Encounters Magazine #4 by Black Matrix Publishing LLC

ENCOUNTERS M

Volume 1 Issue 4

November/December 2010

SF POLAR by Candra Hope Nature really doesn't care who holds the top spot in the food chain ........................ 3 SF SWIMMING WITH SHARKS by Timothy Miller There comes a time when you have to decide whether you are predator or prey ........ 9 F THE BLACK GRAVE by Scott Hill Every detective should accept a little supernatural help once in a while ....................... 19 SF RETURNS PERMITTED WITHIN 30 DAYS by Russell James Do we really need to tell you to keep your receipt? ........................................................ 31 SF FERMI'S PARADOX by DoA Worrell Have you ever had the feeling the world is just slipping away from you? .................... 35 H OBLIVION by Naomi Johnson There's nothing quite like small town charm, then you stop in Oblivion ........................ 42 SF FATHER MARS by Jack MacKenzie Decades after the war, the colonists still fear anything that moves in the sky .............. 48 SF THE CURATOR'S DELIMMA by William Knight Doing the right thing is rarely the easiest choice .............................................................. 56 H LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE by Thomas Canfield Some dogs like to play dead, but the dangerous ones really are dead ........................... 66 SF ASTEROID ETERNIA by Collin R. Skocik Life is full of options, sometimes a lot more than you think ............................................ 68 F I REGRET I MUST EAT YOU KNOW by Tom Barlow Sometimes the search for revenge can lead us down an unexpected path ...................... 75 H A SYMPHONY OF HORRORS by Kevin J. Bartell It's hard building a master race when one already exists .............................................. 100 SF OUMINGS IN THE DARK by Jeffrey Aaron Miller After some consideration I've decided you can take this job and... ............................... 107 (Table of Contents cont. next page) Front Cover by M. D. Jackson, illustrating a scene from "Swimming With Sharks" This publication copyright 2010 by Black Matrix Publishing LLC and individually copyrighted by artists and individuals who have contributed to this issue. All stories in this magazine are fiction. Names, characters and places are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Encounters Magazine is published

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WIND LIKE DRY BONES by Wayne Faust It's sometimes best to heed the warning about a local legend ....................................... 114 THE ALL-CONSUMING LIE by Ryan Kinkor Some acts leave you with no chance at forgiveness ......................................................... 118 HUSHABYE by John Morgan There are nightmares that can last for eternity ................................................................ 125 SOME THEORIES REGARDING THE CURRENT CRISIS by David Tallerman Natural disasters are not always natural in origin ............................................................ 128 THE MEMORY MINERS by Sergei Servianov To some, what you carry in your mind is far more important than your life ................ 132 WORLD OF SHELLS by Chrystalla Thoma True courage often comes from the least among us .......................................................... 135 CELESTIAL ENCOUNTERS by Michael Meyerhofer Solitude can be a good thing, but there are limits ............................................................ 140 TAP, TAP by Aaron Polson Sometimes fate really does have a cruel sense of humor .................................................. 142 THE BEST OF US ALL by Martin Turton Would be rescuers are often doomed by the fate of those who ask for their help ........ 146

From the editor's desk...

Our Featured Artist Welcome to Encounters #4, our biggest issue yet at 152 M. D. Jackson pages. As I have said in previous editorials, it's all about the fiction. We don't waste pages on essays, movie and book M. D. Jackson's artwork has been reviews and other non-fiction sections like we see in most other published in Abandoned Towers, publications. When you trade your money for a copy of Flashing Swords, Dark Worlds Encounters, fiction is what you're going to get in exchange, Magazine, Art-Scene International, and over 120,000 words in every issue. Imagine FX magazine. He has done We also believe that a story needs to be read by the largest amount of people possible, and to that end, we give away covers and illustrations for several small several copies to libraries every time the paper edition arrives press houses including Rogue Blades from the printer. Currently, we have copies in a number of Entertainment and Pulpwork Press. You libraries that are visited by a total of 20,000,000 patrons every can view more of his color and black year. We checked in with one of them recently and found that and white pieces at his online gallery. It Encounters is indeed a popular item for many of their visitors. The library program will continue, and over the next few can be found here: months we plan on adding another 10 libraries to our free http://mdjackson.deviantart.com/gallery/ distribution list. Our regular readership continues to grow and the PDF editions have been a big success, so we are examining other e-book options for the future, including a slightly re-designed issue for the Kindle and other platforms. We continue to keep the cover price of our print edition as low as possible and we believe we currently offer one of the best deals in the small press marketplace. We'll be back with another issue in December. See you then. Guy Kenyon/Editor

Kim Kenyon/Publisher

Polar

by Candra Hope Nature really doesn't care who holds the top spot in the food chain. ___________________________________________________________

I’

m dying and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t feel my feet and when I try to straighten my fingers, the joints crack and pop like they’re about to break. Its so cold. I’m afraid to move my hands in case I drop the rifle and can’t pick it up again. The wilderness is blinding. I can’t see the horizon, even through my goggles. Everything is white. The land blends into the sky and that scares me more than dropping the rifle. I might not see it coming. I’m so tired. It hurts to walk, to breathe, even to stay upright. Maybe I should just sit down and forget about it; let them live in their blissful ignorance. I’m no hero, never was, certainly not going to start now. The only thing keeping me moving is fear and a voice in the back of my head; give up now and your will never see Linda again, and Maggie will have died for nothing.

“Any luck?”

“Not yet.” Vernon sat down and grunted. “We need that radio, Jim. Without it, we can’t find out what happened with the delivery. Two weeks! What the hell is going on around here? What is it they want from us? That we starve out here? They’ll get a whole lot of information that way, that’s for damn sure.” I grinned at his sarcasm. He had a way with words. “I’m not a magician, Vernon. If I had more cable, maybe…” There was no cable. Nothing strong enough to cope with the juice needed. We were in the rec room. The only room in the complex that was heated twenty-four hours. Everyone else was on their way. Time for a serious chat, Vernon had said. After I finally admitted what had messed up the cable. I’d gone out to the tower to radio Nevis Point, find

out what happened to the winter supply. It was already a week overdue, and it was never late. Not in twelve years. An odd enough occurrence to warrant a call out. I found the cable chewed through. Not cut, frayed or worn, but chewed. I could see the teeth marks round the edges. That cable was thick enough to handle anything. Out here on the edge of the new Arctic Circle, it had to be. There was no body lying beside the cable. And there should have been. The juice running through it should’ve fried whatever had its teeth into it. At first I thought of one of the dogs but Samson never said a word before or after, and I checked. They were all there. 5

Of course, there were plenty of nasties around; wolves and bears that once upon a time would have kept well away from us, from humans. But even they wouldn’t have been hungry enough to eat electric cables. I kept quiet about it till this morning. Didn’t want to spook everyone, not with the food getting close to rationing and winter closing in fast. Vernon opened his mouth to speak but didn’t get the chance as the rest of our merry little family crowded into the room, eyes wide, questions popping in the air like bubbles. “All right folks, calm down,” he said instead. Don’t think I ever saw him so nervous. But no one else seemed to notice. Not at first. They allowed themselves to be herded toward the tables, sitting down and looking at him like they were all his kids. Guess we were, in a way. Vernon had a way with people too. “Tell me you called us in here to say the supply’s on its way.” Sarcasm dripped from Maggie’s tongue. I avoided her gaze and secretly hoped she would get lost in a storm and not come back. “Not exactly.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gray was squinting through those stupid glasses he always wore. Most of the time they were covered in a fine layer of frost, and he was always taking them off to clean them. I watched as his hand moved toward his face, twitched at his ear, then dropped into his lap again. Guess he thought better of it. Vernon nodded my way. “Your turn, Jim.” Here we go. I took a deep breath and stood up. Seven pairs of eyes jumped on me and I cleared my throat. “So, the radio’s not working.” “Great.” Maggie smirked at me. “Why are you even here anyway?” I didn’t bother answering. She was just looking for a fight and we all knew it. “Something chewed through the cable and there’s no way to fix it.” That stopped Maggie short. Stunned silence followed for at least ten seconds and I could hear the wind picking up outside. Then everyone started talking at once. “Chewed it? What would do something like that? Where’s the body? Can we see it?” I shrugged. “There wasn’t a body.” More silence. Isolation can do funny things to your head if you're not careful. It can make you imagine all sorts of things. The idea of no communication with the rest of the world, and maybe nothing to eat except what we could catch, was enough to keep everyone quiet for a 6

long time. Imagining things. Samson, Maggie, goggle-eyed Gray, Linda, Sven and smiling Robson. Except he wasn’t smiling now. Including myself and Vernon, that made eight souls all told. Not counting Samson’s dogs. When the Snow Cat couldn’t get out, his team of yowling, four legged running machines were our only link with the outside. And now, with the radio down, they really might be. I shot a glance at Linda and she smiled tentatively. It got me thinking about last night and I missed what Vernon said next. “If this is real, what do we do? We’re two weeks away from the first winter storm. That’s barely enough time to get out and back before it hits.” Samson’s gruff voice cut into my thoughts. “There’s no way I’m letting my dogs out for a maybe.” “It’s not a maybe, Samson.” I hated getting involved in an argument but there was no avoiding it. “This is as real as it gets. Someone’s going to have to take the Cat, head for Nevis and bring back the supplies.” I didn’t bother mentioning that there was no way of knowing if the supplies were at the next station or not. Samson glared at me. Maggie snorted. I shrugged at both of them and held back. They were grade A arseholes, strutting around like they owned the whole station. No way I was getting deeper into it with those two.

“T

his is a shit idea, Vernon, and you know it.” The wind grabbed my words and whipped them away across the ice. We were standing by the Snow Cat waiting till it was warm enough to drive. No point racing away on a cold engine. Not out here. Just a shortcut to an oil leak and a dead Cat, fast. Vernon hunched deeper into his furs and stared at the horizon like one of those cowboys in the old movies we sometimes watched, when the winter closed in and there was nothing else to do. “Don’t let Maggie and Samson mess you around, all right?” I grinned and nodded like I didn’t have a care in the world. “Still think you should’ve let me go instead.” “They’ll believe it coming from me.” “What’re you trying to say, huh?” Vernon’s turn to grin. “You know what I mean. Besides, I need you here. We’ll be back before you know it, with the supplies and some new faces. Maybe even get us all out of this hell-hole.’ A shout from above and we looked up. Robson hung out of the cab window and waved. “Guess that’s it then.”

I held out my hand and Vernon knocked it away. “Don’t be daft, Jim. I’ll see you in a few days. And get that radio working, eh?” I watched the Cat disappear into the snow haze. Looking back, I should have argued harder. Should have made them stay. But then, everyone’s a genius in hindsight. I went back inside. Linda and Sven looked up when I walked in. Maggie and Samson were over in the corner. Nothing there but sneering contempt. No, they weren’t getting to me at all. Linda came over with a cup of coffee and looked up at me with those beautiful eyes of hers. Right now they were a deep mossy green but out on the ice where the light was different, they’d turn a pale grey, like silver. I smiled down at her. “Never mind them.” She jerked a thumb at Maggie and Samson. “They’re just trying to rattle you.” “Yeah, well it’s working. One of these days I’m going to ask them what their problem is.” “Not while I’m around you won't.” she sighed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wish they’d never been sent here. I mean, what exactly is it they need to guard anyway?” I wished it too, but there was no point in complaining after the fact. She handed me the coffee and our fingers brushed together. “Come over tonight, okay?” I remembered the first day she walked through the complex door like it was yesterday. I knew right then all my wishes had come true and I was in love from that second on. She was beautiful, smart and full of hope and idealism, and when she smiled, the whole room lit up with her. I made it my personal mission in life to make her mine. Took a while for her to come round to my way of thinking. Two years to be exact. Must’ve been my charm. Now we couldn’t get enough of each other. A rush of heat went through me, tightened my chest and stuck my throat together and I couldn’t answer her. So I just grinned and nodded like a goof-ball.

inda was gone. They all were. We’d waited a week, as long as we could, until we started arguing about rations, and that maybe Vernon wasn’t coming back. Maybe he’d decided to stay at Nevis Point and leave us out here to starve. That’s what Maggie kept saying, and after a while I got sick of hearing it. I kept my mouth shut and stayed out of everyone’s way. I’d managed to rig up a temporary cable using scraps but all that came through was static. I never got an answer to my calls. Not from Nevis, not from Vernon. Not from anyone. Just hissing white noise in my ears driving me slowly insane till I shut the radio 7

off and gave up. Samson got impatient and decided he was going out to look for them. Linda and Sven went with him. I argued the whole night before she left, but she wouldn’t listen. “I’m the best navigator, Jim. You know it.” I did know it but it didn’t stop me wanting to keep her with me. “If you go, what’ll I do?” “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” She grinned at me. “Just keep your hands off Maggie.” “I wouldn’t have to if you stayed.” “Don’t be so selfish, Jim. It’ll be something simple. They’ll be out there. I know it. I’ll bring them back.” “Just bring yourself back. That’s all that matters to me.” In the morning I watched her disappear out the door and punched the wall hard wishing I’d said it. I love you. After she left it was just me and Maggie the queen bitch with nothing to do but wait and twiddle our thumbs. I hid out in the radio tower and spent most of my time wondering. A dozen scenarios raced around my head. Maybe the Cat broke down, maybe they got lost, maybe someone got injured or maybe they’d all fallen down a crevasse somewhere. I told myself I was being stupid. It was a straight run south to Nevis Point and not exactly easy to get lost when you’ve got a compass and Vernon. I swear that man was like a homing pigeon. And the radio was no different. Something was wrong about the whole thing, I just couldn’t figure out what. I should have refused to let them go but I never was any good with people. Not like Vernon. Not like Linda. Three days and no sign of either party, and Maggie for once kept quiet and stayed away from me. One time I caught her staring at me from the end of a corridor, an odd look on her face. If I didn’t know her better I’d have sworn it was sympathy. That was the last thing I needed from anyone, and her least of all. It reminded me how long Linda had been outside. I knew they could look after themselves, dig in if weather hit, but it didn’t make the fear go away. Questions I couldn’t answer and was afraid to ask, even of myself, drifted through my head. Why was there no word from Vernon? Why had the others not come back? Where was everyone? What the hell was going on?

“T

his is getting stupid.” Maggie came up behind me in the rec room in her usual silent way and made me jump. I spilled my third cup of coffee that morning

down the front of my sweater. “Fuck, Maggie! Nice timing.” “I’m right, though. Something’s happened. We’re scattered out here and it’s no good. You and me have got maybe enough food to last another week, two at a stretch.” She paused for effect. She was always pausing, like she thought it gave her words more meaning. “You want to stay here till the food’s all gone?” “We can’t leave the station unmanned. You’re suggesting we just abandon the place? Come on. What happens when they come back and we’re not here?” “What happens when they don’t come back?” She pointedly didn’t say if. The look on her face said everything it needed to; if it comes to it I’ll eat you for breakfast. “I’m not asking your permission, Jim.” She shook her head, gave a little sneer, and I seriously considered throwing the remains of my coffee at her. They say too much caffeine on an empty stomach makes you jumpy. Makes you paranoid. Maybe, but I had no doubt Maggie was perfectly capable of turning cannibal. She walked over to the window, scraped away the frost and peered outside. “Storm’s dying. That means I’ve got at least a week before the next one hits. I’ll pack, be out of here first thing tomorrow. You can do what you like.”

e headed south. The next storm was already boiling up behind us. I hated leaving, but there was no way I was letting Maggie go off on her own sneering to herself. And thoughts of Linda dragged me out onto the ice to flounder slowly through knee deep powdered snow after Maggie’s hunched silhouette, looking for something I didn’t want to find. We had one sled between us covered in seal fur and carrying everything we could fit on it. Maggie dragged it behind her across the hard pack and I carried the rifles, wrapped tight, but loaded and ready to fire. Just in case. Out here we weren’t as safe as we used to be and it paid to be prepared. We looked like a pair of Bigfoots wrapped in all that fur. Any other time it would have been hilarious. Not now. Not with who knew how many of us either frozen solid or huddled in a snow cave, slowly starving to death. I tried not to picture Linda’s face encased in ice. The blizzard caught us on the second night. So much for Maggie’s plan. We hunkered down while a screaming wind attacked our tent hell bent on ripping the flimsy fabric off its pegs. We huddled together for warmth and said nothing. But the words were there, hanging between us like an accusation; we should have left sooner. We’ll never make it now. Not in this. We’ll 8

starve out here and no one will ever know. And I watched Maggie all night. Watched her face for signs she was tipping over the edge. But she never twitched. Stayed as calm and impassive as a lump of rock. Easy for her, maybe.

aylight leaked through the tent fabric. We’d made another day. The blizzard disappeared east like it had never happened. Or like it knew what was going to happen and it wanted us exposed out on the flats. We struggled on while we still could, saving energy, searching for signs of the others. We never found anything, but then we never really expected to see footprints in the snow. We just hoped we’d catch up to them, maybe meet them as they headed back toward us. Maybe we’d get to Nevis Point and they’d all be sitting there waiting for us. I kept telling myself that, kept reinforcing the image of Linda smiling at me, laughing and joking; what took you so long? Warm and fed. Not frozen. Maggie noticed it first around noon. A shape off on the horizon, large and dirty white, tracking us. Had to be a bear. We didn’t think much of it at first. Probably just curious, a polar bear brought down from the north looking for food. I sent off a shot and it ambled away into the sun haze. We stopped to camp when the sun disappeared below the horizon leaving a low glow that slid over the ice like oil on the surface of a lake. We saw the bear again, watching us from a mound about a thousand yards out. Maggie frowned. “Odd behaviour,” she grunted, and handed me the binoculars. The animal came into focus and I realised what she meant. It was looking right at me, nose sniffing the air like it was smelling us out, which was normal enough. Humans spent their time huddled along the equator these days. The north and south belonged to the animals. And to a bear, we were just one more source of food. No, what was odd was the look in its eyes. I swear it was like looking at another human. It had this calculating stare like it was figuring us, deciding… something. “Think I should fire another shot?” As I said this it put its head on one side like it knew what I had said, even though that was impossible. Then it turned and walked away into the dusk and disappeared. I glanced at Maggie, she shrugged and we bent over the sled to unhitch the fur cover. But the hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I kept looking round, wary as hell. Animals don’t understand speech and they sure as hell don’t have hearing that good. Do they?

A swish, thump-thump and we turned at the same moment and saw the bear running toward us full tilt out of the shadows. It was close, too close. It had circled us, stalking us like we were a couple of seals. I pulled one of the rifles free of its fur wrap and aimed it into the air, trying to ignore the queasy sensation in my stomach. I squeezed off two shots in quick succession and stared, boggling, as the bear kept coming. “Shit! Come on!” Maggie was already off and running, dragging the heavy sled behind her, the fur covering flapping wildly and snow puffing out in all directions. “What!” My legs froze themselves in place while my head told me to run. But how are you supposed to outrun a raging, hungry polar bear that’s coming at you full speed across the ice? Its paws were huge; the claws dug hard into the ice and sent chunks flying out behind it. And I thought, where are we supposed to run to? As I tried not to imagine what those paws might do if they got hold of me. I saw its eyes, small and black. They were locked onto me and I swear they were filled with glee. I stopped caring why, how or where to, and ran. I caught up with Maggie and grabbed the sled strap, pulling along with her. We made it halfway up the slope of a ridge before the bear caught us. Most of the time I hated Maggie, but what she did next changed that forever. The bear pounded up behind us and ice cold air hit my lungs turning them numb. I thought I might run out of breath. Then the sled grew twice as heavy and I swung my head to see Maggie let go of the strap and grab the second gun. “Get your scrawny arse over that ridge,” she snarled. “Now!” She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned back, aimed that old rifle in the bear’s face and started firing. The sled was heavy as hell, the slope steeper than it looked in the shadowless dusk, and my crampons wouldn’t dig in. We were on the lee side where the snow drifted in soft powdery mounds and it slid away under my feet. The bear’s growls filled the air and the noise of the rifle ripped through my head as Maggie fired again and again. Then the growls changed to a screaming roar and I thought my head would burst from the sound. Maggie was quiet but I had to know, had to see what was happening; that morbid curiosity that people used to get as they drove past road accidents. Before the roads disappeared under the ice. I ducked my head down and glanced out the corner of my eye. The bear was up on its hind legs with its front paws 9

spread wide like it wanted to give Maggie a hug. She was tiny in front of it and her rifle looked small and pointless in the face of open jaws and slavering teeth. But she never paused. She kept firing till there were no bullets left and the bear finally backed off, its chest bloody from the bullet wounds. Maggie turned and bounded up the ridge toward me, her eyes wide and staring, knuckles bone white where she gripped the gun. “I never saw anything like it,” she panted. “Should’ve gone down. What the fuck? Why didn’t it go down?” The bear had taken six bullets in its chest. And it was still back there, grunting and lumbering about. I could hear it but was afraid to look, hoped that maybe it was in its death throes. We got the sled to the top of the ridge, let it balance there before tipping it over to slide down the other side. An oof! beside me and I looked round and saw Maggie lying face first in the snow. I nearly laughed out loud, about to tell her to get her own arse over the ridge and stop messing about. Then I saw. The bear had come up behind us and hooked her round the ankle, flipped her off her feet. The sled tipped on the ridge, slid over and whooshed down the other side. It pulled me with it, away from Maggie. I caught a last glimpse of her face before she disappeared. Her eyes were wild, and she’d finally lost it, lost all humanity under an animal instinct for survival, hands scrabbling madly for purchase, for the gun, as she was dragged away from behind. I slid helplessly down the slope, thumped onto the sled at the bottom, and whimpered. Then the screaming started. Angry yells and curses at first. But they soon changed. Turned into a frenzied animal sound, mixed with deep throaty roars and scuffling swishing noises, like something being dragged about on soft snow. I tried to get up. Part of me saw myself racing to the top of the ridge and blowing the bear’s head off in a fit of righteous vengeance. Adrenaline boiled in my blood and I was going to send that murdering bastard to the deepest frozen pit of hell. But I couldn’t move. I wasn’t strong enough. What could I do against an animal that bullets didn’t hurt, that calculated your next move before you made it? That planned ways to get you when you weren’t looking? I went cold from my feet up. It took a long time to get to the top of the ridge. A long time for the screaming to stop. I dropped to my belly, shaking, and peered over the edge. Maggie’s gun lay at the bottom of the slope useless, just beyond a scattered patch of reddish pink snow. The bear was

hunched over, its back to me. Tearing noises came from something on the ground in front of it. All that was left of Maggie. I brought the rifle up and aimed it at the bear’s head. The gun jammed. The creaking not-click of the trigger loud in the silence, and I froze. The bear turned and looked up at me, its face stained pink like the snow. It watched me for a moment and I knew it was calculating how much of a risk I was. Not much since it dropped its head inside Maggie’s chest cavity again. I crawled away and my stomach bunched in me like someone had their fist wrapped round it.

I’

m dying and there’s nothing I can do about it. Dying of cold and fear. Every step is agony. I know if I take off my boots and socks my feet will be black and shrivelled from frostbite. I haven’t taken them off for two days. I’ve been walking forever. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve fallen over. Each time it gets harder to stand up. Each time, I stay there a little longer and each time, I see Maggie’s face turned towards me. Her head is shaking like she’s telling me no, but it’s really shaking because of the bear with its head half buried in her body, tearing, eating her. She’s dead but my memory’s playing tricks on me and I can see her mouth moving. Then it’s not Maggie I’m seeing, it’s Linda. That wrenches my stomach more than it can handle and I drop to my knees and vomit. Except there’s nothing in there since the food disappeared down that crevasse this morning with the sled, so I’m retching and hunching because I can’t stop. All the time we were up here on the edge of the world thinking we were doing so well, we’d get it sorted. We had no idea the world was hitting back. The bear’s been tracking me since I crawled away from it. It’s been playing tricks with me like it doesn’t really want to eat me, like it’s just having itself some fun. I know it’s out there. I’ve seen it way out across the ice flats walking with me, paralleling my path, and I know it’s mad, not hungry. It wants me as scared as I can be because we all got cocky, believed we were still invincible, still the top of the food chain. And it’s working. I’m so scared I don’t sleep anymore. I sit awake waiting for daylight, freezing slowly, holding my rifle like a talisman. Even though it

won’t fire. Just because it feels solid. I know it was the bear that chewed through the cable on the radio. It planned the whole thing. I keep moving because if I give up now we’ll have disappeared for real, me and Maggie, and no one that comes looking will know what happened, what’s growing out here on the ice; monsters that want our blood. And if I stop now I face the monster and I can't do that. I never was any good at heroics. I can see the radio mast at Nevis Point now. It’s sticking up above the next ridge and I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I need to get there before I fall down, before the bear decides to come for me at the last minute when I’ve got my hand on the door knob. The old mountain is appearing behind it, poking up out of the ice. Just the top since the rest of it is hidden. In this country they used to call a mountain a Ben. It really meant big hill not mountain. Ben Nevis. Just a big ice covered hill now and wearing down fast like an old molar. Keep moving, one foot in front of the other. Keep moving, but I can’t feel my feet and, when I close my eyes, I don’t know if I’m moving so I keep them open, squinting against the snow shine that’s getting brighter and brighter. Keep one ear open for the bear, prowling, a dirty white ghost behind me, somewhere, coming up fast maybe, to rip my chest open and tear out my innards. The door is in front of me and I can’t breathe suddenly through the tightness in my chest that maybe, just maybe, I’m going to make it inside and Linda will be in there waiting for me with warm food and a bed to sleep on and soft arms around me. I open the door and step inside. The lights are off. There’s no sound; no voices in a distant room, no movement, no heat, no light. Just a faint whine of wind round the complex. No one’s here. I close the door, lock it behind me and look down. At my feet there’s a scattering of snow blown in sometime before. There are prints in it. Big prints, and they’re not human. ___________________________________________ Candra Hope's short story, “Monster,” can be found in the Dark Hoard Anthology. She has also published illustrations in various magazines and online publications, including Murky Depths, Dark Tales and Morpheus Tales.

Swimming With Sharks by Timothy Miller

There comes a time when you have to decide whether you are predator or prey. ___________________________________________________________

The fusion welder cut down the Nile’s hull, a slow

motion comet burning across a dull grey landscape of pockmarked durosteel armor. Kyle frowned at the sputtering image on his viewscreen. “We’re moving to slow, Eve.” Turning from the screen, he typed an override code into the keyboard by his elbow. “I’m upping the output. Let me know if we start to drift.” “We’re drifting,” a feminine voice said through the MERP’s speakers. Kyle looked up from the keyboard and swore. “This is why I hate working zero-g.” Taking his thumb off the welder trigger, he manipulated the flight-pad in the center of his palm, painstakingly correcting the MERP’s position. He glanced to the left, and the image on the viewscreen swung down the seven miles of pitted armor. “This sucks, Eve. I’m sick of putting this ship back together after every little meteor storm.” The Nile was a cylindrical titan crewed by over thirty thousand. The ship bristled with squat gun turrets, recessed magnesium cannons, and indented missile tubes. Four flight decks maintained ten full squadrons of Piranha, lightning quick, single-pilot, attack fighters fixed with nose-mounted magnesium machine-cannon. Unmatched in the human fleet, it swam the void alongside seven vessels a third of its size, a grey whale watching over a pod of dolphins. They were the Exodus fleet, the last hope of mankind. “This is going to take forever,” said Kyle. He shrugged the ache from his back, the synapse gel in his neuroharness transferring the slight motion out of the MERP’s egg-shaped chassis to its hydraulic shoulders. “Too much more time out here and I’ll go crazy.” “Do you require psychological evaluation?” asked Eve. “If the occupation doesn’t suit you, maybe you should have stayed on Earth.” “Maybe I should have,” Kyle snapped back. “At least there I wouldn’t have to listen to your griping.” A memory of Kyle’s father came to him. Sitting on a pier, fishing pole in hand, he watched a group of seals climbing up onto the rocky beach and asked, “Do you know how to tell the difference between a smart seal and stupid one, Kyle?” His father smiled, and pointed to a grey fin cutting through the waves offshore. 11

Kyle’s anger melted away beneath a weary sadness. “A smart seal knows when to get out of the water.” He took a cleansing breath. “Sorry, Eve. Talking about Earth makes me grumpy.” “I thought zero gravity made you grumpy.” “That too.” Kyle reactivated the welder and went back to cutting. “Any luck working in a flight control interface in this heap?” “Negligible,” Eve replied. “There’s not much room to work with.” “You still have the wiring spider,” said Kyle consolingly. “That’s something, at least.” The speakers squawked, Eve’s equivalent of a waspish snort. Killing the welder, Kyle used the MERP’s claws to pry the sheet of pitted durosteel from the Nile. When it was free, he snapped a yellow disk to it and set it down against the hull. “Quit moping, Eve, and activate the magnetic anchor.” “Very well.” The magnetic anchor lit up, and the durosteel plate snapped down tight against the hull. “That should hold it,” said Kyle. “Get me a link with the maintenance dock.” The speakers hissed for a moment as Eve opened the coms. “Maintenance dock, this is MERP 187,” said Kyle. “Do you read me?” “Copy, 187,” a bored voice answered. “I’ve finished cutting on section ten seven. I need a new plate.” “Copy that, 187. We’ll send MERP 120 to–” A squealing whine interrupted the dock midsentence. A second later, a new voice, urgent and authoritative, took the dock’s place. “This is Admiral Jerrell Sloan of the Nile. This is an Omega alert. All nonmilitary personnel return to your quarters immediately. Battle stations. I repeat, battle stations! All pilots to flight decks for immediate launch!” The voice cut out and a wailing alarm blared from the MERP’s speakers, interrupted every few moments by a mechanized recording repeating “Omega alert!” “Cut the volume, Eve,” Kyle shouted. The alarm died, leaving his eardrums tingling in the sudden silence. “What’s going on? Are we under attack?”

“Omega alert is a priority code,” Eve replied. “It activates all available defenses and initiates an immediate lockdown of all bulkheads and doors.” “What does that mean?” “You have approximately one minute to reach the maintenance dock before the outer doors are closed.” Cold fear slipped into Kyle’s stomach. The dock was on the opposite side of the ship. Even at full burn, he’d never make it. “That’s insane. Half the MERPs are on maintenance today. If they close the doors during an attack, we’re all dead. Check the coms, Eve. This has to be a mistake.” “Accessing command frequencies.” As Kyle waited for Eve to hack into the Nile’s coms, waves of Piranha began to launch from the flight decks above him. In under a minute, it looked as if every fighter on the ship was winging away on plumes of white afterburner. The Nile’s engines flared, and the ship lurched away from the MERP. Desperately, Kyle clamped a claw onto the lip of the opening he’d made in the hull. “Eve?” “Please hold.” The monitor streamed digits. “Eve!” “A Tide force has emerged from the asteroid belt behind the Exodus, seven Mantis class cruisers and four Scarab class carriers identified. The Scarabs have begun to launch an undetermined number of Tick fighter craft.” Kyle groaned, remembering the clouds of insectlike fighters that had decimated Earth’s cities. “Thousands, Eve. There will be thousands.” “If so, the Exodus is severely outnumbered,” said Eve. “Wait . . . A large object has just exited the asteroid field in the Tide’s wake. Scanners have identified it as the Hive.” Kyle’s heart dropped into his stomach. “No. We left before it reached Earth. It couldn’t have followed us this far.” The Hive, the Tide’s monstrous mothership. Easily ten times the mass of the Nile, the appearance of the giant, spherical vessel on Earth’s long-range scanners had been what prompted the Exodus in the first place. “I’m afraid it has,” said Eve. “Unfortunately, I possess limited data on the Hive’s attack capabilities. Judging by its colossal energy signature and numerous antenna arrays, I would speculate it more than matches the Exodus fleet in firepower, even without the escorting Mantises and Scarabs.” As she spoke, the Nile rotated on its axis, swinging its broadside cannons and missile tubes around to face the enemy. In the distance, the Piranha wings met a 12

heavy wave of Ticks. Tiny energy novas began to appear in the black as the fighters butchered one another. “Is Sloan insane?” Kyle was no general, but even he knew the Piranha would be safer sticking close to the fleets’ defensive guns. “Why are they attacking? We should be running!” “The Piranha’s orders are to hold the enemy long enough for the Nile, the Titan, the Resolute, and the Queen of England to assume battle formation. Admiral Sloan has ordered the Everest, the Last Hope, and the New Earth to retreat at all possible speed. The fleet was unprepared for this attack. It will take a few minutes to power up their reactors. In the interim, the stoutest ships will shield the others.” The Nile completed its turn, and a red moon filled the viewscreen. Kyle deactivated the welder shield. The metal covering slid down from the reinforced glass covering the MERP’s cockpit. His gaze swept over the antennaencrusted, Mantis warships and pill-shaped Scarabs, their menacing presences dwarfed by the monolithic sphere that followed behind them like a bloody moon. “How can we fight that?” “It may be immaterial,” said Eve. “The Piranha wings are struggling to contain the Ticks, but a large number have overrun their line.” A rumbling moan vibrated through the MERP as the Nile’s gun turrets cycled up and began tracking the incoming craft. “They’ll be within optimal firing range in five point three seconds.” A dozen spears of greenish lighting slammed into the Nile, evaporating jagged lines of durosteel and blasting a sensor array to scrap. “My apologies,” Eve amended, while Kyle frantically reactivated the welder shield, “three point one seconds.” A swarm of Ticks, their red carapaces illuminated by the green lightning erupting from the stinger cannons on their bellies, zipped toward the Nile. The Nile’s defensive turrets came to life, filling the void with a blistering hail of armor-piercing magnesium rounds among bright lines of tracer fire. Scores of Ticks burst apart, leaving scattered chunks of red carapace and greenish bioelectric clouds in their wake. But hundreds of the alien craft remained, and they unleashed a storm of lighting on the Nile. A green blaze filled the MERP’s viewscreen, and the pod shuddered. “Are we hit?” Kyle shouted, half expecting the cockpit to suddenly, and explosively, rupture, ejecting him into the freezing black. “Negative,” Eve replied calmly. “The vibration was

caused by an enemy impact seven meters from our position.” The viewscreen cleared a moment later, revealing the broken carcass of a Tick wedged in the Nile’s armor. Wisps of green bioelectric bled from the fractured vessel. A violent clatter sounded in the cockpit as flaming wreckage rained down on the MERP. Kyle huddled down, making himself as small a target as possible. A lightning blast scorched metal right below him, setting off a voltage alarm. “Integrity warning,” said Eve. “We’ve sustained heat damage to the pressure seal on the primary engine housing. Shell integrity ninety-seven percent.” “We’re gonna die out here!” said Kyle, flicking off the alarm. “What about the other MERPs working zerog today? One of them has to know a way inside.” “According to roster logs, forty-seven MERPs were on hull repair when the Omega alert began,” Eve reported. “Dock database accounted for six that returned after the alert. Of the forty-one unaccounted for, twenty-three have gone offline in the last minute.” “They’re killing us,” Kyle growled. “We need cover!” His gaze fell on the pitted plate he’d cut from the Nile and his eyes brightened. “Eve, deactivate the magnetic anchor.” “Deactivating.” The durosteel plate broke free of the hull. Before it could drift away, Kyle grabbed it and lifted it over the MERP. Crouching down against the hull, he locked his arm in place. “An impromptu shield,” said Eve with a rare note of approval. The monitor streamed a fast series of calculations. “Factoring in the thickness of the–-” Something popped, and the viewscreen went dark. “Eve, what was that? I can’t see.” “Opticals offline,” Eve snapped. She sounded almost angry. “The Everest took a direct hit to its reactor. The explosion overloaded the optical sensors. Reboot imminent.” The viewscreen flickered back on, showing a radioactive cloud of debris that was all that remained of the battle-scarred Everest. Kyle’s stomach churned. Four thousand lives, snuffed out in an instant. Their barrel-like antenna-cannons crackling with green energy, the Mantis warships surged through the Piranha and Ticks. Their antennae flared as one, firing a volley of building-sized lighting balls at the Exodus fleet. “Incoming, Eve announced. “Exodus fleet returning fire.” The Nile’s cannons bucked in their housings and a 13

storm of missiles burst from their tubes. Through the clouds of exhaust, Kyle could see the other Exodus ships adding their own artillery to the salvo. Rather than head for the Mantises, the missiles veered toward their crackling artillery. The defensive missiles met the globes of lightning in midflight, transforming them into small green suns well before they reached the Exodus fleet. Beyond the green suns, the fleet’s cannons peppered the Mantis warships, splintering red armor from their hulls. The lead warship broke apart, explosive rounds puncturing its thick carapace and filling its guts with bright magnesium flame. A second veered off course, either too damaged to continue or its steering lost. The five that remained, some with chemical flame licking from their hulls, accelerated. Behind them, well beyond the range of even the Nile’s cannons, the Scarabs and the Hive slowed to trade fire with the brutalized Piranha wings. The Mantises fired again, concentrating their deadly orbs on the Nile. Missiles blasted out to meet the attack, filling the void with white exhaust and green fire. Eyes glued to the viewscreen, Kyle held his breath and counted each flash. If even one of the lightning balls got through . . . “I can’t tell, Eve. Did we get them all that time?” “Negative,” said Eve. A wall of crackling lightning burst through the exhaust clouds. “Impact in one point–.” The strength left Kyle’s limbs in a rush. “I’m still in the water, dad,” he whispered. The fist of God hammered into the MERP, smashing it and the armored plate hard against the Nile. Kyle’s head slammed against the viewscreen and everything went dark.

yle pushed up out of the choppy waves. Sucking in a lungful of frigid air, he shivered. The sky was clear and sunny, the water freezing. He should have stayed on the beach, collecting pristine white shells from the shore while foaming waves lapped at his bare feet. His mother waved to him from shore, holding her wide hat on her head with her other hand. He waved back, and decided abruptly to head for shore. It wasn’t the cold. The ocean felt . . . wrong today, malicious, like a dark presence tugging at his flesh. A wave covered him. He pushed up out of it, surprised to find the sky had darkened and a stiff wind had risen in the brief moment he’d been under. His mother, hat missing and long dark hair whipping wildly, waved frantically from the shore.

She was shouting, but the sound was lost in the sound of crashing waves. After a moment, he realized she was pointing to the water behind him. “Do you know the difference between a smart seal and a stupid seal, Kyle?” “Dad?” Kyle turned at his father’s voice, but saw only an endless expanse of angry sea under a darkening sky. The water rippled beneath him, and he look down into the black depths. Something was moving beneath him. “Dad?” A shark the color of fresh blood exploded from the deep, closing its jaws on his face.

yle’s eyes snapped open and he reached for his face. The gloves of his neuroharness touched his cheeks, and he sighed loudly, ejecting a plume of white air from his lips. There was no shark. He in the MERP. And he was alive. Although, how long he remained so was still in question. The viewscreen was cracked, and from the throbbing knot on his forehead, he could guess what had caused the damage. Warnings blinked everywhere, and it was freezing. The temperature worried him more than the lights. The MERP was climate controlled, a function tied to the life-support system. If that had failed, he was in serious trouble. “Eve, are you still with me?” No answer. Kyle checked the MERP’s power readings, frowning at the digital panel. The power core was in emergency shutdown, and the auxiliary battery looked to have been active for several hours. The power failure could explain Eve’s lack of response. The speakers weren’t part of the auxiliary system. Tapping out the fourteen-digit release code, Kyle initiated the core’s startup sequence. Reactivating the core without knowing what caused it to shut down was risky, but the battery wouldn’t last much longer. A few seconds passed, and then the MERP’s systems began to come back on line. “Finally,” said Eve, her voice filled with exasperation. “I thought you would never wake up.” “Glad to see you’re okay,” Kyle said dryly. With a crackling hiss, sparks erupted from the viewscreen, filling the cockpit with the acrid stench of burning circuitry. “Eve,” he cried, covering his eyes, “Cut the feed to this thing before I go blind.” “Cutting power.” The screen stopped sparking. “Initiating emergency vent.” A vent above Kyle’s head sucked at the air, drawing the poisonous vapor from the cockpit. “Atmosphere restored,” said Eve. “Air toxicity reduced to acceptable levels.” 14

“Thanks.” Kyle coughed, tasting blood mixed with the stench of burnt silicon on his tongue. “I need a damage report, Eve. It’s freezing in here and I can barely breathe. How’s the life support system?” “Active but damaged,” she replied. “The primary heating coils are no longer operational. Emergency coil remains intact. Cockpit temperature will be restored in seven point three minutes.” “What about the air?” “The auxiliary system is programmed to release only enough reserve oxygen to keep you alive. With power restored, the recyclers have already begun to restore air quality.” “Not great, but I’ll take it,” said Kyle. Then he smiled, scarcely believing his luck. “I can’t believe we survived that explosion intact.” “Hardly intact.” The MERP diagnostic schematic appeared on the monitor. It wasn’t pretty. Most of the pod was covered in a dangerous shade of red. The legs were gone, severed completely, and the left arm was a stub of jagged metal and wires. The right arm seemed intact, but the elbow joint was a burned knob of fused steel. Kyle winced. “How bad?” “Structure damage to the entire shell,” Eve reported. “Legs destroyed at chassis level, and left arm severed at the first swivel joint. Propulsion engine housing sustained significant damage from shrapnel, resulting in loss of flight function. The power core was overheated, but remains forty-three percent functional. Opticals are offline, as well as–” “That’s enough,” Kyle interrupted. “Activate the distress beacon. I was hoping we could make it back to the dock on our own, but I suppose they’ll have to send someone to scrape us off the windshield.” “I can activate the beacon, but we are no longer attached to the Nile.” Kyle stiffened. “We’re drifting?” Cursing the charred viewscreen, he hastily deactivated the welder shield so he could look outside. The shield retracted jerkily, its warped gears grinding. “What happened after I passed out?” “I’ve been monitoring com traffic. The Exodus fleet retreated under fire twelve point two minutes after you lost consciousness. The Mantis warships and Scarabs were destroyed, along with an undermined number of Tick fighters.” “What kind of damage for the fleet?” Kyle asked, willing the welder shield to move faster. “The Resolute, the Titan, and the Queen of England were lost with all hands. The Piranha wings losses are close to the seventy percentile. The Nile sustained heavy damage but, according to the bits of com traffic

I’ve been picking up, remains intact. Currently, it’s fighting a running retreat with the Hive ship.” The welder shield snapped down with a metallic clatter. “Sweet Heaven,” breathed Kyle, a cold fist tightening on his heart. “Where are we?” A nightmarish landscape stretched out before him, a terrain of low hills of twisted grey under a domed sky of arterial red. Mountains of metal, broken ships and indefinable mechanics mixed with crimson alien armor. Mangled Piranha mingled with ravaged chunks of Tick fighters, bent frigate cannons, Mantis antenna, and other machinery. Crab-like creatures, red as the sky and twice the size of the MERP, foraged through the scrap with giant pincers, navigating through the wreckage on eight segmented legs. “We are on the Hive,” said Eve. “After the Nile broke contact, salvage craft launched from the Hive. They collected us along with several thousand tons of debris and delivered us into this peculiar chamber.” “Collected,” echoed Kyle weakly. “Collected for what?” “I believe the answer lies in the alien scavengers. Observe the creature seventeen degrees south of our position.” Kyle looked to where one of the crabs was clamping down on a Piranha fuselage. Tearing a section from the durosteel frame, the alien pushed it into its slimy mouth and began devouring the metal in great gulping bites. The monster finished the metal in short order, and moved on to the fighter’s armored cockpit. Kyle’s gorge rose. “Are these the aliens we’ve been fighting? How do they build ships with those giant pinchers?” “Doubtful. The creatures show little sign of intelligence, and have no obvious means of manufacturing capability,” said Eve. “Scans reveal their carapaces seem to have the same density as Tick armor. It is possible they are livestock of a sort, fed on scrap until their shells are ready for harvest. Whatever their appearance, our presence seems to have gone undetected by the Hive’s crew.” “Let’s keep it that way,” said Kyle. “We need to repair the MERP as best we can and then get out of here.” “I anticipated as much,” said Eve. A gleaming metal orb with several fibrous limbs tipped with various wiring implements clattered onto the cockpit window. “I’ve been making repairs to the MERP since our arrival on the Hive.” “The wiring spider,” said Kyle. The small automaton ran on its own solar cells. Eve must have 15

interfaced with the device as soon as the MERP lost power. “Great job, Eve. How much have you been able to fix?” “As you can see, spare parts are in abundance,” said Eve. “Regrettably, I was limited to the material the wiring spider could carry, which was largely Tide technology. Upon examination, I found the aliens’ engineering centered on a pseudoelectric nervous system, not unlike the MERP’s neurocontrols. Technical adaptation is one of my subprograms, so the nerve splicing and reconfiguration of your harness was relatively simple.” “You used alien parts?” Kyle groaned. “Are your circuits fried, Eve?” “It was that or leave the MERP a useless wreck,” Eve countered sharply. “My modifications will restore mobility as well as offer some semblance of defense.” The MERP schematic flickered. Damaged areas lost their red tinge and new, unusual limbs began growing from the pod’s shell. A Piranha machine-cannon took the place of the welder on the right arm, while the stub of the left grew a thin shaft of durosteel affixed with a circular energy saw. More alarming than the weaponry were the six spider-like legs sprouting from the MERP’s lower frame. “Are you trying to be funny, Eve?” “Not that I’m aware.” “Will my neuroharness even work with six legs?” asked Kyle. “The pod’s supposed to mimic my movements. If you noticed, I’m a few legs short.” “The nerve interface design is unconventional, but extremely adaptive,” said Eve. “Once activated, it will reconfigure the nerve receptors in your legs to recognize and accommodate the extra limbs.” “I don’t know, Eve. Sounds kinda iffy to me.” A red crab monster came around the side of the junk slope twenty feet away. Reaching down, it tore away a section of a Tick fighter and began to eat. The crab didn’t have eyes, only a pair of thin antenna jutting from its head several inches above its mouth. “Eve,” Kyle whispered. “Get the wiring spider back into its compartment.” The wiring spider scuttled from the glass. “Spider secured,” said Eve. The crab crammed more Tick armor into its mouth, appearing completely absorbed in its feeding and paying no attention to Kyle. “Okay,” Kyle said, settling into his harness. “Let’s get out of here.” Punching the neuroharness activator, he tried to stand the MERP on its new legs. Nothing happened. “I think you missed a circuit or two, Eve. I can’t move.” “That’s because I haven’t activated the new nerve

interface yet.” “Why not?” The crab’s antenna came up and it stopped chewing. Dropping the Tick scrap, it began moving toward the MERP. “Although theoretically compatible, no one has attempted to merge Tide nuerotech with a human nervous system,” Eve said. “Your body may reject the connection. If it does, your involuntary synapses could shut down, heart and lung function included.” Ten yards from the MERP, the crab suddenly changed direction, scuttling down behind the pod and disappearing from view. “You tell me this now!” The pod rocked, and the crab reared up above the MERP. Kyle froze. The crab tilted its bulbous head, clacking its antenna against the cockpit window. A drop of green saliva dripped from its mouth, sizzling a groove from the reinforced glass where it landed. The antenna lifted, and the creature opened its jaws wide. “Eve, activate the interface!” “Activating.” A thousand fiery needles shot into Kyle’s spine, spreading out across his body in a blistering wave. The wave hit his lower extremities, and he screamed, feeling his nerve centers tearing and splitting to accommodate the arachnid legs. The pain was unimaginable, unbearable. And then suddenly, it was over. “Interface accepted,” said Eve. The crab’s acidic mouth caressed the cockpit. With a howl of pain and disgust, Kyle smashed a metal claw into the bulbous head, catapulting the crab fifteen yards away. The monster landed on its back amidst a heap of broken red armor. Rising awkwardly onto his six legs, Kyle faced off against the crab. “Dinner is canceled, you overcooked lobster. Get lost.” Scrambling upright, the crab released a highpitched squeal that could have been either pain or anger. “Eve,” growled Kyle, still stinging from the unnatural fusion, “where’s my weapon control?” “The machine-cannon is wired to your right thumb depressor,” Eve replied. “The energy saw is connected to the left.” Snapping its pinchers menacingly, the crab lunged. Kyle’s thumb pressed down hard, activating the machine-cannon with a throaty roar. The crab exploded, hundreds of armor-piercing rounds puncturing its shell and tearing it to flaming, crimson 16

shards. A moment later, the cannon fell silent. Wisps of smoke curled from its white-hot barrels. “Well,” Kyle said weakly, slightly nauseous from the carnage, “that was easier than I thought.” “I wouldn’t be so sure.” A screeching cry came from somewhere nearby, then another, and another. From every corner of the vast junk chamber, shrieking crabs scuttled toward Kyle. Mouths agape, they gnashed their pinchers angrily as they came. Kyle backed up the junk slope, heart pounding so fast he barely noticed the bizarre sensation of moving on six legs. “Which way is out, Eve?” “The entry to this chamber is point seven kilometers north of this location,” said Eve. “The debris hills are obstructing your view.” Spinning around, Kyle sprinted toward the hidden exit and away from the approaching crabs. “Do you have an actual plan,” Eve asked, “or are we just running for it?” Kyle leapt over a briar of jagged piping and wiring, his new legs carrying him farther and higher than his old hydraulics could have managed on their best day. “The plan is to get off this ship.” He landed with a grunt, his neuroharness translating the impact as a tingling pressure on his knees. “After we’re out, I’ll activate the emergency beacon and wait for the fleet to pick us up.” “Your plan assumes a fleet victory,” Eve said. “Considering the data, such an outcome is doubtful at this point.” “If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.” Kyle slid down an oily embankment of alien machinery and scrambled up the next slope. I’m a seal, he added silently, and this ship is the biggest shark in the universe. “No one has ever infiltrated the Hive, Kyle,” said Eve. “And I discovered something remarkable while repairing the MERP.” The monitor flashed, showing the crumpled tail of a space frigate. The armor was so ravaged the superstructure was visible only in places. The picture shifted up the side of the frigate to where a waist-thick pipe jutted out from the wall like a large red horseshoe. “If the hive is designed with the same bioelectric grid as the other technology I’ve analyzed, this pipe is a section of the main power conduit.” “That’s amazing, Eve.” A forest of steel girders blocked Kyle’s path. Activating the energy saw, he sliced his way through the metal foliage like a hunter on safari. “But how does that help me not to become

crab food?” “Think of the conduit as the Hive’s jugular vein,” said Eve. “If we could rupture it, the power feedback could, theoretically, cause system-wide failure.” She paused, almost as if taking a steadying breath. “The Hive is more than a flagship, Kyle. It is the Red Tide’s repair and manufacturing station. Destroying it could win this war.” Kyle slid to a stop next to an opened lifepod, thankful its cushioned interior was mercifully vacant of personnel. The end of the war . . . It seemed almost impossible to think such a thing could occur, let alone that he should have a large part in bringing it to pass. “Are you sure about this, Eve?” “Based on the—” “Eve!” “Hive destruction probability, forty-eight percent.”

yle scanned the trash all around him. The scrap heaps behind him writhed with crabs, and several others were gradually closing in from the right and left, but he had their measure now. The aliens were big, but slow. And they couldn’t match the speed of his new legs. If he kept his eyes open, he could sabotage Eve’s pipe and still have time to get to the exit. In the vault of Kyle’s mind, his dad grinned at him from the pier. Do you know the difference between a smart seal and a dumb one, Kyle? Kyle’s jaw tightened. He’d always been a smart seal, but . . . To save the human race, maybe he could risk staying in the water just a little longer. “Where’s the pipe from here, Eve? How far ahead?” The speakers clicked. “One-hundred-ten meters. Seventy degrees left.” Kyle turned, seeking out the conduit along the wall. His mouth dropped open. The broken aft of the frigate was a good landmark, making it easy to spot the power conduit among the scores of crabs scurrying over the frigate’s hull. “Are you serious?” “I believe the heat of the frigate’s reactor is attracting the scavengers,” said Eve. “Once you’ve reached the conduit, use the energy saw to create a small opening in the pipe. Maintaining a bioenegry grid is a delicate balance of pressure and energy. Given time, even a tiny breach in the main feed will result in total system failure.” “Have you gone completely insane? Those things will tear me to pieces before I get within a hundred yards of that pipe!” “Incorrect,” said Eve. “Given your armor and defensive capabilities, scenario estimates place you at 17

fifty-four yards, give or take a centimeter. Probability of successfully reaching objective is six point two percent.” Kyle began climbing around the lifepod, putting his back to the power conduit. “I’ll admit the chance of success is small,” said Eve, “but the likelihood of the Exodus fleet destroying the hive is infinitesimal.” “I’m just a glorified janitor, Eve,” said Kyle wearily. “A smart seal knows when to get out of the water. And that’s what I’m doing. I’m no hero. I just want to live.” A crab exploded out of the trash in front of him and snapped a pincher around his gun arm. Kyle shouted and pulled back. But the crab was incredibly strong. A red light flashed on the monitor, warning of overheating hydraulics. The crab tightened its hold, pulling the MERP toward its acidic jaws. “Overpressure warning,” Eve chimed, “servo failure imminent.” “Let go, you ugly bastard,” Kyle snarled, triggering the machine-cannon. The gun coughed, tearing away the crab’s jaw and blasting the pincher from the MERP’s arm. Kyle kicked the corpse aside with his front legs, and ran on until he gained the summit of another scrap heap. There, he paused. Just ahead, the junk chamber ended in a filmy, membranous wall. He reached out with the energy saw, caressing the gooey barrier with the inactive blade. “What is this thing, Eve?” “We passed through it on the way in,” said Eve. “It’s some sort of organic airlock. The hive contains both atmosphere and gravity. This membrane acts as a barrier protecting both.” A chunk of metal, knocked loose by Kyle’s ascent, fell through the membrane without slowing and spun away into the dark void beyond. He glanced back. The crabs were still following him, but the nearest was still a hundred yards away. “We made it,” said Kyle. A wide smile spread across his face. “Eve, check the MERP hull for leaks. I don’t want to explode the minute I step through this goop.” “Hull integrity acceptable,” said Eve. In a softer voice, she added, “I wish you would reconsider this course, Kyle. We may be the fleets’ only chance.” A seal knows when to get out of the water. “I’m only one man, Eve. I can’t . . .” Kyle trailed off, staring down at the small space cleared by the chunk of metal he’d knocked loose. The ground under his right foreleg was opaque, like foggy glass, like . . . a window. He bent down for a closer look. A young girl, her eyes closed above her chubby cheeks, lay beneath the glass. A crisscrossing harness

held her in a bucket seat, and her small hands clutched a fluffy toy tightly to her chest. With exaggerated care, Kyle pushed aside more of the trash from the glass, revealing a long line of seats filled with children held within a bullet-shaped vessel of dented durosteel. It was an ark, a heavily armored lifepod designed to hold up to sixty personnel. Moving to the nose of the craft, he quickly excavated the external control panel. The monitoring lights were dark – no life signs. Kyle sighed heavily, looking over at the small girl with the toy. “One of the frigates must have ejected them before it was destroyed. Poor little things.” The girl moved her head to the side, hugging her toy tighter. Kyle staggered back as if struck. “Eve, get out here!” The wiring spider sprang from its compartment. Scrambling to the ark’s control panel, it slithered a hair-thin probe into a recessed dataport. “Accessing life support systems . . . Fifty-two minors on board, all stable.” “What are they doing here?” asked Kyle. “The ark should have brought them to the nearest ship. Is the engine offline?” The monitor flickered rapidly as Eve transmitted diagnostic data from the spider to the MERP’s computer. “Engines are fully operational, but the flight computer was damaged during the ejection sequence, leaving the ark adrift until the Tide picked it up.” “Can you fix the flight computer?” “Negative,” said Eve. “But I can use the wiring spider to run a bypass, allowing me to take control of the engines myself.” “How long?” “One minute to access the engines, another four to download flight protocols from the MERP’s computer to the spider.” Kyle glanced back the way he’d come. Scores of crabs were climbing the slope below him. They would reach him in seconds, not minutes. But if he left, the children would die. He looked away from the red monsters to the welcoming darkness of space behind him. He was just a mechanic. These kids weren’t his responsibility. He took a step toward the membrane wall. At that moment, the little girl frowned, her face scrunching as if she were having a bad dream. A smart seal knows when to get out of the water. Kyle’s jaw tightened with determination. “Not this time,” he said. “Get started, Eve.” “Initiating bypass.” The spider’s tendrils eased into the control panel, forcing dozens of hair-thin fibers into the damaged circuitry. “Be advised, hostiles will 18

reach our position in forty seconds.” “Just keep working,” said Kyle, in a voice like hardened durosteel “As soon as you get control, fire the engines. Get these kids out of here.” “Even if I successfully launch the ark, the Hive will certainly detect its exit,” Eve said. “I possess standard evasive protocols, but the probability of maneuvering the ark out of weapon range without severe damage is minimal.” “I know,” said Kyle. Raising his mechanical arms, he brought the energy saw to humming life. Looking across the vast chamber, he fixed the position of the power conduit in his memory. “So I’m going to give these buggers something else to worry about.” The speakers went silent for a moment, as if the chatty AI was at an unusual loss for words. “Remember, make only a small cut in the conduit, Kyle,” Eve said at last. “Anything larger will result in a catastrophic expenditure of bioenegry.” “Launch just as soon as you can, and then hail the Nile for an escort,” said Kyle. “If this works, the Tide should be too busy to notice you. And if it doesn’t, better these kids get a quick death in space than eaten alive here.” “Understood,” said Eve. “My programming doesn’t allow me to copy my consciousness, Kyle. I can keep broadcasting to the MERP as long as it’s in range, but I’ll need to stay with the ark if I’m to act as pilot. Once it launches, we’ll lose contact.” “I know.” Kyle looked down on the crabs clawing their way up the slope behind him, a surging ocean of red carapace and screeching hunger. Terror clenched his stomach in a tight knot. Gritting his teeth, he took a long, steadying breath. He could do this. He had to do this. Answering the aliens’ shrieks with a savage scream made up of equal parts hate and terror, he triggered the machine-cannon and charged. In an instant, all was fire and chaos. The machinecannon’s roar and the whining of the energy saw, mixed with crab shrieks in a mad chorus of alien blood and death. Pinchers snatched at him. Acidic jaws closed on his limbs and body. Swinging his arms, he drove them back with fire and blade, shattering carapaces with flaming rounds and spinning steel. Heavy bodies pushed at him, threatening his balance at every step. But to fall was to die, and he pushed on, killing and chopping as his arachnid legs churned up scrap made slippery by alien gore. Through the swell of pinching claws and snapping jaws, he could just see the power conduit ahead, and he fought closer to it with every bloody

step. A swinging claw cracked the reinforced glass covering the cockpit. With a tight snarl, Kyle sliced the appendage from its owner before brutally ending its life with the white-hot magnesium rounds. He clambered over the dead beast, butchering the crabs between him and the conduit with his blazing machine-cannon. A pincher closed like a trap on one of his rear legs, scissoring it from the MERP and sending a hot jolt of pure agony through the psuedonerves and into Kyle’s spine. Kyle hissed, wobbling unsteadily for a moment. The crabs closed in quickly. Swinging around in a tight circle, he unleashed a thundering staccato of death from his machine-cannon as he regained his footing. Dozens fell, but then the machine-cannon fell silent, its ammunition spent. Scuttling over burning chunks of their kin, the crabs rushed Kyle, threatening to bury him under their weight. Cutting crabs with the energy saw or pummeling them with the empty machine-cannon, Kyle pushed toward the conduit, struggling to stay on his feet. “I’m ready to launch,” said Eve through the speakers. “Do you want me to–” “Get out of here!” Kyle shouted. The chamber rocked, and the ark shot from the Hive on a fountain of yellow fire. Kyle smiled briefly, but then another leg tore free of the MERP in a yellow spray of spilt hydraulic fluid. He sliced at the crab who’d taken it. A pincher clamped on his arm, snipping through durosteel and taking off the energy saw. He cried out in horror. The conduit was only a few feet away. But without the saw, he had no way to cut it. Bereft of weapons, Kyle began to sink under the mass of crabs. Red warning lights blinked madly in the cockpit, and the spider web of cracks continued to spread across the window as shrieking aliens crushed the MERP down. Kyle cursed his stupidity as he fought to stay afloat. The ark would never get clear now. He should have known he couldn’t save the little girl. He couldn’t even save himself. “The smart seal knows it can’t beat a shark,” he said bitterly. “I’m sorry, Dad.” “Listen to me, Kyle,” said Eve, her voice filling with static as the arc grew distant. “Why must you always choose to play the seal in your father’s nautical analogies? Have you ever considered that your father didn’t see you as a victim, one whose only option is to 19

run or die? Maybe you’re not the seal at all. Maybe you’re . . .” The com went dead, but Kyle didn’t need it. He already knew what Eve had been trying to say. Not the seal? Buried under a horde of alien flesh, the very idea was absurd, insane, and yet . . . The miasma of fear and defeat evaporated from Kyle like mist in the sun. Once again, he saw his father on the pier, pointing out at the grey fin cutting the waves, a terror from the deep, a grim shadow of violent death and blood. He heard the ocean beating at the shore, and peace settled on him. He wasn’t the seal. He was the shark. “Thank you, Eve.” Hissing filled the cockpit as precious oxygen exited the damaged MERP. Poisonous atmosphere leaked in, burning Kyle’s throat and eyes and sending clawing fire into his lungs and heart. He coughed blood. It didn’t matter. With a mighty heave, Kyle burst up through the crabs like an avenging spirit. The conduit was right in front of him. With the last of his strength, he swept down his mechanical arm and tore a foot-wide opening in the pipe. Pure bioenegry exploded from the conduit, washing over Kyle in an electric wave and incinerating the crabs around him. His face lit by warning lights and the swelling river of energy spilling from the pipe, Kyle smiled a predatory smile. “I’m the shark.”

everal hundred kilometers away, Admiral Jerrell Sloan collapsed into his command chair, staring with wide disbelieving eyes at the growing fireball on the viewscreen. “Admiral Sloan?” The voice was female, and came to him from the speaker placed in the armrest of his command chair. “Admiral, are you there?” “I’m here . . . uh . . . Eve,” answered Jerrell, struggling for a moment to remember the name of the AI that had hacked into his private com channel a few minutes ago. He’d been furious about that initially, dismissing her story of a mechanic hero and an ark of survivors as the lunatic ranting of one the crew. Lord knows he’d had enough lose their marbles lately. But it was hard to deny the evidence before his very eyes. “I’m running low on fuel, Admiral,” the AI said sharply. “Will you be sending an escort of Piranha or not?” Jerrell stiffened, but turned his ire on a nearby crewmen rather than the AI of the Nile’s savior. “Lieutenant!”

The man snapped to attention. “Sir!” “There’s an ark out on our back trail full of children. Send out a retrieval squad.” The man shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Sir, there’s a lot of debris from the Hive. Maybe we should wait until–” “A man died for those children, lieutenant, and saved our bacon in the bargain,” said Jerrell coldly. “I want those kids inside this ship in the next half-hour or I’ll send you out in a dingy to get them. Now move!” “Yes sir!” “Thank you, Admiral,” said Eve. “I apologize if I seemed rude earlier.” Jerrell waved away the apology. “I still can’t believe

it. The Tide killed our world. A friggin mechanic in a broken MERP . . .” Shaking his head in disbelief, he sighed. “He saved the human race, Eve. What kind of man was he? How would he want to be remembered?” “All his life, he was a victim, a frightened seal afraid of the water,” said the AI wistfully. “But in the end, when it mattered most, he became the shark.” ___________________________________________ This is Timothy Miller's second appearance in Encounters Magazine. His work has also been published in Afterburn SF, Antipodean SF, Lorelei Signal, Jupiter SF, Crossed Genres, and Outer Reaches.

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On our Web site you will find everything we have published available in print and PDF format, and you can also read samples from each magazine and book.

The Black Grave by Scott Hill

Every detective should accept a little supernatural help once in a while. ___________________________________________________________

At midnight, the storm over the city broke free

and the full moon illuminated the body. The overgrown Lower Lakeside Cemetery was the final resting place of the city’s founding fathers. The crowded grave stones were the oldest in the city. I got a call just before midnight from Frank Smith, a detective in the Homicide division of Icon City’s finest. I help him out and he sends work my way. It seems I have a knack for extraordinary cases. The kind that don’t explain easily and the police wish didn’t exist. Jack Howard, Private Detective. That’s me. I shouldered my way through the crowd that gathered with morbid curiosity and pushed open the gates. “Wait just a minute you,” said a heavyset patrolman, shoving his nightstick at my chest. I took a drag from my cigarette and exhaled in the man’s face. “Hello, Mitchell,” I said with a smirk. Don't care too much for him, but he is a good cop, as over-zealous cops can be. “Why is it when there’s trouble, you're always there?” the big man leaned forward to get in my face. “Just lucky I guess,” I took a drag of my cigarette then flicked it to the ground. “Crackin' wise aye. Why I ought to run you in right now.” He gave me a shove; well he tried, and sneered as he walked back to the gate. Frank Smith, in his usual rumpled brown suit, stood near the body in a clearing of twisted trees. “Hey Jack,” he motioned. “Hello Frank. So what's the story?” I said, putting my hands in the pockets of my overcoat. “Well, Jane Doe approximately twenty years old. Looks like she was strangled. Been dead about two hours. No witnesses,” he paused and pointed. “Old fella over there found the body. He called it in.” I turned and looked at the old man. “Did you talk to him?” “Nah, Mitchell. He was first on the scene. Questioned him. Didn't have much to tell really.” The body was left alone on a slab of cold gray stone. Her throat was bruised. Her blouse was torn, no shoes, and holes in her nylons like she had been running. “Alright, mind if I get a closer look at her?” I knelt down and pulled back the auburn hair from the girl’s face. I stared at her and felt the heat leave my 21

face, jaw clenched. “What's the matter, Jack?” Frank grabbed me by the shoulder, “You know this girl?” “Yeah, you could say that,” I said, rubbing the stubble on my chin. Of course I knew her. A few weeks ago, she was a client. I had gotten her out of a tight spot. It couldn’t have been her ex-boyfriend, I sent him packing. “Who is she?” Frank questioned. “Jessica. Jessica Peele,” I said, “was a client.” Frank leaned in close, “Take a look at her neck. I thought you might find it interesting.” Frank pulled back her hair. “This burn here. What do you make of that?” “Interesting.” I knelt to get a closer look. A pentacle with arcane symbols around it. Something about this was nagging at me. “So what do you think?” “I’ll have to research it to be sure. I’ll be in touch.” Leaving the cemetery and heading back down the street, I lit a cigarette and remembered the girl, or at least how she used to be. One night I found myself at the Scarlet Room; a less than reputable speakeasy. When Jessica took the stage and began to sing, all eyes were on her. I bought her a drink and we talked; really that was it. We hit it off great and decided to meet again. She told me of her ex-boyfriend, he had been stalking her. She hired me to help get clear of him, and I did. Not like my usual cases, but it was a job. I tried to convince her to kick him to the curb. No one needs that kind of trouble. Why didn’t she leave? How did she wind up dead in a cemetery? Icon City is a stark reality, it’s citizens, skyscrapers, and politicians, corrupt; even in the architecture. A metal and concrete maze of predators, where rats get better every day at finding the cheese. The contrast between the rich and the poor doesn’t matter, everyone is a victim; no one is innocent. The average man doesn’t stand a chance. In Icon City you are or you aren’t, there is no middle ground. The street lights turned to orange globes as a fog enveloped the city. In the darkness there are all manner of malevolent beings; most people choose not to believe. For me, I seem to attract them. I remembered back to when I started seeing the supernatural. I was a kid hiding under the blankets with a flashlight. During a storm, something went

bump in the night. I took a peek at the closet door as it creaked open, then a black clawed horror lunged out and took Chester. I really loved that dog. Since then I’ve seen glimpses from the other side. Up ahead loomed a dark section of street with no signs of anyone around. The cobblestone streets were slick from the settling dew. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a shadow moving on the wall and down an alley, it was vaguely man sized. I turned and followed it a few steps. As I got to the end of the alley a crisp breeze blew from all around. I shivered. “Max?” I whispered. In the dim light from a window above the alley, the shadow moved into view. “Evening Jack, good to see you.” It was Maxmillian Frost. An unfortunate soulshadow bound to roam between the realms of dark and light. “What can you tell me about the girl who was killed? Jessica Peele,” I said. “Ah, a real looker she was.” “Hey.” “Sorry, sorry. I haven’t picked up on much yet, but there is some bad business moving about the cemetery that is getting edgy.” “Edgy? What do you mean edgy?” “More than the usual bit of moaning and groaning those types do.” Max shifted against the wall. “Let me help you Jack.” “Help me? How do you mean?” “I can become your shadow; give you more power than you have ever seen. You would be able to bend shadow. Bend it to your will.” “No, I work alone. No one in the mortal world should have that kind of power.” I took a drag of cigarette then flicked it to the ground. “Well, keep an eye on things for me if you could,” I nodded. “Right, Jack,” said Max as he stretched out an arm in the long shadows of the night, and pulled himself onto a nearby roof. Nice fella, for someone who had been ripped from his body. I left the alley and picked up the pace a bit. Over by the all-night diner, I turned at the next corner. A garbage can fell over; an alley cat screeched and ran. There were footsteps coming up behind me. I tensed, but tried not to break stride. Looking back over my shoulder, the owner of the footsteps was a short thick man I recognized; Murdock, which meant Royce, was close by. Two hired goons that would kill their mother for a dime. What do these clowns want this time? A few quick steps and I ducked into the next alley, pressing up against the wall in the shadows. The 22

footsteps slowed, and I waited for Murdock’s head to appear. In the alley, someone was moving towards me, but I couldn’t make them out. I heard knuckles cracking, and a breathy laugh. Trap. “Easy fellas,” I said, “I don't want any trouble.” Royce stepped out of the shadows grinning. He was a large man with more muscle than brains. He wore brown trousers and jacket over his prison issue black and white striped shirt. “Well, trouble is what you got mister,” Royce said as he threw a punch and I caught it on the chin. I felt the sting, and could taste the blood as I moved away from the wall. The short man, Murdock, wearing dark trousers and a gray shirt with suspenders, stepped around the corner, tapping a club into his open palm. I had to move quickly, two against one doesn’t end up well. I threw a quick jab into Royce’s jaw, and swung an uppercut that landed solidly in the gut. The big man laughed and took a wild swing. Oh boy. I managed to duck out of that one, just barely. Murdock lunged forward, swinging his club and catching me in the ribs. Wincing through the pain, I spun to face him. I threw up an arm to fend off the next swing and got a hold of the club, twisting it free from Murdock’s grip. Suddenly from behind, Royce had me in a bear hug with his over-muscled arms. Lifted me off my feet, and began to squeeze. Gasping for air, I could barely move my arms, but kept a hold on the club. “Hold him,” Murdock shouted, punching me in the stomach like a jackhammer. I had to think of a way out, and there it was. I brought my foot up solidly under Murdock’s chin. It sent him sprawling backwards to the ground. Royce’s grip loosened and I slipped free. When the big man swung at me again I dropped low and made a sweeping arc with the club. It connected with Royce’s shin and the return strike snapped his jaw as he bent over. Royce fell away bellowing in pain. I tossed the club into a nearby garbage can and picked up my hat. Moans came from where Murdock was lying. I pulled him up by the collar, and drew my Colt. His head rolled to one side and I gave him a shake. “Who sent you?” The man winced, “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.” “Who sent you?” I shouted, sticking the .45 in his mug. “I ain’t no rat.”

