Pretty sweet. 🙂 Audible.com loves me.
All posts by correia45
My Space City Con schedule
I’m at Space City Con this weekend.
All my book signings will be in the dealer’s room.
Friday signing at 2:30-3:30.
Saturday, a reading/BS session 1-2:15 in the Garden Cay room.
Then a signing right after in the dealer’s room.
Sunday, signing from 11:30 – 12:30.
I am normally on a ton of panels but this is more of a media/fan con so I don’t think there’s much of a writing track. That means I can do what I want. 🙂 I think some gaming is going to happen.
I’m at Space City Con in Galveston this weekend
I will be at Space City Con in Galveston this weekend. So if you are in the area come by and say hi. Once I know my actual schedule of signings and stuff I’ll post it here.
Christmas Noun 6: Yes, Wendell, There Really is a Christmas Noun
Tis the Season for (Noun)!
Originally inspired by other bestselling novels about Christmas Jars, Boxes, Sweaters, and other assorted Nouns, I have created what is possibly the greatest series of Christmas literature the world has ever known.
This has become a tradition here on Monster Hunter Nation that I have to release excerpts from the Christmas Noun Saga every December. This is our sixth year of badly written Christmas adventure. I would seriously recommend going back and reading the previous ones first because this thing gets really weird.
2008:
Young Tim overcomes his hatred of Christmas to battle the Anti-Claus in the Peppermint Thunderdome.
http://MonsterHunterNation.com/2008/12/22/the-christmas-noun/
2009:
Stabby the Snowman and the Global Warming Power of Love
http://MonsterHunterNation.com/2009/12/08/the-christmas-noun-2-the-nounening/
2010:
Rudolf and the Reindeer Separatists declare jihad on Christmas.
http://MonsterHunterNation.com/2010/12/10/the-christmas-noun-3d-the-gritty-reboot/
2011:
The Christmas Noun gets occupied by the 99%.
https://monsterhunternation.com/2011/12/19/christmas-noun-4-occupy-christmas-noun
2012:
 Choose Your Own Adventure through 50 Shades of Noun!
So here are some excerpts from the next exciting episode in the Christmas Noun saga.
THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 6: Yes, Wendell, There Really is a Christmas Noun
***
Opening Introduction narrated by Ron Perlman
I’m still doing voice over for this thing? Man, I got roped into the worst contract ever. My agent sucks. You know Larry Correia just phones this stuff in. What the hell was that bit with the Christmas Draculas? I’ve been in Sci Fi channel original pictures better than this, and I starred in Killer Monkey Island, so that’s saying something. Wait… The light is on. We’re recording. Crap.
Saving Christmas changes a man…
Using the power of the Christmas Noun, Tim had already saved Christmas many times, fighting everything from terrorist reindeer to the cast of the View, from rabid honey badgers to the Grinch, but still the unholy onslaught against Christmas continued, like an eggnog fueled journey into darkness, a darkness so dark it was lit only occasionally by flashing strands of Christmas lights, except now, the festive red and greens were growing ever further apart… in the darkness.
No. Seriously? That was all one run on sentence. I know Larry Correia keeps winning Audie awards, but come on… Okay, okay, stupid contract. Edit this part out.
*clears throat*
After five years of being Christmas’ chosen secret warrior, Tim found himself facing a threat greater than all that had come before…
The Affordable Christmas Act, also known as Obamachristmas.
Because Christmas… Christmas never changes.
***
From Chapter 1
Tim stood high atop the roof of his Black Tiger Kung Fu and Mall Santa Prep Academy for Inner City Youths, looking down at the city he’d sworn to protect, while snow fell dramatically around him. He wasn’t sure how Christmas was going to be endangered this year, but Tim was ready.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light. A giant glass fish tank appeared on the roof next to him, and floating peacefully inside was Wendell the Manatee.
“Hey, Wendell,” Tim said, unsure why the Chief Financial Officer of CorreiaTech, the most powerful mega corporation in the universe, had teleported onto his roof. “What’re you doing here?”
“Mewhoooooo,” Wendell answered.
“Court mandated community service? Man, that sucks.”
“Eeeehhhwoooo.”
Tim’s Manatee was a little rough, but the way that the music picked up in the background told him that there had just been a very ominous revelation. “Wait. So you’re now serving as the Ghost of Christmas Future-Past?”
“Flooooooo,” Wendell explained patiently. That Lance Henrickson was a sneaky one to skip out and stick poor Wendell with that thankless job! “Mooorr-gurgle gurgle.”
“What? No. I’m fine. I wasn’t going to jump. I just came up here because Sally Love-Interest won’t let me smoke in the house. I’ve got plenty to live for. Santa just gave me my own secret agent style Nounmobile complete with rockets and oil slicks. I’m ripped, good looking, and I kill Christmas Draculas for a living. That’s pretty bad ass. Why would I fling myself to my death?”
Wendell studied Tim with his big, sad eyes.
