Chicks - Did You Say Chicks Part 1

DID YOU SAY CHICKS.

Edited By Esther Friesner.

Ahem:

Hail to thee, O Lucy Lawless, Xenaactress great and flawless!

Beacon by whom we all steer In this book. Wish you were here.

Thou who art a constant charmer, Thou who wearest way cool armor, Thou who provest, day by day, Women have a lot to say Whether sword or child in hand, Spread our message through the land!

Say to every mother's son: "We are strong, but we're still fun.

"Do not fear us, do not hate us, "Never,neverunderrate us. "We are Women, aye, you betcha.

"Want to rile us? We won't letcha.

"Whether what we choose to don "FromFrederick'scomes or Pentagon, What we wear don't signify "Diddlysquat, for by and by "You will learn (as most men do) "We're your equals. Whoop-de-doo."

So once more, thee do we hail, Lucy Lawless, and the Grail Of full-fledged equality Which we hope we'll live to see.

Thou who art, in syndication, Hope of all the female nation, Thou whom sponsors court and coddle, Thou, our daughters' chief role model, Thou who play'st no girlie games But kickest b.u.t.t and takest names, Please accept this book, with thanks From thy sisters in the ranks.

"Bad doggerel. No biscuit!"

-Dr. Samuel Johnson (attrib.)

Did You Say "Chicks"?!

Introduction

Back for more, eh?

I'm a.s.suming you're a repeat offender, having already purchased and read numerous copies ofChicks in Chainmail. (Well, theydomake excellent gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, and most major holidays.) You're certainly not a repeatoffendee. Despite fears and collywobbles to the contrary,Chicks in Chainmaildid not generate a firestorm of feminist outrage, thereby proving the point I made in my previous introduction: Wecantake a joke.

Well, duh.

WhatChicks in Chainmaildid generate was a landslide of questions. These fell into two simple, easy-to-digest categories, the first being: "How come you didn't have more stories by men?"

Well, duhredux, babycakes. Ye Olde Editor solicited stories from the gents, but a whole lot of the gents demurred, citing fear of being chopped up into little bitty sticky bits by the ladies. (See above: Firestorm of Feminist Outrage! Film at eleven!) The second line of inquiry was of the sort that does an editorial body's heart a power of good, namely: "So? Where's the sequel? When's it coming out? Real soon now? Can't you make it sooner? Wouldnow be too soon? Pleeease?" This question was inevitably followed by a slew of suggestions for the sequel's t.i.tle, one or two of which zeroed in on the word "broadsword." (You'll have to excuse me from making the obvious rejoinder, but I've taken a mighty and sacred oath not the use the phraseWell, duhagain in this introduction.) Now I'm sure you'll all recall the tasteful disclaimer concerning the t.i.tle ofChicks in Chainmail. It was, after all, printed right on the back cover of said book. It was furthermore backed up by my own ready admission that the t.i.tle was mine-all-mine, please direct any enusing feminist outrage to my doorstep. If anyone asked, I would admit with all alacrity that the t.i.tle in question was strictlyMeaCulpaCity.

No onedidask. Fancy that. We did get a number of compliments on the t.i.tle, though, and whole lot of giggling. But I digress.

As the public clamor for a sequel mounted, the good folk at Baen (Purveyors of Really Cool Books to the Gentry) had a neat idea: A Name That Sequel contest! And so, via the Internet, on the Baen Web page, all interested compet.i.tors could submit their ideas for what to nameChicks 2, the prize being a generous selection of Baen books. My sources inform me that Baen had been running monthly contests for a while, but when this one hit, they gotthousandsof entries. Jim Baen himself came up with the idea for the contest, and judged same. (No, he did not do it because he was afraid of what I'd come up with for a Chicks 2t.i.tle if left to my own devices.) I have here in my hand certain doc.u.ments which reveal that the winning entry, as posted by Melanie Marttila of our good neighbor to the north(Canada, okay? Do I have to do everything for you?), reads in part as follows: Comments: Ok. I'm willing to bet that Babes with Broadswords has come up about a thousand times already. I want to be a little original so here are my best three: Hot Leather Hauberks PMS in Plate-Mail Did You Say CHICKS?