I braced and cracked him across the jaw. His head bounced off the concrete, knocking him out cold. Damn. I left the alley and headed for my office only a couple blocks away. I glanced up and down the street, no sign of anyone following me. I entered the foyer and locked the door behind me. My legs protested as I climbed the steps to the third floor. My office was in the front overlooking the street. The other tenants were a law office and a CPA, but their hours were quite different. Inside the office are two desks, a kitchen, and an old comfortable couch. A well-worn rug covers the hard wood floor. There are three windows, the one in the middle has in black letters “Jack Howard, Private Detective”. It was dark in the office except for an amber desk lamp. I flung my overcoat toward the coat rack; it didn't make it. Then I pulled a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey from the bottom drawer and took a swig. The familiar aches and bruises of a brawl would wake me up in the morning. I stared out the window. Icon City sprawled out before me, unaware of what lurked in the darkness below gargoyle encrusted skyscrapers. In the city, people got lost in the temple of forgotten dreams and visions, and a killer was out there somewhere.

“H

ey,” I groaned as sunlight hit me across the face. Dolores Rea, she’s been my secretary for a couple years now and more than once was responsible for keeping things sane. Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders in a graceful curve. She wore a simple long skirt and low cut blouse with a jacket. She went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. “You look like hell Jack,” she said. “Rough night?” I groggily sat up on the couch where I sleep most nights, scratched my head and stretched. My ribs cried out in protest. The events of the previous evening came flooding back. “Coffee's on,” Dolores said. “Jack, you know what you need?” “What's that?” “Settle down with a good woman, that's what.” “Is that right?” “Yeah,” Dolores said from the kitchen. “Dolores, you know you’re the only woman for me,” I said with a smile, as I lit a cigarette. She laughed, “Oh please, don't kid yourself fella.” She came back from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. She was right, I needed someone, but in my line of work I couldn’t get too close to anyone. I 23

couldn’t live with myself if someone I loved got hurt because of me. Love, something I couldn’t afford. I plopped down in the comfy chair behind the desk, put my feet up and looked out over the city and drank coffee. There was a knock on the door; the silhouette from the window was obviously a woman. I sat up, straightened my shirt and brushed back my hair. A blonde woman entered the office before Dolores could meet her at the door. She wore a black dress that formed her waist, tight, and a small hat with a red rose over blonde curls. “Mr. Howard, my name is Rachael Harcourt. I have a job for you.” She smiled and sat in a chair beside the desk. “Would you like some coffee, Ms. Harcourt?” Dolores asked. “No, thank you.” I went back to my chair behind the desk and crushed out the cigarette. “So what is it you want me to do?” “Mr. Howard, I need you to find something very important,” she paused clutching her purse. “Please,” I said with a smile, “call me Jack.” “I can pay you,” she insisted. “Let’s worry about that later,” I replied. “Well, Mr. Howard. Jack. Two days ago a book was stolen from my father’s library.” “Did you or your father call the police when it was discovered missing?” “No, my father is a proud man; a bit of a recluse really. He didn’t want the police involved.” “Ah, I see. So that’s when you came to me?” I paused. “What’s the name of this book?” “It is titled ‘The Herbology of Alchemy’ by C. Hollingsworth.” “What’s so special about it? Is it rare?” “Well no, I didn’t think anything of it really, but it has sentimental value to my father. When he heard it was missing he was very upset.” Rachael Harcourt fidgeted with her purse. “You see, my father is very ill. The doctors say he doesn’t have long to live. It was his wish that I find his book.” “So it wouldn’t please the old man to just go to a bookseller and buy another?” “Oh, no, Jack that would not do.” “I see,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “Can you give me a description of the book?” “It’s bound in soft black leather trimmed in brass.” “What is your father’s address? I would like to see where it was kept, if that can be arranged.” “Of course, come around this afternoon. I’ll be there.” She wrote the address on a note pad, and

stood up. I stood up and walked her to the door, “I’m fifty up front and twenty-five a day for expenses.” “That shouldn’t be a problem, Mr. Howard.” She withdrew money from her purse and handed it over. “Until this afternoon then.” “Alright, goodbye Ms. Harcourt.” With a sigh, I watched her walk down the hall, the sound of her heels fading. I shut the door and put the money in my pocket. Now I can pay the rent this month. “Dolores, see what you can find out about Mr. Harcourt.” “Okay Jack.” “Thanks doll.” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek. A few minutes later I was getting ready to hit the streets. I finished the coffee and crushed out a cigarette. I put on my vest and checked the time on my pocket watch that hung from a slender chain at my belt. I checked the pistol magazine, then fit it snug into the shoulder holster and tucked a switchblade into my vest pocket; comes in real handy in a pinch. If Frank has found any leads to Jessica’s killer this could be a productive day. A trip uptown to his office would likely cause more trouble, but I had to find out. Odd thing, Frank’s Lieutenant doesn’t like me much, says I have a knack for finding trouble. I don’t know about that, but it sure as hell finds me.

arly morning traffic had died a couple blocks away from Icon City Hall. My black Ford is a relic really, old and sturdy with white wall tires; it gets me from place to place. I got out and lit a cigarette and made my way up the street toward the plaza. Outside Icon City Hall, a giant bronze arm holding a torch forms the center of an icon to justice. It is surrounded on each side by circular steps that lead up to great columns that form a ring. A pair of stone gargoyles framed the large revolving glass doors. People walked through the plaza, some with a purpose, some tourists, and others waiting for their day in court. I pushed through the doors and into the lobby. The front desk sergeant recognized me and gave a nod as I passed. Beyond were six elevators trimmed with brass that formed a semi-circle at the end of the lobby. I hit the “up” button and waited. After a minute one of the doors slid open. The old elevator doorman in a pale blue uniform stuck his head out. “Oh, Jack Howard. How are ya lad? It’s been a long time.” “Good Charlie, how are you?” “Oh, you know, up and down.” The elevator man 24

burst out laughing, slapping his thigh. “I tell ya, that joke never gets old.” I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “Twentieth floor, Charlie,” and stepped into the elevator. “You going to see Frank Smith?” he asked. “Yeah.” “I remember you and him worked that case, it was in all the papers. That fella that killed all those people; claimed he was possessed or seeing ghosts or something. What was his name?” Charlie said, scratching his forehead. “Ah, Henry. Henry Winslow.” “Yeah that’s him. Sick bastard. Looney tunes I tell ya.” Two years ago Henry Winslow tortured and murdered twelve people, one at a time. He left them in abandoned buildings and in the catacombs beneath the city. All the victims had arcane markings cut or burned into their skin. The elevator slowed to a bump and the doors slid open. “We’ll see ya, Jack.” I gave a wave over my shoulder and headed down the long hallway to the squad room. Frank’s office was in the back. I hoped to slip in quickly, avoiding anyone I might have pissed off recently. Frank sat behind his desk, finishing up the details of a report. He dropped his pen on the desk, rubbed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. “You look like hell, Jack,” he said as he got up to pour himself some coffee. “It was a rough night, but I’ll live,” I said, leaning against a filing cabinet near the coffee pot. “Any leads from last night?” “No.” Frank sipped his coffee. “Frank, last night there was something familiar. About the killing I mean. I didn’t want to say, but I figure you saw it too.” “What’s that?” “The bruises on her neck, leaving the body in a cemetery, the markings on her neck, it all adds up. I think Henry Winslow killed Jessica.” “Not a chance. He’s locked up,” Frank said, shaking his head. “I could feel it. Sense it,” I said. “All the same, I’m going to Rengford Asylum.” That nagging feeling was getting stronger.

quick bite to eat and a change of clothes and I was headed to Rengford Asylum. I hit the Main Line and headed to the north end of town to Lake Drive on the shore of Hammet Lake. This area of the city caters to the more well-to-do members of society.

I pulled around the circle drive in front and parked. I got out of the car and pulled on my overcoat. I pushed through the swinging doors to a long hallway with a reception window off to the right. The plump clerk behind the window noticed me and busied herself putting away files, then came to the window. “May I help you sir?” “Yes, Jack Howard to see the director. Police business.” “Is he expecting you?” “No, but he will want to see me.” “Just a moment, won’t you have a seat?” she said, picking up the phone and sliding the window closed. It wasn’t too long before the director of the asylum came walking down the hall. He was a short plump man in a gray suit and glasses that didn’t fit his big head. “How can I help you, Mr. Howard?” he said as we shook hands. “I think you might have a problem here. I need to see where Henry Winslow is being held.” “Being held? Sir, this is not a prison.” “Coulda fooled me. Take me to him.” “Calm yourself Mr. Howard or I will be forced to ask you to leave,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “It is quite impossible. No one is allowed a visit. May I ask what business you have with Winslow?” “My apologies, but this ain’t a visit. I have reason to believe that he has escaped.” “Escaped? That is preposterous!” “All the same, indulge me.” “Very well,” he said, turning up his nose and tugging at his jacket. A security guard appeared from around a corner. “Ah, Reynolds, would you please escort this gentleman downstairs to see patient Winslow.” “Right, follow me,” the guard said. Deep within the bowels of the Rengford Asylum there lies a place devoid of time and reality. The patients there are those who have been discarded from humanity; guilty of unspeakable crimes and hidden away in a place known only as “the Tomb”. I was led down a hallway to a small winding staircase at the rear of the west wing. As I descended the stairs the normal hospital smells gave way to a variety of scents I couldn’t place. Winding further down it came out in a short dark hallway with a single naked bulb. The painted hospital walls gave way to rough stone. It was there in the last cell down the hall that Henry Winslow had resided since he was captured two years ago. Reynolds slid back the lever and looked through a small window in the heavy iron door. “He’s gone,” the 25

guard gasped. A chill went up my spine. “Open the door.” I reached for my gun. Beads of sweat formed on the guard’s forehead. There was a jingling of keys as he fumbled for the right one. The lock clicked open and he stepped back. I pulled the door open and went inside. It was empty. Several bricks had been pulled away from the wall, revealing a gaping hole large enough for a man to crawl through. There was the smell of fresh damp dirt and no sign of Winslow. “Damn it,” I said. “Call the police right away. Ask for Frank Smith. Tell him Henry Winslow has escaped.” “Right away sir,” the guard said as he stumbled and hurried down the hall. I struck a match and looked around the cell. On the wall above the hole there was something scribbled. When the city of the dead is empty, The Black Grave will rule. Below that a pentacle with arcane symbols scratched into the stone. What the hell. What does it mean? I studied the markings, then it hit me. I had seen this before; the burn on Jessica’s neck. Damn it.

got back to the Ford, threw my overcoat in the back window and piled in. I fired it up and stomped on the gas leaving a trail of spinning gravel as the car rumbled down the drive. As I hit the Main Line, traffic was coming close to a grinding halt. It gave me time to think. What is Winslow up to? In all that time was he working a scheme to get back at me for putting him away? I found the note Rachel Harcourt had written crumpled up in my pocket. I read the address. It was going to take a while; it was on the other side of the city. Where I could find them, I took side streets and alleys to make up some time. It was noon when I pulled up to the address. Just made it. The green well manicured lawns, the high iron fences; I could smell old money from here. It was a far cry from the cold gray stone chambers of the city and for the better of it. The iron gate at the end of the driveway was anchored to two worked stone columns. I pushed the intercom button on the right and waited. After a few seconds a female voice answered; I recognized the voice. The gate creaked as it swung open and I drove through. A quarter mile of trees with low branches formed a roof of sorts over the driveway. From here I got a good look on the inside of the wall that surrounded the place. There was a rose garden in the back and a green marble fountain with an angel statue

in the center. Rachael Harcourt met me at the door with a warm smile and invited me in. “Mr. Howard, it’s good to see you.” As I brushed past her in the door way I caught the scent of her perfume. Expensive, yet refined. The kind that makes a man want to melt in a woman’s arms. “Good afternoon,” I said as she took my hat and coat. Yeah, she still looked good. “Good afternoon.” “Thanks.” This place was nice, a home. In the foyer the polished hardwood floor ran the length of the hall. Several intricate rugs covered the floors in the adjoining rooms. A stairway made a broad turn and swept to the upper floors. “So this is it, huh?” I motioned. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she chuckled. “Can you show me where the book was kept?” “Certainly, it’s just this way down the hall.” The sway of her hips, the line of her hose up the back of her legs; perfect. “This is my father’s library. It’s rare that anyone outside the family gets to see it.” The heavy door swung open to a circular room beyond. From floor to ceiling were books, books, and more books except for a solitary window on the far wall. A wooden ladder on an intricate pulley system gave access to the higher shelves. “No one has been in here since the book was discovered missing,” she said. “I see.” “Third shelf up, the empty spot there,” she pointed. “Would you like some tea?” “Coffee, black, would be fine, if you have it,” I said. “I’ll be right back,” she said, exiting the library. In the center of the room was a large high-backed leather chair with a tall brass lamp next to it. On the book shelf behind a locked glass door was the empty spot between a book of poetry and fairy tales. Interesting. There was no dust on any of the shelves. The window wasn’t broken. I went to the window and checked the latch. It was locked and took a good bit of effort to turn it. Outside, below the window, there was a bed of roses. No obvious foot prints. Rachael returned and handed me a steaming cup of fresh coffee and set the tray on the table. “Here you go,” she said with a smile. “Thanks.” “So, what do you think?” she asked. “Well, there are no signs of forced entry, and the locked shelf indicates that whoever did it had access to a key.” I took a sip of coffee. “Is there anyone else 26

that would have access to the key?” “No, it’s just me and my father,” Rachael said. “Is there anyone else that comes to the house?” “I suppose my father’s nurse, she comes around every evening.” “I see. I would like to talk to her if that’s possible.” “Perhaps this evening,” she said. I turned back to the window and pointed down at the roses. “Who takes care of the yard work?” “Oh, that is Jimmy Bertrand. He comes once a week.” “Ah, right. I’ll need to speak to him as well.” I set down the coffee and pulled my watch from my vest. “Well that’s it for now. I’ll let you know when I have any information.” “Thank you Mr. Howard.” “Thanks for the coffee.” Rachael Harcourt handed me my overcoat and hat from a rack near the door. I made my way to the Ford and got in. With a rumble the old relic fired up and I headed back to the city. On the outskirts of the city I realized I had someone following me. The car was dark gray and keeping pace, but hanging back a good distance. I made a few turns just to be sure. Ah hell, here they come. I continued along the same street for a few blocks until up ahead a delivery truck was parked in the middle of the street. I drove up beside it then gunned the engine as I made a quick turn, hoping the truck would block the street view. The tires squealed as I made the turn, barely missing an old woman crossing the street. Luckily she was on the far side. I sped through the next couple of blocks, store fronts and pedestrians flashed by, and then caught sight of my tag along again. I drove into the water front district. The Vandover River Bridge spanned over a few blocks of low buildings, mostly warehouses. The tail had sped up and gotten right behind me. I floored the gas pedal and pulled onto the street that ran along the river. I looked over my shoulder to see someone leaning out the passenger side of the back seat. I made a swerve as the rear glass disintegrated under a rain of machine gun fire. I suppose these fellas mean business. I drew my .45 and returned fire over my shoulder, trying to keep the wheel steady with my left hand. I risked another glance at the car and saw a man in the passenger seat pounding on the dashboard and pointing at me with a maddening grin. It was Henry Winslow. The tail edged up beside me as the road widened. I

had the Ford engine screaming along as best it could manage. I fired two shots into the passenger side window. I saw him duck back, then a second later bullets ripped through the hood of the Ford. The engine was losing power and began to slow as black smoke poured through several holes. I stomped the brake and let them speed on by. Gunning the engine, I cut to the left quickly and stopped behind a bridge pillar. I jumped out of the Ford and ducked behind it. I could hear the squeal of brakes as the other car turned and came back toward me. I risked a glance over the hood through the smoke as bullets ricocheted off the concrete. Damn, too close. These jokers are going to pay. Hired goons and one homicidal maniac were going to be rough. The car slowed and passed by the pillar. I tensed and waited. A man in a gray suit jumped from the back seat packing serious heat; a Thompson submachine gun. Before he could recover and fire again, I put a bullet into his chest. The Thompson belched a short burst into the underside of the bridge and the man fell back against the car. Searing pain ripped through my shoulder as another man from the back seat opened fire on me. I fell back from instinct or pain; maybe a bit of both. I rolled over and pulled forward on my elbows and got under the Ford. I couldn’t stay here, it was an easy trap. I saw a pair of shiny shoes hit the pavement and run to the side of my car. I shot point blank into the man’s ankle and could almost hear the bone crunching. The shiny shoed man fell forward against the Ford screaming in pain. His ankle gave way and he fell on his side looking straight into the barrel of my .45. He didn’t have time to look surprised. I fired. I could hear Winslow’s grating voice shouting in a language I couldn’t understand. I pushed myself out from under the car and leaned against it. My shoulder burned and I could feel warm blood streaming down my chest. I pushed myself up to look though what used to be the back glass of the Ford. The green glow poured from the car as Winslow got out; green flame rippled and danced on his right hand. I dove around to the front of the old Ford and looked toward Winslow just as a ball of green flame exploded in front of me. I could feel the heat wave blow over and the hood of my car cracked and bubbled. I emptied my .45 at Winslow and he just stood smiling, each bullet seemed to absorb into the green shimmering glow around him. What in the hell. I ducked back and tried to think. I had nothing to go against the power he was slinging. In the distance police sirens grew closer. I could hear Winslow 27

laughing as a car door slammed and tires screeched as they sped away. I opened the driver’s side door and loaded a full magazine from the glove box. I pulled off my overcoat and put pressure on my shoulder. My vision began to blur. I couldn’t hold up much longer, I collapsed behind the wheel.

woke up with a sudden start. It was dark and fog had rolled in off the river. In the distance I could hear a bell ringing from the docks. I winced and tried to move, remembering the piece of lead in my shoulder. After a few tries the Ford fired up, like an old friend ready to run at them again. What happened to the shiny shoe man? I shot him square in the head and he’s not here. A few feet away there was a trail of blood leading away from the car. What in hell? There was no sign of the other body in the street either. Damn, this just gets better and better. In a daze, I drove up the dark narrow street heading toward a street lamp casting a sickly yellow glow in the fog. Just around the corner was a tavern with a flickering red neon sign. In the state I was in, I wouldn’t last long. The car sputtered and groaned, but managed to stay alive. I made it back to my office and pulled into a parking spot. Black smoke rolled up from behind, engulfing the street. The Ford sputtered one last time and I killed the engine. Good boy, now you can rest. I went upstairs to my office and the light was still on. I unlocked the door and threw the keys on the desk. I started peeling off my jacket when Dolores came from the other room. “Jack? What happened?” “I’m alright, just took a piece of lead in the shoulder.” “Jack Howard, what did you get into this time?” “Nothing, well, they started it,” I laughed and clutched my shoulder in pain. “You should see the other guys.” Dolores let out a heavy sigh, “Let’s get you out of those clothes.” “Now you’re talking.” “You never stop, do ya?” she said, giving me a worried look. “Jackie, you are a real piece of work. Don’t you know some people worry about you?” she said, pulling off my shirt. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Really, I’m alright.” “You’re all rough and tumble on the outside Jack, but when someone shows you they care, you make a joke of it.” That hurt, deep, more than being shot. I knew she

cared. I just have trouble showing feelings. It gets me into trouble. My shoulder burned and started to bleed again. I opened the desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of cheap whiskey. I took a swig from the bottle and set it on the desk. Dolores said, “Keep that handy, you’re gonna need it.” “I’ll manage,” I said under my breath. Dolores was gone for a couple minutes and came back with bandages and a pair of pliers. I took another swig and poured a good bit on my shoulder. Damn, this is gonna hurt. I sat on the desk and braced myself. I took the pliers and starting digging for lead. Between more whiskey and the pain I was feeling, I was about to lose it. Finally I could feel what I hoped was the bullet. I braced myself and pulled straight out. A stream of blood shot out as the bullet came free and clattered to the floor. Dolores cleaned up the wound and wrapped bandages around my shoulder. “You need some rest,” she said in her best motherly voice. “No, too much to do and the night is just getting started,” I replied. “Oh, I did some checking while you were out,” Dolores said. “Yeah?” “It seems old man Harcourt made his money after the Great War, but it’s a mystery as to how.” She paused. “I did find a few stories from the ‘Icon City Times’ alleging his involvement in some kind of cult.” “Cult?” I said, rubbing the razor stubble on my chin. “Some kind of eccentric group of aristocrats,” she said. “Good work doll.” I lit a cigarette and took another swig of whiskey.

he phone rang, the voice on the other end of the line was Frank; they had found another body. Who now? I pulled on a fresh shirt, grabbed another jacket and my overcoat and headed out the door. The crime scene was only a few blocks away so I decided to walk. I stopped at a newsstand and took a quick glance at the headlines. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Carlton Fischer running across the street toward me. He was short with coke bottle glasses, in a brown suit and bow tie, with a ‘press’ tag stuck in his hat. He is a reporter for the ‘Icon Chronicle’, a muckraking tabloid paper that prides itself on reporting all the news that isn’t the news and making up the rest just to sell a paper. Everything from ‘Attack of the Three-headed Alligator Boy’ to ‘Crazy Old Cat Lady Kills 28

Neighborhood Children’. “Jack, how about a story?” he said panting. “No comment,” I said, flicking my cigarette to the ground. “Oh, come on. Any truth to the rumor Winslow has…,” he let out a little squeak as I grabbed him and flung him into an alley. “Bad news travels fast. What do you know about it?” I said. “My sources tell me,” his hand shaking while lighting a cigarette, “that he’s escaped.” “Keep your voice down,” I said, looking towards the newsstand. “We don’t need a lot of panic spreading.” “Freedom of the press, ya know.” “You want a story? Here is your story,” I smirked. “Reporter for the ‘Icon Chronicle’ found dead, beaten to a pulp by a disgruntled reader. How’s that?” “Real funny, Jack.” “Yeah.” The reporter rubbed at his chin and pushed his hat back. “What do I tell my editor?” “Make something up; you should be good at that. Don’t print the Winslow story, yet,” I paused, “when it’s over you’ll get your story.” Carlton was the only reporter worth his notepad I could depend on to report real events and real stories dealing with the strange and bizarre. I walked out of the alley and past the newsstand. “Good to see ya again, Jack,” he laughed. “See ya.” I entered Henniston & Grace Emporium around the corner, bought a pack of cigarettes and snuck out the back. By the time I met Frank, I was sure Carlton wasn’t following me. “Hello Frank, so what’s the story?” I said, stuffing my hands in my overcoat pockets. “Shot once in the chest at close range.” Frank stood up beside the body. “Any ID?” “Yeah, one Jimmy Bertrand.” Well this just got more interesting. The groundskeeper gets popped before I have a chance to question him. Something is going on here and I hate being played. I bent down and searched his pockets and came up with a scrap of paper with an address. “Whatcha got there?” Frank said. “487 Lakeside.” “That’s the Lakeside Cemetery; not a good place to be. Any idea what it means?” “No.”

“Hey check this,” Frank said, turning Jimmy’s head to the side. And there it was, a circular pentacle burn mark; just like Jessica. “What is that? Looks like a burn.” “It’s a pentacle.” “A what?” “A pentacle. Used by some in magic.” “You mean some kinda wizard did this?” Frank sighed. “No, probably much worse. I need a drink to sort this out.”

went back to my office and pulled a good bottle of Black Label from the kitchen cabinet. I was pouring a glass when a shadow moved across the window and spilled into the room. “Greetings, Jack.” “Hey Max. So what’s the story?” I said, facing my desk where the shadow form settled. “Henry Winslow is your problem.” “Yeah, what do you know about him? I’ve got two unrelated cases that somehow connect through him,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “A nasty piece of work he is.” “I found a burn mark on Jessica’s neck, and the same marking on Jimmy Bertrand, a grounds keeper, found dead.” “Interesting,” Max said, putting his feet up on my desk. “The same markings I found in Henry Winslow’s cell at the Rengford Asylum,” I said, “with some cryptic text; ‘When the city of the dead is empty’” I said, looking directly at Max. “The Black Grave will rule?” he guessed. “How did you know?” “That is some bad business Jack. An old power returning.” “What does it mean?” “These burn markings? A pentacle with arcane symbols encircling it?” Max questioned. “Yeah.” “You are in very great danger, Jack.” “I can handle it,” I said, finishing off the whiskey. Max left the desk and drifted closer. “No, I’m afraid you can’t. “The Black Grave has great power over the living, and even more over the dead.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “What am I dealing with here?” “A bigger problem not easily solved by a dash of bravado and a hail of gunfire.” “How then?” “I can help you Jack,” Max said, “It’s tricky. You must allow me inside your mind; I will become your 29

shadow.” “No, not a chance,” I said, taking a drag from my cigarette. “Like I said before, I work alone.” “And you will be. I’ll just be along for the ride.” Max rose up in a dance of shadows on the wall and moved around the room. “How does that work? I need to be in control.” “You will be. With a dash of me to prod you in the right direction. To help when help is needed.” “I don’t know.” “Jack, if you don’t, people will die.” With that said I couldn’t disagree. I didn’t like the idea of someone else rolling around inside my head. If it got the job done, no one else would have to know. “Alright, I’ll do it. What do I need to do?” With a sudden rush, the shadows on the wall flexed like the room was expanding. There was wind and lights like standing on top of a speeding freight train. It made my head swim; even more than the booze. Max was standing in the open widow casting a long shadow across the ceiling. I got a freezing cold sensation up my spine as I saw him fold around me. I staggered and tried to shake off the feeling. I looked around and I couldn’t see Max anywhere. I didn’t feel any different after that; not like I imagined. “Max? You there?” There was no answer. I didn’t like this feeling of not knowing. I just hoped to hell he would be there when things got ugly.

hailed a cab outside my office and told the driver “Macy’s Tavern,” which was a couple blocks from Lakeside Cemetery. It didn’t take long to get there, but as I rode I went through a mental checklist to make sure I was prepared for anything. Gun. Check. Bullets. Check. Max? Well, maybe. As I exited the cab it started to rain. I leaned in and gave the driver the fare and pulled my overcoat around me. The rain came down in sheets and I was soaked to the bone by the time I reached the cemetery. There was a black iron fence that ran the length of the cemetery along the street. The entrance to the cemetery was guarded by two huge stone angels with wings spread and an iron-work sign saying Lakeside Cemetery between them. The angels were placed to protect the peace and tranquility of the dead. I passed between the statues and entered. The rain steadily increased as I followed the gravel path between the close-set gravestones; there was barely enough room for all of them. Like a crowded waiting room where the dead rested waiting for the after-life; whatever that might be. The cemetery stretched out for almost a half mile over rolling hills

before it tapered off into the empty section that overlooked the lake. I had no idea what I was looking for, but the storm’s lightning flashed and I saw shadows moving in the distance. I drew my .45 and picked up a side path and followed that closer to them. I approached the older sections of the cemetery where there was no light from the street. There were several large mausoleums here among the centuries old gravestones. They were overgrown with thick moss and twisting tree roots that buckled the stone over time. The roof of one mausoleum was tilted at a horrendous angle, it looked to be sinking into the ground. I moved carefully in the near complete darkness; the rain covering any sound of footsteps. On the other side of the path was a lantern hanging from a low tree branch. I risked a glance around the mausoleum, keeping my pistol ready. I stepped around the corner as my foot began to slip down. I scrambled for a hand hold trying not to fall straight into an open grave. The rain was steadily eroding away the dirt. I shifted my weight, crouched low and worked my way back from the edge. Lightning and thunder cracked as I moved away from the open grave. A cold clawed hand grabbed me by the ankle. I struggled in its iron grip. I jerked my leg back and felt the searing burn of its claws tear into my skin. I kicked at the flailing arms and managed to break free. I could hear the low rasping moan as a pale skinned creature pulled itself out of the grave and crawled toward me. I fired one shot, tearing bits of leathery flesh from the bone. It kept on coming. A cold hand from another ghoul passed around my neck from behind. I sent an elbow into its ribs. I could feel the crunch, but it did little to slow it down. I shot the ghoul in front of me twice more, it recoiled back and fell, its legs twitching in the mud. In a smooth, quick motion I pulled the switchblade from my vest and slashed at the arms holding me. A howling shriek came from its ghastly mouth. I reached back and fired a shot into the ghouls chest, sent it sprawling backward in a writhing heap. With my pistol in one hand and the blade in the other, I went around to other side of the mausoleum. The iron gate had been bent and twisted away. I kicked the door open and threw myself inside. It was pitch black. The stone floor of the crypt was covered in something soft; I could feel it beneath my feet. I tucked the switchblade back into my vest and shook the rain from my overcoat. I pulled my lighter from my vest pocket and took a step forward, clicking blue flame to life. 30

In the dim glow I could see more ghouls reaching out for me. I shot the closest one in the head, the quick muzzle flash blinding me. I shot twice more into the darkness. The screams of pain sent them into a frenzy; raking claws and biting each other. I tried to back my way out of the crypt, but they were on me in seconds, ripping my skin, tearing at my clothes and pulling me to the ground. I was held down and couldn’t move. I heard the scuffling of feet behind me from outside the door. That’s when I saw Murdock’s twisted face above me. I saw him raise a shovel and the lights went out.

woke to the sound of voices and shuffling around me. My head was killing me and my hands were tied with rope. From my vantage point I saw a pair of legs, the line of hose up the back, perfect. “Rachael?” I growled, letting out a low groan. “That’s right, Jack.” “I hate being played for a sap,” I spat back. She didn’t seem like the type to go in for this. “You do that well,” she said, laughing. “Lookie what we got here,” said another voice I recognized. A big hand poked me. It was Murdock; thug for hire. He looked the same except for a gleam of black fire in his eyes. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with here,” I said. “I break bones for people who pay me. That’s all I need to know.” With little effort he hefted me over his shoulder and hung me from a large hook on a chain. I struggled against him with no effect. Taking a look at my surroundings I could see I was hanging in the center of a large room with a vaulted ceiling; pillars with torches lit the room. On the far end was an altar covered in black cloth with a black leather-bound book lying open. A tapestry hung on the back wall with a pentacle and symbols around it. I strained at my bonds and tried to get some feeling back in my arms. Below me a large cauldron with a boiling liquid rolled and bubbled. Beyond that, decaying corpses and skeletal remains formed a circle. Green flies swarmed over the cesspool of foul unliving horror. What the hell. My nose burned at the smell of sulfur and rotting flesh. I turned my head and tried to pull myself up. Rachael and Murdock went behind the altar and slipped through a door. I struggled at the ropes that bound my hands. “Alright Jack, you’re in quite the fix here,” I muttered to myself. I had to figure a way out of this and it didn’t look easy. Behind the door there was shouting and the door

flung open. A figure entered covered in a black hooded robe. I couldn’t make out who it was, but I guessed from the small size that it was Rachael. She was chanting in another language, and looked to be preparing for a ritual of some kind. With me hanging here it seemed like I might be the main ingredient. Rachael’s chanting continued and was joined by a louder voice. Henry Winslow himself entered the room. He walked toward me and pulled back his hood; his gnarled face twisted in a grin. “You and your meddling in my affairs has cost me valuable time,” Winslow hissed. “You killed innocent people, you deserved what you got,” I said. I pulled at the ropes holding me with no luck. “Let me go and you will get more where that came from.” “No, Jack Howard, you will die here tonight,” he laughed. I had to buy some time to figure a way out. Get him to rattle on about his fiendish plans while I made my escape. “Why are you doing this?” “Pure and simple Jack, revenge for my suffering. Maddening days, weeks, years in that dreadful place,” he paused, “but now I have you here to put an end to my troubles and begin anew.” “Is this the part where you divulge your evil plan?” “This is the part where you die!” he yelled and pulled a sword from beneath his robes. He waved it, taunting me, and thrust at my chest. I swung twisting against the chain and the sword just grazed me. I flexed my hands and grabbed the chain and began to lift myself off the hook. Winslow took another swing at me, but I kicked at his arm and the sword clattered to the floor. Winslow screamed in frustration and began to chant. A green ball of fire formed around his hand again. I hadn’t heard anything from Max; I just hoped he was listening. “Max. Max you there?” My hands had cleared the hook holding me up. I swung with my legs hard and let go. I caught the edge of the cauldron in the back and stumbled forward. Winslow finished his chant and flung a green ball of flame towards me. I ducked behind the cauldron and the flame washed over me. I could feel my shirt burning from the magical fire. I reached back and ripped the shirt off, smothering out any flames left. He began to chant again and moved a few feet off to the right to get a clear throw at me. “Max, a little help here,” I whispered. We never worked out the method to communicate once Max became my shadow. I hoped to hell he was with me. “Jack,” a voice echoed in my head. “What took you so long?” 31

“I was waiting for you to make your heroic move,” Max said. I could hear him laughing in the background of my mind. “Now you die!” Winslow screamed as he threw another flame at me. I felt a chill roll up my spine and in that split second a dark shadowy haze enveloped me. The green flames washed over the haze and burned out. Max had come through. A black ball of shadow swirled around my fist and surged into Winslow. He moved, expecting his shield to hold; it didn’t. He went hurling through the air, slamming against the wall and fell to the floor. “Oh, I could get used to this,” I whispered. “Careful Jack, it has its limits,” I heard Max say inside my head. There was a bone chilling scream that came from behind me. Rachael ran at me with a dagger in her hand, her eyes filled with black fire. I brushed her arm aside and threw her off balance. She slid across the floor knocking her head against a wall and didn’t move. I picked up the dagger and cut the rope binding my hands. In the back of my mind I heard Max, “She is under his power Jack. He’s controlling her.” I turned to face Henry who was pulling himself up. He suddenly stopped and looked right at me. “You will not stop us here,” he yelled. “Come join us my children.” A loud scrapping noise came from above. I could see more of the pale skinned creatures clawing their way down the walls. They climbed down the pillars and were pawing and scratching at each other as they moved. I ran to the nearest pillar and pulled a torch from the sconce. I stretched out my fingers and a blast of shadow hit Henry in the chest. He reeled back and threw a green bolt at me. The shadow around me had failed; the blast knocked me off my feet. I heard Rachael begin to stir and let out a low moan. I felt weaker, almost drained of energy. I don’t know how much Max or I had left, but I forced myself to move. The pale creatures drew closer to surround me. I waved the torch to fend them off. They cowered, screeching and growling for the chance to get at me. I concentrated and the shadow shield finally drew up around me. I held the torch out, clearing a path. Rachael turned over with a startled look; the black fire gone from her eyes. “What’s happening?” she gasped. “We gotta get you outta here,” I said. She wrapped an arm around me and tried to get up. As I turned, Winslow ran up behind the cauldron.

“The time has come. Rise. Rise!” he yelled. The cauldron tumbled off the fire and spilled onto the floor. I stepped to avoid it. It washed down to the corpses and remains, they began to twitch and move. A skeleton reanimated by the liquid clattered and stood up. Others began pulling themselves into horrible undead shapes, writhing and twisting. Rachael started screaming uncontrollably. I couldn’t hold onto her anymore. She ran cowering in the corner. I launched myself at Winslow catching him by the throat; I began to squeeze. “Max, I hope we got enough juice for one more.” I took a deep breath and I could feel my hand tingling as Max worked up the last bit of shadow power. It flowed down my arm and in a mass of darkness it engulfed Winslow’s head. He began to choke, grabbing at my arms trying to stop me. His body and robes burst into black flame that quickly engulfed him. Screaming in pain, he clawed at me, gasping for air. I threw him down and stepped back. Winslow was reduced to a pile of ash and bone as I watched. The undead creations lumbered forward to surround us. “Rachael?” I yelled. The black fire was quickly spreading throughout the room, scorching and melting even the stone walls. The pale skinned ghouls were consumed by the fire as well. Soon it would be impossible to get out. I found her huddled in a corner, shaking. I grabbed her by the hand and headed for the door. A skeleton gnashing and grinding its teeth blocked our way. I slammed a shoulder into it and it clattered to the floor in a heap.

“Wait,” she pleaded, “my father’s book.” She tore from my grasp, ran to the altar and grabbed the book. On the way out we found Murdock’s body. His throat had been slit. Outside the crypt the rain had stopped. As we got a few steps away from the mausoleum it began to sink slowly into the ground. No one would understand what went on here, nor would they want to. I consoled myself that it was done. Henry Winslow, the necromancer, won’t be slinking around any graveyards. The book will be returned to its rightful owner. Rachael Harcourt would return to tend to her dying father, and with any luck, wouldn’t remember anything she had seen; it would stay buried.

ater, I found the truth of things. Old Mr. Harcourt was in fact a member of the Black Grave Society, but after a difference of opinion, separated himself from them. Hoping to do some good he took his spell book with him when he cut all ties. Henry Winslow, a powerful member of the society, waited until the old man was near death hoping to claim the valuable book. The new found power with Max as my shadow was too much for one man to wield. With some doing, Max separated himself and resumed his shadowy existence. Sure, I was able to take on the necromancer, but it was too addictive, too powerful. It had to be set aside until it was needed. I pulled a bottle of good whiskey from my desk drawer and lit a cigarette. It was midnight and a storm was moving in. ___________________________________________ "The Black Grave" is Scott Hill's first published story.

Returns Permitted Within 30 Days by Russell James

Do we really need to tell you to keep your receipt? ___________________________________________________________

Kirk Trask was about three seconds away from

taking an ax to the goddamn machine. His wife, Alexis, had talked him into the stupid idea in the first place. He hadn’t wanted a mandroid around the house, but she was adamant about getting one, nagging about how it would cook and clean and take care of the yard. Mandroids were even smart enough now to do the shopping. The refrigerator and pantry downloaded what was missing and the mandroid picked it up at Sullivan’s down the street. It would be the perfect servant. Having a mandroid would not be unusual. It seemed like most of the people in the city had one. They were so well designed that only the barcode on the back of their necks identified them as non-human. Emotional subroutines were so refined, they even acted human. Animatrix, the company that created and sold them, was one of the largest corporations in the country. “Going ‘droid” was like buying the latest computer. Animatrix claimed one “completed” your life. After the first month as an owner, Kirk had to heartily disagree. His morning workout delivered the latest reminder of what a mess the mandroid could make of the simplest thing. After Kirk’s five mile run, his inner thighs felt like they had been polished with 40 grit sandpaper. He didn’t know what the hell Bruce, the world’s stupidest robot, used for fabric softener in his running shorts, but Kirk was sure the idiot had switched it with starch. He wadded up his shorts with his muscle shirt and tossed them in the corner. That would give the moron-droid something to clean up today. In the shower, Kirk took extra care with the irritated spot on his legs. He gave the blistered spot two applications of moisturizer, using the same expensive stuff Alexis used on her deepening crow’s feet. She’d scream, but what the hell. His cash paid for the crap. He checked his pecs in the mirror as he toweled off. Definition was off just a bit. He flexed. Tomorrow’s workout would be dedicated to the torso. No way these babies were getting soft. He ran the towel across his blonde flattop and checked his square jaw in the mirror. He smiled. He left the bathroom wrapped in a white towel and collided with his wife as she 33

rushed down the hallway. “Where the hell are you going in such a damn hurry at 8:00 AM?” he snapped. Alexis wore a soft blue jogging suit with a stripe of sequins down each arm. Her long black hair was up in a ponytail, letting her huge gold hoop earrings glitter in the morning sunlight. Thick black mascara swept her eyelashes up nearly to her arched brows. The rest of her makeup gave her face a plastic sheen. “Bruce’s driving me to the Club this morning.” She had sold Kirk the mandroid concept partly on the machine’s chauffeur programming. Somehow Alexis was the only one to avail herself of that skill. “At this hour?” Kirk said. The idea of her going to the Club while he went to work got under his skin like a guinea worm. “Steph, Laura, Trish and I have a court reserved,” she said, and flashed the tennis bag on her shoulder at him. Kirk knew the only reservation the four of them had was at the club bar, which opened at the obscenely early hour of 9:00 AM. She sure as hell wasn’t going to risk sweating off that ten pound facial paint job. “Bruce will do all the shopping while we play and pick me up on the way home.” She finished the sentence as if she’d announced a cure for cancer. The worm under Kirk’s skin burrowed a little deeper. They entered the kitchen together. Kirk figured if she was hijacking Bruce this morning he’d better get breakfast out of the damn mandroid first. Otherwise he’d be pouring his own cereal. Bruce stood over the laserwave range in the Trask’s ultra-modern black kitchen, scrambling eggs. Kirk wondered if it was the look of the mandroid that first made him dislike it. Bruce was Kirk’s height, but rail thin down to the dainty fingers that snapped another egg into the steaming frying pan. Like other mandroids, and against the prognostications of futurists, Bruce wore no uniform. He came from the factory with a set of clothes he rotated through on some pre-coded schedule. Bruce’s programming favored khakis and button down short sleeve shirts. Add that to Bruce’s rather delicate facial features and his close trimmed brown hair, and it all added up to “sissy” in Kirk’s mind. The mandroid reminded Kirk of every kid he’d pummeled from grade school through

senior high. “Good morning, Kirk, Alexis,” Bruce chirped with a smile. “Breakfast in a jiff. Sit right down.” Kirk tightened the towel around his waist and sat down. Alexis tossed her tennis bag to the floor as she took her seat. The racquet handle hit the wall with a thud and left a wide black smudge. “Oh, dear,” Bruce said, eyeing the mark. “That won’t scrub off easily.” He let out a small sigh. “Are those eggs ready?” Kirk said. “Some of us,” he shot a glance at Alexis, “need to get to work.” “Right up!” Bruce said, putting on a cheerier face. He split the scrambled eggs into two neat portions with a figure eight flourish of the spatula and then flipped each portion onto a separate plate. Two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster on cue and Bruce caught them in mid-flight. He sliced them into triangles with a paring knife and slid two on each plate. He delivered the plates dead center on the linen placemat before each of the Trasks. Kirk ladled a spoonful of eggs into his maw. His face screwed up in disgust. “What the hell is in this?” he said, affording his wife a full view of the half-chewed food in his mouth. “A hint of salsa,” Bruce said. “You mentioned you liked Mexican food…” “For dinner!” Kirk roared, spitting the eggs back onto his plate. “No one in their right mind eats that shit in the morning.” Alexis held up a piece of toast like it was an auction bidding paddle. “Bruce, where’s the butter?” “We’re out, Alexis,” Bruce said. “You used the end of it last night on your midnight popcorn.” She dropped the toast in her eggs. “Well, without butter …” she said. “Really, Bruce, you should have run out for some last night.” She checked her diamond watch. “Oh, no! Look at the time. We’re going to be late. Bruce, get the car. I’ll meet you out front.” Alexis bolted through the door without waiting for an answer. Bruce shot a dejected look at the breakfast wreckage on the table. “I’ll get that when I return,” he said. He gave his hands a quick rinse in the sink and went through the door to the garage. Kirk perused the salsa and saliva-tainted food on his plate, and then looked at his wife’s empty chair. “Isn’t this a glorious damn morning?” he said. He kicked back his chair as he stood and tightened the towel around his waist. The mandroid was more trouble than it was worth. Canned dog food was 34

better than most of its meals. It cost a fortune. Kirk’s inner thighs burned like a seared steak and his wife had become, though he never thought it possible, an even more useless bitch. Something was going to have to give.

irk was at his desk when his Mr. Winters, the firm’s owner, darkened his doorway. Mr. Winters was short and round as a ball. For some reason he favored double breasted suits which only made him look wider. He didn’t have a hair on his head but tried to make up for it with a pair of gray bushy eyebrows that resembled caterpillars on steroids. He was past 65, which made Kirk loathe him even more. Old geezers needed to step aside and make way for someone who really knew how to run a business. “Kirk,” Mr. Winters said. “Got a minute?” “Sure, Mr. Winters,” Kirk said with a physically painful fake smile. Mr. Winters closed the door behind him. “Kirk, your numbers are behind some of the team.” He paused. “Well, let’s be honest. You’re dead last.” You know nothing sack of... Kirk thought. His blood started to boil but he forced his smile a little wider to cover it. “Just a bit of a slump, sir.” “No, it’s more than that,” Mr. Winters said. “There are style issues that irritate many clients and you don’t get along well with the team. I’ve tried every incentive I can think of to motivate you. So here’s my last shot.” Last shot? Kirk wanted to reach up and rip the man’s woolly eyebrows off his stupid face. “I’m going to move you to straight commission at 15%,” he said. “You sell, you eat. Sell a lot, you can eat lobster.” Kirk did the math. This was going to be a major pay cut. “Now the only way you’ll sell more is to get a better knowledge of our products and to sell them the right way.” Mr. Winters pointed to the thin black binder on the corner of Kirk’s desk. In gold letters on the outside it said: SELLING THE WINTERS’ WAY “This is your last chance to get with the program,” Mr. Winters warned. “Make the best of it.” When Winters turned to leave, Kirk had to restrain himself from hurling the Winters’ Way binder at the back of the old coot’s head. His office door shut and he switched his witless grin off. How the hell was he going to make ends meet on half his salary? Alexis could burn through that in a week without trying. And now, thanks to her, he had

a damned mandroid lease to pay each month. A mental image of Bruce appeared and the thought of the little wuss made his pulse race even faster. He’d cut that expense and fast. Bruce had a tune up appointment tomorrow morning, the one month check, the mandroid equivalent of a trip to the vet. Well, Bruce wasn’t coming back from the vet. Kirk would just turn him in and break the lease. Bruce had a 30 day warrantee, so Kirk could walk away a free man and Alexis would have to get off her everwidening ass and do some work for a change. The idea of Bruce lying on a scrap heap somewhere made Kirk feel downright satisfied. Saturday was going to be a wonderful day.

irk let Bruce drive them to the Animatrix store the next morning. He wanted to be chauffeured at least once before the mandroid went on permanent hiatus. Plus there was some delicious irony in the mandroid driving itself to its own doom. The Trasks sat in the back seat. The first half of the “Adios Bruce” conversation with Alexis last night went better than Kirk expected. Seemed she had her own list of complaints about the mandroid. It was late to pick her up a lot, she hated its cooking and it had ruined a few blouses in the wash. She was open to making a change. Then came the battle. Alexis thought they would trade him in for a different model. Kirk had to admit to his impending pay cut, though he may have implied that everyone in the office had the same financial woe. Alexis only took a second to decide. Given the choice of doing without Bruce or doing without the Club membership, Bruce was a distant second. Bruce parked the big sedan near the door of the Animatrix store. The building was a standard big box, cold and gray outside and devoid of any opening except the double glass doors at the central entrance. A big red Animatrix logo covered the upper right hand corner of the building. The lot was nearly empty this morning. “Does it know what we’re doing?” whispered Alexis. “It wouldn’t matter if it did,” Kirk muttered back. “It doesn’t have emotions, just the appearance of emotions. It’s a machine. It’s a refrigerator. It does what we tell it to.” Bruce looked up into the rearview mirror. His eyes met the two conspiratorial sets in the back seat. For a fleeting moment, there was a hint of sadness in Bruce’s eyes. Then he painted on the usual exuberance. “All out for Animatrix,” he said. He rushed around and opened the door for his owners. Heading for the 35

front door, Bruce took an almost jaunty lead. The reception area was sterile white from top to bottom and lit with the harshness of a night baseball game. A long Formica counter split the reception area from the hallway behind it. There was a veterinarian, antiseptic smell to the air, no doubt some chemical used to maintain the mandroids. At the counter stood a perky young woman in a blue jumpsuit. The suit had a silver “Tara” nametag and a red Animatrix logo. She smiled and greeted them with a flip of her short blonde hair. “You must be the Trasks, with Bruce,” she sang. “I called yesterday and talked with Mr. Reed,” Kirk said, hoping to obliquely refer to his plan to ditch the ‘droid. “Of course,” Tara said. She opened a door in the reception counter. “Come right in.” She led them to two doors in the hallway. Kirk kept staring at the woman, curious if her hair covered a barcode on the back of her neck. Tara opened the first door and nodded Bruce inside. He nodded back and entered, closing the door behind him. “Mr. Reed will meet you here in a minute,” she said, ushering the two into the next room. “Let me say how sorry everyone here is that this match didn’t work out for you. It’s not as uncommon as you might think. Don’t feel like it’s your fault.” Kirk felt a flash of antagonism toward this cheerful pixie. Of course it wasn’t his fault. The damn mandroid wasn’t worth the carbon they burned to create it. That was the problem. Tara closed the door behind them. The small room was empty and lit by second rate fluorescent lighting that made even Alexis' layers of makeup look pale. The walls and floors were grey concrete. The wall adjoining the room Bruce entered had a large glass window in it. That room was dark. “I could at least use a chair,” Alexis whined. “What kind of treatment is this?” “For what we pay each month…” Kirk said. The light in the next room snapped on. The brighter, softer light streamed in through the window. The other room had carpet and two couches facing a coffee table. The walls were pale blue and potted palms filled the far corners. Bruce sat on one of the couches. A tall man in a grey suit with a silver beard walked over and sat on the other couch. His short hair exposed the barcode on his neck. He started talking to Bruce. “You are just sitting here in the dark?” the man said. “I can see just as well either way, Mr. Reed,” Bruce answered.

“Oh, yes,” Reed said. “You have the infrared upgrade. That is so handy.” “It didn’t seem to help me see this situation coming, though.” Bruce’s face drooped like wilted lettuce. “Yes,” Mr. Reed said. “The word is this match didn’t work out too well.” “What a deal,” Kirk whispered. “The company’s doing the dirty work, and what’s even funnier, they sent another mandroid to do it.” “What was the problem with the Trasks?” Mr. Reed said. “The problem with us?" Alexis said. “What does he mean?” “Where to start…” Bruce sighed. “What wasn’t wrong? Kirk was overbearing and self-absorbed. He had problems at his job with coworkers. Alexis was demanding and shallow. Neither of them appreciated anything I did.” “We’re not going to listen to this talking doll complain,” Kirk said. He pulled Alexis to the door and realized there was no knob. “What the hell?” he yelled. Kirk beat the door with his fists. “Hey, someone open the damn door.” The mandroids next door ignored the muffled noise. “You didn’t have trouble taking care of them, did you?” Reed asked Bruce. “Oh, no,” Bruce said. He used his fingers to enumerate his accomplishments. “I fed them twice a day. I cleaned their clothes and their rooms. I even took Alexis out to the park or a club to exercise and play. But all she did was find other humans and lay around. The whole experience wasn’t what I thought it would be.” Mr. Reed nodded in understanding.

“And then the two of them fought all the time,” Bruce said. “Over nothing. They were just not good together. They would both be better off being the only humans in the house.” “Did they adapt all right?” Mr. Reed asked. “The memory wipes worked?” “Oh absolutely,” Bruce said. “They were fully convinced of their roles. They thought my house was theirs and that they had lived there for years. They believed I belonged to them and that the world they live in was their creation, not ours.” “The good news,” Mr. Reed said, “is that you are still within your 30 day warrantee period.” He pressed a button on the table and the wall on the far side of the room slid open, revealing an enormous window. On the other side, stacks of chrome cages filled a room as large as an airplane hangar. Each cage had one captive. Some were men, some women. All wore the same tan scrubs. As soon as they realized the window was open, a wave of wailing burst from the pens. People leapt to their feet and rattled their cage doors. “Get me out of here!” “Pick me, pick me!” “Help me! Give me a chance!” “Take a look,” Mr. Reed said. “We have a great selection to choose from. Don’t let one bad experience turn you off.” Bruce looked down at the carpet. “No,” he said. “I think I’m just not ready for pets.” ___________________________________________ Russell James is a technical writer with Frito Lay, Inc. This is his first published work of fiction.

Fermi's Paradox by DoA Worrell

Have you ever had the feeling the world is just slipping away from you? ___________________________________________________________ Prologue The debate of whether mankind is alone in the universe is inappropriate, or to put it better, the wrong question. The answer is as it was and always will be, simple. Typical galaxies like the Milky Way contain hundreds of billions of stars. Furthermore, there are more than one hundred and seventy billion of these galaxies in the observable universe. And how many stars, galaxies and unimaginable entities lie beyond the reach of Earth’s strongest satellites. Therefore, is the human race alone in this infinite universe? In a word, yes. The universe is hollow. It’s a barren desert of murk and opaque gloom with lurid pockets of mists strangling out the light. It’s the reason, this unimaginable and horrifying reason, that is the matter of far more pressing debate.

sole Leferre squints into his telescope with his fingers pirouetting blindly around the numerous knobs at its side. His nearly twenty years at the Paris Observatory has sharpened his fingers to a point but dulled his eyes to their wrinkled and narrowing squint. His thick, horn-rimmed bifocals clink against the copper eyepiece when he can’t see clearly or gets a bit too excited as he stares through the refracted mirrors on his eleventh floor balcony. The Paris skyline is irregularly dark for a Saturday night, even at nearly one o’clock in the morning. The city lacks a certain vigor and spark that has always been a hallmark of Paris nightlife. It used to be that the high-rises and various towers with virtually every window lit seemed to keep a incandescent vigil over the city until the sun sparked on the horizon. Now the shadows’ sullen weight flattens definition from the corners and contours of the once sensual city. Though a dimmer backdrop is preferable for Isole. The often washed-out skyscape, suffering from the sodium street lamps below and flashing neon signs and billboards above, is now sheer, untainted darkness. For all of the night’s notoriety, no backdrop is more flattering or befitting of light than black. Isole folds his arms tight against his chest as the autumn air coils around him. His black sweater and sweatpants nearly match the night, though his balcony is a slightly fainter shade, due to a fluorescent mist shimmering from the curtains behind him. He is 37

finding that the nights seem colder and longer in the autumn and the shadows linger longer than autumns before, autumns when he wasn’t looking through his telescope alone, autumns when he was with Sophie. It’s been almost one year since his wife died and to Isole it still feels surreal. He still reaches for her in bed as he sleeps or hears her voice on the edge of some arbitrary noise. He even sees the back of her head in supermarkets or on the subway, and waits with a repressed expectation for the woman to turn around. He’s disappointed every time. He describes the feeling, in his ever lengthening chats with himself, as not missing her but missing a part of himself, like a limb or appendage, and to some degree that is how his solitude has affected him. It’s crippling his sentiment and dulling him down. Dulling his laughs to smirks and cries to sniffles and leaves him as hollow as the near emptied out rooms in his apartment. He’s thrown every memory of her out, clothing, silverware, even the furniture they bought together. He’s thrown it all out, everything except for a letter she wrote to him. It’s an ever present bulge in his top pocket. And he still uses their telescope, with which they used to share the stars. Isole’s thick glasses clank against the eyepiece and his telescope nearly topples over. He rarely gets this excited in his nightly gazes. He’s normally yawning with a mug of coffee in his hands and occasionally dozes off with his head resting on the telescope’s tripod. But tonight he finally found what he’s been looking for, even if subconsciously, in this distraction from the emptiness of space. There is only one light on in the apartment complex across from his but he can see the young woman undressing inside as she were standing next to him. He’s seen her before during the day, watching the sun rise or set from her flower adorned balcony. He often prepares witty anecdotes in case they ever encountered each other outside. Though the most he’s ever done was give her an awkward wave bonjour or adieu from across the balcony. But he’d never seen her at this time or in this light, half-past-naked and just a clip and zipper away from revealing it all. A ring snaps into the silence as sharp as it is sudden. Isole jerks forward and ducks behind his telescope as if the young woman could hear his phone ringing from the other side of the apartment complex.

Almost embarrassed with himself, he sits up but waits out the ring of the telephone, subconsciously fearing the caller could hear or see him. The ringing stops momentarily and Isole quickly readjusts the telescope. And though the phone immediately begins ringing again, Isole ignores it completely as he frantically twists the focus knobs and cable controls, focused in too closely on the blurred details of windowpanes and concrete. Eventually Isole gives in to aggravation. By now the phone has rang and stopped at least five times and is ringing again, but Isole sits with his arms folded and lips puckered, already conceding to the loss of his peep show. Placing the blame on his unknown caller Isole refuses to answer the phone. As his mind bubbles up thoughts on who would call him at such an hour, he’s quickly reminded of who it couldn’t be. His father, who died a week earlier from a heart-attack. His cousin who died that same week in a skiing accident. Martha, his colleague and one time mistress, who died a few days ago in a car accident. And his mother who died yesterday in her sleep. The past few weeks have been difficult for Isole. Not even a year after his wife’s death and everyone else seems to be slipping through his fingers, all of them within the past two weeks. Even the hooker he called up occasionally was killed after a drunken tumble down the stairs in her apartment complex earlier yesterday morning. Everything seems quieter to him now. The traffic outside, the footsteps from upstairs, the voices of children in the hall, they all seem to be muffled by something. He seems only able to hear their echoes and though he’s not sure why, Isole relates the echoes to loneliness in a diary he began keeping after his wife’s death. Yesterday he wrote, when you’re lonely you dissolve like the sound of an echo or even the ripple on a pond. It’s like coming back to life every morning, just slightly more diminished than the day before. Today’s entry is even more disturbing as just a few hours earlier he wrote, loneliness is like dying with your eyes open and watching the world pass on without you, or maybe even watching yourself pass on without the world? It’s noticeably quiet for a moment, and rapt in a jumble of thoughts and memories, Isole doesn’t notice every sound seem to pause for the blunt hint of sunlight on the horizon. He doesn’t notice the dawn leaking into the night and for a moment, just a moment, slips into the silence and begins to fall asleep. The phone hammers into the silence again and startles Isole from his doze. A frown immediately swells onto this face and somewhere amidst a yawn 38

and a sigh he steps back inside, ready to take out his frustration on whoever is on the other line. As Isole steps inside and swipes the curtains closed with a vengeance, the young woman steps onto her balcony on the other side of the apartment complex. Wearing a baggy sweat shirt and loose pajama bottoms, she wraps her arms around herself and shivers, staring captivated into the horizon. The light ever so slightly is beginning to whisper onto the skyline and the mere splinters of color begin to cut into the shadows. The young woman leans against the fence of her garden balcony and takes in the slightest glimpse of the sparkling horizon just before the screws and hinges snap and she plummets fourteen floors. Her gasp is shrill and she hasn’t the breath to scream.

he steps leading up to the main entrance of the Paris Observatory seem higher than they did just a week earlier, moist with puddles and muddy patches from the errant sprinklers on the grass. Isole can hear the gravel dragging under the soles of his laggard sneakers, weighed down by the two duffel bags hanging from his shoulders, both of them full of his put off and ignored affairs. His parents’ death certificates and other burial documentation, which were supposed to be mailed individually days earlier, now burden his load. In addition, his father’s will and property disputes with the banks over unsettled mortgage payments are in his bags as well. The only thing that actually belongs to Isole in these bags are his resignation papers for the observatory which look more like a book than anything else. He planned to turn in the resignation documents filled with citations, clauses and borrowed celestial atlases almost a year earlier but had become increasingly reclusive since his wife’s death and rarely left his apartment. Now this overdue baggage weighs him down as he steps up and into the observatory entrance. The ivory shaded tiles in the lobby glisten in the morning’s slanted light. It’s been freshly mopped but carelessly so, with smears and streaks in chaotic twirls and garnished with mud-brown footprints, probably as a result of the growing puddle of water from the sprinklers outside. But whatever was cleaned, the scent remains, rising up like the rank apparition of a departed stain. An ancient radio on the lobby bench startles Isole as he steps in, blaring some bad news which seems to be a pastime of the French socio-political radio stations. With cut and loose copper wiring sticking out of every corner of the radio, it seems more like an

electrical fire hazard than anything else and Isole makes sure to keep his distance as he walks by. His leather soles screech across the tiles with no particular haste. Each step is followed by a sigh and shuffle in his shoulders to try and get the bags into a comfortable position. His feet are still dragging and nearly half asleep, out of their steady routine of eight o’clock naps before breakfast and then a full days sleep until the evening. But the phone call from the observatory at six in the morning changed Isole’s plans and leaves one simple thought in his head, this better be good. Part of the reason Isole actually decided to leave his apartment was to finish his unfinished business. He figured he could mail the burial documents, verify the death certificates, turn in the resignation papers and be home before ten. But here it’s nearly nine thirty in the morning and he’s just arriving at the observatory with an Atlas complex bearing down on his shoulders. Though Isole supposes once he gets the resignation papers out of his bag that it will lighten his load quite a bit. “Who’s there,” a voice asks, followed by a head popping out from around the corner. “Isole, thank God you arrived safely. I thought something had happened to you,” Jeanne says with an exasperated smile. Jeanne d’Estaing is one of the chief magistrates of the observatory, and has been for over eighteen years. A stout woman with short blonde-dyed hair and enough makeup for the entire Paris fashion week, Jeanne seems older than the thirty-nine-year-old birth certificate she keeps buried at the bottom of her locker. Besides deciding who does and doesn’t get promoted to positions of influence in the observatory, she has no power herself. A disposition that has always left her bitter and a disposition that Isole always has, and still believes, she takes out on him. “This way, this way,” she repeats with an enthusiasm that is uncharacteristic of a usually dreary eyed and monotone speaking woman. “Right behind you,” Isole says in a sarcastic tone as he stares up at the glass ceiling of the observatory. A glass ceiling he’s seen almost every day of his working life and a fixture of respectable astronomical observatories everywhere, but today for some reason it seems different. Jeanne leads him up a spiraling stairway he has often doted upon but never ascended. The stairway to heaven as it’s often called by ambitious interns, leads to one of the largest and most famous telescopes in the world, the Meudon which in 1909 helped disprove the Mars canal theory. But even more importantly the stairway leads to the executive suite, where doctorate 39

and regularly published astronomers wield their influence, or at least that’s the way Isole thinks about it. For nearly twenty years Isole has watched his colleagues find the path to promotion quite sooner than him. Even though he had a few advancements to new offices overlooking sheer green pastures and been provided with eager interns willing to flirt with infidelity, it was never enough or fast enough at least. He watched his peers come and go while he remained a constant. He became a ghost, haunting every change and renovation to the observatory with his memories of how it was before. Now he roams the halls as another generation stares through him as if he wasn’t there at all. This is the main reason he came in today. This is the reason for his resignation. “This way -- this way,” Jeanne says, still full of energy and trying to inspire Isole’s lagging legs up the final few steps and towards a small office at the top of the stairway. “Hold on, Jeanne?” Isole pants, finally hunching forward, hands on knees, as if he’s about to topple over. “Just tell me what this is all about.” “Can you just listen for once?” Jeanne snaps. “We are almost there.” Almost immediately Isole feels a familiar ire wringing at the air in his chest and his gasps for breath quickly become a hiss. The feeling churns every part of his body, coiling his fingers into knuckles, crooking his brow into a frown and leaving him feeling like he could either nova or implode from the inside out. The quiver in his fist and twitching under his eye isn’t strictly the rage itself but more so from the emotional tug of war. Isole often restrains his reactions when Jeanne or other superiors criticize his research. He swallows his indignation like phlegm and barely cringes at the bitterness. Though today the struggle between push and pull has come to an end. He doesn’t need to hold his tongue for the sake of a promotion or a prayer at being a member of the executive board. He’s going to retire today and twenty years of pent up resentment will come to the surface. He doesn’t regret coming in this morning at all anymore, in fact he’s glad. “I don’t know if the fat is clogging your ears but I asked you a question,” Isole shouts, almost in disbelief of his own voice, though in his mind it was a long time coming. Of all people this is coming from Jeanne, who isn’t an astronomy or physics major, only graduated with a bachelors degree and not only is she younger than him but she’s a woman. “Excuse me?” she replies, bemused, as if Isole was

speaking another language. “You heard me,” he snaps. “I am sick and tired of this -- this place -- and you -- you people. Half my talent -- they’re half my talent -- my age -- my experience. I quit -- that’s it -- this is it. I quit!” Isole stabs his hand into one of the bags hanging from his shoulder, shuffling through loose papers and folders, searching for his resignation papers. He pants as if he had just finished a marathon with beads of sweat beginning to pop around the edges of his receding hairline. Though he’s too flustered to look up and make eye contact with Jeanne. “I see,” Jeanne replies, almost amused by Isole’s rant. “But you can’t quit.” “I’m sorry?” Isole replies. “And why in God’s name can’t I?” “Because,” she says with a purposeful pause. “You’re the executive director.”

sole puckers his lips as if to kiss the steam rising from the ivory coffee mug in his hands, then blows the steam out like a birthday candle, but he doesn’t take a sip. He just stares into the thick black coffee as it belly dances around the rim of the mug. His hands are shaking and he’s still reeling over Jeanne’s revelation a few minutes earlier. He can’t focus on anything else besides one question, the same question he’s been asking himself for the past few minutes. How could I be the executive director? “It’s hazelnut flavored,” Jeanne says, standing ominously behind him. Isole finally catches himself and glances up at Jeanne’s smirking expression with nothing to say in return. And as he decides to smile back, Jeanne doesn’t notice, taking a seat across from him and resting a handful of papers and a pen gently on the mahogany table. “I have the contract somewhere here,” Jeanne says to herself as she flips through the papers in her manila folder. “Aren’t you going to tell me how this is possible?” Isole asks. “You don’t know?” she replies as if he should. Isole shakes his head and finally takes a sip from the coffee mug in his hands. He glances up at the television behind Jeanne that gleams like a flashing halo above her head. On the screen news reporter’s shouts and panic are muffled by the nearly empty volume on the television. “Daniel died last Thursday from pneumonia,” she says in an apologetic fashion. Isole is taken aback and takes his time to reply. “I’m sorry,” Isole says in a similarly solemn tone. 40

“We weren’t close,” Jeanne admits with a shake of her head. “What about Pierre, Raymond, Jacques or the twenty other people ahead of me?” he exclaims, quickly forgetting his poignant tone a moment earlier. “Have you been living under a rock, Isole?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Pierre died in an electrical accident last week. Jacques died last week as well, in a fire. Raymond drowned in a boating accident, or was that Marquise? I’ve lost track. The only original member of the board still alive is Constance but I haven’t been able to contact her for the past couple of days.” “And what about you?” he probes. “I’m taking time off.” Jeanne pauses, giving Isole a chance to ask why but he doesn’t. “There’s been a death in the family.” “God, I’m sorry to hear that,” Isole says with genuine empathy. “May I ask who died?” “Everyone.” Jeanne’s voice cracks and she gets up from the table. “I forgot something downstairs,” she says with a sniffle and starts towards the door. “It’ll be alright,” Isole says immediately. The words come out almost like a reflex or an instinct that something needed to said and right then and there the air begins to unwind. The eighteen years of ice between them doesn’t brake but finds the finest fissure in his consolation. Jeanne turns back to Isole and squeezes out a smile before disappearing into the shady stairway. Isole strains to listen to the television over Jeanne’s footsteps clanking down the stairs. The constant pitterpatter eventually forces him to stand and raise the volume on the black flat screen hanging from the wall. At the top left-hand corner of the screen a picture of burning debris over the ocean blurs in and out of static and staring into the camera is an obviously distraught reporter. Her voice slowly becomes audible. “The plane went down over the Atlantic early this morning. The debris is currently being searched for survivors, though rescue workers are coming up short. Again the president is confirmed dead. Making this the forty third world leader to die within the past week. I speak frankly and off the prompter when I ask, what in God’s name is happening?” Isole staggers back as the reporter continues her rant. He begins to think about how people he knew died within the past few weeks, none of them from anything out of the ordinary. Car accidents, heart attacks, lung cancer, all in fact quite ordinary forms of death. But the numbers, even as he listens to the television, it all seems increasingly improbable, eighty percent mortality rate… morgue’s overflowing… India’s

estimated population is now just over a few hundred million. As a scientist Isole knows how improbable this all is, but he also knows it’s not impossible. Isole reaches forward and grabs the remote control resting on the edge of the table and turns off the television without even glancing at the round bright buttons on the black remote. He closes his eyes and takes in a long exaggerated breath, hoping to clear his racing mind and just at that moment, as the static from the television fizzles to silence and all he can hear is the echo of himself breathing, Jeanne screams.

sole bashes the ajar door open as he barges out of the office and peers down the spiraling stairway. He notices her immediately, laying at the bottom of the stairs, her body twisted and still. She’s dead, he thinks and almost speaks, but in his shock his lips just mouth in silence. Then her leg begins twitching and slight whimpers begin to echo from the bottom of the stairway. Isole poises to start down the stairs but lingers as he notices a slight sway in the metal stairway that he hadn’t noticed on the way up. Loose screws and unfastened metal squeaks as he cautiously begins down towards the first floor. The stairway has needed to be replaced for years but never has it been this bad. What are the odds? he muses as he passes a missing railing where Jeanne undoubtedly fell over at least four floors up. “Isole,” Jeanne shouts, or tries to at least, as Isole nears the bottom floor. “Isole,” she shouts again, but even at her loudest her voice is just a whisper muffled by her lips against the bloody floor. Isole hops down the last few rickety steps and staggers towards Jeanne. He stands over her body like a deer in the headlights, unable to speak or move, knowing quite plainly that he can’t do anything for her. “We were too loud,” Jeanne says hysterically, still face down in her own blood. “Don’t talk,” Isole whispers as he crouches down next to her and flushes a gentle hush from between his lips. “I’m going to get you an ambulance.” “The universe heard us. Too much television, radio signals, cell phones.” Jeanne rambles on indistinctly for a moment about fate and destiny but her thoughts are all disconnected, even her lips seem to be at discord with her tongue, drooling and dribbling as she speaks. “Jeanne, you just keep breathing and you’ll be fine,” Isole lies wittingly, with his hand gliding tenderly against her back. “Our fate is what we make it.” But Isole stops short of what he’s saying as he suddenly realizes he’s talking to himself. Jeanne is 41

already dead. Isole stands with a sluggish uncoiling of his stiff and hunched over back as if something is burdening his ascent. It’s all coming at him too fast, the abnormal deaths, the implausible explanation, and the unnerving thought that among such chaos and horror there is only silence. As his mind races the only thing his eye’s are able to focus on is the water from the sprinklers outside, flowing into a puddle under the ajar observatory entrance. The sound of running water has always soothed his nerves in times of desperation. The gentle patter and flow of water is like a massage for his mind. In fact it was the summer rains that sustained his sanity after his wife’s untimely death. As he watches the water begin to flow inside Isole suddenly notices the old radio with some of its wires exposed and others severed with copper wiring peeled back as a makeshift antenna. The radio teeters on the edge of a bench by the front door. It’s still plugged in with a trail of static buzzing and leading Isole’s rootless concentration to its speakers. The radio wavers in the inconstant breeze pushing into the only entrance and exit in the building as if waiting for Isole to step through. A shrill snap echoes from above and Isole’s neck whips back to discover the glass ceiling splitting and beginning to chip. One crack stretches almost half the length of the ceiling with smaller fissures diverging from its jagged path. And between the rising water and falling ceiling Isole feels death closing in on him like it did everyone else, as if they were all a disease or infection on the face of the universe and thus they were all ill-fated. Isole charges forward just as the glass shatters and comes down like a jagged rain. The water by now has spread far beyond Jeanne’s broken body and is under Isole’s unsteady feet. He slips and stumbles toward the bench and the radio teetering on top. The glass begins snapping against the soaked ground, against the back of Isole hands which are now atop his head, and shattering against the bench and the radio, which finally stops teetering and falls towards the puddle beneath it. The radio touches the water just enough for it to ripple, but just as it does Isole snatches the plug from its outlet. He skids against the ground and in that same motion rolls under the bench. Curled up in a ball with his knees against his chest and his forehead tucked between his knees, Isole flinches and shudders as a never ending torrent of glass crashes down around him. Under the shadow of the dingy bench Isole almost

feels like he’s in a coffin, like he’s six feet closer to death. In a ruckus of thought and reflection with his mind grasping desperately at its last few opportunities to think, he considers what his wife thought about before she died. Whether she thought fondly of him and their life together or was that perhaps the reason that she died. And in the montage of images that flashed before her eyes was he even in one? And with that thought it’s over, the last chunk of glass claps against the floor.

ophie Leferre died in mid-April, just a few weeks before her fourteenth wedding anniversary. She overdosed on antidepressants and died a few minutes later seated on the subway in-between a throng of other passengers. For over an hour no one noticed Sophie’s slumped corpse until she eventually toppled over on the lap of the confounded attorney next to her. Thought to be an accident at first, her death was declared a suicide after a note was found stuck in one of the vents of the subway car, slipping out of her hands as her swollen heart was unable to pump enough blood to her fingers. The sloppily written note that apologized to Isole and her family wasn’t well written or thought out and more like a mess of words than any organized collection of thoughts. Except for the end. The last couple of paragraphs seemed to be on her mind for some time. She said she was lonely and so lonely in fact that she described the feeling as sinking into herself and drowning in her own identity. She said that if she could be around so many people and still feel alone then the aliens aren’t out there, but here and all around us. Though it was the last thing Sophie wrote, no matter how many times he reads it, Isole’s eyes immediately swell with tears. She wrote something strange and in fact the doctor said that it was probably from the manic flash that occurs when there is a shortage of oxygen reaching the brain. And as Sophie’s lungs began to seize up from the medicine she was eating like candy, she wrote erratically and perhaps with an honesty that can only be found in the subconscious. She said that if she died she would be nobody and that nobody can be alone. And even now Isole’s eyes begin to flutter with tears as he stands outside the observatory reading the note and glancing around to make sure no one nearby is looking, but no one is looking because there’s no one around. Isole takes his wife’s suicide note and reads it for the last time before tossing it into a faint breeze that he can’t feel, but only see as the letter rolls into a slow stumble down the street. He can let it go. After 42

months and endless nights of investigating what she was feeling at the end, he believes he finally understands, because he is beginning to feel the same way. Loneliness isn’t about being alone. His wife saw him every day and had endless friends and family. No, he thinks, strolling down the empty Paris streets with tall buildings on either side of him tossing the sound of his footsteps back and forth. Loneliness for Isole is about that constant echo, an echo he can hear even now on the empty Paris street. An echo that doesn’t come from an empty road or a vacant room, but it’s the echo that comes from inside a hollow man. The road leading to his apartment is empty except for the few cars crashed into the side of buildings, street lamps, and each other. A few screams can be heard far in the distance like desperate whispers carried on the wind, but besides that it’s nearly silent. And none of this scares Isole or bewilders him at all; in fact his saunter along the street is quite composed and peaceful. We were too lucky, Isole thinks as he muses about the odds of Earth being in the most marginal of fissures between too far and too close to the sun. Just a mile or so off either way and there might not be life on Earth. Then he thinks about how lucky we are that water exists on Earth and the billions of meteors that could have destroyed life on the planet over the millennia. Then it all comes to him at once: temperature, the magnetic field, solar flares, the path of evolution. The odds of every person alive dying of natural causes within a period of two weeks is more likely than human beings ever existing at all. Humanity has been so lucky for so long that perhaps their luck has finally run out. As Isole approaches his apartment complex he wonders if mankind and life itself could be a tiny virus in the body of the universe, spreading its radio waves and noise like a disease though space. Because he feels like fate is acting as an immune system of sorts and cleaning life off the face of the Earth. An idea with no scientific basis whatsoever but it gives him solace as a scientist to understand and in the end that’s enough for him. Tired and working up a healthy sweat from the stairs because of the broken elevator, Isole gets back to his apartment and warms a cup of coffee. He tries the television, but there is nothing on other than a storm of static. He spends almost an hour in the bathroom brushing the shredded glass that had become as fine as dust out of his hair and wiping the cuts and bruises around his neck and back with alcohol.

