Tanya Huff - What Ho,Magic!

Tanya Huff is...

This book is the first collection of some of Tanya's short stories, and the stories, bristling with an elegant

wit that never becomes either self-indulgent or pretentious, speak more clearly for themselves than I ever

could.

I'd like to concentrate on the work, and the work alone, but there's so much of Tanya in the work she

does it would be like telling half a story when I know more of it: doesn't feel right. Besides, anyone who's

reading this has already bought the book, a sure indication that I'd be singing to the choir.

So, briefly, Tanya Huff is scum. A maggot. Moreover, I mean both words in the nicest possible way.

Perhaps a little background is in order.

The first time I met Tanya, I was fifteen years old. I was at my first convention, and very nervous; she

was at her umpteenth, and very confident. She was also dressed up as Belit. I couldn't think of anything

clever to say to her - a recurring theme - so I didn't say anything at all because, well, I was intimidated.

Nevertheless, I remembered her clearly.

The second time I met Tanya was as a customer at Bakka, the science fiction bookstore inToronto

where we'd later spend six of her eight-year tenure working together. She had just sold a novella to Pat

Price at Amazing - the Kelly Chase story - and she was determined to sell a novel before she reached

the other side of thirty.

At that time, I was scribbling poetry and editing fledgling attempts at my own fiction, and she seemed to

have stepped across the impossibly wide divide that separates the published - and publishable - from the

unpublished. She was very matter of fact about the sale and her future career. I was impressed - and

intimidated - so I didn't mention the fact that I was writing.

I started working at Bakka very shortly after that, part-time to her full-time, and when I finally graduated

to full-time, we overlapped on four of our five days. During those years, as most of you probably did, I

read Tanya's fiction. But I got to read it before it was published.

It was torture.

Poets tend toward melodrama and abuse of the language; they're always at least a bit infatuated with

words and the cadence of words, and before they find their feet...well, it isn't pretty. That was me.

Misery loves company. Unfortunately, I never did get any, not that way.

Tanya has never had that problem. I'm fairly certain she knows what purple prose is, but I guarantee

she's also incapable of committing it.

"Here, Michelle," she'd say, "I think this is too slow. Or too boring. Or maybe not enough is happening.'"

So I'd read her very polished, highly amusing and often deeply moving writing - and then I'd slink off to

my computer with an inferiority complex the size of a small planet. This was her idea of not good enough!

Tanya, I thought, you are scum. But I wasn't about to say that because I didn't want it to be taken the

wrong way.

Well, the years went by. I managed to figure out that I wasn't Tanya Huff, and I wasn't going to be

Tanya Huff, so I settled into my own style of writing, rewriting and revising. I started, bit by bit, to feel

less intimidated. Maybe it was because of the times I'd watch her spend twenty minutes - in the back

room of the store - writing the same sentence over and over again until the cadence was exactly right.

Maybe it was the month she spent writing the same four pages of a novel over and over again because

she knew where the book was supposed to be going, but her instincts as a writer are far too strong - and

too good - to let her hack her way paint-by-numbers style through the plot; if she blocks, it's for a

reason. The book veered sharply to the left, and once she and her subconscious settled on a reasonable

compromise, she took the driver's seat again.

I still read everything she wrote as she finished it. Novels were bad, as they came chapter by chapter;

short stories came in a complete chunk.

When she finished "I'll Be Home For Christmas" I had yet to start a story for the same anthology. I read

hers, and almost didn't start one. "No," I told her, "there's no way I'm writing anything contemporary; it'll

only get compared to that, and I can't come close."

I was very glad that I didn't have that problem with "Shing Li-Ung", one of my favourite stories, because

I wasn't asked to write a story for that anthology. As someone with some background in being a banana

- white on the inside, yellow on the outside, in case you haven't come across the term - I found the story

to be particularly moving and well thought out, and I liked the end.

In fact, I like the way most of Tanya's stories end. Although she's at home with a very dark edge - as the

two horror stories in the anthology clearly show - for the most part, she deals in hope. In ideals. In what

it takes to meet those ideals half way. Her characters know, like she does, that life is tough, and that

people aren't perfect - but they don't use the excuse of imperfection to become self-indulgent, whiny

jerks. They deal with their lives. They live up to their promise.

But I digress. I was speaking about scum.

