 
# WYRD WORLDS

Ebook edition

**Table of contents**

Title and copyright

WYRD WORLDS

Tales Of Erana - The Blue Phial by Alexandra Butcher

The Qrim Chieftian by Stan Morris

Antimatter Me by Steph Bennion

Explain That To A Martian by Gary Weston

The Imaginary Invasion by Ubiquitous Bubba

The Guns Of Napoleon by Peter Lean

Causality by Neil Shooter

Necromancer by Emma Faragher

Kira by Ross Harrison

In The Lap Of The Gods by Steph Bennion

Monday Imps by Alexandra Butcher

Separate Wars On The Same Street by Josh Karaczewski

Mesrin Station by L. L. Watkin

Half-Blood by Barbara G. Tarn

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Steph Bennion

Ubiquitous Bubba

Alexandra Butcher

Emma Faragher

Ross Harrison

Josh Karaczewski

Peter Lean

Stan Morris

Neil Shooter

Barbara G. Tarn

L. L. Watkin

Gary Weston

Please note that the hyperlinks within this ebook may not operate uniformly across all types of ebook reader hardware and software.

* * *

# WYRD WORLDS

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Foreword]

WYRDSTAR BOOKS

www.wyrdstar.co.uk

Copyright Notices:

_Tales Of Erana: The Blue Phial_ (c) Alexandra Butcher 2013

_The Qrim Chieftain_ (c) Stan Morris 2013

_Antimatter Me_ (c) Steph Bennion 2013

_Explain That To A Martian_ (c) Gary Weston 2013

_The Imaginary Invasion_ (c) Ubiquitous Bubba 2013

_The Guns Of Napoleon_ (c) Peter Lean 2013

_Causality_ (c) Neil Shooter 2013

_Necromancer_ (c) Emma Faragher 2013

_Kira_ (c) Ross Harrison 2013

_In The Lap Of The Gods_ (c) Steph Bennion 2013

_Monday Imps_ (c) Alexandra Butcher 2013

_Separate Wars On The Same Street_ (c) Josh Karaczewski 2013

_Mesrin Station_ (c) L. L. Watkin 2013

_Half-Blood_ (c) Barbara G. Tarn 2013

Cover artwork copyright (c) Ross Harrison 2013

www.ross-harrison.com

All rights reserved.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Smashwords license notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the shared copyrighted property of the contributing authors and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by the authors. Thank you for your support.

Smashwords publishing history

First published September 2013

Revised May 2014 (text corrections and endpaper update)

This short story anthology is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors' imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

* * * * *

# WYRD WORLDS
###  Foreword

[Title Page] [Contents] [Tales Of Erana: The Blue Phial]

WELCOME TO WYRD WORLDS! This anthology is a pure creation of the internet age: the work of an international collection of science-fiction and fantasy writers, all previously self-published authors, who have come together through the book recommendations site Goodreads to produce this very ebook you are now reading.

The stories in this collection cover a wide range of what is known as 'speculative fiction', from slices of fantasy and time travel to steampunk and science-fiction. The tales vary widely, yet are all born from the same drive to create, share ideas and above all to entertain:

_Tales Of Erana: The Blue Phial_ by Alexandra Butcher

_The Qrim Chieftain_ by Stan Morris

_Antimatter Me_ by Steph Bennion

_Explain That To A Martian_ by Gary Weston

_The Imaginary Invasion_ by Ubiquitous Bubba

_The Guns Of Napoleon_ by Peter Lean

_Causality_ by Neil Shooter

_Necromancer_ by Emma Faragher

_Kira_ by Ross Harrison

_In The Lap Of The Gods_ by Steph Bennion

_Monday Imps_ by Alexandra Butcher

_Separate Wars On The Same Street_ by Josh Karaczewski

_Mesrin Station_ by L. L. Watkin

_Half-Blood_ by Barbara G. Tarn

This volume is offered free for your reading pleasure and to provide a taster of the world of self publishing. If you like what you have read, further details of other works by the contributing authors can be found at the end of this ebook. In the meantime, enjoy!

Steph Bennion

Editor

September 2013

* * * * *

# TALES OF ERANA: THE BLUE PHIAL

### Alexandra Butcher

[Foreword] [Contents] [The Qrim Chieftain]

A short story from the world of 'The Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles'.

HELVIRA RELMIS was an elderly woman, but skilled in the profession of herbalist. Her potions were renowned among men and women alike, many of her younger counterparts asked for the secrets she carried only to receive a smile. Even the Order of Witch-Hunters of Erana turned to her from time to time, overlooking her magical ability as it suited them in return for her knowledge. Of course, Helvira should have long ago ended her days in a dungeon, or the Enclave where most elves and half-elves ended up, as slaves and servants to the humans. As she peered in the light of the glowglobe Helvira recounted her blessings and her adventurous life. The book before her was old, even older than she, with a cover of black leather now faded to russet, and many extra pages and scraps of parchment, even velum. The rather wild and unkempt condition of the tome was a stark contrast to drawings of such detail they seemed to leap from the pages and fill every available space, alongside a rather laboriously written but meticulous set of notes.

However, her eyes had grown dim. Even an herbalist and sorceress marks the passing of the years with trepidation, then it becomes the passing of the months and finally each day is precious.

"Caterina, my young apprentice, my days grow ever less. You, only of my pupils possess the talents with which the gods chose to grace me and so to you I impart the final lesson of your training. A lesson and a gift before I go to the Other World."

The young woman Caterina drew the blanket about the old woman and shook her head, wishing not to lose her friend and her guide. "Mistress, it will be many years. You have strength and a courage few possess. I do not wish to be alone, I am not ready and not worthy."

Helvira chuckled. "My girl, this world has seen enough of me. Fortune has been mine, even wealth, and I have counted amongst my customers both rich and poor. I have even the respect of the Witch-Hunters and no other elf or half-elf can have claim of that. But my time is done, my eyes fail, and my body yearns for release. It is time to move on, but you must promise you shall continue what has begun. This world has much darkness, much strife and yet there is love, there is knowledge and there is humour if only one seeks it."

"Many have asked of me my secrets and to none have I divulged. Not even you know all. Here, in my last days is the final wisdom." She pushed the journal forward, now tied with a long black ribbon. "This must not be opened until I have gone. In the meantime I shall tell you a story."

Caterina felt the tears well in her eyes but she was a dutiful girl and, after stoking the fire to a bright amber blaze, she settled in the offered chair in the small cottage. She had never been allowed to view the journal and more than once had tried to use her cunning to secure its secrets but her mistress guarded it carefully, telling her, "One day."

"This is a tale which will amuse and which will teach. There are many recipes, as you know. Recipes to provide aid, to suppress pain and potions and poultices to sooth."

"Mistress I know this. Your teaching is thorough."

Helvira chuckled once again. "Is that so? You are barely a woman, still a maid and so perhaps my teaching has overlooked one or two matters."

Blushing, Caterina mumbled, "I know about babies. I am not foolish."

"Ah, of course you do, but let me continue."

"When I was a young woman, no older than you are now, I was apprenticed to a half-elven woman. She was witty and beautiful, or so she had been told, and lived life as she chose it. She would entertain men, and sometimes I would wonder what happened, for I was then young and innocent. She sold many mysterious potions, the knowledge of which she kept to herself, simply smiling and saying they were the best she sold and their secrets would be mine one day. As her light dimmed as mine is doing she passed to me a journal, recounting her life, for she had been a courtesan, amongst other professions, and had lived a life of adventure and of passion. Being of an inquiring mind she learned what she could, for she knew that as time passed her looks would fade and men would desire her no longer, and she would have to make her living another way. As she was fading, as I am now, she told me this tale."

"Amongst her varied knowledge she held the recipe for two potions; opposites of the same coin, you might say. One would inflame the ardour of a lover, for sometimes lovemaking needs a little help and the other would dampen it, for sometimes it needs quenching. These potions are complex, but with these she could hold a man, or dissuade him and with these she had made much coin. In such a world as ours, women must take all the power they can over the menfolk, for there is little enough granted us. Especially those of elven heritage."

"One day, we were at a fair, selling what we could and we saw a richly-dressed human matron standing with two men, one an old man the other a great deal younger. I took the older fellow for husband and the younger for son. He was handsome and carried himself proudly. The old man was not handsome, nor elegant to my young eyes, simply an Elder, much like the rest. In a loud voice the woman announced to her menfolk she wished to buy some tonics and washes for her skin and thus she came to our stall. After some time of browsing and selecting minor concoctions she whispered to my lady, 'Mistress Herbalist, have you a brew to help me with a problem of an intimate nature? For I have a husband whose attentions are unwanted and unpleasing.' Looking back briefly she leant forward, 'When one has a lover at my age I do not wish for a husband demanding his rights. Perhaps you have also something to assist... with you know.' My lady was trying not to laugh, as the matron had coloured to a bright crimson blush. The menfolk talked together, unknowing of the discussion."

Pointing to an old chest, she motioned Caterina to open it and from a dusty recess a bottle of jade green and another of bright blue appeared.

"These are such, although in the case of my old mentor the bottles were of clay and the same hue and the labels were coloured. It is the case that many cannot read, even among the wealthy classes, but glass is costly and thus the labels were coloured. My lady motioned to the bottle which carried the label of green, 'Do not over use this, such stimulation is not always healthy and for a man to die such in your bed would cause many unanswerable questions. Alendre's Elixir it is and two drops in wine or ale should suffice for your pleasure and his.' Wrapping the phial in cloth of green, she motioned to the other. 'This is Orrman's Elixir and a similar quantity should be used to dampen the fires of passion. Do not overuse this, lest the effects become unfortunate for the gentleman concerned. Both are marked if you can read and if you cannot read remember the labels.' Paying the required price plus extra, the matron moved off with her menfolk. Such potions then were beyond my knowledge, as were the pleasures of the bedchamber and I was shocked a respectable woman would take a lover. My lady simply laughed and told me, 'One day you will use your knowledge to much advantage, one day that may be you, Helvira.' Of course I blushed and stammered by denial as a respectable young woman should."

Caterina blushed. She was indeed a maiden and although she had looked upon men with curiosity was a modest girl. Helvira chuckled to see the blush and continued her tale.

"One day, Caterina, you will appreciate the knowledge also. Now where was I? Ah, some days after this the woman returned, for the fair continued a week or so. The old man looked rather subdued and the woman angry. She pointed to my mistress and cried, 'Witch, you have poisoned my lover and left my husband a randy beast! Those wicked potions you sold me! Evil woman, I shall have the Witch-Hunters on you.' Of course my mistress was afraid, as was I, for the even then the Order were ruthless and cruel and our kind lived and died at their discretion."

Clapping her hand over her mouth with fear and shock, Caterina paled, for she too knew what could befall a mage. "Why had she poisoned them? Had she made a mistake? What happened next?"

"The old man leant forward and hissed, 'At my age I need all the help I can get in that department. I do not need to be poisoned with potions. The blue phial, the terrible blue phial it leaves a man incapable, full of shame and without hope. This woman's husband has been demanding his pleasures day and night for a week! She has not the energy, even if I were able!'"

"My mistress looked at the old woman and asked, 'He is your lover? You were meant to give to him the green phial, the green label. See here I have another the same; you may read it or get someone to read it for you. The blue phial was meant for your amorous husband.' By this point, my mistress was trying not to laugh at the unfortunate couple. For we had both assumed the younger man was a son or lover. The old man looked at his lover and muttered, 'Foolish woman, you mixed them up! See, I can read even if you cannot. Did you not hear the herbalist correctly? Oh my shame! And we would have called the Order down upon her for your mistake.' He waved away the Witch-Hunters now paying us too much attention and went to explain a mistake had been made, for it seemed this day fortune was with us and he was man enough to pacify the Order, even if he was not able to do much else."

"The woman was supplied with a return of her money, for although it was not our error my lady was cautious to keep her customer and keep her safety. I asked later whether perhaps it had been a ruse, for sometimes folk are not honest and play tricks to gain back money or gain free items from honest vendors. Mistress chuckled and said were it so, it was the most amusing and most brazen ploy in all her years."

Caterina looked upon the old woman with sadness. She saw the lines upon her face, but as they sat together before the fire she saw also the resignation and even perhaps contentment.

So it was, as night passed into day, the old woman passed into the Other World, softly as a mist upon the ground and when Caterina awoke from the doze she had been unable to hold off, her mentor and friend had gone.

Tears running from her eyes, she opened the journal and read aloud, "The Journal of Helvira Relmis, herbalist and courtesan, a life well lived is precious indeed."

Softly a scrap of paper fluttered out and she picked it up.

"My final lesson, child, now you take my place... Always read the label."

* * *

Alex Butcher _is a British writer of dark adult fantasy and fantasy romance. She has written two novels in the 'Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles' series, with more to follow._

* * * * *

# THE QRIM CHIEFTAIN

### Stan Morris

[Tales Of Erana: The Blue Phial] [Contents] [Antimatter Me]

When a haughty princess scorns a barbarian chieftain, her city pays the price.

After the Beginning

WHEN GAYIANA turned the corner, the chatter of the other girls ceased. They stared at her, some with concern on their faces, others with sympathy, one with a barely concealed smirk. She joined the group, and they padded on bare feet along the cool, richly tiled corridor towards the room that had been converted into a classroom.

"Are you well, Princess?" Peppe, daughter of a formerly high noble whispered. "Has he...? I mean... does he...?"

"Shush," exclaimed one of the other girls, and the rest, including the smirker, glanced nervously up and down the corridor in case one of the barbarians had happened to overhear.

"My name is Gaysha now, Peppe," she replied, her words firm. "You must never call me by that title again."

"I'm sorry," Peppe answered, her eyes downcast.

"Come. Say my name."

"Gaysha. Your name is Gaysha."

Gay gave her friend a brave smile. "It's a pretty name."

"For a barbarian," someone muttered, but they had arrived at their class, so Gay did not reply.

Sia Sterna was already inside waiting along with the rest of the girls, and when they saw their teacher the late group hastily took their places on the grass mats. On the very first day of class, one of the girls had answered Sterna insolently, and the old barbarian crone had hauled the offender by an ear to the front of the class, and had repeatedly struck the poor girl's bare bottom with a short thin stick as punishment for the offence. Sia Sterna was fond of her stick, and by now all of them, including Gay, had felt the stinging chastisement of that instrument on their tender rear ends.

" _E ador, zee_ ," Sia Sterna began, and obediently the girls echoed her.

In the language of the barbarian Qrim, the words meant, "I love you, master."

Each day the girls attended language class. Gay's mat was one of four in the third row. She sat on the far right; one of sixteen girls in the class. Her mat's position was unremarkable, and it was another indication of her diminished status, sitting as it did among girls who had formerly been palace servants, or ladies-in-waiting. They were all the same now; the property of the Qrim invaders. Already this was beginning to seem normal to Gay, and memories of her brief time as ruler of her realm were beginning to fade.

Sometimes at night, she dreamed of the day the chieftain of the Qrim stood before her and asked permission for his people to cross her land to more distant places where the land was uninhabited, and there was plenty of water.

* * *

The Beginning

"I will not have herders of sheep and goats fouling the grasses of Prowd. I vow that if even a single one of you places a foot in my realm, even though it be one of your filthy toddlers, I will bind every one of you in chains."

The chieftain held his temper and replied, "We will not disturb much, and we will be gone in a short time. The land far beyond is empty, and the rains fill many streams. My people need that land."

The man standing before her was dressed in grey wool trousers and an open vest which did not hide his muscular body. His hair was black; the common color among the Qrim, and his eyes matched his hair. He towered over the Prowd men.

"I've given you too much of my time," Gayiana exclaimed impatiently. "Begone."

Visitors to the city of Prowd were rare and were usually merchants seeking cotton. The land about Prowd was grassland, grain fields, and cotton fields and of little significance in the world. There were herds of cattle, but the breed was known for its tough meat and was only used in stews and hashes. There were no minerals in the ground to be coveted by their neighbors. As far as they knew, they had no neighbors.

"Please," the man repeated. "We will be gone soon."

"Take him," she ordered her men. "Toss him into the street."

The man did not resist when her guards grabbed him. Yelling at his insolence toward the Princess, the guards pulled and shoved him out of the palace and down the long set of stone steps. When they reached the bottom step, they shoved him forward. The Qrim chieftain lost his balance and fell onto the rain soak ground. The guards laughed as he struggled to his feet, but they waited in vain for him to rail impotently. Instead, grim faced, he turned and addressed the young ruler who had followed them out of the palace.

"You are beautiful but ill-mannered. I will return and teach you manners."

Gay's fair face reddened almost to the color of her hair. "Beat him before you remove him from my city," she ordered.

The Qrim man was immediately set on by the palace guards. They struck him with their fists and even with the sides of their lances. Later, he was still staggering from the blows by the time he passed the city walls. His horse, tied to a nearby water pump, skittered sideways as he approached, smelling the man's blood. He mounted his steed and used his booted heels to hurry the horse forward. Soon he disappeared behind a low hill, swaying on his horse as they went. But the chieftain was a strong man, and he did not take long to recover his strength. He journeyed to the northeast for three days, and at the end of the third day he reached his people. Their flocks of goats and sheep were immense, yet they possessed almost no horses. He had traveled to the city of Prowd on one of the few steeds his people owned. But they had something else. The Qrim chieftain and his warriors returned to the city of Prowd, riding upon huge, swift running beasts that had wide black wings and sharp purple beaks.

"Princess, I have never see beasts such as these," the breathless scout reported. "Though I have heard of them. They are called _emusi_. They have swept aside General Coquila and his troops."

"Impossible," the Princess exclaimed. "The General's troops are our elite. It must have been a trick."

Prudently the scout did not point out that the General's elite troops were chosen from the sons of the most important city fathers, and that they had never fought anyone other than a few old hill bandits.

He had more to report. "When the rest of the army saw the General's defeat, and saw the fierce faces of the Qrim, and heard the triumphant roar of the _emusi_ , they fled back to the city."

"Yes, we are aware of that," the Princess answered icily. "The cowards are safe behind the wall."

"For the moment, perhaps," murmured the scout, his eyes downcast.

Soon the barbarians encircled the city. Those Prowd people who were outside entered the city or fled into the surrounding hills. Gay watched from a wide balcony, stunned by the unexpected change in the cities circumstances.

She asked the captain of her guards, "Can they breech our wall?"

"Never, Your Highness," the man answered, but his tone suggested false bravado.

There was a cry from the east, and when Gay turned in that direction, she gasped at the sight of a beast's head peering over the wall, and she could see the tips of its wings as it labored to lift itself. Though the _emusian_ could fly to only a short height, it was high enough for them to reach the top of the walls where the Qrim could enter the city. The barbarians smashed their way forward, and others of their people followed them. Watching from the balcony on the second story of the palace, Gay trembled when she saw how easily the Qrim took the city. Indeed, within the hour the barbarians had forced the gates, and the Qrim streamed into the city. When her personal guards fled, Gay realized that her reign had ended. Paralyzed from shock she waited, expecting to be slain very soon, and her terror caused her to hope her end would be quick.

"There!"

One of the invaders was pointing toward her balcony. She threw herself back, but it was too late. The Qrim chieftain and his men surged into the palace, fought off the few remaining guards, and barged into the room where the Princess hid, her body was shaking from fright. The Qrim chieftain spied Gay cowering under the lamé-covered table. The thin copper fabric could not hide the Princess from his sight. Tears were streaming down her face which was covered by her long red hair.

Gay cried for mercy when she felt the barbarian's rough hand grasp her ankle and pull her from the useless sanctuary, and her screams and sobs increased when she felt him tear at the blue royal robes covering her body. In seconds he stripped Gay naked, and naked he carried her to the balcony's parapet. His people had streamed into the city, and they had gathered in the square below the palace. The Qrim chieftain lifted Gay by her waist, tossed her into the air, caught her under her shoulders and buttocks, and held the girl over his head for all his people to see. They roared with victory and laughter, and she wailed at the blue cloudless sky, certain that the barbarian was about to throw her to her death on the hard mud-baked ground. She felt her water release, and it trickled down her leg, but she was too terrified to feel embarrassment.

Then he lowered the girl to her bare feet, pulled her over his lap, and spanked the former ruler as he would an unruly child. Gay howled with pain, and the crowd's laughter grew louder. After what seemed like hours, she was set on her feet again. He reached into a pocket on his brown trousers, and she flinched when his hand approached her face, but he was holding a linen rag, and he used it to wipe her tears, though it was some time before she was able to cease crying. He took her face between his rough hands and waited. Finally, she was able to focus on his Qrim face framed by his long black hair.

"Listen carefully. Kay, Sio. Repeat those words."

"Kay Sio," she managed to say as she was sucking in breaths.

"Good. In your language, those words mean, 'Yes, Sir.' Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand," she replied hastily.

Gay wondered when he would kill her. Perhaps he intended to torture her first. Each living minute now seemed precious. Staring into his face, she trembled.

"Say the words."

For a moment, she did not understand, but when his visage darkened she exclaimed, "Kay Sio."

The expression on his face eased. He nodded. "Good. This city, its inhabitants, its treasure, and you. Everything here, now belongs to the Qrim. To me. Do you understand?"

It took a long moment for his words to register with the terrified girl, and then her tear-reddened eyes dropped, and she whispered, "Kay Sio."

He placed long fingers under Gay's chin and raised it, so he could look into her eyes. He stared into them for a long time, and perhaps what he saw pleased him, for though his expression was stern, he said, "Good. The inflection is wrong, but the words are sincere. For now. I promised to teach you manners, and I will. Understand?"

She vigorously shook her head and said, "Kay, Sio. Please don't kill me."

"Better. I will give you to our women, and they will attend you, so you may be dressed properly. Later, you will be presented to me."

"Kay, Sio." She was learning. His words suggested that she might live for at least a little while longer.

Surrounding her was the noise of the palace as it was invested by the Qrim. Shouts and orders rang out from the invaders. Palace bureaucrats who administered the city were allowed to stay, but others were forced into the streets to seek shelter elsewhere. Some of the nobles remained upon orders from the Qrim chieftain. These nobles would become hostages, so their families would not raise a revolt. Many of Gay's ladies-in-waiting were among them.

The Qrim chieftain grabbed Gay by her upper arm and marched her into the palace. Now that the fighting was over, some of his people were wandering around, fingering the adornments; perhaps sneaking a small item into a convenient bag.

"Bliss," the chieftain called, and a young startled woman turned away from some gold laced draperies.

"What is your name?" the chieftain asked Gay.

"Princess Gayiana, Kay, Sio," she replied swiftly.

"In this case you should have answered, 'Gayiana, Great Sio.' You are a Princess no longer. But no matter. You will learn. I give you a new name, 'Gaysha.' 'Sha' means 'servant' in our language."

To Bliss he said, "Take this useless servant to the bathing chamber and prepare her for my pleasure."

Gay was escorted to the bathing chamber by the two older Qrim women. Bliss had a kind smile, and she seemed to have some sympathy in her eyes for Gay, but the other woman sniffed at Gay.

"Phew," the other woman said to Bliss while holding her nose. "How can the girl stand to wear that reeking oil?"

The barbarian woman was speaking of the perfumes that were applied to Princess Gayiana daily by her servants. Apparently, the Qrim wore no perfumes and had a distaste for the odors. They scrubbed the girl rigorously to remove the scents.

"They are different than us," Bliss replied as she soaped Gay's hair. "Perhaps they cannot smell as well."

What followed was exceedingly embarrassing, for the Qrim women removed their body hair, except that which grew on the top of their heads, and Gay found this was not only embarrassing, it was also painful. When they finished, they wove Gay's long red hair into many thin intricate braids. Then the women dressed the girl, and she experienced a new horror, for she learned that new servants of the Qrim were dressed in nothing more than leggings, strips of white cloth, which only reached to the tops of their thighs and were tied with twine. She stared at her image in a large oval mirror, too stunned by what she saw to even shed tears. Gone was the Princess, and in her place was a sensual barbarian plaything. Gay feared that if death was not imminent, this image might represent what was.

"If you are obedient, you may earn the _prong_ , the apron we wear."

Bliss pointed to the small skirt which she and the other woman were wearing. The skirt hung several inches below their crotches, and it had a piece of cloth beneath which connected the front and back, modestly covering their private womanly parts. Armless wool tunics covered their upper bodies, and they wore the same brown leggings they had wrapped around Gay's legs. Bliss remained when the other woman left.

"Listen carefully," she instructed Gay. "If you follow my directions, Sio Destinee will be pleased, and if you do not, he will be angered. Go to the throne room. Next to the throne, you will find a bear's fur pelt, a leather collar, and a chain with a lock and key. Sit on the pelt, fasten the collar around your neck, and lock it to the chain. Throw the key into the center of the room and wait." Bliss turned and left the room.

It was a moment before Gay realized that she was alone. Immediately, escape crossed her mind. _I could flee from the palace. Surely there are Prowd citizens who would succor me._ Indecisive, she stood for several minutes, contemplating her choices, but she knew from the first moment what her decision must be. _What if people were punished for helping me? And truly, where could I go?_ This was her home.

She went to the doorway and looked right and left along the corridor. Then, covering her body with her hands as best she could, she hurried along the hallways until she entered the throne room which was empty. Along the way she passed startled palace inhabitants who stared at her body until they realized who she was. They stiffened and raised their eyes until she passed. Worse, she passed male barbarians who leered at her body.

Her former throne sat on a long wide dais, and beside it lay the black bear pelt of which Bliss had spoken. Gay seated herself on the pelt. The leather collar was lying on the side closest to the throne, and the bronze chain was already attached to a rear gold plated throne leg. Gay picked up the collar and stared at it, hesitant at first to fasten it around her neck, but when she heard rough voices approaching, she quickly threaded the chain through an iron ring. She turned the key until she heard the lock click and then she threw the key into the center of the room just as the first man entered. It was the Qrim chieftain, and he was followed by a dozen of his warriors. At first they didn't see Gay sitting on the bear pelt. They were arguing.

"Why shouldn't we sack this city?" a warrior asked in a belligerent raised voice. "It is ours. We captured it."

The chieftain spun. "This city is mine. I will rule here. If you destroy any part of it, you are destroying my property. If you take a woman, you are taking my woman. If you kill a man, you are killing my man. If you do, I will kill you."

His voice was fierce and it caused the others to draw away and fall into silence for a few minutes.

And then a warrior, braver than the others, asked, "Will you stay in this city? Will you abandon your people?"

"I will remain in the city, but I am not abandoning my people. The grass to the east is good, but our animals will need many acres to graze. Those who will, may stay with them and move them when they need to be moved. But the old, and those women without a man, and our orphans; those I will move into this city. That way our people need never fear this place. I will rule here. I will be king."

The other men glanced at each other, for this was unexpected.

Then the first warrior bowed and said, "So be it. In your name, I will lead those of our people who wish to stay with our animals. We will go to the grass and dwell in the fields as we have always dwelt. But we will acknowledge you as our king, though you remain here."

"But surely we may take what we need from the city," another warrior protested.

"Yes, you may take whatever our people need. But do not destroy needlessly, and if you wish to take a woman, bring her here first so that I may say yea or nay. But take only those women who are likely to survive in the fields, and take only unwed women. These useless female ornaments who wander around this palace may seem tempting, but they will never last in the wild, so leave them be, and I will find a use for them."

Another warrior spoke. "Great Sio, may those of your men who wish to remain in the city do so? I am old, and I have no close family left, and I am tired of the hard ground at night. I would like to lie on one of these raised beddings, preferably with a young ornament beneath me."

The other warriors laughed.

"You may remain," the Great Sio replied, smiling. "And any others who wish to remain may do so. And those in the fields who wish to leave for a time and enter the city may do so, also. This city is our home now."

"Until the Xavin come," a man muttered, and the rest fell silent for a moment.

"There are merchants outside who wish to speak to you, Great Sio," a man informed the chieftain.

"I will speak to them. Send them in."

The Qrim dispersed except for the chieftain and two others. The chieftain strode to the dais, and after a brief glance at Gay, he seated himself on the throne. The other two men stood before him as if they were guards; one on either side. Gay could hear others approaching from outside the throne room, and her face became hot. She had no doubt that she was being punished for the way she had treated the Great Sio, but she did not know how far her punishment would extend. Impulsively she spoke.

"Great Sio, may I cover myself?"

The Qrim chieftain looked sideways and down at her. "Your knees must remain on the pelt, but your hands are free."

Immediately Gay covered her breasts and crotch with her hands, bowed her head to the pelt, and replied, "Kay, Great Sio."

When Gay raised her head and glanced up at him, he had a half smile on his stern face. She had pleased him with her words. She wanted to ask questions as to her fate, but prudently she kept silent as the merchants of Prowd entered the throne room. Many were startled to see the former Princess, almost naked, collared and chained like an animal. Gay could almost feel their distress, curiosity, and unnatural obsession. More than one leered at her, though most were concerned with their own stations, and many had been injured when the city was conquered.

"Kneel," barked the guard to the left of the chieftain.

The merchants knelt, some swiftly, some slowly due to their injuries. They bowed their heads and remained silent for many minutes, and then the chieftain spoke.

"For the most part you may keep your goods, but if one of the Qrim requires something from you, you will give it up willingly, unless it be a wife or daughter. Your wives you can keep, and your daughters too, unless one of my men wishes to take her for his wife. Your sons will not be slain if they are obedient, and they will inherit your goods, but know this. You, your families, and your goods are my property, and you keep them at my whim. They may be confiscated at any time, and if you challenge my rule, they will be. You belong to the Qrim now."

There was a restless murmuring in the room, and Gay feared that the merchants of Prowd were about to protest the chieftain's edict.

She bowed her head to the pelt and said loudly, "Kay, Great Sio."

After a startled moment the merchants echoed her words. "Kay, Great Sio."

Gay did not dare to raise her head for she was sure that the chieftain's baleful gaze was fixed on her. She was right.

"You may leave," he stated abruptly. The merchants rose and left the palace.

"I did not give you permission to speak, Gaysha," the chieftain said.

"Forgive me, Great Sio," Gaysha replied, her forehead still pressed to the fur.

The chieftain grunted. Perhaps it was an acknowledgement that she had spoken wisely.

"Come here."

Gaysha rose and stepped to the edge of the throne. The chieftain grasped her wrist and pulled her up onto his lap. He seated her facing forward with her back to his chest. He spread her legs wide so they draped over his thighs. She had never felt so vulnerable. Her breath quickened, and she feared what he would do next.

"Gather the palace Prowds," he commanded his guards. "Bring them here."

"Please, Great Sio," she whispered. If he intended to humiliate her, he was succeeding.

"I said you may use your hands as you wish."

Most of those who had populated the palace were brought to the throne room. There were lowly scouring boys, milkers, cooks and their assistants, chambermaids, guards who had not escaped, footmen, even the gardeners. Gay's ladies-in-waiting were assembled also, and they averted their eyes from the girl who had been their ruler only hours before. Gay closed her eyes and curled up as best she could on her captor's lap, and he allowed it.

"Your city is mine," the chieftain began, speaking to the assembled palace Prowds. "And you are mine; every stick of wood, every brick, your sons, daughters, your husbands and wives, they are mine. Obey my commands and you will not suffer. Disobey and suffer my wrath."

There was a sullen murmur from the assembled, and then the assembly was interrupted by a man dragging a young woman into the room, and by other men who marched in a young man, chained and shackled. Gay knew by his voice who the young man was, but she only gained the identity of the young woman when she opened her eyes for one brief moment. Persephia was struggling against the older man who had a firm grasp on her upper arm.

"Let go of me," she cried.

"Caught this one hiding in a food cache," the old man explained.

"It's called a pantry, you barbarian idiot."

The man may have been old, but when he heard Persephia's impudent words he lifted the girl and shook her until her teeth chattered. The other barbarians hooted in derision, some at Persephia, some at the old man who they called Claudian. When her captor released her, Persephia staggered back, her eyes wide with fright. The Prowd people muttered angrily at this.

"You're brave men when it comes to battling women," the chained young man sneered. Abruptly the laughter ceased, and Qrim angry looks were directed his way.

"Let the Princess Gayiana go," one of the older Prowds said suddenly. "You are not our ruler. She is. Take what you will from us and begone."

"I should take your head first," the barbarian chieftain retorted.

Gayiana was alarmed at what she had heard, and she was terrified that the worst was about to occur. She raised her head and then uncurled.

"If it please you, Great Sio," she blurted. "May I speak?"

The chieftain scowled at her, but he said, "Speak."

He lifted her by her waist and set her on her feet before him. Surprised at this movement, she involuntarily covered herself once again as her whole body reddened. Then she straightened and forced her hands to her sides.

"Prowd people, listen to me. My name is not Gayiana. That was my old name when I was... That was my old name. My name now is Gaysha, and I belong to the Great Sio, as do we all. I beg you, please accept what is, and do not look back to what was."

She forced herself to make eye contact with each of the Prowds. It was difficult in the case of the chained man, for he had been rumored to be the Prowd Council's choice for her paramour. But her eyes met his eyes, and they remained locked to his until he bent his head and nodded. The other Prowd people nodded as well, including the young woman. Then Gaysha turned and climbed onto the lap of the Great Sio. She spread her legs on either side of his and made no attempt to cover herself. When the Prowd people saw this, they let out sighs of resignation.

"Kneel," the Great Sio commanded, and the Prowd people knelt, acknowledging their new ruler.

There were other words spoken, and then the Prowd people were allowed to leave and to return to their places in the palace. But before the young woman was led from the room, one of the guards at the side of the Great Sio spoke.

"Great Sio," he said. "May I have the girl?"

The man holding the girl's arm stopped and looked back at the throne. The girl had not been paying attention, so her look was puzzled.

The Great Sio laughed. "Marquus, you always like the feisty ones. Very well, you may claim her, but only if you can make her claim you."

The other barbarians laughed, but Marquus only grinned and replied, "I will see what I may accomplish."

There was another general laugh. Marquus left his position by the throne and approached Persephia. When he lifted his hand to the girl's chin, she shrank away. Another roar of laughter spilled from the men waiting to see what would happen.

"What is your name, Prowd girl?" Marquus asked.

"My name is Persephia, dumb barbarian," she answered defiantly. More laughter filled the room, including that from Marquus.

"I give you a new name, Prowd girl. From this day forward you will be known as Peppesha. I will teach you many things about our people, and here is the first."

To Gay's surprise, the man took Persephia's head in his hands, bent his head, and placed his lips on hers. For a moment he held his place, and then he raised his head. Persephia's eyes were wide from bewilderment, and her mouth was partly open. She raised her hand and placed two fingers where the man's lips had pressed against hers. Gaysha was puzzled also, and she tilted her head backwards and looked up, wondering if the Great Sio would explain. But the barbarian acted as if the man's action was perfectly normal.

Persephia was led away. Gay was lifted again and placed on her feet. The Great Sio nodded toward the bear pelt, and Gay obediently took her place. Then the Great Sio retrieved the key to the lock and unfastened it. The chain was left attached to the rear leg of the throne. The Great Sio stared down at his captive.

"You did well, Gaysha. I intend to rule this city, so I do not wish to punish the people more than necessary. Understand?"

Gay shook her head up and down and replied, "Kay, Great Sio."

"Because of your words, I have unchained you, but you will continue to wear my collar until I see fit to remove it. And for the moment you will sleep on that fur. That is your place for now."

Gay lowered her eyes and said, "Kay, Great Sio."

The Great Sio rose, took off his cloak, and draped it over Gaysha's shoulders.

When Gaysha saw that he was leaving, she said hastily, "Great Sio?"

He turned. "Yes?"

"What Marquus did to Pers... to Peppesha. Why? What was that?"

"That was called a 'kiss'."

"What was it for? Was it punishment of some sort?"

The barbarian smiled a real smile without a trace of menace.

"It was not punishment, Gaysha. You will discover that for yourself."

Gay hesitated and then said, "Great Sio, please don't kill me."

He bent, took her chin with his hand, and gave it a slight squeeze. She felt his strength.

"I have no reason to kill you," he said quietly, but in a hard tone. "Don't give me one."

"Kay, Great Sio." Relief filled her. She hoped he was telling the truth.

The chieftain left the room. The adrenaline from the day's excitement and terror was used up. Exhausted, Gay covered herself with the chieftain's cloak and lay down. As she drifted toward sleep, she noted the scent of the chieftain on his cloak, and that it was not unpleasant.

She was awakened by Bliss shaking her shoulder.

"Gaysha, wake up."

Gaysha sat up and rubbed her eyes. Memory returned, and so did her fears, and she looked up at Bliss with anxious eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, but it's time for you to rise and assume your new duties."

Gaysha soon found herself in the palace kitchen, shivering in the morning cold along with her former ladies-in-waiting and other palace girls. Some of these were kitchen servants, and they were already going about their business. The noble girls were told by Bliss to watch what the servant girls were doing, for the nobles would be taking the place of the servants. Gay was assigned to a scullery maid who showed the former princess how to clean the vegetables and how to pluck a fat brown chicken. It was evident that the cooks and their assistants were finding it difficult to give orders to the former noble girls, but under the watchful eyes of Bliss and another Qrim woman they managed to prepare breakfast. There was one benefit to their tasks; they were allowed to wear an apron as they worked.

As she scrubbed dirt from a pile of carrots, Gay began to hear voices coming from the huge dining hall where the new rulers of Prowd were assembling. Peppe was assigned to carry plates and platters into the dining hall, and once when she returned, she was followed by Marquus. Grinning he crooked his finger at her. Nervously, she wiped her hands on her apron and came to stand before him. As before, he took her head between his hands and pressed his lips to hers. Then he tousled her hair and left the kitchen, still grinning.

"Why does he do that?" one of the girls asked.

"I don't know," Peppe replied.

"It's called a 'kiss'," Gay interjected. "The Great Sio told me."

"Did he say what it was for, Princess?" another asked.

"Hush," Bliss exclaimed in a low voice. "Never call Gaysha by that title unless you wish her harm."

The girls fell into a subdued silence, and then Gay asked, "Bliss, do you know why the men of Qrim kiss?"

"It is not only the men of Qrim who kiss," Bliss replied. "Kissing is common among people in the north. Both men and women do so."

"But why?"

"It is a sign of affection. A mother might kiss her children. A child might kiss a mother. A man or woman might kiss a mate."

"Why does Marquus kiss Perseph... I mean Peppe?"

"Yes, why does he?" Peppe asked.

"It is a sign that you intrigue him. He finds you interesting. He likes you."

Peppe's eyes opened wide. One of the girls giggled.

"You will be a barbarian's mate," the giggler said.

"No, I won't," Peppe snapped.

"As if we have any say in the matter," another girl said in a low voice filled with gloom.

"Back to work," Bliss ordered sharply, and hastily the girls resumed their tasks.

When the morning meal had been prepared and served, the kitchen workers ate together in the hall, except for Gaysha and the other scullery maids who ate in the kitchen while they watched the food that was being readied for the mid-day meal and washed the pots and platters from the first meal. Later, the former noble girls were allowed to leave. Bliss escorted them to a windowless room in the center of the palace that had previously been used as an office for a palace functionary. It had been converted into a classroom, and a sour-looking older woman was waiting for them.

"This is Sia Sterna," Bliss explained. "You must learn the language of the Qrim, and Sia Sterna will be your teacher."

The girls started to ask questions, and Bliss was patiently attempting to answer them when suddenly Sia Sterna approached and said tartly, "Off with you, Bliss, else you will feel my stick on your useless rump. Do you think you are too old?"

Bliss jumped backwards a pace. "No, Sia Sterna," she replied, and she turned and fled from the classroom.

Scowling, Sia Sterna addressed the other girls. "I have requested mats from the Great Sio. They will be delivered tomorrow morning, so for today you will sit on the floor."

From that day, Gaysha worked in the kitchen or with one of the palace floor scrubbers in the mornings, and in the afternoons she attended language classes. It was a dramatic change from the relaxed luxurious life she had led as the princess of Prowd. At first her muscles were sore, and she groaned as she lay on her pelt at night next to her old throne. Gradually she got used to the routine. She did not complain about her circumstance. The Great Sio had said he would not kill her, and she was grateful for that, because it was common for the victors of a battle to slay the rulers they had conquered. Gay was glad to be alive, and she was glad that her city had not suffered much when the Qrim took control. When she became fully aware of the size, and strength of the Qrim warriors, both men and women, she marveled that any of the Prowd people believed there had been a chance to defeat them. They were not much interested in the trappings of civilization. Their leader ordered them to collect many of the lush furnishings in the palace, and he gave the goods to those Qrim who had moved with their animals away from the city.

Each day the Qrim chieftain held court in the throne room, and sometimes in the late afternoon when she was finished with her class, Gay would sit on the bear pelt and watch him. He was not much interested in the gifts given to him by those who wished to curry favor. He was mostly interested in news from afar; east, west, south, and north. A stranger who chanced to visit Prowd was likely to find himself standing before the throne and being closely questioned by the chieftain. Always, the Qrim chieftain asked for any news of the Xavin, which seemed to be a great and populous tribe far to the north.

Gaysha wondered what was happening in the city. Sometimes the servant girls related some event that had occurred, but the noble girls, especially Gaysha were forbidden to leave the palace grounds. The one exception was Peppe who often accompanied Marquus. At first she was reluctant to walk with the Qrim warrior, but the other former nobles begged her to do so and to find out what was happening. Soon Peppe was seen with the Qrim man often, and after a time, the Great Sio allowed her to come and go as she pleased. She brought back a report that some of the Qrim had set up camp just outside the city walls.

"And they have spices! Lots of spices."

"What kinds?" Prowd seldom saw the expensive spices that came from the islands around far-off Kai.

"All kinds. Nutmeg, ginger, pumpkin, thyme, and something called pepper. Marquus says he named me in honor of that spice."

"Pepper? What's it like?"

"It's hot, and if it gets in your nose it makes you sneeze."

"Can you get us some?"

"I'll have to ask Marquus. He might be able to get some from his cousin."

"What's Marquus like? Does he still kiss you?"

Peppe blushed, but she nodded. "He's nice once you get to know him."

The other girls giggled. They were a mixed group of servants and former ladies-in-waiting. The boundaries between them had been difficult to pierce at first, but gradually they had all accustomed themselves to the change.

Peppe continued to leave the palace with Marquus, and one day she returned wearing something more that the plain leggings they were allowed.

"Peppe," Gay exclaimed when she saw what her friend was wearing. "What happened? Is that allowed?" Peppe was wearing a white _prong_.

Peppe's face was red, but she was smiling. "Yes, it's allowed. Marquus gave it to me. It means..." She hesitated. "It means I'm his in every sense. He's building a tent for us, but it's only for show. We will still live in the palace, at least for now."

Peppe still had to work in the kitchen, and she had to attend language class, but Sia Sterna was noticeably easier on the young woman now that she wore the _prong_. The other girls were happy for her, but they were still envious of her right to cover herself. Other than their exposure, Gaysha and most of the other girls had grown use to their status, and the Great Sio eased their confinement. Peppe asked Marquus to intercede for them, so one day Marquus asked the Great Sio if the girls might be allowed to go to market as a group twice a week.

That night, Gaysha found herself sitting once more on the lap of the Great Sio as he interrogated her.

"Whose idea was this," he asked. As he spoke, he moved the palm of one hand back and forth over Gaysha's breasts. Gaysha's breath quickened as she replied.

"I don't know. Everyone's, I suppose."

"Which stall will you seek out?"

"No one in particular," Gaysha replied.

She gasped when he stroked her lower abdomen. He put his mouth to her ear and nuzzled her. She sucked in a breath.

"Who will you meet?"

Surprised, Gaysha finally recognized his suspicions. She tilted her head back and looked up. "No one. I'm meeting no one."

She turned on his lap so she was straddling him, and as she faced him, she put her hands on his bare chest.

"I'll stay in the palace, but please let the other girls go to market, Great Sio. They're just bored, that's all, and Peppe tells us about things we wish to see for ourselves."

She felt the Great Sio's hands cup her buttocks and lift her, so that her face was level with his. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, and then he said, "You may all go. Do not approach any man who was a part of the Prowd army. If any approach you, tell them firmly that you are not allowed to speak to them, and then walk away swiftly, and tell me later the names of those who spoke to you."

Gay nodded vigorously. "Kay, Great Sio, I will. Thank you for your generosity. The other girls will be very happy. Me too."

To her astonishment, the Great Sio pressed his lips against hers, and then he patted her bottom and said, "You may go and tell them."

Gaysha climbed off his lap and hurried to inform the others that they could go to the market.

The excursion to the market filled them with excitement until they reached the steps of the palace, and then their meager clothing caused them to hesitate.

"You forget when you live in the palace all day," a girl murmured, turning her back modestly to the street.

But it was not long before they saw other girls in the street, both Prowd and Qrim, dressed in the same leggings and with nothing else covering them. They were going about their business as if their state of undress was perfectly normal.

"Let's go," Gay said, and the others followed her down the steps.

It was a warm day with only a light breeze, and the sky was seeded with big fluffy clouds. The streets were dry and easily navigated even with their bare feet. Gay was nervous at first, expecting to be recognized and exclaimed over, but with her hair in braids and wearing nothing more than leggings, she was taken for just another servant girl on the street. Gay had gone to the market when she was the Princess, but she had always been accompanied by a whole coterie of people. The Prowd people had gawked, but were kept well away from the Royal by her palace guards. Vendors had fawned on her as they showed her their wares.

Attending market while in the company of a few girls close to her own age was different. No one gawked at her except to make sure the girls did not try to steal a grape or two. It felt much freer not to have the constant attention of the vendors, and Gay soon became aware of how much more she was enjoying this excursion. Arguments broke out among the girls as to which direction they should go and to which stalls they should visit, but the arguments were good natured and contributed to the fun.

And then as the Great Sio had predicted, she was approached by someone she knew. It was the young man who had been chained. He had been freed, and when he saw Gaysha in the marketplace, he turned in her direction. Gay did not see him at first, but when the other girls drifted away while she lingered by a merchant's pole from which hung silk scarves, he spoke to her.

"Princess," he whispered to get her attention.

His words caused her to jolt, and she almost knocked over the scarf pole.

"Don't call me that, Foolart. My name is Gaysha, and I am a servant of the Great Sio. I warn you, I will tell him anything you say."

"You won't tell him," Foolart replied confidently. "You care for your people, and you will not allow harm to come to them."

"Yes," Gay hissed. "But you are not all my people, and my head hanging from an _emusi_ 's neck will not help them. I promise you, I will tell the Great Sio, Fo."

"Great Sio," Fo sneered. "A grand title for a barbarian."

"The title of the man who conquered Prowd in less than a day. You would do well to remember that day."

Fo scowled. "It was a fluke, a stroke of luck. If we organize, we can throw the barbarians out of the city and send them on their way."

"Do not count on me to help those who conspire in this stupid endeavor. I know what is real and what is the dream of children."

"Would you betray us?" Fo asked angrily.

"I've already told you. I will report your words as soon as I return to the palace."

Fo took a menacing step toward the girl, but he paused when he saw that her companions had returned for her.

"Are you coming, Gaysha?" one asked, glaring at Fo.

"Yes." The girls moved away, and then Gay said sadly, "I'm sorry, but I must return to the palace."

"We are finished here anyway," someone said, though the others looked longingly at the stalls they had not yet visited.

Once she reached the palace, Gay searched for the Great Sio, and when she did not find him, she went to Bliss.

"I must speak to the Great Sio," Gay said.

Bliss frowned. "You cannot speak to the Great Sio whenever you have a mind to."

"It is by his order that I do so."

The older girl's face eased. "He is at the stables examining the Prowd horses."

Gay's face scrunched in thought. "Should I remain here? I can't leave the palace, but I'm supposed to report what I heard in the marketplace."

"Is it important?"

"It is by his order."

Bliss emitted a huff. "Oh, very well. I will accompany you. I hope you are not bringing trouble on me."

The two girls left the palace and made their way to the stables which were at the edge of the palace grounds. They were challenged at the gates, but were allowed to continue when the guards recognized Bliss. Once Gaysha nervously explained why she had insisted on seeing him, the Great Sio drew her apart and questioned her point by point on what Foolart had said.

Gaysha answered truthfully, but when she finished she begged, "He is a fool, Great Sio, but an honest fool. Please don't kill him."

"You did right to come to me immediately, Gaysha," the Great Sio said. "By doing so you have saved the ignorant idiot's life, but I will punish him."

They returned to the palace where the Great Sio ordered his men to find and chain Foolart, and to bring him to the throne room.

As the guards were leaving, a young woman dressed in the style of the Qrim, her long black hair braided, entered the throne room. She wore leggings and a _prong_ , but her breasts were bare.

"Hail, Great Sio, Master of the Universe," the young woman said with a snicker. "Is your bottom now calloused from sitting on the Prowd throne?"

Gay's eyes widened, and she turned toward the Great Sio, expecting to see fierce anger in his eyes. She had not heard anyone address the ruler in this manner. He was frowning, but there was no anger in his countenance.

"So Sastra," he replied. "You have managed to find your way to the city. How many did you stop and ask for directions? Did you use the sniffing hounds?"

Sastra grinned at him insolently. "I merely followed the smell of vanity. You reek of it."

The Great Sio's frown deepened. Gaysha sucked in a startled anxious breath.

"What do you want, Sastra?"

"Why I wished to see your wonderfulness, and perhaps to steal a tidbit from your kitchen. I have heard that the Prowds make sweet cocoa pastries."

"Then find the kitchen. They will probably mistake you for a runaway serving wench and put you to work."

But before Sastra could leave, Foolart was led into the throne room wearing chains again. He glared at Gaysha who glared back at him.

Giving the young man a baleful stare, the Great Sio remarked, "If you are so eager to die, why not just ask? I'm sure I can find a man willing to separate your foolish head from your body."

"I am willing to give my life if it will remove you barbarians from my city."

"No doubt," answered the Qrim chieftain. "Your death will not hurry us on our way, but it would let all of us live with the presence of one less idiot."

Gaysha emitted a sound of distress which she quickly suppressed, but not before the Great Sio glanced at her for an instant.

"You will not die today, boy, so how should I punish you?"

"Give him to me," Sastra said suddenly. "I will teach him manners as you are teaching your little pretty one." She grinned at Gaysha who blushed.

"He may think death the better choice," the barbarian observed. "Very well, Sastra, take him and teach him to wipe his own butt and to leave others alone."

When they had left, the Great Sio turned his gaze on Gaysha. She did not know what to do or say, so she stood silent, rubbing her hands nervously against the sides of her naked thighs.

"I suppose it is difficult to stop acting as a princess."

Hot fear rose in her body, and moisture gathered in her eyes.

"Never mind. Your actions and words were correct. Perhaps you were a better princess than I had thought. Come here."

She came to stand before him worried that he might strike her, but instead he leaned down and gave her a light kiss, patted her bottom, and told her to go to the kitchen and to ask for extra work.

But the next day, he countermanded his own order and told her to meet him on the palace steps after her class. When she did, he removed her collar, took her by the hand, and led her to the city gate. They passed through and walked to where the Qrim corralled the _emusi_. A bird was saddled, and the Qrim chieftain mounted. It was Gay's first encounter with the huge black birds, and she was terrified by their loud hisses, sharp beaks, and savage looking talons.

Gay let out a squeak of distress when one of the hostlers picked her up and tossed her onto the back of the emusi behind the chieftain. She whimpered as she was harnessed to the bird, and when it began to move she cried out, wrapped her arms around the chieftain's waist, and shut her eyes. The bird began to run, and she felt the thud of its feet against the earth, and then the thuds ceased. For a time she pressed her face against the bared back of the chieftain, but finally she opened one eye and saw that the bird's long wings were spread wide. It was gliding above the earth, higher than the tents of the Qrim. It stayed in the air for almost a half mile before landing, running, and taking flight again. Soon they were far from the city. Gaysha kept a tight grip on the man, but her curiosity caused her to look around and to gawk at views of her country she had never imagined.