Changing into a robe Isole steps out onto his balcony as the sunlight recedes on the skyline the same as it has any other night before. Isole sits next to his telescope the same as he always does and chuckles, thinking how funny it is that nothing has changed. He thinks that though he may be the last man alive, besides a few cuts and bruises, his life is no different that the night before. No, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not funny, he rethinks, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s irony.

__________________________________________ Dwain Worrell is your average struggling writer from Boston, Massachusetts. After graduating from Georgia State University he moved to Beijing where he taught English literature. Dwain Worrell's writing has appeared in Aphelion web-zine (In God's Image), Everyday Weirdness (Population Singularity) and can be seen in the feature film Walking the Dead.

Ask you local library about carrying Encounters. They can order it from Ingram and other sources, or purchase a subscription directly from Black Matrix Publishing LLC.

Contact: publisher@blackmatrixpub.com for more information on our distribution to libraries program.

Oblivion

by Naomi Johnson There's nothing quite like small town charm, then you stop in Oblivion. ___________________________________________________________

“Are we lost again, Daddy?”

The question from his five-year-old son in the back seat held no hint of accusation; it was just a request for information. The accusation was in his wife's face as she gave him that look: the one that said her patience had run out, and he had better stop for directions at the next gas station. The problem, Dave thought, is that in the hills of West Virginia there was not always a gas station on the next corner. In fact, there was rarely a corner. Plenty of switchbacks and hairpin turns, not so many corners. The small towns they had rolled through earlier in the day had appeared to be almost entirely residential. Not much in the way of any businesses or industry. Roughly three hundred years since white men moved into this part of the country and they hadn't had much impact in all that time, aside from the mining industry. “Just looking for a gas station,” Dave assured them both. Linda settled back in her seat, her head turned away from him. “Soon,” her voice was quiet but firm. “It's starting to get dark.” “Just clouds,” he replied. “It's only four o'clock.” She cranked her head around to peer upward through the windshield. “I guess. But they're really starting to roll in. We could be in for a storm. Maybe we can find someplace to have an early dinner, just sit out the storm inside.” “Whatever,.” He stifled a sigh. God, driving with Linda was tedious. She hated driving out of her way to see anything. Hated stopping at any diner that wasn't part of a national chain. She made notes ahead of time on every mile marker and exit to be used to gauge their progress. She never wanted to stop at any roadside attraction or go ten miles out of their way to see a historic landmark. For her, it was all about the destination and not the journey. She was just no fun at this. And she was teaching Billy not to be any fun at it either. Good thing he'd accidentally-on-purpose missed the turn-off to Charleston. As if to apologize, she said, “Thanks for taking my turn at the wheel. I can't stand these roads. There's no place to pull over if something happens.” “Nothing will happen. We're fine.” “There are places where the guard rail has been 44

demolished. You can see where cars have just crashed right though them,” she pointed out. “And there's nothing on the other side of it but down.” “Speeders and drunks,” he assured her. “I'm neither. Is that a sign for a town?” Linda straightened up and looked ahead. “Yes. Oblivion, three miles. Not a very welcoming name for a town.” “Oh, I don't know. West Virginia is full of funny names. I was born in a place called Rum Junction, grew up in Sunbeam.” “I know, you told me. But Oblivion … ugh. It's creepy.” “What do you think about Big Right Hand?” “Are you kidding me? Is that a real name for a town?” “I kid you not. Hey, Billy,” Dave glanced in the rearview, “what would you name a town if you could?” “Peter Parker!” was the instant reply. Billy was all about Spider-man these days, but the idea of naming a town after Spider-man's secret identity set his parents laughing. “I thought that was where guys on Viagra went into dry dock,” Dave said, and Linda snorted, which made both of them laugh even harder. “What?” Billy asked, not understanding. Linda started laughing again and Dave said, “Nothing, son. Look, there's another sign. Man, it is getting dark all of a sudden.” And he flipped the headlights on. “'Welcome to Oblivion. We've been waiting for you. Population 6,666, and growing.'” Linda blinked. “Now tell me that's not creepy. Six six six.” “Doesn't mean a thing with that extra 6,000 attached. Watch for a gas station.” “I'll watch, too,” Billy offered. “You do that, son.” Dave slowed down to accommodate the town's 25mile-an-hour speed limit. Oblivion, he thought, looked like any other small town in Appalachia. A few flakingbrick houses set right up against the road, a couple of more modern ranch houses further back. The hillsides were sprinkled with ancient mobile homes and the ramshackle remains of cheap mining company houses. A slow curve brought them to a stretch of two-lane where residences mingled with small businesses: Oblivion Hardware, Masel's Flowers and Gifts, Koffee Klatch Kafe. No gas stations.

"Weird," Linda said, crossing her arms as if cold. "What?" "Where are the people? It's August, shouldn't we see some people outside? Plenty of cars but no people." "It's August and it's hotter than --," Dave stopped, remembering just in time not to cuss in front of Billy. "Hell!" Billy piped up. "Nice work, dad." Linda gave him 'the look' again. "I don't even see people inside the stores. No dogs, no cats, no children. It's like, the lights are on but no one's home, not in the whole town." Dave shrugged it off. "Probably some kind of town meeting going on or something." "It's still weird," she insisted. "There should be kids or something. Birds, even. That's right, I don't see any birds at all." "And you won't," Dave fought back his irritation. Did she want to scare Billy into having nightmares again? But, the rule was, no fighting in front of the kid. "Storm's coming, remember? And look, there's a kid right up there. See? Feel better now?" A skinny, tow-headed girl, about the same age as Billy, sat on a rusty metal tricycle, the big kind like kids had in the '50s. The intersection was oddly angled, being a kind of dumping ground for five streets. The girl had the stoplight in her favor but she made no effort to move her vintage vehicle. She almost seemed to be stationed there, waiting for someone, her parents maybe, to come and collect her. As their car approached, she slowly turned her head to stare into the car's interior. Dave could see that her hair was a matted mass of tangles and dirt, and her face was unusually pale with a broad overhanging brow that shadowed narrow eyes so dark a brown that they almost glinted red in the fading light. Her jaw hung slack, effluvium trailing from her nose and mouth. The first thing Dave thought was “throwback.” "Oh, my lord," Linda exclaimed. "What a ghastly child. She looks – feral. Hungry." "Oh, stop," Dave was growing impatient with Linda's whims and fancies, and instantly forgot his own less-than-charitable impression of the girl. "She's just a kid. She didn't get to pick her genes. And maybe she is hungry. There's a recession on, you know, and West Virginia has a lot of poor people." "I don't mean hungry for food," she snapped. "Just drive. The light is green already." She paused then gathered momentum. " We see one person in this town and she looks like something, something, I don't know. Prehistoric. But you don't see. You never notice anything. Everything is always just fine with you. Well, I think this place is creepy. Just find us a gas station, get directions and let's get the -- let's get out of 45

this town." Dave felt his temper flare, and he pressed too hard on the accelerator. The car jerked forward. He took a couple of deep breaths and made himself ease up. An image of the little girl flashed in the right side-view mirror as they left her behind. "I thought you wanted to eat and sit out the storm?" he reminded his wife. "There's a restaurant up ahead." Just as he said it, a burst of red neon flashed ahead on the left, announcing Newman's Family Dining. "Well, should I stop?" He asked. "Slow down, let me see." "We're at a crawl now. Any slower and we'll stop." Linda leaned forward and peered past him through the gloom and into the brightly lit interior of the restaurant. Suddenly she leaned back, hissing an inhalation. "No! No," her tone was sharp, "keep going. Find a gas station." "What?" Dave wanted to know what she had seen. "What? Eight cars in their parking lot is what. And no people inside, that's what." "Maybe they're in the back room. You're making too much out of it." Her voice rose to a near-shrill before she could calm herself. "I am not making -- just get us out of here, Dave. Something's not right about this place and I want out of here." "Mommy?" Billy's voice had that wobble it got just before he started crying. Dave shot an angry glance at his wife. "Hey, Billy," he soothed, "hey, little man, nothing's wrong. Mommy's just tired. We're all okay. When I find a gas station, you want some red licorice?" "Yeah!" At least Billy was more easily pacified than his Mom, who was sitting bolt upright and staring straight ahead, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Dave reached over and touched her hands. Why, he wondered, am I always the first one to try to make peace? "Okay, sweetie. We'll get gas and some snacks to tide us over. I'll get directions and we'll leave as soon as possible. All right?" "Dave," her voice was low and intense, "I know you think I'm just being ... fanciful. But I really have a bad feeling about this town. If ... when we get out of here, then you can laugh at me all you want. But just get us out of here." "Okay, hon, okay. Hey, here we are." The tension between them was so thick it almost seemed like a miracle when he saw the gas station. He let out a relieved sigh. He hadn't realized until then

that he had been thinking they would never find one. It wasn't just Billy that Linda's nerves were affecting. He almost laughed when he read the sign on the cinder block building. He turned the wheel and bumped up into the pumping area, neatly bringing the car alongside a pump so old-fashioned that he wondered if it really worked. "Billy, look. The name of this place is Parker's Service Station. Do you think it might belong to Peter Parker?" Billy voice dripped scorn with the purity that only a five-year-old can produce. "Peter Parker doesn't work at a gas station, He's a puttographer and takes pitchers." "That's right," Dave nodded. "Sorry, I forgot. You want to go inside with me and help me pick out the snacks?" Linda jerked out a "No!" just as Billy said "Yes! and there came the click of his seat belt. Dave leaned over and put an arm around her. "I'll watch out for him, hon. I won't take my eyes off him. Keep the doors locked while we're gone, okay? We'll be as quick as we can." He flicked the child-lock to let Billy out, then opened his own door and slid out. "Come on around here, son, and help me pump the gas, okay." No point in warning the kid about traffic. There wasn't any. Linda was right, this town looked right, like a million other small towns, but it had an empty feeling. It was kind of spooky. Just the kind of place for a zombie colony. But then he remembered his uncle, a teamster, telling him about driving through South Dakota, how he'd go through small towns and see all the lights on in the stores and houses with not a soul around. "Out back taking care of business," Uncle Bill had said, "or gone home for dinner or whatever. People there trust each other and they just walk away from their stores to look after some other chore. It's an honor system. Customers come in, take what they want and leave the money or leave a note telling what all they took. Hard for city people to understand, but out in the open country, it works." Oblivion didn't have a country kind of feel to it though. It just felt deserted, like everyone had stopped in the middle of what they were doing and left. Picked up by UFOs maybe. And there was still the possibility of zombies. Then Dave remembered the little girl and smiled at his own foolishness. But he shivered, too. He helped Billy top off the tank, and hung up the nozzle. The old pump didn't allow for paying with a credit card, and there was no sign saying all drivers were thieves and you'd better pay first or you'd get no 46

gas. Hey, right there was an example of that countrytrusting-honor system stuff Uncle Bill had talked about. It was just the darkening skies combined with the shadowy hills and Linda's jumpy nerves that had made him think otherwise, however briefly. He put one hand on his son's head, ruffled his dark hair and said, "C'mon, Spidey, let's go get some water and juice and chips and..." "Licorish!" Billy skipped on ahead and Dave hurried after him. A bell rang as they passed through the door marked 'Enter,' and Dave looked around. Counter and cash register were immediately to the right. To the left were three narrow aisles of goods, each end-capped with specials on sugary snacks, energy drinks, and motor oil. The walls were lined with refrigeration units, stocked with beer, beer, more beer, some soft drinks, and a handful of dairy products. An overhead sign reading 'Restrooms' pointed toward a darkened hallway. No one had appeared in answer to the bell so Dave stepped back, opened and shut the door again. Once more the bell chimed but no one came out of the dark hall. No one stood up from behind the counter. Billy was zooming up and down the aisles, on a mission to acquire red licorice. His preference was for the red licorice whips; he liked to pretend those were Spidey's web lines, but any form would satisfy his jones for the rubbery red candy. “I found some, Dad!” he called from the back aisle. Dave came up behind him. “Okay, get two packages. One for now and one for tomorrow, okay? Let's get a Snickers for Mom and some chips and some cheese crackers.” “Can I have a red pop?” Billy looked up at him, the anticipation of a sugar thrill shining in his face. “Why not?” Linda would be pissed about all the candy. Screw her. It was her fault he felt this need to indulge Billy. "Let's put this stuff up on the counter first, then we'll get the drinks." Up front, Dave put the treats on the counter and then took a moment to make the door initiate the chime again. He joined Billy in front of the soft drinks case, helped the boy pull out his selection, and grabbed two bottles of water on the way back to the counter. Still no one had appeared or called out in answer to the bell. Dave looked around the counter and back toward the door. No 'back in five minutes' note either. He could see Linda watching them intently and he smiled and waved at her. Okay, it was a little odd that there was no one around and no note. Good thing she had stayed in the car. The last thing Dave needed was to have her getting all wound up in

front of Billy. And he didn't much feel like dealing with one of her spazz attacks himself, if the truth were told. “How about using the bathroom while we're here, Spidey?” “Okay,” the boy acquiesced with the grace of one who knows when to choose his battles. “Where is it?” Dave led Billy down the hall, found a light switch and flicked it on. The fluorescent light was dim but better than the darkness. He pushed open the door to the men's room and went in ahead of Billy, expecting to encounter a clerk who might be drunk or engaged in a practice he'd rather Billy didn't learn about just yet. But no one was in there. Even more surprising, the restroom was spotless. True, the single john had no door which, unless the room was usually locked, could make for some interesting encounters. “I have to poop!” Billy announced, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down. Well, Dave thought, that explained his easy acquiescence. “Okay, when you're done, wash your hands and come back out front, okay? I need to leave a note for the owner about what we're taking so we can send him the money later.” “ 'Kay.” Dave went back down the hall, straight through the store and headed for Linda's side of the car, thinking she would have pen and paper in her purse. Before he could get there, she was out and in his face, her whole body shaking with anger. “Where's Billy? What's happened? Why did you leave him?” She started to run past him but he caught her by the arm and pulled her back. “He's all right, just calm down. Linda, calm down. He's in the bathroom.” “You said you wouldn't take your eyes off him! You lying bas –.” “Now just stop it! There's nobody in there but Billy.” “Nobody? Are you sure? Did you look everywhere? Did you look in the women's restroom?” “No, I did not look in the women's room, but I rang the bell three –.” But Linda was gone, running past him and through the door. Dave swore and strode after her. What if there had been someone in the women's room? There was something really weird about this town, wasn't there? What if some creep who – Dave clamped down hard on his imagination. Nothing was going to happen to Billy. Christ, nothing better happen to Billy! Now Dave was running, too, his heart thumping with fear, and he caught up with Linda as she pushed through the restroom door, screaming, “Billy! Billy!” She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight before 47

her, and Dave crashed into her, grabbing at her to steady them both. A red-faced Billy sat on the toilet, his little jeans slumped around his ankles, a wad of toilet tissue clutched in one hand. “Mo-omm,” he yelled. “Get out of here!”

hunder rolled between the hills like the gargle of deep-throated giants. The ominous flicker of lightning flashed the news of the storm's arrival. Linda had insisted on carrying Billy back to the car, once his bathroom mission was accomplished. Dave had left a note for the owner, then followed them as the first raindrops spattered his shoulders and head, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. "It isn't funny, Dave." Just before the interior light went off he saw her nostrils flaring. She was totally pissed, as only a woman could be, at having embarrassed herself. That was okay, it was better than having her jumping around like a startled deer and imagining all kinds of woo-woo bullshit. She'd even started getting to him with that stuff, had sent his adrenaline pumping and his heart rate sky-high with fear for Billy. Maybe it was best that they were getting the hell out of Dodge. The longer they stayed here, the more wound up she got. That was bad enough, but doing it in front of Billy, just when they were having some success at quelling his nightmares, that was something Dave wouldn't tolerate. "Yes, it is, Linda. It's hilarious. Isn't it, Spidey?" "No." Clearly, Billy wasn't any happier than his mom right now. "You're not sulking, are you, partner?" Dave glanced over his shoulder out of habit, making certain that Billy was properly buckled in. "Can I have my licorish?" "I don't know," Dave replied. "Are you sulking?" "No." "Are you still mad at Mom? You know she didn't mean to embarrass you. She was just worried about you. And she's sorry for breaking in on you that way." Linda was about to give him 'that look' but Billy forestalled her with one of those perfect child moments. "It's okay, Mommy. I love you." Dave could feel the tension melt out of her. He grinned. Linda turned in her seat to look directly at her son. "I love you, too, Billy." "Can I have my licorish now? Please?" Dave snorted a laugh, and Linda gasped. "What a little manipulator," she said softly. Then louder, "Two pieces and no more. At sometime tonight we will eat a

proper dinner, right?" "Right." Billy snatched at the candy she handed him. "Dave," she turned to face front again and her voice was level, calm. "What are we going to do about directions? Did you pick up a map?" "There weren't any. So we just head back the way we came. This storm may slow us down, but it still shouldn't take more than a couple of hours to get back to a town with a motel. What was the name of that one place, Chapmanville?" "I think so. Something like that." Linda sounded sleepy. She had worn herself out with anxiety. It would be good for all of them if she could doze a little while so Dave stopped talking. Rain was pelting the windshield and Dave drove carefully back along the main street. It was a strange little town, he had to admit it. Not one other car was on the road with him. He hadn't seen another moving car since they entered Oblivion. The rain obscured his view into the brightly lit stores but if there were any people inside, he couldn't see them. Definitely creepy. Linda was right but now -- he sneaked a quick glance and saw that her eyes were closed and her head tilted against the passenger window -- now was not the time to say so. They could have a good laugh about it all tomorrow. Ahead of them the traffic light switched from amber to red, and he eased the car to a stop. Motion to the left caught his eye and he stiffened as he saw the same little girl they had passed earlier. What was she doing out in this rain? Why didn't she go home? At first Dave thought the kid was rolling the old tricycle across the street, finally with the good sense to go home and get dry, but then he realized she had taken an angle that would take her right up to his door. Maybe she was lost and scared. She was just a little kid, no matter how unappetizing her appearance. He rolled down his window, ignoring the chill of the rain as it washed over his left arm and face. An intense sulfuric odor blew into the car. The rusty trike squealed to a grinding halt beside his door. A flash of lightning revealed the little girl looking up at him with a face from one of Billy's nightmares. Narrow eyes flashed a malevolent red, and bared yellow teeth, more liked fangs, they were much longer than a child should have, grinned a nasty, knowing hunger at him. A tongue â&#x20AC;&#x201C; was it black? â&#x20AC;&#x201C; flicked out and licked across her snotty upper lip. A pale arm that ended in dirty claws reached for his door handle. Dave yelped and jerked back, slammed his foot onto the accelerator and peeled through the still-red light. Jesus! What was that? His mind couldn't quite believe what he had seen but his heart was racing again, the adrenaline engine working overtime, and 48

he didn't think to even roll up the window. He was just driving, just getting the hell out of Dodge for sure. Getting away from whatever that was that had sat looking up at him with such evil intent. He wasn't going to stop for anything this side of the Ohio River, he told himself, even if ... even if the kid was maybe just wearing a Halloween mask. Only she hadn't been wearing a mask. The red eyes, those teeth, those were real. And that little -freak was the only living creature they had seen in this whole town. What was a little girl doing all by herself out in the pouring rain. Where the hell was everybody? Weird? Weird didn't cover it. There was something wrong, something unnatural about this town. He glanced at Linda. She was still drowsing, not even his peeling out at the intersection had disturbed her. Thank God. She'd be in hysterics by now if she'd seen that little monster. Billy? He was sleeping now, too, a slight trickle of licorice-red saliva oozing from a corner of his mouth. Thank God neither of them had seen what he had. The painful thumping of his heart began to ease, and he thumbed the button to roll up the window. Lightning slashed the night, briefly illuminating the road as it wound along the crest of a hill. He could see the lights of Oblivion in the rear-view. So long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, goodnight. Rain pounded down, the drumming on the roof and windshield intense and erratic. Dave muttered the words his dad used to say: "Cloud burst." He flicked the wipers to high speed but in the darkness and on these treacherous country roads, he had no choice but to slow down. He was a little tired from the ebb of adrenaline, almost relaxed, but soon even that would even itself out. He could manage a couple more hours without rest. But the wind was picking up, too, slashing the rain across his vision. Anywhere else in the world, he thought, and I would stop. South side of Chicago, the Bronx, East LA, he would have damn well stopped. But nothing could convince him that pulling over here was a good idea. Hell, there wasn't any place to pull over anyway. This old road, like so many in West Virginia, had been gouged out of the hillside, and the hill had not surrendered any of its territory easily. There were no shoulders. Across the lane for oncoming traffic was the steep, scarred rock of the mountain, The guard rail, when there was a guard rail at all, was immediately to his right. Lightning revealed the dark hollows of rock and river stretching a hundred yards below. Dave squinted. Had that been headlights? Some

kind of light ahead? Or just the lightning reflecting off wet rock? He leaned forward, trying to make sure he stayed in his lane, watching the road ahead. If another driver was blinded by this rain, was even just a little too far to the center line... Behind him, he heard Billy whimper in his sleep. There was that flash of light again. Definitely headlights, coming up the hill toward him. Billy made a noise like he was choking, a sign he might be having one of his nightmares. “Billy? Wake up, son. Linda. Linda, wake up. I think Billy's having a nightmare. Wake up, goddammit, I have to watch the road. Linda!” But Linda didn't stir and Billy was making a wet, gargling sound. The headlights were so close now but he had to check Billy. He dared to sneak a glance in the rear-view. As he did, a pale arm that ended with dirty claws reached around him from behind, grabbing for the steering wheel. A sulfurous stench blew up his nostrils even as a wet tongue laved his ear. He gagged, tried to wrench away, and yelled, “Billy!” In the mirror all he could see was Billy's head lolling back against the car seat, and something was wrong with Billy's throat. It wasn't there anymore. It wasn't – oh God! “Billy!” he screamed. “Billy! Linda!” He must be in one of Billy's nightmares, he must be. If only he could wake up, right now. This must be a nightmare because suddenly they were flying. Him and Billy and Linda and the thing with its claws on the wheel and teeth tearing at his head. And he screamed. Or was that Linda? He wasn't sure because he couldn't turn his head anymore and his eyes were full of tears and it was so dark and they were flying.

he two bikers straddled their Harleys at the edge of the road, staring down the hillside. A little below them dangled the broken guard rail. Much farther below that the sedan had rolled and tumbled and come to rest top down just above the river. The rain tapered to a drizzle and a hint of late afternoon sun began to peek through the clouds again. Beads of water slipped from their long leather dusters. “What the hell, J.R.?” said one man. “He just pulled right across us. There wasn't a damn thing you could do. A split second more and we'd be down there with him. Lucky as hell he didn't take us with him.” J.R. nodded, his eyes slits of anger as he stared down at the crumpled vehicle. “This is exactly the spot where my folks went off the road and were killed and eaten. I was only seven, but I remember.” His friend eyed him closely. “Are you really ready for this, man?” J.R. lifted open both sides of his duster to reveal an unusual arsenal held in place with Velcro loops: Wooden stakes, a pair of mallets, silver bullets, pistols, flares, vials of holy water, several hatchets and crucifixes, and even a garlic braid. “I've been ready for twenty years, dude. First thing I'm going to is go down there and chop the head off a little snot-nosed blonde girl.” ___________________________________________ Naomi Johnson has published works of crime fiction online at A Twist of Noir and Powder Burn Flash, as well as mainstream fiction published online at Southern Cross Review.

Father Mars by Jack McKenzie

Decades after the war, the colonists still fear anything that moves in the sky. ___________________________________________________________

Neko came south from Arcadia, skirting the worst

extremes of the desert region, trying to stay close to the rocky terrain. There had been precious little rainfall in the past ten days and the ground temperature was falling. A dry, cold wind was blowing from the north, and its growing bitterness matched her waning hopes of finding what she had been seeking. But then, Mars always had a reputation for being inhospitable.

he northern tribes were scattered all over Arcadia Planitia. That was where the gaproot, the plateau moss and even the redtrees grew in abundance. The northern freeholds were flourishing and there was peace amongst the tribes. Neko’s mothers were both highly placed in the freehold council and were respected by all, even among the Sydor, who hated everyone who were not Sydor. It was after the last freeholder moot that her mothers had returned and their expressions were both equally grave. “There have been rumors about stars moving.” Lyssa, her womb mother, explained. “Some have even sworn that they saw vapor trails.” Neko furrowed her brows. She had seen only nine revolutions, and had only been bleeding onto the sand for less than two, but she knew enough to scoff at such talk. “Don’t they know about whip clouds?” she asked derisively. “It’s not just addle-brained youths that are saying these things,” Elana, her gene-mother put in. “They’re oldsters who have lived long enough to remember when such sights were common.” Neko shrugged, pretending nonchalance, but she knew, as did every freeman, what the activity in the sky might portend. There were no more ships on Mars. They had been bombed out of existence by the Earth people. If the rumors were true – stars moving and vapor trails – then the Earth people might be coming back to finish what they started and scorch the face of Mars more thoroughly this time. She was too young to remember the orbit bombing. She, like all others of her generation, had never even seen an Earth person. She suppressed a shudder at the thought that Earth people might one day come back to claim Mars again. It would be the end of the world. It 50

would be worse – it would be the return of slavery.

hat night the tribe gathered at the Common to hear what Elana and Lyssa had to say. Rumors had already spread among the more talkative of the tribe and imagination had done the rest. There was fear, panic and worse, rampant speculation, running over the crowd like a thousand tiny skittermice. According to some, the invasion had already begun and the Earth people were just over the next ridge with burnweapons and slaver clamps, ready to take all the strong and healthy and burn all who got in their way. Neko felt the small fingers of panic stirring in her stomach, but she tried to remain calm. Her mothers had told her the truth as they knew it, nothing more and nothing less, as they always did. Panic was a foolish reaction and she would resist it. She was not some addle brained oldster or flighty birthwife. Elana and Lyssa did their best to calm the crowd. They explained that the rumors were only rumors and that the Earth people were not ready to invade. Free Mars was still free and would remain so as long as the tribes existed. Their words calmed the people, but there was still the problem of what to do about the rumors. The tribe was evenly divided amongst those who wanted to do nothing and hope that it was all untrue and those who wanted to send out an exploratory force to find the truth. That idea was troubling to the tribe, for tribal movements must happen in secret. A mass migration of people on the surface was always considered a hideous risk. The orbital mirrors were still in place and before the war spysats watched the planet from above. Many believed the spysats still functioned. Many worried that movement by several people on a large scale would attract their attention. The sats would wake and rain down missiles. It was finally decided that only six would be sent and each would start out in a different direction. They would find out what they could and then return. But who would go? It made sense to send hunters. The tribe had many, all of them young and strong and healthy. Neko was one of them. She was stealthy and usually successful at bringing home prey, useful items or information. She was a keen observer and reported what she saw accurately and with little or no speculation or comment.

Most of the hunters volunteered to go, all except Miraven because her wombwife was near term and she did not want to miss the birth of her first daughter. The hunters drew lots in the traditional manner. Six white stones were placed in a canvas bag along with twenty-one red ones. All would draw a stone except for Miraven and Suelli, who was still recovering from the sweating shakes. It was the first time that Neko had participated in the drawing of lots and when the bag came round to her she reached in and clutched the first stone her fingers touched. She drew it out and looked at it. At first she felt a keen disappointment. The stone was not white, but a dusty pink. She would not be one of the ones to go. But then she looked over at Jhalli who was staring at her stone in disappointment. Jhalli’s stone was a deep, rich red. Neko took another look at the stone she had drawn. It had merely become dusty from contact with the other stones. She spat upon it and wiped away the pink dust. Underneath it was white.

eko stopped. She lay down her travel staff and sat upon a largish boulder. She adjusted her leggings, tightening the puttees and re-tying her sandals, wiping the dust and grit from under the soles of her feet as best she could. Her garment was stained a dusty pink from the fine sand and the edges were frayed and torn. She sat up and looked north. Low on the horizon she could see the four blazing lights of the polar mirror – four tiny suns huddled together like gossips sharing the latest news. Towards the East she could just make out the swell of Olympus Mons. Beyond that, Neko knew, was the Tharsis Range, the home of several mountain tribes. Beyond that she did not know. She turned her gaze south and let out a disgusted breath. She had hoped to run into some of the nomadic tribes before now, but they were oddly scarce. Perhaps they had seen the signs in the sky as well and gone into hiding. She had seen no one in the ten days that she had been traveling. At this rate she might not meet up with anyone until she got to the ruins of Bradbury. She shuddered at the thought of dealing with the citizens of Bradbury. City folk were strange to begin with, but the people of Bradbury had an unsettling feel that made Neko edgy. Her stomach rumbled. She had eaten the last of her travel wafers several hours ago. She had counted on bartering with the nomadic tribes for more provisions. Now she had the dead weight of trade goods to lug around that were doing her no good at all. She exhaled miserably, deciding she had walked enough 51

for one day. She picked up her travel staff and flicked the toggle near the base. The sharp spike snapped out of the end and Neko hefted the staff and drove it into the ground. When she felt the staff secure itself she unlatched the shelter from its housing in the staff’s head and pulled out the flexible spines. The reflective material, very thin but very strong, unraveled itself between the spines. Soon it was fully extended and Neko latched each of the spines to the ground. Then she unrolled the floor from her pack. Once she was done she drank a little water from her canteen. She had already drained one and the second was nearly empty. She lay her head down on her roll pillow and was soon asleep.

t began to rain during the night. Her staff chirped its alarm and Neko woke in a panic. She quickly unlatched the spines from the ground and activated the staff's pool mode. The sides of her little shelter rose up as the spines bent themselves the opposite way. Soon her shelter was a giant bowl above her, perched on the top of the staff like an old sat receiver. Neko sat under the shelter of the bowl as it gathered the rainfall. Her rear touched the base of the staff. The mechanisms inside had been active so it felt slightly warmer than the air around her. She drew her knees up and hugged them close to her, watching the rainfall turn the surrounding sand into mud. She shivered in the cold, but gathering water was more important than personal comfort. Soon her staff chimed that the bowl was full. She flicked open a panel at the base of the staff and she removed a small spigot. The newly gathered rainwater slid down from the overflowing bowl above her. She filled both her canteens. She drank her fill from one then replenished it. The rain did not show signs of stopping. Neko wanted to convert the water gatherer back into a shelter, but little rivulets of water were already turning the sand below her into mud. The walls of the shelter would protect her from the rain, but the ground below her would become squelchy and uncomfortable. She was pondering what to do when she saw the black shape moving amongst the rocks. She had barely caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. It slunk over the terrain less than five meters from her. A jackrabbit! That’s the only thing it could be out here. Perhaps the rain had driven it out of its warren. Neko’s heart began to pound in excitement as her hunting instincts kicked in. She didn’t have time to grab a needler from her pack. Heedless of the rain, she

followed the black shape. It was moving rapidly over the rocks, trying to avoid the muddy ground. Neko had to move quickly to keep up with the little creature, careful to stay stealthy at the same time. The sound of the rain would mask much of her sound, but the rain soaked ground also meant that her footing would be clumsy. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of the meal the rabbit would make. Both Phobos and Diemos were out that night, but their light was masked by cloud cover. The surrounding terrain was blanketed in an impenetrable darkness. Neko could barely keep track of the black creature as it undulated over and around the rocks. Neko noted the way it avoided the muddy ground, springing, instead, from rock to rock. Neko used that to her advantage as she moved rapidly through a muddy patch of ground. She managed to get slightly ahead of her prey, then she closed in. She slapped a muddy sandal on a rock once. The noise startled the creature. It stopped and abruptly changed direction but not fast enough. Neko pounced and grabbed the moving shape and held it close to her, her hands trying to find its neck to twist the life out of it. The creature emitted a very un-rabbitlike yeowl. Neko tried to subdue the struggling creature but sharp claws dug deep into her forearm and hands. Neko let out a yelp of pain and surprise as the creature kicked away from her, leaping to the ground and bounding away over the rocks, soon lost in the darkness. Pain, shock and anger suffused Neko’s brain as she tried to make sense of what just happened -- tried to puzzle out what sort of creature it was that she'd gotten hold of. It was certainly no jackrabbit. Neko cursed as the rain soaked her to the skin and her arms flared with the pain of deep gouges. She turned to go back to her shelter when a second shape, this one much larger, loomed out of the darkness beside her. She had no time to react before a hard blow landed on the side of her head, knocking her to the ground. She had a brief view of the muddied ground and a booted foot before the blackness claimed her entirely.

eko became aware of a soft, thrumming sound. It was odd, unlike any she had heard before. Her head hurt. Her shoulders hurt. She was lying on her stomach on something soft. She opened her eyes. She found it difficult to focus but she could clearly see a pair of slanted green eyes staring back at her. A voice croaked from somewhere behind her. 52

“Father Mars, Father Mars, Under cold and distant stars.” The voice sang. Neko could hear someone moving behind her. “Angelina has already scratched you once. You don’t want that again, do you?” The voice was strangely deep, yet frail. Her vision cleared and she could see the black furred creature sitting before her, curled up around itself, its tail flicking with a mix of amusement and impatience, its eyes staring at her intently. The creature was the source of the soft thrumming noise. “What is it?” Neko managed to rasp. “What is it?” the cracked voice asked incredulously. “Angelina is a cat. Father Mars, don’t tell me you’ve never seen a cat before, child.” Despite the pain and her seeming inability to move, Neko felt a flash of anger well up inside of her. “I’m nine revolutions old, don’t call me a child!” A soft chuckle from deep in a throat that sounded like a scratchy recording from an old and broken file player. “I’m sixty-three years old. I’ve lived long enough to have the right to call you child, my dear.” Sixty-three? Impossible. No one lived that long. “Nine revolutions?” the voice continued. “That’s… seventeen? Eighteen?” Neko felt a fresh explosion of anger. “Eighteen? Do I look eighteen? Both my mothers are eighteen!” Another soft chuckle which infuriated Neko even more. She tried to turn around to face the source of the raspy voice but she found that her arms would not move. “Stop struggling, child. Let me remove the restraint first.” The voice said. She felt the figure looming over her, then something sharp pinched somewhere between her shoulder blades. After that feeling began to return to her body. It was a cold, prickly feeling, but she could feel her extremities again. Her arm hurt from where the creature… the cat… had scratched her and her toes were cold. She turned herself around and sat up, though it made her head hurt to do so. She was inside some sort of structure. The place was lit by a single fire and the light of the flames made shadows that flickered and danced. She was in some sort of old hab. The walls were smooth and gray but patched here and there with red sandbrick. She was lying on a rug made out of shiny material. It was soft, though, and warm. She examined herself quickly. The deep scratches on her arm had been treated, covered with some sort of white salve and then bandaged with a yellowed twisting cloth. Her puttees had come undone and her toes were cold, but they were all there. She moved them closer to the fire to warm them.

There was a figure on the other side of the fire, the author of the cracked voice. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where is this?” The figure leaned forward so that the fire illuminated her face. The face was hideously old and wrinkled -- one of the ugliest faces that she had ever seen on a woman, she thought, before suddenly realizing that it was not a woman. It was a man. She'd heard stories about them, but had never seen one, and had certainly never been close to one. Neko froze in fear. The old stories told about men's wanton violence, their possessiveness, their love of drink and domination. They told of a snake that men kept with them; a weapon they used on women -particularly on young, defenseless, women. Neko leaped up, despite the risk of another mauling from the cat creature. She tried to get away but her legs buckled underneath her and she fell back down onto the blanket. The cat creature let out a howl and scrambled away. Neko tried to do the same but her limbs simply would not respond after having been numbed for so long. “Calm down, child, Calm down!” the man was saying in his cracked and scratchy way. “You’re perfectly safe here.” Neko turned around. She was on her elbows, her legs splayed in front of her at a useless angle. The frantic signals she sent to them produced merely twitches and shakes. She glared at the figure on the other side of the fire. “You’re… you’re a man...” she managed, her breath coming in ragged gasps after the effort of trying to escape. The man nodded and then smiled, his face cracking into a thousand wrinkles, making it look even uglier than it had before. Neko shuddered. “What are you going to do to me?”. The man let out a sigh. “I was planning on feeding you,” he said. “But since you seem keen to leave, perhaps I’ll give you back your things and you can rely on Father Mars to protect you.” The man reached behind him and lifted up a rusted metal bowl full of hot food. Neko’s stomach growled alarmingly in the quiet of the hab. The aroma of cooked meat assailed her nostrils and produced a heady feeling. Neko suddenly felt weak even as her mouth began to salivate. The man sniffed the aroma coming from the bowl and smiled. “I culled a jack not too long ago. His carcass hung for days. I’d planned to roast him and eat him as he was, but when you showed up I decided to 53

add some vegetables and make a stew. Does that sound alright to you?” Neko felt torn between her desire to get away from this monster, and the desperate hunger that she’d been fighting for the last several days. She could only nod weakly in response. The man stood slowly. He came around the fire and gently put down a bowl and a utensil in front of her. He then backed away. Neko stared intently at the bowl, the gnawing hunger finally overriding her caution and fear. The bowl was hot but she ignored that. She grabbed the metal utensil that was just as rusted as the bowl and began to eat, slowly at first, then with and increased gusto. The man chuckled. Neko finished one bowl and then half of another before finally settling back and regarding her host warily. “What do you want me for?” Neko asked. “If you’d wanted to kill me you’d have done it already. So, what do you want me for? A slave? Or perhaps…” Neko tried to think of all the things that men did to women in the stories her mothers and the other women of the tribe told, but she could not think of any specifics, just that it was horrible. The man produced another dry chuckle. “Do you mean, am I going to rape you? Perhaps if I were younger I’d try to seduce you, but now I haven’t the time nor the strength.” He shook his grizzled head slowly. “I thought you were one of the nomads. They travel Amazonis and occasionally they break into my hab and steal things. That was why I struck you. You tried to attack Angelina. I figured you must be starving.” “I thought she was a jackrabbit. Sometimes you find them on the plains,” Neko said. The man shook his head. “Not here,” he said. “I have a pen full of them for myself. The nomads like to take those as well. They’d take all of them if I wasn’t careful. I’ve told them that I don’t mind sharing, but they’re wild… feral.” He stopped and regarded her with an intense gaze. “You’re from the northern tribes, aren’t you?” Neko nodded cautiously. The man nodded to himself. “The hatchery is still active?” “Of course,” Neko said. The hatchery was maintained by the priestesses. All the tribes depended on the hatchery. That was why there was peace. The man chuckled again. “Father Mars, Father Mars, Under cold and distant stars.” Neko favored him with a guarded expression. “What is that?”

The man chuckled again. “You’re probably too young to have heard it. It’s very old. Father Mars, Father Mars, Under cold and distant stars. Provides for you what you may need, But tests you with a dirty deed. It’s an old poem the terraformers used to say, and it’s true. Father Mars will provide what you need if you are patient, but he will test you in ways that you do not expect. The tests of Father Mars are what makes us strong. Martians are the strongest people in the solar system.” “What about the Earth people?” Neko asked. “My tribe was afraid that the Earth people were returning. Some have seen lights moving in the sky. Some swear they saw vapor trails..” The man regarded her with an unreadable expression. “When the war came the Earth people did not set foot upon Mars. They bombed it from above. They dropped asteroids on our cities. They destroyed the comsats and they fired lasers at the ground. They uprooted the Stairway to Heaven. Pulled it from the ground and out of orbit.” The man shook his grizzled head. “Dark days, indeed. But the Earth people never once set foot on Mars. They did not have to.” “Will they do that again?” Neko asked. “Kill us all?” The man shook his head. “Not this time, no. This time they have come to save us.” Neko felt her stomach clench at the man’s words. “They're coming?” The man nodded his head. “They’re returning," he said, and then jumped up and ran to the back of the hab. From what looked to Neko like a random pile of junk the old man pulled out a large gray box. It was made of metal and rusted just like the bowl. It was festooned with knobs and had a large grille on the front. "I've been calling them with this." the old man said, proudly, wiping dust from the surface of the box and flicking knobs. "It still works. I've been calling them to come back and save us. For years I called, and now they have come.” Neko felt dizzy and sick. It was true. The Earth people were returning. She had to get back to her tribe. She had to warn the others. She tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness and nausea forced her to sit back down. The stew in her belly moved alarmingly and threatened to come back up. A cold sweat broke out on her brow. The old man ignored Neko’s distress. “The Earth people are returning,” he said, still holding the gray box. “They will return and re-build the cities. They will replace the comsats and the glorious terraforming will continue. The fields will be fertile and the rivers will flow. The air will be warm and there will be 54

animals in abundance.” “They will bring death,” Neko managed to murmur. The wave of nausea was passing, but she still felt unsteady. “The Earth people will finish what they started. They’ll come back in great numbers and wipe the Martians from the face of the planet.” The old man turned towards her, a strange expression on his face. Then he shook his head. “You are young, child, and misinformed,” he said, then turned away. Still holding onto the box, he began to putter around his hab, muttering “Father Mars, Father Mars…” Neko had to get up. She had to leave the hab and return home. Where was her staff? She had left it gathering rainwater. Had the old man seen it? Had he taken it? Was it stowed somewhere among his collection of junk? And what about her pack with the trade goods? She stood unsteadily. She could not see the cat anywhere but she could hear the thrumming noise that it made. It was hiding somewhere nearby. “I’ve got to return home,” Neko announced. The old man stopped his humming and puttering. “I’ve got to warn my people about the Earth people. Where is my staff and my pack?” The old man stood up and stared at her with an uncomprehending expression. “The Earth people are coming to save us,” he said. “They’re coming to bring us out of darkness. They’ll re-build the cities and turn the power back on. Don’t you want to see them do that?” Neko scowled and shook her head, fighting down another wave of nausea. “My tribe needs to know that they are coming.” “Your tribe,” the old man snarled. “All women. All women who only know how to breed women. The Earth people will bring men. And they will show us how to live like men again.” The old man suddenly put down the gray box and rushed at her. Neko was caught unprepared and she went down under his weight. The old man was on top of her, tearing at her girdle, trying to rip it free. Neko tried to kick him away but he was stronger than his frail appearance suggested. He pulled her girdle away, leaving her exposed. He reached down and pulled up the simple robe that he wore. Neko felt something touch her down below, something unfamiliar. It was hard and yet soft at the same time. It pushed against her as if it were trying to force itself inside of her. It was the snake, Neko thought, the one that men are said to carry with them. Desperate, Neko reached down and grabbed it. She felt it moving so she

squeezed and twisted it, trying to choke out its life. The old man let out a yelp of pain and rolled off. Neko got a brief glimpse of the snake. The old man’s robe was hiked up to his belly and she saw it shrink before her eyes until he grabbed it and held it close, trying to soothe the pain she had caused him. It was not an actual snake but an appendage – something attached to the man’s body. Neko could not keep her stomach down anymore. She rolled over and let it empty itself all over the shiny rug. As she finished heaving, a burst of noise split the air inside the hab. It startled Neko and she jumped up, ready for an attack from all sides. “Mars Ground Station, this is Tango Robert Charlie five-one-five. Do you read us?” The old man was curled around his snake, holding it and rocking back and forth. He seemed oblivious to the sudden voice from nowhere. “Mars Ground Station, this is Tango Robert Charlie five-one-five. I repeat: Do you read us?” The voice said again, more insistently. It was a woman's voice and it was coming from the gray box. The old man stopped rocking. His eyes came back into focus on the here and now instead of on his own pain. “The Earth people,” he whispered. “Mars Ground Station…” the voice from the box repeated. The old man ran to the box and fiddled with the controls. Suddenly the voice became deafeningly loud, bouncing off the walls of the hab. “…THIS IS TANGO ROBERT CHARLIE FIVE-ONE-FIVE.” Neko pressed her hands over her ears. The voice was deafening now. “DO YOU READ US?” “I read you!” the old man shouted at the box, trying to find the right combination of knobs to let him talk back. “WE HEAR YOU!” he shouted. “OH, THANK GOD!” the voice shouted from the box. “MARS GROUND STATion, this is Tango Robert…” The old man had managed to find the volume control and the voice was no longer deafening. Neko let her hands drop from her ears and she listened in awed fascination to the voice that came from the box. “We are in a controlled descent, homing in on your signal. We’re descending in a shuttle to your location. You should be able to see us visually.” “We’re waiting for you!” the old man shouted, his pain and anger of minutes before was now replaced with an unadulterated glee. He was shifting from leg to leg and twitching with excitement. “We’ve been waiting for you for a long time!” Neko shuddered. The old man had brought the Earth people to Mars. It wasn’t enough that they destroyed her world once, now they were coming to 55

do it again, and it was all this…man’s… fault. She ran at him and grabbed at the knobs on the box, trying to make the voice stop. She flipped a few switches and turned a knob before the old man was able to push her away. She fell backwards, narrowly missing the vomit that she’d heaved up onto the rug. Neko let out a growl of rage and frustration. The straps of her puttees were askew and she was bare from midriff to calf. She was scratched, beaten and dirty and she had to get out of here. She grabbed her girdle from the floor where the old man had flung it and fastened it back on. She did not know where her pack was or her staff, nor did she care. She just wanted to get out. The old man was distracted by his efforts to get the voice back on the box. Neko moved through the hab, avoiding piles of junk, following a narrow path that the old man had left for himself to move around. She found a corridor whose walls were cracked and patched with redbrick. A narrow path led to a large door at the back of the hab. Sitting just inside the entrance was her pack. She grabbed the pack and swung open the heavy door. A blast of wind and fine red dust swirled into the hab as she pushed her way outside. It was daylight. The sun was bright and after the gloom inside the old man’s hab it blinded her. As her eyes adjusted she saw the outside of the hab for the first time. It was an old hub station. An old, broken transport tube stuck out from the hab’s far end. The station’s once great dome loomed above her. Blasted and ruined, the shards were like jagged fingers of a giant dead hand reaching up to the sky. The old man had made his home in the entrance module, the only part of the hub station that was somewhat intact. She could see where he had patched and fixed the structure up to the point where it joined with the great ring of the station. Inside the great ring Neko saw animals. The old man had used the ruined hab to corral livestock. Goats bleated alongside a pen filled with rabbits. There was even one old cow who looked thin and underfed. There was a small garden inside and Neko could see gaproot growing as well as some small redtrees that sported fruit that was yellow and withered. A flash caught Neko’s eye. She looked up, past the shattered remnants of the dome. She could see Phobos in the daylight sky and something else. A bright star was moving slowly in the pink haze. “The Earth people!” the old man shouted from behind her. Startled, Neko turned around to see him standing near the entrance to the hab, the gray box in his hands, staring up at the new star with a rapturous

expression. “The Earth people are coming back. They will save us! Father Mars, Father Mars, thank you, thank you Father Mars!” The old man jumped and capered with childlike delight. Neko looked up at the star that was getting brighter in the sky and felt nothing but a sickening dread.

he vessel touched down less than a kilometer away from the hab. The old man bounded across the sand to greet it. Neko followed behind, afraid, but now curious to see what the Earth people looked like. The shuttle was old and its metal plates were rusted, There were deep scratches and dents covering the surface. The retro jets had fired fitfully, but it had managed to touch down gently. Soon the shuttle’s hatch opened with a hiss of escaping air and a figure emerged. It was a man, younger than the old man but older than Neko. She thought he looked to be about twentyfour or twenty-five revolutions old. His long hair was mostly black but interspersed with gray. His beard had even more gray. He wore what Neko recognized as an old-style atmosphere suit. It was patched and frayed. His skin was almost purely white, the palest that Neko had ever seen. The man stepped hesitantly from the hatch. He climbed the short ladder and stood on the sand where he collapsed to his knees. His body shook in great heaving sobs. Another figure appeared at the hatchway. This was a woman of similar years and pallor, wearing a suit that was slightly less patched and frayed. She stepped out of the hatch and climbed down to the man. She fell down beside him and wrapped her arms about his heaving frame, tears rolling down her pale cheeks. “It’s air…” the man managed between sobs. “…I can breathe it… it’s air and it doesn’t hurt!” Soon others emerged from the hatch. There were children who looked thin and sickly. There were old people who were frail and needed help to the ground. All marveled at the air and all sobbed because of it. The old man stared at the Earth people in confusion. He approached the man who had come out first. “Where are the rest of you?” he asked. The man stood, wiping away tears. “There’s a few more families in the main vessel still in orbit. We need to contact them and bring them here. Did you send the signal?” The old man nodded. “Have you come to turn everything back on? When will you repair the comsats? There’s a lot to do. When are the rest of the Earth people coming?” 56

The younger man shook his head. “We’re all that’s left of the Earth.” He said. “Since the war the air and the water’s been poisoned. Nothing will grow. We found the old ship in and underground bunker. That’s where we went to stay alive.” Neko approached now, her fear gone. “All the Earth people are dead?” she asked. The man nodded wearily. “Most are, we think. Anyone who stayed on the surface for too long would be.” “How many of you are there?” Neko asked. The woman answered. “There are seventy nine of us, including the children.” The old man said, shaking his head. “That’s not true! You’re lying! When are the rest of the Earth people coming? When are you going to fix the comsats? When are you going to rebuild…” It was finally too much. The old man’s face worked as he tried to hold back the flood of anguish that was threatening to overwhelm him. He slumped, falling heavily to the sand on his rump. Then he just sat, staring at nothing. Neko could see his lips moving as he mumbled under his breath. She could not hear the words but she knew what he was mumbling: Father Mars, Father Mars… But now, instead of a simple poem, for the old man it had become a prayer of supplication.

he old man died during the night. It wasn’t until after he was dead that Neko discovered his name. Harley Phillip was a terraform tech, according to an old and faded ident tag that Neko found amongst his possessions. The photo, though scratched and barely visible, was unmistakably him in his younger days. In the old photo his eyes shone with all the promises of a new world that he had helped to create. The card listed his birthplace as Anne Arbor, MI. Neko did not know where that was. Neko buried the old man the next morning. Some of the Earth people helped dig his grave and lower him in. Neko said nothing at his graveside, she merely reflected to herself on how a single hope could keep someone alive. She gathered her pack and she took some food that she would need on the return journey. She could not find her staff, which was unfortunate, but she had traveled without it before. She was confident that she would make it home. The tall, pale Earth woman approached her before she left. “What should we do?” she asked. “How will we survive?” Neko shrugged. Now that she knew that the Earth people were not a threat, it was not her problem. “You

can stay at the hab. I’m sure the old man wouldn’t have minded. Bradbury’s south from here. There are still people living there, but don’t turn your back on them. Don’t go north. If the nomads don’t get you the northern tribes will have a welcome for you that you won’t like. When your young girls are older they may be welcome, but not your men.” Neko shrugged on her pack and headed back the way she had come. “How do we survive?” The woman shouted after her. “What do we do?” Neko stopped and turned around. “There’s an old poem,” she said. “Father Mars, Father Mars, Under cold and distant stars. Provides for you what you may need,

But tests you with a dirty deed.” Neko shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you. Except... watch out for the cat. Her name’s Angelina and she’s vicious.” With that, Neko turned her back on the last of the Earth people who were carrying out their invasion of Mars and headed home to tell her mothers. ___________________________________________ Jack MacKenzie has previously appeared in Encounters Magazine, and has published short stories in several anthologies including Sails and Sorcery from Fantasist Enterprises, as well as in Neo-Opsis Magazine, Dark Worlds Magazine and others.

The Curator's Dilemma by William Knight

Doing the right thing is rarely the easiest choice. ___________________________________________________________

The Curator’s office was small--as were all of the

offices in the Constabulary--but unlike the others it was richly appointed, with carefully selected ornamentation meant to entice curious questions from visitors. Wick asked no questions and didn’t let his gaze wander, he kept it firmly planted on the Curator’s plump red face, willing the old man to speak and get on with it already. But the old bear remained frustratingly silent; hands folded across his metal desk and staring off to the side with a look of considerable introspection on his face. Wick had seen the expression many times; it was carefully crafted to emit indecision even though Wick knew, beyond a doubt, the old man already knew what he was going to say. Still he didn’t speak. The only sound was of the airscrubbers whirring. They were ugly, blocky things hanging from brackets in the ceiling, but worth their weight in diamonds. A manifest pad sat blinking and beeping on the desk beside the Curator’s liver-spotted hands. Wick shifted uncomfortably in his chair and surrendered. “You seem perplexed, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.” The Curator lifted his head and gave Wick a sad, conspiratorial smile, as if they shared some common dilemma. “It’s these colonists, Wick, these damn colonists. We just can’t have them running amok like this. They’re picketing outside the Constabulary. The Constabulary. It’s embarrassing.” Wick sighed. “It’s just a little brushfire, sir. It’ll burn itself out.” The Curator slammed his folded hands down onto the table and shook his head. “That will not do. That. Will. Not. Do.” He enunciated each word for emphasis. “This is just the sort of thing that’ll pique the Agency’s interest. We don’t need their accursed Auditors poking their noses around and kicking over stones.” We? Wick could’ve cared less if the Auditors came. They were a pompous and fastidious lot, but he had nothing to fear from them. The Curator on the other hand… he might have cause for alarm. It was a well known fact that the old man skimmed off the top; a couple shuttles detoured with salt for the black 58

market, and no one was the wiser. The Curator absently poked a stumpy finger at a globe of Earth that sat atop the desk and sent it spinning in slow, creaky oscillations, pale light reflecting off its tarnished surface. Wick found the globe a curious addition to the motif. Out here at the back-end of the galaxy Earth was about as relevant as the corns on his feet. He hadn’t been on Earth in years and wasn’t likely to go back. The last time he been there, he’d been banished for life after a misunderstanding at a bar in the Cisco Reservoir left a congressman nursing a sore jaw and searching for his teeth in a mud puddle. The Curator looked up beaming, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Here’s what we do, Wick.” We, again? What was up with the first person plural? “We need to get a grip on the balls of this horse, and squeeze until we got ourselves a gelding, know what I mean?” Wick blinked and gave him a noncommittal nod. He had no idea what the Curator meant. The old bear drummed his fingers on his triple chin. A bead of sweat rolled languorously down his knobby nose and dripped onto the desk. “It’s that woman who’s to blame for all of this; getting the miners all worked up; good folk who don’t need the agitation. I wish she’d crawl back into whatever hole she crawled out of. I can’t stand agitators.” Now he got it. The old man was railing about Regina Dee… again. “Maybe she wouldn’t be such a pest if she got laid once in a while.” The Curator started laughing at his crude comment; an unattractive sound. Wick kept his face blank. The old man looked at him and the cackle died in his throat. He twisted his face into a scowl. “You know, you’re a real stick in the mud, Wick. Maybe you’re the one who should be getting laid.” Wick shrugged his shoulders, wincing slightly as the pain shot down his right arm. “I just don’t see how I can help.” The Curator pushed and grunted his way to his feet, hobbling over to the window, his wooden peg-leg clacking on the linoleum. Clack, clack, clack. So, you’re playing the crippled old man today?

