Abandoned Towers Magazine issue #4

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Abandoned Towers Magazine

2nd Trimester 2009

The stories in this magazine are works of fiction. Places, events, and situations in the stories are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental. No part of this magazine may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the editor or publisher.

Abandoned Towers is published three times a year on March 1, July 1 and Nov. 1, by Cyberwizard Productions, 1205 N. Saginaw Blvd. #D, PMB 224, Saginaw, TX, 76179.

ISSN 1945-2861 (print) ISSN 1945-287X (online) Managing Editor - Crystalwizard Forum Administrator - Stephen Morgan Editorials - Bill Weldon Editorial Staff: Michael Griffiths Ed McKeown Timothy Ray Jones Paul McDermott Chris Silva Thom Olausson Daniel Devine Grady Yandell Heather Wilkinson Ramon Rozas Cortny Woodworth Front cover art: A Warm Welcome by M.D. Jackson Robin in Sherwood Forest Coloring Page created by Richard H. Fay Periodicals postage paid at Saginaw, and at additional mailing locations.

Postmaster: send address changes to Cyberwizard Productions, Saginaw, TX. Abandoned Towers Magazine© 2009 Cyberwizard Productions Individual art and written content © 2009 to the originating author or artist.

All Rights Reserved. No portion of this magazine may copied by any method or used for any purpose other than personal reading enjoyment without written permission from the publisher. Permission is hereby granted for the perchaser of this issue to make copies of the coloring page for personal use only. Such personal use shall be limited to the perchaser and his or her family. (In plain English tha tmeans that if you bought this issue then you can make copies for yourself, your kids, grandkids or other personal relatives, but you can’t make copies for your friends, your kids friends, your students or any other people not related to you. If someone else bought this issue, then you need to buy your own copy of it if you want to copy the coloring page.

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N O W A VA I L A B L E F R O M

DA R K Q U E S T B O O K S The award-winning

Breach the Hull Book One ISBN 978-0-9796901-9-8

Defending The Future series

Combined, featuring the works of: Jack McDevitt, Jack Campbell, John C. Wright, David Sherman, Charles E. Gannon, Mike McPhail, Bud Sparhawk, Andy Remic, Jonathan Maberry, Lawrence M. Schoen, James Chambers, Patrick Thomas, Tony Ruggiero, James Daniel Ross, Danielle Ackley-McPhail, and CJ Henderson Book Three, By Other Means, Coming 2010!

So It Begins Book Two, ISBN 978-0-9796901-5-0

And Patrick Thomas’s Much-Acclaimed M Y S T I C I N V E S T I G AT O R S S E R I E S

From the author of Dear CthulhuTM and the Murphy's LoreTM series comes: a fairy with a gun... An enigma in a straightjacket... A Soul Collector... a forgotten god who works as Hell's Detective... and many more. Down these mean streets filled with monsters and magic, walks a new breed of sleuththe Mystic Investigators.

Book One ISBN: 978-0-9796901-4-3 Book Two, Partners In Crime, Coming 2010!

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PULL THE DRAGON’S TAIL Darren Pearce 978-0-9796901-7-4 DEAR CTHULHU: HAVE A DARK DAY Patrick Thomas 978-0-9796901-3-6 QUEEN’S MAN Brannon Hollingsworth 978-0-9796901-8-1 THE HALFLING’S COURT: A BAD-ASS FAERIE TALE Danielle Ackley-McPhail, 978-0-9796901-6-7

WWW.DARKQUESTBOOKS.COM iv

Editorial: Regrets John Greenleaf Whittier once wrote, “For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these; “It might have been.”

I once wrote, “While living with regret is sad, dying with regret is worse.”

There were so many times in my life I would be inspired to write, but would let it pass due to my feelings of inadequacy and lack of education. I thought my efforts would result in an unacceptable manuscript.

Fortunately I found a writing instructor who saw potential in my writing and took me under his wing. One of the things he impressed on me was the idea that if I didn’t follow-up on my story ideas, I’d live to regret it. Not everyone

can write. If they could, more people would be doing it.

Another thing I learned is that writing is work.

Hard work. There are days when the words flow from my mind onto the computer screen.

Other days I have a hard time putting enough letters together to spell my name. The best way to overcome the hills and valleys of writing is to do it every day. Even if you don’t have a firm story idea in your mind, write anyway. Champion athletes were not born with the skills they display. They get to be champions by practicing every day.

I find lots of ideas for stories by reading newspapers and watching TV news. For example; I was recently inspired and wrote a story concerning

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an airliner crash in the Atlantic Ocean. I fictionalized it and used characters of my creation to make it exciting. I think it turned out well, but I won’t seek publication out of consideration for the families of those lost in the actual crash. Maybe in a couple of years I’ll take it out and polish it for publication.

What’s the point?

I got some good practice and refined my writing skills.

Whatever you do, don’t give up on your writing.

Don’t be one of those who looks back on their lives with regret at not having followed their calling. I believe I have it in me to become a great writer.

Many of us do if we will only keep working at it.

Bill Weldon, Editor

From the Barrow

by Carol Allen Rising up from the barrow, it's been a long time.

Wandering old soul bites for life through the gates of darkness.

Rising up from the barrow, it's been a long time.

Wandering old soul bites for life through the gates of darkness.

1

A Warm Welcome

By Rob Mancebo Looking down the ugly barrels of that bartender’s scattergun sort-of made me reassess my craving for a drink.

“Are you planning on going hunting, ol’ hoss?”

I inquired politely of the whiskered gent with the cellulite collar at the other end of that twelve gauge.

“Naw, I think I done found what I was looking for,” he replied with an irritating amount of smugness in his voice.

I looked around the Number One saloon like some sort of an idiot. It was vacant except for him and me, so it was pretty obvious just who he thought he’d found.

“Say now, you couldn’t be hunting me.” I wasn’t overly articulate because the business end of that sawed-off shotgun looked as big as a pair of stove pipes!

I was sure ready to try to talk my way out of getting my head blown off so I added, “I haven’t been in town long enough to bruise nobody’s feelings.”

“We hang thieves in this country!” he informed me with a wave of that shotgun.

“Drop them guns and hoist your hands!”

I hadn’t a clue as to what he was talking about. I put my hands up, then remembered he’d told me to drop my guns so I began to lower them again,

at which point he objected in the crude vernacular such as a body is liable to hear in saloons.

“Well do you want I should drop these Colts or not?” I demanded.

“I’ll get them,” he came around the bar in a huff and put those cavernous barrels under my nose while he fumbled at my left-hand gunstock. It was something of a tactical error on his part. When he glanced down to find that gun, I dropped my left hand across the action of his shotgun and took hold.

Those mule-ear hammers can’t fall with someone holding onto them.

He looked real pale all of the sudden and tried to get my pistol into action, but I whipped my right-hand gun out and did a good job of combing his mustache with its muzzle.

“Not much fun, is it,” I queried as I lifted his nose with the barrel, “having a gun stuck in your face?”

“General Hawks has a $500 reward out on your head!” he warned me as he let go my pistol. “He’s got the whole town out beating the brush for you right now! Big as you are, you make a right smart target.”

“Hawks is loco!” I pulled the shotgun out of his hands. “I may not take credit for having no seat waiting in paradise, but I can’t recall ever stealing anything in my life.”

“Ha!” He laughed kind of curt and accusing-like in my face. “His mine foreman described you clear as a picture.

How many gents in town 2

stand ‘big as a grizzly bear, in cathedral boots, California spurs, a red fireman’s shirt, a flat-brimmed Stetson, and wearing two guns’?”

I un-cocked my Colt and holstered it while I contemplated. That did sound like me all right. And for $500, every hardrock miner and fourflushing gambler in Philistine would drop their work to hunt me down.

“The whole town’s out looking for you.” He laughed in a sort of un-humorous way.

“You haven’t got a chance!”

“Ever since the silver-strike, Philistine’s attracted every pea-brained, lollygagging, get-rich-quick, S.O.B. in New Mexico!” I told him with a healthy nudge of those shotgun barrels. “Any kind of sense folks ‘round here had, is long diluted by greed and avarice.

“But I ain’t responsible for other folk’s cross-ways notions. I ain’t done nothing, and I came into this saloon for a drink. Now why don’t you just hoist out a jug of your best red-eye and I’ll commence. I’m on a mercy-mission and I won’t be side-railed by such tawdry foolishness as a town full of irate citizens.”

While he was dawdling about getting the whiskey, I loaded the sixth chambers of my big old Colt four-pounders.

I generally carry those horse pistols with the hammers safely lowered on empty chambers, but it looked like things might turn suddenly ugly around

town and I’d hate to run shy of ammo.

I also believe that act hastened the appearance of my whiskey.

Ignoring the tiny glass he brought with the bottle, I appropriated a coffee cup someone had left on the bar. I tossed its murky contents onto the sawdust-covered floor and filled it to the brim with the evil-looking ‘bust-head’ he’d supplied.

“Mud in your eye!” I toasted, and killed the libation in a couple big gulps.

That fellow’s eyes got big when I re-filled my cup, but I didn’t pay him any mind. It had been a long dry spell and I didn’t have time to mince about.

“To: fast horses, pretty girls, and smoking guns!” I drained the next cup in a single gulp —I was warmed up by then.

I filled it again and didn’t bother with the civilized pleasantries. I just drank it down.

After that I was feeling a lot more sociable. I tossed three dollars in coin onto the bar and waved the shotgun at the bartender. “I’ll drop this off at the edge of town for you to pick up after I’m gone,” I told him. “Just to be sure you don’t go getting obstreperous again.

“Good luck in catching your bandit,” I added with a wave.

I stepped out into the dusty street and headed for the livery. It wasn’t a long walk

but it was made a little more exciting than usual by the two or three fellows who seemed to have not had horses or guns to join the posse in chasing after whoever had really robbed General Hawks’ mine office.

One jasper tried to part my hair with a pick handle as I rounded a corner. I took it away and up-ended him in a rain barrel. I know he didn’t drown there because the flailing of his legs finally tipped it over. When last I saw, he was rolling around trying to extricate himself.

Another enthusiastic young waddie tossed a loop over me and tried to drag me with his horse. He was a might slow taking a dally about the saddle horn though. Truth be told, I think he’d been drinking.

Anyway, I gave the rope a heave and yanked him out of the saddle.

I left him bawling like a calf, swinging upside down from a stable beam, with his own rope around his ankles.

Another fellow who came after me with a butcher knife, I just downed with a shotgun butt on the jaw and left under the boardwalk with a mongrel dog snuffling like he’d found a new tree.

I gave a quarter to the little Mexican boy who’d been looking after my horse.

His sombrero was bigger than he was, but he seemed like a hard worker. He went to fetch Gus for me. “Watch out for his teeth,” I warned. “He’s a mean one.”

