NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC:

Many say that getting a multi people thread going and working with an actual start and end in Nationstates is more or less impossible. Here goes my attempt.

I’ve been playing NS for three years soon and I think it has been like a rollercoaster. It has had its good part and its bad parts, mostly the bad parts occur when you forget that it is only a game and that it is not about winning but sharing stories. Some stories are really good and some are… well, less good.

Over the years many hours have been spent reading and sometimes writing posts in here and since I cant claim the days back, even if I wanted, I think I can actually say that the hours spent here has been as entertaining as any book and I think there are a lot of really imaginative minds out there. And a lot of talent.

I have tried to assemble 24 writers that have made me waste much time in front of the computer, getting girlfriends to ask what I’m laughing about and many a times telling me to “get away from that #/&#¤ computer!”

I have not done a ranking or anything like that. I just asked 24 writers whose posts I have really enjoyed over the years to write something Christmassy.

Chasing this group together has been like herding a pack of cats and I really hope I will be able to fulfill this on the path that leads to Christmas by collecting all these posts. But only time will tell and that time is only 24 small days..

IC:




There were some parts of the big city that was poorer than others. Those neighborhoods that made you ensure the doors of your cars were locked and made you only slow down but never fully stop when the traffic lights were red. Graffiti and garbage were everywhere here. They were everywhere in the city, if it came to that, but elsewhere the garbage was better quality rubbish and the graffiti was close to being correctly spelled. Now a thin layer of snow was covering the street and outside an off-license store a group of men was warming themselves by a fire burning in a barrel, glowing red by the heat and turning the small flakes that landed in it instantly to steam. Small clouds came out in puffs from the men as they held out their hands over the flames.

Taking a left turn after that shop brings you to a small house. Actually it looks like a big house since it is a lot of small houses built together. It almost has grown like an organic being, house added to houses and new houses built on the roofs of the old ones. On the second floor, best reached by using that old wooden ladder that lacked about a third of its step, there was a small corridor between the houses that led to a door decorated with a twig from a Christmas tree.

This was the house of Carl-Bertil Jonsson and his five brothers and sisters. Carl-Bertil worked hard as a code monkey for a huge software company, creating short code patterns that was copied and pasted into various programs. Carl-Bertil spent 12 hours a day 7 days a week in a so called “Flexible area” where he shared the office with 60 other programmers. Most of the time they made so called redundant code that was tested against other code shacks and then the best one went into the program. This year Carl-Bertil had spent an extra hour every day to be able to afford something special for his family.

Carl-Bertil ploughed through the snow on his way home, stomping his feet hard every step to keep the numb feeling out of them. He carried a big backpack that made him almost bend double from its sheer weight. He had finished work an hour early after opening a huge presentation and putting a weight on the space button on his keyboard. He had managed to get to one of the shops and now had some stuff for everyone in his family on his back, even as he was bent he still felt light as he saw the faces of his siblings at Christmas Eve when they got their presents.

He passed the men by the burning barrel, just nodding to them as he walked by, he would be home in a few minutes. He just had one more block to go, just had to pass that area that usually was completely dark, as no lights were working, but this time was lit up by the white snow. He was halfway there when he heard the man coming up behind him. It was a scruffy looking man with a big white beard who came out from one of the alleys. The man was preluded by the stench of alcohol and his big red nose clearly spoke about a serious intake of drugs. He gave Carl-Bertil a wild look as he approached him.

-“That’s a big rucksack you have on yer back there!” the man said as he glared at Carl-Bertil with a pair of blood shot eyes. Carl-Bertil tried to get past him but the man seemed to use those extra kilos around his weight as a road block and effectively screened him. “Have ye been good enough to deserve it all fer yerself?”

Carl-Bertil was used to the neighborhood and was not very stressed but the heavy back pack kept him from running away from the man, even if the man clearly enough was not in shape.

-“Only clothes for my brothers. Could you please move out of my way?” Carl-Bertil tried to shove past but the man used his superior weight to stand his ground, the breath reeked of sweet alcohol.

-“I’m sure ye can share sum with ole Sanny” The scruffy man pulled out something heavy bludgeon like from his sack and waved it menacingly in front of him, the thing made a muffled “kling-klong” as he moved it.

-“No!” Carl-Bertil shouted as he shoved harder at the man, trying to get past him. The man swung the big bell in a wide arc and hit Carl-Bertil on his arm. A jolt of pain went through his body as the big bludgeon like bell connected.

-“Lemme have it!” The man howled as he swung it once more and this time hitting Carl-Bertils temple turning his whole world red as felt the pain. Carl-Bertil fell to his knees, still refusing to let go of his bag, as the man started to swing again. He felt the bell connect and something warm streaming down his face and dripping into the snow as his face connected with the ground just seconds after his blood. It was then he heard the voices.

-“What do you think you’re doing! Get him!! Watch out for that bell!!” Carl-Bertil heard the voices as if they were far far away, yet close and he suddenly felt hands grabbing him and pulling him up.

-“Are you allright kid? You’re going to get a big bump out of that.” Strong hands raised him up. “Hey! I recognize him! It’s the Jonsson kid, he lives just next door to here” He saw friendly faces, recognizing them from the neighborhood, the same men that had been warming themselves by the barrel a few minutes ago. A man grabbed him by his arm and picked up his backpack with his free hand. “I’m gonna get you home kid! This neighborhood never was like this before.” Carl-Bertil heard muffled sounds from the scruffy looking man now held by three of the other men as he tried to focus. The man who had talked to him led him to his house, talking to him all the way to make sure he was ok.

Just half an hour later he was sitting in his house by the fire. A big bandage adorned his head as one of his siblings handed him a glass of hot chocolate. He felt the warmth from the fire and liquor his brother had put in the chocolate spread through his body and smiled as he threw a glance at the wardrobe where the man had helped him hide the backpack. Something made him stir and he realized that there was a sound outside the house. Slowly getting himself up he looked out from the one window that looked out over the outside. He saw the men had moved the barrel and now stood just meter from where he had been attacked. They were standing there and through the window he could hear them singing.

When we finally say good night,
How I'll hate going out in the storm;
But if you really hold me tight,
All the way home I'll be warm.
The fire is slowly dying,
And, my dear, we're still good-bye-ing,
But as long as you love me so.
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

He smiled as he watched the men stand there around the barrel and told his younger brother to run out to them with some cookies and a bottle of that warm chocolate. He looked at the men standing there, thinking of how caring people could be and how lucky he was for living in this neighborhood.

The night was full of song, from a lamppost on the street swung the body of a red clad man with a big white beard.

The familiar rap-tap-tap of Uncle Joe’s cane on the stone floor of the foyer brings shouts of joy from the upstairs of the house. Two tiny bundles come streaking down the staircase and jump on Joe, who caught them deftly but has to drop his cane staggers a bit under their weight. Their mother, who is a good five paces slower coming down the stairs, follows.

“Unkie Joe! Unkie Joe!” chant the twins and he kisses them both on the forehead.
“Liz! Lily!” he exclaims. “Oof! All right, girls, my back needs a break!”

“Ok,” they reply and he hands them off to their mother, who transfers them to the ground. She then picks up Joe’s cane and hands it back to him.

“It’s great to see you again, Joseph,” she says, kissing him on the cheek.

“You too, Emily,” he replies. “What are the holidays without family? The place looks great!”

“Even though it looks like it’s going to be another dry Christmas. Can I get you something to drink?” asks Emily.

“Not right now, Em. I’m going to need all my wits to keep up with these troublemakers!” He runs his hands through Liz’s hair, causing her to giggle and clutch onto his leg. “Dear God, it just feels so good to get out of the city. I swear I’ve never breathed air this fresh before.”

“Do you want to take a walk down to the lake?” asks Emily. “It’s well-frozen by now and some of the local kids have started skating on it.”

“Mommy, you said you’d play Go-Fish with us!” protests Lily, her hands on her hips.

“We will,” smiles Joe. “I’ll even play with you -- but first Unkie Joe has to get all the presents he brought out of the trunk, and there can’t be any peeping eyes!”

The girls squeal and have a contest to see who can get up to their room the fastest. Joe knows there will be eyes peeking out of keyholes; that’s why he wrapped everything up before leaving Ianapalis.

“Where’s Brian?” asks Joe as Emily gets on her overcoat to help him carry his luggage inside.

“Upstairs,” sighs Emily. “Where else? Ever since he graduated, he does nothing but lie around and write letters.”

“To Ed?” asks Joe quietly as they walk outside. His big Westerton Jackrabbit is parked near the door. Emily just nods. “That’s good,” Joe says. “A boy needs to talk with his father sometimes.” He pops the trunk and rummages for a large package wrapped in green and red. “Listen, Em, has he thought about getting a job? Or going on to a university?”

“I wish I could just get him to take out the trash,” smiles Emily. “Those things are beyond my scope of reckoning.”

“There’s going to be another draft,” says Joe. Emily pauses in mid-step, Joe’s big suitcase dangling from her arm.

“Beg pardon?”

“Another draft, Em. Brian’s class is going to get called up to fight in Gadsan. Bradsworth doesn’t want to announce it too close to Christmas, though. I figure he’ll announce it sometime soon, though.”

“They can’t call up Brian!” exclaims Emily. “For God’s sake, Joe, he just turned eighteen a month ago!”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hand in defense. “It’s crazy, I know, but you’ve seen the casualty lists. We’re really taking our lumps out there.”

“That doesn’t justify sending little boys into a meat grinder! I’ve already given my husband -- they can’t take my son too, can they?”

“They won’t, Em,” Joe says. “Look: Bertie Marin, the Director of Education, owes me a favor or two. I think I might be able to get Brian’s name on the short-list of students who will receive state scholarships overseas. As long as Brian’s on that list or attending one of those schools, he can’t be drafted.”

Emily is absolutely speechless. “Joe, you shouldn’t..” she manages at last.

“It’s nothing, sis,” he says, hoisting the twin’s present out of the trunk and tucking it under the arm without the cane. He slams the trunk shut with his other hand. “I’ve already talked to Bertie; all Brian has to do is write up an application and send it in. Just consider it an early Christmas gift.”

Brian appeared at the doorway as they were carrying everything in.

“Hi, Uncle Joe,” he says. “Sorry; I didn’t hear you pull up.”

“That’s all right, son,” Joe replies with a small smile. “Merry Christmas, Brian. Are you in for Go-Fish?”

Emilja Farasiewicz shivered lightly in the Christmas snow, gathering her coat more tightly around her. One of the nice things about Wyrnsk was that you could have a white Christmas. The island, isolated from most of the other Danaan principalities, was located in the Northern Hemisphere, even further north than the Excalbian Isles. Still, snow had its downside as well, hurrying home from the store at night, as she now was.

As Emilja stepped into her apartment, Gawel and Sabina rushed out of their bedrooms, throwing their little arms around mother. “Mama! Mama!” Gawel cried out. “Are you going to make peacock pie tonight?” Gawel was rather excited by foreign foods and was constantly trying to get her to cook them. He seemed to feel it made him sophisticated. Emilja, an enthusiastic cook, had no problem satisfying her thirteen year old son.

Emilja pushed passed the hugs of her children to set the groceries down on the kitchen table. “Yes, dear one, I’m making peacock pie tonight. I just came from getting a bird.” she said as she took out the peacock, beginning to prepare it.”

“Wow! That bird looks good enough to be a Christmas dinner!” Sabina exclaimed, running over to look at the large peacock.

“Well, we’re having chicken on Christmas.” Emilja insisted. “While I’m making dinner, why don’t you two go wrap the presents you got for your father? If I don’t send get them to the post by tomorrow, it’s unlikely Papa will get them by Christmas.”

“The post? Why can’t Papa come home for Christmas?” Sabina asked sulkily, her nine-year old face looking sadly up at her mother.

Emilja sighed. “We’ve been over this, dear one. Your father has to go fight for his country and for freedom in Ambara. You know how bad things used to be over there back before the war. Your father is protecting all those people from a return to all that.”

“Why aren’t we having goose?” Sabina inquired. “We always have goose.”

“Well…that’s because your father always goes and bags one himself. The goose hunt in a Christmas tradition Papa and some of the other neighborhood men have.” Emilja explained.

“But you can just buy a goose.” The girl persisted. “They’re cheaper than peacocks. We can afford it easy.”

“That’s not…” Emilja sighed lightly, realizing her daughter wouldn’t understand. “Go wrap Papa’s presents. We’ll talk about it later.” As the children scurried off, she sat down quietly for a moment and put her head in her hands. “Oh, Narcyz. Where are you tonight?”

The Best Present


The weather had changed drastically over the past week. Ice and frost were regular morning greeters and due to the chill factor, they remained through to the afternoon, much to the distress of Libby Harkner as she made her way home from school. Fortunately the wind seemed to be less fierce than it had been for a few days, which according to her mother did not bode well for the possibility of snow, or so the radio channel that Mrs Harkner listened to each morning had informed her.

So, it was that Libby had exited the school building, wrapped warmly in her winter coat, hat, gloves and scarf, with her boots on just in case it snowed. Of course this caused her to waddle along like a Michelin man, making the journey home so much slower than she would have liked, but she had little other choice if she did not want to freeze.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not at first spot the car that drove slowly along the road beside her, trailing her until it pulled slightly ahead and stopped. The driver clicked the button and wound down the electronic window.

“Hey, Libby!” A male voice called from inside the vehicle. “Climb in and I’ll give you a lift home.”

Stopping, Libby turned and gazed at the driver, her eyes twinkling with recognition. She moved over to the open window and peered inside. “Hey, Jason.” She smiled. “This is a little out of your way, isn’t it? I thought you were training?”

Jason mock shivered and grinned. “Cancelled. So I thought I would catch you up and give you a lift. I don’t want you freezing to death on me.” He clicked another button to unlock the door, then leant over and opened it for his girlfriend.

“Oh, you really don’t need to go out of your way.” Libby stuttered, a little surprised by this sudden turn of events. “You live on the other side of town, and it’s supposed to snow soon.” She paused for a moment, not making any move to climb inside.

“Libby, we’ve been going steady for a year now, and you seem so eager to keep me from your house.” Jason frowned, the thought irking him like it always did. He really did not know why she was so keen to keep him away from her home life. Whenever they went on dates, she would always meet him there and then find her own way home. “Are you ashamed of me?”

Shaking her head, Libby looked horror struck. “No, no, of course not.” She gave him an awkward smile, then pulled open the door before settling herself in the passenger seat. “It’s just…out of your way.”

“If I can’t give the girl I love a lift home, even if it is out of the way, what kind of boyfriend am I?” He leant over and pressed a kiss to her lips, as she looked at him, struggling to battle his way passed the scarf that hid some of her face. “Relax.” Gunning the engine, he sped the car off towards Libby’s home.

Some time later, the car pulled up in Lampart Street, outside of the house that Libby shared with her parents and younger brother. Jason looked at Libby and smiled, as he got his first look at her home, his eyes showing him to be pleasantly surprised. Because she had been afraid to allow him to visit, he had visualised her living in some dive, with drunken parents and old refrigerators littering the front yard.

“I don’t know why you didn’t want me to see your home, it’s wonderful.” Jason grinned and pushed open his door, climbing out quickly to get around to Libby’s side of the car to assist her out, but by the time he had made the short walk, she was already standing on the path.

“Thank you for the lift, Jason.” Libby smiled, before turning towards her house, checking to see if anyone was looking. She turned and pressed a kiss to Jason’s lips. “I’ll call you, and we’ll do something over the holiday.” Turning she walked towards the front door.

Jason stood dumbfounded for a moment, before he slammed shut the passenger door and dashed after her. “Wait! Libby!” He caught up with her and stopped her motion by placing his hand on her shoulder. “What’s the rush?”

Libby remained standing for a moment, before she turned towards him. Despite her smile, her eyes were sad. “No rush, it’s freezing and I didn’t want us to get cold.”

“Well…” Jason grinned and looked towards the house. “You could always invite me in for something warm to drink.”

“No!” Libby stopped suddenly, realising that she was overreacting. “My…um…parents are not in and they don’t like me to bring people inside if they aren’t home. You know how parents are.”

Jason nodded his head, stunned by her reaction. “Sure.” He lowered his hand from her shoulder and took a step back. “Parents can be funny like that. I’ll see you later.”

As he turned to leave, the front door of the house pulled open, and a woman stood framed in the doorway, looking out towards the two young people. “Libby, are you coming inside?”

Looking back at the house at the sound of the voice, Jason managed to catch Libby’s eyes, which seemed to be brimming with tears, as she replied. “Yes, mum.” The glance was over in a moment, as the young woman looked around to face Mrs Harkner. “I’m just saying goodbye.”

Following her movements, Jason’s eyes feel upon the mother of the girl he loved. At least for a moment, before his gaze was drawn to the scene behind her. There around the house were all the signs of… He shook his head, trying to make sense of the scene that was playing out before him. The Harkner family had their house decorated with streamers and holly, and a host of other trimmings.

Seeing the look on his face as she turned, Libby walked quickly over to where Jason was standing, willing her mother to return back into the house and close the door. “Jason, I…”

“You celebrate Christmas.” Jason stammered, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. “I don’t understand.”

Libby felt her heart sink, having finally revealed the reason why she never invited Jason to her home. It was not because she did not want to; it was because he would not understand her family. Tartarus had had religion in its past, but over the centuries and due to the arrogance of the past Emperors, it has been killed off, banned. The churches and cathedrals remained, but they were not used for the purposes they had been built for, and now were nothing more than architectural tourist attractions. Although, it was not disallowed for people to privately follow a faith, the Empire had removed the prominence of religion from its shores, until those that followed the old faiths were frowned upon and considered freaks.

“Jason…” Libby began, and stopped unable to continue.

The young man remained looking at her, unable to find the words to voice what was going on inside, and Libby was struggling to find a way to explain to him that she was still the girl that he had fallen in love with. They had so much in common that she did not want to spoil it by making him think that she was different.

