The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

cups and whatever. Condoms—the day of single use condoms is over. Wash them—very gently—and let them dry unrolled. Test them by filling them with water and looking for drips.”

That produced a few “ewwws” from the back.

“Next option. The rhythm method. Don’t laugh, it works if you do it right. Peak fertility is two weeks after the start of your period. Keep your legs crossed three days on either side to be safe. If you’ve been on the pill you’ll need a couple months to establish a pattern after you run out, sometimes longer. Talk to me about it if your cycle isn’t regular.”

Burnout waited for a few grumbles to die down.

“Yes, the boys will get cranky. Hand jobs and blow jobs. They work. Normally I’d suggest breaking up with him if he’s being a jackass but I know there’s not many extra men out there.”

“What about anal sex?” someone asked.

Lady Burnout shrugged. “It’s an option. But we’re not getting more lubricant delivered, and we don’t have easy hot water. So hygiene’s an issue. It’ll be worse when we run out of soap.”

“What happens when we run out of tampons?” came a wail from a girl sitting on the examining table.

“Not my department,” said Burnout.

Goldenrod popped up. “Ragbag,” she said. “Sew a little pillowcase, stuff it with cattail fluff, or, well, we’ll find something.” She sat back down.

“Thank you. Work together ladies, we all have something to contribute. Now I’ll let you go.”

The crowd streamed out, seeking cool air. Goldenrod hung back. “My lady?”

Lady Burnout lifted her eyebrows.

“Mistress Filigree had three homebirths. I think she knows some of the theory of midwifery too.”

“Yes, I talked to her already. But don’t tell the youngsters. I want them scared.”

***

“Toss me the soap!” called Pernach.

Redinkle was more relieved than annoyed to hear her husband’s voice. “Where have you been all day? And go get it yourself. You know where it is.”

Pernach stayed in the lane between tents. “You don’t want me in the tent. We were conscripted for privy detail. We need a bath.”

Behind him Pinecone nodded in agreement.

“A bath wouldn’t hurt you either,” said Goldenrod to Newman.

He looked at the blood staining his clothes from butchering the deer, or near-deer, or whatever they were going to call it. “Right.”

Going down the bluff reminded him he wasn’t used to operating in rough terrain any more. Broken plants showed where other people lost their footing and slid down. His legs were feeling the effort after hiking for miles with the hunting party. The other two didn’t seem bothered.

“You’re enjoying this,” Newman said.

“Hell, yeah. I’m not hauling a sixty gallon tank of shit around,” answered Pernach.

“Or having the Royal Guards hassle us,” agreed Pinecone.

“Guards?”

Pernach skirted a patch where the path was trampled into mud. “Eight of us on the detail. Six of the Queen’s Royal Guards to protect us. Not doing any of the work.”

“Spearpoint pitched in with the carrying when we slipped,” offered Pinecone.

“Until his sergeant told him to stop.”

Pinecone held out a steadying hand when Newman reached the steepest part. “At least they didn’t hit either of us.”

Newman stopped walking. “The guards were hitting people?”

“Just that guy Stonebridge,” said Pernach. “He was slacking.”

“Damn. Did the guards threaten you?”

“No . . . but I made sure they could see me working hard.”

The bluff flattened out into a smooth flood plain. A brief walk brought them to the river bank. Signs were up with arrows marking upstream for drawing water, downstream for bathing and dumping trash. Another said, “Wading only—No Swimming.” A two foot length of purple tentacle was nailed to it.

Newman pointed to some guys splashing water on themselves among a few rocks. “That looks like a safe spot.”

***

Mistress Seamchecker had been thrilled with the taste of the cooked vineroot slices. As they walked back to House Applesmile, Goldenrod brainstormed with Newman on experiments for planting and cultivating the vegetable.

“Good day, Master Orrery,” said Goldenrod.

“Hello, my dear. How are you?” Orrery cocked an eye at Newman. Goldenrod performed introductions.

The craftsman was interrogating Newman about the construction of his bow when shouting broke out.

“Hey, look at that one! It’s not a bird, it’s a plane.”

“No, it’s Superman,” someone quipped.

“It is a plane. It’s flying in a straight line. There’s a city out there!” said a third.

Orrery ducked into his tent, emerging with a massive set of non-medieval binoculars. It only took him a moment to spot the object the crowd was pointing at. He twitched.

“Goldenrod, my dear, please tell me what you see.” He passed her the binoculars.

She needed a bit longer to find it. She handed the binoculars to Newman without a sound.

Newman didn’t have any trouble focusing in. They were similar to field glasses he’d used in the Army.

The object had looked like a plane to his naked eye—a black cross, wings rigid. Magnified the body was reptilian. A trickle of smoke trailed from one of the oversized nostrils. The bat-like wings flapped once then went stiff again.

Newman lowered the binoculars. “It’s a dragon.”

Goldenrod and Orrery sighed in relief at his confirmation. The craftsman took them back for another look. “Yes, looks like a dragon to me too. Hell of a place we’ve landed in.”

He let some others take turns to confirm it. A few who’d hoped for rescue wept. Most took it calmly.

The least calm reaction was a motherly rant. “No, you’re not. One, it would eat you. Two, we can’t eat gold. Three, you have work to do here.”

***

Master Sweetbread made an experiment for dinner. Mashed vineroot baked with diced sausage mixed in. House Applesmile unanimously declared it a success.

Pinecone was scraping the burnt bits off the bottom of the pot when Lady Stitches arrived, four