As Tanya and I got more comfortable with each other's writing we began to depend, to some extent, on

each other's opinion. And one day, when she'd handed me yet another excellent chapter with a mournful,

"this is way too slow, nothing happens, and no one's going to finish the book if they even get this far," I

was going through a complete throw-the-book-away-and-rewrite-from-the-ground-up revision. Misery,

as I mentioned above, loves company.

I read the chapter.

In addition, when I finished it, I looked up, met her expectant gaze, and said, "You are a crawling

maggot."

"What?"

"You are scum. You are vile."

"Is that good?"

"I am in the middle of the rewrite from hell and you have the nerve to give me this and tell me that it's

awfulT Because, of course, it was wonderful.

She's not stupid. "Wow. Scum," she said.

It became our quick way of saying something was really good. It was shorthand for You've completely

hooked me and I couldn't put this down.

When she finished Blood Pact, she was living three hours outside ofToronto, but I still got to read the

book chapter by chapter, and when I finished it, I phoned her - this was before there were cheap long

distance rates inCanada- to call her scum. It took a long time. I loved that book.

I also had to take three days off writing; I couldn't get it out of my head and when I went back to my

own work I could clearly see just where the cadence and humour, the earthiness of her characters, the

contemporary accessibility, were missing from mine. This happens every time I read a Huff novel.

Doesn't stop me from reading her books, though.

Nothing I can think of - short of the obvious - could do that.

So, Tanya Huff is scum.

And you're about to find out why; just turn the page.

- Michelle Sagara West October 1998

"The Chase is On", the oldest story in this collection by a considerable margin, is pure space opera. I

would never insult the many fine Writers of science fiction by referring to this story as such. There is no

science in it.

Space opera; fantasy with ray guns and space marines.

It's a sub genre I've always loved, space opera, and given the continuing reaction to Star Wars and Star

Trek, so have a whole lot of people. I've actually pitched a couple of ideas for Star Trek novels but,

unfortunately, they went nowhere.

As this collection appears, I'm working on my first novel-length space opera (untitled as yd) probably

out from DAW in the spring of 2000. It has nothing to do with Kelly Chase or her universe.

THE CHASE IS ON

"Blundering, incompetent idiot!" roared the Atabeg of Rayanton, Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems.

"A simple removal, and you fail dismally!"

The commander of the Atabeg's Immortals, some four thousand men whose loyalty was absolute, stared

straight ahead, carefully emotionless, ignoring the spittle that dotted the front of his dress uniform - the

physical evidence of his lord's rage. To show any emotion in the presence of the Atabeg was unwise,

although groveling was acceptable after a certain point in the interview.

"Exalted One," began the officer, wishing that he dared wet his lips. "If I may be permitted...we had to

deal with his escort first. There were a great many places he could hide, and we had a very small force."

"And may I remind you, Commander," the Atabeg snarled, "that we speak of an eight year old boy."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw tanned fingers fiddling with something on the desk. "Pay attention,

Darvish," he snapped. "This concerns you."

Darvish sighed, sat up straighter, and tried to look as if he cared. When the Atabeg turned again to the

commander, Darvish let the expression drop and returned to buffing his nails and brooding about the

unfairness of his life.

"An eight year old boy," the Atabeg repeated, "who must be removed. When my fat fool of a brother

finally gets what's coming to him, my son will be Shahinshah, Defender of Infinity. Do you understand me,

Commander? Get rid of that boy!"

"Most assuredly, Exalted One." The commander bowed and backed quickly from the room.

"Uh, Father..."

The Atabeg took a deep breath and faced his son, wondering once again how this exquisite lump, this

posturing fop, could be flesh of his. He cursed his brother for the mind blocks that kept him from taking

the throne for himself. "I don't want to hear it, Darvish," he said sternly. "You're going to be Shahinshah,

and that's all there is to it."

Darvish sighed again.

Some hours later, a nine-man squad of the Atabeg's Immortals moved into defensive positions around

the perimeter of docking pit 90. Their squad commander walked slowly toward the docked freighter,

gripping his weapon tightly, and trying not to let his nervousness show. He knew that any sign of

weakness could precipitate an assassination attempt by one of his men, and at least half the squad felt

ready for promotion.

His eyes swept across the gleaming enamel and chrome until they rested on the registration numbers set

into the metal by the cargo hatch. He wished he could swear. The independent pilots of Company space

were so damned unpredictable; they often shot back. As he closed in on the ship, an external video relay

swiveled and pointed directly at him.