Thus a star was born. Our thanks to Ms. Marttila and to all who entered the contest.

We think thatDid You Say "Chicks"?! does its sister-volume proud. You'll recognize some of our authors fromChicks in Chainmail, back with new tales of Women Who Slay Too Much (And the Men Who Prudently Get Out of the Way), but you'll also encounter plenty of stories from some new contributors. We hope you'll enjoy them all.

The woman warrior in fantasy fiction is no longer merely a stereotyped barbarian tough who just happens to wear a skirt instead of a loincloth. Has humor humanized a formerly two-dimensional character? I like to think so. There are still all sorts of battles for us to fight, and many different kinds of armor for us to wear.

And we're still strong enough to keep on laughing.

No Pain, No Gain

Elizabeth Moon

Meryl the shepherdess woke from nightmares in which she waded through glue on grotesquely swollen legs. She opened her eyes to the smoky rafters of her mother's little hut, and stretched luxuriously. Bad dreams make good days, Gran always said. Flinging back the covers, she rolled out of bed and burst into screams. There they were, attached to her own wiry body-the plump soft legs of her dream, and when she took a step, it felt as if she were wading through glue. She didn't stop screaming until her mother slapped her smartly across the mouth. Gran said it was the Evil Eye, and probably the fault of Jamis the cowherd's second wife, no better than she should be, jealous becausehergirl had a mole on her nose, for which she had blamed everyone but herself. Everyone knew that the Evil Eye didn't cause moles on the nose: those came from poking and prying.

Meryl's new flabby legs ached abominably for days, but eventually she was able to keep up with her flock without too much trouble. Gran had a quiet word with The Kind One, and the cowherd's step-daughter broke out in disgusting pustules very like cowpox next market-day. Meryl figured it was allover, but she still wished for her own legs back.

Dorcas Doublejoints, justly famed dancer at The Scarlet Veil, could do things with her abdominal musculature which fascinated the most discerning clients, and resulted in a steady growth in her bank account. She had trained since childhood, when her Aunt Semele had noticed the anatomical marks of potential greatness. So now, in the lovely s.p.a.ce between her ribs and her pubic bone, all was perfectly harmonious, muscle and a delicately calculated amount of "smoothing," and unblemished skin with one artfully placed mole-the only plastic wizardry in which Dorcas had ever had to indulge, since by nature she had no marks there at all.

She woke near noon, after an unpleasant dream she attributed to that new s.h.i.+pment of wine... until she rolled on her side and felt... different. Where her slender supple belly had been, capable of all those enticing ripples. .h.i.ther and yon, she now had... She prodded the soft, bulging ma.s.s and essayed a ripple.

Nothing happened. Dorcas thought of her burgeoning bank balance-not nearly as much as she wanted to retire on-and groaned.

Then she wrapped herself in an uncharacteristic garment-opaque and voluminous-and sought the advice of her plastic wizard.

Mirabel Stonefist had done her best to avoid it, but she'd been snagged by the Finance Committee of the Ladies Aid & Armor Society. Instead of a pleasant morning in her sister-in-law's garden, watching the younglings at play, she was spending her off-duty day at the Ladies' Hall, peering at the unpromising figures on a parchment roll.

"And just after we ordered the new steps the court ladies wanted, they all quit coming,"

Blanche-the-Blade said. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of them for weeks-"

"They'll be back," Krystal said, buffing her fingernails on her fringed doeskin vest. "They still want to look good, and without our help, they'll soon return to the shapes they had before."

The court ladies, in the fitness craze that followed the repeal of the tax on bronze bras, had asked the women of the King's Guard how they stayed so trim. In antic.i.p.ation of a profitable side-line, the Ladies Aid & Armor Society had fitted up a couple of rooms at the Hall for exercise cla.s.ses. But unlike the younger girls, who seemed to like all the bouncing around, the married women complained that sweating was unseemly.