They came to a hill. The bird landed, ran up the hill, and then launched itself into the air. Gay gasped, for the slope on the other side of the hill was steep, and they were now flying higher than the trees below. Fright was leaving Gay, and wonder and excitement took its place. They flew for some time and then landed beside a grass-lined brook where they settled on the barbarian's cloak. The Qrim chieftain took Gaysha's leg and untied the twine at the top of her thigh. He stripped the band from her leg, and then he undid the other legging. He stripped his clothes off, and together they entered the water which was warmed from the hot sun.

The barbarian's fierce demeanor eased, and he laughed often and threw water her way. Gay was relaxed, too, and she was enjoying the day and looking forward to the ride back, so she could see more from the sky. He did not seem as threatening as before, and she could judge his moods easier. He did not tolerate disobedience, but as long as the Prowd people remembered that, Gay thought they could learn to like their tall, black-haired ruler. She was beginning to like him. When they drew close, he pulled her to him and kissed her. Later they lay on his cloak beside the brook and listened to the murmur of the water.

"May I speak, Great Sio?" she asked.

"From this day forward, you may speak whenever you wish," he replied. "Within reason, just as any of my people speak within reason."

"Kay, Great Sio. Who is Sastra? Why is she allowed... I mean, why...?" Gay struggled to find the right words.

"Why does she speak to me as if I were a brother she barely tolerated?"

Gay nodded.

"She is not my sister, but she is my mother's sister's daughter. She is often aggravating, but she gives good counsel. She it was who advised me to wait two days until I attacked the city of Prowd. By that time my anger had cooled, so with a cool head, I considered how to proceed. It would have been far worse for the Prowd people if I had attacked the city in a rage." Gay shuttered at his words, for she could imagine the carnage.

"Sastra is a brave warrior. When she was barely more than a child, she garbed herself in the clothing of the Xavin, and alone she entered their camps to learn of their intentions. She was not discovered, but she offended one of their leaders, and he had her whipped. She still bears the scars on her back. Perhaps I am too lenient with her sometimes, but she has earned the right to scold me."

He fell into a brooding silence.

Gay waited until his frown eased, and then she asked, "Who are the Xavin, Great Sio?"

His frown returned, and he sighed. "They are a numerous people far to the north. My people did not pass this way by choice, Gaysha. We and many other tribes are being driven this way by the encroachment of the Xavin. They push the tribes before them, and those tribes push other tribes, and so it finally comes to us. The Xavin are fierce warriors, but they are no fiercer than others. It is their numbers that give them power. The Qrim are as the least of their clans which number in the thousands. They may come here, and if they do, we must all leave."

Gaysha was astounded to hear this. She had thought that there were no people more powerful than the Qrim.

The chieftain distracted himself from the thought of the Xavin by teaching Gaysha all the ways the Qrim liked to kiss. The lessons were enjoyable, and after days and more nights, Gaysha was _pronged_ and allowed to leave the palace on her own. She still went about bare breasted, but so did most of the Qrim women, and gradually the Prowd women adopted the custom.

There came a day when the Qrim chieftain was crowned King. After the crowning, he moved to the balcony and addressed the people of the city.

"Henceforth, I will be known as King Destinee, and I give this city a new name, 'Andipity,' which means 'fortuitous circumstance' in the language of the Qrim."

Gaysha watched from the side as he spoke. She was very fond of King Destinee, and before much longer she would bear him a son.

* * *

Stan Morris _writes stories about ordinary young adults in extraordinary settings._

* * * * *

# ANTIMATTER ME

### Steph Bennion

[The Qrim Chieftain] [Contents] [Explain That To A Martian]

The experiment had not been a success and now time was running out. Or was it running in?

THERE WAS A BURST OF PAIN, then all was dark. I wanted nothing more than to hold him, to be held. He came close and reached towards me, offering his embrace. I nodded and for the first and last time I wept.

"Perhaps it is fitting that I should die in the arms of my brother of invention," he said sadly. "There will be no one to mourn me. I never had a family."

"I am scared."

"It will be quick. A cancellation; two bodies erased in a flash of energy. Inside the chamber, we can safely bring this experiment to an end."

"Then we are to be destroyed?"

"Our lives may be forfeit, but it is not right that they should also die," he said. "There are good people here, watching over us. Electric fields hold us, but any attempt to release us will blow this facility sky high. You are potent stuff. We cannot leave this chamber."

"I'm not sure how, but I do," I said. "Now I understand."

"Quantum events are spooling backwards. Somehow, the physical properties of your very essence are inverted. You are experiencing time different to me. I'm not sure you can even comprehend what I'm saying."

"That sounds bad."

"The antimatter me. You are the very reverse of me. You are not me."

"I am a copy?" I asked.

"But I was not erased," he told me. "You are the copy. The machine essentially creates a duplicate, perfect down to the smallest muon, then destroys the old. The teleporter disassembles living tissue and recreates it at the destination."

I felt alive. I burned with the energy of the newborn. He looked tense, scared even. I looked at my brother, drifting an arm's length away inside the bubble.

"Something went wrong," he said. "On me, us. We thought it was time to try it on a human. The rats and dogs and other pioneers went through the process unscathed. Matter teleportation. It was an experiment."

I did not understand and told him so.

"You were not meant to be," he said. "I'm so sorry."

We were the same, yet different. He was my double, yet also my reflection. My memories were complete and I knew he was just like me, from the firm sweep of his shoulders to the smallest hair on his chin. I opened my eyes and he was there, floating before me as if we were twins in a womb. A burst of pain, then there was light.

From nothing I came.

* * *

Steph Bennion _writes science-fiction and occasionally puts together anthologies like this one._

* * * * *

# EXPLAIN THAT TO A MARTIAN

### Gary Weston

[Antimatter Me] [Contents] [The Imaginary Invasion]

Drinkers sometimes see all kinds of things. But even I wasn't expecting to see a four-eyed Martian in my lounge...

I HEARD OR MAYBE READ SOMEWHERE, that if you doubt your sanity you are in fact sane. Well, at fifteen minutes past three in the morning, on my way to empty a nagging bladder, making out vague but familiar shapes through bloodshot half-closed eyes, I couldn't find the door. I was actually normally fairly adept at finding doors. For the thirty-four years of my questionably adult life, I had stumbled through, barged into, pushed when the sign had clearly told me to pull, but, generally speaking, had always managed to find the damned door.

Focusing through the mildly alcoholic haze, I had staggered sleepily across my own bedroom into the lounge, intent on navigating my way unaided onwards into the dining room and without assistance from either a Sherpa or a guide dog, continue unhindered to the room of much relief.

This ritual had met with unerring success on all previous occasions and I had been reasonably optimistic that these small steps for mankind would end similarly victorious. All of this would have been true, had I been able to reach the door to open it. Through the pale light of the moon, shimmering its way through the un-curtained window, I could see the door, I just couldn't touch it. Something transparent yet tangible was preventing me. It seemed to cover my entire body. I poked it with a finger, hoping the bubble would burst. It didn't.

This disturbing situation forced me to concentrate painfully and bully my reluctant brain into something capable of logical thought. My brain argued that my body wanted to pee and that the normal course of events was to open the door and head for the toilet. Signals to my hand were thwarted by some strange material that felt like soft, warm plastic.

"What the...?"

"Psstleasss szist dowhan."

I am not a brave man. However, I am not especially cowardly. Put trouble in my way and sensibly, I'll try to circumnavigate it. If that isn't an option, I'll try to face it head on. As I stood there naked, I discovered truth in the old cliché about hairs on the back of one's neck standing on end. I didn't spin round to see who had spoken, or to be more precise, hissed those words, but elected instead to turn most cautiously. What I saw sitting so casually on my sofa was so terrifyingly unexpected that I mentally congratulated myself in not emptying my bladder that instant.

The 'creature', was an unhealthy yellow colour, and looked as if a classroom full of kids had stuck something together from a barrow full of Play-Doh. It consisted mostly of a middle section, with two painfully-thin legs and what passed for arms hanging loosely just above those. It didn't appear to have a neck at all, but more of a narrowing of the torso into a misshapen dome. From the top of its head, four tentacles tipped with bulbous yellow eyes, pointed in my direction. Two vertical slits central to its face may well have been a nose and the longer horizontal slit for all I knew, could have been its mouth. Ears might be anywhere else and I preferred not to speculate. I took comfort from the fact that like me, my visitor was completely naked. Apart from, that was, some kind of device strapped to its arm. I flinched when the creature smacked the device with a tentacle. Closing my eyes, I fully expected to be instantly vaporised and nearly passed out with joy at still being alive a few seconds later.

"What is your name?" it asked. The voice was now clear and intelligible.

"Gotta pee," I demanded. My need had suddenly gone from merely urgent to critical.

"Please sit down, Gotta Pee."

"Can't," I said. "Gotta pee."

"I won't harm you, Gotta Pee."

By this time I had crossed my legs and cupped the family jewels with both hands. If this joker didn't let me go to the toilet in the next few seconds, I would be doing something rather embarrassing in front of a complete stranger and I was annoyed enough to aim it directly at him. Then I realised, peeing inside a bubble would only result in me having wet and even smellier feet. He ignored my plight and fiddled with the gadget on his arm.

"Oi, dome head. I need to pee," I yelled.

From the contraption, my own words echoed out, but were now sounding like an unpleasant mix of radio static and fingernails on chalkboards.

"Ah. You need to urinate."

The pain of holding it in was becoming unbearable now. "You got that right, you four eyed slug." At that insult, his eyes, all of them, stared right at me.

"Not polite," came the reply.

"Get rid of this damn bubble," I demanded.

"Protection for me," he said.

I had to admit, it did remind me of a huge condom. The bubble opened up and then it was in front of me. It had me trapped and I still couldn't get to the toilet. I'll count to five, I thought, and if he doesn't let me out of the damn room, I'll drown the son of a bitch. As if reading my mind, the plastic bubble pushed the door open and snaked through the dining room towards the toilet. Still clutching my redeeming features, I followed the bubble that extended over the toilet and round me to give me complete access. I had held back for so long that now I couldn't go.

"You urinate," ordered a voice. The little sod was standing right behind me.

I replied something that I hoped wasn't lost in translation. He took the hint and walked backwards on his hideously-thin legs and stood just outside the door. Above the splashing sound of me doing what comes naturally, I heard him mutter, "Very offensive."

Forgoing the hand-washing ritual, we went back to the relative warmth of the lounge. He decided the 'protection' was unnecessary and it disappeared completely. I took some solace in the fact that I was at least half a metre taller than he was. I was tempted to thump the yellow, hairless, lumpy-looking head, and teach this devil a lesson. History had taught me not to underestimate potential adversaries by their size alone so I erred on the side of caution instead.

He, I'm not sure why, perhaps the lack of breasts of any kind, convinced me that it was indeed male, returned to his place on the sofa, and with a casual wave of a tentacle, invited me to sit on an armchair. The sheer damn arrogance of the... bloke, behaving like this was his damn home and not mine, got my blood boiling again. Controlling my anger, I complied with his request.

It said, "My name is..."

Some unintelligible noise came out and I have no intention of trying to decipher it. Throw a handful of scrabble letters on the floor and it would do just as well. For now, I'll call him Joe.

"I come from Mars."

"Yeah? And here I was, sure you came from California."

Joe's eyes rotated disconcertingly in my direction. "Definitely Mars," he repeated.

A million questions zapped through my mind, like, how come we were so damn certain there wasn't life on Mars, and how the hell did Joe get here and why the hell has he picked on me? Answers please on a postcard...

"I wish to learn about you," he told me.

"You can get stuffed, dome head."

Joe winced and his eyeballs nearly tied themselves up in knots. "Do not be rude. I am friendly to you."

"If you dare say you come in peace, I swear I'll..."

"But I do. I do come in peace."

"Oh, for God's sake. Does somebody write your script or do you ad lib?" There was a screech and a whistle from the thing on his arm and Joe smacked it again.

"I don't understand."

I slapped my own face to try to wake up from the nightmare. I was awake and Joe was still sitting there. "To hell with this."

In the corner of the lounge was a mahogany cupboard. It contained a bottle of bourbon and it would take more than a slug from Mars to keep me from it. I didn't have to look to know four eyes were following me as I crossed the room. With my back to him, I poured myself a very large drink and took a swallow. There was something very reassuring about the warmth it brought to my throat. Some civilised portion of my mind considered offering Joe a drink, but I wasn't yet feeling chummy with him. As I took another sip, I spied the telephone on the table next to the drinks cupboard. What were my chances I wondered, before some deadly bolt of death cremated me? I needed a few more drinks before becoming that brave. Maybe it was the alcohol, but when I turned around, Joe seemed more pathetic than menacing. There was a blanket over one armchair and I grabbed it to wrap around me. Not out of modesty, but because I was getting damned cold, standing there naked. I sat down again, tucking my legs up under the blanket for maximum comfort. With this and the bourbon, I was decidedly more human. At least, a lot more human than my uninvited visitor.

"I have studied you for much long time," Joe said. "But the more I studied you humans, the more confused I became."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Try living on this planet a while, and then you'll be really confused. Oh, and that wasn't an invitation, by the way."

Something like a cat being strangled came from him. "Nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here."

I was warming to the joker. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

Joe's eyes stood up and pointed at the ceiling. He seemed to be thinking it over. He looked back at me. "Lots of things," he said. "Especially your women. I don't understand them at all."

"And you're asking me, a man? Boy, are you in for a disappointment."

I got me another drink. This was going to be a very long night.

Joe waited patiently for me to unravel the complexities of man's superior half and I just sat there drinking. I tried to read his expression and determine character from a head that looked as if it had been moulded in a bucket. When people weigh up other people, we put much emphasis on their eyes. With Joe, even looking at his four independently moving eyes on stalks was nauseating. I was now wide awake and calmly assessing the facts.

First of all, Joe was probably, hell, definitely brighter than I. To deposit himself so effortlessly into my home after travelling from Mars proved that much. Obviously no radar tracking system had identified his ship, assuming that's how he got here.

Secondly, as weak and feeble as he appeared to be, he hadn't killed me. Not yet, anyway. He might have been naked, but I had no way of knowing if he hadn't got some kind of pouch like a kangaroo with a weapon stashed in it.

Thirdly, he was on a fact-finding mission, so killing me would be counter-productive if he was ever going to learn anything useful.

I said, "Joe..."

"Joe?"

I shrugged. "Joe, why me? Why have you come to my place?"

"Alone. No... interruptions."

This made sense. I was alone. No dogs, cats, goldfish, not even a potted plant. And, sadly, no woman curled up in my bed. "Fair enough. Listen, Joe. You've picked an interesting topic of conversation with women. And to be honest, I'm probably the least qualified to give you any insight about them. Why don't we start on something simple, like world politics, or stuff like that?"

"Politics very difficult to understand. Women would be easier I think."

My laugh came out of the translator like the noise a tortured parrot would make. "Boy, have you got a lot to learn."

"Why I am here." He paused, and then he asked, "You have no woman. Why?"

"Now listen, pal. My sexual inadequacies are not for debate, not now, not ever, okay?" There was an embarrassing silence and Joe's eyes aimed in every direction but at me. I must have hurt the little guy's feelings. "I had a woman, right. But we just grew apart. It happens." I decided to turn the tables. "Don't you have women?" When I said it, I realised I was still making assumptions about Joe's sexuality. But, as he had been asking questions about women on Earth, it was a safe bet he wasn't female.

"We are all same."

I looked at the pot-bellied, gangly-limbed, four-eyed, no-faced creature and thought, hell. Joe's entire race looks exactly like him. This statement from him, now once more becoming an 'it', brought forth a hundred questions at once. Like procreation. How, I mean, what, I mean... damn. I went back to the bourbon bottle. "Would you like a drink, Joe?"

"Yes."

I poured him a small measure. Not because I'm mean, but in case he found he couldn't handle it. I offered him the tumbler and the tentacle without the translator strapped to it wrapped around it. I felt his skin touch mine. It felt nothing like human skin. It was more like wet sandpaper. I tried not to show my revulsion. One eye looked at the tumbler whilst the other three watched me. I was correct about the horizontal slit being his mouth. A blue tube slid out. The tip was ringed by what looked like tiny suckers. The tube entered the tumbler and one little sucker extended into the liquid. It immediately retracted.

"A bit strong for you, Joe?"

His response was to dip the entire tube into the booze and suck up the whole lot in one slurp. "More please."

"Hey. Slow down, pal. You gotta get used to this stuff."

"More please." He waved the tumbler at me and once again I had to endure the creepy feeling of his skin against mine.

"Okay, okay. But don't blame me, right?"

I poured him another and this time, he sipped it more respectfully. Wrapped in the blanket once more, I discreetly studied him. I had accounted for most appendages we had in common, legs, arms. We had one obvious difference. He must have guessed my thoughts.

"Not like you," he said.

"I wasn't prying. I was just, you know, curious."

"Like me, curious. But I know how you humans procreate. All on your internet."

My mind boggled as to what websites he had been looking at. I didn't pursue that line of thought with him. "If you know how we humans, you know, do it, what do you need me for?"

"Emotions. Women seem different to men. Explain."

"I'm no expert on that. Actually, there's a famous book out. It's called _Women are from Venus, Men are from... Ma..._ Hmm."

"Men are from...?"

"Damn. Look. We, men and women, right, aren't from different planets really; at least, I don't think we are. Having said that... no, of course we aren't. It's merely a way of expressing how different we actually are. It's complicated."

"Good different?"

"Hell, yeah. Sort of, I mean, you know, especially the physical side of things. The other stuff, like what you said, the emotions, well, to be honest, that does our damn heads in."

The tentacle entered the tumbler and finished the drink. The belch that followed was a belch in any language. "Alcohol not good for you. Why drink it?"

"You drank it."

"For scientific research only."

"Me too."

"Not true."

"I was joking."

"Yes. Humour. Explain."

The bourbon was hitting home. I decided I had drunk enough for one night. With an alien in my lounge, I needed to be alert. "You're a funny critter, you are."

"I have no humour. Not funny critter."

"Uh. You sit there, waving your eyes about and tell me you're not funny?"

"Is that offensive?"

"Probably."

"Do you find me offensive?"

"A bit repulsive, maybe, but no, not offensive."

"You think I am ugly?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to dance the tango with you, that's for sure."

"Ah, yes. Dancing. Explain dancing."

"Dancing?"

"Dancing."

"I never got that one, myself. A daft way of carrying on if you ask me."

"I did ask you."

"True. That doesn't mean I have all the answers, though. My ex-wife, now she has all the answers."

"I should be asking ex-wife questions?"

A malicious idea of sending Joe to appear in my ex-wife's bedroom had obvious appeal, but my conscience got the better of me. "Probably not. Besides, you might end up with a slightly unfavourable view of men in general, and of me in particular."

"She finds you offensive?"

"Absolutely."

"She hates you?"

"No, she doesn't hate me. Nor I her. Actually, we parted amicably. But I'm not exactly on her Christmas card list."

"Seasonal salutations," he said.

"You have done some homework." It was my turn. "So, you're neither male nor female?"

"Both."

"So if I told you to go screw yourself, you could?"

"Disgusting idea."

Looking at Joe, I had to agree it wasn't a pretty image to dwell upon. "You still have partners. You still have babies."

"Not like you."

A part of me wanted to know, another part definitely didn't want to know. He explained anyway.

"Two of us secrete from glands into nest and create egg. Both raise offspring."

"Eggs, nest?" Joe was a damn chicken.

"Not really like your birds, but same principle."

"But no sex. Not like humans."

"Messy, inefficient."

"A lot of fun, though."

We sat quietly, contemplating our differences. "Actually," I said, finally, "it isn't an option that would get my vote, but doing it your way probably causes far less trouble in the long run. It creates nothing but damn trouble here on Earth, I can tell you."

"This I do not understand. Mankind evolved for millions of years, yes?"

"And we still haven't got the basics sorted out, I know. Mind you, Joe. We've got seven billion of us stuffing up the planet, so we got the baby-making part perfected."

"Seven-point-three-eight-nine-one-five billion."

"I'll take you word for that, Joe."

"You not good at making babies."

"Now steady on, pal. That's none of your business, okay?"

I wondered how he knew about me and my life. Just how long had he had me under his microscope? I went cold thinking about it. Joe's eyes did another circuit of the room, carefully avoiding me.

"Dancing?" he asked again.

"Look. The thing is, people, men and women, do lots of things for fun. I don't think you know much about fun, so it might be hard for you to understand. We all like different things. My wife, ex-wife, she can dance. I have two left feet."

Joe's eyes pointed at my feet sticking out from under the blanket. "No such deformity," he observed.

"Not actually two left feet. It's an expression for somebody like me, with no sense of rhythm. I'm too awkward at dancing, and I look ridiculous when I try, so I don't, okay."

"But why dance?"

"It's like I said. We like to do all sorts of stuff. People are very creative, but in many different ways. Some paint pictures, make pots, grow flowers."

"Some dance."

"Now you're getting it. Yes. It's a form of expression and also sometimes, part of the mating process. Man and woman getting intimate with each other."

"You not intimate."

"No, I mean yes. The thing is, I can shuffle around the dance floor in a slow waltz, but anything more ambitious and I'd fall over. Even I like to hold a woman tightly having a smooch."

"To mate?"

"Yes, no. Sometimes. Not always."

"I see." He didn't.

"People often overlap with what they try to do. We like to experiment, try our hand at other things, find out what we are good at and what we are crap at."

"You crap at making babies and dancing."

"So damn what? I'm good at some things," I insisted.

"Such as?"

I wish he hadn't asked. Joe had been pretty accurate in his assessment of my limited capabilities. "All sorts of things."

"Such as?" he persisted.

"Well," I had to think hard. "I write. I'm a writer."

"A good writer?"

I sighed. "I like to think so. The problem is, publishers don't agree with my opinion. They put my writing ability on a par with my dancing skills."

"They think you are a crap writer?"

"Some do. But what do they damn know? Most of them wouldn't know a good book if you hit them over the head with one."

"Why hit them on the head with a book?"

"Because it would be very satisfying."

"Fun?"

"Oh, yes."

"Creative?"

"Enjoyable."

"Get them to publish book?"

"Highly unlikely."

"So why do it?"

"I haven't."

"You want to."

"Yes, I mean no. Not actually hit them. I was speaking metaphorically."

"I see." He didn't. "Politicians," Joe said. "Explain."

"At last, something that does make sense," I said. Then I thought about it. "Well, perhaps not make sense, but easier to explain than women."

"Politicians crap." Joe seemed to like that word.

"In a nutshell."

"Politicians crap in nutshells?"

It wasn't a sentence you heard every day.

"They have too much bull to fit in any nutshell I know of. We call them a necessary evil. Like tax inspectors and traffic wardens."

"Have useful function?"

"Which ones?"

"Any of them."

"As far as I'm concerned, not much. Politicians seem to be forever dreaming up ways to get the tax inspectors to take as much of our hard-earned cash as possible. Pain in the ass."

"Ass?"

Looking at Joe, it was entirely possible he didn't have one. This would have presented him with problems smuggling drugs through customs. That and the complete absence of clothes.

"Don't worry about it. It's just my way of saying that the aforementioned occupations belong to another reality. We suspect we can't live without them, but have we really tried?"

"Why not try?"

"Good question. A damn good question. I guess it's fear of the unknown. We wouldn't like to risk upsetting the future by getting rid of them. Many would like to, though."

"Guy Fawkes."

"Best damn politician of the lot, some say. And look what happened to him." I decided to be serious and give a more sensible answer. "If we didn't have rules and regulations, we'd be running around like savages. We'd be killing one another, robbing one another and generally be causing all kinds of mayhem."

"Like you do now?"

"Clever devil." I had to admit, he had a point. "It would be a lot worse."

"Is that possible?"

"Are you judging us?"

"Merely observation."

I had no answer for man's increasingly persistent striving for self-destruction. It was the way we were. Nobody's perfect.

"You like rules and regulations?"

"Of course not. I just want everyone else to follow them. It's human nature to feel that way." I was determined this wasn't going to be a one-way learning curve. "You must have rules in your society."

"Why?"

"Don't tell me you are all little goody two-shoes."

His eyes, all of them, looked at the end of his feet-less legs. "No shoes."

It was impossible to tell if Joe was being sarcastic. "So, you have no crime, nobody parks on double yellow lines and you all file your tax returns on time and in full?" To the best of my knowledge, no unmanned probe to the red planet had picked up neatly parked rows of automobiles outside a tax office.

"No crime, no trouble."

"What the hell do you lot die of, boredom?"

"Old age."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Ask anyone who knows me, would they rather spend their time watching my life through a telescope, or poking their own eyes out with tooth picks, the tooth picks would win hands down. But to someone who apparently lives in a society where each day is nothing but mind-numbing predictability, I can understand why studying me would be incredibly exciting. It was sort of flattering, in a way. I wondered if I was networked. The bizarre idea of royalties went through my mind. Dream on. "Do you eat?"

"Of course I eat." There was a hint of _what do you take me for, you idiot?_ in his tone.

"It's just that I've just gone incredibly hungry all of a sudden. And, as I assume you haven't brought a packed lunch with you from Mars, I thought I could throw something together."

Joe stared at me, in what may well have been a quizzical manner. After a while, a man learns to pick on a stranger's body language, even a body that looks like something that wouldn't be unexpected in the rubbish skip in a horror B-movie film studio.

"If you just get rid of that bubble thing," I suggested with a wave of my hand, "we can go to the kitchen. I do a really wicked cheese and chilly omelette."

"Bubble gone long time ago."

"Hell. So it has." Our conversation had been so intense, I hadn't noticed I was no longer confined. Was this some kind of trust Joe had developed for me or had the batteries run out? "Right, my interplanetary gatecrasher. Let's have a feed."

Not taking no for an answer, I led the way into the kitchen. I was relieved to find it was reasonably tidy, apart from two days washing-up soaking in the sink and an old potato sack filled with recyclables by the back door ready to go out. It hardly smelled at all. So I merely had to shift the un-ironed washing that had been left in the basket on the kitchen table for the last five days and I thought the place unusually clean. Nothing to be embarrassed about at all, apart perhaps from the dead mouse in the trap on the worktop, which now seemed to be alive with maggots. I really must throw that out tomorrow. First thing.

"So, what do you fancy?" I said, opening the fridge door. The cheddar was evolving nicely into blue cheese and something revolting had happened to the tomatoes in the vegetable compartment. Joe stood behind me, examining the mysterious contents of the cold white box. As he had no experience to draw from I didn't think he would be able to form an opinion on the state of my fridge. Wrong.

"Crap," he said.

Well, Joe didn't actually say crap, his translator decided the expletive was the nearest earthly equivalent to the Martian vernacular. Deciding Joe's considered opinion about my food storage system wasn't far off the mark, I opened the little freezer compartment on the top. A packet of fish-fingers escaped and fell on the floor.

"Right then. Fish finger sandwiches it is then."

"Fish have no fingers. Like me," he said, waving a tentacle at me. "I have studied your planet. Fingers no."

"No, Joe, they haven't. That's because we cut the things off and eat them."

With a sheet of kitchen paper, I carefully pushed the mousetrap to one side. A man has to have space when creating a culinary masterpiece. I scraped the remains of the liver and onions I'd had for my dinner (what had I been thinking?) out of the frying pan into the overflowing rubbish bin and got the thing up to a high enough temperature to kill off any bacteria threatening to evolve into a higher life form and emptied the packet of fish fingers into it. I counted nine of them. Enough for a decent sandwich each.

"Are you okay with Earth food, by the way?" If he wasn't, it meant more for me.

"Soon find out," he said.

All four eyes were watching the fingers swimming about in the half inch of liver-flavoured fat. Then he watched the incredible digital dexterity with which I cut doorstops out of a loaf and spread copious amounts of butter on them. I could tell he was impressed. I flipped over the fingers before they were incinerated, shuffled the pan like some head chef from Paris and then layered the bread with them.

"The secret of this masterpiece, Joe, is to smother the whole damn thing with brown sauce. And there we have it. A feast fit for a king."

We sat at the kitchen table and I was halfway through my sandwich before Joe had even touched his. The feeding tube that had popped out of his mouth hovered over the sandwich, and one of the tiny tentacles around its rim was prodding at the bread with the same enthusiasm a food critic would have for an offering from a Calcutta backstreet stall. His eyes looked up at me, then back at the sandwich and he did a little shudder that must have been a Martian sigh. And then, with reckless abandonment, his feeding tube opened out to the size of a dinner plate, and the whole sandwich was gone. Just like that.

"Damn, Joe. You don't mess about, do you?"

Joe leaned back in the chair and belched so loud it swept my hair back. I took it to be a compliment. "You enjoyed that then, eh?"

"Crap."

"That's gratitude for you," I said.

"No. Must crap."

"Oh. I see. Okay. You know where the bathroom is. Just, you know, off you go."

"Outside."

"What?" I wasn't sure about this at all. I mean, what would Mrs Willis next door say, if she saw a Martian taking a crap in my back garden? If nothing else, it would be something different for them to talk about at the over-sixties club. "Are you sure? Couldn't you just..." I nodded towards the bathroom door.

"Outside."

"Okay. Keep your hair on."

"No hair."

"I meant, just do whatever it is you must do. Just be... discreet will you?"

He was through the back door before I'd finished. More than twenty minutes had passed by the time he came back.

"Constipation?"

"Not crap like you."

"I guess not. I made a brew while you were outside."

We sat a while, sipping tea. Joe only drank a little. "I got the fire going in the lounge as well. No point in being cold."

Joe made himself comfortable again on the sofa and he watched the flames dance in the log-burner. I wondered if I was going to find some strangely-coloured pile of something on my lawn in the morning. For some inexplicable reason, I figured it wasn't going to be the regulation brown.

"Why you not got woman?"

"We've done that one," I reminded him. "I had a woman. We finished."

"Why no new woman?"

"You've got a one track mind," I said with a sigh. "You've travelled God knows how far to find out about men and women." I looked at him, and four wayward excuses for eyes looked back expectantly at me. "I can't help thinking there's more to this than scientific curiosity. Give it to me straight, Joe. Are you and your kind planning some kind of mass invasion of this planet?"

Once the translator finished hissing, Joe's eyes pointed disbelievingly at the ceiling, and a throaty cackle of laughter came back at me. "If we destroyed all of you, what would we do for fun?"

Although reassuring, there was something fundamentally disturbing in that comment. In one sentence, Joe had let it slip that, should they choose to, they could wipe us out without breaking into a sweat, and, even more of a worry, the reason they didn't, was because they found the human race so sufficiently entertaining, we would be allowed to continue our miserable existence. I had the bizarre idea of a roomful of Martians, eating live maggoty things off a tray, watching the latest episode of my life as if it was the _Flintstones_ or something. I just hoped the ratings didn't slip.

"I'm glad you think I'm amusing."

"I... admire you," he said.

This was a new twist. Never having seen much that's admirable about humans, particularly myself, this was a concept I had difficulty with.

"Why? Because we are resilient individuals, inventive and resourceful?" Even as I said it, I knew I was grasping at straws.

"It is true. No matter how much crap you self-inflict, you succeed in clawing your way to the top of it."

I don't get many compliments and when someone, even a Martian, gives me a merit badge for being the one who sticks the national flag into a dung heap, I will happily pin it on my chest. "Thanks, Joe. It's nice to have my finer qualities recognised. I suppose I've always been tenacious, even when..."

"But why do you cause yourselves so many problems?" Joe asked, deflating me at a stroke. I wasn't too sure if he meant just me, in which case he was right on the money, or all humans, which meant, damn it, he was right on the money.

"The greatest thinkers throughout our history have speculated on that," I told him. "That and which came first..."

"...Chicken or egg?"

"Exactly. But if it helps, we have a saying. If it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger."

"Meaning?"

"Damned if I know, Joe. It just seemed appropriate."

The clock on the wall above the fireplace informed me it was now seventeen minutes past three. But this was ridiculous. Only a couple of minutes had elapsed since this crazy episode had begun. Perhaps the clock had stopped; the batteries had run down at last. My watch, a reliable, bomb-proof Casio, was on the table in front of me. I had left it there before going to bed. The LCD display agreed with the Roman numerals of the clock on the wall. A chill ran through my entire body. Somehow, it seemed, Joe had the ability to slow time down to a crawl.

This diminutive, sickly-yellow, four-eyed visitor was not to be underestimated.

"Doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself?" I muttered.

"You could all live much easier lives if you so wished," Joe said, ignoring my grumblings. "My impression is that you choose not to. Why?"

"A good question and very good observation. I'm not too sure I could give you a good answer to it though, not one that made much sense."

"Do people enjoy suffering?"

I thought about this. "A tiny percentage called masochists gets off on having pain inflicted. I never saw the point of that, actually. I certainly don't like pain myself. It hurts."

"I was thinking more of emotional pain rather than physical. I suspect the percentage of humans that derive some pleasure or satisfaction in this is far higher, am I correct?"

"You've learnt well, Grasshopper."

"I have four limbs. I am not insect."

Joe hadn't taken offence, I figured, merely ensuring I hadn't gotten the wrong idea about him.

"Sorry, Joe, you have to forgive my perverse sense of humour. It gets me in trouble all the time."

"I struggle with this thing you call humour. What is a joke?"

This might be easier. "Humour tends to be a release mechanism. We need to let off steam now and again, and humour is a relatively harmless way of doing this. Jokes are merely the way we express our humour."

He nodded, causing his eye stalks to wave on the top of his head. It was both repulsive and fascinating to watch. "But you say your humour gets you in trouble?"

"On occasions," I said. "Sometimes my jokes are taken too seriously and misunderstood. Not just my jokes, you see, but everybody's jokes can backfire. What I might find funny might piss somebody else off completely. And visa versa."

"Tell me a joke."

"What?"

"A joke, so that I may understand."

"Oh, God." I couldn't believe I was sitting here, trying to tell a joke to an alien from space. "Okay. There was this bloke, sitting on a camel... No, you'd never get that one. Right, try this one. A Martian walks into a bar in New York, right? And the barman said... this'll kill you, Joe, he said... the real estate agents' convention is next door. Get it, Joe?" Reading expressions from Joe's face was like de-scaling a dragon. Impossible. No reaction. "See, the barman thought... Joe, if you have to explain them, it's a waste of time."

"I do understand," said Joe. "You are inferring real estate agents look like... me."

"Well..."

"I am much better looking." When he said that, he rocked back and forth on the sofa, his eye stalks flopping about all over the place and the most maniacal laughter crackled out of the translator. "Funny?" he asked when he'd settled down again.

I was also laughing, more at Joe's over the top convulsions to his own joke rather than the corny offering itself. "You're getting the hang of it. When you get back home, you'll be a sensation."

"Why do you drink?"

I was beginning to dread Joe's questions. They seemed to come from such diverse tangents and with a barb that stung me deeply. Looking down at the empty tumbler on the table, I realised that I had indeed been thinking of getting another drink for me at least and who could tell, maybe another for my guest.

"It's the way I am, Joe. Not good, not bad, just me."

I picked up the glass, turned it around in my hand, letting the light reflect its pretty innocent patterns from the deeply-etched moulded surface. Right then, I needed a drink more than anything else in the world. Wasn't it reasonable enough, under the circumstances? I was, after all, dealing with a most unusual situation, and, patting myself metaphorically on the back, doing a damn good job of it.

"Maybe it's because I'm a writer," I offered, lamely. Writing clichés is bad enough; living them is unforgivable. Even so, there was a modicum of truth in it. "You see," I laboured bravely on, "creative people are... different. We think differently from the others. And..." Was this just crap or could I claw my way out of this pit of lies? "We think on many levels..." God, it was getting worse. "Sometimes, we crave substance abuse of one kind or another, to draw out this creativity." There, I'd said it. I had put my hand inside my chest, grabbed my still beating heart and wrenched it out for all the world to see. Belching out this lie didn't absolve me from my guilt.

"So, destroying your brain and internal organs with alcohol, releases your creative ability?"

"Yes, no, oh stuff you, you..." I couldn't deny Joe's logic. "It isn't as simple as that."

Joe nodded, causing his eye stalks to wave rhythmically. "I know. That is why I came here."

"Would you care to zap a few brain cells and blitz your liver, assuming you have one?"

"What?"

"Would you like another drink, my Martian friend?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

I poured us both another shot of bourbon. A smaller one for Joe. I wasn't yet ready to kill off my space-travelling drinking buddy. He took the tumbler from me, holding it in the tip of his tentacle. As previously, he studied the glass before the thing from his mouth snaked out and sucked up the bourbon. With the glass empty, the thin trunk disappeared back into his mouth and I couldn't help but notice a slight smacking together of what were probably his lips. The little yellow devil had enjoyed his booze.

"Remember to pick up some duty free before you take off," I suggested.

I sipped my drink, savouring the warm familiarity of it. Creative crap aside, I needed reassurance. The bourbon was now my anchor on normality. Ironic, really, as it was normally my escape from all things mundane and normal.

"No money," Joe said. "Not buy alcohol."

I had this depressing idea of me going to live on Mars, with damn all to do and no bourbon with which to deaden the pain.

"You lot must do _something_ on your planet. C'mon Joe, enlighten me."

He paused a moment and then said, "We think."

It was the way he said it that I found disturbing. I mean humans think, even I think; too much for my own good sometimes. But I sensed a deeper significance to Joe's remark. I was sure he meant, you humans think, but we Martians _really_ think. Was that it?

"About what, Joe? Tell me what you think about."

Another pause. "We... connect... with each other. Our thoughts multiply and grow. Our intelligence becomes unlimited."

This was one hell of a concept to grasp. "You mean all of you? Everyone on the planet... sort of... links up together with your minds?"

"You would enjoy the experience. Your mind goes on journeys an individual could not imagine."

I was beginning to understand. "This is why you don't have booze or anything else. You all get off on, well, just being together, joining your minds, your thoughts."

"With our minds as one, we also grow as individuals. Our intelligence increases and our wisdom, too."

"Wow. I can see that that would be an amazing experience. It sounds incredibly beautiful, Joe." The more I thought about it, its purity, its simplicity, the more beautiful it became. It had that whole, 'I see rainbows in the evening', sort of purity. "Tell me about it, Joe, help me understand."

At the back of my mind, something nagged to remind me, this is possibly the first and only chance given to humans to converse with a being from another planet. Its significance was not lost on me and I would be a fool to let the opportunity go without trying to extract from it every morsel of information I could. After all, wasn't Joe doing exactly that to me?

"I do not have your skill as a writer to put images into words," he admitted. "But I will try." He said nothing for sometime, and his eye stalks examined every nook and cranny of my modest living room, looking at everything but seeing nothing. "Imagine... being in conversation with your closest friend, talking deeply of some far-reaching philosophy, something abstract but engaging. And then, another friend joins in, adding his or her own experience and ideas. And then more friends join in and suddenly, your whole world is a frenzy of debate. It becomes a tangible and exciting event." He paused and studied me again. "I doubt if you would survive the experience."

He didn't elaborate, and I could only surmise the meaning of his statement. Did I, as a mere human, not have the mental capacity to be a part of such an event? Was our intelligence so far behind that of the Martians that to take part would destroy our minds? I didn't pursue it because I feared the answer would depress me too much.

"And I thought you were boring," I said. "Do you regard us... me as primitive?"

"An interesting question. As a race, you are capable of great achievements. But..."

"I knew there'd be a but."

"But also, you are capable of being obscene and grotesque. You make barbarism into an art form. We find your capacity for atrocity unbelievable."

I picked up on the 'we'. Obviously, Joe wasn't the only one keeping an eye, or in his case, lots of eyes on us.

"Nobody's perfect," I reminded him. "When you go home, you know, back to Mars," I nodded towards the ceiling, with no particular idea if that was the correct direction. "Not that I'm trying to get rid of you, mind, what makes you think I won't tell the authorities here all about you? You realise I will, of course?"

The slit where his mouth might have been puckered a little and I imagined that to be a wry smile. A sort of, you don't know anything, little smile. "Could I allow that to happen?" he asked, frankly.

An unpleasant tingling sensation stroked my spine like a wicked call-girl with a perverted sense of humour and a feather duster. (Now that was a night.) With my heightened tendency towards paranoia, always my permanent cross to bear, I naturally considered the worst of all possible options. Scenarios played rapidly through my mind, and they nearly all ended with me becoming a pile of grey ash on my living-room carpet, and Joe standing over me with a smoking ray gun in his tentacle. From which part of his naked anatomy he was to produce this weapon of my destruction, I had absolutely no idea. So terrifyingly clear was the image I saw with my mind's eye I had to shake my head vigorously to remove it.

"You will not remember even meeting me, when I have gone."

I liked that. It sounded a hell of a lot more upbeat than having my atoms fried. I could live with forgetting all about Joe and our conversation.

"Fair enough. A pity in a way, though. It would make a good book, all this."

"E.T."

"You watched E.T.?"

"We all did."

I couldn't help wondering if Joe and his kind cried at the sad bits, dabbing tissues at all four eyes.

"I must go," he said. "Air not good."

"I haven't farted," I assured him.

"Your air not good for me too long."

"Well. It's been inter..."

The little joker had gone. Just damn vanished.

"Hmm. I got news for you, space cowboy. I still remember everything." He suddenly came back. But he wasn't where he'd been sitting. He was by the bourbon. His tentacle wrapped around it.

"Bye," he said. Then he was gone.

Who was gone? Something had gone. What had gone? I had the most peculiar feeling, something had happened but I couldn't put my finger on it. I needed a drink. There was an empty space where the bottle had been. I really have to cut down.

* * *

Gary Weston _hopes you enjoyed meeting 'Joe'. You can meet him_ _and_ _his family in the craftily-titled 'Explain That to a Martian 2' and '3'._

* * * * *

# THE IMAGINARY INVASION

### Ubiquitous Bubba

[Explain That To A Martian] [Contents] [The Guns Of Napoleon]

Do imaginary characters know they aren't real? What happens when imaginary people dream? When our reality is invaded by extra-dimensional beings, imaginary characters may be humanity's only hope.

NED LOVED THE DEPARTMENT OF MOTOR VEHICLES. At least, it felt like home. In this place, no one was special. No one received preferential treatment and everyone was ignored equally. Ned really liked that.

Elsewhere, Ned was accustomed to being invisible. He hated fast food joints because they never listened to his order. In staff meetings, other people talked over him as if he wasn't even there. No one ever laughed at his jokes, listened to his stories, or paid any attention to him at all. Except for Grendel, of course.

Ned shifted in the hard plastic chair, in a futile attempt to get comfortable. His shoes scuffed aimlessly on the dirty grey tile. A thin veil of dust hung suspended in the shafts of sunlight which violated the filthy windows. Ned's backpack kicked and he heard a low growl. "Quiet!" he whispered. "If I let you out, you'll just cause trouble again."

"If you don't let me out," snapped a muffled high voice, "I'll do much worse!"

Reluctantly, Ned unzipped the bag and the head of a small black and brown dog shot up through the opening. Large eyes glared at Ned. "I mean it," Ned warned. "Last time, you tried to bite George's ankle."

"He had it coming!" argued Grendel. His upper lip curled slightly, revealing small white teeth. "I gave him a proper beg, and he didn't deliver! There's a system here. The dog begs and the human drops food. If the stupid human doesn't deliver, the whole thing breaks down. Society crumbles, anarchy prevails. Is that what you want? Anarchy? Is it? Is it?"

"There are a few cinnamon rolls in the break room," Ned said. "See if that will restore order in the universe." Grendel launched out of the backpack with a high pitched bark and raced for the break room, toenails skidding wildly on the tile floor. Ned smiled as the little dog slid sideways through the doorway. He closed his backpack and shook his head. "At least you talk to me," he said. "I think you're the only one who has for at least a decade."

It hadn't always been that way, of course. When he was very young, he and his friend Boomer played together all the time. Boomer was his mother's nickname for Brandon. Only she and Ned ever called him by that name. "That's funny," Ned said to himself. "I haven't thought about Boomer in years."

* * *

The DMV faded away as Ned remembered the high points of his childhood. He smiled as visions of a pair of superheros in capes made of towels raced through the trees. The image changed to show two bikes speeding along a sidewalk, desperate to avoid the bigger kids. A fog cleared, and now he rode down a grassy hill towards a pond where Boomer waited. With a scream, he leapt off, seized a rope hanging down from an old oak tree, and flew out into the middle of the pond. When he came up to the surface, the scene had shifted again.

They were at school. Ned hated these memories. This was where it started to go wrong. Slowly, over a period of a few short years, Boomer made some new friends. Ned found himself gradually sidelined.

The other kids ignored him. Ned would start to tell a joke or pull a prank, and they would act like he didn't exist. Boomer knew, though. Ned would catch his eye, and Boomer would look guilty for a moment. In the beginning, Boomer would repeat to his friends something funny that Ned had said and they would all laugh.

A moment later, years had passed. Ned and Boomer wore blue robes and square hats. "Hey, Boomer," Ned said, absently stroking the blond fuzz on his chin. "What are you doing after the graduation ceremony?" Boomer sighed, gazed into the full-length mirror, and straightened his cap.

Turning to face Ned, he said, "Look, we had some good times as kids. I don't want to be a jerk, but I don't really want to hang out with you anymore. I've got other friends now, and they don't get you. You're kind of an embarrassment, dude. I think it would be better for everyone if you would just go away."

* * *

"Number 238," droned Wanda, peering over permanently smudged glasses on a thick chain around her neck. She glared at the vermin infesting the cheap yellow chairs before her. She choked down some excess mucus and drummed stubby fingers on her desk. "238?"

Ned checked the number on his paper stub. "237," he said with a sigh. He glanced around the DMV. Monotony reigned supreme. "Thanks for skipping me again, Wanda," he called out. She ignored him as usual.

Ned closed his eyes and tried to regain his sense of contentment. He imagined he was sitting on a deserted beach with a tall, cool glass of water in his hand. He listened to the waves roll in and he felt the ice cold liquid wash down his parched throat. He opened his eyes and watched the setting sun turn the ocean red.

"Where's the pig?" asked Grendel. Ned glanced down at the little dog sniffing in the sand. "We're at the beach, so there's supposed to be a roasting pig at the luau," explained Grendel impatiently. "How many times do we have to go over this? You have got to plan ahead, Ned! You want to relax on a beach? Fine! Where's the food? Huh? Are you trying to starve to death? Are you? Are you? Well?"

"This might help," Ned said as he tossed some liver-flavored dog biscuits down to his companion. As Grendel attacked the snacks, Ned let his mind wander.

* * *

After graduation, he had blundered through life without appearing to touch it. He took a pointless job in a cubicle in a large insurance office. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of co-workers, he lived in complete isolation. After a few years of complete boredom, his company folded and he found himself unemployed. He found his way to the Department of Motor Vehicles, and took an insignificant job in a forgotten back office there. After a few years of this solitary lifestyle, Ned wondered if he might be insane.

He knew better than to try seeing a psychiatrist. From past experience, he knew that he would end up sitting in the waiting room without ever being called. Instead, he turned on the TV. Late at night, he would watch reruns of television analysts and former celebrities helping people work through their problems. Through it all, Ned had a lingering question he hardly dared ask out loud.

Ever since he was young, he had always wondered if he had imagined Boomer the way he seemed to imagine so many other things into existence. What if Boomer was just an imaginary friend?

* * *

Ned roused himself with a stretch. Grendel snored softly, lying across Ned's legs. Ned realized he had fallen asleep with the TV on again. It blared, announcing the end of the Dr. Toby show, _No, Yourself_. Ned sighed, dug the remote out from under Grendel's paws, and turned it off. In the sudden silence as the glow faded from the screen, he tried to see his reflection. It sometimes took a moment.

He wasn't sure later if it was due to insight gleaned from Dr. Toby, but it was at that instant that Ned had a breakthrough. "What if I'm Boomer's imaginary friend?"

* * *

Where do imaginary friends go when their imaginer is done with them? How do they spend their time? Ned's mind whirled.

"What if I'm Boomer's imaginary friend?" he asked again. "That would explain everything," he thought. "That's why people don't talk to me. That's why I don't get served in restaurants. That explains the talking dog." He thought hard for a moment. "That's why I never had a home," he said slowly. He had always thought it odd that he grew up in Boomer's house, but was not a part of his family. "That's why I don't have an apartment now," he thought. He looked around the break room. The small 13-inch TV sat on top of the microwave. Ned peered through the doorway to the lobby of the DMV. "When did I start living at the DMV?" he wondered.

"I guess it's not really living," he said to himself. "I'm not sure what this is." He closed his eyes and imagined the city stretching out before him, slowly rolling by. He opened his eyes and saw that he was on the L, one of Chicago's elevated trains. "One thing's for sure," he said. "I'm not going back to work."

He imagined a thick bacon double cheeseburger and it appeared in his hands. "I wish I'd known this 30 years ago!"

"You have got to be kidding me," complained Grendel. "I've been begging my whole life and you just whip that out whenever you want? I'll take three of those right now! Ok. Look. I'm begging now. You know what you have to do. Come on. Drop The Bacon Cheeseburger, Bub!"

Ned smiled and set a burger on the seat next to him. Another appeared in his hands at once. As he ate, he watched the train stroll through the city, winding between tall buildings and circling the Loop.

"I could go anywhere, or do anything," he thought. "I could skydive, see the world, swim with dolphins, or climb mountains. I could do anything," he repeated, "and no one would ever know." Elation turned to a familiar sadness.

Ned and Grendel exited the train and walked slowly along nearly empty streets. Cabs raced by, circling for prey. L trains screeched around corners overhead. Consumed by his thoughts, Ned wandered aimlessly.

Walking along the river, they passed an old man wearing a bathrobe, ear muffs, and black rubber boots. The man sat, crumpled in a heap, muttering quietly to himself.

"Evenin'," the man called out suddenly. Ned froze. "It's a nice night for a walk, isn't it?"

"Are you talking to me?" Ned asked.

The man looked up and down the riverbank. "I don't see anyone else here, do you?"

"Hello?" growled Grendel. "I'm down here, pal. Maybe you need glasses." He turned to Ned. "He smells like ham. I like him."

The stranger laughed and said, "Come here. I want to tell you a secret."

He waved them closer. Intrigued, Ned stepped forward.

"I know!" the man whispered. "I know what's going on, but I can't tell anyone."

"Okay," Ned said slowly. "Congratulations, I guess."

"No! You don't understand," the man hissed. He grabbed Ned by the shoulders and whispered in his ear. "You're imaginary, so I can tell you." He paused for a moment. "We are in terrible danger!"

Ned pulled back. "If I'm imaginary," he began, "how can you see me? Are you imagining me?"

The old man laughed. "I should introduce myself," he said. "You can call me Carl. It's not my real name, of course, but it should do." He pulled his stained robe tighter. "The reason I can see you is because I'm crazy."

"What?'

"Well, the real diagnosis has big important sounding words, but the bottom line is that I see people that aren't there and I hear voices no one else can hear." He looked around quickly and whispered, "I broke out so I could come here to meet you."

"How did you know I would be here?" Ned asked. "I didn't even know that I would come down here."

"There's that planning thing, again," muttered Grendel, shaking his head.

Carl waved the objection away. "You imaginary types always come down here eventually. It's like you're drawn to it or something. The other spot is down on Lower Wacker Drive, but that's too obvious." He dropped his voice even lower. "They find me there too easily. I didn't want to be dragged back until we had a chance to talk."

Ned shifted uneasily. "Who finds you? Where do they take you?" What he really wanted to know of course was, _How dangerous are you?_

Carl grabbed Ned again. "This is very important," he insisted. "I may be crazy, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong." He paused for a moment, as if bracing himself. "We are under attack!" he breathed.

"Really?" asked Ned skeptically.

"How much do you know about theories of reality?"