Just then, the first flurry of snow began to fall from the sky, landing flakes on the young man and woman standing in the middle of the path. Libby shivered, not entirely from the cold of the air, as she watched Jason look up into the sky and find the escape he was looking for.

“I’d better go, before it gets too heavy.” Without saying another word, he turned and walked over to his parked vehicle, pulling open the door and disappearing inside. A few seconds later, he was driving off down the street, never looking back.

The next few days, Libby sat by the phone waiting for it to ring. She had tried to call Jason, but his cell phone was switched off after a couple of rings the first time she had attempted to contact him. Having continued to hope that he would have a change of heart, and at least talk to her, she rang his number every few hours, but the same message that the user did not have their phone on told her what she already knew.

A week later, as Christmas drew near, and the family fell into their usual pattern of visiting friends and finishing their usual shopping, Libby tried to push thoughts of Jason from her mind. It was over, after all, and nothing she could do could make him talk to her. Several times she thought about just turning up at his house, but the idea of having the door slammed in her face did not hold much joy, so she remained in the warmth of her home, watching the snow slowly gather outside.

On Christmas Day, one that should be filled with happiness and joy, Libby sat on her bed, looking at the gifts that had been given to her. Normally she would be smiling and helping her parents preparing the Christmas feast, but she could not gather the enthusiasm that she usually had. She picked up a picture frame that a friend of hers had bought for her. Inside was a note saying ‘replace this paper with a picture of you and Jason’.

She felt a tear pricking her eye, as a lump began to grow in her throat. She lowered the gift to the bed and took several deep breaths, trying to compose herself. Outside she could hear a car pull up, indicating the arrival of the family’s guests, who were to spend the day with them. Pulling herself together, she made her way down the stairs, getting to the door just as the door bell rang.

Fixing a smile to her face, and looking far more cheerful than she felt, Libby pulled upon the door, and froze.

“Hello, Libby.” Jason stood before her, his smile almost as awkward as hers, his eyes filled with regret. He pulled his hands from behind his back, revealing a cheerfully paper wrapped box. “I’m not good at this Christmas thing, and I hope this is the right kind of thing a person is supposed to give.”

Libby stood staring as if he had grown a second head. Her mouth opened and closed, making her look like a human goldfish.

“I…ah…I know I’ve been acting like a jerk, and I hope that you can forgive me.” Jason paused. “I realised that being with you is more important than anything.” Handing over the present, he stood watching her as she stood there motionless. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Libby shook her head and smiled, her eyes fixed to his. “No, you’ve already given me the best present possible.” She placed the gift wrapped box carefully on the table beside the door, then flung her arms around his neck as her lips met his in a passionate kiss.

Once their lips parted, Libby smiled at the man before her. “Merry Christmas, Jason.”

“Merry Christmas, Libby.”

Gah.

Snow is falling, and a few pigeons can be heard... Annoying, how they're

landing on the roof, fighting, cooing... Ruining his sleep.

I hate this time of the year.

Bells are tolling, and some people are... singing...

Oh, why isn't it already over? GODDAMNIT. Bastards.

Visit the city, have a walk... At -5 degrees Celsius within masses of

people buying and buying and buying and...

Lets return home.

Nights without sleep - Too much singing, and too many pigeons. Also,

lights, burning everywhere, turning night into day.

Also, completely forgotten by, well, everyone. While freezing, and the

heaters' off, too - The energy is needed for the omnipresent lights in

every window and on every roof.

Day for day for day... Freezing, blinded by lights, forgotten by the

children, ignored by the adults, made fun of by annoying little elves...

I hate my life.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days tick by. Without pause, without rest

always the same... Torture.

Sleep? It'd be bliss, alas, there's no sleep in sight. Only frustration.

And hatred. Ever growing hatred.

The day will come...

Weeks later, he stood up, his mind clear. Still the pigeons, still the

lights - It'd be the last day, fortunately - but all of this didn't

matter anymore.

He hopped to the cupboard, searching... There they were, filled and

ready.

A smile appeared on his face.

Perfect.

A while later, he started his mission. The deed his voices called for... The deed he just had to do.

An egg here, a surprise there, nicely wrapped in colourful papers, inside carefully decorated baskets and in the middle of many, many other things - Sweaters, dolls, models, books, sweets, flamethrowers - one by one, a few million households... It's not an easy thing to do, but it works.

Sweat drops from the forehead, more and more work... But eventually, finally, it's done.

Wait for another hour...

I'll get ya, bastards. Forgetting me in favour of that bastard child. You'll see what good it does to you!

Happy singing (What a pain!), a few arguments and reasons-for-divorcing (Hey, not every family is perfect!), a number of death threats, and a few 'Take it or leave it, piss off, brat!' comments...

Dinner, usually in silence, trying to heal the wounds just created in countless arguments and the occasional case of physical violence.

How beautiful!

And of course...

Unpacking.

You rip the perversely coloured and glittering paper from the egg-shaped thing (Who the hell uses easter eggs as presents, anyway?), wonder briefly why the egg is so heavy, oversee the pin being ripped from the egg, and the next thing you notice - Or rather, someone nearby notices - is your brain splattered on the ceiling.

Perversely coloured and perhaps even a little glittering, if there's paper stuck in between the grey mass.

Here a little hand, just grabbing the present that will - Or should - make up for all the nastyness of the day, the frustration, the arguments, the physical violence (Bloody noses, broken necks), ripped from an equally little arm...

Here an eye, the other lying somewhere across the room...

Repeat by a factor of one billion, for epic's sake.

It's all very amusing to watch, and a little bunny enjoys it muchly, rolling on the floor, laughing.

NOW they will remember me!

December 24th, Christmas Eve
Iraqstan

A crackling fire covers the soft murmurs of two children sitting in front of a small and heavily concealed tree in their living room their body language one of excitement and caution.

"Sssh Adolf, mother and father will hear you." The girl says to her brother as they squeak with delight at the presents sitting beneath this hidden tree... Christmas in the National Socialist Union, illegal publicly but secretly permitted as a gift to the people.

Looking out the window they pause for a moment as Security officers walk past on patrol, before returning to their secret investigations of the wrapped items beneath the tree and giggle. "Santa bought us quite a bit this year Isabelle" Adolf whispers in excitement as he rattles a gift with his name on it.

"Yes but do be quiet or father will be very disappointed." Isabelle whispers back angrily and pinches her brother on the ear to remind him. Wincing the boy pokes his tongue out at his sister and freezes in this pose as the lights flash on around them and there standing in the doorway is their mother and father, both smiling happily and chuckling.

"Merry Christmas my little poppins!" Their father whispers excitedly and shuffles forward to embrace his children and checks his watch. "Unfortunately my darlings you must sleep or else Santa will come back and take all your presents!" He says as he picks up his son and pokes his daughter into movement as they head up to the room the children share and tuck them in.

Turning to their mother the children kiss her goodnight and sit staring at their Father who chuckles and sits in a chair between their beds. "Did you do much today my little ones? Mother says you did alot!" He asks smiling at the excited outbursts of child babble that flow towards him.

"One at a time please!" He says gently, laughing as his daughter squeals in delight over one topic "We got to look at all the pretty dolls in that special store!" She says her eyes almost glistening with affection for the small and almost life sized dolls that caught her attention at the restricted store, the type of store only open to those with the required permits or enough credits to buy their way in.

Smiling slyly at their mother, the children's father recalls buying his way in just hours earlier to buy a doll for his daughter and a very impressive little action figure for his son, an item illegal in all shops but that one store, a little reploid figure, Firefury Amihara to be precise, a quaint yet often abused figure of a far away country.

"And I got to ride on a motorbike father!" Their son says his excitement causing his voice to rise to the levels of a high pitched shriek. "Really?!" His father asks with a look of surprise and a ruffling of his hair. "What else? What did you see in the park?" He asks nodding out the window to the small and now locked park across the way.

Turning to each other the children exchange a glance and then very softly in usion whisper "We saw Santa father, he made a special appearance in the park." Nodding thoughtfully their father smiles "That was very brave of him my cherubs, did you thank him for doing such a thing? Were you polite and good children?" Receiving their nods he smiles and kisses each on the forehead before pulling the sheets up to their chins.

"Good then he shall bring you more presents if you were truthful and good children I feel. Now sleep my little doves and dream of happy times and when you awaken christmas will be upon us and all your dreams and wishes will be fulfilled." Hugging and kissing them goodnight once more he exits their room, putting his arm around the waist of his wife and turning off the children's light and shutting their door with a whispered "Goodnight."

You better not pout, you better not cry, you better be good, I'm telling you why. Santa Claus is coming to town.

"Mommy! Mommy! We want to see Santa Claus!"
Susan Radioshack looked down at her kids. Marsha McDonald's was 6 and Peter McDonald's was 4. They still believed in Santa Claus. Aww, they were so cute at that age. She carefully navigated the pressing crowds of the mall, both sedated and stirred into excitement by the omnipresent carols.

He's making a list, and checking it twice. He'll give you a gift no matter the price. Santa Claus is coming to town.

"This way dears." She carefully guided them past the looming displays of Christmas-themed credit cards and to the mall's Santa. They did a good job this year. It looked like he had a real beard and the throne that he was seated on looked as if it were made of real gold coins.

He's always got good credit. He can afford the best. He gives you all the best of gifts, leaving Team Advantage the rest.

Peter scrambled onto Santa's lap while Susan handed her credit card to one of the elves. It would be expensive but it would be worth it to make her kids happy.
"What am I getting for Christmas this year?" whispered Peter. Santa looked down at him.
"Have you been a good boy? I don't want to give you any coal." Peter nodded furiously. "Okay, then you'll get the Super Transformer Pickup with Real Crane Action made by our good friends at Tonka. Remember, Tonka is Trucks!"
Peter squealed with delight and ran back to Mommy, while Marsha walked over to Santa. She was starting to get a bit suspicious about Santa now. Last year his beard felt like plastic and he never seemed to actually do any work. And why did she never hear about the Claus corporation except around Christmas-time? Something just wasn't adding up and she was beginning to suspect that Santa might not be real. So this time, when she sat on Santa's lap, she gave his beard a good tug. The tears that this brought to his eyes restored her faith in him.
"And what am I getting for Christmas this year?" she boldly asked him.
"Have you been a good girl? I don't want to give you any coal."
She shrugged. "Not bad, I guess."
"Hmm, I'll give you Barbie Evening Party with real diamond earrings and a real pearl necklace that you can wear, from our good friends at Mattel."
"Thank you Santa!" She gave him a firm hug and ran back to her mom.
The elf handed Susan back her card along with the receipt. She winced when she saw it. Those presents were expensive. Good think Santa gave the adults credit-line increases for their presents.
As the three of them walked away, Santa called after them, "Remember, Christmas is brought to you by US Alliance!"

"Honey, we can't afford this." Simon Nike looked down at the receipt. "You know that my Christmas bonus is in Nike gift-certificates this year."
"Don't worry. It came with a credit increase." Susan told her husband.
"Good. We've been needing one. Anyway, it could have been worse. Santa could have promised them Nintendo's new gaming console."
"He probably would have if our credit checked out. But ever since you couldn't pay Nike for the days you were sick, our credit rating's been crap."
"But we still managed to buy Christmas for our kids this year."

"Mommy! Mommy!" the voices cried out in unison. "Look at what Santa brought us!" It was tough for Susan not to smile upon seeing the beaming faces of her kids. They seemed so happy with their new truck and Barbie. Oh, look at that. Peter was already trying to run over the Barbie while Marsha was trying on the earrings and necklace. She was exhausted. Santa's delivery truck came by late last night so she and Simon didn't get to sleep until four in the morning.
"I'm so happy that I'm not Caitlin."
Susan looked down at her daughter. "Why's that?"
"Her family can't afford Christmas this year so she gets no presents and no tree."
"Oh? That's very sad."
Marsha's face screwed up in thought for a minute. "Mommy? The spirit of Christmas is giving, right? Buying as many gifts as you can to show your love?"
"Yes..."
"LET'S GIVE CAITLIN CHRISTMAS! We'll give her our tree and I'll give her my Barbie and she'll be happy too!"
Susan was a bit worried about this turn of events. Giving gifts and making friends happy was all well and good, but giving things away for free wasn't how one advanced in this world. Oh well, Marsha was still young and would learn that lesson soon enough.

"Merry Christmas!"
Caitlin opened the door and gawked at her best friend standing there with a gift and a Christmas tree. "Mommy! Daddy! Marsha brought Christmas!"
The two families sat down in the living room around the tree and sang songs while Marsha and Caitlin played with the Barbie. "I can't thank you enough," said Caitlin's father, "Caitlin was so heartbroken when I told her that we couldn't afford Christmas this year."
"It was tough for us too. Simon and I had to tap into our retirement fund to pay for it. But we just couldn't bear telling them that Santa wouldn't be coming. But it seems to get more expensive every year."
"It does. When did US Alliance get the monopoly on Christmas?"
"I think that it was when Hallmark joined them and stopped selling contracts to competitors. But it's better this way. Tighter quality control."
"True."

Knock, Knock.

Caitlin ran to the door. "Mommy! Daddy! Santa Claus is here!" She failed to notice the look of worry that flashed across her parents' faces as she opened the door to let him in.
"Ho, ho, ho! Did you purchase a Christmas license this year?"
"N-n-n-no," stammered Caitlin's mother, "But Susan bou-"
He turned to Susan, "And did you purchase a two-family license this year?"
"N-n-n-no..."
"Ho, ho, ho! I'm sorry children, but your parents were very naughty this year and stole Christmas from US Alliance and you know what happens to naughty people?"
"They get coal in their stockings!" The kids all cried out in glee at seeing Santa.
"That's right! And if they come quietly with me now, I'll make sure that the elves give them all of the presents that are coming to them"
Unlike their children, the parents did not miss the glint of steel in Santa's eyes, nor the gun tucked into his thick black belt. "Enjoy your gifts, kids. We'll be back later."
The kids waved cheerfully at Santa as he led their parents away. "It's a good thing that Santa came," Caitlin said sagaciously to Marsha. "If people just stop paying their licenses, then Christmas would disappear." Marsha and Peter nodded in agreement and the three of them played with their toys late into the night, thankful that Santa had taken their parents.

“Adestes fideles laeti triunfantes.Venite, venite in Betlehem.”


Iesus Christi was alive with Christmas joy……
From the first day of Advent the nation entered into the spirit of the season. The capital itself flowed with carolers and decorations…over joyous children had even put tinsel up on the barbed wire ringing government buildings, much to the amusement of the watching soldiers….many of whom had been themselves been decorated by over zealous children.

The sinking sun shone light through the tiny bared window, casting a miserable light into the dark cramped cell.
In the dim light cast by the high window, sat the prisoner. He was already bruised and bloody, tied to the chair and sweating in the confined muggy environment…Christmas was a summer event ‘down’ in Iesus Christi.
Overhead a neon light buzzed incessantly, as the lead interrogator walked in circles around the prisoner. His sleeves were rolled up, and sweat marks expanded down his tan shirt…he wiped the sweet from his brow as he circled and flicked it at the prisoner. The other interrogator sniggered, and leaned back against the wall.
The lead interrogator stood in front of the prisoner, towering over the bound figure, he slowly rubbed his knuckles “Now…tell us soldier…who else is with you….where is Patrick Iesus…”

The kids ran along next to the wire fence, laughing and carryon as only children can. Behind them the large group of singing carolers moved in mass, passed one of the many Ministry of social order barracks without even giving the building a thought.
They sung with joy and gusto, without a care in the world. “God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay……”

Cries and the sickly dull thud of fist and foot against flesh dominated the cell.
“Tell us who your contacts are!”

A tiny girl pressed a song sheet into the hand of a regular army trooper; soon the trooper and his comrades had joined in the singing. “Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day…”

“Talk damn you…for God sake talk soldier!”
Blood was spattered over the Interrogators face and shirt, he paused puffing…
“For the Love of God talk…”

With Tinsel in and around their helmets and guns, the troopers tried to out sing the carolers, both groups now singing if trying to rattle heaven…”To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy; O tidings of comfort and joy.”

The lead interrogator stopped, blood dripped down his fists..Both he and the assistant were wet from their exertion. Neither of the interrogators could handle looking at the other…In the silence they could hear the singing through the window high in the wall…Save us all from Satan’s power…..tidings of comfort and joy..
“This is pointless…”
The interrogator untied the prisoner, his assistant nodded his head. The prisoner hadn’t talked and that left the one option…
Nearly dragging the broken prisoner, the lead interrogator ushered him from the cell and through the dark corridors of the barracks. The prisoner trembled as he was pushed out into the back fenced courtyard of the barracks. He didn’t beg, he knew what was next was now unavoidable.
He heard the sound of the pistol being unholstered….
The Interrogator spoke “ok…get going…the rear courtyard door isn’t locked from this side…I’d get yaself to a doctor…”
“wh..a?” The confused prisoner staggered to the gate, and pushed it open with great difficulty. He turned around as he staggered though the exit, half expecting to be shot down as he lurched towards freedom.
No shot came; instead the Interrogator waved him on; “Merry Christmas”

Funny how you change your mind about songs as you get older.

Silent night, holy night.

When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I hated that bloody song, we had to sing it every bloody Yule-Fest, the Duke'd come down to watch when he could and the teachers'd fall over themselves showing off when he did. So it was always a song I associated with hassle and grovelling and such, up until a few years ago when it just started to grow on me.

All is calm, all is bright.

No idea why. It just stopped irritating me and now it's the song I think of when I think of this time of year. It just seems to embody the peacefulness of a snowy night like this one. I hum it under my breath as I look up at the black crystal of the sky, watching a flare sink back towards the ground, the crisp glare illuminating me and mine quite clearly were we rest.

Round young virgin, mother and child.

The flare wobbles as it slowly falls to earth, spinning like a child's top and I think about my little Anne for a moment, I bought her just such a top at the Winter Fair just before we deployed. She drove her mother mad with spinning it on any surface that stayed still long enough. I hope Susanna has yet to confiscate it.