“Look at them, Wick.” The Curator stared sullenly out the window. Wick sighed and got to his feet. He walked over and stood beside the Curator, looking down at the square below. At this height the protestors were small specks on the gray slate, a nest of agitated ants. It was difficult to distinguish figures in the gloom of the dying sun. “They cry for arable soil, as if I could snap my fingers and make it magically appear. It’s paperwork, Wick, paperwork. I submit the request to the Agency and let it shoot through the ether, only to have them reject it every time. And these bumpkins hold me accountable. Like I’m just up here twiddling my thumbs and laughing at their dilemma.” The Curator shook his head, his ruddy jowls swinging back and forth. “It’s unfair.” “Life often is,” Wick answered. The Curator let out a long winded sigh. “Well, to hell with it, to hell with them. Come, let us have a whiskey.” He ambled his way over to a peeling plaster shelf and picked up a bottle. Wick slumped back down in his chair. “I’ll pass. I’m on duty.” The Curator ignored him and filled up two dirty and smudged glasses. “Nonsense, my boy. This is a forty-six vintage, just got in it on the last transport, straight from Wijoda.” So, you can’t find a way to wheedle more soil out of the Agency, but you can get your pudgy hands on a bottle of whiskey worth a hundred credits? He had to resist the urge to snort in disgust. With the Curator, the necessities were always the amenities and the amenities were a necessity. It was a skewed logic, with which the Curator didn’t see the hypocrisy. The Curator sat back down and slid a glass across the desk. Wick ignored it and folded his arms. “Sir, I don’t mean to press, but I got some work needs tending.” The Curator took a long sip and smacked his lips. “What’s so pressing in that dungeon of yours, eh?” In truth, nothing. “Paperwork,” he answered. “You know how the twists at Central can get if they don’t get their transmissions.” The Curator gave him the conspiratorial look again. “Too true, my boy, too true.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Well, I’ll get right to the point, then.” Wick doubted it. “I need this Regina Dee woman out of my hair,” he said. An interesting analogy, Wick thought, considering the man was bald as an egg. Maybe he was referring to his eyebrows, though, thick and tangled as gorse. 59

“Well, have you tried bribing her,” Wick asked. He was kidding, but the Curator looked at him seriously. “Already tried that. Wouldn’t take a credit. She’s one of those self-righteous types.” He said the last words with thick sarcasm. Wick was beginning to respect the woman. He didn’t know much about her as she’d never broken the law, but obviously she had some character. “Well, what do you want me to do? Ask her to leave?” Again he was kidding, but the Curator was as sharp as a rubber ball. “That wouldn’t work, Wick, I’ve all ready asked her to clear out. She’s a stubborn one. We need to take an, uh… more forcible approach.” Wicked shifted uneasily. “I’m not sure I catch your drift, sir.” The Curator opened his hands then clasped them back together. “Just that it would be in our best interest if Ms. Dee decided to leave Nitria.” “Well, she’s broken no laws, Curator. And she’s popular with the workers. I can’t just make her leave.” “Find a reason.” “What?” “Find a reason.” “What?” The Curator slammed his hands down on his desk, sloshing a cup of cold coffee. “Damn it, Wick, do I have to spell this out for you?” The kindly old cripple was gone, replaced by the lame but still dangerous bear. Wick narrowed his eyes. “I think you’d better, Curator.” The Curator’s eyes bulged and he spluttered and cursed. “I want her gone! I don’t care how you do it, just do it.” “Sir, as I’ve said, she’s done nothing wrong.” “Find something, anything, everything. Just get that troublemaker off my moon. Do I make myself clear?” “What you’re asking is against the law.” The Curator’s face was beet red by this point. “The law? The law? Don’t feed me that bull, Wick, we’re too old for such naïveté. I’m the law here. And as the Sheriff of Nitria you carry out my orders.” Wick calculated his options. Part of him wanted to tear off his tin badge and throw it on the desk; it was getting a bit heavy of late, after all. The Curator drained his glass in one gulp, dribbles of his fine whiskey rolling down his chin. “The problem is, Sheriff, I’ve already got the accursed Agency asking questions. The woman, that … that woman,” he waved his finger around dramatically. “She’s stirring up trouble, writing the

Agency letters and such. It makes me look like a fool. She has to be dealt with.” Wick stood up. “I can’t help you, sir, sorry.” He made for the door. “Where will you go then, Wick?” He stopped in his tracks, his hand hovering over the door knob, not turning around. The question was delivered in a curious tone, but the threat was implicit. He heard the Curator grunt as he got up from his desk and the slow clack and shuffle as he walked up behind him. He was so close Wick could smell the cheap cologne wafting off of him in nauseating waves. “Back to Earth, I think not. Back into Space Ops? At you’re age, and with that damaged wing you got, I don’t think they’d accept you. I guess your options are kind of limited, wouldn’t you say?” Wick turned around slowly. The Curator stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his wrinkled face displaying feigned confusion. “Perhaps you can return to the Wetlands on Perseus. I hear they’re always looking for law enforcement. But considering the problem they have there with the Nestmen that’s not much of a surprise. What is the average life expectancy of a Sheriff on Perseus, Wick? Two weeks … four?” He laughed and nudged him with his elbow. “You know all about the Nestmen don’t you, Wick?” He’d worked hard to keep his face impassive, but the mention of the Nestmen was like a sucker punch to the gut, and he felt his gaze lowering. He looked down at the scuffed linoleum, willing his mind not to wander to places better left forgotten. The Curator chuckled at his victim’s defeat. “Do I have to spell this one out for you as well, Wick?” The Curator waited patiently for his response. After a moment, Wick shook his head. “I didn’t think so. Now …” he clapped his hands together and clacked his way back to his desk, his gait rather jauntier than before. “The next transport for Hamos leaves tomorrow. Either Regina Dee is on it, or you are. Right?” Wick left the office and closed the door.

he lift carried him underground, squealing to a lumbering halt at Subbasement Level Three. His left arm tweaked as he stepped off the lift into the cold tunnel. It was always cold on Nitria, but at least the Constabulary was heated, except for the subbasement, the warren of tunnels that ran under the building. No, they couldn’t spare the expense, he mused bitterly. He stretched and flexed the offending appendage as he made towards his office, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space. The tunnel had been roughly hewn out of the rock 60

and left with crags and spurs sticking out, so one had to mind their elbows. The ceiling was low and latticed with exposed pipes, with wicked hanging spouts. Even the floor was treacherous –serrated steel grate panels thrown down unevenly so the edges stuck up. He’d tripped on them more than once, threatening them each time and cursing their dog of a mother. A number of doors were set into the sides of the tunnels –the offices of lesser members of the constabulary –the Morgue, the Mason. At the end of the hall was a metal door studded with bolts and plastered with a fading red sign that read: ‘The Sheriff’s Office.’ Never had the weight of the title pressed as heavily upon him as now. The door creaked open noisily and he entered the brightly lit space. It was a round room with a low ceiling, two desks, one currently occupied, and two cells, currently unoccupied. He walked over to the coffee machine, slipped in a credit and pressed the button. The machine whirred, clanked, vibrated lightly, and then gave a mocking metallic clink as it sucked his credit into that black hole of malfunctioning machinery. “Piece of crap,” he muttered, kicking the machine and regretting it when he stubbed his toe. “It’s not working,” Jenny said, with her usual penchant for stating the obvious. Wick looked over his shoulder angrily. “I can see that.” Jenny shrugged her shoulders and went back to the Reel. Its bright colors flashed rapidly, illuminating her youthful features in a constant prism of rotating light. She was surrounded by a bed of beeps, whistles and high-pitched voices, all mixing together in a cacophony of semi-ordered chaos. “Did you call the Mechs?” he asked. Jenny didn’t look up. “Yuppers. They said they’ll get to it by the end of the week.” She took a noisy sip from a Styrofoam cup, which looked suspiciously similar to the ones the coffee machine dispensed, and let loose with a euphoric sounding “Aaaaah,” when she’d finished and smacked her lips. He gritted his teeth and sat down at his cluttered desk. In Mech terms, a week could mean a week, but more often than not meant a month, if you were lucky. And he didn’t like the idea of going an hour without coffee, much less a month. Wick leaned back in his chair and threw his feet on the desk, random sheets of paper bristling in the sudden displacement of air. “Anything good on the Reel?” he asked. Jenny looked over at him. “Just more of the same. The Amazing Flex did his

marionette show for the Queen of Bolivia. An Interstellar Cargo Ship went missing, piracy suspected. Aeneid Prime went supernova…” “Aeneid Pr…” He paused as Jenny took another loud slurp of coffee. “Aeneid Prime went nova? Did they evacuate the mines?” He’d been through Aeneid before. It was a rough and tumble sort of place, where the bars didn’t have windows because there were so many fights and the miners were covered in red metallic dust and as thick-bodied as draft horses. Jenny took a lengthy sip. Wick had to bite his tongue from snapping at her impatiently. “Don’t know, can’t remember,” she said at last. She paused, staring at him with a vacant look in her eyes. “What happened?” “Nothing,” Wick grumbled. She was one of those people who had no short-term memory. As soon as she heard something it slipped right out the other ear. Not that it was really her fault. He remembered reading in her file that her parents had implanted her with an experimental behavioral nodule when she was a kid, and it had done a number on her brain. Unpleasant stuff. But it hadn’t stopped Wick from offering her a job. Not that Nitria was everyone’s dream post, but it was better than nothing, and she’d been rejected from every other post she’d applied for. Still, she’d proven a great asset. She had an uncanny ability to read people, and a knack for telling when someone was lying. Wick plucked at the frayed cuffs of his dark blue uniform, wondering what his next move would be. The Curator had pretty much given him carte blanche to handle the Dee woman however he saw fit, with the implication being she was expendable. And he had no intention of killing anyone. He’d had enough of killing from his days in the Ops. Wick scowled when he thought of the Space Ops. He’d been foolish in his youth, fallen for the flashing recruiting posters showing images of soldiers marching into battle and later having medals pinned on their tunics, unscarred faces clean and smiling. He’d joined up and left home with dreams of glory and of seeing the galaxy. All he’d gotten was twelveyears of planet hopping from one war-torn colony to another, putting down uprisings and losing his friends along the way. Then one day he’d been hit with a plasma mine, which near took off his arm and left it horribly scarred and pretty much useless. They’d discharged him with a miniscule pension and a farethee-well. Wick pushed away the thought and slipped his feet off the desk. He snapped on his computer monitor and it thrummed to life. He tapped out a few commands and found the file he was looking for. 61

‘Regina Dee –Nitria 0001-5E-9445.’ “Hey, Jenny?” Jenny looked up, her eyes wide and twitchy. She had a narrow face and light features, with bright blue eyes, though her right eye was slightly crooked and pointed toward the narrow bridge of her nose. Wick sighed. “I told you not to watch that thing so close. It’s bad for your vision.” Jenny blinked, not responding, her eye’s unfocused. Sometimes words just didn’t connect with her. “Reel! Bad!” he said, raising his voice. “Oh, sorry.” She gave him a sheepish grin. He grinned back at her. “Okay, Jenny. Hey, do you know Regina Dee?” “Reg? I’ve met her a couple times. She’s nice. Pockmarked.” “What’s she like?” he asked. But Jenny was already looking back down at the Reel, captivated by its shiny images, her mouth hanging open and forming a dazed smile. Wick shook his head and turned back to his monitor. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The Reel was the drug of choice out in the far reaches of the galaxy. News bytes and flashing images peeling across the screen at break neck speed, entrancing its viewers with pictures and stories from Earth. He’d tried watching it one time, but it had made him nauseous and given him a pounding headache. He opened Regina Dee’s file and leaned closer to the monitor. The file photo showed a woman in her mid-thirties, her face mottled with pox scars. She was pretty in an unconventional sort of way, despite the scars. The file was filled with mostly trivial facts, date and place of birth, the red warning label that warned she was ‘Not Earth Born.’ History of illnesses; she’d contracted the pox on Edalyss as a young girl. Smog Pox, they called it. It was a result of bad air filtration brought about by cheaply made terraformers. Regina worked at the salt mine and had been to the resident doctor only once, for a respiratory problem related to her work and had been given a desalinization packet as treatment. He drummed his fingers on the desk, wincing every time Jenny took a noisy sip of her coffee. Wasn’t she done nursing that thing yet? But he didn’t have the heart to yell at her. He scrolled through the file. Military History. He leaned forward. She’d been in the Space Ops! That was a shocker. She’d been a member of the Neutralizers; they went in after his commandos put down the uprisings and helped the native citizenry reacclimatize to Agency rule, with considerable force if necessary. They were the political arm of the

Agency, and renowned for their brutality. Even the battle hardened and seasoned commandos he’d served with were afraid of the Neutralizers. They had special training and nano-implants to improve their mental acuity. It wasn’t often you found ex-Neutralizers. The implants they received were notoriously difficult to remove, often resulting in brain damage or death. And it was forbidden for citizens to have the implants, so when you became a Neutralizer it was usually for life. He scrolled back up and stared at Regina’s photo again, feeling an icy chill crawl up his spine as he stared into her hard and deep-set eyes. What was she doing on Nitria? It didn’t make any sense. ExNeutralizers who survived the surgery to remove their implants usually found high-paying jobs in the private sector working as security consultants for any one of the corporate city-states on Earth. So what was she doing on a mining outpost like Nitria? Slurp. “Aaaaaah!” Slurp. He scrolled down her file and found her address, jotting it down on a scrap of paper. He stood up to leave, smoothing out his dingy uniform as best he could with his hands. “Keep an eye on things, Jen,” he said, as he headed toward the door. His deputy looked up and blinked. “Who?”

he dying sun of Nitria was waning as he stepped out of the Constabulary. He twisted his nose as he adjusted to the slightly acrid air, to the familiar metallic taste in his mouth. He set off across the wide open square of Salt Town, Nitria’s only settlement. The square was laid with huge flags of slate as were all of the buildings rising around its fringe. A slate quarry had been located nearby when the Agency sent in its planetary engineers, and showing their usual, frugal efficiency, they’d set up the settlement on its doorstep. In the distance the huge mounds of the salt mines poked into the horizon, gleaming as white as snow capped peaks. Regina Dee lived in one of the blocks at the far end of the square beside the bar. The bar was packed and the air was filled with the sounds of drunken revelers. Loud music played through the wire screen intermingling with loud voices shouting in laughter, agreement, disagreement, and the occasional curse and threat. He found the hut he was looking for. A simple affair of stone walls and a corrugated iron roof, set with shuttered round windows. He knocked on the metal door. “Hold on,” a disgruntled female voice called. “Hold 62

on. Don’t knock again, for all that’s holy don’t knock again.” There was a scuffling sound and the door was wrenched open. Regina Dee’s face poked out the crack; he recognized her face from the file; it was a bit gaunter and her eyes were deeper set, but it was unquestionably her. “Sorry about that. When someone knocks, the place rings like a bell; makes me feel a bit like Quasimodo. You’re Sheriff Wicker, right?” Quasi who? “Yes, ma’am.” He was instantly nervous. A Neutralizer wasn’t a person you trifled with, even if they were off the implants. She raised her thin eyebrows. “Can I help you with something, Sheriff?” She sounded bemused. Wick cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry. “Yes. May I come in?” She opened the door wide and took a step back. “You’re more than welcome,” she said, in a tone that suggested the exact opposite. He mumbled his thanks and stepped inside. The room was small and cramped, barely large enough for two people. A mattress sat in the far corner on top of some empty crates, there was a small table, pitted with age, and a cabinet covered with a precariously leaning stack of books. A light bulb swung from the ceiling, casting dark shadows into the corner. Regina walked over to the small kitchen area, a sink covered with brown rust spots and a small refrigerator equally decorated with rust. “Can I offer you a drink?” He turned around and placed his hands on his hips, trying to look official, and trying not to look her in the eye –those piercing light brown eyes that seemed to be analyzing him. “No, thank you.” She leaned back into the counter and folded her arms across her chest. “What can I do to for you, Sheriff?” she asked warily. “Why’d you come to Nitria, Ms. Dee?” he asked. No point beating around the bush, he wanted to get it over with… and then get the hell out of there. The woman made him uncomfortable. “Well, work, of course.” He rubbed his chin. “Work? And what work do you do?” Her eyes narrowed. “You read my file, I assume?” He nodded. “Then you should know –I work at the salt mine running the excavators.” “Hardly a job suited to someone with your…

talents.” She gave him a sneer. “I was looking for a change of occupation.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And what is your occupation, Miss Dee? An agitator?” Gods! Am I really using one of the Curator’s stock words? “I’ve read your file, oh yes. Everywhere you go you stir up the colonists and get yourself run out of town by the local Constabulary. You’re lucky you haven’t been arrested on suspicion of unionizing.” “I prefer to think of myself as a polarizer. Sometimes the proletariat need a spark to stir them out of their torpor.” Wick scratched the stubble on his chin. He didn’t understand half of what she’d just said. “Leave,” he said harshly. “Leave Nitria. A shuttle leaves tomorrow, bound for Hamos. I want you on it.” She chuckled. “You don’t have the power to kick me out, Sheriff. I know my rights. I spent most of my life enforcing them, in fact.” “With the Policy Department?” “Yes.” Her eyes grew soft and she looked down at her feet. It changed her features completely and Wick found himself staring. Her hair was sleek and black and striped with strands of grey and she had thick, tangled lines around her eyes. The pox had scarred her face, and she’d collected a dozen extra scars along the way, but it couldn’t hide her natural beauty. She didn’t belong on Nitria. “I… I think you should leave, Sheriff,” she said, meeting his gaze, the steel returning. “If I’d known you were one of the Curator’s lackeys, I wouldn’t have let you through the front door.” He bristled. “I’m not his lackey.” She stepped forward, jabbing an accusing finger into his chest. “Then why are you here, if not on his behalf. That crooked bastard has been trying to get rid of me for months.” Wick stared at her finger in shock. She stepped back and shook her head sadly. “I thought you were a better man than this, Sheriff Wicker. The colonists spoke so highly of you. But you’re just like all the others. The Curator snaps his fingers and you jump. I expected more from an exSpace Ops soldier.” Wick turned around, hiding his shame. Her words cut deep. He’d always considered himself an honorable man, but she was right. He’d been willing to sell out his morals just so he wouldn’t lose his comfy position in the Constabulary. He slumped down in one of the folding metal chairs and rested his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. 63

After a moment he heard a chair scrape across the stone floor. He looked up as Regina Dee deposited herself in the chair opposite him, giving him a studied look. “So what’d he do?” she asked, “threaten your job.” He nodded, keeping his gaze plastered on the fauxwood finish of the table. She let out a sigh. “It’s not easy to be a good man in this universe, is it, Sheriff?” He shook his head. “Not easy to be anything,” she mumbled. Wick looked up. She was staring at her hands, lost in thought. “You’re not going to leave, are you?” She shook her head. “He’s not going to let this go. He’ll send someone to deal with you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “A lot of people have tried to deal with me.” “Yeah, but the old man’s devious. He won’t let anything get in the way of his operation here.” She snorted. “You mean he won’t let anyone get in the way of him lining his deep pockets.” Wick smirked humorlessly. “Right.” He paused. “How’d you know I was in the Space Ops?” She turned serious. “It used to be my job to know things, Sheriff. You wear the mark of the Space Ops, like you wear that badge. It’s all over you –the hunched shoulders, the haunted eyes. Not to mention that arm of yours. Plasma burns, am I right? Nestmen?” He moved his left hand under the table. “Funny thing about that,” he said. “After it happened all the doctors kept saying ‘At least it’s your left arm, grunt, at least it’s your left. You still got your right.’ Bitch of the thing is though— I’m left handed. Well, used to be anyways.” She gave an unfathomable look. He hoped it wasn’t pity. He hated pity. She stood up suddenly. “Come with me, Sheriff.” “Where?” She walked over to him and held out her hand. “You’ll see.” He took her hand. It was rough and calloused like his. She gave him a smile, revealing a set of neat white teeth and despite everything, Wick found himself smiling back.

he Gardens of Salt Town, so called, covered the small vale. Dusty piles of stacked stones with dingy, silk white mums curling out of the cracks and lightly fluttering in the breeze. It was the first time Wick had ever seen the

Gardens. The burial grounds for all the colonists who’d died on Nitria in the hundred years since its founding. The rocky land was hard and unforgiving. The deceased’s friends and loved ones scraped out a shallow groove in the rock as best they could, and covered the remains with a cairn of slate. It several places crude writing had been etched into larger stone slabs. Regina sat on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Gardens and crossed her legs. Much too close to the edge for his tastes. If the Curator had been present he would’ve drooled at the golden opportunity to send his bane to an accidental death. She stared off into the horizon, face lit by the soft amber glow of Penitence, the gas giant around which Nitria orbited. Wick followed her gaze, an unrelenting moor of rocky plains, limned in the distance by the towering, jagged grey peaks of the never ending mountains, which covered ninety-five percent of Nitria’s surface. Off to the left the salt mine loomed, the soft whir of machinery just discernible in the air. “I come here all the time,” she said, her voice low. Wick crouched down beside her. “Why?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. He saw nothing that could hold anyone’s interest. She laughed quietly, her scarred cheeks gently quivering. He had to fight back the irresistible urge to brush back an errant lock of variegated dark and silver hair that fell across her forehead and cupped her chin. “It’s peaceful and quiet, Sheriff. You always struck me as the type of man who enjoys his own company. Where do you go when you want to be alone?” “Down to my office. I rarely get visitors and Jenny’s not much for conversation. Though she’s got that darn Reel of hers squawking every second of the day.” His lip curled up at the thought. She smiled. “Ah, Jenny. Your deputy, right?” “Yup, best deputy a sheriff could have.” Regina gave him her analytical stare, and it was with great effort that he didn’t look away. “I rather got the feeling you took her in out of pity.” He pursed his lips. “Jenny doesn’t need pity. Her parents’ pity is what addled her brain. She needs someone to treat her like a human being; show her she’s worth something. The kid’s only twenty-two and she’s been on her own since her parents kicked her out of the house when she was sixteen. And she’s a damn sight smarter than a lot of other folk I could name. She passed the Agency Law Enforcement test with flying colors; one of their highest scores ever.” Regina tilted her head to the side. “I take back what I said about you earlier, Sheriff. You’re not like the others.” 64

Wick grunted and looked away. Penitence was slowly filling up the night sky; an amber, featureless orb. “Why’d you leave the Neutralizers, Miss Dee?” he asked, redirecting the conversation back to less rocky terrain. She turned away and her lips curled up. “I was tired of trying to change people, Sheriff. Tired of my mind always seeing dissenters around every corner. Tired of killing in the name of the glorious Agency. The implants talk, they whisper, they insinuate. It’s like you’re not in control of your own mind.” “So then you decided to become a salt miner?” he asked, with just a hint of playful disbelief. “What else is there for an ex-Neutralizer, when they’re tired of war and politics? Besides, I like the work. You don’t have to think. Someone tells you to dig you dig. Easy.” He sat down beside her and crossed his legs. He found himself staring at her out of the corner of his eye. She was intriguing to say the least. “So why get under the Curator’s skin, then?” She picked up a small stone and let it drop over the side of the cliff. “He thinks he can treat the workers like crap. And the worst part is they act like they deserve it. They’ve never known anything else. On every planet the Curator’s the same– they line their pockets until they’re rich enough to retire on Earth, or until the Agency catches them and they’re thrown into a jail cell to rot.” She picked up another stone and threw it. “So? It’s not going to change. Why even bother?” She turned and stared at him. “Thing’s change, Sheriff. They may take their time, but they change.” “What’ll you do now?” She shrugged. “Same as always. Work the mine, run my excavator, make a nuisance of myself. You?” “I guess I’ll have to look for a new job. Maybe I’ll go to Dyson Six. I hear it’s nice out there, hardly any Agency control since they couldn’t find any natural resources of value to exploit. I’ll take Jenny with me. Or maybe I’ll go back to Earth. Got a sister who still lives there.” He looked down at the Cairns. “You could come with us, if you’d like.” She laughed and patted him on the arm. “Thank you, Sheriff, but my place is here. I like the people.” She looked away, her glassy brown eyes reflecting Penitence. “Even if it kills you?” She looked down at the Gardens. “Even if it kills me. At least then I’ll get a pile of stones all to myself. It’s more than most people get in this galaxy.”

Wick walked into the lobby of the Constabulary

the next morning. It was early and a lone secretary sat behind the oval desk looking bored. The lobby was tall and pillared, with friezes of Agency propaganda lining the walls. A tall man approached him as he neared the bank of elevators. “The Curator would like to see you, sir,” he said. The man was tall and shaped like a nettle, a narrow body and a bulbous head. His hair was cropped short and he carried himself like ex-military. Wick had seen the man before. He worked for the Curator, though in what capacity Wick was never sure. Until now. “It was a long night. Can you tell the Curator I’ll talk to him later?” The man’s blank expression never changed. He leaned out a sinewy arm and pressed the arrow-up call button for the elevator, without turning his vacant gaze from Wick. “I’m sure it’ll just take a moment, sir,” he said. The elevator clanged and the doors hissed open. The man held out an arm and waited for Wick to enter before stepping in after him. He pressed the button for the top floor, the Curator’s office, and folded his hands across his body. When they reached the Curator’s office the man opened the door and waved him inside, his face expressionless. Wick had seen chunks of granite with more emotion. The Curator was seated behind his desk, sipping a cup of whiskey. He eyed Wick gravely as he entered the room. “Sit,” he commanded. He sat down in the chair across from the desk. The nettle man stood behind him, lurking. The Curator gave him a smile. “How’d it go, Sheriff?” Wick kept his tone neutral and his eyes on the Curator. “She wouldn’t be budged, sir.” The Curator shook his head. “Figured as much. Well, it was worth a shot, eh?” Wick shrugged. The Curator drummed his well-manicured fingers on the metal desk. “So where do we go from here?” Wick held out his hands. “Wherever you want, sir.” “And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his lips pursing. “It means there’s nothing I can do to help you, sir.” The Curator stared at him, his face growing redder by the second. “You’ll do what I say,” he said icily, “or you can look for a new job.” Wick stood up. He felt the man at his back take a step forward. He tore off his badge and threw it on the 65

desk. The Curator looked down in surprise then up at Wick, with a look of utter indignation on his face. “Deal.” The Curator stood up, his whole body quivering with rage. “You’re through, Wicker. Don’t even try finding work at another Constabulary. You hear me? You’re blacklisted!” Wick snorted and walked towards the door. The Nettle Man shadowed him the whole way, giving Wick his best attempt at a fearsome look. He’d seen better. He gave the Curator a smirk. “Oh, by the way. If anything happens to Regina Dee– now or after I’m gone –I’ll contact the Agency and tell them all about the little ‘off the books’ operation you’re running here. Even if they don’t believe me, they’ll send an Auditor to investigate.” He opened the door and slammed it behind him. He could still hear the old man screeching in indignation as the doors on the lift closed.

enny was watching the Reel when he got to his office. She cackled at something and lifted her head up when she saw Wick. “Hi, boss,” she said in her high sing-song voice. He gave her a wide smile. “Hi, Jenny.” She smiled in return. “You’re in a good mood.” “Am I? Huh. Guess I am.” Wick sat down at his desk and stared at the piles of haphazardly stacked paperwork. At least it was someone else’s problem now. “Hey, Jenny.” She looked up, still smiling. “How’d you like to go to Dyson Six with me?” Her brow furrowed. “Like a vacation?” He nodded. “Kind of. It’s mo…” The phone started trilling. Jenny answered it. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, uh-huh, we’ll be right there.” She hung up the phone and looked over at Wick. “Trouble at the Salt Mine,” she said. His stomach tightened with foreboding. Jenny smiled sadly. “Someone fell off the walkway over south-pit and died.”

er body lay crumpled beside one of the large excavators. The blood pooled around her silver, dark hair, leeching into the caked salt beneath. “She fell from up there,” the foreman was saying. Wick pulled his gaze away from Regina Dee and followed the man’s callused finger up to where he was pointing; a metal walkway high above the massive pit. “The damndest thing,” he muttered to himself. “The damndest thing.” Wick looked back at her. Her eyes were open and

blood dripped from her nose, and blossomed around her head. He closed her eyes, stood up and turned to face the foreman. A short man with a barrel chest and a craggy face covered with a film of salt. Jenny stood off to the left, running her hands absently through her hair and looking at the ceiling, humming softly to herself, her mouth twitching. She didn’t like bodies. Normally he wouldn’t have brought her along, but he needed her today. “What happened?” he asked the foreman. The foreman raised his arms in exasperation, and spoke as if Wick were stupid. “She fell; I just got done telling you.” Wick stepped forward and got into the man’s face. “I know what you said. What I want to know is how she fell off the walkway in the first place.” The man blubbered. “I-I don’t know, she must’ve gotten dizzy. Happens every now and then. Vertigo.” He stepped back nervously from Wick. “Look, Cormac saw the whole thing, he can tell you.” Cormac stepped forward. He was tall and muscular with thick cables for arms. Purplish veins bulged out of his forehead. His face was crumpled in a poorly feigned grief that didn’t reach his eyes. They were clear and, Wick could’ve sworn, smiling. “What happened?” Wick snarled. “She was walking a little bit ahead of me, Sheriff. All of a sudden she grabs the rail, starts swaying, dizzy like. I hollered out, but by the time I got to her, she’d already toppled over the side. Horrible thing. Horrible.” As they rode the lift up out of the mine, Wick turned to Jenny. She was still humming and running her fingers through a lock of long hair splayed over her shoulder. “Was Cormac telling the truth?” She started pawing at her hair faster. “No. He was lying.”

hen they reached his office, Wick led Jenny over to her desk and sat her down. He powered up the Reel, and slowly her eyes fell upon the flashing screen; a soft drink ad. He patted her on the top of the head and squeezed her shoulder. “You did good, honey, real good.” He walked over to his desk and sat down heavily. He had some stuff to take care of before he visited the Curator. An hour later he was ready. He stood up and buckled on his holster and slipped in his revolver after making sure it was loaded. He’d never worn the thing in all the years he’d been Sheriff of Nitria. He wasn’t even sure if the thing worked. 66

He walked over and sat on the edge of Jenny’s desk. “Jenny?” She looked up. “Yes, Sheriff?” “I told you to call me, Wick, Jen.” She stared at him blankly. “Look, Jen, I’m going to be leaving now, got some things to see to. If you don’t hear from me in an hour I want you to go to your room, pack a bag and go to the landing pad. I booked you passage on the shuttle to Hamos.” He set a sheet of paper in front of her. “These are the instructions. When you get to Hamos, I got you a connecting flight to Earth. When it lands my sister’s going to pick you up and let you stay with her for a while, okay?” She blinked. Wick leaned forward and gripped her shoulder. “I really need you to do this for me, Jenny. Will you do this for me?” She nodded. “Yes.” “Good girl.” She’d do it. She always did everything he told her to. If he’d told her jump off the roof of the Constabulary, she would have. “Now what are you going to do if I’m not back in an hour?” “Go to Hamos, go to Earth, meet your sister.” Wick smiled. “Right.” She smiled back brightly. “See? I remember stuff you tell me, Sheriff.” “You sure do, Jenny.” He looked down at her and felt his eyes sting at the corner. She’d be well taken care of; his sister had promised him as much. He’d already transferred his savings account into Jenny’s name. It wasn’t much, but it would help Jenny find a new life. He stood up and walked to the door. He paused before stepping into the dank hallway and looked over his shoulder. Jenny was lost in the Reel, smiling the easy smile of innocence. He closed the door behind him.

he lift doors creaked open. The secretary looked up and her eyes widened. “Sheriff…” she said, standing up. He pressed a finger against his lips and gestured with his revolver for her to sit back down. She did so, her knees buckling. “He in his office?” She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. He crept over to the door silently, his Ops training taking over. He pressed his ear against the door and listened; muted voices followed by the sound of the Curator cackling. The cackle spurred him into action, set his blood boiling. He turned the handle and kicked in the door.

The Curator paused in mid-cackle, strands of saliva shimmering in his open mouth. The Nettle Man reached his hand behind him, but stopped when Wick pointed the revolver in his direction. Another two men were in the room as well, another guard wearing the same grease-stained jumpsuit as Nettle and a man Wick recognized all to well: Cormac, the muscular salt miner. He pointed the revolver at each of them in turn. The Curator spoke first. “What do you think you’re doing, Wick?” Wick didn’t respond. He stepped into the room and leveled the revolver at Cormac. The man’s eyes went wide as saucers and he opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a panicked gurgle. The guilt was etched into his face, etched into the thick veins that ran up his neck, etched into the Adam’s Apple which pulsed rapidly beneath his pallid salt-crusted skin. He pulled the trigger. Following the loud crack, Cormac sank to the floor, dead. The Curator stood up, raving mad. The two guards flinched and took a step back, clearly nervous. “Wick! Stop this!” the Curator screeched. “You killed her,” Wick said. It wasn’t a question. “I warned you.” The Curator shook his head in displeasure, as if he were a teacher and Wick a thick-headed pupil. “You never see the forest for the trees, Wick. That’s your problem.” He wagged a finger at Wick. “That’s your problem.” Nettle’s hand lowered. Wick pulled back the hammer and leveled the revolver in his direction, never taking his eyes off of the Curator. Nettle froze. “And what is the forest, Curator? Money? Salt shipped to the black market and a hefty credit besides?” The Curator smirked. “That’s part of it. Everyone gets a piece of the pie they bake themselves, Wick. You can be the beggar with his hand out or you can be the baker. You can have a slice, if you want, Wick. A big slice. You’re a player now.” Wick sighed. He was tired of the Curator’s idioms and games. As the gun arced in his direction, the Curator lifted his hands in surrender. Too late. Always too late. “W-what are you doing?” he asked, his voice

quavering. “Any last words, sir? Threats, gripes?” “You’ll never get away with this,” he murmured. “You’ll never know.” A loud blast and the Curator slumped onto his desk and slid slowly to the floor, his bloated body squeaking across the smooth metal surface. Nettle dropped to his knee and rolled away in a tight ball, his own pistol out and firing wildly, bullets scattering plaster. The other man was too slow and Wick nailed him twice through the chest. He dived behind the desk, falling on the sweaty body of his ex-boss. From somewhere he heard a woman screaming as bullets tinged against the metal desk. Time slowed down, the familiar adrenaline rush of battle, just like old times. But he was a little bit older now and a whole lot slower, and as he rose from behind the desk a bullet hit him in the side of the neck and another in his busted arm. He fell back in a heap, his head ringing, the pain muted but with promises of more to come. He heard Nettle bark in joy. Over confidence, the doom of most men. Nettle rounded the desk with a smirk on his face. The last one he’d ever wear. Wick fired his last two shots and the man dropped to the floor, smirk still plastered to his face. The secretary screamed, louder and shriller now as Wick stumbled from the office leaking blood. It sounded far away. He took the elevator down to the lobby. People chattered in confusion, hollering questions. Voices growing dimmer. He stepped outside and slumped down on the slate steps. The picketers stared at him with mouths open. He stared at the glow of the dying sun, at Penitence peeking its amber head over the mountains. His eyes closed and he slumped over. “Strange,” he mumbled. He thought dying would be a lot harder. At least he’d get his pile of stones. ___________________________________________ William Knight has published other work in Electric Velocipede, Space and Time Magazine, Aoife's Kiss, and Every Day Fiction.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie by Thomas Canfield

Some dogs like to play dead, but the dangerous ones really are dead. ___________________________________________________________

When

they found the dog he was lying in a thicket of cabbage palms and melaleuca trees, his legs jutting stiffly up into the air, his belly swollen and distended. Flies swarmed over his head and flanks. It was the week following the great meteorite shower, though at the time Bradford made no connection between the two events. Doherty approached the dog with short, timorous steps, his head turned away in denial and aversion. “That you, Duke?” he asked, as though expecting some response. “That you, old buddy?” “He’s dead, Walter, for Christ’s sake,” Bradford said. “There’s no point in talking to him because he isn’t going to answer.” “How do you know that he’s dead?” Doherty demanded. “How do you know that he isn’t simply hurt?” “He’s dead, Walter, trust me.” Bradford tugged at the bill of his ball cap. “All you have to do is look at him and you know that he’s dead.” Doherty stared off down the dirt track they had followed into the woods. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, I guess that’s so,” he admitted. “How long you figure he’s been this way?” “I don’t know, two days, three maybe. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Duke is dead and that’s an end to it.” Doherty clasped and unclasped his hands. He looked at the dog and then, quickly, looked away again. “Something had to have killed him. Something or somebody. This isn’t over till I find out who done this.” Bradford stepped into a patch of shade, eased his shirt collar away from his neck. “How do you plan on doing that?” Doherty shot a vindictive look at Bradford. “You think of something! It was you who let the dog out of the house. If you’d been minding what you were doing, none of this would have happened. Duke would still be alive.” “Now, Walter, you know that’s not true.” Bradford passed his tongue over his lips. “You’re upset and you’ve got every right to be. But you can’t lay the blame for this on me.” “Do me a favor and at least look at the dog, will you?” Doherty’s face was expressionless. “You know 68

something about animals. Tell me how he died.” Bradford hesitated. “I’m a marine biologist, Walter, not a veterinarian.” Bradford took a step forward. It had grown very quiet suddenly, unnaturally quiet. A thick bank of clouds had rolled in from the east, obscuring the sun. Bradford could hear the sound of his own heart beating in his chest. He pushed aside a cluster of palm fronds, bent down over the dog. The stench was overpowering. He waved his hand to ward it off and the flies lifted into the air and buzzed around him with lazy insolence. Bradford gritted his teeth, ran one hand over the dog’s rib cage. There were no visible wounds or injuries, no sign of any outward trauma. The dog’s coat was matted with dirt but there was no trace of blood. Nothing was immediately apparent, only the obvious signs of decomposition. “I don’t know, Walter.” Bradford leaned back on his haunches. “I don’t see any indication that he’s been abused. He may have died of natural causes. Perhaps it was simply his time to go.” “What kind of fool do you take me for?” Doherty thrust his jaw forward. “Wasn’t nothing wrong with Duke. He was in his prime, at the top of his form. A truck couldn’t have killed him. It had to be somebody with a grudge, some son-of-a-bitch looking to get back at me.” “Look, Walter, I’m telling you, I don’t see anything.” The dog’s black, opaque eyes stared up at Bradford, fly larvae evident around the corneas. Bradford noticed something peculiar. He brushed back Duke’s ear. Underneath was an exotic fungal-like growth several inches long. It protruded out of the dog’s skull, appeared rooted in the surrounding flesh. Bradford reached out and touched it. The dog blinked. Bradford vaulted back in horror. He grabbed hold of a tree trunk for support, retching and gasping for air. “Mother of Christ!” he protested. “What’s the matter?” Doherty looked at Bradford. “You find something?” “Did I find something!” Bradford’s voice was shrill. “Nothing very important, only your infernal dog there . . .” Bradford closed his eyes, leaned against the tree. Doherty frowned. “What about my infernal dog?” He stuck his face close to Bradford’s. “Tell me!” “Let me catch my breath.” Sweat streamed down Bradford’s forehead. “I guess I probably imagined it. I

must have imagined it. I thought, maybe, that Duke moved his eyes.” “He did what?!” “Moved his eyes. Blinked.” “You mean to say that he’s alive? Duke’s alive?!” “Now hold on, Walter. I’m not saying that. There was some sort of muscular contraction, a pseudo response. That’s all it was. Maybe he hasn’t been dead for as long as I thought.” Doherty was no longer listening. He had rushed over by the dog, his eyes shining with hope. “Duke? Can you hear me? It’s Walter. You remember Walter. I got something for you here in my pocket – a treat. All you got to do is sit up. Sit up, boy. C’mon, you can do it.” Bradford could not believe what he was seeing. Doherty was circling the carcass, hand outstretched, trying to coax the dog back to life with a Milk-Bone. “Walter, for god’s sake, have you lost your mind? Look at the dog, would you. Tell me that you think he might be alive. That’s crazy, that’s outright lunacy.” “You don’t know Duke,” Doherty insisted. “I’ve had him since he was a pup. If he was dead, I would feel it. He’s sick, is all it is. Bad sick. He just needs a little perking up.” Doherty waved the Milk-Bone in the air. Bradford was about to say something when a tremor passed down the dog’s flanks. One of its hind legs twitched spasmodically. “There, see!” Doherty exclaimed. “What did I tell you? He’s coming around. All he needs is a bit of persuasion.” The dog lifted its head with an odd hitching movement. It rolled onto its side. It struggled to get to its feet, the great mass of its belly splaying its hind legs. Flies circled its body in a frenzy. Bradford’s legs went limp beneath him. He slid to the ground, peeling great strips of bark from the melaleuca as he did so. “Don’t go near it, Walter,” he warned. “Whatever you do, do not go near it.” “What do you mean, what are you talking about?” Doherty appeared surprised. “You think old Duke won’t know who I am? You think he won’t remember?” “Walter, listen to me! Listen to yourself, for Christ’s sake. We have to get out of here, we have to get away.” “Sure we do. Just as soon as ol’ Duke is able to

follow on his own. He’s a bit stiff yet, poor fella’. There, look at that.” Doherty guffawed. The dog had lurched forward, its hind legs frozen and unwieldy. “That’s the spirit. Work through it, Duke, shake it off. Never say die.” Doherty extended the Milk-Bone toward the dog. The dog’s jaw dropped open. A long tuberous growth flicked out, impaled Doherty. Doherty snapped upright, gave a strangled cry. His head twisted around, eyes searching the woods without recognition. He toppled backwards, collapsed in a huddled mass. Bradford was on his feet then, running for his life. The branches of the trees slashed at him, barbed thorns caught at his clothes. He beat aside fan-like palm fronds, stumbled and lunged ahead till he came out along the banks of a body of water. He stopped abruptly. Cypress trees festooned with Spanish moss towered overhead, casting deep shadows over the land. Pale growths of fungus jutted up out of the stagnant water. They grew in oddly symmetrical curves and ellipses, oozed a foul exudation that dripped down into the swamp and turned the water a bilious black-green. Knobs of fungus pushed up through the muck even as Bradford watched. A dead armadillo lay nearby. Fungus snaked over the creature’s body and protruded from its mouth and anus. The armadillo’s hind legs made a furious circular motion, like pedaling a bike down a straightaway. Bradford turned to run again and there was the dog, Duke, planted in his path. The dog cocked its head to one side. It was an attitude so singularly characteristic of the real Duke that for an instant Bradford took heart. Then he saw what lay behind the dog’s eyes. Whatever manner of life-form had rooted itself in Duke’s body, it bore no more resemblance to a dog than did fire resemble the wood from which it sprang. To it, Bradford was nothing more than organic mulch, a seed bed in which to plant its spores. He was fertilizer. The dog sidled toward him, ears laid flat against its skull. It seemed to be smiling. ___________________________________________ "Let Sleeping Dogs Lie" is Thomas Canfield's first appearance in Encounters Magazine.

Asteroid Eternia by Collin R. Skocik

Life is full of options, sometimes a lot more than you think. ___________________________________________________________

Clarissa

shook herself awake, annoyed with herself. The flight out from Earth had been as exhausting as it had been exhilarating, and now Dr. Herrman had kept her waiting in this little galley for over an hour. No wonder she had nodded off; but it would have been humiliating to be caught napping on her first assignment. She looked at the half-eaten meal and empty plastic cup, and for a moment the thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged; but that was a ridiculous thought. Herrman would have nothing to gain by assaulting her; she was merely investigating, and an assault on an investigating officer would only land him in deeper trouble. But where was he? Almost in answer to her exasperation, the door cracked open, its airtight rubbery rim squeaking against the matching frame. Herrman bounced in, comfortable in the negligible gravity of Asteroid Eternia. Well, why not? If the reports were true, he had been living here for over a century. Sort of. “Hello, Miss Farrow,” he said with a broad smile that surprised Clarissa. He appeared to be trying to hide amusement. It made her self-conscious. “Dr. Ambrose Herrman, I presume?” she said, embarrassed that she allowed her voice to raise a few octaves to what she considered her shy tone. “Yes, of course,” he said with a quite perceptible chuckle. “Well, what can I do for you?” “You received the notification from the InSA Offworld Violations Council?” “Yes.” The grin still didn’t disappear. Odd. Why should he be somewhere between amused and happy about being investigated for a crime punishable by five years in prison? Of course, when one had lived for one hundred fifty years, five years in prison might not seem like a big deal. But then, that depended on one’s definition of lived. “Well, Dr. Herrman, our records indicate that Dr. Ambrose Herrman came out to Asteroid Eternia in 2062. The fact that your genetic code and retina scan has not changed in one hundred sixteen years, and you have not aged, indicates to us that you are, in fact, a clone of Dr. Ambrose Herrman, and have therefore been engaged in illegal human cloning.” “Really? Well, if I am a clone of Dr. Ambrose 70

Herrman, then it is he, rather than I, who was engaged in illegal human cloning.” “Nevertheless, I’ve been sent to investigate.” “It will be refreshing to have your company,” Herrman said. His smile had not disappeared during the entire conversation, but Clarissa was disturbed by the tone in his voice. Not that he had said anything threatening, but somehow his friendliness was disconcerting. She felt transparent, as if he knew everything about her. “I’ll ask you pointblank; have you been engaged in human cloning here?” “The answer to that question is very complicated.” “Then let me rephrase. Are you a clone of Dr. Ambrose Herrman?” “Yes.” “Were Dr. Ambrose Herrman’s memories downloaded into your eyetaps at the moment of your decantation?” “Yes.” “Are you preparing a clone to repeat the procedure in the event of your own death?” “Yes.” Simple enough. “May I see the cloning facilities?” “Certainly.” Herrman rose with slight movements that prevented him from taking off across the room. Clarissa was not so accustomed to the tiny gravity; she held the table cautiously as she stood; even so her feet left the floor and she had to lever her way back down by gripping the table and wringing her wrists painfully. She had to step slowly and carefully to keep from taking off, which made it difficult for her to keep up with Herrman. He led her through the cramped door into a narrow passageway dimly lit by LED lights running along the corners. Clarissa had never been claustrophobic – otherwise she never could have been sealed into the space taxi that had brought her out here – and she was actually grateful for the low ceiling, since it helped to restrain her movement and keep her feet on the floor. Still, looking at the restricted environment, she wondered how Herrman – or his clones – had been able to stand living here for over a century. She followed Herrman down a ladder into a more brightly lit laboratory. A table in the middle of the room housed an iHouse server and the expected

assortment of vats, vials, beakers, flasks, and test tubes, interconnected by a spider web of translucent tubes. On the other end of the room were three white boxes, each of which emitted an unhealthy clattering hum and were covered with frost. The thick tubes with which they were attached to a power plant outlet actually had icicles. Clarissa recognized them as cryogenic freezers. There were no markings on them, but she knew they were old-model FK-12s lined with Aerogel, no doubt originally used to contain liquid hydrogen fuel in Herrman’s ship. The wall adjacent to them was transparent, though the interior was so frosted over that she couldn’t see what was within. It was all horribly old-fashioned and dangerous; even though human cloning was illegal on Earth, cryogenic freezing was common for various medical reasons, and the modern facilities were compact, clean, and not reliant on supercold fluids and pipes and wires which could easily break down. She touched her right temple, felt for a moment until she found her interlink, and winked her eye several times. A small green dot appeared for a moment at the center of her vision, confirming that the pictures were taken and saved to her eyetaps. Unfortunately, there was no second green dot. For some reason the pictures were not transmitted to the server on the taxi. Well, she would worry about that later. “Dr. Herrman,” she said cautiously, “do you realize that, by confessing to human cloning and showing me this facility, which I’ve just taken pictures of, you’ve set yourself up to face criminal charges?” Before she had finished, Herrman was nodding tiredly. “Yes, yes. It’s all so silly. I’m outside UNEM jurisdiction, and all I’ve done is take advantage of scientific tools available to me in order to treat a fatal disease.” “And what disease is that?” “Death.” Herrman stepped to the transparent wall and rubbed it with his shirtsleeve. The inside was still frosted over, but at least now she could make out humanoid shapes within. “These clones were not decanted until they reached adulthood. At that point, they were automatically moved into cryogenic freeze. My eyetaps transmit directly to theirs constantly. In the event of my death, one of them will be automatically decanted. He will have all of my memories right up until my death. This is the way I’ve preserved my life ever since I came out here.” “Even assuming your claim of being outside UNEM jurisdiction is valid, don’t you ever question the ethics of what you’re doing?” The smile never left Herrman’s face. It was 71

beginning to annoy Clarissa. “Ethics. It’s always interested me the way the subject of ethics follows science around like a bulldog. But where does it really, truly apply? Who gets to decide the ethics of a scientific breakthrough if there is no ethical precedent for it? If something is new, who gets to decide the right or the wrong? And why?” “There’s nothing new about human cloning.” “Yes, but the debate began as soon as science discovered that it could be done. Before experimentation even reached its potential to produce benefits, it was already banned. Human cloning was presumed to be unethical before anyone could even articulate why.” “Yes, but even allowing that there’s nothing morally wrong with human cloning, you are using human beings. You develop people in these tanks and simply – simply take over their bodies like some sort of demon or science fiction parasite.” “How can that be, when they’re all me?” “But they’re not. No more than a twin brother would be. And epigenetic drift – “ “Yes, but as I said, they are not decanted until physical adulthood, and at that time their eyetaps already contain my memories. They duplicate not only my genes, but my mind. They truly are me.” “But if you were not to decant them so late, and if you were not to constantly transmit from your eyetaps to theirs, they would develop as individuals.” “That is simply a new application of the old abortion debate. If I were to defend my actions on the principle of Roe v. Wade, you couldn’t touch me.” “But this is an entirely different situation. You haven’t aborted these clones; you’ve taken over their lives.” “I know of no law against that; the only law on the books about clones is that they are forbidden – and as I said, I’m outside UNEM jurisdiction. Ethically, my conscience is clear. These clones are not, nor have they ever been, anyone other than me.” Clarissa felt she had lost the argument; though she was equally certain that a prosecutor would not. It was not her argument to win, so she simply said, “Well, I think that completes my inspection. If you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll leave now.” “No, not so soon.” Herrman reached out and touched her arm. She was surprised at the ease with which he touched her arm and rubbed his thumb up and down, as if they were an old married couple rather than a possible crook being investigated by an InSA detective. But what surprised her even more was that her arm was bare. For the first time, she noticed that she was wearing not the airtight coveralls in

which she had arrived, but a filmy white blouse. “I wish you’d stay longer,” Herrman said. “There are other things I’d like to show you.” The vague unease that had twinged in the back of her mind periodically since she had first met Dr. Herrman now solidified into a full-fledged foreboding. She recalled waking up in the galley, wondering if her food or drink had been drugged. She now felt certain that something had happened to her when she was asleep. Considering how forward Herrman had been since they had met, she wondered if she really wanted to know what all Herrman had done to her when she was not conscious. But suddenly, feeling very alone and vulnerable in this complex run by a single mad genius for over a century, she did not feel comfortable confronting him directly. “Perhaps some other time,” she said, annoyed with herself that once again her voice pitch was rising. “I do have a deadline to deliver my report.” It was a lame excuse and she knew it, and was not surprised when Herrman laughed. “It’s all right, Clarissa. I’ll show you to your taxi.” “I know the way.” Herrman shrugged. “As you wish.” And that was that. Very well, time to leave. Clarissa was suddenly quite irritated that InSA had sent her here alone; one would have expected that she would at least have a partner. But come to think of it . . . didn’t she? Why was she having trouble recalling? She tried to focus her thoughts as she bounced through the narrow passageways. The sounds of pumps and generators haunted her; she kept expecting to turn a corner and find Herrman leering at her. She tried to recall all she had read about various drugs – hallucinogenic, psychotropic, anything that might account for her bizarre lapses of memory. She clearly remembered receiving her assignment back on Earth – she remembered the ride up in the space elevator – she remembered being sealed into the taxi, she remembered watching through the window as the big locking arms of the cycler grabbed her as it made its pass . . . but what about her partner? What was his name? Where was he? She reached the airlock door and found the red light on. It was depressurized. In this skimpy – and, she thought with both trepidation and a thrill of grim eroticism, sexy – outfit she had found herself in, she certainly couldn’t cross the vacuum of space. But there had to be a pressure suit here somewhere. As she hunted, doubt crept into her mind. She was afraid of what she might find on the other side of that airlock. A terrible certainty gripped her . . . a certainty 72

that her taxi wouldn’t be there . . . that . . . that . . . “We never did repair the damage.” She screamed before she could stop herself. She spun and saw Herrman, still smiling, walking toward her with only the slight bounce of a long acclimated resident. “The airlock section was damaged when your taxi crashed,” Herrman said. “There are pressure suits in the closet over there, we could go out and look it over if you like.” “I would like that very much.” Clarissa was proud of the firmness in her voice. Herrman nodded, moved to the gray-green metal door behind him, and yanked it open. It gave a terrible shriek of rusted iron. The pressure suits were ridiculously old-fashioned, hopelessly mechanical and reliant on physical material, but Clarissa knew that they had done the job in their day as reliably as today’s bubble suits, as long as they were not compromised by a micro-meteoroid or simple carelessness. You sure wouldn’t let a child or even an untrained adult out in space in one of these. Clarissa felt uncomfortable letting Herrman fit the suit onto her, but as she had never worn one like this, she yielded to the inevitability. She didn’t lack vanity; she couldn’t deny that as creepy as he was, she was a bit excited at the thought of his attraction to her. Once they were suited, Herrman pushed an icon on a screen next to the door. An emergency door behind them slid shut, isolating this area from the depressurization that would follow when the ruined airlock was opened. Herrman twisted a wheel on the side of the hatch and pulled it open. The buffeting of the air rushing out into space almost swept Clarissa off her feet. Millions of tiny snowflakes suddenly swarmed around her. Terrified of what she would find out there, she followed Herrman out the hatch. She pondered for a moment the possibility that he would simply give her a good push and send her flying away from the asteroid, but that didn’t seem too likely. She assumed he had other plans for her. Amid the twisted metal, exposed and busted oxygen tanks, and splintered rock, she saw the remains of the taxi. She realized now that she didn’t actually remember landing here. She remembered the descent, but the next thing she remembered was waking up in the galley. Now the pieces fit into place. Ned Farlowe! Her partner’s name had been Ned Farlowe. He had been in the capsule with her. “My partner died in the crash,” she said. “You must have rescued me and brought me in – that explains the change of clothes.

But why did you put me in the galley? Why didn’t I wake up in your medical bay?” Herrman gestured to a hole in the side of the ruined taxi. Clarissa stepped cautiously, always aware that only a slight misstep could send her tumbling off into space in an orbit that might not bring her back down for years. Herrman’s silence was ominous – the smile she could see through his faceplate even more so. She peered into the side of the taxi. At first she could see nothing, but Herrman repositioned her head so that her spotlight shone into the tiny cabin. Her first reaction was one of puzzlement. Her second was to resist the impulse to scream. For there was Ned Farlowe – mangled and space-petrified, but recognizable. But next to him, just as mangled, eyes just as bulged, skin just as pallid, was Clarissa Farrow.

larissa was rather proud of herself for not passing out. In fact, it was with a resigned calm that she followed Herrman back to the galley. She had already guessed what had happened; obviously he had taken cell samples from her body and cloned her, downloaded her eyetaps into the clone’s just as he had done for so long with his own body. But how long did it take for a clone to reach physical maturity? How long had it been since she had been assigned this mission? She was too numb from what she had already seen to feel much emotion about the enormity of what had happened to her. It was too early for her to deal with the sense of detachment and lost identity that came with the realization that she was dead . . . that this person who she was was a stranger, a twin whose life she had unwittingly stolen. They dined in silence. She ignored the omnipresent grin on Herrman’s face, she enjoyed the dinner. Afterwards, she said in a low, grim voice, “I’m tired.” “Of course you are. Get some sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning if you’re up to it.” She didn’t want to think about the morning. She didn’t want to address the issue. She didn’t want to consider the fact that there would be a morning. She wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. There were questions she needed to ask, but she did not want the answers. There were things she needed to say, but to say them would be to acknowledge that this situation was real, and that was something she was not ready to do. So it was with a silence that was both resigned and passively defiant that she followed Herrman to her sleeping quarters. 73

When she woke up the next morning she felt discombobulated. Finding herself in an unfamiliar room, she tried to remember where she was. What was real and what was not had become jumbled in her mind. Surely the bizarre revelation from yesterday wasn’t true, was it? When it came back to her, she felt a painful upwelling of tension and grief that seemed to constrict the muscles in her abdomen. But she had slept well, physically she felt good, her mind was sharp, and she was ready to confront Herrman. She was surprised at the variety of clothes in the closet – all of them attractive – but among them was the very jumpsuit in which she had arrived. At least she thought at first that it was; it had InSA Investigations labels on it, and her name on the breast, but when she picked it up she found that it was brittle, with several cracks and leaks. When she tried to pull it on, it tore at the waist. Cursing, she threw it to the floor. Disintegrated thermal packing puffed out of it in a swirling cloud. She found some casual clothes; polyethylene pants and shirt appropriate for work on an asteroid. Although she was deep enough in the asteroid not to have to worry about solar radiation even if there was a solar flare, she was in no mood to tempt Herrman with the more revealing clothes. Stepping out into the passageway, she worried at first about finding her way to the galley, but the layout of the complex was simple and logical, and she found it without any trouble. Herrman was not there, so she sat at the recycler and tried to figure out the archaic equipment. By the time she had assembled a breakfast of bacon and eggs with coffee, Herrman had arrived. She wondered how long he had stood in the doorway watching her with that irrepressible grin. “Morning!” he said. “Feeling better, Clarissa?” “Or whoever I am.” “Oh, please.” Herrman bounced joyfully into the room, plugged some numbers into the recycler and had produced an elaborate meal of grains, greens, meat, and milk in the time Clarissa had taken just to find the keyboard, and said, “I would have thought you’d have realized by now that you’re the same person.” He sat across from her, and for the first time since she had seen him, his smile disappeared. “I know this bothers you,” he said seriously. “But can’t you see? If I hadn’t done what I did, you’d be dead. Can you honestly tell me that would be better?” “That depends. What happened? Did you shoot us down?”

Herrman laughed softly, as though he had been expecting the question. “Sorry, I thought you knew I had no weapons here. No, I was never able to determine whether it was you or Mr. Farlowe, but one of you misjudged your approach. It might have been a landing radar problem, or maybe a misalignment of your translation controls. You hit the docking area, all right, but you hit it so hard that you decompressed. I guess there’s something to be said for the ancient policy of wearing space suits during a takeoff or landing.” From the state of the taxi’s wreckage, Clarissa decided to accept that explanation for the time being. So now the question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered. “All right, so why did you clone me but not Ned?” “Oh, but I did. I didn’t want to be investigated, but I also wanted to prove my point. And I did. Ned was most impressed and grateful, though when you two made your report it was decided that I should be returned to Earth to testify.” “Wait a minute. Why don’t I remember that? – Just how much time passed before you decided to clone me?” Herrman was taking a slug of his milk. Now he nodded as he swallowed and wiped his lips. “Yeah, this is always the hard part.” Always? “You see, I did clone you right away. Both of you. You did your investigation, made your report, and all three of us took off in my transit pod to rendezvous with the cycler and return to Earth to make my case.” “I’m getting confused.” “We all left here to go to Earth, all three of us. This complex was left abandoned. You see, after my eyetaps left transmitting range, the computer assumed I was dead, so a new clone was decanted and took over. Back on Earth, it was decided that I had been breaking the law out here, so I was barred from returning, and no one ever visited this asteroid again. No one ever knew that clone after clone was continuing the work here. And as you saw in the crashed taxi, I still had your genetic material available. You see, we had gotten to really like each other during your visit; though frankly I liked you a lot more than you liked me. But it was lonely out here and I needed a companion and you were a good one. I wouldn’t say we were ever perfect for each other, but it’s worked.” Clarissa had lost her appetite. Herrman had provided a lot more information than she was ready to accept. “Back up a minute. Are you telling me that I’m not – that this isn’t the first time you’ve cloned me? . . . Just how long ago was the crash? How many 74

clones have there been?” “It’s always hard for you to accept. You see, your eyetaps are a more advanced model than my facilities here are capable of receiving. I’ve never been able to keep you updated, so every time I clone you, your memories reset to the point that your original life ended. Every time you die, it’s very hard for me, because once again a lifetime of your memories is lost and we have to start all over again. – Of course, that also reinvigorates our relationship, because we have to get to know each other all over again. In a way that makes it even more exciting.” “I don’t think I believe you. You’re trying to trick me.” “I’m not. I have record tapes to prove it.” And that would also explain the aged condition of her jumpsuit. “All right . . . Just how long has it been?” “Six hundred ninety-four years.”

t first she didn’t believe him, but after viewing visual records, log entries, old news reports from the ‘net, photos, and hundreds of entries in her own diaries, she resigned to the truth. The world she had known, along with everyone in it, was swept away. Her dear old mother was dead. Her younger sister who had wanted to be a musician had instead, in desperation, joined the Mars colony and been killed in a construction accident at age twenty-six. InSA no longer existed, nor did the United Nations of Earth/Moon. As of the latest news report – and that several centuries old -- humans no longer left Earth, Mars was isolationist, and the Federated Nations of Jupiter and the Republic of Saturn were embroiled in their own problems and ignored the asteroid belt. And it was no wonder Clarissa couldn’t link to a server; her interlink was as useless in today’s world as a dial-up modem would have been in hers. Her entire mission here was pointless; an absurd thought, considering the complete upheaval of her life, but how frustrating it was that there was no longer even any reason to be on this asteroid that had ruined her life! It was clear from the logs and diary entries and surveillance videos she spent hours reviewing that Herrman had not lied; her past selves had indeed been his (their?) willing companion(s). She had clearly liked him. But her present “self” did not, and she wanted to get away. But not only was the taxi smashed beyond all hope of repair and its propellant long since lost to space, even were it in full operating condition, it was a shortrange vehicle without enough delta vee to get anywhere in the Solar System. And Herrman’s only

means of escape, the transit pod, was long-gone; and at any rate had the same problem: it was designed to launch and rendezvous with a cycler, not rocket across the galaxy like an improbable science fiction spaceship. But she had to escape, there had to be a way. If only she could gain access to the ‘net, or whatever people today used to get information. She had the seed of an idea.

he worked quietly, patiently. She accepted Herrman’s affection with all the smiles and accommodating words that she had seen herself deliver in the visual records. She gave herself over to him in every way he expected, and she had to admit that he was so practiced by many lifetimes of learning what pleasured her that she enjoyed his company, at least in that respect. But when he wasn’t looking, she researched, she collected notes, she built up a database of her own, triple-locked by passwords and DNA identification markers. She took small pieces of equipment, bit by bit, and hid them in her private locker in the lab; she was sure Herrman had a key, but she was careful to give him no reason to violate her privacy. She lost track of the months. Each day was another day of interesting research in the morning, games and good food and old movies in the afternoon, sex in the evening – and discrete work at night after Herrman had gone to bed. She didn’t concentrate on her mental state, which was a numbness that she feared would blossom into depression should she give a moment’s thought to it; depression would lead to resignation, resignation would mean the abandonment of her plan. It was not that life on Eternia was unpleasant; in fact she could see why her past selves had been happy here. But it was still a prison. She wanted out. And one night she made her first breakthrough. The little binary microcomputer sending out its little mathematical signal had attracted attention, and to her everlasting delight . . . she had received an e-mail! The format was unfamiliar, much of the data had been scrambled. But the message was brief and legible: {$bh}{*C*}h{*l*}ello{.}{C}i{*l*} got your message{.}{*C*}c{*l*}an {C}i{l*l} help you{?}{$ch} Her heart pounding, Clarissa tapped “reply” and typed out manually, “Thank you for the reply! I would like to transmit ten terabytes of data. Do you have a server large enough to receive?” She hit ‘send,’ closed down her personal terminal, folded up the microcomputer and hid it in her locker, then went to bed, exhilarated. She lay awake for an hour, her thoughts turning, 75

wondering with whom she had made contact, wondering what sort of world awaited her, wondering what reply she might receive. If Herrman noticed her exuberant air the next day, he didn’t comment. She was frequently uneasy at how well he knew her compared to how well she knew him; at odd moments she would find him correctly interpreting body language she didn’t realize she was even exhibiting. Considering how many lifetimes he had lived here with her, it was disconcerting to know that he knew her far better than any of the family and friends she remembered so well. The hours of their research period dragged on forever. She was antsy, restless, anxious to talk about her project though she knew she mustn’t, anxious at least to think about it, though her small-angle calculations of the linear diameter of radio source X2784-7B didn’t allow much leftover brainpower for idle thinking. Over dinner, she was distracted, her mind off at Jupiter or Saturn or whatever asteroid or space station had sent her that message, and Herrman’s talk about the day’s work, followed by inane discussion of last night’s stupid movie, jumbled into babble. Herrman did fall into an irritated silence after awhile, which she smoothed over by giving an honest review of what she thought was a dopey and unsophisticated movie. Her attention placated Herrman, and he cheerfully defended what he thought had been a well-done if not superlative work of harmless entertainment. She knew she was being careless and she tried to direct her attention to the conversation, but the prospect of escape – preliminary though it was – kept sucking her attention away like a sports game on screen at a restaurant. Well, men thought of women as irrational; hopefully he’d chalk her mood up to that. It was one of those rare nights when Herrman wasn’t in the mood for sex. He took a jog around the complex (“jogging” was interesting in one-twentieth gee), then settled in the recreation module to watch no less than three episodes of Beyond Level One, then stopped in the galley for a snack. During all this, Clarissa lay in bed, reading, listening at the door, pacing, lying on her back waiting impatiently – God, would the man never go to bed? Finally, at almost one-thirty in the morning (as they measured it) he finally crawled into bed. As she did every night, she lay awake, listening intently to the sound of his breathing. As it grew deep and loud, she knew he was asleep, and she rose and tiptoed to the lab. She pulled out her microcomputer, opened it up, and was elated to see a reply to her message. {*C*}y{*l*}es{,} there()s enough space in my

ZrGGdT for your file{.} {*C*}p{*l*)lease identify yourself before transmission{,} though{.} Once again she typed manually: “My name is Clarissa Farrow. I am stranded on Asteroid Eternia. I have no means of escape. I would like to transmit my memories and genetic code so that I may be re-created somewhere else.” She hit ‘send’ – then wondered if she had made a mistake. She had no idea who her recipient was. She had no idea to where she was transmitting. She had no idea what today’s cultural mores or laws were. Perhaps human cloning was still forbidden. Perhaps she was communicating with some little kid who had no access to genetic facilities – or even some schmoe who wouldn’t know what to do with a novel let alone a genetic code. She stared blankly at the screen for some time, wishing there were a way to take back her message. Suddenly a reply popped up. Apprehensive, she read it quickly: {*C*}g{*l*}lad it()s you{,} Clarissa{.} {*C*}t{*l*}ransmit anytime{.} “Glad it’s you, Clarissa?” she said out loud. Hadn’t enough weird things happened to her since she had arrived on this accursed asteroid? What in God’s name could that mean? Well, she had labored long and hard to prepare the file to send. And even if she herself was condemned to spend the rest of her life here, at least some future self would have escaped. But since the memories in the file were up to date, the clone would remember the plan – the plan to send a rescue ship here. With luck, within a few months the clone would be mature and decanted, and a few months later the cycler or some other spacecraft would pass this way, and she’d have a trip to some new home. She would have to get used to having a twin, but that was okay. She sent the file. The next day over breakfast, Herrman said, “Did you send the file?” Clarissa nearly choked. “What?” she gasped. “Please. I’ve known you too long. Do you really think this is the first time you’ve tried this little trick?”

larissa awoke, felt a wash of relief as she saw that she was most definitely not on Asteroid Eternia.

But she was puzzled, if not entirely surprised, when she found herself looking into her own face. “Good morning, Clarissa,” her doppelganger said. “Welcome back to life.” She tried to say, “Where am I?” but her mouth failed to function properly. Though she felt perfectly cognizant, she sounded groggy and incoherent. “You’re on Space Habitat Eden. This is where people from the past are cloned and acclimated to their new environment. I’m afraid there are a lot of . . . us . . . here.” “A lot of – “ She trailed off as she saw another Clarissa bring a stack of towels. “Haaammneevessaaarnerrr,” she mumbled, meaning to say, “How many of us are there?” “Currently twenty-eight, of varying ages. – Oh, I know what you’re thinking – we all have more or less the same thoughts when we awaken here. I’m afraid there’s no sending a rescue ship to Eternia to pick up your present self. You see, people no longer travel physically through space in vehicles – it takes some getting used to, and none of us organic humans quite understand all of it. But you’ll have time to learn. That’s what this station is for, for you to assimilate the modern world – and when you’re ready, to join the New Human Race. It seems strange and frightening at first, the prospect of abandoning the organic body, but the more you learn about it, the clearer it becomes that virtually every social, medical, and technological problem has been solved. The human race has reached maturity, and is truly prepared to explore the universe.” Mercifully, Clarissa fell back asleep at that point. Plenty of time to learn. She pitied her poor other self, marooned on Eternia for the rest of her life with that strange Herrman – and she wondered how many more of her would be born, live, and die there. But perhaps just as many would be born, live, and die here, wherever this was. But she had escaped. She was free, reborn into a new universe, with an infinity of possibilities to explore. ___________________________________________ "Asteroid Eternia" is Collin R. Skocik's first appearance in Encounters Magazine.

I Regret I Must Eat You Now by Tom Barlow

Sometimes the search for revenge can lead us down an unexpected path. ___________________________________________________________

he next to the last time I saw my father, we were unloading another sparse catch from the long line. My hands were almost blue from the cold of the sea, not altogether a bad thing. Cold limbs bleed less. My father seemed, as usual, unfazed by the weather, the prospects of another unprofitable trip or the squandering of what remained of my teenage years. The taunting song of the whale swimming alongside our boat also contributed to bring my temper to a boiling point. "How can you stand it?" I asked, nodding toward the whale just as the guts of a cod shot into my eyes. "Our family hunted them for two hundred years," he replied calmly, not taking his eyes off the hooks as he pulled the line through his hands. "I figure we can deal with a little of their gloating." "You really think they'll fight on our side?" Father stuck his little finger in his mouth to shift his chew from one cheek to the other. "If they didn't mean to, I doubt old Pockhead would be swimming an easy harpoon-throw from us." "Fat good winning the war will do for us," I said as the end of the long line emerged from the water. "At this rate, we'd make more money fishing off of the dock." "Sleep with the harpoon 'neath your head," Pockhead sang in his low, booming whale voice, "haunted by my family's dead. Bluntsnout, Miledeep, Blackfin, Scartail, One-Eye." I tried to ignore him as the list of his family members that we had harvested went on and on.

The last time I saw my father he was dead on the

floor. My cousin Sind and I had pestered him into allowing us to try our hand at lobstering, since the fish were almost played out. That morning we took our boat north to where we had laid our traps a few days before. To our surprise and delight, every pot was full. The wind picked up in our favor for the return trip, and before supper-time we had the boat berthed, the catch sold and beers before us. The dockside inn was full of old whalers looking 77

to fill their idle hours since we had signed the treaty with the whales, and Sind and I spent more time and more of our take than we should have at the Inn. Eventually, we had to decide between brawling yet again with our nemeses, the twins Julyan and Jolyan Fisher, or honoring my promise to my father to show some maturity. I chose, for once, to fore-go the fight. They needled me unmercifully as I left, with words such as "coward" and "blubber-buddy." The sun was long since set by the time I arrived home. I carried a basket of fresh-baked seed rolls to share with my brothers, and Ma and Pa, to celebrate my success. The front door of our row house was off the latch, and the upstairs shutters open wide. The curtains my ma had sewn from old sailcloth blew free in the cold winter breeze. I could smell the blood as soon as I entered. The odor reminded me of an iron mine. I quietly entered the house, and stood for a few moments, watching and listening for movement. All I heard was the pounding of my heart. The house felt empty. I rushed through the downstairs. Finding no one, I climbed the stairs to the sleeping chamber. There I found my ma and pa and baby brothers. Dead. Each was ripped apart as though they had been whipped with the barbed hooks of a longline. Their chests gaped open, their rib bones protruding. Even through the tears of my rage, I could see that their hearts had been taken. My pa still held his fillet knife in one hand, dripping with blood. Impaled in the meat of his other hand was a claw. A dragon claw. The Cumberside Garrison

didn't know it could get this cold," Pelt complained. Only her nose protruded from my vest pocket. "Best get used to it," I said. "It's bound to get colder, the higher up the mountain we go. I can see snow on the peaks already." "I'm not sure I'll like snow, after all. I didn't realize it would be so cold." "Wasn't it just a week ago you were complaining that it was too hot?" "That was because I still had my winter coat. Looks like I picked a bad time to shed." I wasn't happy about the cold either, but knew I had no choice. Dragons live in the mountains. I had it in my mind to kill as many as I could, so to the mountains we were bound. Laugh if you must, or put it down to the 78

foolhardiness of youth. Understand, though, that I thought myself armed with two mighty weapons: complete disregard for my own life, and a singleminded desire for revenge. Growing up on the delta, all I knew about dragons was from tales spun by the wanderers, stories about the old days when they fed upon men and were our bitterest enemy, and the latter days, after the treaty, as they fought alongside us. Until the winter of my eighteenth year, I had no reason to question the truth of those stories.

had been assured by my uncle, an old army sergeant, that the best place to find dragons was the Cumberside Garrison, a wind-blown, dreary stone stronghold above treeline in the northern mountains. It guarded the least-likely-to-be-used pass between Savannah and our enemies from the interior plains of Peatsfeld, on the front line of the war that had been dragging on for fifty years. Since neither side had been able to mount a serious land attack in the past ten years, my uncle did not deem duty at Cumberside particularly hazardous, so he was willing to write on my behalf to the master of the garrison, who agreed to give me a try as a soldier. After a the two-day hike up the old North Road from the last coach stop at Cobb's Creek, through boulder fields and over rocks thick with slippery moss, I crested the final rise to find Cumberside towering above the trail. The garrison, a twin-towered but small fortress of stone, was sited to provide fine sightlines to the trail in both directions, and close enough to the trail beneath its wall that rocks could be dropped on the heads of those passing. My uncle told me it had been built as a toll collection gate, during the era of the monarchies. I found the master alone in the common room, hunched over his tally book. "Allyn, eh?" he said. He reminded me of a buffalo; shaggy hair and beard, high, thick shoulders and trunk, short legs. "Good, good. Took long enough, by God. Pigeon said to expect you yesterday. One more day and I'd be gutting Kenzie and feeding his liver to the dragons." "He's the fair-haired man with the broken arm," the master's bird explained. He was the most gaily-colored macaw I had ever met, especially beautiful against the backdrop of gray rocks and gray skies. The master had bird droppings on his shoulder, one of the reasons I'd always favored mammals as seconds. "You look pretty green to me, lad," the master said. "Your uncle said you were ready for service, but my nephew's taller 'n you, and he's but twelve."

