Read Online Chicks in Chainmail by Esther Friesner - Free Book Online
Authors: Esther Friesner
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your generals boss around the commander in chief?" Hillary demanded. "Truman fired MacArthur when he tried that."
"Get her out of here! Out! Out!"
"He sounds like the Fenris-wolf, yelping," whispered Rossweise. She giggled. Thor turned the red of imminent apoplexy.
Wotan stood up. He swirled his cloak back from shoulders that, despite his age, were still massive. Unerringly, he reached behind him for his spear and banged upon the floor for attention and order. The ravens mantled, then subsided.
"Where shall I send her?" Wotan asked his son. "The girls brought her here, and you know what that means."
"Send her to Niflheim for all I care."
"You know I can't do that to Hela, son. And have you thought what might happen if the two of them liked each other?"
"Then send her back ."
"You know that breaks the pattern. And anything that breaks the pattern…"
"… brings Twilight closer."
The fires sank in the central firepit of Valhalla. Outside, the light seemed to diminish as if the Twilight of the Gods advanced like sunset in December. A wind blew about the great hall's eaves, picking up volume until it rose into a howl.
"That's right," said Wotan. "If I send her back, it brings… it just so much closer. I'll need my best warriors with me then. In that case, are you with me, or are you going to go off again and sulk?"
"Get her out of here," Thor pleaded, "and I'll do anything you say."
"Your daughters too." Well, she and Bill had always wanted more than one child. Hillary caught Wotan's eye and held it. Their last chance, old man. For once in your life, make the right choice. In the name of
"Well, girls?" Thor raised his hands in holy horror as Wotan actually asked the Valkyries their opinion.
"Get them all out of here!" he wailed.
"I'll make sure someone grooms the horses," Wotan promised his daughters. Then he banged his spear thrice upon the floor of Valhalla.
Smoke swirled up, then clouds, then more smoke.
And before Hillary or the Valkyries could sing "hoi-otoho" (which Hillary couldn't, not even on her good-voice days), she found herself lying beside a buckled railroad track somewhere between Wilmington and Philadelphia.
She had the mother of all headaches, especially with those ambulances shrieking like the winds of Ragnarok in her ears. But her heart sang, even if she couldn't. She had survived. She had made it back home. She'd be able to hug Chelsea again. She would even pet Socks, no matter if he made her sneeze or not.
Secret Service and aides clustered about her, barely letting the doctors through.
"There are others in the train," Hillary murmured. "Young, innocent girls." And a tear that Peggy Noonan would have envied slid down her face. Someone raced down the track and into a car, then emerged to shout in a voice that that wretched Thor would have envied, that the Scandinavian tourist group was just fine, and so was everyone else.
She thought, before she allowed herself to yield to the painkiller, that that made even better news than "I, William Jefferson Clinton, do solemnly swear…"
Hillary never did get to hear Das Rheingold . She had talked under influence of the painkillers, and her near-death experience and some truly godawful photographs filled the tabloids and prompted a whole rash of "I saw an angel" stories. It even had the Christian Coalition inviting her to testify at prayer breakfasts. The White House had to hire more staff just to handle the cards and letters; and bulletin board service providers suffered temporary crashes as people started flame wars about what really happened.
Here is what is known for certain. The picture of the First Lady, bravely leaning on an aide's shoulder and asking about the health of the Norwegian exchange students as a doctor tended to her chased all other pictures from page one of the leading papers. Even the Washington Times carried a human interest story dealing with how often she visited the students, how she invited them to the White House to
"Get her out of here! Out! Out!"
"He sounds like the Fenris-wolf, yelping," whispered Rossweise. She giggled. Thor turned the red of imminent apoplexy.
Wotan stood up. He swirled his cloak back from shoulders that, despite his age, were still massive. Unerringly, he reached behind him for his spear and banged upon the floor for attention and order. The ravens mantled, then subsided.
"Where shall I send her?" Wotan asked his son. "The girls brought her here, and you know what that means."
"Send her to Niflheim for all I care."
"You know I can't do that to Hela, son. And have you thought what might happen if the two of them liked each other?"
"Then send her back ."
"You know that breaks the pattern. And anything that breaks the pattern…"
"… brings Twilight closer."
The fires sank in the central firepit of Valhalla. Outside, the light seemed to diminish as if the Twilight of the Gods advanced like sunset in December. A wind blew about the great hall's eaves, picking up volume until it rose into a howl.
"That's right," said Wotan. "If I send her back, it brings… it just so much closer. I'll need my best warriors with me then. In that case, are you with me, or are you going to go off again and sulk?"
"Get her out of here," Thor pleaded, "and I'll do anything you say."
"Your daughters too." Well, she and Bill had always wanted more than one child. Hillary caught Wotan's eye and held it. Their last chance, old man. For once in your life, make the right choice. In the name of
"Well, girls?" Thor raised his hands in holy horror as Wotan actually asked the Valkyries their opinion.
"Get them all out of here!" he wailed.
"I'll make sure someone grooms the horses," Wotan promised his daughters. Then he banged his spear thrice upon the floor of Valhalla.
Smoke swirled up, then clouds, then more smoke.
And before Hillary or the Valkyries could sing "hoi-otoho" (which Hillary couldn't, not even on her good-voice days), she found herself lying beside a buckled railroad track somewhere between Wilmington and Philadelphia.
She had the mother of all headaches, especially with those ambulances shrieking like the winds of Ragnarok in her ears. But her heart sang, even if she couldn't. She had survived. She had made it back home. She'd be able to hug Chelsea again. She would even pet Socks, no matter if he made her sneeze or not.
Secret Service and aides clustered about her, barely letting the doctors through.
"There are others in the train," Hillary murmured. "Young, innocent girls." And a tear that Peggy Noonan would have envied slid down her face. Someone raced down the track and into a car, then emerged to shout in a voice that that wretched Thor would have envied, that the Scandinavian tourist group was just fine, and so was everyone else.
She thought, before she allowed herself to yield to the painkiller, that that made even better news than "I, William Jefferson Clinton, do solemnly swear…"
Hillary never did get to hear Das Rheingold . She had talked under influence of the painkillers, and her near-death experience and some truly godawful photographs filled the tabloids and prompted a whole rash of "I saw an angel" stories. It even had the Christian Coalition inviting her to testify at prayer breakfasts. The White House had to hire more staff just to handle the cards and letters; and bulletin board service providers suffered temporary crashes as people started flame wars about what really happened.
Here is what is known for certain. The picture of the First Lady, bravely leaning on an aide's shoulder and asking about the health of the Norwegian exchange students as a doctor tended to her chased all other pictures from page one of the leading papers. Even the Washington Times carried a human interest story dealing with how often she visited the students, how she invited them to the White House to
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