“Ah, so we can have a big time travel adventure where I see how messed up the world would be if I hadn’t ever been born to save Christmas and I’ll learn a valuable lesson about love and the Christmas Noun. I got it. Let’s rock.”
Every time a bell rings, a manatee gets his lettuce.
***
From Chapter 2
Tim and Wendell watched through the window as Tim’s family, circa the 1980s, enjoyed Christmas without him. Since they couldn’t actually turn invisible, they’d disguised themselves. Tim was wearing parachute pants and Wendell had a mohawk and gold chains.
“This is all very meta and all, Wendell, but I’m bored. Can we skip ahead to something awesome?”
Wendell shook his ponderous bulk in the negative. Knight Rider was on, and Wendell had been sucked in. So Tim went back to observing as his family gave each other crappy poor people presents, and then got liquored up. Tim was struck by how Christmas was all about love and family, rather than presents. So even if Santa didn’t come, Christmas could still be awesome.
“Hey, I just had a profound personal revelation about the spirit of Christmas and stuff,” Tim said as he shed a single, manly tear.
Wendell shushed him because the talking car was doing a sweet rocket jump. Wendell held up one flipper to the glass. Tim fist bumped Wendell’s fish tank.
***
From Chapter 3
They had surged forward through time, having adventures, until they hit 2009. So far the biggest difference Tim’s nonexistence had made in the universe was that Velcro had never caught on. The butterfly effect was truly terrifying.
Wendell and Tim were in the back of the White House press room. “What’re we doing here?”
“Moowhooooo.”
That was ominous.
Once again, they were in disguise. “Right this way, Mr. Chris Matthews,” said a Secret Service Agent when he saw that Wendell the manatee was wearing a tie. That hurt Wendell’s feelings, as he was far better looking that Chris Matthews, but as the temporarily court mandated Ghost of Christmas Future Past, the noble manatee carried on despite the terrible insult to his dignity.
President Barack Obama walked to the podium. The completely unbiased Press Corp began to chant his name. Representatives of the media swooned and fainted. The women lifted up their shirts and flashed him as a display of how totally not biased they were.
The President read from his teleprompter. “My fellow Americans. We are here for something super important. I’ve taken time away from golf and spying on our allies to share this important message. Let me be clear. Did you know that Santa Claus is inefficient? Every Christmas some children don’t get presents, and some children get presents they don’t like. Like when I was a child, one year we got a puppy, but it was for dinner… Even though I lived in a country that didn’t normally eat dogs, but you can totally trust my autobiography.”
“What manner of brilliance are you proposing, Your Highness the President?” asked Piers Morgan, who had personally taken the time to bejewel a denim jacket with Obama hearts Piers 4ever on it.
“Let me be clear, because the most efficient thing in the history of the world is the federal government, I propose that the government take over Christmas, so we can finally have a Christmas that is fair for everyone.”
A reporter raised his hand. “But sir, everyone knows you’re all sorts of brilliant and amazing, but don’t you think this maybe, perhaps, just maybe, this might be seen as an unnecessary power grab? You know, a teensy bit?”
The real Chris Matthews roared “RACIST!” and rolled on top of the upstart reporter, crushing him to death beneath his giant man boobs. Several flying monkeys from MSNBC swooped in and immediately devoured the corpse.
“I know, some of you might be saying that you like Christmas the way it is. But did you know that six hundred million Americans didn’t have Christmas last year? That’s twice as many Americans as actually exist. And that Santa routinely cuts off people’s feet, even when their feet are perfectly fine?”
That didn’t sound like the Santa Tim knew, but the press was so excited they’d begun speaking in tongues and experiencing visions.
“Don’t worry, America. If you like your Christmas you can keep it!”
A disco ball descended from the ceiling and the press began to dance for the President’s amusement.
***
From Chapter 4
Santa Claus was trying to give a statement defending Christmas, but it was rather difficult because all of the reporters kept flinging poo at him. No… Literally.
“Ho ho ho! If you actually read the two thousand pages of the Affordable Christmas Act you can see that what the President is proposing is incredibly destructive, not to mention mathematically impossible. Sure, it might help a tiny group of people who, for whatever reason, have been mistakenly stuck on the Naughty List, but it will absolutely hurt millions and millions who are perfectly happy on the Nice List. And that is only if it works perfectly, which no government program has ever done. Worst case scenario, this bill will ruin Christmas for everyone. If you want to help those mistakenly stuck on the Naughty List, can’t we just address those individual topics with a smaller bill that doesn’t hurt everyone else in the country, or maybe even help them ourselves?”
“But Santa, experts say that you’re just suffering from confirmation bias. Some say that you know too much about how Christmas works so your opinion doesn’t count!”
Santa frowned. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
Then Santa had to duck as the reporters hurled their own feces and called him racist.
“You bastards are all going on the Naughty List!” Santa shook his fist.
***
From Chapter 5
“Wendell, why are spending part of 2010 in a strip club?” Tim asked the CFO of CorreiaTech.
Wendell did not answer, because he was too busy throwing lettuce at the strippers.
