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  Praise for Worlds That Weren’t

  “Engaging.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Each author deserves kudos for the in-depth research he or she most certainly undertook to develop these stories. Imagination alone warrants much credit as well.”

  —Curled Up with a Good Book

  “[Worlds That Weren’t] will be popular where alternative history holds sway.”

  —Kliatt

  “All four of these novellas are well written, hooking readers as each tale feels genuine due to the real figures fitting smoothly in their substitute environs. The award winning authors provide alternate historical readers with quite a quartet.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “[Turtledove’s] Sokrates and Alkibiades are both portrayed well…. Stirling has succeeded in writing an adventure tale of a strange world filled with unknown beasts and exotic (but not necessarily noble) savages…. [Williams] imbues [‘The Last Ride of German Freddie’] with more complexities that are generally found in retellings of the story of the OK Corral.”

  —SF Site

  “A tasty collection…. Good reading for a hot summer’s night will be found in Worlds That Weren’t.”

  —Green Man Review

  “Turtledove has obviously done his research, and his creation of Ancient Greece rings so true that the alternate history reads more like historical fiction. Stirling is immensely clever, and he creates really likable characters. He also describes a scene of action like nobody’s business, creating the reader’s equivalent of a wild thrill sequence from a great popcorn movie. It’s a nice piece of writing, and his attention to characters really pays off. His alternative history is fascinating and thought-provoking. He brings out the best in this sub-genre. [Gentle’s story is] a closely stitched piece, a dense fabric of history, imagination and storytelling that easily suggests there’s much more here than immediately meets the eye…All the stories are eminently readable; some are truly exceptional.” —Agony Column

  “[All] the novellas are superior works, and employ historical turning-points ignored elsewhere.Worlds That Weren’tis well worth the attention of science fiction and historical fiction readers.” —*Strange Horizons

  “The Daimon” by New York Times Bestselling Author Harry Turtledove, Winner of the Hugo, Sidewise, and John Esthen Cook Awards and Nebula Award Nominee

  “A thought-provoking novella.”*

  “Shikari in Galveston” by National Bestselling Author S. M. Stirling, Sidewise Award Nominee

  “The most original turning-point in the anthology. Stirling succeeds in delivering action-packed adventure and hairsbreadth escapes.”*

  “The Logistics of Carthage” by Mary Gentle, Winner of the Sidewise and BSFA Awards

  “The strongest and most ambitious work inWorlds That Weren’t.”*

  “The Last Ride of German Freddie” by New York Times Bestselling Author Walter Jon Williams, Winner of the Nebula and Sidewise Awards and Hugo and World Fantasy Award Nominee

  “An entertaining and intelligent novella.”*

  WORLDS THAT WEREN’T

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  S. M. STIRLING

  MARY GENTLE

  WALTER JON WILLIAMS

  A ROC BOOK

  ROC

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  “The Daimon” copyright © Harry Turtledove, 2002

  “Shikari in Galveston” copyright © S. M. Stirling, 2002

  “The Logistics of Carthage” copyright © Mary Gentle, 2002

  “The Last Ride of German Freddie” copyright © Walter Jon Williams, 2002

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1263-9

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  THE DAIMON

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  SHIKARI IN GALVESTON

  S. M. STIRLING

  THE LOGISTICS OF CARTHAGE

  MARY GENTLE

  THE LAST RIDE OF GERMAN FREDDIE

  WALTER JON WILLIAMS

  THE DAIMON

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  SIMON the shoemaker’s shop stood close to the southwestern corner of the Athenian agora, near the boundary stone marking the edge of the market square and across a narrow dirt lane from the Tholos, the round building where the executive committee of the Boulê met. Inside the shop, Simon pounded iron hobnails into the sole of a sandal. His son worked with an awl, shaping bone eyelets through which rawhide laces would go. Two grandsons cut leather for more shoes.

  Outside, in the shade of an olive tree, a man in his mid-fifties strode back and forth, arguing with a knot of younger men and youths. He was engagingly ugly: bald, heavy-browed, snub-nosed, with a gray beard that should have been more neatly trimmed. “And so you see, my friends,” he was saying, “my daimon has told me that this choice does indeed come from the gods, and that something great may spring from it. Thus, though I love you and honor you, I shall obey the spirit inside me rather than you.”

  “But, Sokrates, you have already given Athens all she could want of you,” exclaimed Kritias, far and away the most prominent of the men gathered there and, next to Sokrates, the eldest. “You fought at Potidaia and Delion and Amphipolis. B
ut the last of those battles was seven years ago. You are neither so young nor so strong as you used to be. You need not go to Sicily. Stay here in the polis. Your wisdom is worth more to the city than your spear ever could be.”