"Hold it right there, buddy," boomed a mechanical but still definitely female voice. "Kelly, we've got

company."

The squad commander glanced hastily from side to side. He saw no Kelly. A sudden noise brought his

eyes back to the ship. He tightened his finger on the trigger as an access panel clanged back, exposing a

pair of shapely legs.

The shapely legs kicked, jerked, and emerged, followed by an equally shapely body.

"Who the blazes are you?" she snarled, tossing the wrench she carried into a tool kit and dropping a

hand to her sidearm.

This was not the reaction the squad commander usually evoked in tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful

young women. It almost startled him into taking a step back; a move his men would surely misinterpret,

with fatal results. She moved closer, showing apparent disregard for his superior firepower. His men

moved closer as well, although, admittedly, a very little closer. If they had no intention of being reported

for cowardice, they had less of being caught in a crossfire.

The squad commander pulled a sheet of hard copy from his belt pouch and handed it over.

She scanned it quickly. "And just why does the Atabeg of Rayanton, Guiding Light of Forty Star

Systems, et cetera, et cetera, want to run an energy scan of my ship? His customs brokers searched it

when I landed. Everything is in order."

"A search is not an energy scan." He glowered forebodingly, an expression which never failed to strike

terror into the hearts of subordinates. The woman didn't appear to notice. His eyes flicked over the sleek

lines of the freighter. A pity that simple confiscation no longer remained an option. The empire needed the

imports too much to scare the independents off with the one thing that outweighed their desire for profit:

the possible loss of their ships. The squad commander sighed. The old ways had been easier. "The

Atabeg, may he live forever, thinks you have something on board he wants."

A golden eyebrow rose. "Would you believe me if I said I don't know what you're talking about?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

She dropped to the ground and a raking line of blue fire from the ship turned all ten men into smoldering

piles of carbon.

Kelly Chase glanced around at the bodies and shook her head ruefully as she dusted off her knees. Her

nose wrinkled in distaste as she stepped over the ruins of the squad commander.

"I've always wondered why they call them Immortals. Nice shooting, Val. A little overdone, but nice

shooting."

"Dead's dead, Boss. They don't care how cooked they get." The gun ports closed and a hatch hissed

open as the self-aware computer that ran the ship, that was the ship, began to warm the engines for

lift-off. "Looks like we'd better blow this joint, huh?"

"Yes," agreed Kelly, "looks like we'd better."

The Atabeg and his son still sat at dinner when the dispatch came in from the commander. Scowling, the

Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems snatched the hardcopy from his aide's grasp.

"Morons!" He threw the thin sheet of plastic down into the remains of the first course.

"Did he get away again, Father?" Darvish asked, his perfect brow furrowing as he plucked the message

out of the white sauce.

A muscle jumped in the Atabeg's jaw. The aide stepped back. "Yes. He got away. Again."

"Oh, good." The young man favored his father with a dazzling smile. "Now I don't have to be

Shahinshah."

"You don't have to be..." The Atabeg sputtered into silence then began again, his voice rising to a shriek.

"For the last time, Darvish, you will be Shahinshah!"

"But..."

"Not another word!" He glared up at his aide, his anger a sizzling presence in the room. "Get me that

ship and everyone on it. Call out the fleet if you have to!"

"Why me?" Darvish asked of no one in particular.

"What I don't understand," Kelly murmured, her booted feet up on the control console, "is how he knew

I had the rocks on board."

"Maybe he was watching our dealer," the ship suggested.

"The Atabeg can't keep spies in Company space," the independent scoffed. "His men sell themselves too

cheaply."

"Lucky guess?"

Kelly yanked both hands up through her loose curls. "Maybe." The only alternative, that one of their own

had sold them out, didn't stand considering. Independents trusted few enough people as it was. If they

couldn't trust each other, the whole system would fall apart. "How are repairs coming?"

"I'm running final systems checks now. Give me a few minutes, and I'll have full internal sensory input

again."

The ship fell silent and Kelly amused herself by watching lights flicker on the control board as one by one

the systems damaged in a small argument with a Company patrol boat came back on line.

"Uh, Kelly. Maybe they weren't after the rocks."

"What?" Kelly's feet hit the deck.

"I've just picked up an intruder in the lounge; within human parameters but small."