"Seriously?" Ned asked. "A crazy man is asking an imaginary guy how much he knows about reality? You might as well ask the imaginary dog!"

"Hey!" barked Grendel. The dog scratched his ear for a moment and then said, "Still, you've got a point."

"Wait!" Carl said. His eyes rolled back and twitched slightly. His fingers seemed to type in mid-air. "There," he said, as his gaze slid back to Ned. "I just filed that away under 'Irony'. And yes, that was a serious question."

"Not much, I guess," Ned answered.

"Okay," Carl sighed. "We'll have to stick with the high-level overview, then. Several variations on multi-dimensional theories agree that our universe exists in the three dimensions we can perceive plus time plus at least six other dimensions invisible to us. Some argue about whether there's a seventh unseen dimension or whether there are multiple time dimensions."

Ned's eyes started to glaze over. "I thought you said this was a high-level overview?"

"It is!" Carl insisted. "Anyway, the point is that there are dimensions we can't perceive directly. At least, most of us can't."

"You can?"

"Not all of them, no," said Carl. "But I can see enough to see you. But that's not the reason I came here to find you."

"Okay," sighed Ned. "What is the reason?"

Carl jammed his mouth against Ned's ear. "I know what is happening!" he whispered. "I've seen it with my own eyes!" He shook with intensity, grabbing Ned's collar to hold him close. "It's an alien invasion!"

Ned pulled free of Carl's clutches momentarily. "So, I see why people think you're crazy," he said.

"I mean it!" Carl snapped. He clapped his hand over his mouth and looked around quickly. "Aliens are kidnapping people and taking their place!" he mouthed silently.

"What?" asked Ned.

Carl stomped in frustration. "Look!" he said, grabbing Ned's arm. "They come through mirrors!" he shouted. "Reflections are grabbing people, pulling them inside the mirror and taking their place! Aliens are using some trick of quantum mechanics and photonic properties to seize people on a subatomic level and swap places with them."

Ned backed away slowly.

"I'm not crazy!" Carl screamed. "Well, I am," he admitted, "but I'm still right!" He paused as a siren raced towards them. "I can't do anything about it," Carl yelled. "You can, though. You're imaginary. You don't have a reflection!" At that, Carl turned and fled madly along the river. Two police officers raced after him a moment later.

* * *

Ned pondered Carl's words. "I have a reflection," he argued. "I've seen my reflection many times. Grendel, you've seen it too, right?" In the back of his mind uncertainty grew. Ned pictured the DMV and found himself in the lobby. He walked down the hall and into the restroom. He took a deep breath, and looked in the mirror.

Nothing. Nothing looked back at him. He frowned and tried again. His reflection looked back, perfectly mirroring his face. It took a moment for the realization to hit. "All these years, I've been imagining my own reflection." He slumped back against the wall for support. He concentrated and the Ned in the mirror vanished. "I have no reflection," he muttered. "I'm imaginary, so I don't reflect. Crazy Carl was right!"

He walked back out to the break room and sat in a hard plastic chair.

"What if I imagined Carl?" he mused. "That still doesn't explain the mirror thing, though." Ned absently drummed his fingers on the table top. "The rest has got to be crazy nonsense, right? How believable is it that aliens are invading by kidnapping people through their mirrors? That's really crazy!" He shook his head. "I'm not buying it," he declared. He didn't feel convinced.

"Hey!" said Grendel suddenly, his ears perking up. "You've got no reflection, so maybe you're a vampire!"

"I'm not a vampire," protested Ned.

"Tomorrow morning, go outside and see if you're shiny!" Grendel's tail wagged furiously.

"I am not!" Ned argued. "Besides, most vampire tales say that we'd be burned alive in the daylight. That's never happened to us before."

"What do you mean, 'us'?" asked the dog. "I'm no vampire!" He extended his front paws as far forward as he could reach and stretched. "If anything," he continued, "I'd be a werewolf."

"You're about the size of a weresquirrel."

"One bite and I could end you, Count Lame-ula!"

"Maybe I should get an imaginary cat," mused Ned.

Grendel gasped. "Oh! That's it! You have done it now! It's on, mister! Pick me up so I can reach your face, and I will maul you until you look like a Picasso! Come on! I dare you! I double-dog dare you!"

"I thought you told me that was an insensitive insulting expression," said Ned.

"It's not if I say it!" barked Grendel.

"Hey, look!" said Ned. "There's a couple of cheese slices in your bowl!"

"What?" yelped Grendel, whipping his head around and racing towards a dog food bowl in the corner.

Ned stared at the wall for a minute while Grendel scarfed down his cheese. "What do you think about that alien stuff?" Ned asked the dog.

Grendel licked his bowl clean, sniffed the floor for any stray remnants of cheese, licked his lips, and then looked up. "You humans had a good run," he said. "Maybe the new folks would like to feed a dog."

"They may want to eat a dog," Ned warned.

"I don't think so," Grendel said as he jumped up on a chair. "They sounded intelligent."

"Maybe we should have another chat with Carl," Ned wondered.

"You go ahead," yawned Grendel. "There's only so much crazy an imaginary talking dog can take in one night."

Against his will, Ned yawned in response. He pulled up another chair, sat down, and closed his eyes for a moment.

* * *

"Who left this mess in the sink?" screamed Terry. Ned groaned and opened his eyes. Daylight poured through the dirty blinds. Terry, the self-appointed break room czar, glared at co-workers through narrow glasses. "Is this your coffee cup?" he yelled at Glen, who casually brushed the crumbs of a cheese Danish off his uniform.

Glen slowly swallowed a large chunk of pastry, wiped his mustache clean, and said, "I suggest you get out of my face while you still can."

Terry paled and chased after Wanda. "Is that your cup?" he screeched.

"Don't make me hurt you again, Terry," she called without turning. "I am not in the mood today. I will beat the stupid right out of you."

Terry turned to search out other prey. "Frank!" he yelled. "Is this..."

"That's your cup, Terry," said Frank, not even looking up from the sports page. "Again," he added.

"You know," Grendel said to Ned. "We have got to get our own place. I mean, these people are crazy! You know what I'm saying? One of these days, Terry's going to snap. I wonder what it would look like if Wanda did beat the stupid out of him. Do you think there'd be anything left?"

Ned shook his head. "I doubt it," he replied. "Come on, let's go find Carl. It wouldn't hurt to hear him out."

"There's that legendary lack of planning again," complained Grendel. You're off looking for a crazy man without even thinking about what we're going to eat! Do I have to think of everything here? Is that it? Do you want to put me in charge? Do you? Is that what you want?"

"I think this is your sausage," said Ned, dangling a link near the floor. Grendel gasped with delight and attacked the meat. "Are you ready to go now?"

Grendel chewed blissfully, with his eyes closed and ears relaxed. He swallowed and said, "I'm ready if you've got mid-morning snacks and lunch planned out. If not, then you've still got some work to do. As a reminder, steak is always a great idea."

* * *

With the promise of steak in the foreseeable future, the imaginary pair soon caught the L towards the Loop. Ned took a spot near the door and leaned up against a pole for support.

"Explain to me why we're standing," said Grendel, rocking as the train lurched forward.

"The seats are full," said Ned.

"Hello? We're imaginary! We can sit anywhere we want and the humans won't even notice!" barked Grendel.

Ned frowned. "I guess I'm still not used to the idea of being unreal," he said sadly. "It just seems rude to sprawl all over people just because they don't know I'm there."

A man stumbled, shuffling through the train and nearly stepped on Grendel's tail.

"Hey!" the little dog yelled, and bit the man hard on the ankle. "You see that?" Grendel said, flicking his tongue, disgusted by the taste. "Nothing! He didn't feel a thing, which is too bad, because I would gnaw his feet off at the ankle!"

The dog suddenly sat up and cocked his head sideways. "For that matter," he said. "Why are we taking the L, anyway? Why don't we just jump to wherever you're going? You know? Like we did last night?"

Ned thought about it. "Like I said, I'm not used to this idea. For the last 30 years, I thought I was real."

He pictured the Chicago River and felt the wind on his face.

"That's better!" Grendel barked. "Now, where do we find this guy?"

Ned looked up and down the bank, but the strange old man was nowhere in sight. "Can you pick up his scent?" he asked the dog.

"You're kidding, right? Do I look like a bloodhound to you? Huh? Do I?" Grendel's nose twitched. "I think he went that way," he said suddenly, trotting off.

"So, you did pick up the trail, didn't you?"

"No," Grendel argued. "This is the direction he ran last night when the cops chased him. You're not all that observant, are you?"

"Just see if you can find him," Ned called out, jogging after the mutt.

"I think I found where he was," Grendel yelled. The dog stopped and sniffed the concrete.

"Is that blood?" asked Ned, breathing hard from his run.

"Yes, indeed. This is where he was caught." Grendel sniffed around the edges of the stain. "There's not a huge amount of blood, so I think they just knocked him down here. He's probably okay."

"That's good," Ned sighed with relief. "I wonder how we're going to find him now..."

Grendel sat down, scratched one ear, and then yawned. "Okay," he said at last. "I'll help you out here. You and I are..." Grendel paused to let Ned fill in the blank.

"Imaginary," Ned answered.

"Right! Good boy! If we can go anywhere, and do anything we imagine, we could... What? Anyone? Is there anyone here who can guess what we could do? Anyone at all? Maybe I should go ask the pigeons?"

"We could imagine we are where he is now," said Ned as the light finally dawned.

"Bingo!" yelled Grendel. "Give the man a treat! We can imagine we're where he is now. We can also imagine there's a 14-ounce rib eye right in front of the dog, right?"

"Not yet," answered Ned. "Let's go see Carl first. After that, you'll get your steak." Ned paused briefly. "For that matter," he said. "Since we're imaginary, why do you need to eat anyway?"

Grendel growled. "It's a quality of imaginary life issue," he said sternly. "It's not optional."

"Okay," said Ned, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I give up. Let's go see the crazy guy who wants us to believe real people are being invaded by aliens through mirrors."

"When you put it like that, our lives seem pretty ordinary," said Grendel.

* * *

Small and featureless, the white walls of the room closed in like a cell.

"Carl?" asked Ned cautiously. "Are you alright?"

The old man lay still, with unseeing eyes wide open, and a large white bandage on the side of his head. Grendel licked the man's hand, sniffed, and looked back Ned.

"Something's not right here," he said.

Ned waved his hand in front of Carl's face, but received no response.

"I think he's been drugged," Ned said at last. "Let's see if we can find out what's going on." He looked out the narrow window in the door to the hallway. Grendel didn't wait for him, but instead ran through the solid metal door. "Why didn't I know we could do that?" Ned wondered. He quickly followed.

He felt some resistance as he slipped through the door, but not as much as he had expected. Passing through solid matter felt dry and cold and left a slight metallic taste in his mouth.

"Hey!" Grendel barked. "His file is over here on this counter! What is keeping you? The sooner we get done here, the sooner I get my steak! Wow, these counters are slippery." Grendel hopped down and waited.

Ned walked over and opened the file folder. "They gave him some medicine I can't pronounce," he told the dog.

"Well, that's just great!" Grendel growled. "What are we supposed to do now? I've got a steak riding on this guy!"

A hand closed Carl's folder. Ned looked up into nervous eyes, which rapidly jerked back and forth. The face that owned them stifled a giggle.

"How did you get a dog in here?" it whispered.

Ned pulled back to see a man in a _Detestica Rocks!_ t-shirt and pajama pants decorated with cartoon characters. "So, you can see us?" asked Ned.

The man furtively glanced around to make sure they weren't being watched. "Don't tell anyone!" he hissed.

"Okay," whispered Ned. "I'm Ned and this is Grendel."

"How's it going?" asked Grendel.

"Oh, I've really done it now!" exclaimed the man excitedly. "Talking dog!" he whispered, rubbing his temples with both hands. "I'm Hank, by the way." He quickly turned and staggered towards the far side of the room near the windows.

Ned and Grendel followed. Hank sat in a small hardback chair facing a narrow dirty window. Ned pulled up another chair and sat nearby.

"I have to act like I'm still on my meds," Hank whispered. "The drool helps," he added.

"Maybe that should be a 20-ounce steak," Grendel growled.

"We came to see Carl," said Ned. "Carl started to tell us something last night, but he didn't get to finish."

"He told you about the alien invasion, didn't he?" hissed Hank.

"Well, he might have mentioned it," answered Ned.

Hank slowly rocked back and forth. "Mirrors! They come through the mirrors!"

"Yeah, that's where things get a little fuzzy," said Ned.

Hank stared straight into Ned's eyes. "Not all the time. They don't always take us. They're selective and patient. Sooner or later, they'll get us all!"

Ned shivered suddenly. "How do they get us?" he asked. "How does that work?"

Hank glanced at an orderly who walked by. For a few moments, Hank stared blankly at the window. Once the orderly turned a corner, Hank whispered, "When they take someone, the person's reflection reaches out and pulls them in. The human goes into the mirror and the alien comes out."

"So the aliens look exactly like the people they replace," said Ned. "How do you know who's an alien?"

Hank giggled quietly into his hands. "A few of us can tell! Shhhh!" he hissed. "We can't let them find out!" His hands flew rapidly around his head. "Some of us see into other dimensions! That's why we can see you," he said, pointing at Ned.

"What happens to the people who are taken?" Ned asked.

"We don't know," Hank whispered. "None have ever come back to tell us. They're trapped forever. Rats in a cage. Hamsters in a wheel. Stain on a slide. No one knows..."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Raindrops tapped lightly on the window. Distant thunder rumbled faintly. Grendel's stomach grumbled loudly.

"Okay!" he barked. "I'm glad that's all settled. Let's eat!"

"Grendel," scolded Ned. "This is serious."

"So am I," argued the dog. "I'm hungry now!"

"Hank," continued Ned, ignoring the dog's rather pitiful begging pose. "How do you know this isn't just a delusion?"

Hank grinned wildly. "That would be nice, wouldn't it? It would make everything better if we could just write this off as the ravings of a lunatic, right?" He dug his palms against his temples for a moment. "Several of us have seen them," he whispered. "They go for executives, doctors, and politicians first. You know, it's as though they're targeting the rich, powerful and successful. Carl and I both saw an alien take our doctor."

Hank checked his surroundings again before continuing. "We were planning imaginary chess at that table over there." He pointed at a table in the corner. "They don't let us have the chess pieces, so we have to imagine them. Anyway, do you see that mirror on the wall by that hallway?" Now he pointed to the opposite side of the room at a round safety mirror mounted on a wall. "People use that to avoid running into each other in the halls," he explained. "Dr. Siegel was standing there looking up into the mirror when it happened. His reflection reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. It happened very quickly. One minute he was standing there, and in the next, he was yanked off his feet and into the mirror. As he went in, a perfect imitation of him came out."

"Both of you saw it?" asked Ned skeptically.

"Yes! We were both waving to him, trying to see which one of us he would say hello to first." Hank smiled. "That's one of our games," he explained.

"How do you know it was an imitation that came out of the mirror?"

Hank's eyes burned with intensity. "Because he glowed blue around the edges." He covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. "They think we can't see it, but we can!"

"Mr. Sanderson?" asked a voice from the far side of the room. "Did you say something?"

Hank's head spun sideways quickly to see who was asking. His eyes widened and he hissed through clenched teeth, "It's him! See what I mean?"

Ned stared intently at the man in the white coat who walked towards them. Grendel growled softly until Ned nudged him with his shoe. As the doctor approached, Ned's stomach tightened as he saw a faint blue shimmer around his body.

"Morning, Dr. Siegel," Hank said with a smile. "I was just wondering when Carl will be up and around. We were going to play chess."

Dr. Siegel stared into Ned's eyes. "He overexerted himself yesterday and he's resting today," the doctor said. "I'm sure he'll be able to play tomorrow." He looked down at the imaginary dog. "I hope there will be no interruptions in your routine that might prevent that." He patted Hank on the shoulder. "In the meantime, they're serving lasagna in the cafeteria. You like that, don't you?"

Hank nodded. "I do! You know I do, doctor." Hank avoided looking at Ned and Grendel. "I'd better go now so I don't miss out. Bye, Doc. See you tomorrow for Group."

Hank stood up, stifled a giggle, and walked quickly down the hall.

* * *

"Now that we're alone," said Dr. Siegel. "Let's have a little chat, shall we?"

"Are you talking to us?" Ned asked. The doctor glared at him.

"Yes," he said with a sneer. "I don't know what Hank told you, but I'd advise you to forget it."

"Why don't we start with how you're not really Dr. Siegel?" Ned crossed his arms and met the man's gaze. "You kidnapped him and took his place. You're a... what do you call that?"

"Doppelganger," said Grendel helpfully, wagging his tail.

"Yeah! You're a doppelganger from inside a mirror."

Dr. Siegel smiled. "Who sounds insane now?" he asked.

Grendel growled. Ned's voice rose. "You're talking to imaginary characters, so you don't have room to talk about insanity! You're invading Earth, aren't you?"

"You imaginary characters think you're so special!" Dr. Siegel snarled. "Look at me! I'm special!" he mocked. Grendel bared his teeth. Dr. Siegel kicked at him, but failed to connect. "You're so stupid!" he yelled. "You don't know how good you've got it. All that moaning and griping about how only a few people can interact with you is so tiring! Get over it! AAGHH!" he screamed as Grendel's teeth sank into his ankle. He kicked frantically, vainly trying to shake the small dog off of his leg.

"Good boy!" called Ned. He pushed the hopping doctor, who fell with a crash to the floor. "What are you?" Ned asked. Dr. Siegel freed his ankle and slid backwards across the carpet.

"Stop that!" yelled the doctor. "Keep that dog off of me!"

"Grendel," said Ned. "If he doesn't answer our questions, eat him." The little dog drooled in anticipation and crouched, ready to spring.

"I'll tell you!" said Dr. Siegel quickly. "It won't do you any good, since you're no threat to us." He pulled himself into a chair and pulled out his phone. He held it up to his ear. "This will help provide cover in case someone comes in here to see what the yelling was all about," he explained. "We are the X," he declared. "We are sometimes called, 'Extra Dimensionalists'. Like you, we exist within the higher-level dimensions invisible and imperceptible to most humans."

He glanced around quickly. "They don't see us because most of them can't perceive anything beyond the three obvious physical dimensions plus time. In fact, there's a surprisingly large percentage of humanity whose perception is even less effective." He paused for a moment. "I've answered your question, now call off your dog and leave this building!"

"Oh, we're not through just yet," said Ned. "Let's pretend that I understood what you just said. Why are you here? What do you want?"

"Why am I..." Dr. Siegel began. "Why am I here? The X have been here all along! That's the point! We've been here all this time. The problem is those stupid Lower Dimensionalists that walk around like they own the place! This is our universe, too!"

Grendel licked his lips and paced closer.

"Wait!" the doctor yelled. "We've been trapped for so long in the higher dimensions, unable to enjoy spatial existence. We just wanted a turn."

"Grendel," Ned said calmly. "He doesn't seem to care much about his left ankle."

"NOOO!" screamed Dr. Siegel.

"YES!" shouted Grendel as he lunged.

"AAGGHHH! Down! Get off! Help!"

"When the humans come to investigate all that yelling, how will you explain that you were bitten by an imaginary dog?" Ned asked. "Do you have a favorite room here? I think it's time you had a turn as an inmate, don't you?"

"Alright!" the panicked doctor shrieked. "I'll tell you if you keep that beast away from me!"

"Who are you calling a beast?" growled Grendel menacingly. At least, he tried to appear as menacing as possible for a small dog. He curled his upper lip just to add to the effect. It made him want to sneeze.

"We're not invading," said the doctor. "We are only exchanging dimensions with the humans. They're alive and unharmed, I assure you. We all have to live in this universe, you know. That's why we had to take their place."

"I'm not following you," said Ned.

"Look at the world around you," Dr. Siegel said, sweeping his arm towards the windows. "Look at what they've done with it. They're trashing the place!" The doctor rubbed his temples in frustration. "Okay, look," he moaned. "We live vicariously through the stupid humans. We watch helplessly while they fumble around out here. On the other side of the mirrors, we've got nothing. You don't know how wonderful it is to have three spatial dimensions unless you've tried to go without them for a while. What do we do? We watch through the mirrors as they make complete fools of themselves. Sure, sometimes, we can get their attention as they preen and primp, admiring themselves. At best, though, we can help them see where they missed a spot while shaving or how ridiculous their hair looks. They rarely see the reality beyond the veil. Those who do are considered insane or musicians."

"That's a bit redundant," offered Grendel helpfully.

Dr. Siegel glared at the little dog. "Yes," he said. "It is." He ran his right hand through his thinning hair. "Anyway," he continued. "We can't just sit around and watch them destroy the world. If they go, we will have no one to watch."

Ned frowned. "There's more to this universe than just this world, right? Why not go watch somebody else?"

The doctor snorted derisively. "Oh, sure! Go watch somebody else! Maybe you should watch the sapient pond scum of Szhiner 3 or the intelligent gases floating around Lurgnepter's fourth moon for a few years! Let's see how you like it!" The doctor stood shakily to his feet and glared at Ned. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you," he said. "The universe just isn't that interesting." He pointed down the hall towards the cafeteria. "This is just about as good as it gets. Obviously, other species are more intelligent and refined, but Humanity has one thing going for them."

"What's that?" Ned asked.

"They're hilarious," Dr. Siegel explained. "Have you seen them?" He laughed suddenly. "The thing they do with talking kitten videos is priceless."

Ned and Grendel exchanged blank, confused glances. Grendel's head cocked sideways.

"Oh!" the doctor said, doubling over and wheezing. "Here's another one. It's hysterical watching them try the same stupid stunts over and over!" He cackled in a high voice. "They just never learn! The best, though..." He broke down, laughing so hard tears slid down his face. "The best is when..." He shook his head and waved his hands helplessly. Ned yawned. Grendel licked his lips and sniffed the floor. The doctor gasped for breath, slowly regaining control of himself. "Okay," he said at last. "The funniest thing about humans is watching them fall down!" He collapsed in a fetal position, laughing hysterically.

"I don't think I want to bite him anymore," Grendel said. "What if his condition is contagious?"

"You're imaginary, so you can't get sick," Ned reminded him. "Still," he continued. "I can see your point."

"Are you ready to go get that steak?" asked the little dog.

"I don't know," answered Ned. "I still don't know what we're supposed to do about this."

"There's nothing," gasped Dr. Siegel. "There's nothing you can do. That's what I've been telling you." He coughed as he sat up. Slowly, he pulled himself together. "Look, we're here to protect the humans from themselves and in so doing, ensure our continuing entertainment. When we're done, we'll send them back and we'll return to the higher dimensions." He pointed at Ned and Grendel. "As imaginary beings, you're just a useless anomaly. You're an unpredictable by-product of humanity's attempt to blindly reach into higher dimensions. Their ignorance of the nature of reality is why you don't know what to do. It's time you accepted the fact that this doesn't concern you and there is nothing you can do about it. Run along, eat your imaginary steak, waste your imaginary existence wandering among the humans and fade into nothingness. In the end, that's all you are."

"Maybe I'll go ahead and bite him a little more," muttered Grendel. Dr. Siegel staggered to his feet and pulled a chair in front of his ankles.

"Don't bother," said Ned turning away. "Let's go. He's just wasting our time."

Grendel panted as he trotted beside Ned. "He tastes bad, too."

"I imagined that he would," said Ned.

"Funny," Grendel said with a growl. "You're a riot."

* * *

An hour later, Ned gazed at the Gold Coast from the window of the Signature Room on the 95th floor of the John Hancock building. Grendel belched loudly and sat back on his haunches.

"Oh!" the little dog exclaimed. "That was sumptuous! It was incredible! I've never had such a perfect filet mignon!"

Ned smiled at him. "Now that we know how to work this imaginary existence racket," he said, "we'll have to come here more often."

"Not for a while, though," moaned Grendel. "I'm stuffed. I'm absolutely engorged over here. I just ate my own weight in steak. I couldn't eat another bite," he groaned in delighted distress. Flopping onto his side, he nibbled at Ned's leftovers.

Ned sipped his coffee and sighed. "Now that you've made a complete pig of yourself, what do you think we should do about the X?"

Grendel rolled onto his back with a soft thump. "Absolutely nothing," he answered. "They have a point, you know. Humans are pretty funny looking. Besides, what can we do about it? I'm not going to go around biting aliens all day. That gets tiring after a while. Besides, they don't taste right."

"I don't know," Ned said thoughtfully. "It just doesn't seem right. I mean, I understand that the X are concerned that humans are messing things up around here, but that's not the whole story. Humans also made places like this," he said with a wave at their surroundings.

"They do know how to cook a steak," acknowledged Grendel contentedly. The dog struggled to roll over. After a few attempts, he flopped to his side and grunted. "Let's assume for a moment that humans are worth saving," he said. "What exactly are we saving them from? That awful-tasting doctor said they were going to return them back here once they fixed things."

Ned frowned. "There's the problem," he said slowly. "What are they doing to fix anything? They kidnapped people with power, money and influence, right? So what are they doing with it? Why aren't things getting better?"

"It might help if we knew how long this invasion has been going on," Grendel said.

"That's the point," Ned said. "Why should we think this is something new? For all we know, they've been running things for years."

"That would explain politics over the last several decades," Grendel agreed. He licked his lips and yawned. "Even if that's true, what can we do about it? We still don't have any ideas."

Ned shook his head and smiled. "We do," he answered. "Carl gave us a clue. There's a reason the crazy guy went looking for imaginary people."

"Are you thinking of a reason other than, 'Because he's crazy'?" asked Grendel.

"Yes. Come on. Let's check this out."

"I'd rather not," answered the dog. "I was hoping we could relax and eat more steak."

"I thought you were full," protested Ned.

"I'm thinking about the future. You really need to start planning ahead."

"I thought you'd say that, so I came up with a plan," Ned said. "Let's see how it works."

"What, now?" moaned Grendel.

"Yes, now! Come on, you need to walk off that meal anyway."

"It's quite happy where it is," complained Grendel. "I don't think we should bother it."

"Oh, stop your whining. Let's go."

Ned scooped up the protesting dog and walked between the tables. Ignoring the growling, Ned strode briskly past finely-dressed customers and lavish meals. He sidestepped a waiter carrying a tray of deserts, much to Grendel's dismay, and entered the men's room. Ned set Grendel down on the counter and peered into the large mirror.

"Okay, genius," said Grendel. "We don't reflect. What did you expect to see here?"

"Exactly," said Ned. He pointed to the mirror. "We don't have reflections. When I used to see my reflection, what was I really seeing?"

"Your imagination," answered the dog.

"Right." Ned waited for a moment.

"What's your point?" asked Grendel. "You only saw..." The dog's eyes widened suddenly. He barked excitedly. "You saw your imaginary self in the mirror!"

"Yes!" Ned said slapping the marble counter. "I'm imaginary, and if I imagine a copy of myself inside the mirror..." He waited for Grendel to finish the sentence.

"...then you're a whacko?" guessed the dog.

"No! My imaginary self can trade places with me so I can find the kidnapped humans!"

"Like I said," Grendel nodded. "Whacko."

"Come on!" Ned yelled excitedly. "Let's do it. We can finally find out what's really going on!"

"What do you mean, 'we'? I'm not going in there." The dog growled at him. "How do you plan to get back? Have you thought of that? Huh? Have you?"

"Yes, I have," Ned answered. "Hey, look! There's your reflection, too!" Surprised, Grendel turned to look just in time to see his imaginary reflection bite the scruff of Grendel's neck and drag him inside the mirror.

* * *

Ned and Grendel stood in silence for a moment, gazing at their images now standing on the human side of the mirror. Other Ned waved to them, picked up Other Grendel, and walked out of sight.

"I hope you don't have a sentimental attachment to your ankles," growled Grendel.

"Well!" said Ned. "That worked perfectly! Let's have a look around, shall we?"

"For your sake, I hope you brought snacks," grumbled Grendel. He paused and tried to scratch his ears. "Okay," the dog said. "Does anyone see a problem here?"

"Do you mean the fact that we don't have any spatial dimensions?" asked Ned.

"No, I'm talking about the ozone layer," Grendel snarled. "Of course, I mean the lack of spatial dimensions! I can't scratch my own ears! Do you have any idea how irritating that can be? Do you? Do you?"

Ned frowned. At least, he thought he was probably frowning. "I didn't consider the implications of not having spatial dimensions," he admitted.

"Will you guys keep it down?" asked a dreary disembodied voice. "I'm trying to take a nap."

"Great!" snapped an angry voice. "Noobs!" it shouted. "We've got some noobies here!"

"Shut up, Hugo!" called a deep voice.

"Why don't you come over here and make me, Gustav!" screamed Hugo.

"If I had hands, I'd slap you both!" warned a feminine voice.

"You and what army, your Royal Highness?" shrieked Hugo.

"HEY!" yelled Ned as loudly as he could. Silence fell. "Thanks," he said in what he thought sounded like a calm tone. "I take it that you are all humans who have been kidnapped by extra-dimensional beings, right?"

"They are," answered a high giggly voice. "I'm the ghost of Christmas Past!"

"Shut up, Milton!" yelled Hugo. "You're not funny! That gag hasn't been funny for the last 20 years!"

"It wasn't funny for at least 12 years before that," muttered Gustav.

"Anyway," interrupted Ned. "I'm trying to clarify something. All of you are, or at least were, human. Is that true?"

The resulting cacophony washed over Ned and Grendel like a breaking wave. "Stop!" yelled Ned. "One at a time!" The crowd of voices clamored on, disregarding him.

Grendel barked, yipping angrily. The voices gasped and fell silent. "That's better," growled the little dog.

"Did you bring a dog in here?" asked a shaky voice that reminded Ned of Dr. Toby, the famous therapist.

"His name is Grendel and he's not just a dog," Ned answered. "He's a talking dog."

"The next one to start shouting gets bitten," warned Grendel.

"Good luck with that!" called another voice.

"Is it a corgi?" asked her Royal Highness.

"I'm not a corgi!" snapped Grendel angrily.

"The reason Grendel talks," Ned explained quickly, "is because he is imaginary."

"Well," said a sarcastic Hugo. "I'm glad you cleared that up."

"You're not following me," Ned continued. "Grendel and I are both imaginary. You don't see us out in the world because we have a somewhat different type of dimensional existence. You were kidnapped by extra-dimensional beings who wanted to take your place. Grendel and I are here to help you."

"That's nonsense!" screamed a familiar voice with a guttural accent. "I am a renowned psychiatrist and I do not talk to imaginary characters!"

"You just did," argued Grendel.

"Dr. Siegel?" Ned asked in surprise. "Is that you?"

"I'm not taking any new patients at the moment."

"Grendel and I met your doppelganger on the other side," explained Ned.

"He tasted awful," Grendel added. "Does anyone here have a snack?"

"There's no food here," answered a soft voice. "We seem to get by okay without it."

"Ned!" shouted the dog. "What did I tell you about planning ahead?"

"I'll get you a huge steak later," Ned promised. "Listen everyone! The extra-dimensional beings who kidnapped you have taken your place in the world. We need to swap you back again and make sure they can't do this anymore."

"Really?" shouted Hugo. "Don't you think we've tried? Do you think we've just been floating here all this time without trying something? Do you think we're stupid?"

"Which question do you want answered first?" asked Grendel.

"Quiet!" yelled Ned. He paused to collect his thoughts. His head hurt and he wished he had hands so he could rub his temples. He wondered briefly how he could have a headache without a physical head. "I'm sure you've tried your best. The problem is that you're real. You think in terms of reality. You need to think like an imaginary being."

Encouraged by the stunned silence, Ned continued. "Let me show you," he said. "Look at the mirror. Let's start with Hugo."

"Why me?" snarled the angry man.

"Because you're loud and obnoxious," answered Grendel.

"Grendel!" scolded Ned. "Well, yes, the dog is right. So, Hugo, search the mirror to find yourself."

"Yeah, we've done this a million times before," Hugo argued. "Our doppelgangers are too smart to look into the mirror directly."

"They won't have to look," said Ned. "Just find yourself."

The scene shifted to show a street crowded with identical suits hurrying through a light rain. It looked so real, Ned thought he could almost feel the moisture on his skin. It took a moment to remember that he didn't have skin.

"There I am!" said Hugo. "I'm the one waving for a taxi on the other side of the street."

"Great," Ned answered. "I want you to imagine yourself standing on the sidewalk and facing the mirror. Just imagine that you're staring at your reflection."

Several voices gasped as a bearded man suddenly appeared.

"Hey! I haven't changed a bit!" Hugo crowed. "After all the years I've been stuck here, I haven't aged a day!"

"Hello? That's your imagination, remember?" Ned said.

"This is getting confusing," complained a whiny voice. Several other voices agreed.

"Let's see if this helps," said Ned. "Hugo, we'll call you Hugo One. The Extra Dimensionalist who kidnapped you is Hugo Two, and your imaginary self is Hugo Three. Is that clear enough?"

"No!" answered several voices.

Ned ignored them. "Okay, now imagine that Hugo Three will run over to Hugo Two."

A moment later, Hugo's image dodged between cars and jogged across the street. A taxi slowed and the doppelganger quickly slipped inside. A chorus of groans rolled over the disembodied.

"That's okay," Ned called. "Your imaginary self is not bound by normal spatial rules. Imagine that Hugo Three is sitting in the cab next to Hugo Two and that number Three is holding a small mirror. Hold it in front of Hugo Two's face."

Hugo One concentrated and suddenly saw himself appear on the seat next to an older version of himself. From the vantage point of the cab's rearview mirror, Two grabbed Three with one hand while holding a mirror in his face.

Suddenly, the perspective shifted to the handheld mirror. A startled and much older looking Hugo stared at them in wide eyed shock. The crowd cheered.

"Quiet!" screamed Ned. "Hugo," he called out. "Imagine that you are reaching out through the mirror to grab him and pull him in here."

Bluish hands stretched out from the mirror and grabbed the imposter Hugo. "No!" he screamed. "I don't want to go back!" The mirror shook violently, a sense of sudden pressure pressed the disembodied voices down, and then it released.

"I'm back!" screamed Hugo One from the back seat of the cab. His younger imaginary self grinned and waved to him. "I'm back in the real world!" Hugo One continued. "It's incredible!"

"First time here?" asked the cab driver. "I take scenic route."

* * *

Ned couldn't hear more because the choir of disembodied voices rose to epic proportions, cheering, screaming and crying all at once. He yelled for quiet, but his own voice vanished into the din. Inside the cab, Hugo appeared to be yelling into the mirror and pointing at Hugo Three seated next to him. Three waved and smiled.

"Quiet, please!" called Ned. Gradually, the roar lessened and he heard Hugo One calling his name.

"Ned! Why is this other Hugo still here?"

"That's your imaginary self," Ned explained. "He's there to help you. Just relax. You're the only one who can see him, except for extra-dimensional beings and other imaginary people, of course. Just let him hang out with you. With him watching your back, no one will be able to drag you into another mirror."

"Got it," Hugo's One and Three said simultaneously. "Thanks, Ned. You did it!"

* * *

"Okay, everyone," said Ned. "That's what you do. Find yourself in a mirror, imagine another copy of yourself nearby. Have that copy make your doppelganger look in a mirror, and then drag the imposter here. You'll go back to your spatial existence and the extra-dimensional being will return here. Your imaginary self will remain behind to guard against any other kidnapping attempts. Give it a shot and let me know if you have problems."

* * *

Ned grimaced and Grendel howled as the horde of voices roared to life. The mirror images flashed past in a dizzying array, giving Ned a profound sense of motion sickness.

"Ned!" moaned Grendel weakly. "Make it stop!"

"I know," Ned answered. "Just close your eyes and wait."

"Do we even have eyes?" Grendel asked.

"I don't know! Pretend you do and you're closing them."

"Remind me to bite you very hard later."

"I will," he answered. "We'll do that later, when everything is quieter and Reality slows down."

Grendel's stomach gurgled. "I hope that happens soon," he said.

"You're hungry again, aren't you?" Ned said.

"Planning," Grendel complained. "You really don't understand the concept, do you? A few snacks, is that too much to ask? Is it? Is it?"

"I'd toss you a treat, but you don't have a mouth right now," Ned observed.

"Oh, that is cold," declared Grendel. "Virtually kicking an imaginary dog when he's down... You're going to go there now?" The dog barked loudly. "There! I just imagined that I bit you! Mmm! Also, you taste like pizza!"

"With mushrooms?" asked Ned.

Grendel spluttered and coughed. "Why'd you have to do that?" he yelled. "Why? I was having a single moment of contentment, a solitary sense of happiness, a glimpse of perfection, but you had to go and ruin it! What's wrong with you?" he shrieked. "Mushrooms? Are you trying to kill me? Are you? Are you?"

* * *

"Imaginary guy?" called Dr. Siegel. "I have a problem."

"That's putting it mildly," said another Dr. Siegel.

"We've been telling us this for years," offered a different Dr. Siegel.

"Why don't we talk about our mother?" asked yet another Dr. Siegel.

"Okay," said Grendel. "This is confusing."

"Wait," Ned said. "How many imaginary versions of yourself did you create?"

"I don't know!" sobbed the original doctor.

"Crybaby," mocked another one.

"He should let it all out," said another one. "It's a necessary step in the healing process."

"We should talk about this in Group," suggested one. A massive chorus of Dr. Siegels voiced their agreement.

"Ned," groaned Grendel. "Make it stop!"

"Everybody, be quiet!" yelled Ned. He paused to think for a moment. "Only the first Dr. Siegel, now," he said. "Did you find your doppelganger self?"

"Yes," the doctor said softly.

"Did you follow my directions to swap with him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'd rather not say," Dr. Siegel whispered. "Not in front of them!"

"Does he really think we don't already know?" barked an imaginary doctor.

"I don't!" piped up another psychiatrist. "I'm the one who wished I'd been a dancer!"

"Doctor?" asked Ned. "You really don't have another option."

"Alright, fine!" shouted the original Dr. Siegel. "I don't want an imaginary copy of me hanging around all the time! It's unprofessional and irritating!"

"Realist!" scolded an imaginary doctor.

"Quiet!" barked Grendel. He pretended he was wagging his tail. "You're welcome," he said to Ned.

"Listen!" shouted Ned. "This is your last time I'm going to help you. Either use your imaginary self to swap places with your doppelganger, or stay here. Either way, you're on your own from this point on."

"Oh, alright!" snapped the doctor. The mirror shifted and Dr. Siegel's Three through Ten held down a struggling Dr. Siegel Two. Number One sighed, reached through the mirror, and snagged his prize. The remaining Dr. Siegels cheered loudly.

* * *

"Are there any other humans left?" asked Ned.

"As a matter of fact," said her Royal Highness. "We have decided to remain here."

"When you say, 'We'," Grendel barked, "do you mean there are more than one of you, or are you using the royal 'We'?"

"There are just two of us," said another voice.

"Who are you?" asked Ned.

"My name is Scooter," the voice answered. "I work the drive-through window."

"What?" Ned asked.

"He is a philosopher," the Queen explained. "He's quite good, too."

"Okay," Ned said slowly. "Why are you two staying here? Did you have trouble finding your doppelgangers?"

"Nope," answered Scooter. "We've been watching them. That's the point."

"Oh, good," Grendel said. "I was hoping there was a point."

"You see," Scooter explained. "All my life, I've wanted to study the nature of Reality and Unreality. I've pondered the questions of existence, consciousness, and truth. From inside the lower dimensions, my perspective was clouded, hampered by the walls of my spatial existence. Here, I am free to observe the whole of humanity, free of the boundaries and limitations of the physical world." Scooter paused for a moment. "Also," he continued. "I'm really tired of working in fast food. Job prospects for philosophers are not all that great, you know."

"Oh, you had to mention fast food!" moaned Grendel.

Ned ignored the little dog. "Alright," he said. "I can understand that. What about you, Your Majesty?"

"Well," she said regally. "I have been here for a great many years. I believe my counterpart has done quite well for herself. I think she should continue. Besides," the Queen continued, "there has been an appalling lack of leadership in this realm. We intend to put this situation right."

"Are you sure about this?" asked Ned.

"We are quite certain," she answered.

"Totally," agreed Scooter.

* * *

"I suppose you're feeling pretty proud of yourself now, aren't you?" asked Hugo Two suddenly. "Here you are, alone, on the wrong side of the mirror. Most of the humans are leaving you behind again. They're leaving you alone with us," he said menacingly.

Grendel growled. Ned quenched a startled scream.

"You've interrupted us momentarily," said an angry voice. "We will have our revenge! We will not be thwarted by imaginary beings!"

"Actually," Grendel said helpfully. "You already were."

"Impudent scum!" screamed another voice. "We told you before that the X cannot be defeated by imaginary creatures! We will not be stopped! We will reclaim the lower dimensions and reseal the barrier! We will trap the humans forever in the higher dimensions!"

"Take them! Now!" yelled many more voices.

* * *

In a roar, the X attacked. Violently, they grabbed humans, snatching them like predators hunting easy prey. Screams of triumph and despair filled the higher dimensions as the X swarmed into spatial reality. Ned and Grendel watched helplessly as, one by one, the X seized their human counterparts. Imaginary characters struggled in vain to stop them. Crazed with hatred, the invaders moved faster than the humans could believe.

Grendel howled as his queasy stomach lurched. Images of kidnappings flashed across the mirror at a sickening pace. Ned moaned as his head pounded. The motion sickness took him and he lost all sense of direction. Unable to close his eyes, Ned stared intently into each person's face as they were snatched. Faces began to blur together into a collective despairing scream.

Suddenly, the mirror flexed, warping the images in bizarre directions. With a gut wrenching sucking, slurping sound, the distortion vanished, and Ned found himself staring into a familiar face on the other side of the mirror.

"You see, fools!" screamed the X known as Dr. Siegel. "We have all reclaimed our place! We have just destroyed all of our equipment, permanently sealing the mirror! You are lost! You are doomed to spend the remainder of your pitiful, useless, pointless lives lost in the void of the higher dimensions!" He laughed maniacally, shrieking with triumph.

"Ned?" growled Grendel.

"From this point on!" continued the crazed Dr. Siegel, "no one, human, Extra Dimensionalist, or imaginary creature can ever pass through the mirror again! Good-bye, fools!"

"Ned!" yelped Grendel.

"Can't you rebuild your devices and come back through?" asked Ned.

"Even if we wanted to do so, we cannot," said another one of the X. "All our gear was built by the original Nikola Tesla. It cannot be rebuilt."

"NED!" barked Grendel.

"You've doomed us all, you idiot!" screamed the original Hugo.

"They've taken Earth thanks to you!" accused another voice.

"We're trapped here forever!" wailed Dr. Siegel.

"NED!!!" shouted Grendel.

"Relax," Ned said reassuringly. "Don't you remember what I told you? You have to learn to think like an imaginary character."

* * *

Reality suddenly twisted in upon itself. Perception unraveled, fragmenting into sub-atomic particles. Dimensions warped, flexing back into familiar patterns. Grendel wagged his tail.

"Allow me to explain," said Ned. He and Grendel stood at the center of the 50-yard line at Soldier Field in Chicago. Grendel furiously scratched his ears, delighted to have paws again. "Can I have your attention, please?" Ned said again, his voice booming from the stadium's PA system.

Grendel watched in amazement as the massive crowd in the arena grew silent. He whipped his head around to see that nearly every seat was filled with people he recognized from the mirror.

"Thank you," Ned said to the crowd. "Do you remember what the X told us when we first met them?" he asked. "They said that imaginary beings were powerless to stop them. They said we were useless by-products of humanity's attempt to grasp the realities of higher dimensions. They were right." Grendel's head cocked sideways in confusion.

"Grendel," Ned said. "Do you remember when we were pulled through the mirror?"

"Yes. I still owe you a bite of legendary proportions for that, by the way."

"It never happened. I imagined it."

"But it did happen!" shouted a man from the front row. "You showed us how to swap back into the real world!"

"Yeah," Ned said. "That didn't happen, either. I imagined that, too."

"I'm confused," Grendel said.

"Sorry for that," Ned said. "It was necessary for the plan to work. You see, I imagined a scenario where we rescued Humanity and swapped the X back into the higher dimensions. I knew there was no way they'd be content to stay there, since they were so desperate for a spatial existence. I was counting on that, in fact. I needed the X to believe that I really had foiled their plans and had stuck them back where they belonged. The very idea that they could be beaten by an imaginary being was shocking to them. They couldn't stand to let us get away with it." Ned paused for a moment. "I think it also terrified them," he said. "If a pair of imaginary characters could foil their invasion, what could a horde of them do against them? They had to act quickly, before all those imaginary folks could prepare."

Ned cleared his throat and continued. "They struck back, all at once. They seized their corresponding humans, and swapped places with them almost simultaneously. To prevent a counter attack, they destroyed their own equipment, effectively preventing any future transportation through the mirror."

"So, how are we standing here now?" asked Grendel.

Ned grinned broadly. "We never were on the other side of the mirror," he explained. When the X swapped with the humans, they returned humans to the lower dimensions and trapped themselves on the other side. With their equipment destroyed, they imprisoned themselves forever."

"So," Grendel said, tail wagging hard. "They were defeated by a single imaginary character after all!"

"Well," Ned countered. "They were defeated by a couple of them, anyway."

"Okay," said the dog. "Here's another question. How can all of these people hear you now?"

"They're the imaginary versions of the kidnapped humans," explained Ned. "Okay, everyone!" he called to the crowd. "You've all got some humans out there who are very confused right now. Each of you should go to your designated human and explain things to them."

"That might explain why that entire section over there is filled with Dr. Siegels," observed Grendel. "That conversation is not going to end well, is it?"

"I think he may find himself sharing treatments with Carl and Hank," answered Ned. The dog wagged his tail again. "Are you ready to go?" Ned asked.

"Sure. Where do you want to go?" Grendel answered. "After all this, I'm ready for any adventure. Bring it on!"

* * *

"Number 492?" called Wanda.

Ned held up his stub. "491," it read. "Rats!" he moaned. "I missed it again!"

Grendel trotted across the floor, dodging between the zombies waiting in line in the DMV. He looked up at Ned, flattened his ears, and then sank his teeth into Ned's right ankle.

* * *

Ubiquitous Bubba _spends a significant amount of time surrounded by imaginary characters from bizarre universes. He's been known to hold conversations with animals, inanimate objects, and food, which frequently diverge into philosophy, speculations on the nature of Reality/Unreality, and the proper role of cheese in society._

* * * * *

# THE GUNS OF NAPOLEON

### Peter Lean

[The Imaginary Invasion] [Contents] [Causality]

A professor of history, a mysterious scientific institute in the Russian countryside, an impossible painting and a tablet computer in a story of time travel that leads to an unexpected future.

VICTOR WAS FINALLY HOME. A fifty-square meters flat in one of those grey buildings dating back to the Soviet period on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

The day was done after the Friday afternoon lecture at the Faculty of History at the Saint Petersburg State University. He wearily threw his coat on the couch, sat down, and turned on the answering machine.

Victor was probably one of the few people in the world to own one of the old-fashioned magnetic devices. He was affectionate toward it, and above all, he hated to carry a mobile phone; he did not want to be disturbed at all hours of the day and preferred instead to let those who wanted to communicate with him to leave him a voice message. As he often told his colleagues, up until twenty years ago almost no one possessed a cell phone, but life went on, and so did businesses. The only modern device that he had allowed to enter his life was a tablet, one of those super-smart devices as big as a notebook but capable of containing a thousand books and even a word processor, upon which Victor had finished his book, a comprehensive treatment of Napoleon's Russian campaign. His department head had advised him to write about something that, as he put it, had "greater potential." The subject had been covered comprehensively by far better minds than his, Professor Alexeyev thought, and he had little confidence Victor could add substantially to the field. But Victor knew Alexeyev was wrong, and his research _had_ turned up several small but important details that other works had missed. Still, two years later, he had yet to find a publisher.

And though he did not admit it even to himself, the most important reason he kept the tablet was that it had been a present from _her_. And hers was the idea to order a personalized leather cover with the name "Victor" printed on it in shiny silver letters. She had never doubted the importance of his work, and for that, he had written the book on the tablet rather than on the more convenient desktop in his office.

The machine beeped, then the familiar rustle and a man's voice, low and professional: _Professor Sirkov, this is Dr Roche, from the Institute for Historical and Archaeological Research ChronoLab of Moscow. Can you please call me back at the following number..._

Victor let the answering machine continue, deciding that he would get the number later on, and went straight to the kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of vodka and a couple of slices of black bread with salted herrings. He sat down on the sofa with the intention to have at least a couple of hours of deserved relaxation.

He was lazily chasing his thoughts and sipping his vodka when someone knocked on the door.

_Who can it be at this hour on Friday evening?_ Victor thought. He was not used to receiving visits and did not have many friends besides some old colleagues from the university.

He looked through the peephole. Two men dressed in elegant brown leather coats were waiting on the landing.

Victor decided that they did not look like men of violence and opened the door.

"Good evening, Professor Sirkov," said the taller of the two. "May we enter? We would like to talk business with you."

The question was not a question, evidently. The man's tone was steady and self-confident, and before the professor could think of a reply, the speaker entered the apartment, followed by his partner.

"Holger Schmidt," said the man. "And this is my assistant," he continued, pointing at the other man. He sat in one of the two chairs that were in the room, leaving his assistant standing.

Victor had a better look at them and realized that the man who had introduced himself as Schmidt was not Russian. German, probably, judging by his name. However, his Russian was perfect and had no trace of any foreign accent. He had short, light blond hair and sharp grey eyes.

_Government_ , Victor thought.

Victor wondered whether the man had been born in Russia or had migrated when was just a child. As for the other, well, there was no way to guess his origins. He also had short hair, but dark brown and much shorter than his colleague's, and his face was almost expressionless.

"May I have the pleasure to know the reason for your visit?" asked Victor, and at the same time offered the other chair to Mr. Schmidt's assistant. He went to get another one from the adjacent kitchen.

"I think you have received a phone call – actually, more than one – this morning," Schmidt replied. "Anyhow, Professor Sirkov." He folded his hands. "Allow me to get to the point. I am here, as you may have understood, on behalf of the Institute for Historical and Archaeological Research – ChronoLab – from Moscow."

Victor narrowed his eyes, and Schmidt immediately added, "Yes, Professor Sirkov, your name is quite famous also in Moscow. The Institute needs your consultancy. Compensation for your work will be $1,000 per day, plus expenses for as long as necessary."

Victor did nothing to hide his surprise or his interest in the offer. A thousand dollars a day was more or less his monthly salary, though on that you could barely survive nowadays in _Mother Russia_ , especially in St. Petersburg or Moscow, two of the most expensive cities in the world.

"What would I be doing for your institute? And what do you do exactly?" Victor asked. He noticed that both of his guests wore a golden pin on their jackets with a symbol that Victor had never seen before: an hourglass surmounted by an oval, all enclosed in a circle.

"I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to say a word more for the time being," said Schmidt. "If you are interested in our proposal, please prepare your baggage – only the essentials – and follow us right now. A private plane is already waiting at Pulkovo airport. You will be given whatever you need when we arrive at our destination."

_Pulkovo airport_ , Victor thought, and an expression of veiled sadness suddenly crossed his face. The last time he had been at the airport was three years ago. But he did not allow his memories to take control of him – not now – and, with a lower-pitched voice, he looked into Schmidt's blue eyes and said, "I agree."

* * *

It was already dark when they reached the airport. A chilly breeze blew from the northeast, raising the snow like icing sugar. The small flakes shined like silver powder when hit by the headlights of the planes taking off. The private plane was there, standing in a corner of the airport just off the runway, and four armed men in uniform guarded it.

"Please, Professor," Schmidt said, inviting him to get on board. Once inside the small aircraft, Victor noticed that the guards had disappeared somewhere, and now there were only he, Schmidt, and his unnamed assistant. No sign of any hostess or other flight personnel, except – he guessed – for the pilot, as the plane was already taxiing on the track.

