

The Worlds of Science Fiction,

Fantasy and Horror

Vol. IV

2 0 1 9

Anthology rights © Robert N Stephenson

Copyright individual stories © contributing authors 2019

Cover design © Rob Bleckly 2019

Internal design: Mike Jansen

Editing assistance – Brad McNoughton

ISBN-13: 978-17-93943-3-85

ISBN-10: 1-7939-4338-9

BISAC: FIC003000

First published in 2019

(the worlds of science fiction fantasy and horror vol. IV)

This edition published in 2019 by Altair Australia Pty Ltd

The rights of the collected authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the copyright amendment (moral rights) act 2000.

This work is copyright. apart from any use as permitted under the copyright act 1968. No part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher and or the authors.*

The Worlds of Science Fiction,

Fantasy and Horror

Vol. IV

Edited by

Robert N Stephenson

Published by

Altair Australia Pty Ltd

Thank you to Alice Stephenson,  
Mike Jansen, Brad McNoughton and  
Rob Bleckly for helping to make all this possible.

Contents

Introduction

The Valley of Despair - Michaele Jordan (USA)

In the Dance of Lightyears - Mike Jansen (Netherlands)

None So Blind as Those Unseen - Richard Zwicker (USA)

Summerland - Gustavo Bondoni (Argentina)

The Freaks - Florin Purluca (România)

Scent of Hope and Cinnamon - Jonathan Shipley (USA)

Sorcery is the Body's Pronunciation of the Soul...- Sergio 'ente per ente' Palumbo (Italy)

Socrates' Army - Eric Del Carlo (USA)

Me and Septimus: IN EXTREMIS - Kain Massin (Australia )

Pirate with a Cause - Peter Hagelslag (Russian Federation)

The Life and Death of George Hayes - Floris M. Kleijne (Netherlands)

Operation Sylphinephrine - Ville Meriläinen (Finland)

Through Tiled Spaces - Dennis Mombauer (Germany)

Timkha - Laurence Suhner (Switzerland)

The Beautiful People - Bo Balder (Netherlands)

In the Field – With Janet 201 - Felice Picano (USA)

Lambs of the Desert - Emad El-Din Aysha (Egypt)

Striges - Nicola Lombardi (Italy)

Tasting the Data Flow \- Marcie Franks (Australia)

The Story of Mynheer Reinaerde and the Purloined Tails - Tais Teng & Jaap Boekestein (Netherlands)

Wake - Maarten Luikhoven (Netherlands)

Chimeras - Agrippina Domanski (United Kingdom)

Author Profiles
Introduction

Every year brings its own set of values and issues and these are expressed through the stories we read. It has been said that science fiction isn't an expression of the future but more an observation of the day, its politics and social structures and people. If you read anything from the Golden Years of SF you will find this to be true. The cold war was in full swing, the arms races were out of control and the pressure to be morally perfect was oppressive. What will you see in this collection of stories from around the world? It is hoped more than just one social structure view of the future, the past and the macabre. In this anthology you will see my first ever publications of a story from a writer in the Russian Federation, which is a story about pirates and the art of war. To gather stories from as many places as possible has its own set of difficulties and it is hoped each year some of these show in the construction of the book.

It is hard to create a book of light and positivity when world leaders are intent on diminishing any kind of service for the poor while at the same time filling the pockets of the non-tax paying corporations and big business stakeholders. Even in horror stories it is hard to justify the funnelling of wealth to those who don't need it while stealing the bread from a hungry person's table. Perhaps some of the stories here reflect that situation in today's world.

While not a book to display political or social issues the Worlds of anthologies do in their own small way attempt to bring the world closer together. Not everything in life is done for profit and the continuance and display by Altair Australia Pty Ltd shows you can still deliver good product, pay writers and then donate the work to the community of readers out there. This is to encourage reading and help those who may have no money but love to read. Of course, much more can still be done and over time needs will be met.

This anthology would not be possible without the kind support of a group of people behind the scenes and the authors themselves. And if I didn't thank Alice for the world in which I live, I would be doing a disservice. Read this book, enjoy some works, hate some others but please share your copy with others. Every little bit of generosity in this regard goes a long way.

Robert N Stephenson

January 2019
The Valley of Despair

Michaele Jordan (USA)

Yevka was not beautiful. Skinny and small, she lacked the jutting breasts and broad hips generally admired among men. Yet she was too chunky and broad shouldered for those who preferred their women slim and graceful. Her face was undistinguished, save for a rather handsome pair of sad, grey eyes.

In fact, she was of sturdy peasant stock, and had fate let her alone, she would have lived her life far from the great city of Sawr Even. She would have come virgin to a simple husband, and lived beside him until she died, bearing him ten children, and burying nine.

Instead the Lamrag hordes descended on her family's village to burn and ravage and loot. A number of children, Yevka among them, were stolen and sold in the great slave markets of the south. She passed from hand to hand until she came at last to Sawr Even.

Somewhere in the long line of tasks and training set her by her various owners she had learned to write in a clear and pretty hand. So her latest master took to setting her by the road as a scribe, copying manuscripts for the occasional passing scholar, and writing letters for less literate souls.

That done, she would return to her master with a handful of coins. There she did the work of his household and was used by him and such of his friends as happened to be visiting.

One fateful afternoon a customer approached and asked her to write a letter. He looked prosperous to Yevka's eyes, and she did not ask for his money in advance. When she discovered he had no intention of paying, she had not the wit to let him go, and mark in her mind the lesson. Rather she thought how her master would beat her when she reported the tale and tried to rip the letter from the client's hand.

Naturally he grabbed her wrist and twisted it cruelly. Then, noting he was observed by some pedestrians, he shouted in happy inspiration, "Pick my pocket, will you? You thieving slut." More passers-by turned at the cry and, seeing sides drawn twixt rich and poor, they allied themselves with the rich. An outraged crowd collected around her, some throwing stones, while the foremost defenders of justice beat her soundly.

Silken the Charmer was strolling through a nearby bazaar or, more accurately, admiring himself in a shop window. Although scarcely the tallest man in Sawr Even, he might almost have been the comeliest, with his lean dark face, and deceptively gentle green eyes. With not a little care he adjusted his soft, dusty blue cloak at a more becoming angle, exposing the richer blue of his tunic beneath.

The commotion caught his ear. Ever curious into every unfamiliar noise and scuffle, he sought out the cause of the excitement. Of course, he found a harmless slave girl menaced by a mob. Having time on his hands before dinner, he decided to play the dashing gallant and defend the girl.

Not even bothering to draw his beloved Kiss-and-Tell from its sheath, he whacked a few of the nearest bodies with it, and soon cleared out quite a number of spectators. When he came to a hard core of bullies, he was pressed to fight in more earnest; but he was good at fighting, especially in earnest.

Yevka looked up when the blows stopped falling, and saw the small, blue clad warrior fending off a half dozen staves. She looked a long while before realizing that he fought to protect her. Never before had any man—or any woman either—thought to spare her a beating, even at the smallest cost. Rather, they usually took pains to administer them. That a man should defend her at some risk (less risk than she realized) was almost beyond her comprehension, smacking of a godlike generosity. She gazed at him in awe.

And as she watched him, it flitted across her mind that of all the dozens of men who had bedded her there had been very few even near young, and none handsome. She had ever been the refuge of men who, by reason of their poor attractions or their peculiar tastes, had lacked for willing women. There had never been a one like this, with firm strong muscles, and a graceful, smooth-moving body.

She did not carry her thought to its conclusion. She had never learned to link love-making with pleasure, and so she did not recognize desire when it possessed her. But still she sensed that he compelled her in some secret way. When the victorious Silken strode over to help her up, he unknowingly caught up her heart in his hand.

As for the Charmer, he was much disappointed to find the girl he had fought for no prettier and decided against capping off his valor by seducing her. But there was no missing the reverent admiration in her eyes, and he agreed most heartily with her high opinion. So, he flipped her a couple of gold coins instead. He was well in funds that day, and doubtless judged them a poor reward compared to that she would have got had she been fairer.

"Ho, little hero," called Windrider, scrambling up from his front row seat and pocketing the coins he had gained wagering on Silken's prospects in the brawl. "Have you worked up an appetite yet? Or shall we find ourselves a Lamrag horde or two before dinner?"

The Charmer sniffed delicately and looked up quite a distance to meet his friend's eyes. "Doubtless you intend to be more assistance with the Lamrags than you were just now."

"I was but saving my strength for when you truly needed aid," protested Windrider amicably. "And that's oft enough, I needs must get much rest."

"I'll thank you to remember," purred Silken. "I've slain men with tongues more civil than yours. If I were not very near starvation, I would give you a lesson in manners."

"Doubtless you'll tend to it after we've eaten." Windrider gently steered his companion toward the nearest inn.

Yevka gazed dumbly after them, vaguely wishing she might crawl after them, on hands and knees if need be. Then with a sigh and a shrug she looked about her. Her reed pens were broken, and her little stack of paper torn and crumpled and scattered to the winds. Yet such ills mattered little. But one of the gold pieces Silken had given her would pay for these things ten times over and still leave so much profit that she would get a sweetmeat rather than a beating on her arrival home.

As for the other gold piece, she thought hard about giving that to her master also, for she had never dared to withhold from him her meager earnings. But she found she simply could not bear to part with it. So, she bored a small hole in it, and passing a string through that, she hung it around her neck as an amulet.

In that hour or so after dinner when her master lingered over a jug or three of wine, Yevka was free to do as she pleased. It had been her habit to use that precious leisure for a little extra sleep of which she seemed never to get enough. But after her encounter with the Charmer, she took to wandering the city streets. Sawr Even was ripe with tales of Silken and Windrider and their various and exotic doings. Like a dog in search of its master, Yevka followed the tales to the House of the Poor Man's Gold.

She established for herself a favorite table, small and inconspicuous in a dark corner. There she would sit, night after night, for as long as she dared be out. Patiently she sipped at a small cup of wine--she had grown most sophisticated in the matter of cheating her master by a coin or two--and waited for the throb of her heart that told her he had come.

She wasted no envy on the girls that usually accompanied him. Indeed, she approved highly that he should have so many and so fair—although never so many or so fair as he deserved. Nor did she ever seek to attract his attention, rather shrinking back into the shadows if he should pass near her. She merely gazed at him in mute adoration, and deemed herself perilously bold in daring so much as that. Very few took any note of her at all, least of all her hero.

But Silken did not always go to the House of the Poor Man's Gold. He had, as all men do, certain pressing concerns—here, a wall to be scaled, there, a purse string to be slit. On some nights he rested or caroused in private quarters. Sometimes he simply wandered in search of adventure. And sometimes it was the adventure that sought him out.

Death had been keeping an eye on Silken and Windrider for some considerable while. In the past he had stretched out his hand to take them, and been most fantastically evaded. Death looked on them both with a certain respect, for he was very rarely outmanoeuvred. He also looked on them with considerable uneasiness for he did not entirely like being outmanoeuvred. He suspected that it made him look rather ill in the eyes of whatever powers abided beyond him. Perhaps he should not have tried to take them together.

Death allowed his gaze to drift softly toward Sawr Even. His eye lit instantly on Silken. The Charmer was slipping though the misty streets toward the House of the Poor Man's Gold. Windrider was waiting there with a colourful curse on all lazy Easterns who could not make their appointments on time.

Death indulged a soft sigh. Silken had served him so deliciously in the past. More important, he might serve him infinitely better with Windrider's gentling influence removed. If Windrider were to die the first.... Death shook his head to rid himself of temptation. He had spotted Silken first; therefore, Silken would be gathered in the first.

Death gazed behind him to the vast and numberless hordes of those who had already answered his call. After a heartbeat, he brought forth one whose service he judged would be useful. And that one he set before Silken to distract him from his meeting with Windrider.

Komra had been a princess in the kingdom of Hedakla, eons on ages before, back in the long-forgotten days before the empire had shrunk to a dim memory of a tiny province. More to the point she was the loveliest, most exquisite of women that had ever lived in the history of the world. In her day, poets had slain themselves upon seeing her, lest their eyes be desecrated after witnessing perfection. Virgin saints had attempted to ravish her. It had even been rumored (untruly perhaps) that eunuchs had regrown their organs at the sound of her voice. She distracted the Charmer.

Some women, when set before Silken as bait, might have stooped to seductive manners. Komra had no need of such degradations. She glanced once with disinterest at her designated prey, and turned and walked away. She walked past the House of the Poor Man's Gold where Windrider waited. She walked into a mist that was not wholly of Sawr Even, back to her master's approving arms. And the Charmer shuddered and followed after like a man bereft of reason, with a flame in his heart and no memory of Windrider whatsoever.

Komra turned a corner but when Silken came after her, he found instead a huge manic hefting a mighty sickle. Had his life depended on his wits alone, he would have perished then, but he had instincts and reflexes as well.

He ducked beneath the blow designed to sever his head, then leapt over the counter stroke that flashed by at knee height. He drew out Kiss-and-Tell and thrust as far as he could reach. Finally, he jumped backwards so that the dead giant's final slash passed a fraction of an inch before his chest. Over the fallen body he saw Komra, still walking away. Without stopping to wonder how the lady had got past the manic, he hurried after her.

When Komra turned the second corner, Silken was slightly more conscious of the risk involved in following. He even recognized that the corner she turned was not one he knew, for all that he had explored every nook and cranny in the neighbourhood. Therefore, he had Kiss-and-Tell waiting as he approached the shadow that had swallowed her.

Within he found a swordsman at ready. A few quick parries revealed that the new foe was no clumsy manic. Also, Silken sensed something familiar about his opponent's style of fencing. He was much distracted with trying to discern a face through the gloom. Perhaps this was an enemy he had fought before. But the darkness was too thick. Silken could see nothing of the features but a pale blur streaked with shadows. He fought on.

Komra waited patiently a little ways beyond, a glimmer of light wrapped around her like a veil, her head slightly cocked as though she listened to some secret whispering. Glimpsing from the corner of his eye the sheen of her hair, Silken suffered a pang of urgency. Furiously he worked his trickiest and most favourite feint-and-thrust upon this man who dared to stand between him and the lady.

There was a husky chuckle from his shadowy foe. "Take care, Charmer. You've tried that one on me before, I think." The favourite thrust was turned aside. The weakness it had left in Silken's defence was explored with a gleaming blade.

The Charmer wiggled and twisted in a movement graceful enough, but not recommended in any fencing manual. He escaped, therefore, with but a small slash across his right shoulder. With matchless dexterity he tossed Kiss-and-Tell to his left hand. And before his opponent had time to rearrange the angle of his defence, he sprang forward in a perilous, all-or-nothing stop thrust.

The point sank deep and the blue of Silken's tunic was splattered with scarlet. With a sort of respect, he knelt beside his victim to learn just whom he had defeated. But as he leaned forward to gaze into the face, a rustle caught his ear and he looked up.

With great delicacy, Komra adjusted her wrap more warmly against the night chill. She stepped around a greasy looking puddle and walked away. A faint tinkling drifted behind her from the jewels in her ears. With a soft sound almost like a cry, Silken rose up and continued after her.

It was with some trepidation that he watched her approach yet a third corner that had never before existed in Sawr Even. Turning it in her wake, he gasped. What exactly it was he did not know. But it was very large and shapeless, and appeared to be armour plated. Thick slime oozed from between its scales. The stench was incredible.

The thing filled the narrow street so completely that there was no passing it, yet nonetheless Komra had passed it. She stood quietly behind, awaiting her escort. Silken wondered wildly if she had somehow climbed over it.

The thing humped and raised up a bulge that might have been its head, then reared and glowered over him. He retreated a step and prodded it tentatively with Kiss-and-Tell. Much as he had expected, the blade slid gently off the invulnerable hide. Despite its complete lack of a face, the thing managed to look surprised at Silken's presumption.

With an ugly grating, it half rolled, half lurched in his direction. The bulge proved indeed to be its head by gaping suddenly to reveal an alarming collection of teeth. Above the mouth glinted two dusky slits, which Silken presumed to be its eyes. Lacking any other worthwhile target, he thrust into one of them.

The creature fell back with an ear-splitting, mind-splintering howl. From the wound gushed liquid filth, steaming and viscous. For an instant the blood—if blood it was—curdled and boiled. Then it thickened along the nearest scales. The thing reared up again with both of its eyes gleaming anew. The Charmer had succeeded only in making it angry.

The thing advanced slowly. He backed away, desperately seeking a potentially vulnerable spot, and came up hard against a wall that had mysteriously grown up behind him. In a fog of panic, he considered turning and battering it down before he suffocated in the awful smell of the creature's breath. Dropping Kiss-and-Tell, he caught up his dagger. With that he stabbed into the only break in the steely hide that he could see.

He wanted to scream at the sight of his own precious arm passing between the awesome incisors. He grew nauseated on touching the back of the mouth. In a kind of hysteria, he turned his hand and jabbed upwards toward the point where its brain must surely be lodged—if it had a brain, if its brain were not armoured also. He did scream as the great jaws started to close, in frantic anticipation of the pain to come.

The pain, when it did come, was not so bad as he had expected. Even as the agony wrapped scarlet around his bicep he sighed gratefully to himself, "It's only a torn muscle, it will heal." His fear still shrieked, "Why hasn't it chewed my arm off yet?" But the monster slumped and fell, taking Silken's arm—and hence Silken—with it. With some difficulty and much discomfort, he extricated himself from the corpse.

He was arranging a makeshift sling of strips torn from his cloak when a slight cough caught his ear. He looked up warily. Komra held a lacy kerchief to her nose against the odour of the slain beast. She stepped away. Silken giggled miserably at the thought she might turn yet another corner and lead him around four sides of a square.

But Komra walked directly forward toward a great archway. At her approach it filled with soft light. Beyond it, Silken glimpsed open spaces and green rustling leaves. A gentle breeze blew toward him laden with the scent of sweet grasses.

The Charmer moved to rise and pursue. And then he fell back. He did not want to pass through that arch. Its alluring promise seemed to him more intimidating than any of the dark and mutely threatening recesses he had encountered so far.

And most definitely, he did not want to follow Komra any further. No woman in the world could be worth the perils she was costing him. He could not even remember what she looked like. He had only caught that one brief glimpse of her face, back by the House of the Poor Man's Gold. It was not humanly possible that she could be as fair as she had seemed then. He returned his attention to his bleeding arm.

"Silken." Her voice was like a ripple in a quiet sea, and against his will he looked up to meet her eyes. She had turned to face him and stood—not entirely silhouetted—in the light of the archway. And she was indeed as beautiful as he remembered, and lovelier still than that. Sensuously virgin, arrogant yet tender, she was heartache personified. Surely in her arms all hurts would be healed, all ills made right. Hating himself yet compelled, he rose up.

In Sawr Even the night had been late, but beyond the arch it was but a few moments past sunset. The west was still gloriously streaked with purple and gold, the east a rich blue that hinted of perfection. A pale glow on the horizon marked where the moon would soon show, and a nightingale greeted its imminence deliriously. Silken repressed a shiver of fear, and tried to cast off his doubts in the face of so much beauty.

Komra strolled across a rolling meadow and down a gentle slope to a wooded dale. She paused to gaze at her reflection in a crystal pool. Silken laid a hand softly on her perfect shoulder. "Such a lovely place, Lady," he whispered. "Shall we linger here a while?" She turned and offered him her hand, which he raised to his lips.

"Ah, Silken," she murmured. "Think you even the dead can abide here?" The hand he held grew gnarled and arthritic, the silk and honey of her skin grainy and liver-spotted. Horrified he looked back to her face barely in time to catch the scorn lurking in her smile. Then the visage faded and turned haggard. The eyes glazed over and the jaw hung slack.

Silken had only to watch as the flesh rotted away, baring the skull here and there. The eyes melted and dripped. When she had decomposed to a skeleton she hung a moment in the air before she dissipated into dust. A breeze caught up her fragile remains and transported her away, back to her home of countless centuries and her pale lord's rewarding kiss.

Silken stood overwhelmed with loss, and gazed at the place where she had been. Then he sank to his knees by the side of the still-faced pool. His reflection peered tauntingly up at him. Even to himself he looked grimy and wretched, with the filth and strain of his recent battles carved across a face that was not remotely handsome. "Did you think you were a man for the ladies?" mocked his image. "Apparently some women would rather be dead."

He shook his head in a feeble attempt to retain his sanity. "Not all of them," he informed the face in the pool with barely a trace of his usual easy manner. "There are women enough who think a little more highly of me than that."

"Women enough," agreed his other self. "And they were richly rewarded for their confidence in you, were they not? Your kindness to women is famed in Sawr Even."

Silken opened his mouth to protest that he had been kind to his women, but the waters before him rippled. Instead of his own reflection he found himself gazing into a pretty tear-stained face he had almost forgotten. Behind her was another woman, gaudily dressed for a working night, and trying not to think of the day when she would no longer be desirable. And behind her was a third, bruised and battered from her husband's disapproval.

The pool flowed and shimmered with the images of girls that had come to bad ends or were going to. Silken had never bothered to know what might happen to them when he was not enjoying them. Then the pool was clear and empty, and reflected no more than the tawdry remains of a sunset that would never fade to peaceful darkness. The nightingale squawked harshly in the distance.

"Silken." The Charmer looked up wildly. Seated across from him on the opposite bank of the pool was a bent and white-haired figure. "Silken, do you remember me?"

"You are Hres," the Charmer answered softly, and then added in a wail, "You are dead."

"As is everyone you've met tonight." Hres sighed. "So, you do remember me. I had hoped you would not."

A warning of great hurt to come crept into Silken's mind. "How could I not remember you? After all the years you cared for me?"

"And how could you be as you are if you have not forgotten?" Hres sighed again, and a tear crept from his eye. "You were such a lovely child, Silken. I had hoped you would be a good man."

Unbidden there came to Silken's lips the ancient excuse of his childhood. "I try, Master, but I have no talent for it."

And as of old came the reply, "Perhaps not, Child, but you could try a little harder." The old man shook his head. "No, you could try more than a little harder. You have been steeped in bloodshed since the day we parted. I cannot rest easy in my grave."

The unfairness of the charge brought a cry to Silken's lips. "Why shouldn't you rest easy? I avenged you."

"Did I ask to be avenged, Child? Because my blood was unkindly spilled, needed you spill buckets more blood over the memory of my peaceful life? Was one lonely old man's death truly cause enough for the violence and destruction you wrought in my name? You did forget me, Silken, and that very quickly indeed. Else you could never have walked so cruel and bloody a road after my teachings. I am ashamed in the place where I now dwell."

Hres gazed at him with dull and grieving eyes until with a cry Silken shut his eyes tight and pulled his cloak over his head, desperate to escape the sight of that loving accusation. Hiding bought him no peace, for he carried the image with him. But when he lowered the cape from his face, Hres was gone, leaving only a desolation and loneliness far worse than any charge he might have levelled.

Gently the waters rippled. The naiad of the pool—whom some men named Futility—rose up, seeking a mortal's embrace, as naiads do.

Several worlds away in Sawr Even, Yevka woke suddenly to a misty night. She knew not what had waked her but was trembling in its wake. She found herself possessed by an impulse to fly out free into the moonlight and mist, far from the dingy room where she slept fitfully in attendance on her master's nightly whims.

Her master snored loudly. She cringed back into her heap of straw, clutching at the few more hours of rest before the daybreak and its thousand chores. But sleep snubbed her. So, she reached down into the straw where she had concealed her secret comfort, her golden amulet.

Tomorrow, she thought joyfully to herself, she would put it on, and wear his memory at her breast all day. And she would go in the evening to the House of the Poor Man's Gold. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be there, as he had not been tonight. It seemed as though the coin pulsed warmly at the blissful notion.

A chill blew imperiously by her from some hidden crack. She shivered and wrapped herself more snugly in the splendour of her thoughts, clasping her charm up close against her heart. Again, it pulsed, and the heat near burned her hand. She dropped it in astonishment. Rising to her knees she stared down bewildered at the fierce glow which rose up from the straw.

A whimper escaped her. Then fear passed away, for the coin was his token. That it should be wondrous and magical was only right and fitting. He was the only human being who had ever done her kindness. Surely no hurt could come to her through him.

So, she reached out her hand to claim the glory that was his gift. The tiny inferno nestled softly and harmlessly in her palm. The city outside her slavery beckoned and called. The fire in her hand strained to answer, and begged her to flee her master's house. Armed with a miracle, she obeyed.

She came first through familiar passages to the House of the Poor Man's Gold. She entered transformed, and walked quietly to the table where Windrider was entertaining two of the handsomest of the local girls with the most expensive of the local wines.

She marvelled briefly that she had ever been afraid of this man merely because he was immensely tall and broad-chested, more than a little heavily armed, and given to loud laughter. But she had an errand too urgent for thought. She cast aside reflections on her childish cowardice, and presented herself boldly for his inspection.

Windrider looked at her with mild surprise, and reached for the wine jug. Although Yevka was rather too plain for his taste, it was against his principles to let young women go thirsty. So, after he had consumed a healthy mouthful, he passed the jug over to the girl who stood so expectantly before him. Much to his surprise she spurned it impatiently. So he took another enormous sip, and waited to see what she wanted.

"You must come with me," she demanded in tones that brooked no refusal.

Windrider paused to reflect sadly that a new generation of women that knew nothing of subtle allure was growing up in Sawr Even. Then he gestured toward the lovelies that were giggling by his side. "I fear you must wait your turn," he informed her gently.

The girl seemed taken aback, and considered her reply for some while. "But Silken is in dreadful peril," she countered at last.

"He is," agreed Windrider gravely. "At this very moment I am thinking of dismembering him. He has unforgivably insulted this fair lady." Of his companions he indicated the redhead. "She has been waiting for him here all evening. I have been very hard pressed to console her for his rudeness."

"Silken is a cad," pouted the lady in question, nibbling affectionately on Windrider's ear.

Yevka swayed, assailed for an instant by all the old doubts and confusions. Then she clenched her fist tightly around her amulet. Hot strength flowed up her arm, and gave her cunning. She grabbed Windrider's precious wine jug and ran out of the tavern.

For that treasure he would have followed past the edge of the world. Yevka was not quick enough to evade him much past the door, even with time out for angry spluttering. Catching her arm, he righteously demanded the return of his property. She did not comply.

Instead she threw the jug down against the cobbles, smashing it into a thousand pieces. Windrider gasped in horror as the sweet tide poured luxuriantly down the street. He reminded himself with some difficulty that it was not his habit to mutilate women. It occurred to him he might be justified in making an exception of Yevka.

But when he turned furiously on her she was smiling up at him trustfully, without the smallest suspicion that he might be so cruel as to hurt her. Innocence had always had its effect on Windrider. With an unhappy resignation he inquired, "Why did you do that?"

"You must come with me," she explained patiently, relieved to have his full attention at last. She turned and walked away.

Windrider paused for thought. Then, with a shrug, he followed after her. "Where are we going?"

"To Silken," she informed him promptly.

Windrider had hoped for something a little more specific. "And where is Silken?"

Yevka considered at length. With some hesitation she finally replied, "Far away." And then more firmly she added, "In terrible danger."

"He always is," sighed Windrider. He wondered glumly what Yevka expected him to do about it if she could not tell him where to go.

His question was soon answered. Yevka turned suddenly and walked into a wall. Retreating a step, she examined it carefully until convinced of its solidity, whereupon she cast her eyes about in bewilderment. For guidance she lifted her clenched hand to her face and opened it, gazing into the soft radiance that burst forth. Then she raised her young star on high. Under that enchanted light, the thick and centuried stone melted to a mist and was gone.

Windrider paused only to reappraise Yevka with new respect. Then he entered the strangely revealed passage, which he observed to be partially blocked by the body of a dead manic. Yevka appeared undisturbed by the sight, and continued on, so he merely commented in passing, "It's sure enough that Silken's passed this way."

He had advanced but a few paces when he heard a rattling from behind. Glancing back, he was a trifle startled to see the supposed corpse climbing groggily to its knees. The manic, on spotting Windrider, emitted the hideous howl that passed among his kind for a battle cry.

Windrider reflected briefly on the personalities of manics he had known. Then—without waiting for the one before him fully to regain his feet—he chopped off first the hand grasping for the sickle and then the head. "Careless of Silken to leave that one alive," he murmured in apology to Yevka who was much annoyed at the delay.

She nodded abstractedly and darted ahead. "We have not much time," she called back anxiously. Windrider would have followed her regardless, but he could not help noticing that the wall had re-established itself behind them.

Forewarned by his previous experience, Windrider paused at the second corner to inspect the body. Little as Yevka might care for the waste of a minute, he intended to make sure that this one was dead before he turned his back on it. The limp form proved satisfactorily lifeless, but the examination brought Windrider no peace of mind.

"Name of the Hell Queen," he muttered in awe and a little dread. "This be Ebonlord, I'll swear to that. Yet how came he out of a three year grave as fresh as newly dead?"

As though in answer to his name, the swordsman opened his eyes and smiled. "Windrider, what brings you here?" he inquired politely. "You were not meant to pass this way tonight." With a sudden twist he escaped from a grip grown loose with surprise, and stood with his sword in his hand. "And so you shall not."

Windrider withdrew but a step, and unsheathed his own blade. "Better I should ask you, Ebonlord. I seem to recall a little duel you fought with Silken. It was my distinct impression he had slain you."

"Silken's made quite a habit of slaying me," commented Ebonlord with a smile. And then he added judiciously, "He's truly a beautiful swordsman, I must admit." With the words he aimed a vicious thrust toward Windrider's heart.

Windrider found his guard not as good as he had hoped, and parried more by virtue of his heavier sword than by his skilled defence. "I will tell him you said so," he informed his foe. "He will be most flattered to hear it."

Yevka danced impatience by the battle. "Windrider, we have no time for this brawling," she cried at last. "We must go to Silken."

Her companion was not thrilled by the interruption as it nearly cost him his life. He narrowly avoided a sword point in the eye by ducking, and mounted a furious attack to regain the ground lost while his attention wavered. "Lady," he replied with a hint of irritation, "I had best stay alive or I'll be of little help to him."

"But can't you stay alive more quickly?" she wailed. Prying up a loose cobble from the street, she shrieked at Ebonlord, "Why can't you just leave us alone, you bully?" She hurled the stone.

It passed within inches of Windrider's scalp and caught Ebonlord directly in the eye. It distracted him thoroughly. Windrider did not waste the opportunity of stabbing home (at a point not far from the wound that Silken had left) but he was nonetheless a little disappointed. "I wonder if I could have beaten him in a fair fight," he mused over the corpse.

"What's that matter?" demanded Yevka, tugging desperately at his arm. "We must go." Succumbing to her haste, Windrider was forced to content himself with the reflection that if Silken had been able to defeat Ebonlord (twice!) then surely, he could have done the same.

He could not move fast enough for Yevka. She matched his long strides with a run, and then ran faster than that, only to turn, distraught, and dash back to him, and exhort him to greater speed. Again, rushing on ahead, she found the narrow alley that was the third corner, and plunged into it.

Windrider approached the opening more cautiously, having acquired a powerful respect for strange corners. Even so, it was with some difficulty that he suppressed a retch at the sight and smell that greeted him. Yevka apparently possessed less delicate sensibilities. With no more complaint than a nose pinched between two fingers she was climbing clumsily over the hulk.

Windrider paused only to offer a small prayer that—whatever it was—it might stay dead, before moving to follow her example. It did not stay dead. Rather it reared up with a snuffling noise as though to inquire who dared disturb its eternal rest.

Yevka, still poised precariously on its topside, slid greasily down its back and landed in the passageway with a sticky thump. She leapt up, unaware of the bruises she had acquired and delighted to be past the obstacle so much more quickly than she had expected. She flew triumphantly toward the great archway. "Hurry, Windrider," she called eagerly. "We're almost there."

After a prolonged silence Windrider replied in breathless tones, "Lady, there may be a slight delay."

"But we have no time for delays," she cried frantically, darting back to the creature as if to push it out of Windrider's way. "Silken is dying."

She was answered by a series of grunts and thwacks from Windrider, who had not entirely given up hope of piercing the steely hide if only he put force enough behind his blows. Then he remarked uneasily, "Silken may not be the only one."

She waited twelve entire seconds, hopping desperately from one foot to another, clutching her amulet and moaning. Then she broke and ran back to the arch. Again, she paused in the hope that Windrider would join her. But the coin seared her hand with Silken's pain. There could be no waiting in the face of her need to find him before it was too late. She passed through the arch.

She gazed across the meadow, uncertain which direction to turn. Then she lifted her hand, palm upwards; and the brilliance that streamed forth was like moonrise come at last to the valley of despair. In but a heartbeat she had found her beloved's side.

Huddled and grey, he sat as one already dead, with his ragged blue cloak pulled about him against a chill that could not have been eased by all the furs and fires of Sawr Even. Futility nestled by him with her arms around his neck, stroking a cheek that grew colder with each touch, and whispering her sweetest promises into an ear that heard only the most awful of inner voices. Yevka stepped forward with magic in her hand.

The naiad cringed and howled at the blast of light across her twilight world. Then she fled back to the safe dark depths of her watery home, leaving only the ache of her dusky spell behind her. Silken sat unmoving, unaware that she had gone or Yevka come.

Yevka knelt beside him. She was bold beyond even the hungriest of dreams she had ever dared to dream in Sawr Even. She took his icy hand in hers and kissed it and laid it to her cheek. A tear or two splashed on numb fingers, which warmed not the slightest to their fall. With a deep sigh—not a sigh of regret or loss, but of fulfillment and a barren life made rich—she gave him her gift to help him in his need.

She had but one gift worth giving, the only thing she had ever possessed or valued in her life. So, she laid in Silken's unknowing hand all the glitter of the universe, all the glory of love itself, her golden amulet.

For an instant it blazed blinding. Even Silken's empty eyes were drawn and made aware. He grew almost warm enough to clasp its beauty a little closer. And then the glamour faded and grew dull; the wonder died.

In Yevka's hand the amulet had burned with her devotion, a fire fed only by the hopes she had never had. In Silken's hand it became but another coin like any other that might be tossed to a passing beggar or slave girl. His hand dropped back as listless as before. His eyes returned to view their secret agonies.

Without belief or understanding Yevka watched while the beat of her heart hammered through her throat and choked her breath. The scream emerged against her will, a thin high keening that had no beginning or end. Her cry declared the universe uninhabitable with Silken gone, the cosmos non-existent. She acknowledged her entire responsibility for his death; the enormity of her presumption and her failure overwhelmed her.

Dimly through her grief she heard footsteps rapidly approaching, but could not face the cosmic accusation lurking in any human countenance. Least of all could she face the huge and fearsome Windrider whom she had brought only to bear witness to his friend's tragedy. Still sobbing, she crawled out of sight.

So, when Windrider came guided by her wailing to seek for the mighty sorceress who had led him so far, he found her not. Instead he saw what Yevka had not spared a glance to notice. Pale and proud, Death stood like an ivory commandment with a hand extended to his prey. "Silken," he breathed in tones as tender as moonlight. "Silken, can you hear me?"

The Charmer did not even lift his head. "Yes, Master."

"And will you come to me now?" inquired Death gently, knowing the answer.

Silken lifted his eyes at the great lord's infinite mercy. With a sob of relief, he rose and reached to clasp the proffered hand. "Yes, Master."

Windrider stood an instant, appalled and uncomprehending. Then his voice rose up in a roar of rage and denial. "NO!" he shrieked—to Death, to the valley, to anything that dared to injure anyone he loved. He flung himself forward. Not lunatic enough to tackle slender Death, he threw himself instead at Silken and hurled him violently to the ground before that dreadful touch could happen.

He wrapped an iron arm around his friend's throat, dragging him up. And he ran. He ran, hauling after him Silken who scrabbled and kicked and clawed. He ran mindlessly from the power that stood behind and watched his flight with interest.

Death raised his voice to a whisper. "Windrider," he called. The soft summons pierced Windrider's heart and chilled his raging blood. His footsteps faltered, and he yearned to gaze back to the glittering eyes that held his name.

With a tongue-choked howl, Silken convulsed. And Windrider's grave-ridden thoughts fell back to his thrashing burden. Gathering up his friend's flailing limbs, he tore free from Death's charms, and fled back to the great stone wall with its archway that led to reality.

Bursting through, he collapsed beneath the morning drizzle in an alley behind the House of the Poor Man's Gold. There he sat some while, clinging against the echo of Death's call to Silken, who shuddered and wept in his arms.

Death closed his eyes in deep consideration. He guessed by the taste in his mouth that some power other than himself had interfered in the night's events. With some curiosity he turned to regard the pawn that had foiled him.

Yevka snuffled and hiccupped in self-abasement. Ever hungry for affection, the naiad curled beside her in sisterly embrace. And Yevka—who knew Futility from a thousand dreamed encounters—did not pull away, but attended humbly to her inhuman comfortings. Death meditated a moment before claiming his prize. "This be an ill place for such as you to linger," he remarked at last. "Would you not rather come with me, Child?"

She grovelled hopelessly at his feet and whined in misery, "Lord, I am not worthy."

"Unworthy even to die?" smiled Death. "Surely there be none so poor and undeserving as that."

Yevka raised her eyes an inch from the ground. Blissfully, and for the first time, she saw herself loved and wanted and cared for. Awed by her great fortune, she gazed adoringly at Death who bent down tenderly to kiss her cheek.

Bathed and rested, with their wounds bound up in an appropriately conspicuous fashion, Silken and Windrider sauntered into the House of the Poor Man's Gold. Despite Windrider's extensive expenditures on the previous evening, they were not entirely without funds. Silken—true to his nature even after his ordeal—had somehow found a gold piece clutched conveniently in his hand.

"Not every man can keep his eye to what's important in the face of Death," opined Windrider, who was not embarrassed to voice his honest admiration of a deed well done.

"I try to maintain my standards," purred Silken smugly. He tossed the coin to the innkeeper who received it graciously. The glint of flashing gold caught several feminine glances, so that the wine and the women arrived together.

In the Dance of Lightyears

Mike Jansen (Netherlands)

My name is Jeeza Tillari Pradash

And I have been found guilty.

Three hundred and twelve years ago we left Sol in our hollowed out asteroid. Nearly half way to our destination, Proxima Centauri, we rammed an unusually large chunk of space debris. No calamity, our rock is many miles long, wide and high, with a fairly pointed bow. We lovingly call our rock 'Potato'; it can handle a bit of punishment. Just not too much.

My task as supervisor of the Mechaniki repair team – Mechaniki being much more aesthetically pleasing than the 'Robot' of our ancestors – was the demanding task of inspecting the bow. People did not have the strength and agility of a mechanika; however, we were better at discovering problems at an early stage and taking appropriate precautions.

The impact of the space debris registered in Shipnet as an eight-megaton blast, one of the strongest ever. In several of the forward compartments of the ship hairline fractures had developed, allowing precious air to slowly leak away.

My team and I left the airlock near one of the front observation domes. Pieces of rock blasted through antennas here. Twisted machinery slowly revolved, still attached to scorched electrical wiring. Many of the lights that illuminated the surface were gone or did not work. In the dark, star light provided just enough to cast thin shadows behind hardly visible rocks.

I ordered my mechaniki to spread out in a half circle around me to clean up the mess and to salvage any loose scrap metal. Although Potato used to be filled with ores, it was now empty, and metal was precious.

I sent my suit forwards the inspect the damage. Instinctively I shot my anchor hooks in suitable rocks. The slight acceleration and sizeable mass of Potato caused just enough gravity to not float out into space, as long as you followed protocol and controlled the force of your movement.

The space debris hit Potato frontally and the crater was an oval shape, more than three hundred yards across and some thirty yards deep. The surface was vitrified. In several places there were near invisible cracks through which I occasionally noticed, in my suit's bright light, puffs of vapor escape.

Mentally I inventoried the amounts of borosilicate-gel that were needed to close off these cracks. I also considered ways to reinforce the surrounding area in such a way that a future head on collision would not result in a hull breach and perforation of our limited living space.

Alpha-Chi 24, my favourite mechanika, joined me. I showed the problem areas and explained my wishes; meticulously because the cognitive abilities of our mechanical sidekicks were hardly those of a human child. Artificial Intelligence was little more than a promise when we left. Aboard the ship there was insufficient talent for further development.

My suit reminded me that my work shift was nearly done. "Extend this shift," I said. "Too much to do." _And a good excuse not having to go back inside._ Potato may be our temporary home, but we lived in crowded apartments, too many people close together, just before the ion drives.

On a rock with a good view of the crater I anchored myself and signalled my team that they could commence repairs.

"In style, miss Pradash?" Alpha-Chi 24 asked.

"Of course. Where would we stand without aesthetics?"

"Your team is quite enamoured with the high level of efficiency of your method."

"Thank you, Alpha-Chi 24. My mother called it dancing. It's a shame your movements are still somewhat stiff."

"We aim for perfection."

Was I imagining a sardonic note? I nodded softly. "Inasmuch as a repair mechanika can achieve that. Unfortunately, you were built to do heavy lifting and finesse was of lesser concern."

"Quite unfortunate, miss, quite unfortunate."

That ended our conversation. I still wondered how Alpha-Chi 24 had learned to communicate like this. One of my ancestors may have had sufficient knowledge to reprogram the mechanika's brain. _Five generations. A lot has happened in that time. We once lived in the great central hall. These days that, as well as the officer's quarters, were the sole terrain of managers, their families and offspring. I was not one of those._

Listening only to my own breathing I observed the mechaniki's dance as they poured borosilicate gel and anchored steel rebar in Potato's rocky surface.

#

My name is Tiffany Anselmus Epitrea

And I have been found guilty.

The light of the los-radio inside my helmet blinked. I activated it using a sub vocalized command.

"Why is your team acting like that?" A woman's voice.

I looked around. Los-radio only worked when you could see each other. On the other side of the crater, hardly visibly in the faint star light, I saw two figures; one human in a space suit and a mechanika.

"They're dancing. I use it to teach them to be more economic with time and movement."

"Brilliant. Wait, I'm coming over." With slow, deliberate steps the woman walked in my direction. She seemed unskilled with the anchor hooks, as if she rarely got out.

Not fair, that's most everybody. Be happy your family has always managed the repair teams.

"Careful," I said. "The ground is slippery and hard from the impact."

"Thanks, I'll take care." No sooner had she said it when she tripped and fell up a few yards.

At full alert I stood up, until I noticed her secondary anchor still attached to the asteroid. She used it to return to Potato.

"Have you come to take my place?" I asked. "Did my message that I'm working late not get through in time?"

The woman floated upwards onto my rock until she stood before me. In the light of my suit I saw a pale face with large eyes behind the visor. "No. I'm here for my sanctions. I have to assist you for the duration of one month."

I blinked a few times. "No one told me."

"The verdict was less than an hour ago. The judge thought I should not waste any time."

"This is quite unusual."

The other woman sighed. "You can say that again."

I stared at her face. She looked familiar. "Who are you? Do I know you?"

"Tiffany Epitrea, pleased to meet you."

I nearly fell backwards from the rock. "The Captain's daughter?"

"Yes, that one." She sighed again.

The daughter of the highest-ranking officer. Here on the bow? What does it mean?

"Can I ask why you...?"

"My father wants me to learn a woman's profession, as he calls it. And to marry the son of an officer. And to deliver a few kids."

"And you don't want that?"

"I want to program. Zeta-Zeta 8, dance!" The mechanika beside her started to dance to silent music in her own particular rhythm.

"Logics programmer is a lowly position. You're prepared to give up the officer's privileges?"

"What good are those if they don't make you happy?"

"If you've ever spent some time in the Lower City, you would talk differently."

"Do you live there?"

"Yes, I live there. It's not easy. But, to business. What exactly are these sanctions?"

Tiffany hesitated. "My father has decided I should try my hand at some professions. I've worked in the filter house; waste recycling and I've done elder care." Her mechanika joined the others and helped fix rebar.

"Those are some of the filthiest and heavy professions. Haven't you changed your mind yet?" One look at her face told me everything. "And now you've been sent outside. Because only few people dare go out to confront the endless void.

"Poetic, probably correct." Behind her visor Tiffany's smile bared her teeth.

"You even talk like a logica." _She's young, careless, privileged. But there's something about her, a spark._ "What do you think you can learn here?"

Tiffany did not hesitate. "Whatever you wish to share."

"I guide the repair team's mechaniki. In fact, I program them. Did your father know my work is exactly the kind of thing you're interested in?"

Tiffany laughed. "I don't think his screens mentioned that."

"Hmm, I wonder who's going to assist who." Her humour and good spirits were catchy, and her presence made me feel good. "Can I ask you one more question?"

"Sure," Tiffany said.

"Why did you... did your father pick me? I mean, from hundreds of thousands of people."

Tiffany lifted her right arm and pointed at a command tower that was positioned inside a protruding rock. "From there I've often watched you work. I was curious."

We then spent hours programming the mechaniki while we talked about life aboard Potato and the stories we heard about Earth with its oceans and blue skies.

#

When I heard you, I wanted to see you.

When I saw you, I wanted to feel you.

When I felt you, I wanted to hold you.

Now that I'm holding you,

I want never less.

When she stepped out of her space suit I knew I needed to spend more time with her. I felt my cheeks burn when my thoughts turned sinful. I looked towards the keepers who patiently waited for us to hand over the suits for cleaning and maintenance. They seemed uninterested.

Outside of her suit Tiffany moved with grace in Potato's low gravity. Every move was controlled, and a mysterious smile was always on her lips and in her eyes. They were dark brown, mirrors so deep that I could lose myself in them.

"Have you ever been to the Lower City?" I asked.

Tiffany shook her head. "I was never allowed to tag along. My brothers did go."

"What time do you have to be home?"

"Not sure. My father never mentioned if my sanctions were only during work time or continuous."

"Smart girl. Come?"

Tiffany reached her right hand at me. I took it, expected electricity and was not disappointed. She felt it too; I noticed the blush on her cheeks.

"Tiffany?"

"Yes?"

I looked away. "No, never mind." I looked back again. "Come on, let's go."

Together we departed the air lock section and I showed Tiffany around. For hours we strolled past bars, vidpalaces and gambling dens. We chatted, admired, explored and experienced the excesses of the Lower City. It was at once exciting and dramatic as well as scary and weird.

Much too fast we bonded, literally and figuratively, until we walked through the streets with arms linked, well aware of the looks people gave us. Down here it was tolerated. In the officer's quarters and the administrative sections public display of affection between similar genders was explicitly prohibited. Relations between men or between women were punished according to laws that had been in effect for over three generations. That notion added an element of danger that only enticed us more.

That sleep shift we were in each other's arms, careful, exploring, seducing, delightful, affectionate and completely enamoured.

The next few days went by in a blur. We worked together in the crater in the bow, repairing; my team and her mechanika integrated perfectly and the dance became more practiced and smooth. Side by side on the rock we could watch it for hours.

After work we visited our favourite hangouts and drank synthetic alcohol mixes with exotic names. Our sleep shifts were feasts of touching, feeling and enjoying one another. Oh, the joys of holding a warm, sleeping body in your arms, how quick you get used to it.

Work progressed well, too well. I knew what came. A goodbye, a parting of our souls, she would go back to the officer's quarters and I would remain in my tiny apartment in the Lower City.

Perhaps it's for the best. We're so different, maybe too different. One day we'll run into the wrong person, someone with the authority and harshness to report us. And that would be a one-way ticket to the air lock.

"I have to leave," Tiffany said. We sat on the rock at the bow and looked out at the crater that was now covered with a steel rebar mesh covered in borosilicate gel, stronger now than ever before and capable to withstand the next impact.

"I expected as much.

"If you want me to stay, I'll stay."

My throat dry I said: "I want you to go. I want you to live your life in pure air, in the parks and gardens of the great central hall, in the immaculate surroundings of the officer's sections."

I heard the sob in Tiffany's voice. "I'll miss you, Jeeza, my love." She got up. "Can I leave Zeta with you? She likes it here, with the others."

"They're mechaniki, Tiff. They have no feelings."

"Me neither, Jeeza. Farewell." After those words she drifted down from the rock. _Ancestors, I feel terrible right now. Tiff..._

#

See this silver palace, its fountains of champagne,

Beds of golden brocade, food worthy of the Gods,

This paradise I offer you, if only you'll listen and obey,

Woman.

The message appeared just before the end of my shift. I ordered the mechaniki to return to their maintenance rooms and do a full inspection for any damage.

Inside my helmet the message was projected with a bright, red frame around it signalling the sender was a high-ranking officer. Curious I told the suit to open the message itself.

Dear Miss Jeeza Tillari Pradash,

In the past month you have allowed my daughter to learn the noble task of bow repairs. I would like to express my gratitude for that. This message however, has a different purpose. I would like to invite you for a conversation in my quarters, at your earliest convenience.

Respectfully,  
J.T.H. Epitrea, Captain

My calendar showed three options. All I needed to do was accept one. The first one would be in an hour. I accepted it.

The moment I accepted I felt my stomach cramp. _An audience with the Captain. Did it concern Tiffany? She was mentioned. Stop worrying, get to work!_

A half hour later I had showered and put on the bow-repair uniform, a tight-fitting black coverall with three narrow silver bands on my upper arms. I was no less nervous.

The access gates for the officer's sections opened at my approach. I had been granted access. As I walked through the quiet corridors, guided by lights in the floors and walls, past halls and gateways, I only ran into others rarely. Whenever I passed an officer I felt watched, disapproval at me being on forbidden terrain _. What am I doing here? Why was I invited?_

The Captain's quarters were roughly circular, with one half opened towards Potato's outside and a view of interstellar space.

I was seated in a chair across from his desk. The Captain looked dignified, his short, grey hair, clear gray eyes, a dark moustache and a flawless, light skin. On his chest several medals were fixed to his uniform, colourful stripes of courage, determination, thoroughness and leadership. His voice was calm, dark and harmonious. "Miss Pradash. The pleasure is all mine." He nodded, which I considered consent to express myself.

"Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, your excellence, although I do not know why I am here."

The Captain folded his hands and observed me. "Your work has been brought to my attention, amongst others by my daughter. Of course, I've checked your backgrounds and I have concluded that your family, in some respects, belongs to a lower officer's class that has somehow been forgotten. Were you aware of this?"

I shook my head. "No, I've never heard anything about that, from my parents or grandparents."

"It's a glitch in our system. We still find some, even if it has been so efficient and useful in the past three generations. It does solve an interesting challenge." He smiled and at that moment seemed more predator than human.

"A challenge?" I asked.

"Hmhm. My family was, even before our departure from Earth, an amalgamation of several families. On board this has only been intensified to the point that my son cannot find a suitable spouse amongst the officers. And a Lower City girl is beneath him."

What does it mean? What does he want?

The Captain breathed deep, as if he needed to say something inconvenient. "There is a bloodline in the Lower City that apparently hails from lower ranking officers. The bow inspectors. Of which you are one of the current iterations."

I felt my mouth open, pure astonishment, and then I closed it again. "Can I... can I ask what exactly it is you're trying to tell me?"

The Captain pursed his lips. His moustache moved nervously. "A marriage. To clean up the bloodlines. The ship's brain tells me there's a ninety percent chance of a malformed or handicapped child if we select from the currently available female candidates. I would say it's an excellent opportunity for you."

_That means I could be with Tiffany!_ My first thoughts were with her, was that odd? I don't know. "It is indeed," I said while I clenched the armrests. "What happens next?"

"Well, if you say yes, my title of Captain allows me to formalize the wedding and after that we can visit your new husband."

"Doesn't your son need to sign as well?"

The Captain laughed. "Recent laws state that the Captain and the male line of succession are all Captain. So I would be signing for myself, really."

I was confused. "This is all very fast, your Excellence. Could I be given some time to consider this?"

"Our appointment is another ten minutes, so no rush."

Quickly I connected to the ship's network. Tiffany's brother, Marcus, was sort of good looking, although he had a weak chin and a bad skin. I noticed the thoughts of Tiffany distracted me more than I could muster interest in her brother. _Is it worth it, Jeeza? You sell your soul and freedom for a gold cage. But oh, that sweet seduction called Tiffany, so close, I would give anything for her._ "I accept your proposition, your Excellence."

"I now sign the marriage certificate. Your voice is of course recorded and added to this document as your approval." He got up slowly and gave me a brief nod. "Welcome in our little family, Jeeza Tillari Epitrea-Pradash." He walked around his desk and beckoned me to follow.

We walked through corridors until we reached a private section of Potato. These were the Captain's quarters, seen only by a privileged few aboard the ship.

In one of the suites we met Marcus Epitrea. He lounged on a massage couch that activated his muscles, a necessity in the low gravity.

"Son, I congratulate you. She'll make a fine wife."

Marcus looked up at his father uninterested, then at me with a little more interest. "So, you're supposed to deliver healthy offspring? I hope we can make it work."

"If need be take a pill, son," the Captain said. "She is compatible, and her blood line is pure enough." He raised his finger threateningly. "It's your duty."

"Yes, father," Marcus said meekly.

Right then the door slid open and Tiffany walked in. My heart skipped a few beats when I saw her tear-filled eyes and my stomach turned when I saw her expression change the moment she saw me.

"Tiffany," the Captain said, "you remember Jeeza, right? Of course, you do. She just married your brother to produce some guaranteed healthy heirs."

Tiffany bowed her head and swallowed a few times. "Yes, Captain."

The Captain looked at me and said: "As long as her brother was not married, I had an option to enter into a contract with one of the families. That option no longer exists, meaning that she will now get married."

"Who did you choose?" Tiffany said, her voice a whisper.

"The ship doctor's middle son."

Tiffany clearly shivered. "How could you, father? Most officers' sons are creeps, but he is the worst."

The Captain shrugged. "Our contract strengthens de ruling lines. Realize, daughter, that in five generations we will reach our destination and we are determined to continue our family's good fortune. You shall not obstruct that." His voice was cold as he said this.

"When do we formally announce it? Will it be a joint statement?" Marcus Epitrea said.

"The invites are ready. Tomorrow late in the afternoon in the Central Hall. All officers' families will be present." The Captain nodded at Tiffany. "Show her the ropes. Marcus, tomorrow you can take her with you, as soon as the formal announcement is finished." After those words the Captain departed.

"Tiff," Marcus said. "Be a dear and take your new in-law to her quarters and help her get settled."

#

Who decides the order of man, woman, child?

Who will group them, man, woman, child?

Who shall decide love between people?

Who will be your master, if you consent?

The officer's quarters were spacious. Rooms and corridors, enough space for dozens if not hundreds of people. Tiffany went ahead, silent, blushing, until we reached a double door with the Captain's logo on it. She halted and turned around. I saw her eyes were red.

"Tiffany."

She put her finger on my mouth. "Shh..." With her other hand she touched the ID panel and the doors opened. She took my hand and pulled me inside. Her room was about as big as my entire apartment. It was stylish and efficient.

We sat on her couch and Tiffany dimmed the light.

"What have you done, Jeeza?" she said softly.

"What I thought I needed to do," I answered, hesitating, because I heard disapproval in her voice. "I will give anything to be with you."

Tiffany slowly shook her head. "Crazy woman, with all your freedom you allow yourself to be locked in a cage, with gold shackles that you can never escape."

"If that is the price to pay for us, we two, then I will pay it gladly." I caressed her cheek with my left hand, feeling the tears. "I love you, Tiffany. I can't help it."

"Neither can I, Jeeza," she said. Suddenly she was very close. I smelled her light, sweet scent and soon her lips found my lips. I got lost in the moment, like it was the first time I ever kissed her. And after that...

That night we slept in each other's arms, our naked bodies close. I considered our future, ways to keep our relation a secret. What to do with our roles in the complex hierarchy of Potato while trying to spend as much time together as we could.

That's why I was wide awake when a dozen enforcers stormed into Tiffany's suite. I felt a primordial fear, paralysing. The best I could do was curl up into a tight ball and hope that they would not see me.

Painful electric shocks from tasers hit us and we lost consciousness.

I woke up on a cold floor. Slowly I opened my eyes. Bright light came from several directions around us. The first I saw was Tiffany's pale face, less than half a yard away, a black spot on her left cheek all the way up to her eye.

I realized there was someone else there, somewhere behind me. With great effort I turned around and looked up into the face of the Captain. His moustache quivered, his eyes were dark, and his face was an angry mask.

"Good, you're awake."

I moaned. My muscles ached as if they had cramped. I remembered electric shocks. "Why are we here?"

The Captain waved at one of the walls on which an image appeared of a bed with two naked women on it. After that an image of the same women, arms linked, in the streets of the Lower City. Kissing women, caressing women, affectionate women, women in love. Tiffany and me. Me and Tiffany.

"Our laws are strict. Harsh but justified, necessary for the wellbeing of the human race. Deviation from the norm cannot be tolerated. It was the choice of the original colonists to base our laws on that. One of our laws explicitly states that it is illegal for people of the same gender to have relations." He looked like he tasted something filthy. "Let alone sexual relations."

"Why does that even matter?" I whispered.

"You are an outsider. You have no idea the amount of trouble you cause me, woman. If this had become public... And Tiffany should have known better. I blame her the most." Captain Epitrea's face turned red with anger. "I am the Captain of this ship. I see everything. And I uphold the law. Even if it involves my own family. Especially with them. And you know the punishment for same sex relations."

My chest felt like a block of ice at his words. My breath was ragged. "If you need to punish someone, take me. Tiffany is your daughter, your child, she's too young."

"Save your pleas. She has caused nothing but trouble. This incident is not unique. I hoped a man in her life would change her. Now I know she's vermin. And this sort of deviant behaviour calls for extermination."

"What... what happens now?"

"The usual punishment for a crime of this severity. We're in the air lock and in ten minutes I will personally and gladly perform the execution."

"You're making a mistake. Your own daughter."

"She is no longer my daughter. Whoever marries my son and grants me grandsons, her I will call daughter." After these words he turned around and left through the opposite door of the air lock. On the wall he left a glowing red digital clock that began counting back from ten minutes.

I looked around carefully. We were in one of the air locks that opened to outer space. I crawled over to Tiffany and pulled her against me. The pain in my muscles was almost too much. Her body was covered in welts and bruises where tasers had discharged.

"Tiff, wake up." I took minutes for her to sluggishly open her eyes.

"Jeeza, I'm cold, everything hurts."

"I know, sweet, I know." _Should I tell her? Was there a way out? And what if there was? Potato was not big enough, the number of hideaways limited, especially if we were hunted._

Four more minutes.

"I love you, Tiff."

"Love you too, Jeeza." Tiffany still sounded half unconscious.

I pushed her head gently against my shoulder and softly caressed her hair while I hummed a lullaby.

Two more minutes.

"Tiffany, will you hold me tight? As tight as you can?" She seemed asleep, but I felt her arms fold around my rib cage and she pulled me close to her. "Whatever happens, my love, I will never let you go." I put my own arms and legs around Tiffany and softly kissed her lips.

One more minute.

"It took me years to find the courage to meet you on the bow," Tiffany whispered.

"You timed it just perfect, love. Stay with me, stay with me forever."

"Yes, I will."

The clock showed zero and the air lock opened. A giant hand lifted us up and threw us outside. Tiffany held on tight and so did I. In space nobody heard us.

Tiffany. And the stars. All was well.

#

Our identifications are  
Alpha-Chi 24 and Zeta-Zeta 8,

Mechaniki, responsible for bow repairs.

Whenever our services are not needed,

We dance.

We've done that for over a century.

Our neural nets equate the dance with pleasure,

Although that is not the right word.

It is so much more.

Why we do it, we do not know.

It's just part of our program.

Nothing we can do about it.

None So Blind as Those Unseen

Richard Zwicker (USA)

Can you do anything for me?" I asked. My plaintive tone must have sounded incongruous, coming from a seven-foot, flat-headed man. In contrast, Dr. Arensdorf was short and pudgy, with a forehead that reached to the top of his skull. As he studied my face, he seemed detached from the rest of the world.

"I normally deal in noses." His ad stated he'd spent a year in India, learning rhinoplasty techniques. A mounted map of the country, a jewelled statue of an elephant, a stuffed cobra, snake, and a painting of the Taj Mahal adorned his cluttered office.

I often wondered how my life might have been different had Victor given me a more pleasing appearance. I could have married, raised a family, and not killed my creator. But I always arrived at the same answer: I am what I am. Rather than take an innocuous name, I took the label people pressed upon me: Frankenstein, reinvented myself as a consulting detective, and tried not to dwell on what I couldn't change. But the newspaper ad had caught my attention.

"Do you use those?" he asked, pointing to the bolts protruding from both sides of my neck.

"Not since I was animated," I said. "I'm reluctant to remove them, however, in case I ever need another jolt."

He scratched his cleft chin. "I can soften the flatness of your head and cover some scars." As I hesitated, he added, "You would be closer to normal."

That was what I wanted yet hearing him say "closer to normal" reminded me of what I'd never be.

"I'll think about it," I said.

As I left, he pressed an ornately lettered card into my hand.

Back in my office, I glanced through the newspaper to confirm the publication of my own advertisement. I found it on page 3, surrounded by ads for knives, stoves, and nails, and a couple of articles. One cursed the problem of thieving gypsies. The other related how two mansions in the city had been burnt down under suspicious circumstances. Perhaps I could find work looking into that. Then again, fires were not uncommon in Geneva, and they weren't my favourite thing.

The wind shrieked outside, its fist smashing against my windows. My door swung open, and in its wake stood a sad-eyed man with curly dark hair and a short moustache. He wore a ruby red vest over a white-collared shirt. His teeth were clenched, as if to prevent the escape of heat. He looked me over.

"You must be Frankenstein."

"I must be."

"My name is Conrad Hausler. I own a successful jewellery business." He paused when I didn't respond. "The problem is my daughter, Adele, who has disappeared." He showed me a drawing of an attractive, young woman with long dark hair and a haughty expression, wearing a clinging dress.

I nodded. "I could help you find her."

He frowned. "I don't need help with that. She's at home."

Sometimes Geneva's extreme weather left even its wealthier residents addled. "I don't understand."

"Due to an accident, she's become literally invisible."

I folded my arms. "In that case, you'd better start at the beginning."

He winced, as if the beginning was the worst part.

"My daughter Adele is 17 years old," said Hausler, "and quite striking, at least she was when you could still see her. She attracted plenty of attention and had her pick of normal, promising lads. Instead she picked Griffin, who is insane."

"How does he manifest his handicap?"

"I knew from the start that he was trouble. First, he's fifteen years older. Second, he has crazy ideas about how everyone—the richest man to the poorest homeless person, should be equal. Third, he's a scientist. I think he saw my daughter as an experiment."

"You said she became invisible."

"After about a month, Griffin didn't want to see her anymore. I said, 'Good. We finally agree on something.' But that just made Adele more determined. She kept finding pretexts to meet him, until finally, he lost his temper and tossed a vial of his invisibility solution at her."

"This is something he developed?"

"Yes."

I'd heard theories of a solution that refracted light, rendering invisibility, but I'd never given them much credence. "Do you know where he lives?"

Hausler shook his head. "He fled shortly after dousing my daughter. She says the effect is temporary, but it's been a week, and she is still completely invisible."

"Do you know if he ever doused himself?"

"Regularly. He uses invisibility to practice his main source of income, which is theft."

"Mr. Hausler, I'm not sure what you want me to do. Geneva has scientists that could possibly help your daughter."

"This man has damaged her reputation. He'd like to turn Swiss society upside-down. He's a threat to the upper class. I want him brought to justice."

I doubted there was a law against turning people invisible, and I knew there wasn't one against men compromising women's honour. Griffin's capture wouldn't restore Adele's name.

"How is he a threat to the upper class?"

"Adele has repeated his rants against us, that we should surrender our wealth to the poor, after all the work I've done to get ahead. Can you imagine the havoc an invisible man could impart on the wealthy?"

"But as far as you know, he's done nothing except talk about it."

"I told you, he is a thief."

"I can try to find him, but it seems the only crime he's committed against you directly is make your daughter invisible. If your daughter reappears in the meantime, I don't see what he can be prosecuted for, unless he's caught in the act of stealing."

He levelled a glare at me. "I'm the one who wants to hire you. Are you interested or not?"

If Adele did not reappear, then this Griffin should be held responsible. I thought of the many times I wished I were invisible, but I couldn't imagine it as a permanent condition. And Adele was at an age where, above all, she would want to be seen.

"I will take the case."

"Thank you. Here's a drawing of Griffin."

It was actually a drawing of his clothes, which completely covered him. These included a black bowler hat, facial bandages, dark glasses, a long overcoat and white gloves. He looked like a bit of a dandy, and I thought, here is the one time where clothes definitely made the man.

"How did you get this?" I asked.

"Adele has artistic talent. She drew both pictures."

"Tell me more about her."

Hausler shook his head. "She's my youngest. I have two older sons that work in my business. They are married and live in the city. I never worry about them, but Adele has given me nothing but consternation. She's impulsive and thinks that life is about doing what you want. Unless you discredit Griffin, I don't know how she'll ever marry."

"Did you have some prospects in mind?"

"We've tried to set her up with several responsible, pious, hardworking men, but Adele automatically rejects anyone we suggest."

"And chooses mad scientists instead."

Hausler scratched his bushy eyebrow, leaving its hairs sticking outward.

"I believe she bases her choices solely on what would most disappoint us."

I doubted that, but that was probably a fringe benefit. After Hausler accepted my fee, I asked to meet Adele.

Faded pink curtains lined the one window in Adele's bedroom. The wallpaper was sea green with small swirls of white. An oak dresser, a large beech framed armchair, a dressing table and mirror, and a bookcase filled the room. On the shelves, in front of the books, which appeared to be mostly fairy tales and fantasies, perched six wide-eyed dolls. Adele sat sprawled on the armchair, though I could see only her white puffy skirt, a black top, and black boots. It was like looking at a clothes advertisement without a model. Her parents stood by the open door.

"Adele, what is your opinion of Jack Griffin?" I asked.

"I hate him." Her voice, for a girl, was low and almost masculine-sounding.

"Your father wants me to find him. Do you?"

"I don't care what you do."

From the anger in her voice, I guessed that she did. "You believe your invisible condition is temporary?" I asked.

"Jack had to re-inject and douse himself every so often to maintain the effect."

"Both?"

"Dousing covers the outside. If you don't inject, the organs are visible."

"So, Griffin did both to you?"

"Yes."

I could picture him dousing someone in anger, but injecting her as well made the action seem more calculated.

"Do you have any idea what was in the solution?"

"That's not the kind of thing we shared," she said coolly.

"Did he have any plans for his invisibility solution?"

She went silent for a moment. "He believes people are limited by their appearance. Invisibility liberates what's inside. But all I know of his plans is they don't include me."

"Has he any friends, besides you?"

"Not that I know of. He spent most days working in his rooms, but he often went out at night."

I tried to question Adele's mother, but she deferred to her husband in all matters. Hausler gave me Griffin's former address. Later, I would talk to the landlady. First, I needed to pay a visit to my assistant, Igor.

Igor could always be found in one of two places, the tiny room I subsidized for him, or somewhere else. I found him at home, laying in his customary position, in his bed, flat on his stomach. Because of his hunchback, he couldn't lay supine. He greeted me with his customary civility.

"Get out of here," he muttered, pulling his rumpled blankets over his head.

"If you don't want visitors, maybe you should lock your door."

"And worry about losing my key? I couldn't take the tension. What do you want?"

"I need your help. We have to find an invisible man."

"Haven't seen him," he deadpanned. "Though if I drink enough, I could see multiples of him at the same time."

I explained that that was, in effect, the direction I wanted him to go. If Jack Griffin went out a lot and tried to spread his philosophy on invisibility, his most willing listeners might be found at some of the same disreputable taverns Igor frequented.

"This man could be dangerous, so don't drink too much," I said.

"Don't worry," Igor said, gingerly lowering his legs to the floor. "I know my limit. I ought to. I've gone over it enough times."

You might wonder why I teamed up with someone like Igor. He had two indispensable qualities. My business brought me in contact with the dregs of society, a world Igor knew well. We both had our appearance problems, but at least I was tall and stood erect. Only in Geneva's underworld did no one care about Igor's physical defect. Despite his antagonistic tone, he possessed total loyalty to me, as he had to Victor. We were the only two people who'd entrusted him with important work, and while on the job, he rewarded us with complete effort.

I next visited Griffin's last address. The house was nestled on a quiet street, overlooking Lake Geneva. It surprised me that a scientist would choose to live in such a visually distracting place. Madame Leveque was a widow who rented out five of her rooms. She was a short, earnest-looking woman, about sixty years old. She insisted on making me some tea before she'd answer my questions. We sat in her kitchen.

"We get all kinds here, of course," she said, sipping from her steaming cup. "But I had little idea what all meant until I met Jack Griffin."

"Have you any idea where he went?"

"No, and I'd like to. He owes me for three weeks."

"What was he like?"

"I cook for my lodgers and generally we eat together. I like to get to know who I live with, even if it's temporary. Especially if it's temporary. But Griffin made no attempt to know anyone. He insisted I bring his meals to his room. He kept the door locked. At first I thought he was shy because he was a foreigner. He didn't speak French very well and had a thick English accent. Later, I learned he didn't care what anyone thought of him."

"Did he ever go out?"

"Rarely during the day. He often went out at night, however, and returned very late. A few times he brought a woman with him. I can just imagine what kind of woman it was, and I told him I didn't allow that sort of thing under my roof. He always apologized, but that had no effect on his behavior. My late husband Basil would have thrown him out, but I'm just an old lady and, well, I need the income."

"I'm curious about these women. Do you think they were different or the same one?"

She cupped her chin. "Now that you mention it, I think it was mainly one woman the last few weeks he was here. Several times they made a terrible racket, throwing things, raised voices, especially hers. This is a well-built house, but it doesn't take much to wake everyone up in the middle of the night."

"Did you hear anything that was said?" I asked.

"Well, I didn't want to hear anything in the wee hours, and her language was coarse, unlike Griffin's, who despite his lack of personality, could turn on the charm when necessary. I think she said something like, You can't discard me like a torn glove,' and 'Don't your words mean anything?"

"Not the type of thing a prostitute would say."

She shuddered. "I suppose not."

This supported Hausler's story that Griffin had tired of Adele. I asked if he'd left anything behind. She led me to a pantry. In a corner were three notebooks, some beakers, and a syringe. I leafed through the books, but they were written in a code of symbols that meant nothing to me. I pocketed the syringe, figuring it might possess a secret, then bid Madame Leveque good-bye and told her I'd be in touch about her lost rent if I located Griffin.

Despite my connection to Victor, my scientific knowledge was limited to that of a well-read layman. I knew a man who worked at the city hospital, however, and asked him to check the syringe.

The next morning a messenger delivered a note from Igor to my office. In scrawled, uneven letters, it said, "Griffin frequents the Schwartzpapagei." I wrote a message for Igor to meet me there that night at 8 PM.

For most things, Igor was late, but he was punctual on the job. The exception was when we were supposed to meet in a pub. Then he was early. I found him in a booth, chatting up a buxom waitress.

"This is a man I work for," Igor explained to the waitress as I sat down opposite him. "He may be tall, but he's also ugly. As a matter of fact...what did you say your name was?"

"Waitress," she said, her expression fixed in a way that encouraged conciseness.

"Mine's Igor," my partner said. "I tell you that just, so you'll know whose name to shout in case we're ever intimate."

"Would you like to order something?" Waitress asked. "Other than a drink thrown in your face? That's part of our service for people like you."

"We'll have two draughts of lager, if you please," I interjected. As she left, I glared at Igor. "Try to keep your questionable charms hidden. We need cooperation, not altercations."

"I'm just letting her know that there's two sides to hunchbacks."

"And ironically, she'd prefer to see the back of you."

"Funny," he said, finishing his mug of beer.

The Swartzpapagei was doing good business for early on a weeknight. Out of about forty seats, only two tables and a booth were empty, along with some stools at the bar. While none of the customers looked as odd as us, even in the dimmed light, everyone looked a bit off. I could easily imagine what imperfections makeup and lowered hats covered.

"Is there anyone here we should talk to?" I asked Igor.

The waitress set our tankards in front of us. Igor took a deep gulp, brushing the foam off his mouth. "As a matter of fact..." He nodded toward the bartender, a hulking man disfigured with tattoos, a billy-goat beard, and a closed left eye. "They call him Cyclops. Can't imagine why. Maybe he lives in a cave with sheep. He denied knowing Griffin, but the waitress said Cyclops and Griffin were like best friends. I got nothing out of him, but maybe between the two of us..."

"He doesn't look subtle. Let's try a direct approach," I said.

We slid onto two stools in front of the beer tap. Cyclops stopped wiping the bar and gave us a dirty look. He might have lacked depth perception, but he clearly conveyed we were closer than he liked.

"We're looking for a man with a bandaged head, scarf, and dark glasses," I said.

His eye met ours, holding its own despite being outnumbered. "Yeah?"

"We hear he's in here a lot, that you two are...thick as thieves."

"Shove off," he growled. "Take humpback with you."

Igor shook off slights from friends but never forgot them when uttered by enemies, and I was his only friend. He leaned forward, his back arching higher than his head. "You have an eye for rude comments."

I reached for Cyclop's shoulder to reassure him, but he pulled back. "We heard he's figured out a way to become invisible," I said. "Our appearances have given us nothing but grief. To the man that could free us from our humiliation, we would swear undying allegiance. We'll be here for a few hours."

My speech was ended. Cyclops's was over minutes ago when he said, "Shove off." I told Igor we should get back to our drinks before flies fell into them.

I nursed my lager, while Igor put away two or three. He became even ruder in front of the waitress, who after an hour probably made a mortal enemy by switching with another girl. I knew if need be, however, Igor would reassert himself into a no-nonsense mode. That need occurred fifteen minutes before closing time, when the invisible man slid next to Igor.

"You have been talking about me," he said. His head, as advertised, was completely bandaged up. He wore the black bowler hat, dark glasses, and white gloves. An overcoat and turned-up collar completed his outfit.

"We're interested in your invisibility solution," I said.

He looked me over. "I can see why."

"I hear you developed a philosophy about it. Tell us about it. A brilliant scientist such as yourself should be known."

Griffin rubbed his covered chin. I wondered if itching was an issue. "It's no secret. If you possess good looks, you feel compelled to maintain them. If you are ugly, you are defensive and dismissive of those that aren't. In either case, the real you, inside, is diverted. My invisibility drug liberates you."

I glanced at Igor, who stared at his drink, pretending not to listen. Griffin continued.

"You two are perfect examples. People see you and recoil. You feel you have to adapt to society's norms. Instead of being you, and developing your strengths, you become them. It's a kind of suicide."

"Isn't becoming invisible like donning a mask?" I asked.

"On the contrary. People would then be able to see beyond appearances and listen to other people's ideas. Wouldn't you prefer that people see you that way, instead of reacting in fear or hate?"

"Of course." I wasn't ready to share that I'd visited a surgeon the day before in hopes of achieving that very goal. "How does this serum work? How long do its effects last?"

"That depends on the dose and the person. The dose I use lasts 72 hours." He stared at Igor. "You don't talk much."

"He doesn't waste words, at least not to men. How can we gain your trust?" I asked.

Before he could answer, Igor scratched his back, and a red-faced man whose nose appeared to have met multiple fists loomed over us. He was shaped like a chest of drawers.

"What happened to you, friend?" he said to Griffin, each word as thick as his body. "It must cost you a fortune in bandages. Did you lay with a porcupine or something, or are you just protecting us from the ugliest man alive?"

Griffin and I sat stunned. Compared to us, Griffin looked like a theatre star. The only person who responded was Igor, who clamped on the man's right arm and said, "He is not your friend." The red-faced man squealed as Igor increased pressure, then wrestled him to the ground and kicked him several times, until he lay still. Cyclops picked up what was left and tossed it out of the tavern. Griffin stared again at Igor. Invisible, he possessed the ultimate poker face, but through the bandages he emitted an air of appreciation.

"I like your style," he said.

"It's not a style," said Igor.

We sat silent for about fifteen seconds, except for Igor, who was breathing heavily.

"I want to change society for the better, but I can't do it by myself," Griffin said finally. "If you're serious, meet me here at noon on Thursday. We'll talk more." He stood up and walked out.

"Should we follow him?" Igor asked.

Neither of us were nimble tracers, and I didn't want to jeopardize our invitation. "We've made contact. Let's see what Thursday brings." I looked him in the eye. "Who was the man you beat up?"

He smiled. "A drinking associate. You owe him some money."

Tuesday morning when I walked into my office, I had a feeling someone besides me had been in it. On top of the clutter on my desk lay a paper from the Perodin case, which I'd closed a month ago. Had I noticed it before, I would have returned it to its proper folder. I went to my cabinet and checked the Griffin folder. Everything seemed in order. Dealing with an invisible man was enough to make anyone suspicious, but I resolved to take nothing for granted.

Wednesday morning, I received two messages, one from my doctor friend and the other from Hausler. The doctor had analysed Griffin's discarded syringe and found traces of Monocane, an addictive drug that steeped its users into paranoia and monomania. I sent out another message, asking how dangerous one dose would be.

The second message was from Hausler: Adele had reappeared. I walked back to their house. On the way, only three streets from my office, I passed the twisted hulk of another burned-out house. I did hate fire.

Father and daughter sat at the dining room table as Frau Hausler led me in. They had been arguing when I entered the house but stopped when they saw me. Adele looked pale, her long dark hair worn with bangs over her eyes. When she brushed the bangs aside, those eyes flashed anger at her father. She wore loose, dull-coloured clothing. I told them I'd seen Griffin, or at least his occupied clothes, at the Schwartpapagei tavern the night before. I didn't know where he lived, but I expected to learn more soon.

"Now that the effects of the solution have worn off, do you still want me to pursue this?" I asked.

"I do," Hausler said. "My daughter'a visibility doesn't change what he did to her. I'm going on a business trip in a day or two, but I will return as soon as I can."

At the moment, Adele stood up. "I'm going for a walk."

"You need to rest and allow that poison to fully pass through your system."

"I'll rest outside," said Adele. As she turned to go, her father grabbed her arm. Both glared, then Hausler pulled her into her room, locking her in. He pocketed the key and gave me a rueful look.

"She's been uncontrollable since she met that devil Griffin. I had to keep her locked up while she was invisible, or God knows what she would have done."

"With your permission, I'd like to talk to her one more time, alone."

His cheek reddened. "She doesn't talk when she's like this."

I insisted, however, and he let me in. Adele had thrown herself facedown onto her bed. She looked ridiculous, even for a seventeen-year-old.

"Where did you get those needle marks on your arm?" I hadn't seen any, but I figured I'd call her bluff. When she said nothing, I added, "Maybe I'll mention to your father that you took the invisibility drug numerous times, that it was your idea."

She turned to me. "What do you want?"

"Why did you take it?"

"Because I wanted to. My father thinks I fall in love every week, but he doesn't understand anything. I have latched onto some men, but only because I want to get out of here. Griffin was different though. He really believed in equality, and he was doing something about it."

"So why did you separate?"

"He thinks I'm a spoiled rich girl. I told him that was his own prejudice, which just made him angry. I was ready to give up my class privileges for real freedom. Though I don't like needles, I started taking his drug. At first, he was supportive, but Monocane made him arrogant and suspicious. He said invisibility didn't change what I was."

"If you took the drug multiple times, you must have been staying with Griffin."

"I was."

Whatever Griffin's long-range goals were, at best he probably realized that an emotional attachment to a 17-year-old woman left him vulnerable. At worst, he'd simply taken what he could.

"I know this is hard to accept," I said, "but he used you. He got you addicted, had his fun, and then moved on. You need to do the same."

She didn't answer.

Thursday at noon Igor and I returned to the Schwartpapagei. The tavern was half empty. I had a feeling someone who wanted to change the world wouldn't be a clock-watcher, and I was right. I ordered a bowl of porridge and a half loaf of bread while Igor gnawed on a half chicken. The waitress was a thick, hard-faced woman who gave the impression she didn't like them big and ugly, so I cautioned Igor to go easy on the small talk. Instead of Cyclops, a husky, grey-bearded man we'd never seen before tended the bar

An hour passed. I sipped my soup as it went from piping hot to pitifully brisk. We were about to leave when both Griffin and Cyclops entered.

"I apologize for my lateness," said Griffin. "But patience is a virtue when it comes to change."

"So, what are we doing?" I asked.

"Conducting an experiment. Follow me."

Griffin led us outside the tavern to an enormous fir tree. From his pocket he pulled out a syringe. "Sympathy for a cause is one thing. Action is another. To truly see what is inside a person, you must first be liberated by invisibility."

I stared at the syringe. In his second message the doctor who'd analysed the solution assured me that one dose was safe, as long as there was never a second. Then again, I had no way of knowing if this was the same solution. Griffin noticed my concern.

"No one likes needles, because all they see is the sharp point. I assure you, the invisibility solution is perfectly safe. I am the proof." He sunk the syringe into a bottle of dark liquid. "Additional proof is Adele Hausler." Of course, buthe knew I was working for her father.

"What about your friend?" I motioned toward Cyclops.

"Monsieur Allard? asked Griffin. "As it happens, he is more valuable to me visible." Cyclops said nothing, while Griffin beamed at Igor and me. "Who's first?"

"How long will it last?" asked Igor.

"No more than a couple of days. You won't notice any difference until I douse you, however."

"When will that be?" I asked.

"Tomorrow, if all goes well. It takes that long for the injection to take effect."

I exposed my left arm. "Go ahead." He told me to make a fist, then jammed me with the needle. Other than a prick and a slight metallic taste, I didn't feel anything. He then injected Igor.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Return here tomorrow at nine p.m. I'll douse you, the effect of which is immediate, and then, we'll give you a task."

"When you say nine p.m., do you mean nine or ten?" Igor asked.

"Nine," said Griffin.

Igor and I discussed what we were getting into. As Griffin had said, after we left we noticed no effects from the injection. Hausler had mentioned that the invisibility solution had changed his daughter's personality, though that could just have been her rebelliousness. Adele had also said that Griffin had become increasingly arrogant, however, and he had been taking the solution the longest. We wondered what the task would be. Griffin didn't like privileged people, so I suspected he might want us to rob a bank or something. I decided only I would show up for our appointment. Igor would arrive earlier and follow from a distance.

I didn't have to wait the next evening. Cyclops was behind the bar with the grey-bearded man we'd seen the day before.

"Where's humpback?" he asked as I approached.

"He doesn't like waiting."

"Neither do I. Come with me," he said, leading me upstairs to what I guessed were his living quarters. His three rooms were small and unassuming. It struck me that all of us, Griffin, myself, Igor, and Cyclops had no family. Cyclops lit a lantern that provided just enough light, so I could see the lack of cheer in his rooms. He pointed to the bathroom, "You can't see it, but in there is a tub filled with the invisibility solution. You're going to take your clothes off, get in, and make sure it covers all of you, including your eyes. We'll wait fifteen minutes for it to dry, then you can put your clothes back on."

I disrobed and got in the tub. The lower half of my body vanished instantly. After I finished submerging myself, I had difficulty getting out, as if my eyes were closed. My right foot accidentally kicked the tub, spilling the solution on the floor and making a spot vanish. Fortunately, the other side of the floorboard remained dry so the customers in the dining room below couldn't see what we were doing.

After the fifteen minutes passed, I got dressed. Cyclops provided white gloves, glasses, and a hat, all a bit tight. He also wrapped white bandages around my face. I still felt worthy of stares, but in an anonymous way, as if I were in costume.

"Where's Griffin?" I asked, as we walked down the stairs.

"I'm handling things today," said Cyclops. He said to wait outside for a moment. He returned with a small sack flung over his back. "Let's go."

We walked into a familiar part of town. The city was largely sleeping. The few pedestrians we encountered looked away and said nothing. I couldn't see Igor, but I assumed he was close by. After a forty-minute walk, we stopped in front of Conrad Hausler's home.

"Gather up some kindling," said Cyclops. A wooded area ringed around the back of the house.

"We're burning down this house?" I asked. I should have figured it out. Griffin had been the one burning down Geneva's mansions.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"I'm having trouble reconciling Griffin's vision of equality with arson," I said.

"You don't need to. He's the thinker. You're the doer."

I liked to think of myself as both. I looked around and spotted Igor partially hidden behind a tree, about forty feet away. As I hesitated, Cyclops pulled out a revolver from his bag.

"You fire that, and it will wake up everyone in the house," I said.

"That won't matter to you."

"What's your stake in this? I can see how you might want to be invisible, but Griffin doesn't allow it. Plus, you own your own pub, which gives you more in common with Hausler than the exploited poor."

Cyclops slapped me with his left hand. "What did I say? You are a doer, or you're done."

I rubbed my face. I thought I tasted blood but as I was invisible, I couldn't see it. Cyclops might be a loose plank in Griffin's plans, but I couldn't pry him away yet. "Kindling," I said, and I slowly walked to the back of the house. As I gathered some twigs, Cyclops keeping guard, I angled myself into Igor's direction. He could get the pistol from Cyclops. We could then bring him to the authorities and, with some pressure, get him to implicate Griffin in the fires. I walked to within ten feet behind Igor, bracing for his attack, but it didn't happen. What was he waiting for? I guessed the answer a second before I suffered my second punch to the face and fell to my knees.

"Trust is important to me," Griffin's familiar voice said. A floating revolver pointed at my face. Cyclops levelled his gun at Igor.

"My head is important to me," I said.

"Then you should take measures not to lose it. I have singular ways to check on obedience."

I asked Igor if he was OK. He said he was fine, except not even for double wages would he spend twenty minutes hiding behind a tree with a naked man again. They had us gather armfuls of kindling and place it by Hausler's front door.

"Now what?" I asked Griffin.

"This house will be burned down. The only variable was whether you and your friend watched from inside or out. Sadly, you've opted for the former."

"How are you going to get us inside without waking the family?" I asked.

A skull-sized rock rose, hovered in front of a window, then smashed through.

"The family is not at home."

Hausler had told me he was going on a business trip. I hadn't realized he was taking the family. That seemed odd. And how did Griffin know? Were he and Adele still communicating?

Cyclops picked up another rock and cleared out enough space for him to crawl through the window. In a minute he had the front door unlocked. Griffin ushered Igor and me inside, using his pistol as a prod. From his bag, Cyclops got a chain and secured Igor to the staircase railing. With another chain he fastened me to a ceiling beam. He then grabbed an armful of kindling and walked upstairs.

"The thing is," said Griffin, "monocane, like any drug, can be tolerated only up to a point. For you two I am going to administer ten times the normal dose. By the time anyone is able to see your bodies, they will be bare bones. Somewhat charred, of course."

An imposing-looking syringe rose into the air. I braced against my bonds but couldn't loosen them.

"Your utopia seems a bit one-sided," I said.

Griffin laughed cruelly. "I'm not interested in being understood by the likes of you. There's a world of people out there who are never listened to. With this, I avenge the invisible, the unseen, the ignored."

I'd wanted to join that group, but I was not feeling avenged. Griffin proved invisibility came with a price.

"My creator was like you," I said. "He also had great gifts but misused them. He forgot he was a human being and thought he was God. Arrogance makes you invisible to yourself. When that happens, you become...morally untethered."

"While you are physically tethered," said Griffin, pointing his syringe at my bound arms. If I was going down, I'd do it with a glare. It unfroze when I smelled smoke. Cyclops was nowhere to be seen. He had made his move, and left. I lunged and grasped onto Griffin's wrist with my right hand. He struggled, kicking at me, but I held fast.

"At least you don't have to worry about the animals feasting on your decaying remains," I said to Griffin.

"Let go, you fool!" he screamed. "I have the key to your chains. If you let me go, I will free you."

"Could you put that in writing? You can use your invisible ink."

But without clothes, there was no place he could have carried the keys. I felt him twist in what had to be a painful position. With the room filling with smoke, I could just make out his figure. "If you don't let me go, we'll all die," he gasped.

"That's the idea," I said, though I was about ready to scream myself. A ball of flame shot through the open door and caught on the carpet where Griffin and I stood. I felt Griffin go limp, and I let him drop to the floor. Above me, the ceiling crackled. Perhaps, for once, fire and I could be on the same side. I said to Igor, "I'm going to see if I can upend this beam, but it may bring the house down."

He was kicking the railing, to no avail. "If it does, at least you don't have to worry about your head getting any flatter."

I pulled against the beam, but it barely budged. Lack of oxygen made me feel faint. I must have loosened something though, because a piece of the wooden ceiling did come down, on top of Griffin. I called out his name, but he didn't answer. I braced for one more tug that might squash us all. I lunged, heard a crack, and fell to the floor. Dazed, I pulled off my chain and staggered upright. With my oversized right foot, I smashed the smouldering railing and freed Igor. We dragged each other out of the burning building. Outside, all we could do was gasp and watch.

Hausler returned a week later, without his wife or Adele. I met him at his jewellery shop, where he temporarily lodged while he looked for another place to live. He stood behind an encased exhibit of watches, tapping the glass. I thought his curly hair had acquired some gray in our absence.

"How is your family?" I asked.

"My wife is shaken up. She keeps saying if we'd been home, this might not have happened. I say we might all be dead. The house was insured."

"It is fortunate you took them both on your business trip. Do you often do that?"

He hesitated. "No."

"How is Adele?"

"At some point she will see her encounter with that scoundrel for the tragedy it is. For now, she will live with a relative, away from here. She needs a new start."

She did, but if my guess was right, she wouldn't get one. When I saw the picture of Adele, she wore a daring, form-fitting dress. When she reappeared she wore loose vestments. Then her father sent her away with a relative, but the business trip was a pretext. It was Griffin's baby she was going to have, a fact Hausler learned once her invisibility wore off.

"I believe Griffin died in the fire," I said. "As you know, his body was never found, but animals could have disposed of him. If he escaped, I believe the invisibility solution will eventually render him completely insane, and he will turn up."

"Adele told me his plan, to liberate everyone's inner self from their outer self." He threw up his hands. "Crazy."

"I agree. We are what we are. One of his partners, the owner of the Schwartzpapagei, was arrested and questioned. He insists Griffin died. Regardless, I don't think he'll bother your daughter again." Except Griffin's name would now be forever associated with Adele and her child. "If you'd like to wait a few months on the second half of my fee..."

"No," he said. "No ill will intended, but I would like to end our association."

A week later, after receiving a reminder in the post, I came to the same conclusion about my association with Dr. Arensdorf, the surgeon who had promised to change my appearance. Calling on my new ally, I lit a match, held it to Arensdorf's impressive card, and dropped it into the fireplace.

Summerland

Gustavo Bondoni (Argentina)

Are you sure you're all right? You look like you need some rest," Yella said, concern mixed with frustration on her features.

Even weeks after they left Tengut, Sangr knew that she was still coming to terms with being unable to listen in on other people's thoughts. He had to admit that it was something of a relief to know that whatever was inside your head remained in your head.

But it had its drawbacks, too. If he'd known that the group of brigands pretending to be merchants was planning to attack them, they might have taken the initiative and Karet might still be alive, and Sangr himself wouldn't be nursing a long gash along his ribs which ached every time he moved. The only reason the brigands had been defeated is that they'd made the mistake of ignoring Yella when they charged. Yella had responded to this insult by calmly hamstringing three of them from behind and letting the men deal with the rest.

"I'm fine. I can go on until nightfall."

Yella frowned at him. She peered into his eyes intently, as if that would be enough to overcome the blanket that kept her from reading his mind, but said nothing more. Sangr was well aware that what was an inconvenience for him must be driving Yella mad. She'd been cursed with the ability to read minds since her adoption by the Favoured as a child. She must feel like she was blind.

But there was no other choice. They had to get the bane to Amesta; it was the only way they would ever overthrow the Shadow Witch, rumoured to be the new queen of the Mage Lords.

"Poor Sangr. Are you hurt? You were so brave back there!"

Of course, Sangr reflected, it would be better if the bane could just shut up sometimes. The ideal situation would have been that the bane hadn't turned out to be one of the Supreme of Tengut's concubines, but it was too late to wish for that, so Sangr just wanted her to shut up before Yella murdered them both.

He replied brusquely. "I'm fine. Less talk and more walking." He just hoped Yella would buy it. He was also briefly grateful for the fact that the girl's magic damped out Yella's telepathy. He wondered how far away she'd have to go for the effect to wear off.

The path they'd been following seemed to be taking them into the depths of a sweltering jungle, something that Sangr was at a loss to explain. Why was it that his own village, on the western side of the continent, was surrounded by monumental glaciers while, just as far to the north, but on the opposite coast, the climate seemed to be permanently hot and humid? He could have sworn that it was warmer than down on the plains despite moving north for endless days.

"Magic," Yella said. "The unholy god-gift of the Mage Lords. The legend says they're from the deep jungles of Cat-Seneriel, that they were scattered when the demons they called up grew too strong for them to control and they ended up here. But they've recreated the jungles where there should be ice."

Sangr nodded – he'd heard the stories – but then he did a double take.

Yella smiled at him. "I don't need the Favor to know what you're thinking Sangr. Someone else, maybe, but I've been with you too long. Plus, you've been looking around like you don't know what's happening for the past two days."

His grin was sheepish. "I guess you're right. But it's just weird. I grew up at about this same latitude, and we had to wear all our sealskin even in summer. Here, I want to strip down all the way."

"I wouldn't recommend it, these bugs would probably get into places in which you really don't want them."

Sangr shuddered. The flying things were bigger than anything else he'd ever seen, and they seemed to grow bigger as their small group climbed higher into the hills.

Suddenly, the path crested a rise and they could see the clear blue sky stretching out ahead of them, and a green carpet beneath them, broken only by a broad expanse of muddy river in the centre of the jungle valley below.

"How are we going to find anything in there?" Maluz, the bane, asked.

It was a good question. "We'll follow the path for now. It looks wide and well-travelled. That means people have to live on it or near it. We'll ask them."

"What if they aren't friendly?"

"They probably won't be," Yella answered, "but they won't come after us either. Villagers don't care about travellers unless they're sure they can take their money without harm to themselves. But they'll definitely try to sell us what they know. And all we really need to know is where the displaced tribes are."

The first order of business was to get down off the mountain into the valley floor. They suspected that any villagers – friendly or otherwise – would probably live near the river itself.

The path meandered all over the place, describing wide loops to avoid sudden hillocks and sinkholes. Hours after they crested the rise, the trio was covered in sweat and the bites of countless biting insects.

"How come we didn't notice this jungle the last time we were here?" Sangr asked, swatting at some flitting thing the size of his fist.

Yella shrugged. "I guess you can't see it from the coastal road."

"But someone should have mentioned it."

"They did. The fish-preacher over at Seahaven must have talked about 'Summerland' a hundred times. He would spit every time he said it."

"I must have missed it."

"That might be because you were completely drunk on seaweed ale all the while."

"Please don't be judgmental. Seaweed ale reminds me of home." Sangr feigned indignation. "Besides, I wasn't drunk all the time. There are a couple of nights in which I quite clearly remember a beautiful moon over the sea and a certain girl from Krenn whose ideas would have shocked the most jaded streetwalkers on the plains."

"You little..."

Only Yella's lightning-quick reflexes saved them. Sensing movement in the trees, she had her rapier halfway out of its sheath when the net fell over Sangr's shoulders. Two quick cuts made short work of the strands, and both of them turned to face the attack, looking for cover. Without some protection, there wasn't much hope – an enemy which wanted them dead would only have to pepper them with arrows from within the thick undergrowth.

But no arrows came. Instead, the rustling of vegetation preceded a sudden storm of small, grey-skinned creatures, roughly man-shaped, but covered in tendrils of some sort. The top of the tallest one's head, had he stood upright, would have reached Sangr's breastbone. They charged straight towards the group, wielding nets like the one Yella had destroyed.

Neither Sangr nor Yella would have been the obvious choice for a pitched battle against numerous opponents. Both were of slender build and both wielded rapiers instead of broadswords. Their philosophy was stealth and trickery. Maluz, though taller than Sangr and more voluptuous than Yella was armed with nothing but a walking stick, which she had no idea how to use as an effective weapon. She stood behind Yella, eyes wide.

And yet the battle was a massacre. The creatures from the forest seemed unable to grasp the concept of strategy, attacking one at a time with little regard for their lives. Sangr stepped forward, slashing down towards the first one's neck while Yella impaled the second on the tip of her sword. As she pulled the blade free, another tried to throw its net over her, but Sangr reached out and caught the webbing in midair with one hand, and opened the creature's bowels with the sword in the other.

The fight went on like this for less than a minute and soon all seven creatures lay prone on the path. Even the last one standing hadn't tried to flee, running at them despite the fact that _it_ was now heavily outnumbered.

Sangr turned one onto its back with his toe. "Ugly little buggers, aren't they? And they smell awful."

"This one's alive," Maluz informed them.

"What? How?"

"It was distracted watching you and Yella, so I hit it over the head." The former palace concubine shrugged, a movement that was so delightful that Sangr once again thanked whatever gods looked over him that Yella couldn't read his thoughts right then. "They didn't really seem dangerous, so I thought I'd help."

Of course, he thought. For a woman who'd spent her entire life being traded and captured as a pawn in the eternal struggle between the mage lords and the cities on the plains, something as commonplace as a group of suicidal midgets attacking from a jungle would hardly cause raised eyebrows.

They huddled around the fallen creature, waiting to see what it would do when it woke. The thing smelled even worse from up close, and seemed to have extremely thin scales covering most of its body. It had a slightly elongated face which gave the impression of a snout. Sangr thought they looked much less human at rest than they did in motion.

One leg twitched, and the grey scales seemed to regain some of their colour. Their captive emitted a soft whistle and tried to sit up. Sangr's boot on its chest prevented it from doing so.

"Hello," Sangr said.

The creature struggled with all its strength, twisting this way and that and pelting Sangr with dirt and clumps of grass it pulled from the path. Sangr just grinned at it, showing a large number of teeth. It soon realized that it wouldn't be able to break free and kept still.

"Ready to talk yet?"

The only reply forthcoming consisted of another series of incoherent noises. No intelligence illuminated the enormous yellow eyes.

"Just let it go, Sangr," Yella said, disgust evident in her features.

He did as she asked, removing the boot and moving back. But instead of scampering off into the woods, the creature lunged, trying to bite into his thigh. Sangr, blade already in hand, dispatched it quickly with a single cut to the neck. He turned back to Yella. "Happy?"

She shuddered. "Come on, let's get as far away from here as we can."

A few hours later, light was beginning to fail – much later than Sangr thought it should have that far north – and they decided to make camp. Once a cheerful fire was burning with dry wood salvaged from beneath the sheltering canopies of the huge trees, they ate the last of the rations they'd brought along. Soon, they'd have to hunt and cook something from the forest – an experience none of them was looking forward to.

Maluz volunteered to take the first watch, and the other two agreed. Anything waiting to strike wouldn't attack them immediately, but would wait until the passing of the hours had lulled them into a false sense of security.

The sounds of the jungle pressed in on every side, but the night passed in complete tranquillity.

When dawn finally arrived, Sangr found Maluz blue and shivering, lying in the middle of a patch of dead vegetation on rock-hard, frozen soil. She barely had enough strength to move.

As he pulled her off the icy turf, he called out to Yella, who rose immediately, bleary eyed but with her sword ready. "What?" she said irritably when she realized that they were not under immediate attack.

"It's Maluz. I think someone must have tried to attack her while she slept."

Concern replaced the irritation. Yella had no particular love for the bane, but she knew the other woman was necessary to attack the Mage Lords. "Why, what did they do to her?"

"I don't know. By the look of it, someone must have tried to freeze her in her sleep with a spell." He turned to the shivering girl, now safely settled on the grass of the path under the warming rays of the rising sun. Some colour had returned to her cheeks. "Did you see who did this to you?"

Maluz shook her head weakly, seemingly ashamed by her failure to spot her assailant.

Sangr knew there was something he was missing. First, they'd been attacked by monsters – but in a decidedly non-lethal way. The attack had been designed to capture them, but the creatures seemed amazingly ineffective at defending themselves when the attack went bad. And now this. It was obvious that the little net-wielding savages were unlikely to have that kind of magic available to them, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that they were somehow connected. He said as much to Yella.

Maluz laughed at them both, weakly.

"It wasn't a magical attack," she said.

"Why not?"

Maluz just cocked her head.

"Oh, right," Yella said. But then she peered hard at the girl. "But maybe your particular talent doesn't work here. After all, even the weather seems off."

Maluz smiled again – less weakly this time. "So, if my power's gone, tell me, what am I thinking?"

Sangr chuckled and Yella gave him a look that promised dire retribution. Still, it was a point for Maluz in the struggle between the two. "All right. You still seem to be able to nullify all the magic around you, so how do you explain that? _Something_ got through the shielding."

The bane seemed to have no answer to that.

"That's it!" Sangr said. "Maluz' power still works. She's nullifying the effects of magic around her – so that means that the ice was formed because of the lack of magic. This jungle, this Summerland is here because magic keeps it here. Without the magic, we wouldn't be walking through a jungle straight from the depths of Cat-Seneriet. We'd be freezing our butts off in a snowstorm on a glacier. So, when our little princess here lay down to sleep, the cold just under the surface managed to break through."

Both of the woman looked surprised at this deduction, but mostly, Sangr suspected, because it had come from him.

"But wouldn't that happen all the time. Wouldn't she be creating snowstorms wherever she walked?"

Sangr shrugged. "It's too hot for snow."

Yella looked at him as though he was a complete idiot, but Maluz came to his aid. "He might be right. Perhaps the magic is causing it to be warm, but the warm air isn't exposed to my magic long enough to cool. That's why the ground only froze after I'd stayed in one place for a long while."

Seeing Sangr's expression, Yella snorted. "Do you think you'll be able to walk today?"

Maluz nodded. "I'll be all right. I've stopped shaking already, see?" She held out her hand. Then she locked eyes with Yella. "I'm not the soft little flower you seem to mistake me for. I've been chained and beaten and raped before I was a pampered concubine. My own father traded me for vague promises of glory and freedom for our people I've endured things a lot worse than a little cold."

"Then let's go."

The path continued through the leafy tunnel. It felt as though each step was through the spray of a waterfall. But instead of being refreshing, the droplets stuck to their skin and soaked their clothes. The air was alive with gnats, and Sangr tried to convince himself, after every breath, that he'd only imagined a swarm of tiny insects flying down his throat, that what he was feeling was the effect of the humidity in the air.

Hours later, they finally came to the first signs of a village. An obvious, well-beaten secondary trail led away from the main path. Sounds of human activity came from the forest all around them.

Sangr motioned them to be quiet and set off down the branch. Only a few dozen yards in, the path went around a small hill and opened into a clearing. Several open-sided wooden huts with dark straw roofs occupied the opening.

Sangr relaxed when he saw that the people around the huts were human as opposed to the creatures they'd encountered earlier, and sheathed his sword as the villagers noticed them. Three small girls, skin white as paper and red-haired ran towards them, but stopped short when a sharp voice called them to heel. A woman who Sangr thought could only be the girls' mother because of the obvious resemblance stepped into view from behind one of the huts. She wore a peaceful expression and sported a wicked-looking crossbow. "Good afternoon," she said, seeming a bit surprised by the fact that two of their number were women. " Are you just passing through or are you looking for trouble."

"Neither, really. We need a bit of help," Sangr replied, hoping his winning smile would not be taken for a show of teeth, which was likely to get him speared.

"We can't spare much, here. We're barely surviving as it is." The crossbow never wavered. It seemed to Sangr like quite an advanced piece of armoury for a village in a jungle. Of course, he was standing squarely on the wrong side of it, which might have tainted his objectivity just a little.

He suspected that the village's men were hiding just behind the tree line. There was no point in bandying words. "We're looking for someone," he said.

"And who might that be?"

"Man named Henrey." Sangr fervently hoped that Henrey's band of merry murderers who called themselves freedom fighters hadn't done any 'liberating' in this village. "He leads a small band of wanderers that live in these woods, and on the coast. Claims that his family once ruled these lands."

"And why would you be wanting Henrey, then?" All trace of the relaxed wait-and-see attitude had disappeared from the woman's features. Her eyes had tightened, and the colour had gone from her face. She knew exactly who Henrey was.

Sangr balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, hoping that the woman would give some twitch, some sign before she pulled the trigger. A split second might make the difference between a direct hit and perhaps a quarrel in the arm. There was no way she would miss at that range.

Of course, if he answered correctly, maybe she wouldn't shoot him. "Henrey saved our lives a year ago. He took us into his heart adopted us into his family. Now we're trying to return the favor. We brought something he needs."

The crossbow was still steady, and Sangr let his breath out slowly. The trees to both sides of the village suddenly came alive with men dressed in green. One tall blond man with a long scar on his cheek walked to where Sangr stood. "How do we know you're telling the truth?" he asked.

"My name is Sangr. He should have left word for you to wait for me. The girl behind me with the sword is Yella."

The man grunted noncommittally. "And the girl? Lunch for the jungle beasts?"

"The girl isn't just a girl. She was born accursed. You might know of her as the sorcerer's bane."

Sangr watched in satisfaction as the man's eyes widened. The legend of the bane, told even in the cities of the plains, was the central myth of the northeast. The reason for that was simple enough: only the bane would free them from the Mage Lords. "Can it be true?" the man whispered, eyes misting over.