  The others dipped their heads in agreement. A youth whose first beard was just beginning to darken his cheeks said, “He speaks for all of us, Sokrates. We need you here more than the expedition ever could.”

  “How can one man speak for another, Xenophon?” Sokrates asked. Then he held up a hand. “Let that be a question for another time. The question for now is, why should I be any less willing to fight for my polis than, say, he is?”

  He pointed to a hoplite tramping past in front of Simon’s shop. The infantryman wore his crested bronze helm pushed back on his head, so the cheekpieces and noseguard did not hide his face. He rested the shaft of his long thrusting spear on his shoulder; a shortsword swung from his hip. Behind him, a slave carried his corselet and greaves and round, bronze-faced shield.

  Kritias abandoned the philosophic calm he usually kept up in Sokrates’ company. “To the crows with Alkibiades!” he burst out. “He didn’t ask you to sail with him to Sicily for the sake of your strong right arm. He just wants you for the sake of your conversation, the same way as he’ll probably bring along a hetaira to keep his bed warm. You’re going for the sake of his cursed vanity: no other reason.”

  “No.” Sokrates tossed his head. “I am going because it is important that I go. So my daimon tells me. I have listened to it all my life, and it has never led me astray.”

  “We’re not going to change his mind now,” one of the young men whispered to another. “When he gets that look in his eye, he’s stubborn as a donkey.”

  Sokrates glanced toward the herm in front of Simon’s shop: a stone pillar with a crude carving of Hermes’ face at the top and the god’s genitals halfway down. “Guard me well, patron of travelers,” he murmured.

  “Be careful you don’t get your nose or your prong knocked off, Sokrates, the way a lot of the herms did last year,” somebody said.

  “Yes, and people say Alkibiades was hip-deep in that sacrilege, too,” Kritias added. A considerable silence followed. Kritias was hardly the one to speak of sacrilege. He was at least as scornful of the gods as Alkibiades; he’d once claimed priests had invented them to keep ordinary people in line.

  But, instead of rising to that, Sokrates only said, “Have we not seen, O best one, that we should not accept what is said without first attempting to learn how much truth it holds?” Kritias went red, then turned away in anger. If Sokrates noticed, he gave no sign.

  I am the golden one.

  Alkibiades looked at the triremes and transports in Athens’ harbor, Peiraieus. All sixty triremes and forty transport ships about to sail for Sicily were as magnificent as their captains could make them. The eyes painted at their bows seemed to look eagerly toward the west. The ships were long and low and sleek, lean almost as eels. Some skippers had polished the three-finned, bronze-faced rams at their bows so they were a gleaming, coppery red rather than the usual green that almost matched the sea. Paint and even gilding ornamented curved stemposts and sternposts with fanlike ends.

  Hoplites boarded the transports, which were triremes with the fittings for their two lower banks of oars removed to make more room for the foot soldiers. Now and then, before going up the gangplanks and into the ships, the men would pause to embrace kinsmen or youths who were dear to them or even hetairai or wives who, veiled against the public eye, had ventured forth for this farewell.

  A hundred ships. More than five thousand hoplites. More than twelve thousand rowers. Mine. Every bit of it mine, Alkibiades thought.

  He stood at the stern of his own ship, the Thraseia. Even thinking of the name made him smile. What else would he call his ship but Boldness? If any one trait distinguished him, that was it.

  Every so often, a soldier on the way to a transport would wave to him. He always smiled and waved back. Admiration was as essential to him as the air he breathed. And I deserve every bit I get, too.

  He was thirty-five, the picture of what a man—or perhaps a god—should look like. He’d been the most beauti ful boy in Athens, the one all the men wanted. He threw back his head and laughed, remembering the pranks he’d played on some of the rich fools who wanted to be his lover. A lot of boys lost their looks when they came into manhood. Not me, he thought complacently. He remained every bit as splendid, if in a different way—still the target of every man’s eye…and every woman’s.

  A hoplite trudged by, helmet on his head: a sturdy, wide-shouldered fellow with a gray beard. He carried his own armor and weapons, and didn’t seem to be bringing a slave along to attend to him while on campaign. Even though Sokrates had pushed back the helm, as a man did when not wearing it into battle, it made Alkibiades need an extra heartbeat or two to recognize him.

  “Hail, O best one!” Alkibiades called.

  Sokrates stopped and dipped his head in polite acknowledgment. “Hail.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  “Why, to Sicily: so the Assembly voted, and so we shall go.”