None of the three men talked during the flight, and no refreshment was served. Victor spent most of the flight looking out the small oval window on his right, his gaze lost at first in the endless plain below covered with snow, barely visible now that night had fallen, and after in the totally black sky that enveloped the aircraft.

Being once again in that airport even for such a short time had made him remember of the last time he had been there. She had been flying back to Paris after six months in St. Petersburg. _Eléne._ Her name crossed Victor's thoughts like a ghost crossing a thick wall of ice. At first she had just been a visiting professor from an almost unknown Western European private university, specializing in French history who had decided to do some research at a Russian university. Then, day after day, she had become his best friend, and finally his lover. Until the day she had to fly back home. That day three years ago had also been a Friday. They had made love like it was the last time – and indeed it was – and then rushed to the airport. They had separated with an _au revoir_ , which, in fact, had become an _adieu_.

At first there was a daily exchange of emails, emails which had become increasingly rare over time, until both of them had silently decided to simply interrupt any contact, perhaps to avoid suffering from the distance that separated them, of maybe to stop lying to themselves. He would have never left his country and his job, and neither would she, and so they had decided to forget those intense six months, which now seemed just a beautiful dream.

"Professor Sirkov," Schmidt interrupted his thoughts, "we have started the descent to Domodedovo. Our destination is a thirty-minute drive once we're on the ground."

_Domodedovo,_ thought Victor. _So, we are not landing at Sheremetyevo. Our destination must be somewhere in southern Moscow._

One hour had already passed. Victor adjusted his square-framed metal glasses and looked out the window. He could see the black landscape below them, and in the distance the lights of the huge capital of Russia.

After documents control, they quickly reached the exit, and a shiny black 1950s Volga GAZ M21 was waiting for them on the other side of the sidewalk, opposite the line of the yellow taxi cabs.

Noticing the expression of amusement in Victor's face, Schmidt grinned and said, "Yes, Professor, the director of the Institute has a real passion for antiques." Once inside, Victor realized that the old Volga had been completely renovated and was much more comfortable than it would have been in the '50s. The heater was on and the engine ran smooth and silently.

They drove through the _Domodedovskaya_ , but not toward the center of Moscow, rather in the opposite direction toward the countryside.

It took more than one hour to reach a large white structure built in the middle of nowhere. It was a complex of buildings surrounded by a concrete high wall. They passed through a big gate controlled by guards, to whom Schmidt showed an ID card without meeting their eyes. Now that they were inside the complex, Victor noticed that it was composed of four buildings linked to each other by aboveground tunnels made of glass or plastic.

They parked in front the main door of the tallest building at the far side of the complex, and Schmidt led Victor to the entrance. He put his left eye to an optical scanner and the door opened.

Victor was impressed by the luxury of the interiors and the sophisticated equipment that filled the whole structure. Big screens hung on the walls, and small cameras were mounted in the corners of the halls that they crossed. Dozens of people in white uniforms worked with purpose, some before computer screens, others going from one side to the other of the room. They were of different nationalities: he saw Asians, Europeans, and Indians among others. At the very end of the hall was a small wooden door.

The door opened automatically with no apparent action by Schmidt this time. The room was furnished with antiques, which contrasted with a large computer and other high-tech equipment scattered on the desk. A large painting of the 1812 Moscow fire was on the wall behind the desk.

Victor was admiring the wonderful painting, wondering who the artist was, when Schmidt said, "Professor Sirkov, let me introduce you to the director of the Institute, Dr. Martin Roche."

The man in front of them – obviously also not Russian – was tall and grey-haired with pale blue eyes. He looked to be in his forties despite the color of his hair. A jovial expression on his face and a broad smile gave him something that conquered Victor's trust at first sight. His behavior was quite different from that of Schmidt, much less formal, and he seemed genuinely happy to see Victor.

"Professor Sirkov," said the director. "Welcome to the ChronoLab Institute. Excuse me for the short notice of my invitation, but I am sure you will not regret being here after I have told you what it is all about. ChronoLab is a project dating back twenty years. After the end of the cold war, as new foreign investments started flowing to Russia, we started our research, which is quite unconventional, and for the reasons you will soon understand, utterly secret."

Victor raised an eyebrow.

"I will get to the point, Professor. Our studies are in the field of history, archaeology, and time travel."

An expression of disbelief crossed Victor's face.

"Yes," Roche said, "I know it could sound a bit... odd to you, but let me clarify some points. As you certainly know, the possibility of time travel, at least into the future, has been discussed for a century. Almost any student of physics knows that if one were able to travel from the Earth at a speed close to the speed of light, at his return, more time would have passed on Earth than for the traveler. He would thus have travelled into the future. More difficult is the theory of time travel into the past."

Victor nodded and Roche said, "And there are also philosophical and logical issues."

"The grandfather paradox," Victor said.

"Exactly. If you were able to travel into the past and kill your own grandfather, your father, and thus you, would have never been born. How could you ever have existed in the future and be able to travel backward in time in such a case?"

"But this paradox is a non-problem," Victor said, "as you must know. Ever since Heisenberg, any time-travel theory must accept the possibility of a multiverse. In this case, our traveler would generate another timeline or another parallel universe, thus solving the grandfather paradox."

"I see that you are not completely new to the subject."

"You know this. Clearly you have researched my background, my interests."

Roche held up his hands in surrender. "Yes, extensively. I don't mean to treat you as a layman. In any case, there are many other theoretically possible ways to travel in time, from the generation of wormholes or the forced curvature of space to the most recent discoveries in quantum physics and string theory."

"String theory was just a fad. There's nothing to support it, and the energy requirements to create a wormhole are—" Victor threw his hands up.

"You're correct, which is why we focused our research in another direction. We have found a naturally occurring wormhole, a shortcut through the space-time fabric. And we have found it exactly below where we are standing at this moment." Roche glanced at the floor under Victor's feet.

Victor stepped back a pace unwillingly and looked hard at Roche.

Roche said, "We found an area, not bigger than six square meters, where a curvature in space allows objects to travel through time. Actually, the wormhole was found by miners before this facility was built. The man who happened across it managed not to enter the wormhole, but his tool bag accidentally fell directly into the hole."

"How do you know it's a wormhole and that the tools fell into the past?"

Roche smiled and opened a drawer in his desk, taking out an old leather bag a bit smaller than a school backpack. The director opened it and extracted a number of rusty old tools: a wrench, a screwdriver, a measuring tape.

Victor opened his mouth and stared. "You dug this up. Here."

"Exactly. The miner found it himself. He dug a half meter further and found his bag. He recognized it as his own bag, without any doubt, but – as we can see – it is evidently much older."

"I'm in. Whatever you're doing, I want in."

"I was sure you were the right person," Roche said, his eyes brighter. "Your open mind is well known in the academic world. But let me add a final note. For some inexplicable reason, it seems that time travel is possible only to the past, and only to a certain period. At least through our wormhole. We don't yet know why. We cannot exclude that other wormholes exist elsewhere on our planet. We are currently extending our research in that direction."

Victor said, "Why me? I am not a scientist. Why didn't you call a famous expert in quantum physics? Michio Kaku or somebody?" He tilted his head and fixed Roche with a piercing look. "The hole leads to the Napoleonic age, doesn't it?"

Roche said, "The tool bag is from a period between 1805 and 1816."

"There's no dating method that—"

"Trust me when I say we have dating methods that are far more accurate than those available elsewhere. But there is more." His smile disappeared, and he looked at his hands. "I'd like to show you something else, Professor." He touched something on his desk and a door, which until that moment had been invisible to Victor, opened through the wall on their left.

"Please, Professor, follow me."

They found themselves in a small room. In the middle, protected by a glass box, there was a painting.

Victor studied it. It depicted a scene with a man wearing a military blue and white uniform, and Victor immediately recognized him Louis-Alexandre Berthier, the chief of the _Grande Armée_ , the Great Army of Napoleon's Russian Campaign.

"Beautiful painting," he said. "I've never seen it before. Who is the artist?"

"Have a better look, Professor."

Victor examined it thoroughly. The commander in his high uniform, the wide hall's red walls, and at the general's left side, a small desk. On the desk stood an ink pen and a number of books.

_Wait!_ A shiver went through his body. One of the books, lying on the desk with its face upward, looked like... _No, it's impossible_ , Victor thought. It looked like a tablet computer, or a smartphone, or something very similar. Roche held out a magnifying glass and Victor took it and looked closer. It was hard to make out the details. The book was face upward, and as he peered closer, Victor was almost sure he recognized the small colored squares on it.

"Oh my God!" he said. They were icons on a computer desktop. "How it is possible that nobody has ever noticed this before? This portrait must have been displayed somewhere for centuries! Where did you find it?"

"It is not as simple as that," Roche said, looking into Victor's eyes, a smile again on his face. "We can easily recognize the object today, with our knowledge and experience of men living in the twenty-first century."

"Yes, but—"

"Do you know about the arrival of Columbus on the coast of the Americas? It is said that when the three caravels arrived, the Indians initially could see only big waves, but not the ships. This was due to the fact that they had never seen big ships like those until that moment. They could have never even imagined that such ships existed. The truth is that a human being can see only what his knowledge and experience allows him to. Therefore, nobody could have seen in our painting something that exists only today."

"Where did you find this portrait?" Victor asked again.

"My men bought it in a bazaar in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. And before you ask me, I can confirm that we made all the necessary tests, and, yes, it can be dated around 1818. Therefore, if it is not a forgery, and if what we see is what we think, the implications are enormous."

"Is it possible that any of your men has used the wormhole after the discovery?"

"No. The wormhole has been under strict surveillance since the discovery, and four cameras are filming it 24-7."

"Then, someone else might have had, or will have in the future, access to this or another wormhole... and have visited the same historical period, which is a coincidence, or... maybe, for some reason, time travel works only during this eleven-year span."

"It is what we'll discover with your help, Victor."

* * *

After an early meeting with Roche that left Victor trembling with excitement, he spent all the following morning checking as many details as possible about the period from 1805 to 1816, and in particular, the events of Napoleon's Russian campaign.

He had dedicated most of his research in the past ten years to the period, but this mystery made it new again. The image of Eléne, who had shared with him part of those researches, crossed his mind again to fade a second later, when Victor read on his tablet:

After the retreat of the Russian Army, led by General Kutuzov, Napoleon and his army on 11 September 1812 entered Možajsk. The Russians, after a council of war held on 13 September, decided to renounce the defense of Moscow, and considering it impossible to counterattack the French army, decided to leave the city. Throughout the night of September 13 and September 14, the entire Russian army crossed Moscow and proceeded down to Kolomna. At the same time, the governor of Moscow, Count Fyodor Vasilievich Rostopchin, organized the complete evacuation of the city. More than 250,000 people left en masse. Between September 14 and 15, Napoleon reached the city center and the Kremlin and was surprised to find empty streets.

French soldiers scattered throughout the city and started settling in the empty palaces and abandoned houses. But on 16 September, Napoleon was awakened by an unexpected and unpleasant surprise: a huge fire had broken out in Moscow and was spreading without control. His men were not able to stop the fire, and that evening Napoleon himself had to leave the Kremlin. The fire burned for over two days and almost destroyed the city.

It is believed that the catastrophe was the main cause of the collapse of the French army, which lost discipline and started to sack the city before it burned. It is believed that after some doubt Napoleon decided to leave Moscow, convinced that it was not safe to stay there during the winter. Indeed, pressed by partisan guerrillas in the countryside and fearing that his long absence from France could endanger the situation in Europe, Napoleon decided to retreat. A last attempt at a peace agreement with the Tsar failed.

The retreat during the winter was the final catastrophe for Napoleon's army, which lost around 400,000 men and had lasting consequences on the future of Europe.

For example, in the spring of 1813, Napoleon tried to reorganize an army of around 300,000 soldiers to fight in Germany. However, losses during the Russian campaign had been so heavy that the new army was formed mainly by young and inexperienced soldiers, and at the battle of Leipzig, Napoleon was defeated and forced to leave Germany. In 1814, the Emperor abdicated.

After a light lunch, Victor dedicated the remaining part of the day to the mandatory physical and psychological tests required by the doctors of the Institute prior to granting permission to Victor for the trip.

There was no guarantee that he would survive the trip. Of course they had sent test animals through and those – pulled back through the wormhole via tethers at the originating side – had not shown any ill effect. But there was no way to know what the passage might do to a human being. Cameras sent through could similarly be pulled back, but their memories were always wiped by the energies of the passage. It appeared the wormhole offered the opportunity for a return trip from the past, but no more than that was known.

There was another possibility, too: it was possible any travel backward in time generated an alternative timeline, an alternative reality, and that the past accessed through the wormhole was not the past of Victor's world.

* * *

T-Day, as it had been named, finally arrived.

At ten o'clock in the morning, the atmosphere was electric in the underground room that had been built around the wormhole, and the excitement of all the staff working at the project was palpable. Victor, considering the circumstances, was calm and relaxed, but he was rather anxious to leave. He could not believe that such an opportunity had been reserved for him. The first man – well, one of the first – to travel in time. What a pity that nobody would ever know, since what was happening would be occurring in absolute secrecy.

The 'time machine' was not as he would have ever imagined. First of all because it was not a time 'machine', at least not in the sense people usually think of time machines. It was simply a sort of watertight compartment, a large box that had been built around the original wormhole found thirty years earlier, that now isolated the wormhole from the external environment. It was similar to a very big phone box about ten feet high and five wide, the sides made of what looked like black glass. There was no sign of the valves, bulbs and chrome parts imagined by science-fiction writers, and no wires, cables, or other visible connection to an energy source.

Roche was checking the last steps of the procedure. Schmidt was with him.

"Good morning, Professor," Roche said. "I hope you feel in good shape today. Schmidt is also ready and eager to leave."

"Schmidt?"

"Yes. He is one of our best agents, and he has been preparing himself for this mission for the last three months."

Victor could not think of a reply, and he didn't care who was going with him. At the end of the day, he already felt some familiarity with Schmidt, and he preferred his company to that of a complete stranger, despite his cold demeanor.

The room was filled with a constant hum and a slight tremor that seemed to come from all around them, in particular from the floor below their feet.

Roche turned briskly toward Victor and said, "Since the time machine is actually a distortion in the fabric of space-time, all you need to do to make your trip is to pass through the wormhole. It's like an... invisible hole in the ground, an invisible barrier through which you – as happened to the tool bag of our lucky discoverer thirty years ago – will slip into the past."

Victor nodded.

"Are you ready?"

Victor nodded again.

Inside, the box – the 'dark room' in Victor's mind – was quite different from how it looked outside. It was illuminated by the kind of work lamps one could buy at a hardware store, which made the dark room seem more like a construction site than a laboratory in some ways. There were three airplane seats side by side. He and Schmidt occupied the two on either side and buckled their seatbelts.

Roche shook their hands briefly but none of the three men said a word. Roche stepped out and gave an order, and the dark room door closed. Now that the door was closed, it was like being isolated from the rest of the world. The humming sound in the room outside the dark room was no longer audible. He looked at Schmidt and almost burst out in laughter. Schmidt had on his face the same blank expression that he had on the first day they had met in Victor's apartment in St. Petersburg. It had been just a few days before, but in that moment it seemed to Victor that ages had passed.

A voice started a countdown. Sixty seconds to the descent. 59, 58, 57...

Victor's thoughts went to what he had studied during the two days before the trip. In particular, to the three laws of time travel, which reminded him so much of the well-known three laws of robotics:

When traveling in time, one must not alter any event, or, through inaction, let any event be altered by another time traveler.

One must not leave – either in the past or in the future – an object of his own time, nor inform anyone that he is traveling in time.

One must not make contact with another version of oneself, as long as it is made necessary to prevent alterations of any event by another time traveler.

...45, 44, 43...

Victor felt anxious. _Well, there is no danger in meeting another me_ , he thought. He smiled, and to his surprise, Schmidt returned the barest trace of a nervous smile.

As far as the other two laws, well, they were dressed in clothes of the period, and he was not taking with him any modern objects. He had made sure to leave his tablet in his room, and he would not tell anyone that he had come from the future.

...33, 32, 31...

A glimpse of Eléne's delicate face, surrounded by a frame of black hair, quickly crossed his mind to fade and blend with the white wall of the room in front of him. He looked at Schmidt, but he had closed his eyes and was apparently calm and relaxed.

...12, 11, 10...

When the countdown reached ten, the lights dimmed and they were enveloped by a faint blue light.

...5, 4, 3...

Victor closed his eyes.

...2, 1...

The countdown stopped abruptly. Simultaneously, the weak blue light went out. There was no sound. He felt like he was floating. Then, accompanied by a slight vibration, the seats began to move forward toward what until a few seconds before had been a simple white wall, but that now seemed to be the infinite vacuum of outer space rushing at him.

Victor closed his eyes and raised his arms in front of his face and then he felt the light of the sun. He opened his eyes and looked upward and saw the sky, a blue sky with a few scattered clouds. All around them was green vegetation, trees, and bushes; they were in open country.

Victor could not suppress his utter astonishment, and turning to his left, said, "Schmidt, Schmidt! Are you all right? Do you see? It's amazing!"

Schmidt had already unfastened his seat belt and was gazing around. For only the second time Victor noticed on his face a sign of some emotion. He looked filled with wonder, too, and was staring at the horizon with curiosity.

Victor had barely unfastened his seat belt and was excitedly moving toward Schmidt when he stopped, frozen by the unexpected sight of the gun that had appeared in Schmidt's right hand and that was now pointed at Victor.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but for you the journey ends here."

"But why?"

"I work also for another organization, and I have a mission to accomplish here, to which you can be only an obstacle. Your country has never been sympathetic to our cause, nor my own." He pointed the weapon directly at Victor's head.

"But why?" Victor asked again. No answer could help him, he knew, but he was desperate to keep Schmidt talking and so steal another minute of life. He said, "You're a Jew."

Schmidt raised an eyebrow in surprise and said, "Yes."

"My country, your country: you want Napoleon to win so that no German or Russian empire arises. No pogroms, no Holocaust."

Schmidt dipped his head in respect and said, "You have my regrets, Professor, but I think you understand: this is more important than either of our lives. I'm sorry."

* * *

Instinctively, Victor closed his eyes. Then he heard the shot.

He opened his eyes and saw his travel companion on the ground in a pool of blood, his gun still in his hand. He looked around and saw a group of soldiers dressed in the typical blue, red, and white uniform of the French infantry. One of them pointed his rifle and ordered him not to make a move: _Arrêtez! Ne bouge pas!_

It was a group of fusiliers – riflemen – likely an advance guard of the _infanterie légère_ , the Light Infantry Regiment of Napoleon's army, so famous for incredible successes achieved in many battles. Victor knew the infantry was armed with muskets, the Charleville of 1777, named after the armory in Ardenne, France, that produced them. The Charleville was the best musket of its day, so good that it was subsequently distributed also to the Americans to be used in their war of independence.

Victor was a dozen metres from a group of thick bushes, beyond which a pine forest began. He rushed desperately toward the forest, putting the bushes between him and the soldiers. He heard shots but kept running. He reached the trees and kept running until he realized that the soldiers were not following him anymore. They had probably stopped to check the body of Schmidt, now almost certainly dead.

He tried to catch his breath, a tumult of thoughts crowding his mind, and he absolutely did not know what to do. He had had no chance to mark the point of his arrival in order to recognize it later for his attempt to return to his own time. But then he looked at the horizon to gauge the time and saw a great cloud of dust. He knew immediately what it was: an army on the march. It might have been possible to sneak past the patrol that had shot Schmidt, but there was no way he'd be able to penetrate an entire army camp, and this late in the day, it was certain they'd halt their advance soon.

He had with him a leather bag containing the few things that Roche had allowed him to take: an oil lantern, a small supply of dried meat and black bread, a knife, and a notebook, a replica produced with materials common in the 1800s.

Victor knew Schmidt's pistol meant none of this mattered now, but he wasn't concerned with the laws of time travel any longer; that abstraction had lost its fascination when the French fired at him.

He was now probably in the same place the Institute was located, somewhere south of Moscow, but he had no information beyond that. The temperature was mild, a sign that they were in spring, or maybe late summer. Then he reflected on the fact that French soldiers were already close to Moscow; it was therefore probably the beginning of September 1812, before Napoleon entered the abandoned Moscow.

The sun was still high in the sky, and he calculated he had at least four or five hours to find a shelter before dark. The soldiers had probably left the place, but he knew there would be thousands more soon. And he knew that, having not had the chance to mark the invisible wormhole, there was no way he'd ever locate it again. He pushed that thought aside and focused on what he would do next. He decided to skirt the edge of the forest so as not to get lost.

* * *

After three hours of steady walking, the trees became sparser and Victor noticed, a few hundred meters to his left, a wooden house – a typical _izba_ – with smoke coming out of the chimney. He decided to approach and ask for hospitality. After all, he had no choice, and the idea of spending the night outside was not appealing.

Approaching the door, Victor noticed a young woman in the yard. He could see only her back; she was dressed in a simple red skirt and a white blouse, a scarf wrapped around her long ash-blond hair. As soon as she heard Victor's footsteps, she turned. Her pale green eyes met his. They both stared for a few seconds before Victor spoke.

"Hello. I got lost in the forest, and I was wondering if... My name is Victor and..." Then he stopped while she continued to stare at him, looking amused.

Victor knew he had to make a place for himself in the past, his new present. He knew that war was coming, and that there were hard days ahead. Ever since Eléne had left, he had lived in the past: he had lived in the world of his book and in the world of memory. It was time to live for today.

The woman opened the door, and Victor followed her inside the house without saying another word.

* * *

The soldier took the strange black gun from the hand of the dead man. He gave it to his superior, who examined it, a puzzled expression on his face. On its handle it was embossed the word _Colt_.

_Odd_ , he thought, _it sounds like a German word, or perhaps English, but what does it mean?_ He would bring it to the Chief Commander, who would decide what to do with it. It was a strange weapon, he thought, so short and light, and he wondered if it could properly work. He put the gun in his pack and opened the leather bag the dead man had carried. Inside was a book with a black leather cover, the name 'Victor' embossed on it in silver characters. With the book was a strange thing of grey glass that had some sort of rubbery cord attached to it. The cord had three metal prongs on one end, two flat and one cylindrical.

The soldier opened the book and with great surprise, he found it wasn't a book at all, but something made of glass and horn. He turned it over and the glass came alive with a bright blue light; a short musical chime played.

The officer let out a shout and almost dropped the book. His men were watching, so he composed himself and studied the blue-lit glass. A small square – one of many – attracted his attention. Under it were small words in Cyrillic. He could read Russian, and the content of that sentence struck him: _The Campaign of Russia of Napoleon 1812.doc_.

_This will definitely be of interest of the Chief Commander Berthier_ , the officer thought, and put the object in his bag.

* * *

The workday of Director Martin Roche was almost at its end. He checked the documents sent by the Imperial Finance Department once again, according to which his grant request to continue his researches had been, for the third time, denied.

He could not hide his disappointment. _Damn French bureaucracy!_ He threw the documents on the floor. _If only those bureaucrats had read my reports and understood a word of what I wrote._ But they continued to reject all his requests to proceed with the research on the link with quantum physics and the possibility of time travel. No, they discarded the implications and incredible possibilities that could derive from his theories. The majority of the academic world still discussed the speed of light, but nobody had ever proved the validity of that theory, which an almost-forgotten scientist of the German province had proposed – more than a half century before – calling it his 'Theory of Relativity'. Others believed that a natural – or artificially created – wormhole could function as a passage through spacetime, but it was only speculation without any scientific basis.

_Quantum physics is the answer_ , thought Roche, _but since it was first theorized by Chinese scientists, the Empire simply pretends not to see it. Damn!_ The Empire would never admit that someone in the Asian bloc was smarter than the French or other Westerners.

He poured himself a glass of _pastis_ and opened the daily copy of _Le Figaro: Edition pour la Province Russe_ , trying to think about something else and leave behind him the sense of impotence that the letter of rejection had caused.

He had a distracted look at the newspaper. Nothing really interesting. On the first page, the usual news, the two blocs – the Westlanders and the Reds, as the press loved to call them – continued with the cold war. This time the problem was a nuclear test carried out by the Empire off the Pacific coast of the American colonies. The United Popular Republics of Asia had threatened a new embargo against the Empire in response.

News of another steelworkers' strike near Moscow followed, with a photo portraying the demonstrators in the _Place de la Liberté_ in front of the Kremlin, the huge statue of Napoleon decorated with the Imperial tricolor band – red, white, and blue – on which stood out the motto _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_.

Roche put away the newspaper and stared at the painting he had bought the week before at the open market in the _Place de la Liberté_. He admired the noble figure of Louis-Alexandre Berthier, and lingered for a few seconds on the details of his high uniform, and on the revolver which he kept hung on his right side, the pride of Napoleon's army in the wars following the Campaign of Russia, where it had been used for the first time – the 'secret weapon' of _Le Général_ , the gun that had become the model for Napoleon's arms and when duplicated, had ensured his armies won every battle.

Then his eyes went to the book on the desk in the painting. _Odd_ , Roche thought, and went closer to have a better look at the book. The cover was full of small colored squares. _Looks like a smartphone. Odd_. Then he turned off the lights, locked the door of his room, and went home. It had been a hard day.

* * *

Peter Lean _has developed this short story into a novel, to be published later in 2013. If you loved this tale you will want to read his 'Photographs. A Journey Through Space, Time, and More', a collection of short stories, by which the reader has the opportunity to remember that real life and fiction are truly not that far apart._

* * * * *

# CAUSALITY

### Neil Shooter

[The Guns Of Napoleon] [Contents] [Necromancer]

A dream of desolation and death. His love taken, his hope lost. His life forfeit because of his failures, his inadequacies. How can this end be a beginning? And how can a dream seem so real?

THE MILKY LIGHT of the moon shimmers on the bedroom wall, broken by the tree branches in the garden, and by summer leaves.

He is deeply asleep, and lies unmoving as the square of light drifts down the wall towards his head, in counterpoint to the moon's stately rise into the sky.

The silver light touches his dark hair, and it seems to unsettle him, though he doesn't wake. The rhythm of his breathing changes as the light glides across his forehead. His eyelids flutter once when the glancing moonlight first reaches them, and his closed eyes move, the bulge of his corneas dancing and darting around beneath his eyelids, casting flickering shadows around his eye sockets.

He is dreaming.

* * *

There are five of us in the concrete storage unit. It's too dark. There's not enough room. It feels like we're on top of each other. No space to breathe. No room to move. The air is gloomy, thick with glares and tension. Something is going to happen.

Something bangs on the door, the metal door, echoing in our concrete chamber, echoing and echoing. The little girl screams, a reflex. It isn't what we were fearing.

Help, help! _A woman's shrill cry._

There's only two of us! Please help us! _A man._

I reach for the viewplate in the door, and swing it back. There is fog, and dust, on the reinforced plexiglass, but they are not what we feared. I pull back the bolt, and, desperately, they fall inside, acrid smoke following them. Fresh compared to the stale safety in the chamber. I scan the horizon. Someone is coming. I bolt the door as quickly as I can.

I see them realize how little space we have. There is less now. Less food, less air, and no more hope.

They followed you, _I say._ They're coming.

You brought them to us! _One of the others._

Sooner or later they would've come, _I say._

A shout goes up from outside. They're as smart as we are. Smarter, perhaps. More in tune with their instincts? I don't know. But that's why they have won. That's why they are superior to us. That's why we stand at the edge of oblivion.

Will the door hold? _The new guy. He is scared, but we all are._

We have two choices, _I say._

There is a scratching, a crunching, a grumbling, from outside the chamber. They are here. They've come for us. There is no way out.

We can hear them all around us. There are ventilation holes in the walls, otherwise we would already be dead. Too much sound carries.

The little girl is on the beam. Catlike, she has sought out the high ground. Her back is to the wall. She is near a vent.

The vents are small. Nothing can get in through them. Not anything the size of a person. Not anything that big. I can't take my eyes off the little girl and the vent.

I hear sounds from inside, behind me, someone bracing the only door with something they were able to move. But I don't look. I can't look. There is a fear rising inside me. It is a nameless and inexplicable terror. We're cornered. We're at the end of it all. The last humans in the world.

The others are making their desperate best of it all. Working together. Humanity at its finest and most desperately resourceful. Self-preservation amongst these last humans means cooperation, unswerving and automatic. No ego. Self is tribe. We are one. We're all we have left. No, the slim chance of survival is all we have left.

The others don't complain that I am staring at the little girl and the vent. Do they notice? Don't they know what is going to happen?

The little girl knows it too. She sees me looking, and she knows that she will be the first to go. I know she will kill us all.

Outside, the sounds cease. We lapse into a similar silence. We have all taken a breath. Our last moment approaches.

Into the deathly silence comes a sound. A breath. Many breaths, all at once. Through all the vents. Their breath. Their breaths. Their only way in.

And a single splatter of spittle. The little girl feels the warmth of it. She whimpers. She is the first to breathe, and the first to go.

It's slow at first. Confusion comes to her eyes. A greyness suffuses her skin. No one else is looking at her. Only I can see it happen. There is nothing any of us can do.

The little girl shrieks, wracked by pain, and rage, and grief. She shakes, and shakes, and falls from her perch.

No one comes forward to help her. It is as though the realization has hit home, finally, hit all of them, all of us. Hope has evaporated, if there ever was any hope.

No one will remember us. No one will really know what happened to us here. We are the dead, and she is Death.

Death looks up out of black eyes, and smiles.

This is the end

* * *

It's dark, but not a simple, pitch dark. It's a busy dark, full of flickers and smoke. Fire. Embers. Something has happened. Is happening.

There are people all around me. I don't know what they are doing. It doesn't make any sense. It's chaos. I can't tell what's going on!

There are cries and shouts, from every direction. Where am I? I don't recognize this place, but I recognize the taste in the air. Fear. Sweat. Blood. The odour of destruction.

The smoke clears for a moment. People are attacking each other. Biting each other in the neck, and the face. No, some biting, some trying not to get bitten. Some with teeth bared like fangs, some retching, or screaming in terror. Those who don't run are making an easy target of themselves.

There are blood spatters on everything, on everyone. Quickly, too quickly, the air changes, quietens. The yelling is less. The biters are panting, scenting the air like predators in the woods. Is there anyone left to run? Anywhere left to run to? Those they have bitten are shuddering and moaning on the ground. I realize there are flowers and grass, squashed, burned, trodden down, all around me, a garden. We're in the park, but there's not much left of it, or of anything.

An inhuman howl rings out. The birth pang of one of these monsters. My death knell?

I run. There is no right direction to choose. I choose one anyway. I run and run. Further than I ever thought I could run.

Out of breath, adrenalin run dry, I stoop, panting, ready to throw up, my sides burning, my lungs stinging, my eyes watering.

Watch out! _Someone yells._

There is a face in front of me. A face full of rage and madness. Her face. Her beautiful face. Barely recognizable. Not her, really. Not anymore.

She snarls, but something holds her back. Some glimmer of what she was? Still inside her?

_Silver cuts the air, and her surprised head tumbles to the ground. A man, behind her._ I told you to watch out, he says. It almost got you!

_She almost got me. I couldn't have stopped her. I wouldn't have been able to stop her. He is grinning at me foolishly, sword glimmering in the flames._ Pull yourself together, man. Don't you want to live?

She's already gone. How can I live? Her head has fallen so that the empty eyes look at me. Her eyes empty of malice now. Empty of everything. Its eyes emptied of her. It was emptied of her before now.

The man has been watching me. He scowls, and he runs off into the smoke, to his end, to his answer.

I've caught my breath, and so I run. I don't know where to go. But I run.

* * *

It's getting dark, but only one star is out yet. I can't remember its name. The sky is all the colours I ever saw, all at once, the sun below the horizon already, or behind the buildings of the city. The shadows are long and deep, but it's warm, and pleasant. The scent of summer flowers is in the air.

I'm not alone. I'm holding someone's hand. I turn to my companion. Her eyes sparkle in the dusk, and a curious smile lights her face. I remember her, a different her – just for an instant – but then she is only smiling and beautiful again. I push away the memory, the foolish thought of a different her. This is the real her. Hers is the hand I hold. Hers is the mouth I kiss. Hers are the arms that embrace me now, as they have before, and will again.

We look into each other, into each other's eyes, in a moment of supreme calm. The world is at peace, and lovely beyond words. Our love paints it all in every hue.

A scream.

Colour seems to melt away as if it was never there, had always been a dry grey.

The sound of the beginning of the end. Of doom. Of everything unravelling.

How can this be? How can I know what this is? Nothing has happened! Nothing will happen! It was only a dream!

I have to know. I have to see. Despite my fear. Despite our fear. We run. We run towards the echo of the scream. She reaches to her wrist as we run, calling for help.

We stop. We can see them. Two of them. Of what?

There are two figures. In the park. One of them is huddled over the other.

Stop, _I yell._

_The figure looks up from his task._ Her _task. Her eyes are a fierce blue. Her face is smeared with blood. Her golden hair is stuck to her wet cheeks, and her bloody lips._

Are you okay? _My friend._

She doesn't reply. Only snarls a warning, and licks her lips.

The figure beneath her makes a noise. She looks down, looking suddenly like a mother with her cub. She coos to the figure below her, sprawled unnaturally on the ground, in the grass, and the tulips.

She coos, and the thing below her howls. Shuddering with new awareness, it opens its eyes, and turns its head awkwardly towards us. It used to be a man, but what is it now?

It scents us, and tries to get to its feet, struggling like a newborn fawn would. Not like a predator should.

I stare into its eyes. Its empty eyes. Empty of humanity. It stares coolly back, assessing what risk I might pose. I know I will be found wanting. I can't stand up to this. To these. I need to get away. We need to get away.

Stay back, _I shout. But we are both spellbound. Neither of us moves. We must have only moments left._

Halt! _The authorities have arrived._ What's going on here?

We called... _my friend can't explain. She points instead._

_The officer of the law turns to the two figures, sizes them up in a heartbeat._ Freeze! _He raises his weapon._

These things, the call and the motion both, are battle cries to the two bloody figures.

They attack. The officer doesn't know what hit him.

Our spell is broken, and we flee. Run isn't the right word, although we are running. We are fleeing, for our lives, for our sanity, for our survival.

I am afraid. I can feel things slipping away from the way they have been. I fear what is to come. What has now begun

We run, together. We run and run.

The air turns thick about me. My friend is pulling away from me. I can't catch up. But the monsters are catching up with me. I can feel them. I can sense them. The air is so thick I feel like I'm swimming. And they are close, closer, so very close. I can't escape. I can't get away.

I push so hard against the air that I fall. I reach out for my friend but she's out of reach, forever out of reach, and I fall, and fall, and fall...

* * *

His eyes jerk open, his breathing ragged. There are no screams, no swords. Nothing to fear.

He heaves his naked body out of bed and into the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror, and his eyes come to rest on his soft white middle, born of years sitting behind a desk. His usual apathy is absent this morning, replaced with anxiety, urgency. The years have been marching on, and he's barely noticed. It is time to notice.

He glances at the time, and for once he is early, ahead of schedule, woken by the dream instead of the alarm. Instead of showering, he heads for his closet, and digs out an old sports shirt and some shorts.

His sense of urgency carries him out into the brisk morning air and still-long shadows. He starts off walking past the small white peaceful buildings, where co-workers and acquaintances shower, or still sleep.

A sudden jolt of fear sets him running, and he sprints for a dozen metres before faltering to a jog. He stops, and it feels good to stop, but it also feels good to have run. His blood is pumping and he feels more alive than he has in a long time.

* * *

Later that day, his office co-workers notice his cheerfulness, his energy, a smile that comes to his face and warms his eyes unexpectedly. They ask if he got laid. They ask if he took his happy pill, and if he has any spare. One asks what is so funny, but he can only shrug.

He looks up sword-fighting lessons. He's been thinking about it all day. Not the fencing with the masks and pointy swords, with the epee and the en garde. No, the kind of sword with a long straight blade, the kind a knight would use. There's something romantic about a sword, isn't there? Knights in shining armour, days of honour and virtue? Not like today. No, maybe it doesn't make sense, but something about it appeals to him. There is a class tomorrow. He signs up. Call me Sir.

* * *

The next day he wakes before his alarm, even though he'd set it earlier to fit in a morning run. Today he can run a little harder and a little faster. It isn't as much of a shock to his system, but it still makes him feel good.

He is a little bemused by his decision to sign up for the evening class, but his misgivings don't make him cancel.

After work, instead of taking transit to his class, he walks, picking up a bite on the way. His route takes him through the park in the centre of town, and when he sees the flowers, he stops in his tracks. He remembers the flowers trampled, but they are full and fresh now. It's been years since he came here. Something doesn't feel right about the place, or the memory. Maybe he was scolded for running through them when he was a kid?

He walks on, and finds the building where the class is being held. As he approaches, a woman comes around the other corner of the building, heading towards the same door. He smiles to himself. He has a reason to look forward to class after all.

They reach the door at the same time, and it opens for them. He gestures for her to go first – the age of chivalry is not yet dead – and looks at her.

He forgets the door, remembers only the feel of her hand in his, the scent of her hair falling on his face.

The door closes, perhaps deciding there is no one coming in after all. The movement breaks the spell.

"You're real," she whispers.

* * *

Neil Shooter _lives in Canada. 'Causality' is the first in a series of connected short stories 'The Causality Sequence'; the next story is called 'Probability'._

* * * * *

# NECROMANCER

### Emma Faragher

[Causality] [Contents] [Kira]

Mal is a necromancer: she can communicate with and even wake the dead. But not without sacrifice. Now her greatest debt is being called in, and her skills are needed. On a murder investigation, no less.

THE BRIGHT YELLOW LIGHTS on the floor ringed the crime scene. To pass, I should have had to provide my iris scan at the very least. Generally, a full DNA sample was needed for non-police. But I wasn't giving out either, which I had made abundantly clear to Captain Jessica Talehari when she asked me to do this job. No DNA, no record of my presence at all. I was a ghost and I liked it that way. Ali followed close enough behind me that most people wouldn't even notice her so she almost got to ghost through with me.

We got a few sidelong glances as Jessica rushed my teenage accomplice and me past the checkpoints. The small grey tent they'd erected to hide the body from the public looked drab next to the white of the floor, even in the dark. They'd turned off the heating to this part of the street as well. Dead bodies don't smell so good on heated floors. Or so I'd been told. My sense of smell was terrible.

There was only one other officer in the tent and I could see from the set of his shoulders that he wasn't going to leave us with the dead man. Ignoring him, I started to walk around the body. My normal senses are dulled, I can barely smell anything and my sight is terrible. I used them for other things and in the drab tent the dead man shone. A bright, diffuse light emanating from him, blaring at my power.

Jessica was having a hushed conversation with the other officer as I bent down closer to the dead man. He seemed to have been in his mid-thirties. Although his hair had gone prematurely grey, and his skin had wrinkled around his gaunt frame, making him look far older. Bulky clothes hid the rest of him. Old and stale, they screamed of the destitute poor. He was just unlucky to have found his way to the main streets before he died. Else he might have been laid to rest in peace.

"Are we going to get started here or would you prefer I pay my debt another time?" I asked Jessica. In all honesty it was my mother's debt. I hadn't bothered to ask what Jessica had done for her, but I'd been informed that should she ever ask for a favour I was honour bound to give it. My mother had thought honour was the greatest of all virtues, no matter what one had to do to keep it. Although, by all accounts, it wasn't the hugest of favours I could do for Jessica, but it also wasn't the first favour I'd done. The police officer had gotten the most from her past good deeds.

Jessica looked briefly to the other officer before answering. "He won't leave us in the tent alone. Despite the fact that I am his superior."

The last she ground out from between clenched teeth. Jessica had an air about her that told people not to argue. Her hair was fully grey and pulled back severely from her face. All her lines looked stern, as if she spent a great deal of time scowling at people. The other officer, a man who looked to be in his twenties from the aura surrounding him, was brave to face her head on.

"Perhaps the officer can keep numb on the subject then?" I allowed a small thread of power to whisper through my voice as I spoke. It wouldn't show up in the recordings, in fact I should be all but invisible to the cameras the officer wore. Jessica had already removed as many of hers as she could. Hiding my friend was harder; Jessica had told people she was a witness. Or a consultant, I couldn't remember which. She'd show up on the recordings but this case wasn't big enough to warrant anyone actually checking them.

"I cannot allow you to mess with the crime scene," the young officer stated.

"We do not intend to mess with the crime scene; we are here to find out what killed this man here," I responded. This time without the threat of magic. It was far too draining to keep it up. It would be better to leave and catch up with the man in the morgue. Yet, it was so very much harder to bring back someone who'd been through an autopsy, and Ali was my only available donor.

"Why are you here?" he asked. I decided then that it would be easier to simply tell him and make sure he couldn't say anything, than to get him out of the way. A risky move perhaps, but I had a feeling it might pay off in the long run. That was another thing my mother had been big on, having a long-term plan and trusting your instincts. Not that hers had done her much good in the end. Jessica wouldn't be in the police force forever, and it wouldn't do me any harm to start making some new friends.

"Swear to me that what you witness here will not in any way be communicated to another person, living or dead, by voluntary or coercive means." For that, I put in a different kind of magic. My mother had weaved many spells about me, one of them made sure that I could never lie. Of course, if I activated it, nobody could lie to me either. It was a fair trade off. "Swear it." I held his gaze as I spoke and saw him nod before he realised he would have to verbalise his assent.

"I swear," he said and I dropped his gaze. I felt the magic wind its way around him and hoped he knew what he had done. It was all too easy for children of our technological age to ignore magic. It was a myth to them, but that didn't stop it from affecting them. And this particular spell was a nasty one to betray, but it was also my only insurance policy. What was inflicting a little tortuous pain compared to keeping my head on my shoulders?

Moving back to the dead man I beckoned to Ali. She was only nineteen, but had managed to work up a debt already. This would cancel it out. Captain Jessica was lucky that I owed her so much. Normally I wouldn't call in one favour to pay another like this. One day I might need all the favours I could get.

"Ali, lie down next to him and take his hand." She did so without even twitching. I wasn't the only one jaded to the dead. Although I was betting she wasn't so attracted to him as I was. The aura around him practically beckoned me closer. A violent death tended to attract necros more than any other kind.

Placing a hand over each of their heads, I let magic spill about me. It wasn't a spell as such, more natural talent. I felt the spike in energy as Ali and the dead man connected and heard the change in her breathing patterns before she stilled.

"Three minutes." I said to Jessica. I didn't open my eyes. I barely even breathed. The dead man's chest rose once, then again as he opened his eyes. Ali's life force running through him.

"Tell us of your death," Jessica told him.

He paused, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. Where they would remain. To give him back his sight would reduce the time I could keep him awake without endangering Ali. A debt she may owe, but it wasn't enough to constitute her life.

"A man came to me. He offered me money. Blood money." He seemed like he wanted to move but I held him still. Not allowing him to steal too much from Ali. "He had a knife, silver knife. Funny words. Blood money. Bleeding, always bled too much."

"Two minutes."

"Tell us about the man."

"Tall, silver hair. Blood money. Silver knife. Bleeding. Hurt." He was regressing. Traumatic death was always so much more difficult to overcome. He was flagging badly. I had to reverse the process before he took Ali with him. Her breath was already gone, her heart was slowing. He was pulling more energy than he should.

"Time's up," I said as I surged power back into Ali. The dead man gasped, chest rising up as his heart tried to beat in time with Ali's. Mine caught up with both as I cut the tie. Feeling like it was trying to beat out of my chest.

Ali blinked her eyes open and looked to me. I waved her to stay lying down and stood up. Jessica was staring daggers at me.

"We had another minute."

"We had as long as Ali did. I will not endanger her." I kept my voice calm and controlled. Jessica was bound by her own oath but it didn't mean she wouldn't try something. A fiery temper scorched her hard exterior and I didn't want to test it. I also wanted her agreement that my debt was paid. I wanted free of her something desperate. She was too shrewd, too observant for my liking.

"I need more information. Your mother said she could bring people back."

"And I could. If you give me people to sacrifice in the process. Five or six of them at least," I stated. I beckoned Ali to stand up slowly and handed her a small drink from my bag. I turned to leave but Jessica grabbed my arm. I just looked at her. Stern she may be but I was scarier. If she kept pushing me I was going to show her just how much.

"I never asked for that."

"I keep my friends safe. Ali does not owe me her life and I will not have her death on my conscience. Now release me. My debt is paid." I looked from her hand to her face, carefully ignoring Ali and the other officer. And the fact that I couldn't focus on her expression with such a quick glance. My contact lenses interfered too much with my other vision to wear them while raising.

"I need more. He's not the first one. I need to catch this guy before he spreads panic."

She still hadn't let go, but her hold softened enough that I could slip my arm out. I also noticed that she wanted to stop the guy before panic spread, not before he killed again. So very typical.

"That is not my problem Jessica. I'm going home." I motioned Ali out of the tent ahead of me. She moved the material out of the way with her sleeve like she was used to not leaving evidence of her passing behind. I might have to get to know the girl a bit better. She could prove useful.

"At least help me figure it out," Jessica asked. "I can pay you as a consultant on the case. They don't want bodies clogging up the roads. A kid found this one. Please Mal." I turned at that. For the most part I avoided giving out my name. I'd forgotten that Jessica had known me when I was still young enough for my mother to introduce.

"I'm not a detective Jessica. I'm a necromancer. I deal with the dead, I don't catch the living."

"Whoever this guy is he doesn't leave any evidence. Nothing. Not DNA or particles. He's a freaking ghost. Tell me how that's not your thing." She gave me a hard look, the woman was desperate. In all honesty I could use the money but I'd spoken the truth. I knew nothing about investigating crime. "I don't need an investigator. I need a lead."

* * *

I opened the door and held it to let Ali and Jessica in. Jessica had balked when we'd entered the back alleys but she'd kept on. A warm bed and a hot meal had been part of my deal with Ali. I'd thrown it in when I realised that she hadn't got anywhere else to go. I let Jessica think she was an assistant, it was easier that way. The woman didn't want to understand how many of us lived.

There were no cameras near my home. It hadn't been easy to find, and it had been even harder to clean the former brothel, but I wouldn't live anywhere else. To stay off the grid required some manoeuvres that seemed overly paranoid. I wasn't even as bad as my mother had been.

"Here," I said as I lead them into the living room.

The sofa was worn but comfy and a small table held an old kettle and tea pot. A bit of cold gel held the milk. I busied myself making tea as Ali settled in and Jessica perched on the edge of the wooden chair in the corner. She may need me but she wasn't apt to trust me.

"I don't have any sugar," I said as I placed two cups on the coffee table, taking a third one for myself and curling up on the sofa. I knew where absolutely everything was so there was no need for my contacts. If at all possible I was going to try and keep Jessica from finding out about my shortcomings. "What do you want me to do exactly?"

"I want you to tell me how that man was killed. And why he couldn't tell us." Jessica's hold on her cup was the only indication of her nervousness. It swirled around her, another reason I didn't want my contacts just yet. Sometimes I could get a read on strong emotions with my other sense.

"I don't know. I just raise the dead, I don't deal with the aftermath." I sipped my tea carefully. A tendency to make it too hot didn't mix well with cups that kept the liquid warm.

"But you know more than you're saying."

"I nearly always know more than I say. Makes life more interesting." I was treading a fine line between mystery and insolence. Especially since Jessica now knew where I lived. She couldn't tell anyone and her oaths stopped her from hurting me directly, but she was certainly driven enough to find a loophole.

"So what do you know about this killer?"

"Probably less than you do Jessica. All I know is what the dead man told us." I sighed and put down my tea. It would take more than a few minutes to cool enough to be drinkable. The others had normal cups but I'd only had the two so I got the heated one.

"So what did you understand from the man today. You're good with the dead, so tell me about the dead man."

"He was in his thirties, male, he died scared and without any obvious wounds. My guess? He just gave up on life." I uncurled on the sofa and sat properly, trying to follow Jessica's movements as best I could. "He died at around two this morning, but he was dying for a long time. Months maybe."

"So why was he so incoherent? How does someone give up if they die scared."

"Because his death was traumatic. And just because he was scared doesn't mean he didn't give up. Life wasn't worth enough to him to keep going. Did you look at him? He was in his thirties and looked sixty. He was destitute."

"You think he died from lack of money."

"He died cold and hungry. That says something at least."

"People starve to death all the time," Ali put in. Jessica snapped her head towards Ali. "You just don't see it. That man ran out of the alleys. Someone was probably chasing him. He's haggard enough to have died of a heart attack." She kept sipping her tea and didn't move from her position on the sofa as she spoke.

"Thirty-four year olds do not have heart attacks," Jessica said.

"Thirty-four year olds that have aged that much do," I replied. It was the word 'drained' that made me pause. I'd meant it in the way that life drains people who don't have the resources to actually live. But it also had other meanings, and there were people out there who could literally drain the life out of someone. "How about I ask around and get back to you?"

"You figured something out."

"Go home Captain. You are straying into a dangerous world."

"It's my job Mal, you have to tell me."

"I don't have to do anything. But I'll ask around and tell you what I know later. Right now it won't mean anything to you. Whatever you did for my mother, you aren't a part of it. There are scarier things than me out there." I stood and waved her to the door. The bright orange meant that I could even see the damn thing, to wave at it.

"I need answers. But I agree the debt is paid. I can give you a consulting fee, basic starts at £3,000. Try to keep track of what you do so I can at least give the accountants something to show for the fee, eh?" She straightened her jacket and retrieved her earpiece and contacts from her bag. Putting them on as she left the house. She carefully didn't turn around again, the contacts activated as soon as she put them in. The earpiece however would take a minute to fully warm up. "You're the only lead I've got right now."

* * *

"So, where do I sleep?" Ali asked once Jessica was gone.

"Upstairs, come on."

The house was rather oddly laid out. The rooms carved from spaces between the legitimate homes and businesses that formed this block. The stairs were narrow and very steep. For a moment I thought Ali was going to struggle. She actually made it to the top in better shape than I did. I had three rooms on the ground floor, two on the second storey and three on the third storey. The only space on the first storey was the stairs. When it had been a brothel, everything but the kitchen and hallway had been bedrooms. I'd put two living rooms, one formal, one cosy on the bottom floor with the kitchen. The top floor was still a work in progress. The middle floor still held two bedrooms, and a tiny bathroom.

"This is you." I gestured to the spare bedroom. It was as small as you could get a room and still fit in a double bed. Which I'd thrown out with all the other furniture the place came with. A lightweight alloy frame single bed and small desk had taken its place. A bedside table with drawers completed the little set. I'd painted it bright yellow so that I could see it better after crashing into it one too many times. "I'll go and get started on some lunch. Do you have any requests?"

"Meat?"

"I think I've got some chicken. I'll throw together a salad and grab you a yoghurt."

She nodded and sat down on the bed. The sheets were cream because any other colour would clash with the bright yellow. I'd had my contacts in to pick out the colours.

"Are you really going to investigate that man's death?"

"Yes, I said I would and I never break my word."

"You want some help. I wouldn't need a cut or anything, just room and board for the duration. I could be your eyes." I gave a start at her statement. "The bright colours, the way you have to follow everything closely to keep it in focus. I've seen it before."

"I've got contacts." I told her.

"But not whilst you're doing magic, or you'd have worn them today. You don't want Jessica to know, so you need someone who can see all the time. Not just with tacs." Tacs, tech contacts. The girl really must know someone with a sight problem. "And I can be donor again if you need to do any more raises. It wasn't so bad and you stopped way before I was gonna be in trouble."

"I'll call when lunch is ready." I left her to settle in. Silly little human girl didn't understand what she was offering. And I liked people to understand what they were bargaining for before they committed themselves. It reduced the need to force them to keep their word. I wasn't nearly fond enough of blood to want to do that all the time.