While he was saddling 3

him up, who should I see riding into town but Breck Stratton and his outfit. You could have knocked me over with a feather!

I walked directly out into the street to meet them.

“Why, Breck, I thought your crew was all down and nigh dead with the vapors!

What’s everyone doing ahorse after such an ordeal?”

“I came by to see what was taking you so long.” Breck was a big mean cuss and most folks around left him alone. He was a little inclined to play fast and loose with the law from time to time, but I never held that against him. His ‘Lazy 8’ ranch was below mine, down on the Snake River and he was a pretty good neighbor in a land with not many folks except the miners who bought our beef.

“I just stopped to use the necessary and have a couple of drinks,” I told him.

“You’ve been gone for hours!” he snapped.

“Well,” I admitted.

“I’m afraid I was a little preoccupied. You see, they got the Sears catalogue in the outhouse for papers. I haven’t seen one in nigh on two years, and I expect I sort of lost track of time.”

“All the time I was waiting, you were sitting on the john reading the Sears catalogue?” I don’t know as I’ve ever seen Breck as angry as he was right then.

“Sorry, Breck, but it doesn’t look like I made too big a hash of things. Your men look pert and sassy enough. I’m glad to see they’re recovered.”

“Did you get —” he hissed through gritted teeth, “my package?”

“Sure, pard, it’s in my saddle bags.” I motioned over my shoulder with my thumb.

“All right boys,” Breck settled back in his saddle and waved an arm like a cavalry commander. “Kill this patsy!”

Me, I thought he was kidding. It just didn’t make any sense. But then I saw a half a dozen hands reaching for firearms and I just naturally reacted to the action.

I whipped up the scattergun I’d been hauling with me, swept my left hand across the hammers to cock them, and let blast. I don’t know what the bartender had loaded into that 12 gauge but it wasn’t buckshot. It was something light —birdshot, rocksalt, or carpet tacks —that sent men and horses to dancing like crazy! My left hand had yanked a Colt dragoon before the second shogun blast sounded and I put a .44 into Slim Stark who fancied himself a gunhand but wasn’t quite fast enough to pull it off.

With the whole crowd bucking, yelling, and blasting like a thunderstorm, I dropped that shotgun and whipped up my right-hand Colt. My left-hand gun fired again inbetween their rearing horses to ventilate Jack-knife Brady as he took a bead on me with his Winchester. That spoiled his aim for him. Then the street was one great roaring of yellow flames and sulfur-stinking

powder smoke as I just let those hammers slip, one after another until I couldn’t see anyone left to shoot.

My ears ringing, I watched a couple of horses gallop off, leaving their rider’s in the dust of the street. I waved my empty guns back and forth, instinctively covering any twitching movement of my fallen assailants.

“Fool Hillbilly —” Breck wheezed. Sometime in the fracas I’d ventilated him, but he was still mounted.

He’d been at the back of the murderous pack, obscured by clouds of white smoke. His shoulders were hunched and he was bleeding from his mouth, but he was still game. “You spoiled it all!”

He walked his horse through the drifting smoke as cool as well water. He’d heard the lonesome sound of my hammers clicking on empty chambers and his loaded pistol dangled in his hand.

“The plan was perfect —except for your stupidity —” he accused.

I clenched my pistols in my fists, wondering how I could get my hands on him without taking a bullet through my guts.

He walked that horse right up to me, shock making him dizzy and uncertain of his shooting.

“You may have ruined it,” he coughed when he talked and I knew he was going to die eventually, “but I’ll make sure you don’t live to enjoy it —” 4

His hand came up and I moved. I made a quick jump to his left to get me out of line of the business end of his pistol whilst I swung a Colt four-pounder in a haymaker that caught his horse across the noggin.

Well that cayuse went down as if I’d laid a singlejack across his head, and Breck went down under him. I circled around and put a boot on his gun-hand where it flopped, trying to get that .44 into action. It was one of them newfangled guns that used those copper Winchester cartridges, fast to load but only about half the powder charge of my old Dragoon pistols. I took it and shoved it into my waistband to keep it out of trouble.

“Thing I learned in the war,” I lectured him as I commenced to clearing the spent caps from my right-hand Colt. “Never talk when you should be shooting.”

I pulled a handful of paper cartridges from my pouch and rammed them home as I talked. “I don’t know what deviltry you’ve wrangled me into, Breck, but its over.”

“Not yet —” he hissed with a ghastly laugh. “Not yet —” and the old snake expired with a smile on his face.

It was well I took his threat seriously, because by the time I rushed through loading those Colts, I heard the low rumble of riders coming.

I went to find Gus because I’d been a cavalryman and it always sticks in my

craw to be caught afoot when a fight’s shaping up.

The boy I’d paid had saddled him up but never got him out of the stable. He’d probably lit-out when all the gunfire commenced. Showed he had some good sense, even if no one else in town did.

I heard the mob of horsemen getting closer outside. There was a chorus of cussing and blasphemy like blue thunder as they rode around the bodies in the street.

A pompous voice I knew as General Hawks yelled, “Check the stable.”

Well I am generally as reluctant to face a pack of idiots with guns as most folks, but my blood was up and my pistols were loaded. No sense in putting off trouble.

“Just like back in the war, boy!” I patted Gus and told him, “Only these fellers wouldn’t make a pimple on Sherman’s cavalry.”

I pointed that old mustang at the doors, put the reins between my teeth, and gave him a little spur. Gus took off out of that stable in a thundering charge and I pulled a gun with each hand as we busted out into the mob like we knew what we were doing — which we did.

Contrary to what many folks believe, some horses take to fighting just like some people do. Why, I once heard tell that back in medieval times, knights would pay more for a trained war-horse than for a new suit of armor. And Gus was

a fighter. He shouldered one horse right off his feet and bit a couple more. He kicked and pawed with his hooves until the whole mob became a melee of bucking horses. I laid about me free and liberal with pistol butts as we charged through. One thing about those old cap-andball sixguns, they were big and solid. I laid out many a man with them and never worried about a bent barrel.

Before anyone got their mounts under control enough to have the time or sense to draw a gun, I was chest-to-chest with General Hawks and he was snarling into the blackened barrels of my Dragoon Colts.

“Mister,” I told him through teeth clenched over leather reins, “I don’t know how much weight you throw as boss of this mob, but if anyone opens the ball, you’ve breathed your last!”

“If you surrender,” he blustered, “You may get a trial.”

“I ain’t standing before no kangaroo court you throw together, General Hawks.” I prodded his chest with a gun muzzle. “I’m standing here with you. And I’m asking what’s going on with this crossways town?”

Even looking into those pistols, that old Yankee General still had some foolish swagger in him. “Take him boys, he won’t —” “Stand-down!”

The snake-eyed fellow next to him ordered in a bellow that cut off any bright ideas anyone 5

might’ve had. “Didn’t you boys see the remains of the Stratton outfit? That’s Rip Campbell, he rode with Moseby’s Rangers!”

It was Glen Darrow, the sheriff.

We’d met a time or two when I’d taken exception to some miner’s slighting comments about cowboys. He was surly looking, but a right good fellow and understood about a man’s honor. He was also an officer paid to keep the lid on things, not see the town shot-up.

They all seemed to settle back in their saddles at his exclamation. It’s the advantage of a reputation. And Moseby’s Rangers had the reputation of being the roughest, bloodiest pistol-cavalry in the history of the world.

“You’re being charged with robbing the —” Sheriff Darrow began.

“I came into town to get medicine for Breck Stratton’s outfit,” I cut him off. “I gave his note to the mine foreman and he gave me the package for Stratton. Said it came in on the stage for him.

“Now some cussed liar is spreading around that I robbed someone. Well whoever it is, can step right on up and say it to my face!”

“You got that medicine?” Sheriff Darrow asked.

“Right here.” I holstered my left Colt and kept my right gun centered on Hawks’ chest while I pulled the package from my saddle bags. I tossed it to the Sheriff and told the crowd, “I was a little slow about getting

back and Hawks brought his outfit into town to see about the delay. Then he called for his boys to cut me down! He was like a crazy man!”

“Wasn’t very sick, was they?” Someone in the crowd demanded snide-like.

“They seemed sick enough this morning when he sent me!”

The sheriff cut the string on that package with his penknife and opened it up to display a monumental stack of shin-plasters the like of which I’d never beheld.

“Thief!”

Hawks accused, which I responded to by leveling the muzzle of my pistol somewhat lower on his anatomy. It was an ominous motion which instantly refocused his attention at the trouble he was in rather than whatever schemes might have been cooked up around him.

“Hold on now,” the sheriff ordered. “This doesn’t make any sort of sense. Why would your foreman stack and wrap up a pile of bills all nice and neat for a robber? Under the threat of a gun, a man would’ve just stuffed them into a bag or something.”

He looked at me with

obvious consideration, “Have you got that note you showed the foreman?”

I pulled the note and handed it over. “’This fellow’s to deliver the medicine’,” he read. “And it’s signed by Breck Stratton!”

He handed the note over to Hawks to read saying, “And the package must’ve been prepared in advance!”

“It was a swindle,” General Hawks said through gritted teeth. “And my foreman was in on it!”

“It looks like he and Stratton planned it out, and Campbell here was to take the blame,” Sheriff Darrow told him.

“Everyone to the mine office!” Hawks roared. “I’ve got a foreman to hang!”

“Be my guest.” I raised and un-cocked my Colt.

That wild-eyed mob galloped off toward the mine office and I would have felt sorry for that foreman if I wasn’t so glad they’d caught him trying to get me killed. The sheriff and I sat there and I took the reins out from between my teeth as we watched them go.

“Well,” he opined, “I

6

suppose I’ll just lay down the shooting of the Stratton outfit as a tribute to their larceny and poor judgment, and say goodriddance to bad rubbish.

“Campbell, I’ll see you get that $500 reward General Hawks put up,” he added.

“Say,” I told him. “I saw some new wool blankets in the Sears catalogue. With some extra cash money I could replace the old buffalo hide I been sleeping under.”

“If you take my advice, you’ll buy a new hat,” he told me.

I took off my hat and found it ventilated by half a dozen bullet holes.

“This town surely knows how to hold out a warm welcome.” I wiggled a finger through one of those holes.

“Well I hope it won’t scare you off,” he said. “Stratton and his crew have been a thorn in my side for years. I’m glad to see them gone.”

“Scare me off?” I had to laugh at that. “I’ll be back next Saturday night! Gus and I ain’t had this much excitement since the war!”

And you know, I’d swear that mean old mustang neighed his agreement.

7

Recall

by Shawn Scarber It was a rare occasion when Nathaniel could sit with his sons, James and Mark, and he thought it a shame that they had to spend the time on business.

