Worlds That Weren't

But the alternate-universe story isn’t always about “Cool, a POD!” Stories of people’s experience are only rarely about seeing history turn. This story, which wouldn’t let me go until I wrote it, is about a woman who followed her son to the wars, and how it feels to her then to be working for the worshipers of the child-eater goddess Astarte (which is where, in this history, the Turks get their red Crescent Moon flag). Military history gives short shrift to mothers-but then, Guillaume, finding himself with a reluctant appreciation of a woman’s usual role in history, is as much a mother as Yolande.

And pigs. Never forget the pigs.

They don’t know a damn thing about history, pigs.

They just become its victims-as people without power tend to.

And for those readers who have read Ash…yes, you do recognize a few names. And, yes, this is the early life of those particular people. I didn’t know it either, until I came to write the story.

Oh, and the baby is precisely who you think she is. But she isn’t important to this narrative. For these people, it could have been any nameless baby at all.

For most of us, after all, names are the first thing lost by history.

Mary Gentle was born in 1956, in England; one of her mothers was a housewife and local cinema employee, the other is a professional astrologer. She left school at sixteen, but has since returned three times; the first time for a BA in politics and English, the second for an MA in seventeenth-century studies, and the third for an MA in war studies.

Her first book, A Hawk in Silver, was written when she was eighteen. After an initial period in the workforce, she has been a full-time professional writer since 1979, and considers it very well said that the self-employed person has an idiot for a boss. However, since this beats having any other idiot for a boss, she plans to stay self-employed as long as she can get away with it.

After her books having been regularly on the short list of more awards than she cares to think about, she is extremely pleased that Ash: A Secret History won the British Science Fiction Award and the Sidewise Award for Alternate History. Ash was also one of the Locus listed fantasy books for 2000. She is immensely cheered by having science fiction, fantasy, and alternate history accolades for the same book.

THE LAST RIDE OF GERMAN FREDDIE

WALTER JON WILLIAMS

“Ecce homo,” said German Freddie with a smile. “That is your man, I believe.”

“That’s him,” Brocius agreed. “That’s Virgil Earp, the lawman.”

“What do you suppose he wants?” asked Freddie.

“He’s got a warrant for someone,” said Brocius, “or he wouldn’t be here.”

Freddie gazed without enthusiasm at the lawman walking along the opposite side of Allen Street. His spurred boots clumped on the wooden sidewalk. He looked as if he had somewhere to go.

“Entities should not be multiplied beyond what is necessary,” said Freddie, “or so Occam is understood to have said. If he is here for one of us, then so much the worse for him. If not, what does it matter to us?”

Curly Bill Brocius looked thoughtful. “I don’t know about this Occam fellow, but as my mamma would say, those fellers don’t chew their own tobacco. Kansas lawmen come at you in packs.”

“So do we,” said Freddie. “And this is not Kansas.”

“No,” said Brocius. “It’s Tombstone.” He gave Freddie a warning look from his lazy eyes. “Remember that, my friend,” he said, “and watch your back.”

Brocius drifted up Allen Street in the direction of Hafford’s Saloon while Freddie contemplated Deputy U.S. Marshal Earp. The man was dressed like the parson of a particularly gloomy Protestant sect, with a black flat-crowned hat, black frock coat, black trousers, and immaculate white linen.

German Freddie decided he might as well meet this paradigm.

He walked across the dusty Tombstone street, stepped onto the sidewalk, and raised his gray sombrero.

“Pardon me,” he said. “But are you Virgil Earp?”

The man looked at him, light eyes over fair mustache. “No,” he said. “I’m his brother.”

“Wyatt?” Freddie asked. He knew that the deputy had a lawman brother.

“No,” the man said. “I’m their brother, Morgan.”

A grin tugged at Freddie’s lips. “Ah,” he said. “I perceive that entities are multiplied beyond that which is necessary.”

Morgan Earp gave him a puzzled look. Freddie raised his hat again. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I won’t detain you.”

It is like a uniform, Freddie wrote in his notebook that night. Black coats, black hats, black boots. Blond mustaches and long guns in the scabbards, riding in line abreast as they led their posse out of town. As a picture of purposeful terror they stand like the Schwarzreiter of three centuries ago, horsemen whom all Europe held in fear. They entirely outclassed that Lieutenant Hurst, who was in a real uniform and who was employing them in the matter of those stolen army mules.