Kelly was out of the control room almost before the ship finished talking. She raced into the lounge and

skidded to an abrupt halt. Backed against a bulkhead was a red-haired boy with a runny nose, a dirty

face, and an energy weapon pointed at the general area between her chin and her navel.

"Come one step closer," said the youngster calmly, "and I'll blow you into a greasy smear on the deck."

"Lovely," said Kelly. "Just what I needed to round out my day." She took a step forward but stopped

when the boy showed every indication of carrying out his threat. "Couldn't we talk about this?"

He shook his head, lips compressed into a thin line.

Suddenly, alarms shrilled and lights flashed. As the boy jerked, Kelly dove to the deck, seconds before

an energy blast boiled the paint on the metal behind her head.

"I feel," commented Val, the boy and his weapon safely wrapped in the extensile arms she used in the

lounge, "like a child molester."

"Child, hell!" Kelly snapped. "That little monster nearly fried me."

The little monster in question stopped struggling and relaxed against his bonds, frustration giving in to

fatigue.

"This ship's self-aware," he said sulkily. "That's against the law."

"So, sue me." Kelly gingerly touched the blistered paint and shook her head. "Why didn't you grab him

before I was in his line of fire?"

A shrug was implicit in the computer's sheepish tone. "I didn't think of it."

Kelly's brows rose. "You didn't think of it? The best interfaces money can buy, and you didn't think of

it? Maybe I should turn you in for a good abacus, then if I get shot at, at least it'll be my own fault."

"My old man'll get you for this," the boy blurted out suddenly, more peeved at being ignored than

confined. "You'll see."

Kelly sighed. "Listen brat, I don't know why you're on my ship, and I don't care if you're the

Shahinshah's only son..."

"Yeah? Well, I am."

"Am what?"

"I am the Shahinshah's only son."

"All right, Ahrikhartoum Gafer...Gaaf...Giff..." Kelly threw up her hands in defeat. "What did you say

your name was again?"

"Ahrikhartoum Gaafar Nimeiry Umma al-Mahdi, Heir to Infinity." He stopped mashing his food into

interesting piles long enough to add: "Most people call me Your Magnificence."

"They do?"

"Yeah."

"Well, forget it." She considered a moment, absently sculpting her own dinner into mounds and hollows.

"Ahrikhartoum... Ahrikhar...Erik...I'll call you Erik. If," she added mockingly, "the Heir to Infinity

approves."

The boy shrugged, more interested in whether or not he could stand an eating utensil up in the mess on

his plate.

She took that as an affirmative. "Okay, Erik, let's see if I've got this straight. Your uncle, the Atabeg,

wants to kill you so that his son Darvish inherits the throne. He destroyed the troops escorting you from

your grandmother's but you slipped by his Immdrtals, stowed away on my ship, almost killed me, and

now want me to take you to your father. The Shahinshah. The King of Kings. He Whose Slightest Whim

is Law in a Thousand Star Systems."

Erik nodded. "Grandmother says I'm old enough to start protecting myself."

Kelly remembered the squad commander and sighed. Perhaps she'd been just a tad hasty. "Well, I can't

take you back, that's for sure."

"Surer," broke in Val. "We've been followed."

"Followed?" Kelly ran for the control room. "What did you do, stop and admire the scenery?"

"Youldon't like the way I move, get out and walk."

"Maybe half a dozen self-aware ships in the galaxy," Kelly muttered as she slid into the pilot's couch,

"and I get the one who thinks she's a comedienne. C'mere, brat."

"I'm here."

"Right." She waved him into the other couch and indicated two brightly-lit screens. "Those ships belong

to your uncle?"

"A ship this size doesn't carry trackers for Susumu space."

"That's not what I asked you."

Erik shrugged and studied the displayed schematics. "Yeah. So?"

"They're just D-class cruisers," Kelly said thoughtfully. "What do you think, Val?"

"We can't outrun them," the ship pointed out. "They're built for speed. We've got to fight."

Kelly's fingers danced over a bank of pressure-sensitive switches. "Val, I'm bringing us into real space.

Raise the shields, and swing us about when we've switched. Maybe we can talk to them first."

"My uncle always says shoot first, ask questions later."

"Easy for him to say. He has the heavy artillery."

The screen flared through a complete spectrum, filled with a blaze of wheeling stars, and then showed a

distant view of the two cruisers.

"You didn't lose them," Erik mentioned, rather unnecessarily.

