Jerry Pournelle - War World 4 by Invasion

Author:Invasion
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-04-04T23:20:09+00:00

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI, Charles E. Gannon

Perhaps the night had suddenly grown darker, or perhaps he was blacking out due to blood loss; whatever the reason, Emmanuel Knecht felt himself lose balance and fall forward. As he hit the frigid ground, the pain in his left shoulder surged and then burst beyond its former periphery. The pain washed down through his left lung, and a taste of bitter copper rose into his mouth. Emmanuel was mildly surprised to discover that he was able to trace the progress of each new sensation with an almost luxurious detachment. He didn’t even flinch when the crossbow bolt in his left shoulder grated against the frozen earth and pushed through another centimeter of muscle and sinew: that was a bad sign.

The woman was the first to reach him. With a strength that seemed incongruous in her spare frame, she grasped his right upper arm and rolled him over. He closed his eyes as his entire weight was momentarily poised upon his left side; he felt the splintered ends of his shattered collarbone brush against each other. As those conductive points of pain made their brief contact, he felt rather than saw an excruciating, absolute whiteness. But part of his mind remained far away from that actinic agony—a part that kept asking, Why doesn’t it hurt more?

Then Knecht felt the earth against his back and the pain faded, but the brightness grew. Emmanuel allowed his eyelids to open slightly; the woman’s lantern—mostly covered—shone in his eyes. He calmly thought, She’ll get us all killed, and then clawed at the light with his right hand, trying to knock it away.

His hand refused to respond as intended. His attempt to slap aside the lantern manifested as a weak, sweeping gesture, as though he was merely trying to ward off the illumination. However, this feeble effort produced the desired result; she lifted her cloak to cover the lantern. But not before he saw her face more clearly, more proximally, than he had thus far: high, slightly weathered cheekbones framed by sandy blond hair faintly streaked with grey—well-preserved, considering she was a woman in her early twenties.

A woman in her early twenties; ten years ago, some recidivistic male bureaucrats—willfully clinging to their socially-incorrect ways—still insisted upon calling women in their early twenties “girls.” And, ten years ago, there was a certain physiognomic logic to their choice of words; back then, most women of twenty-five were fresh-faced and smooth-cheeked, their bodies graced with sweeping curves that bespoke a healthy mix of fat and muscle. But all that was before the arrival of the Saurons. Now, childhood was over before it had a chance to begin; girls were women by age fifteen.

Above her flesh-taut cheekbones, the woman’s eyes roved back and forth, watching Knecht for signs of consciousness. Hers were sad eyes, he thought; they were grey-blue and bracketed by crow’s feet, each talon-like crease a memento mori of something forever lost. Parents, siblings, friends, virtues: their passings were recorded where her tears had mourned them.

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