Holy infant so tender and mild.

The flare at last hits the ground and the light flicks out, leaving our snowy little dell lit only by the moon, the softer light letting shapes blur and removing the unmerciful sharpness of detail the flare gave.
A mortar crumps once and the piney surrounds of my snowy couch susurrus from the shockwave. Unnecessary. My boys and me were done when the flare first popped into hissing light, the crackling bark of the machine gun it roused hammering us down like too hard a go at the eggnog we should be drinking instead of doing this.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

I'm sorry Anne, Daddy won’t be home for Christmas. The machine gun crackles again, popping like sap in a good log fire and I can hear shouting now, the accents strange and the words gibberish, a nonsense even were I not growing drowsy and numb. There's no heat. I don’t feel angry at the gunners. They were only doing their job, and me mine. All I can feel is sadness I won't see Anne's face in the morning, that it won't be me teaching her to ride the bike wrapped for her under our tree.
But even that fades, the endless song of the night above me soaking up my grief like a sponge. I start to mouth the words as feet crunch across the snow toward us, me and my boys on our rumpled beds of blood-black snow.
A coat-huddled figure looms over me, lower face invisible under a ragged scarf. They’re poor these boys, poor and trapped by ideas strange to any thinking man, but that doesn’t make them bad, and the scarf doesn’t hide the confusion and unhappiness of the face underneath. An young officer joins him, resigned and weary and I try to smile up at them, to reassure them it’s alright, it’s Christmas, no one should worry on Christmas, but they don’t smile back, and I can feel a slow trickle of blood-warmth running out my mouth and I know that I’m out of time. It’s alright. They’re just boys. They’ve got time. They’ll understand when the song makes sense for them.
I close my eyes, and put my arms around my girls, my Susanna, my Anne and I drift off into the dark with them.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

The wooden door opened with a slight crack and a flurry of snow blew into the room, the inside was barely warmer than outside, but the biting cold of the wind made out in the open much colder than it really was. On the other side of the door was a large room, inside the room was an incredible amount of paraphernalia that could only really related to a workshop of some form. Amongst the incredible heaps of bolts, nuts, rivets, spanners, iron and piles of metal stood a small locomotive. (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v160/Midlonia/Trains/Alexandriaclass.jpg) A wisp of blackened smoke fluttered towards a hole in the roof from which a little bit of water dripped.
“Morning Joe” muttered the heavily cloaked gentleman who had just come in through the door, he wore a pair of racing goggles, a flat-cap and was wrapped in what appeared to be several layers of clothing, topped off with what appeared to be a holed poncho, the hat had copious amount of snow bedecked on top.
Joe, by comparison was stripped down to a pair of blue overalls, and a similar flat-cap. A few scars on his face gave away his age, he had just gone past puberty with the acne scars.
“Bugger me, Joe,” muttered the figure “how the bloody hell are you surviving that?”
“Shovelling coal, starting up a nice roaring fire and generally making sure we can move when you turn up, what else Tom?” shrugged the younger figure.
“Bloody young ‘uns, catching their death of ruddy cold” muttered Tom, the heavily clocked figure, as he removed the poncho and a couple of coats, revealing similarly coloured overalls, he didn’t remove the scarf, hat and goggles that still adorned his head, he coughed rather throatily as he clambered aboard the locomotive and peered at a dial.
“About enough to Get us to the stop at the foot of Shooters hill for the exchange I see.” He growled and pushed a lever on the floor forward to the front of the cab, then pulled another towards him slightly.

The locomotive whooshed into life and began to roll forwards with a slow and low hiss, after a few moments of this hiss Tom stamped on a pedal on the floor and the hissing stopped. The engine began to take on the familiar “chuff” as it picked up a little speed, Tom then pushed the lever on the roof back to the front and pulled the lever on the floor, the “reverser” to the middle.
The little engine came to a Smokey stop in front of a row of carriages packed with people, tinsel covered the carriages and the small, yellow-brick station building was absolutely covered in lights, a wind was blowing and the snow was several inches thick on the ground, the porter was shoveling snow off onto the track with a large board, he was hit in the side of his peak cap by a snow-ball. A young boy wrapped up in a woolly hat and scarf was making another snowball with the thick woolly gloves that protected his hands from the cold. The porter dropped the board and put his hands on his hips and stared at the lad. He then laughed and grabbed some snow and threw it at the boy. They continued this fight, with much amusement from the crowd that had not yet alighted to their train. A high pitched whistle broke the fun up as a guard waved a little Green flag, the train with a whistle and a lurch set off down the snow-covered hillside.

“So Joe,” yelled Tom over the labouring of the little locomotive as they rattled down the hillside, “what you doing for Christmas?” he looked at his fireman, who was shoveling a large pile of coal into the gaping maw into the furnace that powered the little engine.

“My mum’s got a Goose for Christmas, she’s gunna have it stuffed with parsnips, Dad and Barry’s coming home from their service in The Western Colonies” Joe yelled as he hurled another lump into the fire. He stopped and leant on his shovel. “What about you Tom?”
“Me, Joe?” mumbled Tom as he pulled another lever and the train decelerated a little. “Nothing really I suppose, just sitting at home with a bit of a fire going, I suppose Joe, what with burying the missis last year, I ain’t done much at home.”
“Hrm” went Joe and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

The tiny little train billowed smoke lazily into the valley, the valley itself was covered in snow, and the countryside looked like a giant Christmas cake, the tiny churches and thatched cottages covered in fluffy white snow, fir trees were in every village the little train stopped at, giant firs, small firs, all covered in baubles, fairy lights and literal tones of tinsel.
Sleighs, pulled by reindeer raced with the train, and the bells could be just heard over the labouring of the tiny train, one was pulled by a portly gentleman with a white beard and red suit, which, with a crack of the whips and a “Ho! Ho! Ho!” lifted up and flew over the train, Joe looked at Tom, one of his eyebrows raised.
“What?” Said Tom, “You didn’t know that Santa has a warehouse here?”
Joe simply shook his head and went back to hurling coal into the warm furnace.

After an hour and a half of travelling through the endless white, broken up by the brief respites of the towns and villages, a bright red bar shone, a little light next to it glowing green.

“Thank goodness for that Joe” chuckled Tom “We’ll be right on time for a change.”

As they reached a building similar to the one they left from an hour ago, a song reached their ears.

“God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray.

Tom and Joe exchanged glances, then both peered out of the little circular windows on the rear of the engine, and saw a group of Carol singers, all dressed in clothing straight out of the Victorian Era, one of them held a pole on which mistletoe and a lantern hung from it, casting a bit of weak light on the scene.

“O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy;
O tidings of comfort and joy.
In Bethlehem, in Israel, this bless-ed Babe was born,
And laid within a manger upon this bless-ed morn;
The which His mother Mary did nothing take in scorn.”

The engine whistled as it pilled into the platform of in the “island” station, where the platform sits in between the tracks, snow was still lightly falling.

“From God our heavenly Father a bless-ed angel came;
And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same;
How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name.
“Fear not, then,” said the angel, “Let nothing you afright
This day is born a Savior of a pure Virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in Him from Satan’s power and might.”
The shepherds at those tidings rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding in tempest, storm and wind,
And went to Bethl’em straightaway this blessèd Babe to find.
But when to Bethlehem they came where our dear Savior lay,
They found Him in a manger where oxen feed on hay;
His mother Mary kneeling unto the Lord did pray.

By now people had alighted from the train and were putting guineas and shillings into the flat-cap that sat at the feet of the group, who stood about half-way down the train, Joe hopped down from the locomotive and crunched over to the cap, before flipping in a pound coin, one of the men broke from the song with a “God Bless you sir” to the generous man.

“Now to the Lord sing praises all you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas all others doth deface.
God bless the ruler of this house, and send him long to reign,
And many a merry Christmas may live to see again;
Among your friends and kindred that live both far and near—
That God send you a happy new year, happy new year,
And God send you a happy new year.

“Say, Tom?” Joe asked as the Carolers began to sing “Silent Night” and the connecting express to Ashby roared into the station with much whistling and billowing steam, the engine huge compared to the tiny thing that had hauled many of the passengers there, “You want to come to ours for Christmas? My mum’d love to show off her skills in the kitchen to my boss, I’m sure.”
“Sure,” Tom chuckled, “Give me something better to do, and I’ve tasted that Treacle Tart of hers, absolute heaven.”

“Hoooly niiiight…”

Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by

Bianca leaned her head over against her husband’s shoulder, smiling warmly as they watched their youngest stretch up on her toes to peer at the family’s presipio – the elaborate nativity set up in a place of honor on a long table in it’s own room, just off the entryway.

“Buon Natale, mi amore,” Sergio murmured, wrapping his arm around her more closely in a gentle hug, and softly kissing the top of her head. His wife had noticed Elena slip away from the rest of the decidedly large family gathering to sneak in to gaze at the scene for what seemed like the hundredth time today, and they had taken a moment just to watch and enjoy her sense of wonder at it all. “Amazing how much she’s grown, isn’t it?”

“Mmmhmm,” Bianca murmured in return, her smile broadening as the four-year old turned to look up at them, eyes wide.

“Is that the one Nanna made?” the little one asked, pointing to one of the mini-scenes in the nativity that made up the section of the Holy City the family had recreated over the years.

“That’s right. And look up here,” Bianca said, leaning over to point at one of the angels suspended carefully in the scene’s ‘sky’.

Elena started bouncing up and down on her toes excitedly “It’s the angel we picked out at the shop! The one that pappa says looks like me!”

“That’s right, bambi. Are you ready for your grandfather’s story? I think the family is getting settled in for it now,” her father said, holding his arms out wide, just in time to catch the little girl as she flung herself at him with a delighted giggle.

“Yes, yes! Let’s go hear the story!”

Bianca stretched up to kiss both Elena and her husband on the cheek, looking the very picture of contentment as she accompanied them both into the other room, where they were met with enthusiastic welcome, and the usual insistence everyone get settled in comfortably.

*****

Yet in the dark streets shineth, the everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Of course, there had been another fight. Not that there hadn’t always been, but these days there were other things to consider. Most importantly, the children.

As Nathicana sat at the large table in her villa, taking in the fine meal that Dominic had prepared, and for once, had accepted to sit down and share, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. And for that, she felt ungrateful, which only made it worse.

The children were oblivious, too young still to understand, even if she hadn’t gone to lengths to avoid getting into those discussions in front of them - not to mention far too excited at having Auntie Shodey over for the evening. And while Gianni, Dominic, and Else (who had joined them for dinner) knew well enough how things stood, they had the good grace not to call attention to it.

At the far end of the table, setting to his meal with his usual appreciation, was the source of her discontent. And of course, he was the one person whom she most needed support from right now. She didn’t let it show as she glanced across the table at him, though her sister-in-mind gave her a knowing glance. There would be time for talk later, and a shoulder or shaking if needed, she knew, for which she was eternally grateful.

It’s not as though its entirely his fault. I just wish …

For the impossible, she realized. It wouldn’t be long before Anaya and Marcus saw it too, and questions would be asked. The ‘twins’ were as close as one would expect any to be. They shared nearly everything – everything that was, aside from their father’s affection. That of course, was the rub. Devon Treznor wasn’t Anaya’s father, and nothing she could do would ever change that.

Not even for a brief while for Christmas Eve.

Nathicana set her fork aside, and poured herself a second modest glass of wine, her eyes going back to the children who were busy sampling each other’s plates, and chattering excitedly about the results of their experimentations.

One who makes their bed must lie in it, they say.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” she said with a soft smile, lifting her glass in a brief salut.

*****

For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above
While mortals sleep the angels keep their watch of wondering love

It was cold. Colder than it had been in a long while. The arched entryway where Brizio huddled didn’t offer nearly enough protection, even with the thin layers of cardboard packaging scavenged from one of the dumpsters the next block down.

Now and then, he thought he could almost hear the sounds of merriment on the chill breeze, drifting in from across the bay in Old City where the rich and affluent were holding their parties and balls, and where many of the faithful gathered in the old cathedral for mass.

Were he still in his youth, he would have been there enjoying the succulent holiday treats spread across the tables, dancing the evening away without a care. Of course, that was before the collapse of the business he had worked for, when the corruption and embezzlement came to light. He had served his time his part in it all, but when he got out, he found that memories were long, and businesses that might have looked the other way for some things when one was on the inside, had no desire to take on one with a tarnished record like his.

Eventually, even the few members of his family that were local gave up on him as he turned to drugs and drinking and petty theft, falling in with the seedier elements of Devras. That was years ago, and it had been a long, hard road since, during which he had rediscovered God, and tried to pull what was left of his life back together.

The results had been less than what he had hoped for.

He had hoped to manage a bit more from panhandling, taking advantage of the more charitable mood of the season, but the weather had conspired against him, and before he could make it back to the dubious safety of the local mission, his strength had left him, and the cold had him aching clean to the bone.

The wind managed to sneak through every opening in his makeshift shelter. The drizzle that had been continuing off and on through the evening had stopped, leaving the cardboard a mix of slightly soggy where the meager warmth of his body pressed against it, and frozen around the rest.

There was a strong light that flashed through the gaps, and down the street he could hear a vehicle slowly making it’s way towards his location. Brizio let out a quiet groan, then began to sob tiredly. A poor choice for a shelter, one of the streets the soldati were patrolling. He needed no trouble from them.

Heavy footsteps thudded on the pavement, and a flashlight moved over the crude shelter as a strong voice spoke.

“Is anyone in there? Hello?”

There was a careful prodding and tapping of the cardboard with the large light, accompanied by a bright flash as it passed over the old man’s face. He brought up his hand to shield his eyes as the officer carefully folded back one of the cardboard flaps.

“This is no place for a man on a night like this,” the nameless soldati said, seemingly more to himself. “Here, old man. Give me your hand. Lets get you out of the cold.”

Brizio was surprised. This wasn’t at all the reaction he had expected. He nodded dumbly, offering his shaking hand to the officer, who helped him up gently and offered his arm in support as he helped the old man down the steps towards his vehicle. More surprisingly, he wasn’t just tossed in the back, but guided to the passenger seat in the front. Inside, the cab was warm, its heater running smoothly. Brizio let out a soft sigh as he sank back into the comfortable seat, still shivering, his cheeks still wet with tears.

Getting himself settled, the officer looked over at the old man, frowning quietly. He took the lid off his thermos and poured a bit of the hot liquid in side into the cap, handing it to the old man carefully, helping to wrap his hands around it and making sure he had a good grip on it before letting go.

“Coffee. Hazelnut,” the officer said simply. “Should help warm you up. Name’s Emilio. Is there somewhere I can take you?”

Brizio savored the coffee for a moment, sipping slowly, letting the warmth spread, gripping the simple plastic cup as if it were the most precious thing in the world to him.

“No. I’ve got nowhere,” he finally answered, his voice breaking.

Putting the car carefully into drive, Emilio nodded, already making up his mind to help. “Don’t worry about it, avo. My shift is almost over. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

*****

Oh morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth.
And praises sing to God the king, and peace to men on earth.

“And so you thought it would be a keen idea to cheat me. Me, Arturo Scalia, head of the Scalia Family. The Family that too you in, gave you a home and a job when you had nothing else!” The man’s voice started low, and gradually rose in strength and volume as he spoke, anger flaring in his old eyes. And just as quickly, he was calm again, shaking his head with regret.

“You were like a son to me, Benny. A son. Like my own flesh and blood. And here I find you not only stealing from me, but funneling the take to those thrice-damned Assantes down on the south side.” Arturo sighed, then looked over at the young man tied to a chair sitting under the harsh light of a single overhead lamp, showing every one of his recent injuries in sharp detail – of which there were many.

The young man tried to shake his head, blubbering something indecipherable through a mouthful of blood and the pain of a broken jaw. Arturo shook his head again, this time in disgust.

“Arrivederci, Benny,” he said, leaning in to kiss Benvenito on each cheek, then took several measured steps away, drew his piece, and leveled it at the young man’s head.

“But … but boss, it’s Christmas Eve,” one of ‘the boys’ said awkwardly, looking around at the others, who promptly looked away, one offering a slight shrug.

“So it is,” the old man said, pausing thoughtfully to look Benny over one more time. “So it is.”

Then he pulled the trigger.

*****

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven

In the Piazzo san Bernadino, crowds had been gathered throughout the evening, taking part in the festivities there. A beautiful crèche was the center point in front of the cathedral, already surrounded by gifts in honor of the night, most of which would be donated to local charities. Later that night, the traditional mass would be held, with Cardinal Giovanni Battista addressing the faithful in a sermon that was rumored to focus on charity, and in having Christ in their hearts not only when in church, or on holy days, but every day.

The angelic voices of the choir could be heard as they sang traditional hymns and carols from inside the cathedral, a system of speakers around the Piazzo carrying the music to the crowd at a pleasant volume. Some businesses were still open to cater to the crowds and last-minute shoppers, some vendors pushing carts with warm drinks and simple hot foods making their way through as well.

Many of the pallazos around the square had their own celebrations going on with friends and family, associates and business partners. The lights and sounds, and general air of festiveness beating back the dreariness the weather had seemed to insist on during the week.

In spite of the chill, there was warmth, and the good-will and that came with the season was the cause of it.

*****

No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.

It was Christmas Eve, and again, Leandro Pacci found himself avoiding the parties and celebrations going on, in favor of spending the evening in quiet contemplation here, in what had been his home for the better part of forty years.

And again, he found himself reliving memories of holidays past spent with his beloved wife. He idly toyed with the ring he still wore faithfully, a simple band of gold that still shone despite years of wear.

Moira always did love this time of year, he thought, looking around at the traditional decorations that he still faithfully put up as best he could in the same places they always had when together. There were some who thought his dedication to keeping things the same was unhealthy. He never paid them any mind. For him, it was a comfort to be surrounded with things and memories of all the happy times shared.