"Shuttling the herd to town's going to eat too far into our profits." James, the youngest of Nathaniel's three adult children, hovered over his coffee like a carrion bird.

"Maria can move her herd before noon."

"I don't like it."

Nathaniel slammed his fist on the table, making the plates and salt shakers jump. "We've never done our business this way. Running the herd like that . . . these are some of our best stock, set aside for lambing season."

"He's right, Dad." Mark finally chimed in. He'd been sitting quietly, staring at the hand-held through his reading glasses. They made him look ten years older than thirty-six.

"For a change, I agree with my brother. If we don't move Maria's herd to replace the north pasture, we won't meet the agreed delivery date."

"But that's our shearing stock, boys."

Mark nodded. "I know, Pops, but if we don't move them now we could lose the contract."

"We've lost one this year." James raised a brow.

Nathaniel leaned back in the kitchen chair and surveyed his two sons. _Well,

isn't this what you wanted, you ol' fool? The boys need to learn to run the business. They finally agree on something._ He rubbed his wedding ring and wondered what Francis would think of her children now. Mark, a wall of a man with shoulders like horse haunches, a beautiful wife, and a curious boy as smart as any Nathaniel had ever known -- including his own. James, maybe James was a bit too smart for his own good. He had far more ideas than he could finish, but he meant well. Maria though, now there was a disappointment.

"Well, get your sister on the line. Tell her what's what."

Mark nodded.

James smiled. "If she hasn't passed out."

Nathaniel pointed at James. "None of that. Your sister remembers. She had to watch your mom go. No child should have to see her mother go. Not like that."

Punished, James studied his coffee, but said nothing.

Nathaniel leaned back and sighed. Some of the morning's bacon smell still hung in the air, and he thought it might be getting closer to supper time. Despite all the worries, Nathaniel loved his little home and his little life.

Humble best described the Harris ranch. Nathaniel had built the original structure from a kit delivered after the war.

UNC surplus supplied most 8

of the start up ranchers, guys the lifers called 'Drop Offs', because they would serve their ten years in the Deep Black and then take a plot of land on some colonial outpost as retirement.

Good money in it, if you could get connected with a co-op or corporation. Nathaniel and his sons had managed to build two more houses onto the plot and even flatten a road to town.

They were all officers for an outfit that supplied wool and meat for a mining operation not but two jumps from their star.

Happiness was a hard fought prize that was sometimes won and sometimes wasn't.

Mark's boy, Harrison, crashed through the front door and slammed the screen behind him.

"Grandpa, Grandpa," he yelled, barely able to catch his breath. "At recess today, I saw them. I saw them. Like you've talked about. I showed them to my teacher, and he said I was right. He said that you were right. That's exactly what they look like."

Nathaniel grabbed his grandson and put him on his lap. "Whatever are you on about, child? Saw what?"

"The UNC ship, Grandpa. It's here. In the sky.

Above the clouds, like you said."

Nathaniel put Harrison down and stood. As though his legs moved with a will of their own, he approached the screen door that revealed the grassy hills of his property. He stepped out onto the creaking

wood of the front porch and cupped his hands over his eyes to block the sun. There in the sky, above the clouds, as large as a continent, floated a black triangular star ship. Hundreds of smaller craft descended to the planet's surface. Nathaniel's legs weakened. He turned and searched for his porch glider.

Before he could move to it, he fell to his knees. Within seconds, his sons helped him to a chair. Mark told Harrison to fetch water and tried to give his father words of encouragement, but Nathaniel's thoughts were all ready miles away from the ranch. He knew they'd recall.

He knew he was on the list.

Nathaniel hadn't been to the Clover Street Bar in a few years, but it didn't look as though it had changed much.

Maybe a little more dust and cigarette smoke, but mostly the pool table and old posters with bikini-clad Earth girls holding up chilled bottles of beer were a familiar and comforting sight.

Two old retirees, a couple of 'Drop Offs' who came around the same time he had, were also a familiar and comforting sight.

Immediately after he met eyes with Kaylinda and Wallace they beckoned him to their table.

"Bring me a stout," he told the portly bartender.

The man nodded and went to work preparing the beer.

"I take it you've seen it?" Kaylinda was never one for

needless chitchat and Nathaniel was glad to see that the years hadn't changed her much. She was still in the same great physical condition she had been after the war.

"Seems you've been waiting for them?" Nathaniel pulled his chair out and dusted it off before sitting.

"Hell, yes. I just hope they're sending us out to get the Graks. Too many buddies lost to those bug-headed bastards. I want some payback."

Nathaniel took his beer from the waitress and handed her his credit card. She asked whether he wanted to start a tab. He said yes.

"What about you, Wallace? You itching for some payback?" asked Nathaniel.

"Why'd they have to come here? Why now?"

Wallace looked at the walls as though he could see through them. As though that black star ship was the smiling face of death hanging over his head.

Nathaniel knew why he had that look. He knew why the man's hands shook as he picked up his glass and tried to drink from it.

Wallace had been an APAC pilot. APAC meaning Armed Personnel Aircraft Carrier, but everyone just called them meat buckets. A meat bucket held exactly one hundred troopers. They had made them larger at the start of the war, but found that when they lost one the casualties were too high. Any smaller and they just weren't quite economical 9

enough. But, one hundred was the sweet spot.

Now, Wallace had served at Iron's Breach, and anyone who knows anything about the Deep Black knows that Iron's Breach was the worst of it. Wallace had made twentytwo trips that day. Ten minutes to load the troops from the star ship into the meat bucket.

Twenty minutes to break atmosphere and dump the meat on the front lines. Six seconds to hear their screams and watch them mowed by Grak gunnery.

Twenty minutes back. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Wallace was one of the few guys who made it through, but Nathaniel thought that might be debatable. When he examined his friend's eyes, some part of Wallace was still making that trip. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

"No." Nathaniel drank deeply from his beer and sighed.

"I doubt you'll be rejoining."

"Hell no. I've done enough." Wallace crossed his legs and folded his arms until he looked thin enough to hide behind a post. _Amazing how a man can disappear in a crowded room._ Kaylinda traced the woodgrain on the table with her finger. "Have you talked to them yet, Nate?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "You?" "Yes," she said. He noticed she wasn't drinking and offered her a sip of his stout.

First she refused, but then took a large gulp. "They're making

deals. The lottery's a sure thing.

They'll take us old-timers three for one." _Three for one,_ thought Nathaniel. He had three kids -- not counting his daughter-in-law. Would they be willing to take an even trade?

Would they recall him? Put him back in his young body and tie him to a Mech? That's what he had been before. A genuine Mech rider, First-class. Riding high in the saddle of a giant.

A man made Goliath that no David could slay. He'd stomped more Grak than he could count.

In his many nightmares, all their faces blended together.

One crying, terrible mask of pain. It didn't matter though, he would gladly do it again if it kept his family planetside.

"Who do I talk to?"

"No worries," she said, drinking the last of his stout.

"They'll come to you."

That next day, Maria had just managed to make the delivery on time. She drove the Jeep up to the front lawn a little before sunset. Cage and Winter, her two sheepdogs, jumped from the vehicle and ran to the porch to greet Nathaniel and Harrison. The two black and white dogs were all bundles of excitement and wagging tails as they jumped onto the boy and licked his face.

"Run along, Little Man, and let me chat with your Aunt Mar a while. The dogs need some time chasing a ball, don't

you think?"

The boy answered by sprinting out past the yard and into the green rolling hills where he picked up their old tennis ball and threw it to the horizon.

The dogs followed close at each others tails and chased after their new obsession.

"Hey, Daddy."

Maria climbed from the Jeep, her jeans and black t-shirt covered in dirt and sheep dung; her hair tied in a tight ponytail of light-brown curls. There was so much of Francis in the girl that sometimes it hurt Nathaniel.

Even the way she moved reminded him of her mother.

And it was days like this, with the sun reflecting off her hair and skin, that Nathaniel thought he could forgive anything she said or did; the heavy drinking in town, the rumors of so many men, the time she had cost them a lucrative contract by mouthing off at a client. In the end, she was still his little girl.

She handed him a thick envelope. "I hope that makes the boys happy. We made our contract, but we'll be damned come lambing season. Those were some of our best stock.

Again, we've traded our tomorrows for yesterdays."

Nathaniel read over the paperwork. Everything in perfect order. He gave a sigh of relief. "Your brothers are trying to do right by our client. You have to respect that."

"No I don't. I have to obey it, because I know you won't leave the business to me."

"Because you would 10

sell it."

"Damn right I would.

I'd sell it and get off this rock."

"And do what? Go where?"

She turned then and looked at the horizon. The star ship was still there, but he had the feeling she wasn't looking at it. She was staring beyond it.

She'd had a man once. A young local who promised that when he made his fortune he would come back for her. That had been ten years ago. Nathaniel wondered why she waited.

"I suppose I would just drink it away," she said.

"I suppose you would."

He regretted agreeing with her. He knew that wasn't her, wasn't who she really was.

The whiskey just dulled the pain. Some pain was deep and needed dulling. He and the bottle weren't strangers, after all.

Nathaniel motioned for her to follow him inside.

Without protest, she did.

They split ways in the kitchen. She prepared coffee and he retired to his quarters.

He had left the bedroom as Francis had decorated it. He couldn't imagine it any other way. It was a small space, with capacity for a queen-sized bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, and a closet. He went the closet now and removed his old uniform.

Covered in plastic and smelling like mothballs, he brushed it over with a lint remover. He didn't imagine he could still wear it. Life had been good enough on the ranch to earn

him a few more inches around the middle, but that didn't matter. If he were recalled, the UNC would rebuild him. They would make him young again.

They could do that these days.

He placed it on the bed and was startled to see Maria standing in the doorway.

"You're not going back?"

"I don't know yet," he said. "If I can make a deal. If I can keep you kids out, I will."

She approached the bed and ran her hands over the uniform and traced the eagle and anchor shield on the shoulder patch, another gesture that reminded him of Francis.

"Why would you go back to those monsters?"

Nathaniel sighed and sat on the bed. He patted the mattress, and Maria sat beside him.

"I know how you feel about the UNC, but you're mistaken. Humanity has had to make many compromises out here in the Deep Black."

"I've heard all this before," she said. "It doesn't change the facts. We all know what they do. They lie and manipulate. These are not the guardians of freedom they profess to be, Dad. Come on, you of all people should know this."

He reached up and stroked her hair, and then held her hand. She pulled it away and stood facing her mother's desk.

Arms crossed she said, "Do you remember how Mom

used to write those long emails to Command trying to get your contract cleared? Do you remember how they always gave her the runaround? All the while she was sick and dying. You served. You served admirably, and they should recognize your service, not hold you in limbo like some lost soul. It's not fair!"