Then Tim realized that it was none other than Sally Love-Interest who had come out for the next song. And though she was hot, even in this alternate universe, she was still extremely clumsy and not very bright, and because of the lack of Velcro on her costume, she accidentally tied herself to the pole, and the manager had to come cut her free with a pair of scissors. It was a profound moment. Without him as part of her life, Sally had ended up degrading herself in exchange for dollar bills (and the occasional bit of lettuce) shoved into her g string. And then Tim had another profound realization that every last one of us was an important thread in the tapestry of humanity, and you could never truly understand the importance of a single life, and the ripples it could cause through the great pond of eternity. Tim shed a second, manly tear, which as a badass Christmas warrior, was his quota for the year. “Wendell. I’ve got to admit. I never expected you to teach me such profound wisdom.”
“Hooooooon?” Wendell asked. He hadn’t known Sally Love-Interest worked here. He’d just wanted to hang out in a strip club, because manatees know how to party.
***
From Chapter 7
As Tim watched the news, he was beginning to realize just how important his life really had been. In this non-Tim-existing world, the Supreme Court had just ruled that Obamachristmas was constitutional, and the Chief Justice said, and I quote, “Now shut up and eat your poop cake”. Back in his normal world, Obama had only screwed up healthcare, the economy, our standing in the world, all of our foreign policy, the fundamental principles of representative government, and the basic integrity of our entire federal apparatus, but he’d never messed with Christmas!
“Man, Wendell, this version of 2012 really sucks.”
Even Wendell was appalled by how much this particular alternate universe sucked, and he’d travelled the entire multiverse. Wendell himself hailed from a universe where the Libertarian Space Cowboy Revolution had seized power after the five seasons of Firefly had inspired Americans to greatness.
Tim was depressed. “They’ve imprisoned Santa in Guantanamo. The IRS is auditing all the pro Christmas groups. Eric Holder was caught red handed shipping baby toys with lead paint to Mexico in an attempt to frame the elves and he still got off. Next year Obamachristmas goes live. I can only imagine the chaos.” Tim slammed his fist into the table for dramatic emphasis. “I know I’m supposed to be learning a lesson before I go back to my timeline that doesn’t blow chunks, but I really want to whoop some butt, for Christmas!”
Wendell’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Meeewhooooooo.” Fizz BLOOP. A big bubble rolled up through the fish tank.
“Oh, man. Open a window. That’s gross.”
Wendell shrugged. Herbivores were gassy.
***
From Chapter 9
Christmas Time 2013
John Random-Dude sat down in front of his computer. Since he got all of his news from Facebook memes and the Daily Show, he was super excited to sign up for Obamachristmas. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!” he said, unaware that the Obamachristmas website server was constructed entirely out of government cheese. (for the record, half a billion dollars worth of cheese takes up a lot of space, so the ACA had eminent domained the entire state of Wisconsin).
“Oh, no. The website is down. My regular Christmas plans were cancelled because it didn’t cover presents for jellyfish and other species which I don’t have in my family, and I’m going to be fined if I can’t sign up in time. Whatever will I do?” Then the website worked for one brief glorious moment. “It is a Christmas miracle!”
John clicked the button to sign up, which immediately sent all of his personal banking information directly from the ACA “secure” server to an organized crime syndicate in Nigeria.
“Sweet. Now what plan do I want?”
PLAN A: All your presents are total crap. We’re talking things like bags of dryer lint or autographed copies of Dreams of My Father for everyone in your family. $632,589.62
PLAN B: Actual good presents for everyone you love. $15,587,231.99. PLAN B IS CURRENTLY UNAVAIALBE IN YOUR WORLD.
“Hmmm… That is six hundred and thirty two thousand dollars more than I have… What happens if I don’t sign up at all?”
PLAN C: Throw yourself on the benevolent mercy of the IRS. And hope that even though this part isn’t in the actual law anywhere, believe the President when he says that he won’t screw you over, and next year all of this stuff will like totally work better. BWA HA HA HA HAW! SUCKER!
“Okay. That sounds legit.” John clicked on that link. The website crashed just as a Predator drone dropped a Hellfire missile on his house.
***
“Who are you?” asked Fred Tax-Payer.
“I’m Pajama Boy,” answered the effeminate, hipster douchebag, in his ironic glasses and red flannel footy jammies while awkwardly cradling his hot chocolate. “It’s time to #GetTalking!”
“Why are you in my house?”
“The Obama administration has sent me to invade your home on Christmas to make sure that every holiday conversation in America is about how awesome he is.”
“Uh… How is that supposed to work?”
“Don’t worry. It only cost eighty billion dollars, but they cloned an army of Pajama Boys. Now the entire country can feel my sneering condescension. After we get you signed up for the ACA, I will lecture you on the dangers of cismale gendernormative fascism. Happy Saturnalia!”