Pacci had felt tired these past few days, more than just the recent dreary weather or hustle and bustle of the holidays could explain away. He supposed it was about time he started to feel his age, being blessed as he had been with rather good health. It had allowed him to see and do things he would have never thought possible, in retrospect. It had begun, he supposed, with that first surprising archaeological dig (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=275137) in what had come to be known as the Emerald Heights.

In truth, he had no right to have survived, all things considered. But fate had smiled on him, and he had, meeting the only woman he had seriously hoped for anything with since Moira had passed away. Of course, it was not meant to be – mortals had no hope of consorting with Gods … or Goddesses for that matter. Looking up at the golden-haired angel glowing softly atop the small evergreen, he couldn’t help but smile, even as the memories brought a twinge of pain.

In fact, that had happened more than once this evening as he reminisced, now that he thought about it. Earlier, he’d prepared some chamomile tea to settle himself a bit. And after his dinner, a pleasant but simple enough fare of game hen and a few trimmings, he had taken some antacids when a tightness in his chest seemed to indicate the meal hadn’t set as well as he’d like.

Shrugging, he began rising to his feet, intending to fix himself a glass of mulled wine before turning in for the night. Another pain shot through his chest, this one eliciting a sharp gasp from the old man. Breathing felt difficult. For some reason, his legs didn’t seem to be working quite right, and there was an odd numbness spreading through his arms.

The floor rushed up to meet him, though he hardly felt the impact, his eyes casting about the room, what part of it he could see from this angle at least, things slipping in and out of focus. He reached out with both his hand and his mind, trying to grasp hold of anything that would offer some comfort and stability.

One word, one name shone through the haze that was slowly taking over. One face sprang to the forefront as things began to darken. A fair-skinned woman with hair like fire, dimpled cheeks touched with just a hint of freckles, something she had always hated, and he had always adored.

“Moira …”

Through the darkness that was quickly overtaking him, he thought he could see a light. And within that light, a familiar form was waiting with open arms.

Outside, the light drizzle that had been coming down all day had turned into snow, large beautiful flakes floating softly down to melt away without a sound on the cold, wet paving stones of the veranda.

I’m coming, mi amore. Finally, I’m coming.

*****

Oh holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us we pray
Cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today

“But … but I need this baby. I just need this one hit, Marco, and I can—“

“Yeah, and you needed just one hit last time too, didn’t you Chi-chi? Just one more. Whadda I look like, a walking charity? You want the goods, you cough up some compensation, capische? You still owe me for the last one, an’ the only reason you got that is on account of I ain’t some heartless bastard like some of the rest.”

“Not even for Christmas?” the diminutive woman tried in a wheedling voice.

Marco looked at her incredulously. “Hell no, especially not for Christmas. I got folks paying premium for this shit what with the parties and all. You crazy?”

“I can get you cash next we—“

“Didn’t you hear me, bitch? This ain’t no charity. You want the snow, you make with the dough. You got nothin’, we’ve got nothin’ to talk about,” the man says idly as he let a small bag unroll between his fingers, dangle temptingly for a moment, then flipped it back up into his palm again, pocketing it with ease.

Chiara watched the bag intently, her hands shaking as she started to reach for it, then quickly drew them back close to her chest, fidgeting and cracking her knuckles.

“Maybe,” she started in a shaky voice. “Maybe I could … you know … do you a favor for it?” She looked over at the big man, her eyes wide, darting quickly between his face and the pocket he’d stashed what she wanted in. Fear and loathing were nothing compared to her need.

Marco looked her over slowly, taking a long, thoughtful pull at the stub of his cigar. Sure, she wasn’t much to look at, but it’d cost him at least double what he could get out of the dope. Besides. Need somethin’ to get the holiday off to a good start.

“How’s about we step into my office and discuss this, eh?” he said finally, making a grand gesture towards the dark alley behind him. “After you.”

Coughing nervously, Chiara glanced around quickly before giving a short nod and walking past him. Just this once … doesn’t mean anything, just a trade. Yeah, a trade.

*****

We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell
O come to us, abide with us, our lord Emanuel.

“Mamma, mamma – it’s snowing!”

Several of the family rushed to the window to see what little Elena was pointing at and chattering so excitedly about, pulling back the curtains so the rest could see as well.

“Well, what do you know? Snow for Christmas,” uncle Iosef said thoughtfully. “Haven’t seen that in oh, at least eight years now. A good sign, this, I think. It means a good year ahead.”

“Let’s hope so,” Bianca said fervently, the sentiment echoed around the room by most of the adults, several raising their glasses in a toast.

Grazie, she couldn’t help but think as she looked around at the family gathered together, offering up a silent prayer. We have been so very, very blessed. May those in need be watched over tonight as well as we have been.

The Christmas Hunt

Joseph Akiak knelt behind his windbreak, spear in hand, as he kept watch on the breathing hole. He had been waiting for at least three hours and still, no sure shot at a seal. He glanced at the sky and then his all-weather watch. He still had some time left, but he will need to make a catch soon else he would have to return to the village empty. The temperature was slowly dropping.

Behind him, he could hear the crunch crunch crunch of snow. He slowly turned his head to see what it could be. It didn’t sound like a polar bear but then one could never tell…

No. Joseph squinted his eyes and could see that it was a man garbed like him in a full parka, mukluks, and a spear in his right hand. In the left, there was a chopping axe and slung over his back was a backpack. The stranger gestured, signaling that he was a hunter like himself and that he wished to join him.

Why not, thought Joseph, and made the usual gestures back. Gestures which really are more like a language among all the hunters in the Far Territories of Vrak. The usual protocols that every hunter followed to indicate friend of foe.

The stranger smiled and then drew closer. Joseph could see that he was a big man, bigger than him, yet carried himself in a humble way. Perhaps he is a shaman or elder from another tribe he thought. Oddly enough, he couldn’t see a skidoo but perhaps the man came from a nearby village? The thought left his mind as the stranger was now within a spear’s throw.

“How is the hunt?” inquired the stranger.
“Ah…well,” Joseph pointed with his spear towards the breathing hole, “not so good. I’ll have to go back soon, heya?”
“Heya. Perhaps another breathing hole?”

What kind of hunter is this fellow? This is the best spot…well, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Sure, why not?” replied Joseph as he shrugged his shoulders.

The stranger smiled again and, despite himself, Joseph began to smile as well. Sure not like some elders I’ve met before. The stranger went out onto the ice and gingerly walked to a place not far from the breathing hole. He knelt down and quickly, with the axe, chopped a decent sized hole big enough for even a bull seal to emerge. After some time, the stranger came back to Joseph’s windbreak and sat down.

“They will come now,” he said with a grin and a wink.
“Well, I hope you have better luck than I do,” replied Joseph, “And…ah…my manners.”

Joseph scrounged around his back pack and took out a lighter. He soon made a fire with his small stock of wood and then filled a small pot with water. Taking out two mugs, he added sugar and powdered cider and then poured the boiling water into each. He then offered one to the stranger who took it gladly.

“Thank you, Joseph Akiak. A blessing upon your household,” replied the stranger. He looked over to the breathing hole, “Ah…you’d better get your spear.”

“Uhh? How did you know…” Joseph said, but then he turned and followed the stranger’s gaze.

Unbelievable! Three fat seals plopped out and were lying there. Joseph put down his half empty mug and quickly picked up his spear. Stealthy, he crept towards the seals. He was downwind, but still, he remained as quiet as he could. From the corner of his eye, he could see the stranger approaching from his right with spear in hand.

Careful. Careful. Now!

Whooosh! Joseph’s spear sunk deep into the nearest seal while the stranger’s hit the next one cleanly. They both ran up to the now bleating seals and the third one was about to wriggle away into the safe waters of the sea. Somehow, the stranger managed to actually grab the last seal and quickly dispatched it with his axe. Soon, all three seals were being dressed and ready for transport back to the village.

“What will you do with the meat, Joseph?” asked the stranger as he put the seal meat onto Joseph’s work toboggan. The toboggan, attached to Joseph’s skidoo was now laden down with seal meat.

“Ah, well, you know. For my family and friends.”
The stranger smiled again and pressed further.

“What of the poor, widows, the orphans and elders in the village? Surely they need to be provided as well?”
“The government gives them an allowance to live on. And some of them have families.”
The stranger’s smile lessened.

“Heya, that is true, Joseph. But not all of them do. And you know, you have been blessed today. Why not share your blessing?”

Blessing? What exactly does this fellow mean? And how did he know my name?

“What do you mean by blessing? And how do you know my name?” asked Joseph cautiously. Despite himself, he was curious about the stranger and felt a little afraid. He was sure that he didn’t tell him his name.

The stranger looked at Joseph with a wide grin and opened his arms as if encompassing the sky and earth. When he spoke, it was tender and warm but yet powerful.

“Joseph. Joseph. I came today to bless you and to teach you. A blessing is to make something holy and, at least with us today, to grant someone prosperity. Surely you know of blessings that the local shamans do? And are you prosperous today?”

“Uhhhh…yes…er...are you a shaman? I’ve never seen or heard of you before.”
“Let us say that I am greater than any shaman, Joseph. That is how I know your name. And sharing is good, you know. But don’t be afraid, Joseph. Here, let me help you with the rest of the meat.”

With that, the stranger hoisted the last of the meat onto Joseph’s toboggan and strapped it down. Joseph looked on in bewilderment as the stranger turned to him.

“Err…why not come with me to the village?” stammered Joseph,”We can feast and you can meet my family.”

Another smile and the stranger looked at Joseph. But to Joseph, it felt as though the stranger was not only looking at him, but deep inside him and yet at the same time, far beyond him, as if far into the horizon.

“Joseph, I cannot come today to the village for there are other hunters I have to see and bless. But, when you go back, share your prosperity and then seek out the elders. They will know who I am and will teach you. Today, Joseph, I sought you out and have called you.”

Joseph looked at the stranger again. He couldn’t understand it all but somehow felt compelled to obey. He looked at his toboggan again. Yes, there is quite a lot of meat. It wouldn’t hurt to give some away.

The stranger smiled and began to laugh. Joseph joined in as well. Their laughter rose up to the now darkening sky and swelled across the frozen wastes. An odd day, thought Joseph, but somehow remarkable. He couldn’t put his finger on it but felt a quiet reassurance.

The stranger turned and began to plod across the snow. Joseph smiled and started up the skidoo. The engine roared to life and then Joseph turned once more to look back. The stranger, who was now much further away, hoisted up his spear with both hands to indicate farewell. Somehow, Joseph could still see that smile but, surely it must be an illusion? Joseph didn’t think his eyes were that sharp.

“Heya!” Joseph hoisted up his spear in his left hand and pointed to the sky as he faced the stranger. Then, without another moment wasted, he turned around on the skidoo and made a course for home.

Only the Lonely


The scratching of pen against paper and the soft notes of a stereo filled the silent solitude of the large, ornately-decorated office. A table lamp glowed on the enormous wooden desk that dominated the room, behind which sat a woman in her mid-to-late twenties. She was leaning forwards on the desk, her brow furrowed in concentration, occasionally writing notes on a report she was studying.

With half an ear she listened to the music playing in the background—a haunting song, sung against soft rock music, filling the still air of the room:

I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio;
Still I can't escape the ghost of you…

Her breath caught slightly as she listened to the words. The memory triggered itself and played out in her mind—the warmth of his breath in her ear, the gentleness of his rough hands on her skin, his grey eyes gazing into her own—

She shook her head, as if to dislodge the memory by force. That was then, this was now. It was silly to go on thinking about it. She knew that. If only her mind would stop playing the scenes from another Christmas, so long ago…

With a weary sigh, she threw her pen down on the table and leaned back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the table lamp. She never got any work done on Christmas, it was just too painful. And reading the daily briefing on intra-regional events wasn’t exactly going to help keep her thoughts together.

She stood and walked to the window. The grounds of New Sydney Parliament House was covered with a thick blanket of snow. In the distance she could see the Parliamentary Guard soldiers patrolling the grounds, their weapons glinting in the ornate lights along the paths through the grounds. Rising from the darkness beyond that was the skyscrapers of New Sydney. As she watched, a solitary transport plane descended in the distance. She made a decision.

Getting ready was easy. She let out her long golden hair and put on casual clothing—jeans, a long overcoat and a turtleneck sweater. As she studied herself in the mirror she smiled bitterly; take out the formal dresses and the trappings of leadership and all you got was just another woman with sad eyes.

Glancing around cautiously, Lady Bryce slipped out of her office and headed for the underground parking lot.

***

It took a good twenty minutes to slip past the ever-vigilant security but Lady Bryce had devised several ways of getting out of Parliament House unnoticed… just in case. It was, she reflected, probably a bad reflection of her paranoia.

As she drove through the crowded city streets, navigating one of the unmarked staff cars, she felt a curious feeling of elation. She was the Governor, of course, responsible for the lives of over five billion people, not including the protectorates and Street Island, but for one night… she got to ease the weight off her soldiers. The Governor was back in Parliament House, locked up in her office, taking care of everyone. Lady Bryce was navigating through the throngs of last-minute shoppers and sightseers of New Sydney, feeling an odd mix of excitement, guilt, sadness and the heady kick of the carefree.

Soon she was out of the city-centre and on the outskirts of the entertainment district—the nightclubs, bars, pubs, licensed brothels and other places where people tended to congregate to forget the world. No casinos, of course—an organised crime ring had tried to pressure her into building a casino quite recently. The leader had looked quite comical being dragged out of his penthouse in handcuffs by tactical police.

The reality of the danger she’d put herself into hit her suddenly. She shook her head and impulsively, hit the breaks in the middle of the deserted road. On either side of her were closed clubs and bars, empty on Christmas night. The feeling of danger was slowly washed away by feelings of intense loneliness and she shut her eyes tightly. Christmas… never a good time for those without family. Being the Governor was the most alone job in the world, though you were surrounded by people almost constantly.

Lady Bryce opened her eyes and saw a light. Curious, she eased the car along the road and realised that one pub seemed to be open… it was a fairly laid-back sort of place compared to it’s more grandiose neighbours and had a small car-park at the front. With a bemused look, Lady Bryce eased the car in and parked as near the door as possible.

As she approached the open door, she saw that there were only two people inside—a burly bartender who lurked behind a newspaper at the bar and a solitary figure in a Marines uniform…

—It was him, it had to be, he was going to look up from the table as she entered the pub and the shock of recognition would flash across both their faces and he’d hold her in his arms and—

…The soldier looked up as she entered the pub. A stranger’s face wearing a look of weariness and pain; a young face, she realised, just etched and lined by war. One of the young men she’d sent off to die in some foreign patch of mud? She shut the thought out, went to the bar and ordered cider. The bartender grunted and fished a slim glass bottle from the depths of a fridge and pushed it towards her as she payed. She picked up the bottle, cool against her warm palm, and walked to the soldier’s table. As she drew near he looked at her with a guarded look.

She sat down opposite to him, not saying a word, carefully placing the drink on the surface of the small table. He stared at her, almost suspiciously, and for a time they just sat looking at each other. Lady Bryce finally smiled and asked, “What are you thinking?”

The question caught him off guard. “What? I’m wondering why you’re sitting here.”

“Why not?”

“Well… there are a lot of other tables, you know.”

“I know. But it’s Christmas and you’re sitting here all alone. Nobody should be alone at Christmas.”

The soldier narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you sat here? Because you’re alone at Christmas?”

Lady Bryce nodded slowly. “Well done,” she said quietly, “I’m Tanya Welles.” It was almost frightening how easily the name she’d used in another lifetime came back.

“James Banks.”

Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Were you in Rathanan?”

The pain that flashed in his eyes was answer enough. She made herself look into those weary grey eyes. “What happened?”

His hands were shaking now. “I couldn’t save her…”

“What happened, Private Banks?”

The tone worked. The shaking didn’t stop but his voice steadied. “I was at St. Cypher. She was… I dunno, a friend.” He laughed shortly and unpleasantly. “I asked her to go into business with me, she said she’d think about it. Ended up with a bullet through her throat.” He stopped. “Who are you?”

I’m the one that sent you to hell. “I’m Tanya. I was in the 64th Marine Recon, got wounded in Street Island.” Smell the blood, taste the heat, feel the hate.

Banks looked surprised. “You’re Marine Recon? Shit, didn’t the 64th cop huge casualties in Street Island… Fuck, sorry.”

Lady Bryce looked steadily at him. “It gets easier. It doesn’t get any less painful, but it gets easier.”

Banks smiled a bit. “You’re not some religious nut, are you?”

Lady Bryce just laughed and ordered more drinks. Banks wanted more beer but Lady Bryce insisted on tequila shots. Then there was something which was multicoloured and required a metal cup. Banks regarded his suspiciously. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Yes. Want to dance?”

The computerised jukebox in the corner was jammed on Queen. Neither of them could really dance so they did an impromptu waltz to Bohemian Rhapsody. Banks looked thoughtful and asked, “Is this the real life, is this just fantasy?”

“It’s real enough, boyo, but if you don’t take your hand off my bum it will be just fantasy.”

“Sorry.”

Then they ordered a drink suspiciously named “The Screaming Orgasm” and Banks told Lady Bryce about remembering odd details about the night spent defending a bomb crater in St. Cypher. “It’s just… such a huge thing, you know? When I try to concentrate on it I can only think of the small details. How warm she was on my shoulder as I carried her to cover.” He stopped suddenly. “I’m sorry, you’re crying…”

“No, I’m not.” Then, “Did you love her?”

He looked shocked and vulnerable. “No! Of course not, she was… the squad… Yes. I did.” A knot seemed to unravel inside him. “I loved her but never got to say it.”

Lady Bryce understood. You don’t let yourself fall for one of your mates, but when it happens… “She knew, though, didn’t she?”

He thought about it. “Yeah. I guess.”

Banks insisted on a foreign beer next. Lady Bryce didn’t have a stomach for beer but she drank it all the same. Then she told him a little about John.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“No…”

“Why don’t you find him?”