"I came back," he said.

"Do you understand what that means to me? I made it out.

That's all I cared about."

"What about now? You know they'll try to hold you to that damn signature. Will you go?"

"If it will keep you and your brothers here, yes, I'll go.

In a heartbeat I'll go. You have a bright future here. You have opportunity."

"Will they even make that deal? All they did for Kaylinda was pull three random names out of the lottery. Three random names. She doesn't even know whose names they pulled. Can we even trust that they pulled names out, Dad?" Nathaniel stood and crossed his arms. He'd been afraid of that. The UNC usually made these types of deals, but they weren't specific. It was rare that a recalled soldier could shelter his kids unless he had been an officer. Nathaniel had only been a drafted grunt.

Maybe if he were new. Maybe if they didn't have his signature on file, maybe then he could make the deal. They did that for new recruits sometimes. If you had the aptitude for war, if you 11

could pass all their tests, they just might.

"When did you talk to Kay?" "While I was making the transaction in town. She was there with them, signing the last of her life away with those androids. The damn things have a weird fake smile.

I don't see how you could work with them."

"Maria, don't confuse the sheepdogs for the wolves."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've never seen the Grak and what they can do. I don't need to demonize them, they don't need it. They have no respect for human life. I know that from your perspective, neither does the UNC, but please believe me when I say that they are the sheepdogs and not the wolves."

"I guess that makes me . . . What? The sheep?"

"Well . . ." He had no other answer for her. That was the way he had always thought of those who hadn't served.

They just didn't know, didn't understand. Your perspective on everything changes the moment you take a life in battle. You have to be able to look yourself in the mirror and know that you are not the wolf.

Although you look a lot like him.

Maria stood from the bed and faced Nathaniel. Her expression turned hard for a moment, and she looked as though she might cry and yell simultaneously, but she didn't.

She turned on her heels and left the room.

Nathaniel listened as the screen door screeched open and then slammed, as the Jeep's engine turned over, and then as the tires kicked up dirt and tore off down the road. The only sound from her leaving was Harrison's cheers because she had left Cage and Winter.

It was much later in the evening than Nathaniel expected when the knock came.

Mark, his wife, Amy, and James had all retired early after dinner, but Nathaniel had decided to keep Harrison up a little longer, reading him the last of a Zane Grey novel they had started during the spring.

The boy had grown weary as the hero rescued his heroine from a gang of horse thieves, and had been fast asleep when he revealed the house he had built for her on the side of a mountain.

As he scooped the boy in his arms and took him upstairs to his room, Nathaniel cried. He didn't feel that he had any real reason to. He tried to tell himself it was caused by the story. Parts of it had reminded Nathaniel of the early days when he and Francis had set up their home on this strange new world and faced some hard years as they built a family together. Years struggling with her cancer.

Years struggling with the sheep. Years struggling, but finding little oasis of love and

hope here and there.

He thought it funny that in the westerns he and Harrison enjoyed so much, that the hero's greatest problems happened before settling. Looking back on his own life, living with a family had been Nathaniel's greatest challenge. His time in the war had been difficult and even terrifying in parts, but if God called for an accounting after his death, he would have to admit that he was most proud of being a father, a grandfather, and a shepherd.

Cage and Winter didn't bark when the knock came.

They both stood and with tails wagging, sat by the door and looked at Nathaniel.

"It's OK. I think I know who this is."

He turned on the front porch light squinted through the peep hole. They had sent an android.

Nathaniel opened the door. Before him stood what looked like a UNC ground trooper. It wore the same dark blue battle fatigues and flat gray helmet, but where a man's face would be was instead a smiling mask. It looked human, except that the designers of the mask had exaggerated its expressions to make it appear friendly, almost like a cartoon version of a soldier.

This was not the first time Nathaniel had seen an android. He had fought alongside them. Most of the machines were as good as humans, and unlike some people, Nathaniel harbored 12

no prejudice against them.

However, he knew they had other masks. More frightening masks for war.

"Battle Mech Pilot Nathaniel T. Harris?"

Nathaniel stood aside and motioned for the machine to come in. "Do you drink coffee?"

"Yes, please. That would be nice." The machine bent to one knee and petted the dogs. "Lovely animals.

German Shepherd Dogs?"

"Australian Kelpies.

Folks make that mistake though." Nathaniel wondered if it had been an actual mistake or a programmed one. The machines could do that type of thing. People didn't trust them when they were too perfect.

It stood near the kitchen table until Nathaniel gestured for it to sit. He pulled a couple of coffee cups from the cabinet and poured the last of what Maria had made early that afternoon. He knew it wouldn't taste fresh, but doubted the machine the potential to enjoy what it consumed. He suspected the androids ate and drank only to look normal. This one even breathed.

"We were surprised you didn't meet us in town."

Nathaniel sat. He stirred in a generous amount of cream and sugar. He offered some to the android, but it declined.

"Really? Why would you think that?"

"Your records show you were not ready to leave. You wanted another tour, but your

wife had contracted Hodgkin's Lymphoma and . . ."

"Yes, I know. Things change. I've changed." He watched the steam from his coffee and then asked, "Did you talk to Wallace?"

The machine nodded.

"We won't call for his return.

We feel that he has done enough."

He knew Kaylinda would join, there was no point asking. Nathaniel thought he might enquire what war they would fight, who the enemy was now, but there didn't seem to be any point to those questions. There was only one thing he wanted to know. "OK, what type of deal can you make me?"

The android fixed its smiling gaze on Nathaniel.

"What would you like, Pilot?"

"I want my sons, daughter, and daughter-in-law to be able to remain here."

"I'm afraid I can't make any deals in relation to your sons, daughter, and daughterin-law."

"Why?" The machine took a moment to answer. Nathaniel suspected it made queries to some distant computer. The Mech he piloted had much of the same type of technology, and that had been over twenty years ago.

"Access to their records for negotiations is blocked.

I do not have a high enough clearance to confirm why. I'm sorry."

Nathaniel took a sip of

his coffee, but it was like acid to his stomach and wondered now why he had thought the drink would comfort him.

"Then, what did you come here with?"

"A chance to begin again. A whole new life." The machine didn't explain further.

Nathaniel tried to imagine why they had blocked his kids from the negotiation table. Did they believe that maybe his sons and daughter had the same military talent he had? What about his daughterin-law? Would they take her to? They wouldn't take all of them. There were rules against that type of thing, because Harrison would need at least one custodial parent. They would leave one person from the family. If he agreed, if he rejoined, at least one of his children or his daughter-in-law would have a chance to stay on the ranch and make it work. He knew he wouldn't be enough for Harrison. He was a good grandfather, but he was getting old and slow, and honestly, he had been a damn fine soldier.

He'd been a much better pilot than a shepherd. It was worth going and doing again if it kept at least one of his kids home.

"I'll take it," he said.

The android stood and removed a commission from his breast pocket. He handed it to Nathaniel who accepted it. The machine saluted.

Nathaniel stood and returned the salute.

"Thank you for the coffee, Pilot. The UNC is 13

glad to have you back. Your reporting instructions are in the commission." He reached out to shake Nathaniel's hand.

Nathaniel took it in his and strangely, it felt human.

"I thought you were an android."

"Mostly, Sir. They can only rebuild so much when you've been through the grinder."

The trooper turned to leave, patted the dogs again, and then as quickly as he came, disappeared into the night.

Nathaniel wondered if he watched a future version of himself walking out the door.

The commission didn't give him much time to prepare or say goodbye. The UNC apparently planned to depart fast and get the fresh meat into basic training during transport.

The veterans would likely get a refresher, but would soon be in for the long sleep. He wasn't eager to sack out in the ice box.

Nathaniel had considered waking everyone.

Instead, he waited at the kitchen table. If they had received commissions, they would soon be joining him. After half an hour he started writing a letter to his sons, daughters, and grandson. He signed into his local accounts and had all his legal affairs put in order through his virtual assistant, turning over whatever legal rights to the business to his adult children. He wondered if

anyone would wake, when he heard Maria's jeep pulling onto the gravel road.

Cage and Winter wagged their tails and watched the front door.

Maria silently crept inside with her haircut short and an olive duffle bag over her shoulder.

Then it came to Nathaniel. "You cut a deal?"

She smiled. "They wouldn't budge with you. You were apparently something special. But yeah, you and me.

The Deep Black."

"Why?" She sucked in her bottom lip, and he wasn't sure if she would cry. She shrugged.

Nathaniel rose from the kitchen table and took his daughter into his arms. She cuddled her head into his shoulder and though she didn't make a sound, he could feel the dampness of her tears. He put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her hair.

"Why, Maria?"

"I wanted you to be proud of me," she said.

Nathaniel hated himself for loving the moment so much. Had he caused her this much pain? He wanted to go back and do it all over. He wanted to fix things between them. He held onto her for what seemed a season until she stopped crying. With red eyes and flushed cheeks she laughed and pulled from him.

She mockingly poked him in the chest.

"And nobody calls me a

sheep."

They laughed together, quietly so as to not wake the rest of the sleeping household, and hugged again. It had probably been the most they had hugged in years, and Nathaniel regretted that most of all.

Together they went into Harrison's room. Maria didn't need to call the dogs, they were instinctively at her heals.

Nathaniel sat on the boy's bed and woke him by brushing the hair from his eyes.

"Hey, Little Man." "Hey, Grandpa, Aunt Mar." Maria bent on her knees and kissed him on the forehead.

"Your Grandpa and I need to leave town for a while, do you understand?"

Sleepily, the boy looked them over, and after a short pause, he nodded.

"I need you to take care of Cage and Winter," she said.

"They're your dogs now. Scan the chip and the computer will tell you when they need their shots. Keep them obedient.

You're their boss. It can't always be playtime. I want them working hard when I get home. I want them protecting the sheep."

"Can they sleep in here with me?"

Maria nodded. "You're going to spoil them, I can tell."

They waited until Harrison drifted back to sleep and then went out on the front porch to wait for the shuttle.

Swinging on the glider, 14

Maria took Nathaniel's hand.

He had never noticed how soft it was, despite all the hard work she had done.

"I'm scared," she said.

"This doesn't seem real."

"Don't worry." He held her hand tight, as though her life depended on it. "You'll make a fine sheepdog."

Nothing Like It on Planet Earth

by Bernie Brown The waitress plunked the menu board down and stood, pencil poised. “You ready?” Only her words were Southern soft, more like “Ya ray-dy?”

Hank dragged his gaze from her eyes. “Uh, gimme the roast beef, please.” He smiled thank you. Hank had been driving down 64 when he saw a billboard advertising this diner.

“Nothing Like It on Planet Earth,” it said. Captured the girl better than the place.

Hank fixed his mind on the real reason he came to Parkers Creek, North Carolina.

