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Authors: Mercedes Lackey
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one of Mike Resnick’s “Alternate” anthologies, Alternate Celebrities , I believe. The wonderful thing about the alternate-history books is that you can take someone in history that you really like but who may not have . . . made some of the wisest choices in the world . . . and make him (or her) into something a little better.
Since Larry and I decided to do this one together, we combined our two passions—his for cars and mine for dance. Although . . . I am coming to share that passion for cars, and even took a High-Performance Racing school at Stevens Racing at Hallet Raceway (enjoying it very much, thank you). That, by the way, is the same track Mark Shepherd and I set Wheels of Fire at. We’re currently thinking about getting a Catterham Seven, which is a new old Lotus Seven, and doing vintage racing and autocross—but I digress.
In this case, we took the Mother of Modern Dance, Isadora Duncan, and gave her a little more common sense. We also had her born about 25 years later than she actually was, so that she participated in World War Two rather than World War One. But yes, in WWI, she did drive an ambulance for the Allies. As for her protégé Jimmy, well, we made his fate a lot kinder, too.
Dance Track
Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
Dora blew her hair out of her eyes with an impatient snort and wiped sweat off her forehead. And simultaneously adjusted the timing on the engine, yelled a correction on tire selection to her tire man, and took a quick look out of the corner of her eye for her driver.
He wasn’t late—yet. He liked to give her these little heart attacks by showing up literally at the last possible moment. She would, of course, give him hell, trying to sound like the crew chief that she was, and not like his mother, which she was old enough to be—
—And most certainly not like an aging lover, which half the Bugatti team and every other team assumed she was.
The fact that they weren’t had no bearing on the situation. Dora had been well aware from the moment she joined Bugatti at the end of the war that her position in this part of Man’s World would always be difficult. That was all right; when had she ever had an easy life?
“All right!” She pulled clear of the engine compartment, hands up and in plain sight, as she had taught all her mechanics to do. Too many men in Grand Prix racing had missing fingers from being caught in the wrong place when an engine started—but not on her team. The powerful Bugatti engine roared to life; she nodded to the mechanic in Jimmy’s seat, and he floored the pedal.
She cocked her head to one side, frowning a little; then grinned and gave the mech a thumbs-up. He killed the engine, answering her grin, and popped out of the cockpit—just as Jimmy himself came swaggering up through the chaotic tangle of men and machines in the pits.
She knew he was there by the way the men’s eyes suddenly moved to a point just behind and to one side of her. They never learned—or else, they never guessed how they gave themselves away. Probably the latter; they were mostly Italian, steeped in generations of presumed male superiority, and they would never even think that a woman could be more observant than they, no matter how often she proved it to them.
She pivoted before Jimmy could slap her butt, and gave him The Look. She didn’t even have to say anything, it was all there in The Look.
He stopped, standing hip-shot as if he were posing for one of his famous publicity shots, his born-charmer grin countering her Look. The blue eyes that made millions of teenage girls suffer heart-palpitations peered cheerfully at Dora through his unruly blond hair. He’d grown a thatch over his eyes for his last movie, and hadn’t cut it yet. He probably wouldn’t, Dora reflected. His image as a rebel wasn’t just an image, it was the real Jimmy.
She pulled her eyes away from his, and The Look turned to a real frown as she took in the dark ankle-length trenchcoat
Since Larry and I decided to do this one together, we combined our two passions—his for cars and mine for dance. Although . . . I am coming to share that passion for cars, and even took a High-Performance Racing school at Stevens Racing at Hallet Raceway (enjoying it very much, thank you). That, by the way, is the same track Mark Shepherd and I set Wheels of Fire at. We’re currently thinking about getting a Catterham Seven, which is a new old Lotus Seven, and doing vintage racing and autocross—but I digress.
In this case, we took the Mother of Modern Dance, Isadora Duncan, and gave her a little more common sense. We also had her born about 25 years later than she actually was, so that she participated in World War Two rather than World War One. But yes, in WWI, she did drive an ambulance for the Allies. As for her protégé Jimmy, well, we made his fate a lot kinder, too.
Dance Track
Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
Dora blew her hair out of her eyes with an impatient snort and wiped sweat off her forehead. And simultaneously adjusted the timing on the engine, yelled a correction on tire selection to her tire man, and took a quick look out of the corner of her eye for her driver.
He wasn’t late—yet. He liked to give her these little heart attacks by showing up literally at the last possible moment. She would, of course, give him hell, trying to sound like the crew chief that she was, and not like his mother, which she was old enough to be—
—And most certainly not like an aging lover, which half the Bugatti team and every other team assumed she was.
The fact that they weren’t had no bearing on the situation. Dora had been well aware from the moment she joined Bugatti at the end of the war that her position in this part of Man’s World would always be difficult. That was all right; when had she ever had an easy life?
“All right!” She pulled clear of the engine compartment, hands up and in plain sight, as she had taught all her mechanics to do. Too many men in Grand Prix racing had missing fingers from being caught in the wrong place when an engine started—but not on her team. The powerful Bugatti engine roared to life; she nodded to the mechanic in Jimmy’s seat, and he floored the pedal.
She cocked her head to one side, frowning a little; then grinned and gave the mech a thumbs-up. He killed the engine, answering her grin, and popped out of the cockpit—just as Jimmy himself came swaggering up through the chaotic tangle of men and machines in the pits.
She knew he was there by the way the men’s eyes suddenly moved to a point just behind and to one side of her. They never learned—or else, they never guessed how they gave themselves away. Probably the latter; they were mostly Italian, steeped in generations of presumed male superiority, and they would never even think that a woman could be more observant than they, no matter how often she proved it to them.
She pivoted before Jimmy could slap her butt, and gave him The Look. She didn’t even have to say anything, it was all there in The Look.
He stopped, standing hip-shot as if he were posing for one of his famous publicity shots, his born-charmer grin countering her Look. The blue eyes that made millions of teenage girls suffer heart-palpitations peered cheerfully at Dora through his unruly blond hair. He’d grown a thatch over his eyes for his last movie, and hadn’t cut it yet. He probably wouldn’t, Dora reflected. His image as a rebel wasn’t just an image, it was the real Jimmy.
She pulled her eyes away from his, and The Look turned to a real frown as she took in the dark ankle-length trenchcoat
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