I pulled the cooked chicken from the fridge and started to chop up salad bits. I'd just put everything onto plates when Ali walked into the kitchen. She sat down at my little white kitchen table.

"You can't do it on your own. You don't look scary enough."

"I am far scarier than you will ever be."

"But I know people. And it doesn't matter how scary you can be, it matters how scary people think you are when they see you."

I turned to face her as I put the food down on the table and allowed my magic to overcome me. My eyes were normally a very pale grey colour. With the magic upon me they went fully white leaving my pupils looking desolate. Black streaked through my hair, darkening the copper to a darker, less human red. More like blood. My skin tingled with built up power that didn't have anywhere to go.

"Very scary. But you'll send everyone running looking like that. Besides, you can't see anything and I bet you can't keep it up for very long without collapsing."

Ali tucked into her food with a vigour that belied her small size. On closer inspection she was nearly all skin and bones. I let the magic fade into the room. Although I was going to have to watch how much I did that. Buildings sometimes reacted oddly when steeped in so much death magic.

"You can't make such a bargain with me."

"Why? Because it's binding? At least I know you'll keep up your end." I could almost hear her raising her eyebrows at me. "I'm sure you can get by as you are but you're going to help Jessica and she doesn't even know how much she is asking of you. How can you take that bargain?"

"I haven't bargained with her. I said I would ask around, I never promised to find the killer," I said between bites. The extra burst of magic hadn't done me any good so soon after the raising. Ali wasn't the only one who was in need of a yoghurt.

"Does she know that?" I held my tongue and kept eating. Ali was more insightful than I liked. But she was still less dangerous than the police captain. "You'll want to go out at night. Everyone will be sleeping till then. I'm going to take a nap. I'll wait for you this evening." She hopped off her chair, grabbed the two yoghurts I'd left on the side and spirited back up the stairs.

I followed at a more sedate pace. Jessica had woken me up at some ungodly hour and I'd been rushing about ever since. Despite it being only one in the afternoon I was ready to drop. And Ali was right. Night would be the best time to ask around. The guy died at night, it was unlikely any witnesses would be away in the day.

* * *

Getting into bed was easy, getting up was harder. Even with eight hours sleep the soft covers held me fast. It was only the sound of Ali bustling about downstairs that dragged me up. Some of my supplies were warded rather strongly and the poor girl wouldn't be able to see them. Observant as she was, she was still human.

"You don't want to be doing that," I told her as I walked into the kitchen. She had the small step-stool out and was exploring the high cupboards.

"I was looking for something to eat."

"You'll be eating via a straw if you open that cupboard. Food is in the fridge and the bottom cupboard next to it. Pans and plates are next to the oven and cleaning supplies are under the sink. The top cupboards will fry anyone who isn't me. The spells are temperamental."

I raised my eyebrows at her as she huffed about stupid witches and pulled out a yoghurt and a couple of sandwiches. I would have to fatten her up a bit before she left. It was still only September, but winter wasn't far off. In the back alleys it was notoriously unforgiving. The high energy yoghurt would help, and hopefully it would get her the vitamins she needed. Ali's hair and nails looked thin and lank. Her skin was dull. She looked like she needed more of everything.

"Drink this and go change your clothes. There are a few things in the drawers in your room. I put them there for guests." I had a small collection of spare clothes accumulated over the past few years. It was testament to my reluctance to throw away anything I thought might ever prove to be useful. No matter how slim the chance I'd ever use it. The clothes that weren't wearable went into my scraps basket.

Ali smiled as she left the room. Her feet ghosting up the steps as though she were used to not making any noise. At least I wouldn't have to worry about being woken up by her moving around. But it set my teeth on edge that someone so young would need to be so quiet. I was betting she didn't even know she'd done it. My mother wasn't the best parent ever and we were often scrambling for enough of anything. But she always made sure I was taken care of. Even if it meant she went hungry. In all my 27 years I'd never known starvation or true danger. Ali had the air of someone who had known both.

I set out the sandwiches and waited for her to come back down. She'd put on a pair of jeans that were just slightly too long and tucked a pale blue blouse into them. She looked a lot more grown-up dressed like that. Hopefully that would help us. Although she still looked too thin, that wasn't going to change overnight.

"You can wear my spare coat if you like. The temperature is supposed to start dropping tonight and the forecast said rain." I finished my sandwich as she sat down and started to clear the kitchen. Being useful or following old habits, I couldn't tell which.

"Where do you want to start?" Ali asked as we were getting ready to leave. She put her clumpy boots back on.

I grabbed trainers that clashed with my skirts, but were easier to move around in than fashion shoes. I put on my grandmother's cloak and fixed the tacs into my eyes. The interface was starting to wear through. They'd be alright for the moment but Ali was right that I'd need her to take me around. The first thing to go was always the low-light vision.

* * *

The alleys were dark enough to need a torch as we walked. Ali didn't know the area well enough to guarantee we wouldn't run into anything, so I'd added my ceremonial dagger to the mix as well. It slid into a harness across my back. I'd left the rest of the hardware at home. The harness could hold a sword half a metre long if I wanted it to. But I wasn't expecting that much trouble from just asking around. And I didn't want to be caught with the dagger, let alone the larger blade. Illegal didn't even begin to cover it.

We'd started back at the dead man, although he'd long been carted away by the police. Only a small sign remained to mark the crime scene. Asking any witnesses to contact the local constabulary.

"Over there. It's the best entrance to the alleys around here. The others are all locked up." Ali pointed just to the side of a tattoo parlour where there was a gap between the buildings that looked barely wide enough to squeeze through sideways. "It gets wider after a couple of metres."

That was the problem with the back alleys, they were made up of the negative space between the buildings. Sometimes you got a larger square where they'd meant to put a garden or to allow more light into the windows. But for the most part they were dark and narrow. I pulled out two torches and handed one to Ali. The white light was bright enough to see about ten metres.

I followed Ali along the alleys. My tacs helped but they were more worn out than I'd realised. I could just about make out shapes. Ali warned me of steps and supports that needed to be ducked. We were right in the bowels of the alleys, where there was so little light that not even the weeds grew. The wind whipped up my skirt as we walked but the heavy material and long length stopped me from showing my knickers.

"There's a community round the next corner. The guy was probably from there. It's the biggest around and they try to keep track of the comings and goings." I thanked her before we rounded the last corner and entered the small square. There were a couple of door spaces on one of the buildings, indicating that it had been meant as a garden square. The visible sky above looked like it might even give a little light in the middle of the day.

"Stay close," I told Ali. She took my arm as I looked around.

"Are your tacs alright. You seem like you're struggling."

"A little. I don't need guided just yet but I don't know what state I'll be in by the end of the night. When they go, they go quick." I patted her arm and gestured her to go forwards. I wasn't planning to take the tacs out even if they did stop working. They helped my eyes to look more normal, making them mid-blue instead of palest grey.

"Track," Ali shouted across the square.

A man who looked more like a rugby player than a homeless person looked up. We wandered over to him and settled ourselves outside a small tent that I thought might be green. Low-level lights littered the square, giving just enough light for a normal person to see by. I'd turned off my torch and let Ali lead me. I could see shapes and colours but I'd never be able to identify anybody. I just had to hope that the recording from the tacs was running better than the real-time adjustments.

"Ali, never thought to see you back here looking like that."

He held out a big hand for us to shake and I saw that he wasn't overweight or built up. He looked more like he had a medical condition, gigantism maybe. My medical degree had to come in handy sometimes, even if it was only for diagnosing people on the street.

"This is Mal. She needs to ask you some questions," Ali told him as he shook my hand in both of his. He helped me back into my seat like I was fragile. I supposed that to him a lot of people looked fragile.

"Hello Track. We would like to know about a man who was found out on the roads last night. 34 years old, but aged more. Dark hair, streaked with bits of grey." I glanced at Ali to double-check and she nodded. "He'd been running, said something about a silver-haired man with a bloody knife." I left out the fact that he'd not been alive when he spoke. Trying to imply that he'd told someone about it before he died. Because there was no question we'd be there if he was still alive.

"Harry? So thin he looked like he might break in half? Marks everywhere?"

"That could be him," I replied. I wished I'd gotten down to the morgue for a better description, but there hadn't been any way to explain my presence there. "Could you tell us about him?"

"Junkie, always in debt to someone. But he really went down hard the last month. Poor guy, probably ran out on his dealer. He was pretty heavy into the blues so I wouldn't trust too much what he said." I wasn't particularly up to date with the street names of drugs but Ali helpfully told me they were hallucinogens.

"So what was he injecting?" I asked Track.

"No idea, maybe a booster or something. Cheaper than real food around here sometimes." I nodded. Boosters I did know about. They were often used to help get hospital patients back on their feet. Or to counteract blood loss without having to give out blood.

"Thank you. Will you be here later if we have more questions?" I asked him. He told us that he would and waved us off with an affectionate bop to Ali's behind. She swatted at him but kept smiling.

"Track's alright. He's big enough not to get any trouble and he likes to look out for the small ones. Parents were illegals but they threw him out when he started growing, superstitious idiots. He got some treatment at the hospital but they couldn't get him on the state because he doesn't exist in the system."

I let Ali guide me around the rest of the square to ask more questions. One guy said that Harry had been going off somewhere else for his fixes lately but could only give us a vague direction.

"How well to you know the Lowers?" I asked Ali. She just shrugged. The Lowers were the parts that were in danger of falling off the cliffs and into the sea. The defences kept the buildings safe but a few stupid souls had taken to building into the rock face. Sometimes using the defences themselves. I couldn't be completely sure but given the direction Harry went for his fixes, I was betting he'd made some new friends down there.

"Nobody really knows the Lowers. I stay away, no safe houses. Hell, you don't even go there for a prozzy." Yet Ali's steps were sure as she guided us in the indicated direction. "Don't worry, I've enough light not to send us off a cliff. But damn if that guy didn't choose the worst area to get his high."

"The veil take it," I said as we approached the more precarious ground. "How did he run from here to the roads? There's nothing but back alleys for a mile!" Most of the buildings were either condemned or were huge offices interlinked to fronts on the roads. But places were cheap so close to the edge. And they had better light, being completely uncovered on one edge.

"I guess we'll find out. Do you want to wait here?"

"I think that I'm safer here than you are my dear," I told Ali, a smile tugging at my lips. The Lowers may cater to the scum of the county but it wasn't my first visit. Hell, I might even manage to get some new tacs. "Shout if you see an electrical. I need new tacs if you want to ever stop guiding me about."

"Sure thing. You come here often?"

The fear that vibrated around her gave the lie to the casual way she spoke. That wouldn't do, there were things in the Lowers that liked that fear. Not all of them precisely human.

"Not since my mother died."

* * *

There were wooden and metallic bridges and supports intermingled once we got past the concrete of the main back alleys. The harsh wind picked up as we got close then lessened once we hit clean air. There was nothing to funnel it out here but it still swept my skirt about something dreadful.

"Don't go too far down. Whatever Harry was here for wouldn't have been below the second level."

"Why?"

"Because nothing human goes down that far."

I let my hand trail along the slate as we descended. There were a few platforms to allow people to pass but we didn't meet anyone. I stopped at the bottom of the steps. They felt solid enough but I had trouble trusting something only half held up by physical means. The air practically vibrated with spells. It would be telling which ones were going to bite us that would be the issue.

Releasing Ali, I took out my tacs, putting them back in their little case. I still wanted the vids off them later if I could get them. In this place, it wasn't vision that was going to get us back out, it was senses that Ali just didn't have. Although I'd still need her to keep me from stepping completely off the edge. With just the waning moonlight to see by I was almost completely blind.

"Let me go first."

"But you can't see."

"Trust me, I can see better than you can here."

I stepped around Ali. I could just about make out the edge of the walkway, but I could see further down. The whole place was wreathed in magic. Spells laid on spells, so many that I was betting nobody even knew what they were all for anymore.

The steps continued down but we turned off onto a platform. It was solid, although I could feel the growing pressure of the magic from below. The way the rock sat suspended would not look natural from below. These communities had grown up after the borders closed. The only people who would see it wouldn't be living long enough to tell anyone. Salt spray didn't reach up that far but I could still hear the crashing of waves. The sounds of the city were muted on the Cliffside.

"Come on. I'd like to stay on this level if we can. No consultancy fee is worth going any further down." I waved Ali to follow me and started along the path cut into the side of the cliff. There were empty alcoves mixed in with wooden boards. People had cut spaces into the slate. I just had to hope they'd done something to strengthen the flaky rock along the way.

Ali jerked me to a halt outside a rough wooden door. She pointed up at the sign above it. Something I shouldn't have been able to see, but the circle and two V shapes seemed to have been magically carved into the stone. Saved on tools I supposed. More than that, it was a symbol I recognised.

"You should go home Ali."

"No way, you won't get back home without me. What is this place? Is it to do with the dead guy?" The rush of questions threw me a second and I had to re-centre myself. Drawing in power, I shook my head. The girl was observant but also seemed to be unerringly curious. Or maybe she just didn't feel the same sense of danger that I did.

The door moved easily under my palm and light flooded out. Not electrical light either, someone was trying to impress with the sheer number of candles it took to fully light a room. No windows meant that they would need to be burnt all the time. Unless they opened the door during the day. Somehow I doubted it.

Ali gasped as she got a look. I let my poor eyes have a second to adjust. My power was flowing around me, enough that it would alert anyone inside as to what I was. I'd yet to come across a situation when it was better to hide than to show off when dealing with supernaturals. Especially this supernatural.

"Carlo. Get out here, or by the veil I'll drag you out by your balls." My voice resonated through the space, echoing off the walls and coming back to me. Ali shrank to the wall and let go of me. Although she'd seen my attempt to be scary earlier, she hadn't seen what anger did to my appearance. Not with my power about me. "Carlo."

"Keep your hair on dearie. No need for talk like that." A man moved from deep within the cave. At his full height he was easily two metres tall. Towering over the lounging figures around him. "I never thought to see you again. Come to fulfil your mother's bargain?"

"That bargain ended when you died," I sneered. My betrothed was handsome, or at least he had been when we were 15. I'd need my tacs in to really make an assessment now. He seemed more hollowed out than I remembered him. Of course, that can happen when you drop off the grid and start to mix with the lowest of the low.

"You look a little gothic there Mally." He stopped halfway towards us, his hands held out in a peaceful sign. "And I much prefer the copper to the blood colour you know." I swallowed some of my power. I knew that my hair would settle back into copper curls as I did. "What brings you here?"

I just looked at him, cocking my head slightly and using my second sight more than my vision.

"You're dying Carlo."

"No, no, not dying. Not quite."

"Then you're treading an awfully thin line. What, was my mother's life energy not enough? Or was it your father's healing spells that failed?" Taunting him might not have seemed like a good idea but there was little he could do to hurt me. Beyond throwing me off the cliff, he had become little more than a Wraith. The reason we didn't bring back the dead.

"I have enough."

"You trade drugs for blood. Do they know what else they give you? Do they feel the life as it leaves them, ages them?" I asked him. A few faces looked up from around the room. They lounged in a stupor for the most part. Flying too high to give a care what I said. But still not too far gone to completely ignore the intonation.

"It doesn't take much. They don't last long anyway, plenty going spare."

"And the ones that were found on the roads?"

A sharp intake of breath was my only warning before he was on me. He slammed me into the wall. Missing the door by centimetres. I just kept looking at him. My eyes still white with power. I threaded a tendril around him. Caressing him from head to toe. He shivered and relaxed against me.

"You've learnt a few tricks since we were together."

"I've learn more than tricks, Wraith."

I spiked the power through him, shoving energy into him and cycling it out again. The pain that flashed across his face matched the fresh rigidity in his body. When I stopped he slumped fully down to pool around my knees. All I had to do was bend down and take his chin in my hand.

His eyes were as dark and clear as ever but lines marred the once pristine skin. He wasn't as aged as the man on the roads, but it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge. My mother's last gift no doubt. She'd never spoken about it but I knew she wouldn't have let them go unharmed. Not when they took the better part of her own life energy with them.

"It appears it's not possible to raise someone without sacrificing someone else. How is your mother?"

"Dead two years. All her years went into you." I released his face and kicked him back as I stood. He groaned and picked himself up.

"I had nothing to do with it."

"You jumped off the cliff."

"I was attached to a rope!" I just shrugged at him. He didn't look like he got to indulge much in adrenaline chasing much any more. "Get out."

"No, you draw too much attention." I went to push him back again but he held his ground. Entrapping my wrists tight enough to send tingling through my fingers.

"And you bring a human here."

"I bring whomever I wish. Are yours so bound?" The tightening around his eyes was enough. I twisted a bit of his silver hair around my fingers where it fell down around my hands. "Silver hair. Bloody knives. Although dagger is probably more appropriate. The dead say the strangest things." I all but whispered the last.

"The Covenant frowns on raising the dead." He still held my wrists as he walked me back against the wall again. I glanced to Ali who was crouched down by the door. Half hiding and half ready to run or fight. I turned back to give Carlo my full attention. Ali would have to sink or swim on her own for now.

I couldn't get my hands away from Carlo so I kicked him instead. Smashing my foot into his knee. It would have been more effective if I'd been wearing Ali's boots, but it still had enough force to put him off balance.

He cursed me but didn't let go. "You can leave or you can die," he hissed.

"And you can wallow in the Covenant's dungeons." I stamped his knee again. This time it gave out completely, taking both of us down. I landed on top of Carlo and jammed my knee into his groin. This close I could actually see the lines tracing his eyes and mouth.

He curled up and finally let go of my wrists. I stood up quickly and scooped Ali into my arms. The girl was actually shaking with fear. I shushed her as I watched Carlo, I might have put him on the floor but it wasn't over. I knew I had to finish it or risk him finding me unawares. I was too vulnerable in everyday life. That would have to change.

"The Covenant doesn't care," he said between grunts of pain. "But a necro carries a hefty reward." It had less impact from the floor. Yet his statement put my teeth on edge. No matter what we did the Covenant just could not leave us alone. They wanted control of everything.

"The Covenant can drop to the other side of the veil for all I care."

"How do you plan to get me in their dungeons then?" Carlo dragged himself up the wall to look at me. "You could help. It's a fair business." He gestured around the room at the dregs half dead, lining the walls.

"I don't plan to lose my head over something so stupid. Even the rogues won't buy from someone who dumps bodies in the open." I carefully put myself between Ali and Carlo. The girl really had gotten more than she bargained for. But she edged around me and started to inspect the nearest man. He was alive, just about.

"A miscalculation."

"Miscalculation that lead to his death, or the one that allowed him to run?"

Carlo raised his eyebrows at me in a parody of condescension. He still didn't put any weight on his crushed knee. The spells his father weaved were maxed out just keeping him alive. He'd be lucky to ever walk normally again.

"A bit of both perhaps. But we're still betrothed. My father would be happy to invite you back. You wouldn't have to deal with the police to get your bread." He heaved his leg around so that he was leaning against the wall. Trying to look carefree, managing to look more like a man waiting in line for the hospital.

"That ended when you died. Makes no odds that you're still walking. Last time I saw your father he had a knife to my throat. I think I'd much rather just put you over the edge and be done with it. Let the vampyre find their own food." I backed closer to Ali, who was whispering to the man she'd checked out. "How are they?" I asked her while Carlo was distracted with his pain.

"He's done. Given up."

She stood up and moved away. Clearly not wanting to touch a man who was so close to death. It wasn't just physical illness that defiled life, it was will. If you didn't want to live you could waste away. Especially when you bargained away your life energy.

"So how many of these go to feed your life and how many do you actually manage to sell. Soon enough you'll run out of victims."

"Plenty of people willing to do anything for a fix." That was the key point, willing victims. The magic wouldn't work unless the person was willing. Maybe that was why my mother's magic hadn't worked as it should have. Or maybe it was just that he had needed a full sacrifice and my mother had survived the encounter. Too late to do anything now. It would take more than one life to fill the gaping hole in Carlo's life energy.

"It won't work you know. You'll get another two years, maybe, before you can't even move any more. You're old now Carlo. Old and silver haired and wrinkled." The man had always been vain and I saw him wince at my description.

"And you, still not yet to your prime," he said. I nodded to him briefly.

"I could make the pain go away Carlo. You know that." I gave Ali's hand a quick squeeze as Carlo made to move closer.

"You could try," he growled.

He lunged. Half leaping, half falling at me.

I moved up to meet him to keep from crushing the man behind me with our fall. Ali had moved away to give me more room. Instinctively doing the best thing to keep her alive.

The impact was hard but I managed to sweep him past me and land ungracefully on the floor by the door. His head impacted with the stone and bounced back. Blood seeping around the wound.

Crouching down I let my magic fill me again and put a hand to his forehead. The blood was bright and red. So very alive. I could fix that. The moment my hand made contact with the sticky fluid Carlo started to weaken. He visibly shrank back and I went with him. My hand never breaking contact as the blood cooled around my fingers.

I stopped before draining his life completely. There was no tension to overcome, the energy would have come to me easily. He was already dead, never really brought back. Truly a Wraith. I used his own blood to draw a symbol over his face. Tracing the lines slowly while he mewled at me. To finish it off I blew on his face and told the spell to activate. Not completely witch magic, but it would work just the same.

Carlo's cry told me the spell had worked as he lit up like a Yule light. I stepped away from him quickly as the light dimmed back to normal. Taking my vision with it. I didn't want to be sticking around for the show.

"That was for my mother. Give my best to the Covenant."

I waved while dragging a stunned Ali out the door as fast as possible. The spell would draw the Covenant's hunters just as fast as they could get here and I wanted to be gone before they did. Carlo hadn't been wrong when he'd said they frowned on raising the dead. I did not want to end my days walled into a tiny stone cell. They also had a habit of spelling first and asking questions later around sensitive situations. And as soon as they connected Carlo to the bodies that had popped up, it would become a very sensitive situation.

"Where are we going?"

"Home," I replied.

The bright light had destroyed what remained of my night vision for the moment. So I was almost completely relying on other senses as we hurried along the walkway. So much for getting some new tacs. I might have to risk ordering them online.

We'd only reached the bottom of the stairs when we were nearly bowled over by a small group of witches. I smashed us into the cliff in an attempt to go unnoticed, but one of them stopped anyway.

"Name. And why are you here?" he said in a terse voice.

I could feel the build up as he readied himself to cast a spell at me. A nasty one no doubt. The hunters didn't waste their learning on household spells. If I was lucky he might even have a few non-fatal options to throw at us.

"I just activated the spell on the Wraith. Tell Captain Jessica Talehari we found her killer. Now, I'd like to leave now." Proudly, I didn't even put a hint of magic into my voice. If they were focused on Carlo I might get away before they realised I was a necro. By the time it dawned on them I'd be home and they'd have a hard time finding me there.

"You will come with us." He must have made to grab me but I couldn't see well enough to tell. Ali got between us and knocked his arm away.

"No, we gave you the Wraith instead of dumping him in the water. You let us leave in peace." Her voice was almost lost amid the high winds that were still picking up against the cliff. But it had an effect. The witch paused for a moment to consider her. That was all the opportunity I needed. I gave Ali a nudge and she got the message. Taking my arm she ran up the stairs. We had a good start on the witch and it took only moments for Ali to find several very complex turns in the back alleys.

We stayed very still as the man rushed just metres past our hiding spot. Ali had got us into a small alcove that might once have been a room. It seemed that part of the building had collapsed, but instead of fixing it they'd just shored up the rest and left it in ruins. The bricks and rubble that remained were still fixed firmly into the ground and gave us enough cover to crouch behind.

"Well, that was fun," Ali said as we cautiously exited our little bolthole. "What's the plan for tomorrow?" She grinned at me. The fact that I could see her face enough to tell meant that my night vision, what little I had, was returning.

"Home. And the Captain owes us a fee." She'd offered and I intended to collect. Maybe she could get me some new tacs as well. I wasn't sure about having any that had police serial numbers on them. Yet they did have the very latest in tech and they wouldn't miss one pair.

We walked back slowly, keeping to the shadows and lesser used alleys. By the time we reached the square, Track was bedded down and it didn't matter. There were too many people around to follow us. Track wasn't likely to give out any information about us. If the Covenant flunkies even bothered to ask. For all their paranoia about keeping the supernaturals safe from humans, they did have a tendency to look down on them. Or maybe it was just the alley dwellers they ignored, just like the rest of the population.

My door opened smoothly to my hand as we hurried inside. We'd be safe from the Covenant because they didn't know enough to trace us. I just had to hope that the oaths Carlo had sworn wouldn't break under their tender mercies. I was glad the empath had left the dungeon team. Carlo shouldn't be able to communicate what he knew to anyone but I'd never tested the oaths against someone who could pluck knowledge right out of your head.

* * *

The next morning dawned brighter than the one before. The mirror reflecting the sky into the window was blue and cloudless. So much for the forecast rain. Ali sat with me at the table devouring a very late breakfast of toast and yoghurt. I was going to keep feeding them to her until she put on enough weight not to wince every time she sat down.

I played the message on my com before tucking into my own meal. Evidently Jessica had been told of my accomplishment the night before.

"I've been informed that you found the killer, although whoever it was didn't seem to know who you were. They were most frustrated when I couldn't tell them, thanks for that by the way. Thought they were going to haul me off for a moment there. I've got £2,000 here to give you. It's not a lot but it's what the higher-ups authorised. I still say you could come in as a consultant and make a good living. One of the higher-ups hinted at it. No, I didn't tell them what you did, someone must have figured out something close though. Anyway, I'll meet at the usual with the money. I assumed you wanted it on a chip card rather than a transfer. See you later."

Ali gave me a thumbs up and I smiled at her. It wasn't a lot but it would be enough to get Ali some new clothes, which she'd definitely earned, and buy me a pair of boots. After seeing the paltry effect of my trainers when kicking Carlo I wanted something sturdier. And it seemed the Covenant had gotten over themselves for once as they were letting me slide. The job offer was uncomfortable to say the least but I could ignore it and that was the important part. When the Covenant eventually came knocking it wouldn't be with a request. For now it seemed they had bigger fish to fry than just a ghost of a necro.

* * *

Emma Faragher _writes futuristic fantasy. For more in the world Mal inhabits check out her 'Trix SinClara' series, starting with 'The House'._

* * * * *

# KIRA

### Ross Harrison

[Necromancer] [Contents] [In The Lap Of The Gods]

Kira's town has so far survived the destruction wrought by the Government on so many others. But for how much longer?

KIRA stumbled around the corner and finally stopped for breath.

As she leant against the warm, slimy brickwork of a glassblower factory, a barely audible humming drew her gaze to the sky. Above the narrow alley, and between the wide pipes running across New Haven, her eyes met only thick black and grey smoke. But she knew that sound. It had bored into her skull for hours on her way here, stowed aboard one of the Government's airships. They were already in the air looking for her. Or maybe she was flattering herself; maybe they were simply heading off on patrol.

While she contemplated her next step, she absently fingered the gashes in her strong leather corset. It was sliced through in at least five places, holding together thanks only to a few rivets. As far as she could tell, the blades hadn't met her skin, but the surging adrenaline would hide any pain, so she couldn't be certain.

Kira headed further into the alley. She had to get home and report on what she'd seen in New Haven. Since her town last dared a scouting party, the Government had advanced considerably – if her people attacked, they'd be wiped out.

Voices made her stop short as she approached a turn. A skeletal cat nosed through an overturned dustbin ahead; if she surprised it, the resulting noise would draw unwanted attention.

Going back would be a bad idea, though. Who knew how close the Government Agents were now. The only way was through one of the locked back doors in this alley, or up. She was better off on the rooftops anyway.

Kira still had her little grappling hook, but her tailor-made pistol, with its added capacity to fire the hook, was lost to those Agents. Pissers. Hoping her aim had improved since the last time she'd tried this, she swung the hook a few times, keeping her eyes firmly on the bracket holding one of the green-stained pipes to the wall. With a silent prayer to who knew what, she let it fly.

"What was that?"

As she'd feared, the hook missed its mark, and made such a racket on its descent that it would have raised alarm even without the commotion of the terrified cat.

"Might be that little bleeder wot the Agents is after!"

Coppers, by the sound of it. Just her luck.

She had little choice but to try again. Boots pounded on cobblestones and splashed through puddles.

Trying as best she could to remain focused, she swung the hook and let it fly once more. This time it nearly did her enemies' job for them as it plummeted back down, inches from her head. I seriously need practice.

No time for a third try, or even to run back the way she'd come.

From what she'd seen, the coppers weren't trusted with the same advanced weapons the Agents were, so she'd have to rely on that and the absence of lamps here.

Abandoning the grappling hook, Kira pulled off her prized half-top, collapsed the cylinder flush with the curved brim and threw it. Two police officers thundered around the corner, the buttons of their sickeningly-tidy uniforms glinting even in the dark of the alley. The razor edges of the topper's brim sliced through the chest of the first, startling the second, who probably hadn't expected her to actually fight back. His rifle fired before he'd even lined up the shot. Better than she'd hoped for.

Before he could crank it for the next, she was upon him, her cutlass narrowly missing his ear. The scavenged blade was pretty much the only weapon she was talented with, besides her hat.

In one smooth motion, the copper drew his own sword and swung at her stomach. She dodged back, and followed with a lunge. He easily stepped aside, but tripped on his groaning friend. Kira took advantage of his moment of unbalance to knock the sword from his hand and deliver a swift kick to the bawbles. That put him out of action rather effectively.

Sheathing the cutlass, she grabbed her hat and took off around the corner. It should be a few minutes, at least, before either of them got over their pain enough to care about sounding the alarm.

She carefully wiped away every drop of blood from the razor-sharp brass, which just peeked out of the half-top's brim, and popped the cylinder back up. That was the second time tonight the precious hat had saved her life. She pulled it proudly onto her head. Or rather, around her head – it had belonged to her father, and was a little large for her.

Out on the main street, the lamps buzzed. It seemed as though the Government had found a way to power them from afar. They still burned oil and animal fat in her own town. Much of the knowledge possessed before the Last War was now lost. Technology like this was beyond her people – but it was also not worth the price.

Kira tried not to hurry, and tried not to be mesmerised by the lamps. She'd hoped it was still dark enough that her battered appearance wouldn't be noticed, except close up, but with a sinking in her stomach, she realised this wasn't the case. Actually, she stood out as much as these mechanical motorcars would in her own town. The one group of women she passed wore long, frilly dresses and bonnets, and shot her appalled looks as she sauntered by.

"Young lady, what do you think you're wearing?" The shrill voice slid its way down the front steps of the house beside her. She stopped and turned to see two 'gentlemen' lounging at the front door. Just the look of them and their long pipes made her want to climb the steps and share with them that copper's pain. "You could hurt yourself, playing with a man's weapon."

They both wore the tallest top hats she'd ever seen, black suits with long tails, and suspiciously shiny shoes. What's wrong with this place?

"On the run from a customer, I dare say," the second man said, eyeing her torn bodice and the heaving occurring in that region. "Away back to the abbess with you!"

This was ensued by an odd chuckling, and the two men barely seemed to move as it shook itself free from their throats. In fact they didn't even seem to be smiling. Just as well. I'd wipe 'em right off their bleedin' faces if they was!

"Piss off."

The shock on the men's faces before Kira flounced away was satisfying. But not as satisfying as kneein' 'em in the—

A high-pitched whistle pierced the quiet street. The coppers were finally calling for aid. She increased her pace, hoping she'd got her bearings right. She'd come through most of the city across the rooftops, so it was unfamiliar from down here.

The soft humming returned, just about discernible over that of the lamps. Kira peered up. That airship was her ride home, and now it was moving away from its patrol route! Probably reassigned to join the search for her.

In the hopes of revealing more options, she reached for her goggles. The clever red lenses, stolen from New Haven by the previous scouting party, illuminated sources of heat. With a groan, she realised the goggles hung off one ear. It was miraculous the same blade which cut off the right eyepiece hadn't sliced off her nose. Well, at least one eye'll be bug-free on the flight home, she thought. With a quick adjustment, the goggles – was that still the correct term for goggles with one eyepiece? – were decently secure.

The whistling was suddenly joined by more, a lot closer. She spun and saw four bright red shapes pounding across the cobbles towards her.

"Stop!" one of them shouted.

Right, course I will.

Kira turned and took off down the street, desperately thinking of a way to stow aboard the airship a second time. She'd left her grappling hook behind, and the airship floated too high anyway.

Seconds later, her thoughts were interrupted by a queer, rapid thumping. It seemed to come from all around. What weapon were they going to use this time? Her heart didn't know whether to thump its own beat or synchronise with this new one.

The thumping gave way to a terrible buzzing, like a giant wasp. Gulping down smoke and air, Kira tried to locate the source of the sound. Suddenly, the wasp swooped down from the rooftops. This was new technology, too. It looked just like a motorcar, except with no wheels, and from the middle protruded a pole with... things on the top. Two similar things seemed to push the airships forward. It looked like that air blower her father made years ago, but moving much faster. The blades spun so fast they looked like one solid, flickering disc. Another stuck out the back, and would probably cut her to pieces if it came too close.

The metal wasp seemed to read her mind, and swooped so low Kira could almost have touched it if only the force of the air hadn't knocked her down. The smooth cobblestones didn't feel as soft and bubbly to her cheek as they looked.

The steam billowing from the underside of the wasp blew down and all around her, actually helping to obscure her from the pursuing coppers. But the heat of it blinded her goggled eye, while the blazing lamps on the front of the wasp blinded the other.

Kira scrambled to her feet, ignoring the burning itch of yet more grazes, and darted down another alley. This one led straight through to the next street, and as she emerged, the wasp swooped again.

As it did so, she spied two Agents aboard. Oh no! Coppers were one thing, unused to doing much in this crime-free totalitarian city, but she'd barely escaped the last lot of Agents alive. At least these two weren't wearing the same armour. One of them raised a brass cone to his lips and shouted through it. "Stop right there, Wastelander, in the name of the law!"

Whose bleedin' law? I bet even you blokes don't know who the Government really is!

Forcing her hat further over her ears so the wasp wouldn't blow it away, Kira pulled the lid off a nearby dustbin and hurled it at the noisy machine. It collided with the Agent's arm, knocking the cone into the blades above. The force tore it from his hand, and his scream suggested a broken wrist. A window across the street smashed as the contorted instrument flew through it like a bullet.

The interference with the blades was enough that the wasp shuddered and sank the few remaining feet to the cobbles.

This was her only chance to leave the city.

She ran towards the temporarily-grounded machine and leapt into the back seat, careful not to lose her head to the blades. The injured Agent pulled his pistol from its holster, but Kira's boot connected with his chest before he got a shot off. The Agent piloting – theoretically – was too busy at the controls to do anything as his partner hit the cobbles.

"Now then, driver," Kira shouted over the noise of the blades. "I don't have an address _per se_ , so I'll just 'ave to show you where I live. And don't be asking for no tip, or you might just get it," she added, poking her cutlass into his side.

"You're under arrest, Wastelander!"

She pulled the pistol from the Agent's holster and fired a few shots at the coppers running down the alley she'd come through. At least, that's what she'd meant to do. In fact, she was right-handed, so firing with her left resulted in holes all around the entrance, and a laugh from the pistol's owner!

"Somethin' funny?" Kira shoved the hot pistol barrel into his throat. "Take us up!"

With a cry of pain, the Agent pushed one lever forward, another backward, and then pulled up on a third. The ground slowly began to lower.

"Faster!"

Another poke of the cutlass, and the Agent abandoned his delay tactics. The wasp soared into the sky just as the coppers reached it. Kira leant over to ensure none were dangling from the side, and momentarily took both pistol and cutlass away from her hostage. He wasted no time in taking advantage.

His fist thumped down on her hip bone, probably hurting him more than it hurt her. She heaved herself back up, straining under the wind blown down by the blades. He knocked the pistol from her hand, following up with a punch to her eye.

Kira cried out as she flopped back across the seats. "You punched me! You punched a girl, you bleedin' pisser!"

"And I'll do it again unless you—"

The statement was abandoned in favour of a scream, as a heavy boot to the face sent him plummeting from the wasp.

The scream was short lived, due to the rooftop only three metres below. Kira immediately panicked, but soon realised the wasp wasn't falling. The Agent must have locked it in place somehow. It didn't seem too steady, though.

Let's see... Kira climbed into the front seat, trying hard not to panic further at the sound of gunfire. He pulled this one up to go—

It was her turn to scream as the wasp jerked upwards and plunged into the cloud of smoke. Before she tried anything else, she unfolded the little face mask from a pouch on her corset and put it on so the smoke wouldn't smother her.

A long stick protruded from the floor and up between her legs. This was the only one she hadn't seen the Agent move, so it probably made the thing go forward.

Judging from the sensitivity of the lever, she pushed gently on the stick. The wasp tilted down, and started to move. In this thick smoke it was hard to tell if she was going forward or down. She pulled up the first lever and felt the seat push into her bruised backside.

A minute later, she emerged above the eye-stinging black and grey. The stars twinkled overhead, pointing her way home. Her skin tightened and the hairs on her forearms tried to stand up against the freezing wind. At least she couldn't be seen up here.

Only the main Government tower punched through the smoke, and it would take the Agents too long to get up there to spot her. By then she'd be so far away even their spyglasses wouldn't help.

So much for the airship; it turned too slowly, and would have no idea where she went.

Soon, the wasp carried her away from the reach of the smoke cloud and out across the desert. Under the rising moon, she could just make out the shapes of large metal constructions and ruins of buildings made of something which looked like stone but wasn't. Not for the first time, she wondered what life was like before the Last War. Not even her town's Father was old enough to remember that.

Kira wished she hadn't lost her jacket, but at least the wasp's steam engine kept her from freezing. Its whistling and hissing was almost comforting. Along with the smell of oil and grease, it reminded her of home. Not that home had much steam any more. Mostly they relied on power generated from cranking... well, cranks.

Part of her longed for the technology and comfort she'd seen in New Haven. But she'd heard the stories of what the Government did to the closer of the outlying towns, and the people therein.

She didn't know which were true and which were just stories, but she did know what they'd done to her own. It was too high a price to become a part of an evil like that. Living without freedom under a murderous, faceless government; forced into whatever labour they decided; publicly beaten, humiliated, even executed for expressing opinion. All for a comfortable home and clean water.

No, she'd happily live free with hunger pains and brown water.

* * *

Warmth tickled Kira's chest and squawked at her.

Too early to get up yet. Probably. Too warm and comfortable. She'd lie in bed another ten minutes.

Except she wasn't lying. She was sitting.

And warmth don't squawk!

Kira's eyes snapped open, and she found herself face-to-face with a vulture. It must have been very curious to land on a moving vehicle – especially one with blades spinning overhead. She narrowed her eyes at it. It cocked its head to one side.

"Piss off!" she shouted, seeing that her usual tactic wasn't going to work. The sudden noise surprised the vulture and it toppled backwards off the wasp.

That was better. Peace and qui—

"Oh no!"

The wasp's engine had stopped. The steam no longer hissed, and the blades were slowing down! That's what woke her; not the warm sun and not the vulture. In fact, there wasn't any sun; is was still night. She now realised the weird sensation she was experiencing wasn't only hunger, but the unpleasant lurching of a stomach trying to stay in the sky while its owner plummeted towards the ground.

Kira stuck her head over the side; still a distance from the ground, and the blades were turning at a fair lick yet – she might get the engine going again in time.

Or she might if she knew what she was doing.

A glint somewhere ahead caught her eye. It was home! Only a few more miles and she'd be home. She just hoped she wouldn't crash the thing right into the Father's house.

She tried to keep her mind off what might have happened to her, falling asleep at the controls of a mechanical wasp.

"Aw, bloody 'ell!" she yelled, as she brought her attention forward just in time to see her looming death.

Potentially, anyway. As it was, enough power remained in the blades that when she instinctively yanked the lever upwards, the wasp soared up and over the tall building. It was this hollow ruin she'd climbed to grapple onto the airship as it returned from its routine scare-the-Wastelanders flight.

It was one such flight that had decided her town's current course of action. Usually, they simply passed overhead to keep an eye on the Wastelanders and remind them the powerful, sky-conquering Government was around. That one time, however, one of the Agents aboard had opened fire on the town, killing a young woman and her son.

The Elders knew then that they couldn't coexist in peace.

Had she the presence of mind, she could probably have jumped out as she passed over the building, and then made her way back on foot. But lack of sleep, hunger and blind panic prevented her brain working quick enough. Perhaps it was just as well – at this time of the night, all manner of creatures prowled the desert.

There was nothing for it.

Kira pushed the go-forward stick and pulled the go-up lever. The wasp tilted down until she had to push her feet forward to keep herself in the seat.

The wind against her face increased, but so did the lurch in her stomach. There wasn't enough power in the blades now to counteract the falling. Just a bit further...

Suddenly, the wasp jolted up on one side, nearly throwing Kira out. A horrific screech accompanied it, and she realised she'd hit the old flagpole that jutted up from the collapsed school.

The wasp was totally out of control now, wobbling and rolling almost onto its side. It was all Kira could do to stay inside. But she knew that if she was low enough to hit the flagpole, the sand dune up ahead may very well be the end of her.

The wind caught her face mask and pulled it down around her neck. Still, swallowing the odd fly or grain of sand was the least of her worries now.

If tipping the wasp down made it go down, it stood to reason that tipping up would make it go up, at least a bit. The wasp rose a metre or two upon doing so, but it wasn't enough.

The sand dune looked a lot bigger when it was coming so fast.

A strange moment of quiet ensued as the blades finally slowed too much to do anything, and the wasp sailed almost placidly towards the sand.

Still tilted upwards, it was the back half which struck the dune. The wasp lunged forward, turning to the right as it did so. The front left of the nose hit the dune again, and the momentum of the rear caused it to somersault.

Sand, thwarting Kira's goggles, blasted into her eyes and mouth, so what happened next was a mystery to her. All she could feel was the world wobbling around her, vicious impacts with the ground and, eventually, a sense of weightlessness.

Thankfully, she found one of the softer, less-compacted areas of sand to land on, flat on her back. She felt herself slide a little way, and roll once. A crashing nearby told of the wasp joining her.

Finally, there was quiet.

The wasp's gentle ticking and creaking was surprisingly soothing as she lay, wondering if she'd died. The burning sand under her skin, and scratching of it in her eyes, told her she had not. At least the vomiting cleared it out of her mouth.

A shout came from a little way off. Who's Mira?

She was fairly sure she was lying still, yet the world seemed to be moving all around her, in much the fashion it did while she was in the wasp.

"Kira!" Oh, that's me!

"Urgh," she managed.

The muted sound of footsteps fluffing across the sand brought her rescuer closer. She hoped he had water.

"Kira, you okay?" It was Flip, the youngest scout in the town. At fifteen, he was eight years younger than her, but that didn't stop his unending efforts to peer down her corset.

Wait! The sand's burning me backside!

Her skirt had blown up as she sailed through the air, and now all it covered was the corset. With haste she was unaware she still possessed after that flight, Kira pulled it back down into place.

"Kira!" There was definitely a note of disappointment. "Are you okay?"

She felt him kneel beside her head, and smelled the town on his clothes.

"Just moonbathin', Flip. Could do with some water though."

She raised her hand to await the cool of a water bottle. Instead, the tepid liquid cascaded into her face.

Kira coughed and spluttered as it ran up her nose, and leapt to her feet.

"What the bleedin' 'ell are you doin'?" She shrieked.

"You need to get the sand outta your eyes!"

She considered this for a moment. He was quite right. She blinked a few times to see if it had worked, but grains still painfully scratched her eyeballs. Kneeling down, she gestured for him to pour some more into them. Flip carefully poured the water on to the bridge of her nose this time, and it ran down into both eyes.

With some more blinking and unnecessary shaking of her head, the sand was gone and she could see again. Flip stood in front of her, water bottle poised to splash her some more. Although, this time it appeared to be aimed a fair bit lower than her eyes.

"You okay?" he asked yet again.

"I think so. Thanks. We've gotta get back to town. Got to," she corrected, trying to bear in mind that his parents liked proper pronunciation used around him.

"What was it like?"

Kira thought for a moment. "Different."

Flip's goggles gave him bug eyes. As usual when looking at her, he'd left the magnifying lenses down. Handy though her own goggles were, they weren't designed to protect her eyes from the sand like his, unfortunately.

She saw that she'd landed – if you could call it that – less than a mile from town. The wasp lay in several pieces now, and on its nose sat a familiar vulture. Flip rushed over to inspect the machine.

"What the arse is this?" He'd come a little late to cursing.

"Mechanical wasp thing. I flew it back from New 'aven." She couldn't help putting on an act on nonchalance. Was that the right word? "Haven."

"Wooooaaaaaaaah. Can you teach me to fly it?"

"It's broke! Are you blind? Come on, we gotta stop the inscursion... incust... the attack."

Flip pulled out a shiny pocket watch and held it over his head. Turning it until the bright moon glinted on its casing, he signalled the town that all was well. They'd be watching through their spyglasses anyway, but it was best to put at ease all the men lurking inside the town gates, waiting to shoot trespassers from New Haven.

* * *

"...an' their rifles shoot lightning! An'... an'... what else..." Kira tried to remember anything she'd left out. "Oh, an' some of them Agents wore these huge metal suits! I shot one right in 'is face, and the bullet just bounced off!"

There were gasps from more than one direction.

The Father and the other Elders sat in silence for a while.

"An' that wasp—"

"Thank you, Kira." The Father raised his hand. "You have certainly given us a lot to consider."

"It would be madness to attack." This was Michael. Kira forced off her face the stupid grin that formed at the sound of his voice. She couldn't help dusting herself off and tidying her hair a little though, knowing he was there.

Of course, Michael wouldn't have noticed the dust any more than he'd notice the rest of her. Ever since he'd dragged himself into town a year ago, they'd only spoken twice. Still, his charming smile and refined speech, which made her feel like an uneducated dunce in comparison, ensured he was rarely far from her mind. It didn't help that he was one of only three available men – and the only one who could string a sentence together. It was a subconscious attempt to emulate his speech that resulted in her conflicting pronunciations.

"Michael, you have made your opinion abundantly—" the Father started.

"Were you listening to a word she said?" This also raised a few gasps. "It would have been suicide before, when they still possessed the same weaponry as us, and a few floating ships. Now we find they're more advanced than we can even imagine! This gives more credence to the stories we've heard about how they deal with other towns. Including mine," he added bitterly. "They're too powerful."

Michael had been the sole survivor of another town fallen victim to the Government's tyranny. Something else which drew Kira to him. He'd brought with him new stories of their power, but few dared believe him. Even now, the Elders thought his stories to be the wild imaginings of a terrified young man who'd walked who knew how many miles across the burning desert.

Kira could have told him to expect that lack of trust; they still didn't believe her story. Was it fear? Or just condescending dismissal of the young? The Elders rarely took seriously anything younger townspeople had to say.

The crowd gathered around the meeting broke into nervous chatter amongst themselves. They were all scared of what would happen either way. New Haven wouldn't be content to leave them alone forever.

Kira took the opportunity to gaze – hopefully in a casual and subtle manner – at Michael. He wore his usual tweed waistcoat over a slightly tattered white shirt. Dark brown eyes hid behind the shiny black locks which were usually tied back. His hands rested upon a long black cane, one finger, as always, bearing that horrible ring. Kira had no idea why he wore it. It was a yellow lizard-like eye mounted on brass. Sometimes, and in the right light, it appeared to follow you as you walked by.

Flip sat beside him, wearing his own waistcoat and trademark goggles planted firmly amid scruffy blonde tufts. Seeing the longing in Kira's eyes, he shot Michael a dirty look. She quickly looked away. The boy didn't have a chance, obviously, but it wasn't fair to hurt his feelings like that.

"Quiet!" one of the Elders finally bellowed. "Shut it, would ya?"

The Father cleared his throat. "We have but three choices. First, we attac— Quiet! We attack, and take control of New Haven, freeing them, and all of us, from the Government's tyranny. Second, we sit here and wait for the Government to get around to grinding us into dust. Or until we're completely out of resources and die slowly. Or third, we pack up and head further away from New Haven, with the creatures out there picking us off one by one, and potentially running afoul of brigands and other Government-like factions further out.

"I hate to say it, but Kira being discovered... The Government will not allow this to slide. Our second option will certainly bring the quickest death."

The Father waited for his words to sink in. No one knew what lay in the opposite direction to New Haven. Just more desert. A ruined city sat way off on the horizon to the east, but that must be hundreds of miles, and what good would a ruin be anyway?

New Haven might indeed be one of many. But the creatures out there would probably kill them all before they ever had a chance to find out. They only had so much ammunition for their weapons, and some of the smaller, but equally-deadly beasts often hunted in packs of dozens.

"We'll all die," Kira said quietly.

"Kira, I understand that you want to keep us all safe. To show us all that You're not like your father—"

"What?" She hadn't meant to shout quite that loud.

"Everyone here knows you would not betray us like that, nor let us down. But what would you have us do? Carry our homes on our backs to some paradise over the horizon? They can fly! And such people will not settle for power in just one city; they will expand and expand. You must let those of us with experience and wisdom make this decision.

"We will think this over and convene again later." The Father stood and the meeting dissolved.

Some people shot Kira dirty, accusing glances, but she ignored them. It was just fear, really, not hatred. No one could truly blame her for this.

But the Elders... She couldn't believe her ears. After everything she'd been through to get them information. 'Intelligence', they called it. They obviously didn't have much of their own. Wisdom my arse.

"What do you think they'll do?" Flip stood beside her, peering up at her. For once, his eyes didn't stop short somewhere around the top of her corset, but actually met her own.

"I think they made their decision ages ago. They're gonna attack anyway."

* * *

Kira hurled the wet sponge into the water as hard as she could. It relieved no frustration.

Sure enough, the Elders had returned to inform the townspeople that they would be going ahead with the attack at dusk.

Everything she'd seen in New Haven told her that all her friends would be dead within minutes of attacking, but there was nothing she could do. She'd explained in detail everything that had happened: how she'd nearly been killed more than once; how, try as she might, she'd done no harm to anyone before the wasp appeared. And that was against brand new, unprepared Agents only training. Those suits of armour could withstand bullets! How were they meant to fight that?

She kicked the end of the bathtub, only hurting her toe.

Not for the first time, she felt the need to peer around to ensure Flip wasn't lurking somewhere, trying to get a good view. It was mostly due to this nuisance that her shack was one of the best built. The Father himself cobbled it together for her from whatever he could find, like all the others. But Kira had covered all the gaps, sealed the canvas to the floor at the rear, and installed a proper door (and blocked the keyhole). She had complete privacy in here. But that didn't stop Flip-related paranoia.

With an extended sigh, she tried to think of anything that would settle her nerves. She could not. These days, there was nothing to think about besides New Haven.

Picking up the sponge with her toes and lifting it out of the bathtub, she watched the water run down her ankle, around her calf, tickle the back of her knee, and then roll all the way down her inner thigh to rejoin its grey source. She considered the cream line it left. She should probably scrub the dirt off, but with what seemed like every inch of her covered with grazes and bruises, it was sore.

No, she'd just lie in the water until it went cold. Or until she began to resemble one of the Elders.

That would be a shame, she thought, looking down at herself. Why did men always stare at her breasts? They were probably nicer to look at than her face, that's all.

They at least reminded her that the lack of proper nutrition hadn't taken its toll on her body. Yet.

She probably had her dad to thank for giving her a good head start. He would always bring back plenty of meat for everyone, and even some kind of edible plant. Then, in the middle of the night, he'd sneak out to a secret stash, and bring back some special meats just for Kira.

But that was a long time ago. Now, she had a nice circle worked out: she'd tighten her corset and go compliment the men on their latest hunt. With an innocent stretch or bend, she'd find her arms suddenly full of food. That, in turn, ensured she remained the kind of vision which gained her that large share. As far as she was concerned, that was the circle of life.