He got a letter from a lawyer three weeks ago. Somebody gave him a house. This development filled him with curiosity. He wanted to know who left it to him and why.

Maybe he could fill up some of the holes left in his life when his folks died and his school closed.

Sandra clipped the order. He was kinda cute, that guy; but she couldn’t think about him now, she had to find a place to live. More importantly, she had to figure out what to do with her life. She was squatting in the big old country house Sully said it’d be okay – but the real owner could show up and things get embarrassing.

Hank finished and bid the brown haired beauty goodbye. He passed a lanky old guy playing pinball by the smudged glass door. His cane leaned against the machine, jumping and clattering with the movement of it. Hank asked the man directions to his new house.

Sully stared after him, thinking, “That’s gotta be him. I should have told him who I am, but he’ll find out soon enough.”

Just which identity Sully had in mind - the lawyer or the other oe - wasn’t clear.

Hank followed the directions and stopped to gaze at the place. He longed to go in.

He’d better talk to the lawyer first. He pulled out the card.

Arnold Sullivan. Hank called him from his cell phone.

A big shiny pickup, one of those with hips, loomed over the street and sported a vanity plate that read SUE4U. The door - dirty as the one in the diner – read, “Arnold Sullivan, Attorney at Law.” He opened

it to the rattle of metal blinds.

When the man himself came out, Hank was surprised to see he was the man at the pinball machine. He walked using the cane.

“I’m called Sully. I remember you from the diner.”

“Yeah, that was me.

I got this letter. I guess I’ve inherited a house. Who’s it from?”

Sully shook his head.

“Lawyer/client privilege and all that.”

The blinds rattled as the girl from the diner came in like she’d been there a million times. “Sully? Oh, sorry, didn’t know you had company.”

Sandra recognized Hank.

“No matter. Sandra, this is Hank. He inherited the old Beecham house.” Sully gave her a look and Sandra nodded, then smiled and shook Hank’s hand. She turned to Sully, “You’re busy, I’ll come back later.”

So they knew each other.

Daughter?

Maybe.

Girlfriend? Naaaah.

Hank retraced his earlier route. The house sat big and square and solid with old trees and a cracked sidewalk.

He stuck his key in the side door only to discover it was already unlocked.

He heard little creaks above his head. Something told him whoever was up there was no threat. He climbed the staircase. It swirled down dramatically into a big hall 15

cum living room. About a third of the way up, a girl appeared at the top. “Oh, hi.” It was the girl from the diner and Sully’s office. No one like her on planet earth.

“Hi.” Sandra looked embarrassed. “I’ve been living here. Sully said it was okay.”

Hank let her off the hook, “You don’t seem scary.”

Sandra laughed weakly.

“Who are these Beechams, anyway?”

“I never knew them.”

Sandra’s belongings hid her face as she bent to collect them.

“Look. Do you have anywhere to go?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Her luggage hampered her descent.

Hank helped her and they loaded her car parked in the garage.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Hank hurried on before he lost his nerve, “what’s your connection to Sully?”

“Sully? I used to live with him.” Her answer stunned Hank. This young woman and that old guy? As Sandra drove off, the SUE4U pickup drove in. This quiet country house saw more arrivals and departures than Grand Central. The pickup stopped in front of him. Sully lowered the window.

“Just checkin’ on ya.”

Was he checking on Hank for Hank’s good or for some other reason?

Sully drove by his own

place to get back to his office.

He saw Sandra’s car and pulled in. “You comin’ back here?”

“I can’t think of anything else to do.” Sandra hung her head, ashamed. “Is it okay?”

“I never said you had to leave.”

Sandra smiled her gratitude. Sully changed the subject, “What’d ya think of him?”

“Nice.”

Sully nodded his head, “Still our secret, okay?”

“I’ll never say a word, Sully. No matter what happens.” They smiled at each other to seal the promise.

The house made her miss her mom. That’s why Sandra left. She trusted Sully.

Liked him, too. She’d never really had a dad til him and by then, she was a teenager; but Sandra had lost her only real parent and she felt lost, too.

The next day Hank saw Sandra on Main Street.

“Wanna get some coffee? I know a great diner.

Nothin’ like it on planet earth.”

“How ‘bout we just hit the Uptown Café?” She pointed a few doors down. Across from him in the booth, Hank admired how the hood of Sandra’s red coat bunched up around her face, framing her brunette beauty. “My mom died a year ago. We were close.”

“What about your dad?”

“Don’t really have one.” That’s when Hank should have pressed her and he would have discovered the truth about Sully and Sandra.

“Well, why don’t we spend the day together? You could show me around. If I’m going to live here, I need the Welcome Wagon tour.”

Sandra nodded.

“You got a boyfriend?

Am I going to have to answer to some hunky young farmer?”

“No.” She squirmed.

They drove down Caraway Street and Gentle Drive, names conjuring food and warmth and tempting Hank to what? Stay here? It was a possibility. Sandra broke the silence with a statement that cleared up a lot. “Sully was married to my mom. He’s a sort of father to me. We’re pretty close.”

“He sent me the letter about the house. Who are the Beecham’s anyway?” It was the second time he’d asked.

Sandra equivocated, “That’s just what the place is called. That’s how small towns talk about stuff, by their history.”

Hank thought she probably knew more, but didn’t press. He needed her for a friend and there was that other thing she set off in him, something nameless but good.

He started talking. “I grew up in Nebraska. A dinky little town with a dying main street.

16

My dad managed the Casey’s.

My mom cut hair.”

“Were you happy?”

“Never thought about it.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty nine. I went to college at State and then taught History back home.”

“Are you going back?”

“I’m not sure. My parents were killed and now my school is closing.”

“You’re like me then. A homeless orphan.” She smiled gently when she said it.

He looked at her before replying, “I guess I am.” Hank dropped her off at Sully’s. He would like to have kissed her.

“Good day off?” Sully questioned Sandra as she came in.

“Mmm hmmm.” She sat at the kitchen table and watched Sully cook. He’d started cooking when her mom got sick. He could do burgers and tuna casserole and meatloaf. Tonight it was pasta with meatballs, the zenith of his culinary expertise. “Are we celebrating something?”

“How ‘bout you coming back home?”

Sandra got up and put her arms around him from the back. Then she kissed the back of his head. Sully was glad he was turned away. He didn’t want Sandra to see his eyes go all misty.

“I spent the day with Hank.”

Sully turned and looked

full at her. “Didja now?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “And?” “And that’s all. He wanted me to show him around.

He’s thinkin’ about staying.”

“What would he do?”

“Said he was a teacher.”

They were both silent for a few moments when Sandra gave voice to what they were both thinking. “If he stays, you’ve got to tell him. I think you want him to find out anyway.”

“So you’re Sandra Freud now, are you?”

They munched away in contented silence, stopping occasionally to sprinkle more parmesan. The door bell rang.

Sandra went to get it. Sully listened as voices grew louder.

Whoever it was was following her back to the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

Sully rose to shake Hank’s hand, a red smudge of marinara sauce on his cheek.

“Sit.” He mumbled through a mouthful. Sandra went to the stove and fixed Hank a plate.

“After I dropped you off,” he looked at Sandra, “I went to the library and researched the Beechams. There haven’t been any Beechams in Parkers Creek since 1930.” Sully and Sandra chewed and moved pasta around.

“After that Jack and Martha Sullivan lived there.

They had two children, Arnold and Sheila. Sheila married Sam Johansen. The Johansen’s lived there until 2005. Sam died in 1990 and Sheila died two years ago.” Hank ate with relish,

the same relish with which he relayed this information.

“After her death, her remaining relative, Arnold Sullivan, inherited.” Hank lay down his fork and stared at Sully who met his gaze. After an interval, Hank continued. “It looks to me like the last person to own that house was you.”

“Why would I give it to you?”

“I dunno. Maybe you’re lookin’ to help adult orphans.

Maybe sister Sheila had a baby before she got married, maybe that’s me and she had me adopted. That would make me your long lost nephew.”

“Are you adopted?”

“Well, if I am, it’s news to me. But then, I’m getting a lot of news these days. We’ll know soon enough. I called the courthouse back home for a copy of my birth certificate.”

Right there at the table, amid the meatballs and beer bottles, the past beckoned Sully. He remembered Chapel Hill and the weekend that changed everything.

His parents were out of town and he’d had a bunch of friends stay. Drinking, then that stupid stunt on the stairway that put an end to football. It was then that he decided on law school.

He got serious about classes and a Midwestern girl. Spring semester she disappeared.

It was only after he finished his law degree that he looked for her. He hired a private 17

investigator from Raleigh.

That’s when he learned about her marriage, her child, and figured out the timeline. He was sure the boy was his. The PI said she seemed contented.

He decided to leave her and the boy alone, but he checked on them every few years. He’d made one disastrous marriage to a girl from Raleigh who hated small town life. They divorced. Sandra’s mom had known him and the town forever and loved them both.

A Johnny Come Lately, Sully found happiness with her and loved Sandra like a daughter, even though somewhere – well now he knew where – he had a son of his own.

“Sully?” Sandra yanked him from his reverie. “Hank wants to know if he can call you Uncle Sully from now on?”

“Just plain Sully will do fine.”

After Hank left, Sandra and Sully sat talking. The room was dark but for the light over the sink. “So, you gonna leave it like that?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s better if he figures out the truth on his own. Then I won’t look like the bad guy. I didn’t know his mom was pregnant when she disappeared, so I can’t be held accountable. But I still feel accountable.”

Sandra nodded her understanding.

Sully went on, “If I tell him that the man who raised him wasn’t his real father, I

give him another reason to resent me. If he finds out the truth without me – or you, either - at least he can’t hate the messenger.” He looked up at Sandra. “Is this getting too weird? Too paranoid?”

“Maybe a little.” She sat down again with him. “What is it that you want most?”

“I want to make up to him what learning these things might do to him. The hurt it might cause him. At the same time,” Hank paused with a sigh, “I want him to know he’s my son and not hate me for it.”

The news from the courthouse came in a U. S. Postal Service red, white, and blue 9 by 12 overnight envelope. Hank was drinking instant coffee when the back door opened and shut. He went to the porch to find the tri-colored envelope. He had acted hastily when he called the courthouse, feeling like a show off, like a cocky know-it-all.

Now the implications of what he might learn hit him. Did he want to know if the man he loved as a father was not really his father? Inside that envelope was information that could change the way he thought about himself for the rest of his life. He tapped the envelope against the table.

Then he scraped back his chair and paced out the back door with purpose. He threw the unopened envelope onto the passenger seat and buckled up.

When he reached the highway,

he headed for the coast. He’d lived in land-locked Nebraska all his life. Here he was within miles of the Atlantic Ocean and he hadn’t even taken a look. He wanted a look at that before he wanted to see what was in that envelope.