***
The press conference was very heated. “Now let me be clear. When I said if you liked your Christmas, you could keep it, on eighty seven different occasions, you just misunderstood me, which is understandable, because you’re not as smart as me. It is all your fault for not listening correctly, and Santa’s fault for being such a greedy capitalist. Nobody ever told me that my signature legislative achievement was constructed entirely out of cheese, which I am now aware is not the best choice for high speed electronics or package delivery. But don’t worry, I have hired the Harvard homecoming decorations committee to oversee the rebuilding of the ACA website.”
“Mr. President, you may have forced the cancellation of Christmas for millions, and made Christmas two or three times as expensive for everyone else, but surely Obamachristmas saved it for so many more!”
“Well… Our initial projections may have been a teensy bit off. Only fifty people and a couple of pets have actually signed up for the ACA. This math stuff is hard.” He shrugged. “And now that everyone knows how broken the law is, don’t use my name on my signature achievement anymore.”
The press was bewildered. They were not used to their beloved icon not being absolutely perfect in every way. “RACIST?” A confused Chris Matthews asked.
“Yes, Jabba the Hutt… I mean Chris Matthews.” The president patted the reporter on his tender, soft head. “Now sally forth my minions, and browbeat anyone who disagrees.”
***
From Chapter 10
“Are you okay, Santa?” Tim asked as he helped Santa into the Zodiac boat off the Cuban coast.
“Of course. I was guarded by Marines. Because even when it is their job to be naughty, Marines always go on the Nice List. Semper Fi, Devil Dogs.” Santa rolled up his sleeve and showed Tim his Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo. “So who are you, and why are you and a manatee rescuing me from Guantanamo Bay?”
“Eeeeewhoooo,” Wendell explained.
“Ah, you’re using the magic of the Christmas Noun to have a time traveling, It’s a Wonderful Life style plot to avenge Christmas. Splendid.”
“So what do we do, Santa?”
“About the ACA? Throw all the bums out of the senate and try to salvage the wreckage for future generations, in the hopes that they learn from our hubris.”
“I mean, to save Christmas, tonight.”
“That’s my job, son.” Santa patted Tim on the arm. “I’m sorry. You’ve learned more about the true spirit of giving and the dangers of socialism. It is time to return to your wonderful life.”
A bell rang. Wendell pumped one flipper in the air. Yes. Mandatory community service hours fulfilled!
“No offense, but screw that, Santa. I’m a secret Christmas warrior from a long line of secret Christmas warriors, and this is a Larry Correia story, so I’m not leaving until I at least kick the crap out of somebody.” Tim looked to Wendell for support.
Wendell nodded, showing the fierce determination of his people. His community service may have been satisfied, but now it was personal.
***
From Chapter 11
“Oh no!” The President huddled in his bed in fear. “It’s the ghost of Bill Ayers!”
“Barack Obama! You have failed this Christmas!” Tim growled, because he had recently streamed all of Arrow on NetFlix, and it was actually pretty good. Tim shook the chains and waved the glow sticks. Between the makeup and the dry ice, this whole Scooby Doo type plot would only work on somebody really stupid, so he was giving their plan even odds of success. They’d been able to sneak into the White House because Wendell had been mistaken for Governor Chris Christie.
“Tonight you will be visited by three ghosts!”
“No!”
“Well, actually, one of the ghosts is a manatee, and he’ll be playing both the past and future ghosts. Because of budget cuts!”
“NOOOoooooooo!”
***
From Chapter 12
That grand finale action sequence was amazing. Seriously, that was probably the best action scene I’ve ever written. If I smoked, I would totally be having a cigarette right now.
We join Wendell the manatee, who had just defeated Chris Matthews in an epic sumo wrestling showdown.
“Racist…” Christ Matthews gasped out his last—and only—words. “Hatey hatemonger racisty hatey hate hate… Tea party.”
“Weeeewooooooo,” Wendell gave his signature badass action hero one liner, then he shoved Chris Matthews into the exploding volcano filled with hungry lava piranha.
Meanwhile, Tim had just used his Black Tiger Kung Fu to defeat an army of Pajama Boy clones. Luckily, effeminate hipster douchebags fight about as well as could be expected, and other than some minor scratches, being hit by a man purse, and having his hair pulled, Tim was able to defeat hundreds of them. Red flannel corpses were spread everywhere. The floors ran brown with spilled hot chocolate and red with blood.
The nefarious ACA had been defeated. Wisconsin was flooded with melting government cheese. Yum, nachos. Kathleen Sebelius had been captured. “Nobody, not even a government employee, is that incompetent. So let’s see who you really are.” So Tim tried to pull her mask off. “Wow. Okay. That’s your real face there. I guess you guys really do suck at your jobs that badly.”
“And I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for you pesky kids and your manatee!”
***
From the epilogue.
Tim woke up back in his regular bed in his regular Mall Santa Academy. He looked at the alarm clock. It was Christmas morning.
Thank goodness, it had all been a dream!
There were many non-obamachristmas approved presents under their tree. There wasn’t a Pajama Boy clone to be seen. Sally Love-Interest—who was not a stripper—had burned them some toast for breakfast. “Merry Christmas, Tim!”