Lady Bryce just smiled sadly and gulped down more of the foul beer. They talked into the night, though mostly Lady Bryce listened and made the odd comment. At one point Banks asked, fairly clumsily, if she wanted to go back to his hotel-room. She considered it—he was handsome enough, in his own way, and very sweet. It had been a long time since she’d been free enough to even think about that sort of offer. But… she was still the Governor, however hard she pretended otherwise. The loneliest job in the world.

Finally the hour hand inched towards four in the morning. By the light spilling from the interior of the pub, Lady Bryce could see the armoured black car that had parked next to the staff car. Oh well, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about driving. She stood up, a little unsteadily, and placed a few notes on the bar to pay for the multitude of drinks they’d consumed. Banks followed her to the glass door, looking like a kicked puppy.

“You really can’t stay?”

“Sorry… I’m like Cinderella. When the bell tolls, I flee…” she kissed him gently on the cheek, feeling his rough stubble against her lips. “…Leaving you with one kiss.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, though.”

Lady Bryce smiled, her eyes bittersweet. “No. It never is.”

It was the 18th of December, and the tinsel was melting. Drip by silver drip, down the Christmas tree set in the village square. It was 32 degrees, peak of the hot season in the Burung Paradis rainforest.

Well, it was always the hot season. Call this one the hotter season.

“Why do you always get the cheap stuff?” Mathilde’s words had a sting, but you could hear the affection in her voice too. She despaired of her wife, sometimes.

“Me? Why do you always set the tree out in the direct sun, my foolish darling?” Elena stuck out her tongue, stained blue from the berries she’d been eating.

The noon bells rang. Jubilee. Seven days before Christmas, and it was time for Jubilee. Elena and Mathilde joined the throng headed into church. Not a mass, but a different type of ceremony, today. Horns sang out a melody that haunted, but eluded: familiar, but not quite identifiable.

Then you shall send abroad the loud trumpet; on the day of atonement you shall send abroad the loud trumpet throughout all your land. And you shall hallow the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants; it shall be a jubilee for you, when each of you shall return to his property and each of you shall return to his family.

Roderigo from Puncak Sana approached the women, his arms full with grapes. “My father paid your father too little for his help with the harvest, all those years of sharecropping,” the visitor said to Elena, bowing a little. “Please, take these fruits of my harvest as atonement.”

Elena nodded and embraced him. “Share our home tonight, friend,” she said softly. “Break your journey with us.”

Through the church, debts were being forgiven, wrongs righted. Smiles and a few hugs, as the holiday was honoured by the villagers. Jubilee: a holiday of joy.

Another trumpet blew. Mathilde’s face went ashen. And so, it was time. Her fingers went unconsciously to her knife, gripping the handle. Her knuckles went white as the snow she had only read about, never seen.

“Cintaku, strength with you,” Elena said, touching Mathilde’s fingers.

Four young men entered the church. Two carried crude guns and wore jungle fatigues: the others had their hands bound and were being pushed along with the rifle butts. Their pale skins betrayed their foreign origin; their bloodshot eyes betrayed their fear and the lack of sleep they had been getting. The room went deathly silent.

Mathilde’s eyes filled with tears. That one was Klaus: he had piloted the plane. The other must be Dirk, the one who fired the shot that killed her brother. Dirk had a black eye, and his nose was running. It might be malaria: the boy had probably never been prepared for his trip to the jungles. He might have been a literature student in Utrecht, or a factory worker in Den Bosch, before he was ever a soldier sent to fight in a war he knew nothing about.

“So, Mathilde?” one of the young men with the hard eyes and the harder gun said brusquely. “Do you say yes, or is it back to the cells with these Knootian filth?”

Jubilee. Not an easy holiday.

Mathilde closed her eyes. It seemed like five minutes passed. Probably it was less. Probably, it was only seconds that she wrestled inside her soul. She hated herself for wanting to say no, and hated herself for saying yes. She hated this holiday, hated its rules, hated the boys standing in front of her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Go home, and leave us with our ghosts. Go home to your country of sugar cakes and broken promises. Go.”

Dirk burst into tears. He’d be back home for the holidays, out of this green hell and into the antiseptic safety of Knootoss. Dirk and Klaus went towards the waiting river boat that would take them to a port, the first step on their journey home. Fishermen cast off the lines and began to push the boat away.

“Wait!” Mathilde ran towards the boat. She held out a round bit of glass: a snowglobe, taudriest of souvenirs. She offered it to Dirk, to her brother’s killer.

”Mari bersalju.” Let it snow.

Lieutenant Commander Cedric Adams groaned as the alarm clock went off, and proceeded to drag himself out of the bed…

To disastrous results. It was bloody freezing in the Guard Quarters, he realized as he, not quite awake, slammed his hand down on the alarm to shut if off. Fortunately, the clock was made for just the sort of force that bio-enhancement could put behind an arm, and only bent slightly.

Adams shivered as he grabbed for his thick robe, a faint smile ghosting across his face as the smell of coffee hit him. Sometimes, it was good to be the Presidential Guard’s third highest ranking officer.

Shuffling blurrily over the coffee maker, he reached out and managed, by sheer luck, to notice he had forgotten to put a cup under it last night. No wonder he had smelled coffee. It was spread all over the table top.

Then again, maybe being the Guard’s third highest ranking officer was not such a good thing after all. Shaking his head, annoyed with himself, he plodded into his bathroom and retrieved a towel to clean up the mess.

Fifteen minutes later, shrugged into his solid black standard issue sweatsuit with the word ‘Guard’ spelled out in white lettering across the chest and down the right leg, he walked into the common area and noticed quite a few people lounging about.

Lounging indeed. Only a couple of them were in their work out clothing. Most of the rest were still in their night clothing, or, at least, sensible approximations thereof, considering the temperature, since he knew most of the people there slept in as little clothing as he did. Considering the squadron was supposed to be out for a five kilometer run this morning, this did not seem like a good sign.

Setting his teeth to prevent his temper from getting the best of him, he growled, “What’s going on?”

“Oh, hey, King,” the casualness of the baritone voice from the only other officer who’s rank equaled his own in the room did not fool him. “Cyrano said that the heat would be back on in less than an hour. Something wrong with one of the secondary power motivators or some such.”

Cedric blinked. That had not actually been what he was wondering about, but it was nice to know. He glared at his second in command, who was one of the ones still in sleeping clothes. “Actually, Deuce, I was wondering why you’re still in your pajamas at zero-seven-hundred.” The run was voluntary, but being Presidential Guard and living in a building with an outsized platoon of ground pounder special forces types, it was rare anyone skived out of it.

“King, have you looked outside this morning?”

Frowning, and unable to say he had, since just about everything in the Guard barracks was underground except for this common area, he moved to the window and looked out.

“You have got to be shittin’ me,” he muttered.

The bottom of the window was covered in that nasty white stuff that came in winter, but rarely this early in the season. And this much of it was absurd. Everything was covered, and with the early morning sun gleaming dully off of it.

“I hate snow,” he continued after a moment, finally turning around to look at his waiting command.

Kara Schiavone laughed. “That’s not just snow, King.”

“Then what is it?” he snarled angrily. He had been looking forward to the run, if nothing else as a way to warm up. And he liked running, too.

“That, out there, Commander, is Hell come to Earth and frozen over.” The sad thing was that she was right. It looked very suspiciously that approximately a meter and a half of snow had fallen over night, and that was… unheard of.

Certainly without precedent during Cedric’s thirty seven years on the planet.

He sighed. “Well, we’ll let the PGs run in that if they want.” Ha. The Personal Guardsmen ran everyday. Ten kilometers through the forest around Imperial House. From the pilots’ perspective, it was rather obscene. After all, if any of them needed to be in better shape than a four minute kilometer, they were probably screwed any way.

Cedric flopped down on one of the couches and looked around at the somewhat sleepy faces of his command. “I’m not letting you all out of it that easily, though. I want two hours of personal combat drill, an hour on the range, and after lunch, we’re all doing three hours in the sims.”

There were, of course, no complaints. That was, after all, their standard regimen for days they were not doing any thing else. He smiled. “And then, as it’s Christmas Eve, once you’ve showered and changed, you can bail until tomorrow night.”

Dead silence greeted that pronouncement. The commanding officer of the Presidential Guard Escort Squadron sighed. “Alright, what did I miss since last night?”

“Er, this week’s duty roster, apparently, sir.”

The ‘sir’ told him it was bad. Which meant that the duty roster was different than it had been in years past, which meant, of course, not the exact same duty roster he had had since being assigned to the squadron. Cedric slotted into the network and pulled up the roster.

“You have got to be kidding me.” The entire squadron was on alert until midnight.

The lieutenant commander shot to his feet and stomped away to the elevator. He had a call to make.

* * * * *

“But you promised, Cedric. You said you would be here by seven for dinner and then we’d go to the candlelight service at my parent’s church.”

Cedric stared at the distraught face of his girlfriend of over three years and felt like a horrible, horrible person. “I know, Beth. I can’t do anything about it, though. Orders are orders.”

It was far from the first time he had had to cancel during their relationship due to order changes. She sighed. “I know, Ced. But has he ever gone anywhere on Christmas Eve before?”

Adams shook his head at his girlfriend. “No, he hasn’t. From what I can tell from the roster, though, he’s letting most of the Personal Guardsmen go on leave, which hardly ever happens. It’s fair, I suppose.”

Bethany smiled. “He does seem to try to be fair, Cedric. He does seem to be a good man.” She glared. “But he could have picked another night to be bloody fair.”

Nodding, he blew out a long breath. “I’ll be there about oh-dark-thirty. We’re on duty until twenty-four hundred.”

“Alright, Ced. Come in quietly. I love you, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I love you too, Bethany Williams. See you then.” Meeting her grey eyes lovingly, he reached out and terminated the call with a sigh, leaning back in his chair heavily. His gaze came to rest on the small, black velvet box on the top of his desk. He had been planning on asking her to marry him tonight, after dinner.

This day just keeps getting worse.

* * * * *

Sealing up his flight suit along the centerline of the sword blade pattern on his chest, Cedric looked forlornly at his flight helmet, then banged his head on the metal locker in front of his with a dull thud. After a moment, he reexamined the orders change in his head and growled under his breath.

I don’t fucking believe it. Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse, they assign me to fly a Broadsword tonight to take some mission specialist up there with me.

He moaned incoherently as he realized he had hit his head on the locker just a bit too hard. Forcing himself to stand, he sighed as he felt the painkillers built in to his bio-enhancements already dealing with the pain.

As he strode into the hanger, helmet already on, the larger, looming shape of the two seat Broadsword fighter-bomber, despite being repainted Guard black with the Stars and Sword adorning its hull, was immediately obvious to his well trained eye.

The woman standing in the unadorned grey Air Force flightsuit with a black Presidential Guard helmet on was less easy to identify. << Query: Identify.

>> Mission Specialist: Identity Classified. Operation Christmas Eve Dinner Need To Know.

<< All Data pertaining to Mission Specialist and Operation Christmas Eve Dinner.

>> Operation Christmas Eve Dinner: Classified.
>> Your Role in Operation: Pilot. No Conversation with Mission Specialist. Request Status Update at MC 32:00. Conversation as needed following status update.
>> Mission Specialist: Indentity Classified. No Flight Training.

Shit. This just keeps getting better and better.

He triggered the hatch release on the Broadsword as he walked around to the port side of the aircraft. Unlike the Sabre Longsword he usually flew, on the ground, the Broadsword required a ladder to get in. Fortunately, in the hanger bay, there was no need for that, because of the individual berths.

Hooking his hands on the canopy’s lower edge, he swung himself into the pilot seat, and glanced back over his shoulder as the woman gingerly, almost fearfully, lowered herself into the backseat.

Leaning his head back for a moment, he felt the neural connection fuse gently with his brain and blew out a steady breath as the connection fuzz died away, letting him feel the aerospace craft as part of his body. Oddly, the mission specialist did not connect into the computer systems.

Cedric ran a flight status check, and was surprised to find a full loadout of antifighter weapons, with no bays empty. This is getting really weird. A mission specialist I can’t talk to. No extra equipment on board, no computer links. Just fucking great. When I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

He switched to the squadron frequency. “Talk to me, ‘Cards.” One by one they reported in until the last.

“Joker in the Deck to King of Hearts, we are at go status.” He sighed. He absolutely hated it when D’ron flew the Forbidden Honor, as that call sign indicated was happening today. The younger man was an unpredictable maniac a lot of the time.

“Copy that, Joker in the Deck. You have the ball.”

“Understood, King of Hearts. Reset Mission Clock to dual naught on my mark.” Five seconds passed, and Cedric watched with interest as the ponderous bulk of the Forbidden Honor slowly wheeled and rose up into the night. “Mark.”

Cedric reset his mission clock immediately, and set a silent alarm on it for MC 31:30, so he would not forget to ask for the status update. Thirteen craft rose one by one into the night, settling into a loose protective formation about their largest member, as space called to them, beckoning them in closer.

It took a few minutes to achieve orbit, and they hung there, poised over the blue and green orb, though night stole much of its color from it. But lights shimmered on its surface, gleaming pockets of beauty in their chaotic patterns. A black orb, speckled with gold, sweeping across the backdrop of the universe.

“From up here,” Cedric whispered, “it all seems so peaceful.”

It always did, of course. In space, there was no sound, and even death was clean, impersonal, for a fighter pilot. There was not even enough time to realize you were dead if it happened. Just another star gleaming briefly against the universe.

The radio crackled softly again, bringing D’ron’s voice back to all his pilots. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. Things came into being through Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being that has come into being. In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.” *

They were close enough to watch as all the Forbidden Honor’s running lights suddenly gleamed on, shining brightly. “A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars; and she was with child; and she cried out, being in labor and in pain to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: and behold, a great red dragon having seven heads and ten horns, and on his heads were seven diadems. And his tail swept away a third of the stars of heaven and threw them to the earth And the dragon stood before the woman who was about to give birth, so that when she gave birth he might devour her child. And she gave birth to a son, a male child, who is to rule all the nations with a rod of iron; and her child was caught up to God and to His throne. Then the woman fled into the wilderness where she had a place prepared by God, so that there she would be nourished for one thousand two hundred and sixty days.” **

Cedric could hear D’ron take a breath in the silence. “And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. In the same region there were some shepherds staying out in the fields and keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord suddenly stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them; and they were terribly frightened. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. ‘This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there appeared with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased.’” ***
There was silence among the squadron for a long moment. No one quite realized who started it, but as the feeling of peace spread through them, someone started to sing.

Silent night Holy night
All is calm all is bright
'Round yon virgin Mother and Child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night,
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heav'nly hosts sing Alleluia;
Christ the Savior is born;
Christ the Savior is born.

Silent night, holy night,
Son of God, love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth;
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.

The silent alarm flashed, and Cedric sat patiently waiting for the clock to finish its countdown. Finally. He switched to the Broadsword’s internal communication system.

“Pilot to Mission Specialist, Requesting Mission Status Update.”

The voice which came back was definitely not one he had been expecting. “Ced?”

“Bethany? Whaa… What are you doing here?”

She began by explaining that a couple of hours after Cedric had spoken to her last, to tell her he was not coming over for dinner, a couple of men in solid black uniforms had shown up and brought her down to Imperial House. She had been scared something had happened to him, but they had reassured her that he was fine…

He only really half heard the rest of her explanation as the console before him flashed and popped up with a text message.

Joker in the Deck to King of Hearts:

Merry Christmas. Now, I believe you were planning on asking the lady an important question tonight? Oh, right, I took the liberty of having your gift placed in the backseat storage compartment.

Cedric stared down at it. I cannot believe him. He is so fracking smug. I really wish I knew how he did it, though.

Bethany was winding her explanation down, though, and finally ended it with. “I see why you love this so much now. It’s so peaceful and quiet out here, all alone in the night.”

Cedric grinned, and replied. “Yes, love. That is one reason I love it so much out here.” He swallowed, and worked up his courage. “Beth, will you open the storage compartment on your right side and tell me what’s in there?”

He heard shuffling around, and then, “Oh my god, Cedric, is this…”

Damn that man. He is far too good. “Yes, it is. Bethany Marie Williams, will you marry me?”

“Oh, Cedric, of course I will.” He heard her shifting in her seat, and a warning light came on as her restraints were undone.

“Er, Beth, what are you doing?”

There was a loud clunk, causing him to look up, and notice her helmet bouncing off the canopy. “I’m trying to lean up there so I can kiss you properly. You really didn’t think this out, did you, Cedric?”

He chuckled. “No, not really. Somewhat of a last minute thing.”

She giggled. “Well, I’m kissing you when we get back down, then.” The warning light went out after moment, showing she had given up and settled back into her seat.

“Joker in the Deck to King of Hearts, everything okay in there? We could see movement.”

“Everything is just fine, Mister President. Thank you, and Merry Christmas to you too.”

* John 1:1-5 (NAS)
** Revelation 12:1-6 (NAS)
*** Luke 2:7-14 (NAS)

Present Imperfect

It wasn't the way sunlight trickled through her lush red locks that made me look twice. She breezed into the room like an Atlantic storm against the Bay; not the tempest but the eye, the storm around her as she fluttered down the narrow corridor between desks to my little corner of the office.

It was a cool summer's day; the air had a certain charge, like the last night at the concert, when everybody sits back and waits, waits, waits for that final moment, the crescendo of rhythm and beat that makes everything before pale in comparison, and sends us home shivering with goosebumps.

It was the sort of day that made you stop and think. Made you wait for it, wait for the defining moment.

So when that moment breezed into my office, cool and calm amongst her singularity of attention - when that moment came, I grasped it with two eager eyes. Tight.

She slid the photograph onto my desk. I played it cool, let the eyebrows arch a little, amber eyes glimmer a bit more, little quirk of lips towards a smile betraying my thoughts. Thoughts of cool moonlight glistening on naked flesh...

Not so cool, really.

Her hand was like milk mixed with silk, a candy for the eye almost as tempting as the rest of her. I stared for a moment, before realizing I was staring. Then I didn't.

"Yeah?"

I was trying for cool, but my voice was steady at flirtatious. It was a bad combination.

