The Wrong Lance Read online

  Title Page

  Splinter Universe Presents!

  The Wrong Lance

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Thanks

  Copyright Page

  Author's Introduction to | The Wrong Lance

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Author's Afterword

  About the Authors

  Novels by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  Novels by Sharon Lee

  THANK YOU

  Thanks

  to Mighty Tyop Hunters Chuck Diters and Deborah Fishburn

  your efforts are appreciated!

  Any typos or infelicities that remain in the text are the fault of the authors

  Copyright Page

  Splinter Universe Presents!

  The Wrong Lance

  Pinbeam Books: pinbeambooks.com

  #

  Copyright August 2020 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  #

  All of the content collected in this book has previously been posted to Splinter Universe (splinteruniverse.com).

  #

  Cover design by selfpubbookcovers.com/RLSather

  ISBN: 978-1-948465-11-3

  Author's Introduction to

  The Wrong Lance

  As posted on Splinter Universe, May 25, 2020

  Those of you who have been with us for a little while may recall that in early 2018, Steve and I threw away the first 70,000 words of a Liaden novel titled Accepting the Lance. It was not an easy decision—it's never an easy decision to throw out so many words—not even bad words, merely not the right words.

  The way Steve and I work is that one of us is lead on each particular title—and we do swap off. The person who is lead on the project currently in hand has what is in essence a third vote, to be cast in case of a tie in case of a creative disagreement.

  I was lead on Lance, and the . . . error is mine to own, the book died in my hands. I brought the cooling corpse to Steve and asked him to read it, in case it wasn't really dead, but only resting, because I had taken a minor wrong turn in direction. Sadly, his verdict was the same as mine: It's dead, Jim.

  So, we did what we had to—we pitched those words, contacted Madame at Baen to report the death, and asked for a new delivery date, which she graciously provided.

  And we started over. I was once again lead; I flatter myself that this time I got it right. Accepting the Lance, the Correct Edition, was published by Baen in December 2019.

  Now, there's a Sekrit Thing that authors do—or rather, that we don't do—when a book dies and we "throw it out," and that is—we don't delete the wrong words. Good Ghod, no. Because—you never know. You never know when a scene in the wrong book will slot into the new book, and be Just The Thing.

  Which is what happened with Accepting the Lance. Several scenes in The Wrong Lance will seem familiar to readers of the published novel. The scenes are included in the outtake because we wanted those reading along at home to have the Entire Experience of what it feels like when a narrative is rolling right along—and then drops in its tracks.

  Now, I don't want to say too much in this introduction—I don't, let us say, want to spoil the experience of The Wrong Lance for you. I will say, however, that one of the reasons I identified later, which led to the story off-railing, is that I tried to continue the narrative directly from the last scene of Neogenesis. There's a tradition, see; people expect certain things from books written in series, such as direct sequels starting in certain places. I really felt pressured by this expectation, so I forced myself to start in the traditional way. This was, in retrospect, A Mistake.

  Those who have read Accepting the Lance will note that I did not make that Mistake a second time. This allowed me to have access to pieces of the real story that I had turned my back on by starting in the Wrong Place.

  . . . and I think that's enough to get us started. I hope that this exercise provides entertainment, and enlightenment. That's putting a lot on an outtake from a failed novel, but, really, the words are perfectly good, even if they're not canon.

  To review, there are 11 chapters in The Wrong Lance, about 44,000 words. Chapter One will post next Monday, June 1, for Patrons Only on Patreon, and on Splinter Universe. For those coming in late, here's a link to the Things You Need to Know about this project.

  'til next week, then – Sharon Lee.

  Chapter One

  Surebleak

  Jelaza Kazone

  Miri watched the car out of sight before turning back toward the house. She'd argued for the delm's office today, and Val Con hadn't fielded anything more than token resistance. Which meant they'd been on the same page, and it really didn't matter if that was courtesy of the lifemate link, or just a case of great minds thinking alike.

  What mattered was getting him another set and order of problems to chew on, so he could come back fresh to the mess that was Clan Korval's on-going personal business. And, truth told, they had to open the Road Boss's office today—most especially with the survey team from TerraTrade still on-port, asking questions, counting heads, reviewing systems, and in general making everybody nervous.

  There was, Miri acknowledged, as she walked down the hall to the delm's office, some risk in having Val Con on the same port as the survey team, but after the little dust-up at the reception, she counted on Team Leader Kasveini to make sure it was herself who conducted the interview with the Road Boss.

  And, if it turned out that the team leader wasn't sensible, or wanted to push an issue, then she'd just have to depend on Val Con wanting Surebleak Port upgraded and certified more than he wanted to visit mayhem on idiots who questioned Korval's honor.

  In the meantime, all they really had to do was to keep their heads down, and not do anything outlandish that skewed more attention their direction. How hard could that be?