“Merry Christmas, Sally. I’m so glad to be home. I have relearned the true meaning of Christmas for the sixth consecutive time! I’m so glad to back in this dimension again!”
“Okay. That’s nice.” Sally looked up from where she was trying to pry the stuck toast from the still plugged in toaster with a butter knife. “You got some mail.”
The first letter was from his insurance provider, telling him how the health insurance costs for his Mall Santa employees were going up 78% and the only doctor they could use was in Bangladesh. Okay, so this dimension wasn’t perfect.
Tim picked up the next letter. It was from Wendell. Inside was a single piece of crisp, iceberg lettuce. It warmed Tim’s secret Christmas warrior heart.
***
So another Christmas Noun draws to a close. Merry Christmas, Monster Hunter Nation.
The Drowning Empire, Episode 41: With Dueling as a Pretext
The Drowning Empire is a weekly serial based on the events which occured during the Writer Nerd Game Night monthly Legend of the Five Rings game. It is a tale of samurai adventure set in the magical world of Rokugan.
If you would like to read all of these in one convenient place, along with a bunch of additional game related stuff, behind the scenes info, and detailed session recaps, I’ve been posting everything to one thread on the L5R forum, http://www.alderac.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=295&t=101206
This week’s episode was written by Pat Tracy, who is playing Moto Subotai. Upon their arrival in the colonies, Subotai ran into some of his fellow Unicorn Clan, and was surprised to find they were in possession of a letter to him, to be sent back to the Empire.
Continued from: http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2013/12/13/the-drowning-empire-episode-40-bandits-dont-surf/
#
With Dueling as a Pretext
Ikoma Uso sat at the end of the docks, leaning against a thick wooden upright. He wore a calm, far away smile as the sweltering heat brought sweat to his brow. He appeared to be without care and bereft of all tasks or responsibilities, a young man enjoying the fields of summer. His hand, however, was no more than three inches from the handle of his nodachi, and his full daisho of katana and wakizashi on his back and at his hip.
Moto Subotai stood several paces away, unmoving. He had removed all the clothing layers below his purple over-tunic, leaving his arms bared to the intense Ivory Kingdoms sunlight. He hooked his thumbs into his sash and said nothing.
“Subotai, you seem to have adapted to the heat.”
The Moto nodded, coming closer and sitting nearby, his legs hanging off the dock and over the water. “I considered removing my trousers, but I didn’t wish to frighten the Crane too much.”
“Your body hair is rather shocking.” Uso gave a crooked smile and looked askance at Subotai. “Why do you stand and wait to be acknowledged like that?”
“It’s an old habit. In the desert, when riding up to someone’s tents, you stand your horses and wait for them to see you and acknowledge your presence before you enter an encampment. You never know what you might happen upon. I sensed that something was afoot behind your eyes.”
“Interesting. You don’t ever seem to do that with Shintaro-san.”
“Don’t I?” Subotai feigned innocence with reasonable skill.
“You begin to learn the game.”
“Hmm. I rarely belch during the tea ceremony of late. I’m told that is progress.”
“What do you make of this place?” Uso asked.
Subotai shrugged. “It has prospects. It will be dangerous, however.”
“Danger is fun. It makes for a better story.”
“That is a bard’s answer.”
Uso made a dramatic gesture with his hands. “I know! A bard is what I am, though no one seems to believe that when I tell them.”
“Oh, we believe you’re a bard, among other things.”
“Come now, Subotai. What else would I be?”
“I don’t know, exactly. A very deadly individual.”
“Now, now. I may give that impression, but that’s pure sophistry on my part, a trick of words and facial expression. The soul of a bard’s work is to be believed.”
Subotai chuckled. “I see. You talked all those pirates to death the other day.”
“I’ll admit…I became overly enthusiastic. You know very well the joys of hacking down pirates and brigands. You and Toranaka-san fought bandits for two years.”
“I know someone gripped with the ecstasy of battle when I see it.”
“What are you really here to talk about, Subotai?”
“Dueling.”
Uso brightened. “Ah. I see. You’ll want to practice, then.”
Subotai stood. “If you would. I found a good spot down the beach.” Uso accepted a hand up and the two samurai walked down the smooth, black sand beach.
“No bokken this time out?” Uso asked, easing his swords in their scabbards.
“I trust you.”
“There’s a clear mistake,” Uso said. With a casual gesture, his katana was under Subotai’s chin.
The Moto cast his eyes downward, to where his own sword touched the inside of Uso’s thigh. They both stepped back.
“Nicely done. Bayushi Sakai was fond of that maneuver. He taught me much. Now that the duelist’s pranks are out of the way, we should begin.”
After adjusting their scabbards and setting their feet, the two samurai stood, watching each other closely for several moments. Subotai moved first, but Uso was able to draw and counter his strike, then touch him on the shoulder.
The second draw was much the same as the first, though Uso was harder pressed to execute the block.
The third draw saw Uso get the clear advantage and touch Subotai’s cheek with the tip of his katana. On a few successive draws, both swords touched, closely enough to simultaneous to mean that both men would likely have been hurt badly.