The contempt in her eyes brought back memories of schoolyard fantasies; it was all I could do not to broadcast my feelings. I clammed up tight inside; the contempt became annoyance. It felt like walking through a forest in an Autumn of metal leaves.

"My lover," she finally spoke. Her voice slid into my ears and ended up somewhere around my ankles, firing goosebumps up my spine. My earlobes tingled.

"Missing?" It was flat, unemotional, I told myself. The anger in her eyes - a flame to match her hair - told me otherwise.

"Dead," she answered. Equally flat, but by no means unemotional - angry, of course. But dead. An ocean as flat as the Shalbattanu Plains; there was no crest in the wave of her voice, no pit.

"Oh," I answered, covering my confusion poorly. I didn't know why she was here. Dead? So? What did that have to do with me?

"Murdered," she implored - a hint of vulnerability shining through. My resolve melted. The unthinkability of it - murder? - was demolished instantly. She had me there and then; I'd do whatever it was she was here for me to do.

Even if it was crazy. My suspicions grew when she went on, "The IPC aren't interested," she whispered, "they say I'm crazy. That he..."

She swallowed, faltered, looked away, suddenly finding a speck on the office wall acutely interested.

"Killed himself," I finished for her. It was a regular story. There were no murders - only suicides. The suicide rate was still high, nationally, despite the drastic improvements in standard of living.

You can't legislate for misery.

She nodded, struck mute by whatever thoughts roiled behind those gorgeous eyes. I couldn't bring myself to request that she Open. It was too much.

I realised dimly that my own shields had snapped into place; hollow walls for a hollow mind, emptied of thought and substance by a cold, lurking terror. The terror wasn't conscious, wasn't tangible, but it was there, a vice around my guts. A vice of iron and pain.

"People don't kill people," I protested, softly. "How can they?"

It was impossible, I urged myself. Iluvauromeni did not kill Iluvauromeni any more. It just couldn't happen. Society wouldn't allow for it. The figures agreed - there was no murder, because murderers closed their minds, and did not allow others to see. Inevitably they were noticed. Inevitably they were corrected.

Corrected with a capital C, I reminded myself. Changed. Altered. Some were given entirely new personalities - a thing not spoken about to Barbarians. Outsiders.

But it was staggeringly rare.

"Santa Claus," she whispered, voice whisky to the acid of my thoughts.

I was dumbfounded. A Barbarian myth? I dimly recalled something - something - it was beyond me. Religious significance?

Still, something made me say the stupid, the ridiculous - I was thorough like that, and well-laughed at for it: "The killer?"

She nodded.

"Yes," she murmured, softly. "We decided..."

* * *

Her story was lengthy, and complicated, and by the time she was done I could have wept oceans of sadness. Yet there was a joy to it all, an uncommon joy that I couldn't grasp; like the elusive dream at the moment of waking, that we grip fiercely - only to find it buttered, the cheese that got away.

She spoke of her life with him. Of their joy in each other, and their joy in the Third, that other other member of the marriage that was not Nenya, but Human. The Third belonged more to her husband than to she - belonged being the oft-used but wholly inaccurate term. The Human female was not owned, nor in slavery or bondage, but rather...

It was complex. I had never experienced it, but the warmth in her eyes bespoke a deep synergy - a mingling of spirits beyond my ken.

I found myself glad that the two would at least have each other for comfort. More than I myself - and from that I veered, like the sparrow stumbling onto the tiger's back.

They had decided, it seemed, to celebrate Christmas. The Third - Alicia - had celebrated it as a child. A Christian, she was; not entirely uncommon, but still rare in the Commonality. I contained my surprise - but there were those sects which also followed the Path of the Three Stars, and so it was not an unknown subject to me. There was no conflict between the beliefs; rather a comfortable silence of contrast.

"It broke him," she had whispered.

The killer had used that old entrance, the one that is never locked nor secure against invasion; the window ever left open. The heart.

As a thief steals through darkness, so too did this killer steal through light - a theft immeasurable, an ache untestable. For they had no children, between any of them. Of course, Alicia would never bear children, so long as she remained Third; nor would there ever be any attempt in that regard. Medication was careful, in fact...

But this was the crux of it all. After much weaving, she beared yet another truth: he had been a powerful telepath, as was she. Even their Third, Alicia, had empathic leanings; so potent were they as a unit that no thought or feeling were ever truly sacred.

I began to understand, dimly.

She had been there. At the - event. Death. We Nenya do not name it as others do. To us, it is the Unknowable, more than to any other. Men have their Doom; Elves to the Halls; Dwarves - who should know but a Dwarf? - and us?

We know not. Sometimes, it is said, a Nenya returns, which lends us to suspect the Halls of Mandos.

But it is Unknowable, even though we know it more intimately than all but the Elves. To be near Death is anaethema to a Nenya. It is the pain uncrossable. The joy undefinable. The yearning unsought and undiscovered, sheathed in fearful images of an ocean furious and a storm unrelenting...

And so, I learned through her leaked feelings and thoughts while she spoke (for she would not admit to it in words - I felt she gave these things to me, in ways in which she could accept) - during that subliminal, unconscious crossing of thoughts and feelings which dominates any true conversation between Nenyar. It is for this that we name all other species Barbarians; a little joke, based on the origins of the words in Ancient Greece...

And then my thoughts were interrupted. Punctuated by madness, equilibrium ushered aside in favour of desperate horror.

She was mad!

I stared at her.

"No children," were her words. Beyond that, the thought supplied much more: she could not!

And I understood. By all the horror that tore my soul, I understood. And how I wished I had not!

Santa Claus. Christmas. Children. The three were a trinity, much like mind, flesh, spirit. Many things are Three; it is a holy number, by all accords. Even pi, the holiest of all numbers, reaches ever away from Three, yet never by much, unable to stray too far as if drawn by a guiding hand...

Thoughts ripped through me. They were not so much a form as a force; not so much a storm as a tempest; not so much horror as undignified and unmitigated terror. I shuddered.

"You..."

"Yes," she breathed. Eyes fell downwards.

Groundwards.

Shame.

"How could..."

I never quite completed the thought in spoken words, for she fled. And I was left alone, wondering. There was a small card on her chair, left by accident or design I knew not; it did not matter. I barely noticed.

My knees were weak as I stood. Palms flattened against the grain of the wood, the table artificial but anything but to my hands; real as real could be. Too real. Overreal.

The understanding had not really dawned all at once, although the overpowering of emotion made it feel akin; nor had I magically understood rapidly.

It came slowly, over the days, consciously. Clearly I had known... but not in such a way as to understand.

It had been Santa Claus, in a way. They had asked; the letter written, the proposition made. And it had come. Their gift had come; a simple gift, a gift billions gave and received and relished and rejoiced every year; yet in this case...

Their infant had been born without a mother - without a Nenya mother, capable of nurturing the early bond, the education that came before birth, the strengthening that was needed, the nourishment of mind that was required for growth... And since there was none, and only a mere Human, the weaker father had fulfilled the mental role. The triad had aimed for aid... A desperate attempt at support...

And had failed.

Christmas killed him.

A Green Christmas


It is well known that Goblins, as a whole, do not follow the Christian faith. Why would they? They have their own Gods (although they are fantastically vague about anything to do with them), and their King, and they have more booze than any other known nation. Generally speaking, the Goblins do not have any particular reason to favour Christianity - especially not the bits about abstinence - it is well known that Goblins can live off alcohol, just as they are photosynthetic and also possess a more "standard" digestive system.

So why is Christmas celebrated every year in the Combined Goblin Collective?

Simple. Since when have you known any Goblin who needed anything more than the tiniest excuse for a party? There are national celebrations based on the King giving Goblins surnames, national celebrations caused by the production of a new ship, and even one started by a small Goblin called Klutzigit to celebrate the purple stuff discovered in his bellybutton. Goblins now save up every year to buy "Speshul Prezzints" for their loved ones, with presents becoming symbols of love, friendship or of desire. The culture of present giving (Goblins working along the logic that if everyone gives, everyone gets) has become massive within the Collective, with large amounts of Speshul Shiny Stuff being spent on presents in all but the poorest areas.

Of course, the excuse to make 90% proof eggnog is also a decent reason.

Similarly, the idea of mistletoe has risen to a greatly significant state - becoming a facet of Goblin custom that no Goblin male can refuse a female Goblin meeting under the Misel's Toe (although the females can, and often do, refuse the males). Interestingly, Mistletoe does not exist in the Combined Goblin Collective, and a confusion in translation has resulted in the annual Misel Hunt, the Misel being a massive, scaled creature that dwells upon Hotwurld and each often costs the lives of several trained Goblin Trappers to bring down. It is largely this sacrifice for others' happiness that has resulted in the elevation of the tradition.

Anyway,a quick look at our subject, Niblitz, of the Dirtbug family. As all Goblins know, and as most others can guess, any family with "Dirt" in the name is not going to be very high in the social scales. In fact, they were so low in the social strata that it had been thirty generations since one of the Dirtbugs had been granted a the great honour of a surname - in most Goblin families there was one every ten or so generations, except for the BladeGoblins and GreatGoblins of course. They were merely one large family living amongst the billions of families in Goblin Sitay, one of those families so poor that the entire household and their three most friendly family groups from nearby areas (and Goblins have very big families) can only just afford a Misel's toe between them.

We go now to Niblitz, who is shambling down one of the many alleys that leads to his home, carrying something very "speshul" in his pocket.

Niblitz shuffled along, snow landing atop rags carefully bundled for extra warmth. He could hardly see in the gloomy whiteness, bare feet slap-slapping in the wet mud that formed the bottom of the alleyway. A thin green hand gently touched the small pocket sown into his rags, checking that It was still there. He chortled happily, as his memory wiped away all the unhappiness and filled him with a warm glow, despite the cold.

...It had been the Big Recrootiment, with thousands of Goblins signing away their futures to serve in Da Armada. They had even seen Him. The King himself! King Griptite Da Supa himself, upon whose shoulders rested the weight of authority for the entire Combine. Uncountable trillions of Goblins, millions of Ogres, thousands of Trolls and numberless worlds bowed to Him. He had only been there for a moment, before the famous Grand Admireral Shinvort Clap had taken over proceedings, but He had been there!...

The small Goblin peered anxiously through the murk, wanting to avoid any of the bigger greenskins who picked on him. He still sported a large dark-greenish bruise on his cheek from last time he had run into them. Was it clear? Yes. Niblitz crept forward and peered out of the alley, then ran across the larger road into another one.

...Niblitz, swayed by the persuasive speech of the Recrootaz had gone to sign up, looking rather pathetic in his rags but nonetheless beaming with eagerness. The Sarj had turned him down, saying that he was Too Little, and to come back next year. Niblitz had insisted, until the Sarj had laughed long and hard at the determination of the diminutive creature. Niblitz had been sent away with a minute copper SSS in his grubby hand...

Once again he patted his little pocket, checking that the Heavy Thing, the Small Round Shiny Thing, and the Small Square Shiny Thing were inside. If he was really lucky, and washed himself really well, and used the really nice smelling-stuff he had stolen especially, Preeta might just consent to kiss him under the Misel's Toe. She was stunning, far beyond what any family down in the poor areas would have expected to give birth to, with a perfect figure, a wonderfully jarring shade of hair, and a point to her nose that made Niblitz' heart ache. Of course, every other Goblin roughly her age was trying to get her to consent to being under the Misel's Toe, and Niblitz was not going to use his new Stuff to try and convince her. A small, insignificant Goblin he might be, but he wanted something like what his parents had, not something like the loveless relationship between Second Cousin Jigrit and his wife Huggia.

...He had nearly left the Recrootiamentin' Plays when the explosions began, accompanied by the loud noises of guns...

Nearly there, he could hardly restrain himself from breaking into a run and dashing inside to shout out to everyone what had happened, but forced himself to be calm, distracting himself with the shininess of the moon on puddles. Not long now.

..."Corrupinated Goblins! Trayators!" rang over the tan, sending the assembled new recruits running for cover, and the Veterinans unloading their guns and trying to find the source of the trouble. Niblitz had run into a rickety building to hide from the noise...

At last he reached the door of the large and ramshackle building his family lived in. There was gaudy red-and-green paint slapped over the front in an attempt to make it festive - they couldn't afford the proper Christimassy Stuff - and light shone through the windows in a display that would normally have had the Old Grandaddy of the Dirtbug family yelling in anger at the cost. But there were four Goblin Families there tonight, and stinting on Christimass was Not Dunn.

...Inside, he crept through the building, hearing voices and not wanting to disturb an angry resident...

Niblitz knocked on the door to his house, which was promptly opened by one of his thirteen brothers.

"Allo bruv"

"Allo Niblitz, cum on inna houze, stuff'z just gettin' goin', da tub iz clear at prezint."

Niblitz hurried in, and ran upstairs to his room, stripping off dirty rags, grabbing clean ones and a cleaning rag, before hurrying into the Washin' Ruum.

...Still sneaking forward, Niblitz saw a door with light coming out from underneath and around it - badly fitting doors providing a cliché but useful sign that there was something happening. Unable to restrain the rampant Goblin curiosity, he put his eye to the keyhole, to see a number of Goblins and a human in the bright Blue-and-Purple of the Trayators...

Niblitz emerged much cleaner, smelling just about acceptable, and dressed in clean rags with hair especially dyed with luminous red-and-green paint for the festive occassion. He thought he looked quite dashing. A human would probably think he looked like a garden gnome with a disturbing grin, painted green, wearing old tea towels and with a festive pompom stuck to his head. By Goblin standards, for his income he looks really quite stylish. He made his way downstairs.

...Suddenly the Goblins inside, along with the human who was apparently leading them, rose from their seats and headed to the door. With alarm bells going off in his head the small green creature hid by balancing precariously atop the door frame. He was not quite sure how he managed it, but he had seen action films and knew it could be done...

Seeing that the dancing had already begun, Niblitz grabbed a couple of the small strips of fatty meat bought cheaply from the local butcher in order to stall his hunger, and a tiny cup of Da Strong Stuff - a present from the Old Grandaddy Goblin of the Dirtbug family's secret stash to the party, to wet his throat and warm up his insides a bit, then threw himself into the dancing with the eagerness only a Goblin at a party can muster.

...The small group of Goblins-and-human was passing through the doorway beneath Niblitz, when his foot started twitching with nerves. With a squeak of terror, Niblitz fell, crashing down atop the Trayatorz . Before they could recover, the bruised and terrified Goblin grabbed the impressively large gun the human was carrying and pointed it at the Trayatorz, shouting the first thing that came to his mind: "Comboine Seccierate Poleese! 'Andz up ur Bad Tingz'll 'Appen!" and was genuinely amazed when they did what he said. Moments later the front door burst open...

Niblitz found himself dancing with Preeta, much to his surprise, dismay and joy - all at the same time. The Goblin Girl smiled at the Goblin Boy as she danced, and pointed up toward the ceiling.

...Two Navy Enforcer Big'Uns stormed in, followed by a Goblin in the uniform of the Combine Navy, with numerous gold chevrons of rank adorning his clothing. He looked at the scene in silence as Goblins filed in behind him.
"Chain up da ladz in poiple, and bring da uvva wun fer....kwestyonning."...

The small male Goblin looked up to see the large, scaled, hanging Misel's Toe. He looked down again, eyes wide, at Preeta and felt her pressing her lips against his in a moment he had hoped, but never expected, would happen.

...Niblitz was hustled into a room straight out of a spy film, a metal table in the centre with a bright lamp over it, everything else dark, and simple wooden chairs for the small Goblin and his examiner. The interrogation went on for some time, with Niblitz trying several times to get his point across. Afterward, he was taken elsewhere...

A while later, and after a dinner carefully put together to be cheap without seeming so, after presents had been distributed (he had gotten some new rags, a polished tin whistle, a small book of vouchers for the Gobblin' Goblin Pub, a carved picture frame made by Old Grandaddy, and a SupaShip model), and everyone was settled down, Niblitz sat in a corner, one arm around Preeta - who he had danced with again in the Second Dance after supper, and looked at the Square Shiny Thing. It was a copper Ship's Ticket, and gave him entry into the Goblin Navy, at rank of Lootenniant, when he came of age. He stored it carefully in his pocket. He glanced over at Preeta, who was wearing a polished steel button on a cord - his present, which had cost him half his money for the last two months, then removed the large round shiny thing. He hadn't shown either it or the Ship's Ticket to anyone yet, but he would do that in the morning.

...Niblitz was brought to a large tent, protected by the massive Trollguard. The Enforcers pushed him inside, face-to face with two people he recognized instantly. Count Sharpoi Kqiksee, and the Grand Admireral himself. Niblitz swallowed. Admireral Clap looked sternly at the small Goblin.
"Well, well, Oi'z bin hearin' sum interesting fings about yoo, yung Niblitz...."
Then a smile slowly appeared on the Shinvort Clap's face.
"An' wot I heerz iz very guud indeed!"...

The round thing was made of real silver, and had Magick Roons along the thick edges - if it was stolen, the Enforces would be able to find it, and cause much pain to the thief. It was also quite large, easily twice the size of either of Niblitz' eyes, and it writing on it, the crisp, neat characters of the Castle Beyond the Goblin City, written by a nongoblin to avoid spelling mistakes, and it said...

Medallion of Naming,
---Niblitz Trayatorstop---
Family Dirtbug.
Under the Protection of the King

Cheer Up, It's a God Damn Holiday!


With the softly muted sound of Rep Tevye appropriately (and, it must be said, traditionally) harping on about tradition in the background, Speaker-Rrit traditionally looks over the red hat with white furred trim in his similarly orange and white-furred hands, idly playing with the dangly fuzzy ball on its tip as his personal tradition demands. "Remember when being one of the Race of Heroes was about stoicism, pride, and nobility?"

The silver-haired man standing on the other side of the coffee table, longtime best friend and confidant, smirks in wry humor. The pits and creases in his face align and bolden in ways that indicate that the gesture is a common one, and has been for quite some time. PseudoEmperor Julius M Razak has seen this happen to three people previous, and each one--traditionally--had to complain in one way or another. It's just how things are supposed to go. "Yeah, Speeks, I do. Now put on the hat and cheer up--it's a God damned holiday, Kzinterclaws."

