Oh, I needed that, but I'm going to hurt tomorrow! I ought to have been sensible and just ridden around the park with you."

  "Well, I thought it quite sensible of me, but I'll bet you'd have found it boring. So . . . are you going to bring Crystal here?"

  She shook her head. "I just haven't got the time she needs. But!" She held up a small metal rod. "Xen gave me this. It's like a Bag of the Prophets, except, well, it is, but it isn't one of theirs. He showed me how to stick a horse in it and close it up. So she won't age while I'm off doing other stuff."

  "Whoa. Now that's neat."

  She scuffed a foot on the ground. "It seems like cheating. But she's just turned fourteen. She could be too old for the big jumps by the time I'm back to riding full time. I . . . don't even know when that will be. I want to go Across."

  Ebsa eyed the innocuous little rod. "So this way she stays fit and young for a decade or longer. And as for cheating . . . man, those things are going to sell like hotcakes to horse owners. And pets. Play with your dog or cat all afternoon, then when you go to bed, stash them until you get home from work the next day? And that way they'd live three or four times as long. So to speak."

  Paer grinned. "I hadn't thought about it like that! Wow! No more long trips in a trailer or truck, just . . . put them in your pocket."

  Ebsa snickered. "Just remember to give her some rest time off between rides."

  She giggled, then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  He kissed her enthusiastically back . . . then sighed. "This being professional thing is tough."

  "Yeah." They only held hands half the way back to campus.

  The call from his mother woke him at three in the morning.

  "Ebsa! You cannot marry a Princess! And I will not have a scandal in the family! My poor innocent son! Being taken advantage of by that, that, High Oner!"

  "Mom! I am not being taken advantage of, and as for a scandal, I'm the bastard son of a bastard mother. Dunno about grandmother, but I sure don't remember ever hearing about a great grandfather."

  "Ebsa Clostuone Castillos Montevideo! How dare you say something like that to your own mother!"

  "Umm, Mom? What's the problem?" Ebsa levered himself out of bed.

  "What's the problem! What's the problem! I get up to punch down the rolls and what do I see on the news! I see my little boy, my only child! Being waylaid and kissed by that predatory woman!"

  Ebsa reached for his comp, popped up a news site . . .

  "Umm, Mom, Paer isn't predatory. She's a good friend."

  . . . and there it was. A video of him and Paer talking, laughing, a spontaneous happy kiss . . .

  "Friend!"

  "Don't worry, Mom. When I pop the question, I'll let you know."

  "Oh! My heart! You are breaking my heart!"

  "More likely making you neglect your bread."

  "The rolls!" Click.

  Ebsa moaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

  The still picture, of course, made the front page of the Society Section in the local paper, and two hours later had spread worldwide. The vid spread even faster.

  The others found the various captions vastly amusing.

  "So, Ebsa, you're a social climber?" Heak grinned, and scrolled through the news sites.

  Azko shook his head. "I think he's Paer's Boy Toy. Although gigolo sounds darker and sexier, somehow. I, of course, don't believe for a mi
nute that you're a 'Friend.' They put it in quotes."

  Ra'd just shook his head. "You should have seen how hard Paer had to work, in pursuit of the sweet innocent boy. He didn't even notice half the passes she made at him."

  Ebsa sniffed. "Did too. I just panicked . . . I mean, played hard to get. Yeah, that's what I meant. She pursued me until I caught her. Very clever of me."

  Paer giggled. "Well . . . it will get my father's mind off dinosaurs." She sighed. "I didn't even think to look for newsies. I guess I need to be more aware."

  Another good thing about meeting in a library was the proximity to books so old they were written during the Transition Period. The fifty years between winning the war and completely reorganizing both the home and captured territories, and settling in areas depopulated by the nuclear wars.

  Photocopies of original documents, digital copies, even some personal journals of Warriors turned Governors. And descriptions of their training. Yes, the peacetime generations stepped it down, and down again. On purpose? Laziness? Necessity?

  Some of each, no doubt. The retired Warriors married into the local multitude ruling families, reprising the first generation of powerless children, and the reappearance of power as their descendants married each other.

  The Warriors mourned their sons' lack of power, as their daughters, even those with just a single recessive power gene couldn't conceive with a less powerful husband. The Game started in earnest, both men and women wanting children, and one-upping rivals by marrying their apparently barren ex-wives and getting them pregnant. Resulting in occasional duels. Especially if the wife wasn't ex.

  Ebsa started picked up snickery little jokes in the Sociology class, generally about his sociological experiment with a women he could never impregnate, with jokes about where the problem lay. He ignored them and even laughed at the absurdity of some of them.