The Best of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014 by Larry Niven, Nancy Kress, Mercedes Lackey, Ken Liu, Brad R. Torgersen, C. L. Moore, Tina Gower
Authors: Larry Niven, Nancy Kress, Mercedes Lackey, Ken Liu, Brad R. Torgersen, C. L. Moore, Tina Gower
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amusement. As my wife pushed the car out of the pond, I lay on my back, gasping for air and calming my heart-rate. When I finally recalled how I’d come to crash the car, I scoured the sky. The blue lights had now vanished.
I’ve seen those lights before. But that was in Europe, some 70 years ago.
In late 1944, as part of the Second Army, I was stationed in the Netherlands. My Division was situated near the Meuse River with the ultimate goal of pushing through to Berlin. One night, while out on patrol, I became separated from my comrades-in-arms. I became completely lost. The night was bitterly cold. We were still several weeks away from the first snow, but the air held an icy chill and the moon was lost behind clouds.
I crept through the woods, trying to locate my fellow soldiers, but I only found myself further disoriented. I shivered, and pulled my collar close around my throat. Just as I was about to light a match to read a map I heard twigs breaking underfoot. Then I heard the guttural sounds of a Jerry speaking to another. Instantly, I dropped to the ground and rolled behind a fallen log. It was damp and smelled of fungus, and it felt like hours I lay there, scarcely breathing, unable to move, but it must have only been a few minutes. One of the Krauts almost stepped on me as he stopped to relieve himself. I had to close my eyes and mouth against the warm stream of German urine.
I think I lasted about ten seconds before I could bear it no longer. I coughed and spluttered and leapt to my feet. The German’s eyes widened as I turned and fled. There was a rifle shot, and then another.
“Halt!” someone shouted. “Halt!”
I ran, zigzagging as I’d been taught and charged smack-bang into a tree. My head felt like it had been pushed straight through my skull, and I crashed heavily to the ground.
Before I could stand, the Jerries had dragged me upright, stripped me of my rifle and tied my hands behind my back. They marched me to a nearby barn, apparently abandoned. One of them shoved me, and I stumbled inside, scraping my face against the roughly hewn door. I was led to the back and pushed down into an animal stall. As a child I was always fragile, and the smell of old hay and animal droppings brought my allergies to the fore. Immediately I started sneezing which resulted in a backhander. My face burned, my head pounded and I lay there, stinking of piss and whimpering softly in the darkened stall while they removed their packs and rifles. Soon they had started a small fire. There was a short guttural discussion before one of them approached me. He made me stand, looked me up and down then untied my hands. He spoke to me in heavily accented English.
“You won’t try to escape, will you? We will simply shoot you if you try.”
“No,” I shook my head and briskly rubbed my hands to get some life back into them.
“What is your name?”
“Arthur Holbrook,” I said.
“Where are you based?”
“Arthur Holbrook. Private. 7474505B.”
“Where are you based?” he repeated.
“Arthur Holbrook. Private. 7474505B.”
The Swiss may have been reluctant to become involved in the war, but they had hosted the convention that afforded me the right to only state my name, rank and serial number. Oh, and they made damn fine chocolate as well.
He smiled. “What were you doing when we captured you, apart from being pissed on?” The others all laughed at this. I ignored him. Meanwhile, one of the other soldiers was heating up some kind of stew. It smelled wonderful.
“Would you like some?” he asked. “What were you doing when we captured you?”
I saw no point in lying. They had probably guessed I was simply lost.
“I was simply lost,” I said. “I was on patrol when I became separated from my comrades. I was trying to find my way back to them when you discovered me.”
He asked me further questions about troop movements, artillery installations and plans. I really had no idea, but I pointed at a couple
I’ve seen those lights before. But that was in Europe, some 70 years ago.
In late 1944, as part of the Second Army, I was stationed in the Netherlands. My Division was situated near the Meuse River with the ultimate goal of pushing through to Berlin. One night, while out on patrol, I became separated from my comrades-in-arms. I became completely lost. The night was bitterly cold. We were still several weeks away from the first snow, but the air held an icy chill and the moon was lost behind clouds.
I crept through the woods, trying to locate my fellow soldiers, but I only found myself further disoriented. I shivered, and pulled my collar close around my throat. Just as I was about to light a match to read a map I heard twigs breaking underfoot. Then I heard the guttural sounds of a Jerry speaking to another. Instantly, I dropped to the ground and rolled behind a fallen log. It was damp and smelled of fungus, and it felt like hours I lay there, scarcely breathing, unable to move, but it must have only been a few minutes. One of the Krauts almost stepped on me as he stopped to relieve himself. I had to close my eyes and mouth against the warm stream of German urine.
I think I lasted about ten seconds before I could bear it no longer. I coughed and spluttered and leapt to my feet. The German’s eyes widened as I turned and fled. There was a rifle shot, and then another.
“Halt!” someone shouted. “Halt!”
I ran, zigzagging as I’d been taught and charged smack-bang into a tree. My head felt like it had been pushed straight through my skull, and I crashed heavily to the ground.
Before I could stand, the Jerries had dragged me upright, stripped me of my rifle and tied my hands behind my back. They marched me to a nearby barn, apparently abandoned. One of them shoved me, and I stumbled inside, scraping my face against the roughly hewn door. I was led to the back and pushed down into an animal stall. As a child I was always fragile, and the smell of old hay and animal droppings brought my allergies to the fore. Immediately I started sneezing which resulted in a backhander. My face burned, my head pounded and I lay there, stinking of piss and whimpering softly in the darkened stall while they removed their packs and rifles. Soon they had started a small fire. There was a short guttural discussion before one of them approached me. He made me stand, looked me up and down then untied my hands. He spoke to me in heavily accented English.
“You won’t try to escape, will you? We will simply shoot you if you try.”
“No,” I shook my head and briskly rubbed my hands to get some life back into them.
“What is your name?”
“Arthur Holbrook,” I said.
“Where are you based?”
“Arthur Holbrook. Private. 7474505B.”
“Where are you based?” he repeated.
“Arthur Holbrook. Private. 7474505B.”
The Swiss may have been reluctant to become involved in the war, but they had hosted the convention that afforded me the right to only state my name, rank and serial number. Oh, and they made damn fine chocolate as well.
He smiled. “What were you doing when we captured you, apart from being pissed on?” The others all laughed at this. I ignored him. Meanwhile, one of the other soldiers was heating up some kind of stew. It smelled wonderful.
“Would you like some?” he asked. “What were you doing when we captured you?”
I saw no point in lying. They had probably guessed I was simply lost.
“I was simply lost,” I said. “I was on patrol when I became separated from my comrades. I was trying to find my way back to them when you discovered me.”
He asked me further questions about troop movements, artillery installations and plans. I really had no idea, but I pointed at a couple
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