Shaking his head with a deep rumbling noise somewhere between a growl and a stifled chuckle, the kzintosh winks his pink batwing ears and puts the hat on his head, grumbling a little louder as the white ball inevitably lands on the bridge of his broad, flat nose. Yellow eyes raise in a traditional sigh as, traditionally, he moves the ball over to one side of his head. "This is a silly tradition, Julie."

"It is," Razak says with that smirk of his that just won't go away, "but y'know. Humility is good in a leader and all."

Another good-natured growl. "Humility doesn't require humiliation."

At this point, Julius could continue the litany blindfolded and suspended upside down around a vat of hunger-crazed Beyrs. This responsorial creed, canonical as it is between the two, has never and will never be written down; whether it is the result of equivalent situational evolution between equivalent information or whether the two actually sat down and planned it will never be known to the rest of the office staff at the Executive Apartments. It's just a tradition between two people, and it's one conducted in the public space of the office building. "Sure it does. Just look at the etymology of the words. Now get out there and cheer up those orphans."

"Of course, Julie," the kzintosh responds as he adjusts his red fur suit--rather hot, all things considered--and shoulders a bag of toys that several human adults could curl up in if they were so inclined. "After all, it's a One Fanged God damn holiday."

"That's the spirit."

* - * - *

Meanwhile, one and a half billion kilometers from the forever autumn of Titan, the Scolopendran AeroSpace Directorate portion of the airbase just outside Devras, the capital of the Dominion, has gone on holiday. A mostly volunteer skeleton crew, traditionally referred to as 'Scrooges,' still makes sure the base's vital and emergency functions remain operational, but mostly the troopers are out and taking the most of this year's National Secular Religious Holiday. One of them, a Captain and the commanding officer of the 331st Tactical Fighter Wing's Political Liason Flight, indulges liberally with his friends in a little tradition that came across the Okie border on Titan.

These traditions, generally considered 'creepy' by other, more common theistic religions, center around the Most Holy Triad of liquor, firearms, and revenge. Extravaganzas, ham, and pomp also play a large role. Now, this particular captain isn't actually part of this religious tradition, but it's been a euphemistically interesting year and therefore in all honesty getting drunk and possibly getting in some revenge sounds like a good way to spend a goddamn holiday.

"So," says Ciro Tornatore, a dapper and decidedly (if quietly) not heterosexual Tenete di Vascillo in the Dominion Navy as he tries to decide which one of his overlaid visual experiences to give preference to, "whasssiz whole goddamn holiday 'bout?" The alcohol had brought up major past disagreements between his eyeballs and, while they were usually able to put those aside and work as a concerted team, now all objective focus was lost and they aren't on speaking terms. Additionally, while his higher brain functions were still operating within acceptable parameters even if undeniably slowed, his lower facial fine motor control could leave something to be desired.

Captain Timofeyev Bondayehr, feeling good and a slight (and curious) Russian-Egyptian accent sneaking into his usually educational-tape-perfect Italian, replies back through eyes a touch more watery than usual from a face a touch more flushed than standard. "Well, wonsh upon a frosty wint'r's night..."

"Naw, naw, naw," Tornatore replies, shaking his head before stopping suddenly to apply his limited balancing runtime to the tall glass of something primarily whiskey-based in front of him whose waterline relative to the open top of the glass sways to and fro precariously from the previous motion of his head, "nah thisss holiday, the.. the other holiday. This one." He pokes the table for emphasis. "This--"

"Shhhh," Timofeyev interrupts, holding a finger to his lips in a parody of a drunk friend who only one or two people in his current environment knows, "shhh. I'ma tell you. There was this wagon train--"

"Nah, man, not the blasst'd train thing wiff the sham'ns. The... ack-roh-nim one." Ciro says the word 'acronym' slowly and carefully.

"Oh. Nashunal Secl'r Religis Holiday?"

"Yeah, yeah, man, yeah," Tornatore says with a broad smile like a child being praised for successfully tying his own shoes for the first time, pointing somewhere just above Timofeyev's left shoulder, "that one."

"Oh, that's easy. It's a God damn holiday."

"I knothat. Buh--"

"No, you're not lisshening. It'sa God damn holiday."

"Oh." Ciro blinks, and works a few moments in silence to parse this. "I don' get it."

Bondayehr sighs.

* - * - *

"Hey, ******! Happy National Secular Religous Holiday!"

The man of African descent so addressed in Arabic, sitting listlessly at a shaded sidewalk cafe in a particularly sweltering part of Si'lat in a particularly sweltering summer heat, offers a halfhearted reply in the same to the man walking past. "Hey, chalkie."

"Whoa. Down on Nasreho?" The Caucasian that initiated the conversation stops short, looking back at his friend before quickly hopping the short fence that announces the end of the sidewalk and the beginning of the cafe and working himself into the seat across.

"Sorta, yeah." The black man sighs and takes another sip of his gin and tonic, full of quinine. The mosquito season is especially bad this year. "Just heard I caught something."

"Dude, this is the Germ Factory. Who hasn't?" Then, on a more serious and comradely note, "How bad, Mo?"

"Not too bad, really." Mo stretches slightly and scratches at a slight itch on his hip, several inches lower than any reasonably self-supporting trouser waistline would be. "It's just... damn, this'll sound silly, Nick."

"Hey, remember when I got all those purple bumps and they thought I had the plague?" Nick grins through closed lips. "It can't be that bad."

"Well, the crazy thing is--" Mo stops talking as a thwupTHWUPthwupTHWUP like a low-flying helicopter grows and fades, not even bothering to glance at the mosquito flying overhead. "--that the doctors are sure it's benign but still don't want me to spread it."

"Then why aren't you in MOPP?" Sure, a surgical mask, latex gloves, and loose-fitting scrubs aren't exactly equivalent to chemical warfare gear, but in a society as militaristic as the Segments one has to expect a slight cross-pollination in the slang. "I mean, you're still in birthday-suit-plus..."

"It's only vector is fluids." Another sip of the gin and tonic. "I haven't been laid in six weeks."

"Ouch." Nick grimaces in commisseration. "How's the girlfriend taking it?"

"She's going nuts too."

"Well. That's what you get for moving offworld, my friend. Tell ya what. Let's go down to the city hall and heckle the fundie protestors. That's always fun."

"Awfully schadenfreude," Mo mutters.

"'Schadenfreude is the most beautiful joy because it comes from the heart.' Come on, man," Nick grins again without visible teeth, "it's tradition. Besides, cheer up!"

"It's a God damn holiday, I know, I know." Mo smirks, then chuckles. Interesting how that particular turn of phrase concerning Allah would make people blanch in different places in different times, but... hey, these are the Segments. "They've been unsuccessful for how many hundreds of years?"

* - * - *

"You're kiddin."

"Nope." Bondayehr smiles crookedly. "Y'see, when the Segments got created, you had Muslims, Christians, Jews... well, not a lot of Jews, 'cuz Israel din' trusht the 'Arab superssate'... but still some Jews, Hindus, Muslims--"

"You shaid Muslims already."

"There were a lot of fuckin' Muslims, okay? Anyway, all thesh people were used to, y'know, nashnul holidays they'd get off for shit like Chrissmas,"

"Christmas isn't shit, man." Ciro looks hurt.

"Dude, we're both shi'faced. Stop interruptin--and cheer up, issa God damn holiday. Anyways, were yoush'd to religious holidays and all that. Problem is... too many holidays, and the Shegments weren' 'bou't to geh involved wiff all that. So, if ya can' make everyone equally happy..."

"You pish 'em off equally?" Tornatore grins, completely oblivious to the kzinret whose shoulder Timofeyev has made into a field-expedient cushioned backrest. Given that the aforementioned Shorty is looking peacefully into her rather huge snifter of brandy, though, and the Captain is too drunk to care, the social faux pa goes unnoticed.

"Echsachtly. Ex-act-ly." Timofeyev smiles. "The gubment got tired. Firsh it tried Chrissmas. Then it tried Eid ul-Fitr. Then it tried Kwanzaa, of all things. No luck. Every shingle time there'd be protests at the shitty halls--heh heh, I said a funny--by whatever congregashun felt screwed that year. And so, the SupEmp herself put out... no, not that way..." Bondayehr starts giggling. "Oi, she was an ugly one too. Not putting out could be argued to be..."

"The story?" Ciro says impatiently.

"Oh, yeah. She said, and I quote:" Bondayehr nestles a bit more into the crook of Shorty's shoulder, takes another sip from his blend of various vodkas, schnapps(es?), and carbonated nonalcoholic drinks, then continues in a more officious (and less slurred) voice, "'Fine then. Let it be known that I will submit to the LegU that the Segments will celebrate its own God damn National Secular Religious Holiday, which will be expressly timed to not coincide with any extant religious holiday. Those wishing time off for previously extant holidays will submit their request for time off from their employers, who will be expected to respect within reason the religious requirements of their workers.'" Bondayehr chuckles. "We have to memorize the Nasreho speech in school, y'know."

Tornatore blinks. "She acshually said 'God damn holiday?'"

"In a few more words, yeah." Timofeyev smiles.

"Y'know... knowing you people... it kinda figures."

"Thanks." Shorty finally inserts something into the conversation, ears flapping happily. "It's an excuse for a rather tight-laced culture, I think, to ease back, relax, and--"

* - * - *

"Cheer up! It's a God damn holiday!" Mo and Nick yell at the smiling picketers in front of the city hall. The picketers really don't mind--if it hasn't changed in a few hundred years, it probably won't.

It's just tradition for some, and duty for those who take it seriously. Otherwise... well, hasn't modern telecommunications taught the world that some people just enjoy being Scrooges?

-

The signpost leant dangerously to one side, shaking a little, before finally subduing to the violent wind and collapsing down on the asphalt. Vlad passed it by, giving the fallen piece of metal a quick uninterested look, before raising his hands to readjust the scarf around his neck. Several more steps, a turn to the left and the wind lessened in strength, blocked by the building by which Vlad was walking. Yet, after mere seconds it gave a tremendous blow into his back, as if to remind the little human that there was no escape from the forces of nature.

Regardless of the wind’s playful mood, Vlad hastened his pace, for the goal of his journey was already in sight. The old building of the University stood proudly straight ahead of him, recognizable by its strange pink colour. The young man had no idea who would be smart enough to colour a university building into pink, but he knew that the one responsible greatly lacked taste. In front of the building was a monument to the honour of Carl Vogt, of whom Vlad knew absolutely nothing. He was not burning with desire to learn either and so he passed by it without even looking at the bronze bust upon its pedestal.

The young man nodded to some familiar students as he walked up the stairs and through the doors, which led into the interior of the oldest building which the University occupied. Strangely enough, he preferred it to the new and modern building he studied in. The pleasant atmosphere of antiquity, the resonating sounds of steps as somebody walked down the corridors, the screeching of centenary doors. And, most importantly, the benches in the auditoriums were as uncomfortable as in the new buildings.

Vlad stood still for a second as he tried to remember which way to go from there. He was told about the right wing and so, without a moment of hesitation, he turned right and up the stairs and into the right wing of the building. His enthusiasm, however, was quickly replaced with amazement as he could not find the needed auditorium. The clock was about to strike twelve, the lectures were about to end for a fifteen minutes recess, and he understood that his surprise would be totally ruined.

He sighed as he walked one last time through the corridors and, not finding the right auditorium, went back to the entrance hall of the building. The doors of the rooms opened, letting forth a steady stream of students. Some had finished for the day and were now happily discussing plans for the afternoon; others complained about afternoon lectures and were deciding where to eat. Some were not as lucky and had lectures immediately after the recess.

The entry hall was full of people and, due to its modest size, made it impossible for Vlad to spot the one he was looking for. Grinding his teeth, he went out the doors he first came through and looked around, not finding what he was looking for. Immediately, he turned around and went back into the building and through the hall and out the opposite entry to the building, the one which led to the park famous throughout the world (that was, at least, what the local authorities claimed). And there, standing with her back to the entrance, was the person he was looking for.

“Right wing indeed,” Vlad said as he went towards the girl. “I think you have misguided me a little there.”

She turned around and looked at him with her beautiful green eyes, smiling a little and she shook her head.

“Right wing from the main entrance,” she said with a soft laughter, motioning her hand towards the wing on her right side.

“Uhm… this one is the main entrance?” The young man blinked at the doors he just came through, for he had always been convinced that the main entrance was the one with the Carl Vogt in front of it.

She nodded and laughed a little again before giving him a kiss as he came near. Vlad wrapped an arm around her waist and led her away from the building.

“You have a seminar in Greek this afternoon, correct?”

“No, I am free today. Greek was yesterday.” She smiled, wrapping her own arm around him and bringing her closer.

“Lucky you, I have economic history of the third world this afternoon…” Vlad sighed and looked at the girl, noticing her shivering in the wind. “I guess we better hurry to some café before you freeze all over.”

And so the plans for the two coming hours were decided upon and the two made haste through the park and out the entrance gates. They went through the busy square and up the hill into the Old City, where, after some walking, they finally settled inside of a cosy little family restaurant, one of the many that dotted the historic center of the city.

The owner, used to having students every once in awhile due to the relative proximity of the University, smiled at the newcomers as they got seated by a table. Vlad opened the menu and gave a quick glance at the meals, resting it back on the table and looking at his company.

“What would you say about a fondue?”

“Sounds fine, and I can get away with eating less than a full meal,” she smiled and gave him a wink.

When the waiter next came, Vlad ordered the meal and some drinks. He then sat back in his chair trying to get as comfortable as possible, resisting the temptation to stretch and yawn.

“Patrick is having a party on Saturday, so I thought maybe dragging you out to meet our joyful band of troublemakers.” The young man looked at the girl, smiling, wondering what her answer would be. And the answer that came would surprise him greatly.

“Church is on Sunday, so I cannot stay late.”

“Oh,” he shrugged. “I am sure you can skip a service.”

She looked at him for a moment, silent, as if pondering something. Then she smiled and leant forward a little. “When was the last time you have been to church?”

“Easter,” Vlad answered without a moment of hesitation, for the only times in a year he went to church were Christmas and Easter. She only chuckled back and shook her head.

“You should really come with me one of these days.”

“I don’t really see the need to.”

There was an awkward silence between the two as Vlad thought of the best way to change the subject of the dialogue. Yet, he was too late, and his company continued on their present discussion.

“You make a poor Orthodox,” she said with a smile. “Besides, what would it cost you?”

“Well, I am curious as of why you are so intent on dragging me off to church. After all, we’ve not been together for long.”

That was the first grave mistake Vlad was to commit in the matter of minutes. The girl’s eyes lit up and widened as she shook her head in disbelief.

“You men are all the same, immediately pulling out your ego whenever a woman tries to get something out of you!”

“So you mean to say you are experienced in men?”

That was the second grave mistake and he immediately understood it as the two looked at each other with a strange expression. He knew very well how she understood his words and already regretted them. Unfortunately, a word is not a sparrow and one cannot take it back if it flies away.

She stood up in silence and put her coat and scarf back on.

“Mira, listen, I am sorry,” Vlad also stood up and tried to cool her down. In fact, he hoped she’d give him an opportunity to cool her down, yet she remained calm on the surface and did not erupt into anger with hysterical yelling that was proper to other girls he knew.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Miriana gave him a glance before hurrying out of the restaurant.

Vlad remained standing and pondered what to do. For a second there he felt the urge to run after her, yet he decided that would be ridicule and that he was no soap opera hero. And that was the third mistake in less than five minutes. God loves Trinity, as they say in some countries of the world.

“Mademoiselle had to go?” The waiter inquired as he placed the meal on the table. Vlad sighed and faked a polite smile in return.



* * *



The next day Vlad went up the stairs of the very same building and, this time, preferred to keep guard in the entry hall in order not to miss her. She came down shortly, as the clock struck four in the afternoon, giving him a cold look before walking over to him.

“I have told you I will talk to you later. It did not mean today.”

“Mira,” Vlad sighed, shaking his head a little. “If you are still okay with it, I’d like to accompany you on Sunday.”

She arched her eyebrow as she directed herself out of the building, with Vlad walking side by side.

“Oh, worry not, Christmas is soon. So you will have a good reason to go to church.”

“Listen,” Vlad paused for a moment, wondering what to say. “Maybe we could go to the one in Chêne-Bougeries?”

“The Patriarchate one? No, thank you, as a true schismatic I shall not go to the sanctuary of ecumenism.”

She said that in a hissing tone, which made Vlad stop abruptly and look at her wide eyed. He knew very well she was just saying that because of anger, yet somehow it did not help him not to get angry himself.

“Do not be silly,” he forced a smile. “It is just that the one in the old city is always overcrowded.”

“Well, maybe I love crowds.” She cut him clear and hastened her pace, signify that the audience was over and Vlad was dismissed.



* * *


December, cold and windy, went by slowly. Vlad did not speak to Mira again, since she cut off all contact. “Just like in soap operas,” the young man thought to himself once. Finally, New Year came and there were parties and celebrations, but he did not enjoy them. Then there was an entire week to wait until Christmas eve, and, finally, it came.

And so there he was, standing in a crowded church, where the whole specter of the Orthodox communion was represented, from the Balkans and all the way to the Russian steppes.

“For thine is the strength, and thine are the kingdom, and the power, and the glory of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages.” *

And as the choir sang “Amen”, the faithful raised their hands and did the sign of the holy cross. A woman standing next to Vlad frowned at him and, following his surprised look, showed him her hand where the index, the middle finger and the thumb were held together outstretched. He gave a glance at his own one, where only the index and the thumb were outstretched, in the Old Believer fashion. He nodded and smiled to the woman, feeling a little uneasy at the little mistake, which only witnessed at his rather lax attitude of going to church.