"It is. And we're here to help you put her to good use." He looked around. "Now where is Henrey? We need to get this girl into his hands."

Rapture disappeared from the man's face. "The old men have him."

"The old men?"

"It seems we need to talk. Come into my hut."

The glade below them seemed to have been created out of the stuff of pure dreams, or perhaps the vision of heaven of some desert religion. There were grassy clearings bisected by crystal-clear streams, wooded terraces and coloured flowers. It had a tame quality that the rest of the jungle simply didn't possess. It seemed domesticated, somehow.

Dusky men with white hair that matched their robes could be seen ambling along alone or in small groups. There seemed no urgency in their movements.

"Those are the old men?"

"Yes."

"They live in that place?"

"They live in a network of crystal caves under this very mountain."

"And the Shadow Witch?"

The blond man, whose name was Ernst, laughed. "Oh no. She lives in the far north, well beyond Summerland. Her castle is nestled among mountains so sheer that even the ice can't get hold."

"Oh. Great." Fortunately, Sangr thought, that was not his problem. Once they sprung Henrey out of the clutches of these old guys – who really didn't look as though they would be much good in a fight and any magic they might have been hoping to rely on wouldn't work the way they were expecting – he would be heading somewhere without jungles. He just hoped Yella would come with him. "So how do we get down there?"

"We don't. Anything that tries to cross the barrier will be burned to the bone."

"A magic barrier?"

The man looked into Sangr's eyes. "I know we have the bane, but are you willing to risk your life on the power of one girl against the collected might of the council of elders of the Mage Lords?"

Sangr thought of how the magic of his telepathy, something he'd attempted without success to have removed by every wizard on the plains, had simply vanished when he came into her presence. He was almost afraid it would never return. "I think I am," he replied.

The other man shrugged. "The path you followed to our village crosses the glade. It's a trap meant to lead outsiders to their deaths."

They climbed back down from their vantage point, Yella complaining all the way that they could have done without the long climb if all they had to do was follow the path, but both of them knew it was just for show. Yella was a warrior at heart, and she would have memorized the lay of the land and the position of the landmarks, as well as quick ways in and out of each place they could see. But she was playing dumb for some reason, and Sangr knew her well enough to keep quiet about it.

The barrier Ernst had told them about was visible in the sunlight if one knew where to look. A slight shimmering in the air ahead of them, like heat mirages on a hot plain, indicated its location.

Maluz had been forewarned, but Yella pulled her aside again. "Are you ready to do this? There's no need for you to cross. Just get close enough to the barrier to make it disappear. Then wait till we cross. All right?"

The former concubine gave Yella a hard stare. "Do I really have any choice? This is why you brought me here, and the only way I will avoid going back into the chains is if I help you, so let's not waste any more time." She strode towards the barrier.

Sangr and Yella were a few steps behind while Ernst's group lagged. It was obvious that they didn't want anything to do with the barrier, but soon, probably shamed by the fact that the two women in the group were not shrinking from their duties, they moved.

They advanced cautiously, holding their breaths and expecting to come under attack at any moment, but reaching the barrier proved anticlimactic. As Maluz gingerly reached out with a finger, the shimmering vanished. Sangr and Yella were unable to keep the younger woman from stepping forward into the place where the barrier had been.

"Well, are you coming, or aren't you?" the bane asked.

As the group filed through and walked past the last of the trees into the first glade, Yella turned to Ernst. "I assume there are more defences in place than just this. What can you tell us about them?"

"Er... We never really imagined we'd ever make it this far. As a matter of fact, no one who's ever tried to come this way has made it back."

"Well, they definitely know we're here now, so the faster we move, the less time they'll have to throw everything in their arsenal at us," she replied.

"Too late," Sangr remarked.

The beautifully maintained grass ahead of them seemed to be crumbling and splitting to reveal the earth beneath. The brown mulch, in turn, seemed to be writhing as if it was made of worms.

"What is it?" Yella asked.

"I have no idea, but it can't be good."

Ernst, standing beside them, had blanched noticeably. "Oh, no," he said.

"What is it?"

"That area, that place.... It was the place where our fathers would leave the dead to freeze in their cairns. It was covered with piles of stone before the Mage Lords arrived. I was only a child – but we used to challenge one another to walk through the stones to the far end and then come back. I don't recall anyone actually making it."

"So, lots of dead people."

"Hundreds."

"This is going to be fun." Sangr pulled the rapier from its scabbard, wishing, not for the first time, that he was big enough to effectively use a war axe, a much better weapon against reanimated corpses. He also reflected that it was probably time for a career change – the fact that he was about to be attacked by the living dead produced only a sigh of resignation.

One of Ernst's men, on the other hand, had a much more logical reaction. As soon as the first grey, grasping hand broke the surface, a man to the right of the group turned and ran.

He didn't get very far. From the screams and the smell of burning hair that reached them, Sangr surmised that the magicians had put the barrier back up.

There was no time to check on the poor fellow, since the glade in front of them had sprouted a number of surprisingly well-preserved corpses that came at them. Sangr assumed that, like most of their kind, they would be relentless but slow.

"Try to take off their arms," he shouted.

Ernst looked at him like he was completely insane, but Yella just nodded and turned back to the attackers. They were mere paces away. Sangr screamed a somewhat incoherent battle-cry and launched himself at the nearest, a bearded man who looked like he'd died the day before. Other than the bluish cast to his features, there was little decay evident on the body.

Sangr's first stroke explained the cause for both the preservation of the body and the ungainly lurch and the way the dead men creaked as they approached. His rapier, a fighting blade, not one of those paper-thin dress swords one encountered down on the plains, should have been more than heavy enough to cut most of the way through the dead man's forearm after the kind of swing Sangr essayed. But the blow, after passing through skin and bone, stopped short, caught in flesh that should have been soft and yielding but was instead rock hard. Frozen.

He had to give the blade a mighty tug to get it free.

"It looks like Summerland doesn't go as deep as it looks," Yella said grimly. They were being pressed into the vegetation around the clearing, hacking at fingers, wrists and anything else that seemed thin enough to break.

They had plenty of targets, but had to be careful to not to fall victim to the urge and stab the creatures. That was a good way to lodge a blade in a set of frozen intestines, and get pulled into the mass of advancing dead. So Sangr and Yella did what they had to do, dancing this way and that to avoid the clutching hands and removing fingers as they went. They tried desperately to stay between the ghastly advance and the unarmed Maluz.

The undead were slow, but they didn't seem to feel any pain, and eventually the inevitable happened. Ernst, hacking at a dead forearm to free one of his men who'd been too slow to retreat, was grabbed from behind by another corpse. Both men were pulled screaming into the press of bodies.

A voice came from behind. "Let me through, you idiots!" Maluz screamed.

Sangr felt a hand grip his hair from behind and pull him none too gently aside. The girl rushed through the gap and, looking back at him with no concern whatsoever said. "You people don't really go in for the thinking, do you? I just hope I can get to your friends before they get torn apart." She walked straight into the wall of clutching hands.

Which immediately gave way before her. _As it had to_ , Sangr realized belatedly. The animated corpses were obviously magical in nature. And the whole point of dragging the girl all the way from Tengut was exactly to provide protection against that sort of thing. But instinct had caused them to attack a physical enemy the way they always had – with steel and skill.

The episode served to remind Sangr that this wasn't his war, that it wasn't even his kind of war. His own major talent was deception and slipperiness. There was also the fact that he could read other people's minds – except when the bane was around. It seemed to be ever more obvious that they had to get back to the plains.

The girl made short work of the nearest living dead and was extricating the two bruised but breathing members of the party from their clutches when Sangr and Yella caught up to her. She took the time to give them a withering look before leading on once again, scything a path through the unholy horde.

But they were no sooner clear of the dead than an ear-piercing keening broke out ahead of them. Three gigantic creatures, lizards the size of a man, but furred like bears bounded towards them out of the forest.

"They never learn, do they?" Sangr asked. He wondered what would happen when they encountered Maluz. Would they shrink back to their normal size? Or would they take the form of regular humans?

The group watched as the bane stood her ground, ready to pounce on whatever remained after the magic dissolved. Or so Sangr assumed.

"What are you doing? Help her! Those are Byrits, they aren't..."

The rest of what Ernst tried to say was lost as the lead creature bowled Maluz out of the way as though she were made of paper and slammed into the tall, blond man. His followers immediately attacked it with their knives, but it was much too late for Ernst. Sharp teeth had made short work of his throat, and now the lizard was just worrying the dead carcass the way a cat will with a mouse.

Sangr had little time to mourn the man. The second lizard attempted to give him the same treatment, but caught only air as he twisted to a side and brought up his blade. A small section of the lizard's tail fell to the ground at his feet, twitching.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the third lizard was attacking Yella, but he had no time to worry about that. His own opponent had turned. It didn't seem to have been affected by the loss of its tail, except perhaps that it was now angrier than before. It circled around him, trying to come at him from an angle that wouldn't be covered by the sword and Sangr circled in the same direction.

Suddenly, mid-turn, the lizard lunged. But as Sangr instinctively defended his more vulnerable torso, the reptile attacked his left foot. A single swipe of a claw shredded boot leather and left a deep bleeding gash in his ankle. He could feel the blood pooling under his sole.

Then the lizard did something else that Sangr wasn't expecting. It pulled back out of his reach and simply looked at him, seemingly trying to gauge whether the injury had slowed him down. While it seemed to Sangr that this was pretty advanced thinking for a lizard, it also represented an opportunity.

Sangr pretended to stumble to the left, only to realize that no pretence was necessary as his weakened foot gave way. The lizard was already springing for his neck as he began to fall. Despite expecting it, Sangr only barely managed to get his blade up in time. And it was sheer luck that drove the blade into the monster's palate.

Nerveless, the furred lizard collapsed on top of him, the enormous weight pinning him to the ground. He pushed at it frantically as, all around him, the sounds of battle died down. Yella appeared beside him, bleeding from a scratch in her forehead. "Are you all right?" She seemed a lot more concerned than he would have thought.

He tried to smile, but the effort of pushing the lizard turned it into a grimace. "I think so. It just nicked me."

She hugged him, cutting off his air in the process. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm not that easy to kill," Sangr replied. He tried for a gruff tone, but he noticed the catch in his voice. He hoped she didn't. "Help me move this thing." He pushed again and, with the aid of the three surviving members of Ernst's party, they got his legs free, and got him back on his feet. "I'm going to need someone to lean on."

They limped to where Maluz lay. She was just beginning to regain consciousness, and whimpering with pain as she held one finger up. It was bent at an alarming angle.

Yella rushed to her side, took a look at the finger and pulled. Maluz yelped, but then smiled with surprise as the pain faded. "Thank you," she said.

But Yella had already turned back to Sangr. "So, do we go back and lick our wounds, or do we go on? We're in no shape for another fight."

"True, but if we leave, nothing short of an army is going to get us this far again. I think we caught them napping."

"Onward then?"

"Yes."

Yella smiled, the first time in days. "You see, that's why I like you. You're completely insane."

"You're one to talk." He smiled back at her. Had he really been thinking of getting into another line of work?

#

The old men, with no chance to defend themselves magically in the presence of Maluz and her blanketing power, fought about as well as one would have expected them to. A limping Sangr putting a pair to the sword was all that they needed to see reason. Henrey was released into their care less than an hour after the lizards were dispatched.

"We have to destroy this place," Henrey said, grim expression inviting no discussion.

Sangr rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you want us to burn it down or something?"

"That won't be necessary. You see, this whole place is built on magic. Where there were majestic glaciers and clean air, now we have a fetid jungle."

"A jungle that is actually capable of supporting life," one of the old men interjected. The council members that had survived Sangr's demonstration and the subsequent round of extreme violence by the newly freed Henrey were sitting in a loose circle, arms shackled behind their backs with their own chains. "When we came here, there was nothing but lichen."

Henrey kicked the man in the mouth, sending a trail of blood sailing over the others. "And men who ruled themselves, without having to fear the wrath of the Shadow Witch and her Mage Lord puppets."

The man on the ground wasn't done. "That's only because you insist on attacking them. If you would just live in peace, you'd enjoy a much easier life than your people knew before."

"A life of slaves. I'd rather die in magefire."

"We can arrange that."

"You won't be arranging anything," Henrey said. He kicked the prone man, once, twice more. And again, and again until all hint of movement disappeared. He looked across the rest of his old, pale enemies. "Does anyone else have any interesting comments to make?"

None did.

Sangr took Henrey's shoulder. "Come on, man. This isn't like you. We can do what we have to do without killing helpless old men."

"Those old men are anything but helpless. Perhaps you should have been here when they demanded two young women from each village to warm their beds. Or maybe when they set all the men from the single village that resisted alight. Or when they tortured me to learn where my people were. Then you'd understand."

"You're probably right. But still, it does us no good to lower ourselves to their level."

"All right," Henrey sighed. "The first thing we need to do is to get rid of this Summerland."

"Why? I have to agree that it's a lot better than the ice."

"This is a cursed place. Time stands still here, which is why the winter can't advance – and why these abominations," he pointed at the old men, "are still alive after a thousand years. The simple act of removing the spell will kill them. Not immediately, but they will die of old age soon enough."

"So, you'll kill the jungle and everything in it just to get revenge on the old men?"

"No matter how easily they fell, you have to remember that those men are the core of the Mage Lords. They've kept us enslaved for more than twenty years. Without them, the Shadow Witch is weakened."

"All right. How do we do it?"

"We need to halt the magic of the heart."

"The heart?"

"An enchanted ruby. I'm sure we can convince one of the councillors to show us where it is."

A couple of bodies later – bodies which Henrey seemed to take great pleasure torturing to death – the location of the ruby was in their possession. And five minutes later, Henrey, Yella, Sangr and Maluz were standing in front of the pedestal which held the stone.

Henrey's eyes gleamed. He spoke to Maluz for the first time. "Go on. Touch it."

Maluz gave him a piercing look, seeming to look all the way into his soul. "No," she replied.

The word echoed around the chamber, the rocky walls sending it back to them infinite times.

"What?" Henrey's eyes widened. "You will do what I tell you. And if you won't do it willingly, you'll do it in chains." He took a step towards her.

Sangr's rapier at his throat stopped him. "I don't think so," he said. "I gave her my word that she wouldn't be a slave this time around, and I intend to keep my word."

"You owe me your life."

"I'm trying to give you a kingdom. I think you'll agree it's worth more than my life."

Henrey just glared at them.

"So, what do you want in exchange?" Yella asked.

Maluz jumped guiltily. It was obvious that she'd been caught out. The older woman laughed. "I've been reading people's minds since I was a little girl," Yella said. "I've learned how people think, even if your power blanks out the Favour."

"I... if I'm going to free this place, I want to be queen." Maluz held up a hand. "And I guess that means I'll have to marry this lout."

Henrey, caught about to protest, stood there with his mouth agape.

"Well," Sangr said with a smirk, as he pulled the blade away, "how about it?"

"I guess I could do worse."

"So, you'll marry her?"

"Yes."

"Swear to it," Maluz said.

Henrey did.

"Good. Now let's turn off the magic jungle." Maluz reached out and closed her fingers around a ruby half the size of Sangr's fist. She studied it for a moment, contemplative. "I think I'll keep this, too." Even deep inside the cave, the sudden loss of life energy in the jungle outside could be felt. A humming that they hadn't been aware of ceased.

Although he knew it was only his imagination, Sangr thought he could feel the cold winds of his childhood sweeping into the valley.

As the newly betrothed couple had their first real conversation, Yella pulled him aside and whispered, "I think the sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Why?"

"Henrey was bitter enough, and all they did was take his kingdom. Can you imagine how much hate that girl is holding in? She was taken from the cradle, swapped between powerful men who only wanted her magic and a bit of occasional sex. Now that she'll have power, I don't want to imagine what she'll do."

Sangr remembered the cold look on Maluz's face as she'd condemned the billions of creatures outside the cave to a frozen death with a single gesture, and the chill he'd imagined settled deeper.

"Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe you're right."

The Freaks

Florin Purluca (România)

Back then we had to travel a lot. Because most settlements were usually abandoned, we had to walk long distances to find inhabited places. It wasn't like we needed their help, it's just that old habits usually become tainted with the aura of certain rituals, and then the process of forgetting becomes rather complicated. And me and Uncle Marin—especially him—truly loved the company. For old times' sake. Or, to put it on a more simple way, we where just two homeless souls.

The people in such places hadn't become fully accustomed to those of our stature, even though more than ten years had passed since the disaster. Thinking about it, we probably looked quite strange to them on our first encounter, slowly emerging from the crimson shadows of the dusk, through the nothingness. As we moved towards the heart of Brașov, the dust became intoxicating. The wilderness was eating the city, slowly, year after year. That's probably why people decided to escape from this place, besides fear, of course. There was no clear patch of earth left to farm, and those who stayed behind became used to eating out of a can.

Uncle, a Valahian man in his fifties—tall, scrawny, but strong—sensed what was going on from a mile away. Uncle Marin had a worn-out (once beautiful _fazan_ feathered) hat, eaten away by time, something I had the distinct conviction didn't suit him at all. And he was wearing a white, red striped _ie_ with small green and blue flowers, that was two sizes bigger for him. As for me, a kid muffled up in rags, with a pair of shoes model year one thousand nine hundred, wasn't any different. The difference was that I was always saved by appearances: a poor redneck kid, not more than ten years old. That always drew some form of sympathy, in those dark days.

I guess it was a miracle that we managed to get downtown without anyone shooting at us, especially at night, when people are more paranoid and scared of the dark and used torches made of clothes soaked in gas and wrapped around stakes as a light source. Because by all appearances, that small neighborhood was filled with old people. And those old people were almost always paranoid, and they would shoot you on the spot if they still had the guns to do so. And those who had guns would carry them everywhere. But Marin was being careful. He told them we were just passing through, we weren't going to stay for more than one day—or maybe two—enough to regain our strength and then we would be gone. They agreed. Lowered their rifles to the ground and left us to spend the night in some dilapidated old house. Even so, we weren't entirely sure they haven't _smelled_ us. It was hard to believe they hadn't, but maybe they were trying to keep appearances—for various reasons, the primary one being fear.

Even though they had good reasons to fear us, they shouldn't have. Because we weren't that type of freak. We were, somehow . . . _different._ And that was especially because of Marin.

Uncle—who in fact wasn't even related to me, but the detail made our presence a little dramatic and sometimes managed to smooth things up—had an academic background in psychology. That helped him, somehow, to discover his inner power and the resources to face the hunger instinct. He also educated me the same way. I admit it hadn't been easy to make me accept animal blood, but after an entire year of torment, he'd succeeded. I was, as he used to brag about it, his doctorate thesis in a messed-up world.

After we settled in the house we were about to sleep in—it wasn't really an apocalyptic torture since we carried a small suitcase with us—we left towards some building of that old and almost abandoned neighborhood. It was a former bar that locals worked hard to keep standing. At least that's what it looked like when we got there. An old man was cleaning the tables, another one was sweeping the floors, and another one was pouring beer into gnawed pint glasses. And we also saw a dozen old man and women, waiting at the tables.

We entered, and everyone looked at us and frowned. We headed toward the counter, walking close to each other. The people who used it were careful enough to put crucifixes and strings of garlic up on the walls. But the garlic was a bit old, and its scent was almost gone, so it didn't help much now. We each chose a chair to sit on. The chairs were high and I needed help to climb, which Marin gave me as he always did. He grabbed me, pulled me up and I settled in the chair. I propped my elbows on the wooden counter and didn't make a peep. Marin handled the talking. I was still new to the whole _public relations_ thing.

Uncle looked closely at a foamy Caraiman pint—even the old man passing as the bartender noticed his look filled with desire—and then he lifted his skinny, bony hand and greeted him.

"I'm Marin. The kid's name is Rareș."

"What the hell are you doing here?" asked the old man, visibly irritated.

We heard a metallic click, somewhere in the back. Even I could recognize that sound. Someone had loaded a rifle.

"We just want to chat for a few minutes. We're bored to death. That's all."

"Is that so?" asked the bartender. "What could you motherfuckers possibly know about death?"

A wooden chair scraping against the floor echoed from the back of the room. Marin's psychology effect didn't seem to impact anyone. I was never fond of these moments. They tend to create bigger, awful ones, with blood all over the walls, misery that doesn't do anyone any favors.

"Hey, Ioane! Let's take things slow, shall we? Maybe they are decent people, not the type looking for trouble. Right _, boys?_ "

"Of course, we're not looking for trouble!" said Marin with joy at discovering his ally, a woman with hair the color of cotton puff, thin, long and loose, shoulders drawn forward.

The bartender snarled, stifling all the nasty words he was about to throw at us. He finished pouring the beer and slammed the pint glass against the wooden counter. Uncle kept on smiling to him and said, "I swear I'd gladly give up immortality for a pint like that."

The old man was looking daggers at him, malice still floating in the air.

"No shit!" said the old man.

"It's no joke, mister, I intervened. Uncle Marin hadn't had one of these since ages ago. And trust me, he was pretty good at drinking them."

From between the tables, you could hear people snorting. Some forced contained smiles. And shortly after, someone eased the pressure that was floating in the air.

"My Dănuț still got it," said a woman, amused by the situation.

Marin pivoted in his chair, and so did I. I saw everyone staring at us. Some had an obvious malice in their eyes, some had indifference, but most watched us with interest. We felt somehow like artists on a stage, and they were the audience.

"I don't know which one of you is Dănuț, said Marin, but if I had the chance to ask him to a pint duel, I would have. I just had the misfortune to meet him a little too late."

And Uncle was right. After the transformation, our digestive systems didn't decompose the food and drink in harmless amino acids anymore. If we wanted to eat or drink anything other than blood, we would endure severe pain, like that of a woman giving birth. Well, for me it was pure theory, as I had not tried that even once. But he ensured me about the gravity of trying. He had a few glasses of bourbon, years before, shortly after the transformation. It was an experience that made him go through excruciating pain.

"I felt like I ingested a moderate dose of garlic," he explained. "A dose that didn't kill me and didn't let me live either. And that was over the course of several hours."

He didn't dare try that ever again.

As I watched the old men sitting at the tables, I began to feel sorry for them. Some looked strong, around sixty years old and seemed like they could face a few threats. Others, however, could barely walk from old age. And because two of them were telling the others out loud what was happening in the bar, I assumed they were blind or almost deaf. How they manage to survive until now and why you couldn't see any young men in the city was a mystery that intrigued us. Then, Marin took advantage of the moment and told them he would've bought the gentlemen a round of beer and some fine drinks for the ladies if money was still in circulation. Only they it wasn't, they said, which upset Uncle deeply.

We could've enjoyed our immortality, as all vampires did. But Marin couldn't escape the world he once lived in. And me, I was six when I was bitten and could've forgotten my past. But Marin ensured that I didn't, anyway. He drove me crazy with his nostalgic stories about the world before vampires.

"Where are you headed?" asked the bartender.

"We want to go to Sighișoara," said Marin.

But the truth was we didn't want to go anywhere. All we did was sniff the air and find people. Go into remote villages and, unlike others of the same race, feed on their memories about the world that was about to step into oblivion, but never feed on their blood. For us sheeps and cows, or even rats and beasts, were enough. And, anyway, there's no significant difference between animal and human blood. After a while, like anything you get used to, it becomes normalized in an abnormal world.

Then Marin told them about the drama he had been through, how he was transformed by my mother, how he fought her to not bit me as well but the damn woman managed to transform us both. And in the end, because of his inner will, told them in great detail how he confronted the vampire mother and how he beheaded her because of the curse she had brought upon us. Everything was made up. Except for the part about using his will.

Unlike him, after I was transformed, I had forgotten a great deal about my human life. But he remembered almost every detail of his previous life. He knew things about his brothers, about his friends and Dorina, his wife. He didn't use to tell me much about her, but when he did, he always had tears in his eyes as he put his hand to his jacket pocket that carried a picture of her. I always asked myself what happened with Dorina, but he always said that that was the only detail he couldn't remember anymore. He said that one day we would go and find her. At first, I believed him, but in time I understood that something else was going on there—a mishap that Marin had buried deep in his memory. I preferred to let him live in peace, not to dig up painful memories.

At the end of Uncle's false story, the old men fell victim to sentimentality. Some old women began to wail loudly. One of them took me in her arms, calling for Neculai—probably a relative of hers who died—and another caressed me for more than fifteen minutes. "Poor baby," the old lady kept repeating. But I looked at them like a scared puppy.

And in this way, the respite offered by the old men turned into an invitation to stay indefinitely, which we took gladly. Although we knew we would leave that place eventually. Maybe not in the following months, but certainly in two or three years. Definitely no later because in all that time, every last old man in that place would be dead by old age. But hey, three years can fly by as if they were weeks, even for mortal man. We were more than happy we had someone to talk to. And, if you got to know them a little better, an old men's paranoia starts to become amusing enough to make you look past certain fixations.

By far the most punctual was Bogdan, a slightly demented man in his eighties. He always carried two oxygen tanks with him in a cart with hilarious wheels that looked like it was some old dismembered wooden box. The old man bragged about being the last man in Valahia with chronic bronchitis. Despite all that, he never quit smoking, and every time he smoked his cheap stinking Carpați cigars, he left a thick trail of smoke behind him, like an old locomotive. Luckily, in his early days, he was a pharmacist. He managed the _dispensar_ 's whole oxygen tank reserve and that allowed him to have a large personal supply.

One day, I even saved his life with the help of Marin. As the old man was a little confused from time to time, he forgot to check his oxygen tanks. His asthma attacks caught us in some heated discussions in the middle of the bar. Ion, the bartender, kept saying that if the vampire apocalypse would've happened fifteen years earlier, he would've shown them.

"Maybe wouldn't have hurt to have some help from a young man," suggested Uncle.

Ion frowned. We knew he wouldn't like the question, but we were very curious about something that tormented us for days: how did only the old people remain here, and above all, where were the young ones?

"Are you insinuating that we don't matter?"

The old man was looking daggers at us. Marin lifted his hands in the air like he was suddenly at gunpoint. Judging by Uncle's reaction, he was about to abandon the discussion but he continued: "We're just saying. Don't get all worked-up."

Ion softened suddenly, like a piece of hard bread in a cup of tea. And I must admit, he knew what he was talking about.

"Stop whining like a little girl and say what the hell you want to say!"

We stared at each other. Uncle put his hands on the bar and began to tap it on a rhythm. He wanted to seem discrete. And succeeded quite well, if I think about it, like trying to sneak a hippo through an overcrowded market.

"How come you're the only ones that remained?"

"You mean us, the old-timers?" I heard Bogdan paraphrasing him with an unnatural voice.

Marin shrugged defensive, and you could see his sharp shoulders, like two spear tips.

"Something like that," he responded.

"Because that's how things go, boys," said Bogdan. "If you don't make sacrifices for something honorable, nature will sacrifice you anyway, without asking for permission. Do you understand?"

The old man pushed Uncle, shoving an arthritic finger in his chest—he shook his head and started puffing a huge Carpați cigar and contemplating. Ion snapped his fingers and startled us both.

"They all left. Is that simple," he explained. "You know it very well, the plague, or whatever the hell it was that resurrected the vampire course again, broke out in some obscure small village in Deva. Then, found its way to Alba Iulia, Turda, Târgu-Mureș, and Odorheiu Secuiesc, like a kitten pawing towards the milk bowl. Then, it came here, to Brașov. But the picturesque mountain district isn't that slouch, you know, as they say. I can't tell you for sure what the people in Alba, Mureș or Turda did, but I can tell you for sure what the old folks from Brașov did. Because you're afraid of water"—he was right, after the transformation, water simply gave us the creeps, we couldn't even look at a half-full bucket—"We asked everyone to run along Lake Noua, towards Prahova. The lake work like some kind of a natural barrier and we were left waiting, the ones that didn't have children or relatives alive, for the invasion of monsters that never came. Now you understand?"

Uncle smiled, and lively shook his head, as a sign that he understood quite clearly the whole essence of the plan. Although, in theory and probably unwittingly, because he told us we're monsters and insulted us, we didn't feel offended. And honestly, how could we have convinced him he was wrong?

"Even so," simpered Ion, unmoved by the whole situation, "why are you so afraid of water? I can understand being afraid of the Holy water. _Apă popească,_ as they say... But regular water? It makes no sense."

We had no idea why, so we couldn't offer any explanation, so Marin simply said: "Why are you afraid of the dark? Is not like the dark itself hurts you, but what hides in it. We're probably talking about the same thing."

The old man looked at us for a few moments. He seemed somehow vexed. But I probably imagined it because he immediately offered us a big smile. Then, the conversation became relaxed, and with Marin, we worked hard to convince him the vampire hunt wasn't like the movies and you need more than young men and a bucket of water to bring them down. Without having any minor attacks, to predict the imminent seizure, Bogdan started to snort like a stabbed pig. Uncle immediately knew what was going on and left like a hurricane, overturning a few tables in his way.

Lenuța, Bogdan's wife, appeared from across the bar and started to unhook the hoses from the juncture that connected the cylinder with the inhaler. Because the screws were tightened, she was struggling. I pulled her to one side, grabbed the iron with my right hand and turned with all my strength. The iron rasped a few times, but it finally gave in. A few seconds later, Marin returned with a new oxygen tank. I immediately set it up, and after we all waited impatiently, Bogdan's breath began to sound normal.

A few minutes later, the whole bar was silent. I wasn't sure what impressed them the most: the fact that we helped them or that we reacted so promptly? We didn't dare ask, and a few days later we forgot all about it, and Bogdan began to joke on his account, about how he was about to die. Then, after a few more days from the incident, when he began to suffer from occasional osteoarthritis pains, he would curse us on every chance he got. He kept saying we should've let him die so he could escape the torment of constant pain and suffering. But, after he calmed down, he would apologize. Anyway, we weren't offended. Every old man and woman there was suffering from paranoia, said Marin, even before vampires existed. And I was happy I would never become one of them now.

And this way, two months passed without us noticing. One of them died the time we were there. His name was Sandu, and everyone assumed he had a heart attack or something like that. We helped them bury him in a quiet May night, where once stood an apple orchard but now all that was left was trees with weirdly grown branches due to all the years it was left unkempt. They also said some old prayers– _Tatăl Nostru_ and _Crezul_ – and spiked his chest with a rose wood stake. Just in case, they all said to us.

After a while, Marin became very nervous. I could see it in the way he looked into the distance. Not because he was hungry. Because once every three or four days we would harvest blood out of a box full of fat rats. I kind of knew what was going on with him as I've seen his moodiness many times before. He was very grumpy and looked like an angry, growling coyote. He would lose his temper over nothing, and even the old men noticed. I was struggling to reassure everyone he wouldn't cause any trouble, but I was sometimes worried he would do something stupid. The bloodlust always puts you to the test.

Sometimes, close to dawn, when we were alone, and the old-timers would snore like hell because of all those sleepless nights, I would ask him what was wrong.

"I'm fine," he kept repeating.

Once he told me life became boring, but I didn't believe him. With Marin, nothing was boring. He loved life, and most of all, he loved the memory of the mortal life. And because of that, I was trying to convince myself he would never hurt the old-timers, although they didn't feel this way. Poor them. They didn't speak of it, but you don't need to be an expert in psychology to know when someone looks worried.

Uncle's moodiness lasted for almost a week, and then, one hot night of July, I found him sitting in the tall yellowish grass, with his eyes fixed on the horizon. I was with Lenuța and Bogdan. I touched him on his right shoulder. He was startled, and he smiled at us like a wolf surprised of his next meal. Lenuța was about to scream when she saw his big fangs, sharp like knives and soaked in saliva.

"Marine, man, calm down," I said.

"They are coming, kid, they are coming!" he mumbled and began to drool slightly.

Unlike me, who did not have the same power of concentration, Uncle could sense our kind from twice as far as I ever could. However, he wasn't himself for over a week, and that was the longest he ever sensed the presence of vampires. He behaved like Count Dracula himself was about to appear from a distance. But if that were the case, I would've felt him too, but I didn't feel anything that night.

Eventually, after two days, I sensed them too: a strange thrill, like when you're alone in the house and see a strange slippery shadow behind the half-way opened door. Every time he felt them, we would've run away. We avoided as much as possible any encounter with other vampires. Because even if they were like us, we were different just like dogs and wolves are different.

"What are we going to do?" I asked Marin.

"I don't know, kiddo. In one or two days it'll be here with his followers. It's your call also."

Truth was, we grew fond of the old, even if they were paranoid. In almost three months, we'd had good times, and they treated us like old friends. For me, it was a pleasant feeling, but for Marin, it was heaven on earth because he truly missed the old times.

If we left, the old wouldn't be safe. If we waited for the vampires, we wouldn't know what to expect as we never went through something similar before. But it wasn't like we didn't have an idea about how things would go. I wasn't sure how many they were, but Marin sensed they were four. Two against one wasn't exactly a fair fight for us, and we couldn't ask for the old-timers' help as their arthritic bones weren't fit for it.

The two days went by fast. In the end, without any planning in advance—or at least that's what I thought—we were all gathered at the bar, waiting for them. Uncle had decided we had been running from too many fights and decided to stay. I agreed.

We were sitting at the center table and the old gathered four or five at the tables around us. In the silence before the vampires' arrival, you could hear them checking and rechecking their rifles dozens of times. Making sure they were loaded. I remembered what Marin said: paranoia was the primary feeling of the old, even before vampires. So no, their behavior wasn't weird at all. But if I think about it, maybe it wasn't just paranoia. Even we were terrified; I can't imagine what they felt. Since they had an idea about what a pack of hungry vampires could do from movies or books, could we have blamed them? And at that moment, I realized Marin was the only vampire I knew since I was transformed.

Uncle used to tell me that we, unlike vampires, were self-taught. But nothing he had told me could've anticipated Dorina's dramatic entrance. If anything was left of the woman's beauty in the picture Marin was holding in his chest pocket it was the color of her eyes. But even they looked like something you wouldn't want near you. At least that was my opinion, but Marin didn't feel this way, who made big efforts to not yield to the temptation to embrace her. I could see it from a mile away, and I believe everyone could've seen it from his turmoil.

"Oh my God!" Even if my expression wasn't the most religious, since my allegiance to the night Gods, the vampire's woman drama nature sent chills down my spine. A sharp cry mixed with the guttural grunts of a beast. At that moment I understood—and I was fully and irrevocably convinced—Uncle and I were _truly_ different. With no doubt, we weren't humans anymore, but still we were nothing like the creatures that were swirling around the front door.

Dorina was very anxious, confessing her love for Marin for anyone to hear. A great bloodlust was burning in her eyes, and it was so obvious that even a two-year-old would have seen it. The other three vampires, some thirty-year-old guys, pricked their senses and gravitated around the woman like undecided satellites, waiting for the command.

Marin lifted his bony hand in the air, and the old ones began to retreat, walking in reverse, step by step, one after the other. It was clear they couldn't walk any faster, but the most important detail was the fact they stayed calm and didn't run away. We all had our rifles pointing at the vampires. None were aimed at me and Uncle this time. The only one who did not take any steps was Bogdan. The old man propped his back in the tanks and was struggling to look threatening, moving the rifle's barrel from one side of the room to the other.

Dorina wasn't so beastly as I initially assumed because seeing our clear intention to protect the humans, stopped that grotesque dance of love.

"Don't be an idiot, Marine," she said. "You treat them like they're pets. When, in fact, they are just a delicious meal."

Then she passed her long and bluish tongue over the irregular line of her pearly teeth.

"You're not my Dorina anymore."

Marin's voice was a blend of pity and regret. And maybe a little bit of fear. I couldn't agree more. Still, we were two against one. I wasn't very confident. However, we were ready, with our muscles trembling from eagerness. Because I must admit, the imminent danger awoke a state of irritation, which until then was just in my head. The only time I felt like I was losing control was the time I was feeding. But I was distracted for a second, and after the first bites, I could account for my behavior. Only at that moment, it was about something else entirely. It was about the scuffle I was about to have and nothing else.

Marin lowered his hand quick like giving a secret signal. Somehow, I was surprised by his decision. I knew he was too self-contained to believe in miracles. I don't know what he hoped at that moment for the old ones to accomplish. But it had to be attempted. Dorina's heart didn't have the resources to be softened anymore. It would've been the same as asking a wolf to eat salad. Marin's self-control, I later realized, was possible due to his intrapsychic state—in his mortal life you could've driven a high-speed truck towards the inner wall that was his moral and, after the emotional impact, you still couldn't budge him one centimeter. And me, I was _tamed_ mainly because Marin discovered me immediately after I was transformed. I never got the chance to taste human blood, and that was probably why he chose taming.

The vampire's eyes sparkled as they looked at the old-timers, and there was no doubt that you could never save their souls.

In the next second, rifles rumbled in unison, and the room was filled with a white smoke, a pungent smell of potassium nitrate. You could barely see anything. I few moments of lethal silence and the rifles roared for the second time. I narrowed my eyes so I could see through the smoke curtain; the old-timers fleeing and rushing through the back door. But the vampires weren't stupid enough to become easy targets. A vampire can run several times faster than an athlete. And, judging by the way they climbed the walls and ceiling, none of the old-timers' bullets hit them.

If I think about it, the things looked rather strange. I was myself, a vampire. Even so, I was staring at them, amazed by the way they ran backwards. I've never tried such tricks, and I thought it was a damn useful trick I needed to master. Again, I was looking at the possibilities. Between them and us, there were limitations strictly for intrapsychic reasons, not physical. Still, it was a good enough reason for which I couldn't imitate their performance. The answer was simple: the main culprit was the madness caused by the bloodlust. And with their inability to control themselves, beastly reactions were unleashed.

One of Dorina's henchmen saw me and jumped at me—insane, imperturbable and incredibly fast. Until he came close, I propped my feet on the ground, ready to attack him. At the right moment, precisely calculated, I hit with all my strength.

It's quite discouraging to know you're giving your best shot and the result—in your opponent's eyes—looks like a mosquito flying towards him. The man evaded my punch with humiliating ease. I leaned on one side, following the descendent momentum of my failed punch. And was hit by his own. I felt my stomach crunch like a wrecking ball.

I could see Marin somewhere on my right, or it could have been my left as I was tumbled in the air from the blow. The other two male vampires jumped on him. I could also see Bogdan struggling to load his rifle and Dorina displayed a huge rictus—shiny, white, clean fangs—and advanced slowly.

I passed through the brick walls like they were made of cardboard. Through a diffused dust curtain, I landed and saw Marin. He plunged in the air after me and fell a stone's throw away from where I was. I stood still, watching him, hopeless. We were in big trouble. They were about to kick our asses for the indolence we showed.

Finally, I managed to move—I think my moment of deadlock was more about my self-confidence than my physical ineptitude—and I could see Bogdan through the wall hole I made when I was thrown out into the street. He stood glued to his tanks and waved something in the air. Something strange, which didn't look like a rifle at all. The way Dorina and the other vampires cornered the old man wasn't a good sign. I felt an overwhelming pity for the poor man.

"Run!" screamed Marin.

I couldn't move a muscle. It was the worst thing that could happen to me in that moment, and the way Marin made a run for it really took me by surprise. If he were near me, I would've berated him for his behavior. But it wasn't like that because he knew something I didn't.

At the beginning, there was a deafening blast followed by a heavy wave of debris, pushed in every direction over a forty-mile radius by the blow. Over ten thousand small and sharp pieces of iron and concrete hit my back—I was still following Marin who was running rapidly. In the distance, I saw the old-timers. They were running like a bunch of old goats. I nearly burst into laughter when Bogdan's tanks blew up. I suddenly felt a strong push, like a giant's boot kicking me. It threw me in the air, and of course, I didn't die. I was at a safe distance. I only needed two hours to heal although the entire process hurt like hell. Dorina and the three hooligans where toast. They had ultra-fast regenerative powers just like us but to achieve that, they must've had something to regenerate, something to work on, and in this case, it was impossible. You can't reconstruct vampires from a pile of debris and organic matter. Even Mother Nature, with all its mysteries, has its limitations.

Only later was I fully brought up to date. Those were Bogdan's last oxygen tanks. Even if the attack didn't happen, he knew he would die soon. And, given the situation, he offered to sacrifice himself to save us all. Marin knew about his plan but decided to be cautious. He thought the vampire female could've tried to charm and manipulate me as she pleased. That made me angry for a while. Like I wasn't capable of handling her, Marin insinuated. But after a day or two of staying angry, I completely forgot my troubles. It could've been worse.

As for Bogdan, what can I tell you? It looks like you can be a hero and don't need to be a vampire or have superpowers to save the day. And if you happen to pass through that God-forsaken neighborhood, in case Brașov doesn't perish under a pile of dust and nothingness, well, you can't miss the monument dedicated to Bogdan, placed downtown. Two empty tanks, fixed in high metal pipe holders. No name, no slogan. Heroes live forever without such nonsense.
Scent of Hope and Cinnamon

Jonathan Shipley (USA)

". . . a look at the alternative physicss underlying all hyperspatial relationshipss in both real and distended time . . ." The seven-foot orange lizard standing at the podium slapped his tail against the floor to emphasize that last word.

At the back of the domed lecture hall, Luke jerked awake at the sound. Damn, he'd dozed off! After almost four hours straight in that warm, muggy room full of tangy saurian scents, he was out of tricks to keep himself awake. He opened his eyes wide to stare at the three-dimensional diagram floating at the front of the classroom. It didn't make any more sense now than before he catnapped -- maybe even less, since he'd missed whatever the time connection was. He pushed his overly long floppy hair back from his face -- no barbers on a saurian world -- and tried again. Still nothing.

He stole a glance around the semicircular room. The other students, mostly a variety of lizards but a few amphibians as well, were nodding as though the presentation meant something, but in the far corner, the other Terran in the class sat with eyes closed and head drooping. _At least I'm not the only one who can't keep awake_ , Luke thought with no great satisfaction. A warm, humid environment was perfect for saurian concentration, apparently, but it only made humans sleepy, and that was a killer. The two Terrans were tied for bottom of the class. In fact, of the dozen best-of-the-best Terran students admitted to prestigious Zjhaccœse University deep in Saurian Space, all of them had borderline grades. Here they were, representing humankind as the first human students at a venerable institution with fields of study totally unknown on Terra . . . and none of them could cut it. They even had a pool going among themselves on who would flunk out first and have to make the long journey of shame back home. That's how bad it was.

The bell finally chimed, releasing Luke from the four-hour misery of the classroom, and he trudged over to the Library to force himself to go over the same information again in hopes of knocking a few bits of data into his brain. He found one of the chairless study carrels and leaned in on his elbows. He opened his Intro to Engineering textbook and found the same diagram that had thwarted him in class and hunkered down to stare at it. The book still carried the tangy smell of the classroom.

Luke looked up from his studies as a thin, waist-high lizard came barreling through the reading room, chirping wildly. Q'Gruz, his roommate.

"Over here," Luke called and as Q'Gruz ran over, still chirping, added, "Whoa -- slow down! Can't understand a thing." Sort of the theme for the day.

The little lizard paused a moment to breathe deeply, then said in an almost normal chirp, "Loo might be in danger."

Luke felt his heartbeat quicken. "What do you mean?"

Q'Gruz scampered closer and stood on clawed tiptoes to get his head closer to Luke's. Luke scrunched down to help the process along. "Skal," Q'Gruz whispered, then hesitated. "Does Loo know Skal?"

Bad memories came flooding back. He'd made a stupid mistake last winter break. Donating blood for money seemed normal enough, but the reality had been getting shipped off to a blood farm to be drained by leeches. That had been an eye-opener. He'd been patronized and ridiculed in countless small ways since arriving on Zjhaccœse, but coming face to face with raw abuse had been something new. He'd been nothing but livestock to his tormentors.

"Unfortunately," Luke muttered back. The blood farm owner had been a Skal, an oversized snake with small upper limbs and a mouthful of pointed teeth. In other circumstances, he might have been merely alarming. As a leech-wielding employer, he'd been terrifying. "What's happening with Skal?"

"Looking for a monkey," Q'Gruz chirped, getting agitated again. "One student monkey signed a contract with them. Then left after killing their clansman."

Luke's mouth went dry. He'd signed a production contract with the blood farm -- big mistake -- but then he'd been released . . . or rather Syzz, the amphibian PI he interned with part time, had gotten him released. He hadn't asked questions, but evidently a lot had happened behind the scenes he wasn't aware of. But he'd never killed anyone.

"I need to talk to Syzz," he said shakily and started to stand.

Q'Gruz waved him back down into the chair. "No, no! Not on the City streets -- not to leave campus, says frog friend."

"You talked to Syzz?"

"Left indirect message. Frog is hiding from Skal."

So the Skal had tried to come for Syzz, and next they'd be coming for him. Luke sank his head into his arms, feeling very helpless. But maybe he was semi-safe on campus. He was a registered student and should be under the Regents' protection. Or was that was just his simplistic view of Zjhaccœse society?

"Can the Regents protect me from the Skal?" he asked Q'Gruz.

"Very tricky," the lizard said. "Regents very big on Zjhaccœse, but Skal very nasty in packs. Know all the tricks to get what they want. Loo did sign contract with them?"

Luke grunted an affirmative. "But I never killed anyone. And I didn't know I was getting mixed up with a crime cartel."

"No, not crime. Much worse." Q'Gruz wrinkled his snout in distaste. "Slavers. Skal big in monkey slave trade."

Luke sat bolt upright. "Slave trade?" Syzz hadn't told him this part, probably because it was terrifying. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, he discovered he was mixed up with a race that specialized in slaving humans. Great. He gave a long sigh. "I should probably talk to the Dean. See if I can get a guarantee that the University won't hand me over."

Bad memories of this place, Luke thought as he sat in the anteroom of the Dean's office. The last time he'd been here had been to receive news that he was going down the toilet in his class work with two D's and an F. It had been a shock and a half for someone who had always been top of the class back on Terra. Since then, of course, his standards had sunk dismally. He had to work his butt off for straight D's and was ecstatic over a C in anything.

And now this. Under contract to slavers. How did he even broach that subject with the Dean? When he finally was called into the inner office, broaching turned out not to be a problem.

"Mr. A _rrr_ umbrooster," the silver-scaled Dean grumbled from behind a gargantuan desk, stretching out the name the way many of the native Zjhaccœse sauroids did. "Very fortuitous arrival -- I was just about to request your presence. Please sit. We seem to have an even bigger problem than usual."

Luke caught the dig at his academic performance, but with his pitiful grades, there wasn't much he could say in his defense. And there really was a bigger problem this time.

"I have received," the Dean continued, "a petition of extradition from the Skal Tdhjke Clan to remove your person from campus pursuant to an unfulfilled contract with the Skal Jrigh, now deceased. The contract seems to be in order; moreover, they are also seeking clan reparations from you for Jrigh's death."

Luke grimaced and fought down a sudden urge to throw himself on his knees and beg like a dog. That would achieve nothing \-- it certainly wouldn't impress the Dean. "I signed the contract without full knowledge of what I was getting into," he said instead. "I certainly had no idea I was dealing with slavers."

"Former slavers," the Dean corrected. "Slave running has been outlawed in this sector for the better part of a decade."

"Does that mean it's been stopped," Luke persisted, "or merely outlawed?"

The Dean gave him a long, penetrating look down his snout, then said, "I understand your apprehension, Mr. A _rrr_ umbrooster, and wish I could offer you some reassurance. Without this contract, there would be no question that the University would protect you. With a valid, legally binding agreement and a questionable death, however, the decision falls to the discretion of the Regents and to date, you have not exhibited qualities of value to the University."

_You don't hand students over to slavers for bad grades_ , you heartless lizard, Luke wanted to shout, but was able to keep his mouth shut. Alienating the Dean would not help his case. "Can I make an appeal directly to the Regents before they make a final decision?" he asked as calmly as he could. "I didn't kill anyone."

The Dean clicked his claws together for a moment, then shook his head. "It would accomplish nothing. In fact, several of the Regents would strongly prefer your absence."

Monkey-haters, Luke thought in growing despair. Some of the Regents _wanted_ to hand him over to the Skal. He slowly turned toward the door.

"Mr. A _rrr_ umbrewster, a moment more, if you please."

As Luke turned back, wondering what else the old lizard could throw at him, the Dean hissed a few quick syllables into his desk com. Then looked at the ceiling as though Luke wasn't standing there waiting. A long, very peculiar silence followed.

Then the door opened -- huge snake with pointed teeth -- Skal! Luke gave a yelp and jumped up on the Dean's desk, practically into the Dean's claws.

"Oh dear," the Skal sighed.

"Mr. A _rrr_ umbrewster, please," the Dean growled, pushing the clinging arms away. "Advocate Hridg is legal counsel to the University, not Tdhjke Clan. He is here at my request."

Luke took a breath to process what was being said, then gave the Skal a nod. "No offense intended." But he didn't get down off the desk.

Advocate Hridg threw his little forearms up in a gesture of resignation. "When it involves the Tdhjke, no apology needed. They are, unfortunately, the worst of my species. I'm not saying this, but" -- he looked pointedly at the Dean -- "their blood-farm operation was probably a ruse to circumvent the slavery ban. These reparations for Jrigh's death will no doubt equal fifty years of hard labor for the clan . . . that is to say, slavery."

"But I didn't kill anyone," Luke repeated one more time. "When I left the blood-farm, he was still alive."

"Left?"

"When I was rescued from the leeches."

"Through violence?"

"Through threat." Luke was trying hard to leave Syzz out of this.

"Threat of what?"

Because of the potent leech secretions, Luke didn't consider his recall of the blood farm to be completely reliable, but as he remembered it, Syzz had threatened to complain to . . . "The Voice on Zaripptua?" he said uncertainly.

It was as if both the Dean and the Skal had been simultaneously goosed.

"Uh, what does that even mean?" Luke asked.

"Who else heard the threat?" the Dean asked in a strained voice.

"Just some muscle-lizards Jrigh was using as guards around the farm."

"Ah, voraciraptors." The Dean gave the advocate a knowing nod. "Their race has been on the wrong side of the Will in earlier history, and they have long memories. I find it extremely credible that they tore Jrigh apart rather than face another incident. Would that be a point for negotiation with the Tdhjke?"

"I shall certainly try," the advocate said, "but Jrigh's death is most likely an excuse. My best advice is to . . . make good on the threat, shall we say. And no Skal would say that lightly. My sources inform me that the Tdhjke Clan is sending a cruiser in support of their claim, so you need to act quickly. Good luck, Mr. A _rrr_ umbrewster." He slithered out the door.

"What did he mean --" Luke began.

"If you are quite done with my desk," the Dean interrupted and stared until Luke sheepishly climbed down. The Dean started and stopped a few times, punctuated by several throat clearings and exhalations, then finally hissed softly. "I have been instructed by the Regents to steer clear of this matter, but even other Skal regard the Tdhjke Clan as vicious, and you deserve a better future than fifty years in a slave pen. You have mentioned the Voice, and to the Voice you must go, specifically to the ancient Temple of the Fire Undying. As the Skal are not one of the Old Noble Races, their presence there is not well tolerated. It is truly the last place on Zjhaccœse they will search. Of course, you also are not of the Old Noble Races and must therefore be wary as you present your case. If the risk feels too great, the other safe place is the Library here on campus -- the old section of the Library, that is. These two very ancient structures are remnants of an age before the Skal. That is to your advantage."

Why does age make any difference? Luke wondered, but instead asked, "How do I find the Temple?"

"The central plaza of the City. It is difficult to find unless you are looking closely, but it is there. These days it is often called the Shrine of the Voice."

So this was making good on the threat. Luke felt a surge of hope. He would be able to take his case to the Voice on Zaripptua . . . whoever that was.

He looked back at the Dean who was staring pointedly at the ceiling, perhaps trying to distance himself from his own defiance of the Regents. "Thanks," Luke said. "Thanks for giving me a chance."

#

Transit was quick from the University Quarter to the central City, but to Luke it felt interminable. He was jumpy and viewed everyone else on the transit pod with a healthy paranoia. There were no snakes, but anyone could be a Skal hireling.

When he finally exited, he was all jitters. If he'd known where the temple was, he would have made a dash for its door, but he had to hunt the location. The Dean was right -- it _was_ hard to find. Once around the central plaza, then a second and third time, eliminating buildings that weren't the temple because he couldn't think of what else to do. Finally he was left with a squat stone structure mostly hidden in the shadows of the grander municipal and financial institutions around it. He'd seen it on his other passes, he realized, but hadn't really noticed it. That was strange.

He approached slowly. Even expecting it to be old, he was surprised at how ancient it felt -- pyramids of Egypt ancient. He mentally compared it to the other building the Dean had mentioned, the Library back on campus. The Library was huge and included a castle-looking part within its complex. Supposedly the University had started out as a fortress thousands of years ago. He assumed the Temple was at least that old. Was it even used any more? It didn't look big enough to be very functional. He stepped through the broad doorway into the shadowy interior and --

\-- blinked at the vast space before him. A spatial anomaly, he recognized immediately and looked around wide-eyed. Even majoring in hyperspatial engineering, he was completely in awe of an application like this, probably because he had a glimmer of the mechanics involved. No one created planetside spatials like this any more -- at least that was his impression from class discussions. It wasn't that the knowledge was lost exactly, but for some reason, no saurian culture wanted to resurrect the ancient techniques of their ancestors. He couldn't relate to that. Given a chance, he would have jumped into this stuff headfirst. Of course, Terra had nothing to compare, either in the past or the present.

He tore his gaze away from the pseudo-walls that defined the space within the anomaly and stared at the obvious focal point. In the center of the space was a round dais from which arose a column of golden-white fire. The Eternal Flame -- no, Fire Undying. He walked closer, finding as he did so that the dais was farther away than it seemed. More spatial distortion, perhaps. By the time he reached the center, he saw that the interior of the Temple was easily the size of a large sports stadium. It was humbling to realize this one technique of distorting space could solve the habitation problems of every overcrowded megacity. It was also frustrating to realize that he would never know the secret because he couldn't get past Engineering 101. Let it go, he told himself. That wasn't why he was here.

He turned from the fire and scanned the empty space. "Hello," he called when he saw no one.

"A mammalian humanoid?" a deep voice rumbled behind him.

Luke whipped around but saw no one. "Hello?" he called again.

"A Terran mammal in this ancient Zjhaccœse shrine," the deep voice continued. "Exceedingly progressive of Zjhaccœse not to view this as desecration."

The sound seemed to come from the column of flame itself. Luke edged closer to the dais, very unsure how to proceed. This was feeling more religious than he knew how to cope with. Sure, it was a temple, but he'd never viewed the range of religions as anything more than cultural traditions. But something about a disembodied voice from a fiery source was . . . wait, voice . . . Voice?

"Are you the Voice on Zaripptua?" he asked hesitantly. "And if you are, sir, please tell me you're not a monkey-hater like so many of the locals here. I intend no desecration to this shrine, but I'm desperate to talk to you."

"Then speak," the voice rumbled. "As for hating Terrans, I have no experience with your species. I assume if I knew more of you, I would find some of you worthy of disdain."

Even though that didn't sound very positive, neither was it a close-minded, monkey-hating comment. "I'm in extreme trouble," Luke began. _Deep shit_ would have been the more accurate phrase, but he was aiming for a more elevated tone. "I blindly signed a contract of service with a Skal, and now his clan wants to collect because he is also dead, but I didn't kill him. And I just found out that they're slavers specializing in humans. Without some protection, I'll probably just disappear. But the authorities here on Zjhaccœse won't protect me, either because they're monkey-haters or because they're afraid of the Skal." He took a long breath. "I'm terrified I'm going to wake up tomorrow in a slave pen."

"Skal can be thoroughly disagreeable," the Voice remarked, "but they are no longer allowed to trade in slaves."

"I don't believe that because the locals here don't believe it. It's more likely the slave trade continues with a lower profile."

A moment of silence followed, then a low rumble emanated from the flame. It sounded like a rumble of displeasure, though it was hard to be sure when Luke had never heard one before. "And why, Terran, are you on Zjhaccœse amidst the Skal and the monkey-haters?" the Voice asked after rumbling.

"I'm a student at the University. I came to study hyperspatial engineer--"

"A student!" This time there was no mistaking the displeasure in the long rumble that followed. "The Will of the Dragonlord in bringing Terrans to the University was not to facilitate the sl _aaaa_ ve tr _aaa_ de." The way the words were drawn out was unquestionably ominous.

Luke took several steps backward in case the flames were about to explode or something. The Voice was definitely angry now. "Then you'll help, sir?" he asked cautiously.

"The matter shall be dealt with." A pause. "Your name is . . . Loo, Luke, Loo-broo, Lucas..."

"I'm called all sorts of things by the locals because they find my name hard to pronounce," Luke explained. "But officially I'm Lucas Armbrewster." Then he wondered how the Voice knew what it did and started feeling a little paranoid about mind-reading.

"Go, Lucas Armbrewster. We are finished here."

There was no mistaking that dismissal. Even though Luke would have preferred to stay in this safe sanctuary, there was no way he was going to antagonize the Voice. He turned and made his way back to the distant doorway and the plaza beyond. He was elated and at the same time unnerved. He'd probably just put something enormous in motion and had no idea what that meant for Zjhaccœse. He walked to the transit tube to head back to the University. He didn't feel safe yet, but he felt safer.

Then he didn't. Ahead of him in the transit station two enormous mottled snakes slithered along the ramp leading to the pods. Luke froze, not even breathing. The Skal seemed to be absorbed in their own argument, waving their thin arms and snapping their teeth at each other. Luke eased himself behind the closest support pillar and hunkered down to make himself as small as possible. Everything else was open space. If he ran, they'd see him; if he got on a pod, they'd see him. If they were taking up positions to monitor the tube, he'd be stuck here indefinitely. All he could do was wait and hope as his heart pounded frantically.

The Skal departed two pods later. As he slowly got to his feet, he realized it was a University-bound pod. Maybe they were going to negotiate with the Regents . . . or maybe they were coming to get him. So now he didn't dare move openly on campus with Skal on the loose.

He pulled out his com stud and clipped it to his ear. "Q'Gruz -- you there?"

The link connected and suddenly his ear was full of chittering at hyperlight speed.

"I'm OK for now," Luke assured his roommate, "but I saw Skal podding toward campus. Talk me in with an indirect route where I won't run into them. I'm at the central plaza . . . yes, I know I left campus but I had business here and never mind that now. Just get me back to campus."

Three hours later, Luke was trudging onto campus from the park side opposite the City. When he'd said "indirect route," he was thinking a different stop with a hop and a little walk, not hours of switching pods and a substantial hike across a nature preserve. But when Q'Gruz got excited, he went overboard.

As Luke crawled through the doggy door to his dorm room, Q'Gruz started leaping around and chittering wildly. "It's OK," Luke assure him. "I'm back. No Skal in sight."

"Is _not_ OK!" Q'Gruz chirped back. "Skal were here! Left message for Loo." He pointed at the wall display.

Luke's last bit of confidence burst like a soap bubble. They'd come for him -- they knew where he lived! He took a breath to force back the panic and stepped over to the display to read the message:

Monkey -- we have your frog. Either you surrender yourself or he dies. Come to the pens by the port by nightfall.

"They have Syzz," Luke muttered. "I'm supposed to trade myself for him."

"No!" Q'Gruz protested. "A trap. Do not go."

Luke tried to think rationally about the ultimatum, though all his instincts were telling him to run and hide from the snakes. He had help coming from the Voice, undefined help but still help. Syzz had nothing. Luke had the better chance of being extricated from the slave pens if --

A sharp slap brought him back to the present. "What was that for?" he demanded.

"Loo was falling into mental trap. Skal do _not_ have frog friend, can not have frog friend. Much too clever."

That might actually be true. Syzz was a brilliant PI with street smarts and contacts all around the City. If he was in trouble, he probably knew plenty of muscle-lizards to call upon. The more Luke thought about it, the more sense that made. He was tired and scared and not thinking straight. The Skal were just trying to flush him out and in his panicky state, he'd almost fallen for it. He thought about that for another moment, remembering these were slavers who specialized in humans. They probably knew exactly how to push a scared monkey's buttons.

"OK, I'm past the mental trap," Luke said with a sigh, "but I can't stay here. I'm going to hide in the old castle section of the Library. I was told it might be safe."

"Ah," Q'Gruz chirped. "Good choice. Skal not of Noble Races. Won't like Library. And Loo can study while in hiding. Very good choice."

As though a little more studying was going to make any difference, Luke thought bitterly as he exited the dorm by the back door and darted building to building across campus. First flunking out, now hunted by slavers -- he really was a "dumb monkey" if he couldn't read those signs. Zjhaccœse was not the right place for him. He'd tried, he'd failed, and now he needed to move on. Hyperspatial engineering -- yeah, right. The fast food industry was probably more his speed.

It was getting dark by the time he reached the Library. He circled round to enter by a side door and walked through the acres of reading rooms in search of the old section. He knew approximately where it ought to be, but he couldn't seem to find the right doorway. Just like the temple on the plaza, he realized suddenly. He was probably looking right at the doorway without it registering. Armed with that realization, he tried relying on peripheral vision instead and started catching glimpses of odd distortions that vanished when he looked directly. Through the window-wall, something long and sinuous moved in the twilight. Luke froze. It could be one of the slinkier lizard species, he told himself but didn't really believe it. He backed up toward the far wall where he was seeing the distortions and sidled into the closest one.

It was like stepping into another century. One moment he was in a modern facility of glass and plasteel; the next he was in a great stone hall with vaulted ceilings eighty feet over his head. The only thing the two spaces had in common was walls lined with books upon books. Luke breathed a sigh and forced himself to relax a little. He had to believe that the two most ancient structures on Zjhaccœse really were safe. Both of them were obviously chock full of very potent ancient technology that discouraged interlopers. Still he kept the connecting doorways in view at all times as he moved through the stone hall.

He targeted one of the shorter reading tables in a back alcove and hopped up on it. It had a wooden surface, better than the stone floor. Since chairs were not a lizard thing, you learned to make do, and this table would work as both a make-do chair and a make-do bed for the night. But should he sleep? He took stock of himself and realized he didn't have much choice. He'd been running scared for hours, and his adrenaline had been up and down all day. His body needed sleep.

Glancing around the stone hall, he saw it was completely empty -- at least it _looked_ empty. He was less inclined now to take any spatial relationship at face value, which was strange, but strange was good. That was what was protecting him against the Skal. He rifled through his jacket pocket and hit pay dirt with a protein cracker. As he chewed, he realized this really was his last resort. If the Skal cornered him here, he had nowhere else to run. So he might as well get comfortable for the duration. He pulled off his jacket and wadded it into a pillow, then unstrapped his walking boots and let them fall to the floor. If he'd been thinking more clearly back at the dorm, he would have packed a duffle bag back at the dorm with extra clothes and more protein snacks. And water -- he needed special hom-filtered water that didn't make him sick. He might be here a while.

He wiggled around and tried stretching out on the length of the tabletop. A little hard but workable. He stretched again and his leg hit something sharing his space. Sitting up, he saw it was one of the old tomes from the shelves. He pulled it closer and opened it at random. It looked like his Intro to Engineering text, but everything sort of looked like that to him. Every time he saw lists of miscellaneous facts on a page, it was just like the textbook he'd struggled with for the last two semesters.

"Studying comparative genetics of the Noble Races?"

Luke whirled and half jumped, half fell off the table, then saw it was a young human standing at the table, glancing over the open tome. "Geez, you scared the crap out of me," he said, sagging against the table. "But no, I'm not studying genetics. I thought it might be spatial engineering -- that's supposed to be my major. Guess that shows how well I'm doing when I can't even spot the difference."

He stopped his nervous babbling as he realized this wasn't one of the Terran students. Taking a closer look, Luke was sure this hom wasn't Terran at all. The coloration was wrong -- golden hair and golden eyes. And he smelled completely different, oddly familiar but not really human. Datish, maybe? Luke didn't actually know any Datish homs, so it was strictly a guess. And a stupid guess, since there weren't any Datish students on Zjhaccœse.

"Why are you performing so poorly?" the stranger asked. "You, a former NorthAm Scholar, struggling with a D average -- why?"

That hit a nerve. "Just a dumb monkey, I guess," Luke said with a bitter edge. "That's the one thing I have learned here on Zjhaccœse."

"The other Terran students aren't doing any better."

"Because we're all dumb monkeys. But I've learned my lesson and I'm heading home with my tail between my legs first chance I get. Look, as delightful as it is to have my nose rubbed in my recent failures, I really do have bigger problems right now. Skal."

"The Skal problem is simplistic. The Terran problem, however, makes no sense. There is no reason why you should fail to grasp spatial engineering as taught in the best established engineering program in the sector."

"Just drop it -- hey!" He flinched as the stranger's finger touched the back of his hand. It tingled and was way too warm for a human metabolism. The odd hint of a scent erupted into the smell of burning cinnamon. "What do you think you're --"

"What do you see on the page now?"

Luke glanced back at the tome, which also smelled different in a more complex way, and frowned at the shifting words realigning themselves into molecular-looking patterns, main ideas at the core and subsidiary ideas branching out in all directions with transitional links to other clusters. All the Old Noble Races had evolved over their association with each other, becoming more alike in fundamental perceptions even while their physiologies became differentiated and specialized . . . .

He looked up in near shock. "I don't know anything about the topic but I suddenly can see the patterns and understand the ideas."

"And now?" The stranger withdrew his touch.

The extra smells faded and page shifted back into a jumble of random facts. "Flatlines into garbage again."

"And this book?" The stranger strode across the hall, beckoning Luke to follow.

_What is he doing -- what am I doing?_ Luke wondered as he padded barefoot across the cold stone floor. In a far alcove, he was handed an even older tome bound in metal. Opening it, he saw that it was pictographic, not standard Interstel. "I don't even know this language," he began, then paused as he got another touch on the back of his hand.

He inhaled the sudden scent the book was giving off. The glyphs patterned themselves, just as the words had done, and even not knowing the glyphs, he could see that the content of the page centered on the spatial relationship of one pattern versus a second, much larger pattern. The next page showed a similar comparison of two patterns, though here the size difference was even greater. Almost as if a different multiplier had been applied. The whole thing felt very equation-like in the shifting of the spatial patterns. From a different angle, he noticed, the two patterns seemed to merge, almost as if they were two aspects of the same idea.

A thought bubbled up from the depths. "Something about the way the patterns merge and spread is like walking into the temple in the plaza where the inside is bigger than the outside."

Suddenly he was looking at garbage again, his hand still tingling in the aftermath of the touch. The stranger nodded. "This is an old text on the subject of static spatial anomalies. It appears, Lucas Armbrewster, that you have more than sufficient aptitude for spatial mechanics."

Luke ignored the obvious how-do-you-know-my-name question in favor of the more pressing one. "What's happening on the page? Why can I see patterns when you touch me?"

"If you had continued reading about genetics of the Noble Races, you would have discovered that acute olfactory processing is a shared trait of convergence. The visual information is merely a marker for layered pheromone data beyond the range of human reception. The words themselves were never intended to function independently."

As the meaning of that slowly sank in, Luke felt a huge weight lift. "I didn't have all the data. That's why nothing made sense in my classes . . . I'm not a failure." Then he frowned. "But why didn't anyone say anything -- my professors, the Dean? Were they deliberately trying to --"

"Very unlikely that there was any intent to deceive. The sauroids of Zjhaccœse -- all Old Noble Races \-- rely so heavily on their olfactory sense that it would never occur that simoids lacked those receptors."

"You know," Luke mulled, "it might only take something like a modified rebreather to amplify the pheromone data." He thought about it a second and nodded with growing excitement. "I really think that could work. And presto, no more 'dumb monkeys' flunking their classes . . ."

He paused as he realized he was talking to himself. The golden-eyed hom was simply gone, though there wasn't a doorway anywhere near. Of course, in the middle of an ancient spatial anomaly that might not mean a great deal. He reshelved the tome and walked slowly to the doorway connecting to the modern Library. He had a wild urge to do something -- maybe confront the Regents and vindicate himself and every other Terran student. But the bitter truth was that there were still Skal out there hunting him.

He gave a snort. Wouldn't it be the perfect irony if the hom with the answer got slaved as a "dumb monkey" before he could tell anyone else. He could just see himself as the butt of some dark cosmic joke -- actually not. He was seeing some real hope in his future for the first time in a long time.

A sudden explosion of light in the night sky drew his attention to the window-wall ahead. Then another burst of light, and another. What was happening -- shooting stars? Aurora Borealis effect? Fireworks? He knew so little of Zjhaccœse meteorology that any of those could be the right answer. But whatever it was, the continuing flashes were lighting up the night in a spectacular way. He watched for a while longer, then turned back to the stone hall to hunt the reading table he'd made into his bed for the night.

"Loo to wake up!" someone chirped loudly in his ear.

"Not yet," Luke mumbled and rolled over -- only to feel himself falling. His eyes snapped open to find himself hanging in midair, half on, half off the bed -- no, table. As he came more awake and pulled himself upright, he remembered he was in the old section of the Library, not his dorm room. A variety of saurian scholars were wandering about the stone hall, many with curious stares in his direction.

He twisted around to ask Q'Gruz the latest news and found not only his roommate next to the reading table, but a large green-blue amphibian with huge mouth in a head that tapered up to bulbous eyes on eyestalks. "Ssss, you're safe!"

"Syzz," the amphib corrected with a broad, frog smile.

"Whatever," Luke grinned back. He never could get the pronunciation quite right. "So we're hiding out together now?"

"No hiding," Q'Gruz chortled, leaping up and down. "Skal gone."

Luke frowned. "What? Why?"

Syzz's huge lips contracted to a suspicious pout. "That's our question to you. What did you do?"

Luke took a deep breath. "I was scared," he said quickly. "I went to the Shrine and asked the Voice to help me."

Syzz shook his head while Q'Gruz made odd little choking noises. "Dangerous, Luke," Syzz said. "Very dangerous invoking the Powers-That-Be."

"But it worked apparently. And I'm still -- what's wrong?" Q'Gruz's choking noises were getting more animated.

The little lizard pointed shakily at Luke's hand and inhaled deeply. Syzz did the same and his eyes suddenly bulged. Mystified, Luke sniffed at his hand and caught just the barest whiff of something unexpected. Burnt cinnamon again. Why did he smell like -- oh, that was the hand the golden-eyed stranger had touched. Luke gulped. Maybe the stranger had been a little too strange, as in not what he appeared. He certainly was able to resolve the whole problem of Terran academic performance within a few minutes.

"Is the Voice a golden-eyed hom?" he asked abruptly. "There was this stranger who touched my hand."

Syzz snapped out of his bugged-eyed trance. "No, the Voice is Xcathi -- very saurian. And old Xcathi are huge. No mistaking them."

"Then what's this cinnamon smell that has both of you ga-gaa?"

"Smells like . . . Dragonlord," Q'Gruz choked out.

That name was barely familiar. The Voice had used it \-- maybe that was clue enough in itself. "Does this Dragonlord work for the Voice?"

Vocal protests from both of them. "The Voice is a servant of the Dragonlord," Syzz explained in exasperation. "No one stands above the Dragonlord."

"And what does this Dragonlord look like?" Luke asked slowly.

His two friends exchanged a questioning glance. "Anything he wants to, I would imagine," Syzz finally shrugged.

"But he's good?"

Another conference at a glance. "A Power and the highest Power," Syzz said. "It's hard to describe a bolt of lightning as good."

"Especially when striking your roof," Q'Gruz added. "Loo very, very lucky."

Luke shook his head. "I don't quite understand."

"Last night," Syzz explained. "The Tdhjke Clan cruiser in orbit over Zjhaccœse along with all its attendant outriggers had massive engine failures and burned up entering the atmosphere. Dozens of ships and thousands of Skal. Very spectacular and very terrifying. Do you consider that good?"

Luke could say nothing into the silence that followed. Thousands of Skal dead. He was starting to feel very strange about that. "I was scared," he murmured. "I never meant to kill anyone."

Syzz pursed his lips. "When you invoke the Powers, only the invocation is your decision. Thereafter, the lightning strikes as it wills. That is to say, the Dragonlord's decision to punish the Skal is His concern, not yours. But what you do with this moment _is_ your decision."

The whole concept of Powers-That-Be -- gods -- actively involving themselves in local affairs was way too bizarre for someone who wasn't even religious. But armed with the olfactory knowledge, there actually were things he needed to do.

"I intend to petition the Regents for lab resources to build olfactory compensators for all of us Terrans. It turns out that -- what?" Q'Gruz was shaking his head

"Loo petitions no one," the little lizard said. "Dragonlord destroys Skal. Dragonlord talks to Loo. Everyone on Zjhaccœse listens to Loo."

"In other words, think bigger for yourself and your kind," Syzz advised.

Feeling distinctly odd about this, Luke let himself imagine other changes he'd like to see. "What about retiring a monkey-hater or two from the Regents?" he asked.

"Easy," Syzz nodded. "Just give them a whiff of your hand. But then who would you replace them with?"

Two sentients came immediately to mind -- the Dean who had helped despite orders from the Regents and the advocate who had helped against his own kind. It seemed fitting that one Skal at least should benefit after so many had died.

"I can think of a name or two," Luke shrugged. "Guess I shouldn't wash my hands until I meet with the Regents, huh?"

Sorcery is the Body's Pronunciation of the Soul...

Sergio 'ente per ente' Palumbo (Italy)

edited by Michele Dutcher

"Art is the body's pronunciation of the soul."

quote by Michael Gungor

" _Vhrukfruh_ ," Richard Neckerman said. The mispronunciation created a sort of mess on the large wooden desk situated at the far end of the room. Before the boy's latest mishap, it was covered with several glass jars, unusual preparation bottles, and a lot of other varied things organized in a very particular order. The boy started scratching his prominent nose before running that same hand through his short chestnut hair. Regretfully, he stood up and then knelt down to pick up one of the large, old tomes, each written in languages whose words looked more like ancient symbols than true vowels or terms. He'd barely taken a knee when Keighra, his supervising master, shook his head.

"Leave it," the older man said firmly. His tone didn't leave any room for debate. He didn't frown or glare at Richard with those cold-steel eyes. "I want you to try again. Now listen and repeat after me. _Vhrukfrah!_ It's not _Vhrukfruh_ , as you said before, which is a completely different word..."

Richard, who sat before him, nodded and started repeating. "Vhrukfraah..." he uttered, but his head sank in shame. _Wrong again_.

"Well, at least this try didn't have any unexpected consequences, unlike the debacle you caused a few moments ago... It simply had no effect, because the tone you used was not powerful enough and resulted to be just halfhearted. Our magical terms are never just empty words, remember." The older man smiled. The suggestions he gave the boy were usually complimentary or instructive, most of the times they were also helpful. "I know, it's a difficult pronunciation to focus on, one of the most difficult to say, but it's important that you learn it correctly, of course. Try again."

The 16-year-old student took a breath, and did as requested. "Vhrukfraah..."

"Vhrukfrah!" His supervising master repeated.

Richard shrugged his boney shoulders up his thin neck and turned his green eyes toward the floor.

Keighra simply repeated the word, slowly enunciating each syllable. Whitish hair surrounded pale blue eyes, and scars covered his face and arms. Richard had guessed that man was about 60 years old, but it was nearly impossible to know by looking at him. As Keighra stood, the boy considered that he usually wore small round glasses and dressed in expensive but understated clothing, most of which was in warm earth-tones, especially when he had on the robe that he used for teaching during lessons. No one ever saw him unkempt. The supervising master probably didn't look strong and powerful at first sight, but he really was very experienced and appeared at least somewhat intimidating in front of anyone who might stumble into him by chance - unless Keighra himself made some special efforts not to do so.

The man smiled. "You have great abilities inside you." He pointed at the boy's mouth. "It's right there, just waiting to be let out." Richard nearly felt a surge of pride at the praise before Keighra continued, "But it's not enough. Until you improve your pronunciation, these magical words will never be yours."

That was the aim of the personalized lessons, the ones the man gave him after school. The wise Keighra knew, and had always said that, maybe, Richard had been found late, or that he had joined their school at an older age than most students did, but he surely had a long road before him so there was still enough time for him to improve and upgrade his skills, which he reputed to be considerably high.

The boy told himself that, probably, it was true that he had been really found late. Born in Cincinnati, his family had continuously moved from one town to another until he was 11, due to his father's job. At least that is what the boy remembered about those days. This had all changed five years ago when his abilities were seen in action one day, by chance, and he was given the opportunity to join the North American School of Sorcery. He had never been a calm or studious child before, but he had greatly changed with the passing of the time. He had gotten used to the new city of Chicago, his unusual fellows and that strange building situated in the suburbs - but truth be told, he still considered himself to be out of place at times. Fortunately this feeling of uncertainty happened less and less as the months and years went by.

His still young eyes well remembered that day, when the wrought-iron door of the school had opened wide before him for the first time and Richard went in. He had found himself thrown into a completely different world of strange objects and wooden cabinets full of manuscripts that filled every corner of the place and lined his path. The room he was in now, which was a secondary hall of the huge living quarters of the supervising master, wasn't too different.

Keighra said "You have learned that words command magical actions and effects in this world, and the way you pronounce them is really important. The appropriate terms could open before you the road to hidden dimensions that nobody else could reach except sorcerers like us..."

The boy still remembered the speech his master had given when they had started the first one of such personalized lessons, many years ago. He had just entered the school at that time.

"Do you know anything about Superstring Theory?" the older man had asked him that morning.

"What?" Richard had replied. This was supposed to be a lesson in sorcery, and not something connected to Astronomy or Science in general.

"The point-like particles, also seen as waves, of Quantum Theory are reputed to be different vibrations of a string. As a matter of fact, with each note corresponding to a different particle, all the strings spread through space and interact with each other. The theory is also thought to indicate the presence of many worlds that are in several possible universes. According to this, the particles are supposed to have vibrational states, as I said, because they resonate at different points, and our bodies are not different you know...Also the words, the magical terms we say, especially, can greatly influence the way things are, or appear before us, and what happens when they do appear... " There had been a brief pause, then Keighra had started speaking again "Our sorcery simply discovered these truths long ago, and made use of the consequences of Super-String Theory, before the science of common humans took the first steps in understanding such theory!"

"I never even imagined that..." the boy had admitted that day. Many steps had been done since he was much younger, of course. "How many of those worlds can I reach?"

"It depends on how effective you are at correctly learning what you have to know and at pronouncing the right words, at the right moment...Every correct phrase might open a different dimension wide before your eyes, and all you need to learn is how to speak those different languages to reach those places."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I really am..." Keighra had slightly smiled.

Turning his mind to the present moment again, a better disposed Richard convincingly said " _Vhrukfrah_!"

"Alright, now you've done it correctly!" the master nodded eventually.

In a forced stillness, the air between the two became heavier and much weirder for a few moments, before something strange happened. The tissue of reality itself seemed to be fading, and broadened briefly before trembling and being shaken like surface water moved from a strong wind that nobody could directly see. The small portal was forcibly confined within the Copper Rings \- the magical containment-fields provided by the ancient sorcery that protected the school premises – and appeared like a sort of ripple on an imaginary liquid surface. It had opened wide before his eyes, just on the other side of the room.

Orbiting what might be an orange dwarf, the planet that was displayed on the other side looked as if it was deeply suffering because of the extreme temperatures it had to face day by day. Rocks and flaming dust seemed to be constantly falling from the clouds - or were those rock vapors? – plunging into the lakes, or small seas. The ponds were made up of brilliant matter that might possibly be the result of stones turned into liquid. If he had to travel there one day, during the course of his further training about many otherworldly dimensions, he wouldn't have to deal with rain or water expanses - though he doubted that any sorcery existed which could efficaciously defend his body from such hellish place, or the energy it emitted. That world had to be hotter than the hottest sites on Earth.

As a matter of fact, there might be many much stranger and more dangerous worlds that he could set his eyes on in the future. Some were calm and fertile, or better full of bluish assemblages of unknown plant species and new animals like the one he had opened a portal to three days ago, with those unusual tiny creatures, which were not bigger than common sea angels you could spot in the oceans and endowed with slender bodies. Those creatures slowly moved across its muddy ground as if they were living beings of the deeps that were forced to live in a sort of water suddenly turned into a denser, and dirty, substance. That had been weird, although such an alien scene also gave him a sensation of aloofness far away from his everyday problems.

The boy well knew that such portals could be opened wherever you were or wanted to be, although there were rules that allowed – or forbade – such magical effects in the world of common men, where those sorcerous activities were mainly restricted. And so, any window, any wall made of stone or any dusty terrain might become the point where a path, or a doorway to another world might unexpectedly appear, immediately turning a wooden floor, an archway or the entrance of a tall building into a passage to another dimension. That way, our world could become connected to another planet, though briefly, until you were capable of keeping it open by means of your sorcery, and your energy. Magical worlds could make it all possible, but it was your power, your experience and your skills that could enforce and increase its duration. And in every single point of the tissue of present reality such a passage might be opened. Other than that, by using a different and appropriate term, another dimension might be seen and reached, on the same site, past the previous one that was visible.

And such very different, worlds – or dimensions – apparently were situated on top of each other, just like layers of matter unseen. These places were just a 'u' or 'you' away from the one you saw before, in terms of pronunciation, at least...This explained why it was so important to exactly learn how to pronounce the word you had in your mind and wanted to make use of at a certain time. And, for some of those effects, a few young sorcerers like him had to attentively act as a group to get the complicated result they wanted, and open the most difficult portals to the farthest dimension, that was the most alien to their own world.

Richard was well aware of the fact that the differences among similar magical terms were much deeper than you could ever imagine or find when you said some everyday words that might be easily mistaken if not correctly pronounced. Think of, for example, the different meaning of 'here', common US pronunciation: /hɪɹ/ and 'hear', which had a slightly different pronunciation: /hiːɹ/, though it meant a completely different thing. And the same could be noticed about many other terms, like 'through/threw', 'leave/live' ad so on...But, in the case of sorcery, things were entirely different, in the true sense of the word, and the results you got if you didn't pronounce exactly the secret magical term you wanted your voice to let out might be disastrous, or deeply dejecting. In another way, the effects you wanted to put into action could be poor, or of no use; but what you eventually got might also become dangerous, or deadly, to you or to others. It was up to you to make a good use of your voice, and speak correctly. _Otherwise, some bad consequences could follow._ At times, it was just a matter of a vowel said in a hurried tone, or a stupid mistaken someone might make if he didn't speak clearly enough and didn't remember correctly the magical term to be used.

#

After his lessons were over, the boy took leave of his master and went to his small though comfortable room in the west wing of the school. He had a shower and rested for a short while before starting to dress again for what was next. As he hurriedly left that evening, his run made him cross the verdant courtyard of the building until he got to the Great Library of Knowledge where he had half a mind to stay for a few hours, to improve his studies and make up for his deficiencies. However, as he quickly walked on, dressed in a waistcoat of a peculiar design and pants that were the black color required by the school, he saw, not far from the opposite wall, the three faces of other students: younger Hector, Paul and Edwina. They were all busy discussing among themselves everything and nothing, as they usually did. The boy greeted them, as he didn't want to appear discourteous, but quickly passed those by as he wasn't interested in knowing about the most recent events of their life stories of every day...

The **North American School of Sorcery** for students aged 11 to 18 was situated in the Chicago suburbs, though not every citizen in town could see the school clearly. The building was, of course, covered in numerous enchantments that were activated around it making it impossible for the common populace to locate it. Only the few ones who had the sacred power in their body might do that, undoubtedly. The school itself looked like a very tall, quite scary-looking castle, with fifteen towers and long stone battlements. In frank words, there was no reason for the people who first built it in the shape of a huge castle to have it constructed exactly that way, as it had been created in 16th century, when the first European settlers endowed with magical powers had come to this region of the continent. The building was fashioned after the characteristic imagery of the sites most of the schools of sorcery had chosen in the ancient times in Great Britain \- or elsewhere across the ocean - when that secret science had begun to be developed by small groups of gifted humans.

In fact, it didn't look exactly like an old Norman fortress or a typical defensive walled structure from the Middle Ages. Many among those with the power, who could see it, said instead it resembled a Renaissance mansion, more or less, and possibly they were right. It certainly would fit into the time period when the place was built, as there had never been ancient castles in North America before this one was built, nor other older schools of sorcery like this - except for the ancient congregations of Native Americans who followed other traditions of magical power intertwined with the earth itself.

After all, if it ever suddenly appeared out of nothing, one day, because of the sudden lack of those necessary enchantments that always protected it, the place with its outbuildings would surely look weird and out-of-place, given its appearance among all those very tall skyscrapers and the residential homes that filled most of the present Chicago skyline, even in the suburbs.

As Richard walked past the gate of the Great Library of Knowledge, he chose some tomes that he knew he'd better have a second read at and promised him himself that he would give it his all. Truth be told, admission to the Course of Body Sorcery, which the boy was attending, was very selective, in that only children who showed certain magical abilities would get an invitation to it. And, for this reason, all the students who were admitted at public schools in town were put to some secret tests during the year, known only to the few teachers who worked side-by-side among the common humans. These secret tests were meant to verify the hidden gifts present inside them, so as to push those special children towards the right path they had to walk during their lifetime – differently than all the other pupils of the same age living in the city.

Since the beginning of his studies at the school, he had been taught about how to pronounce some words exactly. Richard had also spent much of his time reading peculiar texts and ancient books, rather than learning powerful enchantments as most future great sorcery practitioners like him should. At least that was what he thought. But he also knew very well that the magical effects the students might create depended upon the pronunciation of the terms they used, so that part wasn't any less important. On the contrary, it was the start of everything!

After reaching the desks meant for the students, the boy sat under a large oxeye window, the showy round aperture glazed with thickened concentric circles of glass, which was in the middle of the stone-gray wall. On a clear day, you could almost make-out the shape of the tallest buildings of downtown in the distance. Since the late 1990s, Chicago's label of 'Second City' had become only an honorary title, as the population of Los Angeles had already surpassed that of Chicago and was the second largest city in the United States. This couldn't be changed nor helped. Not anymore. Although there was still something in which Chicago was second to none: its noteworthy North American School of Sorcery, which was Chicago's best way to show all how fantastic and powerful it was. Though the thought of the sight of the city from that point might be attractive, Richard didn't like to spend his free time just looking out the window, at least not today. Reading, refining his techniques and enlarging his knowledge was what required most of his attention. And Richard was, undoubtedly, a master at finding new ways to waste time while drinking beer and attending parties, or being lost in his long ponderings, so there was no need to think of other means to be distracted and lose opportunities to improve his mind and his station.

As was true almost every time that he was heavily involved in his studies and didn't want anyone to step in or openly distract him, also today someone approached. It was Inyanga Kleist, there couldn't be a single doubt about that. Her tall dark-skinned figure couldn't be mistaken for any other girl in the school. But truthfully, the fact that it was her didn't displease the boy at all...

Her flowing hair when she moved had always had a strong grip on him as Richard found her attractive, though probably a bit too coarse and abrupt at times. She, too, had a broad chin showily concentrated at the center of the face, though that didn't make her be less feminine, certainly. French braided behind her neck, her dark hair flowed down her back. In a way the close-fitting jacket she wore, along with the pleated skirt, undoubtedly showed off her slenderness and also seemed more fashionable than the most expensive jackets you could spot in any window of the downtown clothing shops nowadays - although its style was something that directly came from the uniforms of the school tradition of the late 1800s.

Her leather shoes moved almost soundlessly forwards as the girl approached the seat he was in. When she was near enough, her delicate almost childish hands touched his shoulders, making him turn around to greet her. A smile appeared on his face as he asked her "Ready for our usual Saturday evening trip to the world of common mortals?"

The girl seemed to display an interest. This had recently become a sort of tradition with them over the course of the last weeks. He would have probably liked it more if only he and she could get to downtown and enjoy some time alone, but usually a group was formed of about 5 to 6 boys and girls, who were willing to visit downtown and get lost in the busy streets of the modern city.

"I wouldn't call downtown Chicago common..." Inyanga pointed out. "There are so many unbelievable buildings that old companies built in the past. It makes you wonder exactly how people not endowed with magical powers were able to accomplish such difficult tasks, only using their hands, technology, hard work and inventiveness..."

"You have always had a weakness for those tall skyscrapers, am I right?" Richard retorted in a sneer "Do you plan on finding a flat in one of those modern towers one day, when your course of study is over here? Or maybe you are eager to buy a large office, like some renowned lawyers or accountants do?"

The girl returned the sneer, the way only she could, and nodded. "Maybe you're right...or maybe not, who knows? What if I just like the view you can have from up there?"

"There is no comparison between the common view of Chicago and the views of other worlds and dimensions that we can see. Certainly you know that we can have glimpses of places more unusual than any human could ever think of," he replied.

"Yes, indeed. But only if you correctly pronounce the right words, and you usually don't - I mean, _not all the times_..." the girl said, making fun of him.

"You make mistakes at pronunciation as well. Don't forget that," Richard uttered.

"Less and less every day, thanks to my unceasing practice. And certainly less that you do," she smiled. But her words were just meant to fool with him and not meant to get him angry. Then the girl backed off a little, feeling ill at ease, as if she had heard within her mind a possible reply coming from Richard that might go something like this: 'Don't talk to me like that!' Which was where she would need to apologize saying: "Don't get me wrong, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"Yes, I know, you're only trying to induce me to become a better student...manipulating me to study harder." the boy acknowledged.

"Exactly!" the other exclaimed, as if she was relieved by his pointing out the fact that she was just trying to be of help. "If you always try your best, you'll certainly improve yourself..."

"Who else is coming along tomorrow?" Richard asked.

"Oh, I was just going to tell you... Robert Auchamp is out of school while visiting his parents, and Frank, too, will be elsewhere," Inyanga said.

Those words revived Richard's interest for the day out. Perhaps it would just be him and her, and nobody else. This thought was immediately to his liking...But it didn't last long. _Just when he was starting to think that could be a sort of invitation for a date_...

"Ah, I almost forgot... Alfonso is coming along too," she added and made a face.

"Alfonso Zhow?" he asked dubiously.

"Its Szkhow...and yes, he too needs a fun day off." Inyanga maintained, the way only a Kleist could do. So, that was that. It would be the three of them, and nobody else, at least for this Saturday.

#

People said that there was no better Chicago experience than a light dinner on the lawn of the Pritzker Pavilion during a free concert at the outdoor venue. This wasn't, anyway, the place the three boys chose for their day off. Though they certainly headed for a site not far from that, located in downtown Chicago on Michigan Avenue between Randolph and Monroe Streets, and kept lightheartedly walking for some minutes along the gardens and the trees of the wide verdant area.

"A project to celebrate the 21st century, Millennium Park was built to provide year-round recreational opportunities since it opened in summer 2004..." Inyanga said, as if she was reciting a paragraph from a book meant for visitors. "Did you know that it covers more than one million square feet?"

Richard looked at her with a funny expression on his face as he kept strolling around and followed his fellow students. "I thought you loved downtown Chicago just for the opportunities it gives you to shop and spend your money. I would never have imagined you also liked this local park..."

Inyanga retorted in a plain tone. "In reality, this is a northern expansion of Grant Park, so this area is a sort of a park within-a-park. A dilapidated rail yard was transformed into a great destination for families that attracts thousands tourists per year. Wasn't that a great thing to do? The theater situated nearby also offers dance performances and chamber music. How could anyone not feel at ease while walking along this lush path full of plants and flowers?"

He stared at her and said in a sneer. "You know, maybe I preferred you while we were busy shopping..."

"Or maybe you are just a student that can't stay away from his schoolbooks, someone who only thinks of studying, studying and studying...Take a break, you really need it! Anyway, even if you studied 20 hours a day, you could never reach my level...You know, there are simply people who can and people who can't."

"Wait a moment," said Alfonso suddenly, interrupting the girl. "Isn't that the famous sculpture called the Cloud Gate? A work of art made by some legendary British artist?" All of a sudden, it seemed that something had attracted his interest, and this was remarkable as he usually didn't say much.

"What do you say? Where...?" Richard asked him.

"It's there..." he pointed to the object in the distance. His chestnut eyes, the same color of his short curls, stared ahead for a while.

"Oh, I see it now. Yes, you're right, Alfonso. I've heard that you have always been attracted to modern art."

"Yes, I do like such things - in a way modern art is something that displays what Mankind can give us all," the plain-looking boy replied in a decided tone of voice. He had a light jacket on that was short though full of wrinkles in the back, meaning that he didn't take too much care about his appearance, for sure. "And this is something we can't get by means of our sorcery. Only inventiveness and a good practice can allow people to build such invaluable objects of art."

The girl looked surprised at that phrase. He was right, by all means. "True, indeed. But even in our magical world we have some spectacular works of art like Unending Worlds by N. D'Andrea or Sea of the Mind by L. Kwon. Some also represent the best features of the most famous palaces in our administrative buildings..." she added.

"It's different, in my opinion. Our magical world has long moved away from common humans' way of life. Those are things that were made by means of sorcery and wouldn't be obtained differently. But just think about a sculpture built by ordinary women or men. They can only use their hands, inventiveness and mind, to get it done. And they must choose the best way to make it. In our secluded world things don't get done that way. Sorcery can have some big works of art easily done, spurting out of nothing or simply assembling matter in order to get the desired result."

"But the similarities still exist. Our artists also turn to imaginativeness to achieve what they have in mind," the girl uttered looking at Richard.

"And yet, it's not the same. Did you ever see a sorcerer, young or old, who made use of his hands to build a sculpture?" Alfonso pointed it out.

"But inventiveness is always involved..." she added.

"Okay, okay, before you start talking again and continue arguing this point, what about something to eat? A good bread roll, maybe with fries?" Richard called their attention to him, hoping to bring things back to the present place and their free time.

The two kept staring at each other for some time more before Inyanga said, "Maybe some large fries, and a juice, too."

"Just a drink for me and no fries," Alfonso made it clear. They didn't seem to completely agree even on what to eat, apparently.

"So, let's go eat..." a visibly angry Richard said to the other two.

"You go on," Alfonso nodded. "I need to stay here a little while longer, so I can have a better look at that sculpture. There's something in it that I find interesting..."

"Alright. You can meet us at that food court as soon as you're finished."

As the two friends went away, Alfonso approached the sculpture and stood before it for a while. 'Chicago is chocked full of possibilities, though the common citizens know nothing about it all, undoubtedly.' the boy told himself. The truth was that the urban area wasn't just what you saw at first sight, nor what the tourists knew of, or what the workers or the common people who lived and stayed there every day thought of and could see before their eyes. There was another town under the usual appearance, some sorcerous architectural features within the visible superstructure, and it all was completely different from what most humans could imagine, to be sure.

Alfonso felt an urge inside, a sudden desire to get nearer that work of art. At the same time, he was pondering many things over. _Actually, there were many unseen cities, one within the other, along with several dimensions, although just a few members of the School of Body Sorcery could ever hope, or dare, to discover all of them during their lifetime, and reach those places using their abilities one day or another._

Still being deeply thoughtful, the boy was sure there was something inside that peculiar sculpture... _Something unusual, or_...And then, he unexpectedly felt a bit strange. He found himself growing disoriented and almost slipped into an inappropriate time and place. He certainly didn't think it might be caused by his hunger or thirst, but it was as if he wasn't himself anymore.

At a certain moment, it was also as though his body wasn't able to supply needful oxygen to the brain fast enough. People and places surrounding him had become difficult to identify. Alfonso didn't know why, but it was happening. _Again_...

When Richard and Inyanga got back to the boy with their drinks and bread rolls still in their hands, they saw he was still there, exactly where they had left him. They had started to get worried since they had noticed he didn't meet them in the food court, and had consequently returned to the place where they had seen him last.

His eyes seemed to be lost, possibly stuck on something as if he was looking at, well, who knows what...Maybe he was just tired, or distracted, though his features appeared to be wrinkled and not self-composed as they usually happened to be, at least as far as the two knew him. Then, it took place. And everything became unbelievably unusual...

Alfonso's lips let some words out, actually, and the whole scene before him began changing. _Deeply changing..._

Richard and Inyanga were caught by surprise. _What was he doing_? The boy certainly knew that no student was ever allowed to produce a portal using sorcery in the open, especially if a lot of people – tourists and locals who were unaware of their magical world – were presently standing around and were watching what was going on. That was strictly forbidden!

Richard thought that, maybe, a word misspelled by their fellow was causing it all. Though, they had never seen something like that... Actually, the name of his branch of studies, 'Body Sorcery', wasn't something connected to the human figure or its build at all – instead, the term referred to a peculiar characteristic of Mankind, which was its ability to speak. From the way certain words were spoken, or pronounced, a lot of things might happen and change. And he certainly knew, more than others, that a little mistake in that field might also bring dejection, pain or even disaster, if the situation took a turn for the worse. It didn't only depend upon the power humans held inside: if you didn't say the terms in the correct way, most of the time the magical effects simply didn't occur and you ended up getting nothing at all! But, at times, on the other hand...

Of course, words alone weren't enough to make you get the effects you wanted or reach the proper results: even the place where you stood mattered, a lot. Was that site in downtown endowed with some magical properties he and Inyanga possibly didn't know anything about? So _, why Alfonso was aware of them?_ Why nobody in the school had ever been warned?

Though, it seemed that there was much more than that. What was coming into view in the park was something really startling, in the most troubling way.

Humanity had always feared the unknown, certainly. Darkness, the deep oceans, even boundless outer space inspired great terror, but at least men and women had attempted to explore and understand all that over the course of their history. In this case, the field of active sorcery was a completely different matter. Only the few humans, like these students and the elder masters, who were endowed with powers, born by chance and picked later up here and there from countries all over the world, could appropriately make use of sorcery and go visiting and knowing those places that stood past the common human experience, for sure. That was a field that most of Mankind would never be meant to be aware of, a field of expertise that they would never figure out or grow complacent about.

Near that work of art, there were now dark flashes of lighting and a sudden brilliance the color of violet as a ghastly dimness appeared and spread like threatening clouds before Alfonso and everything around the scene. And then the widening portal displayed what lay past it.

Richard and Inyanga couldn't believe their own eyes. Alfonso was known to have spent much time while in his room at the school practicing with several tests and difficult lessons, but it wasn't the same. Beyond that, that boy really wasn't a gifted student, although he was very intelligent and attentive, as some teachers had told him before...So, what was going on? _What the hell was that_...? Nothing like such a dark scene was ever meant to exist, if Richard remembered his past lessons correctly. There was no unearthly world which might be reached by means of their sorcery that looked like that, at least according to what they all had studied and learned about in books so far...

"Richard!" the girl exclaimed in astonishment, turning to him, but the boy was as overwhelmed as she happened to be.

As the dark lightning continued and hit the ground more details of what appeared on the other side could be seen. And an obscure, unusual world stood there. That was a desperate place that seemed to possess nothing in common with their Earth and was mostly full of unending tunnels bored out of the dark rock that the desolated mountainous surface was made of.

From what the other two students could tell, the days in that dimension appeared to be always turbid and gray, the evening not differing too much from the dawn probably, with just some little distant and very feeble stars appearing in the airless sky, looking more like brown dwarves than vivid suns. With no shelters and no visible buildings, jungles or oceans, and without farms or factories, there was also little need for the usual cycle of weather or seasonal variations, nor could you see signs of rainfall or long-hidden underground water. Maybe that part of such an alternate dimension had entered a period of much higher desertification levels than their Earth had ever experienced; consequently, woodlands, and abundant lakes and rivers had entirely disappeared from the vast portions of that terrain, almost everywhere. _If life had ever thrived there to begin with..._

And yet, notwithstanding those difficult and almost unbearable conditions that might easily make you think that nothing could survive on that planet, some strange life-forms seemed to be living there! Those long lurking beings appeared suddenly, spurting out of the dead terrain, very unusual, fearful and unlike any other creatures the experienced eyes of a young sorcerer like him or his female friend had ever seen before. Or so Richard imagined. The two weren't sure what to do next...

Richard wondered how such a species might possibly be living under those dark conditions, provided that they appeared to be really capable of staying on that worthless and terrifying world. But who knows, possibly the main threat that such utterly ferocious beings had to face day by day in order to survive were challenges coming more from each other than from such a deadly cold environment.

"Richard!" Inyanga seemed to call attention to herself again, but her voice appeared more like a whisper than some well-defined sounds. Then, her pupils visibly displayed bewilderment as something else was taking center stage now.

An unearthly unbreathable strong wind blew bothersome dust, making dim-colored formations like those found in a desert that was situated in the middle of a lifeless, forgotten hole where only the unending passage of the elements might bring to mind a sort of activity being in action out there. _Could any past disaster have changed the climate considerably_? Richard had never seen before, on the other side, a dried world that was so dark, so terrible and deeply desperate, to the point of the terrain not being habitable anyway... And he also felt a great uneasiness as he looked at the new, obscure world, an intolerable oppression reigned in so much that he couldn't accept that sight any longer or bear to keep his eyes on that, and had to avert his pupils from looking at the scene.

One of those incredibly unusual beings seemed to notice the three young children standing on the other side, and daringly moved towards them. The hard-skinned monster-like creature had a shapeless face with bulbous eyes that clearly defined its fearful features, and was endowed with several stout legs supporting a large body full of maws dripping a bluish liquid. The overall unusual build - twice the common human proportions in size \- was also topped by a heap of variously-sized tissues joined in structural units always including a few flexible elongated clutches, possibly used for grasping and feeding on fluids of the poor living beings who happened to wander into the creature's range.

As it kept moving forward by leaping on its strange legs, some clouds of smoke manifested around its body. The creature didn't appear to be very agile, though the students' impressions might be deceptive, by all means.

As Alfonso, who stayed near the sculpture, still looked rapt and stuck on the place, the other two students worriedly moved backwards, being afraid of the creature approaching the portal, though very slowly and with difficulty. _They'd never been so scared in all of their life..._

It was at that time that they heard a strange noise like a thud at their back, and the well-known features of Keighra, their supervising master, magically appeared on the spot.

Inyanga thought about it briefly. She should have known, undoubtedly! No student was ever allowed to freely walk outside of the school before graduation without that unseen magical signal being attached to them. It was something that old traditions required, as no teacher sorcerer could allow inexperienced boys or girls that were still not masters of their arts, and legally were not yet entirely responsible, to wander freely about, maybe causing damages to common humans or letting their power out inappropriately before the eyes of unaware people who happened to be walking nearby. So, Keighra had had no problem in finding the group of three and immediately reaching the park where they were now.

Although no student usually appreciated their master showing up suddenly to reprimand them or openly curse them, in this case his presence was most welcomed. Certainly was most welcomed by Richard and Inyanga, at least. _Maybe he could even explain what was going on..._

"Don't let their massive appearance make you think they are slow, or stupid monsters," the old master told all the students, appearing behind them. "Such evil beings are intelligent and long-lived! And they can't resist the opportunity to prey on tasty humans that come too near...Stay back, or you could put yourself in danger! They sense your blood, and your appetizing life here..."

Inyanga turned to look at the man. "What is it, master? Truly, I have never seen anything like that before..."

"This is something you were never supposed to set your eyes on in your lifetime, girl. And I thought that nobody would ever face such an unbearable sight, whether they were experienced students or learned aged sorcerers. But I was wrong, undoubtedly, I must say..." Keighra replied with a worried expression on his face.

Inyanga considered those words before asking again. "So, what is it master? How can we see that world when we were never meant to study it by using our sorcery? Did Alfonso make some mistakes in pronouncing the spell, ending-up with opening that dimension before our eyes?"

"That is not a place you could ever be allowed to get to, even if you pronounce some words of a common ritual badly, believe me. You couldn't even find a mention of that dark dimension in all the wings of our Great Library of Knowledge that are off limits to most students indefinitely. Actually, only a very strong power could open that portal, one that is very evil one - probably the most evil power ever released..."

The girl lowered her eyes thoughtfully. She still couldn't figure out what was really going on. _What danger was he talking about?_

"Now I order the three of you to move back from that damn' murky and unholy portal!" While doing so Keighra made a wide gesture with both hands.

Richard objected "We might be of help, master...", though his fear didn't seem to be in accordance with his words.

"No way!" the old made made it clear.

So, Inyanga and Richard moved back accordingly, but Alfonso didn't seem to be listening at all to the master, his almost lifeless pupils appeared to still be glazed over, unaware of what was going on around him. " _I'm talking to you too, Alfonso Szkhow_! Move back, do it now! It's for your own safety..."

Probably, the terms Keighra made use of had finally some very strong magical effects on that boy, the result of some sort of sorcery the other two knew nothing about, or had never been instructed on. And a glimmer of reasonableness and presence of mind seemed to come back to Alfonso's features.

As the three finally made it to safety, the master moved both his hands towards the sky and cried out, " _Leig seachad_!" A bluish light enveloped a section of that park and reached up into faint clouds that spread in the sky.

Richard didn't understand the exact pronunciation of that magical words, but Inyanga thought that it was a powerful term that directly came from old Gaelic. This language, she well knew, was the most ancient one of the lands situated past the ocean where their sorcery came from and was something that all students partly learned, at least as a first grounding in old magical history. It meant, more or less, 'Stop', or also 'Come to an end' and was said to be capable of interrupting every sorcery that was in motion, everywhere, though it had to be appropriately pronounced, of course. That also required great power to be expended that only a very experienced master like Keighra might have at his disposal, certainly.