I checked the sharp reply that came to mind. "I'm compact." "Aye, you are that, for sure. You new to the mountains?" "Yes, sir. I'm from seafarers: whalers." "Aren't any oceans hereabouts, but I'll keep you in mind if I need a pretty knot. Can you string a bow?" "No, sir, but I'm pretty good with a sling." Pelt held it up for inspection. "I used to plunk flying fish from the deck of our ship." "A lefty, eh? Wonderful," he said. "We should warn our enemies that they're in for a good bruising, from your pebbles." "I'm willing to learn the bow, the pike, whatever you need," I replied. Pelt poked her head out of my pocket, intending, I'm sure, to join the conversation, but as soon as she saw the bird she ducked back in. She'd had some close calls with macaws in the past. "We'll see. For now, you'll take Kenzie's spot with the second watch, under Sheldon. Boid will show you to the barracks so you can stow your gear and change into something dry. You do have a change of clothes?" I nodded. "Then report to the kitchen; your crew has kitchen duty tonight. The men have been known to hang the cook if supper's late." With that, he returned to his tallies. I followed Boid as he flew through a passageway at the back of the common room, across the dragon stables and up a flight of narrow stairs leading to the barracks. "Brought snugglies?" Boid asked as he landed on a dragon perch next to the mantle of a fireplace that held nothing but cold ashes. "Windy, up here. Cold." Boid was right. The skin coverings over the tall, narrow windows were tied back, allowing the cold mountain air to blow through unchecked. The coal bin appeared to have been licked clean, which I was to learn was to be expected when dragons were about. The small room was almost filled by three sets of triple-high bunks. Several more dragon perches were built into the wall. They were all heavily scored with claw marks. Faceless lumps filled the bunks, men curled deep inside their sleeping furs. The air was ripe with the smell of men overdue for their baths, which explained the open windows. I put on dry clothes, hanging the wet ones on a rack by the fireplace. I wasn't sure if they would dry before they froze. "Kitchen?" I asked Boid. He hopped to a window and took flight over the courtyard toward the short tower at the other end of 79

the garrison. I took the human route, down the stairs and back through the large common room. The master was worrying a piece of leather and did not look up as I passed. The kitchen, on the ground level of the east tower was compact, with barely enough room between the larder, fireplace and preparation table for the three burly men working there. Boid was waiting to introduce me. "Allyn," he said as I entered. The others grunted a welcome but did not look up, doing nothing to alleviate my nervousness. One was dicing vegetables with a short sword. The second fanned the smoldering coal cook-fire with bellows. The third was peeling his way through a mountain of spuds. "Stewart, Lennard, Gladwin," Boid said, each of the men nodding acknowledgement. "Their seconds, Muff, Knot and Quint." Three white mice peered around the corner of a round of cheese on the counter, nodded to me. "Mousemen," I said, pleased to find some fellows. I removed Pelt from my pocket and set her on the counter. "Pelt. Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said, with a deep, formal bow. Having been raised in the carnival, she has an exaggerated, sometimes comical sense of etiquette. The other seconds ran over to her and they spent a few moments sniffing and jostling, exchanging whatever arcane information mice exchange when plugging a new member into their social structure. I turned my attention to the duties at hand, eager to show my willingness to earn my keep. "I am assigned to your watch. What shall I do?" They all smiled, which relieved me a bit. "Is it children they're sending us now?" Stewart, the one at the fireplace, said. I was surprised to find a man of his years in the garrison. His hair was sparse on top and slate gray. He had no front teeth on the bottom. "I've had goats taller 'n you," Lennard, the fat one, added. "Old enough," I replied cautiously. "I'm not afraid of work, if that's what you're worried about." "That's good to hear," Stewart said. "Why don't you stoke this fire, then get the spuds peeled and in the pot, then finish chopping the vegetables. We eat in an hour, so you'd best hop to it." "And what will you be doing?" I asked. "We'll be taking care of the pipe smoking in the storeroom upstairs, if you have any questions."

I heard one of the other seconds ask Pelt, "Is the other half of your first coming later?" Pelt had been the runt of the litter also, and normally didn't allow others to poke fun at me. In deference to our newness, I motioned her, asking her to let it pass. It wasn't as though we hadn't heard comments about my lack of height before. Chunks of pork had already been cut up into the iron pot, and the fire was well under way. Pelt and her new friends watched me from the counter as I assembled the stew, each munching on a piece of cheddar. "Thyme," Pelt suggested. "Rosemary," Quint said. "Truffles," Knot said. I ignored them all. If you're stupid enough to take cooking suggestions from mice, you deserve meals that taste like garbage. The stew was on the boil by the time my mates returned from the storeroom and smoking lounge upstairs. Stewart tossed old grounds from the coffee pot into the mulch bin, and began to prepare a fresh pot. "What's your story, Allyn?" he asked. The others took seats within earshot at the two long tables on the dining side of the room. I gave them a short portion. "My people were whalers, so I grew up on the boats. The treaty with the whales left us high and dry. The army seemed like the best option remaining for me." "I thought that were cloud cuckoo land when I heard it," Lennard said. "Who will we bury the hatchet with next? The piggies? What'll we eat, then? Man can't fight on spuds and beans." Pelt snickered, but quit when I frowned at her. Although Lennard's girth suggested he could live quite a spell on vegetables alone, that was no reason to be rude. "Have the whales been able to stop the sea incursions, then?" Gladwin asked. "Thus far, at least," I said. "It's said the whales sank a fleet of sixteen Peatsfelden warships last winter that were bound for our shipyards at Heartbreak Bay." "Do they truly sing?" one of the mice asked. "Aye, they sing." I said. "Long, slow songs. They have very soft voices for such massive beasts. Many a time, as we were boiling one down on deck, its mates would be swimming alongside the ship, singing a death dirge." "I'd gladly give up whale steaks and lamp oil if it means our shores are finally secure," Gladwin said. "You hates seafood," Lennard pointed out. Having set the coffee pot on the fire, Stewart pulled 80

a piece of wood from his back pocket and began whittling on it. He chipped the shavings into the fire, where they burned immediately in the intense coal heat. "What do I need to know about our watch?" I asked the third man, Gladwin, as I stirred the stew. He appeared to be only a few years older than me-- no longer a child, but only lightly scarred by adult life. He was dark as two-day coffee, with delicate features. I'd learned long ago to tread lightly such around men, as they usually have spent a lifetime fighting those who confuse their features with weakness. "There are three watches. One on patrol, one on chores, one in the bunk. We rotate every fortnight, morning to evening to night. Eight men to a watch. We're eight days into our morning turn at the moment. The master's liable to pop up behind you any time, any day, any where, so keep an eye peeled. If you're a shirker, he can be the devil incarnate." "He's a birdman, I see." "Right," Stewart said. "Watches are pretty much broken up that way. Mousemen on Sheldon's watch. Birdmen on Bailey's. The birdmen's seconds are four rooks, a couple of jays, a pair of canaries, and a waxwing. They used to have some pigeons, but they disappeared; we figger they tasted a bit too good to last around dragons. "The dragonier is on Thompson's watch, and since dragons tend to scare away other seconds, the men on that watch do without seconds." "Lonely, that," Gladwin said. "How many dragons?" I asked. "Never knew anyone with a dragon for a second, myself." I found myself thumbing the edge of my blade, to make sure the potatoes had not dulled it. "They don't like to be referred to as seconds, for one thing," Stewart said. "They ain't exactly good company, don't tell yarns like a proper second. They ain't interested in amusing you." "I'd never been around them before, either," Gladwin added. "I had never been at the dragon altitudes before I was posted here. I found that much of what I'd been told was wrong. "For example, I thought dragons were enormous. They're not. The biggest are smaller than sprint ponies, about the size of mastiffs." "They're vile company," Stewart added. "They whine, and, you let more than a couple within earshot of one another, they'll howl together so loud you can't sleep. Give me a mouse any day." The mice, who were taking it all in, nodded as one. "Then there's the explosion problem. Their droppings have a nasty habit of blowing up. We wear

felt slippers and use copper shovels when mucking their stalls, to avoid sparks." "We don't use their shit for the cannons any more?" I asked. "Not since we learned to mix our own powder." "And these are our allies?" I said. Stewart shook his head. "I suppose you could call a plague your ally if it wipes out your enemy, but you know it's just a matter of time before it comes after you, too. The generals like dragons, though. They can fly, see in the dark, and relish killing with claw, tooth, tail or flame. O course, when they are on our side, they are less likely to kill and eat us." "But are they ever really on our side?" Lennard said. I glanced at each to see if the others shared his opinion. Only Gladwin seemed ill at ease. "Who's the dragonier here?" I asked. "Trysten," Gladwin said. "His mate is Fate-in-eyrie. There are usually two or three unmated dragons, friends of Fate, hanging about. They might fight for us, but we can't count on it. Stoneface, Hearteater, Mercy-ne'er, are the ones here most often." "Have you seen much action?" "Mostly just walking patrols," Stewart said. "Every couple of months, though, the master dispatches us on a maraud. On the other side of the pass there are a few small Peatsfelden villages and pastures where they graze their meat after the snow clears. We invade, rattle our swords, they hide in their caves, and we stock up on meat and grab some lamp oil from their stores. "The only time we've run into a fight was last fall. We figger a small Peatsfelden squad must have been barracked for the night at the inn in Chalkvale, down their side of the mountains a few hour's march. They had their dragons posted lookout. We lost two men, but they lost more than that. Their dragons killed our men, our dragons killed theirs." I found some flour, a few eggs, and cream, and began mixing ship's biscuits to drop into the stew. The mice had fallen asleep in a pile on the counter and barely roused as I slid them into a bowl and set them on the shelf, to clear space in which to work. Within in a few minutes, my new mates were all dozing, and napped until the silence was broken by the sound of the patrol returning down the mountain, just in time. The dumplings were perfect. Life in the Garrison

ife in the garrison was both what I expected and full of surprises. The expected part was the hard work. We spent 81

much of our time walking the guard trails along the spine of the mountains. In the morning, when the sun was up and the red, yellow, orange and periwinkle wildflowers were in profuse bloom among the lichencovered rock, it could be delightful. Most often, though, the updrafts were fierce, and the clouds often settled on our shoulders, soaking us to the bone. At night, the scree on the path made every step perilous. My feet, used to the soft wood of a ship deck, ached constantly from the rock. I felt very exposed on patrol. The trails ran from peak to peak along very narrow ridges, with steep, rocky sides. There was no cover beyond the occasional cairn. My fears were exaggerated by the skittishness of our sergeant, Sheldon. He kept doubled lookouts fore and aft, one for each side of the mountain, to watch for dragons. "He hates dragons more than any man in the garrison," Stewart commented as we shared rear guard duty. Not quite, I thought to myself, but held my peace. "They're devilish hard to see.â&#x20AC;? he said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;They usually start their attack from very high above. Their belly blends into the sky so well that even the eagleeyed are unlikely to pick them out until it's too late." "Doesn't seem unreasonable, fearing dragons," I said. "Any special reason that Sheldon does?" Stewart scanned the far ridge with his telescope. "It was his men, our mates, that was killed at Chalkvale. It's a hard thing to watch a dragon tear the heart out of your mates, and it's almost as hard to stand by while your dragons do the same to the enemy's dead. It's a devil's bargain we've struck, and not every man thinks so little of his soul." I felt Pelt moving around in my pocket, upset by the dragon talk. The surprising part of life in the garrison was the friendliness of the troops. By the time I had finished cleaning up the mess hall the first day, Bailey's watch was waking up. Birdmen all, the common room was soon full of their second's chatter. Several rooks clattered together, while two mountain jays chirped at a waxwing. A pair of canaries flitted about the room, singing a happy morning song, their brilliant yellow brightening the gloom. Pelt was irritated by them. "Bird-brains," she said, "stupid happy." I didn't agree. I found their song heartening after the pain of the past year. The jays turned their attention to me. "New, eh?" the brighter blue of the two said from the shelf above me. "We can tell, by your pristine shirt, you've no bird," the other said.

"Don't give up hope," the first said, "not everyone is worthy of a bird at first, but through noble deeds and acts of kindness you may be able to earn your way to birdworthiness." At that, Pelt stuck her head out of my pocket. "Pretty full of yourself, for someone who's children are best served scrambled with buttered toast?" I shoved her head back into the wool, not wishing to start a blood feud. "Mouseman?" the birds said together, and repeated a taunt my father had taught me to ignore, when I was given my first second, as a child. Pity the soldier Away from his house, Pity his labors, Pity his spouse, Pity him, for his Bedmate's a louse, But pity him most when His second's a mouse. Other than this good-natured jibing, the birdmen seemed a congenial crew. I didn't see any dragons my first few days in the garrison. The dragonier had been sent out on reconnaissance with a few other soldiers from his watch shortly before I arrived. Rumor in the garrison was that our master was planning another maraud as soon as the snow melted in the mountain passes. One afternoon a few days after I arrived, I was on watch duty in the storage tower window of the garrison, trying to follow Stewart's instructions on how to whittle a chain, but shaving as much thumb as wood. Pelt had eaten a coffee bean that morning, and chattered a blue streak. The sun fell full on the left side of my face, and as Pelt talked I floated into the land between wake and sleep, my back nestled into a bale of wool. I woke at a strange flutter outside. A shadow passed one window, then the next, then the next, circling the tower like a string wrapping around a top. The flutter was not light and rapid, like a bird, but deliberate, slapping, like a hand striking a cheeky lad's face. Another shadow, then another, joined it. I was reminded of the bats returning home to our attic when I was a child. A moment later, three dragons flew into the room, one through each of three windows, and landed on the floor simultaneously. They folded their wings and stared at us. Pelt was paralyzed with fear. They were as hideous as I had imagined: horny brow, overlapping scales like slate in a riverbed, climbing to a sharp peak that ran the length of their backbone, teeth so long and sharp the leathery skin of their beaks could not completely close over them. I 82

could see bits of meat, still pink, stuck between them. Standing, the dragons came up to about my shoulders. Their eyes were haunting, yellow with black pupils, like an eclipse of the sun, and impassive. They were set very high and forward, like an owl. The eyes had an inner, transparent eyelid, barely distinguishable. They appeared to never blink. As far as I could tell, they were identical except for their many scars. The fore dragon's voice was surprisingly deep and his enunciation crisp. "Who are you?" he asked. My mouth was so dry I had to take a drink from my skin before I could respond. I tried to disguise the tremble in my hands as I did so. I introduced myself, surreptitiously studying each of their throats, underbellies, face, nostrils, for a place that an arrow or knife might penetrate. "And your second?" "Pelt," I said, reaching in my pocket and grabbing her where she cowered in the corner. She kept her claws dug into my pocket, turning it inside-out as I produced her for inspection. "She's nought but a mouthful." "We don't eat the seconds of our allies," the dragon replied. "Vows are vows." They made sounds to one another, but it did not sound like speech to me: more like someone shaking a bag of bones. Apparently satisfied, they turned and left without introducing themselves, hopping awkwardly down the stairs toward their stables. I found I had been holding my breath against the stench I remembered from my parent's bedchamber. To my surprise, the air was sweetly scented, the smell of moss. Pelt trembled for the next ten minutes, then fell asleep, exhausted. I sat, silently cursing myself for the fear I had felt in the dragon's presence, until the dinner bell rang.

he next afternoon another of our watch, Inigo, and I were cleaning out the chicken house and spading the manure into our garden patch, preparing the beds for the spring planting of spinach, radishes, and onions. I hadn't exchanged a dozen words with him since I'd arrived. I hadn't overheard him talking to anyone else, either. Even his second, Tup, was quiet, although Pelt thought that was because Tup was quite old and fat. Inigo, on the other hand, was rather young and on the thin side of lean, putting the lie to the bromide that a man and his second grow to resemble one

another. He was in a conversational frame of mind that morning. "Did I hear right, you're from a whaling family?" he asked as I spread the chicken shit with a hoe. "Aye, was." I replied. "Naught for it now, of course." "Treaty," he said, spitting out the word like a bit of spoiled meat. "These treaties are going to be the death of us all." "Some would say they bring the chance for peace," I said. "Some? But not you?" He looked at me curiously. "When they say peace, I hear surrender. And what after that, then? Are we to live in peace with dragons and whales and wolves? When we have peace with the Peatsfelders, then on whose hearts will the dragons feast?" I had said too much, and too fast, but I had been so full of these thoughts I could not stop myself. Inigo did not appear to be troubled by my words. "Something there to ponder, for sure. A man that invites the devil to dinner may find him a guest with an appetite that cannot be contained to the food on the table." "You're not fond of our dragons, then?" I asked. "I fought in the skirmish at Chalkvale. So no, I'm not fond of dragons." "Is that how most of the watches feel?" He shrugged, not easy to do, holding as he was a forkful of straw and manure. "Few like dragons. Some tolerate them. Many of us see them for what they are." "And what are they?" He looked at me for a moment, looking for any hint of falseness in my mien. Apparently finding none, he said, "We are their meat. Always have been, always will be. No treaty can change that fact. It's just a matter of time until they turn on us, mark my words." "Aye, on that we agree," I said. We let the subject rest there and set to work on the pigpen. Maraud

few days later, the first burst of spring warmth reached our mountain outpost. We carried our clothing and bedding outside to allow the sun and breeze to lure away the bedbugs. Being a garrison of young men, our juices ran hot in the spring sun. We engaged in some spirited fighting, with sword, stick, and hand. Before long, tempers flared and a couple of men were injured. The master quickly concluded that such energy needed to be directed or it would explode. He ordered our 83

sergeants to prepare for a maraud. It was a sign of my greenness that my appetite was whetted by the prospect of battle. I dreamt of victory and glory, not carnage and abandonment. I also hoped that in the confusion of battle, I might find my chance to avenge myself upon a dragon. Most of my mates seemed eager for a break in routine. Among us, only Gladwin and Trysten seemed less than eager. Gladwin showed me how to tie up my kit so that the contents did not rattle. "How long will we be gone?" I asked him, as he lashed my ha'shovel to the jute webbing. He gave it a tug and the jute parted. "You need to re-lace this before we set out. Use some of the strips of leather hanging in the common room. "We'll likely be out three days or more. A day's march, camp, an early morning raid, and back to the camp, then arrive back here the next afternoon." "Will it be a rugged march?" I asked, remembering the treacherous trail I'd walked to arrive at the garrison. "How do you feel about heights?" He was amused, which I took as a bad sign. "I like the ocean," I replied. "You can't fall off of the ocean." He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. As he turned back to packing his kit, a shadow fell over my mine. I turned to my left to find the dragoonier, Trysten, standing over me. I had not realized how tall he was until we stood toe to toe. He didn't say anything, but slowly looked me up and down as though I were a brood mare he was considering buying. I half expected him to check my teeth. I could smell the dragon on him. An unreasonable fear kept me from meeting his eyes, and so instead I looked at his vest. To my shock, I realized it was made of overlapping dragon spine scales. He gripped me by my upper arms, pulled me toward him, and sniffed several times, as though he were a dog acquiring a scent. Finally he said, "I see what they mean." His voice was deep and full of gravel, so deep I couldn't tell if his words were friendly or not. Before I could ask him, he patted me on the back as though I were his friend, and turned to carry his pack down the stairs.

day later, none of us were laughing as we inched our way along a trail traversing the face of a sheer cliff. A bank of winter snow hung over the lip of the cliff above us like bank undercut by a river. Fate-

en-eyrie and two of his fellow, unmated, dragons were circling lazily high above, climbing in the updrafts as though on a spiral staircase. The trail was not wide enough to place my feet side by side. I tossed a pebble over the side, and counted to fifteen before it struck the rocks below. "I can't believe this is the legendary north trail," I said. "This stretch isn't," Stewart replied. "The Peatsfelders brought a rockslide down onto the main trail years ago, to seal their border. This is a detour." A short while later, we reached a stretch of the trail covered with ice. We lashed ourselves together at the waist. As we tied in, I asked Gladwin, "How do we keep one fallen man from bringing down the rest of us with him?" "If you hear someone shout "DOWN MAN," grab the rope on both sides, lean into the cliff with all your might, and brace your feet. Bend your knees so you can absorb the jerk." "And that will suffice?" "It will. Or we shall all find out how it feels to fly like a dragon." We worked our way across the traverse for the better part of an hour. As the day grew warmer, the ice on the southern-facing folds of the trail began to melt, coating the ice with a sheen of water. I was fatigued, having stood guard duty the night before. Then a knot in my kit lacing slipped, throwing the weight of its contents to one side. In an instant, I was off the trail. Miraculously quick, Gladwin shouted "MAN DOWN!" I swung hard against the rock face as my mates took up the slack. I kicked my feet against the rock, scrambling for purchase but finding none. Then someone whacked me on the side of the head, hard, as though with a cudgel. Stunned, I quit struggling. Strong arms reached down from either side, knocked my hat away, grabbed handfuls of my hair, and plucked me back onto the trail. It was several moments before I could breathe again. My scalp smarted mightily, and the side of my face felt as if it had been burned. I probed my jaw with my finger and I found a tooth hanging by a thread. I plucked it out. "Many thanks for rescue," I said, "but was the blow to the head necessary? A man has only so many teeth, and I'm too young to live on mush." Gladwin turned my face toward him, studying the welt. "That wasn't us. It was Mercy-ne'er. Your struggles would have taken us all to the bottom, mate. He gave you a love tap, to calm you down." "Back of the tail," Stewart added. "You'll carry that 84

mark for life. Not many can say they've had the touch of a dragon's tail and lived to tell it." I rubbed and rubbed, but he was right; the devil mark would not go away. From then on, I rubbed it as I dreamt of my revenge.

uiet quickly settled over our camp that night, our weariness sharpened by the cold of the altitude. We had carried scant coal, and it burned low quickly after our rough dinner of dried meat, eggs and cheese. Pelt and the other seconds, on the other hand, were having a lovely adventure. They exchanged dares, each involving some annoyance to the birds: swiping a bit of seed, washing whiskers in their bathing bowl, stealing loose feathers for a nest. Finally one of rooks lost patience and carried a struggling Quint back to us in his beak. "Tasty, this one," the rook said pointedly. "I'll remember that when times grow lean." He smacked his beak, and walked away. Gladwin flicked Quint's head with his finger. "Settle down, unless you want to become a gizzard stone." Quint looked contrite, but we knew better. Mice never feel guilty. "Give us a story," Gladwin said, obviously to distract the mouse. Mice can be distracted at the drop of a hat. Quint looked pleased to be asked. He settled into his storytelling pose and began. "This is the story of 'How Dragon Learned to Breath Fire'." Once upon a time, Dragon was unhappy. He was a fierce fighter, but Tiger was fiercer. He had claws, but Bear had bigger claws. He had a vicious tail, but Gator's tail was more deadly. He had sharp teeth, but Shark's teeth were sharper. He could strike from the air, but so could Owl and Eagle. One day he met Bird at the bathing hole. "Oh, Bird," Dragon said, "I am so very tired of being good at many things, but best at nothing. Now, Bird had long envied Dragon his mighty claws, teeth, and armor and, secretly suspected that First liked Dragon better than him. So he decided to play a trick on Dragon. "I'm sure you have many gifts that you are not yet aware of," he assured Dragon. "You simply have to discover them." Dragon was puzzled. "Discover them? How?" "Look around you. Perhaps your hidden gift is to tunnel better than Groundhog. Have you ever tried digging?" So Dragon set about to dig a pathway through the soil. Bird settled onto a comfortable branch to watch.

An hour later, Dragon crawled out of the pathetic hole he had dug. He was covered with dirt. Bird plucked a worm off Dragon's head and chewed it thoughtfully. "I do not think my gift is tunneling," Dragon said. Bird agreed. "Perhaps one of your hidden gifts is to gather the nectar of the wildflowers like the bees, and turn it into sweet honey. Have you tried that?" Dragon was skeptical, but sought out the trumpet vines in bloom. He began to lick the nectar from them with his long tongue. Before long, he was encircled by bees, who laughed at the sight of Dragon and the nectar. "See the mighty honey-dragon!" They cried. "Builds his comb with ear wax! Thinks his royal jelly worthy of a crown!" Dragon grew weary of the ridicule and stopped his nectar harvest. Bird found making Dragon look foolish was great fun. So when Dragon returned to him, he was ready with yet another ridiculous suggestion. "Perhaps you possess the gift of the fire, to eat coal!" Bird winked at the audience of turtles that had gathered. Dragon thought that was unlikely, but he was committed to uncovering his special gifts. He went in search of coal. When he found an outcropping, he took a small pebble of coal into his mouth and carefully bit down on it. To his surprise, it was delicious! He quickly gathered a mouthful, then another, and ate until he was so full he could barely walk. He waddled back to Bird, who was laughing at him so hard he almost fell off his branch. "Why are you laughing at me?" Dragon asked. "Ordinarily that would make me very angry, but today you have shown me a delicious new food, so I will excuse you." "Food?" Bird said. "Coal is a rock, you stupid dragon!" This upset Dragon. Now, when Dragon got upset, he became gassy. That built-up gas burst out of him suddenly, as a huge burp. As soon as the gas hit the air, it caught fire! The flame shot into the branches of the tree and engulfed Bird. In an instant Bird was burnt to a crisp. Luckily for Dragon, he had already prepared a hole, so it only took him a few moments to bury Bird's body. Then he hurried off to show his special gift to his friends.

he next morning, we prepared for the battle that we did not expect to have. Knives and short swords were sharpened, bows strung, damaged arrow vanes repaired, and stones gathered for the slings. After a rough breakfast, we set off down the trail into Peatsfeld territory. The terrain on their side of the mountains was 85

much gentler, and the trail quickly struck a stream and followed it toward the vast valley running east and west at the foot of the mountains. The cool water was welcome, but the clouds of gnats were not. The birds, perched atop their mate's packs, ate a few, but found them bitter. The dragonier squad leader, Dick, commanded our maraud. He dispatched Trysten and the dragons early that morning to scout the trail ahead. We rendezvoused with them an hour down the trail. "Chalkvale is just over the next ridge," Trysten told Dick. The bowmen pulled their bows from their shoulders and unstrapped their quivers. I unwound my sling and made sure the pouch of rocks I'd gathered the previous evening was close at hand, as well as my small supply of sling arrows. I could sense excitement, as we gathered around Dick for instructions. Trysten spoke first. "They seem to have deserted the village, as before. The Petesfelders must post lookouts on top of Grandfather." He pointed to the tallest of the surrounding peaks. I wasn't disappointed. Now that the moment of battle was upon me, I found it easier to imagine receiving a fatal stroke of the blade. My mates made disappointed sounds, but their protests struck me as a bit false. Dick assigned each of us a specific task to carry out as soon as we had secured the village. The mousemen were to search for stores of lamp oil and tobacco. The birdmen would search the houses for loot: gems, metals, silks, rugs, and the like. The dragon watch would round up the meat. Stewart whispered a reminder to me to keep an eye peeled for kegs of spirit, but on the sly. Our master didn't approve of his troops drinking, but we apparently weren't above sneaking some home anyway. The approach to Chalkvale crossed an open grass plain about as wide as a strong archerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arrow flight, with steep cliffs to our right and left. We double-timed across the open area and into the village, halting in a narrow alley between two buildings that faced the town square. Sheldon waved us to him, and together we turned the corner, weapons poised. I backed off from the others to give myself room to swing the sling. I had already loaded my best stone and set it to rocking, ready for a throw. But the square was deserted. The doors of the stone houses stood open wide. Large portions of their thatched roofs had blow away, and the sun shone through. Weeds had overrun the flagstone walkways. I put my sling stone back in the pouch.

We made our noon mess there in the town square next to the well, while Dick and the sergeants conferred about our plans. I asked Gladwin what we would do next. He took my arm and pulled me around the corner of a building, to a spot where our view down the valley was unobstructed. "See that?" He pointed to a line in the distance, where the long grass gave way to tightly-grazed fields. "That's the dragon line. No dragon will fly lower on the mountain than that. Chalkvale is the only village on this side above the dragon line. We'll have to go dragonless if we continue on." "But will we continue on?" "Aye. There would be hell to pay if we returned home empty-handed." "I don't know much about dragons in battle. How do they fight?" Stewart took a seat on the stone apron of the well. "Like nothing you've ever seen, I warrant. You've seen a hawk fold its wings to dive on its prey?" "Aye. We had falconers in our family." "Imagine a beast that dives two, maybe three times as fast. When they dive on you it's like looking at a throwing knife coming straight at you, point-on. Their scales are hard as stone, and will turn an arrow like a rock skipped on a still lake. They don't slow much for the kill, either, not like a hawk. When they kill for battle, they don't even stop, just they tear your throat out with their tail barbs as they pass and come back for your heart later. When they kill to eat, they hit with barbs, claws and teeth all at once. I've seen them knock the skin clean off a lamb when they strike. It's a bloody mess, something you'll see in your dreams after." "Why won't they go lower on the mountain?" "We reckon the heat's too much for them," Gladwin said. "You can see the limits of their range by the short grass in the pastures. The meat grazes right up to the dragon line. You can see dragon's claw marks in the trees all along the edge of those clearings, where they sit hoping for a meal to wander over that line. There are bones under every one of those trees." "Any of them man-bones?" I asked. He frowned but did not reply.

t was a somber crew that reassembled that afternoon. Dick split the dragon watch, assigning a few to stay behind with Trysten and the dragons, to guard our avenue of retreat. The rest of us were to continue on beyond the dragon line. I watched the dragons for signs of deception. I knew something the others did not: that dragons would, in fact, go down the mountain, all the way to 86

the sea, to kill innocent families. We were only a half-hour into our march through the short grass when the first arrow fell. It came from high above, as though from a great distance, and landed between Lennard and me, nicking a corner of his kit. We immediately dispersed, crouched, and made ready to return fire. However, there were no more arrows, and we saw nothing moving around us. "Some Peatsfelder soldier is going to draw extra duty for letting that arrow loose," Lennard said. "Lost the surprise, they have." Unable to determine where the arrow had come from, Dick formed us into a skirmish line, and we moved forward as though we were driving game, spread across the width of the ridge. The Peatsfelder that shot the arrow had either found a secure hideyhole or high-tailed it down the valley in advance of us, though. We encountered no one. An hour's advance brought us down to tree line. The first trees we encountered were stunted, gnarled, and heavily scarred with lichen. We soon came upon a narrow, natural wall of rock about 15 meters high that ran down the center of the ridge like the spine plates of a dragon, parallel to our path of travel. It forced us to split into two groups as we continued down the mountain. Neither group could see the other. That's when the Peatsfelders attacked in force. We later guessed some of them had been hiding on a shelf carved into the cliff below, and crept back up after we passed to assault us from the rear. Others were waiting for us in the trees ahead. Suddenly, we heard the sound of a human blowing a goat horn in front us, and almost immediately, the enemy ran out of the tree cover ahead and attacked. We were not aware of the enemy forces to our rear, so we charged forward to meet the attack. One of the mousemen took an arrow through the throat before we could spot our enemy's position. I fumbled for a few stones and blindly began slinging as I ran, hoping to distract their archers. I had the sudden urge to defecate. As soon as we spotted the enemy's positions ahead, we dropped behind what cover we could find, downed trees, granite outcroppings, or tall grass, and began returning fire, arrow for arrow, rock for rock. Their forces were fewer than I expected, and the accuracy of our warriors superior. We killed several, and I thought it was about time for us to charge their lines, when their mates attacked us from the rear. They had crept up until they were close enough to charge with swords drawn. A couple of our archers were run through before they could turn. Lennard,

Gladwin, and I gathered back to back to back to meet their charge. I struggled to control my trembling so that the others would not think me a coward. I had practiced many hours with wooden staves as a child, to pass the time as we sailed to whale waters. I had never dreamt of this combat, all hacking, hacking, hacking. So loud did my blood course in my ears that, for a moment, I thought I was back on a windy ocean with the water rushing across the bow. The stories of battle I had heard as a young boy were told from the vantage point of an eagle, describing troop movements and lines of attack, strategy, and tactics. I quickly realized that the reality of war is only the man before you, his sword swinging toward your head, your footing slick from blood, arrows appearing from thin air to pierce your mate's leg, and time as slippery as quicksilver in your palm. I began to fear we would be bested, when, to our enemy's dismay, Dick and the other half of our troops, having found some hand and footholds for climbing, unexpectedly appeared on the top of the rock wall. From that vantage point, they began to methodically pick off our foes. After a couple of minutes, the Peatsfelders realized their peril, and fled into the stunted forest, leaving their fallen mates behind. I found myself, hands on my knees, sucking for air as though I had run up the mountain. However, Dick would not allow us to rest, but pressed those of us not seriously injured into pursuit of our enemy. We doubletimed, and shortly found ourselves in another mountain village. We could see the backsides of our attackers in the distance as they retreated down the mountain. This village, perhaps thirty small houses and a couple of common buildings, had not been deserted for very long. The houses were in proper shape. I could see a herd of meat in the pen behind the Inn. "Same orders as before," Dick shouted, shoving Sheldon toward the store in the center of town. I followed. We forced the door. Supplies were sparse, but we located two barrels of lamp oil and a couple of bolts of fine boiled wool. There were also a few bottles of a spirit I was not familiar with, but Lennard deemed very worthy of our appropriating. "Mum's the word," Stewart said. "The master will commandeer the spirits if he finds them, so keep your lips buttoned." In a few minutes, we gathered back in the square, each man now struggling under the weight of his booty. Dick appeared from the stable with, to our great amazement, a horse. Normally, only royalty and the top military echelon could afford a horse. 87

We retreated quickly, passing through the pen to let the meat loose. We drove a few head before us back up the ridge. They were frightened, and kept begging to be released. The horse, on the other hand, was excited. "A battle pony! I was raised as a battle pony. Shall we do battle? I am a battle pony. I relish battle." Pelt finally asked him if he knew how to pull a plow. That shut him up. We used the pony to carry a couple of our wounded mates in a makeshift litter. Two others would not return with us. We buried them as best we could, hoping the Peatsfelders would not dig them up and feed their hearts to their dragons. The climb back to Chalkvale was considerably slower than our advance had been. The casks of oil were heavy and awkward, and I found myself exhausted in the aftermath of battle. I was not the only one on his last legs, so Dick decided we would spend the night back in Chalkvale, near water and some semblance of shelter. Trysten's men and the dragons stood watch. The night was pitch black, and we kept the fire built high with timbers stripped from the houses. The counterattack came at dawn. I had slept fitfully. I had no trouble falling asleep, but woke every time I rolled onto my shoulders, which were sore from the hacking. Suddenly I heard someone shout, "DRAGON UP!" and turned my head just in time to see a dragon diving upon me. All I could see was teeth and claws. I rolled behind the edge of a house as he dropped into his killing glide. His tail spikes just missed my head, taking a huge chunk out of the wall beside me before climbing back into the air. It took me a couple of moments to catch my breath and gather my courage. By the time I charged around the corner to join my mates in battle, it was over. Evidently, we had faced only a small sortie, only one dragon and half-a-dozen men. They had hoped to reclaim their pony. "It's planting time," one of the Peatsfelders said before he died. "We have no other beast for the plow." I watched Fate-en-eyrie and the others standing over the bodies. I heard them muttering indistinctly before tearing apart the dead men's chests and feeding on their hearts. It was all I could do to keep my sling in my pocket, my arrows in my quiver. Stewart seemed unconcerned by the sight. When I had regained my composure, I asked him if he had heard what it was the dragons had said over the bodies. "Aye," he said, barely raising his head. "Before they

take a heart, they always say, "I regret I must eat you now." "But," I protested, "so say we, to our meat before we butcher." "Aye." He agreed. "And what does that tell you about man and dragon?"

found our return trip brutally hard, with the increased weight of our spoils. On top of the lamp oil, we each carried a share of the loot, so that the birdmen would be free to guard our rear from further attack. We drove the meat before us. They were surprisingly sure-footed on the cliffside trail. The pony, on the other hand, had to be blindered and pushed from time to time. "Some battle pony," Pelt commented. I was frightened white to be back on the cliff trail, but she rode on the bill of my cap, unconcerned. I asked her how she could be unafraid. "My fate is out of my hands," she said. "You don't have hands," I pointed out. "That reminds me of a story," she began. I stopped her. I needed to concentrate. The birdman next to me, however, had a different idea. "A story! That's just what we need to take our mind off of that long, long, long drop down to those sharp rocks!" He grinned at me. I could tell it would be a long time before they quit ribbing me about my fall from the cliff. "But what we need is a bird tale!" he continued. The rook on the kit of the man in front of him nodded and said, in the raucous voice of rooks, "This verse is called "Banquet of the Worms." I recite it in honor of spring's approach." In spring's new ponds the frogs in mirth do sing, Of fine repast for hungry birds on wing. And fresh-ploughed field sets banquet of the worms, That fowl are fair, this bounty but affirms. While piteous mouse in hovel hole remains, Possessing neither wit nor charm nor brains. He picks out seed from cow's malod'rous slop, Would starve but for what Pinkie's children drop. Yet speaks he of his better as a fool, He sees the gold, but does not seize the rule; The others unto whom he'd likely do, Are those from whom his profit might ensue. As for his species, race or genotype, He has no more regard than boiled tripe. How can we not see worthiness inferred When nature heaps her bounty on the bird? While mouse is given naught but last-year's grains, And that which on the barnyard floor remains. Half-way through the verse Pelt crawled down into 88

his pocket and would not come out until suppertime. Man-For-Man

was glad to see that the master was more upset about the loss of our mates than happy about our spoils. We held service for them the next day. Although the creed of "One is One" was officially banned in the kingdom, most of the soldiers, in fact, most of the countrymen, still embraced some form of it, and none of us found it peculiar that Gladwin, acting as chaplain, read some from the script. It was a passage I had once taken comfort in: "Through the grave then pass us all, await again the Master's call." I wanted to believe my family would return to the world in some form or another. After the service, we were given the afternoon to rest. We had managed to keep the spirits we'd carried back from our maraud secret from our officers, caching it among the rocks a few minute's walk down the trail from the garrison. Lennard, Stewart, Inigo, myself and a couple of the others casually wandered away from the fort during the afternoon and rendezvoused at an abandoned fire circle well down the road from the garrison. I had never been a drinker, and it did not take many passes of the flask before I was roaring drunk. "Bloody fortunate they are on our side," Lennard said, when the subject of dragons came up. The sight of them feasting on our fallen enemy had lodged in my heart like the head of an arrow. "Fortunate?" I said. "You think those murderous devils are on our side? Look, mateâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; they don't care whose heart they eat. We're all red meat to them. We'd better wake up and realize just who our enemies are." One of the birdmen cracked open another bottle and handed it to me. "No cause to talk that way," he said. "They've been steadfast for the years I've been at Cumberside." "Steadfast?" I was rolling now. "Tell me that after you've seen your family torn apart. They leave naught but pools of blood and torn flesh. Just wait till you find your little ones dragon-rent, and then tell me about steadfast friends." "How did it happen?" Lennard asked. I didn't want to speak about it, but then I did. At long last, I finally could. "Wait a minute," Lennard interrupted. "This was down by the sea? Not in the mountains?" "Aye," I replied, "not much use hunting whales in the mountains." The tears that I had denied myself all those months since now came to me like a thunderstorm. No-one

said anything more, but we all drank faster as the sun began to set.

he next day, Inigo and I were shoveling out the pigpen, our punishment for showing up drunk at evening muster. My head ached and my guts were in turmoil. Inigo, on the other hand, was already scheming for his next bender. "The dry goods man comes by every three weeks or so," he said as we raked. "He always has a couple of pints to share." "Share, or sell?" I asked. "Share by selling," he admitted. "All we need is a little coin. How are you fixed for coin?" "I vaguely remember what it looks like." "None in here," Pelt said from my pocket. She'd burrowed into the cedar chips that she'd asked me to fill my pocket with, to mask the pig stink. For a mouse, she is amazingly finicky about smells. "You're tight with Gladwin, aren't ya?" Iago asked. "He seems a right mate, but tight is overstating it. Why?" "He has more loot than the rest of us together, don't you know?" Inago had stopped raking, and leaned back perilously hard against the handle. If it slipped he'd end up on his rear end in the pig shit. "What's he doing here, if he has money enough to hire a surrogate?" "Love, we figger. Some jade probably done him wrong." "What about the glory? Since he couldn't go on a quest to kill dragons any more." "Glory? There's no glory to be found up here in the mountains of the north. I guarantee you, tales of our deeds never reach Central Command. Our messenger pigeons probably never make it further than Northern Operations Center in Wexfall. For all the response the master gets from his superiors, I figger he might as well eat his pigeons for dinner." "Has Gladwin loaned you money before?" He shook his head. "Doesn't care for liquor, he says. You wouldn't know it from looking at him, but he's a devout One-er." I lifted another forkful of the straw and manure, and uncovered a pile of pigeon feathers and bones. I showed it to Inigo. "You suppose the dragons fed the pigs the remains of the seconds they murdered?" "If they did, the pigs lied about it. Now, pigs lie; that's no news. Too late to ask them, though. We roasted them a couple of months ago." "You're not a One-er?" I asked, curious. "Me? Naw, that's a barrow-full of pig shit, far as I'm concerned." 89

I was surprised to hear him voice such a thought, since most of the top officers in the service were known to be One-ers. "How 'bout you?" he asked. "Naw. I don't think about it, much." "How you figger a religion that holds animals equal to man makes any sense, that's what I want to know." "Like I said, I never thought much about it." His foot hit a slick spot and he went sliding across the floor. For a moment, he looked like Ma on the iceskating pond. Then he fell, landing with a splat. Pelt poked her head out to see what had happened. "Shit!" she said. "Got that right," Inigo replied. We took a break so he could scrap his breeches, rinse them, and hang them on a tree to dry. "You ever hear of 'Man F' Man'?" he asked as we made ourselves comfortable in the spring grass. "Not that I recall. What's that?" "It ain't popular in the palace, so it's not spoken of much. Simple put, we hold that man is top dog. Other animals was put here for us to use. They're our meat, not the other way around. We don't hold with none of this 'rights of animals', partnerships and treaties nonsense." "We?" "Aye, a lot of us here at Cumberside are 'Man F' Man' men. There are even more in the southern army. Even some in the palace, on the sly." "Where'd the notion come from?" I broke off a length of grass and chewed it. Nothing in the world tastes as good as spring grass. It almost made me wish I was a goat. "Weren't from no prophet come down from the mountain with it all written down," he replied, taking a swipe at the One-er doctrine. "How long can we let the soft-heads lead, when they spend more time talking to the animals than they do their fellows? They got it so we can't kill dragons or whales or wolves or half-a-dozen others. Treaties is strangling us. We're giving up the world, thanks to them. Can you look me in the eye and tell me the dragons deserve a place in our world?" "That much we can agree on, for sure. I look forward to the day dragons are wiped out." "You're a Man F' Man man, sport. Ya' just didn't realize it." We moved on to other topics, but I turned his words over in my mind for days afterward.

ver the course of the next month, Inigo explained more of the Man For Man doctrine, and introduced me to some of the garrison crew that

ascribed to it. To my surprise, Stewart and Lennard were devoted followers, as were most of the birdmen. Our shared loathing of dragons struck a spark in my heart. I never could make myself brace Gladwin for coin for the dry-goods man's liquor, but a few of the other Man F' Man men pooled their resources and came up with enough to buy a small cask of his cheapest brandy. The next rest day we met again at the fire circle. This time I was much more cautious about my drinking. It was more than a drinking bout, though, I soon realized. They had decided to invite me to join them for full. I still hadn't grasped how serious the business was. I should have figured that out when they ordered me to leave Pelt at home. My pocket felt naked without her. Stewart laid it out for me. He appeared to be the Man F' Man leader in the garrison. "Man F' Man is more than palaver around the campfire," he said. "We're at war, been at war for years, and I mean more than just trading sorties with the Peatsfelders. Our war is with animals that prey on men, and anyone who tries to give those animals the same rights as us. The world belongs to us that's strong enough to take it. If the animals had the chance, they would wipe us out and take charge. We're fools to do otherwise." I allowed as I had no problem with that. "From what I've seen, these partnerships with the dragons and whales do naught but offer them our heads on a platter. My pa helped negotiate the whale treaty, and look what it got him. First he lost his work, had no money to send his kids to university. Then he was killed by dragons." "You being a whaler and all, why'd you join the army, end up here in the mountains, instead of the navy?" Stewart asked. "Dragons," I admitted, committing myself. It felt good to share my heart. "I came to kill dragons." They smiled as one. "That's the right answer, laddie," Inigo said. "You've found your proper mates." What I learned that afternoon opened my eyes to a world I had no idea existed. They told me how the war with the dragons, the one our leaders had supposedly ended by treaty a hundred years before, had been carried on since by a dedicated band of MF'M men. They had killed many of the dragons that once hung around the garrisons, often disguising it as the work of Peatsfelders. Surprisingly, they told me the movement was even stronger in Peatsfeld, and there, the dragon deaths were blamed on us. 90

The main target for MF'Ms, though, remained the dragon nurseries high up in the mountain peaks. They hoped to kill the infants before they learned to fly. They had learned a great deal about the dragon's reproductive habits. "The females go into heat in early winter," Stewart explained. "That's when the males disappear. That's our chance to move around unobserved. After the male covers the female, she digs herself a snow cave for her brood. "Once she's got her cave finished, the males help fill it with meat. They spend six weeks or so hunting, and carrying carcasses back to the cave, until she's got enough meat frozen in there to see her through the birthing. You've never seen a sight like a dragon's abattoir fresh-stocked. "Once they've provided enough food for the female and her chicks, the males leave. The female stays in the cave. If we wait until after the males are done, the caves are impossible to find. She'll let the mouth fill with snow. The little monsters are live-born in the spring, mostly in litters of three. By the time thaw comes, they can fly." "How come we never see female dragons?" "We figger that shows the lie to the treaty," Inigo said. "They don't trust us, 'cause some of us know what kind of meats they are liable to bring to their females. Lots of man-bones in them snow caves. It's said the females have a taste for man-flesh." "So how can I help?" I said, tossing back a full four fingers of the dark liquor. They grew very serious as Stewart laid out the plan to me.

he next day, Stewart showed me his hidden cache of fellstone. I had never seen the mineral before, only heard about it. Fellstone, along with most other mineral wealth, was found in the contested lands of the south that we and the Peatlanders had been warring over for years. He showed me how he carefully knapped the edge of the spear point until it was hard as a blade, tapered to penetrate the dragon's armor, then quickly flared to tear a deadly hole in its chest. "Why fellstone?" I asked, 'rather than iron?" He took my hand and touched it to the edge of the point. With the faintest pressure, it cut a crescent in my palm. As I wrapped it to staunch the bleeding, he said, "A dragon's armor is hard as iron. We need a point that cleaves. Iron is good for punching, but it won't hold an edge." He reached behind me and picked up a iron staff as tall as he was, notched at one end to hold the

tip. "Only a point sharp as this one, on the shaft as heavy as this one will do." He handed me the staff. It was so heavy I dropped it on my foot. He didn't look up from his point to see if I was hurt. "The hard part's isn't going to be killing the dragons," he said. "What's the hard part, then?" I asked. "Killing the dragonier." "Killing Trysten? You never told me we were going to kill one of our own." I backed away. He looked up. "One of our own? Open yer eyes, Allyn. He's not one of ours; he's in thrall to those devils. You can't turn a dragonier away from his dragon. The only way to free a man, once he's mated to a dragon, is kill him. If you don't, he'll kill you, for certain." "It seems wrong to me," I said. "Killing a man doesn't seem right for a Man F' Man." "Your family?" Stewart replied. "That weren't no rogue dragons acting on their own. That were mated dragons. That were the biding of the dragoniers." That thought put paid to my reservations. The Two Edges of Revenge

heir plan sounded dangerously complicated to me. However, since I had never participated in a conspiracy before, I bit my tongue. In order to cover our tracks, it was necessary for the dragons and Trysten to disappear, not simply turn up dead. Inigo suggested we plant evidence that Trysten and the dragons had deserted to the Peatsfelders. Stewart assured me that the master would readily accept that the dragons were capable of such treachery. The first order of business would be to separate Trysten from the rest of the dragon watch. Stewart had a friend down the mountain that sold messenger pigeons to the army. A MF'Mer in the signal corps had given him the code used by headquarters to communicate with the outposts. We were going to send one of our pigeons to our master with a message of our own, guised to appear as though it were from central command. It would order the dragonier and his dragon to rendezvous with his counterpart from a garrison three day's march south of us, in order to share tactical information. We picked a date when some of the dragon crew would be on furlough, knowing the master would likely ask for volunteers in their stead. We would volunteer. Once we knew the scheme was on, Stewart and I slipped out and carried his spear to the cave where Trysten was to rendezvous and hid it there. I was surprised to find that the prospect of finally 91

exacting revenge on the dragons was deeply tempered by the thought of killing Trysten. He'd never done anything to me, and it seemed as though Stewart, Inigo and the others were overeager to do murder. I was also worried about Pelt. I had been forced to leave her behind, and she'd been asking me why. I'd fed her some pretty bald-faced lies. She wasn't much for confrontation, but kept pressing me. "How do you feel about dragons?" I asked. "I saw Ma and Pa and the others," she said. "And Tawny, Pup, Hank and Dipper were my friends." The seconds had been murdered alongside my family. We had been mousemen, all. "How would you feel about a world free from dragons?" I asked. "None? A world without dragons? That's hard to imagine. Dragons scare me to no end, but if they disappeared from the world, it wouldn't seem like my world any more, would it? If we are all one, as the One-ers say, even when the worst die, the world is diminished, maybe?" "Just think about it," I said. "Why don't you try making up a story about a world free from dragons?" She shook his head. "I don't know how to make stories of things that aren't true." "Then just be patient." I casually brought up the subject that afternoon as I shared guard duty with Gladwin. We had fallen into volunteering together when the opportunity arose. I was comfortable around him, found him easy and interesting to talk to, and evidently he shared the opinion. "How do you feel about dragons?" I said as we dropped our kits at a post sheltered by limestone outcroppings from the north wind. He retied the scarf around his forehead, regathering his hair to keep it out of his face. "I suppose I should loathe them, same as I should wolves or snakes, but I don't. Maybe I just haven't been personally threatened, but it seems to me that each has a role to play. Like us. Our role is to guard Savannah, and if necessary, kill those who want to take it from us. Does that make us evil? Acting within our nature, protecting our own, staying alive?" "But, if it's us or them, you have to stand with your kith and kin." He uncorked his water skin and took a long, long drink. "The water gets muddy when you try to decide who is 'us' and who is 'them'. The dragons, for example; are they us? Maybe." "How about the dragoniers?" "I don't envy them, mate, standing as they do with a foot in either world."

Although he had not answered my question, I didn't press him further, but I thought about his words the rest of the watch.

couple of days later we saw our pigeon arrive, the master open the message, then call Dick and Trysten aside. Trysten seemed to argue, but it was fruitless to disagree with the master. As expected, the master called for volunteers to accompany Trysten, and was pleased when we did. He ordered us to leave that night, for the convenience of the dragons, who prefer to fly at night. Stewart and I talked as we packed our kits. "No seconds allowed on this trip," he said, setting Muff on the rack in front of him. Muff was indignant. "Why not, I ask. When did I become a second-class citizen?" Stewart flicked her with his forefinger and she went tumbling across the bed. "When you was born a mouse. Now shut up and let me pack." Pelt crawled over and crouched next to Muff, licking her ear. She wouldn't look at me. We left at sunset: Trysten, Stewart, Lennard, Inigo, two of the birdmen, and me. Two other dragons, Mercy-ne'er and Hearteater, accompanied Fate-ineyrie. We walked through the night. Trysten seemed comfortable with silence, and the rest of us found it difficult to hold a conversation with someone we were bound to kill. The first line of dawn was coloring the mountaintops to the east by the time we reached the cave. We had rehearsed our roles as best we could in the bunkhouse the day before, and I had studied the cave when I had been here with Stewart to stash the spear, but it all seemed different, now that it was time to act. I lit a torch, and we walked into the cave, the dragons following. As soon as they landed inside, on either side of Trysten, Inigo struck. He had sidled up behind Trysten. He pulled a long, very thin blade from his sleeve and thrust it between Trysten's shoulder blades. Trysten crumpled immediately. Only then, when I witnessed the murder, did I fully understand that I had been compromised by evil. The shock of shared guilt paralyzed me. The dragons reacted faster than we could have imagined. Fate-in-eyrie wheeled around and sunk his teeth into Inigo's leg, almost severing it at the knee. Hearteater leaped up to a rock shelf above our heads, clattering a warning to the others. Mercy Ne'er backed toward the mouth of the cave. Stewart and Lennard had pulled nets out of their 92

kits, and let fly at the same time. Hearteater dodged the first, but right into the path of the other. Lennard and one of the birdmen grabbed the net's guy ropes and threw their weight against them. The dragon thrashed against the net, lifting Lennard clean off his feet, before they were finally able to pull the dragon off the ledge. Hearteater fell hard against the rough stone, landing with head twisted as though his neck was broken. Stewart stabbed him with the fellstonebladed spear. He stopped moving. In the meantime, Fate-in-eyrie and Mercy-ne'er were making a run at the two men blocking the mouth of their cave. The dragon's wings were spread and their tails waved in the men's faces like cobras picking out places to strike. Lennard had unloosed his bow, but the confines of the cave made for an awkward shot. His first arrow bounced harmlessly off of Fate-en-eyrie's back. The second appeared about to pierce Mercy-ne'er's wing, when, in a flash, he folded it, allowing the arrow to pass him by and strike one of the exit guards square in the throat. Blood spurted to the ceiling of the cave. Stewart wriggled his spear from the dead dragon, and with a scream, charged Fate-in-Eyrie. The dragon, turned to strike at the remaining exit guard, spun around a fraction late, just as the spear reached his neck. It slid under his neck plate, through his neck and out the other side. Mercy-ne'er's teeth found Stewart's neck, but it was too late for Fate-en-eyrie. The exit guard attempted to move to the dragon's flank, but caught Fate-in-eyrie's tail barb, in its death thrash, square between his eyes, and fell dead on the spot. Lennard was lying motionless in the back of the cave, unconscious or playing possum; I didn't know. Mercy Ne'er and I, the only two remaining alive, faced off across the slaughterhouse floor. The dragonmark on my face burned. I could see Stewart's flesh stuck in the dragon's teeth. I prepared to rejoin my family. To my surprise, Mercy Ne'er asked, "Why this treachery, Allyn?" "Dragons killed my family," I said. The naming was not as satisfying as I'd imagined. "No," he said, "We are not oathbreakers." I looked around me. "Lot of hearts here for you." Mercy Ne'er shook his head. "Not these. Hearts of treachery are not worthy of honoring. The hearts of traitors are poison." My sword was heavy in my hands. I did not want to listen. I wanted to kill. Yet my sword did not move. "We did not kill your people," he said. "We are the oathgivers."

It did not sound like the lie I knew it was. "Not you? I should believe a dragon? I was THERE. I SAW." Mercy Ne'er was staring at me. I could feel him in my mind, feel him like a cat must feel the hand stroking his fur, inviting me to calm down. "Treachery is man's way," he said, "not ours. Look to your own kind. How do you recognize a friend from foe?" I quit talking, raised my sword, aiming for the small seam where the neck plates joined the back armor. Mercy Ne'er made no defensive move, seeming to invite my sword, if that's what I chose. That's when doubt slowed my hand. That's when I saw, fallen partly out of Stewart's pocket, the claw, cut from the leg of a dragon, that he had mounted on a carved wooden handle. A weapon that would allow a man to kill with the mark of a dragon. I let my sword drop, bloodlust yielding to uncertainty. Mercy Ne'er strode past me and out of the cave, not looking back. He spread his blood-spattered wings and disappeared into the sunrise. I followed from the cave and lay down, spent, on the rock outside. Eventually, Lennard joined me. We dragged the dragons to the cliff. Before we threw them over, Lennard used the spear to hack off the claws from their feet. Despite so much death, he was full of himself and cackled as he worked. We buried Stewart, Inigo and the birdmen in cairns a few minute's walk from the cave. Before we did, I pocketed Stewart's dragon-claw weapon. The claw was hard as fellstone and even sharper. Lennard saw me pick it up. "You might want to make one o' these," he said, showing me his weapon. It was a double claw, set in a wide black wood handle that lay squarely in his huge hand. "We got plenty of claws to work with now." He jiggled the bag full of the ones he'd harvested. I took it from his hand and examined it closely. I thought I'd seen cuts made by such a weapon. I had noted that Stewart and the others, who had been raked by the dragon's claws, bore four parallel cuts for each stroke. I remembered clearly the sight of my dead family. A cut here, two there. Never four. Never four.

ur contrived story was so horrifying that the others back at the garrison were reluctant to press us for details. We told them that Trysten and the dragons had turned on us, that they were Peatsfeld loyalists all along. Mercy Ne'er had disappeared, thankfully, but we were at a loss to know what we would do if he returned. Pelt and Muff were bothered greatly by the whole 93

incident. I temporarily adopted Stewart's orphaned second, not the best idea, since jealously often results, but I felt it was the least I could do. News From Home

hings were very different in the garrison after that night. New men quickly filled the ranks of the dead, but no dragonier was available to replace Trysten. The master was forced to double our night patrols to compensate for the loss of the dragon's eyes above. Gladwin was put in charge of our watch, and while he was a hard worker, that fact that he was not a Man F'Man man caused some friction he was at a loss to understand. Erle, one of the new birdmen, was from a village not far down the shore from my hometown. He was a MF'Mer, too. He had also known my pa. "My pa and you'rn were both negotiators in the treaty," he said. "I remember your pa was a real talker." "You have that right," I said. "He'd talk to a tuna before putting him on the ice. He was a talker." "He surely spoke up for the whales, from what my pa said." "That can't be," I replied. "Our family's been whaling for ten generations. He tried to stop the treaty, not be part of it. It was signed against his counsel." Erle shook his head. "I seen the treaty. That's his name, right at the top." I wanted to argue further, but another part of my mind was busy adding up memories, unexplained comments, the family discussions. With a shock, I realized what he said could be the truth. In my youth, I had misunderstood everything. "You're Man F' Man, right?" "Aye," he said. "Did the Man F' Maners know my pa's role in the whale treaty?" "Everybody knew, mate. Except you, apparently."

elt and Muff kept pestering me about what I was carving, until, to shut them up, I showed them the dragon claws and the wood. "Where'd you get the claws?" Pelt asked. Neither of them wanted to come close, as though they were afraid the claws could still grab them, even though they were no longer attached to a dragon. "Traded for them," I said. "Why would you want a weapon like that?" Muff asked. "What's wrong with a good blade?" "It's just an ornament, something to carve." "Who's that?" Muff asked, pointing toward the side

of the claw with her nose. I showed her the scrimshaw I'd carved into the sides of the claws. "My pa," on one side, "my ma," on the other. "Where'd you learn to carve like that?" Muff asked. "I'm a whaler. All whalers know how to cut scrimshaw. It's in our blood." "Strange way to honor your family," Pelt said. "Could you add pictures of their seconds? That is, if you don't find it demeaning to mourn a dead animal." I didn't say anything, but I didn't like the tenor of her comment.

fter my talk with Erle, I was prepared to desert my post as soon as I had the chance. I was determined to return to the delta to ask some hard questions of some hard men. I wanted to look the Man F' Man crew there in the eye. Little did I know that the answers were on their way to me. It was Erle that told me, while we were staking up green beans. "I hear a couple of your mates are coming our way for a hunt," he said. "The Fisher twins, sons of the head gob of Man-For-Man on the delta." "Julyan and Jolyan?" I said. "Why are they coming here?" He put his finger to the side of his nose. "Same reason everybody else comes to Cumberside, mate. It's the best place to launch a dragon hunt. They're headed up Grandfather to hunt dragon nests. MF'Mers from all over will be coming our way. If you want to get ahead in the Man F' Man crews, you've got to earn it with a good hunt." "How can they keep the hunts secret from the army staff? The master will surely figure something smells." "He'll get orders to cooperate. Somebody in the north command looks out for us, mate. We've mates everywhere." For the next week, I worked on my clawhand until it fit me perfectly. I added the images of my brothers and all of my family's seconds to the scrimshaw. I carved a small picture of Trysten on the handle, where it wouldn't be seen.

he twins, Julyan and Jolyan Fisher, showed up the next week, leading a gang of twenty or so. Most were older men carrying a bit too much around the middle, or youngsters with more swagger than brains. It was unclear what their military status was, but the master allowed them to bunk in our storeroom and share our mess. The twins were surprised to see me, perhaps surprised to see me grizzled as I had become since 94

arriving in Cumberside. They did little more than nod coldly, though, and immediately retired to their tents. Over the next two days, I repeatedly tried to pull the twins aside to question them, but they always seemed to be on their way somewhere, or engaged in small, unbroken circles of conversation. They would not meet my eyes. Pelt was very disturbed by the whole scene. "There's not a second among these people," she complained. "What's wrong with them?" Mice are always concerned about job security. That's why they keep spinning new stories, to make themselves indispensable. At least, that's what they hope. Pelt was fit to be tied when she overheard one of them trying to tell a mouse tale. "It was terrible," she reported. "No drama, no suspense, no humor: he told it as though he was reading a will. That'll teach them to go mouse-less." Even the birds nodded agreement with that. One of the mountain jays recited part of an old, old lay: He lies alone upon the pyre, Surrounded by his heart's desire; The swords of long-defeated kings, The tribute lifelong fealty brings. A coat of arms for service wrought, The iron suit, the battles fought. Where are his friends, to honor death? Who cries, to hear his mortal breath? The final fire shan't warm his heart, For one who dies in solitude, Whose life was lived a thing apart, No wife or second shall intrude.

t was another day before I was able to brace one of the twins away from his gang. Everyone needs to visit the privy eventually. "Jolyon," I called as he exited the outhouse. I was standing behind the door. "Julyan," he corrected, as he had a thousand times before. "Allyn. How are you?" He kept walking toward the garrison. I stepped in front of him. "In need of some talk, mate." "Our nets haven't tangled in a long time," he said. He was watching the door to the garrison, behind me. I'd been listening; it hadn't opened. "You'd be well advised to keep it that way." He and his twin were both taller than most, on the thin side, but sinewy. They had thick black hair, face narrow as a lumberman's wedge, and skin pitted by the salt of the sea air. The only thing I'd ever liked about the twins was that they made me look handsome by comparison.

"You have a dragon's claw?" He'd always had a way of smirking that made it clear my opinion was of no consequence to him. That had sparked many of our fights. "They tell me you're a right Man F' Man man now. I tell them, a whale don't change the pod it swims with. I tell them, Allyn ain't going to cross his pa by joining us, no matter what he says." Julyan had grown cocky, without me around to pound sense into him. "You still a mousey-boy?" I looked past the taunt for the moment. "Funny you should bring up my pa. You see, I been thinking about that. I been thinking no dragon's ever been seen on the delta. No dragon's ever been seen come down from the mountains. They tell me a dragon would die in the heat of the delta." I've always found bullies predictable. When they are over-matched, they become bootlickers of the first order. When they think they hold the upper hand, they can't help but act as braggarts. Julyan obviously thought he was safe, with his gang about. "Maybe it were the seagulls," he taunted. "Maybe it were the birds that fed on the whales your pa was so eager to partner with. Maybe it were the lamp oil sellers, or the perfumers, or the soap makers, or the dress makers, or the buttoners, or the ship builders, or the harpoon-smiths. Or maybe it were everybody what your pa harpooned in the back with that treaty." He pulled his dragon's claw from his pocket, grabbed it by the handle, and waved it toward me, mockingly. "Whale lover. Your pa put mine in dry dock. We was whalers for five hundred years, 'till you soft-headed lubbers started listening to their songs. Serves you right, mate. Only too bad you was out fishing that day." I pulled my short sword with one hand, my dragon's claw with the other. "I'm here now, you murdering swine! I'll feed your heart to the dragons myself." He backed quickly, fumbling for his sword. He dodged the slash of my sword at his check, and parried with an awkward stab at my knees. In our many fights as children, I had always danced around him, trying to use my speed to compensate for his weight and height advantage. He fought now as though he expected me to do the same, pressing to close with me. I was not the person he'd last fought, though. Months soldiering in the garrison had given me strength and heart. As his blade slid by me, instead of backing away, I moved in, pushing him backward onto loose rock. He fell hard on his back. I dove toward him, blade and 95

claw extended. The blade turned against his rib and slid into his chest. The claw buried deep into his throat. He coughed twice before he died. I rested there a moment, trying to find joy in my revenge, but felt a disappointing emptiness instead. Then many hands grabbed me roughly and spun me onto my back. The twin's mates stripped me of my weapons and pinned me to the ground. The master stood over me. "It was him that killed my family," I said to him, glad to see the new men defer to our master. "Him and his brother, I'll have revenge upon as is my due." The master ignored me. "Lock him up, with the other," he ordered the gathered troops. That's when I understood the deference they showed him, and the choice of Cumberside as the place for muster of the hunting party. The master must be a highup in Man For Man. I heard Lennard, from the periphery of the crowd, say, "But the dragon will tear him apart." "Aye," the master replied, "that's what dragons do. The world needs to learn there's a price to be paid for crossing us." Jolyon stepped in between the master and me, and brought the heavy brass haft of his sword down on my skull. Fire in the Tower

woke up to some beast licking my face, as though tasting me to gauge my flavor. I shoved it away, scrambled to the wall, and raised myself to a seated position. I recognized the chamber, a square stone room that formed the base of an old lookout tower atop a secondary peak overlooking the garrison. It was unfortunately perfectly sited to attract lightening, and consequently had been abandoned many years before. The stone walls enclosing me were close-set and slick with moss. Though the roof was gone, a lattice of thick ironwood logs had been incorporated into the building as flooring for a second story, and now formed a barred ceiling, out of my reach, to the cell that none but a second could have wriggled through. The thick, iron-reinforced wooden door was locked. I was sitting in mud, and so was the dog in front of me. I could tell she was old, by the gray of her muzzle, and probably hungry, from the way her ribs showed through her thin coat. When fully fed and young, she would still have been on the small side. "Feeling better?" she asked. I was comforted by her wagging tail. I nodded, uncertain. As the questions surrounding

the death of my family had been answered, I felt as though I had crested a wave and the sea was suddenly dropping out from under me. "We are prisoners, then?" "Aye. The three of us in this cozy gaol." I looked around and saw a dragon on the perch above my head, seemingly asleep. I reached for my knife, but found my scabbard empty. "Mercy-ne'er," the dog said by way of an introduction I didn't need. "I'm Scuttlebutt." "You're a second?" I asked, working my way along the wall until I reached the far corner, where I could keep an eye on the dragon. He was motionless except for his tail, which waved slowly back and forth like a pendulum, as they do when they sleep. "I was a second," she replied. "My first was murdered on the way here. They decided she was false to the Man F' Maners, didn't trust her because she wouldn't leave me behind. Her name was Gabe. We were from Twixfield; this crew is all from Pittsmuth. They never got along." "What's HE doing here?" I said, pointing to the dragon. "Same thing as me, I suppose," Scuttlebutt said. "They want information." As she spoke, she turned slightly, so I could see her other side. It was covered with scorch marks. One paw was covered with blisters. "Why am I here, then? I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know anything." "I suspect youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been invited here for dinner. His dinner." "I've heard it said, dog is delicious," I said. "Pity most people favor a buffet when they can find it," she replied. "Were you here first?" "Aye. They brought the dragon this morning. He'd been following one of the hunting parties, picking them off one at a time. They set a net trap for him. Now they're trying to wring nest locations from him." "Any luck?" "Don't think so. Mind if I lay on your lap? It's cold and wet in here." I stretched my legs out, making room for her. The warm fur felt good on my legs. I missed Pelt. I remembered my family's seconds, dead with the rest. I petted Scuttlebutt, vowing to repay her tormentors if I ever found a way to do so. Gradually my fear gave way to exhaustion, and when Scuttlebutt began to snore, I closed my eyes for a moment. It was nearly dark the next time I opened them. In the gloaming, the dragon's eyes glowed like fireflies. He stared at me and the dog. "Allyn," Mercy-ne'er said. The beat of his tail grew 96

more rapid. I met his stare, finding courage, or maybe recklessness, in my circumstance. "You'll not take me without a fight." Hard words, perhaps appearing a bit absurd by my reluctance to force the dog off my lap so I could get into battle position. "I'd expect no less. Only cowards feast on cowards." Scuttlebutt woke as dogs do, abruptly and completely. She scrambled to her feet, shaking mud off her rump. When she saw Mercy Ne'er was awake, she did not back away or bare her teeth, but sat expectantly. "Come here, Allyn," the dragon said softly. I stood and backed toward the far corner of the room. "He's not going to eat you," Scuttlebutt said, following me. She nudged me with her nose in the direction of the dragon. "Says who?" I replied. I could hear the clanking of guards walking picket duty outside. "Says your ma and pa," the dog replied. That stopped me in my tracks. "What do you mean?" "Mercy told me your parents were dragon friends. He can smell it in you. Your ma's pa was a dragonier. Did you not know?" "They never spoke of my grandfather, other than to say he was disgraced. What do you mean, he was a dragonier?" "Come to me, Allyn," Mercy Ne'er repeated. "If you are true, I will not harm you." Every instinct was telling me to run, but there was nowhere to run. I wanted to hide, but there was no place to hide. Having no recourse, I walked toward the dragon, slow as a man approaching the gibbet. Scuttlebutt walked at my side, and the feel of her fur under my hand gave me the strength to stand in the dragon's gaze. He stared into my eyes, and everything but those eyes began to fade like the falling of night, until I began to see things; not with my eyes, but with my mind, as long buried memories, or perhaps dreams, are recalled. I saw a young man, faintly resembling my mother, and a young dragon, still thin and leggy. The two of them hunting together, not as a servant falcon and master falconer, but as equals, two edges of a sword, deadly, swift, just. Brother to the whale and the wolf and the bear and the beaver. Taking the hearts of warriors. In respect. To honor. In an instant my world was sent tumbling. That which I knew was recast totally. Enemy and friend, the meaning of stories told, the reason behind actions, all swung toward a pole I had not even known existed.