  Alkibiades snorted. Sokrates could be most annoying when he was most literal, as the younger man had found out studying with him. “No, my dear. That’s not what I meant. Where are you bound now?”

  “To a transport. How else shall I go to Sicily? I cannot swim so far, and I doubt a dolphin would bear me up, as one did for Arion long ago.”

  “How else shall you go?” Alkibiades said grandly. “Why, here aboard the Thraseia with me, of course. I’ve had the decking cut away to make the ship lighter and faster—and to give more breeze below it. And I’ve slung a hammock down there, and I can easily sling another for you, my dear. No need to bed down on hard planking.”

  Sokrates stood there and started to think. When he did that, nothing and no one could reach him till he finished. The fleet might sail without him, and he would never notice. He’d thought through a day and a night up at Potidaia years before, not moving or speaking. Here, though, only a couple of minutes went by before he came out of his trance. “Which other hoplites will go aboard your trireme?” he asked.

  “Why, no others—only rowers and marines and officers,” Alkibiades answered with a laugh. “We can, if you like, sleep under one blanket, as we did up in the north.” He batted his eyes with an alluring smile.

  Most Athenians would have sailed with him forever after an offer like that. Sokrates might not even have heard it. “And how many hoplites will be aboard the other triremes of the fleet?” he inquired.

  “None I know of,” Alkibiades said.

  “Then does it not seem to you, O marvelous one, that the proper place for rowers and marines is aboard the triremes, while the proper place for hoplites is aboard the transports?” Having solved the problem to his own satisfaction, Sokrates walked on toward the transports. Alkibiades stared after him. After a moment, he shook his head and laughed again.

  Once the Athenians sneaked a few soldiers into Katane by breaking down a poorly built gate, the handful of men in it who supported Syracuse panicked and fled south toward the city they favored. That amused Alkibiades, for he hadn’t got enough men into the Sicilian polis to seize it in the face of a determined resistance. Boldness, he thought again. Always boldness. With the pro-Syracusans gone, Katane promptly opened its gates to the Athenian expeditionary force.

  The polis lay about two thirds of the way down from Messane at the northern corner of Sicily to Syracuse. Mount Aetna dominated the northwestern horizon, a great cone shouldering its way up into the sky. Even with spring well along, snow still clung to the upper slopes of the volcano. Here and there, smoke issued from vents in the flanks and at the top. Every so often, lava would gush from them. When it flowed in the wrong direction, it destroyed the Katanians’ fields and olive groves and vineyards. If it flowed in exactly the wrong direction, it would destroy their town.

  Alkibiades felt like the volcano himself a
fter another fight with Nikias. The Athenians had sent Nikias along with the expedition to serve as an anchor for Alkibiades. He knew it, knew it and hated it. He didn’t particularly hate Nikias himself; he just found him laughable, to say nothing of irrelevant. Nikias was twenty years older than he, and those twenty years might just as well have been a thousand.

  Nikias dithered and worried and fretted. Alkibiades thrust home. Nikias gave reverence to the gods with obsessive piety, and did nothing without checking the omens first. Alkibiades laughed at the gods when he didn’t ignore them. Nikias had opposed this expedition to Sicily. It had been Alkibiades’ idea.

  “We were lucky ever to take this place,” Nikias had grumbled. He kept fooling with his beard, as if he had lice. For all Alkibiades knew, he did.

  “Yes, my dear,” Alkibiades had said with such patience as he could muster. “Luck favors us. We should—we had better—take advantage of it. Ask Lamakhos. He’ll tell you the same.” Lamakhos was the other leading officer in the force. Alkibiades didn’t despise him. He wasn’t worth despising. He was just…dull.

  “I don’t care what Lamakhos thinks,” Nikias had said testily. “I think we ought to thank the gods we’ve come this far safely. We ought to thank them, and then go home.”

  “And make Athens the laughingstock of Hellas?” And make me the laughingstock of Hellas? “Not likely!”

  “We cannot do what we came to Sicily to do,” Nikias had insisted.

  “You were the one who told the Assembly we needed such a great force. Now we have it, and you still aren’t happy with it?”

  “I never dreamt they would be mad enough actually to send so much.”

  Alkibiades hadn’t hit him then. He might have, but he’d been interrupted. A commotion outside made both men hurry out of Alkibiades’ tent. “What is it?” Alkibiades called to a man running his way. “Is the Syracusan fleet coming up to fight us?” It had stayed in the harbor when an Athenian reconnaissance squadron sailed south a couple of weeks before. Maybe the Syracusans hoped to catch the Athenian triremes beached and burn or wreck them. If they did, they would get a nasty surprise.