The dark portal leading to the dimension that was full of blackness and deep despair started to disappear, slowly though continuously. Until it was no more. Those terrifying creatures had gone with it, apparently.

A light rain, nearly a mist, began falling all at once and masked the sounds of the cries that came from some worried citizens nearby, along with the noises of the movements of the three as they forcibly went away, following the angry Keighra. Or, maybe it was more a worried look than an angered expression what was visible on their supervising master's features now.

#

All the elder teachers remained inside the Chamber of the Council at the school the next morning, because they were very busy discussing what had happened to Alfonso the day before in downtown. You couldn't even spot any of them in the different wings of the building for most of Sunday. In the end, they ordered the boy named Alfonso to temporarily stay on school property, waiting for their decision that was to be given soon.

Richard and Inyanga spent the forenoon attending their classes, as a very few courses were held also on that day, but they still felt very ill at ease because of what they had gone through yesterday, and were also a bit worried about what they had seen in the park. There were many questions to be asked that fluttered about their incredulous minds, but no one of the two wanted to openly reveal them to the other, probably. So, some long moments of speechless wavering and bewilderment filled most of the few hours they spent together.

Soon after lunchtime they went to the garden of the school and it was there that they, unexpectedly, found Alfonso. This could only mean he hadn't been confined to his chamber and that he could freely move within the different areas of the building, provided that he didn't leave the school. After all, the most-welcomed intervention of Keighra had prevented the whole situation from becoming something much worse or uncontrollable.

It was Inyanga who first addressed the boy, who sat in silence on a wooden bench near a tall tree. "How are you, Alfonso?"

He simply hinted a short smile, then went back to his ponderings, whatever they might be.

The girl insisted and softly inquired of him, "Did you meet master Keighra this morning? What did he tell you?"

The boy raised his head. "He told me to stay out of trouble, at first...but he didn't say much. He asked me many questions, instead..."

"Any explanation about what occurred yesterday?" a wary Richard asked.

Alfonso seemed to immediately fall into silence again.

"But he must have told you something...Did he?" Inyanga insisted.

"He spoke about the serious dangers involved in what happened. He also said that, by means of my sorcerous words that were opening that portal to a forbidden dimension, that great darkness and the unholy creatures that lived there might come to our reality. And spread terrible consequences all over the world..."

"The question still remains..." Richard looked at the other wide-eyed. "How did you know those magical words that made you open that unknown portal? Who taught them to you?"

The boy appeared upset at that moment and stared at him in anger. "Nobody taught those words to me! And I don't know how it happened..."

So, the girl approached him and sat next to him on the bench. "Don't think that no one can help you...we are here for you now. There are too many things in the field of sorcery that we still don't comprehend, probably not even the elder masters themselves can know it all." With that being said, Inyanga put a comforting hand on his shoulders, as she was very good at usually doing.

"At times," Alfonso started speaking again, looking to be in a slightly better state of mind now "I happen to begin pronouncing strange words, terms I never studied at school, or elsewhere...They unexplainably come to my mind, just as if someone was whispering those spells to me, talking to me unseen..."

"What spells are you talking about?" Richard uttered.

"Magical words, exactly like the ones I pronounced yesterday while in the park. I said them unwillingly, but I said them...And I don't know where they came from."

"But there must be some explanation..." Inyanga maintained.

"Actually, there's something that master Keighra warned me about. He told me that some dark, dangerous power might be inside me, and that if I let it out by pronouncing such unholy words again some terrible things might occur..." the boy revealed.

"What do you mean?"

"He also revealed to me that, if such evil power resonates inappropriately, it might call some of those noxious creatures into our reality, like the dark ones we spotted on the other side of the portal itself...In fact, it is not only we sorcerers that can make use of magical expressions to open a path to other dimensions. There are also other beings who are eager to come into this world. Those creatures have tried to make it here for centuries and just need the appropriate means to get here. They can't make it alone..."

"And you might be that means?" the girl who sat next to him looked worried.

No reply came from the boy, but his eyes said he had the same worrisome thoughts and he was really scared. Then, something else saddened him more visibly and he appeared to be lost again. And a strange expression started ruling over his features.

"What's up now, Alfonso?" Richard asked him.

All at once the boy seemed to have trouble breathing, and he started trembling all over his body for a few moments, inexplicably. The heart of the other two sank when they saw him having a seizure. Something was certainly affecting the boy, whose eyes seemed to be looking ahead, staring at a scene no one else could see, exactly the same as had happened the day before in downtown. And his lips began talking another time in an unusual, mumbling way.

A ghastly reddish crackling filled the air around the three, then there was a bolt of lightning. And the whole place began changing. _Once again!_

Richard and Inyanga were caught by surprise. _How was it possible_? The protective sorcery the whole school was endowed with shouldn't let such magical effects take place inside the barrier, if those effects were not allowed by an appointed master. If any student tried such a thing every portal inappropriately called into their reality would be stopped, which was a stricter system than the Copper Rings that contained it when, for example, students opened a path to another world during the lessons with Keighra.

There were more and more dark lightning that shone and a sudden violet brilliance forcibly hit the ground like a violent blow. After a while, the dark dimension the students had seen the day before was there in front of them again. They could see the same desperate place that looked so lifeless, sad and dangerous.

However, a sort of life form did live there, they knew it... Those unholy lurking beings immediately gushed out of the seemingly dead terrain, and moved forwards at a very quick rate. A worried Richard recognized those monster-like shapeless faces with bulbous eyes, and the several strange legs supporting a scary body. They were trying to reach the watery surface that kept them on the other side, trying to emerge from the portal and get to the students' reality!

"Richard, it is happening again!" Inyanga cried out.

"I know, I see...what can we do?" the other replied, but his tone sounded unconvincing, or not comforting at all.

There was more electric crackling and the monster's terrifying arms were almost to the opening in the tissue of their world, eager to get past, ready to reach their dimension. What could they think of? The students were unable to move or think.

"Help me, I don't want to allow them to pass through me! I can't bear the thought of being the reason the evil portal opens up, allowing those dangerous creatures to hurt all of us...!" It was Alfonso's lamenting voice that cried out in spite of the fear that had been wrapping all of them until that moment.

After the first shock of those unexpected words, Richard came nearer to his fellow, though Alfonso was standing way too close to the terrifying portal and the boy was afraid of the dark creatures that stood on the other side, which kept getting closer and closer. "What can I do? Really...how can I be of help? I don't know any way to close that portal..." he said.

"I know how to stop it! Give me a whetstone!" the other cried out, trying to distance himself from the open path to that dimension, unfortunately with no effect.

"What?"

"There is whetstone in this garden, next to that bench and the vase...The groundsmen use it to adjust the small trees before planting them. I have seen them use it twice..."

Though wacky such an unexpected request of his might appear, Richard turned around and eventually found the metallic whetstone the other student was talking about. He quickly grabbed it. Afterwards, he made a few steps to get back to Alfonso, handing it to him as requested. While approaching he tried his best to control himself, without having a direct look at what lay past the portal. But he knew that those monster-like shapeless faces with bulbous eyes were there, getting nearer and nearer.

As soon as Alfonso was handed the whetstone, he made a very unexplainable and immediate gesture. His fingers took the tool in a strong grip before he put it on his chest, and he let some words out. Then he made a desperate gesture none of the students who were in that school had ever imagined. The pointed end of the whetstone pierced through the boy's jacket and quickly sliced through his internal organs. His heart stopped and his body fell to the ground almost at once.

_"Damn!_ _No, don't..._ " Richard exclaimed. Inyanga's subsequent yell seemed to lacerate the air itself.

But it was already too late, as the boy's action had been too fast to stop, and too unexpected by all means.

As if a sort of unknown ritual had been finished, the awful portal too disappeared from the garden as soon as Alfonso's body touched the meadow below. This way, also those monstrous beings who were ready to get past the opening between the different dimensions were simply no more, having been stopped before they could enter their world, and there weren't traces left of them on the site. _Just as if they had never been real..._

Also, the watery-like surface that usually stood before the portal had been immediately destroyed. Now only the boy and the girl stood there alone, and a long silence fell in the garden. Inyanga hadn't exactly overheard what the two male students had told each other before Alfonso died, but her present feelings didn't let her have a clear grasp of the situation. Besides, she didn't understand how those evil beings had disappeared at once, intertwining in that dark fearful dimension that boy himself had made visible because of the portal he had opened again.

So, the girl was still shaken but also filled with compassion as she spoke to a saddened Richard. Inyanga asked him if she could do something, anything that could be helpful, looking at him with a pained expression, but she didn't wait for an answer.

There were many things that they probably wanted to say, and many sad, grieving sensations to be let out that words just couldn't be reputed appropriate for. The truth was that there was nothing they could do now, and also their considerable powers seemed to be entirely of no use at the moment. After all, no known sorcery could restore life, or keep death at a safe distance forever.

A knowing Inyanga simply took his hand and the two walked back to the school, in the prolonged silence, as a few of the other boys came running to the place where the portal had been, attracted by the strange noises and especially the unusual dark lightning they had previously noticed in the garden area.

#

After that second accident, which had occurred just outside the main building of the school, no one ever asked again about what had happened to Alfonso. At least, not after the masters said it all had played out as it had to, Keighra considered. The students were too scared of what they had previously seen, at least the two who had directly watched the dark dimension poor Alfonso had – though unwillingly – almost let into our world while downtown, and the others simply preferred not to know anything more about that terrible occurrence, which looked like something connected to old forbidden sorcery.

It might be strange and sad that this had happened to their well-gifted group of students, boys and young girls, during their school days, the supervising master told himself. The fact was that it wasn't an unexpected occurrence at all. The man touched his pointed graying goatee and just lowered his eyes for a few moments, as if lost in a deep thought. In every group of students, every twenty years, more or less, someone was found that displayed such abilities and could call to him, or to her, the blackness of the darkest, and most deadly, dimension of all. This year everything had been stopped by means of a student, a boy named Richard Neckerman, who had helped the cursed Alfonso in putting an end to his dangerous life, though on request of the poor student himself endowed with such unwanted power.

In other cases it had been Keighra himself, or the now retired supervising master - as the old man recalled to his mind...- who was at the school before him, who had followed his duties and had made the life of the one possessing such dark abilities cease. Now, with him dead they definitely had nothing to fear, at least for a while.

It had to be done, for the good of the school, and for the safety of the people, young and old, who were practitioners of such ancient sorcery. It was a sad thing, but someone had to do it, every single time, Keighra lowered his eyes... _'And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last...'_ , the master remembered in silence, as that famous Scottish poet, Sir Walter Scott, had said once long ago.

After all, wasn't a single floater supposed to be on the surface of the sea near the most beautiful and expensive beach from time to time, one day or another? Alfonso had never asked for that dangerous power, but he had it, he was endowed with a link to that dark dimension. This might pose a deadly threat to them all. And he had to be gotten rid of, just as if he was an unwanted, or worn-out object.

There wasn't much to be said about the demise of that boy. Probably, it just couldn't be helped. So the history of their long-lived sorcery went, so the tradition of their ancient School had to be preserved, and protected, too. By all means, now and in the days to come...

Socrates' Army

Eric Del Carlo (USA)

When he'd opened his induction email, it had been a gut-punch of shock and fear. The BT that followed was intensive, with a crazed DI screaming in his face and a brutal regimen of physical/weapons training.

Now, seeing the school, Kole wished he was back in basic training, at that hateful camp. He even longed to see his shrieking spittle-spraying drill instructor again--because it would mean that he wouldn't be _here_. At this institution, which was his deployment.

They had sent him into the shit. Which was, historically, what was done with draftees.

Kole Frances touched every one of the weapons on his person in shamanistic fashion, reassuring himself of the power of his totems. Shockstik, pukerod, doser, 9mm. Then he marched toward the squalid metaplastic-sided structure, which was lodged tumor-like in this ghastly urban hellscape.

To be inducted by lottery into the educational corps meant the same losses of liberty as with military service. From the instant he had clicked on the mandatory-read notice, Kole's life had ceased to be his own. He'd had three weeks to settle his affairs before reporting to basic. In that time he had sublet his apartment and made the rounds of family and friends. He'd had to quit his job with the geoengineering firm, but a position of equivalent salary would be made available to him at the end of his stint. It didn't much matter. He didn't do anything important at the company. At age twenty-five, he'd never done anything of substance.

There was no lover to say goodbye to when he was relocated to the city.

Wearing his suit of flex-armor and weaponized to a fare-thee-well, Kole Frances presented himself at the school's portal. Security mech swooped in until his identity was verified; afterward none of the battered-looking automatic sentinels cared that he was armed for a massacre.

He hadn't wanted to be conscripted into the ed-corps. He, like most sane people his age, dreaded the possibility. This was dangerous, demoralizing, vastly unrewarding work. But if his number came up, he would go. So he'd always told himself. Yet in that first moment of paralysis, staring goggle-eyed at his induction notice and feeling the hot/cold fear push all rationality from his mind, he had realized he would do _any_ thing not to go.

So he went the darkpharma route, receiving the Offnet pills at a blind drop in a tree preserve. He swallowed the capsules, imprinted with Cyrillic lettering, and went in for his initial psych eval. A drone had delivered his body-monitor patch to his apartment door twenty minutes after he'd opened his induction email, and he'd had to paste it on in the hovering device's presence. So the corps already knew he was physically competent.

The darkpharma pills were working. Kole felt all kinds of _off_ , mentally. The medtech got the full cerebral scan going. Kole didn't see her for minutes at a time as she bustled about behind the equipment. She peered one-eyed out around the edge of a console, a probing look in the eye.

She abruptly left the gray overlit room; came back a moment later and flung an old much-handled deadtree magazine into his lap. It was open to a page. On the once-glossy paper a pubescent girl with a microphone in hand cavorted in a state of near-undress before a frenzied crowd.

Kole was dismayed by the sight. But that didn't stop him from getting an immediate, painfully straining hard-on. Neither was he hampered by the fact that he'd never been seriously attracted to women. It was this female's youth (youthful when these salacious photos were taken, anyway) which was causing this violent reaction; or more to the point, the illicit behavioral mods were making him respond this way. He looked up at the medtech, who was half again his age, and shrugged sheepishly. Well, can't have pedophiles around schoolkids, can you?

But her patient, withering gaze told him his desperate ploy had been for nothing. He was the first draftee to try to mentally shoot himself in the genitals? Hardly. She hit him with a general counteractive dose, kept him sitting there for three hours, and ran his eval again. At the two hour mark, she said quietly, "I would've been surprised if you hadn't tried something like that, kid like you...."

_Kid like you_ meant where he lived, in a suburban compound, inhabiting a comfortable socioeconomic niche. Kids like him would rather be marked a child molester than sent off for a stint as an educator.

Inside the school now, Kole winced at the smell. It was a gruesome mix of glandular odor, rot, mold and who knew what else. Funny, with all the prep no one had ever mentioned a stench. What other surprises awaited?

He concentrated on what he had been prepared for. He had entered through a protected corridor, the walls transparent 'plastic on either side. Beyond were the common areas. Once, these had been activity rooms, recess spaces, a cafeteria. Now they were merged into an open pit of riotous animation. This building had stood for a very long time, and had always been meant for students of middle school age. But the most cynical of the institution's original designers couldn't have foreseen a "student body" like this.

It was almost gladiatorial, but lacking in any obvious organization that would have given the combative contests meaning. Beyond the corridor's scratched see-through walls, youths were fighting youths. They couldn't get onto the premises with weapons, but they could still flail at one another with fists, feet, fingernails. Blood flowed from wounds. There were howls of pain and keening war cries. Much of it was muffled by the walls, but Kole still heard the general cacophony.

Many of them wore rags--literal rags, disposable wear that had never been properly disposed of after a few uses and now hung in urchin tatters from the undernourished bodies. Some sported face and body paint, so-called tribal colorings.

They spotted him now in the protected corridor and came at it from both sides. Faces were twisted in seeming savagery. Small fists pounded the walls. Obscene gestures of every description were hurled his way. One boy, bare to the waist and running with sores, smeared a handful of brown glop along the transparent metaplastic; then he turned and shoved his shit-caked hand into the face of another young male, forcing the other's head back and mouth open, screaming with berserk glee the whole time.

Kole kept his hands near his weapons. Farther ahead, another boy with chevrons glistening on his cheeks urinated against the wall. A girl with different facial markings came up behind, reached around, seized his genitalia and yanked him around, before driving an elbow into his throat. She looked up at Kole as he passed. She grinned with oversized teeth, eyes blazing. He felt those eyes recording him carefully, marking him. Or maybe the wild child looked at everyone that way.

He reached the end of the corridor and was allowed through another secured door after identification. His heart was pounding. He was slick with cool sweat beneath the flex-armor.

After a moment of trembling and trying to even out his breathing, he went to report in officially. This was the administrative area. More battered mechanical sentinels roamed the hallways. Kole wondered why they weren't out there policing the kids, then concluded that the old mechs were probably considered the last line of defense should any of the little savages get in here.

_Little savages._ He grunted. He was already thinking like an educator.

The processing was quick. They'd known he was coming, of course; and if he hadn't reported in, the repercussions would have commenced at once. His life would have been upended for all time, not just for his yearlong hitch in the ed-corps.

There was a lounge of sorts. To Kole it seemed more like a staging area. Other educators, most his age, were helping one another check their weaponry. It was ten minutes until the start of the education interval. Kole had been assigned his unit. He had been through simulations, both virt and live, in BT. But the real experience would no doubt be unique.

Someone strolled toward him. Kole was surprised by the age of the man, at least forty, with character etched on his face and gray woven into his thick head of hair.

"Frances, is it?" He offered a smile wry and possibly antagonistic.

"Yes." Kole was wary. "You are?"

"The resident sage and flamboyant cynic. Karim. Been here the longest, the oldest on staff. I remember when educators willingly entered the field, with fire in their bellies and idealism singin' in their veins."

Kole eyed the man, who wore the same armor and weapons as the rest. Was he...drunk? He exuded a caustic, amused, distracted air. Kole guessed that every new educator likely received some version of this sarcastic welcome. He found he didn't want to contribute to the older man's amusement.

"I just want to get my stint done," Kole said stiffly.

"You want it to be a peaceful year?" Karim asked. He swayed a bit as he stood there.

"Yes."

"No such thing. You want to get through your first week?"

Kole felt a startling urge to jam his shockstik into this man. "Yes," he said.

Karim appeared to relish Kole's discomfort. "Then," he said, "hurt one of them. Badly. Just to show the rest. You're new. No one's gonna question it closely. Set your doser..." He proceeded to illustrate how this deliberate assault could be effected. He even explained how to handle the resulting paperwork.

Kole said nothing until the klaxon sounded, indicating the start of the education interval.

#

He had a security mech in the room with him. He had his armaments and the training to use them. There was even a bulletproof cubicle he could retreat into.

It was still a terrifying experience.

The kids had to log a minimum amount of time on the workstations, so that their households could qualify for Rations. What went on in the room, however, was only a slightly less chaotic version of the gladiatorial furor he'd witnessed on arriving at the school.

The violence was sudden, ferocious, seemingly senseless. Kole had never seen human behavior like this. There were no civilized strictures in place. The little savages fought among themselves, screamed obscenities and only occasionally acknowledged the text on their 'station screens. EduWeb was responsible for teaching the students, naturally. Corporate mainframes programmed the shit-simple lessons. The multicorp which controlled EduWeb had held the ed-corps contract for decades. Kole was there to be a wrangler, a warden.

The kids didn't have weapons, and the workstations were fairly indestructible. But no matter how often the mech waded in to break up fistfights, they still did damage to one another. Kole separated the differing tribal groups. Skin pigmentation didn't figure into any of the dynamics; it was the same in the suburban reaches. But blood still managed to be spilled, at least one nose was broken, and some industrious little bastard got a fire started in a corner of the foul-smelling room.

Among Kole's charges was the girl he'd seen on his arrival, the one with the big teeth and feral eyes. She continued to study him, and he remained disconcerted by the scrutiny.

It was a terrible, terrorizing day. But it eventually ended. And when it was over, he found he hadn't committed calculated assault against any of his students. That felt vaguely like a win.

His housing was in the greenzone. The duffel worth of personal effects he'd been allotted was waiting on his bed, but he was too spent to unpack. The quarters were an improvement on what he'd had during basic training, in that he had privacy, but neighbors kept knocking on his door. He made an effort to be social. His fellow educators, all conscripts his age, wore uniformly haunted looks. He realized they wanted to see him to remind themselves of what a face fresh from the outside world looked like. He more than halfway expected a gloaty boozy visit from Karim, but the older educator didn't appear.

He ate dinner in the mess hall. The food, like his quarters, was marginally better than BT fare.

As night came on, he thought about getting a drink, thought about getting drunk in fact, even though he didn't like alcohol. He listlessly wandered the walkways among the housing units. Beyond the greenzone the city's decaying towers loomed. Whatever violence and barbarity he had witnessed today at the school was being acted out on a grander, bloodier scale throughout the urban realm. Every city was a failed state. So he'd been taught as a child by the same EduWeb, though the programs he had been exposed to were far more sophisticated. At home and in his community he had learned civilized behavior.

For the next year he would be stuck in this unbelievable hellhole. That reality closed numbly around his heart and brain.

He went to his quarters, without taking a drink. He had nightmares like he'd never had before.

#

Kole did end up injuring someone in his education interval before his first week was out. A scrawny male with those familiar chevrons on his cheeks charged with fists swinging, and Kole hit him with his pukerod. The implement was set too high for the boy's body mass, however, and after he fell to the floor vomiting profusely, he went into convulsions. During that episode he concussed himself by pounding his head on the ground.

The smell the incident left behind was ripe, but it fit with the general stink. Karim turned out to be right about the paperwork; there was little fuss.

Kole didn't look for signs that his students regarded him differently now, but he sensed the shift anyway, a subtle alteration in the classroom's fear/power metrics. They had tested him. They had gotten a result. If they could apply that discipline to their workstations, a reasoning mind or two might emerge from this group.

But toward what end? These miserable kids had been born in a war zone. And here they were going to die, sooner rather than later.

In the lounge he sat sipping a hot, awful beverage. It was the start of his second week. Fifty-one to go.

Karim dropped into the adjacent seat. He looked as bleary and old as ever. He took a swallow of the same steaming stimulant, grimaced extravagantly; not an acquirable taste, then, Kole mused darkly. He waited for some smartass congratulation from the veteran educator.

Instead, after a long silence, Karim said, "Frances, can I give you some more advice? Palatable advice."

"You? I doubt it." Kole wondered if he would have spoken this bluntly before the pukerod incident.

Karim flashed a lopsided grin, like this were a Mutt and Jeff routine. He said, "Try to find one who's got some mental talent. Or a tarnished artistic glint. Nurture it, burnish it. If you can reach one of them, you might end up saving your own soul."

Kole blinked. It was surprisingly good counsel.

The klaxon shrilled.

In the classroom Kole herded and cajoled his charges to their workstations, with the usual middling success. These kids were only reporting at all to the school because of pressure from their own households--such as those were. Most of the so-called families in cities couldn't survive without Rations; so Kole had always been taught, in his comfortable suburban compound.

He didn't have much of a sense of the individuals in his unit, other than to roughly gauge their threat level. But there was one boy who, now that he deliberately surveyed the group, had been apart from the others since Kole had arrived. This lean young male wore clothing just as ragged as the others, but he wasn't caked with filth and sported no skin paint.

Kole checked the records. The boy put in the minimal required time on his 'station. Exactly the minimum, to the minute. His aptitude was unremarkable.

The education interval was typically turbulent. The security mech labored to prevent outright riot, its servos whimpering as it jerked about. Kole drew his shockstik at one point but didn't use it. The boy he was furtively observing didn't initiate altercations, but he would defend himself with a wiry ferocity when necessary.

In the greenzone that night a group of the educators came to Kole's quarters to take him out for a drink. There seemed the odd, not-joking insinuation of a threat should he refuse their company. Kole looked into the haunted sets of eyes and agreed. They drank stringent jellyfish vodka, with Kole imbibing as little as possible.

It was a fraught scene at the officers' club, almost as volatile as at the school, with drastic emotions simmering at the surface. Two fights broke out at the bar while Kole was there. He excused himself as soon as he could.

He accessed the school data in his quarters. Something about that boy's numbers...Then he saw. His EduWeb score was precisely average for the school aggregate. To the decimal. He wanted to blend in, go utterly unseen. But he had a applied a prodigy's skills to that effort.

Seb Throckmorton was his name. Kole looked at the ID picture. He had a sort of elfin face, if one gazed closely enough. Was there a gleam of wisdom in those eyes? What secrets were held behind his soft pinkish lips?

The excitation hit Kole like a fever surge. His flesh rippled. His sudden erection was painfully intense. He stared longingly at the fey features of the boy. Wordless sounds choked his throat.

He stumbled back, collapsed onto his bed. He felt stunned and ashamed. He hated the spinny feeling the vodka had left in him. He jammed his eyes shut and demanded sleep from his body.

#

It was an unholy grind. The days were loathsome, excruciating. His nights sizzled with the aftereffects of emotional trauma. His nerve endings felt like acid-tipped barbs, and he sweated venom. It made perfect sense to him now, those who chose the most extreme means to dodge conscription: smuggling oneself to a tax haven and being, almost certainly, captured by pirates on the way; or, just, suicide.

His darkpharma pedophile ploy seemed hopelessly inadequate and quaint now, given the appalling predicament he'd been trying to avoid.

He took available mood meds, though he steadfastly refused to give in to the much more serious narcotics floating around the greenzone. To use those he would have to set up a regimen of counteracting and counter-counteracting agents so that he would still be able to function in his post. And that would lock him into a cycle of drug abuse for years, even if he got on a platinum detox program after his stint.

Failure to perform his duties in the educational corps meant court-martial and prison. Ed-corps prison. The stories he had always heard about how bad _this_ job was? They were pale cautionary tales compared to the verifiable scuttlebutt regarding ed-corps lockup. He would do better being dropped naked in among the entire school population when they were armed with meat hooks and flanged maces.

But he continued to observe Seb, and even interacted with the boy. "Can you do that problem?" Kole in his flex-armor stood by Seb's workstation.

Simplistic mathematics tumbled repeatedly down the screen. "I don't know," Seb said in a soft, eminently neutral voice.

Kole looked for the intelligence behind the guarded pixie-like features. "Does this work bore you?"

"Maybe."

Some scuffle elsewhere in the room took Kole's attention. The feral-eyed girl had dug a gouge out of another girl's cheek with her nails. Kole hit the antagonist with his doser, dropping her into drug-induced unconsciousness for the rest of the interval. She was called Vina, he'd learned. He had absorbed all of the kids' names by now. Vina's victim, who wore rival tribal markings, refused the meager aid available, spitting and shrieking defiantly at Kole when he offered it. She let the wound bleed and coagulate.

They were animals, all of them. Except, perhaps, Seb Throckmorton.

Kole was still fiercely, disturbingly attracted to the very young male. But if there was anybody worthy he could focus on, it was this boy. Somehow an outlier's intellect was housed within his willowy frame. Kole was increasingly certain of this.

Of course, the likeliest reason for his physical fascination with Seb was a leftover effect from those OffNet pills he'd taken. Kole was sexually oriented toward men, almost exclusively, but he'd always liked partners at least his age, preferably older. Maybe it was the brutal stress of this situation he was in that had him obsessing over so inappropriate an individual.

Then it hit him one night as he lay on his bunk. Seb, in the puckish angles of his face and even in his taciturn manner, reminded Kole of the first person he had ever loved romantically. Jan Wouk, a beautiful, smart, shy boy, who had been Kole's first hand-holding, his first kiss. They'd lived in the same enormous suburban compound, went to the same education center. Kole had been--what?--fourteen. Jan the same age--no, a year older. Kole had channeled all his new exciting feelings toward that boy. Some, maybe most, of those expressions had been reciprocated. It had been a pure, marvelous, thrilling love; and somehow Kole had never found its equal in his adult life.

The realization assuaged his guilt a bit. He found himself speaking to Karim, not about his sexual feelings, but about Seb's possible secret intelligence. The older educator, all muzzy smiles, told him how he could juice the data fed to the workstations, a work-around of the EduWeb lockout. Seb might be drawn out by more complex problems was Karim's reasoning.

But Seb ceased to use his 'station at all when Kole did this. A few more days of that and he would endanger his household's Rations rating. The boy appeared to be doing... _some_ thing, though. Kole thought he saw Seb with a scrap of something pressed against the top of his skinny thigh, scratching at it furtively with something in his other hand.

But when Kole approached, Seb slapped his hand to his mouth. His Adam's apple bobbed, an action which made Kole's stomach flutter involuntarily. But he'd gotten a glimpse of what the boy had swallowed. A rag of paper, on which he'd been scribbling with a sliver of something soft and crumbly. Seb crushed the improvised writing implement in his fist and let the flakes drop to the floor. He held Kole's eyes a moment, as some sort of acknowledgment passed between them.

Kole returned Seb's 'station to its routine dumbed-down setting. The boy resumed desultory work on the lessons.

It intrigued and baffled Kole. Even now he was reluctant to confide in Karim, put off by his boozy cynic's pose, but there was no one else to turn to. For the first time that evening Kole went to Karim's quarters.

"Not in tonight," a woman in a neighboring cabin said from her doorway. Kole had seen her in the educators' lounge. She had a shaven head and heavy dark circles under her eyes.

"Where is he?" Kole asked. The greenzone wasn't large. He missed going for long runs, letting his body flex.

"Out in the city." She gestured beyond the 'zone's heavily guarded perimeter. Kole looked sharply toward the ominous, sparsely lit urbanscape. Distant in the night, like every night, came the endless snap of gunshots. Karim was out _there_? Turning back, Kole saw the woman had removed her sweaty top. Her breasts hung like bulbous fruits, ripe and indifferent. She said, "You want to come in and fuck me or what?"

He backed away until he was around a corner. It occurred to him that he had never heard anything about being forbidden to leave the greenzone. But...to risk going into the city? What could Karim be thinking? More: what was he doing there?

Kole returned to his quarters. For once salacious images of Seb didn't torment him as he laid down to sleep.

#

Finally he had used the shockstik. It had happened when a boy stabbed a girl in Kole's interval. The assailing instrument was a shard of metaplastic broken off something on the school's premises. The two kids wore markings that indicated allegiance to the same urban tribe, so Kole wasn't being particularly watchful of them. Still, he remembered no obvious indications of impending violence between them, outside of the normal climate of savagery in the classroom. His report said as much.

The girl had twisted her punctured torso away after being stabbed so the boy couldn't retrieve his weapon. Then she'd punched his face repeatedly before wavering from blood loss. By then the mech was restraining her, while Kole stepped up, unsheathed the hefty crackling 'stik, and jammed the boy with the spark-spitting fangs.

The girl might live. Kole was told by a distracted administrator that his use of force during the incident was being catalogued as justified.

So. He had used his pukerod, his doser. Now his shockstik. All that was left was the classic 9mm in his hip holster. He'd been taught speed and accuracy with the weapon in basic.

Dazed and nauseated afterward by the sight of blood, he thought vaguely of seeking out Karim again. But the veteran educator came to his cabin. He brought along a bottle and sat in Kole's chair and poured, while Kole huddled on his bed. It wasn't jellyfish vodka but something dark, mellow, ember-warm.

Kole thought Karim would have something caustic and sagacious to say about the brutal episode; instead: "Heard you were looking for me last night."

The alcohol was smooth, the best Kole had ever tasted. Its warming tendrils worked into his body and mind. Booze, drugs and sex were the main diversions in the greenzone. Karim's words jerked him back into the moment.

"Yes. You went outside the 'zone? Into the city?" The idea still dismayed Kole.

Karim nodded.

"How? Why?"

The older man held his gaze a long moment. "You wanna really learn something about that boy of yours? That Seb?"

"I do."

"Then come out with me. Tomorrow."

"But--"

"You wanna or not?"

Kole tilted the glass against his lips and was surprised to find it empty. Karim reached over with the bottle to refill it. He had that wry mysterious smile again, hinting at machination and amused hostility. But his offer had captivated Kole's imagination. Seb was a puzzle which required solving. Besides, if he didn't go, he would spend this whole year entirely within the confines of the greenzone and the school.

"I want to go."

"Okay, then," Karim said.

#

They set out after the education interval the next day. Kole had struggled to concentrate on his duties. Once in a great while a kid would actually want his help with a problem on the workstation screen, even though the EduWeb programs practically gave solutions to the students, even the functionally illiterate ones. Those occasions when Kole directly assisted one of his charges were curiously satisfying.

Nervous, and needing to speak about _some_ thing, he mentioned this phenomenon to Karim as they approached the greenzone's gate. The late afternoon was warm, the sky ashen. Something was always burning in the surrounding city.

Karim chuckled at Kole's comment. "That's the ghost of Socrates looking over your shoulder." Kole more or less understood the reference, but it was a typically pretentious observation on Karim's part. He added, more wistfully, "Maybe you could've been a real teacher."

The words touched Kole, almost inexplicably. There were no teachers anymore, in the classical, outmoded sense of the term. Teaching wasn't anything he could apply himself to, to give his life some meaning.

Seb had never asked for his help. Kole suspected the boy didn't need a shred of aid with the lessons.

The greenzone had military protection. AI and flesh troops. They were evidently familiar with Karim's departures. Karim led Kole through the gate. Kole's anxiety became acute, especially when he saw an armed group waiting just beyond the no man's land. Karim had told him to bring his pistol, leave the other gear, except for the upper body piece of his flex-armor. Lots of people had heat and old Kevlar vests. But typical city dwellers didn't pack professional-issue shockstiks and full armor suits.

The idea, Karim had said, was to blend in.

The group awaiting them were gypsy cops, Karim now informed Kole. They too appeared familiar with Karim's routine; they accepted Kole's presence without question. Vehicles were ready. Feeling like someone giving up a battleship's safety for the dubious expediency of a lashed-log raft, Kole climbed into the bigger of the two transports with Karim. Mismatched plating and screens had been fixed to the outside of the vehicle.

The so-called gypsy police were a ragtag lot. They didn't exude military discipline, but their bearing and physiques, as well as the weapons they sported, bespoke a formidable band of protectors. They crewed the cab of the vehicle, while one sat on either side of Kole and Karim on the musty back seat.

The engine fired up, an old grumbling algae-burner. The second smaller car went skittering out ahead, apparently serving as scout and support. Kole marveled that this elaborate escort was a way of "blending in."

They drove through dust-whirling, crumbling streets. Kole had been brought into the city by air transport. It was another order of experience to observe the urbanscape at ground level.

_Living ruin_ was his first thought. Then he caught hold of this vestigial poetic reflex--remembering, suddenly, writing poems for his first boyfriend, Jan Wouk--and saw the city scenes for what they were. This was the collapse of the social contract, a fundamental breakdown of infrastructure. Services had dwindled, then vanished. Things didn't get repaired, not by official crews anyway. And so pavements were as rough and rutted and potholed as raw earth would be. Masonry of all description had flaked and powdered with the neglectful years. Metaplastic structures endured better, but most looked as bad as the school.

Maybe none of that mattered much, even the lack of reliable water and sewage disposal, even the intermittent availability of electricity, that most elemental of Industrial Age civilized necessities.

What it was, what made the city, were the people. These same inhabitants who produced the children who came to the school where Kole and Karim and an endless slew of loath conscripts tried to hold the failing line. Teach the younglings, give them a basic knowing. Let them understand how letters make sounds, how words make ideas. Let them see that numbers can give order to everything in the universe. And, as incentive, the families of those kids who participate in this knowledge gathering will be rewarded with government-issued Rations. Then maybe, just maybe, total barbarism can be staved off another generation or so.

From the rumbling vehicle's windows, through its improvised protective screens, Kole watched the city people.

It was poverty which looked historic to him, something medieval. Toothless pitiful peasants, scabrous serfs laboring in unceasing ignorance. But he also knew that history wasn't as linear as one might hope; it had banked and curved, and come back to brush an earlier epoch. This was again the age of the marauder, the warlord. These gypsy cops in the vehicle with them were evidence of that as well. Kole had no doubt that these women and men had done great violence in the course of their jobs, and done it with impunity.

The streets were brawling, as if in the grip of some idolatrous festival. They had come onto more populated reaches of the city now. Stones and other random debris were flung at the cars. The smaller, more maneuverable vehicle zipped back and forth ahead, clearing the way.

Kole had no idea where they were ultimately going. But he had come out here willingly. And this was an excursion Karim had apparently made many times before, and since he had survived this long, Kole would likely live through the experience as well. He hoped.

Already, though, he knew he would face mortal jeopardy were he to, say, find himself ejected from this vehicle and standing out on this street on his own, suddenly surrounded by the jeering faces, the tribally inscribed bodies. He was certain they would close on him, sensing his otherness, identifying him with feral accuracy as prey. His pistol would only protect him for so long. He could almost feel the final empty click of the 9mm, signifying the end of his--

A hand patted his knee. "We're almost there," Karim said.

Two structures loomed ahead, one on either side of the street. A barricade which rose half a dozen meters was erected between them, made of skeletonized vehicles, building timbers and other solid-looking rubble. A gate stood in the barrier.

Some kind of exchange occurred between the occupants of the lead car and the people, also armed, who crewed the gate. The broad door was opened, and the two vehicles drove through.

It was different inside. Kole could tell, even still ensconced in the big armored car. Some indeterminate measure of the frantic violence of the city had eased when they'd crossed the barricade. But this was still dangerous territory.

The cars halted with a crunch of graveled asphalt. Karim pushed out of the rear door. Kole was unsettled when the burly gypsy cop in the back seat made no move to get out as well. Stepping over him, Kole felt a sudden terrible vulnerability. The smoky sky seemed to wheel overhead, and hostile eyes turned on him from every direction. He resisted the urge to lay a hand on his pistol. He reminded himself that if he needed the weapon, he could draw it-- _fast_ \--and that calmed him somewhat.

The two vehicles jerked away and sped down the street. Kole's heart lurched as their protection vanished, but Karim was already moving away with purposeful strides. Kole fell into step. Fear continued to churn in him, but there was a sense of excitement in this. Adventure.

It was a street of very old residential buildings. Some showed signs of fire damage, but most looked occupied. And though they were dilapidated, they didn't quite appear decrepit. Why was that? Maybe, Kole thought, because the homes were being tended to by those who lived in them. This area beyond the barricade seemed to be an enclave of some sort, a village within the city.

The ragged denizens continued to eye them, but most seemed engaged in tasks, Kole noted. They moved about with purpose.

Karim turned in at one of the structures. Kole followed him warily up broken steps, out of the waning daylight, into a dank hallway. The smell wasn't as bad as it was at the school. They moved to a door farther along, and even in the dimness Kole saw how sturdy and thick a portal it was, a slab of industrial metaplastic with a battery-powered key code inset on its surface.

Swiftly Karim's fingers moved over the pad. The door opened with a heavy _thunk_. Beyond was a lighted room. Kole had kept silent, sensing that Karim wished to show and not tell him what this was all about. But he was about to ask anyway, his curiosity pushed to the limit.

A reedy voice inside the room piped, "Papa! Papa!"

Kole stepped to the side as Karim shut the door, and as a small grinning figure came careening toward him. With fluid ease Karim stooped and scooped the child into his arms. Kisses were exchanged noisily. Giggling ensued. A woman approached the entangled pair, smiling as well.

It was as cozy a domestic scene as any Kole had seen growing up in his suburban compound.

#

They walked through some of the enclave after Kole had sat down with Karim's family for a meal. The room his mate and child occupied was impregnable. It was also about as decent an accommodation as what Kole had in the greenzone. There were furnishings, water, self-contained plumbing.

The woman was young. Younger than Kole, even. About half Karim's age. The child was three or four.

Karim's woman was shy with Kole; or he was shy toward her. Either, they said little to each other. As they all walked around the area, Kole realized it was more neighborhood than war zone. People knew one another. Certainly there was impoverishment and hardship, and the medieval atmosphere persisted, but there was that village ambience as well, with its underlying sense of localized solidarity. Musical instruments were played here and there. There was scattered laughter, smiles. Karim bought an armful of items from street vendors. He made something of a show of it, Kole thought. The woman toted the purchases.

Evening had come on. Karim said it was time to go. The child protested as Karim carried him back to the room. The woman went quietly. Karim explained repeatedly to the child that he couldn't stay the night: he had to get his friend safely home. Kole found he was uncomfortable being included in any way in the little family squabble. Karim kissed the child and woman goodbye. The heavy door locked with another _thunk_.

The gypsy cops appeared, evidently at a prearranged time, and took them out through the staunch barrier. The cityscape outside the enclave was hellish with oncoming night. Scenes of outright horror flashed past the grilled windows. Twice the protectors in the big vehicle with them returned gunfire from the street.

Kole huddled in the back seat and hoped they would make it back to the 'zone. It occurred to him at last to wonder why Karim had brought him along on this outing to visit his city family, especially since he'd insinuated that he, Kole, would learn something about Seb Throckmorton if he went.

Then it struck him, with the force of obvious deduction. The woman had been a student of Karim's. They'd had a relationship of some sort--or at least physical congress--and he had set her up with that comparatively paradisiacal dwelling.

Karim had showed Kole how to get around in the city, how to conduct himself. Just in case Kole wanted to go see Seb, away from the school.

Kole turned sharply toward Karim as they approached the no man's land outside the greenzone. Already floodlights had picked out the two vehicles. No doubt numerous weapons were trained on them. Karim met his gaze. The woman had been a girl; the girl had been in his education interval; he had impregnated her--whatever else had happened between them, _that_ had happened.

Karim evidently knew his thoughts. "She was special," he said. "She responded to intellectual stimulation."

"I'll bet she did."

"Don't judge, Frances. I've stayed on as a teacher, while all you draftees count the hours until you can get out. I do good. You should see."

They left it at that for now. Ten minutes later Kole was alone in his quarters inside the greenzone. He picked up a tablet, found his fingers moving, words spilling onto the screen.

Living ruin, pulsing wreckage

Sifting in the ash

She is mother and she is child

She keens in the blackened garden

She is hope

He gazed glassy-eyed at what he had written. Was it any good? He had no real idea. But it stirred genuine emotion in him. It conjured Jan Wouk once more, the poetry Kole had penned for him.

That night he slept without nightmares for the first time in recent memory.

#

Maybe he did understand Seb a little bit better after that. He had seen the city up close, and it was a horror. But Seb might live in one of those enclave-like areas, where a relative civilized order was maintained.

Kole continued to observe Seb, more convinced than ever that the boy possessed intellectual, maybe even spiritual, depth. Seb seemed...special. Or, Kole alternately wondered, was he just ascribing gravity to Seb's every word and gesture? Worse, was he in the end just thinking with his cock, that darkpharma dose notwithstanding? He'd never been aware of pedophilic tendencies in himself before. Surely they were the result of the appalling stress of the job. Surely.

Something Karim had said continued to nag at him. I do good. You should see. Did the older educator really do good? Kole accessed the school data, found a routine monitoring file of Karim's education interval.

It was strange to have this viewpoint, to observe without risk. But stranger still was what went on in Karim's classroom. And what didn't go on.

His kids sat at their workstations. Some--most, in fact--seemed to be paying attention to the lessons. There was disruption, of course. The inevitable squabbles and outright fights. But Karim intervened with a practiced ease. His security mech barely had to stir.

Also, he helped with the lessons. He explained things to individuals and even to the classroom as a whole. His explications were concise, clear and inviting. He...taught. It was mesmerizing to watch.

There had been nothing in basic training about Karim's techniques. To do what that man did, Kole concluded, you had to want it. You had to believe.

#

It took Kole two weeks to decide what to do, and a week more to make the arrangements.

Meanwhile, some kind of concerted turf war was happening in the city between two of the so-called tribes, which mostly fought over narcotics distribution, and that conflict seeped into the school, naturally. Kids adorned with differing face and body paint had at one another with greater than usual ferocity.

It reached a head in Kole's classroom one day when the security mech lurched, made a pained gargling sound, and slumped inertly. Instantly the kids recognized what had happened, and they leapt into furious tribal battle. Kole emptied his doser, but combat nerves made half his shots go wild. He dropped his pukerod seconds after drawing it, and retreated with his shockstik swinging until he reached his bulletproof cubicle, where he sealed himself in. Shaking with fear, he summoned the school's backup mech. Before it could arrive, a boy snatched up the pukerod and jabbed someone randomly, howling with delight as the other spasmed and retched. But Vina, the feral-eyed girl who'd never stopped studying Kole, tore the weapon from him and wielded it with berserk Valkyrian wrath.

Kole, cowering in his translucent box, saw with horror that Vina was jabbing a path toward Seb. He had stayed out of the melee as best he could. The girl grinned at him with her big teeth as more of her victims fell into heaving spasmatic heaps.

The backup mech was an old war-torn model, in worse shape than the one regularly assigned to Kole's interval, except that it was currently still operating. It lumbered into the room and fortunately identified the foremost threat, which was the pukerod-brandishing girl. It knocked Vina to the floor and held her there.

Kole, face pressed to his cubicle's wall, found himself hoping the ungainly robot would apply a few extra psi and crush the life out of the little bitch; then he shook himself, in shocked self-loathing. If he'd been told he could entertain such a thought about a child--a _child_ \--before this whole ed-corps nightmare had begun for him, he wouldn't have believed it. Hell, if he felt that way, why not kill Vina himself? Pull his pistol and plug her--

He couldn't draw a proper breath. The classroom was blurring. Tears, he realized, were streaming from his eyes. But even through the panic and confusion he could see that Seb had survived the fray. Kole wanted to go to him, to tell the boy everything would be all right, wanted to embrace his scrawny body and--

Again he cut off the raving line of thinking as the mech continued to restore order.

#

By then he had already decided he would go into the city, protected by a gypsy cop contingent, and see and speak to Seb away from the hellhole of the school. Perhaps he would discover some elegant truth about the boy, learn what he did with his mysterious intelligence or artistic propensity. For surely he was hiding one or the other.

Kole arranged for the gypsies, which took some doing. He had gotten into the school data again, to get Seb's location in the city, but the file wouldn't unlock the boy's real secrets. Kole would have to take a risk to find those out. A grave risk.

The eve of his planned excursion turned out to be a statistically significant date for Kole. It marked his stint in the ed-corps as now one quarter completed. Ninety-one days in. He only knew this because his "drinking buddies" came around. Any excuse to celebrate anything was a greenzone credo, he'd found. He went with them reluctantly, and drank too much bad vodka, and woke with a hangover. But any discomfort was burned quickly away by the promise which the day held.

#

In the waning afternoon, with the education interval well behind him, Kole Frances set out into the city. He wasn't alone. A different complement of freelance police accompanied him. But he was on this foray without Karim to act as guide.

They went into the city's most savage warrens, where corpses lay in the streets. Where people hunted rats and roasted them in 'plastic trash cans. Where entire ancient buildings had simply collapsed, leaving rubble mounds. They went into broken avenues where Kole's escorts had to continually repel buccaneers who tried to stop their vehicles. These gypsies were costly, but Kole could afford them. He hadn't been spending his educator's salary on anything else.

The place where Seb Throckmorton lived with his family was foul and seedy almost beyond imagining, but the structure at least was still upright. It rose many stories into the smudgy sky. Not a window remained intact. There was no door or gate over the old entryway. Refuse was everywhere underfoot as Kole went inside. Again he had his upper flex-armor and pistol with him. Members of his armed retinue conducted him up the saggy stairs and along a reeking hallway. Few of the individual living units had doors on them, and from within came terrible sounds.

They reached Seb's room. Kole peered into the fetid gloom. Eyes in a greasy face looked back at him. The man who stood just inside the empty doorway was quivering, but this seemed a persistent condition, his thin frame accustomed to a constant famished or drug-induced rattling. He had a cudgel in hand. His eyes fixed on the weapons the gypsy cops were holding. He retreated, and Kole entered.

There were others within, crowded into the inadequate space. There was nothing in the single room that could be called furniture. A woman was lying on the floor, holding a dirty sleeping infant. Another child, about the age of Karim's, huddled beside them. Seb's family. The ones who received Rations because he attended school. They looked up at Kole with frightened animal expressions.

His own face felt stony. He had experienced too much these past three months, and he'd seen too much of the city just recently. He hated this place. He hated the job he'd been forced to take on. That hatred had numbed him. The only thing that sparked any sense of lingering humanity in him was Seb. He had come to this awful site to find the boy.

Enough light streamed past the tatters of fabric fluttering where the room's windows had once been for him to at last see Seb. The boy had a corner to himself. He had surrounded it with a partition of sorts. He sat behind the screen of castoff metaplastic, staring at Kole. His narrow face was hard as well, but something seemed to glimmer in the eyes.

None of the others spoke a word. Seb said, "What're you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"Why?" the boy asked tightly.

"You know why." Kole didn't know if that was the truth. He didn't really know if _he_ knew why he'd come.

But the ploy worked. Seb stood. He said, "Everybody out." Everybody meant the family. The man, still shaking, stepped outside with his cudgel. The woman took the two children out. The infant awoke and made dull phlegmy squalling sounds. Evidently Seb, as this household's breadwinner, called the shots. For some reason that fact saddened Kole. He nodded to the two gypsy cops, and they left as well, taking up guard positions just outside the vacant doorway.

It left Kole facing Seb. He was taller than the boy. His adult body was stronger, more solid. Yet somehow Kole didn't feel any overwhelming advantage here. In planning this meeting he had of course puzzled over how to broach the central matter. He hadn't come up with a definite approach.

After a moment of staring silence Kole asked, "What were you writing that day? In class, on that scrap of paper. Tell me, please."

The elfin features didn't move. But the eyes narrowed, then slowly widened. They were amber in hue, with tiny darker flecks dispersed through the irises. There was surely much to read in those eyes, but Kole didn't know the language. He needed the key, needed at least a hint. This was the one child in his interval who might be worth a damn. And Karim had been right--whatever else to do with the damaged, cynical man, he'd been right about that one crucial point: Kole's soul needed saving. Now. Before it was too late. Before this stint as an educator destroyed him as a thinking, caring, sensitive human being.

Seb turned, crouched. He worked at something along the base of the stained wall, there in his corner. A short length came loose. He reached a skinny arm into the gap. His hand emerged holding a tattered sheaf of mismatched deadtree pages. Solemnly he stood and offered Kole the papers.

The boy wrote in a neat economical hand. Line after line after line, page after page. This was code, Kole saw. Algorithms, fashioned at the military level. Fantastically sophisticated, well beyond Kole's own comprehension. Yet he knew enough to recognize how amazing this work was. And how valuable.

It broke something loose inside Kole. He felt a flow within himself, a bright coursing sense of...hope? Maybe. The boy was indeed an intellectual outlier. He had learned this material on his own. Certainly it was nothing that could be garnered from the EduWeb programs.

Kole looked through the papers to the end. They were scraps, shreds Seb had no doubt poked out of the apocalyptic city's rubble piles as he went to and from that pointless institution which could do nothing to nurture or stimulate his intellect. By writing all this down in such old world fashion, he kept it isolated. No doubt if he'd entered any of this material on his workstation, red flags would have popped up instantaneously. The government and military would identify the refinement and significance of these equations. Such algorithms could direct weapons systems, guide drones through maelstroms, put spacecraft on unerring courses.

His ability would make him wealthy and powerful. He would be momentous.

Kole gave him back the sheaf. Seb returned the pages to their hidey-hole, then sealed it up. He faced Kole once more, impassively.

The hope had lightened Kole. The lightness seeped into his skull, made him dizzy and distantly giddy. How unreal all this seemed. And yet he was still aware of the boy's beauty. Seb glowed with it now, it seemed. He wasn't just a delicious forbidden physical specimen--a reminder of Jan Wouk and lost youthful love and desire--but he carried now the glorious stigma of his proven genius.

Kole's voice was rough and raw when he spoke. "You can go anywhere with that. Do anything. Write your own ticket, anyplace, for life."

"Yeah?" Seb said. For the first time his tone was soft, with a suggestion of vulnerability. "But...go where? Do--what? How...?" He gestured vaguely, trying to encompass more than he could fathom.

Kole stepped nearer and put his arms around the boy. His bony body stayed stiff a moment, then he slumped against Kole. He made two jerking movements, as if with some emotional reaction. Maybe Seb didn't know how to cry. What good would tears be in this city?

Quietly but firmly Kole told Seb how he could help him make his decision: not tell him what to do, but only guide him, with sage adult counsel. Seb's pixie face was twisted when he finally stepped back from the embrace, but there was assurance in the look he gave Kole as well. In a stammering soliloquy he explained how he learned the language of computer code and high-flown mathematics from books he'd found when an old building had collapsed a few blocks away several years ago. Everyone had picked through the debris and fragments, and they'd ignored the deadtree texts, except for those who took the items for kindling.

Somehow Seb Throckmorton had understood the esoteric tongue. The abstracts were concrete to him, utterly comprehensible, and soon he was able to manipulate the enigmatic numbers and symbols, creating his own when he couldn't find ones to stand for concepts that his razor-fine questing mind told him must exist.

And now that knowledge was going to get him and his family the hell away from _here_.

Kole gazed at the youngster, letting a final surge of unseemly lust shiver imperceptibly through him. He smiled through it, glad to feel it pass. Everything was going to be okay now. He told Seb so. Everything was going to be okay.

#

With access to swaths of information through the computer in his quarters, Kole was able to research the boy's dilemma. An almost endless array of options awaited. He could go to the government, the military, any of the dozen most powerful multicorps in the world. All those immense entities would pay him a king's ransom for the use of his brain.

Kole amassed his findings and brought them out to Seb in his squalid room. The family accepted Kole's presence with a kind of mute wonder. None of them shared any part of the boy's exotic intellect. They were like Neanderthals gathering to watch in skittish awe as Cro-Magnons made fire.

The guards at the greenzone probably assumed Kole had acquired a lover in the city, and so passed him through as readily as they had Karim. Kole kept Seb's secret. He was glad to be helping the boy. Elated, actually. Kole had done nothing with his own life up to this point. He'd been unlucky enough to be the prime age for induction, and when his ghastly stint in the ed-corps was finished, he would go back home to his suburban compound. He would be changed. He would, in some sense, be a damaged being, at least for a while. But he would have accomplished _this_. He would have the satisfaction of having authentically, materially aided a single person, a unique individual. And that, he thought, would be a vast satisfaction indeed.

#

The klaxon had wailed. Kole regarded the students in his charge philosophically today. Though every education interval remained an adversarial tumult, he was far less afraid of the little savages than when he'd started out. They were hopelessly uncivilized. Their time at their workstations was a waste. But he no longer questioned the titanic failure of this whole system. He had been drafted into this nightmare and was serving unwillingly, but he would go on serving. People had fought in wars under the same conditions, and even emerged as heroes.

Kole didn't give a damn if he accrued any heroic status from all this. He wanted only to do right by Seb. That would be his redemption.

The repaired security mech trudged about the room. The odor still lingered from the day Kole's pukerod had gotten loose. He had been up late last night, finalizing his research. Seb had a clear path now, whatever choice he made. Kole had figured out how best to present his mathematical works, for the greatest benefit to the boy. He felt no envy. Seb Throckmorton was truly gifted. He deserved the rewards of his formidable intellect.

Kole yawned. He knuckled a corner of his eye. When he lowered his hand, he saw that the mech had halted. The unit appeared frozen in mid-stride. For a fraught second or two the classroom went still. All eyes shot toward the mech. Was it happening again? wondered Kole, dismayed. Had the goddamn thing malfunctioned _again_?

He pivoted toward the cubicle, his own little panic room within the classroom, but even as he did, he caught a flash of movement, someone leaping into action before any of the other kids could. Vina. She'd gone vaulting over her workstation as Kole raced to the cubicle. He would hit the alarm right away, get the backup security unit in here before things got out of hand.

But the door to the transparent cubicle wouldn't budge. Fear surged in Kole. He saw now that something had been jammed into the latch, wedging it shut. It was a strip of metal, something someone had either found on the school grounds or else had smuggled in. But, Kole was sure, the piece had been very deliberately stuck in here to keep him out of the cubicle, and away from the alarm.

Kole spun back around. The other kids were just starting to erupt, seeing they had yet another opportunity for free-for-all mayhem. But a voice cut through the rising clamor. It said, "Drop your heat, motherfucker! One toy at a time! Do it or I open your lover boy's throat!"

Again the room went still, the tension crackling in the air. It was Vina who had spoken. She had crossed to Seb's 'station and pulled the boy to his feet; and she'd gotten an arm around his neck and indeed held a jagged 'plastic shard to his throat. Vina was behind Seb, holding him off his balance. The boy's dark-flecked amber eyes were wide. He said nothing and breathed in silent gasps, but those eyes were directly on Kole.

"Shockstik!" Vina said. "Lift it out slowly, then drop it."

Kole didn't move. Neither did the other kids. The mech remained motionless. Had the evil little bitch somehow sabotaged it as well as jamming the cubicle's door? This scene had a strange preplanned feel to it.

"I want that spitter, motherfucker!" Vina yelled.

Kole slowly pulled out his shockstik. He tossed it to the floor.

"Puker!"

He slipped the pukerod from his belt. This was like something from an old video, a trite confrontation between cops--real cops, not gypsies--and bad guys. He dropped the rod.

"Doser!"

That went too. Kole had measured the distance to the girl where she held Seb on the other side of the room. His fear had passed. He still felt the jeopardy of the situation, but he was thinking as he'd been trained to think. All those grueling basic training exercises came back to him. They had played out worst case scenarios again and again. The educational corps need fit and able women and men, ones who could survive a harrowing tour of duty in one of the failed major cities.

"Gun!" said Vina, still pressing the edge of the knife to Seb's helpless throat. She bared her big teeth.

Had she seen him in the city, Kole wondered, going to see the boy? Or was it just that she'd sensed with her animal cunning a special bond between the two of them? Had that motivated her to do all this? Maybe she was jealous on some level she didn't even really understand. Maybe she just wanted to harm, to hurt, to disrupt.

Truly this child was a barbarian.

"Toss down the gun, fucker!" she shrieked. A bead of blood appeared on Seb's throat.

His other implements lay on the floor, out of reach. He had used each of the instruments in the course of his duties. Used them against these kids. All except the 9mm.Once he was wholly disarmed, what did she have planned? It might be she would just let the rest of the kids tear him apart. The frenzy might take a moment to get going, but the small savages would swarm him soon enough, ripping away his flex-armor, pummeling and kicking and biting--

Halfway to his hip he sped his hand, so that the draw would also be quick. Everything had to be absolutely fluid and perfect. The 9mm came out of his hip holster. He didn't toss it to the ground. His grip was firm. His arm swung up smoothly. Everything seemed slowed down to him, but he knew this was happening in an instant.

Her head barely peaked out from behind Seb's. Her feral eyes had time to widen, but that was all she got.

The bullet exploded her temple. She twirled crazily away, every limb suddenly independent of her body. Her improvised knife went flying.

The shot had rung deafeningly in the room. Seb stood with Vina's blood on his face, in his hair. But only the single bead of his own blood remained on his throat. He was still looking at Kole. And as he did, those amber eyes started to fill with tears. Tears of gratitude, Kole thought. Maybe even tears of love.

Me and Septimus: In Extremis

Kain Massin (Australia )

My name is not Iudita

That is a Roman name. I am Judith bat Aaron, and I was enslaved by Septimus, who stole me from my mother in Nazareth.

He owns me, but no-one owns me.

The forest opened up quite suddenly, and they could see ploughed fields, and small farmsteads, and other roads. Over to the right was a large expanse of water, but Fabia knew it was not the sea, and not the passage they needed to cross. It was contained by land, with only one exit, and she could just see it. It was just beyond the dark smudge of city. It did, however, empty into the waterway that was her immediate goal, the one which was the gateway to their ultimate destination. She could just see a thin ribbon of it, beyond the city. The water ran across the horizon, just like a river.

She reined in her horse, the beast grateful for the rest. "That city is Byzantion," she said as she pointed, and her voice carried both hope and fear.

Tarastos, in the front, turned back to look at her, and his face reflected the relief she should have felt. He was the only other survivor of the attack on the temple in Athens, and he was desperate to get back home.

"That water beyond that hill is the Hellespont," she added. "It is not a river but a link between two seas. Jason and his Argonauts sailed along there. We find a boat to cross that, and we're in Ionia." She dared to hope, a feeling she'd been suppressing for so long. "We cross that, and we're over the worst part."

"But the Romans, they'll still pursue us," he reminded her.

She needed no reminding. They'd been fleeing ever since they had grabbed the girl and escaped from Athens. There'd been no sign of their pursuers, but she put that down to both her careful planning, and to the ingenuity of those who would chase them. Their pursuit would not be obvious until the last moment.

"Yes, they'll be after us," she agreed. "And they will send everything they can."

She turned in the saddle and looked back at the wagon. There was an acolyte driving, a woman they had coerced from the Temple of Mars to come with them. She would not have done so, but Fabia had told her she could care for the girl, and the woman had agreed. Even now, as she reined in the two horses that drew the wagon, the girl sat next to the acolyte, leaning onto her shoulder, keeping contact with the only life she'd known until now.

Fabia walked her horse back to them.

"Astra," she said, putting some measure of lightness into her tone, "look over there. Once we cross over that Hellespont we'll be in Asia, and on our way back to where you were born. Back to Hierapolis, your ancestral home."

The girl squinted as she looked, the setting sun behind her deepening the shadows in her eyes. She did not seem to be much cheered by the prospect, and Fabia could understand why: Astra was only eleven summers old, and had spent eight of those years locked away in the temple. She had no memory of her birth home.

No knowledge at all about what she was born to do.

"We'll cross soon, perhaps tomorrow, and then you'll be home," Fabia again tried to reassure the girl.

The girl still did not look any happier. Fabia looked back along the road they had covered. Back there, somewhere, the damned Romans would be racing to catch them.

I had to accept that it was blissful.

Of all the things the Romans have imposed on us, all the education and roads and medicine and building and taxes, of course, the one thing I most cherished, at that moment, is their focus on water. Not just the piped water and the sewers, but the baths. The three stages to a Roman bathhouse, the gradual cleansing and utter relaxation of a long soak is an absolute luxury. And, how I needed it just then. Septimus and I – and a couple of centuries of soldiers – had just completed the destruction of New Carthage, and I was battered and bruised and cut and exhausted.

But, after all that running and fighting and rowing and swimming, here I was in Athens and enjoying a private bath at the villa of Legatus Paganus. Septimus was in another part of the villa, also bathing, as he reported our success to the Legate.

I closed my eyes as a Greek slave scraped the dirt and sweat off my back, while another one kneaded my shoulders to ease the tension and soften the bruises. I could have kept up that treatment for days. The tepidarium had a calming, mild temperature, and I was feeling rested and sleepy.

There are certainly some benefits to being the personal slave of a man who does secret missions for the Empire. For one, I am already owned, and that means no-one, other than my master, can touch me. And Septimus does not, not any more. We have... an arrangement. In public I am both a Roman soldier – a female oddity in their very patriarchal society – and also his personal slave. In private, he and I are close companions, a situation he no longer abuses. He is my mentor in the military crafts, and we have both been in situations where we relied on each other to survive.

Sometimes, I even think of him as a friend. Sometimes, I think that even when I'm not drunk.

At this moment, he was the furthest thing from my mind.

And, of course, he ruined it.

"Iudita," he said, walking in to the tepidarium.

We were in a mostly public environment – there were two other slaves present - and I immediately took on my subservient role. However, even as a slave, I had certain rights.

"By Castor, Dominus!" I exclaimed, remaining on my stomach to hide my modesty. "We are in a bath!"

"I know that," he replied with a chuckle in his voice. "That's why I have a towel." Such a noble, considerate master. The towel was hung around his neck.

"You, there," he continued, addressing the slave who had been scraping my skin, "drape a towel over the Centurion's rear end." Like I said, the essence of nobility.

A soft cloth descended over me.

"Now leave us," he ordered.

Technically, he could not order the slaves of another man, but Septimus had the status of a pro-consul – a rank unofficially sanctioned by Tiberius Caesar. No-one would ignore him. I had the rank of Centurion – again unofficial, but I also had a scroll signed by Tiberius that implied the removal of body parts should anyone interfere with my duties.

So, yes, I did have a somewhat privileged life, if you ignore all the fighting and rowing and running that my privileges gave me.

"We have a terrible problem, Iudita," Septimus began.

"Does this have to do with all the noble wives who are swarming your bed?" I asked, dropping all pretence of coyness and sitting up. I used the towel to wipe the oils off my skin. He was very quiet, so I looked at him. He was staring at me. "Your mouth is hanging open," I said.

He blinked and turned away. "I'd forgotten...er... your body," he said, his voice unusually muted.

No, he had not, not really. He never forgot what my body was like. He used me – my body – to entrap enemies of the Empire so that we could remove threats as easily as possible. I would be taken to a place where the barbarians could "capture" me. Once they took me back to their camp/city, I would throw myself at the mercy of the chief priest, saying I would do anything for his protection. They would look at me, a poor, helpless _Roman_ woman, and they would first see the _Roman_ part, which makes me a valuable ransom. Then they would see the helpless _woman_ , and I become valuable in another way. Men and their obsession with superiority, right? Later, when Septimus had assembled his forces, I would eliminate the chief priest, the army would feel abandoned by their god, and that would be it. Often, the rest would be done with a minimum of trouble, and hardly any fighting. Sometimes, as in New Carthage, there would be a lot of fighting, even though I did my best to eliminate only the leaders. This was early in my career with him, and I still had a lot to learn, but I was getting better at what I did. Or, to be accurate, I was more morally ambiguous.

What Septimus really meant was that he tried to ignore the attraction he had felt for me in the past, and I myself _wanted_ to forget that he had simply taken me from my home and initially made me his personal plaything, casually changing my Jewish name from Judith to the Romanesque Iudita. We had progressed beyond that. But, in a guilty part of my mind, I still appreciated being desired, and I desired still being appreciated.

"Really, Dominus?" I said. "Let's hope our chosen targets don't overlook my body." I draped a fresh stola around me. This one was provided by the legate's household; it was multi-coloured in green and red with a yellow instita bordering the hem. I fastened it at the shoulder, thinking what a shame it would be when my hectic life ruined it.

He turned back, face now serious. "You know that special temple complex to Mars just outside Athens?"

"The one that used to house the old oracle? Yes, I've seen the outside."

It was not a very welcoming structure. When general Sulla had put down the Hellenic rebellion ninety years back, his army had ensured the Greeks would take a long time to recover, and had damaged or destroyed most of the major buildings, in an open statement that the old Greek empire was no more. There had been one, however, that had been dedicated to the god Aries, and which housed an oracle. That one Sulla had left alone. Well, the building was left undamaged. Not so the priests or the oracle.

"Not much of an oracle, really," Septimus said. "Didn't foretell our conquest or his execution, did he? Anyway, we took over stewardship of the temple, updated it to house Mars, and restored it to its former glory."

I washed my face with water from a bowl. "I don't like the sound of this _former glory_."

"Hmm," he agreed, reading a scroll. "Under the Greeks, it seems the good priests had been experimenting with... perhaps I should call it _innovative weaponry_."

"I love the sound of that," I said, not liking it at all.

"Oh, I don't see why not. There's four or five different forms of pestilence they were working on, they had invented six new poisons that lie dormant in the body for five days before becoming active." He lifted the scroll and pointed to a section. "Here they tried using one of your Jewish tricks. They had actually developed a golem, with the idea of having an army of them."

I cocked my head to an angle. "That's not so clever. If you don't do it right, you could lose control of it."

"Yes," Septimus agreed, reading the scroll. "They reached the same conclusion after they had to rebuild part of the temple, and bury five of their priests. Your Jewish weapons are now officially out of favour." He put the scroll down and faced me with a serious expression. I have learned to dislike that expression. "Their most recent weapon was stolen five days ago." He picked up an official tabulae, on which his orders would have been hastily scratched into the wax.

"And they want us to get it back," I said, trying to sound casual. "Right now, of course and I haven't even had time for a manicure." I made a show of fussing with my hair.

"Not quite," Septimus said, closing the tabulae. "They want it destroyed. They're that scared of it." He walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. His face was both gentle and worried. "Iudita, the weapon is a young girl." He took a slow breath. "They want her killed."

The air went out of the room. I stepped back, out of his reach, clutching my chest, fighting for breath. I remembered a young girl in Gaul, on her back, a crimson pool growing around her as her sightless eyes did, and could not, look into mine.

Septimus stepped up to me and hugged me close. "She was lovely, I know, but things turned out better. We had to let it happen. There was no choice."

I shuddered and let him hold me for a long time, trying to think of fields of fallen bodies amongst flowers, and waves on the sea crashing over sinking ships, snow on the wreckage of city buildings. Other things that we'd done because to not do so would have been worse.

Gradually, my heart hardened enough for me to release him.

"Are you going to be able to cope with this?" he asked, his voice intimately quiet.

_No_ , but I nodded. "I just don't want to see her when you... you know."

"Mmm," he agreed.

I shook myself. "Right, what is it?"

He frowned, looking at the twin tabulae in his hands. "I don't know too much. Whoever took her killed everyone associated with her, all but one acolyte. According to what I've been sent, the priests had hopes of using her to defeat all our enemies."

"All of them?"

He smiled a feral smile.

"Well, we'd be out of a job," I smiled in response. "We can't have that. What would we do? Retire to the country?"

"Sounds boringly safe, right?" He dropped the towel and began getting dressed. "I've already told Lucius to select ten men and be ready to pursue her on horseback, once we know which way. You and I, however -."

"... another sea voyage," I finished for him. "More rowing and seasickness. Why not? I still haven't recovered from the last one, so it'll just be an extension. Let's go."

But, for all my levity, I could not dislodge those unseeing eyes that still looked deep into mine.

The Temple of Mars was a short horse ride from Athens, and we were there by the time I would normally have had a midday meal. Septimus and I sat on rocks by the roadside, munching on bread and cheese and dried meat and sipping watered wine.

Opposite us, a wall of plain stone hid the temple. Clearly, it had never been intended to be a place where the ordinary worshippers could easily gain entrance. The Oracle, such as he was, had been hidden from view, and only the rulers of Athens had ever been able to consult him. The gate was locked.

"Welcoming," I said around a mouthful. "I take it he wasn't a very popular oracle."

"One rumour," Septimus said around a mouthful of meat, "is that the old beast only gave dark and dire predictions, and the priests were too afraid of scaring the common people."

"Ah," I said, taking a swig of wine, "what you mean is that he was utterly mad and no one could make sense of his ramblings."

"The official _Greek_ version was that he was very deep, and his predictions were not meant for ordinary mortals. _Our_ assessment was that he was very seriously demented. So, as usual, you're right." Septimus chuckled. "Remind me to never again show you to Caesar. He'd steal you from me."

"Does he pay any better?"

"He's Caesar, Iudita, the leader and guide of our entire Empire. He has utter control of the greatest treasury in the known world. He doesn't pay at all. The honour of working for him is enough. No pay, but loads of perceived benefits."

I stood and stretched my back. "So, I'd get to eat palace food and never again have to sit at the roadside with disgraced Army officers. Sounds wonderful." I put the remains of my wine into the saddle bag. "Why don't you introduce me to him, again? In about thirty years."

"Right, right," he said, also storing his wine. "First we have to save the Empire, so that there'll still be a palace for you to retire to."

I smiled at him. "Got to have a retirement plan, right?"

We walked across the road, leading our horses, and Septimus banged on the gate. After waiting longer than either of us ever thought was polite, he banged again. He inspected the gate. It was a pair of heavy wooden doors paneled with squares of beaten copper. The doors swung inwards, but a wooden bar had been dropped across the opening to prevent the action.

"That's an old beam," he said. "Sturdy, but quite dry. Would you -?"

He turned toward me and stopped as I led his horse over to him. He puffed out a breath in mock exasperation.

"Am I that predictable?"

I blinked rapidly. "Certainly not, Dominus. You just are a very good teacher. I live to anticipate your every whim."

He barked a laugh, and walked his horse backwards until its rump touched the junction of the two doors. Septimus then caressed the horse's nose.

"All right, let's see what a big boy you are."

He pulled on the rein, and the horse tried to step back, but the doors stopped him. He lifted his ears and snorted in confusion, but Septimus persisted with the motion, and the horse dug its front hooves into the ground, pressing harder.

It was rebuffed.

It tried harder, an angry grunt rolling up from its chest. It snorted in surprise, and flattened its ears, bent its legs and pushed.

And pushed, the grunt now a long rumbling thunder.

"All right, all right," Septimus said reassuringly. "Let's try another way." He rubbed the horse's head and made it take two paces forward. Septimus looked at me. "Push on the doors so they're taut."

I understood and put my back on the doors, pushing the slackness out of them until they were stopped by the wooden rod. Septimus stepped close to the horse and ran his hands down the long face.

"You're a big boy, and you remember your training, right? Now, on my command... _kick!_ "

It was beautiful to watch: the stallion dropped his head, braced his two front legs and kicked out with his rear legs. The hooves slammed into the door close to my head. At his furthest stretch, the horse was balanced on his front legs and on the door.

There was the sound of splintering wood, and the doors sprang apart, the broken pieces of beam flying across the inner courtyard. The horse landed on the ground, took a couple of quick steps back, then raised its head and snorted.

"Yes, you're a very strong boy," Septimus said, pulling the head down and rubbing the neck. "Tonight, I'll give you an apple."

We walked inside, and both of us sniffed at the same time. Cooked flesh.

"They're burning bodies," I said.

I looked around. The pieces of wood we had just broken were lying not far from another beam which had been broken earlier. This would have been the original, and it had certainly been much more robust. But someone had taken to it with an axe. Septimus looked closely at it and frowned in disapproval.

"Hey, you! What do you think you're doing!" An angry man in a red toga ran down the five steps that led up to the temple proper. "We're closed. All the priests and acolytes were murdered. Have some proper respect. I'm just doing the cremation ceremony."

"Our deepest apologies for your loss," I said, stepping forward and bowing. "But pro-Consul Gaius Septimus is tasked with finding the barbarians that did this despicable act."

Septimus, deliberately not looking at me, lifted up his plumed galea and put it on. This particular helmet had been personalized by Septimus, with its plume running back-to-front, unlike other officers. The plumage was striking: alternating bands of black and white, with the first and last ones being purple. It was nothing like the uniform of an Army officer, and it suited the non-conformist nature that Septimus liked to project.

"Pro-Consul?" the man said. He bowed low, lower than I had to him. "My apologies, I did not recognise you."

"That could be because we've never met." Septimus painted the man down with a sneering look. "Let's hope that this is the only time we do. Tell me what happened."

"Of course, pro-Consul." The man bowed again. "There was an attack -."

"What? Here?"

"No, no, in the inner temple."

"Then why aren't you taking us there?" Septimus leaned close to him. "Are you trying to hide something? I will not be gentle with wrong-doers."

"Hide somethi-?" The man swallowed, his formerly angry red draining to a sickly white. He bowed even lower, sweeping his hand to indicate we should climb the steps. "Please, please, go in."

"After you! I don't know my way around here."

The man almost scurried off. Septimus looked at me, a tiny smile twitching his lips.

Too harsh, I mouthed.

He waggled his hand - _maybe_ \- then took off the helmet and tied it back on the saddle. We tethered the horses to a column, then climbed the steps and entered the cool interior.

One step inside, and I was stopped by a large stain on the limestone floor. Septimus frowned at it, but walked on. There were more, of course, many more. I was not shocked; Septimus and I dealt in death around the Empire, and these sights were not new. I was merely trying to determine what had happened.

"You," I called to the priest. "What's your name?" He ignored me, just stood waiting for us to approach.

"Did you not hear my question? I asked what had happened."

"I do not deal with slave women." He did not even look at me. "If the pro-Consul will attend to me," he said to Septimus, "I'll try to outline what happened and –."

Septimus grabbed him by an arm and spun him around so that he crashed backwards into me. I twisted his right arm up his back. He took a quick breath of surprise.

"My name is Iudita," I said into his ear, as calmly as if we were discussing the colour of the décor, "and I am a Centurion in the Army. That's a Centurion with a big C. If you ignore me again, I'll have my men come in here and piss in the corners. And on you."

I pushed him away, and he nearly sprawled. He massaged his arm at the same time as he tried to bow to me.

"My apologies," he said, his voice quiet and shaking. "I won't give offence ag-."

"No, you won't," I agreed, pacing into the centre of the area. This was open to the sky and was bordered by colonnades. At the side farthest from the entrance was a black statue of Mars. It had been Ares before Rome had graciously given him the chance to join the Empire and changed his name. "So, what happened is that they attacked through the front door and slaughtered anyone they encountered, right?"

I looked at the brown stains where someone's life had drained into the stone paving. There was a large amount of blood spilled at most sites. I frowned.

"They performed some ritual," I muttered.

"All the priests and acolytes were disemboweled," the man said quietly. He raised a weary gaze to me. "Hearts were removed and placed in a copper bowl that we normally use for sacrifices."

"Your name," I demanded.

He blinked, coming back from wherever his memories had taken him. "I am Aristidos, Centurion," he said.

"Aristidos," I said, "they came here with a specific plan."

"Yes, yes," he said, still coming back from his memories. "I was absent that day, and only came back after it was over, when I came in and saw ..." He stopped, again moved by what he had seen.

"Aristidos," Septimus said, his voice touched with firmness, "I need you to concentrate on our questions." He walked over and squeezed the priest's shoulder. "It is painful to remember this, I know, but you have to help us."

Aristidos turned red eyes on him. "You'll never catch them! They are brutal and cunning." He waved a helpless arm at the stains. "Brutal. None of this was necessary. All my friends, they were innocent and helpless."

Septimus raised an eyebrow at me, then looked back at the priest. "My friend, why were you absent?"

Aristidos took some moments to raise his eyes from the ground. "Why?" He blinked, then gathered himself. "Oh, yes. I had to go to the market to get supplies."

"Very lucky for you," Septimus said. "I'm so pleased for you that you managed to escape this... this _slaughter_." He waited a moment. "What did you get?"

"What? Oh, sorry, it was some rubio, the red dye we use for our clothes. We were running low, and I had to go to the market to get it."

Septimus nodded at me, and turned his attention back to the priest. As I exited the area and moved to the back of the temple, I heard him say: "Now, did any of the attackers get killed? Show me where they died."

Past the public area, there was a kitchen, several dormitory bedrooms and some tight spaces that appeared to be offices. I found three rooms that had chains and manacles on the walls. There was a rather large room devoted to shelves with potions and chemicals and benches on which I think they tested the concoctions. There were blood stains everywhere, including in two of the rooms with the manacles. The third room was stain free, but it had clearly been lived in. There was a bed and clothing under the manacles and another bed on the other side of the room.

So, there'd been a prisoner, but there was also a constant companion. Was this where they had kept the girl?

There were two open areas out the back. In one, there was a large pyre with many bodies burning, the smoke rising in a black cloud and dissipating as it cleared the surrounding rooves. I saw several copper bowls with fresh ashes in them, as well as the odd bone that had not been properly broken and ground. This was a large task for that one man, and I did not envy him the pain of performing this last duty for his friends.

The adjoining open space held animal pens. Goats and sheep and chickens. Food for the community? Possibly, but there was a space reserved apart from the pens. Here, there was a stake in the ground close to a pair of manacles that hung from the wall.

I frowned, concentrating, sifting through all the different religions we'd encountered. I was fairly sure the manacles were for the girl, but they weren't long enough for her to reach any animal staked in front of her. Was she meant to kill them? Probably, if she were being honed as some kind of weapon. How could she kill them? Not by touch.

I shivered, and went back.

Septimus was still talking to Aristidos when I got back.

"Ah, Iudita," he said. "We've established that the priests put up a bit of a fight, and five of the corpses belonged to the attackers. They were – what did you say?"

The priest looked at me. "I don't know too much about other peoples, but I thought they were Asian. Slightly darker skin, you know?"

"Like the girl?" I asked. "What's her name?"

"Astra. I mean, we called her Astra. I don't know her actual name, I wasn't here when they brought her in eight years ago."

"Where was she from?"

"Umm, some of the others said she was from Hierapolis, in Asia."

"Hierapolis?" I asked.

"That's the ancient Phrygian name," Septimus said, reading from his scroll. "I've heard it said it's quite lovely. At least we know which way to send Lucius. He can chase them over the Hellespont. What else do you know about her? Why would she be stolen?"

Aristidos looked down and shuffled his feet. "I'm sorry I can't be of much help. To be honest, I didn't have much to do with her. I am – I _was_ – mostly involved with mixing potions and testing new poisons."

"Of course," I said, said I, sounding all friendly and accepting and gullible like a woman should. "That's why you had to get the new dyes, didn't you, because you deal with all the stored plant materials and such, right? Must be an important task, making sure all the provisions are always on hand to be used."

"I suppose," he said, brow furrowed. "I never really thought of myself as important."

"Why, of course you're important," I said, my voice dripping sincerity. "And now, it's so sad losing all your friends, but you're the most important man here, aren't you? Right now?, why?, you're the head priest."

He held his breath for a long moment, then let it out slowly. "I didn't think of that. I... I... suppose you're right."

"Of course you are," I comforted him. "You've got so much responsibility. So, tell me, the people who did this, did they have eastern accents? Like Ionian Greeks?"

"That's what it was!" He said this like it was a revelation, as if he'd been pondering the problem. "They spoke with this interesting intonation that –." He stopped talking and looked at me with fear in his eyes. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

I stepped to face him. "You talked with them. You helped them. Your life here is over, you understand that, don't you? The general audience of the priests of Mars will probably decide your fate later. But, right now, the pro-Consul and I need you to help us catch the people who took Astra. Tell us what you know about her and them. Tell us willingly, because you will not like the methods that the pro-Consul can use to extract the information from you. I would like to emphasise the word _extract_."

"I don't know what you mean," he whined.

I have a particular smile that I have developed, which is fearsome to the person on whom I bestow it. I imagine it makes them feel like the mouse that sees a cobra swaying before it. The look in the priest's eyes told me that it was having the desired effect on him.

"There are no new provisions of anything in the storerooms," I said, "and if we went to your suppliers, I'd guess they haven't seen you in months, judging by the thickness of the dust on everything. No, my guess is that the Ionians somehow convinced you to open the gates and go for a little walk while they snatched the girl. And I'd bet they promised to leave everyone else alone."

"But they didn't," Septimus said. "Well, obviously. So you came back and found that you had been deceived and that all your colleagues and friends have been murdered. That must've been such a shock."

Aristidos nodded mute agreement.

"And, what did you do?" Septimus asked, his voice all soft and understanding.

"I wept," the priest whispered. "I mourned."

Septimus punched him so hard he collapsed. "Pedicabo!"

The threat of being sodomised terrified the man, and he cowered with fear.

"The first thing you did, seeing that all your friends had been butchered because of you, was to get an axe and cut the door beam in two, so we'd think it was broken by the killers." Septimus was gritting his teeth to control his anger. "A temple of murdered people, and you just try to throw suspicion off yourself. Faexnigre!"

Big, fat tears fell from the priest's eyes as he hung his head. Being called black manure seemed worse than the blow he'd taken.

Septimus grabbed his sword, his hand massaging the hilt. I stepped forward and laid a hand on his chest. He acknowledged me with a nod and let me take over the rest of the interrogation.

I touched Aristidos and rubbed his sagging shoulders. The gentle touch was not what he had been expecting, and he let out a sigh of relief. That little sound repelled me: even after being exposed as a cowardly traitor, his first thought was for himself. I decided it would be better to finish our talk quickly before I, too, allowed my emotions override my judgement.

"Aristidos, start talking. The pro-Consul and I have a ship to catch so that we can chase these Ionians and get your girl back."

The crossing was nearly a disaster. The barge that Tarastos had managed to hire was barely large enough for the wagon and the horses; even lashed down, the wagon made the craft unwieldy. To top it off, the day was windy, and the boatman was reluctant to cross. They'd had to part with more of their gold than Fabia thought was wise, but speed was absolutely vital. She was sure there were Roman soldiers racing to catch them, could feel it in the way the back of her neck prickled. They had to risk the crossing.

The Hellespont looks like a wide river, but it is just a waterway that links two seas. And, in doing so, it separates two continents. Here, at Byzantion, hills border the water, and funnel winds along the length of the Hellespont. On the day they crossed, the winds came from three directions, and the sail was more hindrance than help. They all had to paddle with whatever they could find – Fabia used a plank – and it seemed the water was determined to stop their crossing. Even Astra leaned over the side and did her best with a piece of wood.

"Mighty Pluto," Fabia whispered, "we bring the child back to you. We do this in your honour. Please petition your brother, Poseidon, to give us safe passage."

They managed to cross, hands bleeding from their exertions. Whether Poseidon had listened was unclear. But, they had succeeded, and she gave thanks to Pluto.

Once they were on solid ground, and Europa was behind them, she did not let them rest, although all of them had earned it. Rome would not give up; she had to forge on.

We were hit by a storm as we sailed past the ruins that had been Troy. I could see the dull brickwork on a hill that dominates its surroundings. Either the sea has withdrawn in sorrow from the city, or the land has pushed away the waters that had given access for Troy's enemies, but the city is no longer near any beach. Gradually, it is being dismantled by time and driven into the ground. A once-mighty fortress, betrayed by men and demolished by nature, it now stands as a stark reminder of the folly of one man's lust for another's wife.

It looked as if we might have to run aground to escape the wild waves that reared up and came close to washing over the deck. The interior of any trireme has three layers of oars, and slaves are chained to their seats. If water were to come crashing and cascading down, the men would cower for their lives and not be as effective at keeping under way. With the sail torn, we would lose steerage, and could be driven wherever the waves and wind chose.

The captain of the ship would have preferred to stay in a haven, but Septimus had insisted we sail, even into the teeth of one of Neptune's storms. Now, after half a day of battling the water, Septimus stood face-to-face with the man, the pair exchanging shouts, my master's angry urgency balanced by the Navy man's experience. Septimus leaned forward, left hand grasping the hilt of his sheathed sword, his face thrust into the captain's. The captain, very much outranked by Septimus, did not raise his voice more than was needed by the wind, but he did not back down. Finally, Septimus stepped back, possibly reading the warnings from my face. He looked around, taking in the drenched decks, the shivering oarsmen and the waves rearing up around us. He nodded, grimly resigned to losing time.

We pulled into a small bay, sheltering in the shadow of a cliff and watched the storm's fury on the sea outside. One entire night, we rode the swells, oars pushed against the cliff to ward us off from crashing into it. Sometime during the second night, the wind eased and we rowed out into a bleak dawn. Out in the wind, the sail puffed out and we sailed between the mainland and the island of Lesbos, but once past the island, the wind turned and blew directly against us. The rowers tried their best, but it was slow going.

And, as if to spite our pursuit, the storm returned.

"I'm sorry, pro-Consul, but we will not make Ephesus for another ten days," the captain said.

Septimus looked furious. "What is your alternative?"

The captain nodded. "We could pull in to Smyrna before noon."

Septimus slapped a hand on the rail, then let out a heavy, irritated sigh. "It's closer from Ephesus." He looked at me. "Well, it was always going to end in a road race. I just didn't want it to be this long." He looked at the captain. "Smyrna. As quick as you can."

The captain nodded acknowledgment and turned away. I could see what Septimus could not: the small smile on the man's face, glad to be rid of an irritant. The ship changed course very soon after that, and the rowers picked up the rate. Clearly the captain was not only glad to be rid of us, he was also in a hurry to do so.

We made very good time, so that I imagined the slaves also wanted us off, in case Septimus changed his mind and made them row to Ephesus. A bit of advice to the rest of you: don't ever appear eager to make slaves work too hard; they won't shower you with gratitude.

By early afternoon, we were the next in line to dock at the crowded harbour. The ship in front was unloading cargo, but the movement on the wharf was stopped. A contrary donkey was refusing to move, ignoring the curses and whipping of its handler, and traffic was blocked. The offloading of the ship in front of us had come to a halt. There were a few soldiers overseeing the docking procedures, and Septimus leaned over the side to show one of them his helmet.

"Send a runner to the garrison," he shouted. "Four horses and provisions for two weeks for two people. Have them ready to go when we land." He looked down the wharf to the stubborn donkey. "And tell that man down there to move, or I'm going to kick his ass!"

"Don't even whisper," Fabia warned in an urgent whisper, as she flagged down the wagon.

They had just exited from a forest and the road ahead seemed clear. It was rough, definitely not a Roman construction, which had at first lifted her spirits. Perhaps there would be no Roman patrols, and the pursuers – she was sure there were some – would choose another way. The horses were probably grateful for the slower pace, especially the two harnessed to the wagon. She had been willing to compromise speed for safety.

What a pitiful hope.

Her first inkling of danger had been a couple of shadows moving deep in the darkness of the forest. She had watched for them and spotted the animals quickly. They were wolves, and she suspected a large pack. Still, she had not been concerned: they had not seemed interested in the little party, had not even noticed them until now. Only a few of the wolves even stared at her. Their major interest was on something else, something further up the road. Still, even with the increased attention from the predators, she was not concerned; she could handle even a larger pack.

And, the girl? She suppressed her hopes for what the girl could do.

But, then, they had exited the trees and travelled well into an open area before she had spotted the dark mass over at the side. It had been mostly obscured by the shadows of the forest, but that had not lasted long. This was what the wolves were hunting.

One dark shape separated from the mass, and her heart clenched in fear.

Aurochs.

The one to come forward was huge, and it moved with head up, the twin horns now glinting in the sun. The tail was partly raised, a flag warning of its potency and aggression. The creature trotted forward and stopped some hundred paces off, head up as it savoured the scents on the air. This was the reason why the wolves had not been interested in her group: they were trailing the herd, hoping for a lone, weak individual. Only, she could not see any, since they were probably shielded by the rest.

The bull that challenged them was not the lead bull. That animal was back with the herd, seemingly uninterested, but she could see that it was not really grazing. She thought she could hear its low rumbles as it reassured the herd.

The one who challenged her shook its head, the great horns scything through the air, and it pawed the earth. It stared at her and snorted in derision. Very deliberately, it took a step forward.

Fabia's horse shivered, and took a nervous step back. She could feel the mare's agitation, and a quick look back told her that the other horses were equally scared.

Slowly, she turned in the saddle and gestured for the others to stay calm and to keep their horses under control.

Astra's eyes were wide with fear, her mouth open in a soundless _oh_. The acolyte sat next to her, gripping the reins, her knuckles white. Tarastos sat uneasily on his horse, nervously looking around. Fabia sensed his fear, and tried to ignore the possibility that he was thinking of turning around and escaping. She caught his eyes and pointedly caressed the bow strapped to her saddle. He knew what she could do with it. Either he could be reassured that she could use it on the aurochs, or he could be sure that she would use it on him. He slumped in the saddle, some of the tension leaving him.

Whether it was because he had faith in her ability to deal with the beasts, or a resignation that he could not escape, Fabia did not care. All that mattered was he stayed.

She turned back to face the bull, and her heart clenched once more. The old bull was bringing the entire herd up. A wall of horns and hooves was trotting towards them, and she did not believe she could control the horses much longer. If the herd charged, the wagon would be engulfed and demolished, there was no question about that. Could she get to the wagon and save the girl first?

No, not in a full-fledged stampede. Let's try another way.

Slowly, she turned her horse and walked it as best she could to the wagon. The mare was skittish, its ears alternating from lying flat and checking the noises behind it. Fabia had to fight the animal's attempts to run; the aurochs weren't predators, but she was afraid they would give chase if she bolted. She managed to coerce the animal over to the wagon, where the tethered horses were also backing up and trying to run.

She slid off the horse and swiftly tied its reins to the wagon. Then she stepped up onto the front wheel and grabbed the girl's shoulder.

"Look at me," she said quietly.

Wide, frightened eyes turned to her.

_Have to handle this carefully._ "Astra, we need your help."

The herd finally formed up, and the old bull took a step forward, shaking its head in a challenge. They were definitely going to attack.

The girl began to swing her eyes back to view them, but Fabia squeezed her shoulder hard.

"Listen to me!" No, that was too harsh. She had to handle this with more care. "The Romans stole you from your home, from your real god. They tried to bend you to Mars, who is a false Roman god and not the true Ares, but you are not his, either. You belong to Pluto, and you have power over -." She paused. Don't _overwhelm her!_ In a calmer voice: "Over so many things. The Romans used you badly, but they taught you some things. Use those now." She reached up and caressed the girl's hair. "Do what they told you." The girl blinked incomprehension.

"Look at that animal next to the big one. Look at him."

The girl turned her head. Blinked again. Took a deep breath. Her eyes lost focus.

"That's it. You can feel him. Feel him breathe in and out. Feel his heart."

The girl shuddered, then took a quick, shallow breath. Then, because it hadn't been enough, she took another. And another.

And slipped into a steady rhythm.

Fabia glanced at the acolyte, who stared wide-eyed. And nodded.

"Good girl," Fabia whispered. "Feel that big heart beat. It's so strong, and it's beating fast, isn't it? Fast and strong. Tha-dup, tha-dup. Can you feel it?" The girl gave a vague nod.

"Tha-dup, tha-dup."

She risked a look at the herd: they had advanced some twenty paces, a wall of snorting, stamping and horns. They were on the verge of charging, she could sense that, could even sense that the wolf pack had sneaked to the edge of the trees, ready to snatch an advantage.

"Tha... dup... tha... dup... tha... tha..."

Fabia looked at Astra. The girl's breathing was a continuous in-and-out, very shallow, very fast, very high-pitched. It was almost a whine. A thin trickle of blood seeped out of her left eye.

The auroch she was staring at paused, then lowered its head, stopped and staggered. The beasts around it also stopped, spreading out as if they suspected something wrong with him.

"Stop his heart," Fabia whispered.

The girl continued her pained breathing, and this time her left leg began to jump.

The auroch collapsed as if its legs had been cut out from under it. The herd shrank away. Fabia caressed the girl's head. "Very good, very good, calm down, now, shh, shh."

The girl's breathing settled down, and her eyes regained some clarity, but her shoulders sagged in exhaustion. Before she could completely lose the focus on the lives of the animals, Fabia picked her up and lifted her down from the wagon. She walked very quickly and carried Astra to the nearest tree, then set her on the ground. Keeping an arm around the girl's shoulders, Fabia reached out the girl's hand and laid it onto the tree.

She leaned forward and whispered into her ears. "Astra, you wonderful girl, you did really, really well. But you are so tired, and you need strength. I'm going to give you strength. Don't be scared, just let it into you." She took a deep breath and concentrated. "Feel the bark," she said. "It is rough, but through it you can still feel the tree. Feel the strength as it pulses from the roots to the branches."

The girl took a deep breath, and clawed at the bark. Fabia watched her hands dig into the wood.

"Now," she told the girl, "take that strength. Take it all for yourself."

She whispered a quiet incantation. The tree shivered. Its leaves turned brown, the branches stiffened and greyed, the bark grew flimsy. In seconds, the life transferred from the tree, and the girl sat up straight, her breathing strong and steady. "Good girl," Fabia said. "You feel refreshed, don't you?" Astra nodded, although she looked puzzled.

Fabia pushed on the tree, and it fell over. A withered husk, it collapsed into a pile of dust.

"Now then, we can do wonderful things with the rest of the herd. Later. But let's first look at that large pack of wolves."

Septimus stopped his horse, and did not move. The action was so sudden, I nearly walked my horse into his. Instead, I moved around until I was level with him. His face was turned upwards, as if he were staring up into the heavens, but his head made slight movements, left and right, up and down.

I followed his gaze.

Dark clouds, the storm was still blowing and its influence extended this far inland.

But there was something wrong; the sky seemed to... pulse? throb? As I watched, my heartbeat moved into sympathy with it.

Tha-dup, tha-dup.

It was fast, at first, and then it slowed.

Slowed.

And began to miss.

My heart copied it.

With a cry, I wrenched my eyes from the sky, and slapped Septimus on the shoulder. He started, his horse shying away, and the trance was broken. He shook his head, then looked at me.

"Are... are you well?" he asked.

I nodded, not feeling the strength to speak, not yet. I grabbed for my wine-skin and drank some of the posca, glad that, in this batch, the herbs did not totally disguise the vinegar; the sourness helped clear my head. Feeling better, I passed it to him. He also drank, and the action improved his mind, as it had mine.

"You enjoyed hitting me," he said.

"Dominus, how can you say that? I only ever hit you to save you. The enjoyment doesn't really enter my mind." I took another swallow of the drink. "Well, not until later."

"You do seem to be saving me a lot, lately," he commented. "So many slaps."

I lowered my head. "It is my pleasure to serve."

He looked up. "What happened?"

I took another drink. "Something in the sky, the way it trembled." I took a breath. "I thought my heart was going to stop."

"So did I," he said, his face looking down, but his eyes focused on something that was not there. "I couldn't look away, even as I knew my heart was going to stop." He pushed shaking fingers through his hair. "Never felt anything like that." His eyes slowly rose and looked into mine. "What if it's that girl? Astra. What if this is what they trained her to do?"

I hated the thought, hated it because I knew we were going to kill her.

Had to kill her.

Birds were screeching in terror as they flew above our heads, escaping a dread we could not see. We, on the other hand, were heading right towards it.

With an upraised hand, Senior Centurion Lucius stopped the column of soldiers. His ten men, those from the special cohort that he and Septimus and Iudita led, came to a halt and immediately reached for their weapons. The other fifty men he'd commandeered from the Byzantion garrison also stopped, but still kept talking. His optio hissed: "Shut up, you idiots!" A hushed silence descended.

The road was cut through a forest, trees on either side, a bend up ahead. There was a buzzing from the trees on the right, and some raucous calls around the bend. With hand signals, Lucius ordered two of his men to dismount and check on the buzzing from the trees.

Two shadows blended into the darkness and moved silently deeper. A few minutes passed, with the Byzantion soldiers getting more nervous, while his men kept a careful vigil.

The two shadows returned. Both seasoned men, but their eyes were on the move, never staying on any one object.

"Dead wolf pack. All dead, maybe four days ago." A worried pause. "Not a mark on any of them, but they all died hard." Lucius raised an eyebrow.

"Whatever happened to them," the legionnaire explained, "they all died fighting it. Their teeth are bared, and they're all twisted up, like. I can't explain it."

Lucius looked suspiciously at the trees, then squeezed the sides of his horse and moved forward. "Mount up."

But, they barely got past the bend in the road before he stopped them again.

The ground was covered with thousands of feasting birds. Vultures, for the most part, but many crows, as well. And rats and lynxes. A large clearing was covered with the scavengers, all squawking and growling and fighting between themselves.

The smell was horrendous, like the worst of a battlefield.

"By the gods," he muttered.

Whatever had been killed, he doubted it was the group he was chasing, but he had to be sure. He turned to the soldiers.

"Clear them away."

They lifted off their shields, and, banging on them with their swords, rode into the heaving mass. Angry birds took to their wings, screaming abuse at the horsemen, as the flightless animals skulked off.

"Aurochs," he said to no-one, amazed at the sight. An entire herd. Slaughtered. He shook his head. "Check to see what killed them," he shouted, although he wasn't sure they could detect anything. The scavenging had been well underway, and all the bodies had been opened.

"These were the first to die," said one of his men, standing near the bodies closest to Lucius. "The large bulls were the first, then the herd scattered."

"But didn't get far," Lucius added. All killed within, what?, fifty paces? What could have killed them? And so fast.

"These were maimed," another soldier called from further away. "I don't understand it, but this one looked to have had its back broken. And this one had its neck snapped, the head turned right around. The last few had every bone broken, every one." The man took a deep breath, probably to calm himself. "It's like some child was breaking his toys."

Lucius ground his teeth; what had happened? His head bowed, he looked down, and spotted twin ruts in the ground. The wagon they had tracked from Athens had come this way. He followed the tracks with his eyes; they had left the road and skirted the bodies. Had they just come upon the slaughter, or had they caused it?

He put his horse into motion, then stopped. Dead trees? He counted quickly. Nine... ten dead trees. Black and leafless, but still standing. He rode up to one, was about to dismount to inspect it more closely, and stopped mid-way through the process. A handprint stood out clearly against the trunk, as if it had been grasped by someone who had bled the life out of the tree.

He finished dismounting and walked over. It really was not much more than a pile of ashes. Extending a cautious hand, he touched the surface, and recoiled from the feeling that he had touched death itself. The tree collapsed in a soundless fall, its demise so utter there wasn't even a cloud of dust. The only reason it hadn't fallen earlier, he supposed, was that there wasn't even a puff of wind, and had not been since whatever had happened had happened. It was as if even the air were in awe.

Lips gritted, he remounted his horse and spurred it into a trot and rode past the last dead auroch.

Horse hooves and wheel tracks came back to the road. No aurochs had fallen over the tracks. They had died before the wagon had skirted the dead herd.

"To me!" he shouted.

When the soldiers had collected, he called his men apart, and talked to them in low tones, so the others could not hear.

'Whoever did this," he pointed to the dead herd, "is on his or her way to Hierapolis. And we know what he or she can do. I don't want you to tell these others, or they'll panic. They're not like us." He paused. "And, another thing. Septimus and Iudita are on their way to confront them."

The soldiers stiffened, briefly, then they checked their weapons and saddles.

"Begging you pardon, Senior Centurion," one of them said, "but why the Hades are we wasting time yabbering? The Dux and the Domina need us."

Their flight had been relatively fast, and news of the escape from Athens would not have yet arrived, so Fabia felt secure as she led them through the southern gate of Hierapolis. They had come along a back road which obscured the view of the terraced hillside; she did not want Astra to be distracted by the sight. Instead, Fabia had chosen to get off the road shortly after Philadelphia and had avoided contact with others until they had ascended the hill and arrived at the gates. The girl had to be concentrating on nothing but gaining the power of Hades.

And, hating Romans, of course.

So, she led the way in, making sure that the girl saw how rough the guards at the gate were. As rough as any of the soldiers that garrisoned the city and brutalised the local Greek residents. The girl should not need much reminding of that, considering what had happened to her in Athens, but it wouldn't hurt to stoke a fire inside her and keep it burning. And, the soldiers put on a good show. Far from their homes, and even from the pleasure houses of Ephesus, they were not well-behaved. Their surliness to any of the locals was in contrast to their obsequiousness to the Roman dignitaries who had villas in and around the city.

They rode along the colonnaded Via Recta, temples and mansions around them. Up on the hill, she could see the rising seats of the amphitheatre, and the hustle of the agora on their left, but she was focussed on the temple to Apollo, and the building behind it.

At last, a great weight seemed to be lifted from her shoulders as they came to a stop in front of the temple. Wagon drivers behind her complained as she dismounted, glancing at the young priest who stood in the doorway. The man would not know her, of course, and he showed her only a meagre level of interest.

Fabia stood straight and imperious as she said: "You. Tell high priest Strados that Fabia has returned, and that I have his daughter with me."

The young man blinked incomprehension, then stared at Astra. His mouth sagged open, and he turned and ran into the temple. Fabia walked over to the wagon.

"Come, we must present you to Pluto." She extended her hand to Astra.

The girl ignored her and turned to the acolyte who helped the girl down. Fabia gritted her teeth _. Soon, we will be inside, and I will kill you. Astra must learn to rely on no-one but me._

Fabia gestured to Tarastos to drive the wagon away to a stable, then faced the temple. Five years she had been absent, preparing to steal back their prize. It was such a relief to be back.

Inside the temple, the air was cool and the light dim. At the far end of the main hall, Apollo stood grandly, red-veined marble body, with bronze helmet and sword. Its right arm was held high, hand grasping a severed head. The statue had not changed for centuries, even under the pestilence of the Roman occupation, a sign that the god protected his own. Fabia walked over the cool tiles and dropped to her knees in front of the statue. She did not lower her head to the ground; that was a gesture she reserved for Pluto, the god she followed, but Apollo deserved respect, nonetheless. This temple did, after all, shield the building behind it.

"Mighty Apollo," she said, "I give thanks for the protection you have given us on a holy mission."

She bowed her head and stood.

A shadow darkened the door to the rear, and a man shuffled in. Made old before his years by the brutality of the Romans as they stole his daughter, Strados still managed to maintain a dignified bearing. He leaned on a wooden staff as he looked about. His eyes first fixed on Fabia, and he limped over to her.

"Holy priest," she said, as his arms folded around her.

"Fabia," he whispered. "It lifts my heart to see you back."

She broke free of his embrace and stroked his hands, still bent from the beating they had received eight years ago. "I have done more than just return. I bring with me our hope for the future." She swept her arm back to indicate the girl.

The breath caught in the priest's throat as he looked. The light was dim, and it had been eight years, but she could see the recognition flare in his eyes. Tears ran down his face as he thanked Fabia, then hobbled over to the girl.

"My daughter," he croaked.

Despite his infirmity, he dropped his staff and attempted to hug her. The girl cringed away, and the acolyte interposed herself between them. Fabia drew her dagger and strode forward. The meddling fool would have to die, and nowhere was more appropriate than in the temple of the god of war.

"No, no," Strados said, putting a hand on her wrist, "she is only protecting my daughter. I respect her for that."