He stood on the beach and stared. The waves rolled in.

The gulls dipped and screamed.

The smell of salt and fish and wind and sunshine filled his nostrils. So, this was the ocean. It was like the Nebraska prairie in its flat endlessness.

It made him feel powerful and insignificant, akin with the world and isolated from it. He looked down at the envelope in his hand. He looked out at the vast water. With a crossover sailing pitch perfected in many a pickup Frisbee match, Hank propelled the envelope far out over the waves. It disappeared in the sunlight.

He didn’t want to know.

“Where are you?”

“I went for a drive.

What’s wrong?” The anger in Sandra’s voice baffled Hank.

“Sully’s in the hospital.

He’s had some kind of attack.”

“Is he bad?”

“Yes, he’s bad. Can you come? I’m scared.”

Hank came at a run. He saw Sandra sitting hunched and alone on a waiting room couch.

“Sully died right after I talked to you.” Hank, too, felt crushed.

Yeah, he’d only just met Sully, 18

but he felt a connection. Was he his uncle? Someone closer?

Sully’s house – his house now bonded them even though death now separated them. It looked like he had connected with Sandra, too. She had called him when she needed somebody.

Sully’s lawyer came to Parker’s Creek to read the will. “‘I bequeath my entire estate to my late wife’s daughter, Sandra, with the exception of my personal vehicle, which I leave to Hank Williams.’ That’s it. It’s the shortest will I’ve ever written.”

Housecleaning had not been Sully’s strong suit.

Dust bunnies and cobwebs prevailed. Hank found fishing flies next to rental contracts as he helped Sandra clear out the office. At the back of a drawer Hank discovered a lone fat file. It bulged with letters, snapshots, and paperwork. A single photo tumbled from it and landed at Hank’s feet. His mom as college coed stared up at him. “Shit.” This file held information he’d already decided he didn’t want when he flung the court house envelope in the ocean. He could just leave the file in the cabinet. For a second time, he could choose not to know. Acting against his own wishes and before Sandra could notice, Hank stuck the file in his laptop case.

Hank spread investigative reports on his

family on the scarred kitchen

table. The very idea of being snooped on pissed off Hank; still, there was nothing offensive in the reports. The reports painted the picture of a harmonious middle class family. His family. The photos of him and his mom and dad sent a stinger into his heart. He gave his eyes a hard, quick rub.

There was a soft knock on the door and Sandra let herself in.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Feeling lonely?”

“Maybe a little. I wanted to ask you what you thought of something.”

“Shoot.”

“I think I’d like to go to law school. You know, sort of to honor Sully. I could take over his office in a few years.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Sandra looked down at the table. “Watcha got there?”

Hank made no effort to conceal the file. “I took this from Sully’s office.”

Sandra sat opposite him at the table, turned the file and its contents to face her. She picked up the reports, scanned them; picked up the photos, put them down; gave everything another quick once-over, then raised her eyes to meet his. “I promised never to tell you, but Sully wanted you to find out for yourself. He wanted you to know but was afraid of how you’d feel if he told you.”

Hank nodded,

understanding. “I was afraid to find out, too. I never opened the letter from the courthouse. I threw it in the ocean.”

Sandra’s eyes widened in surprise, then she said, “How do you feel?”

“Hurt. Betrayed. Mad at everybody.” Then he looked over at Sandra, “Well, not you.” He thought a moment, then went on. “It seemed like knowledge I was meant to have when I ran across this file. The truth was finding me instead of me finding the truth. I still don’t know what to do with it.”

Sandra nodded and smiled. “He gave me and my mom a home when we needed one. He loved us, too. And now I feel like he’s given me a purpose. Law school, I mean.”

They were both silent.

“Well,” Hank went on, trying to match Sandra’s list.

“He gave me a house and a big ole ugly redneck pickup.” He tried to laugh at his own joke, but instead his face twisted in anger. He nearly shouted, “And a great big problem I don’t want to think about.” Then he started to weep.

Sandra let him. His shoulders heaved.

Tears streamed down his face. She got up, went around the table and sat by him. She sat close to him, warm shoulder to warm shoulder. She took one of his hands. He tried to keep it from her – shame at crying probably – but she persisted and he soon relented, allowing her to stroke it over and over, not saying anything. Hank’s sobs 19

quieted. His tears dried up. He hiccupped a few times and then took a deep breath.

Then Hank put his hand on top of hers, and she put her other hand on top of that one and they made a kind of hand sandwich, the way little kids do. Hank sniffed loudly, but spoke softly. “But, in a way, he also brought me to you.”

Sandra pulled a hand free then and stroked his cheek.

“I knew Sully like a real father, even though I’m not his real daughter. And you barely knew him at all, even though you’re his real son. It’s not fair. I wouldn’t blame you if you’re mad at me, too. I’m sorry.”

And she smiled a kind of sad, soft Southern smile that nearly broke Hank’s heart.

For several minutes, they sat in silence. Then Hank stood up, grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s ride out to the diner. I’m hungry for a roast beef sandwich.”

They passed the billboard Hank had seen when he first came to town. Tonight flood lamps lavished it in warm yellow light. It looked glorious and other worldly, hanging suspended above the highway.

Hank felt lightheaded himself.

Yeah, he’d been given some knowledge he’d rather give back; but now he had his own place. Maybe he even had his own girl. Looked like he might get a life. He liked how that felt. He liked it a lot. There was nothing like it on planet earth.

Photo by Rie Sheridan Rose

20

Ice Curtain

by Rie Sheridan Rose Winter drapes her house in transparent lace curtains to hold back the sun The Snow Queen loves the winter...the ice like diamonds casts prism reflections And handsome Spring is Content to bargain against The day her shield melts Waiting to exchange her ice for his leaves of green-as seasons cycle Summer, back to fall, and then the Winter once more hangs her lace of ice.

Rie’s short stories appear in Double Dragon’s From Within The Mist ebook and The Stygian Soul. Her anthology RieVisions is available from Mundania Press and novel The Lute And The Liar is under their Awe-Struck Books imprint.

Writer’s Exchange re-released her Young Adult fantasy, The Right Hand Of Velachaz in electronic format, and Yard Dog Press is home to humorous horror chapbooks Tales From The Home For Wayward Spirits And Bar-B-Que Grill and Bruce and Roxanne Save the World…Again. Midnight Showcase carries romantic fantasy Sidhe Moved Through The Faire.

Her book, Takeout from the Writer’s Cafe can be purchased here: http://www.lulu.com/content/4388414

21

Dance

By J.Lynn Collins You hear the music through the open door Longing for more and more Soon you take the giant leap And step through the open door Now you are a wallflower Not knowing what to do You see the girls dancing and wonder if you can do that too As you listen to the music You come to understand it more and more And soon you are tapping your foot to the beat But you are held back from going any further Because you know no more and you know no one You see the groups here and there They are every where But can you fit in to even one?

You have no friends and you know not what do Your old life is calling you And you wonder if you should answer back You feel yourself being pulled back through the door But soon a girl comes up to you And teaches you a move or two This makes up your mind You’ll stay and not go back Then the girl goes on her way To get another wallflower to stay You really hear the music now And dance even better to the beat From time to time you hear the call The tempting call to go back But every time you feel the tug You know just what to do Go up to friend or two And you know they will dance with you Sometimes a friend is not enough And you feel the tug more and more But every time you try to go back through the door You know for sure That soon a dancer drifts in your path They are your last resort to stop 22

Stop yourself from going back Back to the place you hate Soon you are dancing better Much better to the beat Now a girl comes up to you And asks you what you are going to do Now that you have knowledge too You do not quite understand And tell her that your just suppose to dance Now she informs you That is not all you have to do Dancing is also talking And teaching the beat She tells you she dances by bringing people through the open door Then she points to the one Who was your first teacher and friend The girl tells you that’s how she dances By teaching wallflowers Next she shows you a man You know him He has stopped you from going back through the door The man tells you how he dances By helping those who want to go back To stay and lose the tug that pulls at their hearts The girl tells you that you can’t just listen to the words Because words without action are useless She tells you that you have to go where the rhythm takes you Listen to the words So you can gain knowledge Then let the rhythm take you To were your suppose to go So others might dance too Now you understand And pay more attention to the rhythm Without taking your ears off the words Your soul pays attention to the rhythm Your ears to the words Soon you are going in the right direction And you are happy because of it 23

Honour without Sacrifice Chad Weiss “You can’t do this!

My family will starve,” cried the farmer as legionnaires dragged him away. While they deposited the man in prison for causing a civil disturbance, other legionnaires removed his overturned cart that blocked the city gate. In moments they had the spilled apples cleared and the line of merchants and farmers progressing under the gate again.

Gaius Varrus clenched his sheathed gladius, hoping no other farmer or merchant would make things worse than it was as the legionnaires continued their patrol up and down the line, quelling any disturbances. At the gate, his centurion approached the next farmer in line.

At his shoulder, a soldier muttered: “Gonna’ be shit tonight.”

Gaius swivelled his helmeted head to stare at the man. The legionnaire straightened, his mouth snapping shut lest he receive punishment from his Optio.

Gaius could not disagree with him though. Fed up with the gluttony of Romans, Emperor Tiberius had ordered the restriction of food allowed to enter Rome. The soldiers could only shake their heads at the Emperor’s antics. It was a recipe for riots. It was as every legionnaire muttered, ‘The politicians may act as the voice of the people, but it took the soldiers to keep the heart

thumping.’

Gaius cursed his father once again as his Centurion signalled the farmer through, allowing a merchant to approach with a wagon filled with produce. Somehow his father, a man of few means, had managed to place him in the Praetorian Guard. He had to admit it was the most stable, best-paid legion in the world; but promotions came with battle, and the Praetorian Guard never left the city.

Through diligent work he had managed to instil favour with his Centurion Publius Quintis, earning him the promotion of Optio. It was a step closer to Centurion, and for that; every night he added a prayer for Publius to Mithras.

His gaze lingered on his Centurion’s transverse crest, all that he hoped to achieve. Then he saw the merchant slip something to his Centurion. His mind froze as his commanding officer gestured the merchant through.

Several other carts heaping with produce rolled behind it. They moved past while Gaius’s instincts screamed betrayal. His Centurion, a man he thought honourable, had accepted a bribe. He felt sick.

His Centurion had not only betrayed his own honour. He had betrayed Gaius.

As the line of merchant wagons passed, his Centurion signalled to close the gate. They had reached their maximum food quota for the day. Gaius’s mind began to work again.

24

For the first time his stomach did not clench at the thought of farmers and merchants left outside with nowhere to sell their food, having to leave it spoil. It would destroy many of them, but he had bigger concerns. His honour dictated that he either confront Publius or report the transgression.