"What annoys me," Blanche said, "is the way they moan and groan as if it's our fault that they're not in shape. I personally don't care if every court lady is shaped like a sofa pillow and about as firm-Inever made fun of them-" She gave Mirabel a hard look. Mirabel, a few years before, had been caught with pillows stuffed under her gown, mimicking the Most n.o.ble Gracious Lady Vermania, wife of the then Chancellor, in her attempt to line-dance at the Harvest Ball. That story, when it got back to the Most n.o.ble Gracious Lady and her husband, had done nothing for the reputation of the Ladies Aid & Armor Society as a serious organization.

"I was only nineteen at the time," Mirabel said. "And I've already done all the apologizing I'm going to do." She unrolled another parchment. "Besides, that's not the point. The point is-our fitness program is losing money. We're not going to have enough for the annual Iron Jill retreat sacrifice unless we get somecustomers. And we're stuck with all those flower-painted step-stools and those beastly mirrors which have to be polished..."

"Recruits' work," Blanche said.

"Yes, but not exactly military training. As for the ladies themselves-they looked pretty good at the dance two days ago," Mirabel had been on what the Guard called "drunk duty" that night, and had attributed certain ladies' newly slender limbs to her sisters' efforts in the Ladies Aid and Armor Society Shape-up Cla.s.ses.

"Who looked good?" asked Krystal. No one would trust Krystal for drunk duty at a royal ball; she was entirely too likely to disappear down dark corridors with one of the drunks she was supposed to sober up. She claimed her methods worked as well as the time-honored bucket of water from the stable-yard well, but the sergeants didn't agree. Mirabel, like most of the guards, thoroughly enjoyed sousing the high-born with a bucket of cold water.

"Well-the queen, for one, and the Capitola girls. You know how thick their ankles were, and how they complained about exercising..." The Capitola girls had taken their complaint to the queen, who hated the women soldiers.

"Yes... ?"

"They were wearing those new gowns slit up to here, that float out on the fast turns, and their legs were incredible."

"I can imagine," Krystal sniffed. "People with thighs like oxen shouldn't wear that style-"

"No-I mean long, slender, graceful. Even their ankles. I wondered what the Shape-Up cla.s.ses had been doing."

"But-" Blanche frowned. "The last time they were in our cla.s.ses, they had taken perhaps a tailors tuck off those thighs, but their ankles were still thick."

"They must've found someone who knows more about exercise than we do," Mirabel said. "And that's why they're not coming to our cla.s.ses any more."

"n.o.body knows more about exercise than soldiers," Blanche said. "There's no way to change flab to muscle that our sergeants haven't put us through."

"There must be something," Mirabel said, "and we had better find it."

They were interrupted by the doorward, who ushered in a handsome woman m.u.f.fled in a cloak far too warm for the day. Mirabel perked up; anything was better than staring at those figures another moment.

She had the feeling that staring at them would never change red ink to black.

"Ladies," the woman said, in a voice meant to carry only from pillow to pillow, not across a drillfield. "I understand that you have a... an exercise program?"

"Why yes," Blanche said, before Mirabel could speak. "We specialize in promoting fitness for women..." "I have a problem," the woman said, and put back the hood of her cloak. Mirabel gaped. She knew Dorcas by sight, of course, because she had often been the official escort for visiting dignitaries when they went out on the town. She had watched the more public parts of Dorcas's performance, and had thought to herself that if the dancer were instead a fighter, she would already be in condition.

"You?" got out before Mirabel could repress it.

"Someone stole my belly," the woman said. She stood up, and unwrapped the cloak. Under it she wore a sheer, loose, nights.h.i.+rt... and under the nights.h.i.+rt was a soft, billowy expanse of crepey skin. "My plastic wizard," Dorcas went on, "tells me that this belly belongs to someone else, but he cannot tell whose it is-only that it's very likely she-whoever she is-has mine. He can't get mine back, until he knows where it is, and whether this was a simple exchange or something more complicated. Even then he's not sure... he says he's never seen a case like this before." She glared at her belly, and then at them.

"This one must be over forty years old-just look at this skin!-and it has all the muscle tone of mud.

How am I supposed to earn a living with this? I can't even do my usual warm-up exercises. Do you have something-anything-which will tone me up?"