Her morning exercises probably helped too. She'd watched her father do them every day, and when she grew old enough, started copying. That kept her in the kind of shape the Elders insisted on. Couldn't have a skinny, unfit scout, after all.

Kira's mother had always said if she did too many press-ups, her breasts would shrink, she'd get all muscled, and boys wouldn't like her any more.

Her mother was a fool. A caring fool, but a fool. If these things are all a boy's interested in, then he ain't worth botherin' with anyways.

There was a stirring outside.

"Piss off, Flip!"

The door creaked open! Even Flip wouldn't dare try to walk into someone's home without knocking.

"Can I come in?" Michael asked, stepping inside anyway.

Kira froze. I'm completely bleedin' starkers!

She had the presence of mind to subtly reposition the sponge, but that was about it.

Michael pushed the door closed behind him, and leant his cane against it. Then he stepped closer.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you did today," he said, his eyes firmly locked with hers. "I knew it would be dangerous, but if I had any idea it would be like you described... Well, I just wish I could do the things you do," he tapped his bad leg, a look of regret on his face, "so I could accompany you, and protect you."

Kira swallowed.

"I'm sorry they brought up your father," he continued, sitting now on the stool beside the bathtub. And there was the ring again, staring at her and making her shudder. "I'm sure he was only trying to protect you. He probably thought the Government would spare you if he helped them. But at least you weren't in the town when it... happened."

The feelings mixing together in Kira hurt. Michael sat within arms reach of her naked body, but he spoke of the most frightening, devastating day of her life. The day, fifteen years ago, that her father made a deal with the Government. The day they received his end of the deal, hanged him, and sank her entire town into the desert, along with all her friends and her mother.

"Anyway, I just want you to know that some of us appreciate you as much as you deserve." As he spoke this time, he finally broke eye contact and slowly gazed down her body, lingering awhile on the half-submerged pink nipples. "I'm glad to see you weren't hurt too badly in New Haven."

"Yeah."

Seriously? "Yeah"? You're a genius, Kira.

"If we can't stop them from attacking, then we should do our best to help them win," he said, the change of topic taking her by surprise. "Perhaps you should take them to that mechanical wasp you came back in. If they can get that flying again, it would be an advantage."

"Okay."

"You know the city better than anyone. You can lead them to the main tower and perhaps avoid trouble until then."

"You want me to lead 'em?" Kira was shocked. She wasn't a soldier. Then again, nor were any of their 'soldiers'.

"Of course not." Michael slowly reached his hand out, and for a moment, she thought – perhaps hoped – it was about to reach below the waterline. He gently stroked the side of her neck, sending shivers through her. "I don't want any of this. But if it has to be done, I think you're the only one who can give us a fighting chance."

The soft hand moved to the back of her head and gently pulled it towards his lips. Kira closed her eyes and waited, her heart pounding. His lips pressed against her forehead and made a strange 'prrych' sound.

Not quite what she expected.

Michael smiled at her and made his exit.

Kira stared at the door for a moment, unsure quite what to think. She sometimes had a dream similar to this, but it never ended in quite that way. Still, she'd probably die tomorrow, and despite appearances, she was desperately shy in situations that couldn't be resolved with violence or swearing, so that was probably as close as it would ever get.

She sat up quickly and reached for the plank leaning against the side wall. She knocked it down into place against the door so no one else could get in. Then she considered her grazed fingers for moment. No, something more this time. She turned to the other side and began rummaging, with shaking hands, through an old toolbox.

Her lust had somehow spread all the way through her body and up into her throat. She wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't throw up.

Finally, she wrapped her hand around it. The old brass bullet she'd found out in the desert. She didn't like to think about the size of the rifle it was meant for, but after plenty of buffing and polishing, it had become one of her best friends. Granted, it was ever so slightly too large, but the thought of going and kicking in Michael's door was too scary.

In her haste, she knocked it off the side of the bath.

She sat wide-eyed and unmoving for a few seconds before deciding the bullet was not going to fire today. Undeterred, she retrieved it from the floor, flicked the sponge out of the way, and plunged the bullet under the surface.

Right now, she didn't care if Flip was listening, or even if he could see her. She was pretty sure she had no choice if she didn't want to explode.

* * *

Kira groaned. Another day in the watchtower. She hated being stuck up here. Nothing ever happened – which, she supposed, wasn't really a bad thing – and being under the tin roof, under this sun, was hell.

Hearing her thoughts, the sand pushed up a lush, tall tree to give her shade. That was better. Still boring though.

As she gazed at the horizon, something caught her eye. She stood and leant as far over the side of the tower as she dared, straining to make out the shape on the horizon. Her eyes zoomed in like a telescope, and she realised it was a person.

For a moment, she stood with her hand half raised to the alarm bell. A lone person couldn't do the town any harm, though, could they?

Could be a scout!

Kira's hand shot to the bell again. But no, it hadn't looked like a scout, had it? She zoomed in on the figure again. This time, she was more steady, and could make out the way the person moved. It looked like a man. He appeared to be hurt. Staggering, the man tripped and fell. He didn't get up.

No, whoever he was, he needed help. She was mildly ashamed of the excitement and happiness she felt at this thought. But she had to get away from this damn tower, and here was her excuse. Plus, in helping this stranger, she could show the Father that she was capable of more than skinning animals and remembering the limits of the town walls.

Kira checked no one was watching her, and then scrambled down the rickety ladder. As soon as her boots hit the dusty ground, she ducked behind the nearest shack and crept behind it to the gate. Well, they called it a gate, but really it was just an open part of the cobbled-together walls.

No one was nearby, so she slinked out and back around the wall on the other side, ensuring she was in the open for as short a time as possible. From here, she located the figure again, only now climbing back up, and set off towards him.

Soon, gravity weakened, and her feet left the ground for a full ten seconds. With this easy jumping and sailing, she quickly reached the man. He'd just reached a gentle slope, fallen again and rolled to the bottom.

Kira kept one hand on the grip of her pistol as she stepped closer.

"Who are you?" she demanded. His name was Michael.

From his awkward position, he slowly looked up at her with a sandy face.

"Sarah?" he croaked.

"No."

He didn't seem to be armed. He was dressed pretty smartly, though. The trousers were pinstriped – that's what she thought the name was, anyway. Then a nice white shirt. Or rather, a shirt which had once been both white and nice. Braces were even clipped to his waistband, although neither strap was over his shoulders.

"Who are you?" Kira asked again, a little gentler now she was a little more confident he wasn't going to attack.

"M... Michael."

With that, his face sank back to the sand and he became still.

Kira's first instinct was to check for a pulse, or at least pour some water on him. But she was smart. She still didn't know the man's intentions, and he could be faking in order to get her guard down.

Instead, she slowly circled around him, checking that he carried no weapons as best she could from out of arms reach. To her relief, she could see his back rising and falling, but no bulges or protrusions to suggest a gun or knife.

Finally, she decided to risk it. Clenching one fist, just in case, she knelt by his side and pulled her flask's stopper out with her teeth. She splashed some water on his face. Having been under that tin roof with her, the water wouldn't be cool and refreshing, but at least it would clear the sand.

With the khaki mask gone, Kira saw a perfect half of a face. It was probably half of a perfect face, but she didn't want to make assumptions. After all, with a face like that, there was bound to be something wrong with him.

Slowly, a dark brown eye opened. He was probably confused for a moment, Kira thought, until he realised he was looking up the barrel of her pistol. She cocked the hammer for added effect.

"Now you're awake, we can try again," she said. "Who are you? 'Michael' ain't a satisfact'ry answer. Where'd you come from? Why are you 'ere?"

Michael seemed oblivious to the gun at his temple as he turned over to sit. The sun seemed to be bothering him, and Kira was tempted to stand where she could give him a little shade. But by staying to the side, the sun blinded him, so he'd be at a disadvantage if he decided to attack. Perhaps she was being overly cautious.

"May I have some water?" he requested, eyeing the flask. She threw it to him. "Thank you."

He spoke oddly. No one in town spoke like that, except maybe the Elders – but that was put on. Where was he from?

She watched him closely as he took small sips. His skin was only a little red. If he was a spy from New Haven, he'd have been pretty badly burnt by now. They weren't used to the sun, with that big cloud of smoke and steam always over their heads. No, he must be from another town.

"Who are you?" she asked again, the edge returning now that she was losing patience with the lack of answers.

"I'm not sure any more." He glanced up at her as though he hadn't meant that to slip out. "I don't know how long I've been walking. I didn't know where I was going."

Kira was clearly going to have to lead this conversation a lot more closely to stop him babbling rubbish. "Where are you from?" She couldn't help trying to pronounce her words better. She didn't know him, yet she didn't want him to think she was stupid because she didn't speak properly.

His brown eyes seemed to darken further at this. "Nowhere. Not any more. They killed everyone."

"Who did?" Kira demanded, already knowing the answer.

"The Government. They just came and... killed. Killed everyone. It only lasted two minutes, and then they were gone again."

Kira didn't know what to say. "Sorry" certainly wouldn't help. She tried to think back to the first time she'd entered this town, and what the Father had said to her. She couldn't remember his words, but that was unimportant. And that was kind of the point; it didn't matter what he said. What mattered was that he'd treated her like a normal person, not like a fragile victim. He'd showed her about, introduced her to a handful of people, and gave her somewhere to sleep. But it had been clear the whole time that he'd been there for her, had she needed to talk.

Problem was, she wasn't anything like that.

"They did the same to mine," she ventured, taking her hand from the pistol's grip now.

Michael looked up at her again, but she couldn't identify the emotion behind his eyes. Perhaps he was glad that he'd stumbled across someone who could understand.

With a barely perceptible turn of the world, Kira was sitting beside Michael. They'd been there for about half an hour. Slowly, with her water, he was regaining some strength.

"Who's Sarah?" Kira asked.

Michael hesitated. "What?"

"You called me Sarah earlier."

"Oh... I don't know." He forced out a weak laugh. She'd probably been his woman, and he didn't want to think about her right now. Perhaps he was wishing he'd been in the town when the Government attacked. At the time Kira hadn't, but over the following weeks, when the reality of never seeing her friends and family again set in, it had been all she could think about.

"How'd you escape?" she asked next.

"I was up at the well. The one in town dried out a year ago, but we found water about a mile outside the walls, and made a new well there."

That was all he had to say on the subject. Clearly something else he didn't want to think about.

"They're so powerful," he mumbled, shaking his head. "Pointless trying to resist them."

Kira said nothing, and they fell silent.

"What happened to your town?" he asked suddenly.

Kira braced herself. Even now her voice could become a little unsteady when talking about her home.

"I don't know why they did it. Prob'ly 'cause we wouldn't join 'em. They came one mornin', underground. I don't know how, but they just... sank the entire town into the sand."

"How did you escape?"

Kira coughed hard, to force the wobble from her voice. "My dad. He left a note to meet him by a little ruin outside town."

"Luck?" Michael asked cautiously.

"No. The Government caught him one day when he was huntin'. That's what the second note said, anyway, at the ruin. He said he was makin' a deal with 'em so's they'd leave the town alone. But he didn't trust 'em enough to leave us in there. So he left that first note to make sure we'd be gone most of the day. Either everythin' would go well with the Government, and he'd be at the ruin before us to hide the note. Or we'd be gone long enough to miss whatever it was they'd do to the town. They killed him and sank the town."

She'd done well, but she couldn't help the wobble right at the end. Michael sat in silence for a minute.

"They killed him even though he was helping them?"

Kira didn't answer.

After a full two minutes of staring at nothing, Michael spoke again. "Who's 'we' and 'us'?"

"The notes were addressed to my mum." She shouldn't be saying this. The tears were starting, and she didn't want to look weak in front of a stranger. Or anyone. "She was called out early to help deliver a baby, and she must have been in such a rush she didn't see the first note. I thought I'd impress Dad by going all the way to the ruin by myself.

"That's why I ran back towards town when I read the second note. I thought I could get there and warn everyone. Warn Mum. But it was already sinking."

"I'm sorry."

It didn't help.

With no apparent transition, Kira was on her feet, pulling Michael to his. They had sat side by side for nearly an hour, tears rolling silently down both their cheeks. It was surprisingly comforting.

Michael grimaced as he got to his feet.

"What's wrong?" Kira asked, failing to keep the genuine concern from her voice.

"My leg was injured in the attack. I had a stick to hold me, but it broke hours ago."

"I thought you said—"

Michael groaned with the pain and nearly fell. She would have to support him all the way to town. At least the sun was going down now. Perhaps they could both float.

* * *

The smell of grease greeted Kira as she slowly regained consciousness. The smell that told her she was home. That and the hard mattress.

It was more of a memory than a dream, but it was at least about Michael. She rolled over in the hopes of getting back to sleep, but the cold bullet rolling to the small of her back made that impossible. With a shriek, she fell out of bed.

Piss.

Today was the day, then. The day she would lead a lot of men to their deaths. There was no point refusing to lead them to the tower; they'd simply find their own way. Michael was probably right in saying she could get them further into the city before trouble erupted. She was one of the few people left alive who'd been to New Haven, and the most recent. Of course, getting there would be the bigger problem. She didn't know how many men there were, but she was sure they couldn't all stow aboard a passing airship. Perhaps the Elders' plan would cover that.

She lay on the hard, gritty wood for a moment, listening to the sounds outside. A handful of children playing, unaware of the importance of today. A couple in the shack above making love, probably for the last time. Gentle hissing, not only from the few working engines, but from cooking meat. The hunters probably went out in force this morning, to make sure everyone ate well.

I better get out there, or there'll only be fat left.

Kira climbed to her feet and stowed the bullet somewhere a little less conspicuous.

Her last intact bodice had the straps torn off yesterday. No point trying to wear that again till she'd fixed it. Aware that she might as well put on a fishnet corset as the one that saved her life in New Haven, she rummaged around for the only other one she possessed. Where the hell had she left her hat this time?

A new sound.

What was that? Fat popping in the pan?

It sounded too... big, somehow. And kind of muffled. She quickly pulled on her skirt and boots, and headed for the door.

As she passed the rarely-used mirror, her eye caught something odd. She stepped back and wiped away the dust.

Yuck. Big black marks sat under her eyes; one was from the fist of that damn Agent. Her short raven hair was all over the place, and streaking all around her normally sparkling green irises were little red lines. But what had caught her eye was a red mark on her forehead.

Kira fetched the cold, soggy sponge from the bathtub and rubbed at the mark, but it didn't come off. She looked closer and touched a finger to it. The skin was sensitive and slightly raised. Unless she was imagining things, the mark was in the shape of two lips.

Michael?

Had his kiss left this? What could possibly have been on his lips to do that? Well, she had bigger things to worry about today than people teasing her about a kiss on her head.

Kira heaved aside the plank, pulled open the door and stepped out into the blinding light. It should have been more blinding, but the sun wasn't quite where it should be. The shadows were pointing the wrong way. What the 'ell time is it?

She took a few steps forward, searching for the sun. It was later than she thought. Much later. How could she have slept so long? It was already evening; the men would be heading to New Haven soon!

Only with this thought did she notice the change around her.

The children had stopped playing. The couple above now stood on their little balcony, wrapped in sheets. Everyone in sight looked out in the direction of New Haven.

Kira couldn't see anything. She'd half expected to follow their gaze and see the sky swarming with wasps and airships. Thankfully, the only things in the sky were clouds. It looked like it might rain for the first time in weeks.

She pushed and squeezed through the gathering crowd, feeling naked without her half-top. Finally, she reached the front.

About a mile away, a small cloud of smoke rose from the ground.

"What is it?" she asked no one in particular.

"Some kind of explosion," someone said. "Flip took Michael and the others to that flying machine of yours, like you said—"

"What?" Kira cried.

She didn't wait for an explanation. Breaking into a run, she yanked a rifle out of the hands of the nearest man and headed for the plume of smoke. There were shouts behind her, but she ignored them.

The wasp had exploded, and Michael was down there! Flip was down there! What if they were hurt? She was the one who was meant to take the men to it. Had she stayed in bed too long, and they decided to go without her? Why didn't they wake her?

She realised they'd probably tried, but the door was wedged shut. They'd probably thought she was too afraid to come out.

She stumbled on the occasional soft patch of sand, but kept running even when she felt like she would black out under the hot sun. The only time she stopped was when she dropped the rifle; there was no telling what had happened down there, after all.

A small building blocked her path. Usually, people would go around it, as creatures were sometimes spotted going in and out. This time though, going around would slow her down too much. She had the rifle, if she did run into any of them.

The front door sat ajar, and Kira kicked it open. Without waiting to listen, she rushed in and across the first room. Halfway through the second, she heard noises off to the side. There were indeed creatures in here, but they weren't in any room she needed to cross, so she charged ahead. The last door sat wide open, and she exploded back out into the hot desert.

With little fauna out here, the creatures were always hungry, and wouldn't give up a chance to feed. Kira didn't know which of the range of reptilian beasts these ones were, but none were friendly. They'd certainly give chase once they'd worked out which way she went, but that was a problem for a bit later. For now, she had just under half a mile more to go, and she was beginning to lag under the blistering sun.

Finally, she slowed to a walk. She could do nothing to help if she collapsed before she even got there.

If there's even anyone alive. Bleedin' fools. Why didn't they wait for me? Not that she could have stopped an explosion.

As she passed into the shadow of a rain cloud, she was able to look up again towards the smoke. Something glinted in the sand. A spyglass? Could it be Agents lying in wait? What if that spyglass was attached to the top of a rifle, like Dad used to do? She wouldn't make it to Michael and Flip.

Shut up, Kira. There ain't no reason to think Agents is there.

But of course there was. She'd stolen one of their precious mechanical wasps. With all their technology, who knew if they had a way to track it. As the Father alluded, they wouldn't let her crimes go unpunished. That would make them look bad – weak.

Kira cranked the rifle as she drew nearer, ready to fire if necessary. One of the wasp's blades stuck out of the ground ahead, and she took cover behind it while she surveyed the area.

There was a lot of fire. Metal didn't burn, so what was ablaze? Whatever it was, smelled terrible. She kept a face mask in this corset, too, and now donned it. It helped a little, but the smell still got through.

The gentle cracking and occasional spitting sounds didn't seem to fit with the destruction in front of her. Surely the wasp couldn't have made this big an explosion?

All of a sudden, realisation hit her. The burning things dotted around were the men from her town. She pulled the mask off so she could throw up.

As she leaned back against the blade, arms and legs weak, the glint caught her eye again. She'd run past it. Now fairly confident she wasn't about to get shot, and not entirely sure she'd care at this moment, she stepped away from the blade and hurried over.

Oh, no!

Half-buried in the sand sat Flip's shiny pocket watch.

Kira dropped to her knees, feeling the tears run down her cheeks. They stung her eyes, only serving to remind her of Flip's aid the previous day. She hadn't even thought about it properly. He'd had to get very close to the crash in order to tell it was her. That meant he'd risked getting close to Agents, just on the off-chance it had been Kira.

She reached down and pulled the watch out of the sand. A clever little button on the top swung the front panel open to reveal the ticking hands on one side, and a reddish-grey picture on the other. It was of Flip, grinning out at her alongside his now-dead parents.

Kira stared at the picture for a full five minutes before gently clicking it closed and sliding it into a pouch where she would always keep it safe.

An abrupt rumbling startled her.

The ground's shakin'!

It was only faint, but unmistakable. She'd felt the same thing nearly fifteen years ago, and she wouldn't soon forget it.

Kira leapt to her feet and grabbed the rifle, but it was too late.

Proceeded by a gentle humming, the clouds overhead began to bulge in several places. Stretched too thin, the bulges split and rolled away to the sides to allow the airships' passage.

Their grey bellies, crisscrossed with gleaming brass, lowered and lowered until the gun emplacements emerged.

They opened fire.

The weapons fired lightning, like the ones Kira encountered in New Haven. Even from here she could see the destruction they wreaked. The walls and roofs of the upper-level shacks sailed across the town; the town walls themselves toppled; she even thought she saw a few limp bodies sent flying.

An unfamiliar, rapid popping sound told of her townspeople firing back. It was the big cylinder guns, salvaged from a crashed airship before her time. Each of the three towers housing the guns were blown apart within seconds, but they'd coordinated their fire; one of the airships was going down.

Kira once again set off running, this time back towards town.

Before she'd gone more than a few steps, though, another glint caught her eye. This time it was over the town. Something about it made her stop to watch.

After a few seconds, a mechanical wasp came into focus. She didn't know why it would be the case, but it seemed to have taken off from the town, and flew towards her. Or more accurately, towards New Haven.

There seemed to be some kind of commotion aboard the thing. She patted every pouch on her corset but, as she already knew, none contained a spyglass. Glancing down at the rifle in her hands, she wondered if she should try to shoot it down.

A part of her was scared of attracting attention. Another part of her wanted to attract the attention of all the Agents, so they would leave her town alone. She'd like to kill every—

"Flip?"

As Kira stared at the incoming wasp, the passengers started to take shape. Perhaps she was imagining it, but the smaller one seemed to have a bulbous quality around the eyes. And the hat seemed familiar...

"Flip!" She screamed.

It was him. It was Flip, wearing her half-top and struggling with whoever was flying the wasp.

Kira wasted no time raising the rifle. She wasn't the best shot, but it was this, or let Flip be taken. Besides, with the small amount of Flip visible, it would be next to impossible to hit him. She closed one eye, aimed carefully, just ahead of the wasp, and fired. The shot hurt her shoulder, but did no visible damage to the flying machine. Had she missed?

After two desperate cranks of the stiff lever, she raised the rifle again. This time she waited. With the time it took to crank the rifle, she only had one more shot before the wasp passed overhead.

She remembered the steam gushing out from under the wasp she flew yesterday – the vibrations from somewhere underneath and behind her. That's where the engine was.

As it neared, Kira's eyes followed the billowing steam to the shiny brass pipes that issued it – three on each side. Then along the pipes to the centre of the thing, where they all curved around and followed the floor to the back, to a big square of the same gleaming metal.

Kira tried to steady her breath. She remembered her father teaching her how to hunt when she was seven or eight. He always said to try to fire between the out-breath and the in-breath.

The wasp buzzed overhead. Kira breathed steadily out, and squeezed the trigger.

With a lurch, the wasp began to fall. Both steam and smoke billowed out of the brass square for a few seconds, before the whole thing fell out of the wasp entirely.

Oops.

The blades were slowing a lot faster than they had on her own, and the wasp was losing height fast, too. She took off running, cranking the rifle again as she went. She didn't know how the town fared, or if there was even anyone left – although the popping of gunfire suggested there was. All she knew was that Flip was in trouble, and she had a chance to save him. That was more than she could hope to say about her townspeople.

The steam and smoke from the wasp had disappeared entirely now. It was simply a big hunk of metal dropping out of the sky.

About five metres from the ground, the wasp seemed to find a burst of energy to slow its fall considerably. Kira was just glad she wasn't about to witness Flip's death thanks to her own actions.

Not far ahead, the wasp finally crashed into the ground, the hard, compacted sand doing it even more damage. Every one of the blades flew off the pole. It was just as well, because the force of the crash sent both Flip and the Agent sailing straight up.

Kira dived to the ground as one of the blades came for her neck. She rolled under it, and found her feet again in a second. She had to get to Flip before the Agent—

"Michael!" she cried.

The Agent wasn't an Agent at all; it was Michael! What the hell was he doing in a Government wasp with Flip?

"Kira!" he started, seemingly dazed from the crash. "We were going to New Haven... to attack them while their forces were weakened..."

From nowhere, Flip leapt on him, and brought a length of pipe down on his head.

"What the 'ell are you doin'?" Kira ran towards them, but within seconds, Michael was on his feet. He punched Flip – actually, properly punched him – right in the eye! "Michael!" What the hell was going on?

Suddenly, a pistol was in Michael's hand, its barrel firmly against Flip's temple, and his arm wrapped around the boy's throat.

"Stay there!" He shouted at Kira.

He said nothing more. It appeared he didn't know what to do next. His eyes flicked from the wrecked wasp, to the exploded wasp, to Kira, to the direction of New Haven, to the town and up to the Airships still attacking it.

Kira didn't know what to do either. What the hell was going on?

"He did this, Kira!" Flip shouted, recovering from his daze. "He told us you wanted me to take everyone to the wasp—"

"Shut up, brat," Michael snarled, squeezing Flip's throat tighter. Blood from the boy's attack trickled down his ear.

"What are you doin', Michael?" Kira demanded, hoping her voice didn't betray the confusion and hurt.

"You were meant to be in town. I must have set off the bomb a little early," he muttered, glancing again at the smouldering remains of the wasp.

"You did this?" Kira breathed. She could barely believe it, even from his own lips.

"Don't pretend you enjoy living like this," Michael retorted. "The Government is building us back up the way we should be. Clean, well-fed, bleedin' civilised, like!" The mockery stung. "You've had all the chances you're going to get to join us, but all you want to do is fight."

"You're one of 'em?" It still made no sense. "Even if you are, you've spent long enough with us to know that ain't true! None of us wanna fight; the Government leaves us no—"

"Oh, shut up! You want to live out here like all these damned animals instead of in a proper city like actual people, that's up to you. It was inevitable you'd be put down like them."

Why did he keep glancing at his hand? It was the ring! He couldn't stop looking at the ring. What was it about that thing?

"Put that down before you hurt yourself," he spat.

Kira hesitated, but dropped the rifle. She wouldn't get a shot off before he killed Flip, and she might even shoot the boy herself.

"What now? Are you movin' on to murder the next town of innocent people? Or just goin' back to your civilised friends?" Anger held back the tears.

Michael ignored her. He was staring at the ring again. This time, she had no doubt: the eye moved. It wasn't a trick of the light. It went from looking straight out, and turned towards her.

"I can't! There's too many creatures in the desert; I won't make it halfway. You need to send another f—" He stopped abruptly, as though someone had interrupted him. He stared intently at the ring for a minute, looking more and more distressed with each passing second. "But you can't just leave m... Sir? Sir!"

"What the 'ell?"

The eye was gone. The brass fitting held nothing more than a rounded lump of glass. Gone were the creepy yellow iris and the slit-pupil.

Without warning, one of the smaller desert creatures leapt onto the wrecked wasp. It must have finally tracked her from the building. Michael let out a whimper, and took the gun from Flip's head. The lizard-like animal pounced, but the gunshot stopped it in midair. As it thumped to the ground though, a second, larger creature threw itself at the two.

Flip stamped on Michael's foot and dived to the side just as the fat, crocodile-headed dog... thing sunk its teeth into the man's shoulder. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his trusty length of brass pipe, and ran towards Kira.

"Shoot 'em! Michael first!"

She couldn't shoot Michael! Not Michael. How could she be sure the ring wasn't controlling his mind somehow? She'd heard stories... But they were just stories, weren't they? Magic like that didn't exist really. There was no excuse for this.

A brief fountain of blood immediately followed another gunshot. There was further commotion from the other side of the wasp's broken shell, but with no snarling this time. Suddenly, Michael's head appeared, covered in blood. He heaved himself up with a furious cry, shoving the dead creature aside.

He still gripped the pistol. He would shoot her next. Then Flip. She knew it.

"Tell me why!" she begged.

"My sister's the same age as you," Michael said, pacing now as he looked about him, perhaps in search of inspiration. "She called me a traitor when I left to live in New Haven. Me, a traitor! I just wanted to live without wondering if the next day would be our last. My mother died the day I left; that was my fault too. She died because I broke her heart, Sarah said.

"A few years after, the Government rounded up all of us who'd come from outlying towns. Told us the only way our towns would be safe... the only way our friends and family would be safe, was if we integrated ourselves with you Wastelanders and convinced you the only way to survive was to join them. They have technology, yes, but there's not nearly as many of them as they'd like you all to think; they need their ranks bolstered. They need not to be resisted."

Kira didn't know what to feel or think. He'd lied about so much.

"We couldn't go home, because that would be too obvious. We had to go to other towns, pretend that our own had been destroyed by a Government far too powerful to stand up to. We had a year, and if we failed, we were to help destroy the town, and pray our own was still safe. I failed; I was too subtle with you morons. I don't even know if my sister is still alive!"

"No, you don't. But you know I'm alive! You know the Father's alive – the Elders... Listen to that gunfire! You know our friends is still alive! You know it still ain't too late for them."

"Yes it is." That sent chills down Kira's spine.

"Look at me." She pointed to the reddened skin, suddenly realising what it was. "You drugged me so I wouldn't be blown up 'ere. I know you care about me—"

"I was never one of you," Michael cut in. "I hated it here. I want to go home. I want to see my sister again and give her a life in New Haven. I'm sorry, Kira, but you made your choice; now you have to suffer the consequences."

"Kira!"

Flip held the rifle in both hands, emphasising his small stature. He threw it, and she automatically caught it. Michael's eyes locked with hers. They were filled with rage. And hate. He wasn't going to listen to her; he didn't care enough to risk the sister she knew would already be dead. He began to raise his gun, probably sure she wouldn't be able to shoot him.

A glance at the bruising coming up on Flip's eye and neck filled Kira with her own burning anger. And behind him, their town in smoking ruins, the gunfire now silent...

In an instant, she twirled the rifle around, raised it towards Michael, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore a fist-sized hole through his chest, and she heard the blood splatter on the sand behind him. A second later he, too, hit the sand.

He was a damned fool if he thought simple lust or pity would stop her shooting him. And that's all it was, really, wasn't it? Lust? Infatuation at best. At the wasp, it hadn't been Michael filling her thoughts. It had been Flip – her friend. That said it all.

Kira felt Flip's hand on hers, and she realised she still had the rifle raised. He gently took it from her, and slipped his free hand into hers. She gazed down at him. His eyes were normal again; Michael had knocked his goggles off. Her half-top was also missing from his head.

"I kept askin' where you were – why you weren't comin' with us to the wasp, and he wouldn't answer. I got s'picious, and went back to town to look for you. All I found was your topper by the fire where you left it, an' I knew you wouldn't go nowhere without it, so I tried to find you, but your door was locked and you wouldn't answer an' he chased me! An' he kept talkin' into that ugly, arsin' ring."

Kira wasn't sure what to say. She had no explanation. "Asking, coming, suspicious, anywhere, talking. Arsin' is probably fine."

Before either of them could say another word, the ground shook once again. This time, it was more violent, and lasted several seconds.

"No!"

"What is it?" Flip asked, tightening his grip.

Kira didn't answer. The ground cracking open a few metres away negated the need. Smoke – no, steam! – rose from the fissures. The fine dust, long settled on top of the compacted sand, floated into the air, nearly obscuring the town.

Up above, the two remaining airships were turning away to head back to New Haven.

Great booms rattled Kira's bones and cracking split the air. The ground still shook, but it seemed to have lessened, as though it had moved further towards the town. Kira knew what came next.

Without warning, sand began to disappear into the ground in a huge ring, as far as she could see around the town. Through the dust, she just made out the collapsed town walls sink. Then the shacks inside.

The dust became too thick to see through, but the loud, terrifying sounds continued for another five minutes.

The ground again shook more and more violently, and Kira realised whatever machine the Government had underground was moving away again.

Another minute, and all was still and silent once more.

Kira's heart didn't seem to know whether it should feel fear, pain or anger. So it opted for emptiness.

Finally, the dust began to settle.

As Kira knew to expect, where their town once sat was nothing. It looked as though a huge patch of empty desert had simply been dug up, and turned over. Not a single shack or wall remained. The Elders knew now she spoke the truth. And it was too late.

She heard Flip try to speak, but nothing seemed to come to him. Instead, he turned and buried his head in the crook of her elbow. She heard nothing, but felt the hot tears running down her arm.

Their home was gone.

Kira felt nothing.

She tried again. All my friends are dead. All murdered and gone forever. Not a thing. She wondered if feeling would ever come back. She hoped not.

The Government would probably send wasps out to search for any survivors. They couldn't stay. She was tempted to get over to the airship her people shot down, and see if they could salvage anything. There was no telling how many Agents survived the crash, though. Perhaps all of them; it hadn't exactly gone down hard and fast.

Despite Flip's silent protests, Kira pulled away from him and stepped over to where Michael's blank eyes stared up at her. She stared back. Not at him, but at the ring. Still empty and clear. What had that thing been? Michael called it "sir". Was it someone in the Government?

She didn't know if it would be of any use, but she reached down and pulled it off his limp finger, stashing it away in one of her pouches. Then she pulled off his holster and picked up the pistol.

As she finished fastening the buckle, Flip stepped over. His goggles sat over his eyes once more – perhaps to hide their redness. The lenses only emphasised it. He held out Kira's half-top in one hand, and Michael's jacket in the other.

She wasn't keen on wearing something that traitor had worn, but it would be stupid to set off into the middle of the desert in bare arms. And that was where they would have to go. The ruined, pre-war town beckoned from the horizon – there might be something for them there. If they could even make it so far.

Kira slid the half-top over her head, pulled on the jacket and took Flip's hand again.

She glanced up at the parting clouds. It hadn't rained after all.

"Where are we going to go now?" Flip asked with an unsteady voice.

They need not to be resisted, Kira thought. They're afraid. An attack could take 'em down after all.

What good was that knowledge now, though? It was just her and a boy. Alone. She had to concentrate on keeping him alive. But the faintest glimmer of hope rekindled deep within her.

"That way," she pointed away from New Haven, towards the setting sun. "For now."

* * *

Ross Harrison _lives on the UK/Eire border in Ireland, hoping the rain will help his hair grow back._

* * * * *

# IN THE LAP OF THE GODS

### Steph Bennion

[Kira] [Contents] [Monday Imps]

There are those who would stop at nothing to keep certain inventions from becoming a reality. In this case, reality stretched further than the investigating police officers expected to go...

PROFESSOR KRAKENSPREKEN had a lucky escape that day. Unconscious at the controls of his hired aircar, which in turn had crunched heavily to the ground on the West Coast mainline just south of Birmingham, he knew nothing of the tree that had fallen across power lines and thus turned all signals along the nearby stretch of railway to red, stranding the Inter-City Express a safe distance away. The very same train that otherwise would have sliced his aircar cleanly in two.

Detective Inspector Tanith Hardwick shifted her cap upon her bundled dark tresses and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, feeling hot under the late morning sun. Constable Rashnu Chambers, a fresh-faced young man straight out of police training college, stood beside her and scanned the scene with an air of keen enthusiasm. Together they watched as the turbo-prop ambulance dropped to the ground, ready to take the concussed Professor Krakenspreken to hospital. There was no evidence of foul play, but the professor was a very important man.

"Amazing thing, fate," Tanith remarked, singularly unimpressed. Her colleague frowned, not yet accustomed to her own morose version of the usual twenty-second-century world-weariness. "That's what you call leaving things in the lap of the gods."

"Yes, but which gods?" asked Rashnu. "And why is Krakenspreken so important to them?"

* * *

Unnoticed by the officers, a man dressed unimaginatively in black crouched low at the side of a nearby storage shed and watched in disappointment the rescue team at work. He was momentarily startled by a grey cat-shaped blur, loping unannounced from the shadows, then frowned in annoyance as the tabby intruder suddenly became that of a dark-haired women in a floor-length coat of black and silver fur. The apparition gave him a wink and went to sit on a nearby grassy rise to bask in the warm summer sunshine.

"You!" the man muttered. "Why do you haunt me so?"

"The game continues," she observed, ignoring his question. Her soft purring tones held more than a hint of venom. "But your dear master's tricks are becoming so weary."

"A bolt from the blue," he said slowly, "is no mere trick."

The woman idly scrutinised her highly-polished fingernails. "He lacks style," she complained. "Getting you grovelling humans to do his duty is so old hat. See what I did there? Do you realise how much work went into that lucky escape?"

"I don't care!" the man snapped. "Interfere no more!"

* * *

"The facts should speak for themselves!" grumbled Rashnu. "But they don't!"

Tanith did not need to be a detective to deduce that her colleague was irritated. Back in the comforting familiarity of New Lloyd House, the headquarters of Greater Mercia Police in the centre of Birmingham, not even Tanith's offer of a freshly-brewed mug of tea could ease the young man's frustration. What should have been a routine, five-minute report had turned into an intricate web of conspiracy and intrigue before his eyes. Tanith could almost see the cogs whirring in Rashnu's mind; he seemed in no doubt that Professor Krakenspreken was at the centre of something big.

"It was a lucky escape," she said, regarding her colleague sympathetically. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"But look at the facts!" Rashnu turned to the large wall-mounted holovid screen behind where he stood. Upon it were displayed various documents, next to which he had used an e-marker to scrawl various words and names. He pointed again at the first one.

"Krakenspreken. The renown German physicist, whose wife is one of the rising local stars of space, a Birmingham-born engineer in the aerospace industry. Both hold joint European and Chinese citizenship through their work on the Chinese government's space programme. The professor suffers from heart problems and it is possible that if he missed his medication he would experience a black out. So, no real mystery there."

Tanith shrugged. "As indeed suggested by the hospital's report."

"The aircar," he continued, pointing to the second word. "Krakenspreken was on his way to the university when the incident occurred. However, if he'd travelled from his lodgings via the most direct route, or allowed the automatic pilot to follow a standard flight path, he should not have been anywhere near the rail line. Also, both flight computers and the emergency back-up system all failed at the same time, which is supposed to be impossible."

Tanith raised an eyebrow, wondering how long she should humour him.

"Consider the tree," said Rashnu, turning to the next word. "The sycamore that fell near the signal box appeared to have been struck by lightning." He stepped to the window and after an overly-dramatic pause, snapped open the blinds to reveal the bright summer's day. "Lightning that appears to have come from a clear blue sky."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Not on our patch," Rashnu retorted. He waved a hand towards the last entry on his scrawled list. "The power lines. All signals have a fail-safe circuit so that any power loss will automatically set them to red; again, no mystery there. Yet the falling tree managed to swerve around a parked freight wagon and a protective fence to hit an electrical junction box already weakened by corrosion and due to be replaced. The engineer who came while we were there was at a loss as to how the tree could have fallen in such a way. He laughed at your suggested 'freak gust of wind'. He reckoned the chances of it happening were a million to one."

"So he said," murmured Tanith. "Krakenspreken was lucky."

Rashnu gave an exasperated sigh. "It's more than just luck. It has to be!"

"Perhaps the professor switched off the autopilot and attempted some aerobatics to relieve the boredom," she suggested, smiling. "Or maybe a freak meteorite blew the aircar's systems and then struck the tree. Seriously, I think you're reading too much into this. And your tea is getting cold."

"What if it was attempted murder?" Rashnu returned to the window and gazed out across the car park. Tanith had already spotted the two small boys busy stealing the blue light from the roof of their patrol car. "This professor. Why is he so important?"

"Krakenspreken is working on some new type of spacecraft engine," she told him. "Birmingham University and Rolls Royce built the prototype here in the Midlands, but it's Chinese money behind it all. Look at this."

She reached behind to her desk and picked up her touch-screen slate, which was showing the morning's edition of a popular tabloid newspaper. She flicked through the pages, paused and then passed it to Rashnu.

"Big girl," he murmured appreciatively. The screen was dominated by a picture of the latest curvaceous celebrity to take the music world by storm.

"No, no!" she said irritably, pointing. "Further down."

Rashnu followed her finger to the headline beneath, which read: 'SKYLON TO FLY STAR TREK ENGINE TEST'. The article was brief; with limited information available, journalists had decided that Krakenspreken's new engine was something akin to the 'Warp Drive' as immortalised by the long-running science-fiction franchise. Whether this was in fact the case, neither Krakenspreken nor Que Qiao Enterprises, the Chinese state-owned asteroid mining operation heavily invested in the project, deigned to say. Coincidentally, below the article was an advert for _Star Trek 200_ , the new holovid movie celebrating the two-hundredth anniversary of the show.

"Space is important to the Chinese," he said. "Tell me something I don't know."

"It's a cut-throat business," said Tanith. "Do you remember the fuss a few years ago when their space station refused to let a foreign spaceplane dock when it was in trouble? They were convinced it was a scam to get aboard and steal their secrets."

"So if Krakenspreken's invention is something special, maybe China is not alone in taking an interest," Rashnu said. "What if there's a rival who wants to make sure it never sees the light of day? Do you see what I mean about a conspiracy?"

There was a knock at the door. Tanith looked at Rashnu, stepped towards the door and then paused as it opened to reveal the sturdy frame and worn, unsmiling face of their Chief Inspector. The man greeted her with a weary sigh.

"Have you signed off the Krakenspreken report?" he asked, his voice gruff. "I have two suits from the Foreign Office breathing down my neck and asking why we're dragging our feet over a simple aircar accident."

Tanith hesitated before replying. "Constable Chambers believes there may be more to it, sir."

"It was an accident," he said carefully. "No matter what you, or indeed anyone else, may think. This is making waves at the top. Don't ask me who or where or why, just write the damned report. An accident and a lucky escape. No more, no less."

Tanith glanced over her shoulder at Rashnu's screen display. "Yes sir."

"Good. I want it ready to send in five minutes."

The Chief Inspector turned and walked away. Just as Tanith closed the door, she spied two shadowy, nondescript characters loitering in the corridor beyond.

"Men in black," she murmured.

* * *

The dark-suited figures returned to their equally midnight-hued ground car, dropping their fake Foreign Office identification into a convenient street-side recycling bin on the way. Leaving New Lloyd House, the car sped along Colmore Circus Queensway into the afternoon sunshine. After a while, the car turned into a secluded side street and pulled to a halt.

The man sitting in the passenger's seat peered carefully through the windows. After making sure there were no curious onlookers in the street, he retrieved a palm-sized glass globe from the bag at his feet and placed it in his lap.

The sphere lit up at his touch, revealing the image of a numeric keypad against a cool white background. The man tapped a series of numbers and almost immediately the keypad disappeared to be replaced by a dark, indistinct face with yellow slit-like eyes.

"The police are suspicious," said the man. "What are your orders?"

He shivered as a voice as old as the hills, yet as fearsome as a volcano in heat, resonated from the crystal globe. The reply was brisk and to the point.

"Arrange another accident," hissed the dark shape.

* * *

Tanith disappeared on mysterious business that afternoon, but as promised met up with her young colleague that evening at The Old Royal public house in Church Street, a favoured drinking haunt of those based at New Lloyd House. The holovid screen upon the wall, having just finished showing coverage of Birmingham City's latest poor attempt at football, had switched to a rolling news channel. Rashnu sat on a tall stool at the end of the bar, nursing the dregs of his drink. Tanith nodded to the bartender, who caught her glance and poured a couple of glasses of bitter without a word. In her handbag, Tanith's purse beeped to let her know the automatic payment had been taken.

"Cheer up," she said, taking the seat next to Rashnu. She pushed a freshly-poured beer across the bar to her colleague. "I bought you a pint."

"You're showing your age," Rashnu told her. "Pints went out with the ark."

"I can't get used to these fancy schooner measures," she complained. "Why is it that when anything changes, it's never for the better? That's not what I call progress."

Her eyes were drawn to moving images of the holovid screen. The news was running a story from the asteroid belt, where two ten-kilometre rocks were being hollowed out and equipped with fusion engines as part of an audacious project to send humans to Barnard's Star. As she watched, the report switched to a recorded interview with crew members aboard the _Edward Everett Hale_ , the largest spacecraft ever built in Earth orbit, which having departed for Alpha Centauri last year was already accelerating hard past the orbit of Neptune. This expedition was sponsored by a holovid broadcast company, which carefully edited the crew's weekly updates and personal journals to create what it hoped was the ultimate twenty-second-century soap opera. Speaking to the news cameras now was the star of the show, a bearded, jolly hulk of a man named Silenus Smith, who even at this early stage was favourite to win the audience vote to lead the first landing party. It would be another forty years before the two dozen crew members would know for sure if the Alpha Centauri system had any worlds capable of receiving them.

The report returned to the asteroid belt and lingered upon the image of two asteroids, each ringed in spoil spewed from mining machinery deep inside. The commentary revealed that the unorthodox colony ships would take fifty years to reach Barnard's Star, yet despite this the project had nonetheless received over forty thousand applications for the seven hundred and fifty one-way tickets available for each craft. Tanith found it hard to accept that there were people willing to sign up to leaving Earth for good, let alone a space journey lasting half a lifetime or more.

"Amazing," she murmured. "People are strange."

"It's those Chinese again," noted Rashnu.

"Everyone but the Chinese you mean," Tanith remarked. "The _Robert Goddard_ is to have an American crew, the _Dandridge Cole_ mainly Europeans."

"Hollow moons," he explained. "Those colony ships are just bigger versions of the crazy homes Que Qiao asteroid miners have been building for years. They hack out a chamber in the centre, set the whole thing spinning to create a bit of gravity and hey presto! One miniature world all to themselves."

"First Luna, then Mars and now inside asteroids! I know this planet's seen better days, but is it really that bad on Earth?" asked Tanith. "Yes, I know all about the so-called urge to explore. It was all Krakenspreken could talk about this afternoon."

"So that's where you went! The Chief will have your guts for garters if he finds out you visited the professor in hospital. He wants nothing more to do with the case."

"I was off duty for the rest of the day," she said coyly. "So I decided to visit an acquaintance of mine who was in need of tea and sympathy."

"I was stuck with boring paperwork. If I'd had known what you were up to..."

"You'd have come along too?" Tanith realised she had somehow finished her drink far quicker than usual. "You're a new recruit, still on probation. I didn't want to get us both into trouble."

"Fair enough." Rashnu motioned towards her empty glass. "Another?"

"Best not. We may be called back into the office before the night is out."

"Sounds ominous. Anything I should know?"

Tanith side-stepped the question. "You haven't asked me about Krakenspreken."

"What about him? Is he giving the nurses a hard time?"

"I think what you said earlier is right. Someone is out to get him."

"Now you're onto the conspiracy theories!" laughed Rashnu. "What secret plot have you uncovered? An assassin lurking in his wardrobe? Poison in his hospital tea?"

"I never thought of poison," mused Tanith. "He certainly looks a lot more poorly than I would expect following a gentle aircar crunch. His daughter Freyja was there. She firmly believes her father's life is in danger; and all because of his invention. Although he designed it, she says he never fully appreciated what it could do and it's only now the prototype is up and running that he is starting to get scared. Really scared. His wife is leading the Skylon launch," she added as an afterthought. "She's rushing back from the research centre on Ascension Island as we speak."

"What is this invention of his?" asked Rashnu. He looked intrigued. "Some sort of super-fast engine for spaceplanes?"

"Not even close," she said. "Krakenspreken said something about speed and distance being irrelevant if you use extra dimensions, assuming they were ours to use. That's how his engine works: it allows you to jump from A to Z without bothering the rest of the alphabet, using other dimensions as a short cut. He tried to explain the principle behind it but the science was way beyond me."

"Extra dimensions! He's winding you up."

"If he was, his daughter was in on the joke too," retorted Tanith. "Freyja's following in the old man's footsteps and reading astrophysics at the university. She was so earnest when she tried to explain her father's theories I had to believe it." She leaned closer to Rashnu and dropped her voice. "Freyja told me later that what her father was really worried about was the effect his invention was having on these other dimensions. She said that in the past, Krakenspreken spoke about 'not wanting to upset our neighbours'. He referred to them often, sometimes as extra-terrestrials, but also as the 'old gods'."

"Now you're winding me up," muttered Rashnu. "I think father and daughter are perhaps losing their grip on reality."

"Maybe. But before I left, the professor gave me this." Tanith reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and withdrew a slim data rod. "He made me promise that should anything happen to him, I was to take this to his assistant at the university, Professor Braithwaite. Even in hospital he believed he wasn't safe."

"Scary stuff." Draining the last of his beer, Rashnu glanced across the bar and stiffened. Two men in dark suits stood at the far end of the room, looking their way.

Tanith had seen them too. "I think it's time we left," she said.

* * *

They left the snug confines of The Old Royal and slowly made their way to Tanith's ground car in the New Lloyd House car park, where Rashnu accepted her offer of a lift home. After taking their seats in the upholstered interior, Tanith switched on the car's network link to catch the evening's headlines. The top story, as it had been for the past week or so, was about the increasingly-violent anti-corporation demonstrations in London. The second item shocked them both and they listened in grim silence to the news that Professor Krakenspreken, esteemed astrophysicist, had relapsed and died in hospital. Tanith realised she must have been one the last few people to see the professor alive. With a sad shake of her head, she activated the controls and guided the car towards the road.

"Poor professor," murmured Rashnu.

Tanith pressed the speed control buttons on the steering wheel and frowned. The vehicle had stopped responded to her fingertip commands, but to her alarm continued to accelerate, despite fail-safe systems supposedly making that impossible. Her voice remained remarkably calm as she told her colleague the bad news.

"Rashnu, we have a problem," she murmured. "I think we're about to crash."

"What?" he cried. The car had almost reached the end of Steelhouse Lane. Tanith's frantic tapping on the buttons was having little effect. "Turn the bloody engine off!"

"Nothing's responding!"

Out of control, the car sped onwards. Ahead, the road ended at its junction with James Watt Queensway, a major arterial route through the city and one predictably heaving with slow-moving traffic. Tanith glanced at the console and saw their speed had crept up to nearly fifty kilometres per hour. They had just a few seconds before their car careered into the huge articulated truck blocking their exit.

"We're going to die," Rashnu said quietly.

What happened next only became clear after the event. An aged pressure valve gave way and released thousands of tons of water into the main pipeline running under the road ahead. All of a sudden, dozens of iron access covers began exploding into the air upon a barrage of municipal geysers. It just so happened that two offside wheels of the articulated truck's trailer were sitting squarely upon a particularly large cover just as it too decided to launch aquatically towards the heavens. The force of the surge tilted the trailer right over, shedding the lorry's load of hospital mattresses across the end of Steelhouse Lane.

Tanith's speeding car ploughed through the scattered beds like a victim of a gigantic pillow fight and shuddered to a halt barely a metre away from the overturned lorry. Bruised, shaken but otherwise unhurt, Tanith and Rashnu clambered from the car.

"That's what I call a lucky escape," gasped an incredulous Rashnu. All around, people ran screaming as jets of water cascaded into the air to fall like monsoon rains.

Tanith nodded. "I've got a feeling that someone somewhere likes us."

Rashnu ran across the road to commandeer a taxi that had screeched to a halt to avoid the avalanche of beds. Abandoning her car, Tanith hurried in his wake, pausing only to curse at a silver and black cat that dashed before her and tried to trip her up. Filled with a sudden sense of purpose, they wasted no time leaving the scene of watery devastation behind. Their brush with death had shaken them both more than they cared to admit.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi deposited them outside the Birmingham University campus in Edgbaston, where the late Professor Krakenspreken had taken over much of the astrophysics department.

"What are you hoping to find here?" asked Rashnu.

Tanith held up Krakenspreken's data rod. "An answer."

* * *

A man in black observed the chaos at the road junction with ill-concealed delight. His thumb moved across the facia of the discrete remote-control unit in his hand and found the switch marked 'off'.

His colleague was not so amused. "That accident was supposed to be fatal."

"It was in the lap of the gods," the first man said. "You know that."

"Yes, but which ones?" The second man scowled, his face creased in annoyance. "Clearly not the same lot we work for!"

* * *

Tanith feared Krakenspreken's workshop would be deserted at this time of night and so was pleased to find his colleague, Professor Braithwaite, busy at work in a small computer room next to the main laboratory. Well aware their visit was unofficial, she and Rashnu were relieved when the russet-haired woman accepted their intrusion in good faith. After hasty introductions, Tanith handed Braithwaite the data rod the late Krakenspreken had bequeathed upon his death bed. The professor had just heard the news herself and looked pale.

"If Krakenspreken trusted you enough to give you this, that's good enough for me," she said, holding up the rod. Tanith found the woman's soft Scottish lilt somewhat reassuring after their recent traumas. "I can't understand why our project has attracted such unwelcome attention. I just hope we can make sense of what's going on before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" asked Tanith.