There was one last thing to read in Mercy-ne'er's eyes, that I tried to tear away before, but could not. The bonding. In that moment, we became mated. As my grandfather before me, unexpected, unwanted, but undeniable, I became a dragonier.

t was nothing I could have imagined. Nothing like the fellowship shared with a second, or the uncompromising love of a mother and child, or the camaraderie of shipmates. It was a bonding forged in respect, written in blood, and sealed in honor. "One man, One dragon, One." I understood the script on Trysten's sword for the first time. With the bonding came an understanding of the dragon's world. The struggle they faced with their own nature, trying to overcome their instinct for wanton feeding, that had at times driven them to hunt their prey to the verge of extinction, and, consequently, almost destroy themselves. I learned, to my amazement, the profound respect with which dragons viewed the world around them. Especially respect for the animals that had to die so that they may feed, and respect for the role each animal played in the One. It was then I began also to understand the reason they agreed to the treaty between man and dragon, their desire for peace in the mountains, so they could raise their few young in safety. There was a terrible sense of loss coloring all they did, aware as they were that their species was doomed to gradually, inexorably fade away with the dying of the ice fields. Mercy no doubt received from me what I knew about humans, but I couldn't tell if it was anything he had not already known. The moon had risen high by the time I was able to gather a rational thought. If Pelt and her friends had not showed up, I might have still been standing there at dawn. I felt her run up my leg and chest, then to my ear. She must have sensed what had happened, because she turned and stared at the dragon. "Welcome, sister," Mercy said. Pelt nodded nervously, then turned to me and said, "We heard the strangers say they're planning to leave tomorrow. They plan to kill you all before they go." Muff and several other mice, seconds of my watch mates, sat at my feet, nodding in agreement. Scuttlebutt overheard her, and whimpered. The mice pressed against her side, warming themselves. I picked up Pelt so I could look her in the eye. She held one end of a rope in her teeth. "What's this?" I asked, taking it from her. 97

"Cord," she replied. "One end, anyway. We dragged it over here, hoping it might help you escape." I pulled on the end in my hand. More cord snaked to me through the mouse-small hole in the wall through which she had crawled. When I reached the end, I had a coil of fine, tight, hemp, almost twice my height. I looked at the open crossed-wood of the ceiling, then at Mercy. Mercy said, "I cannot reach the ceiling; there is not enough room to take off. However, perhaps you can make use of this." He extended his foot. One of his claws was in the process of shedding an old sheath. I pulled it the rest of the way off, and found it a ready-made grappling hook, as good as any of the iron ones we'd had on our ship. I quickly lashed it to the rope. Using my best sling throw motion, I threw it onto an overhead beam until it caught, and pulled myself up. I crawled, upside down like a spider, from one of the criss-crossed beams to another, until I thought my arms were about to give out. Finally, I found a beam rotten enough to pull down. I scrambled through the resulting hole onto the second floor. After resting a few moments, I crawled out through the window. On the outside wall of the tower I found enough footholds to climb down to the ground without injury. The guards were absent, either at the other end of their designated guard route, or, more likely, fast asleep behind the rock pile we often used as cover for quick naps. With a large stone and a few well-placed blows, I was able to break the iron door lock. I knew that if the guards were not soundly asleep, the noise would bring them in a hurry, so I hustled Mercy, Scuttlebutt and the mice out, thinking to find a place to hide. However, Scuttlebutt could barely walk on her damaged paw. I was moved by her courage, when she agreed to allow Mercy to carry her. Even mated to a dragon, I could understand how hard it was for any creature to willingly enter those claws. Mercy led us to a small cave not far from the garrison, where he sometimes retired when weary of man-company. The mice wanted to return to the garrison to gather more intelligence, but I was unwilling to have them expose themselves. I took Pelt, and left the others in Mercyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s care. There were predators on the prowl. One Man, One Dragon, One

was uncertain what the master would do when he found us gone, but knew whatever he decided to do would be done quickly. I had unfinished business

with Jolyan, and I had some hard questions for the master about who else might have been involved in my family's murder. There was only one person to whom I felt I could turn for help. I implored Mercy to watch over Scuttlebutt and the other mice. Pelt and I set off for the guard trail as soon as the sky began to lighten. My watch mates were scheduled to take over guard duty at dawn. Finding Gladwin alone was far easier than I had expected. I waited for a couple of minutes after he passed the spot where I hid, in a small decline, to make sure he was not closely followed, before hurrying down the trail to intercept him. He was walking slowly, and looked dejected. I was touched by the way his face lit up when he saw me. "Allyn! But, you are dead!" "Apparently I wasn't told. I'm sorry to disappoint you." "But I saw your body." "Not me, mate. What are the chances there could be two such ugly people on one mountain?" I was uncomfortable standing so exposed on the guard trail, and motioned him to follow me behind a large rock fall. "If you're worried about other guards, you need not be," he said. "We are down to four men on our watch, all friends of yours. The others have been assigned to the secret expedition. Maybe you know what's going on?" "How is it you believed me dead? Could you not recognize that the body you saw was not me?" "Not after the dragons had torn it to pieces," he replied. "But if not you, who?" "Jolyon," I said, figuring it out for myself. "Are you familiar with Man F' Man?" "Aye. Hate from the mountains, my pa called it. He and some of his friends ran out the mayor of our village, when I was a lad, when he announced he was a Man F' Maner." I filled him in on what I knew about the master, the crew, and their purpose. It set him on fire. "So that's it! For a long time, some of us have wondered what was driving the actions of the garrison. Much of what we have been called upon to do seemed to make no sense, war-wise, and cruel without purpose. The master has always been distant to me, but close with others. We've long known that not all share our belief in One, but--- Man F' Maners! 'Tis the iron chain of power pulling at them, pulling them off of the cliff, for certain." "The expedition means to attack dragon nurseries," I said, "kill the offspring, and sunder our treaty with 98

the dragons. They mean to incite a war between the species that will engulf us all. They mean to bring an end to respect, bring all the world into servitude to man." "You are different, Allyn," he replied. "You are taller, or older, or wiser, or something." Pelt piped up, "He's a dragonier, now. We're up to our armpits with seconds over here." I saw surprise and deepened respect in his gaze. "Then we have an ally indeed." He pulled out his whetstone and began to work on the blade of his spear. "What can we do?" I explained what I needed and he agreed without hesitation. As I'd hoped, there were a number of loyal Oneists in the garrison, bonded much as the MF'Mers had, but not for domination, but cooperation. It was not by blind chance that the guards on duty were all part of this group. The master had obviously wanted them out of his hair as he prepared to launch the expedition. I followed Gladwin along the Peak Trail back toward the garrison. He gathered up his mates along the way explaining the situation to each. To a man, they committed to action. When we reached the last saddle, before the trail dipped down to the garrison, Gladwin stopped us so he could study the fort with his telescope. "Take a look," he said, handing the glass to me. I could see the expedition was already on the march, far in the distance, headed toward the mountain peaks, double time. "Too late," Gladwin said to his mates. "Now what?" "Now, the master," I replied.

he garrison was almost empty. Evidently, the master had thrown all his resources into the expedition, thinking the Oneists, ignorant of his true role, were sufficient to guard him against a threat he didn't believe really existed. We quickly overpowered the two members of his personal guard, and cornered the master in the common room. One of the Oneist birdmen's seconds knew the cave in which Mercy was hiding, and agreed to take my message to him. The master did not even bother drawing a sword to defend himself, seeming unconcerned about being held captive. He dismissed Gladwin. "Your career in this army is acoming crashing down on ye, ye softheaded lout! How dare ye abandon yer post. I'll have ya drawn, quartered and diced if you don't relent, and now." His bluster faded when I stepped out from behind the others.

"Man F' Man," I said, "but you didn't treat this man very well, did you? Just how many men are you willing to kill so you can save them?" "You, for starters," he spat in reply. His true nature revealed, I now saw him for what he was; an old, bitter man in tattered clothes. "Anyone too soft to hold the world. You might as well be meat, you Oneists." Mercy arrived, making a spectacle of his landing. He had, as I'd asked, bloodied his teeth and claws on a couple of chickens, and looked as fey as I could ever imagine. He bounded onto a rafter directly above the master. Blood dripped from his claw onto the master's forehead. "Tell me," I said to the master, "how my family died." Like most bullies, his cowardice lay was just beneath the surface. His conviction that dragons were always eager to feast on men worked to loosen his tongue as nothing else could. "Not my doing. Nothing to do with it, mate. It were a pure mistake," he said, "a misunderstanding. The twins was supposed to scare your pa, kill your seconds." I'd never heard a mouse growl before, but Pelt was doing it now. "Evidently, your brother recognized them, cried out that they was sailors, he could tell by the way they walked, that they was the twins, by the smell of carp." My brother Laurence; a smart mouth, even in the face of death. 'Carp hauler' was an insult to even the thickest-skinned whaler, one I'd tossed in the twin's faces more than once when we fought. It probably threw them into a frenzy. I had my answer, if I could believe it. And I did; it made sense. "I have to go after the expedition," I said to Gladwin. "They've twenty-five, all strong-armed. We are only six," he replied. "Seven," Mercy said. "Eight," Pelt added.

e left the master, his bird, and his guards lashed to posts in the pig pen. Scuttlebutt and the other seconds agreed to guard him. I didn't have any more use for the master, but I thought the Central Command might. Gladwin wrote a report about what had transpired. Because we were uncertain about how wide the conspiracy was, he asked one of the rooks to carry the copy to Central Command in Twixfield. We set out within the hour in pursuit of the expedition. 99

I had never traveled with such a crew-- battlehardened and obviously willing to follow Gladwin into the mouth of hell. My respect for him grew even stronger as I saw how he encouraged and impassioned his few troops. By mid-afternoon, Mercy dropped down to tell us Jolyan and his gang were less than half-an-hour ahead. That half-an-hour, however, took them onto the ice trail. "We'll not catch them, now," Gladwin said glumly. "That's all single file, and our haste will only result in falls." I was beside myself, but had no idea how I could change the matter. Then Mercy pulled me aside.

ave you ever had that dream, the flying one, where you're soaring over the town, swooping in the breeze, light as a tail feather in a spring wind? Your imaginings cannot possibly match the reality. That is, if you can ride without fear of falling. I was, as far as I knew, only the third person ever to ride a dragon, and no one had bothered to mention that they have no natural saddle, only a bony ridge on which to sit, and no handholds to mention. When Mercy suggested carrying me, I did not believe it possible. He assured me he was up to it, in the peak of his strength, but only because of my stature. It was the first time being small worked to my advantage. Still, only my desperation to avenge my family made me agree to try it. I told Gladwin what we intended to do. They all stood gape-mouthed as I threw the shoulder strap from my kit around Mercy's chest, and climbed on. He began to run, something I had never seen a dragon do before. They normally sprang into the air, but with the extra weight, he seemed to need the extra lift. He ran directly toward the cliff to our left. I closed my eyes. Suddenly he quit running, and I could feel the mountain air rushing past. I opened my eyes to the world spread beneath me. Pelt scrambled out of my pocket and onto Mercy's head, yelling "Yahoo!" If our purpose were not so deadly, it would have been joyous; terrifying, yes, but terror is the foundation of joy. After dropping slightly as we took wing, Mercy seemed to get a feel for his new weight, and quickly found thermals in which to climb. We spiraled up and up, until our mates were dots on the ground, marching slowly to cut off the expedition's retreat. I could hear Mercy's heavy breathing even over the whistling of the mountain wind. Once we had sufficient altitude, Mercy set off to follow the old trail. We were soon gliding over the

rockfall that the Peatsfelders had brought down to seal their trail from invaders. A few minutes later, we reached the far end of the detour, where the ice trail rejoined the main route, now ahead of the expedition. Looking back down the trail, I caught a glimpse of Julyan's troops rounding a fold of the mountain. We did not need to walk very far back on the trail before we found the setup I was looking forâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; a sharp bend in the trail, with a small ledge just below it. Mercy emptied her bowels, as I directed, onto the ledge. Then we waited. It was not long before the expedition appeared. My plan depended on one thing, totally; that Julyan would be at the front of the column. I knew he was prideful, and would not willingly follow if he could lead. He was. He turned the corner, appearing bored by the hike, smoking his pipe. As soon as he passed the dragon droppings, I sparked a firestone, placed it in my sling, and threw. My aim was true. The firestone struck the dragon droppings on the ledge below and behind him. The dropping exploded in a geyser of rock and ice, and a long section of the trail went crashing down into the valley, cutting Julyan off from the rest of the expedition. I could see his mates retreating down the trail perilously fast, toward where Gladwin and his crew waited to welcome them. Jolyan stood alone on the icy trail. With no avenue of retreat, he advanced slowly in my direction. I started down the trail to intercept him. Mercy landed on a rock about our heads. I motioned to him to stay away. This was my battle. As I rounded a corner, Jolyan spotted me. He did not hesitate. Like his brother before him, he assumed I was the timid fighter I had once been, and ran directly at me to attack. He had added a small flail to his weaponry since I'd fought him last, and I did not at first see it in his left hand, concentrating as I was on the sword in his right hand coming at me. I was almost overwhelmed by his attack. Without a shield, when both weapons approached me I could only deflect one or the other. I chose the blade. As I blocked it, the ball of the flail caught me in the side. Pain exploded in me. I managed to follow his blade as he withdrew it, countering with a thrust, but only nicked the strap of his kit. He gathered himself for a second attack. I managed to draw the wooden club from my belt just in time, and caught the strap of his flail as he swung it toward me a second time. My club shattered at my feet, just as his sword came at me again. Again, I caught his blade on my own, but doing

so drove me to my knees. My club arm had now gone numb and would not move to my command. I could hear Mercy moving above me, but too late, I realized, too late. Jolyan swung the flail around once, twice, to build power, winding up for the death blow. At that moment, I saw Pelt at my enemy's foot. She held a splinter from my club in her teeth like a jousting spear, and, growling, ran it into Jolyan's calf, shoving it in as deep as her small body would permit. Jolyan screamed, dropped his flail, and reached down to find the source of the pain. At that moment, the strap of his kit, almost sliced through by my parry, gave way. He lurched, grabbed twice at the air, and fell, screaming, down, down, down.

had plenty of time to reflect on what had happened, on our return trip back to the garrison. I offered Pelt, my hero, the chance to fly home with Mercy, who was too exhausted to carry me back over the rock fall, but she insisted on perching on the bill of my cap. She was working on the tale of "How Pelt Saved the World," and knew I was obligated to listen to every word. Mercy and I talked about revenge as I rested at the top of the long climb over the rocks. "I thought it would make things right again," I said, "or at least, give me some peace. But I still ache for them." "They were denied their place in the One," Mercy replied. "We all must eat and be eaten, nurture and be nurtured, grow, die, and grow again. We are all in turn the soil, the seed, the flower, the bee, and the honey. We all return to the soil so that the cycle can continue. None of us can change our nature, or our obligation. We can, though, respect every creature's role." "Then, why do you eat the hearts of men?" It was a sore I had been ignoring, but still gaped open. "It has always been the dragon's role to harvest. We have put aside our nature in hopes of finding peace in these, the years of our diminishing. Dragons are dying from this world, Allyn. We were creatures of the ice age. "But we continue to eat the hearts of warriors, to honor them, our ancient foes, our ancient mates. The prey and the preyed upon are not enemies; they are not even two separate things. They are two faces of the same creature. One Man, One Dragon, One." "Don't forget," Pelt added, "One mouse." "Aye," I said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;but that will be hard to fit on a blade: One Man, One Dragon, One Mouse, One."

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One Man, One Dragon, One Mouse, One

It's been over half a year now since we returned to

the garrison. Gladwin has done a magnificent job as master, especially given the green troops he was sent. He says he couldn't have done it without a dragonier, but I think he's just trying to flatter me so I'll be willing to pull extra duty. Mercy-ne'er is preparing to depart for the mountain peaks for a while, to court a female, then provision her. Pelt, Muff, Scuttlebutt and I are going to take the opportunity to return to my hometown, to settle some affairs, visit with my aunts and uncles, and attend to my family plot. There, I'll sit in the morning and tell them of all that's transpired since that fateful day they were slain. I think they would be proud. I hope so,

anyway. And I'll lay a wreath on the grave of my grandfather-- like me, a dragonier. ___________________________________________ Tom Barlow's story "My Daughter of Many Colours" was named a Notable Story for 2007 by the Million Writer's Award, and his story "Call Me Mr. Positive," which appears in the anthology "Best of the Intergalactic Medicine Show," was called "brilliantly sardonic" by Publisher's Weekly. Other stories from Barlow have appeared in magazines such as Redivider, Hobart, The Appalachee Review and anthologies including Desolate Places, The Book of Dead Things and The Steel City Anthology. He is a graduate of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Workshop.

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A Symphony of Horrors by Kevin J. Bartell

It's hard building a master race when one already exists. ___________________________________________________________

S.S.

Sturmbannführer Heinrich Holmann lay propped up on his cot in the village schoolhouse, now a makeshift hospital. His head lolled to a waltz only he could hear. He regarded the doctor and the two officers with a gentle smile, not noticing the drool he let escape. A beagle pup lay in his arms. Holmann stroked it behind the ears as he spoke. "The woods," he said. "These woods--have you been out there? They're not like our woods back home. All around are dark, moving shadows, even in the daytime." Holmann's glassy eyes widened. He lurched forward. "Don't go there at night! Don't go!" The puppy whined. Dr. Rathaus lifted his hands. "Easy, Holmann, easy. Nothing can hurt you here. You're not in the woods now. Just tell us about them. Tell us what you remember." Holmann sat back. He stroked the puppy again. "Not like our woods," he repeated. "In German woods the leaves are alive and green, not like these black Polish leaves. The sun comes through the trees, clean and bright. When Papa was fighting the war, and Mama took us to live at my grandfather's house in the country, oh, such woods and lakes we had! We could walk in the woods, and swim in the lake every day, and I caught once a big fish--twenty inches! We had him the next day for breakfast. Grandpapa was proud of me. "Then uncle Otto came home from the Somme. He had lost his right arm, and he wore an eye-patch. Like you," Holmann said, nodding at one of the officers. "But he taught us to ride, as fast as revenge, and he took us to hunt in the forest. One day, a boar came out of the woods and charged us. His tusks gleamed white and sharp, a giant carving fork. The horses reared. My brothers shrieked like girls, and I started to cry. But Uncle Otto never blinked. . ." Holmann chuckled. ". . .or winked. He just pulled out his pistol and shot the boar down in his tracks. Then he dismounted, and finished the job with his cavalry sword. Again, just like yours!" he told the one-eyed officer. "It's a dueling saber," said Dieter, the officer. "But go on." "Oh! Well, Uncle Otto was my hero after that," said Holmann. "I wanted to be a brave soldier, just like

him, and just like Papa." He lowered his eyes. "But Papa did not come home from the Somme. The boar must have got him instead." Holmann's head drooped. The gray light through the windows reinforced the shadows under his eyes. It highlighted the creases in his face, too deep and too many for a man not yet thirty. Holmann's gaze fell on the puppy, and his old man's face lit up with a fiveyear-old's grin. "I'll bet you'd like to go on a hunt in the forest, wouldn't you?" He scratched the beagle's head. "Yes, you'd make a good hunting dog, chase out the game for us. 'Woof! Woof!'" The puppy gave him a playful growl. Holmann threw back his head and laughed, "Oh, listen to the killer growl!" Holmann wagged a scolding finger at the dog. "Now, now, Mama says we mustn't roll our 'r's." He chuckled softly. "She should hear the Führer sometimes, no?" Dieter had heard enough. He nodded to the doctor and the Wehrmacht officer. All three rose. Captain Mueller started to give Holmann a parting salute, but Dieter touched his arm, shaking his head. "And this is how he has been, since his unit disappeared?" asked Dieter as they walked. "I wish I could say that, Oberführer,” said the doctor. "This is actually one of his best days. The puppy helps. We find we have to drug him less." "You have tried hypnosis?" Dieter asked. Rathaus nodded. "I have, and will continue to try it. Every time, we hit the same barrier. One moment he and his men are exploring the woods near the castle; the next, he is hunting boar. He works himself into a frenzy, always shouting. 'The tusks! The tusks!' I end up having to sedate him." Dieter gave a slight nod. "Perhaps I may be of assistance? In the S.D. we know a few avant-garde techniques that are not commonly taught in the Reich medical schools." Rathaus stopped in his tracks. He swallowed hard, but nodded as though with enthusiasm. "I and my staff are at your disposal, Oberführer." "Very well," Dieter said. "I still think," said the doctor, as they reached the door, "there is hope of a full recovery, in time." Dieter cast a stern eye on Rathaus. "The recovery I am interested in, Herr Doctor, is that of information, and time is the resource of which I have the least at

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my disposal. The Russians are demanding control of the Baltic states. There are a great many German Völk in those countries--over one hundred thousand in Estonia alone--and the Führer is not content to leave them in the hands of Stalin. We need this lebensraum subdued. We need it parceled out. We need an efficient system put in place for moving the Poles out and the Germans in. This is why we have sent teams of surveyors and engineers into backward areas like Wladistow, to determine whether it is more efficient to improve the roads, or simply to connect the village to Auschwitz by rail. "Unfortunately, someone is causing our men to vanish faster than the Gestapo could do it. We dropped in our first troops more than two weeks ago. The town shows no resistance, yet we have not produced so much as an organized plan for this region's future. Right now, the Führer's attention is focused on Warsaw, which stubbornly refuses to surrender. But we will crush that soon enough, and the Führer will notice what happens in Wladistow. And he will have questions." Dieter drew up to the cowering Rathaus, close enough to kiss. "Do you wish him to ask you, Herr Doctor?" The psychiatrist shook his head, eyes wide. Dieter's voice was little more than a whisper. "Then help me find the answers" He abruptly stepped back and saluted: "Heil, Hitler!" Dieter walked out the door without waiting for a return salute. Captain Mueller gave his own hasty salute and hurried after. At last catching his breath, the hapless doctor raised a trembling hand. He squeaked out "Heil, Hitler" to the empty hall, in case God or the Führer were listening, then staggered toward his office and the brandy he kept in his desk for medicinal purposes. It was a common malaise in the New Order. Dieter turned his head as Mueller caught up with him. "Mueller," he said, "make a note. When we get back to the castle, wire the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and request in my name all the files on Dr. Erwin Rathaus." "Jawohl, Oberführer," Mueller said, producing a notebook. He wrote as they walked on. "I have questions regarding his competence. And his ideology." "Very good, Oberführer." "Have someone watch him at all times, until further notice. When my men arrive, I'll assign one of them, but for now I'm afraid the Wehrmacht will have to play the role of the S.S.." "At once, Oberführer. Do you think the doctor is behind the disappearances?"

"No," Dieter said. "He isn't smart or brave enough." He tapped his chin. "He may know something, though." A young soldier approached, saluting. "Herr Captain, Sergeant Freund reports that Lieutenant Kohner has arrived. They are at the church, awaiting instructions." Dieter turned to Mueller. "Lieutenant Kohner?" "The translator you requested from the Abwehr, Oberführer," Mueller explained. "Ah, good! Come on, Mueller, let's see what the natives know." Nobody in the village spoke German. The local schoolmaster knew a few words, but not enough actually to communicate. The village priest had spoken German. He had used it to call down a curse on the occupying forces, and Sturmbannführer Holmann had sent the priest to Auschwitz. Holmann spoke Polish, too, but his wits were now missing along with his men. Mueller's troops, brought in hastily from Czechoslovakia, spoke only German. Dieter, Mueller, and the ranking officers made their headquarters in a half-ruined castle overlooking the village. The troops, petty officers, and minor officials lived and worked out of the town hall and some of the better homes expropriated from the Poles. Prisoners were kept in the church basement, where Dieter could now use his interpreter to question them. The villagers swore they knew nothing. Holmann had reported as much. Dieter picked out a dozen and brought them to the sacristy--to "hear their confessions," he said. He interrogated them one at a time, while a large corporal named Grau punctuated the questions. Still, they were silent. Dieter tackled administrative details at the castle for a few hours. He returned late in the day. His voice was a soft, clear baritone. He did not raise it as he questioned them; he never did. The response was the same as before. Dieter looked at the prisoners and nodded. "Very well," he said. "Mueller." The captain opened the door. "Bring them in," he called. Led by Lieutenant Freund, a small group of soldiers marched in the children of the village, some twenty of them. A few were still learning to walk, holding the hands of the older ones. Dieter kept his gaze on the adult prisoners. "My dear friends," he said, walking among the children, "contrary to what you have heard, we of the German Reich are human beings." He patted a young boy's shoulder as he passed. "We have no love of

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barbarism. We do not enjoy destruction. And we certainly have no desire for bloodshed. No desire for the least unpleasantness--no, not at all! The things you have heard--and which are everywhere greatly exaggerated--are the frightening tales of frightened men who feel threatened by the change we represent. I find this very sad. We come to you bringing, not fear, but hope." Dieter stopped beside a fair-haired girl, no more than six, as he waited for Kohner's translation to catch up. "We are standing at the borders of a bright and glorious future," he continued, "for Wladistow, for Poland, for all of Europe and, indeed, the world." He began to stroke the little girl's hair, a doting fatherfigure. The girl looked up at Dieter, uncertain what to make of him. "The German people will lead the way, it's true, but there is a place for everyone in this great New Order. These are the most hopeful and exciting of times! The world our children--these children--will live to see, is almost beyond our ability to imagine: Clean. Orderly. Decent. Efficient. Filled with miracles of engineering, and masterworks of art and culture." Dieter's eye shone, staring past the prisoners, as though looking on the future he described. His left hand continued to caress the child. His right slowly went to his side, undoing the strap that fastened his pistol in its holster. "Could anyone with a heart deny the sight of such a promise to himself. . .or to his children?" Dieter's voice was almost sorrowful. He looked down at the girl and smiled. She smiled back up at him, as his fingers closed around the butt of his gun. One of the Polish women shrieked. A short, bald old man pushed forward, shouting. He fell to his knees, babbling in Polish. "Ah," said Dieter, "our schoolmaster has something to teach us. Does he have an answer for us, Lieutenant?" Kohner listened. "Indeed, Oberführer. He says he knows who's been causing the disappearances." The schoolmaster spoke again. "They were forbidden to tell--that he doesn't like being talked about." Kohner paused, to listen some more. "But he'll tell now, even if it damn his soul." Dieter stepped forward, releasing the girl. "His soul! So serious as that? Forbidden by whom? Who doesn't like being talked about?" "Conapaski!" came the answer in translation. "He rules here." "And where do we find this man, Conapaski?" Dieter asked. "It is he who finds you, he says." The schoolmaster continued. "And he is not a man," Kohner translated.

"Once, perhaps, but no more." "'Not a man?' What, did he change into a bird and fly away?" "He says that this Conapaski is a monster. A. . ." Kohner turned to the schoolmaster. "'Vil Kulak?'" The schoolmaster nodded. "Vilkolak." Kohner rubbed his chin. "That's a word I don't have, Oberführer. I'll have to fetch my books." The schoolmaster repeated: "Vilkolak!" He raised his hands like claws, bared his teeth, and hissed. "A werewolf?" Dieter guessed. The schoolmaster shouted. "Nein! Nein! Vilkolak! Vilkolak! Untodt!" He stammered, waving his hands,then looked directly in Dieter's eye. "Nosferatu!" Dieter's face betrayed nothing. "A vampire?" The old man nodded. "Nosferatu! Wampyr! Ja!" "Pity," Dieter said. "It would have pleased The Führer if we had captured him a werewolf." Dieter turned and left the room, Mueller at his heels. A moment later, he opened the door again. “Sergeant Freund!” Freund stepped into the hall. "In thirty minutes, I want you to take all the prisoners out in the woods, to dig," Dieter said. "Then, bury them in the hole." "Jawohl, Oberführer. And the children?" Dieter nodded. Freund took a deep breath, then clicked his heels. "Jawohl, Oberführer." "The Führer is right, Mueller," Dieter said as they left the church. "The Poles are quite inferior. This is nineteen thirty-nine. Man has conquered Nature. We have planes and Zeppelins in the air, boats sailing under the sea. We have the electric light. And still these pathetic little rats are frightened of the dark. It might be thirteen thirty-nine. They wear their crosses, hang garlic by their windows, and charge our tanks on horseback. They cling to prayers and their lances. The werewolf scares them more than the Panzer." He shook his head. "Nosferatu indeed!" Mueller's face was thoughtful. "I remember the movie," he said. "A good one," Kohner said, nodding. "I saw it, too." "Ha, yes," Dieter said, "Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horrors! What you gentlemen may not know is that the company who made that film had ties to the Party.” "The Party?" said Kohner. "Our Party?" Dieter nodded. "Back in the early days, before they were called National Socialists, when the Führer himself was a newcomer. Did you never notice the look of the vampire? The eyes, the nose, the shape of the head?" He looked from one to the other.

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Kohner saw it first. "Ah!" "Exactly. He's a Jew! The film is nothing but a parable: this is what happens when you let the inferior races into your country. It destroys your society, like the plague. They infest everything, cutting you off from your neighbors, making you afraid to leave your home. They get into your streets, your home, even your wife's bed. "That," Dieter said, "is why we wear the swastika-the symbol of the rising sun which destroys the ancient terror." He pointed toward the autumn sun, glowing red as it sank toward the horizon. "And that is why these people so disgust me, living in their shadows." After a moment, he added, "For this is their condemnation, that men loved the darkness better than the light." "And my men must now shoot children," Mueller mused. He kept pace with Dieter, while Kohner dropped back to light a cigarette. "I know what you're thinking, Mueller," Dieter said. "You wonder, should you slit my throat, if I would even bleed." Mueller started. "Oberführer, I would never--" "Relax, Mueller," Dieter said, "You're no traitor. But you wear your heart where men can see it. And that, my friend, is weakness. "You are fond of movies, yes? Why did we ban Metropolis? 'The heart must mediate between the head and hands?' Foolish nonsense! Emotions leave a man exposed and inefficient. Do you know who taught me that, Mueller? Obergruppenführer Heydrich; the head of the S.D. himself. He taught me never to let emotion interfere with the most efficient means to ends. He taught me that, not in theory, not in a lecture, but in practice--at swordpoint. That lesson cost me an eye, Mueller, but it earned me a promotion and an open invitation to a rematch. At this rate, I will make Gruppenführer before I am thirtyfive." And be totally blind, thought Mueller. "And, having learned that lesson," Dieter continued, "with the eye that remains I now see. . ." Before Mueller could react, Dieter had spun full circle and held the point of his drawn saber against the captain's windpipe. His other hand gripped the lapel of Mueller's jacket. ". . .everything," Dieter concluded. "Our enemy is clever. He has wrapped himself in the disguise of a local legend. What better cover for a band of guerrillas? They strike at night, when the superstitious villagers are all inside. No witnesses. No bodies, whose wounds might tell another tale."

Dieter moved his face in closer the captain's. "So then, Mueller, how do we find him? It's just as in the movies, no? We entice this Nosferatu with an irresistible target. "In another hour, the sun will be down, and the prisoners will be digging. Sergeant Freund's platoon will be exposed and isolated. Perfect bait for these insurgents." Dieter looked away for a moment, thinking. "I wonder if they will be cold-blooded enough to let us shoot the prisoners first? I would. Let us eliminate the witnesses for them." His gaze returned to Mueller. "So in an hour, Mueller, you will order another platoon into the woods. We will trap the guerrillas between the two forces." Dieter's grip began to relax. "But tell them to try and leave a few alive for questioning." Dieter's head turned. "Lieutenant Kohner,” he said, his gaze never leaving Mueller's, "when you arrived with the supply trucks this morning, did you notice if the brandy I ordered arrived with you?" Kohner's eyes darted between the cigarette butt in his hand, and its tip, which now lay on the ground, still burning. "I did see a large cask arrive, Oberführer," he stammered. "I could not swear to its contents, but--" "Excellent," Dieter replied. "You will do me the honor of enjoying some with me this evening?" "The honor is mine, Oberführer," Kohner said, realizing it was safe to smile now. Dieter also smiled. "You too, Mueller," he said, removing the sword from the captain's throat and tapping him on the shoulder with its flat. "You could do with a drink. You look like you've seen. . .a vilkolak." The officers dined in the castle's main hall, surrounded by ancient weapons and weathered tapestries. The food, Mueller thought, was indifferent, though he knew it was better than the enlisted men were getting. Dieter's brandy, however, was beyond reproach. Kohner took to it with gusto. Clearly the S.D. man had Party status to match his ego. They were drinking to the Führer's health when they heard the first shots from the woods. It was not the sound of a firing squad. It was combat. Dieter snapped his fist shut. "We have them! Mueller, I want a report at once!" Mueller chose an attending soldier at random. "You!" By the time the soldier had left the castle grounds, the shooting had stopped. For twenty minutes, the only sound was that of Dieter's pacing. Then the sound of gunfire came again, this time from just outside. The officers drew their sidearms.

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"Mueller," Dieter said, "get someone on the radio. I want every available man up here from the village at once. We'll surround them!" "Jawohl, Oberführer!" Mueller snapped. "Grau, look to it! The rest of you, secure the building! Find out what's happening, and send someone to report to me immediately!" Half a dozen men hailed the Führer and tore out of the room. Dieter refilled his glass. He toasted Kohner and Mueller. "Most resourceful," he observed. "Either they have escaped, or their attack on the Einsatzgruppe was itself a ploy to draw off our men." Dieter took a drink. "I shall enjoy discovering which." A great hulk of a body flew through the front window, and into the opposite wall. The way it landed, it appeared to be sitting against the wall, its uniform on backwards. But it was not sitting; the spine had been snapped in three places. It was the head that was on backwards. "Grau!" Mueller exclaimed, starting toward him. Dieter caught his shoulder. "Ignore it, Mueller--it's a diversion!" "Very good, Oberführer Karl Wilhelm Dieter, of the German S.D.," said a dry, withered voice. The figure the men turned to see was no taller than any of them, and half a head shorter than Dieter. Its faded robes had once been crimson, and were interwoven with silver wire. It wore a cape or cloak of the same material, fastened with a silver chain. What remained of its lips wore the grin of the Archfiend himself. The movie had got some of it right. The bulbous head, with a few tufts of colorless hair. The bat's ears; the jutting teeth. The soulless, ravening eyes. But the figure before them had less nose than the Phantom of the Opera. It appeared to have rotted away. The stench coming off the thing confirmed this. Kohner, who unbeknownst to himself, was now mad, kept hearing the bad old joke in his head: Hes got no nose! How does he smell? Terrible! Slowly, softly, Kohner began to laugh. "Ach, Gott!" Mueller cried, emptying his Luger. The bullets passed through their target as through clear air, shredding a tapestry on the wall behind. "Put it down, Mueller," Dieter said, his voice as soft and calm as ever. He stepped toward the intruder. "You hold me at a disadvantage, Mein Herr." "But of course, my apologies," the vampire replied. "I am Leszek, Baron Conapaski, Voivode of Wladistow. Welcome to my house." "And it is you," said Dieter, "who alone have killed

all of our men?" The baron shrugged. "Some. Others are scattered about, mad like your friend here." He nodded at Kohner, who stood bent over with a hand to his mouth, laughing ever more loudly. "The rest have deserted and fled east, toward the Russians--though I doubt our friend Stalin will have too much use for them." Dieter cursed himself for sweating. He could see why a man like Holmann might break. There was no state policy, no party position on vampires. Dieter moistened his lips with his tongue. The game was now suddenly different. No, he told himself. Not the game. Only the parameters. The rules were the same. So, the legends were based in fact? Very well. Another case of the past refusing to die in this backward land. The creature now before him was a relic, a sorry emblem of monarchies past. Perhaps the Poles would next produce a dragon, to combat the Luftwaffe? (He could imagine Fat-belly Goering, posing for the press beside its carcass.) "I can see that little escapes you, Herr Baron," he said, "Surely you know, then, that you are like the English king who tried to warn off the tide? Think how many of your people would die needlessly, in such a protracted and futile struggle. Far wiser, I should think, to join us. Think of the place a man of your. . . remarkable abilities could carve out for himself in our New Order. The Führer would give you whole nations to command." And me, too, if I can bag him, he thought to himself. "Do you think me a fool, Herr Dieter?" the baron retorted. "Am I the only man besides Chamberlain who does not know what Herr Hitler thinks of the Poles? I could tell my people to surrender, certainly. To welcome you with flowers, as in the Rhineland. And they would be dead twice as fast as if they had fought you to the end. I know of your camps and your death squads. You are worse than the democratists. They would only neglect the herd, let them run wild and fall into pits. The communists would let them all starve, in order to fatten the state. But you Nazis--you would exterminate them like rats!" "My dear Baron," said Dieter, shaking his head, "I think of you as anything but foolish. You are, however, misinformed. Under the Führer's plan, I assure you, the vast majority of your people would not die. They would be relocated, true, to new jobs, some of them in Poland itself. Even now, I.G. Farben is building a new plant at Auschwitz. The governor, Dr. Frank, calls for more new workers every day. Everyone with something to contribute has a place in

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the Third Reich. The only people we are forced to remove are the ones who make no kind of contribution: communists, imbeciles, Jews--" "There are no Jews in Wladistow!" Conapaski shouted. “Not a one, where any of my kind rules!" His laugh was coarse and bitter. "We drank their blood in ten ninety-eight, when the pope called his first crusade. These lands were no richer then than now. Who could afford to ride off to Jerusalem? We stayed here and took care of our own infidels. We circumcised them again with swords and axes. We burned their homes. We shit in their wells. We forced their women. We roasted their infants on spits and ate their flesh, and made them eat it, too. "And were we sainted for it? Hah! The bishops proclaimed us anathema. We could not set foot in a church, or even look on the cross we had fought for. The Jews cursed us, too, and God heard them. They called down a curse, so that even the grave should reject us. That we should live in death, and feed on death, until Christ returns and sends us all to hell." The baron's claws curled into fists. "They don't even believe in Christ! They put Him to death! And still, He answered them!" Conapaski paced in a circle, calming himself. Dieter noted his agitation and saw a possibility. He smiled to himself. "For nearly a thousand years, I have ruled this land," the baron said. "I have husbanded its people as a man keeps cattle, culling the weaklings, maintaining order. I have eaten the fruit of my labor, as is my right." He stopped pacing and looked up at Dieter. "But I have kept them safe from wolves like you. Go home, Oberführer. Go back to your prancing Austrian corporal, and tell him his schemes are already outdated. I graciously grant you your life." Mueller was ready to run, but Dieter stopped him. "My life, Herr Baron?" he said. "Is that all?" Conapaski scowled. "What?" "Is that the kind of hospitality a knight shows to another knight?" "For God's sake, Dieter!" Mueller shrieked. "What are you doing?" "Shut up, Mueller," Dieter replied, still looking at the baron. "The German S.S. is modeled after the Order of Teutonic Knights. As an S.S. officer and a man of high birth, I therefore consider myself a knight. And so, as a fellow knight and as your guest, I ask, as is my right, the custom of the castle." Conapaski raised the remains of an eyebrow. "You would challenge me?" Dieter gave a slight bow. "If you would grant me the honor, Baron."

"And you know how to use a sword?" asked the vampire. "I am not without skill." The baron replied, "Very well." He fetched down a broadsword from the wall. "But do not insult me with that kitchen-skewer hanging at your side," he said. "For this you will want a man's blade." He threw the broadsword over. It struck mad Kohner through the chest, knocking him backward, and pinning him to a table. The baron gestured to the walls. "Choose any shield you like," he said. "They are all of good quality." "I do not doubt it, Herr Baron," said Dieter, retrieving the broadsword from Kohner. "Nevertheless, begging your leave, I think I will forgo the shield. Instead, I shall wield my humble 'kitchenskewer' à la main gauche." "What you will," the baron said. He lunged forward. Dieter lost the buttons of his jacket. For half an hour, they circled each other, striking, parrying, and dodging. The baron was stronger and faster than any living man, with centuries of fighting experience. But as Dieter had bargained, his training was medieval. He relied not on grace or finesse, but on brute force, to hammer and hack. Dieter was trained to fence. He wheeled and danced, dodging in and out, scoring hits, trying to irritate the baron into a mistake. Mueller had pushed Kohner's body from the table. He sat watching, praying for a miracle, and drinking heavily. "Have you ever been to the cinema, Baron?" Dieter asked. "There's an American film called, The Mark of Zorro." The baron swung at his head. Dieter ducked, then moved in with his sword to slash a diagonal "Z" into the vampire's tunic. "I highly recommend it," he continued. "Excellent swordplay." He darted in again under the baron's lunge and made another "Z" that crossed the first, forming a backward swastika. "I knew it, Herr Baron!" Dieter said with a laugh. "Scratch the surface, and you're a reflection of us!" He tried to move in again, but this time the blade met the baron's shield. “You would have done better to keep your Iron Cross,” said Conapaski. The baron gave a shove, and Dieter flew backward across the room. Dieter rolled and regained his feet without losing either weapon. But he was exhausted. Vampires, he knew, never tire. Conapaski dropped his shield. He took his sword in both hands, and roaring out a battle cry, made a running jump across the room. It took less than two seconds. He brought down his blade as he descended, aiming to cut Dieter in two.

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Dieter caught the baron's sword between his own, disarming him. Then he looked down. A red line ran down his chest. Not a serious wound, but it bled freely. "Touch辿," said Dieter. He smiled, though his breathing was heavy. "You see, Mueller?" he laughed. "I do bleed, after all!" Conapaski was staring at Dieter's wound, his eyes wide. "Such blood," he gasped, "such blood!" The baron lunged forward, all vampire now. Dieter saw his chance. His right hand held the broadsword out straight. His left brought the dueling saber up from the side, thrusting it in under the baron's armpit. The two blades intersected in the middle of the vampire's chest. "Here, Baron," Dieter said, "is my Iron Cross." Captain Mueller, by now quite drunk, rose and applauded. "You did it! My God, you did it!" Dieter looked back at him. "Go see how many of our men are left." Dieter was amused at how light the vampire's body seemed to feel, as it began to decompose, still writhing, on his blades. "Beaten," the monster gasped. He raised his head. "Herr Dieter, you have won. The castle is yours. The land, the village, the people, my title--everything is yours." "You honor me, Baron," said Dieter. "And with it, my curse." Dieter saw Conapaski's eyes glow red, and knew he should not have looked at them. The vampire's talons caught him by the shoulders. Dieter had no strength left to resist. "I will give you a better F端hrer," the baron rasped. "I will let you join my Reich." Dieter felt the cold breath on his neck, reeking of copper and rot. "I will make you part of the real Master Race," it whispered. Dieter screamed, but nothing came out. His bladder let go. It was a new game, after all.

few nights later, Sturmbannf端hrer Holmann awoke to the sound of his puppy, barking and whining on the foot of his cot. "What is it, boy?" Holmann whispered. "Are you having a nightmare?" The puppy scampered off into a corner. The moon was out, and its light through the window outlined a dim figure standing by the bed. It had a white face with a patch over one eye. "Uncle Otto!" said Holmann. "Have you come to kill the boar?" Uncle Otto's voice was soothing. "It's alright, Heinrich," it said. "The boar is our friend now. Come; I'll show you."

r. Rathaus stood on the steps of the schoolhousehospital. He shook his head. "I did everything I could," he said "I thought the worst was over." Dieter put a hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Herr Doctor. Nobody holds you accountable." "He was a promising soldier," Rathaus said. "A great loss for the Reich." "A pity," Dieter said, nodding. "And poor Mueller, too. I will write to their families personally." Rathaus looked at him. "And yet, you say he had a lucid moment, just before the end?" "Indeed," said Dieter. "He told me all I needed to know. And now I can inform the F端hrer and take appropriate action." "So our plans for this place will be going forward again, now?" "At top speed," Dieter said. "We have to make ready, Herr Doctor. The future is upon us." Dieter smiled. "A new Thousand-Year Reich," he said, "for men of superior blood." ___________________________________________ "A Symphony of Horrors" is the first published fiction from Kevin J. Bartell.

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Oumings in the Dark by Jeffrey Miller

After some consideration I've decided you can take this job and... ___________________________________________________________

A sickly smell hovered around the barn door. Eira

pinched her nose shut and turned her head. She might have walked away but for a disapproving look from Mr. Von. She found the man intimidating, with his huge block of a head, his ruddy face and steely eyes. When his gaze fell upon her, she withered, let go of her nose, and bowed her head. “It’s gonna smell bad,” he said in a voice made coarse by drink. “You just gotta deal with it.” She nodded, and he reached for the padlock on the door handle. “How many are in there?” Eira asked. “This is where they send the old Oumings to die.” He pulled a small key out of his pocket and undid the padlock. “So there’s quite a few.” Eira grimaced. “Look, I’m not being callous about it,” Mr. Von said with a shrug. “It’s a fact. They send them here from the farms and estates when they get too old to work.” “I know,” Eira said. “I was just…” He waved her off and pulled open the barn door. A cloud of filth gushed out, and she clapped her hands over her mouth and nose. Sunlight flooded the dingy room, and she saw eyes, a sea of glistening eyes peering through mesh cages. The sight and smell of it was too much. Eira groaned and doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit. But Mr. Von, oblivious, kicked the door all the way open and strolled into the barn. “Be careful you stay in the center of the path here,” he said, then noticed that she wasn’t with him. He snapped his fingers and beckoned her. Eira rose, set her jaw, and followed him. The cages were set against each other in two rows on either side of a narrow concrete walkway. Waste from the Oumings ran out of the bottom of their cages down slopes which directed it all into gutters. “Like I said, stay in the center,” Mr. Von continued. “You step off into one of the gutters, it’s really gonna ruin your day.” He led her to the back of the barn. The Oumings were pressed up against the front of their cages, sticking their fingers through the openings. They were short and squat, covered in dusky green fur, with large eyes, blunt noses and broad mouths. Some had lost patches of fur, others had fur that looked matted and

grimy. A few were curled up on the floor of their cages, clutching their bellies or faces. Eira had not expected this. “A barn full of Oumings who need daily care,” that was the way the job had been described to her. She wasn’t naive. She had known there would be cleaning to do. She had expected to be a little overwhelmed on her first day. But she had not expected this level of squalor. “Hello,” she said softly to the many passing faces. Frowning mouths, anguished eyes, creased foreheads. Mr. Von was standing at the back of the barn. He turned to her and motioned for her to hurry. “Don’t talk to them,” he said. “Most of them don’t speak, but if you run across any that do, you mind your business.” “Why?” Eira asked. Mr. Von was mostly in shadow, but he took a step toward her and a bar of sunlight fell across his ruddy face. “Because of that,” he said, pointing past her shoulder. She knew what he meant but looked anyway. Outside, beyond the barn and the fields, on a hilltop overlooking the city, sat the Factory. It rose like a nest of spider legs above the bare rock. The Core Crystal sat on a vast pedestal of steel in the center of the nest, pulsing with a purplish light, and with each pulse, the lights of the Factory surged. She knew the story, of course. Every child learned it in grade school. Oumings were the first to attempt to draw power from the Core, but they were reckless and stubborn, refusing the advice of human scientists and engineers. In the process, they created a fracture in the Core which sent out a massive wave of energy that killed tens of thousands, laid waste to the landscape for miles around, and nearly ended the early human colony. “You don’t let them talk to you, because you can’t trust them,” Mr. Von said. “And surely I don’t have to tell you to never open the cages, right? One of them dies, you don’t deal with it. You come get me, and I’ll extract it.” “Yes, sir,” Eira said. “I understand.” He gave her an appraising look, then grunted and shook his head. “Well, alright then,” he said, gesturing toward a faucet sticking out of the wall near his foot. “Let me lay it out for you, nice and easy. Once a day, you’ve got to flush out the gutters with water. Just

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turn on the faucet and let it run for a while. You also need to attach a hose and wash down the cages. You think they smell bad now, let them go a couple of days without a good washing, and they’ll reek of death.” “Flush gutters,” Eira said. “Hose down cages.” “Right,” Mr. Von replied. “And twice a day, you’ve gotta feed them. They eat grain like cattle. You’ll find it in the hold around back.” He picked up a small wire basket from a shelf above the faucet. “These hook to the outside of the cages and feed the grain a little bit at a time. Oumings got no self control. If you set a pile of food in front of them, they’ll eat till their bellies burst. So always use the baskets.” “Always use the baskets,” Eira said. “Got it.” She was trying to sound enthusiastic. Failing that, she hoped to at least keep the disgust out of her voice. “So the cages are due for a cleaning right now,” Mr. Von said. “I’m gonna let you get to it. I’ll stop by and check on you later, but until then you’re on your own. Think you can handle it?” “Sure,” she replied. She couldn’t quite manage an honest, “yes.” Mr. Von frowned, looking very much like a disappointed father, then shrugged and strode past her. She had to step aside to avoid his considerable girth, and her foot came down on the edge of the path, her heel splashing in the raw waste. She cursed under her breath and scraped her shoe across the concrete. Oumings rustled about in their cages, made anxious by her display of anger. Mr. Von left the barn, turned a corner and was gone. Eira stared after him until he disappeared, then sighed. “Okay, hose down the cages,“ she said. She turned to the low shelf and rooted around in the piles of tools and trash until she found a small garden hose. There was moment, just before she knelt at the faucet to screw in the hose, when she almost left. She glanced wistfully at the open barn door, the verdant fields beyond and the flashing web-work of the Core in the distance, and she had a sudden, powerful urge to flee. And what kept her from fleeing, in the end, was a very simple thing. One of the Oumings whimpered. He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the cage bars and whimpered. Eira stared at him for a moment, at his matted fur, the crust around his mouth, the trembling fingers poking through the mesh. “Oh, alright,” she grumbled, and turned to the faucet to attach the hose. She had trouble getting the threads lined up and banged her knuckles hard against the wall in the attempt. Cursing, she drew back, pressed her hand to

her stomach and accidentally dropped the hose into the gutter. The whimpering Ouming opened his eyes, leaned back, and slammed his face into the side of the cage. He paused, then reared back and did it again. “Stop that,” Eira said. He blinked and looked at her. “You must not speak to me,” he said, in a deep and musical voice quite in contrast to his tiny frame. “Old master will get rid of you. Like he did the others.” Eira nodded and turned back to the faucet. The hose had unraveled in the gutter, and she had no intention of retrieving it. She reached up to the shelf to search for another hose, then lowered her hand again to her side and stood there, staring dumbly at the wall. “We are making you sick,” the Ouming said. “No, not really,” Eira replied without thinking. “It’s just…“ She caught herself, bit off the rest of her remark and shook a finger at the Ouming. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to get you in trouble.” Eira felt trapped, unwilling to leave, unable to work, so she squatted down in the middle of the path, bowed her head, and held her forehead in her hands. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I didn’t know it would be like this.” “Like what?” the Ouming replied. “Disgusting?” She glanced at him. He was looking back, eyes halflidded, one cheek pressed to the side of the cage. Eyes that had seemed moist and miserable now looked clear and pensive. “Yes, disgusting,” she said. It didn’t occur to her until after she said it that she might hurt his feelings. Did Oumings have feelings to hurt? She wasn’t sure. “It’s not your fault. There are simply too many of you crammed in here.” “That is true,” he said. Eira returned to the shelf, moving things about, trying to appear busy. She found a pair of gloves and considered using them to grab the hose. She even picked them up, turned them this way and that, then tossed them back onto the shelf. “No, I won’t do this,” she said. “I won’t.” It wasn’t the work. It wasn’t the smell or the open animal waste in the gutter. Not really. It wasn’t the horrid dimness of the barn or the low wages or the unpleasant Mr. Von. No, it was them. The Oumings and their passive misery, great big empty eyes gazing, most of them utterly motionless as if waiting for something, for anything, to happen. And now one had spoken to her. She had never heard an Ouming speak. Her grandfather had owned one, and she recalled it

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fondly, a quiet and complacent little thing, but he’d kept it in a pen in the backyard. It had never said a word its entire life, as far as she knew. Eira felt close to tears and hated herself for it. She bit down on her lip, and, when that didn’t work, she strode out of the barn. Oumings twitched and sniffed and moved about, and every head turned to follow her. Eira stumbled toward a nearby tree and fell against the trunk, covering her face with her hands. “Go home,” she said. “Go home. Just go home. You can find another job.” It made her feel better, even if she didn’t quite believe it. She took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. She lowered her hands and gazed into the distance. The offices of the Ouming Containment Farm and Rendering Plant were on the opposite end of the property from the barn, near a road and surrounded by parking lots. Mr. Von would be in there somewhere with his paperwork and his drink. How painful would it be to go to him now and resign less than an hour into her new job? Painful and embarrassing, for sure, but not as bad as having to stand in the midst of all of those pitiful creatures for the rest of the day. But why bother speaking to him? She could see her own car parked in a space near the corner of the office building. It would be much easier to just walk to the car and drive away. No confrontation, no need to ever look at Mr. Von’s great big leathery face ever again. She traced the route home, the gray thread of road running down the hills and through fields to the edge of town. Home was not that far away, and her own room, and her own bed where she could bury herself under the covers and forget how unpleasant this morning had been. As she traced the route home, her gaze returned to the Factory, to the massive Core Crystal resting in its framework above the city. The harnessed energy of that crystal powered the whole city and a dozen nearby villages as well. The Oumings’ tragic attempt to harness it was the cause of all of this, the need for farms and pens and cages. She thought of all those faces. These Oumings were old, retired from service and waiting to die, yet they had the faces of children. But children who had once killed tens of thousands. Eira found herself crying, and she let the tears fall. What did it matter? She turned back to the barn. She could see them, vague shapes rustling about in their cages. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and walked back to the barn, back into the dreadful cloud of stench, into the darkness and misery. Oumings reached for her with their fingers. She approached the one who had spoken. They all looked so alike, but she

knew him from his body position, his cheek pressed to the cage, eyes half-lidded. “Will you tell me something?” she asked. Her voice was shaking so badly, she had to stop, collect herself, and say it again. The Ouming looked at her and frowned. “Not supposed to speak to me. You’ll get in trouble. Old master Von will send you away.” “I don’t care about stupid old Mr. Von,” Eira said. “Will you tell me something?” The Ouming shrugged. “I shouldn’t. He’ll send you away, find somebody new. Maybe put us all down.” A nervous murmur went through the cages. “He doesn’t have to know we talked,” Eira said. “I won’t tell him.” The Ouming seemed to consider this, one blunt finger tapping his chin. Then he shrugged again. “I will tell you something if Mr. Von doesn’t find out.” “Very well,” Eira replied. She cleared her throat. “What’s your name?” The Ouming made a sound that might have been laughter, and other Oumings echoed it. “That’s all you wanted to know?” he said. “I am Miaz.” He poked a finger through the bars. Eira reached out and grabbed the blunt finger. She didn’t know what else to do. But the moment of physical contact made the tears flow again, and she turned her face away until they abated. “No, that’s not what I wanted to know,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you crying?” Miaz asked. “I don’t know,” Eira wailed. She rose and paced back and forth in the barn until everything settled within her, then she returned to his cage and stooped down. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I only came here because I needed the work, and I thought it would be…I don’t know what I thought it would be.” She shook her head. “Miaz.” His eyesbrows rose. He was clearly perplexed by this whole strange display. “I want to know if it’s true,” she said. “The story they tell about you.” “About me?” he said. He looked left and right at his nearest companions. They both shrugged. “What story about me? I worked for Mr. Helt in his garden. Twenty five years I worked for him, and then he said I’ve grown too old, so he sent me away.” “About Oumings, I mean,” Eira said. “That Oumings caused an accident and killed a bunch of people, that the accident is the reason why your kind must be contained. Is it true?” Another nervous murmur went through the cages. Miaz grimaced, baring his teeth and looked away.

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“An accident with the Core,” Eira said, after a moment of awkward silence. Miaz turned back to her. “Yes, it’s true,” he said. Other Oumings closed their eyes and groaned, some fell to the floor of their cages and wrapped theirs arms around their heads. “Almost three hundred years ago, it happened. Oumings unearthed the crystal in our many diggings. Colony scientists told our ancestors the energy could be tapped, and our ancestors wanted to try. ‘Don’t do it,’ they said. ‘Only we can do it.’ But we did not listen. And many died, humans and even more Oumings. And that is why it must be like this forever, and we must live in cages. Yes, and that is why we do not protest our suffering.” He nodded and bowed his head, and many Oumings whimpered. “I see,” Eira said softly. She rose, swallowed the lump in her throat, and walked out of the barn. She walked around the corner, out of sight of the office building and the Core, out of sight of the open barn door, and sat in the high grass, her arms wrapped around her knees. It felt like her belly had filled up with rocks, and her eyes ached from crying. She stared into the empty expanse of grass and hills, and into the cloudless sky over it all. And she marveled that one hour of her life had changed everything. Everything. She knew what she had to do, and she also knew how terrible it would be. Part of her supposed that if she sat in the grass long enough, courage would come to her from some secret place and drive out the fear. But the fear remained. “Okay, be afraid and do it anyway,” she told herself, finally. She picked herself up, brushed off the seat of her pants and returned to the barn. The Oumings were waiting for her, all of them crushed up against the front of their cages. She could hear them breathing, fast and nervous, and some visibly trembled. Miaz was wringing his hands. She knelt in front of him. “You told Mr. Von?” he asked. “Of course not,” she said. “Mr. Von can go to hell.” Oumings gasped and some drew back. “Miaz, I need you to tell me something else,” she said. “And I want you to be honest with me. You won’t get in trouble no matter what you say.” Miaz stopped wringing his hands and nodded. “Good,” Eira replied. “Then tell me this. What do you want? If you could have anything in the whole world, let’s say, what would it be?” “But I can’t have anything in the whole world,” he said. “Just suppose,” Eira told him. “Suppose you could. What would it be?” Miaz glanced about nervously. Clearly he was

afraid to answer the question, and the silence stretched on. But Eira waited, her gaze fixed on him, and, finally, after a minute or more, he returned the look. “Yes, very well, I will suppose,” he said. “Anything? If I could have anything? Then I would ask to leave this cage and run, run, run to the forest and find a quiet place beneath great, tall trees. And there I would lie down in peace forever.” He frowned. “Yes, there I would lie down in peace forever.” Eira would have cried again, but she had no more tears in her. Her eyes burned. “Then that’s what you shall have,” she said. Miaz gasped and shut his eyes. Other Oumings turned away from her. “No, no, you can’t give me that,” he said. “Mr. Von will never allow it. He’ll put us all down. I’ve seen it. A blow to the head, and then we go into the wagon. You can’t give me that.” Eira’s misery had turned to anger. She could see it, Mr. Von clubbing Oumings and loading their bodies into the backs of wagons bound for the rendering plant. She rose. “He won’t,” she said. “How far is the forest from here?” Miaz opened his eyes again but would not look at her. “Ten miles, maybe,” he said. “It would take me at least two hours to get there if I run. Never make it.” “Yes, you will,” Eira replied. “I can stall Mr. Von for a couple of hours. He’s probably in his office. If I go up there and pester him with questions, I can keep him there long enough for you to get away. Will you be safe in the forest?” “Oumings are safe in the forest,” Miaz said. “If they get there. We have places deep under the trees, easy places to hide. “Very well, then,” Eira said. “You’re all going to the forest today. All of you.” She might as well have told the Oumings she was going to kill them. They flopped about, moaning and whimpering, clasping their hands, baring their teeth. “Miaz, do they not want to go free?” Eira asked. “They do,” Miaz said. “But they have trouble believing it is not a trick.” Eira examined the cage before her, but it had no obvious door. Each wall of the cage was a separate piece, all of them connected at the edges with small metal clasps. She tugged at the cage, pulled at the clasps, and tried to bend the mesh, but it was all more sturdy than it looked. “Pliers,” Miaz said, leaning forward and whispering. “On the shelf.” Eira went to the shelf and dug through the tools until she found the pliers. She took them back to

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Miaz’s cage and worked to pry open the clasps along the top edges. They came away fairly easily, and in short order, she was lifting off the top of the cage and setting it against the wall. The Oumings gazed up at her with wide and terrified eyes. They still did not trust her, not even Miaz, who pressed himself into the corner. Eira counted the cages. There were twelve in all, six on either side of the barn. She groaned at the prospect of opening each one. Her hand already hurt from using the pliers, and time was precious. Mr. Von had said he would come to check on her. She glanced outside, but the path all the way to the office building was clear. “You must put the top back on the cage.” An Ouming spoke, but it was not Miaz. “Mr. Von will put us down.” “Put us down,” another said. “Then into the wagon.” “No,” Eira said. “I won’t let him. I’m going to open all of the cages, and you’re all going to run to the forest. I won’t let Mr. Von hurt you.” “Mr. Von too big for you,” one said. “Too big and too mean. He’ll put you down, too.” “He will not,” Eira said, and went to work prying off the top of the next cage. “Mr. Von won’t do a damn thing to me. You’re all going free.” The second top came off easier, and she went to work on the third. In half an hour, she had opened all of the cages on one side of the barn. Her hand ached, and she was developing a blister on the inside of her thumb, but she was into it now. No going back. She went to work on the other set of cages, and the Oumings fell silent, all of them watching her, every eye wide and wary. When all of the cages were open, she stepped back into the center of the path, tossed the pliers into the gutter and laughed. It was the laugh of a crazy person. She had just lost herself the job, put all of these poor Oumings in jeopardy, and risked the wrath of more than Mr. Von. But the rocks in her belly had crumbled away, and she felt light as mist, as if she might rise right off the floor and ascend to the ceiling. She turned to Miaz, smiling even as she wrapped the hem of her tunic around her bleeding thumb. “That’s it,” she said. “Miaz, you’re free. No cage for you. No more cages for any of you. Go. Run to the forest.” When none of them moved, she stepped up to Miaz’s cage and reached for him. At first, he drew back, but then he laughed and came to her. She lifted him out of the cage with some effort. Though he was scarcely three feet tall, he had a sturdy frame, heavy

as a bag of sand. “There, you see,” she said, setting him on the path. “Miaz is out. Now the rest of you. Climb out and go. Hurry. I’ll distract Mr. Von.” A few of them, not many, began to move, grabbing the sides of their cages but not climbing, as if testing the idea of freedom and finding it too much. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.” Miaz was hunched over on the path, but he stood up now and raised his hands over his head. “Hurry,” he said. “Like she said. Climb.” And now another Ouming did climb, whimpering all the while. He reached the top and rolled out of the cage, landing with a thump and a splash in the gutter. Miaz stooped down and pulled him onto the path. Others climbed now, half a dozen, then more, then most. And then a shadow entered the room. Like smoke from an unseen fire, it curled around the edge of the open door and blotted out the sunlight. Eira lifted her gaze and saw Mr. Von standing there, a shovel gripped tightly in both hands, and the fire was in his flesh, creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Red as the devil. “What in the hell are you doing?” he said, each word as sharp as the breaking of a bone. “Where…where did you come from?” Eira gasped. Fear sank into her guts like ice, and she reached for the nearest cage to steady herself. “I didn’t see you.” All the Oumings who had been climbing stopped and fell to the bottom of their cages, hiding their faces from him. Miaz and the others who had already climbed out dashed into the filthy darkness underneath the cages. “I was around back,” Mr. Von, said, setting the hard edge of the shovel against the concrete path with a loud clank. “Like to sneak up on the workers, catch them off guard. Only way to know if they’re goofing off.” He swallowed, licked his lips. “But this…” Eira tried to think of something to say. She wasn’t a good liar, but she grabbed hold of the first excuse that came to her. “I…I was taking them out of their cages to clean them,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice. “Hose them down, wash out the cages. Isn’t…is…that’s what you told me to do, right?” She pressed her hands to her hips to keep them from shaking. “You have got to be kidding me,” Mr. Von said with a cold laugh. “You pried open every single one of these cages, and you want me to believe you did it to wash them out? You are out of your damn mind.” He was getting louder, his face redder, and his knuckles had turned white from gripping the handle of the

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shovel. “I’ve seen incompetence, and I’ve seen foolishness, and I’ve heard a lot of lies, but never anything like this.” He took a step into the barn, dragging the end of the shovel against the concrete. Alone with him in the barn. Only the Oumings would see what he did, and no one would believe a word of it, if they even dared to tell. Eira backed up against the shelf, and he kept coming, one slow and deliberate step after the other. The veins bulged on his neck and forehead. Eira reached behind her, grabbing for something, anything, and came away with one of the feeding baskets. “Okay, I messed up. I admit it. You can fire me, if you want,” Eira said. “You don’t even have to pay me.” “Oh, can I?” Mr. Von said through his teeth. “I can fire you? Is that what I can do?” “Yes,” Eira squeaked, clutching the basket in front of her. “And how about if I cave your stupid skull in instead?” he said. “Because, I’ll tell you what, I think you were about to steal some Oumings from me. That’s what I think. I don’t know if you’ve got people working with you, but I know criminal behavior when I see it.” He picked up the shovel and spun it so the blade was on top. “That’s…” Eira bit off the rest of the sentence. He was halfway across the barn. Too close. She threw the basket at him. He batted it out of the way, hitting it so hard with the shovel that it broke into pieces. Then he lifted the shovel high over his head and came for her. “This is what thieves get,” he said. Eira slid down the wall to the floor, raised her hands in front of her face, and screamed. But Miaz was there. She had not seen him creep out of the shadows, had not seen him pick up the end of the garden hose. Dripping filth, he dashed in front of Mr. Von, trailing the hose behind him. He had one end, another Ouming somewhere in the darkness had the other. They pulled it taught, and Mr. Von stumbled into it. He cursed and fell, bringing the shovel down in the process. Eira rolled out of the way, banging against the faucet and slipping one leg into the gutter. The end of the shovel came down against the shelf, scattering tools and baskets, but Mr. Von continued all the way to the ground, smashing his face into the path and losing his grip on the shovel in the process. Oumings cried out, thrashed, tugged at their fur and wailed. Eira did not wait for him to recover. She snagged the shovel and pulled it out of his reach. Groaning, Mr. Von pushed himself to his knees. Blood trickled from his nostrils, and he had a glassy look in his eyes.

“I’ll kill whoever did that,” he said. “I’ll kill every single living thing in this barn.” He did not get the chance. Eira brought the shovel down as hard as she could, hitting him on top of the head with the flat side of the blade, and he crumpled in a heap. “Is he dead?” Miaz whispered, peeking out of the shadows, still clutching the end of the hose. Eira watched until she saw his back rise and fall. “No,” she said. “Not quite dead. It’s time to go before he wakes up.” And, as one, the Oumings rose, uncovered their eyes, gasping, murmuring, some daring to smile, and they began climbing out of their cages. Eira stepped over Mr. Von, clutching the shovel to her chest. She led the Oumings out the open door and into the sunlight. There were other people in the office building, she knew that, but nobody seemed to have heard anything. The path was clear. She could see her car in the distance and considered the possibility of loading the Oumings up and driving them to the forest. There were too many of them, of course. It would take more than one trip. And she would have to go past the gatehouse to get out of the parking lot. No, not safe. Not safe at all. The guards would not overlook a car full of dirty, bedraggled Oumings. They were far safer going through the fields, hidden beneath high grass. Eira walked to the edge of the barn and peered around the corner. It was clear all the way to the horizon in that direction. Grass below and sky above and no sign of people. The Oumings had formed a little knot behind her, all pressed close to one another, hands clasped, brows lowered and eyes narrowed. Eira knelt before Miaz. “Do you know the way to the forest?” she asked. “Yes,” he said, pointing into the distance away from the city. “Ten miles.” “Can you lead us to it?” He nodded. “But old master will come after us. He doesn’t like it when people go against him. I’ve seen him hit workers for disagreeing with him. I’ve seen him put down Oumings when they ate too much or made too much noise.” “All we need is time enough to get there, right?” She walked back to the barn door and shut it, setting the padlock. It was an external lock, and Mr. Von, sprawled on the inside, had the key. That should buy them enough time. “That’s it,” she said, turning to face the Oumings. Miaz shook his head as she approached. “I didn’t know humans could be like this,” he said. And now he had tears in his eyes, great big tears, thick

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as oil, running down his cheeks and into his fur. “I did not know. What will happen to you?” Eira laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to make sure you get to the forest.” “And then?” he asked, taking her hand in both of his. “What will happen to you then?” “There are more,” she said. “Many, many more. In cages. Chained to posts. In basements. Beaten, starved, dirty. I didn’t see them before, but I see them now. And I know what I have to do.” Miaz pressed her hand to his cheek, and the other Oumings came to her, grasping at the hem of her

tunic. She pulled herself free as gently as possible and pointed too the horizon. “It’s time to go,” she said, And they set off into the distance. ___________________________________________ Jeffrey Miller's story, “Panorama of Failure,” appeared in Realms #2. He has also recently had stories appear in Absent Willow Review (January, March and May), The Nautilus Engine (February), Big Pulp (May) and has stories scheduled to appear in Dark Fire, Bewildering Stories and Sideshow Fables.