He turned to the acolyte and reached out a hand to her shoulder. "Child, Astra is my flesh and blood. She was stolen from me, _wrenched from me_ , by Romans who sought to warp her to their twisted god, Mars." The acolyte gasped.

Strados smiled kindly at her. "I see you have allegiance to Mars. I do not hold that against you, but twisted he is. You know that we Greeks had him first, and his name is Apollo. It is not your fault that the Romans steal that which they do not have. But, Apollo is ours. And Astra is mine. Give her back to me. Please."

Gradually, the acolyte stepped out of the way, and the man reached his shaking, broken hands forward and pulled the girl into his embrace.

"Welcome back, my dear girl." More tears ran down his face. "Your mother would have... your mother would..."

The girl stood still, her eyes flitting around, her face worried.

Fabia moved up and touched the man's shoulder.

"High priest, we were pursued. We must take her down to the pit. We have little time."

He did not look at her. "I want to hold my daughter."

"You will be hugging her corpse if we do not prepare her."

With obvious reluctance, the priest relinquished his hold and led his daughter towards the back door. Fabia pushed the acolyte after them. There was the small sanctuary, then they were outside in the open courtyard. There was the small garden, and facing them the round, colonnaded building.

Strados placed a hand on Astra's shoulder.

"That, my dear, is the Plutonium." He paused. "It is a temple to Pluto. It is built over a pit which is the Gate to Hades. Animals that venture into there, die. Before they built that roof over it, birds would fall out of the sky, dead before they hit the ground."

Astra took a step back. Fabia moved up behind her, but the girl did not run. She just stood and studied it.

"It calls to me," she whispered.

"Yes, they are welcoming you home," Strados said. "They call to me, as well. There are a very few who can withstand its powers, and they become priests. But you, you are more than that. You will be replenished by it."

He led the way, and the girl no longer needed guiding; she followed willingly. They walked into the circular structure. There was a square hole, ten paces to each side, and a staircase leading down. Strados led the way, hands holding the side walls because he was unsteady. The girl followed.

Fabia did not go down. She was not immune to the vapours, and would have died before her feet reached the second step. She watched the two of them get lower into the ground, their progress lit only by whatever sunlight managed to get past the columns holding up the roof; no torch ever stayed lit down there.

When they were out of sight, and she could no longer hear their passage, Fabia walked around the circular temple and up to the amphitheatre. She looked down on the city, and picked out the buildings of the Roman garrison.

Finally, there will be retribution. Soon all the roads to Rome will be lined with dead Romans.

#

"Immortal Gods!" Septimus said in shock.

I drew my horse to a stop, gazing in awe at the hill in front of me. Next to me, Septimus did the same.

"I've heard about it," he said, his voice quiet with awe, "but I never really believed or understood. It's amazing."

Me? I was almost speechless.

The face of the hill we looked at is white. But, it is terraced with pools, projecting out from the cliff like hundreds of tiered balconies, the upper ones cascading down into those below, which cascade to those below them. The water in each pool is a startling blue, while the pool's walls are almost a pristine white. It is a stunning sight, all the more for being a natural phenomenon. If you can imagine a cliff with basins the size of houses poking out, then you will get the idea. People were swimming in the pools, either climbing up or down to the empty ones. I wondered if there could be anything more idyllic than to lounge in my own pool on that hillside.

"And the gods wept, for they had wrought beauties such as the eyes of men have never beheld," Septimus whispered.

"That was most profound," I said, finally finding my voice. "Who said that?"

He looked at me, and blushed. "I did. Just then. Didn't you hear me?" He looked back at the sight. "Why, is it too much?"

"You're quite the poet, aren't you? A modern Virgil, you are."

He looked awkwardly at me. "I don't know whether to feel aggrieved or to spout more poetry at you."

Our horses were close enough that I could reach over and squeeze his arm. "It was really good, Septimus. Sometimes, you quite surprise me."

He snorted. "Sometimes?"

I smiled and looked back at the amazing sight. "Why would anyone want to leave here?" I finally asked.

Septimus chuckled. "See the walls on top of the hill? That's Hierapolis, the Holy City. People still need to make a living. Bakers bake, innkeepers have to import wine. And, the Empire needs its taxes to be paid. How else can Tiberias Caesar afford to pay us the exorbitant wages we should be getting, but somehow never do? Life goes on, Iudita, even if you live in the most impressive surroundings. Now, they tell me the waters are heated as they escape the earth. Shall we go and have a hot bath?"

The promise of a bath managed to break my trance. We had been travelling hard for nearly two weeks, and I actually succeeded in smelling my own body odours, which is as bad as it gets. I was also beginning to feel chafing from the straps that held my knives hidden on me. My task, as a temptress, requires being alluring. Since I don't have the requisite beauty that temptresses need, I have to have all the advantages I can get. A clean body is the most basic of necessities. And the stola from Athens was getting to the point where even someone used to a life on the road would reject it.

"That was the nicest thing you've said in weeks," I told him, and spurred my horse. "Well, apart from the flowery poetry," I shouted over my shoulder.

Fabia was just leaving the agora with a basket of grapes, when a long line of Romans rode along the Via Recta, right in front of her. They were coming from the north gate, and she could see that they had travelled a long way. Their leader was a grizzled senior centurion who had not shaved in a couple of weeks. His eyes were tired, but they were fierce as they scanned everyone they saw. For a moment, they turned a glaring light onto her.

She cast her gaze to the ground, the usual act of obeisance that all the conquered peoples showed the Romans. You don't show any defiance or challenge to the conquerors; leave them alone and they will mostly leave you alone. She hated them for it, and herself for complying, but was grateful when the horses rode past. She could see they were headed to the local garrison.

Eyes still downcast, she crossed the Via Recta, the straight road that runs through all Roman cities and eventually leads to Rome, and rushed into the Temple to Apollo. Once inside, she dropped the basket and ran out the back, across to the Plutonium. "Strados!" she shouted into the pit. "They're here! The Romans!"

"Wait," came the weak reply.

Shuffling feet climbed the steps, and Strados slowly emerged from the gloom. His hair hung limp and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. He had not eaten for two days and the skin on his neck and arms hung loose. He stepped out from the Plutonium and let the sun shine on his face. Two deep breaths and his eyes became sharp.

"What is it?" he asked, voice now firm and deep.

"The Romans, the ones who chased us from Athens," she said. "They're here. We have to run."

The priest frowned and glanced back into the Gate of Hades. "She's not ready," he said uncertainly.

Fabia gritted her teeth, then willed herself to calm. "The Romans are here," she repeated.

"But, she is not ready," he said, again.

"No, no, it's all right." Fabia was having trouble appearing calm "I'll just go to them and say _Wait; we're not quite ready. Just give us another month or two and then we can unleash our powers and destroy Rome._ How will that go, do you think?"

He glowered. "Do not mock me."

"Or what?" she demanded. "You'll punish me? Do it, because in a few moments the Romans will run their swords through us anyway." She bit down another retort and said: "We have to fight them _now_. They will not wait."

The priest took a step towards her, then blinked and the anger left his face. It was replaced with a thoughtful expression. "I'm sorry. You are right. We still need time, but she is more than ready for this garrison. It will be good experience for her. Get her first kills." He leaned over the hole. "Come up here, my daughter."

Fabia did not want to waste time detailing the destruction of the wolves and aurochs; he would learn soon enough just what the girl could do, particularly now that she had been exposed to Pluto. She walked back to the temple and prostrated herself before Apollo.

"I fight for you, my God. Give me strength."

Somewhere, deep down in her being, she would have liked Apollo himself to animate the statue and fight by her side, but she knew that would not happen. She comforted herself with the thought that, since she had alerted him to the danger, he would lend her his strength.

The silence in the temple remained absolute.

She rose to her feet and walked to the door, staring out at the Via Recta. A double file of soldiers was making its way up the street. They were armed and carried shields.

Another group, this time not in parade formation, was walking through the agora in her direction. The senior centurion was at their head. She ran through the temple and out the back. Another group of soldiers was coming down the terraces of the amphitheatre.

There would be no chance to spirit the girl away.

"They are here now," she said to Strados who was helping Astra step into the sun and take her first clean air in days.

Without waiting for a response, Fabia faced the temple.

"Tarastos!" she shouted.

The man who had helped her rescue the girl came trotting out of the cool shade.

"Romans," she said, pointing to the amphitheatre. "There are twice as many out the front."

She waited for him to assess the situation. He looked at the priest and his daughter, at Fabia, and back at the soldiers.

"We begin our fight for freedom," she said. "This is the moment we have waited for."

"There are so many," he said.

She snorted. "Not against us. Not with her." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Just wait. We will destroy not only the soldiers but all signs of them, their castrum, their walls, even their monuments."

She leaned close. "And you will help us. You will be a champion." Before he could move, she punched him once in the gut, then kicked his knee and brought him down. He dropped to hands and knees, gasping for breath.

Quickly, the priest walked over with Astra and put one of her hands on the man.

"Repeat these words," he said. "Just close your eyes and say what I say."

The language was ancient, that is all that Fabia knew. She'd first heard it when Strados had put his hands on her and imbued her with the strength she'd needed to rescue Astra. Now, as he whispered the strange and arcane words, they still meant nothing to her.

However, as Astra repeated them, she imagined she heard a distant howling rising from the pit of the Plutonium. The air grew harsh, and waves of heat washed over her.

Tarastos instantly stopped gasping, his mouth open in a continuous inhalation, eyes bulging. He began a slow twist under the girl's grip, head swinging, body moving as if to some beat that only he could hear.

Balls of dark shadow shot out of the pit and slammed into Tarastos, each one screaming triumph in an inhuman voice. Each one hit like a blow, and he shuddered.

There was a sound, like wood being bent to its breaking point, and his arms grew longer, as did his legs and feet. His skin blackened, and grew thicker, coalescing into bony plates on his torso and head. When he finally breathed, it sounded like wind blowing through a cave.

It smelt like burnt leather.

The girl sagged and took her hand off him.

"Leave her alone, please." The voice was piteous.

Fabia and Strados looked to the side, into the darker part of the temple. There, the Greek acolyte from the temple in Athens was huddled. She had stayed the last few days, hiding from view, trying to stay close to her charge. Fabia reached for a knife, but Strados stopped her.

"She is nothing," he said. "We have more important matters to deal with." They turned their attention back to the creature.

Tarastos stood up, fully twice as tall as he had been. His arms and legs were skeletally thin, but black and tough, and his hair had transformed into thick prickles. He turned malevolent, yellow eyes on Fabia, then across to the oncoming Roman soldiers at the amphitheatre.

"Kill those Romans," Strados commanded.

The Tarastos creature turned a blank, uncomprehending gaze onto him and the girl.

"Kill the Romans," Strados repeated, this time with more force.

Still, the beast looked around uncertainly.

Fabia snorted in derision. "Can't you see?" She barked a laugh. "You've turned him into a primitive monster."

"He is now an Unborn," Strados corrected.

"Yes," she laughed, again, afraid that hysteria might overtake her. Could it be the priest were powerful and utterly helpless? "It doesn't understand geography and politics, old man. Romans? Galatians? Phoenicians? They mean nothing to it."

She shook her head, then stepped over to the creature and smacked a hand on its side. It turned on her, lips drawn back over yellow fangs.

"They're our enemy," she said, pointing at the Romans who had now moved around the stage and were descending towards them in a long line. "Enemy," she repeated. "Kill them."

It whipped its head around to face the Romans, uttered a deep growl, and bounded up the hill. Some soldiers immediately raised their spears and threw them.

Nearly every one struck home, and the creature stopped, pierced through by at least five metal shafts, while another ten were embedded in its front but had not emerged from the back.

The soldiers gave a cheer.

The creature roared defiance, attempted to draw one out, did not have the dexterity to do so, and just charged, the spears bouncing as it moved.

An optio with the soldiers shouted an order, and they closed up into four groups, spears and swords poking out between the shields.

Fabia grabbed Astra and hurried her through the temple to the front. Behind her, she could hear the creature's roars and the shouts of the soldiers. There were other sounds as well, like the crashing of a bony fist onto a shield, and the cutting of a sword onto a hardened arm, but there was not the time to watch.

At the door leading to the Via Recta, she stopped the girl and dropped to squat next to her. The group of soldiers coming along the road were taking up position outside; ten men across, and eight lines deep. A centurion stood to one side giving orders. He saw the two of them and had his men draw their swords. Beyond him, the senior centurion ordered his men to run across the agora, but they were too far off to be a concern. Not yet.

The century in front of them was the immediate concern.

"Break them, Astra, like you did the aurochs. Break them apart."

The girl turned teary eyes to her. "But... but... they're _people_!" She swallowed. "Do you want me to hurt people?"

_No, they're Romans, not people. Romans! Tear their bodies into little pieces hear them scream I want I want kill them all I want that's all you're good for hear them die_... She took a calming breath.

"They want to hurt us, my darling. They want to hurt your father." She barely stopped a growl. "They want to kill us all."

"Why?"

Oh, Pluto! Why didn't we wait until you were older? Girls at your age are impossible!

"Because they hate us. They hate all Greeks. They hate anyone who's not a Roman."

"You two!" The centurion just across the road had clearly decided that two females, one still a girl, were not much of a threat. He began to walk across the road. He did not even bother to draw his sword. "There's someone wants a word with you."

"Stop!" There was a cry from the senior centurion in the agora, but he was too far off.

Fabia could imagine the senior centurion riding in and asking for help from the garrison, relating a wild story about a dangerous girl. Obviously, the local soldiers did not believe him. Fabia did not bother to hide her smile. Indeed, it helped to mask the danger.

"He's coming to kill us," she whispered to Astra. "He will kill you, and me and your father. He's a _Roman_." The last word she spat, even as she maintained her smile. She squeezed the girl's shoulder. " _Do something_!"

The centurion stopped as if he'd walked into an invisible wall.

"What is this?" he demanded.

He slid back two paces, nearly losing his balance as his feet were pushed back over several flagstones. He frowned and tried to step forward, but whatever force was stopping him did not let him. He was pushed back another pace. His eyes flared wide as he realized that Astra was responsible. He half-turned to his soldiers as he drew his sword.

"Pilae!" he shouted. "Front row! Throw!"

Without a second's hesitation, all ten soldiers in the front threw their spears, the long metal shafts poking out of the wooden handles. As they flew through the air, he shouted: "Centuria, charge!"

And he himself, ten paces in front of the soldiers, ran at the temple door. Fabia squeezed the girl's shoulder. "He'll kill us!" And the centurion dropped to the ground.

The century charged at them, now screaming in fury at the sight of their fallen leader.

Back in the agora, the senior centurion, still running up past the scattering stallholders, screamed for them to halt, but his order was drowned in the war cry.

And, an instant later, when the war cries turned to screams of horror and pain, no one was in any condition to obey him.

"Deodamnatus!" Senior Centurion Lucius swore.

He'd told that idiot of a centurion to just block the street and stop anyone escaping from the temple of Apollo. A simple road block that any enlisted drone, even one of the auxiliaries could have done. But the fool with his head up his backside had ordered an all-out attack.

And now the Hierapolis legionnaires were being tossed through the air like leaves in an autumn gale.

Lucius was now leading a running assault across the agora, the stall holders scrambling to get their precious wares out of the way, and ahead of him an entire century of soldiers was being mowed down.

Ten paces and they'd be amongst the writhing soldiers.

The woman looked up and pointed his way. The child's eyes now rose and looked directly at him.

And something squeezed his head.

He remembered the herd of aurochs – an entire herd! – putrefying across the road.

"Testudo! Shield wall, rank of five!" he shouted.

His men immediately dropped into formation, five of them in the front, presenting nothing but a wall of shields to the girl. The others formed up behind them, those on the outside continuing the shield wall around to the back, while the remainder held theirs up to make a roof.

The classic Roman Tortoise, the testudo.

Lucius staggered in, his ability to move hampered by the pain in his head, but the clasping sensation disappeared as soon as he was hidden.

Perhaps the girl can only kill if she sees her target?

"Good men," he said a few moments later when the pain eased. "All right, one pace forward."

The shields were lifted off the ground just high enough to let them all take a single step forward, then the shields rammed down, accompanied by a deep grunt from the soldiers.

A massive blow smashed the shield roof, as if a giant had slammed at them with a hammer. Some of the legionnaires cried out in surprise, and two fell down, their shields quivering from the blow. But they quickly scrambled up and the testudo re-formed.

Another blow struck them, this from the front, and they shook with the force, but the formation held.

Then, they were hammered with blows so hard and fast that their entire world consisted of cries of dismay from the Byzantion garrison, and the reverberations of the blows on the shields.

But, the testudo held, even though the men were often driven to their knees.

Lucius waited for the assault to ease, for whoever wielded that force to weaken, but the frequency never lessened. Neither did the strength of the blows. He looked around at the legionnaires as they huddled under the blows. The men from Byzantion looked terrified and beaten. Only the act of staying in formation gave them a purpose, otherwise they looked ready to break. Even his men grimaced with effort. He could hold out, if there was some hope of prevailing, but the girl's reserves seemed unending.

He had to give them something to boost their morale. "Did one of you shit himself?" he barked. "I can smell it." Only groans of pain greeted his question.

Come on, lads.

" _Did one of you shit himself?_ " he repeated, forcefully. "Only, I'm too scared to shit myself. So, if one of you did, you're taking this better than me." Bent double, he looked at the closest legionnaire, a Byzantion soldier, using both hands to hold up his battered shield.

"Are you enjoying this?"

The soldier winced as another blow smashed onto his shield.

"No, Senior Centurion," he whispered.

"What about you?" Lucius turned on another man. "Did you shit yourself? Are you better than me?"

"I am not, Senior Centurion."

"It was you, wasn't it?" he accused one of his men.

"No, Senior Centurion. I wouldn't dare show you up by shitting myself."

There were a few feeble chuckles to that, in spite of a particularly hard blow that came from the side and staggered the lot of them.

"Then why do I smell shit?"

"I'm standing in some donkey shit, Senior Centurion," someone called from the front.

There were some more chuckles at that, and they were less forced.

"Are you telling me a donkey is less scared than I am?" Lucius called.

"He might not have as much intelligence as you, Senior Centurion."

Lucius had to suppress a smile. "Damn right, he doesn't. So, let's get out of this shit." He shouted. "Are we legionnaires or are we donkeys?"

"I couldn't vouch for the men from Byzantion," one of his soldiers shouted, "but we're as smart as you."

"Hey!" came an offended voice. "We're every bit the soldiers you prancing boys are."

Great. Now we're a team.

"Then let's get these two dog-faced women." The men responded with a unified grunt.

"Two paces forward!" Lucius shouted.

Marking each step with a grunt, the testudo stepped forward twice and the perimeter shields slammed down. They had now reached the first of the wounded legionnaires from the Hierapolis garrison, and those not on shield duty bent down and did what they could to comfort them. In most cases, it was just to arrange them into more comfortable positions. In others, it was just a word of encouragement, but they did what they could. Lucius was proud of the effort they made even without him having to order it.

After more forward moves, they came to the clear ground of the Via Recta, and only flagstones lay under their feet. Lucius peered through the tangle of arms and shields and saw they were only about ten paces from the temple entrance.

"Third row!" he shouted. "Spears ready!"

At that same instant, a blow many times more powerful than what they'd had to endure so far simply threw away the front line of shields and legionnaires. Now, he could see clearly all the way to the young girl.

She was kneeling, arms outstretched in his direction.

Her face was contorted in pain, and tears were streaming from her eyes.

She mouthed a word, and suddenly Lucius and everyone with him was flung back, over the wounded soldiers, into the heart of the agora. He came crashing down amongst the bodies of his century.

He was grabbed and squeezed by something unseeable, something which had reached into his chest, and had his heart in its unremitting grip.

We entered by the North Gate, our horses becoming more careful as we walked over the slick flagstones, past the necropolis. The Via Recta is the same as in many Roman-occupied or built cities: a straight thoroughfare which runs from one end of the city to the other. In this city, the Via Recta was a colonnaded road, buildings on both sides, with little room between them. That was a pity, because I would have liked to have seen the top of the cliff on our right where the amazing wall of suspended pools begins.

There were temples up ahead and an agora on the right, the stallholders busy with their goods and produce. A century of legionnaires was marching up the road in our direction, and I thought I could see another group deep in the agora, but my attention was drawn up the hillside on the left. There, I saw the many terraces of an amphitheatre, an ancient one, probably pre-dating the Greek empire. The view from the seats would have been down on the stage, and the city beyond.

Although there was no play or production on, the terraces were not empty.

"Septimus," I said, my voice raised in alarm.

Before he could react, I spurred my mount and rode up a side street, gaining height as the street climbed the hill. The spare horse I led dutifully followed me up. Once clear of the many houses, I reached the same level as the base of the amphitheatre before Septimus caught up with me.

A large number of legionnaires, possible two centuries of them, had formed four testudos and was cowering under the frenzied assault of a creature whose existence I could not imagine. Much taller than a normal person, this black beast towered over the legionnaires and hammered down on top of their upraised shields. Every now and again, it lunged forward and attempted to kick away the shields that protected the front of the testudo. The soldiers then prodded at it with their spears or swords. As far as I could see, it was not being hurt by their weapons. In fact, some ten spears hung from its torso. Still, there were about ten legionnaires lying on the ground, most of them not moving. The battle was probably balanced.

"Juno's Tits!" I exclaimed.

"I'm beginning to understand where my soldiers learned to swear." Next to me, Septimus rammed his helmet onto his head and tied up the chin strap. "I was simply going to say _Castor and Pollux_ , but you are much more expressive."

Curious citizens were beginning to appear, staying well back from the melee and alternately looking at us.

"You," Septimus said to a gangly youth. "Do you want to earn a sesterce?"

The boy took a step forward, both awed by the sight of a high-ranking Roman officer and drawn by the promise of wealth.

Septimus tossed over the reins of his spare horse.

"Look after this horse and all that it carries, and do the same for the Domina's horse, and I'll give pay you for the service."

The boy collected the reins and held out his hand.

Septimus fixed him with a firm gaze. "I'll pay you _after_ you prove your worth."

"What if'n you don't... you know... if'n you don't come back?" His hand remained extended.

Septimus kept his face stern. "Learn this, boy: _I always come back_."

He finished by ripping off, then dropping, his cape into the boy's arms. Drawing his sword, he looking across at me. "Stay out of this, Iudita. I don't want you harmed."

"Yes, Dominus," I said. "I live to serve your every whim."

He was just about to kick his horse into action, but what I said made him stop. He turned a twisted smile on me.

"You could at least try to look sincere," he said, a tone of mock admonition in his voice.

I looked down. "Oh, Dominus, I could never fake sincerity as well as you do."

He laughed. "Just don't get involved, Iudita. That is a command. This is not the sort of thing for which I've trained you." He glanced quickly at the fighting men and the beast. "Take care of yourself, Iudita."

He did not look back at me. His horse bolted forward before I could answer. My heart clenched as I looked at his back. There was something final in his tone. He had been saying goodbye.

Don't you dare die, Gaius Septimus.

He galloped over to the creature and slashed one of its legs as he rode past. I could even hear the sound where I sat, a dull thud, like a stick striking a solid tree. It had no effect on the beast, which ignored him and continued to batter the testudo.

Septimus dropped off the horse and ran back to the creature. He picked up a fallen shield and spear and rammed the pilum into the back of the beast's left knee with such force, I saw the tip emerge from the front. This time, the creature reacted: as its knee buckled, it bellowed in pain and fury. Twisting as it fell, it swung a mighty fist into the shield that Septimus now held up. The blow was probably not the most powerful it could manage, but it still knocked Septimus some ten paces, and he lay on the ground, unable to rise. The beast then crawled towards him, every line of its body distorted with agony and hatred.

"Septimus!" I shouted, the breath catching in my throat. In the years we'd been together, I had never seen him get much more than a scratch. My heart missed several beats.

I was about to spur my own horse, but I should have trusted Septimus much more. Only able to sit up, he shouted: "Testudo! Form around me!" The nearest group of legionnaires scrambled over and surrounded him, the tortoise forming a barrier to the monstrosity that crawled at them. I could not see Septimus anymore, but I heard his orders as he organised the remaining testudos to form parties that harassed the beast, surging in to attack from one side, then, as they retreated, the others attacked from the other side. It did not seem to weaken, but Septimus had contained it, and protected the city and the soldiers. After a while, I saw him stand up in the middle of the testudo, flexing his shoulder.

Relief washed over me.

I walked my reluctant horse closer, ready to help, when another noise intruded on my hearing. Just as the sounds of shields being battered came from the amphitheatre where Septimus and the centuries battled this monstrosity, I heard the distant sounds of screaming men and shields being thumped. I urged the horse along the road and noticed the sounds of that distant fight got louder. On my right, I saw a round roof supported by a circle of pillars. Beyond that, there was the rear entrance to a temple, and the sounds came from the street at the front of that building.

I slid off my horse and picked up a discarded gladius. As soon as I was out of the saddle, the horse bolted. We were now only fifty paces from the beast and the legionnaires, and the horse was clearly scared. To be honest, so was I. I had never faced an opponent like this black beast – I don't think anyone had – and I was not keen on having to fight it. I would gladly have followed the order that Septimus had given, but I needed to find that girl. Somehow, I knew that all of this revolved around her.

I ran past the pillars of the round building, aiming for the rear door of the temple, but something snagged at me, as if a thorn bush had caught my clothes. I came to a stop and looked into the round building. There was a pit there, and stairs descended into the dark. Something lurked there, a thing that called to me at the same time as it repelled me. I turned to it.

Something was there.

I distinguished one scream from all the others drifting through the temple, simply because I knew that voice well, and I had never heard it like this.

Lucius.

Lucius screaming in pain and terror!

I wrenched my attention off the pit and raced into the back of the temple.

There was a statue to Apollo, towering above the floor. Somehow, I noted that this statue was all about violence, the face drawn into a rictus of fury, the arm upraised and holding a severed head. Not the mighty, noble Apollo the Greeks want to portray. I only spared it a brief glimpse, but it sent a shiver through me.

More screams from outside.

In the doorway, I saw three silhouetted figures. A man was on the right, a woman on the left; both of them were bent over a small girl who was on her knees, arms outstretched to the street. A shadow hid in the darker parts of the building, but my attention switched to the agora, where I could hear cries, and see legionnaires were being tossed into the air.

"Good girl," the woman was saying, her voice full of glee. "Hit them again!"

"Kill them!" the man hissed. "Why won't you listen, child? Kill them! Kill Romans, kill them all!"

The girl was waving her arms, and with each pass, soldiers in the street were knocked out of formation, but she was crying.

The only thing that mattered to me was the sight of the soldiers being tossed like twigs on a stormy sea, and the fading echoes of Lucius's dying scream. I ran down the temple, speeding up to my full pace, the sword gripped for a killing blow. I did not want to see the girl's face. I would hit her from behind, and not look back as I ran past.

I fought to even forget that she was a young girl. She was just a threat to the legionnaires, some of whom were my friends.

Or, had been. I thought of Lucius.

I was mere seconds away, my mouth pulled back into a snarl, when the woman turned at me and screamed.

The man snapped his head around...

I was two paces away, putting my right foot down...

He threw up his hand...

And a giant smashed his invisible fist into me.

The impact was awful. I went from running forward at full tilt to flying back in the time it would have taken me to put my next foot down. I must have been half-way down the temple before I hit the floor and kept sliding, coming to a gentle stop as I touched the base of Apollo. I lay there, looking up at him, his head so far above me, the severed head even further away, nearly lost in the gloom.

"Roman whore!" A man's growl broke into my whirling thoughts, and I heard a rush of sandaled feet approaching. He kicked me in the side, then straddled me and dropped to his knees. Somehow, I had managed to keep hold of the gladius, but the man waved at my hand and the sword slid away. "Do something with the girl!" he shouted over his shoulder. "We need her! Get her back into the Plutonium!" Then, he returned his attention to me. He made a crushing motion with his hand, and my throat closed. He opened and closed his fist. Again and again. Each time, something strangled me.

"Whore," he hissed, teeth clenched in hatred. "What have you got, now? Your soldiers are dying or dead, your mighty empire is nowhere near us. What have you got, whore?"

He made as if to punch the side of my head, and something I could not see slammed me from the side. I lolled, my head spinning, my legs feeling like water. I could barely breathe with the weight on my chest. His knees pinned my shoulders and my arms could barely reach my legs.

"What have you got?" he asked, again. He took control of himself and seemed to calm down. I was utterly helpless, and the need for haste was no longer there. I could see he was going to enjoy this. "You've got _nothing_. I – _we!_ – have a _plan_. You stole Astra from me, but now we have her back, and we have a weapon the likes of which you could not even imagine. What have you got? _Roman!_ "

His hands were tightening into a fist, and something squeezed my throat, so I only managed a croak. The words were indistinct, but I said them anyway.

"I'm not a Roman whore," I croaked.

An indulgent, patronising smile appeared on him. "And what is it you are, then?"

"I'm not Roman."

Just for a moment, he considered, and, in that moment, I stabbed into his calf.

"But, I have a knife."

He screamed in shock and agony and fell off me. I stabbed again, and got him in the other leg. This time, the knife was dragged from my grip as he gasped and scrambled backwards. My head was reeling, but I managed to sit up.

He pulled my dagger from his calf and simply muttered one word. The knife flew at me and I only just managed to dodge it.

"And another knife," I said. My voice was stronger, now.

This knife I hurled. He caught it with ease... and didn't see the one that stuck in his chest. He arched back and fell over, writhing.

I crawled over to the gladius, and stood up, the sword dangling from my hand. I was weak, but the weapon was beginning to feel as if it were a part of me. I walked over to him and slowly prepared to lower myself to my knees. I was part-way down when he sat bolt upright and twisted to face me, his face a mask of hatred, my knife poised in his hand, the point aimed at me. He opened his mouth to utter a phrase, and I swung the sword.

The dagger dropped from a hand I had almost managed to sever. He looked in shock at the damage, the blood pulsing from the wreck of his wrist, his hand barely connected to it. He gasped once more, but that was just a prelude to another word.

To my unbelieving eyes, his dangling hand snapped back into position, and his eyes swung up to me, his mouth silently forming a word.

I swung the sword before he managed to complete uttering the next word he started.

It was quick, a kindness I don't think he would have extended to me, but I only felt a cold detachment.

A long time afterwards, when I had regained some of my strength, I stood up slowly, partly leaning on Apollo for support. I looked up at the snarling god. He no longer looked menacing.

"You weren't too helpful to him, were you?" I challenged. Septimus and I had dared the wrath of many gods, had desecrated or destroyed their temples, but, still, for a moment, I held my breath and waited.

Then, I looked around.

The temple was empty except for me and the woman who was still hiding in the shadows.

"Who are you?" I asked as I walked around and collected my daggers.

"Serena," she said in a little voice. "I was an acolyte of Mars..."

"And you were kidnapped when they took Astra," I finished, standing in front of her. "You looked after her. You did your job so well, they made her into a weapon, right?" My voice was hard.

She gave a quiet sob.

"Where is she now?" I asked, and my voice was even harder because of what I would have to do.

"Please don't hurt her." Serena was close to losing her voice. "She's such a sweet girl."

I remembered Lucius's agonised scream.

"You should have considered that before you taught her to slaughter. Now, where is she?"

"That woman, Fabia, took her back to the pit." A shaking arm pointed to the back of the temple.

"Her name is Fabia?" I turned, and the somethings in the pit noticed me. There was a warning, a warding-off, a wave of anger that seemed to pass through the wall and loom over me.

Do not interfere.

I looked up at Apollo. "This is evil even beyond you. I could use your help. Or you could use mine."

I had never heard of a god's statue coming to life and helping anyone, and it did not do so now. I looked back at Serena. She had backed further into the dark, her eyes wide and a hand over her mouth in fear.

"Have you ever considered that your gods might not be real?" I asked, hoping to taunt a response from the statue. "All that belief and ceremony, all those prayers and hopes and sacrifices and to what?" I slapped the marble with the flat of my hand. "A lifeless rock." Serena gasped in horror at the blasphemy.

Disappointed that Apollo was as useless as the statue, I gathered my daggers and I walked towards the rear door.

"Please... don't hurt her," she whispered at my back.

I stopped. The dead eyes, which had haunted me for years, wavered in my vision. Even with no expression they accused me. I clenched my jaw and gripped the gladius tightly. Then, without a glance or word to Serena, I walked out.

The pit, the Gates of Hades, was only some twenty paces off, but it might have been across a sea for the waves of hate that tried to drive me away.

Over by the amphitheatre, the testudos were alternating their assault on the black beast, which was down on one knee and one arm. It bellowed in rage and frustration, but it was far from impotent. It lashed out with its good arm and three legionnaires flew some ten paces.

As I watched, Septimus emerged from under the shields at the rear of one testudo and leaped onto the top. The shield roof faltered for a moment and he lost his balance, but he recovered quickly and ran forward. His hobnailed boots slid over the surface, so it was not a fast run, but he still covered the distance quickly, drawing his sword. As he came to the end, he jumped and landed on the creature's back. One moment to avoid the black arm that flailed at him, and he plunged his blade into the neck, in between two black plates.

The thing collapsed, and Septimus jumped clear.

Now the testudos broke apart and the legionnaires swarmed over the thrashing body, screaming a war chant – "ROMA! ROMA!" - and slashing at the hardened limbs.

Septimus stood up, hands on hips, and directed the attack, although he was clearly breathing hard.

A girl's scream from the Plutonium, a scream of utter terror, made me look. The woman and the girl had been hidden by a pillar, but the woman was now forcing the girl towards the steps. Astra was fighting, but the grown woman was far stronger, and she pushed her to the very edge. As I ran, I could see that Fabia was being repelled by the pit, but she shoved Astra forward. A black shape, no more solid than a shadow, reached up and dragged her down. With a squeal of horror, she was gone.

I walked closer, and the hatred hammered at me. It was like trying to walk into a howling gale, although there was neither sound nor wind, just something unseen trying to hold me back; it was like walking through water. As I neared it, I saw a light, sickly yellow, illuminating the underside of the roof. It looked as if it were made from pus, a bag ready to burst onto me.

The was a second scream, and I pushed through the last few paces.

"Get away." It was nearly a hiss, and I whirled to the side to see the kidnapper, Fabia, standing near the columns.

She seemed in awe of the pit's edge, but she took a step towards me.

"Leave her alone, you Roman whore," she warned. "She is ours. We only took back what you filthy Romans stole."

I lifted the gladius, not far, just enough to catch her attention, then let it hang by my side. "The blood on this belongs to the man. Don't make me add yours to it."

I know how to put menace into my voice, and I was very threatening, just then. To be honest, I would have preferred not to kill again. She just laughed.

"You stupid Romans. You believe you can subjugate everything with your weapons. Well, you're most welcome to try your luck down there." She did not pose any more threat, so I took the first step.

The structures in the pit stood out in sharp relief in the light. There were stone benches and an altar, and a statue of a demon I did not recognise. It had a face twisted in both pain and fury, eyes bulging and teeth bared to let a forked and muscular tongue protrude. Astra was on her knees.

Although there was no wind, her hair whipped about.

The cause was hundreds – thousands! - of dark shapes swirling around her, utterly without bodies, but with enough corporeal presence to batter at the her as they passed.

The girl was terrified

Behind me, the woman was nearly hysterical in her exultation. "See, you pathetic Roman? See how they embrace her?" I put my foot down onto the second step.

The storm of whirling black shapes ceased instantly, and they rushed together into a single mass. It sat at the bottom of the steps, pulsing with malevolence, blocking my path.

"Yes, go down there," the woman mocked from behind me.

But the somethings spoke to me, more intimately, seeming to whisper into my ears. _We know you, yes we do, and you are not welcome here. We would kill you, oh, it would please our masters so much if we killed you, but it would cause a war._

The mass seemed to flow up the stairs, threatening me with its obscenity.

I dropped the gladius: this was not a knife fight, and I had brought the wrong weapons.

"Please!" the girl pleaded. "Help me."

The black mass began to throb with a chest-shaking sound that shook the cavern. After a few moments, I recognized it as a chanted language. I did not know it, yet I understood its intent: they were going to take the girl, make the girl, possess the girl, fulfil the girl.

I forced my way down the steps and flung myself at the mass. It was nothing but darkness, but it drastically slowed down my moves. The individual shadows flashed in front of me, vaguely man-shaped, but with no features. Hundreds, thousands, each appeared briefly and then moved away to be replaced by another, arms reaching for me.

_We know you. Filthy, you are. The things you have done, the men you've been with, we_ know _you._

I felt every part of my body violated, every one of my thoughts and memories revealed as lewd and despicable. I wanted to collapse on the steps.

You are one of us. Your inner being is defiled. You have no will.

You will not do that for which you are being prepared.

And I was through.

The mass broke apart into the hundreds of shadows and they swirled around me, but I walked on. The girl was scared to see me, and tried to run, but I grabbed her.

Here, here was my chance. I had a dagger in my hand, ready to plunge it into her heart.

"No!" the woman shouted from above.

No! She is ours. And so are you.

"No," the girl mouthed.

She pushed her arms out, fingers splayed, and the shadows drew back from her, as if she had hurt them. They swirled in a violent vortex and, as if a decision had been made, attacked me. Shadow after shadow rushed at me and tried to drill its way into me. I stood stock still, repelling them with my will, but it was not enough. Each touch seemed to reach down to my soul, and to smear me with filth.

I was evil.

I was everything I had tried to not be.

I could not think.

I stood there, ready to join them. And why not? I had earned a place with them. I had done things of which they were proud.

"Help me," the girl said in a voice so low I almost didn't hear.

It was what the other girl had said years ago.

I grabbed Astra's arm and dragged her to the stairs. The first step was agonisingly hard: I did not want to take it, did not want to leave. I belonged with them.

"No!" the woman wailed "Leave her! She is ours."

"Please," the girl said, her teary eyes looking up at me.

I took the second step, and the next, and the next. The girl stopped protesting and went willingly with me.

You are of us.

Above us, the woman shouted: "Make me your vessel. Help me recover her for you."

She leapt into the pit, arms flailing as she plunged. She hit hard, and I heard both her legs break, the bone ripping out through the flesh. A gigantic blanket of blackest night folded over her, as fast as a striking snake, but as gentle as a falling snowflake. I could barely see her. Her cries died away, and her legs healed. The black mass was chanting a deep, sonorous mantra, and the shadows were slamming into her, entering her body. And, as each one entered, it altered something in her. I saw another black creature beginning to take shape.

I made it to the top of the stairs.

Septimus and the legionnaires were finished with the first black creature. They had hacked it into pieces, most of which had now stopped moving. A couple of legionnaires was playing a kicking game with the head, which still hissed and spat. A few others had lifted their tunics and were emptying their bladders on the black parts, particularly taking pleasure at chasing those that still moved. Some of the legionnaires started a chant of "Victrix, victrix". Septimus had his helmet off and was smiling at the legionnaires. He looked utterly spent.

"Dux!" I called. "Dominus!"

He looked up, and smiled at first, but that froze when he saw the girl.

"Why isn't she dead?" he asked. He nodded in understanding. "Sorry, Iudita. I'll do it for you."

The girl squeezed my hand hard as Septimus picked up a gladius and strode towards us.

A bellow from the pit made me jump, and stopped him in his tracks.

"There's another one down there," I shouted.

The victory chants faded, jaws gaped and shoulders sagged.

As if to draw more horror out of the moment, a stream of black shadows flew from the body parts of the creature they had butchered, and sped like arrows just over the ground and into the pit. Each departing shadow diminished the beast's remains, until all that was left was a carcass hacked to pieces and strewn all over. The streams of urine stopped in shock.

"Really?" he called back, his eyes wide at what he had just witnessed. " _Another one_?"

I picked up my gladius. I had to kill her. I knew I had to. I knew I would. I knew I should.

But I could not stop seeing the eyes of another girl.

"Down there," I pointed into the pit. "Just don't go down there."

"Oh, lady, you can be certain of that." Septimus shook his head, put his helmet back on and turned to face the legionnaires. "Right, lads. Now we know how to kill it, right? You're all good boys, and I'm proud of you, but we have to do this one more time."

What looked like a black rod rose from the pit and slammed down on the paving near my feet. It was a leg.

I shouted: "It's coming!", turned and ran through the rear entrance of the temple, past the statue and the body of the man I'd killed, towards the front entrance. Astra stared at the body as we hurried past but said nothing.

A shadow stepped in my way.

Serena.

She dropped to her knee, and I let go of the girl's hand. The two embraced like sisters.

My heart twisted, but I controlled myself with a feral growl. The girl had to die, and I knew it.

Just not yet. Perhaps, not yet. At least not by my hand.

"Thank you," the acolyte whispered.

I stepped toward the front door and pointed out at the wounded soldiers in the street.

"This is what you taught her to do," I said, and my voice rasped in my throat. I gripped my gladius firmly.

"I'm sorry,' Astra whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I don't understand why I do this. I don't want to do this."

Serena turned pleading eyes onto me.

Behind us, I heard a commotion, men shouting in fear and anger, and the voice of my Dominus telling them to "Hold! Stand your ground!", and I knew that another beast was loose.

I dropped to one knee in front of the girl, the tip of my sword dangerously close. She wanted to draw back, but I grabbed her arm.

Damnation, but her eyes looked at me.

"I have friends here," I said, pointing to the street and to the back of the temple, "and you will not hurt any of them."

The girl was mute with fear.

"No, she won't," Serena said. "She won't. I swear it."

My lips were drawn back in a snarl, but it was a sign of my turmoil rather than my feelings towards her. I stood up.

"Let's go."

The two followed me, each supporting the other as we walked out the front door.

Outside, legionnaires lay moaning in the street and scattered back through the agora. Some of the stallholders were comforting them, and there were perhaps twenty soldiers still fit. I saw Lucius standing and helping men I recognized, and I was surprised at the relief I felt when I saw him alive. I led the way over to him.

"Senior Centurion Lucius," I called.

He looked up, smiling, but his eyes narrowed when he saw the girls. He picked up a pilum, but I knocked it down.

"She's not the enemy," I said.

"What's that?" He shook his head, then leaned one side of his head closer to me. A line of blood ran out of his ear. "I can't hear too well."

"She's not the enemy!" I shouted.

"Did you see what she did to my men?" he stormed at me.

"Yes," I said, my face thrust close to his. "You have to trust me."

He blinked. There have been very few times when I have ever argued with him, but most of those times I was right. He knew it and dropped his gaze.

"There's a monster coming," I said, pointing at the temple, "if it gets past Septimus. It'll be coming for the girl. Form a defence and send some men with me."

"A monster?"

"Don't wait to find out." I ran past him, and the two girls came with me. I heard him shout orders, and then he and the fit legionnaires swarmed around us.

A scream of horror brought us whirling around.

A giant black spider appeared on the roof of the temple. Its legs were long, and the man's head had been withdrawn so that it was only sitting on a stub of a neck. Without a bulbous body like a real spider, it hopped lightly down the wall, as if whatever makes us all fall did not affect it. The points of its four legs punched holes in the marble façade with a sound like a chisel. It dropped to the ground and attacked a line of soldiers that Lucius had organized. The thing had only four legs, but they were long and pointed, and helped it to tower over the soldiers. It used the legs to thrust spear-like attacks at the legionnaires. In its first foray, it quickly pierced the shields of three legionnaires, and flung the wood to one side.

"Castor and Pollux!" Lucius breathed. "That's a monster!"

"Juno's tits!" I said, my throat choking.

Lucius looked at me. "Centurion Iudita, your cursing is a credit to the Legions." He raised his voice. "Men, form a testudo!"

As the soldiers rushed together, he said to me: "Sneak away. Get horses and ride like a zephyr." He looked at the black thing. "Iudita, I don't know how long we can hold that." He adjusted his helmet. "I hope she's worth it."

"That is the woman who kidnapped the girl."

"Indeed?" He looked me in the eye. "I've often joked that Greek women are ugly, but this thing is beyond a joke." He ran back to confront the spider, and half his men went with him.

I stood still, watching legionnaires stand their ground against a creature that even my worst fear had never imagined. And I knew, simply knew, that I could stop all this with one stab. Why did I not do it?

"No," Serena moaned fearfully, as if she had read my mind.

I turned a fierce gaze on her, but she hugged Astra and held my eyes and dared me.

Shields split and men screamed. I looked over just as three soldiers were skewered by the spider's legs. A column of screaming legionnaires burst through the door of the temple, urged on by Septimus, and they charged the spider, hacking and stabbing at its rear.

"With me!" I managed to rasp to the legionnaires who had stayed, and I ran the two girls across the agora.

Behind us, Lucius forced the spider into a confrontation with his men, while Septimus kept up the harassment from behind. It jumped over the first line of soldiers and followed us, its pursuit hampered by the soldiers that ran alongside, stabbing and slashing at it. They pushed barrows and drays in its path to slow it down. The battle was held at the full gallop, with Lucius directing his men in their assaults on the creature. My last view, as we rounded the end of the agora and ran down a narrow street, was of Lucius standing in front of the spider and forcing it to rear up as he stabbed at it with a pilum. He held it long enough for other soldiers to join him, but then I was too far down the street.

There was the sound of shields and armoured bodies hitting the ground.

"Lucius is down!" a soldier who was further back called out.

We turned left down another street, and the city wall loomed before us.

"There's a gate!" One of the legionnaires pointed along the wall to the right.

We rushed over to the gate, startling the four Greek auxiliary guards and the optio who were on duty. They handled their weapons nervously, looking from one of us to the other, and obviously hoping for an officer.

"Are there stables or horses nearby?" I shouted from a distance.

The optio ignored me and looked at the oncoming soldiers. Men, right?

Five heartbeats later, I pulled to stop in front of him. Another half a heartbeat and he was sprawled on his back, a look of dazed incomprehension on his face, and my foot on his chest. The legionnaires with me surrounded the other four guards and dared them to even consider stepping in to help their optio.

"You've heard of me," I assured the fallen soldier. "Even dull-witted Greek auxiliaries have heard of me."

His eyes widened. Amongst the many sobriquets that have been pinned to me is _Death's Sister_. That one tends to carry a lot of meaningful weight. It also tends to get people into a very helpful state of mind.

"We... we didn't think you was real," one of the auxiliaries muttered.

My men laughed. One of them pointed at the optio. "Why don't you ask him if she's real or not, eh? What'd you reckon he'll say?"

I leaned over the optio. "Stables, horses. Now!"

He pointed back through the gateway. "Through there. Near the agora."

"Jove's balls," I said. I pointed straight ahead, to where the ground ended. "And there?"

"That's the terraces. Very slippery, Domina. You could fall over and break a leg."

"Centurion, not Domina, and don't you forget it. What's at the bottom?"

He swallowed. "Very wet, like a bog. But there's farm houses if you get through."

I looked around. There was the noise of battle inside the wall, and it was coming nearer.

"Here, what's that?" one of the auxiliaries asked.

I stepped back. "On your feet. I'm commandeering you. We need to run. That noise is a monster coming this way."

Their eyes widened, but I gave them no more time.

"Run with us, now! The only way we'll be safe is if we stay together."

They looked uncertain, but they were certain about running away from the approaching chaos.

We ran from the wall. Up ahead, the surface looked different. It seemed to be a white rock. When we reached it, I saw that it was slick, and one of my men immediately slipped over.

"Right, men, we'll have to take it more carefully," I said.

Several grunts of acknowledgement.

"Centurion, look!" One of the auxiliaries pointed back to town inside the wall.

The black creature was on the rooves, hopping across them, and rapidly approaching the wall. Unseen soldiers were throwing spears at it, but the spider brushed them aside and kept coming. It reached the last house and jumped clear over the wall. The strain was great, and it swayed a few moments, then shook itself. It turned its small head in our direction.

Legionnaires rushed out of the gate and broke into two groups. Most attacked the spider, but some came towards us to interpose themselves.

"Keep going!" I shouted.

I had to hit one of the auxiliaries who was staring at the thing in shock, but we all began running across the slippery surface. The soldiers, with the hob nails under their boots, managed to get better purchase. The girls and I had to step warily, but we also had to run. There were quite a few times when I had to grab a soldier for support.

There was a rivulet running along the lip of the hill. I stepped over it and looked down. Pool after pool cascaded down the face of the hill. Each pool was about the size of a small room, and would not hold more than three or four people. They were staggered in their arrangement such that no pool was directly below another. Most of them had clear, blue water that filled them and ran over their rims into the pools below. They had varying depths of water, and some had in fact been filled with the stone that made them. Down the very bottom of the cliff, the land levelled out and there was a collection of pools, and beyond them was a quagmire. Past that was a road, and I could see houses.

And horses.

I looked back. The thing was galloping across the open land, rushing at us, trailed by soldiers who could not keep up. Some legionnaires were forming lines to block its path, while others kept running to join us. It reached the first blocking line, composed of only four soldiers. They were clearly tired from the frantic run, but they still stood their ground, shields up and spears extended. The creature tried to step around them, but they shuffled to the side, daring it to attack. I silently breathed a word of gratitude to the rigid discipline of the Roman Army. The men had been given an order by a superior officer, and they would follow it as best they could. Every second they gained, the girls and I gained. I spent an instant desperately looking for either Septimus or Lucius, but I could not see them.

The creature speared a leg at a soldier who caught the blow on his shield, but the force knocked him down. Now, there was a gap in the line; the others moved to close it and stand over their comrade, but the spider leapt to one side and was past, ignoring the blows they brought upon it.

In front, another line of soldiers blocked it.

"Down!" I shouted to the people with me.

I sat and slipped down the slope to splash into the warm water of the topmost pool. The water nearly reached my waist. A moment later, Astra and Serena fell in next to me. Soldiers were either sliding towards us, or into pools on either side. I grabbed Astra, dragged her along as I waded to the other side, and lifted her over the wall. She and Serena slid away from view. I followed.

The next terrace down had been filled with stone and we thumped down hard on the smooth surface. We were winded for a moment, but Astra recovered quickly. She scrambled to the edge and slid down from view. Serena followed.

"Centurion!" came a shout from just above me. "It's coming!"

I risked a look up: a black outline crested the hill, surrounded by legionnaires who hacked and slashed at it. It spotted us, and made to climb down to the first pool, but soldiers hacked at its rear, while other stood in its path. With a scream of fury, it feinted a jump to one side, but quickly moved back as the soldiers moved to block it.

In a scrambling second, it was only two terraces above us.

If we kept going down, it would catch us, and we only had four soldiers for protection.

I decided to run across the hillside, from terrace to terrace. That way, the legionnaires who kept pouring over the lip of the hill could continue harassing the spider.

"This way!" I shouted and threw Astra across the narrow gap. This next terrace was also solid, so we ran across and jumped into the water of the pool beyond.

A quick glance, and I saw soldiers keeping pace with us on the top of the hill and then jumping down to block the creature's path. One of them threw down his weapons and grabbed one of the black legs. The spider came to a dead stop. It thrust a leg at the man, but it was blocked by the shield of another soldier. Then, three others jumped on its back. Others spilled over the top of the hill, and there was a battle cry of "Roma! Roma!"

We kept running, jumping from one pool to another. The stone was slick, and at one point, Serena lost her footing and fell. She dropped over the edge and I heard her splash in the pool below.

"Keep running!" she called in a weak voice.

We did, Astra and a soldier and me.

From behind us, there was a scream, and the chanting stopped. I heard the _tock tock_! of pointed legs digging into the stony surface. The sound was getting closer.

"Keep going, Domina!" the soldier shouted, and turned around, sword out, shield up.

I threw Astra over to the next terrace and jumped across.

There was a grunt, and a shield came flying over to us. I heard a body hit the water behind me. I grabbed the shield and turned around.

And was surprised to see that I still had the gladius in my hand. That Army discipline, right?

The thing stepped across the gap. Above and beyond it, I could see soldiers running after us, but they were nowhere close enough.

"Astra, slide down to the terrace below us," I said, trying to keep my voice even. There was no need to show that thing how scared I was.

It gurgled at me and stepped closer. Fabia's hate washed over me.

The water was only ankle deep, so I could move with relative speed. I lunged forward, and the shield caught the spear-like thrust it made at me. I was now close enough to stab at its head. It reared back. So, a weak point.

Two legs thrust at me simultaneously and, although I caught them on the shield, their power was enough to send me over the edge. I slid on my back down the slope and splashed into the water below. All sound of the outside disappeared, and I could only hear the scrabbling of my feet and the scraping of the shield. I lifted my head up to take a breath when my shield was rammed into me. I blinked water away in time to see the other leg was raised to spear me.

We gave you a chance. We will kill you. There will be a war, but we no longer fear it.

It tensed, the leg drawn back.

There was a roar of fury, from a long way away.

A blur dropped from the top of the hill, many paces above us, and slammed into the back of the monster. The spider was staggered by the blow, and it scrabbled to gain a purchase on the stony surface.

"Get back to Hades, you vile spawn!" Septimus stood over me, his armour torn, a gash on his back, but he had a grip on the beast's leg pushing it up so that it was off balance. "You will not have her."

The spider thrust a leg at him, but Septimus let it slide past, and lifted the other leg higher.

"A little help," he managed to rasp. "When it's convenient."

I rose to my feet and grabbed the other leg, also pushing it up. The feeling of relief to see him still alive was nearly making my head swim. The thing jumped violently from one side to another, the violence of its movements almost tearing the leg from my hand.

And then, we had it on the edge, and pushed it over.

Feet slashing, it toppled and fell.

Septimus vaulted the wall of the terrace and dropped down, again landing on the black back.

"Septimus!" I shouted and dropped my gladius into his hands. "Cut at the head!"

He began hacking, but the Fabia beast slashed at him with her arms. I grabbed the shield and jumped after him, slamming the edge down hard on its back as I landed. I heard a crack, and hoped it was the beast's back, and not the shield. The spider jumped aside, then leaped across to the next terrace, Septimus still astride it.

There was a scream, a high-pitched sound of terror. Astra was there.

I jumped onto the rim, ready to jump across, when the thing threw Septimus off, then reared up, hovering over Astra.

"Get away from her, you hag!" I shouted, about to leap across, the shield ready to act as a block over Astra's body.

I saw Astra thrust a hand up in the air, and the spider was blown away, as if it were no more than a piece of detritus in a storm. It sailed over the edge and crashed down several terraces. I saw it rise carefully onto its feet. It was seriously hurt, two of its legs broken. It shook itself, and the black shadows slid over it, a vortex of movement that seemed to ripple its body. In second, one of its legs was whole again.

I glanced behind and above: legionnaires were scrambling down the hillside towards us, sliding from terrace to terrace, but they were a long way off. The beast would get here first. I jumped the gap...

... and Septimus rose to his feet and saw Astra...

... and drew back his arm, the gladius pointed at her heart...

... and a scream was torn from me as I continued my leap and dived over Astra...

... and held the shield over me...

... and the gladius swooped down...

Septimus shouted, and I could see he tried, tried so hard, to stop. But it was far, far too late.

The sword slammed into the shield, which parted, and I knew the crack I'd heard had not been the Fabia beast.

The point sliced into me my heart through me the pain was horrible and Septimus screamed in horror and threw himself back "Iudita! No! No!" and the sword pulled free and the pain was the pain was the pain.

I lay sprawled over Astra, my vision contracting. Septimus, his face ripped with agony lurched toward me.

A hand shot out from behind me, a small hand, with the fingers spread, and I felt a massive power fly past me.

Septimus was lifted off his feet and I heard every bone in his body break as he was flung over the side of the terrace, his skull crushed beyond recognition, a lake of blood erupting from his lifeless, shapeless husk.

"No," I croaked.

And my vision became the smallest dot of light.

A tiny spot of light.

A searing heat in the chest.

A calming peace in the chest.

The tiny spot of light flares.

A bright light shines on Judith, and she open her eyes, blinks at the pain.

Everything has stopped moving; the water is no longer rippling; the birds are not singing, hob-nailed boots are no longer thumping on stone.

No sound.

No movement.

Except the man looming over her. He has her hands in one might grip. His other hand rests on her chest, and she experiences a fleeting memory of heat and restoration. The man drops her hand and moves out of her view. Carefully, she moves her head and sees him again. He is standing on the edge of the pool, and there is a look of annoyance on his face. His impossibly, painfully beautiful face. He is dressed in white armour, and white cloth tunic, and his arms are crossed as he surveys her.

"Mikael," she says.

His irritation deepens. "You keep remembering me." His voice is honey flowing over fruit.

Judith allows herself a smile. "That's right; last time you said I won't ever remember you again."

Another look of irritation on that perfect face.

She tries to sit up, but is hampered by the shield lying on her, She pushes it to one side and sees a gladius stuck up to its hilt in a crack. With a shudder, she thrusts the shield to one side.

"It took a lot of skill," he says, and his voice contains more than a measure of scorn, "to throw yourself across the gap, land on that child and bring the shield to just the exact spot so that the sword could slip through the crack and impale you."

Judith scowls, then puts her hand to her chest, where the memory of that sword is still fresh. There is no wound; there not even a cut in her stola.

"I am getting much better at healing," he says. "You give me so much practice." There is no mirth in him.

"You are most definitely not welcome." She stands and looks around. Astra is lying at the edge of the pool, her eyes frozen in the horror of what she has just done to... to...

"Septimus!" Judith cries, and scrambles to the edge of the pool. The water does not resist her movement, does not even ripple, as if it isn't even there. We are in a place between moments, between one heart beat and the next, Mikael had told her years ago, the first time he came to her. She leaps up and sees Septimus in the next pool, unmoving and lying in the bottom. He has lost all semblance of a human body, crushed as if a mountain had fallen on him. The blue water has been turned red.

An aching anguish grips Judith, and she jumps in next to him. She lifts his corpse, and there is nothing but a flaccid mass in her arms.

"No," she whispers, cradling him and feeling tears run down her face.

So many memories bloom in front of her, and she is surprised that they are nearly all about the dependence that she and he had on each other. Not all of them involve fighting for their lives, but that is the subject of most memories. Times when he had relied on her to protect him; times when he had risked his life to save her. Recklessly risked his life.

But, she preferred the memories of the other times; comradeship, laughs, huddling together under his cloak as they rode through rain, his concern as he treated her when she had caught a bad chill, his stoicism as he ate the soup she made for him when he was ill.

The tenderness that was often between them.

She turns her gaze up to Mikael.

"Can you heal him?" she asks.

"He has taught you much," the flawless voice says. "And yet, not nearly enough."

Judith gently lays Septimus back down. His body sinks to the bottom of the pool. She stands up and looks at the white man. "If it's not enough, can you heal him, so he can keep teaching me?"

"We have things to do," he says, looking around. "Now is not the time for one of your feeble outbursts."

She says nothing, but stands still, her very posture a confrontation.

"Heal him."

His voice is still soft and caressing, but his words are harsh. "You will not argue with me. Not this time."

Judith paces forward and slams her palm onto his chest. "I remember, now. You arranged for him to take me. You arranged for him to steal me from Joshua. You turned my body into a barren husk. You ruined my life. I will not obey you anymore."

Mikael raises a perfect eyebrow and forms his lips into a scowl. "You would not need to, if only you had obeyed him." He points at the wreck which used to be Septimus. "All of this could have been avoided, if you had done the one thing he wanted. All you had to do was kill her." He casually points into the next pool.

Astra is lying on her back, frozen in the action of hurling Septimus away.

Tears sting Judith's eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, but has no words.

"You have been blinded by that other girl," Mikael says, "the one who adopted you as a big sister."

The memory aches.

"No, I adopted her," Judith says. "She was so young, and she had no one. She relied on me." She closes her eyes, but it is worse, because now she can only see those dying eyes. She blinks and looks at her feet. "I couldn't save her, and I couldn't even avenge her. The Empire runs more smoothly, now, but I can't let go of the guilt."

She feels Mikael move close to her. "It is unimportant. What is important that you accept you must do some things because they must be done. You should have killed this creature," he points at Astra, "when you realised that she is a tool."

"No." Judith clenches her fists.

"And that is why you will fail when the time comes to do that one thing we need done." He puts both hands on Judith's shoulders and forcibly turns her to face down the slope. There, the Fabia creature is frozen in the act of charging back up the terraces.

"That thing," he says, "is filled with evil. Had you killed the girl, it would not have been needed. Now, we face a war."

Judith blinks rapidly. "That's what the things in the cloud said to me. I was afraid that Pluto, or Hades or whoever he is, might wage a war on us."

"There is no Pluto or Apollo or any of those other gods," Mikael growls, the first time she has ever seen him angry. "But the fools who run this temple have invoked some things that are real enough. These things said they did not dare to kill you because they feared a war. Now, we must do something which risks the same result."

Mikael walks over to the edge of the pool and stares directly at the black beast. Now, Judith notices that, unlike everything else which has been frozen in the middle of an action, the black things inside Fabia are swirling around, like fish angrily swarming under the water. She feels the waves of hate again emanate and lash at her. Mikael does not move, or point his hands, or even utter any words, but the agitation of the black things increases, and now they scream in pain. She can sense something burst from Mikael, and it hits Fabia hard, so hard that her inanimate body shudders at the impact. He does it once more, and a shadow blasts out of the black body and shoots like an arrow uphill and in the direction of the Plutonium.

And another.

And another.

Then a stampede of them.

They leave behind them a restored Fabia, who has one foot forward, one hand grasping the slope, in the act of racing up at them.

Judith blinks. "What happens now?"

Mikael sighs. "That? That was nothing. That was something that even a human can do. I simply rid her of demons. It's what happens now which will risk war."

There is a flash of light behind them, and Judith feels a disturbance in the air. She turns to see another white man, perfectly perfect and painful to look at. He looks distastefully at her.

"This is Uriel," Mikael says. "Like so many others, he is unimpressed with you."

Uriel glances at Astra and scowls. He holds out his hand, and a burning sword appears in it.

Judith jumps in between him and Astra.

"Please, no," she says, and is aware how she sounds like the ineffectual Serena.

Uriel brings the point of the sword close, until she can feel the heat of its fire. His eyes are fixed on her, and there is neither determination, nor indecision in them. There is nothing. He will expunge her life with no second thought.

"Uriel," Mikael says calmly, and it sounds like one friend reminding another of their obligation.

Uriel lowers the sword. He looks across the space beyond the cliff, as if he were studying something in the far horizon.

"Mikael, you know the easy thing would be to kill the girl."

"Yes, of course." A pause. "But that would still leave the Plutonium."

Uriel sneers. "Yes, I know. And I know what you want me to do. And, I know it might start a war." He thrusts the sword into the air and it disappears. He looks directly at Judith. "Perhaps, what you have done is for the better. We should never have let that fool priest restart the Plutonium. But, if there is a war," he leans close to Judith, "I will hold you responsible for all the friends I will lose." He snaps up into a rigid attention, then says over his shoulder to Mikael: "Bring her. Let her see what this means."

And, he is no longer there. Judith feels a disturbance in the air.

Mikael lays a hand on her shoulder from behind...

... and suddenly the three of them are standing just outside the Plutonium.

The pit is pulsing with that sickly, yellow light, and she can see shadows swirling just near the surface. The waves of hatred are nearly overpowering. She begins to drop to her knees, but Uriel reaches back with a hard hand and drags her upright.

"I want you to witness this," he says, and, although his words are calm, something about them drive wedges of terror into her. "Next time, do anything you can to prevent this." He holds his hand out, and the burning sword is there again. He looks at Mikael.

"Do you think they'll be reasonable about this?" he asks. "After all, they started it by opening this gateway."

"Well, of course," Mikael replies. "They have such a long history of being rational and fair-minded."

Uriel snorts and faces the pit. With a grace and speed she can barely comprehend, he swings the sword and slices through the pillars that support the roof. She watches the sword grow longer and shorter as he slices, cutting even the farthest pillar, which must be thirty paces away, with such ease, as if they were no more substantial than a column of smoke.

The structure collapses, a very strange event, since everything else seems to have been stopped from moving, even the air.

There is a shriek of fury and outrage and challenge from the pit.

Uriel grabs the sword with both hands and jumps in.

There are bellows and challenges. The ground begins to tremble.

"I would tell you to not feel bad about this," Mikael says quietly. "No matter what he says, Uriel loves this part. The part with the swords. The fighting and the running. Not so much the killing of the demons. Don't forget, they used to be our brothers, once." He moves his hand through an arc, and a sword appears in his grip. He looks into her eyes. "Never forget, there are ramifications in whatever you do." For the first time, he manages a lop-sided grin. "But, of course, you won't remember, because I will wipe all these memories from you."

He tenses to spring after Uriel, when Judith says: "Of course you will. Like the last time. And the time before."

He relaxes his stance and steps back from the pit. "The last time? Was there a last time? Are you certain?"

And he leaps down into the pit, into a maelstrom of fury and screams and the trembling in the ground intensifies and...

... I thrust the shield away from me and sprang to my feet. I saw Septimus slip and fall over in the next pool. I was about to stand defensively over Astra, when a scream of fury wrenched my gaze around.

The woman, Fabia, slammed into me and pushed me over. She had her hands wrapped around my throat and was squeezing hard as she howled her loathing into my face. I was about to reach for a dagger, when a shadow loomed over her, and a blow knocked her off me.

When my eyes cleared, I saw Serena gasping for air, and holding my shield. Fabia was bleeding from a gash in her temple and slowly sliding into the water.

Standing on shaky knees, I looked around in time to see Septimus vault across from his pool into ours. He totally ignored the others as he grabbed me and looked me over.

His eyes were wide with fear.

"Are you well?" he asked, and his voice was on the verge of hysterical.

"Yes," I said. Then seeing both Serena and Astra staring at us, I added: "Dominus."

His eyes were still wide. "I thought... I thought." He gulped. "I thought I'd killed you. Stabbed you with the gladius. I thought..." He stopped as if his thoughts had hit a wall.

His words had hit me like a blow. "So, did I. I was sure I felt..." I put a hand to where there should have been a wound. There was not even a scratch on my stola. Well, there were lots of cuts and scratches and tears, but nothing over my heart. I looked down and a great weight seemed to lift off me.

There, lying by our feet, was a shield with a gladius embedded into it. The force of the blow had been so hard the sword had almost penetrated the wood.

Septimus stared at it for a long time, in utter disbelief. "I was sure I had...," he paused. Then he smiled. "Well, Iudita, I am very pleased that you have been learning your fighting lessons so well."

There was an edge to his smile. He did not quite believe what had happened, and neither did I. I was still certain I could feel the sword thrust through me.

"Hey, is everyone all right?" came a weak shout above us. Lucius, bleeding from the upper thigh, and using a spear for support, slid down the slick stony surface towards us. He gave up and sat down, completing the rest of the trip on his seat. When he splashed into the pool with us, he noticed that Fabia was weakly struggling to get her head out of the water.

Lucius bent and lifted her with a hand around her back.

"She's the one who turned into that black beast," I said.

"What?" Septimus and Lucius asked in tandem.

"The black spider thing was her," I said.

"Indeed?" Lucius asked. "She stabbed me with one of those black legs." Very slowly, he withdrew his arm, and she slid back into the water.

The surface of the water began to ripple, and then the ground shook, as if hit by a massive blow. Then, it was hit by another. And again.

And, then there was just a continuous rumble, as if Atlas had grabbed Terra and was shaking it apart.

We could hear screams of fear from the city, and our soldiers dropped, praying to the gods for help. There was the crash of toppling columns and falling buildings. Serena and I both grabbed Astra and held her, while Septimus and Lucius sat down on the bottom of the pool. After a moment, Lucius repositioned himself and sat on top of Fabia and kept her head underwater.

I was terrified that the terraces would break free of the hillside and plunge us down the cliff, but it did not happen.

Or, rather, it did.

A crack appeared at the lip of our pool, where it joined the hill. Astra shook Serena and me off and slapped her hand onto the rock. Against whatever was pushing the terrace away, she forced the rock together, long enough for the earthquake to pass.

When we climbed out, the terrace broke free and slid down the hillside, carrying Fabia's limp body with it. Almost immediately, water from the brook above began running down the hillside and pooling in the hollow left by the terrace.

We climbed up to the pool above, when Lucius groaned and slid down, clutching his wounded thigh. Blood ran between his fingers.

"Sorry, Septimus," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm no good to you."

"Are you trying to get a hero's pension?" Septimus asked, sitting next to him. "Again?" He looked at the wound, and his face was stricken.

Astra moved closer. "Please, let me look."

The two soldiers tensed, but had no weapons. I, however, did, and a dagger was in my hand even before I had thought about it.

Serena's hand closed over the blade. Most of my daggers were blunt-edged, used for stabbing or throwing. But not this one. If I moved, I would slice her open, possibly remove a finger. I looked at her, and she looked scared. But she shook her head.

I waited.

Astra placed a hand on the wounded thigh.

"He prefers older women," Septimus warned her.

Something was happening inside the wound, and Lucius gritted his teeth. Beads of sweat appeared.

"Prefers," he managed to say. "But I don't necessarily have strict limits."

Astra managed a strained look at them, and lowered her gaze back at the wound. Then, she, too, was sweating.

The bleeding stopped.

Lucius gasped, first in pain, then in shock, then in relief.

Astra removed her hand, and Lucius sagged back into his commander's embrace. He flexed his leg, then looked over at me.

"You told me to trust you, Centurion. You're not often wrong, but this time you were right." There was gratitude in his eyes. And even more when he looked over at Astra.

"That reminds me, Dominus," I said, trying to be cheerful. "You promised me a hot bath." I splashed the tepid water in the pool. "And this is what I get?"

Septimus laughed. "You _did_ hear the earthquake flatten the city, didn't you? I suspect that these pools will be the only water for a long time. At least, you're getting it for free."

#

We climbed to the top of the hill and got our first view of Hierapolis. The estimate Septimus had made was an under-estimate. Very few buildings were even partially intact, and even strong arches had toppled. There was dust and debris everywhere, and fires leaping over the lot. We stood in awe at the sight, but it was the wounded that got our attention. Astra immediately began healing the wounded, beginning with the most badly hurt. She ran out of energy quickly and was only able to keep going with huge mouthfuls of sweet cakes.

Septimus, Lucius and I watched her. The other two were suspicious, but that faded with time and the increasing number of treated people. I was jealous at what she was getting to eat, but that passed very quickly when I saw how much she needed, and how fast it was used up. And how quickly she was becoming exhausted.

Septimus and I walked over the wreck of the agora. The temple of Apollo was destroyed, as were all the tall buildings on the Via Recta. We made our way around the block to the Plutonium.

It was gone.

Not only had much of the temple structure fallen on it, but we could see the pit was no longer there. It had somehow been filled up with earth so densely packed it looked as if it had never been a hole at all.

"Well, I can't see any black beasts climbing out of there again," he said. "Whatever that priest and the woman had been planning, I'd venture to say, is dead and buried."

"Only Astra is left," I said.

He was quiet as we walked away. "Perhaps we can leave her somewhere safe," he suggested.

"And I know just the place," I said.

"You owe me four sesterces," said a young voice from behind.

We turned to see the boy in whose care Septimus had entrusted out horses.

Septimus smiled. "You. I'm pleased to see that you are well." He looked over and winked at me, then back at the boy. "One sesterce, I said. One. I know I got beaten around a bit, but I clearly remember _one_ was the agreed price."

The boy looked worried, but his mouth was determined. "Aye, that's correct. But, seein' as I had to chase around that black monster to collect your horses, not to mention keeping 'em safe in the earthquake, and me mam says the house is destroyed and we en't got nuthin' no more."

"You did protect them under severe conditions, didn't you, boy?" Septimus considered, then looked gravely at him. "The bargain was one sesterce, and one is what you'll get." He stood straighter and looked around. "Yes, this city is gone, and you'll not need the money, since there'll be nowhere to spend it. So, there's no point in giving you any money, is there?"

The boy looked shocked, and his lower lip twitched.

"So, you go home to your _mam_ and tell her you'll all be going with us to Ephesus. There are a few houses that the garrison owns, but we've cut down on the number of soldiers, so you can have one of those to live in. And, I'll give you orders to take to the governor. He will give you one sesterce."

The boy was not certain how to take this news. His expression oscillated from pleased to confused. The prospect of moving to the big city had his eyes wide.

"And, you will go to the government treasury and get one sesterce,' Septimus continued. "Every week for the next year." The boy's mouth hung open.

I had to stifle a laugh.

Astra's mouth hung open.

I had to stifle a laugh.

To be honest, most of the people in our group had their mouths open. We had just come around a bend in the road, and the huge Temple of Artemis blocked our view, from left to right and from the ground up to the blue sky. Not for nothing is it called one of the Seven Sights of the World. It has huge porticoes formed by massive Greek columns that support a roof so high up the birds that wheel around it are only dark dots.

I leaned over in my saddle and said to Astra: "You can live here in peace with the priests and priestesses. This version of Diana is less the Huntress and more a Goddess of fertility. No one here will make you hurt anyone."

She turned smiling eyes on me, although they were still rimmed with black from the effort of healing the wounded in Hierapolis. The city had been mostly abandoned because the damage was so great there were no facilities that could supply a population. Using his rank, Septimus had arranged an evacuation of most of the populace and ordered the surrounding towns to accept them as refugees. Faced with the destruction, few refused the order to leave. There were rumours that believers of Pluto were secretly opening the pit, and Septimus had ordered the soldiers to keep an eye on it, but neither one of us expected that to be successful.

"I think you may have to come back here sometime and close them down for good," I had told him, but he had frowned. The Romans have a grand pantheon of gods, and do not like – openly – opposing their religions.

After all, you never know which god will be more powerful.

Something had tickled my memory, something about demons that can be invoked in there, but it was too vague for me to grab.

Now, Astra looked over at the fields of grains and the orchards, and the priests in their long robes of green.

"Will I be allowed to go outside?" she asked.

"Of course," I said, looking at Septimus.

He leaned over to Lucius and whispered in his ear. Lucius turned his horse and trotted over to the high priest. I could see some serious suggestions being made, and the priest nodding his head vigorously.

"You'll be given total freedom of movement," Septimus promised her. "There'll be no pressure on you to do anything, but I'd like it if you'll concentrate on using your healing powers and training others to do that."

She nodded, a movement that made her tired. Serena, driving the wagon, put an arm around her and flicked the reins.

"Just a moment," Septimus said. The wagon stopped. "Over by the side entrance," he said, pointing along the long wall, "there's a big yellow stain. Don't try to remove it. I - _we_ \- want to see if the goddess herself will do it."

I tried to forget sitting on my horse as she voided the contents of her bowels over the spotless paving just outside the doors. And then, for good measure, she washed them in with her entire bladder.

The two girls looked bemused, but neither he nor I would elaborate. Serena shrugged and flicked the reins.

Septimus watched them go.

"I'm glad that we did not kill her," he admitted.

He was quiet.

"But?" I asked.

"But, we would have avoided a lot of deaths if we had." He looked directly at me. "I never again want you to reject one of my direct orders."

I had another vague memory of someone else saying almost the same thing to me. A strong need for me to learn from Septimus. What worried me was that the one thing I could best learn from him, the thing that I suspected I was meant to study, was to kill without question.

The thought filled me with dread. Being free to think and judge was the one thing that I valued more than almost anything. Killing mindlessly? Wasn't that the kind of person we were fighting against?

"So, about that bath?" I asked.

He studied me. "Of course. I'll requisition the entire baths for you. Will that do?"

Ah, my dominus; as humble as ever.

We looked at each other, smiles on our faces. But I had a hope inside me: since Hierapolis, I had only thought happily of Astra, and there had been no haunting eyes, as if my guilt was finally fading. 
Pirate with a Cause

Peter Hagelslag (Russian Federation)

Prologue: Somewhere in the Caribbean, July 1628

_Well, I'll be keelhauled_ , Cap'n Duncan's about to give up, _the guy's fookin' inhuman_. When the mysterious Cap'n Bacab requested a meeting, well of course, he was interested. His deeds are the stuff of legend: the raid on Cartagena, the sea strike near Veracruz, and the miraculous escape at La Habana. And that with a peg leg on his right and an iron hook where his left hand used to be. The man himself, though, is so reclusive that any info on him is worth its weight in gold. Which Cap'n Duncan tries to unearth, with precious little results.

He arranged a salmagundi worthy of kings, and he eats it like old ship's biscuits. He served his best rum: grog so smooth it'll make angels cry, only to find that Cap'n Bacab doesn't drink. He talks his best talk: boasts of booty, tales of legendary victories snatched from the jaws of defeat. But does his guest provide any counter-claims? Like hell, matey: a clam clamped in Davy Jones's clutch is more talkative. And the man _should_ have something to brag about: his treasure must be enormous, seeing he spends neigh-on nothing.

And that crew of him: almost purely mestizos and maroons. Half the blacks from Africa, it seems, with a first mate bigger'n'blacker than an ebony trunk. Huge bald head, arms like mooring ropes, a chest that looks like it can stop cannonballs.

A bunch of Indians that also look as if they come straight from the jungle, with a boatswain looking snider'n'slipperier than their snake god, whatchamacallitcoatzl. Not a white man in sight. The closest to that, by all ye gods, is a mysterious Chinese, who seems to be something of his personal advisor.

Eerie, creepy. Why the hell are these people pirates? They surely don't behave like 'em. Then, an innocuous remark pierces through Cap'n Duncan's train of thought.

"Nice parakeet."

His parrot? He wants his _parrot_? The blue pest? By all the silver in Mexico, matey, take the thing and keep it. The beastie's becoming an annoyance, anyway, biting him at the weirdest of moments. Good riddance!

"Please, accept it as a token of my friendship," Cap'n Duncan is unable to hide his curiosity: "And what's the black stuff under your peg leg?"

"It's something we discovered in the Amazon forest," the Indian — _Is he an Aztec? No, I guess Mayan_ , Cap'n Duncan thinks — Cap'n remarks, "the sap of a tree that, when hardened, becomes both flexible and anti-slippery. It gives me comfort when walking and grip on a wet deck. But that's not what I came here for."

_Thankfully, we get down to business_ , Cap'n Duncan thinks, _I was running out of presents and small talk._

"Cap'n Duncan Jack," the Mayan Cap'n says, waving his iron hook for emphasis, "I have a proposal."

"I have an audacious plan, so crazy I'm not sure if anybody's up to it."

"What!" Cap'n Duncan bangs his fist on the table, "You think I'm some kind of French wussy, with Dutch courage, or sumtin'?"

"Not really," the aloof Cap'n says, "but it does involve the Silver Fleet."

_The Silver Fleet_! The richest convoy on Earth. The biggest. And thus, the most heavily armed.

"Out of our league," Jack says, "attacking the Spanish treasure fleet is suicide. Only Drake pulled it off, while it was still the Silver Train on land crossing Panama, and with the force of his majesty's navy behind him. Which was way before either of us was born. Nowadays, these guys have pirates for breakfast."

"Not the whole fleet: just one vessel that we need to separate from the rest."

"Madness. Total madness. Those Spaniards show no quarter: when they catch you you're mizz'nmash."

"I have inside information about their travel plans. I know where they will pass, and when. I know when to strike at the very tail end of the fleet. But I need support: somebody to distract them. It'll take quite a bit of preparation, but you know the reward. 70/30."

"70/30? For a suicide mission? No way: 35/65!"

Jack knows the inscrutable Mayan Cap'n has him hooked. He can deny it, and blame himself for the missed chance forever. Or he can play drunk — he hardly had any, right? — and negotiate. Play hard to get. After all, two can play this game.

"60/40, and that's my last call: I have the plans."

"And what guarantees me they'll work? 55/65 I say, because I'll be doing all the dirty work."

Trinidad, November 1616

Nachan Gonzalito-Há walked the streets of San José de Oruña, reminiscing. The invitation to come to _La Casa Bonito_ was a bit unusual. It might be a trap, but Gonzalito-Há had the place checked out by one of his men (his bodyguards, mestizos like him with predominantly Mayan ancestry), and all seemed safe. Still, he couldn't be careful enough: after all — even in this lawless place — his trade was the riskiest, the most sensitive.

Still, his interest was highly piqued. All his deals with the Frenchman had gone well: no double dealings or betrayals, and the deliveries were always top quality. And while he knew he was being ripped off, his trading partner didn't know that money had no real value to him. His ultimate goal (and that of his people) lay elsewhere. It's why he almost — but not quite — pitied the Spanish governor. The Spanish garrison on Trinidad was hardly big enough to guard the governor's mansion, let alone keep order in the town, never mind the whole island. After the general pardon in 1611 following Sancho de Alquiza's _residencia_ he had no choice but to look the other way while Trinidad did business with everyone, despite the motherland's Exclusivity rule.

_I'd like to introduce you to a compatriot of mine, Jean Chrétien had said, so please come to La Casa tomorrow night. A true connoisseur like you should be quite interested, as he brings news of a recent development._ Interested was an understatement: this was so intriguing that the best explanation would be a trap. Nevertheless, he must take the risk, as the possible reward was worth it. Was worth _everything_.

Chrétien welcomed him in the dark and noisy drinking establishment, and took him to a table in the farthest corner, lit only by a single candle. The goateed Frenchman plucked at his thin, curled moustache and gestured to the man sitting behind the table: large and broad-shouldered, his hands that were silently tapping on the wood looked delicate with their long, thin fingers. His face was almost indistinguishable behind the thick beard and wild, curly black hair.

"Messieurs," Chrétien said, "Allow me to introduce you. Nachan Gonzalito-Há, one of my best clients, meet Pierre-Louis Lefêvre, a true craftsman from _La Belle France_."

"Nice to meet you," Gonzalito-Há said, shaking hands, "what is your profession?"

"I am — well, was — the assistant of Monsieur Marin le Bourgeoys. We developed a new type of firearm."

#

Somewhere between the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico, September 1628

_The Glory of the Sun_ is heading for Cabo Francés. Captain Bacab then plans to proceed along the cover of the Cuban coast until Cabo de San Antonio. In that sheltered bay, his vessel will get a paint job. Black, she will become, the masts and the wood of its hull will be dyed in the blackest varnish money can buy. The white sails, its mimicry of a 'normal' vessel, will be soaked in the darkest ink. On the night of nights, when the moon is new, on her penultimate trip, the _Glory of the Sun_ will be all but invisible. It's a blasphemy, almost, but Captain Bacab has learned to make amends. Has learned, the hard way, to adapt to these new ways. _Use their methods without becoming them._

Beyond the horizon, the Silver Fleet is approaching: the biggest transport of silver and gold known to man, brought from the mines of Peru and Mexico to Spain every year. Its route and time of departure one of the best-guarded secrets, but Bacab has an informant. He knows the number of vessels, and in which formation they will sail. He has a plan: one swift, surgical strike to extract one vessel from that formidable fleet. For better odds, he needs a distraction, and he got it. Cap'n Duncan is a party animal, a womaniser, and sometimes stark raving mad. He's also one of the best sailors around, when he's sober and sets his mind to it. It might just work.

Between Cuba and the Florida Keys would have been the best spot, but an unexpected development has forced Bacab's hand: news of a Dutch expedition. According to these rumours, Admiral Piet Hein was sent to the Caribbean to capture the Spanish Silver Fleet. _The Terra Firma_ fleet with the Peruvian silver got this warning in time, and remained in the fortified port of Cartagena. The _St. Jacobs_ fleet did not receive this warning, however, and had set course for Havana from Mexico.

To the best of Captain Bacab's knowledge, the Dutch war fleet was somewhere near the Florida Keys, so his only shot at the Silver Fleet was before it arrived in La Habana. From there, it would either confront the Dutch war fleet, or — if they got the news in time — outwait their enemies behind the safety of _Castillo del Morro_ and _Castillo de la Punta_. In either case they would be outside of Bacab's reach. So the time to strike is now.

"We've done some crazy things, Captain," the huge black First Mate says, "with respect, Sir. But with another fleet involved, aren't we biting off more — "

"I understand your concerns, Mr. Bintu," the Mayan Captain says, "but we have planned this campaign thoroughly."

"Hold out bait to entice the enemy," Dong Zhetu, Captain Bacab's advisor, remarks, "feign disorder, then crush him."

"But that was before these Dutchmen got involved." Kwame Bintu whispers in this dead of night.

"If anything, they might be on our side," Captain Bacab muses, "and the Spaniards may not even know they're here. We proceed as planned."

The sea is calm, almost impossibly so, this close to the hurricane season. It can't last, but plays well into their hands.

Trinidad, November 1616

_Something's not quite right,_ Gonzalito-Há thought, _bringing me in contact with the producer eliminates the need for the middle man._ He looked at Chrétien. _Who would be cutting his own throat. What gives?_

"This new type of firearm is so new, it's not yet in production in France," the small Frenchman said, "and M'sieu Lefêvre knows exactly how to make it, and even has a few improvements on the original design."

"Which is indeed highly interesting," the Mayan mestizo said, "but I would greatly prefer to see a working prototype before placing an order."

"I can show you that tomorrow," the big Frenchman said, "but the prototype I have will not be made in France."

"What other place will produce them, then? I need a guarantee of quality."

"The idea is," Chrétien, stroking his pencil-thin goatee, "to set up production here."

"On Trinidad? The only thing they produce here is sugar, tobacco and corruption."

"Well, they found iron ores inland. M'sieu Lefêvre has all the knowledge to set up a foundry and a workshop. Labour is no problem: we can use local people — "noticing the slightly flinching mestizo Gonzalito-Há " — or import them from Africa."

"Even then, it will take many years to set up, especially without craftsmen. Probably better to buy them from France."

"As I said, this new type of gun will never be made in France," Chrétien said, "as the original inventor has become the victim of a _crime passionnel_." He looked at Lefêvre, whose eyes were inspecting the ceiling.

"So what do you need my services for?" Gonzalito-Há asked, already surmising the answer, and feigning a growing disinterest, "I'm merely interested in the end product, not the production itself."

"We need a financial partner willing to invest in this fantastic opportunity," the petite Frenchman put on a winning smile, "one who not only has the deep pockets and knowledge of the market, but also the patience to reap the long-term rewards."

Near Cabo de San Antonio, September 1628

One by one, the twenty-three merchant vessels and six galleons of the _St. Jacobs_ fleet pass by the Cabo de San Antonio, carefully spied by Captain Bacab and his crew. Preceding them, a longboat is speeding to the Archipiélago de los Colorados with all its might. As the last one slowly recedes to the eastern horizon, the blackened _Glory of the Sun_ gives silent and near-invisible pursuit. Silent, except for murmured commands and the cooing of Captain Bacab's small blue parakeet.

"Hush, my little _paraquito_ ," the Mayan Captain whispers, "if this campaign succeeds, we will be ready to take you home."

Minute shivers of excitement ripple through the normally sphinx-like commander. The only one more inscrutable is his Chinese Advisor, Dong Zhetu, and Bacab asks him:

"But will we succeed, honourable Zhetu?"

"Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting." Dong Zhetu answers, "He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared."

The _St. Jacobs_ fleet sails past Cabo de San Antonio, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. The weather is good, they should arrive in La Habana at daybreak. Plain sailing, and the mood on the flagship _Nuestra Senora de la Antigua_ is good.

Further north, a decidedly unnatural sound spreads over the waves. In the same direction, a red glow shimmers on the horizon. Coming closer, the astonished Spaniards hear a wailing like that of the souls of the dead, accompanied by drums pounding a tribal rhythm.

The red glow becomes a stark silhouette: a giant cross, with a huge man nailed to it. Both are burning.

Itza of Petén, March 1617

Nachan Gonzalito-Há crossed the thick jungle in the centre of the Yucatán peninsula, together with his two bodyguards and Pierre-Louis Lefêvre, on their way to Tah Itza. He regretted eliminating Chrétien, with whom he had done good business over the years, but it was necessary, unfortunately. As a weapon expert he recognised a singular opportunity when he saw one, and Le Bourgeoys's flintlock mechanism could be a decisive advantage in battle, especially in fast, sweeping attacks.

"How much longer?" the big Frenchman asked, "this jungle seems to go on forever."

"Another two days," the sly mestizo answered, "and you should see the advantage of this: so far from the rest of the world, we can set up gun manufacturing facilities in splendid isolation."

"It's not that easy: we need to set up a foundry, we need metal, workers, and more."

"Actually, I think we could start converting old guns to your flintlock system first."

"Of course. But you mentioned that you had bigger plans."

"We do. We have a small iron ore deposit very nearby, which we can use to learn all the basics. We will supply you with the materials and the manpower. But that is merely the short term plan."

"The short term? This will take years!"

"We take the long view. We know of very rich copper and nickel ore deposits deeper in this peninsula, near Lake Izabal, which meet your requirements for good gun metal much better. If all goes well the time may come that we can set up stock down there."

Just northwest of the reefs of Los Colorados, September 7, 1628:

→On board the _Nuestra Senora de la Antigua_ ←

The Spanish crew has trouble believing the evidence of their eyes, acknowledging the din in their ears: a giant with an eerie likeliness to Jesus Christ himself is burning on a huge cross, accompanied by a diabolic rhythm and wailing that seems to come straight from hell.

The superstitious are afraid, the devout are angry, the non-believers, for their own safety, remain silent, even the hardened sailors on the navy vessels are astonished: this is crazy, unseen, almost impossible.

Also, Admiral Juan de Benavidez y Bazan is affected: he seems frozen in indecision. His second-in-command, Vice Admiral Don Juan de Leoz, his normal counsel in times of distress, is on the _Nuestra Senora del Rosario_ , who are guarding the rear of the Silver Fleet. Captain Diego Delgado de Mendoza, will have nothing of it, though. Through the increasing pandemonium, without qualms, he orders the helmsman: "Set course for that damned Carnival float." He jumps from the poop deck to the quarter deck, and shouts to his artillery: "Prepare all cannons at starboard! Let's see how these clowns like a barrage of old-fashioned Spanish shrapnel!"

→On board the _Dark Grail_ ←

A few kilometres away from the floating spectacle, Cap'n Duncan and the _Dark Grail_ are lying in wait, behind a small atoll. At first, he thought the whole endeavour so stark raving mad, so far beyond sanity it sounded like drinking yourself sober (which he's tried: it doesn't work). Then he figured some schemes work _because_ they are so outlandish.

When that strange, reptilian boatswain from Cap'n Bacab's crew played that rhythm to his men, Jack had to admit it provoked something deep and primal, like rolling rocks filling a groove in his soul. When that mountain of a black man — First Mate Bintu — started pre-chanting those wails of the lost souls, a chill went through his bones. The deep voice cut through his core, enriching it with a colour beyond blue, a sadness beyond hope. And still, it seemed to lift the spirit.

So they built that floating platform with a huge cross and a Jesus figure filled with straw. Moved it in position, and put two longboats (to row away, as fast as possible, when the time came) with the best drummers and singers very close to them, but just out of sight.

If that doesn't distract them, nothing will. Now Cap'n Jack was hoping the Spaniards would be so distraught that they won't see him nabbing one of their — less guarded and armed — merchant vessels. Booty, matey!

After a seemingly interminable period of indecision, one vessel is approaching the platform: by no coincidence, it's the flagship: _Nuestra Senora de la Antigua_.

It comes closer, ever closer, and the platform is well within firing range. Within easy firing range. A single boom spikes over the pandemonium, but his men in the two longboats — who miraculously remain unseen — keep up the drumming and the wailing, while preparing to flee. Another shot is fired from the Spanish vessel, and in an irregular burst the whole salvo is unleashed.

→On board the _Glory of the Sun_ ←

While the _St. Jacobs_ fleet slowed down to watch the surreal spectacle, the _Glory of the Sun_ tacked to the Northeast, crossing the fleet's tail end on the port side. The creaking of her woodwork masked by the bedlam from the platform, she sailed past unnoticed. Then she made a turnabout and headed for the galleon that was guarding the rear end of the fleet.

Now, both the wind and the current are in their back, and they close in on the _Nuestra Senora del Rosario_ at full speed. Their cannons are loaded, but Captain Bacab does not intend to use them: silence and the element of surprise are crucial. First Mate Bintu whispers his misgivings:

"Twenty-nine ships: the moment they notice us, we're done for."

_Good_ , Captain Bacab thinks, _Kwame is always agitated before a battle. He'll be fine when the moment comes._

"They think they're safe, Mr. Bintu, which is fine."

"The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim," Dong Zhetu says, deadpan.

"Exactly," Captain Bacab looks at Bintu with fire in his eyes, "we will take her, fast and furious. No quarter."

Like an owl in the night, the _Glory of the Sun_ descends on its prey. The growing wind pushes it faster, and muffles its approach. At six shackles from its target, its crew fires off a salvo of arrows on the _Nuestra Senora del Rosario's_ aft ship. Within seconds, a second salvo lands on the forecastle of the Spanish vessel. Up East by Northeast, in the distance, an irregular burst of cannon fire sounds. During the final moments of approach, salvos of arrows land on all areas of the target vessel.

Then, at high speed, the _Glory of the Sun_ rams its opponent, hitting it on the weak spot just between the aft ship and the mizzenmast. Dong Zhetu — who has taken over from the Coxswain — steers her so that the _Glory's_ prow bangs against the _Rosario's_ stern, and the vessels are alongside, portside to portside. A volley of grappling hooks lands on the Rosario's decks, they find purchase on the bulwark, and secure the vessels against each other. Then Dong Zhetu steers both vessels to an opening in the treacherous reefs laying before the Archipiélago de los Colorados.

In the meantime, the Glory's fighters are entering the Rosario, led by Captain Bacab, in near complete silence. Followed closely by First Mate Bintu: the huge back man must suppress the urge to shout: no battle cries or any unnecessary sounds. A flock of avenging angels descending with serene conviction. Dressed completely in black, they're almost impossible to distinguish, and death comes to most Spaniards out of the dark. Their cannons are unprepared, and their gunmen have no time to load their muskets or pistols. It's man to man, cutlass to machete, hand to hand, knife to dagger.

Captain Bacab's people are ruthless, taking no prisoners. The Spaniards are overwhelmed, not only by the swiftness of the attack, but also by the sheer number of their enemies. Since the campaign is planned as a short one, the Mayan Captain has taken on a surplus of people. In absolute numbers, the Silver Fleet outnumbers the two pirate vessels by far. The crew on _his_ vessel, though, outnumbers the crew of even the largest Spanish galleon.

And only the absolute minimum stays on board the _Glory of the Sun_ : to keep the two vessels secured to each other, and to steer the linked ships out of reach. All the rest must overpower the Spanish crew before the rest of the fleet notices.

Captain Bacab swings from the foremast's yardarm and lands on the quarter deck just before _Rosario's_ stern. First Mate Bintu lands closely behind him. Together they make their way to the helm, meeting little resistance. Bacab, having drawn his second cutlass, making headway with a two-handed attack. Bintu hacking his way forward with his huge boarding axe. Some Spaniards fight, but most are quickly disarmed or wounded. Quite a few flee, often because they didn't get hold of their weapons yet. One Spanish soldier gets a stab through Bacab's defence, and inflicts a cut on his shoulder. Bintu, seeing this, doubles the ferocity of his fighting and mows down the brave man.

Bintu pauses a moment, looking at Bacab's wound, but the Captain shakes his head and voices "onward". They jump on the poop deck, followed closely by some of their own crew, and together overpower the last remaining Spanish crewmen between them and the vessel's commander. In clear Spanish, Bacab gives the Spanish commander a simple choice: "Tell your men to surrender, and I will spare them. Otherwise no quarter!" The beleaguered and stunned commander orders his men to stand down.

Itza of Petén, February 1622

The young warrior-to-be came running into Tah Itza, shouting: "They're coming! They're coming!" The boy — close to becoming a man — came from the eastern lookout. For Nachan Gonzalito-Há it was more a relief than an actual danger. Since the last visitation, the Itza Péten Mayans had become a bit too nonchalant about their watching duties for his liking. It wasn't unexpected: Gonzalito-Há and his full nephew had warned that there would be a reaction after those two Franciscan friars had left Tah Itza without converting a single soul, but most of the Itza Maya would not believe them. They felt safe in their kingdom in the middle of the jungle, and didn't quite realise they were the only free Mayans left.

Four years ago, two Franciscan friars and a minor Spanish official accompanied by some Tutal Xiu arrived at Tah Itza. Of course, King Ajaw Kan Ek' had welcomed them politely, and treated them well, even after Fray Juan de Orbita had destroyed the thunder horse idol _Tzimin Chac_. But they would report back to the Spanish in Mérida, and it would be only a matter of time until someone returned, and those men would most probably not be peaceful missionaries.

Watch posts were set up in the approach paths in the jungle to Tah Itza, and they got a substantial number of people volunteering for his armament modernisation programme. Apart from his own — more motivated — people, some Itza Maya began learning how to use guns: the guns he imported through his wheeling and dealing in Trinidad. Of course, the long absences his business trips abroad caused didn't help matters at Lake Péten, but that couldn't be helped. Until Chrétien introduced him to Lefêvre, and he saw the opportunity for what it was: pure gold. Or better: pure gun metal. If he could just win over the majority of the Itza Maya to forget about their old feuds with other Maya like the Ch'ol.

Still, it remained quiet for four long years, until the Spanish/Xiu expedition arrived. So, when the young guardsman ran into Tah Itza, adrenalin surged through Gonzalito-Há's veins. He immediately got his men and the sympathising Itza Maya together, and marched them to the eastern place of ambush. They arrived well in time, and waited for the Spanish forces.

A Captain with twenty Spanish soldiers, and a Franciscan friar. And about a hundred-and-fifty Tutal Xiu: they meant business. Their demands were clear: repent and pledge loyalty to the Spanish Crown. That — without question — was out of the question.

Luckily, they also underestimated the resistance they would meet. As instructed, Gonzalito-Há's freshly-trained gunmen aimed their converted guns at the Spaniards first. Then they waited until they were passing in front of the small Lake Paxcamán and had nowhere to run. On his signal, they opened fire.

In spite of their training, his gunmen hit only a couple of Spaniards. Gonzalito-Há blamed it on nerves and lack of actual combat experience with the guns. After recovering from their shock — the natives had never used firearms against them before — the Spaniards quickly grabbed their guns, but their matchlocks took longer to load then the newly designed flintlocks of his men who managed to get another salvo in before the _conquistadores_ could return fire.

The Spanish soldiers failed to hit a single one of the natives, and this gave the mestizo's men courage and confidence. They reloaded three times faster than their opponents, and soon it became a massacre. The Spanish invaders were killed first, and their accompanying Christian Mayans soon afterwards. None were spared.

This was the success Gonzalito-Há hoped for: the demonstration that would convince the Itza Maya. The optimist in him said that now they could really move their plans forward. The pessimist said that he would have his hands full telling the Itza to use their new weapons against the real enemy, and not against their fellow Mayans like the Ch'ol. Rise above the old feuds.

Northwest of the reefs of Los Colorados, September 7, 1628:

→On board the _Nuestra Senora de la Antigua_ ←

The _Nuestra Senora de la Antigua_ sails to the burning platform, as the wind is picking up, making her tremble in trepidation, as if her timbers are shivering. Captain Delgado de Mendoza remains cold and calculating: if one looks through the symbolism, ignores the incessant noise that seems to come out of nowhere, then one sees only a small platform. A platform that is outclassed by a galleon of His Majesty's Navy. If only this bloody crew would see it.

But these are not his normal men: his battle-hardened soldiers had to remain in Veracruz while he was called back to Spain with the supremely devout Admiral Benavidez y Bazan and his overzealous crew supplemented with Franciscan friars. Of course, Captain Diego Delgado de Mendoza is a good Roman Catholic like anybody else, but a practical one: not about to let matters of faith overshadow the matters of worldly battle, unlike most of those on board this vessel. Still, a full salvo reducing those reckless performers — somewhere deep in his warrior heart Delgado de Mendoza admires the sheer audacity of his opponents — to tatters and rags should wake up this pious crew.

"Ready to fire on my command," he shouts. The acknowledgement is less acute than he's used to, but it will have to do. Still, part of him wonders why they would do such a crazy thing. It only makes sense if ... this unrelenting uproar makes it hard to think straight ... it's a distraction. But even a couple of pirates can't take on the whole _St. Jacobs_ Fleet. So ... there must be a companion vessel hiding out there hoping to capture one of the merchant vessels in the tail end. Then this will be a decoy with a skeleton crew (albeit a very noise one), who will flee in their sloops the moment the Antigua opens fire. It must be something like that, otherwise it doesn't make sense. Through a deafening wall of sound, they come within firing range. _Good_ , the experienced Captain thinks, _wait for my command._

A single, explosive burst spikes through the midnight mayhem. _Impossible: they've fired!_ is the first thing he thinks. But then he realises that the cannon shot came from _his_ vessel. And a second shot is let loose. Captain Delgado de Mendoza loses his patience: "Hold your fire!" he shouts, and is answered by the rest of the full salvo from his anxious crew.

→On board the _Black Grail_ ←

They fired too soon. And they missed: a whole salvo — albeit one of the worst synchronised barrages he ever came across — but a whole salvo, nevertheless. At this close range. And _still_ they missed, or failed to hit anything important. It will take the Spaniards precious time to reload, and the drummers and singers on the longboats keep up the pandemonium.

Up ahead, the Silver Fleet. So much booty, so close, and still so far away. Tantalising, almost ready for the taking. The next best thing will have to do, and if that slick, sly and impervious Cap'n Bacab can't capture one vessel during this melée, he might as well get back to that feudal jungle from whence he cameth. And something else that's increasingly pricking his sixth seaman's sense: There's a hurricane a-comin', he thinks, charging in from overland.

In the distance, a lone merchant vessel is straying quite a bit away from the main fleet, right in his direction. Cap'n Duncan can't believe his luck. He orders his Coxswain to steer a short widdershins circle before giving chase.

→On board the _Glory of the Sun_ ←

Through the treacherous reefs bordering the Archipiélago de los Colorados, the coupled vessels enter a cove in the little island of Cayo de Buenavista. The Coxswain is steering again, as Zong Dhetu treats Captain Bacab's wounds.

"Heave to and anchors down." Captain Bacab commands, "there's a heavy storm approaching overland."

"Aye, Captain," First Mate Bintu agrees, "and we should load the booty over."

"Only half the treasures: have you noticed how heavily loaded their galleon is? No wonder they were moving so slow, and we were lucky that the current was favourable for us when we moved over here."

"Leave the other half?"

"No, we take the vessel, as well. It's in good condition: saves us the trouble of building one. Distribute the cargo evenly."

"And the prisoners?"

"Kill them."

"You can't! We promised them their lives if they surrendered!"

"Kwame, those are from the same people who decimated and conquered my people, and enslaved yours."

"And whose blood runs in your veins, Bacab. But _we_ should be better than _them_. What good are we if we also murder without a conscience, and break our promises?"

"He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit in all its ranks," Dong Zhetu says, "the consummate leader cultivates the moral law, and strictly adheres to method and discipline; thus it is in his power to control success."

"Thanks, Dong: I couldn't have said it better myself." Bintu grabs Bacab's uninjured shoulder and looks him straight in the eyes: "I understand your anger, your frustration, my friend, my leader. But to better them, we must rise above them, however hard that sometimes is."

Bacab is the first to break the gaze. "You're right. But those foul Spanish bastards have killed most of my people through their vile diseases. Then I see them making off with the treasures they stole and extorted from us, and my blood boils. Yet I must refrain..." He takes a deep sigh. "So, what do we do with them."

"We release them, after the storm has passed over, just before we leave. Give them a barque: it will be packed, but it's only half a day sailing to La Habana. They should be OK: in the meantime, we are long gone."

"OK. Now get that cargo over before we get hit by the hurricane," as he strokes the cobalt blue bird on his shoulder, "Soon, my little _paraquito_ , you will be home. And free."

Between Cuba and the Florida Keys, September 7, 1628

The wind is gaining in strength and Cap'n Duncan wonders if they can be fast enough to enter that lone stray merchant vessel before the rest of the Silver Fleet notices. Finally, _Nuestra Senora de la Antigua_ has fired off a second salvo, sinking the platform whose flames are extinguishing. The pandemonium has stopped: hopefully the drummers and singers are rowing for safety in the still of the night. _The Dark Grail_ is closing in on its merchant prey.

"The booty, Cap'n, think of all the booty!" Coxswain Henry says, "We can 'ave her!"

"Yeah, they're ripe for the takin'. Full sail ahead, mateys, charge the cannons and get yer asses armed! But remain quiet. Arr!"

"Aye Cap'n," First Mate Johnzo says, "We'll be on her like a thief in the night."

Not much left of the night as the dawn is slowly setting in. Nevertheless, the _Black Grail_ heads for the merchant vessel, in for the kill. Then a voice from the crow's nest gives out a warning: "Vessels in the North."

Baffled, Cap'n Duncan and his Coxswain look in that direction, to see the outline of another big fleet.

"What're they, Francis-me-lad?"

"Dutchies, Cap'n, lots of 'em: I see their red, white an' blue banners."

"Bugger," Coxswain Henry says, "Bugger it all for a lark. I'm in full booty frenzy!"

"Me too, matey."

"Let's go git 'em anyway."

"No, matey, let's get out of here before we're squeezed like a bug between the two of 'em."

"Aye Cap'n, but with pain in me hearty."

"Me too, matey. Grog for all if we make it out in one piece."

The _Black Grail_ turns to the East, making its escape, as a relentless hurricane comes rushing in from the South, bringing torrential rains.