"For us," said Braithwaite. "As it was for Professor Krakenspreken."

She fed the rod into a nearby computer and examined the file list.

"I was hoping to see the encryption key to his personal diary," she told them, sounding subdued. "All that's on here are control settings and space-time destination data for the prototype. It's almost as if he wanted to guide you to somewhere in particular."

Tanith looked at the screen, but the various icons displayed meant little to her. "Guide us somewhere? How exactly?"

"The prototype we have here is fully operational," said Braithwaite. She ejected the rod from the computer and slipped it into her pocket. "It is unlike any other propulsion unit you would have ever come across. I won't blind you with the extra-dimensional physics, artificial wormholes and quantum computing that makes the thing possible. Just think of it as a machine for getting you to where you want to go by the most direct route possible. On the rod are instructions to do just that."

"It can take you anywhere?" asked Rashnu. "Anywhere in the world?"

"Actually, no. It's not designed for travelling across the surface of a world," the professor replied, sounding apologetic. "The drive creates a transitory Einstein-Rosen bridge to a distant gravity well, so we're talking space flight. The vehicle to be launched on Skylon will be using Jupiter as a test target. This is instantaneous travel," she added, to emphasise the point. "Halfway across the Solar System in a blink of an eye."

"You can do that?" remarked Tanith, eyeing the professor doubtfully.

"Krakenspreken started out trying to design an extra-dimensional pump for the cloud-mining facility at Saturn," Braithwaite told her. "Que Qiao Enterprises is putting more rigs out there and want to get shot of the tedious mucking around with tanker ships. The idea was that if a stable wormhole could be generated, helium-three from the mines could flow directly through extra-dimensional space to fusion reactor plants in Earth orbit."

"Freaky," murmured Rashnu.

"Sounds a bit far-fetched to me," Tanith muttered.

"A fixed wormhole proved impossible to achieve," admitted Braithwaite. "Instead, Krakenspreken managed to develop a way of creating a temporary wormhole big enough to drag a vehicle through in one piece. What's more, he was confident that fusion technology would soon be sufficiently advanced to provide the power to give his drive a range not of light hours, but light years."

"Light years?" Rashnu's eyes went wide. "Wow."

"Krakenspreken couldn't stop talking about his dreams of journeying to the stars," said Tanith. "But instantaneous interstellar travel? That's a hell of a prize."

Rashnu looked puzzled. "So all you have to do is tell this machine of yours where you want to go and it does?"

Braithwaite nodded. "The extra-dimensional drive requires a gravity well near the destination, not to mention very precise coordinates for the targeting computer, but yes."

"And is that what's on the rod?" Tanith looked thoughtful. "I think it's time you showed us this prototype of yours."

* * *

Two black-clad men stepped unnoticed out of the shadows haunting the corridor outside Krakenspreken's laboratory and watched the three figures walk away.

"They know too much," the first man said. "We can do without clever coppers."

"We can do without all of this," his colleague replied, taking in the whole laboratory complex with a casual sweep of his hand. Stepping across the corridor, he opened a door and scrutinised the room beyond. A humourless smile spread across his face.

"I see a Bunsen burner left unattended, right next to a precarious stack of paperwork," he declared, then patted his companion on the shoulder. "Or I will soon enough, once we have completed our business here. An accident waiting to happen."

* * *

After Braithwaite's talk of experimental star drives, Tanith and Rashnu were bitterly disappointed. They had expected to find a gleaming space capsule or futuristic spaceplane in the adjacent hangar-like workshop. Instead, parked neatly in the centre of the huge space, sat a short-wheelbase lorry, its faded green cab rusty and dented. The truck had bare chassis rails where the cargo area should have been, attached to which was a spherical contraption some three metres in diameter, surrounded by what looked like the innards of a small electrical substation. To the rear of the vehicle was a bulky assemblage emblazoned with high-voltage warning symbols, with thick electrical cables running between it and the sphere.

"You've fitted your warp drive to a truck?" Rashnu asked incredulously.

"This is the laboratory prototype," Braithwaite said testily. "The actual test vehicle has been shipped to the Commonwealth Space Centre on Ascension Island, ready to be loaded into the Skylon launcher. And don't call it a warp drive again. I hate _Star Trek_."

"Does the other one also look like a scrap-yard lorry?" asked Tanith.

"No, it doesn't!" snapped Braithwaite. "University funds were limited and the haulage firm down the road happened to have an old unit going cheap," she said, with a weariness suggesting she had defended this aspect of the project many times before. "We need to be able to move it around campus, you see. The extra-dimensional drive and fusion reactor combined weigh over twenty tons, so they have to be mounted on something hefty."

Braithwaite hastened across the workshop to the truck. Opening the driver's door, she indicated for Tanith and Rashnu to enter on the other side, before climbing up to take her place behind the steering wheel. The officers were amazed to discover that the truck cab's interior, rather than being that of a humble delivery lorry, was more akin to the flight deck of the high-speed patrol aircars they rarely got to use. Braithwaite inserted Krakenspreken's rod into the truck's onboard computer and studied a monitor screen before her.

"This is amazing," murmured Braithwaite. "The rod gives destination coordinates, but the data is unlike anything I've seen during trials. If I understand this correctly, it's pointing to a set of dimensions beyond normal space-time!"

Tanith frowned. "Beyond space-time? Now you've really lost me."

"I'll initiate the engine to make sure," said Braithwaite. She saw Tanith's worried face and smiled. "Don't worry! I'm not planning on going anywhere. I'll just run the warm-up procedure to double-check the coordinates for our current location."

She selected a series of switches, waited while various screens and monitors came to life across the console, then ran her fingers across a small keypad. There was a sudden jolt and the vehicle began to vibrate. A thin, high-pitched whine from behind slowly grew in volume. Krakenspreken's extra-dimensional drive was coming to life.

Tanith had other concerns. "Can anyone else smell burning?"

Rashnu pointed towards the workshop door. "Look!"

Smoke drifted from the crack beneath the closed door. Perturbed, Tanith climbed from the cab and hurried to take a closer look. The door handle felt warm to the touch and faint sounds of crackling came from the other side. After taking a deep breath, she released the lock and opened the door just enough to get a view of the corridor beyond. One glance at the orange flashes of flame and thick smoke was enough to confirm her fears. Closing the door, she turned back towards the truck and saw Rashnu and Braithwaite clambering from the truck to meet her, both looking as worried as she felt.

"There's a fire down the corridor, blocking the way we came in," Tanith said urgently, raising her voice against the accelerating whine of Krakenspreken's drive. "We need to get out of here. Is there another way out?"

"A fire?" Rashnu took on the expression of a rabbit in headlights. "Here?"

Braithwaite was more collected. "There's a roller-shutter door that opens onto the road," she said, pointing across the workshop.

"What are we waiting for?" cried Rashnu. "Let's go!"

Braithwaite quickly led them to the far end of the workshop. She went straight to the door control, then turned to them in panic. "I need the key to switch on the power!"

"Where do you keep it?" demanded Tanith.

"There's a safe on the wall, next to the door we came in by."

Before Tanith could stop him, Rashnu dashed across the workshop to grab the key. He was within a few metres of the door when it exploded in a torrent of fire and smoke, catching him by surprise and throwing him to the floor. The entire doorway and wall of the workshop were suddenly aflame. Moments later, there came a groaning of steel joists as the roof of the workshop began to sag. Tanith knew without a doubt it was arson, for the fire had spread far too quickly across the roof and now surrounded them on all sides. With a crash, a heavy beam crashed down across the shutters, wrenching the controls from the wall in a shower of sparks. Tanith and Braithwaite rushed forward, grabbed the fallen Rashnu by his arms and dragged him across the floor towards the truck.

"You brave idiot!" Tanith scolded.

"What's happening?" he asked woozily.

"We're taking the only exit left open to us," declared Braithwaite.

In no time at all, they were back inside the truck, all too aware of the fire taking hold around them. Braithwaite went over the console controls like a women possessed. Behind, the whining of the engine reached fever pitch. Finally, the professor flipped up a switch cover and paused. Her finger hovered over a large red button.

"Hold on to your hats," she said. "This may be a bumpy ride."

"You're going to ram the doors?" cried Rashnu, his eyes wide.

"I never thought of that," said Braithwaite, a mischievous smile upon her lips. "We're taking another way out. We're going wherever Krakenspreken wanted us to go!"

She hit the button. In a blink of an eye, the view through the windscreen became an infinite kaleidoscope of vague shapes spiralling away into the blackness. The burning workshop imploded, turned itself inside out and then unravelled before their eyes into an immeasurably-long thread of quanta, flung across the abyss. Tanith gripped her seat and tried not to be sick. It felt as if they were falling in all directions at once.

"Let me out of here!" shrieked Rashnu.

"Yippee!" yelled Braithwaite. "An extra-dimensional roller-coaster!"

"My god!" Tanith cried. "Is that a cat?"

Back in another dimension, the workshop shook beneath an almighty crash of thunder as the crude tear in the fabric of the universe sealed itself shut. When the roof of the hangar-like space collapsed a split second later, the truck and its three occupants were gone.

* * *

The luxurious foliage of the neands' ancient bio-engineered habitat made a welcome change from Earth. The chamber was a near-perfect sphere, hewn inside a massive tree trunk, with a suspended marble floor and walls lined with tiers of scented flowers. Above a central pool, water tinkled gently from an ornamental school of bronze fish that seemingly hung in mid air, held in place by cunningly-concealed extra-dimensional plumbing.

The traveller abandoned her feline alter-ego and reverted to the dark-haired female form that had served her so well over millennia. To those with secret knowledge, she and others were known as watchers; there had been a time when they were instead taken for gods. In her mind she was again Pallas Athene, albeit in full-length fur rather than the drafty tunics the sculptors of Ancient Greece were so fond of portraying her wearing. Free of the tedious constraints of conventional space-time, Athene had no need to take a physical form at all, but knew she looked damn good in her favoured attire.

The other watcher present, perhaps to mock her, had adopted a similar persona, one he had not worn since the days when humans had wisely kept their deities at arms length on Mount Olympus. Strutting his stuff as feisty warrior Ares, he looked rather pleased with himself. His gaze was upon the pool, which shimmered with an image of the burning university, far below in another dimension. Athene peered into his mind and saw what he gloated upon: the scientist was dead, his knowledge and invention seemingly destroyed in a fire. She thought him a fool, for he truly believed their cosy existence was safe from human eyes once more.

"I'm amazed you managed to achieve anything, using those followers of yours," Athene remarked, before Ares could start his boasts. "It is so typical of you to leave the messy work to others. I prefer to be more traditional in my interventions."

"But where did it get you?" he sneered. "You only postponed the demise of your pet humans. Their ultimate fate remained in my hands."

"You're getting ahead of yourself. Their deaths are unconfirmed."

"Bah!" Ares looked away in disgust. He was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder and turned to see a squat grey figure awaiting his attention. It was a young neand, one of the funny-looking alien humanoids who were so easily pressed into slavery.

"What is it?" Ares asked testily. "Can't you see I've had a busy day?"

"Thranaak," the slave screeched. "Thranaak thranaak!"

Ares looked past the slave towards the door of their scented chamber. Athene followed his gaze. Parked incongruously in the leafy courtyard outside was a rusty green truck, next to which stood a bemused red-haired woman whom she recognised from Earth. Two police officers walked towards them, their manner suggesting it was not a social call.

"My so-called pet humans!" Athene laughed. "With the professor and her, err... chariot. How interesting!"

"Curses!" growled Ares. "I thought they were dead."

"The long arm of the law just became a little longer, don't you think?" said Athene, smiling. "Dear me! Homicide, arson... They're going to throw the book at you!"

Ares sighed. "Get me my lawyer. Now!"

* * *

Steph Bennion _writes science-fiction. The asteroid colony ship 'Dandridge Cole' mentioned in this story forms the setting for her space-opera adventure 'Hollow Moon'. The sequel, 'Paw-Prints Of The Gods', sees the return of the mysterious watcher Athene._

* * * * *

# MONDAY IMPS

### Alexandra Butcher

[In The Lap Of The Gods] [Contents] [Separate Wars On The Same Street]

Have you ever wondered about Mondays? Why is it everything seems to go wrong? There is a simple answer...

THE HOUSE WAS DARK but not silent, beyond the general creaking, thumping and mysterious whirring which living houses always seem to have there was something else. It was a high-pitched chuckling far above the hearing of most humans. The large clock on the wall glowed its time, not that the small creatures which ran across the floor had the same concept of time as the human occupant, and therefore neither knew nor cared. However, they were canny enough to know the human rose soon, and so their mischievous work needed to be done in some haste.

A small bright red face, with ears pointed, eyes black and beady, and teeth both sharp and abundant, creased in malicious mirth. The hands belonging to the individual tugged and hauled at the large metallic and leather object in the dish on the sideboard. The imp did not know WHAT the object was or for what it was used, and once again it did not care. It did, however, know the human was always searching for this item and got in quite a flap if it could not be found.

The imps were small, but what they lacked in stature they more than made up for in mischief. The imp squeaked to one of its companions and together they dragged the strange shaped item to the edge of the work surface where a third of their kind waited. With a heave the object fell, clattering and clanging onto the floor. The creatures bounced and bounded down, the second part of the plan to conduct.

Dragging, tugging, pulling they moved the object, and small as they were the item settled nicely beneath the enormous white box. Tilting its pointy-eared head to one side, an imp contemplated and considered, then nodded. Together they guffawed, squeaked in delight and danced with glee.

At a whistle more of their kind appeared, small red faces showing from behind dishes, beneath cupboards and above the coats hung higgledy-piggledy from the rack by the door. The first imp climbed upon the shoulders of the second then another climbed, followed by another. A tiny rope spun around the large handle of the refrigerator door and as the cry went up imps flew from shoulder and back to clutch at the rope.

Yielding to many small but determined hands, backs and feet, the wondrous light appeared and so revealed the bounty within. The smallest imp was pushed forwards, nervous at his rite of passage and as one the others pointed to the large green jug depicting a cow. The tiny, rather shy imp looked about him, then finding the courage of his kind he sprang forth, feet leaving a trail in the butter. The tiny form pulled from his belt the Stick of Doing, waving it and thus his tiny footprints grew furry and mildewed. Grinning he scampered up the side of the jug, until his backside wiggled over the rim. Gleefully the imp relieved himself, promptly turning the milk a stinking sour. Finally, as the ultimate act of nefarious hilarity, at least from the point of view of the imps, they moved, and heaved open the cupboard door and found the Jar of Much Needing. After much tugging, the lid tumbled off and the aromatic brown powder scattered hither and thither across shelf and floor. For good measure, three of them hauled the spare jar so it could not easily be seen by just-woken eyes.

The clock on the wall moved ever onwards, as such is the way of these devices. The sun rose outside and the imps scuttled back to watch, being creatures who preferred the darkness.

The shuffling feet brought in the human, bleary eyed, odd incoherent sounds emanating from its mouth. All eyes fixed upon the fridge door as it swung forth once more to receive less incoherent and rather ruder incantations from the mouth of the human. With a grunt it pulled the butter out and tossed it away, grumbling something about "toast", whatever that was. Hand around the green jug, the human shuffled toward the sideboard. Suddenly it stopped and sniffed, then sniffed again before what passed for its face crumpled in disgust. Looking to the shelf, it reached for the coffee to find the tipped and empty jar.

"@#&% this!" was the incantation and then as its head swung back and forth searching, more such words flowed from its mouth and it shuffled away looking rather desperate.

The imps rolled with laughter as the human muttered and complained, "Keys... I know there were on the sideboard," then felt around beneath the fridge in the grime, the fluff and the stickiness which lived there. Fingers felt and reached and an eye searched, but not seeing the eyes which watched back. The human could not quite reach and after straining and stretching a fork was found to pull closer what it sought.

"Great... Now I am late... must be Monday," said the human.

Grumbling and swearing, it staggered out to continue its day.

* * *

Alex Butcher _has many imaginary friends in the worlds in which she likes to spend her time, and has been a creative soul for many years._

* * * * *

# SEPARATE WARS ON THE SAME STREET

### Josh Karaczewski

[Monday Imps] [Contents] [Mesrin Station]

A new war is being fought on the rooftops and alleyways by men in mech suits. But what is the true purpose behind their fight? And how will it change the fortune of one teenage war orphan?

UNTIL OUR AGE war was only viewed by the men fighting it. Hopefully you continued to see the man who had tried to kill you after he saw no more. With distance though war can be beautiful, especially from above: fireworks shows on the ground instead of the sky; anarchic parades colliding as if magnetically attractive to one another; sudden marigold blooms of explosion; and by focusing in from a great height you can now see something apart. Things of gray metal, gargoyles freed from their perches, running across rooftops and through alleyways around the decorative blood and fire reds.

One such mass of metallic machinery stopped and crouched on a roof's edge, watched the last yolk of the sun fry against the horizon, then dropped down to the street. Its operator watched the Spanish troops retreat down the block to its left through the monitors inside the chest of the suit. Though his cocoon in the suit's body was air-conditioned, this didn't keep the operator from remarking on the tart smell of his body. Last washed when? Three days ago? Four? _Oh well. Four days in a warzone and my main complaint is body odor?_ the operator thought. _Could be worse. Alright now, breathe out; don't let them hear the self-disgust in your voice._

He pushed a button and said, "As you can see, the Spanish soldiers are regrouping a few blocks south of my position, all except one platoon to the north-east, but from the sound of it they are not going to last much longer. Now I'm going to get out of sight for a while, but I'll resume transmitting visuals as soon as the fighting continues."

His statement finished, the operator clicked off his arm-suit interface with his thumb to palm. Now able to move his arms freely without the suit's arms mimicking his movements, he pressed a series of squares on the control screens in front of him. First was _End Transmission_ , which stopped his transmission from pinballing up to paddle off a satellite toward its respective receivers across the United States.

The next square was marked _Hologram_. This brought a list up on the right side of the screen, and the operator quickly chose his favored option.

* * *

Across the street a secluded pair of eyes studied the suit, saw how the tinted glass and gray metal of its skin seemed to drink in the dull orange reflections from the scattered fires. It had generally human features: mechanical legs and arms with hydraulics for its muscles and armor plating for its skin, with a bright No. 5 on each shoulder plate. Twice the size and width of a man, with a smallish head housing a single eye, and antennae horns, the thing startled its hidden viewer by suddenly dipping to a crouch in front of him. Though what happened next compelled the viewer to move forward from his hiding place to witness the transformation.

The boy, sixteen years old at the most, leaned forward to see the image of a destroyed cargo van flicker into being over the mechanized suit. Pockmarked and gutted, tires flat with hubcaps missing, the false van decried interest towards investigation; had the boy not known it as camouflage he would have walked by it without it jumping out of the static background of his vision. For the next two minutes the boy inched his way closer for a better view, climbing out of the window from where he was hidden, crawling to the side of an overturned car (he reached out and touched the unnaturally vertical hood to ensure that this dead vehicle wasn't another illusion). All of the boy's other senses besides sight had been dampened as he focused on the hidden machine; he didn't hear, or feel through his feet the passing Basque troops a block away.

Behind the camouflage of the van was a large intact garbage bin. The boy scrambled across the street like a rat to crouch behind it, and eased himself around its base, holding his breath against the stench of the thing, which had probably been sitting out here in the summer heat the whole two weeks of the conflict. The boy knew what he was going to do next was reckless at best, stupid at worst, but knew he was going to do it regardless. What the boy had considered fear had changed; living with fear had been like working through a virus: his body had built up a resistance to it. The curiosity in his veins was strongest, and so he crouch-walked quietly out from behind the garbage bin, and reached out his hand to the solid-looking van. Whatever give he felt on his fingertips as they slipped through the illusion was solely supplied by the confusion of a brain trying to reconcile the evidence of his sight with the upset expectation of touch.

* * *

The operator's suit had, of course, informed him of the boy's approach. But as it had also assessed that the boy was no threat, the operator had watched and chuckled at his approach without alarm. But now that the Basque troops were moving, he had an opportunity to address this bold approach in a way that fit his humor. One hand hovered over a touch screen, the thumb on the other hand began to apply pressure to the button that would make the suit mimic the movements of the operator's body again, and at the moment when the boy's fingertips met metal the operator pushed both buttons.

* * *

The illusion of the van flashed away; the boy saw his forearm seem to return to existence down his arm. He froze, and only his eyes moved, tilting upward as the suit popped up, turned, and threw its arms toward the boy. His body tensed in expectation of a blow, or the suit's mechanical grasp.

* * *

"Ahh!" the operator barked, but quickly realized that since he hadn't turned on the external speakers the boy wouldn't have heard him. But the shock of the illusion disappearing and the sight of the suit's arms coming toward him should have done it.

_Damn_ , the operator thought, both disappointed that the boy hadn't scrambled terrified back into the trash can and impressed with the boy's nerve; he was confident that were their roles reversed, he would have certainly performed the comic retreat he had been hoping for.

* * *

When the impact didn't come, the boy was able to evaluate the suit's posture. It wasn't attack – only one of those metal hands would have been sufficient to bat him away, but both were directed towards him, without being fully extended. Then it came to him: the suit was in the classic, 'I'm going to scare you kid' pose – a pose he had seen in a dozen prank shows, probably born of some ancient black-and-white no-longer-scary movie. His eyes had narrowed when he expected to be struck, and they stayed narrowed as he felt insulted by the thing's attempt to scare him. He stood up to his full height before it and crossed his arms in defiance of being a joke.

The suit stood up to its full height in answer, its arms dropping to its sides. But then the suit took a quick step toward him, and a hand came at the boy.

* * *

In the suit's interior the operator concentrated, and when the machine's hand was almost at the boy he extended his index finger. At the last moment the operator stayed his hand's momentum, and only the suit's finger touched the boy, square on his breastbone, pushing him back off his heels.

* * *

The boy understood: he had poked the suit, the suit had poked back. He regained his balance, and rejected the urge to rub the spot of contact on his chest while the camera eye of the suit's head regarded him. He stared past the pinched and inverted reflection of himself in the lens, boring through to the eye beyond the suit's eye.

However the suit's operator regarded him, the boy watched the head give a curt nod, and the suit turned and walked away.

* * *

"Brave kid," the operator mumbled, and turned back towards his duty.

The Basque troops were moving in earnest now, and he needed to follow if he was going to be able to get in position. He jogged down the block, consulted his map, and turned left. Some of the passing troops waved to the suit from behind the cars and debris they crouched by before moving to the next covered position. The square where he expected the battle to continue was about a quarter of a mile ahead. The Basque troops were approaching it from the south, but if he approached it from the south-west he would have an elevated position to shoot from. He zigzagged across the street, keeping to a course of shadows.

An explosion! Behind him. The Spanish troops must have left explosives during their retreat. The operator turned on his heels to head back towards the explosion.

Alarm! The camera head whipped around and up to what the suit's sensors had found, opposite of the direction of the suit's body. The operator saw only dark sky in his monitor, with one bright star. "Infra-red!" he shouted; the star focused into a bright yellow No. 2 on the arm of a hulking shape on a roof two buildings away, and then the screen flashed white. His suit rocked with the impact of the projectiles, the thunder of it striking against his suit's skin rising above the urgency of the blaring alarms.

"Arm weapons!" he screamed as he ran his suit toward the shelter of an alley before him, "Lock on target!"

The white of the main monitor facing No. 2 separated into white streaks, and a red circular reticule appeared at its center – the operator's eyes flashed back and forth from the main monitor to the smaller screen showing the secondary forward camera's view of the alley growing bigger. The operator twisted his body as he ran, extending his right arm back – his hand fisted, bringing the fire-button on the side of his index finger under his thumb; a blue reticule jerked across the main monitor, and when it overlapped the red reticule he fired. White streaks met and crossed the streaks coming toward him, and he felt a steady vibration underlie the random shoves of bullet impacts through the suit's skin. Puffs of building dust began to appear on the walls of the buildings in his forward camera.

'MISSILE ALERT' flashed on the main monitor, three new red circles appeared. The operator drew frantic lines of fire between these dots – only two of the dots disappeared; the operator pulled his arm around and dove into the alleyway, which exploded over him.

Bricks and splinters of wood rained upon the back of the suit; the monitors only showed reddish-brown rubble. The operator scrabbled his arms and legs within the suit's body, but the view on the monitors didn't change. He threw his elbows back, brought his knees up toward his torso, then pushed his palms away from his chest. The forward monitor pulled back from its view, focusing; the broken pieces of building on the screen grew distinct. The operator shook his back like a dog shedding water and wedges of light appeared on the main monitor between jagged former wall beams; he brought his knees back further, then pushed one foot out – he felt the suit's foot gain purchase, and rise to standing.

Upright again, the operator looked back across the street: he saw nothing, and the suit's electronic sensors saw nothing either. He scanned the rooftops, then the street – nothing. Had all the cars been there before? Was one now hiding No. 2 under a hologram? He couldn't recall the inventory of the street, and wasn't taking any chances – he brought an arm up, and fired bursts into every car. All of them showed immediate damage, which no hologram would be able to quickly represent – they were all authentic. Where then was No. 2? The operator was repeating that one word question, "Where? Where?" without realizing it.

The proximity alarm blared; the operator felt as if his brainstem had shot needles into the rest of his brain like a puffer fish. The shock of its immediacy made the operator momentarily freeze, but the camera head whipped straight up of its own programming, and on the main monitor he saw the deep blue of the night sky collapse in at the edges into an exponentially growing humanoid shape, a blurry moon on its shoulder becoming a number 2.

The operator and his suit were slammed to the ground, both screaming frantic sounds of alarm. First prone on his stomach, he was quickly, roughly turned to his back. His arms flailed within his suit ineffectually. A new electronic sound that wasn't an alarm but was alarming began that he couldn't immediately place, followed by a hissing sound. On his right a blaring white stripe appeared and grew to a rectangle.

A gray hand twice the size of the biggest human hand reached in and touched a button – safety restraints and interfaces popped off of the operator, and helpless as a baby chicken pulled from its eggshell, the operator was lifted out of his suit.

It had happened so quickly that he didn't fully understand what had happened to him – didn't understand that the reason his skin was so puckered was that he was out in the cool night air; couldn't see anything because of the white light bathing him.

The light dimmed itself below a painful level, and below the blue and red afterimage a gray beast formed in front of him. Its cyclopean eye, in a triangular head of armor, whirred him into focus.

Understanding clicked into the operator's mind. "Bill?" he asked of the gray beast. His hands began to pull against the thumb of the thing gripping his chest, not budging it – his own weight scraped his ribs in its mechanical grip. He kicked his legs, but found nothing below him to strike or brace himself against. "Bill, no..." he stammered at his captor.

"Good-night Dan," came to him in an amplified voice, and then he was reared back and thrown into the air. A hail of bullets stopped his scream at the point when his body hit the downward curve of his falling arch. What splattered across the ground was unrecognizable as something once human.

* * *

Bill, the No. 2 operator, pulled his weaponized arm back and told his suit to "Disarm." Since Bill didn't believe in luck, his smile was smug and superior as he surveyed the chunky smear of his once-rival Dan Williams. Unfortunately, if he was going to get to the battle he would have to leave quickly, so when he had saved a copy of the attack footage to his personal files, he turned north and set off at a jog.

Bill had been on his way to the same elevated vantage point as Dan when he had spotted the No. 5 suit. As his intel put the No. 1 and No. 3 suits in the mountains, and the No. 4 suit on the northern front, he didn't have to worry about concealment as he made his way through the streets. It took him two minutes to reach the hill where a large square opened up below, the Basque troops positioning themselves to his right, and the Spanish concealed to conventional sight ahead (but obvious in his infra-red camera). He took a moment to survey the buildings on the edge of the square; the one on his immediate left looked too damaged to accommodate his suit's weight, but maybe the second building on his right would...

ALARM! No. 2's camera head snapped back to look behind him in time to see a single black dot surrounded by a yellow-white corona grow. The suit's body seemed to shrink, as it mimicked Bill's body tensing, his arms pulling in, his shoulders raising toward his neck – if the suit had been constructed with gluteal muscles they would have clenched. Then the missile struck the No. 2 suit square in the back, it pierced the armor, machinery, and Bill before detonating. The suit's arm with the No. 2 on it flew into the square, crashing into the base of an old fountain.

* * *

The boy stepped forward to the ruined edge of the No. 2 suit's body, the No. 5 suit mimicking his tentative, clumsy steps – like an animal testing its new legs. To the boy, the jagged-edged frame of the No. 2 suit's body looked like the bulb of a metal flower, burst with red rot.

In the square below the Spanish troops had taken the suit's flying arm as a signal to begin firing on the Basque. On the monitors and touchscreens below the boy's eyes were too many options to immediately find the buttons he wanted, but soon he spied _Interior Microphone: On_ and then _Transmit: Exterior Main Camera & Interior Microphone_.

Pressing both, he said in his Spanish-accented English, "Hello, um... everybody. This is Sergio Guzman, your new war... reporter. Correspondent Suit 5 is once again fully broadcasting."

* * *

Josh Karaczewski _is living in the San Francisco Bay Area until he can retire somewhere warmer. Until then, he will continue forcing high school students to read, write, and think._

* * * * *

# MESRIN STATION

### L. L. Watkin

[Separate Wars On The Same Street] [Contents] [Half-Blood]

Jan was never an upstanding citizen, but he was never stupid either. As Eben arrives on the station to find him, it becomes clear that they are all in more trouble than they thought...

MESRIN ARCHITECTURE was old-fashioned in its standards, so behind the heavy metal bulwark with its wheel lock was a wood-effect door complete with a brass handle. Mesrins liked more privacy than automatic portals could provide, and a lot more warning. Eben scowled as he balled a fist and knocked firmly. He'd been on the station three hours and already his knuckles were sore from the stupid custom.

"Come." The answer was prompt and business-like, putting Eben's mid at rest. He depressed the awkward handle and pushed clumsily into the large office. It was a cubical room, another Mesrin eccentricity, and the superfluous space above his head was filled with blue tasselled sails in cream and gold. A fall back on the not-so-distant sea faring days, or so he'd been told.

Behind the wide, formal desk sat the man himself. Archon Vanden, the bursar of the station. Not the commander, though a stranger might be forgiven for letting the uniform-like tunic and its gold braid epaulettes fool him into thinking so. The bursar was a Mesrin Puritan and fancied himself a Napoleonic officer in another life, but there was no direct military power at play here. Of course, the fleet didn't run without a budget and supplies...

"Ah, Captain Tolston." Vanden greeted politely. Eben took the skin-covered chair he was offered and didn't correct his host. The difference between owner and captain was slight in his case anyway, and the idea of rank might be an advantage now. "I was warned that you were making rounds."

"Then you must know why."

Vanden shrugged. "Crewmen go missing all the time. They find a better offer, or decide to settle down."

"Or they get themselves into trouble." Eben noted dryly.

"If station security or higher authorities had an interest in Mr Aelbrecht you would be the first to know. After me, of course."

"Of course. What about less legal kinds of trouble?"

"We have very little violent crime here, captain. A lot of swindling, fraud and a dozen blackmail cases last year alone, but not a single untoward death. A handful of muggings by the very desperate, but no criminals worth the effort of naming to the press. In short, I have no idea what happened to your crewman."

"There's no record of him leaving the station."

"Smuggling is rife, of cargo and men." The bursar had a closed, careful face but Eben saw a trace of dissatisfaction in it. He knew that wasn't good enough to make Eben drop the subject. "Or he might be hiding in the lower decks somewhere."

"I think we'll take a look."

"Be our guests."

And so Eben Tolston found himself, flanked by Martha and Lent more for company than because he was expecting attack, amongst the taverns and low-life of the lower decks. The Mesrin themselves rarely visited these sections, they were for the use of transients and immigrants. Here the corridors were narrow and the rooms compact and often oddly-shaped as they struggled to use every cubic inch within the station's sloping hull. The lights turned themselves on and off via motion sensors and even in the busy areas were too dim to reach the corners.

Inside one of the many bars a pale-skinned brunette fondled herself, revealing her holographic nature when one of her admirers passed a hand close enough to disrupt the pattern. Eben scowled. There were holos everywhere, for entertainment and advertising. Low grade and cheap as they were, they would have been transparent in decent light, which was why he'd have to trip over Jan before he had a clue where he was.

"I don't think this'll work, Eben." Martha said tactfully. "If he wanted to be found he'd have come to the ship by now. He can't have missed us arriving given the fuss you kicked up."

"And if he won't or can't come forward then we're not going to find him here." Lent agreed calmly. Lent was always calm. It was why Eben trusted him with the ship even in the densest of asteroid fields. And also why he disliked the pilot personally.

He bit back the acidic words scratching his throat and stepped around a waitress who was nothing but pout and cleavage. She sulked even harder when he pushed her away and seemed about to give it another try till Martha gestured for her to hop it. With competition in sight the girl obviously decided it wasn't worth the effort and moved on towards the next independent looking man to catch her eye.

Eben sighed in relief and pulled into an empty space by a set of iron grate stairs downwards to even more undesirable territory. From there he finally spotted what he had been looking for.

"Who said anything about Jan being here?" he said triumphantly. "You two keep a watch out, just in case."

"Where are you..." Martha's narrow green eyes scanned the room. "Well now, Bart Cooms. How did you know?"

"A hunch. It's the right season." Jan and Cooms had had dealings in the past and it had worked out well for both of them. Eben wasn't naive enough to think anything had changed just because Jan had a legal job now.

Cooms was drinking alone, not an unusual habit among his profession, and Eben approached him with the stealth and circumspection any other client would have given. There were at least two other potential buyers in the bar, eyeing Cooms up on his prominent stool at the foot of the stairs. He looked the part of criminal to hire, but a more professional wealthy type of criminal than the young thugs one could bribe from any section of decks eight through four. A smuggler, then, or a people finder, a thief to order or a fence. Eben was fairly sure the shaven-headed man had tried each of these in his thirty-year career but he was most famous for espionage. Private commission, mostly, and all by word of mouth, since neither he nor Jan had ever been caught.

"I don't do favours for friends of mates." Cooms began as Eben eventually sat down with his newly-bought, sickeningly green, drink. "Let's get that out of the way first."

"The information I'm after is reasonably priced."

"Is that so?" Cooms snorted. "You haven't even asked for a quote yet."

Eben smiled tightly. He'd already spent a week's profits chasing down leads just to get him this far, but he had more to spare than he'd ever let his crew know. They'd start demanding pay rises. "What do you know about Jan?"

"What?" Cooms seemed genuinely surprised and Eben's hopes of a simple answer went sour. It couldn't be just another scam if Cooms wasn't in on it. "Are you the same guy who ruined Gorain with us? Cos that guy would know Jan and I are this close." He held out a thumb and forefinger which wavered from a hair's-breadth to half an inch apart as the alcohol shook his hand.

"Close enough to know where he is right now?"

"You're his boss, you tell me."

"He hasn't called me since the supply ship left Norata colony. We found the ship fifteen days ago, abandoned with cargo intact and no visible damage. The computer's been fried by some kind of magnet or overload and Vicki is still working on it. Until she figures it out I have as much info as I can prise out of people. Would you care to help?"

Cooms stared at him hard, then blinked determinedly and looked away. "Yeah, I'll look into it. You realise whatever fried the computer would have done for Jan as well?" Eben raised a quizzical eyebrow and got an uncomfortable shrug in return. "Sensitive things, neural implants. Especially the back-alley ones."

"Would it kill him?"

"Hard to say. I doubt it, but it would have hurt like hell and probably knocked him out for a good while. Assuming he was still on board."

"Assuming. Call me in the morning."

"You're the top of my list." Cooms agreed as he pocketed the credit token Eben slipped him. As if on cue a girl forced her way out of the crowd and plonked down on the snoop's lap. Eben almost got up to leave before he realised Cooms was just as surprised as he was and stopped for curiosity's sake.

"I paid you once, kid. You're not on retainer."

The girl shrugged and tossed her thick, mucky blonde braid back over her shoulder. She didn't look fifteen, but Eben gave her credit for being thin and poor. Her eyes seemed a lot older than even his eighteen years upper estimate and carried the lost, pained cloud most runaways had. Her voice, though, was husky and bright despite the dinginess of the rest of her.

"I need fed, Bartholomew, and you're the only sucker I can get to do that for free. Unless your friend here is equally generous?"

"My friend here is a merchant trader. He's got a very practical head."

"Practical heads wouldn't be in this dump, especially not talking to you. It's asking for trouble." The glance she gave Eben was pointed and he bristled. There was no way she could know who he was, but it seemed she knew more than she should.

Cooms must have seen Eben's hackles rise for he barked a laugh. "Mik is a low-grade empath, captain. She's just picking up your tension."

"Can you tell if people are lying?"

"I can even tell you what they're hiding." Mik boasted.

"Sometimes." Cooms qualified. Mik scowled but didn't contradict him. "She earns her way doing occasional scans and truth tests for the business roundabouts. Got a good rep. That's why I hired her, if you're wondering."

Mik smiled mischievously. "And here you were saying you wouldn't put me in the way of anymore work."

"This is a special case. Friend of ours."

"Jan Aelbrecht?" she teased.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. It was meant to be a joke. The whole lower levels were after that guy just a couple of nights ago. Big reward from security and all. I'm surprised you didn't hear of it, Bart. I was questioned three times! I mean, do I look anything like this kid? No. I wouldn't bother looking any more, though. The furore died down so he must have been recaptured."

"Re?"

"Well, little birds have it he escaped from a secret lab in the central core, but doesn't every rumour start and end there?"

"Jan isn't Mesrin. He wouldn't be allowed in the core."

"Exactly. I'm betting the place is full of boring chapels and holy places anyway, not the deep secrets people dream up. Your man must have left the station. Or been shot. Some of the bounty hunters are mean guys."

Eben shook his head slightly. Jan was far too smart to let himself be killed that easily. There had to be more to it. "Thanks for your help."

"Dinner would be thanks enough."

He nodded. "Add it to my bill." he told Cooms, who gave him an unpleasant leer before grunting assent and pushing the girl roughly across to her own stool. For all the offence she showed it could have been a love pat.

* * *

Sometime during the night Vicki gave up on the supply ship's computer. What she had managed to find was presented to Eben at breakfast, as if it wasn't important enough to wake him. There wasn't much, little enough that he scanned through it while his weak black tea was cooling in its tin beaker. The ship hadn't drifted far between the attack and salvage, but its last confirmed position was outside the Mesrin border. It seemed like Jan had been edging around the boundary, cutting his time in their territory to a minimum.

"As if he knew what was coming," he mused.

Vicki snorted. "For all the good it did him."

Eben made a non-committal sound. "What's so valuable you'd jump a Helos border to steal it?" He bit his left thumb thoughtfully. "Certainly nothing I ordered."

"Checked the stock lists. Jan is the only missing item." She shuffled uncomfortably. "Even the ship still has all its parts."

"Information?" Lent suggested.

"Has to be," Martha agreed quietly. "Jan certainly picked up enough of it in his time."

"I don't like it," Vicki stated.

"You don't like anything dangerous, sweetie," Martha sneered. "You're a home-body remember?"

"Cut it out," Eben snapped before Vicki had the chance to bristle. "We get Jan back first and settle other scores after. We might need to leave in a hurry so I want you," he gestured to Vicki, "and Lent to stay here and keep ready. Martha and I will meet Cooms."

"You'll be lucky."

Eben turned sharply to see Mik leaning against the nav console. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Never mind that," Martha snapped. "Can't you see the girl's hurt?"

Mik put a hand reflexively to the blood drying on her forehead. Bits of scab clung to her fingers as she took them away. "I'll be fine."

"Like hell you will. Come here and sit down."

"No, really I..." Martha's supporting hand passed straight through the girl's shoulder with an electric crackle. "I'm not programmed for pain," she muttered apologetically. "I barely exist at all this far from the holo-emitters anyway."

"You're a..." Eben cut off before he stated the obvious, glad his surprise was mirrored by his crew. "Cooms said you were an empathy."

Mik shrugged. "I have good observation and I read body language well. I also have access to restricted files on the station hard-drive, so ferreting out secrets isn't a problem."

"Who would give a hologram security clearance?" Vicki protested.

"Jan Aelbrecht," Mik replied promptly. "My designer."

"Oh." Vicki wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "Yeah, that sounds like him. What did he make you for?"

"Eyes and ears." She shrugged. "To look after his interests here when he joined up with you. Now I'm carrying messages. Jan wants you to leave the station immediately. Vanden decided you were a risk and he's plotting to dispose of you. They already got to Bart."

"He's...?"

"Thrown out an airlock. If you watch the portholes long enough bits of him might float by. I warned him." Her face clouded over under its muck and blood covering. "But he wouldn't listen. I'm sure you'll be wiser."

"Is Jan still on board?"

Mik wavered for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "But there's nothing you can do to help and we'd much rather you were safe."

"I don't leave my crew behind," Eben lied harshly.

"You've been known to in the past," Mik corrected. "Three in the Netarian warzone in 1632, Mesrin dating. Another on Selbus in 1635, and... Do I have to list them all? Suffice to say you're not fooling anyone. Besides, I never said Jan even wanted to leave. He's got something great here and might have chosen to stay even if he'd been given a choice."

"Which he wasn't," Eben pressed.

"Which is unimportant. Vanden is out to destroy you and you don't even know where Jan is. Are the rest of your crew ready to die, especially for such a lost cause as a common con?"

Eben tried hard to seem confident but his eyes flicked to Martha anyway. He could work without Lent and Vicki if he had to, but an aim like Martha's was indispensable. She looked concerned, like she wasn't keen on the idea. "That common con," he said, speaking to Mik even as his gaze roll-called the crew, "has the position of every rebel and black-market trading post in the Mesrin empire stored in his skull. Without it my business is sunk, and if Vanden gets his hands on it the whole smuggling trade will be in trouble. I don't like the Mesrin so much I'm going to scupper the rebellion for my mistake."

Vicki took a deep breath, which he had expected. She was the youngest and most idealistic person present and therefore the most likely to support the rebels. Martha and Lent, he saw, had more doubts about throwing their lot in with an illegal faction, but they didn't object either. Business was better for everyone bar the Mesrin with the rebellion around. The hologram, on the other hand, looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"Jan didn't tell you that, huh?" he snorted. "Nice to know he keeps some secrets."

"No." Mik shook her head sharply. "He doesn't. Not from me. Not from anyone really, not any more."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, the Mesrin, they never did create a computer complex enough to run a station this size." Eben nodded. This was common knowledge, and the solution common rumour, but he hadn't connected it to Jan before. "They tried, but there were systems failures and power surges, all sorts of problems and one or two explosions. Eventually they gave up and started plugging in human neural systems instead. Dead ones, at first, before they realised the living were more effective. This station had five in conjunction, running until they die and then for four weeks after, or until a replacement is found. Only they've been doing it for so long the people with appropriate neural systems aren't surviving to breed and there are fewer in every generation. It's a great honour to die for the empire, but they started using non-Mesrin subjects to fill the gaps and there's not exactly a flood of volunteers."

"They plugged him direct into the computer?" Vicki asked incredulously. "That would fry a neural implant in seconds, even with the protections Jan has on his."

"The Mesrin added more, but even so they require every neuron to be active. No mere ten percent of the brain here, and no sleeping either. Most people burn out in less than a month and it's not pretty. I think they lose all semblance of sanity long before that. I did say there was nothing you could do for Jan."

"You also said he might have volunteered."

"Well, as long as he can keep his self intact he can run the whole station his way. Within the command protocols anyway. The other four neural nets are goners already – two are already dead and awaiting replacement – so there's no competition from them. He has access to the classified databases of the empire and all the security and surveillance networks of the station. That's quite a lure for someone as curious as Jan. Plus, he can still use me to interact with old friends. I was downloaded into the station memory core, and I can go anywhere and manifest more strongly now. Of course, everything else in his implant was downloaded as well."

"So they already know everything I was charged to hide from them?"

"Only if they've bothered to look." Mik shrugged in a marked lack of concern. "Do you think they would?"

"Yes!" Eben all but shouted. If it were true then the rebellion was all but finished, unless he could get Jan back. Then the tables would be turned.

"I might be able to hack the station computer." Vicki suggested. "Maybe I could tell if the stuff has been accessed."

"You'd only learn what Jan lets you," Martha argued. "We might as well take his word for it and save ourselves the time."

"After checking Mik isn't lying about Jan being in the system at all," the engineer countered. "We only have a hologram's word on that."

"Then check," Eben commanded. "Check fast."

* * *

There wasn't much that could be done to prepare the ship for the ride. It was a good ship anyway, battered by the years but patched up strongly in all the important places. It was also armed and armoured, discreetly but not so much so that Eben could avoid mentioning it at customs inspections. Knowing he was capable of destroying their whole docking platform it wasn't likely the Mesrin would attack while they stayed aboard and played at being unaware. Eventually, of course, their patience would run out, but Eben wasn't worried about that. He would have to leave his stronghold long before that if he was to stand a chance of retrieving Jan's valuable head.

He strolled out feeling more vulnerable than anyone watching would have credited. Lent had to stay behind – Vicki couldn't be left alone – so only he and Martha sidled past the suspicious 'customs' officials who were keeping a very close watch on the dock. No doubt Vandem already knew they were on the move and his men were taking positions. Eben rehearsed their route nervously, even though it started quite simply with a return to the bar pretending to be looking for Cooms.

Mik was already in the bar, naturally. He wondered how she managed to appear and disappear without anyone catching on. She was much more solid here where there were more holo emitters, a far better quality hologram than the tawdry adverts, but still... He had to admit she looked the real thing, though. She was even watching other people's food orders with believable hunger. He and Martha joined her and orders drinks.

"So you believe me now?"

"We can't contradict you," Eben admitted. He tried not to fidget with his guns. That would only attract even more attention.

"Good. Let's go."

She slid off her stool and led them back towards the kitchens. Every business on the station had a secure door to the inner station, remote operated from inside the restricted section. Eben had only seen one ever open – on an occasion when police had had to make a swift emergence. This particular exit was hidden in a curtained alcove, away from any lights or tables. No one here wanted to remember how swift justice could be.

Mik pushed the curtain aside and led them through. The door slid open for her and shut silently behind them. Eben chose to see this as a good sign that Jan was on their side. He and Martha drew their weapons. There was no obvious danger in the bright, utilitarian corridor they found themselves in (not at all like the stylised architecture of the open station), but from now on there was no sneaking. There must be at least one security camera pointed at them right now, but no alarm had sounded yet.

"It's this way."

The hologram turned left and continued to lead the way. Eben had to fight his instincts to allow it – she looked so young and vulnerable, when in fact she was unkillable. She moved quickly and surely past two anonymous doors to the right, then the exit to the next bar on the left. After that they went upstairs and turned further into the inner section and Eben lost track of where they were in relation to the ship and escape. He exchanged a nervous glance with Martha, but there was no choice now but to go on.

Tension mounted the further they went unchallenged. They had passed several motion sensors, many more cameras and more closed doors than Eben could count. He was beginning to wonder if the station was entirely staffed by holograms and computers. Maybe there were no real Mesrin left.

A door opened. Martha's elbow lashed out instinctively and a man fell to the deck, still suffering a surprised expression as his eyes rolled up. They held their breath, but still no alarm sounded. Martha tucked him back inside and let the door slide shut again.

"We're on borrowed luck now," she whispered. "How much farther is it?"

"Not far," Mik whispered back. "But we have to leave the access corridors. Most Mesrin should be at prayers, but there will be some left to guard the computer core."

"Right. Let's go then."

She moved ten feet further and gestured at another door, indistinguishable from the others. "I'll go check it out," she said. "Through the door, straight ahead. You can't miss it." Eben readied his gun and nodded. Mik vanished.

Eben waited three breaths after the door opened, but there was no sign they had been noticed. He peered out cautiously into a wide gallery showcasing antique porcelain cabinets and finished with ornate oak panelling and gauze curtains. The lush carpet pile was deep enough to bury even the heavy soles of his ship boots, which was convenient for sneaking along. People were working behind heavy wooden doors to either wide, with muffled sounds of typing and discussion seeping out.

They inched patiently and nervously along the carpet, finally laying their backs on either doorpost of the far exit. It was another solid wood affair with a brass knocker in the shape of a sailing ship. Eben checked Martha was ready, then knocked.

Nothing happened. He imagined scenes of consternation inside. This must be highly restricted. There must be passcodes, probably approved personnel lists, possibly even procedures to call management before unlocking anything.

But the urge to answer a knock was pressing, and after a long moment the door did slide open. Eben and Martha turned in rapidly, both firing silently. Stun rounds – all fatal ammo caused some noise, even with the best of silencers. There were only three staff and they were down before the door slid shut again.

It was a crisp, sterile room, pentagonal and centred on a thick column of cables and steel struts. This column was surrounded by terminals and ergonomic chairs. More terminals lined the walls, with places for perhaps twenty staff. The floor was deck grate with more cables and pipes running underneath.

"Are we there?" Martha asked doubtfully.

"I have no idea." Eben shrugged. He leaned over the nearest station and peered at the dormant screen. "It _seems_ to be a central command section."

"No plugged in people though."

"There are!" Mik appeared with a crackle of static. "He's under the floor."

"Oh, naturally."

They moved where she pointed and looked down. Eben had been expecting a bed, perhaps boxed in by clear plastic or even floating in gel. What he saw was a sealed metal box surrounded by the wires, tubes and life support that would be needed. It wasn't large enough to be a coffin.

"Well, get on with it," Mik prompted. "I think if we move the..."

"Mik, is there any way we can talk to Jan directly from here?"

"You can use the screen, but we don't really have time for chat."

"Mik, do you know what condition Jan is in?"

"Condition?" She blinked. "He's alive." Eben considered her blank expression and went to talk to the computer.

"Honey," Martha tried behind him, "he doesn't have any legs."

"Then he'll be lighter to carry back, won't he?"

Martha paused. "We might have trouble getting him out. He might need the life support."

"That's not what he told... Wait, he's reprogramming."

Eben stood back up. "Martha, we have to go."

"We're aborting?" She looked relieved not to be asked to open up the casket. "Without Jan?"

"There's nothing to be done for him." Eben shook his head. He wished he had more time to look at options, but they had only minutes. "They took out everything they didn't need before they hooked him up."

"And he didn't know?"

"Apparently not, but then they wouldn't tell him. They need his support to keep this thing running efficiently." He glanced at Mik, who was still a vacant shell. "He didn't believe me either. He's using her sensors to verify it."

"What about the data?"

"We'll have to leave it." This wasn't true, of course. They could open it up and take the dataport, but Eben wasn't prepared to rob his crewman of what little life he had left, no matter how restricted the quality of it. He could answer for that to the rebels later, or deny he ever found out where Jan had gone.

"He's not going to have our back on the way out, is he?"

"I wouldn't count on it. I'd be pissed if I were him."

Eben stepped out into the plush gallery, looking even more inappropriate knowing the horror behind it. Prayers must still be continuing, because it was still deathly quiet. The far door was closed. He waited in vain for Jan to open it, then put a round in the lock.

Sirens went off immediately but he and Martha were back in the service corridors and racing around the ring. He couldn't remember which passages they had come by, and they were all the same, so he settled for always choosing the turn heading outwards and hoped this would lead to the public area soon. His wrist comm was beeping, telling him the alarm was station-wide and Lent was starting up the engines.

"This way!"

He followed the voice before his brain processed who it was and turned into a dead end.

Martha cursed as she skidded to a halt beside him, swinging her gun round to cover their rear. "Now what?" The sounds of pursuit didn't encourage turning back.

"Oh." Mik flickered into view. "Sorry, I didn't realise the visuals were off."

"You led us up a blind alley!"

"Well, you were going the wrong way. And anyway, it isn't blind." She hit a fist against the blank wall and it hinged backwards. "After you."