Gaius stood rigid as commands snapped out. Only his discipline forced him to move as they marched for the Praetorian Camp outside the city for a few hours rest, before they joined the night cohorts in riot watch.

The entire march he struggled with his resolve. His promotion depended on his Centurion. As he had raised him up, he could break him down again. It was the curse of being an Optio, but it ensured one’s loyalty to their Centurion.

Was a bribe worth his chance at reaching Centurion? If he reached Centurion, nothing short of disgrace could remove him from the position. His future generations would have a chance at social advancement.

Then he considered the bribe. The merchant had paid to take additional produce into the city, exceeding the quota.

Was it really a crime to feed the people that much more, or allow the merchant to make a little more money on Tiberius’s foolishness?

Gaius continued to chew on the problem as he relieved his men of their duty and returned to his barrack room. He shared the stone cell

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with Octavius Honoratus, the century’s tesserarius, the guard commander. Octavius sat on his cot, digging his knife into a sore, cursing under his breath.

“You should see the surgeon,” suggested Gaius as he pulled his helmet off and began unlacing his armour.

“Those piss-bellies don’t know nothing,” muttered Octavius before he gasped as the boil popped.

Gaius left his armour propped in the corner. He sat on his bed opposite of Octavius and started running a stone across his gladius. Octavius continued to squeeze on the boil, his teeth clenched against the pain. With the ringing of steel against stone filling the cell, Gaius said, “Octavius, what do you think honour is?”

Studying his sore, Octavius replied, “It’s doing whatever hardest.” Gaius paused in his sharpening as Octavius looked up and continued, “All virtues are, else they wouldn’t be virtues.”

He stood and chuckled. “Hell, when I caught my wife with another man the virtuous thing was to show mercy, the damn hardest thing to do.”

As the grizzled guard commander turned for the door, Gaius asked, “Did you show mercy?”

He glanced back and smiled. Every time Gaius noted the rotten black tooth, the only one remaining in Octavius’s mouth as he said, “No one’s found them yet.”

His laughter echoed

off the stone hall. Gaius stared the vacant door for a moment before the ringing of his sword against stone filled the room again. His convictions lacked strength and he pushed the thoughts aside. Tonight he needed his mind sharp.

Darkness stretched across the city. The sliver of moon shone bright. Gaius patrolled with his squad, their torches casting shadows across the stone buildings. He had done nothing about the bribe and almost convinced himself that nothing had happened; that he had imagined it, but in his heart, he knew different.

Ahead the Coliseum blotted out the sky. Only the faintest torchlight reached the upper tiers. Gaius paid it little mind, absently hoping for another display of games to pacify the mass’s disquiet.

“Squad! Right turn!” he ordered, marching his men down the street past the gladiatorial quarters. Their steps in unison, Gaius was proud of his squad. Each man’s armour gleamed, showing perfection. He hoped every squad acted as they did and kept cool heads. One mistake and the sparks would touch the tinder and start the riot that threatened to engulf the city.

Across the city, a noise similar to the crowds during the gladiatorial games erupted.

Had it not been night with the scurrying of Romans quieted, 26

Gaius might not have noticed it. Then, over the tiled rooves, a glow leapt into the air. Gaius stifled a curse. But they all knew a fire when they saw one.

Without a doubt, a riot had broken out.

Gaius halted his patrol, turning to examine them. They held still, only the tightening of grips on spears and torches betraying their apprehension.

“I want each of you to keep calm. Remember your training.

These are citizens of Rome, not barbarians.” Gaius nodded in approval of their discipline.

“Double time,” he ordered before trotting down the street, his soldiers behind.

The metal studded sandals rang off the stones.

Spears clattered against shields.

Over the din of noise, Gaius did not notice the shouts at their sides. They rose in a crescendo, breaking his concentration.

He glanced right, his heart thudding wildly under his armour. From the gladiatorial compound figures charged, screaming.

“Lock Scuta!” Gaius yelled, his men instantly forming a shield wall.

Gaius’s mind struggled to understand. Everything happened so fast. Gladiators charged, armed for battle. He did not understand how they would escape their cells and gain access to their weapons.

Only that they had. Then the gladiators smashed into the shield wall, snarls across their faces in the torch light.

Spears darted out,

jabbing the gladiators as they shoved back. Gaius slammed his shield up, knocking a man back, before stepping forward to drive his spear into the man’s throat. He crumpled as another man charged. The man on his right caught a downward sword stroke as Gaius rammed his spear into his stomach.

Then more gladiators poured from the compound. Many bore shields and armour.

They screamed and fought as barbarians, hurling themselves wildly at the shield wall.

The small patrol flanks turned into themselves against the onslaught. For every enemy they downed, more clawed forward. An axe snapped the head from Gaius’s spear. He dropped the useless weapon and ripped his gladius from its sheath. The chaos of gladiators grew. They would quickly surround them unless Gaius did something.

Finding his voice, he called out, “Back step.” His men obeyed, retreating step by step, fighting the entire way.

Then they reached the wall behind them. Their battle line disintegrated. Time sped up, heartbeats lengthened, the brain slowed. Gaius did not think as he fell into his training. Stab for the neck, chest, or groin.

Withdraw. Block. Stab again.

His men began to fall as they made mistakes that cost them a lifetime. Like rabid dogs, the gladiators’ attack intensified as they smelled victory. Gaius slipped on the blood-slicked stones. He knew they could

not hold. Even though the gladiators’ reckless style was no match to the legionnaire’s discipline, their numbers alone would bring victory.

A cornicen horn’s cry split the air. The fight relented as the gladiators sprinted for the darkness, looking to escape.

Gaius stumbled forward as the tight files of legionnaires halted in front of him. To Gaius the fight felt a lifetime. It had only lasted a thousand heartbeats.

Centurion Publius Quintis materialized from the ranks. “Are you wounded?”

Gaius shook his head, still catching his breath.

Publius nodded; his face tight with anxiety. “Good, take your wounded and dead back to Camp. Then return and clean this up before morning.” The Centurion swung away.

Gaius watched the columns move towards the riot before turning back to his men.

How could he report the man who had saved him?

The riot had been worse than expected. Two whole cohorts were nearly destroyed when the rioting citizens had climbed the building and began hurling projectiles upon the soldiers. Their ranks had opened, and like raging termites; the rioting peasants had struggled through and ate the soldiers from the inside out. Eventually though, the Praetorian Guard had restored peace.

The destroyed cohorts 27

left vacant century positions.

Gaius should have smiled as he remembered the legate calling his name out, elevating him to the rank of Centurion. Only a sense of hollowness filled him, as if he had sacrificed the wrong thing to achieve it.

Now a transverse crest fluttered atop Gaius’s helmet as he checked the flow of people through the gates. Outside, several wagons full of produce lined up. Emperor Tiberius had ended his restriction of food, allowing the city to return to normal. Past the line of wagons, a row of crucifixes stood stark against the sky. Crows and flies fluttered across the instigators of the riot. Gaius ignored them as he gestured the next wagon forward.

A merchant jumped from his wagon as Gaius approached. Before Gaius could inspect the covered wagon the merchant casually leaned forward and offered a small pouch. Gaius stared at it, his heart hammering. Whether he took the bribe, ignored it, or reported the merchant, seemed pointless. What was honour without sacrifice?

Author’s Note: Tiberius (A.D. 14-37) wagered a campaign against the gluttony of Romans, restricting the amount of food and even banning pastries. It appears the questionable decisions of politicians are a timeless trait. The conflict between following orders and acting against the citizens inevitably led to corruption and per se, the

eventual fall of Rome.

References Goldsworthy, Adrian. The Complete Roman Army. New York: Thames and Hudson, 2003 Suetonius. Lives of the Twelve Caesars. Trans. Robert Graves. First Welcome Rain edition, 2001 Goya’s Painted Faces John William Rice Goya’s painted faces, broken into pieces Spin on the pinwheel of time Kaleidoscope­colors and pretty rainbows Push the darkness right out of my mind I eat chocolate berries, but I’m always wary Looking for things that I never can find If I seem a bit crazy, don’t pay attention When the morning breaks I will be fine It’s only the moon in all of its fullness That makes my behaviour this way If you are afraid of things that might happen Then I don’t think you should really stay You can catch the next train It will be leaving at midnight But I don’t know where it will go They say it goes out past a word full of colors Where autumn leaves dance in the wind It’s a place far beyond my understandin­g Perhaps because I have never been I’ve never gone far from my winter garden Where the dead flowers grow in a row They crumble to dust when I try to pick them So I leave them to be covered by snow Bees come in the darkness to gather nectar But leave as hungry as they came Rainbows and roses end at my window And leprechauns dance with their gold If I had their money, I’d take the train with you But since I’m broke I must stay in the cold

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As I press my face against frost feathered windows I watch Goya’s painted face, broken into pieces Spin wildly on the pinwheel of time Kaleidoscope­colors and pretty rainbows Push the darkness right out of my mind 28

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“Where does Moss fit into all of this?

You were so anxious to send me to him, to get your hands on him.”

Rat started to get up, so Moss moved silently through the rubble. Ramming Rat’s skull against the floor, Moss knocked him out. “I’d like the answer to that one myself.”

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They’d pay a lot for your head, but they’d pay a lot more for your talents.” Crash’s smile was bright through the blood pouring from his nose.

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29

The Greatest Adversary

by Billy Wong From the time the swordsman walked into the inn, Pearl Light knew he would be trouble. Perhaps in his late twenties, his ruffled look and frantic bearing gave an impression of both distress and an inability to handle it.

Unsteady with fatigue, he bumped into several seated patrons on his way to the counter. Light watched her adopted son Fengshan turn to him.

"Where are the owners?" the visitor asked.

"I must speak with them immediately!"

Light groaned as she continued scrubbing an old table. Suddenly, the shadows beneath it seemed like a very attractive place to crawl into.

A swordsman seeking to meet her generally wanted one of two things--a fight, or help.

This one seemed more likely to request the latter, but that only meant she might expect to face more than one opponent.

Fengshan scratched his ear in their private signal for trouble, not that he needed to.

Light moved in, leaning against the bar beside their visitor. He smelled strongly of fresh sweat.

"I'm Pearl Light. What do you want? If you know who I am, you must know I'm already retired."

"I know you no longer want to be involved in the battles of the martial world, but

this is important. Without your aid, our nation may be at risk!"

As if she hadn't heard that before.

Oftentimes, conflicts with supposedly great stakes turned out to be no more than petty squabbles.

"What exactly is the problem?

I'll hardly risk my life over something that could easily have been avoided had a few men been a little less stupid."

He shook his head. "A powerful swordsman from the north has journeyed here to challenge our best, and so far everyone to face his blade has met with crushing defeat.

