Irresistible Forces Read online

  Irresistible

  Forces

  Edited by

  CATHERINE ASARO

  New American Library

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  Winterfair Gifts by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The Alchemical Marriage by Mary Jo Putney

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Author's Note

  Stained Glass Heart by Catherine Asaro

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Skin Deep by Deb Stover

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  The Trouble with Heroes by Jo Beverley

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Shadows in the Wood by Jennifer Roberson

  About the Authors

  Lois McMaster Bujold

  Mary Jo Putney

  Catherine Asaro

  Deb Stover

  Jo Beverley

  Jennifer Roberson

  New American Library Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

  Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, February 2004

  The Work and "Stained Glass Heart" copyright © Catherine Asaro and Tekno Books, 2004; "Winterfair Gifts" copyright © Lois McMaster Bujold, 2004; "The Alchemical Marriage" copyright © Mary Jo Putney, 2004; "Skin Deep" copyright © Deb Stover, 2004; "The Trouble with Heroes" copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 2004; "Shadows in the Wood" copyright © Jennifer Roberson, 2004

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 0-451-21111-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the dancers and teachers of

  The Ballet Theatre of Maryland for their expertise,

  kindness, insights and most of all for helping a starry-eyed young girl reach for her dreams.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the people who made this book possible. To Denise Little, who listened to my dreams of such an anthology and led the way; to Laura Anne Gilman, our much appreciated editor at Roc; to our agent Lucienne Diver, who worked wonders for us; to Marty Greenberg, for his help and support; to my assistant editors, Jeri Smith-Ready and Tricia Schwaab, for their thoughtful input; to the publisher and all the fine people at NAL who put out this book; to publicist Binnie Syril Braunstein, for her enthusiasm on our behalf; and to the authors, who were a joy to work with.

  —Catherine Asaro

  INTRODUCTION

  Writers are fond of two adages: Write what you like to read, and write what you know. I've always enjoyed love stories and I'm a scientist, so I naturally write science fiction romance. When I first started, I had no idea it was an unusual combination. I didn't know optimistic stories of courtship and love had an entire genre called romance or that science fiction with a strong scientific basis was called hard science fiction. I just knew I enjoyed both.

  I never expected my work to stir controversy. So I was startled by the commotion my first book caused. Commentators remarked with surprise on how I blended strong romance with strong science fiction. Yet to me, both romance and science are integral aspects of life. I have always thought that the sharp distinction we make between our emotions and intellects arises more out of cultural expectations than an intrinsic quality of the human mind.

  Some of the best authors in both romance and the genres of science fiction and fantasy have blended these aspects of our humanity to beautiful effect, as in Ursula Le Guin's classic science fiction romance, "Forgiveness Day." In fact, the seeds of speculative romance are as old as storytelling itself, such as in the Greek myths, when our ancestors tried to understand both the human heart and the universe they lived in by invoking a pantheon of gods and goddesses with the power to alter nature.

  Today, what characterizes a speculative romance?

  I've often thought of romance as the figure skating of literature. Skaters constantly seek to perfect their performance, to go for the 10. Romance seeks to tell the ultimate story of romantic relationship, including such classics as a Regency tale of a rake falling for a vicar's daughter, or a time-travel adventure with a modern-day woman stranded in the past. We watch figure skating or read romances for the sheer pleasure of seeing it done well. And just as ice-skaters push the boundaries of their sport with innovative movements, so romance authors push the boundaries of their genre with innovative ideas. As a literary movement, romance is an art with many and diverse forms.

  With science fiction and fantasy, my thoughts turn to rock music. It may be wild or lyrical, rough or gentle, based on classical technique or it may challenge accepted forms, but it always pushes the envelope, trying something new. It's no wonder that such music has become inextricably linked with youthful rebellion: It's about breaking rules. So it is with speculative fiction. It wants to be different. The stories may be exhilarating, dark, optimistic, dire, humorous, gritty, beautiful, in-your-face, or sedate. But they always push boundaries. Extrapolate into the unknown. The story must differ in some basic way from our normal lives. It asks the question "What if?"

  So how do we mix the genres? It doesn't surprise me that science fiction romance became popular in hard science fiction. Such works are about science, and science is about solving problems. Science seeks to better understand the universe, to extend our knowledge and discover new insights. That worldview—or perhaps I should say universe-view—is why hard science fiction is often referred to as an optimistic subgenre; inherent in many of its works is the assumption that whatever intellectual problem drives the plot will be solved. Not all my works or those of other speculative romance authors fit into the hard science fiction sub-genre, but they do share that optimism.

  Romance is the emotional equivalent of hard science fiction; fundamental to its many forms is the assumption that no matter how great the problems of the heart, we can solve them and achieve emotional fulfillment. Underlying romance literature is an intrinsic faith in the human spirit—a belief in the strength of love, honor, and loyalty.