At the Bay of Matanzas, September 8, 1628

As Cap'n Duncan and his crew make their escape, the Dutch war fleet of Admiral Piet Hein closes in on the Spanish Silver Fleet led by Admiral Juan de Benavidez y Bazan, and captures it on the morning of September 8, 1628 during the short battle in the Bay of Matanzas.

Chetumal, October 1630

In the dead of night, a long stretch of small canoes filled with well-armed Mayans, led by Hachan Gonzalito-Há, are rowing up the Rio Hondo towards Chetumal. They make landfall two kilometres south of the city. There they wait for a second group to come from the East. They will wait until the crack of dawn, and if their compatriots do not show up they will march to the garrison of Chetumal regardless.

But they have not been waiting in vain: their compatriots arrive. Gonzalito-Há asks the leader of the small force: "Salamanca de Balacar?"

"Is liberated. No casualties on our side."

"The villa?"

"Under our control. The Lieutenant Governor was not there. They said he was in Chetumal."

"Fine. Now to Chetumal."

Taking exquisite care to stay out of sight by moving through the dense vegetation, they approach the coastal town. They get as close to they can without being observed, and spread out, surrounding the small fortress in which the Spanish soldiers are stationed.

In the meantime, crossing the narrow passage the mainland peninsula and Ambergris Cay, two large vessels come sailing into Chetumal Bay, led by Commander Bacab Guerrero-Chan. The _Glory of the Sun_ manœuvres so that its starboard side, with its fully loaded cannons, faces the small city. Chetumal and its hinterlands do not have much that is of commercial interest to the Spanish, so it has no fortified walls, only a small garrison with a minimal amount of troops. Still, the Glory of the Sun aims its cannons at that very place of occupation. Its sister ship, the Splendour of the Moon, keeps its distance, acting as backup.

The crew of the _Glory of the Sun_ watch the tropical forest just south of the city until they see the arranged signal sequence from a mirror. Then they fire a single shot — purposefully aimed wide — over the small garrison.

On that cue, Gonzalito-Há's men attack the small fort from the West. With the soldiers's attention focussed on the vessel in the East, they conquer the Spanish garrison in a quick sweep, firing only a few shots with their brand new flintlocks. The rest of Gonzalito-Há's land forces enter Chetumal, occupy the colonial villa and capture the Spanish Lieutenant Governor Juan Garzon Tres. They search the town for any remaining Spaniards, who are captured and gathered in the colonial villa.

The all-clear is given to the nautical forces, and the _Glory of the Sun_ berths at Chetumal, a town that will soon have its original name back. Commander Bacab is dressed in full Mayan regalia, and makes his way to the palm tree lined town square, where a crowd has gathered. Hoping that his liberated compatriots will eventually understand the need for his very progressive agenda. A school is one of the first things to be built. He climbs a makeshift pedestal, and gives his speech:

"Hereby I, Bacab Guerrero-Chan, great-grandson of Gonzalo Guerrero and Zazil Há, declare this land as The Free Republic of Chactemal. In the first four years, I will rule as President by decree: then there will be elections to choose my successor.

"Until that time, the Free Republic of Chactemal will hold forth the following principles:

1) The inalienable right of the Native People of America to live free in the land where their ancestors were born. Free from oppression by European forces.

—For this we will build a Fortress of Freedom from which liberty will spread across our continent—

2) The right to, and necessity of, free and universal education of all its people.

—In a rapidly changing world our people must be prepared for, and willing to, adapt, if we are to survive as Mayans and as a Mayan culture—

3) The total abolishment of slavery in any form or guise, and full support to the new freehold for liberated slaves in Jamaica.

—The Free Republic of Chactemal shall always be open to those who flee from enslavement and oppression, and will support those that seek to end it—

4) Freedom of religion: each person will be free in his choice of worship, and this choice shall be tolerated and respected by those of a different religion.

—There will be no prosecution of people based on religious differences—"

Epilogue: Somewhere in the Caribbean, January 1615

A lonely vessel full of freebooters sailed to the secret base after a successful raid. The odds were stacked against them, their opponents the mightiest empire of the world. In the Captain's quarters a Mayan who had served on several pirate vessels before starting his own operation; an African who once was a crewmate of the Mayan, and decided to join him in his new endeavour; and a Chinese man who sailed with a Manila Galleon to Acapulco to finally wind up as a military advisor to a pirate with a cause. A pirate with a well-on impossible dream. A pirate captain who wondered: "How do you know so much about this? Tainting and defeating an enemy with minimal means, gaining advantage while your component has superior force and manpower?"

The Chinese advisor answered: "I got it all from a book, dear Captain."

"A book? I've never seen you read one."

"I do not have a physical copy."

"Then how do you know it?"

"It is in my head. I have been taught, and I can teach you."

"What is this non-existent book then?"

"It is by the highly esteemed Sun-Tzu," the Chinese Advisor said, "and it is called _The Art of War_."
The Life and Death of George Hayes

Floris M. Kleijne (Netherlands)

On the plane, between cauliflower clouds and the stars that lit them from above, flying towards the island that would grant him eternal life, Jim met his Angel of Death. She was petite and blonde, bright and compassionate, not at all as he expected an Angel of Death to be. In a cabin full of chilled air, dimmed lights, and snores, they seemed to be the only two people awake. The only two people alive, he amended, for that was how it felt: a giant, vibrating hearse, flying towards a mass burial with 170 snoring corpses, and him buried alive. His Angel, of course, had every right to be there.

He was reading the _Origin_ and across the aisle she was writing letters, one by one, closely scrawled sheets that she slid into an envelope as soon as she'd signed her name, not even waiting for the wet spots to dry, addressing and stamping the envelopes with ruthless efficiency. Her magazine net already held a dozen of them; if she kept up her pace, she would soon have to remove the inflight magazine and the safety instructions to accommodate her outpouring.

Her hair showed gray streaks, but her short-sleeved arms looked young. And when she looked up at him, her cheeks tear-streaked, and snapped at him for staring, he saw that her arms were the truth, not her hair. In her twenties.

"I'm sorry," he said, pitching his voice low, for that is what one does in a hearse. "I was just... I'm sorry." He turned back to his book, but it felt rude and callous to return to the Beagle with the tracks of her tears burning on his retinas. So he marked his place with his index finger and turned back to her. She had picked up her pen and was staring at the sheet of paper on the foldout table, which held only the single word 'Dear' at the top.

"Are you... are you alright?"

"Do I _look_..." She blew air out through her nose and briefly turned her face away. "Sorry," she said with a horrible smile, putting her pen down. "My turn to say sorry, I guess. No, I'm not, if you're really asking. But I'm going to be." She nodded, and her nod held the same determination as her fierce letter-writing.

He was really asking, without fully understanding why. Except that the tears, and the feeling of distance stretching out behind them, and the sepulchral gloom of the cabin, and her smile like a scream, made him suddenly know _exactly_ why.

They were farewell letters.

His own farewell was all too fresh in his memory.

Mara had shouted at him, begged him not to waste the little time they had left on his father's pipe dream. He had failed to explain it to her. He could not die. His oncologist had given no hope, but he just could not bear the thought of leaving them, Mara and little Angie, tiny, fragile Angie. If there was any chance at all to stay with them, to be there to stand behind Angie in her first wobbling steps, to support Mara, to conceive a second child even, how could he refuse that chance?

And this was more than a chance. His father had been rational, up until the very end, and the source was unimpeachable, the Great Man himself.

Even if what his father had said at the end didn't make sense.

A pale and bleary-eyed flight attendant brought the G&Ts he had managed to order. He would ask her about her farewell letters, he had decided, but had offered her a drink first. Bluntness is overrated. They raised their tiny plastic tumblers. Her smile was a little less deathly.

Offering his hand across the aisle, he began,

"Hi, I'm--"

"No names!" It was almost a pounce. "Names are power," she offered as an explanation, but it sounded too pat, too quoted, and she glanced briefly at her letters. Her smile, though, was almost natural, and took the edge off the very real shock he felt. "So, why Sao Miguel?"

He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the offer of normalcy. _There is something there I need to find_ , he didn't answer. Instead, he brandished his book.

"My dad was a Darwin scholar. The great man spent some time on the Azores, and Dad was always on about it, kind of his specialization. So it's a sort of pilgrimage, really."

"Hm," she said, but it was a hum of interest. "That's neat, following your father's trail like that."

_Neat_. He liked that.

"What about you?"

She glanced at her unfinished letter, and the envelopes. Swallowed, blinked.

"There's a place there. A volcano, or I should say a caldera. It's the most beautiful place in the world. That's where I'm going."

"You've been there before then?"

She shook her head vehemently, splashing some gin and tonic from her cup.

"Just pictures. Lots of pictures. There's two different-colored lakes, and this tiny village with a white church... I didn't want to go before, afraid I'd spoil it by seeing it for real. But now... That's where I'm going."

Jim vaguely remembered seeing something like she described in one of the brochures that came with his ticket. But he hadn't really looked very closely. His destination, as far as he could tell, was elsewhere.

They stood together on the tarmac, in the tentative light of the Atlantic dawn, quietly preparing their goodbyes as the other passengers dispersed. Around them the runway dropped away steeply to the ocean on two sides. The water was calm and mysterious, shifting shades of purple and indigo. Jim imagined the sperm whales for which the archipelago was famous, inviting him from just below the surface.

_Some other time_ , he thought. _I promise I'll come back and visit with you some other time._ With a shiver, he realized it was not an empty promise. He believed he would return some day; he believed he would succeed.

"Listen, it was..." he began, just as she said,

"Well, I guess..."

They stopped speaking simultaneously, sparing themselves the clichés. What _had it_ been anyway? Small talk, hours of it, shortening their flight, but fraught with what they had left unspoken. He hadn't gotten up the nerve to bring up her letters; she hadn't inquired further about his plans, perhaps sensing waters too deep for her.

_Listen, it was unfinished_ , he thought. And, plunging ahead before he could develop second thoughts, he said: "Will you show me?"

A wistful expression played over her face. She looked out across the ocean for a moment.

"Yes," she said, and it felt as final as sealing a contract. She didn't ask what he wanted her to show him, and he was sure she knew what he meant. "Meet me at noon, three days from now. There's an abandoned hotel that looks like a James Bond set, on the rim of the Sete Citades. I'll meet you outside."

She picked up her bag and headed for the terminal, not even waiting for his response.

She didn't need to. He'd be there.

In his rented apartment in a lovingly refurbished Portuguese farm house, Jim cleared the dinner table for his laptop, his notes, his father's journal, the facsimile of the original document, and the map he had bought in the terminal building.

After checking in and unpacking, he had spent some time out on the rough-stoned terrace. To his right, beyond the roof of his rental Prius, and a pool he didn't expect to use, tilled fields sloped down to the fishing village and the Atlantic beyond. Straight ahead the landscape climbed steeply, both the lush vegetation and the deep fissures betraying the volcanic origins of the mountain he faced. Scattered plumes of steam marked the locations of sulphuric hot springs.

His stomach had clenched at the sight. So close.

He thought about calling Mara, letting her know he had arrived safely. But the way she felt about his expedition, and the way they had parted, made him decide to wait. There would be time later. Plenty of time.

He turned his attention to the map.

Even flattened onto paper, the island's geology was apparent. Jim had seen it first from the plane, and then when he crossed the island by car: an elongated kidney-shape, with large calderas on either end. Driving across, the road meandered along the bases of countless cone-shaped hills with dented summits, until his sense of direction evaporated. When he had finally glimpsed the ocean again, he thought for a moment that he had come full circle.

Tracing the road with his finger, he retraced his route from the coastal airstrip to the main road that skirted Ponta Delgada before veering off to the north, into the hill-studded interior. East of the highway, the landscape rose steeply to a height of almost 4,000 feet, before plunging into a wide crater. The bottom of the crater held a huge lake, Lagoa do Fogo.

A hiking trail was marked along the lake shore. Idly, he traced the trail with his finger, sweeping along a wide bay...

George Hayes.

His heart lurched.

Jim blinked, pinched the bridge of his nose. Looked again. The name jumped out at him from the east end of the lake.

In a frenzied rush, he flipped through the papers he had brought, until he found the facsimile. By now, he practically knew it by heart, but he needed the reassurance of the actual document. Scanning the first page, he quickly found what he was looking for.

Mr. Hayes escorted me around the perimeter of the crater lake, until we came to a place where a steeply inclined path lead upwards. Explaining that he had acquired this section of lake shore in order to mark it with his name, he planted the warning sign he had brought at the beginning of the path.

By chance, it seemed, Jim had begun his study of the map at the lake mentioned in the document. The first few paragraphs would have probably enabled him to deduce where his search should start, but this made his quest that much easier. And the map on the table in front of him finally explained one of the mysteries of the document that his father and he had puzzled over for years. "Purchased in order to mark it with his name" turned out to mean precisely that.

The stretch of lake shore that Hayes had purchased was named after him until the present day.

Perigo da vida.

Jim stood frozen, staring at the ancient, weather-beaten teak sign. Behind the sign, the crater wall rose, dense with vegetation. Only with the greatest concentration could he make out the vague outlines of a path starting behind the warning sign and switchbacking up until it disappeared into the green twilight between the clinging trees.

He smiled, and mentally nodded his head at Hayes' sense of irony.

_Perigo da vida_. A common warning in Portuguese-speaking countries, but the literal translation was _Danger of life._

His detailed map study had quickly made that he could reach the 'George Hayes' spot on the map only by descending into the crater from the south, where he could park the car along the crater rim at the top of a hiking trail. Packing supplies for a long walk, he had set off early in the morning.

The descent zigged and zagged through holly and thyme until it deposited him at the shore of the lake. A path hugged the foot of the crater wall, well away from the water. Setting off on the path, he paused for a moment to survey the bay that lay ahead of him. About _there_ , across the lake, should be the spot marked 'George Hayes' on the map. He could not make out any details, but the thought of being this close made his nerves tingle.

A little further along, he passed two large gulls standing alongside the path like sentries, their beady black eyes watching him relentlessly. Lifting his gaze, he saw a colony of the grey-and-white birds ahead, and realized he had been hearing their incessant squawking for a while now. There were at least three hundred of them. The path would take him practically through the colony. Jim tried to remember what he knew about their breeding season, but he had always been more of an insect man. Banishing images from The Birds from his mind, he kept on.

The birds drew closer, and their squawking grew louder. Jim wished he had a leather hat instead of the ball cap he wore. He saw no nests, but every single one of the birds seemed to be watching him suspiciously. He knew gulls were known for mobbing intruders, inflicting serious harm with their sharp beaks. Trying to radiate peaceful intentions, he increased his pace. Males displayed their grey-feathered wingspan, and groups took of suddenly in a flurry of wings, making him flinch.

When at last he was past the stragglers and beyond the colony, he felt like he had crossed a boundary.

Minutes later, he came upon the sign.

_Perigo da vida_ , indeed.

The steep trail took him up among riotous laurel and holly. Uneven of surface, slippery and full of twists and turns, it demanded his constant focus on keeping his footing, until the ascent passed in a trance. When he emerged on the crater rim, it came as a complete surprise. He stood in a deep V in the rim, both arms of the V impossible to scale.

After a vigorous climb, our way folded over the crater edge and took us down into a well-hidden vale...

Jim didn't even need to consult the facsimile. Every step echoed the text.

Descending on the other side, the vegetation changed around him. As the path lead into a damp, shaded valley, rhododendron appeared, and tree ferns sprang up ever more frequently, most specimens larger than he had ever seen them, and with odd, distorted shapes. He tried to estimate their age, but quickly let it go. He didn't feel he could entirely trust his own judgment any longer. Now that he treaded the domain of the document, he seemed to be stepping into his own dream.

The path leveled out, hugging the valley shoulder. Well below him, Jim heard the rustle of the brook that defined the valley bottom. Otherwise, the quiet was complete. The sudden appearance of a brontosaurus would have been entirely appropriate.

Walking on, graceful movement caught his eyes in the still air of the valley. A European buzzard glided there at eye level, its gaze fixed below it. Jim stood transfixed by the perfect majesty of the raptor.

Suddenly, it folded its wings and dropped like a stone, claws extended below it. The quiet was such that Jim could hear the final, terrified scream of the prey.

At the apex of the valley, he found the natural pool the document promised. Dammed by a natural wall, the water had overflowed the banks of the brook to form a wide pond, in which a rushing waterfall poured from twenty feet higher up. Climbing the natural dam, he dipped his hand into the lukewarm water. A vague smell of eggs was yet another reminder of the volcanism all around him.

He took off his clothes, leaving them draped over a tree leaning precariously over the pool, and let himself slide into the water, with only the empty flagon from his pack clutched in his hand. Large submerged boulders made swimming awkward, and the bottom was mucky with detritus. Half paddling like a dog, half clambering over the boulders, cursing whenever he bumped his shins, he made his way to where the waterfall turned the surface into chaos.

The waterfall was not as fierce as it had looked, and warmer than the pond, and Jim was tempted to stay under it and bask in the blessed warmth of its shower.

But he had a purpose.

Unscrewing the flagon he had kept in his left hand as he crossed, he filled it with the warm, vaguely yellow water from the cascade. When he screwed the cap back on, he was surprised by a burst of his own reckless laughter. The world seemed light-years, millennia away. Here he stood, naked, harvesting volcanic water on the say-so of a long-dead...

His laughter stopped abruptly. _Hold that thought_ , he warned himself, but it evaporated before he could ask himself, _What thought_?

Only a vague, uneasy feeling remained.

Pulling himself together, he recalled the final instructions from the document.

Around the base of the cascade, a plant grows that has no known relatives in present-day flora. Distinct, diamond-shaped leaves crowd close around the stem, which bears a single, heptangular flower of pearl white. Mr. Hayes assures me that the leaves of this remarkable plant...

At first glance, Jim spotted no plants of any kind around the waterfall. And as his search grew more urgent, more frantic, his fear grew that the plant no longer existed. He expanded his search to include more and more of the pond's edge, ever farther away from the plunging water. His shoulders and stomach tightened.

It would be the ultimate irony, to come this far only to find the essential ingredient extinct.

Then he let his gaze wander up, and he immediately spotted what he'd missed before. A horizontal line of discoloration marked the rock that hemmed in the pond on three sides, and when he looked back at the dam, he could see evidence of a collapse.

It used to be four feet deeper.

Clambering up the water-slippery rocks under the waterfall, he brought his face to the original water level. There, clinging for life against the steep rock wall, were dozens of the tiny plants Darwin described in the document. Taking no chances, he plucked as many of the leaves as he thought he could without threatening the existence of the species.

Then, storing the leaves in the flagon with the water, he wedged his treasure between two rocks and granted himself the temporary peace and warmth of standing under the waterfall.

Back at the apartment, Jim decanted the water into the kettle and set it to boil. Then he went outside with a tumbler and a sheet of paper, to catch himself a mayfly.

A James Bond set was right. Squatting ugly and forbidding on the rim of the caldera was a brownstone hotel that looked more like the upper decks of a megalomaniac's super-yacht than like any kind of accommodation Jim would stay in. After endless hairpins through evergreen forests and lava fields on the south-facing slope of the giant volcano, the road rounded the building before doubling back around the prow of the hotel and down into the crater.

Jim turned off at the sign saying _Ponto de Vista_ and parked his rental facing a row of blooming holly bushes. A little further on, a hawker was selling ice-cream cones and trinkets from a rickety van. Tourists milled about in a frenzy of photography, shooting the view south towards the ocean, and the towering, ominous shape of the hotel, and the yawning bowl of the caldera beyond the hollies.

Getting out of his car, Jim pulled his coat tighter around him against the whipping wind. The pull of the caldera was strong, but he resisted the desire to take a look. It would be somehow perverse to see for himself before she had shown him.

A tap on his shoulder startled him.

"No peeking!"

Turning around with a guilty start, Jim found her behind him, her small shape all but hidden in a sensible outdoor jacket, sturdy hiking boots on her feet.

"I wasn't...," he started, before he spotted her conspiratorial grin.

"I know. This your car?" She patted the Toyota's roof. He nodded, and she helped herself into the back seat.

Before getting back behind the wheel, Jim granted himself a bemused moment. She seemed different, upbeat, almost... electrified. The most beautiful place in the world must not have disappointed her. Jim was glad; for the first time since agreeing to meet her here, his sense of foreboding lifted somewhat. Shoulder muscles relaxed that he wasn't even aware had knotted up, and he breathed easier.

Maybe her secret wouldn't be as ominous as he'd feared.

As ominous as his own.

As he drove, she guided their way. Past the crater side of the hotel, through a narrow stand of eucalyptus above a steep drop, and on along the crater rim. To their left, Jim caught glimpses of a smaller crater rising up inside the caldera, reminding him of the way baby bell peppers sometimes grew inside larger ones. _Like a wheel within a wheel_ , his inner jukebox suggested, and he smiled.

In the rearview mirror, she was looking wide-eyed at everything around her, elbows on the front seats, never sitting still. Almost a different person. The only shadow across her face had been when he had suggested she drive instead of guiding him. And looking at her now and again, it seemed that shadow still lurked behind her chipper cheer.

Where the rim road swerved steeply down into the caldera, she directed him to the right, onto a narrower road of ill-maintained tarmac. The new road meandered between the forested outside slope of the caldera on their left, and an alien landscape of miniature craters, lava fields, and circular lakes on their right.

After a few miles, the landscape opened wide on their left, and soon she directed him onto a rough, flat lot. There was a map of the area on one end of the lot, with hiking trails marked in different colors. She jogged towards it and took a quick look.

"Come on!"

She waited for only a moment before setting off on one of the hiking trails leading away from the lot.

Beyond the lot, the ground fell away into an abundant green valley before climbing into the forest. The valley was transected by an ancient aqueduct that looked anachronistic, or thoroughly out of place, or both. Nothing moved that he could see, and there was no sound but the wind, and his footsteps in the uneven gravel of the lot. Looking back at the car as he followed her onto the trail, it seemed to Jim that the road marked a symbolic boundary between the lush, quiet landscape where they walked, and the lifeless moonscape on the other side.

His sense of foreboding came inexorably back.

#

The trail took them across the valley floor along the vine-covered aqueduct, and up onto a steep forest path. She set a brisk pace, and Jim soon became too winded for conversation. The quiet accompanied them in among the trees. The smiling, encouraging looks she kept throwing over her shoulder only helped to compound the sinking feeling in his gut, and the tensing of his shoulders, and the increasing concern. Yes, concern. As he watched her climb the forest path before him, he began to understand that his earlier relief at the change in her was wrong. Hers was the energy of abandon; the cheer of having nothing left to lose. _Again_ he began to fear what she would tell him. But now he realized he feared it mostly because he knew he would respect what she told him, whatever the consequences to him.

Or to herself.

The path leveled out and curved until it skirted the very edge of the caldera. As if conspiring to withhold the view from him until the last moment, a natural wall seven feet high and overgrown with brambles and moss stood between the path and the crater. The path led along this wall, curving ever so slightly eastward before starting another steep climb.

"Not far now!" she said over her shoulder, before setting off towards the summit with frantic energy. Jim sighed, and began his plodding ascent.

Arms spread wide, she welcomed him to the top. They had reached the highest point on the caldera rim, Jim saw with his first glance around. With his second glance, he forgot that he was out of breath.

The path lead on ahead of them, hugging the very edge of the rim as it meandered and undulated around the yawning caldera mouth. Miles ahead of them, the slow southerly curve became more pronounced, and Jim caught a first glimpse of the half-mile precipice that was the crater wall. The sheer scale of the volcano was almost impossible to grasp. Jim tried and failed to imagine the seismic violence that must have occurred here.

To his left, the rock wall that stood between them and the caldera had diminished until it was only a four-foot ledge. There was only blue sky in that direction, but he could feel the treacherous pull of the enormous emptiness behind the ledge.

"Take a peek," she said, with a jerk of her chin in the direction of the ledge.

He stepped forward, and the opposite rim came into view, miles away. Jim could just make out the panoramic parking lot, and the brooding hulk of the Bond set hotel. One more step, and he perceived the full splendor of the Sete Citades.

From his position at the ledge, the crater wall was a sheer half-mile drop down to a large round lake of the deepest blue. Lagoa Azul. Eastward, the village of Sete Citades hugged the opposite lake shore, a study in timeless monochrome. Beyond the village Lagoa Verde sparkled with sunlight, as green as the larger lake was blue.

Green, too, was all the dry land that Jim could see. From the tree-lined streets of the village, and the lush rolling grasslands in the valley around the access road, to the densely forested slopes of the crater. The entire caldera shouted Life even as it gave evidence of the awesome powers unleashed here millennia ago.

For signs of subterranean turmoil were everywhere, too. In several spots among the trees beyond the village, steam billowed. Surface bubbles on the near shore of Blue Lake betrayed hot spots deeper in the water. And everywhere the landscape outlined old lava flows.

She had called it the most beautiful place in the world. Right now, Jim agreed.

"Wow."

"Yeah, isn't it," she said at his shoulder. There was a change in her voice; her earlier exuberance seemed to have evaporated. Jim glanced at her. Her cheeks were dry, but her eyes welled.

It was time, Jim knew. Dreading what she had to say, he plunged in and went first.

"I have a baby girl at home," he said with a sigh. "She's three months now. Angie. She's the most magical, wonderful--" His breath hitched with a suppressed sob--"fragile thing in the world.

"I have five months left with her, tops. That's what my oncologist estimates. I said, I don't even feel anything yet. I'm just tired all the time. He said, 'That's how it goes sometimes'. That's doctors for you. He says it's about everywhere already, as aggressive as it gets. I'm--"

She interrupted him by jerking his shoulder.

"Then what the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Her vehemence shocked him. She had turned him around to face her, and stood there with eyes blazing. Tears had spilled across her cheeks, but her frown, and her set mouth, told him they were angry tears.

"You know why I'm here?" She was almost shouting. "You're a dad, you say? I _had_ a dad. I had a mom. I even had a kid brother. And I can tell you: grab all the time you can with them, because it can be over just like _that_." An unusually loud snap of her fingers underlined her last word.

Jim took an involuntary step back at her onslaught, bumping against the ledge. He felt the emptiness and the deep drop behind him, a chill between his shoulder blades. Responses fought for precedence. He wanted to ask her a million questions. Self-defense won.

"That's _why_ I'm here! To win all the time I can!" He realized he was shouting, too, and took a breath to steady himself; the last thing he wanted was to fight her. When he had calmed himself enough to go on, he found he couldn't say the words while facing her. He turned back to face the twin lakes.

"To gain eternal life," he said in a subdued voice, and felt a fool for saying it out loud.

#

"So, he was taken in. Or it's a fake."

Sitting in the lee of the ledge, looking out over the gentle south slope of the volcano, they were sharing the thermos of tea she had brought, and the granola bars from his coat. His statement had pulled them instantly away from the edge of their fight.

She had passed through disbelief and ridicule to arrive at reasoning.

"It's not a fake," Jim said with all the conviction he had in him. "My father was entirely convinced, and he was _the_ leading Darwin scholar. The penmanship, the idiom, the paper, the ink; the edges even match torn-out pages in his journal. And the guy, Hayes, is also documented. He served as a go-between in some of the correspondence between Darwin and Francisco de Arruda Furtado, this Portuguese naturalist working on the island.

"My guess is that my father kept it to himself for the same reason Darwin ripped it from his journal. Darwin's opponents would have had a field day. In his own time, and today as well."

"Guy says we're ape descendants also says there's an eternal life elixir. Yeah, creationists would love that. Don't attack the message, attack the source."

Jim nodded.

"As for being taken in... There's a mayfly under a glass in my apartment. It's been there for more than two days. Alive."

"So?"

"Mayflies are somewhat of a specialty of mine. In most species, the adults live for a day, sometimes a few days. The _Siphlonoris ilsensis_ male I caught has a life span of twelve hours, max."

She frowned, and a doubtful smile played with the corners of her mouth.

"You're wrong about the species."

"I'm not. I don't make mistakes in mayfly determination."

"You're that good?"

"I'm that good. And before you try again, let me tell you this: this insect doesn't have a functioning mouth, and its bowels are full of air. It couldn't live any longer if it sat on a pile of food. I had to let it _breathe_ the infusion..."

"Wait. You--"

"Yes. I followed the instructions in the document. I found the thermal spring, I found the plant. I brewed the infusion, and I tested it on my mayfly. It seems to work." His stomach lurched again, belying his deadpan delivery.

"So now you'll drink your tea, and go home, and live forever?" Just like that, the fire was back. She turned towards him and grasped his upper arm. "Don't do it!"

"You don't understand. I can't die, not now. I can't leave Mara and Angie behind. I can't bear the thought of not being there." He slapped his thigh, trying to convey the urgency he felt. She was shaking her head.

"It's not worth it. Living forever, to see your loved ones die? Dying's better, trust me. I read this book by this French woman..."

"Simone de Beauvoir. I know the book. Eternal life as an eternal nightmare. But I don't buy it. And even if I did, I wouldn't care.

"Because it's not even about seeing Angie grow up. That matters, too, hugely so, but it's mostly that... This is my _family_! I need to be there for them. They're my responsibility. Not even just financially, but in every way that matters. I have to be there for Angie. For Mara. What will she do without me?"

She gave him a crooked smirk and released his arm. A long silence ensued. Then she said, "That's pretty arrogant, isn't it?"

He wanted to lash out at her. She must have seen it in his face, because she drew back. But as quickly as his anger had risen, it dissipated. It felt exactly like she had struck an exposed nerve. Did that mean she was right? Was Mara right in wanting him not to?

He was saved from getting lost in thought by the start of her own story.

"I'm a climber," she said, and Jim was grateful for the shift. "Always have been. I've wanted to climb this crater wall ever since I first saw it on Discovery.

"A year ago tomorrow. I was back home for the summer. We were going out to dinner. Mexican, I still hate the idea of enchiladas. Dinner and a movie. I was designated driver, cos I don't drink. Mom and Dad liked to have cocktails before going out.

"I was wasted though. I'd be fine driving, I thought, and anyway, I wasn't going to tell them why I couldn't drive, was I?

"So I drove my mom, and my dad, and Adam, straight under a semi going the other way. I was tossed from the car, into a ditch, not a scratch. The car looked like it had already been through a compactor. Mom and dad and Adam were still in it."

At some point, he had grabbed her hand, or she his. He opened his mouth, but found he had nothing whatsoever to say. She was silently weeping, a constant stream of tears staining the dusty path.

"I tried. I did it all. My sentence, community service. Therapy. Talks, endless talks. Started a diary even. You can read it if you like. Every page's the same. 'How could I? Please take it back.'

"The letters're farewell letters. I'm writing to everyone I know. Apologies. That's why I don't want your name. I don't want another letter to write. I'm almost done writing.

"Tomorrow, I'll rent a boat and go to the foot of the cliff, right below this ledge, and I'll start climbing. I think I'll get about half-way."

She let her head sink onto her crossed arms. Her shoulders shook.

Jim felt a shock that was close to panic. He should prevent her, he knew, but was appalled to realize that he wouldn't. Their mysterious bond seemed to include an unspoken agreement of mutual respect, which would prevent his interfering more effectively than any physical restriction could.

It angered him into speech.

"That's pretty arrogant, isn't it?"

She looked up, startled out of grief.

"What?"

"You're going for this huge, dramatic exit. Unbearable guilt, the location of your dreams, and a pile of farewell letters. Apologies? Have you even wondered if they expect you to apologize? Don't you think there's a chance most of them have long since forgiven you? Face it: this is about you, and your own guilt. Drawing everyone else into it is theatrical and arrogant. As is throwing away the next sixty years of your life because the last one was hard!"

_"Hard_?" She jumped to her feet, fists planted in her sides, teary eyes throwing flames. "You don't know shit! I haven't slept, hardly, and _every-single-waking-moment_ I miss them so much it kills me, and it's my own _fault_ , and I just... I just..."

Getting up was pure empathic reflex. He gathered her into his arms, where after a brief struggle she leaned into his chest, shaking with her sobs. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek on her hair. Thus they stood, seemingly forever.

"I'll make you a deal," he finally whispered into her hair. "Tomorrow, I'm going to be up here. If you decide to make it to the top after all, I'll be here, welcoming you."

It jumped back into his mind the moment he stepped into his apartment and saw the frantic movements of his mayfly.

On the say-so of a long-dead...

But if this works, George Hayes should not be dead at all.

And why is the mayfly going crazy?

With a sense of urgency he could not easily explain, Jim booted up his laptop. As he waited for the logon prompt to appear, he asked himself what he thought he would find this time that would be different

In his peripheral vision, he saw the blur of the mayfly's movements, and a subliminal buzzing nagged in his ears.

The old man had told him many times that Hayes had died on Sao Miguel, that even Darwin had survived him. But that didn't fit in with what his father had said before he died. It had been a warning, almost biblical in its fierceness, to leave the document be, not to mess with mortality. But why would that warning be necessary if George Hayes had died a natural death, at the end of a natural lifespan?

The Windows opening tune sounded, and Jim logged on.

The mayfly was throwing itself against the glass walls of its cage, and the buzzing now was far from subliminal.

Wi-Fi in the apartment was excruciatingly slow, and even Google took seconds to load. Typing "George Hayes" as fast as he could, he was overwhelmed by tens of thousands of hits. Enclosing the name in quotes, the hit list shrunk, but not by much. Finally, he added the name of the island, also in quotes, and required both search terms using the plus sign.

Five hits remained. Five, not four.

Two familiar hits referred to the same PDF document, a Portuguese treatise on the correspondence of Furtado, the naturalist. Hayes was mentioned there as go-between; this was not new. Another two hits he had seen before were online maps of Sao Miguel, and the match was the result of the name on the shore of the crater lake.

The fifth hit...

Jim clicked, not daring to read the Google summary.

A page opened on the website of the Massachusetts Atlantic Newsline. It seemed to be an electronic newspaper archive, digitized only recently. For a moment, Jim had trouble processing what kind of page he had opened. Then it came together in his mind.

It was an obituary page.

The buzzing crescendoed, then stopped altogether.

"Listen, Mr..."

"Farland," Jim supplied.

"Mr. Farland, I see absolutely no reason why I would share any information whatsoever with you."

Jim glanced at the dead mayfly under the glass. _My mayfly died, how's that for a reason_ , he thought, and almost giggled. But giggling wouldn't do.

"I understand where you're coming from. But please hear me out. This man, George Hayes... I can see he died in 2002, that's right here in the obit you wrote, in Stone Beach, Massachusetts. You did write it, didn't you?"

"That is all good and well, Mr. Farland. But I still don't see..."

The journalist had a good, patient phone voice, but the patience was clearly cracking by now.

"It says here in the obit, Mr. Rabinow, that..."

"... why I would want to..."

"... George Hayes moved to Stone Beach..."

"... give you any information at all..."

"... from Sao Miguel, Portugal."

"... least of all over the phone."

"That's where I'm calling from, Mr. Rabinow. From the island of Sao Miguel."

The line fell silent.

"Mr. Rabinow?"

There was an outrush of pent-up breath on the other end of the line.

"Mr. Farland?"

"I'm still here."

"I am not going to ask you what you are doing on that island, Mr. Farland. And I won't ask you again why you are asking after Mr. Hayes. What I _will_ say is this: Mr. Hayes was a madman."

A cold wind rushed towards Jim over the giant gaping mouth of the caldera. Just for a moment, he struggled with his urge to climb the ledge, peer down, maybe get a glimpse of his struggling Angel. But he knew he shouldn't, and the wind felt like a warning. The climb was her fight; he had already had his. Instead, he lowered himself gingerly, muscles protesting, until he could rest his back against the foot of the ledge.

Out of the wind, the sun felt strong enough to bleach bones, and the rock was warm against his aching muscles. He closed his eyes, resting his arms on his drawn-up knees.

The sleep that had eluded him that night now pounced. Almost instantly, he found himself in a dream, a familiar dream of parting and sorrow. This time though, the sorrow was peaceful, and Mara smiled more than she cried. _That means I'm smiling more than crying_ , he thought with the surreal clarity of the lucid dreamer.

The thought woke him up.

Or perhaps the grunting noises behind him had woken him.

Jim jumped to his feet, instantly alert. He was forced to give his body a conscious command to stay where it was; every muscle screamed to climb the ledge, extend a hand. But he knew this was hers until the very end.

The sound of rocks tumbling, grit shifting. A hand, dusty with climbing chalk, streaked with dried blood from her torn knuckles. Her other hand, then her head, hair tied severely back. Tears had run tracks through the dirt on her cheeks, but her eyes were smiling. Pale and tired, but smiling.

"Hi, Angel," he said as she hauled herself over the ledge.

She landed on her feet before him, legs shaking but stable. For a few moments, they hesitated. Then, with an involuntary throaty sound, she stepped towards him, and as he met her halfway, he heard himself make a noise that could have been a laugh or a sob. His arms enfolded her, and she clung to him.

"Not even close," she said. "It's Debra."

A pang in his heart at her name, so casually tossed out.

"I'm Jim," he said, "but don't you write me any letters."

Squeezing her arms tighter around his back, she shook her head against his chest.

"I lost my pen on the way up."

"But it wasn't just the madness," Debra said. "That made you change your mind."

The depth of her understanding took him by surprise. Rabinow had called Hayes 'the loneliest, most miserable lunatic in the world'. There would be no gain in extending his life, if that kind of madness was the price. But she had put her finger on it. There was something more.

"You're right, it wasn't. Not just that. It was..."

"Choice," she said, and he nodded vigorously.

"Choice, and uncertainty. That's where Beauvoir is wrong, that's her fallacy. It's not the meaninglessness; that's just expectations. It's knowing it's not going to end, having no choice in the matter. Not knowing, every extra day is a gift; knowing, it's just an endless wait."

"Quality time," Debra said with a smile. "The truest cliché."

"Yeah, quality time. Life's not about quantity."

Gazing down into Lago Azul, Debra said,

"That's what I figured. And then I thought: right back at ya. If quality is what counts, we had plenty of that, before. That's still there. And there's more to be found, I believe now."

"But the guilt?"

"Still there, too. I'll have to live with that. Fair's fair. Remember _Godfather three_? 'It is just that you suffer'. But dying wouldn't change that. Only living can."

Jim squeezed her hand. They had said what needed saying. She'd be alright, he knew. The emotion he felt was too large for tears. He smiled at her instead.

"All that as you were scaling a sheer surface?"

"You kidding? I need to _focus_ for a climb like that. Worked it all out last night."

Jim's mouth fell open.

"And still you risked your neck this way?"

She shook her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Jim lifted his eyebrows. She nodded, a pixie grin on her lips.

"You're _that_ good?"

Tilting her head up, she planted a single, light kiss on his cheek.

"I'm _that_ good."

In the lee of the ledge, the letters burned easily. Watching the unopened flagon bounce off the caldera wall, and shatter, Jim wondered idly if they'd be fined for littering.

"'llo?"

"Hi, babe."

"Huh... Jim? Is that you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Go back to sleep, now. I'm coming home."

#  
Operation Sylphinephrine

Ville Meriläinen (Finland)

The headlights of a motorcycle cleaved the dark at the hive's lowest level. Gutter trash crept towards the beam when it drew to a halt, hands aquiver in an effort to touch it, and gave sounds of desperation when the engine's rumble died.

Light was a commodity now. The palace glowed throughout the night, a golden Pharos far in the distance. Down here, a lucky few had candles.

Alasandra Darkroot removed her helmet. A spell made her eyes glint with silver, letting her see the shrouded figures surrounding her. With a look of contempt, she said: "One of you touches the bike, I'll cut your stinger and slit the others' throats with it."

The downtrodden muttered curses at her, but pulled away when she passed. She was a stranger, but bees knew better than to mess with a sylph. She eased away the enhancement from her sight. It made navigating the dark streets easier, but let her see too much.

The hive housed the heart of an empire within its fetid womb. The queen's death had sentenced it to a slow end, and any semblance of peace would shatter once the emperor took his guard away. Revolution brewed beneath the grime and misery, an overture to a war between whores, gangs and the mafia.

They say honey doesn't spoil. The state of Bee-Zharia exposed that lie.

Alasandra passed decrepit houses to one of mere ostensible ruin. Light shone from within, through cracks in the walls missed by those who'd masked its wealth with rugs over windows. In a neighbourhood pockmarked by squalor and poverty, bartending was one of the few professions still sure to keep your purse hefty.

Silence made a round in the saloon, each table ceasing their chatter in turn when they noticed the newcomer. Alasandra was an oddity amongst her kin—black wings and silver skin never promised good—but the clientele commented more on her face and physique. She ignored them, save for the one who braved a touch, and leaned against the counter to address the bartender.

"Sorry, didn't catch that with the racket," said the portly bee in a beer-stained shirt. He looked past her, at the bee lying on the ground screaming. "What happened to him?"

"Broke a finger," Alasandra said. "Pint of lager, please. Hold the honey."

The bartender gave her a curious look and drew her drink. "What brings a fairy to Bee-Zharia?"

"Sylph."

"Pardon?"

Alasandra dug her pocket for coins. "I'm a sylph, not a fairy." She snapped one against the counter and pushed it towards the bartender. He pushed it back when she lifted her finger.

"On the house. Apology for my slip."

Alasandra nodded and pocketed the coin, then turned to scan the crowd. Lowlives, the lot of them, but it made spotting her accomplices easier. That, and the fact bees couldn't afford conditioner. She stepped on the arm of the wounded bee on her way to the corner table.

"Damn, Frank. Your hair gets better every time I see you," Alasandra said, catching the attention of two butterflies in shoddy bee costumes. Both wore black-and-yellow headbands and coats with fake wings attached. Their real ones were folded under the leather, giving them hunchbacked appearances.

"Hello, Sandy. I was starting to worry something had gone wrong," said Frank, the lean and moustached butterfly drumming his fingers against a fedora on the table. He turned to his companion. "Fresh Bobby, meet Alasandra Darkroot, our finest non-operative."

Alasandra shook their offered hands before sitting. "Sandy will do."

"Non-operative, huh," Fresh Bobby said. His arms were thrice as thick as Sandy's, and even sitting down she could tell he was a tall fellow. "Cop or private?"

"Private."

"So, mercenary."

She took a swig of beer. "I prefer private operative."

"Should you be drinking?" Frank asked warily, eyeing the pint.

"It's one beer, Frank. Let me in on the business instead of worrying over mine."

Frank and Fresh Bobby shared a look. Frank gestured for her to lean closer. "You heard about Princess Buttercup?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Frank whispered, glanced around, and went on quieter, "she's not judging Switzerland's Kinders Kan Zing. She's here, in Bee-Zharia. Kidnapped."

"I figured as much. Royal Butterfly Guard sends their top boys into the capital of the enemy, they must've royally screwed up. Next time you have to cover a blunder, don't use a show everyone's watching as an alibi."

Frank spread his hands. "We panicked. Eleanor comes up with the good lies, but she's on a vacation."

"Right. We'll have to get the princess back before people figure out she's not on the show," Sandy said.

Frank nodded. "The next episode airs on Tuesday at eight p.m. Gives us less than seventy hours to complete the mission."

Sandy leaned back in her chair, folded her arms. "Where's she held?"

"The palace. Emperor Bee-Zhar is planning to marry her, to make Buttercup Kingdom a part of his empire."

Sandy frowned. "Buttercup Kingdom is a democracy. The princess is a hereditary mascot."

"Yes," Fresh Bobby said grimly, "but the emperor is a mad old bee, and mad old bees do mad things."

"His precariousness adds another layer of danger to the operation," Frank said. "Emperor Bee-Zhar declared war when the President of Mothswana pointed out what he called irony was actually a pun. If he realises the princess holds no power other than choosing what colour is 'in' this spring, he'll have her executed."

"We can't allow it to happen," Fresh Bobby said. "I have it on good authority it'll be blue this year. If the princess is killed, the nation will dress in mourning black all year." He slammed a fist on the table. "I won't have that! It's Fresh Bobby's chance to shine like the sky!"

"Keep your temper in check," Frank muttered, eyeing the crowd. "We all want the princess home safely. Rousing suspicion won't help."

"Yeah," Fresh Bobby with a sigh. "My wife's gone through too much trouble to rearrange the wardrobe. I won't fail her."

"Which brings us to your role, Sandy," Frank said. "I'm the brains. Fresh Bobby's the brawn."

Sandy lifted a brow. She glanced around before pulling back her coat to reveal a holstered hand cannon. On the grip was etched 'Chaos Theory' in silver lettering.

She gave him a stern look. "I'm the brawn, Frank. I'm always the brawn."

Fresh Bobby leaned closer, tenting his fingers. "Let me be frank with you."

"Don't you fucking tell me I'm the girl, Fresh Bobby."

"No, no. Frank tells me you're eager to get back in action, but this is a delicate mission. We can't have you going around blasting bees. We need you for the discretion your presence provides." He hesitated. "What I'm trying to say is—"

"You suck at being frank," Sandy said with a sullen look and turned to Frank.

He gave Fresh Bobby a sheepish shrug, tented his fingers and said to Sandy, "You're the magic."

Sandy grunted. "Magic? You need a fairy. I don't do magic anymore."

"We didn't have one with the experience," Frank said. "I know you're the brawn, and I know this isn't fair. That's why we're paying handsomely."

"Specifically?"

"Sugarwing Bart. You get him and a month-long cruise anywhere you want. He'll do anything, no questions asked."

Sandy arched her mouth. "Rats. You go straight for the throat."

"He won't." Frank placed a hand on hers. "We need you, Sandy. Buttercup Kingdom's fate hinges on your help. We can't get into the upper city looking like this. They have regulations against being drunk all day."

Sandy hummed, but before she could reply the door was kicked in. She spun in her seat to find a flight of guards storming in.

"Sit still, all! We've received a report of butterflies on the premises!" bellowed the shako-wearing captain. His bees spread around to question the clients.

Sandy faced the butterflies and began to weave her right hand's fingers in a circle. "All right, I'm in. Operation Sylphinephrine is live," she whispered.

"Operation Rapunzel's Tower," Frank hissed, when sparkles surrounded the three of them. When a guard made it to their table, he found three perfectly regular—if dishevelled—bees.

"Ma'am, gentlemen," said the guard with a curt nod. "I'll need to see your papers."

Sandy shot a glare at Frank. He smiled at the guard and dug a pair of passports from his transfigured pocket. "Of course. I've got yours here, honey," he added to Sandy.

The guard inspected the documents, then Fresh Bobby's. "Everything seems to be in order. Ma'am, you must hold your papers at all times."

"She does, officer," Frank said, "but she can be a klutz when drinking. I'd sooner hang onto them than have her forget them somewhere."

"I see." The guard eyed Sandy, then her drink. "That doesn't seem to have honey in it."

"I was in the mood for something exotic," she drawled.

"Is that right." He inspected them in silence, then said, "I can't drink such swill myself, but it's not a crime to lack taste. Have a good one."

The guards left, and before he followed his men, the captain yelled, "Finish your drinks and leave. The establishment will close in fifteen minutes."

The bartender gave a grunt of surprise, but managed a nod. "Yes, officer. I'll get everyone out."

Sandy observed the exchange with curiosity as she and the butterflies made to leave. "The mafia's got the guards bribed," Frank whispered. "The Don decided cards and cigars make a night, and this place has the best whiskey available."

They followed the crowd outside and parted to a side alley to wait for the street to clear. Fresh Bobby stood at the alley's mouth while Sandy and Frank checked it for derelicts. Once he was satisfied it was safe to talk, Frank said, "I've arranged a rendezvous in the red light district with someone who can get us into the palace. She's got people in the kitchen staff. You'll meet them in order to disguise us so we can take their places."

"Right," Sandy said as they joined Fresh Bobby. "Let's move. My bike's parked down the street."

"You'll have to leave it. Too noticeable," Frank said.

"How am I supposed to get across the city?"

"You've got wings, don't you?" Fresh Bobby said and took flight.

Sandy watched his contour vanish into the dark, then turned to the abashed Frank. "Where's the rendezvous?"

"Sleazy Sally's brothel, crack of dawn. Ask anyone if you can't find it. She practically runs the area."

"Got it."

"There's a hostel across the street where you can stay, free of charge. Courtesy of Sally." Frank made to leave. "You could hang onto my feet."

"And that's not suspicious?" Sandy snorted. "I'll walk. It's fine."

"See you there."

Sandy let the disguise fade—with the butterflies gone, the bees didn't care that a sylph walked amongst them. She strode down avenues littered with homeless sleepers and climbed over the debris of fallen buildings where the crowd blocked the road.

Sandy stopped at the bridge connecting the halves of the lower hive. It had crumbled halfway through. She walked to the edge, watching the vast river flowing below, the lights from up high a shimmer on the waters.

She gave a quiet sigh at the murky waters. An ancient emperor had held a gathering for sylphs, pixies and fairies to fill the bottom of the hive after a human had cut it open while trimming branches in the eighties. Sylphs had commanded winds to lift the waters pixies summoned, and fairies had fulfilled the emperor's wish and bound the stream in place.

The eternal river had been a symbol of peace and prosperity. It would be a swamp by the end of the year.

Sandy lifted her gaze to the far end of the bridge. For a while, she could only stare at the distance, then groaned upon noticing her breathing had quickened.

"Dammit, Darkroot. You're stronger than this," she hissed, weaving her fingers in a circle. Sparkles rose from the concrete around her, but they were dim and hoary, dying fireflies. Her motions turned more forceful; the sparkles' lustre waned further. She let them wink into the dark that had birthed them, closed the coaxing fingers into a fist and slammed it against her thigh.

She took a deep breath, held it for a moment before easing it out. Off the edge hung a rope bridge attached onto the wiring on the other side.

"Could've done with something stronger than beer," she muttered, head pivoting along the trail she'd have to walk.

The north side of the hive was in better shape, and rather than following a path of broken dreams, she'd left behind a trail of broken arms of bees who'd accosted her with an appalling lack of respect. Maybe they'd mistaken her for a local. Maybe they'd rethink their tone the next time they greeted a lady, no matter where she sat on the spectrum of sin and grace.

She spotted two tall bees in miniskirts and revealing tops smoking at the mouth of an alley and approached them.

"Sorry, honey," said the taller one, who—Sandy realised only from the low voice—was a drone with an enviably delicate facial structure. "We don't do ladies. Nothing wrong with it, just ain't our thing."

"Directions are enough," Sandy said levelly. "You know where I can find Sleazy Sally's?"

"Ooh, you looking for a job?" said the wigged drone, then nudged the worker. "Better watch out. Didn't you have the john with a thing for fairies?"

"I'm a sylph," Sandy grated.

The prostitutes gave each other unsure glances, then the worker cleared her throat. "Down the street. Turn left at the intersection."

"You'll see the old cathedral's bell tower a block away," added the drone. "Head towards it. The brothel's along the way."

They parted ways, and Sandy headed deeper into the district. The name was fitting. Darkness was disturbed by the red of billboards and bar signs, lanterns over doors and balconies. A window broke on a third floor as Sandy passed below. She watched a lamp arc down and glass follow, glittering like bleeding rain in the eerie glow.

At the intersection, Sandy found a more concrete rendition of her simile. Amber splashes on the street deepened to carmine under the lights, maquillage applied by the baseball bats of a street gang. Three battered bodies rested against a wall while the thugs palavered with the final victim. One of them noticed Sandy, grabbed the bat of his friend and stomped towards her. He stopped in the middle of the road and struck a pose, bat held high, neck lowered, free arm grasping the air between him and Sandy. Sternness petrified on his features as he wagged his fingers, taunting her.

Eyes locked with the bee's, Sandy stepped into the spotlight of a streetlamp and opened her coat. His gaze fell onto Sandy's chest, then onto Chaos Theory.

The bee remained a statue.

"I've walked across the city tonight. I won't strike a pose with aching legs." Sandy's tone hardened. "But I wouldn't mind stretching my trigger finger."

The bee grunted, lifted the back of his hand with fingers spread towards her and held it in place while he turned. A gang sign, of respect or an obscenity, depending on the group—but both carried the added meaning of "no beef." The sounds of a thorax being crushed accentuated Sandy's steps as she walked away.

She spotted the bell tower from around the corner. After a few turns, Sandy came upon the neon sign of Sleazy Sally's place. It was the first stretch where windows were intact and streets clear of battered cars and junk. The lack of debris somehow made the scene seem deserted.

She came to the hostel Frank had mentioned. The bee behind the desk leaned over a newspaper, tapping a pen against her mouth. She glanced up, but Sandy had already walked off.

Sandy crossed the street to Sleazy Sally's and gave a sound of surprise upon entering. The facade was as run-down as the rest of the district, but the interior could've belonged to a five-star hotel. Directly in front was an oval desk set between stairs leading up. To her right was a dimly lit Italian restaurant—not a gun shop as the sign outside claimed—where the most stunning worker bees she had seen murmured with drones. The clerk behind the desk—also quite attractive, and wearing a pantsuit that might've cost more than Sandy's bike—smiled all the way as Sandy walked up to her.

"Evening miss," said the clerk, sizing her up. "Wow, look at you. Chantal would be smitten. Shame she has the night off today." She smiled, folded her hands on the desk. "Not to worry. I'm sure we'll find someone just right for you."

"I'm, uh, not looking to meet anyone," Sandy said. "Not until tomorrow, anyway. I've a meeting with Sally. Thought I'd check the place before calling it a day."

"Ah! You're with—"

The clerk bit her tongue, smiled at a passing couple, and dropped her voice once they were gone. "It's good you came. The meeting's been moved up. The butterflies are already here."

"Something wrong?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. The less I know, the better. I don't even know who you are—only that Madam is expecting you." She placed a sign reading "Smoke break" on the desk and gestured for Sandy to follow.

The illusions upon the butterflies had faded. Frank had covered himself with his duster, fedora resting over his eyes to block the red beam passing in through the cracked window. His legs sat atop one another on the seedy room's desk, between a coffee mug serving as an ashtray and a half-empty bottle of liquor.

Fresh Bobby smoked in the shadow beside the window, watching the street. He turned when the clerk cleared her throat.

"I'll fetch Madam," she said, curtsied and left.

"Hey, Sandy," Fresh Bobby said, closed the window and dropped the blinders. He'd let his hair down, and Sandy took note of its gloss before he wound it up in a bun. The next time she was in Buttercup Kingdom, she'd have to stop by a hair salon to pick up whatever he and Frank were using.

He dumped the cigarette in the coffee mug. "Sleazy Sally's girls got back from the palace and brought bad news." He nudged Frank. "Wakey-wake. Sandy's here."

"'Oh, shoot' or 'code red' bad news?" Sandy said while Frank groaned himself awake.

Fresh Bobby gave a rumbling exhale and tented his fingers. "Let me be frank with you. We thought we had days for the mission, but it turns out that was an optimistic assumption. In reality we may have far less time than what would be optimal for a situation of this calibre."

Sandy gave him a flat stare and turned to Frank.

"Code red," he said.

"Thank you," Sandy said, leering at the abashed Fresh Bobby. "In what manner are we screwed?"

Fresh Bobby tented his fingers once more, and Sandy snapped, "Don't even bother."

"The wedding will be tonight," Fresh Bobby said with a sour undertone, folding his hands behind his back. "We don't have time for disguises. We need to infiltrate the palace and get the princess out ASAP."

"Rats. I could've done with a little sleep," Sandy muttered. "What's the new plan?"

"There is secret passage in the old cathedral," came a voice from the door. Sandy spun to find an elderly bee in an extravagant gown and a hoop skirt entering. She spoke with a heavy Italian accent and constantly twirled her sole remaining hand, as though weaving words. "One a my girls will show the way," the bee continued. "Is a bit tricky getting through sewers."

"I take it you're Slea—uh, Sally," Sandy said.

"Please, Sleazy Sally's fine. Is like a brand." Sally beckoned them along. "You gotta move, now. The princess is running out a time." She spat on the floor. "I am not a racist, but I don't want a butterfly to be my empress. You is okay as clients, maybe whores, but you let a butterfly run a country? Hah! We's already down the shitter. You think it can't be worse? Let a butterfly steer the boat and think again."

Fresh Bobby scowled. Frank patted him on the shoulder and shook his head.

Sandy and the butterflies followed Sally and their guide, Carmen, towards the ruined cathedral. Sally berated lepidoptera all the way.

"And I mean, look at you," she said to Sandy. "You's pretty as a bee's knees, but those wings! Is like a butterfly's!" She shook her head, tutting sadly. "I think God gave fairies wings like that to keep them humble. If you had bee wings, you'd get too prideful."

"I'm a damn sylph," Sandy groused. Sally gave her a glance and waved her hand.

"Ah, what's the difference? Pixies, fairies, sylphs, you all the same."

"We're not the same! Fairies are intangible—they're made of dreams and children's wishes. Sylphs have the biggest wings and are driven by wanderlust. Pixies are sprightly and twee, and tend to be involved with the occult. Usually because of stupidity more than malice." She grumbled to herself. "Those twee little bastards are to blame for half the things wrong with the world. Pandora was perfectly happy not knowing what was in the box and Ivan the Terrible was known as Ivan the Chill before pixies got involved. Hell, I once played cards with one and now I have a foot fetish. He decided to tell me only afterwards 'poker' meant poking a sleeping elder god to see what happens."

"Have you met Chantal?" Sally said, regarding Sandy with an inquisitive look and a smirk. "Is my niece, works the desk. Into foot stuff. You two would be cute together."

"I'm straight."

"You say that now," Carmen interjected, "but Chantal's face and ass are the reasons I'm 'mostly straight.'"

"So," Frank said louder, to silence Fresh Bobby's sudden coughing fit. "We're here. Where's the passage?"

"In the cellar," Sally said, taking out a key ring as they stepped in. Soft snoring resounded in the ruins, and Sandy saw bees asleep under the broken ceiling in the hall ahead. "We don't go in there. Let them sleep," Sally said, guiding the group towards a stairwell to the left. Carmen took point with a flashlight and led them downstairs.

The gallery below was lined with dry, grey honeycombs, fitted with stone caskets. "Is heroes who came home from war without wings," Sally whispered. "Be quiet. Catacombs is ghost playground."

They walked in silence for a while until turning to a passage with smaller combs, and Sally said, "This is where we part. Carmen takes you rest a the way."

"All right," Frank said and shook Sally's hand. "Thank you for your assistance, Sleazy Sally. Buttercup Kingdom is in your debt."

"Is nothing," Sally said with a wave. "You go now before you stink place up."

Frank gestured for Carmen to lead the way. Sandy glanced over her shoulder to find Sally lighting a lantern in front of a comb. "Hold up," she said, then jogged back to Sally.

"Hey," she said. Sally turned her head. "How come you're helping butterflies if you hate them so much?"

Sally hummed, turned back to the casket in the honeycomb. "I's lived long, sylph, longer than I had a right to. I seen butterflies end lives shorter than they ought to've been." She bowed her head. "But butterflies have big wings, and bigger hearts. They know heroes as well as we do, and respect them, even when they's the enemy. Sometimes they borrow wings to those who can't fly back home, so they can see what they died for."

Sandy said nothing. Sally gave a side-look to find her lip twisted.

"We's an old bee saying. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Means something like 'Butterflies is jabronis but if you gotta fight, fight a butterfly.' I don't have to like them to see what's going on isn't right. And I... owe them a small kindness." She smirked at Sandy's solemn air. "What, you's worried I'm about to double-cross you?"

"Well..."

Sally snorted. "Hurry up. You got a princess to save."

Carmen guided the group through a crack in the wall connecting the catacomb to the sewage system. "Says a lot about us," she remarked, "when soldiers rest beside a river of shit."

From there, they traversed the sewers to another tunnel and a rift that took them to an abandoned railway. "This'll get us to the edge of the upper hive," Carmen said at a ramp leading up. "Hope you got your papers with you. I need to skedaddle if we're stopped—they don't like hookers up here. If you got disguises ready, you'll want to put them on now."

"Sandy?" Frank said. She nodded and began to weave her sparkles into illusions.

Carmen watched in awe as three perfectly regular bees appeared before her. "Whoa. Nice touch with the suits. I'd let you snort coke off me any day."

The suburbs were another world compared to the lower hive. The dots of light Sandy had seen from the outskirts were like bonfires up close, driving the gloom out of yards. It was quiet on the street, but sounds of wine-coloured gatherings could be heard in the gardens beyond tall hedges.

"You'll have to find a way into the palace on your own," she whispered when a guard patrol turned towards them. "You'll get into the grounds if you claim you're headed for the new cathedral. They'll let you in even in the middle of the night, but you'll be guarded. Good luck."

She hurried off, jumped into flight when the guards yelled for her to stop. Three of the bees flew after her, while the remaining three confronted Sandy and the butterflies.

"Freeze!" ordered the captain. "Why did your companion flee?"

"She was a prostitute," Frank answered. Sandy and Fresh Bobby gave him wary looks. "She accosted us offering her services. I was just about to alert you when she broke off."

The captain's eyes narrowed. "Papers, please. What are you doing out at this hour?"

"We're headed to the cathedral. It's the anniversary of our sister's death. We're going to pray for her peace."

"And you can't wait until morning?"

"She preferred praying in solitude. I thought it would be nice to follow her ways."

The captain nodded. His severity eased as he went through the papers, and he returned them with a cordial nod. "I see. Everything seems to be in order. Have a good night, and bring my respects to your sister."

The guards flew off after the rest of the squad. Sandy and the butterflies carried on down the street, the palace's glow their beacon.

"It's sickening," Sandy muttered, pausing before a railed gate twice as tall as she. Through the railing she saw bees in masks and glittering attires gathered around a pool, the smell of hot nectar and sounds of giggles thick in the air. The whole yard bathed in light that would've blinded anyone below from sudden exposure. "They're... engorged. Thrice the size of anyone we saw on the way."

"Maybe they're just muscular," said Fresh Bobby, with a hint of indignation.

Sandy shook her head. "I didn't mean that. It's like they're trying to eat themselves to death before the hive dies, or maybe they're oblivious to it and this is how they've always lived. Both speak of deep unhappiness, only veiled better than in the lower city."

"The elite will have no place in the new Bee-Zharia," Frank said when they moved on. "Once the emperor's protection is gone, these yards will become mafia playground. Sleazy Sally and her girls will drive out the gangs of the red light district, and they won't take getting caught in the crossfire lightly. Gangs are already the weakest element of the underground, but they're not desperate. Without a home turf or the elite to fund their operations, they will be."

"I guess the question is whether they'll take revenge on those who took their business or those who took their ground," Sandy muttered.

"We're not here to solve the bees' problems," Fresh Bobby said. "No point worrying about it."

"Have you watched your people fall apart because of their leader, Fresh Bobby?" Sandy said, gaze on her feet and hands in her pockets.

Fresh Bobby gave her a glance, then grunted. "Oh. Sorry. You look pretty young."

"I am pretty young. I was a kid when King Sisylphus cursed us with wanderlust and sylphs started to scatter. My dad left with the wind in a pirate captain's sails." Her lips tightened and voice fell into a grumble. "Twee little bastards telling my king it's a good idea to tamper with the nature of his people. I'd like to tamper my foot up where their good ideas can go."

Fresh Bobby, after short consideration, only patted her shoulder.

"Not to say you aren't right," Sandy went on after the cloud passed. "We can't solve the bees' problems because the emperor is the centrepiece. With him in the lead, Bee-Zharia is doomed. The whole thing still hits too close to home."

After two more interrogations, they reached the palace wall. Signposts guided them off the street and onto a dirt path lined with topiary and primroses. Trees grew tall and thick beyond the wall. Guards armed with ornate lances and garbed in the hooded white robes of the priesthood stood in two pairs around a gate at the end of the path.

"Welcome," said one of the bees, her tone soft and hymnal. "Why've you come tonight, my children?"

"We ask to be allowed into the cathedral," Frank said, offering her their documents. "To mourn for our sister."

She scanned the papers quickly, gestured at the other priest-guards. The gate ground open and she stepped aside, bowing her head. "The Great Queen's blessing unto you, my children. Go in peace."

When Frank passed the others, one's arm shot out to grab his shoulder. The sleeve fell back to reveal an arm of moon-white skin.

Sandy grunted; the first guard gave an inquiring hum.

"What is it, Lady Tashandra?"

The priestess lowered her hood. Summer-green hair fell around a narrow face, set with silver-disc eyes.

"These are not bees," said the sylph, the silver sheen of illusion-breaking melting away, "but the butterflies you're looking for."

Even as she pulled out Chaos Theory, Sandy's elbow shot into the thorax of a priest-guard. Frank and Fresh Bobby, in the span of a second, threw her a shocked look, shared one, and shouldered the guards on each side against the wall. Sandy took aim on Tashandra, but was knocked down by a sudden burst of wind. She rolled to the side to dodge Tashandra's lance, spun and swept her off her feet.

Sandy jumped into motion to grab her dropped gun and whirled around—to find Tashandra in a low flight behind her. They collided, crashing in a flurry of punches. Tashandra landed on top, grabbed Sandy by the hair and smashed her head on the ground. Head swimming—though the impact was softened by grass—Sandy grabbed Chaos Theory and swung, and when Tashandra blocked, stamped down and toppled her to the side. Sandy smacked her temple with the gun, climbed onto one knee and pressed it against her throat. Tashandra gave a gurgle, eyes squeezed shut, and opened them to face the void of the hand cannon's barrel.

"I knew I should've snuffed you back in 1844," Sandy hissed, wiped blood off her nose and cocked the gun. "Oh well. Never too late to correct that. Say hi to your brother for me."

"Uh, Sandy?"

"Busy, Frank," she snapped—and flinched at the sound of a round of loading shotguns. She slowly turned her head toward the butterflies lifting their hands in the air. The living statues surrounding them had become armed guards. Tashandra used the distraction to push Sandy off.

"Oh, Alasandra," Tashandra said with a smirk. "Falling for the old trick. Did you forget how good I am with illusions?"

"I didn't forget anything," Sandy spat, glowering at the guns on her. "I found out you're a player literally a minute ago. How was I supposed to prepare?"

Tashandra raised a brow, then pressed a hand to her chin. "Fair point. I guess I should gloat at the butterflies for missing my involvement."

"Who is she?" Fresh Bobby said to Frank. He only shook his head.

"Oh well. Take them away!" Tashandra said. "I'll report their capture to the emperor personally."

Sandy and the butterflies were taken into a side wing descending into a medieval-esque torture chamber and locked up in cells, Frank and Fresh Bobby in one and Sandy beside them.

"I guess this is one way to get into the palace," Fresh Bobby muttered.

"So," Frank said, leaning on the bars once the guards abandoned them to the dungeon's gloom. "Who was that?"

"That was Tassie," Sandy grumbled. "I should've known she'd be here. She has a thing for right-handing despots. Heard she used to be in cahoots with some moustached human back in the forties."

Frank and Fresh Bobby shared a grimace. "The German or the Russian?" Fresh Bobby said.

"The Assyrian."

"It's really hard to tell age with you guys," Fresh Bobby huffed.

"You should worry about how we're getting out instead," Sandy said. "Don't suppose either of you can pick the lock?"

They hushed when footsteps sounded from the stairwell. A guard bearing a tray of iced tea descended into the dungeon. The gang leered at him with suspicion as he set down glasses, filled them, then pushed them closer with a stick. He smiled at each in turn, frowned when they kept leering, then gave an "Ah!" and filled the last glass.

"It's not poisoned," he said before drinking. "Thought you could use a refresher."

"Thanks," Sandy said with a shifty eye at the tea. She sniffed the cup before taking a sip. "That's a lot of honey."

The guard only smiled, refilling his glass. "What brings you to Bee-Zharia?"

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Conversation. They don't really tell me much anything, so I don't know why I'm guarding ya."

"Wrong place at the wrong time," Frank said levelly.

The bee's mouth took a mournful arch. "Happens to the best of us." He gulped tea before going on. "You don't seem like bad folks to me. It's a shame you'll be executed."

Sandy grunted. "We will?"

The bee sniffed. "Breaks my heart. It's so barbaric." He gave a wry laugh. "Guess I'm just a big ol' softie. Used to work in the mortuary. Guard ain't much better, but there were no positions for nurses. Gotta love them larvae. They're the future, you know."

Sandy blinked, slowly pivoted to the butterflies. "Fresh Bobby," she said with a lilt, "you were asking about my tragic past."

Both he and the bee perked up. "I was?"

"Just before our new friend joined us."

Fresh Bobby cocked his head, then caught on. "Oh, that's right. About... um... your father leaving?"

"Why I couldn't fly before."

"Oh yeah! I did wonder about that."

"Is it really sad?" the bee asked with a fidget.

Sandy gave a solemn nod. "Sylphs don't fly," she said quietly. "Our wings aren't made for it. We glide, with magic." She fell silent, looked down. "I was never good at it. Then I... got married, back when I thought I had a shot at a normal life. My husband was going to teach me flight, no matter what. In the end, I soared too high, couldn't keep up the spell, and fell. Broke both my wings and legs, fractured an arm from the elbow down, and..." Her voice trailed off. She blinked away tears. "I was pregnant."

The bee gasped, slamming both hands to his mouth. Frank rolled his eyes.

"He didn't listen when I said we should wait. Learn together with the kid or something." Sandy turned to Fresh Bobby with a sad chuckle. "But no, he wouldn't let it go. Know why?"

"Why?" Fresh Bobby said, voice hoarse.

She leaned her head back and laughed. "'Cause he thought the bike was dangerous! Can you believe it? I've been riding since I was a hundred and twenty."

"I'm sorry," Fresh Bobby mumbled.

Sandy brushed her nose. "Yeah, me too. He's not a bad guy, but we didn't last long after that. I don't think he really blamed me, but back then it sure felt like it. Didn't help that I blamed him, even though it was as much my fault. Should've been firmer."

"That's so sad," the guard wailed, sobbing into his fist, cheeks wet with tears. "Not the baby. You poor darling."

Sandy approached him with a smile. "I've come to terms with it. Come on, let me wipe those tears."

He nodded with a snivel. Sandy reached a hand past the bars, stroked his cheek. "There. All better."

She then grabbed his antennae and slammed his face against the bars. The guard dropped unconscious. Sandy snatched the key chained around his neck.

"Whoa. Brutal," Fresh Bobby said. He hesitated when Sandy let them out. "Hey, uh... I'm sorry. For your baby."

Sandy snorted. "I had my tubes tied after the first scare. The sob story was just to trick him."

Fresh Bobby blinked. "Then... what was up with you not flying?"

"She failed to strike a pose during Operation Glitterstorm in 1992," Frank said drily. "Tried to use magic to make her hair sway but was too drunk to handle it. Killed fourteen civilians."

Fresh Bobby's eyes shot wide. "That's worse!"

"Eh, it is what it is. Life goes on," Sandy said, grabbed the guard's head and wrung his neck. "But I guess it was a little traumatic. My magic still doesn't come out right."

"Yes, your sprained ego is the true tragedy."

"No need to be snide, Frank," Sandy said sharply, stepping over the bee to fetch their gear. Chaos Theory in hand, she beckoned them along. "Now comes the hard part. We've got an army of bees ahead of us."

They ran through an empty palace, passing only two guards staring out the window and complaining about getting the short straw. "Ridiculous," said one while Sandy and the butterflies edged past along the wall. "Everyone gets the night off except for us."

"They didn't get off duty," said the other. "Word's going around we're leaving the city soon and they were released to prep for it."

"Heard that?" Sandy asked when they got around the corner and continued running.

"Yeah," Frank said. "And that, too. Let's hope they play the whole song."

From up ahead came the organ riff of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

They came to a great hall and ran upstairs. The carpet led to the threshold of ornate doors Sandy shoved open without slowing down.

She ground to a halt in the antechamber beyond. Frank and Fresh Bobby bumped into her, knocking her to her knees and earning a laugh from the sylph and two bees, a drone and a worker, awaiting them.

"Well, well," said Tashandra while Sandy gathered herself. "You still have two left feet, I see."

"Get out of the way, Tassie," Sandy snarled, brandishing Chaos Theory. Silver seeped into her darting eyes and was gone when they settled back on her rival. "No surprises this time. Step aside or I'll put a bullet—"

"You'll put nothing nowhere," Tashandra said, striding forward. Her left hand swam around like she directed an orchestra. Her priestly attire changed into a glittering black pantsuit. Rhinestone sunglasses appeared on the bees, and their guardly garbs became white suits with purple sashes. Tashandra stopped, thrust her hip to one side and snapped her fingers. "Except your foot down when I drop the bass."

"You want me to strike a pose?" Sandy hissed when the bees hit play on the boom box between them and a wobbling bass overwhelmed the organ in the chapel.

"I demand it," Tashandra thundered, "by the ancestral laws that bind us!"

"Sandy, no!" Frank said when Sandy gritted her teeth. Chaos Theory shook in her hand until her grip gave. The clatter went unheard beneath the beat.

"I wish I could decline, Frank," Sandy grated, "but a challenge from a sylph is sacred." She raised her voice for Tashandra. "What are the terms?"

"We win, you return to the cell. You win, we let you pass."

"Fine. You first!"

The bees skipped a track ahead. Tashandra's body became like wet corn starch on a subwoofer, flowing with synthesiser arpeggios while the bees took her sides. Her sparkles wove the bees emerald wings, chiselled their features, sharpened their colours while they struck poses. She made the bees' expressions more dramatic, turned their bodies to glass, birthed twin suns behind each.

Fresh Bobby's mouth fell agape.

Tashandra's laughter rang bright over the tunes when she suddenly stopped. Only her hand danced, turning her body diamond-clear. Colour began to seep back in. Her wings took the emerald green of her minions. Her eyes turned gold, hair blazed with a ruby sheen. Her arms became amethysts, and all the while the glow of the suns intensified. She let deep blue run into her like an ocean swelling within, and when Frank hung his head in defeat, the bees jumped behind her.

A rainbow fell over Sandy.

When the bees raised their arms, rings of Tashandra's colours took hold in them.

"Triple rainbow," Fresh Bobby said, tears welling in his eyes. "It's... the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Trust me," Sandy said, though even she could feel the ground pieces of her heart lifting with elation.

The light vanished, leaving the room in an odd gloom despite the many chandeliers.

"Now," Tashandra laughed, chest heaving, "let's see what you have."

"We can't top that," Frank said, removing his fedora. His luscious golden mane cascaded onto his shoulders from the confines of the hat.

"The only thing we have is better hair," Fresh Bobby said, letting his bun down. Thick, wavy strands, the colour of autumn soil after rain, fell down his back. "But without perfect wind, it won't help."

Sandy stretched her right hand's fingers as though dipping them in a spring. Frank gasped when she ran her free hand through her silver locks and made them sway with a gentle zephyr.

"Sandy," Frank said gravely. "Don't risk it. The throne room is packed with civilians, including the princess."

"Trust me," Sandy repeated before facing him. "I haven't had a drink in hours and shutting her down is the greatest motivator I could wish for. Strike your poses and strike them true. Leave the rest to me."

Frank held her in a stare when she stepped forward. "We demand Power Metal," Sandy proclaimed.

The bees turned to Tashandra. She sized Sandy up. "You place your faith in your hair? You're a fool, Alasandra."

"Maybe," Sandy said, taking a cassette tape out of her pocket. She tossed it to Tashandra. "But the laws bind you as well. Obey the wish or forfeit."

Tashandra caught the tape and spun it to read the label. "'Sandy's Boss Battle Megamix'?"

"Play the B-side. You're just a miniboss," Sandy drawled.

Tashandra snorted, but gave the mixtape to her bee. A mighty riff filled the room. When the drums began their gallop, Frank joined in on the singer's cry, then bounded forward. He jumped high in the air, kicked a split and let his fist swing when he landed. He carried on the motion to thrust it high in the air, and for a glimpse, his hair was perfect.

But, only for a glimpse.

"The brains!" Frank shouted, sweeping out his arm with his fist still raised.

Fresh Bobby took the cue to leap forward, knees bent back, and landed with a slide until he was parallel with Frank. He jumped up, stamped one foot out and flexed his muscles. He jerked up his head, and for a fleeting second, his hair was perfect.

But, the second fled.

"The brawn!" Fresh Bobby bellowed, reaching an arm towards Sandy as if to pull her over.

The song reached a furious solo, but Sandy walked forward with poise and grace. Only her fingers matched the frantic tempo of the song. White streams took shape around them, little slivers of condensed air. She raised them to her face, let them flutter her lashes and kiss her cheeks before she blew them out.

At first, nothing happened. Sandy stopped between the butterflies, who exchanged a nervous glance.

"What're you?" Tashandra sneered. "The mute?"

Sandy chuckled. Her slivers turned into gusts, making the bees cry out in awe.

The gales surrounded Frank, swirled playfully amidst his locks and pulled them back like a lover's brush. He gave into their sway, thrust out his hip and spread his arms behind him.

The gales swept over Fresh Bobby, lifted his strands in a way nothing else could, held them lofty and glorious. He winked at the worker bee, earning a squeak from her.

And last, the gales hoisted Sandy aloft, slowly, elegantly, her arms spread in a gesture of benevolence. It was a pose unlike any other, struck with the impact of a god's hammer when the wind caught her hair and caressed it into perfection.

Raising her chin, she yelled, "I'm the motherfucking magic!"

The music ended with a squealed harmonic. Sandy and the butterflies held the pose.

A shutter clicked in the sudden silence. Tashandra wheeled to find the worker lowering a camera with shaking hands.

"NO!" she screamed, falling to her knees. "YOU IMMORTALISED THEIR POSE!"

"I'm sorry, boss," said the guard, voice frail and on the verge of breaking. "I can't begin to guess what Chantal will do for this photo..." She pressed her eyes shut and whispered, "But it'll be so hot."

"Does anyone else think setting up Sandy and Chantal is starting to sound like a plan?" Fresh Bobby said. Sandy rolled her eyes, boots tapping on stone when her winds dissipated. She picked up Chaos Theory, walked up to Tashandra and stopped before the fallen foe.

"Say it," Sandy hissed.

Tashandra gave her a poison glare. "Don't twist the knife."

"Say it, Tassie."

Tashandra growled, rose to her feet. They stared at each other for a silent moment, until Tashandra's sneer set into a line. "That was..." She paused, grimaced, and spoke through gritted teeth. "That was the greatest pose I've ever seen, Alasandra."

Sandy inched closer until their noses touched. "You're goddamn right." She pulled away and, without taking her eyes off Tashandra's, said, "Take the boom box, Fresh Bobby."

Tashandra grunted and stepped away to let Sandy pass. The bees opened the doors for her. Beyond awaited a sea of murmuring bees in fine attires, parting off the red carpet. Past the crowd stood a minister, Princess Buttercup in a bride's dress, and the disgruntled Emperor Bee-Zhar in a ridiculous yellow outfit and a hat as tall as he.

"Finally," grumbled the emperor. "The organist refused to play with the hellish racket. We had to interrupt the ceremony!"

"Did you do the part where you ask for objections?" Sandy said, lifting the hand cannon. "Because I have this theory you'll want to consider mine."

"I have no appreciation for irony," groused Emperor Bee-Zhar, stepping off the platform. "You cannot stop me. Whether I marry the princess or not, Buttercup Kingdom will be mine!"

Sandy pulled the trigger. A bullet the size of her fist sped at the emperor, and diverged towards the organist. A squelch, a rain of viscera and the emperor's scream followed.

"Aah! He didn't play the best part yet!" he shrieked. "That does it. Tashandra! Unveil the plan."

Sandy grunted, pupils turning to silver. She now saw the windfield protecting the emperor...

And that the floor was, in fact, a giant robot.

She wheeled at the sound of snapped fingers to find Tashandra leaning against the doorframe, grinning wickedly.

"Oh, Alasandra," she chuckled. "I can't believe you fell for another—"

Gore spattered along the white stone. "Son of a whore," Sandy snarled, bonking her head with the smoking gun as Tashandra's headless corpse slumped down. "Dammit, Darkroot! There's always a giant robot!"

The emperor opened a hatch at his feet and jumped into the robot's cockpit. The illusion faded and the robot rose with a rumble. Bees flew around the room in panic and Sandy jumped backwards into the antechamber, but Princess Buttercup slid down the metal skin, falling to hang off a bolt.

"Frank! Fresh Bobby!" she cried. "They broke my wings! Help!"

"Bwahaa!" came the emperor's metallic laugh when the robot grabbed the princess and stuffed her inside a hatch. "Behold my giant beebot! This city can crumble—my armies are ready to swarm Buttercup Kingdom!"

He broke through the palace's ceiling and soared into the night within the hive. The butterflies flew after him, were disoriented for a second when Sandy zoomed past, then caught her slipstream.

"Not today, emperor!" Sandy yelled, conjuring up a magical storm cloud. "I've got my mojo back, and if there's one thing giant robots fear, it's—"

The cloud fizzled away.

"You fool," said the emperor. "I drained the power locked in the river to give my beebot anti-magic properties! Spells cannot withstand the might of science!"

"You—" Sandy stammered, then yelled, "You're the reason the city's dying!"

The beebot paused to hover. "Eh?"

"You can't undo fairy magic! It's made of hopes and dreams—by draining it, you did the same to your citizens near the river!"

The emperor was silent for a moment, then came a metallic, "Oh."

"Yeah," Sandy shouted, spreading her arms. "So how about giving it back? You don't need Buttercup Kingdom if you can restore Bee-Zharia to its former glory."

The beebot's finger creaked against its metal chin. The emperor laughed. "I don't care. I'm a mad old bee, and mad old bees get to do mad things."

He swept an arm out and Sandy's lifting wind vanished. She shrieked and fell, but Frank caught her.

"We're going old school," Sandy growled, changing Chaos Theory's clip as the emperor soared away. "Be my wings, Frank. Fresh Bobby! Do you have the boom box?"

"Right here."

"Is the mixtape still in?"

"Yeah."

Sandy's eyes narrowed. "Flip in the A-side."

A mighty riff resonated in the beehive's hollow. Backed by Speed Metal, the chase was on.

The emperor's giant robot burst out of the hive into the garden of one Patty Branson, who was celebrating her 84th birthday with a moonlight romp with her lover, Tim. The couple was so caught up in their lovemaking that neither noticed the robot nor the two butterflies and a sylph chasing it—although Tim did mutter something about "those damn kids and their rock music."

The beebot blasted the butterflies with missiles and lasers, chipping flowerpots and knocking over mailboxes as they flew over the sleeping city. The lights of the verdant lands of Oak Ridge Botanical Garden, home to Buttercup Kingdom, shone across the river.

"You cannot stop me," cried the emperor. "My army is endless! They will blacken the moon as they—" He bit his tongue, then screeched, "Aagh! I forgot to order the assault!"

He pulled to a halt, spun around and shot back towards the hive.

"Frank, drop me!" Sandy said when the beebot passed. Even as Frank let go, Sandy's sparkles surrounded her. The wind waned with a command from the emperor—but not before it had launched Sandy after him. Wings wrapped around her body, Sandy bulleted through the air and caught onto the beebot's leg.

She scaled the frame to the cockpit and popped up with a grin to face the emperor. The beebot stuttered when he jumped back in his seat.

Sandy smashed Chaos Theory through the window and grabbed the emperor by the collar. "Release Princess Buttercup and I might not break your legs," she growled.

"I can't!" the emperor said, struggling in her grip. "The robot needs to be powered off first. You need to let me land."

Sandy arched her mouth, nodding, then said, "Or I could do this."

She pressed the muzzle against the control panel and fired. The beebot went limp with a bzzziuw.

"Nooo!" shrieked the emperor, grabbing his antennae when the stolen magic began to flow towards Bee-Zharia as low-riding northern lights. "You bastard! My beautiful beebot!"

Sandy heard a hatch opening below and the cry of the princess. She dropped off and fell after her.

"Wait! I can't open my seatbelt now!" came the emperor's scream.

Sandy was too far to hear, weaving up a counter-wind to slow the princess' fall, then halt it completely. They floated in place until Frank and Fresh Bobby caught up. The beebot fell into the waves in the distance.

"Princess Buttercup!" Frank said. "Are you hurt?"

"No, thanks to Alasandra," the princess said, shaking but trying to put on a smile. "When we get home, I'll see to it you're all knighted."

Sandy stared towards where the beebot fell. "Did anyone notice if the emperor made it out?" she said with a frown.

"It was way too far to see—" Frank began, but Sandy was already halfway across the river.

She plunged into the water. The beebot had sunk out of sight.

Sandy swam until her lungs ached. When she was about to give up and turn, she noticed rising bubbles. The emperor swam towards her, arms flailing desperately... until they slowed, then ceased moving. Sandy kicked down, caught him and swam up, gasping for breath when she reached the surface.

The butterflies came to her in a solemn mood. The emperor lay still in her arms. Sandy made a hesitant sound, but before she came up with anything to say, the emperor began to splutter and cough out water. He drew breath, eyes opening to wander around until they settled on Sandy.

"You saved me," he whispered. "After all I've done, you saved me?"

Sandy chewed her lip, shot Frank a glance. "Um..."

"Awkward," Fresh Bobby said in a singsong tone.

"I actually wanted to confirm the kill," Sandy said.

"What?" the emperor said tonelessly.

"If you don't give the order to strike, the army stays on stand-by. One of your daughters becomes the empress, and none of them is a mad old bee. There will be no war."

The emperor's eyes widened when Frank's gun gave a click. "Operation Sylphinephrine complete," Sandy said.

"Operation Rapunzel's Tower," Frank said and pulled the trigger.

Two weeks after Princess Buttercup had announced the winner of Switzerland's Kinders Kan Zing, a knock came on Sandy's motel room door.

"Nice getup," Sandy said as Frank entered. He'd replaced the scruffy duster and fedora with a sea-blue suit and a matching homburg hat.

"I'm on my way to a birthday party. Thought I'd drop the tickets on the way," Frank said, handing her an envelope. "A limo will pick you up tomorrow morning. Sugarwing Bart was a bit disappointed you didn't want him along."

Sandy shrugged. "Can't be helped. I've, uh, met someone."

Frank cocked a brow. "When?"

"While getting my bike back from Bee-Zharia."

"Ooh! A bee? How progressive!" Frank gushed, sitting on the bed. "Who is it? Do I know him?"

"I've learned," Sandy said slowly, "that I'm mostly straight."

Frank's face went blank.

"Don't tell Fresh Bobby."

Frank shook his head. "I'm already sick of his fan fiction. If he knew his ship's afloat, there'd be no end to it."

Sandy went back to packing, then noticed Frank hesitating. "Was there something else?"

Frank tented his fingers. "The princess wants you back in the Royal Butterfly Guard."

Sandy froze. "Uh, n-no thanks."

Frank got up. "Thought as much, but had to ask. Don't be a stranger, you hear?"

"I won't."

He closed the door. Sandy continued getting her things together, but after a moment closed her suitcase and slammed it with a fist. She ran out to find Frank turning to the street.

"Hey!" she called. Frank stopped. She chewed her lip walking up. "If you ever need me, I'll..." She swallowed hard, waved her hand in an insouciant gesture. "I'm okay being magic. I still prefer brawn but..." She shoved her hands in her pockets. "Fresh Bobby's got the muscles for a better pose. We make a good team."

Frank smiled. "Are you saying I'll see you at the office?"

Sandy bowed her head. A smile pushed through. "If I can scribble an honorary prefix of 'private' on my name tag."

Frank laughed, then offered a hand. "Heck, I'll scribble it myself. Welcome back, Operative Darkroot."

She returned to her room, hand lingering on the knob after she'd pulled the door shut. Heaving a sigh, she leaned against it.

"Back in the guard, huh," she muttered, watching the ceiling fan spin. "You did good, Darkroot. Try to stay still for five minutes this time."

Sandy went to the cassette player on the nightstand beside her bed and opened the slot. She listened to the ominous opening strings of Sandy's End Theme Compilation, stepped back and locked eyes with her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She slowly approached it in a dramatic fashion, maintained the stare while closing the door and turned off the light when the track ended.

Through Tiled Spaces

Dennis Mombauer (Germany)

Their work done, Phalendra and her people gathered for the trek home, to their old lives and waiting families. None of them had seen the sky unfiltered for a long time, only through glass ceilings or high windows, and they longed for fresh air, without the stench of chlorine and disinfectants.

They had stayed in here with the Thermaestreans and built wonderful things for them, mechanical marvels of unequaled complexity. They had crafted public clocks with errant hands, automated fans to provide a milder climate, legged lamps traveling along the ceiling, metal-fish to cleanse the water. They had repaired devices inside the walls, which the Thermaestreans didn't understand and couldn't maintain, and they had adjusted the ancient pumps – but now, it was time to go home.

When Phalendra tried to visualize her husband and daughter, their faces blurred with all the Thermaestreans she had seen over the last five years, as if these strangers were trying to take her family's place. Phalendra concentrated on the lines under her husband's eyes, on her daughter's sleek nose, much more beautiful than Phalendra's own... trying to hold on, to remember.

Thepatros and Zelosa... why was it so hard to think of them with their names, their true personalities? She could not lose them, would not allow herself to, even if it took all the strength she had, even if it meant sacrifice. The way here had been long and arduous, and much had changed in the meantime: but Phalendra was intent on making it back, alive and in one piece.

They were twenty-one people in all, craftswomen as well as –men, their clothes threadbare, their hair long, marching in single file through the halls. The floors were tiled as well as the walls, the vastness between them taken up by great empty basins and circular stains of oxidized iron, scabbed wounds in the architecture of reality.

"This will be our first obstacle on the way home, and it's one we are prepared to overcome."

The room was enormous, its domed ceiling stretching almost out of sight, shrouded by evaporation mists that made the air heavy. A sand-covered beach hugged a massif of artificial rocks, grey plastic rising up in steep slopes, riddled with tunnels and grottos, a dizzying landscape that Phalendra's people had to climb.

"We have scaled these cliffs before, remember: we can surely do so again. Come with me, and I will bring you home."

Phalendra started her ascent, trying to find hand- and footholds in the ragged plastic. The beach below her grew smaller when she occasionally stopped to look for her people, and the sweltry climate covered her skin in moisture.

It was difficult work, and Phalendra summoned the people of home before her inner eye, the people they had left behind five years ago, friends and rivals, family and acquaintances or even Phalendra's neighbor, a bloated stone-chiseler who let his garden grow wild: and as anger rose through Phalendra's veins, it dispelled all pain and exhaustion, allowing her to go on without pause.

She didn't know how long it took her, but she finally heaved herself over a wider ledge and into the mouth of a cave. "Come on, it's getting easier up here. Just make sure that you always have two solid holds!"

Her people clung to the cliffs like a pack of coconut crabs, slowly crawling toward Phalendra. To the left, someone lost his grip and fell, wordlessly and without spectacle, plummeting down to vanish between the waves.

Had it been someone important? Levander? Virgiliah? Nestring? Phalendra hated herself for this thought, but when she – when they all – wanted to reach home again, there were some people more needed than others: Levander was wise and reliable, Virgiliah carried the maps and Nestring could read the stars, even though they only shone through a ceiling of glass.

More heads than just Phalendra's had turned to their lost brother or sister, and suddenly, a second climber collapsed backward from the cliff, arms flailing to no effect.

"Don't look, climb! Concentrate on the wall, on your foothold and a firm grip!" Two casualties on the first leg of the journey... this wasn't a good omen, but Phalendra would do her best not to lose anyone else. "Listen to my voice, come to me, but be careful! Don't take risks!"

While the others scaled toward her, Phalendra explored the cave, where a warm waterfall sprayed down through the stone-shaped plastic and disappeared into a grated gully. A tunnel looped through the massif, and she was certain that it would lead them into the next hall, smooth sailing on their way home.

"There is a cave here, a path we can use. Come on, it's not far now!"

It took some time before everyone had reached the ledge, but nobody else fell, and eventually all nineteen survivors were marching along the tunnel.

Phalendra's people wandered out into a land of mist and steaming whirlpools, of plastic curtains swaying before tiled hallways and distorted loudspeaker announcements in the distance. She walked at the top of the column and couldn't see the rear, the stragglers bleeding into the fog behind her.

"Keep together, please. Levander?"

"Here. I'm with Nestring, everything's alright... we should be going in the right direction."

A spot of color appeared in the distance, and Phalendra could make out a horse-headed inflatable island near the shore. There was a man sleeping on it, clad only in swimming trunks, his naked torso covered in trails of grey hair. He seemed old and frail, his skin pale from the artificial illumination, as they had long since left the windows and skylights of the Thermaestreans behind.

"Hello?" Phalendra made her voice firm, but not unfriendly, immediately jolting the man from his sleep. His eyes were dull orbs, and he turned his head sideways, trying to locate Phalendra by ear alone. "I'm sorry – we didn't mean to startle you."

"Do not worry, travelers." The blind man paddled his island to the pool's edge and climbed on land. "It's rare to meet wanderers on this road, on this long way through dangerous lands. My name is Rokalos: what story brings you here?"

"We are on our way home after working five years for the Thermaestreans. We want to get back to our families as soon as possible."

"Yes, yes, of course. I've heard that tale before, although with different names. Everyone wants to go home, don't they? May I join you for a fraction of the way?"

"Where are you headed?"

"Wherever you are."

Phalendra exchanged looks with Levander, Virgiliah and the others, then nodded. The blind elder didn't seem like a threat, and if he knew the area, he might very well be helpful. "Alright. But if you lag behind, we can't wait for you."

They continued onward again, quickly leaving the plastic island and its pool behind, crossing bridges over coldly fuming water and passing whirlpools whose bubbling sounds followed them through the fog.

A loudspeaker awakened somewhere along the invisible walls, closer than all announcements before – and for the first time, Phalendra could make out words.

"Halchrchh to the Receptacle-Deschrchh please... Halchrchh to the Receptacle-Deschrchh. There is someone looking for you..."

The transmission was full of white noise, the names barely audible through spikes of static and shrill feedback.

"Don't listen to this, stay together. Let's count through." The count ended at eighteen plus the old man, and Phalendra stopped the trek. "Who is missing?" Heads shook silently, shoulders shrugged, blank eyes staring at Phalendra.

"Chrchh... Levander... please come to the Receptacle-Deschrchh... your family is waiting here for you. Your wife Lykeria, your two sons Hepan and Prokos... chrchhhh... please come here..."

All eyes turned to the bearded Levander, who smiled sadly. "I wish that could be true... but Lykeria and the boys are back home, not out here in no-man's-land. They must be men by now, grown and strong... I do long to see them, I truly do."

"And you will see them, when we get home. Everyone, ignore these announcements, they are not real."

But it was already too late: other voices reverberated through the fog-shrouded halls, calling out names, listing family members, loved ones, pets, even dead relatives buried back home under the open sky, not under the glass and concrete of the pools, where the only wind was artificial and the sun never rose.

Most of the trek reacted like Levander, but others... others listened intently, their eyes glazing over, their legs twitching toward the void.

"Come... there are those you miss so much waiting for you, waiting just a short distance away... follow us, come to them, reunite as you have been promised. Come with us, and we will bring you home."

The announcements sounded clearer now, and Phalendra could feel an hypnotic pull as they repeated the names: Thepatros and Zelosa, her husband and her daughter, Thepatros and Zelosa... so close, just wanting her to step into the fog...

"Come with us... we will bring you home..."

"Don't listen to them! Follow me!" Phalendra's words drowned under a flood of other words, from the loudspeakers as well as from her own people, who shouted questions, pleas or defiance toward the billowing steam. Some members of the trek stumbled off, followed paths of differently colored tiles along the floor or descended into the whirlpools.

"Block your ears! Stuff something in them!" Phalendra ripped shreds from her shirt, rolled them up and pressed them deep into her ears. The noises abruptly receded in volume as well as quality, no longer alluring, no longer like a hidden current under calm water.

She couldn't hear anything except a muffled murmur, but people were still opening and closing their mouths at her, obviously shouting in panic. Phalendra pointed at her ears and began to walk. They needed to get out of this fog!

About half the people made it into the next hall, where Phalendra gathered them in a huddled group. Levander was here, as was Virgiliah – but Nestring had gone missing, together with many others from their trek.

They waited for one hour, two, three, staring at the surging steam behind an airlock of plastic curtains: but nobody else appeared.

"We can't wait for them forever."

"Your people are lost now: they cannot find their way out alone." The blind Rokalos stated what Phalendra feared, and she found herself disturbingly ready to believe him.

"Then maybe we should go back, search for them." Levander stroked his beard, prowling along the plastic curtains like a captive shark. "We will block our ears again, and we will find them: they can't have gone far. Who's with me?"

A few people nodded, but the rest turned their eyes to Virgiliah, who resolutely shook her head: "The risk is too great. We don't know what's in there, what has lured our brethren from the path and snatched them up; we don't know what creatures we might encounter in the cold mist."

"She is right, Levander." Phalendra heard the loudspeaker voices as a faint, haunting echo, making her heart shiver: "We have escaped once, but there is no guarantee that we can do so again. If we want to get home, we have to keep going forward."

"Do what you will, but I won't leave them. You can continue, but I'm not ready to give up on the others. Anyone who wants to come with me is welcome; the rest, good luck. I shall see you at home."

Only two people went with Levander, both close friends of his, while the others watched them be gradually swallowed by the fog.

"Should we have gone with them? Levander is a wise man, a man of experience: what if he is right?"

"He is right, but his way is only one possibility. There are good reasons to press on, too." Virgiliah turned away, the outlines of their three comrades no longer visible in the white tide.

"With any luck, we will see Levander again." Phalendra straightened herself. "It is a risk he is taking, a risk that can't be expected from us. He is brave, and he might become a hero: but we are not on our way to be heroes, we are on our way home. Think of your families: do they want you to return or to die a hero's death, out here in the vast emptiness?"

She resumed the march, and Virgiliah, the other five and the old man followed her without hesitation, forming a tighter, more compact group.

They entered an abandoned wasteland, as barren as any desert Phalendra could imagine. The halls featured waterless basins with impossibly huge drains, terrifyingly deep diving pools and life rings drifting in great swarms over still water.

They trekked along the pool edges, stopping only briefly to eat some rations before Phalendra pressed on. The tiled halls merged into further tiled halls, basins connecting to each other through canals and underfloor pipes, an endless network of chlorinated water.

"Look!" Virgiliah pointed at something near the mouth of a corridor, a strange contraption rising from the furbished floor. "Any idea what that's supposed to be?"

It was a shrine of water buckets and broomsticks, adorned with used rags and slowly dripping cleaning agents, running like tears of white honey. The squeegees and sponges almost formed a face, with a string of bottle caps as carious teeth and swimming goggles instead of eyes.

Virgiliah stepped closer and reached toward the thing's head, almost exactly at the same height as her own.

"Don't touch this. You will anger the superintendent." The old man in his trunks couldn't see her, but he seemed to sense her movement.

"But what is it?" Virgiliah scooped up a few drops with her finger and savored them. "I've never tasted something like this before."

"It is nectar, but it is not meant for you. You have to leave it alone, or there will be trouble."

"It is... like nothing I have ever tasted. Come on, try it. Phalendra, you too!"

Phalendra looked around, seeing no one except their own group, only tiled walls and pool water along the horizon. "I don't know... maybe we should leave it alone."

"Why?" Virgiliah guided more drops into her mouth, and the others followed her example, some even licking the white jelly straight from the statue.

"You shouldn't do this. I warned you." Rokalos stepped backward, away from the group. "The superintendent won't like this at all."

"Yes, stop it." Phalendra walked around the strange shrine. "Why are you doing this? Remember, we want to get home, not wallow in this honey or whatever it is. Why take this risk? It can't possibly taste that good. Stop it!"

Phalendra raised her voice, made it hard and pointed like a thrusting fisher-spear. Her companions were licking at the statue, trying to hug it, scooping up more of the viscous jelly with their hands. "I said stop it!"

Virgiliah turned to look at Phalendra, but at the same moment, someone stumbled – and suddenly, the whole shrine was crashing, plummeting down with an enormous racket.

"What have you done?" Rokalos distanced himself in horror. "You destroyed it?" He shook his head, as if to undo the past, then walked farther away from the group. "I wish you good luck, but I can no longer travel with you. See your story through to the end, now that you have angered the superintendent – I will not be a part of it anymore."

They could have tried to repair the broken shrine, but without spare parts and tools, even their skill as craftspeople wouldn't have been enough to hide the damage. Phalendra didn't lecture the others, she just started to walk again – and for the next hours, they all trudged on in silence.

Virgiliah's maps led them past another ridge of plastic rocks, along a shore of misty water, fed by serpentine streams just wide enough for an air mattress. It had been a long time since they last passed a window – a long time since they last saw the world outside.

Somewhere in the distance, lifeguards stalked the shallow embankments of the swimmer's pools, polishing ladders and drainpipes with emery-rough talons, but Phalendra kept her trek well away from them.

They entered another hall and were presented with two paths: a vast, stirred-up basin with turbulently rotating water and a series of stagnant children's pools, overgrown with reed and algae, a quagmire stretching through multiple halls.

The edges of the giant whirlpool connected directly to the walls, so they would have to swim through and hope to avoid the maelstrom – the swamp, on the other hand, was murky and expansive, its risks not as readily apparent, hidden under the surface.

"Where should we go? I don't remember this from our journey to the Thermaestreans... we didn't come this way, did we?"

"Yes, and no." Phalendra surveyed the foaming water of the whirlpool and the overgrown marshland. "We have heard so many tales of the halls changing, of them shifting and tangling that this shouldn't be a surprise. This is a labyrinth, not a straight path. We always knew that it would be difficult to get back, that there would be obstacles."

"But what should we do?"

"We choose a path, and we follow it." Phalendra wished that Levander were here, that he returned from the fog-land... but she had let him go, and he might never come back.

"Let's take the marshes. There may be dangers, but at least we can take our belongings with us and don't have to swim."

#

Wading through the waist-deep water was eerie, as if they were moving through the still life of a swamp, its motionless reflection.

A real swamp would have insects, buzzing clouds of them, frogs and flitting swarms of fish, a multitude of cries and noises. There was wetness, lumpy green things sloshing against their thighs and a faint smell of mustiness: but it was far removed from a marshland in the real world, its nature as a man-made pool all too transparent.

"How far do you think this goes? It can't be much farther, can it?"

"No way to know." Phalendra's legs ached with every step through the gooey sludge, and she was disgusted by the slimy algae drifting in it. "Just keep on walking and we will reach the other side eventually."

The ceiling curved down before them like a wall of storm clouds, only to lead into another submerged hallway, a valley of turquoise tiles with sea snakes painted on them.

"It's funny that they used snakes, isn't it? As an artist, I can–" In the midst of speaking, Virgiliah was pulled down in an explosion of foam and spraying water, vanished between the algae just to come back up, thrashing violently.

"What–"

Someone else was carried off his feet and suddenly the water was full of movement, bow waves rippling the swamp in criss-crossing lines.

"Run!" Phalendra sprinted as fast as the mud would let her, raising her legs high, almost jumping with every step. There was no time to look back for the others, no time to help anyone: she had to get out, reach solid ground before she was snatched up as well.

She emerged from the hallway and climbed a rusted ladder toward a recess in the walls, opening a door, falling through it. There were screams behind her, out in the swamp, but she ignored them, concentrated on her breathing, on her lungs pumping air in a frantic rhythm.

No one followed behind her... and slowly, the sounds died down, the splashing of water, the heavy impacts and panicked pleas.

Phalendra closed the door and started to walk, along a corridor with numbered lockers on both sides. The lightbulbs on the ceiling flickered, and every blink of darkness opened and closed new combinations of them.

Wet footsteps covered the floor out of nowhere, leading in circles: and with each cycle of blinking lights, their trails changed, as if spectral visitors were crowding the space between the lockers.

What was happening? Phalendra hurried through the corridor, doors opening and closing around her with metallic clangor, an inhuman chorus building up to a crescendo.

"An act of trespassing has been performed inside the swimming pools."

The corridor split into branches, the branches opened into a vaulted chamber. Covered slides formed the only exit, a trickle of water flowing down, signal lights glowing red or green above their openings.

"There is property damage and something has been stolen, although not in large quantities. This cannot be tolerated. There will be consequences."

Phalendra ignored the loudspeaker voice echoing through the hallways and instead began to crawl into one of the greenlighted slides.

The tube snaked downward in long curves, permeated by a murky half-light. The air was stagnant and there was so little of it, all heavy with the hollow reverberations of the trickling water.

Noise swelled up behind Phalendra, a great roar of rushing water--and before she could react, something crashed into her, enveloped her, washed her along the slide tunnel. She shot forward in a flash flood of water, then found herself thrown into a deeper pool, spinning, trying to get any sense of direction in panicked swimming strokes.

An underwater passage stretched out before her, dimly lit, with drowned inflatable animals floating as if through a submerged cemetery. There were birds and bears, snakes folded into themselves and garishly colored alligators, all evacuated, wrinkled, dead.

Some of them had sunken to the tiled bottom, others still drifted below the surface, blocked by a wall, a ceiling, some kind of barrier. Phalendra swam, the air in her lungs evaporating, driven by a mounting desire to open her mouth, to breathe again. She couldn't die here, she couldn't!

Phalendra fought down the urge to breathe and made strong strokes with hands and legs, propelling herself forward as fast as possible. There was more light coming up... the ceiling giving way... and with one last push, she broke out of the water, gasping for air, snorting.