If we cannot find someone to stand up to him, our reputation as warriors of the Phoenix Kingdom will be blackened with shame!"

"So it's about pride?"

Light said dryly. "Sorry, but I can't help you."

"Why? You have beaten countless mighty foes, and are regarded as peerless in skill with the sword. Are you afraid that your legend will be tarnished if you lose?"

His goading might have worked on a younger her, but Light was too tired to care. She and her husband had retired barely into their thirties for a reason. Her life of battle left her with many a scar, and an equal number of nagging pains. She did not regret what was done, but saw no reason to go back.

"If I cared about my image, I wouldn't endanger it by refusing your request in the first place. So you can forget appealing to my pride, because 30

pride never ruled me."

"All right, lady; I know I could never force you even if I dared to try. May I at least rent a room in your inn?"

"Of course," Light said in the interest of good business.

She had known he wouldn't really give up that easily, but he was unlikely to change her mind just by staying. Unfortunately, she was not the only great warrior living here. She would have to keep a close eye on her husband in the following days.

"So did he speak to you?" Light asked Flying Rock that night in bed. Draped over his broad chest, her own strong arm looked rather delicate.

Her husband was a big, gentle man, who though her equal as a fighter had never gained the renown she had. He had always remained in her shadow, perhaps because she was a woman and her deeds all the more extraordinary for it.

"He who?" he replied in an innocent tone.

"Who do you think would have me all worried over you?"

"Oh yes, him. We've met."

"Well? What did you say to him?"

Rock smiled reassuringly. "I told him my wife doesn't want me to fight, and that I care a lot more about what she thinks than what he or anyone else does. Would I have answered any other way?

"But I think we should help him."

Light stiffened with alarm. "What? But why? This is no different from a dozen other challenges we've turned down."

"Relax, I'm not saying we should necessarily fight for him." His eyes, however, told her he was tempted to. He would hardly be retired if not for her, after all. "What I mean is, I think we should talk to him and help him figure out a course of action. If anything, it might get him off our backs."

Still tense with the possibility a talk might lead to promises she did not want, Light nodded. "I suppose it won't hurt to help in that way.

Together, then?"

Light found the swordsman already eating downstairs the next morning, no doubt up early to remind them he was still there. She and Rock did their usual work around the inn, cooking food and cleaning up and serving guests, until business was slow enough that they could be reasonably free. It would not do to make the swordsman think he was more important than he was.

"So," Light said when she finally sat down across from the man, "you're looking for a champion. Why us? There are many non-retired warriors who I'm sure would welcome a challenge."

"Yes, but many of them

have already tried and lost!" He stared pleadingly into Rock's eyes. "I came here to seek the best, and nothing less."

"It does seem natural," Rock said, "that the Phoenix Kingdom should be represented by its best."

What was he doing?

Light frowned as the swordsman sat straighter in his chair. "So does that mean you'll do it?"

"I am not the best fighter of Phoenix." Rock looked at Light, let his gaze linger on her a bit. She cringed at what she feared he might say. "Neither is she."

Though relieved he had not volunteered her to fight, Light was confounded where he was going with this. "What?" their visitor exclaimed. "But everyone knows you're the strongest! Your fame is without match."

Rock exhaled. "If you're going to bother retired people with your foreigner troubles, you can do better than us. When Light and I were young, all lived in fear of one name. Black Blood Song he was called, and through sheer martial prowess he could bend entire gangs to his will. One man adrift in the world, yet when he spoke all who heard obeyed. Because if one did not, he died."

"But wouldn't this Black Blood Song be really old, if he's even still alive?"

Light could not speak, for then she might laugh and give the game away. She was 31

quite amused, and impressed, at her husband's ploy to save them some pain.

Rock scowled. "I said, when Light and I were young.

We're only in our thirties now, how long ago could that have been?"

"I had assumed you meant when you were children.

Wouldn't he still be pretty old, considering I've never heard of him?"

"He'd only be in his sixties. Besides, grand masters like him only get stronger with age, and he must have been better in his youth than we are now."

"Is there really someone that strong?" the swordsman whispered in awe. "Where do I find him?"

"He was always a wanderer, even before retiring.

But of all the provinces of Phoenix, he frequented Hongshan the most."

"Thank you!" the swordsman said with a glance at the silent Light. Somehow, she managed to hold back her mirth while meeting his eyes.

He rose. "The hope of Phoenix awaits me in Hongshan!" he said, and hurried out the inn doors.

A few seconds later, Light burst into laughter. "But hasn't nobody seen Black Blood Song in years? I think our friend's in for a long search this time!"

At her husband's response, all cheer left Light.

"No, he's not. Because while he might not otherwise find a

Black Blood Song, I plan to give him one."

"But Rock, why must you do this?" Light asked as he put on a white wig in preparation to become the new Black Blood Song. "Even if you have to fight, why not just do it as yourself? This plan of yours is mad!"

"I'm doing it for you," he said gently. "If I fight as myself, people will see it as me coming out of retirement and no doubt come to bother us with renewed vigor. But if Black Blood Song defeats the foreigner, it'll have nothing to do with us."

"But why do you have to fight him at all? Didn't we agree to leave the affairs of the outside behind when we decided to retire? I won't chain you to your words like a dog, but give me a reason for breaking our promise!"

"I wasn't lying when I told him Phoenix should be represented by the best. You may not care about image, but don't you realize our country really will suffer if others don't respect it? If I have the ability to prevent that, then it'd be selfish of me not to."

She sighed. "I know you're right, and that any patriotic hero would say the same. But I'd rather I be the one fighting than you. At least then, I'd still have some control over my fate."

"There's no way you can play Black Blood Song,"

Rock said with a smile. "He was a big man."

"I know. And you have to know, I'll follow my heart just the same as you." She clenched her fists. "I won't let you die if I can help it, even if I have to interfere in your duel!"

Rock stroked her cheek.

"I wouldn't expect anything less of you. Trust me, though.

You won't have to."

"I hope not. Be careful, love."

Rock let their visitor find him in Hongshan, and a date was set for the duel between Black Blood Song and the foreign Night God. Watching the wooden stage from under a wide-brimmed hat weeks later, Light was glad to know Night God had not killed most of his past opponents.

Even if Rock proved unable to defeat the foreigner, she might not have to intervene on his behalf. If Night God did try to kill him, however, she would do all she could to stop him.

Though the duel's conditions did not necessitate a death, its stakes were higher in the eyes of some than many that did. If even the legendary Black Blood Song could not overcome the foreigner, the Phoenix people would have no choice but to acknowledge another race as superior.

Unless, Light thought, perhaps she stepped up to the challenge.

On stage, Night God and the disguised Rock faced 32

each other. Good thing Black Blood Song had always worn a mask, for Rock's face could never have passed for his.

His signature red robe looked strange, knowing it was her rough husband beneath it.

Night God equalled Rock in height, and under heavy clothes seemed as broad. He too concealed his features behind a deep black mask, the gray hair around which marked him a somewhat older man. In youth, at least, Rock would have the edge.

"You are the famous Black Blood Song?" Night God said while they drew swords and closed. "You are old."

As himself, Rock would likely have shot back a scathing remark. As it was, he said, "I am the same as I always was. A man and a sword, both of whom have forgotten which one he was. Alas! It does not matter because both are death."

"You have practiced well. Most people would feel very foolish saying that."

"You who mock, will you mock your own death?

Come! And we will see who is a fool."

Rock played his role to a tee, but Light only hoped his words would not make Night God more inclined to kill him.

Both men rushed, and met in a whirlwind of strikes midstage. Most of the audience probably could not follow their movements, yet Light did with ease. Within a second she saw a dozen moves made and countered, and that was before

the duelists went full speed.

Rock jumped high into the air, as if to go for his patented descending chop. Night God leapt after him, battering at his guard with thrust after slash after thrust. At the peak of his jump Rock kicked his opponent in the chest, knocking him back towards the earth, and fell into his signature attack. Night God touched down a moment earlier and blocked, but the impact drove him to one knee.

He shoved Rock back, stood, and with a backhanded swing launched a roaring wave of chi. Rock leapt over it, and it continued on to slice through two huge wooden poles which toppled towards the hapless audience.

Light somersaulted into a kick, smashing the logs away so that they landed on clear ground. If she could not aid her husband in his fight, she would at least prevent it from causing any unnecessary casualties.

The duel continued for what seemed like an eternity.

Often one man came within a hair of landing a potentially fatal blow, and every time Rock narrowly escaped with his life Light sweat harder with terror. Though she had fought numerous bloody combats of her own, new familiarity with peace and her inability to help made her unexpectedly vulnerable.

Night God flew across the stage, driving Rock before his extended sword. Rock parried several quick swipes, then jumped over him and tried

to kick the back of his head. He blocked, turned and threw an energy wave which screamed over Rock's head. Rock darted in. Light gasped as Night God's sword pierced his shoulder.

He grabbed the blade, and in the split-second Night God's attention focused on freeing it, kicked him to the ground.

Rock slashed down.

Night God tried to defend, but found himself at a decided disadvantage on his back. The blade flew from his hand, and Rock leveled his sword at the other's throat. "The battle has a victor," he said.

"I've lost," Night God admitted without malice.

Thank heaven it was done! "It is pleasing to see that a man of Phoenix manages to surpass me.

"But you are not Black Blood Song." He reached up and removed his mask. What the..?

"Black Blood Song?" an old spectator gasped in disbelief.

"After all these years," the revealed legend explained, "I began to wonder if the current generation would live up to mine. Thus I took the guise of a northern warrior in order to test you. The result satisfies me."

The fight had been close, but apparently Rock and Light's nostalgic minds had tricked them into believing Black Blood Song just a little more formidable than he actually was.

"But if he's Black Blood 33

Song," a man's voice asked, "who's the other one?"

Rock looked nervously this way and that, then blurted out, "Remember the events of today, and take pride in your Phoenix blood! For know that for every known hero of our people, there are yet a hundred crouching tigers and hidden dragons like myself!" He ran to the stage's edge and jumped, flying over the crowd for the cover of the trees beyond.

Light chuckled. In all their life-and-death battles and frantic chases together, she could hardly remember him making such a prodigious horizontal leap.

"We cannot allow such a hero's name to go unrecognized," someone said.

"After him!"

They probably would not catch him, especially if he discarded the costume quickly as planned. But it was time, Light decided, to make herself scarce--before anyone recalled the inconspicuous woman who had saved them.

Some time later, Light caught up with Rock in the forest. They had both gotten rid of their means of disguise, and headed without delay for home.

"So," Light said, "wasn't that a bit of a waste? He didn't mean any harm, and we were hardly needed."

Rock shrugged. "Huh. At least I gave him the hope he was seeking for the country."

"Not the way he

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