"Didn't intend to."

"They're separating, Boss. They'll probably try to flank us." The Valkyrie rocked as a blast from one of

the cruisers grazed her shield. "Still think we should talk to them?"

Kelly shrugged. "So the one time I don't assume the worst, I'm wrong. Line us up, Val."

"Aligned."

"Then fire."

An energy beam fountained out from the freighter and splashed explosively against the nearest cruiser.

Light flowed over the cruiser's bow but left no visible damage.

"Hey," Erik cried as the Valkyrie deflected another shot. "It didn't work."

"Guess again. Her front shields folded."

"How can you tell?" the boy asked suspiciously, scanning the screens and finding no answer.

The board blurred under Kelly's fingers. "There isn't a shield in the imperial fleet built to take on a

T-ray."

"Cargo freighters don't carry T-rays!"

Kelly grinned. "This one does."

Erik's jaw dropped and his eyes grew round. "You..." he choked. "You're a pirate!"

"Am not. Hurry up a bit, Val."

The boy bounced gleefully on his couch. "If you're not a pirate, you've got to be a smuggler!"

"Do not. Careful, Val. She doesn't need shields to shoot at us. I'm an independent freighter captain,

carrying legitimately contracted cargo."

"Then what about the tracker and the gun?"

"I like to stay competitive. Val! Move it!"

"Aligned."

"Fire!"

The forward shields of the second cruiser went the way of the first.

"Oh yes, I'm good," Val muttered.

"All right!" Erik's whoop echoed around the control room, and he flung'a grimy fist into the air. "Now

let's take the T-ray and finish them off."

"Great idea, kid, but we just used the last charge."

Val rolled hard to starboard and the boy grabbed for support.

"You only carry two charges?" he yelped incredulously.

"Have you any idea how much one of those things costs...?" Kelly began, but broke off as a near miss lit

up the room. "Watch what you're doing!" she ordered her ship. "We're not out here on a Company

picnic, you know. How much longer until you've got them lined up?"

"Ready now."

"Then why are we hanging around?"

The two humans slammed up into their harnesses as Val dropped straight down out of the battlefield.

The cruiser commanders had barely enough time to stare at each other across empty space before the

twin blasts, meant for their quarry, tore their ships apart.

"Someday," Kelly mused, watching the twin explosions, "the empire will realize that space has three

dimensions...and then what'll I do?"

Erik's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Wow! Teach me to do that!"

"You think I'm crazy?" Kelly sat back and swung her feet up. "First thing I know, you'd use it on me."

"No, I wouldn't." He reached over and grabbed her arm. "Honest."

Kelly plucked his hand free, grasping it between thumb and forefinger as though it was a particularly

noxious growth. "I don't like to be touched," she said sternly and dropped it back in his lap.

The boy's lower lip went out, and he rocked back and forth in the copilot's couch. "You gonna take me

to my father now?" he asked at last.

"Well, I've got a cargo to get rid of." She ran a hand through her hair and studied the boy, her brown

eyes thoughtful. Traditionally, stowaways were spaced. Traditionally, stowaways were not snot-nosed

kids. Traditionally, snot-nosed kids were not under attack by the most powerful man in the sector.

Kelly's lip curled. And she'd be fried if she let the Atabeg have him, not after that malignant tumor

ordered her destroyed without even checking to see if she could be bought. "You stay with me for now,"

she said at last. "I'll figure out what to do with you later."

Erik considered it and grinned. "Great, you can teach me to be a smuggler."

Kelly closed her eyes and counted to ten. What had she done? The whole point is to keep him alive, she

reminded herself, turning to the controls. "Back to Susumu space, Val. Previously plotted course." The

stars streaked and ran. "We've got business on Elite."

"Elite?" repeated the Atabeg. "What makes you think anyone would go to that wretched scum hole?"

"We have reason to believe that the woman is smuggling Susumu crystals, Most Exalted. Elite is at

present the only place she can possibly dispose of them."

"Who commands our garrison on Elite?" "Company Commander Gripe, Most Exalted." "Inform him of

what's going on. He will hold both the woman and my nephew until I arrive." The Atabeg stood, an

unpleasant smile of anticipation creasing his face. "We leave immediately."

The alley was narrow and dirty. Black stone buildings blocked out most of the light. The gloom seethed

Tanya Huff - What Ho, Magic!

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