  She opened the door to the delm's office, and went directly to the buffet to pour herself a cup of coffee. The scanner was on, which was Val Con's habit. The names and home ports of ships incoming, and the filed destinations of ships outgoing imparted actual meaningful information to him. To her, not having been raised to have a familiarity of ships and ports and politics, the scanner was at best an occasional amusement and at worst just . . . noise.

  Still, she didn't detour on the way to the desk to turn the thing off. Today, the calm voices talking over the details of her homeworld's traffic were . . . comforting.

  She pulled the chair out, checked to be sure a cat hadn't taken possession before her, and sat down, tapping the screen on.

  There was mail in the delm's in-box. Not exactly a surprise.

  She pulled up the first, which was from Ms. dea'Gauss, acknowledging receipt of the delm's direction to discover funding for the clan's newly acquired space station. She assured them that the project was a priority, and that she expected to have preliminary figures within the week. In the meanwhile, she allowed that a schematic of the station, systems inventory, a list of needed upgrades in order of urgency, as well as a detailed report on the damaged portion of the ring, would assist her greatly in her work. Also, if the station keepers would send their estimate of expected traffic and a ranked list of services and amenities required by said traffic, that, too, would be of assistanc
e.

  Miri sipped coffee while she wondered whether the keepers had any notion how much traffic they were likely to see, and what services the Free Ships she understood were expected to be Tinsori Light's main clientele would want most. Well, they had Tolly Jones to consult, there.

  She shook her head.

  "Gonna be a job of work," she commented to no one in particular. And that was before anybody figured out how Free Ships paid their bills.

  "Jeeves—" she began—

  "Sleet and snow!" the scanner shouted. "Didja see that! It come right outta the sun, I'm tellin' you! No signature, no glare—"

  "Meteor alert! Incoming! Keep to assigned orbits. If you are on approach, stay on course."

  Miri spun to stare at the scanner. Meteor? She thought. Came right out of the sun, was it? She felt a slight chill in the warm office.

  "Jeeves, can you see that rock?"

  "Yes, Miri. I am coordinating with Bechimo. The route is unconventional, but we believe that it is a route, nor is the object detritus—"

  "A ship," she interrupted, realizing that she had come to her feet.

  "Yes," Jeeves said again. "I have a broad match with the Clutch vessel that transported Korval's holdings to Surebleak. However, the vessel incoming is much smaller, and—ah. Bechimo has backtracked to the entry point. We have very good reason to believe that it is using the electron substitution drive. I have extrapolated its course—on a heading for—"

  "Our back field?"

  "No, Miri. It is on course for our driveway."

  She blinked.

  "Odds of survival?"

  "One hundred percent," Jeeves said promptly. "It is already slowing its descent. I estimate arrival in—"

  "I have a communication from the approaching vessel," came a pleasant, unfamiliar voice. Comm Officer Joyita that must be, Miri thought, patching in on the shielded house line. She decided to be pissed about that later.

  "Proceed, please, Mister Joyita," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am. Pilot identifies herself as Emissary Twelve and states she is on the business of the Elders. An immediate meeting with the Delm of Korval is requested." There was a small pause.

  "She apologizes for this unseemly haste, and pleads . . . necessity, ma'am."

  "Thank you, Mister Joyita." Miri sighed, and turned toward the door.

  "Jeeves, with me, please."

  "Yes, Miri."

  "Readiness report," she said, walking quickly, but not running, toward the front door.

  "The nursery has been sealed and shielded. House shields are engaged. The Southern Suite has been sealed, by agreement with Captain Waitley. I am recording, and sending live to the office of the Road Boss."

  "Does Mister Joyita have permission to access in-house communications?"

  "Miri, he does, retroactively. We had been discussing comm security protocols, as he had been kind enough to point out an error in my configurations. This present event overtook us before I could effect a repair."

  "I see."

  She felt a slight niggle at the back of her mind, and glimpsed a glitter of intense and tightly-woven pattern. Val Con had the feed, now, and was focused on it, all his training to the fore. He wasn't worried, so far as she could tell, and that soothed her in a way Jeeves' assurances hadn't.

  Still, she thought, coming to a branching of the hall; big rocks that were only small in comparison to out-of-reason enormous rocks, coming down 'way too close to a good subsection of the people she cared about most. Even the Clutch made mistakes—at least, she assumed so.

  And, if the house shields were up, there wasn't one damn' bit of good in her going to the door.

  She turned right and followed the hall to the morning parlor, where there was a screen. For that matter, there was a screen in the delm's office, but she hadn't been thinking, had she?

  It was then that she felt it, a warm pressure, as if he had kissed her cheek.

  Smiling, she stepped into the parlor.

  "Show me, please," she said.

  The screen came live, one half displaying the projected course, with deceleration rates, approach path, and approximate time of arrival on their doorstep.

  The other half of the screen showed the object itself, rock-like as it was. As she watched, a ghost overlaid the approaching vessel—the image of the ship that had brought Jelaza Kazone, house and Tree, all of yos'Galan's household goods, with room left over for a few atmosphere fliers to get tucked 'round the edges—to Surebleak.

