Sometimes a single image is enough to launch a story. I stared at the one below for a day before she started talking to me, telling me a story. This will be one of two for the anthology Tales from the Lemur Throne, vol. 1, due out late this year.

Given her family, she’s a bit clumsy and sometimes has trouble paying attention. Given the setting, it is also a chance for me to look about one of the places in the former US which stabilized after the Change, but never really recovered to a significant technological level. I think this will be fun.

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The sun was just coming up over the eastern horizon.  Graf sat still in his canoe, his fishing line dangling out in the water.  Four, so far, he thought.  Not bad for two hours.  Two more and Dad, sis, and I are set for today.

That thought gave his seventeen-year-old heart a twinge.  His mother had cut her hand on an old nail in their barn and died shortly thereafter, not quite a year ago, leaving him, his kid sister, and her husband behind.

Honestly, not much changed, besides we all kinda cook for ourselves, now.  And, he looked down at his poorly patched flannel shirt and torn denim pants, I guess we look a little rougher.  At least we stay warm enough up here, in what Dad said was once a place called Wisconsin.  Which was also the name of the river he had paddled out to the middle of, tying up next to a small island.  Lots of people had their favorite fishing holes and guarded them rather jealously.  This one, where the river briefly turned south on its east-to-west journey to the Great River, was just southeast of the tiny village of Spring Green.

“Population:  boring,” Graf muttered, trying to wave some of the midges away from his face.  He set the pole aside and pulled up some of the catnip.  He rubbed his calloused hand on that then over his face and neck, to keep the insects at bay.  He picked his pole back up and looked around.  “Boring.  Nothing ever happens here.  Certainly nothing good.”

“eeeeeeee…” there was some odd buzzing from the sky.  He didn’t bother to look up, suspecting it was one of the mosquitoes who, when working as a team, could drain one of their pigs dry.  Just in case, he stuck some of the catnip in his frayed cap.

“Eeeeee!!!” it was louder now, and not an insect.  Graf glanced up…

The impact and splash were enough to nearly swamp his little canoe, pushing it up onto the island’s sandbank.  “Whatinthehell…!” he began, pissed to see his best rod was also broken.

“Yikes!” was the shout of the girl who stood up, chest-deep in the river.  “That was scary!”

To look at, Graf guessed her his age or one or two years younger.  Short hair, with some complicated braid down the right side of her face, which looked dark, but when the sun hit it, ranged from black to red.  Like her eyes, he thought, riveted.  On her wide face, her eyes were a shade of orange-red he’d never seen before.  Noticing him and his canoe, she smiled.

“Hi, there!  I’m Pai!”

Graf could not stop staring.  “You’re so pretty,” he breathed.

“Aww!” she blushed, wading toward him.  He saw she was wearing some kind of coveralls that looked vaguely military.  Now out to her knees, she was about five-five.  Shaking his head to restart his startled brain, he stepped out into the water to help her the rest of the way.

“Are you okay?” he asked.  “Did you…”

He looked up.

“Did you fall from something?” Graf had only seen airplanes twice in his life, one single-engine prop plane and a dual-engine small cargo plane.  But I didn’t hear anything except her voice…

“Yeah,” she admitted, taking his hand and letting her pull her up onto the sand.  “Kinda dumb of me.  Mom says I’m accident-prone.”

“To fall out of a plane?  And live?” Another shake of his head.  “I’d say so.”

Her feet were in a style of heavy boots that also looked vaguely military, from some of the picture books they had at home.  The patch on her right shoulder was not something he’d seen:  black, gold, white stripes, a two-headed black eagle clutching a…rocket?  Was that what they were called?  In its talons.  He also noted that stenciling over her right breast – wow, she was really flat – were not letters he could read.

“Did you just look at my boobs, Mister?” she smiled.  “I admit, it doesn’t take long to, I guess.  Maybe when I’m older.”

“Sorry!  I’m sorry!  And, I’m Graf Winstead.  Are you hurt?  There’s a doc in the village, about an hour from here…”

He watched her flex her arms and legs.  I swear her eyes just got brighter for a second.  Looking back at him, she tilted her head to the right, so her little braid swayed a bit.  “I think I’m fine.  I’ll need to do full diagnostics later.”

What?

“Still,” she looked straight up, “there is no signal here.  And the Shcha was on autopilot when I went outside, so I suppose I’ll be in your care for a while.  Yuck!  Soaking wet is a bother!”

To Graf’s shock, she pulled the zipper from her neck to her crotch and stepped out of her coveralls.  No bra, understandable, but at least panties, she pushed her outer clothes off, dropping into the sand to remove her boots.  She poured the river water out of them.

“Looks like a nice day,” she noted.  “I’ll hang this up here on this tree to let it dry for a few hours.  Is that okay, Mister Graf?  And please stop staring.”

He turned away, tired of apologizing.  “That’s fine.  My family doesn’t expect me back for a few more hours, anyway.”

“And how surprised will they be when you go home with me on your arm!” Her sense of humor seemed inexhaustible.  “And, just to be formal…”

He looked back at her, eyes up, as she cleared her throat and raised her right hand next to her face in an odd salute.

“I am Pai Mendrovovitch!  Rated Spacer of the Imperial Russian Space Navy!  Well, at least this part of me is.” Another devastating smile.  “I am in your care, Graf Winstead!”