#

After she calmed down, Phalendra took in her surroundings and realized where she was: no longer inside the pool halls but under an open sky. The water steamed into cold darkness, and Phalendra shivered as her exposed skin was covered in goosebumps.

It was night, and the sky stretched above her without boundaries, so high, so vast and empty. A path led away from the basin, framed by forbidding forest and the towering wings of the pool buildings, and there were walls behind her as well, the slide spiraling down outside – but no ceiling, no artificial light, no ventilation.

She had made it, home couldn't be far now! Phalendra climbed out of the water and ignored the coldness and the trembling, her wet clothes clinging to her body like fishing nets.

The forested hills were too steep to climb, and so she followed the path, her feet almost flying over earth that was hard, but nonetheless softer than the floor tiles inside.

What could she tell the families of the others? There was still hope that some would make it out behind Phalendra, that they had escaped the fog and the swamp... and the rest... well, they were responsible for their own fate.

The path turned, and Phalendra's heart skipped a beat as she saw that it curved back into another building: that she hadn't made it out, that it wouldn't lead her home, only into halls and ever more halls.

"I haven't touched the nectar." She stopped walking and just stood there, her body heavier than it had ever been, shipwrecked all alone in an alien land. "I haven't touched the shrine." Her words steamed in the darkness like the pool water, nebulized by the outside air and blown off from her lips.

"I haven't done anything wrong." Phalendra knew that there was no superintendent, no wrath from above, no curse – and yet, she felt as if she was being punished for something, for the actions of her people or possibly her own.

Maybe this was the closest to home she would ever get... the air tasted cool and fresh for the first time in years, unfiltered, without the invisible fog of pool chemicals impregnating it, even stirred up by a light breeze.

Phalendra didn't know how long she stood there and listened to the wind and the rustling trees, how long she watched the night sky and the steaming water--it might have been hours or days, and it felt like a lifetime.

She started walking again like a somnambulist, each step bringing her closer to the double doors leading inside. The metal handholds of the door felt warm as she touched them, organic, like a motherly embrace – and as she stepped into the pool halls again, she felt as if she was returning into the womb.

Was there any hope left for her? She had begun her journey with all these people and lost them one by one, to the cliffs, the fog, the voices, finally to the horrors of the swamp – and now, she was beached here, alone.

She had no sense of direction anymore, no maps, no navigator, not even her own memories from when they went out to the Thermaestreans five years ago. Before her, the rooms and corridors stretched into tiled endlessness, and Phalendra knew that there was no choice, no criteria, that her actions were meaningless.

Water splashed down from shower heads around her, collecting in drains and gutters, rushing toward the basins. Phalendra followed the water out of habit, ignoring the life rings that drifted on the currents like brightly colored water lilies.

The floor was covered in white sand, making Phalendra feel she was walking along a weirdly sharp-angled ocean, a calm sea of geometric forms and right angles. She made a few more steps, shorter now, then came to a halt.

In all directions, there was nothing to see but tiled walls and ceilings, gently swashing water and occasional highboards – and Phalendra broke down to her knees and closed her eyes.

"Phalendra!"

At first, she thought the voice was only in her head, that it was her own subconscious calling out, the last stand of her survival instincts; then, she believed it to be another loudspeaker announcement, a siren's call from the pools, as if they could make her stray any farther from her path.

"Phalendra! Are you alright?" Figures blurred before her, arms and legs melting into each other, different heads talking with the same mouth.

Was this someone she knew? There was no one left from her people, no one who made it till here – only Phalendra, only herself.

"Speak to me, please! As soon as we reached home, I organized a search party, and we went back inside for you. What happened? You look horrible... I don't want to imagine what you went through."

This voice... Phalendra recognized it, as well as the face floating before her: it was someone she had spent the last five years with, together in the foreign Thermaestrean land.

"Nestring... how are you here? How did you make it out of the fog?"

"We followed the voices." Someone wrapped Phalendra in a blanket, while another person handed her a cup of water. "They led us to our families, through some kind of shortcut."

Nestring bent over to study Phalendra, then let his eyes roam. "Where are the others? Where are Levander and Virgiliah? We thought they went with you?"

"The others..." Phalendra didn't have the strength to lie: "I survived, but I am the only one."

"I see." Nestring reached out his hand to help Phalendra up. "Can you walk?"

She straightened herself on trembling legs. "I think so, yes."

"Then come with us." Nestring and his companions began to walk in the direction of a sauna area on the horizon. "We will bring you home."

Phalendra followed them on the path along the pool edges, but there was something bothering her, something not quite right. She had heard these exact words before, somewhere...

The sauna landscape was slowly opening up before them, with cavernous, steam-filled rooms, splashing waterfalls and a multitude of hissing noises. The temperature rose quickly as they were entering the hot mist, holding hands so they wouldn't lose each other.

There was movement around them, and Phalendra thought she recognized some of her people, Levander, Virgiliah, all the others. There were placid basins of water beside their path, sometimes sloshing over her sandaled feet--and suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she saw something in one of them.

Nestring's reflection in the pool water was not that of a man, but a distorted apparatus, with broomsticks for limbs and a collection of pasted cleaning supplies on its neck.

"Wait." Phalendra stopped, but the others continued to walk as if they hadn't noticed, as if they didn't care. "You are not Nestring... you are not my people. What do you want from me? Why are you here?"

"Come with us, and we will bring you home, to your family, to your husband Thepatros and your daughter Zelosa." The Nestring-doppelganger and his brethren began to vanish in the sauna's steam. "Come with us, and all will be explained."

Phalendra's body twitched, her skin drenched in sweat, the steam surging around her, walls of white cotton that constantly bred phantoms.

"Come with us... we will bring you home..."

Phalendra watched her guides merge with the steam, felt Nestring's hand slipping from her own--and she hastened her steps again to keep up with them, to follow them wherever they might go: to see her family again, even though she couldn't remember their faces.
Timkha

Laurence Suhner (Switzerland)

Translated from the French by Sheryl Curtis - Canada

I've failed.

It's taken me three months to reach that conclusion. But what do three months mean on this planet where everything is different, where each second is filled with mystery? I lose track of time here. I lose track of everything, in fact. Only one thing is certain: I've failed in my mission.

I pace along the cliff. Beneath my feet, the rocks shudder, struck by the ocean's blades. It surrounds me. It breathes like a living being. If I stumble, I'll be consumed by its voracious appetite, like almost happened when I arrived on Timhka.

Today, the shuttle connecting the soil of the planet to the Pathfinders will take off, loaded with its precious loot–cascades of biological samples, geophysical, chemical data–and yet barren of all that's essential. A page turns. And for once I'm solely responsible for the decision.

The breeze is light. The sky is still inky blue yet even now shards of light flash from the rising sun. Bantak will appear soon, chasing away the nocturnal gentleness of Im'shā, the island where Tokalinan was born. It's a good place to spend forever. The place from which he set off on his long journey to the doors of our civilization. A place of predestination.

I've reached the peak. The ocean stretches before me as far as the eye can see. The tops of the giant pines that cover Ish'kehedou loom behind me. The trees, which stand several yards high, are reflected on the surface of the sea likes clouds of soldiers. Their branches reach toward the azure blue; their roots dig deep into the sand like claws, in their fight against the tides and the thunder of the equinox. Occasionally, one of them gives way and is carried off, all mooring lines broken by the permanent assault of the currents. Yet, they're always there, eternal watchers, protecting the forest and its ecosystem, keeping the planet's forces in balance.

Timhka: an ocean with millions of islands scattered to the four winds, forming a single invisible continent on their own. Seen from above, they look like pale pools on an indigo background, a tapestry where everything has been inverted: sky, ocean, land. And Ish'kehedou, a vast expanse jutting out of the water like E-Nama-tah, the first land, imposes its sedimentary rock, its dark soil and its luxuriant vegetation on the sea. As if the waves had frozen in some hieratic anomaly and had been waiting, since the dawn of time, for the charm that would free them from their immobility.

I place my hand on the cold metal of the shuttle just as Bantak, a yellow star more than three million years old, embraces the surface of the ocean. Soon, it will be very hot. An African sun. I've gotten into the habit of going without the respirator and I detect all the scents that perfume the planet. Carried by the spray and the seaweed that has washed up on the shores, the warm breath of the ocean is omnipresent. It mingles its salty aroma with the fragrance of the wild flowers and colorful fruit that weigh down the low branches bordering my camp. In the distance, the jungle smells mingle with the flavorful stock of spices drying in the sun in brocaded mandalas. Timhka's odor.

Carbon nanostructures reinforce my bones and tendons, one of the concessions made to my human nature. Here, the gravity, slightly higher, strains my body. Maybe it will kill me. Or perhaps I'll die before that from some disease contracted on this foreign planet, despite the hundreds of remedies I have at my disposal.

In front of me, the round lid of the capsule is open. On the main console, the countdown starts. I'm a little late. It wasn't an easy decision to make. The most difficult one of my life, in fact. This is the first time I've renounced the science that has nourished me.

I place my bags inside. My camp has been dismantled down to the bare bones: a tent that meets the standards of the Planetary Confederation, pots and pans, preserves, clothing and a medical hodgepodge that I will keep with me. I glance quickly at the clock. Thirty minutes left. I can still change my mind, race into the cockpit, bid farewell to Timhka and leave without ever seeing the one who initiated me again. The idea terrifies me. As if I were consciously choosing to stop breathing.

The shutters close with a bang. I flee, racing, panting. It's beyond me. I don't want to be there when it takes off. It's the only capsule ever authorized to land on Timhka and then leave. The only thread that connects me to my past, my loved ones, my condition as a human being. I imagine Haziel's devastated expression–Haziel, my long-term friend–when he opens the cockpit, abandoned by its human cargo, and finds the shells I've left for him. I see the expression on his face freeze, his lips tremble. He'll take them. I'm certain of that. He'll install them on board his old crate, _Icarus_ , and, at night, when he gives in to his pain, he'll lift them to his ear, hoping to hear me murmur his name.

I feel the tears bead on my eyelids. They flow down my cheeks, salty like Mihitana, the ocean. Change is never easy. It's a rite of passage, a sort of sacrifice, I've set for myself. Yet, I've always been rational, scientific. Cold? You could say that. But I've grown. Intimately. More than I could have ever imagined.

I walk along the dune, at the foot of the cliff.

I remove my shoes and caress the sand with my toes. It's as smooth as silk. Soon, it will be as burning hot as lava. Bit by bit, the sky starts to blaze. The gold dilutes the blue of the night. The ocean shimmers with ticklish hues: orange, purple, violet. Wild shades for this savage world. New scents, encouraged by the dawn, burst out here and there. The ethereal silhouette of the Southern Conch appears at the zenith, highlighted by Bantak's rays. The emblem of one of its cardinal points, it serves above all as a docking station for the large Timhkan exploration ships. Its cubic miles of organic architecture remind me of my objective. I'm one of the few rare Terrans to have had an opportunity to walk along these shores, to mingle with the inhabitants: non-human, sentient, refined creatures. Cruel as well.

Another intelligence.

The fantasy of any biologist. Different DNA to get their teeth into, six nucleic bases, a triple helix winding in the opposite direction of ours. One single similarity: adenine. As if that molecule were essential for life. Everywhere.

Memories overwhelm me. I hear my colleagues' voices.

We have confidence in you, Dr. Pasquier. You are our best asset.

A scientist!

The events that led me here belong to a period that seems so distant. Now, I'm on Timhka and I'm thinking about its children who, in ages immemorial, visited Gemma, our most distant colony, leaving splendid but impenetrable vestiges there.

Sentient creatures, with an extraordinary technology. In their language, their exploratory ships are referred to as "Pathfinders", those who swarm throughout the universe. Yet, they live on a world free of any industry, wild, unbridled: a veritable Eden. In their own image... This people is an enigma.

And it's up to you to solve it, Ambre Pasquier. You and you alone!

My face breaks into a smile. I admit it... I'm privileged. I was chosen for this mission: to explore the Timhkans' world and uncover the source of their knowledge, their technology. For months, I worked my fingers to the bone, with my armies of probes, sensors, computers, detectors of all kinds and, as a last resort, my pad and pen. All in all, thousands of hours of painstaking, scientific investigation, completed in due form. Completely useless. I've had to admit my failure. Occasionally, you have to know when to stop thinking.

"You're life, I'm life, nothing else matters," Tokalinan told me one day. "That's what unites us."

My camp looks like an abandoned ship. My few possessions that will escape the massacre have been placed at the foot of a large, twisted tree. The palaver tree, as I baptized it. Under its branches, I spent many long hours talking with Tokalinan. I lecture on science, formulas, algorithms; he replies in poetry, myths, metaphors. When he isn't talking with me, he dances in circles under the light of Timhka's three moons, tapping the ground with his bare feet, in a complicated rhythm. As if the round were the very essence of dancing everywhere. His voice, deep, then sharp, accompanies his trance, mingling with the cries of the forest animals, with the ocean surf. He sings to me of Timhka as only a Timhkan can. I've learned to love the melody of his language, the _chasura_. Even though I don't understand a thing, I capture the emotion. Timhkans are very sensitive. They live as their ancestors did, in keeping with the natural cycles, the tides, the currents, the offshore winds and the tropical rains which, mingle cascades of their fresh water with that of the ocean. With the banks of fish, which they hunt and devour, raw, glancing at you, eyes both cunning and unsettling, tearing into the tender flesh with fine, pointy teeth, using their claws with the perfection of a scalpel to cut it for you. They like pleasure. All types of pleasure. They chuckle like children, running after one another, catching, insulting, biting or caressing. They roll in the sand, sliding down until they reach the waves where they disappear, hours or days at a time, until they return, amazed and loaded with pearls, shells or mysteries from the depths. Born of the ocean and the land, they are proud and free, alternating without transition from the purest of delicacy and worst savagery.

I envy them; I'm afraid of them.

They're also excellent navigators, spanning their immense planetary ocean, sending their world-vessels out beyond their star, Bantak, to the edges of the most distant space.

"It's as if they invented intergalactic travel before mathematics," Haziel conceded one day, with a total lack of comprehension.

The cart before the horse.

It is true that, in three months, I've found no sign of any mathematical science in them.

My last possessions blaze and then splutter. The flames stretch skyward, competing with the rising star. Black smoke accompanies them, swirling, acrid, unwelcome in this clarity. A whistle behind me, on the hill, warns me that the capsule has started its return trip to the stellar system from which I came. I'm the only human being on these shores.

I sling my pack over my shoulder and leave camp. Despite the shaking of my knees, I feel like skipping, running, jumping, singing at the top of my lungs. The feeling that I've made the decision of my life is incredible! My courage surprises me. Or my lack of awareness.... Brief, bitter-sweet cutting remarks, warnings from my friend and former crew member, Maya, come to mind. It is true that I've exceeded my role as a scientist, that I've crossed the barrier of identification. Everyone should know such things are stupid. There's no such thing as a cold and distant observer, at least not when it comes to this universe. We're in it.

I walk into the village. The hullabaloo of the forest animals nearby has not yet roused the inhabitants. They're sleeping, peacefully, in hammocks arranged in a fan around a large tree. Each net holds its clutch of sleepers, lying against one another, coiled, limbs entwined, with no distinction for age. The Timhkans are communal. They have a form of global awareness, on a planetary scale. In this way, they oversee the preservation of their species and the land that gave birth to them. Yet, they're warriors. Serious conflicts are settled in fathomless abysses, where the pressure slows their reflexes and diminishes their capacities. It's a braking mechanism they've implemented to temper their impetuous, bloodthirsty nature; a safety to guarantee the survival of the species. Without their collective consciousness, they would have exterminated themselves long ago. They're like those fighting fish that live in schools and yet have terrible territorial instincts. They kill and are killed in turn. It's a natural cycle that they accept.

I'm convinced they don't fear death.

Using a braided vine, I haul myself up to the central hammock. A dozen or so Timhkans are piled there, pell-mell, in the narrow, concave space. Despite the heat, they're resting together, skin to skin.

I waver on this multitude, carried by successive waves of bodies. I surprise myself, identifying the differences that set them apart from humanity. Then I see him sleeping like a baby: Tokalinan. I gently push aside the limbs that wrap around him and snuggle up at his side.

He's not human but he does have the same number of lower and upper limbs as I do, one head, a trunk... He told me that, the first time he saw one of my kind, he felt shocked. In their cosmological myths, only the children of the Cradle, namely Timhka, have arms and legs, to pick up, to create and to move about on solid land. Apparently, during the course of their pilgrimages, the Timhkans had never before encountered creatures that looked so much like them. Knowing that they are neither infallible nor totally omniscient comforts me a little. And, at the same time, it frightens me. Are we the only two bipedal species in the universe? What did we do to deserve such a destiny?

I run my hand over his skin, supple and smooth, along the line of deep scars that decorate his face. A series of parallel stria, covered with a fine membrane, run from the center of the lateral appendages that extend from the base of his cheeks. With my finger, I trace them up to the top of his shoulders. His differentness amuses me, pleases me, delights me. He moans gently. He recognizes my scent, my signature. He's always known about me... that I wouldn't leave. He decodes me. Or does he feel the past, the present and the future that mingle in me?

My fingers continue on their way. I remember my first attempt, shortly before I left for Timhka. My crew members and I had finally been authorized to enter their exploratory craft. They were all occupied with their tests and I found myself alone with Tokalinan. Giving in to desire, I dared to touch him. With my fingertips, as if caressing a unicorn, a fabulous animal. Then, emboldened, surprising even myself, I licked him. The taste of his skin still lingers on my lips.

I was immediately overwhelmed with shame.

In an effort to calm me, Maya had tried to demonstrate that like A+B, what motivated me was pure fascination, the very legitimate desire of the biologist. I let her speak. I already knew it was something else. Now, none of that matters. With a certain amount of irony, I realize that I had to wait to meet Tokalinan to accept my sensuality.

I smile. I brush my chin against the point of Tokalinan's shoulder. To me, he's a precious jewel. I like to caress his skin, to see it change color under my fingers, in keeping with his emotions.

There are no humans here anymore to judge my actions. My hands close without restraint around this body which is not that of a man. Is it possible to love... with that kind of love?

Finally, I fall asleep, exhausted by the heat, the velvety embrace, the obsessive odor of the spices, the surf on the ocean nearby. And I dream of this world. I want so much to be like them.

When I awake, I'm alone in the hammock. Rays of sun weave through the foliage. Morning is well underway. My survival pod must have been intercepted by a Pathfinder by now. Maybe it's even been sent on to Gemma, through some kind of vortex, an Einstein-Rosen bridge. A distance of several thousand light years, according to our physicists' estimates.

We human beings spent so many centuries leaving our planetary system. Reaching Gemma, barely six light years away is still a technological feat and a one-way trip, although Timhkan technology will return our shuttle to Gemma's orbit in just a few seconds, as if time and space did not exist.

Timhkan science: the purpose of my aborted mission. Pure aberration.

Or magic.

Around me, the Timhkans are busy with their chores, indifferent to my presence. All around me, melodies float, rhythms hammer the hot air. The music accompanies them throughout their lives; it's as much a part of their pleasure as their means of communication. Using ebony, they carve numerous strange-sounding instruments, with curves and names that defy phonetics. Their rhythmic cycles are of a rare complexity. I know what I'm talking about; I come from the Indian subcontinent, India is known for having the most complicated meter on Earth. Yet, it's nothing compared to what I've encountered here.

I find Tokalinan standing by a large fire, grilling fish for me. He's wrapped in white, which brings out his dark shade and the orange flash of his feline eyes. Timhkans like to cover themselves with delicate jewelry and tattoos relating the highlights of their experiences. Tokalinan is no exception to the rule. His ornaments sparkle in the morning sun. The pendants that adorn his neck, his wrists and his ankles clink with every movement. To me, he looks like a savage god, one of the proud and unsettling Dvārapalā, the guardians of the Hindu temples, that filled the fantasies of my childhood spent in Mumbai, in my grandfather's house. I know this. I stopped resisting it long ago. It doesn't matter where it will take me.

Tokalinan squats down beside me, in a humanly impossible manner. He picks up a skewered fish and holds it out to me, head to one side, as is his habit. The meat is delicious. Prepared just as I like it. My body has finally managed to get used to the local foods. I can eat cooked fish and a few vegetables. Timhkans are for the most part fish eaters. They round out their diet with fruits and a few varieties of algae. They don't farm. No large fields, no doubt. No agriculture and no mathematics. Simple hunters-gatherers

"I stayed," I say once I've eaten my fill.

"I know."

"You're not surprised?"

"No."

"You knew?"

"Yes. You and I are like fruit. You're the pulp and I'm the pit."

What can I say to that?

I'm the pulp.

"Do you want to play?" he asks me when I've finished eating.

"Play what?"

"You run, I catch you."

Without waiting, he starts skipping along the beach. He jumps, he flits about, he flutters in the clear air. A real child. He's happy that I stayed. I start trotting behind him, mingling my tiny footprints with his. He waits for me, lying on the sand. He shakes himself when I reach him, rolling like a colt. I throw myself down beside him, exhausted.

As I catch my breath, he runs his long fingers through my hair, untangling it. His claws–much like real daggers–can be retracted, like those of cats. He's gentle with me. He's delicate, almost affected. I find that amusing.

"What's it like?" I ask him.

"What's what like?"

"Being Timhkan. What's it like being Timhkan?"

"When I enjoy the pleasures of being," he explains. "That's fine. The sun, the ocean, looking at the sky, eating fish. That's fine."

"Being alive?"

"Feeling like a living creature. Come!"

He takes my hand and pulls me along with him. Toward the sea, which has so many names. I only recall two: Mihitana, the primordial immensity, dispenser of life, and Pawani, the navigable expanse. Pawani'Nyan, the archipelagos in the sky, refers to the infinity of the cosmos.

Soon, the waves break against my knees, then my stomach. The water is hot, maybe 30 degrees.

I don't have time to feel heavy. Tokalinan pushes me ahead of him. He's enjoying himself, uttering dry clicks.

"When I dive, you hold on to me, tight."

I'm used to it now. He dives. I hang on to him. My thighs press against flanks, my arms wrap around his body. I feel his muscles move beneath his skin, the energy he expends to slice through the water with his long and supple body, without a single ripple.

He has removed a portion of his clothing and his rings, symbols of solid land for the Timhkans. They also have a useful purpose: they restrain the fine webs that deploy between each of their fingers when they're in the water. I've learned that certain Ish'kehedou lines have renounced their aquatic origins. They live, withdrawn, in the heart of the forest and, when they sleep, they dream about the sea and the fish that taunt them. These are nightmares that poison them, that cause them to die. They drink drugs to forget the sea. They live unhappily in their stone and wooden palaces.

Tokalinan swims quickly, slipping agilely between the waves. His vibrissae form a cloud of translucent filaments that spread in the waves. They detect the currents, temperature variations, travelling schools of fish.

The salt irritates my eyes, but I force myself to keep them open. I watch as sea creatures flee from us, fins thrusting.

We sink further. As a result of the artificial gills implanted in my thorax, I can filter the oxygen for a few hours. It's efficient, but not as good as the Timhkan respiratory system. They can stay in the water as long as they want and they take every opportunity to do just that! They also have powerful pulmonary organs that enable them to absorb the exterior air, a gas mixture that is similar to ours. They are authentic hybrids. There's not a creature on earth like them. They're not fish, mammal or amphibian.

Not man or woman.

My mind wanders, rocked by the current. It's as if I'm floating in space, naked. Direct contact with the liquid element, a reminiscence of my time as a fetus.

Memories from these past few months flood in.

"You looked at me?" I'd asked him one day when he surprised me wearing the barest essentials.

"Yes."

"Something about me surprised you?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"What you've got on your chest."

"You mean my breasts?"

"Yes."

I laughed, a bit embarrassed.

"Well, I'm a woman, the female of the species. Breasts are for feeding the young, you understand?"

"No."

No?

Tokalinan stared at me with his fiery eyes, head tilted to one side.

I continued, somewhat panicky, "Yes, to feed, to breastfeed. Once the females give birth to the young, they breastfeed them."

"Your... _females give birth to the young_?"

I prayed to Darwin, Shiva and all the saints in heaven.

"Well, yes," I stammered, cursing myself for stating down this path. "It's a natural process. Our females... our women... carry the young for nine months, then they give birth... it can be a little complicated at times, very painful as well."

He gave me that strange look that I know so well now. Obviously, my words seemed completely bizarre to him.

"We do not carry our young," he finally uttered. "We do not... _give birth to them_."

I felt as if I'd committed some kind of mistake, and I had no idea how to get myself out of the situation. It was too late to back up.

"How do you do it then?" I said, victim of intense curiosity.

"Our young develop in eggs which we place in the ocean, in caves, where they hatch safe from predators."

I was surprised. Up to that point, I thought we'd had at least viviparity in common.

"You're born in the water?"

"Yes, in the arms of Mihitana. The ocean is our cradle. We breathe it from the very second we leave the egg, then we see the light. It's like an invitation. We allow ourselves to rise to the surface and we discover the air... the different scents of the air, the perfumes, which are not like those of the ocean. Then we see the trees waving in the wind and the stars that shine in the night. They call to us and we watch them."

"You speak as if it's a living memory."

"It is. I recall being born. The immensity of our world, its substance, came to me. I was unique and connected to the whole, to the continuity of my ancestors, to the sea and the land."

"To the global awareness of your species," I murmured. "Like communion..."

"The spirit that fills me belongs to the Large Empty Ocean, Hanou'ha. Like one the shore, each wave is another wave, but it belongs to the same ocean."

Poetry again.

His mention of the ocean brings me back to the present. We're still diving. The color of the water has changed from turquoise to deep-sea blue. How many yards are we from the surface? I can barely make out the sparkle of Bantak. Where is he taking me? He's never taken me so deep before. I delve deeper into my non-humanity. I must renounce everything, apparently. I've already altered my anatomy so I can accompany him in the water. Now I have to alter the way I think, the way I feel.

The water is dark and icy. I've lost all sense of direction. Unlike Tokalinan's body, my own can't change its temperature to adapt to the cold currents. Fear grows in me. My guide gets his bearings without any difficulty in the cubic yards of obscurity. I hear the flow that he breathes in through his mouth and releases through his gills, located along his cheeks and down to where his shoulders start. His nose works like a fan. It closed when his head submerged. Timhkans are impressive swimmers and hunters. They're equipped with sharp teeth and claws they use to tear, at birth, the membrane of the cocoon that holds them prisoner. Then, they use them to harpoon and flense their prey. They kill the larger prey with electrical charges.

The water is a foundation, subsistence and pleasure for them. They are nourished by it, play there, mate and lay their offspring there. Should I learn to live like them? To sacrifice my woman's body? Would I have the courage to go that far?

I sink. Tokalinan has just slipped out of my grasp. Before I give in to panic, my foot touches a ramp carved in the coral or rock. A detailed structure, decorated with shells. I can feel them with my fingertips. I know where we are. At the base of the Southern Conch. From space where it appears, a sharp needle pointing to the infinite, it descends into the heart of the ocean, near the atolls. It symbolizes the marriage of the sky and the earth.

I've always wanted to go there, but my humanity worked against me. Does this mean that I've been accepted now, that my sacrifice has transfigured me? This place is linked to the idea of origin, genesis: the crucible of Mihitana, the vast body of water that created Ma'hi, life in all its diversity. I don't know what it really means. It's a legend, but on Timhka the paths of myth are never really all that far from those of science.

Well before my departure, the two physicians in my crew found this idea difficult to absorb. Kim Chulak, a Cartesian to his very fingertips, insisted on setting us on the path of mathematical reason; the other, Stanislas Standford, who was more intuitive, had gradually abandoned body and soul to an underlying mysticism. Their verbal jousting, occasionally ironic, sometimes acerbic, grew out of the very responses we received from the Timhkans. In response to each of our questions, which were deliberately pointed and scientific–about the navigating system used in their spacecraft, for example–we received a joyful outpouring of image-packed ritual formulas. _Poetic images!_

A veritable dialogue of the deaf had developed between our two species.

A picture of Stanislas jumps into my mind, his hair swirling in white scrolls, his eternal pashimina hanging crooked on his chest, his blue eyes, almost transparent under his bushy eyebrows, giving him a perfectly illuminated air. He was disoriented, trapped, out-dated by his own pipe dreams.

We all were.

The question that haunted us was whether we were actually dealing with a civilization that could have attained an alpha technology level through myth. Pure paradox.

I argued that it had stopped being one the moment that we adopted the postulate that myth overrode science. While presenting my argument to my dumbfounded colleagues, I thought about the Indian mâyâ, the varnish that obscures our existence and gives it the appearance we want to attribute to it. I had spent my entire childhood shifting back and forth between Shiva, Vishnu and the mathematical abstractions of my grandfather. I enjoyed an undeniable advantage. Despite my training as an exobiologist, a dash of spirituality had always peppered my being.

At the time of the debate, hypotheses were jostling about in my mind. What if rationality weren't the only means to access technology? What if myths, while attempting to explain the eternal rites guaranteeing the sustainability of our universe, provided precise and irrefutable answers?

Science pushes us to ask age-old questions. Like Tantalus' frustration, leading us to a single road: a muzzle that reveals only one narrow aspect of reality....

"I refuse to go there!" stormed Chulak. "It's as if we've returned to the era of animism, you know, when mankind believed that a spirit filled everything."

To a certain extent, he was right. For human beings, Timhkan science is similar to a form of animism. Every object, every concept, was filled with a spirit, a color, a rhythm, a specific emotion, a movement. The poems, the chants, the unbridled, tribal dances that had frightened us so much, were nothing other than their algorithms, their axioms. One notion exhaled the scent of an orchid and took on the colors of dawn; another, that of the electric fish, wavered between the waves at the break of a storm. As if feeling also took precedence over function.

In my eyes, the idea wasn't so ludicrous. There were precedents on Earth. The Lilavati, a well-known Indian treatise, also took the form of a series of poems describing mathematical problems. A rather distracting manner–completely Indian in my opinion–of speculating about numbers... A method for associating a literary art with a scientific demonstration.

"They don't use mathematics because _they don't need to_ ," Stanislas added a short while later, after my presentation.

My mind ran wild in turn. I started spinning in a universe where mathematics was no longer a transcending reality, but the interpretation of a larger reality. Instead of being discovered by men, mathematics was merely just another invention for explaining our world. A simple language, the prerogative of our species, a product of our human brain and environmental factors that served to develop our specific type of intelligence.

So? Different civilizations, different laws?

And what would happen if we were to juxtapose the human and Timhkan visions of reality? Would we obtain a complete model of the universe? The famous theory of everything, which our physicians continued to discuss without ever reaching an agreement?

I had to put an end to my ruminations. After all, maybe even a million different civilizations, all with their own interpretations of reality, would not be enough! And, then, there was nothing to show that this ultimate theory did in fact exist... or that our _homo sapiens_ brains could even understand it...

Time out from memories. The present catches up with me.

Barefoot, I walk up a gently sloping ramp. I find myself on an esplanade, in the fresh sir. The atmosphere is heavy, damp, filled with iodine and salt. The water reaches to my knees. My toes grip the bumps on the floor. I vacillate, surprised by the lack of motion after our race through the currents.

Tokalinan is waiting for me nearby. We're in a circular room, gigantic, no doubt the very heart of the Southern Conch, which rises for miles above our heads. In the centre of the room, stands a helix, a majestic marine conch with harmonious proportions. I recognize the Timhkan ambiance, a mixture of rectilinear and organic architecture, combining the spiral shapes from the sea, the rigor of carved stone and the voluptuous curves of sculpted wood.

Despite the sweltering heat, I shiver. Timhkans–-all adults–have gathered in what looks like a sanctuary. I've never seen so many in one place at one time. They're dressed lightly, feet kneading the damp sand, shoulders touching, hands intertwined. A deep murmur rises from their chests. They're chanting a polyphonic song, accompanied by deep or ringing percussion instruments, airy lutes, forked flutes and ballfons that resemble truncated magnetic cores. Complicated harmonies weave in and out, adding, subtracting, even above the audible level, resonating strangely in the air.

The instruments tell their history and the Timhkans appreciate it as no human ear can. They respond to it with their syncopated voices, shifting from one foot to another, undulating slowly. They dance.

Tokalinan walks ahead and joins his kin. What am I supposed to do? Watch? Join the circle? Am I allowed to? I don't know what I'm witnessing. A conference, a memorial, a ritual, a celebration? Timhkans transmit all of their knowledge and their experiences through their minds and their senses. Am I attending one of these rites of passage now? Do I have something to share with them?

I look away, intimidated. Timhka's history is written in mysterious signs on the lustrous walls that surround us.

Finally, Tokalinan notices my embarrassment. He joins me and slips behind me. Gently, he pushes me into the circle. My shoulders make a way through these hot, damp bodies. Despite the fact I measure five foot eight, I feel tiny. Timhkans are tall and lean. Sculptural. Their skin, dark purple, shines in the shadow and the sparkle of their burning eyes, half closed, pierces through the void in front of them. Plunged in a deep trance, they don't see me.

I feel Tokalinan's breath on the nape of my neck. His hands close over my belly and I immediately feel this flight, this characteristics transformation that I know so well. I recall my first experience of this type. Tokalinan hadn't learned our language yet. Through him, I had been transported somewhere else even before I had set foot on the soil of Timhka. I perceived the deep grumble of a turbulent ocean crashing down on the reefs, the scent of iodine, the perfume of delicate wild flowers carried by the wind. My mouth had filled with salt and spices. My ears had had vibrated with unusual melodies and sounds. I had been filled with everything that made him a sensitive, vibrant being. And it grew and grew until my nervous system capitulated and I collapsed, unconscious, at his feet.

Timhkan communication operates on all levels. And it is as broad as it is subtle, acting on states of consciousness that are usually inaccessible to us. There are no inaccuracies in their exchanges, no errors. They don't lie; they give themselves to one another fully, playing on the sensations, the images, the odors, the sounds, the qualities associated with the times of the day and of the night, as well as what we refer to as modal variations in music.

I hear the echo of Chulak's snigger; I see his outraged expression.

Yes, Timhkans surpass us. And I'm not talking about technology now, but cognition. In comparison, humans are disabled. Our exchanges are imperfect, misleading, always subject to doubt and uncertainty. We say one thing when we mean another. Our bodies betray us, or reveal us. On top of that, the Timhkans consider us too intellectual. In short, not sensitive enough. Humanity developed its cerebrality; Timhkans remained connected to their emotions, their instincts. While we feel a constant need to weigh, to analyze, they feel. Was the development of our neo-cortex a handicap after all? Did we fall off the track during our evolution?

I'm the only human being that can withstand the real Timhkan means of communication. Apparently, I have a unique quality, a gift. I have no idea where I got it from. As I learned in the past, an invisible thread connects us, Tokalinan and me. I've never been able to explain it. In my dreams, when I could clearly make out the Timhkan vestiges on Gemma, still buried under layers of ice, I could already see him, like a shadowy god. _The Dark Lord_. There is a force that surpasses us, that submerges us like the waves of the ocean that rolls above our heads, all around this cavern, an energy that science, our science, cannot comprehend. According to Timhkan myth, we're de'hin. Assembled, correlated. The closest word we have, or so I believe, is "entangled", a from physics that refers to the intangible link that connects the subatomic particles and the atoms that come from the same source. _We're entangled_. A pretty image. Nothing will ever separate us: neither space nor time.

Bit by bit, I penetrate Tokalinan as he blends into me. I see through his eyes, I feel with his skin, I breathe with his lungs. The air takes on a different bouquet and I suddenly feel lighter, filled with an unknown vitality. More than just a human being, an isolated individual, I'm both of us combined.

Then my perception turns inward and, paradoxically, expands further. I spread out over the barrier of our interwoven entities. My eyes are wide open and yet they discern another reality. I stretch out to everything, I become the whole. I realize that I've joined the Timhkans' in their trance, that I've been admitted into the circle of their unitary consciousness. I feel the flow of their exchanges, billions of sparks, impulses that pierce me. I capture their thoughts, their sensations, their joys and their sorrows. I feel their present, their past and their future united, a veritable whirlpool, a breaker that casts my last fragment of humanity to the four winds.

I understand the nature of Tokalinan's gesture. By involving me in their ritual, he has given me the gift of Timhkan knowledge. Now, it's my turn to offer something. Through my experiences, my actions, my knowledge, I bequeath them my humanity: its victories and its wars, it marvels and its tragedies. Then, encrypted in my genes, it's time to give them the secrets of our earthly DNA and the entire evolutionary baggage of our species. I'm an open book. They know everything about us just as I now know everything about them. I belong to them and they belong to me. An exchange of good processes, to a certain extent.

What will they do with this bequest? What will I do with theirs?

I don't have time to examine the question since my transformation is far from over. Inside me, the movement accelerates. I venture further. In a detached manner, I accept the shock experienced by my human half, down below, in the grotto at the heart of the Southern Conch. The salt of my tears mingles with the salt of the ocean at my feet.

Within the confines of the Timhkan consciousness, already so broad, there is another, vaster yet. Limitless. A consciousness presiding over everything, without distinction, recorded in each manifestation of that universe: insignificant dust, fragile human being, fierce Timhkan, bright star, entire galaxies, visible and invisible dimensions. It is what interconnects everything, precise and vague at the same time, one and multiple, energy, matter, time, all forms of existence and non-existence mingled. Like the component of an untold plan, a slow, unique respiration that runs relentlessly through the body of our universe, ordering it, complicating it, transforming it as desired. And, despite the diversity of beings, this essence is unique. Like a DNA sequence, it is repeated infinitely, encoded everywhere. Into the very deepest part of me. I track it down, lurking in the tiniest parts of my being, in the core of each of my atoms, my particles, states of energy which, at any moment, define and guide me.

And this state of consciousness only wants to be heard. Since Time zero of creation, it has been tirelessly repeating its message to anyone willing to listen. We humans are impermeable to it. Detached from our deep intuition, we only perceive part of it.

The Timhkhans called it Hanou'ha, the Great Empty Ocean, with which they have been communicating since the most distant ages. Like shamans they speak to the universe and the universe speaks to them. They know the most intimate secrets of nature, matter and energy. Each flower is a gift, each stone, each wave, each raindrop tells them a story.

A particular quality developed here, making science useless, superfluous. Each being has received this present, this talent for listening, this memory of a quantum, primordial ocean where neither matter nor time exists yet, where everything lies in potentials, pure energy, ethereal data, the very essence of the genesis to come.

And Tokalinan offered me this gift of perception, this uninterrupted link with the origin during our ephemeral communication.

But, even now, my human nature is reasserting its rights. I feel my consciousness wane. I limit myself. I move back into my physical body, dizzy, the echo reverberating.

The murmurs and chants of the Timhkans rise around me, curiously deformed by the presence of the water. Waves flow through me. I hear Tokalinan's words again.

Like on the shore, each wave is followed by another wave, but they all belong to the same ocean.

Timhkans and humans, Tokalinan and me, _we're de'hin_. Multiple and single at the same time. Entangled. A new entity, rich through our differences, affected for all time by the grace of our hybridization. The union of science and myth.

#

I know what I have to do.

Slowly, my body starts to move, to undulate with the rhythm of the percussion. Initially awkward and hesitant, my movements take form. My toes work the sand, raising golden clouds in the turquoise water. I sway from foot to foot and my shoulders brush against Tokalinan's supple skin. My reedy voice mingles with those of the chanters. I'm a link in the chain, singular yet solid.

A single, unique language. A single formula. The dream of any mathematician.

Since it's enough to know how to listen, to take part in the frenetic agitation that vibrates in the heart of matter, to follow the orbit of the electrons, the round danced by the planets, the farandole of the galaxies I will melt into the rhythm in turn. I will pay my tribute. I will finally pay homage to this universe that created us, humans, star dust, Timhkans.

With humility and joy, I will dance and dance again. Dance as no other human being has ever danced before me.
The Beautiful People

Bo Balder (Netherlands)

Adorro pushed her veils up and pulled off her right glove.

Something was different. Not something on the inside of the coach, because her parents hung slumped against each other in deep sleep. The blinds were closed, showing just a rim of sunlight on the left. Afternoon then, since they were driving north, to the Aliver Croma School for Genteel Girls. And yet.

The coach rumbled along on an odd note. That's why she'd noticed. The horses were ambling, not cantering. Were they tired? The coach wasn't going up a steep slope. Had the coachman fallen asleep? Adorro itched to find out, to slide up the blinds, or even more madly, throw open the door and tumble out into the unknown countryside.

She pressed her hands against her face, the gloved one on her pale cheek, the bare one on the dark side. The side that tingled and prickled so strangely. She closed her eyes and moved her head back and forth, as if she could smell better that way. There was a smell, she became sure of it. A smell like the first harbinger of spring, a leaf just unfurled, new grass thrusting through black loamy soil into the sunshine.

She gasped. Thinking of grass had never felt like this before.

She should have felt completely safe inside the special Pinto-proof carriage. The inn's magician had personally sealed the carriage after them. She rubbed her pale fingers over the stain on her cheek. The slightly raised, warmer surface of the dark blotch on her skin tingled. She stroked her other, dark fingers across her cheek. The tingling intensified tenfold. It was a childhood feeling. Why was she touching herself like this? She snuck a peek across the cabin, but mother still slept. Grandmother , on Adorro's side, might as well not have been there, a still, deeply veiled presence who never spoke or moved.

The carriage slowed further and lumbered to a halt.

Her mother woke up with a jolt. Her heavy body, tightly encased in layers of boning, linen and wool struggled upright. "Are we there already?"

Mother's tone sharpened. "Adorro, put your glove and veil back on. You're not decent." She tugged her husband's arm. "Meggin, wake up. We've stopped. Why?" She leaned to the side, stays creaking, and tugged at the blind.

Adorro watched, her glove halfway on, her veil still askew. She wanted to see what was outside. The woods were dark and dangerous.

A flood of sunshine burst in. "I never!" Mrs. Greana exclaimed. "They've cleared the woods all the way to the river. Look, Meggin, look."

Her father grumbled, only half awake. "What is it, dear? Why have we stopped?"

Adorro leaned across her grandmother to catch a look of the sunlit vista outside.

A field sloped down gently to a row of trees, probably marking the river. The fields were worked by teams with horses and field hands sowing grains with wide sweeps of their arms.

One of them stopped sowing and turned his face towards the coach. His arms lowered and he stared.

"Meggin, do wake up, I beg you!" her mother screamed. "One of them has seen us! Megg!"

Her father finally jolted fully alert and rapped on the dividing wall. "Ride, Rongine, ride."

The carriage didn't move. Her father's darkening cheeks and urgent tapping was almost comical, but her mother's frightened face was not. The field hand dropped his sack of grains and loped towards the coach. It seemed as if he caught her gaze all the way across the newly plowed furrows. Adorro couldn't look away, although from this distance there was nothing special about him.

Her father hammered his fists on the division. Her mother sat frozen, her pinafore clapped over her face. Finally the horses started to move. Slowly, slowly, as the coachman woke from his slumber and the horses tried to get purchase on the road.

Her father turned around, red in the face with agitation, and spotted Adorro peering out of the window without her veil.

He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back on the seat. "Fix that veil, missy. What do you think you're doing, calling down the Pinto on us?"

"They're Pinto?" Adorro breathed and moved to get back to the window.

Her father slapped her, something he'd never done before. His hand landed on her pale cheek and he recoiled at once. Adorro knew his fear and horror and shame, so intense she had to pull back from it.

"Your cheek. I touched your flesh!" He stared at his pudgy, evenly pale hand.

Adorro searched for her mother's eyes. Although she was adopted, someone had borne her, someone had cared for her when she was a baby. Touched her. Whether it had been her real mother or a servant, she was fairly certain no one turned Pinto just from touching a dark spot. Didn't Father know that?

Father subsided next to Mother, then rose up again to slam the blind down. They settled back against each other, fussing with stays and vests and fobs until all was well again. Adorro stared at them, too shocked to move yet. Father had slapped her. She must have deserved it. She wanted to grab at the blind again and stare at the fields that must be receding from them now. The sunlight that had glared so brightly a moment ago became softer, flickering as if filtered through leaves.

The danger of the fields was past. Adorro had always imagined that woods were more dangerous than fields, but from her parents' relief, it must be the other way around. Her knowledge about the world had mostly been gleaned from old books and she'd never left the farm compound before. This journey to the island of New Discovery was her first.

She leaned her head against the back of the carriage, in spite of the pounding of the wheels, and closed her eyes. Her novels starred girls with unblemished skins finding love in the arms of tall, powerful, rich men. As long as the carriage hadn't reached its destination, she could still imagine that world was where she'd be going.

Her heart rate slowed and the heat that had built up under her woolen and linen layers died down. She'd probably smell as bad as Father did after the day's travel. They hadn't allowed her into the baths. She'd had to put on a bathing garment and blindfold and sponge the sweat off.

Something thumped against the back of the coach. Adorro scooched further down into the meager comforts of the seat. Another thump. Her father shot up as best he could from the depths of the bench, looking alarmed.

A blow rang against the window on Adorro's side.

She screeched and threw herself into her mother's lap. Robbers!

Another blow, and the pane of glass tumbled inside, leaving the blind flapping in a sudden wind.

In the midst of her fear, Adorro inhaled deeply. The same almost smell she'd noticed before, but stronger now. She wanted to lay back and keep breathing the fragrance in. The best scent she'd ever smelled. Some kind of woodsy flower perhaps, or just the fresh mountain air?

Through a haze of unconcern, she watched as a dark angry face thrust itself inside the carriage, and a grimy, splotchy hand clenched around the window frame. Her mother screamed, her father bellowed. Grandmother gave no sign she'd noticed anything.

The coach slowed. A delicious sluggishness pervaded Adorro's limbs. All she wanted was bask in it and not move a finger.

A bang sounded close to her ear. The face disappeared from the window.

"Good man, Rongine," her father said. "Remembered to use the blunderbuss." He inched his face through the window. "Was he alone, the blackguard?"

The carriage halted and swayed as someone jumped off.

"Got him, sir!" Rongine called out. "Right in the chest."

Her father got out his locket and opened the carriage door with the tiny key he kept inside. Just in case Adorro planned to throw herself out while they were pelting down the highway. She couldn't understand what made him even consider it. Why would she jump out of a coach and get injured? To call down her father's anger? She was as good a daughter as she could be with her natural disadvantages.

When she found herself outside, swaying a little in her red-heeled boots on the rough road surface, she didn't know how she'd got there. She decided to return inside, but instead her feet carried her towards the back, where her father and the coachman stood bent over something.

She walked past them, forgetting her natural modesty and the deference due to a father.

Beneath the men lay the still form of the field hand who'd loped towards the coach earlier. He writhed and moaned, his hand shockingly red over a mushy red spot on his dun shirt. No, not on. Shirt and chest were unrecognizably mangled and mixed together in a coarse vegetable soup. Bright red blood bubbled up between his fingers and something throbbed in there. Something not meant to be exposed to the outside air.

The field hand moaned again. His thrashing hand tipped his worn straw hat off his face and she saw his colors.

His spots. He was a Pinto like herself.

Unlike her, he didn't have a big blotch covering almost half his face, but smaller, coin-sized dots speckling his cheeks, with a bigger one over his left eye. If his face hadn't been so screwed up in agony, she could have seen if he was handsome or not. His mottles looked very attractive.

She knelt down on the dusty road, not caring for her skirts or her knees, and drew the l hair out of his eyes. Most of his hair was dark, with lighter flecks the same size as his mottles. So very appealing. She bent over to sniff the scent rising from his hair. Hm. She needed to get even closer. Her father was in the way.

She ignored the urgent voices speaking over her head. That scent. That delicious scent. It wasn't the field hand's blood, or his hair. It originated from somewhere on his flesh. She cupped his hand, and felt him writhe under her fingers. That was better. His eyes looked into hers, one pale, one dark, and it was like coming home. The eyes pleaded with her, but she didn't know for what. She continued to stroke the hair out of his face. Even through her gloves, the feel of his skin, the puffs of scent her touch set off made her dizzy.

Hands plucked at her shoulder, but she shook them off.

He was so wounded. She opened the collar of his shirt, held together only by a drawstring to get it away from the wound. His beautiful mottles continued on below the collar. Looking away from the blunderbuss wound, her hand slid over his rolled up sleeves to his forearms. There the mottles flowed together to form an almost-even darkness, extending to his fingertips. His palms were pink below the blood.

Her hands moved to his trousers, held up by a rough length of rope. There, yes, there was the origin of the fabulous scent. The field hand had ceased moaning, yet there was a keening, longing sound from somewhere.

A dry thwack.

Gravel scraped at Adorro's nose.

"Enough, now, you brute," her father's voice said. "She's my daughter, not a frisky bull. Get up, girl."

Adorro tried to roll over, but her limbs felt heavy and she only managed a little oomph. Her father's fingers fluttered over her face without touching it. A distant part of her was almost amused. He couldn't check on her state of health without actually touching her.

"Get her in the coach," her father said. "For God's sake, man, she's a lady. Under her arms, if you must. And no funny business if you don't want to be left behind in the next town."

Hot hands rooted under her armpits and heaved her off the gravel, scraping her right cheek. She was half dragged, half carried to the coach and pushed in until she lay face-down on grandmother's lap. Someone stroked her hair.

#

Adorro never became unconscious during the rest of the day's ride, but she had no sense of time passing. She was aware that the coachman and her father carried her into the inn, her mother fussing over her injured head, and then blessed silence and darkness. At some point during the night, control over her limbs returned and she shifted on her bed until she found a comfortable position.

From below, the sounds of the inn rumbled and droned. She sat up carefully and felt around to check on her surroundings. A wide bed, a nightstand, a roughly plastered wall. With her feet planted on the wooden floor, she felt secure enough to get rid of her strangling, musty veil. It was stuck to the back of her head. It had to be blood. She'd never have guessed Rongine had it in him. Well, he was the one who'd killed the handsome field hand in the first place. She wasn't sure what she felt about that yet.

She hit her knee against the nightstand and something clattered to the floor. She slid down and felt for the object. A candle holder. If she was lucky, there would be a taper somewhere. It had rolled under the bed. With numb hands she worked her little flint set. A whole room revealed itself in the warm flickering glow. A bed, a washstand and even a mirror. Such luxury! She lifted the candle and found another bed against the far wall. A humped shape on it indicated it was her grandmother, sleeping. She didn't count.

A whole room all to herself, well, practically. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been alone. Always mother had a maid watching over her, taking care she didn't do any of the wild and unpredictable things her Pinto heritage made her susceptible to. Not that she'd ever felt the slightest inclination to be flighty. And even this afternoon, when she had performed what could certainly be called a rambunctious deed, she hadn't felt a desire for it. She had simply acted on an impulse she hadn't even been aware of. They must have meant that all along. That no matter how good and industrious and obedient she was, when the time came, she'd act like the savage she truly was.

A boy had risked and received death for wanting her. She had no doubt he'd been after her, as mindlessly and absolutely as she had flung herself towards him against all her parents' strictures.

The candlelight helped enough to get her trembly fingers to undo her veils, shawls and laces. Without all that cloth and leather she felt as if she could think more freely. Who was she, really? All she'd ever strived for was being a good daughter. Being a good wife had always been out of her reach, but perhaps good works would not be out of the question.

Now the future held a different shape. One she couldn't decipher yet, but she knew she must grasp the opportunity hovering here.

Adorro went over to the washstand, and refreshed her clammy face. She rinsed the sticky clot out of her hair. Blood whirled pinkly into the bowl. Her hands weren't the same color. One of them was nearly white, except for a finger of darkness stealing out from under her blouse, the other was completely black. Just like her feet.

Just like her face. A dark cheek, and a white one. Her eyes stared out of the mirror, the pupils dark in the dim lighting, but clearly of a different color. She'd never been allowed a mirror in the bathroom; in summer, a maid bound a blindfold over her eyes so she wouldn't gaze immodestly upon her own nakedness.

Right now she wanted to gaze immodestly upon her own nakedness. Her fingers stole to her blouse. It slid off her shoulders. She hoisted the knit undershirt and half-loosened stays over her head. Yes, it was indecent to stare at oneself. The Pinto patching coiled asymmetrically about her upper body, leaving her breasts white, cupped in the dark hand of the sweeping blemish over her ribs and belly. She was beautiful. Her breasts were high, her waist slim, her arms slender and graceful. In the mirror, her face darkened with a blush. But the mirror didn't lie, did it?

Now that she'd said atap, she might as well say boo. She lowered her skirts until she stood in just her drawers. The white starched cloth made her pale patches look dirty. She undid the ties. Silently the drawers fell into the darkness beyond the candle's reach. Her thighs descended into that darkness as well, but she didn't need the candle to know how her feet looked. One white, one dark. Prized in horses, but not in people.

She shone the candlelight on her left hand again. Three fingers and a thumb. She wondered why all gloves had an extra finger on the outside, filled with cotton wool. What was its purpose? Ladies had four fingers, didn't they? Not maids. She'd seen maids' hands often enough when they were scrubbing or peeling or stitching. She turned the question of the fifth finger around in her mind, but it didn't start to make sense, from whatever angle she looked at it. If only she'd had the forethought to count the field hand's fingers.

She dressed again, but put one of her black underskirts over her top skirts. Still too hot. Although father and mother called this time of year spring and dressed warmly, the outside air felt balmy to her. She kept only the dark underskirt. No stays. And no veils, no hat, not gloves, no white fichu. At last, undecided what do about her white linen shirt, she tore the seams of her brown overskirt and used one panel as a makeshift wrap. There. One glove back on, the one that covered the white hand, and she'd be practically invisible in the night. She'd already been punished for evil deeds undone, been bashed in the head for a moment's curiosity. Why not actually do what they'd always accused her of?

Adorro doused the candle and tiptoed to the window. It looked out onto a courtyard. No lanterns, no people. Perfect. Everybody was inside, sleeping or eating.

She slid onto the window sill and swung her skirts and legs over. She pushed off and landed on the dusty, hard-packed ground of the courtyard. She crouched there for a moment in the darkness. Her heart raced uncomfortably, but the pain in her hands and knees already receded. The night was clear and sharp, bright stars pinpricking the navy bowl of heaven. She wasn't cold. She just knew that she could run all night if she tried. The courtyard exit was still open, letting out the sound of men talking, accompanied by stamping and snuffling from an open stable door.

A narrow beam of light moved outside the stable. "Scuse me sir, we've doused all the bigger lights. Just follow me lantern and I'll take you to the common room."

"Get someone to draw me a bath, will you?" a curt voice said. "I'm all over Pinto blood. Spotty bastards got themselves in a bad way today. Had to kill half of them. Messy business, and expensive too. The hunters are asking a piece of eight for a live one these days. They say they're harder to catch."

"Got smart, mebbe," the stable boy mumbled politely.

"Smart. That'll be the day. As stupid and feckless as the day the ships landed on these new shores."

They went right past the crouching Adorro, not noticing her in their absorption with the half-shuttered lamp.

Stupid, feckless, unclean. Nothing new in those words. Every word and every glance since she could remember had carried that meaning, overt or hidden. But the idea that the Pinto had already been on Discovery Island when the ships with her – no, not her –ancestors landed, that was new. Adorro tried to recall the map of New Discovery her father had shown her once, from a precious book she wasn't allowed to touch. The edges of the big ocean were colored in, with the names of town and territories. The Good People of Zwerli in the North, and the Old Fane worshipers in the south, where it was hotter and less decent. Which was why the Aliver Croma School for Genteel Young Ladies was situated in the North. Because a cold harsh climate provided less temptation than the lax, hedonistic Southern climes.

Now she realized true temptation lay not to the North, but to the West. The white places on the maps, where no Zwerlian or Old Fanian had gone.

But first, she had to get out of the inn's courtyard and away from her parents.

The back door slammed on the two men and Adorro rose from her crouch. The heels of her traveling boots clacked too loudly on the packed gravel and she bent to take them off. She hung them around her neck for later use. She darted into the shadows near the gate. What lay outside? A busy thoroughfare or empty countryside?

She was in luck. Cooler, fresher air struck her the moment she was away from the enclosure. She looked out over a deep meadow, milky with mist and moonshine, stippled with the hunchbacked islands of cows.

How to tell which way was west? Adorro climbed over the turnstile and waded through the mist, the grass cool on her bare feet. The grass held itself aloof and gave no sign of recognition. She closed her eyes to think better. Her hair lifted in the breeze and she sighed happily when she realized she'd left her veil behind. The breeze brought a scent, a full moon scent that called her to her left. She stretched out her hand in the direction she felt she should go and opened her eyes. The hand, the dark one, pointed across the road, in the direction that was either west or east. It must be west. The sea would not invite her, as she had learnt during the ocean crossing.

She crossed the road. Her inky shadow lingered on the road for a few steps after she'd slipped into the bushes on the verge. They gave off a faint leafy smell when she brushed past, but made only half-hearted attempts to snatch at her clothes.

Adorro closed her eyes to make sure she was still going in the right direction. Something called her, more and more clearly with every step.

The grass under her feet grew patchier, black blotches on gray, as overhead the moon shone brighter than before. Adorro looked back. She could still see the road snaking through the fields, and the pinpricks of light that indicated the inn. She walked on.

After a strip of ground that was almost bare, a wall of darkness rose up. The woods. They rustled as the spring wind tousled their manes. They threw scents towards her and then recalled them, urging her to follow.

She took a step towards them. Under her foot a patch of something short and green yielded with languor to the pressure of her sole and sent an interested greeting. Adorro danced away from the creepy stuff but there was no escaping it. After a few hops it started to anticipate her rhythm and humped up to meet her soles.

Adorro glanced back at the inn, where her parents slept. A dark figure flitted away from the building. For a second Adorro thought it was Grandmother, but that just couldn't be. The old lady never moved of her own accord. Although once she'd taught Adorro songs and dances in her attic.

She turned back to the darkness ahead of her. She'd come about three steps into unknown territory and already she was scared.

Moss tickled between her toes. _Please stay, it said. Or something said. I didn't mean to scare you._

That just made it worse. Adorro jumped back to the safety of silent grass. The moss stopped talking. How did it talk? Through the soles of her feet? Maybe putting her shoes back on would be a good idea. Her heart slowed down enough so she could heed what her feet were telling her. They wanted to go talk to the moss. Her skin ached to go scent the woods. Her thighs twitched from eagerness to run pell-mell until she dropped.

Her head, filled with admonishments from Mrs. Greana and her nannies, was the only part of her that didn't want to go. What if? There would be no decorum in the woods; there would be rambunctiousness and flightiness. And fun and abandon and danger. Adorro couldn't have said how she had learned those words, because they were never spoken in her house.

Adorro was already walking over the moss towards the edge of the woods. A bramble whip quested towards her and stung her once for a taste of her sweet blood. A sigh went through the woods. It knew her.

The moss spoke of her ancestors. Her mother, young and tender, brutally overwhelmed by a group of men. No, not her adoptive mother, not Mrs. Greana. This was a Pinto woman. The brambles shaped the woman giving birth, the boy child growing up into someone vaguely familiar. Her father. The story rewound itself, now with her father pursuing the Pinto woman.

Ivy and honeysuckle pointed to a place behind her. Adorro's grandmother stood there, respectfully left inviolate by all the wood. She strode towards Adorro. The moss made a path for her and the sorrel bowed aside.

"Now you know." She stretched out her hand towards Adorro.

The black hand, just like her own. The pattern of her Pinto design, like her own. Adorro didn't know herself anymore. The story of her family was a lie. It couldn't be true. She didn't want it to be.

Seeing another person naked, let alone Grandmother, was too much for Adorro and she ran. The woods opened up for her and let her through. Anywhere, as long as it was away.

Moonlight stroked her face with silvery fingers, like music. Moss talked back to the moon through her. Small branches plucked at her clothes, trying to get at her skin. A slithering sensation against her leg set her dancing. It was the questing tip of a new ivy shoot, trying to grow up along her calf.

Trees rustled all around her. They had new leaves, brown leaves, blossoms and ripe fruit hanging crisscross on their branches. Didn't this forest have seasons? It felt wrong.

A buck streaked across her path, his ears back and his eyes wide open with fear. The hind pursuing him had already bloodied her teeth on him. That, too, was unnatural.

The woods and the winds and the plants underfoot seemed in busy conversation with parts of her body, which seemed to know what to answer. And the woods knew her and her story. Her father. How could he have...She stopped. He hadn't touched her. He was sending her away to the Croma School. Maybe that had been to protect her, not himself. Although he, too, must have Pinto blood?

While she thought, her feet walked on, caressing the moss beneath her soles and breathing in the poetry-scented winds. Small branches lifted her wrap from her shoulders, and others cut the buttons from her bodice. Her skirts became shorter, eaten up by thousands of small beetles. But she ignored these unimportant messages about the dead material hanging about her body. Who was Adorro, except a Pinto girl? Should she find her wild cousins and live their life? Something heavy swooped down from the trees and landed right in front of her.

"Hello," the only half-visible shape said. Only he didn't speak with his mouth.

Adorro squinted to see him. His dappled body blended in seamlessly with the patterns of light and shade in the forest, pale where moonlight struck bark, and dark where loam and small creatures created a carpet for him to walk on.

Adorro's body turned to him like a flower to the sun. Her skin opened wide to inhale the scents the wind carried towards her. He reminded her of the dying field hand, lying on bare gravel under hot sun, but this one's scent was healthier, more complete.

Her hands reached up to finish what the forest had started. She had no need of blouse and camisole. Her skirt could puddle at her feet. She was clothed in her own skin, colors swirling like cream in hot soup.

"Who are you?" she said. "My name is Adorro."

He frowned as he reached forward to put his hands on her shoulders. _I am me_ , his hands said to her. _You are you. Let us dance under the moonlight._

His hands slid down over her arms, stirring a wake of goose bumps and shivers. Come.

His hands over hers oriented her body in the right direction and her feet knew how to follow. No dead wood crackled under their feet, no living branch came even close to her eyes. The woods walked with them.

Her back itched from the desire to rub itself against a tree. Rough bark plied against her and she arched in mindless pleasure until she'd drenched herself in the tree's scent and she would forever know its spirit. She'd always longed for this without knowing she did. All her life she'd only been touched by the dead surfaces of objects, tables or linen or wool clothes or wooden handles. Her parents must have known she could talk to anything that lived here. Except the green grass or the cows. Everything that lived beyond the roads and palisades of her parents' people. They must have deliberately shielded her from that knowledge. Why?

And she and they were more different than she'd ever imagined. She belonged to this world, that they called Discovery. She was made for rolling around in mosses and chafing her back on trees that enjoyed it right back.

Her hand still held on to her companion. She wanted to be closer to him, rub her spots against his and find out what he was made of. She opened her mouth to speak, but he must have known already what she wanted for he drew her down in a mossy glade, where the moonlight could bathe them from top to toe.

He slid his cheek over hers. The scent of his breath penetrated her skin and she returned the gift with a puff of information of her own. She was born to do this, she knew it although it was all new. They would come together and be one person.

His tongue touched hers and her back arched so hard that only the back of her head and her heels touched the ground. The brilliance of moonlight seemed tame after that blaze of feeling. Was that what tongues were made for? So much better than speaking.

His tongue was for other things than kissing as well. He licked her like a cow would a block of salt. Hhis happiness mingled with hers, pushing it to greater heights. His tongue traveled down to where her legs met and her patches grew darkest and most secret. He touched her between her legs, with his tongue and his hands and his feelings and she thought she was looking into the sun her mind was so bright.

But then she remembered the Greanas' cattle. Those cows were put to the bull once a year, and calves resulted. Adorro had watched from her window, secretly. She didn't intend to have a calf just now. She wanted to run free through the woods, not get swollen up and bear a slimy calf, lowing with pain, her udders bursting with milk for a year after. Although she couldn't have said what she had wanted when running away, this wasn't it.

"No," she said. "I don't want to make a baby. Stop."

The man, or boy, ignored her. She didn't even know his name. He hadn't introduced himself or shown her his people or his house. They had tumbled down onto the moss without further thought.

"No," she said, louder.

There was no more reaction than before. His hands were busy pushing her legs apart preparing to enter her.

She remembered he did not speak. No, she thought at him. She forced her hands to obey her, not the commands of her eager, moist body.

He didn't listen. Only her body spoke to him in a way he could understand, and he was stronger, and very eager. Why didn't he listen? She writhed under him, half fighting, half in ecstasy. Her arms flailed against a tree. Maybe she could find a dead branch. Hit the boy on the head with it.

A slithering crept up her skin. But not only hers. Curly tendrils shot up over the boy's arms and pulled him away from her. Within moments he was lying on his back on the ground, the vines holding him down. A dark shadow grew on his pale patches.

Adorro looked up. The tree against which she'd bumped her head was bending down. It extended a large branch. _Whack it_ went across the boy's head. He slumped down. The tree and the vines had done as she asked.

Adorro scrambled and fought to get away from under him.

The vines kissed her feet but let her go. She stood up, panting and swaying, and tried to remember what direction she'd come from. Where were her clothes? What had possessed her to undress in the middle of the wild woods? If the tree hadn't helped her she would have been raped just now. She put her hand against it and thanked it. Did she imagine it or did it happily accept?

She brushed the soft skin of her inside upper arm against her nipple and moaned. Her body hadn't forgotten the boy yet. He must have smelled her from miles away, and she him. He'd been the anchor she'd felt from the moment she left the road.

If this was how her people lived she didn't want to be part of it. Although perhaps the Plain People, as the man had called them in his mind, were not that different. She thought of Sarai, one of her favorite maids, who'd had to leave Mrs. Greana's service because she'd fallen for the lures of the stable boy. Disgrace resulted, and later Adorro had overheard that Sarai had died in childbed. Mrs. Greana had cried a little, even though it was for a maid, because her three sisters had died when giving birth as well.

Adorro shivered. She was alone in the woods, and naked. She'd barely escaped that dreadful fate. If the man had succeeded in what he wanted, she'd have been a fallen woman, most likely gotten pregnant and died young. She just wanted to live, find out who she was.

Her feet carried her to one of her shoes. It had been slightly nibbled at, but looked otherwise intact.

How did she want to live her life?

She followed her own erratic trail back. Her body had calmed down and was able to tell the trees what she wanted. If she concentrated, she could see/hear/smell her own spoor in the small signs of her passing. Broken branches, trodden moss, and the clothes she'd cast off so carelessly.

Her linen bodice and underskirt had been damaged the most. Whole patches were missing, and great green and black blotches crawled across, busily eating the rest of it.

"Get off, that's my bodice!" Adorro said, startling herself with the sound of her voice.

The green patches turned lighter and dried out to a pale dust she could easily brush off. The linen was stained but mostly intact. No wonder the boy had worn no clothing. It would be eaten in a flash if you took your mind off it. And she didn't need clothes to warm herself. Even though her parents would have called this a chilly spring night, she felt comfortable, even slightly hot. She was made for this place.

But she couldn't stop herself putting the tatters of her clothes on. When she was dressed and hung her one shoe around her neck, she felt much safer, as if the thin layer of wool and linen was armor. Against eyes, or the wishes of the other men dancing in the woods tonight.

She felt no one near, no one except her grandmother. Not in the way the young man had felt, burning, wanting, pulling her to him. She'd best get away even farther from him before he woke up. But in what direction? Before the encounter with the boy, she wouldn't have considered returning to stifling control of her parents. But now...

If she stayed here, would she be treated like a cow in heat by every man she met? Then the Croma School was the better choice. It meant being cloistered among the Plain People, to live a life of denial and seclusion, knitting sweaters for the homeless or hoeing vegetables or whatever they had in store for her.

But not against everything. Mrs. Greana had taught her to feel dirty and stupid and less than everyone else, but she'd also taught her restraint. "Eat slowly, Adorro." "Hands above the blankets, girl." Chafing commands, like shackles. But without them she could not have withstood the blandishments of the boy in the woods. Those shackles had protected her.

The decision weighed on her shoulders like a yoke. She could go back. Better to be a slave than a broodmare. But first, she had to know more about who she was. And the person to ask was her grandmother.

Something rustled behind the bottle shaped bole of a big tree. Adorro stiffened. Another man? No, she would have smelled him. Who, then?

Grandmother. She didn't give up easily.

Adorro straightened. Clearly grandmother was a woman with a strange past, so much more than the piece of living furniture her father had pretended she was. Adorro shivered as the memories from the moss intruded again.

"Grandmother, why is this happening? "

Grandmother prodded the body with a foot. "A good thing you remembered how to ask the wood for help. It is not so hard to guess what he wanted. But why here, why now? You didn't invite him, I think? Nor did you consent to marry him out of season?"

"Of course not. What do you mean, out of season?" Adorro said.

"He acted like the field hand who followed you. Like a mindless body without a guiding brain. I thought nothing of it, as he'd been captured by the Plain ones. But now this one, in this forest without order or grace...Something is wrong here. Perhaps the Beautiful People have retreated from it."

"Should be we go back to the inn?"

"Certainly not. Your father tried to protect you, but now I've come home, I want to show you where you and I come from. The Beautiful People."

All Adorro could think of was the boys. Her father's anger if she returned disheveled like this.

"Come." Grandmother held out her hand. "The Plain Ones haven't reached very far into our land yet. Let me show you the forest, and how we dance the moon across the sky."

Adorro looked over Grandmother's shoulder, where the inn was. A cramped and unhappy life, but at least one she knew.

"But my parents..." she said.

Grandmother shrugged. Adorro clapped her hands over her face to avoid seeing Grandmother's naked, unnaturally youthful body.

"Come here, Adorro," Grandmother said. "Give me your hand."

Adorro lifted her hands until her palms lay against grandmothers'. She could look now. The hands were identical, or no, mirror images. One white palm against a white palm, a dark one against Grandmother's dark one. One thumb, three fingers.

Her palm confirmed what the moss had already told her. They were family twice over.

"I thought I would take you to the village I was born in, introduce you to my elders – but the village is gone. The young boys have no manners and no words," Grandmother said. "These woods have run wild and untended for years. Without the Beautiful People to tend them, the woods don't know when the form leaf and when to drop it. Without our songs and dances, how can the world know what the season is for seeding, when buck may cover hind? When men and women may mingle and when they may not? All is awry without our governing hand. Come. We have work to do. We must dance. I taught you the steps."

Grandmother lifted her hands. Adorro copied her. Her feet remembered the steps Grandmother danced from long, long ago when she could barely toddle. Her voice knew the words. As they danced and sang, the trees around them dropped their leaves and became bare. Buds swelled on the branches. The moon seemed to stutter and shrink. The scent of the wood changed, becoming calmer and cooler. It was properly spring.

Grandmother finished the song and nodded to Adorro. "This is the work we must do. The world must be restored. Come."

Adorro followed Grandmother's white behind into the forest. She would learn who and what she was. And when she had, then she would choose whether to return to the world of the Plain Ones, or not.

Only then.
In the Field – With Janet 201

Felice Picano (USA)

All the colors on this planet were off. The vegetation was several putrid shades of brown, the dirt was green, well greener than tan or gray, and the water a sick shade of lilac. Probably because of the double sun system burning furiously above: a tiny, blue-hot white star alongside a pendulously huge deep crimson one. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Karri didn't know which made her more disgusted: this ragtag group of women she had joined trekking across the dried-to-a-crust desert headed to a particular spot inland; or the fact that they were on their way to mate with males there almost twice their size.

Naturally that wasn't what they said they were doing. Being g. females, even if they were a seeded-world archaic variant, they'd prevaricated and among themselves couched the upcoming meeting as "trading." They said they were meeting the H'lt tribe males to trade their beads and shells for the g. males' obsidian and flints.

She thought their shells third-rate: small, fragile and poorly colored, even if they were sharp and friable enough to make deadly single-use spear-points. As for the beads, well, the only excuse for those was that the people were, after all, primitive by all Species Ethnology sociometrical criteria.

How the outpost of women had ended up on the rocky coast of this rapidly drying inland sea was clear once she'd probed. The men had gone off in two groups half a generation before, saying they were after bigger game than the amphibians, bivalves and thin-fleshed fish available here as food. Gone off looking for a better home, and they'd died off, or more likely found better food and females and never bothered to return.

Honey-taster, the elder and assumed head of this mini-matriarchy, told variations of that story, depending upon her mood and the alignment of the four small rocky worlds and the three tiny moons that visibly scudded like ghosts across the yellow to pink to magenta sky. So far, Karri had heard four versions, the most interesting being something to do with a large, dead, aquatic animal none recognized perishing in front of what was left of the village. A sign that their way of life was on its way out.

Honey-taster was the only one who had ever met the H'lt g. males every trip inland. Those who'd accompanied her either remained with the males or returned and died, most often in childbirth. Seven times now, Honey-taster had gone, with different companions. She'd given birth sixteen times afterwards, to the twins common to these seeded humans and to two sets of triplets. Twelve infants survived: a testament to her skill. Two were females old enough and healthy enough to join the trek and barter-meeting. From what Karri could figure out, the g. male infant triplets were the result of a more recent meeting. Two other males had also been born to another tribe member, now deceased. These five were all different enough in looks that they might be useful for future tribal breeding -- if they lived long enough.

Because more than flints and obsidian chips, that's what this tribe who called themselves what sounded to Karri like "Sfelt-Dohs" was going after in these meetings. She gathered that without these annual connections both tribes would die off, and once that happened, the extinction of these seeded world human variants seemed assured,

That desolating fact had been established through Karri's study, two years long, from a low flying observation deck in geosynchronomous orbit, from which she was able to assess the women, the sexually dimorphic males, and the scattered, quickly depleting population of this central and only populated continent. Another seven dozen tribes, none larger than two hundred, meant at most, seventeen thousand – i.e. right on the cusp of extinction.

Her rushed publication of these startling figures three weeks ag, via long-comm. Inter-Gal., was received by her Species Ethnology department at Melisande University on Wicca-World with "amazement and horror." As Karri Ndebele-Chin-Swarz well knew, previous reports two centuries before showed a population near a million. But those same reports also reported different conditions: shorelines teeming with marine life, agriculturally rich and population-dense. Inland hills and low mountain ranges of brown and green, large forests and idyllic vales. Those housed smaller mammals and reptiles that were gone, along with most botanical life. The three-season rotation reported then had been replaced by a single season: a steady, hot, dry summer, with a brief bi-annual winds and ice storms that did little but produce the only fresh water on land.

After all of her figures were checked and flurries of Inter-Gal comm.s had come and gone, there seemed to be but one solution --- discover what caused the catastrophic change of weather and see how it could be altered. To do that, Karri would have to be on the ground, and not on the coast but inland where the changes occurred. Her own scruples told her she'd have to do it herself, even though she was the least adventurous woman she knew and had never planned to leave her sky-lab. Besides herself and an occasional scholar visitor, there were only intelligent cybers onboard the orbiter. Janet 201–with the most experience --would join her on-planet, and be useful for data findings and storage, as well as for companionship, protection and help. A graduate student and another cyber would stay, collate facts, and run the orbiter.

When contacted about this plan, Karri's supervisor reluctantly agreed, and said she would make herself available in case direct guidance was required. Only problem was: she was four thousand light years distant, at Yuan Wei XVII, with a week of Fast travel between them.

"I applaud your initiative, Mer Ndebele-Chin," her supervisor declared, "And as long as you feel that your cyber companion is trustworthy...."

"I do. Janet 201 is completely trustworthy," Karri replied. More trustworthy than any of the old farts at the University on Melisande, she wanted to add, who'd been "appalled and amazed" by her findings. But why make more trouble for herself? She needed them for future funding and assignments. This had been a third-level one, months after all the choicer assignments. Karri knew she wasn't popular. Unlike those who'd sucked up to the proctors, who'd been connected to them already.

The Second Galactic Matriarchy didn't believe in anything as retro as "class," never mind a low version of it. Its laws guaranteed any full citizen on any Matriarchal Center World need not ply a vocation if she didn't wish to: she would be supplied automatically. Both of Karri's mothers and even her sire-parent had followed Ed. & Dev. by going into socially conscious fields— geriatric medicine for Nola Ndebele, Delphinid-Human psychology for Andree Chin, while Crispin Swartz slid into Exogeology on planets being prepared for colonization.

They'd stood proudly –Crispin arrived by Fast from a Sag Arm posting using most of his hard-earned credit – when she'd graduated, high in her class. Several old faculty farts had sniffed so much meeting her family, as if Crispin brought a bad smell into the assembly hall. (Janet 201 pointed out that he was one of only six g. males present among the thousand or so females.) "What a delightfully _active_ family," the Dean enthused meeting them.

Only Karri's supervisor actually dared touch Crispin in greeting. The others danced around, causing mirth later when Karri's family privately celebrated. But if she'd been "outspoken" at the university, questioning old theories by so-called "beloved former teachers," Karri was well aware that she was now threatening to tread on larger toes: because Wicca Two Herself, in Her former avocation of Species Ethnologist wrote the original life study here on Seeded World #657. Back then, the Xu Chi system of the Near-Perseus Arm, was daringly far and unexplored, 15,000 light years from the capital.

Her Ladyship's publication "On the Viability of the Seeded World Program: A Panagenesis" made Her famous. Its findings \-- in sync with the Matriarch's pet program -- instantly got her into Wicca One's inner circle. During the final decades of that August Personage's rule, the young Ethnologist became a Favorite, then a Very Important Woman, and finally a Personage. From there to the center of government was a few tiny steps.

The actual baggage that Karri and Janet 201 brought with them into the Sfelt –Doh tribe that first morning of meeting was minimal: a broken reed raft with a torn sail, themselves clad in beat up, hand-sewn clothing (Janet had done it at super speed on the station and then carefully "aged" it), and whatever data their well hidden wrist-connectors could possibly store or record.

Having learned the tribe's daily patterns, Karri made certain she and Janet would arrive mid-morning, as the others were filling their stomachs and napping under some of the ghastly-colored bushes.

She'd counted on the women's curiosity as much as their compassion, and since Janet 201 revealed that she had learned how to alter her externals to conform to simple displays of illness, that's how they arrived: Janet feverishly ill, out of it, her companion Karri sun and wind-burned, exhausted from fighting the sea.

They'd been greeted with open arms—a group this small could hardly be choosy. Fire-keeper, second oldest, second in command, immediately began to mother Janet and the others had tended to a stammering, raw-voiced Karri.

Five sunrises later, both new arrivals-- renamed Craft-handler and Sail-mender ("Really?" Janet asked, "That's the best they could come up with?") for their derring-do upon the dangerous inland sea-- were deemed well enough, and more importantly, young enough, to join the inland jaunt.

"Now the fun begins," Janet subvocalized, as they prepared kits and primitive travel tools, the result of much precise labor by the other, older tribe members. For a cyber, Jane was unusually skeptical: one reason why she was here.

"You're completely certain, Mer Ndebele-Chin, that you were on Seeded World #657, in the Xu Chi system? Your report so contradicts what we have about that planet as to be well, fantastic!"

"Yes, Dr. Stein-Majourah," Karri felt compelled to answer. "It was your own cyber-secretary, Harmony Lacks, who personally delivered the assignment and all the travel documents that took us to Seeded World #657. There was no way I could have gone anywhere else."

The other University Proctor among the six, interceded. "Dear, surely you understand our confusion?"

"I do, Dr. Ahnsjo-Smith, I do. I was equally confused when I arrived at the geosynchronomous laboratory and took my first look at Seeded World #657. I was familiar, as all of us here are, with Her Ladyship's pioneering study."

"You're not implying," Stein-Majourah interrupted, "That Her Ladyship was in error, are you?"

"Of course not."

"But the discrepancy is so . . . noticeable."

"Indeed, Doctors. But even from above, in a short time, it was obvious that there were abandoned archaic villages and primitive homesteads left to desertify. The question was never if anything was there. Clearly there once had been. No, the question was -- what happened to what was there?"

"The climate, you said. . . ." Stein-Majourah sputtered.

"The climate is blameworthy. But the question I've had to ask is why the climate is so radically different?"

"Axial tilt anomalies?" Stein-Majourah suggested. "Minor alterations in planetary spin? The system itself travelling through diverse kind of space?"

"My father—my sire-parent -- is an exoplanetary geologist, Doctors. I was brought up to take all of that into consideration as a matter of course. And while there were derivations from the norm at Seeded World #657, they were in recorded variants. No evidence of tectonic activity. No new faults detected, no lava fields erupting, producing warm gasses: all possible culprits. The Xu Chi system, like many in the Near-Perseus Arm, is young by our criteria, barely two and a half billion years old. Seeded World #657 is the same age. But it's well beyond its Hadean state, well within a steady-Archaic-Aeon state. It would have to be, to have been chosen for the seeding program in the first place, wouldn't it?"

"Yes of course. But when we sent you there, we had no intention you'd find anything out of the ordinary," Dr. Ahnsjo-Smith said. She did not bother to add that the site was chosen because it was considered stable. Karri could not be able to pull off one of her controversies.

"I assumed that, Doctors," Karri let them know she wasn't born yesterday. "Which is why I was so very surprised to find it . . . anomalous."

They'd been sparring for an hour: this little gathering on Wicca-World, two and a half weeks after Karri's return from the study-project assignment. The scene was the rooftop outdoor terrace of the Species Ethnology wing of the college, all garden and fountains with sof-chairs and low-grade cybers for instant wordless service. If the luxurious setting was intended to cow her, it was failing.

"Would you would prefer conferring with my companion, Janet 201?"

Janet was standing, arms crossed, a not all that accommodating look on her face. Karri knew University elders trusted intelligent cybers less than upstart scholars. "Can she tell us anything different?"

"Her honesty as a 201 model is, as you all know, is un-impugnable."

"We don't mean to impugn your honesty," wizened little Dr. Brumaire retorted sweetly. She was Emeritus of the School of Species Ethnology and her presence for this debriefing was surprising. This was the first she'd spoken today and her next words gave Karri a faint hope. "Continue your defense, ah, I meant your statement."

Brumaire was up to something. No wonder she'd come today. What could it be?

"Thank you, Doctors. I shall."

There had been a moment when their cover was almost blown. It was because of Grub-finder, one of the lackadaisical members of the tribe, who seldom paid attention to her surroundings. On their fourth day of trek (some called i, their "walkabout")) they reached a plateau which had been a medium sized mesa over a lake. The water was long dried up, but there were bones of small animals who'd been caught huddled around the last water hole and who had perished there when it went dry.

Each woman stopped to look out over the cliff edge, but Grub-finder didn't turn and follow the others. Instead, following her own instincts or hallucinations, she headed for the edge, a hundred meters high. Janet 201 noticed her and Karri alone saw Janet reach Grub-finder with one hand as she went over and pull her back with the strength only a cyber possessed, uttering the word, "Dipshit!"

There was a tussle before Grub-finder was put right and Karri had her hand. But the two off-worlders did exchange wordless comments, and later agreed they'd need a tighter rein on her. Luckily, Grub-finder was in her fog-shrouded world and couldn't be bothered to dispute anything.

During their next stop, in the shadow of large rocks deposited onto the dried lake bed, Karri mentioned Grub-finder's evident confusion. Quickly enough two of the others corrected her, saying she knew the route to the meeting spot and back. If anything happened to Honey-taster, Grub-finder would step in for her. As they huddled over dried sand, Honey-taster began to draw a map of their path with a stick and Grub-finder did correct her once. (Janet's subvocalized comment was, "the blonde leading the blonde.")

It became evident that both senior women had witnessed large geological alterations. "The first time here, "Honey-taster assured them, "All the lakes ran on one river. A large dark-colored river that flowed from one lake to another, in a long chain." She guided Karri's hand along the crude map. Then stood Karri up and pointed east.

In front of them were traces of four of the dead lakes and scars of what had been flowing rivers, easy to make out in the crimson twilight that dropped causing purple shadows.

"Within memory?" Janet 201 asked.

"I remember the little animals there!" Grub-finder pointed to the closest depression over the cliff side. "I felt sorry for them having no where else to go."

"We took a few for food," Honey-taster clarified.

Karri didn't want Janet's comment on that.

Just before it got dark and Fire-keeper let her flames rise for sleeping heat, Karri stood at the cliff edge. When Janet 201 joined her, she asked, "What does this vista remind me of, Janet? I can't put my finger on it."

"Should I do a deep-search into my memory files?'

"I'd be grateful. I'm bothered by it."

The following morning, as they began trekking off the cliff, Janet reported that she'd searched her memory as well as her wrist-connection's records and had come up with two hits for the twilit landscape. "The first is Planet 14 of the triple star system at the edge of the Sobieski Nebula. The other one is Euterpe Prime."

"Both of those are ice worlds, Janet! _That's_ exactly what this looks like: catastrophic glacial flooding! That can't be right, can it?" Karri asked.

"It shouldn't be," Janet agreed. "But we ought to look for signs of glaciation retreat and sudden flooding. To eliminate it."

That night when they camped on a ridge above the most inland of the emptied out lakes, they sighted what might have been another watch fire, distant, on the other side of the huge depression. The others got excited thinking it was the males. But Honey-taster knew better: "They've never come this far. Why now?" So, while they speculated whether it was man-made or natural, Janet pointed to the ragged line of boulders at the close end of this depression.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Karri asked.

"Esker ridges like the one we're on," Janet said, "and down there –water in one form or another dropped rocks and rapidly moved forward or retreated."

"On a planet with dry land that is 95 percent desert?" Karri had to ask.

"I know. I know. But neither sand, wind nor dune created those eskers. Or dropped those huge rocks," Janet confirmed.

"No they didn't. We need a scenario that did. Wicca Two's reported temperate climate doesn't work either."

They still didn't have a solid scenario to account for that, but as they camped in a rock depression on a mountain ridge they saw what had to be camp fires east, the direction they were headed in.

"I'm so excited," Fish-spearer said, almost giddy. "I've never even seen a male before. Except of course in Honey's drawings."

"Honey's truly bad drawings," Janet 201 said loud enough to draw a smile out of Karri. . "Where they looked like narwhales out of water standing on their tails."

"Perhaps you ought to be equally afraid," Grub-finder said. "They're big and strong and unpredictable and they're....." she had run out of words.

"They'll be predictable. Polite too," Honey-taster assured the younger females. "They have to be. They need women to take back and we both have trading to do."

"The records had only just been returned," Janet 201 reported. "So I snatched them up. The archivist was one of my own model, given to uncalled for anxieties. I sensed that she was about to stop me with some typically Model 101 rationalization or endless excuse, so I pulled rank on her cybernetically. She let me borrow all of the records. I've copied them and then duped it all, and I returned it all rapidly. Before the archivist or any human librarian might notice and complain."

She meant vid-records of Seeded World #657 taken from the archives of the Seeded Worlds Project office in Melisande's Hall of Records. She'd received the request from Karri, but believing she might run into contention, Janet had then electronically forged Doctor Brumaire's name alongside that. Causing the intelligent cyber-archivist to complain, "but Brumaire just returned all this!"

Karri received that piece of news by wrist connector comm. from Janet when she was in the Outer Worlds records office, on another search. She forged Brumaire's name above hers, only to receive a similar message from the human librarian. "I wish she'd make up her mind! She dumped these onto my in-shelf not four hours ago."

"Do tell!" Karri wanted to say. What she did say instead was "Perhaps she thought she missed something." Cattily, she added, "She's not the youngest person at the University, you know."

"Eve, no! And if you only saw the sweater-vest she was wearing today!"

"Passe?" Karri asked.

"Let's just say it was museum quality –and old enough to go in one".

Back at Karri's rooms, they played one old recordings Janet 201 had retrieved. So old it needed to be inserted into a wall slot and still required buffering of various sorts. It yielded what at first seemed to be "snow," which actually turned out to be snow—falling constantly –along with ice and glaciers!

Janet dialed in the coordinates they wanted, and quickly enough the planetary scan exhibited the four lakes they'd seen several weeks earlier while in the field -- and all dried up. Here they were light green/ blue and frozen over, bound by a meandering river also iced over but presumably capable of melting. It showed up almost black it was so dark blue, connecting, curving or otherwise flanking the four small lakes. The voice-over and subtitles in four languages including High Delphinid, referred to way the four were laid out as a "Dauphin Effect." Janet chattily explained that it was named after some ancient Metro-Terran prince, "because it resembled a leader with his retinue trying to keep up."

Karri wanted to see more and they did: scanning all of the vids from three different probes about 20 years apart. Those confirmed that when first probed and video-ed that, essentially, Seeded World #657 had been an ice age planet with small oceans. "Just as we thought from the evidence when we were there," Janet pointed out.

"What year was this first one taken?" Karri asked.

"3115 . . . Sidereal Time year."

"That's before Wicca One. Before the matriarchy even began!?"

"That's correct Mer Ndebele. The others are from 3142 and the last from 3155. All of them date from the era of the Star Barons," Janet 201 added. "Over a million probes were sent out in flocks of a hundred and more into a pretty wide area of the Near Perseus Arm."

"Do we know who authorized any of these particular probes?"

"All three of these originated from a source on Ophiucus 14: . . . Alec Kinder Kell is the requester name on the first two," Janet said.

"Star Baron is right! He was the father of the infamous Jat Kell!"

"The later Kell appears to have authorized the final probe and videos. What were they searching for, Mer Ndeble?" Janet asked.

"Any resources at hand, those that were easy to scoop up. Moons with lakes of liquid methane. Comets and asteroid fields possessing veins of pure iron, platinum, gold and silver, copper, zinc or mercury. Their first planetary explorations we know of utilized scout ships, equipped with small, carefully selected crews, usually containing a telepath in case they encountered any sentient life. Later they used these -- the most advanced for their day type of cyber-probes. It's believed that extending the life and minds of these probes was behind that second great leap in A.I.-- leading to the 101 series."

"And, presumably, leading to me," Janet said, but looked unconvinced that these small globes filed with dozens of extrusions were her ancestors, so Karri went on:.

"They found plenty of easy pickings, which is why so many probes went out: it was cost efficient. Once the Star Baron moved in, she or he would strip the world of the resources wanted and when that was done, invest in some basic terra-forming equipment to make the planet or satellite usable for future colonization. That way they could claim them as charities and there would be profit on both ends if any colonists actually showed up to live there later. Unmanned probes were still going out when the Star Barons were overthrown by the Mothers."

"Those facts would presumably not be difficult to discover by anyone close to Wicca One," Janet pointed out.

"Presumably," Karri agreed. "Do you notice anything on the final vid that was not on the earlier two?"

Janet 201 searched her perfect memory. "Yes, there was. In sector four hundred and twenty five." She brought it up again visually on the wall unit --."There! See! Those largish, dark domes are new to the scene. They don't look at all natural."

"No they don't. They could easily contain primitive terra-forming equipment," Karri said. "If they were set up and going in, say, 3155, then by the end of the first Matriarchy, the planet might easily have achieved that perfect temperate climate that Her Ladyship, Wicca Two, reported."

So! All we need do," Janet 201 concluded, "Is to find some direct connection between Her Ladyship and Seeded World #657 before she began her studies there?."

"All!?" Karri replied.

"But if we've gotten this far, surely Doctor Brumaire has also," Janet said. "It stands to reason. She's certainly been looking."

"Yes she has. But how can we let her know that we know?" Karri asked and then answered herself, "By finding that pre-study connection."

"Yes. If Dr. Brumaire is going after Her Ladyship, as I believe she is, she will need all the ammunition she can get."

"In the form of information that we could provide," Karris said.

"Yes, Mer, because she also needs allies."

"And that's what she was doing at my study report rooftop debriefing. That's exactly why she was there," Karri said, thinking aloud. "The only question is would one of those old biddies in the Species Eth department actually contact Her Ladyship about this matter? Or is it just too minor?"

She had to admit that she was nervous. Having Janet 201 nearby didn't much change that. Anyway, Janet had slyly escaped the night's anticipated events by faking menses. How she'd done it, Karri couldn't for the life of her figure out. She must have secretly prepped it while still on the sky-lab stations bio sector, because she was emitting what looked like –and more importantly—what smelled like a menstrual flow. A small one of course, but still.... The traitor!

Honey-taster noted it immediately and demanded that Janet set herself aside from the moment that they spied the H'lt tribe males approaching. She was to keep back during daylight and once both suns had set, she still had to be at a small distance from the others. Janet didn't protest and Karri looked daggers at her.

The meeting between the two groups occurred on exactly the day predicted by Honey-taster and Grub-finder. And about the same time, a few hours after the double meridian had ended, and a long summer afternoon shading into evening had begun.

The males had been visible for several hours beforehand, coming from a north-westerly direction.: seven of them, walking in a long line, sometimes two at a time, but usually in a long spread-out queue. From the women's viewpoint, higher up and descending, they'd seemed to meander. Once only, when they first noticed the women had there been any greeting -- raised spear points and one shout-out. To which the women had replied, with raised hands and ragged shouts in return. Then almost near silence had ensued for another hour or more as they both approached the meeting spot.

That site was upon a flattened ridge some twenty meters above the general landscape which was otherwise entirely level now that the arid lake-beds had been passed. This raised spot had two advantages besides being highly visible from afar. It possessed a freshwater spring at certain times of the year, Grub-finder had told them, which should be flowing at this season. As a result, it also possessed far more vegetation than any area below. Enough to produce a sort of dry-thistle tree almost two meters tall, as well as several kinds of bush-like plants that Janet 201declared to be larger variants of the very small plants they seen for several days. Even more interesting, there was a variety of moss that covered the rise like thick, tight, close-fitting grass, providing for the first really comfortable sitting for Karri and she hoped, comfortable sleeping too.

The males were already arrived when the women approached. They were seated in a circle not far from the thistle tree. Karri was surprised to see they were better clothed than she'd expected. All the women were barefoot, but three of the men wore hide footgear very like sandals. They all had some kind of simple, shovel-shaped headgear against the sun, even though they wore long, uncut hair and full facial hair. All of them had taken advantage of the fresh water source to utilize a rock depression as a basin and to wash themselves. Once the women approached the site, the men wordlessly stood up and walked away around a knoll, just out of sight, so the women were able to sit and also wash themselves, using primitive dried gourd scoops.

After they were done, they moved aside to the meeting space and Honey-taster ululated. The men rapidly arrived and sat opposite, three meters distant, both tribes in shallow semi-circles so all could see all.

Karri was surprised by how mixed in age the males were compared to the women. Aside from Honey-taster and Grub-finder, both of whom were very early middle aged, all the women were young, some like Fish-spearer, adolescent. But there were two clearly older males, and three of young middle age, while only two were young men. Interestingly, those two were the smallest. The others were well over two and a half to almost three meters in height. Did these seeded world humans continue growing as they aged? Way beyond puberty? They didn't live that long, Karri knew. But that would still be an anomaly. Among the women, Honey-taster was by far the largest of the Sfelt-Doh tribe in height and girth; only Janet 201 and Karri approached her size.

The two older males did all the talking, what talking there was. It was similar to the primitive, often slurred, locally accented Inter-Galactic Lexicon that all Seeded World peoples learned from birth, but spoken with a peculiar languor Karri had noticed that all of them used and which she had worked hard to imitate but which Janet had picked up immediately.

Names were exchanged all around, and the males seemed surprised by her and Janet's new names, with their maritime connections. Honey-taster had to explain how the two women had come so recently to join them, which meant that the males reappraised them, with various murmurs that she hoped she was right in thinking approving. They were big and they were undoubtedly male and even somewhat hairy but not a great deal more than the women. They definitely were cleaner, and better groomed. She'd been following the women so long from above that she was somewhat taken back by how well muscled, strong, capable and apparently healthy these males looked. In almost all human cultures she knew of, females tended to outlive males, even if it was by only a small fraction, under optimal conditions, such as in the Center Worlds of the Matriarchy and on its independent counterpart: Hesperia, the City on a Star.

Not here on Seeded World #657. She heard the two male speakers refer to "greatly older ones" who had not come on this trek, both of whom Honey-taster had met before on her first two treks —males she'd probably mated with before and who might be really aged -- for these people. Perhaps this anomalous planet, with its unexpected climate, was more welcoming to the male gender? Several of the Sfelt-Dohs who were mentioned as having previously met and joined these and other males on earlier "walkabouts" had survived no better than the Sfelt-Doh women who returned to the coast. Most had died after a second or third childbirth—no real surprise since these males seemed to sire nothing but twins and triplets, which naturally doubled and tripled danger in childbirth. The men were certainly better fed and healthier looking than any of the women except Karri and Janet. If this all this pointed to longer male lives, it would require some added time with sky-lab visuals when she returned up there, specifically looking at the male-oriented tribes for diet and other causes. Karri wondered if she would even be allowed to report that? Would one of the Proctors at the University on Wicca-World overseeing her study not allow the data to get out, even in so minor a report as hers was bound to be? Wouldn't it be declared it to be "specious and detrimental to the Basic Known Tenets of the Advantageousness of Matriarchal Society as Outlined by the Declaration of the Three Species?"

Meanwhile, all of them –females and males --stared frankly at each other during the meeting, and Karri thought, they also stared appraisingly at each other while these preliminaries were being gone through.

Once completed, out came the excuse for meeting: the trading goods. These were spread onto the ground between the genders. As Karri expected, the male goods were better made. Wherever rough glue or thongs were used, they were stronger and finer, the finished product handsomer. The tools were basic ones the women would need, stone knives, bone knives, simple hammers, bone and stone nails, but all of them quite well made. The females' offerings had also been calculated to appeal to the males, while she and Janet had previously constructed and brought simple bracelets and necklaces, made out of smaller and prettier shells. The men looked at those carefully with murmurs of appreciation and then took them, some putting the bracelets upon themselves, others putting them inside small reptile-hide bags hung upon animal-hide sashes they wore as tool belts at their waists. Doubtless they would be as gifts for others back at their village.

The trading went on quickly. The two older males and three oldest women did it all. But Karri asked for one of the little pouches, and one was handed over to her by one of the younger males, who then took a shell bracelet she'd offered. During all of this, talk was sparse and to the point. No one smiled, or joked.

Once they were done and the materials they'd brought were redistributed, Honey-taster motioned to Fish-spearer and Karri to bring out the stores of dried fish jerky they'd brought. The males meanwhile brought out quantities of dried fruits and vegetables they had carried. Karri had seen only one kind of these before at the women's village and she took bits of all of the new ones and tasted them: richer and sweeter. Compared to the trading, a sort of free for all ensued over the food, people grabbing what they wanted. Water scoops were brought from the freshet, and conviviality at last started up, most of it initiated by the women. That quickly turned into mild flirting.

Several of the men and several women got up in same gender pairs to enjoy their dried food meals in privacy. Honey-taster had taken more than her share and gave it to Karri to share with Janet who waited on a lower knoll of the hill.

When she returned to the top, Honey-taster, Grub-finder and the other women had already paired off with men and were finding more or less isolated spots. She quickly returned down the hill to Janet to check on what her cyber companion had heard and saw from her more distant vantage point, although with cyber-heightened senses. As was usual, their estimations and conclusions about the males coincided. But Karri knew that she would have to sleep up top alone to be available to males.

"Apologies, Mer Ndebele, but you really wouldn't want me up there too. One wrong move and what I am could easily be found out."

That made sense. But Karri now had to admit that unlike her companion who, being a cyber, had few sexual encounters and none with males, Karri had experienced both sexes in a tri-pod. That was the approved social construct of secondary Ed. & Dev., which might lead eventually to a triune family later on, like that of her own parents. But those two youths she'd had sex with at Advanced School had been Matriarchal males, gentle and caring, at times more feminist than their partners, carefully trained from childhood. These males were anything but. Even so none of the Sfelt-Doh women seemed upset by the males or by their gruff manners. They'd clearly already made their mating selections before or during the trading.

If any of them interested Karri, she had to admit it was the two smaller, younger males. One, with pale skin and raven black hair, was despite his height almost as fine boned as she was The other was less refined but well muscled, long limbed, with thick and unusually reddish brown hair –she couldn't tell if the shade were natural or added by the application of red mineral powder: these males were not above primping. She knew it would be fruitless to bring up the subject with Janet 201who had once told her, "Frankly, I don't get the point of males at all. Women don't need them to reproduce."

"Well, they are different," Karri had lamely replied. "And sometimes nicely different." But she'd been at a loss explaining how, exactly.

She was thinking about that late that night when she heard footsteps approach and someone bent down to her level. "I can sleep here?" he asked in a quiet voice.

It was the redder of the two young males.

"Yes." She moved aside a bit.

There was no talk but he moved in close and began touching her, very lightly at first, then more seriously. He was clearly adept with females despite his youth and later on she would admit that she didn't understand how it was that very soon after he'd arrived, they were already coupling. There was a final panting on both sides, and then more footsteps. The other younger male approached on her other side, and slid down next to her. She wondered what would happen next, but while he gathered all of her attention very quickly to himself, as adept as his friend, she didn't have much time to consider it, and afterward, she noted the red haired friend had rolled aside a meter or so into the moss and he was already softly snoring .

After a while, the fine boned male said, "The tale of how you joined the others was a good one."

That was so unusual an opening, it caused her to look more closely at him. Three moons had risen and two of them, while fast and small, were nearly full, so she could make him out fairly clearly.

"The tale was almost as good as the one I used to join up with Quorro-hunter and the H'lts," he said, referring to his sleeping companion. "Should I tell you that one?"

He was up on one elbow and she joined him. In standard Inter-Gal Lex. she said, "You're not from here. Where are you from?"

"Not from the sky. That's where you're from," he answered in perfect Inter-Gal. Lex. "Well, at least I'm not from a geosynchronomous orbiter laboratory. If you'd checked out planet #3 --just rising over the horizon there – once in a while, you might have encountered a Hesperian Fast Yacht." He smiled at her with perfect teeth. "Took a see-through pod down here some months ago."

She smiled back at him with perfect teeth. 'We took one down a week or so ago. This is too funny," Karri added.

"Isn't it? What happened to your friend? She afraid of males?"

"It's her programming. She's a 201 cyber."

"Aha! We have some of that model in the City."

"I don't doubt it," Karri said. "So you're also a Species Ethnologist. At where?.....Hesperia U?"

"No, at Marcus Avernat Tech. On the Procyon Girder. You're at Melisande U?"

"Yes." They both laughed.

"We both needed a field trip to get our degree," he said. "I sure did."

"Indeed we both did."

They began discussing what they had found and it so closely matched they felt even more comfortable together.

"Well, now I've only got one other question?" Karri said. "Did you teach your friend how to approach a female? He was very smooth. I was down and he was in before I knew what was happening."

"The truth is -- he taught me."

"No?"

"They were wary of me when I first arrived, more or less out of nowhere, despite the clever tale I brought with me. Until, that is, Quorro-hunter over there decided to bed me. After that, we were inseparable pals and he declared me to be a lost H'lt-triber. Then he taught me his moves. A little warning? He'll have you again while you're sleeping later tonight and possibly have me soon after."

"He sounds like a keeper. Maybe you ought to take him back to Hesperia?" she joked. "From what I understand he'd be in great demand."

'True, but he'd also be too far out of his element. He's absolutely perfect here. He'll be head of the tribe in a generation. And he'll be a great leader, too. They already look to him for certain things usually only older males are known for."

Karri felt she had to ask, "Is that why the H'lt are so much better off than the women? Because they have more or better leaders?"

"Well, yes. Both. And the leaders are often momentary and tied to the particular activity. So they already developed a kind of early specialization. I've been on the ground, in the field now for a few months. My study-report will conclude that in this current Archaic-sociological set up, and given the ongoing planetary climactic conditions, that the alpha male leadership as I've witnessed it is a far more effective and efficient governing body for groups and also for population survival and growth than the efforts of your consensus-led women. I'm predicting that the Sfelt-Doh will vanish completely by the time Quorro-hunter has his first gray hair."

"Really? You mean they'll be absorbed by the H'lt?" she asked.

"Well, I think absorption is the _best_ scenario that they could hope for," he agreed. "There's also die-off." They discussed more of that in some detail.

She found out his name was – "Don't laugh—Willcock:" \- Willcock Ross Megayrun." He resided with a large family on the Betelgeuse Girder of the City on a Star, and one of the ultra-wealthy B'nagi-Beckers was his Doge –a kind of sponsor and financial godfather. She conveyed all her information to him too and then they briefly undid the skin flaps they'd so well hidden before coming down, and they crossed wrist-connectors, insuring future communication.

By the time they were done talking, Quorro-hunter was stirring. They pretended to finish having sex and Willcock rolled away -- to be replaced by his pal, who was, as predicted, erect and happy about the fact.

The following day the two tribes—the Sfelt-Dohs less all the women but Janet, Karri, Grub-finder and Honey-taster – parted from the others with hand to neck clasps of affection, and then began their separate treks back home.

Janet 201 was astounded and even somewhat miffed to learn all what Karri had to tell her, especially abut Willcock Ross Megayrtun. "Eve's left tit!" the cyber swore. "I would have loved to have had a civilized conversation in real Inter Gal. Lex. with someone besides you, Mer Ndebel. No offense, but I'd even converse with a Hesperian male City-zen!."

Karri had laughed. But she had consoled too. "Soon, Janet. We'll be out of here in a few days."

"You have no business asking for a meeting with me!"

"Am I compromising your integrity, Doctor Brumaire, because I'm just a lowly post-graduate fellow?"

When the elder made a kind of harrumping noise, Karri went on. "Anyway the tea is lovely. You'll admit. Would you like to know more about it?"