  "Courier ship," she said. Jeeves must've figured she was talking to herself, because he didn't answer.

  She felt the sense of Val Con's interested attention intensify, and then fade, as if he was satisfied with both the ship and its proposed docking; and had stepped back into being Road Boss.

  Frowning, she scrutinized the screens again. Half an hour, more or less, before Emissary Twelve was with them. Time for a cup of coffee.

  She'd just drawn a mugful from the carafe on the buffet when she heard the clatter of boots on the front stair. With a nod, she picked up another mug and filled it from the tea pot.

  Light steps moved down the hall, and she turned, mug in hand, offering an easy smile.

  "Hey, Theo. Want some tea?"

  Val Con's sister blinked, and shook her wispy pale hair back from her face. She had the family features—pointed chin, decisive nose, well-marked brows—but her expressions were more open than were usually found among her kin, even when they were being deliberately broad, for the benefit of children and Terrans.

  "Tea'd be great, thanks," Theo said, coming forward to take the mug.

  "Bechimo says there's a Clutch ship coming in for a landing."

  "Jeeves says the same. If we're to believe the message caught by Mister Joyita, we're expecting Emissary Twelve, who needs to see the delm immediately, and who's sorry for the bother, but pleads necessity."

  Theo paused with the mug half-way to her mouth.

  "Necessity?" she repeated.

  "That's the message."

  "When—" Theo began, then stopped, her gaze jumping to the screens.

  "I saw—Bechimo showed me the route in. They'll be lucky if they're only slapped with a fine."

  Miri blinked.

  "Gods, I hadn't even thought of that. As soon's the portmaster realizes it's a ship, not a rock, she's going to have to fine 'em. Especially with the—"

  BOOM.

  * * *

  Tapout Quarry

  "How many are viable?" the driver asked, pulling the all-terrain buggy close to the edge of the quarry lip.

  The passenger brushed her fingers over her screen in an arcane pattern, looked up, her face pinched with cold.

  "Of the six in the pit, three. They will do little for us beyond adding to the noise. The four over there—"

  She used her chin to point at the field beyond, where machinery hulked, rust-colored and quiescent in the dim light.

  "Those four are walkers; equipped with blades, scythes, grinders, and other instruments of destruction. All four are viable, and ought to remain so for a significant time."

  The driver consulted the on-board map, then squinted out over the land, gauging direction.

  "More than a diversion," he said at last, and with satisfaction.

  "Oh, indeed; food-crops cannot hope to stand against those," the passenger said. She paused as if considering the question fairly. "Nor could a farmer."

  "Once they're started, they'll go until they meet with an accident, or run out of fuel?"

  "They will continue unless or until they meet with an accident," the passenger said. "They are self-powered. The longer they walk, the more fuel they have available to them."

  "What're the chances of them having a set o'keys?"

  "Slim. Management would have kept the keys and the codes. If either had been available to those left behind, the machines would surely have been put to work, rather than left to rust."

  "Good," said the driver. "Fire at will."

  The passen
ger tapped her screen in a rapid sequence.

  Across the quarry, one of the large pieces of equipment shifted. Lights came on at the apex, as if some giant creature had opened its eyes. It rolled forward slightly, gears clashing and snarling. The racket seemed to wake its comrades; lights snapped on, great blades flexed, and they began—slowly at first, but rapidly picking up speed—to move, down the hill and toward the village at its base.

  * * *

  Dudley Avenue and Farley Lane

  It might have been a roll of thunder that waked Daav. If so, it waked only him. His bedmates slumbered on, Kamele's head on Aelliana's shoulder; a pleasant picture, which he tarried a moment to admire before slipping out from beneath the blankets.

  His pants came easily to hand, and he pulled them on before turning toward the window. A line of very bright light showed at the edge of the drawn shade; he eased it up a fraction and gazed upon a morning already well underway, and a brilliant, cloudless sky. Well, then, possibly it had only thundered in his dreams. Certainly, it would not have been the first time.

  He let the shade fall back, looking again to the bed, and the pair slumbering there. Given the advancing hour, he really ought to wake them. Surely they had tried Kareen's patience—and her hospitality—far enough. He and Aelliana had stopped for a morning visit, and had proceeded to monopolize Kamele all day. They ought, he told himself wryly, to have expected that—after so much time, and so many adventures, in which Aelliana's physical presence, and his own abrupt youthening, were not the least strange—of course it would take hours—days!—to catch themselves up. It had been his error, to expect that Kamele would meet them coldly. His grievous error, unworthy of the man who had been Kamele Waitley's onagrata for twenty Standards.

  Well, and he had his error shown to him, and they three had filled in the broad outlines, at least. His sister had been forbearing, and perhaps even kind—witness the discreet series of trays sent up to the scholar's office, and the lack of a call to Prime.

  To tell truth, neither he nor Aelliana had planned a bed visit, nor, he was persuaded, had Kamele. Yet, when the moment came, it had been recognized by all, and accepted as inevitable.