“You’ve improved, Subotai. Your technique has sharpened over the last few weeks.”
“Not enough.”
Uso stood back, taking a big breath and looking at the to their landward side. “Sakai-sama had a lot to say about dueling. I will share a few of his thoughts with you. The first: a lot of the physical…is mental. You are fast. You’re a skilled fighter and your reflexes make you a dangerous duelist. That said, it doesn’t matter how fast you are if you don’t know when the race will begin. You need to center yourself better, and you must learn to be more aware of your enemy. You approach dueling like…like a skirmish, but with a few rules. That’s not at all what it is.”
The two samurai went back to dueling for several more passes. Both had some measure of success, though Uso appeared more at ease and less tired with each successive draw.
“Damn! You’re hardly trying,” Subotai grumbled.
“Oh, I’m trying. I just don’t think you’ll kill me today. If all that time surrounded by Scorpion taught me anything, it taught me to conserve energy for the real dangers. You waste sweat trying. A duel isn’t won by trying, but by watching, knowing, trusting that your sword hand will be there when you need it. Let’s take a break.”
Sitting on the fringe of the sand, beneath the verdant fronds of the jungle, the two samurai wiped the sweat from their faces.
“Do you think I can beat Doji Shunya?” Subotai asked. “I know very well that I was lucky in the Topaz.”
Uso gave a thoughtful pause. “Can you? Perhaps. You’ve been fortunate before. The thing that makes me wonder is this: you don’t like dueling. You think it’s foolish and meaningless. You neither expected nor hoped to win the duel at the Topaz. You had more concern for the poetry, even.”
“Mmm. I suppose that’s true. I thought of it as courtly nonsense. I never aspired to be a duelist. I have little choice now.”
“You have a single dichotomy. You can be complacent and remain as you are, or you can improve. If you fail to improve, a duelist will kill you one day. Perhaps not Doji Shunya, but someone.”
“I know this. I know, too, that you forfeited to me in the Topaz, even though you knew you would likely win. I think you did so to prevent yourself from being in this very dilemma,” Subotai said.
“That’s an intriguing theory, my friend. That said, I bowed out of the dueling because I was struck with terror at your hand speed.”
Subotai nodded. “Of course you did. Shintaro-san is certain of it, as he is certain that I was on the roof when we fought the swamp creature, though I leaped out the window just behind him as the hut exploded.”
Uso only shrugged. “Think what you like, but I am unfailingly sincere. I don’t see how Shintaro’s questionable memory comes into it.”
“Perhaps it does not. Please, if you have more to say about the brewing duel between Shunya and I, speak.”
Uso cocked his head, put a finger to his lips, and seemed almost to be listening to a far off conversation. “You see, it’s like this. As a bard, I’m always fascinated with stories. Stories are everything to me. Stories, despite what some might tell you, are not about facts, not about numbers or dates or the color of the trees at twilight. Stories are about people. What they want, what they can’t seem to get, and the ways in which they try to change the world around them. How do I happen upon stories? I watch people. I listen to them. I see what they spend their time on.
“Aboard the ship, I had the opportunity to watch you. I watched Shunya-san, as well. This is what I saw. You played the drums for Isao during his time of madness. Shunya practiced dueling. You helped with the sailing of the ship. Shunya practiced dueling. You twisted up some new bow strings with Oki. Shunya practiced dueling. You wrestled with Shintaro. Shunya meditated. I believe he was thinking about dueling during his meditation. Do you see a theme here?”
“He cares more than I do,” Subotai said with a sigh.
“Infinitely more! He’s totally obsessed. Dueling is everything to him, and you, a random warrior with a quick hand, beat him in front of the Shogun and an Imperial Heir. That CRUSHED him. He will bear the scar to his dying day. Only killing you in a sanctioned duel will heal it. It’s not as if some Kakita dueling master out-touched him, or even someone outwardly mighty, like Akodo Tetsuru. A Moto? Forgive me, but that is a bitter drink to swallow for a Crane.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Imagine if, say, a Dragon clan shugenja had bested you at horsemanship? Imagine if a Phoenix courtier had beaten you at archery? Would that not shake you to the foundation of your soul?”
“I’d be shamed beyond words to express,” Subotai admitted, poking a stick into the sand near him.
“The only thing that mitigates it at all is that you went on to win the dueling, defeating other worthy adversaries. Even then, your string of good fortune puts you as a superb target for any duelist who wishes to gain fame. It’s likely that you’re only alive right now because dishonoring the Akodo family is an extraordinarily bad idea, and you are their hostage.”
“I’ve considered that. Many times, in fact. It shows how little I knew about dueling at that time that I didn’t even think of the consequences of winning.”
Uso smiled. “I don’t see you as a man who would give less than a full effort, regardless of what came after.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t necessarily a compliment. It goes hand in hand with the headstrong way you approach everything. Sincerity is a great virtue, but there are moments when it must be tempered by discretion…and that, I believe, is all I have to impart about dueling for today. I believe I’ll go and find some sake.”