Mirabel felt a twinge of sympathy. This was no spoiled court lady, but a hard-working woman. "I'm sure we can help," she said. "But I don't know about the age part..."

"I don't expect miracles," Dorcas said. "I just want something to work with, so I don't lose money while I'm hunting for the trollop who did this to me."

"You have no idea?"

"No... I thought of that red-headed s.l.u.t down at the Bra.s.s Bottom Cafe... you know, the one who thinks she can dance..." Mirabel nodded; she didn't feel it was the time to mention that the lissome redhead was reputed to perform the famous Gypsy dance "In Your Hat" even better than Dorcas. "But,"

Dorcas went on, with an air of someone being fairer than necessary, "she's in better shape than this." She patted the offending belly. "If anything, she's too thin. No, I'll be looking for someone whose skirts are too loose." She sighed. "So-when's cla.s.s? And is there any possibility of getting private lessons. I hate to advertise my problem..."

"Private lessons?-" Mirabel was about to explain that since their cla.s.ses had disappeared, all lessons were private, when Blanche interrupted.

"There's a ten percent surcharge for private lessons, Dorcas..."

"That's all right," Dorcas said.

"But I was going to say, since you're a working woman, like us, we'll waive that fee. It's mostly for the rich ladies who are looking for a way out of the work. And we could schedule you-" She made a pretense of going through the scrolls. "Well, as a matter of fact, I could just fit you in now, if that's convenient. Or two hours after first bell tomorrow, if not."

"Thanks, ladies," Dorcas said. "Soon begun, soon done."

At the end of the table, Krystal stirred. "Mirabel, you don't suppose-?" "Those court ladies!" Mirabel said, slamming her fist on the table. "That would be just like them!" Lazy, hated sweating and grunting for it, but wanted svelte bodies anyway. They would think of stealing, and if they had found a black plastic wizard...

"I wonder if it's happened to anyone else," Krystal said. "There aren't enough exotic dancers to supply flat tummies and perky b.r.e.a.s.t.s and slender thighs and smooth haunches and..."

"Allright, Krystal. I get the point." Mirabel closed her eyes, trying to think how many court ladies she'd seen at the dance with markedly better figures. Had any of the other dancers been robbed? "I'm going to check on some things," she said. "You stay here and let Blanche know what we came up with."

Out on the street, she headed for the Bra.s.s Bottom Cafe, and stopped short outside. For the past half-year, a poster advertising the red-haired Eulalia's charms had been displayed... but it wasn't here any more.

"Painting a new poster?" she asked, as she came through the door.

"She's not here," said the landlady. "But we've got Gerynis and Mythlia and..."

"When did she leave?" Mirabel asked.

"Are you on official business?" asked the landlady. "Or just snooping?"

"Official as in King's Guard, no. Official as in Ladies Aid & Armor Society, yes."

The landlady sniffed. "So what does the Ladies Aid & Armor Society have to do with exotic dancers?

Going to learn to be graceful in armor? Or sleep your way to promotions?"

Mirabel remembered why she never came here. The landlady cooed over male soldiers, and had a rough tongue for the women. "Ma'am," she said, trying to sound both pleasant and businesslike, "information from another exotic dancer suggests that all of them may be at risk. If so, the LA & AS wants to offer protection-"

"And make a tidy profit, no doubt." The landlady glared. "Well, you're too late for Eulalia, I can tell you that. What's been done to her is nothing short of blasphemy, and now you come along with your story about protection. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if you didn't have something to do with her troubles, just trying to scare all the girls into buying into your protections-" She advanced from behind the counter, and Mirabel saw that she held an iron skillet almost as broad as her hips. Mirabel beat a hasty retreat. So much for that... but if she could find Eulalia, the redhead might have more sense.

Back at the Hall, Eulalia was slumped at the table with a bright-eyed Krystal. Eulalia's midsection had gone the way of Dorcas's, although the replacement wasn't quite as big. Krystal had already signed her up for cla.s.ses.

Eulalia knew of two other dancers so afflicted. "And my cousin, who just came to the city last week, told me about a plague among shepherd girls out in the Stormy Hills. Only with them it's not bellies-it's legs.