"Is this one recording everything we say and do?"

Brumaire was referring to Janet 201, who was clearly insulted by the comment. Karri had to remind herself that most old timers, holdovers from the First Matriarchy distrusted cybers above a certain level of intelligence and autonomy as much as they resented the ultra-independent Hesperians, who would never be part of the Galactic Matriarchy.

"I can leave, if you wish," Janet declared.

"Janet 201 was my companion on Seeded World #657 as you well know, Dr. Brumaire. She might have something important to add to this conversation."

"What conversation? We're merely having tea!"

Janet 201 subvocalized "She may think we're being bugged."

Karri said aloud, "We've checked the room carefully for any possible listening or other devices."

The elder looked startled at that, but allowed, "I suppose I am a little nervous because you mentioned that you encountered a Hesperian upon Seeded World #657."

"I do understand your nervousness. But believe me it was completely accidental, brief, and as a result of that meeting I've already developed several leads that I believe are highly advantageous."

"The tea's not terrible. . . . Go on. . . . . Advantages, such as?"

"You're familiar with the name Alec Kinder Kell? And Jat Kell?"

"Who isn't? Star-Baron monsters! Both of them?"

"And so you're already aware, I believe, that the three reports from the early millennium for Seeded Planet #657 which were then utilized in the Seeded World Program were all taken from probes initialized first by Alec Kinder and then by Jat Kell for Kell Industries?"

Brumaire kept sipping. Of course she knew it.

"And that one of her Her Ladyship's mothers is also a Kell, although residing for most of her later life upon planet Trefuss VI?"

No response from Brumaire. She knew that too.

"From which we may easily gather that She knew of these probes quite early on. And also that She doubtless also knew that terra-forming equipment was in place on Seeded World #657 by the time that final probe was sent? In other words, some time _prior_ to the actual seeding by the Matriarchal program?"

Still no response but tea sipping.

"And also that Her Ladyship knew that the equipment was never shut off."

Brumaire pounced: "Can you prove that?"

"Or if it was shut off, that it was shut off only recently? Once climactic changes had reached a level of catastrophic cascade-effect from which it will be very difficult to recover? And that successful terra-forming from an ice world to a temperate one is the _actual cause_ of the enormous changes on Seeded World #657. Meaning the great boom in population and its early cultural spurt, to begin with. Which eventually, when ignored, led to it being, in my own report about to be published, a Seeded World in total collapse."

"Can you prove that?" Brumaire repeated. "The first part I mean. The second part is all too evident."

"Yes. I can prove it. It turns out that just as the terra-forming equipment was not turned off when the First Matriarchy claimed the Near Perseus Arm, so did those probes from the Kell Industries still continue to be sent there. So yes, we do have records."

"From your questionable contact on Hesperia?" Now Brumaire was quite interested.

"Yes. He said they were public records in the City: available to anyone for the asking."

"I monitored his physical reactions while they were speaking," Janet 201 added in. "The g, male exhibited no signs of stress or pressure to indicate he was lying."

"So you see, Dr. Brumaire, my contact on Hesperia, which you find so daunting, is useful after all."

"Perhaps," Brumaire allowed. "Go on."

"Since my return here," Karri said, "My contact sent me proof of all that to back it up public records in the City. He also sent a related and quite intriguing little Inter Gal Comm. made by Kell Industries in the ST Year 3160 directly to the Seeded World Program's directress, Dr. Ilia Snett, on our capital, Melisande. It formally recognized that Kell Industries no longer owned nor had the use of that planet or any of its resources. It also strongly advised that the terra-forming equipment on the planet be shut down or it might lead to quote –'unforeseen, unwanted, and possibly disastrous consequences'. It added that such a step would require an _on-planet_ shut down, and that it could not possibly be done from Hesperia – or by Hesperian City-zens."

"And was that advice taken?" Bruamire asked.

"It was. Eventually. Not until 3190," Karri said.

"Meaning long after Her Ladyship had published her study-report on the planet," Janet 201 interjected, to be certain Brumaire would know all that. "And a year or so _after_ she had been appointed Minister of External Worlds. Before that she could have no excuse to return to Seeded World #657."

"Perhaps. But what proof is there that Her Ladyship ever received that particular Inter. Gal. Comm? Or even knew of it?" Brumaire asked.

"Dr. Ilia Snett was her pod-mate at Melisande University and later on they had a union with two daughters. Even later, Snett became the Minster of External Worlds, which of course would include #657."

The elder was still not convinced.

"So what? Of what possible interest could this be to . . .?"

"It's fraud! Perpetrated fraud!" Janet 201 couldn't help but blurt out.

"Of what possible interest could this be...," unfazed, Dr. Brumaire repeated, "Since Seeded World #657 is such a _minor_ and _unimportant_ planet, and of so little interest to the Central Worlds of Our Great Matriarchy?"

"It won't be such a minor and unimportant planet when my full study- report and that of Dr W.R. Megayrun of Marcus Avernat Tech on Hesperia are published-- _in tandem_."

"In tandem?"

"Yes."

"Why in tandem?

"Because they will report the exact same findings."

"And what are those so exciting findings? that two so disparate Species Ethnologists are publishing them -- _in tandem_?," Brumaire scoffed.

Here it was:

"The tandem reports, from two different accredited University Species Ethnologists, will conclude that given the current Archaic-sociological set up, and given the ongoing disastrous planetary climactic conditions . . . . that the alpha male leaders of the H'lt and other planetary g. male tribes are a far more effective and efficient governing body than any consensus-led female tribes. Further, we will both predict that as a result, the Sfelt-Doh tribe and all other g. female tribes on-planet will vanish or be completely absorbed by the g. male tribes within a single generation."

"Leading, naturally, to a full patriarchy," Janet 201 added: lest that point be missed.

Dr. Brumaire let a tiny little smile escape her, before she looked stern again and said, "I take it this catastrophic upheaval of a weak matriarchy by a powerful patriarchy shall be attributed to the willing and knowing actions..."

"And inactions" Janet 201 interrupted.

"... will be attributed to the willing and knowing actions and inactions of..."

".....Her Ladyship.Yes, Our Great Leader! " Karri made it quite clear.

"Yes. And exactly _why_ did these actions and inactions take place?" Brumaire asked.

"Why so Her Ladyship could ingratiate herself to Wicca One, whose Seeded World Program was the apple of her eye. And as we all well know, it worked. Her Ladyship succeeded in that effort—and what else resulted."

Dr. Brumaire continued sipping her tea. Suddenly she relaxed a bit:

"Very good! You may not have been aware of it, but I had my eye on you, Mer Ndebele, from early on, shortly after you first entered this school and caused a stink over what was it, Primitive Mating Rites of some Archaic Delphinids?. . . . . Only, you know, you very two clever ones did make one tiny mistake."

Karri and Janet 201 looked at each other.

"What mistake, Doctor?"

"Ýou told me that you'd checked the room for all listening or recording devices."

Whatever could she mean? There was a moment of pure horror.

"So we did. Very carefully."

"But you never checked _me_ for any listening or recording devices." Brumaire tapped the old fashioned barrette in front of the bun of her steel gray hair. "This little tea of ours was broadcast fully and directly to the current Minster of the Seeded World program," Dr. Braumaire said, adding, "She's a dedicated and ambitious lady, who, like yourself, was a favorite student of mine."

Now she allowed herself a complete smile.

After a bit of silence Brumaire added:

"Now, what did you say this tea was called?"
Lambs of the Desert

Emad El-Din Aysha (Egypt)

PART I – FEEDSTOCK

Janissaries are famous for their cooking. Perhaps you'd like a taste?

\--- Suleiman the Magnificent

THE SETTING... a suburban household in the Arab quadrant, on the recently terraformed and colonized fourth planet, Mars.

A young couple are setting the table for lunch. A secret operative codenamed Abu Jozeif and his wife, renamed Nour. He was from the Levant, she was an Iberian by birth. She'd come here looking for a better life; he was 'sent' here in order to insure a better life was possible, for his people at the very least.

Your cups and plates," Nour asked without asking. The expression on her flattish, roundish face was difficult to discern.

"Yes dear?" Abu Jozeif said without daring to comment.

"They are made of metal."

"Not gold and silver, I assure you." Abu Jozeif moved his head back and forth, pretending to make sure no one was listening in. The religious police had express instructions to keep gold and silver in economic circulation, as per Islamic law, instead of be used as stores of wealth.

And it wasn't just the religious police to worry about. There was also the Market Monitors, those horrendous walking stools – analog robots – that policed the streets, and policed the police. Even Abu Jozeif kept his distance from them and they were his idea. Who watches the watchmen indeed, he said to himself.

"A family heirloom from my grandfather's day," Abu Jozeif felt he needed to explain further.

"Yes, but they are made of 'metal'," she persisted.

"They retain temperature better. Hot or cold. Here, let me show you." He gave her a sip of water from a metallic pitcher.

"That's... certainly refreshing," Nour had to admit.

"Better than a fridge. Cheaper too."

_Ding_. The oven was ready. "Great. Have a special treat for you."

He ambled off to the kitchen, promptly returning with the thermoplastic baking dish. His hands were covered in cotton mittens. A large 'thing' sat in the middle of the tray, an isometric pattern of scars covered its skin. Nour couldn't recognise it at all.

"What is it?" she said with some trepidation.

"Something very tasty and nutritious. Let's just hope I cooked it right." He took off the pink mittens – they made him look ridiculous anyway – and took a magnetic knife and proceeded to move the blade over the skin, as if checking to see if it was booby-trapped. Satisfied, he sliced the surface open, unzipping it right down the middle, and took in the heady aroma of the now exposed insides. "I may finally be getting the hang of this." After all these years of cloak and dagger, he thought.

He scooped out a portion in a tablespoon, went puffff with his lips and shoved its contents in his wife's not entirely welcoming mouth.

She coughed.

"That bad."

"No, no. It's really nice. Just a bit hot. Very juicy. Nice texture." She took a spoonful herself – a teaspoon – and said, "It's full of seeds. And it tastes so familiar."

"It's a prickly pear." Or a prickly 'fig', in Arabic.

"Pric... you mean from the cactus." He nodded to his wife. "I've never seen one so, 'big'."

"Latest prototype. Grown on special farms in the desert. The Lighthouse Cactus. The planet will be exporting them to Earth in no time at all. Focus groups are already going crazy over 'em."

"Farms, in the desert. Aren't you afraid the bandits will steal the fruits of your labour?" Nour observed correctly.

He smiled to himself. What unlucky sod would go after one of _these_ in his right mind?

#

"I forgot my position finder in the tent," the Bedouin boy said to his father in the gloom of the desert night.

"You always do this," the old man named Al-Farouk scoffed.

"Can't we navigate by the stars, father."

"On Earth, yes, I am still not familiar enough with the constellations here."

"Use the astrolabe," the boy suggested.

"Did you _bring_ it?"

"Ah... no."

Al-Farouk smacked him on the back of the head. "How will we find our way in the dark, if not to the city, then to our camp?"

"We can call for help?"

"With the Western quadrant opening their ears? They are intercepting all electronic chatter. We must maintain radio silence."

"But we are not on a mission, father."

"The Englishman has commanded it and as his allies we must abide by our treaty with him." They were referring to the unofficial leader/trainer of the Arab desert militias, policing the hinterland in the face of the American superpower to the north.

How had the white skinned man phrased it? _The Yanks call it going 'dark'. They have to have an acronym for everything or else they couldn't think it up off the cuff. Would you take a textbook with you into battle? Not likely. I prefer the maxim, let your plans be as dark as night but when you strike, strike like lightning!_

Their shadowy commander spoke fluent Arabic – that whole diatribe was in their own pidgin dialect – drank their coffee (proper Arab coffee, not the offensive Turkish stuff) and wore their clothes and slept out in the open just like them. You simply had to love him. And the Bureau (the governing body in the Arab quadrant) trusted the Englishman. It was good enough for them.

The boy noticed lights in the distance. "The city!"

"It is closer than I thought. Let us head that way. We are saved."

#

"These are not street lights, father. It is..."

"I do not believe it. The plant glows."

"Radiation?"

"It is florescence but the colours are too diverse. Yellow, red, green. Violet. Only a painter would do this." He'd enlisted his son in art school already. Even an old-timer like himself couldn't help but marvel at the iridescent site.

"Are you hungry, father?"

"I do not trust food that glows. The city is close, surely. These farms are government owned, and yet... there are no fences or sentries. We can survive on dates and water. You did remember to pack those?"

"Water, yes, but..."

He cursed. "Well, maybe one small branch with its fruits. We serve the cause. They will not mind." Prickly pears, or figs, were also known as the 'pharmacy of the desert'. They helped with everything from rheumatism to blood pressure and stomach ulcers, the next best thing to classified military research carried out on camel milk. A perfect harvest for the forthcoming Arab pharma industries.

The old Bedouin went to the undercarriage of the camel and chose an appropriate sword. He unsheathed the curved one and gave the closest cactus a swift but decisive blow, lobbing off one of its many upturned arms. _Bbbzzzzttttt_!!!

He cursed again.

"What is it father?"

"Don't touch th..."

"Ayyyyiii," the boy screeched.

"Even when it is removed from the body." He put on his infrared goggles and took a closer look. He pocked the thick skin with a stick. "Wires. Microscopic wires. Like veins. In and out of the skin. The thorns, they are metal. What kind of a..."

"It is the work of the devil!"

"No, it is the Bureau." You have to be a devil to beat a devil, the old man said to himself.

"Then why did they not tell us. We are the Bureau's loyal servants," the boy protested.

"Never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing. Now do not utter another word till we enter the city gates. We will buy our fruits from now on. And it will come from _your_ allowance."

#

"And you couldn't remember this too?" Al-Farouk scolded his son, holding what looked like a metallic donut in his hand. They were safely back home.

"I said I was sorry, father."

"We had to buy a family-sized one while in the City."

"It powers itself in the desert," the boy said.

"It's too heavy for the camel with all our belongings, and the camel respirator." Oxygen levels could still fall dangerously low on this planet and respirators were compulsory for everyone. "How are you going to fight the enemy with no supplies?"

"I will defeat him in one blow," the boy said bravery, showing off his Turkish wrestling moves.

"The olive oil has seeped into your brain and made you soft." Turkish wrestlers doused their bodies in olive oil, to make it impossible for players to grab hold of each other too easily.

"Please, father, that is enough," his daughter said. She emerged from her cubicle in the multi-compartmented tent at their camp.

"Take a lesson from your sister." The old man gestured to the tiny girl, draped in gold-embroidered red. She had two books in her delicate little hands. On _Protracted War (1938)_ and _On the Correct Handling of the Contradictions Among the People (1957) by Mao Tse-tung._

"She reads Chinese, I draw Chinese. That was the original bargain," the boy reminded.

"Fix us something to eat," he scolded.

"Yes, father." The boy made for the donut-shaped cooking unit, dangling from a flaxen reed rope, only to be scolded again by his father.

"There are three mouths to feed. Use the new one we had to carry all this way. And make sure not to put too much water with the seasoning. You have your flower beds to water. And don't use the dry rations. They are for emergencies only."

A few minutes later the boy unscrewed the top of the dome-like lid to expose the rich contents of the four compartments. The first with dates, as an appetizer; the second with oatmeal, as a filler; the third with steak and kidney immersed in onions and gravy, the main course; the fourth, rice with raisins and nuts and a little paprika, to level off the main course.

"At least there is one thing you are good for," Al-Farouk said, before handing out the spoons and the vitamin and calcium supplements.

He pinched his daughter on the nose and grabbed his son by the head and kissed them both before soiling his mouth with the small feast.

PART II – ROADBLOCK

The past resembles the future more than one drop of water resembles another.

\--- Ibn Khaldun

THE SETTING... _Abu Jozeif and his Iberian wife, preparing for a wedding. Being a man, Abu Jozeif was rearing to go, but his wife is busy getting dolled up. That's when a thought 'occurs' to him._

"We're going to be late," Abu Jozeif said. He was getting good at this husband malarkey.

"Don't you want me to look good?" Nour said as she smeared more ointment on her sizeable lips with the tip of her finger.

Strange, Abu Jozeif thought. Her lips didn't look dry and parched. And they were quite a sizeable pair of lips. Surely this was some new kind of invisible lip gloss.

He placed his hefty hands on her delicate shoulders. "You look better than the bride," he said reassuringly.

Nour squeezed her lips together. "No I don't," she said with some weight as she powdered her cheeks with a brush that left nothing but a thin film of colourless, crystalline powder.

He kissed her on the nape of her delicate neck, extending out of her pear-shaped body. "Yes you do. And... what's this." He detached his hand from scraping round her body, making its way instead to something that looked like an instant dictionary-translation box, with colour-coded keys and a glass screen that looked like a mirror.

"Don't play with that," she chided. "You'll ruin the combination."

"Combination. For what, a safe?"

"No, silly. The colours. It's a makeup set. I bought it in the souk [market]." Nour tapped on the keys and the ointment on her lips suddenly turned bright red, then pink, then purple, as her fingers moved from one combination to the next across the electromagnetic spectrum. The same for her cheeks, leaving her looking like a cuttlefish on acid for a too long time.

"Wouldn't it be easier to pinch your cheeks?" he asked while 'glancing' at the device from the corner of his eye.

"No, it wouldn't," she said with certainty.

So, he pinched her other cheeks.

#

The skeleton of a Market Monitor stood on the table. Even in its stripped-down state, it was threatening. The plastic, nano-reinforced tubes that made up its arm-like legs, had gyroscopes instead of joints, connected by levers to what amounted to the machine's CPU, a microscopic grandfather clock that actually 'whirred' along with its cogs and wheels.

"You wanted modifications?" their top comms and weapons engineer inquired, his pride ever so slightly dented by the request.

"Yes. To the skin." Abu Jozeif threw a case onto the table.

"A makeup set?" the engineer said with disbelief as he opened the package.

"Yes. Adapt it to analog and..."

"... embed it in the skin," he completed for Abu Jozeif.

"Just think, once this baby gets dressed up you'll finally have a bride." Abu Jozeif was always fond of reminding him of such matters.

"Not likely. Once I'm through here, even the Frankenstein monster won't want to get near 'em," the engineer said tartly.

THE SETTING... the border zone of the Western quadrant with the Arabs. Skirmishes, begun by the Americans, have ignited into a full-scale Western invasion. The head-sheds in the America War Room think it'll be a cakewalk.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned Englishman is out in the field debriefing Abu Jozeif on what's going to happen.

"Let's see," the Englishmen said, staring at the desert beyond the hills with an old-fashioned pair of binoculars, an actual antique from WWII – which he never tired of talking about. "We're outnumbered, outgunned. Time to take yet another page out of the history bo..."

"Tea, comrade general!" one of the Bedouin fighters said like a jack in the box, starting Abu Jozeif out of his shoes.

"Crikey, I'd forgot," the Englishman said in his usual graceless way, belly protruding from beneath the fold of his makeshift Arab outfit. He looked like an inflated version of Lawrence of Arabia with a pink custard pie for a face. He made for the silvery tray. "Earl Grey, I presume?" he had to ask.

A stout nod from the serviceman. "All home grown, I insist!"

A tentative sip, then another, then another, then an uncharacteristically loud _slurp_. God, will this ever end, Abu Jozeif kept to himself.

"Guadalete, Iberia," the Englishman spat out, in an effort to remind himself. There actually were droplets of water accompanying the words. "The decisive battle that won the Muslim liberation of an Espania run by a bunch of sour Krauts."

The comparison was for the benefit of Abu Jozeif, him and his (very) little lady. But he knew what confrontation he was referring to, and how the Arabs won, by their wits by pulling apart a larger but 'heavier' enemy.

"Can it be done?" he finally forced.

"You should have more faith in our men. If anyone can pull it off, it's them."

The Englishman pronounced it ' _ouff'_!

#

"Camels? They're sending camels up against tanks?" The tank commander said, witnessing the battle from afar through his digital binoculars.

"They're kicking up an awful lot of dirt, sir."

"That won't hide anything. What do our Sats tell us?"

"Thermal scans indicate... just the camels and their riders."

"Then keep moving forward. Fire a couple of volleys to soften them up then move in for the kill. I here camels scare easy."

Three camels moved towards a tank then turned back, taking refuge in the sand cloud.

"Did you see that?"

"What, sir?"

"Look closer." He magnified the digital image. "Sneaky _bastards_." The camel had goggles on and a respirator unit stuck in its nostrils. The said camel was also moving in the opposite direction, back towards the tank closest to his team. A 'boy' was riding it. He jumped off, right onto the tank, and stuffed a flaming bottle into the muzzle of the tank gun, then jumped back onto the camel as it rode away, as if on auto pilot.

"Tell that tank not to fir..."

A resounding explosion shook them as the muzzle came apart in flames, almost ripping the gun turret off.

"Son of a... Move into the cloud, a coordinated attack. Fire at will..."

A few minutes later they were in the eye of the storm.

"Where are they?" Then the commander noticed two vehicles with giant wheels circling each other and kicking up sand into the air. They had puny turrets and tiny little pee shooters for muzzles.

"Zero in on that."

The vehicles broke formation, one moving away, the other towards the tank.

"Is that a jeep? Prepare to f..."

The sawn-off tank muzzle of the phantom vehicle emerged into clear view from the flying sands...

#

"So, what do you think?" The general asked the military attaché seconded to them from the embassy. (Some ambitious air-force boy with slick plastic hair, the general kept to himself).

"If Arab history is any guide, it'll be a turkey shoot," was his reply.

"Please 'enlighten' me." The general had had his fill of these 'cultural' explanations at boot camp. From what he'd heard, they were still using the same instruction manual from when he was a grunt. Even after _losing_ Iraq. It took 'that' long to replace texts in this business.

"This is like Libya under Qaddafi. He only had a civil defence force, because he couldn't trust his army 'not' to overthrow him. Libyan fighter jets weren't even allowed to have a full fuel tank so the pilots couldn't defect. These poor buggers don't even have an air force to begin with... Trust me, a day or two and it'll all topple over like a house of cards."

"Let's hope you're right." They said the same thing about Operation Barbarossa, the general kept to himself.

#

The Arab dune-buggy of a tank fired.

The American tank commander shut his eyes as the impact of the thud spread through the body of the hulking beast he was riding.

A dud? He thought to himself, then he opened his eyes. A wire was extending from the enemy tank with wheels. But it wasn't coming from the muzzle. It came from an even smaller muzzle at the bottom of the attacker. He hadn't seen it at all. Never even thought to look down. Was he up against a tank or a crooked poker player?

His head darted round to look at the second enemy tank that had been moving away. It had changed direction and was taking aim. Now he could 'see' what was happening.

It fired a _grappling hook_. Not towards his tank but the one just behind him. The marksmanship amazed him. The torpedo sailed right past the turret of his machine and imbedded itself in the turret of the one behind him. But the wire detached itself from the firing machine, looping itself round the first wire, which also detached itself from the attacking vehicle. The wires began to pull on each other.

"Reverse, reverse!"

The tanks' turrets tore themselves off.

#

"Why are they breaking formation?" The general asked, perplexed at the image splayed over the giant screen in the War Room.

"They're under attack, sir," his military aid explained.

"Tell them to maintain..."

"The comms are down, sir."

#

"They took out the front row."

"Keep moving," another tank commander said.

"But sir, we don't know..."

"Fire!"

"They're out of range."

"Then zero in on them with the lasers and get the drones to..."

"The sand is getting in the way. We can't get a lock. I say we wait for..."

"They're getting away. And they're breaking formation. Split up and move. That's an order."

#

"Why isn't the sand wall we're kicking up hiding our remaining columns," the attaché asked, out of queue.

"It's the heat signature... sir." The aid wasn't accustomed to addressing someone other than the general in charge.

"They haven't been running that long."

"They're in a desert, sir. In the daytime," the boy said stupidly.

Now the general spoke. "Tell the drones to lift up."

"They need them for cover..." the attaché said.

"Tell them to pull up. The sand will get into their engines."

"Then they'll be out of range..."

"Get them up!"

#

"Sir, we just lost air coverage."

"What do you mean?" the tank commander in the advancing second column replied.

"The drones, the sand storm..."

"You mean we're flying blind?"

"I'm afraid so sir."

Shit, the man made sure to swear under his breath. His men needed to be sure he was certain of his decisions. "Give out the order. Slow dow..." He cut himself off. "What's that?"

Something dark was forming ahead of them.

"Pull back! Pull back I tell you. You'll..."

They hit the water sands.

#

"Third armoured wave approaching sir."

The general didn't respond. Everything was riding on this one. It was the largest attack group. He was still standing.

The attaché was now seated.

Now the Arab wheeled tanks were moving back and forth in a horizontal line, leaving no gaps, kicking up more dirt to hide the camel riders.

The leader of the third and final tank column told his men to move slowly towards the enemy line, fire volleys into the sand – they were still out of range – to make sure there wasn't a minefield between them and their target.

Two more volleys would follow. The first towards the enemy vehicles, the next beyond the enemy line towards the camel riders. Their laser guidance and infra-red wouldn't lock onto anything but enough concentrated firepower would do the job, he reasoned correctly.

"Are we in range yet?"

"Not yet, sir. But we're approaching fast."

"What do the Sats say?"

"We've got no nav-comm but the hills beside us are clear. The enemy is all concentrated right ahea..."

"Hills? What hills?"

"The dust cloud was hiding them sir, but you can see them on the map." The boy pointed.

The man took one peak and then yelled, "Pull back! Fire at will!"

The line of moving plastic ahead of them suddenly slowed. The joints of the mini-muzzles rearranged themselves, the diameters became noticeably wider.

His vehicle was hit by what looked like a flaming anti-tank missile with an armour piercing nozzle. He felt the shock of the impact but his tank didn't explode. Instead he screamed as the acid vapour the missile had injected into the machine emulsified his legs. A little present from Abu Jozeif's boy engineer, a direct descendent of several Iraqi scientists and engineers who were eliminated over the years for being too good at their jobs.

The wheeled vehicles now came to a dead halt, forming a solid wall to protect the camels. The riders, however, emerged from the hills. They'd dismounted earlier and hidden through special tunnel passages dug into the mountains. Deep enough and reinforced enough to withstand bunker busters.

Now they raced towards the enemy with their daggers and specially adapted acid grenades and RPGs. The blanket of sand the camels and wheeled tanks had kicked up their hid the results of the battle from the prying satellites above.

#

"We lost three whole battalions," the general said to no one in particular. "First a sand storm that came out of friggin nowhere, and kept on coming when the weather Sats told us everything was okay. Then armoured units that came out of nowhere too, then the water sands, then..." He fell silent for a moment. "Fuckin camel herders went after the soldiers stuck in the mud, the ones that didn't drown. Slit their throats or snapped their necks like they were twigs. Used Molotov cocktails and burnt them alive. Didn't even give them a chance to surrender."

The aid, timid as usual, didn't hazard a question.

"We're going to have to slog it out till...," his voiced trailed off.

#

"I don't like it," one soldier told another.

"What's not to like. A cattle ranch. Don't you miss back home," the other replied

"That's it. Where are the cows?"

"They evacuated 'em to safety. Where else would they be?" He paused for moment then added, "Look at this." He held up an elongated silvery object with dials at the end of it. "Says methane. Bastards were harvesting methane."

Cows produced methane, that was a scientific fact. If an unpleasant one given where the capsules went.

"What in God's name...," the first soldier said.

"What is it?"

"Shoo, shoo..." he scared it away.

"What was it!"

"Some weird kind of insect. I've seen some big insects in my day, but nothing like that."

He used his binoculars. "Looks like a chopper."

"It's a dragonfly."

"Must be Chinese, then."

"They have pheasants. Nobody has dragonflies 'that' big." Insects evolved much faster in the pre-historic environment of Mars.

"Commandeer these," he gestured to the methane capsules. "Let command figure out what to do with them."

"We shouldn't be here." They were too exposed for his liking.

"We shouldn't be on this planet!"

A blue haze engulfed the ranch as a volley of missiles, one after the other, slammed right into the methane reserves and ignited them.

#

An arrow hit the lance corporal in the foot. He cursed in agony and yanked the thing out of his flesh and bone with all his might.

He toppled over, mouth frothing. The last glimpse of his life was of the white clad Bedouin warrior riding a Martian-bred horse, armed with a compound bow.

#

"Fire there," the Englishman pointed.

"But sir, ze paratroopers are landing over zere," the Bedouin fighter said, clearly confused in his broken English.

"I'm well aware of that, old chap. Just do it while there's still time."

"Very well. Fire!"

A volley of arrows flew up into the air in the wrong direction.

The paratroopers ignored the enemy's folly. Instead of setting up the new canopies issued to protect them from the arrows they began racing towards the desert fighters facing them, energy guns ready and fully charged.

"Now you can fire, over there," the Englishman added.

The officer did as he was told, firing a 'single' arrow towards the troops. An audible whoosh followed as the first volley changed direction.

"Same principle that birds use while flying in flocks!"

The poisons worked as expected. The enemy hadn't been able to capture a pure sample to devise an antidote. As for the Arabs, they'd already been inoculated.

#

"Commander, you better take a look at this."

"What is it?" the commander said gruffly.

"We found a supply depot out in the desert."

"So that's how they've been arming themselves." He took a step back. "Did you check for booby-traps."

"All clear. No semtex, no wires. No transmitters. There aren't even any grenades and landmines here. Just maps, navi-comm equipment and these weapons." He picked up an arrow to show his superior. "Don't touch the tip, sir."

"What kind of rube do you think I am." He took a closer look. "It looks like a mouth."

"The beak of an eagle, but aerodynamically designed. The poison pouch is on the inside."

"But how can it get through our Kevlar."

"That's the genius of the design, sir."

His commander gave him a 'look.'

"I meant, the practicality," he said apologetically. "The basic problem with... bows and arrows, is range. That's why rifles won out against the Apache in the end." His commanding officer nodded his approvals to that, so the underling continued. "This design solves that problem. The feathers, at both ends, rotate, steadying the thrust. It literally 'worms' its way through the air. Very light and sturdy too, some synthetic polymer we're not familiar with. And there is a small thermo-thruster at the end, to give it a little added push when it's honed in on its target."

"It can see where its' going?"

"Two little eyes at the front, sir."

"I thought that was just for show." He toyed with the tail end, twisting the thruster. He heard a clicking sound. "What was tha..."

A hole in the still brittle ozone layer opened and a bolt of molten lightening poured through.

There wasn't even enough ash remaining to identify the casualties.

PART III – DEATHTRAP

Most of conflicts and tensions are due to language. Don't pay  
so much attention to the words. In love's country,  
language doesn't have its place. Love's mute.

\--- Abu Hamid Al-Ghazali

THE SETTING _... deeper in the Arab quadrant, in the vicinity of the city of New Bukhara._

US forces are getting ready to make their final 'big push', with what's left of their reinforcements. But that means getting through New Bukhara first and the surrounding tribesmen – and Ali and Fatemah!

"We captured this boy." A G.I. threw the child in front of the seated commander.

"Get anything out of him."

"Not yet, sir. He's tough, I'll give him credit for that."

The boy spat in front of him, leaving a tiny puddle of red. The G.I. grabbed the boy from the neck.

"Find anything on him?"

"A pair of wire cutters and this dagger." The cutters were solar powered, slicing wires through the heat it generated. Instead of focusing on it the G.I. toyed with the curved blade of the dagger. "What's this for, trimming your nails?"

"It is to slit your throat when you sleep," the boy hissed.

Westerners always used pointy knives, shoving it deep into the bone of someone's neck and then slicing through the vocal cords to silence a sentry. Arabs used the tip of a curved dagger, cutting the carotid and forcing the sentry to gurgle to death in silence. And Westerns actually had the nerve to accuse Muslims of slaughtering 'animals' in a savage and inhumane way.

The G.I. smacked the boy.

"So, you do speak English," the commander noted.

"I speak three languages. My sister speaks five."

"Then you'll have to introduce me to your sister."

The boy's eyes turned red.

The other soldier added, "Oh, and we found this." He handed over something that looked like a metallic sphere with a hole in the middle of it.

"Some kind of landmine?" The commander asked.

"We haven't been able to get it open."

"It is for food," the boy said.

"Cook us up something, since your sister isn't here."

Inexplicably, the boy smiled. "It would be my honour."

"Then give him the thingamajig."

"It is empty. Can we go to the kitchen?" the boy added.

The commander got up and had the boy taken to the mess hall. It was in a tent outside the camp. The boy recognised the company insignia. They were still outsourcing catering services and toiletries to the same companies.

He'd watched docudramas about the Iraq War in preparation for this day.

The two soldiers and their commander spoke along the way.

"I can't believe this is all you were able to salvage from the enemy camp."

"They were forewarned, sir."

"How, a satellite?"

"No. A bunch of geese, sir. Can you believe it? Woke everybody up and they ran for it. Damn birds. One of them bit me. Can you get rabies from a goose?"

That sounded strangely familiar to the commander, he'd done a little history in his spare time, but he chased the thought out of his mind.

The other soldier interjected as they followed the boy. "But sir, why are you so concerned with..."

"An army marches on its stomach. We need to know what we're up against, how well fed these desert rats are, and how they're supplying themselves."

"Dried goods, canned food?"

"You're still living in the days of the wild, wild West. We're about to find out."

The boy opened up the device without any difficulty. "Only the right combination opens it." He showed them the four empty compartments. His dirty palm went for the foods on display to place...

The G.I. hit him. "Use a spoon."

"That is what my father always tells me." So he used a spoon, giving equal measure to rice, oatmeal, meat and... beans. No dates. He almost laughed to himself. Dates were the perfect desert food. Not so with these amateurs, eating things that made them fart. You could smell them a mile away, in the dark. And they drank 'cow' milk. With camel milk, you didn't even need vegetables. (Rich in minerals and vitamins, but not in fats, which is why it never took on in the cheese market). And with camel milk-serum injected into your veins at an early age, you were immune to most poisons. Like the ones they used against these oafs with their poison-tip homing arrows.

The boy poured in some water and was about to clasp the donut shut, then he noticed a bottle of olive oil. "May I have some, _please_?"

"Now that's more like it," the G.I. said.

"If it adds to the taste...," the officer gave his okay.

"A few minutes and the meal will be ready for your pleasure." He added a touch of oil in each compartment and pulled the top half back and forth like the dial of a safe. Half naked, he clenched his teeth shut as he emptied the remaining contents of the bottle on his head, the liquid scolding his wounds.

The G.I. tried to grab the boy but he 'slipped' through between them and out into the desert from the tent.

The donut went _ding, ding, ding_ , then _BOOM_!

#

"What's that?" Fatemah said, pointing in the distance.

"Smoke. Fire. And sands kicked up in air. They are approaching," Al-Farouk said. He called on Ali, told him to use the astrolabe.

"I say we stay and fight," Ali said after calculating the distance.

"I almost lost you because of your foolhardiness."

"He who dares wins, father. And so says the Englishman. And I did not do it for pride. Fatemah was able to escape because of me. They tried to slaughter our birds, the geese that saved Rome. Hungry bastards!"

"Father, what will we do," his daughter asked, fear creeping slowly but surely into her voice.

"How much time?" he asked his son.

The boy put his ear to the ground, correlating sight with sound. "Three hours at this pace."

"We're already packed. We'll head for the city walls. We will be safe there."

"I still say we should..."

"No."

"Divide the tribe in two," Ali persisted. "Women and children and some men, head to safety. The rest, sentries. We will coordinate with our comrades in the field." He began stamping his foot.

"It's too dangerous."

"The walls will not protect us. This is a bigger army than ever before. Please father." Ali could hear just how large the amassed forces were, larger than anything they'd ever encountered. And he'd never felt safe in any city, no matter how well fortified it was.

"We have guests to shelter. Do you want to leave them so you can be brave by yourself," Al-Farouk said, knowing this was the only chink in Ali's armour.

His father was referring to the women from the cities and villages of the Arab quadrant that had been moved to safety with the wandering tribesmen. Not all of them were even Arabs.

The boy struggled with himself. "I still think it is wrong father, but no, I will not desert our lady guests. We are like Turwada [the Arabic for Troy]. War for love is most noble war."

#

"Ali," Abu Jozeif said to the boy, placing his hand on his shoulder. Al-Farouk should have listened to his son. It had taken hours before Abu Jozeif was able to get him to stop crying. Now he could see the fury in the boy's eyes, all that remained of his heart.

"Yes Mr Yusuf." [Jozeif, or Joseph, was Yusuf in Arabic].

"Guess who the Bureau is putting in charge of the resistance," he said with fake bravado.

"My tribe?"

"Precisely."

"But all the elders are captured or slain?"

"And since when have you waited for the elders to do anything?"

"I will have to consult my sister. Do you have plans for us to execute?" Excitement entered Ali's voice.

"I do indeed, and I've got some gadgets too. Just do everything from a safe distance. Now, you were first in your class at analog re-programming, right?"

"That is too cruel!" The boy laughed.

"And that's just for starters."

"I know the guerrilla manual by heart." He pronounced it gorilla. "We will cut them off from water and food and make them beg for our forgiveness." Che Guevara was the equivalent of the martyr Hussein to these desert fighters. Nobody could splice left-wing litanies with Jihadism like the Englishmen. He'd made sure to instruct them in this himself, during the school break.

"I want you to do more than that."

"What could be worse than slow starvation and speedy harassment?"

Abu Jozeif took the boys nose between his fingers and squeezed his nostrils shut, then grabbed him from the throat in a mock chokehold. Ali smiled. The boy understood perfectly.

#

"Where are they headquartered," Fatemah asked her brother. He was busy typing away, dredging up the blueprints for the city on his analog laptop.

"Is obvious."

"The hospital? The police station?"

"No, silly girl. They are not Wehrmacht. There is only one location the American would feel safe in."

His sister took a look at the motion-sensor grid that covered the entire city of New Bukhara. "The watchtower building!"

"The Mall," he corrected her, with a devilish smile in his eye.

"You are so right!"

#

"I don't get it captain. How can they 'not' have CCTV? They don't seem to have any alarm systems here. How do they stop kids running away with the cotton candy?" The petty officer took a wad himself and gobbled it down hungrily, not even letting it melt in his mouth first.

He was tired of rations, and they were running low. On the way towards the city they came across whole fields of cacti that shimmered in the night. But the thorns tore the insulation of his gloves and almost melted his hand. They'd found fungus farms in the basements of almost every major building in the city, with mushrooms the size of spuds, and serviced by... ants.

The ants picked up fallen leaves and other items of organic garbage and fed it to the fungus. Taking a closer look it seemed the fungus fed the ants in turn. It was while one of them was taking that closer look that the ants literally crawled up his legs, into his underwear and damn well near bit him to death. He might as well have been dead. He was completely out of action from beneath the waistline.

Then something even weirder happened. They fired away at the ant colonies, thinking they could enjoy the fruits of the fungus farms only to find that the air took on a certain stench. The mushrooms were dying, as if in solidarity with the ants, and releasing their spores into the congested air of the underground caverns. Soldiers began coughing their lungs out, infected with something that looked like tar; and they were running short on respirators. They finally had to lock the place down and incinerate everything living, squandering yet another source of salvageable food.

"And what's with all these damn cat flaps," the young man said as they moved into a new section. Arabs preferred these layers of clear plastic flaps to keep the effect of the air conditioning in, apparently. (The plastic always hugged you on your way through it, not the kind of skin contact you want). The only time he'd seen things like these was when he'd worked in a meat factory, trying to pay his way into college. And look where it had got him.

"Nothing makes sense about these Ayrabs," the captain replied. They'd just entered the children's section of the mall, only it looked like a museum of natural history. Instead of paintings of clowns and cartoon characters there were verses from the Quran on the walls, with photos of Oases and Arab and Islamic archaeological digs back on Earth.

"There's no water, no electricity," the young officer said as they walked by a children's book store. There wasn't a single copy of _Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves_ anywhere. It was compulsory reading for grunts in the Western quadrant. To get inside the head of the enemy, the drill sergeant had said. If only he was here to see this, the boy complained to himself.

He kept at it. "The food stores are empty. Medical supplies are gone at their hospitals. How could they clear out so damn quickly? They took everything but the kitchen sink sir." Even the water fountains didn't work. And the ground around them looked like it had been 'scraped' of algae. Not a hint. Were the Arabs armed with spatulas?

"Let the agency boys figure it out," the captain said simply, setting his suspicions aside. It wasn't his job to make 'observations'. "We're here to hold our ground. We've finally taken the war to them." He was scared for his men but the strategy was sound. Keep the enemy preoccupied in defence while the disputed areas were locked down, once again. That would give their side enough time to get another swathe of reinforcements from Earth. War was always a waiting game.

The officer saluted to that. He sighed when they reached the escalators. "Do we really have to walk up and down these, captain? I'm sure we can get the generators working again. With time."

"Just keep moving. You won't make such an easy target," he said gruffly.

#

Two soldiers on the outside of the giant building saw something moving in the distance. They radioed in and went after the apparition.

One almost fell into a hole. A construction crew had been working there, laying piping, just before the city was attacked. The metal fencing around the gaping wound in the soil had been knocked down.

"Anything down there?" He shone his flashlight at the end of the energy rifle into the crevice.

"Thermals say it's clear. Say the whole area is clear."

"Head back to HQ?"

"Okay, but let's straighten this out first. Don't want anyone else falling in. You grab that one while I..."

As they pulled the two separate fences upright they found a Market Monitor had attached its feet – the rubber insoles were gone – to both. It was no longer silvery grey but the greenish colour of the security railings.

Zaaapppppp!

#

"We need to isolate them," Fatemah said. "There, there, there," she pointed with a crayon. "And we need to trap them inside the market building so they cannot help their troops, and their troops have nowhere to hide and gather their forces."

"Is easy. The building has time-lock doors made of nano-wire steel. They cannot cut through even with lasers. The magnetic modulator will send the override instructions."

He knew exactly where every soldier was, what kind of weapons and supplies they carried on them, comms equipment, everything. The Bureau and its secret inventors had adapted a tablet into a clear plastic film that could scan you, decrypt your cipher-transmissions and track your vitals wherever you were inside a building. And with the air conditioning on they could detect motion, sensing the disturbances between air particles, for the lucky few who had not been biometrically scanned. Who needed CCTV?

"Are there enough Monitors on the inside?" Fatemah asked anxiously.

"In among the toys!"

#

"They power everything with solar. So why aren't the generators working?" The captain asked. He walked past an electronic cleaning cart. It was battery powered but it still wouldn't work.

"It's like there's a kill switch that deactivates everything, sir. The engineers, even they couldn't make sense of the technology here. There doesn't seem to be a computer system running anything, anywhere." All the cash registers were old-fashioned mechanical contraptions, actual heirlooms from the 19th century. Recreated from modern substances.

Then the lights came on. The petty officer almost tripped. The captain instinctively went for his pistol.

A flood of sounds followed. Cool air began to blast through the vents as the air conditioning units switched on. Holo-commercials projected themselves, giant pictures coming towards them out of the walls like ghosts perceived through a magnifying lens. A giant image of a man with a peculiar haircut [Terry Wogan] silently mouthing the latest line of optionally translucent underwear, then the loudspeakers, at full blast, explaining the announcements.

The captain had to zap them over and over again to stop their eardrums from bleeding.

"Be careful what you wish for."

The petty officer moved towards a drug store. The _Always_ _Remember to Take Your Vitamins_ sign caught his attention.

"Don't touch anything," the captain barked.

"Come on, sir. You don't believe all those Halloween movi..."

Some wiry contraption next to the cash register began to wriggle like a snake.

"Duck!"

Several zaps from the captain's pistol and the thing wouldn't die. It slithered down towards the petty officer lying for cover on the ground. It wrapped itself round his arm, trying to break it into three parts.

"Get it off! Get it off!"

The captain had to take his knife out and stab the thing to death.

"What in God's name..." he said after inspecting the wiring. It looked like fibre-optics but had a coppery looking core. He rose, dragging the boy up with him. His arm was thankfully intact. "The next time I tell you..." The radio came to life. "What's that? You're under attack. Where? You need backup?"

#

"How can we defeat the remaining troops? They have superior firepower," Ali asked as his fingers danced away on the analog laptop, radiating magnetic impulses to their own 'troops' hidden all over New Bukhara.

"The Vietnamese knew how. It is to get so close that the enemy cannot fire back without harming themselves," Fatemah answered.

#

"Where's the captain?"

"They killed him," the petty officer said, breathless and frantic. His clothes were torn and sprayed in blood, like a million little hands had grabbed him.

"Who? Insurgents? Army regulars? Speak man."

"The toys. They came to life."

"This man is delirious. Get him to the infirmary."

"I told you..."

"What was that?" A _shlupping_ sound. Then a _zeeee_.

"The gates. They've closed."

Then another sound. "The escalators."

The petty officer's eyes widened to breaking point. "They're coming."

"I told you to... Give him a tranq. He's not fit..."

"Sir, look!"

Rows of metallic spiders were making their way down the escalators. Some had what look liked metal garbage canisters with them. One of the canisters almost tipped over, with a clear liquid falling out of the top.

The last thing they saw was the No Smoking Sign.

#

"Wear your mask, Fatemah," Ali said.

"You first."

"I can hold my bre..."

"You first!"

"Hokay."

#

"It's full of fuel. Fire. Before they throw it!"

Several zaps and the canister erupted into flames, blasting the Monitors at the top of the escalator out of eyeshot, showering down those left standing in fire.

"Keep firing. Knock them down." Volleys of energy fire hit the remaining Monitors, plastering them.

"Okay. Two teams. Head up there." The soldiers did what they were told. Except for the petty officer. He was lying on the ground, whimpering. He wouldn't move, eyes glued shut.

"Get this soldier out of my sight," the commander barked.

The teams made it to the top, inspecting the remnants of the explosion, pocking at the Monitors with the tips of their energy rifles. "Looks like a Zimmer frame," a soldier said, an instant before the thing came to life and grabbed his rifle and passed a lethal dosage of electricity through it. His gloves melted on the rifle.

The other soldiers opened fire, knocking it over, only for it to come up again, and again, and again. The heat blasts seemed to flow off of its skin. They could see the rage in its barcode-reader eyes.

"Everybody, fire in one go."

Knocking it down one last time, it made a high pitch wail that almost deafened them. The lacquer-laden skin of the beast could withstand their collective wrath, but the explosion of the garbage canister has dented and ruptured its armour in some locations, allowing the energy blasts to fuse some of its critical wiring and joints.

It was alive for just long enough to draw the remaining Monitors towards it.

In the meantime another Monitor had crawled up onto the ceiling, camouflaging itself to blend in with the varying coloured surfaces of the building. Once it was over a target, it dropped itself down onto an unsuspecting soldier, who had been busily firing away at the wailing machine they'd wounded. It twisted his head like a light bulb out of its socket.

One of the Monitors, a modified model, looked like two tables strapped together. It detached one of the tables and threw it towards a soldier, almost slicing him in two.

The other Monitors went for their legs, clamping themselves to the flesh and bone to deliver their fatal shocks, leaving the dead soldiers looking like a chain gang during a failed prison break.

"Fall back. Fall back!" the commander yelled, so preoccupied with the battle on the floor above him not to notice the metallic snakes slithering towards them from behind.

In the remainder of New Bukhara the Monitors came out of the very woodwork of the city. Manholes slowly lifted themselves while others leapt out of garbage trucks or crawled out of the palm trees, hiding behind the plastic solar-powered flaps that kept the dates warm in the cold of the Martian night.

They didn't fire at the dispersed troops, so as not to give away their positions. Instead they ran towards the occupying army, too fast for the snipers to zero in on them, mingling with the troops to make rifles and grenades useless, then switched into battle mode. Their rubber insoles switched over like a Swizz army knife to produce blades and spikes, unleashing the planned carnage.

#

"One more surprise before we leave," Ali said as he typed away on the giant keys of the analog machine. The nano-sized watchmaker's wheels whirred on its insides. Who could hack into or even intercept an analog computer?

"You are contacting the solar storage unit."

"Yes. I will make them burst out in deadly light."

"But why?"

"The units are in the towers. The windows are rock reinforced with Nurigome plaster. This will divert the released energy and shower the troops in flames. And it will burn more than them."

"Your mind is too evil, Ali."

"When they surrender, _then_ we will be merciful. Peace is only for the strong."

#

The Market Monitors were encased in lacquer, a tree sap the Chinese used for their noodle bowls. A thoroughly organically grown substance that could withstand sulphuric acid!

As for the Nurigome plaster, that was Japanese, used in Shogunite Japan to make castles and watchtowers fire-proof. It functioned on the same principles as lacquer, with two or more layers, one placed over the other, after the initial layer had dried. Absolutely everything in the Arab quadrant, on the inside and the outside, was encased in the stuff. The legal loophole they used with the Planetary Council was fire-hazards, and preserving archaeological sites transplanted here on Mars.

They had to come up with that excuse since the company that supplied them with the patent was contracted to the Japanese ministry of defence!

#

They had to escape through the air conditioning vents. The one remaining officer in command – he kept saying _this isn't happening, this can't be happening_ – exited the building to find most of his troops incinerated. Only the ones in the APCs survived, and the tires of those vehicles had melted into a puddle of rubber. The soldiers on the inside refused to come out.

The army outside the city's walls were safe, hiding in their tanks.

The radio crackled into life.

"What is it now?" the commander said. Any news was bad news, at this point.

"Whoever's in command in there, _please_... check your oxygen readouts."

"What are you talking abo..." He saw the readouts.

His blood pressure sank as low as...

#

"One last thing," Fatemah reminded her brother.

"And what is that?" Ali couldn't fathom that things could possibly be any better.

"You must relay your achievements to the others."

"I have not received an order for this." He was right on that one.

"We must share the winning tactics or else we cannot destroy their front."

"I still have no..."

"Ali," she said firmly, with her puny frame. "Do you remember the Shogun comics you read?"

"Of course, I do!" He loved Japan's past just as much as its future. Living here, you realised they were one and the same thing.

"Well, the Shogun's job was to maintain peace. To stop the daimyō [feudal lords] being too aggressive towards each other."

"Of course. It would weaken them in the face of the foreign enemy. He is the Sheikh who mends bridges between the tribes. But there still are tribes. Human nature is human nature. Or else that in turn would make them weak and slovenly... Oh." He realised.

Once the other kids deployed in their resistance cells found out about the success story of New Bukhara, they would innovate their own lethal solutions for their requisite cities. There was no shame in being outdone as long as it served the greater good. And they would always have the honour of being the first to get the ball rolling.

" _Oculus ex multis oculis_ ", Fatemah said to press home the point, using the Latin phrase they'd taken at school in democracy class.

"As you say, little sis. Two heads is better than one!"

#

"Sir, we've got reports," the general's aid said.

"Reports of what," the general replied gruffly. The War Room felt like a tomb.

"Surrenders."

"That's impossible." He couldn't believe his ears.

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"No, you're mistake. That can't be." The general's left eye began to twitch.

"They say they ran out of oxygen," the boy felt compelled to explain. "And Med Evacs. Some kind of infection spreading. But our choppers can't get anywhere near them. Some, new weapon. We've never seen an energy signature like this before. And..." his voice trailed off.

#

As Fatemah had predicted, the news spread like wildfire. Some kids emulated them, squeezing the lungs of the captive occupiers. Still other children used trampolines (from the amusement park) like slingshots to throw Market Monitors towards the Copters.

One kid was able to get the Monitor to 'pilot' a Copter, an Apache, and blasted away at the occupying forces. All those decades of Arab Atari rip-offs had finally paid off.

#

"No, soldier, you're mistaken," the general repeated. The nervous tick began to spread over the left side of his face.

"Fact are facts, sir," the aid continued.

"You don't understand," the general was pleading now. His aid stopped trying to correct him. "They're all we've got."

The aid pressed his boyish lips together into a rose shape. It still hadn't sunk in.

"They're all we've got. There are no more reinforcements."

It began to sink in. Only just. "Sir... do you mean..."

"Yes, that's precisely what I mean. We've no other forces. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, lying between here and the Arab quadrant."

"Then we'd be open to att..." The boy froze in mental midstride.

"It's not just the Arabs who can park at our Martian doorstep, if they like. It's the Russians, it's anybody... if the news spreads..."

#

"Ali," Fatemah said expectantly.

"Yes, sister."

"Did you not notice something?"

He shrugged his shoulders. They were both looking at the display on his laptop, images relayed to the machine through the magnetic fields of the red planet, refracted and reflected to avoid detection while snooping on the radio transmissions of the enemy.

"There is no order being given to withdraw. The enemy is all staying put," she explained.

Another shrug of the shoulders, then realisation overwhelmed him. "They cannot withdraw. The American command will not let them."

"Exactly!" she was overjoyed. Her brother was finally learning to read the enemy's intentions, to think like them.

"We have to tell everyone. The tribesmen will advance on their lands as they were planning to advance on ours," Ali said, jubilant.

"We do not even need to do that," Fatemah corrected. "Just the knowledge of impending defeat will defeat them. They will have no choice but to surrender."

He began typing away, spreading the message to the whole planet through the very crust and stratosphere of Mars.

#

"Miss Nour!" Ali and Fatemeh said in unison, grabbing hold of the said woman. She was only just taller than them, a little girl in her own right.

Abu Jozeif couldn't get in from between them, which was as well. When they finally let go of his wife, she slapped him stoutly on the face.

"I should have never let you go," he said in his futile defence.

"You should not have 'sent' me," Nour corrected for him.

"I wanted to keep you out of harm's way."

"Correction, young pup. You wanted to keep yourself out her way," the Englishman filled in for him. He knew his apprentice all too well. He didn't want his sweetheart to see him taking all those ruthless decisions in the middle of the war. He also didn't want to blow his cover as a lowly employee with the Bureau... the Arab 'Trade' Bureau.

"And this boy did a sigh better job than either of us," the Englishman added for measure.

"I am not a boy, I am a man!" Ali said triumphantly while taking out his wire-cutters. He'd used it on the special forces team that had captured Nour, and 'fixed' them. The device was still covered in blood, and skin.

"Ah, yes, no doubt you are," the Englishman said timidly, taking a cautious step back.

"Enough small talk," Fatemah said. "Miss Nour, would you like to play a game with us?"

"Sure. After what I've just been through," she said delightfully with her slippery Iberian accent.

#

Ali helped Nour climb on the kneeling camel and then called on a friend. The boy had an Arabic flute.

"Wait," he told his friend. The camel rose, making a racket. Then Ali began stamping him feet, moving with the rhythm of the camel's tread as it walked towards him. Then the other boy began to play the flute to a different, faster rhythm. The camel followed suit, quickening its pace.

Ali went to another camel, began stamping his feet. He called on another camel. The beasts joined the other, moving in unison.

"Now change the tune!"

They began to circle each other.

"Another formation," he yelled out.

Now the camel with the lady rider stood still, in the middle of a circle made by the two other camels.

"Enough." Ali helped her down off the animal. "Do you know what we call this game?"

She professed her ignorance, smiling.

"The mind game," he said proudly, chest thrust out.

"The _aql_ in Arabic is transipated as 'mind' in the Englishy language," Fatemah explained. "But the _aql_ is this," he said while holding the reigns of the camel. "It is the Reason or Intellect of Plato, the steering mechanism of the passions in the bowels below. And as we say, the nafs [self or soul] is like a beast of burden. If you ride it, you reach your destination. If it rides you, it breaks you."

Then Ali added for dramatic effect, "We fight for the mother nature and so she will fight for us. That is why we will win, no matter their weapons."

"That is why you deserve to win," Nours said, tears filling her voice.
Striges

Nicola Lombardi (Italy)

Translated by J. Weintraub

We were just kids back then. More than twenty years have since passed. But these years have passed only outwardly. Inside, in my head, everything is still very much alive, as if these events had never stopped recurring, renewing themselves. It's enough for me just to glance at the memory of it, and right then and there it all comes back to envelope me, especially at night. Not that I've been marked by it to the degree that I can't lead a normal life. That much no. I have a wonderful wife, a magnificent little boy, and a job that, all in all, is secure. And I'm saying this so that you won't think this is simply the raving of a lunatic, a fool out to waste your time and mine. I'm eager to be reasonable about the thing, and I can profess to having witnessed, along with other young friends (with whom I've now almost totally lost touch) an incident that is really difficult for me to classify in the sense that I'm incapable of filing it in any of the categories where life's diverse experiences are usually mentally arranged, like when mail is sorted for insertion into its rightful slots.

Whenever I think back on Francesco, I always sense a kind of knotting in my stomach, the feeling, each time, of having just downed a boiling-hot cup of coffee in one swallow. The image of him that has stayed with me is that of a small boy with an infinitely sad look, prisoner of a situation so horrible its true nature can hardly be fully understood. I don't know why he was the one chosen. Perhaps there is no real reason. I could've been picked, or anyone else. But it happened to him.

I realize I'm stalling. Probably I don't know where to start, and circling around something is the most natural means to find a way into it. But one beginning is as good as any other. What really counts, every time, is the ending.

Francesco was the rich one in our group, in the sense that he belonged to a rather wealthy family, and all of us, his peers, felt the weight of his status. It was certainly not because he himself burdened us with the fact his mother was a scholar of worldwide fame (an anthropologist!). No, Francesco was the absolute embodiment of modesty, tending always—with at least us, his friends—to minimize whatever reflected on his standard of living, from his immense mansion to an auto that seemed to us then like an ocean liner, from his housekeeper to a bike equipped with an incredible number of shift and brake levers.

We often went to play at his house, Dario, Angelo, and I, together with some others whose names I don't remember. We spent hours in his garden (a small park, actually) and there among the willow and chestnut trees every fanciful whim passing through our heads was played out imaginatively. Or else, when the weather did not permit us to stay outside, we got lost among rooms and hallways packed with gloomy paintings, metallic and wooden sculpture, display cases stuffed with multicolored stones and manuscripts, all of it permeated with mysterious shadows and odors. We were twelve, thirteen years old, and our collective imagination was an atom bomb under which all rational rules governing the world collapsed. We investigated with considerable seriousness spiritualism, witchcraft, divination, flying saucers, and on and on, efforts seasoned by comic books, television, movies, popular music, all of it in a constant, rolling boil within the cauldrons of our adolescent brains. In light of what then happened, I believe that an undercurrent of tragic irony lies here, if you know where to look for it.

We liked nothing better than to talk about certain dark things, and to amuse ourselves we delighted in drawing and writing about them. We even created a kind of a comic book, a compilation whose pages gave free reign to a creativity inspired by a film that had frightened us or an article that had intrigued us. We gave it a title, too: _Medium_ , handwritten in a wavy character inside the silhouette of a bat that—rather than evoking, as intended, some kind of nocturnal horror—instead resembled Batman. It was all work we labored over, but we were paid back almost beyond measure. I remember very well, for example, the impression left on us by the film _Dr. Terror's House of Horrors_ , after which we armed ourselves at once with markers and cardboard to produce--by hand but artfully done--a Tarot deck infested with mysterious characters: vampires, werewolves, demons. And I can never forget those priceless rainy afternoons experimenting with electronic voice phenomena (after having read something about it, I think, or seen some report on TV), with so many tape recordings and grim frowns on our faces as we hoped to succeed in capturing on tape ghostly voices from beyond, stolen from silence. And later we fashioned (from sticks, string, and so forth) crosses inspired by the voodoo rituals of Baron Samedi, copying them from the estimable Cowboy Tex Willer comics.

But to list everything we did and who we were really gets us nowhere at this point. We were like a group of explorers gathered around a bonfire, encircled by a wondrous and endless night, talking incessantly about the grizzly that could be wandering nearby, in the darkness, unseen but surely present. Of course, we didn't know that the bear was actually there, a breath away from us, just beyond the wavering, luminous halo of the fire. It was there, and watching us.

The bear's name was Irina.

I've mentioned that Francesco's mother was an anthropologist, often traveling abroad for work, study, and the like, alternating teaching with research. We kids were always fascinated when confronted with the thousands of trinkets the woman brought home from her travels. All those little folk objects, which seemed incredible to us, ended up inevitably as part of the bizarre décor of that great house. Francesco always showed us—and these were probably the only times he struggled to rein in his personal pride—the small trophies, amulets, and figurines his mother brought from her expeditions, and our admiration ignited all the fantastic undercurrents such objects awakened within our minds. Naturally we didn't properly understand the real meaning behind those trips and studies, because, to be honest, the thoughtful, scholarly aspect of the thing was of little interest to us. Rather, we instinctively felt the exotic charm exhibited by these mementos independent of their cultural significance. And so it seemed to us that Francesco's house was always becoming more and more a repository of marvels coming from another world, and in times like that, when we were literally feeding on the stories of Lovecraft, Smith, Bloch, and the like, whatever object departed, even slightly, from the ordinary was in our eyes charged with a formidable and magical significance.

We didn't know Francesco's mother very well. I remember her as an energetic woman, always busy with something, always smiling when she ran into us in the house. She granted only a few words to us, all very superficial, but that was her way of doing things. Most of the time we didn't even run into her, only hearing her wandering about in the rooms; she was, so to speak, an "aural" rather than a physical presence. But we knew how pleased she was that Francesco had a few genuine friends and, all in all, quiet ones, even if we wound up under her feet more often than discretion might have advised. On the other hand, like I said, she was often absent, and it was natural, and I would even say convenient, for Francesco not to remain alone every afternoon. There was, actually, a woman, a widow named Maria, who did the cleaning and frequently stayed overnight in the guest room, but she could not be considered a true companion for Francesco. To us kids she wasn't very nice, perhaps because our presence annoyed her, and she never managed at all to conceal her feelings towards us, showering us with grimaces or snorting in exasperation. We simply learned not to worry about it, and running into her in the hallways troubled us no more than would an encounter with a table, chest, or an easy chair.

As far as his father was concerned, I think he was a mathematics professor. I say "think" because he wasn't living with them. Francesco's parents were divorced, and he never spoke of his father. None of us, his friends, knew where he was or with whom, but neither did we care; we never brought up the subject, to everyone's relief.

But that's not what I need to talk about.

In an effort to find a precise point in time, a moment that can properly represent the beginning of the tragedy, I go back to one February afternoon when Francesco, eyes bright with excitement, posed a question to us, "Do you know what my Mom's been writing about?"

Dario and I were there that day. (Angelo was in bed because of an ugly flu that had struck almost a third of our class.) We both looked at him, holding our breath. This was really something new. Never before had he brought up his mother's work in such a direct manner. Most of the time he remained quietly unaware of it, having little interest in the few strands of information that came vaguely to his attention.

But this time it was different. Really different.

After an artfully calculated pause, he announced the news pressing to get out, "A study on witches!"

Dario and I exclaimed almost in unison, without pausing then to take the comedy of it into consideration, "On witches?"

"Right. On the witches of our times, in Europe. I heard her talking on the phone with a colleague last night. I think she'll have to leave on a little trip real soon."

"In search of witches?" Dario's voice was almost a strangled gasp. Mine, also, was a kind of a crackling, "And . . . you're going, too?"

Francesco punched a fist into the open palm of his other hand. "No, I can't. There's school."

"Yeah, school . . ."

For a while we amused ourselves by touching only lightly on the subject, our initial enthusiasm having subsided. This information, which for us was certainly not news of a trivial sort, required some reflection. It was an extremely enticing opportunity, even if we didn't know exactly for what. Mental turmoil produced disjointed images, blurry prospects, vague possibilities. Probably—no, for certain—the idea that someone of our acquaintance was dealing seriously with this type of material (nothing less than witchcraft) was enough to make us all feel suddenly launched into a fantastic dimension, uprooting us from the everyday to bring us ever closer, in an entirely unforeseen way, to that unruly universe constantly swarming and shimmering inside our heads. We didn't know, nor could we know, what that information implied. But from that day, in practical terms, Francesco already had behind him the shadow that carried him off, something which, I think, he never realized, not even later on, when we, in contrast, sensed what was happening to him, yet were unable to do anything to prevent it.

"Look here!" Francesco glanced around stealthily, doing it primarily to instill an aura of mystery, of subterfuge into the thing, although there would have been no real need for it. Even if his mother had seen that he had temporarily removed a file from her desk, there wouldn't have been a problem, since at the most she would have said to him, "Afterwards please put it back where you got it," and nothing else. But pretending to view that draft report, that research plan as a secret and forbidden document threw a fascinating light over the entire affair.

It turned out to be an orange folder, one of those in cardboard, held together tightly by an elastic band. I remember that we also poked around inside a bit, where there were some typewritten pages, but a quick glance was enough to make us feel utterly unfit to understand the manner in which the subject tended to be treated. As Dario remarked, it was, basically, "professor stuff." Instead, we were all fascinated by the label Francesco's mother had pasted onto the folder. Expertly duplicating Gothic handwriting—which we immediately associated with old black-and-white horror films—the title of the study stood out against the orange background: _STRIGES_. And scribbled beneath, in more nondescript letters: _Witches and Modern Witchcraft in Europe._

"Vicious!" I exclaimed. It was an adjective I often used, as a synonym for "fantastic" or "fabulous." Francesco, expecting the reaction, nodded, and Dario also shared the heartfelt enthusiasm that the title alone managed to arouse. This says a lot about the superficiality of our attitude regarding certain subjects. Deep analysis and study were practices that were not very appealing, at least not at a time where the suggestion of a concept or even only a word was quite enough to activate a simple but inexorable imaginative mechanism capable of feeding on itself. And that word, _striges_ , resonated inside us like an evil spell cast to enlighten our thinking and instill in us new impulses. There was an entire universe about to be disclosed and, already intoxicated with visions and tales, we were floating along the margins of reality. Just some time before, we had finished reading (or devouring) a copy of the _Necronomicon_ , passing it among ourselves like conspirators. The idea that we might be dealing with a harmless editorial prank never even crossed our minds, since in our eyes that tract of evocative magic that Lovecraft had taught us to admire had all the aura of sanctity (and we were ready to brand as heretics whoever dared to doubt it and offer suspicions as unacceptable as they were true —a fact I learned later with a touch of humility).

In any case, the very title of that thesis—one likely to develop and prosper in academic directions that were, all things considered, of little interest to us—had the power to cast over all of us a particular mindset, one of unconscious anticipation. We began to whisper that word back and forth even among the desks in our eighth-grade classroom, as if it were an ominous spell linked to an event, like part of a secret game whose rules had yet to be all invented. And when, at the end of March, Francesco's mother finally left on the trip that was to take her throughout Europe, we knew for sure that whatever she might bring home would launch us even further off the face of the earth. We did not yet know she would be bringing us the burial, once and for all, of our childhood, and much worse.

As soon as we saw Irina we had no doubt she was a witch. Naturally, from the time, a week before, when Francesco informed us of the extraordinary event that was about to happen, we were waiting for her with both anxiety and excitement. In brief, one of the outcomes of his mother's field trip had been the acquisition of sets of highly valuable information regarding the state of witchcraft in Europe. "Enough stuff to write a whole book about it, no, two!" Francesco had said. In particular, she had received from a Hungarian woman a sort of authentic indoctrination in exchange for the promise of bringing her daughter to Italy and taking her in for a time as a servant, so that she would not be a financial burden on her family and could earn something before returning home. This is the little I know regarding the facts that served as a prelude to Irina's arrival, even though Francesco, from time to time, reported back some excerpts from his mother's daily phone calls, exaggerating some details and completely overlooking others, as was natural.

The matter of the financial and social agreement between his mother and that Hungarian woman must not have interested him very much, while it was rather the consequence of such a pact that captivated him even more than a horror film. To that end, I remember that one day he even said, "But do you realize that we are about to be living an incredible adventure, like out of a movie or a fairy tale? The daughter of a Hungarian witch will be coming to live a couple of months, maybe a year, here in my house!"

"The daughter of _Baba Yaga_ in your house!" Dario cried out. Clearly, he had been doing some research on the subject.

"That's exactly what I said to my Mom when she told me. But she also informed me that _Baba Yaga_ is the Slavic version. Irina's mother is a _Vasorrú Bába_. And if she's the daughter of a _Vasorrú Bába_ , she's probably one herself, right? Isn't that un-be-lie-vable?"

We agreed that we were dealing with a truly fantastic event, almost one not to be believed. Reality was about to suck us down into a parallel universe, into an eventful and spectral dimension. That's what we were seeing at the time, the possibilities of those days that lay before us, and our minds sailed a hundred kilometers off the ground. Strange how the ugliness that followed failed, however, to erase for me the memory of how unique and incomparable those days had been.

When Irina arrived, almost all of us were there. Francesco had naturally alerted us well in advance so that we would not lose sight of "the grand entrance." I admit that we had spent hours upon hours trying to visualize her, fantasizing about the "look" a witch ought to have, and probably Irina could actually be considered to be the sum total of the various details each of us had imagined.

The auto entered the large courtyard, and I remember that we all had directed our eyes toward the passenger. Even Francesco, I noticed, seemed far more interested in the intruder's arrival than in his mother, who was returning after an absence of about a month. Naturally, there were hugs and kisses, as was proper. Angelo, Dario, and I stood aside, aware that our presence, at that moment, was awkward. But our eyes were fixed on the car's right door, opening very slowly and allowing a dark and slender body to slip outside. Here my memory doubtlessly betrays me, since those times are brought back to me filtered through the black veil of subsequent trauma, thus revealing Irina to me already as an obscene, unreal being, crawling from out of the crevice separating reality from nightmare to sneak into our lives. In truth, I won't say we were disappointed, but more likely not really satisfied by the generally anonymous appearance of the girl we had waited for with such eager anxiety.

Tall and thin, she looked older than the twenty-two years we knew to be her age. She was wearing a dark sweater, rather large, and a pair of jeans. Her hair, pitch-black, was gathered behind her head, revealing her slightly protruding ears. Her facial features were rather ordinary, in the sense that they made it difficult to think of Irina as a pretty girl. But her eyes . . . well, these were truly disturbing. They were enormous or, at least, that's how I remember them. Enormous and darker than night.

When she looked around, I noticed that she did it by letting her eyes dart about in every direction rather than circling her head from one point to the next as might be expected. She also saw me and my friends, and I know that she took in everything and everyone within just a few seconds. In her mind, I think that she had considered, planned, and ordained every one of her upcoming actions in the time between stepping from the car and standing erect in front of the house that awaited her. It was, outwardly, an unassuming arrival, and yet, in its own way, spectacular.

We knew that she was mute. Francesco had kept us well informed on the details that his mother had communicated to him, bit-by-bit, over the phone. So, her ability to move about in a manner I would describe as very expressive did not surprise us. Every movement of her fingers, hands, head, mouth—although seemingly spontaneous—was clearly the result of long experience with communications other than vocal. She shook Francesco's hand, flashing an unexpected smile that made her appear almost pretty, and Francesco blushed instantly. I believe that our presence embarrassed him a little, but we would not have missed that moment for anything in the world. Irina then turned to greet Maria, who, grumbling something unintelligible, stared directly into her eyes; it must have been at that moment she decided to give up her place, which she did less than two weeks later. Then it was our turn. As much as we tried to remain out-of-sight, it was Francesco himself who called us over, and so we could not escape approaching and extending in turn our hands to shake Irina's. She also smiled at us, but with less conviction. Clearly, we did not enter into her plans. When she finally went into the house, carrying along a suitcase with a bit of a battered look, Francesco, too, abandoned us.

"I've got to play the host now," he informed us awkwardly from the threshold. "See you tomorrow, okay?" He would've liked to have told us a bunch of things, and all in a few seconds, but that wasn't the right time.

We waved good-bye, then looked into each other's faces.

"So?" asked Angelo, "What do you think?"

Dario did not hesitate. "As for me, that one's really a witch. Did you feel that cold hand?" He said it while smiling, but he wasn't joking, and we all agreed. As for me, I rubbed my hand hard before slipping it into my pocket. I still felt the ice along my fingers.

As I've already mentioned, Maria gave her notice, tactfully, in the space of ten, twelve days. Originally, she explained her absences—at first sporadic—by complaining about unlikely health issues, but Francesco told us how, from her attitude toward the new arrival, it became quickly clear that the house wasn't big enough for the two of them. None of us were sorry, and we laughed over it for an entire afternoon. And, naturally, we tried to satisfy every last bit of curiosity about Irina's new position: what room she was taking, what work she was doing, how she made herself understood, what she was eating. We didn't even neglect prying into what she had brought from Hungary, underwear included.

"I don't ever go into her room," Francesco solemnly informed us, exhibiting his own sense of discretion in the light of our blissful immaturity. The thought never occurred to us that he could have been afraid of her, which must have happened in Maria's case. We continued unhindered to keep Irina at the center of almost all of our conversations, at least until we realized that perhaps it was better not to speak about her anymore.

I'm aware of the fact that at this point my story may seem a bit sketchy, but it involves recalling a sequence of events that has almost ceased to exist inside my head; so, I can do no more than toss into the pot those small sparks of memory that will enable me to give a touch of coherence to the incredible outcome.

During the early stages, as the euphoria prompted by the arrival on the scene of an intruder reeking of witchcraft diminished, Francesco still kept us informed, always in a lively manner, about what was going on between the walls of his house, from how hard his mother worked to make Irina feel at home to how easily she had become familiar with her surroundings and with all the small tasks assigned to her. Little by little—however immense it had been at first—our curiosity also was lessening from the very moment it seemed that nothing was there, not even a mere hint capable of inciting thrilling stories based on magic, potions, or black candles. No longer stoked by the sacred flame of our imagination, the hot-air balloon that we had, in effect, anchored to our brains, was deflating day-by-day, bringing us imperceptibly but inevitably down to earth. Perhaps also because of this, we were unable to grasp the changes, although very slight, that were making headway, following a plan whose design was still too broad to appear intelligible.

A little more than two months must have passed since Irina's arrival before we noticed some changes in Francesco's mother. Small details, actually. Her attitude regarding me and my friends seemed to us more distant, more indifferent. Sometimes when she happened to run into us in the house, she didn't greet us or even look our way. Not that it was a serious matter, but it was a change we sensed with some concern, up to the point of asking Francesco one day if by chance we had done something wrong without realizing it. He quickly calmed us down, refusing to take the matter seriously, explaining to us that the project she was working on (that mythical _Striges_!) kept her mind occupied night and day. "That's how she is," he reassured us, "Don't pay any attention to it. When she's working she has a hard time even looking at me." He said this with a touch of genuine regret in his voice, so we decided that it had to be the only plausible explanation. Certainly, this had not been the case in the past, but her work on witches was probably much more demanding than any preceding it, and thus deserved all of our respect and understanding. That her mind was instead already sliding along a spider's web, where Irina was patiently waiting at its center, was something we could not have known.

I want to talk about one afternoon in particular. I think it'll be worth the effort.

I was with Angelo inside Francesco's house. The weather that day wasn't the best. The wind was blowing and cold droplets of rain were drizzling like pins from the dark clouds. As a result, we settled down on the floor, midway within a corridor, sitting like Comanches, next to a window where a dim grayish light was filtering in. I remember that the atmosphere was very suggestive, a kind of atmosphere that demanded our attention: a powdery sheen surrounded us, isolating us from the shadowy dimness and then from the darkness packed into the infinite tunnel that extended and disappeared from one end to the other. We certainly could not deal with anything that did not give off gloomy hints of the fantastic and the macabre, and so the "witch" theme arose naturally, and Francesco thought it would be the perfect time to tell us about some excerpts read in passing from the pages that were piling up in ever greater numbers inside the _Striges_ file.

"Do you remember Lammas night? Even _Necronomicon_ spoke about it!"

Angelo and I nodded vigorously, our eyes wide-open, eager smiles illuminating our faces. We knew that Lammas Night, the first of August, was one of those annual occasions beloved of witches. Sabbath nights, forbidden ceremonies, unimaginable terrors! So, in the wake of that captivating opening, Francesco started to cite to us, in quick summary, some passages from the work his mother was laboring so hard over. We began then to hear about abducted children, mysterious deaths, ritual cannibalism, physical and mental tortures perpetrated by ancient sects still quite active even in our own days, about flesh and blood converted into energy by covens nestled deep within the wrinkles of our society. In short, we were intoxicated, levitating off the ground and momentarily abandoning that dark hallway to flounder among ocean waves, ravaged by the joyous delirium that was for us at that time the blood of life. No one heard Irina approaching.

Only when her soft white hand rested on his head did Francesco fall silent. We plunged abruptly back down to earth, and as for me, I remember my heart sinking as well. Standing directly behind him, barely outlined by the glow from the window that became ever weaker as it pushed into the darkness of the house, the girl seemed more of a spectral apparition than a woman of flesh and blood. She was smiling, caressing with slow strokes, with love, the hair of Francesco (whose cheeks were glowing a violent red, quite visible despite the waning light). She stood there for several seconds, watching us with an almost maternal look. Her lips parted slightly, allowing us to glimpse the whiteness of her teeth. Francesco kept his head lowered, probably feeling guilty about having been surprised telling us things that should have remained hidden within that file. I say "probably" because I think there was something else. I saw him close his eyes, and I'd wager that I caught a trembling, a shiver, passing throughout his entire body. There was something not very comforting in that caress, something morbid, a murky signal we were incapable of decoding. Today I can come up with an answer: it was the affectionate gesture directed toward an animal being led, very slowly, to the slaughter. When the girl finally moved away, barely turning her face in our direction for a moment before vanishing, not one of us was able to say a word for several minutes.

I would say it was from that day, from that rainy afternoon, that Francesco stopped talking about Irina.

Angelo and I spoke at length about the impressions we drew from that simple but disturbing experience. Together we agreed on the fact that something was happening to Francesco. He was no longer the same as before, even if we didn't focus on the imperceptible deformities that were distorting his appearance. Among the trifles that come to mind, I remember his point-blank refusal to do what we had done several times together—amusing ourselves like the kids we still, in effect, were—namely, approaching, in silence, the door to Irina's room to listen in or to peek through the keyhole, just to experience the legendary thrill of the forbidden. Very simply, Irina and every thing concerning her vanished from his conversations, and, accordingly, from ours.

I would like to be able to report on much more, but the truth is I know nothing about what was happening inside that house during those days. No one can know. I am forever limited to imagining it, but I don't think that tossing conjectures, inferences, or fantasies onto the table can in any way benefit my testimony here. I recall that I had painted in my mind a rather delirious and unstable picture, a picture in which an unsuspecting Francesco and his mother were both orbiting around Irina, prisoners of an evil influence. So, for me it wasn't a matter of rational common sense, but only a blind instinct, dictating to me its irrational conclusions from where my thoughts could only waver on the fulcrum of utter and complete confusion.

The very first concrete sign of what was happening goes back to a day in July, but none of us could see in it any kind of a signal for alarm. It seemed silly to us, and we erased it completely from our mental blackboards. It happened during a race, a very ordinary race between friends, to reach our bicycles leaning up against a fence. Middle school was already the blurry memory of a season definitively at an end for all of us, and I don't recall who else was there, but the point is, Francesco did not manage to reach the bicycles first, as everyone expected. He was the tallest of us, and his long legs always enabled him to outdistance everyone by a good deal whenever we took part in an impromptu race. But that time he began to falter about halfway through the course, slowing down and stopping to catch his breath, pressing a hand against his side and inhaling deeply. Naturally, we made fun of him, telling him that he was eating too much, and that he no longer had the strength of former times. He smiled, but I caught a flash in his eye that, in hindsight, I should have interpreted as a call for help. But, naturally, I wasn't able to; so we continued to tease him, and he played along. Strange to say, it's slivers like this, seemingly insignificant but sticking in my memory, that even today magnify the horror of what was about to come.

It all happened on August first, and I know that it was not by accident.

I was alone that afternoon when I went to ring the bell at Francesco's house. I had to ring twice, maybe three times, before he appeared in the window of his room on the second floor. I took a couple of steps back along the driveway to distance myself from the house and to get a better look at him, and then I motioned him to open up. The sun's reflection off the glass obscured his features, so I could not read the expression he had on his face right away. Then he opened the window cautiously, and I noted he was not smiling as I had expected. He was wearing neither a polo shirt nor even an undershirt. I don't know why, but I instinctively felt that there was something wrong.

"Do you want to come out for awhile? Everyone else is already at the field behind the quarry. They're waiting for us for a soccer match!" I tried to keep my voice steady, but I found that hard to do, which bothered me quite a bit since I didn't understand the reason why.

Francesco became anxious at once. He twisted around for a moment toward the interior of the room, then turned back to look at me. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "No thanks," he wound up saying. "I don't feel very well. . . . and my mother's not at home."

I could do no better than parrot his words back to him, "She's not at home?"

"No. She's gone to the airport. Guests are arriving tonight."

I stared at him, holding my breath, since at his back, emerging from the shadows, Irina's silhouette was coming into view.

Francesco didn't move. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on me. Judging from the light in them, I thought he wanted to cry out.

Stunned, incredulous, I was unable to utter a single word.

I saw the girl lay a hand on Francesco's bare shoulder and drawing near, her head next to his, she looked down toward the courtyard where I was standing, stock-still, my mouth open.

She smiled. Her lips parted just enough to show her teeth.

If ever I had harbored any doubts, at that moment I felt overwhelmed by the certainty that Irina was not a normal person.

Francesco remained passive, resigned, just as he had been that rainy afternoon, seated in the corridor. Irina, in the meantime, had encircled his neck with one arm, and like a lover she was bending her face down to lick his shoulder.

At that point, I had to turn around and run over to my bike. I was shocked, and more embarrassed than I had ever been before. That situation was completely foreign to my imagination, an intimidating act clearly viewed at my age as unthinkable. What was that girl doing with Francesco? I almost felt sick over it. A very deep disturbance was turning my stomach into knots. I had to get out of there, I had to talk it over with someone.

I straddled the bike, but before pushing away, I yielded to the impulse to take one last look back in the direction of that window, a sight that still to this day continues to reverberate in the darkness of my dreams.

I saw Irina then tenderly draw my friend back toward the interior of the room, always holding her face (her mouth wide open) to his shoulder in a sort of horrible, insatiable kiss. But above all, I managed—I don't know how—to recognize a word emerging from Francesco's mouth. I can't say if I heard it for real or if I only imagined it. The fact is, it was riveted into my head, and I knew immediately that whatever was to happen would be happening that night.

The word was Lammas.

And so just a little before sunset we—Angelo, Dario, and I---decided to become the heroes of a venture that was certainly unorthodox but right and proper when weighed against a friend in the grip of an evil without a name. I had described to them the scene I had witnessed, but I don't know to what extent they believed me. Yet all of us felt that it was a fatal evening; and if we went secretly to lie in wait outside Francesco's house with the intent of spying on him, we were doing it in the hope of being able, in some way, to be of help. Officially, all of us were supposed to be at his house to play a little or to watch TV. This was the version passed off to our parents, and we were there at Francesco's house, even if in a manner I would describe as exceptional. I can say today that if I had stayed at home that evening, I would very likely have spared myself all the anguish that—despite the passing years—has never left me. But I could not have acted in any other way. I went there, and I saw everything there was to see.

The house appeared completely dark, or almost. We advanced, hunched down, into the driveway, then slipped over toward one side of the building where a dim radiance was streaming over the driveway's gravel and its shrubbery. That illuminated window on the ground floor was too high for us to be able to look directly through it, so we had already agreed that Dario and Angelo would make a ladder for me with their hands, while I would be hoisted up, elbows on the windowsill, to spy inside.

I don't know what mysteries I expected to find, but I had to hold off, since right then, precisely when I was preparing to climb up, the headlights from an auto entering the driveway forced us to run and hide behind a hedge, our hearts pounding.

It was Francesco's mother. She could not have chosen, I thought, a worse moment to return; worse for us, of course. From where we wound up, we managed to get a look at the car as it was stopping in front of the entrance, and when the door opened we saw coming out, together with her, another three women. They were speaking among themselves, but none of us understood a single word.

I remember looking for a second at my fellow adventurers in the hope of receiving some small comfort, but instead I saw that they were both as terrorized as I was. Angelo was holding his hand in front of his mouth, almost as if his breathing could reach the ears of the new arrivals. Dario, his eyes bright and wide-open, was, in contrast, crumpling the hem of his shirt in his hands. I would've liked to have calmed things down a bit and was thinking about whispering to them something like, "You're not really afraid of witches, are you?" But I felt my throat drying up, and mumbling such stuff in the dark would only have made our emotional states much worse.

The front door came open, and a beam of light poured out onto the gravel, laying out a welcome mat. The four women entered the house, closing the door behind them. Only then did our voices find the strength to express our thoughts.

"What do we do?" asked Angelo. "Get out of here?"

Dario didn't answer, yet his silence was more than eloquent. But as for me, I did not want to miss that opportunity.

"Why? We're safe enough right here. Aren't you curious? We'll take a look only at what's happening, and then we'll go back home. And if Francesco needs some help . . . ?"

Unfortunately Dario was a realist, and remarked, "If he needs some help, what're we going to do? Are you going inside?" and it was my turn to hold my tongue. But still, we stayed, and on hearing scattered noises from the other side of the illuminated window, we found the courage to leave the hedge and once again to approach the house.

Honestly, from here on in I have to grant that my recollections may have been infected by all the nightmares that I have had from that night on, and the memories I draw upon today to describe what I saw through that window may be, admittedly, corrupted and distorted. But it is my own truth, or rather what I in good faith believe to have happened before my very eyes. Furthermore, as things turned out, no one has ever been able to establish anything with certainty, and so my version is not worth less than any other, even if I've never found anyone willing to believe me.

With one foot leveraged in Dario and Angelo's interlocked hands, then, I brought myself up to the sill of the high widow, and looked inside.

The long white curtains were drawn back, but not completely, almost as if deliberately leaving open the possibility of covert attendance at the ceremony (and I would not know how else to label it). They opened on the living room where we had ended up so many times to play chess or poker when the weather was bad, with the large hardwood table at its center, the rigid armchairs with their high, padded backs, the shelves packed with books, the false fireplace, the portraits of forgotten persons on the walls. . . . From then on, in my imagination, that living room became synonymous with hell.

Francesco, stretched out on the table, was nude. Red and purplish bruises had broken out on his side, along his back and arms, and in those spots there was a clear absence of strips of flesh.

They were bite marks.

It was like getting a quick punch to my stomach, because I now understood I was faced with a circumstance that was utterly appalling, dangerous, and forbidden. I barely recall the questions of my friends supporting me. Spoken breathlessly through clenched teeth, they came to me like sounds that were entirely foreign and incomprehensible. I suppose they were asking me what I was seeing, but I was unable to open my mouth or even to think. Francesco was motionless, as if he were dead, but his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and his lips were trembling distinctly. Afterwards, I thought he was praying.

Standing next to him, Irina turned and smiled in the direction of the door where Francesco's mother and the three strangers were entering. I don't know how I managed to pick up a few of their words—perhaps because they were expressed several times, in sharp tones--and Irina replied by nodding and gesturing with her claw-like fingers. They are monstrous words I continue to hear at night when I think I've come awake, although, in truth, I'm still dreaming. _Vagok. Eszik. Szám minket_. I've never forgotten them. That day when I later managed to find them in a Hungarian dictionary, I remember breaking out in tears. _Hunger. Eat. For us_. Simple words, and yet as horrible as an evil spell, a curse, a fatal incantation.

One of the strangers (the oldest, dressed in black like the others, her white hair piled up in strands) embraced and kissed Irina. Her wrinkled face was almost a mask in the orange light of the shaded lamp. I gathered she was her mother. The other two (sisters? cousins? friends?) did the same, and continued to cackle in their shrill tongue. They were very pale, and their pallor stood out against their dark clothing and raven-black hair. I remember practically nothing of their facial features, even though in my dreams I am confronted with different faces every time, almost never human. But they were real, flesh-and-blood women. And I know for sure they were witches.

They continued to speak among themselves for a length of time I could not determine, although I'm inclined to believe that their chattering lasted no more than a minute. Then they moved about the table in such a way that two of them turned their backs to me. I had a very powerful sensation of dizziness, and even though a part of me was conscious of the place and time I was in, I felt myself floating inside a bubble, hypnotized by the unspeakable horror I was witnessing.

Dario and Angelo were speaking to me, questioning me. But I was trapped by the nightmare that was by then clinging to the walls of my brain, like a bat, with its thin, curving claws.

I remember the four witches bending over Francesco. I still see them. And how could I free myself from them? They were beginning to eat him.

Bit by bit, in small bites, bending over, then raising their heads up again in satisfaction, to enjoy the pleasure of their chewing.

And his mother stood by motionless, admiring that butchery with a rapt air, a greedy light in her eyes, her lips apart.

I could no longer feel my heart beating in my chest.

I caught a glimpse of Francesco's body trembling, flinching, although without much agitation. It was an unbearable sight, but just the same I had to force myself to leave it, struggle to shift my gaze from those filthy red mouths and seek out the eyes of my friend, and in that very same moment, he turned his heard toward the window, toward me. I'm sure that he was, in some way, conscious of my presence on the other side of the glass, and that, in fact, he expected to find me there. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and the flame of desperation, pain, and helplessness that I recognized deep within his eyes left, if possible, an even deeper mark in my memory of the atrocity I had been witnessing up to that moment. Like him, I felt lost, drained of all physical and mental vitality. But despite that, I managed to read what his lips were saying to me. "Get away," he was saying, silently. "Get away," and in the meantime, those women were continuing to eat him. In truth, I should have fled at that very moment rather than waiting that cursed handful of extra seconds. Instead, I hesitated and also saw what happened right afterwards.

Irina raised her head from that poor, devastated chest, and dripping blood, she turned to her right, nodding over to Francesco's mother, and with an air of solemnity, she moved a few steps forward. I know she was no longer herself; I also know she was under the influence of a spell. And I know she never would have wanted to do what she did, even though I saw her carry it out with a bestial craving that turned my stomach.

Francesco faced the window, and his mother bent over him. Over his cheek or over his neck, I don't remember. She seemed to want to kiss him. And at the same time I realized that Irina was also staring at me. She wasn't alarmed, nor did she show any sign of agitation. She smiled at me--naturally, horribly—and while the other women continued their feasting undisturbed, she raised a stained finger from Francesco's tortured body, and pointed it toward me.

At that very moment I collapsed. I must have jerked my leg in agitation, since Dario and Angelo let me fall. And that was the end of it.

The sequence of events immediately following is lost within my head, as if everything had been sucked inside and erased by a whirlpool. I believe it was the traumatic force of those sights that then turned everything else into a weak and tattered memory, totally unfit to linger next to them. I know that I got away, or, rather, we got away. What I don't know is what I said, what I reported, what I ranted and raved about. What I do remember is that I stayed in bed for several days with a very high fever. Doubtlessly, I tried to describe what I had seen, but it was clear no one was willing to listen to me.

The sudden move of Francesco and his mother was talked about publicly for some time. It seemed they had decided to sell the house, people were saying. For a job elsewhere. But just like that, without saying anything to anybody? And where did they go? Did she go back to her husband? Everyone had an opinion, but I was too distraught, too weakened mentally to chase after such stupid speculation. The friends, who together shared with me the fears, emotions, and secrets linked to those final days when Francesco was still alive, little by little stopped associating with me. I believe their families had played a part in that. The things I was saying were not quite right, of course. Perhaps I had been scarred by that high fever.

But it wasn't the fever that scarred me, I knew that very well. It was rather that finger, stretched out toward me.

Now that I have recounted everything, or almost all of it, I wonder why I felt the need to do it. Probably because the dreams have returned recently with greater frequency to torment me. Or perhaps there are other reasons.

The truth is I've begun (or, rather, begun again) to be afraid.

My son is ten years old, and his name is Francesco. I decided to give him that name in memory of my lost friend.

Lately, I've noticed my wife looking at him in a way different from the usual. Does it make any sense, what I've been thinking? At times I watch Esther while she's caressing him, and her expression reminds me. . . . No, I don't even want to write it down.

Last night I woke, and I didn't find her in bed. The dream I'd just fled from, infested with red mouths on the whitest of faces, was still languishing in my head. That finger was also there, that hateful index finger, pointing at me. I hurried into Francesco's room. Esther was there, bending over our sleeping boy. She told me that she only wanted to check to see if he were all right. We then returned to bed. She wanted only to kiss him, she told me. Only to kiss him.

I would like so much to be able to believe her.

But, God forgive me, I can't.
Tasting the Data Flow

Marcie Franks (Australia)

I know I have broken the law, even know what the punishment might be but I had to do it. I hope they can forgive me and allow what has been done to continue.

I hope it is he who comes for us tonight; the Taker, he and the others have turned the days into ghosts and made night our true love.

To escape this life is impossible, to avoid what I have done undeniable but to suffer the consequences I must. I need them, we all need them. We have become reliant on their visits, their feeding; their injection of the Data-flow that has replaced our blood saturated out minds. We have all fallen to their manipulation of our node filaments – the implants of our human selves.

My ironing is almost complete, two shirts and two pairs of trousers. At around nine each night I hang them outside the house as my offering, and in the hope that I am deemed worthy of a visit from him, my favourite is the gentle one. It has become a ritual many have adopted, and our lives seem to be now identified by colours; the one thing lacking in the night.

"I will hang them," my husband says, taking the clothes and opening the front door. He is a good man, patient, kind and like me, barely alive by human standards; just like the rest of the town. John is rare; he is one of the few people in town who can stand the sunlight for short periods – we still need people like him to carry out the daily town duties; to keep attention away from us.

"Hang the yellow shirts in front," I say.

John nods in agreement. Delaware has assigned us that colour. He says it is his preferred.

We moved to this town five years ago to escape the silver glitter of the spires; the pace of Net-Work Cities and node linked lives. Back then, the township was known as Five Oaks. Now it has no name. Though rooted in the country, it did have a net centre and a node filament repair unit; not high-tech city stuff but enough to keep the modern hospital functional for us new humans. No name town had a population of two thousand and a cemetery you didn't need a car to look around. Well, the graveyard is still small; no one's died since they came. There have been no births either.

I've been making and ironing shirts for Delaware these past two years. John usually washes out the black Data-flow and dries the clothing in the dryer.

"Your programs will be starting soon," John says coming back inside and closing the door. "I haven't been relieved for three days, and I need a Taker."

John looks paler than usual, though who can tell when our skin looks like white gossamer over thinning muscles.

"I'm right for a while," I reassure him. "If he comes tonight I will insist that you be the one. Besides, your nutrient load should be very high after three days." I sigh with weariness and sit before the open fireplace. It hasn't seen flames since the day I entered into the collection – the heat affects the Data-flow and threatens the stability of our node filaments. I rub the small of my back, feeling the spherical hub of the information cord that runs the length of my spine. It used to allow me to uplink services to the networks, but now... the scar on my neck throbs a little... now it's all manual watching and direct brain processing; tough on the eyes.

A knock at the door startles John, but I am happy it has come. Only Delaware knocks. I like him; he is polite and informative. Not all of the Takers have explained themselves as he has, and few show his kindness.

"Good morning, John, Helen," Delaware says, entering our home. His shirt is wet with black spray; he has already fed. Delaware has told me his race needs the data we absorb because they lost the ability to gain information themselves. I don't understand why this is so and after all this time I find that I don't care.

"John needs relief," I say, not bothering to stand. "He has been on a tough schedule for the last few days."

"It has been three days of news programs," John says in explanation. "It hurts to watch more..."

"Come then," Delaware says without protest. He steers John towards the kitchen; the linoleum floor is much easier to clean than carpet, and I dislike the sucking sound when a Taker feeds.

Turning on the television, I prepare to watch the series of cop shows I have been requested to process. For me, it is slow and tedious work, as I dislike these programs. I feel Delaware might be able to offer insights into this, but I must submit an application in order to change my schedule. I have done this many times without success. The Takers choose what we watch.

I hear John gasp as Delaware bites into his neck. The first bite always draws away the nutrients within the Data-flow, the blood like liquid that absorbs what we experience, what we live. A second, deeper taste will penetrate the node filament to download the last few day's TV processing.

I rub at the raised lumps on my neck from the previous night's access. It still pulses with the new infusion of black Data-flow; the slow-flow stuff that makes us sluggish and tired.

"I have left my clothes on the table," Delaware says entering the room. He is naked and in his man-guise looks appealing. I am sure he knows what to do with the body should I find a weakness and desire him; but I won't, not because of any real dislike, but because I love John. Delaware understands and appreciates this complexity within us. I hope he can understand the complexity and need of my secret.

He slips into the fresh clothes, choosing the blue trousers and a yellow shirt. The other set he neatly folds and tucks under his arm.

"John will be weak for a while, I have taken more from him than usual as he had reached maximum capacity. He needs the rest, so do not let him watch television for the next twenty-four hours. When able to process the screen, he is to watch commercials only for the following eighteen hours."

Delaware's eyes sparkle amber, the sign of proper feeding. His skin holds a vibrancy I assume we all once had and his dark hair possesses the sheen of youthfulness. He can easily pass for twenty-five, but I know from past conversations that he is well into his fifth century. I wonder about on what other races on other worlds he has fed. The Takers do not speak of this, it is taboo, but we know we are not the first and won't be the last.

"I have wondered if I might be permitted a child," I say, staring at him as he fastens the last button on his casual shirt. "I am thirty-two, and my biological clock is fast running down."

"You know the laws, why ask this now?" He isn't angry but does frown.

"It is my time; the town needs children again." I stand and feel the throb in my neck. It isn't painful, just insistent.

"I will discuss it with the others," he says turning for the door.

"The answer will be no," I say, knowing the truth of it.

He turns to me, face hard, eyes cold.

"I am already pregnant," I say. "I had to take the chance."

Delaware's face reddens, and his lips press together in the very human manner of anger; I have never seen anger in any of the Takers before.

"Why have you done this?" His voice is even, quiet but firm.

"I'm not getting any younger, Delaware..."

"You have said this already, but you know the complications, the problems that will occur in your body. Have I not counselled you in this, have not the town leaders..." He looks towards the kitchen. "Your husband told you of the dangers."

"If I stop the Data-flow..."

"You will die!" He approaches, places his cold hands on my shoulders and eases me into my chair. He sits opposite on the low coffee table. He smells of the pungent metallic flow; his pointed teeth are spotted black from his feed. "We have never allowed this before, Helen. And to those of you who have tried we simply altered the Data-flow to purge the growth from within."

"You would abort the child?" I felt ill.

"Yes." Delaware looks to his hands, long white nails, thick dark veins. "I wish there was another way, Helen." His voice holds a semblance of difficulty, the stain of emotion. "This cannot be allowed to happen."

"Let me keep the child; I will stay within the process of the Data-flow..."

"You will die!"

"Do you know this?" I am desperate. I grab his hands, absorb his coldness. "You have said you have never allowed it; do you know for certain that I will die?"

He looks into my eyes; I see my face. I shiver. "No."

"Then let me keep this child, Delaware!" I squeeze his hands; they resist; his skin is rough, hard like plastic. "If I stop the feeds I will die, this you know, but if I continue what could go wrong?" I hate the sound of my pleading voice. I have always been the strong one in my marriage.

"The baby may die within you," he says softly.

"It may not."

"Then let me taste the Data-flow, now; let us discover the unknown this moment."

I swallow and feel my mouth is dry. I release him and sit back in the chair, not even the soft cushioning can ease the tension in my back, my neck. He stares at me with his unblinking eyes; they are two clear stones awash with mystery. I struggle to steady my breathing, calm my heart as he moves to his knees and hovers before me ready to bite. I hadn't expected things to happen quite so fast.

"Let me taste what might be coming," he says, grabbing the thick arms of the chair. "Trust me now in this, Helen. I may be your only hope."

I look to the kitchen. Where is John? I should consult him.

"We must know," Delaware sighs. He traces the scar on my neck.

"Now?" I ask.

"Yes." In a blur, I feel him bite hard, straight into the filament, straight into darkness.

We haven't had a visit in two days, but we know things have changed around us. On the streets at night, the time we do business, people we'd become friends with over the years avoid us as they go about their shopping. Even the people John works with, the few who can tolerate the sun for short periods, snub their noses as if we are outsiders.

Thinking of Delaware as I stand in the checkout at Walmart, loaded up with my daily supply of red meat and protein bars, I find it difficult to face the possibility of losing my child. I've been leaning on John a bit the past two days, and we agreed that we would fight the Takers over the baby. I watch my husband as I listen to the register beep off its products. John browses the new range of shaving products, which always gives me a smile. For some reason, facial hair didn't grow once you became part of the collection. John is just reminiscing; he will buy some nice aftershave on pretence and splash it on after his evening shower. I feel an ache in my head, my neck throbs. A Taker is nearby.

"We must talk." I hear the voice as much as I feel the cold presence. The others in the line don't notice.

"You told the town," I say, stepping up to the checkout and putting down my food. The checkout girl stares at me.

"We had a coming together." He steps in front of me, his eyes black pools glistening under the fluorescent lights. "They want you to abort this child."

"No!" I stare hard into his face; Delaware the ever youthful ancient.

"I tasted the difference, Helen. The others and I do not know what will come, what danger it will bring on us."

I could see the darkness beneath his skin. The Takers have never shown anything other than a calm hunger.

"I am not giving up this child..."

"It might kill you!" Delaware snaps.

"Then it is my risk to take."

"Without our data taking you will die." His voice is firm in the threat.

"Then I will die!" I take out my purse, fold my arms and wait for the checkout girl to tally up my bill.

Delaware nods once and gently touches me on the elbow. "I also tasted your stubbornness, Helen," he says softly. "I will come by your home before dawn and feed off the data you and John have, and we can discuss this further..."

"The child will be born!" I knew I said it too loud, too hard but I wasn't going to change my mind. I shrug off his hand and look away from his too-perfect face.

"I understand," he says. "I will be coming to talk about what we can do to help you with this pregnancy."

Looking into those eyes, I couldn't be sure of what I was hearing.

"The others have agreed with me that you would not give up the child easily." Delaware smiles, "We respect John, and we feel that perhaps it is time to allow such a thing to happen."

"You will let me have the baby?"

"We will let you remain pregnant. If at any time we feel your life or ours is under threat then we will act," Delaware says, keeping his voice low, but the tone serious.

"I..."

"Let us do this day by day, Helen," he bows slightly. "It is a start."

"But you asked me to terminate." I rub my brow; it is wet.

"I don't agree with what you are doing, but I will help you." He sighs, an unusual thing to see in a Taker. "I had to ask you again about termination." His smile of resignation touches my heart. "You simply confirmed my belief."

"Now what?" I ask, still feeling tension tightening my stomach. I was prepared for a fight and still had the anxiety to go with it; I find that I've been gritting my teeth and my jaw aches.

"We plan to set up a simpler data regime for you, fewer collections and more data-flow to help with foetus demands on your body. You should be able to go longer between feeds."

The relief is palpable as I feel my shoulders slump. I close my eyes and relax. I am going to be a mother after all.

"What's wrong?" John asks touching me on the back. I open my eyes to see his big friendly face; the checkout girl looks annoyed at my holding up the queue. The pain in the back of my neck has gone.

"We can have the baby," I say softly.

John steps past me to pay for the groceries. "How do you know that?" He hands over the money, and the girl quickly packs the shopping bags. I wait until we are outside in the cool of the evening before telling John anything else.

"Delaware just told me while I was waiting in line," as I say it I see John's frown deepen. "You did see him talking to me, didn't you?" He shakes his head. The Takers do that, talk to you in your head; make it feel so real that you would swear they were standing beside you.

"Must have been mind-speak," John says heading up the road towards home. I stay beside him, carrying a small shopping bag in each hand. "I hate it when they do that stuff," he says, annoyed rather than angry. "It's unnerving." John breathes heavily, misting the air in front of his face. "What did he say, anyway?"

John puts the cup of coffee on the arm of the chair and kneels beside me. Now in my last trimester, getting around without help is difficult. The baby is going to be huge, at least 13lbs and I wasn't looking forward to the birth. I am not a big woman.

"How are you feeling?" John's face has grown more lined over the last eight months.

"It still hurts, but with the weight off my legs the pain's bearable." I touch his face hoping my smile expresses the deep love I have for him. "Just have to watch channel eight's children's hour and then I can rest."

"Delaware's coming tonight," John says. "I'm going to put out that new shirt you made for him."

"Thanks, honey, that will be perfect." I sip the warm coffee, allowing its bitterness to match the throbbing in my back and down my legs. Delaware said he could ease the pressure on the sciatic nerve, but it might limit my walking ability even further. I already feel like a melon on shaky stalks. I will put up with the ache.

John holds up the yellow shirt. I'd made it for a day when I couldn't sleep. I'd drawn the blinds tightly shut and managed to suffer the weak sunlight leaking into the house. I used yellow silk; I hope he likes the material's feel against his skin. For me, it is a thank you gift for all his help and encouragement, though over the last few weeks he's been edgy, nervous to the point of being rough during feeding. I believe he is just as anxious as I am about the coming baby. I smile. It is like having two expectant fathers.

John opens the front door, the shirt on a hanger in his hand.

"Delaware!" John sounds shocked.

I turn to see Delaware step into the house; his face is slick with black Data-flow, his clothes torn and stained.

"What happened?" I ask, trying but failing to stand.

"I am infected," he says falling into one of the armchairs nearby. "I am losing control of the hunger. I can't control the data, the effects – the flow."

John is quick to get beside me, then steps between Delaware and me.