"There are hidden passages inside the hidden section?" Eben forestalled his complaint on Mesrin paranoia. He was busy proving it justified, after all. "Fine."

This corridor was identical in most respects to the one they had left, though the ceiling was two feet shallower and the sirens were more muffled.

"It's a ring road for the priesthood," Mik explained. "So we're kind of going the opposite way to most when they heard the alarms. You could have waited for me, by the way. I'd have kept them off. It would be suspicious to cancel them now."

"I could live with suspicious. How is Jan taking it?"

Mik shrugged uncomfortably. She was sporting red eyes like she'd been crying. "All right, I guess. He's trying to be brave. Sort of. He's going to kill himself. Does that count as brave?"

"I think in the circumstances that it does, yes."

"But you're more worried about the data."

"Seems a lost cause to me."

She shook her head. "Not to Jan. He's not going to leave anything valuable behind for the Mesrin. He's not going to leave much of anything actually. Except me. I'm downloading onto your ship's hard-drive, along with everything else I can get hold of."

Martha frowned. "When you say he's leaving nothing behind..."

"I mean..." She cocked her head slightly. From way off came a low explosive boom. The deck shook. The lights flickered and came back on red. The sirens turned to an evacuation notice. "You might want to run."

* * *

L. L. Watkin _is the pen name for writing partnership Liz Smith and Louise Smith, two sisters from the North of England. 'Mesrin station' is one of several short stories on similar themes which eventually evolved into the novel series 'Leviathan'._

* * * * *

# HALF-BLOOD

### Barbara G. Tarn

[Mesrin Station] [Contents] [About the Authors]

At seventeen Giordano discovers he's a half-blood. His search for his 'real' father will take him farther than he thought.

Giordano

AGHAREK, YEAR 92. The wife of the new Governor watched herself in the mirror, satisfied. Old Desiderio was dead, Damir had the power and Mathilda thought it was a great year. A year to do something extraordinary.

She should have done it earlier, in fact. But she had wanted to leave him another twelve months of blissful ignorance. But her most valued treasure deserved to know now.

"Summon my son, I need to talk to him," she ordered.

She rose and observed her reflection again, pleased. Age didn't show too much on her generous figure, thanks also to creams and make-up done by local women. Useless asking Luckbringer for the secret of eternal youth: the Genn healer shrugged and answered that old age was a Human sickness with no cure – she, in turn, was still as beautiful and young as the first day Mathilda had seen her, almost twenty years earlier.

Mathilda was still slender and her generous bosom was still on display. Her long black hair was always neatly combed in complicated hairdos and her clothes were always the latest fashion from the Capital, never mind Agharek had a much warmer climate and different wear: Mathilda was still the noblewoman from the north, and her small court had slowly and moderately adjusted to her.

When, eighteen years before, she had found herself pregnant after the war with the Waiora, Damir had been so happy, he had forgotten his hatred for Conall, the half-blood who lived in the sea. He had even divorced Luckbringer, making Mathilda his only little queen.

She knew that many thought her son wasn't Damir's, but never dared saying it in the open. The only one who didn't have doubts was the Governor himself, who was so proud of his heir that he completely ignored a fact: Giordano had sea-blue eyes. Both Mathilda and Damir had brown eyes and nobody in their families ever had that strange eye color.

Giordano came in with his innocent sapphires shining with love. Mathilda brightened at the sight of him. He was taller than her now, her baby boy had grown up. He still had a boyish face, but she could guess the looks of the handsome man he'd soon become. He wore his favorite tunic, the one she had embroidered for him a couple of years earlier – he was growing out of it, it was time she gave him a new one.

"Come here, my son," she said, opening her arms.

He was almost as tall as Damir now, brown-haired, still beardless and with those strange eyes. He was a sweet boy, maybe effeminate in the looks, but strong in character.

"What is it, mother?" he asked, mildly curious about the sudden call.

"We must prepare a great party for your seventeenth birthday," she said, smiling fondly at him and caressing his boyish cheek. "Would you like to invite anybody in particular?"

"Everybody!" Giordano promptly answered, beaming.

"All right, we'll have everybody! Go tell the master of ceremonies, he'll take care of it."

The young man smiled and left. Mathilda sighed with satisfaction. Her son was handsome, she'd find a woman who deserved him.

* * *

"Giordano, now that you're seventeen and a man, I need to tell you something important." Mathilda was serious, but Giordano smiled and nodded politely.

He thought she wanted to help him to choose a bride – soon his father would send him to the Capital to choose a woman and he was looking forward to traveling and seeing some of the world. He expected advice and suggestions also from his mother, who had come from such a faraway town he couldn't even begin to imagine it, or maybe she had messages for her northern relatives she wanted him to carry.

But her words surprised him. "You're the son of a man who doesn't live in this land, or better, he isn't even citizen of the Empire," Mathilda told him, looking him in the eyes.

Giordano stiffened, his eyes widened in wonder. "You mean Damir Varian is not my father?"

"Your real father is a prince of the deep blue sea," she said. "His name is Conall, and he's blond and handsome."

"Why did he leave me here?" Giordano asked, upset.

"Because I was alone. Alone with Damir who didn't love me and married me out of lust. So I kept you."

"Does he have other children? Another wife?"

"I have no idea, darling."

"Does Damir know I am not his son?"

"He knows you're his heir. Isn't that enough?"

Giordano frowned, disappointed. "Of course. May I go, Mother?"

"Sure."

She shooed him away. Giordano needed time to think about it on his own. He wasn't expecting a revelation. And definitely not such a thing! His feet took him to the stables while he mused about his mother's words. Had he been living a lie? Why was he feeling so lost?

Suddenly the white walls of Agharek felt like a prison. He left the city on horseback and followed the river, barely listening to the water's song. Still, it was that sound that kept him on the shore, and not only his horse's thirst.

He found a little village at dusk and stopped for the night. Hospitality was sacred, and he was given food and shelter, no questions asked. In the morning he left, but instead of going back north towards Agharek, he kept going towards the ocean, following a distant, mysterious song only he could hear, until he reached the coast, mulling over the thought of an unknown father living under the sea. How was that possible? He had heard stories, but had never seen a Waiora in his entire life!

Still, he had been told about the war with the water people. He just couldn't imagine them. He loved water and swam like a fish, but had no idea what the Waiora looked like. He wasn't even aware of the call he was following, deeply immersed in thoughts as he was.

Another thing Damir ignored more or less consciously was that his 'son' loved water. Giordano bathed every day and dived in the pools of Agharek's palace more often than anybody else. He even swam in the river where currents were quite strong!

Giordano had never seen the immensity of the ocean, and the sight was mesmerizing. He got off his horse and walked on the yellow sand, fascinated by the dance of the waves.

He sat dreamily to listen to the song of the sea, trying to picture his real father. He wondered if mysterious Conall ever thought about him, then pondered how it could be possible to live underwater. Maybe his mother lied?

The ocean seemed to call him, and he snorted, uneasy. He took off his sandals and rolled up his breeches, going closer to the shore. For the first time he allowed the waves to touch his feet: the water was cool and pleasurable. He chuckled, hopping in the foam.

Damir had told him the sea was treacherous and cruel, but it looked so peaceful under the sun...

On an impulse he went back to the beach and pulled off his clothes. He kept the loin cloth, fearing someone might show up, then rushed back to the shore and dived. The sea embraced him like a long lost son, and kept him on the surface, rocking him gently under the sun.

Giordano let himself go adrift for some time, feeling peaceful. The sound of splashes brought him back to reality and he saw a flock of dolphins coming his way. But the most amazing sight was seeing two human figures riding the dolphins.

"Hi!" a male voice gaily greeted him.

The dolphins reached him and left off their passengers, a boy and a girl, and then the sea mammals that had carried them shifted into another girl and a little boy.

"What are you doing all alone?" the former dolphin girl said. She had brown hair and green eyes.

"I was... swimming and thinking..." he said, stunned. "My name is Giordano, and yours?"

"That's Luna, her brother Brendan, I'm Sun and this is my little sister Ondina," the boy said. He had dark blond hair and amethyst eyes. His sister had golden-blond hair and turquoise eyes, and looked still a child. Brendan was even younger, with brown hair and blue eyes, and he grinned as his face turned into a seal for a moment. A shape-shifter indeed, and a very young one. He couldn't be Human.

"Where do you come from?" Giordano asked.

"Where do you come from?" Luna answered with a mischievous smile.

"Agharek," Giordano pointed at the coast. "You came from the other side." He pointed at the open sea.

"It's actually down," Ondina said.

"You... live in the sea?" Giordano stared at them goggle-eyed.

Luna giggled, turning into a grinning dolphin to jump out of water and emerging again as a girl. None of them was sun-tanned and Giordano was truly amazed by the discovery.

"You've never seen a Waiora, haven't you?" Sun said.

"I thought you were extinct or something!" Giordano admitted.

"So, on dry land they say they have utterly destroyed us?" Luna asked.

"No, no, but nobody saw a Waiora after the war," Giordano answered.

"You have Waiora blood." Luna touched his cheek with her hand. "You can breathe underwater."

"I... can..." Giordano gaped at them. Luna and Sun exchanged an amused smile.

"Come!" Ondina invited him with a giggle. And she dived, followed by the other.

Giordano hesitated only a moment before following them. He noticed all four wore similar tunics made with a nacreous fabric that looked like silk, but was obviously not Human-made. This time neither Brendan nor Luna turned into sea mammals.

"Let's go!" Sun said underwater, sowing a wake of little bubbles.

Giordano opened his mouth, stunned, and realized that water didn't come in. He could breathe and speak under the sea. Still dazed by the discovery, he followed his new friends towards the bottom.

"Will you turn into dolphins?" he asked, following clumsily the young Waiora.

"No, we can't yet," Sun answered. "Maybe when we grow up, if we inherited some of our mother's magic."

"Sun and Ondina have Human blood," Luna explained, amused. "But we can turn ourselves into dolphins or seals at will."

Brendan grinned and flashed into seal form again.

"Stop it, Brendan!" Ondina pouted. "Grow up!"

"I can't, I'm Waiora," the boy giggled. He was definitely still a child.

So Humans could live under the sea! Giordano felt excited. His mother might have told the truth! But then Damir was lying when he had told him Humans weren't welcome in the deep blue ocean...

"Are there many towns under the sea?" he inquired.

"No, they're very far from each other," Sun answered. "I know only my hometown, the other kingdoms are too far."

So there were good possibilities that Giordano's true father lived in that Waiora town, close enough to the shore that its inhabitants sometimes came to have a look at the mainland!

Soon they reached a huge magical bubble that encapsulated little houses of coral and mother-of-pearl in front of an impressive seamount. Mermaids and Waiora of all ages swam around the town and the big nacreous palace at its center. Giordano noticed there weren't many blond people among the nacreous tunics and wondered if Sun and Ondina got their blond hair from their Human side.

He asked and Sun smiled. "Only royalty is blond among the Waiora," he said. "The Genn are all blond, the Waiora are mostly dark-haired."

"Come we'll show you the palace," Luna smiled.

"Thank you! Those strange houses... what are they made of?"

"Sand and mother-of-pearl."

"It has rainbow reflections just like your clothes!"

Then the magnificence of the palace let him speechless again. Light, tall, harmonious, almost all made with that strange material used for the smaller houses with some columns of pink marble and balconies of marble lace, the shell-shaped roofs of the turrets looking like strange flowers on the top.

"That's where we live!" Ondina said. "Come."

They took him to the great hall where a blonde queen sat on her throne. She was a full-blood Waiora, older than Luna, and with long wavy hair of a rich blond. She wore a long tunic of the same nacreous fabric everybody else used, and a crown of corals, pearls and shells.

Next to her stood a handsome blond man, who looked at the four youngsters and their guest with a smile. Giordano's heart started beating faster at the sight of him. He looked like the son of the seated queen, but was he Human or Waiora?

"Where have you been?" the man asked.

"On the surface," Ondina answered. "Where's Mother?"

"Meditation practice. So you found a surface friend?"

"He's Human, but has Waiora blood," Luna said.

"Welcome," the blond man turned to goggle-eyed Giordano. "What's your name?" He didn't smile and stared at him as if trying to assess him.

Giordano gulped down his emotions. "Giordano," he managed to reply. "Does Prince Conall live here?"

The blond man and the queen exchanged a curious glance.

"Where are you from?" the man asked bluntly, any trace of welcome completely gone.

"Agharek."

The man glared at the Waiora teens. "You haven't... gone up river, have you?"

All four shook their heads, the two younger looking scared.

"He was on the coast," Luna said. The man nodded with a sigh and the queen smiled.

"Agharek... How is Desiderio doing?" she asked Giordano.

"My grandfather passed away a few years ago. Well, he's not really my grandfather... or is he? Anyway, do you know Prince Conall?"

"I am Prince Conall," the blond man said, staring intently at him. Ondina giggled and Sun hushed her. Giordano was aghast again. So that was him? He mentally compared him to sun-tanned, brown-haired Damir. His real father was pale, but looked younger than the Governor of Agharek. And he had turquoise eyes. Giordano thought about his face's reflection in mirrors and noticed a resemblance with the man who called himself Prince Conall.

"And have you been to Agharek?" he asked.

Conall sighed. "Against my will," he admitted, lowering his eyes.

"When was that?" Giordano insisted, his heart racing and his mind heavy with rushing thoughts.

"I was born there, but then moved here. Then I went back about eighteen years ago. Sun was barely one-year-old. There has been a war, you must have heard of it."

"Sun?" Giordano stared confused at his new friend, then the man who was so obviously his father. His mother had told him his real father was a half-blood, but had no idea that he had a family.

"Conall is my father," Sun smiled, hugging Ondina. "I'm nineteen now and Ondina is almost seventeen."

"Were you already married when you went to Agharek?" Giordano insisted with a pang in his heart, staring at Conall.

"Yes, I had already met Krisha, the mother of my children," Conall answered. "And I didn't go there, I was taken prisoner and locked in the palace for a few months."

"So the war that brought Waiora, Sila and Fajrulo wrath upon the city was to save you?" Giordano couldn't believe all the lies he had been told. He knew Magical Races didn't lie, therefore his parents – well, his mother and her husband – must have lied to him. And also the servants, courtiers, noble young men...

"Who are you parents?" the old man asked.

"Governor Damir and his wife Mathilda, or so I thought," Giordano answered. He looked at Conall again, uneasy. "Mother told me yesterday that I'm your son."

"Mathilda..." Conall pondered. "It's possible."

"But you were a prisoner, how did she find you?"

"I was locked in Damir's room and couldn't get out. But anybody could come in. She came with Luckbringer – how is the Genn girl doing, by the way?"

"She doesn't come to the palace very often."

"I guess Damir divorced her. Wouldn't surprise me. I bet she has children now."

"Yes, with her Genn mate. Why, she used to be married to Damir?"

"She was his first wife," Conall said. "Then Mathilda came, had me, gave him a son. No wonder he discarded Luckbringer as infertile."

Giordano's knees gave way under him, but water kept him standing in front of his real father – and his half-brother and sister.

"Gods!" he whispered, overwhelmed, floating in the gentle current. Too much news. He could live and breathe underwater. His father was sterile and his mother a whore. His real father looked ten years younger than what he must be. And he had half-siblings.

"You shouldn't have brought him here," the queen said gently. "Take him to rest now."

"No, I'm fine, I..." Giordano felt weak, overwhelmed. The queen of the Waiora was so kind... and his grand-mother as well? She looked so young...

"Mother..." Conall started. She hushed him. So, she was Giordano's grand-mother! A Waiora queen! Giordano felt like choking, and Sun grabbed his arm, serious, helping him to steady himself.

"You need time," the queen said. "Let them take you to a quieter room. We'll be ready for more questions after you rest."

* * *

"How is it possible that our son disappears like that?" Damir thundered. "You know where he is, don't you?"

"His clothes and his horse were found on the shore," Mathilda answered, elegantly fanning herself. "Maybe he went to meet his father. But he can't live without his mother, you'll see, he'll come back."

"What are you babbling about?" Damir exploded. "I am his father!"

"That's what you think," she replied sarcastically.

"What do you mean?" Damir shook her, more and more furious.

"Let me go! I'm your wife, I want respect!"

"You have to earn respect! What are you talking about? Why do you say Giordano is not my son?"

"Think about it, Damir! Luckbringer had two children after you divorced her! I didn't have anymore after that turbulent period! Who was in the palace at that time? Think about it, Damir! Think about the color of Giordano's eyes..."

"Conall!" It sounded more like a roar than a word. "You damned bitch..."

"You are sterile, Damir! So I had a son from your rival who will inherit your place! Conall is Giordano's real father and you'll never have your own heir!"

"You treacherous bitch! You'll pay for that!"

"You will disinherit Giordano?" Mathilda said sarcastically. "You'll make his cousin Aroldo governor in your place?"

"Always better that a half-Waiora! Die, you bitch!"

Mathilda screamed with terror while Damir unsheathed his dagger. He killed her without blinking, carried away by the fury and hatred he still felt for Conall. After twenty years it was still all inside him. Rage. Pain, impotence. Shame. He knew she was right – had always known deep inside him. Giordano was not his son. He would never have a blood heir. His actual heir was the son of much hated Conall.

No!, he thought wildly. Never!

* * *

Giordano touched the nacreous fabric of the tunic he had been given, not daring to look Conall in the eyes. His father stared at him thoughtful and sad.

"They shouldn't have brought you here," he said at last.

Giordano looked up, hurt. "I was looking for you! I wanted answers!"

"You have your answers. You should go back to your mother."

"But she lied to me! Everybody lied in Agharek!"

"You didn't talk to Luckbringer, the only one who would have told you the truth. You grew up on dry land, Giordano. You have only a quarter of Waiora blood. Please, go back to where you came from."

"You never loved mother, did you?" Giordano wanted to cry, but he wasn't a child anymore.

Conall slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was raped and abused and can't think about that time. It still hurts. I'm sorry."

Giordano stared at him, confused. At least Conall was sorry. The turquoise eyes looked really sad. The blue light of the Waiora palace was weird. The Waiora themselves were a source of wonder.

"You need the greatest love of all to live underwater with all your Human blood," Conall said sourly. "And I mean love, not lust, which was the driving force behind Damir's determination. He wanted Krisha. He failed. He took it out on me."

Giordano gulped down his feelings. "He never mentioned your name. But he often rambles about the damned Waiora."

Conall smiled ruefully. "He wanted to take a Waiora to the mainland. My mother spent a few years there, that's why I was born in Agharek, but there's no way Waiora can live with Humans."

"Your father was Human!"

"As I said, you need the greatest love of all. Go back to Mathilda, Giordano, I can't have you here."

Giordano opened his mouth then closed it. This sounded final. But of course Conall had Sun and Ondina, what use did he have of him? And could he really live forever in the strange underwater city?

He sighed. He looked at his father's pale face, his eyes full of sorrow.

"Take me back," he whispered, disappointed.

* * *

"So, you're my brother," Sun said, serious. "I won't forget it."

"I'm not welcome here," Giordano answered, depressed. "I will go back to the surface."

Sun nodded. "I will visit you. I'm doing a research on the war, maybe you can let me talk to someone, like Damir's first wife, or even your mother..."

"Sure. But give me time. I'll need to talk to Luckbringer first."

"Of course. How about you come to the beach and call me when you're ready?"

Giordano nodded with a sigh.

Sun pursed his lips and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'll take you back."

"No!" Kareem's voice startled them. Giordano looked at him, puzzled, but so did Sun. What did Kareem want? It had been almost two years since Kaleb's death. The quieter twin never mentioned him. But he had been curious about the surface guest.

Kareem joined them and looked Sun in the eyes. "I'll take him," he said. He turned to Giordano. "You're from Agharek, right?"

"Yes."

"You're Damir's son."

"My half-brother," Sun corrected. "Son of Damir's wife."

"And who are you?" Giordano asked, jarred by the hostility in Kareem's voice.

"I'm Kareem, son of Saadi. My father was killed by Damir."

"I won't let you take it out on him," Sun warned because Giordano was too stunned to react. He doubted Kareem would do anything rash – he wasn't Kaleb after all – but Sun felt responsible for his newly found half-brother.

"It's not him I want," Kareem scoffed. "You know Damir, don't you?" he asked Giordano.

"Of course."

"And you know his palace?"

"That's where I live."

"Then I'll take you back." He looked triumphantly at Sun. "Kaleb wanted to do it, but didn't know anyone who could take him in. I'll do what he wanted to do. And if I don't come back, don't mourn me."

"By Water, no!" Sun protested. "Your mother can't lose you as well!"

"Why not? She has her beloved Merwin, and Floriza, now."

"And you have Ondina to come back to. You better not get yourself killed, Kareem, or we'll do another war against the Humans!"

"That's why I want Giordano's help," Kareem smiled pleasantly. "I'll be in and out in no time. We don't want to interview Damir for research anyway, do we? I'm sure this one can tell us his side of the story." He pointed mockingly at Giordano.

Sun sighed. "Fine. I'll come with you, though."

"You don't trust me?"

"I want to spend some time with my half-brother."

"Bringing Luna as well?"

"No." Sun glared at Kareem. "I want to be with Giordano as much as I can before he forgets me."

"I won't forget you, but..." Giordano found words again, his eyes going from Sun to Kareem and back. "You want to kill Damir?" he asked Kareem.

"What to you think?" Kareem teased.

Giordano opened his mouth, closed it, pursed his lips. He nodded, lowering his eyes with a frown.

"Want to hear our side of the story?" Sun suggested putting one arm on his shoulder. "I'll be very happy to hear yours as well!"

* * *

"Who are you, and who let you in?" Damir sat up on his bed, staring at the black-haired young man who had just stepped out of the shadows of his room. The oil-lamp by the bed was still on, giving the intruder the looks of a ghost.

"Don't you recognize my face?" the young man smirked. "I am told I look like my father."

"Yes, you remind me of a slave I had. What do you want?"

"I'm Kareem, son of Saadi, and I'm here to avenge him."

"I didn't know the bastard had children." Damir was haughty and spiteful as usual.

"You're the sterile one," Kareem retorted. "And a murderer who killed many Waiora, not to mention what your wretched wife did to Prince Conall..."

"Shut up, boy! The bitch is dead, and who let you in?"

"I did."

Giordano emerged from the shadows too, pale and serious. He had heard enough.

"You! You dared coming back!" Damir couldn't believe his eyes.

"Yes, I'm back. Where's Mother?"

"I told you, she's dead."

"I bet her death wasn't natural," Kareem said. "That man is a serial murderer!"

"Do you want to become a murderer too?" Damir asked, seeing that both young men were armed while he wasn't.

"You bet." Kareem spat. "Nobody will find me."

"Giordano will avenge me, won't you my son?"

"I'm not your son," Giordano said, serious.

"That's right, you're a bastard son of a bastard half-blood!" Damir screamed, furious. "Guards! Guards!"

Kareem stabbed him, silencing him forever.

He grabbed Giordano's wrist and yanked him out of his stupor. They ran through corridors, trying to avoid the awakened guards, until they reached a water canal that went straight to the river under the palace walls.

"Go," Giordano said. "You know I can't come with you."

"Get out of here anyway," Kareem suggested.

Giordano shrugged. "I don't think anybody knows I'm not Damir's son yet," he said.

"As you wish. Be safe, my friend."

Kareem clasped his hand and dived, disappearing underwater.

Giordano went back to his room avoiding the screaming guards and servants, since he was still wearing the Waiora tunic: Kareem and Sun had taken him back to the beach where he hadn't found neither his horse nor his clothes, so they had swum up river to the city of Agharek.

Giordano took off the Waiora tunic to wear his favorite caftan and switched on the oil lamp with a sigh. He was back. Now what? He still loved his mother in spite of all the lies. And he had been raised with the idea of becoming Governor of Agharek, he couldn't give up his duties.

Then the guards came, saw the Waiora tunic and called Brizio de Sayek. Son of the late brother of Lady Fairuza and Elisabetta Varian, he had married his first cousin Vivian, Damir's younger sister. Now forty-years-old, he was the next in line to the Governor's seat, since his mother was daughter of a Varian Emperor.

Brizio stared sternly at Giordano. "You're back," he said.

"Yes, my lord." Giordano knew the de Sayek family was more powerful in the south than the Emperor himself, and court etiquette was strongly applied in Agharek.

"Where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Where did you get that tunic?"

"It's Waiora..."

"I know what it is! The Waiora attacked us before you were born."

"Apparently we attacked them first."

Brizio scoffed. "Did we? Anyway, your father killed your mother..."

"Damir is not my father," Giordano said, looking Brizio in the eyes. "Conall is. But he doesn't want me."

Again Brizio stared at him with tightened lips. "Who killed Damir, then?" he asked.

Giordano decided not to answer.

* * *

Giordano sat thoughtful on the ground of his cell. He embraced his knees, trembling not only from the cold. It was more the chill inside him that made him shiver – he had watched a man die, killed by a Waiora half-blood. The man he had considered his father for seventeen years. A man that many called cruel, but who had been kind to him. Until the awful night of his return from the depths of the sea.

Giordano felt empty, scared and lonely. He knew they'd hang him for killing the Governor and a part of him prayed they hurried. He didn't want to give out the real culprit and wondered what part he'd have in Sun and Kareem's historical manuscript. He had told them what he knew, a cathartic experience, but coming back and learning of his mother's death had hit him hard again.

He should consider himself an orphan, something he couldn't foresee, not even in his wildest dreams, no more than thinking he could have a father who lived in the sea. He had enough of it, the last few days had been a nightmare.

He started, hearing the lock open. At last, he thought, both relieved and disappointed. But it wasn't the guards, it was his cousin Aroldo de Sayek, alone.

"Giordano!" he called in a low voice.

Giordano rose, uncertain.

"Come," Aroldo said quickly.

Brizio's son was his same age, and his best friend. They were always together on official occasions. Giordano hadn't had the chance to tell him anything in private – his mother's revelations, his trip to the bottom of the sea – but still Aroldo was there for him.

Aroldo had black hair and dark eyes, and a face like a full moon that showed his honesty. He was naive and couldn't lie, and his had been the only voice in Giordano's defense. But who listened to a not very bright seventeen-year-old anyway?

So Aroldo had made a decision on his own. Giordano followed him to the stables in silence.

"You must leave," Aroldo said, giving him the bridle of a horse already saddled and loaded with clothes and supplies. "My father wants to hang you, he fears Damir's blood too much, and the Waiora even more, but I don't want you to die. Run away, reach Aunt Desiderata, she will protect you."

"Thank you, Aroldo."

"When I'll be Governor, I'll have you back. But you must be alive then. Go to a safe place and wait for my call."

Giordano quickly hugged his cousin (no, wait, his best friend, since there was no blood relationship between them anymore!) and jumped on the saddle.

"I love you, Aroldo," he said. He wished he had time to discuss with him the latest happenings, but it wasn't possible.

"Love you too," Aroldo smiled. "Go now."

Giordano spurred the horse and left Agharek at night, guided only by the moonlight.

He stopped by the river at dawn and stared at the water with a frown. How could he call Sun and Kareem, and tell them he was exiled from his hometown?

Still, they emerged together almost immediately.

"We saw you leave Agharek," Sun said, serious.

"You should have told the truth," Kareem added.

"We'd have freed you if somebody else hadn't done it."

"That was Aroldo de Sayek, my cousin," Giordano said. "And I don't know why I didn't tell the truth. Maybe I thought I deserved dying."

"Please, I already lost my twin brother to such gloomy thoughts," Kareem said.

"We won't leave you unless you swear you won't kill yourself," Sun added.

"I won't," he smiled ruefully. "But I'll stay away from water from now on. I'll join the desert tribes – I promised Aroldo to go to Aunt Desiderata."

"I will miss you," Sun said. "It was a great pleasure meeting you."

"Look up Luckbringer in Agharek. She'll help you complete your history book. I'll be all right, don't worry." He sighed, hoping to get rid of them as soon as possible to start a new life.

"Water will always be with you," Sun promised before diving with Kareem in the blue river.

* * *

"Jordan!" Desiderata spoke the thick dialect of the nomad tribes, so she mispronounced her nephew's name. She was Damir's elder sister, in her forties, with white hair highlighting her brown mane, blue eyes and skin darkened by the desert's sun. She listened incredulous to Giordano's adventures and offered him shelter and hospitality. She didn't look upset at the news her brother was dead, as if she'd been expecting it all along.

"I have no right to ask for your protection, knowing we aren't really related, but..."

"Damir called it on him with his behavior, Jordan. I left the palace as soon as I could because I couldn't stand the way he was spoiled. You are welcome here, if you can get used to rough nomad life."

Of course he could. He stared at the yellow sand stretching everywhere outside his aunt's tent, thinking Giordano Varian was dead. Long live Jordan the Nomad. He was young, he could do it. Without his mother, his step-father, his friends or the strange family who didn't want him at the bottom of the sea.

* * *

Jordan

The desert of the south had been a wasteland for almost two centuries and a half, but Jordan had become one of its dwellers only a year before. He was still getting used to the rocky formations, the ruins of ancient cities, the stony bed of rivers that were no more, the lone, imposing mountain where nobody lived.

He enjoyed the nomads life. In spite of being raised in a palace, with servants ready at his every whim, Jordan quickly adapted to living in tents and moving camp every month or two. Taking care of horses and camels, looking for underground water – for which he had a special flair – and resisting to the burning rays of the desert sun was a hard lesson he did learn quite fast.

The fashion of the nomad tribes was born of necessity: they wore mostly white clothes that covered them from head to toe, leaving only their eyes free. Jordan had learned the dialect of his aunt's tribe and the use of the two sabers the nomads used in combat, wearing them on their back when not fighting.

His new friends were called Hassan, Sahid and Jacek, young nomads who gladly shared their knowledge with him. Hassan was the son of the tribe leader, a prince of the desert. Sahid was Desiderata's son – Jordan called her "aunt", but they weren't related by blood. He had gone to her out of desperation and had been welcomed as if he were really Desiderata's brother's son.

Which he wasn't, and it still sort of hurt. He kept himself busy with his new tasks, but sometimes wished he could be somewhere else. Either back in Agharek or in an underwater town he had seen once and could never forget.

The desert women looked at him with interest and amusement, and he watched those veiled faces with mild curiosity. Their black eyes never left him, and they giggled every time he turned his sea-blue eyes on them, which was both flattering and unnerving. Even his friends' sisters were as mysterious as the ones he met during tribes meetings.

Then they went to Lakresha, on the shores of the Green Ribbon. That river came down from the Mountain of the Desert and went all the way to Agharek and then the most southern coast. Nobody remembered the original name of the river: it was called Green Ribbon now since it was the only green place in the south. All the towns built along smaller rivers had disappeared. Only the Green Ribbon had survived the wrath of the dragon who had destroyed the ancient kingdom of Arquon, burning down the jungle of then northern Akkora as well.

Lakresha was very much like Agharek, a walled white town with narrow streets and luxuriant secret gardens. The women didn't cover their faces in the open like they did in Agharek or in the desert, since they still followed the southern tradition of bodice and sari, while their men wore turbans and caftans.

Jordan admired the bodies and smiling faces, the dancers still following ancient traditions, the luxury of the Governor's palace – being in the party of Prince Hassan had definitely some perks.

Hassan's father was negotiating with the Governor to have one of his daughters marrying Hassan. Jordan thought his friend was lucky when his eyes fell on one of the young ladies present and couldn't let go.

She didn't notice him. She was giggling with the Governor's daughters, unaware of his attention. She was beautiful in Jordan's eyes, and reminded him of a noble girl he had been very fond of back in Agharek, a year – or a lifetime? – earlier.

"What are you looking at?" Sahid elbowed him.

"I doubt I can have one of those," he sighed, averting his eyes.

"You can always ask," Sahid winked. "I doubt here they know you're not actually Damir Varian's son."

"Giordano Varian is dead," he retorted bluntly. "And Jordan is not a nobleman."

Sahid shook his head, disapproving his stubbornness. "My mother is still a Varian," he said. "I'll inquire for you. Which one would you like?"

Jordan hesitated. "The girl in the blue sari," he said.

"Good choice," Sahid approved. "Now, if you were Hassan, which of the Governor's daughters would you choose?"

* * *

Her name was Lisabeth, of lesser nobility, but her family refused to give a daughter to a nomad. Hassan had chosen Chandra, the oldest of the Governor's daughters, and she looked quite happy with the choice. She was also Lisabeth's best friend, so they'd have to part soon. Unless Jordan did something he would have never thought of himself, but was suggested by both Sahid and Hassan.

"You asked for her officially. You were turned down. Abduct her," Sahid said.

"Chandra will be with us, so she won't be totally lonely. Besides, you speak this dialect better than I ever will!" Hassan added. "Damn, I might need you to communicate with my wife, sometimes! And she'll be less lonely too if her friend comes with us."

Jordan stopped staring at them with disbelief. "You actually think I could do that?" he protested. "Abduct a woman against her will and..."

"My ancestors did it all the time," Hassan grinned.

"Besides, I'm sure that your blue eyes will seduce her as soon as she has a chance to know you," Sahid added with a chuckle.

"I... I can't!"

Sahid and Hassan glanced at each other.

"Do you want us to do it for you?" Sahid teased.

"No! I mean... how barbarian is that?" Jordan didn't know what to think anymore.

"Jordan, her parents refused to meet you for that very reason," Hassan's smile vanished. "They have no idea of how we worship our women. You should prove them and their precious daughter you're everything but a barbarian."

"But an abduction would only prove their point! And if I had to return her because she doesn't want me, her reputation would be ruined!"

"Which means you can't fail," Sahid said. "Abduct her and seduce her."

Jordan had to think about it. He attended Hassan and Chandra's wedding in Lakresha temple, his eyes always staring at Lisabeth who looked both happy and sad. Her mother was from Havenstock, like Jordan's, and she had given her a northern name. She also wanted to marry her back north, which for Jordan felt like a waste. She was so pretty in her silken sari, golden bangles and dark hair and eyes... He must have her.

As the wedding banquet reached its end, he had made up his mind.

* * *

Lisabeth woke up dazed, with a strange taste in her mouth. She wasn't in her room, but in a gray tent. She could hear the desert wind howling outside, but the big tent was empty except for her.

She sat up, but her head spun, so she closed her eyes. What had happened? She remembered her friend's wedding banquet, and Chandra's happiness for her handsome husband. She didn't remember saying good-bye to her, nor what happened after some point. Where was she?

The tent flapped open and closed, and a nomad came in. She opened her eyes, but his face was still covered, probably a sandstorm was raging outside. The color of his eyes struck her: she had never seen a nomad with blue eyes.

He seemed to hesitate when he saw she was up, but then moved towards her.

"Welcome to my humble tent," he said clearly in common Varian. He didn't have the strong accent of most nomads.

"Who are you, and why am I here?" she asked, holding her knees as if to protect herself. She knew she was mostly harmless, but hoped the nomad wouldn't hurt her.

"My name is Jordan..." he started hesitantly.

"Isn't that the name of the man who requested me?"

"Yes, but your father refused. So I abducted you." He averted his eyes.

She stared at him, breathless with outrage. "You what?" she exploded. "You've taken me to the desert against my parents' will? And what will you do to me, huh? Force me to marry you?"

His blue eyes stared at her with sadness. "I'd never hurt you," he said. "I will not force you."

"And will you show me your face?" she asked, sarcastic.

He did. He was young, and handsome. Clean-shaven, almost boyish. She was pleasantly surprised.

"How old are you?" she asked, puzzled.

"Eighteen." He looked younger.

"I will not sleep with you, Jordan," she said, determined.

He bowed. "As you wish."

* * *

He didn't force her, but she was his prisoner. Seeing the wasteland outside the tent, she knew she'd never be able to run away. She was relieved to see Chandra was in the next tent, and her friend reassured her: she wasn't in danger. But she had been taken away from her family and if she ever made it back, nobody would believe her if she said her abductor hadn't touched her. Her reputation was tainted forever.

She didn't know what to think of her abductor. He treated her with respect, talked to her as if she were a revered guest, but whenever a young woman from the tribe approached him, he always made sure Lisabeth could see how gentle and sweet he could be.

She didn't know if she loved him or hated him for the way he looked at her, his manners and how he managed to arouse her from a distance. Days passed and Chandra told her she shouldn't despise him, because he could make her very happy. But Chandra had found happiness with her husband, and Lisabeth wasn't convinced by her words.

She was sort of curious about him, because he looked so different from the others, but never dared asking. She didn't like the desert, but she loved the oasis where the nomads stopped. Especially when he introduced a new place to her with loving words – he admitted once he didn't like all their stops, but was very specific when they reached one of his favorites.

There was a place among the dunes where a pond had gathered around its shore a dozen palm trees and some shrubs. It was sort of seasonal, after the rain it blossomed then dried up almost to nothing until the following rain. The water was muddy compared to the Green Ribbon, but cool, especially in the morning.

Then they reached a little town of small white houses where an old temple of ancient gods still stood in its majestic beauty – going inside the temple gave her a sense of peace and awe, and the many sculptures that decorated both inside and outside reminded her of her visit to Gladius, where a much similar temple still stood, unused, near the Governor's palace.

"I had never seen anything like this before coming here," Jordan admitted, pointing at a stone monster.

"How many towns have you seen?" she asked, still unsure of where to put him. He wasn't a barbarian, nor a true nomad, but he wasn't a nobleman from the north either. She had noticed he saw things slightly differently from Hassan or his other friend Sahid, but couldn't figure out where he actually came from.

"Lakresha, Agharek and... you wouldn't know where the third is," he answered absent-mindedly. "I don't even know if it actually has a name or not."

Wherever that place was, it put a shadow on his clean-shaven face. All his friends were growing beards, as was the custom in the south, but he wasn't. Although he had just mentioned Agharek, and Lisabeth knew the court of the Governor down south wanted clean-shaven men like at the Emperor's court.

"So, where were you born?" she insisted.

"Agharek." He looked at her, studying her reaction. "I grew up there, until I had to leave a year ago or so. I'll tell you my whole story when you accept to become my wife."

The flames of the torches of the temple flickered on his serious face and she shivered under his blue stare. No way, she thought, jarred, averting her eyes and tightening her lips. She was curious, but not a fool. Although she probably didn't have much choice left, but she'd do her best to make it hard for him.

She tried to ask Chandra, but she shrugged her off.

"He's not a native member of this tribe," she said. "But where he's from or why he's here, I don't know."

"Can't you ask your husband?" Lisabeth frowned.

"I already did. He told me to mind my own business and acted jealous of my interest for his friend. Who is indeed quite handsome, but he looks so young..."

Chandra shrugged again. She loved the manly hair on her husband's face. Lisabeth wasn't sure what to think. She liked his boyish looks, but he had abducted her...

* * *

The little town of white houses had also a public bath with two pools in separate rooms to keep men and women apart. Used to the privacy of her own bathtub, Lisabeth asked to be allowed in alone, when everybody else was done.

She was quite happy to get rid of the sand and dust of the desert and wash herself properly after a month of wandering. She wondered where the little town was, which way was Lakresha, or even Agharek. If they reached Agharek, she could try to run away.

She was relaxing when Jordan came in. He wore only a towel around his hips, and it was the first time she saw the color of his hair – she thought he was blond, but his hair was chestnut brown. And he had a tribal tattoo on his arm that looked fairly recent.

"Jordan, what are you doing here?" she protested, covering herself with her arms and water.

"I'm taking a bath," he answered, flashing a smile at her. "Do you need a hand for your long black hair?"

"No!" She turned her back on him, but she felt him getting in the water anyway. He gently pulled her hair and poured water on her head. His hands put soap, massaged her scalp, washed the dirt away. He was better than her hairdresser!

She turned to look at him, puzzled. He smiled, went underwater, and came back up like a dolphin. She got out of the water and wrapped herself in a towel while he continued his ablutions. She combed her hair with her fingers, admiring his hairless torso and wiry body, then chiding herself for doing so.

Then he came out, shameless, and she blushed catching a glimpse of his manhood. He lay down a towel and picked up a small bottle of oil.

"Would you please rub it on my back?" he asked, handing it to her.

She hesitated, then took the bottle. He lay down on his belly and she put the oil on both her hands before starting the massage. It was the first time she did it to a man's body, and again she admired Jordan's near perfection. She blushed again, but he had closed his eyes, so she was safe. She was starting to understand Chandra's feelings – and, gasp!, lust – for her husband. It wasn't lust yet, but it was a strange feeling.

She finished as quickly as she could and almost ran away from the bath to get dressed. Her abductor had a dangerous charm, she wondered if he was a half-blood from some Magical Race.

* * *

"Jordan, my friend, you look wrecked," Sahid said, patting his friend's shoulder.

"I'm heartbroken," Jordan sighed as they rode towards their next destination. "I failed, Sahid. I think I'm going to take her back."

"You know, you have a way to get her and her parents' permission," Sahid said. "Just tell them who you really are."

"I love her, Sahid. Either she wants me too, or I won't force her."

"Why do you make yourself miserable like this?"

"Because my step-father hurt enough people and I will not follow in his footsteps. I shouldn't have abducted her in the first place."

"It was love at first sight for you! Why would you give up so quickly? I'm sure she'll give in, eventually. I don't know why she still resists you! But if you give up, know that plenty of young women will be more than happy to dry your tears."

"Really? Like who?" Jordan looked at him, upset.

"Sarah, Mariam, Ash... Gods, I bet even Chandra would be willing to help! I know she played her part with her friend, but apparently Lisabeth is quite stubborn."

"Or scared," Jordan mused. "We did abduct her, after all. She finds herself in a new land with new people, new customs..."

"Jordan, all women know when they get married they'd move to a new world. Our women have more freedom, but Lisabeth is a town girl."

"But I didn't marry her yet. Her position is rocky at best."

"Well, ask her again. Maybe she'll surrender now."

Jordan shook his head. "I don't know, Sahid, I don't want to force her..."

Sahid shrugged. "I'm glad my mother forbade me to set foot in Agharek," he said. "Town people are really screwed up."

"Thank you, Sahid," Jordan smiled against his will. Another pat from his friend almost unsaddled him. They grinned fondly at each other – not cousins by blood, but certainly by heart.

* * *

Jordan's favorite place was near the mountain, close to the source of the Green Ribbon, where a waterfall created a small lake, hidden from the camp by luxuriant vegetation. It was a great change from mud huts and modest stone towns, it reminded him of Agharek palace garden.

When he reached it for the third time, it had been one year and a half since he had left Agharek. The tribe camped with two more at the edge of the thicket. Sahid was meeting his bride and getting married, and Jordan was nowhere closer to seducing Lisabeth. He was really considering taking her back to Lakresha.

The sun was shining on the overcrowded camp and Jordan told his friends he needed a shower. The others didn't share his passion for water and baths, so they let him go on his own.

Coming out of the vegetation, Jordan noticed he wasn't alone – first he saw the clothes on the rocky shore, then a splash announced a head coming out of the natural pool. Lisabeth's velvety black eyes stared at him, startled.

"Sorry!" He promptly turned his back on the waterfall, his heart beating faster. He wasn't ready to confront her, not here, not now.

"You weren't that embarrassed in that public bath a few months ago," she snapped.

"My apologies," he said, then grumbled. "I better go, I'm not welcome here."

"Don't go."

Her voice froze him. Don't. Go? Something happened he wasn't aware of? Was she relenting? He didn't dare to turn and look at her, but his heart raced faster.

"I'll turn now, so you can undress and join me," she said. "Although I don't know why we should bother, we already saw each other naked."

She splashed around, he dared glancing at her.

She had turned her back on him and was immersed up to the neck. The water was calling him, and he desperately needed to dive.

She turned her head to look at him. "I said come in, I don't care," she said grumpily.

"Move to the side," he warned, quickly undressing. She obeyed and he dived in, taking his time to observe the young woman's submerged body like he had done in the public pool, albeit quicker. She had a great body, with the right curves at the right places. Breathing underwater was definitely a good thing.

He surfaced, satisfied by the sight of his beloved's body and the contact with the element that was so much part of him. She looked worried.

"I thought you were drowning," she said.

"I'll tell you a secret," he smiled, swimming towards her. "I breathe underwater."

"Come on!"

"It's true. I have Waiora blood."

"This explains a lot," she said, thoughtful.

"A lot of what?"

She caressed his cheek. "No facial hair." She pointed at his eyes. "Water-blue eyes." She pushed herself away from him, but met the edge of the natural pool. "You do look like a member of a Magical Race."

"And I'm the son of Mathilda Whiteless," he said.

"You... why didn't you tell my father? You're the Governor's missing son!"

"Damir Varian wasn't my real father," he said, serious. "That was one of the reasons why I left Agharek. If you marry me, I'll tell you the rest."

He pulled her closer and kissed her. Both went underwater. He gave her the Gift, allowing her to breathe.

"You're magic!" she said, awed, going back to the surface.

"I love you," he said.

Slowly her lips curved into an accepting smile.

* * *

Barbara G. Tarn is a writer, sometimes artist, mostly a world-creator and storyteller.

* * * * *

# ABOUT THE AUTHORS

[Half-Blood] [Contents] [Title Page]

Steph Bennion

Ubiquitous Bubba

Alexandra Butcher

Emma Faragher

Ross Harrison

Josh Karaczewski

Peter Lean

Stan Morris

Neil Shooter

Barbara G. Tarn

L. L. Watkin

Gary Weston

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Share your thoughts with a comment or review!

* * *

# Steph Bennion

Antimatter Me and In The Lap Of The Gods

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Steph Bennion** is a writer, musician and UK civil servant, born and bred in the Black Country but now living in South London, England. Her science-fiction stories are written as a reaction to the dearth of alternative heroes amidst bookshelves swamped by tales of the supernatural. She writes space-opera mysteries for young adults and adults young-at-heart: _Paw-Prints Of The Gods_ , a sequel to her debut novel _Hollow Moon_ , was published in 2013.

Website: www.wyrdstar.co.uk

* * *

# Ubiquitous Bubba

The Imaginary Invasion

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

Growing up in Texas, **Ubiquitous Bubba** studied the lore of the Storyteller, the mysterious art of the tall tale, and the pervasive universal existence of Bubbas. They're everywhere. As he wandered universes, he discovered that there's always a Bubba around when you need one. Ubiquitous Bubba enjoys relaxing at home with his wife and three kids. He enjoys telling stories, eating pizza, and holding the recliner down. It hasn't gotten away yet, but one can't be too careful.

Website: UbiquitousBubba.wordpress.com

* * *

# Alexandra Butcher

Tales Of Erana: The Blue Phial and Monday Imps

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Alexandra Butcher** is the British author of the _Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles_ fantasy series and several short stories in the fantasy and fantasy romance genre, including the mythic _Tales of Erana_. She is an avid reader and creator of worlds, a poet and a dreamer. When she is grounded in the real world she likes science, natural history, history and monkeys.

Website: libraryoferana.wordpress.com

* * *

# Emma Faragher

Necromancer

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Emma Faragher** writes futuristic fantasy. Born in 1992 in the UK, she grew up with a love of books. Currently studying at Sheffield university, she is the author of the _Trix SinClara_ series, an urban fantasy set in the future and following a shapeshifter as she is thrust into responsibility she never imagined she'd have. _The House_ , the first book in the series, is currently published and available, with others coming soon. Emma balances writing with studying and her other hobbies.

Website: www.trixsinclara.blogspot.co.uk

* * *

# Ross Harrison

Kira

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Ross Harrison** is a writer of, primarily, science fantasy. He has been writing since childhood without thought of publication. When the idea was planted by his grandmother to do so, it grew rapidly, and after a bumpy ten years or so, here sits the fruit. Ross lives on the UK/Eire border in Ireland, hoping the rain will help his hair grow back. The NEXUS science fantasy / space opera series, which starts with _Shadow of the Wraith_ , is his main body of work. _Acts of Violence_ , a semi-noir thriller, is out now.

Website: www.ross-harrison.com/nexus-series/

* * *

# Josh Karaczewski

Separate Wars On The Same Street

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Josh Karaczewski** is living in the San Francisco Bay Area until he can retire somewhere warmer. His stories have been published in several literary journals: one receiving a Pushcart Prize nomination, though he hasn't won any sort of cart for his writing yet. His books include the seriocomic novel, _Alexander Murphy's Home for Wayward Celebrities_ , and the short story collection, _My Governor's House and other stories_ ; any day now the riches will pour in from these so that he can write full time. Until then, he will continue forcing high school students to read, write, and think.

Website: www.oralrandomly.blogspot.com

* * *

# Peter Lean

The Guns Of Napoleon

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Peter Lean** is the pen-name used by the author for his fiction works. Jurist in 'real life', authors of several law books in his native language (Italian), he started recently to write fiction. He realized he enjoys doing that and, since science fiction short stories were his first love, he decided to try his hand in this field. He has published a number of short stories for Kindle and other e-book readers and, recently, a collection of his first short stories, _Photographs. A Journey Through Space, Time, and More_. _The Guns Of Napoleon_ is his first short story, and also the skeleton on which the author based his first novel, published in 2013.

Website: www.goodreads.com/book/show/18009911-photographs

* * *

# Stan Morris

The Qrim Chieftain

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Stan Morris** was born in Linwood, California. He wrote his first novel when he was fourteen. At age twenty one he moved to New Mexico, where he met the teenager he later married. They have two sons, both gainfully employed (thank goodness!). In 1983 they moved to Maui where Stan later retired after years of assembling computers. He is the author of seven books; _Surviving the Fog_ , _Surviving the Fog – Kathy's Recollections_ , _Sarah's Spaceship Adventure_ , _The Colors of Passion and Love_ , _Sam's Winnings_ , _Kate's Movie Star_ , and _Amy's Hero_. His website includes information about Maui, Japanese Manga, and his favourite music.

Website: sites.google.com/site/stanandrene/home

* * *

# Neil Shooter

Causality

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Neil Shooter** grew up in northern England and now lives in a quiet suburban corner of Ontario, Canada. Always a slow learner, it has taken Neil most of his adult life to realize that the one thing that never fails to ground him and make him happy is the thing he should be doing with the rest of his life. Better late than never... _Causality_ , his story in this anthology, was published in January 2013 and is the first in a series of connected short stories _The Causality Sequence_. The next story is called _Probability_.

Website: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/neilshooter

* * *

# Barbara G. Tarn

Half-Blood

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Barbara G. Tarn** is a writer, sometimes artist, mostly a world-creator and storyteller. She's been building her world of Silvery Earth for a number of years – stories, comprise shorts, novels and graphic novels. Used to multiple projects (a graphic novel is always on the side of the prose), she writes, draws, ignores her day job and blogs as an indie author. Conall and Damir's story is in _Books of the Immortals – Water_ and Jordan's story continues in _Books of the Immortals – Ether_. Her other works are the _Silvery Earth_ saga (adult unconventional fantasy – 19 titles and counting) and the _Star Minds_ science-fantasy series.

Website: creativebarbwire.wordpress.com

* * *

# L. L. Watkin

Mesrin Station

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**L. L. Watkin** is the pen name for writing partnership Liz Smith and Louise Smith, two sisters from the North of England who've been writing together for nearly ten years but only started publishing in 2012. As well as writing they publish a couple of fanzines, blog a bit and enjoy spoiling their rabbit, Buzz Lightyear. They have several short stories available for free download, and two science-fiction novel series ( _Leviathan_ and _The Handmaiden_ ).

Website: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LLWatkin

* * *

# Gary Weston

Explain That To A Martian

[About the Authors] [Contents] [Title Page]

**Gary Weston** is a retired engineer, living with his dog Minnie, in a small town in the lower North Island of New Zealand. He was born in England. He has been writing seriously for about five years and now has over 50 titles as an indie writer. He was never going to write science-fiction, which is probably why he has written about 20 of them. He also writes detective stories, adventure, and paranormal.

Website: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ridersoftheplane

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