“Wait, Uso. I…did not really wish to speak of dueling, but something far more perilous,” Subotai admitted, his brow wrinkled with concern.
“Ah, hidden agendas. Superb.” Uso sat back down and knitted his hands in his lap.
Subotai gave a grave look and let out his breath. “Before the Topaz, before I became hostage to the Akodo, my family arranged a betrothal for me. The bride was a daughter of a fine Shinjo household, a family that would be very valuable to have as an ally. The daughter, an Ide courtier, was considered to be highly desirable. It appeared to be a lucrative arrangement for all involved.” His face twisted. “Except, of course, for the principle players.”
“I had heard that there was some level of bitterness there.”
Subotai shook his head. “There were thoughts of bringing in the Kaiu carpenters to build a wall between us. There was a time that I was happier to die at the hands of the Akodo than have to be in the same room with her.”
“And now?”
Subotai produced a scroll case and handed it to Uso. “Read that, if you will.”
Uso read the letter and pushed it back into the scroll case. “It’s good news, yes? Love blossoming in the boughs of the cherry tree and all that?”
“For me, yes. For Toranaka? I don’t know how to approach him with this. I need to see her. It may be my last opportunity, and I don’t want to die somewhere in the jungle without seeing if this…change in our hearts will survive an actual meeting. How can I make this happen without risking his honor and mine? He is my captor, but he’s also like a brother to me. I’m pulled between two horses here.”
“Well, it’s really not so hard as all that. You have to arrange to meet your betrothed in such a way as to let Toranaka control the situation. We can’t have your Unicorn cohorts spiriting you away and promulgating a war between our two clans. That’s not good for anyone involved at this point. You can’t run off on your own, either. You’d endanger the mission we’ve been given. I don’t care to consider the details. Toranaka’s good at that part. Let him know what you need, and allow him to figure out a way. He’ll likely be hostile to the idea at first. He trusts you, but that’s as far as it goes. He doesn’t trust your clan, just as you weren’t able to trust the Lion when their blood was up. Going to Journey’s End Keep is essentially equal to going into Unicorn territory. There are too many things that could go wrong. Your betrothed, and your father, if you wish to meet with him, will have to come to us on neutral ground, if it’s to be done safely.”
“Hmm. Very well. Thank you. Oh, and, as a bard, what wisdom can you give me about dealings with noble ladies? I am not…skilled at these things.”
Uso arched an eyebrow. “Always bring gifts. Yes, that’s important. Let’s see…always have a knife on you, and never allow them to tie you to the bed.”
Subotai’s eyes widened. “Has that been a difficulty for you?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. If you do suspect that you’ll be bound, grease the wrist on your good hand, to give you a better chance to wriggle free.”
“I…I’ll keep that in mind. Erm, perhaps it is a good time for a sake.”
The two samurai rose and walked back down the beach to the dockside, where the industry of boats being loaded and unloaded caused the dock workers to scurry like ants. When they were well away, the one who had witnessed the whole conversation stealthily slipped from his place of concealment and disappeared into the jungle.
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Letter from Shinjo Namori to Moto Subotai
Moto Subotai, son of Kohatsu,
Greetings, my betrothed. Though I know not if you will ever read this letter, I must write it. I must convey the changes these last months have wrought upon my soul. I would first like to thank you for your continued letters, and especially the poetry that you have written. By the great lengths you have gone to prove yourself to me, to indicate that being a Moto is more than riding in the dust and shooting arrows, you have caused me to reconsider all my set opinions, all the assumptions that a life led in courtly purpose have imprinted upon the scroll of my mind.
When we last spoke…no, let us call it what it was. When we last shouted at each other in pain and anger, we were very young, two opposing forces that could do nothing but brew storms in the air between them. I know that I said many unkind things, things that many men would have never been able to forgive. That was not the way with you, Subotai-san. You remembered every word, searched it for meaning, and used my hateful rebuke as fuel for the fires of your progress. I find this honorable. Admirable. I will not lie to you. At first, I sneered at your poetry and your accounts of the Topaz Championship. “So he is improving,” I mused. “He could hardly get worse.”
I was angry at you, angry at my family for pairing me with a Desert Moto, just because it would ensure an important relationship going forward. I was caught up in what I wanted, what I had dreamed of for myself. I did nothing to improve my honor that day, as I turned my back on a daughter’s duty to family and clan. When you said what you did–that anyone who had not felt a horse at full gallop below them, who hadn’t felt the mystery of an arrow arcing toward a target, was no Unicorn at all–that was like a knife in my side. I kept and cherished that pain for months, allowing it to act as justification for foolish behavior on my part.