"What do you mean infected?" I ask around John's legs.

"Your child, the Data-flow, it has all changed; it has begun to change me..." He drops his face into his hands. "I am becoming something the Takers cannot understand." He looks up; his amber eyes are shot red, what was once the colour of our blood. "I am dangerous. I feel the need to kill."

"You will not harm Helen," John says, touching my hair.

"I am here to warn you," he grasps, claws at the remains of his stained yellow shirt. "I'm drawn to Helen, drawn to the throbbing of the life within her. I can no longer be trusted..." He breaks off, shaking his head as though thinking is painful. "You must flee..."

"What is wrong with my baby?" I ask. "Delaware! What is going to happen with my child?"

"I fear it will be what I am slowly becoming." Delaware tries to stand but drops back into the chair resigned, defeated.

"And what is that?" John says.

I can see the muscles in his back through his light shirt. He clenches his fists.

"A killer; one who devours a human's entire data core, drains the life from their filament." Delaware lets his head fall back; his red eyes gaze up at the ceiling. I smell the odour of meat upon him.

"In time, soon I feel, I will poison others with my data-flow; corrupt them." He cringes as if in pain. "The Takers are afraid. They have called for termination."

"No!" John turns and helps me up. "You can't kill my child; it will be born soon."

I can feel tears on my face.

Delaware laughs. It gurgles in his throat and explodes outwards with a spray of black droplets. "From what I feel within me, you are dead already."

"What can we do?" I ask, this time finding the strength to stand by myself, releasing John's grip on my arm.

"Kill me and then hope that the others will leave you alone. You must run, Helen." He sits forward. I can see his fingers dripping with Data-flow.

"We can't kill a Taker," John says. "We don't know how."

"You need to sever my life cord, disconnect it from my brain." He exposes his neck with dramatic effect; a line appears to be pumping just below his ear. "Unlike humans, our life is contained in this cord, not our bodies. You sever it, I die."

John looks at me. I can see the fear in his face, the doubt in his eyes.

"We don't have the pointed teeth..."

"You cannot do it the same way we feed on you," Delaware growls. "We are not human, Helen, we do not die in the way you understand." Delaware hands John a cloth wrapped item. "It is a relic from the old ways."

Once the yellow fabric slid clear, I can see a ring of seven sharp looking five-inch blades. John holds the weapon by its smooth metal grip. The grip glows amber.

"When you plunge the ubnel-blades my life will discharge," Delaware says. "You must do this, John, the shock might kill the baby if Helen tries."

John moves towards Delaware, the strange weapon held ready to plunge, but I can see his hand is shaking, can almost feel his mind fighting the order to kill.

"It will hurt..." Delaware cries. "I will scream, but don't pull it out, push it in as far as it will go then twist the blades and they will cut off my life." Delaware is thrown back into the chair by an invisible force. "Hurry," he gasps.

John can't do it. Delaware writhes in the chair, his eyes wild, his mouth contorted; his pointed teeth are bare and black.

"Please..." Delaware begs softly then convulses.

"John, do it," I say, touching the hand holding the strange knife. "He is in pain."

"I can't," he says, lowering his hand to his side. "I can't kill like this."

"Then I will kill you!" Delaware bellows, throwing himself from the seat towards us. John drops the knife and tackles him to the floor. I fall to my knees. Pain shoots up my back.

"Run!" John screams as Delaware's fingernails rip open his shirt.

I find the knife beneath the chair. I pick it up. The handle is cold, the weapon heavy.

"Run!" John cries as Delaware slashes his face. Data-flow sprays me. He is killing my husband.

"No!" I dive at them.

Delaware falls to his side, gagging. The strange knife sticks from his neck and Data-flow gushes up over the knife's glowing handle. I've stabbed him. It was an accident.

"Oh, God," I say. "I've killed him!"

John scrambles to his knees and draws me close, pulls me in tight to his chest.

"It's over," he says, kissing my forehead.

"Twist," Delaware gurgles as his hands claw at his throat.

John holds me tighter, but I know what I have to do. "Let me," I say. John shakes his head, but I stare into him. He releases me, and I crawl to Delaware's side.

"Sor...ry," he manages to say. I can see he is fighting the urge to lash out at me.

"Forgive me, Delaware," I say then twist the blade. He screams.

Pain.

The pain fills me, crushes me. The scream goes on. I cry. My mind aches with visions of the night. I hear John breathing, whispering.

I am in John's arms. I can see Delaware limp beside the chair, Data-flow everywhere. I try to breathe. Pain. My chest, my back, my head.

The baby kicks.

Pain.

"Helen." John's smooth voice, "We must go, Helen," I hear him say, but I can't escape the screaming, the pain. He lifts me.

The pain grows, explodes through my back, through the node.

"Helen..."

I close my eyes to the flashes of yellow.

I feel sick. Data-flow stains my hands, my clothes and pain still throbs through my body. The baby kicks, again. We are both alive. John stands by the barn door, watching. He must have carried me through the night. I don't remember walking; I don't remember arriving in this place. The cold is leaving me, and I need to pee.

"John?" He turns and looks at me. By the light coming through the edges of the door, it is daytime. Few, if anyone, will pursue us under the burning sun. John leaves the door, slowly walks to me and sits on the straw at my side. I see his face, scratched, his shirt torn and his chest bleeding. Fresh Data-flow bubbles to the surface.

"You're hurt," I say, feeling stupid for stating the obvious.

"Not bad," he says, touching my large belly. "More importantly, how are you?" He looks tired, ready to collapse.

"The baby is kicking, my back hurts, and I need to pee."

"I take that as a good sign," he laughs. "You can go in that stall in the corner." He points. It looks dark, but I need to go.

The relief on my bladder is sweet, and the pain is decreasing somewhat. I can't get Delaware's scream out of my head. His face, contorted with rage and pain, dances before me in the darkened corner of the barn.

"We need to work out what to do when it becomes time for relief from the data," John says.

I wipe myself with some straw. We will die without the Takers. "We have to go back?" I say, fearing for my baby.

"I don't know, honey," John says. I see him stand, stretching. "I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"They came this way." I hear the voice on the other side of the wall.

I move toward John, but he too has heard and met me in front of the stall. With his hand in my back, he steers me to a hatch at the rear of the barn. He puts his finger to my lips then carefully opens the small door. It creaks. My heart stops. I'm holding my breath.

"You try the house; I'll check the barn." The voices are now at the front of the barn. I don't recognise them.

John steps out into the sunlight. I see him cringe and try to shield his eyes. He pulls me out throwing a blanket over me. The darkness is welcoming, but the smell is awful.

He leads me slowly, all I can see is the ground, I try not to stumble, it is difficult. The field is covered with sticks and uneven. John pulls me along, moving faster. The land becomes hillier, and he slows. The sun must be awful for him. I can hear his gasping and moans. My baby stirs. My back aches. I need rest but dare not say anything lest someone hears me. John's grip on my arm is weakening. He stumbles, and I fall on top of him. Quickly I cover him with the blanket. We lay together breathing hard, not speaking; finding relief in the safety of darkness.

"There is a ditch a few yards away," John says. His voice strains. "Crawl this way." He lifts the blanket and briefly shows the way. The sun is bright; it hurts my eyes.

"Not without you," I say.

"No choice, love."

He hugs me. I cry. I don't want him to leave me.

"We can escape together, hide out until dark," I offer.

"There isn't time. I am dying, Helen."

"No! You need rest. We can rest in the ditch, you and me..."

"Helen." His voice is firm. Both of his hands find my face, and he holds on tight. "The sun has done something to me, changed the Data-flow. Helen," he says softly, "please, just this once, do what I ask. Please.". He eases away from me and slides from under the blanket.

"Head to the ditch, hide there until nightfall. I love you, Helen." That is the last I hear from him.

The ground is rough on my knees, but I can't stand, the pain in my back is growing. The smell of the blanket, probably from a horse, no longer bothers me. I fight against panic. I think I'm going in the wrong direction.

"He must have come from this way." I hear the voice. My heart stops. _They've found John_. "You follow the path back to the house. I'll search through the trees."

I have to move.

Crawling as fast as I can manage, letting the sticks and small stones rip at my hands and knees, I head in the direction John has told me. I hear running feet. I have to find the ditch.

The sun burns for a few seconds as I roll and bump against something hard. When I come to rest, I find myself in water, mud. I edge toward the side of the ditch, feeling my way. I press myself into the bank making sure the blanket covers me in complete darkness. The baby kicks and I stifle a cry.

"Not now, not now," I whisper as I rub my bulging tummy. A gush escapes between my legs. I bite my lip. The pressure builds. "Not now!"

Again the pain, harder, stronger. I want to push.

"Over here," I hear the call.

I scream.

The bed is soft, warm and I snuggle into the pillow, feeling its crispness, its coolness against my face. Where am I? I open my eyes to stare at a blank wall. I am in a half-lit room. I can't move, can't breathe. Carefully I slide my right hand to my stomach. I find it bandaged and tender. _My baby? They've removed my baby_.

"I know you are awake, Helen," a male says. "You have been live-linked into your bed; the monitor tells us everything."

Turning was painful and difficult, but no one comes forward to help. Once on my back and the dull illumination of the ceiling settles into view, I dare to turn my head entirely to the right.

"Where's my baby? What have you done with John?" I can barely whisper my anger.

"John has died," the shadowed man says. The shadows hide his face, his colours.

"You killed him," I say, needing water to ease my throat.

"The sun killed him, Helen. We found him too late, we almost found you too late." The man stands but remains hidden. "You would have died without the Takers."

"My baby, what have you done?"

"Isaac is well."

"Isaac?" I want to yell, only my stomach hurts. "Who called him Isaac!?" Now I was angry.

"That is what he has named himself." He steps from the shadows, a broad smile on his face, his razor teeth gleaming white.

"Delaware!"

"Hello, Helen," he says as he sits on the edge of the bed beside me. I want to move away but can't. "You saved my existence by chance, and I am now returning that favour."

"What is happening?" I cry. "I don't understand. Where is my baby, what have you done to him?" Delaware grips my hand, his touch cold but firm. I want to cry for John. I'm confused and frustrated.

"Your pregnancy changed the Data-flow in you, the foetus altered the information pathways in your node filament and in doing so altered the Data-flow I collected and processed." He pulls back his hair and displays a circular tattoo on his neck. The place where I plunged the knife.

"But I killed you," I say, "I saw you die."

"We cannot die in the manner of humans," he says letting his hair fall over the tattoo. "Where I thought I was to die your actions released me from one existence into another. As I have said, by chance, you have created a new beginning for the Takers."

"I want to see my baby," I ask. "Is he alright, is he human?" The fear of my child being malformed rises quickly in me. "Is my baby alright?" I grip Delaware's hand.

"Isaac is fine, though not quite what you would call human."

"What do you mean? Oh, God! Oh, God..."

"Helen," Delaware says with a short tug on my arm. "He is fine. He was born with an information node and network already in place; he needs no implants. He is smart, perhaps as knowledgeable as a ten-year-old human boy."

"My baby, oh what has happened to my baby?" I cry.

"Isaac is a baby," Delaware says, "and will still need mothering in much the same ways as a human child." He releases my hand and stands. "But, Helen, he is a Taker in a sense, one of us."

"Will I be allowed to keep him?" I want to see my child.

"Yes, but you will be taken from the town and transported to our ship in the orbit of Venus. There you and Isaac will be protected and studied."

"Studied!" I feel anger. "I don't want to be studied; I don't want my child to be a lab rat!"

"It is for your protection. The Takers here in town feel you and Isaac should die." He bowed his head. "They think that I have already terminated John."

I stare at him, and I can see now that this is not the same Delaware I had known. He is different in his manner, less formal stance and movement.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, fighting against the pain to sit slightly in my bed. Delaware stacks a few pillows behind my back.

"The pregnancy altered the Data-flow and thus me. I no longer need to feed to absorb information, Helen. Do you know what this means to my race?"

"Can I see my baby, now, please?"

"Soon, soon," Delaware says, sounding annoyed. "Your son, Isaac has given us hope, a hope we never dreamed of before, Helen." He says my name with reverence.

"You're scaring me, Delaware," I say.

"I have survived the contamination of new life." He stands straighter, with pride. "I am now unique amongst my kind, and it will be Isaac who will, in the end, allow us to live independent of another life form."

"What are you going to do with my child?" I am frightened. I can't jump from my bed. I can't rescue my baby.

"Nothing," he says. I relax; I see the resignation on his face. "We will do some tests of course, but other than that, nothing. He is precious. Precious to us both."

"And me?" I ask. "What is to happen with me?"

"We still have some tests to do on you, but you haven't changed as I have and so will need to remain in the data collection program," he says plainly. "But you will be with your son through his life, though it will not be here. I have no say with my people on this, and those in town do not know what has happened to me. To them, I am still just Delaware."

I wanted to see my child. Delaware looks at me briefly and nods once, it appears some agreement has arisen between us, but I still don't understand.

A nurse walks into the room wheeling a clear plastic crib, the lights of its network terminal illuminating the darkened surroundings. There is a lump in my throat as I press my fingertips to my mouth. I am shaking.

"Your son, Helen." Delaware waits for the nurse to leave before saying more. "He is more like us than you may wish, but he is your son nonetheless."

I think of John and cannot hold back the tears.

"The women in town will be permitted to have children, now," Delaware says, "And in time you and I will guide them along this new path." He patted my foot then quietly left the room.

I look into the crib. The baby is all pink, wrapped tightly in his hospital blanket of blue bunnies. He is asleep. He is beautiful. I reach down and stroke his cheek, feeling the silkiness of his skin. He has John's nose and lips.

My head begins to ache, and I rub at the pain in my neck. I am startled to see a toddler with dark hair and darker eyes sitting on the end of my bed. The child smiles with pointed teeth. "Hello, Mommy. I'm Isaac."
The Story of Mynheer Reinaerde and the Purloined Tails

Tais Teng & Jaap Boekestein (Netherlands)

You shall hear nothing, you shall see nothing, you shall think nothing, you shall be nothing but Svengali, Svengali, Svengali...

: Svengali the Grand Mesmerist

The ocean city formed a welcome respite. Mynheer Reinaerde had been traveling for a while, or perhaps fleeing was a more accurate description? Not all of his victims liked his jokes and some had very long memories, being as immortal as the fox himself.

He had finally washed up on the West shore of the New World, in a settlement named after the holy Franciscus. The saint had been a lover of animals. Being one of those Reinaerde considered that a favorable sign. And there was much talk of gold and silver in the bars and boarding houses.

Now Reinaerde had always liked the gleam of precious metals. Not that he intended to do any digging himself! That was what the Lord God had made fools and mooncalves for.

He had been in San Francisco for a few weeks and Lady Luck, his old paramour, had smiled on him. He carried nuggets in his pockets, had met quite a few interesting characters and every day the ships brought a fresh load of gullible greenhorns.

Checking out potential marks in the mirror hanging above the bar of Red Mike's Saloon, he first failed to notice the young woman who quiet as a ghost had appeared next to his table.

"This seat? Is it taken?" The voice was dulcet, sweet as honey, and Reinaerde instantly rose, doffed his hat and pulled the chair out to seat the lady.

She had the beautiful exotic eyes of an Asian, hair black and glossy as liquid gilt. Over her red and black corset she wore a velvet frock coat with golden buttons and a stiff collar. A dress or even skirts seemed to be missing.

"Ah, a gentleman," she cooed with her rose red lips. "Those are in short supply here."

"Good day to you, Miss. My name is Reinaerde. I am a card sharp and a snake oil peddler if the bumpkins are too rustic or religious to understand cards. You want to drink something?"

"Well, a mint julep would go down easy, Reinaerde. My name is Kitty. Kitty Sun."

_Kitsune_. The Japanese word for "ghost fox", but no, it must be coincidence. She didn't have a tail, not even an invisible one and she couldn't hide it in her trousers like he did. Her ivory knickers just didn't leave enough room and her legs were bare, except for the gold stitched stockings and red satin garter belts.

He peered closer: the embroidery on the stockings showed a fox, clad in a great-coat and leaning on a stick. _A woman of the most exacting taste_. Reinaerde stroked his whiskers... no, mustache.

When their drinks arrived Reinaerde placed his hand on her knee, something she didn't object to.

"Well," Kitty said, after nipping from her pewter cup, "They have rooms here. We can go upstairs?"

Reinaerde reached for his purse and put a nugget on the table.

"Exactly right, Reinaerde-san," Kitty smiled.

Reinaerde had been around long enough to know that delay only enhanced pleasure. He hung his hat and coat on the chair and loosened his vest button by button. Only then he sat down on the creaking bed to watch Kitty undress.

The lady in question didn't seem to mind. She turned her back on Reinaerde and looking over her shoulder she let her frock coat drop on the floor.

_No, definitely no tail_ , Reinaerde concluded. _But such a fine peach!_

"Hebban olla vogala nestas hagunnan hinase hic anda thu?" he whispered, licking his lips. O, he would build such a nice little nest with this sweet bird!

"What do you say, dear Reinaerde?" Kitty Sun asked.

"No, some poem from long ago. Lay on, fair lady! I bid you." He kicked off his muddy boots and flung his shirt and trousers aside.

"My turn again!" Kitty's corset and knickers followed the coat. She turned around - such perky breasts and a sweet shaven crinkum crankum! - but suddenly she stopped, frowning.

"You don't like me," she pouted.

Reinaerde looked down. But he did! The bulge in his flannel union suit couldn't be mistaken. What was she talking about? He wasn't built like the Minotaur, but he _never_ had heard any complaints from the ladies!

Kitty inspected him, clearly perplexed. "Where is your chi? Every man should oozing life force by now..." Her eyes grew big. "Ah, of course! You aren't human!"

She stepped forward, smelled him and suddenly grinned, and for a moment her teeth looked just that tiny bit too sharp. "You are a fox!"

_Kitty Sun_. He had been right after all. "Just like you."

The fox woman shook her head. "No, you are nothing like me. You must be an ancient totem animal, like Coyote, like Thunderbird. From the time all animals still could talk and the rocks made jokes and giggled. Yes,yes! One of the immortals. They can kill you, but the moment a grandmother tells one of your stories you are resurrected."

Now it was Reinaerde's turn to shake his head. "It won't be me. Not exactly. And being killed, it always hurts like hell."

Kitty Sun sat down next him, excited as a debutante at her first ball. She kept touching him, sniffing him. "Well, me and my, sisters, are different. When we die we stay dead. Still, when a man jets his juice, there comes an explosion of chi, of pure life-force. We drink that and it keeps us young. No, it keeps us alive. We need it! Worse than a vampire needs blood."

"I am sorry I can't oblige you, fair vixen," Reinaerde said. "But I think I will be able to satisfy you in the more traditional way." _Which I paid you for_ , he thought but didn't say aloud. Only boring rantallions and shopkeepers talked about money at such an importune moment.

Kitty Sun avoided his reaching fingers and jumped up from the bed. "I finally caught one of the First! I must tell my sisters." She ran into the hallway and yelped, which made all Reinaerde's hairs stand up.

It didn't take long for two other fox women to show up.

"This is Middle Sister, Ina Rokami," Kitty Sun beamed. "Reinaerde here is the First Fox, as elemental as you get. And Reinaerde, meet my youngest sister, Tammy Nomea."

"Enchanted," Reinaerde said, brushing his whiskers. Kitty Sun's two sisters were just as lovely as their sibling. Ina had brown eyes as warm and lustrous as amber and wore the colorful feathers of a quetzal in her piled up hair. A very high split in her kimono showed a shapely leg covered with a black stocking. An embroidered raven was hugging that leg.

Tammy was the smaller of the three. On her stockings an animal showed that was neither fox nor wolf, but that New World mongrel they called a _coyote_. She wore a hussar jacket, and a cavalry kepi, tilted nonchalant over one ear. A blood coral bud adored her cute little nose.

"So you're Reinaerde. A trickster from the homeland of the pale humans," Tammy said. Her slender hand touched his flannel underwear, right _there_ , and Reinaerde felt his foxhood jump to attention.

"And such an exceedingly _handsome_ fox, too," Ina said. She sat on her knees behind Reinaerde, and her hands slipped from his shoulders into his shirt. Lacquered nails tickled his nipples.

"Hey, he is mine!" Kitty said. She bowed forward and kissed Reinaerde on the mouth. Tongue found tongue.

Reinaerde fell back, in the arms of Ina, with Kitty on him and with Tammy at his side.

"There..." Reinaerde swallowed to wet his dry mouth, "There is enough for everyone ladies!"

"O yes!" Kitty purred.

Ina barked and Tammy giggled.

How do foxes mate? Quite passionate and with lots and lots of yelps, and yips and barking.

How do four foxes mate? So loud and passionate it would give a satyr pause.

Ina bit his ear, while Kitty was kissing him and Tammy ran her nails across his back. Reinaerde felt hot blood trickle down his throat, but he didn't care. Ina's rough tongue followed the trail.

He... She... They.... Dear Lord God! Not even Diana of the Hundred Breasts had...

The bed shook and protested. Tammy had her long fox snout around his holy poker and did things with her tongue no human could match.

On and on the orgy went. Reinaerde drowned in a sea of lust and warm bodies, but he drowned happily.

Finally they were all satisfied. Panting and with tongue hanging from his mouth, Reinaerde stroked the three fox girls. "My compliments, ladies," he finally managed to say.

"Our pleasure," Kitty said. "Our hero deserves our devotion."

_Our hero_. He sat up. "You want something from me. He was neither surprised or angry. Nothing was free, not in life, not in magic and certainly not in sex.

Kitty's fingers danced over Reinaerde's chest. "We need a little favor. We are in a kind of a situation and you can help us to regain our freedom."

By now Reinaerde's thoughts ran clear as spring water. He made the jump. Foxes need only half a paw print, only the slightest scent, to find their prey.

"Your tails. Someone cut your tails off and now you are in his power."

"Yes! A human wizard, a foul mesmerist. His name is Svengali and he stole our tails. Every time we drink the chi from a human, he gets almost all of it. His brow is bulging with chi by now. So much life force makes him the mightiest sorcerer of San Francisco."

"So you want me to steal your tails back," Reinaerde concluded.

"Do it and you'll gain our unconditional love. Of me and my two sisters."

O, foxes are clever! They seldom miss a thing that is left unsaid. "I am not the first you asked."

"Well, Tammy here seduced old Coyote. He didn't even get past the door. Svengali now uses his hide as a rug in front of the fireplace. And then Ina visited Raven and stroked his feathers..."

"Stop, stop! I get it. Third time lucky." Reinaerde frowned. "Or is it that you are to scraping the bottom of the barrel? After all the best candidates have failed?"

"Of course not," Kitty protested, perhaps a bit too hasty. "No one compares to the mighty Reinaerde."

"Well, I will certainly try," Reinaerde said. Taking a look wouldn't hurt.

Now Reinaerde was a fox of his word, if a bit fickle. He sometimes kept a promise for a whole day.

Walking down the wooden board walk he was as changeable as a cloud shadow. A young dandy with a silk cravat if a pretty lady chanced to look his way, a prosperous, solid citizen, no doubt a banker, if a potential mark hove into view. He instantly switched into his fox shape when a plump passenger pigeon landed in front of him. A leap, jaws snapping and he continued on his way munching the rich meat and spitting out the tail feathers. A matron eyed him with open mouth, raised her umbrella and then hastened away.

The villas, some even made of stone, stood high above the bay, in the foothills. Svengali's residence had its very own hilltop, planted with sycamores and flowering magnolia. The gables rose as ornate as a Schwarzwald cuckoo clock, the windows stained glass.

Reinaerde took the winding garden path and then, assuming his fox-shape, slipped away into the bushes and the concealing shadows. _Be bold, be bold, but not too bold!_ as he had once carved above the gate of his own den Malpertuis.

Reinaerde clacked his tongue. _A wooden wedding cake, that house, fit only for a peacock._ As a fox he preferred a plain and simple domicile, with a dozen boltholes and secret exits.

The front door looked formidable, a solid slab of mahogany, with a bronze knocker set in the middle. It had the face of some foreign demon, with rolling eyes and the upturned tusks of a wild boar. He sniffed: there was the oily stink of magic.

Right. Better keep to the shadows. And don't change into a human yet: those eyes look kind of alive. Yes, they moved. They are following me but a fox slinking through the garden is no cause for alarm. Svengali probably doesn't keep chickens.

_That window. It must be one of those new-fangled ones with a hidden counter-weight that could slide all the way up_. Magic wafted outside: no doubt the sorcerer's working-room.

He brushed past a stand of plumed grass, that grew almost man high and cursed. A dozen hooked ears clung to his fur and would be hard to remove. _Later. A simple change into a gold-digger and they will cling to my linen coat and not to my fur_. He frowned. Hadn't he told his friend Samuel a story about those annoying plumes last week? Completely made up of course.

From Mark Twain's notebook:

My new friend Reinaerde the card sharp likes to tell tales, quite interesting fables from the Old Country. He is a regular Aesop and no doubt he makes them up right then and there. This is one of them:

Now Fox, he didn't like dogs. He didn't like dogs at all. They barked at him, tried to bite his tail while all he wanted was nice plump chicken or some fresh eggs.

So when he met a mangy street dog he decided to play a trick on him.

"Good day to you, sir Dog," Fox said. "What happened to your glossy coat? You are almost hairless! As bare as a barber's bottom for sooth!"

"My master beats me with his whip and walking stick," the dog complained. "He calls me a worthless cur, a good for nothing. Such misery! It made all my hair fall out!"

Reinaerde commiserated and then he said. "He doesn't respect you because you don't have glossy coat like me. Now your master, he wouldn't whip a grizzly or a wolverine?" Reinaerde pointed to a weed. "You see those plumes? That grass is as hairy and fluffy as the very best pelt. Now listen, it is magic plant. Eat it and it will grow out through your skin, giving you a pelt that even a mink would envy."

The dog gulped one of those waving plumes, forcing the hairy thing down. The little hooks at the end of each stem caught in his throat and he started to cough, gasped for breath, pawed his snout. A moment later his eyes rolled up and he was dead.

"Good," Reinaerde laughed, "that is one down and ten million to go!"

The front door of the house opened and Reinaerde froze, became part of the deepest shadows.

"Have a good day, master!" the doorknocker chimed with a metallic voice.

"Hah!" the sorcerer replied. "All Svengali's days are good days because the world is his fat and fabulous oyster! Soon Svengali will go to London himself! Where he will be all alone on a platform. And Princesses. And Countesses. And serene Highnesses will fling him their jewels, and applaud, and invite him to their palaces."

"I don't doubt that for a moment, master."

_Good_! Reinaerde thought. _A braggart, a gas bag. Those are the easiest to swindle._

But then Svengali's gaze swept across him and Reinaerde stiffened. Such power in those eyes! A gaze so luminous it was like looking right into the beam of a lighthouse. And the brow, it was bulging with chi, pure life force.

No, Svengali might be a braggart but he had something to brag about. It was like some emperor declaiming "I am the emperor! I rule this whole country!" No one could gainsay him because he was and did.

Reinaerde waited until he heard the garden gate slam before he ran down and started to follow him.

Svengali sported a jutting goatee, black as tar, a coat with a lining of red satin. His walking stick ended in a copper ram's head. A sword stick, no doubt, with the thin blade enchanted to cut through literally anything, be it flesh or metal.

The sorcerer halted at a food stall, pointed to a sizzling sausage. "That one for Svengali, boy. And put on a generous dollop of mustard. And yes, one of those delectable buns."

"Please show me the color of your money first," the tow-haired boy said. "You look mighty fine, but those are the worst jackanapes. Run away with without paying and laughing like a woodpecker."

The sorcerer stiffened, then stepped closer, his swollen head swaying at the end of his thin neck like a cobra's. "Svengali doesn't like to be called a jackanape by the likes of you. And he never laughs. Look me in the eyes, boy. Yes, yes. Now hand Svengali the sausage. No doubt you'll want to push the empty skewer in your left eye afterward. Push it down deep, right into your brain."

Now Reinaerde had played some mean tricks himself, but this was different. When the boy fell down, the point of the skewer emerging from the back of his head, the sorcerer didn't even chuckle. He munched the sausage and never looked back.

Perhaps I'd better think a bit more before I burgle his empty house. No doubt he left wards and hexes all over.

Reinaerde turned around, took the first side street, the another. He didn't exactly run but it came close. And coincidentally every step took him further from the wizard's house.

Well, I tried. I certainly did my best but this ogre is just a bit too much. I am no hero and certainly not a gallant prince, no matter how beautiful and worthy my damsels in distress are. I'm sorry nimble Tammy, playful Ina and seductive Kitty, you will have to find another fool to free you. You have been a delightful repose, but the world is full of pretty faces and welcoming arms.

What was the best way to shake off the memory of three lovely ladies - and your obligation to them? To bed at least three other lovely ladies, of course! But this time they would be human.

_Definitely human_ , Reinaerde thought. They were much more straightforward and seldom meddled with magic, spirits or bad-tempered wizards.

In the booming town of San Francisco one didn't need to search long to find a brothel, but Reinaerde passed several known houses before he stopped at a mansion-like construction. The El Dorado was a parlor house, catering only to wealthier clientele.

"Welcome back, Mr. Reinaerde," said the colored servant at the door, nimbly catching the silver dollar the fox flipped him. "The girls will be delighted to receive you."

"I am sure they will." From Reinaerde lips that didn't sound arrogant at all..

"This never happened to me before!" Reinaerde cried, feeling his ears burn. He wasn't lying, he had never before failed to rise to the occasion. His member was asleep and didn't have the faintest intention to wake up, no matter what his soft voiced odalisque tried.

Natascha was a perfectly beautiful Russian snow queen with light gray eyes and a veritable waterfall of platinum curls. "It doesn't matter, Tovaritch Reinaerde. You must be tired, or you drank too much last night. It happens to the best."

Never to me!

"Maybe you want another girl, yes? Or two girls at the same time?"

"I... Let's try that."

The second girl didn't help and neither did a third girl.

Reinaerde dressed hastily and left even quicker. He, the Sly and Lecherous Reinaerde unable to perform! Shame made his tail droop.

Shambling down the winding hill road, he suddenly perked up. It was unthinkable, impossible that he had lost his vigor. And if something that is impossible still occurs, to quote the Great Detective Vidoq, magic is the only explanation left.

Never trust a fox! No matter the gender. Those bitches had him by the _cojones_. Literally and magically.

Mark Twain, the writer chap, sat at his usual table in Red Mike's Saloon, the blueprints of his impossible machine spread before him. A way to mechanically typeset a page, he had told Reinaerde. The fox had never told him that it had been tried before. Reinaerde's good friend Hero, the inventor of the steam-machine put one together, some time after they nailed that troublesome chap to the cross. The day after the first rolls of printed papyrus emerged angry scribes invaded his workshop and broke every single clever cog-wheel.

Mark Twain looked up. "You look like you lost your own silver mine."

"Worse, far worse!" Reinaerde threw up his hands. "My mighty tree, my arbor vitae, has been chopped down by three most vicious vixens! They broke my plunging sword, my plum-tree shaker and I have no other!"

"That can happen to any man. I myself...."

"No, no! Never with me. Not in the seven thousand years the bards sang about me. Reinaerde the Clever! The fox that can plug any honey pot and never falters."

"But three vixens you said? Where are those paragons of lust that they even made your mast droop?"

"Well, right here!" Kitty laughed. The three kitsunes walked up to Mark Twain's table, fully dressed. Well, as fully dressed as they would ever be.

Her youngest sister, Tammy, sat down on Mark Twain's lap, rubbed her cheek against his. "Are you married, manly man?" She didn't wait for his answer. "No matter! The things I can teach you will surprise and delight her!"

Ina just smiled at Reinaerde. "Don't be cross, my love. We just made sure you are... well, motivated to keep your part of the deal. Aren't you happy to see us?"

Reinaerde's bad mood dissolved as quickly as the virtue of a Canterbury nun. Who could be cross at such lovely damsels full of treachery and treason?

He called a waiter. "Drinks for everyone."

Mark Twain's notebook:

It is said that I have a way with the ladies, but these girls were something different: truly high-class. A man more meek would have considered them out of his league. It helped that one of her stockings were embroidered with a rather nice rendering of a riverboat: clearly we were soulmates.

"I read all of your books," the delightful Tammy said. "'Roughing it', 'Huckleberry Finn', 'Innocents abroad'. O, I know you haven't written them yet, but getting advance copies is one of the perks of being supernatural."

And only then I saw them for what they were in truth. Not a card sharp and three splendid ladies of the night: there was a vixen curled up in my lap and three other foxes sitting at the table, lifting mugs of beer in their paws.

"Well," Tammy said and turned to my friend Reinaerde. "No doubt you tried to get into the house of the sorcerer but I don't see any of our missing tails." She showed him a vial half filled with scintillating slime. "When you came I got your seed."

"I tongued you and saved your spittle," Kitty announced.

A giggle from Ina. "I bit your earlobe and bit it hard. Guess what I collected then?"

Reinaerde's shoulders slumped. "Spit and blood and seed. So easy to lay a spell then on your victim."

"You aren't our victim," Kitty protested and her eyes glowed with admiration. "You are our paladin! Our hero and savior. You just needed some discreet reminder."

I sat up. "Count me in, fair ladies! You mentioned tails and a sorcerer?"

The only true fool is a man who never does anything foolish.

Who was he going to be? Kitty? Ina? Tammy? Finally Reinaerde decided on Kitty. She was the eldest, the leader. And she had hooked and drawn him in.

Just before he turned the last corner, the fine young gentleman transformed into the luscious Japanese lady.

A toddler watched the transformation with open mouth and Reinaerde winked at him.

"Jack!" a woman called out from one of the houses. "Jack, where are you?"

"Ma! Mama! Lookatit! That woman is a man!"

A spectacled woman appeared in the doorway, gazed at Reinaerde.

"A good day to you, Mrs. London," Reinaerde said with his Kitty-voice and smile, lifting the name from the top of her mind.

The woman recoiled and made a sign to ward off evil. "Fox! Retro me, Vulpis!"

Reinaerde shrugged. A few humans had some slight talent for magic. No doubt the woman spent her spare time channeling spirits and talking with the voices of the dearly departed. Still, she had guessed at least one of his true names.

He turned the corner and strode up to Svengali's cuckoo clock house.

"Let me in," he said to the door knocker. "You know me."

"I am a door knocker, not a bowing servant, jumping up to open the door for any trollop. If you want to get in, use me as such."

If I touch him, he might detect I am not female at all.

Reinaerde stuck out his tongue. "You only want to me to feel you up, eh? What is the use of knocking when there is no one at home? Open up, or Svengali will hear of this. Let's see how you like life as a spittoon or a boot scraper."

"Don't be so high and mighty. I'm just doing my duty, you know. A smidgen of kindness every now and then would be appreciated."

"I'm a fox. And a kindly fox? One could as well speak of an honest magpie or a celibate minx. And now open up before I lift my chemise and piss on you!"

Reinaerde walked in, wiggling his derriere and slamming the door shut behind him.

He halted in the hallway and stood stock-still, closed his eyes. His pointed ears came up and he heard every creak of the stairs, the pitter-patter of field mice in the wall.

Slowly a map coalesced from all those furtive sounds and secret smells. On the ground floor lay the kitchen and the living room. At the front he sniffed the moldering copper smell of magic and hair tonic: Svengali's study and the adjoining bedroom. Upstairs the room of the three girls and several guests rooms, each with its own lingering musk. Svengali liked to entertain young ladies, Kitty had told him, and lead them astray.

The study and bedroom were the most logical places to look for the missing tails, but Reinaerde decided to keep those for the last. Sorcerers were secretive: it would be the last place to hide treasure.

During his search Reinaerde had to fight a growing sense of doom. The house felt oppressive, closed in, as if the walls could crush him at any moment.

Reinaerde knew it was general spell, not aimed at him especially, but when he tried to locate it, he found it rooted deep the bedrock. Svengali apparently was tapping into some monstrous force miles below San Francisco.

Reinaerde concentrated: heat so great that rock ran as treacle. The Great and Magnificent Turtle had once told him that all countries were riding on floats of stone, a bit like drifting icebergs but incredible slow. Two of those plates were grinding against each other, hoping for an earthquake.

Not being a mountain-sized troll there was nothing he could do to lift the spell. Grinding his teeth he continued his search of the house.

An hour later Reinaerde had to admit that all the other rooms contained nothing even remotely interesting or worth stealing. No magic necklaces or jeweled monkey skulls. As for the sculptures he found nothing older than a century: Italian baroque mongrelized with gaudy Orientalism and the worst kind of neo Gothic. Take that winged elephant, gilded and with a clock face set in his belly. He shuddered. There were things not meant to be seen by any civilized being.

Svengali's latest conquest used the guestroom with the clavichord and the row of silver trumpets, Kitty had explained. The other two rooms stood empty.

Something was missing, something essential in a room meant for a female. No mirror. Women, and yes, men, needed mirrors like a hangman needs rope. Curious. Thinking back, none of the other rooms had contained a mirror. Well, a morbid fear of mirrors explained the deplorable state of Svengali's straggly beard.

Reinaerde stood in front of the door to Svengali's study. It was a gleaming jigsaw, a puzzle made of pieces of wood from all over the world. Ebony gleamed, iron wood, mahogany and fossil sequoias turned into fire opals. Spells sizzled along the wood grain, circled the year rings. A single touch and he would find himself imprisoned in a tree trunk, like foolish old Merlin.

Reinaerde studied the patterns, traced the ley lines and Saint Elmo's knots. He had played dice with Hermes and spent five years on Circe's island, just before that Greek upstart came along. With enough patience he could undo almost any spell.

It took Reinaerde another half hour to disarm all the hexes and step inside.

Svengali's study was fairly stuffed with knickknacks: silver cherubim pissing water in a red marble basin, a chandelier that must have been pilfered from an opera house, heavy red velvet drapes, a truly _huge_ painting of the Rape of the Sabine Women with Svengali in the lead.

"Hey, brother!" a voice whispered.

Reinaerde looked around. _Where_...?

"Down here!" the rug in front of the fireplace said. "I'm Coyote."

Only Coyote's pelt was left. The pelt and the tail and the head, with his limbs spread in all directions. One of his ears wriggled and his eyes looked imploringly up at Reinaerde.

"And up here!" another voice croaked. "I'm Raven. Was Raven and now a feather duster."

The duster was made of shiny black feathers. In the wooden handle the faint outline of a beak and two bawdy eyes could still be discerned. "Save us, brother! The Manitou will reward you."

"I guess you both met Svengali?"

"Looked him in the eyes," Coyote said. "Biggest mistake of my life."

"That, or trying to impress those fox-sisters," Raven added.

"You can't blame them for our folly, Raven," Coyote said. "We went up here voluntarily."

Reinaerde suppressed a smile. At least the three sisters had had to trick him. For these stooges three cute faces and clever fingers had been enough.

"Talking about those sisters. Do you know where Svengali hid their tails?"

Reinaerde had already scouted the room, darting from object to object. Nothing that even slightly resembled a fox-tail, let alone three. The tail of a kitsune was as long as a man, fluffy and sparking with magic. Objects hard to hide,

"No idea," replied Coyote. "As soon as Svengali enters the room I freeze up. Some kind of immobilization spell. Can't see, hear or smell anything until he has left. But I can feel his filthy boots on my fur, though. How about you, Raven?"

"Same here. Do you know he uses me to dust off his collections of figurines? The humiliation! Me the Great Raven, the Wind-walker, a cleaning tool of little dead women!"

"These?" Reinaerde inspected a collection of female figurines standing on the window sill. The shriveled women were dressed like singers from famous operas. Reinaerde recognized the Queen of Lombardy from Handel's _Rodalinde_ , Rosina from _Il barbiere di Siviglia_. Pamina from Mozart's _Die Zauberflöte_. Svengali owned at least two dozen of these tiny mummies.

"The proteges he has grown weary of. 'Look into my eyes' he says and then they shrink and shrivel, crying out like mice."

The bedroom was next. It yielded a lot of things, but no fox tails. Frustrated Reinaerde walked towards the door.

"Brother, brother!" Coyote howled. "Don't leave us here."

"Have a heart, if you don't free us, croaked Raven, 'we will be here forever!"

"And we can help you in your fight with Svengali. Three are cleverer than one."

Reinaerde scratched his chin. "Swear you that you'll help me fight Svengali, and I will take you with me."

"I so solemnly swear," Coyote said. "By the bones of the First Wolf."

"As do I," Raven added. "Down with Svengali!"

Reinaerde rolled up Coyote and took Raven from its hook.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, though, the collection of opera singers started to shriek. "Alarm! Alarm! A thief in the house! Dear master, come quickly. A thief is robbing you!"

Reinaerde hissed. No doubt Svengali heard the voices of these treacherous diva's, no matter where he was. He had to get out quickly!

The hexed door locked automatically and the heavy drapes started to close all by themselves.

Reinaerde didn't hesitate for a moment. He spurted towards the window and threw himself through the glass. He landed in the garden, right in the prickly weeds he had encountered before. Half running, half falling he took off, still holding the rug and the duster.

The moment they passed the garden gate, Coyote and Raven started to change. One, two, three heartbeats and they had turned into a gray, rather hairy man and a skinny black negro with a hooked nose.

The three tricksters looked at each other.

"Thanks brother," Coyote said. He shook his long gray coat, as if he was shaking of mud and dust from his back.

"It's appreciated," Raven nodded. "Time we went our merry ways and put some distance between that sorcerer and ourselves."

"You are coming with me, dear brothers," Reinaerde said. "I have your oath. You will help me to defeat Svengali and find the tails of those three sisters."

Coyote scowled "You want to hold us to that foolish oath? We thought you were joking."

"Give us a some time to recoup..."

"...and we will look you up."

"Certainly and soon!"

Reinaerde shook his head. "No time like the present. Come with me, brothers. I will buy you a drink and then we will take counsel. There must be a way to defeat Svengali. He is only a man after all. We will put our mind to how to punish Svengali for what he done to you two."

It was either the drinks, the promise of revenge or their binding oath, but finally Coyote and Raven gave in.

"Ma! Ma!" a toddler's voice sounded from the other end of the street. "A rug and a duster turned into men. It's really true, I've seen it with my own two eyes."

"What did I tell you, Jack? Come here! They are only three filthy animals."

"Every time I see you, my friend, you bring in still stranger friends," Mark Twain said laughing. "If you keep this up we can soon start San Francisco's first Zoo."

The seven of them sat around the biggest table of Red Mike's saloon. Tammy and Ina had whooped from joy when the recognized Raven and Coyote.

"O sweet nibbler, I missed you so!"

"Feathered love, I was afraid I would never see you again!"

Reinaerde felt a pang of jealousy when the two girls jumped up and embraced their former lovers.

Kitty distracted him with a quite passionate kiss. "Let them be," she whispered, "We need Raven and Coyote, if only as a distraction. And maybe they have learned something about Svengali we can use. You're our true hero, a fox instead of a failed wolf or a black parakeet."

"Entering Svengali's house isn't a problem" Reinaerde summarized after a few rounds of drinks. "I got in once. I can go in twice. Finding your tails is. He must have put a spell on them and they can look like anything now, from the threads of the carpet in his study to the silver half dollars in his purse."

"Can't we create some device to find those tails?" Mark Twain said. "You know, like one fashions a compass with a needle and a strong magnet?"

Reinaerde frowned. Such an _engineering_ gadget did not exist, but a _magical_ version was very possible. He snapped with his fingers. "Things of the same nature attract each other, that is basic magic. Girls, your tails have hair on them, don't they?"

"Of course," Kitty Sun replied. "We don't shave _there._ But I see what you mean." She pulled a few hairs from her head.

Tammy and Ina followed suit and with the help of a piece of paper, a cork and a needle a magic compass was put together.

"This will lead us to the hair in your tails," Reinaerde said. "And I still think they are hidden in Svengali's house."

At the foot of the hill Renaerde took the makeshift compass from his pouch. The needle rotated and then pointed straight to the wizard's home.

"But once you put one finger on those tails, Svengali will know," Raven pointed out. "He already whammied ous nce with his fierce eyes. I don't know what is worst than a feather duster but Svengali will think of it."

"What if we could blind Svengali?" Tammy said. "Shoot hot coals right in his eyes! Call down the lighting!" She looked at Raven, who sadly shook his head.

"I'm Raven, not the Thunderbird."

"And if you are close enough to that bastard to throw burning coals, you are close enough to be hypnotized," said Coyote. "This I know from sad experience."

"This Svengali sounds kind of like Medusa." Mark Twain commented. "You know, the gal who could turn a man into stone."

"Know her?" Reinaerde said. "I slept with her."

Mark Twain ignored his boast. "But in the end Medusa was slain."

"Well, Perseus had some help from the gods. A mirrored shield from Athena, gold, winged sandals from Hermes, a sword from Hephaestus and Hades' helm of invisibility. We have none of those."

"But these are the modern times!" Mark Twain insisted. "We at least have no shortage of mirrors and I bet they are way better than Athena's."

_Mirrors_. Reinaerde remembered Svengali's house. There hadn't been a single mirror. "He is like Medusa! He can be killed by his own gaze and knows it."

"You must be right," Kitty said. "Svengali just didn't allow mirrors in the house. I never asked why. I thought it was just one of his thousand silly rules. I don't like rules." She opened her bag and showed him a hand mirror. "Take it. I have another."

"Let us storm this bastion!" Mark Twain called out. "We are ready."

Reinaerde looked at the human. "Are you willing to come then? Be warned this is a most dangerous man, my dear friend."

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did. I am in. Wherever you go, I go. One for all, and all for one."

Reinaerde caught Kitty Sun's questioning gaze. He shrugged. Sometimes humans had the strangest notions.

They waited just around the corner. Your normal fox is rather good at waiting, sitting quite still until a rabbit ventures far enough from his warren. Reinaerde wasn't a normal fox: he hissed in frustration while the hours ticked way, rolled his eyes.

Three times he heard the church bells toll before the front door opened. Svengali emerged, followed by a rather plump girl with rosy cheeks and blond curls. She halted, looked up at the overcast sky and warbled an aria, pitch perfect but soulless somehow.

"That is lady Trilby," Kitty whispered. "She couldn't sing any better than a hoarse crow. Until Svengali hypnotized her."

"Crows sing just fine," Raven protested.

The pair walked down the road, turned a corner.

"I'll keep watch," Raven promised and flew away, following them.

"Finally," Reinaerde sighed.

The moment Reinaerde touched the door a wailing arose from the house. The door knocker hissed, bared his teeth, but he was securely fastened and unable to reach them.

"Open the door," Kitty ordered. "You know us."

"The unkind lady." The doorknocker licked his bronze lips. "Don't know the others."

"These are the master's friends."

The door swung open when Kitty reached for the hem of her skirt.

Coyote was the first to enter. "I still know the way to his room. Follow me!"

The incessant wailing set Reinaerde's teeth on edge. He peered at the compass but it proved useless after all. The needle pointed to the left, then to the right, swung around again.

"It searches for foxtails," Mark Twain said looking over Reinaerde's shoulder. He frowned. 'No, no. Not that. For the hair of the three sisters." He turned to Kitty. "Go outside! The needle is only pointing to you and your sisters."

Once again Reinaerde felt the house marshaling its powers, filling the corridors with dread. But this time he wasn't alone: it is much easier to be brave in front of your friends than alone in a haunted house.

He fingered his mirror. It didn't feel like much of a weapon. The needle no longer rotated wildly: it pointed to their goal as steady as a true compass.

Five minutes later they opened the door of Svengali's study. The wailing abruptly ceased and the mummified divas glared at them.

The needle lost its power the moment they stepped inside and Reinaerde understood it wasn't any kind of counter-magic. "We must be too close for the needle to work. Like standing on the North pole." He looked around, peered in the shadows. "It must be near, but hidden, concealed. Kitty said that Svengali boasted he had their tails close at hand, that he could touch them any time..."

"Step back, Reinaerde," Mark Twain ordered. "Stand in the open door,"

"Doesn't work," Reinaerde said. "The needle is still pointing inside."

"No, not to the room. To the window!" Mark Twain gazed at the still glassless window and stiffened. "Poe's Purloined letter. Hiding things in plain sight."

"What do you mean?" Reinaerde asked as the very best straight man.

"Those plumed grasses. Just outside the window where he can touch them at any time. We call them foxtails in America."

"So do we," Reinaerde moaned. " _Vossenstaarten_ in Dutch." He turned into a fox and jumped through the window.

When Mark Twain wriggled through the opening Reinaerde stood on the porch holding three fox tails. Just picking them had dissolved the simple magic that had hidden them. These were real, furry tails.

He turned to the three sisters and held them out. "Your tails for my blood and seed. For my spittle."

"That wouldn't be enough to break the spell, my sweet love," Kitty said. "You'll have bed all three of us."

"I don't consider that much of a hardship," Reinaerde grinned.

"He is coming!" Raven screeched from high up in the sky. "Striding as fast as a wendigo! No, sorry, he isn't coming. He is here."

Raven wheeled and fled. Raven was a trickster, a craven eater of rotting corpses and not interested in fighting and killing at all.

"Yes, Svengali has come." The sorcerer's eyes were like twin polar suns, cold, so bone-shivering cold and it was impossible to avert your gaze. Reinaerde felt his will crumbling, his bones splitting and his blood freezing.

"The Grand Svengali has come to punish three most willful girls and step on the interlopers. Surely, as a boot crushes scuttling cockroaches."

"The mirror!" Mark Twain called. "Let him have a good look at himself!"

Fox-quick Reinaerde pulled Kitty's gilded hand mirror from his pouch, raised it.

The Grand Svengali saw his own gaze reflected from the silvered mirror. Call it the chi-drinking stare of a basilisk.

The effect was almost instantaneous: the Grand Svengali's brow deflated, the chi fountaining away in the air. The sorcerer shrank, became a mummy no bigger than a twisted root.

Coyote jumped, wolfed down the twist of dried meat. Reinaerde heard tiny bones snap. Coyote grinned, spit out a skull no bigger than a marble. "How I love pemmican!"

So perfectly delightful to walk down the quay, a beautiful girl on each arm! In the distance the white steamer to Japan was already belching steam from its funnels. His good friend Mark Twain walked in front with Tammy. He wouldn't be going along with the four, though.

"You'll love Nippon, Reinaerde," Kitty said. "They hold foxes in awe and one of our goddesses is a fox herself."

"Hey, you!" A harridan with flaming red curls ran up to them. She pushed the girls aside and clutched Reinaerde's arm. "There you are, you rogue, dilly dallying with tarts!" She glared at Mark Twain. "And never-do-wells scribbling scandalous tales."

"Hermeline," Reinaerde gasped. "How...?"

"Leaving your wife alone with a whole clutch of hungry kits!" she hissed. "You come home, right now." She took Reinaerde by the ear and suddenly there were two foxes tearing down the quay, yipping and barking.

#

Mark Twain's notebook:

The picture will always stay in my mind: The steam flute hooting and the three girls at the railing, waving. I know, I could have been standing there with them, sailing all the way to their mysterious island. But I recently met a quite interesting girl whom I hope to make my wife, and anyway, a love affair with a faery woman seldom ends well, let alone with three of them.

I think I'll omit the stories of Reinaerde and the three lovely ladies from that novel I'm writing about my experiences in San Francisco. I never could tell a lie that anyone would doubt, nor a truth that anybody would believe.

Wake

Maarten Luikhoven (Netherlands)

Waiting for the return of my clone mother from her jaunt through the helium strata of the third gas giant circling Nagira, a middle aged sun in the Sagittarius arm of the Milky Way, took nearly three months. During that time I studied the complex rituals of the Urh, the immense, semi-intelligent gas bladders that manoeuvred through the atmosphere with unexpected grace.

"Why did you wait so long," Nessaja asked as soon as her Ship lifted her out of the radio silence of the giant's magnetic field. Her complete name was Nessaja Horvak Mistra Votarius, but she allowed no formalities, which other Sapiens often demanded. That was also the reason I wanted to ask her advice. Of all my clone parents she was not only the closest, she always gave me the feeling we were equals.

"I did not want to disturb you. And what I have in mind will take years, so a couple of months more or less..."

Her answers arrived faster as her ship approached mine. "That sounds like a transition. You're only three hundred, are you sure you're not trying to grow up too fast?"

"That's an acceptable moment, isn't it?" I asked. "I remember your stories about your first sun dive. And how old you were then."

Nessaja laughed. "Fortunately you won't be repeating that mistake. We took it out of the Ships. You want physical?"

"Yes, please. That's really why I'm here." Our Ships connected, air lock to air lock. I floated through the corridors and allowed my long arms and legs to do the minimal exertion to propel me forward leisurely. Ever polite Nessaja had reduced her gravity to near zero, even if she enjoyed half to one g more.

I found her on the lounge deck, painting an aquarel. The colors of her art did not match the sandy beach, the lake and the luscious greens and were more reminiscent of the helium strata inside the gas giant. Her body selection at this moment was short, stocky and suitable for high g environments.

As soon as Nessaja saw me enter she beamed at me. "Robate, come here, give your old mother a hug!" I acceded to her wish and folded my long arms around her body, feeling the subdued strength with which she hugged me. She stepped back and looked me over. "You're fully prepared for a long, weightless journey, I see."

I nodded slowly. "Yes, my decision is quite firm. But I need your memories, your oldest memories."

"Oh dear, why do you think I know what you're looking for, if your own Ship doesn't know how to find it?"

"I'm not sure," I said in all honesty. "And I get the feeling my Ship and other Ships sometimes just don't want to talk about things."

"Ah yes, you're not fully mature yet. We have rules."

"I suspected as much," I said. "That's why I wanted to talk with you, before I leave. I wanted to find Old Earth. I wanted to know where we come from and why we left."

"But that's not information the Ships withhold, is it?"

"That's correct. And I've already visited there."

The surprise on Nessaja's face was clear. "But that would take years. How long ago was our last meeting?" Her eyes stared into the distance while she scoured her logs. When the information came to her she looked at me angrily. "Twenty years? Why didn't you say something?" But almost immediately she reverted to the mild, curious Nessaja I had known all my life. "Tell me what you found."

I sat on the bench near the edge of the water, smelled the scent of plants and flowers and allowed the memories of my search to rise up from my long term memory archive. "I was in fact searching for our origins for a very long time. Old Earth was often referred, but I found out at least three dozen worlds exist that were once called Old Earth by humans, probably even more."

Nessaja nodded. "That's humans alright."

"But the origin, that first Old Earth, seemed to be lost in the archives. Our histories have not been perfectly preserved, Nessaja."

She shrugged. "You don't have to preserve everything. Memories are like former lovers, sometimes fun, sometimes dangerous, most times just annoying."

I understood her. Nessaja could trace her origins to one of the first of those three dozen planets called Old Earth that I had found. That made her one of the oldest living humans in the memories of the Ships. "It meant I had to find the way back. That's why it took so long. The past million years humanity travelled further along the arms of the Milky Way, further and further from the source. The memories of the ancient Ships did deteriorate somewhat."

Nessaja smiled. "Yes, I remember my first Ship sometimes forgot stuff."

"The first year of my journey I travelled from Old Earth to Old Earth, like flying into your own history. Most have reverted to their natural, wild state and some are home to our descendants who wanted to remain.

"And my Old Earth?" Nessaja asked. "Did you see my house?"

I shook my head. "The planet had lost its technology at some time in the past. In that period a comet crashed into the seas, causing all life and buildings to be wiped from the surface.

"Oh," Nessaja said. She seemed sad. "That's too bad. My house inside Ship was designed after that house. One of my better memories."

"The universe is not very hospitable, we have learned that much. As I travelled further I found more evidence of these occurrences. Much disappears in a million year, if not everything we ever left behind. The entropy of civilizations is faster and more destructive than the natural entropy of the universe. So when I passed the earliest borders a long period of nothing happened. Two years at top speed, nothing. Until the radio signals."

"Descendants who regained technology?" Nessaja asked. Her eyes started to shine. "Or spacefaring aliens?" She mentioned the age old problem. In a universe so large, other spacefaring races had to exist. We just hadn't encountered them yet.

"Close. Chimpanzees. Or actually the evolved descendants of chimpanzees."

Nessaja seemed surprised. "That is important news," she said. "We left the first Earth because we did not want to keep our existence tied to a single planet. Apparently they followed us."

"Yes, they were in fact looking for us, the race that abandonded Earth and left the planet to them."

"You talked? Ship allowed it? What about the protocols?"

I nodded and smiled. "Yes, the protocols exist for contact with alien lifeforms. But chimpanzees hail from Earth, like us. So no aliens."

Nessaja looked at me and pinched her eyes closed just a little. "How many hours did you have to discuss this with Ship?"

"Four days, to be exact."

Nessaja laughed. "It sounded too easy. What did you discuss with them?"

"Not too much. I asked them for directions. They wanted to worship me like a god. To them humans are godlike creatures and according to Ship many of their myths and legends are based on our history. Fortunately they were realistic enough to understand that we –it's weird to say it like this- are only human, not some all knowing super beings. We're only a few hundred thousand years ahead in technology."

"I think it's wonderful news," Nessaja said. "It feels a little like your kids are growing up, turning into responsible adults. And believe me, I know how that feels."

"I promised them I would send a delegation upon my return. That is already on its way to them. Otherwise it would take many thousands of years before they would even get close."

"They told you how to get to the original Old Earth?" Nessaja asked.

I shook my head. "They too had forgotten about it. All they could point me at were the planets and systems they had in their own history that they had visited. Apparently they made many of the same choices we did, back then. Our farewell was cordial."

"I, for one, am happy for them," Nessaja said. "I think we'll have lots to discuss."

"But there is more," I told her. "After the chimpanzees I travelled through empty space once again, not a trace of any civilizations, until we found more radio signals. Ship had trouble deciphering them, but in the end recognized dolphin speech."

I sent Nessaja pictures of the habitats the dolphins used to discover space. Huge water globes, held in place by megastructures that placed their magnetic fields around the surface of their globes.

"Brilliant, did you contact them?"

"I considered it, but Ship warned me that our frame of reference was radically different from the whale kin. And it seems they hold some grudges towards us, so I decided to leave it to the experts."

"I wonder why no one else ever considered going back in our tracks to see how our origins have evolved after our departure," Nessaja said.

"I have had much time to think it over and this was indeed one of my thoughts." I allowed my words to register. "I think it's rooted deep in us, at least in a significant part of humanity, to look forward, to keep on going. If you're like that, there's no need to reflect or look back. And that gave me a lot of other questions. Quite philosophical, I'll admit, but enlightening too."

"Weren't you lonely?" Nessaja asked. She remained a mother worried for her son, even if she had more than a thousand offspring.

I nodded. "In this part of space, human contact is possible. Distances make ordinary communication difficult, but we can work with it. In the Orion Arm of the Milky Way I was thirty thousand light years from home. Yes, I was lonely. Not simply lonely, but the lonely that feels like you're the last of your kind.

"Poor boy, it's good you're back home," Nessaja said and she smiled.

"Is it?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Let me tell you what else I encountered."

"There is more? I thought you would have reached Old Earth by now."

"Not by a long shot. I was at least a thousand light years removed when I encountered ships. They did not send out signals and they were night black. Ship only recognized primitive power signatures and mostly organic components. When we approached they saw us. Their ships immediately displayed broad ranges of color and patterns."

"Like certain squid," Nessaja said.

"Exactly like squid. Their communication is mostly based on visual signals. Ship needed a few days to learn their language. I suspect I caused an uproar amongst them."

Nessaja smiled. "Can you imagine what it would be like, meeting a highly advanced civilization? We could and can only dream of anything like that."

"In their case it was slightly different. They grew up with the idea their gods and demons had once left Earth and they are scared to death they might ever encounter them again. It does not matter to them they left Earth behind or that the predators who once hunted them are thousands of light years removed, that fear still guides them. And that got me thinking."

"At least they knew the location of Old Earth, I presume?" Nessaja asked.

"Oh, definitely. They also warned about a destructive war that rendered Earth nearly uninhabitable."

"That has happened before. Usually that was the immediate necessity to leave the planet and spread your race across the stars."

I nodded and took a few pebbles from the beach sand. One by one they sailed in slow motion into the lake. "Something doesn't add up, Nessaja. But you only see it with the proper perspective. We were always the pebbles, plunging into space somewhere, causing ripples, or better even, a wake. But where did those ripples touch. If they touched anything. Who saw the wake. If anyone noticed it at all?"

"That's deep, Robate. How did you acquire such wisdom?" Nessaja asked.

"I've seen Old Earth. The source. The planet that started it all for humanity. An empty desert now, mostly dried up seas, sparse vegetation. Still the planet emanates a vitality that we, as humans, recognize and feel."

"That must be a glorious feeling," Nessaja said. She was beaming and I knew she was sincerely happy for me. Her children's happines had always been important for her. Yet more reason to ask her about her earliest memories.

"I have seen our last heirs there," I told her. "The final species that will attempt to escape the gravity well and to inhabit the endless universe. They've grown, become more powerful and more intelligent. They launched their first sattelite while I observed them. After them the planet will really be exhausted..."

Nessaja looked at me. "I don't know what you're feeling right now. Usually I can read you like an open book, but all you're showing is confusion."

I laughed. "Perhaps because I am confused. For the past ten years I've been contemplating the implications of cockroaches following in our footsteps. I think, I presume, I've come across something interesting. But if I'm correct, our existence may not be as special as we once thought. And it would imply that our goals, the ones we decide for ourselves, are not ours."

Nessaja sat down on the sand before me, wrapped her arms around her legs and looked up at me. "Tell me your deepest thoughts, child. Whatever they are, we'll find the answers together."

"My deepest thoughts in exchange for the earliest of your memories," I said. "But you will have to know the questions Ship and I posed during our long journey back. We are both curious what the answers might be."

"As you can see I'm all ears. You just said it, a month more or less, who cares?" Nessaja looked at me with patient eyes.

"How long has humanity been in space? Five hundred thousand years? A million? Maybe longer. In all those years we never encountered anyone. The blink of an eye on a cosmic scale, so we're not surprised. But... no one? Still, in that cosmic blink of an eye Earth has launched us, the chimpanzees, dolphins and squid. And now cockroaches."

"I will admit, that is special," Nessaja said. "Perhaps we are somehow special, because of our source?"

I shook my head. "We have found many habitable planets and we've colonized them. We have found life, intelligent life even. Just never intelligent enough to escape their planet. So why did we not encounter more intelligent, space faring species?"

"I cannot tell you what I don't know," Nessaja said. "What does this have to do with my earliest memories?"

"You were in the earliest colonization waves, managed entire fleets. You followed the Orion arm in the direction of the Sagittarius arm. Why that direction? Were you scared to cross the great void towards the Perseus arm? Was the direction of Centaurus too difficult? What reason did humanity have to go in this direction?"

Nessaja blinked a couple of times. Talking about the distant past made memories resurface from her long term memory archive. "I'm not sure if we, consciously, had good reasons. We just had a feeling this was the proper direction."

"Like the chimpanzees? The dolphins? The squid? And I think I'll be able to predict the direction the cockroaches will choose."

"Yes, but they're following in our wake."

"What wake? The chimpanzees on occasion find remnants of our civilization. By accident, if they're lucky. But at how many 'coincidental' finds is it still chance? Ship and I have tried to analyze that for the past ten years."

"Alright, that I can understand," Nessaja said. She nodded slowly. "What is your thinking then? What do you think is going on?"

"We never encountered aliens," I said. "Have we ever found remnants of a space faring civilization?"

For the first time ever Nessaja refrained from answering for almost a minute. The occasion was so rare I stared at her open mouthed.

"I had nearly forgotten," she stammered. "But now that you mention it, pieces of an ancient puzzle fall into place. We did find remnants. Minimal traces of an ancient, technologically advanced race. Millions of years old. It did not seem important then. After all, we were colonists, looking for new territory to inhabit. Those ancient buildings would just raise uncomfortable questions and delay our time tables."

I breathed deep. My mother's words confirmed suspicions Ship and I had harbored for years. "Occam's Razor. What are the odds that civilization had its origin on Earth? Thinking about our discussion just now?"

"That depends," Nessaja said. "Did any other races before or after us go in another direction? That we are not aware of?"

I shook my head. The thought occurred to me while orbiting Old Earth. "We checked. None of the chimpanzee, dolphin or squid records mention anything about other possible escapes from the gravity well. We scoured nearby star systems for traces, however minute. Nothing."

"In that case, it's not zero. Also not as good as zero, I think." Nessaja rubbed her fingers across her temples. "Indirectly that implies they were guided too. Or they sent their heirs in the right direction."

"But to what purpose?" I asked her. "Something is happening, we know that. Just not why." I got up and pushed off towards the outer hull that began at the edge of the park. At one of the port holes I looked out. The colorful helium and carbon bands of the gas giant filled a large part of the view. A small moon hurtled by below us, dropping a fast moving shadow dot on the surface of the giant.

Nessaja stood next to me and said: "Who are we following, really? And how are we guided to go in this direction?"

"For that I needed access to your memories. I need to know why you made your choices when you directed fleets to specific solar systems. Some of your choices were not entirely logical," I explained.

Nessaja shook her head. "No, those decisions were made by the grand council."

I shrugged. "It's easier to influence a group of people than individuals."

"Do you really think that happened? Or does it still happen?"

"It's the most logical solution. Unless you have something that fits better?"

Nessaja shook her head and her blonde curls danced around her ears. "So, what's next?"

"Go the other way. I traveled to the source and back. Now I want to travel further along the Sagittaris Arm, in the wake of our predecessors, perhaps to find out why we are being guided along this path."

"But you don't need my permission for that, do you?" Nessaja asked.

I smiled. It was good to see my mother did not know everything, after all.

"Oddly enough all Ships refuse to take me in the right direction for more than a few light years, then they return. It's as if they're afraid to go on."

"Impossible, they're machines."

"Yes, with self preservation, mother," I said. "Afraid of making the wrong choice. We are being guided, they're not. So the odds of us doing the right thing are much, much higher. And we programmed that, directly into their cores." I smiled. "Makes you think, doesn't it?"

Nessaja nodded. "I understand, I think. So why not direct them to go where you want?"

"Well," I said, "there's the small issue that to override those core command structures, you need to be an adult. The only way to become an adult is to be declared adult by another adult. So either you declare me adult or give a direct order to follow my commands."

"It's inside us, do you see that?" Nessaja asked.

"What is?"

"The guiding and directing of our children," she said.

"Do you think that whoever or whatever is guiding us has the same intentions as we for our children?"

"I can only hope," Nessaja said.

"So, your permission, your blessing, your approval to do this?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "No, I won't grant you that."

I could hardly believe her. "You can't do that."

"My dearest boy, do you think I'll go without your presence for another twenty years? Of course not." Gravitation increased slightly, shutters closed and the light inside Ship subtly changed. I felt the engines kick in and the beginning of a slight acceleration.

Nessaja took my hand in her hands and gave me her most radiant smile. "This seems like the perfect way of spending time together, mother and son. It's been so long since we actually did anything together."

In the end I just accepted. After all, who could refuse Nessaja when she set her mind to something?
Chimeras

Agrippina Domanski (United Kingdom)

1

"...cut it real deep. We had to end its suffering. We didn't just randomly do it."

"What a stupid thing to do, that!"

The door of the old Georgian cottage belonging to the Carr-Locke family creaked when the Carr-Lockes' neighbour Joshua McDougall opened it without knocking, and let in the strong, chilly autumn wind come early in August. The Carr-Locke children, Nicola and Tim, looked up and fell silent with apprehensive abruptness. Their father, the patriarch of the Carr-Locke family whose hunting gear and car parts businesses constituted most of Siknuire's infrastructure, appeared from behind the head of a once-live bear over the red corner lamp illuminating the spacious living room.

"Oh. Hello, Joshua." Carr-Locke said with trademark Scottish reserve.

"You were talking 'bout it just now, weren't you, kids?" McDougall said. He gave them a heavy, hooded look. "Thinkin' 'bout whatcha did, eh?"

"We were talking about Mars." Nicola said. "I want to take pictures tonight."

The Siknuire citizens who were somewhat well-to-do and idler than others had been looking forward to the sight of Mars at opposition since the news had spread at the beginning of the year. A great view would open from Aberdeenshire, where Siknuire lay. Regardless of the spelling, the name suggested the obvious about the nature of the community.

"Bullshit."

"Alright, let's take it outside." Simon said, imperturbable. He put down his cigar and walked out without looking at his children.

The door slammed shut, and they leaned towards it, listening. The rain was loud, hammering against the concrete porch (it must have turned into hail). The men's voices were barely audible.

"Had a real weird dream last night, I did. There were mountains like ours, but higher –" Tim began.

"Shut up. Shh!" Nicola whispered, urgent.

"...purpose of eye for an eye is not to do more damage than was done t' you. Don't be ridiculous, you're talking about my child, what are you, the Spanish Inquisition? Keep in mind who the fuck you're talking to!"

"They cut up the damn kitten like cabbage. Imagine if someone killed one of your dogs, Simon. The boy should be –"

"I'll kick his ass. You stay out of it. They're doin' it because of the Mars at opposition thingie. Experts warned everyone's going to go crazy, people, dogs, cats. It's only gonna get worse tomorrow, mind. 's like it's in the air –"

Nicola strained to listen. But they must have walked away from the door or fallen silent.

"In my dream, they put a bag over a fat lady's head and threw her off the top of a mountain, higher than the clouds –"

"Shut up with your dreams already!" Nicola snapped.

In a moment Simon Carr-Locke returned inside, gloomy. He slammed the door harder than usual, and stood looking at his children. Nicola stared, unseeing, through the **Siknuire Premier Advertising Magazine: Hunting Gear, Plumbing & Heating Co.** magazine which lay on the table.

She wanted to get away from here: this sick place with its sick atmosphere which made kids like Timmy do sick things. She was embarrassed, ashamed of belonging to this land, this family (though it was so influential), this atavistic world.

She wanted to escape; she was only popular here because of her clan. London. She wanted to escape to London no matter what, even if she had to become a whore to support herself. None of those cheesy dreams of being a film star; not for Nicola, no. She knew you had to sell something, and she didn't have much.

Timmy wanted to grow up a hunter like dad and grandpa and other Carr-Locke men. Maybe skinning a kitten was the beginning of his self-education in taxidermy. She'd suggested once he might work for a military biotech corporation in Glasgow or London – to get something more out of life while pursuing his hunting interest. He'd sneered at her.

"You were meant to be watching him." Simon said now. "But you think you're too good for that. Right?"

"He could live in the woods at his age, if he wanted to." Nicola snapped without lifting her eyes from her magazine. Tim was twelve. "It's not my fault!"

"Nothin' ever is, is it?"

2

On the eve of Mars at opposition on August 27th, Simon Carr-Locke's borzois went berserk. They hadn't been bitten; they hadn't caught a virus. But it seemed they'd smelt the approaching planet from the early hours of the morning. While they'd usually walked around the Carr-Locke territory and the adjoining woods with their noises down, blood-hounding scents, now they were staring into the sky (smoky and reddish all through the day, like blood oranges). Their eyes could probably see something human eyes couldn't. In 2011, Mars had come closer to Earth than ever in the last fifty years.

When the borzois began their attack in the afternoon (though several incidents had taken place, there was something coordinated about them, as if the dogs had a single consciousness), Nicola was sitting in the kitchen with a large THE WHITE COMPANY mug of coffee. The Siknuire Premier Advertising Magazine lay open in front of her. Most of the notices were about hunting gear and maintenance services. But the back pages were reserved for special announcements. If you knew how to be tongue-in-cheek, you could advertise anything. A Shell hire announcement she'd seen on a friend's Facebook page last year had read something like: "Young ladies with good manners and charm encouraged to apply for sensitive communication positions"

Nicola had been too young, or she'd have gone for it. Now there was nothing, and she was thinking of writing a notice herself; giving a fake name and her real address. Sunlight broke through the thin curtains, and she squinted, irritated. She'd heard from the same friend that some hoax email from had been circulating the web, claiming Mars would be as large as the moon tonight. _Nonsense_ , she thought just before the screaming broke out outside the Carr-Locke cottage. In a moment someone was drumming on the door.

"Dad's not home!" Nicola shouted.

"Deal with those blasted dogs of yours 'fore I shoot 'em, Nicola!" It was the voice of Jim Riley, the local butcher known for drinking fourteen pints of beers a day and his chronic liver disease resulting from this routine. She didn't know what he meant. The dogs had never left the territory unless instructed.

She got up, picked up the Sauer 101 Alaska 243 her father kept by the fireplace and hid it behind her back. The house was packed with rifles – Simon had been running illegal fox hunts for years, evading the ban and inviting only the initiated. He'd recently said they'd discovered a wolf pack in Loch Keir, the nearby forest – the first one seen in the UK for decades – but that could be part of his emergency cover. He was making good money passing the whole thing off for a drag-hunt. The Carr-Locke borzois had been specially bred for hunting over hundreds of generations – Simon believed being fox-friendly was detrimental to their health.

"What are you talking about?" Nicola said when she opened the door. "I don't –"

"You and your fucking dogs!" Sheila Riley, Jim's wife who ran the clothing alterations shop at the Market Place, cried. Her plump hands reached towards Nicola, who instinctively aimed the rifle at her. "Don't point that thin' at me, li'l bitch, you ain't got the guts to shoot it! You think 'cause you own the gear shops and the rest 'f us survive on God knows what you can murder our children? Your brother torturing cats, now this–"

Nicola was the first to see her father. He rarely took out the car these days, doing most of the business from home. But tonight he was returning in the rusty TR7 convertible. He got out without turning off the ignition to make it noiseless.

"My daughter will shoot ya if need be, Sheila." He said, matter-of-fact. "What the hell d'you want, talking to her like that? What makes you think you've got the right to shoot my dogs?"

The family kept over twenty borzois at any time. The unique breed was not for sale, no matter how much visitors claiming to be connoisseurs offered to pay. The dogs walked around as they pleased, and no one had noticed them leave the territory.

Sheila Riley turned towards him, her face crumbling in an odd, agonized way, and began to cry. Nicola closed the door behind herself and stood on the porch, leaning against the railing, the rifle lying in the crook of her arm like a baby. Jim put his arms around his wife and glared at the Carr-Lockes.

"These fucking beasts –" he began, hesitant, as if he didn't have suitable words for what he meant. "There! There'll be more 'f us comin', you just wait for it, Simon. My son's in a ruddy hospital. He –"

No one caught what he'd said about his son (not even Nicola, the experienced eavesdropper). Their faces froze when they saw four of the Carr-Lockes' borzois, lean and well-groomed like few humans in Siknuire, sprint across the field and up the narrow cobblestone street leading up to the cottage. They looked exhausted and ecstatic, like they often did after a long successful hunt. But something was amiss.

Their eyes gleamed like they did after they'd caught trail of a large rabbit, but also with a different shade. When one borzoi levelled the cottage and gave Nicola and Simon a happy bark of acknowledgement, they saw the bright-red jelly-like scrap hanging out of its mouth. In a moment the borzoi spit out a half-chewed human finger, the pink-stained white bone shining through the flesh jelly.

"Who let them go off like that?" Simon said, stunned.

"They go as they please." Nicola said, taking that for an implicit criticism of her, which it probably wasn't.

Three other borzois ran passed the cottage in a half-circle, like Olympic athletes nearing the end of their training session. One was carrying something between its teeth – Nicola felt everyone's joint relief at not being able to tell what it was. Simon's face remained moody and pensive for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"If one of my dogs attacked your son, he prob'ly tried to hurt it. But I imagine this will incur costs. I'll pay compensation if that's what you want." He said. "We've been warned animals might go crazy once Mars is directly 'tween the Earth and the sun, there's nothing odd about this."

"Compensation?" Sheila exclaimed, more plaintive than indignant. "You should put them to sleep, shoot them! They're rabid!"

"They can't go rabid, Sheila, unless they've been bitten." Nicola's father said with a quiet threat. "And don't you tell me what to do with my dogs, I been breedin' them since 'fore you were born, and me father 'fore that. I'll pay for his rehabilitation or whatever, but that's the end of it."

"Not by a long shot." Jim said, reddening. "You're lucky the cops won't bother turnin' up at yours unless there's twenty complains in a row. If you won' shoot the damn animals you gotta tie 'em up for the night, till the end of the Mars thing–"

"I'd rather shoot you than my animals, Jimmy ma friend." Simon said with a soft smirk. Nicola made a mini-gesture with the rifle in Jim's direction, which all four of them noticed. "There ain't shit you can do 'bout that."

The Rileys backed down, and stepped down from the highest step of the porch where they'd been standing. Simon had stopped on the ground about three feet beneath them.

"Simon, let's be reasonable." Riley said. Sheila looked down, sniffing. "I know how you feel 'bout your dogs, trust me. I do." The sardonic frown on Simon's face matched Nicola's. Riley hadn't grown up looking after the puppies with more care than she'd devoted to little Timmy after he'd been born. Her father had done the same. "But it's what you do when a dog attacks a human – you put it down, 'cause it's got a taste for blood. You know that bet'r than me, doan you?"

"Not my dogs." Simon said with the cool certitude to which there could be no objection. Nicola was used to hearing this "no". No, not that boy, not that dress, no. Not London. She had to set herself free from the yoke of this "no". But Jim Riley had no chance. "It's out of question, bring the cops round if you really want to, but then you can forget the money talk. I bet you they'll go away apologizin'. Otherwise take fifty grand, sounds 'bout fair. Do what you wan' with it, none of my bus'ness. But I ain't payin' fifty grand to anyone else turnin' up at my door and callin' my daughter a bitch, mind. You can pass it on to your fuckin' victim group."

Nicola knew at a glance they'd take what they could get. There was something disgusting about it. It made her feel she stood very much above the Rileys, though usually she wasn't snobbish. Sheila had walked all the way down the stairs, admitting her defeat. Riley remained between Nicola and Simon, rubbing the middle stair with his shoe.

"You know it'll get worse t'nigh." He said, almost pleading. "Just think what they'll do, they'll murder the whole town. Tie 'em up so they don' hurt nobody, till the Mars at opposition thing's over? You won't 'ave to hurt your fuckin' animals, just keep 'em around the house. Alright?"

Simon shrugged. "I guess we c'd do that. Now get the hell off ma prop'rty."

Nicola crossed her arms over the gun. They'd won this one, like they won everything.

3

"Come now, Halsey, come." Simon said, and gestured to the youngest borzoi, which had squeezed itself into the corner and growled, refusing to come out into the open. "It's only for a little while. Good ge'l."

These dogs had been brought up as family members, in a kind of side-by-side collaboration with humans. They were used to respect. Though they obeyed commands with near-telepathic speed while hunting, at other times they expected to be left alone. They had never been tied up, but it was obvious to the Carr-Lockes no rope would hold them. Simon had attached chains to the thick oak trees surrounding the cottage. But the borzois looked dubious and downcast.

Most of them were circling the house some distance away, showering their master with uncomprehending, reproachful glares. Halsey, the borzoi Simon was talking to, was on her own beside him. She growled again with a kind of hidden agony – as if in that moment she wished she could speak so she could reason with Simon. Nicola stood nearby. She couldn't wrap her head around this. _They'd developed a taste for flesh,_ she thought. _How incongruous_.

"Do we know how many people they... injured?" She said.

"'bout twenty. Thrashed and ate what they c'd see with meat in it." Simon muttered. He was still advancing on Halsey with a chain in a slow, patient fashion. Her growls had taken on roaring, desperate notes. "Made some calls 'bout an hour ago. There's two dead. Now, that ain't good, mind you, but the lawyer's gonna sort it out if worse comes to worst. What's 'is name –"

"Smithson."

"Aye. Great guy. Fuckin' Timmy deserves a thrashin', sure does, but I ain't got the time. They smell 't on you, see. A dog'll only do as much 'arm as its master. Guess they think Timmy's their fuckin' master now cause 'e's at 'ome so much. Oughtta kick 'im into that summer camp."

Nicola looked down. "Surely it's because of Mars at opposition that they've turned violent–"

"Doan' go too deep into that astrology crap, ma dear." Simon said, and gave an unpleasant, rusty laugh. "I had ta say somethin'."

He grabbed Halsey by the scruff the moment she'd lowered her guard, and fastened the collar attached to the chain round her throat. Alert, the borzoi leapt up with renewed rage, her powerful long jaws opening as if they were about to lock over Simon's throat. He took two quick, shaky, jump-like steps back and she lunged after him, throwing spit all around. The chain reached its limit and Halsey's teeth clucked together. She exploded in insulted, betrayed barking.

Nicola forced herself to take a step forward. She'd cleaned these dogs' teeth all her life, holding their deadly jaws open as if they were toy crocodiles held together with screws. But now she felt a shudder run thought her spine.

Simon was busy hailing the other two – twins, the largest the family had. They'd seen what had happened to Halsey and were flanking him from two sides, fangs showing, eyes narrowed into slits. The moment Nicola moved, they turned their heads towards her. Their nostrils flattened.

"If you're afraid for some reason, stay away," Simon said with contempt, looking the dog on the left in the eye. "You know they can smell it."

"I'm just thinking they could – you know, just..."

"They won't dare."

The twins, about two years old, had just reached their physical peak, and stood side by side like two suicide bombers. She knew they thought they could be outnumbered, but not outsmarted. Simon and the borzois stared each other down until he shrugged, and went inside with a grim look.

Nicola remained standing there like a scarecrow, mown down under the realization of her uselessness next to her father. Timmy had grown up with a sadistic streak the Carr-Locke clan had never encouraged, but at least he had guts. She didn't know what to make of this. The twins advanced on her now, their canine eyes laughing with more self-awareness than the eyes of the Rileys she'd looked into. They seemed to be saying, _You're the weakest one here, aren't you, bitch? Don't it feel sick?_

Simon returned, and dropped two slices of raw, bleeding steak under their paws. _Usually they wouldn't fall for this_ , Nicola thought, and realized at once they weren't falling for it now. They lowered their noses into the meat in unison, as if their twin brains were synchronized, and began to tear it up. But when Simon locked the collar around the twin on the left, his brother snapped at him. Long crooked teeth scraped Simon's wrist. Nicola gasped, suppressing a scream. Her father reached out his hand and scratched the borzoi behind his ear, muttering: "Come, now. Won't stay long like this, 's only till the mornin'. Life sure sucks, buddy."

Once he'd locked the collar around the second twin's neck and headed for the cottage, both brothers abandoned pretense. The twin borzois barked and howled, eyes full of mad hurt, tearing on the chains so hard the oak trees shuddered. Their legs were working the ground, digging it so it flew in all directions. They had uncovered some minor roots close to the surface, and scratched at them with their clawed paws, full of desperate vigour. Nicola stood staring at them, scared despite herself. Spit circled them, threadlike. The other twenty dogs had joined in their grudged howl. It sounded haunting, like bagpipes.

"What's up with 'em, dad?"

The air was thick with tension and rage. "Somethin's up wit' you, if they frighten you," Simon said from the top of the stairs. "You better go charge your camera for the Mars thing, if you really wanna capture it. It's five already."

4

Nicola hadn't caught where her father was going. There had been some kind of flood in one of the gear shops the family owned in the outskirts of Siknuire. The manager had proved incapable of dealing with it and had just been fired over the phone. Simon had said he probably wouldn't be back till tomorrow and wished her luck with the Mars thing.

The Carr-Locke cottage stood on its own near the inland forest line, a few miles away from the Siknuire town centre. Nicola only thought of this when no one came by for a while, like now. Once she'd charged the SONY camera and put Timmy to bed, she fed and petted the dogs and prepared to enjoy the phenomenon. Experience had taught her to prepare for everything, even enjoyment, so it didn't slip away or pass her by.

Mars would only be visible after ten p.m., if at all (new rain predictions had come in a few hours before – clouds would kill all chance of sky-watching). It was half-past six, but she couldn't stand being in the house any longer, so she took her bag and headed out into the open. She didn't intend to return until she'd taken a few good shots of Mars.

Instead of taking a shortcut to the forest (only twenty minutes), she walked through the empty town centre, past the Harroldgate Moor Workingmen's Club (closed now). She stared through the curtain-free windows of the Siknuire Community Centre. This building joined up with the Scottish Presbyterian Church at the back. She stopped to watch the last few minutes of the Saturday night dancing class. The rocking middle-aged couples couldn't care less about Mars at opposition, or any other event taking place more than twenty feet above the ground. Inspired and piqued in equal measure, she put in her headphones on her way to the forest, and decided she'd tune out of the worldly hum for a while.

5

When Simon returned home in the TR7 after midnight, he saw Nicola was out – the house was unlit. Even Timmy was out, it seemed – the little bugger would never sleep until she was in, so he'd have been reading some book on hunting or playing taxidermist. But there was no light in his window either.

The moment he slammed the car door shut and no barking greeted him, he became uneasy. He hoped Nicola hadn't lost her mind and unchained the dogs. Though he hated to encroach upon their freedom, a deal was a deal – if they were seen out and about again tonight, people would say Simon Carr-Locke couldn't keep his word. He'd have never thought they could go and leave his grounds, but now that he'd seen it happen, he made no claims to their predictability.

He walked up the hill towards his house, apprehensive. Nearly twenty years ago, when his wife had been pregnant with Nicola, he'd realized with guilty surprise he felt more partial towards the borzois than his own children. They would in due course inherit his money and be set for life – maybe that's why he didn't feel as protective of them as he did of the borzois. He knew the shapes of their paws and claws better than the palm of his own hand. When they hunted together, he could sense their thoughts as well as his own heartbeat. He knew what they were sniffing at and what they wanted to get as a reward for a good day's chase.

Now he could feel nothing coming from them (not even urges), though usually their simple-minded cheer at the sight of their master warmed his heart. Some part of his head knew it all at once. Something had activated the night-time light sensors around the porch – the glow was visible. But he only stopped once he overcame the brow of the hill by the cottage and the oak trees to which he'd chained them came into sight. Simon's mind folded in on itself, like a house of cards.

Ten-odd bone carcasses of his borzois lay scattered around the cobblestones and the blood-soaked grass, white, shiny and bare for the most part, as if come straight out of some Hollywood trash piece like _Jurassic Park_ , or a paleontological museum. Their insides surrounded them in uneven curls, like festoons. The culprits had gathered around the last borzoi whose body still had meat on it ( _Halsey_ , Simon thought with a chill, as if he could recognize the shape of his beloved beauty's bones.)

It was a wolf pack. They were lapping at Halsey's flesh with their abrasive tongues. Simon heard them lick at her bones with a wet, piercing sound like a saw file. The hunter in him could tell from the traces the dogs had been fighting to death for hours. These were strong fighters with their share of sins for their canine lifetime. They might have won if he hadn't robbed them of any chance of survival. The crime scene reeked of doom and his fatal stupidity.

The wolves lifted their heads on his arrival, their ears upright, and stared down the cheeky guy who'd interrupted their feast. _You're a pain in the arse_ , their arrogant eyes said. There were only seven. But it couldn't have been less than that. He'd been away for five hours at most, and they'd gnawed twenty borzois to the bone – licked their plates clean.

The dog-lover in Simon thought in brief these monsters were beautiful creatures. He'd known about this pack for months – he'd been avoiding it during hunts, knowing how rare they were, but he hadn't reported them either. He went inside past them and got the .243 Winchester – the biggest gun he had.

The three older wolves had had the time to lower their muzzles into the vault of Halsey's thigh and lap on it once or twice, before he pulled the trigger and shot them off one by one, as if they were apples he used to place on overturned buckets as a boy when he practiced. He knew it was a crime against wildlife and it made him feel fucking great. They were no more unique than his dogs, and if he'd just killed a whole new branch of Britain's wolf population, so be it.

If only his useless fucking children had been around to protect the dogs.

6

Nicola had picked a spot on the brow of a small hill about a mile into Loch Keir. She'd been coming there to hunt since she was a child, and she knew it well. Tonight it was quiet, but not peaceful. She could feel a sort of aroused, irritated heat in the air, as if Mars was a lens through which Earth was absorbing the heat of the sun all through the night, ten times more than usual. It was dark at last.

She began to take pictures in a sort of hazy, ecstatic state which reminded her of the eyes of the borzois this morning after they'd injured half the town. She couldn't get the focus right on the SONY camera. The few shots she'd taken were coming out blurred, as if Mars refused to conform to the eye of the camera, as well as her fallible human eye. Nicola walked on uphill, though she'd almost reached the peak and continuing on was pointless.

The moment she stopped, she noticed a hissing sort of sound, like the song of a kettle on an old gas stove in the cottage. It made her shudder. She stared at the sky, Mars suddenly appearing clearer than in any of her shots, though she wasn't looking through the lens. The blood-red dot was taking up all her attention now, filling her entire retina. She could see nothing else, only the creeping dark – as if she was slowly going blind.

She turned around. "What'd you keep followin' me for? Wanna find some new animal to cut up so I got told off for makin' you into a psycho?"

"Wasn't my idea, was Jimmy's." Timmy stood behind her like some hunched-over beggar, wearing her coat which was too big for him.

"Whatever. Piss off." Nicola snapped. "You're not even meant to be here."

"Did you see it?" Timmy said. "It's right behind you!"

He wasn't even out of breath from overcoming the hill (maybe he'd been standing here a while). It meant the hissing sound couldn't have been him. It continued. Nicola stared over and above her brother, and the shimmering shapes slowly came into sight, sharpening as she continued to peer into them. They were coming into view like Mars thirty minutes back. As the shapes surrounded her like a Polar lights, she began to recognize them, and her heart dropped.

Twenty dogs bared their teeth and hissed at her. It sounded like a word repeated over and over until it lost meaning.

Chimeras – that's how they understood themselves. They had this name written on them in invisible ink. Nicola had always sensed the borzois' thoughts better than her father. Maybe it was a female thing (she wasn't sure about Timmy, did she doubted any animal would let the brat into its head). They were chimeras now – neither here, nor there, a bit of both. They weren't quite dead; she could hear their breathing, ragged and exhausted, as if they'd been running, running, running, running, running, even in death. They used to have reddish fur, a bit like Irish setters, but now they were transparent skeletons.

Her family had been the last smell on their mind before they died, the smell of their masters turned their murderers. _They don't have eyes, they sniffed me out_ , she thought when they lunged at her with perfect synchronicity, like a carnivorous white lily closing its petals around its victim. The Mars was directly above them, giving them impetus for movement.

She probably had to run – but that would mean running through their open, salivating mouths, shimmering like oxygen over the fire. She tried to cover Timmy. But the chimera wall had separated them.

She felt their thoughts run through her like electric shocks – primitive but sharp, spot-on. They went something like _, She. She. One of Them. Traitor. One of Them. She of Them._ She imagined them biting her. This mental picture was so vivid she began to feel it before they took their hue from her thoughts.

Their ghostly semi-transparent jaws with gleaming glass-like teeth closed over her wrists the way they hadn't had a chance to close around her father's. It was their way of re-establishing their status. They were bound to attack her after sensing her fear.

_Something's killed 'em_ , she thought. _We tied 'em up and now somethin's killed them_. A fire, maybe, though she'd have seen the glow. But something did. She could sense their bloodlust and vicious satisfaction in the moments of shock when she forgot the pain. In fact the pain was unreal. It was somehow ethereal – a channeling of what she knew from telepathic hints had happened to the dogs in her absence.

They bit her again and again. Their teeth ripped through her tendons and she fell on the ground and let go of her SONY camera. She threw a backwards, overturned glance at Timmy when it rolled towards him. But he was outside the white circle of jingling bones the chimeras had locked her in. He had nothing to do with this. _Neither had I,_ she thought. But it was a lie. Tethering them hadn't been her idea.

But she hadn't stopped her father.

She was complicit for the same reason she was popular in Siknuire: she belonged to the Carr-Locke family. She was a murderer by birth – of the fifteen-odd local businesses which had closed down, unable to stand competition with the Carr-Locke empire. Now she'd helped murder the creatures she'd seen born by doing nothing.

Once their twenty mouths closed around her shoulders and thighs, she began to feel their saliva trickling through her like poison. Their group consciousness, the liquid one-mindedness which let the borzois synchronize their movements so well during the hunts filled her. She became one with the chimeras, as if she was still trailing foxes with them (now it seemed more like they were hunting her down). She'd become chimera-like. Once they'd gotten inside her, her skin had become lax, and she'd ceased to be solid and lay dissolving. A random thought visited her: _If Sheila's right and they're rabid for some reason, then so am I._

She lay on the ground in a foetal position while they stabbed her with their fangs. She'd have bled to death already if they'd left marks. Her eyes were staring at the sky through their gleaming, glassy bodies. She didn't know what time it was. But she noticed Mars was almost gone – it had turned into a barely visible dot far away. _Soon it would fade away_. The moment she thought so, the chimeras lifted their heads in unison (their single mind followed her lead) and began to howl at the sky, and the departing Mars. She recognized this sorrowful howl, except now it sounded like the echo of the woods, so high and clear you could mistake it for some echo from the mountains.

The phantom pain she felt at their bites hadn't faded. She lay feeling she was moaning and as loudly as they were.

7

Next morning Timmy went to the site of the summer camp on the Siknuire border where he spent most of his weekdays during school breaks. Nicola gathered from what followed he must have spoken about his weird dreams before, including the dream about the fat woman thrown off a mountain with a bag over her face (it had gotten under her skin somehow). And then there was the murdered kitten. Shit like that accumulated in the adults' minds. But when the NSPCC visited the cottage in the afternoon, they informed Simon that Timmy kept talking about chimeras, as if that was why they'd come all this way. A family curse.

(A dog'll only do as much harm as its master.)

They weren't thinking of taking any drastic action, Simon was to understand. They knew how respected and well-established the family was. They were merely checking things were alright. Things weren't – Simon was barely listening. He was thinking of the funeral pyre for the dogs' ashes, Nicola could tell from the look on his face. They deserved a better funeral than her mother just because they'd been around longer. The NSPCC said they'd come again tomorrow, once they'd completed the report about Timmy's domestic situation and made their conclusions. Neither Nicola nor Simon had said a word throughout the interview.

After the NSPCC bastards had finally left (the abbreviation made Nicola think of the NAACP by some historical association; she felt she'd done enough wrong to be visited by liberators of some sort – chimeras, the local breed of Baskervilles, would probably terrorize the area for centuries), Simon and she went over to the rocks by the sea to pick a place to scatter the ashes.

They'd cremated the bones of the borzois early in the morning (special arrangements had been made for them in Aberdeen), and now they stood staring down at the greenish hostile water over a mile below, silent. There wasn't really a choice or a solution to this, Nicola thought. She couldn't let go of the agony from the chimeras' bites. They rang in every spot of her body. Once the ashes floated over the North Sea, her father and she took hands and jumped down the cliff before they could think better of it.

When the NSPCC returned to the Carr-Locke cottage on Tuesday, concerned because Timothy hadn't turned up at the camp and Simon wasn't returning their calls, they found the boy in Nicola's room. He sat still by a crushed-looking SONY camera, surrounded by the printed photos of planet Mars stuck all over the room with Blu Tack. His eyes were staring at the Loch Keir woods in the distance.

Author Profiles

Michaele Jordan was born in Los Angeles, bred in the Midwest, educated in Liberal Arts at Bard College and in computers at Southern Ohio College. She has worked at a kennel and a Hebrew School and AT&T. She's a bit odd. Now she writes, supervised by a long-suffering husband and a couple of domineering cats.

Her credits include her period occult thriller, Mirror Maze, and a previous novel serialized in Jim Baen's Universe, Blade Light. You will find her short stories floating around the ether—including Wizard in F&SF, numerous entries in Buzzy Mag, such as The Once and Future Cake and We're All Super Here. Message of War appeared in Infinite Science Fiction and Locked in in Another Realm. Horror fans might also enjoy her Blossom series in The Crimson Pact anthologies.

For more detail, she cordially invites you to visit her website, www.michaelejordan.com while waiting for her upcoming steam-punk adventure, Jocasta and the Indians.

Agrippina Domanski is a 20 year old theology graduate living in the United Kingdom. Her most recent publications have been in Luna Station Quarterly, Audio Arcadia, The BFS Horizons of the British Fantasy Society (Long Days), Tigershark, Aphelion and Metamorphose. And her story "The Gathering" was selected as Honourable Mention by the Allegory magazine.

Jonathan Shipley is a Fort Worth writer of fantasy, science fiction, and horror who ranges from traditional fantasy to vampires to futuristic space opera.. Although he self-identifies as a novelist, it is short fiction where he has enjoyed success with sales of over eighty stories. He was a contributing author to the After Death anthology that won the 2014 Bram Stoker award, as well as a finalist for the 2014 Washington Science Fiction Association's Small Press Award. He has also been invited to speak at the 2018 World Building Conference in Graz, Austra, which will open up his writing to an international audience. He maintains a web presence at www. Shipleyscifi(dot)com where you can find a full list of his publications.

Emad El-Din Aysha is an academic, journalist, translator and aspiring author currently residing in Cairo, Egypt. He was born in the United Kingdom to Arab parents, attained his PhD in International Studies at the University of Sheffield (2001) and is now a member of the Egyptian Society for Science Fiction.

Felice Picano's novel, Drylands End was a Locus Hall of Fame book. His collections include Tales From a Distant Planet, 12 O'Clock Tales and 20th Century Unlimited: Two Novellas. His novelette, "After Sunset in the Second Drawing Room Garden" will be reprinted in Best New Horrors #29 in 2019. Website: www.felice.picano.net

Dennis Mombauer, *1984, currently lives in Colombo as a freelance writer of fiction, textual experiments, reviews, & essays on climate change & education. Co-publisher of "Die Novelle – Magazine for Experimentalism". Publications in various magazines & anthologies. German novel publication "Das Maskenhandwerk" (The Mask Trade).

Website: www.dennismombauer.com

Twitter: @DMombauer

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine writer with over two hundred stories published in fourteen countries, in seven languages, and is a winner in the National Space Society's "Return to Luna" Contest and the Marooned Award for Flash Fiction (2008). His latest books are The Malakiad (2018) and Incursion (2017). He has also published two science fiction novels: Outside (2017) and Siege (2016) and an ebook novella entitled Branch. His short fiction is collected in Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010) and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011). Website: www.gustavobondoni.com.

Floris M. Kleijne is the award-winning author of over two dozen short stories in publications like Daily Science Fiction, Writers of the Future Anthology, Galaxy's Edge, and previous Worlds of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror volumes. He blogs about writing, science, technology, atrocious customer service, and Real Life™ on www.floriskleijne.com

Peter Hagelslag works offshore in the Black Sea. By day he maintains equipment, at night he tries to maintain his wild imagination. Publications include Rudy Rucker's Flurb, Blurring the Line and (the multiple award-winning) Qualia Nous. He's on :

Tumblr: fearfulasymmetries.tumblr.com

Twitter: @PeterHagelslag

Florin Purluca is a Romanian writer. He has been a fan of the science-fiction genre since he find out letters and words. He has a master's degree in Clinical Psychology and works in a psychiatric hospital in his hometown and struggles to put words on paper during those white long nights.

Eric Del Carlo's fiction has appeared in Analog, Asimov's, Strange Horizons, and many other magazines and anthologies over the years. He collaborated with fantasy stalwart Robert Asprin on the Wartorn novels, published by Ace Books, and with his own father, Vic Del Carlo, on the urban fantasy book The Golden Gate Is Empty. He resides in his native California. Find him on Facebook for comments or questions:

Website: www.facebook.com/eric.delcarlo

Marcie Franks while a pseudonym has accomplished many things in their career, everything from publishing over 100 short stories around the world to novels in different languages. When not writing this author is working for other writers in assorted fields.

Sergio 'ente per ente' Polumbo is an Italian public servant who graduated from Law School working in the public real estate branch. He has published a Fantasy RolePlaying illustrated Manual, WarBlades, of more than 700 pages. Some of his works and short- stories have been published on American Aphelion Webzine, Weird Year, Quantum Muse, Antipodean SF, Schlock! Webzine, SQ Mag, etc.,and in print inside 32 American Horror/Sci-fi/Fantasy/Steampunk Anthologies, 52 British Horror/Sci-Fi Anthologies, 2 Urban Fantasy/Horror Canadian Anthology and 1 Sci-Fi Australian Anthology by various publishers, and 16 more to follow in 2017/2018

Jaap Boekestein (1968) is an award-winning Dutch writer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers and whatever takes his fancy. He usually writes his stories in trains, coffeehouses and in the 16th century taverns of his native The Hague, the Netherlands. Over the years he has made his living as a bouncer, working for a detective agency and as an editor. Website: www.jaapboekestein.com

Nicola Lombardi is member of the HWA and has published the novels Gypsy Spiders (2010), The Black Mother (2013), and The Tank (2015) as well as six collections of stories. Several of his tales have appeared in English, including in The Worlds of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror: II.

Website: www.nicolalombardi.com

J. Weintraub's fiction, plays, poetry, and essays have appeared in literary places and on stage throughout the world. His translations have been published in the USA, the UK, and Australia, and his annotated translation of Eugène Briffault's Paris à Table: 1846 was recently published by Oxford University Press.

Website: jweintraub.weebly.com

Mike Jansen publishes primarily in Dutch and English anthologies and magazines. He has won the Dutch King Kong Award in 1992, the Literary Prize of the city of Baarn and the prestigious Fantastels genre award. He has several fantasy novels out as well as story collections.

Website: www.meznir.info

Twitter: @MisterMeznir

Laurence Suhner is a Swiss science fiction novelist, graphic artist scriptwriter and illustrator. Born in Geneva, she studied Indian dance and music, attended four semesters of physics courses at the University of Geneva and studied egyptology, anthropology, English literature and 3D computer graphics. She is the author of QuanTika, a trilogy that stages the encounter between humans and an ancient stellar civilization, the Builders, which has left mysterious remnants on a frozen telluric exoplanet. Her first novel in that series, Vestiges, was published in 2012. It received the 2013 Futuriales Révélation Adulte award, as well as the 2013 Prix Bob Morane for best French language novel. This first volume has been translated into English but is as yet unpublished. The second volume, L'ouvreur des chemins, was published in 2013 and the third, Origines, in 2015. Fond of quantum physics and astrophysics, she loves to collaborate with scientists to create realistic imaginary worlds as depicted in hard science fiction. She teaches comics, scenario and creative writing at the University of Geneva and in a Swiss special effects and virtual reality school.

Sheryl Curtis. With undergraduate and graduate degrees in translation from the Université de Montréal and a doctorate in interdisciplinary studies from Concordia University, Sheryl Curtis is a professional translator living in Canada. Her translations have appeared in InterZone, Galaxy's Edge, Year's Best SF4, the SFWA European Hall of Fame, Expiration Date, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror 15, various Tesseracts anthologies, and elsewhere.

Bo Balder is the first Dutch author to have been published in Clarkesworld and F&SF. Her short fiction has also appeared in Escape Pod, Nature and other places. Her sf novel "The Wan" was published by Pink Narcissus Press. Website: www.boukjebalder.nl

Kain Massin is the nom de plume of a (now retired) high school teacher of Science and Mathematics. He has been writing since he was able to read English, slowly moving through different genres until he found SF, F and H. He has been successful in international short story contests and been published in Canada, the US, Europe and Australia. He won the 2008 ABC Fiction Award for his novel "A God For The Killing". That novel introduced two characters – the Roman pro-Consul, Gaius Septimus, and Judith, the slave girl he trained to be an assassin. This world inspired him to write several novellas based on the "Septimus and Me" brand. He also writes SF around the theme of "Ethics of Extinction" and has several short stories and novels under this banner. Kain Massin lives in Adelaide, South Australia and is a member of the Blackwood Writers Group, a formidable gathering of very talented writers.

Ville Meriläinen is a Finnish university student. His short fiction has appeared in various venues online and in print, including Cast of Wonders, Pseudopod, and Intergalactic Medicine Show. Sandy's adventures continue in the novelette "Operation Pixiepunk" and novel "30 Rounds of Silver," available on Amazon in early 2019.

Maarten Luikhoven works internationally for various employers. During long flights and in boarding areas he writes stories in small notebooks. Sometimes he is able to transfer these to a digital format, edit and even translate them. One of his stories reached the top 10 of the 'Fantasystrijd Brugge' (Fantasy Battle of Brueges) of 2012. His story, 'Wake', also appeared in the renowned Dutch EdgeZero Best of Dutch SF/F/H anthology as 'Kielzog'. He has had work appear in English and German. No website.

Tais Teng is a Dutch sf writer and illustrator with the quite unpronounceable name of Thijs van Ebbenhorst Tengbergen, which I shortened to Tais Teng to leave room for a picture on the covers of my novels. In my own language I have written about everything from radio-plays to hefty fantasy trilogies.

To date he sold thirty stories in the English language and one novel, The Emerald Boy. Phaedra: Alastor 824, set in the universe of Jack Vance, will be published in 2019 by Spatterlight.

English website: taisteng.atspace.com

Art: taisteng.deviantart.com

Robert N Stephenson has spent the last two decades working as either a writer, an editor, a publisher and a literary agent. He has sold over 100 short stories, sold 2 novels, wrote 3 writing courses (which are being taught through colleges) and has won numerous awards. The Worlds anthologies are his way of giving something back to the industry he loves.