  In my more mischievous moments, I think of science fiction as a strapping young fellow showing off for his ladylove, romance. Intrigued, she comes closer, deciding that maybe this handsome stranger isn't so strange after all. Science fiction romance is their marriage. As in any marriage, it succeeds best when the two partners love and respect each other. A fantasy or science fiction romance will work if the author enjoys both genres and translates that into her or his fiction.

  In this anthology, I have the pleasure of bringing you stories
by many accomplished writers in both speculative and romance fiction. They offer a cornucopia of romantic adventures that take the best of these genres and meld them into a marriage of heart and mind.

  Best regards,

  Catherine Asaro

  www.sff.net/people/asaro/

  Winterfair Gifts by Lois McMaster Bujold

  From Armsman Roic's wrist com the gate guard's voice reported laconically, "They're in. Gate's locked."

  "Right," Roic returned. "Dropping the house shields." He turned to the discreet security control panel beside the carved double doors of Vorkosigan House's main entry hall, pressed his palm to the read-pad, and entered a short code. The faint hum of the force shield protecting the great house faded.

  Roic stared anxiously out one of the tall, narrow windows flanking the portal, ready to throw the doors wide when m'lord's groundcar pulled into the porte cochere. He glanced no less anxiously down the considerable length of his athletic body, checking his House uniform: half-boots polished to mirrors, trousers knife-creased, silver embroidery gleaming, dark brown fabric spotless.

  His face heated in mortified memory of a less expected arrival in this very hall—also of Lord Vorkosigan with honored company in tow—and the unholy tableau m'lord had surprised with the Escobaran bounty hunters and the gooey debacle of the bug butter. Roic had looked an utter fool in that moment, nearly naked except for a liberal coating of sticky slime. He could still hear Lord Vorkosigan's austere, amused voice, as cutting as a razor-slash across his ears: Armsman Roic, you're out of uniform.

  He thinks I'm an idiot. Worse, the Escobarans' invasion had been a security breach, and while he'd not, technically, been on duty—he'd been asleep, dammit—he'd been present in the house and therefore on call for emergencies. The mess had been in his lap, literally. M'lord had dismissed him from the scene with no more than an exasperated Roic…get a bath, somehow more keenly excoriating than any bellowed dressing-down.

  Roic checked his uniform again.

  The long silvery groundcar pulled up and sighed to the pavement. The front canopy rose on the driver, the senior and dauntingly competent Armsman Pym. He released the rear canopy and hurried around the car to assist m'lord and his party. The senior armsman spared a glance through the narrow window as he strode by, his eye passing coolly over Roic and scanning the hall beyond to make sure it contained no unforeseen drama this time. These were Very Important Off-World Wedding Guests, Pym had impressed upon Roic. Which Roic might have been left to deduce by m'lord going personally to the shuttleport to greet their descent from orbit—but then, Pym had walked in on the bug butter disaster, too. Since that day, his directives to Roic had tended to be couched in words of one syllable, with no contingency left to chance.

  A short figure in a well-tailored gray tunic and trousers hopped out of the car first: Lord Vorkosigan, gesturing expansively at the great stone mansion, talking nonstop over his shoulder, smiling in proud welcome. As the carved doors swung wide, admitting a blast of Vorbarr Sultana winter night air and a few glittering snow crystals, Roic stood to attention and mentally matched the other people exiting the ground-car with the security list he'd been given. A tall woman held a baby bundled in blankets; a lean, smiling fellow hovered by her side. They had to be the Bothari-Jeseks. Madame Elena Bothari-Jesek was the daughter of the late, legendary Armsman Bothari; her right of entree into Vorkosigan House, where she had grown up with m'lord, was absolute, Pym had made sure Roic understood. It scarcely needed the silver circles of a jump pilot's neural leads on midforehead and temples to identify the shorter middle-aged fellow as the Betan jump pilot, Arde Mayhew—should a jump pilot look so jump-lagged? Well, m'lord's mother, Countess Vorkosigan, was Betan, too; and the pilot's blinking, shivering stance was among the most physically unthreatening Roic had ever seen. Not so the final guest. Roic's eyes widened.

  The hulking figure unfolded from the groundcar and stood up, and up. Pym, who was almost as tall as Roic, did not come quite up to its shoulder. It shook out the swirling folds of a gray-and-white greatcoat of military cut and threw back its head. The light from overhead caught the face and gleamed off… were those fangs hooked over the outslung lower jaw?

  Sergeant Taura was the name that went with it, by process of elimination. One of m'lord's old military buddies, Pym had given Roic to understand, and—don't be fooled by the rank—of some particular importance (if rather mysterious, as was everything connected with Lord Miles Vorkosigan's late career in Imperial Security). Pym was former ImpSec himself. Roic was not, as he was reminded, oh, three times a day on average.