Vlad’s eyes shifted from person to person, as he tried to locate Miriana amongst the faithful. It was not before the choir began singing the third antiphon and him shifting his location within the hall that he finally spotted her. She was standing nest to a candles post, her head covered with a shawl. Her eyes met his and locked for a moment before she smiled. He walked over and stood by her side.

“It is actually less crowded than I thought,” he whispered quietly to her.

“It is…” she answered pensively. “Do you think it is less crowded in Chêne-Bougeries?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, subduing the urge to say yet an other of his trademark jokes that could turn any happy situation into conflict.

Miriana reached for his hand, taking it into hers, and led him out of the hall and through the crowd of faithful outside. Breathing in the cool air, she gave a glance at the evening sky.

“Mira, I wanted to say I was sorry… again…” he said as she turned to look at him.

“It is alright. And thank you for coming,” she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, resting her head on his shoulder. “Want to go back inside?”

“Surely,” he said with a shrug, holding her against him. “Although I am afraid we have lost our places inside of the church, so I offer we go to Chêne-Bougeries. It is not that crowded there and we will be nice and cosy.”

She chuckled and agreed to his proposal and Vlad led her away, into the cold, fresh, yet somehow warm and tender Christmas night.

------------------------------------------------------------

*From the Prayer of the Second Antiphon of the Divine Liturgy of St. Basil the Great.

It's always Christmas somewhere.


Stahlstadt District, December 20 Local, Present Year

The eight-year old boy makes his most adorable face, all puppy dog eyes and imperious command.

"Mommy, tell us a story!"

His twin sister really can't stomach that, so the woman's next words aren't "What story, Jan?" but "No fighting Jan just before sleep, September honey." And then she asks.

They want the unicorn, no, the old machines, no, the... but finally they agree on Santa. Mommy's met Santa once. She tells this story every year on Christmas Eve, and when she argues Jan brings up the fact, it's always Christmas somewhere, and he does have a point. So she does tell.

Before they bring up birthdays.

"It was a long long time ago, when Mommy had just stopped being human, in a country where she worked. It was called America, and it was Christmas, and a girl named Maria didn't believe in Santa Claus..."

Downtime the children soon drowse as their mother tells the story of Santa and little Maria. How she always waited for Santa and how Santa never came.

And then Santa did come, but not down the chimney, oh no. That would be silly. Santa came through the door and the house let him in, so Maria knew he was a friend. He knew that some little children waited up for him, and then he made sure to come with a special present, and to show the children Santa was for real.

The intruder moved like oil, quiet as cancer, through the security on codes she'd been given, not that she wouldn't have had them stolen anyway.

The children smile, and they haven't learned to hide their smiles; fierce little beasts, she'd kill for them, and right now she'd die for them.

The pattern, the smell, it was on the clothes they found a year ago as he'd made a narrow escape; the machines will know him, recognize him, convict him.

The children giggle. This is their favorite part.

"...and Santa reached out for the girl and told her to sit on his lap. And you know what Mommy did then?"

Just as Maria realized what was happening, the night moved. She never knew what really happened, just that the man who'd suddenly smelled wrong made a noise, and sat down heavier, and that the breathing that had just turned raspy gave a single sigh.

Not that a foreigner had done a policeman a favor, repaid an old debt.

"...and then Mommy went away, back home, to Anna and your oldest brother and sisters. Maria, she went on to live, and I don't know if she lived happy, but she lived. And that's..."

"...why we carry arms", says September hesitantly, and Jan chimes in "...so others don't have to."

"And?"

This time they don't hesitate.

"If you can't stalk the hunter, stalk the prey."

"Good." She smiles, not showing teeth, eyes glowing in the near-dark. "Sleep well, Jan honey. Sweet dreams, September sweetheart. Mommy loves you very much."

The mumbles are a lot like "we love you too."

The meaning of Christmas

The school bell rang, and all the children of the Rudolf Vogels College rushed outside.

"And do remember, I want all your essays on the meaning of Christmas in before the next class!” the Dutch language teacher yelled over the excited voices of the Knootian schoolchildren but it was to no avail. After all, it was snowing! Those first to get outside were also the first to stockpile ammunition for the huge snowball fight which erupted on the school yard within minutes of the school bell. Children played outside, where it was dry and yet tantalisingly freezing, soon turning the white cheeks of Rotterdam schoolchildren into a rosy red. For a few days, their normally dreary industrial city of had been turned into a winter wonder land.

Young Mr. Redburry, the young English teacher (imported from Iansisle) participated enthusiastically in the ‘fight’, rolling snowballs like no other and powdering the boys of class 3D with an impressive repeating fire. The venerable Drs. Van Tuijl – French and History – however did little to hide his disdain, holding his nose high in the air as he carried his briefcase to his car. An unexpected direct hit with splashy white snow from behind however caught him off-guard and with a disturbingly loud yell the bald man slipped on the icy path to the school gate.

“Hrmph”, was all he could muster against the laughing onlookers as van Tuijl patted his own coat to remove the snow.

One little girl, however, did not partake in the snow-induced winterfest. Looking rather bookish with her oversized glasses, she trotted home through the snow. Her little pink gloves could not keep out the cold so well, a cold which blew quite harshly through the streets of Rotterdams poorer neighbourhoods, away from the pretty lights of the centre shopping centres and the schoolyard snow fights.

Shivering in her coat (more suitable for the summer), the girl used a little key which hung in a rope around her neck to open the back door of a small little house. The lights were out.

"Anyone home?", she yelled, but no-one answered and after waiting for a moment with nothing but the background noise of the neighbourhood.

"Its Christmas!"

No answer.

Disappointed, she went up the narrow creaky stairs to a little room on a dark attic. There, it was a little warmer, and she draped her coat over her chair. The factory just near their house had just stopped belching grey/black smoke and (taking the rare opportunity) she opened the window for a tiny bit and allowed the fresh winter air to blow through the dusty attic. Remembering the words of her Dutch language teacher, she got out a sheet of lined paper and began to write her essay, using her blue ballpoint.


The meaning of Christmas

To me, Christmas is special. It is when daddy gets home. My daddy is works for Telstra & Zn. Shipping and he is away very often, but he brings things from all over the world. On Christmas he always comes home and has a gift just for me. He sent us a card from Guffingford last week and promised that he’d come.

When it is Christmas mummy always cooks a really big dinner. She is also very happy, because daddy is coming, she says, and we decorated the house with green leaves. The city is also very pretty, with little lights everywhere and huge Christmas trees. Mummy says we are lucky to have a “white Christmas” this year.

My grandmother says that it is Christmas because a little baby was born somewhere in the protectorate of Ale-Yarok and it did not snow. Daddy went to Ale-Yarok in the desert, when he was a soldier. He could not come to visit us for Christmas that year. Grandma told me that this very special baby grew up and is now up in the sky, watching over us. Mummy says that is nonsense, but my grandmother never makes things up.

I looked up at the sky this week to see if there was any snow coming. It was Christmas Eve and it was dark, but not cloudy. I was about to close the window when I saw a bright white star up in the sky. It was very bright, even though we normally can’t see any stars from our home in Rotterdam. It wasn’t a plane, because it was fixed in one place, just like Grandma said happened in Ale-Yarok when the baby was born. It got brighter and brighter moving towards me, and then it suddenly disappeared. Mummy says it was a comet, but I think it was the baby from Ale-Yarok checking in to see if we were doing okay…


The girl had just finished scribbling that on the paper when she heard a deep voice call out to her from downstairs.

"Anna!", the voice said merrily. It was a deep voice that sounded out of place but which was infinitely familiar. The lights downstairs were burning, now. "It’s Christmas! I’m home!"

Refugee of the Fallen, Fascist Elves (Southern Endless Crimes)


"Tell us the story, Mommy! Tell us the story!"

Children are a rarity among the Fallen - They might live forever, but giving birth is rare, due to a distinct lack of libido, not to mention that it's better to keep quiet about this sex-thing. The Seraph and Cherub to the north may be useful to them in their quest to return to mankind, but they'd be rather dangerous, if they knew too much - and thus regarded as especially valuable, with kindness, love...

Lúthien Falassion sat down and allowed the two smiling, blonde children - Indis and Lenwë - to sit on her knees, their little eyes looking at her, expectantly.

"If you wish so, you two..." And with a soft smile appearing on her face, stroking the two blond heads with their long hair, she began to tell the story.

"Long ago, millennia in the past, long before you were born, yes, even before I was born, there was a country, much different from ours. No beautiful, green woods, no blue rivers and lakes - It was a desert.

"The desert was home to humans, just like our neighbors, our aides. Once, it'd been a beautiful land, a land full of milk and honey, with vast, green plains and many animals living on them. It had been like Eden."

The two children giggled with joy, imagining the wide plains, the animals - So many things to play with, so many things to discover!

Whispers of glee followed.

"Wish I'd been there."

"Me too."

"But then evil arrived in this lands, and the skies darkened, the humans were enslaved. The metahumans had arrived, terrible to behold, and corrupted the land from the inside. They turned it into a desert, and living there meant to live a harsh and dangerous life, struggling for survival while slaving for the sinful menace, the abominations.

"It had been millennia since the metahumans and their terrible witch had struck against us... Against your grandparents, against our people, cursing us to be what we're now. Corrupting our human purity with what we're now suffering from, forcing upon us our quest to regain our lost innocence."

There is sadness in Lúthien's voice, and the little girl, the litte boy are close to crying, their long, blonde hair suddenly looking a lot less adorable.

"But at that time they returned, and enslaved our human kin, and destroyed their society, defecated on their holy relics, made them turn away from the Lord, corrupting their souls and seeding greed and misery."

Indis' and Lúthien's sadness is now incredible, and two little tears run down one little and one larger, adult but still feminine face, the latter looking less beautiful than one would expect, a few unexpected wrinkles, the result of centuries of this neverending sadness.

Only Lenwë shows actual anger, his fist clenching, as if it's preparing to strike at the metahuman, wherever it - They - may hide.

"Everything seemed lost, but then, in one night, the Lord sent his son down to Earth, to defeat the metahuman, to slaughter the witch. A bright light announced his coming, and the metahumans screamed in pain, feeling that their last hour had come!"

Indis face brightens, and she cheers, gleefully, though quiet of course, as she doesn't want to interrupt Lúthien's story. Lenwë brightens as well, fist pushing forward a little, him being slightly embarrassed but still taken by the great victory achieved back then, over two millennia ago.

"But the metahumans hadn't yet given up! They tried to slaughter our saviour before he was ready to drive them off our world! And they scoured Eden with their swords, and slaughtered every newborn male they found!"

"Oh my Lord!"

"Yes, Indis..." Lúthien patted the blonde hair of the girl, wiping a tear from her face. "It was terrible, this months when they showed their true face and destroyed so many of our kin, innocent, pure... But the Lord led the young boy's and his parents' ways, and they escaped from the metahumans' attempts to kill them. Faith was saved, and for the next three decades, the Lord's son trained for the final encounter with the metahuman plague, when he'd go and destroy the witch!"

The tears were forgotten, and the two children smiled and cheered gleefully and Lúthien continued, with Lúthien smiling back, proud of the two.

Surely, they would carry on their legacy and break the curse, burning the witch.

"And then, battles and adventures awaited... But this, you two, is another story I'll tell you another day."

There was a bit of pouting, but eventually, a 'Thank you, auntie!', a few kisses, and much glee and joy during the rest of the long and wonderful evening followed.

And when it was time to go to bed, Indis dreamt of the future, when she herself would give birth to a hero of her people, who'd then defeat the witch and end the existence of the metahumans, while Lenwë continued to secretly play with his toys, reenacting the battles of days long past... Of the crusade led by the Lord's son himself.

Lúthien watched, silently, secretly, smiling and whispering a 'Good night' before finally leaving for bed herself... Another year, another page in the long book of life was about to be opened.

Over eight-hundred years, always hoping for the witch to fall, for the curse to be lifted... She shook her head in a mixture of frustration and childish hopes. It's silly... I've hoped so often... Every year... But perhaps, just perhaps... Next year... Perhaps.

She told herself she was silly, but still... When she fell asleep, she did so with hope in her slowly closing eyes.

********

Little Johnny Deboir sat half cross-legged in a pile of opened presents, balled up wrapping paper, and throngs of ribbons. Shiny bows stuck to his PJs as firmly as the smile did to his face, or the chocolate around his mouth. Mom and Pop had let him open his stocking first, before they had gotten up, made their coffee, and grabbed the camera. It was the one time of year the couple didn't mind a super-hyper 7 year old in the middle of a mess he created in the living room...or at least, if they did, he didn't notice.

It was hard to tell what to play with first. The green plastic toy soldiers? There had to be rubber bands in the junk drawer with which to shoot them. Or how about the Legos, no doubt dad could be enticed to play with him. The bike was nice, but it would be too hard to ride in the snow, and too cold! But wait...there it was, the new game and game console. PERFECT!

It took less then 10 minutes to hook up the large screen TV, 10 minutes when Johnny was a perfect, industrious, happy little boy, then the game began. It lasted 3 hours before a sugar-low kid got off to repeated calls for "LUNCH!"; a meal that lasted all of 15 minutes before the game unpaused and Johnny was hard at work again...not noticing the happy/sad faces of his parents behind him.

----------------

John Deboir Sr. put his son to bed late that night; the little tyke just didn't have anything left in him. All that button pushing must have tired him out. he thought as he tucked Jr. in. It was a good day, right? he asked himself, reasoning, he is happy, and that’s what matters. But John himself wasn't happy. Of all the Christmas gifts in the world, the one he wanted most was to take part in his son's happiness. But if he had to play the role of observer, then at least he'd be sure he could observe a happy son.

----------------

Time stretched out as it always does, days turned to weeks turned to months turned to years. Johnny grew up, supplied by the newest, fanciest, though typically not too violent video games by his parents every Christmas day. And every year, his father secretly watched from behind and Johnny played with his new gifts. Sometimes, he'd invite friends, and they would play together mostly in silence or with the odd joke only the two would get. Mostly though, he played alone. He played after school, before bed, and in the morning while waiting for the school bus. Bright, and with good parents to guide him, he always finished his homework, he always did well in school, and always came home to play again.

----------------

Little debbie Deboir sat half cross-legged in a pile of open presents, balled up wrapping paper, and throngs of ribbons wondering what to play with first. After some thought and much searching through an ocean of a mess, she found her goal...the new game and game console. PERFECT! 10 minutes later, the game was jacked in, and she was playing happily away. Behind her, forgotten and unnoticed, Johnny Deboir Jr. watched his daughter in half contentment. She was happy, right? And isn't that all that really matters???

----------------

Have a wonderful Christmas (or whatever your tradition!) this year. And young or old, don’t forget to share it with your family, because it does matter!

On Christmas Day, 1973, a handsome twenty-three year old man with a light brown beard married a beautiful seventeen year old girl in the Cathedral of Christ Pantocrator, New Rome. He was then crowned Andreus, Emperor of the Pantocratorians, Autocrator of the Romans, Equal of the Apostles. The double ceremony was filled with all the pomp, circumstance, majesty and rigid formality the Pantocratorian monarchy could muster, which was not inconsiderable, and was beamed into the homes of millions.

Christmas Day, 2005. Nominally to commemorate the thirty second anniversary of the Emperor's coronation, but in actuality to celebrate just over a year's passing since they had repealed the old laws forbidding such things, the Imperial Government had arranged for the Emperor to host a massive rock concert in the Isaac V International Stadium, in New Rome. The handsome twenty-three year old was now a severe fifty five year old, and the light brown beard was now grey. The woman the seventeen year old girl had become was nowhere to be seen - she had died four years earlier. And, perhaps worst of all for ageing man seated in the Imperial Box in the one hundred thousand seat stadium, the pomp, circumstance, majesty and rigid formality of which he was the living embodiment was tonight to be replaced with rock and roll music, and it would all be beamed into the homes of millions.

The seats had been given away by lottery, and were filled with eager young people and people eager to be young. The sports field was converted into a large stage, and the crowds within were protected from the chilly winter weather by the stadium's closed ceiling and giant heaters brought in just for the event. Even still, the occupants of the Imperial Box, a purple draped platform which extended from one of the grand stands, felt quite uncomfortable, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

The Emperor sat in a throne at the front of the box, clearly visible to the teaming thousands in the stands and on the field below. His youngest daughter, Princess Zoë, sat to his right, and his youngest son, Prince Constantine, next to her. Behind them sat the Emperor's brother, Prince Basil, his wife Princess Jacqueline, and their eldest daughter, Princess Helen. Asides from their security and servants, tucked out of sight, there was nobody else.

The crowd cheered as the first performer strode onto the stage. It was one of the most prominent Pantocratorian rockstars of 1973 (before rock and roll was proscribed by the United Christian Front Government), who was himself ageing worse than the Emperor. He wore a red Santa hat on his head, but instead of a sack full of presents, he carried an electric guitar. With a few winks directed at some young ladies who were... getting particularly into the spirit of the season in the front row, he approached the microphone. He bowed briefly to the Imperial Box, and then held up his hand to silence the cheering crowd. In a few moments, he strummed the first few bars on the electric guitar. In the Imperial Box, the Emperor visibly cringed as the rocker played God Save the Emperor on his distinctly non-regal instrument.

When he was done playing the national anthem, the crowed cheered in anticipation of the first real act. Princess Zoë grinned, partially as a result of the electric atmosphere in the stadium, and partially in delight at her father's obvious discomfort. The Emperor made a motion with his wrist to summon a servant as the rest of the band joined the rocker on stage to play a hard rock adaptation of Silent Night. The servant leaned over close to the Emperor to hear his command over the combined sound of the butchered Christmas hymn and the crowd's enthusiasm.

"Get me a pair of earplugs." the Emperor commanded. The servant withdrew, and the Emperor grumbled to himself.

"Merry Christmas, Papa!" Zoë shouted, looking up at her father beaming mischeviously.

The Emperor regarded her for a few moments, with an eyebrow raised suspiciously, before snorting and shaking his head.

"God I hate Christmas..." he added needlessly.