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Wind Like Dry Bones by Wayne Faust

It's sometimes best to heed the warning about a local legend. ___________________________________________________________

It was god-forsaken land. The howling December

wind raced down from the mountains and swept the desert sand before it like an icy broom, scraping the raw rocks clean and opening fresh wounds in the barren ground. Nothing much grew here except stubborn sagebrush, a few shriveled pinion trees, and a legend of lost Indian gold, which was what had brought Travis here in the first place. "Senor Travis, I think we have searched this place many times already since you first came here." Travis gritted his teeth. "I can't quit now, Alberto. I simply have to find that gold. There could be enough to bring your people out of poverty. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been oppressed for centuries and you deserve to have it." Alberto pulled his poncho tighter and looked at the sky. Clouds of sand swirled above their heads and partially obscured the sinking sun. It was late in the year, almost time for the Holy Festival of the Savior's Birth. This should be a time of rest, of great joy. Instead, he was following around this anglo, earning a few shiny coins to take into the city when the new year came. "Have some water, Senor. You look thirsty." Alberto offered his canteen and Travis took a tentative swallow. The water was warm and slightly bitter, but he didn't want to insult Alberto so he took a long drink. "I've run the simulation a hundred times," muttered Travis. "These are the original notes from the first Spanish expedition to stumble on this place. And when I overlay their surveys with the topographical maps of the area, the result is always the same. The Aztec temple was on this plateau, with that mountain in the background to the north. The temple was here I can feel it in my bones." Travis studied the laptop in his hands and shook his head. "Maybe the computer is wrong, Senor. I have told you many times that the Aztec relics have all been found closer to the canyon." "I know that," answered Travis softly. "Everyone knows that. But the Spanish wrote of a temple on this plateau. That's where the gold would have been. All the evidence points to right here." He scraped the heel of his boot into the hardscrabble ground. "But still, your computer must be wrong. My family has lived here for many generations. I believe we

would have known if there was gold here." "I'm sure that is true. And the whites would have stolen it from you if you had found it. But you didn't find it because you didn't know the right place to dig. That's why I came here - to find it for you.â&#x20AC;? Travis muttered to himself and punched a few more buttons on his laptop. "Your computer must be a very fine machine for you to put so much faith in it," remarked Alberto, as he glanced out across the forlorn plateau. Suddenly he frowned and stuck a ruddy hand up into the air. His eyes grew wide. "We must go back to the village now." "Why? We've still got a least an hour left of daylight." "Senor, the wind is changing. We must go now." Travis looked up. Alberto was right. The wind clearly had shifted. It felt much warmer now, like a blast of air from a furnace. Small, whirling tornadoes formed around his feet where cold and hot air met. Hot air burrowed beneath his leather jacket and took a few bone-dry nibbles on the skin of his arms. It was an eerie feeling after being chilled all day. "Senor, you must come to the village now. You do not want to be out here after dark." Alberto tugged on Travis' sleeve. "Why?" "Please, Senor. It is not safe now. You must come with me to the Mission." "The Mission? Why the Mission?" "Because it is where we go. You will be safe there." Travis allowed Alberto to guide him down off the plateau. He glanced back over his shoulder, trying to resist, but the sudden, drastic change in temperature, the eerie wind, and the failing light had left him disoriented. Below the two men, at the base of the plateau, stood a row of ramshackle dwellings, the stucco of their walls melting into the rocky ground in the amber light of sunset. At the edge of the little settlement stood the Mission - a whitewashed, stucco church, standing lonely guard on a small hill in the distance. Its walls were pocked and blasted by sand, and they had been recently patched. A low wall of flat rocks circled the church, except for a small gap in the front, which was closed off with a white, picket fence gate. The steeple of the church was squat and rounded in the Spanish style and the wooden cross on top was

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silhouetted against the sinking sun. A gnarled cottonwood tree, stripped of its leaves, scraped its branches against the row of plain windows, as if trying to get inside the church and out of the hot wind. A small parade of villagers moved toward the church from their houses - babies, children, adults, and old people. They strolled along casually, as if going to a picnic. "What's going on?" asked Travis from his vantage point on the hill. "It is the Hueso Seco, Senor - Wind Like Dry Bones. The pits of hell have opened, and the hot air carries with it demons, hungry for a sacrifice â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a human sacrifice to carry across the arroyo and down into the pits. But do not be frightened. Spanish priests built the Mission long ago to protect us. It is where we go." Alberto said this as if he were talking to a child, and his brown face seemed to light up from the inside like a jack-o-lantern. "What a rich tradition," said Travis. "I'm surprised I didn't come across that one before." "It is a fact of life, Senior." Travis stared into Alberto's brown eyes and saw rock-solid faith there. This was very interesting, yet another example of how European imperialism had twisted native beliefs into something bizarre. He'd have to do a paper about this. "You go ahead," he said. "I've got some research to do. I think I'll go back to my tent. I'll pick you up in the morning." "No!" Travis had never heard Alberto shout before. He stopped in his tracks. "You must come with me to the Mission, Senor Travis." A fierce gust of wind howled around the two men. Travis sheltered his laptop under his coat, trying to protect it from the swirling sand. He supposed it would be better if he could witness this thing firsthand. "Okay," he said. "I'll go with you. I wouldn't be surprised if this wind blew my tent down anyhow." He said the words, but they sounded far away, as if they were coming from someone else's mouth. The wind really was getting to him. They picked their way carefully down the rocky slope until they reached the rutted street of the little town. As they passed by the houses, Travis had to quicken his pace to keep up with Alberto. They followed the last of the villagers into the old Mission. The wind blew the wooden double-doors shut behind them with a loud echo. As soon as the doors slammed shut it was eerily quiet, as if someone had suddenly muted the shrieking

wind. The Mission smelled of candles, cedar, and unwashed bodies. Crude statues perched on each windowsill - squat, plaster renderings of the Virgin Mary and Child, about two feet high. Candles flickered in front of each statue, turning the molded faces into shadowy chameleons - smiling Virgins one moment, glaring panthers the next. "You will be safe now, Senor Travis," said Alberto, who then strolled forward to join his wife Rosa and three small children, who had gathered with the others in the central part of the room. The villagers congregated around the pews, talking and laughing. Their mood was festive, but Travis remained just inside the closed doors, clutching his laptop. He finally took a seat in one of the back pews. He supposed he was a little uncomfortable. When you put a bunch of villagers together like this in a small room, the smell could wrinkle your nose. Besides that, their rapid-fire Spanish was too fast for Travis to follow. He shook his head. He was thinking like an American white male again. Travis popped the lid on his laptop and the computer screen flashed on with a familiar glow. He loaded up some reference files and began searching for information about Hueso Seco. The light dimmed as Travis pored over his laptop. Soon it was fully dark outside, and the only light inside came from flickering candlelight and the steady, bluish light from Travis' computer. The villagers snacked on bread and wine as the wind whistled through the windowpanes. Something scratched the outside of the window nearest to Travis. He looked up, startled, until he remembered the gnarled cottonwood tree he had seen in the churchyard. The sound had only been branches against the window. The scratching came again, this time a little bit louder. Travis cocked his head. It hadn't sounded like a tree branch; it was a clear, scraping sound, like a glass cutter might make. Travis set his laptop aside and went to the window. He tried to see out into the dark night but the statue and candle were in the way. He moved the candle and grabbed the top of the statue, intending to set it aside. It was heavy. "Senor Travis, you must move away from the window." Travis nearly jumped out of his skin. "You scared the hell out of me," he said to Alberto, who had approached him unnoticed. Alberto gently grabbed Travis' hand and pulled it back from the statue. The villagers had stopped talking and watched the two men closely. "I am sorry, Senor. Please sit back down and you

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will be safe." "But I heard something at the window." "You will hear many more things before the night is through. The best thing that you can do is to stay away from the window." All week Travis had been giving Alberto orders, but now Alberto was giving orders to him. Travis had to admit to himself that he didn't like it much. But then he remembered the first law of field work, the one about respecting other cultures. "Okay," he said. "No problem. It's just that you should have someone check on those coyotes out there. They might break a window or something." He smiled. Alberto didn't smile back. Travis stood still for a long, uncomfortable moment. He looked over at his laptop, lying in the pew and blinking cheerfully, a life raft. "Well," he muttered finally. "I guess I'll get some more work done." Travis sat back down in the pew, put the computer on his lap, and instinctively slid a little farther away from the window. Alberto replaced the candle and went back to the other villagers, who resumed talking and laughing as if nothing had happened. Suddenly a terrible, high-pitched wail came from just outside the window. It was unlike anything Travis had ever heard, not quite animal, not quite human - a piercing sound that reached inside of Travis' neck and poured ice-water down his spinal column. Travis clutched his laptop tightly and looked toward the window, his mouth open. He saw something outside something like branches but more substantial, like claws - twisted claws coming out of the dark night to scrape against the glass. The wailing spread to another window, and then another. Soon the sound swirled all around the church - high, screeching, terrible. Travis covered his ears with his fists and glanced frantically around the room. The sound was like a fire alarm, the kind of piercing siren that made you desperate to run outside to safety. Travis looked toward the villagers. He could no longer hear them talking but he could see their mouths moving calmly, still carrying on conversations and laughing as if nothing was wrong. He put his laptop aside and raced over to Alberto. "Don't you hear that?" he shouted over the din. "What is that?" "I already told you what it is, Senor. Please sit down and you will be safe. We will all be safe." Travis knew all about respecting other cultures' beliefs, but this was something else again. How could these people just sit there like that? He wanted to throttle Alberto, to grab him by the neck, to shake

him. Couldn't he see the danger they were in? A noise came from overhead. Something was crawling around on the roof, something ponderous and heavy. Travis looked up and saw tiny cracks begin to form in the plaster ceiling. They ran like slow rivers, causing bits of plaster to float down to the floor. Whatever was on the roof began to pound on it with what sounded like a huge fist. Travis felt a claustrophobic panic grab his gut. The ceiling seemed to descend, to sag inward toward his upturned face. Travis grabbed Alberto's sleeve. "We have to do something!" he shouted. "But we are doing something, Senor. We are taking shelter in the Holy Mission. It will protect us." "This flimsy little place? You ignorant little..." Travis could feel himself losing control, but it was as if he was watching from a distance. What could be making noises like that? Nothing he could imagine. Actually, by now he was imagining all kinds of things. Whatever was out there would soon crack open the Mission like a dog scratching open a can of beans. And when that happened... The shrieking eased up for a moment. Travis cocked his head. The wind continued outside, blowing through the eaves and sending its hot, foul breath through every crack in the stucco. It hissed through the gaps in the putty around the windows, sounding like a harsh whisper. Travis spun around in tight circles, covering his ears and trying to block out the noise. The statues in the windowsills wobbled in place. The pounding on the roof intensified. The double doors at the front of the church began to rattle as if something was shaking them from the outside. It seemed as if the whole building would collapse any second. Sound came from everywhere - everywhere except... Travis faced the back door. It was a simple, single wooden door. There was no rattling going on there no sounds came from that part of the churchyard at all. The back door looked like a beacon, a sign that said 'Escape,' a door that would get him away from this death trap. He could run away unseen in the darkness. He could climb the hill and make it back to his tent and his rifle. He could fire the gun if he had to, to keep whatever was out there at bay for a moment just long enough for him to get into his jeep and get the hell out of there - to drive as fast as he could to the highway. Travis ran back to the pew and retrieved his precious laptop from where it waited, cursor blinking. He closed the lid, tucked the device under his arm, and turned. Alberto blocked his way. "Do not go outside, Senor," he pleaded.

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"Get out of my way, you idiot." shouted Travis. "If you want to die here that's fine. But I'm leaving." "But they will take you if you go outside, Senor. They will drag you away to torture you forever." Alberto tried to grab onto his arm, but Travis kicked out and sent him sprawling. Other villagers tried to block him as well, but Travis ran the gauntlet, kicking and screaming until he made it to the back door. He turned the knob and stood for a moment, gazing into the inky blackness. He charged into the night and the howling wind blew the door shut behind him like a closing mouth. Once outside, Travis circled around the back of the church, running like a hunchback. The wind blew sand into his face. Something brushed the back of his neck as he raced past the cottonwood tree. He tripped over a tree root and sprawled on his face in the gravelly dirt. The laptop rattled across the ground and into the darkness. Travis jumped to his feet again. He had lost track of which way the hill was. He spun around in complete darkness. He couldn't see the church anymore, even though he knew he should be right beside it. Something sharp pricked his neck. Travis reached up and felt warm blood trickling down onto his shoulder. He screamed. Lightning flashed and Travis saw the hill in front of him, silhouetted against the churning sky. At the top was his tent, and, better yet, his jeep. Something bit into his neck again and he jerked forward, nearly falling on his face, but he regained his balance and began to run to the hill, faster than he had ever run in his life. His feet slipped on the loose rocks, but he began to climb, scraping his knuckles and trashing his knees. He was whimpering now, but still he kept moving. Finally he reached the jeep and flung open the door. He reached into the pocket of his khakis for his keys. They weren't there. Of course, they weren't there. The damned keys. Another shriek from the hill behind him nearly split his head in two. He wrestled the glove compartment open and took out his pistol and fired through the open window over and over until the chamber clicked. Travis looked down at the steering column. The keys were there. Improbably, they hung from the ignition, reflecting the lightning flashes. He never left his keys in the jeep, but there they were. He almost laughed. He started the motor - it caught on the first try. He jammed it into gear, just as something reached through the window and grabbed him by the shoulder. Claws dug into his neck and his body jerked like a rag doll. He was pulled out of the jeep and dragged across

the sand, far, far away into the darkness.

o one spoke inside the Mission. Everyone had heard the shots from outside. Alberto slowly picked himself up and sat in a pew. He muttered, "He was not as bad as some of the others. He said he wanted to share the gold with us, maybe even give it all to the village." "He was still a pain in the ass," someone said. Someone else laughed. The villagers took pieces of bread and nibbled on them. Alberto's wife, Rosa, made the sign of the cross and said, "My prayer is that he got away." "They never get away," answered Alberto. Plaster from the ceiling drifted down like snow as the shrieking wind outside stopped abruptly and the night became quiet.

hat should we do with this?" asked Rosa. The morning sun shone brightly and a brisk December breeze blew down from the mountains. Rosa held the laptop computer out to her husband, the computer she had found lying in the dust by the cottonwood tree. It was still in one piece. "I don't know," answered Alberto. "Maybe we can sell it in town." "There are those who say that a machine like this can work miracles," said Rosa. "Maybe we should keep it, and learn how to use it." Alberto chuckled. "I believe we have miracles enough already." He carried the laptop into the Mission and set it down before the altar. He began to clean up the mess from the night before. He swept up the plaster and the bread crumbs and took each statue down out of the window. The statues were very heavy, and Alberto had to strain to lift them. When he lifted the last one, a piece of plaster fell off the back of it, revealing shiny, yellow metal underneath. Alberto made a mental note to fix that before any more anglos showed up. It wouldn't do to have them find the sacred gold. ___________________________________________ Wayne Faust has appeared in "Tales Of the Talisman" and in an Australian print magazine called "Midnight Echo." Four of his stories have been performed aloud by actors for the series "Homegrown Tales" at the ByersEvans Mansion in downtown Denver, as well as on the radio on KGNU in Boulder, Colorado. For the past thirty years or so, he has been a full-time music and comedy performer.

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The All-Consuming Lie by Ryan Kinkor

Some acts leave you with no chance at forgiveness. ___________________________________________________________

The camera was fixed dead center on the cooling

body of Able Navigator Limrick, the massive hole in his back still producing whiffs of atomized cloth and flesh into the air. Every time Alec Salanger looked into the view screen and saw the young archeologist’s corpse sprawled out without reverence and without care, his rage ticked up again to dangerous levels. But like the last ten times prior, the target of his rage was safely out of reach. “You didn’t have to go lethal, Collindar,” Alec growled out through clenched teeth, his hands tightly gripping the console panel before him like he was gripping Collindar’s twiggy neck. “Limrick wasn’t a threat to you.” “Might have been, could have been,” answered the radio, a voice two tones higher and three times as cocky as Alec’s. “Never assume anyone is harmless. You taught me that one, Salanger.” Alec had, along with a few more regrettably important pieces of knowledge. Preparation and caution were the mantra of the Archeological Expedition Corp, and the AEC didn’t let an archeologist drive a hover cycle on their dime, much less command a scout ship, without drilling those concepts into a captain’s cerebellum over and over. And captains had a tendency to pass on their knowledge to their 1st officers, along with pass codes and privileges. To his left, Shanta was lying underneath the communication console, her slender red-skinned arms deep inside a node processor. Her hairless face was a mask of concentration as she attempted to run a bypass through the security lockdown. AEC systems were top of the line and nigh impossible to crack, but Shanta’s Telefin heritage wouldn’t allow her to surrender to a nigh impossibility. Stubborn lot, the Telefin. Rumors suggested that they had to wear alarm reminders with built-in shock motivators to force themselves to eat and sleep once they started on an engineering project. Alec and Shanta inhabited the most unlikely of prison cells – the command tower of X’alma VII’s security center. Like most security centers, it was a collection of wax-smooth computer terminals and cluttered video equipment routed through a central network that controlled and monitored every video

feed and communication channel within X’alma VII’s colonial boundaries. Memory storage could save millions of standard hours of recorded images, so it was the place to go to get answers if no one was around to supply them. The active radio’s background rattled with whirling servos and metal scrapings. It sounded like the inside of an automated factory, but Alec knew better. Collindar was at the Energy Matrix Battery site and was using the local Artificial Constructor Device to disconnect the EMB from the colony. Considering that an ACD was essentially a level bank of hover motors attached to a hundred robotic appendages, an ACD was horrifyingly efficient at construction and transport. Alec wagered he had less than ten minutes before the EMB was free to transport. Another ten minutes after that and Collindar would be airborne in their scout ship, the Myrmidon. The two-faced backstabber had authorization to all of the Myrmidon’s key systems, and with the assistance of automated systems Collindar wouldn’t have any trouble flying the Myrmidon by his lonesome. “How do you think this is going to end, Collindar?” spat out Alec. “Do you think we can’t track the ship, or that the League won’t put out a manhunt on you for theft and murder, or that the AEC won’t place a bounty on you so large that you won’t be able to enter civilized space before a hundred hunters pounce on you?” “Hmm, let’s see,” snapped the radio. “The Myrmidon’s transponder has been disabled, so it can’t be tracked. The colony’s long-radio transponder is down as well, so you won’t be able to warn the authorities until I’m in slipstream and probably parsecs away. As to your other points, I won’t need to enter civilized space ever again. I just have to find one desperate colony with some credits to spare, or one empire with some ambition. Hell, I might put a bounty on the AEC itself with what I could get for this ‘artifact.’” Alec cringed quietly. He couldn’t really refute Collindar on his logic. The EMB could very well command a hefty price, and wealth still counted for something. Even with the prevalence of virtual reality and ACDs and all other technological marvels that made life in the League better than the Garden of Eden, some life forms couldn’t help but want more.

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Alec simply never pegged Collindar as one of them. People like Collindar were more commonly involved in corporate warfare out in non-League space or even piracy, not masking themselves among scholars. “At what point did you start thinking betrayal and murder were fine and dandy?” accused Alec. “At what point?” answered Collindar. “Really, Captain, you may be a officer and a scholar, but you’re not a real judge of character. Think about when I was the most excited during our travels. Was it rescuing idiots from their problems, or finding lost empires? Your problem is that you think everyone around you shares the same itch to fix the galaxy’s woes. You don’t have to accept every Search And Recover mission the AEC hands out to you, Captain.” “We’re troubleshooters, Collindar. It’s the job. You could have gotten off-ship at any time.” “And miss such wonderful opportunities? In this line of work, you never know what you’re going to come across. For example, I initially thought X’alma VII was just another one of your karma hunts with the threat factor ratcheted up. The colony distress beacon goes off, all comms go silent, and all four hundred and eleven colonists go missing with absolutely no sign of foul play or disaster on the scans. It was all very scary, but there was no economic potential in it. Boy, was I wrong there! “The funny thing is that even with the EMB right in front of you, all you can think about is the colonists. We have here a device the size of a garbage canister that has the energy output of a supernova. It’s barely running and it was powering an entire minor-class colony. I’m betting this device could power all the automated factories of Charial Prime and still have enough juice leftover for a terraforming project or two. The colonists here didn’t see any danger and the AEC supplied them with the best diagnosis technology in the galaxy. There’s absolutely no radiation of any type emitting from the EMB. I’m not stupid enough to think that the EMB has nothing to do with the disappearance of the colonists. That’s too much of a coincidence. But nothing points to it as the cause, either. So I figure that I’ll leave you to piece events together and I’ll reap the rewards. Kinda like back on Sage Advice IV when you and I were dealing with those Lafein mercs and….” The radio suddenly cut out completely, with only a lingering echo filling the silence. Before Alec could reach for the controls or even say a word of confusion, Shanta crawled out from below the console with a frown planted on her smooth, crimson skin. “Collindar loves his voice too much. I believe we might have a minute before he realizes he lacks an audience. Now

we can confer in secret.” “How much can you access?” asked Alec, grateful to be relieved of Collindar’s omnipresent voice for a time. “Very little,” replied Shanta. “He implanted the virus into the network some time after you and I began searching through the colony’s logs. It’s a degrading virus, so it will eventually unlock all systems. I guess at five standard days. I estimate that I can override the door locks in less than two hours, but everything else will require far more time.” “Communications?” “Just local. Collindar was very deliberate about that.” “You wouldn’t happen to be horribly wrong about any of your estimates, would you?” Shanta looked at him askance. “Am I ever?” “Right,” he responded sourly. Prisoners they would remain long after Collindar had vacated the area. There was no rescue on the horizon and no help from outside of the control tower’s steel walls. Limrick had been the only other member of Alec’s crew and the only potential threat to Collindar’s plan. Alec stared absently at the video monitor, Limrick’s body in full view as before. They were in the nerve center of security with a thousand options before them, but Collindar’s virus had rendered all but one of them moot. The security room had no windows as windows created vulnerabilities – video displays had replaced all windows and most of those were powered down. He couldn’t even switch off the video display because the controls were locked. Only the local communication channel was open, as Collindar liked a captive audience. Had Collindar wished to, he could have rigged the security system to kill them. The fact that he hadn’t… well, that said something. Alec didn’t think he was that bad a judge of character. Shanta was more or less who he expected her to be – Telefins were as honest as they were tenacious. Limrick had always been too eager for his own good, too trusting of life and others. It wasn’t hard to imagine Collindar telling the young man some exotic falsehood just before disintegrating half of the navigator’s torso. The fact that Collindar had shot Limrick in the back instead of staring him right in the eyes… that said something too. Perhaps Collindar wasn’t all business and brutality. If that was the case, then they had one final option to try before Collindar escaped with the EMB. “We need to tell him,” Alec said to Shanta. “We need to tell him what we saw in the logs.” She narrowed her eyes at the idea. “Somehow, I doubt it will sway him. He doesn’t care one warrit

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about the colonists.” “I think he has limits,” Alec replied. “I hope he has limits.” Shanta clearly disapproved of the idea, perhaps afraid to give the traitorous officer too much information and make the situation worse. But her concern wasn’t enough to make her oppose Alec’s idea as she merely said, “How much do we tell him?” “As much as it takes to keep him here,” he answered, “and no more.” A few moments later the radio returned to life as Shanta reactivated the comms. Grinding sounds filled the background as Collindar’s voice continued to drone on. “… And that’s why you should never ask a Sildmart to dance, but I think you already knew that.” “There’s something you need to know, Collindar,” Alec calmly stated. “Oh, please don’t say another half-baked threat,” replied Collindar. “You’re going to have to admit you’ve lost at some point, you know.” “Collindar, did you ever stop to wonder what we’ve found up here? “No. I thought I made that clear.” “Then it’s time for you to take an interest because I think what we’re going to tell you might hurt the resale value of your new toy.” “Oh, really?” Based on the tone of his voice, Collindar probably thought this was a ploy or a ruse, that he was about to be suffocated with reprocessed verbal manure. “Well, I’m getting tired of speaking anyway. What did you find?” “For starters, you may recall from your pre-mission briefing that X’alma VII is built over an old C’bali ruin. Need I remind you who the C’bali were?” “Remind me?” said Collindar. “They’re one of the reasons I got into the AEC in the first place. They combined the scientific creativity of Albert Einstein with the worst traits of Attila the Hun. You’re always bound to find something fun buried at a C’bali ruin.” “Fun is not the word for it!” declared Shanta, forgoing her silent support role. Collindar’s flippant words had hit a sore spot. “My people saw their legacy first hand. A hundred fledgling civilizations fell under their thirst for conquest. A hundred races that might have enriched the galaxy with their diversity… snuffed out for resources, for sport…” “I get it, Shanta,” replied Collindar, unmoved. “Your people joined a dozen other empires and rained down holy fire upon their worlds. Got any stories from this millennia?” “What she’s getting at, Collindar,” answered Alec, “is that the C’bali never seem to do anything unless it hurts someone in the process. Even their domestic

technology required toil and pain instead of providing comfort and ease. It was part of their religion – pain was a motivator, a path to growth and divinity. Any being that didn’t accept this was weak and not worthy of the gift of life.” “They were also extremely fond of raiding other worlds for useful technology and… living stock,” added Shanta. “Our historians were never sure why they made such raids, as C’bali religion abhorred slavery as a weakness. They were also herbivores so they never made their captives into foodstuffs. Most of our excavations into their history met with limited success as the C’bali chose to self-destruct their cities with fusion detonations rather than submit to subjugation. Some believed that the C’bali were merely following their religious edicts – a defeated culture was not worthy of life.” “Ah, so the EMB is bad simply because the C’bali made it?” questioned Collindar. “C’mon, Salanger, you can do better than that.” “Yes, I can.” Alec took a deep breath to calm himself, the damning video evidence of C’bali sadism still fresh in his memory. He loathed even talking about it, but it was the only way to get under Collindar’s skin. “Time logs show that the excavations thirty-three kilometers north-west of here hit pay dirt two standard weeks ago. That was the EMB. They dug it out of the remains of X’alma VII’s capital city. It was lucky enough to survive fusion detonation because it was offline and stored in an armored warehouse for some reason. Professor Waraz, the commander of the colony, kept his log accessible to the colony network. We pieced together enough salient bits from it to get a good picture of the last two weeks.” “Waraz broke protocol, Collindar,” spoke Shanta, her voice laced with either contempt or disapproval at the colony leader’s transgressions. “He lied on the daily reports to the AEC about what he found and convinced those who knew about the EMB to stay silent for now. They only spent three days testing the device before Waraz decided to install it into the colony’s energy grid. The tests were very clear – no radioactive residue or unstable particle emissions that posed any threat to biological life. The fuel appeared to be some form of unidentifiable particle flow stored up inside the Matrix. The Energy Matrix was selfperpetuating, with a fuel conversion ratio of 1 to 10,000. One of the techs, a very green engineer named Yawling, concluded that the device had enough fuel to run all operations on the colony for a year. Waraz makes several mentions of cost-cutting concerns as the AEC is pulling back some of its more

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expensive operations, so he undoubtedly felt that incorporating the device into the colony would save them a great deal on energy costs.” As Shanta talked, Alec’s mind wandered to his mental image of the EMB. Waraz had parked the device in a disused warehouse close to the landing port. The device itself looked like a cylindrical mound of plum-colored metal, though the casing was covered in coarse rivets that savaged your skin if you rubbed your hand over the surface. More of the C’bali philosophy in action, no doubt. A dozen cables and interface cords were plugged into the device at its base, jury-rigged to allow the colony access to the device’s contained power. The top of the device had a transparent cover, and if you looked inside you could see the Energy Matrix in action. It was like a multi-tentacle orb made of limegreen hued electricity, arcing and flowing all around its container. The movements of the arcs were seemingly random, yet sometimes reacted to an observer’s sudden movement by jerking or recoiling away from the observer. Sometimes it shifted color spectrum from green to red or violet when an observer coughed or laughed. He had stared at it for several minutes, unable to come up with any good explanation as to why it had fascinated him so. It had taken a few hours of contemplation for Alec to come to the unshakable conclusion that the Matrix had been staring at him as well. “He also kept running tests on the EMB while it operated,” continued Shanta. “Waraz thought he could keep the discovery a secret from the AEC until he ran down the charge. Then he’d hand it over as another C’bali relic. Only a handful of people knew about the EMB and even fewer knew it was attached to the energy grid. They managed to explain away any discrepancies in the power grid readings. Waraz and Yawling were the only ones allowed to study the EMB. In his last journal entries, Waraz was starting to change his mind on a few early conclusions. He kept stating how the Matrix sometimes reacted to different stimuli by changing frequencies and colors, sometimes in predictable patterns. He was beginning to believe that the Matrix was somehow alive; a living energy being that the C’bali had captured or even created millennia ago. The battery was a containment device that milked the entity of its energy and that the fuel was the creature’s sustenance. What was remarkable was that the creature emitted far more energy than it consumed. The creature had survived several thousand years trapped in the rubble of a dead empire because it wasn’t being harnessed the whole time. But with the battery active, it was being drained at a far

higher rate. Exhausting the battery would undoubtedly kill the creature.” Collindar hadn’t spoken in some time, though the radio was hardly silent. The clacking, grinding sounds had diminished into a low constant rumble and humming. Gravity lifts were active, which meant the ACD was now in transport mode. It was a slow mover, barely seven kilometers an hour, but it didn’t have far to travel. The Myrmidon was parked on the tarmac less than a kilometer away. “Waraz’s final entry was dated five days ago,” said Alec, taking over the storytelling. “The time log shows it was recorded thirty minutes before the colony distress beacon activated. Waraz was racked with guilt, because he now believed that the Matrix was alive and being tortured. He also double-checked Yawling’s estimates and concluded that the creature would burn through its fuel supply in under an hour, not a year. It was about to starve to death. He knew the kinds of career-ending questions he might get asked if he suddenly pulled the plug and the colony went dark, but he couldn’t let a unique life form just up and die to save his ass.” “Well, it obviously didn’t starve,” said Collindar. “No, it didn’t. We pulled up a security file dated a half-hour after Waraz’s log. There had been a brief power outage just before the automatic power grid reactivated the original fusion generators. They’d never been disconnected, so the system powered up after the EMB went dead. All the security cameras were on. They caught the whole damn thing, Collindar. Every last moment…” Alec trailed off, unwilling to push himself into describing the final events of the X’alma VII colony. He wasn’t used to abject horror – archeologists saw the dead centuries or millennia after their passing. Even his short career as a troubleshooter hadn’t prepared him for such things. Shanta, on the other hand, didn’t have the same difficulty. To the Telefin, truth telling was as much a part of their religion as pain was to the C’bali. She recognized Alec’s reaction and calmly took over the speaking role without a judgmental look in his direction. “Video footage showed several colonists meandering outside their shelters, apparently confused by the sudden power failure. Shortly after the footage began, the emergency warning system began to go off colony-wide. Typically such alarms initiate when local sensors detect certain power surges, especially fusion-based. The sensor log couldn’t identify the energy wave buildup, though its source was centered on the EMB’s location. The people outside began to panic, and then they began to look down at their bodies with odd, panicked

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expressions. There appeared to be some kind of yellowish dust or residue coming off their bodies, first in small streams but then growing in volume and density. Some streams flowed off of a specific body part while others erupted from a dozen separate locations. The residue particles were not flowing with the air currents – they were being drawn toward a definite location off-camera. Within seconds, the victims began showing rents and tears in their skin, entire body parts disappearing into the particle stream. Most of them were well aware of the effect, if their screams were any indication. “Within an elapsed minute, the particle streams encompassed all of their bodies. Within two minutes, every colonist on camera had disintegrated into the particle stream. At three minutes, the sensor logs showed the energy surge abating. At five minutes, it had vanished. Their uniforms and clothing were largely untouched, but the refuse automatons cleared the clothing away within hours. It’s why we didn’t see any blatant clues when we arrived. Half an hour later, the security system sent out the distress beacon, a standard routine when no one in security reports in after twenty minutes.” “It was the warehouse camera that filled in the blanks,” said Alec, finding his will to speak again. “Waraz and Yawling were next to the EMB. They were arguing over turning it off, I suspect. They never did turn it off – it did that for them. You could see the device adopt an intense violet glow, followed by Waraz and Yawling beginning to disintegrate. All the particle streams were flowing right into the device. “If Waraz was right, and I think he clearly was, then the Matrix is quite alive. It feeds on organically based particles and converts them into electrically based particles. It explains why the C’bali needed captives – they were a fuel source. To the C’bali, it was better to make those deemed unworthy of life useful than to just kill them. As for the energy wave, maybe it’s an innate ability of the Matrix, or maybe it’s a safety feature of the battery to prevent the Matrix from being extinguished. The point, Collindar, is that this thing recharged itself by consuming every organic thing in the colony.” Alec let the words linger a bit as he awaited Collindar’s reply. Beyond the humming and the occasional clank, the radio was largely silent. Alec and Shanta exchanged baffled expressions – Collindar hated silence as a general rule. When thirty seconds had gone by without a word from anyone, Alec queried Collindar for a reply. The one he got was the humming coming to an end while clanks and whirling noises took over the background. The ACD was at the

ship and loading the EMB into the cargo bay. “Nice story,” Collindar calmly stated, the earlier cockiness of his voice having vanished. “It’s not a story,” defended Alec. “If you don’t believe us, we’ll send you the video log.” “Even if I wanted to expose the Myrmidon’s network access to my own virus and possibly lock down the ship by mistake, I don’t really need to. I completely believe you, Salanger. I was wondering why the colonists were keeping jars of dirt instead of actual plants. But it doesn’t change anything.” “What the hell does that mean?” asked an incredulous Alec. “It means that there are plenty of empires out there where life is cheap but fuel is expensive. I can give them the best of both worlds.” “You cankerous Soldinart!” swore Shanta. “You’d profit off the lives of others, even after what you just heard?” “That’s how it works,” declared Collindar. “Every world, every empire, is built on the lives of others. The C’bali were not unique in this regard. It’s something that you two never got. You can sweat out your entire life trying to do the right thing only to have your life obliterated by some bastard taking the easy road. So I’m going to enjoy the rest of my life before it happens to me, before some C’bali wannabes decide to rear their ugly heads.” As the clanks died away and the background suddenly went completely silent, a tinge of sadness entered Collindar’s voice. “You know, you were always straight with me, Salanger. With the Telefin, you expect it, but you don’t get that with a lot of Terrans. I’ll miss that.” With a click, the channel was cut. Alec didn’t even bother to try the controls – even if he could have reactivated communications, he had nothing left to say. On the lone active video monitor, the sounds of engine ignition and acceleration could be heard in the distance as a pair of cat-sized refuse automatons attempted to clean up Limrick’s body. Too big an object for their collectors, they made a note of the obstruction in their memory logs and moved on to smaller trash.

lec and Shanta had a bet going on how long before Collindar would contact them again. Alec bet around two standard hours. He was only off by ten minutes, thus winning a drink at the next AEC dispensary. It was a tiny victory, but it was probably the only one he’d get out of this affair. Shanta had her head in the electronic innards of another security console when Collindar’s voice

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returned. With the comms slaved to Collindar’s virus, there was no control and no warning. Alec was still sitting at the one active video monitor, trying to formulate the kindest approach to take when he informed Limrick’s parents of his demise. Staring constantly at his still body hadn’t given him any ideas, but it had fortified his resolve for what was coming next. “Salanger!” cried out Collindar’s frantic voice over the comm. The former 1st Officer was uncharacteristically panicked and repeated Alec’s name over and over. Alec ignored it for the moment, sadistically relishing Collindar’s fear. Shanta extracted herself from the console and came over to Alec, her silent visage throwing him a questioning look. With her judgmental eyes boring into him, he relented and moved over to the communications panel. “Something I can do for you?” Alec snidely answered. “Damn it, Salanger! The thing’s glowing. I can see it plain as starlight on the security monitor. I thought it just ate!” Biting back a more sarcastic comment, Alec said, “Before your computer virus locked us out of the system, Shanta was in the process of accessing Waraz’s private network. Turns out he had a sensor installed on the EMB that read the particle fuel levels. That’s how he deduced that Yawling’s math was off. Shanta believes that the C’bali literally fed the EMB daily through its processing module, but the Matrix’s emergency wave absorption process doesn’t convert organic life very efficiently. Shanta had checked the readings again before the system went down. Guess what she found?” “You knew, didn’t you?” accused Collindar. “So much for always being straight with me. Look, I need the captain’s emergency purge code for the cargo bay or I’m going to be fuel in the next few seconds.” “What, you couldn’t do a work-around?” chided Alec. “You thought of everything else.” “I didn’t think I’d be ejecting cargo anytime soon, okay?” shot back Collindar. “Give me the code already.” “Why?” Silence, and then, “Damn it, Salanger, I’m getting rid of it already! That’s what I’m purging. Besides, I know you. Vengeance isn’t your style. You can’t just sit back and listen to me die. Plus I doubt you’ll ever recover the Myrmidon if it suddenly becomes pilotless.” During other decision-making moments in the past, Alec had looked to Shanta for guidance. Her forthright approach to existence usually led to the correct choice.

This time, he avoided her eyes and looked at Limrick’s corpse on the video feed. For once, it was a dead man making the decision for him. “What was it that you said earlier?” sad Alec. “That you hate rescuing idiots from their problems? I think it’s time you took a page from the C’bali playbook and die by your beliefs.” The next minute was a far harder ordeal than Alec would ever admit to anyone. At first, Collindar swore up a solar storm, throwing at Alec every galactic insult conceivable. Then the EMB must have woken up as Collindar’s attitude had transformed into unmitigated fear. He pleaded, he begged, and toward the end he sobbed. He screamed out how his skin was disappearing, how he could see the red of his muscles, the white of his bones. His speech became increasingly unintelligible, though his voice was always saturated in terror. At some point his vocal cords must have disintegrated or his body had given out before he had turned completely to dust, as the channel was cut before a minute had passed by. All that was left was the brutal memory of the last minute of Collindar’s life. Several more minutes passed in silence, with Alec staring at nothing and Shanta staring at him. Realizing that Shanta was probably going to keep staring at him unless he did something, he said, “How are the doors?” “We can leave any time,” she answered solemnly, “though there is nowhere to go.” “Start working on communications, then,” he ordered. “We need a task force out here.” “Yes, sir,” she replied, but she didn’t leave. When Alec finally looked at her, she seemed to be waiting for something else to come from him. An explanation, perhaps, or a confession. Maybe she just didn’t understand Collindar’s lies… or his own. “Was it worth your ship?” she finally asked. Alec shrugged helplessly. “It’s better than letting him have it. Besides, he had to drop out of slipstream to make that call. It’s parked out there somewhere.” “Without a transponder, we can’t track it. The colony’s sensors were locked down, so we couldn’t track the signal or the trajectory. Trying to find it now is the equivalent of finding an individual microbe in a haystack.” She was right, sadly. Finding lost ships without communications or clues was next to impossible. The AEC would make an effort, but in the end it was unlikely they’d recover the Myrmidon. At least the blame for the theft would fall on Collindar… hopefully. Two dead crewmembers, one of which was a

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traitor. An expensive scout ship missing in action. A dead colony. A dangerous and enigmatic alien artifact lost, awaiting the next wandering vagabond who came across it. Reputations and careers had been destroyed for far less, but Alec had to figure the video evidence would keep him and Shanta from losing their positions in the AEC. And if the universe was being especially kind, the Matrix will starve to death before someone chanced upon the Myrmidon. The galaxy didn’t need any more death-dealing devices; it had more than its fair share already. “My race doesn’t have people like Collindar or Waraz,” Shanta volunteered, a judging look on her face. “It would be too much of a family and societal insult to lie as they did. I don’t know how you Terrans tolerate it.” “Refresh my memory,” shot back Alec sourly. “How many wars have the Telefin fought because your people don’t know how to lie?”

“Too many,” she simply stated, and calmly went to the communications console. Alec was already regretting the comment and he had a feeling that he’d be the one buying the drinks at the next dispensary, but for now he could only bring himself to head for the door to get some fresh air and await Shanta’s eventual success at restoring communications. For once, Alec had an answer to a question that Shanta couldn’t figure out herself. How do Terrans tolerate liars? Easy. They lie to themselves about it. They lie to themselves about a lot of things. ___________________________________________ Ryan Kinkor's publication history includes stories in the Absent Willow Review Online Magazine (“Never Mind the Little Things,” August 2009 edition), Crossed Genres Online Magazine (“Man-Driven Steel,” January 2010 Edition), Allegory Online Magazine (“Lenny ‘TwoSheds’ McGrew,” January to March 2010 edition), and Fly in Amber (“Brokers,” March 2010 Edition).

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Hushabye by John Morgan

There are nightmares that can last for eternity. ___________________________________________________________

The

chamber was small enough to render the child’s screams unbearable. Lizzie leaned over the boy, her skin vaguely luminous in the gathering gloom. “Please Paulie,” she begged, “it’s getting late. Just close your eyes and try to sleep.” The mere suggestion seemed to terrify the child. “But I’ll have the nightmare again!” he whined. “It’s only a dream, sweetheart. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” The child shook his head wildly; a pale blur in the dusky chamber. “They’re behind my eyes, ma! Every time I close my eyes I see them.” The shadows crept and coagulated upon the walls. “Who, precious? Who’s going to hurt you?” “The people with the fuzzy faces. They scare me, ma. They scream. That’s all they do. They just scream and scream.” “Sshhh, it’s all right, Paulie. I’m here now. I’m not going to let anything hurt you... but you need your rest. I’ll stay with you a while if you just close your eyes.” “But they’ll be waiting for me! And they’ll make me scream. They said that I belong in the dark, ma; they said I belong in the dark - with them - and that I should scream too, because that is what our kind do.” Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to keep her voice steady. “Please son, no more. Your father will be back soon.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than her husband entered the room. Sam was tall and thick-set, all sorry and grey around the edges. “Don’t be angry,” pleaded Lizzie, “he’s frightened, that’s all…” Ominously, Sam didn’t say a word. He shuffled his feet as if trying to find a place to stand. In the end, he remained by the door where the shadows were thick as moss. His gaze, almost reluctantly, fell upon the child. The boy stared warily back. “Did you…did you speak to the grave-digger?” Lizzie fumbled. Sam nodded. “And what did he say?” It was then that another man swept into the room. The newcomer looked almost bird-like in his dark, sweeping robes. A crow, perhaps, or a raven; one of

those jetty types that seem linked to the night - to be present whenever bad things happen. The priest placed a steadying hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You did well out there,” he said. “A little heavy-handed perhaps, but forgivable given the circumstances. I think we managed to convince Daniel to keep his mouth closed.” “I’m not so sure,” muttered Sam. “Well, even if he does talk, who would believe such a story?” “Where is he now?” “I’ve sent him home.” Sam straightened, a look of alarm tugging at his face. “With all due respect,” he said, “do you think that was wise, father?” “You saw the state of the man - he was terrified. He’d be of no use to us tonight.” With a sigh Sam ran a trembling hand across his face. “What do you think we should do now?” he asked. The priest was silent a while; long enough, anyhow, for the shadows to deepen a shade. He gazed at the boy. The dead child’s face was a ghostly moon with eyes like ragged craters. “Daniel keeps the gravedigging tools in a shed around the side,” he said. “I suggest we both grab a spade and dig deeper this time.” Paulie blinked, his tacky eyelids clinging to the milky surface of his festering eyes. “What is he talking about, ma? Why is he looking at me like that?” Lizzie ran a hand though the scabby wasteland of his hair, trying not to cry out as she felt something scuttle over the back of her fingers. “There’s nothing to worry about, darling. We’re putting you back to bed, that’s all.” “No, ma! I don’t want to sleep.” “Shush, Paulie, shush…” “Here, try this…” the priest removed his robe and proceeded to tear it into clumsy strips. “Use this to bind his wrists and gag his mouth.” Sam accepted the strips and stared at them with glassy horror. His son had fallen silent again but was watching with an intensity that made the man feel cold all over. Death had turned his boy into a haunted house on bony legs, and he suspected that house to be crammed to its creaking rafters with things that gazed enviously out from behind the dark and dusty

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windows of the child’s eyes; things that never laughed or smiled. Things that only screamed. “Here,” he said, crossing the chamber to his wife. “One of us will have to hold the thing down. I’ll do it.” The corpse-child opened its mouth to protest; the skin around its widening eyes flaking away like paint from the rust coloured mess beneath. “Mama?” Lizzie blinked away the tears and looked pleadingly at her husband. “Must we?” she sobbed. “He’s still our little boy.” “It’s not our son, Lizzie. Paulie is gone; the thing you’re cradling in your arms is dead. Do you understand that? Dead.” The words caused a shiver to spasm her body. She sputtered a groan and allowed her husband to take hold of the corpse. He placed the struggling thing back into its coffin and clasped its cold palms together, his own hands sinking into its loose, mushy flesh. Shimmering clouds of skin rose into the air as Lizzie tied a strip of fabric around the cadaver’s kindling wrists; and as a blindfold was wrapped gingerly around the dead boy’s eyes a dreadful sob erupted from its mouth that tainted the air with a putrescent rot. The corpse shivered as a seamless darkness was forced upon it. The thing ceased its struggles and settled back into its small coffin, into a pool of moonless shadow that lapped over the ruins of its face like dark, oily water. Watching on, the priest made the sign of the cross, recalling the scene earlier in the day when Lizzie and Sam had barged into his little sanctuary at the rear of the church. For the briefest of moments he had been pleased to see them - it had, after all, taken a lot of coaxing on his part to talk them into visiting the grave of their only child; the loss of their little Paulie had left them devastated and unwilling for a while to even accept that they had ever had a son - but then, before he could so much as utter a word of welcome, they had started to gibber about Paulie’s grave, and how Lizzie was convinced that she had heard the faintest suggestion of a sob coming from the child’s resting place. The priest would have put it down to denial or wishful thinking, but for the fact that the boy had been dead for six or seven months now. To placate the frantic pair he had gone with them to the grave and, well, it could have been his imagination - or so he had supposed at the time - but he thought he could hear a muffled cry. It was nonsense of course, but just to put their minds at rest he had summoned the grave-digger to dig a little way down…

Clearly, he could still picture the horror that had crept into Daniel’s eyes after a few minutes of shoveling. Obviously, the grave was a shallow one. A too shallow one. The evening had been bright and crisp and golden, but the sun may as well have been a snowball for all the warmth it had offered as they stood around and listened to the screeching that seeped up through the soil like a cold, numbing fog. The memory caused him to cross himself again, although he was not aware that he did so. And then it happened - just as Lizzie was about to stuff a balled-up scrap of robe into the dead thing’s mouth… The corpse-child started to scream. It started off as a low, grumbling, back-of-thethroat whimper: like a door creaking open on rusty hinges. But then it became something worse. Much, much worse. It sounded like a gust of wind howling from out of a grotto haunted by everything that had ever gone the way of dust. Gradually, the priest became aware of something squirming in the pit of his stomach; a feeling so wretched, so primal, he felt surely to God it must have been dredged up from the deepest darkest basement of the human psyche. It was a horror that he would never have thought possible, a horror that he feared might taint his very soul with a dread that would never leave him. Not on this side of the grave. Perhaps, not even on the next. “Make him stop,” groaned Lizzie, clamping her hands to her ears, “make him stop, make him stop, make him stop. Before he wakes the dead, make him stop.” “The gag!” Sam yelled, “Put the gag in his mouth. Quickly!” Lizzie did so, but reluctantly. Then she used a second and a third. The priest stepped forward, his face a pale stain in the darkness. “Come, Sam,” he said. “We’ll take him back to his grave. We’ll make it deeper this time… Much, much deeper.” Any one of them could have carried the small coffin by themselves, but the two men lifted it between them - as if they wanted as little contact with the casket as possible. Sam wrinkled his nose and tried to ignore the smell that was rising from the casket. They stepped out into the night just as a light mist was beginning to finger its way through the perimeter fence and crawl into the graveyard. The moon was full and bright, lending an air of ghastly splendour to all it touched. Their foot-falls crunched along the gravelled path

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and then whispered upon the wet grass as they veered off amongst the crooked headstones, over towards the pile of earth that marked the child’s violated grave. They placed the coffin on the ground and rubbed their hands clean on their clothing. Wordlessly, Sam picked up the shovel that the grave digger had tossed aside earlier. The priest went to retrieve a second shovel from the grave-digger’s den and was back in a matter of minutes. The two men gazed down into the shallow grave, its rough sides squirming with worms and beetles; they climbed down, wincing at the popping and the bursting of the bugs beneath their feet, and then they started to dig. Like a sentient beast, the mist seemed to surround them before creeping towards the edges of the grave. It started to pour down the scrappy walls, pooling around their ankles and fanning about in response to the motions of the shovels. They tried to work quietly but the sound of their exertions were amplified by the silence of the late hour, and they wordlessly agreed not to mention the faint, muffled cries that they fancied to hear leaking through the earth from the deeper, neighbouring graves. The priest would pause for breath every now and then, his scrawny old shoulders heaving, his face daubed in shadow and moonlight. It was during such a break that he watched Sam stamp the shovel into the ground and saw him lurch forward as the blade broke through into empty space. Sam yelled and jumped back in surprise, the shovel clattering away into nothingness. The mist swirled about the newly formed aperture like water down a plug-hole. And then something reached up and grabbed the priest’s ankle. Something cold. Something tenuous. He heard a cry and looked across to see a second nightmare creeping up Sam’s legs. The only thing he could detect with any certainty was the teeth, and as the thing burrowed into Sam’s flesh, stitching and threading and weaving its way up his body with a wet, chattering ferocity, the priest marvelled that there could be so many teeth in the whole wide world. He realized, even as the creature burrowed into his own body, that this was the reason why the dead screamed. This thing, this nightmare, this disease which he knew - almost as if the animal had

mindlessly communicated the fact to him itself - had wriggled its way into every corner of the surrounding necropolis like a tumour or a weed; feeling, pushing, forever teasing its cancerous way through the dark, honeycombed earth in search of rotting flesh to torment. But torment how? What pain could be so great as to make even the dead scream? Heaven help me, he thought. I’m about to find out. Vaguely, he heard Lizzie shriek her husband’s name. She was reaching out for Sam’s hand; Sam, whose lacerated face was stretching and moving and pulling in every which way like thin dough tearing around an unclasping fist; his cheeks and forehead twitching with the frantic, underlying motions of Godknows-what beneath. Then his eyeballs erupted and two steaming fists of glistening teeth burst out into the open like the ones that were peeking from his ballooning throat. And still his wife reached out, even as a foggy horror coiled around her wrist and stripped it down to the bone; even as it yanked her into the snake-pit of a grave and another appendage grabbed at Paulie’s tiny coffin. The priest barely had time to mutter a brief prayer before a cold, razor-edged tentacle coiled around his spine and homed in on the warm, pumping beacon of his heart. He jittered and jerked like a nerveless puppet; his skewered body dragged down, down, down into the cold belly of the earth; and as the last kiss of moonlight was snatched from his ragged skin, he began to realize what sort of agony could make the dead shriek in their graves. Just like Sam, and just like Lizzie, the priest yawned his mouth open wide. It got wider, wider, wider…and then they all started to scream… But it was all right, really. Everything was fine. They belonged in the darkness now. They belonged in the ground. And screaming, after all, is what their kind do. ___________________________________________ John Morgan has been published in Dark Tales, Demonminds, Spine Tinglers, Twisted Tongue, Shade Works, Morpheus Tales (2011) and Necrotic Tissue. He also has tales slated to appear in a couple of anthologies later in the year.

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Some Theories Regarding the Current Crisis by David Tallerman

Natural disasters are not always natural in origin. ___________________________________________________________

He took the figure to be just another illusion, at

first. There'd been plenty so far that morning, shapes that seemed to have meaning until they dissolved or exploded into shivering black and white. It was tricky to think straight. Yesterday had been like a bad winter's day up north, where his father's family had come from; snow and savage wind, but nothing you couldn't wrap up against. The weather had worsened overnight. Now the cold was a killing cold, and the temperature was still dropping. He'd been able to see almost to the end of both Darwin and Bonetti from his position, and right up Lisbern Street without having to move too far. It was a good spot, not only for that reason but because the wind was coming reliably from the northeast, and that savage nor'easter was practically on his side here, banking snow against the walls of his makeshift shelter that was as good as any mortar. If the wind didn't change--and he was sure it wouldn't--he might last for two or even three more days. He had food and water for longer, though keeping it at a consumable temperature was proving increasingly difficult. As the weather had worsened, so his visibility had reduced. Bonetti only ran for three blocks, but today he couldn't see half way to the end before his view resolved into a mess like TV static. He found his brain struggling for patterns where there was nothing but chaos. It was hard to resist the urge to force some order onto that shuddering whiteness. Therefore, at first he took the figure to be another illusion, and eyed it warily, expecting it to fly apart at any moment. Yet more and more its extremities appeared to move in some rhythmic pattern. Closer and he could make out narrow oblongs protruding from what must surely be feet. Then abruptly the vertical wave cascaded apart, and the outline was clearly that of a woman taking laboured steps in skis and cold-weather gear that she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t accustomed to. He yelled at the top of his voice, "Hey there." The inrush of freezing air bruised his lungs. "Hello?" Seeing him, she waved hesitantly. He returned the gesture, and then waited until she drew nearer. The wind seemed to have died for the moment, so the snow fell like normal snow, merely plummeting rather than tearing the air like a forest

fire. When she was only a few metres away, she called, "I'm Jean. Jean Saunders." "Forrester," he shouted back. Introductions complete, they both waited, saving their energy. Finally, he judged that she was close enough for something like normal conversation. Rather than speak immediately though, she stopped to eye his makeshift sanctuary. It had begun life as the canopy of the Alexis Hotel and some furniture dragged out from the foyer, but that was before the snow had buried it. Now it probably looked more like a cutaway of an igloo. "What are you doing out here? Wouldn't you be better off inside?" "It's no warmer. And, you think these buildings were built to stand this kind of weather?" He pointed. "See there, out past Marlow Park? Yesterday that was a block of flats." She squinted to follow his outstretched finger, saw the fractured black trapezoid, and shuddered. "It's not going to stop, is it?" "Maybe. Maybe not. No point in hoping though." "Then what are you doing?" "Nothing." He rapped his knuckles against his right leg, and it gave back a hollow bass note. "Can't walk far is all." She nodded. "I'm sorry." "Not your fault. Want some coffee? It's fresh." He saw her eyes light up, even through the goggles. She sounded a little strangled when she said, "Only a little, though. I should keep moving." "Sure." He filled half of a tin cup, and handed it over. It was a difficult manoeuvre with both of them wearing gloves, but she got it eventually. "Thanks." "No problem." A moment's hesitation, then she stepped over the upturned table that passed as a doorstep. An office chair had slipped loose from the clutter that composed the walls. She flipped it over, sat down, and lowered her scarf to sip from the cup. "Ow," she said, "Hot." "Luke-warm. You've just got used to the cold." She tried another sip. "Oh, but it's good. Don't remember my last cup of coffee." "You been walking long?" "Ever since it got really bad. How long is that? I'm sorry I can't help you. If I had a car, or--"

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"If you had a car you'd have been gone days ago. Where you headed?" "For the bridge. There's bound to be some help on the outside. I think I got turned around last night though. Everything looks the same now. This storm's making everything into one damn smudge." He nodded thoughtfully. "Had a map, but I gave it away. Not much use anyway, when you can't see and everything's white. I can point you towards the bridge though." "Really?" She'd peeled the scarf down under her chin, and rested the goggles on her forehead. Her face--with the dark hair dragged back and secured somewhere beneath her bulbous hat--was gaunt, though in a way that suggested it had once been otherwise. The heatflushed, freckled cheeks and dimpled chin hinted at homely prettiness, and at puppy fat stripped away by hunger and exposure. Her expression flickered somewhere between hope and resignation. Directions meant the possibility of escaping the city. That in turn meant leaving the petrol-reeking warmth, the coffee, and company. "Don't go right now. Finish that coffee. There's food, too, if you can stomach it." She smiled, relief melting some of the harshness from her features. "If you can spare it. I haven't eaten in a while. I guess I wasn't prepared for something like this. I mean, no one was, but I really wasn't. I'm a teacher ... I was a teacher. I only had all this," and she indicated with a sweeping gesture her coldweather gear and the spread-eagled skis, "from a holiday a couple of years back. I knew where I was going when I set out and the weather wasn't so bad. I thought I'd make good time." He handed over a blue-wrappered bar. "It's frozen. Hold it for a minute." "Thanks," then abruptly, "Hell!" She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's all so crazy. I was just thinking about what I said, and it's bullshit, isn't it? We should have been prepared. I was one of those people telling everyone, hey, look at all the damage we're doing to the environment, look at how crazy the weather's getting. Maybe I didn't believe it myself." "You think that's what this is?" "Sure? What else?" "Just seems to me that there's more going on than the weather." "Oh." She took a bite from the bar. "You're one of those. With the ghosts and all that, right? You've seen something." "I didn't say that." "Hey, it's okay. Lots of people are seeing things.

My second day out I met up with a group, and I walked with them for a while, but they were planning to get out along the train lines and I told them it was a lousy idea so we split up. Some of them said they'd seen ghosts--and not just one or two, either. Things went weird, they said, and then there were ghosts everywhere. This is really good." She held up the chocolate bar, almost childishly, as if to display for his approval how much she'd eaten. "I was so hungry I'd just stopped thinking about it. So is that what's happened to you?" "Nothing like that." "No? One of them, this little guy, he said it was like looking through time, looking back to before it all got crazy. He said he thought that time had got broken somehow. That's stupid, right? Only..." She swallowed with difficulty the too-large mass of chocolate she'd been chewing, and glanced down at her feet. "Only sometimes I feel like someone's watching. Or like I'm in a crowd, but when I look up no one's there. That's not surprising, though, is it? Everyone gets a little strange when they're on their own too much." "Sure." "But not you?" "I guess I'm used to it." Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah? I don't know how you stand it. I've been on my own for three days, and I-and--." Blinking rapidly, she brushed a hand across her face, and then stared at the hand in confusion. She started to stand and fell back heavily, almost toppling the chair. "God, but I feel lousy. Tired. I think I'm going to be sick, or--." Then her head lolled onto her chest, and all of the tension went out of her body. He didn't react at first. When he did, it was only to pull the thermos from beneath his mass of blankets and fill his own mug. He sat for a few minutes, watching, intermittently sipping. When he wasn't drinking, he rested his hands on his thighs, tucked beneath the flaps of his jacket. Finally, he tipped the last dregs of coffee into the snow--where it formed a black patch like a spreading bruise--stood up and stepped over to her. Her hands lay limp in her lap. The half-eaten bar of chocolate had slipped loose to perch on one knee, and the mug wavered precariously, barely supported by outstretched fingers. He picked up the chocolate and slid it into one pocket of her coat. When he tried to take the mug, her fingers tightened around it defensively, though she didn't stir. He grasped the wide, fur-lined lapels of her coat, and shook gently. Her eyes rolled up after a few

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seconds, half-focused. "Danny? Is that you? Oh." She pulled away, and he stepped back. "You're okay." "Oh. Shit." "You're exhausted," he said. "You passed out. I left you alone for a little while, thinking maybe you'd come out of it." "You're kidding." "It'll happen. You need some sleep." "I can't sleep. Anyway, I feel better." It was true that she wasn't slurring anymore. He noticed how she was eyeing the tin cup still clutched in her lap with suspicion. "It's your life," he conceded. "But you need to rest sometime." "I'm near the bridge, aren't I? Once I get out of the city, I'll rest. I'll sleep for a week. Only, not here. How can anyone sleep if they don't know what'll be there when they wake up? Or, if there'll be anything at all?" "When you get to my age that's just how it is." The corners of his mouth creased up in something like a smile. She didn't return it. Instead, she said, "You know, I heard one more theory. On the last evening I was with that group, we'd made a fire in this abandoned warehouse, we were all talking, and one of them came out with it. He told us he'd been watching the weather, looking for patterns, and what it made him think of was a clock winding down." She glanced up expectantly, but his face was impassive. "He said, the reason it's so cold is that something's using up the heat-siphoning it. So the weather, it's just a side effect, and maybe the ghosts or the hallucinations or whatever are the real deal, or maybe they're a symptom too and there's something even bigger going on." She stood up abruptly, pulled her goggles down and her scarf back around her mouth, so that her next words were muffled. "It sounded crazy then. Afterwards, though, I realised something. Do you remember that old military site out on the coast? North and East, with the big wire fence around. They said it was disused, but no one believed it, right?" She shuddered. "Just imagine a weapon that did shit like this." She stepped out over the barricade, scuffed snow from the hem of her trousers with the edge of one hand. "So, about those directions?" "That's Darwin," he said, pointing left. "It runs straight for nearly a mile. There's a crossroads just before the end. Turn left onto Hoffburg and then take the first right. That'll get you up a hill. From the top, if it clears at all, you'll be able to see the bridge. It's not far."

"Hey, thanks. And thanks for the coffee." She offered a hand and he shook it. The gesture was peculiarly clumsy with their thick gloves. "I hope someone comes by who can help you." She turned and walked away, in the direction he'd pointed, leaving snail trails of ski marks behind her. He watched as she became indistinct, as she was absorbed altogether into nothingness, even though the glare stung his eyes. Then he looked back to the parallel scars she'd left in her wake. They were already half full with newly fallen snow. A minute later and there was no sign of her presence left except the chair still unfolded and the mug at its feet, with a little brown swill left in its bottom. From the kitbag beside his seat, he drew out a twoway radio, and fumbled to extend the antenna. He flicked the switch, and said, "You get all that, Albatross?" The radio hissed and chirruped. "Yeah, south, back into the catchment. She's not going anywhere." He paused, listened. "Sure, what's an experiment without guinea pigs? Too bad, though. She seemed like a nice kid." He flicked the switch back, crushed the antenna down, and dropped the radio back into the kit bag. Then he looked again up Darwin, shielding his eyes with one hand, straining to make some sense of the havoc of gyrating white. When he finally abandoned the effort, the sky was beginning to darken with approaching night. Quietly, so quietly that he couldn't even hear himself over the howl of wind, he said, "Yeah, nice kid. And I never signed on for shit like this."

ausing for a moment to rest in the shelter of a doorway, watching the tumult howling by outside, Jean wondered for the twentieth time if she'd made the right call. She'd reached the junction where the old man, Forrester, had told her to turn off. Hoffburg ran to her left; another road, which she couldn't read the name of, trailed away to the right. She could have stayed a while, waited the night out at least. She could have trusted him. Maybe she had passed out, after all. She certainly felt like she could now. The walk up Darwin had drained what little energy she'd managed to recover. Even through her hat and gloves, her skin ached with the chill. She tried futilely to drag the hat down further, let out a small sob of frustration, and plunged her hands into her pockets. She pulled the right mitt back, as if stung, and stared at its contents. The half-eaten bar of chocolate she recognised, though she had no idea how it had got there. The piece of paper--torn apparently

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from an A5 notebook and creased neatly in half--was something new. She unfolded it. It read THERE'S A TRACER INSIDE YOUR RIGHT LAPEL. DON'T TRUST ANYONE ELSE. TRAVEL BY NIGHT. TAKE THE PIPES UNDER THE BRIDGE. It took her a few seconds to realise that the muddle of lines and minutely written words beneath it was a map. She stared at it for a long time, at first in bewilderment and then trying to decipher it in the failing light. Finally, she whispered, "I knew something wasn't right. Thanks, you weird old bastard." She slipped off a glove and, wincing at the redoubling chill, darted her hand beneath the furlined collar of her coat. She found nothing at first,

and wondered if she weren't the victim of some bizarre joke. When she eventually located it, it was as thin as a sewing needle and barely half as long. She held the device in her palm and gazed at it, amazed by its smallness, its strangeness. She realised that her fingers had gone numb. Stepping out into the street, she hurled the thing with all her strength down Hoffburg Street, where it was consumed by wavering darkness. Then she smiled, tucked the paper back into her pocket, and set off in the opposite direction. ___________________________________________ Science-fiction stories by David Tallerman have appeared or are due to appear in Space and Time, Andromeda Spaceways, Lightspeed and Electric Velocipede, amongst others.

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The Memory Miners by Sergei Servianov

To some, what you carry in your mind is far more important than your life. ___________________________________________________________

“What a mess,” Souther said. “Here, take a look.”

Nicholas Ray took the binoculars and peered through the greasy lenses. The giant, dilapidated hulk of the Alania gleamed under the afternoon sun. Ray had spent hours looking at the satellite photos, though seeing it up close, a few hundred meters away, rotting in the dry riverbed of the Seta River, had still startled him. Like a rusty shopping cart sinking into quicksand, he thought. Ray handed the binoculars back. The wind was kicking up, blowing the flaps of his cloak open. “Let's get off the roof,” Souther said. “The next attack should be the last.” Ray checked his digital wristwatch, his first souvenir from Earth. “Is this really it? I don't have enough money to keep you in rifles and tanks for much longer.” “You’ll get your damn pirate.” Souther spit on the cracked tile. They walked toward the stairwell. The damp chill inside the Seta shopping center was close to unbelievable when compared to the heat outside. The silence of the building made them reverent. It was dark and the only light came from the holes that the artillery had left throughout the structure. Ray walked carefully, making sure to avoid stepping on any of the bodies still around. By now, all the shoes and weapons had disappeared. Their amulets were gone, too. Warriors from the Republic of Mary always tried to carry at least one animal charm. Unlike the farmers, who wore oxen and rams, the warriors stuck to lions, tigers, and wolves. Ray stopped a few meters before the entrance. There was a large oil painting of the Empress Mary above the wide, swiveling doors. Souther walked on. The painting depicted the Empress as a tall figure in black armor and a long skirt, with two white tigers sitting on either side of her. The Earth people never stopped amusing Ray, always worshiping things that were way past saving: General Souther dreamed of winters he had never known, while the Empress prayed to animals that had already taken their place in nirvana. Souther turned around and waved to Ray. “Come on,” he said. “It's almost time.”

Ray ignored him. As he looked at the painting, he felt the faint notes of childhood return to him, like a piano playing in an empty house. Souther walked back. “What's up?” “It moves me, the reverence they have for animals.” “They believe they can bring them back one day with cloning.” “I guess they want to treat them right the second time around,” Ray said. “I would love to take this back with me, by the way. Could you have one of your men wrap it up for me? I have a few customers that want to get their hands on something like this.” “This junk?” Souther laughed. “You Martians really love to collect trash.” Souther unclasped his leather holster, still laughing a bit, and drew his pistol. He fired a round at Mary's head. The gun's report shuddered through Ray's ribcage and continued on, echoing through the shopping center. Bits of dust and canvas floated down toward the floor. “A lot of men died for that junk.” “A lot of my men, Mr. Ray,” Souther said. “Let's get going. It looks like the Republicans are leaving that ship of yours alone for the time being. I don't know how long they will.” Ray and Souther emerged back into daylight. Ray squinted and lowered the brim of his big straw hat. Outside, a line of men stretching toward the horizon leaned against sandbags on the embankment; cursing, laughing, and drinking booze out of canteens. The men were like Souther: tanned, metal-teeth, skeletal figures in decayed, mustard-colored uniforms, or ragged track jackets. Some cleaned rifles or machine guns between their knees, while others polished off their naginatas. Rows of gleaming, electric-powered panzers were coming up toward the line, fresh off the steel works of Dawn. A very expensive toy set for Mr. Souther, Ray thought, I shouldn't have paid so much. Though Ray quickly found his misgivings drowned in the excitement of the engines’ steady roar. Ray followed Souther to his command tank, with its ornate crest and banner. The Army of Blessed Winter had used that crest for decades, seven jagged snowflakes in the shape of the Big Dipper. A great amount of sacks and a big icebox were tied

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to the back of the turret. Souther’s assistant was sitting near the base of the cannon, picking the dirt from under his nails. The assistant rose, grabbed hold of Ray's forearm and hoisted him up the tank's tread skirts. Souther asked the man for the radio and got it. He cleared his throat and began speaking into the handset, “All right, kids. We need to smoke that asteroid rat to get our money shot. The first fifty men to make it into the ship get a new rifle. Your sergeants will keep count.” “I want the captain alive, if possible,” Ray interrupted. “If not, make sure to avoid damaging the body. Especially his face and head.” Souther turned away from the handset, “Do you need this clown for a fashion show?” “No, that's not it.” “You'll get your body and that's that. It's what you told me.” Ray took a deep breath and played with the brim of his hat. “Whatever. But I don't want to deliver him back home in a garbage bag.” “Isn't this man supposed to be your sworn enemy? One of those asteroid pirates you Martian sad sacks never stop bitching about?” “Captain Shin Matsumoto deserves better.” “If he does, why didn't your army come down here and get him?” “He's a minor lieutenant,” Ray said, starting to smile. “Not worth a real army's time.” At once, Ray regretted saying that. “If I don't get paid, there’ll be two stinking carcasses blasted back into space.” “I wouldn't talk like that, general.” Ray said. “My government takes the wellbeing of its citizens very seriously. And they wouldn't let you have the nukes on that ship so easily either.” Souther tore the collar of his tunic open and spit off the side of the tank. He took a gray, smelly handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck. He clicked the radio back on. “Frost-2, do you hear me?” Souther said. The radio garbled something in response. “Start with some rolling artillery to shield our advance. Minx will give you the coordinates. Don't be stingy with the shells, this is the big one.” Souther licked his lips and switched the radio channel. “All right, kids, we've had a tough time here, but we'll be out soon enough, richer than before,” Souther said and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Stand and follow your tanks and officers… The great winter will surely come. For some, it will come sooner. For others, it will come later. That is all.”