  At Lord Vorkosigan's urging, the whole party poured into the entry hall, shaking off snow-spotted garments, talking, laughing. The greatcoat was swung from those high shoulders like a billowing sail, its owner turning neatly on one foot, folding the garment ready to hand over. Roic jerked back to avoid being clipped by a heavy, mahogany-colored braid of hair as it swept past, and rocked forward to find himself face to… nose to… staring directly into an entirely unexpected cleavage. It was framed by pink silk in a plunging vee. He glanced up. The outslung jaw was smooth and beardless. The curious pale amber eyes, irises circled with sleek black lines, looked back down at him with, he instantly feared, some amusement. Her fang-framed smile was deeply alarming.

  Pym was efficiently organizing servants and luggage. Lord Vorkosigan's voice yanked Roic back to focus. "Roic, did the count and countess get back in from their dinner engagement yet?"

  "About twenty minutes ago, m'lord. They went upstairs to their suite to change."

  Lord Vorkosigan addressed the woman with the baby, who was attracting cooing maids. "My parents would skin me if I didn't take you up to them instantly. Come on. Mother's pretty eager to meet her namesake. I predict Baby Cordelia will have Countess Cordelia wrapped around her pudgy little fingers in about, oh, three and a half seconds. At the outside."

  He turned and started up the curve of the great staircase, shepherding the Bothari-Jeseks and calling over his shoulder, "Roic, show Arde and Taura to their assigned rooms, make sure they have everything they want. We'll meet back in the library when you all are freshened up or whatever. Drinks and snacks will be laid on there."

  So, it was a lady sergeant. Galactics had those; m'lord's mother had been a famous Betan officer in her day. But this one's a bloody giant mutant lady sergeant was a thought Roic suppressed more firmly. Such backcountry prejudices had no place in this household. Though, she was clearly bioengineered, had to be. He recovered himself enough to say, "May I take your bag, um… Sergeant?"

  "Oh, all right." With a dubious look down at him, she handed him the satchel she'd had slung over one arm. The pink enamel on her fingernails did not quite camouflage their shape as claws, heavy and efficient as a leopard's. The bag's descending weight nearly jerked Roic's arm out of its socket. He managed a desperate smile and began lugging it two-handed up the staircase in m'lord's wake.

  He deposited the tired-looking pilot first. Sergeant Taura's second-floor guest room was one of the renovated ones, with its own bath, around the corridor's corner from m'lord's own suite. She reached up and trailed a claw along the ceiling and smiled in evident approval of Vorkosigan House's three-meter headspace.

  "So," she said, turning to Roic, "is a Winterfair wedding considered especially auspicious, in Barrayaran custom?"

  "They're not so common as in summer. Mostly I think it's now because m'lord's fiancee is between semesters at university."

  Her thick brows rose in surprise. "She's a student?"

  "Yes, ma'am." He had a notion one addressed female sergeants as ma'am. Pym would have known.

  "I didn't realize she was such a young lady."

  "No, ma'am. Madame Vorsoisson's a widow—she has a little boy, Nikki—nine years old. Mad about jumpships. Do you happen't' know—does that pilot fellow like children?" Mayhew was bound to be a magnet for Nikki.

  "Why… I don't know. I don't think Arde knows either. He hardly ever meets any in a fre
e mercenary fleet."

  He would have to watch, then, to be sure little Nikki didn't set himself up for a painful rebuff. M'lord and m'lady-to-be might not be paying their usual attention to him, under the circumstances.

  Sergeant Taura circled the room, gazing with what Roic hoped was approval at its comfortable appointments, and glanced out the window at the back garden, shrouded in winter white, the snow luminous in the security lighting. "I suppose it makes sense that he'd have to wed one of his own Vor kind, in the end." Her nose wrinkled. "So, are the Vor a social class, a warrior caste, or what? I never could quite figure it out from Miles. The way he talks about them you'd half think they were a religion. Or at any rate, his religion."

  Roic blinked in bafflement. "Well, no. And yes. All of that. The Vor are… well, Vor."

  "Now that Barrayar has modernized, isn't a hereditary aristocracy resented by the rest of your classes?"

  "But they're our Vor."

  "Says the Barrayaran. Hmm. So, you can criticize them, but heaven help any outsider who dares to?"

  "Yes," he said, relieved that she seemed to have grasped it despite his stumbling tongue.

  "A family matter. I see." Her grin faded into a frown that was actually less alarming—not so much fang. Her fingers clenching the curtain inadvertently poked claws through the expensive fabric; wincing, she shook her hand free and tucked it behind her back. Her voice lowered. "So she's Vor, well and good. But does she love him?"

  Roic heard the odd emphasis in her voice but was unclear how to interpret it. "I'm very sure of it, ma'am," he avowed loyally. M'lady-to-be's frowns, her darkening mood, were surely just prewedding nerves piled atop examination stress on the substrate of her not-so-distant bereavement.

  "Of course." Her smile flicked back in a perfunctory sort of way. "Have you served Lord Vorkosigan long, Armsman Roic?"