In silence, I would have continued on like this. If your letters had been filled with self-serving boasts or veiled aggression, I would have never learned anything from our incendiary arguments. You kept writing, always earnest, always quick to minimize your own achievements and give glory to others, even your captors, the hated Akodo. I began to look forward to your letters, as they always contained the sort of wild adventures that one reads about in the legends. Assassination attempts, fights with bandits, entrance into haunted ruins and the like were so different from the staid and careful life of an Ide courtier. You were far away, and it was safe to smile when none could see. It was safe to read your poetry and gaze from my window out onto the plains as the snow fell. It was safe to start feeling something, as each letter seemed bound to be your last. You would either lose interest in me, or the Fortunes would take your life.
Two events changed my world.
The first came in the reporting of the news. You know the one I speak of, where a duelist’s blade set Lion and Unicorn at the brink of war once again. Even as overt action was avoided, I knew that you were there, a nearby enemy for them to vent their anger. It surprised me, the chill feeling of anxiety for your health that I felt. I had grown to enjoy your letters, to respect you, even to send a few noncommittal letters back to you, but I hadn’t expected to have such a reaction. “What does one do,” I asked my mother, “when her beloved is in danger and far away?”
“Do you love him, then, after all this time, and when all appears to be lost?” she asked. I could not answer. She shook her head. “You worry after them, you say their names to the Fortunes and the Kami first thing in morning and last thing at night. There is little else to do.”
The second incident that lead to my change of heart came to me on an arrow, falling from the leaden sky as a storm threatened. I sat, huddled in my winter robes within a carriage. An elderly courtier had taken ill, but was required to give his sanction to a proposal of joint business venture between two important families. Three of us, junior courtiers, were sent to his outlying estate in a carriage to receive his signature on the document.
Several miles from the keep, we were set upon by bandits, men hungry and hollow eyed, come up from the populace southlands after the tragic growing season and its grim aftermath. The two Shinjo bushi who guarded us had been merely a formality, I thought. Who would dare strike so near Outsider Keep? But the times are desperate, and desperation gives men boldness they would otherwise lack.
One of the courtiers, a man named Ide Hideko, tried to aid our guards, and was not two steps from the carriage when he took an arrow to the throat. I pulled him back in, his lifeblood pumping out from nose and mouth, his eyes wide and terrified. He died in my lap, choking on his own fluids. Of the two bushi who guarded us, one succumbed to his wounds later that week, another took a slash to his leg that will give him a permanent limp. I could do nothing but watch, powerless and horrified. It was, perhaps, the first time I had any inkling of what you really do, the dangers to which you are subject.
I lived, and I was unharmed, but that was the moment that I knew that, until I had ridden hard across the land on horseback, until I’d grasped a weapon and looked an enemy in the eye, I would not be whole. I would not be a true Unicorn.
Subotai, you will not comprehend how long I stopped in my writing of this letter, considering burning it after I wrote the last part. It is more than my mind wishes to say, but my heart seems to have triumphed in this battle. It written now, and I won’t take it back. My feelings have changed, and I want you to know. If we ever have the opportunity, I want us to be together. Perhaps I have waited too long, and there will never be a time for us, but I will pray that the Fortunes are not cruel today, because I finally understand, at least a little.
After the events in the carriage, I knew that I had to taste life for myself. Real, wild life, outside the cloister of the court. I volunteered to join your father on the road to the Ivory Kingdoms, to do whatever needed doing. He took me at my word, and put me to work.
I imagined that whatever I encountered would be easy enough. I was wrong. I know now that I had never done a moment’s hard work in all my life, never felt the sweat upon my brow and the sting in the center of my shoulders. I had been an ornament, nothing more. I had never done anything useful. Not really.
In a haze of work and broken sleep and discomfort, I began to know life and taste its full gamut of flavors. Though your father was patient, I was a hazard with a bow, and could not seem to master a sword. “Take this axe. I expect I’ll see my son married to a cripple as I hand it to you, but you must have something in hand to keep savages from carrying you off,” Kohatsu said. I somehow managed to keep from maiming myself with the weapon, and slowly, I began to gain some small skill. I am afraid I bought that skill with all the softness my palms will ever have, though, and that the hard wood of the axe handle has turned my hands into those of a laborer.
It was just last week that, on a meeting with a local antiquities seller, I had occasion to finally put my axe to a test. I will not forget the sound of the blade as it thudded into a ronin’s skull. It wasn’t an honorable kill–his back was turned and he was trying to hoist an Ivendi servant girl to his shoulder–but it happened. It was an act of my own. I could not eat or sleep for a few days afterward, couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the man hit his knees, slapping at his own face as his spirit left him. As the nameless ronin died, it seemed that I was born, something awake in me and singing after years of silence. After all this time, I was finally alive, a Unicorn, a Shinjo.
After saying all this, I will only tell you that I care for you, and that I have learned much. I will be at Journey’s End Keep for another season, and then I return again to the north. I hope this letter finds you, though I doubt any of mine ever have. Of all of them, this is the only important missive I’ve sent. Live, Subotai, and return to me. Don’t let the Lion, or a bandit, or some duelist out to prove his mettle destroy you.
With humble prayers for acceptance and love,
Shinjo Namori
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To be continued next week: http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2014/01/10/the-drowning-empire-episode-42-history-does-not-remember-the-quiet/