Whistling artillery rounds began heaving the earth around the Alania. A few shells landed on the ship itself, though they barely left a black dent in its hull. The tanks rumbled down the embankment, throwing pieces of dirt and concrete in their wake. The officers harangued the men and soon a long, steady hurrah was issuing from mouths all along the line. The soldiers leaped over the sandbags with their rifles, naginatas, and grenade launchers, kicking up dust as they slid down into the dry riverbed. The Alania was a mere four soccer fields away, yet many men were already tumbling into the dirt. The ship's main guns appeared to be out of commission, but hails of machine gun fire were pouring out of the portholes. They wouldn't stop, even with the artillery rounds rocking the ship's carcass. An armored assault team must have survived the crash, Ray noted with excitement. The tanks inched closer, some dropping away every few meters as howling jet-powered grenades pumped their bellies full of superheated magma. They exploded in great tiger roars, with the turrets popping off like beer bottles opened with a pair of chopsticks. Ray could barely keep himself steady. He'd seen three battles and each one was more exhilarating than the last. The explosions, the yelling, the entire ballet of it all. Beyond all reason, Ray was certain that these parched battlefields deserved deification. He recalled all those paintings, all those films of the men of Earth, who sliced at each other with swords, who perforated each other with machine guns, who vaporized each other into red mist with cannons. And all while maintaining an organization, an art. Ray had spent his entire youth at the game centers of Lomonosov City, playing for hours in the reality boxes, trying to capture some of that art, doing his best to keep that magic alive in his head. Seeing it up close had dulled none of its power. If only he could’ve been born a god. He would’ve cupped this patch of battle-scarred earth into his giant hands and spent all eternity watching the little people go about their battles, never once taking his eyes off the action.

icholas Ray stepped into Captain Matsumoto's quarters and saw an ornate dump. Shell casings, glass, and chair pieces littered the burgundy rug; a long stream of bullets had left a raggedy, snake-shaped line of holes behind an overturned desk. Soldiers rifled through the shelves. On the far wall, a large oil painting of Captain Matsumoto in his better days – black uniform, medals, gold braid – seemed to be looking down at the scene with mild amusement.

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Souther was in the center of the room, crouching next to the body of the captain, gaping gunshot wounds all along the man’s black uniform. A few patches of blood had dried on the captain's pale cheeks. Ray dashed to the body. He grabbed hold of Matsumoto's head and patted all along the outlines of his skull. “What the hell are you doing?” Souther said. “I thought I told you to take him alive?” Ray said, still squeezing the head. “He was a man of honor,” Souther said. “He wanted to die like one. He wouldn't come out. The bastard even wounded three of my men.” Ray rested the head back onto the carpet. He was on his knees, smiling at the captain's shuttered eyes. “It's no skin off my teeth,” Souther said, standing up. “His head is still fine.” “And you're damn lucky that it is,” Ray said without looking at him. “If only you knew how valuable this brain is.” “Jeez, you got me.” Souther walked toward the painting. “I guess you can make yourself a nice bowl of stew with them brains. I didn't know you Martians went for that.” “You silly little Terran clown,” Ray said. “Get my icebox in here. As long as the brain wasn't damaged too bad, all is not lost.” “It's coming. My men are still mopping up in here. And the Republicans are moving again. They want a piece of this pie now that we've got it,” Souther said. “My army can't fight another pitched battle. We have to get the hell out of this country fast.” “We aren't leaving the body.” “I got it,” Souther sighed. “But why even bother? You want to stuff it and put it in your office?” Ray stood up and patted the dust off his knees. “The Memory Mining Corporation isn't just about collecting trinkets and memorabilia, you know.” “I bet you run a nice opera house, too.” “You laugh, but we do things you wouldn't

believe.” Ray said. “We run game centers all over Lomonosov, all over the country. We've tried for years, many years, to get the body of a pirate captain, but they always get vaporized with their ships or put a slug into their precious brains.” “So what?” “So what, you say,” Ray smirked. “Their brains hold their experiences, their dreams, their feelings. You and I will never know what it feels like to make raids off Phobos, but their brains know. If we could mine them, record them, and put them into our games... I shudder to think about it. We've put plenty of Terran and Martian brains to good use. Criminals, artists, and military men. Yet, we've never had a real space pirate in our hands. The fans have been clamoring for a game like that for decades.” Souther turned away from the painting and looked at Ray, “You sure are something, you men of Mars. You curse us to these wastelands, take everything of value, laugh at us, and then turn our junk into conversation pieces.” Souther paused, pointing his thick gray eyebrows at the Martian. “That isn't enough for you, though; you want to take everything, even the tears of the losers.” Souther's gloved hands were trembling; his face was like a fierce mongoose. His hand reached for the holster on his belt and lay there for a long second. It moved again, unbuttoned the flap and drew his pistol. “What are you doing?” Ray said, stepping away. Souther aimed at Matsumoto's head and pulled the trigger. The body jerked and the captain's forehead tore open in a spray of blood and skull. Ray watched the ejected shell casing spin through the air in slow motion. It landed at his feet without a sound. “You didn't earn his death,” Souther said, holstering his pistol. “He paid for it. And he's the only one that gets to enjoy it.” ___________________________________________ "The Memory Miners" is the first fiction publication for Sergei Servianov. He has previously written essays about videogaming and computers.

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World of Shells by Chrystalla Thoma

True courage often comes from the least among us. ___________________________________________________________

“Gone?”

Jun frowned and adjusted his Shell armor yet again. Damn, but it had become too small too fast, clamping around his back and shoulders. It was time to find a new one. “Gone where?” Sunia glanced up, a weary look on her lined face. “Look, I wouldn’t have asked you if I could go and fetch Aima myself. But what about them?” She gestured at the four smaller children, mock-fighting on the floor of the cave, their colorful armors clanking against each other. “You are the oldest of the Stray Clan, Jun.” “Hey, I didn’t ask for it.” To be the oldest, responsible for the younger ones in a clan of orphans with nobody but old Sunia to look out for them. Shell people were harsh to anyone different. The path that led them to the Dune Meadows had isolated them from other humans for too long, had encrusted them in their rigid ideas. Sunia had always been like a mother to him, Aima like a sister. He’d do anything for them. He avoided Sunia’s bright gaze and stared at the cracked bowls stacked on a rock shelf. “Where is she?” “I wish I knew. At the pond, perhaps. She might be in danger, she’s so small. Will you go, Jun?” The pond. At dusk. Like most of the dangers of the dunes, water lizards hunted as day began or ended. The bird attacks intensified then too, though birds seemed to follow their own schedule. Aima was a good soul and shouldn’t be left to perish, to join Queen Elvereth’s army of the dead. He nodded. Sunia reached out and surprised him with a hug. Her body trembled, her voice quavered. “Thanks.” Her relief was palpable. “It’s all right.” He pulled back, feeling heat climb up his neck. Hugs were for children, and he was practically a man. He hoped nobody had seen it. “You said it. I’m the oldest.” He turned quickly and stepped outside the rock shelter. He stole a look at the sky and swallowed a groan. Almost dusk. Damn Aima and her stupid escapades. Yet, she had never stayed out so late before. Jun adjusted his armor again, wincing as it chafed against the welts it had caused on his upper arms and his back. He had glued a patch on his left shoulder

where the armor had split. He strode down the well-worn, winding path toward the pond. The dunes crawled with Shell People returning to their dens in the shelters that formed black mouths in the vertical rock surface. The tide of clickety-click sounds washed over Jun along with the rustling of the rushes in the timid breeze. They passed him by, men, women and children in black, white, grey, blue shell armors, dashes of green, spirals on the shoulders and helms, projections on their elbows and swirls of yellow on the tailbones. A light grey young man, his armor dusted with brilliant green rays, waved at him. Ras, properly called Stone Grey. Bless him, he was not as arrogant as his clan warranted. Trust him to ignore the social rules and greet a member of the Stray Clan as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He waved back and trudged in the opposite direction, toward the pond, heart already thumping. Jun ducked underneath a low branch and jumped over a hole in the ground. He rounded a bend of the trail and halted, fell a step back, peeking between the blades of a grass plant. A fight. Jun’s hooks rose on his backbone, grasping his armor tighter with excitement. The Shell people had found an empty armor, and just his size from the looks of it. Remnants of an old battle, the shell armors had been used to near depletion, but from time to time another one turned up, pushed up to the surface of the earth by worms and moles. The welts from the friction of the armor on his arms, shoulders and back all but drove Jun crazy. The idea of having one that actually fit pulled him forward. Aima would be fine for a while longer, had to be. This was a chance not likely to come up again soon. A great one, a Spiked One, stood at the side, and Jun paused and eyed him warily, but he seemed to be keeping out of the fight. Jun ran headlong into the broil, smashing into others, blows and curses falling on him. He returned them with equal fierceness, pushing into the eye of the fight. He let out an ululating cry and dove into the melee, raining punches and kicks. A blow landed on his shoulder and he heard a

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crack. Cursing he felt for the patch there. Gone. Second hand armor, crappy patch. Lizardshit. All the more reason to win this new armor. He had to take it now, before anyone hooked it on. With a cry of rage he pushed and dragged a blackand-white girl off a green shell man and took her place, then reached with both hands and pulled himself beside the empty armor. He punched a blue in the face, crushing its nose. Blood spurted across Jun's chest. A grey launched herself at him. He cartwheeled to the side and successfully avoided her. He landed behind the empty armor, grunted as he fell on one knee, straightened painfully and fought his way around. Damn. They were all younger than he was, their faces still bearing the dots of childhood, though just as tall and wide as he was. Living in the Stray Clan was not easy, no protectors, no providers of food. He was too small for his age. Growling, he tripped up an oncoming dark blue and elbowed another coming from behind. Between the tangle of limbs and the spurting blood, the empty Shell armor loomed magnificent, sky-blue with streaks of grass green and marigold yellow. Beautiful. The hooks on his backbone clenched again in anticipation. He fought the urge to throw his armor off him and fight unrestrained for the new one. Bad idea. He turned and bent, taking the brunt of a tall white on the right forearm, and replied with a kick that knocked her off her two feet. Lightning pain streaked through his left shoulder. He stumbled and fell to his knees. Something sharp had pierced his flesh. Impossible. The armor protects me. He shook his head, tried to unclench his jaw, and remembered the broken patch. Grinding his teeth, he pitched forward onto his belly, freeing himself with a cry. Blood trickled down his back and chest. He rose unsteadily and turned to see the Spiked One looking down at him, the great spikes on his elbow dripping with Jun’s blood. The Spiked One smirked. “This is not your fight!” Jun yelled. “The armor doesn’t fit you. You can’t fight on behalf of another!” The fight ceased for a moment. Seeing his chance, Jun lunged at the empty armor, taking hold of it. For a moment, it was his. The Spiked One grabbed and pulled him off, throwing him to the ground. Jun sprawled in the dust, his breath knocked out of him. Through blurry eyes, he saw the Spiked One drag a youngling forward, an

immaculate white with dark dots on his helm. From the Spiked One’s clan for sure, Jun thought, grimacing as he tried to pull himself upright. Damn him. Now he watched as the youngling shed his white armor and hooks flexed like fingers from the vertebrae on his pale back. No scars, no ribs sticking out. A protected one. Jun stood hunched over, panting, feeling lightheaded. The Spiked One raised the sky-blue armor and placed it over the young one’s head, fitting it over the shoulders and back. The hooks clicked as they slid into place and attached themselves. The crowd, bloodied and covered in dust, began to disperse. Jun straightened, pain stabbing through his shoulder. “You,” said the Spiked One in a grating voice, turning to him. Jun watched transfixed, the Spiked One’s helm bristling with white shafts, the enormous spiked shoulder pads, the stern face. “You, nameless, should know better than to challenge worthy ones for armor.” Oh, for Elvereth’s sake! “I have a name, it’s Jun!” “That’s not a name for a Shell,” said the Spiked One, “and you know it.” Jun glared at him, remembering the Shell's name: Noon Sky White. “Heart-breaking,” he muttered, disgusted. “And this thing you are wearing is an embarrassment to us all.” Jun instinctively drew back, but the Spiked One towered over him and, grabbing Jun’s half-torn armor, pulled it apart. With a sickening crunch, it tore more, exposing his injured shoulder. Noon Sky White snorted. “As I said, a disgrace. You are a disgrace. I’ve never seen you dune-side at this time before. Seems your cowardice finally gave way to a death wish. Good decision.” Jun pulled at the pieces of his armor, desperate to put it back together. Without it he was as good as dead. “Greet the birds for me,” Noon Sky White tossed over his shoulder as he turned to go pond-side. “Clan, follow me! Grass Green!” A green-armored man joined him. “Grass Green will challenge the lizards today. Come!” Jun clenched his fists, watching them depart. “Lizards’ innards!” He started, gasping as his shell armor ripped further, cracks going all the way down to his tailbone. His hooks were already disconnecting, withdrawing, giving up. He stared at the pieces blindly for a

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moment, then threw them down in disgust and stomped on them. He bent over, hands braced on his knees, and breathed deeply. He was done for. When he looked up again, he saw evening had turned a deep blue and a full moon gilded the dunes. Jun clenched his jaw. Aima! He took off toward the pond, parting the shoulderhigh grass as he passed. Long streaks of fiery pain radiated from his left shoulder down his arm and back, slowing him down. Running at dusk without a carapace. Vulnerable and exposed, like a new-born, he ran beneath the watchful sky. Serves you right, he scolded himself. You shouldn’t have stopped, shouldn’t have become involved in that fight when you saw the Spiked One and his friends. You know they are trouble. He bit his lip. The ground crunched beneath his light steps and wavelets whispered on the sandy shore. Drawing sharp intakes of breath that hurt his chest, he stood on top of a dune and peered around. His eyes flitted over the glassy surface of the water to the dark shapes of bushes and gnarled trees that grew nearby. The moon framed everything in silver. No sign of Aima. “Shades and shinks.” He jogged down to the shore, eyes darting, checking every hollow and every shadow that could be hiding Aima. Nothing. A thin scream rang. Jun froze. A moment later he gathered his wits and climbed the next dune. A small bay. He dashed down, spraying sand all around. A water lizard stretched there in all its terrible beauty, metallic brown with stripes of bright yellow and red. The lizard had someone in its mouth. Please let it not be Aima. Jun rushed toward the lizard. It paid him no heed as he came on yelling, brandishing a rock he had gathered on his way. It didn’t even move when he threw the stone and struck the beast right over the eye. The lizard ground its jaws. Its victim screamed, then fell quiet. Jun forgot how to breathe. The lizard blinked its huge yellow eyes, then spun around, blinding Jun with a torrent of wet sand, and dove back into the pond. Jun wiped at his eyes and cursed at fading ripples where the lizard and his victim had gone. Moisture

kept leaking from his eyes. Had it been Aima? Was she now gone forever? My fault. I took too long. He pressed his lips together and turned to go, a weight on his chest making each breath a struggle. A blue glimmer on the sand caught his gaze. He stared in disbelief. It was the sky-blue armor he had fought for and lost. Not Aima. It hadn’t been Aima. Joy filled him, stronger than a fever, and his whole body shook. On wobbly legs he walked to the armor and picked it up, turned it this way and that. Its spiral patterns of green and yellow shone in the moonlight, the tiny spikes on the shoulders gleamed like blades. The youngling had probably released his hooks when the lizard bit him, and the armor had fallen off, so that it hadn’t been broken. Long scratches ran down one side, but it was otherwise intact. Jun had known it was too large for the youngling. His hooks had surely been too small to connect properly. He pulled it on. He had known it would fit perfectly, but he could not contain the sigh of pleasure that escaped him as the armor hugged his body. It fell flawlessly around him, like a second skin over his body’s contours, like a caress. His back hooks grappled and secured it into place. He threw back his head and released a cry of pure joy. His hands smoothed over the arm sheathes, the relief of lines on the helm. All his. His arms and legs were already taking on the colors and patterns, turning blue. A whimper drew his attention away from himself. He walked over to the next dune and stood gaping. A great one, a white Spiked One, cowered there. Jun would know those armor patterns anywhere. “Noon Sky White?” Jun’s voice squeaked and he coughed to clear it. “What are you doing…” “Is it gone? Is the lizard gone?” Noon Sky White uncurled a little, his arms unlocking from around his knees, allowing a glimpse of his pale face. “You should run, fast, blue one.” Jun’s eyes narrowed. “The lizard’s gone now. What happened to Grass Green?” Noon Sky White hung his head. “He left when the lizard attacked. It was his fault.” “You let the young one die.” Noon Sky White said nothing, and Jun strode away, anger humming in his chest. Noon Sky White was rumored to have fought a bird and saved a young of his clan once. Now Jun wondered about the truth of it.

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His steps echoed on a stretch of white rock gleaming in the moonlight, and he heard plonking sounds from the surrounding dunes. He turned to see more Shell people rolling down, heads tucked in, armored arms folded tight over knees. Cowards. So many of them, and they had abandoned the youngling to his death. Jun shook his head in disgust and walked on. He ran his hands over his new shell armor. He loved the way it flowed around his every movement, barely touching his flesh. To his right stretched the Good Dunes, where bulbs and fat mice provided sustenance for the shelters. To his left spread the pond where fish were caught. Beyond stretched the Bad Dunes, where snakes lurked. And Aima? Where was she? “Aima!” He heard the screeching call of the bird before he heard Aima’s cry. Cold fear gripped his chest and his heart pumped faster. He took off running toward the two sounds that now defined his world. He nearly fell over when he saw her. Aima stood on the shore dressed in her black-and-white armor. Jun rolled into a ball and came crashing down the dune, falling all the way to Aima’s feet. The bird flapped off a ways, hovering there, not nearly as scared by this stunt as Jun had hoped. “Aima, are you well?” The black and white Shell turned toward him. The pallid boy’s face was unknown to him. His heart just about stopped. “You are not Aima! Where is she? Why are you wearing—” The Shell pushed him off and ran as the bird came down again. The boy rolled into a ball and fell into the crevice between two dunes. The bird tried ineffectively to grab the armored ball, then pushed at it with its claw, rocking it, trying to open it. “Jun?” He whirled around and squinted. Aima’s slender form stepped from behind a rock. The black and white markings on her arms and legs had vanished along with her armor. Aima, Aima! His heart pounded with joy at seeing her alive. “Aima, did that boy hurt you?” She came trembling to him and he gathered her in his arms, felt her small heart beating wildly against his chest. He rocked her lightly. The bird stopped pecking at the rolled-up boy down the dune and turned a beady eye on them. Jun’s mind whirled. As if in a dream, he forced his hooks to unclench and retract, heard the light click they made as they pulled back slightly into his spine. The armor weighed down on his head and shoulders. “Aima. Put this on.”

He shrugged the armor off and pulled it over Aima’s head. “It’s too big, I know. Get in as many hooks as you can, then roll. Yes?” Aima watched his face, his lips, then nodded slowly. He gave her a strained smile. “Good girl. Try it.” The bird flexed its wings about to take flight toward them. “Now Aima!” Aima’s hooks clinked as they entered the armor openings and fastened themselves. She gave Jun a teary smile that gave him more courage than he thought he could muster. He could not fail her. He was the oldest. Aima folded into a ball and rolled down to the roots of a bush. She stayed there, still rocking, looking like a smooth blue pebble. The bird’s shadow fell over Jun, cutting the moon. Without an armor, his body was so light he felt he might fly. He raced away from Aima, waving at the bird. For a moment, the bird seemed to take interest in Aima’s curled form with the blue and green and yellow designs – they were meant to hide her in the grass, not on the sand – but Jun’s gesticulating, shouting figure appeared to draw it back. Jun bent as he ran to avoid a giant claw and then a flapping wing, ducked underneath a branch overhanging a drop, rolled down and found his feet once more, spitting sand. Loud plonks greeted his passing: the Shells from Noon Sky White’s party were rolling down the dunes again, all curled up. Noon Sky White’s armor gleamed in their midst. “Help me! Distract the bird!” Jun shouted as he passed by them, but as he raced on, rolling and rising to avoid the questing claws and beak of the bird, he heard nothing more from their direction. He stopped beneath a rock to catch his breath and saw them from afar lying there – gleaming, colorful balls of cowardice. The bird screeched and made a vicious grab for him. No time or breath left to run. He launched himself at the hovering claw and swung himself onto it. He grabbed hold of the bird’s horned leg and hung there like a pendant, swinging, too stunned at his own act to remember how to breathe. The bird screeched again, tried to peck at Jun, but the position made it impossible. With a great flap of its wings, it flew off, carrying its living burden. Jun clung onto the bird’s leg for dear life. The land fell away beneath him, landmarks he knew well

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growing smaller, the moon growing larger. He closed his eyes not to see the heights to which the bird was rising. His arms started to cramp, but shifting them seemed too risky. Cold made his teeth chatter. He dared glance down and saw blue water. A pond. He thought to jump but by the time he got his stiff fingers to unlock they were flying over land with trees and streams. Jun held on. A fall from high without armor would surely kill him. He prayed Aima would reach the shelters in one piece. He prayed the bird would perch close to the ground so that he could slide away. A hill came into view and something glittered on top. The bird swooped toward it. Piles of broken armor littered the hill, and three tall poles crowned it. Jun’s sweaty hands were slipping. He scrambled to keep his grip, but the bird shook its legs and Jun fell. He hit the ground, rolling instinctively, grunting as his injured shoulder slammed into the dirt. He straightened, gasping, and looked up. A small Shell child, white with streaks that glinted like water, and a crest of black and red on the helm, was climbing one of the poles. As Jun’s feet crunched on the fragments of armor, the Shell turned slightly. A boy. The face was fine-boned and the eyes large, fixed on Jun. “Who are you?” shouted the boy. Jun shook his head and examined his surroundings. He found himself gaping at the shiny armor hanging empty from the third pole, a black-grey one with spikes like wings on the shoulders and arms, and a great yellow crest on the helm. Sleek and elegant like a jewel. The bird screeched and flapped its wings. Oh Elvereth. The boy hung on the pole like bait. Looked like the bird was getting its meal after all. Jun dashed to the pole where the empty armor hung and climbed it with the speed of desperation, grabbed the armor and pulled it over his head in a single movement. His hooks clicked into place as he let himself curl and fall down. He uncurled instantly and took off running toward the boy. The bird rose on the air. Jun climbed the pole reaching for the boy. He grabbed the boy’s legs, then reached for the pole once more and pulled himself higher. The boy kept quiet, perhaps sensing he was trying to help. Jun reached the top of the pole as the bird bore

down on them. He launched himself at the bird, curling in the air, one arm held high, and thrust his spikes into the bird’s eye. He barely heard the bird’s screech as he tucked his arm in and fell to the ground. He hit it with a thump, the breath driven out of him. He lay there, curled, dazed, sure the bird would come after him. Nothing happened. Cautiously he uncurled, groaning. He rose and staggered toward the boy who still hung on the pole. The bird was gone. The boy looked at him wide-eyed. He climbed down the pole. “What were you thinking?” Jun opened his arms and gathered the child. “That was dangerous. The bird would have got you.” A female voice rang from behind his back. “No, it wouldn’t.” He whirled around. The young woman had long dark hair and the clearest blue eyes Jun had ever seen. She wore no carapace. Instead, she wore a long green garment that pooled around her. “Who are you?” he asked. “I am Queen Elvereth of The Green Nether Realms.” She smiled. “And you are brave.” Around them uncurled and rose colorful carapaces, blood red, moon yellow, foliage green and sky blue. He turned in a circle, eyes drunk on their colors, his heart somersaulting. “What happened? Why am I here?” She reached out her hand. “Your hold on the bird slipped. You fell.” Her eyes deepened like pools of mossy water. “You are dead, Jun.” He took her hand, fingered her fine bones, and looked into her laughing eyes. A weight lifted off his shoulders. The anger, the sadness, the despair he had expected never came. The place, her grasp, all felt familiar, as if he had been there before. “Has Aima made it?” “That she has.” His task as the eldest was done. He nodded, and smiled. “Then I’m home.” ___________________________________________ Chrystalla Thoma's short story “Court of Miracles” was published this year in Kings Of The Realm: A Dragon Anthology, and the short horror story “Dream Plague” appeared in the October issue of Bards and Sages magazine.

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Celestial Encounters by Michael Meyerhofer

Solitude can be a good thing, but there are limits. ___________________________________________________________

“What a lousy job,” Hoshi muttered.

She spoke in a low voice, even though the only other inhabitants of the station were the engineer and the medical team—all on the lower decks. She just didn’t like how her voice echoed. In truth, Hoshi hated nearly everything about being in space, from the rehydrated food to the magnets sewn into her clothing. Still, a job was a job. She glanced at the plaque above her monitor which contained the company motto—Come Try Our Galactic Approach to Enlightenment!—and smirked. Her workplace was far less glamorous than that: really, just a dressed up tin can floating in the middle of celestial nowhere, a place where rich men could pay to be tethered in space and experience sensory deprivation in the truest sense. She glanced at the pamphlet pinned to her noteboard and shook her head. For centuries, temples and pagodas have attempted to create a serene environment wherein the faithful could become attuned to their own inner voice, it read. Now, modern technology can safely offer you the most peaceful, serene environment ever—space!! “Sounds boring,” Hoshi told herself as she checked the monitor again. As mundane as her task was, she couldn’t imagine how torturous it must be for the customers—those fools who actually paid to be locked in a space suit with a blacked out helmet! Besides, anyone who did any research on space knew there was nothing innately peaceful about it. Despite the careful construction of the customers’ sensory deprivation suits, she still had to monitor them for exposure to cold, stray meteors, and lethal radiation—not to mention panic. “They don’t put that in the commercials!” she mused. Fully one in three customers simply could not stand the absolute darkness and silence, especially since special apparatus even prevented customers from hearing their own breathing and heartbeat. These unlucky souls would scream—then scream harder when they couldn’t hear their own voices—and start hyperventilating. Luckily, sensors designed to monitor customers’ biorhythms would warn the observing technician and the customers could be reeled back into the station—forfeiting the balance of their

payment to Celestial Encounters, Inc., of course. Hoshi yawned. Her job paid well enough, but given how many customers they had these days, she knew the higher-ups had to be making a killing! A raise would be nice, she thought. After all, she’d been working on this same station, virtually alone, for six months! Sure, she’d lost two customers—heart attacks brought on by panic before she could reel them back in—but she could hardly be blamed for that. These things happened. Legally, Celestial Encounters was in the clear since all customers signed detailed waivers. Besides, if anything, the attention from the press had only increased business. Today was unusually slow, though. Hoshi had only one customer, which intensified her boredom. At least with more customers floating out in space at the same time, there was more to do, more gauges to check! But this one—a snarky, odd fellow she’d only just helped into his suit—seemed to be doing fine. “I should have brought a book to read,” she muttered. She thought of the romance novel she’d forgotten in her quarters. She thought about running back to get it but did not want to risk taking her eyes off the gauges that long. She could ask someone else to get it for her, but the last thing she wanted—with two heart attacks already on her record—was to let everyone know how hard she job really wasn’t. Then an alarm sounded on her console—not the crimson blare that warned of impending cardiac arrest, but a little tin whistle. Hoshi cursed. An otherwise insignificant particle storm was causing degradation of the black-out shield on the customer’s dome-shaped helmet. While Celestial Encounters had first tried using solid metal helmets that allowed no visibility, the company quickly recognized the necessity for a helmet that could be altered quickly to let the customer see in case of emergencies, should total sensory deprivation not agree with them. The black-out coating could be removed by a technician via a small electrical charge—but that also meant it was subject to wearing down over time. “I knew I should have made Bill replace that,” Hoshi grumbled. The customer was in no real physical danger. Within minutes, though, the cascade of near-microscopic dust particles would completely whittle away the thick, chalky coating on his helmet.

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A whole, bright universe of stars would become visible. That meant he was entitled to a refund. Hoshi would have to pay a penalty. She thought of the blouse she’d been saving up for—a gorgeous thing painstakingly woven out of real Europan seaweed! Then she cursed, settled back in her chair, and mentally calculated how many extra hours she’d have to put in just to make up for her upcoming dock in pay.

New money.

That’s what they said of Roy Goodall, the potbellied, balding bachelor inhabiting the space suit drifting outside Celestial Encounters Y-57, tethered by a thin, metallic cable that looked like an inky, dark tentacle. Roy was a failed businessman—or at least he had been until this, the spring of his fifty-seventh year. Even the term failed might have been too kind among those who knew him. Roy, who’d inherited a modest sum from his father’s investments in cryogenic refrigerators, was a disaster when it came to… well, everything. Roy had never married. In fact, aside from his regular adventures in holo-brothels, he was a dismal novice at best when it came to real women. His business ventures fared no better. At thirty-three, he was fired for misplacing a legal document that nearly cost his clients the mining rights to an entire Neptunian moon. At forty, he invested in a new form of heavy weaponry—just days before the Terran Armistice was signed. By the time he was fifty, he’d lost the last of what could hardly be called the Goodall Fortune, anyway—this time, buying stock in a company that implanted faulty communicating devices behind people’s ears, devices later found to induce a new form of schizophrenia. That might have been the end—but it turned out that a clerical error had deprived his father of a fortune in the cryogenic refrigerator business. So, at fifty-seven, Roy suddenly found himself wealthier than he had ever been before. Since then, he’d sworn off the casinos on Mercury, even the holo-brothels, thinking he’d best start cultivating a dignified persona. When he saw the commercial for Celestial Encounters, not to mention the fact that the numerical designation of the closest station matched his age, he took it as a good sign. Damn mistake, he thought now—or did he speak it? It was impossible to tell, since synaptic deadeners in

the suit filtered out all noise, including one’s own speech. He hadn’t panicked yet—he was proud of himself for that—but he was maddeningly bored. He figured this was like being awake while you’re asleep. He couldn’t see or hear anything, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but float—a state designed to encourage deep meditation and contemplation, the commercial said, but Roy had never been good at such things. How much longer? he wondered. A typical session lasted four hours. There was no way to tell how long he’d already been out here, though. He wished he could just go to sleep, but the suit prevented that, too. No wonder people lose their minds! He was wondering if it was possible to fake a heart or anxiety attack—anything to catch the attention of the station operator—when he saw it. Faint at first, hardly noticeable, his vision was coming back. It was like looking through a sheet of glass covered in soot, but at least it was something. Then the soot became a starry smear. Then the smear focused, focused, into an endless stretch of stars. Roy gasped without hearing himself. He’d been in space before. He remembered riding in a shuttle with his father, both of them staring out the little window at a broad plate of stars—Orion, maybe, or the Big Dipper. But this was as different as being underwater compared to looking at a photograph of the ocean. The stars were all around him. Roy turned, turned on his metallic umbilical cord, and there were stars everywhere he looked. The universe was not dark after all—not dark, and here he was, floating in the center of it. He closed his eyes, opened them, and the stars were still there. He wept without sound. He did not hear the alarm go off inside the station, warning the operator of his elevated heart rate and odd synaptic activity. He did not feel the metallic tether go taut and begin to draw him back inside. When he finally realized what was happening, he got the feeling he was being born in reverse, born back into a world of ventilated air and artificial light. He laughed. He was still laughing, still weeping, when they took his helmet off. ___________________________________________ Michael Meyerhofer has published two books and four chapbooks of poetry. His speculative work has appeared in Asimov's, On Spec, Strange Horizons, Mythic Delirium, Planet Magazine, Absent Willow Review, and other journals.

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Tap, Tap

by Aaron Polson Sometimes fate really does have a cruel sense of humor. ___________________________________________________________

The first few taps mocked Dillon’s footfalls as he

paced the floor of the deep end, mop in hand, waiting for his shift to end. The Olympic-sized pool had been drained as it was every year for cleaning and maintenance, and Dillon found himself, along with the other lifeguards, doing a very un-lifeguard like task. Besides, it was late—too late to work on a summer night. Too late to work with half the lights off in the aquatic center while the empty pool surrounded him like a white-washed tomb. “Damn bleach stinks,” he muttered as he pushed the mop over the smooth floor. His voice echoed and faded. “There a problem?” Dillon looked up to the concrete slab surrounding the pool and into the ruddy face of Terry, his manager, a muscled veteran of collegiate swimming. “Nope. Everything’s fine,” he lied. The walls of the pool sent his words back to him. As the echo faded, he heard the tapping again. Terry’s red face twisted into a scowl. “Then finish up and get the hell out of here.” I’ll gladly get out of here, take my scholarship this fall and go, Dillon thought. He watched Terry vanish, and then turned back to the floor. The sealed concrete stretched in either direction. The taps came from near the grate at the center of the deep end. He glanced up again, scanning the lip of the pool for anyone—anything that may have made the noise. Three other lifeguards worked that night, put in extra hours to finish the annual cleaning before a swim meet in a week, but nobody was on deck. Then the sound again…tap, tap…metal against metal, but dull and strangely amplified as if coming from underwater, maybe a length of chain banging against the grate. It was a familiar sound for a lifeguard, a pool sound—but the pool was empty. This time, another noise whispered along with the taps. One he couldn’t be sure of—possibly a human voice. Maybe outside, Dillon thought. He dropped the mop in its bucket and brushed his damp hands against an old pair of shorts he wore for painting or other dirty jobs. Walking toward the grate, Dillon felt a cold touch on his back and neck, a creeping sensation like someone’s waterlogged fingers dancing against his

skin. He shivered, trying to shake the feeling. At the grate, he knelt, peering into the darkness beneath. Was it his imagination, or had the tapping started again—a dampened, metallic ping? “No. Nothing, I guess.” He smiled to ward off his own discomfort. He collected his mop and bucket and climbed the incline out of the pool. At the opposite end, he followed a zero entry ramp, pushing his bucket and whistling down the nagging discomfort that nibbled at the edge of his thoughts. Vinny, all bones, the scrawniest lifeguard employed at the center, caught him in the janitor’s closet as he dumped the stinging bleach-water tincture down a special drain. “What’re you doing after work, man?” Wearing an old, cut-off t-shirt, he scratched his shoulder while he spoke. “Dunno. Go home I suppose.” Dillon shrugged. “It’s Wednesday. Not much happening on Wednesdays.” “Yeah.” Vinny leaned against the door jamb. “Say, earlier, when you were down at the bottom of the pool. Did you hear something?” Dillon’s memory rang with the eerie tapping sound. “No,” he lied. “Nothing. Just Terry barking orders like usual.” “Oh.” Vinny frowned. “Kind of looked like you were listening for something. You paused and tilted your head.” He modeled. “I was up on deck at the other end, but I watched Terry holler and then…” A sense of discomfort ballooned in Dillon’s gut and washed across his face, leaving a hot trail. He wanted Vinny to move, get out of his way, so he could climb in his car and speed home, away from the strange, empty pool and its phantom sounds. Phantom voices. He took a step toward the door, but Vinny didn’t move. “Probably nothing.” Dillon felt his mouth open without thinking the question. “What nothing?” “I thought I heard something earlier.” Vinny stared at the wall behind Dillon. “Tapping, I guess. This sound, like a chain hitting concrete underwater.” Dillon shook his head. “You’re right. Probably nothing.” Vinny nodded, turned to leave, but hesitated. “When I heard it…I thought about the old storm drains. Terry said one was ‘spose to run right under the pool.”

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Outside,

in the darkened parking lot, a hand latched onto Dillon’s shoulder as he moved to open his car door. His body stiffened and his keys fell to the ground, striking the pavement with a dull clank. “Hey, buddy.” The voice was dirty, raspy. “Spare some change for the bus.” Dillon pulled away from the voice and turned, ready to run or fight or scream. The man stood only a foot away, close enough for Dillon to nose his stench, the rank odor of human sweat, dirt, and mildew. A layer of rough stubble coated the stranger’s lower jaw, and the flickering streetlamp above filled the grooved lines of his face with shadows like black ink. “No…no change.” Dillon heard the wavering in his own voice. “C’mon, man.” The man’s hand pushed toward him, fingers curled and stretched like a fleshy rake. “Just a buck, get me downtown.” “Hey!” Dillon felt tension melt from his shoulders at the sound of Vinny’s voice. The man receded into the shadows, muttering something under his breath. Swallowing a deep breath of cold air, Dillon knelt, and his fingers scraped the ground for his keys. “Who was that?” Vinny gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. Dillon shook his head as he rose to his feet. “Dunno. We’re close to the highway out here. First bus stop on the way into town.” Across a vacant lot, a city bus groaned and sighed to a stop. Shapes shuffled in the twilit gloom. “Don’t know why they built the center out here.” Vinny shrugged. “Cheap land.” “Creepy as hell.” Dillon studied the red lights on the back of the bus, watching as they blinked out and patrons shuffled on board. The voice circled in his head, someone in need of help. Was it someone tapping, trapped in the tunnels below? “Why’d you become a lifeguard, Vinny?” “What? Me?” Vinny scratched his naked shoulder. “Dunno. Coach suggested it…I supposed it was a job.” He nodded to Dillon. “You?” “I guess I want to help. Like you said, it’s a job. Do you think we really help people?” The bus grumbled away from the stop. “Only when they need it.” Vinny smiled, and then started toward his car, calling “see you later” over one shoulder. On the drive home, every stoplight turned red just before Dillon pulled up to it, and his car engine idled with a hum. He expected another noise. His thumbs tapped against the steering wheel, an unconscious

gesture. Tap, tap…tap, tap. He closed his eyes and heard Vinny’s voice. If we both heard something… I still have that old flashlight in the trunk. Dillon took a right turn at one of the uncooperative stoplights. He circled through a quiet, lights-out neighborhood, and pointed his car back toward the aquatic center. His hand fumbled around the dark car, fishing for his cell phone first on the passenger seat, then the floor. Finding it, he flipped it open and dialed Vinny. “Hey, Dillon.” “Look, I…I did hear something at the pool tonight. When I was in the deep end down by the drain.” “What?” “Yeah.” Dillon’s chest swelled with the rapid tapping of his heart against his ribs. “Sorry…I didn’t think…” “Did it sort of sound like a chain, underwater?” Dillon gripped the phone tightly in his damp hand. “Like somebody knocked a chain against the pool walls…maybe against that big grate in the deep end. I think I heard a voice, too.” Silence. Dillon slowed in front of another stoplight. “Look, can you meet me out there?” Dillon asked. “I just want to have a look around. If somebody needs help, or…I don’t know…” “The storm drain?” “I guess, sure. I can’t shake the feeling that somebody might be down there.”

he bus stop sat vacant when he returned. Across the field, the looming edifice of the aquatic center stood against the night sky. Dillon turned off his lights before pulling into a parking stall. He sat in his car for a few minutes, expecting Vinny. The moon was absent, leaving the world shrouded in thick shadows. “Fuck it,” Dillon muttered and climbed from his car. Rummaging through the debris in the trunk, including some old camping gear and a deflated soccer ball, he found his flashlight. He pushed the button on, the light flickered and then sputtered to life with a lazy yellow glow. With a sweep of his arm, Dillon scanned the parking lot, remembering the grizzled hand of the old vagrant. “Empty. Okay.” He let out a long breath. Holding the weak flashlight in front of him, Dillon first walked to the aquatic center. Large windows broke up three of the four walls at regular intervals and only the faint red glow of exit signs lit the interior. He pressed up to one window, pointed the dim beam inside, and watched pools of shadow melt

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and reform. The pool itself was a black pit, especially the deep end. This is stupid, he thought, but he heard a voice in his memory, a faint, calling thing. But if somebody needs help. Dillon turned and strode away from the building, putting space between himself and the silent structure. The storm drains started down a small incline on the opposite side of the parking lot. A breeze caught the leaves of ancient trees that flanked the undeveloped vacant field, and their hushed voices carried. Dillon hesitated, swallowed his fear, and slid down the embankment. With a sweep of the flashlight, he found the gaping maw of the storm drain, a stainless steel pipe buried in the side of the grassy hill. His hand tightened as he took a few steps, small steps, toward the drain. His feet squished in the dark mud at the bottom of the culvert leading from the pipe. He paused. Again: tap, tap. A voice. Muted. Indistinct. “Hello?” Dillon called. Nothing…then the tapping again. I need the knife. The thought struck him like a wash of ice water. I have to get my knife. The buck knife from his Boy Scout days was in his trunk, crammed away with the rest of the camping gear. Dillon scrambled back to his car, searched his trunk, and found the weapon. Tucking the sheathed knife in his waistband, he descended to the ditch, took a deep breath, and ducked inside the open mouth of the storm drain. Inside, the world fell silent, and the corrugated walls of the drain pipe swallowed Dillon’s dim flashlight beam. He moved slowly, his feet splashing in a thin layer of stagnant water, and scraped his shoulder on a loose bolt where two pipe segments joined. “Shit.” His fingers found a small tear in the shirt and blood, warm and damp. He studied his fingertips under the light and smeared the blood on his shorts. “This is stupid,” Dillon muttered to himself. The tapping stopped. A sound—a human voice in pain. The knife. Dillon tightened his grip on the flashlight in his right hand and slid his knife from its cover. He crouched even lower. The air inside the drain was motionless, hot, and oppressive. He brushed his right forearm across the sweat on his face, and the yellow beam skittered across the corrugated folds of metal. Keep going. Dillon made his way deeper into the pipe. A glance behind him revealed no night blue opening to the air.

How deep now? Under the building? He felt the weight of tons of brick and concrete on his shoulders. His lungs fought for air. The pipe ended in a small chamber. Ahead: a wall, a pool of water, and metal bars. The tapping was gone. No voice, either. The smell of chlorine filled his nostrils. He knelt at the side of the pool, and the chlorine burned his nose. “This is pool water…how?” Dillon scanned the hollow, pointing his flashlight beam into the water. The floor dropped quickly, and the water would be deeper still. He studied the metal bars, remembered the sound. With another look behind, Dillon assured himself that he was alone. Whatever made the sound…has to be underwater. Maybe the drain connects with the pool somehow. He laid the flashlight on the ground to one side, pointing toward the water. First one foot slid below the surface, then the next. It chilled his skin. The water lapped at his neck before he reached the wall. His left hand held the knife in an iron grip. The light was dim and the water murky as Dillon felt with his right hand. With throbbing heart, he sucked in a deep breath, and plunged beneath the surface. The heavy chlorination stung his eyes, but even with the meager light, he saw nothing but the bars and bare wall, almost like a gate. The light flickered and went out. Dillon burst through the surface, gasping for breath. He wheeled in the water and backtracked to drier ground. A shadow stumbled toward him, mumbling. The knife. Dillon pushed the blade into the shape. It caught for a moment, but then slipped in, the body giving way like a mass of thick mud. The figure slumped back, making a sound—a human voice in pain. A familiar voice. Hey buddy, can you spare some change? The shape fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Dillon’s heartbeat blended into a steady tap, tap, rattling against his ribs. “Dillon?” Vinny. Footsteps splashed on the damp floor. The sound of chains echoed in the pipe. A strong flashlight beam bounced off the walls. Dillon, sopping wet and panting, stood with a knife in his hand above the prone form of a man, the old vagrant from earlier that evening. A dead man. Dillon threw the knife in the water, and it split the surface with a sharp splash. Vinny rounded the corner, blinding Dillon in his flashlight beam. “Dillon?” “Yeah,” Dillon panted. The beam highlighted the

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outline of the corpse. Vinny stopped. “Jesus, man.” Dillon’s mind chased its tail, running in circles. “I killed him…shit…I killed the old bastard. He—he came at me.” Vinny brushed his light from side to side, slowly taking in the whole scene. It rested on the pool of water, the metal bars beyond. The tunnel waited in silence except for the echo of their breath. “Here,” he said. A coil of chain landed next to the body with a metallic plop. “Before I climbed inside…I dunno…I heard a voice tell me to get my tire chains from the car.” The knife. “A voice...you heard a voice?” Dillon took up the chain in his shaking hands. “What…what should I do? This will ruin everything…my scholarship…” “God…Dillon…” “What should I fucking do?”

Vinny shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna miss this old bastard. Stash him in the water. Tie him down to those bars.” And Dillon knew the decision had been made earlier, before he went back for the knife…before Vinny thought about the chain. The boys worked together in the grim water, lashing the man’s body to the grate in the wall. When they finished, as they climbed out, the sound came back, the noise of metal tapping against metal underwater as the corpse bobbed against the barred grate, a sound that would echo through the drain and find its way into the empty swimming pool above. ___________________________________________ Aaron Polson's work has appeared in dozens of online and print venues, including Triangulation: Dark Glass, Necrotic Tissue, and Nossa Morte. The House Eaters, his first novel, is due soon from Virtual Tales.

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The Best of Us All by Martin Turton

Would be rescuers are often doomed by the fate of those who ask for their help. ___________________________________________________________

s Richard arrived on the quarterdeck, the stars were already beginning to glimmer in the approaching darkness. Strangely, none of the lanterns on deck had been lit, and the sails were all tightly furled. All the men were looking in one direction: starboard side, two miles distant. It looked like nothing more than a dark smudge on the horizon, barely lit by the quartermoon low in the sky. Richard snatched the telescope from Lieutenant Harris. The ship was definitely French and listing heavily to port side. The breeze had strengthened, the Medusa rocking exaggeratedly with the swell of the waves. Richard had one last look at the French ship before he snapped the telescope back and handed it to Harris. “She shown any sign of seeing us, Lieutenant?” Richard had a bad feeling about this. The Medusa was no great fighter; even his father’s wealth and influence wasn’t enough for the high and mighty to give Richard one of the banner ships of the fleet. No, the Medusa was ageing, only twenty-eight guns and slower than the more modern French frigates. “No, Captain.” Harris’s eyes were bright as he gazed out across the waves. The French vessel was already barely visible. Night fell quickly in this part of the world. “She’s ripe for the plucking, sir.” “Mr Kline?” Dron Kline was the tallest man Richard had ever seen, with bony-knuckled hands to match. “Who gave the orders to halt our course, Mr Kline?” Richard hated having to look up to meet the first mate’s eyes. “Unfurl the sails. We keep to our course; finding the convoy is a priority. Once we find it, we will inform Captain Kirkcaldy of French activity in the area.” Nobody moved. Richard wanted to go back to his

quarters, perhaps Elizabeth would be there by now; for the first time in the week since they had found her at Kalru, she had agreed to have dinner with him. Despite his eagerness, he was unwilling to step around his men like some furtive dog. “That will be all, gentlemen.” Still, nobody moved. The whites of the men’s eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the darkness. “Captain, the men haven’t seen action for more than a year. That ship is injured; we have the chance to cover ourselves in glory.” A cultured voice broke through the darkness. Lieutenant Garran. “It was I who took the decision to furl the sails; we can be 148

upon them before they know we’re there.” Yes, sneak up on them from behind. Stab them in the back. It didn’t surprise Richard that Garran had been behind the decision. “My decision stands. And I would thank you not to question my authority again, Lieutenant. We will find the convoy, inform them of the sighting and take further orders from there.” Damn it, he was forced to step around Dron and three other men as he hurried back to his quarters. His back writhed like a nest of snakes as he felt a score of eyes watch him descend the steps to the gun deck. “Trouble?” Elizabeth was waiting for him in his quarters when he returned. Would she have been bold enough to step uninvited into the quarters of a Captain Kirkcaldy, or any other Captain who held the respect of his men? Richard pulled the stopper from a decanter of brandy. “Nothing I can’t handle. Drink?” Elizabeth lifted a white hand. No. “I couldn’t help hearing talk of a French vessel in the area. Should I be afraid?” Richard poured himself a generous measure and had a hearty drink. He grimaced against the burning in his throat. “Nothing to worry about, no. Only the men thirsting for blood when they should know better.” “Perhaps it is not blood they thirst for, but glory? Once we are free of these waters I hope you will learn to bond with your men more.” Her neck was long and white, delicately curved. A sudden rapping at the door. Elizabeth lifted a hand to her breast, her blue eyes wide. “I hope you will remind your men of your promise to me, Captain.” Lieutenant Garran was waiting when Richard opened the door. “What is it, Lieutenant?” He could hear the hurry of feet, the snap of the sails; the sounds of a ship readying to move. They had listened to him after all. But he didn’t really believe that. He could see Garran’s smile. And, despite the activity, the ship was too silent. There were no shouts, no curses. The men were moving with a deadly silence, a deadly efficiency that Richard had never been able to coax from them. “The men have been talking, Richard…Captain.” Richard’s stomach roiled, both with hatred and fear. “Get to the point, Lieutenant.” Garran didn’t try to hide the excitement on his narrow, pinched face. “Well, that’s just it, Richard. The men have decided that I shouldn’t be a Lieutenant any longer.” For the first time Richard could remember, Garran met his eyes. “I see. The men have decided, have they? And you’re aware of the fate that will befall you all once Captain Kirkcaldy hears of this, I trust?”

“It is our hope that once we present the frog ship to the Captain, and give him our reports of the past year, that the Captain will forgive us our…exuberance.” Rubbish. Garran must know that Kirkcaldy would never suffer mutineers. They would all be put to death. Maybe Dron Kline and the other knuckleheads weren’t aware of this, but Garran most assuredly was. Richard tried to keep his face impassive, unwilling to give Garran any more fuel for his triumphant fire. “And what will happen to…” Garran lifted a hand to forestall him. “You will be looked after, have no fear on that score. Once the frogs are taken care of, we will take you to the nearest convenient port and you will be allowed to leave unmolested.” Garran held out his hand, palm upwards. “Your key, if you please?” Richard glanced over his shoulder. Elizabeth looked frightened, her hands clasped together and her blue eyes wide. He wondered that it hurt more for this young woman to see him brought so low than it did to lose control of the Medusa. It was this thought that prompted him to hand over the key; was the ship worth losing his life for? Certainly not. And with the door locked, at least that was one locked door between Elizabeth and a ship full of desperate men. Even before the door was closed, Garran’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Two points south, south-west!” The shout repeated through the length of the ship. The door closed on them as more men ran to their stations. Elizabeth wore the same white dress she had earlier in the day. Her face was white, dark circles rimmed her faded blue eyes. “We need to leave this place, Mr Kitwood. You promised me we would be out of these waters before the day was done.” Did he imagine the emphasis on the Mr? Or perhaps Richard was more sensitive to his loss of status than he might have imagined. One of the windows was slightly ajar and the wind rustled Elizabeth’s dress, a fine spray pattering on the pane as the ship scudded through the waves. The cries and shouts of the men could be heard over the howl of the wind. “I did indeed, Miss Henley. Hopefully the fight will be a short one and soon we will be on our way.” Elizabeth’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger. “If that is what you think, Mr Kit…” “Fire!!” A flare of orange lighting the black sea almost instantaneously followed by a boom that shook the Medusa, that shook Richard’s very heart. The battle had begun. Richard ran to the window, Elizabeth behind him. More shouts from the belly of the Medusa and that

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same orange glow which lit the churning seas in a glare of eerie beauty. Boom. Richard watched the main mast of the French ship splinter and shatter under the onslaught. It held for an impossible moment before cracking loud enough to even be heard over the frothing seas and the shouts of the men and then it toppled, ropes holding it for seconds before they too snapped and the French ship swayed precariously in the surging seas. Cheers on board the Medusa. “We have her, my boys!” That sounded like Garran. And still no sign of life on board the French ship. Richard had never known a ship could seem so…alive. The Medusa thrummed with a vitality he would never have thought possible. All around were noises; shouts, creaks and groans. The sound of running feet. Men were running everywhere, above deck, below deck. It was as though the sound of those gasps for air, those beating footsteps were the lifeblood of the Medusa pumping about her body. Elizabeth was leaning so closely over Richard that he could feel her breath on his ear. “This is wrong,” she whispered. “We should be fleeing this place.” Richard barely heard her over the sounds of battle. Was that movement he saw on the French ship? Near the place where the mast had splintered the railing like so much kindling? He leaned forward, his face almost touching the windowpane. He could feel the spray of the waves sneaking through the crack of the window and misting on his cheek. Yes, definite movement, almost as though an impossibly fat man was dragging himself along the deck, feeling about the broken masthead with a long, immensely thick black arm. Boom! With a splintering crack, Richard’s forehead shattered the window. Blinding white pain for a singular moment, and then a brief blackness before he lifted a hand to his head and felt slick wet blood there. “Elizabeth?” His tongue felt thick. He turned, cracked his elbow painfully on a chest of drawers that moments before had been on the other side of his quarters. “Elizabeth?” It looked as though a giant arm had swept across his quarters, dragging all his possessions with it. “Elizabeth?” His head spun and the violent rocking of the Medusa made him want to vomit. A soft groaning from the corner of the room; his desk had fallen onto her, scrolls and documents covering her head. Richard pushed them away, almost falling onto her himself. Boom.

It was all the warning he had. He sheltered her with his own body. The sounds of splintering wood, of flickering flames, of churning seas. And screams. Richard could hear the men above him screaming. “Miss Henley?” Elizabeth tried to rise to her feet. “You need to tell them, Richard. Tell them we have to flee.” The lantern hanging from the beam swung madly, the flame fluttering like a tentative heartbeat. And still the men shouted and screamed at each other. The Medusa listed to port side. “And you think they’d listen to me?” He made his way to the other side of his quarters. The swinging lantern lent the scene a nightmarish clarity and the floor was pitched at such an angle that he climbed rather than walked. “Make them listen. Make them understand. We have to leave! You told me we’d leave!” The desperation sounded strange coming from the confident young woman Richard had known for the past week. Another shout from above. Boom. More splintering. More shattering. Richard almost slid back down toward Elizabeth, but he thrust his hand through a shattered window and hauled himself up. And then he saw. “Dear God. A trap.” A black ship on a churning, frothing black sea. A ship the like of which the Medusa could never hope to be. Forty guns, her sails tall and proud and her prow a speeding black mountain. He let go of the window and slid back down to Elizabeth. Only now did he notice the water pooling about her feet. Even under the light of the rocking lantern it looked black. A hole the size of a pumpkin had been punched in the hull, its edges splintered and sharp, black water sweeping in with every swell of the waves. They were trapped like fish in a barrel. Elizabeth shivered in her fine dress. For some reason, fury welled within him. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “You knew! You knew this was a trap, didn’t you?” The waters were shockingly cold around his boots. “You knew that ship was here!” The slap across his cheek shook him all the way to his boots. “That is all you think you have to fear?! Your petty war?!” Her eyes looked sunken and hollow, her skin almost a translucent white as it stretched taut over her cheekbones. “Use your eyes, you fool!” She was crying now, blinking away her tears angrily. “You promised me, you promised me you’d take us from this place.” For one wild moment, Richard thought of slapping her back to bring her to her senses. The waters were now ankle deep; his toes ached with the cold. “We

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need to get out of here.” “It’s too late, Richard. I should have known better than to think I could escape.” “We will be looked after. Somebody will come for us.” He moved the desk to provide a platform for them to stand on; using that as leverage, he might be able to reach the door. “Here, stand on this.” His sword. The starboard side of the cabin was a wreck, furniture and scrolls and boxes scattered and piled about. He waded through the water, now almost knee height. Papers and books floated away as he pushed them aside. Elizabeth was on her knees on the desk, white dress clinging to her body, yellow hair clinging to her cheeks and neck. “Richard, please. You need to stay out of the water.” “What? Why?” There it was, the blade bright and sharp in the gloom of the cabin. As thick as his wrist and cold even through his boots and trousers. It pulled with a strength Richard would never have though possible. His leg was hauled from under him with a force which he felt was sure to rip the limb from his body. He gasped aloud, black waters pouring into his mouth. He tried to stand, fighting against the panic welling within. All he could hear was the surging black water. And then his head broke clear and he could hear Elizabeth screaming and screaming. Another pull from the pulsing cord about his ankle, the cold felt as though it was burning clean through his boots. His lungs burned and his throat clogged with the thick black seas. The sword. Even at the thought, he was pulled down and down; he hadn’t thought the water was so deep in his quarters. The sword had slipped from his fingers with the shock of the pain and the cold, but it was falling slowly through the churning waters. Richard grabbed it even as the cord tightened and pulsed about his ankle. His free hand flailed about; he lost all sense of direction, of what was up and what was down. The thing must be pulling him toward that hole in the hull. The black waters turned white as Richard struggled and thrashed against the impossible strength. He hacked at the black tentacle around his leg. Even now the waters fought against him, dulling each stroke, impeding his swing. Feeling the blows, the tentacle flexed and tightened still more until Richard was sure his foot must fall off or burst under the pressure. Now he screamed and screamed as he swung, and Elizabeth’s screams mingled with his own. And then the screams were silenced and he heard nothing but splashing, roaring water and still he

swung the blade, his shoulder aflame with agony. The blood of the thing was black and hot and vile and it seeped into his mouth, his eyes and ears. He was breaking free. Sweet, burning, agonizing air as he broke the surface with a tearing gasp. And still he screamed and kicked out, sure that the cord would be back and wrapping itself about his leg once more. “Help me! Help me!” He saw the white of her dress, reached out his hand to her. His screams sounded womanish to his own ears and he didn’t care as he felt her hand in his and pulled himself onto the desk beside her. “Did you see it? Did you see it? What was that thing?” He shivered with the cold, his knees pulled tight to his chest. Elizabeth huddled next to him, her arms wrapped tight across her breast. She looked thinner, her collar bones and shoulders bony. “It is too late, Richard. It seeks out death, seeks the souls of the lost. I should have known there was no escape.” Somehow she looked even more beautiful with her bedraggled hair. Richard put his arm around her; he could feel her spine, the bones in her shoulder blades. “Shush. It’s gone now. Someone will come for us.” The waters were rising all the time, only a finger-width below the top of the desk. “Hello?!” Richard shouted at the silent door. Elizabeth laughed. A sound colder even than the monster that had attached itself to his leg. “You people.” She shook her head. “You can’t even see your doom when it is staring you in the face. You think your little trinket,” she looked at the sword still in Richard’s hand. “You think that could stop it? Look in the water, you fool!” Richard did look, and what he saw was almost enough to make him fall from the desk. A dozen of the things writhed in the water, searching and probing about the desk. Some were no thicker than the one that had grabbed Richard’s ankle; others were perhaps twice that, maybe even as thick as Richard’s thigh. All were slick and black and glistening as they touched and probed papers and scrolls, scattered furniture. One even found its way up the leg of the desk, feeling its way about like some malevolent blind slug. Richard shrank away, his skin crawling and his stomach turning. The foul tentacle seemed to sense his fear and loathing and wormed its way along the desk until it broke the surface of the water and shrank back as though burned. Richard watched it in frozen fascination. Now it was coiling and writhing about the desk once more. “We have to get out of here.” One step along the desk, and it teetered sickeningly

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as though it was sure to collapse. Five tentacles sensed the shift and wrapped about the furniture in some kind of horrifying caress. Richard steadied himself with a shaking hand. “Hold my waist, Elizabeth.” Waves of black water were now lapping the surface of the desk, the tentacles following, probing and searching. Elizabeth grabbed Richard’s waist in a painful hug. Desperation lent him strength. Every moment he expected to feel that terrible cold thing wrapping about his feet. Two strokes of his sword and he saw the door handle start to come free, one screw holding it in place already snapping. He poised the sword behind his head, his elbow high. This time. He arced his back. And then the door exploded in a shower of splinters, the body of a man falling at their feet and hitting his head on the corner of the desk with a sickening thunk. Lieutenant Jerome, though it was hard to tell with half his face burnt away and the other half covered in blood. No sooner had the corpse hit the water, than two tentacles wrapped around his arm and shoulder and dragged him down and down, more and more black worms winding about his legs and stomach, even his face. Only then did Richard realize he was screaming and Elizabeth’s fingernails were piercing his side in some terrible death grip. The pain was enough to bring him to his senses. The door was open, swinging off its hinges. Not an easy jump. He hauled Elizabeth to her feet. “You go first.” No time to argue. She only nodded, and with one step sprang to the door. The desk swayed beneath him and Richard fell to his knees to keep himself from falling. A cold touch on his calf. He screamed, searched for his sword. Only now did he realize he must have dropped it when Jerome fell on them. He shouted in revulsion as he kicked at the monstrous tentacle, this one as thick as his arm. He kicked again, though the thing only shrank away as the waters receded. “Richard!” Elizabeth had made it and she was in the doorway holding out her hand for him. What was she hoping to do? Catch him? “Move, woman!” he screamed, and then he jumped. His heart lurched as he felt the desk give way under the weight of his push. The desk teetered, rocked and collapsed and Richard fell forwards, reaching out with both hands and only just managing to grasp hold of the doorframe. The floor was pitched at an angle no steeper than a gentle slope he wouldn’t think twice about climbing on a Sunday afternoon. Now it was enough to make him look over his shoulder in wide-

eyed terror. The water was no more than a handswidth below his feet, black with the tentacled things circling and searching. His hands were white on the doorframe, so tight did he clutch it, and he scrabbled for purchase on the varnished wooden floor. He was still screaming when he made it half-way through the door and Elizabeth pulled him the rest of the way by his jacket. Flames. Flames and dead men scattered the gun deck. Already the beams were blackened. The railings and stairs were splintered and shattered from the shots of the French. Something snapped in the Medusa and she lurched sickeningly to port side. The ship was done for. “You!” A roar. A challenge. Richard turned at the sound and saw Dron Kline walking through the flames towards them like some demon striding through the pits of hell. His massive arms were blackened from the flames and he had a sword clutched in a giant fist. Water seeped onto the gun deck, black pools of it. Dron was ankle deep. “You!” The brute pointed the sword straight at Richard. “You brought us to this! You have cursed us all, Jonah!” “No, we have to run, Dron. You haven’t seen…” Too late. Such was the size of the man that Richard wouldn’t have thought it possible for anything to pull him from his feet. Dron went down with enough force to make him drop his sword, to make his eyes bulge. He uttered a strange, girlish shriek cut short as his head burst open on the deck like an overripe melon. He sped away on his back at a speed Richard had never seen before, Dron’s huge bulk knocking aside dead bodies, battering its way through railings, even through the wall of the quartermaster’s cabin. And then he was gone. The most intimidating person Richard had ever seen disposed of like some rag doll. His bladder ached. The only light was offered by the scattered fires and the fitful light of the quarter-moon. Richard ran to the railings, Elizabeth behind him. The deck was slippy with blood. No help to be found there. The majestic French ship now looked like nothing but a dead tree tilting on a dark hillside. Only this tree had tattered sails clinging to its branches, and these tattered sails had men clinging to them. Richard could see five men. There must have been more than three hundred on such a fine ship. No help to be found anywhere. “I’m sorry.” Richard still watched those distant men fighting for their lives under a dark sky on a black sea.

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“No, it is I who should be sorry.” Elizabeth slid her hand into his. “I should never have come with you. Should have known there was no escape.” The ship pitched beneath them. The water was climbing the stairs now, the gun deck almost completely submerged. A small body floated briefly before being pulled greedily beneath. “You? I failed you. Failed my men, my ship.” “I said it sought out death and lost souls, Richard.” Elizabeth looked even thinner than before, her white dress billowing about her, her yellow hair rising about her head like a sea of coral. Her skin was white as her dress, her lips blue as her eyes. “Too long have I tried to escape these seas, Richard. There is no escape.” “You? You are what drew that thing to us?” Richard took a single step backwards. Her skin was flaking away even as he watched, gristle and bone seeping through the peeling translucent skin on her cheeks, her hands. “I won’t leave you, Richard.” She held out a hand to him, more skin flaking from the arm. “I waited so long, so long for somebody to try to free me from its hold.” She was crying now, her tears leaving deep scores in the pale white skin still hanging from her cheekbones. So intent was he on the horror before him, that Richard didn’t notice the seawater now pooling about his feet. Something slithered across his boots. Twisted and pulled. Pulled and twisted. With a wrenching scream, matched only by the sound of his leg breaking, Richard hit the deck. The tentacle dragged him back and back, his nails bloodied and broken as he scrabbled for purchase on the deck. “Elizabeth!” he screamed. This time the destruction of the Medusa saved him. Once more the ship pitched, sending the seas washing from the quarterdeck for a moment, the black tentacles racing back with it. “Run, Richard!” Elizabeth screamed and wept at the same time. But Richard couldn’t run, his leg was broken, the pain a cold searing agony that shot up his leg and his side until all he knew was pain and horror and fear. “Please…” he wept, though he didn’t know to who he was pleading. Now tears fell down his own cheeks as he scrabbled to his knees and hobbled away from the returning black waters. Elizabeth looked like some dread bride from nightmare as she coaxed him on in her white dress, skin still sloughing away. “The mast, Richard.” She shouted over the howling wind and raging seas. “I won’t leave you, my love; help will come as you came

for me.” Richard fell on his face, his dank hair in his eyes. And still he crawled on toward the mast. Yes, help would surely come if only he could climb the mast and save himself from the creature in the sea. His nails dug into the sodden deck and he dragged himself on. It wasn’t so far. He could make it.

he sun warmed her shoulders as she broke the surface, and Sheena had to squint as she looked up at Anton in the boat. “Hey, look what I found!” The sword was so long and heavy that she could only hold it half out of the water, showing him the rusted hilt. “That’s great!” Anton had a wide, white smile. “You coming out now?” Sheena had to smile. Anton swore blind that she was the first woman he’d ever brought out to the wreck, but she was old enough and wise enough to know that was a crock of shit. Still, she had to give him credit for a nice play; and with that tanned chest of his and glossy black hair...Well, they were both adults, weren’t they? She smiled and raised a hand, “One more dive!” All about her were clear waters and she kicked some more and soon found herself back at the frigate. Just to touch the wood thrilled her: what history! To think this ship had been at war, had stood toe-to-toe with another ship and blasted each other to bits. She caressed the wood some more, working her way along the deck. Fish darted in and out of every nook, every cranny. And to think this ship had sailed beneath the sun, proud and glorious. Sheena shook her head. And then she saw him; above her, looking down on her from the masthead like some macabre angel. She screamed and kicked out in reflex, fish startled and shooting all around her. Calm. Breathe slow. Go back to Anton and get yourself some of that holiday romance you’ve heard so much about. But she couldn’t resist going back for one last look. She’d never even seen a dead body before; seeing a skeleton like that both repelled and fascinated her. She swam back to the masthead. Poor guy. Must have been the Captain or something; last one to go down with the ship and all that. Jesus, he’d even tied himself to the mast, four ropes still wrapped around his chest. That weird skeleton face grinned at her. Sheena shook her head and turned away. Back to the sunlight. Back to Anton and his tanned chest and shiny black hair. “Please…” Who was that? A woman’s voice. But she couldn’t have… Sheena turned again. The skeleton was still there,

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tied to his mast, still grinning. But now a beautiful woman floated next to him, her white dress billowing about her, her hair a yellow halo around her head. The woman’s eyes were closed; her lips blue, so blue. Sheena reached out a hand; surely the woman couldn’t be dead? The eyes snapped open. There was only madness in those eyes. “Please, please, we need to flee this place.” Sheena tried to scream, but her mouth only filled with water and something impossibly cold and thick wrapped itself around her ankle and pulled and pulled her down into the dark, silent depths.

___________________________________________ Martin Turton lives in East Yorkshire, England with his wife and three daughters. In the little spare time he has after working full time and looking after three children all under the age of five, he had been working on an unwieldy fantasy novel before turning to the shorter form in the hope of actually finishing something. His work has appeared in The Rage of the Behemoth anthology, Shadows and Light anthology, Flashing Swords, Reflections Edge, Afterburn SF, Strangetastic and others.

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